I.
Mulder's voice, suddenly
loud, in the dimness of my living room: "I'm going to take
a bath."
I twitch to awareness,
then stiffen. After four long weeks, I'd finally found a single
diverting focus: his crisis--and he shatters it with those words.
There is darkness in
these days.
Darker than a desert
night.
Darker than being locked
in a closet or a car trunk.
Darker than having
your eyes taped shut.
Occasional flashes
of light hurt my eyes like a strobe, revealing my weakness.
One day after another;
from the day the black curtain fell until the day I can pull
it away from the mirror, signaling the grieving is over.
--If that day ever
comes.
The early darkness
of winter had hidden us. Only our sighs and whispers betrayed
our flushed couplings in the cold air. I welcomed the dark--it
masked us from prying eyes and a thousand questions. Now, like
a timid child, I'm afraid of it.
For days since I killed
of Donnie Pfaster, Mulder's been trying to draw me out, go past
the barriers that he feels sex entitles him to push through.
His name is Fox, but he plays with people like a sleek cat. Now
he's turning his attention to me.
God forgive me, I've
welcomed his latest crisis. It's diverted him from this task.
Now he needs me. This
I understand: something familiar and solid to grasp in the sharp
brambles my life has become.
His face is brutally
blank, as it's been for these past few days.
Four days.
Four days we've sat
in this apartment. The peace he'd gained in California faded
away. In its place, the dry emptiness that had finally silenced
him the night he accepted his mother's suicide.
I'd brought him to
my apartment. I couldn't bear his dark, depressing warren in
our present emotional state. Skinner readily agreed to my request
for a week off for both of us.
And I find myself covering
my mirrors.
II.
...Before I'd begun
Teena Mulder's autopsy, my attention had been drawn to the entry
for religion on her chart. Caused me to look twice and blink,
a rare occurrence. One of those flashes of light.
If a woman never practices
a religion or shows any signs of the culture, but puts it down
on a medical chart, I say she means it.
I contemplated calling
Mulder or a rabbi, and then settled on following the proper procedure
for performing an autopsy on an Orthodox Jew. There was no sect
listed, but the acts gave me something to hold onto as I went
through this horrendous activity.
Somehow my actions
seemed appropriate. Sealing this woman's brain--minus her tumor,
which had been collected, set aside--in a plastic bag before
returning it to her skull. Collecting every drop of her blood
and pouring it back into the body cavity before sewing her up
tightly and zipping the heavy plastic around her frail form.
That night, when Mulder's
sobbing had settled and he'd begun to stare at the wall, I asked
him what to do.
"Do you think
she would have wanted a Jewish ceremony? I can see about having
the body released immediately."
He didn't look at me.
"She doesn't care."
"But...she listed
on her chart...I'd think--"
He shook his head.
"Old habits die hard. She...ignored," --his lips twisted
on the word-- "the fact for so long, but when in the presence
of a doctor...with his shiny tools--" He seemed to gulp
back rising bile. "She couldn't lie one more time."
He was silent for hours
after that. I worried that I'd worsened his pain by bringing
up his mother's faith, but he didn't refer to it again....
III.
....When we first got
back from California, Mulder sat on my couch, watching me. He
didn't stop me, but he didn't seem interested in joining my fretful
activities either. I scratched through my memory for anything
about Jewish funeral practices. All I came up with is covering
the mirrors. At some point, Mulder could rip his clothing.
I like having something
to do. "Should I call the guys? Perhaps have them over for
dinner?"
First, he shook his
head. "No. You don't need to do that." He waved an
arm weakly. "I wasn't ever--I don't have any idea what to
do."
Suddenly, I felt like
an idiot.
But then he gave me
a small smile. "I think we sit. We sit."
That's the last thing
I wanted to do. If we sit, we think. His extended hand drew me
to him and I had to sink down on the couch.
He wanted to touch.
He pulled me close, draping an arm around my shoulder, and I
diverted myself by tracing the fine bones on the back of his
hand.
It didn't work. I couldn't
stop thinking.
We don't make love
anymore. I can't bear his weight on me...
IV.
..."Mulder, please!"
I'd had to push him off, rip my mouth free to cry out. I felt
like silly girl who can't handle the weight of a man on her.
Not in this dark bedroom.
His voice quickly filled
with equal panic. "I'm sorry, Scully. Let me--I'm sorry..."
He lay beside me, slowing
his breathing. Again: "I'm sorry."
I was sharp. "I
know. You don't need to be. It's me."
"It isn't you,"
he insisted. Then, low, "We could...you could be on top..."
Staring across the
bedroom, trying to pick out looming shapes in the darkness, I
hadn't responded.
