Title: Echoes
Rating R
Classification: V A
Timeline: Up to and including S5 / The End
Date: August 2004
Keywords: MS
Archive: Gossamer, Ephemeral - yes. Others please ask.
Author: Xactly - xactthat@hotmail.com

Legally:
Not my characters.

Summary:
Standing in a burned out office. A time for reflection. 

------------------

We haven't made love since Ephesian. 

Not since our ill fated trip to the Temple of the Seven Stars. Not 
since I found out that I owned memories that weren't mine, but that 
had been mine once.

Odd that I should think of that as a marker, because we didn't make 
love then. It wasn't even as if we were really lovers before then. 

Three times - I've had one night stands that lasted longer. Three 
times, count them, memorise them, replay them at will. Hug them to 
my chest when it's cold outside.

But I haven't even had the nerve to ask since then. Not that I ever 
had the nerve to ask, not out loud. But I used to ask. Sometimes, I 
couldn't help myself, I'd let the pleading into my eyes. Available 
for you to acknowledge or ignore at your discretion. And my, 
weren't you discreet. Three times.

It was my miraculous escape from a burning boxcar that earned me 
the first trip. I'm not that easy to kill, you know that. But 
still, you saw me in a dream and told me so. First time for lots of 
things. A tide of welcome home carried along on a wave of love and 
tears. Your body and mine swirling in the current. You kissed the 
fresh red and white scar your bullet had made on my shoulder. 

Sudden recall so sharp it almost makes me scream. 

Did I ever tell you that I once made love to a vampire? Not a real 
one. And don't tell me that there aren't any real ones, you've seen 
them. Or maybe you haven't. Drugs in the coffee wasn't it? No 
matter. Anyway, she was an innocent, kind of. A human, certainly. 
Warm and dark in a world where the lights were out. Back when you 
were missing. 

No, I guess I never did tell you about that.

Kristen. She died a couple of hours later.

Anyway, this is about you and me. 

You kissed my scar. I kissed your eyelids, your neck, your breasts. 
But you were too fast for me, all precision timing and pinpoint 
accuracy. Drew me in close. Let me drown in your warmth. Next time, 
I promised myself, it would be about slow seduction. I remember 
slithering down into sleep imagining that there would be a next 
time.

Daylight burned the fantasy out of me. Work, you said. Of course, 
you were right. No time to talk, not about that. Business before 
pleasure and a twelve foot wall in between. Good. I hate all that 
sentimental morning after crap. 

And Melissa Scully was dying as we...

Our first adventure ended with Melissa's death. Right then, you 
wanted a friend, not a lover. Did you feel guilty that we had 
made love while she was dying? Do you think of death when you 
remember loving me?

Ironic that it was another Melissa's death that ended the fantasy 
for all time. It did, didn't it? You lost whatever was left of love 
when I told you about Melissa Ephesian? About my bond to her, a 
bond that for an instant felt as potent through time and space as 
my bond to you.

The great thing, about me never actually saying the words, is that 
I never actually had to hear you turn me down. There was that one 
time though. When I'm not sure that I asked at all. Not even an 
accidental pleading with my eyes. Looking back now, I would have 
said that I was too subdued, that too much energy had been spent, 
that I was at too low an ebb to ask. And yet, you still said yes.

Well not said. Not said exactly. Not with words. You took me home. 
You led me around my apartment, pulling line drawings of gargoyles 
from the walls, gathering them into a neat little pile. You didn't 
trash them there and then. That was my job. A task to be saved for 
when I'd broken through the surface of the water started to
breathe again. Like drawing the underline below the finished 
scene.

I remember you ordering me to get showered and shaved. Funny, I 
could have sworn that all I wanted to do at that moment was sleep. 
Yet, sleep was suddenly nothing. You were everything. Everywhere. 
Wiping the images of the grotesque from my brain. Replacing them 
with images of you. 

You stood and watched as I showered. "Beautiful," you said. As if 
I could imagine sleep then. You threw me a towel as I stepped out 
of the water.

Time moved  - slow motion and soft focus, fitting the surreal charm
of the occasion. Slow, so slow. Me dripping wet and naked. You, 
still painfully fully dressed, your business suit only slightly 
rumpled from the day. Elegantly heeled shoes. 

Your hair soft against the palm of my hand as you dropped to your 
knees in front of me. I tried to stop you. Do you remember that? 
Then tried to warn you when I was getting too close. But, you 
trailed a finger along a too sensitive crease of skin and I forgot 
about my fantasy of seducing you. Lost myself in the moment of your 
warmth and your tongue and your hair tickling me and your fingers 
skimming across me and it was too much. Overload. Senses erupted 
and I almost screamed again, yet far too weak to scream. I needed 
to breathe before I could scream.

