From: "Leslie Cummings" Date: Wed, 15 May 2002 00:03:13 +0000 Subject: That Day In My Life Source: direct TITLE: That Day In My Life AUTHOR: Barenaked Bostonian NOTES: So my sister just kicked me out of my room, and I am so close to committing homicide right now it's not even funny. But, alas, I write. Listening to "Hello" by Poe and got inspired to write a little something. So here you are. RATING: R, very very R. DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere and everywhere, please people, come on, it's me!!! FEEDBACK: Anytime babes! IM me, I like that better, BNLXPhile12 on AIM, and Scully9485 on MSN, but you can email me to at either Scully9485@hotmail.com or BNLXPhile12@aol.com. DEDICATION: To all my X-phile girls! ~*~ You know who you are, Lauren, EY, Chelle, Aiah, Maya, Amanda, Ari, Ash, Sam!*!, and everyone else I can't remember! I love talking to you guys about XF and that will never change. X-Files lives on, as pathetic as that sounds! :-) Summary: Tommorow's coming round a hairpin turn in the road. How close is the call for Mulder and Scully, because it's Scully's call. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Hello, hello, are you out there? *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* This is Jezebel in hell... I am bone weary, tired beyond... tired. Nothing is helping, not the fresia scented bath, not the warm glowing of the candles placed precariously about the room. Not the soft music coming from my stereo. Well, that actually relaxes me a bit. I spent nearly in hour in the bathtub, scrubbing myself with a soft peach loofah, trying in vain to rid myself of the smell of formaldahyde. It's actaully been found to be carcinogenic, which is just another breath of fresh air. A big gust of fresh air on the wings of a hellish week filled with numerous autopsies, caffeine binges and tension of all sorts. My body is legarthic and at ease, but my eyes are just so damn tired. My vision watery and blurred, my brain sending signals to my eyes that it's time to rest for the night. But then, I can't sleep. I have no reason, but I cannot sleep. My living room breaths relaxation, my stereo attempts to lull me, but it does not work. I feel sympathy for these innanimate objects and then appraise myself on my taste in things. My body, heavy on my living room couch. A snug blanket pulled up over my feet, warming me, but doing nothing for the ice that encrusts my insides, the monotony that is Dana Scully. Sorry, I've been frozen in place for the past eight years, my defroster's broken. What can you expect in a late model like myself? The wine at my left hand is making me feel even more warm than the blanket could. My nimble but worn fingers trace the edge of the glass. I can play every note of my life on the rim of this glass, how sad. I can't even begin to imagine what I could do woth my Saturday nights if I had some semblance of a life. I might have a date, I might be having sex. I would never make love, because, for some reason there is only one person that I am to be with. I realize that now, as I did when I fell asleep on his couch four, wait was it three? No, four months ago I fell asleep on his couch knowing that I had chosen the right path. Though it might be boring and dangerous and what some people might think as being a waste of a good medical degree. None of that matters, the degree, the income, nothing. Because I have found the one person who I never wanted to find. I knew that if I found this person (who for a good long time I was convinced did not exist), I would belong to him forever. That I would no longer be my own, but share myself with another. At one point in my life, I would have enjoyed the common cliche that should have become my adult life. Then, I found solice in the fact that I had a life like no one else. But now, I'm torn between the two, somewhere in limbo. Wanting and feeling, lusting and needing. As hectic as things are, as cramped and cloudy as my brain is, I know one thing. He is my home base, my safe haven. He is me, I am him, we are us and everything and it's sickening. It's sickening because we both know, we have the knowledge but refuse to put the knowledge to good use. To a use that would be beneficial to both of our lives. And I'm so sick of pretending that it's because of the work, because of dangers and risks that I down the rest of my glass in one gulp, swallowing my pity for myself with it. As I see it, three things need to happen here. I need him to come over right now and help me finish the rest of this bottle. Two, I need to swallow my pride and fear and say the things I need to say. And three, I need to start living, or unpause my life, if I ever paused it in the first place. Or perhaps he paused it, so he'd have to be the one to press the button. It's profound, the impact that a few glasses of merlot will have on my thoughts. I can't even seem to understand them in my own head. They make no sense, but I pick up the phone none-the-less. The rings resonate inside my ears, causing me to wince. Sound is magnified with liqour in your system. A few wrenching rings later, he picks up and before he can even greet me, I speak. "Mulder, do you like merlot?" I ask, sweeping a strand of hair behind my unoccupied ear. "What?" He says, sounding as if I woke him up. As if he would be asleep at eleven o'clock on a Saturday night in the first place. "Just answer the question Mulder." I huff, he's making this so much harder than it has to be. "Yeah Scully, yeah I like merlot, why?" "Because I have some here, and I would like it if you showed up at my doorstep in about... a half an hour to help me finish it." The line goes dead and I know what to expect. My head lolls back on the plush pillow supporting it and I smile. I know what to expect. He shows up promptly a thirty minutes later. He's wearing a black tee shirt and jeans slung low on his hips and I just want him to jump on me and fuck me and I don't care if I knock the bottle over staining the carpet. Actually, I do, scratch that idea. I wouldn't mind if he lifted me, carried me to the bedroom, threw me on the bed and fucked me. *That* I wouldn't mind. But he stands there, his keys in his hands, staring at me. Maybe it's because I'm wearing blood red pajama's or maybe it's the tension in the air, aided by the scent from the candles and the fireplace. I make no move to get up, so he shhuts the door and saunters over to me. Shifting my legs to give him sitting room, I reach for the bottle. I hand it to him as his back presses against my thighs. I can feel his heat through the blanket and the jeans and it's exquisite. He takes the bottle, looks at me and I nod. He places the mouth to his lips and tilts that nelectable neck back, chugging from the bottle. God damn me if it's not the sexiest thing I've ever seen. He comes up for air and licks his lips. The firelight adds such an intimate touch to hips eyes and everything else on his body that I can't help but stare, my inebriation added to by the sight of him. I lick my own lips, but not to wet them, to illustrate what I want to do to his mouth. He knows what I want, I know he knows, but he makes no moves, gives no sign that he wants me. He just sits there. Staring at me. he's wearing that 'fuck me' face and his eyes, the ones that hold that intimate touch I just thought about, are ablaze with unanswered questions. With need, with me. I can see myself in his eyes and I am flushed and wanting him as much as he's wanting me but trying to hide it and I can't think or string coherent thoughts together... He hands me the bottle, and I take it, never letting my eyes stray from his. I gulp some down and let him finish off the rest. Then he places the bottle on my end table and leans back against my legs. "What did I come here for tonight Scully?" He asks, peeling his leather jacket off and tossing it over the back of the sofa. "I don't know Mulder. To avoid what we always avoid I suppose. Pretend not to know what we know. To be afraid of our knowledge, to be ourselves and be selfish." He nods, still looking delectable. "Is it acceptable to stop then? Are we both going to stop? Are you going to stop too, or is this a one sided thing?" He breaks eye contact for the fist time. He breaks contact. "How can I say it Mulder? You already know. I know you know. I love you, I'm in love with you, wanna fuck you, make love to you... never let you out of my sight, never want to see you again, want you so bad." And those are my thoughts, the only thoughts I have. He stares again. A long, hard palpable minute hanging in the open air. Simmering in my consiousness, screaming in my brain and waiting in his eyes. He sighs, licks his lips and then... "Ditto." EnD *~*It's getting to be the end of the year, and the end of The X-Files and I am so damn depressed, I've been doing things that are very unlike me... but I guess every teenager does that right? Okay well, I need to say my bit. Though The X-Files may be ending, I am *STILL* going to be a HUGE fan, that will never EVER go away!