His voice, asking too
many questions, revealing our inner fears to the light. "I'm
so selfish, Scully. I wonder if I've done this to you. Has *my*
quest made you this person? When you stop hating yourself, will
you hate me?" ...
V.
...Darkness. The light
of one candle. When we became lovers, the smell of hot, warm
wax had become the smell of sex for me.
One of our first nights,
I'd stood nude before my mirror as his large, dark form moved
around me, examining my body by the light of a single fat candle.
Finishing something that had been started seven years ago.
The flame. Close to
my skin. Close enough to burn. Warm breath following the heat,
then the tracings of fingertips.
Our skin and hair,
still damp from the shower, the smell of shampoo and herbal soap
lingering, mingling...these were the odors of desire. Now they're
the smell of fear...
VI.
I blink hard a few
times, concentrating on his hand rhythmically rubbing over my
arm. Unlit candles on my mantle beg me to light them. Somehow
it seems appropriate.
I can't even do this
simple act; touching a match to the fresh wick. And I don't want
to think; my tongue will begin to ask the questions he doesn't
want me to ask.
He must have heard
the wheels whirling in my head, unbearably loud in the silent
room.
"What are you
thinking about?" he asks.
"Truthfully?"
"Yes."
"Your sister's
death."
The air thickens slightly,
tensing. I can't stop myself from going on. "Wondering if
I can accept it--when a man who's been able to deceive us at
every turn may be pulling the strings again."
I don't want to hurt
him. But I can't stop the grinding, automatic responses in my
mind.
The ultimate irony.
Seven years down the line, mission accomplished. Samantha Mulder
found. Family--its sole remainder--is satisfied. But the first
person to slap a file folder closed finds herself--angry. Pissed.
Wondering. Burning. Who did those things to her? Who took her?
Who finally killed that young girl?
I've always done my
best thinking in the bath but there's no way in hell that I can
trust the darkness enough to submerge myself now. Not when I
stared down into that tub, seeing the vision of my body floating
in blood. The terror lingered in the still, soap-covered waters
Donnie left behind, even in a room filled with loud, bustling
cops and with Mulder's warm hand resting on my shoulder.
VII.
...When we made our
escape, he let me drive. He loaded my bag in the trunk next to
his suitcase and handed me the keys. He knows the way to my heart.
"Take 95 south,"
he said as he got into the passenger seat.
He knew I couldn't
brood and drive. I have to concentrate.
And then he could control
the radio. Indulge in his secret passion, one I'm forced to endure
when we're crossing rural America. Like any good Yankee WASP,
he's fascinated by the foreign and unfamiliar: country music.
'Cowboy, take me away-'
He'd slipped low under
his seatbelt, his long legs sprawled like a fallen scarecrow's
under the dashboard. He had a small smile on his lips.
'Throw this girl as
high as you can into the wild blue.'
Where was my cowboy
to rescue me? I sighed and tuned out the music.
After another 150 miles
and ten repeats of the song on different stations, I had to ask.
"Who's that?"
He out and out grinned
and I knew whoever the singer was, she was a babe. "Dixie
Chicks."
Dryly, I commented,
"The name says it all."
He protested, "They're
very intellectual! They play banjos!"
I could only shake
my head as I said, "Oh, that's a requirement for a Harvard
degree now?"
He loves it when I'm
bitchy. His smile settled to a warm curve. He tried one last
time. "The Chicks played Lilith Faire. They don't let bimbos
in there. They have standards."
I raked his relaxed
body with a glance. "Thank God someone does."
Another 200 miles,
and a hundred more plucking, plucky songs. Unfortunately, this
means we've reached the stage where Mulder knows all the words
and can sing along. His favorite went:
'I've never seen two
people more in my life,
More determined to ignore the obvious
We better stop thinking...
He really can't sing
any better than I can--his voice is nothing more than a low,
raspy whisper--but he's more unashamed than I can ever be.
'Let our hearts start
doing the talking
You'd have to be stone deaf, dumb and blind
Not to see what's going on with us...'
In the dim light of
dusk, his eyes, shifting over to judge my reaction, were warm
and caramel, like the setting sun.
'So let's jump in
And get over our fear of fallin'
'Cause what we got here
is a powerful thing
it's a powerful thing...'
The sing-along is always
cute, but now he was being obvious. I reacted with an oblivious
question, "So, who's this?"
Cut off, he sighed.
"Trisha Yearwood."
"Is she hot?"
"Yes."
"Hotter than Natalie
Chick?" I'm good at avoiding his probing--he had no hope
of pinning me down.
He looked frustrated.
"Well, I think I like Natalie more. She's a little thing.
I prefer little--"
He decided to stop
and I really thought it was a good idea on his part.
The next song started.
'She thinks my tractor's sexy!'
Calmly, I reminded
him, "Third time, Mulder. Change it."
