Title:  Muted by Flesh (1/1)
Author:  Livia Balaban
Feedback: Why thanks, I'd love some!  liviabalaban@hotmail.com
Website: http://members.xoom.com/liviabalaban
Rating:  PG
Classification:  VA
Content: Sk-Sc conversation, Major MSR, Skinner POV
Spoilers:  Itsy bitsy ones for FTF and Triangle
Distribution:  Sure, just lemme know
Disclaimer:
        The Surfer Bum and 1013
        Wouldn't write 'em as I've shown 'em
        'Cuz they're wussy little wimps
        But darn it all, they friggin' own 'em.

Summary:  Can a simple sound be freed from its implied burden merely through
a new context?



Muted by Flesh
by Livia Balaban


= Tink, tink, tink =

I remember that sound.

= Tink, tink, tink =

It's an impatient sound, created in mindless expectation and fear.

= Tink, tink, tink =

I haven't produced that sound in years now, but I remember with vivid detail
the images and memories it evokes.

= Tink, tink, tink =

For me, it happened thoroughly by instinct.  In a moment of impatient
waiting, or irritated frustration, I would discover - to my surprise - that
I was flexing the slender muscle of just one finger, and having found a
convenient metal surface, was tapping out my feelings in a universal code.

= Tink, tink, tink =

I wonder how long it would have taken me to surmise it if I hadn't heard
that telltale sound, metal against metal, buffered by flesh?

= Tink, tink, tink =

I want to ask, "How long?" but I know better.  On this unsteady perch, I
must do everything I can to continue to project an aura of authority.

Not having noticed before now speaks poorly of my supervisory and
investigative skills, so for the time being, I will say nothing about it.

= Tink, tink, tink =

I remember, when I was a boy, watching my mother masterfully bend just that
one finger and find a convenient , resonating edge.  Dad was late coming
home for another countless time, and Mom was worried.  So she sat at that
horrible old kitchen table, the one with ribbed metal wrapped around it.
Using the only object of value in that sagging old house - a slim and
well-worn band of gold - she tapped away an intense tattoo of simmering
rage.

= Tink, tink, tink =

How many times had my father disappointed her?  How many times had he
disappointed me or my brothers?  How many times did he claim, "I'll be
there," before I discovered the real meaning of those words:  "I'll try, but
don't count on it, Wally."

His work was important; more important than we were, and I hated him for it.

So how, with such a different range of experience, with such a resentment
for the kind of man he was, how did I become him?

= Tink, tink, tink =

It was a death knell I heard when I came home to find Sharon at the table,
that muscle working, flesh-muted metal rapping against the edge of her tea
cup, tap-tap-tapping out the final moments of our marriage.  No gold against
steel for Sharon; gold against china - ringing, melodic china.

Metal and china.  It's a wonder we lasted as long as we did.

= Tink, tink, tink =

The sound instantly culls up dread and loathing, so it's no small leap to
imagine the worst.  He is late again.  She is angry.  He is hurt, he is
dead.

= Tink, tink, tink =

Our flight departs in thirty minutes.  There's time.

= Tink, tink, tink =

"Agent Scully," I prod gently, "how about a new song?  That one's getting a
little old."

= Tink, tink, tink =

When she looks at me with confusion, I realize she isn't aware of how her
impatience is seeping out without her knowledge.  I look over at her
newly-adorned left hand and raise my eyebrows.

Stunned, she withdraws her hand from the metal frame of her seat and lowers
her still wide-eyed gaze to her lap.  "Sorry, Sir," she mutters.

I want to tell her, "It's all right," but I have no support for that shallow
reassurance.  Instead, I offer the only advice I can.

"If you find yourself doing that a lot..."

