Date: Tue, 5 Sep 2000 21:24:25 -0700 Subject: xfc: NEW: Too White Source: xfc Title: Too White Author: Pseudonymph <> Categorization: V, A, R Keywords: Mulder/Scully Spoilers: None Disclaimer: Not mine, theirs. Summary: A dark, brooding little ditty about forgotten hurts, current losses and future gains. Thanks to Ophelia, Elizabetta and S&M. * I stop outside her door, staring blankly at its smooth expanse. What the hell am I doing here? I have no idea. She thinks I don't notice her listless sighs, her tired eyes or the way she catches herself staring at the computer screen for a fraction of a second too long. She thinks I don't care. The door is cool against my palm, my suit jacket crinkling in the quiet of the hallway. I flex my knuckles against the wood, forming a fist to break the silence. A door clicks inside her apartment and my heart flutters. She's home. The tattoo of her heels on the wooden floor alternates as she crosses over the small, ornate rugs that dot her living room. Water runs for a few seconds and the microwave hums. She crosses back, her footsteps lighter. This is ridiculous. My fingertips trace the heavy grain, shifting my weight on tired legs. She left the office directly at five, mumbling something about an appointment, her mother, her car, her plumbing. Pretty much anything to get away from me. I have this overwhelming feeling that I've done something incredibly wrong. It's reminiscent of my university days, waking up fully clothed sprawled across a small bed, hand still clenched around a pint of lager, just knowing you've made a huge character error the night before. Only Scully can reduce me to a puddle of self-conscious adolescent, flavored with paranoia, just waiting on her doorstep like an asshole. She thinks I don't notice her watching me watching her watching the clock, looking for any reason to get away from me. Her smiles are tight-lipped and her gestures clipped. She avoids me like a Brit in Boston avoids the Esplanade on the Fourth of July, looking for reasons to run our document queries up to the archives herself instead of calling them in. I spend more time in the bathroom than the office, making sure my fly is zipped and my nose is clean. For a doctor, she has the uncanny ability to make me feel like a plague victim. A door clicks again and the couch sighs. The television flicks on and a newscaster's voice filters through the door. The floorboards creak with my weight, forehead pressed against the carved wood and fingers splayed across the jamb. The television continues its noise unabated, dramatic voices highlighting the latest international crisis. A clatter sounds behind the thick door and the commentary ceases. A soft patter signals her movement deeper into the apartment, more felt than heard as a tangible warmth recedes from my chest. I can't be here. With speed and agility belaying a lack of sleep, my legs carry me down the hall. Past the elevator and into the stairwell, I eat the stairs two at a time. The door slams behind me, echoing between my ears. Swinging my weight around the landings, my shoulders protest as I white-knuckle the banister. Pushing metal and glass, I spill out into the street, light streaming into the darkened lobby, painting the air with suspended dust motes. The white sky blinds me, eyes squinting at the cold mist layering over my clothing and dampening my coat and open collar. I pull my trench coat around my hips, tightening the lapels against my exposed neck. My tie flaps in a gust of chilled air, dancing frantically with loose folds of linen and cotton. Legs pump me across the street, hands waving thanks at a faceless driver behind a water-beaded windshield. I let myself be swallowed by warmth and a rich coffee smell. A bell rings from above to announce my arrival as I shake dampness from my coat. Hanging it up on a peg by the door, I flash a wan smile at the strangely coifed waitress. Numerous bracelets click softly as she signals me to an empty booth. I slide in and grab some paper napkins, attempting vainly to dry my face and hands of the clinging Georgetown mist. A mindless order and a few pleasantries later, a steaming concoction of brown topped with white appears under my nose. I dodge the whipped cream with one hand and fumble through a stack of battered paperbacks perched on the windowsill with another, sipping the molten lava numbly. My fingers still over a creased and wrinkled account of a newly forgotten war. A random page drips words of death tangled in exotic jungles populated by fearless, dark men and scared, gangly boys. The faded white of the page blurs in the steam rising from my mug, sacrificing its moisture to the condensation on the window. The covered