TITLE: Waiting In Motion (1/10) AUTHOR: mountainphile RATING: NC-17 EMAIL: mountainphile@yahoo.com URL: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile CATEGORY: MSR, case-file (Sequel to "Miraculous Manifestation") Rain spatters the car like buckshot, an unrelenting clamor in Scully's ears. Glazed with water, opaque with condensation, the windshield looks frosty in the cool April air. It's impossible to see the road ahead in the combination of unnatural darkness and deluge that has enveloped their small car since late morning. Impossible to predict what miracles the day will bring... They've gone from black asphalt to chip-and-seal to accordion-rutted back roads in a matter of hours. Mulder insisted on the alternate return route through these Virginia mountains, as they head back to DC from an investigation gone flat. Take the long way home... you know, like that song with the cool blues harp, he said with a smile. Scully knows the tune, all right, and is not impressed; his words are meant to appease her, but the analogy is rife with misrepresentation. Instead of east, retracing the way they came the previous day, they head south, along the side of the mountains. The car inches into the weather like a hunter's hound, nose to the ground and searching for buried secrets. Scully suspects another secret will emerge, in time, from Mulder's back pocket. He's keeping something close to himself. After years of surprises, she can interpret some of the signs and thinks she has a good feel for the way he works. Why, just last night heading toward the rich man's country estate and the pseudo-weeping statue, Mulder drove through the darkness and admitted to withholding certain aspects of the case. She's aware he keeps other file folders in his possession that he's not yet shown to her. This day, fraught with variables, may yield some intriguing answers if she is patient. If she can wait. Heaven knows they're no strangers to the waiting game. It's taken all of seven years to openly acknowledge the fierce magnetism that smolders between them. A full month since she revealed an emotional and sexual affair of the heart with another man, from deep in her past. Weeks after that, Mulder's hand caressed her face in a parking garage, then, a few nights later, he tickled the back of her throat with a deep, exploratory kiss. Several more days passed and his hand was furtive in its need to stroke her breast in the darkened car. Time creeps forward in increments, she muses, and it took another day before her heart yielded to hope and vulnerability. Their trust toward one another increased. She became an opened book for him, her pages fragile, but willing for him to touch and handle with gentleness. Shedding their clothes in a natural hot spring last evening, they touched and kissed and surrendered to physical intimacy. Beautiful sex without intercourse. Later, in the steaming water, they whispered and basked in one another's embrace... It took just one night for doubt to forge a wall between them. As invited guests at a private mountain estate, representing the FBI in an investigative capacity, propriety ruled. There was no precedent for rendezvous, after their dip in the spring, no opportunity to slip through the household for consummation. Separated, alone to reflect, she questioned whether a line was crossed unadvisedly for the sake of passion and at the risk of their long friendship. By morning, this doubt magnified to the point of awkwardness. And in the few hours since leaving the estate, more has broken than just the watershed in the sky. With the wind and rain and lightning flashes, comes a powerful need to define what's happened between them and to seek resolution. Scully realizes that her body now has its own priorities, nerve endings awakened, crying out in frustration and need of his touch again. She suspects Mulder's restlessness is for the same reason. He's occupied, however, wrestling the steering wheel through precarious switchbacks and ruts that open up before them on this mountain road. Branches lie snapped and loose across their path; leaves eddy and swirl. Suddenly, they fishtail in the slippery soup that washes over the roadbed, the car's tires waffling in a sea of brown mud. Scully gasps and jerks her hand up to the dashboard to keep her equilibrium. It's a startle reflex, a defensive, instinctive gesture. Like pressing her foot hard to the floor, slamming on an imaginary brake. Lightning numbs and blinds her eyes -- and a familiar, momentary fear gropes toward her, the bright light enveloping and absorbing her into its center... and then it's gone. "Whoa," Mulder says, peering through the foggy window. "Surf's up. I like adrenaline as much as the next guy, but we'd better dock here and wait this thing out." "No argument from me." Another brilliant flare coincides with the car's lurch through an unseen rut, and she blinks away the unwelcome flash of memory. She hopes he's missed the tremor in her voice and gives a self-conscious, sidelong glance towards him. It's too late. He's already curious, eyeing her with interest in the dimness of the vehicle's interior. The firm line of his jaw alerts her to his concern as thunder rumbles a warning overhead. The car slows and stops. Mulder hesitates before he reaches over and covers her hand where it rests against the edge of the seat, his larger one swallowing hers. He angles his body and long legs from behind the steering wheel in an attempt to close the physical distance between them. The emotional distance, the wall that went up inexplicably during the night, is the real issue. "Nervous?" His question is two-edged. No, she's not afraid to be out on the backside of a mountain, if that's what he's implying, caught in the elemental fury of rain and lightning. But momentarily shaken, yes. The short-lived, residual fear was gone quickly, as it usually is. She's never shared this secret unnamed phobia with anyone, including Mulder or even her psychologist, Karen Kosseff. The important thing is to keep a tight rein of control over her reactions to the ordinary, mundane events that precipitate an episode. Not every door needs to be opened and the contents exposed to scrutiny. And in time her mind will expunge this lingering weakness, as it has other demons. Nor is she afraid of the sensation that pulses from his warm hand to hers, this sensual electric flow that stirs a response from deep within her body. It's the first time he's really touched her today, skin on skin. His thumb moves in slow circles over the back of her hand and she turns her head away, distancing herself from the question he posits, staring a hole through the steel-gray sheeting of rain on the window next to her face. "Of course not." Mulder's not convinced; she can feel his disbelief and looks back. It's evident in his expression, the corner of his mouth twitching, his nod suggesting both doubt and amusement. Not about to be baited or cajoled, she widens her eyes, meeting his look with an accusing one of her own. "Not only is this the *long* way home, Mulder... it's quite obviously the *wrong* way home... " "What makes you think so?" His voice is teasing and he releases her hand to face forward. "Yeah, I agree... the weather sucks. But we need to turn around anyway. There's a place back there with definite possibilities." "What place? I didn't see anything in this, this... hurricane." A glance out the back window tells her nothing, but she notes the beginnings of a smirk on his face. "And please feel free to elaborate on what kind of possibilities you have in mind." Mulder's lips widen into a loose grin, sparking the shadowy hazel of his eyes and bringing a Marx-like waggle to his brow. "I'll just have to show you." She suspects that a thunderstorm isn't the only excuse to grab a room in the middle of the day. A small, dilapidated motel and campground materializes, set far back from the road and nestled in the trees. Only Mulder's eagle eye could have detected it in the downpour and premature nightfall they encounter. As they weave down the long driveway and pull in front of the check-in office, Scully rubs away a circle of condensation from the passenger window. Everything stands empty, drooping and wet from the streaming rain. A weather-worn sign, blowing against a post with a loud repetitive thwacking noise, reads 'Manager.' "Well, look what the cat drug in," calls a woman's voice as they enter the building. Wiping her hands and forearms with a kitchen towel, she emerges from an adjoining room. The hot, comforting smell of food wafts in from behind her and she angles her curvy and substantial body behind the desk, turning an appraising eye toward them. "One room, please," says Mulder smoothly, reaching for his wallet. In spite of herself, Scully shoots him a careful look. He's so cavalier in the way he states it... as if they're accustomed to sharing accommodations without a second thought. Certainly they've had no previous discussion about alternate room arrangements, even after the intimate touching last night at the hot spring. The fact that Mulder makes the decision independently is seductive in the extreme. Standing next to him in the yellow light of the motel office, she feels her body give an inward, sultry stretch and awaken to the prospect. Warming to the inevitability... "What time is checkout?" she inquires, throat dry. The woman grunts a laugh. "Business what it is, you choose your own time, honey. I ain't particular. You two're the only ones here." Mulder busies himself with the exchange of paperwork and plastic. He smiles, eye betraying a twinkle. "Sounds like we timed it just right then -- no crowds at the pool." "Um-hum, you got that right." The woman gives a hearty chuckle and shakes her head. "An' the only pool here is out there in the middle of the driveway." She slaps a damp, brown hand onto the counter top, presenting him with a room key. At the friendly response, Scully turns to look up at her. Mid 30's, possibly... rich chocolate complexion and broad lips. Eyes dark and candid, hinting of a deeper, older pain. She wears a loose blue flower-print housedress and a navy bandana over her dark, kinked hair. A little boy, perhaps four or five years old, peeps in from the kitchen, then disappears when Scully catches his eye and smiles at him. "Your son?" she asks. "Yep, that's Skeeter. An' pesky as one, too. Ain'tcha?" She calls after the boy. "He get in your hair, y'all let me know right away." "Thanks, we'll do that," says Mulder, grasping the key and then touching Scully's arm with the back of his hand. "We're in Number 6," he murmurs. "Let's go... " She gives a slight, cool nod of her head. Her heart thuds as she takes the lead, aware of him following close behind. Murky shadows veil the room like a welcome blanket. It's small and musty from rain and humidity. They discard mud- coated shoes next to the door, then deposit the suitcases on the floor near the bed. It seems dark for two o'clock in the afternoon, but the low lighting is preferable to switching on the bedside lamp and throwing their subtle hesitations into stark relief. There's no hurry. Each moment in time marks another step forward and closer, driving the electricity in the air to giddy heights. The tattoo of the beating rain seems muffled by an undercurrent of expectancy, a reality more imposing than the bursts of thunder that rend the sky above them. Mulder sits gingerly on the bed's edge, then falls backward, testing the firmness of the mattress. Memories return to Scully, of another time long ago. A small motel in Texas where the bed boasted Magic Fingers. With wry humor, she realizes she's anticipating a similar effect here in this bed with Mulder. She glances into the tiny bathroom, noting the condition of the commode and small sink. At the shower stall, tall and narrow, wondering how two people could possibly fit... "So," he asks from behind her, "what do you think?" "Well, I wouldn't call it The Ritz, if that's what you mean. It's clean and... quaint," she offers, turning and taking small steps around to the end of the bed where Mulder has drawn his body back up to a sitting position. He leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped. The corners of his mouth are taut as his eyes follow her movements. Awkwardness again. They've somehow lost their way after leaving the spring last night, on that long, cool pathway back to the house. Uncertain, now, how to find it again in the distance that separates them. His coat lies tossed over a chair. Scully eases arms out of her jacket, shoulders back as her breasts strain against the thin, white cotton of her shell. She feels his glance creep over her body like seductive fingers. Warm, then hotter, wading back to re-establish a needful connection, like the touching and molding of their bodies in the hot spring. "No. That's... not what I mean." Mulder pauses and the longing, solemn cast of his face tugs at her heart. He looks from her breasts to her face and back again, the hunger and desire in his eyes unmistakable. She feels her heart pound as he enters these precarious, steamy waters by reaching out to take her hand. His fingers are gentle, long and sensitive like a violinist's and they slide into the hollow of her palm and then over the narrow bones of her wrist. Play me, Mulder, she begs him silently. Eyelids lowered, attuned, she's unable to contain a tremulous sigh. His hand moves to her hip and her breath stills. Without seeking consent his thumb strokes far into the soft diagonal cleft that marks her groin, dividing thigh and belly. He holds her captive like he did last night in the water. When his other hand joins the first, her eyes flutter closed. Once again she feels like a jewel in his hands, her facets and curves lovingly appraised. His restless fingertips urge her through the fragile barrier of restraint. "I want to know what you feel, Scully... " "I'll just have to show you," she whispers, echoing his words of a short while ago. She steps into the vee of his spread knees, her arms encircling his head, pulling it to rest against her breasts. One hand strokes through the dark silk of Mulder's hair. His rich scent and the tightness of his embrace quicken her blood. With each touch and movement, the wall of propriety tumbles, its plaster too recently re-applied to stay solid for long. Hands firm, mouth pressed to the tender skin of her throat, he rumbles, "It was no dream, then... " "No dream, Mulder... " Her soft hands cradle the sides of his face, and she pushes his head back far enough to lean forward and cover his mouth with hers. Feeling his lips open wide, his warm tongue at once bold and inquisitive in its exploration, she sighs against him. It's like coming back to a new home, she realizes. And she doesn't ever want to leave it again. His hands resume their journey, re-asserting ownership first over her hips and waist, then skimming over her curved buttocks and the backs of her thighs. With closed eyes she allows herself to be carried away by his touch. It's like feeling his hands in the steamy water of the hot spring again. His searching mouth is welcome against her breasts, palms sliding to the insides of her thighs, inching up between them. She's already moist against the caress of his fingers. "Too many clothes," he whispers. "I need to touch you." She stifles a moan of anticipation and grinds her hips against him when he pulls downward on her zipper. It isn't his first visit to this hot delicate flesh, but her face still burns at the newness of it, the stark reality that it's Mulder's fingers creeping beneath her clothing. He works the trousers down her quivering legs, which part wider to allow his fingers passage. Easing beneath her panties, they tickle along the slick swell of labia before probing between her folds. His thumb, at the same time, makes acquaintance with her clitoris, sweeping it with feathery touches. "Please... oh, don't stop... " She gasps, head back, aching and bereft when his hand moves away. Her pounding heart and swaying hips betray an embarrassing melange of emotion. "Mulder, what the *hell* d'you think you're doing?" Her distress mobilizes him. The mattress creaks and he stands to hug her closely to his body. His fingers brush her cheek, still moist and fragrant from their exploration under her clothes. "God, you feel so good," he murmurs into her hair, pressing his lips against her ear. "But let's take it slow. I'd like the scenic route right now... not the interstate." He bends forward to capture her mouth in a deep, slow kiss. "Join me?" Leaning hard against him, the small, involuntary twitches of her pelvis spell out her need and flood her cheeks with the heat of mortification. She feels foolish now that the moment has passed, the urgency diluted to a manageable ache. "Easy for you to say," she scolds back into his grinning, nipping mouth. "Last night we made love outside, in a natural hot spring. What's that tell you about us?" His hands slide lower, down her back, and she leans into the contours of his body, arms coming around him to cup the firm, tight muscles of his ass. She wonders about the relevance of his question, what significance it could possibly hold for him now as they stand here, feverish and fumbling with more than just their clothing. "I don't know... it's not something I've done with any kind of... frequency." He chuffs into the hollow of her neck and shoulder. "What are *you* suggesting?" Her breath is ragged, punctuated by the slide and squeeze of his hands over her breasts and straining hips. "That we're free-spirited hedonists at heart? Or skinny-dippers who found an opportunity to, um... indulge? Anyway... the hot spring was just a prelude, Mulder." "You don't count that? I sure as hell do." She lifts her burning face to him, eyes heavy with frustration and desire. "You didn't come inside me then," she whispers, "and I want that. Soon. Please." Did she really blurt out such a thing? Oh god... A thumb glides over her lips, scented with the musk of her arousal. "And that reeks of pure hedonism, partner." Two can play this game. Chagrin makes her reckless and she takes his thumb between her teeth, tasting herself and pinching him harder than she'd intended. He needs to realize she's no longer kidding around. "Feels like a plan," he concedes, nostrils and erection flaring together at the twinge. "Lots of angles to consider, Scully. A whole repertoire of possibilities. Classic, creative, kinky... sitting down... standing up... " His voice is deep, crooning, as he sheds his own shirt, then peels off her top with gentle, unhurried hands. She feels his bulging erection pressed between their bodies, notes how it twitches, how his hips push forward against her despite the leisurely pace he's setting. "So what's your pleasure? I'm open to any and all suggestions." "Less talk," she gasps, "and more action... " She doesn't want to think. Words evaporate as his hands wander again, this time to unclasp her bra and cup her tender hidden skin. She feels his gaze upon her breasts and notes the appreciative inhalation, happy to please him. He captures her rosy, taut nipples in his fingers, teasing them, tracing their contours until she groans. "And there's always the old standby, the floor... " "The bed is fine," she murmurs, bringing her palm to the fly of his pants and pushing against the hardness of his erection. Her nails scrape him through his clothes. He trembles in her grasp and in spite of himself, thrusts lightly against her. Outside, thunder rumbles and rain pounds, the fever of their desire accelerating with nature's tempo. Waiting and guessing for so many years makes her pause, especially in light of his earlier request. She wonders whether her pace is too quick, too bold. When her fingers inch towards his belt buckle, Mulder answers the question by puffing into her ear, "Scenic tour's over... " Together they work to strip his belt and trousers with impatient hands. In a haze of desire, she pulls down the front of his boxers to free him and welcome the heavy fullness of his flesh into her hands. He's velvety-smooth, yet steel-hard and supple. Cupping the head, she teases the tender underside with her fingers. The next seconds are a blur in the darkened room. Her balance is gone and she's floating backward onto the blanket, feeling the scrap of panties pulled from her thighs and down her legs. His mouth is hot and hungry on her breasts. He sucks and tongues her hard nipples, sensation shooting like an arrow to her core. It's primal, more urgent than their full-moon encounter. She groans for his mouth, grazing up her throat to seize her lips, opening her, filling her. Muscled thighs push her legs apart, folds agape before him. His straining cock dips into her narrow wetness, then retreats, sliding over the throbbing bud of her clitoris... Ohgodyes... And it's Mulder, rising, sinking.... Now, now... oh, *please*, she breathes into his chest, as he groans her name and pushes deeply inward, hips churning -- And, clutching him, hips rocking in tandem, she closes her eyes and her lips part in consummate delirious pleasure... ******************** Waiting In Motion (2/10) by mountainphile At dusk, the wind relents and the rain becomes a misty, pattering curtain of purple darkness. It seems to Scully that the forces of nature are sympathetic. The waxing and waning of the elements outside her window are a barometer, keeping pace with the passion and drama unfolding in the little rented room she shares with Mulder. The journey is intoxicating and magical in the sense that this man, unlike others from her past, is already her partner and best friend. Up until now she's known him in every way except the sexually intimate. To finally allow his entrance into her body, to explore and be explored, is overwhelming. Exquisite sensations erupt as he fills and stretches her narrow depths, testing the limits of what her physiology -- and her emotions -- can accept. He's marked her with his body, leaving tangible physical proof that they are undeniably lovers. By early evening the weather has grown gentle and contemplative. They untangle from one another, clammy and uncertain of the next step, when she suggests they attempt the narrow shower. She rummages through her suitcase for a tiny bar of sweeter-smelling soap than the bathroom can provide. Earlier assumptions are correct; the stall is too narrow to accommodate them both without Mulder's elbows knocking against the painted metallic sides. Afterward, when they stand dripping in front of the small sink, she wants to dry him herself. Cool air puckers her nipples as she slides the towel over him -- chest and arms, the lean lines of his back, his hips, the hard muscles of his thighs. Accepting another slow, open-mouthed kiss, she blots the tender flesh that droops between his legs until she feels it stir to life. She fingers with reverent care the fuzzy weight of his balls, firm from the cool air, yet pliant within the curve of her hands. When his cock begins to swell and nod its encouragement, Mulder suppresses a groan. He reaches between their bodies to cover and still her caresses. "Now you," he says, his voice low and husky, taking the towel from her grasp. He's thorough and methodical, working without pause from top to bottom. The rough massage of the towel lulls her. Closing her eyes, she's unaware that he's slowly dropped to his knees before her, that he has an agenda that takes precedence over drying her hips and legs and what's hidden in between... Startled by his touch, she looks down to see him leaning forward to breathe deeply of her essence and kiss the reddish triangle of pubic hair. "Mulder... what -- " she begins, groping for an appropriate objection, but the brush of his nose dispels any need for it. She stifles a moan when the warm length of his tongue begins to fondle her, nudging and curling within her soft, clean folds. His strong hands act as a brace to grip the backs of her thighs, parting them. "You wanted action," he pants, working his way deeper, and taken aback, she colors at the memory of her words. Her eyes close again as she embraces his rhythm. Forehead pushing against her belly, the long, rough