DISCLAIMER JAZZ: "The X-Files" and its characters are the 
creations and property of the fabled Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen 
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I am, of course, using them 
without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. All 
other concepts or ideas herein are mine.
SUMMARY: Believing Mulder dead, Scully slowly moves on to a new 
life (or an old one). But perhaps the adventure has not yet 
ended...:)
TITLE: WATER'S EDGE
AUTHOR: Elizabeth Rowandale
RATING: NC-17...individual parts will be marked NC-17 if and when 
they arise...
CLASSIFICATIONS: (SAR)
KEYWORDS: Scully/Other, MSR
SPOILERS: Through US season 7
ARCHIVE: ONLY ON THE AUTHOR'S OWN WEBSITE UNTIL STORY IS 
COMPLETED. This way I can mess with the early parts as later 
parts develop...
TIMELINE: Though this takes place sometime after "all things", in 
this universe "Requiem" did NOT happen...

WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale
Copyright (c) 2000
 

Time passes in moments.

There have always been moments in my life that have hung in the 
air around me as I walked through all the succeeding days, laying 
their images across my vision to quietly reshape all that I 
perceive in the present.

So many of these moments have come since the day I first set foot 
in that basement office, the one Blevins labeled the Copier Room 
when first directing me to its location.

I never thought I'd miss the smell of wet dust.

If only we could know in advance which were the moments that 
would stick with us forever, the moments that would stand out in 
our memories as the signposts of all that surrounded them. 
Perhaps we would pay more attention that way. Or maybe it's right 
that we don't.

Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, when my mind and 
body have not yet fully accepted wakefulness, single moments from 
those two critical years flash through my mind like scattered 
snapshots.

The sound of water from the fountain below the balcony.

Daniel's fingers twisting through mine. His skin tingling my 
nerves, spreading warmth up my arm.

Your hand on my back as you said goodnight on that far too 
ordinary day before you disappeared.

The smell of Frohike's leather jacket and the way it felt against 
my cheek as I held onto the cloth and tried to breathe.

The glaring sun reflecting off the line of windshields, drawing 
crosses of light in the air, like angels along the cemetery path, 
watching and waiting as my husband passed on.

The incredible softness of a tiny cheek nestled against my 
shoulder.

The sound of the wind the moment I saw you by the wrought iron 
garden gate.

The look on your face the moment your eyes found the ring.

First contact with your fingertips.

Mulder. This is a moment. Take me home.

 
(To be continued in Chapter 1....)
Feedback?:)
bstrbabs@gmail.com 

-----------------------

WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale
Copyright (c) 2000
 

CHAPTER 1
 

"Dammit, Frohike, open up NOW!"

His stomach tensed as his fumbling fingers worked the column of 
locks. Dana Scully was one of the few women in the world who 
could reduce his psyche to that of a twelve year old boy.

He had hardly turned the knob before she pushed through the door.

*"Where is he?!"*

The room suspended mid-breath as this bluster of coat tails and 
flaming hair splashed upon their grey landscape of file cabinets 
and electronics.

Her icy words shimmered in the air.

Scully swept the room with a glance, and Frohike felt they had 
all been X-rayed. He attempted a deep breath to free himself of 
the concave position he had used to avoid the door. Byers stood 
nearby with a pencil dangling from his fingers, and Langly poked 
his head out from beneath a desk, goggles tangled in his hair and 
a screwdriver pointed toward the ceiling.

Scully lifted her eyebrows. "I'm sorry, was I not speaking 
English?"

Time to take the plunge. Forcing a swallow, Frohike took the 
first brave step toward their friend. "Scully, just calm down, 
we--"

*"Where is he?!"*

The cold words were like a wall erected between them. *Touch me, 
and I'll blow your head off.*

Frohike stopped where he stood, raising his hands in a peace 
offering.

"Scully. We don't know what you're talking about. You're looking 
for Mulder?"

Her only acknowledgement was a slight exhale.

"He didn't show up at work today?" Byers, still dangling the 
pencil, was frowning slightly in Scully's direction.

Scully did not afford him the courtesy of eye contact, but said 
dryly. "No, he did not show up at work today. Nor does he answer 
his door, his home phone, or his cell phone. His leather jacket 
is not in his closet or his car, his duffel bag is gone from his 
trunk, his email is set to auto-response, and there was a single 
long-stemmed rose on my desk this morning. Now, tell me what the 
hell is going on!"

"Scully, hold on here. Believe me, we're as concerned for Mulder 
as you are, but what makes you think we know anything more than 
you do?" Frohike kept his voice even, working hard to speak to 
the friend beneath the bluster and not rise to her bait, to 
gather the facts without bias.

"Because Mulder can be stupid, but not *that* stupid. This was a 
deliberate departure, not a kidnapping. He would tell someone 
where he was going. And if it wasn't me, it had to be you."

"Scully, we haven't talked to Mulder since last week," Langly 
piped in from beneath the desk.

Scully reacted as if he had never spoken.

Frohike took another shot. "Scully, come on, come sit down, and 
we'll see if we can sort this out."

