Title : Balm Of Silence Author : Shawne E-mail : shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com URL : http://www.shawnex.freeservers.com Rating : PG-13 Category: VA Spoilers : almost none for Milagro Keywords : vaguish MSR, post-ep fic for Milagro Archive : I'd like to know where it goes, please, though anywhere's fine. Disclaimers : Chris Carter owns Mulder and Scully and all other characters involved with the X-Files. I own squat. I *make* squat. Oh wait... the words used in this story are mine. But that's about it. Summary : Sometimes, words just aren't necessary. (Oh great. I'm mocking my own disclaimers! Wonderful.) Author's notes at the end. ====================================================== There are fingers on her chest, invasive, prying fingers. She writhes in violent protest, her brain numb, her eyes unseeing. Her skin boils with the shame of the assault, burning hotter, screaming white licks of flame, and then the fingers push past the weak barrier. There are fingers on her heart, touching her heart, inside her. She feels nothing, and pushes against her attacker, pushes helplessly against the stronger man. And suddenly there is pain, so much pain she cannot think, so much pain she must not think. He is pushing his hand into her, and she screams, trying to lose her fear in the anguished cry for help. She can feel her blood, slick and wet and warm, against his intrusive hands. Her pulse beats against his palm, and the sound coming out of her mouth tears into her, cutting her ears, trying to fill the hole he has created. So much pain. So hot. Her scream echoes for centuries, and then she stops breathing. She cannot breathe, not past the hand lodged inside her chest, not past the catch in her throat. Her blood grinds to a halt, unpumped, stagnant. Her eyes slide shut, as she gives in to the hell that wants to claim her for itself. Darkness pushes through her, silencing the clamour of her mind, calming the churning of her senses. The hand inside her jerks, suddenly, and she feels herself being pulled forward. Then there is nothing. Only emptiness, and a gaping hole where a heart used to be. Her eyelids flicker, begging for light, and then come to a rest. She stops moving, thinking, caring. Emptiness. Beautiful, lonely, welcoming. She sinks into placidity, and for the briefest of moments, dies. ***** He runs down the hallway, heart screaming in protest, feet pounding against the floor rhythmically. She is not dead. She cannot be dead. She will not be dead. The gunshots that brought him to her from the basement have stopped, and there is silence around him. But not inside him. His mind is chanting, babbling uselessly, praying and hoping and wishing that she will be alive. His eyes are begging for release, to allow hot tears to come whispering down his face. His lungs are crying for air, demanding him to slow down. He ignores everything, and pushes into his apartment. His feet slow to a regular thud, and he looks around him, half-crazed, frenzied. There is no one here, he thinks, but realises he must be wrong. She must be here. She has to be here. She is here. He cannot believe what he sees, he must not believe it. There is blood all over her, the darkest and richest crimson mocking him against its tapestry of clean white blouse. Her eyes are shut, keeping her trapped inside her body. She isn't breathing, her chest isn't moving, and desperately, he drops next to her. Should he touch her? He hesitates, his brain numb, his eyes seeing all too much. Her beauty is torn, ripped into shreds, destroyed by her lack of movement. He bends forward, looking for life, looking for her life in her body. She cannot be dead. She must not be dead. He feels pins poking themselves into his eyes, knives twisting into his stomach, pain knifing through every part of him. His hands move toward her through the air, so slow, so lethargic. It's like he's making his way to her through slimy, reluctant glue. She must not be dead. She cannot be dead. ***** She wanders alone in the darkness, wondering if she has gone blind. Is this what Hell is like? So empty and cold, so devoid of the traces of humanity? Her feet fall on icy ground, and the air around her is chilling... taunting. Pushing through layers and walls of frosted air, she worries. Is this what she must do for the rest of her conscious life? Walk the frigid darkness alone? Is there no one else here? Suddenly, she hears the pounding of footsteps. And she turns, turns in her blindness to look for company, to look for hope. She calls out, her voice thin and weak on the depressing wind, her words bouncing uselessly across fields of nothing. She listens closely, trying to make out the direction of the sound. It is to her right, she decides, and she edges over to it, slowly, carefully. But then she realises that the pounding is incessant, regular, loud. She was mistaken; it is not the sound of footsteps she hears. It