Rocket Man III

A Cold, Dark Place

Concerto

Cornfields Are Forever

Condition

A Cold, Dark Place

"To be buried alive is, beyond question, the most terrific of these

extremes which has ever fallen to the lot of mere mortality. . . The

boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. .

. A certain period elapses, and some unseen mysterious principle again

sets in motion the magic pinions and the wizard wheels. . .But where,

meantime, was the soul?"

--Edgar Allan Poe, "The Premature Burial"

Scully dropped the collected anthalogy in disgust, her mind traveling in

repulsive waves in the darkness of a premature burial. She could imagine

Mulder reading this to himself at night, consoling his dark soul with

the horror of another. If someone else is just as demonic, then surely

he is not so horrible. . .

But Poe? The idea of lying under the ground, cold and dark and the smell

of rich loamy earth assialing you, the vibrations of other's feet as

they walk above you, the crushing weight of death sitting on your chest,

waiting for you to actually die....

She shivered and jumped when Mulder walked in from his motel bathroom,

the shower running and his eyes glancing toward her as he quickly

grabbed a change of clothes and scooted back into the bathroom.

Scully realized he'd only been wearing a small motel towel after the

fact and sighed.

She sank to the bed, picking a spot as far from his book as possible,

wondering at just how dark this man was, just how much she did not know

him.

What had she really gotten herself into this time?

She still didn't even know what case they were on, and he refused to

speak to her about it, saying he had to shower before anything.

He'd been down in Virginia, near Richmond, for two days already, doing

preliminary work on their case, he'd said, and allowing her some time to

grieve.

She hadn't wanted to grieve; she needed work. Work allowed her to grieve

in her own way.

But...here she was finally, and wishing she had not come.

She had emailed Mulder continously, recieving with a delight she did not

question his own replies to her querries. But he did not write of what

was going on.

She wondered if the dog-eared Poe anthalogy had anything to do with it,

if this particular story was marked for a certain reason.

The narrative story gave descriptions of other cases, but how could she

know if they were real, or made up?

Mulder came sauntering out of the shower then, the towel in his hands

and rubbing his wet hair visciously, his T-shirt and jeans looking far

too normal after her musings on a premature burial.

She had told Boggs that Mulder was not facing a cold, dark place, yet

she now wondered if he was.

His eyes regarded hers and she felt the very nature of evil catalyzing

within them. His cheeks were scrubbed apple red and the bits of hair

halo-ing his face made her impression of his dark eyes seem skewed.

But looking in them once again, she felt for the first time, truly

afraid to be with him alone.

Not because he would hurt her, but because of his deadly power over her.

She went up to him and ran her fingers through his still soaked locks,

letting them stroke some semblance of normality into the chaos.

His surprise made him look childish, not at all like the evil she had

imagined in him and she stepped away in half embarrassment.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with her, but he threw the towel back

into the bathroom and stepped to the extra bed.

"I couldn't reserve a room for you Scully. Once word got out, everyone

was flocking here to see it. I didn't realize it would be so fascinating

to tourists. This turns out to be the only motel within miles. So, I'm

sure you can sleep on the extra bed this once, FBI regulations or not."

She hesitantly looked over at him, worrying about the regulations

already and breaking them so soon after her recent partnership.

But of course, she'd lied on the police report stating how she'd found

the boy and girl in that condemned warehouse, hadn't she? So what was

she making pains about?

She nodded to him and he relaxed into an uneasiness she hadn't ever

really seen him carry.

"So, bet you're wondering what's going on."

"Yes. Why didn't you tell me before?" she said, sitting down with him

and perching away from the book, as if it were contaminated with the

madness.

"I didn't want you to start thinking about it yet. Wanted it to be fresh

for you and not something else for you to deal with."

"Oh. I think I can look out for myself, though, Mulder. You-"

"Scully. I know you can look out for yourself, but believe me, when

you're saturated in it, you get the nightmares. And I didn't want you in

that yet."

"I guess I'll be in it soon enough, huh?"

His eyes turned to hers as he picked up Poe and laid it across her lap.

"Turn to page 258. 'The Pre-"

"Mature Burial, yeah. I noticed it." she finished with a shiver.

"That's what's going on, Scully. That's what's going on."

She looked up and into his eyes and stared straight into a cold, dark

place.

A cold, dark, familiar place that had come to be home for him.

"Scully, you got to help me." he whispered. "This isn't going right. I

profiled him and he kills again, just as it is outlined in the story."

"Wait, what?"

"It isn't going right. It's gotten messed up. He deviated from the

profile-he's got no signature anymore and it's tearing me up. You have

to help me."

She frowned, her eyebrows knitting togther and her hand reaching out to

touch him.

He flinched and his eyes rolled, almost making him demonic.

"Mulder! You need to rest. This is affecting you way too much. Just-"

"Scully! I can't! Don't you see? *He's there*"

His words sent shudders throughout her bones, polishing them down to

nothings.

"He's . . . where?"

"In my head. In my head and heart and the only thing keeping him from my

soul is my conscious. I have to stay awake. Awake. Or else he sneaks in,

steals from me..."

"Mulder, you're incoherent. You need to rest. Now, just-"

He giggled. "I'm incoherent because I'm exhausted. I can't sleep! I

can't."

She raised her eyebrows, wondering where she could get a sedative out

here and how she could slip it to him.

"Stop it!" he suddenly roared. "Stop doubting me! It's the truth. I

can't fall asleep, Scully. I *CAN"T*"

His passion made her stop still.

"Read Scully. Read page 258." he said weakly and collapsed nearly on top

of her, eyes wild and still awake.

She had wondered why her email was dated at odd irrational times like

three a.m.

But she turned her eyes to the page and read. The man in the story

outlined a few cases of the premature burial and then how he himself had

almost been buried alive, in the same exact location. Near Richmond,

Virginia.

She looked up onto his very cold eyes, the fever of fear ocassionally

rekindling them, and wondered just what he meant.

