Date sent: Tue, 23 Sep 1997 18:00:18 -0400 From: Jennifer Maurer Subject: *NEW* "Gladly Beyond Any Experience" by Jennifer Maurer DISCLAIMERS: Mulder and Scully belong to me, because I'm actually Chris Carter writing under a pseudonym. Believe that lie, and I have a bridge to sell you... The poetry and song lyrics, which I have pruned down a bit, aren't mine either. SPOILER: Post Demons, pre Gethesame. Hey, I know the time-line's wacky, but if CC can do it, so can I. RATING: NC-17 CLASSIFICATION: V/R/A KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance. SUMMARY: On the road home from a case, Scully's angst reaches critical mass. Sequel to "Losing Through You What Seemed Myself." COMMENTS: Make my day: *new* email address: jenbird@earthlink.net ***** For Diana, who not only inspired me by conquering her demons, but reminded me that anyone's life can become the length of one breath. ***** "somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)" --e.e. cummings ***** GLADLY BEYOND ANY EXPERIENCE By: Jennifer Maurer ***** A door. Less than what has often divided us, this barrier can easily be opened. If only it really were that simple. A door divides me from Mulder tonight, as on so many nights in the past. Adjoining hotel rooms have become customary for us. I don't remember how it began. We just suddenly found ourselves used to it. Then we started requesting them. They come in handy, whether for a late-night exchange of ideas, or a door-crashing rescue. We never lock them. Sometimes we don't even shut them all the way. Usually after a particularly harrowing case, Mulder will leave the door open a crack, enough to hear me if I call for him. It is more for his benefit than mine, because I never do. Never seriously considered it. Until tonight. Tonight, instead of brushing my teeth and heading straight to bed, I am staring down the door. As if I could see through it. Not that I need to. I know what Mulder is doing as clearly as if I were in the room with him. No doubt he's stretched out on the bed, in his undershirt and socks. He's watching some late night B-movie, the blue light flickering across his features. He'll keep watching and channel surfing until he eventually drifts into an uneasy slumber near dawn. At least he sleeps occasionally. I've seen more sunrises than I care to count over the past few weeks. Sleep has become my enemy. I am more riddled than nightmares than I ever thought possible. Mulder and I grow more alike with every passing day. After Rhode Island I resented him for doing that to me. Dragging me into his hell. I chose to come here, though. I followed him willingly. I know that. I creep closer, listening. Sure enough, I hear cheesy organ music leaking under the door. I could walk through this door and join him. He wouldn't mind at all. We'd sack out, two weary FBI agents trying to remember how to act like human beings. I'd poke fun at the movie and Mulder would defend it, calling it classic cinema, or some such rot. After awhile I'd stagger back to my room and fall asleep. Or pretend to. So easy. Turn the knob and walk right on through. Nothing could be more difficult. It's odd that I feel this way, considering how quickly I opened myself up to him on our first case together. Although I still blush when I remember bursting into his room in my underwear, I'd do it all over again. Who am I trying to fool? If that were true, I'd be in there with him now, instead of curled up alone, trying to convince myself that my life really doesn't hurt this much. If I'm this lonely and scared, then I must want someone to talk to, right? Mulder is there, he always has been. He'd *like* me to talk to him more. I know my constant Mulder-I'm-fines grate on him, especially when they follow nosebleeds. I don't know why I try so hard to hide them from him. He knows I have them. He's with me when most of them happen. He never flinches, never tries to coddle me. Just hands me his handkerchief. Poor guy. He's sacrificed more linens to my cancer in this past month than ever before. That scares me. I don't like to think about what it means. I try to forget that I saw those damn ghosts. I wonder if Mulder will see my ghost. I shake off these thoughts and hop out of bed. Nothing like a little good old-fashioned pacing to wear you out. The walls I have put up around myself are hindering me for the first time in my life. I used to pride myself on my professional manner. I would watch Mulder become impassioned or angry and be thankful that at least one of us could keep their head on straight. I hold on to the ability with a desperate grip. I cannot lose it. My life is forfeit. It belongs to the cancer now, and whoever gave it to me. I have nothing else. Except Mulder, in the next room. If I could only let the walls come down, I could go to him for comfort. I wouldn't be alone in a night that seems to last forever. During the day, it's much easier to be brave. Places to go, cases to investigate, theories to refute. Daylight kills the shadows. At night, however, it's a whole different story. Nights are so long. The hours tick by at a slow pace that seems designed especially to torture me. How does Mulder get through them? Do the sci-fi and porn movies really do it for him? Do his obsessions pass that much time? I have taken to doing anything to keep myself occupied during the long hours. 2am. I sit at my kitchen table and play solitaire. 2:45am. I look though old family pictures until I start to cry. 3:30am. I do a little housecleaning that I never seem to find time to do otherwise. 