Her gaze had settled on a level somewhere around his knees. 
"Thank you, I'll stand." Her voice had grown quieter, but no 
warmer. In the back of his mind he sensed the slightest edge of 
fear. As though some part of her were truly listening to them. 
And the thought that placing Mulder would not be so simple as 
squeezing the information out of three geeks in a basement was 
not something she was ready to accept.

Byers took a step nearer. "Tell us what's going on. Were the two 
of you involved in a case? Something that might have caused 
Mulder to branch off without back-up?"

"Was something placing *you* in danger?" Frohike caught the 
slightest flinch from Scully at his words, but he did not read 
her well enough to catch its meaning. Mulder wouldn't have missed 
it.

She shook her head. "No. There was nothing. We're between cases, 
catching up on paperwork. Mulder was glad for the break from 
fieldwork." Then she gave a self-derisive laugh as the cogs 
clicked into place. "Right...."

"Don't jump to conclusions, Dana, we understand your concern, but 
you don't really know what's happened yet, and--" but it was 
immediately apparent that the personable kindness tack had been 
the wrong way to go.

Scully stepped away from him like so much useless newspaper, and 
placed herself mere inches from Byers face. "Look at me," she 
said evenly. Byers looked, finally lowering his pencil. Behind 
him, Langly rose from the floor.

"What--has Mulder--told you?"

Beneath the scrutiny, Byers eternal sense of the gentleman did 
not fail. "Dana, we haven't spoken to Mulder since last week, and 
that was about an email encryption program on his home computer. 
As far as we knew he was off to work this morning as always."

Scully held his gaze for what seemed like a full minute. Jaw 
tight, lids half-lowered. Studying him like a grade school 
teacher seeking out the boy who had pulled the blonde girl's 
hair.

At last she stepped back, with a breath like a half-laugh. But 
nothing was funny. "As always...." she repeated, giving her final 
"s" the slightly softened Sean Connery lilt that Frohike had 
always found so sexy in her, but right now engendered only 
protectiveness.

Before he could speak she had turned on her heel and started for 
the door. Three voices came to life behind her. "Scully, wait--", 
"Scully, just tell us--" "Scully, we didn't--"

But the door was half open, and the blue eyes had turned to them 
for one final damning glance. "Go to hell." And as she turned her 
back, "all four of you."

The slam clipped their protests to silence.



*****



The wind whipped like cold tendrils against her skin as she 
stepped out the door. Good. It kept her numb, braced her anger.

Warm sun would have hurt.

Scully pulled on her black leather gloves and fished her keys 
from her trench coat pocket as she hurried down the walkway to 
her car. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach, a steady drizzle of 
guilt was eating at her and consuming what little remained of her 
appetite. The Gunmen were her friends, odd as that still seemed 
to her. They hadn't deserved that hard a jab. But another 
suppressed emotion was keeping her from altering her course of 
action.

Fear.

Scully had reached for her cell phone at least five times this 
past hour. It made her dizzy each time she realized it wouldn't 
work to reach Mulder. Scales tip when the balancing partner is 
out of its place.

Slamming her car door, she slipped the key in the ignition. She 
wanted the heater on, though it wouldn't warm the part of her 
that was truly cold. As for driving, her destination was a bit 
uncertain. Going back to work would be nothing but unproductive. 
When traffic patterns could barely hold her attention while she 
was driving, paperwork wouldn't stand a chance.

Damn them. How dare they treat her with such condescension? As 
though the four of them had not conspired to exclude her a dozen 
times before.

Scully shifted into drive and glanced over her shoulder before 
pulling back out onto the road. She held her wrist up to the air 
vent and shivered as the warmth crept across her skin.

How the hell had she missed this coming? Hadn't she been working 
with Mulder long enough to know when he was onto something on the 
side?

She turned left at the light, letting instinct lead her back 
toward the office. She might not be up for more paperwork, but 
she would have more resources at her disposal there than at home. 
And she wasn't through fishing.

She had to stay angry at Mulder.

The fucking rose made her want to punch his lights out.

And made her want to cry.

 

* * * * *

 

"Leave it to Mulder to reinvent the schedule without sharing."

"He's compromising his own mission by hitting us like this."

Langly's fingers flew across the keyboard, flashing through the 
multiple security coded screens to reach the pertinent files.

"Sometime in June, my ass," Frohike muttered as he popped open 
his soda can. "Third folder from the bottom," he said more 
clearly, gesturing toward the monitor.

"So much for tracing him from the start," Byers added.

"And the new night vision sunglasses we were supposed to have for 
him by the 19th," said Langly as he at last made it to the 
intended document. The screen turned from meaningless symbols to 
words before their eyes as their encryption program cascaded down 
the document.

Their instructions from Mulder on how to proceed lay before them.

Byers sat at the table beside the computer, earpiece to his ear, 
tapping away at his own keyboard, adjusting the equipment and 
hoping to bring in the sound feed from Mulder's wire.

Frohike was hoping Mulder had *worn* his wire.

