TITLE: Opening the Door (1/1) AUTHOR: mountainphile RATING: R EMAIL: mountainphile@hotmail.com URL: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile CATEGORY: MSR, vignette DISCLAIMER: I know, I know...The X-Files and the characters of Mulder and Scully are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. No infringement is intended. SPOILERS: Post-Orison, Season 7 SUMMARY: Scully reflects on the healing that must take place in her life, and the special part Mulder plays in making it happen... NOTES: Heartfelt thanks and gratitude to my wonderful, long-suffering betas: Susan, Nadine, and Blackwood, who *is* an Angel... ARCHIVE: I would be honored! Just tell me where and keep my name and email attached. ****************************** Opening the Door by mountainphile Opening the door, I am never sure what I'll find... Rather than a secure, comforting haven in which to hide myself, wrapping its walls around me like a lover's embrace, my home has become suspect. It betrayed me. This place where I live, a spatial extension of myself, has again been violated by evil that follows me through the unconventional labyrinths of my job, to the front door of my home...and within. As an FBI agent, my job overlaps and intrudes upon my *normal* life to such an extent that I feel I'm looking through two opposing layers, which coalesce into a whole. My perception is altered by the fuzzy cataracts of evidence, disclosure, danger, and paranormal phenomena. Inexplicably fused. The mundane routines of my life are affected. My feet slow as I approach my apartment building, eyes searching for cars that have no business parking on this street, anything strange or questionable in my off-duty world. I am painfully aware of the reassuring words I whisper to myself, in order to drive away the demons before me... "I will be safe. No one will break into my home. I will not fear injury or violation. I have my weapon." That last declaration makes my heart pound, haunts me... Periodically, the floodgates of my professional life open unannounced and gush with a torrent into the part of my life that is personal, familiar, and ordinary. The invasion is shocking. It paralyzes me with its cold clamp on my legs, inches higher to stain me and the walls of my home with filth that is almost impossible to scrub away later. Vileness accompanies a flood, and there is foul residue to rake up and shovel out in the aftermath. Disease is in the muck, ready to reach out and to pull at my feet or grab my ankle. To hobble me. To affect my mind and emotions. It happened again. The latest torrent wreaked havoc both on my residence and my well-being. The receding flood of evil and violence left me with the daunting task of repairing my bedroom's damage. And along with the broken glass and lamps, the gouges in my furniture, the cracks in the plaster, I must deal with the breaks and gouges and cracks within myself that are harder to heal. Flesh, intellect, and emotions can't be repaired in quite the same way... Perhaps that's why I've felt more secure while performing the routine aspects of my job. There, in the static atmosphere of the autopsy bay, I control the slicing and sawing, the manipulation of skin, tissue, muscle, and bone. The deceased cannot throw consequences back at me. I calibrate the damage with the intent to offer a solution. An explanation. The same holds true working in the laboratory or as I outline field reports. There is stability in the rational, clinical examination of the evidence. It is predictable, structured. And by providing scientific documentation and clinically analyzing data, I can become reconciled to the circumstances of evil that have taken place. Inconsistencies are evident, nonetheless... My defenses, which should be sharp and detached from personal involvement, have grown soft from the effects of trauma. When I'm forced to confront the unpredictable stresses of my job in the field, I doubt myself. And when they invade the sanctity of my home to attack my body... I then become a moral enigma, a theological contradiction. I will kill to survive. I know that now, and the realization hits me in the face like an ice water bath. My upbringing, my belief system, my intellect and calm rationality have all taken a back seat to this different, desperate, stronger woman I barely recognize. But might is relative, and my new, emerging strength, to be efficacious, must be eventually separated from my present weaknesses... ********** My partner is the only one who understands. Like night swimmers on the sly, we have both quietly slipped into the waters of intimacy with barely a ripple to let others know it happened. Physical intimacy... yes. These waters are safe for me now. Together we stroke leisurely in the teasing shallows of foreplay, or plunge ourselves into the deeper seas of passion until we're spent and exhausted, but refreshed... Emotional intimacy has followed. I deceived myself into believing it already existed. By allowing him passage to the secret places of my body, the door to both my soul and heart has been unlocked also, enabling him to enter inside me completely. He knows me. He's a trustworthy caretaker of everything I have. Arriving at my door, I feel a