TITLE: Tevilah AUTHOR: bugs EMAIL ADDRESS: bugs1231@my-deja.com RATING: NC-17 for sexual content WEBSITE: bugsfic found at http://urw.simplenet.com/bugs DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Spookys 2000- http://urw.simplenet.com/bugs/tev.html, Gossamer, and anyone who asks for this story. SPOILER WARNING: Pilot, Irresistible, Orison, Signs and Wonders; Basic ones for SUZ, Closure. CONTENT WARNING: Aspects of this story may disturb sensitive readers. CLASSIFICATION: S, A, R, Scully POV, post episode for Closure. SUMMARY: A single word on Teena Mulder's medical chart leads Scully and Mulder to a confrontation. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Thanks to Branwell, Shawne, Maggie and Ambress for beta services rendered and support given. For Galia, who encouraged me to write a story exploring Mulder's belief system. AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm creating a past for Teena Mulder that is outside of canon. I believe it's possible, however. But if you haven't seen SUZ or Closure, this is not suggested at all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Not all die early, dying young - Maturity of Fate Is consummated equally In Ages, or a Night - from # 990 by Emily Dickinson ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I. Mulder's voice, suddenly loud, in the dimness of my living room: "I'm going to take a bath." I twitch to awareness, then stiffen. After four long weeks, I'd finally found a single diverting focus: his crisis--and he shatters it with those words. There is darkness in these days. Darker than a New Mexico desert night. Darker than being locked in a closet or a car trunk. Darker than having your eyes taped shut. Occasional flashes of light hurt my eyes like a strobe, revealing my weakness. One day after another; from the day the black curtain fell until the day I can pull it away from the mirror, signaling the grieving is over. --If that day ever comes. The early darkness of winter had hidden us. Only our sighs and whispers betrayed our flushed couplings in the cold air. I welcomed the dark--it masked us from prying eyes and a thousand questions. Now, like a timid child, I'm afraid of it. For days since I killed of Donnie Pfaster, Mulder's been trying to draw me out, go past the barriers that he feels sex entitles him to push through. His name is Fox, but he plays with people like a sleek cat. Now he's turning his attention to me. God forgive me, I've welcomed his latest crisis. It's diverted him from this task. Now he needs me. This I understand: something familiar and solid to grasp in the sharp brambles my life has become. His face is brutally blank, as it's been for these past few days. Four days. Four days we've sat in this apartment. The peace he'd gained in California faded away. In its place, the dry emptiness that had finally silenced him the night he accepted his mother's suicide. I'd brought him to my apartment. I couldn't bear his dark, depressing warren in our present emotional state. Skinner readily agreed to my request for a week off for both of us. And I find myself covering my mirrors. II. ...Before I'd begun Teena Mulder's autopsy, my attention had been drawn to the entry for religion on her chart. Caused me to look twice and blink, a rare occurrence. One of those flashes of light. If a woman never practices a religion or shows any signs of the culture, but puts it down on a medical chart, I say she means it. I contemplated calling Mulder or a rabbi, and then settled on following the proper procedure for performing an autopsy on an Orthodox Jew. There was no sect listed, but the acts gave me something to hold onto as I went through this horrendous activity. Somehow my actions seemed appropriate. Sealing this woman's brain--minus her tumor, which had been collected, set aside--in a plastic bag before returning it to her skull. Collecting every drop of her blood and pouring it back into the body cavity before sewing her up tightly and zipping the heavy plastic around her frail form. That night, when Mulder's sobbing had settled and he'd begun to stare at the wall, I asked him what to do. "Do you think she would have wanted a Jewish ceremony? I can see about having the body released immediately." He didn't look at me. "She doesn't care." "But...she listed on her chart...I'd think--" He shook his head. "Old habits die hard. She...ignored," --his lips twisted on the word-- "the fact for so long, but when in the presence of a doctor...with his shiny tools--" He seemed to gulp back rising bile. "She couldn't lie one more time." He was silent for hours after that. I worried that I'd worsened his pain by bringing up his mother's faith, but he didn't refer to it again.... III. ....When we first got back from California, Mulder sat on my couch, watching me. He didn't stop me, but he didn't seem interested in joining my fretful activities either. I scratched through my memory for anything about Jewish funeral practices. All I came up with is covering the mirrors. At some point, Mulder could rip his clothing. I like having something to do. "Should I call the guys? Perhaps have them over for dinner?" First, he shook his head. "No. You don't need to do that." He waved an arm weakly. "I wasn't ever--I don't have any idea what to do." Suddenly, I felt