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CIECA FEDE (1/1)
by D.A. Prewitt

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Archive: Yes to Gossamer; everyone else, please ask me first.
Summary: Was discovering the truth worth it?
Classification/Rating: SRA, PG-13
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance
Spoilers: Redux II
Timeline: Sometime in the future. Whether it's the distant or not-
so-distant future is left up to the reader.
Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No harm nor
infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: At the end.


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CIECA FEDE
by D.A. Prewitt
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I never believed it would happen.

I assumed it would remain as it always has, just out of our reach.
A dream destined to never become a reality. But miraculously, one
day we found ourselves within a hair's breadth of the truth.

And that day, the truth shattered our lives.

They found us before we reached our goal. They found us before we
had the proof in our hands. We never did get the proof, but we
knew. We knew everything. We ignored their threats, almost daring
them to challenge us. We were high on knowledge and nothing they
could have said would have weakened our spirits. So cocky, so sure
of ourselves. Like David in the deadly grip of Goliath, grinning
madly and flicking the giant's nose just to taunt him further.

We were foolish that day. We should have known better.

One month from the time we learned the truth, I disappeared. For
two days, my whereabouts were unknown. I have no recollection of
those two days, nor do I recall how I ended up in front of your
apartment building forty-five hours after my disappearance. When
you opened your door to me, I saw a war erupt on your face. Eyes
filled with panic and anger slowly softened to reveal relief, then
tears. Your mouth opened and closed, words taking shape on your
lips but never supported by your voice.

Without warning, you surrounded me; your arms, your breath, your
heartbeat encasing me in your warmth. I remember our embrace being
so tight I could barely breathe. It didn't matter. Nothing
mattered. I was home.

Our first kiss was not a conscious effort for either of us. Our
lips met, two magnets attracting, pulling until they joined.
Mouths opened, tongues danced. Passion slowly accelerated, taking
on speed and intensity with each kiss. Hands moved of their own
volition, exploring and marking territories as they went. You were
a contradiction of terms: hard and soft, warm and cool, aggressive
and tentative. Everywhere I touched with hand or mouth, I
memorized your texture and flavor. The chocolate smoothness of
your hair, the velvet roughness of your unshaven cheek, the salty
tang of your skin.

I allowed myself to relax in your arms as you touched me, your
hands skimming my body, starting at my waist and slowly moving up,
leaving a blaze of desire as they went. I felt myself melting as
our kiss deepened, your fingers burrowing in my hair, moving to
support my neck as I tilted my head back, opening myself further
to you.

It ended as quickly as it started.

You tore your mouth from mine when your hand closed over the back
of my neck. The look on your face was one of horror. Though we had
faced monsters of all kinds, situations we never thought we would
survive, never had I witnessed a look as devastating on your face.

"What? What is it?"

My eyes widened as I saw tears falling from your eyes, droplets
catching on the days-old stubble as they cascaded down your
cheeks. You turned me around and lifted the hair from the nape of
my neck. At first I thought you would shower my neck with kisses,
as you had done my face and throat. Then realization rocked me
with the force of an earthquake.

My God.

The implant.

My hands joined yours, searching for the tale-tell lump, the
subtle protrusion that told me the metal burrowed under my skin
was still nestled in its place.

Nothing.

"What does the skin look like? Is it red?"

I didn't need to say the words. I knew the skin was reddened and
freshly sewn. The area was tender, as though scratched or bruised,
but not painful. Still, I knew.

Your voice shattered the silence, piercing my heart. "It's gone,
Scully."

"How do you know?" Defiance. Denial. I refused to believe.

"I just do. It's gone." Your words wrapped in the thickness of
tears. "This is our punishment. For knowing the truth."

"No."

I ran from you, stumbling my way into your bathroom. Lifting my
hair, I angled myself against the mirror on the medicine cabinet
and the one above the sink.

"No."

You were right. Damn you for being right.

"No."

I don't know how it happened, but I found myself on the floor of
your bathroom, one hand still holding my hair from my neck.  You
were there, pulling me into your embrace. I can't remember if I
was crying or screaming or silent in shock. I can't remember
anything but your touch. So gentle, so caring. Never before had
you held me like that, as a father would hold his daughter.

I should have hated you for it, for treating me like a blubbering
child. I didn't, though. I still don't. I needed it, needed your
strength. Needed you. I still do.

At some point, while sitting on the cold floor of your bathroom, I
made a conscious choice to open myself to you. You accepted the
challenge, tenderly stripping away my defenses as you stripped
away my clothes, until I stood before you, naked and vulnerable on
all levels. I allowed you to see all of me. My body, my weakness,
my need. You returned the gesture, showing me a side of you I knew
was there but had yet to see. We fed upon each other, seeking
comfort in the sensation of skin against skin. Heart against
heart.

