FF: The Rusted Wheel of Things (5/6)
Title: The Rusted Wheel of Things (Chapter 5)
Author: Ellie elliestories
Rating: R
Category: SRA
Timeline: Post-"Requiem", AU
Further headers and information in Chapter 1
****
Chapter 5
Adjustments
****
He was back There when his eyes snapped open, the only part of him that was able to move. Straps held his limbs down tightly, but even if he had been free to move them, he couldn't even wiggle a finger. No one was around, just him alone in the bright light, splayed like the Vitruvian man. The cold, metallic air felt just a little colder than normal, and a shiver reassured him that his muscles could in fact still move.
When he turned his eyes downward, however, he wished for total paralyzation. Or perhaps blindness. His chest was open, skinless, glistening in the bright light with each rise and fall of breath. He could see each breath expanding his lungs, ribs spreading slightly, blood thrumming through his arteries in time to an escalating, panicked heartbeat.
Crying out had done him little good in the past, but he couldn't help trying now. There was no ability to articulate, only groans that he could see rising from his diaphragm, lifting the muscles and lungs until a piteous sound escaped, until he had to close his eyes against the sight of his own bared chest cavity.
Almost as soon as his eyes closed, he felt something soothing, gentle, lapping at his face, at the tear tracks he was sure were there. He took a few deep, steadying breaths before opening his eyes again, unsure what reality he would behold. Nothing had prepared him for the sight that met him, a dark shadow in a darkened room, pink collar sparkling in the faint light, close at his side.
The door opened a moment later, and the dog retreated and lay down at the foot of the bed like some loyal medieval tomb effigy, as Scully settled at the bedside, fingers caressing where the dog had just licked.
"Mulder? Are you awake?"
He shrugged back deeper into the blankets and pillows. "I don't know, am I? Is this the dream or was that?"
Her fingers traced his face for a silent moment. "Why do you think this is a dream?"
Burrowing through the tangled covers, he snaked one arm out and around her, encouraging her down from where she'd sat against the headboard, until she lay facing him. He was so cold, and she was so warm and soft and smelled peaceful and safe. He took a deep breath, but his voice was barely a whisper, hesitant and hot against her ear, as he said, "I imagined myself right here, so many times."
Scully, ever literal, furrowed her brow. "But you didn't know--"
"No," he said, shaking his head into the pillow, not looking at her but pulling her as close as his trembling arms and the blankets between them would allow. "Right here, like this, curled up with you in these soft, warm sheets." Silence hung between them for a minute before he continued, barely letting the words escape with breath. "It was the place I felt safest. Happiest."
She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him close. "Where were you tonight that you think you'd be dreaming this?"
He looked at her then, trying to read her eyes in the dark, uncertain whether she really needed to hear this. Whether he was ready to share it. In the hospital, Scully and the doctors had tried to get him to talk to a psychiatrist, but he'd adamantly refused with her old standby of 'I'm fine.' As if anyone could be, with evidence written on the body like his, knowing they'd cataloged every scar and wondered. What they imagined could not compare to what had been, though Scully, he thought, might understand, might after everything they'd seen, have dared to realize exactly what he'd gone through. The only person who would understand was Scully, and she deserved the truth, even if he wasn't sure he was ready to say it aloud.
She allowed him his silence, soothing her fingers through his already mussed hair as he considered his words. He drew a shuddering breath, and proceeded a whisper so softly he barely heard it himself. "Tonight wasn't even the most painful thing They did. But psychologically, visually...I could see myself, see what They were doing, but was paralyzed, restrained. I could only move my eyes, watch what was happening. And I couldn't look away."
Scully's hand kept on its gentle path through his hair, thumb occasionally grazing the flesh of his cheek. She remained silent, patient.
"My chest was open, the skin and some...most?...of my muscles were gone. I don't know." He shook his head into the pillow, her hand stilling, resting firm and real against his skull. "I could see my ribs, see my blood pumping, see my lungs expanding my chest with every breath I took. I don't know what the point was. I don't know what the point was."
When his voice broke and the gasping tears began again, her silence was broken by sweet soothing nothings as she shifted, drawing him closer. His arms around her tightened to a point that must have been painful, he knew, but he couldn't help himself and she didn't protest.
