By JLB
amory20@aol.com
 

CLASSIFICATION: V, A, MSR
RATING: PG-13/R, (implied?) sexual situations
SPOILERS: nothing specific
SUMMARY: see notes... something you've probably seen before.
ARCHIVE: sure, wherever.  if it's the first time though, i'd appreciate a
note. :)
FEEDBACK: you bet... i love the stuff. amory20@aol.com
DISCLAIMER:  i admit it... they belong to CC and 1013... i'm shamelessly
stealing them for a while.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: well i always told myself that i'd never write a "tramua/first
time" MSR because i've seen it done so many times, so well that i figured it
was silly to attempt it myself.  but... isn't there always a but... then this
m&s scene with a dog came to me, and the story that i found myself writing
around it was one of those first time deals.  so basically, i know i'm not
scoring any points for originality, instead i see this as an exercise in
realism... keeping m&s as recognizable as possible.  and i think deep down i
see mulder and scully getting together after some kind of tragedy, trying to
comfort one another.  so please, if you want to disagree with me on that or
correct my characterizations, by all means, email me... i'm always up for a
nice, thorough discussion of these characters and their lives. :)  also, this
hasn't been beta-ed (michelle, you deserved a break after all the work you
did on that last story!  :) so if it's a little rough, be kind.  on that
encouraging note, enjoy!

~~~
 

Convergence
by JLB
 

We arrive too late.

We arrive just in time to hear the screams, the desperate, hoarse cries for
help right before everything goes silent.  I watch Mulder run to the door,
kicking it open with dramatic force.  I can barely drag myself to the front
porch.

We're too late, and suddenly all the energy, warmth, life drains from me in a
blinding flash.

A wave of dizziness hits me, even before I smell the blood, even before I
hear Mulder fire his gun, even before I see him emerge from the doorway --
his perfect, white dress shirt splattered with tiny droplets of blood, rusty
and sticky.  And even though I know it's not his, even though I know he's
fine, alive and breathing right in front of me, I feel my eyes tear, my
vision blur.

This doesn't happen to me.  It happens to Mulder.  He's the one who gets
pulled in, who loses himself in the details of the case.  I am always
detached, professional.  But now I'm almost breathless, my knees giving out
beneath me, as Mulder stands on the porch, his face so pale and tired,
pained, watching me, asking me.  Something in his eyes flickers then, bounces
off something in me, and ignites.  Around us, the world explodes in colors of
autumn leaves -- red, gold, orange.  I hear them crackle under my feet, see
them swirl in the air around me.

I steel myself, straightening up, and join him at the door.  Side by side, we
enter the house to tie up our loose ends.
 
 

Mulder drives us back to our motel, quietly, slowly.  Everything seems to be
happening in slow motion -- Mulder's actions, my own dragged out to an almost
unnatural pace.  I feel every breath, every heartbeat.  Mulder's and my own.

There are moments, like this one, when I am with Mulder, when we are
together, and I still feel utterly alone, lost, adrift.  His presence cannot
permeate that distance, the cold and darkness.  It's just me, alone, stuck
inside myself, and Mulder, alone, trapped inside himself.  Physically
together but still so far apart, so much between us that we can barely see
each other.

We refuse to share our fears, our pain, believing we must struggle alone, so
a burden that should be shared, that could be managed by two, instead crushes
us, buries us beneath its relentless weight.

I know I push Mulder away.  I know he turns away from me.  It's the way we've
always dealt with our nightmares.  But it doesn't make sense to me. He's the
one person who could understand, who wants to understand what I'm feeling,
and I refuse to let him near.  Even when I need to know that the world I live
in is larger than myself, even when I feel Mulder's heart break from across
the room, I refuse to get too close.  Instead we dance around each other, not
letting the distance grow too wide but doing nothing to bridge it either,
wanting each other near but only at arm's length.

It's dusk now, the sky a brilliant orangey pink, punctuated with streaks of
blue, purple.  Breathtaking, my sister would have said.  Even as a child, she
cherished sun sets, sun rises.  I sigh quietly as I admire the sky myself,
opening the window slightly so I can feel the cool autumn air, smell the
leaves and the cold.  The air in the car is giving me a headache, the stale
scent of blood and sweat soaking through my clothes.

We pass a small park where several people are walking their dogs and a group
of men are playing football.  Simple things.  Everyday things.

"Stop," I say quickly, "Can we please stop for a moment?"

Mulder looks at me intently for a moment, his eyes heavy lidded, half closed
even as he drives.  It's almost as if he's squinting to block out the light,
even though we're covered in shadows.  I watch as he observes the park, and
silently nods his head, pulling the car to the side of the road.  Neither of
us speak as he turns the key and the engine falls silent.

