This is the first of what will be a series about how Scully's cancer
might conceivably change her life and the way she lives it. It is told in
the first person and each piece in the series will be a journal, of
sorts. I'm already hard at work on the second piece and hope to have it
out to y'all within a week. I'm not trying to be cruel--I just want to
take this whole issue very slowly--just as I'm sure CC and company will
do. Expect a little bit of everything in this baby--from angst to
romance. No real X-File though, unless you want to count Scully. This is
a character study. Feedback of all types are welcome.

Disclaimer: The characters in this piece of fiction are not mine,
although I often wish they were. They belong to the Mother of All
Creators, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I like to think they
also belong to Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny. 

Thanks to the angst that is Melissa Etheridge for the title and the song
that flowed from it.

Dance Without Sleeping
by Lydia Bower 
Classification: S, A, eventual MSR 
Rating: Hmm... PG-13 for this part, anyway. That will no doubt change as
the series progresses.
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life. 


Dance Without Sleeping
by Lydia Bower 



It has nothing to do with psychic ability. It's just that for as
mercurial and impulsive as he can be, Mulder has also become predictable.
And I know his ring.

"I'm home in one piece, Mulder," I speak into the phone--without
so much as a hello to proceed it. 

"Spooky, Scully," is his reply.

"No, that's 'Spooky' Mulder."

He chuckles. There is a moment of silence and I can picture him
so clearly. Who needs telephones with video feeds? Certainly not Mulder
and I.

"Hey," he says, "I just picked up a pizza for supper. Plenty for
two. How 'bout if I swing by and share it with you?"

"Mulder, it'll be ice cold by the time you get here."

"No, it won't."

I cock an eyebrow. "How close are you?"

"Take a look," he tells me. I step to the front window and peer
through the blinds. Mulder's car is parked across the street and he's
leaning on the hood, phone to his ear, looking at me. I can see the white
pizza box on the hood of the car.

I smile at him and he must see it: he smiles back and I watch him
hit the button on the phone at the same time my end goes dead.

It has become the established pattern. In the two months since
Penny Northern died and I made the decision to come back to work, Mulder
and I have reached a silent agreement: his promise not to treat me any
differently at work in exchange for allowing him to spend time fussing
over me in our off-hours. It's been a hard bargain to keep--for both of
us. I can only speak for myself--and don't know if he could understand
it--but it's not that I don't value our extended time together away from
the work; I do--more than I like to admit even to myself. It's just that
there are nights when I want nothing more than to curl up in a ball and
contemplate my death, with tears and keening and utter self-absorption.
That's a hard thing to do with company. Especially when that company is
Fox Mulder.  

I hear the knock on the door and my chin drops to my chest in
bemusement. I will have to tell him straight out--the hints haven't
worked. I unlock the door and let him in, walking away in front of him.

"Mulder, from now on just use your key. You don't have to knock."
I curl back up in the corner of the couch and look up at him. He keeps
his eyes on mine as he leans down and sets the pizza on the coffee table
and then slips off his coat. 

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Use your key. There's no sense in me getting up
when we both know it's you." 

His eyes flick away from mine. "But what if.... I mean, you could
be in the bathroom or changing or something."

"I'll start closing the doors."

"I don't want to scare you."

"I'm not afraid of you, Mulder." 

"That's not what I--" His words break off and his eyes lock onto
mine. I can see that once again Mulder has managed to read my mind; or at
least do a damn good job of interpreting the hidden meaning of my words.
And it strikes me at this moment how very true they are. Up until a short
time ago there were still many things about Mulder that scared me. There
aren't anymore. There is no reason to be afraid. My life has been reduced
to simple things; a tunnel vision of the soul. There is Mulder, me, the
work, and my cancer. I have put all my trust and all my faith into the
first three. 

As for the cancer, I have become acquainted with my illness and
am slowly learning to come to terms with it. Where there was once fright,
there is now anger. With anger comes enpowerment.

I watch Mulder as he takes a few seconds to absorb this new piece
of me I've uncovered and presented to him. I've been doing that a lot
lately. I've always been straight-forward with him when it involves our
work. Now I find myself doing the same thing outside of it. I've
discovered that I don't have the time to invest in subterfuge.

I watch his eyes change shade, a subtle but remarkable shift from
hazel to green. He jerks up one corner of his mouth in a quick smile and
slowly nods. "That's good, Scully. I'm glad." He turns away towards the
kitchen and I hear him murmur, "That's good."

I hear the sound of tinkling glass. "Water, iced tea or juice?"
he calls out. 

"Wine. There's a bottle in the bottom drawer of the fridge. The
corkscrew is--"

"I know," he calls back. "I got it. Glass of wine coming up."

I lean forward and fold back the lid on the pizza box. The warm,
steamy aroma of spicy cheese rises upward and I lift my chin for a good
sniff. My half is mushroom, onion and green pepper; Mulder's half has
added sausage. 

Mrs. Bottenfield, my across-the-hall neighbor stopped me at the
mailboxes the other day and asked me if "that nice young man you work
with" had moved in with me. I can understand her thinking Mulder
might've. It probably looks that way. He's spent far more time here with
me than at his own place. He has his own space in the closet for a spare
suit or two, a drawer for his socks and underwear and garish ties.
Another for jeans and t-shirts and sweat pants. He has his own toothbrush
and razor; a ragged pair of sneakers in the front closet. His favorite
CDs and video tapes are stacked up next to mine. Each time, before
another piece of MulderStuff is brought in, he hesitantly and sheepishly
asks my permission. Lately he's been so considerate and polite that I'd
like to ring his neck. I miss the argumentative, arrogant son of a bitch
he can be sometimes. I'll have to tell him that.

He comes back from the kitchen with two wine glasses cradled in
the palm of one hand, the stems jammed between his fingers, and a wad of
napkins in the other. He hands me a glass and joins me on the couch. "You
got everything you need, Scully?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?" he asks me, already starting to rise. "Here, let
me get you a plate."

"Will you just *sit* down?" I snap. My voice comes out much
louder than I intended it to. 

Mulder murmurs an almost silent "'Kay," and settles back in,
turned towards me. He studies me, his face blank.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I didn't mean to snap at you." The words come
out automatically; a force of habit. But I don't mean them.

"No. You know what? I'm not sorry. You're driving me nuts,
Mulder."

There is a long silence. He scrubs his mouth and stands up,
looking around for his coat. "I, uh, I think this is the part where I say
good night."

 I wait for any hint of anger to cross his face or betray him by
manifesting itself in the form of body language. Mulder's body speaks
volumes; if you know how to look. I can sense nothing but resignation in
him and that saddens me. 

I look up at him, exasperated. "I don't want you leave. That's
not what I mean."

"Then what do you want, Scully?" His voice is low, measured.
Controlled. Ah, there it is: in his voice. The anger.

"I want you to stop treating me like I'm dying."

That gets his attention. He swings around and stares at me,
stunned.

 "What?"

"You heard me." I set my wine glass on the table and pick up a
piece of pizza, bringing to my mouth and taking a huge bite; effectively
making it impossible to say more. His curiosity will get the best of
him--it always does. Only a few seconds pass before he sits back down and
watches me chew and swallow. "Have a piece of pizza, Mulder, before it
gets cold."

He makes a sound deep in his throat. I recognize it as confusion.
He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and
then reaches for the pizza. We each eat two slices in silence, trading
occasional glances. I can see that he's running out of patience. 

I begin slowly, wanting to make the words right. "Mulder, we both
know what's wrong with me and we both know that this cancer may end up
killing me." Mulder picks up and then sets back down a third piece. He
absently wipes his fingers on a napkin, his glance focused somewhere
across the room. "But we also know that the latest MRI showed no growth
of the tumor. I haven't had a nosebleed in over two weeks. I'm sleeping
well, I'm eating," I wave at the pizza, "relatively well. I'm okay,
Mulder."

"What about the headaches?"

This newest manifestation of my illness has plagued me for the
last two weeks. Dull, throbbing headaches centered in the middle of my
forehead, over the tumor itself. I haven't mentioned them to the doctor
yet. I hope Mulder doesn't ask me if I have. I will not lie to him; not
about the cancer. I owe him that much. And besides, he knows as much
about my illness as I do; I can't fool him anymore.

I've run out of fingers and toes to keep count of the nights he's
spent crouched over my laptop at the dining room table, searching the
internet for any and all information he can glean that might help. He's
had Byers hacking into every medical database in the United States and
more than a few overseas. The table is filled with printouts and medical
journals, MRIs and the results of my latest bloodwork. Mulder could
compile a reasonable medical chart for me if need be. He has latched onto
this quest the same way he does with anything close to his heart. Mulder
is like a dog with a bone--he won't give it up and he'll snap at anyone
who tries to makes him.

"They're tolerable," I tell him. "The Advil takes care of the
worst of it." I have to look away from his haunted eyes and take a deep
breath to control my impulse to comfort him. Comfort *him*. Isn't that
strange? I'm the one who's dying, but I'm more concerned with Mulder's
well-being than my own. I curl up and hug my knees to my chest. 

"Mulder, I want you to know how much I appreciate everything
you've done for me these last months. No. Just be quiet and let me talk,
okay? I don't know how I'd do this without you. You've been here for me
whenever I've needed you. You've somehow managed to put your fears aside
on the job and let me do things the way I need to. But I'm tired, Mulder.
I'm tired of my life having begun to revolve around my cancer. That's all
we do, all we talk about, when we're not working a case--and sometimes
when we are. If it's not you tracking down a new lead on Scanlon, it's me
going over lists of the latest designer drugs for something that might
help me. Everything is about the cancer and I'm just damn tired of it.
Can you understand that?"

I honestly don't know if he can. Mulder has lived his life
consumed by one cause, has willingly given his life over to it. And now
he has taken up another. Has shouldered the burden of this added stress.
Once there was only Mulder and Samantha. But now there are three. I have
become Mulder's quest.

He surprises me with his answer. "Yeah, Scully. I understand what
you mean. You think it's easy to keep it up day after day? I've got
twenty-three years of tired stored up. You wanna trade?"

He makes no attempt to hide his bitterness. Perhaps because he
knows I won't take it personally. But he asked the question. It deserves
an answer.

"I'd be happy to take a few of those years, Mulder."

His brow wrinkles in sadness and he sighs, "Aw, Scully, I know
you would." And then he slides over and hugs me, pulling my curled up
body tightly against his chest, wrapping his arms around the whole of me.
I tip my head against him and feel his chin come to rest on the crown of
my head. There is something to be said for receiving hugs from Mulder. He
does it like no one else. There is no one else. 

My mother's embraces are frightening in their intensity; and I
can feel her fear as though it seeps from her pores. Mulder's arms hold
me easily but fully. And there is a calming effect in his touch. He
restores me to myself; makes me strong again. I wish I had taken the
chance and discovered that years ago. 

Mulder talked to me one night about walls of the mind and heart
and why we build them. I think it was the same night he brought me home
from the hospital in Allentown. He spoke of the need for them and how
they protected us. And he told me that when certain walls are no longer
needed, they will collapse from their own weight. 

Often now, in the silence and the dark, lying in my bed, I think
of Mulder. And if I listen closely enough, I can hear the walls
crumbling.

When he speaks his voice is whispered and honey-warm. "So, what
do you want to do, Scully?"

I turn my face into his chest until my nose is buried just below
the knot in his tie. He smells so good. His heart beats against my cheek.


I pull away a little and his arms loosen to allow me free
movement. Mulder never holds too tightly. He always leaves me room to
maneuver. Sometimes I resent myself for taking the room he offers.
Sometimes I resent him for giving it. 

"I want to live my life, Mulder. That's all. I want to be normal
again and do the things other people do. I want to do something that will
let me forget, even just for a little while, that this thing--these
things--are hanging over our heads. I want to be happy." 

I look up and find him staring down at me, that damned expression
on his face. Like he doesn't deserve to be breathing the same air as me
and is just waiting for the killing blow he knows is coming. That face
tears at my heart. I lift my hand to his cheek, hoping to erase the pain
and guilt I see there. His eyes drift closed and he expels a long breath.
I drop my hand and look away. His intensity no longer frightens me, but
it still gives me pause. He would swallow me whole if I would let him. I
wonder why I continue to resist. 

The walls are crumbling.

I can feel his eyes on me but I don't dare return the look.
"What'll it take to make you happy?" he asks me.

I smile in self-depreciation. "It'll sound silly."

"Impossible. Nothing you want could be silly."

That forces a chuckle from me. I uncurl from the ball I'm in and
leave his arms, sitting up and bracing my elbows on my knees. Mulder's
hand comes down on my back and begins to rub in tiny, slow circles up and
down my spine.

"I want.... I want to eat cotton candy and ride a ferris wheel. I
want to plant a garden and watch it grow. Tend to it and dig my fingers
in the earth. I want to hold a baby in my arms and listen to old people
tell me stories about their lives. I want to dress up in something long
and slinky and go to a fancy nightclub and slow dance the night away. I
want to have mind-blowing sex. Just once I want to stop ignoring the
whispers and the looks that follow you through the halls at the Bureau
and tell them all to fuck off and die. I want to eat a formal dinner with
nothing but my fingers and gorge myself on chocolate. I want to get my
hands on the people who took away months of my life and force them to
tell me why they did this to me! I want my life. I want back everything
they've taken from me!"

I am in tears now. They fall silently and burn hotly on my
cheeks. They are tears of rage. 

I can sense Mulder beside and slightly behind me. His stillness
neither invites nor discourages my tears. I know how hard it is to let
myself weep. I also know how hard it is for Mulder to witness it. His
guilt and my tears are like acid to his soul, consuming him the way my
cancer may someday consume me. 

His gentle touch on my back has stopped; and when he lifts his
hand my skin instantly misses its warmth. I don't have to wait long: his
hand moves to my hair, brushing the sodden strands from my cheek with a
touch so soft as to almost not be there.

"I'm sorry, Scully."

His voice cracks halfway through his words and I find my strength
in his weakness.

"So am I, Mulder. So am I."

I stand and retrieve both empty wine glasses from the table and
take them into the kitchen. I go about refilling them. The wine is pale
pink and I am startled by the clear image of Melissa's face and the blush
of her cheek. I brace my hands against the counter and lean into it,
squeezing my eyes shut and concentrating on the picture my mind has
painted of my sister. I think of how she died and wonder if that wouldn't
be the better way. Which would you choose, Dana Katherine? The quick
bullet or the slow desecration of your body? Was Melissa at all aware of
what had happened to her as she fought for her life in the hospital? Was
she visited by ethereal loved ones, as I was? Or was it all gone in an
instant? All awareness, all thought, all feeling?

"No." I start for a moment and then realize the whispered
declaration is my own. I will not surrender to my death. There is too
much life still in me. A vow is asked for and given. Again. It's a
constant battle I wage with myself--alternating between despair and hope.
I bless my father for passing his determination and stubbornness on to
me. I will not give up. I want too many things. 

I want flowers and cotton candy and sunshine. I want candlelit
rooms and soft music and flowing wine. I want answers and solutions and
puzzles I can put together. I want to feel a man's arms around me, his
naked skin against mine, his hands blazing trails of fire on my body. I
want that man to be Mulder. I want to sleep in his arms and wake in them,
too. I want to laugh, to cry, to scream, to sing. I want to feel pain and
pleasure and every sensation in between. I want to feel my heart beating
and my lungs taking in each breath. 

I want.                


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

Surprise! I finished this days before I thought I would! This is the
second piece in a series addressing Scully's cancer and her reaction to
it. You really should read the first part, though this could certainly be
seen as a stand-alone. If you can't find numero uno, email me and I'll
send it off to you. I want to thank everyone who's taken the time to
write and tell me how much they enjoyed the first part. It got to the
point where I had to choose between finishing this or replying to all the
feedback. If you've sent something and haven't gotten a reply yet, please
know that I've read it and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.
Feedback is always welcome. Enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: The characters in this piece of fiction are not mine,
although I often wish they were. They belong to the Mother of All
Creators, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I like to think they
also belong to Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny. 

Dance Without Sleeping II
Flesh and Bone
by Lydia Bower 
Classification: S, A, eventual MSR 
Rating: Mild R for language and content
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life. 

Dance Without Sleeping II
Flesh and Bone
by Lydia Bower 



I had another nosebleed just a while ago. The worst one yet. And
of course it had to happen in the middle of questioning a witness on this
latest case. The questioning was more an exercise of habit than a
technique to uncover any truths. I already had a pretty good idea that we
weren't looking at an alien abduction, but a much more mundane kidnapping
for ransom. The abduction story was just a way to take the heat off the
nanny Carrie Russell, and her boyfriend. Even Mulder knew that the case
was going nowhere and that the FBI really had no jurisdiction yet.

I was sitting across from Carrie Russell's best friend when a
wave of dizziness hit me. Seconds later the blood started to flow. And it
was no slow trickling this time; it gushed out of me in a flood, staining
my blazer and white silk blouse and scaring the hell out of the girl
across from me.

Mulder was writing something in his notebook, less than half his
attention focused on what was going on until he heard the sharp gasp of
the witness. He looked up at me and his eyes went wide. He was out of his
seat and at my side as the girl pushed out of her chair and began backing
away from me. I don't blame her for being frightened.

I sat still as a stone, my hand cupped under my nose, trying to
catch the flow and thinking that my life was bleeding out of me. The girl
began making noises about getting help and I heard Mulder curtly dismiss
her from the room, telling her that someone would be in contact with her.
He bent over me and gently shoved my hand aside, replacing it with the
handkerchief he's begun carrying with him. Funny, but I don't carry any
tissue with me. I just don't think about it. Mulder does.

"Jesus, Scully," he muttered. He placed his other hand on the
nape of my neck and said "Here, tip your head back a little."

I did as he told me and seconds later was racked by a coughing
spell as the blood leaked down my throat and choked me. I tipped my head
upright as flecks of blood flew from my mouth and sprayed the table
before me.

I could hear Mulder saying "Shit. Shit. Shit," over and over and
I raised a hand; as much to stop his words as anything else. The coughing
finally stopped; ceasing as abruptly as the nosebleed. One second
gushing, the next like someone had turned off the faucet. 

I began to clean myself up with the handkerchief and told Mulder
"It's okay, Mulder. It's stopped. I'm okay."

"Fuck that. You're going to the hospital."

"No, I'm not," I said, catching my breath. "I'm fine. There's no
reason--"

The door flew open and I recognized one of the detectives as he
stepped through the door. "Everything okay in here?" he asked as he
glanced at Mulder. "The girl you were questioning said...." And then his
eyes shifted from Mulder to me and he stopped and stared. God, I hate
that.

