TITLE: Promise AUTHOR: Dreamshaper FEEDBACK: is deeply desired by dreamshpr@aol.com ARCHIVAL: Go right ahead, unless this is the first story you liked ;) In that case, send a little note, please. RATING: PG CATEGORY: MSR, Post-Ep SPOILERS: Tithonius SUMMARY: Mulder's bedside vigil... DISCLAIMER: Hiatus is *faaaar* from over... NOTES: Well, you asked for it. And I loved the idea--this is a prequel to Purpose, though you won't need to read either to understand the other. I just got quite a few requests for a 'missing scene' from Purpose to be better described, (not sex, you sickos) and since I have a Tithonius obsession, I decided to give it a whirl ;) Hope you enjoy it. `````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` The desperation from the early hours of his vigil had finally faded, but the worry, the fear that had tucked under his heart--they were still there, sending occasional shudders up his spine. They'd be there, he sensed, for some time. She'd been out of danger for a long time, stable and quiet. The only tubes or machines still connected to her were the basic, common monitors and IV. She was checked on regularly, but no longer hourly. She breathed on her own. She had yet to wake. The doctors remained unconcerned. Sleep is the best thing for her, they told him when he voiced the frantic questions that trembled through his heart. But he couldn't shake the superstitious fear that until she woke up, she was in danger. That there was a chance she would... He just wanted her to wake up. To prove to him she was alive, in a way the machines couldn't manage. To prove to him that *he* was alive. But she was so stubborn, in this as she was in everything, and her eyes remained resolutely shut. Mulder tucked his tie into his pant pocket, rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his collar. He took a few of the seeds from the bag resting at his feet and popped one between his teeth. He was as at ease as he could be, he supposed, in the uncomfortable chair with his unconscious partner inches away. The whole time he went through the motions of getting comfortable, settling in, his eyes were pinned to his partner's face, to the pale lips and light veins, the arched brows and the curl of lashes providing bare hints of color amidst what was otherwise brutally white skin. In contrast, her hair against the pillow was on fire, dangerously red like blood, like a sunset--a thousand poetic images to describe something he often took for granted. Not anymore, he vowed as he eased closer to her. Not again, after this. Not if he could help it in. Ritter had come too close to taking her life, to sending her off to death, and Mulder was suddenly, brutally reminded of her vitality and this contrasting fragility. Her all too apparent mortality... He wondered if Ritter knew how close he'd come to losing his own claims to life. It was only the knowledge that Scully held on that had kept Mulder from seeking his vengeance. It was the steady thump of her heart that kept him grounded, the rise and fall of her chest that kept him stable. If they had stopped-- Ritter would have died. Quickly, violently, before anyone even thought to protect him. Maybe despite the thought to protect him. He would have been a goner the second after Scully's heart stopped beating. Of course, Mulder acknowledged as his greedy, tender eyes traced the lines of his partner's face, he would have gone shortly after. Not from a self-inflicted gunshot, nothing that dramatic. He was just superstitious enough to shudder away from the breaking point of suicide, now that he had Scully in his life. Her beliefs had rubbed off on him, just barely, but enough to make him wonder. And in his wondering was a determination that *if* it were true, if there was a God up there... He didn't want his soul to be separated from hers after life. Not by something as simple as weakness. And then there was the knowledge that should her heart ever fail to beat, should her lungs fail to draw breath...undoubtedly, his would not be so far behind. Anger, the need for vengeance, would animate him long enough to have his vengeance--surely an acceptable goal, eye for an eye and all of that. Within seconds of a completed goal, before her skin could even cool, he would join her. He couldn't imagine anything else than that. There were no images of a life without her to draw on, only the terror of not knowing where she was, if she would be waiting. He drew himself from his thoughts, sighed. Laid one hand on the bed, close enough to feel the scant warmth of her skin. Unable to resist the urge after hours of fighting it back, he drew his fingers across the blue veins in her arm, down to the bones of her wrist, to her hand. Fascinated by the contrast, of his long, dark fingers and her skinny, elegant hand, he drew it onto his open palm, cradled it. Everything she is is revealed right here in her hands, he thought, chest tightening. Strong, small, delicately fashioned. Neat, competent. Light veins pulsing with drive and life. He closed his fingers gently over hers, worrying them with his thumb as he searched her face, hoping against hope that her eyes were going to open, meet his, question his touch with an arched brow. But all the sign that she gave of life was the still steady rise of her chest, the gentle bump of the pulse in her throat. He stood, keeping a gentle hold on her hand, and hovered over her. He was close enough to feel her breath on his cheek...but it wasn't close enough. So he pulled the chair closer to the bed, sat back down and leaned closer, till his head rested beside hers on the pillow, their joined hands linked over her chest. Now he was close enough to count every