Date: Fri, 25 Aug 2000 16:15:55 GMT Subject: NEW: 'Whispers' by Dana of Starbuck Title: Whispers Author: Dana of Starbuck Archive: Anywhere but Gossamer, just let me know and give me a link! Summary: Sometimes moments can have more significance than we could ever imagine. Raging: G but read it anyway. Please? Classification: VA Keywords: UST, MSR Spoilers: None! I did it, Katie!! Disclaimer: I'm just a kid in Illinois. I don't have any money to give you or the imagination to dream these two up, okay? I'm just playing, they will be returned unharmed in time for the season premiere. Promise. Feedback: PipnTook@aol.com Author's notes: Well, I got an idea. The writing bug bit me. So I wrote. The story was inspired by my own father who, when I was little, would tell me to look at the moon at nine o'clock and say hi whenever we got separated because of one of his business trips. So I decided to take it a step further and apply it to my two favorite characters. As always, this is dedicated to my fellow Philes (you know who you are). Only 74 days until the premiere, everyone!!!!!!!!!! Whispers When I was a little girl, no older than six, my father took me by the hand and led me to our front yard. I remember the front of our home. Sometimes Missy would allow me to tag along as she and her friends played Truth or Dare or when they played hopscotch on the sidewalk. I rarely won. My legs were even shorter than they are now. But I know that every time I narrowed my brow and managed to pounce onto that final square, my sister would always cheer for me^ even with her friends standing only a few feet away. In the winter, Bill and Charlie would team up against us for a daylong snowball fight. We would stumble into the front door with chattering teeth, soaked snowsuits, and flushed cheeks. Mom would offer hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. I always loved the marshmallows and would save them for the end, whereas my brothers would stuff them into their mouths before attempting the creamy liquid beneath. Times like these were moments that all children should have engraved in their memories. But those times are not what made my yard unforgettable. No. What keeps that place stored in my mind is my father and what he told me. The navy kept him away from us for months at a time, months that I counted with longing. I wanted nothing more than to see his face. I'm sure that my brothers and sister missed him just as much as I, but I was the only one who admitted it. I won't go as far to say that my father loved me more than the others, but I was the only one who he called Starbuck. The only one who listened when he read. The only one who dubbed him "Ahab." Whenever he left for the sea, I would stand on my tiptoes and strain to reach the novel lying just beyond my outstretched fingers. But I couldn't, and by the time I grew tall enough to pull the worn book from the shelf, I knew that it wouldn't be right to flip through the pages without him^and I suppose I had always known. But it did not stop me from trying to reach the only tangible object that kept the bond between us. The day before I turned six, my father left for duty. This came as no big disappointment - he was rarely in for my celebration - but he took my hand and brought me outside before heading for the base. The air was cold for a San Diego February, and a thin layer of frost had formed on my mother's garden. I remember I tried to hide my shivers from my father who stood stoically at my side. I wanted to be strong like him. But he noticed my dilemma, as always, and scooped me up in one fluid motion. The two of us stood for several minutes in silence, and I watched his face as he stared upward. "The stars whisper," he told me softly. I didn't answer, knowing he would continue as he always did. "Every star, every light that you see up there, they all hold messages we send to the heavens. And all of these stars are the same, whether you're looking out the window of your room or watching them reflect off the ocean from the bow of a ship." He looked down at me, and I caught the reflection of my young, freckle-speckled face in his gaze. I wanted to be him. I wanted to know how the stars spoke and in what language. My high voice seemed incredibly subordinate to his low bass when I asked, so much so that I almost regretted speaking. But my father simply smiled and answered me. "Can you hear the waves breaking on the beach?" I shut my eyes tight and concentrated. At first I heard only the sound of my breath, whistling as it passed through my lips. But slowly I heard the ocean. I listened to the waves' whispers on the edge of consciousness, although I never had been able to hear them from my home before. Looking