FF: Moment of Illusion
Title: Moment of Illusion
Author: Ellie elliestories
Rating: R for disturbing imagery
Spoilers for "Orison," Vignette, ANGST, MSR
WARNING applies, though an explanation would ruin it. Read at your own risk.
Summary: That niggling concern in the back of his mind was studiously ignored until he heard the damned song.
****
He'd wanted to go home with her, but with the fragile relationship between them, he'd respected her desire to go home alone. While he might not like it, might have wished she'd take from their relationship what any normal person would and allow his support, his reassurance, he let her go. That niggling concern in the back of his mind, that sixth sense she'd say couldn't exist, was studiously ignored until he heard the damned song. Unable to ignore his instincts any longer, he scrambled for phone and keys.
Maneuvering through DC traffic was easier at this hour, though still maddeningly slow. His fingers twitched on his phone as he dialed, grip tightening on the steering wheel as each ring went unanswered. The fact that her machine wasn't picking up concerned him more, and he squealed away from the traffic light, not slowing at all to make the turn off M Street. The parking job was frantic, he was just happy not to hit the adjacent cars as he parallel parked while staring up at her windows, dim but flickering with light. It was the flickering that sent him racing up the stairs rather than waiting on the elevator.
Taking the stairs two at a time still took longer than he liked, but it got him to her door, innocuously closed and locked. He hesitated for a split second, tempted for a moment to knock, to believe for just a moment she was safe inside in her pajamas, watching some old screwball comedy. He fumbled with his keys, knowing she'd forgive the intrusion, would let him stay and laugh at "Bringing Up Baby" with her.
The rattle of his keys in the lock was enough to shatter the illusion. He didn't have the door open before he heard the splintering of wood and the fragmenting of glass. Two steps inside, and he could smell the smoke from the candles, cinnamon and sandalwood, and the sharp coppery tang of blood. God, her blood, splattered, the only thing he could see as he looked around the apartment, eyes not seeing the overturned coffee table, nor the runched rug, nor the broken mug sitting in a puddle of cold tea. Only the red, trailing from the edge of the kitchen table, where it dripped, a lock of her hair stained deeper red with it.
One of her shoes was there, heel broken, toe pointing the way down the hall. He followed it, followed the ephemera of her apartment, overturned and scattered in the obvious struggle, most picture frames broken and knickknacks spotted with crimson. It angered him like a matador's cape, sending him charging down the hallway after it, the silence around him leaving his heartbeat pounding in his ears, driving him on.
Suddenly, he could hear a ratting on the fire escape, metal trembling, straining, coming from out the guest bedroom window. He drew his gun and slowed a bit, creeping towards the door at the end of the hall, where he'd spent the night more than once, before he spent nights here more regularly. The bathroom door was open, and even before passing it, he could smell inside, knew without doubt what he's going to find in there.
He dropped his gun arm and stepped across the hall to the bathroom doorway, closing his eyes for a moment, allowing one last moment of illusion. More than once, he'd slipped quietly into her apartment in the evening, the lights dimmed and candlelight flickering through the ajar bathroom door the heady scent of sandalwood drifting out, the occasional lulling drip and splash of water teasing him, until he slipped off his clothes and into the water with her, warm and languid.
Now, the sandalwood blended with smoke, with cinnamon, vanilla and eucalyptus, all overwhelmed by the bitter coppery whiff of blood. No ripple or splash broke the silence, no steamy warmth teases.
He opened his eyes, unable momentarily to take in everything before him. Fabric was scattered, torn, heaped to one side. Burning on nearly every surface were what must have been every candle in her apartment, tealights almost burnt out, long tapers angled rakishly and weeping wax down on to tile and porcelain. It is that tile that draws his eye, usually so pristine, gleaming, now splattered with blood, a stream of it from just inside the doorway to the edge of the tub, spiked with locks of hair, some crudely cut at vicious angles, a few clumps that appeared to be ripped out from the roots, just a bit darker, a little less red.