eyelash... But it still wasn't close enough. In the grip of an aching tenderness, he wanted to pull her to him, crush her into his arms, draw her so close he drew her in. He wanted to get inside her skin, get inside her heart, feel what she was feeling. Draw some of it out of her, into himself. At the very least, he wanted to absorb her into his pores. But when the ache grew too strong, he settled for wrapping himself around her. Mulder crawled up onto the bed, heedless of the window looking out of the room into the hallway that at times bustled with doctors, nurses, visitors. Watching only to make sure that he didn't catch or crush the few wires still attached to her, the IV line, he drew himself up. He took care not to jostle her--but set about getting as close as he could. And then, when he was close enough to *feel* the blood rush in her veins, when he was as close as he could get *without* drawing her into his skin, he was reasonably content. Reasonably. He thought he'd never be content, not if she didn't wake up and look at him with eyes so blue he wondered that they didn't sear away whatever they touched. Settling his head comfortably on her pillow, resting their twined hands on her chest again, he nestled comfortably, touching her from chest to calf. Protective. Sheltering. Cherishing. He realized as he carefully timed his breathing to coincide with hers that he had been protective, possessive, before. He had even been tender, over the years. But he remembered countless times where he had been careless with her, callous. Even cruel, to balance the tenderness. But he could recall, no matter how he wracked his mind, very few instances where he had permitted himself to cherish her. In a hospital, where she told him that she would fight with him as long as she could. In a church, when she lost everything but one link to the daughter she barely knew. In a hallway, when she was ready to leave him but looking for an excuse to stay. Before she'd been taken away and nearly pulled from him forever... And then, the moment when he matched her breath for breath and felt another part of his soul slip into her care. When he thought about cherishing her, for the first time. Unconsciously, watching the very faint tremble of her lip with each breath, he tucked himself impossibly closer, imprinting her indelibly onto his skin. This is good, he thought as he closed his eyes against the frailty of her body, this is better than the chair. Though nothing could be better than her alert, cranky, willing to do battle, willing to forgive...intelligent, stubborn, loyal... How odd this is, he realized as the vague sunlight filling the room burned his eyelids. How odd, that any person could mean so much to another. How odd that my every breath depends on hers. How odd. With a sigh, he tucked his chin into the hollow between her neck and shoulder, nuzzling gently at the pulse points. He opened his eyes, looked at their hands, played gently with her fingers and wondered if she'd let him make a habit of that. Kind of like the habit of his hand on her back as they walked, a touch to her shoulder to garner her attention, a delicate brush of her cheek to wake her from one of her impromptu Scully naps. He liked it. If only she could react to it. He wished she could--that was something he appreciated...*loved*, he thought, she's unconscious so you might as well be honest with yourself. The fact that no matter where they were, what they were doing, why he needed to, she always allowed his touch. And even if it was just in a subtle relaxation of her spine, a straightening of her shoulders, a smile in her sleep, she always acknowledged his touch. His existence. He'd lived like a ghost for years, under the shadow of his mother's pain, his father's icy disregard. Relationships with women who used him for one reason or another and responded only in bed. Years at the FBI, where he was a pariah. So the warmth of Scully's regard amazed him. Bound him to her ever more closely. Left him wanting more... Left him wanting *her*, he acknowledged. Since he was on a self honesty kick, he might as well go all the way. He moved his head back from the still fragrant hollow of her throat, let his eyes be drawn to the beacon of her face. He absorbed the memory of the moment, the *spirit* of it, took them into his mind to analyze and treasure. And, as he brushed his mouth with the faintest touch of her own, picking up only the essence of her taste, he imprinted the memory to savor. Another sigh and he prepared to separate himself from the warmth of her. But even as he shifted, she sighed. Frozen, half-hovering over her, hand tight on hers, he waited, breath caught in his lungs. Heart caught in his throat, feeling like a skewed version of a fairy-tale prince. And suddenly, her eyes snapped open, focusing on his in an instant. There was no slow flutter of lashes, no moment of hesitation, just one moment lost and the next intense. And her eyes were so blue... He almost cried--almost. But a sense of dignity, of grace, kept him calm, kept his eyes from swimming as he smiled down at her. And as relief spread through and weakened his body, trembled through the arm he had tucked under himself to brace him over her, he found himself making a promise. To himself, to her, to whatever God or Fate was kind enough to bring them back from the edges they found themselves on so often. A promise to cherish, to protect, to love. "Hey, Scully." He whispered as he reached for the glass of water beside her bed, held the straw and smiled into her tired, distantly pained, but passionately *alive* eyes. "How nice of you to finally wake up. I was wondering if you were going to sleep forever." END