TITLE: A Train in the Distance (1/1) AUTHOR: Nynaeve E-MAIL: scully@on-net.net CATEGORY: V, story, H (a little), pure, utter fluff!! KEYWORDS: MSR, brain candy, Mulder POV SPOILERS: various tiny ones for series. SUMMARY: Amazingly enough, sometime parents do know what they're talking about! DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter... yadda, yadda, yadda ... 1013 ... blah, blah, blah. Bottom line: not mine. DEDICATION: To the usual, A and J. AUTHOR's NOTES: (Nynaeve) This came out of something J said and I'm so glad she wanted to run with the idea it sparked in my head. And she promises at some point to write her version of this story, told from Scully's POV. Train in the Distance Everyone loves the sound of a train in the distance, Everyone thinks it's true. ---Paul Simon, "Train in the Distance" When I was a kid in Chilmark a TV station out of Boston used to run classic movies every Friday. They started at 8:00 p.m. and it became a family tradition to watch them. My mother would make something easy for dinner, like spaghetti, and we would eat earlier than we did the rest of the week. We would help her with the dishes. Samantha would dry the pots and pans carefully. I dried the more fragile stuff and put it all away. Then Mom would send us to get on our things for bed while she made the popcorn. At no later than five to eight we were ready. In the winter, we crammed on the couch, huddled under layers of blankets. Mom and Dad, on the nights he made it home in time, sat in the middle, holding on to the huge bowl of popcorn, playing referee during the inevitable battle of butter-slathered fingers that would ensue between Samantha and me. In warmer weather, my sister and I would stretch out along the carpet, sitting up every so often to refill the small bowls of popcorn we had from the larger one. Samantha had been so little when the tradition began, she could rarely stay awake through the whole movie. I remember looking over, watching her sleep nestled against my father, sleeping the sleep of a safe, innocent child, not knowing until later how we'd both been deceived. My parents would quiet me when, the next day, I would tease her, calling her a baby and refusing to tell her how the movie ended. This was the manner in which I first saw a long list of the best Hollywood has to offer and an almost equally long list of movies that could be easily forgotten. The station ran a pretty even mix of romances, mysteries, westerns, and war pictures. In those films, some old, some newer, I found heroes to emulate and women to love. For a while, I had gone through my childhood utterly amazed at John Wayne's ability not only to defeat all the outlaws of the unruly Old West, but to face undaunted so many battles in the Pacific Theater of World War II, and to come out the victor, it seemed, in each and every one. I learned, as these visions paraded themselves in front of me, the history of the world. I saw how men of honor treat one another and was apprised of the proper words to use when wooing the most beautiful women in the world. I soon found out a tuxedo and a smile are powerful weapons if your objective is a kiss from Ingrid Bergman. I found irresistible Ms. Bergman, fell hard for Deborah Kerr, who could whistle so well and who was so brave after that accident that paralyzed her, loved unreservedly the challenging Katherine Hepburn, and couldn't think of anyone more gorgeous than 'Gilda', Rita Hayworth. From a childhood that ended when I was twelve, these are some of my happiest memories. I avoid these films when they are shown now, unable at times to bear the memory of my sister, smiling, laughing, munching popcorn, sleeping even. I see not Rick and Elsa, but my parents, seemingly happy together, seemingly happy with their children, before anger and regret became the watchwords of the Mulder home. I feel again my mother, close to me, smell her perfume, as we watch John Wayne lead a Marine charge and I hear my father's voice telling us about how Iwo Jima was the turning point of the war. I watch my mother wipe stealthy tears from her eyes as lovers torn asunder are reunited with a passionate kiss. I recall a world where good was obvious and evil was always vanquished, where love was freely bestowed, easily recognized, and life had a happy ending by the time the credits rolled. Even those characters that died did so for a reason, a cause greater than themselves. Their action was always canonized, the buddy whose life they saved always went home to his pretty young wife, back on the farm in Kansas, and they named their first born after the fallen hero. When I was twelve and Samantha was eight we both learned life isn't like that at all. There was only one thing about those old movies I couldn't stand. Samantha would giggle at my discomfort every time there was kissing. I would close my eyes and cover them with a hand, groaning the whole time. I swore up and down I would never kiss a girl, that it had to be the most disgusting thing in the world. I couldn't believe John Wayne of all people had let