Visitation Rights (1/3)
It's Friday night, so I am sure that everyone is sitting at home reading fanfic like me! AHAHAHA! Enjoy.
Title: Visitation Rights
Part: 1 of 2. (Well, I think it will be two. It could be three! WHO KNOWS?!)
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: The X-Files
Word Count: 1268.
Rating: R for language and adult themes.
Spoilers: Through 7x07 "Orison." This is a post-ep for "Orison."
Characters: Mulder/Scully.
Excerpt: Every day when I get home I think it: I watch him watching me arrive, take off my coat and shirt and shoes, change into my pajamas. I used to dream of you watching me that way, from the bed maybe, smiling all the time. Now I can't.
It's been almost two months now, and still it hums and throbs in her head like a car accident. She thinks she must be overdoing it; it's absurd for her to be reeling this much, for her to wake over and over in the night with Pfaster's voice in her ears and her pajamas stuck to the sweat of her back. She's so tempted to prescribe herself Xanax or Prozac or even Vicodin, just on the off-chance that it will upset her brain chemistry enough to knock out the echo of that fucking voice.
But there is an equal chance that medication would give her neverending inescapable dreams; that she'd be feeling the bind on her wrists even when she got up in the morning. So she holds still. She stops taking baths, and only showers. She spends very little time in bed, she drinks three times as much coffee as usual, she goes to work with Mulder, and she tries not to think about him the way she used to.
It's not easy. He answers the phone with his shirtsleeves rolled up, and the way he meets her eyes as he talks nearly undoes her. He's inviting her to come over and listen in - to be involved - to lean into the cocoon of his warm body. She stays where she is.
He starts to defend their case; it must be Skinner on the other line. He repeats words she shouted up to him just a few hours ago in the autopsy bay, and when he does he raises his eyebrows at her - like he's asking her to ignore the way he's given in to her theory of coincidence. Just this once, he's saying. She smirks. It makes him smile. She smiles back and it seems like he notices nothing.
And then there's the knock on her door at 3:37 a.m., in the middle of a Lifetime movie that's totally failing to assauge her mental torture.
She knows it's him; she knows assailants don't knock; and yet panic blooms beneath her breasts until she's peeking through the hole and there he is, his chin huge in the lens.
"Hey, Scully," he greets her when the door opens, and she doesn't know what to do with the duffel bag over his shoulder, so she just stares. He follows her gaze.
"Oh," he says. "There was a fire in my building. Can I come in?"
The way he mumbles that bit about fire convinces her this isn't a joke, isn't like him stealing her keys last Christmas.
"Are you okay?" she asks as she locks the door behind him. She wants to put a hand on his arm, but because she wants to, she doesn't. She doesn't get his bag, either; she just pushes past him and settles on the couch and tries to stop thinking about the smooth, even line of his jaw. The thump on the floor is him dropping the duffel, and when she looks up at him she realizes he hasn't answered.
"Are you okay?" This time, she whispers.
The corner of his mouth jerks up, and Scully prepares herself for a moment of wry honesty.
"I woke up forty minutes ago smelling smoke," he admits. "I've been better." He drops to the couch next to her, looking drained and shaken; Scully wonders if he was even sleeping. It feels safe now to put a hand to his shoulder, to rub the cotton of his shirt as he sits with his head in his hands - it feels safe to offer him that. It's still odd, seeing him crumble in front of her, but the knowledge that he needs her is sweet and intoxicating.
And then he turns to her and his eyes change, develop that sheen of passionate concern; the bottom drops out of her stomach. He tilts his head slightly: "You? Are you okay?"
It's too late at night for her to lie.
"I've been better, too," she says finally, casting her eyes to the pattern of the couch. This upholstery is ugly; how long has she had it?
"Scully," he murmurs.
It happens again, just like the first time; nothing's changed in five years, apparently. The shame and humiliation and sheer frustration are welling up in Scully's eyes and her tears are hot, hot, hot, digging home at last the fact that the human body temperature is one hell of a sweltering summer day. Her hand slides off his shoulder and he reaches for it, but she barely registers the touch of his fingers as he gathers the hand in his - she's just angry. Confused. She can't figure out why this keeps happening, right when she most wants to be in control. And around Mulder.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he tells her.
