DISCLAIMER:  The characters herein are the property of Fox 
Broadcasting and 1013 Productions.  The situations into 
which I have placed them are of my own creation.  
 
CATEGORY:  S, MSR  
RATING:  PG-13  
ARCHIVAL:  My site only.  
SPOILERS:  "Millennium"
SUMMARY:  "The fourth time we touched like this, it was 
our own fin de siecle, our own beginning."  
 
Thanks go to Laura for a speedy beta.  Any inconsistencies 
with "Millennium" are explained by the fact that I wrote 
this Saturday night.  The spirit of the episode is still 
in here, I hope.  
 
Feedback would make my new year very happy:  
alanna@alanna.net  
 
MEZZA VOCE  
by alanna  
 
+++++  
 
The first time we touched like this, Mulder, I put my 
hands on either side of your face and let my thumbs fall 
slowly, slowly down your jaw until they were moving over 
your lips in the same careful way I'd dip my basting brush 
into olive oil and make slow strokes over bread.  I told 
you without words that it was a promise of something more.  
We didn't make good on that vow immediately, but knew we 
would someday. 
 
The second time we touched like this, your large hands 
covered my small chin and you looked down at me.  Your 
face was so far above mine, but so close that even though 
a thousand stars fell around us, your face filled my 
vision.  Your thumbs brushed over my lips and I shivered 
in the cool night air.  I could smell the slow baking of 
bread, the way the hollow scent of olives mixed with yeast 
and the warmth of the oven.  We were baking, the two of us 
-- a slow rise at 375 degrees in a gas oven.  Bread takes 
time to rise and so would we.  
 
The third time we touched like this, I sat between your 
legs on sun-baked sand and felt your arms around me.  
Waves approached us then skittered away, like they were 
afraid we'd overpower them.  Their sound was as elemental 
as a heartbeat.  I could feel your own heart beating 
against my back.  You pressed your lips to my cheek and I 
baked in your warm breath against my neck.  If we were 
climbing a staircase to consummation, to full 
reciprocation, we were halfway to the landing.  
 
We didn't have anything after that third time substantial 
enough to be called a fourth, but all the little details 
seemed to accumulate into something even better than a 
fourth.  Desires were sublimated in the interests of work, 
and we poured ourselves into two cases to be investigated.  
You held my hand on a flight to Denver to look into the 
case of an elderly woman who had seen visions of her 
living friends' funerals, only to discover they were 
premonitions of her own.  Your arm rested on my shoulder 
as we observed her funeral from the back of the chapel, 
softly smiling condolences to her distraught family, who 
lost their cornerstone during the holiday season.  She had 
been born a few days after the dawn of the twentieth 
century, and it seemed only fitting that her life would be 
bookended by the closing of ninety-nine years.  
 
On a drive back to D.C. from rural Pennsylvania, we argued 
vehemently over whether this December 31st  or the next 
would be the true "end of a millennium".  Ever the 
pragmatist, I stated unequivocally that if years are 
marked by twelve-month periods, then the real conclusion 
of a thousand years would be midnight on December 31st, 
2000.  I tried to convince you that the concept of 
millennia is really an artificial construct, created by 
scholars many years ago who could not agree on the true 
date of Jesus Christ's birth and that their assignation of 
it as year zero was merely a compromise.  You would hear 
nothing of that, and insisted that the real significance 
is in the numerology.  "Two thousand is a rounder number 
than two thousand and one, Scully, and the significance is 
in the digits and the changes they evoke, not in whether a 
thousand cycles of 365 days have been achieved."  
 
I rolled my eyes in the darkness and muttered something 
like, "What fools these dreamers be."  
 
Your voice became quiet and serious, and you replied, "How 
does it feel, Scully, to be loved by a dreamer?" 
 
I glanced over at you, and even though your eyes were 
trained on the road ahead, I could feel you looking at me, 
pressing the weight of your words into my skin, my mind.  
It felt beautiful, Mulder.  
 
I replied, "How does it feel, Mulder, to be loved by a 
thinker?"  
 
You said, "It feels beautiful, Scully."  
 
It was so easy to say "I love you."  I only said it once 
in reply to your words, though I said it in my mind a 
thousand times afterward.  Although I would never be so 
cruel as to wish your psychological illness -- 
"telepathy", you call it -- upon you again, I almost 
wished you could read my mind at that point.  That in your 
mind you could hear me saying it over and over, steadily, 
like a second pulse.  
 
But yes, it was so easy to say those words.  Part of me 
wanted it to be more difficult, something fraught with 
tension and the fears of revelation.  That those emotions 
would make it more significant, more apocalyptic.  But it 
was so easy.  So natural.  I suppose that it is easy and 
natural to give voice to something which has been in your 
mind for so long, particularly when the fears that the 
feelings won't be reciprocated have long since been 
banished.  
 