strokes of his tongue roll over her clitoris and slide inward, driving her towards another tingling, frenzied explosion. It erupts quickly. Scully gasps, leaning back against the chipped white porcelain of the sink as her hips jerk in uncontrollable spasms against his face. Not a noisy woman when it comes to orgasm, she hears herself cry aloud at the onslaught of his mouth devouring her. It's aching and hot and wantonly sweet. She becomes aware that the fingers of one hand are tangled in his hair, the other gripping the edge of the sink to keep herself from toppling, her spread legs turning to rubber even as they squeeze his head between them -- when the door rattles suddenly on its hinges from a series of staccato knocks. For the first millisecond, they freeze. Then Mulder, cursing under his breath, regains his footing in one quick movement. Snapping up the towel and motioning Scully back, he crosses the room. His weapon is within reach, but he ignores it where it rests next to hers on the nightstand. In post-orgasmic haze, she peers from behind the bathroom door, fascinated by his instinctive reaction to the interruption of their lovemaking. He drapes himself, holding the loose ends of the towel together with one hand, and then pulls the door open with the other. The manager's little son stands in the gush of light from their doorway. His small, brown face is expressionless and he scratches a nubby head, looking back up at Mulder with eyes that are large and inscrutable. "This better be good, Skeeter... " Mulder growls at the child. The whites of the boy's eyes widen and he chews his lip. "Mama says for y'all to come eat now." Darting like a flushed rabbit, he bolts back toward the office building, the thud of his bare feet echoing on the wet clay. The night swallows him, and the distant glow of the office windows shimmer behind branches that sway and rustle in the breeze. "Mulder!" The stunned surprise in her voice is arresting. He pushes the door shut, clutching the ends of the towel in a fist, holding together what appears to be the last shreds of his pride and tattered desire. "What?" He bristles, defensive. Shadowed in the low light, his expression remains guarded. She steps from the bathroom, sighing against the doorframe. Nightfall has cooled the room and she covers her breasts, wrapping arms around her body like the marble limbs of a statue. She glances down at herself, noting how white, how pale and exposed her skin appears against the dark paint of the door. Heading off shyness and further argument she looks around for a covering. The intrusion of the outside world into their lovemaking is to be a new and inevitable reality. There will be phone calls and knocks on the door, beepers and emergencies, risk and danger. How she and Mulder and love and sex and the X- Files will find a roomy enough raft in the perpetual motion of their lives is a big question. Suddenly everything about this place seems precarious, as if their new intimacy is mere forbidden fantasy and will disappear, like Cinderella's carriage, if they take it from these mountain woods. After standing in silence he wheels away from the door and looks over at Scully, who's pulled his shirt over the narrow planes of her shoulders to warm herself. She calibrates his fading simmer, knows his aggravation is now with himself for reacting in such haste. He moves closer and she allows herself to be drawn into his arms. The towel falls, puddling over their feet. "Admit it... the kid's got shitty timing." His skin is cool and clammy against her breasts. She feels the chill of his thighs, his drooping penis loose and cold against her stomach. "Yes, he does. I'm not disagreeing with you there. But that's not his fault, Mulder." "I suppose I could've handled that better." "To say the least," she concurs. "He's just a good little boy, doing as he was told." With a grudging smile, she reaches up to brush her fingers through the short locks of hair that stick up, wet and childish, over his forehead. So many times in the past she's wanted to do this very thing, making no excuses or false pretense as apology. "Think I can make it up to him?" "You were a boy once, Mulder. You tell me." He sighs and bends to hide his face against her hair for a moment. The gentleness, the sheer intimacy of the gesture touches her heart and forces her to blink. "If I can talk you out of my shirt, I guess it's time to dress for dinner," he murmurs. His lips, still fragrant with her scent, browse over her eyelids, then the smooth curve of her nose. "The appetizer, though, was... primo." ******************** Food is carried from the kitchen and placed before them on a card table just outside the check-in office. The manager, perspiring from her efforts and already finished with her own meal, beckons them to sit and relax while she attends to serving. Vegetable beef stew, in plastic bowls, and a few large slices of sourdough bread with butter crowd the table, as well as tall glasses of sweetened tea. An old lamp, its shade tattered, sits on a ledge. It lends a warm amber cast to the room, in stark contrast to the deep blackness outside the window. Scully takes small meditative bites of the food. It's delicious and hot, but she's not as hungry as she thought she'd be. Mulder, on the other hand, rips his bread in two, dipping into the bowl, then scooping with the large tablespoon. She watches him eat, the sight somehow comforting to her, and she takes a few more tastes of her own bowl before looking over at the manager. "This is very kind of you and quite unexpected," she says, her voice edged with emotion. The woman shrugs. "No markets close by an' no McDonald's down *this* road," she explains. "I was supposin' y'all would be hungry... " She smiles down at Mulder's near-empty bowl and moving hand and Scully notices a shadow pass over the woman's face, clouding her clear eyes. Almost as if she remembers something both poignant and bittersweet from the past. "It *has* been a long day," agrees Scully. "An' sure dressed up for a weekend drive. Y'all belong to some big company? Come out here on business?" "We work for the FBI," says Mulder, attentive to his meal and taking another slice of bread. "Ain't nothin' goin' on around here needin' the FBI." The manager frowns, squinting at Mulder. "What're you lookin' for?" He hesitates just long enough for Scully to grow apprehensive and pick up the required response. "Nothing now," she offers, thinking to herself that the question is one she herself would like answered. "We're finished and on our way back to Washington." "Taking the scenic route," supplies Mulder smoothly. He brushes her hand with his when he reaches for the butter, and she hitches her breath, nearly choking on the food she's just put into her mouth. "May I borrow your phone book?" he asks, and the manager jerks her head toward the office. He nods his thanks and disappears. During his short absence Scully feels the familiar twinge of suspicion about his motivation, wondering whether he has another agenda -- and she becomes aware of the woman's solid form at her shoulder. Pursing her full lips and throwing a mild glare in Mulder's direction, she leans over Scully and whispers. "You all right, honey?" "Yes... why do you ask?" Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a small dark head bob at the doorway. "Skeeter says he heard a lady cry, maybe hurt. Just doin' my duty and checkin' it out." She's aware of a warm blush creeping over her cheeks and shakes her head firmly before replying. "No, really... it's nothing like that at all. Everything's fine." "Well... that's good. You need anythin' at all, you let me know." She straightens, her rich, earthy chuckle gathering volume as she gives Scully a furtive wink. "I get it. Oh, that's *real* good... " There's a flash of lightning, followed by the deafening crack of thunder overhead, the pattering of new rain as Mulder re-enters the room. He seeks out Scully and she nods, getting to her feet and reaching out a thankful hand to the manager. "We appreciate this so much. Please, add it to our bill." "Naw, it's on the house. This is the off-season. We like the company, don't we, Skeeter?" "Sure hit the spot," agrees Mulder, following Scully's lead and offering a smile and a warm handshake. "But the storm's back and we'd better call it a night. Unless..." He pauses and avoids his partner's questioning look. "Unless you've got any interesting stories you could tell us. Any local tales that might help to pass the time?" "What're you talkin' about? Tales...?" Mulder shrugs, the gesture ambivalent, non-committal, though Scully knows better. She recognizes his ingratiating smile, the sparkle of interest in his eye, right down to the way he grips the back of the chair, angling his tall body forward with undisguised anticipation. "You know, campfire stories. Urban legends. Every area has its own unique history. Unexplained happenings... strange lights in the sky... " Suppressing a hum of disapproval, Scully moves closer and places a warning hand on his arm. It's warm and sinewy, and she feels the muscle tense against her palm, as if resenting the intervention. She surprises herself with this sudden desire to protect the child, but the small pair of bright eyes at the doorway near the kitchen pricks her conscience. He's such a winsome, curious little boy. Children are like sponges, taking in so much, the good with the bad. "Mulder, this can wait, you know. I doubt she wants... Skeeter... to hear something like this before his bedtime. And in the middle of a thunderstorm," she reminds him in a whisper. He looks from her hand on his arm toward the shadowed curves of her face. She can sense the internal battle as he appraises her motivation, weighing his own craving for information against her apparent common sense. Their eyes lock, the fragile stalemate holding for an instant before it breaks at the manager's next words. "You mean like Bigfoot or somethin'? Mulder's head snaps back towards the woman and he nods. "Exactly." "I heard tell of a monster somewhere down in Braxton County." "Country cousin to the Jersey Devil, no doubt," Scully mutters to herself, just loud enough for Mulder's ears. "Have you seen it?" he asks eagerly. "Shit no. Braxton County's over in West Virginia. This is the wrong road and the wrong state for that." Her hands are deft as she gathers bowls and silverware toward the food-smudged apron she wears, scooping up the dishes into a pile with possessive hands. Her full, dark lips press together in a smug seal, effectively ending the conversation. Pondering the finesse, Mulder watches her back recede as she strong-arms the load of dishes into the kitchen and shakes his head in admiration. "By the way, Scully," he adds, keeping his voice low, "I *know* where Braxton County is." "No need to impress *me*," she hisses. "An explanation, though, would be most appreciated... " "Don't I at least get an 'A' for effort?" He reaches out to give her hand a quick squeeze, but she draws it away too quickly from underneath his fingers and turns toward the door. "We have to get going -- all hell is breaking loose out there. We have no umbrella. And if you haven't noticed, our room isn't just a hop and skip away." In the face of gusting wind and rain, the crash of thunder, he gains his feet, still mired in thought. They don coats and Scully calls out another thank-you to the manager. At the threshold, however, Mulder stops to look back. "Just a second," he says to Scully, and she watches him cross over to where the little dark head still bobs in the kitchen doorway. He goes to a crouch before the child. She's surprised as she listens to her partner's voice, low- pitched and calming in the small room. She observes his hand touch the boy's chin, sees the shy pucker and grin it elicits. Swallowing, her breath catches when Mulder raises his hand in a high-five, and the little boy flashes pearly teeth, smacking his brown pint-sized hand up against her partner's large gentle one. ******************** Waiting In Motion (3/10) by mountainphile The new storm blasts and pummels the motel with sobering force, branches flailing against the windowpanes and tarpaper roofing. They run a mad dash under the trees, through downpour and white flashes of pure electric power, during which Scully risks ducking her head and closing her eyes. Trusting the strength of Mulder's arm that's hooked around her waist... counting on his balance and unerring night vision to bring her quickly through the wild darkness and back to their room. Inside they shuck their muddy shoes into a mound next to the doorway as before, peeling off coats and hanging them like wet pelts on wall hooks. Mulder locks the door and turns on the bedside lamp. His unhurried movements, paired with the soft golden light, lend an air of welcome and order and coziness to this rustic haven. She's damp from the short run through the rain. Her hair hangs in soaking red tendrils, while the chill clutch of her shirt raises both gooseflesh and nipples. Bending over to remove knee-highs, she feels the wet cling of her slacks to each ankle. The first order of business is to get warm and dry. Kneeling next to her small case, she extracts the navy blue pajamas she packs for travel, noting that Mulder has heaved his larger suitcase to the bed where it lays gaping. He settles beside it, sloughing off wet socks and pitching the sodden balls, like foul shots, one by one toward the pile of shoes. Not until she stands with the pajamas in her hands, does she have a clear view into the suitcase and can see what he's packed for this trip. Her stomach tightens. She notes the old boots, faded jeans and flannel shirt, work gloves. Thick woolen socks. A baseball cap. He's even tucked a headlamp into the mouth of one boot, its lens a dull, opaque orb, mocking her... Several file folders peek out from under a worn poncho. Certainly not a suitcase one would pack for a visit to a country gentleman's estate. At her pause, his head tilts and she sees that his eyes, moving upward and ever hopeful, take in her windswept appearance for the first time. "Need any help?" "I can handle it," she mutters, the thin, silky fabric escaping from under her arm as she turns toward the bathroom. One does not begin a romantic attachment with a clean slate, Scully muses as she strips off her wet clothing. Accoutrements from the past clutter and disorganize the fresh, honest decor of the present. Cobwebs linger. Old baggage sits waiting, gathering dust, until the time it's thrown open to unexpected scrutiny. At this stage of the game, she should have seen it coming. Several hours ago her answer to Mulder would have been different and she might have welcomed another slow seduction, her mind intent on nothing else except giving and receiving pleasure. The events of the day rush back to her -- tender hours of lovemaking and discovery, the mutual, after-shower toweling only a short while ago. The delight of Mulder's agile tongue seeking out the lower recesses of her body... melting her again as she leaned bonelessly against this same bathroom sink. But now, buttoning her pajama top and brushing her hair to auburn smoothness in the mirror... now Scully feels only a weary cynicism, a confirmation that the familiar doubts and suspicions that have surfaced again are valid. Old baggage coming to light within a new setting. After encouraging Mulder's recent intimacies, she feels the unaccustomed nagging twinges of compromise and concession. "Hey." He knocks on the door, gentle taps. "Bring a towel out with you." Her eyes sweep the bathroom, where her wet things hang draped over a bar. After today's multiple couplings, there aren't many towels left unsoiled and she hopes he's not intending this for the same purpose. Not yet. Not until her ruffled sensibilities, like her hair, are brushed back into place. The suitcase is closed and shoved back against the wall when she appears, dressed for sleep and towel in hand. Decorating the back of a chair are Mulder's trousers and blue shirt. A quick glance at the bed reveals that he's already folded back not only the blanket, but the sheet as well. Not yet, she reiterates to herself when Mulder turns from the window to face her. His hair is wet and tousled. He's wearing a soft pair of flannel pajama bottoms in a dark print -- she doesn't want to look close or hard enough to distinguish the pattern and glances down. Bare masculine feet with a pleasing arch and long toes... He's just pulled on a black tee shirt, smoothing the fabric down over his ribs and stomach, the short sleeves taut across his biceps and chest. Averting her eyes, she remembers the steel of those muscles flexing around her body, can still feel the softness of his skin against her lips. He waits, standing with a rakish cocky tilt to his head. Mulder's bedroom eyes have no mercy, she's discovered with surprise, and one look into their sensuous hazel depths, coupled with the moist pout of his lips -- She sighs in irritation at the twinge of arousal between her legs, at the way her own body, lately awakened, so easily betrays her. She knows now how soft those lips are... where on her body she'd like to feel them. "Here," she says shortly, handing the towel to him as he approaches. "And I don't need to know what it's for." He smirks and takes it. Covering his head, he rubs with the same quick, short movements he used after their shower. The damp spiked hair that results strikes her as sweet, almost boyish, in spite of her resolve. Like before, fingers aren't enough to tame it, so he heads for the bathroom. "S'matter, Scully? Not up for a marathon?" He must intend the words to be coy, affectionate, but hearing them now, she shakes her head. Looking down and away, her arms cross under her breasts. "I have something more important to attend to. And so do you." "You're sore?" She shoots him a look, startled by his new frankness. "No... " "Then I bet I can change your mind." Giving a deep sigh, she closes her eyes. "Mulder... we have to talk." When she opens them he's standing in the bathroom doorway, hands up on either side of the jamb. His eyes ripple over her face, dark and inscrutable. Already she can feel another wall insinuating itself between them. "So what's the problem?" "Please... *I* need to ask the questions right now, if you don't mind." Watching her under lowered lids, he gives a tiny huff. "Then be my guest." "I want you to start being honest with me. It's already Saturday night and we should be back in DC by now. Skinner is expecting my report on the Sullivan case to be on his desk early Monday morning, and I need to be working on that, Mulder. Not wasting time battened down out here in the middle of nowhere in a near-disaster area." "You like battening down out here with me. There weren't any complaints before dinner." "That," she says, her cheeks warming, "isn't relevant right now." "I disagree." The little furrow between her brows deepens at his challenge. She can be blunt as well. Looking up under the weight of his solemn gaze, she wonders why communication and understanding must always hang on such a fragile peg for them. "Then tell me about this secret agenda of yours. What the hell are we doing here?" His eyebrows quirk in response; she has a sudden, overwhelming impression that he's surprised she should even ask. "When do you plan to tell me what's going on? Tonight? Tomorrow, when you suddenly disappear into the woods? Or when we're in the car, driving to an undisclosed location -- like you did last night on the way to the estate with the hot spring? You withheld information from me, your partner. Incomplete disclosure, Mulder. Part-truth." There's lopsidedness in their partnership, resulting in stifled resentments or mild altercations... or both. She still ponders their tiff over the crop circles a month ago. It's usually easier to let it pass, to ignore the rankle and consider the source. Mulder has his reasons and can usually justify any rabbit trail or sudden departure from the established itinerary. But this time it's different -- the unspoken secrets, the shared room, her emotional rawness after what's been happening physically between them... Exasperated, she lifts her chin and her voice. "So what's the real reason for this *long way home*... for this scenic route we're taking? It isn't to cash in on the sights or enjoy the glorious weather. And the timing... it seems like a convenient postscript delivered at the last minute to assure my cooperation when it's already too late for me to object. Am I right?" Perceived injustice tweaks her sensibilities and she feels her face hardening, taking on color to match her escalating displeasure. Only yesterday he spoke words tinged with sarcasm when she questioned whether her presence was really essential for this trip. But it was a terse dialogue over the cell phone, clean and impersonal. Not face-to-face, the way they are now with nothing between them to buffer the sting of confrontation. She maintains eye contact, shaking her head at his lack of response. "I'm gathering evidence," he interjects suddenly. She can't tell if anger lurks behind his words. "Expanding our scope. Not exactly unheard of in our line of work." "Oh, bullshit, Mulder..." "If you don't like that answer, come up with your own interpretation. I'm just being honest with you. As requested," he adds with a polite nod and sarcastic lilt. "I'll be honest with *you* -- I don't like to be kept in the dark or left by the wayside. It's been a point of contention far too long and I'm tired of it. Especially now." "Why now?" She tries with effort to keep her voice level and modulated. She doesn't need his flip little comebacks, his riddles, or blind, leapfrog logic. And now she's contradicting herself by pointing out the sexual shift between them. What exactly is she asking him for? A hint of understanding, maybe... Appreciation for the long path they've walked together. The realization that their present intimacy, like everything else beautiful and precious, comes to them after long delay and with deep personal scars already in place. "Figure it out. You're the star profiler here." Wincing from the unexpected sting, he recovers, not missing a beat in the rapid-fire exchange. "Sex isn't the issue. Your appetite's just as ravenous as mine, I noticed. So what is it?" She says it quietly. "I just don't want to be left out of the loop." Averting her eyes, she's shocked at how petty and hollow it sounds. "As your partner," she explains, "I deserve more consideration, especially out in the field under adverse conditions." "Since when is a motel adverse?" "I don't think I have to spell it out... " "All right, the investigation is personal, not FBI- sanctioned. Regardless, I need your expertise and assistance. We watch each other's back." "That goes without saying," she concurs, frowning. "There are elements here that only you could understand." She feels his scrutiny and the intensity of his presence before her. "And by the same token, it's also nice to have company along for the ride. After the trip to England and what I missed here... and the changes between us... Call me a selfish son-of-a-bitch, Scully, but I didn't want you to stay behind this time in DC." Hearing him speak, she feels somehow responsible for this first unpleasant rift between them since their consummation earlier in the day. She extends her hand through the wall of uncertainty that separates them. Mulder releases the doorframe, glancing down to her upturned palm and then back to her face, as if suspicious of her motive. "You could have told me that before," she retorts. "Didn't seem like the thing to do." She hesitates, then lurches ahead with false bravado. "Mulder... I don't think... " "What?" "I don't think I've found my sea legs yet." Eyes averted at this admission of weakness, she feels his warm, dry fingers envelop her hand. "You know as well as I do what's happening here. It's awkward... and not without complexity... and I'm not nearly as adept at keeping my balance as I'd hoped to be." "Hey, it's me," he whispers, his voice suddenly tender. The gap narrows as he bends toward her. His lips on the ripple of her