TITLE: Take Another Breath (1/1) AUTHOR: mountainphile RATING: PG CATEGORY: V, MSR SPOILERS: Detour... and a few surprises EMAIL: mountainphile@yahoo.com URL: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile SUMMARY: What thoughts linger in Scully's mind, with an injured, sleeping Mulder in her arms...? DISCLAIMER: all things XF belong to Carter and 1013 ARCHIVE: Absolutely, and I'd love to know where... AUTHOR'S NOTES: The recent airing of episodes from Seasons 4 and 5 plucked a tender chord within me! Grateful thanks to Forte for deepbeta and suggestions, to Mish and Jintian for beta and encouragement, and to lovely Musea, our haven of support, for providing an enthusiastic climate in which we flourish. ************ Take Another Breath by mountainphile It takes from three to five seconds for a human being to take a breath, to inhale and to exhale. It's what keeps us alive. Infusing the blood with oxygen, every part of the body is fed and strengthened, every cell nourished. The final act, cleansing, completes this process of respiration, ensuring our continued existence. We breathe, Mulder, you and I. We're survivors. I'm pleased... no, happy to admit that we manage to squeak through so well. We even surprise me, sometimes. Of course, I'll take into consideration the requisite amount of damage we also sustain in the field. This one will require a trip to the hospital, in order for the deep lacerations in your shoulder to be properly cleaned and bandaged. Despite your wound, I feel the steady swell of your chest and back against my body as you sleep and breathe, inhale and exhale, pillowed against my thighs and stomach. We survive again. There are no sleeping bags in evidence, so right now the safest place for you is tucked up against me, my arms around you for warmth. Wrestle? Oh God... and I had the strangest feeling that you were both grateful and hesitant to put your head and body down over my thighs like this. On my lap. Carpe diem, Mulder, and don't question it. You know this doesn't happen every day, so savor it because it's fleeting. Reminiscent of a worn-out joke that circulated back in med school about this being the only part of the human body that disappears -- all it would take is for me to stand up... "It's what's called the lap," the instructor said, many years ago, explaining this elusive piece of anatomy. An attempt at levity, and to disarm the awkward tension that built during the previous discussion on cardiac procedure. Tension was a not-uncommon result of this particular doctor's ego and usual, charismatic demeanor. "The lap. Say it to yourself. A colloquial, familiar term, you understand, but aptly named. Don't you agree?" Amid the wave of relieved and obedient laughter, I remember how his glance slid toward me over the heads of others. A man secure in his position, and righteously smug in his acquisitions, one of which was his extracurricular familiarity with young Dana Scully's thighs and stomach... The lap that disappeared, then parted when I stretched out on cool, forbidden sheets beneath him. Just a face from the distant past, Mulder, someone I've not mentioned to you. Why? I'm not proud of that association. And though the experience marked me in subtle ways, I'm convinced of the necessity to leave past mistakes behind. We shed our skins like snakes, sloughing the old to refocus, adjust, and grow with the new. We survive in spite of bad judgment and error. You called it a primitive culling technique, this new predator's method of attack. By taking the strongest first, it weakens and disorients the herd. Divide and conquer. I thought it probable you brought up the subject last night to justify staying behind and skipping the team-building seminar. And -- by some remote possibility -- an excuse for us to, well... spend time alone. As friends, of course. But once again you put professional before personal, dashing out into the night on a whim. It's quite possible our communication skills *could* use a jumpstart because, believe me, building a tower of furniture was not the scenario I longed for. Perhaps you're betting the House that the wine and cheese and my affability will be available at some other time and place? And they may well be. In our future, there are any number of... possibilities. Your wound has ceased to bleed, but other than packing it with your clothing, there's nothing more to do until help arrives. I hope it does, by morning... Already the long hours of exertion and nervous energy are taking their toll; I find my eyes growing heavy as I keep this midnight watch. Like a fool, I've brought no water or medical kit. We're classic Babes in the Woods, sitting ducks, waiting for the leaves to cover us. If there's one thing I despise, it's playing the hapless victim. Ineffectual, unprepared. My campfire was a fiasco from start to finish. It's dark and poor night vision hampers my ability to see danger in the blackness beyond us. I think of Jeff Glaser and his InfraRed, alone and lost somewhere out in these woods. Worry affects my perceptions. I squint at the black forest growth, imagining red eyes behind every tree. I've waited in tight places before, breathless and at bay, fearful and facing the unknown. So have you, with and without me, and I send up a grateful prayer that we're still counted among the survivors. Your breaths are a comfort. Take another deep one, against me, and sleep... ************ I haven't told you everything that's come back to me, Mulder, since my disappearance almost three years ago. Recollections I have of lost time are slowly returning, like shattered bits of driftwood washing in with the tide. I know my secrecy would disappoint you, if you knew, but I think you'd forgive me in light of our unique history. You understand my need for