DISCLAIMER:  Mulder and Scully and the search for the truth all 
belong to Chris Carter and Co.  I'm just borrowing them.  I 
promise to return them in no worse condition than Chris would.:)
TITLE: HIGH TIDE
AUTHOR: Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
RATING: NC-17
CLASSIFICATIONS: SAR, MSR, Casefile, X-File
ARCHIVE: ONLY ON AUTHOR'S OWN WEBSITE UNTIL STORY IS COMPLETED.
TIMELINE: Takes place 11 months after "Water's Edge", continuing 
in that universe.  This universe turns AU sometime after "all 
things" and before "Requiem".

This chapter is not for the kiddies...


HIGH TIDE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2004


Chapter 3:



"Living in the gap between past and future."
--Kate Bush, "Love and Anger"



Their apartment was dim and quiet.  Comfortable after the 
nighttime rush of the city.  Scully walked Ashleigh to her car, 
while Mulder checked on Christopher.  Tasha followed Mulder into 
the nursery and settled in a massive heap of golden fur beneath 
the crib.

As usual, the little guy had kicked off his blankets.  Mulder 
reached into the crib and eased Grandma Maggie's hand-knitted 
afghan over chubby legs and dinosaur pajamas.  Christopher 
snuffled softly and shifted position, but didn't wake.  The faint 
bluish glow from the fish tank showed soft parted lips and the 
peace of closed lids.

Such perfect skin.  Such perfect little breaths.  Mulder reached 
down and drew the back of his fingers over the flawless silk of 
Christopher's cheek.  Such boundless energy in the day, such 
quietude in sleep.  Chris's skin was warm, despite his rejection 
of the blankets.

He couldn't believe this child was 18 months old.  Seemed the 
blink of an eye.

Fox Mulder had fallen in love with this little boy.  He hadn't 
expected it.  He had always enjoyed the company of children, 
maybe even assumed parenthood was in his future somewhere, but he 
had never quite been able to see himself as a father.  Had never 
been able to see himself taking on the awesome responsibility, 
balancing between overcompensating for his own father's flaws and 
unconsciously mimicking his example.  What he had never imagined 
was the all-consuming love.  The fierce passion that could bloom 
between parent and child and overshadow all rational analysis of 
parenting preparation.  He understood now.  And it frightened 
him.

Because this boy sleeping before him wasn't his son.  Nothing 
here was set in stone.  His place wasn't clear.  He had no legal 
claim on this child.  Yet he couldn't imagine waking up in the 
morning without him in the next room, couldn't imagine not being 
with him on his first day of school or through his first broken 
heart.

Mulder had started out almost a year ago, comfortable with the 
idea that this was Scully's child.  That he would be "Uncle 
Mulder" and share the joy but never catch the brunt of the 
responsibility.  But one night, months and months ago, 
Christopher Waterston had fallen asleep on top of Mulder on the 
living room couch.  And Scully had crept in to carry her boy off 
to bed.  And Mulder had said "no."  Because he hadn't been able 
to bear the thought of surrendering that soft bundle of warmth on 
his chest--the new life snuggling up to him in infinite trust, 
seeking security and finding it in the form of Fox Mulder.

Scully had gazed at them in silence, freckled skin lit only by 
the firelight.  She had nodded and stroked a finger down her 
child's back, another down Mulder's forearm; understanding 
without words.  She loved the same little boy with all her 
breath.  She understood a line had been crossed the night Mulder 
slept through the night on the living room couch, tiny breaths 
tickling the hairs on his chest.  Or maybe he just hoped she did.

Mulder closed his eyes.  He leaned down and brushed his lips 
against Christopher's cheek, caught the scent of Scully's perfume 
on the child's forehead, straightened the afghan once more, 
checked the baby monitor, and slipped away.

He was still adjusting to the notion this was home.  This home 
was his and Scully's.  Together.  Few remnants of Mulder's past 
life graced these rooms.  Most of his personal possessions had 
been lost.  His fish tank remained, still housed in Christopher's 
room.  A few trinkets had survived courtesy of the Gunmen.  His 
third grade baseball glove lay on display in the living room 
bookcase.  Langly had confiscated that treasure from the estate.  
He'd lost it in his own junk closet until months after Mulder's 
return, but it had reappeared, unscathed, and come as a welcome 
surprise.

