From: Alcott Date: Wed, 26 Jul 2000 17:39:32 -0500 Subject: NEW: Exquisite Corpse by BoneTree and Alcott, 1/2 Source: xff TITLE: EXQUISITE CORPSE AUTHORS: BoneTree and Alcott ARCHIVAL: Yes, but please let us know where it's going. FEEDBACK: is treasured at BoneTree@aol.com and alcott@chillylegumes.com SPOILERS: seventh season CLASSIFICATION: Vignette, Angst, MSR SUMMARY: Sometimes dreams become reality. Or are they already? RATING: R for sex and a little gore DISCLAIMER: No, they're not ours, but when we achieve world domination, they will be. The dream was always filled with sea shells. He stood on the beach, just at the edge of the water, of pure white sand with the ship stretched out before him, half submerged in turquoise water. Around it, a million tiny sea creatures gathered as if in prayer. They filled the water with a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors that undulated with the waves and the soft vibrations coming off the craft. He was wearing white linen drawstring pants. His skin was darkly tanned, as though he, like the ship, had washed up on this shore and remained there, a castaway. A stowaway. He bent down, his fingers reaching tentatively to the nearest edge of the ship. The water around it was warm, as though the metal burned with some strange interior fire. He would trace the symbols, ancient Navajo, ancient something he couldn't name. The answers were right there. All he had to do was touch them and he would know everything -- the Project, the men behind it, the riddle of his father, the mystery of the woman standing close, always close, somewhere beside him. The puzzle of his own heart, curled around itself like a shell. But always, just before he touched the ship, the sky turned cobalt, then gun-metal grey. It opened upon a thunderclap and rain poured down around him. A wind came in with it, pushing him back from the edge of the water, from the vessel engraved with his answers... And then something different from the times the dream had visited him before -- a pain, starting from the center of his chest and moving outward, settling finally on the crown of his head with a searing intensity. He opened his mouth to scream but there was something snaking its way down his throat, making speech or even the simplest sound impossible. As he gripped his head and rocked to his knees, he watched the creatures in the water -- tiny snails, rainbow fish -- turn brittle, the water boiling. The ship began to glow, the thrumming, like the heartbeat of a machine, vibrating even the air now, blotting out the sound of the distant thunder, the pounding rain. Then above him a blinding white light. Men wearing masks, reaching over him with gloved hands holding sharp instruments. His arms and leg restrained. The slow trickle of his own blood as it pooled on cloths by his head on the table driving him mad with pain and the sensation of things crawling inside his brain... The shells began to crack, disintegrate, turn to sand under the force of the vibrations of the ship. He tried to call her name. He tried to warn her. But he could utter no sound that could overcome that of the ship. It was deafening, as though it meant to tear him apart -- Suddenly, Mulder was in a different place, the sound of the ship silenced. He lay on something soft, warm. Shooting up with a gasp, he pushed away the sweat-drenched comforter that had twisted itself around his body. His hands went immediately to the top of his head, pressing down on the sharp pain that threatened to slice through his skull. He moaned with it, throwing his bare legs over the side of the bed. In an instant, he felt faint, the darkened room swirling out of focus as he leaned forward, cupping his head in his hands,squeezing his eyes closed. His ears throbbed with a new, otherworldly sound -- a pulsing, hollow beat -- that could have been that of his own heart. The bedroom was bathed in light, then plunged back into shadows. The thunder that followed rumbled nearby, dragging Scully from deep sleep into consciousness. She felt disoriented for a moment, taking in her surroundings quickly as she opened her eyes. The edges of things were blurry, as though she were appearing inside her own memory. She sensed Mulder's presence beside her. Her bleary eyes fell upon a candle still flickering from its perch on her dresser. She remembered that she had lit it hours before, when he had finally relented to her invitation. For five nights now, he had insisted on going home after they'd made love. At first, she'd understood. The newness of their relationship sometimes frightened her as well. But when he grew increasingly distant, she had begun to obsess. The practical side of her had whispered, "If this doesn't work, how will that affect our work relationship? Will everyone know? Will we be able to keep up a professional front?" The