like an idiot. But then he gave me a small smile. "I think we sit. We sit." That's the last thing I wanted to do. If we sit, we think. His extended hand drew me to him and I had to sink down on the couch. He wanted to touch. He pulled me close, draping an arm around my shoulder, and I diverted myself by tracing the fine bones on the back of his hand. It didn't work. I couldn't stop thinking. We don't make love anymore. I can't bear his weight on me... IV. ..."Mulder, please!" I'd had to push him off, rip my mouth free to cry out. I felt like silly girl who can't handle the weight of a man on her. Not in this dark bedroom. His voice quickly filled with equal panic. "I'm sorry, Scully. Let me--I'm sorry..." He lay beside me, slowing his breathing. Again: "I'm sorry." I was sharp. "I know. You don't need to be. It's me." "It isn't you," he insisted. Then, low, "We could...you could be on top..." Staring across the bedroom, trying to pick out looming shapes in the darkness, I hadn't responded. His voice, asking too many questions, revealing our inner fears to the light. "I'm so selfish, Scully. I wonder if I've done this to you. Has *my* quest made you this person? When you stop hating yourself, will you hate me?" ... V. ...Darkness. The light of one candle. When we became lovers, the smell of hot, warm wax had become the smell of sex for me. One of our first nights, I'd stood nude before my mirror as his large, dark form moved around me, examining my body by the light of a single fat candle. Finishing something that had been started seven years ago. The flame. Close to my skin. Close enough to burn. Warm breath following the heat, then the tracings of fingertips. Our skin and hair, still damp from the shower, the smell of shampoo and herbal soap lingering, mingling...these were the odors of desire. Now they're the smell of fear... VI. I blink hard a few times, concentrating on his hand rhythmically rubbing over my arm. Unlit candles on my mantle beg me to light them. Somehow it seems appropriate. I can't even do this simple act; touching a match to the fresh wick. And I don't want to think; my tongue will begin to ask the questions he doesn't want me to ask. He must have heard the wheels whirling in my head, unbearably loud in the silent room. "What are you thinking about?" he asks. "Truthfully?" "Yes." "Your sister's death." The air thickens slightly, tensing. I can't stop myself from going on. "Wondering if I can accept it--when a man who's been able to deceive us at every turn may be pulling the strings again." I don't want to hurt him. But I can't stop the grinding, automatic responses in my mind. The ultimate irony. Seven years down the line, mission accomplished. Samantha Mulder found. Family--its sole remainder--is satisfied. But the first person to slap a file folder closed finds herself--angry. Pissed. Wondering. Burning. Who did those things to her? Who took her? Who finally killed that young girl? I've always done my best thinking in the bath but there's no way in hell that I can trust the darkness enough to submerge myself now. Not when I stared down into that tub, seeing the vision of my body floating in blood. The terror lingered in the still, soap- covered waters Donnie left behind, even in a room filled with loud, bustling cops and with Mulder's warm hand resting on my shoulder. VII. ...When we made our escape, he let me drive. He loaded my bag in the trunk next to his suitcase and handed me the keys. He knows the way to my heart. "Take 95 south," he said as he got into the passenger seat. He knew I couldn't brood and drive. I have to concentrate. And then he could control the radio. Indulge in his secret passion, one I'm forced to endure when we're crossing rural America. Like any good Yankee WASP, he's fascinated by the foreign and unfamiliar: country music. 'Cowboy, take me away-' He'd slipped low under his seatbelt, his long legs sprawled like a fallen scarecrow's under the dashboard. He had a small smile on his lips. 'Throw this girl as high as you can into the wild blue.' Where was my cowboy to rescue me? I sighed and tuned out the music. After another 150 miles and ten repeats of the song on different stations, I had to ask. "Who's that?" He out and out grinned and I knew whoever the singer was, she was a babe. "Dixie Chicks." Dryly, I commented, "The name says it all." He protested, "They're very intellectual! They play banjos!" I could only shake my head as I said, "Oh, that's a requirement for a Harvard degree now?" He loves it when I'm bitchy. His smile settled to a warm curve. He tried one last time. "The Chicks played Lilith Faire. They don't let bimbos in there. They have standards." I raked his relaxed body with a glance. "Thank God someone does." Another 200 miles, and a hundred more plucking, plucky songs. Unfortunately, this means we've reached the stage where Mulder knows all the words and can sing along. His favorite went: 'I've never seen two people more in my life, More determined to ignore the obvious We better stop thinking... He really can't sing any better than I can--his voice is nothing more than a low, raspy whisper--but he's more unashamed than I can ever be. 'Let our hearts start doing the talking You'd have to be stone deaf, dumb and blind Not to see what's going on with us...' In the dim light of dusk, his eyes, shifting over to judge my reaction, were warm and caramel, like the setting sun. 