Title: Don't Think of a Blue Elephant (1/1) Author: Chey Burgess E-mail: jr...@hotmail.com Rating: PG-13 Category: V...I think Spoilers: Cancer arc Keywords: M/S Summary: Involves: the end of a case, a playground, a clean Scully and a calm Mulder. Scully POV. Disclaimer: These characters are not mine etc., etc. Author's Notes: A hug and kiss for Lena, and also for Haphazard Method (even if it's rejected due to unnecessary sappiness) ************* Another case bites the dust. Four days, three autopsies and one amateur black magic gathering is all it takes to determine the who, what, why, when and where. The 'who' is a twenty-two year old, wanna-be sorcerer using Atropa Belladonna extract to induce trance states in his rather gullible followers. Probably so they don't notice he's full of shit. I guess his 'Handbook for Warlocks' wasn't too clear on dosage because he didn't have the first clue. Just gave them 'what felt right'. Naturally, it was wrong. Not much room for error with Deadly Nightshade, buddy. With the suspect sobbing incoherent apologies to the small town sheriff who's known him all his life, there are only minor details left for us to take care of. As I stand listening to Mulder wrap things up with the Deputy, my eyes drift to the window behind him, to the ceaseless waves breaking against the shore. I am suddenly tired. The lethargy hits me at the same time as a strange kind of passive rebellion. I turn my attention back to the two men before me. "Excuse me," I mutter, turning towards the door. I am outside before guilt can overtake me. Guilt surprises me by not showing up at all. I head down the street to the one motel in this small, coastal community, delighting in the briny air that fills my lungs. Mulder is worried. I don't have to be in his presence to know that. It is a given these days, as is the fact that I tire more easily when we work in the field. That's ok. I will pretend not to notice his concern, and he will pretend not to notice my gradual decline. We have become accustomed to these silent rules, my partner and I. I pick up my pace a little. The shadows are lengthening and there's a place I want to go before dark. On the way to my room, I pass our rental car which has sat here, brooding, since we arrived. Not much call for transport in a town this size. Once inside, I move straight to the bathroom and strip. Turning on the shower, I step under the hot water and tip my head back, luxuriating in the feel of it soaking into my scalp. I am so aware of myself tonight. Despite the weariness, I feel good; like a sponge soaking up all sensory experience. I flip the top up on the bottle of liquid body wash that I have stored on the corner of the bath. Bringing it to my nose, I sniff once, then again. I love the fragrance of this brand. It smells so...*clean*. Like subtle, flowery soap with something extra that makes me feel fresh - mind and body. I love the way it looks like a melted pearl in the palm of my hand, all silvery luminescence. I love the way it lingers on my skin after I wash the suds off, so that I can smell it on my clothes too. All that *and* a built-in moisturizer. I decide on the spur of the moment to use it as shampoo too. Maybe I'll be lucky and it won't turn my hair into a greasy mess tomorrow. I rinse off and get out, gently patting just the excess moisture from my body so I don't rub the scent away. I wrap my hair in the towel and tug on my favorite faded jeans which always come with me, but rarely get the chance to see the light of day. Suit, pajamas, suit - that's the usual routine. I pull my white t-shirt over the towel on my head to cover my plain white bra. I don't care that it stretches the neck, these are my comfy clothes. Taking the towel off, I comb my wet hair back off my face, enjoying the gentle scrape of the teeth against my scalp as they make thin tracks through my hair. I feel clean. I feel new...uncluttered. Leaving the bathroom, I grab the room key, shove it in my pocket and head outside again. I cross the road carefully, trying to avoid any sharp rocks which might pierce my bare feet, until I reach the strip of grass that separates the road from the beach. After the harsh roughness of asphalt, the grass is cool and soft, soothing against my tender soles. Here is the playground that has been flitting around the corners of my mind since our first day. I think its appeal is in its simplicity. No technicolor, plastic and metal constructions here. Just your run-of-the-mill swing set, wooden see-saw and grey slippery slide with the darker stripe down the middle from years of little bottoms. Now, in the off-season, I have the place to myself. As the last rays of sunlight turn everything golden, I take a seat on the left swing, facing the ocean. The sea breeze blows into my face as I begin to push backwards and forwards, small movements with just my toes. For a few minutes I just sit there, rocking back and forth while I watch the continuous in and out of the waves. I could close my eyes and sleep here I think... No. I force my eyes wide open and push hard with my feet as I grip the chains and lean back, then pull forward and bend my legs under. Backwards and forwards; pull and push. How long has it been since I did this? When did swing sets start failing to catch my attention? You never think to yourself, 'Ok, that was fun, but I think I'll give up swings now.' I guess there's lots of changes in life that creep up on you when you're not looking. I have gained momentum and the swing will go no higher, but I continue the process. Pull hard, lean forward, bend legs, push back, lean back, straighten legs. The sun finally disappears, taking color and the last of the day's warmth with it. The early spring air is cold against my wet head. My bare feet and hands are beginning to feel icy. I stop pushing and lean back, extending my arms so that I am looking up at the colorless dusk sky. I remember how I used to focus on a patch of blue sky and, on the backwards swing, I would pretend that there were no tethers; I was flying up to visit the angels. I have a sudden memory of Missy telling me she had a guardian angel whose name was Sylvia. Of course, I had to have one too. I called mine Jerry, after a retired officer on one of the naval bases who used to give Missy and me a flower whenever we passed his garden. "A rose for a rose," he never failed to quip. I pictured my Jerryangel with snowy wings and a face that was always a little blurry. He would rain fragrant petals on me whenever I was sad... I wonder what happened to him? Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Mulder approaches. That he would come was inevitable. I will be the first to admit my actions may seem a little out of character. He settles himself on the grass, leaning against the front swing support, his back to me. My feet reach just parallel to his face on the forward swing and I realise I'm slowing down. I start swinging again, using all my strength to regain my former height, and peer at him through a curtain of damp hair as I pass him on the forward arc. "Finish up?" I ask. He tips his head back to look at me, following my monotonous journey with his eyes. "Yeah...Scully?" Pause. "How can I have a turn on the slide without betraying my cool exterior?" I smile and he grins, his head turning back to contemplate the darkening ocean. Silently, I thank him for not questioning my sanity. We are quiet as I continue my pendulous motion. After a few minutes of vigorous up and down, I feel a queasiness in my stomach. The chill in my fingers and toes suddenly becomes uncomfortable. There was a time when motion sickness would never have affected me - not like this, anyway. I stop pushing and close my eyes, willing it away. Whoa. Mistake. As my eyes snap open, the nausea jumps up into my chest, just above my solar plexus. I shift my focus to an imaginary spot on the barely visible horizon, determined that mind shall triumph over matter. My feet drag lightly over the ground as I try to stop the motion of the swing without alerting Mulder. Fear joins nausea in a trip up my throat at the thought of him seeing me vomit. I am suddenly angry. Angry at the sweat which has broken out on my forehead and feels so blessedly cool in the brisk night air. Angry that I cannot control the way I'm feeling. Angry that I can so suddenly feel like shit when before I felt so good. Dammit! It's psychosomatic! I tell myself this as I bend forward to lower my head beneath my heart. Breathe deep, breathe slow. Think about something else. Don't think about being sick. Which, of course, is like telling someone not to think of a blue elephant. My hands lose their grip on the chains and I swear my insides are shaking. I fight the sudden urge to be as close to the ground as possible. I will *not* risk Mulder turning around and finding me on my hands and knees. I do not suffer humiliation well. My chest heaves in silent bursts. I clamp my lips together and silently plead for it to stop. My body betrays me as involuntary reflexes take over. I gag. He is on his knees beside me as I continue to dry retch. One hand rests on my leg while the other pulls back the damp clumps of my hair into a makeshift ponytail. He says nothing, but the thumb sweeping back and forth on my thigh belies his concern. I want him to go away. I want him to stay. Back, forth; push, pull. In the end, though, I know it doesn't matter what I want. The retching continues, worse even than the cheap-wine-induced sagas of my college days. My only saving grace is that I had been too busy to eat lunch. I am thanking God so hard for that now because, despite my body's best efforts, there is nothing to bring up. It does little to alleviate my embarrassment, though. I'd prefer even my mother not to see me in this condition, with this total lack of control. Finally, my traitorous body begins to calm. The bitter, acid taste of bile pricks the back of my throat but, thankfully, makes it no further. Mulder brings his other hand up to smooth back the strands of hair that have escaped his gentle hold. I remain hunched over, staring through teary eyes at the double row of stitching on the inner seam of his jeans. I focus on it, on the way each tiny stitch is the exact same size as the one before it. I am so tired. My muscles feel like jelly, quivery and soft. Resignation and lethargy have replaced anger. I know I should thank him, let him know I'm ok, but I don't have the energy to raise my head. Soon, just another minute... He releases my hair and tucks it behind my ears as best he can with my head hanging. He trails a hand down my arm briefly before sitting back on his haunches. I want to sleep. I so want to sleep. To just lie down would be heaven. I may have goosebumps, but the grass is so near. My room is so far. I drop off the swing onto my knees and shakingly crawl the short distance past the other swing to the grass. I don't like that I'm reduced to this in front of my partner, but exhaustion wins out. I am aware of how pathetic I must look, curled up on my side on the ground, but I can't help not caring very much right now. I know I will later, but right now - I just want to close my eyes... His arms slip under to lift me and I cannot be bothered protesting, even though I don't want him to carry me. I want to walk, I can walk - but I forget to tell him. My stomach muscles hurt. I think about how it's good that he has shoes on as we cross the road. He holds me tightly under my arms with one hand while he digs cautiously in my pocket with the other. Finding the key, he opens my door, picks me up again and takes me inside. Seconds or years later, I feel the bed beneath me and the relief is so very wonderful. I wish he'd go now. I hope he doesn't. I get one of my wishes. He brings me a pair of socks and sweatpants. The socks go on with no help from me at all. Then he hesitates. I fumble to undo my jeans myself. They are the last barrier between me and bliss. He helps me pull them off and get my sweats on. Instead of absolute comfort, I realise there is still one thing causing niggling annoyance. I summon up the last of my energy to unclasp my bra and pull it out through my sleeves. Nirvana. Nirvana is having no restrictive clothing on while finally drifting off to sleep in a warm bed. The pillow is so, so soft under my cheek, the bed feels so cozy, my hair smells so good, the soft sounds Mulder makes as he switches the tv on low and shucks his shoes are so comforting... Mulder. I have to... "Mulder?" I whisper. He comes to the bed, arranges the spare pillows against the headboard and sits beside me, legs stretched out as he settles in to watch some old movie. He continues to follow the rules, even now. His hand comes to rest on my head. "Mulder? I'm ok." He turns his head away from the flickering images. "Yeah...I know." He faces forward again, but his hand remains where it is. ...I hope he stays. *** End Feedback: All thoughts ecstatically received. Signature? Nah, but here is a line I always liked: "The ships hung in the sky in much the same way as bricks don't." The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy.