From: Dreamshpr@aol.com TITLE: Distance Destroyed AUTHOR: Dreamshaper FEEDBACK: is saved and later reread like good novels at dreamshpr@aol.com ARCHIVING: I'd love it--if you want to, go ahead. As always, though, tell me where you are if we haven't talked before. ;) RATING:NC17 CATEGORY: MSR, A, V--next time won't you sing with me... SPOILERS: Hmm-I don't think there are any. If you find some--oh, well...sorry ;) SUMMARY:We got some stuff about grief, some stuff about love and a minor character death--but no one you'll be too sad to see go, I think. (No, it's not Diana. Do you think I'd write a story about grief in connection with her death? Sheesh.) DISCLAIMER: "I know they're yours," said the little sycophant to the Surfer God, "but I couldn't resist taking them out to play." NOTES: I think a completely random story is in order for today--mainly cause I like it ;) I have about ten billion running through my head and a solid thirty on my hard drive...but this one is a cooliebean. ;) Of course, that's just my completely ego-inflated opinion, and I have a feeling not many of you are gonna agree with me...so go read it for yourself ;) Am I the only one who can't write a letter without wanting to use smiley faces, phrases like lol and little actions, thanks to AOL and email? ::scratches head:: ;) LOL! Sorry. Told you--today is random day. ;) ```````````````````````````````````````````````````````` I watch from a distance as I am most comfortable doing, watch Mulder silhouetted against the reds and bleeding pinks of the sunset, the delicately tinted clouds and the harsh black shapes of the still leafless trees. He looks so alone, so tired, up there on top of that hill with his black coat flapping in the chilly breezy, and I have to fight the urge to go to him. I *had* been with him, just a little while ago--but the beauty of the sunset, the old crumbling gravestones and the rolling hills of this quiet cemetery drew my attention, and a desire to give him some privacy was urging me to find something to do with myself other than watch him. He needed, I was certain, some time on his own. Some time to make whatever amends he could, to find whatever comfort he possibly could in the gorgeous setting and whatever resolution he could while standing before a glossy black headstone... His mother's headstone. They might have had a difficult relationship--hell, they might have had an impossible relationship that could best be described as angrily close to nonexistent, but Mulder loved her. He grieves now, quietly and hidden from all the world but me, and I ache to provide the comfort he cannot seem to find. So I stood beside him and that granite stone symbolizing the end of life for only a few minutes before turning abruptly away. I would have been able to go farther had he not managed to touch my arm just before I was gone and drawn my eyes to his in the waning daylight... "Scully?" He said simply, no different tonewise than the thousand times he's said it before, but it made me want to weep. There was a wealth of hurt and confusion just under the smooth, even tone, the silky way he says my name couldn't have disguised it from me...nor could his eyes, echoing everything I had heard in his voice. I covered his hand on my arm with my own and smiled, squeezed that hand gently while looking into those eyes as dark as midnight and as weary as I have ever seen them. "I'm just going to be down the hill," I assured him. "I'll be here, when you're...ready to go." He searched my eyes for a long time before he nodded, mollified, and allowed me to go by releasing the hold on my arm. I moved away as quickly as I could, drawn to his heartache like I always am and determined to give him space... It's always hard to walk away from Mulder. But some times, like that moment, are harder than others. Being a Scully, however, I have some defense against the urgings of my heart, and I left him there. Alone. And now I watch his desolate outline and wonder what he is thinking, how he is coping. I remember when my father died, the turmoil of it, the unanswered questions, the grief that couldn't be expressed, and know it is worse for Mulder. He has no one to support him now, no closeknit family, no loving parent...he just has himself. And he has me...but I don't know that I'm enough. Not to balance out the damage done by years of neglect and decades of distance--certainly not in the light of his family... Those people were awful. They treated Mulder like a murderer, like he had been the force behind this second, fatal stroke. Keeping their distance from him and shielding themselves from his tired eyes, they had made an outcast of him--and he had stoically accepted that as his due. That made me so angry--with them certainly, but mostly with him. Perhaps that's not right, not logical, but I'm allowed to be nonsensical on occasion if I want to