SENSES OF A MIRACLE
by viXen 

Archive: Yes to Gossamer. Everyone else please ask me first.
Summary: Scully "senses" a new beginning. Continuation of the
flashback scenes in Per Manum.
Classification:  VA, MSR
Rating: R
Timeline: Follows the final flashback scene in Per Manum. Nothing
from Season 8 has happened yet.
Disclaimer: Chris Carter has the distinct pleasure of owning Fox
Mulder, Dana Scully and the rest of the XF gang.
Thanks: To Meredith and GirlGone, betas extraordinaire.

For Leyla. An inspiration, now and always.

**********************

I. Per Auditum


"Never give up on a miracle."

Mulder's voice is deceptive; to anyone else, he sounds fine. He
meant the words as a comfort, but the helpless and disappointment
in his voice makes the words as painful as the news from my
doctor.

I didn't realize I could read his voice so well. It shouldn't
surprise me. Most people tell me Mulder speaks with a monotone,
flat and unemotional. To me, his voice is a roadmap to his
emotions. Each tiny shift in inflection tells me so much about
what he is feeling.

Just now, when he spoke about wanting a miracle, I could hear the
little boy in him, the voice he would use to talk about
Samantha's disappearance. Raw emotion wrapping around his tone,
adding a softness to his velvety rasp. The cynical rough edge
disappears; a longing for lost innocence. A time when he actually
believed in miracles.

"Are you hungry?" His voice still emotional enough to stir the
tears again. He moves against me, his forehead no longer resting
against mine.

"No, thanks." My voice hasn't fared much better.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Did you eat lunch?"

"Yes."

"Today?" The cynical bite is back. Thank goodness.

"Yes, today. I had a grilled chicken breast sandwich and a side
salad. Happy?"

"Positively giddy." He looks at the front door. "Guess I should
get going then."

"Yeah." I guess.

His jacket is hanging over the arm of the couch. He moves to grab
it, walks back to me, takes my hand. "Call me if you need
anything. I mean it."

He lets go of my hand and walks toward the door. I follow,
surprised when he stops and turns to me. "You sure you don't want
anything to eat? I could get something, bring it back and you can
eat it later." A sad edge in his tone.

"No, I doubt I'll be hungry later. Don't go to the trouble."

"No trouble." His voice quiet, pleading. "Or I could order in.
That's easy."

His voice is breaking my heart. "Mulder, you can stay if you
want."

"Well, if you insist," he says, lightning-fast, tossing his
jacket across the back of the couch.

For the second time tonight, he makes me smile. "I'm not very
good company right now."

"I don't need witty repartee, Scully."

He doesn't need to say the words; the tone of his voice speaks
volumes. He doesn't want to be alone. Now that I think about it,
neither do I. I need him here.

I need to wake up tomorrow morning and hear his voice.


***********************

II. Per Tactum


My mother used to tell me a hot bath would heal whatever ails
you. I wish I were naive enough to believe her.

The bath water was hot to the point of scalding but I couldn't
get warm, desolation chilling my veins. The eucalyptus and
spearmint bath oil felt as soothing as it smelled. If I had only
been in the mood to be soothed. The oils left my skin soft and
warm. But my heart was still cold. I gave up after twenty
minutes, threw on a long t-shirt and crawled into bed.

I turned out the light almost an hour ago. The closest to sleep I
will get tonight is being burrowed under my comforter. The duvet
cover is softer than I remember, the fibers so tightly sewn it
feels like silk. The down filling inside is bunched in fluffy
lumps. I try to level them out but they keep reforming into
clusters, creating hills and valleys in the comforter, a rocky
terrain in what should be an uninterrupted plain. I know it's
stupid, but I can't stop. Those damn bumps are annoying me to no
end. Why does everything lately have to be a struggle? What
did...

A hand on my arm nearly sends me flying off the bed. Once my eyes
open and focus, I see it's only Mulder, kneeling next to me. I
didn't hear or see him come in. How did he do that?

I'm shaking, though I have no idea why. Before I know it, he is
lying next to me, his arm around my shoulder. I'm beyond keeping
up appearances. After I bury my face in Mulder's shirt, the dam
breaks.

