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Title : Balm Of Silence
Author : Shawne
E-mail : shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com
URL : http://www.shawnex.freeservers.com
Rating : PG-13
Category: VA
Spoilers : almost none for Milagro
Keywords : vaguish MSR, post-ep fic for Milagro
Archive : I'd like to know where it goes, please, though
anywhere's fine.
Disclaimers : Chris Carter owns Mulder and Scully and all other
characters
involved with the X-Files. I own squat. I *make* squat. Oh
wait... the words
used in this story are mine. But that's about it.
Summary : Sometimes, words just aren't necessary. (Oh great. I'm
mocking my
own disclaimers! Wonderful.)
Author's notes at the end.
======================================================
There are fingers on her chest, invasive, prying fingers. She
writhes in
violent protest, her brain numb, her eyes unseeing.
Her skin boils with the shame of the assault, burning hotter,
screaming
white licks of flame, and then the fingers push past the weak
barrier.
There are fingers on her heart, touching her heart, inside her.
She feels
nothing, and pushes against her attacker, pushes helplessly
against the
stronger man. And suddenly there is pain, so much pain she cannot
think, so
much pain she must not think.
He is pushing his hand into her, and she screams, trying to lose
her fear
in the anguished cry for help. She can feel her blood, slick and
wet and
warm, against his intrusive hands. Her pulse beats against his
palm, and the
sound coming out of her mouth tears into her, cutting her ears,
trying to
fill the hole he has created.
So much pain. So hot.
Her scream echoes for centuries, and then she stops breathing.
She cannot breathe, not past the hand lodged inside her chest,
not past the
catch in her throat. Her blood grinds to a halt, unpumped,
stagnant. Her
eyes slide shut, as she gives in to the hell that wants to claim
her for
itself.
Darkness pushes through her, silencing the clamour of her mind,
calming the
churning of her senses. The hand inside her jerks, suddenly, and
she feels
herself being pulled forward.
Then there is nothing.
Only emptiness, and a gaping hole where a heart used to be.
Her eyelids flicker, begging for light, and then come to a rest.
She stops
moving, thinking, caring.
Emptiness. Beautiful, lonely, welcoming.
She sinks into placidity, and for the briefest of moments, dies.
*****
He runs down the hallway, heart screaming in protest, feet
pounding against
the floor rhythmically.
She is not dead. She cannot be dead. She will not be dead.
The gunshots that brought him to her from the basement have
stopped, and
there is silence around him.
But not inside him.
His mind is chanting, babbling uselessly, praying and hoping and
wishing
that she will be alive. His eyes are begging for release, to
allow hot tears
to come whispering down his face. His lungs are crying for air,
demanding
him to slow down.
He ignores everything, and pushes into his apartment.
His feet slow to a regular thud, and he looks around him,
half-crazed,
frenzied. There is no one here, he thinks, but realises he must
be wrong.
She must be here. She has to be here.
She is here.
He cannot believe what he sees, he must not believe it.
There is blood all over her, the darkest and richest crimson
mocking him
against its tapestry of clean white blouse. Her eyes are shut,
keeping her
trapped inside her body. She isn't breathing, her chest isn't
moving, and
desperately, he drops next to her.
Should he touch her? He hesitates, his brain numb, his eyes
seeing all too
much.
Her beauty is torn, ripped into shreds, destroyed by her lack of
movement.
He bends forward, looking for life, looking for her life in her
body.
She cannot be dead. She must not be dead.
He feels pins poking themselves into his eyes, knives twisting
into his
stomach, pain knifing through every part of him. His hands move
toward her
through the air, so slow, so lethargic. It's like he's making his
way to her
through slimy, reluctant glue.
She must not be dead. She cannot be dead.
*****
She wanders alone in the darkness, wondering if she has gone
blind. Is this
what Hell is like? So empty and cold, so devoid of the traces of
humanity?
Her feet fall on icy ground, and the air around her is
chilling... taunting.
Pushing through layers and walls of frosted air, she worries. Is
this what
she must do for the rest of her conscious life? Walk the frigid
darkness
alone?
Is there no one else here?
Suddenly, she hears the pounding of footsteps. And she turns,
turns in her
blindness to look for company, to look for hope. She calls out,
her voice
thin and weak on the depressing wind, her words bouncing
uselessly across
fields of nothing.
She listens closely, trying to make out the direction of the
sound. It is
to her right, she decides, and she edges over to it, slowly,
carefully.