"How does he expect us to cover his ass if he doesn't even give 
us a chance to prepare?" asked Frohike, still sounding angry, but 
beginning to show the edges of Scully's hidden fear. This was one 
of the stupidest things he had ever known Mulder to do. And that 
was saying something.

Langly was busy scanning Mulder's document, making cryptic notes 
to himself on a small scrap of paper. "Did you get all the ID 
materials to him already?" he asked with a glance over his 
shoulder.

Frohike nodded. "Yeah, he shouldn't have any clearance problems. 
I should have known once the keycard was in his hand..."

"I think I have something," Byers said abruptly, and both heads 
turned expectantly. He was deep in concentration, hand to his 
earpiece.

"Put him on speaker, dude," Langly said impatiently.

For nearly a minute the speaker brought them nothing but soft 
thuds that could have been footsteps, but could have been line 
noise. The tension in the room was so thick Frohike was almost 
afraid the hum of their nerves would drown out the input. Then at 
last the endless thuds were interrupted by a sharp cough, 
followed by the clearing of a throat--and even over the wire, 
both sounds were distinctly Mulder.

"Oh, thank God," Frohike said, setting down his soda can and 
flexing his half-gloved fingers. Everyone shifted position, shook 
off the tension. "Now if only our boy will keep a hold of his mic 
better than he keeps hold of his gun."

His attempt at humor lacked commitment and fell flat against a 
dry breath from Byers and a frown at the monitor from Langly.

There was work to do.

But not enough to shorten the wait.

 

*****

 

Scully never made it back to work. Her car had taken her to 
Mulder's apartment.

She had circled through each room at least twenty times, pacing 
the floor, searching the bookshelves, counting the suits in the 
closet. She had analyzed the meager contents of the fridge, 
filtered through letters, papers, bills. She had fed the fish. 
She had spent two hours at his computer--scanning email, looking 
for suspiciously titled documents--pretending she had not booted 
the system to find an opening screen that read simply "Hey, 
Scully".

As the sun was drifting toward the horizon, she pulled the living 
room shade. She picked up her own trench coat and pulled it 
around her shoulders. Then she picked up Mulder's Knicks T-shirt 
from the back of his couch. She locked the door on her way out. 
She drove home.

End Chapter 1


(To be continued in Chapter 2....)
Feedback?:)
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-----------------------


WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale
Copyright (c) 2000
 

CHAPTER 2
 

**Two weeks have passed since you said good night. On Monday 
morning your rose had wilted. By Thursday, I threw it away.**
 

"Agent Scully. I appreciate your prompt response."

"Yes, sir."

"Please, have a seat."

"Thank you, sir."

She smoothed her skirt carefully beneath her, taking her familiar 
place in the right-hand chair before her superior's desk.

"Sir, may I ask what this is in regards to?"

Skinner watched her for a long moment, his wide, rounded 
shoulders an imposing silhouette before the window. He was 
silent, studying her. She had long ago mastered the art of the 
staring contest. Charlie was afraid of her to this day.

Scully lifted an eyebrow. Skinner looked down.

He straightened the pencil beside his desk pad. "Scully, the fact 
is, Agent Mulder filed for two weeks' emergency leave time. That 
time ended this morning, and unless things have changed since 
9am, I assume he has not made an appearance here at the Bureau."

Scully gave a quick shake of her head. "No, sir. Mulder is not 
here." So odd that her voice could sound so steady. Her face felt 
flushed. The sun from the window behind Skinner's desk seemed 
painfully bright.

"I don't suppose you could shed any light on this situation for 
me, Agent Scully?"

Cat and mouse. He was watching her body language more than he was 
listening to her words. It was an old game for them. (*"Sir, I 
would expect you to place the same trust in me, as I do in 
you...."*) For two weeks, they had been exchanging casual, 
professional comments. For two weeks Skinner had known Mulder was 
not visiting a sick relative or selling off his great aunt's 
estate. What he didn't know was how much Scully knew. Or how much 
she could be persuaded to tell.

"No, sir, I can't," she said plainly.

"Has Agent Mulder contacted you at any time in the past two 
weeks?"

"No, sir."

Of all the times she had cursed Mulder's name for forcing her to 
lie to their superiors about his whereabouts...she never thought 
she would want so much to be lying.

"I trust I can count on you to notify me immediately of any 
information that might lead us to contact Agent Mulder."

"Of course, sir." She could have left it at that. But instead she 
added, "Sir, I'm sure that Agent Mulder has merely been delayed 
in his return. As I understand it, he has been known to extend 
his leave before without following procedure until after that 
fact. I think we both know Mulder has never been one for adhering 
to proper procedure."

Skinner narrowed his eyes, regarding her warily through his 
finely rimmed glasses. Her statement hung in the air like a 
question.

"Agent Scully, for the time being I'm going to have you continue 
to maintain the X-Files Division on your own. I trust that before 
you enter into any potentially risky fieldwork you will contact 
me to assign back-up."

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"If we have not had word from Agent Mulder by this time next 
week, I will call a meeting regarding a formal investigation into 
his whereabouts. At that time, we will also address the 
possibility of assigning someone to assist you on the X-Files in 
a more permanent capacity."

