Title:  Aria 
Author: the idiosyncratic stanwyck 
Email:  theidiosyncraticstanwyck@yahoo.com
M/S Friendship, UST
Rated R
A "Lazarus" post-ep for the Fandomonium "Season of Smut"
Challenge
Summary: Scully envied their "operatic devotion" to one
another...

Yellow line down the middle of the road like a fragmented 
ribbon, lengthening to the horizon with the illusion of 
wholeness, segmenting to pieces as the wheels of her car 
churned by. Sunshine yellow of a ribbon tied by a little 
girl's mother in freshly washed hair.

Red tail lights ahead of her and blur of neon in her 
peripheral vision against a background of midwinter black.

Visions fragmented like her thoughts.

This time of year color leeched away from the world long 
before she headed home from work; the days were so short. 
Time passed in Mulder's basement cave only compounded her 
body's disorientation. Maybe, she mused, untold weeks or 
years had passed since she'd last made this trip. 

How long ago had this latest nightmarish adventure begun? 
When had she walked into the bank with Jack Willis and 
fired three shots into a masked robber?

Pain kept a slow, stately rhythm behind her eyes and she 
forced herself to focus. Yellow - yellow - yellow... The 
miles ground by.

Uncharacteristically, she kicked off her shoes and tumbled 
onto the sofa without even turning on the lights in her 
apartment or removing her coat. Green numerals on her VCR 
clock glowed a steady 6:47. She shivered and squeezed her 
eyes shut. When she looked again the numerals showed 6:48. 
She breathed a shaky sigh of relief and in the next breath 
chastised herself for superstition.

"Mulder's rubbing off on you," she whispered.

But was he? What the hell had happened to her in the last 
forty-eight hours?

Fact: Warren Dupree had shot Willis in the midst of a 
failed bank heist, and Scully had shot Dupree, mortally 
wounding him. Both Willis and Dupree had coded in the 
emergency room; Jack was legally dead for thirteen minutes 
before, under her direction, the doctors had succeeded in 
bringing him back. 

That was where things began to blur around the edges. Had 
the Jack who had returned to work and subsequently held her 
hostage in a rundown suburban house really been Jack? She 
was loathe even to suspect otherwise, but in the end she 
had, in her way, admitted her doubts.

"What do I tell myself?"

For once Mulder had hesitated to give his interpretation, 
and she couldn't read his reticence. She knew what he 
thought, of course, so what had prompted him to remain 
silent - tact or disappointment in her, with her failure, 
yet again, to believe?

She had insisted that Jack was in the throes of psychosis - 
that Warren Dupree's consciousness could have been 
transferred into Jack's abandoned body was ludicrous... 
Wasn't it? She would have known. She'd spent over a year of 
her life with Jack Willis; she should have been the first 
to realize that her former lover was, for lack of a better 
term, possessed.

Okay, then. Following this logic, what had happened to her? 
She had been abducted by her delusional ex-boyfriend, who 
had held her at gunpoint, handcuffed to a steam radiator, 
for twenty-four hours. Traumatic, at the least.

Scully almost believed that Mulder had been right, but she 
had to question that desire to accept an admittedly 
fantastical explanation. No woman would choose to believe 
that a man with whom she'd shared a meaningful relationship 
had lost his mind and threatened her life. If she accepted 
the alternative, would it only be as a means to soothe her 
own psyche? She could remember the happy times with Jack, 
and compartmentalize this... aberration as something 
perpetrated by someone else entirely.

Dana stripped off her jacket on the way into her bedroom. A 
long, hot shower always made the world seem cleaner, easier 
to negotiate.

As the water sluiced down her back, Scully admitted that 
what disturbed her most was a question that had been 
lurking at the edge of her consciousness, gnawing at her: 
What if Mulder was right, and Dana just didn't know Jack 
well enough to realize that her coworker, subsequently her 
captor, wasn't the man she had known?

They'd broken up over two ears ago, and had scarcely seen 
each other since, and when they had, it was only in a 
professional setting. Of course they'd grown apart. But 
what if she had *never* known him well enough to know the 
difference?

Mulder had obviously been listening to Jack's case notes; 
she had found the cassettes on her partner's desk. Scully 
hadn't been able to resist following Mulder's example. As 
Jack's once-familiar voice had filled her ears - his style 
had always been more poetic soliloquy for the education of 
an unseen audience than straightforward case file - she had 
felt indescribably sad.

