Title: A Touch in the Microcosm Author: XRie Contents: UST Rating: PG Spoilers: None. Indeterminate time setting. Summary: A tremor experienced as two worlds merge. Often it's the little things that shake a universe. Distribution: I'd be flattered, but let me know where it's going. Disclaimer: I don't own them. I have no money. Sue me and learn the true definition of futility. Feedback: Petted and adored at x_rie@hotmail.com. More stories are housed at xrie.iwarp.com. Notes: Thanks to Char, Jodie, and Taz for beta and encouragement. Special thanks to Sue and Meg for wielding impressive red pens, for allowing me to try their patience and sanity, and for keeping the word "elevator" dancing in my head. ************************* A Touch in the Microcosm ************************* January 18 12:21 a.m. Her head tipped languidly on the pillow, tendrils of hair wisping across her eyes, curling onto her cheeks, caressing her lips. Her fingers moved in tantalizing strokes over her breasts, momentarily fingering the lace bra. Her eyes expressed wanton desire. Finally, her lips parted, sighed, and the words ventured forth, halting and raw: "One person ... always wants the other person ... more." Mulder snapped off the television and dropped the remote control to the ground in a single, fluid motion. Victoria's Secret. _Shit_. He curled his knees to his chest and rolled to face the back of the couch, the familiar scent of leather and sleeplessness filling his nostrils. Scully. It had only been a _fraction_ of an inch. Imperceptible to an outside observer--one who didn't speak the language of their microcosm of two. Afterwards, he had left his car in the Hoover Building's parking garage. He had walked through decomposing neighborhoods and across bridges where passing cars whipped gales of wind through his hair, tangling his overcoat around him or billowing it with a snap behind him, willing him to blow away and never hit the ground. He had stood in front of a chainlink fence and watched the breath of a black dog condense and crackle in the bleak January twilight. His own breath shimmered and cracked in response, a shared proof of existence. Somehow he had made his way to his apartment door, staring at the familiar distortion of his face in the unpolished brass numbers. His numb hands had fumbled thickly with the key until he finally stumbled inside, the warm air of his apartment assaulting his frozen ears and causing his nose to run. And now he lay motionless in the darkness, without even the familiar flicker of the TV light to warm him. And that damn commercial had brought it all back. Victoria's Secret. He blew out a halfhearted breath. Shit. Two weeks earlier, Scully had cut her hair. A true, no- nonsense, look-at-me-as-an-object-and-I'll-castrate-you kind of haircut. Maybe she had thought the way her hair curled luxuriously against her neck made her soft, vulnerable. Maybe she had just been trying something new. In any case, he was sure she hated it. He loved it. Because the short bangs she tried to tuck behind her ears kept pulling free, falling over her eyes ... He sighed, shifted back around to face the room. His gaze flickered across the row of videos, lined discreetly in no particular order under the television. What no one cared to understand was that he didn't watch them to get off. He watched because it numbed him to the core. The physical sensations were undeniable, but his overwhelming sense was one of nonexistence, a coldness around his heart that felt like oblivion. Automaton. Hunk of flesh. Escape from rumors and shadows and smoke and that fraction of an inch. ... The hair that she tried to keep behind her ears kept pulling free and flopping into her eyes. He knew it exasperated her to no end, but he secretly loved the lack of polish, the unprofessional _humanness_ of it all. And he had heeded his impulse to reach out and touch it. Felt its silky sleekness across his fingertips. And it had only been a fraction of an inch, but it was a fraction all the same, and her eyes had refused to meet his, had stared at the ascending numbers on the elevator as if force of will could make them move faster. She had stiffened. She had shrunk from his touch. Pulled away just a fraction of an inch, but after seven years it felt like infinite space. He laid his arm over his eyes as a ragged shudder traveled through his chest. His arm was sticky with cold sweat and the beginnings of tears. Did she want him at all? The most rhetorical of questions. Too much had passed between them ... His bones could not comprehend existence without her. Surely, then, he had become integral to some part of her. But why did he have to want her so much more? ************************************ ************************************ January 18 2:31 a.m. The