be, and this was certainly a time that demanded it. He was puzzled by my anger...no surprise there, I was fighting *for* him. He's not used to that, not when it comes to his family... His eyes had met mine everytime I smiled through a clenched jaw, and every time I avoided looking into those eyes that were his and *weren't*. I didn't want to cause a scene, not with his family there as I was likely to go get my gun and start shooting them, but I couldn't hide the fact that I was furious. "Scully?" He'd murmured my name the same way then as he had a little while ago on top of that hill, full of uncertainty and pain. But then I hadn't been able to smile, I hadn't been able to comfort... I'd turned on him. "Why the Hell are you letting them treat you like this, Mulder? Why are you letting them make you a...a pariah? They're denying you the right to grieve here, and I am so close to shooting you again for letting them!" I'd hissed the whole spiel, and turned from him as I finished it, shoulders tight and breath hissing as angrily as my voice had. I will never forget the look in his eyes when he turned me to face him, when he put one cold finger under my chin and held my face up to his--they were unspeakably tender and grateful...usually, I only see that look after one or another of us has rescued the other from whatever situation we managed to work ourselves into... To see it then gave me some indication of the stress he was under. It also gave me some indication of just what *could* be done inside him, with only a little assistance. I wonder sometimes what he'd have been like without the tragedies of his life. Something makes me think he'd have gone into psychology still...but I get the feeling he'd have been a child psychologist, not a profiler. There's just something inside him that would lend itself well to helping children...and I doubt that that something is the result of tragedy. It seems more the result of a deeper kind of internal strength. But the Mulder I know is too haunted, I think, to do anything other than what he does now...I don't know if that is in itself a tragedy or a blessing for this world. Mulder, for all his faults and all his pain, is incredibly good at what he does. The world *is* a safer place thanks to the troubles in his life and how he has chosen to deal with them. I believe that deeply, though I doubt he would--but that belief is sometimes what keeps me going...especially when there is discord between us. My attention turns from the internal as I notice that a long time has passed, as I realize that the sky is no longer painted in brilliance but cold in it's blackness--those delicate, pretty wisps of cloud have concealed the light of the stars, even the moon is only a gray/yellow stain in the cloud cover...and Mulder is gone. Frantic I search with my eyes, but it's hard to peer through the grimness of the night, and I'm unable to see more than a few feet around me--the only place easily visible thanks to the backlighting of the town is that damn hill Mulder was on. I head toward that hill, fear clenching my heart--but get only a few steps before I hear his voice in the darkness to my left. Whirling, I search the shadows near where I heard his voice, and am startled to spot him no more than a dozen feet from me, hidden by his coat and the darkness of the place. Relief washes over me... We stand there like that for a long moment, watching each others eyes, wary for no good reason, till he takes a step forward. "I'm ready to go." He tells me softly, voice barely carrying towards me in the cool night air. I nod, and move forward to meet him, picking my way carefully through the wet grass and uneven terrain to meet his patiently waiting figure--when I go past him, he turns to walk with me, one hand resting itself with unaccustomed firmness against my back. Startled by the sheer *need* in the touch, I look over my shoulder and search his face--but there's nothing there that hasn't been there before, so I relax and we walk. The rental car we rode up in is the last one left in the dark parking lot, and I look down at my watch with a frown--we had stayed far past visiting hours, but no one had interrupted to say the gate would be locked or anything, so I had to hope some kind soul had left it open for us... That would just ice the cake. I'm sure that just because Mulder is here, this cemetery would become haunted by more than memories--we'd probably have three headless ghosts, a pair of wailing banshees and another golemlike monster to deal with... But the gates are fortunately open, and the only monsters we have to combat are suddenly grumbling stomachs. Mulder directs me to the nearest diner without asking if I want to go there or back to the motel we booked into--rather than stay with his family in his mother's home. Other than his occasional "turn left here" or "right there" we make