eyebrow are a soothing, reassuring balm, proof that he understands the cost of such honesty. "Make room for me on that deck. I feel the same way." He tilts his head lower in order to coax her gaze. Distressed by the unfamiliar, emotional nakedness rising between them, she wills the flush away from her nose before risking an upward peek. "I didn't think it would bother you," he explains, and she knows he's referring back to her initial complaint. "I had every intention of briefing you. And last night in the car... you seemed okay with the way things went." "That's entirely different. I'm only human. We'd been kissing... you were touching me in places... " She sighs in resignation. Once again, a master of finesse, he's deflecting the real issue, but the flicker of impatience is less irksome than before to her exhausted spirit. He takes another step closer, his fingers coming to life around her hand, the thumb beginning to move over her palm with lazy strokes. When he speaks it's deep in his throat, just above a mellow whisper. "I remember that. And what came after, at the spring... and what's happened today between us... " In the nest of her hand, the finger massage continues, light and sensual, moving up to her wrist and over the plush mound of skin at her thumb's base. She feels his breath warm the airspace between them, a reminder of the greater intimacies shared. "You okay, Scully?" he asks huskily. "Is there still a point of contention?" The justification still exists; the evidence abounds. If she were anal and stubborn she could mention the long, nonsensical detour and the hidden agendas that feed her frustration. The wild cards that Mulder hands to her. The little things he hides or neglects to mention. It would be easy to give in to the pull, to rationalize and be the injured party once again and still feel justified. But she can't forget the long years of trust she's invested in this man. For God's sake, he's still her partner, as well as being her... lover. There's the unique working style they've developed and the instinctive way they communicate with one another on the field and in the office. His skills, so extraordinary, paired with hers. She can't deny the loyalty and risk and occasional heartbreak. The secret knowledge they share. The unbelievable phenomena they've witnessed together. What did he say in the car last night? That before he revealed all the details of a new investigation, he sometimes felt constrained to test it, to check its validity. Covering her back and, at the same time, protecting his pride. Since crossing paths once again with Daniel Waterston, she's seen microscopic shifts in the way she and Mulder react to one another -- and wonders how much of that is a natural progression or just coincidental. Pondering these things, she warms under his touch, her indignation melting in a slow, gentle thaw. It's not worth pursuing the negative. There was wisdom, after all, in swallowing her wounded pride and extending her hand. "And," he continues, encouraged by her silence, "I think it's entirely plausible that I'm distracted by this new depth of involvement I have with my partner... and she should probably overlook a shortcoming or two." She suppresses the twitch that threatens the corners of her mouth. His choice of words strikes her as winsome, if not downright manipulative; Mulder knows how to lure her back. His hand moves to her hair, where he strokes gently through her still-damp locks, thumb circling her temple. "Perhaps she'd consider that, if you'd take her into your confidence," she murmurs, "and tell her what you're looking for." "No second thoughts?" "No. No, of course not -- " Shaken and frowning, she looks up, searching his face for signs of doubt. "Mulder, that isn't really what you thought?" She senses more than sees an invisible shrug in his slow blink and calm demeanor, in the nonchalance he shows. The twinkle returns to his eyes, crinkling the corners and softening his features. Suddenly wanting his touch, she accepts the heavy press of his lips to her mouth, leaning gratefully into the hand that cups her cheek. So easy now, she marvels, to slide into the familiar well of his kiss... "Listen... if you want to know the real reason we're sticking around -- just wait for me over there on the bed. I've got something to show you." "I'll bet you do," she chuffs. Her response draws a surprised laugh. "Trust me, Scully, I'm coming clean for you. Don't you know that buddies always share?" ******************** Waiting In Motion (4/10) by mountainphile "A bitch, ain't it?" Jerked from her sleepy reverie, Scully looks up at the manager's sympathetic face and tries, with some confusion, to piece together the point of the question. "Excuse me?" A cup of steaming coffee appears before her. Nearby sits the empty mug that Mulder's already drained several times before leaving, and a decimated plate of homemade cinnamon rolls. The one closest to Scully remains unclaimed. Spoon, sugar, and artificial creamer crowd the table. "This waitin' around is a real bitch. Don't take long before you feel it. Seems like it's all *I* ever do." Scully accepts the mug and stirs the black coffee into dusky submission. She really prefers tea this time of morning, but knows the kindness shown to her is of greater importance than being finicky. As she sips, it strikes her how the color of the drink matches the murky, overcast clouds in the early morning sky. She can't decide whether to stay awake or go back to bed and, putting a furtive hand against her mouth, she yawns. The rain has settled into a light mist. It's just past sunrise and only a few minutes since Mulder maneuvered his car up the long driveway to the road. After watching him plow through ruts and pools of watery mud, she knows it will be a miracle if rain hasn't washed away the first few inches of topsoil, much less the fragile evidence he hopes to recover. "He do that a lot?" The manager speaks from within the kitchen while she runs water into the sink. Once again Scully's sleep-starved brain struggles to stay alert and on track. The caffeine hasn't come close to kicking in. "Um, do what?" "Go off like that, by himself. It don't bother you?" "I've gotten used to it," she says, and there *is* an element of truth to that admission. Right now, however, it's difficult to feel any great measure of comfort in the words. Mulder follows a tangent with the tenacity of a bloodhound, always seeking, uncovering, and ever moving. "I wouldn't know what I'd be missing," he declared, not very long ago. Theirs has always been a job of risk -- even now, when it spills outside the FBI's jurisdiction and falls within the category of personal agenda. After his brief shower this morning, he pulled the rough faded clothing from his suitcase and dressed for the elements. The heavy boots looked waterproofed and adequate. She didn't know until minutes before his departure about the packed trunk -- the shovels, picks, and bucket, the extra batteries, rain gear. A stash of water and Power Bars. Not bad for a man who's both an Academy-trained-renegade *and* a self-proclaimed Indian guide, she told him in a teasing whisper. He'd smiled and tugged her head closer, sharing a slow farewell kiss through the open car window. A world removed from their usual polite good-byes. "Well, he better be careful. Mudslides like you ain't ever seen, up here after a storm... " The woman muses aloud as she works. "Trees blown down, rocks in the road... ruts you can stand up an' hide in... " This doomsday list prompts Scully to sit up straighter on the wooden chair, then twist toward the window to peer out into the haze. That Mulder might be in actual danger hasn't been a serious consideration until now. "I didn't think there was real cause for concern." The woman shrugs and continues wiping the counter. "You can't ever be one hundred percent sure..." "What do you mean?" "Shit happens, honey. Bad things to good people. You don't want it to... but it does. An' then it's just hell to live with." An uncomfortable silence lengthens between them, with Scully overwhelmed in thought. She's no stranger to life's propensity for throwing misfortune into her path, but dwelling on the negative is both self-defeating and unrealistic. Shaking it off, she hears the woman speak soothingly, as if sensing and regretting the uneasiness she's caused. "But don't you be worryin' about him. He's a' FBI man. He'll be fine." Scully grips the edge of the table and slides her body around toward her hostess. "You know, this is our second day here, and I still don't know your name. I'm Dana Scully." The woman, drying her hands, saunters from the kitchen. A faint smile creases her features. "My name's Ruth Jenkins." "I'm pleased to know you, Ruth. Your generosity has been, well... a blessing to us. Especially this morning, getting up to see that Mulder had something hot in his stomach before he left. You could have been sleeping in." "Naw, no problem. I like to keep busy. Makes the time go faster. Now, Skeeter... " She jerks her head toward the back rooms. "He's sleepin' in, because the storm kept him up last night. Couldn't stay in his own bed. He don't like thunder an' lightnin'... " The lightning flash was Scully's nemesis. Most of the time she can control the effect, like she did with Mulder in the car yesterday afternoon. Even running back to their room after dinner, she was able to close her eyes and let him point the way. But last night... she attributes the abruptness and severity of this most recent attack to her own fatigue and the stress caused by their convoluted discussion. "That's understandable," she says quietly, peering into her cup. "A lot of adults don't care for it either." 'Fox' really his name?" The question brings Scully up short. She's not used to hearing Mulder's first name personalized in this way and a sudden desire to protect this private part of him stirs within her. "Yes, it is. However, he prefers not to be called that. To me, he's always been 'Mulder'." "And he don't call you 'Dana', neither, I noticed." "That's right." Has Mulder addressed her by name in Ruth's presence? She can't remember, but the woman must have an uncanny memory and a gift for observation. As if on cue, Scully is pinned by her thoughtful appraising stare. "My Mama named me after Ruth in the Bible. That's because they was both waitin'... my Mama waitin' for me to be born, an' old Ruth, because she was waitin' for her man." She turns away, but not before Scully detects the gray cloud of sadness that shadows Ruth's features. The woman has a child, but there's been no husband in evidence, unless he's working elsewhere. Is she a widow, perhaps? Divorced... or a single mother, with no man to claim the child he fathered? Scully's not about presume or intrude into such personal territory unless invited, but she's uneasy with the curious, unexplained tension in the air. Feeling somehow responsible, she turns her head and speaks to the woman's broad back. "You know, I'm passably familiar with the story of Ruth. Her journey to Israel and marriage to, um... " "Boaz." "Yes, Boaz. Thank you. But I don't quite understand the *waiting* aspect you mentioned." "You raised religious?" "Catholic." The woman peers at Scully, hesitating, before resting both palms on the table and leaning her body forward like a conspirator. "Well, lemme refresh it for you then. Ruth wants Boaz and he wants her. Only thing is, somethin' legal stands between 'em that's got to be taken care of first. Ruth has to wait, and Boaz... he's got to take care of the problem." Scully listens, brows posed in a questioning arch as the story grinds to a halt before it even unfolds. To her dismay, she can't summon further details and her natural curiosity begs to know more about the romantic hindrance faced by the biblical woman and her lover. "Didn't you pay attention in Sunday School?" Ruth shakes her head and sighs at Scully's bemused, slightly injured expression. She clears her throat and continues, but not before raking her, like a schoolteacher, with a scornful deprecating eye. "Now you can't forget the kinsman... By right, Ruth should go to *him* first because he's the closer relative to her dead husband. If he refuses, then Boaz gets her because he's next in line... but Boaz can't settle it 'til the next day, and so Ruth has got to wait. My Mamma would say to me, 'Ruth, you be sure to remember what Ruth's Mama-in-law told her.'" Mouth dry, mesmerized by the mental visuals the story generates, Scully takes another swallow of the coffee. She feels like she's a child again back in catechism class, hanging on to each word the nun speaks. In those pubescent days any subject even remotely romantic or sexual was a good bet to capture her attention. "Which was...?" "'Sit still, my daughter, 'til you know how the matter will turn out; for the man will not rest until he has concluded the matter this day.'" The two women stare at one another, each savoring the words from different perspectives. For Scully, it's another reminder that Mulder is, at heart, a born investigator -- always on the move, searching, exploring, in order to satisfy his craving for the unknown. She has no expectation of seeing him come back empty-handed from the forest. And perhaps, like the biblical Ruth, she will somehow be a beneficiary of his diligence and steadfast search for the truth. Ruth straightens up from the table and gives a small, smug grunt. "An' Boaz, he did it, too. Put it so that kinsman *had* to refuse, then he took Ruth, the one he loved, for his own... " "I had forgotten that part. It's quite touching," Scully admits, swirling the last of the tepid liquid in her cup and re-crossing her legs as the spell of the story breaks. "Thank you for taking the time to refresh my memory." "Refresh, nothin', girl. Y'all had *no* idea what was comin' in that story." Again the woman's insight takes Scully by surprise. Chagrined, she quickly swallows the last of the coffee and returns the cup to its spot next to the plate of rolls. It irks her that this isn't the first time since yesterday she's been compromised and caught in an untruth. "Thank you for the coffee, Ruth. And I hope you don't mind that I didn't take a cinnamon roll." "Naw. Somebody'll eat it. Maybe your partner when he gets back." She casts a doubtful glance behind Scully and shakes her head. "Except you sure could use it, honey. Ain't much bootie back there for your Mr. Fox to latch onto. Don't you know that a man likes somethin' to grab on to with his hands? That's what Sam --" The sentence dies, bitten back, and Ruth attends to a damp kitchen towel, shaking it out and snapping the cloth with unnecessary vigor. "Who's Sam?" The innocent question is a spark on dry tinder. Ruth whips around, one hand on her generous hip, eyes flashing. "For somebody so quiet last night, you sure askin' a helluva lot of questions today." "For someone who chose to mention the name first," Scully parries, "you have no cause to take offense." Ruth picks up the soiled cup and moves toward the kitchen. "I got things to finish here before Skeeter wakes up. An' you keep that roll anyway," she scolds. "There's napkins over there. Nibble on it 'til lunchtime. Go on now... " It would be rude to refuse the pastry and useless to pursue the innocent faux pas. Something, Scully muses, always seems to hang in the balance. Like last night with Mulder... mending their fragile new bond after the lightning revealed her trauma, taking the necessary steps to understand and reassure one another. It's worth the give- and-take, the defeats and the victories. They've come so far on the journey together. After drawing on her coat, she tucks a paper napkin around the roll and reaches for the doorknob. "You needin' fresh towels?" Ruth's dark elbow is the only part of her body visible around the corner, crooked and waiting for the response. "Yes... " Scully reflects. "We could use a few more. Thank you for asking." "I'll bring 'em by later." The elbow disappears and the clatter of pans resumes. As Scully heads out into the dripping mist, she casts a last, sympathetic look back at the kitchen door. It's no longer a difficult task, guessing what bad thing has happened to which good person in Ruth's life. ******************** Waiting In Motion (5/10) By mountainphile The room feels stark and cool without Mulder's presence. He left a message with Skinner's office earlier this morning, briefing him on their whereabouts and the weather conditions. Should the storm system grow as big as expected, then DC will get its fair share of the wealth too. Their tardiness will be understood, if not excused outright. Sleep is out of the question now. Her eyelids refuse to close and, since drinking in both coffee and impromptu Bible lesson, she feels her blood moving, her thoughts slowly gathering momentum. She might as well do some work on the Sullivan report that still languishes in her suitcase. Keeping busy, as Ruth observed, will make the wait for Mulder somewhat more bearable. As for housekeeping, Scully suspects she may be on her own. The bed needs making and her sense of order from as far back as childhood demands neatness before she can be productive. She tosses the pillows aside. Gathering the top sheet and blanket, her lips part in surprise, aware for the first time of the telltale splatter-pattern on the bed. Leave it to her jaded and work-worn brain to equate blood evidence with the myriad of semen stains their lovemaking has left behind on the bottom sheet. She's forgotten how messy sex can be... especially spontaneous, prolonged sex in the dark. Thank God one of her biggest fears has been assuaged -- despite size and height differential and the unique emotional baggage they both haul into this relationship, she and Mulder seem to be quite compatible sexually. In essence, if all other communication failed outside the bedroom they could theoretically fall into the sheets and let their bodies make amends. She remembers the words he spoke last night, at the close of their misunderstanding... "Listen, if you want to know the real reason we're sticking around, just wait for me over on the bed." She accepted his proposal and slid to the middle, careful to stay atop the blanket. Leaning back against their pillows in her silky pajamas, she felt it would be prudent to cross her stretched legs at the ankles. Hopefully her bare feet wouldn't grow too chilly, but it would be flirting with disaster to burrow them under the bedding, knowing Mulder's carnal intentions. She needed answers first. He also said that buddies share... and that she should trust him, because he would come clean. That looked to be forthcoming when he knelt before the suitcase and extracted several file folders. "Hold onto your pillow, Scully," he warned, winking at her guardedness. He drew himself across the bed's bottom, moving with the feral grace of a cat before settling on his side to face her, head propped on one elbow. Her feet, if she dared extend them a few inches more, would brush his chest. She glanced over the length of his body -- the muscled black of his tee shirt, his pajama bottoms with the suggestive bulge at their dark crotch. His legs bent at the knee while he rubbed one naked foot against the opposite ankle and calf, his long toes arching and clenching. Nothing she hadn't seen at one time or another for years... but now the sight of him made her knees weak and her pulse race. It startled her afresh to realize how easily, effortlessly this man could arouse her. Several manila folders fanned out next to them on the pilled surface of the blanket, like a bridge of information in the soft yellow glow of the lamp. Outside, the storm persisted with sporadic, rumbling thunder and pebbly drops spatted against the windowpane. "So," she ventured, "we're *buddies*... Mulder?" "The best." "And what were we before?" He grinned and leaned over her feet, seizing her big toe with his lips and tongue in a hot swirling kiss and releasing it with a reluctant pop at her protest. "Jesus... " "Something we're not going back to, if I can help it. Here, feast your eyes on this -- " He tossed up a small object into the depression between her thighs. Baffled, she turned the strip around in her hand, as if by feeling its shape and hardness she could divine its origin. "This, if I'm not mistaken, is synthetic polymer from the Pittsfield case... left from the soles of the gym shoes worn by those teenagers. At least that's what you concluded back then," she added. "'Back in the day'... " He looked up from sifting through the files and papers in front of him. "Brand-new sneaks, too. No wonder Nike's having trouble on the international market." "I'm not sitting here out of idle curiosity, or because of a burning interest in corporate sales." "I know. The truth is, you can't wait for me to finish pitching this spiel, so you can crawl over here and have your way with me." She lowered her head and pressed amused lips together. "You know, you're walking on very thin ice." Elbowing his body closer, he gathered both her feet against his chest with one large hand, squeezing her toes against the warm expanse of tee shirt-covered midriff. "Speaking of ice... " "I hope you heard me." His mischievous smile was answer in itself. "Now... it's quiz time," he announced. "I'm in need of a scientific opinion, Dr. Scully. Let's hear everything you know about tachyons." "Tachyons?" She felt baffled. "Well, other than hearing them mentioned in connection with *emissions* on a long- running sci-fi show... they're theoretical at best. They don't exist." "Just humor me, then. Elaborate." "If you don't tickle," she warned. He smiled and settled in, one hand behind his head like a pillow, but still holding onto her feet with the other. Her soles were warming quite nicely against his body, kneading into his chest like a kitten while they talked. His fingertips rubbed over her nails and absently explored the soft indentations between each small toe. She'd always felt awkward, even shy when anyone tried to handle that part of her body, considering it too personal to permit. But with Mulder it was a silly, disarming, intimate gesture that heightened her giddiness. How many years had it been since a lover had wanted to play with her feet, evoking such a curious combination of sensations within her? "You're getting into physics here," she began after accepting the sensual roaming of his fingertips. "A tachyon, as I understand it, is a particle that has the capacity to travel faster than the speed of light, besides being a hypothetical source of energy." "Why doesn't it exist?" "Because," she stated, her words slow and clear, her brows arched for emphasis, "it's a well-known, widely accepted fact that *nothing* can travel faster than the speed of light." "So it's an anomaly." His words slurred from the heavy press of his cheek on the palm of his hand. Leaning sideways, he seemed dreamily focused on what his other hand was doing. "It has to be classifiable and measurable to be considered an anomaly. The tachyon is neither... so cannot be explained by any currently accepted scientific theory. It's pure fantasy. And *you* are clutching at straws." By now his restless fingers had abandoned her feet and were creeping with seductive strokes past the satin of her instep. He massaged her anklebones where she crossed them and the sensation on her skin sent warm waves of pleasure shimmering to her crotch. "Mulder... is it too much to ask that you stay on task here?" He paused before sliding fingers around the curve of her lower legs. Gently forcing his hand from underneath and between the silky, pajama-covered calves, he murmured, "Fantasy aside... suppose tachyons *do* exist and can travel faster than light-speed. What then?" Again her body betrayed her. It caught her by surprise, this easy awakening and stirring of her sexual self after so many years of denial and inactivity-by-choice. The greatest revelation of all was that Mulder was the man who'd touched the latent spark. Her partner of seven years, he had the power to quicken her pulse with a mere glance of his eye or touch of his hand. And here she was, leaning back in the bed they were