He seemed distracted.
"Huh?"
'She even likes my
farmer's tan!'
"I warned you.
The third time that hideous song comes on, you have to change
the station. Find--something, anything--else."
Sighing, he reaches
for the dial, but taunts me, "You need to get in touch with
your inner Reba, Scully."
Let him tease. I had
to show him where my boundaries lie.
He'd rented a cabin,
nestled among the dunes on the Georgia shore, just a single room
with lots of large windows. Mulder drew all the curtains back,
letting moonlight, and the next day, the late winter sun, flood
the space.
It had a large full-length
mirror on one wall. As I walked past from the shower, I stopped
in front of it. I loosened my robe, slipping the arm down to
look at the couple of stitches on the back of my shoulder.
He rose from the edge
of the bed where he'd been perched, nude, waiting to take his
turn in the shower, and joined me. "Can I see?"
In the past, I'd never
let him see. I bruise like a tender white peach and if he saw
my condition after a confrontation, all respect for me as a fellow
agent would wash away, to be replaced by some primitive, protective
instinct.
But now I had to let
him look. He was my...boyfriend? My man? My mate? I released
the tie, dropping the robe to the floor, and met his gaze in
the mirror defiantly.
To tell the truth,
I hadn't allowed myself to take a good long look. There were
deep purple pools, faint, sickeningly green ripples, stripes
of black, a landscape of brutal marks. The fine web of glass
cuts nicked at all the fresh white skin they could find.
It wasn't pretty, and
the old scars didn't help. I smacked my lips in dissatisfaction.
It isn't supposed to
be like this--we should be spending our Sundays in bed, reading
the paper all day long, not comparing scars in front of a mirror.
He stood behind me
and his eyes still traveled over my body, even after I'd dismissed
it.
"Mulder--"
"Your body amazes
me."
That was the last thing
I expected him to say. I gave a rough chuckle. "Oh?"
He laid a warm palm
on my uncut shoulder. "Yeah. You're so strong and lithe."
He was going to play
it like that. He was going to show me what a capable person I
was. Let him try.
I arched an eyebrow
and he gave me a tentative smile, obviously happy I was going
to let him go on.
His hands slipped down
my arms, very gently squeezing my limbs, cupping my elbows before
gripping my wrists.
He lifted my arms and
I watched my deltoids bunch and rise, the striation standing
out as he pulled my arms back slightly, perhaps waiting for me
to admit pain. I hadn't been eating. My skin was tightening over
my muscles and tendons, leaving me lean and hungry-looking.
A vein rose to the
surface on the bulge of my shoulder, shocking blue against the
brown bruise. Pulled taut, the veins on my forearms stood out,
wrapping around the thin strand limbs.
He pressed my right
hand against its shoulder and the bicep bulged like a mini Popeye.
Even I had to smile.
The smile faded as
I yanked my hand away and stretched both arms out wide. The muscle
disappeared and my limbs' real strength was revealed. They were
thin and rubbery, ready to snap back to my sides.
His hands slipped under
my breasts, ignoring them, down over the ridges of my ribs, shunning
what I was trying to show him. A thumb traced the crevice between
the two sides of my abdominal wall, circling my navel before
cupping my rounded lower belly.
He stroked across the
sharp points of my hipbones to settle on my hips--where the twelve
percent body fat rests--my body's one concession to femininity.
Mulder loves my hips--his hands are usually drawn to them like
magnets.
Reluctantly he left
them and let his hands move down to grab my thighs. I lowered
my arms and traced the planes of his wide forearms, to lay my
hands on his. I tensed my thigh muscles under his hands, resisting
the pressure of his grip.
"You're so strong,
Scully," he whispered in my ear.
I should have acted
smooth and impenetrable, like glass. But I wouldn't let this
pass.
"No, I'm not,"
I insisted. "I've always had to accept that I can't overpower
most opponents. I'm too small. I don't care how much training
I have-- I have to accept that fact. I do the best I can--"
He broke in. "I've
seen you overpower plenty--"
"And I've gotten
the shit kicked out of me plenty of times too! It's something
I have to expect." He just didn't get it.
I pushed down on his
hands, and automatically, they pressed back. I watched our muscles
strain against each other, he offering just enough resistance
to make it a struggle for me.
I whispered, "All
I have is my mental strength. I can never hope to win every time
physically. But you want to take the only thing I have away,
all so you feel some intimacy."
He looked shocked and
his eyes were as dark as my bruises. I was playing hard and mean.
"No, Scully--"
"Then let it go."
I should have shut up but I got carried away. "I've got
to be stronger-got to be better--"
He could play hard
too. "--than me?"