the writers and directors talk him into doing that. Vivian Leigh was good looking, I could see that from an early age, but I didn't see why Clark Gable had to *kiss* her because of it. I remember one time, the summer before Samantha was taken my mother laughed at me as the credits rolled and told me something I couldn't possibly believe at the time. "Someday, Fox," she had said, "you'll *want* to kiss a girl." I had shaken my head and glared at my sister who had been rolling in mirth on the floor. My mother had smiled. "You'll find just the right girl and you'll kiss her. And then, all you'll be able to think about will be kissing her again...and again. You won't want to do anything but kiss her." Samantha had been nearly choking with laugher and pointing to me. She hadn't been able to do more than mouth the words, "Your face." I had fled the room, slamming the door to my room with more force than was necessary. I had stared in the mirror at my face, which had been burning red. Furious with my sister for laughing at me and concerned my mother had been right, I had lain down on my bed to ponder if she might in any way be right. I had thought of every girl I knew and come to the conclusion Mom was simply wrong. A few years later would prove my mother right and me wrong. Sort of. When I was fifteen a new girl, tall, blond, and busty, had moved in down the street and we frequently walked to school together. One spring day, walking home, Jane and I had slipped behind the bushes of a vacant house and kissed. The experiment had not been very successful, but nonetheless, I did think a lot about kissing her again. My teenaged male hormones were slipping into overdrive and I found the memory of her lips against mine quite persuasive. There were repeat performances that got better with practice, but it never seemed quite right, not all my mother had suggested it would be. I thought of my mother's words again after Phoebe Green was through with me. And again still after Diana left me. I remembered the tone in my mother's voice, soft, wistful, confident, and somehow knew neither of those relationships was what she had meant either. Both obsessed me to a degree and both were adept at keeping me coming back for more, but always in the back of my mind were questions, doubts, fears. I could and did think about things other than kissing them. I finally understood everything my mother had contained in those words one summer night almost two years ago. My carefully built world, the one from which I had excluded nearly everyone but one incredible woman, came to a shattering end when that very same woman come to tell me that, in the face of FBI disapproval, she was quitting and leaving me. I chased her retreating form, stopped her with my words, watched my voice pin her where she stood. I stood close to her, divulged the secrets of my soul in a way only she would truly understand, begging her to stay with me. I watched her. I saw the moment it hit her, the way the unspoken meaning of my words filled in the blanks inside her, the same way she fills in the gaps in my soul. I felt the press of her lips against my forehead, part comfort, part promise, part regret. My mother's words became the most clear thing in my world right then. I wanted to kiss Scully, kiss only her, and quite possibly, do nothing but kiss her for the rest of my life. I felt her, the smooth, warm texture of her face under my palms, the soft, slide of her hair beneath my fingers. The tension that flowed through my shoulder muscles metamorphasized into expectation. Her body radiated the same heat and desire rippling from mine. I inhaled the subtle scent of her perfume, so light you almost thought you imagined it. Time warped, the moment catching us up, spinning us around in its tender grasp until it reached out and stung her, took her from me in a whirl of doubt and terror and apologies never answered. Over a year would pass before I would allow my preoccupation, my mother's words, to engulf me again and kiss her on New Year's Eve. I watched the clock turn and felt a new year begin its three-hundred- and-sixty-six day process of winding down. I looked over her face, her head tilted back as she gazed up, taking in the scene on the television screen. I leaned into her, drawing her to me with a gentle arm around her shoulder. There was no hesitation as I laid my lips against hers, pressing them softly, demanding nothing from her, only asking, hoping she would want all I did. I could feel her against me, closer than we'd ever been, nearer to the lingering, unspoken desire than we'd dared to travel. I moved my lips against hers, feeling their warm texture beneath mine, tasting her. Behind my closed eyes images burned their way across my vision. I saw her smiling in the sunlight, brushing the hair from her face, behind her ear in a gesture far more girlish than she had been in far too long. I longed to tug her close to me, to deepen the kiss between us, teasing her tongue with my own. Instead, I drew slowly away from her. "The world didn't end," I commented, a