cold light of the television set strobed across Scully's face. Purple. Blue. Shroudish white. Then ice blue again. The colors of bloated flesh and bloodless lips. Toe tags. She wrestled the afghan from around her legs with a shiver and dragged her slippered feet toward the bathroom. The warm hues that diffused around her as she flipped the lightswitch dispelled her mood somewhat. Somewhat. Her eyes, reflected in the mirror, were still that cold color. The blue of ice and withheld confessions. Ice, like a mirror, reflected light back at you, revealing nothing beyond the surface. What if her eyes had been brown? With flecks of intelligence and moss-like greens? Brown and warm and fathomless ... Unscientific to claim that brown with green-gold flecks was the color of light, the color of warmth. That light infused with such a color could coil and entwine. Wrap itself around you and rob you of breath. Did _that_ defy the laws of physics? Maybe she could write a paper about it. Submit to a journal. Dana Katherine Scully, M.D. <> She had taken on Einstein. Why not this? Why not _him_? After all, she was a warrior. From the unflinching gaze to the sharp angles of chin and jaw. She owned the reputation and the scars. But a warrior's palms didn't sweat at the thought of picking up the phone and punching a number on the speed dial. A warrior's heart didn't race imagining his voice rumbling groggily over the line. She grazed a pale finger over hard lines of experience surrounding the corners of her mouth and eyes. A feather touch. Her hand dropped wearily to the sink. She was a warrior. Deftly carved from snow-white marble. A warrior couldn't admit weakness in sentiment, couldn't give in to hunger. Passion was a crack in the armor. She smiled derisively. A warrior wouldn't hide from reality in melodrama. Melodrama was _his_ department. She shook her head gently, and a lock of hair pulled from behind her ear, bounced in front of her face, masking one bewildered, pale blue iris. She blew it upwards with a sharp exhalation of breath. The strands rustled, tickled, settled back against her cheek. It had only been a feather touch. Nothing really. After seven years, Mulder's touches were protocol. Each variety had long ago been categorized and filed away. A hand to the elbow: supportive. A forefinger under her chin: concerned. His head to her shoulder: needy. A thumb brushing her collarbone: possessive. Most often, his palm pressing lightly to the small of her back: habit. His arms wrapped gently around her: comforting. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, leaving this last file laying open in her mind a second longer than necessary. He had beautiful arms. Lithe and strong. At times they had clutched her to him so tightly she could hardly breathe. She sighed. That was his despairing touch. So many different touches with one common denominator: an alibi. But this afternoon, she had felt the difference. That his touch had meant everything and nothing at the same time. She could lose herself in that touch. A touch stemming from no motivation other than the pleasure of _feeling_ her. Not commonplace, but natural. Not threatening, but sensual. Promising. And it had scared the hell out of her. The molten heat at her core. So she had looked away, but not in time to miss the confusion that clouded his expression. She had buried her gaze in the ascending numbers of the elevator, stamping down the embarrassment and consternation. She had dismissed herself quickly, grateful for once their parking spaces were on separate floors of the garage. And she had sat dazed amid the steaming exhaust of rush-hour traffic, veins throbbing, reliving the sensation that shot through her as her hair, guided by his fingers, tickled her cheek, caressed her ear. Remembering his eyes. Deep brown. With flecks of intelligence and moss-like greens. Warm and soft and fathomless ... Dangerous. She could not pinpoint the moment his eyes had become _the_ light. The moment everything else in its whites and blues and reds had faded to insipid shadows. Smoke in the background. But she had become a warrior for his light, and it had penetrated her entire existence, sparing only a vestige of control in a dusty corner of her heart. She sighed deeply and turned out the light, accepting the cold caress of blue darkness as she made her way back to the couch, eyes adjusting to the impersonal strobe of the television. She glanced once towards the phone before huddling resignedly into the scratchy warmth of the afghan. ************************** ************************** January 18 7:14 a.m. The digital bell echoed through the cement cell, pinging hollowly against the thick columns, ceiling, and floor of the Hoover Building's half-empty parking garage. Level