sharing and discussing the physics of a secret case, her body radiating tiny waves of pleasure in spite of her resolve while he insinuated his hand up the crease of her crossed legs. "Just... wait a second... " She closed her eyes, drawing on memory to collect the scattered bits of what she'd read or heard on the subject. Concentration was difficult, with the inexorable, upward progress of his hand between her knees. She reached out to forestall him. It was reminiscent of their backseat ride last week during the Sullivan case, when Mulder grasped her hand in the darkness of the car, teasing her thighs with restive fingers... "Well, *suspending* all standard, scientific belief, you'd have to accept the existence of two inter-dependent universes that inter-connect at some point. There is a visible, sub-light speed universe, which is the one we know and accept -- and then there would be an invisible, faster- than-light one. Highly dense, it could be considered a field, or wave, rather than a universe... " Mulder's mouth settled over her kneecap, blowing into the thin fabric, making a hot, wet spot with his lips and tongue. At her pause, he peered up. "Trust me, I'm all ears. How dense would this field have to be?" "The density of the field would have a direct correlation to the electrical charge and speed of the particles," she said, giving Mulder a mild glare. "At zero energy, they would move faster than light-speed and produce some sort of radiation or light. This reaction somehow decreases the energy of the particle, causing it to accelerate even more. Bearing in mind that this is a *theoretical* world... " She gave him another pointed look and arched brow before continuing. "And objects within it would have a negative mass, the effect would essentially transcend time and space... but the pressure created by the invisible, denser field would then be felt or detected within the physical universe as we know it." "Approximately how much pressure would be needed?" He pushed his hand past the vise of her knees, spreading exultant fingers along the inside of one silky thigh, stroking gently toward her groin as he talked. "Tell me how the presence of a tachyonic wave can be detected, Scully." Mulder's fingers had embarked on a titillating mission. She would've been angry with him, if her legs weren't so ultra- sensitive, if the waves of pleasure radiating from between them would cease and the pit of her stomach stop its melting. She felt herself dampen and throb as he inched toward that center seam in her pajama bottoms. Her cheekbones, she knew, were pink from his attentions and she grew more rattled, feeling like a compromised coed. Mulder, she realized, could see what she felt -- her nipples erect against the fabric of her top, brushing underneath with each quick breath she drew. Damn it, she should really stop this before it brought discussion to a grinding halt... "Well... the faster the acceleration, the greater the reaction within the opposing universe." Her breath hitched as the longest of his fingers made the lightest of touches against her crotch, burning against her tenderness and moving in a dizzying, ever-quickening circle there. "Mulder... " "I'm listening. You were talking about acceleration." "Time, um... could essentially go backward... " The tip of his finger immediately reversed direction over the pulsing spot and her eyes fluttered closed. "... And, um... there would be a radiant, even magnetic, effect... " "Here's to radiant, magnetic effects," he murmured. His own eyes were hooded and wistful, she noted, watching her face as he rode over her soft contours with the pad of his finger. "... A signature that could be seen, or detected... " His tenacious finger strove to work its way within the folds of fabric, to stroke harder against her buried clit. As much as every nerve in her pelvis began to prickle and hum toward release, she knew this was not the time. She needed answers first and couldn't allow Mulder to so easily -- and triumphantly -- steer her from the original purpose of their discussion. Squeezing his forearm with her strong thigh muscles she concluded, "But realize that there is *no* empirical evidence for the existence of tachyons. What I've just told you is pure conjecture. And *this*," she grasped his burrowing fingers with hers, "needs to stop right now." "Conjecture never felt, er, *sounded* so good," he argued. "Enough!" She squirmed and clenched her thighs harder. "Please," she entreated, her voice shaky. "I've humored you and tried to answer your questions... now it's only fair that you give me some answers first -- like you promised." They gazed at one another for long moments. In times past, before they crossed the line to intimacy, she enjoyed the tease, when she'd dazzle him with eclectic scraps of the scientific information she amassed and then reap the admiration that followed. It had been a safe flirtatious exchange over the years, an oblique way to receive the affection she craved. A pseudo-mating ritual they'd perfected. It struck her now, with his chin on her damp knee and his hand imprisoned between her thighs, how far they'd moved beyond the innuendo. "You're sure? I swear this isn't the same wild woman who bit and scolded me for dawdling earlier this afternoon." Regretful eyes, petulant lower lip, slouched shoulder -- his whole demeanor begged for attention. She wove her fingers through his hair, a half-hearted caress to convey apology and to emphasize her present determination. "Very sure. Now come clean, as promised, and let me see what you've got." With reluctance and a sigh he withdrew his hand from beneath her thighs, reached around to extract another small plastic bag from a folder, and then dropped it into her open hands. The movement brought him closer against her on the bed; he rose up higher on one elbow to gauge her reaction and remain well within her space. "What is this?" "Evidence, like the polymer. The same substance, but in another form, found in a different location." Within the bag was a small amount of ashy dust. It resembled campfire or woodstove ash, similar to crematorium debris, but she knew without being told that it couldn't be any of those things. Such an explanation would be too simple. "You didn't just assume this on your own," she said wryly. "May I ask who's tested it?" "The usual gung-ho trio; my gunmen buddies." At the doubt in her face, he'd grinned, that wide, rare, endearing smile she loved. She had to reach out and stroke a lock of his hair again, soft like dark silk between her fingers. "Watch it, Mulder," she murmured. "*This* best buddy doesn't share well with the other children." "Good to know we're on the same page." "And knowing the identities and track record of these closet scientists, I can go with your supposition for the time being. Okay, a polymer, similar in composition to the others. So where does that take us?" He tapped the bag of powder in her hand. "Where have you seen this before, Scully? Care to venture any guesses?" With Mulder's eyes upon her, she cast back within her mind for the answer. She sought and followed the path of mental crumbs, the milestones and landmarks burned within her brain. Prying open closed doors with reluctance, releasing unwelcome memories like phantoms in an effort to catalogue the substance in her hands. The trail would lure her back toward disquieting cases, the ones that left their mark on her body or psyche or both. Realization grew, slowly building in size and force within her like a cancer. Fear, she remembered, staring at the ashy powder. Pain and cold, hypnotic helplessness... "I'm not interested in playing games," she said in a low voice, pushing the bag into his hand. "That's not my intent." He took it from her gently, though his gaze remained on her face. "Just go with it. For me." ... Places of heavy darkness and bright light. On the damp ground of a forest in Oregon, so long ago it seemed like a hazy dream. In caves and sundry other unusual sites indoors and out over the years. Places of scorching and death. Sifting over her like fairy dust on a mountaintop, a gag in her mouth, her joints screaming from cramp. Falling like night snow over a crowd of unsuspecting worshipers, hands upraised on the bridge at Ruskin Dam... The otherworldliness of the connection must have shown in her face, because the sudden weight of Mulder's hand on hers made her jump. "Hey." She shook her head, more to clear it than surrender to the incredulity she felt. He didn't need to know every dark, silent secret in the prison cells of her mind, each waiting its turn for release. Some day maybe... when it was safer and she was closer to healing. "You know very well we found something similar in Oregon years ago. Then why would you want to look here, on *this* mountain," she demanded, "and right after spinning our wheels on that fluky case by the hot spring? Give me one good reason for wanting to be in this godforsaken location during the worst thunderstorm of the year." Mulder inclined his head toward the bag of ash and the polymer nodule where he'd thrown them atop the folders. "After testing the samples, the guys began an investigation of their own. They specifically scanned the areas where these substances were found." "Scanned with what?" She presented him with the most doubtful, unbelieving, withering expression she could muster. "Not important. It just so happens that when they scanned over the mountainous area we're in now... they hit a jackpot. Tachyonic signature out the whazoo. And I figured that after we left the estate, I could kill two birds with one stone. You know, since we were kind of in the neighborhood... " "I don't buy it, Mulder. I hear you saying that none of those substances you showed me were found here, and yet... " He sat up on his hip, hand braced at her side. "You want it straight?" "Just the truth," she whispered, sudden weariness washing over her. "Tell me the truth, as you understand it, and I'll deal with it as best I can." Her glance dropped to the hand that still rested on her thigh. Mulder's hand, large, warm and well shaped -- a familiar part of him touching her, grounding her. She trusted him unswervingly, though he was on the verge of spilling the unbelievable once again and expecting her to join him in espousing it. Listening to the fervor in his voice, she wanted with all her heart to understand him, to accept his words without question. She slid her hand atop his and squeezed. "The truth, then -- as I understand it," he said, amused at her qualification. "Our Gunmen buddies have developed a way to detect tachyonic signature. Find tachyons, you find the evidence we just held in our hands. Concentrations were detected in geographic locations where there have been reported abductions and UFO sightings." Her most recent contact with the supernatural, while Mulder was in England pursuing crop circles, had softened her armor and prepared her for this moment, opening her to new realms of belief. But this... what he claimed as truth was straight from the pages of a science fiction novel. Yet, so much of what she'd seen and experienced with him over seven years' time went beyond normal comprehension. She lifted her hand to cup his face and sensed a softening of his whole demeanor, as if he'd held himself taut and guarded until he heard her response. "Mulder, look at me. Please." Obedient, he lifted his chin and eyes to hers, allowing her hand on his cheek to guide him. Pieces began to sift into place, like white dust from the sky and she began to dissect and categorize them before they landed. His defensive reaction to her knee-jerk skepticism last night in the car. Her attempt to disprove the validity of the weeping statue at the estate, which successfully bonded another layer of failure to the previous crop-circle fiasco. The hot spring, where they finally opened to one another in an intimate way. Then this morning, the "scenic" detour home, Mulder's secrecy, his harshness with the little boy. His odd line of questioning at dinner, badgering the manager, pulling for strange facts and local lore... And all this taking place within the backdrop of their burgeoning new intimacy, struggling to emerge intact from the whirlwind of their past baggage, professional lives, and Mulder's personal quest. "Don't sugar-coat it for me," she murmured. "Don't hold back. No matter how I react, no matter the circumstances. I need to know." "Careful what you ask for." He leaned into her with a sigh, head bent and tucked against her breast as she stroked his hair. At that moment it was not sexual, but simply a gesture of trust and closeness. A man and a woman, inseparable friends, confirming their bond of loyalty to one another and to their cause. "Scully, there are caves and sinkholes in this area. Not many -- they're not listed as tourist attractions in the front of the phone book -- but I want to see whether they're accessible," he continued, his breath hot and moist against her pajama top. "It's possible we're sitting close to a significant tachyonic source, with all the implications. I need to find out." She nodded, too weary to discuss it further. Now, after long minutes of sitting in one position, her body ached for change. She shifted against the pillows, legs coming slightly apart to further accommodate the nuzzling closeness of his body. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks when, like incense, her sweet musky scent eddied up between them. She heard Mulder's deep inhalation and felt the sudden restlessness of his thighs. With a low, desirous groan of approval he snuggled closer, pressing his body against her legs until she felt his erection prod her, while his fingers returned to stroke along the silky crease between her legs. "I vote we take this discussion to another level," he coaxed, "but without the physics this time... and with the light and these PJ's off." "Sure you're not too tired?" "Not for you... or for radiant, magnetic effects." He rose with purpose from the bed, carrying the bags and folders to a spot next to his suitcase, stacking them in a heap. Lightning raged and crackled in the blackness just beyond the windowpane, where the curtains now hung askew. She felt the familiar apprehension prickle along her spine. The uncovered window would be a distraction to her when they began lovemaking in earnest. Better to take care of it now, despite Mulder's presence only a few feet away. With slow, precise movements she crossed the short space from bed to window. "You know, you left the curtains open," she chided, turning toward the glass -- and then stood frozen, agonized and breathless in the sudden explosion of searing flash and numbing, blinding light... ******************** Waiting In Motion (6/10) by mountainphile From outside the window, a child's laughter floats on the breeze. Scully's shoulders ache. She takes a shuddering breath and looks down at her hands, clenched viselike in the tangled mass of sheet and blanket. Just memories, Dana, she scolds herself, resuming her making of the bed. Shake it off. The remorse that followed the fearful incident, however, is less easy to ignore and clings to her like a cobweb. Determined to put the remembrance of last night's episode far from her, her movements become brisk. She fluffs the pillows, no longer willing to dwell on past regrets. The sound of Skeeter's approach reminds her of fresh towels and their impending delivery. With quick steps to the bathroom, she takes a drink of cool water from her cupped palm at the sink, then gathers the smaller, soiled towels into a bundle. How fortunate, she thinks, that they're bleach-white and not a darker color that would readily show how often she and Mulder have put them to more personal use. One large bath towel encompasses the others and the laundry is ready, just as a knock jars the door. "Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?" Scully holds the door open for Ruth and the woman turns unexpectedly on the threshold to look down behind her. "You go on an' play," she orders her son, "before it starts rainin' again. Get all that silliness out of your system, y'hear? But you stay close." The boy picks up a stick and turns tail, whacking at the dripping bushes as he charges away. "Are we in for more?" "Yup, sure looks like it." Ruth carries her burden of clean towels and supplies into the room and stands waiting. Taller and much broader than Scully, her large dark eyes take stock of the small, dimly-lit room, noting the straightened bed, the neat row of suitcases, the bulging mound of towels on the floor near the window. When she spots the weapon laying in its case on the bedside table, she gives a tiny grunt. "That your gun?" Scully follows her line of vision. "Yes, it's mine." "Guess you really are FBI. You look way too little and pretty. You got a badge an' all?" "I do," she assures Ruth, with a flicker of annoyance at the intended compliment. "Would you feel better seeing it?" "Naw." The hesitation is small, but inconsequential as the woman commences work, wiping and straightening the bathroom, replacing the towels and toilet paper. Her bustle reminds Scully of a mother hen, her feathers ruffled in solicitous concern, pecking and scratching for the benefit of her brood. "I got me a shotgun back in the office. You never know what kind of crazy might show up around here... an' a woman alone with a little child can't be too careful." The dropped clue is a gift of trust, a feeler. Scully receives it with grace, but isn't ready to acknowledge it openly yet. "The bed comfortable enough?" "The bed is fine," Scully assures her. Like the cold splash of water against her mouth a few minutes ago, she's hit with the irony her that she said the same words yesterday, but in an entirely different context. Has it really been less than twenty-four hours since she and Mulder entered this tiny room and let down that final barrier between them? She feels like the wind outside, unsettled and torn as it buffets leaves and small branches against the softly swaying trees and the pewter gray of the sky. It's as if she's known the touch, the intimacy of his body for a much longer time. "I bet it is." Ruth's chuckle is low and appreciative. "Y'all made it up real good already. I was figurin' on you two needin' clean sheets by now." The obvious implication irks Scully. Wishing now that she had simply stripped the bed and been done with it, she arches a brow and tightens the corners of her lips. Her sulky mouth, both Missy and Bill used to call it. Right now she feels justified. "Yeah, you don't have to say nothin'. I can tell lots about folks... things most people miss or think they can hide." "So you claim to be psychic?" Ruth ignores the raw sarcasm. "Me? Whoo! Honey, if I was psychic, my life would be Christmas-every-day and that's the God-honest truth." Getting no immediate response, she begins working her way around the room, running an old cloth over chairs, windowsills, and other wood surfaces. "Now, you an' Mister Fox... I think I got you two figured out pretty good. Wanna hear?" "I'll pass, thank you." "No need to go sour on me, 'cause I don't believe that for one red second. Not the way you gulped down that story this mornin' about Ruth and Boaz in the Bible. An' the way you two always lookin' at each other, too hot to handle... like you can't wait to get back to this room an' get down to it again." "Stop right there," interrupts Scully coolly, pivoting on her heel to face the woman. "It's not any of your business." Ruth's puttering ceases; she draws herself up to full ponderous height, peering down at the smaller woman under brooding lids. "Oh, yeah, it is. You workin' for the government, bringin' guns into my motel, stayin' in my rooms. Your partner pokin' around askin' all kinds of questions this mornin' an' then goin' off in the storm like a plumb fool. Now whose business is it?" They eye one another like combatants, the silence unbroken except for the wheeze and rattle of wind gusting against the windows, seeking entrance. Ruth is first to pick up the uneasy thread. "I see a shitload of people come through here every year, Miss Dana Scully from-the-FBI, and I got to admit you're classier and more decent than most. So, you two have to get away from home to do it -- you wouldn't be the first ones. Don't worry... I don't say nothin' to nobody." Exasperated, Scully wraps her arms across her waist and turns toward the window to mask her resentment about such personal assumption. The conversation has become intrusive and fraught with enough truth to be unpalatable. So be it. As soon as Mulder returns they'll be on their way back to DC anyway. "Are you finished?" She turns a bland face back toward Ruth and puts a hand on the curve of her own hip, smoothing the fabric with deliberate fingers. The question has nothing to do with housekeeping. "Honey, nobody blamin' or judgin' you for anything. It's life. I just call it like I see it. An' what I see now... " She clears her throat and turns a heavy eye skyward, hesitancy and distrust slowly giving way to resoluteness. "What I see now is the hand of Providence." "Explain that to me, please." Ruth stuffs the bundle of damp towels into a laundry bag and slows to a stop next to the bed. "I got a story to tell," she begins, raising her face. "An', honey, I think you and your FBI man out there are the ones need to hear it, 'cause nobody else would understand. That's what my instinct tells me." Scully feels the chill of expectation creep over her skin. "If that's the case," she concurs, tilting her head, "then I suppose we'd better talk." A short while later she tugs her coat closer around her neck and steps from the tiny porch that borders her room. Ruth is gone, the cleaning completed. A sense of deja vu pervades Scully's being, reminiscent of the surreal, slow motion events of nearly a month ago, when she re-discovered Daniel and opened new doors of awareness for herself. She's pulled along by a sense of urgency, her inner alarm poised. Some of her uneasiness is simple worry for her partner. When he left this morning his timeframe was vague and his expectations high. Perhaps going alone was too foolhardy a proposition, given the dicey weather conditions and no one to watch his back. Looking at the sky, she sees that the wind is picking up again. Gray, heaving clouds overhead boil with indecision and she can visualize him slipping through the forest in his rain gear, eyes alive and observant. Absorbing data like a sponge, seeking out the unknown factors that hold such mystery and possibility. She misses him. It is quietly amazing to her that she feels the effect of such short separation, when in the past they've gone their own ways for days, even weeks at a time. Though they share an office and the burden for each case, their individual areas of expertise demand time apart. She doesn't expect him to languish at her side in the autopsy bay, just as his quick leaps of logic and pursuit of a theory are often better served when he is free to respond to them alone and unencumbered. Ruth is ready for her knock. Mugs decorate the tablecloth alongside an old Delft china teapot, its watery blue pattern of windmills floating on the glazed surfaces. The rounded, comforting shape reminds Scully of home. Of childhood and simpler times, with warm kitchens and family closeness. Of her mother's capable hands and her sister's laughter. Memories of tender, strong conversations shared between women, bonding around the hot glue of the teapot. "It's beautiful," she notes, nodding to the table and slipping off her coat. "But what's happened to coffee?" "Coffee'll do first thing in the mornin'... but you seem like a tea-drinker to me. Just a feelin' I got." Scully's chill is not from the cool breeze alone. Once again this woman disarms her with an unsettling insight and she feels that inexplicable wheel of fate begin to turn. What is happening lately? For a good month now she's run into one unexpected twist after another, from misfiled x- rays to chakras to an old flame revisited... to her trembling acceptance of her partner's long-awaited expressions of love. Her expression is reserved as she sits and searches Ruth's