Title: The Muses: Terpsichore
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Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are owned by Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are
wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny and
Gillian Anderson. I will make no profit from this, and
neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have
nothing material they can profit from.
Summary: Part of a nine part anthology based on the Greek
Muses and the artistic field each represents. Terpsichore
The case had been horrific. Seven little girls, each one
brutally abused and murdered. Each one yanked from the
safety and security of her own bed, her own home, in
the dead of night. Two so young, so small, they were still
in cribs. Stranger abductions. Stranger murders.
They'd been called in to investigate a potential supernatural
aspect, which had been quickly ruled out, and Mulder had
been persuaded -- almost blackmailed -- into staying and
using his profiling talent. He hated it. Hated how it affected
him. Hated what he saw, what he felt, what he did.
And Scully. Scully had been affected in a way he hadn't
seen in years. She'd been jumpy. Anxious. Almost unstable.
She'd left briefings without a word and walked away in
the middle of conversations. He'd watch her dance of
denial throughout it all, and wished she'd let him help.
It was understandable that this case would affect her
differently. More deeply. Personally. Each of the little
girls taken was between 2 and 5 years old. Each
blonde, each blue-eyed. Each one an image of Emily,
or what she would have been.
But finally they had caught the monster that had
created this madness. The case was closed. Grieving
parents could grieve in peace. That the threat was at
an end was something for which other parents could
thank God, their lucky stars, and the FBI. One particular
FBI agent in fact; a petite redhead who had gone
with barely any food or sleep for weeks as she personally
performed each autopsy and oversaw all tests and
screenings that came from them. She'd repeatedly
flown back to DC to redo a test or examine the results
in person, then wearily, but determinedly, she had
returned to continue the fight.
It had been her hard work that had eventually found
the elusive clue that linked the murders together,
narrowed the suspect field, and made it possible to
pull a murderer off the street.
They'd caught the first flight back east, eager to
be away from the pervasive influence of a murderers
madness. Exhausted, Scully had fallen asleep on
his shoulder on the plane, and he'd taken liberties
he'd never dare when she was awake.
He'd wrapped her gently in a blanket, seeking to warm
her from the cold that had invaded her soul. He'd
lifted the armrest between their seats, and pulled
her head down into his lap. He'd held her, stroking
her arm, rubbing her still tense shoulders, and even
allowing himself to run his fingers through the silky
softness of her hair.
He'd watched, helpless, as her body twitched and
her eyes tightened. Undeniable proof that even in
the safety of her sleep, reality haunted her. He'd
watched her dance with the demons, and knew he'd
walk through hell itself if it would relieve her of
her purgatorial suffering.
She'd awakened as they had prepared for landing,
embarrassed to find herself draped across his lap,
her hand pillowing her head in an awkward position.
As if he hadn't been *extremely* aware of where
her hand, and head, had been for the last two hours.
He'd laughed, telling her he had no choice but
to let her lay down as she had nearly collapsed on
him. She'd sat up quickly, apologizing, and he'd
waved it off with another laugh, hoping the
bulge in his pants was not visible. It was part of
their own personal dance. Step, retreat. Step,
They'd been doing it for over 5 years now.
Something intimate would occur, step, and they'd
back away, retreat. Then, inexorably, there would
be another moment of intimacy, step, step, only to
see them both running back to their own safe spaces,
They'd finally straggled off the plane -- she'd
allowed him to carry her bag this time, a true
indication of how tired she was -- and they'd made
the trip to her apartment in companionable silence.
Once there, she'd surprised him by inviting him
up, then surprised him again when she moved
directly to a wine rack he didn't even know
she had. She hadn't perused the selection at all,
just taken the first bottle her fingers found, and
poured two glasses. She drained hers immediately
and poured again.
He was sipping his now, content to watch her as she
moved through the apartment, unpacking,
preparing her wash, dusting the surfaces that
had lain untended during their weeks long absence.
The dust itself confirmed what he suspected; that
even though she had been in and out of DC during
the case, she had not gone home at all.
She continued to drink as she worked, not talking
but glancing his way occasionally. She finished
her second glass before he finished his first, and poured
once more. She walked to him, stepping between
his legs and topping off his first glass. Her hands
circled his and gently lifted it to his mouth. He sipped
obligingly, then lowered the glass again.