"Where's the closest emergency room?" Mulder barked.

"Uh...." The man stuttered, shifting his eyes between me and
Mulder as I tried to assure Mulder that there was no need.

"A hospital!" Mulder repeated, ignoring me; yelling this time.
"Where is the fucking hospital?"

The detective snapped out of his fog. "County General. About ten
miles from here. Should I call an ambulance?"

"No!"

They both looked at me. "I am not going to the hospital," I told
Mulder, each word clipped and distinct. "I'm fine."

Mulder and I waged a silent war with our eyes as the detective
stood by watching us, shifting his weight from side to side, waiting for
an answer. Mulder's eyes slipped shut and I knew I'd won this round. He
waved a hand at the detective, dismissing him. The man took one more look
at us before he stepped out the door and carefully shut it.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
 

Mulder stands before me now, hands on his hips, not saying a
word. I venture a glance at him and find him looking upward, apparently
fascinated by the water-stained tiles of the ceiling. In one quick
movement he pulls the empty chair from the other side of the table and
sets it next to mine, straddling it as he sits, folding his arms on the
back. He clears his throat.

"How long since the last one?"

"I don't know." I cannot look at him. "A few weeks maybe."

"Maybe?" He's scared and angry. "How long?"

Why do I feel like a child about to be chewed out for some
infraction?

"I don't know, okay? I don't write it down every time I get a
nosebleed, Mulder!"

"Well, you should. Documentation, Agent Scully."

I lift my eyes to his and I know how cold they must look to him.
"I don't need a lecture. If you want to do something useful, you can find
a bathroom and bring me a wet paper towel or something. I'd like to get
cleaned up before I leave this room."

I drop my eyes and start plucking at my blouse. There is a vivid
red stain that I know will never come out. Another casualty. 

Mulder stands up and with one hand lifts the chair so he can slam
it back down hard enough to make a satisfying noise. The glass in the
door rattles as he steps out and closes it more forcefully than is
necessary. At least he didn't try to put his fist through the wall. I've
seen him do that. 

I wait for his return, absently twisting the bloodstained
handkerchief in my hands before I use it to ineffectively wipe the spots
of blood from the file before me. I know that I should be more concerned
than I am by the amount of blood, but all I can think about is the flash
of real anger I saw in Mulder. I'm relieved by it. It means he's coming
back to me, returning to the whole. It's a necessary step in his grieving
process and I'm glad to see it.

He comes back in with a warm, damp washcloth and silently hands
it to me, turning away and looking at anything but me while I run the
cloth over my mouth and nose and then wipe at my fingers. I don't even
try to erase the stains on my blouse and blazer. The blazer is black so I
needn't worry about drawing attention to myself before we can make it
back to the motel. Properly buttoned, it should hide the stain on the
blouse. I reach for my purse and compact and realize it's in the trunk of
the rental car. I push back from the table and stand, testing my legs
before I step away from it. The dizziness is gone.

"Mulder, I don't have my mirror. Did I get it all?"

He turns back to me, arms folded protectively across his chest. I
watch his eyes as they move over my face. "There's still some right
above...." He shakes his head and holds out a hand, stepping towards me.
I relinquish the cloth and study his face as he brings it against a spot
just above my lips. His eyes are fathomless pools of gray. There is a
muscle twitching in his tightly clenched jaw. He dabs gently at my skin,
two fingers tucked inside the cloth. Standing here, watching him do this,
feeling it, reminds me of the way my father would clean me up after I'd
made a mess of myself eating ice cream. 

Mulder drops his hand and steps back, taking another look. "Good
as new," he declares as he tosses the cloth on the table.

I can't help but smile. He returns it, albeit sadly.

"If only it could be that easy," I tell him.

"Yeah." He begins to gather our things together, pausing only for
a second before he closes and picks up the file from the table. He shoves
it all into my briefcase and reaches for my coat. "C'mon, Scully. Let's
get outta here." 

He helps me into my coat and grabs his own, opening the door and
leading me out, his hand on the small of my back.

He makes me lie down when we get back to our adjoining rooms. I
protest that I'm not tired, that there's no need, but he won't hear it. I
change my clothes and wash my face before I settle down on the bed,
turning my back to him, my eyes focusing on the drawn curtains covering
the window. I can hear the faint sound of the TV coming from his room.
Despite my protests, it's not long before my eyes grow heavy and I slip
into that shimmery state that's not quite awake and not quite asleep. My
ears register the soft sounds of Mulder moving back and forth between our
rooms, doing whatever it is he's doing. I catch fragments of a one-sided
conversation and realize he's making travel arrangements. He will want to
get me out of Iowa and back to DC as soon as possible. I count myself
lucky that this case doesn't necessitate our involvement. I wonder how
he'll deal with it the first time we're in the field on a legitimate
X-File and this happens. Will he insist that I return home? Will I be
alone or will he come with me? Will he stay to work it on his own--as he
did before I came along? I wonder.

 And then I wonder no more; I sleep.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX 



I come awake slowly and the first thing I sense is the greasy
smell of fried chicken. Night has fallen and the room is filled with the
soft glow of a single lamp. I roll over on my back and enjoy a long
stretch. Turning my head, I see Mulder sitting at the small table on the
other side of the room. The round surface is covered with red and white
KFC bags, soda cans, and the ever-present bag of seeds. Mulder is hunched
over my laptop, furiously pounding at the keys in his untrained but
speedy hunt-and-peck method. His glasses are perched on his nose and his
hair is falling onto his brow. The suit is gone, replaced by jeans and a
t-shirt. His big feet are encased in bulky white socks. He abruptly stops
typing and looks over at me before I've had my fill of him.

"Hey, Scully." He takes off his glasses and gives me a big,
beautiful smile and my heart speeds up. The pendulum has swung the other
way. Looks like I get to spend the evening with happy Mulder. It's nice,
but I can't help but wonder at the cause.
 
"How ya feelin'?"

I push myself up and lean back against the headboard, taking
stock. "Good," I tell him, "I feel really good." And I do. "How long was
I asleep?"

He glances at his watch. "Close to four hours. You were zonked,
Scully. I don't think you moved once--unless it was while I was gone."

I get up from the bed and come to stand beside him. "What're you
doing?"

He turns to look up at me and I can see the sparkle in his eyes.
He looks about twelve. "Just finishing up some notes on our
non-abduction. We've got a flight out at 7:15 tomorrow morning. I brought
you a grilled chicken sandwich and some cole slaw. If you're lucky, the
sandwich will still be warm. I had them double wrap it in foil--I didn't
know how long you'd be out. Sit down. Eat." He reaches over the computer
and clears a spot for me.

I lift my hand and ruffle his hair, the act completely
spontaneous. He smiles at me as I take a seat beside him and unwrap the
sandwich he digs out of the bag. The cole slaw comes next, and he pops
off the lid and rips open the wrapper on the spork, laying it beside the
styrofoam container. Not exactly a gourmet meal, but I'm so hungry I
couldn't care less. He grabs a can of Diet Coke from the ice bucket and
pulls back the tab, setting it in front of me. A napkin comes next. I
drop my head and smile, knowing my hair will conceal it.

"What?" he asks me, instantly on guard.

"Thank you, Mulder." I lift my eyes to his.

"For what?"

I gesture at the table and my simple meal. "For this. For taking
such good care of me. They say that doctors make the worst patients. I
don't know about anyone else, but I know it's true for me. You don't have
to do this, any of it, and I--"

I stop when his hand drops down and covers mine. "Yes, I do," he
tells me very earnestly. "I do have to. Not because I have to, but
because I want to. So I have to."

It's a good thing I'm fluent in MulderSpeak.

We trade smiles. Mulder puts the final touches on his field notes
and saves the file, closing the laptop and pushing it away. He braces a
bent elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand, watching me eat
while telling me a ridiculous story about a family in Kansas who claim to
have been visited by little gray men who decided to sit down and share
the family's meal. He goes on about fingerprints that weren't really
fingerprints--at least not human--and strange burn patterns in the grassy
field where they supposedly landed, and how there were reports that night
about lights in the sky. I am too content to argue with him and too
charmed by his enthusiasm to do more than make the appropriate faces at
his varied comments and speculations.

I love this man.  

I decide to indulge in a long soak in the tub after supper. I
shower first and then fill the tub. I sink down until the water reaches
my chin and do a slow inspection of my body. My feet are small and
well-shaped <"I was just never sure your little feet could reach the
pedals.">, my calves a tad too heavy, but they sit atop slim ankles. My
thighs are lean and well-muscled though there's really no reason for them
to be. The only exercise I get these days is chasing after Mulder. My
hips are softly flared, my stomach flat, my waist tiny enough that I take
pride in it. My breasts are small but nicely shaped and still sit high
enough on my chest to draw a man's eye. My arms are lean and softly
rounded, my hands small but strong. All in all, I count myself lucky. 

The tears come unexpectedly when reality again slaps me in the
face. Because beneath the skin and muscle, I know there is an invader
that makes certain its presence is felt each and every day. My body does
not yet betray the reality of my cancer, but I know that day may come. I
think of slack muscles and sunken cheeks and eyes; dull and brittle hair
that comes out by the handful; pain and suffering; a gradual lessening of
my grasp on reality and a slow fading away of the sharp and questioning
mind I am so proud of.

I don't want to die--but that's not what frightens me. I'm not
afraid of death. What scares me is the unknown that lies before me now,
in the immediate future. I don't want to be sick and be forced to depend
on others to care for me. I don't want to lose my iron-fisted control
over my life.

I open the drain in the tub and stay inside until all the water
has drained out around me, enjoying the sensation of the cool air against
my skin as more and more of me is uncovered. My nipples grow hard and
goosebumps break out on my skin. I savor every moment.

Mulder is sprawled out on my bed when I come out dried and combed
and dressed for bed. He has his hands locked behind his head and his
attention focused on the TV. I glance at it and recognize John
Carpenter's version of 'The Thing.'

"The original's better," I inform Mulder.

"Yeah, but the gross-out factor in this one is higher," he quips.
I remember a time when Mulder would visibly blanch at some of the corpses
we've examined--as have I from time to time. He doesn't do that much
anymore. He's becoming immune to the ugly realities of the fragility of
flesh and bone, muscle and blood. In many ways, Mulder has lost much of
his innocence. That saddens me.

He turns over on his side and props himself up on an elbow, his
attention pulling away from the movie to zero in on me. He lifts his hand
and chews on the corner of his thumbnail. His eyes are soft and warm and
he gives me one of his unique gazes that I can only describe as a "come
fuck me" look. I feel the slow smile spread across my face and he seems
satisfied to have captured my full attention for a few seconds. He grins
and asks "You still full from supper, Scully?"

"Why? Did you stash some ice cream somewhere?"

"Nope," he tells me and hops off the bed. "Got something better."
He disappears into his room and comes back seconds later, his right arm
hidden behind his back. 

"Mulder..." My tone is somewhere between amusement and
trepidation.

"I, uh..." He starts to say more but ends up shrugging instead.
He brings his arm around and holds out my dessert.

Somehow, in late winter in a small town in Iowa, Mulder has
managed to find cotton candy.  It's even blue--my favorite.

"Mulder, where on earth...?"

"It's amazing what you can find in your friendly neighborhood
Wal-Mart these days." As I take the cotton candy by the long, rolled
stick and begin to take off the plastic wrap surrounding it, he goes on.
"I'm sorry I couldn't come up with a ferris wheel, Scully, but it's kinda
hard to find a county fair in March."

I can't help it. My eyes well over with tears. Mulder sees them
and reaches out to touch my arm. 

"Hey? You okay? Jeez, Scully, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make
you cry. I thought you'd get a kick out of it. I--"

I stop his unnecessary apology by placing my fingers over his
lips. 
"Hush. It's wonderful, Mulder. Thank you."

He smiles beneath my fingers and I leave them there longer than I
should. Mulder doesn't seem to mind. 

I finish unwrapping the cotton candy and look back up at him.
"Want some?"

"No, that's okay. I bought it for you."

"Have some." I pull off a thick strand and offer it to him.
Instead of reaching for it he leans forward and takes my fingers in his
mouth, wrapping his hand around my wrist. I go very still as he sucks the
cotton candy from them, his tongue soft and warm as it curls around my
skin. He lifts his eyes to mine and I can see the mischievous glint
there--along with a healthy dose of arousal. It flares and burns between
us for a few endless moments before he drops his eyes and pulls back. My
tongue snakes out to wet my lips and he studies my mouth. The moment ends
when he pulls a hand over his face. 

"I, um, I'm gonna," he nods in the direction of his room, "I'm
gonna try to get some sleep. You enjoy your cotton candy."

My only response is to nod at him. I watch as he steps into the
doorway connecting our rooms and begins to pull the door closed. "'Night,
Scully."

"Good night, Mulder."

He gives me another soft smile and closes the door. I sit down at
the table and eat every last bit of the candy, counting my many
blessings.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX



To be continued....

   



Okey-dokey, here's the next chunk. Number four may be a little longer in
coming--I'm actually going to have to do some of the dreaded R word
(research) for that one. Thanks again for all the feedback and please
keep it coming! Re Kelsy's request, all the pieces in this series will be
archived at Stef's place until it is completed.
The ULR is: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/xfilesfanficarchive.d/serial.htm 
Enjoy! :)


Disclaimer: The characters in this piece of fiction are not mine. They
belong to the Master of Yuppie Morbidity, 1013 Productions and Fox
Broadcasting. I like to think they also belong to Gillian Anderson and
David Duchovny. 

Dance Without Sleeping III
Peeling Back the Layers
by Lydia Bower 
Classification: S, A, MSR 
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life. 

Dance Without Sleeping III
Peeling Back the Layers
by Lydia Bower 


Mulder and I have been at odds with each other for the past week.
It began the morning we flew back to DC from Iowa and has been keeping
company with us ever since. The nosebleed was a graphic reminder of my
cancer and I think it hit Mulder pretty hard. 

This latest rift started with his sullen silences and quickly
progressed to snide remarks and rude behavior--on both our parts. I know
that I'm goading him and it's a terrible thing to do, but I can't help
it. It pisses me off when he isolates himself from me. I've learned to
deal with the silences and the hostility when I know their cause is
Samantha--and their result one of Mulder's frequent bouts of depression
and despair. It is a private and very personal pain that I believe no one
but Mulder will ever understand. And so I leave him alone. I shove aside
my own feelings and understand as best I can that he means nothing
personal by his actions. The acidic humor and biting sarcasm is Mulder's
way of defending himself from further pain. He goes round after round
with his psyche--and may the best man win. It's a no-holds-barred bloody
battle he wages from time to time.

But this is different.

This is Mulder fighting back the demons that the reality of my
cancer have created and nurtured in him. He is not angry at unseen,
unknown forces who conspired to steal his sister and, with her, all his
childhood innocence--as well as the chance for any kind of normal life.
This time he is angry at what has happened to me. He hates the cancer
within me. He can't lash out at it and so he does the next best thing: he
lashes out at me. 

I share his anger. I have turned my hatred inward many times
since I first heard my diagnoses. It's a sort of internal
sado-masochistic "why me?" game. I know why I play it. What I haven't
quite figured out yet is why Mulder is doing it. What aspect of my
possible untimely death strikes him the hardest? What seems the most
unfair? What are his fears? He has yet to share them with me. I have been
baring my soul and he has been adding layer upon layer to his. Mulder's
soul is dressed for the winter. Mine, on the other hand, is practically
naked. I think I have been as honest and forthcoming with him as I can
be. Now I guess I want that in return.

And so I goad him. I play along with his childish games. I feed
his need. I make myself a target, hoping that some of the barbs will
sting me with the truth. I give as good as I get. There is an adversarial
air that hangs around us in the office.

I don't know if the same would be true at home. Mulder has not
slept on my couch in five days. Nor has he visited. I get a phone call
every night instead. Blunt and simple; a request for facts, not feelings.
How am I? Have I eaten? Do I need anything? Should he pick me up in the
morning?

The phone calls contain large chunks of silence. We both wait for
the other to grow uncomfortable and break it. It's another aspect of the
battle. Who will hold out longest? Mulder is on a winning streak.

I remember a time not so long ago when we played this same
game--only in reverse. I never want to step foot in Philadelphia again.
Nor hear the name Edward Jerse. The only good thing that came out of that
debacle is the tattoo on my back. It is the only thing I don't regret
doing. I will forever have the mark of immortality on me, even if the
body that is its canvas will wither away. 

I treated Mulder so badly. I spoke in riddles and metaphors. I
forced his hand. I was also terrified--though that doesn't excuse what I
did. I didn't know anything for certain. All I knew, all I could
remember, were Leonard Betts' words to me. I'd  known in an instant what
they'd meant, and known that he was right. My time had run out. 

And so I rebelled. Against Betts' claim; against Mulder. Against
my life as it was and as it is. Foolish but understandable. 

Mulder has never pushed me for any further clarification of what
happened in Philadelphia, or the reasons behind the temporary stand-off
that followed it. He's never asked to see the tattoo, either.    

He walks through the door with a handful of files and papers. I
look up at him and wait to see if he'll meet my eyes. He doesn't. But he
does walk to the table I'm working at and slowly set some papers on it,
all his attention centered on the file he's begun reading. I set the new
papers aside and watch as he perches a hip on the corner of the table and
settles in. He is invading my space for a reason. Now I just have to
figure out what it is.

"Mulder...?"

He mumbles something and then turns to me--as if he's just now
noticing I'm sitting here. "You still here, Scully?"

"No. I'm a figment of your imagination."

"Well, my figment needs to go home and pack her bags. We're
flying to Colorado in the morning."

"But you said.... I thought we were going to spend the rest of
the month catching up on things around here."

"I've changed my mind. I need to get out in the field." He's
turned back to the file. 

"Well, I can't," I tell him.

He swings around, surprised; vacillating between anger and
concern. "Why not?"

"Because I have some tests scheduled for tomorrow. I meant to
tell you earlier. I've already cleared it with Skinner; I'm taking a
personal day."

He slowly closes the file. He is looking at a spot across the
room--anywhere but at me. "Anything I need to know?"

"No. They're just tests." I consider my options and offer, "If
you want to wait until day after tomorrow, or book a late flight tomorrow
night...?"

"No. I'll go by myself." His reply is immediate and his tone
brooks no argument.

I pull my lower lip into my mouth and knead it with my teeth.
Don't do this to me, Mulder. Don't cut me off completely.

"Is it that important that it can't wait another day?"

He leaves the table and slumps down in his chair. "Probably not
to you, Scully--but it is to me."

 Mulder at his petulant best. I almost expect to see his lower
lip jut out in a childish pout.