'So let's jump in And get over our fear of fallin' 'Cause what we got here is a powerful thing it's a powerful thing...' The sing-along is always cute, but now he was being obvious. I reacted with an oblivious question, "So, who's this?" Cut off, he sighed. "Trisha Yearwood." "Is she hot?" "Yes." "Hotter than Natalie Chick?" I'm good at avoiding his probing--he had no hope of pinning me down. He looked frustrated. "Well, I think I like Natalie more. She's a little thing. I prefer little--" He decided to stop and I really thought it was a good idea on his part. The next song started. 'She thinks my tractor's sexy!' Calmly, I reminded him, "Third time, Mulder. Change it." He seemed distracted. "Huh?" 'She even likes my farmer's tan!' "I warned you. The third time that hideous song comes on, you have to change the station. Find--something, anything--else." Sighing, he reaches for the dial, but taunts me, "You need to get in touch with your inner Reba, Scully." Let him tease. I had to show him where my boundaries lie. He'd rented a cabin, nestled among the dunes on the Georgia shore, just a single room with lots of large windows. Mulder drew all the curtains back, letting moonlight, and the next day, the late winter sun, flood the space. It had a large full-length mirror on one wall. As I walked past from the shower, I stopped in front of it. I loosened my robe, slipping the arm down to look at the couple of stitches on the back of my shoulder. He rose from the edge of the bed where he'd been perched, nude, waiting to take his turn in the shower, and joined me. "Can I see?" In the past, I'd never let him see. I bruise like a tender white peach and if he saw my condition after a confrontation, all respect for me as a fellow agent would wash away, to be replaced by some primitive, protective instinct. But now I had to let him look. He was my...boyfriend? My man? My mate? I released the tie, dropping the robe to the floor, and met his gaze in the mirror defiantly. To tell the truth, I hadn't allowed myself to take a good long look. There were deep purple pools, faint, sickeningly green ripples, stripes of black, a landscape of brutal marks. The fine web of glass cuts nicked at all the fresh white skin they could find. It wasn't pretty, and the old scars didn't help. I smacked my lips in dissatisfaction. It isn't supposed to be like this--we should be spending our Sundays in bed, reading the paper all day long, not comparing scars in front of a mirror. He stood behind me and his eyes still traveled over my body, even after I'd dismissed it. "Mulder--" "Your body amazes me." That was the last thing I expected him to say. I gave a rough chuckle. "Oh?" He laid a warm palm on my uncut shoulder. "Yeah. You're so strong and lithe." He was going to play it like that. He was going to show me what a capable person I was. Let him try. I arched an eyebrow and he gave me a tentative smile, obviously happy I was going to let him go on. His hands slipped down my arms, very gently squeezing my limbs, cupping my elbows before gripping my wrists. He lifted my arms and I watched my deltoids bunch and rise, the striation standing out as he pulled my arms back slightly, perhaps waiting for me to admit pain. I hadn't been eating. My skin was tightening over my muscles and tendons, leaving me lean and hungry-looking. A vein rose to the surface on the bulge of my shoulder, shocking blue against the brown bruise. Pulled taut, the veins on my forearms stood out, wrapping around the thin strand limbs. He pressed my right hand against its shoulder and the bicep bulged like a mini Popeye. Even I had to smile. The smile faded as I yanked my hand away and stretched both arms out wide. The muscle disappeared and my limbs' real strength was revealed. They were thin and rubbery, ready to snap back to my sides. His hands slipped under my breasts, ignoring them, down over the ridges of my ribs, shunning what I was trying to show him. A thumb traced the crevice between the two sides of my abdominal wall, circling my navel before cupping my rounded lower belly. He stroked across the sharp points of my hipbones to settle on my hips--where the twelve percent body fat rests--my body's one concession to femininity. Mulder loves my hips--his hands are usually drawn to them like magnets. Reluctantly he left them and let his hands move down to grab my thighs. I lowered my arms and traced the planes of his wide forearms, to lay my hands on his. I tensed my thigh muscles under his hands, resisting the pressure of his grip. "You're so strong, Scully," he whispered in my ear. I should have acted smooth and impenetrable, like glass. But I wouldn't let this pass. "No, I'm not," I insisted. "I've always had to accept that I can't overpower most opponents. I'm too small. I don't care how much training I have-- I have to accept that fact. I do the best I can--" He broke in. "I've seen you overpower plenty--" "And I've gotten the shit kicked out of me plenty of times too! It's something I have to expect." He just didn't get it. I pushed down on his hands, and automatically, they pressed back. I watched our muscles strain against each other, he offering just enough resistance to make it a