From: Geb29 Date sent: Fri, 19 Dec 1997 20:40:24 EST Subject: NEW: Flightless (1/1) by geb FLIGHTLESS by geb (geb29@aol.com) Distribution: Archive and post wherever. Just let me know. Thanks. Rating: NC-17 for sex Classification: S, MSR, Mulder-angst all over the place Spoilers: Momento Mori and after Summary: Scully has gone missing again. And when Mulder finds her, the question is what and who is really lost and found. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully below to Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Network. No infringement is intended and no money is being made from this. NOTE: Sorry this is a little dated -- but then again, maybe not. She IS only in remission after all. And we know the guys in charge never let a good opportunity for angst idle for very long. This is my first ever posting, so I hope it works. Let me know if I should keep posting, or return to only writing memos for work. Feedback: geb29@aol.com Go ahead, I can take it. BTW: I'm aware of all the sentence fragments. I like them. They're staying. : - ) FLIGHTLESS by geb Scully has disappeared again. And I sit and wait for her return. Her disappearance has been thorough and deliberate, of her own volition this time. She is vacationing, she says. She has vacated. I listen to the mechanical insect of her cell ring in my ear and I wait. I have entered her apartment with a lie in my mouth about watering her non-existent plants, feeding her dead dog, forwarding her junkmail, but there is nobody to listen. So, I swallow the lie to feed the hollow in my stomach and scavenge to slack my thirst for her. I find a desert. Dusty and silent. She knows me well enough to deny me. So...I wait. And so it goes. She is sicker now. I think. She doesn't tell me and I no longer ask. I don't know if the stillness that has grown in her, and the retreating, is something that she is doing deliberately, or something that is being done to her. She does not tell. I don't know if it is an attempt to save herself, or to save both of us, or the very opposite of salvation. And there is the question of what there is left to save and from what and for whom. We do not talk of it. So...She has been shrinking away. Part of her was already gone long before she left. And I wait now for what is left to come back. I wait, in those moments when I have the patience of God, for what is left to me to come back. In my greedy hours I crave it all back. I do not wait well. After these years of searching for Samantha I am practiced at it, but I do not do it well. I rearrange books. I organize files. I dot the i's and cross the t's of five years' worth of paperwork. I throw a lot of things away. I stare at walls and floors. I go for long hard runs until my chest burns sharp rather than aches dull. These are my day hours. My night hours are worse. They are the times when there is no patience to be found. They are the hours in which I starve. These are the hours when I too have begun to retreat. I also vacate. The waiting pays off, as waiting always does: eventually and with the reward of only that it is over. The telephone rings during one of the hungry hours and her voice fills my ear. "Mulder, it's me." I sit on the floor, my back to the couch, solid things, and I close my eyes and listen to our conversation of silences. "I'm fine, Mulder." In the Scully language of denial, I have become unsure of the meaning of this. I listen to the silence. I wait. I'm just taking a break, Mulder." She is breaking then. "Where are you?" "It's okay, Mulder." In the morning, in a moment of patience, I know where she is. I have heard in the silences of our conversation the heart beat of a place. For a while, I hesitate, because I don't know the meaning of her words. I wonder if I should continue to believe the lie of them. And then, it doesn't matter. Because I too am breaking and, unlike her, I cannot take it. ************ "Scully?" I squint through the torn screen that encloses the beach house's wide porches. The place gives off a look of desertion and desperation. It is an antique and a wreck. I walk around to the back, sand filling my shoes, and let myself onto the porch. A lock would be pointless; there is no screen here. The veranda is warm and glowing with the afternoon light slanting in. With a practiced yank on the knob and shove of my shoulder on the cottage door, I am in. "Scully?" I have been here before. She has given me the keys to get away when she cannot stand me anymore. I have never seen her here myself. "Hey, Scully. Where are you? It's me." There are leavings of her here: her cellphone, a cold mug of tea, a dirty plate, a gray sweater, her glasses. There is a scent of her here, as faint as a ghost. I taste it until it vanishes in a swirl of salt breeze. I prowl the cottage, but it has only these pieces of her. And