Title: Noyade
Author: RocketMan>lebontrager@iname.com<
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No fringe is
intended.
Noyade--French, whirlpool

SPOILER:::Orison

=-=-=-=
Noyade
=-=-=-=

Sitting slouched on the bed for too long made her back hurt and her
chest sore and so she straightened up with a wince. Mulder was still
watching her as if at any moment she could fly into a wild rage and
destroy things. Not like there was anything left to destroy.

The floor was sparkling with shards from her mirror, a tiny starfield
among the thick beige carpet. She remembered crawling across that floor,
digging her elbows into painful slivers, feeling the crunch of it under
her chest.

Her head throbbed mercilessly and she carefully ran her fingers through
her newly cut hair, feeling for the wound and the large knot. 

"You should get some shoes on," Mulder said suddenly and gestured to her
slippered feet.

She glanced down slowly, having learned earlier that too much movement
could make her head spin. Her ratty slippers had glass caught in the
fringes and her toes were cold. 

"I need socks," she said and stood up, making her way to her demolished
dresser.

Mulder stopped her, shaking his head, then guided her back to the bed,
making her sit down.

"Let me get them. You'll cut yourself."

She sat back down and let him rifle through her bottom drawer, then took
the thick white socks from his outstretched hand. She toed off her
slippers and drew her legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knees
as she fumbled to pull her socks on.

Tugging the material over her ankle nearly made her pass out, so great
was the ache in her back muscles and the shakiness of her arms. She
closed her eyes and yanked the socks up, ignoring Mulder's hovering
help.

He had produced her tennis shoes for her sometime during her epic
struggle with the socks and she took them silently, stepping into the
Nikes. Shoots of pain shattered her spine and she had to sit back down,
breathing in and out carefully.

The paramedics had promised that her ribs were not broken, nor her back,
but that she would be bruised in the morning. She felt the bruises
attacking her now. The back of her head was a bit swollen as well and
she felt listless and dirty.

She had killed him. Killed him.

There was no guilt, and that brought her only fear. As she had confided
in Mulder, she did not know what had driven her to walk into her living
room, stare him coldly in the eyes, then pull that trigger. 

"You need to pack, Scully."

She nodded and shook herself out of her lethargy, pulling out a duffel
bag and unzipping it. She stuffed pantsuits inside and some underwear,
then placed her brush and make-up on top of it all. Her shampoo and
other bathroom things went into a little bag first and then inside.
Mulder watched her throughout the brief whirlpool of her composed
energy.

The bag was on her bed when she realized her flannel pajamas were still
clinging to her softly, and that her coat lie in the rubble of the
place, no doubt littered with glass.

Mulder stood and went to her closet, pulling out a short winter coat and
giving her a serious smile.

"You can wear your pajamas, Scully."

He pulled her arms into the sleeves of her black coat, then tugged it
over her shoulders, pulling the lapels together snugly and smiling at
her. His body was radiating heat at her and she leaned in unconsciously,
closing her eyes.

Mulder took her gently into his arms, holding her carefully to not
aggravate her sore body, one hand smoothing down the hairs at her neck.
He liked the feel of her hair when it was freshly cut, the sharp edges
to it and the silky feel.

She felt bad, she felt wrong. Mulder was going to lie for her on his
report and she was going to pretend that it had been self-defense, and
maybe, in a way, it was. She was trying to make sure she never had to
face him again--and that no one else did either. But she felt afraid,
lonely and scared of the force in her, of the strange signs she'd seen
and the connections. She seemed to be swirling down and down and down--

Mulder pulled back to watch her eyes slant in the dim light, brushing
his fingers along her shoulders.

"Don't look any further, Scully. Just let it go and leave it to your
faith. . ."

She nodded and let him take her bag, then her hand, and walk out of her
bedroom.

=-=-=

The door rattled as he shoved it open, grinding his key against the
tumblers. The lock had lately been stuck and it took a hard push to get
inside.

He swept forward, still jumpy and anxious, remembering the instant he'd
felt that slow tendril of panic slide into his belly. The answering
machine message and then calling her and hearing it ring forever. The
thought that she might be next, that it was inevitable, had pounded into
him like the ocean into the shore and he hadn't thought much after that.

He turned around and Scully was still standing in the hallway with that
blank look on her face that was scaring him just a bit. He dropped her
bag in the foyer there, then took her hand and pulled her into his
apartment, shutting the door behind them.

"You can have the bed, Scully. . .Your back is going to be sore enough
tomorrow as it is."