Some of the items from Scully's old apartment in Georgetown felt 
close enough to home to count.  Some of the furniture had carried 
over from Daniel's apartment.  Mulder thought of it as Scully's 
when he thought of it at all.  But the best parts of this place 
were the items he and Scully had chosen together.  The things 
they had found over these past few months, walking hand in hand 
through outdoor malls and market places, Christopher riding high 
mounted on Mulder's back.  Those were the items that spoke of 
home.

Awaiting Scully's return, Mulder strolled through the apartment, 
not bothering with overhead lights, relying on moonlight and a 
warm glow from the kitchen.  The piano had been Daniel's, but 
Scully loved it, played it, tried to remember what she had 
learned long ago, and talked about taking lessons and memories of 
walking to Mrs. Brtis's piano studio with Missy.  The concept of 
his Scully freeing the closed off part of herself that thrilled 
at making music, washed away any lingering resentment with its 
warmth.  Christopher's chubby fingers found pleasure in exploring 
the ivory keys.  The piano belonged in their makeshift family.

A wide array of carefully framed and placed photos peppered the 
top of the piano.

Christopher.  Many shots of Christopher.  Snow days and baths and 
first smiles and favorite toys.

Family photos from holidays.  Maggie with Christopher.  Bill and 
Tara with the entire next generation of the Scully clan piled on 
and around them on the couch; Charlie's kids, their own kids, 
Scully's child.

On Mulder's first day back in his old life, he had walked the 
floor of a different apartment, a stranger's home, *Scully's 
home*.  He had scanned a different selection of photographs 
lining the mantle.  Only a few of those photos remained on 
display here.  A family gathering at Maggie Scully's.  Scully on 
a beach.  Scully and Daniel in a formal portrait with a one week 
old Christopher; the only remaining visible photo of Daniel in 
their home.  Mulder had placed it there himself on moving day, 
wanting Scully to understand it was okay.  She needed to keep 
*all* of her memories, not just the ones he liked to focus on.  
Lies never did anyone any good.  He knew better than anyone.

It wasn't the picture of Daniel that ground his stomach.  It was 
the picture of Scully on the floor of her mother's house, being 
tickled by Bill as she laughed.  The picture of Scully with her 
cousins at the Scully family reunion, smiling for the camera with 
her arm around a woman Mulder didn’t know.  The picture of Scully 
ducking a spray of water at the beach.  The picture of Scully 
sticking her tongue out at the camera while Charlie crossed his 
eyes, Maggie looking stern in the background.

The pictures of the woman he didn't really know.

The door latch thunked loudly in the silent shell of the 
apartment as Scully opened the door.

She stepped inside, dropping her keys on the entrance table.  In 
the dimness, she seemed unaware of his presence.  She was tired, 
soft, bedtime-Scully.  And it was hard to do anything but love 
her.  He wanted to go to her, touch her, hold her, nestle close 
with her beneath the covers.  She tilted her head back, stretched 
her neck with a hand against the tight muscles.  She fingered 
open the front button of her suit coat and drew a deep breath, 
letting go of the day and sinking into the freedom of home.

His voice jarred her.  "Why don't I have you yet?"

She whirled to face him, squinting into the darkness.  But the 
startle only delayed her response a beat.  A dead stare for a 
moment while she processed and switched gears.  *Where had her 
thoughts gone without him?*  A dry smile played on her lips, brow 
wrinkling.  "Mulder, I refuse to say 'You had me at hello,' but 
if I recall it wasn't too long after.  What are you talking 
about?"

Mulder gestured vaguely toward the display on the piano, but the 
meaning was much wider.  "This woman.  These pictures.  The lady 
who was laughing and smiling and happy to see her brother 
tonight.  Why don't I get anything but glimpses of her from the 
walls?"

Scully stared at him hard for a long moment, eyes narrowed as if 
gauging his seriousness.  She seemed to pick up on the genuine 
depth, but continued to play it lighter, to sarcasm her way 
through in true Scully style.  "You'd prefer I was bubblier?  
It's not my usual style.  With anyone."  She was tired, 
undoubtedly hoping to avoid the deeper issue.

