Title: Hey You... Author: Paige Caldwell Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com Classification: MSR Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: Season Five Archive: Please do, just let me know where. Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it! Summary: Can you feel me? Can you touch me? Hey you! Out there in the cold Getting lonely, getting old, can you feel me.... Hey you! Standing in the aisles with itchy feet and fading smiles, can you feel me.... Hey you! Don't help them to bury the light Don't give in without a fight.... She's dying... No, it's not her cancer. She's been safely in remission for months now. Enough time for me to relax my fear, but I don't. I profile every sneeze and scavenge through our office trash can each time I see her toss a tissue into it. I reassure myself by invading her privacy. Her purse has become my primary target. I rifle through it daily, keeping mental notes of its contents. Like a pharmacist, I inventory her medication which has graduated down to daily iron supplements. Cancer might be abated, but anemia clearly is not. But, I can tell that by just looking at her. She is so pale that I'm able to trace the blue veins that thread like fine embroidery beneath her skin. The same color of her eyes. No longer brilliant. More subtle than distinct. I pull out her brush and count the number of red-gold strands that twine around the bristles. There isn't as many as yesterday, but then who's counting? I am.... My probing fingers dig deeper into her purse, closing on a cylindric object that I first thought was a fat pen. When I retrieve it, I almost drop it onto the floor in startled embarrassment. You stupid jerk. Pens don't come in plastic wrappers. When did she start her period again? I see her wasting away, but her body is obviously struggling to renew itself. This inconsistence startles me. But, lately Scully has been a walking contradiction, shifting from one extreme to another like two ends of a spectrum. The colors of her moods shift without warning. I see her go from a scintillating white to an impervious black. There is no grey, no prismatic foreshadowing that the hue of her temperament is changing. She goes from light to dark, soft to hard, friendly to hostile. As a psychologist, I would diagnose her as manic depressive. But, as a Scullyist, I know better. There's a part of her that's dying inside. "What are you doing, Mulder?" Scully's voice tears through my thoughts. I look up suddenly. She's standing in the doorway to our office, glaring at me. Her eyes narrow in on her purse which is on my lap. My self-conscious flush doesn't even begin to match hers as she spies the object in my hand. "Looking for something?" Her voice ignites with anger. "Would you believe me if I said I was hungry and looking for a twinkie?" I quip back, stuffing the plastic wrapped innuendo into her purse. It only takes her a few strides to breach the distance between us. She grabs her purse and closes it tightly. "Try again," she retorts. "I'm worried about you, Scully," I tell her sincerely. "Try again," Scully repeats in an acidic tone. "This time try honesty." "Why didn't you tell me you got your period again?" I ask her pointedly. "Because you're not my doctor." She stiffens at my directness. I detect a sliver of resentment as she continues. "Or my husband, or my lover for that matter. What business is it of yours?" "Maybe I want to make it my business," I offer, feeling silly and desperate at the same time. "You remind me of a child who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar," Scully assesses me coldly. "And, like a child you're making up excuses... or as we adults call it... lies." Whew.... She really is dark today. The only way to see through the nebulous cloud is to slice right through it. "You're dying, aren't you?" Her limpid blue eyes startle into an astonished blink. "What did you just say?" she gasps. "You're dying." I impart. "You think no one sees it, but I do." "My cancer is in remission," Scully states flatly. "I'm not talking about your cancer," I respond. "I'm still trying to figure out if there's a physical correlation to this mental demise of yours." "Mental demise..." she echoes my words, pressing her lips together into a tight line of cynicism. "Now, that's classic coming from you." I ignore the insult, focusing on my thoughts which I speak out loud. "I just can't put my finger on it, yet." "So you put them in my purse instead?" "Yeah," I nod. I stand up beside her so my hands can assess what my eyes have not. Her shoulders feel fragile and tense. The roundness of her curves are flattening out. My fingers skim her arms, her waist, her hips.... If she is insulted by the audacity of my touch, she doesn't show it. Nor does she appear remotely interested in it. She catches my hands before they go any further. Clasping them tightly, she says in a steely voice. "Then let me clarify it for you, Mulder. What is dying in me is hope. Hope in life... hope in love... and... hope in you." As always, her words have a way of elucidating my perspective. She's not dying. I am. She is killing