Archive distribution: Gossamer, OK; Spookies, of course. Other archives, ask and you can have. Title: The Sin of Submission Author: Meredith Date: February 2000 Rating: PG Classification: V, UST Spoilers: Takes place during "Sein und Zeit." Disclaimer: Why this topic, and why now? I have no idea. Summary: Faith, death, grief, and lust. It's astonishing how they all fit together. Feedback: Would be much appreciated. Anyone remember me? meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com or meredith40@juno.com. Author's notes at the end. ***** "The Sin of Submission" ***** Her neck is sticky with the salt of tears and sweat. As she bows her head to the floor, the drying residue of misery tugs at her skin. Draped across her shoulders, Mulder's Navajo blanket is scratchy, the wool irritating the tops of her hands. She had never realized before that it was for show, not use. She wonders, not for the first time, if her presence tonight is a similarly ironic metaphor. The room's icy temperature veers too close to bad memories, and she rises from the desk chair to tiptoe to the thermostat, sliding it up five degrees. He is unconscious in the bedroom on top of the blankets, collapsed in a parody of sleep. She is afraid to check on him, even to see if he is chilled. She cannot sleep. She has slept on this couch before, during, and after death. But tonight is a watershed, a riptide of circumstance that will suck them under if she lets down her guard. If she closes her eyes, she will see Amber Lynn. She will see Samantha, she will see Emily, she will see Mulder's pain or her own mirrored in their innocent faces. Over the years she has worked hard to shield herself and Mulder from these visions, and her failure to protect them both from the ravages of recurring loss is like a stinging blow to her face. She cannot close her eyes. ***** Her vigil is eventually rewarded by the squeak of a bedspring. Peering into the darkened room, she senses rather than sees his sitting outline on the edge of the bed. She fancies she can see his eyes glitter, but instinct tells her they are most likely clouded. They have been here before, time and again, facing the mockery of poor luck and cruel fate. She sits next to him and raises her hand to his forehead, relying on the pronunciation of two syllables to convey a thousand words. "Mulder." His response is unexpected. Turning, he removes her clinical palm, pulling it down the side of his face, letting her fingertips trail slowly across his lips before cradling her hand in his lap. Raising his right hand to her cheek, he begins a slow caress of her face -- temple, jawline, neck. Scully's sight adjusts enough in the blackness to catch the intensity of his gaze as it tracks his seductive path down her throat. This is not the same man she coerced to get rest a few hours ago. This is someone she's been expecting to see, nonetheless. She just didn't know it would be tonight. His roving hand comes to rest on her collarbone, fingers entwining with the cross around her neck. His eyes focus on the dull glint of tarnished 10-karat gold, oblivious to the confusion etched on her face, nearly invisible in the darkened room. The chain is taut around her throat, the tiny links interwoven through three slim fingers. With a gentle tug, he could snap her beliefs in two. With a slight pull, he could draw blood. She freezes in fear of the movement that could damage the rest of their lives, but it doesn't come. Instead, he speaks. "He smothered her," Words flat, dead. At first she is confused, ready to remind him it was the gas, not a human hand, but she quickly realizes her error and remains silent. It's the tone, one she knows well, that keeps her quiet. An echo in the chasm between the deed and the confession, mumbled so often in a wooden booth. And like the penitent, he cannot meet her gaze for fear of judgment. "She was always second to his work. Everything was about propriety, about what mattered most to him. We lived in the right neighborhood, we vacationed on the right beaches. Ignored the relatives in Brooklyn. No family pictures, no embarrassing history." Scully wants to reach out and touch him, soothe him again because a few hours ago it had worked; her embrace had snuffed out the rage. But the air is different now, charged. If her hands began to move, she would be unable to control them. "Everything was in submission to him, even before Samantha was taken. It only got worse after that, until he walked out. And then... even after he was gone, it was if he'd never left." Words have always been insurmountable barriers for them; each making clumsy attempts at confession only when assured of the other's silence. Tonight is Scully's turn to be mute, and she is grateful. "My mother was Jewish." A burdened and deformed whisper. "But she suppressed it to fit in, to be respectable. To comply with his wishes. He didn't understand her faith, so he mocked it until he'd taken it away from her and she forgot to miss it. She grew cold... so cold, Scully." He chokes on the last words, then closes his eyes. The chain begins to dig into her tender skin. His voice grows darker, blacker -- a merciless pitch that is strange and unfamiliar. "I hated her for not fighting back. I hated her for that weakness until I began to blame her for his sins. All of his sins, not just..." He breaks, swallows loudly. "I know why she could never speak to me. I was her harshest judge; on some level I always have been. "But...but what my father did to her... I've done that..." His voice cracks. "I do that to you." Tears had threatened to spill a dozen times that day, yet Scully had fought them back with rage and perseverance every time. But the truth of his words renders them victorious, breaking free to course down her face without warning. An inexplicable pain bursts and runs through her body, stopping only to rebound and burn in the palms of her hands. The sins of the father are the sins of the son. He finally raises his eyes to hers for the first time, perhaps accepting the fate he has forced upon them. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorrier than you can ever imagine." The weight of his regret pulls her forward, tethered, despite how hard she's fought to stay separate and distanced. She can barely stand his focus, the heavy, unwavering gaze. She's unfamiliar with being the epicenter. Her parents' love divided by four, her teachers' attention divided by a full classroom, her lovers' devotion distracted by a million mundane concerns of daily life. Not even from Mulder and certainly not like this, not ever like this because he's never given her anything without expecting something in return. Trust for loyalty. Love for concern. Touch for patience. Tonight, though, he is selfless. She has no idea how to accept this unconditional love, bound nonetheless by differences and crippled by pain. The only thing she knows is that to look away would be to submit. She will not perpetuate this sin. Scully can read him like a book, flipping through the pages of self-hatred, understanding, regret, and passion. Every chapter is laid open; it is her choice what to pursue. She hushes him, finally able to control her hands. Stroking his lightly stubbled cheek, she gently untangles his hand from the fragile chain and places it above her heart. "Your mother is at peace, Mulder. She is at peace. And you are not your father." Praying he can hear the truth in her words, the ferocity of her conviction, despite the tears. He is neither of his fathers. Comfort is impossible, but she hopes the simplicity of her words might be a lifeline for the weeks ahead. She lays him gently down, following him to the mattress. Cradled against her chest, he breathes chokingly, unable to shed more tears. Scully is unable to stop, and weeps for them both before falling into a dreamless sleep. ***** She is awake when Skinner knocks, knowing she will continue to atone for both of their sins. ***** END. Author's notes: Thanks eversomuch to Marguerite, haphazard method, and MCA for outstanding and precise beta. I was lucky to have these three brilliant writers helping me out. Thanks also to Shari for the nugget of inspiration behind this (take a guess, sweetie!), and to Lisa... just because.This is my first finished story in 8 months, and I'm nervous. Critical comments always loved: meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com, meredith40@juno.com. Meredith's new home: http://www.geocities.com/Meredith_elsewhere/
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/meredith_elsewhere
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