"The Fiend. It's what the man calls himself. He's been caught twice and

not been able to be held. He somehow takes over the man guarding him,

causes him to go into this trance like in the story, a sort of catalepsy

which made us think he had killed the guards at first. Until I dreamed

of them, banging on the coroner's metal door, screaming to be let out. I

checked to make sure, and I found them, just as in my dream. But dead

now. Scully, you have to help me. I dreamed again, and it was you."

Her mind bolted in revulsion at the thought and she shook her head.

"Mulder, you're-"

"No, it was you. There. At your house. I had to get you out of there."

"Mulder, it's just dreams that time, all right. Just dreams. Nothing

would have happened."

"Scully, I dream and it came true, and I saw him. Felt his freezing hand

just as the narrator did when he was in that sort of trance. I need to

make sure . . . make sure that doesn't happen again."

"What? Make sure what? Mulder you don't make any sense!" she said,

exasperated and fearful as his eyes grew in fear and the evil climbed up

her skin.

"Scully. Just stay here. Okay? Leave it to me. I'll get him and it will

be over. Just stay here. Otherwise . . . who knows what will happen to

either of us?"

She shivered and moved the book off her lap, anxious to have the cool

touch of fresh air across her legs.

He grabbed her by the arm and she gasped, her eyes flying to his.

Cold darkness greeted her.

"I'm in a cold dark place, Scully. Just help me out."

She nodded roughly, her mouth filled with cotton, and she imagined a

death shroud clung to her nose and mouth.

"Thank you Scully. Thank you." he sighed and drifted off to sleep,

falling right in her arms.

She could only hold him and pray he was stronger than whatever force was

out there, waiting for him.

"From that memorable night, I dismissed forever my charnal

apprehensions, and with them vanished the cataleptic disorder, of which,

perhaps they had been less the consequence than the cause."

--Edgar Allan Poe, "The Premature Burial"

She watched him moan and struggle, but restricted, as if he were bound

in a coffin too small for his long body. Scully wanted to ease him, but

knew he needed the sleep, knew he needed to defeat whatever it was that

had haunted him.

But she held him tightly, afraid that her narrow-mindedness had caused

this and that he would go into a kind of psyche induced fever and not

ever come back to her.

His head stayed in her lap, although it twisted and jumped and strained,

as if straining against hands that pushed him down.

She stroked his forehead, letting him know she was there, ready to

revive him if necessary, ready to hold him if necessary. His eyes rolled

violently under the lids and his lips grew as pale as Death's horse

riding out at the end of the world.

She traced her fingers across his lips, needing some comfort, for his

hands shook and his entire body trembled and she knew he was fighting

something horrible, something not even touched upon in Poe's work.

His body shuddered once and she placed her hand on his heart, to make

sure it still beat regularly and found that it thumped as if racing

against time itself.

She could not help but hold him harder, head held tightly to her stomach

and her breath exploding across his bangs, lifting and ruffling them as

if a spring breeze was wafting across.

"Come on Mulder. I'm here, I'm here."

His body was racked with seizures that made him buck more wild than a

man in the throes of love and she held him harder even, if it was

possible. His body slacked after that and she felt nothing under her

fist.

No beat.

No thump.

No rhythm in his heart, no breath from his pale lips, no life in his

body.

She gasped in horror, sobbed in sorrow, the moan issueing from her

throat like the death-knell from an animal.

She thought back frantically to the short story of Poe's. Premature

burial.

He could still be here, right? Still...alive?

And then a shudder drawn from the very depths of him as if to call to

her, to tell her he was still there.

The evil closed upon her, circling through her and stabbing her heart.

His breath resumed after a long pause that had felt like eons to her and

she eased her hold on him.

His face grew somber, less panicked, and she hoped it was coming to an

end, whatever battle he had fought was closing and he was emerging

victorious.

The Fiend....

It shuddered through her, whispered into the parts of her soul that

entertained the notions she would not let herself consider.

The part of her that loved him, the part of her that could beleive in

this, the part of her actively reacting at the moment.

His eyes fluttered open and saw her blue bright lights catching him and

dragging him out of the cold dark place.

He sighed a great terrible sob of thankfulness and wrapped his arms

around her.

"I made it. We made it, Scully. The Fiend is gone. The premature burials

are gone. The death is gone."

She buried her head into him and allowed the part of her still

whispering to kiss his forehead.

He let his lips dance across hers, en pointe.

Treading carefully she moved away, letting her fingers fall from his

forehead and her heart from his hands.

"Thank you Scully. I know I wasn't making sense. I know you were

confused-"

"I trust you Mulder. I trust you."

His eyes grew dark again and she wondered fleetingly if the Fiend was

back.

But then they lightened to a green of grass and beauty.

"Thank you." he whispered and placed a small kiss on her eyelid.

Sensually soft, it made her shiver.

She let him go and he rose and stepped away.

"We'll leave after everything gets cleaned up here. All I need is to

pick him up. He'll be there."

And a nod from him was all she got as he turned to his own bed, pulling

down the covers and falling into it with his jeans and T-shirt still

clinging to him.

For hours she sat up watching him, making sure it would not come back.

But he was right.

It was over.

end

adios

RM

Date: Tue, 10 Jun 1997 00:23:29 +0000

<[email protected]>

Author: Rocketman <[email protected]>

Disclaimer: CC owns M&S and the story is inspired by "The Piano"

Rating: P

Content: mildly not me

Spoiler: nothing

Classification: I don't think this has a classification. maybe V, S?

Summary: Mulder meets his soul.

The sound was haunting, pulling him deeper into his dream to the place

where it ceased being a dream, but signs and portents of things to come.

The long hallway was stretched before him, doors on every space and a

maze of options to explore. The sound of the piano rose above his panic

and he stopped to focus on it once more, letting all other thoughts

slowly drift away until there was only the piano. Someone playing a

frenzied half finished song on the piano, then it would jolt and crash

and twist into a symphony of piano music, a one instrument orchestra and

he wondered if the woman playing was mad. All he knew was that he must

find her, had to give her another composition to play, one that was not

despairing and wild, but soft and caring and joy in its existence.

