Title: Midair
Author: Georgia
Email: Moonrock66@aol.com
Spoilers: Orison
Summary: A moment of transition.

Author's notes: This story is technically a post ep, but I already had
the scenario in mind. So, I'm more or less just exploiting the
aftermath of Orison for a setting. Not a lot of Scully guilt here. 

For my new friend Judi, may each day be easier than the one before.

-----------------------------

It was like flying.

That's the only way I can describe it.

It happened three days after Pfaster. Three days after I killed an
unarmed man. 

Mulder never left my side that night. He loomed protectively over
me as the police took my statement, stood barely breathing as I
recounted how Pfaster had thrown me against the wall, how I'd
fought him. 

I felt his hand drift down to stroke the top of my head when the
detective asked about my state of mind. About the shooting.

I'd had only a brief moment where I was sure Pfaster would finish
the job this time around. Then I'd been determined to fight him.
Determined to survive. That, I told the detective, was my state of
mind. Survival. 

He seemed convinced by my words. So did Skinner. Too bad I
couldn't convince myself.

But guilt is an overcoat Mulder and I wear no matter what the
season. It covers every outfit, colors every mood. We have never
been without it. We simply add new layers.

From Pfaster Mulder would add the belief that he'd changed me
from a person who felt, someone who reacted normally in a
moment of fear, into a cold hearted executioner. 

And I, would add murder.

When I glanced up at Mulder, I could tell he was no longer
listening. His hand practically twitched for his gun, as he fought the
urge to put another bullet through Pfaster just to be sure.

But we would never speak of it again, beyond the brief
conversation in my shattered bedroom. As I said, layers.

He drove me to my mother's house after the police left. There was
no question of me staying in my apartment. And to my surprise, no
invitation to stay with him. 

I just assumed he knew me that well. Instinctively knew I needed to
be with my mother. After the fact, I think he knew something about
himself instead. 

We had come too close this time.

We rode in silence to my mother's house. 

My mother met us at the door, hurrying me into the house, hugging
me as tightly as I could ever remember. I went directly up the stairs
to my old bedroom, squeezing Mulder's hand as my mother tucked
me in, smoothing my hair and kissing my cheek like a little girl. 

I don't know if Mulder told her what happened. I think maybe he
did. She never asked me about it, but as I drifted off to sleep that
night I heard the muffled sound of my mother, who sheds tears with
more resistance than I do, crying down below. The hushed tone of
Mulder's voice mingled with her sighs, comforting us both at the
same time.

I slept for the better part of two days.

I got up long enough to eat some soup and take some pain killers. 

Mulder checked in frequently my mother said. Once I thought I felt
him settle on the bed beside me and take my hand in the darkness.
But the next day I wasn't sure if I had been dreaming or
hallucinating or if it had actually happened.
 
On the third day, I felt like a new person. 

The human body has a miraculous capacity for healing. 

The first step out of bed still hurt like hell. And leopards came to
mind as I toweled off in the bathroom mirror. At least the swelling
in my face had gone down. The image of me with a nosebleed was
one none of us ever needed to see again

Mulder came by after dinner. My mother sat with us for a while,
listening sympathetically to Mulder's tale of the bogus stakeout
Skinner had dug up to keep him busy. Then around nine, she left us
alone in front of the fire.

My eyes stayed focused on the flames long after my mother made
her way up the stairs. Her footsteps soon settled above us, and
Mulder, in the silence, found it necessary to speak.

"Scully?" he questioned, sliding closer to me on the couch.

"I'm fine, Mulder," I murmured not turning to look at him. I
couldn't take his pity.

"Scully?" came my name again, this time with his hand resting on
my arm just above the elbow.

"Mul..." I turned to face him, my breath catching in my throat. The
last syllable of his name dropped off to a whisper. I thought he had
reached out to me in comfort, out of concern. But his eyes were
almost black. His pupils completely dilated.

"Scully?" his voice dropped even deeper. 

The question now torn between a warning and a plea, his hand
started to move on my arm. His fingers slid in leaping handfuls up
to my shoulder, and began to circle and squeeze, in what could only
be called a caress, growing more confident as they retraced their
path back to my elbow, gripping my arm tightly as they went.

