Title : Eyes On You
Author : Shawne
E-Mail : shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com 
Rating : PG
Category: VRH
Spoilers : none, but set Season Six, pre-"One Son"
Keywords : M/S UST
Summary : For once, Mulder holds Heaven in his arms instead of just watching
it from afar.
Archive : Knock yourself out... but let me know where.
Disclaimers : Mulder and Scully belong to each other - and to Chris Carter
and 1013 Productions. Not to me. Never to me. *sigh*

Author's Notes : This story is a =stand-alone= piece. Now we have *that* out
of the way, let me also say that, indirectly, this is a companion piece to a
vignette I posted earlier, "Can You Smell The Rain?". This setting was 
mentioned in passing there, and one of my beta readers suggested that it would 
be nice to expand on it, and I agreed. As you can see, however, this germ of an 
idea just kept growing and growing until it became its own story. Thanks, 
Toniann, for planting the suggestion in my mind. This story is as much for you 
as it is for me. :)

========================================================

I don't quite know what is happening, or how it happened, or even why it
happened. I just know I really, really like it.

Even though I have an itch on the sole of my foot, even though I'm thirsty
and need a drink badly, even though I'm not in the most comfortable of
positions... I like it. I love it. I need it.

This, what I'm doing right now, is everything I'll ever need.

That's an odd realisation to have, in an airplane on its way back to
Washington D.C. I have never considered the cramped seats and the sparse leg
room characteristic of planes to be the stuff of which dreams are made. But
I've just discovered that they are.

There is nothing, really nothing, that could be better than this.

An old couple is sitting across the aisle from us. They look like the
archetypal advertisement for grandparents... why we have them, and why we
love them. She is benign, sweet, the kind of grandmother who would bake
cookies for the children, and give them money and hug them and love them no
matter what. He looks sporting, cheerful, sprightly for his age - he would
take the kids fishing, play baseball with the boys, bring the girls
shopping.

Maybe it's odd, but I find it exhilarating to have them approve of us, the
way we are seated now. They're whispering to each other,  darting knowing
looks at us, smiling, nodding at me. Obviously, they think we look perfect
together. I nod back, proud and happy, glad that I have these emotions,
misguided though they might be. I catch a stray word or two in their
conversation with each other, and I relish them, cherish them -
"..honeymoon... perfect pair... made for each other..."

Suddenly, she shifts against me, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to
settle into comfort once again. Her head lifts itself for a moment, and I
swear my heart almost stops. But gently, sweetly, she relaxes back against
my shoulder, and resumes her slumber.

Yes, this is what has me so happy, so euphoric, so overjoyed. I'm not
discovering any earth-shaking truth here, nothing that would matter to the
other five billion people in this world. I haven't won any lottery; I
haven't discovered the cure for the common cold. No, I've just realised that
there's only one thing I need to be happy. And that is... well, this. What's
happening right now.

This woman - the one who is sleeping soundly on my shoulder, the one who
has let down her defenses for once, the one who is finally allowing me to
give her the affection I know she needs but never seems to want. My arm
tightens, I hope imperceptibly, around her shoulders, holding her to me,
assuring myself that this isn't a dream.

That she really is here, next to me, touching me.

I can smell her. Her hair, her perfume, even the unmistakable brand of
detergent she always uses for her clothes. I can feel her, every part of
her, living and breathing regularly in my arms. I can sense her, the blood
circulating through her body, the dream going through her mind.

You know I don't believe in God, or Heaven, or Eternal Happiness.

But if this isn't Heaven, you're going to have a pretty tough time trying
to change my mind about what is.

We came from Idaho today, where we chased down yet another ridiculous case
Kersh specially assigned to us, his favourite charges. The piles of manure
we're forced to investigate just keep getting bigger, and smellier, and
uglier, and more annoying every day. And still, we plodded through it all,
routinely this time. I didn't find some excuse to get out of it, neither did
I claim to have stumbled upon an X-file that needed our urgent attention.

