From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000 23:49:00 -0500
Subject: Take Another Breath by mountainphile
Source: direct

Reply To: mountainphile@hotmail.com


TITLE:  Take Another Breath (1/1)
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING: PG
CATEGORY: V, MSR
SPOILERS: Detour...and a few surprises
EMAIL: mountainphile@hotmail.com
URL:
http://www.geocities.com/museans/mountainphile
ARCHIVE: Absolutely, and I'd love to know
where...
SUMMARY: What thoughts linger in Scully's mind,
with an injured, sleeping Mulder in her arms...?
DISCLAIMER: all things XF belong to Carter and
1013
FEEDBACK: Always a pleasure and an honor!
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The recent airing of episodes
from Seasons 4 and 5 plucked a tender chord
within me! Grateful thanks to Forte for deepbeta
and suggestions, to Mish and Jintian for beta and
encouragement, and to lovely Musea, our haven of
support, for providing an enthusiastic climate in
which to grow.

************
Take Another Breath
by mountainphile


It takes from three to five seconds for a human
being to take a breath, to inhale and to exhale.
It's what keeps us alive. Infusing the blood with
oxygen, every part of the body is fed and
strengthened, every cell nourished. The final
act, cleansing, completes this process of
respiration, ensuring our continued existence.

We breathe, Mulder, you and I.

We're survivors. I'm pleased... no, happy to
admit that we manage to squeak through so well.
We even surprise me, sometimes. Of course, I'll
take into consideration the requisite amount of
damage we also sustain in the field. This one
will require a trip to the hospital, in order for
the deep lacerations in your shoulder to be
properly cleaned and bandaged. Despite your
wound, I feel the steady swell of your chest and
back against my body as you sleep and breathe,
inhale and exhale, pillowed against my thighs and
stomach. We survive again.

There are no sleeping bags in evidence, so right
now the safest place for you is tucked up against
me, my arms around you for warmth. Wrestle? Oh
God... and I had the strangest feeling that you
were both grateful and hesitant to put your head
and body down over my thighs like this. On my
lap. Carpe diem, Mulder, and don't question it.
You know this doesn't happen every day, so savor
it because it's fleeting. Reminiscent of a worn-
out joke that circulated back in med school about
this being the only part of the human body that
disappears -- all it would take is for me to
stand up...

"It's what's called the lap," the instructor
said, many years ago, explaining this elusive
piece of anatomy. An attempt at levity, and to
disarm the awkward tension that built during the
previous discussion on cardiac procedure. Tension
was a not-uncommon result of this particular
doctor's ego and usual, charismatic demeanor.
"The lap. Say it to yourself. A colloquial,
familiar term, you understand, but aptly named.
Don't you agree?"

Amid the wave of relieved and obedient laughter,
I remember how his glance slid toward me over the
heads of others. A man secure in his position,
and righteously smug in his acquisitions, one of
which was his extracurricular familiarity with
young Dana Scully's thighs and stomach... The lap
that disappeared, then parted when I stretched
out on cool, forbidden sheets beneath him.

Just a face from the distant past, Mulder,
someone I've not mentioned to you. Why? I'm not
proud of that association. And though the
experience marked me in subtle ways, I'm
convinced of the necessity to leave past mistakes
behind. We shed our skins like snakes, sloughing
the old to refocus, adjust, and grow with the
new. We survive in spite of bad judgment and
error.

You called it a primitive culling technique, this
new predator's method of attack. By taking the
strongest first, it weakens and disorients the
herd. Divide and conquer. I thought it probable
you brought up the subject last night to justify
staying behind and skipping the team-building
seminar. And -- by some remote possibility -- an
excuse for us to, well... spend time alone. As
friends, of course. But once again you put
professional before personal, dashing out into
the night on a whim.

It's quite possible our communication skills
*could* use a jumpstart because, believe me,
building a tower of furniture was not the
scenario I longed for. Perhaps you're betting the
House that the wine and cheese and my affability
will be available at some other time and place?
And they may well be. In our future, there are
any number of... possibilities.