Mulder believes that
pain is a poison that must be bled out. I see it as a wound that
needs to heal quickly, even if it leaves a scar. This is just
another scar to add to my collection. I did find some peace while
in Georgia. If that's what he hoped to accomplish, he succeeded.
If he'd hope I would shatter and fall apart, then let the break
heal cleanly, that didn't happen. I do things my way.
In these past few weeks,
I've gotten stronger, but it was at the expense of our new closeness.
I'd set a schedule for myself and went back to work, like nothing
had happened, that first Monday after our return. My only concession
was his presence in my bed at night so I could sleep. Warm. Solid.
Safe.
But not on a case.
My productivity was doubled when I spent most nights huddled
in my motel rooms; gun unholstered, files open, eyes flitting
to the locked door. I found myself trying to rush Mulder through
the cases, even as he tried to break our one 'rule.'
Outside a rundown motel
in Tennessee, his fingers tracing the brittle bones of my wrist
as he murmured, "I could check under your bed for snakes--"
"No, Mulder."
I knew the drill. One
day at a time. One step at a time. I'd done this plenty of times
in the last seven years. The pain and fear would fade. Something
would come up to wash over these self-recriminating thoughts,
carrying them away--it always did...
VIII.
He's standing by the
couch, looking down at me. "I'm going to take a bath. Come
with me."
I have to ignore him,
staying rooted in my place and he finally goes into the bathroom
alone.
Ultimately it's the
sound of running water that draws me to the bathroom. He's left
the door ajar. In the dark hall, a wide band of wavering yellow
candlelight lies on the floor.
My throat begins to
close, but I force myself forward.
He's crouched by the
tub, naked, one hand under the flow of water from the tap, candlelight
lapping at his bent, broad back.
He senses my presence
and says, "Would you say your hair is normal or dry?"
I bite down on my lower
lip, hard, and the pain freezes my limbs.
Shaking my head, I
break the paralyzing trance.
He's repeating his
words. "Scully? How much soap do I put in?" That must
be what he'd asked.
"Mulder, stop
it!" My cracked voice bounces off the tile walls.
IX.
...It had been a long,
hard day. I left Mulder flipping around my TV's channels and
filled the tub with barely tolerable hot water, sinking beneath
the surface with delight for that well-deserved soak.
He came in and sat
on the toilet. I kept my eyes closed, but tracked his movements
automatically. I could hear him breathing, the shift of the fabric
on his sweatpants.
"Scully?"
"Yes, Mulder?"
"Get out of that
tub, baby. I wanna fuck you."
I slowly opened my
eyes, craned my head back and looked at his interestingly inverted
features gazing down at me from under heavy lids.
Which part offended
me more? The 'baby' part, or the 'fuck command performance?'
And...which part turned me on more?
He was hiding under
those hooded eyelids. Now I could see fear in his eyes. This
was the first time he'd tried to push with me. He was waiting.
I closed my eyes again
and let my neck sink back on the warm porcelain. I licked the
beads of sweat from my upper lip. And I waited too. What was
the point of him ordering me around if he got his way the first
time? What did that prove to him?
With my toe, I pulled
the plug from the drain so the water level began to sink, revealing
my flushed skin. His breathing became deep and satisfied but
he stayed on that toilet. I concentrated, centering my thoughts
between my thighs. Let the tissues want him, openly and freely.
Let them do a 'happy dance' of anticipation. I couldn't stop
the smile from forming on my lips.
"Scully?"
"Hmmm?"
"You gonna get
out of that tub?"
"You're not going
to join me?"
"No. I've got
something else in mind."
I let my eyelids drift
open again. There was a definite advantage to sex with another
human being. Although there was an increased risk of dissatisfaction,
there was also the thrill of the unknown. Masturbation becomes
dreary and predictable after the first five years--as I'd had
the misfortune to discover.
I rose from the tub
and finally turned to face him. He had his sweats pushed down
and was slowly working his cock to a rigid state. I watched,
swinging a leg over the side of the tub and getting out.
He didn't let me get
a towel. He was up and over me that quickly, sucking and biting
at my painfully heat-softened skin, his big hands squeezing and
molding all the rounded shapes to new forms.
The thrill of the unknown
was nicely coupled with his mind-reading ability. His palm was
grinding on my clit as two fingers stretched me open, stroking
me from the inside out. I arched my back and pulled his head
up to get his attention. I forgot what I was going to say but
he must have seen something in my expression that dictated his
next move.
I was spun around,
reduced to hanging onto the edge of the tub, staring down into
the slowly swirling bubble-laced water as it drained away. He
pulled my hips up as high as I could go, up onto my tiptoes.
He still had to bend his knees and the pops of his joints were
loud as shots.
"Mulder,"
I warned, and then he was pushing into me and I couldn't think
of a thing to say.
This was impossible.