Despite their violence and madness, Jack had admitted his 
envy of Lula and Dupree's "operatic devotion" to one 
another. In the end their connection had been false, a one-
sided disconnect, but, my God, if Dana believed Mulder's 
theory and Warren's own explanation, that love had been 
powerful enough to bring Dupree back from the dead! 
Wouldn't anyone envy that?

Dana did.

Alternative: Jack's envy had caused him to internalize 
Warren Dupree's identity so that he, Jack, could feel that 
passion with Lula. Equally unsettling.

Scully's relationship with Willis had been far from those 
epic heights. At its strongest it had been steady, 
comfortable - totally uninspiring. She had blamed it on 
relentless ambition and drive, his and hers. The timing 
hadn't been right, and neither had the person.

As she pulled on soft, worn flannel pajamas, Scully 
admitted to herself that her real fear was that she would 
never find that person, never feel that perfect unity, 
simply because she was incapable of it.

She shook her head. This case had really gotten to her, had 
left her feeling cold and miserably alone, disconnected, 
out of sync with herself and with everyone around her. This 
was so unlike Dana Scully.

Utterly uninterested in food, Scully slid into bed and 
snapped off the bedside lamp. Tomorrow would be a long day 
- she hoped Mulder would have a new case for them, 
something to help her take her mind off this one, and she'd 
arranged to meet Jack's little brother from the Big 
Brothers/Big Sisters program in Park Lawn after work.

**

He came to her without speaking; his intense hazel eyes 
expressed his concern. 

She had been drinking tea when he knocked; steam drifted up 
between them from the teacup as the liquid cooled and they 
simply watched one another. He reached across the distance 
separating them to cup her cheek, and she felt her lips 
curve into a gentle smile.

Kissing Mulder was as natural as breathing; it flowed up 
from the soles of her feet and tingled in her fingers as 
her breath puffed moistly against his chin and her lips 
grazed the corner of his generous mouth. He rubbed his nose 
against the wisps of hair above her ear, breathing her in, 
and she smiled again, feeling light, so light. Hands 
smoothed over her shoulder blades and pulled her against 
his chest and into his lap, two sets of denim-clad legs 
pressing together.

His lips soundlessly formed her name against her cheek - 
Scully, not Dana. She rested her hand on his chest; his 
heart leaped against her palm. His stubble abraded her lips 
and left them tingling.

Mulder, she thought happily. Mulder is with me; I'm not 
alone. Mulder understands me.

Hands slipping under her sweathirt, caressing her bare 
back. Mulder knows me.

Tugging his shirt over his head, open mouth pressed to his 
sharp collarbone - Mulder wants me.

Cool air on her breasts and Mulder looking like a little 
boy on Christmas morning; long, elegant fingers insinuating 
themselves inside her loose cotton pants to cup her gently 
through her underwear. I understand Mulder, even when I 
don't agree with him.

Both of them desperately eager to connect; clothing shoved 
aside and her bare back against the sofa cushions, his 
chest hovering above hers, tantalizing her, as their eyes 
met, solemn but content. 

Individual sensations merged into a rushing, unstoppable 
flood of heat and pleasure as they surged together, her 
body clenching around him as he entered her. Still they 
were silent; words were superfluous.

Finally she let her eyes drift closed - she didn't need to 
see him to reaffirm his identity or to feel his passion and 
caring surround her - and concentrated on the sensations. 
Oh, there, yes - 

Unearthly music filled her ears, and she didn't question 
its source - rising notes, the vibrato of a powerful voice 
producing the strains of an unnamable operatic aria, a 
crescendo of strings, sweet and urgent, demanding - 

Her arms tightened convulsively around Mulder and she 
pulled him to her as her body, tight as a bow string, 
imploded.

**

A sound, repetitive, insistent. The opera score was 
replaced by a ringing telephone.

For an instant she was disoriented. Sweat cooled on her 
trembling, exhausted body, and she huffed out a small 
breath, almost laughing at herself. She was alone.

She reached for the phone by rote.

"Hey, Scully. Did I wake you?"

She closed her eyes and smiled slightly. "Yeah, I guess I 
drifted off. What is it?"

A pause; he was reluctant to speak. "I just... called to 
check on you, to see how you're feeling. I wanted to 
connect with you before you have to present your version of 
events tomorrow."

Her smile widened. She wasn't alone after all. 

"I'm fine, Mulder," she replied softly, with conviction. 
"I feel just fine."

**