He sniffled against her shoulder, calming as he inhaled the scent of her, that clean bright smell he knew so well, would know in this world or any other. He wanted to stay right here, forever, wanted her here with him.
"Do you want me to stay?" she offered. He would not have asked, but agreed with a nod, no longer trusting his voice.
He released her only long enough to allow her to join him under the covers, before once again drawing her close, breathing in her presence, the warm solid reality of her next to him. Sleep was slow in returning as he savored the feel of her beside him, ebbing and flowing with each breath.
*
The sun had already set when she pulled into the driveway, the late winter night settling in early, broken by the bright glow of the porch light shining against the white front door. Only a few twinkles of light broke through the windows, and she was instantly worried, wondering what could have happened on Mulder and Hannah's first afternoon home alone. Yanking the key from the ignition, she hopped out of the car, leaving her gloves and briefcase on the front passenger seat. From the front walk, she heard nothing, not even the usual clatter of claws and sharp welcoming yip of the dog.
A pink backpack lay abandoned at the foot of the stairs, a tiny wool coat slung on the newel post. The candy-striped scarf they'd crocheted together snaked across the bottom step and down the hall. She followed its path down the hallway to the kitchen, where a light was on but no one was home. Turning in the empty room, she saw the open door to the basement, faint laughter carrying up along with flickering light.
Her breath came easier then, and she left her coat on a chair at the breakfast bar before slipping quietly down the steps. At the foot of the staircase, she watched unobserved for a moment as father and daughter sat on the couch, singing "Oo-de-lally" along with the troubadour rooster on the television. Glinda spotted her first, hopping off her perch on the sofa to greet her. At the dog's movement, Mulder turned to grin at her. He looked happy, and years younger, despite his silvered hair.
She wanted to look stern, wanted to remind her daughter to put her things away properly when she got home, remind them both that there was to be no television and certainly no movies before homework was done. There should not be a box of Cheez-Its open on the couch between them an hour before dinner. She wanted to know where a box of Cheez-Its even came from. But she couldn't bring herself to do it, not when she'd just come home to a dream come true. She let herself smile, and settled into the recliner, letting the dog curl up on her lap. For the rest of the movie, she watched them, not the television screen.
*
The prattle of the television was barely audible from where she curled on the old leather sofa in her study, a cup of tea on the side-table and the latest copy of The Lancet opened on her lap. Hannah had been tucked into bed an hour ago, and Mulder had looked half-asleep in front of the TV. She sipped the still-steaming tea, testing the temperature, and skimmed the table of contents, noting a few articles that piqued her interest.
A squeak of floorboard and door captured her more immediate attention, as Mulder shuffled into the room that served as her home office.
"Hey, how're you doing? You were looking pretty tired over dinner."
He nodded as he crossed the room to sink onto the couch with her, settling at the opposite end and not meeting her probing gaze. "I forgot how much energy seven-year-olds have."
Scully smiled, and said, "Now you know why she goes to dance lessons two nights a week, and swim class on Mondays. That energy had to get channeled somewhere."
"She's an amazing kid, Scully. I knew you'd be a great mom, but seeing you with her is like watching a dream come true. And I didn't think I had any more good dreams," he finished softly.
"Mulder." She reached across the center cushion of the old couch, taking his hand and bridging the gap between them. "How are you, really?"
He heaved a sigh and shifted a bit closer to her, but didn't meet her eyes. Quietly, he said, "I feel lost. Everything has changed, you've changed, and I'm stuck eight years in the past."
"It's going to take time, Mulder. You're still not completely recovered physically, and as you feel better--"
"Getting winded going up the stairs is the least of my worries, Scully."
She twisted to face him, free hand brushing the side of his face, turning him to face her, forcing him to look at her. "Then tell me, partner."
"That's just it, I'm not your partner anymore. I'm not anything anymore. Legally, I barely exist. This--" he gestured between them, around the room, up toward Hannah's room above them, "this feels unexpected and astonishing, but it's something I'll figure out. But what am I supposed to do with myself? She's at school all day, so there's no justification for me being home, playing Mr. Mom. Going back to the FBI certainly isn't an option."
