An Influence of Stars by Jesemie's Evil Twin jesemie@hotmail or eviljesemie@yahoo.com Summary: "When stars are in the quiet skies, the most I pine for thee." -Edward Bulwer Lytton. Or, Mulder and Scully at Bedtime. Overall, it's less smutty than it sounds. (Sorry.) Category: Oddness, M/S, Post-Ep for a Good Portion of Season Seven in Fewer Than 13 Pages with Even Less of a Point than Usual. NC-17. Spoilers: Yes, through "all things". Disclaimer: Not mine. Feedback: Please and Thank You. jesemie@hotmail or eviljesemie@yahoo.com Thanks: Shari and Liza, for hand-holding above and beyond the call of beta. September 2000 For Marina, who mailed me a rainbow and the sea. - - - Let us come to no conclusion, but let our bodies burn in time's timelessness.. . . We become fleshed words, one another's uttered joy. - Wendell Berry - - - A year later. Or has it been longer? He opens his eyes one evening and notices the cathedral in front of him, gilded turrets weathered loam green. A street light behind the church is a butter-yellow mist. Shadows of upside-down hearts and diamonds cut the Alexandria street into a pack of playing cards. A year, or a little more, and he has not been back until now. He wonders why he decided to return. He does that a lot. Finds himself in strange places, sand beneath his feet, like a beach dweller swept in by a squall. Is there ever sand in the cuffs of his pants? Does he often smell of saltwater? His wife never mentions it. If it is their secret, it's well kept. Holy Cross is quiet, windows dark burgundy as if lit only by a few candles deep inside. He imagines a rack of red glass votives holding sharp, unwavering flames. Today is All Souls', but Holy Cross is Romanian Orthodox, and there are few if any visitors. Himself excluded. The church is not far from where he used to live, and though he never went out of his way to avoid it, it was certainly not part of any routine. He rarely even jogged past it. Scully once pointed out the grounds, blooming then with russet-hued mums. He is not supposed to think about her. His father tells him she is fine, doing splendidly, in fact. Contacting her might still put her in danger -his father says that occasionally, when Diana is out of the room. His father says it softly, with a innocuous, kind smile on his face. Says it almost sadly, as though he understands something of the sacrifice of silence. Most of the time-- Most of the time-- Time overlaps, wavers, skates and speeds. Most of the time there isn't time to think about life right in front of him, the house needing tending, his sister wanting to have everyone over for dinner, the games with the kids in the backyard. He feels like he's discussed his wedding with everyone on the east coast, like it was the social event of the nation, tantamount to building an empire. It's the new small talk. Diana's stomach is fully round now, and when he places his hand flat beneath her belly-button, he can feel the baby swish and rattle, its miniature skull clicking with razor-teeth. But most of the time he's happy, he thinks. He isn't supposed to miss her. Cold for early November, colder than usual, and frost makes the grass crisp and silver. He doesn't know how he arrived here, when the season crept in, why he can't remember what he was doing this morning, who is the boy on the beach, where's Scully. There is sand beneath his feet. She wouldn't be here. She attends St. John's, he thinks, or she used to. He thinks maybe she doesn't anymore. He heard her, when she came to him over a year ago - a year? More than a year ago, months ago, ages ago. Her hand gripped his-- The memory stutters. He's still standing in the street, looking up at the turrets, and he can hear her, he remembers that much, and deep inside her there was still fire, but she was hurt, god, she was hurt. The ship and the sand and the bloody water. He closes his eyes, wills her voice to a whisper. Please let go. She was losing him and losing herself and God was an alien scorching the ocean. Why is he here? He should be going home, Diana's going to be upset if he's late. A family bundled in bulky coats nods hello as they pass, and the little girl turns around to stare at him, her face moon- round and framed by blonde hair and a violet wool-felt hat. She could be any child, and the further away she is, the less alive her eyes seem, reflecting dimly in the darkness. Emily was born on All Souls'. Maybe Scully went to St. John's tonight, lit an extra candle, enacted an intimately-concealed ritual. His wife mentioned the other day that she didn't really want any girls; she liked boys. Oh, she said, I'll love the baby no matter what, but I'd prefer a boy. Then she laughed at his expression. He couldn't imagine what showed in his features. Emily had starlight skin and sunshine hair. Emily had Scully's eyes and They filled her coffin with sand. And he never carried faith in her god, not like she did. And he never wanted her to stop believing. He is not supposed to think about her. He is not supposed to. The stars keep the black sky diluted blue. Let her be safe now. Let her be splendid and fine and