She was staring at him, watching his every movement
with a heretofore unseen cast to her eyes. Holding his
eyes with her own, she slowly dipped her finger into
the sweet wine and raised it toward his lips. Astonished
at her actions, he caught her wrist in midair, holding
her carefully in place. Neither moved as he struggled
to fathom her behavior.
She broke away from him, and again drained her
glass without stopping. As she walked back toward
the kitchen, she poured again, then giggled as the
wine sloshed over the side of the glass. Rising
quickly, he stepped forward to take the bottle from
The wine was making her giddy, and she smiled
at him as he gently pulled the bottle from her
hands. She captured his hand in her own in
a brief tug of war over the bottle, then giggled
again as she released both bottle and hand. She
walked a little ways away, placed her glass on the
table, then lifted her arms above her head and spun
madly before his amused eyes. She twirled
unstopping until she dropped, dizzy, to her knees.
Face flushed, eyes bright, she looked up at him
and said, "I took ballet. Did you know that?"
He shook his head. He hadn't known it, but it
made sense. There was an innate gracefulness
in her every move.
"I always wanted to be a ballerina," she said.
"Not very original for a little girl, but -- I don't
know -- there's a beauty in ballet."
He nodded, then knelt to be closer to her, and
smiled encouragingly for her to go on. Inside
he was thrilled beyond belief to be offered this
tiny glimpse into her soul, to have it offered so
freely. It was a gift beyond measure.
"Missy and I used to organize dance recitals
on the base. Wherever we were, we'd find out
who took dance, and then we'd spend the entire
year working up to a big summer performance.
We planned everything, did our own choreography
too. It was wonderful, and I was convinced I was
going to be a great ballerina."
She rose to her feet, kicked off her shoes and
quickly moved through the standard positions.
He recognized them -- Sam, too, had taken ballet.
'It really must be something every little girl goes
through,' he thought.
She recaptured her wine glass, sipped this time,
and gave him a speculative look. Walking to
where he knelt on the rug, she plucked both glass
and bottle from his unprotesting fingers, then carried
them to the small sideboard. She returned to stand
over him, once more capturing him in her crystal
blue gaze. He stared up, mesmerized, fighting an
inward battle he'd fought so often before.
He was sinking into her soul, losing himself
in her, when she spoke, breaking the spell.
"Come. Dance with me."
He laughed, disappointed and relieved.
"Scully, I can't dance -- not ballet."
But she was pulling him to his feet, and he was
rising, unwilling to deny her anything.
"You don't have to dance," she said. "Actually,
you just sorta stand there. It's what most of
the guys do anyway."
He laughed again and stood awkwardly in the
middle of her living room as she pushed back chairs
and tables and made a space for her dance. He
stood watching her, her body rippling as she
pushed and shoved the heavy furniture and it never
occurred to him to offer to help. He was enjoying
the moment too much, drinking it in, impressing
it forever on his mind.
And then she was moving, moving toward him, tiny
little steps, graceful arm movements, dancing to
music only she could hear. He was captivated.
Her body moved so fluidly, it seemed to flow
across the floor towards him. And before he knew
it, she was pressed up against him, her body alive
with motion. She writhed against him until
he could take no more, then he took a tiny,
hesitant step backward.
She laughed and reached for his hand. Lifting
his arm above her head, she fully extended her
own and held his hand with the slightest of grasps.
She began to spin again, twirling and twirling
and twirling, until even he was dizzy with her
movement. She hummed as she spun, a barely
audible, breathy little sound made deep in her
throat. He watched in amusement as she
continued to whirl, her breathing growing
labored as she turned faster and faster.
But as the twirling went on and on and on,
and she grew unsteady on her feet, her muscles
trembling with the effort and her breath ragged,
he became concerned. "Scully. Scully. Stop,"
he said gently.
She shook her head and continued the frantic
whirling. "Scully, you need to stop now."
He tightened his grip on the hand she held
extended over her head and tentatively
reached out to try to lay a hand on her rapidly
spinning body, but it was like trying to catch
"No, no, no," she chanted. "No, no, no.
