TITLE:  Take Another Breath (1/1)

AUTHOR:  mountainphile

RATING: PG

CATEGORY: V, MSR

SPOILERS: Detour...and a few surprises

EMAIL: mountainphile@hotmail.com

URL:

http://www.geocities.com/museans/mountainphile

ARCHIVE: Absolutely, and I'd love to know

where...

SUMMARY: What thoughts linger in Scully's mind,

with an injured, sleeping Mulder in her arms...?

DISCLAIMER: all things XF belong to Carter and

1013

FEEDBACK: Always a pleasure and an honor!

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The recent airing of episodes

from Seasons 4 and 5 plucked a tender chord

within me! Grateful thanks to Forte for deepbeta

and suggestions, to Mish and Jintian for beta and

encouragement, and to lovely Musea, our haven of

support, for providing an enthusiastic climate in

which to grow.



************

Take Another Breath

by mountainphile





It takes from three to five seconds for a human

being to take a breath, to inhale and to exhale.

It's what keeps us alive. Infusing the blood with

oxygen, every part of the body is fed and

strengthened, every cell nourished. The final

act, cleansing, completes this process of

respiration, ensuring our continued existence.



We breathe, Mulder, you and I.



We're survivors. I'm pleased... no, happy to

admit that we manage to squeak through so well.

We even surprise me, sometimes. Of course, I'll

take into consideration the requisite amount of

damage we also sustain in the field. This one

will require a trip to the hospital, in order for

the deep lacerations in your shoulder to be

properly cleaned and bandaged. Despite your

wound, I feel the steady swell of your chest and

back against my body as you sleep and breathe,

inhale and exhale, pillowed against my thighs and

stomach. We survive again.



There are no sleeping bags in evidence, so right

now the safest place for you is tucked up against

me, my arms around you for warmth. Wrestle? Oh

God... and I had the strangest feeling that you

were both grateful and hesitant to put your head

and body down over my thighs like this. On my

lap. Carpe diem, Mulder, and don't question it.

You know this doesn't happen every day, so savor

it because it's fleeting. Reminiscent of a worn-

out joke that circulated back in med school about

this being the only part of the human body that

disappears -- all it would take is for me to

stand up...



"It's what's called the lap," the instructor

said, many years ago, explaining this elusive

piece of anatomy. An attempt at levity, and to

disarm the awkward tension that built during the

previous discussion on cardiac procedure. Tension

was a not-uncommon result of this particular

doctor's ego and usual, charismatic demeanor.

"The lap. Say it to yourself. A colloquial,

familiar term, you understand, but aptly named.

Don't you agree?"



Amid the wave of relieved and obedient laughter,

I remember how his glance slid toward me over the

heads of others. A man secure in his position,

and righteously smug in his acquisitions, one of

which was his extracurricular familiarity with

young Dana Scully's thighs and stomach... The lap

that disappeared, then parted when I stretched

out on cool, forbidden sheets beneath him.



Just a face from the distant past, Mulder,

someone I've not mentioned to you. Why? I'm not

proud of that association. And though the

experience marked me in subtle ways, I'm

convinced of the necessity to leave past mistakes

behind. We shed our skins like snakes, sloughing

the old to refocus, adjust, and grow with the

new. We survive in spite of bad judgment and

error.



You called it a primitive culling technique, this

new predator's method of attack. By taking the

strongest first, it weakens and disorients the

herd. Divide and conquer. I thought it probable

you brought up the subject last night to justify

staying behind and skipping the team-building

seminar. And -- by some remote possibility -- an

excuse for us to, well... spend time alone. As

friends, of course. But once again you put

professional before personal, dashing out into

the night on a whim.



It's quite possible our communication skills

*could* use a jumpstart because, believe me,

building a tower of furniture was not the

scenario I longed for. Perhaps you're betting the

House that the wine and cheese and my affability

will be available at some other time and place?

And they may well be. In our future, there are

any number of... possibilities.



