Song Stories 1: It's All About Soul

"All About Soul" by Billy Joel
c. 1992 Impulsive Music

She waits for me at night
She waits for me in silence
She gives me all her tenderness
And takes away my pain
And so far she hasn't run
Though I swear she's had her moments
She still believes in miracles
While others cry in vain

She didn't come with me to the doctor. I had wanted her to, but I didn't know how to ask -- even after all this time, sometimes I just don't know what to say to her -- the images were still too fresh, too vivid, the very thought of doctors and heaven forbid nurses were more than I could deal with -- but I made myself go, because she expected me to; I dealt with the ordeal of the exam and drove myself home afterwards.

She didn't come with me to the doctor, but when I got home, she was there.

Sitting on the couch, take-out bag of Italian on the table, concerned look on her face -- "How did it go?" she asked me, meaning more than my physical condition.

"Fine," I said, "I'm fine," shrugged off my coat and came to sit beside her on the couch.

I wanted her to take me in her arms and hold me, the way she only ever has in my deepest fantasies. I wanted to feel her body wrapped around me, reminding me that I was alive, and whole, and not alone...

Instead, she reached out and placed one hand on my shoulder, let it slide very deliberately down the length of my arm, squeezed my hand briefly. "I threw out that bottle of Sunny Delight," she mentioned, rising from the sofa and heading for the fridge. "And I made you iced tea."

You know, that was all it took to make me feel better.

It's all about soul
It's all about faith and a deeper devotion
It's all about soul
'Cause so many things getting out of control
Should drive her away
So why does she stay?
It's all about soul

Nightmares. My personal demons. Damn my memory, anyway; I never lose those wonderful little details of the lousy things that happen to me. Like what a double-amputation feels like. The helplessness, and the violation, and the pain...

"Mulder..." And I awaken to see her sitting there; and for just a moment, I'm still in the dream, and she is my hero- turned-betrayer, and I flinch from her touch...

She grabs my hands. Holds them, tightly, enough for me to feel the pressure and come out of the nightmare, enough for me to look through the darkness and the fear to see the caring in her eyes. To know that she is real, that she is with me, that she is my Scully.

And again, she slides her hands along my arms, holding my gaze the entire time, letting her eyes speak for her: it wasn't real, Mulder, it didn't really happen. You're here. I'm here. It's all right.

The nightmare is still vivid enough that it feels unbearably strange to move my arms -- but somehow I do; and she is there. In my arms. Holding me, letting me hold her. The scent of her skin as I bury my face in her neck, the feel of her hands smoothing along my back, stroking my hair.

In that wondrous amalgam of sensation, the nightmare memories lose their grip, sliding away, and leaving me at peace.

She turns to me sometimes
And she asks me what I'm dreaming
And I realize I must have gone
A million miles away
And I ask her how she knew
To reach out for me at that moment
And she smiles because it's understood
There are no words to say

"Mulder, are you listening to me?"

Of course I'm not listening. My mind is reliving the terror of that hospital: so unreal and yet so real. But her words and her sharp tone bring me back -- I am so thankful for that; the inside of my mind is rarely a comfortable place for me.

"Sorry," I say sheepishly, and wait for the inevitable reproach.

I see it in her eyes, reprimand building like a thunderstorm -- she hates it when I zone out on her -- and then she looks at me closely, and the stormclouds dissolve into an understanding so filled with tenderness that it brings me to the brink of tears.

"Mulder," she says gently. "The case. This case. This one, here." One graceful hand points to the file folder and sheaf of papers on my desk.

"Yes, Scully," I reply obediently, and try to force my mind to wrap itself around the new assignment.

And then I feel her other hand settle on my shoulder, a slight steady pressure. No words, just that hand on my shoulder...

Such a small thing. But it makes all the difference.

It's all about soul
It's all about knowing what someone is feeling
The woman's got soul
The power of love and the power of healing
This life isn't fair
It's gonna get dark, it's gonna get cold
You've got to get tough, but that ain't enough
It's all about soul

We are not lovers. Despite my fantasies, despite the overwhelming evidence of how we both feel, I'm not sure we will ever be lovers. And yet Scully is holding my hand, as she has developed a tendency to do over the course of the past week.

She knows. She knows that my memory haunts me mercilessly. After the Linda Bowman case, she wasn't the least bit surprised when I showed up at her apartment in the middle of the night, didn't protest my sleeping on her sofa for a week. Didn't seem to mind when she awoke to find me watching her sleep, my fingertips against her throat to feel the reassurance of her steady breathing. And now she holds my hand as if we were lovers, in blithe uncaring of what anyone else on the plane might think, because she knows that I need that contact.

Oh, Scully. Will you ever truly understand what you've come to mean to me?

There are people who have lost
Every trace of human kindness
There are many who have fallen
There are some who still survive
She comes to me at night
And she tells me her desires
And she gives me all the love I need
to keep my faith alive

She doesn't bother to knock. For one thing, she knows I'm not asleep. Instead, I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed in the dark, staring at the far wall, lost in thought.

She doesn't bother to speak. Instead, she sits down on the bed facing me, reaches out and grasps my hands, and gazes at me.

I want to talk to her, but I don't know what to say... I've already told her about the VR experience: told her about that the night it happened. There's not much else to tell her that she can't infer from the information she already possesses. Like the way the memory is haunting me. Like the way I can't seem to get past it, much as I want to.

"You need to sleep, Mulder," she says softly, and her eyes say so much more: I'm worried about you, I'm afraid for you, I don't want you to hurt any more...

Sometimes I think I'm just a walking mass of trauma; that whatever talents I possess, whatever slim margin of sanity I manage to retain, is completely overshadowed by the pain I've collected. Sometimes, when I'm feeling analytical and a little bit silly, I envision it as a rubber-band ball, one rubber band after another stretched over each other into this neat sphere, mutating from golfball to basketball to The Rubber Band Ball That Flattened Cincinnati... and damn it, every time I think I'm on my way to attaining some sort of equilibrium, there's another damned rubber band stretched taut around my soul. Scully's in remission? Meet Linda Bowman. Meet Emily. Oh, and just for good measure, how's about we cut off your arms?

How do I tell Scully how I feel?

I sigh. And her fingers massage my hands in silent sympathy.

Maybe the question is: do I need to?

"I knew it wasn't you," I hear myself say, "because she didn't care about me."

Scully smiles. She doesn't have to ask what I'm talking about; she already knows. She doesn't have to reassure me that she cares; she already knows that I know.

And as if for the first time, I realize that the things we don't say to each other speak far more loudly than the things we do.

It's all about soul
It's all about joy that comes out of sorrow
It's all about soul
Who's standing now and who's standing tomorrow
You've got to be hard
Hard as the rock in that old rock 'n roll
But that's only part, you know in your heart
It's all about soul

We're in the car, and Scully is driving. Tired as I am, she doesn't trust me to drive, and I think she's probably right. We've stopped for coffee, and that rush of caffeine is all that's keeping my eyes open. I feel like hell.

And then, beneath the rumble of the engine and the tires beneath asphalt, I hear the local deejay's intro -- and I sit up a little straighter, reach over to turn up the radio's volume.

Scully glares daggers at me -- it's our rule, that whoever's driving gets to control the radio -- and I rush to explain. "I really like this song..."

And as happens so often, she sees something in my eyes that helps her understand.

She frees one hand from the wheel and takes my hand in hers, as Billy Joel begins to sing.

I only hope she's listening to the words.

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