Title: Socks
Author: Sarah Stella
Distribution: Most anywhere is fine!  Gossamer, Ephemeral, etc. of course.  
Anywhere else drop me a line, I don’t bite.
Classification: S, UST/MSR-ish
Keywords: Scully POV
Rating: PG?  (I’m bad with these things, a little harmless nudity and a few 
swear words)
Spoilers: Not really.  7th season time frame though.
Summary: “My body is no longer freckles and cream.  It’s a strange road map 
of pinky, shiny scars and (yes) stretch marks that look like white tiger 
scratches.  Underwater it doesn’t matter.  To Mulder it doesn’t matter (I 
don’t think).  I’ve never asked him.”
Disclaimer: hahahahahahahahahaha.  Ahem.  Um, they aren’t mine and if you 
don’t know that by now that’s your own issue.
FEEDBACK: Lovingly embraced! at starbright_89@hotmail.com or come visit my 
brand, spankin’ new website (shameless plug) at: 
www.chickpages.com/fanland/wendydarling1

Please note, this is sort of a sequel to my last story, “Base” but you don’t 
have to read that one as this is more or less a stand alone. :)

********
Socks

One summer I remember clearly.  Then, back then, we were shining nymphs in 
summertime--water sprites.  Bathing suits left on shore, we swam in a lake 
near the base where daddy was stationed.  We swam till dusk came swooping 
over the hills to catch us.  Giggling and half afraid, we’d retrieve the 
brightly colored suits from the gravelly shore, jamming our young bodies 
into them before anyone could catch a glimpse of our pale, perfect nakedness 
(those days, we were freckles and cream--before scars, before stretch 
marks).

Then we’d race home on our bikes, legs pumping frantically, waves of red 
hair flying out forever behind us.  Our parents would tuck us into the big, 
foldout couch together--smelling sweet but stale around the edges, like lake 
water.  Missy would usually fall asleep first, rolling over onto her 
stomach, her long hair tickling against my face, her breath coming in gentle 
puffs that stirred across my eyelashes.

“Missy?” I’d whisper.  “Missy are you asleep?”

“No,” she’d grumble at me good-naturedly.  “I was only pretending.”

I’d grin at her through the darkness and she’d smile back, her teeth 
gleaming, hidden like a secret from everyone but me.  “Do you think this is 
what Heaven is like?”

“Like what?”

“Like swimming in the lake all day and never getting tired?  Like summer 
vacation forever?”

Sometimes she’d laugh and touch my hair, briefly, like a half-blessing.  
“We’ll find out later.”  Then she’d yawn.  “Why d’you ask?”

I’d yawn back.  “I was just wondering.”

“Well, no one knows what Heaven’s like, right?  So maybe it’s like that for 
you.”

“Oh.”  I was still young enough then to take my sister’s word as cannon 
law--maybe I still do.

“In Heaven I’ll never have cold feet,” I told her seriously, heating their 
iciness against her warm calves.  She’d shriek then, burying the sound 
deeply in her pillow, tickling me in retaliation.  After that we usually 
went to sleep, burrowing into the blankets as protection against the 
over-frosty central air conditioning that was inevitable in most base 
housing.

It’s funny what you’ll think about when you’re dying.  I’m twisting 
mermaid-like through the water, the scrap of pink lycra-spandex waving like 
a flag on shore.  My sister is there somewhere, although I can’t see her.  
The water is cool and mossy against my face.  But it can’t be Heaven yet 
because my feet are still cold where they push into the water.

Someone once said that it was easier to embrace the dark than the light.  My 
life is just about the darkest thing I can think of.  My fingertips brush 
the silty lake bottom.  It’s hard to think of
reasons to stay, especially for someone who’s been to this place as much as 
I have.  My footprints mark the coarse sand beside the lake--the smooth 
surface has become rough and choppy from all my pacing.

This is the first time I’ve ever had the courage to remove my suit and jump 
in.  I ran until I fell, diving gracefully downwards like I had never 
stopped swimming here.  Every time before it’s been Mulder who’s coaxed me 
back.  A dim candle flame, hidden like a secret from everyone but me.

At first I thought it was just the work, but that’s when I was  younger, a 
newcomer to the x-files.  I was unwilling to admit that there’s no way to 
separate Mulder from that work--no way to separate *me* from that work.

There are hidden plants at the bottom of the lake and they curl softly 
against my fingers, like Missy’s hair, like Mulder’s hair.  Something 
flickers in the water, pale and beautiful--Missy.

In the really real world, I think I’m in an ambulance.  Mulder is there, of 
course, probably clutching my hand although I can’t be sure.  It’s so hard 
doing this, holding myself in two places at once.  Is he touching my face so 
gently, brushing me soft, like a kitten’s paw?  Or is it just the plants 
again?  For a moment I can see his face clearly.  He’s mouthing something, 
but I can’t make it out so I just smile at him.

He looks relieved.

I’m glad.

My body is no longer freckles and cream.  It’s a strange road map of pinky, 
shiny scars and (yes) stretch marks that look like white tiger scratches.  
Underwater it doesn’t matter.

To Mulder it doesn’t matter (I don’t think).  I’ve never asked him.

You see, we’re not exactly like that.  What we are is perverse.  We thrive 
on tension, or at least he does.  I have been clumsier these days, maybe 
just unwilling to perform that same old dance where we mirror each other’s 
movements.  When we do touch (when we do) it’s like touching glass and we go 
back to dancing, getting closer over the years but....

But I know there’s someone else behind the mirror, goddammit.

I come up for air, flicking water out of my eyes with a shake of my head.  
The light is lower now, the first greyish sparkles of dusk creeping into the 
landscape.  I move toward shore, stopping when my feet are stable on the 
lake bed.  The air feels strange on my wet breasts and they pucker a little. 
  I look at them wonderingly because it’s amazing that there is such a 
marvelous thing as a breast that is so pleasurable and so functional.  My 
face feels wet, as if I’ve been crying for days but my eyes are dry.

A sobbing noise comes twining through the trees beside the lake.  Mulder or 
a trick of the wind?  I debate the issue, idly raising my right hand and 
letting drops of water roll off of it back into the
lake.  I burrow my toes into the mud because this still isn’t Heaven yet.

Where’s Missy anyway?  I look around wildly, but I don’t see her.  The wind 
blows across the surface of the lake, raising tiny waves that lap against 
me.

Without warning, I feel the texture of rough cloth against my bare skin and 
I’m in a hospital room--filled with light but still dark, even compared with 
the darkness under the lake.  Something tickles against the bottoms of my 
feet, someone’s hands play along the pads of my toes and then fabric slides 
upward, soft and warm.

Dragging my eyes open, I peek through my lashes.  Mulder is standing at the 
foot of my bed, his face silvery with damp tears.  He places his second sock 
on my other foot while I watch.  Then he glances up and sees me and a look 
of terrible amazement flickers across his face.

“I thought you might be cold,” he says quietly, his voice breaking a little 
over the words.

“Oh,” I reply, waiting for the soft strands of his hair to curl into my 
palms.

THE END