struggle for me. I whispered, "All I have is my mental strength. I can never hope to win every time physically. But you want to take the only thing I have away, all so you feel some intimacy." He looked shocked and his eyes were as dark as my bruises. I was playing hard and mean. "No, Scully--" "Then let it go." I should have shut up but I got carried away. "I've got to be stronger-got to be better--" He could play hard too. "--than me?" Mulder believes that pain is a poison that must be bled out. I see it as a wound that needs to heal quickly, even if it leaves a scar. This is just another scar to add to my collection. I did find some peace while in Georgia. If that's what he hoped to accomplish, he succeeded. If he'd hope I would shatter and fall apart, then let the break heal cleanly, that didn't happen. I do things my way. In these past few weeks, I've gotten stronger, but it was at the expense of our new closeness. I'd set a schedule for myself and went back to work, like nothing had happened, that first Monday after our return. My only concession was his presence in my bed at night so I could sleep. Warm. Solid. Safe. But not on a case. My productivity was doubled when I spent most nights huddled in my motel rooms; gun unholstered, files open, eyes flitting to the locked door. I found myself trying to rush Mulder through the cases, even as he tried to break our one 'rule.' Outside a rundown motel in Tennessee, his fingers tracing the brittle bones of my wrist as he murmured, "I could check under your bed for snakes--" "No, Mulder." I knew the drill. One day at a time. One step at a time. I'd done this plenty of times in the last seven years. The pain and fear would fade. Something would come up to wash over these self- recriminating thoughts, carrying them away--it always did... VIII. He's standing by the couch, looking down at me. "I'm going to take a bath. Come with me." I have to ignore him, staying rooted in my place and he finally goes into the bathroom alone. Ultimately it's the sound of running water that draws me to the bathroom. He's left the door ajar. In the dark hall, a wide band of wavering yellow candlelight lies on the floor. My throat begins to close, but I force myself forward. He's crouched by the tub, naked, one hand under the flow of water from the tap, candlelight lapping at his bent, broad back. He senses my presence and says, "Would you say your hair is normal or dry?" I bite down on my lower lip, hard, and the pain freezes my limbs. Shaking my head, I break the paralyzing trance. He's repeating his words. "Scully? How much soap do I put in?" That must be what he'd asked. "Mulder, stop it!" My cracked voice bounces off the tile walls. IX. ...It had been a long, hard day. I left Mulder flipping around my TV's channels and filled the tub with barely tolerable hot water, sinking beneath the surface with delight for that well-deserved soak. He came in and sat on the toilet. I kept my eyes closed, but tracked his movements automatically. I could hear him breathing, the shift of the fabric on his sweatpants. "Scully?" "Yes, Mulder?" "Get out of that tub, baby. I wanna fuck you." I slowly opened my eyes, craned my head back and looked at his interestingly inverted features gazing down at me from under heavy lids. Which part offended me more? The 'baby' part, or the 'fuck command performance?' And...which part turned me on more? He was hiding under those hooded eyelids. Now I could see fear in his eyes. This was the first time he'd tried to push with me. He was waiting. I closed my eyes again and let my neck sink back on the warm porcelain. I licked the beads of sweat from my upper lip. And I waited too. What was the point of him ordering me around if he got his way the first time? What did that prove to him? With my toe, I pulled the plug from the drain so the water level began to sink, revealing my flushed skin. His breathing became deep and satisfied but he stayed on that toilet. I concentrated, centering my thoughts between my thighs. Let the tissues want him, openly and freely. Let them do a 'happy dance' of anticipation. I couldn't stop the smile from forming on my lips. "Scully?" "Hmmm?" "You gonna get out of that tub?" "You're not going to join me?" "No. I've got something else in mind." I let my eyelids drift open again. There was a definite advantage to sex with another human being. Although there was an increased risk of dissatisfaction, there was also the thrill of the unknown. Masturbation becomes dreary and predictable after the first five years--as I'd had the misfortune to discover. I rose from the tub and finally turned to face him. He had his sweats pushed down and was slowly working his cock to a rigid state. I watched, swinging a leg over the side of the tub and getting out. He didn't let me get a towel. He was up and over me that quickly, sucking and biting at my painfully heat-softened skin, his big hands squeezing and molding all the rounded shapes to new forms. The thrill of the unknown was nicely coupled with his mind-reading ability. His palm was grinding on my clit as two fingers stretched me open, stroking me from the inside out. I arched my back and pulled his head up to get his attention. I forgot what I was going to say but he must have seen something in my expression that dictated his