NEW: The Ribbon of Her Steps 1 of 1
J. Nelson
TITLE: The Ribbon of Her Steps
AUTHOR: J. Nelson
E-MAIL: blac...@yahoo.com
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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.
FEEDBACK: Yes, at blac...@yahoo.com
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 stagehands 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. Madam.
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, signalling 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.
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