the tinkle of old wind chimes on the porch. I leave the cottage, cross the veranda. There is a separate room here. I glance in. This is where Scully sleeps. This is where she is sleeping, curled up tight with knees to her chest, hands tucked in under her chin. This is where Scully lies, in the guestroom of her family's deserted beach house. I am not the only one, then, that she retreats from. I lean with my forehead against the windowpane, watching. I see her breathe. I watch each breath. I will each one. **************** I sit on the front veranda, watching through a tear in the screen as the sun sets behind a distant dune. Man first flew from there. I think of different flights. Scully does not seem surprised that I am here. She blinks sleepily at the failing sun and then her eyes take me in, my bare feet and rumpled work clothes. The glass of whiskey balanced on my lap. Her eyes are a gray that I have never seen before. The light in them is less. Not dimmer, but a light farther away. A lantern receding into the night. They take me in, but not to the light. She looks back at the sunset and leans against one of the porch posts, settling into her perfect stillness. We wait. The silence seeps into us as deeply as the indigo evening bleeds into the yellow sky. I drink the whiskey. I feel the tight ripple of wicker against my back, the hardwood floor under my feet. They are solid and I am grounded. The ocean beats behind us. The breeze sighs. And Scully shivers. She wraps her arms around herself and shivers. I stand up to offer her my warmth. She tenses, and curls her arms up between us. I rub her back, stroke her neck. I press my lips to her hair. "Sometimes," she says, "I hate you so much." I close my eyes. But, I still breathe. Still, I breathe. She walks away. I watch the tight line of her shoulders, the wire length of her back. She disappears into the deep shadow of the verandah. I think of flightlessness. *************** The floorboards creak under my feet. The sand rubs them. Blocks of night blue die-cut the darkness in her room into a kiltered checkerboard. The yellow light from the kitchen across the verandah does not penetrate very far as I open the door without knocking. I see the shadow of her sitting against the headboard stir. She lifts her head for a moment. It's just me. It is me. She puts her head back down, resting her cheek on her knees. Her eyes, black now, in white, stare out the window towards the ocean. It beats. I kneel in a square of blue light beside the bed. She lets me touch her. She lets me put my hand in her hair. Her black eyes stare at me. I realize I am not the only one who sees the darkness of her eyes. We are both afraid. The air around us sings like the sound of a wet finger run around the rim of a crystal glass. I say her name. Scully lets me put my arms around her. She lets me crawl up onto the bed beside her. She lets my body wrap around hers. She is so small. She lets me rock her and rock her. She trembles. I slip my hands into the warmth under her shirt and rub her back and shoulders. She feels as if she will shatter. I lay a protective hand on the back of her neck. She presses her face to my chest. She sighs raggedly. I pull at the edge of her top. I pull it up. With a quick wave of her shoulders and arms she helps me to pull it over her head. And I look. Because I can't help it. Because she sits up away from me and watches and waits. She lets me look. And then she looks away. I hold her again, nuzzle my face against the side of her head. I clutch at her back, her waist. She turns her head and I feel her mouth open against my neck. Her hands grab at my shirt and unbutton it, pull it from my pants, push it off my arms. Her cool hands move over my shoulders, down my chest, back and forth. She watches her hands touch me. Her fingers slide down over my belly and the muscles there jerk uncontrollably. I catch my breath. I hold her face in my hands, force her to look up at me. Her eyes are black. She breathes in gasps. I kiss her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks. I brush my lips across her mouth. I say her name. I am so hungry. We kiss as if starving for each other. We breathe for each other. My hands are in her hair. On her breasts. Stroking the tight skin of her ribs and hips. She clings to me and lies back, taking me with her. Her fingertips slide under the waistband at the small of my back and massage the base of my spine. I can't help arching, can't help pressing myself into her. I can't help my moan. Somehow, we finish undressing each other. Her skin glows in the darkness. It is so soft. Her touch is so light. And her strength surprises me as she rises up hard against me, as she lifts both our bodies from the bed. I slip off her, lie beside her, pull her onto her side. We stare into each other's eyes, inches