next move. I was spun around, reduced to hanging onto the edge of the tub, staring down into the slowly swirling bubble-laced water as it drained away. He pulled my hips up as high as I could go, up onto my tiptoes. He still had to bend his knees and the pops of his joints were loud as shots. "Mulder," I warned, and then he was pushing into me and I couldn't think of a thing to say. This was impossible. This was never going to work, but there was no way in hell that I was going to stop him. He was going slow-- how could he go slow? So far, our lovemaking had been sloppy, hurried, frantic--us. We were lucky if he could last a dozen thrusts before coming but I couldn't find a complaint. I embarrassed myself too. All my thoughts were scattered and silly, like some teenager: 'Mulder's cock's big! It's inside me! Mulder's inside me!' We didn't have sex often and we always did it like someone was going to come into the room and tear us apart at any moment. Maybe neither of us wanted to give the other enough time to think about how insane this idea was. How was he lasting tonight? Of all nights? I'd been anticipating another quick fuck, my nerves tingling, ready for their furious explosion. But now, it couldn't happen. He had an angle that was so close to many places but never close enough. I could hear my voice, whining, moaning, sounding horribly needy. My clit was swollen, painfully fat, like an overripe berry hanging under dark leaves, wanting to be plucked. I needed to get off his cock and help myself come, but I didn't want to lose that internal pressure. I risked lifting one hand, but immediately began to lose my balance. No! Back to gripping the tub, pushing back against him desperately, trying to get enough friction from his hardened balls to get something to happen. A chuckle. The bastard was laughing at me, and just kept up the slow grind. A voice was begging. It was my voice. "Please, Mulder. Please. Touch me." Guttural words back. "You wanna be touched?" "Ye..." was all I could manage as the last of the bubbles in the tub swam in my slipping focus. He'd been gripping my hips tightly, but now let go, trusting me to keep in position. My calves were cramping, but I couldn't think about that pain. My clit. He needed to touch me there. His touch was whisper fine, like walking through a spider web. This was more sensuous to me than groping. We were so sensitive to touch after so many years untouched, it wasn't uncommon for him to come when I unzipped his pants. He would apologize, of course, a perfect gentleman--even with sticky boxers. He'd make up for it--always the gentleman. But that night... The feathery touch glided over my ass, making circles, mimicking my tattoo. I knew he was looking at it. But he never touches it. I don't have the guts to ask him why. "Touch it," I moaned again. His palms came to rest on my ass cheeks, spreading them wide. His reply. "You want me to touch you?" I tried to squeeze down on his cock, but I'm so swollen already, it's a useless gesture. He laughed again and I gasped with fury. Then he touched me. I cried out with surprise and then ecstasy. Lightly, gently, he traced that circle around my anus. It contracted under this assault, as needy as every other tissue in my body. "Mulder..." I couldn't think at all. I could only beg. Everywhere was on fire, aching with unrelieved desire, with pain, with sweet stimulation. He chuckled again. How can he possibly last this long? This is like some ridiculous sexual fantasy with the big-dicked, faceless man fucking me in the supply closet. The young black guy on security gate 6. He always smiles widely. "Good morning, Agent," as he hands me my gun. His smile fucks me. His eyes fuck me. And it's so easy to be in that supply closet, his big dark thighs lifting me, pushing that thick cock I see nicely outlined in his horrible polyester uniform pants way deep, deep, deep... "Scully!" Mulder could tell. He could sense a loss of connection between us. It was my turn to laugh, weak and gasping. "Yeah..." and I waited a beat, "Mulder?" "You're a bad girl! A bad, bad, girl!" he seemed to be joking, but his tempo sped up. At last. "Yeah," I could say. I'm whirling--falling--his cock was out of me. I cried out in anguish. I'd been close. So close. I staggered away. Found myself in the dark bedroom, unsure where I was going and why I'd gone there. He followed, pursuing, reaching, grabbing. We were on the rug, damp from the water off my body and the cooler air settled on my skin, peaking it to goosebumps and tightening my nipples. My ass was dragged up into the air and the chill hit my still gaping opening, sending a shiver through my body. I scrambled at the ground, trying to get up on my hands and knees. We were both laughing then. He grabbed my hands, and pulled them roughly back, pinning them to the small of my back, leaving me to rest on my chest, with my face turned to the side, gasping for breath. He knocked a deep groan out of me when he pushed back in. This time, he pounded at me, our thighs slapping and straining at each other, his sweatpants-bound legs giving him the leverage for strength. I was completely pinned down by him. I couldn't touch him. That cock inside me was my center, my focus. Now the angle was swiping the right place with every stroke. But I still