I tamp down my irritation. "May I see the file?"

He comes so close to refusing that I can actually see the words
forming on his lips. But he clamps them together and then settles his
face into a smooth mask. "Sure."

He holds out the file, making no move to meet me halfway. He
forces me to leave my chair and fetch it from his hand. He holds onto it
even after I've tried to pull it away, forcing me to fight him for it.
Our eyes meet and then simultaneously flick away. The brief contact is
electric with tensions of various shapes and flavors.

I stand before him and open the file. Cattle mutilations. I want
to laugh at him but I don't dare. Because that's what he wants me to do.
He wants me to chide him. He wants me to lay out a rational, factual
argument against his not going--or at least waiting until I'm able to go
with him.

He wants me to ask him to stay.

I can't. Because I don't know why he wants that.

I make a neutral sound deep in my throat and hand the file back
to him, keeping my face relaxed and calm. "So, how long will you be
gone?"

There is a tinge of disappointment in his voice. "I dunno. Two or
three days."

"Staying through the weekend?"

"Rocky Mountains, Scully. Horses. Ranches. Dead cows. What more
could a guy want? Maybe I'll buy myself a cowboy hat and some spurs and
hook up with a pretty young filly or two."

"Practice safe sex, Mulder."

That gets me just a hint of a smile. "Always. Nothing safer than
all by myself."

"I hope you're not trying to gain my sympathy."

"Why would I want to do that?"

He looks up at me and his eyes are the color of amber. They give
me no quarter. "I'm going home now, Mulder. You have fun."

As I am slipping on my coat and heading for the door he calls
out, "I'll keep in touch."

He didn't have to say that. He's earned at least a smile. I shoot
him one and step out the door, not looking back to see if it's been
returned.

 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


The phone call comes at 3:15 in the morning. There is no question
who it is. He didn't call earlier--a break in the pattern of the last
week.

"'Lo."

"Hey, Scully. It's me."

"This better be good, Mulder." I am greeted with nothing more
than the faint sound of his ragged breathing. "Mulder? Is everything
okay?"

"What? Oh. Yeah. I just... I couldn't sleep."

"Nightmare?" He hasn't had one in a long time; at least as far as
I know. I don't think he's ever told anyone else about them and I can't
picture him calling anyone but me at this hour. I am the slayer of
Mulder's middle-of-the-night dragons.

"Uh, no; not this time. This one came to me wide awake."

I sit up in the bed and swing my legs over the edge. Mulder's
voice doesn't take on this quality unless it's something really bad or
really profound.

"Mulder, what's wrong?"

There is a long silence before I hear an intake of breath. He
says, "I'm sorry I've been such a prick, Scully."

"Mulder, you--"

He cuts me off and the words pour out of him. "No, it's just that
I know I have been, and I can't seem to stop myself even though I know
why I'm doing it and I know it's not right." He stops long enough to take
a deep breath. "But it's just that.... Goddammit, Scully, I'm scared for
you. And for me. I just feel that no matter what I do, it's not going to
be enough and that I'm letting you down. And I just.... I don't wanna
lose you, Dana. That's all."

"Come over, Mulder." My heart is breaking and rejoicing at the
same time. Mulder is facing his worst fears; and more than that, he's
sharing them with me. I don't want him to be alone right now. I need to
be with him, to see him, to touch him.

"No, Scully, I can't.'

"Then I'll come over there." I've already left the bed and I'm
searching for clothes.

"No. No, I don't want you to do that. It's the middle of the
night."

"I don't care," I tell him. "I can be there in half an hour."

"No!" 

I freeze in the middle of pulling on pants and let my silence ask
the question.

"That would be a bad idea, Scully. I'm not sure I could keep from
doing something really stupid and I don't want to mess things up even
more."

"I told you, Mulder; I'm not afraid of you."

I don't think our conversation would make much sense to anyone
else;  it's too richly layered with unspoken meaning--and what we don't
say is more important than any words we trade. 

His sharp laughter rings in my ear. "Don't you get it, Scully?
It's the other way around. You terrify me."

That stops me dead in my tracks. My unbuttoned jeans slip down my
hips. I feel around behind me and find the chair, sinking into it. 

Have I been the only real barrier standing between us? Have I
always been? 

"Scully, you still there?"


"Yeah.... Just a minute, Mulder." I can't talk right now--I'm
busy having an epiphany.

I've never been very physically demonstrative. I find it hard to
allow myself to touch people or to be touched; it's just the way I am.
And I never really took the time to learn how to flirt properly. I was
too busy with other things--goals and ambitions. I've always prided
myself on my ability to not let Mulder get to me too much. I try not to
laugh at his Mulderisms or toss too many innuendoes back his way. It
keeps us focused on the job at hand.

Is it possible that Mulder really has no idea how much I love
him?

Gee, Scully, what took you so long? The little voice in my head
is vicious. Okay, I can't change who I am, but I can change what I do.

Tick, tick, Scully. Time is running out.

"Mulder?" My voice is slow and a little hesitant. "What time is
your flight?"

He chuckles--but it's a bewildered one. "Nine-thirty. Why?"

"My first test isn't until eleven. I'm going to give you a ride
to the airport."  

Perhaps because it was statement instead of a question, he
doesn't give me a hard time about it. "Okay, Scully." There is a moment
of silence. "But you know, I really don't have to go. We can wait a day
or two."

"No. I want you to go, Mulder. You need to go. You need some
time."

He doesn't argue about this either. He knows I'm right.

"So... I'll see you around eight-thirty?"

"I'll be there. Have a cup of coffee waiting for me."

"I'll even share my Captain Crunch with you."

I smile for the first time tonight. "I'll pass."

"G'night, Scully."

"'Night, Mulder."


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


Mulder is running late. He opens the door and I'm greeted by bare
feet, an unbuckled belt, and no shirt. He has pillow-hair and the stubble
is dark on his cheeks.

He looks wonderful. I've never had any trouble imagining him as
the rumpled, boyish professor type--the kind I was attracted to in
college. 

"I'm late," he tosses at me and heads back in the direction of
the bathroom. "Coffee's in the pot."

Fifteen minutes and a cup of coffee later, we're out the door and
headed for the airport. Mulder doesn't say much and I am too preoccupied
by my own thoughts to fill in the blanks, so the trip is quiet and
uneventful. If you don't count the fact that every time my right hand is
not busy with the steering wheel, it's being touched by Mulder. Glancing
touches. Gentle, easy. 

The airport is crowded and it takes forever to get through
security; it always does. They are announcing the boarding of Mulder's
flight as we race  through the airport to his gate. We stop just a few
yards from the ramp leading down to the plane and Mulder digs out his
ticket. 

We stand facing each other, looking at each other. This is harder
than I thought it would be. The loudspeakers remind us of the final
boarding call. 

Mulder reaches out and touches my arm. "If you need anything, if
something comes up that I should know about, you call me."

"I'll be fine, Mulder."

"Promise me."

I smile up at him. I want to throw my arms around him. "I
promise."

He nods. He's happy now. "I'll call you tonight."

"Okay."

He hesitates for a second or two and then sets down his bag and
opens his arms--just enough to be seen as an invitation. I move into them
and hold him tightly. He nuzzles my hair and whispers, "Bye."

"Bye." 

Mulder picks up his bag and takes two long steps backward before
he turns away and heads down the ramp.

"Mulder." My voice is sharp and instantly grabs his attention. He
turns back to me, a questioning look on his face.

The words tumble out of me. "I just want you to know that I love
you."

My heart is racing and my knees are weak. My mouth is dry.  

He gapes at me, his mouth hanging open. I see it in his eyes
first and then watch, mesmerized, as the smile moves down to his mouth
and spreads it in a wide, toothy grin. He drops his bag, crossing the
distance separating us in four long strides, grabs my face in his hands
and quite soundly kisses me.

It is both fulfilling and tantalizing, and it doesn't last nearly
long enough. He pulls his mouth from mine and then bestows another quick
kiss on my lips, whispering against them, "Me, too." 

He turns and is gone, his stride jaunty and light. 

I am left standing in the middle of a crowded airport surrounded
by people and yet strangely alone. 

I miss him already.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


To be continued....   


O-tay. Here's part four. Don't bothering flaming me when you get to the
end and see where I've left you--it won't do any good. You have to stop
where the muse tells you to.  Look for part five within a few days. To
everyone who's written me with feedback and encouragement: Thank you so
much! You make it a real pleasure. :) I should probably state that any
and all inaccuracies in this story are entirely mine. Keep the feedback
coming!

The previous three parts of this series are available at Stef's archive:
The ULR is: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/xfilesfanficarchive.d/serial.htm 
Enjoy! :)

This one is for Nicole, who gave me some great advice concerning
research.

Disclaimer: The characters in this piece of fiction are not mine. They
belong to the Master of Yuppie Morbidity, 1013 Productions and Fox
Broadcasting. I like to think they also belong to Gillian Anderson and
David Duchovny. 

Dance Without Sleeping IV
Last Dance
by Lydia Bower 
Classification: S, A, MSR 
Rating: mild R
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life. 

Dance Without Sleeping IV
Last Dance
by Lydia Bower 



My apartment has become a chocolate warehouse. I don't know how
he's doing it--or when--but Mulder has managed to stash it in places both
understandable and odd. There are always two pints of Ben & Jerry's
Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream in my freezer--another one appearing as
soon as one is half gone. There are boxes of chocolates in my nightstand,
in the bathroom, on the coffee table and in the silverware drawer in the
kitchen. I've found chocolate kisses laid on the floor in a trail leading
to a bowl full of snack-sized Snickers. I find individually wrapped
truffles sitting on the bookshelf, placed atop the stereo, in the
medicine cabinet and, once, scattered over my bed. But my favorite is the
chocolate rose I found in my lingerie drawer.

He has never said a word about any of it. Neither have I. It's
almost like it will remain special only so long as it's not talked about.


There are other things we don't discuss, either--like the
conversation at the airport. I don't think it's because we don't want to,
but because we don't need to. I think the biggest hurdle was in allowing
ourselves to say the words, and hear them. It's enough.

There's been no repeat of the kiss. That will have to change. 


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


I've begun radiation treatments for my cancer. The last scan
showed a minute but definite growth in the mass. I can't bury my head in
the sand forever. To do so could quite literally cost me my life.

I go for a forty-five minute treatment once a week, and will
continue for a period of six weeks. The doctors have been considerate of
the fact that our work often takes me out of the area and are allowing me
to come in for a treatment giving them only an hour's notice. After two
treatments I am noticing that I tire more easily and my appetite isn't
what it used to be. Mulder nudges me with comfort food. He's been very
quiet. Always there, but quiet. Our search for the truth, and the
answers, continues.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX  

      


There are two boxes sitting on my bed when I get back from my
mother's. We spent a nice Saturday morning together, planning her garden
for this year and looking at the pictures the boys have sent of the kids.
They're growing up so quickly. 

Mulder is nowhere to be found. The only evidence that he spent
the night here is the folded blanket and pillow at the end of the couch
and the boxes on my bed.

I open the biggest one and fold back the tissue paper, my breath
catching in my throat. I reach into the box and take the satiny fabric
between my fingers and lift the garment from the box. It's a floor-length
black slip dress, cut low in the back and held up with thin straps. The
bodice is cut in a deep vee. It's beautiful. And very, very sexy. I can
feel the blush rising in my cheeks as I carefully set the dress back in
the box and open the other one. 

Black patent leather pumps with ankle straps and three inch
heels. 

I think Mulder's trying to tell me something.

I notice the envelope tucked inside the shoe box and tear it
open. A black bow tie and a slip of paper fall out. I finger the bow tie
and unfold the paper.



Scully,


The ballroom at the Regency. Eight o'clock sharp.


Be there or be square. The tie is the key.



Mulder


I am at the hotel and standing in front the closed ballroom doors
at two minutes till eight. Mulder is nowhere to be seen. I lift my hand
and double-check that the simple silver clip is still holding the hair
I've piled up on my head. I can't remember being this nervous for many a
year. I don't do nervous well. 

I look down at myself and I can't help but admire how nicely the
dress fits, how it hugs my curves without being too tight; the simple cut
accentuating  the smallness of my waist, the flare of my hips. This is
not the kind of dress a woman wears with a bra--not with the back cut as
low as it is. My nipples have been erect since I first slipped on the
dress; a result of the smooth fabric sliding over them with each movement
I make. It feels decidedly sinful. From the corner of my eye I catch
sight of a man walking towards me and I quickly pull my coat closed and
study my feet. 

Even the shoes fit like I had picked them out myself. Mulder
never ceases to amaze me.

I wait for the man to pass me and then realize he's not going to.
He steps up to me and I turn to him.

"Miss Scully?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have the bow tie?"

Just go with it, Dana, I tell myself. I reach into my clutch
purse and show him the tie. He smiles at me and produces a key, handing
it to me, and begins walking away.

"Have a pleasant evening, Miss Scully."

I wet my lips and take a deep, cleansing breath before I slide
the key into the lock and open the door. I step in and close the door
behind me, hearing it lock. 

The ballroom is huge and stretches out before me, bathed in deep
shadows. There are two candles burning on a table that sits in the middle
of the room, two chairs pulled up to it. The white tablecloth drapes down
onto the floor and I can see the gleam of dishes and crystal wineglasses.
Off to the side I notice a buffet table has been set up, steam escaping
from the covered dishes. I slip off my coat and lay it down on a chair
just inside the door. My purse comes to rest on top of it. There is a
dull whining noise and I look up to see an enormous chandelier being
lowered from the ceiling. As it slowly falls it begins to glow with soft
luminescence. I stand just outside the circle of light it casts--not
bright enough to cut through all the shadows, but enough that I can see
Mulder approaching me from the darkness on the other side. 

I've forgotten how good he looks in a tux. Even without the bow
tie I hold in my hand. 

He strides confidently towards me, a lop-sided grin on his face.
I wait until he's reached the table and then step out of the shadows and
into the light.  Mulder comes to an abrupt halt and I hold back my
nervous laughter. I watch his face as his eyes move slowly up and down my
body, lingering at the swell of my hips and the rise and fall of my
breasts and finally settling back on my face. A pleasant warmth flows
through me. It's been a long time since a man has looked at me that
way--even longer since I've dressed like this for a man. I'm glad that
man is Mulder. 

I watch his full, mobile mouth move as if to speak, but nothing
comes out of it. Finally, just as I am about to drop my eyes, he takes
one more step towards me and murmurs, "Wow."

I smile. "Is that all you have to say, Mulder?"

He gives a slow shake of his head and a lock of hair falls over
his brow. "Damn, I'm good."

"Yes, you are," I concede. "I didn't know you had such good taste
in women's clothes; or that you were so good at guessing someone's size."

He grins and admits, "That's what labels are for, Scully"

"Snooping around in my drawers, Mulder?"

His eyes lock onto mine and I present him with a sly grin. I
mentally chalk up a point for myself. I haven't hung around Mulder for
four years without learning a thing or two about the snappy,
innuendo-laden come-back. 

"Hey, Scully? Say a prayer for me, will you?"

"Why?"

"Because I've got this feeling I'm gonna need all the help I can
get tonight." He scrubs his mouth and runs a hand through his hair. He
shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He shoves his hands in his
pockets and rocks back on his feet, wetting his lips with the tip of his
tongue. 

I've made Mulder fidget. There's something very satisfying in
that.

I ignore his admission. "If you don't feed me soon, Mulder, I'm
going to pass out." He steps to my side and takes my arm, quickly
shifting gears.

"Are you okay, Scully? Come here, sit down."

"I'm fine, Mulder. I'm just hungry. Oh, wait." I pull him back
around to face me and dangle his bow tie in front of him. "Let's get you
properly dressed for dinner." 

I slip the tie around his neck and tuck it under his collar, the
tips of my fingers brushing against the back of his neck. He shivers
almost imperceptibly and I feel his hands slowly settle at my waist. I
concentrate on the task at hand; not an easy thing when Mulder is rubbing
his thumbs against the fabric of my dress. I peek up at him and find him
looking down at me, watching me. His eyes close in a slow blink.

"All done," I tell him. 

He releases me and pulls back one of the chairs, inviting me to
sit. He scoots me up to the table and pours us each a glass of wine. "May
I serve you, Agent Scully?"

"Please do, Agent Mulder." 

He grabs both my salad and dinner plate and takes them to the
buffet table. Each dish he uncovers emits a wonderful cloud of fragrant
steam. I'm amused by the little growl my stomach issues. He comes back
with the small plate, piled high with Caesar salad, sets it in front of
me and goes back. The dinner plate is next and I do a quick inventory as
Mulder fills his own plate.

On mine is a Cornish hen, stuffed with what looks like wild rice
and mushrooms. A pile of thin, delicate looking asparagus. Beside that is
a mound of tiny new potatoes, their bright red skin intact. Next to them
are two perfectly formed oysters on the half shell, prepared Rockefeller
style. I can't possibly eat all this food--but I'll have fun trying.

And then I notice we have no silverware. I look up at Mulder as
he returns with his plate full to brimming. "Mulder, we have no
silverware."

He sets his plate down and leers at me. He comes around to my
side of the table and makes a production of grabbing my perfectly folded
napkin and snapping it open. 

"We don't need no stinkin' silverware."

"Mulder, you don't expect me to eat this with my fingers." 

One look at him tells me he does. He grins and moves behind me,
draping the napkin around my neck and tying it in a loose knot. I can
feel his breath at my ear as he bends lows and says, "Whatever it takes
to make you happy, Scully."

How can I resist?

There is something very sensual about using nothing but my
fingers to eat. Of course the bites of food that Mulder and I feed each
other across the table may have something to do with that. 

It feels good to laugh with him and just be a little silly and
wild. This is what I should have done instead of my Philadelphia
experiment. Live and learn, Dana. 

It's nice to know it's not too late to do that.

I am scooping out the last of the white chocolate mousse with my
finger when Mulder announces, "It's time to go."

"Go where?"

"You'll see. Trust me, Scully."

Fifteen minutes later he's leading me into a dark bar filled with
smoke and the aroma of too many bodies crammed into one place. He guides
me to a table tucked back into a corner and takes the chair next to me. 

"Mulder, what is this place?"

"It's a bar, Scully. Has it been that long?"

I shoot him a withering look.

"Sorry. Couldn't resist." He's scanning the room as he talks.
"Actually, it was Frohicke who suggested this place."

"Oh God, Mulder. Please don't tell me our waitress is going to
offer to do a table dance." 

He chuckles and takes my hand. "You don't give Frohicke enough
credit, Scully. He knows what a classy dame you are. He wouldn't suggest
any place tacky. We're just here for the music."

