TITLE: Paradigm Shift (1/1)
AUTHOR: Nlynn
POSTED: May 8, 2000
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, Spookys, Xemplary. Others please ask first so I
can visit.
FEEDBACK: Would love it! Nlynn@erols.com
DISCLAIMERS: Not mine. Never will be. Darn.
SUMMARY: Post "All Things"
CATEGORY: MSR
RATED: NC-17
SPOILERS: Up to and including "All Things."
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Brownies, eclairs and hugs to Alcott, Eclipse, Dlynn and
the rockin' women at X-Scenes.
Paradigm Shift
By Nlynn
=============================
Ten years.
Is that how long I've been lying to myself? It's hard to believe it's
been so long. I'm a different person now. Who I was then doesn't make
sense to me. The choices I made, the decisions I faced, were made by a
woman I do not know today.
Yet she is me.
An interwoven part of me that at some point I forced away, tucked into
that tiny black box reserved for all things too painful to recollect.
Seeing Daniel forced me to open that box, to piece together parts of the
torn picture that was my life and my choices 10 years ago.
While he clung to a faded image that he perceived to be happiness, I
moved on. His pain and want had literally manifested in his heart. It
tore at him with each beat, each pound ricocheting desire and regret.
I was the opposite. While Daniel fantasized about a life with me, I
never gave him much thought. I was too busy hunting down government
conspiracies, keeping a watchful eye on Mulder and picking up my dry
cleaning.
It's so much easier to look ahead rather than back.
But seeing Daniel's pleading eyes brought it back--the tumult of
emotions that had eclipsed my life for a year.
The look he held for me hadn't changed since the last time I saw him,
saying goodbye over a Caesar salad and water. But I had. And I didn't
realize how much until we were face to face.
Sometimes we need to reexamine the paths we've walked in order to get a
clear picture of the present.
I guess I should thank Daniel for that. And, in an odd way, I should
thank Eileen Szczesny, too. If she had decided to stay home instead of
going out on a margarita binge, her autopsy chart would have never
existed. I would have never known that Daniel was sick. And I wouldn't
be having this epiphany in Mulder's kitchen at one in the morning.
Paths converging, strangers leading us toward ourselves. I used to
discount such coincidences as quickly as I pointed out holes in Mulder's
bizarre theories. The last couple of days, however, have led me to
believe that Jung may have been right, that there are indeed meaningful
coincidences.
I just hadn't been paying attention.
It took a near accident to jar me, that and a woman who kept appearing
when I felt lost. There was something about her, the way she turned to
smile at me from the street, that struck a familiar chord. She reminded
me of Mulder. Protecting. Guiding. Always there but not truly noticed.
Until now.
I realized that the minute I turned her around and stood face to face
with my partner…
My partner who is at this moment sleeping in his room while I stand at
the sink, turning a glass of water around and around in the palm of my
hands, watching as the clear liquid circles inside. Is that what life
is? A circle? Beginning at the apex and curving along until it once
again reaches the beginning?
Along this circular path we are meant to reach one destination. And all
the choices we make in life will inevitably bounce us back to where we
belong.
But what if I had walked a different road? What if I had never joined
the X-Files? How would I have ended up here tonight, telling Mulder that
I had once slept with a married man? If we all have destinations we are
meant to reach, then God has certainly come up with an elaborate means
of keeping everyone on their respective paths.
I take one last sip of water and walk back to the living room couch,
where Mulder had let me sleep rather than telling me I should go home.
My hands run up along my skirt and my fingers stop at the zipper. My
life, I realize, has been as confining as my work clothes. And now I'm
about to remove the final layer that has been holding me back for so
long and walk toward a new future, one that holds no promises but is
laden with possibilities.
I'm scared, I realize as I slowly tug at the zipper. The skirt slides
down my thighs and joins the blanket on the floor. I'm half-dressed in
the middle of Mulder's living room with his fish as witnesses.
For all the wrong choices I have made in my life, I know with absolute
clarity that being with Mulder is right. But that doesn't still the
butterflies in my stomach. Logic rarely soothes emotional release.
Emotions are the body's way of reacting to what the mind cannot. Right
now my body has already anticipated my next move.