For a moment, Scully considered his words. She wished, not for the first time, that she possessed his profiling insight. Then, carefully, she asked, "Do you think they wouldn't take you back? Because I know we could always find you something at Quantico, even if Skinner couldn't arrange something at the Bureau proper. Or that you couldn't go?"
Mulder stared at her, measuring his words. "Even if they would, I couldn't. I could profile, but I can't. I can't."
Quiet reigned for a long moment before she said, "You don't have to do anything, you know. If you want to be Mr. Mom, I can't imagine anything better, whether Hannah's at school or not. Besides, I've always wanted a personal chef." Her smile was met by his.
He flopped back against his couch with a gentle creak of time-worn leather. "That much I think I can handle. Particularly if you've got a hankering for grilled cheese, spaghetti, or omelets."
"Think of this as a chance to expand your repertoire, then. Though I warn you, despite my best efforts, Hannah is a picky eater."
"Maybe it's time to introduce her to something other than your bland excuse for a healthy diet, then. It's been a while, but I still remember your idea of junk food leaves a lot to be desired."
She thought she remembered him better than that, knew he wouldn't be placated with something so simple. Watching his face grow somber, the little furrow in his brow returning, she knew it wasn't. "You know this isn't some fairytale, or X-file to be analyzed. This is, for better or worse, our life." He nodded, and she continued, "And you know there's no rush for you to get out and find a job. In case you hadn't noticed, we do pretty good, thanks to no mortgage. Take your time." Her fingers threaded through his, squeezing.
"Yeah," he said, his head falling forward in a nod that left his chin on his chest. A heavy sigh seemed to rattle through his entire body, and she waited for him to gather the pieces together again before twisting on the sofa so that she could draw him close. As his head dropped against her shoulder, she kissed his temple, and he sighed again, this time in contentment. "This is the only thing that makes sense."
Running her fingers down the his back, where the trapezius was taut, but still too slight along his spine, she considered that she'd asked too much right away. "Then why don't we take some time to figure out how to be a family first. It's almost Easter, we usually take some time and go up to the Vineyard then. Some time together, uninterrupted by department meetings and swim practices and car pools would be nice."
Mulder snuggled a bit closer to her, his breath warm on her neck, lips skimming her skin as he spoke, sending a shiver down her spine. "I'm not sure how I feel about 'family time' on the Vineyard. But I like the idea. I'd like to be one of those other, happy families who lived there."
"Oh, Mulder." Her lips brushed through his hair. "I don't think we'll ever be like other families, but we will be happy. Will you settle for that?"
"I'll settle for whatever you'll give me, Scully."
"Anything, Mulder. Anything." Twisting her neck like a swan, she caught his lips with hers. How long had it been, she wondered, too overwhelmed to calculate the years and days since she'd last truly kissed him. Instead, she let herself melt into him, his dry lips parting and inviting as he moved closer to her. His weight against her was less than she remembered, but no less welcome, as they fell back against the same couch cushions they'd curled upon together years prior.
Suddenly, Mulder broke the kiss, pulling back and looking down at her, gasping. "Scully."
Even through the thick sweater he wore, she could feel the xylophone of his ribs and she caressed a hand up and down his side. "What, Mulder?" She was having trouble catching her own breath, and the question was barely an exhalation.
He was shaking his head, breath coming heavy. "I...I can't...I want...I don't...." Unable to complete his thought, he sunk down against her, head buried in her shoulder. Her arms went around him and she closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him for a second before voicing her worry.
"Are you all right? What's wrong?"
For a long time, he didn't answer, merely shook his head against her shoulder. They remained quiet as she ran her hands up and down his back, waiting. Finally, after a small eternity, his whisper broke the silence, muffled against the thick cotton of her shirt. "I've missed you so much, missed this. I want you so badly, I want this. But...." The rest of his words were mumbled, lost in the warm flesh of her neck.
Her arms tightened around him, squeezed once. "I missed you too, Mulder, and have spent eight years wanting you." She whispered close enough to his ear that she could feel him shudder at her low words. "But I didn't hear that last bit."