And so here we were, on the first flight back that I could find. I didn't
want to stay any longer than I had to. We settled down in our seats, Scully
by the window, me on the aisle. I felt the necessity to complain to her
about how pathetic the leg room was on these flying crates, even in business
class.

"Scully," I remember whining. "These seats never have enough leg room. I
always get cramped when I'm sitting in them."

She, of course, continued her methodical set up of her in-flight equipment
as she replied, rather unfeelingly, "Deal with it, Mulder." As I watched her
hook up her laptop to her mobile, as she started typing the report we both
knew Kersh would demand for that same day, I was tempted to make a snide
remark about how she couldn't understand my particular type of problem,
given the length of her legs and given the length of mine.

I decided that I didn't need to die today. Particularly not in a plane
several thousand miles above help if I needed it.

So I popped on my headphones and watched the cheesy movie that was being
shown. I recall lifting my right arm in annoyance as she tapped me on the
shoulder, telling me she needed more room to type. She pushed the arm-rest
between us back out of the way, and resumed her work. Slightly annoyed by
the disturbance, I hooked my arm casually around the top of her seat, and
continued watching the show.

And then, I think it happened.

I don't know how much time had passed, but it must have been quite a lot.
She logged off her laptop, and smiled at me (not that I noticed) before
mumbling something I didn't quite catch. Then she closed her eyes, and went
to sleep. The next thing I knew, her head had fallen against my shoulder,
she'd moved closer against me... and my heart was doing a very energetic set
of calisthenic exercises. My arm had, in the process, draped itself casually
around her shoulders.

And so here we are.

I am still smiling like a lovesick fool, I think... and the couple next to
us is still throwing approving, welcoming looks at me every once in a while.
Marriage is like a special secret shared by those who are married, kept from
those who aren't. I've noticed that married couples can communicate
telepathically at times, simply by exchanging sympathetic glances or trading
conspiratorial smiles. They share so many of the same experiences that those
gestures can, in themselves, speak volumes without the necessity for words.

It feels nice to be included, even by mistake.

Suddenly, I realise that the old woman is leaning over her arm-rest,
talking to me in low tones. I push the headphones down around my neck, and
turn to face her. "Your wife must be tired," she whispers, smiling at me. I
smile back joyfully.

"The two of you make a beautiful couple... don't they, Harold?" She turns
to her husband, and nudges him with her elbow. He nods amiably, and gives me
a wide friendly smile. I nod at both of them eagerly, and mutter my thanks
across the aisle.

I realise that my mouth is twitching now, trying to force itself into the
shape of a crescent moon. I decide that it's no use trying to keep the grin
off my face - I am too happy. Instead, my arm tightens even more around
Scully, and I move closer to her.

Then I discover that I can feel her smiling. I look down, and catch the
smile playing around her lips just before it disappears. It makes me feel
even better that today, she seems to be sleeping soundly. No bad dreams to
contend with, no tears, no pain.

I can't help thinking that we fit. The way her head nestles exactly between
my shoulder and my chin, the way her little body feels so warm and perfect
against mine.

So many realisations today - from such a mundane event. She must have been
tired, to have fallen asleep so readily and with so few of her defenses up.
And yet, this, having Scully sleep peacefully next to me, my arm around her,
her hair brushing against my face... this means the world to me.

I've never really needed words with her, not with Scully. She understands,
somehow, even if she might not share the same beliefs. When I found somebody
who was always willing to listen to me, even at my most far-fetched, that
had made me happy enough. I had never expected anything else.

This is a reward greater than anything I deserve.

I'm sure she knows that I watch her, that my eyes are on her every chance
they get. Because it makes me happy, to see with my own eyes, to have visual
proof, that she is still with me, still alive. I've kept my eyes on her ever
since she stepped into my office six short years ago. I always will.