"Music?"

Mulder starts to answer me when our waitress approaches the
table. No, I don't think she'll be doing any table dances. She is a huge
black woman who has to be at least four inches taller and a hundred
pounds heavier than Mulder. He flashes her a hundred watt smile and
orders a glass of wine for me and a bottle of Samuel Adams for himself as
I look around the bar. I finally spot the stage and small dance floor on
the other side of the low-ceilinged room. There are speakers and
microphones and instruments piled there and, as I watch, several men and
a woman step onto it and take their places. 

I am pleasantly surprised as I sip my wine and listen to the band
launch into their set. They play a variety of music--from blues to jazz
to old standards and show tunes--and do it very well. After a few songs
the dance floor begins to fill with couples. Mulder tips back his bottle
and drains it, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the dance floor as they
launch into 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.' 

Mulder can dance, too. But I guess that shouldn't come as a big
surprise. When he sets out to do something, he always gives it everything
he's got.

 We move well together; as if we've been dancing with each other
all our lives and have learned all the tiny nuances that comprise a
flawless partnership. I guess maybe we have.

He holds me close, my hand tucked in his and resting over his
heart as his other hand settles on the small of my back--its favorite
place. I have snaked my arm beneath his jacket and it's draped low around
his waist, my fingers curved around the lean muscles of his back. I rest
my head against his chest as the song ends and another begins. Another
slow one. I feel Mulder press his mouth against the top of my head and my
eyes slip shut. He dips his head until it's resting on mine. 

"Happy, Scully?"

"Mmmm. Dance with me, Mulder."

"I am." His lips touch my forehead and I can feel them curve in a
smile.

"Don't stop." I am warm from the wine and the food and the man I
hold in my arms. I want to freeze this moment and bottle it and give it
to Mulder. A keepsake. A remembrance.

"Ever?" he asks.

"Ever."

"Okay, Scully." I hear the rumble in his chest and lift my head
to look up at him.

"What?"

He grins. "I was just imaging the look on Skinner's face the
first time we literally waltz into his office."

I smile back. "Not very practical, is it?"

"Not for the practical Agent Scully, no."

"I'm more than just her, Mulder." It's important that he
understand this.

"I know that." 

"Do you?" I look him straight in the eye. 

He looks down at me, his eyes dark and sleepy. Mulder sighs. A
deep, shuddery sigh, and pulls me tighter against him. "Scully, if you
had any idea what you mean to me..." his voice drops to a gravely whisper
"...you wouldn't have to ask."

The walls are crumbling.

The band picks up the tempo for the next song and I can see the
couples around us picking up their steps and adjusting to the new rhythm.
Mulder and I are barely moving. We dance slow, steady circles--around and
around. My universe has narrowed to this moment, this man. 

I don't know what lies beyond death. My faith teaches me of
everlasting life and I want to believe. If there is a heaven and if we
grieve for those we leave behind, it is Mulder I will think of most
often. 

I'm not ready to die. I don't want to die.

A spotlight flares and focuses on a mirrored ball suspended from
the ceiling, catching splintered shards of light and throwing them around
the room like a giant strobe. I lift my head from Mulder's chest and look
up at it at the ball as it spins frantically. I am both repelled and
fascinated by it. There is something in the way it flickers and flares
that makes my head ache and my ears pound. I am aware of leaning back
into Mulder's arm as it becomes hard to take a breath.

Images flicker like silent movies in my head. Faces surrounding
me, looking down at me. Blurry, no real features. Except for one. I
recognize him and gasp in terror.

Strange sounds. Alarms going off. Something mechanical and
screaming in a high-pitched whir.

Voices. In my head. Telling me not to be afraid. But I am. Oh,
God, I'm so scared.

My eyes fly open and I watch, paralyzed, as the drill comes down,
down, down....

I silently scream.

"Scully?"

No, please, don't hurt me! Why are you doing this to me?

My belly is distended and heavy.

Probing. Cutting. They are sucking the life out of me.

"Scully? Can you hear me?"

There is a hand touching my face, my neck. I slap it away.

Mul-der! Make them stop!

Penny is holding my hand. 

It's over now. You're all right, Dana. It's over.

They were doing bad things to me.

Unimaginable things.

"Scully? Oh, Jesus, no! Scuh-leee!"

Don't. Please. Don't take any more.

No!

"Hang on, Dana. Hang on, baby. Help's coming."

Mulder, I think this is the last dance.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


To be continued....    
     


   
See, I didn't make y'all wait too long. Actually, this just kinda
poured out of me today--I didn't expect to have it finished so soon.
Number six will be along sometime next week...unless I once again fall
into the rabbit hole and you get it sooner. Many, many thanks to all my
faithful readers, as well as all my new ones. I'm glad you're enjoying
the ride! I'm having a hell of a good time, too! All boo-boos are
entirely mine. Keep in touch--and enjoy. :)

The previous four pieces in this series can be found at Stef's place.
The ULR is: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/xfilesfanficarchive.d/serial.htm 

Disclaimer: The characters in this piece of fiction don't belong to me.
They belong to the Master of Yuppie Morbidity, 1013 Productions and Fox
Broadcasting. They also belong to Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny.
Did you hear that, Chris? 

Dance Without Sleeping V
Comes the Darkness
by Lydia Bower 
Classification: S, A, MSR 
Rating: R for language and content (it *is* a romance, after all :))
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life. 

Dance Without Sleeping V
Comes the Darkness
by Lydia Bower 



I am bathed in light. I float through an eternity of
nothingness--there is only light and weightlessness. I remember what they
have done to me; every cell in my body feels the impact of its invasion.
But I don't have to remember. I can just float in the endless whiteness
until the remembering goes away. I willingly open my hands and relinquish
the gossamer threads that weave time and memory together, surrender them
up until there is nothing left but flashes of memories too fleeting to be
captured and examined. 

It is hard to think. But if I try, I am able to recall a moment
or two. One of comfort, one of terror. I cling to the comfort and push
away from the other. I feel myself moving now, floating away from the
blinding light of nothingness, and I realize that the light is the source
of the evil. It holds all horrors, all nightmares, all sharp things and
dull things and things that fill me up and suck me dry. They are in the
light; the ones who do these things to me, who steal my time and my
memories. 

I welcome the darkness.

It covers me like a warm blanket, settling around me and holding
me close in its embrace. It whispers to me of safety and comfort and an
end to the pain. It telegraphs its promise in the warmth of a hand gently
holding mine. 

Penny. 

She's come to me again.

I curse my captors and love them, too.

They allow Penny to come to me.

"Scully?"

Scully? Why is she calling me that?

My hand is lifted and soft lips caress my knuckles, one after the
other. I feel a roughness against my skin that is both familiar and
strange. 

"Rise and shine, Scully."

And then I know.

Mulder.

I open my eyes and see his face above mine. His eyes are soft and
warm. He smiles at me.

"Hi."

I've forgotten how beautiful his voice is.

I raise my free hand to his face, brush my fingers across his
cheek. "I knew you'd come. I knew you wouldn't let them do anything more
to me."

I am confused when his forehead wrinkles in pain and his eyes
slip shut. Have they hurt him, too? He turns his face into my hand,
kisses my palm. He is so sweet, so good.

"Scully, do you know where you are?"

Of course I do. What a silly question. I'm....

Sharp awareness floods me like ice water. I'm in a hospital, not
that other place. The rhythmic pinging and beeping of machines surround
us. The bed I lie in is hidden behind pulled curtains. I hear snatches of
two or three different conversations; see the shadows of people walking
back and forth outside the curtains. I look down at myself and recognize
the black dress. I remember.

"Emergency room?"

"Yeah. Fairfax Mercy. Do you remember what happened?"

I struggle to sit up and Mulder helps me, propping the pillows up
behind my back. "Yes. We were dancing."

He nods and sits down on the edge of the bed. "Next time, just
tell me when you wanna quit. No more nose dives to get your point across.
Okay?" His smile fades and he looks away, chewing on the inside of his
cheek. "You scared the shit out of me, Scully."

"I'm sorry." I truly am. I wish I knew what happened, but all I
remember is being in Mulder's arms. And then what, Dana? My mind shrinks
away from the memories that are quickly fading to become nothing more
than fragments of a bad dream. I don't want to know.

"You've got nothing to apologize for. I'm just glad you're back
with me. You've been in and out for quite a while."

"How did we get here, Mulder? I don't...." 

I don't remember. How many times have I said that since the night
Duane Barry broke into my home and stole months of my life? I've lost
count. 

Don't, or won't?

"Well, I called for an ambulance, but they took too long; so I
just kind of carried you out to the car and drove like a bat outta hell."

I give him a soft smile. "Mulder, one of these days your
impatience is going to end up killing you."

His response is immediate. "Better me than you." His eyes flick
away and I lay my hand on his arm. He looks back at me, a forced smile on
his face. "Anyway, it'd have to catch up with me first."

We both fall silent. Mulder gnaws on his thumb nail and I slowly
wring my hands. 

"I, uh, I saved your dress from the scissors. I told the nurse
that you were FBI and that you had a really short temper and a very big
gun."

I look down at the dress. "I was wondering."

"I got the whole lecture about emergency room protocol. You can
probably imagine how well that went over."

We trade a look and a smile.

"I want to go home, Mulder."

"Let's hear what the doctor's got to say first."

When did I start to hate doctors? 

"I just fainted. I'm fine now. Really."

He scowls at me and forces the words past the grim line of his
mouth. "You didn't just faint. People who faint don't generally punch and
kick as they're going down. And you're anything but fine."

My irritation rises to match his. "When did you receive your
medical degree, Mulder?"

He turns away from me. "Don't start with me, Scully."

"Then don't patronize me."

He shifts around on the bed. "I'm not--"

"Yes, you are. No one knows better than me what kind of symptoms
I can expect from my cancer and the treatments I'm receiving. What
happened to me tonight doesn't have anything to do with that."

"Then what the hell *did* happen?"

"A hallucinatory response to stress, brought on by a visual
trigger." 
God, that sounds lame. Mulder just looks at me, a
knowing smirk on his face. His silence almost forces me to say
more--which would be a huge mistake.

Finally, he breaks the awkward silence. "Hallucinations," he
repeats.

"Yes."

"Or buried memories finally resurfacing." His words are not
formed as a question. He is telling me what happened. And the worst part
of it is, he's right.

"What difference does it make, Mulder?"

He shakes his head in what looks like dismay. "It's coming back
to you, isn't it?"

I hedge. "Maybe."

"You need to hold on to it, Scully--you need to remember what
happened to you. All of it."

There is a desperation in his voice that I haven't often heard.
It scares me. "Why? Why is it so important that I remember?"

He leaves the bed and turns his back to me, his hands going to
his hips. I hear him sigh. "Okay, Scully. We'll play this your way."

Suddenly Mulder's words to me in the hallway after Penny's death
come back to me, and I hear them in a way I hadn't before. An icy dagger
of fear slices through me. "You know something, don't you? What aren't
you telling me, Mulder?"

He slowly turns to look at me and I see the indecision written on
his face. And then I watch it change to relief when the curtains are
pulled back and the doctor steps inside. I catch Mulder's eye and hold
it; a promise that this conversation isn't over--simply postponed.

I leave the hospital against medical advice and after a promise
to contact my oncologist first thing Monday morning. Mulder is silent on
the ride home and I'm too tired to continue what we started. Or maybe I'm
just afraid to; I don't know.

A vague sense of desperation is born in me and increases when we
get to my place and I obediently change for bed as Mulder makes me a cup
of herbal tea. I don't understand the source of this newest sense of
impending tragedy and doom--I only know that it urges me to throw all
caution to the wind and reach out and grab what I want, what I need,
before it's too late.

Right now, my need is for Mulder.

I find him in the living room, hunched over on the couch, his
face buried in his hands. I approach him silently and realize he's
weeping. I carefully lay a hand on his slumped shoulder. "Mulder?"

He starts and looks up at me and then immediately back down,
scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and swiping at his nose. 

His voice is husky and low and heavy with tears. "Hey, Scully.
Your tea's ready." 

I sit down beside him and lay my hand on his thigh. "Is there
anything I can do?"

He barks an empty laugh. "That's supposed to be my line. Don't
worry about it, Scully. I'm fine."

"And that's my line."

He jerks a sad smile. 

My arms ache to hold him; my hands to touch him and erase the
pain that the events of his life have imprinted on his soul. I want to
fill the empty places inside him and make him all that he is meant to be.
I want him to know, before it's too late, that he is my salvation and my
most precious blessing.

"Let me take care of you, Mulder," I whisper to him. I turn
towards him and lift my hands to cup his face. I lean forward and he
closes his eyes as my lips brush against his wet cheeks and then his
eyelids, kissing away his tears and tasting their salty sweetness on my
tongue. 

I kiss his forehead, the tip of his strong nose, the dark mole on
his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Mulder is utterly still; but I can
feel his ragged sigh like a caress on my skin.

"Let me make you feel better, Mulder. Let me make you happy." I
kiss the line of his jaw and his chin. My fingers weave through his
silky-soft hair. I kiss each temple and then each eyelid again. The
corner of his mouth.

And then he pulls me to him, the movement abrupt and violent. His
mouth finds mine and his kiss is rough, desperate. It sets off an echo
within me that I am drawn to answer. We feed each other our fears as our
tongues battle and he pulls me into his lap, his hands running over my
back and across the curve of my ass. Grabbing. Thrusting.

I reach between us and cup my hand against him. He groans into my
mouth and jerks his hips up, pushing against my hand. I trace the shape
of him through his pants, feeling his erection twitching beneath my
fingers. His mouth drops to the curve of my shoulder and he sets his
teeth against me.

I want this. I want him. I want it with a passion and a
desperation that frightens me. I want to feel him on me and in me and
surrounded by me. I want his heat and his hardness and his life inside
me. I want my womb bathed in his life-giving seed. I want his essence and
his strength. I want him to remember this when I am cold in my grave, and
have him find some comfort in it. 

And then just as suddenly as he pulled me to him, he is pushing
me away. He reaches down and grabs my wrist, pulling my hand back. I look
at him, surprised. His eyes burn with a dull fire.

"What?" I ask him.

"We can't do this, Scully." He is breathless and he wets his
mouth. I lean forward to kiss him but he restrains me.

"Don't you want me?"

He meets my eyes and laughs, his mouth curving in a wide smile.
It quickly fades and is replaced by something far more somber. "More than
anything. You know that."

"Then why did you stop?"

He turns away and runs a hand over his face. The seconds tick by.
He makes a sound deep in his throat that I recognize instantly. It's the
"this is going to get me in trouble" sound. 

And then he says,"I've never been very partial to sympathy fucks,
Scully. Giving or receiving."

It occurs to me that I should be highly offended. I even open my
mouth to tell him so. But he turns and looks at me with such intensity
and certainty that I can't say the words. 

He's right.

I sit back against the couch. I am stunned. And then embarrassed.
I drop my head and study my hands.

"Hey." He lifts my chin with the tip of a finger, forces my eyes
to meet his. "Look, we both know we want this and we both know it's going
to happen. But not this way, Scully. When we make love I want it to be a
homecoming, not a farewell. Never that. Don't ask me to do that. Don't
ask me to accept anything less than everything you can give me. I want it
to happen because you've made up your mind to live--not because you think
you may be dying."

I feel the sting of tears and look away. "You're right, Mulder.
I'm sorry."

He dips his head and kisses me tenderly, a slow, lingering kiss
that tastes of desire and something deeper and longer lasting. "Don't
start apologizing for wanting to jump my bones, Scully. You'll give me a
complex."

"That's not what I--"

He stops my words with another kiss. "I know that." He pulls me
into his arms and heaves a huge sigh. Chuckles and says, "Life's a bitch
sometimes, huh?"

I start to finish his thought. "And then you--"

He gently but firmly places his hand over my mouth. "No way.
Don't even try it, Scully. Don't forget I'm bigger than you."

"Are you threatening me, Mulder?"

"Nope. Wouldn't dream of it. But I *am* going to put you to bed.
It's been a long night for both of us." He stands and offers me his hand.
"C'mon, Scully, I'll tuck you in."

I take his hand and rise, feeling a surge of love flow through me
so powerful that I couldn't begin to describe it if I had to. There is
such a sense of safety when I'm with Mulder. The very things that isolate
us from the rest of the world give us the strength to carry on. We are
both stronger for having the other in our lives. 

Sometimes I wonder at the futility of life, at the struggle of
it, and why we continue to push on, knowing it will inevitably end; the
world not much different for our having been there. In this moment, I
believe I'm beginning to understand the honor there is in simply living,
and in loving those around us, and in being loved. There is a certain
nobility in making a difference in someone else's life, even if that
difference is something as small as making sure that person will have
known love at least once in their lifetime.    

"So, Mulder," I ask as we enter my bedroom. "I don't suppose I
can talk you into joining me? There's plenty of room."

He chuckles and settles me in, pulling the heavy comforter up to
my chin. "Don't tempt me, Scully. It was hard enough to say no the first
time. I don't think I can do it again."

He says it jokingly, but there is an undercurrent of a plea for
understanding in his voice. It's a terrible thought, and I should be
ashamed of myself, but I'm proud that I'm able to get under his skin this
way. He's certainly been doing it to me long enough. 

He leans down and kisses my forehead. "I'll see you in the
morning."

I watch him walk towards the door. "Mulder....?"

He swings around and looks at me.

I try to say the words, but the longer he looks at me, the harder
it is. And so I do it with my eyes. I want you, Mulder. Tonight,
tomorrow, always. I can tell when I've succeeded. 

One corner of his mouth comes up in a smile. "I know, Scully. Me,
too."

I close my eyes and pray that the night will bring only sweet
dreams to both of us. 

And I am comforted by the darkness.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


To be continued.... 
    

    

   

      

    


Authors Notes: This chunk was a real toughie, folks. I had to make some
hard decisions about this one. My writing mentor once told me that you
can't tell a story if it isn't your story to tell. I ran across this
situation when considering how to deal with what Mulder discovered at the
Lombard Research Center. I struggled over a possible scene between Mulder
and Scully wherein he tells her about her harvested ova...and I just
couldn't do it. It's not my story to tell. And not my conversation to
write. I hope y'all can understand that and that you're not too
disappointed by the omission.

On another front....  The final scene in this piece may be disturbing to
some. Let me just say now that I will happily discuss what I had my
Mulder do in this scene--but I will not defend myself if you don't agree
with it. I won't defend what my writer's heart tells me is right.  I
writes 'em as I sees 'em. Intrigued yet?  Feedback, as always, is most
welcome. Enjoy! 