is the sound of a living heart, beating strongly, so close to her. A heart. Through mists of tangled memory, she remembers that she needs one. She needs a heart, because she has lost hers. So she quickens her pace, running through black shadows, blinded by ebony spectres. Miraculously, the darkness parts, lifting, shining light into her deprived eyes. She jerks upright, her hands clawing for support, her face contorted into a mask of fear and pain, her eyes wild and needy. A man, there is a man next to her, it is this man's heart she heard. It's a man, a strong man, with brown hair, exuding warmth, living, breathing, next to her. Her eyes cross slightly, and she feels her desperation to live wedge itself in her throat. For a moment, she doesn't recognise him, her eyes heavy from shades of sightlessness. She hangs in stasis, feeling a stranger to the world around her, unaccustomed to light and the strange, strange movement in her chest. It takes time to register, but it finally does. There is a heart inside her, counting off her pulse obediently. It's still inside her, and she sighs in relief. She is alive, she must be alive. She cannot be dead. Her eyes finally adjust, falling back into familiarity, and she recognises him. He is watching her, frozen in horror and dread. Him. It's him. She reaches up, her arms pulling her into him, and she presses herself to his chest. Her fingers scratch into his back, leaving their marks in his jacket, and she holds on to him, shaking. The tears come, large and heavy and thick, and she breaks in his arms. Loud, anguished sobs slam against his ear, and he trembles, feeling her pain. He wraps himself around her, pulling her into his warmth, and they rock back and forth together. Thankfully, he feels her heart beat against his, and he holds her as best he can. She is almost limp in his arms now, tortured sobs still ripping through her lungs. But even as her chest heaves fitfully, she can feel his heart through two layers of clothes, and she knows that it is teaching hers the correct rhythm. They are both crying now, shedding hot living tears. She is weeping for the loss she has just suffered, and he is crying for the loss he almost suffered. He falls from his crouched position onto his knees, still cradling her like a child, and they hold each other like they can never let go. ***** He supports her slight weight easily, as she slumps tiredly against him. Some of her old strength is returning, but it is coming back slowly. Half-lifting her, he shuffles into his bedroom, bringing her to his bed. Gently, he releases his hold on her waist, and helps her to sit on the mattress-shaped waves. She is still shivering, her gaze slightly unfocussed, her face drawn and chalky. Worried, he kneels down in front of her, lifting her chin with his fingers, searching her eyes with his. Her hair is a tangle of colour, and some errant strands have escaped into h er line of vision. Carefully, he reaches up with his other hand and brushes them away. He studies her eyes, and although they are frightened, they are also honest. They look back at him, clear, trusting, and he smiles. He pulls himself to his full height, and drops a comforting hand on top of her head. She nods once in gratitude, and he moves away to his closet. A towel, a T-shirt, and a pair of drawstring pants he has long out-grown. Gathering them in his arms, he turns to her, and proffers them sheepishly, apologetically. As she accepts his offerings, the corners of her mouth build themselves up slightly, and she tries to widen the smile. But her eyes blink in bewilderment, as if she has forgotten how, and the meticulously curved structure collapses. She frowns instead, and tears flood into her again. But he shakes his head at them silently, helps her to her feet, and brings her over to the bathroom. She shuffles unsteadily in, her arms shivering with their light burden. This weakness is too strong for her to overcome at once. Her limbs are uncertain, her heart still thumping erratically, her reflexes practically zombified. With painful slowness, she peels off her clothes, wincing as she kicks her pants off. It takes almost five painstaking minutes for her to lift each leg into the bath-tub, one at a time, and it takes another five for her to recover from the exertion. Finally, she stands under the showerhead, lukewarm needles of water slicing into her back, slipping through her hair. Her legs tremble, and she contemplates sitting down. But she resists the temptation, instead trying to keep them as straight and strong as possible. Her head drops back, and recklessly, she drinks some of the tepid water. It slips down her throat, almost too quickly, and she freezes, afraid. Her chest is tight, crowded to overflowing. There are lungs, a windpipe... so many things there. Worst of all, there is a heart inside, taking up space. She has to learn not to be conscious of it, even though she