From: Julie Cidell Date: Tue, 6 Aug 2002 08:30:39 -0500 (CDT) Subject: submission Source: direct Title: The Stranger Author: Zubeneschamali Rating: R Category: VR Spoilers: Milagro Summary: The archetype of the stranger...and what happens after he rides alone into the sunset. A post-Milagro story. Disclaimer: I'm not the real writer here, and heaven knows the characters do not belong to me. They're the property of Chris Carter and FOX...if they belong to anyone, that is. Lyrics property of Billy Joel. Feedback: Please! jlcidell@yahoo.com o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o You may never understand How the stranger is inspired But he isn't always evil And he is not always wrong Though you drown in good intentions You will never quench the fire You'll give in to your desire When the stranger comes along... --Billy Joel The stranger is a powerful figure in myth and legend. The lone hero who rides in and saves the town without giving his name, then rides off into the sunset...the unknown woman who seduces a man for one night and disappears without a trace... ...the young man, perhaps of questionable humanness, who sees right into a woman's heart, claims it for his own, and is never seen again. What is it with me and psychopaths? Mulder said they're the only ones unafraid of me enough to do something about their attraction. I would have pushed the point, but at the moment I was curled up on the floor, still sobbing somewhat incoherently in his arms, not quite able to process what he was saying in response to my cries. Once I could speak again without being cut off by the heaving of my breath, it didn't seem so important anymore. The blood covering my chest and blouse did, and the fear that still lingered in Mulder's eyes. And since my brain was quite decidedly shying away from dealing with the question of how exactly that blood had gotten there, and why there were five shell casings strewn about the floor and no dead body nearby, I gave it up. No one must have been home across the hall...or down the hall, or upstairs, or anywhere in the building, because no police or paramedics magically appeared. Either that, or they figured it was just Mulder doing FBI things again. He left my side long enough to go downstairs and see what had become of Padgett, then outside to make an anonymous phone call about the body in the basement. I think for once Mulder didn't want to face what "really happened" either. I managed to convince him, and myself, that I was physically okay. He insisted on washing me, though, both so I wouldn't have to put out any effort myself, and so we could both see for ourselves that I was okay. The washcloth passing over my breasts would have been arousing under other conditions; then, it just felt comforting. Cleansing. I caught his eye while he was gently bathing my neck, and he gave me that same little upturn of his mouth that I had seen in the jail. Yes, sometimes he does know me well enough to know what I'm thinking. Now I'm curled up in his bed, my back flush against his chest, his arm wrapped tightly around me. I'm looking up at the reflection of us as dawn gently fills the room, wondering what comes now. Sleeping next to him was the right thing to do last night, but waking up next to him is an entirely different thing. And how do I know so little about my partner that I didn't think he would actually have mirrors on his ceiling? "I didn't put them there, you know." His voice in my ear causes me to jump, and his arm tightens just a little. "What?" I murmur, staring up at the sleepy green eyes reflected at me. "The mirrors," he responds. "I didn't put them there. I'm not _that_ kinky, Scully." His half-awake voice is just a little too husky to be murmuring words like "kinky" into my ear. I try to pull away, but his arm holds me securely. So I twist around until I'm looking him in the eye. "What you do in here is really none of my business, Mulder," I say, arching an eyebrow, wanting for once for him to play along. Instead he shifts so that his arm wraps around me from beneath, and takes his other hand away from my stomach to stroke the hair off my face. "How are you feeling this morning, Scully?" he asks softly. It is odd how familiar this feels. Like I wake up every morning next to Mulder, breathing in time with him, watching his eyes slowly blink more and more open. Like I have always known what it feels like to have my body pressed against his, instead of feeling it for the first time. Like I really, truly know him. I sigh and lean back against him. *Mulder makes a nice pillow,* a helpful corner of my brain notes. How do I feel? Sore chest, tired from waking up from too many nightmares, angry at my immense stupidity..."Mentally or physically?" I ask, aware that the standard "I'm fine" is not going to cut it this morning. His arm has become trapped beneath me, and he wriggles it around until it lies underneath my neck, his hand stretched out onto the pillow. "Either," he replies, his eyes tracking mine as they flicker back upwards. I watch the two motionless figures for a moment, waiting for one of them to do something. My face is a little puffy from last night, and my eyeballs are a little sore. Probably bloodshot at close range. I'm not surprised to note Mulder's eyes have a little telltale redness to them, too. I finally say, "Mulder, who was he?" I can feel his chest press into my back as he draws a deep breath. "The police will check into it, but it might take a while. You said he lived in your neighborhood, but I don't know how many records we're going to find on him..." I'm shaking my head, feeling his arm warm against the side of my neck. "Who was he that he could get into my head like that, Mulder? Who was he that he could be so compelling to someone who knows the dangers of following a strange man into his apartment better than most of the population? Who was he..." I paused for a moment as I realized what I was about to say. "That I could be drawn to him as he was stalking me?" Mulder is quiet, laying down so that he, too, is staring at our reflections. His soft voice comes, "You were drawn to him?" I let out a puff of breath. "In a way, yes." "In what way?" When I don't respond, he says, "I'm sorry, Scully, I don't mean to pry. It's really none..." and then he stops. And takes a deep breath. My eyes meet his in the mirror. "What?" He turns his head to stare directly at me. "Was it him, or was it the stranger?" he asks, his eyes much more intense now that they are no longer reflected through glass. I know what he's asking, but I'm not sure of the answer. Was it Philip Padgett that captivated me, or was it the dark and mysterious stranger? Writers are always mysterious