Your wound has ceased to bleed, but other than

packing it with your clothing, there's nothing

more to do until help arrives. I hope it does, by

morning... Already the long hours of exertion and

nervous energy are taking their toll; I find my

eyes growing heavy as I keep this midnight watch.

Like a fool, I've brought no water or medical

kit. We're classic Babes in the Woods, sitting

ducks, waiting for the leaves to cover us. If

there's one thing I despise, it's playing the

hapless victim. Ineffectual, unprepared. My

campfire was a fiasco from start to finish.



It's dark and poor night vision hampers my

ability to see danger in the blackness beyond us.

I think of Jeff Glaser and his InfraRed, alone

and lost somewhere out in these woods. Worry

affects my perceptions. I squint at the black

forest growth, imagining red eyes behind every

tree. I've waited in tight places before,

breathless and at bay, fearful and facing the

unknown. So have you, with and without me, and I

send up a grateful prayer that we're still

counted among the survivors.



Your breaths are a comfort. Take another deep

one, against me, and sleep...



************



I haven't told you everything that's come back to

me, Mulder, since my disappearance almost three

years ago. Recollections I have of lost time are

slowly returning, like shattered bits of

driftwood washing in with the tide. I know my

secrecy would disappoint you, if you knew, but I

think you'd forgive me in light of our unique

history. You understand my need for privacy; it's

one of the few means of control I have left.

Perhaps someday, with you holding my hand, or

wrapped in your arms, I'll be convinced of the

good it might do to open up this Pandora's box,

which I keep so closely guarded.



Little things also jog my recent memory. They

offer me moments of sensation and kaleidoscopic

snapshots. Not pleasant glimpses, by any means,

but experiences that have marked me because of

their abiding evil and the scars of trauma

they've left behind on my psyche. I have no

forewarning, no signal of their approach; it's

out of my hands. And, Mulder, what's so --

galling... it's the mundane, incidental,

unavoidable things that precipitate them. Tonight

too, my mind is impressionable, skittish, because

it's dark and cool and my nerves are on edge.

Lightning flashes can trigger it. Dark, earthy,

closed-in places. Metallic cold. The suffocating

stench of mildew. Cobwebs. Sometimes a thing as

innocent and unavoidable as running my finger

along the tiny, half-moon pucker at the back of

my neck.



I wish I could share this part of myself with

you, but it's not yet time. The shame is too

potent. I'd rather sing a whole chorus of songs,

loudly and off-key. For now, these memories --

impressions, really -- are instantly relegated to

that place into which I tuck all the unsavory and

nightmarish scraps of my life. If I'm not

vigilant, the cache will bulge and overflow its

bitter burden and my need for control will be

moot. And should it break and spill, I honestly

pray that I have enough strength, enough

openness, enough trust -- in you, and in myself -

- to invite you in. So you can be there to help

me catch what might escape.



Leaning over you, I draw my hand across your brow

to feel your warmth. A few deep scratches, no

fever. Your body temperature seems stable after

the shock of injury, though your skin still

retains some of the clamminess. Your hair is

satin against my cheek and, taking advantage of

your slumber, I breathe in your rich, musky odor

of dried sweat, of maleness and Mulder-scent. I

feel the rim of your left ear, cool against my

lips, and part them to warm this salty, little

slice of you. A moist touch, a whisper on your

skin. Perhaps it will feed a dream.



"Whazzat?" you mutter, shifting against my body,

craning your head back, towards me. "Scully...

you okay?"



"Shhh, go back to sleep, Mulder. Everything's

fine."



"Ass numb yet?"



I smile. "If you hadn't mentioned Tailhook last

night, I might be inclined to share."



The muscle of your cheek arches into a wide grin

and I hear a low chuckle. "Sleepy?"



"Maybe a little... Nothing that should keep you

awake, though. How's the shoulder?"



Twisting in my arms, you utter a soft groan and

expletive, and I realize that hours of lying in

the same position have stiffened your limbs and

neck to an uncomfortable degree. Sitting quietly,

I allow you to shift your heavy upper body and

help you slide against my warmth into a new

configuration, before gathering you once more

into the shelter of my embrace.



