TITLE: The Ribbon of Her Steps AUTHOR: J. Nelson RATING: G SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully take a lunch break at the National Art Gallery. SPOILERS: Minor ones for One Breath, Tempus Fugit and Max CATEGORY: MSR DISCLAIMER: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to FOX, Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. No monetary gain is being made from this piece. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. DEDICATION: This is for Kelly, who held my hand and showed the way for this story. As well, she stood beside me as I took in the breathtaking sight of this painting in the National Art Gallery in Washington, D.C. When I announced that I would never leave, she made sure the guards didn't escort me out of the gallery. NOTES: This painting can be viewed at http://www.nga.gov/collection/gallery/gg89/gg89-46314.0.html If you ever have the opportunity, go to D.C., go to the National Art Gallery, and view this magnificent painting. You will not regret it. The Ribbon of Her Steps by J. Nelson Brilliant hues of goldenrod and teal assaulted her senses, as the colors blended into cornflower blue and verdant green. Broad brush strokes, boldly painting whimsical designs of tulle and flowers assailed her eyes, as lithe and graceful hands elegantly adjusted errant straps. A quartet of ballerinas, resplendent in stiffened silk, auburn tresses upswept and beribboned, preening and preparing offstage. A stage set among vibrant wildflowers of azure and sea green, a reality dressed up by stage hands and set designers. Precise and ethereal, the painting stood before her in all its glory. "The ribbon of her steps twists and knots . . . " His breath was hot and rushed on her neck, sending chills down to her heart, where it lay beating in anticipation. She smiled and closed her eyes, the negative of the dancers amongst the trees engraved in her darkened vision. "Degas was a photographer and a poet, as well as a painter. Did you know that, Scully?" Mulder asked without any thought of a reply. "Never one for spontaneous improvisation, he deliberately arranged his subjects." Scully smiled and opened her eyes, the corners of her mouth delightfully turned up in response to the encyclopedic mind of the man standing behind her. "It's stunning," she replied, crossing her arms and moving closer toward the canvas. "Four Dancers, circa 1899. He had a penchant for ballerinas, didn't he, Scully?" Mulder enquired as walked slowly to her left. "Sort of like Toulouse-Lautrec," he continued. She turned toward him then, the expression on her face quizzical. "What do mean, Mulder? Lautrec never painted ballerinas. His forte were those that could raise their skirts for the Can-Can not a pas de deux." He smiled, aware of her passion for art, framed posters and prints strategically hung throughout her apartment. "He was like a reporter, a sketch artist for the operas of his day. Can-Can dancers and opera singers. A theme." She sighed and turned back toward the painting. "But not ballerinas." Mulder nodded and acquiesced. "No. Not ballerinas." Muted footsteps and stifled whispers surrounded them as they stood contemplating the masterpiece before them. A quiet midweek afternoon, spent musing and pondering the creative talents of long-dead artists, the hectic rat race circumvented by a surreptitious trip to the Smithsonian. "I don't come here very often. Just every now and then. But when I do, it's here. In this room, with this painting." Her voice was wistful and melodic, a child's voice, not that of a woman who had been privy to the darkness of the world. It was a scintillating piece of information, profound and willingly proffered, and he drew closer to her, intent on unearthing her hidden treasure trove of secrets. Mulder put his hands in his pockets, storing them safely from their fervent desire to touch her and draw her close to him. He spoke just above a whisper, wary he might break the spell which had been cast upon the moment. "Degas wasn't an Impressionist, per se. Not like Monet or Renoir. He stressed the importance of careful composition. Strong drawing. Although he arranged the first impressionist exhibition in the 1870's, and remained influential in the group, his own work was deliberate. Controlled." Scully lifted her chin, gazed intently at the delicate dancers, and gracefully turned toward Mulder. "It reminds me of when I was a child. When Melissa and I were little girls. We took ballet lessons." She chuckled then and drew her chin down toward her chest. She then worried her lower lip with her teeth and turned back toward the painting. "I wasn't very good. But I wanted to be. I didn't want to spend time learning the proper pronunciation of the dance steps. I just wanted to dance. I just wanted to twirl. I just wanted to float across the stage, on my tiptoes, wrapped in tulle and silk." She stopped then, aware that during her recitation she had closed her eyes again, lost in thoughts of ribbons and toe shoes, sweat and sacrifice. Mulder smiled and pulled his right hand out of its cotton sanctuary. He