TITLE: Travelers
AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE: Anywhere okay with these headers intact.
CLASSIFICATION: V
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully UST
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: Minor mention of Conduit, otherwise nothing.
SUMMARY: Miles and miles of an endless journey.
DISCLAIMER: Characters are borrowed from Chris Carter, 1013, and
Fox. No money is being made off their use, etc.
The idea for this story came from the teaser to “Dreamland I” but there are
no spoilers for it.
__________________
Travelers
by Susanne Barringer
We have traveled miles together. Long stretches of highways, endless
journeys. We have traveled in many directions, tirelessly circling over and
around and through our destinies. We have traveled toward a destination
unknown and unimaginable, never arriving, scrambling desperately toward
the end of a rainbow we can never reach. It is a sure recipe for insanity, a
formula for self-destruction. Yet, we survive. In fact, we flourish.
Growth and resurrection come from each mile traveled, from each safe
return.
I wonder if the journey will ever end. I wonder if it will kill us. I wonder if
maybe the end of it will kill us because we will have nowhere left to go.
This seems to have become our destiny, to travel, for endless miles,
together.
The kicker is, I like it.
Yes, there is a perverse pleasure I feel every time I hear you say, "Pack
your bags, Scully, we're going to . . ." Oregon or Texas, or Nevada, or
Florida, or Massachusetts, or wherever, to investigate something I don't
even believe in. I grimace, I complain, I challenge the necessity of the trip.
Then, I run home, grab the suitcase I always keep packed, and meet you at
the airport or in the FBI auto pool eager to see where the journey will take
us this time.
I love being on planes with you, where you always insist on the aisle seat
so you can stretch out your long legs. Where you never seem to notice the
scores of flight attendants who give you the once over, a look of desire
glistening in their eyes. Your long legs and arms are all angles, poking into
me, hogging my space, bumping my elbows and knees and ribcage like the
limbs of an awkward adolescent who hasn't yet learned to live in his new
body. I love the way you rest your head on my shoulder when sleep
overtakes you, and then your breath falls on my neck, moist and fiery, and I
struggle to resist you.
I love staying in not-quite-sleazy motels, knowing that you are sleeping in
the room next to me, that we share a wall, that you are only one door
away. It makes me feel protected, even when there has been hardly a
moment in the last five years when my life hasn't been in some kind of
danger. In those motels, I never feel alone, unlike in the isolation of my
apartment with neighbors I've hardly met and a phone that never rings
unless it's a salesperson or my mother. I like having your company for
breakfast, lunch, and dinner, even when most of the time they consist of a
quick bite between witness interviews or take-out brought back to our
rooms.
I love the way you make yourself at home in my motel room in a way you
never do in my apartment. The way you kick off your shoes right inside
the door, leave your coat and tie flung over the inevitable chair next to the
window. I love the way you plop down on the bed next to mine, or the
chair if there isn't another bed, and seize control of the remote, even though
you have your own room with your own remote. I love the way half your
stuff ends up in my room and when it's time to pack up to leave I have to
return it all to you. You knock on my door in the morning, "Scully, is my
blue shirt in there?" It always is. "Thanks, don't know what I'd do without
you," you say with a wink.
I sleep with the key to your room under my pillow, presumably in case of
emergency, but more likely in case you call out for me, in case I cannot
stand it anymore and finally give in to the voices which tell me that I must
love you. I wonder what you would do if I slipped into your room in the
middle of the night, if I slipped into your bed, if I slipped my arms around
you and held you until the sun came up, as I have wanted to do since the
beginning of time.
I love the way you tap on my door in the morning and shout out, "Scully,
are you decent?" before you use your key. Sometimes I think about saying,
"No, but come in anyway." Sometimes I wonder if that's what you hope I'll
say.
I love sitting in the car next to you, rolling down long highways of desolate
towns and road-side diners. You are more unguarded in the car, less wary.
We have had some of our best conversations during long drives toward
nowhere. After I have chided you about the current case and told you you
are crazy, we settle down and discuss things. Other things. Not work. In
the car is where I heard the whole story of Samantha's abduction, of your
pain, of the way you closed your eyes when you entered your room and
believed that Samantha would be there when you opened them. Your story
touched my soul and it mourned for you. I dreamed of a Mulder who had
not suffered such pain, and that I could heal you. You rarely talk about the
pain of your life, but the hum of the road under the tires and the rumble of
the car’s engine seem to lull you into a security and contentment with all
that you are. You often drive and look at me at the same time, and the
searching in your gaze, the acceptance and approval you seek from me, all
come out when your hands are on the steering wheel and your eyes are
turned to mine.
And so we travel endlessly for miles and miles toward a truth we cannot
describe or imagine. That is our destiny. If we stop, I die.
END
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Feedback is always appreciated! :)
sbarringer@usa.net
All my fanfic is available at:
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geocities.com/area51/dreamworld) (
geocities.com/area51)