Mulder is simply going through the motions -- I see the cold blankness of his
eyes, his shoulders sagging, the tight line of his mouth.  His thoughts are
somewhere else, but I know exactly what they are.  He's trying to think of
some way to make this better.  For me.

We walk quietly through the park, and wordlessly agree on a bench off in the
corner.  My trench coat falls open, flapping in the wind, and I pull it
around myself tightly, refusing to let even the tiniest bit of warmth flee my
body.  I can't afford to lose anymore this evening.

Mulder sighs as he heaves himself onto the iron bench, and I watch his breath
spill into the air, a wispy puff of white that seems to float upwards. His
hands shake slightly as he places them on his knees. I take a deep breath
myself, and my lungs hurt from the cold.  The ache in my chest grows, expands.

I shift my body to make myself more comfortable, brushing against Mulder in
the process.  As I lean against him, his gun presses against my side -- a
firm, pinching stab.  Before I can stop myself, I shiver, and pull away.

A woman, bundled up in sweats, jogs by with a dog trailing behind her -- a
big, black lab, clumsy with huge paws that seem out of proportion with his
body.  As they pass in front of us, the dog pulls slightly to the left to
smell Mulder's shoes, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on Mulder's wrist as he
bends down to pet the dog.

When Mulder laughs, I almost forget where am I, who I am, what I do.

We watch the dog and his owner retreat, and exchange tight smiles.  Mulder's
eyes seem to have opened a bit more, wide and clear in the fading sunlight.

"We used to have a dog," he says quietly, "We had this dog named Checkers."
He stops for a moment, and laughs quietly.  "He was scared of everything --
thunder, fireworks, the wind.  Sam spent more time under my parents' bed
consoling that dog than just about anywhere else."  He smiles again, shows me
his beautiful teeth this time, and I feel myself sliding closer to him on the
bench again.  It's almost as if the smile is pulling me to him.

"Did you name him Checkers?"  I ask, suddenly enthralled with the idea of
Mulder and a dog.  Some sweet puppy crawling up into Mulder's lap and falling
asleep.

"Yeah.  I think that was me," he sighs softly, his smile waning slightly,
becoming sad, serious. "He was white with these brown spots on his back that
looked like a checker board."  He gestures with his hands, the memories
releasing a burst of nervous energy he can't process exactly.  "It was a
compromise really.  Sam wanted to name him something like Fluffy or Cupcake,
but I didn't want a dog with such an unmanly name."  He murmurs something
quietly under his breath -- it's not a laugh, but I try to convince myself
that it is.  I force a smile, feeling the skin of my cheeks stretch, pull
tautly.

And I know then.  I know that this is the night.  The night I've spent some
times anticipating, others dreading.  Mulder's blown everything wide open by
sharing this with me, by telling me this memory.  I felt the possibility
earlier as we faced each other in front of the house, but I knew we'd need
something more to push us across the hazy line in our minds.

"You like dogs, don't you?" he asks me, stuffing his hands in the pockets of
his coat, leaning towards me so our shoulders touch.  His coat is opened, and
the tiny spots of blood on his starched shirt seem to burn against the white
fabric.

"Yes," I nod my head, "I had a couple growing up and then there was..."  I
choose not to finish because I don't feel like dealing with any more loss
tonight.

"Queequeg," Mulder supplies, his voice hoarse and strained.  I freeze,
shocked for some reason that he remembers the name, that he'd say it.

I turn to him, and answer with my eyes.  They may be watery and red, but
there's something more there, and I know Mulder will see it.  A response to
the conversation, to his memory, to our evening.  To what we both know is
going to happen.

He nods his head slowly, and I watch his face soften, a dreamy, sleepy smile
taking shape on his mouth.

"Aww, Scully, your nose is getting all red," he drawls, laying his index
finger on the tip of my nose, "We need to get you out of this cold."

His finger remains for a moment, burning hot against the chilled skin of my
nose, then brushes softly against my lips as he draws it back.  We turn away
from each other, suddenly shy, and head back to the car.
 
 

We end up in Mulder's motel room, though I'm not certain why.  I watch him
pull the key from his pocket, and simply follow.  I don't ask, and he doesn't
suggest.  It just happens, as we both know it will.  On instinct alone.

The door shuts behind us with a soft click, and that small noise signifies
everything I feel. It's just us here -- Mulder and I together -- if we will
allow it.  Everything can be left behind us for the night; we can leave it
all on the other side of the door if we simply make that choice.  But I know
we won't take the easy road, if we get there at all.