lightly placed his hand upon her shoulder, gingerly pulling her back to their reality and away from her fantasy. "Your mother told me once that you were a tomboy." Scully opened her eyes and turned back toward Mulder and replied, "She did, did she? I'm not one now, Mulder, am I?" She looked him in the eye, for just a moment, gave him a slight smile, flirtatious and knowledgeable, and then turned back toward her colorful muse. He ran his hand down her arm slowly, sliding his fingers along her jacket, the crepe gently bumping up against the whorls of his fingers. His digits ached to tug at her arm, to pull it out of its embrace with her other arm. To continue the slide to her fingers, weaving them with his, entwining their hearts, their wants and their desires. However, restraint reared its sensible head, and Mulder pulled his hand away and back down by his side. "No, you're not a tomboy anymore, Scully. Not anymore." "I would practice the positions as much as I could. I would lie in bed at night and place my feet where Madam Daigneault had taught us. I wanted to be the best. I just wanted to twirl." She was lost again, in among the worlds of floor length mirrors and pianists who mercilessly pounded Tchaikovsky mercilessly on old upright pianos. She had floated back to a realm of barres made of solid wood, polished with years of perspiration and determination. Mulder smiled, cognizant he had been invited into a well-guarded kingdom of childlike memories and a possible gateway to the secrets of the adult she had become. "Like Lautrec," he continued, "Degas adored Paris' dance halls and cabarets. Its racetracks, its opera and ballet stages." He paused and turned toward her. She had closed her eyes again, and his heart ached to reside in her thoughts in amongst the silk and ribbons of Degas' dancers. He stood beside her, silently beseeching her to open the heavy oak doors of her mind, to invite him in, to feast upon the wondrous thoughts that were Dana Scully. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled the taut emotions which had mysteriously appeared in an otherwise routine day in an otherwise routine week. Mulder continued, "The others, the Impressionists, were landscape artists. They needed a natural life. But Degas needed the artificial. It wasn't the free and spontaneous movement that fascinated him most though. No, it was the precise and disciplined movement of ballet dancers that evoked his creative talents." Scully uncrossed her arms, letting them drop to her sides. She opened her eyes then, turned toward Mulder and replied, "My practice eventually paid off. Madam Daigneault chose me to be in the corps de ballet." He looked at her, silently asking for an explanation. "The corps de ballet. They're the, oh, how do I explain it? The chorus line." "You mean like the Rockettes?" He waggled his eyebrows, delighted to see her brightly lit smile. "Like the Rockettes, Mulder, but with a little more style." She rolled her eyes, clasping her hands in front of her. She looked down toward them, rubbing her right thumb thoughtfully over her left thumb nail. "When you're in the corps, Mulder, you're not the best dancer. When you're the soloist, well . . ." She sighed then and crossed her arms again. "I wanted to be the soloist. I wanted to dance on stage without the corps de ballet. I wanted to be the ballerina. I wanted to spin and twirl and pirouette, surrounded by Tchaikovsky, spinning and twirling and pirouetting until I could no longer feel my feet touch the ground." She was gone again, whisked off onto an imaginary stage, accompanied by a chimerical orchestra, applauded and cheered on by a quixotic audience. He reached for her again, pulling at her elbow, tugging at her heart. She didn't turn toward him then, but looked at him sidelong, questioning his request. He tentatively held her hand with one finger and replied, "But you are a soloist, Scully. You are." She laced her fingers in amongst his and squeezed his hand, her smile all-knowing and circumspect. Mulder smiled, reveling in the feel of her cool fingertips on his warm hand, wishing she wouldn't pull away, hoping she wouldn't draw back, yet preparing himself for her inevitable departure. As she pulled her hand away from his, he tightened his grip, and silently beseeched her to stay, to continue her unexpectedly winsome recollection of a beloved childhood memory. Scully paused and looked down at their linked hands and then looked back up toward Mulder, a small smile greeting his anxious request. She clasped his hand then, her grip sure and strong, and continued to look at him. Her gaze was steadfast and unquestionable, wholehearted and determined as it told Mulder a multitude of truths. Authentic and genuine, the unequivocal love she held for this man shone in her eyes, stripped of any pretense or any desire to hide what lay before him. Mulder was enraptured with her eyes, full of trust and love, and he lifted his left hand and carefully traced the curve of her cheek. He felt the magnetic pull of her faith in his love and breathlessly whispered "The ribbon of her steps