From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Fri, 24 Mar 2000 13:05:01 -0600
Subject: Verbal Intoxication by XRie by 
Source: direct

Reply To: x_rie@hotmail.com


Title: Verbal Intoxication
Author: XRie
Contents: MSR
Rating: PG
Spoilers: En Ami, Memento Mori
Summary: How did Mulder know that the e-mail
responses to Cobra weren't Scully's? The revelation
and its aftermath.
Distribution: I'd be flattered, but let me know
where it's going.
Disclaimer: They are not mine. I am just pitiful
and need to feel the love. And we all know that a
certain Scully speech in this story particularly
doesn't belong to me. Don't sue.
Notes: I just wanted an En Ami post-ep without
angst. Is that so wrong?? Slight sap potential, but
not too much.
Feedback: My name is XRie, and I am a feedback
junky. Send it to x_rie@hotmail.com and I will
cuddle it and stroke it and probably read it way
too many times.


*******************
Verbal Intoxication
*******************

Scully cradled the mug calmly in both hands. The
murky liquid inside was utterly opaque--more so
than lakewater. Perhaps less so than the heart of
the man who sat two feet from her on the couch.

They were engulfed in a charged silence that was
somehow reassuring; it was theirs. Three years ago
if she had done what she had, he would have
fashioned a revenge of impenetrable walls--barriers
constructed of tv light and hooded hazel eyes. She
might have responded with a stubborn sulking of her
own. But at least they had come this far. They had
left the deserted office space, driven to her
apartment, and he had followed her inside in
unspoken agreement. She had brewed coffee. 

Now she watched as the thick remains of the brew
swirled in the bottom of the cup. She raised the
rim to her mouth, allowing the tepid liquid to
touch her lips, taking some in with the tip of her
tongue. She grimaced, placed the mug back on the
coffee table. And awaited his answer.

In a sense, they didn't need to speak more about
this. Further words were superfluous. She had felt
the hurt emanating from him. He could not have
missed the plea for understanding in her tone. She
had laid bare her motives. He had unveiled the core
of concern that fueled his emotions. Mutual
forgiveness granted.

But she had been driven to ask, and the fear that
flashed through his eyes had been unexpected. The
question still hung between them: How did you know,
Mulder? That the words weren't mine?

She turned her gaze to him again, bemused at her
own patience, allowed her eyes to caress his
profile. He worried his pouting lip with his front
teeth. His Adam's apple worked gently up and down
as he swallowed. Then his furrowed brow suddenly
smoothed, and he reached into his back pocket,
pulling out a folded piece of computer paper.
Unfolding the crease-worn sheet, he cleared his
throat and began to read.

"I have tasted the type of exile you fear to
subject me to. I am not afraid of it. I want to
meet you. Maybe even be with you. Your science
inspires me. Beyond the intriguing nature of your
discoveries, I see the possibility of my own
salvation ... in you. To no longer be lonely in an
aimless quest, but to be joined in a certainty of
scientific truth--that is something we could share.
Please reply soon." His soft monotone trailed off
into the thick silence, but his eyes still flitted
across the typed words.

"That was one of the messages sent to Cobra in my
name?" she responded dully. It was more realization
than question.

"Yes." He handed the paper to her, studied his
fingers where they lay in his lap. "There were
several, dating back six months. I doubted their
legitimacy, but when I saw this one, I knew they
were frauds."

She read over the words again, irritation bubbling
inside her at the audacity of the man who had
impersonated her. But at the same time, she had to
be impressed. C.G.B. Spender *had* been watching
her. The execution of the message was impeccable.
The words were intelligent; the sentiment was
believable. She sighed.

"Mulder, we both know I didn't write those e-mails.
But I don't see how this could make you so certain.
Certain beyond all doubt."

He shrugged. "It didn't sound like you."

She examined the letter again, dispassionately,
then shook her head. "How is that? The writing
style is *disturbingly* similar to one I might use.
The expressed passion for science is on the mark
..."

A disbelieving chuckle slipped through his lips.
"It was practically a *love* letter, Scully."

She froze for a beat, embarrassed, then bristled at
his implication, his arrogant presumption. "You
think the idea of me writing a love letter to
someone ... is that farfetched?" She omitted the
initial word that had leapt into her mind: else.
Someone else.

He rephrased his statement, his soft words wafting
across the distance between them. "Not one like
this. I *know* you. If you wrote a love letter, it
wouldn't be like this."

The frank sincerity of his tone dissolved all trace
of the stiff annoyance that had traveled up her
spine. She was dazed, suddenly vulnerable. Her eyes
locked with his as her lips betrayed her first
breathless thought. "How would mine be different?"

"Yours would be ... more passionate." He paused,
uncomfortable, glanced at his hands, back at her
expectant eyes, went on. "You have more passion in
you than that." His final murmured declaration was
instilled with a fervor of conviction that shot
heat through her blood.

Impulsive words tumbled forth as she dared to delve
further. "Still ... vague grounds for certainty."

