Valse Lente
by Shoshana

Title: Valse Lente (1/1)
Author: Shoshana
Email Address: shoshana1013@excite.com
Distribution Statement: Anywhere
Spoiler Warning: Through Milagro
Rating: PG-13
Content Statement: VRA
Classification: VRA
Keywords: Mulder/Scully UST
Summary: Post-ep. Events immediately following Padgett's death and beyond.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's been happening more often now. Ever since the first time she invited me to sleep beside her. Ever since Padgett. It's a comfort, an addiction to me. One I hope I'll never shake. It's infrequent, but expected. Expected, but not demanded. Understood, but not discussed. Comfortable, but not taken for granted. A tacit agreement. An unspoken vow. I will take care of you, as you have taken care of me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully was still shaking when the EMTs arrived that day. The detectives were soon to follow. I told them to check the basement for themselves, not ready to leave her side while she was being checked over for injuries, vital signs being noted on a metal clipboard, a barrage of questions thrown at her without end.

She pulled herself together, preternaturally, beyond any transformation I had previously seen her pull off. Ten minutes ago she had been hysterical, grasping for shoulders, digging nails into my back, losing control, seeking it in the safety of my embrace.

I had thought her lost to me when I entered the room. The fear that flashed across her face, that caused her to desperately claw at me, was in equal measure to my own those scant seconds before she revived. Her eyes flipped open, breath was inhaled, expelled, torn from her bloody body, evidence that she still lived, still lived beneath me.

Scully still shook as the medical people went about their business. She had pulled herself together, but she was still trembling, still affected by what I could only guess had happened. She submitted to their ministrations, her medical training kicking into high gear, welcoming lucidity, normality while being treated, as if she were any other injured person, any other fallen human being.

The detective was back. He was familiar to me, I to him. He spared me any good-natured ribbing this time, aware of Scully's distress, aware that I would not be hovering over her still if I was not truly concerned. He pulled me off to one side, told me what he had found in the basement. It was as I had guessed, just requiring full confirmation from the stoically serious man beside me.

I thanked him, I asked him if Scully could give her statement tomorrow, if we could leave now and allow them to conduct their forensic tests, without interference, without our presence. Thankfully, he nodded yes, asked a few more questions about bullet holes and blood and Padgett's apartment. I answered, one eye on him, one on Scully, ready to whisk her away at the first indication that hospitalization was unnecessary.

She'd lost some blood, but not enough to merit a transfusion. She was in shock, but coming back to normal, a cheap, blue hospital blanket thrown over her shoulders by the EMTs. They were done with her and I joined her on the couch, taking her hand and asking her if she wanted to go to her apartment now. She nodded yes, her eyes telling me that she had had just about enough, that the excitement, the personnel swirling around my apartment were making her dizzy, past the point of exhaustion.

We grabbed her handbag, my wallet, my keys, reminding the detective to lock up after combing over the crime scene. My neighbors stood in rapt fascination, peering out their doors to see the F.B.I. agents walk down the hallway towards the elevator, a short walk become lengthy with their scrutiny.

Scully clung to my hand, eyes open and unfocused, content to be guided along as if an attack of hysterical blindness had impaired her. I opened the passenger side and helped her in, fastening the seatbelt, trying to give her a wan smile, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder before closing the door and rushing around to my side. I drove the speed limit, my hands gripping the steering wheel like a life preserver in a storm. I knew if we could just get her to her own place, to her own bathroom, to her own bed, everything would be fine, just fine.

She sat quietly, hands in her lap, staring out into traffic, an old jacket of mine wrapped around her shoulders, dwarfing her, enveloping her. We made eye contact just once, and I pulled my right hand off the wheel to grasp hers, running my thumb over the inside of her palm, giving what little comfort I could.

I only let go when we reached the apartment building, grabbing my overnight bag from the trunk, opening the doors for her, leading her up to the sanctuary of her own home. I locked the door behind us and asked her if she wanted to shower right away, even though I knew what her response would be. She retreated to the bathroom and I grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from her bedroom, familiar with their location after playing nurse to her last January. I knocked before entering the steamy bathroom, set them on the sink, and for once resisted the temptation to sneak a peek through translucent glass doors.

