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(c) Kagami 1999
Title : Eyes On You
Author : Shawne
E-Mail : shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com
Rating : PG
Category: VRH
Spoilers : none, but set Season Six, pre-"One Son"
Keywords : M/S UST
Summary : For once, Mulder holds Heaven in his arms instead of
just watching
it from afar.
Archive : Knock yourself out... but let me know where.
Disclaimers : Mulder and Scully belong to each other - and to
Chris Carter
and 1013 Productions. Not to me. Never to me. *sigh*
Author's Notes : This story is a =stand-alone= piece. Now we have
*that* out
of the way, let me also say that, indirectly, this is a companion
piece to a
vignette I posted earlier, "Can You Smell The Rain?".
This setting was
mentioned in passing there, and one of my beta readers suggested
that it would
be nice to expand on it, and I agreed. As you can see, however,
this germ of an
idea just kept growing and growing until it became its own story.
Thanks,
Toniann, for planting the suggestion in my mind. This story is as
much for you
as it is for me. :)
========================================================
I don't quite know what is happening, or how it happened, or even
why it
happened. I just know I really, really like it.
Even though I have an itch on the sole of my foot, even though
I'm thirsty
and need a drink badly, even though I'm not in the most
comfortable of
positions... I like it. I love it. I need it.
This, what I'm doing right now, is everything I'll ever need.
That's an odd realisation to have, in an airplane on its way back
to
Washington D.C. I have never considered the cramped seats and the
sparse leg
room characteristic of planes to be the stuff of which dreams are
made. But
I've just discovered that they are.
There is nothing, really nothing, that could be better than this.
An old couple is sitting across the aisle from us. They look like
the
archetypal advertisement for grandparents... why we have them,
and why we
love them. She is benign, sweet, the kind of grandmother who
would bake
cookies for the children, and give them money and hug them and
love them no
matter what. He looks sporting, cheerful, sprightly for his age -
he would
take the kids fishing, play baseball with the boys, bring the
girls
shopping.
Maybe it's odd, but I find it exhilarating to have them approve
of us, the
way we are seated now. They're whispering to each other,
darting knowing
looks at us, smiling, nodding at me. Obviously, they think we
look perfect
together. I nod back, proud and happy, glad that I have these
emotions,
misguided though they might be. I catch a stray word or two in
their
conversation with each other, and I relish them, cherish them -
"..honeymoon... perfect pair... made for each other..."
Suddenly, she shifts against me, and I hold my breath, waiting
for her to
settle into comfort once again. Her head lifts itself for a
moment, and I
swear my heart almost stops. But gently, sweetly, she relaxes
back against
my shoulder, and resumes her slumber.
Yes, this is what has me so happy, so euphoric, so overjoyed. I'm
not
discovering any earth-shaking truth here, nothing that would
matter to the
other five billion people in this world. I haven't won any
lottery; I
haven't discovered the cure for the common cold. No, I've just
realised that
there's only one thing I need to be happy. And that is... well,
this. What's
happening right now.
This woman - the one who is sleeping soundly on my shoulder, the
one who
has let down her defenses for once, the one who is finally
allowing me to
give her the affection I know she needs but never seems to want.
My arm
tightens, I hope imperceptibly, around her shoulders, holding her
to me,
assuring myself that this isn't a dream.
That she really is here, next to me, touching me.
I can smell her. Her hair, her perfume, even the unmistakable
brand of
detergent she always uses for her clothes. I can feel her, every
part of
her, living and breathing regularly in my arms. I can sense her,
the blood
circulating through her body, the dream going through her mind.
You know I don't believe in God, or Heaven, or Eternal Happiness.
But if this isn't Heaven, you're going to have a pretty tough
time trying
to change my mind about what is.
We came from Idaho today, where we chased down yet another
ridiculous case
Kersh specially assigned to us, his favourite charges. The piles
of manure
we're forced to investigate just keep getting bigger, and
smellier, and
uglier, and more annoying every day. And still, we plodded
through it all,
routinely this time. I didn't find some excuse to get out of it,
neither did
I claim to have stumbled upon an X-file that needed our urgent
attention.