"Mulder, I seriously question the wisdom of

stressing or leaning on that injury."



You mumble softly, fuzzy from sleep, breath

erratic as your body adjusts to the new posture

and seeks comfort. "...Uhhh, use pressure to stop

bleeding. S'at right, Doc? Indian guides... know

these things."



The altered position has you facing me, knees

butted against the mossy log at my back, your

shoulder and neck pressed with great care along

the curve of my thigh. While your head, well...

your cheek lies in snug repose against my front.

Your nose rubs the thin fabric of the jacket that

covers my breasts and your mouth slips into a

grin. I feel a quiet peace, looking down at you.

Grateful that so many years of friendship and

trust afford us this measure of easy physical

contact.



You open one unencumbered eye, gaze up at me for

a moment, and then close it and sigh. "Scully?"



"Hmmm?"



"Feel free... to warm the other one... " I hear

you murmur.



By now, nothing should surprise me. Then why do

my cheeks burn with sudden heat and my heart

pound as I look quickly out into the cool night

air around us?



"Go back to sleep, Mulder. You need to conserve

your strength... just in case we need it later."



One arm cradles your head to my jacket. The other

hand trails from your shoulder, following the

hunched swell of back and hip -- and suddenly my

fingers touch it in the starlight. Your weapon,

metallic and chilled...



************



Those who court danger risk becoming the prey.

I've known that ever since our first case in

Oregon.



Sometimes the strong don't always survive, just

the fortunate, the lucky, the preordained. There

were times, Mulder, when providence and timing

alone kept me, kept both of us, alive. And as I'm

wont to do, I seldom allow you to know how

frightened I really am. There are cases, and then

again... there are cases. It's crossed my mind

that I am the liability in our partnership. That

red hair is an invitation out in the field, a

visual target for the monsters we seek.



As my fingertips linger on the cold curves of

your gun, a scene erupts in my mind...



"Shhhh... Ich werde dir helfen... Du wirst eine

Unruhe bald vergessen... "



The stale odor of a trailer assaults me. From a

corner in the darkness I hear the raw, tearing

sound of duct tape. My God, I'm bound, wrist and

ankle, to a chair. The metal tray hovers near my

elbow. A camera's flash. The shining, winking tip

of the leucotome in the soft light...



These moments of terror seize me, taunt me, and

then leave me breathless, Mulder. Little shards

of the kaleidoscope coalesce and then shatter,

convincing me that there must be a hole somewhere

in Pandora's box. A fracture in the smooth

porcelain of Dana Scully's self-control.



My nose betrays me tonight. Seated here on the

damp forest floor, I smell the earthy rot of

leaves and organic matter. Forgive me, but this

vision -- for lack of a better word -- focuses on

you, and in my mind's eye I see you crouching

under the trees, brushing back doubts like

leaves. In your hand is a small packet of pastel,

heart-shaped cutouts. Mementoes of a madman. For

you, however, the fragile seeds of hope and a

promise for resolution.



Remembering, I blink back tears and stroke your

hair, softly, so you won't stir under my touch.

There are so many facets to the emotion I feel

for you. Seminars can't teach what we've gained

and learned from each another. They can't

duplicate the same degree of understanding we

share, or create the trust we have in one

another's instincts. There are times when all

seems lost, but I know, as surely as I live and

breathe, that you'll be there to back me up. To

help me survive...



"There's no way out, girlie-girl... "



I once faced the Devil incarnate, Mulder. I felt

torn between two personas -- the terrified child

scrabbling into a dark corner, making myself

small and unnoticeable... and the adult, the

trained professional, who needed her wits and

skill to out-think and out-maneuver in order to

survive.



"I know this house, girlie-girl, there's nowhere

to hide."