This was never going to work, but there was no way in hell that
I was going to stop him. He was going slow--how could he go slow?
So far, our lovemaking
had been sloppy, hurried, frantic--us. We were lucky if he could
last a dozen thrusts before coming but I couldn't find a complaint.
I embarrassed myself too.
All my thoughts were
scattered and silly, like some teenager: 'Mulder's cock's big!
It's inside me! Mulder's inside me!'
We didn't have sex
often and we always did it like someone was going to come into
the room and tear us apart at any moment. Maybe neither of us
wanted to give the other enough time to think about how insane
this idea was.
How was he lasting
tonight? Of all nights? I'd been anticipating another quick fuck,
my nerves tingling, ready for their furious explosion. But now,
it couldn't happen. He had an angle that was so close to many
places but never close enough. I could hear my voice, whining,
moaning, sounding horribly needy.
My clit was swollen,
painfully fat, like an overripe berry hanging under dark leaves,
wanting to be plucked. I needed to get off his cock and help
myself come, but I didn't want to lose that internal pressure.
I risked lifting one hand, but immediately began to lose my balance.
No!
Back to gripping the
tub, pushing back against him desperately, trying to get enough
friction from his hardened balls to get something to happen.
A chuckle. The bastard
was laughing at me, and just kept up the slow grind.
A voice was begging.
It was my voice. "Please, Mulder. Please. Touch me."
Guttural words back.
"You wanna be touched?"
"Ye..." was
all I could manage as the last of the bubbles in the tub swam
in my slipping focus.
He'd been gripping
my hips tightly, but now let go, trusting me to keep in position.
My calves were cramping, but I couldn't think about that pain.
My clit. He needed to touch me there.
His touch was whisper
fine, like walking through a spider web. This was more sensuous
to me than groping. We were so sensitive to touch after so many
years untouched, it wasn't uncommon for him to come when I unzipped
his pants. He would apologize, of course, a perfect gentleman--even
with sticky boxers. He'd make up for it--always the gentleman.
But that night...
The feathery touch
glided over my ass, making circles, mimicking my tattoo. I knew
he was looking at it. But he never touches it. I don't have the
guts to ask him why.
"Touch it,"
I moaned again.
His palms came to rest
on my ass cheeks, spreading them wide.
His reply. "You
want me to touch you?"
I tried to squeeze
down on his cock, but I'm so swollen already, it's a useless
gesture. He laughed again and I gasped with fury.
Then he touched me.
I cried out with surprise and then ecstasy. Lightly, gently,
he traced that circle around my anus. It contracted under this
assault, as needy as every other tissue in my body.
"Mulder..."
I couldn't think at all. I could only beg. Everywhere was on
fire, aching with unrelieved desire, with pain, with sweet stimulation.
He chuckled again.
How can he possibly last this long? This is like some ridiculous
sexual fantasy with the big-dicked, faceless man fucking me in
the supply closet.
The young black guy
on security gate 6. He always smiles widely. "Good morning,
Agent," as he hands me my gun. His smile fucks me. His eyes
fuck me. And it's so easy to be in that supply closet, his big
dark thighs lifting me, pushing that thick cock I see nicely
outlined in his horrible polyester uniform pants way deep, deep,
deep...
"Scully!"
Mulder could tell.
He could sense a loss of connection between us.
It was my turn to laugh,
weak and gasping. "Yeah..." and I waited a beat, "Mulder?"
"You're a bad
girl! A bad, bad, girl!" he seemed to be joking, but his
tempo sped up.
At last. "Yeah,"
I could say.
I'm whirling--falling--his
cock was out of me. I cried out in anguish. I'd been close. So
close.
I staggered away. Found
myself in the dark bedroom, unsure where I was going and why
I'd gone there. He followed, pursuing, reaching, grabbing.
We were on the rug,
damp from the water off my body and the cooler air settled on
my skin, peaking it to goosebumps and tightening my nipples.
My ass was dragged up into the air and the chill hit my still
gaping opening, sending a shiver through my body.
I scrambled at the
ground, trying to get up on my hands and knees. We were both
laughing then. He grabbed my hands, and pulled them roughly back,
pinning them to the small of my back, leaving me to rest on my
chest, with my face turned to the side, gasping for breath.
He knocked a deep groan
out of me when he pushed back in. This time, he pounded at me,
our thighs slapping and straining at each other, his sweatpants-bound
legs giving him the leverage for strength.
I was completely pinned
down by him. I couldn't touch him. That cock inside me was my
center, my focus. Now the angle was swiping the right place with
every stroke. But I still needed...
One more try. "Please,
Mulder. Please touch me."
He was bent over me,
his soft tee shirt stroking at my bare back and his moist breath
raining down in my ear. Somehow he kept my wrists confined and
finally reached down under us.