The joining of our bodies was explosive. No names were screamed,
no deities were beckoned. The only sounds were that of our sweat-
slicked bodies slapping together with a force that should have
broken bones. Pain jolted through me with each thrust but I
couldn't stop. I =wouldn't= stop. I needed to feel alive. I needed
you to thrust your life into me, to fill me with hope as you
shuddered and emptied yourself into my womb. A foolish thought,
looking back, but at the time I would have believed in aliens and
poltergeists and Santa Claus. As I took flight, pleasure lifting
me from my body, I looked down on us, on our writhing bodies.

At that moment, I believed with all my heart.

Our bodies sated, we held each other, forever linked on more than
just a physical level. Once breath and voice returned, I could
think of nothing to say. The experience was beyond words, beyond a
mere sexual liaison. Somehow, I felt words would ruin the moment,
and somehow, you knew it as well. Silence cocooned us and sleep
soon followed. When we woke, hours later, you spoke the only words
of the night.

"We'll find it, Scully."

You were so sure we would. I believed you. I only wish you had
been right.

One month from the time I disappeared, the cancer returned. The
ferocity with which it attacked my body astounded me, as well as
my doctors. Though it returned to the exact place it had been,
behind my nasal cavity, it grew at a more alarming rate than its
predecessor. Every treatment, conventional or radical, was
useless. The cancer grew like an uncontrollable weed, fertilized
by our inability to destroy it.

Your protectiveness grew almost as fast as the tumor. I was angry,
offended that you thought I couldn't protect myself. I fought you
on it at first, letting you know in no uncertain terms that I was
capable of watching out for myself. Then I saw your face when I
told you to leave. I knew that look. Each day the implant eluded
us tightened the noose around your neck another notch. I realized
that if I pushed you away, I would push you directly into the arms
of Death. Right where I was. I couldn't do that to you. I couldn't
do that to someone I loved with my entire being.

I don't try to fool myself about our love. It is not the love made
of fairy tales and Hollywood movies. It is a love borne of fear
and death. Morbid, I know, but no less treasured and no less true.
There are truths in every aspect of our lives, even in love. It's
funny, in a tragic sort of way. The truth, the one we had been
seeking for years, was everything to us, yet we haven't spoken of
it since the cancer returned. I think if it was possible for us to
forget, we would. I know you would. You spent your entire life
looking for the truth and now that you have it, you can't forget
it fast enough.

It's amazing how one event, one moment in time, can change
everything. Once a friend to us, time has become a thieving enemy,
joining forces with the cancer to steal more than just precious
moments.

Within two months of my diagnosis, the cancer stole my sight. You
had moved in by then, returning to your apartment only to
replenish your wardrobe or to retrieve a file from your computer.
I had noticed my eyesight waning over a period of several weeks,
though I said nothing to you. I knew you would worry, and that you
would step up your efforts in finding the implant. A move that
would have gotten you killed, and I couldn't let that happen.

As selfish as the thought is, I need you to be here until the end.
Though I know what seeing me die is doing. It is killing you. It
is almost as if you have the cancer yourself. My hands tell me you
are losing weight. My ears tell me you are losing hope. I'm not
sure which one scares me more.

It has been two months since I lost my sight. I can hear an almost
audible gnawing sound in my head as the cancer continues to eat
away at my brain. I have lost some weight, probably twenty pounds.
None of this has affected my ability to get around the apartment.
I can still fend for myself. I can still fix a sandwich, still
turn on the television and listen, though I have to imagine the
picture.

I can also still make love to you. I think my biggest regret about
losing my sight is that I can't see you when we make love. I
remember the first time after my sight had completely left. We had
never been talkative about anything in our lives, and that was
certainly true for sex. Words were not necessary. Our eyes did the
talking for us. But in the absence of my sight, you compensated
beautifully. You knew I needed to hear your voice to ground me, to
put me at ease. You started to explain what it felt like when I
touched you, what it felt like to touch me. Everything your eyes
used to tell me sounded so familiar yet so different when spoken.
It was awkward at first but we soon adapted, and our lovemaking
became more passionate. My hearing sharpened and I began to know
your body through moans and whispers. I began to kiss you more,
not just your lips but everywhere, memorizing the taste and scent
of your skin. My hands familiarized themselves with what my eyes
had taken for granted.

Through my other senses, I found a new side of you and of me. Of
us. Still, with all of these new discoveries, I miss being able to
see you. I have to rely on my memories to supply the images, yet
those memories, no matter how vivid, are not enough for me.