broad, dark features for a sign. "What is this story about?" "His name is Samuel J. Tolliver. He's my man... and Skeeter's daddy." Scully notices for the first time that the child is absent. She casts a curious glance toward the back room. Ruth catches the look as she reaches for two plates of chicken sandwiches, halved. Placing them on the table with twin thuds, she jerks her head towards the outside door. "I sent Skeeter out to play some more. No need him hearin' everything. Besides, I like to talk, and Skeeter, well... he's okay for a child's conversation, but... not for the things grown women end up talkin' about." Scully drops her glance. Managing children is a problem she hasn't had to face and most likely never will. She has other challenges in her life, such as scrubbing away the professional persona and allowing the candid, warm, ordinary woman underneath to emerge. To let her mouth speak what her heart wants to express. "I can imagine," she murmurs. Moving her forefinger within the circle of the mug's handle, she ponders a reply, feeling the need to contribute to the vague thread of conversation. She searches for a response and finding none, sighs. Ruth blunders ahead, grabbing the other chair and sitting heavily. "How long you two been partners?" "Seven years." "An' after seven years, this is the first time you finally hittin' the sack?" Her shining eyes are wide with glee and incredulity. "Is it so obvious?" Affronted, Scully peaks an eyebrow and crosses her arms. Ruth snorts at her question. "It sure is to me. But I don't miss too much, neither. Just ask anybody that lives aroun' here." Scully's wondered how easily she and Mulder will be *read* when they get back to DC and civilization. To the office and the open halls of the Hoover, with its pockets of chatter and bureaucratic grapevine. Sitting across the polished desk of the assistant director, under his inscrutable eye... Skinner, squinting and removing his glasses, looking first at her, then at Mulder, and back to her again... "He keeps you guessin', don't he?" Startled, she turns her head to look at Ruth. "Why do you say that?" "Cause he looks like a teasin' kinda man. Don't show his whole hand right away -- not because he don't trust you, but because that's just the way he does things. Slow an' in his own time... " Ruth's tone changes, growing warm and thick with memory. "That kinda man makes a real good lover, you know. You think it can't get no better... and then he ups and surprises you with somethin' else... " "You said you have a story to tell," Scully reminds her, inhaling deeply and then taking a sip of tea. She hopes the quick change of subject isn't too manipulative, but she'd rather dispense with small talk and get down to the business at hand. "Is it about Samuel?" "Yeah, it's about Samuel... " Ruth takes a bite of her sandwich, chews and swallows, before continuing and looking up at Scully. "This story is gonna have two parts, Dana. First I'm gonna tell you about Sam, about what happened. Then I'm gonna tell you why I think you and your Fox can maybe understand... maybe even help." In the cozy warmth of the building, Scully feels a chill of anticipation and wonders if it's fate's hand or just the coldness of the breeze outside that's raised her skin to gooseflesh. "His name is Samuel J. Tolliver," Ruth repeats with solemn tones, "but everybody just calls him Sam. Except some of his old Army buddies still call him Sammy T. We started takin' up together years ago, right before he went into the Service and overseas." "Not the best timing," says Scully, with sympathy. "That's the truth... but it wasn't too bad. He got himself some trainin' an' education at the same time. More than I ever got, that's for sure... " Ruth's mouth widens into an indulgent smile. "An' while he was gone, I could brag from here to sundown about my serviceman in his fancy uniform." Scully's small laugh masks her own nostalgia. She remembers her mother's pride and shining eyes whenever her father donned his officer's uniform. He presented himself for the family's inspection and approval and she can still see the elaborate richness of detail, the dazzle and flash of medals in the sunshine. The crisp, authoritative, stiff-backed charm of a military man in full dress. Her mother's tender and adoring gaze... "I waited a long time for Sam. They shipped him off to Desert Storm for a spell, but he came back safe, thank the Lord. I was on my knees every day till he came home and walked through that door... " She sighs with memory, eyes shining. "He was so sweet, wantin' me to help him run this old place. I said, 'Sam, honey, it takes more than good ideas an' rollin' in the hay to make this thing work.'" Scully glances down into her teacup, the growing pathos of the story prompting her imagination to draw mental pictures of a man she's never seen. "He *loved* my cookin'. An' did I ever cook for that man! Meat an' potatoes... biscuits, pies... whatever he wanted. My mama taught me real well. He'd be drivin' down that mountain at least twice a week, doin' the shoppin', gettin' the supplies. Always bringin' me back little surprises from town... " "So, you married when he came back from the Gulf?" "Oh... " Ruth shrugs and fiddles with her food, her lower lip jutting into a firm shelf. "We ain't ever really been married. Not with a preacher or nothin'. Just common law. Never got around to doin' it right." "What stopped you?" "Not sure. It just didn't seem important then. We didn't have much money between us. Folks aroun' here didn't seem to care so much... except for my sister, who's married an' still warms up raggin' my ass about it." She shrugs again and her rich voice softens. "Maybe just lovin' seemed to be enough for us then. You know?" Scully nods, musing over the untouched sandwich before her. She licks her lips before verbalizing the one question she's been dreading to ask, hoping Ruth would instead volunteer the information on her own. "What happened to Sam, Ruth?" The two women regard each other in the tense afternoon silence. "That's a good question, Dana Scully, an' you know what? I don't have a good answer for it." "I'm sorry," Scully counters, thinking it wise to wait for details rather than proceed on assumption. "No, lemme say that better. He'd come back if he could; I know it without thinkin'. And no," she says with firm emphasis, glaring, "he ain't in prison. The man just one day up and... disappeared." This kind of tale has emerged often over the years. Missing persons reports are a sad and common part of investigative work. The solve percentage is woefully unbalanced, considering the pain of the families, the questions that go unanswered, sometimes even to the grave. Swallowing, she looks into Ruth's face. The woman's eyes are troubled, yet wary. "How long has it been?" "Well... Skeeter just turned four... so a little over four years, now. Skeeter never knew his Daddy." A deep sadness settles over Scully at this tragic admission. It also crosses her mind that a lesser man might flee the responsibility of an unplanned pregnancy, choosing to disappear rather than stay in a relationship that had lost it's magic. "Could you tell me the circumstances, Ruth?" "Like I told you before -- shit happens... " The woman pushes from the table to her feet, suddenly restless and impassioned, more from anger than the grief Scully has learned to expect. "People disappear for no reason. My Sam headed down from this mountain in a storm just like this one, to pick up a new showerhead for Number 3 out there and to fetch some supplies. Never made it to town." "A car accident?" "No... kinda like that show on TV, 'Unsolved Mysteries.' You ever watch it?" Perplexed, Scully's shakes her head. "No, but I've heard of it." "They found his truck, all right, pulled over on the side of the road. Locked. Windows all rolled up. Keys still in it. Windshield with a new crack. Burns on the seat, but they can't find any reason. Wallet on the seat, too, still got all his money in it. Dust an' dirt everywhere... " "Was there a police investigation?" "Oh, yeah. They called it that. Police came, askin' questions, checkin' out the truck... " Ruth sniffs, her eyes watering. "They asked me lotsa questions, too, makin' it look like maybe I had a reason to hurt Sam. Me, standin' big as a watermelon, my belly so fulla our baby, I was about ready to pop... " "Oh, Ruth... " "Open an' shut case for the police. Ain't been no robbery. They ain't found no body... To them, he was just another no- good hill jack run out on his family. No need for them to look further than that. Case closed." "Please, look at me. This is important," says Scully, and she gazes into the dark, wounded eyes of the woman. "What do *you* think happened to Sam? Your gut feeling." "My gut feelin'? My gut says somebody or somethin' took Sam. Kidnapped him... maybe he got hit on the head an' wandered off, can't remember who he is. I don't know... My gut tells me he's not really dead. I think he wants to come back, Dana... and he can't get it done." Still standing, she leans forward across from Scully, big shoulders hunching, hands spread palm-down on the tablecloth. There's a deadly seriousness in her demeanor that demands attention and disallows skepticism; her eyes widen with an almost superstitious gravity as she speaks. "And now -- now I'm gettin' to the second part of the story. This ain't no ordinary place, Dana Scully. I think your Fox knew that before he came up here. Maybe that's why he came in the first place. That's why I call this the hand of Providence. What do you think?" "I'm not prepared to comment," Scully counters quietly. "I want to hear your thoughts about the matter first." "Sometimes it seems almost like a twilight zone here. The radio quits all of a sudden, or the TV don't work. The damn phone lines ain't worth shit half the time, storm or not. I look forward to seein' people come by just for the company and the feelin' of security. You gettin' all this, girl?" "Loud and clear." "Folks in town laugh and think I'm exaggeratin'. They say it's because the mountain up here is so exposed to the weather. Maybe so. We get our share of lightning, same as anyplace else. But that don't allow for what I've seen -- those strange lights in the sky. I don't buy that story about it bein' just weather balloons and satellites. It almost made me jump when he asked about 'em last night, but I wasn't about to say nothin' to a stranger. Bad for business." Scully discovers she's been holding her breath, leaning forward as she absorbs this bizarre narrative. She eases back into her chair to put distance between herself and Ruth's intensity, feeling the electric effect of her paranoia in the dim room. The tea is now cold, the food no longer touched by either woman. "You get used to it after a while," Ruth mutters, almost to herself. "Havin' the shotgun helps some, but that's mostly for the two-legged varmints that cause trouble. You know, Sam ain't the first one to disappear out on that back road. It happened before, a long time ago... " "Abductions?" Scully startles herself by choosing that particular word. Mulder is beginning to rub off in ways she hasn't anticipated. "Yeah, folks disappearin'. But a person can't let fear take control of 'em. I got a life to live here an' a business to run, besides a little child to raise. There's a future ahead... somewhere. That's somethin' I just got to believe in." ******************** Waiting In Motion (7/10) by mountainphile The flash of lightning at the window was Scully's undoing. It shamed her. The invisible, unspoken secret she carried within her body had been hidden long and well since her mysterious return to the hospital over five years ago. The severity of the bouts were fading over time through sheer force of will and a fierce longing to eradicate their power over her. Lightning was the principle catalyst. Its invisible force pulled a switch in her subconscious, and the effects sparked a reversal of energy along the delicate nerves of her body like livewire... and she reacted, like all the other times before -- Immobile, she was unable to speak... and They came again. The indistinct figures that murmured, that crowded around her exposed, sprawled body. Helpless before them, the ruthless machinery punching into her soft flesh. Then came the pumping and unnatural distension of her abdomen, the resulting white-hot agony. Face bared to the searing brightness, the shrill, nerve-shattering probe, drilled deep, sucking from within... Frozen at the window, she was forced to endure another terrifying episode -- then was left to collect the scattered shards of her poise and dignity. Focus, dammit, focus, she scolded herself. Closed eyes, heavy, controlled breaths, parted lips. Fingers grasping the windowsill to hide her trembling hands lest Mulder notice anything amiss. No one was supposed to know this secret... including her partner, who stood this night as fate would have it, only a few arm lengths away. It had worked in the past, her pathetic stabs at deception, but he'd never been this close before. And the petrifying wave hadn't engulfed her with such severity for a very, very long time. If only the curtain had been closed. Breathe, focus... If only she had urged Mulder to pull it shut and not assumed the responsibility. She could kick herself for that, falling prey once again to an obsessive desire for order and neatness, when modesty alone should have been the more logical and practical motivation. She moved with exaggerated care to the bed, automaton-like. Slipping back the covers, easing her head softly onto the pillow, she sank onto her side, knees bent into a loose fetal tuck. Only when she heard Mulder's rustle as he shed his clothing in anticipation of their lovemaking, did she realize that she still wore pajamas. She shut her eyes and groaned inwardly. The bedside lamp extinguished and the mattress gave and sank with his weight. It was still so new -- the sudden darkness coinciding with his nearness and the enveloping warmth of his long body. She battled the after-effects of the lightning, willing herself to relax and breathe, demanding her body to overlook its trauma. To be receptive and ready for him. Moving behind her on the bed, Mulder slipped his arm around her ribs, pulling her more snugly against him. He wore no tee shirt or pajama bottoms this time, just his warm upper- body skin and a pair of boxers over the softening bulge pressed to her backside. Her mind raced, wondering what he thought of her state of dress, whether he would question her intentions or simply move to undress her as part of the seduction. The furious pounding of her heart must also be evident. In the still, quiet darkness she waited... for a sign, even a caress. None came. After a full minute's silence, she felt his arm slide away, his torso twist. The small table lamp snapped on behind her, spilling weak yellow light across the bed and flooding her with trepidation. "You think I don't know something's wrong, Scully?" She froze at the words. By now his inflections were so familiar, she could detect low tones of concern overlaid by more strident notes of accusation. Heart lurching, she realized he'd noticed and said nothing until now, pressed up against her back. The enormity of the hand she'd tipped panicked her, suffusing the heat of humiliation into her cheeks. With no time to think, she slid behind a protective wall of numbing, defensive anger. "Don't be ridiculous," she muttered into the pillow, eyes shut. "What was it? The lightning?" Like an arrow to the heart, Mulder's unerring accuracy hit home and she found herself cursing his aim. He seemed to ignore the stiffening of her body in his efforts to comfort. His arm eased into place around her waist, urging her backward and against him in a tender, cajoling way. "Hey, gotta play fair... " His insistent voice and presence, smooth and honeyed, surrounded her like an inescapable aura. "Buddies share, Scully. Remember? I told you my secret... now you tell me yours." This was not about fairness, she fumed, but about overwhelming shame and intrusion, violation and survival. For a brief moment his voice cut through the sickening miasma and almost succeeded in gaining a foothold, in soothing away the phantom obstacle between them. His strong, regular breathing continued at her back, gentle puffs exhaled across the tender skin of her neck. He bent his head and ruffled the wisps of her hair with his nose, tickling behind her ear. The sensation, instead of comforting, tossed her back to the surface, a plaything trapped in the roiling backwash of fear and denial. The last thing she wanted to feel was manipulated, corseted within his control like a stuffed toy. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine." She swallowed, choking down the lie at his disbelieving grunt. How futile, attempting to hide the truth from a crack profiler, able to identify any vocal nuance, spot any deception, who knew her better than anyone else alive. But she made the foolish, desperate attempt anyway. "Sounds like incomplete disclosure to me, Scully. Where have I heard that accusation recently?" His breath blew hot as he whispered, his lips almost scorching the velvet rim of her ear. She bristled back, her voice sharp. "Are you challenging me?" "Damn straight." "Well, don't concern yourself." "I am concerned. And you're bound and determined to keep me guessing." "So, take the hint, Mulder." Even in the dim lamplight, without seeing his face, she could sense the change in his demeanor. A surprised gasp erupted from her lips as he took her shoulder and pressed her backward onto the sheet beneath him. "Look at me, Scully -- *Now,* damn it... " Their stormy eyes met, inches apart; her chin rose toward him, pointed and stubborn. "You're not an island anymore," he reasoned. "We're past the point where you can turn around and hide something from me that's been this debilitating to you... not to mention the dangerous compromise it creates for us in the field. You never told me what you're dealing with, never shared word one about the damage. For our own safety you've got to tell me. It's non-negotiable." "No, it's none of your business," she corrected vehemently. "You being my partner makes it my business. *This* makes it my business," he hissed back, pushing his flagging erection and hipbone against her. "Things have changed; it's a whole new ball game, whether you want to play by the rules or not." "Damn you, Mulder... " Her squirms only accentuated his contours and fed her indignation. "Just... get the hell off me. Now!" she commanded, blue eyes wide for emphasis. "You had no right to hide this --" "I've got every right in the world to privacy and respect!" "Respect -- never a question about that. But by your own choice, you've made privacy negotiable." Without waiting for a response, he pushed off from her and the mattress with muscled arms and fluid grace. One hand rubbed at the shadowed stubble on his chin and he paced beside the bed, movements taut in the shallow lamplight. Muted flashes from outside the window gilded his body in neon outline; the prominent shape of his nose, his face set in stone, lips tight, jaw squared. Angry frustration and fearful concern personified. "I'm not going away, Scully. Understand? I'm playing for keeps here. Invested like you wouldn't believe." She sat up in a daze of emotion, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed to get her bearings. "'Don't sugar-coat it... Don't hold back, no matter how I react, no matter the circumstances'," he recited. "Your words, spoken just minutes ago." When he came to a halt beside her, his eyes were dark and unreadable, his mouth a tight puckered seam across his face. She felt buffeted from the intensity of his presence. "Taking them back now, Scully?" It was something she'd dreaded... the inevitable stripping away of her emotional safety net and the resultant lack of privacy, of anonymity. When she mused in the basement office several days ago, contemplating the lens of his eyeglasses, she knew that opening herself up to scrutiny and allowing him in would mean leaving denial and delusion far behind. If she ever gave herself over to her desire for Mulder, it would mean relinquishing some degree of control. She felt small and vulnerable, perched on the bed beneath his glare. Standing, she put some distance between them and turned away. "I'm handling it in my own way, Mulder." "That's not what I asked. I'm looking for reciprocity from you that goes beyond the simple dynamic of partnership. That we already had -- now we share something more intimate. Let me in, Scully. But... maybe getting inside your body is as far as you'll let me go, in that respect." The frustrated barb struck home. She ground her teeth, unwilling to be coerced, though stirred to justify herself. "You don't understand," she flung at him in quiet desperation, voice choked. "You can't know how it's made me feel." He took a hesitant step toward her. "Let me guess. Helpless? Without control? Frozen, with no ability to function or move a muscle? No way to prevent what you see happening with your own eyes?" "Stop --" she gasped, forehead a furrowed map of anguish. "Yeah, it's painful. And there's shame and guilt and anger, because there's nothing you can do to prevent what's happening to you. I experienced something similar while you were in Africa trying to find the answers that ended up saving my life. Manipulated mentally and surgically by that cigarette smoking son-of-a-bitch. As for residuals... " He drew closer to where she stood, feet bare, small toes clenched with tension. "I can imagine what you've been dealing with since your abduction. To a lesser degree, I felt that way the night Samantha was taken -- and the trauma was enough to make me block out the incident for decades, until regression hypnosis went deep enough to find it and pull it back into conscious memory. Scully..." Her head hung, chin against chest, arms wrapped tightly around her body. A sob lodged in her throat and she swallowed it down yet again as his voice drew nearer. "The same feelings came back to me those weeks you were missing. Yes, really," he affirmed when her head rose and her glittering eyes challenged him. "Helpless, out-of- control. Angry as hell. Then, all over again, when you battled your cancer and it looked like you might not beat it. But you did..." "Mulder, I was taken against my will... robbed... they ran tests on me like a lab rat. I was powerless to stop it--" "Shhhh... I know." Through a liquid haze she drank in his face, a mirror of her emotion. "If there's anyone who can understand what you're dealing with," he vowed, "it's me, Scully. Me." His hands settled around her slumped shoulders, squeezing once, then twice for emphasis. She felt the firm caress of his thumbs on each clavicle, kneading them, seeking to soothe her, then the warm slide of his hands up and down the chilled satin sleeves cloaking her arms. "I didn't want to admit the truth," she confessed in a strained, breathy whisper. "I wanted to believe that it was all behind me. That I could cope and stay on top of it. Not let it get to me." A sob blossomed, battled for control and she choked it back. "So much has already been taken away." Images swam through her head, snapshots of bereavement and inexpressible loss... Missy's porcelain face in the hospital morgue. Emily's soft little body relaxed, peaceful in death. Mulder spread-eagled and strapped to a maniac's table, his head bandaged and bleeding, his life slipping away from her. "My dignity, Mulder... and the chance for me to have a baby... " Her voice broke and he groaned in response, urging her closer against him. His mouth was soft over her forehead, his hands a strong brace at her back. She clung to him, salvaging control. "Mulder?" "Right here," he breathed, rubbing her back, her neck. "Do you remember when you were little... when bad dreams woke you up during night?" She waited until she felt him nod. "Someone -- usually Mom or Missy -- would ask me about the dream, but I didn't dare tell them right away. If I verbalized it too soon, I felt it would somehow become real, especially