Your wound has ceased to bleed, but other than
packing it with your clothing, there's nothing
more to do until help arrives. I hope it does, by
morning... Already the long hours of exertion and
nervous energy are taking their toll; I find my
eyes growing heavy as I keep this midnight watch.
Like a fool, I've brought no water or medical
kit. We're classic Babes in the Woods, sitting
ducks, waiting for the leaves to cover us. If
there's one thing I despise, it's playing the
hapless victim. Ineffectual, unprepared. My
campfire was a fiasco from start to finish.

It's dark and poor night vision hampers my
ability to see danger in the blackness beyond us.
I think of Jeff Glaser and his InfraRed, alone
and lost somewhere out in these woods. Worry
affects my perceptions. I squint at the black
forest growth, imagining red eyes behind every
tree. I've waited in tight places before,
breathless and at bay, fearful and facing the
unknown. So have you, with and without me, and I
send up a grateful prayer that we're still
counted among the survivors.

Your breaths are a comfort. Take another deep
one, against me, and sleep...

************

I haven't told you everything that's come back to
me, Mulder, since my disappearance almost three
years ago. Recollections I have of lost time are
slowly returning, like shattered bits of
driftwood washing in with the tide. I know my
secrecy would disappoint you, if you knew, but I
think you'd forgive me in light of our unique
history. You understand my need for privacy; it's
one of the few means of control I have left.
Perhaps someday, with you holding my hand, or
wrapped in your arms, I'll be convinced of the
good it might do to open up this Pandora's box,
which I keep so closely guarded.

Little things also jog my recent memory. They
offer me moments of sensation and kaleidoscopic
snapshots. Not pleasant glimpses, by any means,
but experiences that have marked me because of
their abiding evil and the scars of trauma
they've left behind on my psyche. I have no
forewarning, no signal of their approach; it's
out of my hands. And, Mulder, what's so --
galling... it's the mundane, incidental,
unavoidable things that precipitate them. Tonight
too, my mind is impressionable, skittish, because
it's dark and cool and my nerves are on edge.
Lightning flashes can trigger it. Dark, earthy,
closed-in places. Metallic cold. The suffocating
stench of mildew. Cobwebs. Sometimes a thing as
innocent and unavoidable as running my finger
along the tiny, half-moon pucker at the back of
my neck.

I wish I could share this part of myself with
you, but it's not yet time. The shame is too
potent. I'd rather sing a whole chorus of songs,
loudly and off-key. For now, these memories --
impressions, really -- are instantly relegated to
that place into which I tuck all the unsavory and
nightmarish scraps of my life. If I'm not
vigilant, the cache will bulge and overflow its
bitter burden and my need for control will be
moot. And should it break and spill, I honestly
pray that I have enough strength, enough
openness, enough trust -- in you, and in myself -
- to invite you in. So you can be there to help
me catch what might escape.

Leaning over you, I draw my hand across your brow
to feel your warmth. A few deep scratches, no
fever. Your body temperature seems stable after
the shock of injury, though your skin still
retains some of the clamminess. Your hair is
satin against my cheek and, taking advantage of
your slumber, I breathe in your rich, musky odor
of dried sweat, of maleness and Mulder-scent. I
feel the rim of your left ear, cool against my
lips, and part them to warm this salty, little
slice of you. A moist touch, a whisper on your
skin. Perhaps it will feed a dream.

"Whazzat?" you mutter, shifting against my body,
craning your head back, towards me. "Scully...
you okay?"

"Shhh, go back to sleep, Mulder. Everything's
fine."

"Ass numb yet?"

I smile. "If you hadn't mentioned Tailhook last
night, I might be inclined to share."

The muscle of your cheek arches into a wide grin
and I hear a low chuckle. "Sleepy?"

"Maybe a little... Nothing that should keep you
awake, though. How's the shoulder?"

