The Thing with Feathers
PART ONE
AUTHOR: Diana Battis
DISTRIBUTION: OK for Gossamer and Spookys. Anywhere else, just ask. I usually 
say yes. 
CLASSIFICATION: MSR, S, 
RATING: NC17
SPOILERS: Yes, right through to X-Cops.
SUMMARY: A hope starved will eventually die.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it!
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS: Thanks to Narida, Kristy, and Chris for their comments, 
insight, and hand-holding. Ladies, I'm in your debt!
FEEDBACK: All4Mulder@aol.com or DianaBattis@aol.com
My fanfiction can be found at: 
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/4090/TheXFilesFic.html

**********
Hope is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul, 
And sings the tune without the words, 
And never stops at all, 

Emily Dickinson
***********

The motel has seen better days. With a facade of sun-bleached pink stucco, the 
building is a bastardized mix of Spanish colonial and art deco. Like Hollywood, 
its newness has faded, the luster tarnished by decades of would-be actors 
looking for fame and fortune. Star-struck and naive, they'd waited for that one 
big chance until their hopes faded like the color of their temporary home.

Now she's staying there.

Scully gets out of the rented Taurus, carefully stretching her cramped limbs. 
The early morning sunshine feels good on her face, and she stands there for a 
second, absorbing its comforting warmth. Though her body aches with fatigue, the 
thought of her shabby room with its lumpy bed is less than inviting, especially 
after the night she's spent.

Mulder stands on the blacktop, impatiently rocking back on his heels. He's 
waiting for her, expecting her to follow him to the seedy coffee shop that is 
attached to their motel. The breakfast she's been anticipating is washed away by 
visions of burnt toast and weak tea in a cracked cup. She waves him on, deciding 
that her room is really the lesser of two evils.

Now she wants nothing more than to soak in a hot tub until her skin prunes, then 
crawl into her scratchy-sheeted bed and arrange her body around the lumps. Her 
exhaustion is so complete that she will have no trouble sleeping.

He nods and turns, his footsteps crunching over the gravel that covers the 
blacktop in places. Leaning on the car, she shades her eyes against the sun and 
watches him. His body, all sinew and muscle, moves with a perfect grace that 
seems wasted on a man. He is dressed in jeans and a dark sweater, with an open, 
black leather jacket as his concession to California's late February chill. He 
reaches the entrance and glances back at her with a puzzled expression on his 
face, then pushes through the door.

Sighing, she straightens up and heads to her room.

Fifteen minutes later, she's soaking in the tub, surrounded by almond-scented 
bubbles and the muted strains of Vivaldi coming from the cheap radio-alarm 
clock. The water laps against the sides of the tub, cradling her in its warmth 
like a second womb. She slides farther down, the hair she so carefully pinned up 
falling out of its confined state to float in the water like strands of rusty 
seaweed. She doesn't care. In this world she is protected, safe and secure. 
Nothing untoward can happen to her here.

The events of last night flash through her mind. They're all jumbled together 
and she imagines her memories are very much like what the video cameraman caught 
on his tape. It had been so surreal, like something out of a Fellini film. 
Hollywood's version of La Strada, starring Steve and Edy and Mulder's 
FearMonster. At least Fellini is entertaining, she thinks with a smile.

She remembers Mulder, so eager to help, playing up to the camera as though he 
were auditioning for the role of G-man in a made-for-TV movie. Other bits filter 
through her mind: Mulder's patience dealing with Steve and Edy; his sweetly 
chivalric protection of poor, doomed Chantara; his stubborn insistence on the 
cause of the deaths, recorded for posterity's sake. She is alternately amused, 
proud, and frustrated at those memories. Lifting a mass of bubbles, she watches 
them collapse in her hand. She wishes her ambivalent feelings would do the same.