I cry for my never-to-be-born child. I cry for Emily. I cry for
Samantha. I cry for every child who never had the chance to
become an adult. I cry for every child who will never have the
chance to be.

It seems like an hour before the tears dry up. Mulder hasn't
spoken a word, just lies next to me, wrapping me in his arms. His
hand moves through my hair, lightly grasping a few strands, then
smoothing them down. His other hand rests on my hip. As I rub my
cheek along his shirt, I am reminded of a blanket I had as a
child. Pink brushed cotton, downy-soft, like a big square of
cotton candy. I still have that blanket, tucked at the bottom of
my hope chest. Hoping in vain to pass it on to my children.

Mulder's hand moves from my hip to my abdomen. I feel a hitch in
his breath as his thumb lazily sweeps over my stomach. If there
were any tears left, they would have fallen. I put my hand over
his, thread our fingers together, thanking him for being here. He
squeezes back and tightens his other arm around me, showing me
he's not going anywhere. He punctuates his touch with a kiss to
the top of my head.

So this is what it feels like to be loved. It feels warm, solid,
comforting.

It feels wonderful.


***********************

III. Per Visum


My eyes focus slowly on the bright green neon on my bedside
table. It's late. Or early, depending on how you look at two
o'clock in the morning.

The last thing I remember is being curled up in Mulder's embrace.
I'm still there, my head on his chest, but it's different. Much
different. His shirt is gone; my pillow is warm, bare skin. I
haven't rested my head on this kind of pillow in a very long
time.

As I lift my head, I look at his face, expecting him to be awake
but finding his long, dark eyelashes still fanning his
cheekbones. I take a chance and move my arms over his chest,
putting my chin on my forearm, staring at his face.

He is beautiful, something I usually do not ponder, at least
until recently. After I asked him to be my child's father, I
started to think about what our child's face would look like.
Premature dreaming, I know, but it wasn't a conscious choice. I
imagined a boy, maybe because when I looked at Mulder, I would
see exactly what I would have wanted my baby to draw from him.

His eyes, definitely his eyes. Embracing eyes, my mom told me
when she first met Mulder. Eyes that have the ability to pull you
inside and wrap around you. My first response to seeing Mulder's
eyes was that they were chameleon-like, always changing colors. I
can tell what he is thinking by the color of his eyes. Hazel:
he's content. Green: he's mischievous. Smoky brown: he's
grieving. I saw those eyes earlier tonight.

My son would have his father's smile. Mulder's smile can light up
the dimmest of situations. Most of the time, though, his smile
hides those lips. Oh, those lips. The lips dreams were made of,
as Melissa put so aptly. I agreed with her when she said it. I
still agree.

I would want my son to have Mulder's jaw, his forehead, even his
nose. I know Mulder would vehemently disagree with me on those
three, but he doesn't see what I see. When he looks at himself,
Mulder sees imperfection in each feature. His forehead is too
high, his nose too big, his jawline too sharp. What he doesn't
realize is those features, together with his chameleon eyes and
luscious mouth, make a breathtaking package. I would want that
beauty for my son. Our son.

It's a wonderful dream, but a dream it will always stay.

As I lay here looking at him, I thought I would feel a twinge of
disappointment, that seeing his beautiful face would be like
looking into the face of the child I will never have. I thought I
would feel that, but I don't. All I see right now is the face of
a man who is so much a part of my life, I can't remember a time
when he wasn't with me. All I see a man without whom my life
would be incomplete.

He is all I see as I close my eyes.


***********************

IV. Per Odoratum


A delicious aroma lures me from a sound sleep. Like phantom
feathers, it tickles my nose. My stomach instinctively growls. In
a matter of seconds I am wide awake and salivating.

God, I love popcorn.

I stretch my tired muscles, then roll over, push my nose into the
pillow next to me. Oh God. My bed may as well have a plaque above
it reading "Mulder slept here." The slight tang of his sweat. A
faint sweetness I don't recognize. And something that is hard to
describe but decidedly male. All of those scents combine with
mine on the pillow. As always, we're good together.

Unless it deals with conception...

My vision is blurring; tears threaten me again. Damnit, I'm
stronger than this. I'm an FBI agent. I've given bad news to
parents about their children more times than I care to admit. So
why am I unable to accept the news myself?

