RocketMan II

Can't Cry Hard Enough

Clean Well-Lighted Place

Coffee - Coffee II - Coffee III

Can't Cry Hard Enough

Date: Mon, 04 Aug 1997 20:33:50 +0000

Author: RocketMan [email protected]<

Disclaimer: The characters of M&S belong to CC and are alive by the

genius of Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny. Gracias. "Can't Cry Hard

Enough" is by the Williams Brothers.

Notes: This is very A, and MSR. Spoilers: Momento Mori

< I'm gonna live my life

Like every day's the last

Without a simple good-bye

It all goes by so fast.>

Mulder felt the tug on his heart as he watched her face and wondered how

such a small, unobtrusive woman could have such an effect on him. It

wasn't her smallness, or even her body, or even her brains anymore that

made him want to hold her, but just her. Her essence, her lifeforce, or

sould or whatever it was called.

She was facing the idea bravely, but he could tell by her face that she

didn't want to be there, she wanted to be at home in bed, ignoring the

world and its pressures.

He hated the word cancer now, it made him feel like he would throw up.

It made him remember her face as she told him that Penny was dead, that

she wasn't going to let it get to her, that she wasn't leaving him if

she had any say in it.

He loved her for that, for her brave words and hopeful outlook, but in

the end, that's all they were - brave words for a dying soul.

How long now? What was the new time estimate now? A few years, one year,

six months, a week? Did it matter anymore? She would be leaving him,

going away and not coming back, and he would be left alone without her.

He couldn't do that. It made him nauseous to think of her desk empty

forever, of no petite redhead sitting beside him in their rental, of no

frowning face telling him she did not like this latest choice of motel.

He couldn't even comprehend not having her to call at night, of her not

being there to keep him in line. And he didn't want to. So he wouldn't.

What was that famous line from "Gone With The Wind"? I'll think about it

tomorrow? Or tomorrow's another day? well, that's how he thought about

it for now. Tomorrow he could deal with it, tomorrow he could come up

with a way to keep from dying inside when she left him for good.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to go home, now?" she asked, needing some control

somewhere, make him think she was really okay and she would be fine. But

he could tell by the funny look in her eyes that she really didn't want

him away from her.

"No, I'm okay. I want to be here."

Flat out lie. Off the charts lie. Hell, no. He didn't want to be here,

but he did want to be with her. To be beside her like he promised.

"Okay."

She sat up in the hard plastic chair, waiting in silence for the doctor

to come back and tell her just what the prognosis was. She was scared to

death, he could tell, and truthfully, so was he.

It was the fear that today could be the day where the cancer pushed

through and made it to her brain, or got into her bloodstream and

traveled to the rest of her body. It was living like each day could be

the last. And he hated it.

He wished he could make it all okay again, make it all disappear.

He would even trade their time together to make her well. He'd trade the

joy of knowing her to make her better, he'd give up his search and the

X-Files and everything. She meant that much and more.

So why wasn't anything happening? How come no one was coming to him

saying things like, I'll help you, but - (you have to give up the

search, you have to stop looking for Sam, you can never see her again,

you can never know the truht, you have to sacrifice something important,

you have to die)

She stiffened and he saw the doctor come close to their waiting room,

feeling like a kid again, when you got stuck in an exam room for an hour

and the doctor came back and said - oh, he's sick. And you always

thought - you're kidding! I'm coughing up a lung here and you say I'm

sick! You must be joking!

He realized his thoughts were rambling and he knew it was from

nervousness.

The doctor didn't stop at their waiting room, he went to another's.

Mulder thanked God. The doctor looked very doomsday.

Scully looked to him and saw his fear and suddenly understood the phrase

- smell the fear. She could. She smelled it on him, and on her, and she

really didn't like the helplessness it carried in with it. She wanted to

say something to calm him, but he was so wound up, one would think he

was the one with cancer, the one to die.

She realized then, for the first time, that in truth, he was the one

that would die. Inside.

She shuddered with the weight of that thought.

He turned anxious eyes to hers and she shot him daggers.

<I don't need your help> they said. But oh, she did, she did.

he leaned forward suddenly and squeezed her hard, as if the strength of

his hug could make everything all right. Make it all go away.

"Well," came the voice of God.

Well, not God, but a doctor, and they thought they were God, so close

enough. Especially in this situation.

Scully straightened up and Mulder took his arms away from her, but was

still close; she could feel his almost suffocating presence.