the trip in silence, as we have so many other late night forays for something at least edible. And when we reach the old-fashioned, moderately busy establishment, he goes in to fetch food while I wait outside, watching through the huge plate glass windows. The locals here treat him like a pariah too. And I can't imagine that more than two of them know anything about him at all, other than the rumors. I have to turn away to prevent going in there and protecting him--I'm certain he'd be embarrassed, I'd be embarrassed and the townspeople unfortunate enough to get in my way would be feeling some kind of pain... But he comes out soon enough, cartons of steaming food in hand and seemingly no worse for wear, so I restart the car, glare as intimidatingly as I can into the eyes of the people who watch from their seats beside the window and take some comfort in their sudden need to move their seats. Mulder makes no comment, though a restraining hand is laid very gently on my leg and a brow arched in a way he could only have learned from me is commentary enough. I let his hand rest where it is for the rest of the ride, knowing he needs it... He and I grieve differently. When I grieve, I want to be distant, be separate. I prefer to do it on my own--maybe because I know I don't have to. I have a huge, close-knit family, and can turn to any of them if I am hurting. And I have Mulder--who I might not turn to often, I might not share with frequently...but who would be there for me if I did. So I grieve alone. But Mulder--when he grieves, when he worries...he wants me close. I think...I am the only one. The only one in this world that Mulder would turn to when he needs to grieve--and somehow I know that that fact makes me vital. It makes me important, and therefore he has to keep me near and safe... Especially when he hurts. I know this little Mulder detail very well--it was one of the first things I realized about him...and the death of his mother only reinforces my knowledge. Since he got the word, he has rarely left my sight--or rather, rarely allowed me to leave his. He slept on my couch the night he found out, when he came to tell me, and leaves my hotel room as late as he can now that we are here. All day today, he kept me at his side with gently beseeching looks, with those cold, gentle hands... Surprisingly enough--I'm not sick of it. I had thought I would be, having little patience for his protectiveness, and no patience at all for possessiveness. But something in the way he is--something in *who* he is and how I feel, I suppose--keeps me patient. I understand his grief, though I do not feel it the same way... And I do not feel it for his mother. As far as I am concerned, she was a cold bitch, who did not deserve the son she raised anymore than she deserved the daughter she lost--no matter what the circumstances were. We eat together as silently as we had traveled together when we get back to the hotel, sitting in my room with the TV on low volume and the steam rising from our dinners. When we are both done, I excuse myself to change into black cotton sleep pants and a tank top, brush my teeth, and scrub my face free of makeup before heading back out. Mulder has turned off the lights, turned up the volume and made himself comfortable on my bed, on his side away from the bathroom door with half the pillows under his head and the other half on the floor or in his arms. Amused, I watch for a moment before going to drag him off my bed, out of his comfortable feigned doze. Then I realize that it isn't feigned. In the five minutes I was in the bathroom, he cleaned up our dinner mess, made himself comfortable and went to sleep. I should wake him up. I know that--I should make him go retire to his own room, just a door away...but I can't. He's had a rough couple of days--I've been there, I *know* how hard he's taken this...so I go to his room, gather his blankets and pillows and redistribute everything on my bed so that he is covered and I have pillows too. Then, carefully, I crawl into bed beside him, maintaining proper distance and stiff posture till the warmth and the rhythm of his breathing lull me into sleep... ```````````````````````````````````````````````````````` When I awake, no more than two hours later, I find my proper distance obliterated. Mulder is wrapped around me, wrapped into me and squishing us both into pretzel-like shapes more suited for his couch. I am laying on my back, he is resting on his stomach, faced buried just below my breasts and just above my middle, arms wrapped around my hips and long, long legs stretching out far past my own. My hands, of their own volition, are wrapping him just as tightly--one rests in his hair and the other on his back... When I realize where my hands are, I also realize that he has somehow stripped down to boxers, kicked free of all the blankets but the one