And so I said, "I love you."  You moved your gaze from the 
road to my face, just quickly enough to keep us safe on 
the darkened road, and said that you loved me too.  Even 
though we didn't touch then, it was monumental, as 
meaningful as a thousand caresses.  
 
The fourth time we touched like this, it was our own fin 
de siecle, our own beginning.  That fourth time was two 
minutes ago.  You pulled me close and you kissed me -- not 
on the cheek or the top of my head, but on my lips.  
Already, I feel different, like my body has been torn 
apart and rebuilt itself.  I can actually feel my cells 
dividing in mitosis, taking what had already been present 
and making two new ones.  One cell for me, one for you.  
 
I wonder if I would have planned today differently had I 
known that tonight we would kiss.  Would I have awakened 
at the sound of my clock radio, pulled myself out of bed, 
and staggered into the shower with my traditional 
reluctance if I knew I had this to anticipate?  Would I 
have grumbled as I gathered the remains of wrapping paper 
from Christmas four days ago and carried the bag to the 
garbage chute?  Would I have cursed as my stockings caught 
on the wooden floor, forcing me to go through my drawers 
and discover I had no more unopened pantyhose and had to 
wear my detested knee-highs?  Would I have worn my hair 
differently, put on a more flattering shade of lipstick, a 
tighter shirt under my suit, a brightly-colored scarf 
around my neck so I would look more beautiful for you -- 
the same way I would dress up in ninth grade to impress 
the boy I had a crush on?  Would I have rushed out the 
door on the way to work, neglecting little details like 
mint mouthwash and dabs of tea rose perfume oil on my 
pulse points?  Would I have chosen the cinnamon raisin 
bagel with honey butter instead of the garlic and cream 
cheese combination I prefer, knowing you might smell it on 
my breath?  
 
Would I have gone to an extra effort to make myself 
beautiful for you, if I had known that today we would 
kiss?  In retrospect, the "what ifs" seem futile, because 
you have just proven to me that I am beautiful, even with 
no perfume, no cosmetic color on my face, in my everyday 
suit, with garlic-scented breath.  This knowledge makes 
you even more beautiful to me, your love even more 
valuable.  Melissa used to say that you never know if a 
man loves you until he sees you at your worst.  Right now, 
the way I look, smell, and taste before you, she'd 
probably say that you're a "keeper".  
 
Today was such an ordinary day.  I didn't even see you 
until nearly noon, as I was called to assist with an 
autopsy the moment I walked into the building, and you 
were stuck in a department heads meeting until well past 
eleven.  I arrived back into our office just before lunch, 
and you were sitting at your desk, going through some 
paperwork with your usual diligence.  Though I wanted to 
keep myself from distracting, romantic thoughts at the 
work, I couldn't help but think to myself, "That is the 
man that I love, and the man who loves me," as I saw you 
there, your face a little too close to the papers on your 
desk.  My second thought was that I should really take you 
to pick out a new pair of reading glasses after work, and 
that brought a smile to my face.  Even in the midst of 
romance, I'm still looking after you, clucking at you like 
a mother hen.  Maybe we've already progressed into the 
"old married couple" stage, or maybe we've been there for 
years and never realized it.  
 
I wanted to invite you out to lunch, to have one last 
lunchtime with you before the long New Year's holiday 
would begin and we wouldn't have another working lunch 
until the year 2000.  I asked you if you'd like to walk 
over to the rooftop bar at the Hotel Washington with me, 
where we could sit by the railing covered with thick 
plastic to keep the chill out, and watch the other 
bureaucrats scurry about as they conducted their final 
business of the year.  As I stood there watching you, I 
could see the whole outing:  walking down Pennsylvania 
Avenue with you, my hands burrowing down in my pockets to 
ward off the cold, and your breath making little clouds of 
heat before your face.  Ducking into the grand lobby of 
the hotel like lovers seeking a quick tryst.  Watching you 
drink a glass of ice tea, but wishing it were a longneck 
of German beer.  
 
But before I could make the offer, you saw me standing 
there and told me that some of the other department heads 
had invited you for a business lunch.  Part of me was 
upset that I wouldn't get to realize that little fantasy, 
but a stronger part was happy that you now had the 
collegial acceptance you'd never admit you craved.  You're 
the dreamer, like you said, and I'm the thinker. I can 
live without being able to enact that little fantasy.  
 
The world seemed to conspire against us today, Tuesday, 
December 28th.   I picked up a sandwich at the employee 
cafeteria, then just as I settled down to eat and go over 
the paperwork you'd been filling out, a call from the 
pathology lab told me about some additional anomalies and 
I had to spend the afternoon sorting through them with the 
man whom I'd assisted this morning.  You came down to the 
offices of the pathology department at 4:37 -- I had just 
looked at the clock, wondering how much longer before I 
could return to the basement -- and whispered in my ear 
that you'd come by my apartment tonight.  I nodded quickly 
and smiled my answer, and watched you leave the room.  You 
were so beautiful, Mulder, your square shoulders under 
your suit and your long legs striding across the floor.  I 
wanted to be professional and immediately turn back to the 
task at hand, but you make up half my cells now, and I had 
to force myself to stop thinking about you.  I couldn't 
keep from whispering to myself, "Mine."  
 