twists and knots . . . " The sound was cacophonous and broke the trance-like state that had befallen them. "Excuse me, sir. Ma'am. There are others who would like to look at the painting." The burly young man stood before them, his white shirt crisp, his tie dutifully knotted and his authority front and center. Scully quickly pulled her hand away from Mulder's, and stepped back away from her adored ballerinas. "Sorry about that." The guard tersely nodded and replied, "Thank you." Mulder sighed and glared at the guard, thoughts of interrogation and handcuffs dancing merrily in his mind. Scully sensed an impending arrest and placed her hand upon his arm, smiled and said, "It's time to go, Mulder. It's almost 1:00 and I've got a report to finish. Let's go. Okay?" He didn't reply for a moment, just stared at the guard. He slowly realized that nobody would be reciting anything with rights in it at that moment, and he turned toward Scully and replied, "Okay. Let's go." They left the room, and made their way toward the grand and spacious entranceway, out into the rat race, away from careful compositions and Impressionists' impressions. Shadows clung to the room as dusk fell, signaling an end to a frantic work week, the welcome respite of a lazy weekend waiting at the doorstep. The first knock was a quiet one, unsure and hesitant. The second knock at her door was more forceful and confident. Mulder stood before her, a large rectangular package wrapped in brown craft paper held firmly in his hands. "I know it's late, Scully, but . . ." "What's in the package, Mulder? An X-File?" She smiled, her eyes mischievously dancing in the soft light of her apartment alcove. "It's for you. I was out running some errands and I saw this. And I thought of you." He shyly replied. His reticence emboldened her, gave her the courage to reach out for the package and hauled it and him into her home. "I hope it's not another key chain, Mulder. I'd need to visit a chiropractor if I had to lug this around." Mulder smiled and followed her inside, and toward the kitchen. "That particular key chain meant a lot to me, Scully." She looked up from her tussle with the package and replied, "That key chain means a great deal to me as well, Mulder." He watched as she placed the package on the large oak table, pleasantly amused as she viciously tore open the paper, her usually precise and controlled manner torn away in a frenzy of brown paper and white string. He smiled as she gasped. She was awestruck and mystified. "It's beautiful, Mulder. I don't know what to say. This must have cost you a fortune." Then reluctantly, "But I can't accept it." Mulder shook his head and moved closer toward the table, closer to her. "Yes you can. And you will." "Mulder," she replied, the tone of her voice full of gentle chastisement. "Where did you get it? The National Art Gallery doesn't carry this in a poster, let alone a print." He stepped toward the package, pulling the paper back to reveal the brilliant shades of goldenrod, teal and cornflower blue that blended into four elegant ballerinas. "I took a chance that you didn't have this print." Scully reached for his hand, and drew him toward her, her eyes wide and expressive, swirled with love and respect. "You remembered." He pulled her closer, drawing her toward him, lightly encircling her waist with his free arm. He leaned slightly toward her and replied, "Yes, I remembered, Scully. I remembered that you're a soloist." She closed her eyes and laughed, a laugh full of mirth and recognition. She felt his breath upon her lips, searing her, whispering to her, and as she opened her eyes, he whispered, "The ribbon of her steps twists and turns . . . " She then turned her face up and kissed him. A passionate kiss shaded with the colors of love and respect, blended with hues of desire and trust. She pulled away from the heat of his want and whispered, "No, you're wrong, Mulder, I'm not a soloist." She pulled him back toward her mouth, seeking to devour him, wanting to brand him. He pulled back, confusion written on his face, "But . . . , but that's what I thought you wanted to be, Scully. A soloist." She pressed a light kiss to his lips, a peck, and chuckled, "No, I'm part of a pas de deux now, Mulder." Puzzled, he furrowed his brow. She smiled and kissed him again, small kisses, like fairy dust, sprinkled across his face, over the bridge of his nose, down to his cheeks. Finally, she settled her lips firmly on his, releasing them only after he had become breathless and his touch became more confident. He gently pulled away from her, cupped her face in his hands and whispered, "A dance for two, Scully. A dance for two." He kissed her then. Insistent and firm, soft and delicate. He wound his hands in her hair, pulling her closer, drawing her into his heart. He strove to infuse her with his long-felt love and craving that had tugged at him over the years. A pairing begot by sinister and suspicious minds that grew to companionship and respect and had now pooled into a long-sought connection. They were a pair now, a duo. A pas de deux. The end.