COME INSIDE
By Char Chaffin
MSR, PG-13

Spoilers:  "XF2: I Want to Believe"

Dedication:  For Rae-Baby, on her birthday!  And for Nancy, because
she went looking for it -

Inspiration for this story: a photo in People Magazine.  I'm sure
everyone knows which photo I refer to!

Disclaimer:  Clones on Loan

~~~

She pulls on her boots, sitting there on the edge of the bed.  It
seems she's always dressing to leave.

No, that's not fair.  That's not really true.  She doesn't always
leave.  It's just that he never wants her apart from him, and so he
tends to see the glass half-empty instead of half-full.

Actually, the glass, more often than not, is half-empty.  In his
opinion, of course.

~~~~

They argue.  They bicker.  They disagree.  They shout and they swear
at each other.  Then they meet in the middle of the room, the road,
the path, and link hands, look into each others' eyes, and silently
re-affirm what has always been their own particular truth: stronger
together.  Weaker, apart.  Powerful when connected, whether mentally
or physically.  

Hand to hand.  Body to body and mouth to mouth.  Doesn't matter.

They're stronger.

~~~~

He wants to pursue this latest trouble, and she doesn't.  In itself
their individual attitudes are nothing new.  He's ready to jump, leap
into the new fray, solve it all and find yet another truth.  She
holds back.  Trouble coming, she tells him.  Hiding in plain sight is
one thing, but inviting exposure is the harshest kind of frostbite. 
It's not smart, it's not best for them.  She's tired of doing it, she
tells him.  She just wants to live in as much peace as they can
manage.

He's not really listening.  She finds herself resigned enough to
accept that he's not.

~~~~

They were living apart for a while but it was killing both of them. 
He'd gotten what she not-so-affectionately calls 'a wild hair,' and
he'd wanted to take off, investigate it.  Of course, his
characteristic exuberance had irritated her enough that she told him
she needed a break.  She said it on impulse but found herself
actually following through when it became clear she truly DID need a
break.

She left early on a Monday morning; left him in the bed they shared
with one bare arm flung over his eyes, refusing to watch her walk out
the door wearing her coat.  She'd pulled on her boots that morning,
too... but she'd made a little detour closer to the bed and had
reached out to slip careful fingers over his hair as he lay there and
stubbornly wouldn't look up.

"I'm coming back.  You know I will.  Get this out of your system,
Mulder. Follow up on whatever you think you need to, and I'll be back
in a few weeks.  I have to get away.  I know you don't understand. 
Sometimes I don't, either."

He'd finally raised his arm enough to peer up at her.  She refused
to acknowledge the damp at the corner of one eye; his voice was rusty
when he stated, "You'll be gone more than a few weeks.  Call it a
premonition.  You'll be gone long enough for me to worry that you
won't come back."  He sat up suddenly and snagged her, coat and all;
wrapped her in both arms and pressed her tightly to his nude body,
the sheets now pooled at his thighs and her feet dangling off the
side of the mattress.  She'd wound her fingers through his hair and
had moaned when his mouth crushed to hers, when his hands worked
their way under her coat and cupped her breasts.  The kiss went on,
and on... but he eventually let her go and she walked away.  

And was gone three months.  

~~~~

She came back on a dreary, rainy day, shaking the wet from her hair,
her coat.  She was drenched, cold, achy and had a fever.  The key
she'd kept pinned to the inside of her pocket still worked and she'd
let herself into the house, had walked right to the bathroom and had
shed every damp layer.  She'd taken a blisteringly hot shower, then
had snuggled into the old terrycloth robe he left hanging on the
door.  It smelled like Mulder.

She'd crawled into bed wearing the robe, had drawn the covers over
her head and had slept for eleven hours.

When she awoke, he was sitting on the side of the bed in roughly the
same position she'd been in, the day she'd walked away... and when
she started to cry and reached out both hands to grasp at him, Mulder
had come down to her, had come down on her, his outer clothes pressed
to the robe she still wore.  They kissed as if they'd never been
apart; as if they'd never said anything but hello and good morning to
each other.

They'd made love the same way, too, with an edge of desperation
laced with tenderness that had earmarked most of their sexual
encounters, from Day One.

She whispered she was sorry, that she'd been gone far longer than
she'd promised, and that she'd never leave him again.  He whispered
back that it was all right, that he loved her, needed her, wanted
her, would always be there for her.

She never asked him what he'd found.

He never asked her where she'd been.

And both of them pretended their unanswered questions didn't matter.

~~~~

Now she opens the front door and walks down the steps, away from the
old house that has been haven as well as refuge.  It has always
bothered her that the lease is in just Mulder's name, although to be
fair he'd found the place by himself and had put up all the deposits
and had paid the utilities.  

She tells herself it's different than her old feelings concerning
the desk in the basement that wasn't hers.  She tells herself it's
not the same at all.  That was so many years ago; that was foolish. 
It's not the same.      

She just doesn't want to go back into the unknown again.  She has a
right to not want it in her life, their lives.  They've been doing
well, haven't they?  They've been happy - well, as happy as it's
possible to be, considering there are pieces of their families
missing from them - and they have been content.  The love has been
stronger than ever, their need for each other undiminished, powerful.

