MY NOTES: I have never written a post-ep before.
Reason? It's not my story to tell. But, Milagro was
just about as perfect as anything can get in an
pop-culture art form and I had to lay some flowers
at its back door. Thanks to CC, Vince, & Frank for this
treasured gift.

For those of you unfamiliar with
Barber's "Adagio for Strings," it was originally written
for the funeral of FDR and used for the opening
theme in "Platoon." Ahh...yes, *that* one.
Milagro felt like the Adagio to me.

SPECIAL THANKS: to my SUE!!! For turning this puppy around
so damn fast. BIG smooch, honey. We'll watch the first 15
minutes of Platoon when you get here!

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, dammit. *sniff*
I'm just borrowing them because the grand high
sci-fiction genius Chris Carter invented them
and I'm horribly envious. All regards to 1013, FOX,
and such. Thank you for making television worth inventing.

FEEDBACK: Worship all that St. Vince makes holy!
Terma99@aol.com
 
 

Adagio
by Terma99

Scully could see from the amber light that flowed through
Mulder's bedroom windows that the day was almost over. She
rolled onto her back expecting pain, but there was only a dull
ache. There had been no cuts, no bruises, just blood. Lots of
blood. She was lying still, resting, but she couldn't sleep.

She could hear him in the other room talking with the
detectives, keeping their voices low for her. They were
tying up loose ends, dragging the body away, calling the
janitor to mop the basement floor again--all a day in the life
of a federal agent. She raised her eyes to meet her reflection
in the tiled canopy. The color was back in her cheeks and the
shaking had stopped. Her eyes burned from weeping and her
lips were still lightly blotched. She felt tired and drained, unsure
and scared, but comforted by the soft surrounding sheets of
her partner's bed.

He'd brought her here, carrying her from where she had
fallen clutching him, wracked with sobs. He lay her on the
blankets despite her quiet protests and sat at her side, stroking
her cheek until she calmed. She lay there feeling heavy
and exhausted while he fetched a damp cloth and bowl of
warm water, unbuttoning her blouse and gently wiping the
blood from her neck and stomach. There was no need to sample
it, they both knew it was hers, and she didn't want the nature of
her injuries to leave this room. Her eyes lit upon his sad face as
he cleaned her like a mother bathes a child, tender and slow,
removing her clothes to wipe the blood from her breasts and
waist. She lay limp and suppliant as he lifted her arm, running
the pink-stained cloth around it, swallowing his apologies as
they struggled to rise in his throat. But there was more there
in his eyes than contrition, a hurting, a regret. Her chest ached
too much to name it. He dried her with a small towel and slipped
a clean t-shirt over her head, laying her back down, pulling
the covers to her chin.

"Sleep."

It was the first word he had spoken since he broke in the door.
The paling of his green-gold eyes betrayed his weariness as
he squeezed her hand, walking away. Like a spell, the one word
of his voice found her eyes heavy and she closed them,
slipping shallow into a light trance, before the tears could find
her again. But she could not sleep entirely, her ears remained
alert and searching, tracing the sound of him moving in the
room next to her, calling the authorities, wiping the drops of
her blood from the floor before they arrived.

Now, hours later, with the front room full of strangers, she was
still connected to him by sound. Picking though the chorus of
voices, his familiar intonations resonated in her and held her.
By some divine miracle there was still a chamber for them to
collect in. The hooded specter had failed in his task. She didn't
want to remember the feel of his fingers parting her flesh,
reaching in like a dull knife through butter, his fingertips
searching, sliding around her heart, the phantom fist closing
and beginning to pull. The tightness of the squeeze ignited
her screams as she felt the contents beginning to leak from
her in blood. And in the red stream that flowed from her
chest was one word.

"Mulder?"

Her eyes opened, her voice just escaping her dry lips. She reached
for the glass of water he'd left by the bed, drinking it down. She
was thirsty.

He was at the bedroom door. "Scully?"

She reached her hand out to him and he came and took it, gently.
Her eyes tracked to the open doorway. "Tell them to go away,
Mulder."

"Who...?"

"Whomever you're talking to. I want them out of here. I want
them to leave."

His eyes narrowed in concern. He stroked the back of her
hand. "Okay, I will. Are you alright?"

"Yes...I just...want them to go."

He nodded again and settled her arm back across her chest,
leaving the room. She closed her eyes and felt moisture collect
in her lids as she strained for his voice again, hushed and
worried, telling the men they needed to go, she needed quiet.

Papers crinkled and coats rustled--they were leaving and she
was calming, wiping the tears from her eyes. A few minutes later
she heard the door close and Mulder shuffling through his
living room drawing the blinds.

Perhaps sending them away was not so good; he was quiet now.
She wanted to call for him again; in the silence there was nothing
to connect her. But soon he was back in the bedroom moving to
close the blinds across from her against the red light of the
setting sun.

"Don't," she said. "Leave them open."

He turned to her and nodded not asking why, just rotating them
open again. "That okay?"

"Yes. Come here." Her voice carried the quiet tone of relief,
thanking him for not asking her why the blinds needed to be
open, why the men needed to leave, why she needed to hear
him speak. With the blinds shut she couldn't be sure she
wasn't still next door, trapped between the lines. The view from
here was different.

"I told them you'd go in and make your statement tomorrow,"
he said sitting with her again, taking her small hand between
his, trying a little smile.

She squeezed his hand. "Thank you. I just couldn't..."

"I know, it's okay. You don't have to explain."

She nodded her head. She needed to explain, but the words
wouldn't come.

"Would you like me to take you home in a little while?"

In another case, in a different month or year, she would have
been grateful for him understanding her need to lick her wounds
in private. But not this time. This time she would not retreat into
that familiar isolation. She would not allow it of herself. She
shook her head.

