Seconds Etched On My Skin (1/1) by CazQ
( CazQ@tesco.net )

CATEGORY: V, A, MSR
RATED: PG
SPOILERS: Nope, although this could be set sometime mid-season 6, I guess.
SUMMARY: Sometimes you feel the weight of every second...
ARCHIVE: Sure, just ask first (like I'd really say no...?)
DISCLAIMER: OK, repeat after me...they're not mine, never were or will be.
Mulder, Scully and everyone/thing else connected with the X Files belongs to
10-13, 20th Century Fox, and of course The Boss, Chris Carter and all his
partners in crime. Hey, I'd let them have a lot more fun. No copyright
infringement or insult intended. No money will be made out of this and I
have none so suing me would do no one but the lawyers any good.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Another "beat that writer's block" exercise...one that
actually worked this time! This is really more of a mood piece than a proper
"story", I think. Feedback will be worshipped in the e-mail shrine at
CazQ@tesco.net

Big thanks to jerry for another speedy-yet-excellent beta :). Dedicated
to Kristy in honour of all those beta hours she put in that
week. Any remaining formatting errors are entirely the fault of Outlook
Express, the Devil's work .

-----------------------------------------------------------
Seconds Etched On My Skin (1/1) by CazQ


There are seconds I remember, Scully. Seconds I'll remember always. The look
on your face when I whispered "I love you", there in the dark hallway of my
apartment building. The way your whole body seemed to freeze for a second
and then melt into movement, sunlight pouring through melting ice after a
hard winter.

To me, you had always been a shooting star, a shining satellite soaring
above the earth. Then, just for a moment, you were within my grasp...but
oh, Scully, the way you suddenly pulled away, one hand over your mouth...



...like a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar, eyes wide and
terrified. The way you turned on your heel and left, walking away from me
and out into the cold rain battering the city, rising again, climbing away
from me, out of the warm oceans of air and into the hard, cold emptiness of
space.

They say that an orbit is just a fall that keeps missing the earth. For a
second, Scully, you fell towards me, but then you gained the upper
hand over the inevitability of gravity again and returned to your orbit. You
were the only person I ever knew who could pull off that trick.



I know what you were afraid of, Scully. You were afraid of completing the
fall and never being able to rise up and away again, of the liabilities and
pain of becoming earthbound. You were terrified of the heat, the fiery
baptism, of passing downwards into air and life, even as you yearned for it.
You were convinced that I would chain you down to the ground and keep you
there always, even if gravity ended up crushing you after so long without
weight, without mass, without the harsh, wonderful reality of physicality.



You wanted to stay at your safe distance, millions of miles out, looking
down at the glow of life and passion and rage and grief, without ever having
to get too close. You wanted to be the moth that circles the flame without
getting burnt, the scientist peering down the microscope, observing,
cataloguing, dispassionate and untouchable. Yet, in the end, the act of
observation may change the watcher as well as the watched.

And so on that day that I reached up, leaping up towards the sky, surprising
you, and snared you for a moment with a word and a kiss, you knew what you
had to do. As I watched you walk out of my building and stumble down the
street, blinded by the water running down your face, I wondered if it was
just rain, or if there were tears mixed in. I wondered if you felt the
wrench of your leaving as strongly as I did, if it felt to you like the
severing of a vital link, the removal of air and light and life.



I wanted to follow you, Scully, so much...I wanted to run after you, out
into the street, to call out your name and see if you would turn around. I
wanted desperately to have the magic words, to know the secret code that
would make you look over your shoulder and see what you were leaving.

So I did follow you. Even though I knew I didn't have the words that could
make you stay, I ran out into the rain and yelled your name. The first time
you didn't hear: my voice caught in my throat, traitorously, refusing to
summon you back. I tried again, and for a second, you stopped walking,
and just stood. You just stood there on the sidewalk, head bowed,
drenched. So much rain...so much rain I thought we would drown just
breathing in.

And then you looked back...you looked round and I could see your mouth
working as you tried to speak, but nothing, nothing came out...and I think I
heard you sob. For a second your eyes locked onto mine and my heart stood
still in my chest, a second of pain that lasted for aeons, because then I
understood.

Then you turned your back on me and ran, wet hair flying every
which way, splashing through puddles, making tiny crystalline scatters of
water and light every time your feet touched the ground. You ran and ran
and then you turned the corner and ran out of my life.

And then it was my turn to fall, to sink down to the ground and cry, right
out there in the street for anyone to see, fracturing as I hit the ground
into a million raindrops, every one a perfect little world of water and
light and agony.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

It's been ten months, six days and five hours since that moment, Scully.
That's...26, 456, 400 seconds of hell, and I remember living through every
damn one of them. And yet, if you do walk up the street and come towards me
today, if you do stretch out your hand, if you do say my name in that
weary-angel voice...I'll forgive you for every single one. I'd forgive you
in a heartbeat.

I don't know what you've been doing since that day. You cut me out of your
life with surgical precision, and I purposely closed my ears to the news
filtering back to me occasionally through the Bureau's gossips. I told
myself I was respecting your choice, trying to help myself grow used to
living with it.