I step over my outer shell, the person I used to be, as it lays in a
heap on the floor. Now begins the short walk to Mulder's bedroom. It's
hard to believe that it has taken me seven years to take these final
steps.
But that's what destructive patterns do. They pile up around your heart,
each wrong move reinforcing the wall that keeps hurt and pain from
tearing into that beating organ.
Once, I was told that my heart was closed. Mulder and I were working on
a case in which a man claimed that a raki teacher had given him-and
several others-leukemia. In the end, there was no X-File. The leukemia
was a direct result of drinking tainted water for most of their lives.
When I told the teacher the true cause of the illnesses, he wanted to
show his gratitude by giving me a free session. After much prodding, I
acquiesced.
He moved his hands above me and talked about chakras. When his hands
stilled above my heart, he said, "There is much pain here."
I was taken aback and my body must have stiffened because he said, "You
don't need to explain. The information is just for you."
If he were here tonight, I'd tell him my history.
Daniel was the first. My professor. My mentor. I was young and
impressionable and he was strong and confident, qualities I wanted in
myself. I thought if I could possess him, I would in turn become that
part of him.
The ring on his finger didn't keep me away. I refused to see the faces
of his wife and daughter. I didn't want to imagine Daniel curled up next
to the woman he married, his arm draped across her waist.
But our late-night dinners, cloaked behind the veil of mentor/student
relationship, took a toll on his family. And when, on the final night,
he reached across the table and took my hand in his, I knew it was time
to leave. He didn't approve of my choice to join the FBI. He thought it
was a waste.
"You're a medical doctor, Dana. You belong in a hospital, treating
patients, not gallivanting around town playing cops and robbers," he had
said.
Then I knew. He was another version of Ahab.
Jack turned out to be the same, although I certainly didn't think so in
the beginning. That he was an instructor was just a coincidence, I had
told my friends. Plus he wasn't married. He was Daniel's opposite,
strong and protective. There was a part of me that wanted to be covered
in that security. I let that lull me into drunken acceptance until he,
too, decided how I should play out the rest of my life.
I left him, too.
What can I say about the other men I've seen? None of them truly
represented a relationship in its fullest definition. Ed was a
rebellious phase borne out of too many days and nights playing sidekick
to Mulder. But what did I need to learn from him in order to move on to
this moment? That I needed to let go and be less structured?
Maybe.
Padgett intrigued me because he looked beyond my tailored suits and saw
straight into my heart. What was his lesson? I stop in midstep when it
hits me. It was his words - "Agent Scully is already in love."
I just didn't let that sink in--until now.
Autopsying my choices has opened my eyes to what I've been missing all
these years--that what I want has been standing in front of me, next to
me and around me each and every day.
Mulder.
I can barely make out the moonlight seeping from the cracked door to his
room. When I get to the door frame, I lay my hand on the wood to
reconnect with the tangible present.
Beyond the threshold lies the biggest change of my life. I'm not worried
that Mulder won't accept me. I'm more concerned about the fading
afterglow, about what happens during the mundane parts of the day at the
office.
Pragmatism at its best.
I take in a breath and realize there is no going back. I want this
paradigm shift.
I step over the threshold.
The past is gone. And the present is sleeping soundly, sprawled across
the bed, a bare leg peeking out from under the comforter.
Slowly I remove my jacket and set it on the edge of his bed. Then I pull
off my shirt and let it dangle from my hand.
His breathing is still even.
But mine is coming out in small quiet gulps. I'm at the foot of his bed
removing my bra, then my underwear. Now there is nothing between us but
his dreamscape.
As if he senses my presence, I hear him stir and mumble.
"Scully?" he says, half sitting up, the comforter sliding down to his
waist and revealing his bare chest.
"It's me, Mulder."
He blinks a few times and I stand still, waiting for him to adjust to
the darkness, waiting for him to see my naked outline. I know the minute
it clicks because his gasp is audible. That's when I make my way to the
side of the bed.
"Scully?" he whispers. "Is that really you?"
I answer by climbing into bed next to him. He sits up and adjusts the
covers so that I have enough for my side. His eyes are focused on that
task, as if he's afraid to look at me and take me in. As if I might be
an apparition that will fade away the moment he looks at me.