smaller, more timid voice inside wondered, "What did I do?" It was this smaller voice that nagged her when he slipped from her bed, reaching for his clothes and muttering apologies. She felt cheap, a handy substitute for some fulfillment he still couldn't obtain. The words came out of her mouth before she realized it. "Shall I just leave your payment on the dresser?" He paused, his pants in his hand, and frowned. "What?" She was out of bed instantly, padding barefoot to the kitchen to be alone with her emotions. She half expected him to just shake his head and leave, but she was relieved to feel his hands on her shoulders as she stood over the sink, filling the tea kettle with cold water. "I'm sorry" was all he said. She nodded brusquely, not wanting to speak or even turn and face him. But he took her tea kettle, set it on the counter and turned her around, holding her in his arms firmly so she couldn't retreat. "Scully, it isn't you." Her face was masked in hurt, despite her efforts to keep her features neutral. She didn't speak, and he sighed, wilting against her. "I can't sleep," he finally whispered. Her features softened. "Not at all?" "Not very much." She raised his head, peering into his eyes, assessing the paleness of his face and the dark smudges of fatigue around his eyes. "What's bothering you?" He shook his head wearily. "I'm dreaming. I've been having nightmares." She took his hands and squeezed them. "What are they about?" "I don't know. Ships. White sand. I can never remember very much about them." His voice faded, and his jaw dropped in a sudden yawn. She smiled as he rubbed his eyes like a child would, and tugged on his hands. "Come lie down." "No," he protested. "I don't want you to see me like this." "Like how?" They were walking toward her bedroom. "It's crazy," he said. "I wake myself up sometimes, yelling. I don't want you to see me that way." But the urge to lie in her arms, to put his head down and rest beside her, was too strong now as she led him to her bed. Still making half-hearted protests, he slipped under the quilt she held back for him. "I'm not going to sleep," he warned her, a petulant child determined to keep his eyes open past his bedtime. "I know." She lit her candle, the new one that her brother had given her for her birthday, and turned out the other lights. She joined him, murmuring, "Roll over on your stomach." He mumbled something groggily and rolled over. She picked up her vanilla and honey lotion, squeezed a dollop into her hands, rubbed them together, and placed them on his bare back. He flinched, then relaxed. Then he moaned as her hands swept over him, massaging the muscles, stroking his skin. His moans grew fainter with each stroke of her hands, until they were no more than tiny squeaks from the back of his throat. She felt it then: the moment his body relinquished its iron will and tumbled into sleep. He melted into the mattress, his muscles going limp, a tiny sigh escaping as he drifted away. And she couldn't resist lying beside him, breathing in the sweetness of the lotion and the freshness of her ocean-breeze candle. She watched the candle flicker, knowing that she should get up and extinguish it. But she felt the weight of his body in her bed, could hear his steady, quiet breaths, and she couldn't tear herself away. Just one more minute, she thought, as the rain began to weep against the window panes. Now, hours later, she threw back her quilt and quietly padded to the blue, shell-studded candle, and huffed out the flame. Smoke wafted, filling her bedroom with the scents of church and seawater. She found her place beside him again. He was lying on his back now, his fists curled and lying against his chest, as if he'd been flaying himself and had fallen asleep in the midst of it. A fine sheen of perspiration stood against his forehead, and she brushed it away. He was tense, she could see it; every muscle was taut and his limbs were twitching. She stroked his hair. "Mulder?" she whispered. "Are you okay?" He didn't respond. She took his fists, wanting to hold his hands and draw him from his nightmare. "Mulder, it's okay," she murmured. "Everything is going to be--" Her words were cut off by her own gasp as his fingers uncurled, pouring out fistfuls of white, powdery sand. END (1/2) EXQUISITE CORPSE By BoneTree and Alcott (2/2) See part one for disclaimers. She looked for anything at all out of the ordinary, anything that would give away the mystery of what she saw before her. Her eyes shot around the room, drawn to the windows that streamed with tears of rain. Thunder cracked against the windowpanes. The sand ran between Mulder's fingers onto his chest and belly. She ran her fingertips through it softly, making sure it was real. It felt so. That was when she heard the sound beginning -- a low vibration that pulsed through the room. Everything