And so here we were, on the first flight back that I could find.
I didn't
want to stay any longer than I had to. We settled down in our
seats, Scully
by the window, me on the aisle. I felt the necessity to complain
to her
about how pathetic the leg room was on these flying crates, even
in business
class.
"Scully," I remember whining. "These seats never
have enough leg room. I
always get cramped when I'm sitting in them."
She, of course, continued her methodical set up of her in-flight
equipment
as she replied, rather unfeelingly, "Deal with it,
Mulder." As I watched her
hook up her laptop to her mobile, as she started typing the
report we both
knew Kersh would demand for that same day, I was tempted to make
a snide
remark about how she couldn't understand my particular type of
problem,
given the length of her legs and given the length of mine.
I decided that I didn't need to die today. Particularly not in a
plane
several thousand miles above help if I needed it.
So I popped on my headphones and watched the cheesy movie that
was being
shown. I recall lifting my right arm in annoyance as she tapped
me on the
shoulder, telling me she needed more room to type. She pushed the
arm-rest
between us back out of the way, and resumed her work. Slightly
annoyed by
the disturbance, I hooked my arm casually around the top of her
seat, and
continued watching the show.
And then, I think it happened.
I don't know how much time had passed, but it must have been
quite a lot.
She logged off her laptop, and smiled at me (not that I noticed)
before
mumbling something I didn't quite catch. Then she closed her
eyes, and went
to sleep. The next thing I knew, her head had fallen against my
shoulder,
she'd moved closer against me... and my heart was doing a very
energetic set
of calisthenic exercises. My arm had, in the process, draped
itself casually
around her shoulders.
And so here we are.
I am still smiling like a lovesick fool, I think... and the
couple next to
us is still throwing approving, welcoming looks at me every once
in a while.
Marriage is like a special secret shared by those who are
married, kept from
those who aren't. I've noticed that married couples can
communicate
telepathically at times, simply by exchanging sympathetic glances
or trading
conspiratorial smiles. They share so many of the same experiences
that those
gestures can, in themselves, speak volumes without the necessity
for words.
It feels nice to be included, even by mistake.
Suddenly, I realise that the old woman is leaning over her
arm-rest,
talking to me in low tones. I push the headphones down around my
neck, and
turn to face her. "Your wife must be tired," she
whispers, smiling at me. I
smile back joyfully.
"The two of you make a beautiful couple... don't they,
Harold?" She turns
to her husband, and nudges him with her elbow. He nods amiably,
and gives me
a wide friendly smile. I nod at both of them eagerly, and mutter
my thanks
across the aisle.
I realise that my mouth is twitching now, trying to force itself
into the
shape of a crescent moon. I decide that it's no use trying to
keep the grin
off my face - I am too happy. Instead, my arm tightens even more
around
Scully, and I move closer to her.
Then I discover that I can feel her smiling. I look down, and
catch the
smile playing around her lips just before it disappears. It makes
me feel
even better that today, she seems to be sleeping soundly. No bad
dreams to
contend with, no tears, no pain.
I can't help thinking that we fit. The way her head nestles
exactly between
my shoulder and my chin, the way her little body feels so warm
and perfect
against mine.
So many realisations today - from such a mundane event. She must
have been
tired, to have fallen asleep so readily and with so few of her
defenses up.
And yet, this, having Scully sleep peacefully next to me, my arm
around her,
her hair brushing against my face... this means the world to me.
I've never really needed words with her, not with Scully. She
understands,
somehow, even if she might not share the same beliefs. When I
found somebody
who was always willing to listen to me, even at my most
far-fetched, that
had made me happy enough. I had never expected anything else.
This is a reward greater than anything I deserve.
I'm sure she knows that I watch her, that my eyes are on her
every chance
they get. Because it makes me happy, to see with my own eyes, to
have visual
proof, that she is still with me, still alive. I've kept my eyes
on her ever
since she stepped into my office six short years ago. I always
will.
And that's all I ask for. The chance to watch her, to see this
woman
through everything that might challenge her, daunt her. To follow
her with
my eyes, hoping that somehow they might protect her, give her
strength.