I reach out and brush his cheek with my hand. "Mulder, it's okay."
He stops moving and pauses for a second before lifting his eyes to mine.
He is accepting the truth, and the longer the seconds tick by, the
deeper his gaze looks beyond the surface, penetrating my soul and
leaving me breathless.
"Seven years, Scully," his voice trails off and I nod.
"Seven years. Is this what you really want?" he asks.
Again, his gaze is shifting through parts of me that had been closed
off, finding its way into my bloodstream and the core of my heart. My
flesh stands at attention, goose bumps covering me even though it's not
cold. It's as if I had been sitting in a cool bath and someone turned on
the hot water tap. The heat starts out slowly, lapping at toes and then
calves and thighs until it envelops the entire body. That's exactly what
Mulder has done to me with one look.
All thoughts of fear and change have been erased with that look.
"Mulder, it's been much longer than that for me," I whisper, finding my
voice. "And when you realize that you've been living without truly
seeing, you want to make up for lost time as quickly as possible."
His eyes shift from mine to my lips. He slowly leans forward and takes
my face in his hands. "I never thought … I never imagined …" he says,
looking back into my eyes.
"You imagined, Mulder. I'm sure of it," I smile.
"That obvious?" he says, his hot breath tracing my lips. His fingers
glide softly over my cheeks and he closes the distance with his mouth.
His lips are soft, just as I imagined they would be, and he tastes of
tea, sleep and a hint of Colgate.
We move slowly, lips barely touching but still exploring. The corner of
his mouth. The corner of my mouth. He takes my bottom lip between his
and glides his tongue lightly over it. He does the same with my upper
lip and then covers me whole once again.
His fingers tighten in my hair and at some point I realize my hands have
found their way into his.
God, I crave this man.
I want to touch every part of him, connect with the man who has been by
my side for seven years, trace his path as it meets with my own. I want
to know his flesh as well I know my own.
Our tongues meet in the middle, sliding and tasting. He moans and I
feel him shiver beneath my touch. Or was that me?
I'm caught in a place where time stands still, where every emotion and
nerve is on heightened awareness. Where I can no longer discern between
where my body begins and his ends.
I draw him in deeper and move my hands from his hair down to his neck,
his shoulders, his chest, touching all the parts that I can reach.
"More," I whisper into his mouth. And I break away, breathing heavily. I
push him back against the pillow and straddle him, feeling his erection
straining against his boxer shorts. He moans again and digs his fingers
into my shoulders before sliding them down my arms and cupping my
breasts.
"Scully," he whispers, his fingers tracing my hard nipples, his hazel
eyes boring into mine. He wants so badly to sit up and continue his
ministrations with his mouth, but I won't let him. I can't. Not yet. I
have a need to fulfill. I have to search his body with my hands. I have
to touch every part of him. All the parts I have thought about over the
years.
My hands run down his chest and I lean forward, so that my breasts are
touching him. Skin on skin. The effect is shocking, electrifying, but
comfortable and right. I move above him, letting my nipples tickle him.
He bucks slightly and moves his hands down my legs and back up. Down and
up. Down and up. Each teasing stroke coming closer to my center.
I pull away before he can take control. I'm sitting beside him now, my
hands gliding over his legs, down his thighs, over his knees, shins and
feet. He is warm, the hair on his legs soft. I trace places where he has
been bruised, wanting to replace the pain with a soft touch.
Along the way I plant tiny kisses. One on his knee, one on the inside of
his thigh. He fingers tighten in my hair and he groans. But I keep
moving and kiss the inside of his other thigh.
When I've reached his chest again, he sits up and quickly lifts me so
that my legs wrap around his waist and we are facing each other.
His fingers find their way back to my breasts and he stares at me.
"I want to see you, Scully."
And he continues, taking a nipple between his thumb and index finger.
"Now I want to taste you," he whispers, moving his mouth over me. He
flicks his tongue against my flesh and I arch my back toward him,
speaking to him with my body. He smiles before taking me in, his tongue
swirling against my nipple. Then he's suckling me.
I'm drowning, letting his firm tongue lick away my fears. I shiver. And
then shiver some more. I run my hands through his hair and down his back
and back up through his hair.
"More," I demand.
He complies.