"Yours would be more eloquent, almost like poetry."
He was staring at the wall now, withdrawn inside
himself, composing his words thoughtfully on this
new slate, this new freedom of expression. "People
would expect you to be straightforward, to declare
love simply. But emotions are difficult for you.
And though you would choose to express the feeling,
somehow you feel protected when you cloak the
sentiment in words."

Her eyes were mesmerized by the languid movement of
his lips. Anyone else and she would have mocked
such revelations as pop psychology.' But she
sensed that what he shared with her now did not
arise from intellectual study, nor from years of
practice dissecting the thoughts and motivations of
others. It came from somewhere deep inside him.

"But disguising the sentiment doesn't make the
declaration less beautiful, because every word is
heartfelt," he continued in the same distant
monotone. "You wouldn't express them insincerely.
Each phrase would be carefully chosen." He closed
his eyes, leaned his head back against the couch.
"Beautiful words."

*Beautiful words* ... His voice echoed through her
head in jumbled counterpoint to the staccato
thumping of her pulse. An intoxicating stillness
stretched between them, until finally her mind
broke through its haze to grasp at a sudden
resolution. She stood, knees popping, walked
unsteadily to the bookcase, and removed a thin,
black notebook from the bottom shelf. Leaning
against the wall behind him, she forced the words
through her choked larynx. "Would it sound like
this?" His eyes remained closed, his head tilted
back on the sofa, but she could feel the full
intensity of his focus.

Trembling fingers flipped open the notebook's
cover. She began to read the familiar penstrokes on
the first page. "I feel these words as if their
meaning were weight being lifted from me, knowing
that you will read them and share my burden, as I
have come to trust no other ..." Her voice trailed
off. She could almost see him as he was in that
dark hour, lithe and intense, a velvet and
passionate presence. Black angel in a quest to cure
her. She cleared her throat softly, recollected
herself, and resumed.

"That you should know my heart, look into it,
finding there the memory and experience that belong
to you, that *are* you, is a comfort to me now as I
feel the tethers loosen and the prospects darken
for the continuance of a journey that began not so
long ago, and which began again with a faith shaken
and strengthened by your convictions."

She paused, looked up. He had opened his eyes,
twisted himself around on the couch so he could see
her. Emboldened by his expectant silence, she
turned the page and plunged onward, her voice
gaining strength. "Mulder, I feel you close though
I know you are now pursuing your own path. For that
I am grateful, more than I could ever express. I
need to know you're out there ..."

"It would be like that," he interrupted at last,
his voice sounding oddly distorted through the
blood pounding in her ears. "It would be like that,
but without the sadness."

Closing the notebook gently, she attempted to keep
her eyes on the hazel orbs that burned in his face.
But his gaze was too intense, and she let her
eyelids flutter shut, leaned further against the
wall. "Science is an inextricable part of me--a
balance upon which I weigh thought and action. It
orders and arranges my world. But it doesn't move
me. It doesn't enthrall me. Once, I believed it
did, but then I discovered ... I discovered you."

Scully allowed the heady words to drop from her
tongue. Normally she would be mortified by this
extravagance of expression, this unforeseen verbal
foreplay. She had always assumed that one day she
and Mulder would just explode, silently, without
words in the darkness of the basement office. But
something in the atmosphere of this room, in the
rhythm of his breathing, confided to her that her
eloquence was right. 

"You resonate inside me. Your passion for truth,
for possibility, for the exoneration of *otherness*
captivates me. You have shown me how to delve into
myself, to uncover beauty and emotions that defy
scientific categorization. You are a world in its
entirety. To me ..."

Her voice grew faint as breath and rational thought
became suddenly difficult. She was aware of his
electric presence, approaching her until every
nerve in her body hummed. She opened her eyes to
see his t-shirt-clad chest inches from her face.
She glanced into the kindling of his eyes, then
concentrated on his shoes, simultaneously
embarrassed and inflamed. "It's difficult when I'm
not writing."

She heard his soft laugh, filled with affection and
restrained tension. His fingers grazed her chest,
then her knuckles, resting gently on her hands
where they clutched the notebook weakly to her
stomach. She backed further into the wall for
support as he unlocked her fingers with a burning
touch, removing the last barrier between them.
Holding the notebook to his side, he stepped
forward until she could feel him brushing lightly
against her. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

He leaned down, and she could feel his chin
ruffling her hair, the rough skin of his jaw
scraping her cheek. Two words grated from his
throat, skittering hotly across the edge of her
ear. "Thank you."

His fingers glided softly around her ear, across
her jaw, stopping at her neck, where they circled,
eliciting a soft gasp as her head fell back
reflexively. His thumb traced her lip momentarily
before she felt his breath puff against her cheek.
His lips brushed hers once, then again.

The urge to feel him surrounding her was
overwhelming. Reaching downwards, she grasped his
index finger, loosening his grip on the notebook at
his side, pulling his hand to her waist. The book
slipped quietly to the ground, pages splaying
carelessly across the tile floor. Mulder's tongue
flicked lightly against her lips. One final, vivid
image flashed through Scully's mind before she
succumbed to the taste of black coffee and Mulder:
pages full of penstrokes, ripe words hanging
languidly in the air between them, expressions of
love never before spoken. Beautiful words.

*********
The end
*********