Mulder stumbles over to the bed, stopping only when his knees hit the edge.
He plays with the frayed comforter for a moment, sighing loudly.

"I see it," he says quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his
fingers and squeezing his eyes shut, "Every time I close my eyes, I see all
the blood and..."

I nod and watch him slowly remove his coat.  He moves to the mirror, studying
his reflection closely for a minute.  I can almost see the drops of blood
reflected in his eyes, feel his disgust at wearing the entire scene on his
shirt.  And suddenly he's savagely ripping his clothes off -- his jacket
falling to his feet, his tie sailing across the room to land on the bed, his
shirt torn off in such haste that buttons fly everywhere, several hitting the
mirror like a small hail storm.  He throws the shirt to the floor, stares at
it for a second, and then kicks it harshly, banishing it to the corner of the
room.

What I notice immediately is that Mulder isn't wearing an undershirt, no
T-shirt.  I'm confronted with the smooth skin of his back, a little pale
maybe but still shining, glistening.  His shoulders tremble slightly, and I
take a step towards him.

"It's okay, Mulder," I whisper, closing my eyes, "It'll be okay."  I feel
myself shaking but force myself to stand up straight, to appear strong and in
control.

"How?" he asks hoarsely, "How can it ever be okay, Scully?  After everything
... how can it be okay?"  He turns to me, his eyes half closed, sleepy and
sad, his lower lip trembling like a little boy's.  The dim light cuts across
his chest, and my eyes are suddenly drawn to the line of hair that trails
down his stomach, disappears at his belt.

I'm dumbfounded.  He's voiced my own fear, he's asked the question I can't
bring myself to, and now his body is demanding my full attention.  I need to
touch him, feel him, need to see how soft that hair is, how warm his skin is.
 

But I can't move.  I'm stuck on the spot, my coat suddenly seeming very large
and heavy.

He drags himself to the bed, and drops down onto it as if his body weighs
more than his frame can support.  As he shifts into a sitting position, more
slumped over than upright, I move to the bedside table to turn on the light
-- the room is bathed only in the fading sunlight, which has only grown more
dim since we arrived -- but he grabs my wrist.  Gently but firmly, he pulls
on my wrist and I fall forward, landing beside him on the bed.

"Leave it off," he whispers roughly, "I don't want to look anymore, Scully."

"Mulder, we can't sit here in the dark all night..." I say flatly, wanting to
do just that.  Just sit beside him in this cool room, the dark hiding all the
ugliness, and feel the heat of skin.  And sitting here, though neither of us
will say it, will do anything that decisively conveys this idea, we both know
that we're closing the distance.  That we both want each other near.

Mulder turns to me, his eyes flashing brightly in the shadows, and half
smiles, as if he's too tired to go the distance.

"Take your coat off, Scully.  Stay a while," he says quietly.

I move to slide the trench coat off my shoulders, and Mulder is there to help
me out of it, taking it into his hands and folding it carefully, as he knows
I would, before placing on the chair beside the bed.

We're moving slowly.  It's the only way we can do this.  And I can't let it
be premeditated either.  It has to happen naturally or I'm certain I'll
resist.

"Let's just sit for a minute," Mulder says quietly, "Just sit."  He runs his
hand through his hair, drops it to the back of his neck as he rolls his head
on his shoulders.

I slide closer to him so our thighs are touching, and wrap an arm around his
shoulders, pulling him down towards me.  He rests his head on my shoulder,
and carefully winds his arms around my waist. Sighing, I place my hand in his
hair -- so soft, thick -- and slowly rock him.

The room is entirely dark now, quiet and cool.  I can see a sliver of the
darkening sky through the opening in the curtains -- it's a rich, dreamy
blue, so vibrant, strong, I can imagine what it would feel like to touch it
... thick, silky like satin.

We've been like this before, Mulder and I.  We've clung to each other, held
on when everything around us seemed to be sinking, crumbling.  It's familiar,
comfortable.  Safe.

And yet, now, with Mulder's warm, bare skin under my fingers, there's an edge
that hasn't been there before.  A possibility maybe ... an inevitability that
excites even as it frightens.

I find myself speaking even though I have no conscious thoughts.  "I didn't
know you had a dog," I say quietly, my hand still busy in his hair.

"Yeah," he whispers against my chest, "We were pretty normal there for a
while."  I feel him tense as he utters the word -- normal.  I wonder, as I
have countless times in the past year, exactly what that word means to me,
what it means to Mulder.  What it means for us.