happy. Let her be loved and warm and whole. But it's a prayer, he knows, not a wish, and right now he's too tired to pretend he doesn't care if no one's listening. "Shh," she says, when he wakes with a fevered gasp. "Shh, it's okay. You're okay." He lets her rearrange the blankets around him and watches her in the darkness of the room. "It was a dream." He says it to convince himself. "I know." He speaks so quietly she leans closer to hear. "No, I couldn't go to you. I wasn't allowed, Scully, I didn't know where you were." He rubs at his eyes, ashamed. "It's okay, Mulder," she says, gently settling into the bed beside him. Her voice is calm but she's been crying again. "It's okay." "I'm sorry." He turns onto his side. She pulls him against the curve of her body, kisses the top of his head. "There's no reason to apologize." "Thank you for finding me," he whispers. She doesn't respond. He looks back at her, and her eyes are squeezed shut, lashes shiny. He twists around, disrupting the blankets again. She doesn't draw herself up but she doesn't open her eyes either. Her hands are curled closed. He touches her face lightly. She shakes her head, hair splayed over the pillow. An almost- whimper: "Please, no..." Her pulls her into his arms, tucks her against him. "Sleep," he says to both of them, "sleep." - - - He's kissed her once and realizes the dreadful mistake of it. Once is a tease, once is a velvet slip of heat against his lips and how could he not want more? He attempts to remain composed, but he's kissed her and his head feels like a shaken bottle of champagne. He wants to say something suave, but all he can think of are Homer Simpson-esque come-ons: Hey baby, wanna wrestle? She might go for that. They've wrestled before. Which shoulder was it that the moth- man attacked? And why do mutants always lunge for his shoulders? Really. He wants to know. He's not _that_ tall. Tylenol with Codeine is a marvelous invention. "Yes," Scully agrees. Didn't mean to say it out loud. Her living room is covered in white iridescent stars with gold spangles. He can almost see his reflection in a big one somebody perched on the coffee table. Scully has the radio tuned to some station playing instrumental arrangements of Christmas songs. Life festively persists, at least for a while longer. "Who hung the sky?" he asks. "Charlie's kids. They were over a few days ago to help me take down the tree. I had this unopened package of stars... They redecorated while I was making grilled cheeses. You should see what they did to the bedroom." She must appreciate what she said - her eyes flit away from his. He staggers painstakingly to his feet, and she hops over to help support his drugged weight. "'m 'kay," he says. His shoulder hurts a lot, actually. He doesn't care per se, but it's sort of annoying. "C'mon," she says almost cheerfully. "Time to turn in." "You're kicking me out?" But of course she isn't. She's walking him through the kitchen, darkening the apartment as she goes. In her bedroom, she snaps on a lamp that's angled up at the ceiling. The glaring blue-white light is potentially the most irritating thing to happen all evening and he flops on the bed with his arm flung over his eyes. His shoulder hurts too but he can only take care of so many things at once. He drags himself up the bed. Propped against the headboard, she's somehow divested her work clothes and is wearing pajamas with snowmen on them. "The nephews strike again," she says when she notices him staring. "Come here." He half-lies with his back to her chest and she wads a pillow under his wounded arm. "Wanna take off your shoes?" "Nah." The light is still blaring away. He closes his eyes and presses his face into her stomach. She reaches over and turns off the lamp. Her hands smooth down his arms. She hiccups a little laugh. "What?" She sighs affectionately. "Mulder, you're the only person I know who would be attacked by zombies on New Year's Eve." "Frank Black was also attacked." That's catchy, he thinks, like a riddle. "Frank Black was also attacked, Frank Black was also attacked." He repeats the sentence until Scully pinches him. He moves off her and lies flat on his back, arm over his eyes again. "Well. He didn't sustain as many injuries as you." "You questioning my fightin' abilities against the undead?" he drawls. "Not yet." He's almost asleep when he thinks of it. "Hey, Scully." "Hmm." "What did the kids decorate in here?" She taps his forehead. "Look up." He does. The ceiling is patterned with star-stickers radiating pale green. "Nice." They are nice. Highly un-Scully, but nice. He's counting them and really concentrating on the task - his mind has taken a severe turn towards probable hallucination, he thinks - when her mouth covers his. He stops watching the stars for a little while. - - - He needs to see. She doesn't flinch when he unbuttons her pajama top. He understands she has consented to the intrusion. She breathes such tiny breaths he's surprised she's able to stay conscious. Her pulse is muted; he feels like he's touching her through a fogged layer of dream. He slips the shirt away from her