Title:Breathe (1/1)
Author:Casey Rathunde (Celes) (celes_chere@xfilesfan.com)
Rating:PG-13 (It's Orison, anything less is a lie)
Spoilers:Orison
Category: Lite MSR (More DAL than anything else), Post-Ep
(Orison), Skinner POV
Feedback:Adored!
Archive: I'd be absolutely insufferable in my joy! Just let
me know ^_~
Summary:When the tears have ceased to flow, and the
adrenaline is leaving your system, what do you do? Mulder
and Scully take a deep, slow breath before moving forward
with their lives.
Disclaimer:There once was a surfer named Chris,
Who wouldn't let two agents kiss,
Well, him I am not,
(But that's as you thought)
Please, no litigation for this!
Notes: My first posted X-Files fanfiction (Did I just
give myself the kiss of death or what?) I'd tell you to be
gentle, but that's like asking to skydive without jumping
out of a plane, why even bother? So don't be gentle! Be
honest! Why is this from Skinner's POV? Don't ask me, I
tried to resist the pull, but something made me do it! Oh,
for those of you who like Final Fantasy, I *do* post lots of
that on my very own webpage, http://celes.freeservers.com
As much as I'm sure you all loooooove reading these little
headers, maybe I should move along, eh? ^_~
* * * * * * *
Breathe
By Casey "Celes" Rathunde
When I arrived on the scene, they were nowhere to be
found. For a moment, I could only assume the worst. All I
could see was pale limbs strewn about like the arms and legs
of a doll. Porcelain, swimming in a sea of red so angry, so
intense, that it would obscure her, subvert her into another
nameless victim. As I considered this, my vision took on a
red haze of it's own. Thankfully, I wasn't 3 steps into her
shattered apartment when I saw his body. I tried to appear
calm and collected, as if I hadn't gripped the wheel with
pale fists the whole way here. All I had been told was that
two of my agents were involved in an incident. The
unfortunate grunt who had been delegated the unsavory task
of delivering this news was subjected to a private taste of
hell as I threatened his life, asking to be told the
condition of my agents. The poor man hadn't known a thing
beyond two agents, an incident, and Scully's address. I
hated to think that in other people's eyes, I was a part of
the same bureaucratic bullshit that was infuriating me now.
It seemed like time had stopped within the apartment.
Men moved impossibly fast, and for every step I took, they
took ten. A man gestured to me, his arm a barely
perceptible, lightning fast blur, and slowly, I forced my
feet to carry me forward. The door to her bedroom was
slightly ajar, so I laid my hand against the cool wood and
applied the smallest amount of pressure that I could
convince my muscles to produce. I felt each neuron pulse as
I willed the appendage to move, and then waited for the
contraction of muscles, the movement that would signify the
completion of the normally instantaneous thought process.
As I peered through the now dented and scratched door
frame I felt the same shame and curiosity that I had once
felt at a party during my freshman year in college. Looking
for the bathroom, I had stumbled into an occupied bedroom.
Two young lovers in the throes of passion were writhing on
the bed, oblivious to my presence. Unwilling to be caught
staring, I had beat a hasty retreat. I had been but a
momentary visitor, but the image was permanently engraved on
my mind's eye. There was beauty in intimacy. Two people
with eyes only for each other, no feelings clouding their
hearts but love. The room I now peered into was occupied,
but not in the same context. Somehow, I couldn't help but
feel voyeuristic.
The two agents were fully clothed, but their faces were
more naked than I had ever seen them. When I had prepared
myself to view this tableau I had pictured the worst. I had
seen her, huddled in a corner, screaming that she was fine,
or throwing things at him to keep him at bay. For him, I
had imagined tears, haunted eyes, and a million voices
clouding his mind, screaming at him for almost being too
late again. Instead of this pathos, I now bore witness to a
picture that, divested of it's horrorific backdrop, could be
on a hallmark commercial.
My two wayward children weren't screaming at each
other, or sobbing dramatically in each other's arms.
Nothing so mundane for these two; they were asleep. I could
barely see Scully's tiny body cradled in Mulder's arms.
They lay fully clothed atop the comforter on Scully's bed,
barely moving at all. The gentle breeze blowing through her
cracked window stirred her red hair gently, made her shudder
delicately in his embrace, and made him curl his lanky body
around her even more, becoming impossibly closer. I know
that if I could see their faces clearly that I would see the
rest of the story. I would retrace the paths they had
taken, clearly delineated by dried tear tracks on their
faces, I would read the cuts and bruises, that no doubt
marred her ivory skin, like symbols on a map, and one day
soon, I would be forced to look into their haunted, empty
eyes and see their emaciated souls rattling around in the
void. I would remember that day forever as well.
Reality was not kind, but I would use my own body to
shield them from the blow, if need be. Mulder would clear
her of any wrong doing in the eyes of the OPC, and I would
seal the pact with every last bit of power I had in my
control. That was never, and never would be, a concern for
her. Unfortunately, it was on Mulder's shoulders alone to
absolve her of her sins in her own eyes. Despite all that
had happened, I believed in this man. Most of all, I
believed in his ability to protect her with his entire being
and more if necessary. It would take time, true, but Dana
Scully was never destined to be impure in any eyes. I could
only hope that the small amount of aid I could offer would
be enough.
I crossed the room carefully, foolishly trying to avoid
any further damage to the already irreparable fragments of
her life. I stood over them, trying to ignore their
furrowed brows, their desperately clasped hands. From a
distance they had looked so young that I could think of them
as my own progeny. Confronted with their faces, I felt as
if they had aged ten years since I had seen them last. At a
loss for what to say I decided to stick with the impersonal
address I had always used.
"Agents?" I said softly. "Mulder? Scully?" My voice
was unfamiliar and gentle even to my own ears. Scully's
eyes fluttered while Mulder's shut more tightly. She opened
the lids slowly and peered hazily up at me.
"Daddy?" she asked, confused. "Sir!" she gasped a
moment later, once again fully aware of her surroundings.
Mulder's eyes were open now. His body curled around her
defensively and he looked at me disarmingly, trying to gauge
the threat. I extended a palm towards Scully, silencing her
embarrassment.
"I'm tall, and I have no hair," I said, self-
derisively, "any other resemblance to your father I may
bear, I can only acknowledge as a compliment." I looked at
her firmly, indicating that the matter wasn't open for
discussion, that there was nothing for her to be ashamed of.
"Agents, I'm ordering you to take a vacation. Now." My
words were stern, but my voice was gentle. "Just leave
Washington for a while, go somewhere peaceful, private, and
don't tell anyone where you are. You're not allowed back on
the job until I can look into your eyes again and not want
to shoot Donnie's dead body again." I saw Scully cringe, but
I could see that my morbid humor wasn't lost on them. They
knew that this was my way of showing tenderness, and they
respected my wish to appear gruff, just as I accepted their
wishes to appear platonic. I don't know if my Mulder and
Scully share a bed as lovers, and I don't know if in the
process of healing, they would begin to. I would like to
believe, however, that this most recent trauma would
finally be enough to shatter all walls between them, because
if I can't believe in their kind of love, than what can I
believe in?
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