I know where you've been, though: Seattle. About as far as you could get
from me without falling into the ocean. It rains all the time there, or so
I've always thought -- I don't know how you could stand to ever see the rain
again, Scully. I'd have gone to the desert, somewhere where it hasn't rained
in a hundred years. You always were stronger than me, though, at least when
it came to denial.

I don't know what you want from me now, and I haven't asked. When I got your
letter...that was enough to undo me all over again. I should have said no. I
should have told you not to come, that it'd be better for us not to see each
other.

I'm only human, though, Scully, and I always would come running when you
called.

So here I am, trenchcoat wrapped round me to keep the wind's teeth from
sinking into me, praying for the skies to stay clear. I don't know why it
had to be here, Scully. The Wall's glossy black is rimed with frost,
blurring the crisp outlines of the thousands of names. I try to keep myself
occupied by reading through the roll-call of the dead, leaning down to trace
the cold letters with a fingertip.

"Mulder."



And then you're there. Surprise attack, coming up on me while my back was
turned and I had no time to prepare, to armour myself. I straighten up, but
I can't look at you.

"Mulder, please turn around."

God, Scully, how do you do that? How do you keep your voice so damned
steady, so calm? How do you stay in one piece?

"Please, Mulder."

Oh Jesus...you, here, using that voice...I can't deny you anything. My body
knows the voice of its mistress.

You're still so beautiful. Thinner, tauter, a little more lined...all edge
and brilliance, like a roughcut diamond. I wonder what you're seeing in my
face right now. I know how I look: tired, brittle. Can you see, them,
Scully? All those seconds, etched into my skin?

"Scully..."

"Will you...". You stop and look away for a second, blinking hard and
inhaling. "Will you walk with me a little, Mulder?"

So we begin to walk, in silence. God, our strides fall right back into a
perfect rhythm after three steps. And after a while we talk a little,
faltering, each unsure of the ground. You've been making a name for
yourself in the Seattle field office, it seems, setting up a new Criminal
Pathology department. You don't ask what I've been doing. I guess
you must have heard through the Bureau grapevine about old Spooky
losing it, being transferred off the X-files, onto desk duty in VCS. At
least one of us has been doing well. You talk, and I listen, trying to
hear what you're not saying, trying to hear the messages floating in
the gaps between your words.

Eventually you stop walking and turn to face me. "Mulder, aren't you going
to say anything? Do you...do you hate me? I understand if you do...but I
hoped you would know why I...why I left. Maybe I shouldn't have come..."

You're staring up at me, your eyes flicking nervously back and forth across
my face, and I think I know what it was you weren't saying...but I need to
be sure, because I can't do this again...

"Do you like it, Scully? Seattle?"

Your eyes widen a little at that, and then just a shadow of a smile,
flitting across your features.

"I hate it, Mulder. It rains all the damn time."

Then you reach up tentatively and run a finger along the line of my jaw, as
if you'd like to do more but don't dare.

"I was hoping maybe I could come home, Mulder. Get out of the rain for a
while," you whisper before releasing me.

I stare down at you and blink back the tears filling up my eyes. Maybe
you'll think it's just the bitter wind making my eyes tear up. Maybe little
grey men will get their own primetime talk show. I stare and stare, drinking
in your face.

"They, uh..." Dammit. I clear my throat and try again. "They say you can
never go home again, Scully. You know, you can't cross the same river twice
and all that?"

"I don't want to cross the same river, Mulder," you whisper, refusing to
look away. "I want to build a bridge over another river, one I should have
crossed long ago."

"Why didn't you?"

At that you do look away for a second, gazing back at the Wall with its
surrounding spread of crisp dry leaves. "I...maybe I thought I wouldn't be
strong enough to make it across, that I would be swept away."

"And now?"

"Maybe I'm ready to be swept away." You turn back to me, one lonely tear
escaping, caressing the curve of your cheek and running into the corner of
your mouth. "I couldn't, Mulder, I couldn't do it. I thought I could, but I
was wrong. It's lonely in Seattle when it rains, you know?"

I nod, slowly, and then pull you into my arms, crushing you to me. You let
yourself be gathered in, small, cold hands going to grasp the front of my
coat, making sure you are anchored securely to the ground. You came back
down, Scully. You descended, my falling angel, of your own accord...the only
way you could come back and be sure of your ability to stay.

"I think...I think it's time you came home, Scully."

"Okay," you whisper, before releasing your hold on my coat and pulling away
from me a little. You aren't sure enough of the territory down here to let
go entirely, though: one slender hand slips into mine, fingers curling round
to grip firmly.

It'll take time, Scully, I think, as we walk slowly away, leaving the wall
of the dead behind us. It'll take a long time: winter's just beginning, and
the hard road is not travelled yet. But we'll heal -- the tiny cuts all over
my skin, carved there by seconds without you, will fade with time into
ghosts of scars, and be lost to the eye. You're not there yet, but you're
on your way, Scully. You're coming down, and I'm here to catch you.
I won't ever let you hit the ground.

FINIS

Feedback/queries/general chit-chat/nekkid Mulder and Krycek clones to
CazQ@tesco.net   :)

































Subject: REP: Seconds Etched On My Skin (1/1) V, A, MSR by CazQ
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From: "Caz Q" 
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Date: Tue, 27 Apr 1999 20:37:17 +0100
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