4am. I flip through the channels and wonder what Mulder is watching at the same moment. 4:45am. I turn on my computer and log on, browse around aimlessly in the Internet. Lately I have taken to searching for old friends. I have found several people I went to med school with. Sometimes I start to type email messages to them. Hope you're enjoying your family and your practice. You may remember that I joined the FBI instead. Now I'm dying of cancer and the only friend I have left is my partner. I can't talk to him, so I'm sending you this email instead in a desperate effort to reach out to *someone*. I always delete them before I send them. What would be the point? If I were having an exciting, crime- fighting career, I might share that. But I'm not anymore. No one would believe my stories anyway. Oh, yeah, the other day I was attacked by a deranged mutant who crawls through air vents and eats human livers. Everyone would think I was crazy. Except Mulder. How did I come to this point in my life, where Mulder is the only person who could possibly understand me? The only person I *want* to understand me. And I can't reach out. Not even to him. It's not because I don't trust him. I do. More than anyone. He learned that when he peeked into my journal, but I think he knew it already. We have closed ourselves off from the world, wrapped ourselves into a circle like the tattoo on my back. We feed off each other, nourish each other. We stand alone. Together. I want so much to go to him tonight. I am so lonely. My fear has become a terrible burden. I would like to set it down for awhile. I have tried to reach out to others, reconnect with some of my old friends. I called Ellen the other evening. I don't think I've seen her since Trent's birthday party. Have that many years really gone by? It seems just yesterday I was helping her scoop ice cream and being talked into a date. I spoke with her husband, who seemed uneasy. Ellen wasn't home, he said. No, she probably wouldn't be able to call me back this weekend, they would be busy unpacking from the move. Sure, he'd give her the message. No, they didn't need any help. Oh, didn't I know they'd bought a new house? Yes, it was great. Well, goodbye Dana. I cried after I hung up and spent a considerable amount of time trying to find an excuse to call Mulder. In the end my pride kept me from the phone. Pride. Oh, yes, I still had that. I couldn't quite bring myself to trade it for comfort. Not that night, anyway. But something is different now. Now I approach the connecting door in a roundabout way, steering my circles of pacing until I stand right in front of it. I rest my palms against the door, lean my forehead on the cool wood. Just turn the knob, Dana. It's that easy. You promised him you wouldn't leave him. True, but exactly how close does he want me to be? *Mulder I feel you close to me...* Since I wrote those words in my journal I have pushed him away. Whether it's to protect myself or him, I'm not sure. Probably a little of both. In the aftermath of Mulder's disastrous attempt at recalling his memories, it was easier to forget my own pain by concentrating on his foolishness. As far as my illness went, I felt that if I distanced myself from Mulder, it would be easier on both of us when we had to say goodbye. I forgot that we would have to live through the time until then. Nothing will ease the pain of being separated when I die. Why should I add to that pain while I still live? I knock lightly, in case he has fallen asleep. There is a silent pause in which I hold my breath. Then I hear the bedsprings creak and Mulder shuffling to the door. It opens and he looks down at me, blinking owlishly. "Hey, Scully," he says with a lopsided smile. "Can I come in?" "Sure." His amiable look turns to one of concern. "You okay?" "I'm...I can't sleep, and I heard the TV going, and I thought..." "Oh, I'm sorry, was it keeping you awake?" "No, I was up anyway." Mulder nods his understanding and steps aside to let me in. I walk silently past him and sit down on the ugly motel chair. Mulder flops back down on the bed. "What brings you by, Scully?" Instantly on the defensive, I rise from the chair. "I'm sorry, Mulder, if I'm disturbing you..." Mulder reaches out for my hand and gently tugs until I'm seated on the bed next to his sprawled frame. He doesn't let go even after I sit down. "I didn't say you were bothering me, Scully. The offer for company always stands. I just didn't expect you to take me up on it." This simple statement wounds me. I was expecting some kind of off-color joke about partners who visit partners in the middle of the night, not a simple stating of the facts. We have been together for four years and Mulder is surprised I would come to him. Then again, I have never walked through any of our connecting doors. Always I kept us separate, boxed away in our own compartments. Now the comfort of his warm hand holding mine makes me wonder why I waited so long. I have nothing to fear from this man. If I open myself up he will not leave me. I did not ask for that promise from him in return, but I know he would give it freely. He has demonstrated that to me over and over again. "I was just...you know..." "No, I don't know, Scully. That's why I'm asking. Are you sure nothing's wrong?" "I'm---" I choke on the words. I am not fine. Mulder sees the struggle on my face and does not push it. Instead he slides over on the bed and pats the spot where he was laying. "Stretch out, get comfortable. I won't bite," he