The previous five pieces in this series can be found at Stef's place.
The ULR is: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/xfilesfanficarchive.d/serial.htm 

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. They belong to the Surfer Boy, 1013
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. They also belong to Gillian Anderson
and David Duchovny. Keep 'em happy, Chris! 

Dance Without Sleeping VI
Veritas
by Lydia Bower 
Classification: S, A, MSR 
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life. 



     Mulder doesn't sleep on my couch anymore. When I started having
the nightmares he moved to my bed. The only way I can get to sleep and
then make it through the night is to be held by him. And even then, it's
so hard. I understand now why Mulder has learned to get by on little
sleep. It's preferable to waking up gasping for air, heart pounding and
lungs burning. 
     Every time I wake up this way Mulder tucks me tightly against
him, rocking me and murmuring words of comfort until I can catch my
breath and grasp onto a little bit of sanity. And then he will lay me
down and curl himself around me, my back tight against his chest, and
soothe me back into sleep. Mulder is my buffer against the dreams. He has
become my dragon-slayer. Oddly enough, since Mulder has taken to my bed
he hasn't suffered a single nightmare. It's probably for the best. Mine
are bad enough for both of us.
     The vague memories of my abduction make up the bulk of these
night terrors. But they are woven with other memories; images and
thoughts that never bothered me before--or that once did, but had
gradually faded from my mind. Now they are back with a vengeance. I dream
of Duane Barry and Donnie Phaster, Robert Modell and Eugene Tooms, Luther
Boggs and Cancer Man. They are monsters, all of them, and they shame me
with their ability to frighten me.
     I wish that like Mulder, I had only the one dream, the one
scenario that returned to me time and again. At least there would be a
consistency to it and I would know what to expect. But my nightmares are
as varied as individual snowflakes, each one separate and different. Each
one, when combined with the others, enough to bury me under their weight.
     The darkness is no longer a comfort.
     Now there is nothing but Mulder.

     XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

     We haven't been out in the field in over a month--a record. It
used to be that Mulder would use any excuse, any reasoning, to get us out
of the basement and off on another adventure. Skinner called me into his
office earlier this week and asked me if our inactivity had anything to
do with my health. I assured him that I was fine; and I am. Aside from
the headaches and an occasional nosebleed, I feel...fine. I need to find
another word. I'm getting sick of that one.
     And so Mulder and I spend our days in the office. Or rather, I
do. Mulder has been spending large chunks of time away from the basement.
He leaves me to deal with the day-in and day-out responsibilities of our
jobs, and that's all right. I know that he's seeking the answers we need
and I know that I have to let him. This is Mulder's quest and I can't
deny him. I have discovered that I've become almost apathetic about my
cancer and what it means. It's not so much that I've given into it, but
that I've accepted it. It no longer invades my every waking thought. I
have begun to do what I vowed to do after Penny's death. I am carrying
on. 
     If only the nightmares would go away.
     I still spend most of my free time doing research and checking
out alternative methods of treatment. I read articles and journals and
the results of clinical studies until I can no longer focus on the words.
I speak to doctors and researchers. And I do my work in the open. I leave
the covert to Mulder. He's very good at what he does.
     Last week he came within an hour of getting his hands on Scanlon.
One hour. He beat himself up over it for two days before I'd finally had
my fill of it. I goaded him into an argument and sent him home using the
fight as an excuse. It was the first time he'd spent a night in his
apartment in over a month. I didn't sleep that night. I don't think
Mulder did, either. He checked us out at noon the next day and we
collapsed on my bed in a tangle of arms and legs and slept through till
the next morning.
     I can no longer remember what my life was like before Mulder.
     I don't want to remember.

     XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX 

     I may be barren.
     Hollow. Empty. 
     This is what Mulder has presented to me. After much brooding and
pacing of my apartment like a caged panther, Mulder has laid it all out
for me. Everything he knows. About Dr. Scanlon and how deeply he may be
involved in the possible conspiracy involving the deaths of the MUFON
women--among other dark purposes. The Kurt Crawford hybrids. The tanks
filled with more of them. The cold stainless steel room filled with
drawer upon drawer containing vials of human ova--mine among them.
     I cannot fully process this information. The technology to viably
freeze human ova does not exist. I know this as fact. My menstrual cycle
remains regular as clockwork. There are no signs of hormone deficiency. I
know this as fact. It would be much easier to dismiss the claims I've
heard where it not for the person voicing them. I trust only Mulder. He
has become my truth. 
     I understand why he kept it from me for as long as he did. It was
a terrible, painful secret to bear. His motivations were entirely
honorable. What I don't understand is why he's chosen to tell me now. Has
the weight gotten too heavy to carry alone? Is it guilt? Mulder never
does anything without a reason.
     I don't know what I should be feeling. I am numb. Empty.
     I never really considered having children. I was always caught up
in school, and then my career. Once I began work on the X-Files it seemed
almost ludicrous to even think about it. So it's not that I should be
mourning for something I didn't really want. I just hate the idea that
the option might have been taken away from me. Another choice that I have
lost. A degree less control over my life.
     I have been violated in so many ways. It frightens me that I may
be growing immune to the rage I should be feeling. I wonder if this is
the same reaction people in war-ravaged countries experience. Am I
shell-shocked? Have I been exposed to so much evil and death and
suffering that it no longer touches me, even when it impacts me directly
?
     I am so confused. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to
feel.
     I have lost myself. 
     Who are the men who have done this to me? Why can't they be
brought to justice?
     And why did they do this?
     To Penny. To Betsy. To all the others. 
     To me.
     Why?
     The answers seem more elusive every day. And there are vials of
my ova in the hands of a covert organization that plays in the shadows
and doesn't give a damn about the people whose lives it destroys. 
     I want answers.
     I want the truth.
     I don't think I'll find either.
     I am losing hope.

     XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

     Mulder is making me crazy. All day he has been far too close to
me. Not hovering around me in his usual concerned way, but just too
close. I have been bumping into him constantly. I turn from whatever it
is I'm doing and he is right there behind me or beside me. He mumbles
apologies and steps away and then finds another reason to be right on top
of me the next time I turn around. I can sense nothing calculated in what
he's doing, but there must be a reason for it.
     It's even worse now that we've left the office and are home for
the night. You'd think with all this room Mulder would find some place
else to be; but no. Right next to me. He's beginning to piss me off. We
play bumper cars in the kitchen the entire time we are preparing supper.
Terrible thoughts run through my head as I wield a knife to chop
vegetables for our salad. We sit down at the table to eat and I end up
sitting crosslegged to keep Mulder from nudging my legs with his feet. I
reach for the pepper and collide with his hand. I glare at him and get
back a look of total innocence.
     Why is he doing this to me?
     It comes to a head as we pass each other in the hallway. I am on
my way to the shower and Mulder is coming out of the bedroom, his
attention focused on an open book in his hands. I step close to the wall,
giving him plenty of room to pass but he veers in my direction, like
being drawn by some kind of homing device. He bumps up against me and I
snap.
     "Stop it!" Before I'm even aware of what I'm doing, I raise both
hands and shove him. Hard. He teeters back, off-balance, and hits the
wall, his book dropping at his feet. He looks at me and I see grim
satisfaction in his eyes.
      One step brings him back to me, and as I try to get past him he
raises his arm and places his hand against the wall, trapping me on one
side. I side-step the other way and his left arm shoots out and completes
the cage. He takes another step closer and asks, "Something wrong,
Scully?"
     There is no humor in his voice. All his earlier innocence has
been cast aside.
     "Get away from me, Mulder," I warn.
     "Don't want to."
      He tries to catch my eye but I won't look at him. I glare at a
spot on the middle of his chest and then quickly dip my head and escape
under his arm. Anger is beginning to flare up and burn inside me. He is
right on my heels as I change direction and head back to the living room.
I can actually feel his hot breath on my neck. I stop and swing around to
him, deliver another shove. 
     "I said stop it!"
     "Make me."
     I growl deep in my throat and stalk across the living room to the
couch. Mulder plops down right beside me. "Listen, Mulder, I don't know
what kind of game you're playing, but I'm not in the mood."
     I scoot down a little. He follows me. Can I just shoot him now
and get it over with?
     "You're not much in the mood for anything these days, are you,
Scully?"
     I can feel the killer stare settle on my face. "What the hell is
that supposed to mean?"  
     "I'm beginning to see how you earned the ice maiden label." 
     Where the hell is this coming from?
     I am up off the couch and standing over him. "What?!"
     He rises slowly until it is me looking up at him. His eyes are
cold and his face as smooth and expressionless as stone. This is Mulder
at his most dangerous. "Oooo," he says. "Did I finally touch a nerve?"  
     "Fuck you, Mulder."
     "What's wrong, Scully? Isn't that how you've managed to hide
yourself away all these years? Shit starts to cut too close to the bone
and Scully just turns herself off and walks away. Isn't that the way it
works?"
     I can't believe I'm hearing this. And then to make matters worse,
he reaches out and pinches my arm, right above the elbow. I jerk my arm
away and stare up at him. I am too shocked to say a word. But I am very,
very angry.
     He looks down at me with pit-bull eyes. "Did you feel that,
Scully? Did it hurt?" His voice is low and intense.
     I try to escape to the kitchen. He follows me. "Should I do it
again? Just to be sure?" I dance out of reach of his fingers. "How did
that feel, Scully? Did it hurt as much as, say, having an implant put in
your neck?"
     I can do nothing but stare at him. I am paralyzed. 
     "Did it hurt, Scully, when they did those things to you? Were you
awake through all the tests?"
     It leaves my lungs as a scream and comes out a whisper. "Stop
it."
     "Did you know what they were doing? Did they use needles and
probes? Was there a hollow drill suspended above your head? Were you
paralyzed, couldn't move, couldn't do a goddamn thing as it just kept
getting  closer and closer?"
     "Stop it."
     "Did you know what they were doing when they harvested your eggs,
Scully?"
     I rear my fist back and let fly with everything I've got. I want
to smash his face, silence the mouth that won't shut up. I don't want to
feel this. I don't want to feel anything.
     His arm snaps up to deflect my punch. And as his fingers tighten
around my wrist I go into full attack mode. But these are not the
graceful, defensive moves I have perfected over the years. This is raw
and careless and sloppy--the flailing slaps of a child fighting
desperately against the monsters. Mulder drops my wrist and stands
passively as I slap and hit at his chest, his shoulders, his neck, his
arms; each one that lands igniting another flame of outrage until I swear
I am burning alive from the inside out. 
     I hate the ones who've done this to me. I hate them with a
passion like no other. How dare they do this to me? How could they
violate me this way? Crush my hopes and dreams? Crush Mulder's? They've
taken everything from me. They have taken my future. They have stolen my
immortality. God damn them all. It's not fair. It's not right. How could
they do this to me? 
     I will make them pay. I will hunt them down and make them pay. I
will not surrender up my life to them. This is my life and they can't
have it!
     My clumsy slaps falter and I can feel Mulder touching me. My
arms, my hair, my face, my back. My throat is raw and I realize I've been
screaming these questions, and shouting my rage.
     Mulder's arms come fully around me as my hands finally still and
I slide my arms up around his neck and sob into his chest. Deep, heaving
sobs that I haven't allowed myself since Penny's death. They are hot and
I am cleansed in their fire.
     Mulder is whispering to me. "That's my girl. Just get it out,
Scully. Let go. Just let it go. Yeah, I know, baby, I know. I'm here. I'm
not going anywhere. I'm right here. Let it out."
     We slowly sink to the kitchen floor. I am weak, spent. My nose is
running and my eyes are almost swollen shut. Mulder turns me until my
back is resting against his chest, sitting in the deep vee of his
spread-eagled legs. One hand comes up to cup my forehead and pull my head
back against him, the other arm goes tight around my waist. His mouth
lands at my hairline and he plants tiny kisses there and works his way
down to my temple. I feel him chuckle and he reaches back and opens the
cabinet under the sink. I hear a soft shoosh and a tiny rip. He hands me
a paper towel. I wipe at my eyes and nose, fold the section over and
loudly blow my nose. Mulder takes the towel from my hand and tosses it
expertly into the waste can. His hand comes back to stroke my hair. 
     "They're not going to take my life from me, Mulder," I tell him,
my voice thick with tears. "Not without one hell of a fight."
     He squeezes me around the middle and murmurs, "Welcome back,
Scully."
     I draw a deep, ragged breath and wonder at what has just taken
place. That Mulder has come to know me so well and has learned what it
takes to reach me is a revelation. Sometimes he knows me better than I
know myself. No one has ever touched me this way; no one else ever will. 
     I had given up, given in. I was just too stubborn to admit it to
myself. Mulder saw it, too. And had the courage to do something about it.
He knew to tap into the rage I'd kept so closely guarded and hidden. He
knew that its release and acknowledgement would strengthen me. 
     That he can do that should frighten me. It doesn't. I am blessed.
And I have no more time for fear.
     "Did I hurt you?" I ask him.
     "No. Nothing I can't shrug off. It's probably a good thing I hid
all the guns, though."
     I start to giggle. That's right, folks. Dana Katherine Scully
giggles. It feels good. I let my laughter carry me away, as I did my
tears. One extreme to the other. This is what it is to be alive. I've
spent too much time in the mind-numbing land of the dead. It's time to
start living.
     Mulder uncurls from the floor and offers me a hand up. I move
easily into his arms and soak up some more of his unique strength. He
would probably laugh if I told him how brave I think he is, and toss off
some self-deprecating joke. He is so quick to see the possibilities in
everyone but himself. He sells himself short in many ways. But he is
strong and that strength will be there for him when he needs it. It's
what's kept him going since Samantha's abduction. 
     He drops a kiss on the top of my head and steps away from me.
"You've still got time to take a shower before the movie starts."
     "What movie?"
     "'War of the Worlds,'  Scully. A classic. Whadda'ya say? You. Me.
The couch in fifteen minutes. Is it a date?"
     "Will you buy me popcorn?"
     "Yep. I'll even spring for a chocolate bar."
     "Well, that shouldn't be too hard, considering."
     We trade smiles. I stand on tiptoes and softly kiss his mouth.
     "Thank you, Mulder." 
     He nods his head in the direction of the bathroom. "Go on. You're
wasting time." 
     I get halfway down the hall before I turn around and step back
into the kitchen. Mulder is pouring popcorn into the popper. "Hey,
Mulder."
     He swings around. "Yeah?"
     "I'm going to live."
     My statement holds many meanings. Mulder recognizes them all in
the second it takes for our eyes to lock. He throws me a lop-sided grin. 
     "Yes. Yes, you are."
     The last wall has become dust at our feet.

     XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

     To be continued....    
          
     

*DO NOT ARCHIVE*

I'm baaaack! :) Hey, it was nice to hear from so many of you who assured
me that my concern over the last piece I posted was unnecessary. It's
nice to know that my Mulder rings so true. It has to be said that I
couldn't have done it without the magnificent talent of David and
Gillian. They are a true pleasure to watch... and study...and pick apart.
 To everyone who's written to me and hasn't heard back: Please know
that I do this for you. Every chunk of story is a piece of my heart and a
little thank you note. Look for part 8 real soon. Enjoy!

This one's for you, Karen, for being such a classy example. :)

The previous six pieces in this series can be found at Stef's place.
The ULR is: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/xfilesfanficarchive.d/serial.htm 

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. They belong to the Surfer Boy, 1013
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. They also belong to Gillian Anderson
and David Duchovny--the best of the best.  

Dance Without Sleeping VII
Place Your Hand
by Lydia Bower 
Classification: S, A, MSR 
Rating: Strong R
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life. 



Leave it to Mulder to get hurt putting in a garden.

We spent all morning and part of the afternoon at Mom's, getting
there in time for a cholesterol-laden breakfast of eggs, bacon and hash
browns. Mom cheerfully ignored my dietary advice as she set a loaded
plate down in front of a smiling Mulder, commenting, "Fox likes a big
breakfast. Don't you, Fox?"

He grinned up at her, made a face at me and then proceeded to
drown his hash browns in a flood of ketchup. Mom just sat at the table
with us and smiled, her eyes moving between us. I glanced down at my
grapefruit and corn flakes and stole a piece of Mulder's bacon, narrowly
missing having my hand slapped. I got the eye from Mom and knew that
she'd find the time to pull me aside and try to get information out of
me--information about Mulder and me. I was right. She did; right after
breakfast.

I told her as nicely as I could to mind her own business. Her
face lit up and she gave me a quick hug. I guess she must have seen
something in my eyes.  

Today began as a glorious spring day, with a sky that was
achingly blue. The air was warm and suffused with that special something
that whispers of renewal.

Mother has decided to expand her garden this year. I guess I must
have mentioned it to Mulder, because the next thing I knew he'd
volunteered us to help dig the new plot and get some things in the
ground. 

Mom had everything already out and ready to go. We headed outside
after breakfast and a second cup of coffee and the first thing I noticed
was the way Mulder warily eyed the garden tiller. 

He moved to my side and dropped his mouth down by my ear. "She's
not gonna want me to use that, is she?"

"Mulder, the plot is huge. You can't turn that over by hand."

"Scully, those things make me seasick," he confessed. "Last time
I used one of those, I was green for two days."

I glanced up at him. He looked genuinely distressed. "Mulder,
when was the last time you dug up that much dirt by hand? For that
matter, when was the last time you did any kind of sustained exercise?"

I should have kept my mouth shut. He took it as a challenge. 

He located a shovel and got to work, waving off Mom's objections.
I just shook my head at her and started planting some annuals in one of
the older beds.

After half an hour, Mulder stripped down to his t-shirt and asked
me for glass of iced tea and a pair of gloves. 

An hour later he begged a bandanna off of Mom and rolled and tied
it around his head to catch the sweat. I was throwing little glances at
him the whole time he worked, indulging myself by admiring the way the
muscles of his lean arms stood out, the way the sweat had glued his white
t-shirt to his back and chest, the way it collected in the hollow of his
throat. I wanted to dip my tongue there and taste it. 

Mom came out of the house and slapped a straw hat on my head,
claiming that my cheeks were getting red from the sun. I didn't bother to
tell her the real reason. 

In two and a half hours the plot was turned over and done--which,
coincidentally, marked the time Mulder ran out of steam. He'd gone at it
flat-out, just as he does everything. I watched as he rammed the shovel
into the freshly turned earth for the last time and drained another glass
of tea. He pulled off the bandanna and turned on the hose, sticking his
head under the heavy stream of water. And then his head snapped up and he
shook hard, flinging droplets of cold water in a halo around him. Mulder
is very attractive when he's wet.

