Title: There But For the Grace of You Author: Brownie Email: browniej@geocities.com Rating: R Category: S, R, A Keywords: MSR, angst Spoilers: None. Archive: Please let me know where. Disclaimer. They don't belong to me. Duh. Summary: Mulder has a crisis of faith, and realizes what he really believes in. Warning: Lots of religious allusions. I blame the insomnia. "I hear the drizzle of the rain, like a memory it falls, soft and warm, continuing, tapping on my roof and walls. From the shelter of my mind, through the window of my eyes, I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets to England, where my heart lies. My mind's distracted and diffused. My thoughts are many miles away. They lie with you when you're asleep, kiss you when you start your day. And the song I was writing is left undone. I don't know why I spend my time writing songs I can't believe with words that tear and strain to rhyme. So you see I have come to doubt all that I once held as true. I stand alone, without beliefs. The only truth I know is you. And as I watch the drops of rain weave their weary paths, and I know that I am like the rain. There but for the grace of you go I." The hour of the wolf. After midnight, before sunrise. The sky is its darkest, the night its coldest, and the black pit of despair is black indeed. Bottomless. And the wolf - Fenris Ulf, maybe, who in Nordic legend devours the sun at the end of the world - is scratching at my door, hungry for my blood. It's dark, and cold, and raining. I have my gun in my hand. Not for the first time. There have been many nights, many wolf hours, when I have sat with a loaded gun and wondered who would miss me if I pulled the trigger. And where would I aim? The mouth is fool-proof, I've heard. If I shoot myself in the heart I might miss. The temple is good, but one centimeter off and I'd sentence myself to vegetabledom. No, thank you. Quick and clean is what I want. Or quick, anyway. I know that if I pull the trigger my blood, and probably brain matter as well, will splatter all over the couch and the wall, the window, maybe even the floor. If I aim properly I might even obliterate my face. Messy. Death is always messy. I should know. I turn the gun over and over in my hands. If I die, who will mourn me? My mother, maybe. Mrs. Scully, I'm sure. She likes me. I don't know why, except that once I was there when she needed someone. The Lone Gunmen, who are the closest things I have to what most people call friends. They might miss me. Skinner would be glad to have me out of his hair. Figuratively speaking, of course. Krychek will live out his days wondering what might have been . . . The only thing that holds me back is the only thing that has held me back over the past five years. Scully. Dana Katherine Scully, my Irish rose. She has no idea I think of her that way, and I hope she never finds out. There are many things that I have called her to myself, and I will probably never say them out loud. She'd laugh. She'd turn away in disgust. She'd look at me with compassion and - I shudder - pity, and tell me she loves me but she's not *in* love with me. I hate that one. My Irish rose. My Celtic queen. My pillar. My strength. My sanity. My one true friend. My one true love. My human credential. My voice of reason. My better half. My second self. My blue-eyed girl. My beauty. My heart. My life. She drives away the monsters from under my bed. She bids the storms inside me to rest, and they subside. She hung the moon. The sun rises and sets on her command. She feeds me when I am hungry, heals me when I am hurt, protects me when I am weak, comforts me when I am in despair. She drives my demons to retreat. She exorcizes my ghosts. The one thing worth dying for. The only thing worth living for. I need her. She is the only thing I need. Food, water, air, sleep - it's all meaningless without Scully. So with this goddess, this paragon, this saint in my life, why am I sitting on my couch in the wolf hours of the night, wondering if I should fire in my temple or my mouth? Good question. Today, we fought. We fight a lot. We argue. We spar. We one-up. We bicker. But today, we fought. I don't even remember what started it. Just that I wanted her to see, to believe me. To believe in me, just once. To not look at me as if I was one taco short of a combo and just *listen.* And as she turned away from me, I grabbed her shoulder and turned her back. And there was an expression on her face that terrified me. Scully was afraid of me. Afraid I'd hurt her, maybe. Afraid I'd hurt myself. She saw it, I realize that now. She saw that the wolf was already at the door and that I had no more ways to make him run. She knew, even before I did, that I might not live to see morning. One more sunrise. What does it mean? Because she still left. She shook off my hand and said we'd talk when I was feeling more rational. Rational! As if I'm a raving maniac, which I may have been by that time. Black jaws have been gawping after me for many days, now. They'll swallow me, if I let them. Maybe even if I don't. I wonder if she would miss me. Would she put flowers on my grave? Would she talk to me, using my ghost as a sounding board? Would she sense my touch in a breath of wind, and close her eyes, remembering the feel of my hand on her cheek? Would she cry for no reason, and explain to embarrassed strangers that she was just missing her friend? The gun is cold, and heavy. Dana is warm. She is like fire - not the dangerous bonfire of lovers past, but a hearth fire, comforting, nourishing. I have been consumed, but she warms me. She is the light in the dark. She can drive away the wolf. But