adds, waggling his eyebrows. I smile and lie down next to him. The bed is warm from his body. I snuggle my head into the dent his made in the pillow and surreptitiously breathe in his scent. Mulder casually drops his arm down and his hand comes to rest on top of mine. I lace my fingers through his. Out of the corner of my eye I see his small smile. We watch the movie for awhile, not speaking. At first, just being with him is enough to soothe me. Being close to him distracts me more than the movie. There is breathing to match mine, another pulse in the room. Mulder would notice if something suddenly happened. I would not die alone. I don't want to die alone. I don't want to die at all. Tears gather in my eyes and begin a slow trail down my temples into my hair. I keep very still and try to breathe evenly, hoping Mulder will not notice. I do not want his pity. Maybe I have waited too long. Maybe his pity is all I can hope for now. Who could love someone like me? A woman who is dying of cancer. Wouldn't there have to be pity mixed in somewhere, out of necessity? I'd rather have nothing at all and just be partners until our journey ends. No. I cannot lie. Not even to myself. This pride has sealed my lips. Mulder may have guessed that I love him but he cannot know. Not for certain. I have been careful of that. I have been careful all my life and look where it led me. I planned a meticulous, proper future and now none of it is going to come true. I have put things off and left things unsaid, promising myself, someday... I forgot that we are never promised tomorrow. A lesson I learned from my father's death, and chose to set aside. A lesson I cannot escape now. Mulder rolls over on his side and gently brushes my tears away. Just a feather light touch. He props himself up on one elbow and looks down at me solemnly. Waiting. I started this silence between us after Rhode Island. It is my place to end it now. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Oh, Ahab. Thank you for teaching me that, even if I forgot it for awhile. Thank you for letting me remember before it was too late. I don't know how many heartbeats I have left. I counted them off at Mulder's side and then went home to put some space between us. To save my sanity. My usual line of defense: retreat. Only I found that Mulder *is* my sanity. An amazing thought for a scientist like me. I am lucky to have realized it now, before my last breath. I have known it all along, I think. Just as my father always knew, but never said. I don't want to make the same mistake. I don't have to. I am here now, and Mulder is here with me. It is in my power to put my father's wisdom into action. I open my eyes and find Mulder still looking at me, his expression heavy with concern. I capture him with my eyes. "Mulder, are you going to leave me?" The same question he asked me. I now find myself as frightened as I imagine he was. I know the answer to this, of course. But I want an *honest* answer, not some platitude about how he will hold my hand until the end. I want his heart. That would be a more precious gift than all the cures in the world tonight. "No, Scully," he answers, "I'm not going to leave you." "Why not?" I ask simply. He considers the question seriously, his fingertip tracing the contours of my face. The answer he gives me is as forthright as my question. "Because I love you, Scully." And I know he means it. Never a conventional pair, it seems fitting we should come together this way. Not with hearts and flowers, but simple truths. An acknowledgment of the bond we have always relied on and never spoken of. I have my truth now. I just need one more answer. "Promise me something, Mulder," I whisper. "Anything." "Promise me this isn't pity." Mulder reaches up again and brushes his fingers along my cheek. I think for a moment he is stroking the part of my face where my tumor lies. Then I realize he is wiping away tears I didn't know I was crying. "It's not. I swear it's not. I *love* you, Dana." There is only one answer I can give him. Here is my heart, on a silver platter. Take it, Mulder. Do with it what you will. You've had it for a long time now anyway. All I ask is yours in return. I caught a glimpse when you came to my apartment that morning. Complete the circle and hand me your heart as I have handed you mine. Trust me with it. "Mulder. I love you, too." Now it is his turn to cry, as I speak words he has probably not heard since childhood. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down to me, his own arms snaking around my back. We are still for a moment, just drinking in the sensation of being this close to each other. I always wondered what love is like. How it feels to have someone I trust implicitly, someone I desire, feel the same way about me. The absolute certainty that I am with the person who is going to make me happy and love me the same way in return. Mulder is that person. And now that we have put our defenses away, we know. We have found our way together. This is love. Mulder breaks the silence with a husky whisper in my ear. "I want to make love with you, Scully." I reach up to cup his face in my hands, surprised at the joy I feel. This is right. It is not because he pities me. It is not because I want to cheat death. This coming together has been years in the making; only our own stubbornness prevented it from happening sooner. "Oh, Mulder. Yes." He dips his head and our lips meet. I have imagined this moment many times. I thought it might be urgent and desperate, both of us