From: Valeanna1 Date sent: Mon, 6 Apr 1998 16:53:45 EDT Subject: 'Cherry Trees' (1/1) by J. C. Sun Title: Cherry Trees Author: J. C. Sun/ valeanna1@aol.com Category: VRA Rating: PG-13 Summary: Trees in bloom and a park bench. Disclaimer: *cherry trees *j. c. sun The cherry trees, they are blooming in Washington, as they always have. As they always will. These silken hands will always burst forth from the dark, unadorned wood. They will always catch spring light within the folds of their petals. They will always be brushed away by the breezes and the blusters that spring always holds. They will always remind me of Mulder. I met him last amidst the white embrace of cherry trees-not these, but the famous ones, the ones down by the Reflecting Pool. His voice was so very quiet, so easily lost amidst the breathy rush of water upon the sides of the pool, face so hidden and still underneath the white shadows. I could not tell if those were his tears, his mourning that he wept, or, if it was the spring fogs, the ones that wreath Washington on wet mornings. I could not tell whether those were his words that were emerging from his throat, simple easy words of resignation, given truth and reality by the manner with which he held his hands upwards, ready to receive whatever Fate placed in his hands, whatever life chose now that the X-Files were over. I met him last amidst the cherry trees. I meet him again amidst the cherry trees. I suppose I shall always meet him under the cherry trees. I suppose the cherry trees will always rustle this, that such white purity will rain down upon us as we speak of those mundanities that are the true nature of life. His hands flickered amidst the paper wrapping of his hot dog: Polish, with relish and mustard and cheese and onions but no ketchup. He sucked deeply of his Nestea, and his eyes flickered up, into the shifting patches of navy sky above us. He looks good, thus. To be cliched, time has been good to him. It has been very good. His glasses become him. Clean hands, limber mouth, now containing more sensualist than choir boy, coupled with easy limbs and fulfilled stride, eyes bright, clean, shifting colors easy and quick, yet mostly that green, smooth, easy, like the early spring fuzz of maple trees, rather shocking in the brilliance, adulterated ever-so-slightly with mist and sun. And there is the skin tightens across his throat when he tosses his head back to laugh, the way hair droops across his forehead, and the easy gesture with which he flicks it back, crosses his legs, fluid, the whole thing, smooth and gentle, relaxed, lacking his old harshness. Perhaps harshness is too rough a word, too coarse. A point, then. A point, filed, abraded, driven to an ever finer, ever more slender edge, scraped until it disappeared, until it slid back into the nothingness from whence it came, leaving him so edged that he was blunted. Of course, this doesn't mean he can't still hurt. Except now, it's exquisite. Long, drawn out, the slow carving of a pin against the dermis. That non-existent point, you know. A surgeon, Mulder is, now. No more of this hacking you apart with a kitchen cleaver. He's older. More civilized. More mature. So he does it with a scalpel. But he still asks you to sterilize the wound, still asks you to wheel yourself underneath him, still asks you to strap yourself down on the bed, pulling the Velcro straps over your arms as you stare up into the blinding light that is Fox fucking Mulder, still straining against the gag when he makes his first incision. See, he doesn't believe in anesthesia. He wants you to feel every slice, every curve, curl, dancing crimson skitter, his mastery of you. And you oblige. Damn it all, you oblige him. You lean against the park bench, ham and cheese limply wet in your hands, barely daring to breath as you study the fall of light within his hair. Almost blonde at the ends, becoming darker around the scalp before flaring out into the smooth whiteness of said scalp. A connoisseur in his eyes, gauging the precise pitch, the blend of their changing hues, along with an expert in fine perfumes, wondering, perhaps, if that is another woman whose smell is ingrained upon the low whispering aroma, if those another woman's hands, her perfume and her mouth. And I must remind myself that I loved this man. Loved, with an emphasis on the 'ed', as in the past tense. Had loved. Had loved. *Had*. Loved. Pushing away the smell of him, the look of him-it is much like pushing away cobwebs, insistent, sticky, filmy, hovering on just this side of tangibly distracting. His hand his much more tangibly distracting. Flesh upon flesh, smooth rough skin, palm over the back of my hand, ever so large, hard pads and smooth dips, fingers sliding backwards to create a high- pitched whine in my ears, a reflexive desire to cover it with my other. "Scully?" he says softly, voice lost amidst the rustling petals. There is a limber quality to his speaking, a way his voice seems to be a creation of liquid rubber, shapechanging, curious. "Scully, will you come?" he says. My mouth puckers. Sound refuses to emerge, and I blink, attempting to fit these words into the context of things, slide them back into the pre- fabricated understanding of profiler-pathologist-not-partners-but-merely- inhouse-consulting-job. "Yes," I answer before my mind has fully proccessed the weight of these words. B. F. Skinner would be proud of me: the rat pushes the button, the rat is rewarded by pleasant stimuli. Mulder smiles. Much better than flashy colored lights or a little food pellet. Mulder pats my knee. He smiles again, big, glorious, genunine, radiant, edged with faintest surprised and a glowing relief. "You'll come to my wedding?" I nod, rather quietly. He is a boy, yelling, jumping up and down, swinging me into a tight hug that leaves me breathless, pushing gently against my ribs to see if they are broken, abashed and rather ashamed to meet the undiluted jubilance of his eyes. "I told her you would come," he grins, pumping my hand. I nod again. "The invitations--they'll be out sometime next week." A little congratulatory noise, drowned up by his final war whoop, hands thrown high, eyes glowing, a curious sight of flying coat, lifted shoes and rumpled hair. He leaves after that, soon, quickly: his ASAC has him on tight line, this case has him on a tight line, so he can only take thirty minute lunches. His hot dog lies on the bench, unfinished, cooling in the breezes, so I finish it, licking my fingers of the mustard and the relish. Very pungent, very strong, bringing surprising tears to my eyes. The foil makes a crinkling noise as I crumple it; the texture is oddly sharp to my fingers, dully cutting when I pitch it into the trash can. And then I sit a while, amidst the cherry trees. The wind tugs petals loose. A child screams, high, shrill, laughing giggle. The petals, they lodge firmly upon my suit. A suit of armor composed of silk, white, lovely, perfect. These diamond drops, lace, lam‚. Soft, lovely, silken white They give me a white vestament. The cherry trees, they drape about my head, they veil me. They fall into my upturned palms, a fragmented bouquet. And I sit a while. I sit a while. .end Feedback is worshipped at valeanna1@aol.com