wrapped around us--though he was on top of my blankets when I went to sleep--and he has knocked all the pillows clear except the one under my head... It's like being wrapped in a heating pad--for the first time in *days* his skin is warm, and I gratefully realize that my fear of shock setting in might be unfounded... But that doesn't mean my discomfort is abated. Gently, I try to wriggle free--and that's when I realize that Mulder is not only half-naked, twined around me like a vine, and toasty warm--he's also wide awake. Turning his face from my skin to meet my eyes in the dim, flickering light provided by the TV, he smiles very faintly. But he doesn't loosen his hold, doesn't even approach letting go. "Mulder," I murmur, warning evident in my tone and a slight, slight waver betraying the effect his breath tickling across my cotton clad chest has had on me--a guiver he doesn't fail to notice. "Scully," he murmurs in reply, tightening his hold and making himself more comfortable. "Is there a problem?" "I don't know Mulder. You tell me--or better yet, let's call Skinner and ask *him*." "What's this Scully? Are you implying...impropriety?" Mulder made a shocked face and gasped the words out, and I had to roll my eyes even as I struggled to loose myself from his hold. There are times when I almost prefer shell-shocked Mulder...especially when I'm dealing with smart ass Mulder. But that's unfair, and I know it. If he's coming out of that accepting, painfully bitter stage he was in--I have to be glad. And if I helped--I have to be grateful. But I don't have to be held so close. It's not like I'm planning on running away. Oops--I can tell by the look on Mulder's face that I said that out loud. Carefully, he releases me, scooting back to the far edge of the bed, as far away from me as he can get, and some of the lighter look in his eyes fades--I am left feeling like a bitch who just kicked a tailwagging puppy. "You have before, Scully. Run away when I needed you." I can't help but laugh, a rough chuckle that rises bitterly from my chest. "Yes, I've run, Mulder--and you've pushed me away. Isn't it all the same in the end?" His eyes on mine are suddenly fierce and he is back over me in a heartbeat, larger, heavier body crushing mine into the mattress beneath us. "Yes, I've pushed you away--because I couldn't deal with you being hurt because of me, losing part of yourself because of me. And everytime I sensed that little rebellion rising up in you...I wanted you to leave, Scully, as much as I wanted you to stay. So I pushed--and you came back." His voice, that rough whisper I rarely hear from him, rumbled through his chest over mine, rumbles right in to me, Dan I have to close my eyes against the evocativeness of it, the pleading undertone, the anger... Why can't it be simple between us? Why does everything have to be wrapped in angst and dipped in misery? He drops his eyes from mine, drops his head to rest it in the crook of my neck. His warm breath washes over my skin and I sigh, hand going automatically to run a soothing path down his back. "You came back, Scully, everytime. And I knew, that last time, that I could never let you go. I could try my hardest to make you go, I could fight myself...but in the end I had to have you with me." Silently listening, trying not to notice where this was going, I held him to me as lightly, as easily as I could. And when he ran out of words, I lay in the dark considering him... "I came back, Mulder, because I wanted to." I finally whispered, seeing that as a relatively safe comment, but regretting it when his body shifted again and I was faced with those disconcerting eyes. "So you did--but it's not enough to have you here anymore. I need something else from you, something I think I've had for years..." His husky tone sent shockwaves across my skin, waves he noticed and appreciated with a soft smile and hands wrapped around me to hold me close to him. "Something I just realized now, with my mother dying...that I want to savor for as long as I live. And since I have no idea what's going to happen tomorrow--I want to start *now*." And in the half second after the words passed his lips, they were light on mine, sucking and nibbling...and I was so aware of him that I couldn't help but respond. His hands were surprisingly gentle on me now, as we kissed heatedly, and I was left in awe of the sparks they generated across my skin. Wondering if my own hands had the same effect on him, I scraped questing nails across his shoulders, feeling him shudder and delighting in the waves of it. When his mouth left mine to trace a path across my torso, down my stomach, down my legs...only lightly nibbling, doing nothing more, yet *still* provoking more response than I'd ever been able to give...I had to give in. To give up to the moment, and just enjoy the man... After all--I do love him. And