He crushed my clit
with a hard rub of his knuckles, bursting the ripeness, causing
the sweet juice to rush out and cover his hand. At last--at last...I
was sobbing and writhing under him, an exquisitely slow explosion
radiating out from my center, enveloping his cock first, squeezing
it down to nothing. He cried out in protest/triumph but I didn't
pay him any heed. The waves of sensation had taken over my limbs,
numbing them with a hot glow.
He rolled my clit to
the side, rubbing, prolonging my orgasm to an unbearable free
fall towards a deep blue sea. Shattered, pieces of me burning
on reentry, I was sure it would never end. When the sharp pain
of over-stimulation finally replaced the ecstasy, I sobbed at
the loss, my throat painfully raw.
He stopped touching
me, but his hips continued to give off jerky thrusts, seeming
to bob on the remains of our storm. Boneless, drained of my blood,
I dropped to the floor, sliding off his rapidly shrinking penis.
"Scully?"
His weight settled
on top of me, pressing me to the rug. Those were the days when
I loved the sensation of being completely covered by this man.
But I couldn't answer. What was there to say? ...
X.
At my sharp words,
he twists his neck to look up at me in confusion. "What?"
I motion at the tub.
"You think you can *cure* me? Fix me? So you can get laid
again?"
He stands, unashamedly
nude, his arms slack at his sides, his face first confused, then
comprehending.
He shakes his head.
"Not everything is about you, Scully."
We both seem to reel
back from the blow of our cruel words. I collapse on the toilet
and he slips into the water, like a creature returning to its
deep-sea home.
For some obscene reason,
he decides to comfort me. "You can find the answers you
seek. I got my answer."
I can't stop myself.
"Mulder--"
"I held her again.
I hugged my sister one more time. I realized that's all I needed
now. For this moment."
I stare at the back
of his head, the heat of the room beginning to darken his hair
with sweat and make my hose and wool suit stick to my skin.
"For a brief moment
I was free. And like an addict in recovery, I'm afraid now. Afraid
that it is just for this day, and yesterday and the day before.
But will I feel this way tomorrow?"
Cautiously, I suggest,
"A crime happened, Mulder. Someone killed her. There must
be justice."
His head dipped once,
as though he was acknowledging my words but he poured a scoop
of water over his head. "At what price?"
"Someone took
that young woman from her family. Probed at her--did tests on
her until she couldn't take it anymore!" My voice has risen
to echo in the small space. I need to get control again.
"Yes." His
head dips again and I watch the rivulets of water trickle down
his corded neck.
I have to pull off
my jacket and toss it aside, frustration adding to the heat of
the room.
I find myself blind
with that frustration, swirling and untethered.
His voice is low. "When
will it stop?"
"What?"
"She didn't know
her last name. She didn't know her past. She didn't know where
she was born."
Automatically, I lift
a washcloth, wet it, and began to smooth it over his shoulders
to soothe the anxiety I see rising in him.
"Sometimes, in
my fanciful moments, I wonder if they created her out of the
white ash, the fragments of bone, the dull hair of dead women.
That's what her pictures looked like, from that time. Like a
rag doll, sewn together from remnants."
My brow furrows in
confusion, but I don't ask. I dip the cloth into the tub again,
savoring the warm water, before wringing it out over his arm.
His voice drones on.
"She lied by omission. She thought if she never said the
words out loud, it never happened to her--the tests, the horrors,
the humiliation."
My hands still and
I watch my fingers tense on the cloth.
"She wore a cross.
A simple gold cross like yours. I think she saw it as her passport
to this country. To the promised land, a place with no pain,
no danger."
I felt as though we
were in a confessional. Faces obscured, souls trapped in a small
space, the low, whispered words twisting around with the smoke
rising from the candles.
"She took her
children to church, hiding us under the white steeples. As though
They wouldn't find us there. Even without knowing her past, I
sensed the lie. I would sit there on that pew, Sunday after Sunday,
and knew they were lying, she and my Dad. They had no faith to
give me and couldn't teach me hypocrisy."
His tone finally has
some emotion and it's one of rising anger.
"I never would
have known the truth, I'm sure of it. But one day, a man came
to the house. After Samantha was gone. After my father was gone.
He had a picture to show her. A doctor from the camp. Did she
know the face of this old man? Was it him?"
Weakened by the picture
he's painting, I sink back against the cool porcelain tank of
the toilet. He begins spooning water over his chest and shoulders.
"I hid behind
the door and listened. 'What will you do to him? Will there be
a trial?' she asked. He just smiled at her questions. Told her
not to worry. She wouldn't have to face the doctor."
Mulder nodded, seeming
to agree with some unspoken comment. "He was a very nice
man. He took me for a Coke, asked me about my plans after high
school."
