Title: His Hands Author: cratkinson e-mail: cratkinson@usa.net URL: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn Date: August 28, 2000 Archive: Yes, please just let me know. Feedback: Please! Spoilers: Let's see, a bunch of little ones. The Pilot, abduction arc - especially Ascension, Red Museum, Irresistible, Pusher, Talitha Cumi, Paper Hearts, cancer arc, PostModern Prometheus, Chinga, How The Ghosts Stole Christmas, The Unnatural, Fowley arc, Millenium, all things. Whew. Rating: PG Classification: MSR, V Keywords: MSR Disclaimer: These characters are the property of 1013 Productions and Fox Television and are not mine in any way. Special thanks to my excellent friend and beta reader, Heidi, who somehow knows just what I want to say. Summary: Scully talks about what did the trick. ~~~~~~~~ It was his hands. I know, you were thinking it was his eyes - those beautiful, honest, soulful windows. Or maybe his mouth, spouting ridiculous theories, adolescent double entendres, or earnest pleas. But it wasn't. It wasn't even his athletic body, his thick hair, his superb rear end, or his broad shoulders. It was his hands that coaxed me into loving him. He swears, now, when I ask him, that he's loved me from the minute he met me. I don't believe him, of course, because... well, as unusual and unpredictable as he is, he's still a man. You know what I mean. But I have him now. Have you ever known beyond a doubt that you were meant to be with a person and that you would be together forever? Don't laugh, I'm serious. I know I don't seem like the kind of person to subscribe to sentiments like that. Actually, I'm NOT that kind of person. But there are some things that are true whether you want to believe them or not. Trust me, I know. I look at him and... well, let's just say that ever since the first time we were intimate, since that first time his hands touched me like that, I haven't been jealous for a second. A man can't look at you that way and not mean it. Of course he asks me when I first loved him - I mean, look who we're talking about. If he hadn't, I'd have had him tested for evidence of cloning. I always tease him, because even though he's asked me a million times and he knows what I'm going to say, he gets the tiniest crease between his eyebrows when I tell him something different. And I like to keep him on his toes a little. It wouldn't do to let a man like him get complacent. The truth is, I eventually tell him, I don't know just when it turned into love. But I do know when it started to change. It was after I was taken and was missing for three months. Yes, all those years ago. When I was returned and finally woke, he came to visit me in the hospital only occasionally. I think he felt out of his depth with my family around. And I think he was a little uncomfortable with my quiet introspection as I tried to remember what had happened. He was used to - hell, we were both used to my being a little more... opinionated. I didn't quite know what to do with him, either. He looked at me as if I were someone he thought he knew, but wasn't sure quite of. It was difficult and I really didn't see him much. But every once in a while, late at night, I'd wake up to feel him next to me. Usually he just sat in the chair and slept, but sometimes he'd stroke my hand or my hair, as if he needed physical confirmation that I was really there. I love the feel of his hands. I knew what he'd done to Duane Barry, of course. It was in the file. But what wasn't in the file was the picture of his hands - those gentle, graceful hands - wrapped around my kidnapper's neck. You see, I know his control. I know that he could have done it with no expression in those beautiful eyes and with no change in the line of his mouth. It was his hands I pictured. The part of him that he couldn't control as well as he does his face. The expression of his rage and fear was there in his hands. That image - combined with the feeling of his hands reassuring both of us - stayed with me, haunting both my dreams and my waking hours. And because of that image, I began to watch - to pay attention to his hands. Well, sure, I always knew he was good looking. I'm not blind. But I hadn't really allowed myself to think of him that way. He was my partner - I just treated him like I would the husband of a friend. You can be aware of how attractive he is without dwelling on it, without letting yourself think about things you shouldn't. But with that picture in my mind, I found myself... well, dwelling. In fact, there was one time that I couldn't seem to control myself. We were investigating a case and were having dinner in a local restaurant. No, actually, we don't eat out together that much. Sometimes it's difficult to discuss our cases where people might overhear. Anyway, this time we were in a restaurant. And I was watching him. I couldn't help it. There were no files to distract me, no reports to read, nothing. So we talked and we watched each other. What? Oh, ribs. Yes, I suppose they were good. The point is, I just watched him eat those ribs, sauce dripping down his chin and off the heel of his hand. I couldn't stop watching his mouth as he bit and licked and chewed. I could feel myself grinning like an idiot. I couldn't help myself. And he was smiling at me around his food. He finally reached out one of those hands and wiped a little sauce off the corner of my mouth. We talked about work, we said the right things, but it all came out of these grinning mouths. It didn't end there, though. That was just the first time I had trouble getting a handle on it. The next time was after I was attacked. No, we caught the guy. But it really shook me up. I tried to be tough, but one searching look from him and I started crying. I felt stupid until he pulled me close and he... he put his hand on the back of my head and just held me. His fingers were spread out - he wasn't patting my head, he was holding me. I could feel the heat of his palm through my hair. And I suddenly felt so safe. I guess safe is what