By the edge of the old clawfoot tub, a single fingertip sits in a pool of coagulating blood, the pale tip of the French manicure a stark contrast to the burgundy staining the skin, staining the tile, staining the world around it. There is something that might be another finger, the slim curve of a pinkie, at the far end of the tub, but he cannot look at it, gaze tracing the sweep of the tub up, where the top of her head rested where it always has when she bathed, her body submerged.
This time, her hair was not swept up in a hasty twist for him to unpin, but shorn, stubbly and uneven, almost scalped in a few places, hints of blood seeping through the skin, to a few spiky inches twisting up here and there, looking angry and sticky, matted. The ear was gone, a bloody arc along the side of her skull where once he whispered of love and extraterrestrials. He stepped into the room, heedless of the crime scene and evidence, only aware of her, submerged from shoulders down in water.
No longer mere water, though, he sees as he keels beside her, his own hand sinking into the crimson liquid, thicker than water and stained, so dark, leaving pink ripples along the white porcelain as he stirs the water, reaching for her. The liquid is icy cold, and he lost feeling in his fingers almost before he could reach around her and draw her up and out. Sloshing and staining, the bloody water came too, pouring off her, out of her wounds, blood still seeping out and on to him, on to the floor as she lays in his arms. A breast is gone, and one finger traces the jagged slice along the left side of her sternum as his hand trails up to her neck, a futile effort to check for a pulse, though she is cold as marble and still as a tomb effigy.
Fingerless hands, just half on an index finger on the right and a stump of the ring finger on her left, trailed vermillion streamers, stark along the white floor, as he pulled her up, pulled her closer. He cradled her, heedless of the water and blood soaking through to his own skin, could only only feel the solid weight of her against him as he tightened his embrace, arms surrounding her, feeling the lingering warmth of her body despite the frigid water in which she'd been left to bleed.
He curled himself around her, clinging tightly, and tears streaked down his face, falling down onto Scully's body as he held her, as if holding her tightly enough could squeeze the life back into her. His sobs echoed in the bathroom, filling his ears, and he could feel the pressure of her against his chest, building, against his sternum. If he had a though to spare for himself, he might have feared a heart attack, but at the moment, would have welcomed the cessation of his own heart along with hers.
The pressure increased against his ribs, dissipated and returned, forceful, until it broke through his consciousness, along with a voice that cut through his sobs. Insistent, his name, analgesic, bringing him slowly back to himself.
"Mulder. Mulder, it's all right. Mulder." Familiar fingers gripped his arms, massaging clenched muscles.
Drawing a shuddering breath that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul, he realized he could no longer smell the blood and wax, just the familiar scent of shampoo and Scully. He opened his eyes to a dimmer room than he'd closed them in, dark broken only by streetlight seeping through the venetian blinds. Even in the dark he recognized the hair tangled on the pillow in front of his face. "Scully?"
"It's me, I'm here. You're all right." The grip on his arms eased, and he felt the pressure against his chest lessen, felt her snuggle against him. His arms relaxed, surrounded her like a child with a teddy bear.
"You're all right? You're really here?"
She took a long breath, and he could feel the air move against his chest. "I'm here. I'm not so sure I'm all right." Her voice was so soft her could barely hear it.
He had no right to complain, not to her, not after what had nearly happened. What had happened. "Scully?" Softer, less panicked this enquiry.
"Adrenaline's dropped off and painkillers are wearing off. I'm starting to feel it. So are you, apparently."
"I didn't make it in time." He needn't explain further, merely felt her nod against him, understanding. "Do you want me to go get you another pill?"
She shook her head, turned over, and settled back against him. "I'll be all right til morning."
He tightened his arms around her, quickly, before releasing her and letting one hand settle over her heart. Kissing the crown of her head, he whispered, "Get some sleep. I'll be right here."
Under his hand, he felt her, warm, alive, heart beating steadily under palm. He felt the rise and fall of her chest against him, slowing, rhythmic, urging him to join her in slumber.
Into the small hours of the morning, when crepuscular morning light tinged the edges of his windows, he lay awake, feeling the dead weight of her against him.