"It actually looks better. You've been having more nosebleeds because

the growth is moving, but away from the sinus cavity, closer to the

front."

Mulder, being so tense that he couldn't focus straight, caught about

five words and they were a contradiction in terms. Looks better. Growth

is moving. The first he praised God for, the last he tried to ignore.

But things like growth moving weren't too keen on being ignored.

"What does that mean?" he said.

He looked to Scully for the answer. He always looked to Scully for the

answer. Her face was relaxed a bit. "It means, Mr. Mulder," came the

voice of God, and this time he was willing to concede the point, "that

Ms. Scully's cancer has moved out of the danger zone, and into a more

operable area."

Mulder's mouth dropped open.

It was so simple. No giving up his badge, or the X-Files, or Sam. It

just decided to move. It was operable. It was almost like cheating.

His face broke out into a grin, an uncontrollable grin. Holy sh - it was

operable.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"Mulder."

He looked to her, grinning.

"It's not gone, Mulder. Just in a safer spot."

He sobered and thought for a moment. "But you can go into the hospital

now and get it taken out, before it moves back, right?"

She nodded and he squashed her against his chest. "Oh that's great."

The doctor went to make a phone call to get her set up for surgery and

he couldn't help his grin.

<And now that you're gone

I can't cry hard enough

No, I can't cry hard enough

For you to hear me now>

What had happened?

He oculdn't understand it. It didn't fit into his logic, it didn't mesh

with everything he had blindly believed.

She had slipped away while he wasn't looking.

It had moved again, and now she was dead.

Dead

It rang hollow in him, through the emptiness and he oculdn't find a way

to make it stop.

Dead

Why had he thought they would let her go? Had he been so naive to think

they would let her be okay, let her have a life back, let him have her?

Dead

He had stopped thinking, that was all. He hadn't realized she could

leave after the good news had been proclaimed. He hadn't stopped to

think that if a growth could move one direction, it could just as easily

move the other direction.

Dead

He realized he was crying. Standing outside in the rain like a fool and

not thinking. Fool.

Dead

She was gone and he would now always be a fool, a maverick, something to

ignore and hope it went away. Something to make fun of and pity and be

disgusted at. Spooky. Wihtout his anchor to reality, a ghost would float

free and be tormented in limbo. That was him.

Dead

He needed her. He needed her.

Dead

Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!

Dead

I will not accpet that, I will not think of it; I will not let my heart

be trampled and smashed and shredded and torn to pieces and killed

again.

Dead

NO!

Dead

No!

Dead

No.

Dead

No

Dead

no........please......no

Dead

She was dead. Forever without her.

Forever.

He cried and cried and cried and stumbled back into his apartment and

forgot to change out of his wet things and cried and collasped on the

couch.

And cried.

He couldn't cry hard enough.

Wet choking sobs that shuddered out of his body and kept coming, harder

and harder until he wasn't even breathing, only crying.

And it still wasn't enough.

He just couldn't let go of her. He just couldn't.

He couldn't cry hard enough for her to understand that she shouldn't be

dead, that she should be beside him, or away from him, but alive, and

it was all his fault.

All

His

Fault.

Could she see him now? Could she understand that the tears were for her

and did she want to come back? To come back and try again and not waste

the moments, not take the last days for granted. Did she know that he

had wanted to kiss her all the time? Did she know that he had wanted so

much more for her? Did she hear his sobbing and hate him or love him? He

had loved her, did she know that?

He hadn't told her, but surely she knew, surely her feminine intuition

had told her that. Or had she always wondered and been too afraid to

say?

Oh God, just give me that time back!

Mulder yelled and jerked awake. Sweat poured from him in rivers, like a

man about to take the polygraph, and knew he was lying. His heart

thudded painfully in his chest, the thrashings of a wounded animal. He

couldn't catch his breath. He couldn't shake the realness of the dream.

He couldn't get the sorrow out of his head or his soul.

He thought a part of him had died, just with that dream.

"Mulder?"

He turned to see her beautiful face and he thought he had never seen a

more welcome sight in his whole life. By far the best of the Seven

Wonders of the World.

He had fallen asleep by her bed at the hospital, before her surgery. He

wasn't going back to sleep.

He leaned forward and placed his lips to her forehead and soaked in her

warmth, her aliveness.

If that could be a tangible thing.

Aliveness. More tangible than the death in his dream. His warning.

"I love you," he said. He did not care if she loved him back. Just that

she knew.

She was without words. For once.

He smiled and closed his eyes, ready to leave it at that.