Her? Yes, it was a woman Mulder knew instinctively. In his mind he

could picture her, swaying silently as her fingers reached for the keys

and always, always, not speaking a word. Never a whisper; it was not her

way. It was her gift, the piano, and her pain transcended words to come

out through the crashing ocean of melodies upon the keys.

The music intensified, strengthened, urging him forward like a Siren's

call, to find its composer and he ran to a door and threw it open, only

to find more doors. He went back to the main hall, overcome with the

reciprocity the music held. His soul was engulfed in its rhthyms and the

player, whomever she was, had been caught up long ago in his soul's

music. It was what she played eeven now, the stormlike thundering that

petered out until another barrage of music sorrow caused the deep low

notes to be struck more often than the high sweet ones. It was his

soul's Old Music and she was dutifully playing until the day the notes

were changed and the measures redrawn. Only he couldn't find her to set

her free of the sorrow and grief and anger his soul still stubbornly

clung to.

And for some reason, if he didn't find her, the music would fade and

she would die. His soul.

Mirrors, now mirrors, everywhere reflecting the images of himself

trapped in hollowness and unable to escape. He cried out for it to stop

and the musci faltered and he held his breath, using all his will to

make it come back. The music played on, haltingly, the movements jerking

from note to note, the do's sounding a little to low, and the tempo a

little too slow. Almost as if the piano was out of tune from playing

such despairing octaves all its life.

He crashed through the mirrors and saw her, sitting on the piano bench,

hair curling slightly around her face and barely grazing her shoulders.

She was hunched, picking out the music with nimble fingers and playing

by touch; her eyes were closed in either ecstasy or pain he couldn't

tell which. He reached for her, to still her beautifully pale hands and

knocked himself into a mirror.

The images were everywhere, he couldn't tell which was real and which

was just a reflection of his soul. She was weakening, the sorrow, guilt,

and other unhealthy emotions making her bones brittle and her body

slumped, as if in defeat. The tune on the piano was faint, the whispers

of the low octaves, deep bass that struck like thunder after lightening

and interspersed with the very high notes like wailings of mourners. He

fumbled through the mirrors, pushing them down, splintering their

illusions until only the reall thing remained.

And she was once beautiful. Her hair was now hanging limply curled with

a sheen of sickly sweat, her face grey and pallid. And her nimble, able

fingers were quivering in pain, the bitterness seeping into the joints

and cracking them, stripping away all comfort. Mulder let out a choked

sob and sat on the bench, stilling her hands, so sore and tired, and

taking in his hands her face, young but dying. She was dying. His soul.

And looking in her eyes, seeing the desolation and hopelessness there

he knew who his soul was.

"Dana," he breathed, his body trembling. Her music, his soul's old

cacaphony, had eroded away her life, become her own soul's jangling

discord and she could not live with it any longer. His soul, he was

killing her.

His soul, he was killing her.

He took her in his arms, lightly for her bones could break into a

million tiny pieces or her heart collapse around him were he not

careful. Her eyes were cold blue, hints of something more resigned

rather than unfeeling. He sobbed great tears of guilt onto her hair, but

drew back horrified when they sizzled and dulled her beautiful hair even

more. He was killing her, his sadness and mistrust and paranoia. Her's

was an innocence loss, by him no less, and only here, in the piano

player could he see the effects of his crude dismissal of her feelings

and of his own. The life sized picture of Dorian Gray sat beside him on

the paino bench, and he desperately wanted to unpaint the music of

sorrow left before her.

He took the sheet music and crumpled it in his hands, surprised when

she swayed and grew faint. She knew the music by heart and although it

was softly killing her, she needed its meager substance to live on. He

pulled out an old, faded, and brittle single sheet of new music,

unfolding it on the little stand in front of the keys. It was years old,

from long before the pain had come to understand him, it was the only

piece he had left of those days. He had composed it, drawn it from his

one beautiful, inspiring memory that held no doubt or fear or

loneliness. He and Samantha walking in a meadow close to their house,

inspecting insects, cacthing butterflies on their fingertips, and

picking wild flowers.

He stared at the piano keys, unsure of where to start or how to palce

his fingers. It had been so long since he had attempted to control the

Music of his soul. Dana took his hands and set them gently on the right

notes, the piano issueing a soft sigh like a summer breeze across a

field of flowers. Mulder then remembered how the music went and his

fingers danced joyfully, loud creschendos followed by light, laughing

notes. Slowly, Dana took up Samantha's part and as soon as the first

wave of the duet hit, she was sucked into the vortex of spinning

happiness, just as he was.

But when it was overm he saw that although the pleasant memory was

revitalizing her, she could not play Samantha's part forever. He needed,

they needed completely new music. Beautiful, joyful, peace filling music

that they would write together. Music to comfort her when he was not

there, and music to soothe him when she was out of reach. Music to laugh

in time with, new music. The old was suffocating her, his soul, killing

them both.

But he had a hard time knowing how to compose beautiful music when all

hislife it had been slow and haunting. And he could tell it was just as

hard for her, being so used to playing the music of his she knew by

heart. His music had been assimilated with her own until the joyful

parts were always tempered with the whispering trails of their sorrowful

journey. Neither could remember how to make new music.

He looked to her, seeing the still pale face but eyes that held a bit

of hope, eyes that begged him to understand that she could no longer

play in sorrow and guilt. And he understood. She was wilting under the

hot glare of anger and stagnating in the dirty water of guilt and

sadness.