The shudder that ran through me matched his own. 

The sensation was completely terrifying. Foreign. Yet exhilarating
all the same. Like the seconds after takeoff, we were hanging
between the earth and the sky, our bodies crying out at the loss of
gravity, the safety of the ground below. What a moment before
seemed natural, unchanging, now roared in our ears, driving us
forward, once in motion unstoppable.

Neither one of us breathed. Neither moved. The air between us
more serious than anything I've ever felt. Absolutely still. 

His hand had settled back around my elbow, holding me with more
tension than before. The touch that might have hurt, had I not been
so surprised, felt incredible. Tearing into me, his eyes waited for my
reaction, our shallow, even breaths the only remaining measure of
time.

We hovered there, weightless and then just when it seemed too
long, when it felt we might fall back to earth, his hand came up
behind my head and with more force than I'd ever imagined, he
pulled my mouth to his.

His touch was greedy, starved. It sent us soaring to 20,000 feet. 

I leaned into him, my chest pressing against his, my mouth slanting
open. One of Mulder's hands had fallen to grip the sofa cushion.
The other, still not moving to touch me, slipped from behind my
head to the back of the sofa. 

His body rose, arms supporting himself above and below me, until
he was practically kneeling on the sofa. He hovered over me, as if
he couldn't decide whether to pin me to the sofa or run away. I
think I groaned when his body separated from mine, clinging to his
lips even harder, refusing to let him pull away.

My hand crept up to whisper across his chest. It was met with a
cold jarring depressurization as Mulder pried himself from the sofa.
In an instant, he sent us hurling back to the ground. He was all the
way to the door before I caught him.

"Mulder," I choked out, barely recognizing my own tone.

He just shook his head, his back still to me.

"Don't," I said laying a hand on his shoulder. "Please."

Moving from my touch, Mulder turned halfway around. Far enough
that I could see the shame in his face, read the guilt in his eyes. He
was scolding himself for letting it happen. Cursing his own
weakness. Telling himself that he was no better than Pfaster.

"Mulder, I..." I started, reaching for him again.

But he caught my hand, holding it tightly in his own and sadly
shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Scully."

With that, he dropped my hand and stepped out of the door.

Out of all the airports Mulder and I had been in, this one had the
longest wait. We'd made it to the runway on more than one
occasion. But mostly we just sat there. Waiting for a signal from
some imaginary tower. For conditions to be just right. 

But they never would be I realized that night. 

We would have to take off in the snow and fog and darkness. Ride
out the turbulence. And hope for a pocket of smooth air
somewhere up above.

I couldn't have been more than five minutes behind him. 

He opened the door before I'd finished knocking.

His expression hadn't changed on the way home. Guilt still clouded
his eyes, but it was unable to mask the lust I now recognized. He
turned his head in silent resignation, stepping aside to let me in.

No words were spoken. He told me with one look that he was
sorry. That he hadn't wanted it to happen this way. That he got
scared. 

And I understood. 

When Pfaster came at me, my first thought was of Mulder. Of the
separation he'd never be able to endure. And of what would never
be. 

His lips pressed down on mine gently then, in agreement. Too
close. We had come too close for the last time.

Soon our clothes lay scattered at Mulder's front door. His hesitation
returning only momentarily when he saw my bruises. He flinched,
looking up at the ceiling, and for a moment I thought he was
blaming himself again. But when he turned back to me, his gaze
was shiny, the stunned look in his eyes one of shared pain rather
than sympathy. 

He moved behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and ever
so gently covering my back with his body. His warmth seeped into
me, the pain numbed for the first time in days. We slipped down the
hall to his bedroom still curled around one other.

We came together slowly after that, the hurried passion giving way
to worship and tenderness. I moved on top, glad my wounds
allowed me the excuse to cover Mulder's body. To see all of him
beneath me.

The transition from earth to sky was easier that time. Less
unnatural. As he moved inside me, we leveled off. No longer
suspended midair. And with each stroke, each whispered
declaration, we rose through the clouds looking down on
everything that had brought us to this point. The pain disappearing
like ants below. The sun warming our faces.

Flying. 

Finally.

end.
--------------------