chilling hesitancy lap at me, taunt me. After the last incident, we agreed that he should continue to have free access to my home, but would let me know when he was there for my own peace of mind. Then I see it. And the fears are gone. A purple flower, one of my tiny African violets, is stuck into the keyhole... I open the door and sense his presence immediately, and my home becomes a place of safety again. The soft illumination of my new lamp washes over the room, bathing the dark corners in a golden light. And from the couch, he sees me, draws off his glasses, and slowly comes to me with his sweet smile and the warm, strong haven of his arms. Mulder, my partner. He knows now how to ease my apprehensions. His mouth is a welcoming shelter over mine and I burrow into its soft, wet sanctuary, as well as lose myself within the secure walls of his arms that squeeze me to him. It would be easy to remain here forever. It's the dinner hour, but there are no takeout cartons, no preparation of a meal in evidence. Perhaps he's forgotten our need for food in the surge of hungry desire that pulls us into its current. "Traffic bad?" he murmurs, drawing off my jacket, easing it from my shoulders as he maintains contact with my body like a masseur. "I was beginning to think you ditched me..." "That's your m.o., not mine," I say with a gentle challenge in my voice. I tuck the ragged little flower behind my ear for him to see, and his small, pleased smirk tugs at my heart. He places a feather-light brush of his lips over mine and then I feel the warm glide of his tongue reaching out to trace the contours, teasing my lips apart, running the soft tip along the sensitive skin within my mouth. His eyes sparkle in anticipation and I begin to melt. When he begins slowly, deliberately, to unbutton my blouse, I think that perhaps the tide must surely be drawing us in again... The blouse slides off, silken and fluttering, to the floor, along with the anxiety and tension bottled within me. His splayed hands ease down to my waist, methodically unbuttoning my trousers, drawing down the zipper, tooth by tooth. "Scul-ly... " he admonishes, breathing softly into my ear, "I think you need a lesson in comfort... " His fingers dive suddenly beneath the fabric, pushing my pants down the length of my thighs, so they drop in a forlorn heap around my ankles. Humming his approval, he runs his hands along my backside, cupping me, reverently tracing the cleft to the small of my back. And now he pauses... savoring this slow seduction. I take a deep breath as he slips his fingers under the edge of my panties, first to stroke along the ridge of my hips, then to reach within and rub soothingly, several times, along the soft valley of curls at my center. He heard me inhale... and now wants a sigh of surrender to follow. A long, inquisitive finger slowly nudges its way within me, moving languorously, rhythmically, into my moist depths...into the place that, upon reflection, I think has become a haven for him. Mulder guides me, draws me into deeper water with his finger, and I undulate helplessly in his wake. My sigh, as he fully expects, has escalated into a lively moan, and my hips continue their slow revolution. He prolongs the tease, withdrawing his hand gradually before moving on to the next acquisition. "Mulder, I think you've... forgotten... dinner," I pant, feeling his relentless fingers drift up to my nipples to assess their arousal. It occurs to me that my body has, in fact, become his banquet. His smile is mischievous. He kisses me warmly, hungrily, along the curve of my neck and reaches around, unclasping my bra with melodramatic slowness. "I never forget," he whispers into my ear. "I'm just working up an appetite... " And as his head dips to my breasts and his mouth opens to swallow me, I know we've slipped into the water once more. ******************** Because of Mulder's frequent presence, my home is returning to the secure haven it was previously. And because of his special place in my life, I am open to new possibilities, a greater depth of trust. And I blossom under his healing touch. My family and the Bureau psychologists advise me to move to another location and leave behind the stains and damage prior floods have deposited. To flush and hose away the memories by getting a fresh start, so my fears borne of violation and pain can be put to rest. I am, however, of another mindset. Running is not the answer. I would be deceiving myself, showing myself the ultimate discourtesy, as Mulder so emphatically puts it. I think I prefer to confront the approaching storms and learn from previous destruction. If need be, I will sandbag. There is no disgrace in a fallback position, and I am learning to change and adapt in ways I never dreamed would be possible for me. Looking ahead, I believe in a time when my home will no longer harbor fear, when the door will swing open safely and easily for me. My instincts will be sharp, my gun hand steady, and nothing I confront in the line of duty will compromise my performance and efficiency. Soon, with my partner's gentle, loving support, I will take control of my life again... Opening the door, I'll find Mulder. ********** THE END Opening The Door 1/31/2000