TITLE:  We Never Touch But At Points
AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer
E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@AOL.COM
DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like, just tell me where.
DISCLAIMER: None of them belong to me, mores the pity.
SPOILER WARNING:  William
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION:  Vignette
SUMMARY:  They never talked about it, not after the first
few days.  Neither of them was inclined to open the barely
healed wounds.
COMMENTS: Please visit my other stories at:
http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm
Maintained by the wonderful Jennifer.
 
 
 

We never touch but at points -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Add the library at noon to the list of places to avoid.  Earlier that
day, they'd been standing at the periodical desk waiting for the clerk
to bring the magazines they'd requested.  He'd watched Scully's face
change as the elevator doors opened, and the attendees of the toddler
story hour bounded off, their exuberant noise slicing through the
stuffy quiet of the media room.

He hated that little flash he caught before she composed her features
back into the serene mask. That fleeting glimpse of something: pain,
regret, shock--never failed to knot his stomach.

Mulder tossed aside the magazine he'd unsuccessfully attempted to
read and rubbed his eyes. Folding his hands behind his head, he lay
in bed listening to the hiss of the shower through the bedroom wall.
She'd been in there for a long time.

So, the library at noon joined daytime visits to the supermarket, the
mall in late morning and, of course, family style restaurants.  Soon,
the only places they'd be able to visit safely would be biker bars.

They never talked about it, not after the first few days.  Neither of
them was inclined to open the barely healed wounds.  But almost as if
by mental telepathy, they knew which places to stay away from, which
events to give a wide berth.

Everyone was so damned careful around them. Monica thought they
should talk to a grief counselor.  Maggie wanted Scully to talk to
her priest.  John Doggett didn't offer advice, saying little and
watching them with eyes that knew too much sorrow.

Though months had passed, he still remembered the raw pain of
returning home to find his son gone. Poor Skinner had the unenviable
task of breaking the news to Mulder, undoubtedly an attempt to
protect Scully from his initial reaction. He had to hand it to
Skinner--years of crisis intervention paid off.  To say that Mulder
hadn't taken it well would be an understatement.

Anger and guilt and loss had swirled around in him like a tornado.
He'd rocketed between hating her for her unthinkable sacrifice and
hating himself for not being there to protect his son.  He could
hardly look at her in those first days.

So he'd wander in the evenings, unable to watch a ghostly Scully
move around an unnaturally quiet apartment.  He would walk until he
found a bar where nobody knew him.  Rarely would he have more
than a couple of beers, but that night, he'd been working toward a
monumental hangover when Skinner found him.  Mulder never found out
if Skinner had been looking for him, or had merely stopped by to
deaden his own pain.

Not pleased at having company, Mulder hailed the bartender for
another drink as Skinner seemed to search for words.  Mulder had
hoped the other man would just drink and shut up, but finally,
Skinner leaned forward and asked a question.

"Mulder, what would you have done..." Skinner paused, toying with
his beer bottle.  "I mean, if you'd been here, would you have
made a different choice?"

Mulder had given the only answer he could.  "I don't know."  But
slowly, the knot in his chest seemed to release just a little.
He'd always be grateful to Skinner for that.

Finally, the sound of running water stopped, bringing him back
to the present.  He was pretty sure she cried under the shower's
spray.  She never wept in his presence.  If he hadn't known her
so well, he might have thought she was unaffected.  She entered
the room, a fragrant steamy cloud behind her.

His old t-shirt clung to her still damp skin, her too prominent
collarbones exposed by the stretched out neck. The tip of her nose
was pink, her eyes red-rimmed.  If he asked her, she'd say that the
shampoo had stung her eyes.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, watching her finger
comb her hair.  If she got any thinner, he feared she would
disappear altogether. He wondered if they could withstand the
awful weight of this tragedy.

There was one truth that he was sure of.  No matter what happened,
no matter what he lost, he would be whole as long as Scully was in
his life.  He prayed that he was enough to fill that empty place
in Scully's heart, but he didn't think he'd ever know for sure.

Slowly, cautiously, he opened his arms.  She hesitated, and he
closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch her rejection.
Seconds passed, and the air before him seemed to stir.

Gentle fingers skimmed along his jaw, stroked his hair.  His eyes
still closed, he pulled her to him.  Her arms were tight around
him, almost painfully so, but he welcomed the sensation.  He
would have taken her inside him, if that could have healed
her.  Instead, they held each other, rocking slightly in
silence.

End.