skin and she turns, so close that she almost steps on his toes. He sits on the edge of his tub and doesn't blink: if he blinks, his vision will blur. Her back is a storm of contusions, bruises splotchy and mismatched. A fingerprint necklace rings her throat and Pfaster's thumb prints are punctuated on her neck, one on either side of her scar. A bruise near her left hip is dark purple with red pinpricks, like stars seen through smoke-glass. She doesn't shake, doesn't make a sound. Her head drops and she reaches out to take the shirt off the sink top. He hasn't moved to touch her and he doesn't think he knows how. "You don't have to do anything," she says, her voice smaller and smaller with each word, until she's hardly speaking at all. "I know I'm a monster." He's wiping his eyes when she turns back around, screams lost in his throat. "No," he says determinedly. He rises and gingerly envelops her. "No." He tips her chin up, makes her look at him. "No." When they end up on his couch, her hands stay fisted in his t- shirt. Her head is heavy on his collarbone, and he prays to her. Prays what she pled of him. Just hold on. - - - His sister can find smiles in the stars. She is not interested in naming them. She wants a grin, a galactic greeting. The Little Dipper pours a spoonful of upturned mouths, happy sparkles invoking glittering giggles. She's three, sprawled on the lawn and laughing each time a cricket jumps on her leg. Fireflies blister the dark with lemon-lime blinks, and Samantha warbles, "They're like shot stars." "What?" he asks, slightly distracted by the damp earth beneath his skull. Can worms creep into his ears? He ponders this. "Shot stars. The falling ones." "Shooting stars." "Yeah." She starts laughing again. "Tickles." She scratches a mosquito bite on her shin. Their mother is in a lawn chair behind them, her legs stretched out near Sam. Their mother isn't saying anything, but he knows she's in a good mood. She has a bowl of ice cream and her spoon clinks against the side, a short, merry sound. He and Sam have already eaten. His tongue is still cold. Samantha clambers up to their mother, and tries to sit on the arm of the chair. Their mother chuckles, hurrying to put the bowl on the ground. He props himself on his elbows and squints at them. They are not tanned yet this time of year - too early in late spring, with few bright days - and they seem to glow. The chair is rickety, with a sagging plastic seat. Sam wriggles so much he thinks they might flip over. She pounces on him from the chair and growls her lioness growl. He attempts scrambling away and hears their mother's giddy shriek as she tumbles into the grass. A moment of quiet, and then they're all laughing, overwhelmed with hysteria. He clutches his stomach and watches the stars bounce above him. "Mulder?" Her hand on his knee wrenches his gaze from the dusty motel window. Near the top of the glass, the sky is snowflaked tar. At the bottom, the last line of dusk soaks the almost-disappeared horizon in sun-blood. A halo of heat outlines Scully's fingers, pressed against the pane. "You need to rest," she says. "In a while." "You need anything?" "Besides rest? Not at present." His tone is light. He doesn't really want her to go into her own room. He isn't willing to say that. He knows she's exhausted. "What are you doing?" He looks down. He's managed to take off one shoe and his sweater, and he unbuckled his belt at some point too. Instinct is a weird thing, he thinks. He gives her a bemused glance. "The normal routine. Getting undressed. Staring out the window. Zoning out. You?" "I'm gonna..." She gestures something vague, waving her hand a bit. "Guess I'll go to bed." "Sweet dreams." He thinks he should thank her, or hug her, or offer her a drink or something. Something to distract him, and her. Something important. It's all a jumble in his mind. She's standing right there and he can smell her perfume. She walks to the connecting door. He speaks, startling her. "I guess I'm just-- I don't know." "What?" she asks softly, sitting on the bed. "I'm trying to say goodbye." "To Samantha?" He nods. "Wasn't that what you did earlier tonight while Harold and I were talking to the nurse?" She does not say this unkindly. He narrows his eyes. "You didn't really believe me." She doesn't respond. He shakes his head and turns to the window. "I almost don't believe me either." She comes to him, comes and kneels and holds him as tightly as she can. "I believe you," she whispers. Mulder knows she isn't sure what to think about his sister, about starlight souls, but he also knows she has faith. Some kind of faith, something inside her she is learning to reconcile with what she's experienced. Something that's been repaired and grows stronger with time. He knows Scully has faith in a higher power, in an afterlife of mercy, in justice and revelations, resolutions and results. God seldom fails her. Mulder prayed for so long that one day he just stopped bothering, and starting trusting something else. Then he started trusting her and she changed everything. He wants to tell her this - they're right