Circles by Jesemie's Evil Twin jesemie@hotmail.com Disclaimers: Bah. Not mine, of course. Category: Oddness, M/S UST Feedback: Please and thank you. jesemie@hotmail.com Author's Note: This story, part of my 'Lines'/'Crosses' universe, follows less than two weeks after 'Crosses'. ~~~ He does not want to. The stimulation is stitched inside his mind - he can feel the thread lace through the needle's eye, feel the liquid sting at the point of entry, where the tip pierces and spreads silver saturation. The thickness weeps in his joints, fever and frost and steam, like gauze wrapped wet. Outside, the wind staggers through trees. The wool-felt hat on a passerby scratches and rustles, lurching commotion. Hotel restaurant employees in town scrubbing pans with steel and scalding water. A spiteful socialite, after whipping the mealy grandbabies, placing her wig on the styrofoam head that gapes blindly from her antique dresser. Drivers whistling as their cars ascend the hill before the stoplight. He can scarcely respire the words. Please, I. Do not want . . . Blankets scrunched back, the gasps underneath him, legs around his hips. Rope on his wrists. Clumped clouds, ice in his lungs, the chafing against snow and craters, holding onto the ground. The displacing sky the color of Scully's eyes, just that once, blue brushed against blue. Her small hands sculpt the hollow between his shoulder blades, where he is bruised but does not remember being beaten. She sends the hurt away from the surface, evaporating the crushed blood under his skin like a sun, a star, with the kiln warmth of her small hands. Because the world of pins stretches, snaps, and collapses when he opens his eyes, he does not want to. He has not slept, but awakens again, the salt of tears in his throat. He can feel Scully humming, something without tune but brimming with timbre, trembling with the rotation of pulse and flush that circles them while he lays in her arms. He pushes himself away from her. The bedsprings chatter an accusation. He turns. The bed is empty. Night swims against the window. It is not late yet, but autumn is dying, shortening the days sooner and sooner. On the street, a few scraggly residents of Annapolis head for shelter. Rain's expected, he recalls, and it will be cold and heavy. "Mulder," absent-Scully says, and her syllables are weary, almost slurred. The needle pricks, pricks. He presses his knuckles to the cool panes and tries to forget the sensation of her hands, the rough silk of her palms, the stain of that heat. ~~~ She startles to find herself pressed into the crease of the couch, soggy with sweat. A file is crumpled under her knee. Rain, always rain, splatters a dirty window. They had been working. If she could call it that. Moving through the motions, feeling instinct tug at her limbs, her appetite, as though life had not changed. As though she had not been chafed raw over weeks of fear and worry. Scully rubs her eyes. When the blurriness dissipates, she notices Mulder standing in her bedroom doorway, looking around, lost. He wanders into the kitchen. Scully sits up, groggy. She can hear splashing and clinking. She rolls off the couch and pads toward the kitchen. "You okay?" "Yeah. These dishes I used needed to be washed, so." He shrugs. Bubbles fill the sink. "Well, you've got plenty of suds." You look terrible, Mulder, she thinks. Spent. "Scully?" "Hmmm?" "Were you dreaming?" Her breath stutters. "When?" "Just a few minutes ago." He keeps his gaze on the juice glass he's scrubbing. "Maybe. Why?" Her thoughts flip through memory, racing to reclaim the elusive trail of sleep she left upon wakening. Unadorned, seamless, hidden. Then, a pressure pools in her pelvis, dark and humid. Her hands ache. Her mouth shapes his name. She glances up at the same time he does. The realization sways there, translucent in the halogen kitchen light. Scully wrings her hands, cracking the knuckles. There is nothing to say, she knows. Nothing to be done. Mulder lets the water drain. They both stand and listen to the cochlear echo in the pipes. Scully moves from the doorframe, circling him. She stops suddenly at his expression. He is prey stalked by predator. It's obvious now. He has consented to this, is waiting for it. Scully latches her arms around him more tightly than she has ever held anyone, and when he returns the embrace, tucking her into his body, she can't choose between being relieved or frightened. The floorboards moan as though her and Mulder's combined weight is too much, too heavy to endure quietly, or perhaps at all. She leads him back into the bedroom, where he drops to the bed as though punched. Watching him drift into leaden sleep, she remains by the window, suturing fear with detachment. Uncomplicate. Cut if you have to. Let it drip out and harden. Chisel it, chip it, use it, dull the edges. Discard it. Crumble the casing, the thin metallic shell of blood. He sleeps and she lets the relief rock inside her like a sea of storms. Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow I will extract him from me with the circular precision of compasses. I will carve clean holes through which I can escape. It is a long, numb night before searing daylight, before she shrouds him with blankets and her bowed body. They tangle together in half-slumber, and when he murmurs her name, a question, an incantation, a need, she knows she will never be able to leave. ~~~ Skinner owns a certain stare Mulder is sure was purchased at half-price from a government surplus warehouse. It's an odd grimace, combining exasperation and pity with just a dash of condescension and a larger helping of official concern. Skinner's eyes shift back and forth between Mulder and Scully with an almost corporeal clink. "Agent Scully, I assume you have exhausted any hope of finding a scientific basis for this phenomenon?" Skinner peels the file open, flattens it to his desk, and leans forward on his elbows. Scully may appear composed from Skinner's perspective; Mulder, however, can see her peripherally. Her fingers flex as though they move without her permission. She frowns and very deliberately puts her hands in her lap. "Not exhausted, sir. Science may one day catch up with this phenomena, but until then . . . It would be ridiculous of me to overlook the most obvious conclusion in this case." Skinner's stare lands on Mulder, and even with the usual display of indifference in place, Mulder starts to fidget. "No doubt you concur with her conclusions, Agent Mulder?" Not waiting for a response, Skinner continues. "All right, I'm signing off on this. It's a good thing this wasn't one of your more elaborately expensive investigations. Huge reimbursements would not have been forthcoming. Dismissed, agents." Scully's pace down the hall is tentative, as though she is trying not to step on a squeaky . . . tile, Mulder mentally adapts. He shortens his own strides. She slows down further. "Scully?" "Hmm?" "What is it?" A sneer of pure hatred crossing her face, she asks, "Don't you know?" and the words cut sharp lines around his lungs. "No," he says, unable to muster anger. He can feel bile rising. He stops walking. "It's nothing," she says, waving her hand. She continues to the elevator, punching the down-arrow button. The doors open like jaws, and she steps inside the cavity. Her bones hit the bottom of the elevator shaft with a miniscule crunch, the same sound he had heard a hundred times when he stepped on an insect, the only sound he can hear, the only sound. "Mulder?" she asks, her spiny shattered hand on his head, and it's as though the mute function has been removed. He jerks in the chair. Skinner is talking on the phone, his back to them. Kimberly, in her primmest secretarial outfit, is sitting at her desk and chewing on the end of her pencil. "Mulder, we can go now," Scully says. Her eyes are concerned but brave, and the volume readjusts. Her fingers graze circles on the back of his neck briefly. She steps around his chair, going toward the door. The rest of the day passes without incident. He is absurdly grateful for the mega club sandwiches Scully procures for dinner. They eat in the basement office, Mulder thumbing through potential cases and Scully griping when he dribbles Italian dressing on her research. She wads up a napkin and tosses it at him, right before he drops the rest of his sandwich, and looks almost proud when he catches both one-handed before either can hit the floor under the desk. They share a bag of chips, and Mulder resists the urge to lick cheez-stuff off her fingers. ~~~ Fresh air? Sure. Three o'clock in the afternoon, stuffy in her apartment while she vacuums. Come over. We'll walk around the neighborhood. The park won't be crowded. A breeze has pushed in hooded clouds. The bench they claim for a repose faces the community garden. A cobblestone path weaves through the butterfly bushes and ground ivy. Joggers scuttle by, anxious perhaps to get home. Just below the surface it's releasing. Funny how she can left go and hold on at the same time, how it's no effort at all yet essential. This is her responsibility. She's good at it. They wait. Crinkled tinsel lightning sparkles, merry streaks foiling the lazy sky. A butterfly on the bench next to them opens and closes and opens her wings, seductively, and flies away. Eventually, they continue their walk, talking about lost umbrellas and listening to the rain squish in their shoes. ~~~ She stays, so he does. This is how it is managed. If she shows up, so will he. Something fades inside him – he will not name