She glanced up at him, then nodded, and her hair fell forward, just a
little too short to keep tucked behind her ear. He reached out and
pushed it back, letting it fall forward again over his fingers, like the
touch of seaweed, thin and soft.

"I don't want to put you out, Mulder-"

Mulder shook his head and pushed her to his bedroom, gently touching 
the small of her back.

"You're not."

She let him turn the light on and push the coat off her shoulders, then
lay it over the end of the bed. But she didn't feel like going to sleep
and she definitely didn't want to deal with the nightmares that would
come.

She didn't say a word though, simply rubbed her finger and thumb
together, standing still. She wanted to take a long bath, immerse
herself in the hot water, but it would hurt. Her thoughts were strange
and whirling about like water going down the drain.

Mulder dropped his hand to her shoulder and rubbed it, then waited for
her to look up at him.

"Do you want to watch television with me for awhile?" he asked.

A flicker of a smile drifted across her lips and she nodded.

"Okay."

She followed him out to the living room, watching his broad back as he
moved through his apartment. She was trying very hard not to think about
the thick taste of the gag, the burning tug of the bindings on her
wrists. When she closed her eyes, she saw the carpet, glittering with
pieces of her life, felt the sharp stabs of the mirror in her arms as
she pulled herself forward.

Mulder clicked on the television as she settled in next to him, but he
felt that tense silence between them that meant Scully was feeling
disconnected from him, thinking he didn't understand her.

But he did, somewhat and somehow. She thought she was being talked to by
God, she saw meaning in random occurrences. She wanted to believe. He did
understand. He really did.

The TV show was an old rerun of Dick Van Dyke and she seemed to be
watching it intently, as if her sanity depended on it. He ran his
fingers down her shoulder, then pulled her to his lap, letting her lie
down. She stiffened slightly and glanced up at him, but he refused to
acknowledge his movements as anything else.

Don't look any further, he thought, urging her silently to let it go.

She settled back into his lap, her head on his thigh and her body curled
into the couch. He knew she had to be tired, but she wasn't letting her
eyes close. She looked like a woman scanning the horizon for a change in
the ocean, a subtle change that would let her know everything was safe
again.

"My things are ruined," she said softly.

He stroked his fingers through her hair, just listening.

"The mirror. . ."

"What happened, Scully?"

"He was in the closet. . .watching me."

Mulder felt his mouth go dry and his hand stilled against her hair.

"My clock. . .the lights went out. I felt it then. . .felt him in the
room and I stepped to the closet, thinking my imagination was playing
tricks on me."

Mulder was watching her silently, sorrow creeping in at the blankness in
her eyes and in her voice.

"He slammed me into the dresser," she said softly.

Mulder ran his fingers along her back, gently and cautiously, feeling
the warmth of her skin beneath the flannel striped pajama top.

"Is my back bruised?" she asked.

Mulder shrugged and inched her top up, wincing when he saw the deep,
angry blues and purples splotching her skin.

"Oh, Scully."

He fingered the tattoo along the small of her back and the tiny nicks
from where the cracked mirror had scratched her skin. 

"It's mostly along your shoulder blades," he said, and ran his
fingertips across the bruises.

She winced and he stopped, letting her pajamas fall back into place,
readjusting the material over her back.

"It hurts," she whispered, as if confessing her deepest secrets to him.

"I know. It looks bad. . .do you want some Tylenol?"

"I took some while you talked with the Marshals."

He nodded and watched her while he traced the lines of her lips,
smoothing his nail over the split and the dried blood, then to her chin.
Her hair fanned out over her cheeks, and he smoothed it back and forth,
his mind drifting into other thoughts.

Her eyes were closed and she was slipping slowly into sleep, the feel of
his touch like a gentle lapping wave across her eyes, her lips, her
cheeks.

"I think God directed you, Scully."

Her eyes opened and she laid very still, absorbing his words.

"You said God's a spectator, Mulder."

"To me. Maybe you're special, Scully."

She smiled softly, then sat up to look at him. He tilted his head and a
flicker of a smile passed along his lips. The television show was in
commercials and they blared from the screen, but the light cast blue
illumination across her cheeks, highlighting her hair. She looked like
she was underwater, a mermaid calling to him to drown with her.

They spent a moment just looking at each other, Scully unwilling to
explore her fears more and Mulder unwilling to let her go. Finally she
shook her head and glanced to the clock. The spell was broken; they were
in his apartment and the fishtank gurgled softly.

"I should go to bed," she said.

He let her stand and move back to his bedroom, only watched as she gave
him one last look then disappeared.

Maybe she was special. With Scully, he could believe anything. And
anything could be.

Even this gentle drowning between them.

=-=-=-=

end
adios
RM