"I don't know if I can." It came out in one quick breath, as if it were all one multi-syllabic word, the grotesque polar opposite of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. That immediate thought would have left her realizing she spent too much time watching Disney movies with seven-year-olds, had his words not driven a cold wedge of fear through her. She forced herself to breathe, to wait, to let him explain what was wrong.
A long sigh escaped him, fluttering the collar of her shirt. "Since I've been back, I haven't had an erection. Not sleeping in bed with you, not in the mornings. Yesterday in the shower, I tried, but I couldn't...." He sighed again, burying his face in her neck and she could feel him vibrating with tension.
It took little effort for her to roll them onto their sides, so he was between her and the back of the couch, using the time to think. She could not tell him it would be fine, or that it didn't matter, because neither were true. "Mulder," she began, brushing her fingers across the scar at his hairline, asking him to look at her. His eyes opened slowly, and she felt almost cross-eyed, meeting his gaze from so close. "Everything looked intact from the physical exam, and MRI. Yes, I was very thorough," she explained to his surprised expression. "But as I'm sure you noticed, there was some scarring, possibly enough to effect blood flow. Or your body could still just be recovering from everything its been through."
"It would be difficult to forget about the scarring," he said, so quietly she barely heard.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" She prayed, briefly, that he didn't. She wasn't sure she was up to hearing, not after what he'd told her the first night he'd been home. But she wondered, given the injury, if the problem wasn't as much psychological as physiological.
He fell back from her, his head coming to rest in the corner of the couch, eyes still closed. "Not really. Is it enough to know there were electrodes involved?" One eye opened halfway, peering at her face through his lashes.
"Knowing that is more than I ever wanted to know had happened to you." She closed the small distance between them and kissed him again, softly. "We can mention it at your appointment Friday, see what approach would be best, beyond giving things a little time to settle and be comfortable."
"I think more time spent like this might help." His arms tightened around her once more, pulling her close.
"It just might. I'll look at my schedule tomorrow, and see what I can do about getting a little more time off around Easter for us to spend a week up at the Vineyard."
****
Chapter 6
Author: Ellie elliestories
Rating: R
Category: SRA
Timeline: Post-"Requiem", AU
Further headers and information in Chapter 1
****
Chapter 5
Adjustments
****
He was back There when his eyes snapped open, the only part of him that was able to move. Straps held his limbs down tightly, but even if he had been free to move them, he couldn't even wiggle a finger. No one was around, just him alone in the bright light, splayed like the Vitruvian man. The cold, metallic air felt just a little colder than normal, and a shiver reassured him that his muscles could in fact still move.
When he turned his eyes downward, however, he wished for total paralyzation. Or perhaps blindness. His chest was open, skinless, glistening in the bright light with each rise and fall of breath. He could see each breath expanding his lungs, ribs spreading slightly, blood thrumming through his arteries in time to an escalating, panicked heartbeat.
Crying out had done him little good in the past, but he couldn't help trying now. There was no ability to articulate, only groans that he could see rising from his diaphragm, lifting the muscles and lungs until a piteous sound escaped, until he had to close his eyes against the sight of his own bared chest cavity.
Almost as soon as his eyes closed, he felt something soothing, gentle, lapping at his face, at the tear tracks he was sure were there. He took a few deep, steadying breaths before opening his eyes again, unsure what reality he would behold. Nothing had prepared him for the sight that met him, a dark shadow in a darkened room, pink collar sparkling in the faint light, close at his side.
The door opened a moment later, and the dog retreated and lay down at the foot of the bed like some loyal medieval tomb effigy, as Scully settled at the bedside, fingers caressing where the dog had just licked.
"Mulder? Are you awake?"
He shrugged back deeper into the blankets and pillows. "I don't know, am I? Is this the dream or was that?"
Her fingers traced his face for a silent moment. "Why do you think this is a dream?"
Burrowing through the tangled covers, he snaked one arm out and around her, encouraging her down from where she'd sat against the headboard, until she lay facing him. He was so cold, and she was so warm and soft and smelled peaceful and safe. He took a deep breath, but his voice was barely a whisper, hesitant and hot against her ear, as he said, "I imagined myself right here, so many times."