needed... One more try. "Please, Mulder. Please touch me." He was bent over me, his soft tee shirt stroking at my bare back and his moist breath raining down in my ear. Somehow he kept my wrists confined and finally reached down under us. He crushed my clit with a hard rub of his knuckles, bursting the ripeness, causing the sweet juice to rush out and cover his hand. At last--at last...I was sobbing and writhing under him, an exquisitely slow explosion radiating out from my center, enveloping his cock first, squeezing it down to nothing. He cried out in protest/triumph but I didn't pay him any heed. The waves of sensation had taken over my limbs, numbing them with a hot glow. He rolled my clit to the side, rubbing, prolonging my orgasm to an unbearable free fall towards a deep blue sea. Shattered, pieces of me burning on reentry, I was sure it would never end. When the sharp pain of over-stimulation finally replaced the ecstasy, I sobbed at the loss, my throat painfully raw. He stopped touching me, but his hips continued to give off jerky thrusts, seeming to bob on the remains of our storm. Boneless, drained of my blood, I dropped to the floor, sliding off his rapidly shrinking penis. "Scully?" His weight settled on top of me, pressing me to the rug. Those were the days when I loved the sensation of being completely covered by this man. But I couldn't answer. What was there to say? ... X. At my sharp words, he twists his neck to look up at me in confusion. "What?" I motion at the tub. "You think you can *cure* me? Fix me? So you can get laid again?" He stands, unashamedly nude, his arms slack at his sides, his face first confused, then comprehending. He shakes his head. "Not everything is about you, Scully." We both seem to reel back from the blow of our cruel words. I collapse on the toilet and he slips into the water, like a creature returning to its deep-sea home. For some obscene reason, he decides to comfort me. "You can find the answers you seek. I got my answer." I can't stop myself. "Mulder--" "I held her again. I hugged my sister one more time. I realized that's all I needed now. For this moment." I stare at the back of his head, the heat of the room beginning to darken his hair with sweat and make my hose and wool suit stick to my skin. "For a brief moment I was free. And like an addict in recovery, I'm afraid now. Afraid that it is just for this day, and yesterday and the day before. But will I feel this way tomorrow?" Cautiously, I suggest, "A crime happened, Mulder. Someone killed her. There must be justice." His head dipped once, as though he was acknowledging my words but he poured a scoop of water over his head. "At what price?" "Someone took that young woman from her family. Probed at her-- did tests on her until she couldn't take it anymore!" My voice has risen to echo in the small space. I need to get control again. "Yes." His head dips again and I watch the rivulets of water trickle down his corded neck. I have to pull off my jacket and toss it aside, frustration adding to the heat of the room. I find myself blind with that frustration, swirling and untethered. His voice is low. "When will it stop?" "What?" "She didn't know her last name. She didn't know her past. She didn't know where she was born." Automatically, I lift a washcloth, wet it, and began to smooth it over his shoulders to soothe the anxiety I see rising in him. "Sometimes, in my fanciful moments, I wonder if they created her out of the white ash, the fragments of bone, the dull hair of dead women. That's what her pictures looked like, from that time. Like a rag doll, sewn together from remnants." My brow furrows in confusion, but I don't ask. I dip the cloth into the tub again, savoring the warm water, before wringing it out over his arm. His voice drones on. "She lied by omission. She thought if she never said the words out loud, it never happened to her--the tests, the horrors, the humiliation." My hands still and I watch my fingers tense on the cloth. "She wore a cross. A simple gold cross like yours. I think she saw it as her passport to this country. To the promised land, a place with no pain, no danger." I felt as though we were in a confessional. Faces obscured, souls trapped in a small space, the low, whispered words twisting around with the smoke rising from the candles. "She took her children to church, hiding us under the white steeples. As though They wouldn't find us there. Even without knowing her past, I sensed the lie. I would sit there on that pew, Sunday after Sunday, and knew they were lying, she and my Dad. They had no faith to give me and couldn't teach me hypocrisy." His tone finally has some emotion and it's one of rising anger. "I never would have known the truth, I'm sure of it. But one day, a man came to the house. After Samantha was gone. After my father was gone. He had a picture to show her. A doctor from the camp. Did she know the face of this old man? Was it him?" Weakened by the picture he's painting, I sink back against the cool porcelain tank of the toilet. He begins spooning water over his chest and shoulders. "I hid behind the door and listened. 