"No. I don't think I want to be alone right now."

He looked at the empty water glass next to the bed. "I'll bring
you more water. Are you hungry? Can I make you some soup
or something? I'm pretty good with toast."

She smiled up at him. She felt like a little girl home sick from
school. It had been years since she'd allowed anyone to care for
her like this.

"Soup sounds good."

His eyes softened in silent thanks for allowing him this
indulgence. "Coming right up."

She closed her eyes and listened to him clanking and
shuffling through his kitchen. Domestic sounds, sounds a
lover makes in the early dawn after a long night of passion.
She used to wake to the sounds of Jack making her breakfast.
It was kind, comforting, intimate. So many things about the
way her and Mulder were with one other were intimate.
And so many things were so very different, so very hard
to put to words.

###

The window blinds were left open to the starry night sky and
the moon over the rooftops. They sat together on the edge of his
bed dining on Campbell's and toasted bread and jam at his
night stand in the soft glow of the table lamp. He chatted with
her aimlessly, his leg up on a chair, telling her little stories,
talking about the moon, the stars, anything not of this earth.
And she was quiet, eyes open and blue, listening, leaning back
into the pillows and headboard, hanging on his every word as
his faceted mind wandered, turning all the brighter sides in
her direction. His conversation was composed of nothing, but
she held on to every word and pocketed them away. Keeping
him safe. Filling the spaces that had been squeezed away.

The warm soup filled her belly and she began to grow sleepy.
He took their bowls away while she got up, washed her face, and
readied herself for a night's sleep. Returning, he tucked her
back in bed, covering her in extra blankets from the closet.
Dimming the light, he sat next to her, stroking her cheek until
she slipped away.

####

It came back to her again in a dream. A memory of music
flowed into her mind.

Adagio for Strings, Barber's melancholy musical poem for the
passing of an honored love, was playing on her car stereo
as she pulled up and parked in front of the church. The long
suffering chords, ebbing and flowing, washed in her ears in
memory as she stepped through the holy arch and felt herself
drawn to the image of the Miracle of St. Margaret-Mary. The rend
of the cello, the moan of the basses, and the exultation of the
strings, reminded her of a benediction. It vibrated in resonance
with a similar love poem in her heart. A long beautiful tale
wrought with sublime experience and common sorrow.
They honored one another in love, she realized. They
worshipped together, as one follows a faith in hope of
salvation; an endless one chord seeking its matching fifth,
but never quite finding resolution.

Christ held in his hands the flame and ache of six long years,
beating softly, vulnerable. It was no wonder she was so ready
for him, the stranger, quietly intoning her life in her ear as
she became lost in the dark oils on canvas. If she had not
been tuned to his note she would not have heard it, not
responded to his phrasing as he sought to capture her. His
voice soft and soothing, kind, telling her he was what she
waited for; he was the key to everything she held hidden.
His voice was like hands passing through her, reaching her,
caressing the atrium, the ventricle, making the blood rise, pulse;
resurrecting the beat that had grown fainter each passing year.
Yes, there were hands that could reach inside her, but they did
not belong to this man. She had been mistaken. The stranger
had found an old pathway woven into her by those fingers
which today stained in the pink rash of her blood, washed her
and touched her softly like petals dropping from a neglected rose.

She opened her eyes and sat up. It was very late now, the moon
was no longer outside the window and she was alone. She
shivered, her chest aching dully. It was too quiet, too dark.
The moan of the strings and the cadence of the stranger's
prose echoed in her ears. No more.

She rose, and slipped out of bed, wrapping her arms around
herself and wandered from the room. She found herself in the
living room standing next to him asleep on the couch; watching
the deep rise and fall of his chest, needing to reconnect, to speak,
to deliver a message.

She touched his hair and his eyes snapped open, startled.

"Scully. Are you okay?" He asked sleepily, with a little yawn
that reminded her of a groggy child.

"I will be. Move over."

He smiled shyly and scooted back, lifting the blanket to invite her
to lie down next to him. She slipped in and nestled her back
against his chest as he covered them both in the blanket. He
was so warm. His arms took her in, holding her sweetly--around
her waist, and up under the pillow so he could stroke her hair
with his fingertips. She closed her eyes, feeling the fear and the
dull ache in her chest begin to soothe and melt away in his
embrace. His breath was soft against her neck as they lay
together quietly. How could she have been so mistaken?

*Mulder, this is why I wept for us.*

She took a long breath and slowly released, fighting the tears
back. He could feel her emotion stirring, and he kissed the nape
of her neck gently. "Shh..." he whispered. "Sleep, Scully.
I've got you."

"I didn't want to be like this, Mulder."

She could feel him raise his head a little. "Like what?"

"So empty, so distant from everyone. So far from myself."

"You're not, Scully..."

"No, Mulder. I am. I was so far away I didn't know what was in
my own heart until someone tried to tear it from me. I was
facing my worst fear, my fear of losing my capacity to love."

He just held her for a moment, breathing shallow, fighting with
a buried emotion of his own.

"I was facing my worst fear, too, Scully. No woman as beautiful
as you goes unloved for so long."

"I'm sorry you had to find us that way," she said, softly.

He hugged her to him. "I can't give you away," he whispered
against her hair. "But I would let you go if you ever asked me to."

"I wouldn't..." the words caught in her throat. "Not ever. I think
this is what I've been needing to say. Can you make sense of me?"

He smiled into her hair. "Yes, I can." He sighed, resting his
forehead against her cheek, closing his eyes.
"Agent Scully is in love."
 
 

************************************
That's it. Sorry, so sequel.
That would be resolution.
Send cyber-snuggles to: Terma99@aol.com
See my webpage for your smut needs:
www.oocities.org/hotsprings/8334/fic.html