But then she realises that the pounding is incessant, regular,
loud. She
was mistaken; it is not the sound of footsteps she hears. It is
the sound of
a living heart, beating strongly, so close to her.
A heart. Through mists of tangled memory, she remembers that she
needs one.
She needs a heart, because she has lost hers.
So she quickens her pace, running through black shadows, blinded
by ebony
spectres. Miraculously, the darkness parts, lifting, shining
light into her
deprived eyes.
She jerks upright, her hands clawing for support, her face
contorted into a
mask of fear and pain, her eyes wild and needy.
A man, there is a man next to her, it is this man's heart she
heard. It's a
man, a strong man, with brown hair, exuding warmth, living,
breathing, next
to her. Her eyes cross slightly, and she feels her desperation to
live wedge
itself in her throat.
For a moment, she doesn't recognise him, her eyes heavy from
shades of
sightlessness. She hangs in stasis, feeling a stranger to the
world around
her, unaccustomed to light and the strange, strange movement in
her chest.
It takes time to register, but it finally does.
There is a heart inside her, counting off her pulse obediently.
It's still
inside her, and she sighs in relief. She is alive, she must be
alive. She
cannot be dead.
Her eyes finally adjust, falling back into familiarity, and she
recognises
him. He is watching her, frozen in horror and dread.
Him.
It's him.
She reaches up, her arms pulling her into him, and she presses
herself to
his chest. Her fingers scratch into his back, leaving their marks
in his
jacket, and she holds on to him, shaking.
The tears come, large and heavy and thick, and she breaks in his
arms.
Loud, anguished sobs slam against his ear, and he trembles,
feeling her
pain. He wraps himself around her, pulling her into his warmth,
and they
rock back and forth together.
Thankfully, he feels her heart beat against his, and he holds her
as best
he can. She is almost limp in his arms now, tortured sobs still
ripping
through her lungs. But even as her chest heaves fitfully, she can
feel his
heart through two layers of clothes, and she knows that it is
teaching hers
the correct rhythm.
They are both crying now, shedding hot living tears. She is
weeping for the
loss she has just suffered, and he is crying for the loss he
almost
suffered. He falls from his crouched position onto his knees,
still cradling
her like a child, and they hold each other like they can never
let go.
*****
He supports her slight weight easily, as she slumps tiredly
against him.
Some of her old strength is returning, but it is coming back
slowly.
Half-lifting her, he shuffles into his bedroom, bringing her to
his bed.
Gently, he releases his hold on her waist, and helps her to sit
on the
mattress-shaped waves. She is still shivering, her gaze slightly
unfocussed,
her face drawn and chalky. Worried, he kneels down in front of
her, lifting
her chin with his fingers, searching her eyes with his.
Her hair is a tangle of colour, and some errant strands have
escaped into h
er line of vision. Carefully, he reaches up with his other hand
and brushes
them away. He studies her eyes, and although they are frightened,
they are
also honest. They look back at him, clear, trusting, and he
smiles.
He pulls himself to his full height, and drops a comforting hand
on top of
her head. She nods once in gratitude, and he moves away to his
closet. A
towel, a T-shirt, and a pair of drawstring pants he has long
out-grown.
Gathering them in his arms, he turns to her, and proffers them
sheepishly,
apologetically.
As she accepts his offerings, the corners of her mouth build
themselves up
slightly, and she tries to widen the smile. But her eyes blink in
bewilderment, as if she has forgotten how, and the meticulously
curved
structure collapses. She frowns instead, and tears flood into her
again. But
he shakes his head at them silently, helps her to her feet, and
brings her
over to the bathroom.
She shuffles unsteadily in, her arms shivering with their light
burden.
This weakness is too strong for her to overcome at once. Her
limbs are
uncertain, her heart still thumping erratically, her reflexes
practically
zombified.
With painful slowness, she peels off her clothes, wincing as she
kicks her
pants off. It takes almost five painstaking minutes for her to
lift each leg
into the bath-tub, one at a time, and it takes another five for
her to
recover from the exertion.
Finally, she stands under the showerhead, lukewarm needles of
water slicing
into her back, slipping through her hair. Her legs tremble, and
she
contemplates sitting down. But she resists the temptation,
instead trying to
keep them as straight and strong as possible. Her head drops
back, and
recklessly, she drinks some of the tepid water.
It slips down her throat, almost too quickly, and she freezes,
afraid. Her
chest is tight, crowded to overflowing. There are lungs, a
windpipe... so
many things there. Worst of all, there is a heart inside, taking
up space.