All that is just the minutiae of the last workday of this 
century, if your belief that the fin de siecle is three 
days away instead of 367 more is true.  But it is all so 
important, Mulder, because it was the last day we would 
have as partners before we added "and lovers" to the term 
given to our relationship.  
 
Seventeen minutes ago you arrived at my doorstep, and I 
could finally exhale.  You were the bearer of bad tidings, 
but I can't say that surprises me.  As I motioned for you 
to follow me into the kitchen where I was deciding what to 
fix for dinner, you asked me if I had ever heard of Frank 
Black, who had been with the Bureau until he left this 
year under strange circumstances.  We spent the next ten 
minutes building a dossier from the information we had, 
and I listened to the wonder in your voice as you spoke of 
the admiration you had for this man who had been a legend 
when you first began your career.  I could have been upset 
that work was intruding on this night I'd anticipated, but 
I wasn't.  Work is as much "us" as the possibility of 
romance.  
 
Five minutes ago, you turned to me and said that we'd talk 
more about that tomorrow.  I watched you glance over at 
the stained glass windows near the back entrance of my 
apartment, and I wished it were still daylight outside, so 
that I could see the blues and reds play over your face.  
I took your hand and walked with you until we were 
standing next to them.  Even though I'd never entertained 
the thought, I said, "I've always wanted to do this here."  
I raised on my toes and you leaned your head down, and you 
kissed me.  
 
And now we stand here together, holding each other as 
close as possible and our mouths opened wide to one 
another.  Your lips taste of the mint mouthwash I'd 
forgotten this morning, and even though I'm not wearing 
perfume, I can smell roses somewhere nearby.  Our kiss is 
a series of slow breaths and quick touches.  Your mouth is 
warm, so warm, like bread with olive oil baking in an 
oven.  I am breathing all your sweet scents inside, and 
our combined cells devour your oxygen.  Your kiss is 
hungry, passionate, but your arms are light around my 
shoulders.  I can't breathe, and I don't want to breathe.  
I just want to keep kissing you.  
 
This isn't as easy as saying "I love you" was.  It's not 
simple and natural, like another aspect of science.  It is 
amazing and difficult and joyful and completely 
overwhelming.  From the first time you touched me like 
this, back at that rest stop a few weeks ago, I knew that 
this moment would be sweet.  I just never knew it would be 
this devastating.  Just as your saying you loved me made 
me feel like a completely new person, this kiss is making 
me over all over again.  I feel different.  But I still 
feel like I am me, and you are you.  And that is what 
makes this moment the pure, exhilarating joy that it is.  
 
You finally pull back from me, then envelop me in a hug, 
your face pressed into my hair and my own pressing into 
your shoulder.  In my experience, hugs are given as 
comfort.  But this embrace is far from comforting.  It 
only serves to shatter me more.  We stand like this for 
the space of six deep breaths.  I lean back and raise my 
chin to look at you.  A car drives by outside and casts 
shades of blue and red over your face, fulfilling my quick 
wish earlier.  
 
Feeling bold, I whisper, "Stay with me tonight."  
 
You look at me for a very long time, then close your eyes 
and bite your lip.  I'm not worried that I've said the 
wrong thing, though, because I can see your temptation.  
You don't surprise me as you say, "No."  
 
I nod.  If we've waited seven years, we can wait until a 
while longer.  
 
You bring one finger up to trace my jaw, and say, "I'm 
going to go home now.  We both have a lot to think about."  
I nod my agreement.  You bend down for a quick kiss of my 
lips, then say, "And now we'll have something to look 
forward to in the new millennium."  
 
"We're going to wait another 365 days, Mulder?" I can't 
help but say with a smile.  
 
You return my smile and murmur, "Be a dreamer, Scully."  
 
And then you leave.  
 
I stand in the same spot in my entryway for I don't know 
how long.  Even through the ambient noise of a busy 
street, I can hear you get into your car, then feel you 
sitting there trying to keep from coming back inside.  The 
engine sounds and you drive away.  
 
I know what will happen tomorrow.  We will be 
professionals as we investigate this case.  I hope it ends 
before the new year, so we can ring it in with style, as 
lovers.  When we're old, I want to be able to say that I 
started the year 2000 in a grand way.  I want to be able 
to say that as it began, my partner made love to me for 
the first time.  But even if that doesn't happen at the 
stroke of midnight, we can wait a little while longer, 
can't we?  
 
When we were in California, I remember thinking about the 
staircase in the house we lived in as a child, and how my 
first great achievement was to climb it by myself.  We are 
not at the top of the staircase yet, but Mulder, we are so 
very close.  
 
Happy New Year.  
 
+++++  
 
END (1/1)  
 
Feedback would be lovely -- alanna@alanna.net