Damnit. I'm tired of thinking tonight. I need a diversion. My
nose reminds me of the light buttery scent in the other room.

As I open the bedroom door, faded white lights flash strobe-like
against the hallway wall. I round the corner into the living room
and see the source of the eerie light show. The television is on;
a black-and-white movie I don't recognize plays soundlessly.
Mulder's on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, head
back against the back cushions, eyes closed and mouth open. On
the couch next to him is a popcorn bag, looking suspiciously
empty. I move as silently as possible to the couch, stopping when
my thighs touch the back. Mulder's head is mere millimeters from
me. Is he sleeping or teasing?

No popcorn left. I should go into the kitchen and get something
to eat. Or go back to bed. Yet as my mind turns to leave, my body
bends at the waist until we are nose to nose. His eyes and
breathing don't fluctuate. He's really asleep. His breath rushes
over me; he smells of popcorn and almonds. Almonds? I move closer
and sniff quietly until I find the source: his hair. That's where
the sweet scent came from. His shampoo must have an almond base.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Almonds have never smelled so
appetizing.

I open my eyes and get a shock; Mulder is staring at me, a smirk
on his lips. I snap up to standing so fast I think I hurt my
back. I should have listened to my head and not been sidetracked.

The television clicks off; I didn't see the remote in his hand
until he places it on the coffee table. He stretches his arms
behind him. His hands reach for me, and I reach for them,
bringing them to my face. Popcorn and Mulder. Now that's
appetizing.

I tug his hands until he rises from the couch. I don't want to
sleep alone. He knows that somehow. I lead him toward my bedroom.
I have no idea why. I have no business bringing him back into my
bed. He has no business following me.

As we lay on the bed, I take a deep breath. Something's in the
air tonight. Something unfamiliar. Something new. I like it.


***********************

V. Per Gustum


I'm still hungry.

I want to go to the kitchen and pop another bag of popcorn, but
I'm not willing to leave this bed. I snuggle my cheek into
Mulder's chest, just below his collarbone, and tilt my nose to
him.

I can smell the salt on his skin. I've always had a weakness for
salt. Never had much of a sweet tooth, which has been an
advantage for my hips and thighs. However, I can't walk by the
potato chip aisle without reaching for something. Lays are my
favorite. I never can eat just one. I love margaritas, extra salt
on the rim. I think it's the tang, the slight bite that salt has
when it touches your tongue. It wakes up your taste buds and
tells them to get ready for more. I like spicy foods but not as a
habit, which makes my stomach more sensitive to them. Salt has
all the danger of spicy without the consequences.

Unable to resist, I glance the tip of my tongue over his
collarbone. Salty. I take another sample along the side of his
throat. Salty again, richer than the collarbone. His Adam's apple
is next, which bobs as I swipe over it. He sucks in a breath but
doesn't move. I do it again, using the flat of my tongue, letting
the whole surface enjoy the sensation. His eyes flutter and he
mumbles something that sounds like my name.

God, what am I doing? Sometime during the night I must have lost
my mind. I should stop but I can't. It's a craving that is
consuming me as I consume Mulder.

I trace a wet line from his Adam's apple to his chin. Salt, with
a hint of isopropyl alcohol. Aftershave? My tongue travels around
his chin, along his jawline. Yes, definitely aftershave.

Just before my tongue is about to touch his ear, strong hands are
on my face, pulling me to him until our noses are a few inches
apart. Close, but not so close I can't see his eyes. Pupils wide
but nearly hidden behind hooded lids. He's confused more than
aroused. Though not much more.

He opens his mouth but says nothing. His eyes, now fully open,
ask what I am doing. I reply with my mouth over his, my tongue
forcing its way between his lips. He draws my breath into him
with a sharp gasp. He tastes of popcorn and sleep. And salt.
Yes...

I break the kiss, lick his lower lip before licking my own. I
want to continue, to taste every inch of him. He looks like he
wouldn't fight me on that. He's still confused but interested.
Waiting for me to make the next move. Before I can, my mouth
betrays me.

I yawn.

I just kissed the hell out of Mulder and I yawn. I know my face
is already flush with arousal, so he can't see my embarrassment.
His thumb sits next to my lips. My tongue sneaks out and sweeps
over his skin, reveling in the tang of salt. He mouths the word
"later," then smiles and closes his eyes. His hand drops away
from my face but the smile stays on his lips.