is now, too conscious of it, and she worries that there is no room for water. But her fears are unfounded, and the water coils easily down into her stomach, warming it. She drinks more, enjoying the sensation of it sliding into her, through her. Water, she discovers, is restorative. It gives life, is giving life to her now, and she feels more of her strength returning. She enjoys the shower. By the end of it, her legs no longer quake with exhaustion, and her chest feels more natural, less cramped. The process of putting his clothes on is much less draining than the process of taking hers off, and she loves the feel of clean cloth against her bruised skin. The T-shirt is too big, hanging off her shoulders, and the pants are too baggy. But they are comfortable, warm, dry. And best of all, they are not stained by blood. He knocks on the door just as she pulls it open, and he smiles again. She looks good now, refreshed, her previous weakness scrubbed away. Her damp hair curls around her ears, and she smells faintly of soap and him. He likes how she looks in his clothes. Taking her wet towel from her hands, he drops it on the floor, then leads her into his living room. He is glad to notice that she walks quite firmly now, hardly needing his support although he is more than happy to give it. She is still tired though, her recent ordeal more draining than she can handle, and she sits down readily on the couch. He sits next to her, as near to her as he can get, and takes her hand in his. Their fingers lock into place naturally, and he looks at her smooth small hand, comparing it to his rougher, bigger one. He traces the curve of her hand with his eyes, lovingly, then flips it over and strokes her palm. She watches him, the trace of a smile in her eyes. He squeezes her fingers with his, and she responds in kind. Then he releases her, and reaches to the coffee table for a steaming cup of black warmth. Handing it to her, he motions for her to drink it, and she obeys. The bitter taste jousts briefly with her tongue, branding the roof of her mouth, then winds its way into her system. She feels better immediately, more filled, less empty. Glancing at him, she knows he understands that. His eyes are concerned, questioning, and she wonders what they want to know. She opens her mouth to speak, but cannot think of anything to say. He is still watching her, waiting for an answer probably, and she feels the need to oblige him. "Mulder, I'm..." "You're not." She is startled by his soft interruption, and the word 'fine' dies on her lips. He is right, more right than he can ever know. She is not fine, and she might never be again. Her mouth opens, then closes again helplessly, and she tries to think of something else to tell him. But for some reason, nothing needs to be said. He nods at her, reading her mind, and moves even closer to her. Tenderly, he places his index finger on her lips, then moves it onto his own. No need for words... no need for talk, he is telling her. He knows everything he needs to know about her. And he knows because she wants him to, because she lets him know. She smiles, tentatively and weakly at first, then allows it to gather strength and meaning. Mutely, he holds his arms out to her, and she shifts into them. Her head rests against his chest, and her body shivers once in delight. She can hear his heart, can feel it against her cheek, and she recognises its rhythm. It is the same one her heart is keeping, the one he taught her to keep. Their hearts are beating together. This time, when her tears come, they come quietly, without noise or pain. They fall from her eyes onto him, and they don't hurt. They don't hurt at all. She tucks herself into his arms, tighter, closer. As she feels her heart mending, the tears begin to dry, and her eyes close in sleep. He breathes regularly beneath her, and smiles. The healing has begun. And no words were needed. ====================================================== Author's Notes : Hmm, this is the first time I'm leaving my ramblings to the end of a fic. If you're still reading now, thanks for sticking it out this far. I know that Milagro as an episode has been done to death - the explosion of fanfic after it was screened in the US was phenomenal. I don't know how original this was, or how effective it was in terms of style. IMHO, this story marked (at least) a slight departure from my usual style. I'd love to hear from you if you've enjoyed this, or if you think there are ways I could have handled the situation better. Feedback to shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com, please... I don't bite. In fact, feedback turns me into a complete marshmallow. :) As always, to Scarlet for her constant reassurances. This is for Shirlock, who encourages me a lot more than she needs to. And Depakat, thank you so much for the beta despite your hardcore noromo stance. :) This story needed all of you to survive.