it, though it may be terror - and he allows something else to reside there, also unnamed, unsaid. Her grasp is steady and strong, and within the closed circle of her, he gradually begins to discover he is free. ~~~ Mulder doesn't shrink from her, and Scully pursues this by leaning closer than usual, leaning like she learned to do years ago, while they discuss the investigation. Frogs, she thinks. Puzzling frogs. Why not? Scully suppresses a smile and lets him talk with scholarly seriousness. The flight is quick and painless. The children in the seats in front of them fly their miniature planes, demonstrating their technique, looping big spiraling circles with their spindly arms. Plastic propellers twirl and the siblings sputter, zoom, buzz. The little girl pelts her brother with her peanuts, yelling "Hail!" Scully hides her laugh behind her file folder. Mulder jabs her with his elbow. She jabs back. They thumb wrestle, with great heated concentration, for ten minutes. They simultaneously look up into the stares of the curious children who hang over the seats like beanbags. Mulder gently maneuvers Scully's hand into a handshake position, like a good sport. She slides her hand under and kisses the top of his, feeling whimsical, and smiles when the kids twitter. "Ooooh," the kids drawl, making smacking sounds and rolling their eyes. "Ah, I knew you couldn't resist me forever, Scully," Mulder deadpans. "Who says I wanted to?" she retorts. Later, as the plane descends, she hears him ask, very faintly, "_Did_ you ever want to?" "Never," she says. "And always." He seems satisfied with the answer, aware that he'd asked two questions. "But you knew that." He nods, tucking a slip of hair behind her ear. "It's nice to hear it out loud." ~~~ The stairs were the perfect place to sit and drink a beer, especially since the sheriff was still escorting people out of the saloon on the first floor. Mulder replayed the day as Scully took a shower. Leavenworth Lagoon turned out to be worth visiting, not that it wasn't little more than a deceptively deep swimming hole filled with small toads roughly the size and shade of cherry tomatoes. Not that any of the croaking creatures had been captured. The mysteries of dead carp, frothy pink pond water, gypsy pocket spells, and one ill amateur ichthyologist in Bumptoe, Tennessee remained unsolved. The town residents had been a rare class of genuine friendliness and integrity, although they were not immune to a certain amount of internal agitation. The bar brawl Mulder and Scully witnessed - started by two neighbors who were arguing the differences between frogs and toads; namely, which was superior - was nevertheless entertaining and slightly profitable. A good day, yes. Scully had admitted, out loud, to having spotted a few of the disappearing, unofficially-detected hopfrogs herself. Her initial three-foot leap, when a red visitor bounced onto the tip of her professional left toe, had been a surprisingly open-minded demonstration, Mulder believed, of true inter-species communication. Better still was the sheer thrill of watching Scully's jaw square when he dared her to dive into the lagoon for her necessary proof. It had been enough to make him want, for just a second, to never see her smile again, not if her glare was so inviting, so dangerously _right_. He had goaded, he knew. He hadn't cared. Neither, he suspected, had she. "You scientist types need evidence, right? Well, Scully, here's your chance." "Damn straight," she'd said between clenched teeth, putting on a convincing show. "Wade in," he had said. When she did, he wasn't watching. A policeman was yelling something in the distance, down the shoreline. When Mulder caught up with him, the damage was done. It was lovely. Better, better, better. The sight of the bureau-issue, two-door, standard-equipped boring-as-shit vehicle he and Scully had been loaned rolling backwards and then sinking into the pretty dusk-lit lagoon after he'd accidentally forgotten to put on the parking brake was breathtaking. He'd hated that car. It was a symbol of everything wrong with society, he believed. Though its loss left them stranded in town for the night, he considered its demise justified vengeance of the purest form. Plus, he had a valid excuse to squelch on his end of the dare. The local police were amused. The dare, in progress, had gone unchecked. When Mulder returned to the spot of the original conversation, he learned how far behind he was. Seeing Dana Scully rise from the middle of Leavenworth Lagoon like an aquanaut goddess, rippling bracelets of blazing gold water orbiting her with wider and wider bands, like a glorious gown of bronze skirts, was best, best of all. Of course, she was drenched, and up close looked something like a muddy cat, all