I lay my head on his chest and close my eyes, my hunger sated.
For now.


***********************

VI. Omnia


I am pulled from sleep with the scent of Mulder and coffee. He's
found my stash of Starbucks Italian Roast. Excellent choice.
Sweet and smoky. Words that could describe both Mulder and the
coffee.

As if on cue, my stomach chimes in, reminding me that the only
thing I consumed last night was the salty surface of Mulder's
skin.

What the hell was I thinking? I wasn't thinking; that's the
point. I ignored my brain and followed my instincts. Just as I
had when deciding to become a mother.

I had convinced everyone, including myself, that I'd thought
through the ramifications of being a single mother in my line of
work. I lied. The only thing I thought about was the feel of my
own child in my arms. Skin softer than silk, with a sweet, fresh
scent that only babies can have. Ten perfect little fingers, ten
perfect little toes. A voice that would make up in unconditional
love what it lacked in vocabulary.

That baby will never be. I know this, and though I fight it with
all my heart, I accept this. I have lost my ability to bear life.
I have not, however, lost my ability to live life. I still know
how to do that, despite what a certain cast of shadowy characters
may think. They have taken so much from me. I'll be damned if
I'll let them take any more. Especially Mulder.

He's in the living room now; the rustle of the morning newspaper
gives him away. I wish I knew what he was thinking. Will he
attribute my boldness last night to emotional overload? Should
he? Should I?

Despite my wanting to go to find out, my legs take me into the
bathroom. Body cleansing first; emotional cleansing later.

I start the shower, letting it rise in temperature until I see
steam billowing toward the ceiling. I step under the stream  and
let the water flow over me. I know it's just a hot shower, but
I'm starting to feel like a different person. A fresh new me for
a fresh new start.

That's what I want. A fresh start, with Mulder. We can't have a
child together, but damnit, we can _be_ together. The only thing
preventing us is our stubborn pride, conveniently disguised as
fear of retribution from "Them." Screw "Them." They don't own me.
_I_ own me. And I have been neglected for too long. I want the
touch of someone. Not just any someone, but the someone I would
trust my life with. The someone who, if at all possible, would be
the father of my child.

Goosebumps dot my skin as a cool blast of air hits me. Did Mulder
open the bathroom door? Before I can call his name, I feel his
hands lightly grip my arms, gliding slowly up to my neck, into my
hair. I feel a light weight on the top of my head; a kiss, then
his hands disappear.

I try to turn but stop at his husky "Don't." I freeze, every
sense on alert. A plastic "pop" startles me, sounding like an
explosion over the liquid drumming of the shower. His hands
return to my hair, fingers kneading my scalp. A bright citrus
scent surrounds me.

Shampoo. Oh my God. Mulder is shampooing my hair. Is there
anything more erotic than this?

I lean against him, back to chest, giving in to the sensation.
He's naked. It shouldn't shock me -- this is a shower, after all
-- but I'm surprised. The slick steel of his erection brushes my
lower back. I can't stop myself from grinding into him. His
fingers stop as a groan rushes past my ear. I push against him
again. He tightens his grip on my hair, moans something that
sounds like my name, then pulls his body from mine. I protest by
stepping back, but his hands go to my shoulders, turning me to
face him. I reach for him but he gently pushes me away. He takes
a step forward, moves me a step back. We do this odd tango for
two steps until I find myself under the water stream. I close my
eyes and let my head drop back, reveling in the feel of his
fingers and the water sluicing through my hair.

Confident the shampoo is gone, I open my eyes. The first thing I
see is Mulder's chest, glistening with water droplets. Before I
register the movement, I am leaning against him, my tongue
lapping at his chest. There's still a hint of salt on his skin
but it dissolves quickly under the barrage of water and my
tongue.

My hands drop to his waist, following the slight curve down to
his hips. He looks delicious and feels even better. He lifts my
chin and the raw look on his face says so much more than his
words ever could.

His gaze wanders, the slight smile growing as he looks lower. I
do the same, letting my hands follow my eyes. Oh my. I've never
seen him like this. I've _imagined_ him like this, but obviously
my imagination isn't that creative. I close my hand around him.
Soft, wet skin stretched over thick, burning stone.