"Mulder!" she said, hitting him to knock him awake.

"What?"

"That's it? You drop that on me and then fall asleep again?"

He cocked his head and looked at her, like he was trying very hard to

read all her secrets.

And she felt like he could.

"What else do I need?"

Her face softened and she leaned forward, her hair falling into sofr

waves around her face.

"A kiss, an affirmation," she said, her eyes so blue.

"No, contrary to Madonna's Oscar winning song, I do not believe in the

theory 'you must love me'."

She raised her eyebrow and pursed her lips. "But what if I do?"

"I'm just saying it's not required. I can do a fine job of loving all

alone, though it's not as fun."

She laughed.

To him, it sounded like a symphony. Or an excellent, mouth-watering

piece of pumpkin pie. If sounds could be things, that is. (Pumpkin pie

was the best. Better than chocolate.)

"Well, it's good to know you wouldn't have much fun."

He let his lips twitch. They itched to kiss her.

"Nope. I sure wouldn't. Are you offering to make sure I have fun?"

She tilted her head, like she was thinking.

Her eyes came to pierce sharply into him. "Mulder, I love you too."

He crawled up beside her, ignoring the nurse's earlier warning to let

the patient rest.

She watched him.

He was on all fours, knees making valleys in the mattress, and causing

her to fall toward him.

"Can I sleep now?" he asked now, humor in her eyes.

He laid down beside her and wrapped his arms around her.

"This is fun?" she asked, doubting.

"For a man who gets about three hours sleep each night and half of it's

during Skinner's lectures, yes this is a thrill."

"Then sleep away."

He closed his eyes. Then they popped open.

"Okay, I have affirmation, now how about that kiss?" he said, mischief

in his eyes.

"I thought you could live without it."

"Well, I lied."

"To me? You lied to me?"

"No, to myself and that's okay."

"All right, then. Here's your kiss."

Her lips met his for an instant and he felt heat and softness and her

and-

She pulled away.

"Now sleep, Mulder. You deserve a little fun."

He grumbled for a bit and then closed his eyes. He could feel her eyes

on him.

"You go to sleep, too, Scully." he said.

"Why?"

"So I can meet you in my dreams."

"Mulder-"

"Sleep."

He didn't want another dream like the one that he had woke to.

<For no reason why

I can't cry hard enough

No, I can't cry hard enough

For you to hear me now>

end.

see, no so bad as you thought...

adios

comments please

RocketMan

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

silence. Friendship needs no words--it is solitude delivered from the

anguish of loneliness."

--Dag Hammarskold ( the "o" is supposed to have two dots on top)

"Say when."

The foam and fizz rose as the sick feeling in him rose and he nodded his

head to indicate he had enough Dr. Pepper.

The McDonald's across from the Hoover Building was fairly nasty, with

the putrid smell of Clorox and tile floor mixed with late night

sleeplessness and morning after hangovers.

He steered her to a booth far from the out-in-the-open drink machine,

using his fingertip and his presence to let her know "when."

She sat down and sipped her Diet Coke with a look of utter unfeeling, as

if she could only function if she kept everything neatly shelved for

later.

She would have her catharsis later, after he had used her for his.

He said nothing, but looked at her, at the planes of her face, the arch

of her neck to jaw, the angel kisses in spots he'd only dreamt of

touching, the vacuous expression of a faint horror residing in her eyes.

He reached out and touched her hand, his forehead crumpling into the

terrible loss that threatend to engulf him.

She ignored her own far away fear and focused on his own crumbling mask

of indifference and humor.

There was nothing funny.

She pushed him over in the booth and sat next to him, tucking her body

into his and holding to him tightly.

Without words she said "We're going to be okay. We're going to be okay."

He held tightly and let his body shake in invisible tears, let his body

contort to escape the pressure of unshed heartache, let her un-words

speak to him in the language of silence.

His Dr. Pepper fizzled out in front of him, much like the sound of the

water hissing on their ruined lives that night . . . early morning,

whichever it was.

He sat still for a long time, amusing his mind with the thought that she

would definitely not be leaving him, no matter what they did to them.

He'd quit before moving away from her.

What did he have at the FBI anyway?

Ashes.

Nothing but -

Her body quaked.

He sat very stilly, very quietly, silently holding his breath.

She was seeing the detruction again, behind her closed eyes, watching

the fire of nothing burn them alive.

She shivered and he held her tighter, closer, needing to comfort her

too, needing to give back what she had wordlessly given.