there, those words, simple declarations in his head and all he has to do is start speaking. But it has been a long day, and she's holding him, and maybe whatever he should say can wait. Later, after she's buried herself in the bed, he remains at the window for hours. When he finally lets himself crawl in beside her, she murmurs hello. "Didn't think you'd ever get sleepy," she mumbles, and he lies as close to her as possible, breathes her in. - - - What if the smoking man had touched her. What if she died. The night when nobody could find her, Mulder stayed away from windows. He remembered the view of the sky from Skyland Mountain, those lovely, useless stars. What if the bullet hit Scully and not Cobra, whoever the hell that was. What if she bled to death in a fucking rowboat. He can't possibly ask questions. Almost luckily, her anger scalds away his own. Fear endures, with its cold sweats. He unlocks his apartment and ushers her through the door. He never meant to be this involved with anyone. Never. What if she died. Her hands in fists look hard enough to smash concrete. He forgave her the second he saw she was alive - there was nothing to forgive - and now he can look at her without seeing a sticky red hole in her head, or her blouse slimy with bloat and blood, or her legs spread, body pinned underneath-- "I'm sorry," she says, shuddering. "I'm so sorry." She's freezing, anger melting into mild shock. She paces his kitchen all night. He wraps her in a blanket and gives her space, stays with her in the quiet. - - - "Have you noticed how many nights we spend together?" Scully asks him. She had been asleep, couch-bound, until he knocked over his telescope while closing the window shades. "Well, yeah." He isn't quite sure what she's insinuating, but she doesn't seem particularly upset. She is in fact undressing in an entirely nonchalant way, dropping clothes on his bedroom floor. Her thigh-highs are sloughed off like snakeskin and she triumphantly tackles the bathroom, scrubbing her face with a washcloth as though removing clay. "Can I borrow a shirt?" He sets about the task of locating something clean. Crop circles, Daniel, proscribed paths and Buddha visions distract him. He can't seem to multi-task his thoughts these days, not around her. She's a preoccupation, with better charms than boogeymen, dervishes, or fields tattooed by bored farmers. Out of the bathroom, she waits patiently while he frisks the room for appropriate sleep attire. His chest of drawers coughs up zero clean t-shirts, and the bag he took to England has been contaminated by dirty socks. Where are his pajamas? No, wait. He only has pants. "You could wear a sweat shirt. Or a henley. Or any of a wide assortment of overly starched dress shirts..." She slides her hands under the t-shirt he's wearing and he trails off, looking down at her. "Um, or you could wear this one. It's clean." Whatever humor was in her movements before, however casual she acted, her expression has become much more serious. Her soft hands on his stomach are sketching nothing but warmth. Her mouth is slightly parted and her eyes--Very gradually he takes in a shivery breath. He takes off the t-shirt, holding it until she peels off her sweater and unclasps the wisp of bra. As the t-shirt erases her skin from his sight, he gently combs his fingers through her hair, and she smiles up at him. He kisses her because he knows he may, that kissing her on New Year's was not an appalling blunder of zombie-riddled audacity, and because someday soon he wants his t-shirt back. - - - "Where are we going tomorrow?" "Loose Bark, Illinois." "And why?" Scully has an innate ability to walk backwards in very high heels, an impressive skill she demonstrates while skimming a folder of his notes on two interesting community camp incidents - dead hikers found in the forest with toes in their stomachs. Literally. And not even their own toes, though their own are missing as well. "Do you want me to tell the tow-truck joke again?" After moving into her bedroom, she unshoulders her briefcase and gives him an evil smirk. "What did Skinner say?" "That we have 36 hours to prove this is something paranormal and not something sick but human." "And why do you think it's paranormal?" He leans against the wall. "Well, the toes in the stomachs aren't exactly normal." "Yes, but--" "The toes belong to someone, Scully. Someone who contacted local authorities demanding the prompt return of said toes." "You're kidding." She takes off the high heels and tosses them in her closet with a satisfying thump. "Mrs. Elsa Simon. She claims she's 142 years old and that the toes are hers, amputated over 110 years ago. She's perfectly willing to submit to DNA testing." She frowns. "But, Mulder, this report says the toes are in excellent condition for, well, toes found in stomachs. And how did these toes get lost? Were they stolen and then eaten?" Her nose wrinkles its comment on the ludicrousness of the entire conversation. "The sheriff I talked to this afternoon seemed very anxious to give this case away. Apparently, Mrs. Simon put a curse on one of the deputies." "And?" "And, the