Shaving By RocketMan ===== Spoiler: End Game ===== Scully slipped into his room, pushing back the heavy door as best as she could. It was against her today and almost pushed her out, but she got through and made it inside. She had been able to stride right in before, in the beginning of all of this. But now, she didn't sleep, she didn't eat, she didn't live. Mulder wasn't living too well either. He was pale and drawn and someone had shaved his stubble the night before and managed to nick his beautiful skin. She sighed and ran a finger across his cheek, smoothing over the rash and scrapes. His body was lax and jelly-like and the monitors around him gave off little reminders that he was still alive, still had a pulse and brain waves although barely. She looked at his face in the flourescent lighting and noticed how scratched up he was, how horrible the bad shaving made him look. It almost made him seem dead, but for the bloodied places. She could do a better job. She could. It wasn't that hard. His cheeks were smooth, his jawline was long and angular, and his chin had an indication of a cleft, but she could go slowly, do it right. She ran a thumb over the skin, feeling the rough patches where someone had missed, feeling the cuts, the rash, the warmth of him underneath her. She could do it. ~~~~ The tub of water sat on the chair she normally occupied and she was crawled up next to him in the bed, her small body not taking up much room, but still pushed against him to keep them from both falling out. The stubble had grown a bit wild and the rash and cuts had all but disappeared and she had gotten worried they would try to shave him again. So she had come in that morning with water and a razor. Studying his contours, she wished she had an electric one. It wouldn't hurt as much and it might be easier, but it ran the risk of setting off the machines in here with the electrical interference. She wasn't about to jeopardize his life for simply a good shave job. The washcloth snaked across his face and sent ripples of shivers in his muslces so that it seemed like he might be waking and it made her heart rise expectantly in her throat. But his eyes remained closed and she continued. When a thin film of water covered his face, she shook the can of shaving cream and squeezed out a little ball of it onto her hand. She watched it grow big and delighted in the feel of the foamy, liquidy air that seemed to raise right off her hand and into space. It coated his chin and jaw like grease and slid on with a soft gloved hand. She shivered because he looked like a dog gone mad with rabies that had to be shot down in order to let him die... Mulder wouldn't die. He just needed a shave. She picked up the razor and twisted it around in her fingers until it got comfortable. Then the blade came to the cushion of cream on his face and she slid down. Down, down, down, Up, across, up, down. It was simple. The cream slid along the blade and the blade along his face and the little tough black hairs got mowed down, were reaped by her sickle and she was the harvester. The room suddenly fell away and she was the only one there, with him, her hands doctor steady and following the curves of his angled jaw like carving a face from marble. His face twitched and she reached for the water to rinse away the remnants of her destruction, watching his face. He remained beyond her, hovering out of reach. She leaned forward and kissed his newly shaved chin. It was a bit rough, but no cuts, no nicks, no rashes. She smiled. ~~~~ Mulder watched her come in again, bringing him the popsicle he had asked for: it was the only thing they'd let him eat for now. Her eyes were forever on him, always watching, always sparkling, always absorbing every moment of his wakefulness. He hadn't meant to scare her. He was rejuvinated, himself. That little excursion to death and to truth had given him a clearer understanding. That knowledge was shaken every time she smiled. It was like the sun he had longed for as he froze; the truth he seeked when everything human failed; his sister when he wasn't looking. His sister. He had found that his sister was important to him; he had feared she'd become second in his life. But, no, he still needed to find her. Scully smiled. Maybe . . . maybe just Scully. Maybe he didn't need Samantha. Maybe he could take Scully away and never look at ice and aliens again.... He rubbed his jaw as he shook his head. No more doubts. Scully was important. Number one thing in his life, his Scully. But his sister. She was still out there. Still out there and he had to find her. "Hey, who shaved me?" he said suddenly. His chin was smooth. He wouldn't have noticed except that he had needed a shave when he left. She was blushing. And smiling. Double whammy. "I did." He gaped at her, could almost feel her small hands running along his cheeks, smoothing his chin, light and delicate across his skin. "You?" She bristled. "Yes." He smiled, hoping she'd smile back. His world for a smile. She looked at him, almost shyly. "Yeah. Me." He grinned like a mischevious toddler and stuck out his hand, grabbing hers. "Does that mean I get to shave you now?" His eyebrows danced and her eyes rolled. "Sure, Mulder. The next time I'm in a coma, you go right ahead." He smiled and began to imagine his hands, sliding up her legs, running down..... "Actually. Scratch that Mulder. Never. Don't even think about it." He pouted. "Please, Scully?" She ran a finger along his jaw, feeling how well she had done it. "Well, just to my knees, then, Mulder." He smiled and bent down, thinking for a moment that he'd like to kiss her. So he did. On her forehead. She glanced up at him in surprise. "I'm glad you're back, Mulder." she said. He nodded. Maybe the top half of her legs: down to her knees. ~~~~ adios RM