The McDonald's lights glimmered as one of the strips of bulbs winked and

he wished the smell of bad cleaning and bad food hadn't interrupted the

utter despondency of two people holding on for dear life.

He raised her from his chest, saw her dry eyes and numb face, and kissed

her forehead.

His look showed her the way and she stood, and they walked back to his

car and sat silently, waiting as he drove them back to his apartment.

Waiting as he took them to a well-lighted place: a spot for their mutual

release, for their relief of emotion: a spot away from the darkness of

ashes.

She reached out and grabbed his hand and held it:

Tightly.

end

adios

RM

Feedback on this one, please....????

Author: RocketMan >[email protected]<

Disclaimer: M&S do not belong to me, neither do the X-Files or Skinner

who is mentioned very briefly, though.

Content: TOA--Tons Of Angst, MSR

RATED:::: R Please do not read unless 17 or with parental consent.

Coffee

Maybe it started with the coffee, but for him, I know it was way before

that because he had been acting strangely the whole day.

I thought it was a bit odd when he came over to simply talk, but I

didn't question. All I could think of was Eddie Van Blundht and Mulder's

insistance that he may not be a loser but he wasn't Eddie either. Eddie

was the one who told him that he should 'treat himself' and live a

little.

Last night, that's exactly what Mulder did.

"Agent Scully, we need to know. Are you going to presss charges?"

"Scully, this is Skinner. We need some kind of statement here. Will you

be pressing charges?"

"Agent Scully, are you going to want him punished?"

"Agent Scully, will you have him brought before the grand jury?"

"Dana, are you going to press charges against Fox?"

"Dana! Implicate the bastard!"

<Are you going to press charges against your partner?>

I hear the door open, but my back is turned to it and the hospital walls

greet me cheerlessly with their mundanity and green boredom.

The door doesn't slam, but it does shut like a tombstone slammed into

the soft wet earth and I jump a little.

It isn't my mother; I sent her home.

It isn't Bill; I made him leave after he called Mulder a bastard.

It isn't Skinner; I pray it isn't him again.

"Scully?"

It's him.

Why am I afraid of him? Why do my limbs shake like they did when I had

to go home and tell my father I had joined the FBI? I loved my father .

. .

"Scully, please."

I can't stop the shaking. This is ridiculous. I'm not afraid of him.

"In case you were worried; I'm not pressing charges Mulder."

A moan escapes him, much like the moans of before and I shiver

involuntarily and squeeze my eyes shut to block the memories.

"Scully, god, no, that's not-"

"Then you can go, Mulder. Don't feel obligated."

Oh, please, just leave.

"It wasn't me, Scully. They did it. They took me from my apartment and

gave me a drug and I wasn't me until I woke up on top of you this

morning, and all that blood, oh shit, Scully . . . "

That makes me feel a whole lot better, oh yeah, let me tell ya.

"Don't feel obligated. Just leave."

"Scully! Dammit, talk to me!"

<Scully! Dammit, pull your clothes off!>

I shiver. Shiver. Shiver. Can't stop shivering. It was someone else,

someone else, not him, not him.....

"Please...."

"Scully?"

"Please.....leave me alone."

He comes around and interrupts my view of the green wall and his eyes

are staring right into me, right into my battered and beaten soul so

that he can see the bruised eyes and the bruised heart.

"Oh, Scully. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

His face is scratched from where I clawed him, but there are no other

marks.

The scratch wasn't in defense . . .

I shouldn't be afraid . . . I wanted that. I let him pull me to the

couch and I only talked to him, only pleaded with him, I did not fight.

I did not fight.

He did though.

It hurt, and suddenly, I didn't want it anymore.

And it was too late then.

<Dammit, Scully, quit moving!>

And I trembled and wriggled away and he punched me and knocked my head

into the coffee table and the coffee spilled down my shirt and burned .

. . burned . . . burned . . .

just like his kiss and his lips and his eyes and his forcing

I would have gone along, didn't he know?

He touches me now and it's not like before.

It's gentle and rainy and cool and healing and the burning isn't there.

I open my eyes to him and still my body shakes.

His eyes are like the color of coffee when you just start to add the

milk and it swirls underneath and makes dark and light plays in the

backdrop of a coffee cup.

"It wasn't me, Scully. It wasn't me. This drug, they found it in my

blood when they did a tox screen and it wasn't me . . . oh God, I didn't

want to hurt you. Ever. I could see it all and I couldn't stop it, I

couldn't stop it."