****
End
****
Author: Ellie elliestories
Rating: R for disturbing imagery
Spoilers for "Orison," Vignette, ANGST, MSR
WARNING applies, though an explanation would ruin it. Read at your own risk.
Summary: That niggling concern in the back of his mind was studiously ignored until he heard the damned song.
****
He'd wanted to go home with her, but with the fragile relationship between them, he'd respected her desire to go home alone. While he might not like it, might have wished she'd take from their relationship what any normal person would and allow his support, his reassurance, he let her go. That niggling concern in the back of his mind, that sixth sense she'd say couldn't exist, was studiously ignored until he heard the damned song. Unable to ignore his instincts any longer, he scrambled for phone and keys.
Maneuvering through DC traffic was easier at this hour, though still maddeningly slow. His fingers twitched on his phone as he dialed, grip tightening on the steering wheel as each ring went unanswered. The fact that her machine wasn't picking up concerned him more, and he squealed away from the traffic light, not slowing at all to make the turn off M Street. The parking job was frantic, he was just happy not to hit the adjacent cars as he parallel parked while staring up at her windows, dim but flickering with light. It was the flickering that sent him racing up the stairs rather than waiting on the elevator.
Taking the stairs two at a time still took longer than he liked, but it got him to her door, innocuously closed and locked. He hesitated for a split second, tempted for a moment to knock, to believe for just a moment she was safe inside in her pajamas, watching some old screwball comedy. He fumbled with his keys, knowing she'd forgive the intrusion, would let him stay and laugh at "Bringing Up Baby" with her.
The rattle of his keys in the lock was enough to shatter the illusion. He didn't have the door open before he heard the splintering of wood and the fragmenting of glass. Two steps inside, and he could smell the smoke from the candles, cinnamon and sandalwood, and the sharp coppery tang of blood. God, her blood, splattered, the only thing he could see as he looked around the apartment, eyes not seeing the overturned coffee table, nor the runched rug, nor the broken mug sitting in a puddle of cold tea. Only the red, trailing from the edge of the kitchen table, where it dripped, a lock of her hair stained deeper red with it.
One of her shoes was there, heel broken, toe pointing the way down the hall. He followed it, followed the ephemera of her apartment, overturned and scattered in the obvious struggle, most picture frames broken and knickknacks spotted with crimson. It angered him like a matador's cape, sending him charging down the hallway after it, the silence around him leaving his heartbeat pounding in his ears, driving him on.
Suddenly, he could hear a ratting on the fire escape, metal trembling, straining, coming from out the guest bedroom window. He drew his gun and slowed a bit, creeping towards the door at the end of the hall, where he'd spent the night more than once, before he spent nights here more regularly. The bathroom door was open, and even before passing it, he could smell inside, knew without doubt what he's going to find in there.
He dropped his gun arm and stepped across the hall to the bathroom doorway, closing his eyes for a moment, allowing one last moment of illusion. More than once, he'd slipped quietly into her apartment in the evening, the lights dimmed and candlelight flickering through the ajar bathroom door the heady scent of sandalwood drifting out, the occasional lulling drip and splash of water teasing him, until he slipped off his clothes and into the water with her, warm and languid.
Now, the sandalwood blended with smoke, with cinnamon, vanilla and eucalyptus, all overwhelmed by the bitter coppery whiff of blood. No ripple or splash broke the silence, no steamy warmth teases.
He opened his eyes, unable momentarily to take in everything before him. Fabric was scattered, torn, heaped to one side. Burning on nearly every surface were what must have been every candle in her apartment, tealights almost burnt out, long tapers angled rakishly and weeping wax down on to tile and porcelain. It is that tile that draws his eye, usually so pristine, gleaming, now splattered with blood, a stream of it from just inside the doorway to the edge of the tub, spiked with locks of hair, some crudely cut at vicious angles, a few clumps that appeared to be ripped out from the roots, just a bit darker, a little less red.