Holding her is something I know I don't deserve.
Looking down at her, I can't help but smile. She is still
breathing evenly,
her eyes shut. Her hand is curled into a small fist - perhaps a
manifestation of her desire to always have some kind of
protection for
herself, some kind of strength.
I love this.
The voice that breaks across the silence of the cabin is clouded
in static,
and I barely bother to make out the words. The captain is
announcing
something about entering an air pocket, and to have our seat
belts fastened
in case of turbulence.
With one hand, I somehow manage to snap mine into place, then
turn to make
sure that hers is secure.
The temptation is too much to resist. After touching her
midsection gently,
by accident, to check her seat belt, I lift my hand to stroke her
hair. It
is soft, yielding... beautiful.
She is still here, I realise. It is absolutely amazing - I am
touching her,
caring for her, loving her... and nothing has taken her away.
Nothing is
making me stop. My clichéd, love-addled heart wants to sing,
probably badly,
but I quell it.
Instead, I drop my head down to rest on hers. We still fit, I
realise to my
great relief. We fit perfectly.
I am smiling dreamily now, I know, envisioning scenarios best not
mentioned. The couple next to us have taken to sleep too, wrapped
in each
other's arms. Scully, I can almost believe we are married.
Then, the plane dips.
She jerks awake, bewildered, confused.
I jerk my arm back, frantic, worried.
What if she hits me for taking advantage of the situation? What
if she
hates me? I realise that my arm is stuck unnaturally up in the
air, and I do
what first comes to mind. I pretend to be waving to a stewardess
for
attention. It is barely seconds later that my flushed brain
processes the
fact that there is no stewardess in sight, and I am looking
decidely insane.
So I fake a yawn instead, hoping she hasn't noticed.
"Mmmm..." Her eyes are blurry, glazed slightly, and she
seems a bit unsure
of herself. She turns her head from side to side, the sleep not
quite
leaving her system yet. "Mulder, what's going on?"
My hand, the one that is causing all the trouble, is trembling
now, still
held up moronically in the air. I drop it on the seat between us,
into the
divide, and press it against the distance that now seems to
stretch miles
wide. I swallow, fighting back irrational tears.
Why does this matter so much?
I clear my throat, and turn to her with as reassuring a smile as
I can
manage on such short notice.
"Nothing, Scully. Don't worry."
She frowns slightly, and continues to look unconvinced. Her hand
drops
between us as well, and covers my still shaking hand. She looks
at me with
questioning eyes, gorgeous eyes, and I almost bite my tongue off.
But I can
sense she is tired, so I add, "Go back to sleep."
Blinking, she nods, and her fingers lace their way through mine,
comfortingly, unconsciously, as if they were searching for
something. Her
head drops back against the head-rest, and her eyes close. The
beatific
smile returns, and once more, my eyes stay riveted on this vision
that is
before me.
Time passes.
The ache in my throat remains. I squeeze her hand lightly, then
whisper,
softly, to myself, "Don't worry, Scully. I have my eyes on
you." I pause,
then add, inaudibly, "Always."
Tired now, I close my eyes, and wish for sleep to come. I try to
fight the
unreasonable disappointment, knowing that, eventually, she would
have woken
up anyway. That it had to end sooner or later.
I try to forget.
But suddenly, I feel her hand tightening around mine, warm,
comforting,
alive. I sense her head moving towards my shoulder, and then I
hear her lips
against my ear.
"I've always had mine on you, Mulder."
=======================================
AUTHOR'S END NOTES : The title of this piece was half-taken from
Faye Wong's
song for the Playstation game "Final Fantasy VIII", EYES ON ME. No, I do not
play the game, but yes, I *have* heard the song. Full lyrics
available on my
page http://www.shawnex.freeservers.com
All feedback lovingly hugged and washed and kept nice and cuddly
24 hours a
day. Special offer available only at shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com ;)
*****
Added April 15, 1999
- Archived at the Haven For The F.B.I.'s Most Unwanted
- Archived at Minds' X-Files Page
- Archived at Nacillia's Fanfiction Archive
- Archived at The MSR Library