Don't by Lydia Bower Classification: Vignette Rating: PG Distribution: None--unless you get my written permission first. You're more than welcome to visit all my work at my archive. The addy is: http://members.aol.com/msrwriter/Lydia.html Spoilers: Nothing overt, though this does take place after the movie. If you don't know what happened in Mulder's hallway, or don't want to know, don't read this. Summary: What do you do when you start to lose control? Author's notes: I was tempted to classify this piece as MSR, but the muse had a fit and refused to let me post it until I changed my mind. Now that I've had time to think about it, I've decided she's right. This vignette is a look inside Mulder's head and does contain romantic thoughts, but it shouldn't make noromos gag. Much. ;-) More notes follow the story. This one is for my muse. Thank you for talking to me again. I've missed you. And for the Screamers, just because. Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. Mulder and Scully are the intellectual and creative property of Chris Carter, the gang at 1013 Productions, and the suits over at FOX. They are the spiritual property of David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, who give them life. No infringement intended, no money being exchanged. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Don't. A simple word. Four simple letters. It's been my silent mantra for years now. The force of the word ebbs and flows depending on the circumstances. Sometimes I need only whisper it to myself. Other times I have to yell to be heard above the roaring in my head and the white-hot, strung-tight message my body is sending me. Since the events of the past few weeks, I've gone beyond yelling to primal screaming. Don't, Scully. Don't stand so close to me. When you do, I can smell you. That clean, spicy, no-nonsense aroma that seeps from your skin and surrounds you like precious air. When you do, I can recall with perfect clarity every millisecond you've spent in my arms. Soft and hard. Yielding and strong. Warm and curved and . . . oh, god. I know I could step away from you. I could create an artificial distance that fools neither of us. But I don't have the strength. Next to you, I am weak. And I like it that way. Don't, Scully. Don't talk so softly. When you do, I have to bend down to hear you. I have to drape myself over you like childhood's cherished blanket. The urge to do more than touch your back, your arm, your hand, nearly overwhelms me. When you do, I remember whispered conversations in darkened cars, shadowed offices, bright and sterile hospital rooms; the comforting surroundings here in your home. I remember words of encouragement, of fear, of hope, of disbelief, of trust, of affection, of . . . When you do, I have to pay attention to your mouth. Lips that are rose petal soft, twin pillows of delight. Slightly moist from the tongue that darts out to wet them. When you do, I remember what almost happened, and grit my teeth against the disappointment and the rollercoaster ride of fear and dread and joy and renewed hope that followed our single aborted kiss. How do we get back there, Scully? How do we try again? I want to try again. Don't, Scully. Don't breathe so softly. When you do, I have to strain to hear each breath leave your lungs. I have to reassure myself that you're still here with me. Heart beating, blood flowing, pinking up the smooth, untouchable canvas of your skin. When you do, I imagine the wide plane of my palm skating across the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts, the curve of perfect back, perfect form, perfect sculpture of flesh and bone. Don't, Scully. Don't touch me like that. When you do, I tremble and quake. The force of a single touch is my undoing, my demise. You breach my defenses, you and your soft caresses. I hide it well, don't I, Scully? You don't know what you do to me. You lay your hand on my arm-- accompaniment to a question--but you don't feel the results of what you've done. My blood sings. Can you hear it? Don't, Scully. Don't look at me that way. When you do, I fall into the deep pools of your eyes. Calm, serene, confident. I see in them my future. My past and present. The elusive truth I've been searching for. When you do, I remember your tears of pain, of joy. Would it surprise you, frighten you, to know I recall every single tear you've shed in my presence? I horde their memory like priceless jewels, safe in the velvet-lined corner of my heart where you reside. I long to taste them on my tongue; the salt of your spirit, the tang of your life. Don't, Scully. Don't let me fall in love with you again. When you do, I am lost. Swept away by the wave of emotions that follow the realization I've succumbed once more. How is it possible for one man to fall in the love with the same woman over and again? When you do, I am found. Reminded of the secret dreams I hide even from myself. The love that binds us is rich with shared experiences, and a history that is timeless and infinite. When you do, I realize all you've given me, and all that I wish to give you. And it makes me want you. I want you, Scully. I'm almost relieved when you leave your spot on the couch, moving to the kitchen to fetch me the water I must have asked for--though I don't remember saying the words. My eyes follow you into the shadowed warmth of that room, and my body begins to miss your presence. Have you only been gone from me for mere seconds? It feels like forever. And then, too easily, the tight grip of control vanishes. I surrender to the inevitability of this moment, as fears and doubts leave me. They tiptoe quietly away, biding me farewell. I don't feel the legs that carry me to you, though I'm confident of their strength. They will hold me upright as I do what I must do. Don't, Scully. Don't look so shocked to see me standing behind you. Couldn't you feel me? Your face telegraphs your surprise. Your brow wrinkles in concern as I feel the hot sting of unshed tears. "Mulder? What is it?" A thousand words form on my lips, but none have the courage to leave. I am helplessly caught in the web of your spell. You take a single step toward me, and it's enough to break my silence. "Touch me." In your eyes, I see my release. In your smile, I find the reason for my struggle. In your gentle touch, I discover my truth. And my redemption comes as you draw my mouth down to yours. Don't, Scully. Don't stop. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* The End Here's where I confess that the idea for this vignette was shamelessly stolen from two of Jewel's song: Don't and Near You Always. I hope I've done them justice. All feedback will be gratefully accepted and lovingly cherished at bower@soltec.net