I remember reaching out for you as I crumbled to my knees. Seeking 
out your talented mouth, begging again, hunting for a soft kiss. 
You smiled and reminded me that I needed a shave. You were gone 
before morning.

One year on, and I stood by your hospital bed in Philadelphia as you 
waited for the bruises from your lover to fade, waited for the 
poison from your tattoo to leave your system. How could you?

I almost understand you and your compartments. This need to 
separate business from pleasure; sex from love; love from 
friendship. I'm allowed to be your partner, your friend, your 
lover. Just not at the same time. I understand it. Of course I do. 
I'm amazed that you can face living with me for a whole working 
day, ridiculous to imagine that you'd want to spend your nights 
with me too.

Yet. Yet, it's still not right, despite all these things I claim to 
understand, it's not the truth. I shouldn't have been jealous of 
you and Ed Jerse; I had no right; I have no rights; it's not 
allowed. 

I guess that I was just too stunned to hide it when I 
realised you were going on a date. I just thought. Well, you know 
what I just thought. I just thought that you wouldn't, that you 
didn't. Like I didn't. Like I haven't. Not since Kristen.

I'm not saying that I haven't looked. Bambi, there was one that was 
worth looking at. After all, so far as I could tell at that moment 
you'd written me off as a bad one night stand. I'm not a priest. Of 
course I looked. But I haven't touched. I've looked at you for 
years without touching. I'm good at it. It's safer that way. 

It's all so messed up in my scrambled brain. I know that you aren't 
mine. That three times does not a lifelong commitment make. You're 
not a swan; we didn't bond for life. Yet, I contradict myself, even 
in my thoughts. 

Not long before Ed and snakes and ergot poisoning and tattoos that 
talked, and pointless cases in Philadelphia, and me worshipping at 
the shrine of Elvis. Not long before, I remember telling you that 
I'd never thought of you as a mother. It was true, I hadn't. I'd 
never thought of me as a father. I'd never imagined you with any 
other man. Did I twist the knife with my words? Did you read them 
as dismissal?

I stood in the hospital room and looked at your bruises as you 
slept. I can admit now, cold clarity of 20:20 hindsight, that some 
sick twisted bit of me would have preferred the bruises to mean 
that you had had no choice. No, not really. I can't wish that. I'm 
not so sick that I'd sooner see you as unwilling victim than as Ed 
Jerse's lover. Did you tell him that you loved him? Did you groan 
as he moved over you. Did you scream his name when you came?

In my fantasy world, you sometimes scream my name. Though I know 
for a fact that you wouldn't. After all, I gave it my best shot 
once, and failed.

Television triggers mindless violence. Well, not mindless exactly. 
At least, not in your case. The patterns someone injected on the 
screen made you think that I'd betrayed you. You thought I was 
going to kill you. In the end, I think that the only reason why you 
didn't kill me was because of that rational scientist still 
pounding away in your head. The scientist demanded that you explain 
why I'd kill you in your mother's home, with her as a witness.

Another hospital stay for you, another visit for me. You came down 
fast, an almost instant recovery, staggering the staff. Told me you 
were embarrassed. That's my Scully, worried about looking foolish 
when you'd nearly killed me.

Let me assure you Scully. With a gun in your hand you look 
dangerous, not foolish.

See a pattern here, Scully? Three times. Once when you shot me. 
Once when you turned your gun on me instead of Patterson. Once when 
you almost broke apart as you contemplated killing me in your 
mother's lounge. Maybe I should provoke you into holding a gun on 
me more often. 

Then again, maybe not. It's a short and slippery slope to a loving 
game of Russian roulette with sex as the reward.

I took you home from hospital. Big mistake. I was so screwed up 
that night. X had killed all my potential witnesses, killed them in 
cold blood and I knew that he had. I'd stood in the house and 
smelled the blood. X challenged me to open fire and stop him. 
I stood there as he walked out, stupid frozen statue with my 
gun in my hand. What did I expect? That he'd just wait there, and 
let me cuff him then drive him to some Federal jail? And then what? 
I lied to Skinner to get him off the hook.

I guess I was pleading for absolution that night, for your blessing 
on my amorality. I doubt you saw it like that - after all, you 
didn't know what I'd done.

Were you asking me for absolution, Scully? For holding a gun on me. 
Surely not. Not after what Modell did to me, to us, to you. You 
must be harbouring way too much of that catholic guilt, Scully. 