in the dark. Speaking of it, acknowledging what had frightened me, would give it a life of its own. The right to exist --" "So by denying its existence, you could escape it, prevent it from ever happening again. Applicable to the present situation," he murmured in explanation when she lifted a startled glance to his face. "That's why you kept this secret, isn't it? Even from the therapist... " She closed her eyes to forestall a fresh surge of tears and he hugged her again. "But look on the bright side... You're remembering something that's real enough to affect your waking hours. With help you can nail this thing to the wall. It's not buried where you can't find it, like it was for me... and that's half the battle right there. That's a good thing." "Only you, Mulder. Only you could see something good in this," she scolded in tearful self-defense. "Only me," he affirmed again. "In time you'll beat this, too. I know it." Ragged edges of emotion appeased, she welcomed the comforting weight of his head on her shoulder, tilted down so his mouth rested against the curve of her neck. He rocked her from side to side like he would a frightened child and she found it curiously soothing, almost pleasant, to be so protected. Huddled within his arms, she loosed a deep, tremulous sigh of relief. "Thank you... for being here." He smiled and pressed a gentle kiss behind her ear, rubbing his nose into her scent. "No other place I'd rather be," he murmured. "Don't forget, I love you... " It was the third time he'd spoken the words aloud. At the hot springs he'd clutched her tightly against him, murmuring feverish avowals against her flesh, whispered through a fog of spent desire. Earlier this evening, in the soft lamplight, he'd breathed the same words, juggling them lovingly between playful nips and sucks over her body as they explored one another. "... don't shut me out." The gentle persistence in his voice made her eyes burn. She opened them and bit her lip in the silence that followed, oblivious to the hot slip of tears tracing the curves of her cheekbones, cooling on the skin of her neck and the soft hairs of his chest. How simple it would be, in the safe harbor of a lover's arms, to acquiesce to such a reasonable request, giving no thought to past or future. But that would be a denial of who she was and how she'd learned to confront the demons in her life. The curtains were closed. Mulder must have drawn them before coming to bed, after observing her reaction and realizing the depth of trauma they plumbed. Holding herself with death-like stillness against him, she felt something hard and unyielding soften within her as she watched the pulsing lightshow on the other side of the thinly-masked window. "Mulder, I can't promise." "It's okay. I just had to understand. Now we both know what we're dealing with... " His voice continued, soothing and rhythmic, as he kissed her forehead and then led her back to the bed. With quick, deft hands he fluffed her pillow, helped her under the sheet and blanket before clicking off the light and re-joining her. No expectations for more. Her heart ached with gratitude as he resumed his position against her back, non- confrontational now and sensitive to her need for privacy. Above the covers he shifted a loose hand around her hip. "Sleep tight," he muttered, bending over her cheek to steal a final kiss before sinking behind her into the dark. He cleared his throat several times, comforting rumbles along her spine that faded into a steady swell, the hypnotic rising and falling of his chest. An ebb and flow, like bobbing with effortless ease on the ocean. He reminded her of tides and waves and the soft sway of a ship at anchor, his breath a Chinook's warm caress on her cheek. With Mulder at her back it was possible she'd find her sea legs after all... Sleep came slowly, smoothing the dark, ruffled water at the shoreline of consciousness. She heard the pound of distant thunder, saw the muted flashes behind the curtain. With eyelids moist and heavy, she listened as Mulder's slow, patient breathing eased her toward slumber... ... It felt like a dream unfolding. Submerged again in the hot, steaming water of the spring, wrapped in Mulder's arms. Floating, weightless, held against him beneath the stars. His lips tickled her jaw, his mouth, hot and wet like the water, sucked the fleshy pearl of her earlobe. No smell of sulfur -- instead, the rich earthy musk of his hair and skin and breath, filling her nostrils. His low, seductive hum in her ear... "Scully... you awake?" There was no difference between sleep and wakefulness. Just the mesmerizing rumble of his voice, and then the glide of long tentative fingers sweeping beneath her pajama top along her ribs, her breast gathered like a treasure into his warm hand. The nipple brushed with the flat of his palm, then teased by his fingers, awakened... She moaned and turned toward him. His body, naked now, felt like a furnace against her pajamas and she met his mouth with hers, lips trembling. His erection pulsed like a living thing between them, swollen and hard. "Mulder?" Their mouths opened again and melted, became bottomless. He began a wet, burning trail over her throat and neck. "God," he breathed, lips crushed against her, "you're so beautiful... " She felt the cool air seize her front as buttons pulled free, then the warm convergence of his mouth on her breast, worrying over the taut nipple, still tender from his previous attentions. He groaned with abandon as he sucked first one, then the other, and her head fell back into the pillow, hands clutching his shoulders. The sharp edges of his teeth tugged her flesh between the circle of his lips, his tongue rough over the sensitive tips. Deep, sleepy currents of desire roused her, erupting in waves of pleasure between her legs and she arched her back in response. She had forgotten the utter sensuousness of being awakened by sex. Always intuitive, he remembered the secret, sensitive places of her body, stroking her as if she were something precious and breakable. His tongue and fingers flicked and bathed and explored. Moving with hypnotic surety, he played over her skin like he would a fine instrument, lips never halting in their incessant forage of firm swell and softer hollow. Slipping silky pajamas down, he kissed over her tightened stomach, then her navel and the small scooped curves of her hipbones. Knowing hands slid between her thighs, tracing the wet outer lips of her sex, then penetrated the tender inner folds, opening her as her pelvis undulated beneath him. Her legs turned boneless, knees falling to either side. He sank several fingers to the knuckle into her soft depths, then bowed his head lower, to brush his tongue over the tiny throbbing clitoris... Her body exploded in an instant, sparking like wildfire. She jerked and climaxed hard against his hand, writhing, gasping into the darkness, before he could do more than twitch his fingers inside her or take another breath. No words were spoken between them other than her name, poured from his lips like a comforting balm. While spasms still rocked her, he spread her straining thighs farther apart and entered her on the slick, pooled tide of arousal. She felt him expand and harden within her body, stretching and filling the tight channel to repletion. Braced above her, his grunts and body like a canopy, he pumped slowly, deeply, powerfully toward his own shuddering release. Finally, sated and perspiring, he slid down between her opened thighs, cradled and at peace. The heavy musk of sex saturated the air as they lay listening to the quiet. There was no rain now, no sound except the muffled dripping of the trees onto the roof and the rough panting of his body on hers. He rested head and cheek against her chest, recovering, and she browsed one hand deeply through his damp ruffled hair. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Her regret was not for the hair-trigger orgasm, but for the abominable revelation hours before. Awake to memory now, she felt a pall, an insidious cloud of oppression that lingered over her perceptions. In her throat the lump remained and she battled the stoniness she felt in her soul, despising her own weakness as much as the deception she'd wrought. Like a comforting blanket of warmth, he shifted in her arms. "Leave it, Scully." "You know that's not possible." "Shhh... " She felt his sigh against her skin, then the prickle of whiskers and the heated brand of his kiss between her breasts, like a promise. "Let it go. We have time to work on it," he murmured. She nodded and blinked, felt one renegade tear creep and trickle back across her temple to burrow into her hair. Her fingers clutched his head like a buoy, breasts heaving anew with stifled emotion. "I love you," she enunciated slowly, her voice a whisper in the silence. He rose on an elbow over her, one hand gentle along the curve of her cheek, checking for signs of grief as he would for fever. Wiping away the evidence with the ball of his thumb, his lips sank, full and warm and needy, over her trembling mouth. ******************** Waiting In Motion (8/10) by mountainphile Four years is a long time for a trail to stay fresh. A long time for true love to wait in lonely vigil. Could there be a limit to such patience, an end to the yearning? Mulder told her once, many years ago, that he knew the difference between expectation and hope. Scully wonders if the same holds true for Ruth. The woman's story sounds too fantastic for words, yet fills Scully with a peculiar foreboding. It's true that this spot on the map is remote, and wilderness areas are natural hideouts for those seeking solitude or a tenure of imposed asceticism. How easy it would be for an individual actually seeking to become lost, intent on pursuing his own anonymity and hoping to keep it. She prays Samuel Tolliver isn't one of these. And if not... then what in the world has happened to the man? What strange forces are at work around this mountaintop? She wonders about the surprising intensity of last night's episode and is almost tempted to link it to the unknown powers here. She doesn't deny the existence of unusual phenomena, caused by strange magnetic imbalances, by genetic mutation, by psychic ability, by any number of unexplainable causes. Her years on the X-Files are testimony to that, despite her commitment to science and her professional integrity within the Bureau. But the changes she sees within herself come with a price tag, and are too often the result of trauma or events which she can't explicate with scientific theory, much less divulge to the uninitiated. The scar on the back of her neck and her barrenness are a daily reminder of this reality. For this reason she would rather Mulder take the burden of this situation and make sense of it, with his own eclectic brand of logic and theory that has frustrated her to no end over the years of their partnership. Let him do the honors. He does it so well, while she pokes her holes and struggles to straighten the kinks with cogent, scientific rationalism. And now, like before, it's happened again -- in Mulder's absence, while he's out in the forest seeking the Weird, another supernatural conundrum has fallen unbidden into her lap. It's not the kind of luck she wishes for. Like sitting next to a stream in the forest, she hears Ruth's voice as a lilting gurgle, a backdrop to her deeper thoughts. The leaves outside lift and rustle in accompaniment; the occasional rumble of thunder vibrates like a dark forbidding timpani. She's reminded that Mulder's still out there, somewhere, in the gray-green wetness of the forest. She wishes he would return so they could leave this place for home. Refocusing, Scully hears the other woman's words resume shape and clarity. "... and tourists come to stay in the campground over summer -- stay a day, maybe two, then go... The motel has only got six rooms, but it keeps me busy, and I call my sister to help me with the laundry an' cookin'. She an' her husband Carl live down in town and he drives her up when I get really busy or need somethin'. This ain't a place she wants to come to, though. Like pullin' teeth to fetch that girl up here and I might as well forget it if there's a storm comin'." Yes, Scully muses with a smile and a swallow of the cold tea... Ruth was correct when she said she liked to talk. "Your man Fox... he's tall like Sam, not so big around, an' Skeeter took a real likin' to him. Hardly ever happens. Scared him at first, bein' FBI an' all, but I got to tell you... it made me cry to see your man kneelin' down after supper last night. Talkin' and payin' him some attention, takin' a minute to stop an' make my little boy happy... " Scully doesn't take issue with the goodness of Mulder's heart, but knows there was more to his little conversation with the boy than simple kindness. At the same time, she's touched by this poignant observation. She remembers her own emotion, observing the two of them together last night. "Sam was always so... protective, you know? He wanted to see his baby so bad. Always wanted children. He hated leavin' me, even to drive to town when I got real big around the middle... " Ruth speaks to her lap, fingers picking at a fray in the hem of her apron. A teardrop splashes down, making a shiny, wet place on the dark skin of her hand. "I told Skeeter all 'bout his Daddy, 'bout Sam. He needs to know what kind of man he's born from... what kind of man he'll grow up to be some day. I tell him that we've got to be ready, if Sam comes back up that road. That he don't need to be afraid to hug this big, sweet man that tries to kiss his mama... " "Does he have a name other than Skeeter?" Scully asks gently. "Sam picked it. In the Bible the old prophet Samuel anoints the next king while he's still a little boy. It seemed only fittin' that he should be a child of the mountains, waitin' for the day Samuel would come around to give him his blessing... " "David," Scully murmurs, surprised at her own recollection. "Yep. An' Ruth's Boaz was his great-great-granddaddy. Seems like everybody's destined to take a turn waitin'. It's just how it is... and they're all worth waitin' for, honey." Ruth stands up with a grunt, arms crossed over her breasts. "Dana, I got to believe that Samuel will be comin' back to see his David some day... In the meantime, me an' Skeeter'll just keep busy, doin' what we do. That's all we *can* do, besides hope an' pray. Life goes on." "That's true, Ruth... but it doesn't replace the man. Or take away the pain." "No, that's true enough." Ruth pins her with somber eyes. "What would *you* do, if you was me?" The possibility has haunted Scully for years, since her heart began stirring toward Mulder and she realized he was an irrefutable part of life. While the bond of partnership was sacrosanct, they wrote their own addendums to the creed. His strengths to cover her weaknesses, hers to compensate for his in their unique branch of service. So easy to grow careless through familiarity, to operate by assumption. They've seen it happen to other partnerships in the Bureau, and so have watched over one another accordingly. She's imagined the unspeakable ... Mulder struck down in the line of duty. Shot, attacked, mortally injured, bleeding from unstaunchable wounds that gush like thick oil over her fingers and won't respond to first aid or skilled treatment. Mulder, lying white and still on cold hospital sheets, awaiting the last indignity before burial, though she would be urged to let another doctor perform that final task. She would grieve, inconsolable in private, composed as glass in public. She would bury him, enduring the anguish of abandonment, a handful of friends and family at her side. There would be a body to put to rest under his gravestone. Like her sister, like her father... some substantive closure before moving on, forever scarred, with the painful business of life. But if Mulder were to disappear the way Sam did? Suddenly vanished, with no trace, no information. She can only imagine the heartache her family suffered during her own disappearance five years ago, before she was so ignominiously returned. She remembered the unrest she felt when Mulder disappeared for days, for weeks at a time, when she felt powerless in her ability to find him. And then, having found him, to leave him again for Africa in order to find a way to save his life, to restore him to health. At least she wouldn't have the daily reminder that is Ruth's... having borne the child of the man she loved, without him seeing that child come into the world. Barrenness could be a solace instead of a bane, under such circumstances. She considers her own empty ovaries and the theft of their precious contents. Would it be a greater comfort in the end to simply imagine the lost possibilities, or to give birth to the child? It's not a question she feels she can ask of Ruth. Both women startle when rapping shakes the door. "Mama! Let me in!" "You go on an' play some more." The child whines and hits the door again, making Scully smile at Ruth's heavy sigh and exaggerated eye-roll. "Ain't nothin' to do out here, Mama!" Ruth gives Scully a quick wink and stands to open the door. "What's that I hear? A Skeeter-bug?" The boy, poised on the threshold, doesn't know whether to grin or pout. He averts his face, shy before Scully, and twists his body, lips petulant. "I ain't no bug." "Aw, you're *my* special little Skeeter-bug... an' you know it." Ruth snakes out an arm and grabs the child, tucking him under her chin and squeezing him. High-pitched giggles erupt. A mother-hug, Scully thinks, watching the scene with moistened eyes. A heart full of love for a child made all the more precious, because of the empty place left by his father. The question has been more than answered, leaving Scully suddenly empty, deflated, oddly bereft. She sighs and stands, tucking a lock of hair in back of her ear before running her palm over the boy's curly head. "Skeeter," she murmurs, "you have one special mama." "I know it. She gonna drive me down to town this week." Scully's smile freezes. Somewhere in her brain a connection is made and she finds herself in mental light-speed, sorting through the various conversations of the last day. Comparing, contrasting the basic elements and similarities. "Whatever happened to the truck?" she wonders aloud, looking out the window. Ruth's head jerks toward her. "Sam's? Havin' it around was too much of a reminder, so I got me somethin' smaller. I don't drive hardly at all, though, with my sister's family helpin' out and me needin' to be here. All the same, I didn't have the heart to sell the truck... it's out back in the old shed." Scully turns to stare at Ruth, her thoughts continuing to formulate even as she grabs for her coat. "Do you have a flashlight? Because I have an idea. And I need to examine the truck to be sure." Through years of neglect, the path to the old building has grown into a weedy snarl, which they negotiate with care in the dimness of the storm's shadows. Wet, wind-whipped brambles pick at Scully's slacks and more than once she pulls the thorny weeds away from her legs. Ruth leads the way. Skeeter a tremulous tick at her side, whines his displeasure. "I hate that old shed, Mama... " "There it is, up ahead. Nothin' inside now except junk." The flashlight is passed back into Scully's hands. Fascinated, she plays the beam over the exterior of the sagging gray structure, it's roof dappled with green moss. Broken glass fringes the windows, the walls bristle from peeling paint. Creaking, the door hangs on rusty hinges and needs only a nudge from Scully before it gives a crazy swing to the side. Blackness rules within. "Don't!" The hand on her coat is Skeeter's, his round eyes wide and fearful. Moved by his concern, Scully bends to the child. "Why not, sweetie?" "Big spiders in there," he whispers, his eyes like saucers. "Big ugly ones... " Ruth's strong arm scoops him back to her side. "You let the lady do her thing. She ain't afraid of a few ole spiders. Now you stand right over there and wait... we'll be out in a minute." The little boy seems grateful to oblige, backing away as the two women enter the building. The flashlight's beam bounces over old equipment, boxes, rimless tires, long-abandoned tools... and finally hits the dark blue shape of the vehicle in the far corner. A dusty hulk, it wears a coat of chipped paint, dents, random blotches of rust-colored primer. Ruth exhales and her breath is foggy in the damp, dark air. "Shi-it. It always seems like a coffin to me, every damn time I see it... " Her voice holds the deep tremble that Scully heard earlier, when revealing Samuel's identity and then telling his story. "Are you okay with this, Ruth? I can do this alone, if you'd rather not be here. Your choice." Pausing, she waits in respectful deference. It seems only right for the woman to decide before the investigation of the truck continues. "I'm okay as I'll ever be, I guess." Scully holds the flashlight up against the window on the driver's side. "Is it unlocked?" "Yup. Last time I checked. An' it's been awhile." The windshield is cracked, as is the rearview mirror, suggesting collision. The door creaks ajar with difficulty. Scully is struck by the disparity between her own height and the elevation of the old truck's floor, and steps up onto the running board beside the driver's seat. "Ruth, were you able to see the condition of the interior at the scene? Before the police gained access?" "I seen it when it was still a mess. But they already had the yellow tape up and was checkin' around when I got down there. Then they lit into me right away, askin' questions. By the time I got the truck back, it was wiped up some... but I done most of the cleanin' later." The flashlight pans along the stained carpet flooring, then over the seats, cracked and worn down by years of sitting and heavy weight. Lips parted as she works, Scully breathes in the dank smell of must and grease, heavy in the humid air of the shed... and something else. Directing the beam to the seat, she runs her fingers over the wide, scorched area revealed. "Not deep cleaning, I hope." "Naw, I didn't have the heart to go in between the seats or nothin'. Maybe should have, but it was trashed anyway, all burnt and beat up. I emptied out the glove compartment, though, 'cause that was where Sam always kept his stuff." "You say he never smoked? No cigarettes hidden away?" "Not a one. You kiss like we did, you'd know it, all right..." Her reply is revealing, bringing a wry smile to Scully's mouth. "I know exactly what you mean, Ruth," she confesses, examining the damage and remembering the dark, acrid taste so frequent on Jack Willis' tongue in the days before they parted company, so long ago it seems like a disembodied dream, like another lifetime. The edge of the steering wheel is blistered, as are a few spots on the cracked dashboard. No fire had been reported in the interior of the vehicle and Sam didn't smoke. How then to explain the burns and scorching? It would be an easier task for Mulder, taking it all in at a glance, formulating his hypothesis, and then pinning her with a knowing eye. She can imagine the corner of his mouth lifting in a tiny smirk for her benefit. "So, what do you think, Scully?" he'd say, waiting a moment and then leaning in close, his presence surrounding her like an aura. "D'you have a theory for me?" She twists in the tight space, forcing her fingertips into the narrow gap between the seat and its back in the dark truck. It feels gritty on her fingertips, packing under her nails like a cache of old dust. Like thick ash, soft and yielding. Laying the flashlight on the seat, she slips a plastic bag from her pocket, looking back over her shoulder. "Do you have something I can dig with?" "I got this old pocketknife. It ain't sharp, though." "Then it's perfect." Unearthed from the deep groove of back and seat, the gray- white treasure is scraped out and brushed into the bag. Scully straightens and faces front, sliding her fingers along the top edge of the plastic bag, hefting her palm beneath it. In the end, all she's garnered is a few teaspoons of a powdery