apart. She is far away. I want her here with me. I touch her face, push the hair out of her eyes. "Scully...." She tips her head forward, kisses my collarbone, drags her mouth down my chest. Her hand pushes at my hip until I am flat against the bed, straining upward. Her hands stroke me, move even lower and squeeze gently. She nuzzles her cheeks against the muscles of my stomach that have gone taunt and painful with want. I tangle my fingers in her hair. Her mouth is all softness, all warmth and movement as it covers me. I can barely breathe. I hold her head gently, pump my hips quickly and carefully. The noises I make embarrass me, but I can't stop. It goes on. I can hardly stand it, and in the end it takes all I have to lift her up and away from me. I lay her back and cover her small frame with my body. My need is unbearable. I taste my own desire on her lips. I am starving. I cannot be gentle now. My hands grab at her heaving body, squeeze, probe. Scully parts her legs and I press between them. She does not feel ready. She is not ready. But I can't stop and she does not let me try. I force her hips to the bed. I force myself against her and she arches up to meet me. She is so small. I find her. I tear into her. She gasps a short, sharp intake of breath. We lie very still for a moment. She is so close and I want to have finally found her here. But, then, she beings to move: a quick, frantic motion. Her hands clutch the tops of my arms. She says my name. She says the name that I have let other women say, the name I do not let her use. She is like a stranger to me. Mindlessly then, I follow her lead: I close myself away and I fuck her. It is her hand that stops me, brings me back. Her fingers entwine with mine and involuntarily clench so tightly that the pain brings me back to her. To us. I slow, even as her hips keep jerking under me. I press as deep into her as I can and stay there, just barely moving, letting my weight calm her movements. I watch her face. I wait for her to turn it back to me. I shush her desperate breathing. "It's okay....Hey. Scully. It's okay....It's me....It's okay....." Her eyes open. She stares into me. She touches me with her darkening eyes that fill with a sudden brightness. "Mulder...I don't know where I am...." I taste the salt light from her eyes. "You're just here. You're here with me." I lift my chest and shoulders away from her and I rock slowly in her tight cradle. She curls her body up around mine, pulling at me slowly, squeezing me between her legs. I run a hand along her side, down her thigh and cup her knee, pulling it higher. I reach down and take her foot in my hand, massaging it as I move in her. Slowly, eventually, our rhythm quickens. I release her foot and wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her hips up tight against me. My head moves down to press against the hard plane of her chest bone. I kiss her breasts. I lick the hollow of her neck. I wait for her to come to me completely. I wait for her to come. I beg her to. She whispers a breath into my ear, a soft cry. "I can't...." I lower my body onto hers. She meets my thrusts and then arches away. I cling to her, chasing her body with mine. I cannot push far enough. I pray out loud. God....God.... She lifts. Her fingernails scratch along my back. We are so close. Although I cannot tell anymore where I end and she begins we are still separate. I am so desperate. My movements become all my own. I hold her head in my hands and press my face against her ear. I feel her soft and warm all around me. I lose myself. And I finally let go in her. I let go. I fill her with what is left inside me. And then I collapse, empty. Slowly, I come back to myself. I rest on top of her body. I protect her with myself. Our bodies are damp, musky. I breathe across her breast. I cover it gently with my hand and close my eyes. Her hands press on my back. I listen to her heartbeat grow slower, fainter. Slowly, I shrink from her. She slips away from me. She brings her hands up between us and twists from under me. She tries to turn away. "Stay with me, Scully." My voice is gruff, low, begging. We whisper. "I can't." "Stay here with me." "I can't promise you that, Mulder...." "Stay....Stay...." She shatters. She breaks. She cannot take it then, after all. The liquid light fills her eyes and spills out onto my hands. She sobs. I cradle her in my arms, protect her with the curve of my body. I stroke her pale, cooling skin. She is solid. I feel the pulse in her wrists, wave after red, salty wave. She cries with barely a sound. She cries herself to sleep against my shoulder. In the silence, between the sounds of her breath, I force myself to swallow the lump of her words and I think I will die from them. I hold her and I wait, with the patience of God, to see if she will come back to me.