He sauntered over to where I was sitting in the grass and folded
himself down next to me. He glanced up at the sky. It had grown overcast
and the breeze had picked up a little. "Looks like rain, Scully."

"Maybe."

He slowly lowered himself even more until he was lying down and I
caught a low groan leaking from him. I smiled inwardly. "Wear yourself
out, Mulder?"

He pillowed his head on folded arms and peered up at me. "Who,
me? Nah. Piece of cake."

He closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep as I planted the last
of the petunias. Bright flashes of lightning marked the sky as I finished
up and began to collect the garden tools. I could see Mom at the kitchen
window, waving us in. I nudged Mulder with a sneaker-clad toe. He mumbled
something, but all I caught was "...five more minutes."

"Mulder, get up. It's gonna storm."

And then there was a tremendous clap of thunder and the skies
opened up. I was instantly soaked to the skin.

"Told you so," I heard Mulder say. He finally opened his eyes and
struggled to sit up. He leaned his weight on his left arm and it
collapsed under him. 

"Oh, jeez." He pushed himself back up with his right arm and very
slowly got to his feet, moaning the whole way up. I couldn't help but
laugh. He shot me an evil look.

"Something wrong, Mulder?"

"Don't say a word, Scully. Not a word."

"Dana, Fox, you two come in out of the rain right now!" Mom had
her head stuck out the back door. 

"We're coming," Mulder called out. "C'mon, Scully, don't wanna
piss off Mom." He threw an arm around my shoulder and leaned into me, the
gesture more an effort to support himself than one of affection. We
slowly made our way to the back door, passing the newly-dug plot. My hand
was on the doorknob when Mulder swung us around and hauled me back out to
the plot.

"What?" I asked him.

He had this look on his face, like he was remembering something
wonderful. 


"What, Mulder?" I probably would have been more patient if it
wasn't for that fact that we were standing in a downpour of cold rain.

He grabbed my hand. "Deja vu all over again."

I shook my head. "You lost me."

He gave me this goofy grin and said, "The plausible state of
Oregon. Remember, Scully?"

How could I forget? Only then we were standing in a cemetery in
the pouring rain, staring down into open graves. Trust Mulder to remember
that with a certain fondness.

He looked into my eyes, water dripping from his nose and chin.
"It's a good sign, don't you think? That we've gone from graveyards to
gardens?"

I was sorely tempted to kiss him right then and there. But I
remembered Mom at the back door and stopped myself. Apparently Mulder
didn't share my concern. He bent down and brushed his lips across mine.

I back-pedaled. "Mulder! Mom will see us."

He snorted in disbelief. "Like she doesn't know. Your mother's
not blind, Scully, or stupid."

He was right, of course. It was just that my natural
protectiveness was kicking in again. I've become very adept at hiding my
feelings for Mulder when we're around other people. I don't want to give
anyone any more ammunition to use against us--they have enough already.

He smiled down at me and after another kiss led me into the
house.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


Mulder has pulled a muscle in his shoulder or back; I'm almost
certain of it. He hasn't said anything since we got home from Mom's but I
can tell by the way he's carrying himself, the way he keeps tucking his
shoulder in. He started out on the couch after supper, but he's just now
moved to the floor and is sprawled on his stomach, one folded arm under
his head as the other one is stuck straight out, remote in hand, surfing
the TV.

I look up from the book in my lap and peer at him over the tops
of my glasses. Give Mulder control over the remote and he's in heaven.
What captures his attention on the TV is a unique look into the mind that
is Mulder.

An old Knicks game get a few minutes. Then we move on to the
History Channel. A documentary on the Holocaust. That goes away quickly.
And then a rapid succession of commercials, weather forecasts, sit-coms
and home shopping. We get through half a Joan Osborne video before the
finger is back on the trigger. The Learning Channel. Something on the
mating habits of large animals. Complete with film of said matings. That
prompts a head twist and an adolescent grin in my direction. Next comes a
rerun of 'Charlie's Angels.' Thankfully, that doesn't make the cut
either. The SciFi Channel. A cheesy "danger in outer space" movie. I hear
Mulder blow air through pursed lips; a disgusted raspberry. AMC. Ah, 'Mr.
Blandings Builds His Dream House.' Stay there, Mulder. He listens well.
The remote is finally laid to rest on the floor beside him. 

All goes quiet for several minutes. I divide my attention between
the movie and my book. 

"Hey, Scully?" He's facing away from me, eyes on the screen.

"Yeah?"

"You got any Ben-Gay around here?"

I allow a smile to play at the corners of my mouth. "Shoulder or
back?"

"Yeah." He wiggles around a bit, trying to get comfortable.
"They're just way too close to my body right now."

I take off my glasses and set the book aside, coming off the
couch. "I'll check."

I come back out with a tube of cream in my hand and sit down on
the floor next to him. "Get rid of the shirt."

"Are you coming on to me, Scully?"

"Just lose the shirt, Mulder."

He chuckles and tries to comply. It takes both of us, along with
much muttered cursing, to pull the shirt over his shoulder and off of
him. I can see the bunched muscles along the top of his left shoulder and
down his back. I start to admonish him and swiftly kill the thought. He
needs comfort, not a lecture. 

I only hesitate an instant before I straddle him and settle my
weight on his lower back. I squeeze out a generous amount of the cream
and start in. There are groans of mixed pleasure and pain as my hands
spread the ointment and work it into the tender muscles. His skin is
smooth and warm and my hands tingle from the contact.  

His face is turned to the side, his eyes closed. I study his
profile as I work, admiring the sculpture of his face. The broad forehead
and strong nose. The curl and pout of his lips; the fine line of his jaw,
dark with stubble. The mole that he refers to as his bad spot. I have
looked at Mulder's face countless time and yet it never has become
completely familiar to me. There is always a small shock that arcs
through me when I look at him anew. 

I rock back against his ass, pressing him deeper into the floor
as I work on his shoulder. He makes a soft sound in his throat that has
nothing to do with discomfort. His eyes flutter open and then close
again. I am aware of a slow, gradual warmth that starts to burn low in my
belly and spread outward and downward. I lean forward and back as I
massage his shoulder, my inner thighs brushing against his hips as I
move. I watch the muscles of his outspread arms tighten and his hands
flex open and then close in loose fists. The hair is dark and heavy on
his forearms and scattered generously among the prominent veins on the
back of his hands. I lean forward even more and place a hand on each arm,
starting at his shoulders and sliding down his arms to cover his hands.
They unfold and I lace my fingers between his. They draw tight for a
moment before I make the trip back up his arms and to his shoulders.

"Mulder?" My voice is whispered.

 His husky, slow murmur sends a shiver of pleasure through me.

 "Yeah, baby. What?"

I have never been fond of terms of endearment, nor have I ever
imagined allowing anyone to call me "baby." But there is something about
the way Mulder says it that turns what might have been an off-hand term
into something very special. It's much like the way "Scully" rolls off
his tongue--it sounds so good, so like a physical touch, that I have come
to treasure it.

"Turn over so I can get to the front of your shoulder." There is
a little more strength in my voice--but not much. I lift my weight onto
my knees and Mulder turns beneath me. I stay up like that and smear more
cream into his skin, my fingers gentle as they encounter the puckered,
round scar that sits high on his shoulder. His eyes are open now and I
can feel him watching me.

I begin to knead the muscles with my right hand as my other
strays across his chest; the soft, curly hair there springing up between
my fingers as they pass over him. Mulder reaches up and takes hold of my
hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing my palm. I gaze into his eyes
and see the same look that confronted me in a small motel room somewhere
in Iowa. I find I can't dismiss it so quickly--or with amusement--this
time. He easily holds my eyes as his hands land at my hips and he gently
urges me back and settles me down in his lap. There is no mistaking what
lies heavy and hard beneath me.

His eyes flash with desire and I feel his hips slowly lift off
the floor, pressing into me. "Well, what do we have here?" he says. "See
what you do to me?"

I tease him with mock innocence. "I did that?"

"Oh, yeah." He thrusts up again, more quickly this time. "All you
have to do is touch me." He licks his bottom lip. "Touch me, Dana."

"Dana?" I ask.

"My Dana. My partner. My Scully. My friend. My love. Take your
pick."

I dip low and bring my mouth close to his. "All of them."

He lifts his head, chasing my mouth. I faint to one side and the
other and he grins and follows me. After a few moments he growls deep in
his throat and curls a hand around the nape of my neck, pulling my mouth
down on his.

Mulder's kiss is warm and soft and tender one second, the next
it's hard and demanding. He flicks his tongue across my lips and pulls
them into his mouth, sucking and nipping at them. His arms come up tight
around me and in an instant I am on my back and he is cradled between my
legs. His arms come up under me and his hands cup my shoulders. He makes
a slight shift of his hips and the contact steals my breath away. His
eyebrows raise just a little and we grin at each other and then begin to
laugh. I am exhilarated. It should be illegal to feel this good. 

"Pretty good fit," he offers when the chuckles die down. 

"The male and female bodies are designed with just this in mind,
Mulder."

"Thank you, Dr. Scully, for enlightening me."

"You're very welcome." I raise and turn a little and he reads me
and rolls back over till I am straddling him again. His hands come down
on my thighs and he spreads his fingers and draws them up and down my
legs. My jeans are becoming uncomfortably restrictive. 

His hands slowly move over my hips and slide up under my loose
blouse. He watches me as his fingers play against my ribs. I dip my head
to kiss him and then draw away. 

"And the crowd is going wild," he begins to intone. "Mulder's got
a hit and he's rounded first base. Will he make it to second?"

In answer, my hands move to the buttons of my blouse. 

His slip out from underneath and push mine away. "No. I wanna do
it." 

I drop my arms and he slowly unbuttons my blouse, his eyes
flicking between my face and the work of his hands. He finishes and
pushes apart the edges of the blouse enough that I'm able to shrug out of
it. I watch his face as his eyes roam over my newly exposed skin. His
hands dance over my ribs and move up to cup my breasts, his touch hot
even through the fabric of my bra. 

"Oh, good," he says. "It's one of those front thingys. I can
figure this out."

I can only smile and shake my head. If I'd known that making out
with Mulder was going to be this much fun, I would have done it a long
time ago. All my previous lovers had always taken sex so seriously. And I
guess maybe I had, too. Mulder's having too good of a time to be serious.
So am I.

He expertly unhooks the bra and I slip out of that as well. The
pile of clothes is growing larger--along with something else I can feel
pushing up against me. His hands begin to move, explore; testing the
weight of my breasts, cupping and lifting them. His thumbs brush over my
hard nipples and a low moan escapes me.

His eyes are dark pools of desire and his mouth turns up in a
smile when he hears me. "You like that, Scully?"

My eyes slip shut. "Ahuh."

"You're so beautiful."

I open my eyes and lift an eyebrow, waiting for more. "That's it,
Mulder?"

"What did you expect?" he asks with a soft chuckle. "Something
along the lines of 'You've got great tits, Scully'?"

"Do I?"

He barks a laugh. "Yeah, Scully, you've got great tits."

"Thank you."

"Well, now that that's been established, how about we move our
party to someplace softer. Like the bed, maybe?"

I've forgotten all about his back and shoulder. "I'm sorry,
Mulder. Is this hurting you?"

He lays a finger across his mouth. "Shhh. Not too loud or it'll
hear you and start up again."

"Okay. We'll just quietly move to the bed."

"Okay," he agrees. "Uh, Scully? You're gonna have to get off of
me first."

I shift my hips and rub myself against him, fold at the waist and
crush my breasts against his chest. The contact of our bare skin is
electric and we both release sighs of pleasure. I deliver another kiss
and ease off of him, offering him a hand up. He takes it and pulls
himself to his feet with barely a sound. 

He reaches out and cups my cheek, catching and holding my eye. 

"Are you happy, Scully?"

I don't need to speak. I gaze up at him and say it all. 

He slowly nods his head and announces, "I love you."

"I love you more."

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I don't think so."

"I know so, Mulder."

"Prove it."

"Gladly."

We end in a tie.

And I am alive.

Thank you, Mulder. Thank you for loving me.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


To be continued.... 

        

           

*DO NOT ARCHIVE*

More Author's Notes: My goodness, there certainly are a lot of you out
there who just aren't satisfied with leaving things to the imagination
and are bound and determined to force me to write smut--and you know who
you are! ;) Well, here you go! This section is NC-17 and is definitely
not for the kiddies. For those of you who don't require this, you can
safely skip past this installment and not miss anything important--I
promise. For those of you reading this, it takes up right where the last
installment ended. Look for the next chunk sometime next week. 

Also, please remember that this is fiction. In the real world I'm sure
Mulder and Scully would both be smart enough to practice safe sex.
However, since this is *my* little universe, we're just going to skip
that part. Don't make the same choice when it comes to reality, please.
I've lost too many friends to AIDS. I don't want to lose any more. Okay,
end of lecture. Once again, it's those little gems of feedback that keep
me going and feed the muse. Stay in touch and enjoy!

Once again, this one is for Karen--The Queen of Classy Smut. If it wasn't
for my discovery of your incredible "Words" series and your subsequent
enthusiasm concerning my own work, I wouldn't be doing this right now.
Put away the ice chips, Karen, the pay-off is here!    

The previous seven pieces in this series can be found at Stef's place.
The ULR is: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/xfilesfanficarchive.d/serial.htm 

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. They belong to the Surfer Boy, 1013
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. They also belong to Gillian Anderson
and David Duchovny--the best of the best.  

Dance Without Sleeping VIII
Interlude
by Lydia Bower 
Classification: S, A, MSR 
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life. 





I stand in the doorway of the bedroom and watch Mulder as he
begins to light the group of candles on the nightstand. They have been
sitting unlit and collecting dust since I first bought them years ago. I
haven't needed the soft illumination that they begin to cast on my bed
before now, and I absently wonder if I didn't buy and then save them for
just this occasion. I think I've always known this night would come, I
just never expected it to happen in quite this way.

I am familiar but slightly uncomfortable with the games of
seduction; the banter and subtle and not-so-subtle innuendoes that go
along with it. The competition to see which of the players will end up in
the position of power and control over events. There is none of that
here; not between Mulder and me. We accepted and welcomed the equality we
share long ago. We have no need for games.

He sets aside the matchbook and turns to me, offering his hand.
"Come here," he invites. I move towards him, aware of the gentle sway of
my bared breasts with each step I take. My skin tingles; and where
Mulder's eyes touch there is a heat that flows from within him that feels
to me like an actual caress. My fingers weave with his and he pulls me
close, into the sanctuary of his arms.

His hands move up and down my back, his fingers playing along the
curve of my spine. I feel goosebumps rise on my skin as I wrap my arms
low around his waist and lay my head against his chest. His heart beats
steady and strong. "Are you cold?" He pulls his hands flat and rubs them
across my back.

"Mmm. Not at all."

He chuckles and pulls slightly away, his hands moving to the
front of my jeans. "Then you won't need these, will you?"

I feel the muscles of my belly twitch as his fingers slip beneath
the waistband to free the button and slide the zipper open. I swiftly tug
them down over my hips and off my legs, taking my panties with them. I
find myself almost shocked by my lack of modesty. But there is no
wondering if Mulder will approve of what I reveal to his eyes; no doubt
that he will find as much pleasure in the receiving as I am finding in
the giving.

I stand naked before him and study his face as he takes his time
to memorize what he sees. His eyes flick over me and then make the trip
again, stopping and lingering at my breasts, my legs, the patch of
springy curls at the vee between my thighs. They move back to my face and
he smiles his approval.

I unthinkingly lift my hands and bring them to my breasts,
longing for the touch of hands, too impatient to wait for his. I brush my
palms across my nipples and echo Mulder's sharp intake of breath. My
hands slide down across my stomach and come to rest at the juncture of my
legs, my fingers curling into the flesh of my inner thighs. Mulder licks
his lips and his eyes flick up to my face for a moment before dropping
back down. I slip two fingers between my legs and press against the
swollen bundle of nerves there. My head falls back as my eyes close.

I hear Mulder raggedly sigh. "Oh, Scully. You are a wicked,
wicked woman." 

I open my eyes and watch as he quickly sheds his jeans. My
fingers continue their sweet torture as I look at him. I have seen Mulder
naked on more than one occasion, but he's a very different sight when
he's on his feet fully aroused instead of flat on his back, fighting for
his life.

He is lean and supple and strong. I admire his broad shoulders
and chest, the patch of hair that grows there and trickles down his flat
stomach before sprouting heavy and dark again above his sex. His erection
stands out straight and proud, framed by narrow hips and runner's legs.
His arms hang at his side, his fists opening and closing in rhythmic
tension.

His eyes lock onto mine and then drop back down to watch what my
hand is doing. I am wet and hot and hungry for his touch. "Is this what
you do," he asks me, "when you're alone, Scully? Do you think about me
and touch yourself like this? Do you imagine it's me?"

The word leaves my mouth as a sigh. "Yes."

"Then let it be me." His hands close over my breasts and his
mouth comes down on mine. And then his hands are everywhere, his mouth is
everywhere. I have reached the point of no return. My hands slide over
him, touching and grasping, memorizing the heat of his skin, the
roundness of his ass, the silky hair of his thighs, the subtle strength
of his arms, the smoothness of his back. 

He bends low and takes a nipple into his mouth, his tongue soft
and wet as it flicks across me. He opens his mouth and pulls me further
in, urgently suckling and I watch his cheeks hollow with his efforts. A
thread is pulled tight within me and I reach for him and wrap my fingers
around his length as my other hand weaves through his hair and holds his
mouth to my breast.

In one smooth movement he lifts and carries me to the bed, gently
setting me down and lying beside me. He brushes the hair back from my
face and drops tender kisses like rain--on my face, my neck, the slope of
my shoulder and then back to my mouth. I nibble at his full lower lip and
draw it into my mouth, flicking my tongue across the velvet surface. We
are quiet, the only sounds those of soft murmurs and small moans of
desire. 

He pulls his mouth from mine and begins to trail his hand across
my body as he props himself up on an elbow and watches what he's doing,
his eyes moving between my face and the skin he touches. Slow, easy
movements. There is no sense of being rushed or of urging us to some new
undiscovered pleasure. We have all the time in the world.

I trace the shape of his face with my fingers and arch my back as
his hand slides over my stomach and down one thigh and then back up. He
repeats the movement, this time on the other side. He moves up over my
ribs, brushes past my breast and curls his fingers around the arm that is
thrown above my head, sliding up its length to twine his fingers in mine,
palm to palm. 

I watch him blink, his eyelids closing slowly over eyes dark and
soft. His hand drops to my shoulder. "Turn over, Scully." He catches my
inquisitive look. "I want to touch every inch of you, memorize you," he
tells me. 