window lends an element of opacity to the scene, giving me a chance to hide in plain sight. I place the book down gently, reverently, as if saying an unspoken prayer to a misguided power. If these deaths were in vain, what does that say for the unknown war fought everyday, against a collage of shadows and inhuman flesh? Not much, I guess. A trickle of water slides down the glass as the door behind me opens with a loud sigh of wood against rain. Water patters off the newcomer, shoes clunking against the floor. Another droplet skitters down the window, adding to a small pool developing at the bottom. The steamy white window reflects a colorless nothing as I reach out for its moisture. My index finger, grimy from the recycled napkins and smudged coffee grinds, traces a curve against the glass, a tangible representation of an abstract thought. More water pools from my fingertips, a streak marking my hand. "Having a good time?" a voice sounds from behind me, further than I expected. Closer than I hoped. "Always." Without turning I continue. "Go home. I don't need to hear your faked attempts at small talk." A soft chuckle is punctuated with a slap of leather gloves against a damp hand. I still haven't turned around. She still hasn't approached. She could walk away and pretend this never happened. Keep it all compartmentalized and precise, always ready to deal with the absence or pain. A result of my endless cock-ups and numerous desertions. Always ready to excise me from her life, mind and heart at a moment's notice. To allow some portion of sanity to seep through the life of anarchy that's swallowed us whole. To keep me away. She slides into the opposite bench, but I don't see her, my eyes fixated on the white wall of water and glass. Her gloves move in my peripheral vision, signaling the waitress. I'm deaf to her order, attempting not to notice the fine lines around her mouth and eyes as she smiles weakly at the girl. My eyes strain at the fogged glass, making out shapes through the textured water. A car skids by, causing the mist to swirl into complicated eddies. Angling my neck, I can see the shapes more clearly. The defining edges of cars and pedestrians rise from the sharp white relief the slicked window offers. Straight on, not much is discernable, but a slight tilt makes it clear. Through the haze, I watch as a young woman skips through the rain, dexterously avoiding puddles and parked cars. A loud clattering sounds as her drink is brought over, followed by a few soft clinks of metal against porcelain. Two sugars, no milk. She relaxes into the cheap vinyl seat, lazily stirring the warm liquid. Her body is soft and eyes tough as she stares into the space between us. My eyes remain on the whitened window. I sense her sitting forward, a palpable silence heavy with smooth jazz. "Tell me a secret." So soft, her voice, almost like a thousand prayers in unison. My head jerks, facial muscles slack. Her request hangs in the air, coffee-laden and sweet. Tell her a secret. My eyes flit away from the window, down to fixate on the dark brown swirls of coffee and cream. Lips stretching, my mouth feels dry as a rough chuckle escapes from my throat. "A secret?" She clasps the smooth mug in her reddened hands as she slowly nods. Raising the cup and carefully pursing her lips over the rim, she takes an experimental sip, and then a longer one. I thread my fingers through the handle of my mug and lay my palm against its cooling porcelain. "What kind of secret?" Another furtive sip from my cup, trying to bide my time. She looks down at her mug. "Anything. Something you did and never got caught. Something that scares you. Something no one knows but you." Her eyes flit over my hands before settling on her cup. She's looking for something. A physical connection, a tangible representation of seven years together. Words are spilling from my mouth before I can even recall the memory or the moment, my fingers drumming against the table as I paint a picture of a 10-year-old boy, desperate for father-son communication. I tell her, in clipped words and broken sentences, about my Sunday ritual. I would steal the crossword section of the New York Times, my father's weekend favorite, in hopes that he would react and give me a reason to hate him. More than his silence and indifference, I wished he would lash out and let me explode, releasing the tension built up from years in the quiet tomb of that household. He never physically hurt me, never yelled, never gave me grief, even when I didn't take out the garbage. He just withdrew from life and immersed himself in his work. Stacks of paper and clandestine meetings, coupled with snifters of brandy and piles of sunflower seed