From: Valeanna1@aol.com
Date: Tue, 8 Dec 1998 20:31:21 EST
Subject: 'Somewhere' by J. C. Sun



Title: Somewhere
Author: J. C. Sun

Category: VR
Rating: PG
Summary: On the beach. 

Major schmoop warning.  Minimal angst, and that of the goopy MSR variety.

Thanks to Flywoman for spellchecking and praise. 

.


Hey Mulder, somewhere along the line you were going to realize that you're not
allowed to do this anymore.

Somewhere along the line, Mulder, somewhere during this visit--sometime
today--you were supposed to realize that you can't do this anymore.

Somewhere, sometime, you were supposed to realize that I'm not interested,
you're not interested and we're not going to go to the beach.

I only came to talk:

I only came to fix my guilt.

I only came for a polite power lunch.  

I only came to make pleasant platitudes and then escape with the ring on my
finger and most of me intact. 

I only came to talk, and you weren't supposed to blow off all of your
meetings, you weren't supposed to say fuck it and tell your secretary to say
that you were sick and then turn to me and ask me if I'd seen the beach
recently.

You weren't supposed to take me to some small inlet in Maryland.  Virginia.
Delaware, even: I don't remember.  Just the road, little snatches of faded
towns around I-95, maybe even a brightly green highway sign filled with 
meaningless white blur all caught up on the curve of your sunglasses.  

The beach was just a little thing made out of dunes.  Rolling dunes of 
fine powdered sand, and they were covered in long, coarse grass that 
came up waist-high and there were sandpiper prints along the damp edge.  

You balled your socks up into your shoes,  dropped them into my hands, and
then went into the cold Atlantic water.  By-and-by, you lured me into the
water too and were respectful of my dictum that if you got brine on my new DK,
I was going to murder you.

You were respectful of it for all of five minutes, then spent the rest of the
afternoon crawling around with an exaggerated puppy air. 

We went to a crab house for dinner--one of those outrageously expensive
tourist traps with swinging signs, trellises, back porches overlooking the
sea.

You plucked blooms off the potted geraniums to tuck into my buttonholes,
telling me the effect of purple on salt soaked DKNY was really very pretty.

You harangued the waiters into bringing candles. 

When the moon came up, light shooting through the trellis, you stood up and
made a toast to me, to the hushed and attentive dining room.

To Dana Scully, loyal, caring, and always skeptical. Always, always
skeptical--may you die at 70 in the bed of your lover, shot by a jealous wife.

I had blushed and smacked you down from the sudden applause of the other
couples. 

Afterwards, you took me out onto the beach again, and now, I've got my shoes
in my hand and I've got your coat on my shoulders.  It's long: the lapels come
down to my hip, and the edge brushes the middle of my thighs.  I make a joke
about overactive thyroids, you make a joke about circus openings for midgets.

I make a swing for you, you catch my fist in your hand. 

You don't let go:

I don't let go, and we're standing face to face in the night. 

The line of your face is against the moon, Mulder, and I can see the shine of
your eyes and the way you're slowly bending your head down to mine.  

Mulder, somewhere along the line, you were supposed to realize that you're not
allowed to do this. The span of years, the span of separation, the span of
this ring on my finger--somewhere along the line, you were supposed to realize
they precluded this, that the span of those did not include the span of this.

You're bending your head down to mine. Your head is tilted, your eyes lidded,
mouth half-open and instinctively, I open my own mouth and I close my eyes,
and Mulder--

Mulder--

.end

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