TITLE: Symphony
AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE: Anywhere okay with these headers attached
CATEGORY: SR
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully Romance
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: none
SUMMARY: Music brings out a side of Scully that Mulder has
never seen.
DISCLAIMER: Characters borrowed from Chris Carter, 1013,
and Fox. No infringement intended.
THANK YOU to Sue, as always, for beta reading and general
niceness.
_________
Symphony
by Susanne Barringer
I'm typing up a case report when Mulder enters the office and drops
two tickets on my desk.
"Want to go to the symphony with me?"
I look down at the tickets. Saturday night, the National Symphony
Orchestra at the Kennedy Center. Holy cow.
"Are you serious?" I don't think of Mulder as the symphony type.
And the NSO? That's huge.
"Yeah, I know you wanted to go." I suddenly recall the
conversation we had several weeks ago. I was reading the
newspaper during lunch and commented that the symphony was
going to be performing Beethoven's Sixth and Rachmaninov's
Second, two of my favorites on one night. It was just a simple
comment, hardly something I would expect Mulder to notice, let
alone remember. I can't believe he got tickets. I love the
symphony, but it's something I never splurge on for myself.
I pick up the tickets, studying them. Fourth row orchestra. Such
seats are impossible to get in a city full of VIP's with all the right
connections. "Mulder, how in the world did you get these tickets?
These are unbelievable seats."
"Friends in low places," he responds, with a grin. I know what that
means. The Lone Gunmen. I'm afraid to ask.
"Oh God, don't tell me these are counterfeit," I tease.
Mulder laughs. "No, I paid for them fair and square. Practically
cost me my annual salary. Langly just hacked in and shifted around
the reservations a little bit. No big deal. Some senator will be
finding himself in the mezzanine right in the middle of the
constituents whom he's promised to represent."
"Mulder!" I try to sound scolding, but the truth is I could care less
about Mulder's less-than-honest methods. I'm going to the
symphony and I've got to-die-for seats, and not a bad looking date
either for that matter. The senator in the mezzanine will just have
to deal with it.
"Meet me at seven at my place?" he suggests.
"You can count on it."
*****
I sit waiting as the symphony begins, waiting for the moment I
know will come. The moment of surrender, of losing myself in the
music. It's like being hypnotized, being so inside oneself as to lose
identity of time and place. It is what I most love about the
symphony.
For now, I watch and listen, concentrating on notes, on the sounds
of individual instruments among the whole. The relaxing of the
strings, crying of woodwinds. The sounds fall across my body,
soothing, calling to some core of inner knowledge, of universal
experience.
I concentrate on the bows of the violins and violas, stroking in
perfect rhythm with the music and in perfect time with each other.
The tips of the bows float over the heads of the players, hover a
split-second, then swoop down in unison as if a complete whole.
Then, the rising again of the bows, always together. The movement
mesmerizes me. All other movement is much more subtle, less
fluid. Fingers fluttering over stops and keys, the slight wrist
movements of percussionists. I've never sat this close before. I've
never seen it all in such glorious detail.
Notes and melodies circle around me, around us. I finally begin to
feel the sense of abandonment, of losing myself. I shut my eyes to
concentrate more fully, the movements I had studied still echoing in
the darkness. I feel Mulder next to me, his touch on my arm. His
arms are crossed over his chest, and his right hand tucked under his
left elbow rests against my upper arm. I'm aware of that, just that
and the music, in a mating of external and internal that I've never
quite felt before. Lost in the music, taken away from this time and
place, yet Mulder here next to me, keeping me from being alone.
Then he is watching me. I feel him turn to look, but it doesn't
matter. I let the hypnosis continue, let the music take me, breathing
and sighing over me until my body disappears into it. I lose myself
to the high woodwinds chattering in bliss, contentment, drifting
over the dark deep drumbeat. Vibrations sing across me, pound
under my feet, through my seat, up my spine. I am aware of people
around me, breathing, rustling, their ears filling up with what fills
me. The broad expanse of the room becomes narrower and
narrower until all I'm aware of is me and the music. And Mulder.
Always Mulder right there with me.
*****
Mulder pulls me away from the crowd spilling out of the building,
the sheer numbers of them propelling us forward toward the street.
"What do you say we get a cup of coffee, wait for the crowds to
leave?"
I nod my consent, and Mulder leads me down the block and around
the corner. We walk for a couple of blocks, finally coming to a
small restaurant, doubling at this hour of the night as a coffee shop.
Tucked away from the bustle of the Kennedy Center, the place isn't
very crowded. Mulder chooses a quiet table near the back.
We sit silently, sipping our drinks. I still feel remarkably relaxed
from the music, content, perfect.
"So, did you enjoy it?" I ask, finally breaking our individual
meditations. Mulder told me as we arrived at the Kennedy Center
he hadn't been to the symphony since he was a child.
"Yes," he says, leaning forward over the table to smile at me. "It
was beautiful." I smile in return. "Can I ask you a personal
question?" he asks softly.
