Subj: xfc: NEW: Galileo (1 of 1) S, MSR 
Date: Fri, 2 Jun 2000 12:16:59 PM Eastern Daylight Time 
From: "Sarah Stella, starbright_89@hotmail.com
To: xfc-atxc@egroups.com 
 
Title: Galileo
Author: Sarah Stella
Distribution: Most anywhere is fine! Gossamer, Ephemeral, Spookys, etc. of 
course. Anywhere else drop me a line, I donīt bite.
Classification: S, MSR
Keywords: Mulder POV, post-ep for Requiem
Rating: a fairly strong R for sexual situations
Spoilers: Really tiny ones for Requiem
Summary: "She is as spangled as the sky with the Pleiades on her right hip, 
Orion's belt on her left. The Milky Way is splashed across the gradual 
swell of her stomach and upward toward her left breast." --Mulder on Scully
Disclaimer: Are they mine? Are they??? Um, no.
FEEDBACK: Lovingly embraced! at starbright_89@hotmail.com or come visit my 
(fairly) brand, spankinī new website (shameless plug) at: 
www.chickpages.com/fanland/wendydarling1

***Thanks to Laurie, Angel, Cshuy (I got yer sex right here, baybee!), 
Alanna, jemirah, Sister Moon, Leslie, January, Kristin, Kelly, Lynn, Mara 
and Sparky***

As always . . . hugs and kisses and my undying gratitude and admiration to 
Maria for being my beta (that could be a cheesy song to the tune of "Be my 
Baby" . . . ) Love ya!

***************

Galileo

The sky is a body. Or at least I imagine it that way. The vast, black 
stomach lifts around the ship, swelling and arcing away.

I fade in and out of consciousness. There are no windows here. I am 
weightless, suspended. My vision is fuzzy. I can only make out impressions 
of shadows--different colors passing in front of my dazzled eyes.

Even though I can't find the strength to lift my hand, to feel the ridges 
against the pads of my fingers, I know Scully's cross is still there. I 
recognize its small weight brushing timidly along my neck. If I weren't so 
tired, I'd smile. Instead, I close my eyes.

Above me, the stainless steel ceiling melts away, dripping down like ice 
cream on a hot day. I can see the layers of ship, tiered one on top of the 
other into seeming infinity. Finally, the last level spreads thin until I 
can see through it like cellophane, like the thin skin of ice over puddles 
in winter. That dissolves and then . . . my God.

I wonder how astronomers sleep at night, knowing that this beautiful body 
has curled around us all. The darkness is not velvety as I'd thought it 
would be. It is remote and more like fine silk--cool and rippling and 
untouchable. The ship is moving blindingly fast, I'm sure. I can hear the 
rumble of great machinery beneath me. But it seems that the sky is what's 
moving, showing off its finery with understandable vanity.

Now the body turns, stars burning insanely on its vast hips, trickling down 
its thighs, toward its feet in a mad procession--each one trying to outdo 
the others with its brightness. I see a spiral galaxy curling 
invitingly--almost flirtatiously--at the being's navel.

With all apologies to the feminists, the sky is a woman.

I think of Scully and her constellations of freckles. Not the ones she 
covers with makeup but the hidden ones. For years, her freckles whispered 
their secrets to me, peeping out along her collarbone, descending in sprays 
down her breastbone. She has a triangle of dots on the inside of her right 
knee that I was sometimes lucky enough to glimpse if her pantyhose was sheer 
enough on any given day.

The first time I saw her freckles--really saw them--I wanted to run my hands 
along them, tracing their aimless paths. She is as spangled as the sky with 
the Pleiades on her right hip, Orion's belt on her left. The Milky Way is 
splashed across the gradual swell of her stomach and upward toward her left 
breast. Scully's stomach is firm but soft, a nearly-ripe peach.

Finally Scully let me touch her freckles freely and I did, playing my 
fingers along their curlicues and hidden patterns with her quiet sighs as 
counterpoint. The music of the spheres.

That first time I almost cried, almost dissolved because of the expanse of 
universe she had held all those years. She touched my hand with her 
fingertips, brushing along the blue veins there. I touched her bright hair 
and entered her slowly as a look of amazement spread warmly across her face.

The sky-woman has turned again, agitated perhaps with my focus on the memory 
of Scully. But why would she care about the attention of one small man? I 
can see the curved valley of her back now, gentle swells of silk flesh. She 
has an elegant lightly patterned hand-print of stars glowing in the hollow 
at the small of her back.

My hand at Scully's back. The only way I knew her those first years, the 
only human connection I felt from her sometimes. Horrible times.

There's another galaxy--maybe the same one from before, repositioned--below 
the starry hand. It shines with a beauty that is only bearable because of 
its distance from me. Closer and I would be blinded.

At first I hated Scully's tattoo. Hated the idea of anyone--a 
stranger--being privy to her skin. Putting his rough hands against the 
gorgeous sky that runs across her back. Hated the idea that she could 
unthinkingly destroy the perfection of her universe.

More than that, I hated the idea that she didn't think that sky was mine too 
in some small way. Even before I left, I still disliked the thing. It was 
unnatural, pigments in her skin that shouldn't be there. My fingers would 
skate across it on mornings when she let me stay over, pulling the sheets 
down far enough so I could see the thing, trying to erase it with the 
lightest of touches.

The sky-woman's body ripples and she is all shaking stars and undulating 
darkness. Laughing at me. Somehow, the low hum of the spaceship dissolves 
into a deep, throaty chuckle. Not cruel, but amused just the same.

The galaxy is passing away from my sight. The melted ship begins 
regenerating itself but not before I see the stars in that spiral rearrange 
themselves into the shape of a giant snake, coiled in a circle. I feel the 
golden ridges of Scully's cross rise up under my fingers.

THE END


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