guy almost can't walk. Thinks his toes are gone and nothing will convince him otherwise. Can't keep his balance. His behavior's been a tad disruptive and it's caused a little panic in the department." Scully sprawls out on her bed. "You go out of your way to find cases like this, don't you?" "Only--" She yawns and stretches, and for a minute he can absolutely imagine what it would be like to have her body arching against his. He clears his throat quickly. "Only the best for you." She observes him peacefully for a moment, her eyes dark blue in the gray of the room. "Are you going home?" It's a good question. They have an early flight in the morning and they've been at work since 6:30am, reorganizing a mass of unwieldy files. "Because you don't have to," she says. "What did you have in mind?" he replies with a phony leer. She stands up and walks over to him, placing her hands in his and pressing her mouth to the underside of his jaw gently. "I sort of..." Her voice is little more than breath. He brings her right hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles, desperate to hear what she's going to say next but trying to disguise it as serenity. If she doesn't say something else, he might pass out. She pulls him carefully towards the bed and brings him down with her. She doesn't let go. "I want to make love to you tonight," she says softly. Above them the stars are barely visible when she moves into his arms to kiss him, to make real some unspoken promise. Her skin is luminous, hot enough to singe his body when she covers it with hers. She's been marking him delicately, with her nails and with her teeth. He closed his eyes a few minutes ago, when the heat started thrumming along the backs of his thighs as she massaged those muscles and put an open-mouthed kiss on the stretched skin behind each knee. He returns the favor by rolling over and rasping his thumbs over her lips, her stomach and hips, tormenting, gentle strokes replaced with harder kisses. He spends ten minutes on her breasts and she arches restlessly in his hands. Each time and in every place their skin separates and then reconnects, the fever of her shocks him. Their arousal is raw, potent; he can taste himself on her. Her tongue flickers in his mouth like firelight. She slips her right hand between her legs, silvery moisture coating her fingers. She draws the wetness up the underside of his cock, slowly dragging her hot fingertips along his length before taking him fully in her palm. She strokes him, rubbing her thumb along the tip in perfect circles. In revenge, he slides two crossed fingers inside her, stroking deeper and harder until she drops her hand and turns her head, gasping. He removes his fingers and licks them clean before sitting up and tugging her to the huge pillows by the headboard. She straddles him and he makes use of both hands. One of hers is wrapped around his cock again, and the other is tracing his newly-sensitized mouth. "You're beautiful," she whispers. "So are you," he whispers in response. He smoothly slides his fingers back inside her, the sight of his hand between her legs more erotic than anything he's ever seen. She's wet and soft and tight, gorgeous dark auburn curls parted to show the dark pink slick flesh. He spreads her, and she grinds into his palm. He can feel the hard knot of her clitoris against the heel of his hand. He wants to make her come like this first, wants to see the flush spread up her radiant flesh, her head tipped back, throat exposed like a sacrifice. She's so close, and she knows what he's doing. She braces her hands on his stomach to balance herself, then lets her arms hang at her sides. She watches him, permission and desire in her eyes. He feels her muscles tighten, her breathing catch. So close-- He grabs one of her hands and kneads it, paints a star on her palm over and over with his thumb. Her hand flexes open and trembles, and he doesn't release it when she comes, contracting around his fingers. She collapses a little, kisses him and tastes darker, more addictive. He thought he'd long since stopped praying, but maybe he hadn't. Maybe someone was listening all along. Maybe someone even gave him an answer. The stars are barely visible above them, barely visible. - - - An End. - - - There is no such thing as _star block_. We do not think of locking out the light of other galaxies. It is light so rinsed of impurities (heat, for instance) that it excites no antibodies in us. Yet people are curiously soluble in starlight. Bathed in its absence of insistence their substance loosens willingly, their bright designs dissolve. Not proximity but distance burns us with love. - Kay Ryan - - - Author's Notes: - There is a Holy Cross in Alexandria, VA, and it is Romanian Orthodox. I, however, do not know what it looks like. No offense intended by my ignorant descriptions. - Certain aspects of this story were helped along significantly by a recent Scullyfic discussion on dream sequences. Interpretation regarding this story and any of its particulars is mostly up to the reader. Do with it as you will. :-) http://alanna.net/JET