She stiffens and flashes me a look of rebuke I'd thought she reserved solely
for her partner. It's amazing how often I manage to say just the wrong thing
to her. Somehow, in my unsolicited attempt to offer her fair warning about
the unpredictable nature of marriage, I conveyed lack of respect for her
judgement. Her message is unmistakable: "He's not yours to criticize.  Back
off," she's scolding me silently. "I know him."

Maybe she does.

I thought I knew Sharon, but the depth of her discontent, when she finally
chose to reveal it, shook me.

I wonder if Mom knew what she was getting into when she said yes to Dad.

Does anybody ever really know another person well enough to make a
well-informed gamble with the rest of their lives?

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you earlier, Sir," Scully says quietly.  Over the
din in the terminal, it's a small sound, the meek apology of a contrite
child.

"You don't owe me an explanation, Agent."  She doesn't.  Early on, when I
didn't answer to nameless, faceless autocrats, when I still found the
exploits of these two a source of amusement, I might have expected more.

But I can't be naive enough to believe that I can stack betrayal on top of
betrayal and maintain their respect or their trust.

"Well," she acquiesces, "we would have needed to tell you by the time we
requested two rooms for three people tonight."   Her grin is strained with
uneasiness, but it seems genuine.  The subject is uncomfortable, as it
should be.

"I'll take it as read you don't need a lecture on maintaining your
professionalism in the field."  It's not a question.

"No, Sir, and thank you.  One more lecture this week and I may start taking
hostages."

So it *was* a recent development.

"Mother?"

"Brother."

I simply look at her and wait for an explanation.  I didn't make it to
Assistant Director without knowing how to elicit a confession.

After a few moments of awkward silence, she gives in.  "I can't say he's
been happy about my time at the Bureau, or with the company I've kept."

"Does it matter?" I ask her, wondering which brother disapproves of her
partner.

Husband.

I chuckle inwardly at the absurdity of the correction.

"No," she responds simply, "it doesn't.  I'm long past any need to appease
my big brother.  He'll learn to deal with it."

"Family always seems to find a way to survive."

She smiles cautiously.  "It's not quite that dire.  He just doesn't know
what I know."

 I don't know where she's headed, and I'm curious.  "What's that?"

"That it's a relationship of equals.  It wouldn't have happened otherwise.
It happened because it was right.  That's it."

Straight to the point.  I expected nothing less.  "Still, I remember that
sound, Agent, and it doesn't normally portend harmony and light."

Her smile narrows, but deepens.  It's in her eyes, a kind of special
knowledge she possesses, something it gives her pleasure to consider
private.  I've never seen her display such an overtly personal sentiment.

Then I realize what it is:   The knowing smile of a well-loved woman.
Mulder must have one hell of a way of making up for his petty
thoughtlessness.  He would have to, to keep Dana Scully around for seven
years and the promise of a lifetime.  She's no doormat.

It took me so long to realize what I saw in Scully's eyes that I begin to
understand why it felt foreign.  I never understood Sharon that well, and
I'm sure she never understood me either.  Mismatched.  Unequal.

Metal and china.

Eight months between "I'm Walter," and "I do." And I never had to drag her
limp body out of a pit at the South Pole.

Mom and Dad, mismatched and miserable.  Married after a four-month
engagement. She never threatened bodily harm to her superiors in order to
find him in the middle of the Atlantic.

Equals.

I see the proof of it when he arrives, unconcerned but rushed, taking his
seat next to her.  After the perfunctory "Sorry to keep you waiting," he
takes her left hand briefly in his own, and there it is.

Gold against gold, in a firm but tender grip.

Gold against gold, warmed and muted by flesh.

Matched.  Years of understanding between them.

"I know him," her expression implied.

Maybe she does.  Maybe she does.


=====
End.


Acknowledgements:  Enormous heaps o' thanks to the Beta Squad from Heaven:
The exceedingly detail-oriented and easily-repulsed Punk, Exley, Kelly, M.
Sebasky, Sarah Parsons, Paige, wen, and cofax.  Yes, Virginia, I'm grateful.


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