In her pocket is the front door key, pinned to the lining.  She's
tossed a bag into the front seat of the car.  It's not like she's
leaving him stranded; he's got the truck.  It's not like she didn't
warn him this would happen, if he jumped back into it again.

~~~~

She told him.

"Not again.  Please, Mulder... if you do this, if you insist, you'll
be doing it without me."  She'd stared up at him, wondering if she
was even getting through to him.  She whispered, "I'm so tired,
Mulder.  I just want some peace in my life.  Just some peace."

He'd moved closer to her, had slid his hands down her arms and had
clasped her fingers.  His face was somber, his eyes so earnest. 
"There's no peace for us, not now, maybe not ever.  Scully, we left
peace outside the door the first time we walked through it and into
our first case together.  Peace isn't something the likes of us can
hope for."

He'd drawn her to him and had pressed his mouth against her hair,
and his words had ruffled the silky strands.  "We fight the battles
and we don't always win.  We search for some kind of solution, some
sort of resolution in a world where resolution and solution is a
fleeting thing.  We throw ourselves against the walls and sometimes
we pass through them, and other times we just end up bloody and
bruised."  His hand slipped under her chin and he'd raised her eyes
to his.  "Together, Scully.  Always.  Don't leave me.  Don't make me
throw myself at the wall, alone."

"I can't.  Don't ask me to, Mulder.  I'm still healing from the last
time."  She'd eased gently from his embrace and had walked to the
door, had forced herself not to look back.

~~~~

He follows her from the house, walks out the door just as she's
tossing her case in the front seat.  Resigned to fighting it out
again, it would appear in public view this time, she steels herself
for another emotional tug of war.  

But he stops in front of her, simply stops and stares down at her,
silently.  There's a world of sad knowledge in his eyes, that they've
been right here in the past so many times and always it's been his
doing.  His fight, her reluctance and then acceptance mixed with her
desire to stand beside him and walk into that wall with him. 
Sometimes the wall wasn't hers to walk into but she did it anyway. 
And often the wall belonged to her, and he fought for the right to
bash himself against it, all in her name, her cause.

Has she forgotten all of those times?  No, she hasn't.  They're
burned into her memory the same as the first time he touched her,
held her, made her so much more than his.  

Fifteen years, and he's still able to hold her in place with those
glittering hazel eyes.  They hold her now, as they forever will.  And
she is undecided as to the strength she has, against their pull.

When he speaks her name, his voice pulls at her, too.  "Scully. 
Please."

If he puts his hands on her, she knows she'll be lost.  It's hard
enough, fighting against the emotion she can see on his face and hear
in his voice.  She doesn't want to leave him.  She never wants to,
but sometimes for her own sanity she needs to.

<Don't touch me, Mulder.  Don't.  Let me get into the car and drive
away, let me find that small spot of peace, while you work your way
through another battle and slam up against another wall.>

She doesn't speak aloud, but her thoughts are not silent.

His hand reaches for her, cups her head, pulls her close.  His arms
come around her and he holds her, just holds her.  Closer.  Warmer. 
Without demand.  Deep and still, silent and needful.  She can feel
the steady beat of his heart, she can feel the heat of his skin
through the thin pullover he wears.  She can feel him, strong and yet
a supplicant, standing before her.  She can smell his skin; that
clean and good smell that comes from cotton hung out in the breeze to
dry, touches of soap and the lingering traces of after-shave...  

Mulder.  Just Mulder, the one man who gets to her, over and over. 
Who loves her madly, sanely, completely.  

When she looks up through her lashes at him, the expression on his
face almost does her in.  How can she remain focused and on her
chosen track when his face is beyond tender, when his parted lips
form a murmur that strikes right into her soul; when everything about
him beckons to her, as potently as ever?  

"Scully.  Come back into the house with me.  Come back in.  Please."

It's the look that makes her choose.  It's the hands on her face, in
her hair, that gives her pause.  It's the body, pressed to hers, that
calls more forcefully than a lengthy discussion of persuasion.  It's
the lips opening against hers, desire and love in every stroke of
tongue on tongue, that tell her what she realizes she needs to hear.  

It's the man in her arms who needs her, who adores her, who fights
by her side... simply that and really nothing else.

She manages a tiny smile.  Her eyes warm up as they gaze into his. 
Her fingers twine with his.  She doesn't feel the cold wind as they
stand together, ready to step up and face another wall.

"Come inside, Scully."

She does.

End
 
End note:  Of course, the scene preceding and following that amazing
photo could go either way.  Maybe she's leaving for good and maybe
she's just going to work.  Maybe she'll get into the car anyway and
drive off... and maybe she'll hold his hand as they walk back into
the house, through the door and all the way into the bedroom, where
the scene may or may not fade to black.  

Twenty people will look at the photo and twenty people will make
different conclusions.  It just adds to the suspense, the watchful
waiting.  And the excitement!

Rae, hope you have fun in LA for the premiere!  Happiest of
birthdays!  

Thanks for reading!  Come and chat with me, anytime:  char@chaffin.com

My website:  http://char.chaffin.com