me with rejection. Even before I got the nerve up to proposition her. "Scully," My voice breaks as my fingers try to pry between her rigid ones. "Don't the condemned get a last, dying wish?" She closes her eyes and breathes an audible sigh. "What is it, Mulder?" "I want you to feel me," I murmur. "And, I want to feel you. Just once, Scully." "Even if the first time will be our last?" The ridicule of her smile cracks her lipstick... and my poignant mood. This woman is my partner. We are equal in every sense of the word. How ironic. Under any other circumstance, she would seethe with resentment if I tried to take the lead. Yet, she blames me for this particular omission, punishing me for not expressing the same thing she refuses to show. I'm not killing hope. She is. "You got yourself a deal," I respond curtly. I lean over my desk to turn off the light. I sense her eyes following me, drilling holes in my back. "Your place or mine?" she asks in a voice which tries to feign indifference, but sounds expectant. "Neither," I spin around and grab her hand. For a minute, she looks startled and almost afraid. When I press her hand against my chest, she tries to jerk it away. "Feel me," I demand. The beat of my heart rises to echo against her hand. When her mouth drops open to protest, I reach out and flatten my palm against her breast. At first, she gasps. Then her pulse quickens. In the semi- darkness of the room, her rhythm soon matches mine. Pounding with the same urgent beat, her heart betrays her words and her waning hope. I break the connection between us, leaving her stunned in the corner of our office and the corner she's painted us into. Tossing my jacket over my shoulder, I open the office door. "Night, Scully." ****************** Hey You! Out there on your own Sitting naked by the phone would you touch me... Hey You! With your ear against the wall Waiting for someone to call out would you touch me... Hey You! Would you help me to carry the stone Open up your heart, I'm coming home... It's been a week since our office confrontation. Seven uninterrupted days of work and seven long nights of sleep being interrupted. With Mulder, it's business as usual. At first, I'm not sure if I should be placated or affronted by the return of his casual, friendly demeanor. Before I can settle on one direction, Mulder has me mentally sprinting off in another. As always, I abandon the inner quest to find answers to the peripheral edge of the "X"... But tonight, I'm cursing my disparity between trodden hopes and sparks of sexual excitement. It's well past midnight and I'm curled up on my couch trying to replace want with reason. I even change my pajamas in an effort to stifle these emerging, uncomfortable sensations. The first pair, an apricot silk, stuck to all the wrong places, including the imprint he left of my breast and the moistness between my legs. Iron grey flannels are better. The material of a spinster... the uniform of the dejected. Oh, I could self-gratify this physical yearning. My mind is a thesaurus of Mulder looks, touches and expressions. I've imagined him in so many descriptive ways that I could win a Pulitzer Prize for literature. But, I'm tired of being a personal pronoun. I want to be a possessive. I want to be his. I stare at the phone, wondering if I can substitute physical pleasure with the sound of his voice. I know it's late by ordinary standards, but Mulder is a night owl and I can easily envision him staring goggle-eyed at a television screen. What he's watching doesn't require creative thought. I know his taste in visual entertainment, as he knows my distaste for what he calls "performance art". But, the dysfunction isn't his. It's mine. I've relied on intellectual stimulation to entice this man. Smart isn't always sexy. An infrequent smile and rare gesture of affection doesn't guarantee his continued interest. I've played the role of saint, because of my own need to feel venerated. I just never thought that I'd live the life of a nun in the process. Here I am in my mid-thirties, practicing chastity as if it was a virtue. I wear a habit, not out of respect, but to sequester myself from my feelings. It's not his fault that this relationship hasn't progressed. It's mine. To savor life, you have to actually sample it... and my reluctance to admit my emotions has starved more than just my body. It's leading to the famine of my hope... And, it's spoiling his appetite for me in the process.... I lift the cell phone and speed dial his number. "Mulder," he answers in a slow, languid tone. "I want you to touch me," I murmur. "And, I want to touch you." There is a pause on the line. I hold my breath, wondering if hope is going to be resuscitated or asphyxiated. "Even if the first time will be our last?" His response isn't cynical. It's hurt. "You know what they say, Mulder. Better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all." "I'll be right over..." Sweats and flannel. Hardly two combustible materials, but the minute I open my door the air ignites. Deprived of oxygen, the space between us collapses. We're in each other's arms, pulling at each