The washcloth has left
a dark, wet stain on my skirt. He doesn't seem to notice as I
drop it with a limp hand into the water beside him.
"I met him again.
When I was at Oxford. Ran into him a pub. He was watching a man.
A physicist at Jesus. I saw him. He noticed me. He talked to
me again. I asked him what he was doing there. He only smiled.
Two days later, the physicist was found dead, in the river, apparent
heart attack. I caught up with him on the train that night. He
wouldn't answer any of my questions. He only had more questions
for me. About my plans after university. I realize now he was
trying to recruit me."
Turning his head, he
finally directs his words to me and not the wavering shadows
on the walls. "He was a nice man, Scully. I've met cold-blooded
killers. He wasn't one of them. He was a man who chose to give
his soul to avenge six million others."
As he unconsciously
rubs the small, hard knobby scars left on his neck by the rattlesnake's
fangs, he says, "It seems like a cheap price for a righteous
cause. Have we given our souls away for a righteous cause, Scully?"
My head is pounding
and I want to flee the room. Is this another attempt to cut open
my wounds?
I am a murderer.
He may not see me this
way, but I do. I have taken a life in cold blood.
"You can't understand
what killing that man means to me," I spit out. I'm unbearably
hot and jump to my feet, glaring down in frustration at the back
of his head.
He ignores me and returns
to his story. "I went looking for her name, any family.
I searched records, interviewed people. She wouldn't help. 'It's
the past, Fox. I don't want to think about the past.' I finally
found an old Dutch woman, family all gone, blind, deaf; who'd
sheltered a Jewish child in the early days of the war. Maybe
her name had been Teena. Maybe she had been four."
I can't take the heat and sweat anymore. I feel unclean and quickly
strip off my crumbled, stained clothing. The water is calling
to me.
"She couldn't
remember who had brought the girl to the house. All she could
remember clearly, was the light, the bright light in the dark
night when they came and took her away." He doesn't look
at me, but pulls his legs up to his chest so I can fit in next
to the faucet, bracketing his white feet with my bent legs.
Our eyes meet at last
as I sink to my neck under the hot water, reflecting dark gold
candlelight.
He shifts his gaze
away and begins chewing on his thumb like a child. "I couldn't
find her, Scully. I couldn't find my Mom. She's been dead for
so long, Scully--" He finally cries. Thank God.
His tears are hidden
in the rivulets of perspiration running down his cheeks, but
the raw sob in his words reveals his pain. "She was there.
With the Walk-ins. Somehow it seemed right. She always remained
that child who walked out from behind the barbed wire fence."
The water feels so
clean and clear as I pour it over my shoulders and chest with
my cupped hands. Washing all this away for both of us.
He clears his throat
and his voice is suddenly strong. "I have to wonder--Did
I find out Samantha was dead because I stopped believing? She
remained alive only because I believed?"
His wet, shriveled
hands grip his bent head. Muffled, his words keep pouring out.
"Am I real? If my mother wasn't real? My family is all gone.
Was I ever a Jew? I never feel *anything.* No connection. Isn't
that what faith is? A feeling?" His eyes catch mine again,
looking for conformation. "I'm alone, without any past--"
His head dips to accept a dribble of water out of his palm. "--and
unsure of the future."
I say it easily. "You're
not alone. Never. You were never alone. Not from the moment I
walked into that basement office."
He surprises me again.
Jerking his head up, he fixes me with a passionate, blazing look,
and then declares, "My mother tried to hide, Scully. She
thought They wouldn't find us that way, but They still took Samantha.
I don't want to hide in the basement, or in my life, ever again.
I like feeling free, Scully."
The water is cooling.
I guess we can't stay in this tub forever. "All right,"
I say slowly, wondering what I've just agreed to.
I stand, wavering slightly
on my loose muscles. He rises too, and the water streams down
his body like a waterfall. After we both step out of the tub,
I hand him a towel, feeling oddly awkward. He seems to have shaken
himself free of his numbness, but what does that mean for us?
We stand back to back,
rubbing our bodies dry. He's hesitant, shifting from foot to
foot. The candles have burned low, guttered, and the air in the
room wavers, warm and deep red as the inside of a heart.
When I touch his chest,
his skin jumps. I let both hands skim over his soft surface,
sighing deeply.
"Scully?"
"I feel better
now."
"I'm glad--"
he whispers, right before his mouth seals over mine.
Finally, I pull back
and I see instant worry shimmering in the dark pools of his eyes.
I can only smile, and begin backing up, taking him with me down
the dark hall and into my bedroom.
As we tumble onto the
bed, I spread him over me like a warm blanket, letting his weight
press me down into my new comforter. The one with lavender violets
that he bought and smoothed over the mattress. 'The flowers reminded
me of your eyes, Scully.'
