Title: One Moment

Author: Ana Hawkman

Category: S, A, MSR

Rating: light R

Disclaimer: Oh I wish I were a Mulder/Scully
owner. . . that is what I'd truly love to be. . .  but
since I'm not a Mulder/Scully owner. . . everything
belongs to 1013.

Spoilers: assumes basic understanding of the
show's current M/S situation

Notes: Thanks to Meg for beta-ing. . .  and guys,
I'm sorry there's no sequel to "Softly" yet. I
find it hard to run up against supernova's
similar "Broken Places" which is, by the way,
FABULOUS! Let me know if there's still a demand
and I might find the inspiration somewhere
around here. . .

Feedback: anahawkman@hotmail.com. . . much
appreciated!!
 
 

That eight year moment of my life which had
encompassed every truth of my being had passed.
The constant movement had slowed, and with it
the comforts I'd looked to for so long. Number
one on my speed dial was linked to an out-of-
service number.

When I was in med school, I'd planned out my
life like a military mission. No husband, no
kids, just a successful career. I had no idea
that there was something bigger at work: fate,
maybe, or God. I thought I had control over
each and every emotion I felt. Worse yet, I'd
convinced myself that this was a good thing.

Mulder entered my life on March 6, 1992. . . Nine
years ago. He has brought me on the most
incredible, exhilarating, mentally and
emotionally challenging journey one could ever
imagine. He stood by my side through thick and
through thin; he was my best friend, the one
constant element in my life. It had become such
a comfort to banter with him, to fall asleep on
planes next to him, to counter his every
feature and finally, in the end, realize that
he was the best part of me. He was my closest
and only ally.

Mulder was dead for six months before entering
my life again, resurrecting like a Biblical
character and peeling back the destroyed layers
of my soul. It wasn't at all how I'd imagined
him coming back to me-- it was awkward and
closed off, even bitter at times. Our
relationship had changed drastically since that
cool spring night in Oregon; we suddenly found
ourselves closer and more intense.

Tonight I lay awake and wonder why I am in my
prime, deeply in love, and living in an
otherwise empty apartment with my son. Mulder
has sunken into the dark again, but his short,
sparse emails keep me alive somehow. I keep
them folded in my pocket, stealing away at any
free moment to read over his words. I sleep
with one of his shirts folded against my still-
swollen body, counting down endlessly the days
until he might come home.

At 2:32 AM, there is a quiet knock on my door.
Something inside me knows immediately who it
is.

And there he stands. Black sweater, scuffed
khakis, black boots. His hair is mussed and
dirty, his beautiful eyes are tired and his
form is skinnier than I remember. He's so
perfect.

"Turn around." He's still in the hall and
complies immediately although I'm not sure he
knows why I'm asking him to do so. I press my
cold fingers against the back of his neck,
checking for abnormalities. Then again, if he
is a bounty hunter, there is no way of stopping
him.

"It's me, Scully." his hushed, rumbling murmur
echoes a bit into the hallway and I pull him
inside, closing the door and pressing my cheek
against his back.

"What are you doing here?" My voice is breathy,
incredulous, and I wrap my arms around his
middle. Tightly.

"Hmmm. . ." his warm hands cover mine on his torso.
"I think I came to visit my wife." I
contemplate that wonderful word. Wife. I'm
Mulder's wife. I sob softly, brokenly, against
his back, the noise of it muffled against his
sweater. "Hey, now." He turns around, chiding
me gently, taking my face in his hands. "I
didn't come here to make you cry." His kiss is
brief but deep. "Just relax."

"How long can you stay?" My voice is strangled
as I lose myself in the infinite beauty of his
eyes.

"Late afternoon. . . not long, and I'm sorry for
that." I nod, placing my freezing, tiny hands
over his on my face. "I needed to see you,
Scully." He pulls me close against him and I
shiver, realizing that which I've come to
recognize as warmth has only been an endless
state of cold.

I suddenly flash back to a happier time, about
three years ago. Before Doggett, before
Mulder's disappearance and subsequent death,
before his resurrection, before he left me
again. Then again, three years ago, William was
not in our lives. We weren't married yet. Does
happiness come with consequence for everyone,
or is that just the way our lives work?

We were in LA with a bureau-issue credit card,
the entire night open and belonging to us. We'd
eaten an expensive dinner, laughed and teased
over it; then we danced. It's funny how we ate,
drank, danced, but didn't quite make it to the
last part. However I was far from disappointed.

We swayed slowly on the ocean-side patio, his
arm curled around me and his fingers splayed
across my lower back. I have to admit I almost
fell asleep there-- rocking in the cradle of
his embrace, his voice a rumble in his chest
and his heart thumping safely against my ear.
I'd tipped my head to look into those beautiful
eyes, noticing the edges of a smile gracing his
lips. He bent down to kiss me, slowly, deeply...
I folded my fingers with his and the world
ceased to exist. There was only his handsome
face, his brilliant mind, his tender heart. I
was truly blessed and stricken in that moment.