"It's funny that there are still so many things we don't know about each
other," I say quickly.  I move a hand to his back, caressing him lightly,
carefully.  He shivers, and I pull him even more closely against me, but
instead of lending him some of my warmth, I catch his chill.  We tremble
together for several seconds.

"Do you ever really know someone?" he asks, letting a deep breath out across
the collar of my blouse.  "Can you really know everything about someone
else?"  His voice is tight, pained.

"No.  No, I suppose you can't."  My voice falls to a whisper.

"I want to know you," Mulder says darkly, so much pain, passion in his tone.

"You do," I tell him, my hands pressing more firmly against his back, "You
do."

He lifts his head from my shoulder, and stares at me, his eyes black and
shining.  I can see him weighing my words, testing their validity.  I feel my
own eyes tear, and I slam them shut, confronted first with nothing but
blackness but it soon gives way to blood -- all that blood, thick and smeared
on the walls, on the carpet, on pale, translucent skin, speckled on Mulder's
snow white shirt like a repulsive robin's egg.

I am dimly aware of Mulder's hands cupping my face, his warm breath puffing
across my cheeks, my forehead as he presses a soft, ghost-like kiss to the
top of my head.

"Open your eyes, Scully," he whispers, his voice heavy and thick, "Look at
me."

And I can hear everything he's not saying -- "Forget it, Scully.  Forget it
all and concentrate on this, on us."  My eyes flutter open, and Mulder is
everywhere, the only thing in my line of vision.  His dark, flashing eyes,
his perfect mouth, tan skin.  And he's all I can feel -- his body pulled
firmly against mine, his thumbs stroking gently across my cheek bones, his
strength and warmth pooling on the surface of my skin.

It's give and take, as it's always been with us.  He needs me, and I need
him.  We're here to support each other, and then be supported.  It's team
work at its best -- fine tuned, perfected, slowly sliding to a new level.

"Let's not think anymore, Scully," he breathes against my ear, his lips
brushing against the skin, warm, wet.  "We do too much of that sometimes."

Leaning back, I take a long look at him -- the flushed skin, sleepy eyes,
parted lips.  I nod my head dumbly, suddenly very dizzy, weak.  My tongue
feels heavy in my mouth, and I know that if I try to speak right now, nothing
intelligible will come out.

Mulder smiles slightly, a sad, strained smile, and clutches my face more
firmly.  Suddenly I feel myself moving towards him ... or maybe he's moving
towards me.  I can't tell.  Perhaps the entire room is moving, colors
swirling in front of my eyes, every nerve ending in my body dancing, my heart
racing.  Something is definitely happening ... and it couldn't be more
natural.

His lips on are mine in an instant -- a heartbeat I think fleetingly, as the
pressure increases, as he becomes more insistent.  I marvel at the fact that
his lips aren't chapped at all, perfectly smooth and moist.  So gentle, so
sweet.  And then all thought stops... I simply feel the kiss, revel in it.

It isn't frenzied or frantic.  It's slow and easy, and accomplishes its goal
perfectly -- comforting us in a way nothing else can.

Finally we brake the kiss, and I'm almost afraid to open my eyes, afraid to
let the moment end.  Mulder sighs softly, and my eyes open for him, to see
him.

"You're here," he whispers, stroking my hair, "After everything, you're still
here."

"Yes," I say emphatically, "yes."

And with that word, all the excuses, the justistifcations, rationalizations I
so carefully constructed to keep myself safe, to keep us both safe, prove to
be as flimsy as I had always feared.  I hear them shattering, breaking apart
under the weight of Mulder's touch, kiss.

We stare at each other for a moment, motionless, breathing in unison -- hard,
erratic.  His eyes are so soft, soft and dark, seeking me out in the shadows
of the room.  I don't have to tell him that this isn't going to fix
everything.  I don't have to tell him that we're still going to hurt
afterwards.  He knows.  Mulder understands.

But that distance won't be between us any longer. We won't have to hide from
one another, from ourselves.  We'll have what's been ours from the beginning,
but openly, freely.  And when we hurt, when we close our eyes and see all the
blood, bodies, horrors, we'll have each other to hold, take comfort in.

"Scully..." he whispers finally, dropping his mouth to my neck, "Scully, is
this okay?"  He moves his mouth away but continues to hover so I can feel his
breath.

I pull his head up, and slide my mouth over his.  It's strange, I realize,
but I know the exact moment that he's going to part his lips, the precise
second his tongue will enter my mouth, the exact spot on my neck he'll
stroke.  And he seems to anticipate my every move as well, making my head
feel very light.  But maybe it makes sense -- we've watched each other
closely for seven years, studied the behaviors and mannerisms until they
became like second nature.  It's like this for one simple reason -- we know
each other.