For me, the movie "Psycho" had the opposite of

its usual effect; you would have appreciated the

irony, had I told you. I forsook my routine tub

bath and showered for many months after the case

was closed, before regaining that which I thought

I had lost -- my dignity.



Perhaps God is responsible for the miraculous

nature of our survival, feeding out ways of

escape as we have need. If you had been a minute

later in each case, I'd be either dead or, worse,

a useless burden to society. I only knew that,

with Schnauz, I was like a person drowning,

needing to reach the light and air. I had to be

alone and take deep, sobbing breaths under the

trees.



And the other time? It reminds me that you've had

rare glimpses of my weakest moments. Scuffed and

bleeding, with cobwebs in my hair, I burrowed

into your arms. Weeping and desperate to feel

safe, I clung to you, close to your heart.



************



I had a dream while I was in the hospital for my

cancer, Mulder.



Usually I dreamt of tests, of white blood cell

counts, of weakness and fear, of nosebleeds that

refused stanching. My waking hours were consumed

with denial and pain, regret and anger. The

stalwart faces came each day, speaking in solemn

tones, there to smile and visit with the one

struggling to survive. Despair invaded my

subconscious and flaunted the evidence of my

mortality before me in cruel parody. I felt there

was no meaning or justification in it. It's a

wonder I slept at all.



In the midst of this daily grief, I had a dream

of your nearness, and it filled my chest and

being with the fresh breath of hope. I smelled

your hair, so real it could have brushed my nose,

as it does now. So close I could have kissed it.



I felt breath on my hand, *your* breath, then

your mouth and cheek. Opened and hot, wet with

desperation. You clutched me, squeezed me with

your warm, gentle grip. Trying hard not to rouse

me from healing sleep.



Truth eludes me with its all-too-frequent

masquerade; it can be relative, subjective, even

interpretive, depending upon viewpoint and

motivation. I can't deny there's a bond between

us that neither time, nor experience, nor pain

can dull. But, in this dream you were my

lifeline, Mulder, drawing me back to a place of

faith and of hope. To extreme possibilities. Back

to my place at your side. Whether you were truly

there or not, crouched next to my bed or just a

part of my dream, I must believe there is meaning

and purpose in everything that's happened to me.



The journey wasn't in vain.



*************



I'm exhausted. My yawns remind me of the body's

need for oxygen, so I take several huge, gulping

breaths to fill my lungs and bring myself more

fully awake. Western Florida or not, the night

air is humid and cool, and I notice your

movements across my lap in response to my

inhalations. My thighs begin to ache, fatigued by

your body's weight, and yes, my ass is growing

numb. You bundle closer to me for warmth, leaning

against my breasts. Perhaps, some night in the

future, we won't have the layers of clothing and

outerwear and a makeshift bandage between us.



It makes me ponder what might have occurred if

the hunt for Mothmen hadn't taken you from the

motel last night. Notwithstanding the Bureau's

policy on male and female agents consorting while

on assignment and, contrary to popular belief, I

have more than just a lap, I assure you. Food for

your dreams. It's how I survive the desires that

both haunt and hunt me.



I often dream of you.



Nodding over your body, I sense night, like a

lover, easing itself into morning. There's a hint

of greenish-blue in the blackness of the forest

around us, and I've yet to notice a menacing

presence or the glow of red eyes staring from

beneath the trees. You groan in your sleep.

Cramped, stiffened muscles will soon need to

change position, as before, and perhaps my own

body can benefit from the brief respite. After

all, we've only a few more hours until dawn.



They take the strongest first, you said. Though

we weren't the leaders in this situation, I'm

convinced that our survival can be seen as

evidence of our fitness and our right to

continued existence. We refused to be divided.

Lured apart, attacked, we rallied together and

came back united and whole. Partners still. Only

God knows what challenges there are in the

journey ahead. Or what the unseen future holds

for us.



Take another breath, Mulder; breathe deep. It's

what keeps us alive. And stay close to me through

this night in the forest, facing the unknown.

Remember that we're survivors, you and I...



************

THE END

Take Another Breath

09/10/00