the price is high. My phone is on the table in front of me, waiting for me to dial. One the surface it seems easy enough: I simply call, and say, "Please, I need you," and she'll come. But then I would have to explain. Tell her why I need her, and why there is a gun in my hand. The only enemy is in me, I would have to say. The destructive forces of the universe have taken up residence in my soul. Don't you hear the howling of the wolf? He's calling my name. He wants to crunch my bones. He knows, Scully, he knows that I am driven more by rage and habit than any real desire for justice. And rage is a dangerous master. I'm afraid of my own anger. Make me better, Scully, make me whole. My ancestors would spend one day, the Day of Atonement, to repent of the sins they committed through the year. They would fast and pray for one day, and when the sun set they would be absolved. Absolve me, Scully. Indulge me. Purify me. I am scarlet, make me white as snow. I'll give up anything you ask. My heart, my mind, my soul, my body, they are already yours. Take what belongs to you. Just remake me in your image. I can't pick up the phone. I hold the gun to my temple. I feel the cold barrel on my skin, like the kiss of a corpse. Oblivion is surely better than despair. In "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead," one of them - I can never figure out who's who - observes that death is just death. You're not aware that you're dead, you're just dead. I crave that lack of awareness. I crave the dark. Swallow me, Frenris Ulf. Let me float in your belly and lose myself once and for all. I wrote a note earlier tonight. It's addressed to Scully. It's simple. A simple will, a simple explanation. I glossed over the real cause, which she knows already. Let her explain it to everyone else. That I am already lost, and this is just a formality. I've been dead a long time. I thumb off the safety. The dead are always with us, I've heard, and I wonder if my father - the man I've always called my father, whether he is actually is or not - is waiting for me. Or if the spirits of the dead I've caused or waiting for me. Or if there is really nothing. Just death. If I'm allowed to come back, I'll haunt Scully, but lovingly. I'll watch out for her. I can probably do a better job as a ghost than as a man. I'll protect her, warn her. Visit her in her dreams and whisper to her of my love. My life is no sacrifice, I'll tell her, if it meant you have peace at last. There is a knock at my door. Brisk, businesslike. I rise and go to answer it, keeping my gun behind my back. I peer through the peephole. Scully. I open the door but say nothing. She looks up at me, guileless. We watch each other for a long time. I know her face so well. I could cup my hands just so, and only her face would fit. I could draw her in my sleep. Its planes and angles, its curves and rises, they are more familiar to me than my own face. Silently she steps towards me and catches my wrists. The gun is loose in my fingers. She takes it, puts the safety on, sticks it in the waistband of her jeans. She holds my hands in hers and continues to study me. There is no judgement in her face, only patience. I sigh. I step closer to her and let myself sag into her arms. My head comes to rest on her shoulder, and she wraps her strong arms around me. She kisses me and coos to me comforting nonsense, wordless sounds that tell me she knows, she understands, she is here and the wolf has retreated once more. Our hearts beat slowly in unison, and she gives me her strength, her breath. She is infinite, and I am so small. I need only a drop of her ocean to revive me. Somehow we move inside, and I find that I am lying on my abandoned bed, my head in her lap and my arms around her waist. She strokes my hair, my face, my neck, my back. Words are taking shape. She dreamed. She dreamed of me, asking her why she did nothing when she knew I needed her. I was so sad, so miserable, a look of sorrow on my face as deep as the pit that threatened to swallow me. So she came. She pulled me back from the edge in her dream, and now in reality as well. "Don't you know that I'd miss you?" she whispers, and I realize something I never suspected before. She is crying. She was frightened. She is still frightened, but the fact that I am so calm comforts her. "Don't you know that I need you too?" She needs me? Does the Atlantic need a raindrop? Does Mt. Everest need a flake of snow? Does the continent of North America need a speck of dust? I let go off her waist and sit up. I take her face in my hands. Tears. Compassion. Worry. Anger. And . . . oh, god. "You love me." She nods. She puts her hands on mine, moves them from her face to her throat. I can feel her pulse. Faster now. Regular as the tides. She moves my hands again, to her mouth. Oh, god. Her mouth. Her exquisite, perfect, beautiful mouth. A work of art in itself. She kisses my knuckles, turns my hands over and kisses my palms. "I love you," she murmurs, and her breath is warm, a butterfly kiss on my skin. "Don't leave me, Mulder. Don't leave me to face it all alone." "Never," I whisper, and realize I mean it. She looks up at me, and my heart lurches. She believes me. She knows I mean it. No matter what else she disagrees with me about, she will always believe this. I raise her hands to my mouth and kiss them. Bless me, Scully, for I have sinned. I doubted you, and I doubted myself. Give me your wisdom and strength, and I will strive all my days to be worthy of that gift. "I love you. I've always loved you. I love you more than anything in the world. In whatever worlds may exist. They are nothing to me, compared