Scully did not speak, but held his eye contact against the 
lengthy silence. Her tongue toyed with the backs of her teeth, 
resisting the urge to bite her lip.

"You're dismissed, Agent Scully," Skinner said at last, quietly 
tapping his pencil against his coffee cup, and wrinkling his nose 
as if against an acrid smell."Thank you, sir," Scully said 
softly, and she pushed to her feet. Her hair slipped across her 
cheek as she stood, and for now she had no desire to push it 
away.

She had already opened the door when Skinner's low rumble of a 
voice touched her back. "Dana?"

*Jesus*. "Yes, sir?"

"Should I be worried?"

She lifted her eyes to meet his, remained half in profile. Her 
chest felt too tight to breathe.

Her only answer was a forced exhale through her nose and a tense 
swallow. Then she turned and walked out, gently closing the door 
behind her.

 

*****



She had learned how to function in black and white in the winter 
of 1997. It had not happened all at once that time. The color had 
just seeped from her world a little at a time as the days grew 
shorter and the air turned colder. And she had gradually shifted 
her wardrobe to essentials of black, blending more quietly with 
the surrounding greys. Breathing had turned from life renewing 
and life affirming, to something necessary to keep hold of the 
thread. A blind continuance.

Her clearest memory of those days was how much it had hurt to 
have him look at her--and not touch her.

This time she was walking through her days...cool, efficient, 
supremely functional, distant. Preferring the black and white 
blur to the sharp pain in colors. Her body was solidly beneath 
her. Her own future not in such immediate peril. Her heartbeat 
was solid, her muscles sound. Yet the emptiness that had left her 
cold that remembered winter, traveled again with her now.

For days a single thought had accompanied each moment of Scully's 
life: With all the unused vacation time Mulder had built up--why 
had he taken only two weeks? Unless he had expected to return in 
time.

So why wasn't he here?

Scully cut out of work early and stopped at the Eastside Market, 
hoping for some enticing fresh fruits and vegetables to spark up 
her near barren refrigerator and perhaps her appetite as well. 
She took her time sorting through the possibilities, turning over 
ears of corn, testing the firmness of peaches. She smiled at the 
young, freckled stock girl who had come to recognize her face.

Still carrying her bags of the market's finest pickings, she 
walked a block through rush hour crowds to her favorite coffee 
house and bought an iced cappuccino. She chose one of the high 
stools by the front windows, and watched the crowds pass by as 
she toyed with her straw. A young couple near the entrance kept 
drawing her attention. The girl had long red hair and gold rimmed 
glasses. Not a look too far from the one Scully herself had 
sported in her med school years. The boy with her was obviously a 
boyfriend. He seemed near the girl's age, undergraduate probably. 
Clean cut, but not preppy. A T-shirt exalting the joys of 
imported beer. But what drew her attention was their comfortable 
ease with one another. Their calmness and frequent smiles, 
despite the inevitable stresses that must have come along with 
the bookbags at their feet. Scully couldn't ever remember her 
life having been that comfortable.

There was always something to struggle against. A reason to be 
stoic.

Someone to need, who was just out of reach.

The red-haired girl reached across the table and twined her 
fingers through the boy's hand. They went on talking. Like it was 
the most natural thing in the world. And that hand would always 
be there. No murder case calling, no rolling ocean between them, 
no faculty member watching from the shadows, eager to 
condemn...no men in black.

Scully took another sip of her coffee and turned to the window.

As the sky grew dimmer, her reflection in the glass grew 
stronger. Dusk was coming quickly these days.

She could make out the line of her shoulder now. Her black pumps 
hooked on the lowest rung of the stool. She couldn't pretend she 
wasn't at least mildly pleased by the images that met her in 
passing mirrors, she had worked hard to be the woman she was 
today. The polish mattered to her. The little hints of the 
underlying femininity and sexuality. She was aware of her 
lipstick, the way her tongue slid over her lips, the even length 
of her nails. She bought herbal shampoos and savored the 
silkiness of her own hair through her fingers. Never had she 
completely lost track of Dana in Agent Scully. The hard part came 
when other people did. Or when people tried to take it away.

Mulder could do either. To the extreme. With a single touch, a 
glance, a word, he could awaken parts of herself even she had 
forgotten existed. And with equal ease, he could cut her to the 
core, brushing off the mere thought that she was anything more 
than met the eye, expecting no more of her than any other agent 
in the bureau. And his skill in each direction seemed to increase 
in parallel.

One winter, hopelessly wrapped in his own selfish quests, he had 
cut her beyond deep. She had almost left for real that time. For 
a while she *had* left in spirit. She felt a pang of guilt that a 
part of her preferred the moment she was living and breathing in 
now--a moment when she was separated from Mulder physically, but 
their connection of mind and...whatever else...was buzzing 
stronger than ever--versus a winter when she had had him by her 
side day after day, and never connected with him for a moment.

