Date: 15 MAR 1998 07:17:34 GMT From: Luna Subject: *Better Format* - Fire and Rain by Luna Hallo again. I first posted this back in April of '97, just shortly after I had discovered this online community. But shame and pride convinced me to yank it off of Gossamer. Recently, I had a change of heart, so it's making a stop off here on it's way back to the big archive in the sky. Thanks Laura, for making me feel like I don't totally suck. :P And thanks to Punk, for teaching me that "sticky outy tonguy face", amongst other things. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ NOTE TO ARCHIVISTS: Please put this version on the archive, and not the first one I posted tonight. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Rating: PG Classification: (Short) Story Spoilers: none Summary: Withheld at author's request Title: Fire and Rain Author: Luna Feedback: lombarce@mcmaster.ca Distribution: Gossamer is OK. For anything else, please ask me first. Disclaimer: the feelings and ideas expressed here are my own, and do not necessarily reflect those of Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson and Ten Thirteen Productions. I do not own these characters, and do not intend to profit from them. Many thanks to Punk M who helped me get this out there. ******************************************************* Fire and Rain Part 01/01 by Luna I've seen fire and I've seen rain I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend But I always thought that I'd see you again. ****************************************************** The man stands in the small, brightly-lit hospital room. He is tired, drained, numb. The woman in the bed seems peaceful, sleeping soundlessly, her eyes closed, her breathing almost imperceptible. "It's her." This is the only thought he can formulate. This thought and no other. No thoughts, no emotions. Numb. He is so absorbed in this numbness that he doesn't notice the tiny creak of the door opening, or the soft footsteps on the worn out linoleum. He doesn't register his partner's presence at all, until she is beside him, her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes are liquid blue; mother's eyes, lover's eyes. And for a moment they are locked in this silent gaze, like a lovers embrace, the closest they have ever come to touching the emotions which lie between them. "Can we talk outside?" Her voice is low, almost husky. And finally he feels something, after all these hours of feeling nothing. He feels her, her closeness, her physicalness, her *presence*, which is always so much more potent than anyone else's. He wonders, absentmindedly and not for the first time, if Dana Scully has this power over everyone, or just him. He glances at the woman in the bed. His partner looks towards the sleeping form. "We'll be just outside the door." He smiles sheepishly. "I know, it's just...." He turns to the woman in the bed, closing the distance between them. A wave of tenderness overcomes him. The force of this feeling, in contrast with the hours of numbness, threatens to overwhelm him. His partner smiles gently, and uncharacteristically reaches for his arm, wrapping hers around it, gripping it with her small white hand. He gratefully accepts the support of her body. Fatigue, emotional and physical, wash over him. He concentrates on her presence, drawing strength from the force of her understanding. Once outside the door, he slumps into the chair which she has placed there. She senses that he still needs her touch, her physical support. She kneels before him, resting a hand on his knee. Generally, they do not indulge in such open displays of weakness and affection. But this is a night twenty years in the making. Pride, shyness, insecurity, even fear, are washed away in the face of a greater tide of emotions. He reaches for her hand, and squeezes it between his palms, as if the force of his muscles tightening around the small object will somehow make the moment less surreal. He stares down at their united hands, and the numbness returns. "I don't know her, Scully. I barely even recognize her." "She is not the little girl you lost, Mulder. But she is Samantha, she is your sister." "What do the doctors say?" "They believe she may suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. In any case it's clear from what happened tonight that her memories are coming back to her." Her voice becomes soft again, another gentle caress. "Mulder, I'm not sure if your ready to discuss this yet, but the woman in that room is going to take quite awhile to accept the things that you know. You haven't told her yet, about who you are, about who *she* is, have you?" "No" His voice is small, and far away. They are silent for a long time. Neither has a point of reference, a place from which they can draw on to understand what happens next. Dana Scully returns to the logic, the methodical mindset which has served to anchor her, amidst the chaos of the last five years. Her voice is firm, a tone he is quite familiar with. "Mulder, you're exhausted. You can't expect to think like this. I know you don't want to leave her, but you have GOT to get some sleep. I'm taking you back to the motel." He looks up at her quickly, sharply. It is the look that usually makes others turn away. She takes a deep breath, and prepares for the rebuttal. "Don't fight me on this one! You've been running on pure adrenaline for 48 hours! She's heavily sedated, Mulder. She won't be awake 'till morning." "Give me a minute." He turns to go back into the room. She sighs, but is surprised at how easily he has agreed to her demand. He must be even more tired than I thought, she realizes. She takes a seat in the chair he has vacated, and slowly closes her eyes. What will all of this mean, to him, to their work? "Things are going to change, Dana", she thinks to herself. At this thought her stomach ties itself into knots. She is not sure if it is from fear, or anticipation. ******************************************************* Back at the motel she collapses onto the bed in the center of the room. She can hear the sound of his shower running in the room next door. She tugs off her pantyhose, tosses her suit jacket onto the chair in the corner, and undoes the top buttons of her white blouse. Her eyes close involuntarily, and she is suddenly jolted