small joke to play on, to ease the fears that engulf us. She smiled at me. "No, it didn't," she agreed and I knew it was all right. As we left the hospital, leaving behind that television screen with its view of Times Square, its images of couples kissing, hollering, and waving inanely to the camera, I slipped my arm around her shoulders. She kept pace with me easily, comfortably, and the silence between us was companionable as she drove me home. Life had worked itself around and things were coming right at long last it seemed, but I knew there were still some matters that had to be resolved before Scully and I stood a chance. From the look in her eye, she knew it too. I saw the same ache I felt reflected in her eyes as she declined to come up with me. I touched her hand in promise, one I told myself I would fulfill before long, as I let her go that night. Alone, I thought again of my mother's words and for the first time wondered to myself, "Who were you talking about, Mom?" Weeks passed, cases were assigned and solved, and I watched her. I wondered if she could feel the pressure of my eyes on her, as we drove, as we interviewed witnesses or suspects, as she wrote up case reports. I wanted her in ways I didn't know you could want a woman. I wanted with her a fierce longing that went beyond any physical need. Desire seemed to transfigure itself into need, pure and fiery. I yearned to pull her soul to my own, to live in the moment we would first meet with nothing between us but love and the inevitable knowledge of each other. It wasn't until after the LaPierre case and all its varied outcomes that everything tumbled into the place for which I'd been preparing. I had told Scully I was free. My sister's words, the moment she'd come to me in the starlight, had absolved me, had thanked me for my years of searching, and had told me to let go, to live my own life at last. My mother was dead and I was going to have to come to terms with the reasons why. Those answers awaited me, but I no longer felt the same accusation I had laid upon myself, the onus of having failed the women in my life. My freedom, the truth in those words, hit me a few weeks after we had returned from California. Unable to sleep, I had been channel surfing. Images flickered against the wall, battering my face blankly, until a face caught my eye. Ingrid Bergman lay in a bed, sleeping an uneasy sleep, muttering. The scene spiraled down to the foyer of a large home and Cary Grant's strong figure demanded to see her. "Notorious", a family favorite that had it all - romance, mystery, danger, and that ever-so-important happy ending. For the first time in over twenty-five years, I watched it, my heart joyful with memory, my face alight with the smile of a twelve year old boy who still believed in the innocence of the world. As the credits rolled, I looked at the clock. It was late, but I didn't care. I grabbed my leather jacket and shrugged it on as I snatched up car keys. The streets were mostly deserted. As I got closer to Scully's my resolve wavered and I wondered how she was going to react. Not wanting to terrify her by knocking at her door in the middle of the night, I called her. She answered on the second ring. "Hi, Mulder," she said, her voice tinged with mirth. "How'd you know it was me?" I asked, taken aback. "Mulder, it's um...2:18 in the morning. Who else would call me?" "Sorry, Scully." I smiled to myself. I doubted she believed my apology, which was just as well, considering I hadn't really meant it. A thought occurred to me. "You sound pretty wide awake for um...2:18 in the morning." "I couldn't sleep," she said lightly. "I was watching an old movie." "Hmmm...me, too," I told her. "Where are you?" she asked. "Walking up your stairs," I told her, laughing. "Mulder!" she exclaimed. "I needed to see you and I realized I might frighten you by pounding on your door in the middle of the night." "And you probably would have," she answered, opening the door to me. "Why did you need to see me?" I turned my phone off and walked past her. "I was watching an old movie too and it reminded me of something." "Something that made you *need* to see me?" I nodded. "Why? Why not just call?" "Because," I said softly, pulling her to me, wrapping an arm around her waist and tilting her chin up so I could gaze into her blue eyes. "I couldn't do this on the phone." As I brought my lips down to hers, she stood on her tiptoes so that our lips met all the sooner. Her body was soft and hot against mine, her lips full and compliant as they moved with mine. She wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing herself more firmly into my embrace. I teased her tongue with mine and tickled it along her lips. She giggled into my open mouth and I smiled against her lips. There were a few things about which my mother was completely, incontrovertibly right. As our first kiss ended, I could think of nothing but kissing Scully again immediately and I wanted to go on kissing her until time should cease. END Nynaeve Temple of X http://members.xoom.com/Nynaeve1723/