I don't realize he's started working on the buttons of my blouse until he
reaches the last one, and I close my eyes again, content to just feel his
hands on me, feel him slipping the silk from my shoulders.  The room is cool
but my skin feels so warm, blistering almost, and I wonder what it feels like
for Mulder, if his fingers burn as they trail across my body.

When he eases me back against the bed, I reach for his belt, and he smiles at
me, shyly.  His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and I come undone,
wrapping my legs around his hips so tightly I squeeze a sharp breath out of
him.

As we finally begin to move -- slowly at first, easing into as if we both
expect the other to disappear in a puff of smoke before we can reach
completion -- I hear myself scream.  Not out loud, but deeper inside me, in
my head.  I tell myself that this is how it always felt, that I just can't
remember because it's been so long ... years ... but no matter how hard I
try, I can't believe that anything has ever felt as real, as solid and warm
as Mulder's body pressed against mine.

And when it finally happens, when I finally let that scream leave my body,
share it with Mulder, I know that nothing has changed.  I know that Mulder's
shirt is still crumpled in the corner of the room, soaked with the blood of
some innocent.  So I hold onto him, let him bring me back to myself, and
remind me why we have to go on, why we can.
 
 

Hours later, maybe days for all I know, we lie together in bed, both of us
barely conscious but clutching one another desperately, as if the room might
open up at any moment, flames swallowing us whole.  I'm vaguely aware of
Mulder's shoulder beneath my head, and I instinctively burrow further into
his body, surprising both of us, I think, by licking his skin fiercely and
giving the area an experimental nip.  He gasps loudly, and takes hold of my
hand, rolling me onto my back so we lay side by side, hands clasped.

"You're awake," he says softly, "I was wondering."

I yawn, and squeeze his hand in response.

"I can't believe..." he whispers, pulling my hand to his mouth for a soft
kiss.

"I know."  I turn on my side so I can reach up and kiss his cheek.

We're silent again for several minutes, my body pressed alongside his so we
can feel one another everywhere.

"What kind of dog, Scully?" he asks suddenly, his mouth resting against my
hairline.  "What kind of dog would you like?"

I smile as he begins rubbing my back gently, almost as if he isn't aware he's
doing it.

"I don't know.  I think maybe a big dog," I say, "Like a lab or a golden
retriever.  A dog with lots of energy."

"I can see you with a golden retriever.  Throwing tennis balls, sticks."  I
feel him smile against my forehead.

"Why?"  I ask, pushing up on my elbow to face him.

"Because one day I'm going to get you a dog and I want to make sure I get the
right kind," he says simply.  He smiles then, that breathtaking, perfect
smile that always seems to soothe me -- lots of teeth and glowing eyes.

"Do I get to pick the name?" I ask, grinning.

"Maybe.  No obscure literary figures though."

"And nothing too girly, right?"

"Well, I guess that depends if we get a boy dog or a girl dog."  His smile
deepens, his entire face softening, glowing.  I feel so warm, so comfortable.
And yet I won't allow myself any illusions.  I can't let myself forget.

"Mulder, we have to go down to the police department and file a report.  We
have to do that..." My voice shakes as I close my eyes, and wet my lip.

"I know.  We'll go..." he stops and grabs his watch from the bedside table,
"We'll go in a couple of hours."  He closes his eyes, and lays his hand
across his face.

And I feel it then, the distance, coldness seeping back into the room with
us, and I fumble with the sheets, trying to pull them against me as tightly
as possible.  But Mulder rolls onto his side then, pulls me against him, and
I let go of the rough fabric, sliding my hands against his skin instead.

He is warm and close.  Everything I need for him to be.

"Scully..." he whispers, "Scully I don't know what--"

"It's okay," I tell him, reaching up to brush the hair from his eyes, "We're
okay."

Mulder pulls back and looks at me, seriously, his eyes clouded, damp.  "I can
believe that," he says finally.  He smiles gently, and slides down to rest
his head against my chest.

Sinking back into the bed, I hold him against me, cover my body with his.
When I close my eyes, Mulder is the only thing I'm aware of, the only thing I
sense.  We fall asleep together, our breathing in synch, his head still over
my heart.
 

the end.
feedback is warmly welcomed at amory20@aol.com ... i'd love to hear your
thoughts. :)
http://members.aol.com/amory20/page/index.htm