Four. Agent Scully smoothed her hair as the elevator doors rolled open to reveal the usual crowd of Bureau standard issue. Gray skin and blank expressions, clad in indistinguishable suits, ties, and sensible shoes. She stepped across the threshold, jaw set, lips slightly puckered. Her piercing gaze slid disinterestedly across the drab crowd before she pivoted on one thick black heel to face the elevator entrance. The doors swished shut, revealing hazy reflections in their dingy surface--ghosts of government-standard haircuts and briefcases behind her. She squared her shoulders. The elevator jerked, lifted slightly, began its slow descent. And a sudden quiver pricked along her back. Not a shiver; the elevator was stale with pumped-in heat. Not the buzz of withheld gossip crackling among the agents behind her; she was immune now to their disapproval and curiosity. Vaccinated by experience. What provoked her unease was the gaze apart from the others. The hot one that flayed its way into her skin, through tendons and muscles and into the bone. Mulder. She brushed a shred of lint from her lapel with unsteady fingers, using the mundane movement to compose herself before craning her neck to find him. He was hardly visible in the crowded elevator, but his lean presence, slumped in the far corner, was unmistakable. His posture was disinterested, but his gaze betrayed his intensity. To her. Hooded eyes shot a brilliance of color through the drab curtain of agents to swirl around her ankles, ride up her legs, her torso, whisper through her hair. Her blood hummed. Mulder. She snapped her attention back to the tarnished chrome of the elevator doors and searched the dim reflections there desperately, praying for inspiration or a sign she wouldn't believe in anyways. She had come into work earlier than usual, prepared to ensconce herself in the comfortable safety of the office before he arrived. Barricade of files and paperwork and silence and routine creating a fortress for her warrior. But now. But now ... A soft ping announced the elevator's arrival at Level Three. Two agents filed past her into the sterile corridors of the Hoover Building. The doors whispered shut. And he wished she would turn and look at him again, but this time without the fear. She believed herself unreadable, but her eyes could be so damn transparent. To him; he had learned to decipher the millisecond of naked emotion she displayed before conjuring her mask of composure. This glance had been one of fear. He stamped down an irrational urge to elbow his way to the front of the elevator. Better yet, to set the wall of flesh that separated them ablaze with a glance, creating smoldering embers at their feet. No one left but the two of them. And he would thrust her gently against cool metal, the force of his contact moving through her to illuminate the call buttons where her backside pressed against them. Her lips would cling to his as he languidly sucked ambrosia from her. His goddess. A hot breath shuddered from his lips. Damn problem with goddesses. They tended to be difficult. Tended to slay the mere mortals who dared approach them with hints of passion. And she feared _him_. His churning stomach lurched softly as the elevator dipped and stopped. She watched helplessly as more gray bodies filed past her. Felt the diminishment of the buffer they formed against the passion lapping insistently at her back. Mutiny. Their lukewarm presence clung, stretched, snapped as they exited, leaving a cool slap of air in her face. Stark contrast with the fire burning behind her. Did no one else feel it? The unbearable heat? Her tongue darted anxiously across her lip as they resumed their descent. The remaining agents stood with dull eyes glancing at watches or the morning paper, oblivious to her discomfort. Her burning. The chime of the elevator bell was muffled by the fire in her ears, and suddenly the cavernous expanse of the front lobby lay before her. More bodies exited, joining the stream of humanity filling the linoleum and plaster-lined corridors with the clicking staccato of government activity. And his view was finally unobstructed. Just the two of them in the enclosed dimness. His eyes traveled her rigid spine, fixing on her hair. Red like a beacon. A signal fire. Would it lead him through this haze of ache and indecision into something ... defying description? Or was it a warning, an alarm that screamed of rocks ahead and impending nonexistence? Fuck the warning. If she intended to warn him, he would disregard the signs. Draw himself to her in blissful ignorance. He would flutter around her ineffectually forever. Because he knew it would be forever. He would be entranced forever. She was overwhelming. He stepped forward, and her body curved instinctively into his presence