She has to learn not to be conscious of it, even though she is
now, too
conscious of it, and she worries that there is no room for water.
But her fears are unfounded, and the water coils easily down into
her
stomach, warming it. She drinks more, enjoying the sensation of
it sliding
into her, through her. Water, she discovers, is restorative. It
gives life,
is giving life to her now, and she feels more of her strength
returning.
She enjoys the shower. By the end of it, her legs no longer quake
with
exhaustion, and her chest feels more natural, less cramped.
The process of putting his clothes on is much less draining than
the
process of taking hers off, and she loves the feel of clean cloth
against
her bruised skin. The T-shirt is too big, hanging off her
shoulders, and the
pants are too baggy. But they are comfortable, warm, dry. And
best of all,
they are not stained by blood.
He knocks on the door just as she pulls it open, and he smiles
again. She
looks good now, refreshed, her previous weakness scrubbed away.
Her damp
hair curls around her ears, and she smells faintly of soap and
him. He likes
how she looks in his clothes.
Taking her wet towel from her hands, he drops it on the floor,
then leads
her into his living room. He is glad to notice that she walks
quite firmly
now, hardly needing his support although he is more than happy to
give it.
She is still tired though, her recent ordeal more draining than
she can
handle, and she sits down readily on the couch.
He sits next to her, as near to her as he can get, and takes her
hand in
his. Their fingers lock into place naturally, and he looks at her
smooth
small hand, comparing it to his rougher, bigger one. He traces
the curve of
her hand with his eyes, lovingly, then flips it over and strokes
her palm.
She watches him, the trace of a smile in her eyes. He squeezes
her fingers
with his, and she responds in kind. Then he releases her, and
reaches to the
coffee table for a steaming cup of black warmth.
Handing it to her, he motions for her to drink it, and she obeys.
The
bitter taste jousts briefly with her tongue, branding the roof of
her mouth,
then winds its way into her system. She feels better immediately,
more
filled, less empty.
Glancing at him, she knows he understands that.
His eyes are concerned, questioning, and she wonders what they
want to
know. She opens her mouth to speak, but cannot think of anything
to say. He
is still watching her, waiting for an answer probably, and she
feels the
need to oblige him.
"Mulder, I'm..."
"You're not."
She is startled by his soft interruption, and the word 'fine'
dies on her
lips. He is right, more right than he can ever know. She is not
fine, and
she might never be again. Her mouth opens, then closes again
helplessly, and
she tries to think of something else to tell him.
But for some reason, nothing needs to be said.
He nods at her, reading her mind, and moves even closer to her.
Tenderly,
he places his index finger on her lips, then moves it onto his
own.
No need for words... no need for talk, he is telling her. He
knows
everything he needs to know about her. And he knows because she
wants him
to, because she lets him know.
She smiles, tentatively and weakly at first, then allows it to
gather
strength and meaning.
Mutely, he holds his arms out to her, and she shifts into them.
Her head
rests against his chest, and her body shivers once in delight.
She can hear
his heart, can feel it against her cheek, and she recognises its
rhythm. It
is the same one her heart is keeping, the one he taught her to
keep. Their
hearts are beating together.
This time, when her tears come, they come quietly, without noise
or pain.
They fall from her eyes onto him, and they don't hurt.
They don't hurt at all.
She tucks herself into his arms, tighter, closer. As she feels
her heart
mending, the tears begin to dry, and her eyes close in sleep. He
breathes
regularly beneath her, and smiles.
The healing has begun.
And no words were needed.
======================================================
Author's Notes : Hmm, this is the first time I'm leaving my
ramblings to the
end of a fic. If you're still reading now, thanks for sticking it
out this
far. I know that Milagro as an episode has been done to death -
the
explosion of fanfic after it was screened in the US was
phenomenal. I don't
know how original this was, or how effective it was in terms of
style. IMHO,
this story marked (at least) a slight departure from my usual
style.
I'd love to hear from you if you've enjoyed this, or if you think
there are
ways I could have handled the situation better. Feedback to
shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com, please... I don't bite. In fact,
feedback
turns me into a complete marshmallow. :)
As always, to Scarlet for her constant reassurances. This is for
Shirlock,
who encourages me a lot more than she needs to. And Depakat,
thank you so
much for the beta despite your hardcore noromo stance. :) This
story needed
all of you to survive.
Added July 19, 1999
- Archived at Further
X-Plorations
- Archived at The MSR Library