My breath starts to
come fast, from somewhere deep in my diaphragm--
I'm reminded of the
moment when the sails on a boat are unfastened, and the wrinkles
and folds begin to smooth out--
"Scully...Scully..."
His touch is so light it could be a breeze, stroking between
my legs--
There's this moment
when the sails are open, but hang limp, seeming to wait, wait
for just the perfect gust--
I gasp out a long breath
between kiss-swollen lips as he slides into me--
And then it catches
the wind, filling and filling, taking a shape, white and glowing
in the sun--
"Mulder! Mulder,
the light!" I say frantically.
He stills. "Oh,
God, Scully. I'm sorry." He's fumbling for the bedside lamp.
"Are you all right,
baby?" His face, filled with concern, is suddenly illuminated
over me.
I actually laugh. "Yeah,
*baby*, I'm fine. I..." I slide my hands down his broad
back, covering his butt, squeezing and pulling for encouragement.
"I just wanted to see you. I want to see everything."
His smile splits his
face in two and he pushes himself up on his hands to rock over
me.
I love the moment when
the sail is full but the ship hasn't caught its tug yet. I would
stand; legs spread, and wait, my breath tight in my chest with
anticipation. At the first yank, I would stagger, and then right
myself. Find the center of the ship's movement--find those sea
legs. And just let myself join nature's power--
I gasp in pain. The
power of the love I feel at this moment is overwhelming. The
sea does this to me too. It's so pure it hurts me with its beauty.
Mulder's face is that
pure and beautiful in orgasm, waves of joy shifting over his
features. Now, under the glow of my lamp, it blinds me. I can
see everything for the first time. Swept away by wonder, I watch
and smile through the tears that have shaken loose.
He sinks down over
me, trying to roll away, but I won't let him. "Stay right
here. I need you."
He seems to stiffen
in shock for an instant. My face nestled in the crook of his
neck, I smile at the realization that those words were probably
more unexpected from me than 'I love you' ever was.
I assume he's going
to slip off to sleep, but I can feel him thinking. I swear I
can almost hear the gears turning in his mind.
"Scully, I know
this doesn't solve anything. I mean...I didn't just want to get
laid."
"I know."
I grumble a bit to
myself as I relax back into the bed. He's going to keep talking,
no matter what I say to reassure him.
He does. "You've
never asked me what I believe in, Scully."
He wants to pick a
fight? Stiffening under him, I say, "I think you've made
it pretty clear in the past."
He raises his head
to look into my eyes, brushing my tangled, damp hair off my brow.
He seems sad when he says, "I want to believe we've solved
something by finding an answer to my sister's disappearance,
or we've solved something between us tonight, but I can't. Life
will never be black and white for me. All I ever seem to find
is more questions."
His brow crinkles in
worry. "Or am I being that addict?"
I'm not sure what to
say. For some reason, fear is rising in me again. "Someone
hurt your sister, Mulder," I say cautiously.
His hands cradle my
head, holding it in place so I can't turn away. "Someone
hurt you, Scully."
The fear blooms, hot
and red.
His voice, slow with
compassion, says, "I want to know who hurt you. Because
no one stopped them from hurting my sister, they went on to get
you and all those other women. It's wrong."
I force the word out.
"Yes."
His lips brush my damp
cheeks. "It will be a lot of work--"
I parrot, "Yes."
His fingertips are
stroking at my temples, my earlobes, my neck. "It's going
to hurt--a lot. Things will get harder before they get easier."
He rises up to give me a shaky grin. "We'll probably fight
more."
My body has gone soft
again, as warm and loose as it was when I floated in the bath.
"Yes," I murmur lazily, "But I'll risk that."
His chuckle vibrates
through my body and I clutch him to me tightly. He stills instantly
and we lie together, and then he starts to gently rock me--my
ship.
I doubt he expected
me to say more. But the words will be a prayer. I whisper just
loud enough for him to hear, "I want to be free."
~~~~~~~~~~~~THE
END~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Obviously,
I didn't find much closure in 'Closure.' Other than the fact
that many viewers are heartily sick of the search for Samantha
and the many possible explanations for her disappearance, I could
think of no other reason to accept the latest one. But I can't
believe the Mulder I have in my imagination would walk away from
the deaths of his mother and sister without thought. And there
is that little matter of Scully's shaken moral center, along
with the lingering question of what happened during her abduction.
Yes, CC, there are still some unanswered questions for viewers.
Telivah: Immersion in the mikvah, a ritual
bath used for spiritual
purification. It is used primarily in conversion rituals and
after
the period of sexual separation during a woman's menstrual cycles,
but many Chasidim undergo tevilah regularly for general spiritual
purification.