I had been too embarrassed to seek out underclothes, the thought of rifling through her underwear drawers seemed blasphemous, inappropriate. I puttered about the kitchen, plugging in her favorite electric teakettle, getting out some cinammon spice tea that I knew she'd like. I surveyed the refrigerator, evaluating whether its contents would suffice till tomorrow and found that she was well- stocked for now, our case having been conducted so close to home.

So close to home. Too close to home. What had happened? Would I ask her tonight, or wait till tomorrow, when she spilled her guts to the accommodating detective who had graciously postponed the angst of that particular interview... I filled her English country house teapot and placed it on a tray with two large mugs, the tea bags on the side. She rarely bothered with loose tea, and I didn't even know where her teaball was, having only seen it once, when I bought her that black currant stuff that she loves so much.

I went to the bathroom, grabbing my bag on the way, ascertained she was still occupied in her bedroom, and stripped and took a shower to rid myself of all the blood on my own clothes and body. It was funny how we never had to explain these things to one another anymore. We'd been in so many predicaments requiring disposal of bloody or contaminated clothing, followed by cleansing showers, it never needed to be articulated, spelled out, that we both would use whatever facilities were available at the time.

Her shower felt like heaven. It was so intimate, so infused with her fragrance, I felt unconscionably woozy, intoxicated with her scent, guilty as hell that I could bask in such pleasure while she waited for me, needed me beside her. I hurried myself along, absolving my guilt by taking a condensed version of my daily twenty minute ritual. The older I got, the more time was spent encouraging stiff, recalcitrant muscles to become limber, pliant, ready for the morning or evening or whenever I was heading out on another unpredictable adventure.

And our experience with Padgett had been totally unpredictable. Who would have thought that Scully would end up getting cozy with her stalker, sipping coffee from mismatched mugs at the end of his bed? Who could have predicted the pain in her eyes when I unwarrantedly questioned whether sections of the novel had been a priori, before the fact, or not? How could I have been so uncouth, so stupid, to imagine her with that asshole, in his bed, in his arms? Was I so jealous of any man who made the moves on her that I had to insult her intelligence, her dignity with my smart mouth remarks? I was going to have to make amends. Somehow, and soon.

I dressed, combed my crappy haircut one more time, and strode briskly to the living room, where Scully sat on the couch, sipping tea and watching CNN. Thank God our little incident never made it to the news tonight. Though I fully expected it to be investigated by some savvy journalist in the area looking for an inflammatory story. There had been a few stories in the local papers, but now that the case would be 'officially' closed, it might attract God knows how many curious gawkers. We would use the back entrance tomorrow, avoiding paparazzi who hung around the station house door, eyes pealed for mafioso, hookers, or unlucky public servants, just doing their job.

We sat in silence. Funny how there was so little to be said now. Needed to be said now. We were both exhausted, she more than I, and I knew we would crash before too long. I managed to ask her if she was hungry. She was. She smiled at the way I was doting on her and told me what to order. I could have made her something from the kitchen, but she saw my tired eyes and opted for convenience.

Twenty minutes later, Chinese food arrived and we ate happily, quietly discussing our meal and other outstanding ones in the past, relieved that we could settle on a topic of conversation having nothing to do with novels, blood loss, or imaginary psychic surgeons. We cleaned up the damage and Scully found some rarely used brandy, pouring each of us a wine glass full. She claimed it would help her sleep. I knew she hoped it would help her forget.

After a half hour of boring television, she was ready for bed and she silently searched her linen closet for a blanket. The hide-a- bed was always made up anymore. So many times I crashed there, too tired to make it home after driving for miles to get back to D.C. And I had stayed there for a week after her trip to New York, just long enough for her to get back to her normal routine. We never discussed this level of familiarity in our relationship. I was there when she needed me, she was there when I needed her.

It was part of our jobs, to take care of one another, to trust that the other one would be there when we woke up in a hospital bed, when we needed some extra help at home. She stopped asking her mother to take care of her long ago, preferring to worry her less by divulging fewer of the details of her wounds, her physical limitations of the day. She never had to lie to me, disguise the what and why and how of her situation, so she yielded to my concern, let me take care of her, within limitations. As soon as she felt well enough, I was out the door, grateful that she was better, grateful that she had allowed me to hang around as long as she had. I was thankful that I just had her alive, still ready to take on the world when she was fully recovered.