I respect him, I trust him... And it feels so good. My mind closes down after a minute, when the warmth of his breath and tongue on my stomach starts sending chills and goosebumps up and down my body, but I'm focused enough to torture him equally when he's done teasing me... Even if he's only done because I struggled to get free, wanting to play as much as he did. Delighting in his husky murmur of my name, I quietly explore him further, the taut muscles, warm skin and subtle scent of him both familiar and new. I know all his scars, all his blemishes and perfections--but to see them, taste them as we are both flushed with arousal and scented with each other...it's quite different. And when he finally decides enough is enough and slides over me, I look into his eyes with a tight sigh--for a moment, I see him standing on that hill, alone and sad...but then he smiles down at me and the image is replaced by something else--something so powerful I have to close my eyes as we struggle along to completion. ```````````````````````````````````````````````````````` After, when our breathing slows and we are wrapped together the same way we were before we made love, I close my eyes and sigh. Guard lowered, the questions begin to slip out before I can hold them in. "So was this kind of affirmation thing, Mulder?" He laughs in my ear--it could be worse, he could be offended--and replies slowly, puffing on my skin with every word. "No. I. Love. You." "Do you?" I whisper in return, keeping my eyes closed and my face away from his--so naked, not only stripped of clothes but stripped of everything that could block him out... "Yeah...I know, I wasn't raised right, Scully. Not much love in my house, not even before Sam was taken. But...I know why I need you. I know why you've been so important these last years." I can't battle tenderness, not now, so I open my eyes to find his locked on mine for what must be the thousandth time...but seems like the first. Mulder doesn't have any shields up wither. Love is there, bold but quiet and intense, and I can't help but kiss him gently, feeling the reemergence of heat... "I love you too Mulder. That's why I can't leave." "You could, Scully. You could leave before I get you killed, before I find myself at another grave...only this time without anyone to help. Without anyone to watch me grieve, watch me say good-bye. Without anyone left to wait for me..." His voice cracks, he clears his throat and shifts, eyes meeting mine with desperate intensity and deep sincerity. "I loved my mother, Scully. More than she knew, more than I knew with the anger between us for so many years...but I loved her desperately. And no one, none of those people in my family will do jack shit for me while I grieve for her. You are the only one, the only one who cares that this hurts me, that I will miss her, that I will always regret--" His voice breaks off and a slow tear trickles from his eye--but his breathing remains calm, his skin stays warm, and he holds me as closely as he had been before. For a moment, I fight to find the words to tell him, to reassure him of my presence in his life, but it takes a long time. We lay there, ensconced in a warm, comfortable bed and fight emotions with a gentle embrace and soothing caresses. But the time comes when I know what he needs to hear and I need to say. So I clear my throat, close my eyes for a minute and begin. "Mulder, I will always be there waiting for you. Even if I do die, I will be waiting. I will watch you say good-bye, watch you...and I'll be there loving you." Forcing those words past a tear-tight throat is probably the hardest thing I've ever done--other than opening my eyes and finding Mulder's, watching them glisten in the darkness. "I love you." He whispers again, with eyes saying so much more, and I kiss him. "I know..." And for a long time, we lay like that, silent and still as daylight brightens the room, clears the deep pockets of shadow and illuminates the little cocoon we made for ourselves. And with the warmth of the light shining on our skin, we both fall gently back to sleep. THE END ```````````````````````````````````````````````````````` This started out more as an exercise than as anything postable--one of the three dozen stories on my computer that are more experiments than actual stories. It began more as a series of loosely knit scenes--has remained a series of loosely knit scenes--but each scene had a different kind of importance, and a different kind of meaning. The tie, really, was only perspective and grief. Love and strength came in much later, when I realized that I really liked this story for some reason...but anyway, that's enough of that ;) I hope you enjoyed it! And thanks for reading ;) And uh...why not reply to this one while you're here in my little world o' nuttiness? I'm easily found ;) Dreamshaper dreamshpr@aol.com