Scully, ever literal, furrowed her brow. "But you didn't know--"
"No," he said, shaking his head into the pillow, not looking at her but pulling her as close as his trembling arms and the blankets between them would allow. "Right here, like this, curled up with you in these soft, warm sheets." Silence hung between them for a minute before he continued, barely letting the words escape with breath. "It was the place I felt safest. Happiest."
She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him close. "Where were you tonight that you think you'd be dreaming this?"
He looked at her then, trying to read her eyes in the dark, uncertain whether she really needed to hear this. Whether he was ready to share it. In the hospital, Scully and the doctors had tried to get him to talk to a psychiatrist, but he'd adamantly refused with her old standby of 'I'm fine.' As if anyone could be, with evidence written on the body like his, knowing they'd cataloged every scar and wondered. What they imagined could not compare to what had been, though Scully, he thought, might understand, might after everything they'd seen, have dared to realize exactly what he'd gone through. The only person who would understand was Scully, and she deserved the truth, even if he wasn't sure he was ready to say it aloud.
She allowed him his silence, soothing her fingers through his already mussed hair as he considered his words. He drew a shuddering breath, and proceeded a whisper so softly he barely heard it himself. "Tonight wasn't even the most painful thing They did. But psychologically, visually...I could see myself, see what They were doing, but was paralyzed, restrained. I could only move my eyes, watch what was happening. And I couldn't look away."
Scully's hand kept on its gentle path through his hair, thumb occasionally grazing the flesh of his cheek. She remained silent, patient.
"My chest was open, the skin and some...most?...of my muscles were gone. I don't know." He shook his head into the pillow, her hand stilling, resting firm and real against his skull. "I could see my ribs, see my blood pumping, see my lungs expanding my chest with every breath I took. I don't know what the point was. I don't know what the point was."
When his voice broke and the gasping tears began again, her silence was broken by sweet soothing nothings as she shifted, drawing him closer. His arms around her tightened to a point that must have been painful, he knew, but he couldn't help himself and she didn't protest.
He sniffled against her shoulder, calming as he inhaled the scent of her, that clean bright smell he knew so well, would know in this world or any other. He wanted to stay right here, forever, wanted her here with him.
"Do you want me to stay?" she offered. He would not have asked, but agreed with a nod, no longer trusting his voice.
He released her only long enough to allow her to join him under the covers, before once again drawing her close, breathing in her presence, the warm solid reality of her next to him. Sleep was slow in returning as he savored the feel of her beside him, ebbing and flowing with each breath.
*
The sun had already set when she pulled into the driveway, the late winter night settling in early, broken by the bright glow of the porch light shining against the white front door. Only a few twinkles of light broke through the windows, and she was instantly worried, wondering what could have happened on Mulder and Hannah's first afternoon home alone. Yanking the key from the ignition, she hopped out of the car, leaving her gloves and briefcase on the front passenger seat. From the front walk, she heard nothing, not even the usual clatter of claws and sharp welcoming yip of the dog.
A pink backpack lay abandoned at the foot of the stairs, a tiny wool coat slung on the newel post. The candy-striped scarf they'd crocheted together snaked across the bottom step and down the hall. She followed its path down the hallway to the kitchen, where a light was on but no one was home. Turning in the empty room, she saw the open door to the basement, faint laughter carrying up along with flickering light.
Her breath came easier then, and she left her coat on a chair at the breakfast bar before slipping quietly down the steps. At the foot of the staircase, she watched unobserved for a moment as father and daughter sat on the couch, singing "Oo-de-lally" along with the troubadour rooster on the television. Glinda spotted her first, hopping off her perch on the sofa to greet her. At the dog's movement, Mulder turned to grin at her. He looked happy, and years younger, despite his silvered hair.
She wanted to look stern, wanted to remind her daughter to put her things away properly when she got home, remind them both that there was to be no television and certainly no movies before homework was done. There should not be a box of Cheez-Its open on the couch between them an hour before dinner. She wanted to know where a box of Cheez-Its even came from. But she couldn't bring herself to do it, not when she'd just come home to a dream come true. She let herself smile, and settled into the recliner, letting the dog curl up on her lap. For the rest of the movie, she watched them, not the television screen.
