Title: Verbal Intoxication

Author: XRie

Contents: MSR

Rating: PG

Spoilers: En Ami, Memento Mori

Summary: How did Mulder know that the e-mail

responses to Cobra weren't Scully's? The revelation

and its aftermath.

Distribution: I'd be flattered, but let me know

where it's going.

Disclaimer: They are not mine. I am just pitiful

and need to feel the love. And we all know that a

certain Scully speech in this story particularly

doesn't belong to me. Don't sue.

Notes: I just wanted an En Ami post-ep without

angst. Is that so wrong?? Slight sap potential, but

not too much.

Feedback: My name is XRie, and I am a feedback

junky. Send it to x_rie@hotmail.com and I will

cuddle it and stroke it and probably read it way

too many times.





*******************

Verbal Intoxication

*******************



Scully cradled the mug calmly in both hands. The

murky liquid inside was utterly opaque--more so

than lakewater. Perhaps less so than the heart of

the man who sat two feet from her on the couch.



They were engulfed in a charged silence that was

somehow reassuring; it was theirs. Three years ago

if she had done what she had, he would have

fashioned a revenge of impenetrable walls--barriers

constructed of tv light and hooded hazel eyes. She

might have responded with a stubborn sulking of her

own. But at least they had come this far. They had

left the deserted office space, driven to her

apartment, and he had followed her inside in

unspoken agreement. She had brewed coffee. 



Now she watched as the thick remains of the brew

swirled in the bottom of the cup. She raised the

rim to her mouth, allowing the tepid liquid to

touch her lips, taking some in with the tip of her

tongue. She grimaced, placed the mug back on the

coffee table. And awaited his answer.



In a sense, they didn't need to speak more about

this. Further words were superfluous. She had felt

the hurt emanating from him. He could not have

missed the plea for understanding in her tone. She

had laid bare her motives. He had unveiled the core

of concern that fueled his emotions. Mutual

forgiveness granted.



But she had been driven to ask, and the fear that

flashed through his eyes had been unexpected. The

question still hung between them: How did you know,

Mulder? That the words weren't mine?



She turned her gaze to him again, bemused at her

own patience, allowed her eyes to caress his

profile. He worried his pouting lip with his front

teeth. His Adam's apple worked gently up and down

as he swallowed. Then his furrowed brow suddenly

smoothed, and he reached into his back pocket,

pulling out a folded piece of computer paper.

Unfolding the crease-worn sheet, he cleared his

throat and began to read.



"I have tasted the type of exile you fear to

subject me to. I am not afraid of it. I want to

meet you. Maybe even be with you. Your science

inspires me. Beyond the intriguing nature of your

discoveries, I see the possibility of my own

salvation ... in you. To no longer be lonely in an

aimless quest, but to be joined in a certainty of

scientific truth--that is something we could share.

Please reply soon." His soft monotone trailed off

into the thick silence, but his eyes still flitted

across the typed words.



"That was one of the messages sent to Cobra in my

name?" she responded dully. It was more realization

than question.



"Yes." He handed the paper to her, studied his

fingers where they lay in his lap. "There were

several, dating back six months. I doubted their

legitimacy, but when I saw this one, I knew they

were frauds."



She read over the words again, irritation bubbling

inside her at the audacity of the man who had

impersonated her. But at the same time, she had to

be impressed. C.G.B. Spender *had* been watching

her. The execution of the message was impeccable.

The words were intelligent; the sentiment was

believable. She sighed.



"Mulder, we both know I didn't write those e-mails.

But I don't see how this could make you so certain.

Certain beyond all doubt."



He shrugged. "It didn't sound like you."



She examined the letter again, dispassionately,

then shook her head. "How is that? The writing

style is *disturbingly* similar to one I might use.

The expressed passion for science is on the mark

..."



A disbelieving chuckle slipped through his lips.

"It was practically a *love* letter, Scully."



She froze for a beat, embarrassed, then bristled at

his implication, his arrogant presumption. "You

think the idea of me writing a love letter to

someone ... is that farfetched?" She omitted the

initial word that had leapt into her mind: else.

Someone else.



He rephrased his statement, his soft words wafting

across the distance between them. "Not one like

this. I *know* you. If you wrote a love letter, it

wouldn't be like this."



The frank sincerity of his tone dissolved all trace

of the stiff annoyance that had traveled up her

spine. She was dazed, suddenly vulnerable. Her eyes

locked with his as her lips betrayed her first

breathless thought. "How would mine be different?"



"Yours would be ... more passionate." He paused,

uncomfortable, glanced at his hands, back at her

expectant eyes, went on. "You have more passion in

you than that." His final murmured declaration was

instilled with a fervor of conviction that shot

heat through her blood.



Impulsive words tumbled forth as she dared to delve

further. "Still ... vague grounds for certainty."



"Yours would be more eloquent, almost like poetry."

He was staring at the wall now, withdrawn inside

himself, composing his words thoughtfully on this

new slate, this new freedom of expression. "People

would expect you to be straightforward, to declare

love simply. But emotions are difficult for you.

