Thorns


by Laine


TITLE: Thorns
AUTHOR: Laine
FEEDBACK: yes, please!
loislane@bright.net
SPOILERS: Slight FTF spoilers, but, if you haven't seen it, you probably won't know it's there.
ARCHIVE: Anywhere you see fit, as long as my name and email addy stay attached. Also, I'd appreciate a little note letting me know, but you don't have to wait for my OK on it.
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong, unfortunately, not to me. They are the property of Chris Carter, FOX networks, 1013 productions and, in as much as they brought them to life, David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. No infringement or disrespect is intended. I'm getting nothing but enjoyment, and hopefully a little feedback, for doing this. 'nuff said.


Thorns
by Laine

So long, it had taken so long for them to get past all the barriers, professional, personal and otherwise. And when it had finally happened, when there were no excuses left, they had achieved what they had only dared dream of - happiness.

No, it was more like bliss. Sweet, pure bliss every time her azure eyes studied him. Amused bliss every time she quirked an auburn eyebrow at his theories. Soft, cool bliss every time her rose petal lips met his own in velvet surrender. Thick, rich bliss every time her body clung to his like warm honey.

He smiled as he thought of her fiery hair, framing her face like a burning halo. Hot silk on the cool, white pillow of her cheek - God, the texture of those strands was nearly indescribable, the way they felt beneath his hands, entwined with his fingers, brushing against his skin. He laughed a bit at himself. When had he become such a romantic sap? A smile graced his solemn face because he knew the more appropriate question would be when had he not been one in her presence?

They had seen so much together, overcome seemingly insurmountable odds on a quest that nearly cost them their lives more times than he dared to count. In the end, he had discovered his truth was a living, breathing, beautiful woman. The one truth he could not live without.

Now, as he hurried to her, he cradled his small offering against him, shielding it from the gentle gusts of summer air that puffed around him. He had originally been afraid the heat would wilt the delicate petals, but, the breeze had picked up, keeping the temperature agreeable enough. Besides, it wasn't as if the rose had been taken from a florists' cooler. No, that would never do for her. She preferred her roses freshly plucked from a garden, complete with leaves and thorns.

He smiled again - something he could do often now, because of her. Such a very girly thing for his special agent to say, that these roses were a perfect reminder of life, and that she cherished them as she tried to cherish life. In a decidedly nonscientific way, she told him the roses were delicate and fragile, their strong stems a deceptive strength and the thorns were there to remind us not to hold anything beautiful too tightly, lest we hurt ourselves in the process. With a slight shake of his head, he picked up his pace a little more, eager to reach her.

Love. What an insignificant word when he thought of her and all she had come to mean to him. More than once he had cursed the English language for being so inadequate, for having no word to summarize the way it felt to know every breath, every touch every soft caress given and received by another person had become your life's blood. To be so completed by another soul part of your own was gone when they were not by your side. And that was only a fraction of what she meant to him.

Each time he tried to explain it to her, he failed to come appropriately close to making her understand, though her eyes said she did. How could he ever have been reluctant to admit to feelings that, once uttered, brought such a look to those crystal blue eyes. The first time he had tried to tell her, in the hallway outside his old apartment, it had been out of sheer desperation. She had said she was leaving him. Quitting the bureau. And she turned and walked out on him, not expecting him to follow. Certainly not expecting him to spill the contents of his heart and soul out before her, with a stammering admission of need and completion.

The second time he told her, he fared no better, but, the response was worth the torture he had put himself through in the hours preceding the big event. God, had he really been that unsure of her love? It had been so simple, really, when the moment finally arrived. And, each day after that, he had tried again, tried to make her understand his heart with every touch and look and caress and word since. And, the most amazing part was that she had let him. She had let him. His heart swelled in his chest at the sheer wonder of that.

Impatient to get to her now, Mulder glanced down at his watch. Wouldn't be long now, he thought with a smile. He could see where she would be waiting for him just ahead, and the thought spurred him onward with renewed vigor. In no time at all, he was there.

Two fingers caressed the cool marble as he steadied himself, crouching despite his protesting limbs. He stayed motionless for a brief moment, then slowly, he extended a trembling, wrinkled hand and placed the rose on her grave, and pricked his age worn finger on a thorn.

"Dad? You ready to go?" the soft lilt of his daughter's voice and a gentle hand on his shoulder signaled it was time for him to go. He smiled yet again. So like her mother. Gentle, caring. Scully was so proud of her, of the woman she had grown to be. Cautiously, he stood, smiling once more toward her name before reaching out for their daughter's hand. As they walked toward the car, he clasped her hand gently, the stinging in his finger reminding him not to hold on too tight, and reached in his breast pocket for another rose. She took the offering gently, her delicate fingers fitting between the thorns with no trouble at all.

The end


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