I nod and reach for his hand, to make sure, to make sure, it has to be

him, it has to be cool and calm and just a bit sweaty and trembling, but

not with lust.

He eagerly takes my hand and kisses it.

I cringe. I can't help it.

He shakes his head. "No, please. Don't let this be the end. Please. I

tried to stop it, I tried but I couldn't and it kept hurting you and at

first I reached out to help you and yet you came to me-"

"I know."

My words rush into his eyes, the last drops of milk into coffee, and he

sighs, slumps against the bed and cries.

"You're hurt . . . you're hurt and I was helpless . . . I hurt you."

I don't move, only close my eyes before more memories come back.

I want him to say that it was nothing and it was beautiful, and it was

something he wanted, not something that hurt me.

It hurt later, but at the beginning, when maybe Mulder tried to control

it, the touch was cool and wonderful.

And I let it go on.

I let it.

He raises his head and reaches toward me.

<Come here, Scully. Let me kiss you.>

His eyes shut softly and his lips part slowly and I tense and wait for

it.

A light kiss of a butterfly landing on my nose.

"Haven't you done enough!?!"

I turn, startled to see my brother, whom I threw out earlier.

I call up the anger at the whole thing and direct it to him.

"Leave Bill. Leave." I say and my voice is low and hurting and ready to

break and he shakes his head.

"No way in hell, I'm leaving."

"Bill. Leave right now. I will not have you make me feel worse."

His head comes crashing up and he stares at me, glares at Mulder, and

leaves, finally.

Mulder sighs. "He'll call one of the nurses and I'll get in trouble. I'm

not allowed in here."

I shake my head. "I want you here."

<I let him.>

He smiles softly, sadly. "No, Scully. I can't."

I feel panic rise. If he's gone . . . if he leaves, I might start to

hate him, I might start to think and I don't want to face that, can't

begin that.

"No, please, Mulder. You couldn't control it before. Control it now."

His eyes explode into darkness like black firecrackers going off in

stormy skies.

"What do you mean?"

"I want my memories to be good, sweet. Not that, not bitter."

He shakes. "I - I - I don't want to hurt you."

"Then heal me."

I clutch at his hand, smiling at the fear in his eyes. "Not now, Mulder.

Later, when everything's okay."

He nods.

"But right now, while it's not, don't leave me, okay?"

He nods again and I pull his head to me, his cheek pressed into the

sheets.

I want this the right way, the love way, not what that thing was.

He sighs into my hands. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

Maybe this will be okay.

But no more coffee for awhile.

end

adios

RM

Coffee II: Colors

Author: RocketMan >[email protected]<

Disclaimer: I do not own Mulder and Scully: they belong to CC, 1013,

and Fox. No infringement is intended.

Summary: This is not something I can really rate, but maybe R, since she

remembers but nothing explicit. Anyway, I know I said I wasn't going to

have a sequel, but I woke up this morning and it was at my fingers so I

had to.

Data: Sábado, 3 de Janeiro de 1998 02:35

Coffee 2

I am still in bed, half asleep and reading "The Portrait of the Artist

As A Young Man" when the phone jangles too loudly for my headache and I

groan as the phone suddenly seems miles away and James Joyce disappears

with it.

I yank it up but the machine is getting it already and as I say hello

loudly over it I realize the person has hung up. I let the reciever

clunk back down.

I really don't want to think about anything, but now that I've been

pulled from Joyce's book, I can feel everything coming back and I start

shaking softly. Maybe that was Mulder on the phone and he wants to see

me, but I don't think that's such a good idea since what happened.

It would be easier to talk to him on the phone than face to face where I

can see the lips that haunt my dreams and the eyes that stared off into

nothing as he came inside of me.

I shiver, shake, quake, tremble. I have learned all the new words for

being so frightened that your muscles are beyond control and your arms

and legs don't respond even when you press your hands against your

thighs. It reminds me of a song the choir performed at Mass one morning

when I was in third grade that made me cry so hard I had to leave. It

went: 'Sometimes, it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble. Where you

there when they crucified my Lord?'

At the three trembles I could feel it shaking right into me and then the

part about being killed made the tears erupt into fountains and it was

the last time I cried in a long, long time. It felt to me that it was

all my fault.

It is the same now, except my body trembles and my heart cries but I

cannot or maybe will not, because the tears stay up in my eyes and

harden in my head and make me feel miserable.