Before I know it, I'm on my back and his boxers are gone. Then he's
above me, supporting himself on his hands, looking into my eyes. He
stops moving and just stares.
"I want to remember every single detail," he says. "Burn it into my mind
so that I'll never forget, Scully."
He traces my face with his fingers, down my cheek, across my lips and
over my eyes. His touch is feather soft. Leaning in, he whispers, "Never
forget."
And the words are lost in a meeting of lips and tongues. Softly at
first. Lovingly. Respectfully.
And then becoming insistent, demanding, each of us wanting more.
He begins to move faster and I join his pace. Our bodies are now pressed
together and I can feel him against my thigh, his cock seeking my
warmth. With a shift of my hips he's at my opening. The feel of him so
close causes us to moan aloud. He moves forward so that his tip is just
touching my folds. I arch toward him and he pulls back, teasing.
"I want you to remember, too, Scully."
Tiny waves rock my body and I feel so close, so close that I didn't
realize I had said those very words.
"So close, Mulder."
And then he's inside of me, moving, wracking my body with sensations I
had long forgotten. I expected it to be uncomfortable at first, but with
so many years of wanting, it's not. I match him, wrapping my legs
tightly around him, bringing his flesh closer so I can feel every part
of him against me. I slide my hands down and cup his ass, pushing him
deeper inside. And I gasp as he hits the right spot. "There, Mulder.
There," I rasp.
He moans and moves slowly, knowing exactly what I need, reading my body
as if he's read it a thousand times before and can quote passages
verbatim.
"Speak to me Scully," he whispers against my ear, the feel of his hot
breath the final thing that sends me over the edge.
And I cry out. I call his name over and over again. As I do, he moves
faster and faster, thrusting into me until he, too, is calling my name.
"Scuuuullllyyy." The words tear from his throat and he entwines his
fingers with mine, both of us squeezing tightly until the spasms subside
and he eases his body on top of mine.
Mulder shudders and pulls us onto on our sides. When I look at him, I
see his eyes have welled. But it is he who is reaching out and brushing
my stray tears away with his finger. He brings that finger to his lips
and kisses it and smiles.
I smile back and move closer to him. He enfolds me in his arms, brushing
my hair with his hand.
"Mulder, there is only one answer."
"It's you. It always has been, Scully," he says.
I rest my head on his shoulder and like that, bodies joined, we fall
asleep.
I do not dream. I merely float. Time passes in a warm cocoon until we
stir and wake. My partner looks at me with sleepy eyes and smiles.
"So, Scully, how 'bout those Knicks?"
"Mulder, you know that baseball's my game."
"Hips before hands, Scully. Remember that," he says, sliding his hand to
give my hip a squeeze.
I'm quiet, lost in thought.
"Mulder, have you ever seen a portion of your life in such clarity that
you knew, without a doubt, without reservation, that you would follow a
certain belief or certain course of action?"
He nods without hesitation.
"Yeah, I have. But the strongest feeling came when I said goodbye to
Samantha. There's no proof that her spirit form was there. There's no
proof that it wasn't just my imagination fully at work, wanting
desperately to believe. I just knew that it was the end of the road,
that my search was over and that she was okay. I just knew, Scully."
I touch his face. "I'm glad you found closure, Mulder. I know it was
important to you."
"And to you as well," he says.
I nod and lean my head against his chin. And we fall asleep again.
This time when I wake, the early-morning light is brushing against his
bedroom window. I'm quiet as I retrieve my clothes and head to the
bathroom.
I look tired, I think, as I take in my reflection in the mirror. No,
sated would be a better word. It's a work day and as much as I'd rather
be in bed with Mulder, I have to get home and get ready for the day.
Work is work, and I know Mulder understands that.
I pick up my jacket off his bed and look at him one last time. Since I
left his bed, he has managed to wrap the entire comforter around him, a
bare leg sticking out. He sleeps peacefully and I only regret that I
cannot crawl back into his arms right this minute.
"Tonight, my place," I write across the back of an envelope, taping it
to the door before I leave.
The sun streams down on me, licking the cold and hinting at a warm
Washington day. A day that could have been any other had I not
confronted myself.
The circle of time continues, except now I am not alone.
End
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