*
The prattle of the television was barely audible from where she curled on the old leather sofa in her study, a cup of tea on the side-table and the latest copy of The Lancet opened on her lap. Hannah had been tucked into bed an hour ago, and Mulder had looked half-asleep in front of the TV. She sipped the still-steaming tea, testing the temperature, and skimmed the table of contents, noting a few articles that piqued her interest.
A squeak of floorboard and door captured her more immediate attention, as Mulder shuffled into the room that served as her home office.
"Hey, how're you doing? You were looking pretty tired over dinner."
He nodded as he crossed the room to sink onto the couch with her, settling at the opposite end and not meeting her probing gaze. "I forgot how much energy seven-year-olds have."
Scully smiled, and said, "Now you know why she goes to dance lessons two nights a week, and swim class on Mondays. That energy had to get channeled somewhere."
"She's an amazing kid, Scully. I knew you'd be a great mom, but seeing you with her is like watching a dream come true. And I didn't think I had any more good dreams," he finished softly.
"Mulder." She reached across the center cushion of the old couch, taking his hand and bridging the gap between them. "How are you, really?"
He heaved a sigh and shifted a bit closer to her, but didn't meet her eyes. Quietly, he said, "I feel lost. Everything has changed, you've changed, and I'm stuck eight years in the past."
"It's going to take time, Mulder. You're still not completely recovered physically, and as you feel better--"
"Getting winded going up the stairs is the least of my worries, Scully."
She twisted to face him, free hand brushing the side of his face, turning him to face her, forcing him to look at her. "Then tell me, partner."
"That's just it, I'm not your partner anymore. I'm not anything anymore. Legally, I barely exist. This--" he gestured between them, around the room, up toward Hannah's room above them, "this feels unexpected and astonishing, but it's something I'll figure out. But what am I supposed to do with myself? She's at school all day, so there's no justification for me being home, playing Mr. Mom. Going back to the FBI certainly isn't an option."
For a moment, Scully considered his words. She wished, not for the first time, that she possessed his profiling insight. Then, carefully, she asked, "Do you think they wouldn't take you back? Because I know we could always find you something at Quantico, even if Skinner couldn't arrange something at the Bureau proper. Or that you couldn't go?"
Mulder stared at her, measuring his words. "Even if they would, I couldn't. I could profile, but I can't. I can't."
Quiet reigned for a long moment before she said, "You don't have to do anything, you know. If you want to be Mr. Mom, I can't imagine anything better, whether Hannah's at school or not. Besides, I've always wanted a personal chef." Her smile was met by his.
He flopped back against his couch with a gentle creak of time-worn leather. "That much I think I can handle. Particularly if you've got a hankering for grilled cheese, spaghetti, or omelets."
"Think of this as a chance to expand your repertoire, then. Though I warn you, despite my best efforts, Hannah is a picky eater."
"Maybe it's time to introduce her to something other than your bland excuse for a healthy diet, then. It's been a while, but I still remember your idea of junk food leaves a lot to be desired."
She thought she remembered him better than that, knew he wouldn't be placated with something so simple. Watching his face grow somber, the little furrow in his brow returning, she knew it wasn't. "You know this isn't some fairytale, or X-file to be analyzed. This is, for better or worse, our life." He nodded, and she continued, "And you know there's no rush for you to get out and find a job. In case you hadn't noticed, we do pretty good, thanks to no mortgage. Take your time." Her fingers threaded through his, squeezing.
"Yeah," he said, his head falling forward in a nod that left his chin on his chest. A heavy sigh seemed to rattle through his entire body, and she waited for him to gather the pieces together again before twisting on the sofa so that she could draw him close. As his head dropped against her shoulder, she kissed his temple, and he sighed again, this time in contentment. "This is the only thing that makes sense."
Running her fingers down the his back, where the trapezius was taut, but still too slight along his spine, she considered that she'd asked too much right away. "Then why don't we take some time to figure out how to be a family first. It's almost Easter, we usually take some time and go up to the Vineyard then. Some time together, uninterrupted by department meetings and swim practices and car pools would be nice."