other's lips with the intensity of a super nova about to explode. The black hole of my despair fills with pin points of light. I'm not just discovering a galaxy of desire, but what it's like to feel weightless in it. When he lifts me off my feet, I have the giddy sensation of floating. I drift towards my bedroom, leaving the gravity of depression behind me. Mulder is incredibly sensual. I knew it the first time he touched me. He leads with his eyes, but guides with his hands. Together on my bed, his fingers glide down to mine. He raises them to his lips, kissing each tip as his thumb traces circles in my palm. It's not a sexual gesture, but I'm squirming like a teenager who's just discovered the definition of "petting". My flannel pants feel itchy and I try to wiggle out of them. Smiling at my urgency, he places my hand on the flat of my stomach and urges, "Let me do that, Scully." He eases the material down my legs. Lips follow hands, and he demonstrates that there are more erogenous zones than I've ever heard of. I never realized that the skin behind my knees is as sensitive as the hollow of my neck. Nor is there any medical explanation for the tingles that spill down my spine. Being naked from the waist down makes me feel wanton. Perhaps that's why I lift my hips in silent invitation. In response, he places his hand on top of mine and tells me gently, "If the first time is to be our last, then we're going to make each moment count." I exhale slowly. I'm not in a position to protest, nor am I willing to correct his misconception. He intends to make this an experience to remember. I want it to be one that I'll cherish. By inches, he rolls up my flannel top, uncovering my breasts. His mouth continues an upward spiral of tender kisses. He circumvents my nipples, which become rigid in protest. When I gasp, he lifts his head and asks, "What is it, Scully?" I meet his steady gaze with my turbulent one. This exquisite torture is prompting words that I never thought I'd say so easily. "I want to feel you, Mulder." "You are feeling me..." I groan and turn my head towards the pillow. "That's not what I meant," I whisper. His lips graze the side of my neck, teasing the fine hair behind my ears. "Mulder, please..." my voice shakes. "Do you feel it, yet?" he asks, turning my face so that it's even with his. "Feel what?" "Hope..." Mulder says softly. "Hope in life... hope in love... hope in me?" What I feel are tears gathering in my eyes. They cascade down my cheek as I silently nod. ********* Hey You! Out here on the road Doing what you're told, can you help me.... Hey You! Out there beyond the wall Breaking bottles in the hall, can you help me.... Hey You! Don't tell me there's no hope at all Together we stand, divided we fall.... I gather Scully in my arms and rock her until her tears subside. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, but it's not painful. The feel of her petite body clinging to mine invokes such a protective response that I practically crush her against me. Rather than cringing away, she binds herself even tighter. Her limbs wrap around me, pulling me towards the softness of her flesh and the fullness of her lips. I lose myself in the flavor and ambience of her kiss. Her mouth opens and the two of us take turns leading the waltz of our tongues. The beating of her heart is faint under my sweat shirt. Desperate to feel it against my skin, I momentarily pull away to strip off my clothes. Even this brief parting is too much for us to bear. Our mouths fuse back together and our bodies blanket each others. When her heart skips a beat to match the tempo of mine, I begin to spin towards an ecstasy that has nothing to do with sexual pleasure. It's the acknowledgment of us. With her... and only with her, will I find contentment of my soul. Scully's no longer beyond my reach. She's under my hands and I begin to feel my way across terrain that I thought was forbidden. I explore the peaks of her breasts with my tongue as my hand skims down to the valley between her legs. The sound of her moans are as stimulating as the wetness that dampens my fingers. I glide one into her gently, easing her into a new rhythm. Her breath begins to mimic the pulsing of my touch. My mouth soon savors her elixir of passion. I alternate the pressure of my tongue with the tension of my finger, prolonging her ascent as long as possible. When her legs begin to tremble, I know it's time. Time to replace touch and taste with the proof of my arousal. As I fill her with my length, she envelopes me with her warmth. It not only feels perfect... It is perfect.... No wonder we climax together.... Together we stand... divided we fall. "Will this first time be our last?" I murmur the question against her lips. "I should hope not," she smiles back. The End My never ending thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's Hidden Gems, a true diamond in my treasure chest. And to the lovely Galia who graciously designed a page for a Paige at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm And to beta bright, Exley_61, who thinks I should "ahem" soften my tone. This one's for you...