Way too much. That would explain why you were on your knees 
again. No need for self flagellation, why not replace the 
recitation of twelve Hail Marys with this. Ultimate self denial. Is 
that what I am to you? Was I your punishment, Scully?

God knows what kind of crime would merit me as a punishment. Pretty 
awful, I guess.

Rules are made to be broken and I guess that I broke the rules that 
night. Slowly, slowly. You dropped to your knees, tugged at my 
belt. I told you to close your eyes. You did. Your tongue slipping 
out to lick at your lips. 

Anticipation. 

I walked behind and knelt against your back. Licked your ear. You 
were so startled that you tried to pull away. I snaked an arm around 
you to block your movements. You dutifully stopped struggling. After 
all, I guess that this was your punishment and you'd decided to take 
it as it comes. 

My fingers set to work on the problem. Button, button, button. 
Carefully does it until your clothes hung loose. A brief moment of 
readjustment as I removed the fabric from you, then relaxing 
against you again. Your bare back against my cotton shirt. My 
fingers playing over your sensitive peaks of flesh. My silk tie 
around your neck. Was it still punishment? Your breathing changed. 
I felt like I'd struck gold. 

Do you know how badly I wanted to reach out to you, to tell you 
that you must feel no guilt for what had happened. Do you know how 
hard I was trying to make it work for you, this healing? Yes, I 
know, I'm stupid, you can't cure anything with a bout of sultry 
sex. I know. But, you're as bad, you thought that my cock could 
grant absolution.

The bedroom. I think you must have nodded when I suggested it. 
Anyway I pulled you to your feet and you led the way. Teamwork as 
ever. Your mouth so hot against mine. Your skin so soft. Your wet 
scent so enticing. I tried to tell you how important you are, but I 
don't think I got past A, B, C. I think you enjoyed my kisses. I 
think your trembling muscles took pleasure in my touch. I think I 
loved you better than you wanted me to.

When I woke, you were reading up on anti psychotics. I never 
did ask you to explain. After all, talk is what we do at work. Not 
in this other place. This place that exists only in a blink of an 
eye and the heat of the night.

I guess all that reading came to your rescue again when you woke up 
from Ed's murderous embrace. How could you let him do that to you? 
How much did you have to hate me to do that to yourself?

Looking back I know that right then, we were at once too close and 
too far apart. Did I say that we needed space, a little time to 
find ourselves? Only days before you decided that you could find 
space in that man's bed. And to think, all my little bout of 
escapism cost me was a few dollars and a little shedding of my cool 
outer shell.

Why that? Why choose self mutilation for openers. Yes, I know, I'm 
a snob, but I liked the soft white of your back. Why was a 
psychotic your chosen date? 

Couldn't you just have binged on ice-cream and hit on some nice DC 
hospital doctor? Why did you have to go and try and kill yourself?

When you came back to work, your eyes were ice. Frozen blue spikes 
that pierced me as I tried to look at you. But I forced myself to 
look, forced myself to watch as you built a tall glass wall around 
yourself. 

I talked nonsense about your latest entry into the annals of the 
X-Files. About tattoos. About desks. 

My God. Two entries in the X-Files? Sure. If I'd known what was 
coming, I'd never had made the jibe. 

And then there was the cancer; and then there was an implant; and 
then there was Emily; and then there was a fire raiser who called 
you to meet him on a bridge; and then there was an angel. Oh, I 
forgot. We don't talk about angels, not in the X-Files. Dana Scully 
doesn't have visions of angels and doesn't accept advice from her 
own dead child. Psychotic hallucinations are Fox Mulder territory, 
a suitable case for sedatives and restraints.

Ed Jerse is getting better now as well. No more restraints for him, 
I guess. Will you go visit?

With the X-Files closed, it's a time for taking stock. I'm sure 
that's what you are doing too. Of course with the office burned, 
there's not that much stock to carry over. Take your time Scully. 
Don't make a mistake. Find a lawyer, or a doctor, or a physics 
professor. Find a lover without a past, who only wants a future. 
Someone who can love you.

If I'd begged tonight, you would have let me love you. I can sense 
it. But it's OK, Scully. You don't have to. Not tonight. You didn't 
shoot me. You didn't even threaten to shoot me. 

You stood by my side as those people ripped my life away, gutted 
me. You saw your nightmares and dreams go up in flames, reduced to 
ashes, same way I did mine. And while I caved inwards, you reached 
out towards me. I felt you do it. I didn't acknowledge, I couldn't 
acknowledge it. Knowing how easily it would be for us to slip.

I'll try not to lean on you, Scully. I'll try and let you have your 
life back. I'll try not to beg. I just don't know if I'm that 
tough. Please forgive me if I'm not.



END