Turn around, turn away,
Turn aside, turn today.
Seasons turn and people too
Watch your back, they'll turn on you."
This last was gasped out as she released his hand
and slumped unmoving to the floor. He dropped
to his knees beside her. "Scully -- Dana -- are you
all right?" She didn't respond and he saw that
she was crying silently, the tears streaming down
her face. He reached out and gathered her into his
arms, pulling her into his lap, holding her
tightly as the sobs escaped.
"I'm glad you're there to watch my back,"
she whispered, the words slipped out between
the silent, wracking sobs.
He squeezed her to himself, and answered,
"So am I, Scully, so am I." Her sobs began
to quiet and she slowly stilled within the
embrace of his arms. He waited for her
to begin the dance again -- their dance. The
dance of retreat and avoidance. The dance of
denial and regret. But she stayed within the
circle of his touch and gently laid her head
upon his shoulder.
"There's no turning back now, is there
He wasn't sure what she was referring to,
back from the madness of the case?
Back from the twisted evil they fought
on their jobs? Back from -- what? But it
didn't really matter at this point, and he
answered softly, "You can never really
turn back, Scully. You always have to move
She shuddered once, then sighed, and leaned
more fully against him. Her soft body twisted
slowly in his lap and her hands reached up
to cradle his face. "I'm not drunk anymore,"
His body tensed. Didn't she know the effect
she had on him? She wriggled again and
he felt himself harden. He carefully took
her hands in his own, and stilled her movements.
"I know." This was it. He could feel it coming.
Their dance. She would push him away, and
he would rise and laugh. She would send
him home, and he would go. She'd offer an
embarrassed 'sorry,' or 'thank you,' and he would
wave it away. And so they would continue the
She was unmoving now, her eyes fastened to
his eyes as she waited. Waited for what? What
did she want?
She shook herself again, then rose a bit shakily
to her feet and pulled him up behind her. He
stood, her hand still clutching his as she took
two steps to close the gap between their bodies.
She was staring at him, her eyes two pools
of liquid pain, and he wanted nothing more
than to take the pain away. He lifted his hand
and pulled her tightly to him, knowing she would
feel his arousal and torn between his shame and
his desire. What dance was this?
He wrapped her in his arms and her hands reached
up to lock behind his neck. They stood there,
in the center of the room, and then she slowly
began to move. It was so small, so slight, he
almost missed it as she began to sway within
the circle of his arms. But he found himself moving
with her, following her gentle rocking movements,
dancing to a different tune. This was not their
Her body was tight against his, and he knew she
could feel him through his pants. She deliberately
moved against him, an enticing friction that teased
and taunted him. What dance was this? Please,
what dance was this?
He looked down to see her nipples, visible through
both bra and silky shell, hard and taut as they
strained against the dainty fabric. The scent of
her arousal wafted forth and he grew drunk on the
moment. A new dance. This was a new dance.
He looked down and met her eyes, seeing the
acceptance, the invitation, the desire that filled
her soul. He raised a hand to stroke her arm,
his fingers trailing lightly from shoulder to wrist
and she moaned at the contact.
Emboldened, he leaned down and gently brushed
her lips with his own. He withdrew slightly, to
see her reaction, but she followed, and pulled him
down again, her lips seeking his. A new dance.
A new dance. A new dance. The blood was
pounding in his head, pooling in his groin, and all
hope of coherent thought was rapidly being lost.
He swallowed, hard, and made one last attempt.
"Scully -- I ..."
"Shh..." Her fingers were upon his lips now, tracing
their outline and he pulled a single, perfect digit
into his mouth, sucking gently.
"Shh," she whispered again, her breath hot against
his chin as she gazed up into his eyes. "I'm not
drunk." He released the finger, and she brought it
to her own mouth, touching her lips gently with his
moisture. "I know what I want."
He groaned aloud then, and clutched her to his
body, pulling her to him as if he could pull her
into his very soul. She stayed tight against him,
then gently pulled away and took his hand. Turning,
she began to walk down the hall, leading him toward
And with each step forward, he slowly began to
realize that this was not a new dance, but the oldest
dance of all.