*Would another woman have cried about his disappearance yet?* It 
was a strange question, but it rang loudly behind her eyes. She 
looked again at her reflection in the window, now barely able to 
make out the bodies crushing past beyond the glass. Mulder had 
left her high and dry so many times. She had shut off the 
sensation in that limb years ago. Remnants seeped in the edges, 
into her subconscious, her dreams.

An image of Mulder washed across her mind's eye, utterly 
unbidden. He was standing in an open parking lot, trench coat 
flapping in the breeze. He was smiling at her, angling his head 
the way he did when he was trying to get her to step close to 
him, but didn't want to say.

She could smell him.

Scully shoved back her stool with a screech that startled the 
red-haired girl by the door. She gathered her things, tossed the 
last of her drink into the nearest garbage bin, and headed out 
the door.


*****


"Hey, Scully," said Langly as he stepped back to let her inside.

She gave him a half smile. "Hi."

Dana Scully was becoming a regular fixture at the Gunmen's 
Hideout. Wouldn't that thought have blown her away seven years 
ago? Seven years ago when Mulder believed in little grey men who 
stole children at night and Scully believed everyone she had ever 
met had had human DNA and Frohike had had a hopeless crush on the 
red-headed scientist who told him to go to hell with a glance.

Frohike looked up from the copy of The Lone Gunman he was 
editing. "Scully," he said in greeting. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," she said, almost coldly, almost in resentment that he 
would even ask. But the quick glance toward him afterward, and 
then at the floor, was almost an apology. She wondered exactly 
when "go to hell" had turned to "thank you".

"No word I suppose?" Frohike asked, stepping around his stool and 
closer to her.

She shook her head. "How about you guys? Did that lead you were 
talking about last night go anywhere?"

He shook his head. "Nothing yet. We're still following up, 
though."

It was a useless phrase that did nothing but attempt to sound 
better than "he's vanished without a trace". But they both heard 
the translation anyway.

Scully remained busy. She pulled off her gloves and dropped them 
in her coat pocket. Then she lifted her briefcase onto a nearby 
work table and popped the locks. "I got the information you 
wanted off of Mulder's Email. I don't know how useful it will 
be." She fished through the stack of manila folders, pulling out 
a few loose printouts of messages Mulder had exchanged with 
unfamiliar names in the past few weeks. It was an exercise. 
Mulder wouldn't have left anything of use behind. They had dug 
too deep already. If he had left a trail for her to follow, she 
would have caught the scent by now. She was stumbling in the 
dark.

It was Byers who took the papers from her hand. "Every little bit 
can help, Scully," he said kindly. Byers was always kind.

"Right." Her half-smile was nothing but a reflex.

Langly came up to her as Byers turned away. "I got some more 
printouts of plane reservations. Want to help me scan for 
aliases?" He said it like it was "want to share my corn nuts?". 
Langly.

She nodded, taking the pale grey printouts in her cold fingers. 
The paper was scratchy against her winter-dry skin. She had left 
her hand lotion in the glove compartment of her car. But it was 
too warm in here to convince her to return to the damp chill 
outside.

Scully slipped out of her coat and hung it on the scuffed wood 
coat tree near the door. Forgoing the slightly funky couch in the 
corner, she took a seat at the folding metal chair across from 
Frohike's post and spread out the printouts.

This was more busywork. But there was always that slim chance 
that either Mulder *had* left something for her to find, or that 
she knew his mind better than he realized. They couldn't just run 
a computer search through the names. There was no thorough way to 
tell the computer to "find any names that might have some slim 
significance to myself or Mulder". So she pulled her glasses from 
her suit coat pocket and set to work.

A few minutes later Byers silently placed a cup of black coffee 
beside her hand.


*****


It was hard work for Frohike to carefully study the proofs in his 
hands and carefully study the woman across from him without 
dropping some threads here and there.

The tension was building with each day that passed. The furtive 
glances among him and his co-conspirators were growing more 
frequent and more intense. The definition of loyalty was coming 
into question. They had promised loyalty to an old friend not 
long ago, and it had all seemed copacetic at the time. But the 
promise was getting harder and harder to keep with each false 
lead that ended with empty hands and forged a fresh chink in the 
armor of another old friend.

Even harder since they hadn't heard from Mulder in over four 
days.

Time was ticking. They were running out of false leads and 
artificial busywork to give credibility to their faux 
investigation. And the longer Mulder maintained silence, the more 
they began to pursue a few legitimate investigative paths of 
their own, hoping to jolt a response. Though God knows what they 
would do if one of those renegade investigations paid off.

He kept watching Scully over the copy in his gloved hands. She 
looked tired. More tired than he'd seen her in a long time. Had 
it been long enough for her to have noticeably lost weight? She 
looked thin to him. For all the time they'd spent together 
lately, he couldn't remember having seen her eat a meal.

With a delicate tap from the back of her finger, Scully hitched 
her glasses up her nose, her eyes continued the methodical 
scanning of names. He hadn't a clue how this woman's mind worked. 
If her scientific persona could bury her inner thoughts, if she 
was truly calm and safe when she was this focused on her 
work...or if it were merely a rote method of survival. If her 
less controlled feelings were still vibrant and vivid to her 
behind the outer mask of calm.