as she graced him with a strained half-smile. Forced nonchalance. She had tried to convince herself that she had overestimated the importance of the previous day's events. That she alone had tossed and turned as the muted television filled her living room with an eerie strobe of color. But those attempts at self-delusion crumbled in his presence. His face was haggard, his hair more unkempt than usual. His tie hung carelessly around his neck. These signs were _too_ endearing. Too sincere. Her throat burned. The familiar tug of gravity pulled at her knees as the elevator settled at its final destination. Her heart pounded in anticipation. She stepped forward brusquely as the doors separated. "Scully." One word. And she couldn't escape, could only turn halfway towards him, one foot firmly planted on the solid concrete of the basement hallway, desperate for freedom. The other remained on the mottled carpet of the elevator, and she could not budge it. The pull of his lips around her name was too powerful. His voice infusing those familiar syllables with ... She could not tell whether he was commanding or begging her to stay. He advanced into the mouth of the elevator, undeterred as she regained her powers of animation and backed away from him with averted eyes. The click of her left heel echoed through the empty basement, hovering in the silence, distracting attention from the quick mechanical swish of the doors as they began to close. The metal panel pushed forcefully between her shoulderblades before retracting, and her head snapped up at the unexpected contact, the hair she kept tucked behind her ear pulling free with the sudden movement. And in that unguarded moment, he deftly captured her eyes with his. His gaze forced the air from her lungs but intended no threat. Contained an infinite ... something. A paradoxical blend of emotions her mind struggled to interpret as her heart pumped fire through her veins. Desperation and hope, doubt and certainty, awe and determination. But most of all something ... soft and dark. Terrifying. Thrilling. He reached forward slowly, eyes pleading but communicating his refusal to accept a negative answer. Purposeful. Her irises shifted in response. Melted. Something he hadn't seen since that night long ago. In his hallway. Wide and naked blue. A kaleidoscope of trepidation transforming to realization to acceptance to ... His fingers trembled slightly as they paused, then brushed her long bangs gently. Silk yielding against rough skin. Slowly. Until his hand took on a life of its own, smoothing her hair behind her ear, continuing through to sift the soft strands through his fingers, ending at the nape of her neck. Then traveling across her pulsing jugular and up her jaw. He cupped her cheek, and she leaned her face into his touch. Once. And again. She pressed her chin into his palm and nuzzled his fingers, facilitating his caress. And there was nothing else but his touch. His calloused thumb sliding against her cheek. The flames that shot through her center. The fire behind her eyelids. His breath crackling against hers. Blood flowing and breathing in tandem. Only _they_ were alive. There was no more than this. The rough wool of his coat sleeve as it scratched lightly against her jaw. The elevator door as it thrust insistently between her shoulderblades, pushing her towards him. The burning intensity of her eyes. Had he ever really thought of them as cold? Blue was heat. The hottest point of the fire. The softness of her lips glancing against his sensitive palm. And her eyes had fluttered shut against the power of his gaze. She cracked them open and saw the gold-green passion swirling there, but it was too much. Too much. And then there was only sound. Assaulting her eardrums. Shooting ice through her nerves. Her skin shuddering against the sudden frost. All perception focused sharply into the shrill blare of the alarm. Mulder standing too close, his edges brushing against her, chest rising and falling in counterpoint to hers. His hand dropping from her face to swing heavily at his side. He saw the tip of her tongue dart nervously across her lip, and then she was gone, extricating herself from his presence, the receding click of her heels overpowered by the screeching buzzer of the elevator as it protested against being held too long. He stepped into the hallway, allowing the doors to groan shut. The alarm stopped. Plunging him into the cocooned loneliness of his own heaving breaths, his throbbing pulse. He watched her disappear around the corner, escaping to the safe familiarity of the office. Swearing softly, he slumped forward, resting his burning forehead against the cool surface of the basement wall. The elevator creaked, hummed, as it began its labored ascent. ***** end. *****