'What will you do to him? Will there be a trial?' she asked. He just smiled at her questions. Told her not to worry. She wouldn't have to face the doctor." Mulder nodded, seeming to agree with some unspoken comment. "He was a very nice man. He took me for a Coke, asked me about my plans after high school." The washcloth has left a dark, wet stain on my skirt. He doesn't seem to notice as I drop it with a limp hand into the water beside him. "I met him again. When I was at Oxford. Ran into him a pub. He was watching a man. A physicist at Jesus. I saw him. He noticed me. He talked to me again. I asked him what he was doing there. He only smiled. Two days later, the physicist was found dead, in the river, apparent heart attack. I caught up with him on the train that night. He wouldn't answer any of my questions. He only had more questions for me. About my plans after university. I realize now he was trying to recruit me." Turning his head, he finally directs his words to me and not the wavering shadows on the walls. "He was a nice man, Scully. I've met cold-blooded killers. He wasn't one of them. He was a man who chose to give his soul to avenge six million others." As he unconsciously rubs the small, hard knobby scars left on his neck by the rattlesnake's fangs, he says, "It seems like a cheap price for a righteous cause. Have we given our souls away for a righteous cause, Scully?" My head is pounding and I want to flee the room. Is this another attempt to cut open my wounds? I am a murderer. He may not see me this way, but I do. I have taken a life in cold blood. "You can't understand what killing that man means to me," I spit out. I'm unbearably hot and jump to my feet, glaring down in frustration at the back of his head. He ignores me and returns to his story. "I went looking for her name, any family. I searched records, interviewed people. She wouldn't help. 'It's the past, Fox. I don't want to think about the past.' I finally found an old Dutch woman, family all gone, blind, deaf; who'd sheltered a Jewish child in the early days of the war. Maybe her name had been Teena. Maybe she had been four." I can't take the heat and sweat anymore. I feel unclean and quickly strip off my crumbled, stained clothing. The water is calling to me. "She couldn't remember who had brought the girl to the house. All she could remember clearly, was the light, the bright light in the dark night when they came and took her away." He doesn't look at me, but pulls his legs up to his chest so I can fit in next to the faucet, bracketing his white feet with my bent legs. Our eyes meet at last as I sink to my neck under the hot water, reflecting dark gold candlelight. He shifts his gaze away and begins chewing on his thumb like a child. "I couldn't find her, Scully. I couldn't find my Mom. She's been dead for so long, Scully--" He finally cries. Thank God. His tears are hidden in the rivulets of perspiration running down his cheeks, but the raw sob in his words reveals his pain. "She was there. With the Walk-ins. Somehow it seemed right. She always remained that child who walked out from behind the barbed wire fence." The water feels so clean and clear as I pour it over my shoulders and chest with my cupped hands. Washing all this away for both of us. He clears his throat and his voice is suddenly strong. "I have to wonder--Did I find out Samantha was dead because I stopped believing? She remained alive only because I believed?" His wet, shriveled hands grip his bent head. Muffled, his words keep pouring out. "Am I real? If my mother wasn't real? My family is all gone. Was I ever a Jew? I never feel *anything.* No connection. Isn't that what faith is? A feeling?" His eyes catch mine again, looking for conformation. "I'm alone, without any past--" His head dips to accept a dribble of water out of his palm. "--and unsure of the future." I say it easily. "You're not alone. Never. You were never alone. Not from the moment I walked into that basement office." He surprises me again. Jerking his head up, he fixes me with a passionate, blazing look, and then declares, "My mother tried to hide, Scully. She thought They wouldn't find us that way, but They still took Samantha. I don't want to hide in the basement, or in my life, ever again. I like feeling free, Scully." The water is cooling. I guess we can't stay in this tub forever. "All right," I say slowly, wondering what I've just agreed to. I stand, wavering slightly on my loose muscles. He rises too, and the water streams down his body like a waterfall. After we both step out of the tub, I hand him a towel, feeling oddly awkward. He seems to have shaken himself free of his numbness, but what does that mean for us? We stand back to back, rubbing our bodies dry. He's hesitant, shifting from foot to foot. The candles have burned low, guttered, and the air in the room wavers, warm and deep red as the inside of a heart. When I touch his chest, his skin jumps. I let both hands skim over his soft surface, sighing deeply. "Scully?" "I feel better now." "I'm glad--" he whispers, right before his mouth seals over mine. Finally, I pull back and I see instant worry shimmering in the dark pools of his eyes. I can only smile, and begin backing up, taking him with me down the dark hall and into my bedroom. As we tumble onto the bed, I spread him over me like a warm blanket, letting his weight press me down into my new comforter. The one with lavender violets that he bought and smoothed over the mattress. 