back, I wonder if it was merely my imagination - a desperate attempt to hear what my father claimed existed. Regardless, I felt something, and I told my father so. He responded by saying the sounds of the sea are the language of the stars. I asked him what good there was in hearing the stars if I couldn't understand. "You don't have to understand," he said. "You just have to know someone wants you to listen." I told him if they wanted me to listen they should have spoken in English. My father chuckled. "The point, Starbuck, is if you ever feel lonely or need to hear me, just listen to the stars. And they'll carry my message to you." I pondered for a moment, my six-year old mind reeling. A lot of information had entered my head, and it was difficult to process. "Just look at the stars. I'm seeing the same thing." It took me a year to understand everything he told me, and even longer to understand why he said it. Much later, sitting in my dorm room my senior year of college, I found myself staring out the window while finishing the final pages of my thesis. My eyes caught the Big Dipper before following it to the North Star - the true constant of the sky. My lips mumbled something I didn't even mean to speak. When I turned back to my typewriter, I felt foolish for even acknowledging such a childish idea. But my fingers typed faster, and my thoughts flowed easier. At that point I understood. Whispering stars weren't only for the comfort of the listener but also for the comfort of the speaker. ~~'~@ ~~,~@ ~~'~@ I finish my story with a sheepish smile, legs folded beneath me on the hotel room bed. All is silent, save for the steady breathing on the other end of the line. "That's a nice story, Scully." His voice is my constant now. Some look to the stars, some to the bible, others to themselves. I turn to my partner. "You don't know much about my father, do you?" "I know some." His voice is low. Soothing. "I know you looked up to him. I know you craved his approval. I know you loved him." I nod even though I realize Mulder can't see it. "I still miss him." "I know." The line stays silent for a few moments, and I absorb the feeling of security as my partner's breathing continues to echo in my ear, even from hundreds of miles away. I suppose the phone bill must be growing to astronomical proportions, but it doesn't matter to me. If the Bureau makes me pay, I will. I just need to hear his voice, just need to know he's there. "I guess I never forgot that moment because^" I pause, searching for the words. "He was always very^ down to earth." "I think it's hereditary." I smile. "But that was the one time where he actually suggested something purely for the imagination. Something he told just for the sake of my childhood." We pause once more. My eyes begin to close. "Scully, when are you coming home?" "About three more weeks." "The case going alright?" "It's okay. How's D.C.?" "Well, there aren't any red-haired, blue-eyed, stubborn hearted F.B.I. agents to argue with." I smirk and push myself off the mattress, pulling back the curtains from my window. The city lights pulse below. "I miss you too." "Yeah." I watch the cars speed down the street, headlights whizzing past in yellow streaks. My mind wanders, despite the company I hold via telephone. To think that in every single one of those cars, some person is living their life. Driving home. Driving to the airport. The airport^if I could, I would grab the next flight and head back east, spending whatever cost is necessary in order to knock on my partner's door and see him smile as he greets me. I want to go home. I can't. "Only three more weeks," I, trying to sound optimistic. But my words fall flat. To be honest, three weeks might as well be a lifetime away. "Hey, Scully?" "Yeah?" "Can you see the stars from your window?" A small smile begins to creep over my face. "Yes. Can you?" "Actually, it's rather overcast, but I've got my home planetarium running. Does that count?" "I think it'll suffice." His voice softens to a gentle murmur. "Close your eyes, Scully," I do. The din of the traffic fades away into nothing, the air conditioner hums before dying off, and then I hear it. A sensation ripples through my body, starting at my toes and spreading up through the tips of my hair. For the first time in thirty years, I let the stars whisper. But rather than waves, I hear the sound of my partner's voice, speaking in a language I've heard before, yet never understood. The language of my heart. "Goodnight, Mulder," I whisper. End Love it? Hate it? I don't care - tell me the truth!!!! Seriously, even if you just write those two words in an e-mail, I will love you forever and it will completely restore my good mood!