unknown substance. Unlike Mulder, however, she's not about to dip in a moistened fingertip and venture a taste. That's why labs exist; the bag could hold anything from insecticide to talcum powder to grout to narcotics. In light of that, was it even worth the trouble, coming out to this ramshackle shed and truck, acting like she knew what she was doing? And is there any chance in hell that this substance is something even more remarkable, with origins proving to be otherworldly? Feeling foolish, she wonders if she's been swept too far along by the melodrama of the tale. The missing man named Samuel. She considers, too, that Ruth's intense paranoia has had possible effect on her judgment. Mulder, though pleased, would still expect her to test the substance and weight the theory. "Your goddamned strict rationalism and science has saved me a thousand times over," he entreated her once in the hallway outside his apartment, during that black, hollow time when hope had waned and the walls of their partnership threatened to collapse under the weight of insidious, overwhelming bureaucratic pressure. She hopes that she's not unduly or unfairly stirred false hope in Ruth, the woman who loves and waits for a man missing for over four years. Yet, here it is in her hand... the dust Ruth had spoken of, identical in appearance to the residue Mulder showed her from his files last night. Substance supposedly garnered from alien abduction sites, proving the existence of tachyonic activity. Frohike and his buddies will be hard pressed to show her, step by step and in the face of current scientific knowledge, how their bizarre conclusions have been formulated. Yet, if she's honest with herself, this ashy powder is identical to what she's already seen first-hand. Created under similar unusual circumstances, if the reports haven't been fudged and her vague memories of the night at Ruskin Dam are indeed accurate... She hands the knife down to Ruth, then steps to the dirt floor of the shed. "Got somethin'?" "Possibly. Come back outside, I'll show you." The rain comes again, pinging and twirling the leaves overhead against the darkened sky. Skeeter, fretful and restless, has stomped out a soggy wallow under the tree. He runs to his mother and hugs her until she stoops to heft him onto her hip. "Hey, you gettin' *way* too big for this... " The woman and child regard the soft gray-white substance held before them in its plastic bag. Their solemn expressions speak volumes. No doubt the powder has all the promise of snake oil or a quack's cure. The average person would have little or no awareness of the significance represented and Scully purses her lips, knowing full well that the explanation she's given must sound like nonsense. "Ruth, it's inconclusive, but this and other forms of *evidence* like it have been found in places... " She pauses, searching for the right words. "in places where other people have also disappeared under mysterious circumstances. It's a long shot, at best. I'd almost have to call it an impossibility. But -- " "But you never know," the woman interrupts. "Somethin' inside of me is tellin' me not to lose hope. Maybe you and your partner can find somethin' that the regular police didn't. An' I can wait as long as I need to if it means I might see Sam again." Scully looks from mother to son, touched by the woman's tenacity. God, what a situation to endure... She squeezes Ruth's arm and swallows. "I can't promise you anything substantive... but I'll show this to Mulder when he gets back and see what he thinks. There may be other avenues to explore that I'm not yet aware of." The rain returns in earnest. Its pattering accentuates the depressive mood, lending an air of discontent to an already surreal afternoon. Walking back toward the motel office, they hear a far-off engine growl its way through the rain and mud obstacle course. Above them, headlights stab through trees and dismal haze. Thank God he's back... After tracing the path of a man who disappeared without cause, after beholding the tears of his brave wife and the loneliness of his child left behind, Scully's nerves are taut with an undercurrent of worry. She and Mulder have been here far too long anyway and she's reminded of her overdue report begging to be finished. Now, with his return, they can compare a few notes, finish packing up... and perhaps make love one more time before sleeping. Morning will herald their new journey back to the real world. "Might be Carl," says Ruth, squinting up the driveway. "Looks like his truck." Scully exhales sharply as an old black pickup negotiates the ruts toward them. The possibility that someone else might arrive had not even crossed her mind in the wait for Mulder. Stunned by a wave of disappointment, she masks her feelings by raising a forearm over her face to shield it from the new rain. Ruth plants both hands on her hips in obvious disgruntlement. Skeeter, however, excited by the prospect of a family visit, hops from foot to foot beside them and waves at the approaching beater. "Carl's my sister's husband. He usually makes a trip up from town to check on me or bring supplies. I wondered why I didn't see his sorry ass up here sooner, with the storm an' all." Roaring to a stop near them, an extremely tall, dark-skinned man emerges from the vehicle. He wears a navy blue hooded rain jacket and an expression of concern mixed with trepidation. He sets aside his discomfort momentarily to lift and hug the small nephew who's run to greet him. "Hey, Sis," he calls out. "You doin' all right?" "Yeah, we survivin', but no thanks to you. Where you been? We coulda been washed clear down the mountain for all you town folks care." He sets Skeeter down, acknowledging Scully with a respectful nod. "Ma'am... " "This is Dana Scully from Washington DC. She and her partner are stayin' here till the bad weather blows over. Dana, this is my brother-in-law, Carl Malone." "Don't tell me you're a basketball player too?" Scully deadpans, taking the huge hand offered to her. His height necessitates tilting her head far back in an attempt to make eye contact with the massive, lanky stranger. She regrets the question immediately, feeling it to be foolish and inappropriate, but knowing Mulder would relish the introduction and tweak her for months about this greeting to an NBA namesake. A ready grin splits the man's face. "Not me... and I hardly ever watch the Jazz play, neither," he jokes. "You ain't the first person has asked me that, Miss Scully." "I imagine I'm not. Sorry." She colors at his good- natured, gracious banter, blinking her eyes against the rain. The soft shower of hair across her right eye brings temporary refuge. "Anyway, I was wonderin' if that was your car down there on the back road. White car, pulled off on the side? Nobody in it now." It's the scenario she's dreaded. Better to stay rational and reasonable, to assess the true situation before jumping to conclusions. Her face feels stiff with tension, but her voice remains level and modulated while she gathers necessary information. "Was it a Taurus?" "Don't know for sure. Dirty white car. Not many people know to use that road to town." Scully shoots a quick, almost accusatory look at Ruth. "What road is that? I wasn't aware of any other than the main road that brought us here." The woman shrugs. "There's the back road that some local folks use. Quicker than the road that you took an' less traffic in the high season. Tourists don't know where it goes an' pretty much stay off it." She allows herself a patient sigh and jerks her head toward the shed behind them. "I told you about it a while ago, Dana. Sam's truck was found out there, remember?" Scully closes her eyes, makes the connection, then looks away. "Ruth, I'm sorry," she says in quick apology. "I do remember, now that you mention it." It isn't like her to be so easily rattled, but she can attribute the emotional fragility to any number of possibilities, from separation anxiety to stress to waiting on obvious tenterhooks for her very overdue partner. "An' it just seems real strange," ventures Carl, "but when I walked aroun' to the front of the car, there it was on the windshield, plain as day." "What did you see on the windshield?" The underlying tension in Scully's voice bleeds out, drawing the man slowly toward her in the hushed drizzle. "Maybe this gonna mean somethin' to you, maybe not. But it sure seems strange to me... " "Please, tell me." "It's just... I swear to God -- but somebody put a big letter 'X' up on that window, Miss Scully. An' that's the God-honest truth." ******************** Waiting In Motion (9/10) by mountainphile Scully mobilizes them with the proficiency of a drill sergeant, snapping out orders with unconscious, accustomed authority. They scramble to obey. From her limited foul- weather stores Ruth supplies rain gear, a first aid kit, another flashlight, and several old blankets for the rescue attempt. Carl, with Skeeter tagging at his heels, hustles for rope. "This jacket'll be a mite loose," Ruth apologizes, "and it's the smallest I got since you're still too big to fit in Skeeter's. And shoes or boots... sorry, but I just can't help with that." The two pockets are sizable, perfect for carrying essentials into the forest. Scully stops at her room for the cell phone, hesitating over her weapon because of the weight factor. She decides at the threshold to strap it on. Several large coils of rope are already nestled in the back of the truck when she emerges. Within minutes she's clinging like a squirrel to the passenger's seat while Carl bounces over the rutted road with practiced ease, the old pickup truck lurching to avoid deep puddles and debris the storm has left in their path. The engine's roar competing with the thunder, he brakes, picking out the fork that leads them onto the alternate route. The road here is noticeably rougher, narrower, and their progress slows to an interminable crawl, punctuated by the lightning's dull flashes. "There it is," he mutters suddenly, pointing with his chin. With little room to park, he wrenches the steering wheel and manhandles the truck into a sloppy K-turn, coming to a halt. Scully grapples her way down from the seat of the truck. A deluge of rain hits her, causing her to stagger slightly before picking her way to the car with quick steps. Her hands press along the cold hood of the vehicle as if examining a patient's chest, seeking signs of warmth, of life. There is nothing, the hard finish only wet and cold. On the inside of the windshield the "X" is thrown up in haphazard, asymmetrical fashion, just as Carl described it. Her throat constricts at the image of Mulder tearing the tape with his teeth, leaning against the hard ridge of the steering wheel in order to affix it to the inside glass. Her mind races to ascertain his purpose. The "X"... a symbol he's used over the years to signal a contact or mark a location. She can't help but flashback seven years ago to a similar rainstorm, one during which the radio garbled unintelligibly, lightning flashed, and their car gasped and slowed to a crawl on the wet road in Oregon... Her exultant partner yelled through the rain about lost time, rejoicing over the giant spray-painted letter he'd previously marked on the asphalt the first time they encountered the phenomenon. She remembers checking her watch, unwilling to take such a spectacular leap of faith, choosing instead to refute Mulder's connection between missing persons and bright lights, loss of power and lost time. And later, puzzling over the strange ashy dust she'd scooped into her pocket from the forest floor... It went untested, of course, since all evidence had been immolated in short order by the suspicious fire at the motel. Confiscated, destroyed, snatched away -- always the same thing. Damn it to hell, all she's ever wanted was the simple, unencumbered truth and the freedom to prove it. And right now she needs to find out what's happened to Mulder. The car door is unlocked and nothing on the driver's side raises suspicion, except perhaps his makeshift attempt at tidiness. A plastic tarpaulin is thrown over the seat to save the upholstery. Mud clumping on the floor mats shows he's been elsewhere in his search. She sees no scorch marks, no dust or unexplainable powder. Nothing except a few shattered sunflower seed shells that have tumbled into the crease between the seats. Before exiting, she thinks it wise to slip her duplicate key into the ignition; a turn and the car purrs to life, the lights and electrical system intact. She glances at the car's LED display, then down at her watch, frowning at the discrepancy. Distant lightning flashes, but she can't allow it to hinder her progress and purpose. Not now, with Mulder somewhere out in this wilderness. Bowing her head, she takes a deep breath and commands herself to maintain control, while the mountain thunderstorm rages overhead. Slamming the door, she pats the two deep pockets that hold her equipment and pulls out the cell phone one more time. It couldn't hurt to try again. As before, nothing. The receiver produces only static in answer to the urgent calling of Mulder's name and she knows they're losing precious time by putting off the inevitable. She beckons to Carl and moves to the other side of the car, where the road ends and the steep curbside drops. Here the topography is erratic; the mountain falls away from the road's edge in uneven, jutting mounds of rock and tangled growth that tumble into the duskiness of late afternoon. The storm has left its signature in the piled swaths of shattered boughs, in the brownish mortar of mud that drains from the roadside to coat the rocks and underbrush with viscous shellac. "What's below us?" She shouts to Carl over the rain's din and points toward the shadows of the ravine. Even short careful steps are precarious in the snarl of debris and she finds herself cursing that she doesn't have a pair of shoes that are more substantial and equal to the challenge. Never again, when traveling with Mulder; all contingencies must be considered. Her inches-high heels sink into the soft, muddy soil like fingers probing deep into edematous flesh. She wonders from what place in her mind that analogy springs and the sensation sickens her. Lifting her feet, she pulls away with brusque determination. Carl's tall shape looms at her side, staggering over the hazardous footing, with a length of rope from the truck draped over his forearm. It's evident he hasn't understood her question in the incessant roar of rain and thunder and he leans forward like a tree bent by wind, shaking his big head. "Mulder said there were caves around here -- possibly sinkholes. Is that true?" He nods, the streaming water spraying from his chin. "Yeah, pits an' holes. Limestone deep in the ground washin' away all the time. Sometimes open up right under your feet before you know it's there," he says next to her ear. "Then we've got to look. What's the best way down?" The man wears an expression of horror. "Hold on! This rain is worse than I ever expected. An' you can't make it down there in those shoes. It ain't safe, Miss Scully. Rocks and mud slidin' right out from under us as it is." "There's no time to waste, then." She feels flushed, suffused with the reckless fever of desperation. Her hand grasps the rope, jerking on its free end. "I'm tying this around me, Carl. Do you hear me? I want you to hold this rope and lower me down so I can have a look. I mean it. The car is a marker and he's here somewhere." She sees Carl Malone's basic goodness and chivalry strain to its limit, rebelling against her command. A gentle family man, it's no surprise that he wants to protect her from the elements and possible danger, but the sheer outlandishness of the prospect itself seems to daunt him. He puts out a large, plate-sized hand, arresting her pull on the rope and engulfing her wrist as he would a child's. "You're one crazy woman to try somethin' like this --" "And it's obvious I can't belay someone your size -- or do this alone. So, do I have your cooperation or not?" What a bizarre picture they must make, she thinks. Standing inches apart under the trees, shouting to be heard in the roar of the downpour, hoods over their heads and rain jackets coursing water. He's basketball player-tall with a name to match, wide-eyed, looming over her in the growing dusk. She's dwarfed beside him, a bonsai to his sequoia and fiercely resolute. Strands of wet auburn hair pasted to pale cheeks, ankles and pant legs smeared with mud, shoes melting into the soggy earth beneath her feet. Mulder would be amused by the ludicrous disparity and grin, eyes sparkling, lips toying with an ever-present sunflower seed, his head shaking gently... At the mental glimmer of her partner's face, she breaks the handhold with a sharp recoil and cry. "Goddamn it, Carl! I need your help to pull this off and we have to move now! Are you with me?" Lightning rips the forest, pouring light into Scully's startled face. She curses again and shuts her eyes, grimacing against the onslaught that threatens to steal both her breath and her ability to function. Focus... ohgod, focus... She chants to herself until Mulder's face swims into hazy view behind her squint, enveloping her in the quiet, quizzical depths of his gaze. She almost feels his hand on her face, calming and tender, almost hears his whisper, infusing her with strength to fight and overcome. After several deep gasps she keeps the numbing effect at bay and surfaces from the waves of stupefaction, the edge of her lip smarting. Her tongue dabs it and tastes blood. She opens her eyes to see Carl tossing a length of rope around a thick, moss-covered tree trunk. Then he moves toward her to loop an end around her waist, bending to tie it with the quick, powerful dexterity and knowledge of a man comfortable with knots and certain of their capabilities. "This here's a pretty long rope," he grunts as he works. "If you get into trouble or need to be pulled up quick, just yank on it real hard, so I know what to do. I'll be checkin'. One yank, you're okay. Two yanks, you found him. Three, an' I pull you up like a flag on the Fourth of July, no questions asked." She'd like to hug this redwood of a man, but chooses instead to check the stiff length encircling her middle. It's thick as a man's thumb, rough and bristly against her fingers, with a tight twist. Doubtless it will chafe her ribs when gravity drags her full weight against it, but the rain jacket should add another layer of insulation. Waiting is no longer an option; afternoon fails them and Mulder remains in jeopardy. Nodding vigorously at the instruction and squeezing the huge hand in wordless thanks, she turns to step into the yawning abyss of the mountainside. Descending the seventy-degree incline, Scully's grateful for specific realities in her life, past and present. Grateful for the natural agility and strength that has been hers since childhood, when she summoned pride and swallowed fear to imitate her two gregarious brothers. In doing so, she discovered within herself a large reserve of stamina and grit, determination and courage. Dana Scully, the tomboy. It served her well during the Academy's physical training and defense courses, raising more than a few eyebrows when her small size masked the potency hidden beneath cinnamon hair, lips that gathered to a thoughtful pout, and a taut young body. She met the requirements, then strove to exceed them, intent only on accomplishment and excellence. In present time she's grateful for the most simplistic of gifts -- that the shoes she's wearing, though woefully inadequate, are the tighter pair, hugging her feet in the wet bramble and mud of the ravine. She dare not lose a shoe and risk bare soles along this rocky descent. She's grateful for Carl's cooperation and massive, bulldog arms holding this lifeline above her. For the blessed "X" Mulder left on the car's windshield, proclaiming his whereabouts and implying the possibility of another supernatural discovery. His attempt to reassure her, as he's wont to do now, even in his absences. "Mulderrr!" She no sooner screams his name than the wind snatches it into oblivion. Where in heaven's name is he hidden? It rests on her expertise and ingenuity to somehow locate him in the dusk, clinging to the hope that he's uninjured and able to signal to his rescuer. Wiping rainwater from her eyes, her anxious gaze darts along the tumbled wet fall of forest growth, deep-green and unrevealing. Ankles scrape against rock and broken twigs, wobbling over the unsteady terrain while the rope gouges her sides with its tight roughness. Already it's too dark to see clearly with unaided eyes and she fumbles for the flashlight, holding onto her lifeline with the other hand. The rope scrapes across her ribs with a sudden, tooth- grinding jerk and the flashlight leaps away, beam bobbing as it tumbles into the underbrush. "Shit!" Blind to what's enfolding below him, Carl is keeping tabs on her progress as promised, feeding out rope and monitoring response. She returns his signal with a single tug, then bends to reach for the errant flashlight, exhaling with relief when her fingers touch, then curl around the cold metal base. The light arcs and diffuses in the haze. She concentrates on deeper depressions in the topography, which may be gaping maws into the earth... or simply nothing at all. Virginia is a far cry from Florida, but slipping unawares down a mossy wet hole is the last thing she wants to revisit, especially in this storm. If she were to examine the cases she and Mulder handled over the years, how many investigations have led them into the depths of a forest? Too many, she decides. With Mulder she's experienced flesh- eating bugs, vampires and shape-shifters, flashing molten light poured from the sky... Mothmen, the shallow graves of children, mysterious beams that pulse and beckon, bones and decay unearthed from the leaves... Only a sampling of cases, to be sure, with Mulder at her side to later reinforce and validate each fantastic phenomenon, each dubious recollection. To qualify the often-unbelievable field reports they nudge across Skinner's desk. And then there are events that skirt her conscious memory, things she doesn't quite remember. Experiences that cause her to question not only her own perceptions, but also those of others. One of these she later learned from Skinner via Mulder -- that for the space of a night she hid her own singed and traumatized body under the trees with the other survivors of the firestorm at Ruskin Dam. She shakes her head to clear it of old demons. Thunder clutches the treetops and shakes them; the rain continues in maddening drizzle, painting her eyelashes and face with moisture. Taking a deep breath of the humid air, she opens her eyes to the sky... A beam of light hovers overhead. It grows larger in size and intensity and descends like a gigantic humming floodlight, blinding her eyes and forcing her to squint and avert her face from its brightness. Her heart pounds, the blood throbbing in her temples. Searchlights from a helicopter? Surely not a rescue team -- before she disappeared down the road with Carl in search of Mulder, Ruth would have discussed the option of phoning for outside help. Then what is it? In an instant the rope goes slack and her stomach plummets as she tumbles backward down the rocky, leafy incline. It's over in three terrifying seconds and she finds herself wedged halfway underneath a stony outcropping, flashlight still clenched in her hand. Hasty inventory reveals scrapes and bruises, but no bones broken. Shoes clinging to both feet. Thank God for small favors. Her next instinct, for whatever reason, is to hide -- and quickly. Wedging herself deeper under the overhang of rock, she feels the still-slack rope dig into sore ribs and hopes that Carl is safe and at his post somewhere above her. At the same time she intones a desperate prayer that his vigilance won't yank her suddenly from this refuge. She lies pinned, held at bay by the predatory force that searches overhead. Pulsating airwaves make the fillings in her teeth come alive. Tremors seize her, preventing her