Frohike was always conscious of a certain air of the foreign each 
time Scully visited them alone. After all their time together, 
all the times she had, by action or word, entrusted him and the 
other Gunmen with her life; regardless of the faith they now had 
in her, and the genuine affection that seemed to be reciprocated, 
he always felt the distinct absence of Mulder.

It was as though Mulder were a kind of translator between them. 
Like a devoted mother between a child and a distant father. 
Certain aspects of Scully's feelings were discussed with them 
directly, empirical information was exchanged. But the rest came 
to them only through the filter of Mulder. Each time they met 
directly, both parties functioned on wavy ground.

Which was a fucking insane state of affairs if their worst case 
scenario came down. And with every silent hour, the likelihood 
grew.


End Chapter 2

(To be continued in Chapter 3...)
Feedback?:)
bstrbabs@gmail.com

-----------------------



WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale
Copyright (c) 2000
 

CHAPTER 3

 
**On Saturday morning, Marcus from the forensics lab brought his 
truck and helped me move your fish tank to my living room. The 
aquarium doesn't really fit in my bookcase and the filter buzzes 
too loudly at night. What is the silver one's name? Mulder?**


Every now and then it occurred to Frohike that not everyone 
showed up at work each Saturday without realizing it was any 
different from Thursday. And in those moments, he would look upon 
his life from the outside and wonder at the infinite number of 
sequential events that had to have occurred to bring him and 
Langly and Byers to this life so very outside of the mainstream.

These were not moments of regret, but moments of unusual clarity, 
and of an acute awareness of all that was good in his life. 
Friends who would die for him. A purpose to work toward. A cause 
to champion.

This Saturday began the same as most any other. Crisp, chilly 
Washington weather. A slight bite from the wind off the water. He 
unlocked the door to their workspace (4 keys, two keycards, and a 
touch pad code...they were hoping for the fingerprint scanner 
before the year was out...), turned on the lights, woke up the 
computers, switched on the coffee pot.

Behind him Langly was making indistinct animal noises from the 
couch he had requisitioned when Scully had vacated it. Byers was 
pulling croissants out of a white paper bag and wrapping them in 
napkins.

"Reveille, soldier," Frohike said in Langly's direction. "Work to 
be done, man. Oh, and do us all a favor...go get a shower first."

"Ha, ha. Very funny," came the mumble from the couch. Byers 
handed them each a donut. Langly had to part his hair to find his 
mouth.

Byers opened the blinds and Langly moaned and covered his eyes. 
"Jesus, man, have a heart."

Frohike licked the powdered sugar from his fingers and typed in 
his password. Taking a seat on his wooden stool, he glanced 
toward Byers. "Did Scully find any names on the airline rosters 
she wanted us to check out?"

Byers met his gaze for a moment too long, then said simply, "One 
or two. Nothing she really believed in." Frohike's gaze wavered, 
and the sunshine seemed too bright.  **Sitting in the dimness, 
watching Scully sleeping in the corner, Byers suit jacket spread 
across her, her glasses clutched loosely in her hand. Her smooth 
skin had shone like silk in the shadows. So incongruous with the 
landscape in which she slept.**

"What the hell was Mulder thinking?" Frohike said softly, 
forgetting he was no longer in the moment. But Byers had been 
there with him and now just closed his eyes and turned away.

Frohike nodded and turned back to his computer. He took another 
bite of his donut and clicked up his Email.

Updates for his software, a note on the upcoming D&D tournament, 
another goad from Jerry about getting into Warhammer with an 
attachment of a pornographic Pok�mon JPEG. And then his mail 
server died and he had to start over again.

Only two messages left to download. Langly was coming to life 
behind him, pouring a cup of coffee and complaining it smelled 
like a dead cow. Byers was sorting through the snail mail.

Message one.

"Viagra Online!" from getitup@comingon.com. Delete.

Message two.

"X" from nobody@anywhere.com.

Oh....God...

His hand was shaking as he hit the enter button, showering the 
keyboard with powdered sugar as the message rose before him.

The sunshine was still in the room, but he couldn't feel it 
anymore. All he could see was the growing light of the monitor as 
it warmed for the day.

"Fuck," passed across his lips.

His voice caught the attention of his comrades, and he felt them 
gathering in his shadow, silently taking in the letter on his 
screen.

"No..." Byers.

"Jesus..." Langly.

Frohike stood up and kicked his stool to the ground.



*****



She had awakened at 3am to the scent of stale popcorn and the 
sound of Frohike snoring. Slipping out in silence, she had driven 
back to her apartment. A hot shower. Clothes in the laundry after 
that alarming couch. Her own bed. Restless sleep.

By seven, she was awake and watching the thin rays of morning sun 
filtering through the blinds at her bedroom window. She was 
reluctant to relinquish the warm cocoon of her down comforter. 
She had bought this comforter only a couple of months ago, on a 
shopping excursion into Baltimore with her mother. Her old one 
had been thrown out with the trash after the evidence team had 
finished with it. Blood stains, tears in the cloth, glass shards 
in the fibers.

She had told her mother the old comforter wasn't warm enough for 
winter.