And though you would choose to express the feeling,

somehow you feel protected when you cloak the

sentiment in words."



Her eyes were mesmerized by the languid movement of

his lips. Anyone else and she would have mocked

such revelations as pop psychology.' But she

sensed that what he shared with her now did not

arise from intellectual study, nor from years of

practice dissecting the thoughts and motivations of

others. It came from somewhere deep inside him.



"But disguising the sentiment doesn't make the

declaration less beautiful, because every word is

heartfelt," he continued in the same distant

monotone. "You wouldn't express them insincerely.

Each phrase would be carefully chosen." He closed

his eyes, leaned his head back against the couch.

"Beautiful words."



*Beautiful words* ... His voice echoed through her

head in jumbled counterpoint to the staccato

thumping of her pulse. An intoxicating stillness

stretched between them, until finally her mind

broke through its haze to grasp at a sudden

resolution. She stood, knees popping, walked

unsteadily to the bookcase, and removed a thin,

black notebook from the bottom shelf. Leaning

against the wall behind him, she forced the words

through her choked larynx. "Would it sound like

this?" His eyes remained closed, his head tilted

back on the sofa, but she could feel the full

intensity of his focus.



Trembling fingers flipped open the notebook's

cover. She began to read the familiar penstrokes on

the first page. "I feel these words as if their

meaning were weight being lifted from me, knowing

that you will read them and share my burden, as I

have come to trust no other ..." Her voice trailed

off. She could almost see him as he was in that

dark hour, lithe and intense, a velvet and

passionate presence. Black angel in a quest to cure

her. She cleared her throat softly, recollected

herself, and resumed.



"That you should know my heart, look into it,

finding there the memory and experience that belong

to you, that *are* you, is a comfort to me now as I

feel the tethers loosen and the prospects darken

for the continuance of a journey that began not so

long ago, and which began again with a faith shaken

and strengthened by your convictions."



She paused, looked up. He had opened his eyes,

twisted himself around on the couch so he could see

her. Emboldened by his expectant silence, she

turned the page and plunged onward, her voice

gaining strength. "Mulder, I feel you close though

I know you are now pursuing your own path. For that

I am grateful, more than I could ever express. I

need to know you're out there ..."



"It would be like that," he interrupted at last,

his voice sounding oddly distorted through the

blood pounding in her ears. "It would be like that,

but without the sadness."



Closing the notebook gently, she attempted to keep

her eyes on the hazel orbs that burned in his face.

But his gaze was too intense, and she let her

eyelids flutter shut, leaned further against the

wall. "Science is an inextricable part of me--a

balance upon which I weigh thought and action. It

orders and arranges my world. But it doesn't move

me. It doesn't enthrall me. Once, I believed it

did, but then I discovered ... I discovered you."



Scully allowed the heady words to drop from her

tongue. Normally she would be mortified by this

extravagance of expression, this unforeseen verbal

foreplay. She had always assumed that one day she

and Mulder would just explode, silently, without

words in the darkness of the basement office. But

something in the atmosphere of this room, in the

rhythm of his breathing, confided to her that her

eloquence was right. 



"You resonate inside me. Your passion for truth,

for possibility, for the exoneration of *otherness*

captivates me. You have shown me how to delve into

myself, to uncover beauty and emotions that defy

scientific categorization. You are a world in its

entirety. To me ..."



Her voice grew faint as breath and rational thought

became suddenly difficult. She was aware of his

electric presence, approaching her until every

nerve in her body hummed. She opened her eyes to

see his t-shirt-clad chest inches from her face.

She glanced into the kindling of his eyes, then

concentrated on his shoes, simultaneously

embarrassed and inflamed. "It's difficult when I'm

not writing."



She heard his soft laugh, filled with affection and

restrained tension. His fingers grazed her chest,

then her knuckles, resting gently on her hands

where they clutched the notebook weakly to her

stomach. She backed further into the wall for

support as he unlocked her fingers with a burning

touch, removing the last barrier between them.

Holding the notebook to his side, he stepped

forward until she could feel him brushing lightly

against her. Her eyelids fluttered shut.



He leaned down, and she could feel his chin

ruffling her hair, the rough skin of his jaw

scraping her cheek. Two words grated from his

throat, skittering hotly across the edge of her

ear. "Thank you."



His fingers glided softly around her ear, across

her jaw, stopping at her neck, where they circled,

eliciting a soft gasp as her head fell back

reflexively. His thumb traced her lip momentarily

before she felt his breath puff against her cheek.

His lips brushed hers once, then again.



The urge to feel him surrounding her was

overwhelming. Reaching downwards, she grasped his

index finger, loosening his grip on the notebook at

his side, pulling his hand to her waist. The book

slipped quietly to the ground, pages splaying

carelessly across the tile floor. Mulder's tongue

flicked lightly against her lips. One final, vivid

image flashed through Scully's mind before she

succumbed to the taste of black coffee and Mulder:

pages full of penstrokes, ripe words hanging

languidly in the air between them, expressions of

love never before spoken. Beautiful words.



*********

The end

*********