I wish I could, but I won't. Not over Mulder, over something I wanted in

the first place.

I have been on sick leave for all of this week and I will go back in a

few days with the tears still clamped in me and the knowledge and

experience of three more books. I read "Breakfast At Tiffanys" when I

got home, easily slipping into the familiar story and forgetting my own.

And then a short story my mother's cousin had written about living on a

farm and really it was boring, but at that point I didn't care so much.

Now "Portrait" with its stream of consciousness that confuses at first

and then soothes into the willingness of childhood, even as the little

boy grows up.

Now though, the book is boring me and I can't mkae it connect to

anything and so I think more and more of Mulder and his childishness.

His eyes as they stared off and then his eyes as they begged for

forgiveness and then what I imagine his eyes will be when I come in for

work again.

I fall back onto the pillow, my mind trying to block out the feel of his

warm body pressing or his hands traveling and somehow, I feel sleep

appraoch.

<--I just want to talk to you Scully. Just talk. Okay?

--Okay. What?

--I just want to talk.

--What are you doing Mulder? That's not talking.

--It is in a way. (softly) Come here.

--No . .o . . o. This- this isn't what-

--Just let me talk to you.

--(firmly) No, Mulder.

--Talk to me.

--Our coffee will get lukewarm . . .

--Scully . . ..

and then grabbing and on the couch and his eyes looking right into me

once and a whisper

--I'm sorry . . .

and then nothing but eternal pain that would strike into my soul as he

struck into my body . . . a tiny line of bites down the right jawline

that left a streak of blood . . . a chin knocking hard into my cheek and

stars exploding . . . more red and red and red was close to hate and not

love . . .>

"Scully?"

I open my eyes from more memories, more nightmares, and see his eyes

staring right into me as if I am the first and last woman Mulder has

ever seen.

I shiver again, my body's rebellion, and touch his hand softly. He has

to make it better, to make the bad stuff go away, because I can't do it

alone.

"Scully, I called and there was no answer." he says softly.

<Scully, talk to me.>

I clench my teeth together and squeeze my eyes shut and sit up, letting

him unbend from his awkward position. He doesn't touch me anymore.

I need him too. He has to get rid of the memories of bad touching and

that can only be done if I have new memories.

"I answered. The machine caught it before I could."

I can feel him nodding and then he laughs.

"Why are your eyes closed?"

I open them and smile. "Forgot I had shut them."

He looks confused but happy I am smiling. "Your eye looks a lot better.

Not puffy anymore and only has a little yellow tinge."

I reach up carefully to touch it and it doesn't hurt now, only throbs

and wakes me up in the night sometimes. "It feels better. It feels

yellow."

"Can something feel yellow?"

"Sure. I feel orange. And the room feels yellow, healing."

"What does orange feeling mean?"

"In the middle. Good and bad sometimes."

Yellow and red make orange.

"How do I feel?"

"I don't know . . . sometimes purple."

He tilts his head and shakes it back and forth like he cannot believe

the kind of conversation we are having.

<Talk to me Scully.>

"What's purple?"

I shake my head. I really don't want to think about it because it makes

me ache and feel red and red isn't love.

"Your eyes are brown coffee and that reminds me of strength, feeling

strong and in control."

"Your eyes are blue and to me that's strong and in control." he answers,

letting the purple slide by quickly: but it's like looking over a

stained carpet; you'll always see it.

"Blue is love." I answer. Red is not love and not really hate but more

like betrayal and I guess that has to do with the scarlet letter and

everything it implies. Red is unfaithfulness and not love. Mulder was

red and blue off and on that night he followed Eddie Van Blundht's

advice.

Making him purple.

"Blue is love? Yeah, I can see that too. Love is strong though, but not

in control."

"Brown, like coffee brown eyes, is solid and familiar and comfortable

and the earth and things that give people life."

Mulder stares at me and then shakingly traces the line of angry red

scabs across my jaw: then touches my bandaged shoulder and it twinges

because of the purple bruises there.

Then he shuts my eyes and rubs his fingertip along my lids.

"Do you feel blue with me and your eyes closed like this?"

Truth or consequences?

"No."

I am shaking, and trembling, trembling, trembling. He was there when I

was crucified.

"Do you still feel orange?"

"No."

"What do you feel?"

"Purple." Confused, loved, hated, hating, loving, frightened, joyful....

I feel his body shift slightly and it seems as if he suddenly understand

what I mean.

"So what is red?"

Yes, he definitely understands.