to you." "Mulder." My name is a caress on her lips. She frames my face with her hand. Her eyes sparkle like jewels. She is more precious than diamonds. They are cold, the byproducts of death. She is life. She is my life. "You are the truth, Scully. You are the only truth that matters. You are the only truth I'll always believe." "I know." She rises up on her knees, moves close enough to me so that I can feel her, every inch of her, the intake of her breath, the beating of her heart. She is so alive. She wraps her arms around my neck. She watches me closely. "I love you. That's the only truth I really need." Outside it is raining. The wolf prowls, licking his chops. But inside we are sheltered in one another, and she warms me with only her being with me. And I am no longer afraid. Sometimes I forget she is also human. That it is flesh I hold in my arms, fragile and sensitive. I touch her almost without realizing, and she gasps. I start to pull away, but her arms tighten. "I need you," she says simply. I believe. I kiss the morsel of skin between her shirt collar and the base of her throat. Warm. Throbbing with pulse. She shifts closer still, an invitation. I accept. I lift her gently and lay her on her back. She watches me though half-closed eyes, her hands smoothing over me. "Take your time," she whispers, and I understands all the layers that she means. She thinks I may not be up to this. I may be too fragile in spirit and flesh to deal with it. She's not infallible. This once, I will prove her wrong. Her skin is soft. "Velvet," I whisper, and she smiles. I touch her through her clothes, measuring her against me. She is so tiny. I'm afraid of hurting her. But her hands are strong, and they pull me to her. Her mouth takes mine. Her lips open. I am drunk on her breath, on her taste. Kissing her is more nourishing than any food. She fills me. Her kisses could feed multitudes. "Yours," I tell her. "Yours," she answers me, and I am dumb with shock. Mine? Her bounty, just for me? She nods to my unspoken question, and moves away from me enough to begin slipping buttons from their moorings. I watch, unable to move. She lays open her shirt, and her skin is pale. "Yours," she says again, and I bend my head in supplication. My mouth worships her, and she answers me with a sweet wordless music. She calls out to God on my behalf. Forgive this poor sinner, who loses sight so often of Thy gifts. Thou art so generous to give her to me, when Thou could use her so well elsewhere. She is Thine, and I am Thine. I wish our situations were reversed, that I could take her into me instead of my entering her. She watches me as I love her, a smile on her lips that is sweet and gentle. She laughs with joy as I touch her. She sighs with delight. She whispers secrets to me, too precious for mortal ears. She loves me. She needs me. She would die without me. I believe her. And she touches me as well. She admires me. She smiles over me, her eyes bright with anticipation. My skin trembles under her fingers and my body responds to her mouth. Skin on skin. So basic. So simple. We were created for this moment, when we are - so briefly - no longer incomplete. She rises over me. Her skin is flushed. Her lips are plump. I claim them for my own, I claim her body as well. I know her heart is mine. A treasure. She takes me into her. We are gods together. We are stars. We are angels. We cry out to each other, and to God. He gave us this. We give ourselves back. She is mine, I am hers. We are one at last. Her hair surrounds her face like a halo, and she is smiling. Her body shivers with pleasure. We are perfection. We are we, as we were meant to be. I am lost in her. Her eyes pull me in, her hands demand my obedience. Love me, they say, and I must do as they ask. Every kiss, every touch, is a prayer for redemption. Save me from the darkness, Scully. Take me into your light. Words fail us. There is nothing but instinct now, driving us on, pulling us together. Like waves to the shore, like moths to the flame. We must be one. There is no other way out. For a moment I lose myself, and my body takes over. Into her, into her, her depth, her fire, her wetness. Future generations spill into her. No one this alive could truly be barren, I refuse to believe it. Somehow we will create something that is both of us, the best of her, the best of me. Later. Not now. Now is about us. She cries out in joy, her body stilling for a moment. Her hands tighten on mine, she bathes me with her breath. She falls onto me, exhausted. Now it is my turn to croon nonsense as I touch her, stroke her, reassure her that this was right, will always be right, that my love is strong, that our love is stronger than both of us. She lifts her head enough to smile and kiss me. She believes me. She believes in me. She believes in us. The rain continues outside as we lie together, holding tightly to each other. Her body massages mine. Whether we have created a separate life or not, still there is life within us both. Our life together. We both are newborn. After sleep and love, Scully brings me the note. "What should I do with this?" I take it, read it over. "Everything to you, Scully," it says. "Do with my belongings as you like, only keep something to remember me by. Remember your friend, who loved you. Goodbye." I crumple it in my fist. "Everything I am is yours," I say. "I belong to you, now. You saved me. My life is yours." "Love saves us all," she answers me, and the wolf is banished for good. End. *^*^*^* "Kathy's Song" belongs to Simon and Garfunkel and is used without permission. What do you think, sirs? www.geocities.com/Area51/Shadowlands/9067