So, in desperation, he took her hands in his and placed them on the

keys, toward the higher octaves then placed his own fingers on the lower

ocatves. She began to play, softly and without confidence, and he began

his own so that it was a strange disharmony that sounded like it was

meant to be together. After a few measures of stumbling around, his

melody found hers and they were in tandem, geeting a feel for the

other's music. His included long dips of ddepressing sombernes but her

firm march along the keys brought him back until their hands almost

touched and the music came close to being a full piano orchestra. The

intensity increased and he saw her greyness fade into vibrancy, her eyes

held blue, oceans of strength and trust and she played like a prodigy.

They reached a dizzying height until the music was harmonized and

ranging up and down the keys, black and white, and they were drawn in as

if it were a hurricane.

They played on, together, in synch, as if each knew what the other

would play and anticipated it before any reached a conscious decision.

Sometimes his music would become wild and erratic and she'd hang on for

the ride, but always playing her own piece with his, coaxing him back to

their ensemble. Sometimes her music would retreat to the familiar sorrow

and he'd pull her away with sunshine and brightness and her fingers

would dance to meet his. Finally their music entwined, their fingers

touched and the melody was the same but in varying octaves and shades,

resisting mundanity adn mediocrity for the joy of unity and

unpredictability.

He followed her fingers to the ends tagging along with his own charms

and she followed him into his oen epilogue, matching his melody with her

distinctive harmony.

And when it was finished, he looked to her and flet his heart finally

release the last of the old music. She was beautiful, gorgeous. Her hair

was almost to her shoulders and curling around her ear some, and a

bright blond red, with brown sneaking in, just as he had seen her at the

start of their partnership, her innocence still intact.

And it was beauty embodied, joy personified.

And it was his soul.

She placed a chaste kiss on his cheek, her lips the touch of moonbeams

and silver starstreams.

Hands warmed and relaxed, fingers resting on the keys, they looked in

each other for a long time.

Then, simultaneously, they began the piece again, melody and harmony

and measure and music coalescing to form the joy in existence that they

would fall apart and collapse without.

End.

Adios

RocketMan

Cornfields are Forever

Date: Mon, 08 Jun 1998 16:54:18 +0000

Author: RocketMan >[email protected]<

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, and FOX. No fringe is

intended.

Rating: PG-13, MS(R?)/UST

Summary: Scully takes a detour. (No, not like raining sleeping bags

detour).

Cornfields are Forever

He watched her move through the rows of corn, her bright reddish brown

hair a golden fish in the sea of leaf-green. Her hips moved slightly as

she stepped forward, swallowed by the endless stalks, the dirt crunching

lightly under her feet.

He paused at the edge and wiped the sweat off his forehead, glancing

back forlornly to the air conditioned car sitting like a behemoth on the

edge of the road, wishing he had to car keys.

It eluded him as to why she would suddenly pull their nice cool car over

in the middle of Kansas, well the outside edge, near Leavenworth, for

those endless rows of corn.

So he looked to see where she was going, and began to follow.

He took one step and his foot's impact sent waves of earty farmer smells

up at him, of day's sweat and honest living mixed with the love of

nature and animals. He could imagine her here, every day, running

through the corn stalks like a summer's child, the wind playing with her

hair and tossing it behind her, and the sun shining down on her fair

skin to redden it like ripe tomatoes.

Her bare feet left small imprints and it was only then that he realized

she had slipped her shoes off in the car, he assumed while she was

driving. It was another one of those odd things he hadn't noticed

before.

Besides the distinct trail, he could easily follow her slow movements,

her beacon of red hair helping to show the way. It was odd seeing her

among nature's warmth, when he was so used to seeing her in the grip of

the city's smoggy hands, or the recesses of dark warehouses, searching

for the oddest of suspects.

In this suspended moment, she was like a child in her old home,

delighting in the summer, perspiring under the sun, and smiling more

than once at his lame jokes.

He watched her from a little way off and was afraid to call her name,

less she get shoved back into reality adn become Dr. Scully again.

The stalks brushed against his face like teasing hands and he enjoyed

this moment of carefree summer, watching her move gracefully between the

rows of corn like she was born under the same sun as they.

He caught up to her because she had stopped: already he could see the

flush in her cheeks and the bright eyes that he had never though to

identify her with. She looked beautiful standing in the amber waves of

sunlight, her soft blue dress cascading down her legs to swirl in the

stiff breeze.

He was afraid to touch her, as if doing so would bring her fire spirit

back from whatever heaven she had ascended to. He longed to follow her

there, to touch such overflowing contentment at least once in his life.

But he also wanted her to remain frozen forever in this moment,

crystallized in corn and summer, always glowing with an untapped,

unfathomable love.

"Do you mind if we keep going?" she asked, with one raised eyebrow.

This look seemed out of place in the corn, but it was sent as a peace

offering for him, a token of common ground to recognize in the newness

that had come over her.

He let his mouth speak before he had a handle on his thoughts.

"Looking like that, I'd follow you anywhere."

She glanced at her dress, at her her slim figure for a brief second, and

then looked back at him. He was relieved to see that there was no frown

and not a single spark of veiled humor. She had appreciated his comment

for what it was.

Her eyes were electric blue fire, sapping him with so much energy he

couldn't stand still.

He took her hand before she could say anything and squeezed it.

"Race you."

A familiar expression crossed her face, but it was one that he liked. An

answer to a challenge with just a hint of seduction.

"You don't know where we're going," she replied.

He grinned wickedly, "I'll find out, won't I?"

She smiled back, her brilliance eclipsing the sun.

Then she took off, her form falling away from him in the huge stalks.

He followed behond, both of them conserving their energy for that last

stretch when he would know where they were running to.

He was only a few feet behind her, watching her feet touch the dirt, and

her muscular legs flex in the sun. Sweat glistened from her body,

mingling with the dust, adn he could not help wanting her. Wanting her

right then.

They came to a clearing in the field, where a small shelter for storing

tools was rusting away, and she sprinted forward, running for her life.

He churned his legs and pulled even with her, then ahead, hearing her

breathing right behind him, almost in his ear. They came up on the steel

frame and slapped the sides as they flew by.

He had beat her.