I open my eyes. I have to see him when I say this: I have to know if he

can heal me, take me down off his cross.

"Have you read the "Scarlet Letter"?

"Hawthorne? Yeah."

"That's red."

I watch his mind click back to that book and the pride of Hester even

when she was scorned for not telling who it was that she'd committed

adultery with, and the shame and guilt of Reverend Dimmesdale for not

admitting to what he had done and all the love mixed in with it.

Shame and pride and love and faithfulness all rolled into one book about

a long ago time and long ago people.

"Is it purple too?" he asks me.

"Somewhat. Red is not love and it is not hate either."

"I understand. Is it better if I tell you that I don't want this to be

purple ever again?"

"No."

He smiles suddenly and laughs. "This is the most honest and open you've

been wtih me ever, I think."

I shrink away from his laughing because to me, it is still purple and

very close to being red again.

"Well, am I still coffee brown?"

I smile a little. I realize we have to laugh and forget for a few

minutes so that it can heal. "Yes, still coffee brown."

"Then that's all I can ask right now."

"What am I to you?" I say, asking before I realize I could be getting

myself into serious trouble.

His face pulls away a bit and the tongue that my dreams remember so well

snakes across his bottom lip.

I am unconsciously mirroring him.

"Well, to me, you're blue. Brilliant and bright blue."

end

adios

RM

Coffee III: Different Today

Author: RocketMan >[email protected]<

Disclaimer: Mulder and Sculy belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No

infringement is intended.

Different Today

Sometimes, after everything that has happened, I can totally forget it,

be so immersed in reading or watching television or even talking to

Mulder on the telephone that what happened never enters my mind.

But then the book will describe it, or mention, or make a vague

reference, or the characters in a program will say something that is so

Mulder, or Mulder himself will start sending out those guilty vibes, and

it's back.

I can feel the hands of him, everywhere probing, reaching inside me,

hurting and I know somewhere that it is not him, but my mind and my

memory sees Mulder and it's a fresh stinging slap.

These are memories I would love to forget, love to have repressed,

unknown except for what others tell me. My mother looks at me as if I

have been soiled, as if my body is not mine, and in many ways, it is not

mine. It is Mulder's and so much of him is in me that I cannot imagine

being anyone else's but Mulder's.

I have changed; I am different these days.

I didn't press charges.

That echoes in my mind every morning when theh images decide to visit

me, or when the nightmares take me over.

I wish Mulder would come to me, and take what is his. I can't stand

holding it and just waiting for him. I shudder and turn my eyes from the

pitiful figure whining at me in the mirror. I will not be pitiful. I

will not be sad or hurt or a victim. I wanted it at first. I wanted it.

I deserve it.

I have to go to work now.

I have to work with him next to me as my entire body rebels and reaches

out for him, as the guilt builds into a creschendo of silent symphony

that pounds on my ears.

I shiver again and pull on the wine colored suit, with it's not at all

revealing neckline and the longest skirt I think I own and is still

within fashion. I pull on the necklace around my skinny neck, its links

reminding me of the angry red scratches from where his hand had caught

and pulled, leaving those marks.

I bite down on my lip and walk out of my front door, determined that it

will not be like this.

I see the elevator and the old, wooden railings, the weathered and

buckled window frames, the dark passage to the lobby, the bright

morning light peeking through the glass windows of the apartment

complex.

I am outside and everything is exactly the same. Everything moves on,

the street people are still wallowing in their poverty, my car is still

waiting for me to turn the engine and let it enjoy the day too.

Everything is the same.

I am the only thing different today.

I walk through as quickly as I can without looking like I'm any more

nervous or upset or angry than usual, and everyone is watching me.

Everyone.

I make it to the bank of elevators that descend to the basement, feeling

wholly unfit for a journey down the stairs. I feel their eyes on me,

their mixture of pity and respect.

Pity because I am going back to work with the man who raped me, and

respect because I am going back to work with the man who is my partner.

I meet Mulder at the elevators and he gives me a terse nod that I know

will be dissected and commented about by the employees watching us and I

wish they wouldn't because they'll tear him apart.....they'll tear him

apart.

I reach out and touch his arm and he smiles at me in extreme relief and

takes my hand, letting his fingers slide quickly across my skin before

letting go.

I can feel their stares, but I don't care, because Mulder is still my

partner, and no matter what, I forgive him.

"Scully?"

"Uhm-hm?"

"Are you sure you feel like working?"