privacy; it's one of the few means of control I have left. Perhaps someday, with you holding my hand, or wrapped in your arms, I'll be convinced of the good it might do to open up this Pandora's box, which I keep so closely guarded. Little things also jog my recent memory. They offer me moments of sensation and kaleidoscopic snapshots. Not pleasant glimpses, by any means, but experiences that have marked me because of their abiding evil and the scars of trauma they've left behind on my psyche. I have no forewarning, no signal of their approach; it's out of my hands. And, Mulder, what's so -- galling... it's the mundane, incidental, unavoidable things that precipitate them. Tonight too, my mind is impressionable and skittish, because it's dark and cool and my nerves are on edge. Lightning flashes can trigger it. Dark, earthy, closed-in places. Metallic cold. The suffocating stench of mildew. Cobwebs. Sometimes a thing as innocent and unavoidable as running my finger along the tiny, half-moon pucker at the back of my neck. I wish I could share this part of myself with you, but it's not yet time. The shame is too potent. I'd rather sing a whole chorus of songs, loudly and off-key. For now, these memories -- impressions, really -- are instantly relegated to that place into which I tuck all the unsavory and nightmarish scraps of my life. If I'm not vigilant, the cache will bulge and overflow its bitter burden and my need for control will be moot. And should it break and spill, I honestly pray that I have enough strength, enough openness, enough trust -- in you, and in myself - - to invite you in. So you can be there to help me catch what might escape. Leaning over you, I draw my hand across your brow to feel your warmth. A few deep scratches, no fever. Your body temperature seems stable after the shock of injury, though your skin still retains some of the clamminess. Your hair is satin against my cheek and, taking advantage of your slumber, I breathe in your rich, musky odor of dried sweat, of maleness and Mulder-scent. I feel the rim of your left ear, cool against my lips, and part them to warm this salty, little slice of you. A moist touch, a whisper on your skin. Perhaps it will feed a dream. "Whazzat?" You mutter, shifting against my body, craning your head back, towards me. "Scully... you okay?" "Shhh, go back to sleep, Mulder. Everything's fine." "Your ass numb yet?" I smile. "If you hadn't mentioned Tailhook last night, I might be inclined to share." The muscle of your cheek arches into a wide grin and I hear a low chuckle. "Sleepy?" "Maybe a little... Nothing that should keep you awake, though. How's the shoulder?" Twisting in my arms, you utter a soft groan and expletive, and I realize that hours of lying in the same position have stiffened your limbs and neck to an uncomfortable degree. Sitting quietly, I allow you to shift your heavy upper body and help you slide against my warmth into a new configuration, before gathering you once more into the shelter of my embrace. "Mulder, I seriously question the wisdom of stressing or leaning on that injury." You mumble softly, fuzzy from sleep, breath erratic as your body adjusts to the new posture and seeks comfort. "...Uhhh, use pressure to stop bleeding. S'at right, Doc? Indian guides... know these things." The altered position has you facing me, knees butted against the mossy log at my back, your shoulder and neck pressed with great care along the curve of my thigh. While your head, well... your cheek lies in snug repose against my front. Your nose rubs the thin fabric of the jacket that covers my breasts and your mouth slips into a grin. I feel a quiet peace, looking down at you. Grateful that so many years of friendship and trust afford us this measure of easy physical contact. You open one unencumbered eye, gaze up at me for a moment, and then close it and sigh. "Scully?" "Hmmm?" "Feel free... to warm the other one... " I hear you murmur. By now, nothing should surprise me. Then why do my cheeks burn with sudden heat and my heart pound as I look quickly out into the cool night air around us? "Go back to sleep, Mulder. You need to conserve your strength... just in case we need it later." One arm cradles your head to my jacket. The other hand trails from your shoulder, following the hunched swell of back and hip -- and suddenly my fingers touch it in the starlight. Your weapon, metallic and chilled... ************ Those who court danger risk becoming the prey. I've known that ever since our first case in Oregon. Sometimes the strong don't always survive, just the fortunate, the lucky, the preordained. There were times, Mulder, when providence and timing alone kept me, kept both of us, alive. And as I'm wont to do, I seldom allow you to know how frightened I really am. There are cases, and then again... there are cases. It's crossed my mind that I am the liability in our partnership. That red hair is an invitation out in the field, a visual target for the monsters we seek. As my fingertips linger on the cold curves of your gun, a scene erupts in my mind... "Shhhh... Ich werde dir helfen... Du wirst eine Unruhe bald vergessen... " The stale odor of a trailer assaults me. From a corner in the darkness I hear the raw, tearing sound of duct tape. My God, I'm bound, wrist and ankle, to a chair. The metal tray hovers near my elbow. A camera's flash. The shining, winking tip of the leucotome in the soft light... These moments of terror seize me, taunt me, and then leave me breathless, Mulder. Little shards of the kaleidoscope coalesce and then shatter, convincing me that there must be a hole somewhere in Pandora's box. A fracture in the smooth porcelain of Dana Scully's self-control. My nose betrays me tonight. Seated here on the damp forest floor, I smell