"I know," she answers. With her eyes slammed shut, with wet defeat rolling down her cheeks, she nods. She does know. She's never seen Skinner look at a male agent - or a female agent, for that matter - the way he looked at her, after she filed her report.
She squeezes Mulder's hand, like maybe she could take it out on him.
"What, specifically, is bothering you?" he asks gently.
Oh, I don't know, Mulder, she wants to say. How stupid it was for me to leave my gun out, to take it off at all. How easy it was for him to tie me up and kick me to the side. How I've been remembering that armful of shampoos, and how the only thing that makes it better is cutting off as much of my own hair as I can possibly manage without it being obvious - like destroying it myself will keep the sick pleasure from anyone else. The darkness, the panic, the embarrassment of desperately hoping you'd show up and then the overwhelming relief when you did - the way I collapsed into you that night. How sweet it felt to pull the trigger and watch him die. How horrible it was to think that even Donnie Pfaster had a mother; to look in the mirror and see a killer, a label no government badge could erase.
Every day when I get home I think it: I watch him watching me arrive, take off my coat and shirt and shoes, change into my pajamas. I used to dream of you watching me that way, from the bed maybe, smiling all the time. Now I can't.
What, specifically, is bothering you.
"Oh, Mulder, we'll be here all night."
"Well, it looks like you were set for that anyway," he remarks, and gestures toward the muted TV. "Although I can understand if you don't want to miss out on the rest of 'The Jenna Parker Story.'"
Her mouth twitches, and she reaches for the remote. And then they are alone, practically cuddling on her couch. She wants to enjoy it, but because she wants to, she doesn't.
He's silent, waiting, so finally she says something.
"It's just so silly that this is affecting me so much."
"Scully, how many sexual assault victims have you interviewed?" She meets his eyes, searching for humor, but there is none. Sexual assault. There it is: legal justification.
"You know this isn't silly," he continues. "You know it makes perfect sense that this affects you."
"It - feels like - I feel like he took something from me," she says. Maybe she's overreacting, but he's here. He's listening.
"Yeah," Mulder responds, and his other hand comes up to shadow her cheek. "But he didn't. He didn't take anything away from you."
Title: Visitation Rights
Part: 1 of 2. (Well, I think it will be two. It could be three! WHO KNOWS?!)
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: The X-Files
Word Count: 1268.
Rating: R for language and adult themes.
Spoilers: Through 7x07 "Orison." This is a post-ep for "Orison."
Characters: Mulder/Scully.
Excerpt: Every day when I get home I think it: I watch him watching me arrive, take off my coat and shirt and shoes, change into my pajamas. I used to dream of you watching me that way, from the bed maybe, smiling all the time. Now I can't.
It's been almost two months now, and still it hums and throbs in her head like a car accident. She thinks she must be overdoing it; it's absurd for her to be reeling this much, for her to wake over and over in the night with Pfaster's voice in her ears and her pajamas stuck to the sweat of her back. She's so tempted to prescribe herself Xanax or Prozac or even Vicodin, just on the off-chance that it will upset her brain chemistry enough to knock out the echo of that fucking voice.
But there is an equal chance that medication would give her neverending inescapable dreams; that she'd be feeling the bind on her wrists even when she got up in the morning. So she holds still. She stops taking baths, and only showers. She spends very little time in bed, she drinks three times as much coffee as usual, she goes to work with Mulder, and she tries not to think about him the way she used to.
It's not easy. He answers the phone with his shirtsleeves rolled up, and the way he meets her eyes as he talks nearly undoes her. He's inviting her to come over and listen in - to be involved - to lean into the cocoon of his warm body. She stays where she is.
He starts to defend their case; it must be Skinner on the other line. He repeats words she shouted up to him just a few hours ago in the autopsy bay, and when he does he raises his eyebrows at her - like he's asking her to ignore the way he's given in to her theory of coincidence. Just this once, he's saying. She smirks. It makes him smile. She smiles back and it seems like he notices nothing.
And then there's the knock on her door at 3:37 a.m., in the middle of a Lifetime movie that's totally failing to assauge her mental torture.
She knows it's him; she knows assailants don't knock; and yet panic blooms beneath her breasts until she's peeking through the hole and there he is, his chin huge in the lens.