A monster who feeds on fear. Trust Mulder to come up with an unconventional 
explanation for last night's events. Of course, she's been unable to use logic 
to rebut his theories, and that's left her feeling somewhat uneasy. Is it a mad 
slasher, an animal of some sort, a killer who targets prostitutes?

What about the poor coroner's assistant? All the signs of the Hanta virus were 
there, but sped up like some silent movie, taking seconds from first symptoms to 
death. Crazy, she thinks. Impossible. Yet it happened, and has been recorded for 
the whole world to see.

That bothers her most of all. Though she is used to dealing with Mulder and his 
abstract ideas, they still hold the power to embarrass her. But not Mulder. He'd 
been forthright, despite the television cameras, telling his theories to all who 
would listen. The thought that it will be broadcast on national television is 
especially disturbing.

She trails her fingers through the warm water, watching the smattering of 
bubbles bob as her motions cause the water to stir. That's like Mulder, she 
thinks, going through life causing little ripples in his wake. Each disturbance 
is slight enough to be almost unnoticeable, but as time passes you find yourself 
pulled along whether you want to be or not.

Does she want to be? Sighing, Scully straightens up in the tub, leaning her head 
against the porcelain rim. It's a silly question, of course. She's in love with 
him and has been for several years. He's not an easy man to love. His prickly 
sense of humor can be trying. Though he's confident to the point of arrogance at 
times, she's learned to respect his ideas even when she can't agree with them. 
And she knows he values her judgment just as much, despite their theoretic 
differences.

Then what's holding them back? The year had started out so well, with a kiss 
that carried the promise of more. But it's still a pledge unfulfilled. She knows 
that there are extenuating circumstances. A lot has happened in the few short 
months since then. Her encounter with Pfaster comes immediately to mind, and she 
shivers in remembrance. He's dead, and he can't hurt anyone now, she tells 
herself before pushing it from her thoughts.

Then there is Mrs. Mulder's suicide and the bewildering explanation of 
Samantha's disappearance. She was there for Mulder, comfort and support things 
he allows himself to accept from her easily, without reservation. The time 
wasn't right for more than that.

She worries it never will be. Soaping the sponge, she slides it over her body, 
wondering if all the bubbles and scents, lotions and loofahs, are wasted efforts 
on her part. What good is soft skin with no one to appreciate it? 

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, according to Emily 
Dickinson. Scully smiles. She loved that poem as a teen; she still loves it and 
the images it inspires. And hope is the one thing she still holds on to. Hope 
that the new understanding she and Mulder have will soon be the springboard to 
more. But Mulder moves notoriously slow, and seems content with things as they 
are. So she watches and waits, looking for a sign that there is still something 
to hope for, and knows that a hope starved will eventually die. . .

Sighing, she reaches for the plug. So much for the relaxing bath.

Stepping out of the tub, Scully quickly rubs herself dry with the thin cotton 
towel. "Mortal fear," she murmurs, slathering her skin with moisturizer. She 
drags on panties and a tee shirt and runs a comb through her hair, noting the 
blue smudges that lay like bruises beneath her eyes. "The only thing I'm afraid 
of is that bed," she tells her reflection, reaching for her toothbrush.

Minutes later she is in the bed, thin pillows bunched together under her head 
for support. The lumpy mattress is worse than she'd remembered, and she squirms 
beneath the covers, trying to pinpoint a spot that fits her body. One position 
finds a spring, and she yelps loudly as it pokes into the tender skin of her 
back. She finally gives up and turns onto her side, resolutely ignoring the 
uncomfortable mattress. Closing her eyes, she wills sleep to come.

Her face is too close to the pillow, and she can smell the bleach on the case 
covering it. She wrinkles her nose, the odor too reminiscent of the harsh 
chemicals used to scrub the autopsy bay. It seems as though fate is conspiring 
against her, and she leaps from the bed, her temper barely controlled, to root 
through her toiletries. Pulling out her cologne, she sprays the cotton liberally 
with the scent. Setting the bottle on the nightstand, she slithers back under 
the covers, her cheek nestled against the familiar smell. Now, perhaps, she will 
sleep.