He circled back around, grinning, and walked-jogged over to her. They

matched up and began to wlak around the perimeter of the clearing to

cool down as their bodies heaved and chests expanded.

"You're pretty fast for such a little person," he said as they claimed

refuge from the sun under the roof of the shed.

She looked out at him from shining eyes but said nothing to his comment

for awhile.

"Youve seen me run before Mulder," she said quietly, sitting down on the

packed dirt floor.

The dress billowed out and floated back to rest on her sweat-sticky

thighs.

He couldn't help but watch this for a moment, before turning over a rain

barrel and sitting down heavily on it.

"Yeah, I've seen you chase after suspects, but I wasn't paying attention

to how fast you were."

She gave him a look and leaned against the side of the wall, her neck

revealed to him like a vampire's feast.

"So what are you usually concentrating on?" she asked.

He licked his lips and moved away from her, back against the wall.

"Let's just say it's not my fault we lose so many suspects that way."

She sighed a little and sat up, leaning in close to him, the view now

offered far better than watching her dress stick to her legs.

He wondered if she was doing it on purpose, to tease him.

Scully wasn't a tease though.

But Scully also wasn't a free spirit running through corn either.

He leaned back to get his eyes away from their dangerous path, and

stretched his muslces as pretense, closing his eyes to half slits.

"Do you like it here?" she asked, her face revealing nothing, but her

voice indicating the importance of his answer.

He glanced around, eyes searching through the long rows of green to come

to rest on the huge pools of blue.

"Yes, I do. It's peaceful." he replied honestly.

She looked away from his eyes and he caught the edges of her hidden

smile, making him grin quickly and smother it when she turned again to

look at him.

"Good. I like it here too. It helps me find balance."

He sat quietly listening to her, mainly because he was fast falling in

love with this new inflection, new tone of throatiness, that was

apparent in her voice. She closed her eyes and her mouth parted to

breathe better. Her chest rose up and down and he felt guilty for

watching her like he was: like she deserved better than his primal

instincts and animal hormones.

She was basking it, though. Her body warmed to the glow of his eyes and

the waves of his desire. She was impressed that he had not tried

anything, but it also touched her deeply because it showed the respect

he obviously carried for her.

She closed her eyes in contentment and let her entire body relax

completely. She knew that out in the cornfields, with Mulder a few feet

from her, nothing could happen.

Her body untensed, her muscles uncoiled, and she felt good for the first

time since . . . since the news of her cancer.

Mulder watched her pulse twitch slowly in her throat and her eyes grow

heavy lidded and sleepy.

"Mulder......" she said finally, opening one eye. His mind felt just as

relaxed watching her unwind, but his muscles were tensed, his body

poised on the balls of his feet.

"Can't you relax?" she said and turned her face to see him better.

A soft breeze rustled the corn into whispers and danced her hair across

her face and into her eyes, making her miss his expression of rapt

attention.

"I guess not." she said, frowning as his body tensed and shifted

slightly.

It was like a call to challenge for her: make Mulder relax.

She shifted positions until she was sitting on another rain barrel right

behind him, placing her hands to his shoulders.

"Let's see if you can," she said and kneaded her knuckles into very

sore, very cramped muslces.

He made a groaning noise, despite himeslf, and his eyes slammed shut as

his head dipped forward, letting frustrated passion disappear under her

fingers.

He couldn't seem to get up enough energy to thank her, and his eyes

refused to open, but the noises that escaped his mouth when he wasn't

looking were doing a good job.

"That feel good, Mulder?" she murmured, digging harder into his

shoulders and back.

He nodded and let out a half whine, half grunt that sent little thrills

of fire racing through her.

"Good," came her voice from somewhere in front of him and he opened his

eyes to see a sea of green and blue. He blinked because all his other

reactions were delayed by the numbness that had set in after her

massage.

She looked like she needed to be kissed, but he forgot what muscles to

move to lean toward her.

Instead she sat next to him and took his hand.

He smiled and liked the feel of her side pressed into him, her sweat

slick and sweet on his already soaked grey T-shirt.

"So what's it about this place that makes you so happy?" he asked.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

"This used to be my grandparents' farm." she said softly.

He sensed danger but kept on going. "Why aren't they here anymore?"

"My Gramma died of cancer and my Papa died a few weeks later of a broken

heart."

He sighed and looked at her.

She was smiling. "It's okay though. They were old and they needed to go

home. Papa just didn't want to get left behind. They were my Dad's

parents. They died when I was thirteen."

He nodded and put an arm around her.

She smiled. "We used to come here during the summers, when Mom got a

chance to go with Dad on some of his tours. They would go to Tahiti and

Hawaii and we'd beg to come here and waste away the summer. It was

great. Gramma had oatmeal cookies made and she let us lick the spoon and

the bowl and then Papa would tell us all a story. At night we'd play

hide and seek in the corn and Papa would ring the dinner bell to get us

to come in. You could play that game out here forever and never be

found."

Her eyes were far away.

He liked the way she looked when she told the story, with her hair

floating in to weave around her head like a crown, and her ocean eyes

gently rocking him back and forth, swimming in intelligence and

happiness.

He wanted to play hide and seek in the corn with her. He wished he could

hide them both away from the world in these long green waving hands of

welcoming corn.

He wanted to kiss her. On her lips and then her chin and then her neck

and taste the sweat and feel her pulse move beneath his mouth.

She glanced at him and her eyes narrowed, as if she knew exactly what he

was thinking.

"Just do it Mulder."

"Just do it, Mulder."

He gaped at her and fell off his rain barrel, crashing to the ground

with a heavy thud that sent aftershocks of pain coasting through his

bones.

"Mulder!" she yelped, reaching over to help him back up.

"What did you say?" he asked, his bottom now firmly residing on his

vacated seat.

"Uh. . . Mulder?" she replied, a shady confused cloud coming over her

sky-eyes.

"No, before that."

"Playing hide and seek in the field?"

She was getting really concerned for him now, and she had fright and

hesitancy etched into her features.