I consider a retort and wonder what it would do to him. Probably hurt

when all I'm trying to do is relieve the tension.

"I'm sure, Mulder. I'm fine."

"Okay.....here's the first reports on those crop circles." He sees my

face and shrugs. "Yeah, lame, I know. But these people keep sending me

these long wordy pleas about how it's ruining their lives, blah, blah,

blah."

I arch an eyebrow at him, quite aware of his attempt. "Really?"

"Ah...and it's a good case to get our feet wet on."

I nod. I should have figured. I want some easiness though, so maybe this

will be more a placating kind of case and we'll get a lot of good

opportunities to talk.

"Sure Mulder. That's a good idea."

He nods and his shoulders hunch under my gaze and I know he's feeling

incredibly guilty and incredibly, well, scandalized by everything.

"Mulder." I say it softly, wishing to catch him off guard so that he'll

tell me the full truth for once.

"Mulder, I don't like this."

His startled glance makes me realize I have said it entirely wrong, but

today, I am different, and it doesn't matter.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately and gets up to leave.

"No, Mulder. I mean, us. I don't like how you're scared to talk to

me.....I miss you."

It took more courage to say that than anything I've ever done before.

More even than telling my father I was going to the Academy.

"I miss you too. But....I can't, Scully. What happened was wrong and

it's not anything I want to ever happen again."

This crushes me and I don't know why, but it's heavy and squeezing out

all of my breath until I don't think I can see without spots.

"Mulder. What if I said I wanted it to happen again?"

His horrified face makes me smile a little. "No like that, Mulder." I

say and shake my head. "You really do watch too many of your movies, you

know?"

He is grateful for the humor and gives me a wry look.

"But seriously, Mulder. I.....I didn't want it to happen like that. But

now that it has, I want it to be something good, not bad, not shameful."

"Do you want me to marry you?"

I laugh before I can realize how much that will hurt him and I shake my

head. "Oh, jeez, Mulder. No. Well....no. Okay? That's not what I meant.

I'm not asking you to restore my honor or anything cheesy like that."

His face is downcast and I touch his cheek, the first touch he has not

flinched at.

"So, what do you want me to do?" he says.

"Stop hurting."

He glances at me and sighs, his eyes turning into muddy pools of amber,

light and showing me my own reflection.

"It's not that easy."

"No kidding," I whisper under my breath.

I lean forward until I can no longer see myself in his pained eyes and

then I take a deep breath as memories start flooding over: I will not

let them drown me. "Mulder, let me kiss you."

He opens his mouth to say something and then shuts it, leaning in and

pressing his lips to my eager and frightened mouth.

It is different. I am different, too, but this isn't the forced, rushed

frenzy of before. It's soft and mellow and almsot like listening to a

Sarah McLachlan CD in a bubble bath.

His eyes sparkle when I sigh and move away. "Did that help?" he says.

I nod and can feel the haunting slipping away with his smile, his lips

no longer make me feel bruised.

I take his hand and see it in my memory: the way it came across my face,

dug into my thighs, rammed into me. It is a horrible and huge thing, his

hand, and I tremble as I touch it.

But he does not move away. Somehow he knows I need this.

I spread the fingers along the desk, tracing the short nails and the

wrinkles that make it his and make it predominant in my mind. I let my

hand slide into his and bring it to my cheek, flinching as I feel once

again the skin that slammed into mine.

He trembles and strokes my cheek, makng me gasp even though I know he

will not do anything. His eyes shudder and I kiss his thumb, no longer

remembering.

I sigh and slump to the side of his desk, feeling my energy completely

drained, my head pounding with the intesity of my feelings.

He slides down next to me and gently takes my shoulders. His grip is

steady but soft and his eyes are that shade of coffee that reminds me of

life giving things, of earth and books and summer. I reach out and touch

his cheek and he kisses my hand and it does not hurt.

Mulder no longer hurts me.

I am different today, but Mulder is different today too.

He lifts me up and settles me in his chair, behind the desk and before

his kneeling body. "I miss you too, Scully." he says and rests his

hands on my knees. I am not afraid of his hands or his smile or his

beautiful eyes.

I lean down and press my cheek to his shoulder and let myself cry.

I am different today while the world has not changed.

He holds me and whispers that it's all right and that I'm going to be

all right and that we will be all right.

I lean back and take his hand. "Thank you, Mulder."

I am changing, emerging from my coccoon and flying in brilliant blue as

the butterfly.

I am different today.

end

Adios

RocketMan