matted hair and black, bottomless, hypnotic eyes. She was still gorgeous, if empty-handed and slimy. And thanks to him, without an overnight bag or a change of clothes. Had she been a real cat, he'd have wanted her declawed. She had been content with the car's watery entombment until she found out her neat bag of necessary personal items was buried with it. She'd bristled a little, but not so much that it ruined anyone's mood. Luckily, the bar was open, pre-riot, and the nervous owners, Mr. and Mrs. Brickett, offered to let them stay in their spare room. Looks were exchanged, and Mrs. Brickett asked Mulder if he'd mind sleeping in the office. "There's a couch in there," the round woman said. "I'll take it," Scully said, halting further discussion. She'd dried out considerably, perched on a barstool. She was making friends with the locals. She protested, but generosity won. Sara, Bee, and Kendra, working girls with plenty of jokes and sympathetic natures, presented Scully with an immaculately folded stack of clean clothing. She looked at Mulder, and right then he heard every thought in her compassionate, complex mind, clear as sunshine. They both said thank you to everyone, and both of them meant it. ~~~ Freezing. Coldest water she'd ever felt. Her father, sturdy and smiling, would have called it bracing. The lagoon had sloped and dipped and she had gone down deeper, opening her eyes. Her dress pants constricted in bizarre places, but her strokes were efficient. She could hold her breath for a long time, a childhood ability she'd never outgrown. She would have laughed if doing so had been practical. She was a grown woman, an agent on a low-key but approved assignment. She should not have been swimming. At least not in a blouse that expensive. But the water was cold and a clean hazel. Silt stirred when she kicked hard. It was almost colorless. It felt-- There wasn't a word, really. It just felt. She saw them then, and almost opened her mouth in awe. Frogs, a hundred of them, red and clotted together in a heart. Not valentine symmetrical, but the shape of a real heart, lopsided and muscular. A floating organ plucked from the chest of the lagoon. And then the amphibians swam away, sprinting off in dozens of directions. She floated for a little while. When she was ready, she turned around and started for shore, dare forgotten. All around her, phantom frogs were dashing and splashing, like flares. Underwater, she smiled. ~~~ Bizarrely, he is happy. It might be the soap fumes, he thinks. He wonders if Scully used up all the hot water on purpose. Oh. Yeah. The hot water heater is broken. They told us that. It's okay. Cold water, and lots of it, is just what's required. Very cold water. And donated soap. He reads the label: Squiggle Squirm Fruity Bath Gel for Kids. "'Soap so silly you'll giggle till you're clean.' Huh." Citrus flavored, tinted a radioactive green. The shower water is ice. It's like bathing in a lime slushy, he thinks. Scully was as pleased with the day as I was, Mulder thinks, stepping out of the shower stall. He has the advantage - clean underwear he didn't have to replace. He tries to stifle the snickers but can't. Happy. This is what it feels like. Like leaping, he thinks. ~~~ The spare room was, well, spare. The twin bed was its sole piece of furniture. One of two accessories was Mulder's overnight bag. It had been spared because he'd been digging through it, scavenging for sunflower seeds, and had never returned it to the trunk of the car. The perfect circle of the moon hung sleepy and gray in the cloudless sky. There was just enough illumination in the room to obscure Scully, the second accessory, in the shadow of the corner. She sat thinking, patient and comfortable. She'd taken a silly dare on a silly case because Mulder had smiled. A silly smile. A sweet smile, she finally corrected, too tired for censorship. A playful, impish smile. One she had missed. Now she missed her overnight bag, her silk pajamas, her old sturdy demeanor. Still. Ten days. Ten days of quiet and unease and tiptoeing, as though Mulder were a library of secrets too delicate to take off the shelves. As though he and she had not been threatened, pushed, damaged, or scared for weeks, by uncontrollable voices, flash-fire nightmares, and the past dredged up on tapes and on chilly floors, like acid stripping them bare of defenses. Scully had never felt less like her own person than she had in the last weeks. Things were getting better, and she would reclaim something tonight if she had to smother Mulder with a lumpy pillow. The thought made her giddy. She could hear the squeal of pipes as, down the hall, Mulder turned off the shower. ~~~ Scully isn't sleeping yet, he knows. He takes that as a good sign. She isn't moving either, which