the earthy rot of leaves and organic matter. Forgive me, but this vision -- for lack of a better word -- focuses on you, and in my mind's eye I see you crouching under the trees, brushing back doubts like leaves. In your hand is a small packet of pastel, heart-shaped cutouts. Mementoes of a madman. For you, however, the fragile seeds of hope and a promise for resolution. Remembering, I blink back tears and stroke your hair, softly, so you won't stir under my touch. There are so many facets to the emotion I feel for you. Seminars can't teach what we've gained and learned from one other. They can't duplicate the same degree of understanding we share, or create the trust I have in your instincts. There are times when all seems lost, but I know, as surely as I live and breathe, that you'll be there to back me up. To help me survive... "There's no way out, girlie-girl... " I once faced the Devil incarnate, Mulder. I felt torn between two personas -- the terrified child scrabbling into a dark corner, making myself small and unnoticeable... and the adult, the trained professional, who needed her wits and skill to out-think and out-maneuver in order to survive. "I know this house, girlie-girl, there's nowhere to hide." For me, the movie "Psycho" had the opposite of its usual effect; you would have appreciated the irony, had I told you. I forsook my routine tub bath and showered for many months after the case was closed, before regaining that which I thought I had lost -- my dignity. Perhaps God is responsible for the miraculous nature of our survival, feeding out ways of escape as we have need. If you had been a minute later in each case, I'd be either dead or, worse, a useless burden to society. I only knew that, with Schnauz, I was like a person drowning, needing to reach the light and air. I had to be alone and take deep, sobbing breaths under the trees. And the other time? It reminds me that you've had rare glimpses of my weakest moments. Scuffed and bleeding, with cobwebs in my hair, I burrowed into your arms. Weeping and desperate to feel safe, I clung to you, close to your heart. ************ I had a dream while I was in the hospital for my cancer, Mulder. Usually I dreamt of tests, of white blood cell counts, of weakness and fear, of nosebleeds that refused stanching. My waking hours were consumed with denial and pain, regret and anger. The stalwart faces came each day, speaking in solemn tones, there to smile and visit with me, the one struggling to survive. Despair invaded my subconscious and flaunted the evidence of my mortality before me in cruel parody. I felt there was no meaning or justification in it. It's a wonder I slept at all. In the midst of this daily grief, I had a dream of your nearness, and it filled my chest and being with the fresh breath of hope. I smelled your hair, so real it could have brushed my nose, as it does now. So close I could have kissed it. I felt breath on my hand, *your* breath, then your mouth and cheek. Opened and hot, wet with desperation. You clutched me, squeezed me with your warm, gentle grip. Trying hard not to rouse me from healing sleep. Truth eludes me with its all-too-frequent masquerade; it can be relative, subjective, even interpretive, depending upon viewpoint and motivation. I can't deny there's a bond between us that neither time, nor experience, nor pain can dull. But, in this dream you were my lifeline, Mulder, drawing me back to a place of faith and of hope. To extreme possibilities. Back to my place at your side. Whether you were truly there or not, crouched next to my bed or just a part of my dream, I must believe there is meaning and purpose in everything that's happened to me. The journey wasn't in vain. ************* I'm exhausted. My yawns remind me of the body's need for oxygen, so I take several huge, gulping breaths to fill my lungs and bring myself more fully awake. Western Florida or not, the night air is humid and cool, and I notice your movements across my lap in response to my inhalations. My thighs begin to ache, fatigued by your body's weight, and yes, my ass is growing numb. You bundle closer to me for warmth, leaning against my breasts. Perhaps, some night in the future, we won't have the layers of clothing and outerwear and a makeshift bandage between us. It makes me ponder what might have occurred last night... if the hunt for Mothmen hadn't taken you from the motel, notwithstanding the Bureau's policy on male and female agents consorting while on assignment. Contrary to popular belief, I have more than just a lap, I assure you. Food for your dreams. It's how I survive the desires that both haunt and hunt me. I often dream of you. Nodding over your body, I sense night, like a lover, easing itself into morning. There's a hint of greenish-blue in the blackness of the forest around us, and I've yet to notice a menacing presence or the glow of red eyes staring from beneath the trees. You groan in your sleep. Cramped, stiffened muscles will soon need to change position, as before, and perhaps my own body can benefit from the brief respite. After all, we've only a few more hours until dawn. They take the strongest first, you said. Though we weren't the leaders in this situation, I'm convinced that our survival can be seen as evidence of our fitness and our right to continued existence. We refused to be divided. Lured apart, attacked, we rallied together and came back united and whole. Partners still. Only God knows what challenges there are in the journey ahead. Or what the unseen future holds for us. Take another breath, Mulder; breathe deep. It's what keeps us alive. And stay close to me through this night in the forest, facing the unknown. Remember that we're survivors, you and I... ************ THE END Take Another Breath 09/10/00