By Char Chaffin
char@chaffin.com
 

MSR, R, Vignette
Spoilers:  Cancer Arc
 
Thanks: to Tess, Sallie, Carol and Robin for preview, beta,
enthusiasm and friendship abounding.  Ladies, I adore you all!
 
Summary:  There's always a clock, ticking life away -
 
 
 
He brings her flowers in a pretty yellow-frosted vase.  White roses
and Black-Eyed Susans, cheery and fragrant.  He sets them down on her
table and leans in to press a gentle kiss to her cheek.  He pretends
not to notice the transparent skin, the shadows that dominate her
eyes.  He pretends not to notice her breathing is too rapid, her hair
too lifeless and her hands too thin.
 
She pretends she is fine.
 
They talk of mundane things, when they talk at all.  How spring
seems to be evolving into summer much too quickly.  How the daffodils
in the courtyard are already withering fast, the double lilac bushes
following quickly in their wake.  How much her godson has grown;
she'd had a chance to see new photos just last week.  How he spent a
few days with his mother and they only argued twice.
 
They don't talk of cases, of family; her brother, or his sister.
They avoid the illness topics and the hard fact that sooner than
later, he'll be placing those white roses and Black-Eyed Susans on
her grave.  She pretends she's well... and he's adamant that she'll
recover.
 
At the moment, they're both wrong.
 
He sits too close to her on the bed, holds her hand too tightly,
gazes into her eyes too desperately.  She smiles too brightly.  The
truth coils between them like a hissing snake, ready to pounce, to
rip through their fragile world with poison fangs and a death-
rattle.
 
To be in her presence right now is as painful as it is precious for
him.  She's the love of his life, though he doesn't know quite how to
tell her.  He wants to make love with her until they both drop from
sated exhaustion.  He wants to wrap her in protective layers of
emotion and shield her from the rottenness of the world, from her own
imminent demise.  He wants to marry her on a warm spring day; wants
to give her children, perhaps two of each.  He wants to live with her
in the country, dance with her on the twelfth floor of the ritziest
hotel in Paris, on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.  He wants
to rock their grandchildren in his arms while she smiles that sweet
smile, standing next to him with one hand stroking his white hair.
 
She wants to live long enough to tell him she would marry him
someday, if he asked.  But she doesn't think it's fair to say
anything right now, when she knows her days on earth are numbered.
She doesn't want him to grieve for her any harder than she already
knows he will.
 
So they sit close to each other and they clasp hands, her small,
thin and pale fingers twined within his tanned, strong grip.  He's
the picture of health and she... isn't.  Their time together shortens
right before their very eyes, day by day and minute by minute.  He
has so much work to do - but he won't leave her side.  She needs to
sleep - but sheer will keeps her aware and focused on him.
 
The clock on the wall of the quiet hospital room ticks on.
 
*************************
 
He brings her red roses in a lovely crystal vase shaped like a Calla
lily.  Tiny sprigs of pink baby's breath nestle in among the dark
crimson blooms, showcasing the perfection of every opening bud.  He
places his offering on a low table near the sofa; his smile is wide
and his eyes visually adoring as they rest on her lovely face.  He
kisses her lips gently and like Sleeping Beauty she awakens, to
answer his smile with one of her own, to encircle his neck with her
strong young arms... to laugh aloud when he lifts her up and into his
eager embrace, her dainty bare feet dangling off the floor.
 
He accuses her of napping and she tells him she only closed her eyes
for a moment; then pleases him to no end by whispering that she was
dreaming of him.  Their lips meet in a kiss that starts as tenderness
personified and escalates into a passion that transcends both time
and place.  He carries her to the bedroom, not breaking their kiss,
feeling his way by instinct.  He lays her on the bed and she reclines
there, a delicate woman in old faded jeans and a green tank top, red
hair tousled and blue eyes already heavy with need.  Her arms reach
out to him and he wastes no time in joining her there, within her
embrace, the only place he really wants to be.
 
They don't speak; there is no need for words.  They don't worry
about anything; there's no point to it.  Tomorrow is a world they'll
visit soon enough, and this time they'll face it without fear of any
sort of loss.  The love is years-old, the sex is new, and their
devotion a thick promise between them, free of anxiety and rife with
wellness.
 
Her skin is warm, rosy, bursting with health.  Her energy is
bottomless, her desire endless, her strength formidable.  Every inch
of her - from the top of her glorious hair to the tips of her toes -
proclaims that she's in control of her own destiny.  The sight of her
in their bed never fails to humble him and he finds himself offering
a silent prayer that it will never change between them, that it will
always be just this way.  She's his miracle and she cheated Death for
him.  Together they found a way for her to stay alive, for each other.
 