"Scully," he squeaks as he grabs my hand, yanks it away from his
body. He clears his throat, continues in his normal octave,
"That's not why I came in here."

I can't stop the smile. "You walk into my shower naked, with
your..." I lower my eyes for a second, admire him, meet his gaze
again. "...your staff sergeant at full attention, and you weren't
expecting me to do anything about it?"

The corners of his lips curl slightly. "First of all, Sarge has a
mind of his own. Ignore him."

Easier said than done, Mulder.

"Second of all," he continues, "I seem to remember getting a
tongue bath recently, unless I was dreaming."

The pink rush of heat through my neck and face tells him the
truth.

"Third of all, this isn't about sex."

The brightness in his eyes says he's serious. I can't believe
he's serious.

"Then what is it about?" I say around a shudder as he brings my
hand to his face and kisses my palm.

"Miracles."

"Miracles? Mulder, since when do you believe in miracles?"
Amazing how a man who does not worship a god can put so much
faith in one.

Reading my mind, he replies, "Miracles don't have as much to do
with God as they do with faith."

"They're the same thing."

"Not necessarily, Scully. Faith is belief in the truth. It's
putting your trust in someone or something. Miracles are events
that defy natural or scientific explanation. Yes, one explanation
could be by God's hand. Another could be supernatural."

This must be a dream. I am discussing the supernatural with
Mulder, both of us naked, in my shower. I don't remember this
being one of my fantasies...

"I'm not suggesting miracles are the work of aliens or ghosts,"
he continues, sensing my confusion. "All I'm saying is that I
believe nothing is impossible. Look at everything we've been
through, and we're still here, we're still alive." He pauses,
smiles. "Look at us here, now. This is damn near a miracle if
I've ever seen one."

I can't help but laugh.

"I was thinking this morning," he continues, his heavy voice just
above a whisper, "about how much adversity we have survived
together. All the deception, all the lives lost." He sighs. "I'm
tired of looking at everything I don't have, Scully. I want to
concentrate on what I _do_ have."

"Like," I say, wanting to hear more.

"Like, I have a job I love, for the most part." A smile. "I have
friends I can count on, albeit they're one step below bizarre. I
have four fish that have made it past the dreaded six-month
deadline of death."

"That is quite an accomplishment," I tease.

My playful smile fades as he kneels in front of me. His hands
frame my waist as he looks up at me. His breath brushes my
abdomen as he says, "And best of all, I have you."

"Yes," I say around the thickness of tears. You do have me,
Mulder. And I have you.

I fight a shudder as he kisses me just above my auburn curls.
Another kiss, barely an inch lower, and the shudder wins.

"Are you sure this wasn't about sex?" I ask, my voice barely
supported.

I feel a chuckle against my abdomen. "Well, I could be talked
into it..." His voice, low and smoky, trails off as his tongue
explores my navel. Oh my...

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Get up here."

I can feel his smile against my skin. "Yes, ma'am."

He rises into my open arms, cups my face with his hands. His lips
part into a smile so full and genuine, it warms my heart. His
smile turns into a chuckle.

"What?" I ask.

"I just remembered a quote from your buddy, Albert Einstein."

That's not exactly what I was expecting. "Do I want to know why
you're thinking about Einstein right now?"

Mulder's laugh is my reward. He leans down, his lips hovering
over mine. "'There are only two ways to live your life. One is as
though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is
a miracle.'"

Oh God. I haven't heard that quote in years. It was one of my
father's favorites. I found out years later it was from Einstein.
That quote always has disturbed me. The science in me says there
is a logical explanation for everything. The faith in me says God
defies logic every day.

_We_ defy logic every day, not just Mulder and I, but all human
beings. The human body is finely tuned machine of miracles. Every
part of the body works in sync with the other, all senses working
together to create the experience we call life. And Mulder and I
have experienced a tremendous amount of life in the years we have
known each other. The tragedy we have seen, the lies we have
heard, the irony we have tasted...

Mulder is right. We have to stop dwelling on what has been taken
from us. It's time to celebrate the miracles in our lives.

As I press my mouth to Mulder's, I am no longer at odds with
Einstein's words. Something tells me that from now on, we're
going to experience the miracle of life like we never have
before.


THE END

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