"Uh, I guess." I'm curious what he wants to know. He asks me
personal questions all the time and never seems to feel the urge to
preface them with a permission slip.
Mulder takes a sip of his cappuccino, then leans across the table
again. "I was watching you during the concert. It seemed like you
were transported or something, like you were totally somewhere
else. How does that happen, Scully? Can you explain it?"
I look down at my coffee cup, blushing with the knowledge that he
really was watching me after all. I struggle to find the words to
describe the experience. "Music like that, in a live performance,
makes me feel beautiful." I look up to find Mulder grinning at me,
but it is not teasing. He nods slightly as if to encourage me to
continue.
I close my eyes, allowing the darkness to remind me of that
moment, of the moment when the music took over my
consciousness. I'm not sure it's explainable. "When I hear a
symphony, it just makes me feel alive. The notes come through so
clearly, each sound, each chord like it's a part of me. I'm enveloped
by that big open space, the vibrations of live music washing over
me, surrounded by people who represent all possible experiences.
Yet, at the same time, I feel totally within myself, away from
everything else that distracts me from simplicity and grandeur."
"What does it feel like?" Mulder interrupts, his tone honestly
curious. I keep my eyes closed so as not to break the momentum.
"The notes dance across my skin. The music beats my heart, makes
me breathe, sends my blood pounding as if it alone is the lifeline, a
connection to everything inside of me, everything in the universe."
I stop suddenly, feeling silly about my words and the emotions that
underlie them. I open my eyes to find Mulder looking at me
intently, seriously.
"That's beautiful, Scully. I had no idea. I mean, I don't think I've
ever felt anything like that."
"You just have to let yourself." Mulder looks at me with an odd
look, as if surprised at my words. I suppose they are peculiar
coming from me, a woman of perpetual self-control.
"You make it sound erotic," he says, leaning back in his chair but
not stopping that way he's looking at me, like he's just learned
something newly fascinating about me, which, I guess, he has.
"It is, sort of. Not erotic exactly, but sensual. Music can do that to
me. It makes me so aware of every physical part of me. That's
very sensual."
"Yes, I can see that." He smiles at me, tilts his head. This
conversation has gone way too far. I've told him more than I
should.
"It's total surrender. Like making love," I continue anyway, despite
the intimacy of what I've already said. Mulder looks at me in
shock, as if I'd actually issued an invitation. He's floored, although
he tries not to show it. He finally looks away and I swear I see his
hand trembling as he reaches for the check.
"We should go," he says quietly, not meeting my eyes again.
*****
When we get back to Mulder's place, I plop down on his sofa. The
events of the evening have made me sleepy, and my feet are killing
me. I slip off my heels and toss them aside. Mulder goes to change
into the jeans and T-shirt he inevitably prefers over a suit, while I
use the bathroom to freshen up.
When I come out, I'm met by the plaintive strain of a single
instrument wavering over a familiar tune, instantly recognizable to
me as Ravel's "Bolero." Quite possibly the most sensual piece of
music ever written.
Mulder is standing by the stereo, adjusting the volume so that the
opening passages, meant to be quiet, subtle, are loud enough to
hear clearly. I take a seat on the sofa again, wondering what he's
up to. He grabs the remote and comes and sits next to me.
"I want you to show me, Scully." I look at him curiously,
confused. "I want you to show me what it's like." I'm sure my eyes
are wide as I stare at him. There's something intense in his gaze,
something smoldering behind the cool facade.
"Mulder, it doesn't work with recorded music. It's the whole effect
of a concert hall, live instruments, people."
"How do you know?" he asks. "Have you ever really tried it?" I
just look at him. The idea of having my private world so carefully
scrutinized makes me uncomfortable. This is not meant to be
shared. "Close your eyes," Mulder says gently. He slides off the
couch and kneels at my feet. I do as he instructs and close my eyes,
not sure why exactly, but knowing it's right. "Listen to it, Scully.
Just listen."
I close my eyes tighter and concentrate on the sounds. The music
rises in force, each section slightly more intense than the previous
one, the pace and the volume quickening slowly over time.
Whining oboe, strings plucked tightly in the background to set up
the rhythm. The melody line grows more complex with each
section, instruments fluttering over the basic tune, adding depth and
character.
"Listen," Mulder says after several passages, "Can you feel it?" I'm
surprised when I start to lose myself, when the music begins to take
over in that way I have come to expect from live performance but
never before in someone's living room. My blood pounds in time
with the notes. The graceful woodwinds creep up my body, leaving
a murmur-soft trail against my skin. For long minutes I let it
hypnotize me, the rhythm growing subtly faster with each pass.
The solo instrument is joined by others, various voices, some high,
some deep, always driving to the same beat of strings and
percussion, the notes winding across the rhythm, prancing across
the melody.
"What do you feel?" Mulder's voice is close to me, whispering in
my ear, the whiffs of his breath falling on the hair at my temple, the
weight of him pressing against my shins and knees as he leans
toward me. "Tell me what you feel, Scully."