seems a bad sign. "Are you going to sleep on the floor?" Mulder asks, trying to keep the words light. She doesn't answer. It starts to bother him thirty seconds later. The silence is eerie. She is five feet away but he can't hear her breathe. He rolls off the bed and creeps to the corner. "Scully?" The corner offers little compassion. It is, he sees, empty. Horribly empty. "Scully?" he asks again, fumbling for the light switch. The overhead light blares spiteful yellow inside the small, empty room. He runs to the bathroom down the short hallway. Ice water leaks from the shower spout; he is positive he'd shut off the faucets when he left. He yanks back the curtain. The tub holds a thousand blood red frogs. They jump about like devilish popcorn. He blinks, and notices he is flat on his back, on a musty mattress in a small, spare room. As Scully perches on the edge, the bed quivers and squeaks in rhythm with her gasps. He is somewhat concerned the cadence will attract attention from the establishment's proprietors; it is a very undignified sort of noise she is making. He does not want to get thrown out due to a perception of improper behavior. In the dingy light, it takes him a perplexed moment to realize she is laughing. The confusion remains. He sits up, touches her shoulder, and squints, as though his eyes can somehow help his hand interpret the smooth, cool feel of her skin. She looks at him, obviously amused by his bewilderment, and slowly exhales a huge breath, letting the laughter unwind from her limbs like ribbon. It occurs to him that the laughter was borderline hysterical, closer to sobbing than glee. Scully smiles tentatively and shakes her head. "Sorry. This whole evening confirmed my theory that we're both crazy. And we make other people crazy. We're like a walking warp of insanity." He scoots forward until he would almost be able to completely envelop her. He doesn't, but he doesn't remove his hand either. "It's just been an overly surreal day, and I think there's no greater evidence than the fact that I'm wearing dollar store panties purchased by the tip-jar of three kind prostitutes we met in the saloon downstairs, right before the police showed up to trot several of our admirers down to the ol' county jail." There cannot possibly be a suitable response to that statement, he thinks. Some exhaustion-sensitive aberrant brain neuron fires without his consent, and he says - before he can stop himself, knowing how it will sound - "You make me crazy." He grins to prove it, while hearing voices in his head screaming, Fool! Now she knows everything! Recant, damn it, and retreat! To the trenches! Aieee! It sounds like something he'd normally think - emphasis on normal - but he can never be completely sure anymore. She smiles back, however, and her eyes glitter like moonlight before she sighs very discreetly. "You were in the bathroom for two hours. I found you chuckling to yourself but totally unresponsive." Her tone makes it sound like a pleasant thing, to walk in on one's loony partner in the bathroom. "How'd I get here?" "You stopped laughing. I had Mr. Brickett help me get you out of there." "Oh." He cannot remember ever wanting to laugh. The thought gnaws at him. Scully trails her fingers down his jaw. "Hey. You're here. You're fine. I should let you rest," she says, lowering her chin. "Stay," he whispers. For a moment, he thinks she might; her thoughts, which he is attempting to not sense, are held suspended. For a moment, he is buoyant with anticipation. 'I can't,' she should say, he thinks, the words final, simple. Sad. She won't meet his gaze. She doesn't answer him. "Okay. Well. Goodnight." He does a nice job of keeping his voice neutral, and lies down, closing his eyes. He hears her close his door, hears her open and close another. Hears a door open again. Long minutes drift by, and he gets out of bed. The blanket on the saloon office couch is wadded into a ball. Descending the stairs, he sees her in one of the fake leather bar booths, the kind with a chrome-rimmed tabletop. Slumped over gracefully, she is using her left hand as a pillow, while her right arm extends out across the table. In the center of her palm, a small red frog relaxes. It hops away as Mulder slides into the booth beside Scully. He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her up to him gently. With sleepy, slow movements, she opens his hands and rubs soft circles into the palms with her thumbs. He mimics her, his thumb at the base of her throat, circling, barely touching her, until her breath frays. He presses his lips to the spot, feeling the utter warmth and satin throb, and says, "Thank you," something close to wonder in his voice. "For what?" she murmurs, her head tipped back in his hands. "For staying." ~~~ An end.