from drawing a full breath of the heavy electrified air. Or is it the trembling of pure terror? Whether from fear or memory of Mulder's account, she slides a hand to the back of her neck and presses hard against the tiny scar in a feeble, vain attempt to hide from detection. The beam of light grows in length and breadth as the humming quivering probe moves across the gash of the ravine like a luminous knife blade. From her hiding place, Scully watches it comb through trees and foliage, licking over rocks and any surface that it encounters in its inexorable sweep toward her. Not more than twenty feet away, a deer stumbles upright from its pocket of shelter. It gives a funny, guttural "baa" of fear as it thrashes in the deep fall of leaves and vegetation, seeking escape from the marbled beam. Mesmerized, she sees its eyes glow incandescent before the animal's head and shoulders shake and it begins, inexplicably, to levitate. Something must be terribly wrong with her vision, with her equilibrium and perception, she gasps to herself. In a haze of unbelieving horror she watches the captive animal rise into the air like a lunatic marionette, trembling. Its limbs and body are helpless, twitching, treading water in a bizarre staccato dance. As if waiting, yet in motion... ... Haunting memories seep back. Images of a bridge at night. Silent hands raised in entreaty, faces rapt and glowing in a swath of light and floating ash. Then, of a cold white table illuminated, surrounded, the whirring drill and silent screams of fear and pain -- The deer falls. Its sides heave as it lies in the deep undergrowth. Scully's not certain if it's wounded or stunned or simply recovering it's breath when the beam of light resumes an insidious advance toward her side of the hollow. Beyond all expectation, she feels the length of slack rope twitch along the ground. Not now, she prays. Oh God in heaven, please, not yet... She stills the trembling of her body, holds her breath and the bristling rope tight against her ribs. The knife blade of light pauses above -- as if with intelligence -- then passes on, tripping across the protective lip of rock over the mossy roof of her hiding place. The bright wave passes slowly onward and fades into the forest. Light explodes like a flare, blinding her again, then just as quickly disappears. A curtain of indistinguishable darkness re-drapes the dripping forest. She hears a scrabble in the distance, the mushy sounds of retreat, and knows the deer has fled. With cautious uncertainty, she eases her body out from underneath the stony shelter. Shaking her head, the edge of the rain hood drips water into her eyes and she stands up to get her bearings and still her heart's pounding. Another jerk around her ribs nearly steals her footing and her breath. Carl, it appears, is back at his post. Her ribs burn from the sawing friction and the gouging pressure of her weapon. Stabilizing herself, she responds with a pull on the rope to signal to her faithful grounds man that all is well. Progress seems easier now. The steepness levels out and grows flatter in the dark trench of the mountain hollow. As she plays the flashlight's beam before her, she spots erratic movement in the distance. Set apart from the swirl and eddy of the wind is an object swaying to and fro. Not yet close enough for the small beam to be effective, a sudden crack and flash of lightning electrifies the sky over her, throwing the thing into stark relief. It looks like a ragged flag knotted at the end of a very long and flimsy stick. Edging forward toward the moving signal, her flashlight beam connects, whetting expectation, feeding hope. She's drawn to the edge of a gaping, rocky hole in the forest floor from which the stick protrudes. On it hangs Mulder's tee shirt. She cries his name repeatedly, reaching out to grasp the thin limb bowing from the weight of its sodden burden, shaking it with desperate hands. "Scully?" His voice emanates from the bowels of the earth, faint, unbelieving. "Mulder!" On her belly now and oblivious to obstacle or pain, she crawls to the hole's edge, small rocks and debris dislodging inward despite her care. "Are you injured?" Quiet reigns and the steady pounding of blood in her ears. "Are you okay? Mulder, answer me, godammit!" She swallows her uncertainty, straining to hear any sound from him within the dark hole. "Welcome to my nightmare." His words rise, hollow and distant. "And better watch that first step..." "How are you?" "A little scuffed... and cold as a witch's tit... " He laughs and now she detects the hypothermic tremble in his voice. "Yeah, I'm good." "I'll be the judge of that." "Scully... " He pauses and she closes her eyes to better hear him, struggling to catch his next words in the din of the pattering foliage. "Did you see it?" He's still the Mulder she knows and loves, ever searching for the supernatural, for the alien equation that eludes and frustrates him. Working quickly, she stands to untie the saturated rope at her ribs with fingers that are stiffened from cold and exertion. The knot is stubborn, eating up precious time, but she directs a stream of encouraging words down into his underground prison. "Hang on... we're going to pull you out of there." "We?" "You'll see soon enough... " She tosses the free end down to him. Prostrate on the sodden leaves and brush, she lays her face against her forearms, welcoming the cool raindrops that slip unchecked down and over her cheek. As Mulder secures the lifeline around his own body, she sits up against the jagged rock wall behind her to give two hard yanks on the heavy rope. ******************** Waiting In Motion (10/10) by mountainphile A haze of steamy moisture clouds the bathroom and warms the air. Her shoulder dips under the weight of Mulder's broad, towel-wrapped side and his arm feels like lead on the back of her neck. Lame and showered clean, he scuffs beside her toward their bed, using her smaller body as a crutch. "Hey, Scully... d'you think anyone would believe that Carl Malone actually hauled me up a mountainside?" "Doubtful," she pants. "Besides, you'd be perpetuating an untruth that would most likely come back to bite you on the ass." "Steal my fun." "Careful. Careful now -- " She peels back the bedspread, unwrapping the towel from his battered body as he eases himself naked onto the sheets and mattress. The scent that greets them is all freshness and fabric softener, the surface clean and crisp. In their absence Ruth has come to supply a welcoming gift of her own. Contrary to his earlier assessment, *good* is not the word Scully would have used to describe Mulder's condition when found. After she lowered the length of rope into the gaping hole, his shaking hands maneuvered it around his body, but could barely secure a serviceable knot. Then, during what seemed like an eternity she and Carl, communicating by triple tugs and guesswork, succeeded in bringing Mulder back up to the edge of the roadside. He'd been standing for hours in chill muddy water after sacrificing the tee shirt, his body temperature dipping low enough to cause her concern. Though layered for maximum effect, the rain gear and flannel shirt were soaked through and provided minimal warmth. Symptoms of hypothermia racked his body, evidenced by muscle spasms, bluish lips, and chattering teeth that impeded further discussion. Only when he bore his own weight on the edge of the road had she noticed the damage to his left ankle. "Next time it's Goretex all the way," he vows from the bed, accepting the extra blankets Scully piles over him. "Water- proofed head to toe." "What makes you think there will be a next time?" The retort does little to hide her discontent. She's not opposed to driving all the way home to DC, but threading the car through an intricate gauntlet of deep ruts is not her forte, nor her idea of a pleasant cruise. And, like it or not, tomorrow morning her own muscles will be suffering from the stressful workout they've received. Mulder's trembling is gone. He's checkered by raw scrapes and contusions from his fall, the worst being the angry, red swelling that's ballooned his left ankle to unnatural proportions. A dazed mask of awe remained with him during the drive back to the motel and the hasty shift to their room. It lasted through the steaming, cleansing torrent of the shower, when Ruth came to the door with chicken broth and bread. Now, taking slow sips of the hot liquid, his throat seems to thaw and he's lost the vapid bemused expression that prolonged Scully's anxiety. "I had to do it... go out there. You know that. There's no going back," he says, "not now, after what we know. After all that we've experienced.... " "You mean with the job?" "The job... everything. Our work together in the most vilified division within the FBI." "Can you really blame them? Tachyons, Mulder? Proof of alien abduction?" "At least my story's been consistent." He closes his eyes in weariness, lips moving, then opens them again to regard the tired sadness in her face. "Screw 'em. It has to end somewhere. Since when have I ever cared about protocol or playing the rules game?" "Well, you may start caring sooner than you think. Skinner mentioned that the department will be undergoing a full audit to justify expenditures in light of his budget going over the top again." "A reckoning?" "The pigeons, as they say, may finally be coming home to roost, Mulder." He smiles in a pleased, sleepy way. "Bring it on -- When does this happen? I'm game... " "Sometime in the next month or so." She seeks to change the subject, to return to the task at hand. "Drink up... you need the hydration and the heat." Swiveling her head, she throws him a stern glance and returns to her work. Bedside manner is at the bottom on her list of priorities. She's segued back into examination mode, complete with furrowed brow and pinched cheeks. Perched beside him on the bed, her fingers probe and slide from one injury to the next with skill and economy. The blanket warms his battered, cooled body; she uncovers only that limb she needs to examine. "I asked you a question before, Scully... whether you saw anything out there." The corners of her lips tighten. Reaching toward the bottom of the bed, she squeezes efficient fingertips along his bruised ankle. The pressure draws a whimper of pain. "I don't like the look of that. I want it x-rayed as soon as we get into Georgetown --" "And you still haven't answered me." His words bring a flush of annoyance to her cheeks. Not yet prepared to discuss eyewitness testimony to strange phenomena, she doesn't share in his urgency to gush about the subject. Mulder may want to pound willy-nilly down the unknown and unmarked trail, but she still prefers the circumspect, cautious, scientific approach. That hasn't changed one iota, levitating deer and mysterious beams notwithstanding. Looking away, she occupies herself with the continued appraisal of his injuries, her wind-blown hair a convenient veil between them. When he reaches out to brush it away she ducks and moves to stand. "Hey." He speaks low, with contrition. "Stay with me... " "I haven't cleaned up yet." Her voice is flat, evasive as the expression she wears. He sets down his mug and gropes for her hand, tugging her back to the warm depression beside him. "C'mere. You've got a leaf or something... " She expels an impatient huff, while his long fingers pick through the tangles. With gentle care he dislodges and tosses away the bit of twig. His hand moves deeper into the swirl of hair to massage her scalp and to urge her gaze toward him. Dark with concern and affection, his eyes are luminous, large from his nearness. "Never realized you were so adept with a rope," he whispers. "Besides risking lightning and limb." "You seem to forget, Mulder, that it's not the first time you've driven me to the end of my rope." His eyes twinkle. "Sounds precarious." "Not after years of practice." "Ouch. So... tell me what your buddy Carl Malone had to say." Carl, Scully relates, can supply little additional information. She approached him after he'd hauled them both to the top of the ravine and Mulder was blanketed and hustled into the passenger seat of the Taurus. The tall man seemed ill at ease, pressing his big feet into the mud and looking down as he spoke. When the light appeared and descended, he assumed it was only the searchlight from a helicopter, though he experienced a dizzy sensation and an overwhelming desire to get out of its way. "I can't understand it, Miss Scully, but then, after the light was gone, there I was -- kneelin' between two big trees like I was in church or somethin' an' the rope layin' flat on the ground. It ain't like me to fall down on a job. I was beside myself 'til you answered my yank that you was okay." Mulder groans in an attempt to sit up straighter, the numerous blankets slipping from his shoulders. "You fell?" "I... took a small tumble, yes." That simple disclosure gives her body permission to feel its wounds; she's suddenly aware of aches and throbbing bruises that before, during the rescue and care for him, were numbed by adrenaline overload. "However, nothing quite as spectacular as yours. And I'm fine, rest assured." She's rewarded with a wide, lopsided smile as he shifts his weight onto one hip. Raising his arm, he points to the sodden pile of clothes in the corner by the door. "Before I decided to play gopher, I hit about three or four different spots. Gunmen coordinates," he explains when she raises dubious brows. "Over there in my jacket pocket... " "The fruits of your labor?" "Call it *pay dirt*." Squatting barefoot, she rifles through the wet pile and finds the pocket of Mulder's jacket. Feeling a telltale bulge under her fingers, she pulls out several small plastic baggies, each one housing a minute pinch of indeterminate grayish powder. "Check it out," he gloats, punctuating each word. Sitting beside him, she hands over the bags and he toys with each one, obviously pleased with the yield. "These go straight back to the guys for analysis. Frohike'll think he's died and gone to heaven." His words trigger the weight of the new burden she carries in her heart. It comes sweeping back to overwhelm her with its keenness -- the sad tale of a woman deprived of her beloved, who faithfully waits for his return while raising the child he's never seen. Reaction and fatigue set her emotions off-kilter, and bring a glitter to her eyes that she knows will prompt Mulder to ask questions. To forestall them, she reaches for his hand, drawing it into her lap and stroking it absently with her thumbs. "I want you to speak with someone tomorrow morning, before we leave." "The manager?" Scully nods. "Yes... her name is Ruth." "I noticed you two seemed chummy." "We talked today. Several times," she admits slowly, running a thumb down the creases in the palm of his hand. "I wish I could say it was about something mundane and ordinary, but unfortunately, that's not the case. Ruth has a husband, Mulder. A husband who's been missing for over four years." "Don't tell me... " he murmurs, and already a green spark of intrigue has crept into his eyes. She nods. "She believes he's been abducted by someone -- or something. It happened on that same road where you left the car. The police came up empty, but she claims there are unusual forces at work here on the mountain." "What did I tell you?" "And Mulder... " She pauses and grips his hand, then raises solemn eyes to his. "She can also testify to seeing strange, unexplainable lights in the sky. Apparently you were right." She closes them when he leans forward to kiss her. His lips feel cool and plush against the scratched skin of her cheekbone. "What else?" Easing back against the pillow, his face is a picture of piqued, boyish curiosity. "I get the feeling you've got something else hidden up your sleeve." Sighing, she stands and crosses to her suitcase, bending to retrieve her packet of white-gray dust. Next to Mulder's meager gleanings her bag looks like a hefty dose of street narcotic, and she drops it into his eager palm. His breath hisses in admiration. "You found this... where?" "In Sam's truck." When Mulder's eyes widen at the name, she mentally berates herself for blindsiding him. "His first name is Samuel," she amends quietly, "and Ruth kept the truck stored in an old shed. I went on the assumption that if you could find evidence of supposed abduction elsewhere, then the vehicle he was driving when it occurred should be searched for clues. That's what I found between the seats... as well as scorch marks on the driver's side." Mulder's brows are quirked and his full lips part in what appears to be pleased incredulity. "What?" She crosses her arms in a defensive, self-conscious posture. "I think a soulful rendition of 'Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better' is in order." "Well, I need that hot shower," she sniffs, snatching her robe and slipping toward the bathroom. "Be quick. I'm still waiting for the 'piece de resistance'." Scully throws a quizzical look back over her shoulder. "Think about it," he suggests, winking. She thinks about it, luxuriating in the heat and steam of the shower, savoring the beat of water against her skin and the warm, drowsy sensation it produces. Like the hot spring, several nights ago... no, ages ago, it seems to her weary body and exhausted spirit. In the lull of the magical water at the estate, she'd allowed Mulder intimacy to her body for the first time, touching him and welcoming his bold caresses. It was a step of faith for her in the physical realm. But the emotional, psychological realm still remains precarious territory laden with pitfalls and debris from a life of self-protection, imposed restriction, and denial. Her iron-willed inner strength seems destined to work against her. Perhaps Mulder's right in his theories that draw science and the paranormal into tight embrace. The things she's seen while at his side and now holds as truth would certainly have daunted the younger, greener Dana Scully of long ago. She's matured and ripened in her convictions. Her earlier beliefs in the limitations of an ordered universe no longer hold firm. Years ago she stated to him that nothing stands in contradiction to nature, only in what is known of it. How far in that direction can she trust faith to take her? Can she truly accept what Mulder has espoused for so many years -- tacit recognition of terrible powers and the alien menace that stands poised over mankind? Yet... she's seen evidence in Africa, in the form of a ship under the sea. Has experienced, like a living nightmare, the monstrous machinery of evil on a bridge at night, in a frozen underground chamber in Antarctica. She knows the insidious attempt of CGB Spender, of the surviving remnants of the Consortium, to pilfer and harvest from Mulder's own brain. Mulder's belief in an inevitable alien invasion remains unwavering. And now, this very evening, the incomprehensible beam of light in the forest... the deer, legs flailing against the hold of an enemy from the sky. Invisible, bizarre... but is it really possible? She finds herself wondering what she's truly seen, knowing that the human mind is prone to play self-protective tricks in times of duress. Emerging from the bathroom, she takes comfort that her personal wilderness of unbelief permits exploration. Its boundaries of doubt and denial can be breached, but only in the slow, careful increments that patience and faith and love allow. Perhaps they can chart the map together over time, she and Mulder. He's still sitting up in bed, but asleep, her bag of ash perched on his chest. Head tipped to one side, his dark hair bristles with cowlicks against the pillow. When she approaches on bare silent feet to ease the packet from his hand, he rouses and reaches out for the belt of her robe. "Mulder, what are you doing?" The sensuality and suddenness of the gesture almost make her gasp. Cheeks warm, she finds herself gazing into hazel- green eyes that brook no refusal. "No one's doctored the doctor yet." She realizes, with a start, how much things have changed over the last few days. It's time to re-accustom herself to the casual intimacy that now exists between them, after slipping back into her professional shoes and role. Still so new, the two worlds seem juxtaposed and contradictory. "Thanks for the concern, but I'm okay." "I'll be the judge of that," he quips. She hears his sharp hiss of alarm as he parts her robe and runs soothing hands over the welts and gouges the rope has scoured on her narrow ribcage. "Jesus, Scully... " "I know," she says quietly, calming his dismay. "It's nothing serious, really." She's well aware of the scattered nicks and scrapes over her body. Badges of courage, she muses, some bluish bruises, others etched in scratches of raw burgundy. She still has the sensation of dangling at the end of a rope. Amazing, what she does at the drop of a hat for this man... He coaxes her closer, leaning forward to burrow his face between her breasts. "I missed you." Swallowing, she feels him cup her fullness with his hands, massaging the soft skin. His hot mouth lingers over her nipples, crowning each cool, blushing tip with a kiss. The touches, so tender and intimate, prompt a surge of desire that forces a sigh from her lips. "Hey," she whispers down to him, "please... don't start something we're much too tired to finish." As if by consent, Mulder lifts the sheet with one hand as she shrugs off the robe. His other spreads along the smooth curve of her hip to draw her weary body toward him, and he tucks her damp head under his chin. Large palms descend to cup and squeeze her bottom, then ease gingerly up over the rope burns beneath her breasts. "You tuckered out, Scully?" "Exhausted," she sighs. As she relaxes under the sheet, her legs loosen and shift like silk against his warm thighs. Once again she's overcome by the deep comforting sensation of homecoming, as if this is where she belongs. Outside, the storm is at its ebb, the rain a restive patter on the roof. "Me too. For now, anyway," he adds. Smiling at the qualifier, she turns her head to kiss his throat, rubbing her nose and closed eyes against the tickly hair of his chest. He flexes his muscles against her body and gives a low groan of pain. "What's wrong?" "Just... sore as hell. Jeez, what I wouldn't give for a soak in a hot spring right now." "You'd have to improvise, like before," she whispers, enjoying the tease and remembering their first truly intimate foray a few days earlier. "The spirit is horny beyond belief, but the flesh..." "... isn't in marathon condition, I know. A pity." "Sounds like my wild woman's back." His eyebrows barely manage a suggestive tilt. Though chuckling, he's unable to stifle another wide-mouthed yawn. She's jostled when he leans back with a groan to snap off the bedside lamp. His arms return to tighten around her nakedness. In the dark, she feels her chin lifted, the heavy, moist caress of his mouth glossing her lips with drunken slowness. Opening to him, she takes in his essence like a warm, soothing drink before sleep. "S' strange," he mumbles into her hair. "Your friend Ruth called me a name before. Sounded like 'Boaz'... " "It probably was." The rain quiets again. Distant flashes outline the window, throwing murky light across the bed. He seems to wait for an explanation, eyes already closed while his breathing deepens, sinking into slumber. When he speaks it's from slack lips, a gravelly mutter she can scarcely decipher. "I want full disclosure..." "Sleep first. I'll explain it all tomorrow." "Even the 'piece de resistance'?" Let him wait. She needs time and a good night's sleep before evaluating what she's really seen and experienced. More jostling and the crisp coolness of the sheet hugs her backside. His arm becomes the pillow cushioning her head. Pulled close to his warm chest in the darkness, she slips her arm around his ribs and is pleased by the ample heat he's generating. She muses that Mulder's body, with its rich familiar scent, is the only blanket she'll really need until morning. "We'll see," she murmurs, closing her eyes. ********************* THE END April 18, 2001