around her seemed to hum with it. With the next clap of thunder the lamp, the clock, everything on the table tops in the room trembled, sending out a chatter of broken noise as they crashed to the floor. She rose quickly, standing next to the bed, turning in a circle, watching the room begin to glow in a clear blue light. On the bed Mulder writhed toward her, his brows furrowed as if in pain. He was still asleep, a low whimpering coming as he cradled his head in his hands. The light grew brighter, and as she looked toward the window, holding up a hand against the light, she saw it -- the bright silver of a ship rising slowly past the window panes, swirling in a blue mist of raindrops. She watched as it hovered, her eyes wide with disbelief. Then, underneath the steady throb of the engines, a child laughed, jolting her. Just as suddenly, she saw him, a young boy of seven or eight, clad in shorts and a T-shirt. He ran into the bedroom, stopping before the window. He had a bowl-shaped haircut that framed a long, thin face. His lips were full in the light of the ship. He stared back at her. She looked down at Mulder as he thrashed on the bed, as though reacting to the sounds around him, to the presence of this strange boy before her. Suddenly it hit her. "Come closer," the boy said, but now his voice was as deep as a man's. He ushered her toward him with a hand. "Come see." She was terrified. She didn't want to leave Mulder's side, to leave the safety of the bed that blocked her from the window and the strange child before her. But there was an irresistible pull coming from him, as though he'd somehow hypnotized her with just the sound of his voice. She moved around the bed, her steps halting, slow. Finally she reached the boy's outstretched hand, took it in hers and let herself be pulled toward the window. Outside, daylight, a seashore and brilliant blue water. Just off the white beach, a huge indentation in the sand, the shape of the ship that now hovered just above the building. Mulder was there on the shore, on his knees looking up at the ship. His eyes met hers and she pressed her hand against the window. To her surprise, her hand passed right through it... And then she was standing behind him on the beach, a white dress flowing around her legs in a warm breeze. The child stood beside her, still as a statue. Mulder knelt before her, his back to her, his eyes not leaving the ship as it hung there, flickering with lights. "It's beautiful," he called to her, to the air. She wanted to break his gaze, his concentration on the ship. The intensity of it frightened her. So she reached down, put her hand on his bare, tan shoulder. He flung forward as though her touch burned him. He spun on her, scrambling away, crab-like, on his hands and knees. "Scully," he said. "Wake up. You have to wake up." She was taken aback, reduced to stammering, "How? You were asleep." He kept his jaw clenched, his eyes averted. "I'm not there, Scully. I never was." She gazed at the child beside them, confused, and Mulder nodded fervently. "You're dreaming." "No!" she cried. "Maybe I am now, but you're asleep, in my bed." The boy gazed solemnly at her, then whispered, "That, too, is a dream." Quietly, Mulder said, "I haven't left this place in a very long time." The mask he'd kept so tightly over his features began to slip, and he gazed at the child with pain in his eyes. "Why did you bring her here?" "I had to," the boy said simply. "She completes us. Without her, we will never see home." "We can't leave this place!" Mulder cried, his voice crumbling with anguish. She reached for him, but he recoiled again, this time with a moan. The child stepped between them, reaching and covering her eyes with his hands. Immediately, the boy blocked out the light, and she was back in her bedroom, floating over her own body. The woman she saw was curled onto her side, leaving the right side of the bed cold and untouched as if he would return at any moment. Her stomach was swollen, supported by a pillow tucked beneath it. Even in her condition, she was tiny, taking up only a corner of a bed too large for just one person. She turned away from her pillow, still asleep, reaching for the space beside her, her fingers finding nothing but crisp, unwrinkled linens. In her sleep, she sighed, and the half-dried tear tracks on her face shone with the flashes of lightning outside the window. The realization of where she really was, that the rest of what she had seen was merely vision or memory, washed over her and she opened her mouth to scream. But no sound would come out, and when her eyes were uncloaked, she was back with Mulder and the child. And now, she could hear her scream, resonating in her own ears, before it gave away to sobs. The disappointment washing over her, Scully dropped to her knees in the sand, clutching at fistfuls