people, with their power over the written word, their ability to create whole worlds inside their heads and on their pages. Add to that a decent-looking man who says he's drawn to me the first time he talks to me, and... Loneliness becomes the lesser choice. I realize I've been staring into Mulder's eyes for long enough that I forgot his question. So I turn my face towards the ceiling again and say, "You know, I always wanted to be a writer." He blinks at me. "Really, Scully?" "Really, Mulder. Is it that hard to imagine?" He studies my profile more closely. "Torrid romance novels, or the safe and syrupy kind?" I whack him on the shoulder. He grins. I surprise us both by rolling over and laying my arm across him, snuggling up to his side. His arm comes around me without hesitation, laying down my spine, tracing a circle in the small of my back where my shirt has ridden up. It takes me a minute to realize what he's tracing, and I raise my head to meet his eyes. He regards me for a moment. "The stranger, Scully," he says. "Sometimes people find it easier to get involved with someone they don't know because there are no strings attached." His fingers follow the serpent on my skin, reminding me of the happy outcome the _last_ time I followed a strange man home. "Familiarity breeds contempt, you know." "Mulder, are you saying that I'm--" "Shh." His left hand comes across my mouth, then moves away. He opens his mouth, takes a breath, and murmurs, "Well, we all fall in love, but we disregard the danger." It takes me a second to realize that he's singing, or at least as close as you can come to singing without an actual melody. "Though we share so many secrets, there are some we never tell." He falls silent and strokes my hair. Then he goes on, "Why were you so surprised that you never saw the stranger?" He bites his lip a moment, then finishes the verse. "Did you ever let your lover see the stranger in yourself?" I don't know what to say to that. I've always been annoyed when song lyrics seem to fit my life. As if I could be compartmentalized into a three-minute-thirty-second commercialized bunch of words. But these lyrics...make sense. I'm a little less annoyed when I recognize them as the work of an actual musician instead of a brainless pop star. As these thoughts flash through my head, I lay my cheek against Mulder's chest. His finger is still tracing my tattoo, and my mind again recalls the rebellion that proved for once and for all that everything is, indeed, about Mulder. That his life is mine, and vice versa. I have never felt that so strongly than at this moment. So the words that leave my mouth are a bit of a surprise to me. "Mulder, I thought that all I tried to show you was the stranger." There are a number of possible reactions he could have to this, and the one he takes will tell me quite a bit. I raise my head again to watch him, expecting teasing at the hint we are lovers, or surprise at my unusual forthrightness, or even a little anger at the way I have always managed to hold back. It turns out that his response is a slow nod, his eyes on my hair as he twirls it between his fingers. When his voice comes, I can barely hear it. "No, Scully, you've tried to _be_ a stranger. There's a difference." I look up sharply at him. "What do you mean, Mulder?" I ask more calmly than I feel. He shrugs, and I feel his upper arm moving against mine. "I think you know," he says, still playing with my hair. "Someone who prefers relationships with no strings attached--and I'm not saying you're that kind of person," his eyes shifting to mine, "would want to keep herself tightly enclosed, to keep any 'strings' from emanating at her end." His hand has stilled on the back of my head. "But I think I know you better than you'd like to think." My eyes challenge him right back. "So who's my stranger, Mulder? What are the secrets I've never told?" His eyes are deep, deep green. Almost black. They grow even darker as he says, "Padgett told me one of your secrets." My brow furrows a little until I realize what he's talking about. *Oh. That.* And my first impulse is to rationalize it away, to be Scully: Padgett was just being melodramatic, projecting his feelings onto someone else, or he was justifying to himself why I wasn't interested in him. After all, he saw us arguing over whether or not I'd consider sleeping with him...not exactly a boost to one's ego, I'd imagine. But then I realize, lying here next to Mulder, what potential this moment has. What awful potential last night held, and that this might just be the time I had promised myself that I wouldn't take it anymore. This was the third time in the space of a year that I _knew_ I was going to die. It gets to you after a while, you know? And so I say, "Was that a secret you didn't already know?" That corner of his mouth turns up again. This time it's only a few inches from my own. "I had suspected," he answers. Then his eyes grow soft. "I had hoped." I can feel a smile curving around my own lips. "You just don't want to be the only one who's gone out on that particular limb." His eyes twinkle. His hand strokes my hair again, pulling my face ever-so-slightly closer to his. "Nah, I already found out that watching me climb trees doesn't turn you on." For once, the obvious response slips out. "_You_ turn me on, Mulder." His eyes widen a little, then he breaks out into a big grin. "You know," and his face sobers, "I always figured it would take something like this." I'm aware that my heart has sped up a little, and where my hand lies over his, I can feel an increase as well. "What do you mean?" I ask. He begins to speak, then stops. His arm comes over to lay against mine, his hand warm on my back. "That some day, one of the horrors that we face would finally prompt us to take the right steps." His eyes are intense as they bore into mine from three inches away. "I can only take thinking that you're dead so many times, Scully." *Yes, this is the time.* I wait for bells to ring or trumpets to sound, or something, but in the end there is only a feeling of peace as I lean forward to press my lips against his. And then warmth and desire like nothing I have ever felt before. In the stories, the stranger rides into town, solves the problems that the townspeople can not fix themselves, slays the dragons, and rides off into the sunset. Alone. As Mulder and I fall into each other, I realize that while Philip Padgett's final blaze of glory didn't come in the standard fashion, it came nonetheless. I can see the pure, intense joy that I am feeling reflected in Mulder's face as we come together, and I shed a few more tears of happiness, and of gratitude. The stranger was able to give me love, after all.