By the edge of the old clawfoot tub, a single fingertip sits in a pool of coagulating blood, the pale tip of the French manicure a stark contrast to the burgundy staining the skin, staining the tile, staining the world around it. There is something that might be another finger, the slim curve of a pinkie, at the far end of the tub, but he cannot look at it, gaze tracing the sweep of the tub up, where the top of her head rested where it always has when she bathed, her body submerged.
This time, her hair was not swept up in a hasty twist for him to unpin, but shorn, stubbly and uneven, almost scalped in a few places, hints of blood seeping through the skin, to a few spiky inches twisting up here and there, looking angry and sticky, matted. The ear was gone, a bloody arc along the side of her skull where once he whispered of love and extraterrestrials. He stepped into the room, heedless of the crime scene and evidence, only aware of her, submerged from shoulders down in water.
No longer mere water, though, he sees as he keels beside her, his own hand sinking into the crimson liquid, thicker than water and stained, so dark, leaving pink ripples along the white porcelain as he stirs the water, reaching for her. The liquid is icy cold, and he lost feeling in his fingers almost before he could reach around her and draw her up and out. Sloshing and staining, the bloody water came too, pouring off her, out of her wounds, blood still seeping out and on to him, on to the floor as she lays in his arms. A breast is gone, and one finger traces the jagged slice along the left side of her sternum as his hand trails up to her neck, a futile effort to check for a pulse, though she is cold as marble and still as a tomb effigy.
Fingerless hands, just half on an index finger on the right and a stump of the ring finger on her left, trailed vermillion streamers, stark along the white floor, as he pulled her up, pulled her closer. He cradled her, heedless of the water and blood soaking through to his own skin, could only only feel the solid weight of her against him as he tightened his embrace, arms surrounding her, feeling the lingering warmth of her body despite the frigid water in which she'd been left to bleed.
He curled himself around her, clinging tightly, and tears streaked down his face, falling down onto Scully's body as he held her, as if holding her tightly enough could squeeze the life back into her. His sobs echoed in the bathroom, filling his ears, and he could feel the pressure of her against his chest, building, against his sternum. If he had a though to spare for himself, he might have feared a heart attack, but at the moment, would have welcomed the cessation of his own heart along with hers.
The pressure increased against his ribs, dissipated and returned, forceful, until it broke through his consciousness, along with a voice that cut through his sobs. Insistent, his name, analgesic, bringing him slowly back to himself.
"Mulder. Mulder, it's all right. Mulder." Familiar fingers gripped his arms, massaging clenched muscles.
Drawing a shuddering breath that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul, he realized he could no longer smell the blood and wax, just the familiar scent of shampoo and Scully. He opened his eyes to a dimmer room than he'd closed them in, dark broken only by streetlight seeping through the venetian blinds. Even in the dark he recognized the hair tangled on the pillow in front of his face. "Scully?"
"It's me, I'm here. You're all right." The grip on his arms eased, and he felt the pressure against his chest lessen, felt her snuggle against him. His arms relaxed, surrounded her like a child with a teddy bear.
"You're all right? You're really here?"
She took a long breath, and he could feel the air move against his chest. "I'm here. I'm not so sure I'm all right." Her voice was so soft her could barely hear it.
He had no right to complain, not to her, not after what had nearly happened. What had happened. "Scully?" Softer, less panicked this enquiry.
"Adrenaline's dropped off and painkillers are wearing off. I'm starting to feel it. So are you, apparently."
"I didn't make it in time." He needn't explain further, merely felt her nod against him, understanding. "Do you want me to go get you another pill?"
She shook her head, turned over, and settled back against him. "I'll be all right til morning."
He tightened his arms around her, quickly, before releasing her and letting one hand settle over her heart. Kissing the crown of her head, he whispered, "Get some sleep. I'll be right here."
Under his hand, he felt her, warm, alive, heart beating steadily under palm. He felt the rise and fall of her chest against him, slowing, rhythmic, urging him to join her in slumber.
Into the small hours of the morning, when crepuscular morning light tinged the edges of his windows, he lay awake, feeling the dead weight of her against him.
****
End
****