of the powdery earth as if trying to ground herself. The relief she had felt when he had appeared in that hospital bed, unconscious, without identification. . . that relief evaporated now. The prayers of thanksgiving she had uttered, she silently wished back. And They were affecting her, too, now, as she gasped in pain and held on tighter, squeezing her eyes shut against the onslaught. The boy stood over them, placing one hand on Scully's shoulder, and the other on Mulder's. The child braced himself against the pain that drained from their bodies, pouring into his own.. Mulder's shoulders slumped in relief, and Scully found the strength to open her eyes. Then they were back in her bedroom, together. He was awake now, the sand streaming off his belly as he sat up, his arms going around her, a hand on the back of her neck, drawing her mouth immediately down onto his. "Let me touch you..." he breathed against her face as he withdrew his lips from hers, moving to the side of her face, her neck. "We don't have much time before they realize that you're here.....where I am in my mind..." She was wearing one of his T-shirts, nothing on beneath it, just as she'd been the first night after they'd made love. The night she'd woken alone on the couch and finally, stripping off her suit, joined him in his bed. Mulder pulled back now just enough to grip the bottom of the shirt, pushing it up, leaning forward, his mouth searching out her breasts, his tongue swirling over her nipples. There was something almost frantic in his movements, something desperate in the grip of his hands on her back, pulling her hard against him. She knew now that this was a dream, a safe haven the child had created for them to be able to touch, to be together, but the sensations were so real. More than real. She could feel her body opening, growing heavy with desire, her neck falling forward limply against his shoulder. She turned her face into his throat, her mouth running over the stubbly skin she found there. His hands came around, pulling the shirt over her head. Then they were pushing down her flat belly. She was momentarily confused, struck back to the vision of herself curled in the bed, her belly round as an O with their child. The tears that had dried on her face in the vision now sprang new, burning behind her close eyelids until they ran freely down her cheeks. So this was where the child had taken them, she thought in some dim part of her mind. She was reliving it, the conception of that child she had seen hidden inside her. His fingers searched her out, stroking her, smoothing along the inside of her thighs, his hands pressing her legs apart. Then he was gripping her hips, pulling her onto his lap, urging their bodies together, urging them to join. Her arms went around his neck. She was rocking now, her body undulating as though she were on a ship in a storm at sea. She tasted the salty flavor of his shoulder, her hands gripping his hair, riding it out. Outside the window, the ship glowed, its lights strobing, sending the room into a maelstrom of color. Her breath was harsh against him, her hips pushing against his in counterpoint, picking up on his urgency. The light shifted, the hum from the ship changing tones, taking on a dangerous low rumbling that again reverberated through the room. He held her against him, taking first one breast, then the other in his mouth, nuzzling at her, his fingers pressing into her hips. Then he tilted his face up, first kissing away the tears that he found there, then capturing her mouth, their tongues searching each other out. She moaned lowly, the sensation overwhelming her silence. She could feel the pulsing starting low inside her body, beginning to slowly crest like a wave. "Yes..." he moaned against her. "Let it come." She clenched her eyes closed against the pleasure as it shook her small frame, her muscles going taut. It an instant he joined her, crying out, both of them overwhelmed with ecstasy. It washed over her entire body, her mind, nearly overwhelming her senses. She could feel her inner muscles tightening around him, then releasing, fluttering like fragile wings. Then a vague feeling of pain. Easy to ignore at first. But as she held his face against her chest, felt his hot breath on her dewed skin and a minute, then two, passed, it was there again. "Mulder," she breathed, pulling back a bit and releasing her grip on the back of his head so she could look into his face. He opened his eyes, met her gaze as her hand went to her belly. "What?" he asked softly, still breathing hard. He covered her hand with his own, his fingertips grazing the soft skin above her navel. Her breath caught as another pang took hold, her hand pressing down. "Something's wrong," she whispered. "What is it?" he asked again, his other hand going to cup her cheek as she bit her lip against