He wished he could erase away those lines and have her as she was

before.

She must not have said it. He had to be going crazy.

"Oh, never mind," he groaned and leaned back against the wall as she

moved to sit by his feet.

He could smell her now.

A tiny noise escaped his lips and he rubbed his face raw trying not to

let her show just how much she was getting to him.

But it came again. As if a breath of God was sending her scent straight

to him: flowers and earth and sweat combined with the aroma of the day's

morning shower and being on the road. He wanted to reach out and touch

her hair: it looked like a waterfall of satin gold and red, curling on

the ends like plumed feathers.

He had an idea.

"Thanks for the back rub," he murmured. "It feels great."

She gave him a special smile and he grinned, then suddenly stopped as if

he had remembered something.

"Scoot closer, I'll do your shoulders now." he said.

She shrugged and turned back to him. "Fair enough."

It was ecstasy.

He reached out and pulled her hair away from her neck, letting his hands

glide through like sailboats cutting through an ocean. Her head tilted a

bit, then her tongue came out to lick her lips as he touched her skin.

Her shoulders were smooth and soft, with strong muscles bunched beneath

fair skin. His breath came out and skirted along the edges of her neck,

hot and quick like steam.

She shivered and he flexed his fingers, making her skin loosen and her

muslces tight. While his hands worked her shoulders, his eyes roved over

her body.

Her head was tucked between her knees, her hands locked and loosely

clasped in front of her. Her knees were jutted out into the air like

flags on the moon, and her head lolled back and forth as he worked out

her muscles.

Her neck stretched before him like a ray of light, smooth and soft and

ridged with her spine. He let his thumbs slide forward before quickly

coming back to her shoulders.

After a few minutes, she was making soft pitiful noises that sent fire

straight to his stomach and ripped through his guts. It felt almost as

if his bones had been axed in two, split in the middle like green wood.

He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.

This was ==Scully.==

Not some . . . raunchy video or something. He had more respect for her,

and for himself, than to be doing this.

He let his hands drop and she sighed like in the old Coke commercials -

a satisfied expulsion of breath and a thirst quenched.

He moved to place her hair back on her neck, his fingers shaking as they

connected with the fine strands.

She was very still in front of him, perched there almost, as if waiting

for something to happen.

The air was still as he slowly ran his hand down her hair.

Everything was still.

He fiddled with the ends then reached up and started both hands at the

top of her head, shaking when she slumped back into him.

With her head propped against his leg, face turned so that her cheek was

resting on his knee, he let his hands make their journey again. Tangles

were softly sifted from her hair, and sighs issued from her lips.

She was relaxing under his fingers as if every touch was laced with

sedatives.

He moved to see her face and was surprised.

Her eyes were heavy and slipping shut, her mouth parted as if inviting

him to kiss her lips in agonizing slowness.

He sank down to the ground behind her, slipping his arms around her

stomach and pulling her body to his. She came willingly and let her head

fall against his chest.

She was trusting him; he knew this now. She was trusting him to lead

them into places that were brighter than this valley of Shadows.

The touch of his warm hand and large body slipped around her: she was

capsuled in him. She was falling asleep to his heartbeat's lullabye and

drowning in the cells of his skin.

Mulder closed his eyes and reveled in the sensations radiating through

him like an electric heater in winter. In these cornfields, with the sun

fiercely berating them, he wanted to touch her and have her . . . have

her melt into him.

Her eyes were fluttering and her chest falling into rhythm with his

heart: she was a small child tucked into his arms and he was in love

with her.

"Scully?" he whispered.

She didn't move.

He couldn't help himself anymore: he had to touch her more than just

this, more than just watching and holding.

His bent his head forward and let his breath fall against her skin, his

nose touching her neck with languid desire. He moved up and brushed his

lips to her forehead, feeling nothing but her and the heat.

In the surrealism of the cornfield and the heat, the touch was more than

anything before, more exciting, more intoxicating than any other times.

He realized his lips were still poised above her forehead and he bent

forward again and grazed her nose, her cheek, the corner of her lips. He

tasted sweat and skin and more of her than any scent or touch could give

him.

Her eyes drifted open just as he pulled back and he found himself

staring into orbs so bright, they blinded him with their very nature.

She didn't move, only stared at him, waiting, waiting.

A breath.

A fluttering heart.

A lone cry of a crow, yearning for corn.

He breathed: blinked: shook: closed his eyes.

Her hand touched his cheek and his eyes jerked open, watching with fear

and forgiveness, fright and forever.

She settled more against him and closed her eyes.

She was trusting him: trusting that he would lead them to safety.

But then she sat up and pushed away from him, a hand to his chest to

remind him of her presence, remind him she wasn't going to run away from

him.

There was nowhere to go.

"Mulder?" Her voice was uncertain, her face confused and for the first

time, she didn't think she had the answers.

He gave her a shy, little boy smile, peeking up at her with the tops of

his eyes.

"You looked so peaceful," he said, as if that could explain everything.

"I just wanted to touch that."

<You. I wanted to touch you.>

She blinked and stood up, stretching her cramped legs, then walked to

the edge of the little shelter. The sun streamed in and made a halo of

pure angel light around her.

He watched her with the sort of pride that came from simply knowing her,

as if somehow he had been a part of her creation.

He was wishing too much. He'd had no part in making this beautiful woman

who stood there before him.

He loved seeing her like this: with the sun catching fire to her hair

and making it gold, her eyes lost in the green of the cornfield.

He wished she would stay forever like this; that they could eternally be

in the corn, easy and comfortable even when he did something stupid like

kiss her.

Even when he did something stupid, everything was all right.

Was it the place or them?

She turned in the light, her front being plenty warmed, to face his eyes

and his look.

He smiled and stood and came to her. He quenched the feeling of panic

rising through him and took her arms in his hands, squeezing.

"You look beautiful."

His words came out soft, shaky, all the more wonderful because he meant

them and he was afraid.