it was. Funny, I can't say exactly what it is that he makes me feel. Safe is part of it. No, it's more that I feel cared for. Cherished. That's it. It sounds too sappy for us, but it's what I mean. He makes me feel cherished. No, we didn't hop into bed. Nothing changed. He helped me through some bad times, and I helped him through some. We investigated cases. We just went on. I didn't think much about it, except that I never stopped watching his hands. I watched him use those hands to comfort, to hurt, to save lives, and to kill. I grew to respect him more than I'd respected another person in a very long time - maybe ever. As time passed and we came to know each other better, I found I was able to read those hands, sometimes better than I could his eyes. I watched them shake when he was under the control of a mad man. I watched them shred bits of paper when he was worried about his mother's stroke. I watched his knuckles turn white as he gripped his weapon and looked evil dead in the eye. And I began to rely on those hands. I needed their comfort, their strength. I needed him to touch me more often. When I was sick and was finding visits from family and friends to be both more common and more annoying, I noticed that people touched me more. I think it was an attempt at reassurance, but for a person who is not normally very physical, it became invasive and almost offensive. The perfunctory, unthinking touch of an acquaintance was something that lingered and stung, while a single touch from him could wash all the others away and sooth me. My skin, and my heart. Now that I think about it, though, I realize it wasn't his hands that convinced me that he loved me. It was all of him. The total man. It was when I called him into my hospital room and he took my hand in a gesture that had become so natural that I missed it sorely when it didn't happen. I looked at him and he smiled at me. He looked at me just the way he always had, his eyes warm and kind, and then I told him that my cancer was in remission. At first his face went blank, while his hand tightened on mine until my knuckles were being ground together. Then he smiled. I'd never seen a person smile with his entire body before that. I smiled back at him, my eyes filling with tears at the look in his face, and that's when I knew he loved me. No, that's NOT when we got together. But things did start to change. We teased each other a little more. We danced. We talked on the phone on the weekends. We exchanged Christmas gifts. We even played baseball. But there were some complications, and it took a while to work them out. Yes, it was another woman, but it wasn't what you think. She was an ex. And she really did mess things up. But we worked them out eventually and then one night, at midnight, he kissed me. A real kiss this time, even though I told myself that it was just a New Year's kiss, that he didn't mean it the way I was taking it. And then I felt his hand again when he draped his arm across my shoulders. The heady weight of his arm pulling me into his side was almost better than the tentative feel of his lips. I felt... don't laugh!... possessed. Owned. I knew you'd laugh. But I loved the feeling. I loved being his for that short walk out to the parking lot. If we'd been in a club, I'd have given *that look* to every woman in the place. You know the one I mean. The "he's mine and he likes it and you should be jealous" look. I knew you knew the one. Things certainly changed after that. I'll tell you, he's the best hand-holder I've ever known. Isn't that funny? After all those years, we finally admitted what we were feeling and we still spent weeks just holding hands, talking to each other with our eyes, and smiling. It felt wonderful to be able to smile at him the way I wanted to. How many men do you know who would appreciate the delights of going slow? And his hands could do amazing things. Just his fingers on my palm could blow my mind. He even kisses with his hands. I mean, they get in on the act. He has this way of touching my face that practically makes me cry. He just cups my jaw as if my face is a treasure - a Faberge egg or a blown-glass ornament. No, those aren't good examples, because he doesn't make me feel delicate or breakable, just so very valuable. And sometime he runs his thumb over my lips and lets it stay at the corner of my mouth when he kisses me. I love that. No, I'm not blushing. Okay, maybe just a little. It was his hands again that convinced me to take that final step. We'd talked a lot that night. We sat slumped on his couch and I was talked out. He's never talked out. So I closed my eyes and let the rich, warm sound of his voice lull me into a sleepy place. I wasn't asleep, but I was so relaxed that I felt I couldn't move even if I'd tried. He stopped talking and was quiet for a minute - I could feel him watching me. I can always feel it when he watches me. Then I felt him move closer, the cushions shifting me toward him, and I thought he was going to kiss me awake. He'd done it before in the previous few months. But instead, he touched my face so softly that it was like a breath. It was soft but potent, and I'm surprised I didn't jump at the jolt of electricity those fingers sent through me. I was suddenly more awake than I had been all weekend, though I stayed quiet, waiting to see what he'd do next. He brushed my hair off my cheek and then pulled a blanket over me, making sure I was covered, and then he went to bed. I lay there for a while, my heart pounding like I'd just run five miles. And then I joined him. No, there was no question in my mind. I've never been more certain of anything in my entire life. And I've never had a decision confirmed so emphatically. We were meant to be together. It just took us a while to get there. So, to answer your question, it was his hands. And his eyes. And his heart. And his mouth, his athletic body, his thick hair, his superb rear end and his broad shoulders. But mostly it was his hands that coaxed me into loving him. ~~~~~~~~~ End