Twisting in my arms, you utter a soft groan and
expletive, and I realize that hours of lying in
the same position have stiffened your limbs and
neck to an uncomfortable degree. Sitting quietly,
I allow you to shift your heavy upper body and
help you slide against my warmth into a new
configuration, before gathering you once more
into the shelter of my embrace.

"Mulder, I seriously question the wisdom of
stressing or leaning on that injury."

You mumble softly, fuzzy from sleep, breath
erratic as your body adjusts to the new posture
and seeks comfort. "...Uhhh, use pressure to stop
bleeding. S'at right, Doc? Indian guides... know
these things."

The altered position has you facing me, knees
butted against the mossy log at my back, your
shoulder and neck pressed with great care along
the curve of my thigh. While your head, well...
your cheek lies in snug repose against my front.
Your nose rubs the thin fabric of the jacket that
covers my breasts and your mouth slips into a
grin. I feel a quiet peace, looking down at you.
Grateful that so many years of friendship and
trust afford us this measure of easy physical
contact.

You open one unencumbered eye, gaze up at me for
a moment, and then close it and sigh. "Scully?"

"Hmmm?"

"Feel free... to warm the other one... " I hear
you murmur.

By now, nothing should surprise me. Then why do
my cheeks burn with sudden heat and my heart
pound as I look quickly out into the cool night
air around us?

"Go back to sleep, Mulder. You need to conserve
your strength... just in case we need it later."

One arm cradles your head to my jacket. The other
hand trails from your shoulder, following the
hunched swell of back and hip -- and suddenly my
fingers touch it in the starlight. Your weapon,
metallic and chilled...

************

Those who court danger risk becoming the prey.
I've known that ever since our first case in
Oregon.

Sometimes the strong don't always survive, just
the fortunate, the lucky, the preordained. There
were times, Mulder, when providence and timing
alone kept me, kept both of us, alive. And as I'm
wont to do, I seldom allow you to know how
frightened I really am. There are cases, and then
again... there are cases. It's crossed my mind
that I am the liability in our partnership. That
red hair is an invitation out in the field, a
visual target for the monsters we seek.

As my fingertips linger on the cold curves of
your gun, a scene erupts in my mind...

"Shhhh... Ich werde dir helfen... Du wirst eine
Unruhe bald vergessen... "

The stale odor of a trailer assaults me. From a
corner in the darkness I hear the raw, tearing
sound of duct tape. My God, I'm bound, wrist and
ankle, to a chair. The metal tray hovers near my
elbow. A camera's flash. The shining, winking tip
of the leucotome in the soft light...

These moments of terror seize me, taunt me, and
then leave me breathless, Mulder. Little shards
of the kaleidoscope coalesce and then shatter,
convincing me that there must be a hole somewhere
in Pandora's box. A fracture in the smooth
porcelain of Dana Scully's self-control.

My nose betrays me tonight. Seated here on the
damp forest floor, I smell the earthy rot of
leaves and organic matter. Forgive me, but this
vision -- for lack of a better word -- focuses on
you, and in my mind's eye I see you crouching
under the trees, brushing back doubts like
leaves. In your hand is a small packet of pastel,
heart-shaped cutouts. Mementoes of a madman. For
you, however, the fragile seeds of hope and a
promise for resolution.

Remembering, I blink back tears and stroke your
hair, softly, so you won't stir under my touch.
There are so many facets to the emotion I feel
for you. Seminars can't teach what we've gained
and learned from each another. They can't
duplicate the same degree of understanding we
share, or create the trust we have in one
another's instincts. There are times when all
seems lost, but I know, as surely as I live and
breathe, that you'll be there to back me up. To
help me survive...

"There's no way out, girlie-girl... "

I once faced the Devil incarnate, Mulder. I felt
torn between two personas -- the terrified child
scrabbling into a dark corner, making myself
small and unnoticeable... and the adult, the
trained professional, who needed her wits and
skill to out-think and out-maneuver in order to
survive.

"I know this house, girlie-girl, there's nowhere
to hide."