I miss seeing you look at my body, caressing me with eyes darkened
by desire. I miss seeing your jaw clenching as you fight to
control your body until you are sure I am at that precipice with
you. I miss seeing that beautiful mouth as it pleasures me. I miss
the languid smile on your lips as you return from that place of
ecstasy. I miss seeing you say 'I love you'.

I miss all of that so much, yet I find myself unable to remember
as much as before. Memories are slipping away like water through
my fingers. Sometimes I forget what day it is or where I am, and I
have to concentrate all of my energy to figure it out. I can't
seem to remember insignificant things like the author of my
favorite book or the designer of my favorite suit. The most
disturbing of all, though, is that I am forgetting your face, the
subtle details starting to blur into nothingness. Is the mole on
your left cheek or right? Is it your right eye or left that has
the heavier concentration of gold flecks? I am forgetting what
your body looks like, and have to keep reminding myself with my
hands the shape and texture of you.

The cancer has not only stolen my sight, but now it is beginning
to steal my mind. I won't let it. You and I both know that. Our
agreement, when all of this started, was that we would not allow
the cancer to invade my thought processes. You agreed to help me.
I'm going to hold you to that.

My other senses heightened, I hear the faint 'snick' as your key
slips into the lock. I don't know where you have been all day and
half the night. I never know, never question your whereabouts. I
know no matter where you are and what you are doing, I am always
on your mind.

Your feet are heavy on the hardwood floor, your gait slow. Bad
news. I've heard that walk too many times in the past few months.
'I didn't find it, Scully.' 'I almost had it, Scully.'

"Hey, it's me." Your voice is rough, more like sandpaper than
normal. Very bad news.

"What is it?"

Scents of you fill my nostrils as you approach. The tangy mixture
of sweat and dust. The rugged smell of worn leather. The faint yet
unmistakable aroma of fear.

Your weight settles on the bed and I feel your hand caress my
hair. "I..." Tears choke your voice. "I need to go away. I have a
lead. It's a good one, Scully. Really."

Are you saying that to convince me or to convince yourself?

"Mulder, it's too late."

"No. This is it. This is the one."

"No deals?"

Another item of agreement had been the deals. No deals, no matter
what. I know you would sell your soul to the smoking man, the
Consortium or the Devil himself, if it meant my cure. Our biggest
argument to date has been about the deals. I made you swear on my
life that you wouldn't deal with them. You agreed, reluctantly but
fully.

"No deals, Scully. Free and clear. It's the real thing."

"They've all been the real thing until you actually got there. No
deals means it's too good to be true."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. It's time, Mulder."

"No."

"It is. I need you..."

"NO!" Your weight is gone from the bed and I can hear your
determined footsteps as you pace between the bed and the closet.

"You promised."

"I lied."

"No, you didn't."

"I can't do it, Scully. I can't.... It's not time. We still have
time."

"No, Mulder, we don't. At least, I don't. I...I'm starting to
forget."

A gasp, then a choked cry. The sound reaches out to me, blanketing
my heart and smothering me in its agonizing weight. Your footsteps
come closer to the bed and I feel you settle on the mattress
again, planting a hand on either side of my body.

"Forty-eight hours. That's all I need."

"I don't know..."

"Please."

You bring your mouth to mine, tears salting the taste of your lips
as they caress mine. A good-bye kiss?

"Please, Scully. If this doesn't pan out, and it will, I'm sure of
it...but if for some reason it doesn't, then...then I'll help
you."

You know me so well. You know I cannot deny you this one last
chance. You also know I cannot deny the energy I feel in your
presence. You are so sure this is the one. There is no doubt in
your voice, nor in your heart. Hope wraps around your breath,
leaving your body as you exhale, entering my body as I inhale. I
want to believe. Make me a believer, Mulder.

"Forty-eight hours." I barely hear my whisper but I know you did.

You fall onto the bed, taking me in your arms, whispering thank-
you's and I-love-you's as you divest us of our clothing. Your
physical need grows with each stroke of my hand. Your emotional
need doesn't show but is ever-present and ever-growing. It always
has and always will. I don't have to see your eyes to know what
you are thinking.

My eyes may not see the present but they remember the past.

In forty-eight hours, the past may be all that remains.



THE END

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Notes: My thanks to my beta readers, Charli and KL, for their
advice and support. This is a better story because of them. And
for those language buffs out there, 'cieca fede' is Italian for
'blind faith'.

If you've made it this far, how about some feedback? My mailbox is
always open at thalia@goodnet.com. Thanks for reading!

    Source: geocities.com/msr_xf/fanfic

               ( geocities.com/msr_xf)