He couldn't let her get away with it.  Not this time.  He shook 
his head.  "That's not what I mean, and you know it."

She took a few steps closer to him, still half a room away, 
shadows playing across her careful expression.  "No, Mulder, I 
don't think I do.  Charlie's my baby brother.  We grew up 
together.  He still brings out the kid in me, as I'm sure your 
childhood friends would in you.  Why is that a problem?"

He sighed heavily.  Circles.  She never made it easy.  "It's not 
a problem.  It's a good thing.  But you and I... I don't feel 
like I know the woman you are with your family.  I still feel 
like I get to know Agent Scully.  I get to see *more* of her now.  
I get to see her in her leisure time.  But I don't get to see 
Dana.  Not close up.  Why?"

"I can't answer that."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because, it's not true.  Mulder--people are different with 
different people in their lives.  My family knows virtually 
nothing of my work for the last decade.  They don't know what 
I've been through, whom I've killed, what I've *seen*...  Mulder, 
you are part of all of that.  You know more about me than anyone 
in the world.  Why do you doubt that?  *How* do you doubt that?"

He shook his head, hands resting on his hips.  "I know the 
technicalities of what you've been through, yes, because I 
happened to be there when those things happened.  Because I 
happened to be sharing that life with you.  But I don't think I 
know any more about how you *felt* about those things than anyone 
else."

She looked like he had hit her.

He caught his mis-step a breath too late, knew the mistake in his 
generalization even as the careless words fell across his lips.  
He braced himself for the flood, knowing he might have set them 
back a year or so in trust and feeling the corresponding cold in 
the pit of his stomach.  *No.  This wasn't supposed to go this 
way.*  He closed his eyes against the fury and thinly veiled hurt 
in her eyes.

The silence stretched too long in the infinite distance between 
them.  "Excuse me?" she breathed at last.

"Scully, don't; look, I didn't mean--"

There were tears in her eyes, but a sickening hardness in her 
voice.  "I have opened myself to you, beyond anyone I have ever 
been with.  I have admitted things to you that I never even 
admitted to myself, that I never admitted in counseling.  Christ, 
Mulder, you're the only one who even knows I ever *saw* an FBI 
counselor.  So...none of that meant anything to you?  Because 
you've never seen me in a water fight on the beach?"

"No, Scully, this is not about pictures at the beach, any more 
than my past oversights were about not getting you a desk--"

"Stay off that."

Jesus, he was on a roll.  He had struck more than one raw nerve 
tonight and she was seething.  He hadn't seen her this fiery in a 
long time.  He hated the distance between them right now, the 
rush of harsh emotions, but part of him welcomed the awakening, 
felt this was needed.  They had to rip everything open, keep 
moving forward before the surface gloss hardened into a false 
reality.

"Scully, look at us--right now.  This doesn’t tell you anything?  
I ask you an honest question, challenge you to open up about 
something, and minutes later we're ripping each other's guts out.  
That doesn’t strike you as a weak point in the relationship?"

"*Ask* me?  There's a difference between a request and an 
ambush."

Her gaze was slipping, eye contact no longer allowed as she 
focused on his chest.  Dammit.

"An 'ambush.'  Interesting word choice, Scully.  So...to be 
emotionally intimate with me, you want fair warning and a battle 
plan?"  He nodded, half to himself, his own hurt morphing into 
anger.  He had tried to hold out, take the abuse as the voice of 
reason until he broke through her defenses.  But resentment 
asserted itself.  He shouldn't have to wait.  He shouldn't have 
to weather the abuse and climb the walls.  Not after this much 
time.  "Okay.  Guess that answers part of my question."

"No.  You are not turning this around."

"It's not a *fight*, Scully.  It wasn't supposed to be.  That's 
the whole problem."

She swallowed hard.  Didn't speak.  Then she winced, jerked her 
chin away and stared at the floor.  Her hair fell across her 
cheek.

"I'm tired," she said, words still biting.  "I would really just 
like to get some sleep."

Mulder nodded.  He held his stance for a moment, then he moved to 
the door in three easy strides.  He snatched his leather jacket 
from the coat tree.  "Fine.  You sleep."