They don't have to pretend, not now, not ever again.  She takes on
the role of aggressor and she's no longer afraid to give him
everything she has, for she knows the worth of each day they spend
together.   In a room filled with sunlight and open windows,
she kneels in front of him, tugs off his shirt and pulls at his
jeans.  She unbuttons and unzips until he's naked before her, all
tight muscles and smooth skin, hot flesh.  She runs both hands over
every inch of him and smiles when he trembles, tenses, groans.  Her
fingers seek him out and claim him; her mouth teases him, enflames
him, drinks him in.
 
Her love swamps him; abundant, clean and good.
 
They have all the time they need to love, to make love, to reaffirm
love.  She releases him long enough to help him shed her own clothes,
a breathless giggle escaping her when he takes her over.  Tugging her
down beneath him... stroking her soft skin... kissing every inch of
her body... arousing her.
 
In silence they make the most exquisite love to each other.  In
silence they celebrate the moment, secure in the knowledge that after
an hour, a day, a month or a year, there will be many more such
moments.  There is no necessity for small talk, for prevarication,
for anything less than the absolute truth.  When he moves into the
cradle of her hips, slides himself inside, deep within where she's
warm and tender and welcoming... his truth shouts louder than any one
or several-dozen words could ever speak.  When each thrust and every
countermovement brings them closer to that one instant of pure
connection, she gladly accepts her own significant truth... that
she'll never let him go, never lose him, never need anyone or
anything else in her life, but this man.
 
The quiet of the room is broken by the sounds of their loving; the
minutes tick by on the regulator clock that sits on the mantle.
 
******************
 
She awakens in the very early morning when a movement beside her
flutters into her consciousness.  There's a headache brewing between
her eyes; that also may have been what helped to rouse her.  She
stretches a little, turns on her side...
 
And sees him next to her, sitting on the floor with his head resting
on the mattress close to her pillow.  Near enough to feel his soft
breaths; close enough to detect the lingering traces of aftershave
and to see the stubble of an overnight growth of beard on his face.
He's holding her hand; it feels damp.  Her eyes moisten with tears
when she realizes he'd spent the night on the floor next to her bed,
crying against her hand.
 
Oh, Mulder...
 
Residual flashes of her dreams come and go as she lies in her
hospital bed, holding her sleeping partner's hand.  A sunlit room,
warm and quiet.  Laughter, smiles, and red roses in a crystal vase.
A strong and tanned body, smooth skin and muscles, full lips sighing
endearments and eyes filled with adoration.  Lovemaking so utterly
erotic that the tremble of it still lingers in her small, thin
frame.
 
Life, the way she aches for it to be, if only that desired
relationship wasn't steeped in nothing more than her
nighttime fantasies.  Instead they both face the imminent
loss of what they have right now, this moment: a partnership.
Loving but platonic, trusting and loyal but without additional
imtimate commitment; as real as it can be given who they are
and what the future holds for each of them.
 
It's not what she wants but it's what she's been dealt.  Until that
miracle Mulder speaks of comes along, it's all she's got.
 
She wants him in her bed, pressed into her body, offering her love,
bathing her with life, giving her the hope of a someday family.  She
wants that walk down the aisle, a wedding dance in the living room of
their home. She wants red roses and open-mouthed kisses.  She wants
the hard of him sheathed in the soft of her, the thrust and parry of
an ageless physical expression; she wants to moan in his ear and hear
him answer her as she comes; as he follows.  She wants the
tender aftermath, the falling-asleep in arms that cradle her and make
her feel safe.  She wants to awaken after a brief slumber, and do it
all over again.  She wants it so badly that she can taste its
sweetness, can feel the need for it pumping in her blood.
 
But for now, she'll take what she can get, and that's not much.
Until something better comes along however, like a cure... it's going
to have to be enough.  Resigning herself to accepting less has become
the norm for her... and for him.  She wipes away a tear and takes a
deep, steadying breath.
 
Scully curls herself as close to the edge of the bed as she can get,
until her face is next to his on the mattress and their breathing can
mingle a scant few inches apart.  With her fingers twined through
his, she lets herself sleep and wills herself to dream.
 
The clock ticks quietly on the hospital wall.
 
end
 
 
Final note:  Just when I think I'm done with writing anything Redux,
a scene plops itself on my head and attaches itself, bouncing up and
down (and ruining my coiffure, I might add!) until I give in and
write it.  In this case, I really did feel the need.
 
Thanks for reading!  I love hearing from you; email me sometime!
char@chaffin.com
 
Come visit me at my web site, any old time!  http://char.chaffin.com