A faint buzzing filtered through plaster wallboard, told her her 
neighbor's alarm was ringing. It had rung for days one time when 
her neighbor had gone on vacation and forgotten to deactivate the 
alarm. Luckily, in this apartment, the alarm was one of the only 
sounds that ever made it through from the neighboring bedroom. 
The neighbors probably couldn't say the same of her apartment. 
Screams and gunshots carried.

Focusing so strongly in the silence on the distant sound of the 
alarm made her jump all the harder when her own phone rang. She 
lifted her stiff neck and squinted again at the clock, as if 
perhaps she had misread it before. Scully stretched her arm 
across and snatched up the receiver. A lingering-sleep flashback 
of black patent shoes on linoleum, climbing on the old wooden 
card table chair to reach the phone before Missy, hoping against 
hope it would be her father. Or maybe just a friend asking her 
over to play. She wondered exactly when in her life answering the 
phone had ceased to be a joy.

"Hello?"

Silence. Open line. "Hello??"

And suddenly she was certain it was Mulder. But not sure enough, 
not trusting enough of her instincts to let his name pass across 
her lips. Because if it wasn't Mulder, if she gave something away 
that placed him in danger...

Her heart was racing. He was here. He was here with her. She 
could feel him in the air.

"Hello..."

Was she hearing breathing? Was she hearing his breathing?

Then the line clicked. And it truly was dead.

"Hello?" The futility was in her voice. Dead air bouncing back 
against her ear.

She snatched at the Caller I.D., knowing before her eyes even 
focused it would offer her nothing but "unavailable". She was 
dialing the Bureau resource department before she even sat up.



*****



The effects of her disjointed night's sleep wouldn't catch up 
with Scully until later. She was an expert on every quirk of her 
body's reaction to inconsistent sleeping hours. She knew what 
lines she could cross and what lines she couldn't. What symptoms 
demanded immediate attention, and which ones could be ignored and 
dealt with when the crisis had passed. Her instincts had been 
honed to perfection during the cancer. Suddenly pushing too hard 
had carried so much more weight than a few days' sick leave...

And even now the shadow lingered in the back of her 
consciousness, making her more cautious, more protective of her 
own skin. Mulder had felt it. But of course, he would never say. 
It had just become harder to brush off his concern when her own 
was in the air.

Today she was strong. A good night's sleep tonight or the next 
night would put her back on track. A shorter run tonight would 
compensate, no reason to overtax her muscles.

The bright fall air felt good on her cheeks as she cradled her 
mug of hot coffee and balanced the computer printouts in her 
opposite hand. The sun was so vivid this morning, she had to 
squint to make out the pale words on the shiny paper strung 
across her glove. Lucky break that the Bureau's phone records 
contact had such an obvious crush on her. Occasionally, Scully 
felt a pang of guilt, making such blatant use of his attentions 
to her advantage. But it wasn't as if she had ever openly flirted 
with him or promised anything she hadn't intended to give. And 
the kick Mulder had always gotten out of the whole situation had 
been worth the risk.

This morning, Justin had come through with the phone number from 
which her anonymous call had come. She had dialed the number at 
once, but gotten no answer. Just endless rings. Where Justin had 
failed her had been in retrieving an address. According to his 
records the number was currently unassigned. But this was just 
the sort of area where the Gunmen excelled.

She could breathe better when she had a lead. It was as if a 
window had opened somewhere and afforded her a single sweet 
breath of fresh air. Pumping up her spirits to make the next leg 
of the journey. Loss of control was her greatest fear, and any 
solid handhold she could find kept her on line.

The quiet voice in the back of her head was whispering to her 
insistently, despite her attempts to drown it out with hard 
facts.  **That was Mulder this morning. He doesn't want you to 
worry. He wants you to know he's okay, but he couldn't take the 
risk of speaking...**

Address. She needed an address.

Shuffling the papers, her briefcase, and her coffee cup into one 
hand, Scully tapped on the Gunmen's door with the backs of her 
knuckles. "It's me, open up."

There was always a delay while they checked the video cameras and 
worked the locks. But the delay seemed a bit longer than normal. 
Or maybe she was just more wired. "Frohike?"

Rattling on the inside. Locks sliding.

When the door opened, the bright sun placed Frohike's familiar 
figure in dark silhouette for her, hiding his face. She stepped 
forward, pushing her way past, dispensing with the pleasantries.

"I might have something," she said firmly, dropping her things on 
the nearest table. The one she had noticed of late was always 
clear for her.

"I got a call this morning that--" But her words left her when 
she turned around, her back to the window now, three faces 
watching her intently. Langly was wearing the same clothes from 
last night. Byers and Frohike were freshened for the day. She 
cleared her throat, let her weight fall back onto her heel. She 
lifted an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

Furtive glances among the three, like boys caught in their 
father's gun collection. But the air was heavier than that. 
Darker.

Scully narrowed her odds, zeroed in on one. Interrogation 101. 
"Frohike. Look at me."

She should have been too warm in her heavy coat inside these 
walls. But she brandished it like armor.