For me, the movie "Psycho" had the opposite of
its usual effect; you would have appreciated the
irony, had I told you. I forsook my routine tub
bath and showered for many months after the case
was closed, before regaining that which I thought
I had lost -- my dignity.

Perhaps God is responsible for the miraculous
nature of our survival, feeding out ways of
escape as we have need. If you had been a minute
later in each case, I'd be either dead or, worse,
a useless burden to society. I only knew that,
with Schnauz, I was like a person drowning,
needing to reach the light and air. I had to be
alone and take deep, sobbing breaths under the
trees.

And the other time? It reminds me that you've had
rare glimpses of my weakest moments. Scuffed and
bleeding, with cobwebs in my hair, I burrowed
into your arms. Weeping and desperate to feel
safe, I clung to you, close to your heart.

************

I had a dream while I was in the hospital for my
cancer, Mulder.

Usually I dreamt of tests, of white blood cell
counts, of weakness and fear, of nosebleeds that
refused stanching. My waking hours were consumed
with denial and pain, regret and anger. The
stalwart faces came each day, speaking in solemn
tones, there to smile and visit with the one
struggling to survive. Despair invaded my
subconscious and flaunted the evidence of my
mortality before me in cruel parody. I felt there
was no meaning or justification in it. It's a
wonder I slept at all.

In the midst of this daily grief, I had a dream
of your nearness, and it filled my chest and
being with the fresh breath of hope. I smelled
your hair, so real it could have brushed my nose,
as it does now. So close I could have kissed it.

I felt breath on my hand, *your* breath, then
your mouth and cheek. Opened and hot, wet with
desperation. You clutched me, squeezed me with
your warm, gentle grip. Trying hard not to rouse
me from healing sleep.

Truth eludes me with its all-too-frequent
masquerade; it can be relative, subjective, even
interpretive, depending upon viewpoint and
motivation. I can't deny there's a bond between
us that neither time, nor experience, nor pain
can dull. But, in this dream you were my
lifeline, Mulder, drawing me back to a place of
faith and of hope. To extreme possibilities. Back
to my place at your side. Whether you were truly
there or not, crouched next to my bed or just a
part of my dream, I must believe there is meaning
and purpose in everything that's happened to me.

The journey wasn't in vain.

*************

I'm exhausted. My yawns remind me of the body's
need for oxygen, so I take several huge, gulping
breaths to fill my lungs and bring myself more
fully awake. Western Florida or not, the night
air is humid and cool, and I notice your
movements across my lap in response to my
inhalations. My thighs begin to ache, fatigued by
your body's weight, and yes, my ass is growing
numb. You bundle closer to me for warmth, leaning
against my breasts. Perhaps, some night in the
future, we won't have the layers of clothing and
outerwear and a makeshift bandage between us.

It makes me ponder what might have occurred if
the hunt for Mothmen hadn't taken you from the
motel last night. Notwithstanding the Bureau's
policy on male and female agents consorting while
on assignment and, contrary to popular belief, I
have more than just a lap, I assure you. Food for
your dreams. It's how I survive the desires that
both haunt and hunt me.

I often dream of you.

Nodding over your body, I sense night, like a
lover, easing itself into morning. There's a hint
of greenish-blue in the blackness of the forest
around us, and I've yet to notice a menacing
presence or the glow of red eyes staring from
beneath the trees. You groan in your sleep.
Cramped, stiffened muscles will soon need to
change position, as before, and perhaps my own
body can benefit from the brief respite. After
all, we've only a few more hours until dawn.

They take the strongest first, you said. Though
we weren't the leaders in this situation, I'm
convinced that our survival can be seen as
evidence of our fitness and our right to
continued existence. We refused to be divided.
Lured apart, attacked, we rallied together and
came back united and whole. Partners still. Only
God knows what challenges there are in the
journey ahead. Or what the unseen future holds
for us.

Take another breath, Mulder; breathe deep. It's
what keeps us alive. And stay close to me through
this night in the forest, facing the unknown.
Remember that we're survivors, you and I...

************
THE END
Take Another Breath
09/10/00