Title: Balance
  Author: tuatha
  Category: Vignette, UST
  Rating: PG
  Spoilers: Only Millennium
  Disclaimer: The characters herein are not mine, they belong to each other.
  (okay, they belong to Fox/1013/CC.)
  Summary: Millennium post-ep. Yeah, I know it's been a while, and there are
  lots of Millennium post-eps that have been there before me. Just my take
  on what some fans perceived to be an awkward moment.
  Feedback: Always. Please email me with your thoughts, suggestions or
  constructive criticism at tuatha@bit.net.au
  
  
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  He leaned toward her and there was no time to adjust, to move closer, to
  hold his face in her hands, or brace herself by bringing her hands up to
  his shoulders for balance. His face dipped towards hers, and all she could do
  was turn her head before his mouth descended on hers. Their lips joined,
  the fragile pressure of sensitive membrane, and she trembled, wavering in the
  intensity of the softest of embraces. His eyelashes fluttered closed and
  she could feel the whisper of air against her cheek, softer still the arching
  flood of tenderness that passed across the connection formed between
  them, a bridge across which questing emotion flooded and formed, ebbed and flowed.
  
  She thought of his hands. Sometimes pushing her forward, impatient and
  demanding, at other times guiding her, intimate with the curve of her spine.
  She imagined his hands resting over her shoulders, could feel the weight of
  his touch steadying her, pressing down on her, making her stronger, holding
  her close and drawing her closer still. Remembered sensations, of his
  fingertips dancing over the curve of her collarbone, circling gossamer
  touches on her cheekbones, threading through her hair as their foreheads
  rest against each others, caught in a moment of stillness at the centre of
  perpetual motion. Each heartbeat, each breath a sharing of air, of life.
  
  
  
  She wondered then if it was fear that kept his hands apart from her. Was  he
  afraid that if he tried to hold her the possessive touch of caressing hands
  would cause her to be torn away from his grasp and flung to the farthest
  reaches, the coldest depths of hell, to punish him for such temerity? The
  potential precipitation of agonising distance, terrifying loss, could form
  an almost visible nebula of trepidation in even the bravest of souls.
  
  Instead of the continuation of the ordered universe, the steady progression
  of seconds and minutes, the world might decay into chaotic disarray. She
  couldn't help the wash of regret that flooded her, the awareness of a time
  beyond their reach, when the almost acknowledgement of their love had
  stopped the universe in a heart-wrenching sickening slide into nightmare.
  
  And Mulder couldn't help believing in his infinite folly that even the most
  tentative attempts to hold her could cause the universe to crash down around
  them, random events conspiring to carry out an agenda of cosmic
  interference. It was an irrational thought, based in superstition, yet even
  she could not suppress a twinge of fear that struck deep in her heart; the
  knowledge that she too feared the hubris of daring to love beyond measure
  or reason, to demand truth and justice with every breath, of desiring
  without reward, and to be willing to sacrifice everything for another. Who
  wouldn't fear the consequences of such audacity?
  
  And yet the world hadn't ended, their fears seeming ridiculous now. He slung
  his arm over her shoulder as they walked away and she felt connected to him
  again, a grounding depth that left warmth and reassurance in it's wake. He
  leaned on her, slightly unsteady from the painkillers he'd been given while
  his arm had been patched and bandaged, but he made no attempt to unmask the
  gesture for what it could be, what she knew in her heart it was meant to
  be.  She took her own tentative step to restore the balance that they'd lost.
  Not in bold words spoken out loud, she was not so obvious, her overture to
  intimacy unspoken.
  
  A simple touch as she brought her right arm up to her left shoulder, her
  hand cupping his wrist, stroking firmly over the back of his hand, conveying
  commitment, fearlessness, implied consent and willingness for him to hold
  her. She felt the impact of her touch strike him, belying it's deceptive
  simplicity. His hand, which had hung relaxed over her shoulder clasped her
  upper arm, pulling her closer to him.
  
  She had no idea when, or what might prompt him to kiss her again, but she
  knew that his hands would balance them, hold them steady when he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fini
  
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