I was asleep within minutes, no insomnia tonight. Exhaustion acted like a drug, loosening me up, relaxing the kinks in my psyche that so often kept me alert at night. I must have slept several hours before I heard her screaming. I raced into the bedroom and found her awake, but disturbed, heart racing, eyes still fearful, still apprehensive. I held her tight to my chest, stroking her flannel-covered back, swaying gently, whispering that it was all right, that the nightmare was over, that I was there for her now.

She calmed, got up to use the john, and I was on my way back to the couch, when I felt my t-shirt being tugged on. I turned around and she grabbed my hand, pulling me down the hallway, back to her bedroom. I protested, weakly, and she smiled, and told me that she just needed someone to sleep next to, 'so don't get any ideas,' and 'don't hog the covers goddammit.'

Feeling awkward, but somehow delirious with love, I settled next to her, close enough to hold her, but not really qualify as snuggling. She seemed satisfied with that, and she gathered my hand into her own and whispered goodnight. I knew that more had happened here than just solace after a bad dream. She had invited me closer to her than ever before, and she knew that I would not misinterpret the gesture.

She had no secrets from me now. She wanted me in her life. She wanted me in her bed. She was asking for time, time to get used to this rising tide of intimacy between us. I had felt our relationship shifting slowly during the Padgett case; despite our acrid disagreements, despite our sharp remarks, despite my asinine accusal. Ý

We were right together, we were in love with one another. She had been hiding it for so long, that she was incapable of expressing it conventionally. The momentum of this case had knocked her down, forced her to reveal herself to me, and then only shyly, slowly. She trusted me, trusted that I would raise her back up, bring her beyond just mere existence, just slogging along from day to day, just trudging from one empty hotel room to the next, just barreling down all those lonely highways that never seemed to end.

I gathered up all that trust, that love she was offering me and held it close to my heart, close to the depth of my soul. Padgett had thought to win her heart, win her love, through flattery, through interpreting every movement she made, relying on outward appearances to predict her behavior. But I have always known that Scully's actions cannot be prognosticated.

She's not a character from a novel, driven by her creator's thoughts and desires. She's impossible to interpret, predict from mere observation. And if she's unreadable, it doesn't mean that's she's lonely, unhappy, unfulfilled inside. She's hidden a lot from me, but I have always known that she knows her own mind, that she has strength within, and would never torment herself, cut herself off from the world as Padgett had.

She lives in this world, not a fanciful tale from the pen of an insecure novelist. She is capable of growth, change, capable of dealing with whatever comes her way. She's done that for thirty- five years of her life and I hope I'll be with her for as many years as we have left. Sooner or later, we would have gotten to this point, this milestone in our relationship.

I believed that, and was waiting and watching. Maybe I screwed up by waiting too long, by not making my affections more explicit. Maybe I hadn't learned much since she got that tattoo in Philadelphia, maybe I was as much of a cad as I sometimes saw myself to be. Or maybe, there was no way to predict Scully, to anticipate her actions, her emotions, as Padgett had tried. Maybe things just happened for no discernible reason, no definable quirk of fate. Whatever had occurred, I was at long last permitted to rest easy that night, beside Scully's soft and gentle soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It happens all the time now. We steal into each other's rooms at night, on the road, at home. There have been slow, gradual changes, sometimes imperceptible from one night to the next. Just a bit closer, a hand here, a nuzzle there. Tonight we are closer than ever. I am wrapped possessively around her, she reaches back and caresses my thigh, I bury my face in her silken hair. We are biding our time, prolonging our nocturnal waltz. I don't believe there are too many more steps left to this dance, before the tempo quickens...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Let Shoshana know what you thought of her story! Email: shoshana1013@excite.com

Visit her web page!
members.tripod.com/shoshana1013

 


home   |   illustrations   |   trailers   |   my fanfic   |   contact me

 

This site was built by Theresa to display fan artwork and fan fiction based on the X-Files TV show and fan fiction written by other authors in the X-files fandom. No copyright infringement intended. All art and fiction is done for fun, and no profit is being made from this website. The X-Files belongs to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox. Please visit the official X-Files Website for more information on the show.