She looked at him with eyes like calm seas, yet something behind them

was raging and storming: passion.

Their blue was clear biting autumn winds or rushing, cold creeks he used

to catch crawdads in. But alive beneath the chill - warm and

invigorating like fire or lava. Her eyes were both crisp, fresh, and

also hungry, longing.

He wanted her hunger to swirl to the top and manifest itself in his

arms.

Any other woman standing before him now, with such an uninterested far

away look and sweat pouring from every orifice, would not have him

conjure words like beautiful to describe her. With Scully it was as if

the parameters had shrunk to only her . . . she was the only thing

beautiful in his life.

And he was amazed she hadn't run off.

He wanted to touch her lips so bad, he ached.

In his gut, he was twisting around like fish on a hook, and his heart

was being wrung like a washcloth.

He =had= to kiss her.

The sun was highlighting her hair and her eyes were ravaging his face,

so he put his hands to her cheeks and swept his thumbs along her bones,

preparing her for what he was about to do.

She knew it; he could see the expectancy in her eyes. The flinty blue

had been replaced with melted crayon blue; they seemed to plead with him

to go ahead and kiss her.

So he did.

He didn't remember a thing about it except that she pressed into him and

raised her head for more.

He then looked at her, their separation a mutual need for air and a time

to recover. She was looking right back at him, her breath coming quick

again, her eyes shadowed. It was not the darkness of too many deaths,

too many secrets, but the shadows of joy and forever and a fulfilled

hunger, a slaked thirst.

"Do that again," she said in her child's summer voice.

He smiled and bent down: she met him and it was deeper, more alive,

more.

So intensely strange: surreal.

She sighed and entwined her fingers through his, making a noise with her

tongue. Her forehead rested on his chin for a moment and then her eyes

glanced to the rows of corn, to the eventual car out there idling, to

the world waiting.

"Mulder?" she asked, still not looking at him.

He squeezed her fingers and hoped the corn's spell would last for a

little while longer.

"Are you leaving?" she blurted out.

He made a kind of cry that made her turn and look in his eyes. Her own

were fierce.

"No!" he cried, his eyes rioting.

Her face was knotted in a small expression of fear.

"Oh. With that . . . I thought something was going on. Like when someone

learns they only have a few weeks to live and they do crazy things."

She was unsure what to do now.

"Was that crazy?" he asked, looking at her through half closed lids.

She felt like shivering. "For you, that was crazy." she said, but her

lips were smiling.

"But..."

"But I liked it."

He lit a smile and and realized he could feel the blood punding through

the fingers laced in his.

He leaned down and kissed her again, softly once more.

Scully broke away and looked out at the cornfields, away from him.

"So, Scully, if you liked it so much - how come you never did something

crazy when you had the cancer?"

She smiled softly at him and shook her head. "There's something in this

place, Mulder. I'm not like this when we're other places. Here,

nothing's wrong. I am me and I don't have to be someone else."

"So be you everywhere."

"It's not that easy. =We're= not that easy."

"We can be."

"How?" She turned and her eyes drilled into him.

"Marry me," he whispered.

She smiled sadly and shook her head. "I can't Mulder. If we stayed here

forever, then it wouldn't be a problem. But someday we have to go back

to the world, the conspiracies and cover-ups. It wouldn't work."

He knew that but he felt like he had to ask.

Her hand was warm in his, like a baby bird, because you could feel its

heat and its little heartbeat and its fear of humans. She didn't move

away from him but kept looking to the stalks swaying in an imaginary

breeze that never quite reached their shelter. As if the wind was

consoling the corn because it could not be in the shade like they were.

He sighed.

"So marry me here. Forget out there, and just marry me. In the corn."

She looked to him for a long time, eyes light blue and revealing

nothing.

"If I do that I'll never want to leave." She sighed.

"People need us Mulder. They need you and we'd just be letting them

win."

He was silent again. He knew that too.

It wouldn't work. They matched, but it wouldn't work.

Not with people spying on them, dark men watching them, webs of deceit

tangling around them, and forever stretching to nothing.

He tightened his arms around her buried his face in her neck.

Nothing was his own anymore.

He had nothing but time anymore, nothing but the short space of seconds

before they would leave - he had to have more than that when he left.

So he bent forward and kissed her harder, forcing more of his passion

into it than ever, none of the gentleness with which he had handled it

before.

She gasped and released his hand, as if now, she knew exactly what they

had awakened within them.

She turned her face and pressed her cheek to his collarbone. He looked

down and prayed there was not pity or fear or loathing in her eyes.

He felt warm drops of raining tears and carefully raised a hand to

caress the side of her head, stroking her hair and brushing her cheek.

She turned to him again.

"I'm sorry Mulder. I shouldn't have. It's never going to be the same. .

. . . never."

He had no words to say to make things better for her. It never would be

the same. It would all change and they, together or apart, would have to

adapt to it, modify themselves to make it all work, without ending up

dead or gone.

But now, he would know exactly what he was missing, and so would she.

"Okay Mulder." she said suddenly, her hands like talons around his

waist.

"Okay what?" he said.

"I'll marry you here, in the corn. Only here. I have to . . ."

He glanced over her torn and troubled face, hating that he had forced

this happiness from her.

"Come here," he murmured.

He enfolded her in his arms and rubbed her body with his hands, sending

friction across her shoulders and through her blood.

He ran his fingers through her hair again and she stayed perfectly

still.

"Mulder? Thank you."

"For what?"

"For this." she said.

"I haven't done anything."

She said nothing, but strained her body up to his and kissed him again,

unleashing her own fiery passion.

It exploded through him and coursed through his body, leaving flaming

nerves and severed bones and scorched blood in its path.

"I've got to have you," he said gruffly.

"You can."

He was startled, thrown by her open admission even after she had kissed

him so wonderfully. She really wanted this.

She yanked on his hand and they began to run, their bodies slicing into

the rows and shearing the green from the sky. They didn't care that the

sun was unmerciful, that the heat was riding in waves off the ground.