He was out the door before she had a chance to reply.


*****


The apartment was still and quiet.

She tried to sleep.

She tried not to hurt.

She tried to close out the echoes of words in her head.

She heard him return to the apartment just after she turned out 
the light.

She heard the television playing softly soon after.  She heard 
him pull his sweats out of the laundry basket in the utility 
room.  Heard the hall closet door and the rustle of blankets.

He was tranced out on the couch.

She tried to sleep.

She drifted in and out of restless consciousness and lost count 
of time.  The night was deep and endless.  Her mind raced and her 
stomach ached.  She was so in need of rest; for a dozen reasons.  
She missed the days when Christopher's crib had been close by and 
she had fallen asleep to the sounds of his breaths.  She didn't 
want to remember lonely nights in Georgetown wondering if Mulder 
would ever find the truths he sought, if the powers that be would 
ever let them live a normal life.  If either of them would live 
that long.  She listened to the wind in the trees, watched the 
sprinkling of rain on the bedroom window.

Scully loved this room, loved this apartment.  Not because it was 
any special find, not for roominess or elegance or anything so 
material in nature; but because this place felt like home.  This 
place was hers and Mulder's and Christopher's.  They had chosen 
it together and made it their own.  She had never done that with 
anyone.  She had never chosen a home for anyone but herself.  
Even in her time with Daniel, they had adapted his apartment to 
suit the family.  They had talked of finding a townhouse together 
with room for a family, but those plans had never been played 
out.

She loved this apartment for the narrow balcony overlooking the 
courtyard where she and Mulder would sit at night and watch the 
stars and wonder what was out there and whether they would ever 
see it first hand.  She loved this apartment for the fireplace 
before which she and Mulder had made love on chilly springtime 
nights.  She loved it because no one she loved had ever died 
here.

She needed this life to work so badly it brought tears to her 
eyes.  Breathing was hard when she and Mulder were out of synch.  
It always had been.  Even in the years they had chosen to pretend 
it didn't matter.

This time it was her fault.  She just didn't know how to fix it, 
how to soothe his hurts when she hadn't finished nursing her own.


*****

She was drifting through the shimmery greys of half-sleep when 
she heard him in the hallway.  Her stomach clenched.  She was 
exhausted.  She desperately wanted contact.  But she didn't want 
to talk, didn't want to fight, didn't want to think.  His 
footsteps stopped near the doorway.  Wind through the trees in 
the courtyard flickered moonlight across her blankets onto the 
empty place beside her.

She tried to be hard.  Tried to compartmentalize the way she 
always had, go on with the task at hand.  She was so tired...

Scully closed her eyes, kept her back toward the door.  She 
couldn't tell if Mulder was close enough to see her, if he was 
gauging whether she was asleep or merely alone in his own misery.  
She held her breath for a long moment.

He moved quietly into the room.

Her heart was pounding, rushing blood in her ears and the silence 
without seemed desperately oppressive.  She felt the mattress 
sink beneath his weight, heard his breath.

A warm hand smoothed down her hair.  Soft lips pressed into the 
side of her neck.

Words carried on hot breath into her ear..."I'm sorry...."

Unexpected tears warmed her eyes.  *No.  Mulder.  Please don't 
be.*

She let go a breath and her muscles relaxed a shade.

She didn't move, but she didn't pull away.  He was kissing her 
shoulder, trailing the soft dampness of his lips down the length 
of her spine to the edge of her low-backed nightgown.  She curled 
her fingers through his.  A trembling breath coursed through her 
body.  Mulder rolled her into his arms.

"Mulder."  She sought his eyes.  "Mulder, I'm not...I don't..."  
He touched a finger to her lips to silence her, but she pressed 
forward.  "Mulder, you *know*...  Tell me you know..."

"Sssshhh..."  He kissed her temple.  "It's okay."

He didn't want words.  He wouldn't hear.

She spoke in the language they had always understood.