rushing to completion. It is not like that at all. The world consists only of Mulder and me. We have all the time we want. No regrets for the years we avoided this. Only contentment that we have found it now. Slowly, lazily, we explore each other's mouths. He tastes warm and delicious. His hands glide over me, touching me chastely. We are both shy. I feel years younger. I can feel Mulder harden against my thigh but he doesn't try to undress me. I spread my legs just enough for Mulder to fall in between them. He groans softly and starts kissing my neck, tipping my head back. My blood sings through my veins, sending the warmth that is gathering between my thighs through out my body. Mulder's breath is hot and damp against my skin. We're both starting to sweat. I can feel the muscles in his back ripple as he moves over me. Our clothes, an exciting barrier at first, now become cumbersome. I've seen his skin many times. I have to touch it now. No words are needed; once I tug his undershirt up over his shoulders, the rest follows naturally. My pajama top is next, and with low moans of pleasure from each of us, our skins come in contact for the first time. We are so far beyond our usual gentle touches: a hand on my back, a hand ruffling his hair. Now he sinks down on me as I arch up against him. We cling to each other tightly again, too stunned by the sensation to do anything else for a moment. He simply feels so good. I can be happy just being held and holding him myself. But only for a moment. The friction of his chest hair over my nipples causes me to flush, our skins burning against each other. Still slowly, the rest of our clothes are shed. Pants and underwear leisurely slide off. I'm so aroused I can barely think; instead our instincts guide us both. He examines me carefully. My skin is blue-white in the light from the TV. His fingertips slide everywhere, barely making contact. My breathing quickens. His erection is bobbing in front of him as he kneels over me and every so often I feel it tap against me, softly. Not urgent or demanding yet. Once Mulder has looked his fill and settled back down next to me, it is my turn. I know what the male body looks like, of course, and I even have an idea of what Mulder's body looks like. Still, I go over him inch by inch, kissing him lightly everywhere. His moans become louder as I travel up his legs, over his stomach to his chest. He doesn't touch me, or try to force me anywhere in particular. He wants me; this is obvious by now. I want him just as much. But we both know that to rush things will spoil them. The clock doesn't tick here. Not in our world. Not tonight. Slowly, flexing like a cat, I crawl up his body until I'm poised on top of him. I hover above him, allowing only the faintest sensation of my heat to reach him. He bites his lip but does not reach for me. I admire his restraint. I am not equal to it, however. I need him. God, how I need him. In every way. I need him beside me, to help me fight. I need him to save me. To save himself. I need him, body and soul. I *had* him all along. I just couldn't accept. Couldn't let myself have him. It wasn't safe. Fuck feeling safe. I don't need to be safe anymore. I need to be loved. I need Mulder to love me. This step we are taking isn't a big one after all. It is merely the natural progression. Beyond pride, and shame, and walls. I grasp him in my hand, position myself. His breath catches. He reaches for me, cups my breasts in his hands. His thumbs graze my nipples. I sigh, and lower myself onto him. Mulder fills me, stretches me out. I gasp when he is all the way in and he bumps my cervix. Bracing myself, I ease up and down. Savoring the feeling of every inch as he slides in and out of me. God. I could make love to Mulder forever. My breasts sway above him. His stare is liquid and full of tenderness. I am not surprised. I knew it was in him somewhere. His hands slide up my arms and he eases me down until I am lying full length on top of him. Cradling the back of my head with one hand, the other splayed against the small of my back, he rolls over, taking me with him. We don't miss a beat, Mulder picking up my rhythm perfectly. He leans on his forearms, his slick skin gliding against mine with every stroke. My hands wander up and down his back. I cup his buttocks, urging him deeper into me, then let go to guide his lips to my neck. He licks and bites gently, still thrusting into me. We don't rush, not even at the end. I can feel my orgasm approaching but I force myself to keep a steady pace. I know Mulder is having trouble; the sweat beads on his brow and he grunts every time he pushes into me. The pleasure builds in me and I break my silence at the climax, one long, low moan as I spasm around him. It is not an explosion, but rather a wave that washes over me again and again. Mulder feels my release and lets go himself; silently, he comes, his only concession to passion the shaking I feel as I hold him and the way he bites my shoulder. We end as quietly as we began, with a few whispers and a long, loving look. I am no longer empty nor lonely. Mulder curls his body around mine like a shell. The blue light from the television flickers on, illuminating our bodies. In the shadows it is hard to tell where he ends and I begin. I find I like it that way. ***** "I wouldn't trade all your golden tomorrows For one hour of this night" Cowboy Junkies, "200 More Miles" So, what did you think? Comments, chocolate, and all that good stuff to: *new* email address: jenbird@earthlink.net