Mulder snuggled a bit closer to her, his breath warm on her neck, lips skimming her skin as he spoke, sending a shiver down her spine. "I'm not sure how I feel about 'family time' on the Vineyard. But I like the idea. I'd like to be one of those other, happy families who lived there."
"Oh, Mulder." Her lips brushed through his hair. "I don't think we'll ever be like other families, but we will be happy. Will you settle for that?"
"I'll settle for whatever you'll give me, Scully."
"Anything, Mulder. Anything." Twisting her neck like a swan, she caught his lips with hers. How long had it been, she wondered, too overwhelmed to calculate the years and days since she'd last truly kissed him. Instead, she let herself melt into him, his dry lips parting and inviting as he moved closer to her. His weight against her was less than she remembered, but no less welcome, as they fell back against the same couch cushions they'd curled upon together years prior.
Suddenly, Mulder broke the kiss, pulling back and looking down at her, gasping. "Scully."
Even through the thick sweater he wore, she could feel the xylophone of his ribs and she caressed a hand up and down his side. "What, Mulder?" She was having trouble catching her own breath, and the question was barely an exhalation.
He was shaking his head, breath coming heavy. "I...I can't...I want...I don't...." Unable to complete his thought, he sunk down against her, head buried in her shoulder. Her arms went around him and she closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him for a second before voicing her worry.
"Are you all right? What's wrong?"
For a long time, he didn't answer, merely shook his head against her shoulder. They remained quiet as she ran her hands up and down his back, waiting. Finally, after a small eternity, his whisper broke the silence, muffled against the thick cotton of her shirt. "I've missed you so much, missed this. I want you so badly, I want this. But...." The rest of his words were mumbled, lost in the warm flesh of her neck.
Her arms tightened around him, squeezed once. "I missed you too, Mulder, and have spent eight years wanting you." She whispered close enough to his ear that she could feel him shudder at her low words. "But I didn't hear that last bit."
"I don't know if I can." It came out in one quick breath, as if it were all one multi-syllabic word, the grotesque polar opposite of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. That immediate thought would have left her realizing she spent too much time watching Disney movies with seven-year-olds, had his words not driven a cold wedge of fear through her. She forced herself to breathe, to wait, to let him explain what was wrong.
A long sigh escaped him, fluttering the collar of her shirt. "Since I've been back, I haven't had an erection. Not sleeping in bed with you, not in the mornings. Yesterday in the shower, I tried, but I couldn't...." He sighed again, burying his face in her neck and she could feel him vibrating with tension.
It took little effort for her to roll them onto their sides, so he was between her and the back of the couch, using the time to think. She could not tell him it would be fine, or that it didn't matter, because neither were true. "Mulder," she began, brushing her fingers across the scar at his hairline, asking him to look at her. His eyes opened slowly, and she felt almost cross-eyed, meeting his gaze from so close. "Everything looked intact from the physical exam, and MRI. Yes, I was very thorough," she explained to his surprised expression. "But as I'm sure you noticed, there was some scarring, possibly enough to effect blood flow. Or your body could still just be recovering from everything its been through."
"It would be difficult to forget about the scarring," he said, so quietly she barely heard.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" She prayed, briefly, that he didn't. She wasn't sure she was up to hearing, not after what he'd told her the first night he'd been home. But she wondered, given the injury, if the problem wasn't as much psychological as physiological.
He fell back from her, his head coming to rest in the corner of the couch, eyes still closed. "Not really. Is it enough to know there were electrodes involved?" One eye opened halfway, peering at her face through his lashes.
"Knowing that is more than I ever wanted to know had happened to you." She closed the small distance between them and kissed him again, softly. "We can mention it at your appointment Friday, see what approach would be best, beyond giving things a little time to settle and be comfortable."
"I think more time spent like this might help." His arms tightened around her once more, pulling her close.
"It just might. I'll look at my schedule tomorrow, and see what I can do about getting a little more time off around Easter for us to spend a week up at the Vineyard."
****
Chapter 6