"Hey, Scully," he greets her when the door opens, and she doesn't know what to do with the duffel bag over his shoulder, so she just stares. He follows her gaze.
"Oh," he says. "There was a fire in my building. Can I come in?"
The way he mumbles that bit about fire convinces her this isn't a joke, isn't like him stealing her keys last Christmas.
"Are you okay?" she asks as she locks the door behind him. She wants to put a hand on his arm, but because she wants to, she doesn't. She doesn't get his bag, either; she just pushes past him and settles on the couch and tries to stop thinking about the smooth, even line of his jaw. The thump on the floor is him dropping the duffel, and when she looks up at him she realizes he hasn't answered.
"Are you okay?" This time, she whispers.
The corner of his mouth jerks up, and Scully prepares herself for a moment of wry honesty.
"I woke up forty minutes ago smelling smoke," he admits. "I've been better." He drops to the couch next to her, looking drained and shaken; Scully wonders if he was even sleeping. It feels safe now to put a hand to his shoulder, to rub the cotton of his shirt as he sits with his head in his hands - it feels safe to offer him that. It's still odd, seeing him crumble in front of her, but the knowledge that he needs her is sweet and intoxicating.
And then he turns to her and his eyes change, develop that sheen of passionate concern; the bottom drops out of her stomach. He tilts his head slightly: "You? Are you okay?"
It's too late at night for her to lie.
"I've been better, too," she says finally, casting her eyes to the pattern of the couch. This upholstery is ugly; how long has she had it?
"Scully," he murmurs.
It happens again, just like the first time; nothing's changed in five years, apparently. The shame and humiliation and sheer frustration are welling up in Scully's eyes and her tears are hot, hot, hot, digging home at last the fact that the human body temperature is one hell of a sweltering summer day. Her hand slides off his shoulder and he reaches for it, but she barely registers the touch of his fingers as he gathers the hand in his - she's just angry. Confused. She can't figure out why this keeps happening, right when she most wants to be in control. And around Mulder.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he tells her.
"I know," she answers. With her eyes slammed shut, with wet defeat rolling down her cheeks, she nods. She does know. She's never seen Skinner look at a male agent - or a female agent, for that matter - the way he looked at her, after she filed her report.
She squeezes Mulder's hand, like maybe she could take it out on him.
"What, specifically, is bothering you?" he asks gently.
Oh, I don't know, Mulder, she wants to say. How stupid it was for me to leave my gun out, to take it off at all. How easy it was for him to tie me up and kick me to the side. How I've been remembering that armful of shampoos, and how the only thing that makes it better is cutting off as much of my own hair as I can possibly manage without it being obvious - like destroying it myself will keep the sick pleasure from anyone else. The darkness, the panic, the embarrassment of desperately hoping you'd show up and then the overwhelming relief when you did - the way I collapsed into you that night. How sweet it felt to pull the trigger and watch him die. How horrible it was to think that even Donnie Pfaster had a mother; to look in the mirror and see a killer, a label no government badge could erase.
Every day when I get home I think it: I watch him watching me arrive, take off my coat and shirt and shoes, change into my pajamas. I used to dream of you watching me that way, from the bed maybe, smiling all the time. Now I can't.
What, specifically, is bothering you.
"Oh, Mulder, we'll be here all night."
"Well, it looks like you were set for that anyway," he remarks, and gestures toward the muted TV. "Although I can understand if you don't want to miss out on the rest of 'The Jenna Parker Story.'"
Her mouth twitches, and she reaches for the remote. And then they are alone, practically cuddling on her couch. She wants to enjoy it, but because she wants to, she doesn't.
He's silent, waiting, so finally she says something.
"It's just so silly that this is affecting me so much."
"Scully, how many sexual assault victims have you interviewed?" She meets his eyes, searching for humor, but there is none. Sexual assault. There it is: legal justification.
"You know this isn't silly," he continues. "You know it makes perfect sense that this affects you."
"It - feels like - I feel like he took something from me," she says. Maybe she's overreacting, but he's here. He's listening.
"Yeah," Mulder responds, and his other hand comes up to shadow her cheek. "But he didn't. He didn't take anything away from you."