shells. So, I'd steal his crossword and immaturely revel in the disruption it caused in his ordered universe. He would strew newsprint all over the mahogany endtable Mom kept to a high gloss. I'd sit on the floor at his feet and fastidiously practice my penmanship, working the loops on the Q's and D's, pretending to be oblivious to my father's plight until he'd break the silence with his gruff and smooth voice. "Have you seen the crossword, Son?" With all my willpower, I would answer, "No, sir," and continue on until he grumbled and rose from his chair. This was the signal for me to collect the paper and twine it for the trash. He never figured it out, even after numerous calls to the delivery center. And he never got mad. I don't know why I kept doing it -- I just couldn't stop. "So, he never knew it was you?" she mouths around the whipped cream. Sliding my eyes to meet hers, a small smile forms at my burst of nostalgia. "I barely knew it was him." * The sky has darkened considerably as we step out onto the dampened street. She's glowing with a melancholy air, her body echoing with the story she just told me, recounting her father's mute message to her many Christmas' ago on the eve of his death. Her small, gloved hand slips into my coat pocket to tangle with my bare one as we cross the street. Drops of water kick up and splatter the cuff of my pants, painting a Rorschach of frozen action. I slow as we approach her apartment building, but her hand remains steadfast in mine. Climbing the stairs, she fishes out her keys and unlocks the door. I follow her lead, letting her drop her keys back into her pocket and pull me into the darkened room. The door clicks shut and she turns to face me, her eyes warm and liquid in the dying light streaming through the windows. She releases my hand and pulls her gloves off. Stuffing them in her coat pockets, she shrugs of the long, heavy linen, twirling its weight to rest on the coat rack. Her hands grasp my lapels and removes my coat in a swift turn-around, placing it next to hers. A small, warm hand finds its way into mine and she slowly pulls me across the floor. Following her into the living room, I notice the texture of her tailored suit, the fabric moving effortlessly over her soft curves, gliding over the nylon of her hose down to the solid clunk of her heels. I move behind her as she twists the blinds into their closed positions. The light filters through the cracks as she awkwardly twists the pole with her left hand, her right thumb absently stroking the inside of my wrist. Raising my free hand to help her, my torso brushes up against her shoulder blades, the discernable touch straining my chest and spreading throughout my body. She tilts her head back against my collarbone, exposing her neck to the pale, white dusk. Her color blends with the opaque light, creating a picture of fog and condensed moisture on a canvas of skin. Her eyes flutter as the contact ricochets down our bodies, inch by inch pressing up against the other. She steps back, her small feet nestling themselves between mine as my hand tangles with hers. Our fingers twirl the rod lazily as the last of the harsh light disappears from the room. We stand in the dark for a long moment, our breathing punctuated by the metallic rustle of the shade. Her head lolls to the side, revealing more of her throat and a brief glimpse of softer flesh. Our joined hands gravitate toward her stomach, and my fingers nudge her hip. Drawn by her warm scent, my chin drops forward and gently nuzzles her neck. My nose glances off her jaw, lips following, drawing a slow breath. "We shouldn't be doing this, Mulder." Her voice catches as my lips graze over her ear. "I know." My reply is husky, torn from the depths of my throat. With an audible sigh she moves away from me, toward the window. "Mulder, we're like the dusk." Her hands move over the blinds, light playing in and out of her fingertips. "Light just keep slipping away." She looks up at me, her face half framed by the coming darkness. "We keep slipping away." I meet her gaze, arms dangling at my side. "But the light always returns at dawn, Scully." "Can you take it, Mulder?" Her hands drop from the blinds and she clasps them to her chest. "Could you handle it, everyday? The little dying?" She touches her mouth with an alabaster hand. "Would you do that?" "Yes," I reply with no hesitation. Without her, every moment is like dying. I could handle the loss, if only I knew I could have her again. A small smile plays over her lips. She reaches out to me, and I go to her. I die for her in order to live for us. * Fini Happy Birthday, S&M -- we're all part of a cosmic experiment. Feedback: incumbent1964@yahoo.com