She's drifting, feeling her body relax into the hills and valleys of the motel 
bed. Her mind fills with random images: her mother, the ocean, the night sky 
full of stars. They merge as she slides deeper into that twilight stage, neither 
awake nor asleep, and she's soothed by the picture she's imagining. The water 
laps against her ankles, and she glances up at the sky, hearing her mother warn 
her not to go too far out. It's too late, she thinks, feeling the pull of the 
current as she wades deeper into the water. The lure of the unknown has caught 
her, and she's not an unwilling captive.

Her mother's voice fades, and she hears Mulder now, calling to her. "Scully. . 
." Her feet no longer touch the ocean floor, but she's not afraid. She knows how 
to swim, like all good Navy children.

"Mulder," she calls back, "where are you?" She lifts her arms, stroking through 
the calm waters, moving closer to that voice. "Mulder. . ."

"I'm here, Scully. . ." It's much louder now, and she pauses, treading water as 
her eyes scan the horizon, searching for his familiar face. He continues to call 
her, and she presses on, her arms slicing through the murky surface. Soon she 
can see a beach, the moonlight illuminating the thin stretch of sand and the 
figure standing on it. "Scully. . ." he says, and the soft breeze carries his 
whisper to her. Her feet touch bottom and she wades slowly through the shallow 
waters, walking toward the man on shore.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, stepping out of the water at last. The sand 
is cool and she digs her toes into its shifting surface, wriggling them like a 
child. The moonlight seems especially bright, giving an ethereal glow to their 
surroundings.

He smiles and reaches for her hand, his eyes sparkling green in the luminescence 
of the moon. "I've been waiting for you," he says, his voice smooth as honey. 
His touch is electric, and she can feel the charge going through her, causing 
the hairs on her arm to bristle in response.

He starts to walk, tugging her along with him. They are heading for a grove of 
trees, she notes. The oaks stand tall against the stellar sky, and soon they are 
moving through them. It's dark here, the moonlight is unable to pierce the 
densely laden branches, and she feels a momentary pang of alarm. But he is still 
holding her hand, and she brushes away the fear as she follows along after him.

He's moving faster, and she has to run to keep pace with his longer legs. Her 
arm is stretched straight out in front of her, and her fingers are starting to 
slip from his grasp. "Mulder, wait for me," she calls as their hands part. She 
can hear him ahead of her, moving through the trees, but the sound is getting 
fainter as each second passes. "Mulder!"

The darkness is absolute, and she takes a tentative step forward, fighting 
against the panic that threatens to smother her. She hears the rustle of leaves 
ahead, and then his voice. "I'm here, Scully." The words drift through the air 
and she begins to move with assurance toward the sound. But someone, some 
*thing*, holds her back. It grabs at her arm, pulling her in the opposite 
direction. She panics, trying to break free, but the hold is tight and her 
efforts are fruitless. 

It pulls her back to the moonlit beach. She knows she should turn and confront 
her captor, but fear keeps her eyes focused on the trees behind her. "Mulder," 
she screams, "I need you." The ocean, now cold and rough, swirls around her 
ankles. She's dragged forward into the treacherous waters. The current's pull is 
strong, and her efforts to swim are wasted. She's slipping under the water, 
dragged by the nameless something, and the last thing she hears is Mulder, 
calling to her. . .

Scully awakens with a start, the sound of Mulder's voice still fresh in her 
mind. She gasps, filling her lungs with air as though she really had been 
drowning. The pounding of her heart matches the sound of blood rushing in her 
ears. The dream is still so vivid that she almost mistakes the saltiness of her 
perspiration for sea water. Her hair is wet where it rests on her brow, and she 
can feel the trickle of sweat gliding between her breasts to be absorbed by the 
soft cotton of her tee shirt.