the pain, her eyes closing. His brow furrowed in concern. A crack of thunder, and the lights from the ship began to strobe faster, the humming increasing in volume, intensity. There was something angry in the sound. His gaze shot toward the window. "They're coming." She could hear the terror in his voice. He urged her off of him, onto the bed, his arm going around her, pulling her down onto the left side of the mattress, his front pressed tightly to her back. The pang struck her middle again, harder this time. She clenched around herself, a moan escaping her. Mulder's hand moved down again, taking its place beside hers, his palm flat against her skin. He was trembling with fear, the hum becoming deafening. Then, beneath their hands, her body began to swell, pushing outward slowly. Mulder leaned up enough to look down at her in surprise. Her navel distended, her body widened at its middle, her trim waist disappearing. She threw her head back, leaning her forehead against his cheek. She was slick with sweat. Beneath his hand, something moved, rolled. "Oh God, Scully," he whispered. Tears came to his eyes and he pressed his lips against her forehead, smiling, speaking softly against her skin. "You're pregnant..." A flash of light from the ship now and Mulder jerked as if struck. His hand shot to his temple, his features contorting in agony. "No!" It was one long syllable, a scream, the sound tearing the room. "Mulder!" she called urgently, but her voice was laced with pain, her breath drawing in sharply. Her hand clamped down on his, her grip tight, as if he were hanging over some impossibly deep chasm and she was all that was keeping him from falling into it. "Make them get out of my mind!" he screamed, rolling away from her quickly, as though he were being ripped away from her. She tried to move toward him, but the pain sent her reeling again and she was forced to roll away, gripping her middle. The room flooded with searing light. Scully had to raise a hand to cover her eyes against it. Her other hand went to cover her ear against the drumming of the ship, growing so loud she didn't know how the glass in the windows didn't shatter. The light grew brighter and brighter, eclipsing everything else in the room, the air around her roaring..... Then it suddenly winked out. One last rumble of thunder, and she openedher eyes, shocked by the sudden silence that followed. She sat up quickly, her hand darting to the other side of the bed, encountering nothing by empty sheets. She choked on an anguished sob. Pain stabbed at her. She reached down, groaning, cradling her rounded belly. She felt it tighten, squeezing down. Then, from between her legs, a flood of salty water, drenching the sheets beneath her. She sat up, cursing, trying to swing her legs over the bed. "Mulder," she gasped. "Where are you?" She stood up, clutching her abdomen, reaching for the phone. The contraction that washed over her made her drop to her knees, gurgling, the phone falling out of her reach. It began to beep in protest, but she ignored it, crawling back into her bed, moaning,curling onto her side. But the pain was too intense, the position ineffectual. She flopped onto her back, her eyes frantically rolling. There was no time. "Not supposed to be this fast--" she whispered, but God didn't hear her, and the next pain, only a second after the last, brought such force into her loins that she sobbed aloud and lifted her hips from the bed. Then, with the next surge, she spread her knees and bore down, screaming, her face reddening with concentration and pain. She tangled her fingers in the bedsheets, bracing herself as her body seemed to tear in half with the force. And at some point, she screamed his name. ***** She heard the voices outside her door, and recognized the timbre of Mrs. Asher, the neighbor who had taken it upon herself to watch over her during her pregnancy. The kind old woman had forever been making cakes, serving tea, bringing extra pillows and hot water bottles. Now, her gentle voice was muffled by the door. "Dana? Honey? I called the paramedics. We're coming in, all right?" Then, the door was open and Mrs. Asher gasped. Scully could imagine that she and the paramedics were looking at a slaughter in front of them. Blood and liquid and clots of matter stuck to her body, drenching her sheets and seeping toward the floor. The child lay in her arms, her T-shirt lifted as the boy suckled at her breast, his eyes closed, his body still sticky and red. A paramedic lifted the bedclothes and found the lifeline between mother and child still attached. Mrs. Asher knelt beside the bed, her smile tender and her breath smelling, as always, like peppermints. "Dear child," she whispered into Dana's ear. "Look at what you've accomplished today." "There's been some tearing," said one medic to the other, his voice low. "Watch her bleeding." Wearily, Dana leaned toward the gentle, withered hand that now stroked her damp forehead. "I'm afraid," she whispered. Mrs. Asher smiled, and wiped at a stray tear that ran down her cheek. "All new mothers are afraid at first." And she would know; Scully remembered that her apartment was littered with framed photos of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. "It will be all right," said the old woman, and she continued to stroke Scully's forehead as the paramedics did what they must, collecting the afterbirth to take with them, caring for the umbilical cord, starting an IV and pressing packing between Scully's legs. Mrs. Asher still touched her as they lifted mother and babe away from the soiled bed, settling them into a stretcher of clean sheets and freshly starched pillows. "Thank you," Scully whispered, and Mrs. Asher nodded. "I'll just tidy up a bit, dear." Scully smiled at the understatement in the old woman's words. Then, as the paramedics began to move the stretcher, her eyes slipped closed against pain both visible and invisible. The old woman watched them go, then replaced the receiver on the telephone, which had by now fallen silent, disconnected, and began gathering the linens in her arms. She was a seasoned mother; blood did not frighten her. She cleaned up the best she could, then carried the bundle out, intending to return armed with bleach and fresh bedding as soon as the laundry was safely in the wash. ****** He lay there in the shadows, too weak to stand, to move. Breaking away from Them had made the pain far more excruciating than the drills that often invaded his skull, the needles that probed into his eyes. Nothing would ever hurt as much as defying them had. But nothing would be more beautiful, ever, than the sight of her, cradling their child. Just when he thought he would die, when he felt so weak he could have slipped from this world, he felt a hand on his shoulder. A surge of strength rushed into him, and he struggled to his knees. He gazed up into the face of the boy before him. The face, elongated with youth, was all too familiar. Eyes like his mother's, only less bright, muted with the hazel color of his own. Before Mulder could speak, could dare to utter a word, the boy smiled, and said, "Welcome home." And then, the boy's knees bent and he crumpled to the ground. For awhile, Mulder had hovered in limbo, the boy limp at his feet, having given every ounce of strength his small body had possessed. The boy smiled weakly, then faded, then disappeared just as the baby slipped from his mother's body, took a deep breath, and cried. He had to rest then, to find his own strength, before he could rise. He could only watch them wheel her and their son from the room, could only gasp when he tried to scream for Mrs. Asher. He closed his eyes and could see Scully, in the ambulance, holding the child against her chest as he slept. She was looking at the child, a half-smile on her face, but her mouth trembled. Her eyes were welling with tears, and as she raised her eyes, they spilled down her cheeks. "Mulder," she whispered mournfully, and he heard her speak, and gathered his strength. He reached into her apartment, thrusting his arm into her world. Caught between dimensions, his arm quivered wildly, jerking and twisting. He lifted his foot to step-- --And the world turned upside down, swirling around him, displaying fragmented images of the ship, of the water, of the bed in which his child had been born. The first thing he smelled was the rain against the windows. Then his eyes, blinded momentarily as if he'd gone from the sun to the shade, cleared, and he found himself standing on the Oriental rug he'd bought for her last birthday. She had unwrapped the gift, and raised her eyes, questioning. He'd explained that her hardwood floors were damn cold, and that his feet were always freezing in the morning when he got out of bed. She'd laughed, and had kissed him, and they had made love on the rug that night. He felt that rug beneath his bare feet now, saw her spilled blood on the stripped mattress, where she had brought life into this world. And for the first time in forever, he smiled. END AUTHOR'S NOTES: This piece is a variation on a writing exercise called an Exquisite Corpse. Basically what it means it that one of us wrote a scene, without any intention or plot, and gave it to the other to write the next scene. Neither author knew what the other was going to do next. Based on an old parlor game, an exquisite corpse was played by several people, each of whom would write a phrase on a sheet of paper, fold the paper to conceal part of it, and pass it on to the next player for his or her contribution. We would like to thank Sheri for the beta reading and help along the way; to Kirsten and Nancy, who betaed it twice each; and Marie and Piper.