And that's all I ask for. The chance to watch her, to see this woman
through everything that might challenge her, daunt her. To follow her with
my eyes, hoping that somehow they might protect her, give her strength.

Holding her is something I know I don't deserve.

Looking down at her, I can't help but smile. She is still breathing evenly,
her eyes shut. Her hand is curled into a small fist - perhaps a
manifestation of her desire to always have some kind of protection for
herself, some kind of strength.

I love this.

The voice that breaks across the silence of the cabin is clouded in static,
and I barely bother to make out the words. The captain is announcing
something about entering an air pocket, and to have our seat belts fastened
in case of turbulence.

With one hand, I somehow manage to snap mine into place, then turn to make
sure that hers is secure.

The temptation is too much to resist. After touching her midsection gently,
by accident, to check her seat belt, I lift my hand to stroke her hair. It
is soft, yielding... beautiful.

She is still here, I realise. It is absolutely amazing - I am touching her,
caring for her, loving her... and nothing has taken her away. Nothing is
making me stop. My clichéd, love-addled heart wants to sing, probably badly,
but I quell it.

Instead, I drop my head down to rest on hers. We still fit, I realise to my
great relief. We fit perfectly.

I am smiling dreamily now, I know, envisioning scenarios best not
mentioned. The couple next to us have taken to sleep too, wrapped in each
other's arms. Scully, I can almost believe we are married.

Then, the plane dips.

She jerks awake, bewildered, confused.

I jerk my arm back, frantic, worried.

What if she hits me for taking advantage of the situation? What if she
hates me? I realise that my arm is stuck unnaturally up in the air, and I do
what first comes to mind. I pretend to be waving to a stewardess for
attention. It is barely seconds later that my flushed brain processes the
fact that there is no stewardess in sight, and I am looking decidely insane.

So I fake a yawn instead, hoping she hasn't noticed.

"Mmmm..." Her eyes are blurry, glazed slightly, and she seems a bit unsure
of herself. She turns her head from side to side, the sleep not quite
leaving her system yet. "Mulder, what's going on?"

My hand, the one that is causing all the trouble, is trembling now, still
held up moronically in the air. I drop it on the seat between us, into the
divide, and press it against the distance that now seems to stretch miles
wide. I swallow, fighting back irrational tears.

Why does this matter so much?

I clear my throat, and turn to her with as reassuring a smile as I can
manage on such short notice.

"Nothing, Scully. Don't worry."

She frowns slightly, and continues to look unconvinced. Her hand drops
between us as well, and covers my still shaking hand. She looks at me with
questioning eyes, gorgeous eyes, and I almost bite my tongue off. But I can
sense she is tired, so I add, "Go back to sleep."

Blinking, she nods, and her fingers lace their way through mine,
comfortingly, unconsciously, as if they were searching for something. Her
head drops back against the head-rest, and her eyes close. The beatific
smile returns, and once more, my eyes stay riveted on this vision that is
before me.

Time passes.

The ache in my throat remains. I squeeze her hand lightly, then whisper,
softly, to myself, "Don't worry, Scully. I have my eyes on you." I pause,
then add, inaudibly, "Always."

Tired now, I close my eyes, and wish for sleep to come. I try to fight the
unreasonable disappointment, knowing that, eventually, she would have woken
up anyway. That it had to end sooner or later.

I try to forget.

But suddenly, I feel her hand tightening around mine, warm, comforting,
alive. I sense her head moving towards my shoulder, and then I hear her lips
against my ear.

"I've always had mine on you, Mulder."

=======================================

AUTHOR'S END NOTES : The title of this piece was half-taken from Faye Wong's
song for the Playstation game "Final Fantasy VIII", EYES ON ME. No, I do not
play the game, but yes, I *have* heard the song. Full lyrics available on my
page http://www.shawnex.freeservers.com 

All feedback lovingly hugged and washed and kept nice and cuddly 24 hours a
day. Special offer available only at shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com ;)

*****

Added April 15, 1999