I turn onto my stomach and pillow my head on folded arms, closing
my eyes as he brushes the hair from the nape of my neck and pulls his
hand down my spine. He stops and I wonder at his sudden stillness. I feel
the bed move under us as he shifts and I am about to raise my head when I
feel his mouth come down on my lower back. The tattoo. He's found it.

His mouth lifts and I feel the tip of his tongue come down on the
place his lips have marked. He traces the shape of the tattoo with his
tongue and a deep shudder runs through me.

"It's beautiful, Scully," he whispers against my skin. There is
an unspoken question in his voice, something I know he wants to know but
will never ask. I answer him.

"Nothing happened, Mulder. I didn't sleep with him."

I hear his muffled sigh of relief and add my own when his hand
comes back to rest on my skin. I spoke the truth and he believes me.
There is nothing more to say. It is forgotten as he cups one cheek of my
ass in his hand and gently squeezes it before sliding down the length of
my leg and back. I spread my thighs a little as his fingers curl high
around the inside of my leg. They move higher and brush against me before
he traces a path up the crease of my ass. I lift my hips from the bed as
he strokes back down and flutters his fingers against my sex, unfolding
and dipping his fingers into me before they move lower and settle on my
clitoris.

I push into his hand and roll over. I want to see his face as he
touches me. I want him to see mine. I spread my legs wide, opening myself
to his eyes, his hands. His fingers resume their spot and he tests my
responses, watching my face as he strokes and rubs and tugs at me at
various speeds and pressures. He finds a rhythm and then pins my eyes as
I go stiff and clutch at his arm. 

"Like this?" he murmurs. "Is this how you like to be touched?"

I can only nod my head.

"Good." He draws the word out into a caress. He drops his mouth
to my breast and gently slips two fingers inside of me. He eases them in
and out; slowly at first and then a little faster. I reach for him but he
rolls his hips away from me. "No. Let me do this for you. I'm in no
hurry, Scully."

He moves to my other breast and I lie back and give myself over
to the magic of his touch. His fingers move back to my clitoris and
settle there, pulling me deeper and deeper into a world where nothing
exists but pure sensation. There is nothing but his mouth at my breast,
his hand between my legs. I clutch at his back and arm, grab a fistful of
sheet and stretch tight on the bed, every nerve alive and sparking. I
breath in tiny pants. I moan and sigh and call his name. My eyes slip
shut and the beginning waves of my climax make me shudder. My nipple is
abandoned as Mulder covers my mouth with his for a brief, rough kiss. He
pulls away and urges me on, his breath hot on my face.

"Yeah. C'mon. Come for me, Scully. Yeah. There it is."

My mouth opens on a long, low sigh and I lock my thighs around
his hand and ride the waves as they carry me up and up and up. "Mulder,"
I hear myself moan. "Oh, God."

"I love you," he tells me, his voice raw and breathless. "I love
you, Scully."

He kisses me again as I slump back to the bed and loosen my
thighs. His hand slides up to rest on my stomach, trailing small circles.
I force my eyes open and find him looking at me. His pupils are huge
behind heavy lids. "My God, you're beautiful. We have to do that again
just so I can see your face."

I arch an eyebrow and reach between us. I take him in my hand and
feel the pulsing of the blood that has filled him and made his sex a
shaft of silk-covered steel. "Aren't you forgetting something, Mulder?"

He looks down at himself and back up at me. "I've learned to
become a very patient man, Scully. He's not going anywhere." 

"He?"

Mulder frowns self-consciously.

"It?" he asks me.

I grin at him. "Does "he" have a name?"

Mulder doesn't seem to have a response. His eyes search my
face.

"Well?"

I didn't believe it was possible. Mulder is blushing.

"Never mind," he tells me and moves between my legs.
 
I raise them from the bed and throw them over his thighs as he
kneels between them and sinks down on his haunches, his knees spread
wide. He pulls me to him and dips his fingers back down between my legs,
spreading the moisture that flows from me. His thumb settles on my
clitoris and the build-up begins again. But my body has not had time to
recover from my orgasm and my nerves are sharp and super-sensitive. I
gasp. 

Mulder immediately stops. "Too much?"

I nod and hold his eye. "No hands, Mulder."

He gets a wicked gleam in his eyes and scoots down on the bed.

"Then let lips do what hands do."

Trust Mulder to quote Shakespeare as we make love. 

My laughter dies in my throat as his mouth covers me. Soft, warm,
gently probing. Let lips do what hands do is working out very nicely,
thank you. He has quickly learned what I like and his mouth and tongue
mimic the earlier movements of his fingers. Mulder brings me to orgasm in
a very short time.

He pulls himself back over me and I wrap my legs around him,
urging him to enter me. I feel an emptiness that only he can fill. "Whoa,
Scully. Slow down. I wanna make this last," he tells me. 

I brush the hair back from his eyes. "I want you inside me,
Mulder. Now. Don't make me wait."

He can deny me nothing. He reaches between us and guides himself
in. And in one quick thrust he is buried inside me. My hips rise as I
receive him and his arms clinch around me; one high on my back, the other
around my hips. He stills and his eyes slip shut, a low groan escaping
him. 

I lift my head and kiss him. His lids come open and he looks down
at me with glazed eyes. His only comment is a breathy, "Oooo."

I pull his face down and kiss his cheeks, his brow, the corner of
his jaw. "Good?" I ask him.

"Mmmm. The best. I don't ever wanna leave. Can we just stay like
this?" 

I snicker. "Not a chance. Move that ass, Agent Mulder."

"Oooo, I like a bossy woman." He begins to thrust against me,
slowly at first, teasing me by pulling almost all the way out before he
slides back in. He feels so good. We fit together perfectly. Mulder fills
me to the edge of discomfort but not a bit more. I clinch my inner
muscles around him and his face lights up with a grin. He drops his mouth
to my shoulder and nips me lightly with his teeth. 

I want to feel more. I want to him to speed up, to drive into me
like a jackhammer. I grab his ass and urge him to go faster, harder. It
will never be enough. Never.

His arms clinch me tighter and he mumbles, "Hang on," and swiftly
turns us until I am impaled atop him. I sit straight up and grind my hips
against him, leaning back and grabbing his upper thighs in my hands. He
cups my breasts and lightly pinches my nipples, sending shockwaves
through me. His hands drop to my hips as I lean forward, finding the
perfect pressure, and he lifts and slams me back down onto him, time and
again. I bend low and find his mouth, slipping my tongue into it and
dancing it across his. I become breathless and have to break to kiss. I
lean my forehead against his shoulder and ride him, rocking my hips
forward and back, feeling the tension building up again. My God, will I
ever have enough of what he does to me? 

His hips begin to rise and fall frantically and I lift my head to
look into his eyes. They are soft and unfocused and I can see that he is
losing himself to the power of his imminent climax. 

"Give it to me, Mulder," I demand and I tighten up around him.
His face is flushed and moist with sweat. His eyes go wide for an instant
before slamming shut and he throws back his head and releases a long,
guttural moan. Once, twice, three more thrusts of my hips and I join him.
I once again ride the waves, this time feeling the contractions as he
empties himself inside me. I fall forward onto his chest, my lips
pressing against the soft sprinkling of hair. His hands lose their grip
on my hips and he softly strokes my back.

I close my eyes and time slips away. 

Sometime later I feel his hands in my hair, combing through it
with his fingers. "Scully? You still with me?"

I lift my head and begin to roll off of him, but he pulls me back
and turns us both until we are on our sides, facing each other. He tugs
my hips close to his, not wanting to leave my body. My eyes slip shut and
he softly kisses them and then plants another one on the tip of my nose.

"We're pretty good at this, don't you think?"

I look at him and lose myself in his hauntingly beautiful hazel
eyes. "Better than you expected or better than you hoped?" I ask him.

It takes a few second to connect, but when it does he rewards me
with a brilliant smile and I know that he remembers that conversation.
"You tell me."

"Definitely mind-blowing."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. You can cross that one off your list now, Mulder."

He rears back. "My list?"

"Yeah. You know. The "what will make Scully happy" list."

"Am I that transparent?"

"I'm afraid so. And I just want you to know that I love you even
more for wanting to give me all those things."

His face loses its amused expression and he grows serious. "I'd
do anything for you, Scully. Anything at all. You name it, it's done."

"Just love me, Mulder. That's all I need."

He pulls me to him and squeezes me tightly. "Always, Dana.
Always."

We shift a little on the bed, untangling arms and legs and
finding comfortable positions. Mulder reaches down and rescues the
comforter that has slipped off the bed. He covers us and slides down
until his head is resting on my belly, his arm tucked around me. My
fingers move to his hair and I stroke him as I would a child in need of
comfort.

I chuckle a little when minutes later he heaves a huge sigh and
then begins to softly snore. 

I don't know what will happen tomorrow, let alone next week or
next month. But what has taken place between us on this night only serves
to strengthen my belief that as long as we are together, as long as we
work as a team, nothing can beat us. We are stronger together than either
one of us will ever be apart. We will endure. We will find the answers we
need. And we will save each other. 

The truth is out there.

Together, we will find it. And it will set us free.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


To be continued....    

        

              


Hi! This one took me a little longer than I thought it would. Please
notice that this one is being sent in two pieces--it's a long one! I
guess now is also the time to mention that this series is going on
hiatus. I don't know at this point if it will be a temporary one or more
permanent. It all depends on what kind of crumbs CC tosses our way
through the rest of this season. If enough interesting things happen with
Scully's cancer storyline, then there's a good chance I'll pick it back
up over the summer. Don't worry, I haven't left you hanging--it's all
been tied up in a nice pretty bow for you. :)

Thank you thank you thank you to all my faithful and constant readers.
Your intelligent, thoughful comments have made this entire process a joy.
I expect to hear from all of you again, and thanks for coming along for
the ride.  I've included the lyrics to the song that inspired this
series at the end, for those of you unfamiliar with it.

Okay, fasten your seatbelts and hang on. It's Mulder's turn. :)

This one is for Chris Carter and David Duchovny. Chris, for imagining
Mulder; and David--for showing us Mulder's humanity.

The previous eight pieces in this series can be found at Stef's place.
The ULR is: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/xfilesfanficarchive.d/serial.htm 

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. They also belong to Gillian Anderson
and David Duchovny--the best of the best.  

Dance Without Sleeping IX
Full Circle
by Lydia Bower 
Classification: S, A, MSR 
Rating: Strong R
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life. 





She will never know how terrified I am. 

I've been scared many times--gut-clinching, heart-pounding,
piss-my-pants scared. After Samantha was taken. When Scully disappeared
and then was returned. Christ, I remember barreling through the doors of
the ICU and bending over the bed to look down at her. I couldn't see her
eyes; they'd fucking taped her eyes. I thought I was going to shatter
into a thousand pieces those first few minutes.

And then there was the time I faced the bounty hunter in the
frigid, uncaring cold of Alaska. That's another moment that stands out.
There's also the burning boxcar in New Mexico, the game of Russian
roulette with Modell, the hellacious test in the gulag, the terror of
digging up the remains of a child I thought might be my sister. 

I would gladly relive any of those events again not to feel what
I've been feeling these last few months. I don't think I've had more than
a few rare moments of peace since I walked into the oncology ward and
heard Scully's words: "I have cancer."

Combine that fear with guilt and it packs a hell of a punch.

I remember telling Scully once that nothing mattered to me but
finding out the truth about my sister's abduction. Well, now something
else does.

I can't lose her. If I do, I'll lose myself.

Sounds like a load of melodramatic bullshit, doesn't it? But it's
the truth.

I think about what has happened between us in the last few months
and I curse myself for all the time I wasted before then. It shames me
that it took hearing a possible death sentence to shake me out of my
lethargy and easy compliance. I had settled for the status quo--we both
had. It was easier to not look too deeply into what we'd become and how
we felt about each other than to take the chance of ruining everything.
We had begun to take each other for granted. We stopped marveling over
how well we clicked, how action and reaction had become instinctual. We
had become partners in the truest sense of the word. In our line of work
you consider yourself lucky if that happens, and it does with some
regularity. But the big difference between Scully and me and everyone
else is that I am deeply, completely in love with her--and she with me. 

I wonder why we didn't acknowledge this years ago. I regret the
time denied us to just enjoy the truth of it--together. But then I think
that maybe all this has happened for a reason that goes beyond mere
timing and the sudden threat of impending death. I think it has to do
with fate. And with things coming to us in their own time.

I made a vow to myself the early morning I took Scully in my arms
outside Penny Northern's hospital room. It was really nothing more than a
determined continuation of my words of hope to her. I promised myself
that no matter what, I would be there for Scully. I vowed to be her
strength, her courage, her focus for the rage. I would have handed her a
whip and let her flog me raw if it would have helped. I still would.

If it hadn't been for me, none of this would be happening. I
unthinkingly handed her a piece of evidence that has ultimately been
responsible for everything that's happened since.

They wanted Scully out of the way and absolutely beyond my reach.
And I gave them the means.

I look forward to the day when I'll be able to put a bullet in
that black-lunged sonavbitch's head; full of the righteous knowledge that
I hold the truth and that we have won. I can almost taste it; the bitter
satisfaction like gunpowder on my tongue.

These last few months have been filled with moments both wondrous
and terrifying. I marveled at the courage Scully showed in the beginning.
She was so determined to put up a strong front, to be the consummate
professional, to put aside the specter of her illness as one would
dismiss a minor irritation. She acted as though nothing had changed.

 She was so strong and I was so scared. All I wanted to do was
take care of her. And be with her. All the time. I came up with some
really pathetic excuses to go to our place after work--just to spend time
with her. 

Huh. I just wrote "our place." Yeah, I guess I have come to think
of it as ours. Hell, if I spend more than an hour or two a day in my
apartment it's only because I have to. Or when Scully kicks me out. 

She gave me a gift one night. Actually, more than one. She
finally dropped one hell of a wall and let me see inside her heart. That
led to the second gift. A wish list. Composed between tears that fell
silently and painfully, the needs of the woman were spoken. She asked for
things I'd never known she wanted. She'd never let me get that close
before. 

Dense as I can be sometimes when it comes to your basic man/woman
relationship, I knew the importance of her words that night and I burned
them into my memory.

My life's quest has become three-fold.

Truth for Samantha.

Truth for Scully.

My own salvation.

The third will come with the discovery of the first two.

I have to believe that.

It's hard for me to incorporate what I know of Scully's illness
with what I see when I look at her. She is as beautiful as she has ever
been. Perhaps a little paler and certainly thinner, but still exquisite.
At first I tried to fool myself into thinking that nothing could really
be wrong with her. How could anyone look so healthy and be dying of
cancer? The occasional light nosebleeds were a shock in the beginning but
soon became something I gave little thought to. They still frightened me,
but the fear dulled over time; partially because Scully seemed to take
them in stride. I figured if she could do it than so could I. Until Iowa.


I have never seen so much blood pour out of someone so quickly. I
honestly thought that I would lose her right there in that dingy
interview room, somewhere in the middle of Bumfuck, Iowa. But then it
stopped. Like hitting a switch; twisting a handle. I've never been so
tempted as I was that afternoon to sling her over my shoulder and haul
her ass to the hospital--with her kicking and screaming the whole way.
But Scully was having none of it. She sat at the table holding a
blood-soaked handkerchief to her face and made it clear in no uncertain
terms that she wasn't going anywhere. I was so pissed I could have
whipped out my gun and unloaded the entire clip into the ceiling. Didn't
she understand what had happened? Wasn't the evidence right in front of
her? How many times has she seen and still been unable to believe?

I took her back to the motel and made her sleep. And then I sat
at the table and watched her, hot tears streaming down my face. That's
when it finally sunk in; the terrifying thought that our time together
was measured. It always has been. You can never know how much time you'll
have with those you love. But I realized then and still know now that the
moments we spend together are even more precious and limited than I first
thought. Time and death are nipping at our heels. 

I was so damn happy when I managed to find the cotton candy for
her. I was so proud of myself. I thought triumphantly that I'd finally
found a way to give her what she wanted and that the simple gift would
make everything all right again. Yeah. Right. Fox Mulder, the master of
self-delusion, strikes again. It was a simple pleasure but it was
something concrete. Something more than chasing disappearing leads and
ingesting mind-numbing amounts of medical information that after awhile
didn't make a damn bit of sense to me. But that pleasure was also
fleeting and I didn't realize how much so until the next day.

I woke up in the morning and all I wanted to do was push Scully
as far away from me as I could. I didn't want to watch her die. I didn't
want to pretend that everything was hunky-dory and all was right with the
world. I couldn't face the pain of loving her and watching her go through
this. So I pushed her away. I created a rift where none should have been.
I cut myself off from her and forced her to do the same with me.

Oh, I still fulfilled my obligations as far as keeping an eye on
her. I called her every night. Wouldn't want anyone to accuse me of not
doing my duty. I remember my guilt when I'd thought I'd found Samantha
only to lose her again. I remember my father's words to me, and his shame
and disappointment in me that I'd let her slip away. I wonder when it was
that the mantle of guilt and responsibility for what happened to my
sister shifted from my father to me. It never belonged to me to begin
with. But somewhere along the line I must have decided that it did--and
the old man was only too happy to pass it on to me.

I spent almost a week holed up in my apartment when I wasn't in
the basement; trying to drown out my father's accusing voice with
frightening determination and countless repetitions of Pink Floyd's 'The
Dark Side of the Moon' cranked up at an ear-splitting decibel. I wonder
why nobody called the cops on me. Maybe they've heard the stories and
were too afraid to speak up and have Spooky Mulder go ape-shit on them.
Sometimes my reputation is a good thing.

And then, as if my emotional abandonment of Scully wasn't bad
enough, I went and did the one thing I knew would cut her to the bone: I
refused her suggestion to wait on a case and let her know in no uncertain
terms that I didn't need her help with the work; that I could, and would,
do it by myself. I made sure she knew that I could get along just fine
without her. 

God, I was such a complete asshole. And I was so scared. And I
wanted so much for her to ask me to stay. I wanted Scully to give me
proof that I wasn't the only one going through the pangs of possibly
losing the person I most loved, and the dreams that went along with that.
I wanted a declaration. I wanted to hear the words. And I honestly didn't
know if I would. And even if she said them, would I have known the
difference that night between the truth and a compassionate lie?

And then I had what I can only describe as a waking dream. I
wonder what Albert Hosteen would have to say about that?