"I feel alive," I say without thinking. Mulder's sigh falls across my
cheek, warm and reassuring. He is close to me, so close.
"Are the notes dancing across your skin?" he asks, echoing the
words from my earlier description, remembering what I told him.
Despite the rising volume of the music I am able to hear him
clearly, his voice distinguished from the symphony by its serene
familiarity.
"Yes," I whisper softly, not sure it's anything more than a breath
carried on a note. Then, as if in answer, Mulder's fingers brush
over my arms. The touch is so light, his fingertips skittering over
my skin, almost like the notes themselves. Yes, exactly like notes
would feel--slight tracings, barely perceptible, there and gone in an
instant before they fully register.
His touch runs up and down my arms, in time with the music,
matching the peaks and falls of the accompaniment in intensity and
pressure. It is like he is playing me, as if the music in my ears is
coming from his touch on me, as if he is the one controlling the
notes, the chords, the instruments. I can actually feel the drumbeat,
the strings, sketching sounds across my skin in a beautiful pattern of
harmony. I see, once again, the stroking of bows, the mesmerizing
swinging of the baton, all captured and completed behind the lids of
my eyes. The horns join the music around me, brass tones harsh
against the smooth woodwinds, but euphonic in the pairing, the
mating. The constant beat, faster now, heavier, providing cohesion,
confidence, faith.
"What do you feel?" Mulder asks again. This time I perceive the
slight brush of his lips against my ear as his fingers continue their
melodic dance across my neck. His touch drives the breath out of
me. It wavers across my lips as through an instrument, creating a
rush I hear in my head almost loud enough to drown out the chords
of the music.
"I feel alive," I say, this time louder, my voice matching the volume
of the music, merging with the notes, making me feel beyond alive,
strung tightly yet relaxed within myself.
I feel Mulder close, his hands skip across my shoulders. Then there
is a brush against the side of my nose, and I realize it is his nose
against mine, that he is there, right there, so very close. I only hear
and feel--music, touch, soul--in some kind of grand symphony of
senses. I know that if I tilt my face just slightly, my lips will meet
his. He is that close. I feel his breath, short and heavy, drifting
across my face; his nose brushes mine again. Dear God, he is so
close, closer than music, closer than sound.
I am driven forward with the melody, now meandering down
through the lower octaves, the ones that quake through the chest. I
lift my face just enough, my lips touching his for a fraction of a
second before he pulls away. I stop and wait. Listen. The music
rises; the vibrations across the wooden floor pound under my feet.
The beat picks up volume, power. The single melody is now sung
in a thousand instrument voices--full brass, strings, winds,
percussion. Mulder's hands touch my ankles, work their way up my
legs, following the spiraling melody note for note, flowing as
smoothly as the swelling tune. Then his hands reach my knees,
dancing lightly for brief moments. His rising touch stops at the hem
of my dress, running back and forth on my leg as if pacing, pacing,
back and forth, waiting.
My soul sways with the driving rhythm, keeping time, growing
fuller with the increase in tempo. I finally open my eyes, ending my
submission to the music, releasing it with reluctance, but needing
Mulder more. I am met by his dark eyes, close to mine again,
looking deeply into me, going deeper than chords and harmony.
The beat of timpani surrounds me, pounding in my chest, so loud
my heart can hear it. Mulder's gaze echoes the same power, loud
and silvery. He lifts his hand from my leg and caresses my cheek.
He is going to kiss me.
The touch of his lips is light, so light, lighter than the warbled note
from a piccolo which I hear from the speakers or inside my head,
I'm not sure which. The note matches his kiss, light and sweet and
singing high above everything else around it, fluttering loosely
around the steadfast rhythm that drives us forward. A sweet
butterfly note that draws attention without disturbing the beauty
around it. Mulder's kiss, soft and light, drawing me in while the
music continues to encircle me.
The repeated echoing of the melody line reaches its climax in a
crash of cymbals, pounding of timpani. The furious beat and
dissonant melody bounce loudly off the walls and floor, then spill
suddenly into silence. My ears ring with the stillness of sound and
the realization that Mulder's lips are waltzing over mine, the reality
of this moment called to the fore of my consciousness as the music
drifts away, leaving only silence and us, together.
And then there is nothing but touch, Mulder's hands and tongue
searching me, tasting and touching, leaning into me, onto me. I
grasp desperately to hang on to the moment that rose with the
music and now finds its voice in melodious silence.
"What do you feel?" he whispers once more, his voice brushing
across my lips between kisses, rough, desperate.
"I feel alive," I answer for the third time, never in my life having
meant it as much as I do at this moment.
The only music that remains is Mulder's heat across my skin, hands
over my body, lips dancing on mine. Our desire is played out in a
hundred different notes and harmonies. The need and hunger ring
loudly through my ears and my body, strung like an instrument,
tuned perfectly to his, waiting to be played.
END
_____________
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