They stopped.

Panted and breathed.

A hot breeze rustled the stalks and made the ears dip down.

They looked.

Breathed and sweated.

Crashed into each other like conflicting waves.

The corn listened to nature and body, soul and fear, make love in the

dirt.

And then lay still, hearing a world start walking again, a life start

rushing forward, a war raging again.

A war raging again.

~~~~~

(two years later)

The car was too dirty to even be distinguishable from the dirt road and

as he drove, the woman next to him slept.

Until something woke her up.

The car stopped and she pushed the creaking door open until she could

step out, the man following behind her.

His hand came to her hair and dropped, brushing her hips as he moved

forward.

They walked.

It was hot and she wiped the sweat from her forehead and imagined things

in this place. Her ring shined dully with dirt and sun.

They stopped.

Green stalks bowed to them as he laid her to the ground.

"Second honeymoon," he whispered and descended to her lips.

end

adios

RM

~~feedback?~~

Condition

Date: Tue, 30 Jun 1998 15:58:57 +0000

<[email protected]>

uthor: RM >[email protected]<

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No fringe is

intended. Does CC or anyone over there, *ever* read these things anyway?

Summary: POST-KITSUNEGARI::::::::US5 SPOILERS

THIS IS NOT MSR_____IT IS FRIENDSHIP.......I PROMISE.

~~~~~~~~~~

"I grieve in my condition,

for I cannot find the words to say

'I need you so.'"

--Sarah McLachlan, "I Love You"

~~~~~~~~~~

Condition

~~~~~~~~~~

It's different being out here, outside Skinner's office, rather than

inside where your partner is getting crucified for something he was the

only one to even understand.

I am waiting for him to come out of there.

I know he will be depressed, forsaken, wishing for nothing but relief

from the pain being piled up in him.

I don't think he's going to want to see me at all.

But I've got to be strong, got to show him that nothing he does hurts

me. That the whole thing was saved, was kept from crashing and burning

by only his own stubborness, his willingness to *not* believe.

Or rather, to believe only me.

He did not pull the trigger; he listened to me when it was most

critical.

Amd he didn't listen to me when I was wrong.

Even if he didn't know that it was me he was listening to, even as I saw

him wracked with a profound grief over what he thought was my death.

I saw his face, his eyes.

He was lost.

Lost.

And it gives me the strength to now comfront him, to help him battle his

demons.

I should have a long time ago. I could see what they'd done to his soul,

how he could never quite trust himself, yet he always told me to trust

him.

As if my trust in him, let him trust in himself.

He's distanced himself from me again, and I hate that. I thought we were

back, better than ever, ready to fight, ready to discover all the truths

we'd missed.

He's withdrawing.

He's lost.

"Scully?"

I snap from my trance, stand to see him coming from the office with a

bit of confusion on his face.

"I waited for you." I say, a bit dumbly.

He looks me over, wonders for a moment, then lets it go, leading me back

to the elevator.

He's silent on the ride down, his hand still touching the small of my

back, reassuring him that I'm there.

I shake off my feelings of doom about the conversation I'm about to

start, and plunge right ahead.

"Thank you Mulder."

His head snaps to mine. He was far far off.

"What for?"

"For seeing what was really there."

He glances at me again, looks to the panel.

I wonder if he's thinking about calling the emergency phone for help.

Odd thought, but of course, I'm trying not to get too deep into this.

Just let him know.

Otherwise more could come from me than I want him to really know right

now.

The doors slide open and we walk in silence to the office, down some

more steps, finding it easy, comfortable ground. This is our territory,

we can act right here.

He unlocks the door, lets me precede him in, then closes it behind us.

I can feel things waiting.

Waiting for me to tell him that this wasn't his fault.

Before, in a case similiar to this, with a man named Modell lying in a

hospital bed and Mulder standing over him in guilt, I took his hand.

I let him know I was still there, still ready to go wherever he wanted.

I can't take his hand now.

It would not say enough. It doesn't say anything anymore.

I don't know how to start. There's nothing I can put in words. Only that

he knew what was right and he went after it even though I left him.

I feel like dirt for betraying him.

I feel guilty and stained for not backing up my partner.

I glance to his face, then cast my eyes down, knowing he is looking

straight at me.

"I'm sorry I didn't back you up, Mulder. I'm sorry."

I can hear his shock even with my ears filled with my own beatraying

words.

I think I've needed to apologize to him for a long time now.

His hands shake and touch my face.

"Scully . . . whatever you said, it was right. I was being reckless-"

I shake my head free of his hands. "No, Mulder. You were being right.

You were right and you usually are, but I still wouldn't see it. I was

too closed off this time, too narrow minded. I'm only hurting you more,

Mulder."

He's confused, I know. But I need to say this, I need him to understand

that the wrong of the world does not fall squarely on his shoulders.

Some of it falls on me.

I need him to forgive me, not to ignore what I've done.

"Scully, look. You thought you-"

"Stop it Mulder. Stop. I . . . I just want you to forgive me. To tell me

that I didn't hurt you too badly. That you'll be okay."

He smiles softly, still upset that I've gotten upset. Still confused

that I'm even telling him this.

I should have told him from the very beginning.

"You didn't hurt me too badly, Scully. I got over it."

I blink, smile. "Good. Good." My words are more a relief that a control

over something.

I shake a bit, shiver in the intensity of feelings I have never before

given in to.

He takes my shoulders, pulls me into him. He seems to understand that

this has forgiven me, and also forgiven him.

We don't need anymore words now.

I feel safe again, secure in us.

We've gotten through this, and we'll get through more.

I have to remember to tell him, to find the courage in me to face my own

demons and therefore, to help him release his.

"I love you, Mulder. I didn't want to hurt you."

He snakes his hand through my hair.

"I know. It's okay."

I may have messed up, but he's forgiven me.

And forgiven himself.

~~~~~

end

adios

RM