I was sitting on the couch in my darkened apartment as the
strains of Pink Floyd faded for a moment before starting back up and I
saw Scully. She was lying in a hospital bed and she was dying. Her cheeks
and eyes were sunken and dark, her body rail-thin and feeble, her once
glorious hair nothing more than thin, coarse spikes that jutted from her
almost bald head. I wanted to tell her everything, spill my guts. I
wanted her to know. But I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. The pain of
the unspoken words swelled in my chest until I was certain I would
explode. But I couldn't speak. I watched as she raised a hand, weakly
pleading for me to take it. But I couldn't move. Her hand dropped as her
eyes rolled up in her head and then she was gone. Just like that. Poof!
Nothing remained.

I snatched up the phone and it wasn't until the third ring that I
glanced at my watch. I woke her up. And I told her. I said the words. At
least some of them. I didn't do it very well. I felt like a bumbling
fool. 

Scully wanted me to come over. Bad mistake. Then she insisted on
coming to my place. Majorly bad mistake. I know what would've happened if
I'd let her. She wouldn't have been two steps inside the door before I
would have had her down on the floor and been busily burying myself as
deeply inside her as I could. I would have tried to fuck the life right
back into her; and into me. It was the only thing I could think of that
night that would have been a way of fighting back, of declaring that
death wouldn't take her from me. All very primal, instinctual behavior.
All understandable at a very basic level. But I was raised to be a
gentleman--and gentlemen don't take advantage of the women they love as a
means of assuaging their own insecurities and fears.

And then she shocked the hell out of me at the airport the next
morning. She stood there in the terminal, surrounded by crowds of
strangers, and told me in a loud, clear voice that she loved me. Scully
said the words. I then tried to remove her mouth from her face using
nothing but my lips. It went pretty well. I was smiling like an idiot all
the way to Colorado.

She began radiation treatments not too long after that. The news
about the latest scan and the growth of the tumor was a direct blow to
the gut. Scully was stoic, as usual. Sometimes I wanted to take her by
the shoulders and shake her. I wanted to jerk her out of that logical,
unemotional state she tends to slip into when things get too close. I
didn't, of course. I filled the apartment with chocolate instead.
Something concrete. Something she could pick up and hold in her hands.
Something to remind her she was still alive.

I maxed out my Visa card setting up the dinner and dance date and
buying the dress for her. Fuck it. Oh, and the shoes. Can't forget the
"come fuck me" shoes I bought to go with the dress. 

The dress. God.

She looked incredible. Especially when I was feeding her whole
asparagus spears with my fingers. I sported a respectable hard-on all
through dinner. It was great. The first date is much easier when you know
ahead of time that the girl's going home with you. A five year history
helps, too.

I went ahead and gave Frohike his choice of videos from my
collection in exchange for the tip on the bar we landed in after dinner.
It's not his fault the night ended the way it did. 

She fit in my arms so well. We danced and the whole room
disappeared. There was nothing but Scully and the music. And then nothing
but Scully. I wish I could have frozen those moments. Molded them and
shaped them into something else to give her. 

And then everything just fell apart. Her eye was caught by the
mirrored ball above our heads and I'll swear until my dying day that I
watched her leave this reality and enter another, darker one. She went
slip-sliding back in time and the nightmare began. She went limp in my
arms for an endless moment and then came back fighting like a tiger. She
was punching and slapping and kicking, her eyes wide open and locked in
terror, grunting and panting. And then nothing. She slipped away.

I called 911 for an ambulance and two minutes later carried her
out to the car and held her close against me as I headed for the nearest
hospital. The irony of it being the same place Scully had almost lost her
life because of Modell didn't escape me. 

I think I must have been pretty much off the wall once I got
Scully there. I remember screaming at a nurse to
getafuckingdoctorinhererightfucking now. I stood aside as they checked
her over, threatened a nurse with death if a pair of scissors so much as
touched Scully's dress. I remember whipping out my badge every time
somebody had the audacity to ask me who I was or try to tell me to leave.
When did I start carrying the damn thing around with me all the time? 

Scully kept drifting in and out. Every ten minutes or so a nurse
would come around the drapes and check her vitals. She was fine,
physically. It was her mind that had taken a nose-dive into oblivion. 

She mumbled a lot. I couldn't catch most of it. But a few things
were understandable: No. Hurts. Stop. Mulder. Penny.

I knew where her nightmare had taken her. 

Then Scully woke up and gave me a glorious smile and told me that
she knew I'd come for her and stop what they'd been doing to her. Jesus.
I felt so impotent, so helpless. So worthless.

I'm not even going to try to describe the amount of guilt her
innocent words unloaded on me. Let's just say astronomical and leave it
at that. 

She'd begun to remember what had happened to her. And I had to
know how much she knew. I didn't want to have to tell her what I'd found
out since her diagnoses, or about a tiny glass vial tucked away in my
freezer. God, no. Anything but that. Our flirtatious conversation on a
bench in Home, Pennsylvania kept replaying in my head. I would have liked
to have had one or two little UberScully's toddling around a few years
down the road.

Some dreams die hard.

Fuck.

The ones who did this to her have no humanity. If they did, they
would have done the humane thing and just killed her in an instant. But
no, they made certain the experience would continue to haunt her for
whatever time she has left. Just when you think it can't get any worse
the motherfuckers toss a new wrench into the works.

Hey, let's steal a few months of her life. While we're at it, why
not harvest some of her eggs? Hey, let's use a procedure that'll end up
giving her inoperable brain cancer *and* make her infertile. Yeah, great
idea! And hey, if anybody gets wind of it and starts to look into things,
let's just send in our top medical specialists to kill her off even
quicker. 

Goddamn them all.

Didn't take Scully but a second to figure out that I knew
something she didn't. She threw me one of those laser-eyed looks that
makes it clear she expects further explanation. And then she just dropped
it. Didn't say another word. She sat and listened to the doctor lecture
her, declined his invitation to spend the night and hopped off the exam
table, taking my arm and strolling out of there like we were leaving the
goddamned Ritz.

She amazes me.



End part1/2


Disclaimer in part 1. Nothing but story here.
---------------------------------------------------------------




I got her home and sent her off to get ready for bed. I needed a
few minutes to myself. It didn't seem fair that all this shit had to
happen to her. What had she ever done to deserve any of this? Well, hell,
Mulder, that's an easy one. All she'd had to do was show Spooky a little
respect. Stick it out. Put up with me and my sometimes twisted theories.
Trust me. Believe in me. Fight for me. Love me. 

Scully is both my champion and the instrument of my destruction.
And they know that. Did they plan this all along? Is this someone's sick
idea of a joke? Am I paying for the sins of my father?

I used to tell myself that Scully and I could never take that
final step over the edge and become lovers. At the time, I thought that
if they were to find out that we'd become that close, it would give them
another weapon to use against us; another bargaining chip. Gradually,
over time, I came to realize that it made absolutely no difference. Would
Scully's death affect me less if we'd never known the joy of becoming
one; celebrated in the ageless dance of man and woman? Not a fucking
chance.

Scully and I have been lovers for many years. The fact that we
didn't have sex until recently means nothing. There are many ways to love
someone and many ways to connect. 

They know this, too. 

I wish more than anything else that mine and Scully's lives
belonged to us, alone. But they don't. Someone is pulling the
strings--and has been for a long time. So we do our dance and bide our
time.

She caught me crying that night. And she did what she always
does--she tried to make me feel better, to soothe away the pain. She
wanted to kiss it and make it all better.

God.

Just sitting here thinking about her feather-soft kisses across
my face that night arouses me. I discovered that there can be something
very erotic about desperation and fear. Especially when it comes in a
small, red-headed package. One clothed in silk pajamas and nothing else.
One that smells so good and who you just know will taste like heaven.

I'll be damned if I know where I found the strength to call
things to a halt. As much as I wanted her that night, as great as she
felt, something wasn't right. It was too frantic, too rushed. One second
she was kissing me and the next she had a firm hold on my crotch. Not
that it didn't feel great; it did. It just didn't feel like Scully. 

I didn't want a desperate woman dying of cancer. I wanted
Scully--full of piss and vinegar and ready to take on the world.

Things took a down-turn after that. Scully started having
nightmares. Wake up screaming type nightmares. She couldn't get to sleep
without me right there next to her. She slept with me on the couch one
night and the next we both moved to her bed with neither of us even
having to suggest it. So many things we say to each other are unspoken
but understood. We speak a special language--we always have. 

We'd start out on our own sides of the bed--sometimes with our
fingers entwined, sometimes not. But we'd always end up with me spooning
her, even if the dreams took a night off. I just gravitated over to her
side, or pulled her to mine. 

I never used to think much about my morning hard-ons. Guys just
learn to live with it. It's a lot harder not to think about it when it
wakes up nestled warmly against a certain round little ass. 

If Scully noticed, and I don't see how she couldn't have, she
never said a word or had any sort of reaction. She got that way about a
lot of things, though.

She became withdrawn and more quite than normal. She quit
reading, quit watching old movies with me. She stopped leaving the
basement and trailing after me as I ran leads on files and other matters
more directly connected to her abduction and illness. She stopped asking
me questions or seeking my feedback. She stopped arguing with me over
some of my more extreme speculations. She gave up.

It tore me up. She was slipping away from me.

I chewed on the problem for awhile. I tried to come around to a
solution. I kept side-stepping the one piece of knowledge I held that I
thought would get a reaction out of her. It just seemed too cruel. But
Scully needed to know all of it; she deserved the truth. I couched my
decision to tell her all the facts with platitudes I kept repeating to
myself: I was doing this for her own good. She needed to possess all the
information. And if it pissed her off, if it brought her back to life,
well, that'd just be an added bonus. 

So I told her everything. Laid it all out nice and neat and as
clinically as I could, all the time watching for a reaction. There was a
momentary flash in her eyes. It passed so quickly that I'm still not
certain I didn't just imagine it. And then nothing. No reaction. She sat
on the couch with her hands primly folded in her lap and did absolutely
nothing. Her only words were, "Thank you for telling me, Mulder." That
was it.

I left her alone. I didn't push her or bring it up again. I
decided to let her stew over it for a couple days; wait until it had a
chance to really sink in. God knows it had taken me awhile to process,
and I didn't have nearly as much to lose as Scully did. 

I went into profiler mode. I tried to disconnect myself from
Scully and look at things with an unbiased eye. I collected the
psychological facts of Dana Scully and hit on the one thing that would
snap her out of it.

There are many things that make her angry. But I know for a fact
that no one can piss her off quite as quickly and as thoroughly as I can.
Because I know where are the soft spots are. I know just where to jab,
God help me. 

It was as easy as invading her space.

Now, I know that I have a tendency to do that anyway. But never
without a reason and never just to irritate her. I knew it would knock
her off-balance to have me constantly brushing against her. So I put
myself in her way. From the moment we got out of bed until later that
night when she finally cracked.

There was no pleasure in it. How could I possibly enjoy doing
something like that to her? There was only one possibility that I'd
overlooked, and that was my own reaction. I didn't like myself very much
that day, and as it progressed I found myself resenting Scully for
forcing me to take the path I had chosen. And there was some satisfaction
in seeing her lose it. Not pleasure. Satisfaction. There's a big
difference.

I almost let her fist connect with my face. Almost. But then it
would have been over too soon because she would have knocked me on my
ass--I have no doubt. I needed to be on my feet to give her a standing
target. Scully doesn't hit when somebody is on the ground. 

So I lifted my arm and grabbed her wrist, restrained her for the
second it took her to slip over the edge. Then I dropped my arms and let
her have at it, keeping my chin high and my head turned. 

It started as a low whisper, turned to a growl and finally ended
up in screams of rage. All the words just poured out of her. Each
question, statement and vow brought her just a little bit closer to life
and back to me. I stood there and rejoiced as she hurled her anger and
pain at me; soaked up the energy and rage until it left me sated and
weak. I touched her, reconnecting as she wound down. I enveloped her as
the words turned to sobs and we folded down to the ground. I welcomed her
back with everything in me.

And I heard her laughter for the first time in what seemed like
forever. Her sweet, clear laughter will ring in my ears for all eternity.

I will never underestimate the strength and courage that is Dana
Scully.

She has decided to live.

Did I mention that the scent of Ben-Gay has now become an
aphrodisiac? Strange but true. I don't think either one of us planned on
an innocent back rub ending up the way it did--and that's good. I always
have been one for spontaneity. I probably would have been okay if she
hadn't rocked back against my ass with just the right amount of pressure.
All the blood in my body headed south and decided to set up camp and stay
awhile. And then she leaned over and draped herself against my back and I
could feel her breasts brushing against me. Man oh man. I was just
waiting for an excuse to turn over. Ended up I didn't need one. She gave
the order. All I did was what I was told to do.

She fiddled with my shoulder a bit, one-handed so she could cop a
feel of chest while she was at it. All the time with this innocent little
expression on her face. That went away as soon as I set her down on my
lap. Her eyes went dark and smoky. She teased me enough to bring the
Alpha male to the forefront. I easily flipped her over on her back and
settled right in. She wasted no time taking back the lead. She's always
been good at claiming her equal rights. It didn't take long to move to
the bed.

Making love with Scully is an earth-shattering experience. I
think I always knew it would be special, but I never imagined how much
so. And the strange thing is, for the first time in my adult life it's
not just about getting off. Those first few moments after I've sheathed
myself deeply inside her hot core are more powerful, more satisfying than
any orgasm could be. I live to give her pleasure. To watch her squirm
under me, to hear her soft cries, to touch her so she makes that little
noise she makes that drives me crazy. 

I love the way she looks at me. I love the way she moves. I love
the way the beads of sweat gather on her chest and way her face screws up
in passion. I love the way she sighs. I love the way she giggles as we
thrust against each other. I love the feel of her lips and teeth on my
shoulder, my neck, my lower belly, the inside of my thigh. I love the way
she comes. I love the way she smiles. I love the way she smells and
tastes. 

Scully is a gift I am forever opening.

They will not take her from me. I won't give this up.

I was able to cross another item off the list last week. This one
took a lot of thought, a little information gathering and a recon mission
over a lunch hour--and even then I wasn't sure it was such a good idea.
Let me clarify: *I* thought it was a good idea, I just didn't know how
Scully would take it. 

I packed her into the car last Sunday night and took her to a
privately funded home for AIDS babies, staffed entirely by
volunteers--many of them residents of a nearby nursing home. These are
the children that no one wants or can't take care of. Some of them born
addicted to crack and all of them with a death sentence already hanging
over their heads. 

I wouldn't tell her where we were going and the house we pulled
up in front of gave her no clue. It was a typical three-story Victorian
surrounded by houses of similar style. There was no sign out front,
nothing to distinguish it from the other houses. There was a swingset and
a jungle gym in the side yard and tricycles littered the yard. Just as on
my first, solitary trip there, I was struck by the fact that there
weren't any two-wheelers laying around. Most of these kids don't get old
enough or big enough to graduate to those.

The inside of the house looks just like a...well, like a house, a
home.

I led Scully up to the front door, pointedly ignoring the
inquisitive looks she was tossing my way. We were met at the door by the
director of the home and invited inside. The noise hit us first. Laughter
and music, a few tears here and there, the unique sound of kids at play.
I watched Scully's face as Ramona Beckett explained to her what this
place was and why we were there. Scully asked a few questions and then
turned and looked up at me, her eyes as clear and blue as a mountain
lake. All I could do was nod my encouragement. She studied me for a
moment and then followed Ramona across the hall and up the stairs to the
playroom.

I gave her an hour and then went up after her.

I found Scully in a room filled with cribs and rocking chairs.
She was sitting in one of them, a beautiful chocolate-brown baby nestled
in her arms. She was carrying on a quiet but intense conversation with an
elderly woman who was eighty-five if she was a day. Another baby rested
in her lap, a wrinkled hand rhythmically patting the child's small back.

Scully finally glanced over and noticed me standing in the
doorway. I still can't fully comprehend what it was I saw in her eyes. I
know her mouth turned up in a tiny smile, but I don't know...I
can't...I'm not sure what I saw in her eyes. I know it pierced me through
the heart. I know my body buzzed as if it had been charged with
electricity. Tears sprung to my eyes, my throat got tight. And the most
gentle sense of peace settled over me like a blanket.

I don't know what I did to deserve that look. But I'm going to
find out. I want to be looked at like that again. Lots of times.

Scully raised up and carried the baby back to the empty crib and
then turned back to the old woman. She knelt down and shared a few words
that I couldn't catch--and didn't need to. She stood up straight and
strong and walked across the room to me. She took my hand and led us out.


Scully was quiet all the way home. Didn't say a word. Didn't let
go of my hand, either.

I was slumped in the chair reading when she came to me a little
later that night, and laid her hand on my arm. I took one look at her and
pulled her into my lap. I held her as she cried. These were good tears,
cleansing tears. Hope filled tears. I wept with her. Another first. I
couldn't help it. I was as much a part of her at that moment as I have
ever been when we make love. I have shared everything else with this
woman. Why should my tears be any different?

After a while I lifted her small, strong body and carried her to
our bed. We dried each other's tears and made slow, lazy love. 

I can't give her everything I'd like to. I can't give her any
guarantees--I never could. But she made her choice and so did I. And
somehow, despite all the horror and madness we've encountered, despite
the blows that we've been dealt, we have carved out a life together. We
have collected stones from the rubble of our losses and built a safe
place that belongs only to us. We have found our refuge and more peace
than we thought possible.

 They will never touch this. They can't. It lies too deeply
within us. Her death, or mine, cannot take away what we've shared.

I believe the answers are out there. I believe that we will find
them and that Scully will be saved. And I know she'll make certain I'm
saved right along with her. 

Until then, we have a life to live. Things to do and experience.
I still have things I want to give her. I think I'll start with another
night on the town.

And this time, we'll dance without sleeping.


XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


To be continued?        

      
DANCE WITHOUT SLEEPING
by Melissa Etheridge

I don't want to talk about it
I've done enough, I think
Don't want to spend more money
Don't want another drink
I would scratch out all the images
If I had the chance
Don't ask me what I'm thinking
Can't you see I only want to dance?

CHORUS:
Dance without sleeping
Dance without fear
Dance without senses, no message I hear
Dance without sleeping
I'll dance till I'm numb
Dance till I think I can overcome
               


Walking on the edge of rage and understanding
Between the black and the white
This child is so angry
Alone here tonight
Alarming desperation leads me to believe
With all my shields and protection
It's only me I deceive

(CHORUS)

The eyes on the magazine
The voice on the radio
The kiss on the movie screen
This is the story I know
Fathers hold on and they never go
Mothers hold on and they never go
Lovers hold on and they never go
Lovers they come and they never go

(CHORUS)
  


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    Source: geocities.com/msr_xf/fanfic

               ( geocities.com/msr_xf)