She caught his mouth with her own.  His taste was like a sugar 
rush of memory, the essence of him so strong it hurt.  Skin, 
breath, texture, scent, *Mulder*.  Sometimes the wonder of the 
sensation was still achingly erotic for her.  So many years, so 
very many years of desiring the unattainable, the just-out-of-
reach.  And then he was here, Mulder, in her bedroom, on her 
skin, between her legs, and he wanted to be here, and she wanted 
to give herself to him.  It was painful to feel something so 
right.  Sometimes his touch sucked her back through the years 
like a wormhole and the reality of his presence overwhelmed her 
senses and sent her near to climax before they had passed through 
foreplay.

She gasped for breath as she broke their kiss, a rush of blood 
pooling in regions below.

Mulder grabbed the back of her hair and looked her hard in the 
eyes.  The depth of emotion in his hazel eyes was overpowering.  
"I love you," he said, words simple, but the power in his voice 
tightened her throat.  "Always know that," he said.  "Always."

"And I love you," she whispered, vision blurring through a 
shimmer of tears.  "I love you."

Then his mouth was on hers again, and the passion was ignited by 
the afterwash of anger and hurt.

His arms were so strong.  She would never tire of the power of 
his shoulders, the long muscles of his upper arms.  He didn't 
know his own strength sometimes.  Once, during the night after 
his mother had died, he had held her so hard it ground pained 
flesh against bone.  But she hadn't cared.  He'd done it a few 
other times in their life.  In passion or fear or hurt.  It had 
never mattered to her.  She had always felt safer in his embrace 
than anywhere in the world.

Those treasured arms surrounded her now as he kissed her mouth 
hard, plunging his tongue deep within her.  Her hands moved 
possessively over his back, his shoulders, as she drank from his 
kisses.  No one's lips felt like Mulder's.  She had wanted to 
taste that mouth for nearly a decade.  A few months of freedom 
hardly began to slake her desire.

His late night shadow of whiskers scratched at her skin, stung 
her lips as she pulled at his mouth.  His hands were in her hair, 
long fingers, claiming her for his own.

She rolled onto her side, hooked her leg over Mulder's thigh, 
pressing her hips against his groin.  She felt-heard him moaning 
into her mouth at the contact.  She pulled at his t-shirt, 
sliding the thin material over his taut muscles.  His skin was so 
warm.  She wanted to surround herself with him.

"I need you," he breathed into her ear.

"You have me," she whispered huskily, reassuring more than his 
physical needs.

She kissed his chest, bit gently at his nipples, circled them 
with her tongue and pleasured in the soft sounds she brought from 
his lips.

She wanted as much skin on skin as possible.

In moments, all clothing was pushed away.  They were entwined 
beneath the quilt, lost in one another.

She was still half dreamy, moving and acting on pure instinct and 
emotion, letting herself have this moment, defenses lost with the 
clarity of full consciousness.  

Mulder was kissing her skin now, drinking her in.  He was at her 
breasts, giving special attention, lingering in kisses and 
touches and licks that felt something like worship.  He found 
comfort there, resting against her, feeling the warmth and safety 
of her body.  And in the moments she believed this, she felt 
beautiful.  The knots in her stomach were softening, opening her 
to air and breath.  His mouth trailed down her stomach, strong 
hands kneading her breasts and the gentle circular motion 
tightening her groin in needy anticipation.

She twined her fingers through his hair.  Grey at the temples 
now, wrinkles around his eyes that she had watched deepen over 
the years.  He had grown from a lost boy into a beautiful man 
before her eyes in their years side by side.  Somehow she felt 
this made him even more hers, lives twined from closer to the 
root.

His tongue lapped over her clit.

"Oh, *God*..."  She couldn't silence the throaty cry.  The thrill 
coursed through her body like a wave over sand and she curled her 
fingers around the carvings of the headboard.  She needed this so 
badly.  Needed to open her body to him in a language he would 
understand, needed to be clear of the constrictions and 
complications and machinations of words.

He circled his tongue, eagerly drinking from her.  She watched 
his silhouette in the moonlight, rippling muscles of his back as 
he leaned over her, the line of his hips.  She shifted her leg to 
slide her calf against his erection.  The warm silk of his 
pulsing skin escalated her own arousal.

"Mulder...Oh, God..."  She was drowning in warmth and moisture 
and the smooth glide of pleasure.

But this was too good, she was too close.  Not yet.