'The flowers reminded me of your eyes, Scully.' My breath starts to come fast, from somewhere deep in my diaphragm-- I'm reminded of the moment when the sails on a boat are unfastened, and the wrinkles and folds begin to smooth out-- "Scully...Scully..." His touch is so light it could be a breeze, stroking between my legs-- There's this moment when the sails are open, but hang limp, seeming to wait, wait for just the perfect gust-- I gasp out a long breath between kiss-swollen lips as he slides into me-- And then it catches the wind, filling and filling, taking a shape, white and glowing in the sun-- "Mulder! Mulder, the light!" I say frantically. He stills. "Oh, God, Scully. I'm sorry." He's fumbling for the bedside lamp. "Are you all right, baby?" His face, filled with concern, is suddenly illuminated over me. I actually laugh. "Yeah, *baby*, I'm fine. I..." I slide my hands down his broad back, covering his butt, squeezing and pulling for encouragement. "I just wanted to see you. I want to see everything." His smile splits his face in two and he pushes himself up on his hands to rock over me. I love the moment when the sail is full but the ship hasn't caught its tug yet. I would stand; legs spread, and wait, my breath tight in my chest with anticipation. At the first yank, I would stagger, and then right myself. Find the center of the ship's movement--find those sea legs. And just let myself join nature's power-- I gasp in pain. The power of the love I feel at this moment is overwhelming. The sea does this to me too. It's so pure it hurts me with its beauty. Mulder's face is that pure and beautiful in orgasm, waves of joy shifting over his features. Now, under the glow of my lamp, it blinds me. I can see everything for the first time. Swept away by wonder, I watch and smile through the tears that have shaken loose. He sinks down over me, trying to roll away, but I won't let him. "Stay right here. I need you." He seems to stiffen in shock for an instant. My face nestled in the crook of his neck, I smile at the realization that those words were probably more unexpected from me than 'I love you' ever was. I assume he's going to slip off to sleep, but I can feel him thinking. I swear I can almost hear the gears turning in his mind. "Scully, I know this doesn't solve anything. I mean...I didn't just want to get laid." "I know." I grumble a bit to myself as I relax back into the bed. He's going to keep talking, no matter what I say to reassure him. He does. "You've never asked me what I believe in, Scully." He wants to pick a fight? Stiffening under him, I say, "I think you've made it pretty clear in the past." He raises his head to look into my eyes, brushing my tangled, damp hair off my brow. He seems sad when he says, "I want to believe we've solved something by finding an answer to my sister's disappearance, or we've solved something between us tonight, but I can't. Life will never be black and white for me. All I ever seem to find is more questions." His brow crinkles in worry. "Or am I being that addict?" I'm not sure what to say. For some reason, fear is rising in me again. "Someone hurt your sister, Mulder," I say cautiously. His hands cradle my head, holding it in place so I can't turn away. "Someone hurt you, Scully." The fear blooms, hot and red. His voice, slow with compassion, says, "I want to know who hurt you. Because no one stopped them from hurting my sister, they went on to get you and all those other women. It's wrong." I force the word out. "Yes." His lips brush my damp cheeks. "It will be a lot of work--" I parrot, "Yes." His fingertips are stroking at my temples, my earlobes, my neck. "It's going to hurt--a lot. Things will get harder before they get easier." He rises up to give me a shaky grin. "We'll probably fight more." My body has gone soft again, as warm and loose as it was when I floated in the bath. "Yes," I murmur lazily, "But I'll risk that." His chuckle vibrates through my body and I clutch him to me tightly. He stills instantly and we lie together, and then he starts to gently rock me--my ship. I doubt he expected me to say more. But the words will be a prayer. I whisper just loud enough for him to hear, "I want to be free." ~~~~~~~~~~~~THE END~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AUTHOR'S NOTES: Obviously, I didn't find much closure in 'Closure.' Other than the fact that many viewers are heartily sick of the search for Samantha and the many possible explanations for her disappearance, I could think of no other reason to accept the latest one. But I can't believe the Mulder I have in my imagination would walk away from the deaths of his mother and sister without thought. And there is that little matter of Scully's shaken moral center, along with the lingering question of what happened during her abduction. Yes, CC, there are still some unanswered questions for viewers. Telivah: Immersion in the mikvah, a ritual bath used for spiritual purification. It is used primarily in conversion rituals and after the period of sexual separation during a woman's menstrual cycles, but many Chasidim undergo tevilah regularly for general spiritual purification. feedback to: bugs1231@my-deja.com webpages: http://urw.simplenet.com/bugs A collective of XF writers- http://urw.simplenet.com/rookery