by a knock on the adjoining door between their rooms Mulder stands before her. His hair wet from the shower, clothed in a faded tee-shirt and track pants. His body slumps forward, his eyes are hollow. "I can't sleep, I can't even sit still. I'm too wired. God Scully, I feel like shit." He looks like a caged wild animal. On the verge of frantic. On the verge of a breakdown. She is tired, and all she wants is for him to rest. She does not think, for once, about the repercussions of her actions. She takes his hand, leads him to the chair. He collapses in it, closes his eyes. Retrieving a towel from the bathroom she stands behind him, and begins to towel dry his dripping head. Eventually she drops the towel, and her hands move to his shoulders, kneading and pressing, in an attempt to ease his stress, and relax his body. She murmurs softly. "Just relax, Mulder. We can think about it all tomorrow. Just let it go for now." He lets his head roll back, opens his eyes and regards her. They are both silent. He stands suddenly, taking her hand, pulling her almost imperceptibly towards him. Her heart is in her throat, but she forces her breathing to be calm and slow. "I need to.... I need you, here, tonight." He does not say please, but he wants to. She pulls the covers back on the bed, and gives him a gentle nudge. It is all he needs to collapse onto the soft surface. As he feels her move away from the bed he opens his eyes and looks toward her, questioning. She looks at him for a long, hard moment. Then gives in to the strangeness of the past few days. "I'm gonna wash up." He suddenly smiles, a devilish Mulder grin. "Sure, hon. But don't be long." She does not answer him. In the bathroom she brushes her teeth, and changes into her thin, cotton pajamas. When she returns he is half-asleep, his breathing soft, his features finally peaceful. She considers retiring to his room, but it is imperative that he sleeps through the night. "What the hell", she thinks, and climbs into the bed beside him. ******************************************************* Coffee. The word repeats itself, like a mantra, in Fox Mulder's brain. Funny how the mundane routine of a cup of coffee is able to give peace, comfort, when everything is so far beyond routine. Downing his second cup, he is finally awake. He takes a breath, and walks the length of the hallway. She is there, standing beside the front desk, her back to him. "Mom" "Fox...Is it her?" She does not waste time with greetings. "Yeah" His mother staggers, momentarily loosing her balance, her weight suddenly too heavy to bear alone. He feels that he should make a move to steady her, but strangely he does not. She recovers, and her eyes meet her son's for the first time. There is joy, pain, loss reflected there. And something new - or more precisely, old. Hope. ******************************************************* It's cold in here. God, my limbs hurt from the cold. Dull, aching. Been sitting, lying in this bed for days. I've got that lethargic, useless feeling, like those days during March break in grade school, when you don't leave the house, and you spend the whole day vegetating on the couch, watching Guiding Light. You realize the torture that must be domestic life. He's speaking again. That intense FBI guy. And half of my rational brain is taking in, processing, even anticipating the information. It's not like I've never heard, or realized it before. I've just never acknowledged or accepted that I did. Which, I suddenly understand, is maybe worse. There are images, hazy, but familiar. I've lived with them all my life. And his words, they crystallize them, turn the fragmented images into well-formed snowflakes. I have to talk, to make sure that I am here, to make sure that this is real, before this dizziness takes over my head. I begin slowly, testing my new voice. "There was this one time. I was walking home from school, and it was Easter and we'd had this arts and craft thing, and I made this Easter Bunny collage with tissue paper. Little balls of tissue paper dipped in glue and stuck on construction paper to make up the bunny's coat. Only I'd hunted out the multi-colored tissue paper from the drawer. Everybody was using white and pink and stuff, and my bunny was this rainbow of purple, and red and orange and green. The teacher showed it to the class, said how I was creative. And I felt so special." I look at him. He is staring at me. Seeing me, and also seeing through me, to a little eight year old girl with pig-tail braids. "After school I wanted to bring the bunny home to show Mom. I didn't even put it in my bag 'cause I didn't want to crumple the paper. But then it started to rain, and by the time I got home the thing was soaked. And you were in the TV room watching that army show that I hated, and I didn't want to cry because I thought you'd laugh." "But you took one look at the soggy mess in my hand, and you took it to the bathroom, and dried it with Mom's hair dryer. And then you snorted, and said "Leave it to Sam to make a psychedelic Easter rabbit." And I had no idea what that word meant, but I liked the way you looked at me. Your eyes were laughing, laughing with me, like a secret pact." "A pact...." I trail off, losing my brazenness with my train of thought. But he finishes, his eyes gentle and achingly familiar. "A pact.....between siblings." I look at him sharply. A word, an important word, has jumped, *hopped*, into my mind. "Fox" It is not a question, or even a statement. I say it mostly so that I can hear it, out loud, for real. He is crying, and I realize, suddenly, that I am too. He answers me. "Samantha" ******************************************************* Author's Notes: Well, you made it this far, so you must have *some* kind of an opinion. Good or bad, I'd really love to hear about it. I'm not sure how I actually feel about this story...there are certain parts of it that I still really like, but I think it definitely reflects the fact that I wrote it very early in my fanfic/TXF experience, when my knowledge of the show and cannon was limited, as was my respect for the writing caliber of this community. I had every intention of reworking this piece, but I found that the idea bored me terribly, so it's here in it's original form. Thanks for reading. Luna lombarce@mcmaster.ca