Inhaling slowly and deeply, she tries to calm her racing heart. The power of the 
dream is fading, becoming more unreal with each deep breath. She pushes the 
dampened strands of hair off her face, and glances at the clock. It's only 
ten-thirty; she's been asleep for less than an hour.

Propping the pillows against the headboard, she sits up, drawing her knees up to 
her chest in an unconsciously protective gesture. She's not one to believe in 
dreams and hidden omens. Under normal circumstances, she would just shrug it 
off, roll over and go back to sleep. But this isn't normal, and she recognizes 
without a doubt that there is a deeper meaning to this one. It's so obvious that 
she nearly laughs in relief. Except it's no laughing matter. 

She's afraid of losing Mulder.

Reaching over, she flicks on the lamp, shading her eyes from the harsh light. 
The room is the same, shabby and impersonal. The walls are painted a depressing 
green, reminiscent of interrogation rooms and hospital hallways. In addition to 
the bed there is a nondescript bureau with a cracked mirror, in the same cherry 
veneer as the nightstand. Almost hidden in the corner is a desk with a chair 
whose cane seat is probably broken. And of course there's the ever-present 
television, with its bad reception and battery-less remote. 

She knows this room with a familiarity that saddens her. She knows the drawers 
in the bureau will stick, the one in the desk holds yellowed stationery with 
envelopes that have lost their adhesive, and the nightstand a telephone 
directory and the Gideon bible. She's been here before, in a hundred different 
towns. Everything's the same. She's the one who's changed.

There's a certain satisfaction that comes from making a discovery. No longer 
will she be happy with things as they are. She wants change. She wants to act 
wild, liberated from all the rules that keep her from what she really needs. Is 
it too late?

She shivers, but not from cold. That's it, she knows with certainty. It's what 
she fears above all else. Not her emotions, or losing control, but the idea that 
they may not be welcomed by Mulder. That somehow, somewhere, she's lost her one 
chance. . .

The sound of a door slamming startles her, and she jumps in reaction. Mulder is 
back.

He's had his breakfast, and is probably getting ready to take a shower. He'll 
drop his clothes all over the floor, leave the bathroom full of wet towels when 
he's finished, and jump into bed to channel hop until he falls asleep. Nothing 
different in his routine, she knows him all too well in that respect. He's 
almost. . .predictable.

Suddenly, she wants to hate him, his complacence and calm acceptance of the 
status quo. He doesn't expect much from her or anyone, and is never 
disappointed. She wants to march up to the door and shake up his little world 
like hers has been.

The sound of creaky pipes reaches her ears, and she imagines him in the shower, 
running the soap over firm skin that retains the hint of a tan even in winter. 
Stroking the bar over his pectorals, suds glistening in the dark hair scattered 
across his chest. His hands will follow the thinning line of hair down to his 
abdomen, cleaning away the sweat and grime of LA. Lower and. . .her breath 
catches in her throat. Don't go there, her mind warns, but her body doesn't want 
to listen. Her nipples are tight under the cotton, and she resists the urge to 
touch them.

The clanking of the pipes has stopped, and is replaced by the sound of off-key 
whistling. Scully smiles as she recognizes the tune -- "I Love LA." In some 
things, Mulder is still unpredictable. The whistling is joined by the muted 
rumble of voices. He's turned to his other faithful companion, television.

She listens to the voices, catching an occasional word. Fire, murder, death. 
Funny how clearly she can pick out these words from the gibberish. What does 
that say about her?

As tired as she was earlier, all desire to sleep is gone. She sits there wanting 
nothing more than to march over to that connecting door and. . .what? Have her 
way with him? Declare her undying love? Something in between? 

Nice girls have haloes -- good girls have fun. She remembers that saying from 
high school, and with a snort of disgust, she throws off the covers. I can't 
live like this anymore, she thinks, and marches over to the connecting doors. 
It's my turn for fun.

********
End part one


Go to part two 

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