She dug her nails into his skin and pulled him up toward her.  He 
complied after only a moment, rising above her like a sheltering 
harbor.  She mourned the loss of sweetness between her legs.

But she needed the real thing.

"Inside me.  Now," she breathed, lids hooded, breath uneven.

She could see the pulse of blood in his temples, the rise of life 
in the power of his muscles.  He was hard as a rock against her 
hip.  The desire wafting off of him was like an aphrodisiac.  She 
got off on his arousal as much as her own.

He kissed her again; hard, hungry.

She reached down and grasped his cock, enjoying the throaty gasp 
elicited by her fingers.

She guided him into her.

Mulder grasped her hips and pulled her down the mattress, tight 
against him.

The moment felt like a release of breath between them.

He wouldn't last long.  She could see it already.  The rush of 
emotions had morphed into desire and brought them both near to 
the edge with uncommon speed.

He made his first thrust into her and she nearly lost her tenuous 
hold.  He was right on her spot, right in the heart of her, 
driving into her deepest place where she harbored her most 
desperate desires and darkest secrets.

She bit into his shoulder as he moved against her.  He didn't 
flinch.  It was all too much.  She needed him more than anything.  
Needed to feed the inner desires that she had so often masked in 
her life.  She cupped a hand to his buttock, thrilling at the 
hardness of his running muscles, and guided him against her.  The 
sheer power of his hips deepened the delicious ache.  She was 
almost there.

It wasn't often she could climax on nothing but vaginal 
stimulation.  But tonight felt like one of those nights.

Mulder was close, breath raspy, arms trembling as he drove into 
her.  She gasped with each pull back, never wanting him to move 
away, needing him tight against her for as long as she could hold 
on.  Mulder gripped the pillow, moaned softly close to her ear, 
and the crack in his voice, the aching need of the last moments 
before climax, pushed her over the edge with him.

The pleasure was almost too much to bear.

She clung to Mulder's back, capturing him deep inside her, riding 
out her orgasm as his own muscles pulsed against hers, holding 
him as close and deep as she could take.

She felt whole again.  Safe.  Quiet.

They were breathless and wordless.  Softening in one another's 
arms.

Not letting go.

He kissed her ear and gripped her hair.

A thin sheen of sweat covered their skin.  His weight pressed her 
chest.  She loved this man.  She would never let go.  Mulder.


*****


The sound of the phone was incongruous, spilling over from 
another time, another life.  As Scully pulled her eyes open, the 
first glimpses of morning light trickled toward her through the 
closed blinds.

She was warm, drawing out of a heavy sleep, Mulder's hot skin 
tight against her back.  He was shifting, too, coming to life.

She reached out a fumbling hand to the bedside table.

"Hello?"  Her voice was hoarse.

She dropped back onto the pillow, handset to her ear.  Mulder 
nestled his face into her hair, unwilling to surrender sleep.

She listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

"What?"

She pushed up onto her elbow.  She felt Mulder sense the shift 
beneath her skin.

"Oh, my God.  When exactly?....Okay.  Yeah.  I'll see you there.  
I--Thank you."

She clicked the "off" button.  The handset fell to the mattress 
beside her.

Mulder rose onto his elbow, pulling from blissful touches to real 
world concern.  "Scully?  What's wrong?"

She swallowed hard.  Wanted to close her eyes and turn back the 
clock, curl up beneath the covers.  Mulder's fingers gently 
nudged back her hair.  "Scully?"

"That, uhhh....that was Gannon.  It would seem that during a 
shifting of prisoners early yesterday evening due to construction 
work being performed on the cell block, one James Maley...escaped 
from the prison grounds.  The authorities currently have no lead 
as to his whereabouts.  The trial is expected to be delayed until 
which time he can be apprehended."

"Oh, Jesus.  Holy shit, Scully.  You can't be telling me this."

She hesitated a long moment, feeling a lack of breath to voice 
her words.  "I believe I can."

They sat together in the silence of the dawn hours.  After a 
while, Mulder wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down 
tight against him.  She held on hard, flesh to flesh.  Not 
speaking, breathing in unison.  Then they let go, and turned 
away.  Faced their day; whatever lay ahead.


*****

(End Chapter 3.  Continued in Chapter 4....)

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