The hand on my back pulled me closer, and as he
ended the kiss his lips moved down to caress my
ear.

"I'm so lucky to have you in my life, Scully.
So lucky. . ." The candid honesty in his words made
my breath catch in my chest; I snuggled closer,
breathing against the softness of his dress
shirt.

The image fades and I find myself back in his
arms, in a different place and at a much
different time. His hands skim lovingly,
possessively over my hips. . . his cold nose
pressing against the skin of my neck.
Apologetic kisses are feathered there, his
gentle fingers creep up my pajama top.

It all happens too quickly. I cry as it ends,
cry for the loss of completion I've had to
suffer these last months. I cry for the loss of
his scent on my pillow. I cry for the humidly
whispered "I love you" that used to wake up in
the morning. I cry for the wedding band I am
not allowed to wear because of the danger it
poses. I cry for the times when, late at night,
I try it on just because it makes me feel safe.
Loved. I cry for our son in the next room who
can identify his father through photographs but
doesn't know in person the man who loves him so
much. I cry for the pain it causes when women
shoot me sympathetic looks at the grocery store
because they see me with a baby but without a
ring. I cry because they'll never know how
deeply I *am* loved.

I pull his heavy body over mine, welcoming the
weight and clinging to it. He whispers in my
ear until, reluctantly, I fall asleep.

He wakes me up during the night to make love to
me again. . . this time is slower, more passionate,
more reverent. We lay awake afterward, speaking
softly about the past and the future. He lays
out an entire world for me-- what kind of house
we'll have, with a dog... he'll buy Will a giant
swing set, he promises, and describes the down
comforter on our bed, the lazy Saturday
mornings, the wood stove in the living room. He
describes our anniversary celebrations and
tells me about the Sears portraits that will
adorn the walls. And I believe him.

He's made me a perfect life, if only in his
heart. I love him for it. I love him for
everything he is.

When the story is over, I hold him close for as
long as I can.

"I need to go," he whispers into my hair, and I
force my arms to loosen. I know he's doing this
for my safety. . . for Will's safety. For his own.
My fingers float over the soft skin of his back
and he moves away, covering his body with the
battered clothing he arrived in. Interestingly
enough, I note, he looks breathtaking even in
his state of exhaustion.

I offer him new clothes from the small
collection I''ve kept; I sleep in them
sometimes, but other than that they remain
clean. He accepts them and changes, then hovers
over me, kissing my face, my neck, my breasts,
my torso. A long, tender kiss to my softened
stomach ends it all, and he tucks the blankets
around me. I roll into the space his body
occupied moments ago and revel in the quickly-
fading warmth.

"I want to leave before Will gets up," he
whispers, searching my eyes for forgiveness. "I
don't want to make this confusing for him." I
open my mouth to protest but he kisses my words
away. "I'll come back, Scully. It might be a
few weeks or a few months, but I''ll come back.
It won't be as long this time. . . and I won't
leave you again." I nod slowly, and sit as he
rises from the bed.

"Don't," he murmurs, pushing me back against
the pillows. "Just stay here where it's warm.
Let's make this as easy as we can, okay?" I
nod, biting back the tears as he strokes my
hair soothingly, re-reciting his marriage vows
as a promise. One last kiss-- a chaste one to
my forehead-- and he's gone.

When I finally pull myself out of bed an hour
later, answering William's light-hearted "MOM-
EEE" from two rooms away, I catch sight of a
paper lying on the kitchen table. I pick it up
with trembling fingers, recognizing the
handwriting right away.

S-
I used to wear Grey Flannel cologne. I'm
telling you this because I know you miss it
sometimes. I know you've been to all of the
department stores, smelling around as you pass
through the perfume department. . . trying to find
me there. Try looking inside your heart,
instead, Scully. That's where most of me is.

I dropped off some toys outside Will's bedroom
door. I know it's not much; I know he shouldn't
come to know his father through materialistic
connections. . . but it's what I can do right now.
I hope he smiles while he plays with them.

Lastly, I need you to know that I love you with
everything I am. You are the one thing in my
life that has ever stood still. . . the one person
who has ever cared enough to stick around.
Thank you for waiting or me. Thank you for
loving me. My angel. My Scully. My wife.
-M
 

As I fold the letter back up, I notice he's
left one of his sweaters on the table. Did he
forget it? A post-it is attached-- "to sleep
in."

I smile through my tears, taking a deep,
trembling breath. It is a new day. I will carry
on.

---
Finis.
anahawkman@hotmail.com