Heavy lidded eyes rose reluctantly to hers. "Scully. We need to 
talk."

The knot in her stomach was familiar now. An odd kind of 
security. "Okay. About what?"

Frohike held her gaze, lips slightly parted, but he didn't seem 
about to speak. It was Byers voice that came to her ears. "Dana. 
There are some things we haven't been entirely honest with you 
about. And now...we need to be."

Honest. As usual, the truth had apparently slipped through her 
fingers.



*****



They lost her the moment Byers delivered the unavoidable sentence 
"We knew where Mulder was going".

Scully had refused to sit and talk, preferring to stand and use 
what there was of her height to maintain a position of power.  
She had been on the defensive from a moment after walking through 
the door.  And once it had been confirmed--out loud--that the 
trust alive between them over the past weeks had been founded on 
bold faced lies, Scully's eyes had gone cold, and the woman 
behind them had slipped far from reach.

Frohike felt Byers looking at him, pinning him to his seat on the 
arm of the couch, conveying a kind of desperation as to how they 
might proceed.  Byers had lost the cool that had carried his 
words moments ago.  Before he had time to think about the 
repercussions, Frohike drew a breath and opened his mouth to take 
over.

"Scully?"  He was hoping she would look at him.  Her head turned 
ever so slightly his way, but her eyes held to the coffee table.

"Scully...you know we consider you our friend as much as we do 
Mulder."

From her expression he might as well have tossed her a dead rat.  
Regroup.  Take two.

"Scully, like Byers said, Mulder explained the situation to us, 
where he was going undercover and why, and he explained why any 
knowledge of his intentions would place you in potential danger.  
He had good reasons, Dana, you're just going to have to believe 
that."

He wished she would just blink, unlock her jaw for a softer 
breath.  Anything.  Jesus, how did Mulder take it when she did 
this to him?  Could he read anything more in her stoicism?  Was 
Mulder brave enough to barnstorm his way through her defenses 
like he did through government security?

"Scully, we never wanted to lie to you.  And if we hadn't 
believed that it was the best thing for your safety, we--"

"So, why now?"

Edgy silence.

"Why are you telling me this now?  Where is he?"  Scully turned 
to face him head on.  And he wished she hadn't.

Her eyebrows lifted, pressing him as though he had been backed 
against a wall.

Frohike glanced at the others, saw their gazes skittering across 
the floor, landing anywhere but where they belonged.  To his 
surprise, it was Langly who jumped into the silence.  "That's why 
we're telling you now.  We've had..."

"We've had a few feelers out of our own," Frohike said, catching 
the ball that had been lifted for him.  He was leaning forward, 
hands resting on his knees for support.  "Scully, we got an Email 
this morning, from a very reliable source."

"Who?"  Her word was sharp.  Blade-like.

"A friend.  No one you know."  He paused.  For his benefit more 
than hers.  He was starting to feel sick at the reality of the 
knowledge.  "Scully, we had people watching Mulder.  Without his 
knowing, of course.  To keep an eye out for him, make sure he 
didn't need our help..." 

"And?"  She was still looking at him, still maintaining her 
distance, but there was a glimmer of something behind the cool 
blue.  "Does he?"

He swallowed.  He felt closed in, caught.  For the first time he 
could remember, he wished there weren't so many locks on his 
door.  "Scully...Mulder was supposed to be back by now."

"Really.  Is he in trouble?"  She glanced about the room, reading 
everyone's expressions, adding up the clues.

"No, Scully," Frohike said.  "Not now.  We were 
too...Scully...Mulder's dead."  He heard the words, but couldn't 
fathom how they had come from his mouth.  The voice was foreign, 
the syllables strange and absent of meaning.

The sound from Scully was the most incongruous of all.

She laughed.

Three men stared from their dark semi-circle below her as her 
eerily sweet laugh echoed in the boxy room.  A dimple flashed on 
her left cheek.  Byers covered his face with his hands.

Scully turned on her heel and paced in a small<tight> circle.  
"Right," she said, still smiling.  "Mulder's dead.  Okay.  So, 
that's today's story.  Yesterday, he was missing without a trace 
and you were searching to the ends of the earth, this morning he 
was deeply undercover in some mysterious place I couldn't 
possible know about and you were really just babysitting *me*, 
and now he's dead.  And you expect me to believe any little part 
of this, because....?"  She lifted her eyebrow, eyed them 
pointedly, head tilted, black pump digging into the tile.

Fuck.

More exchanged glances.

"*What?*"  There was an edge to her voice that hadn't been there 
before.

Byers got to his feet.  Walking steadily, he crossed to a black 
file cabinet, took a key from his pocket and turned it in the 
lock.  From the back of the drawer, behind the last of the manila 
folders, he pulled a slightly crumpled white business envelope.  
The drawer closing was too loud in the thick quiet.

"You shouldn't believe us.  But you should believe Mulder.  He 
left this for you."

Byers held out the envelope.  Scully's eyes narrowed, but her 
arms were still folded across her chest; she showed no signs of 
movement.  From her perspective she had to have seen the front of 
the envelope, the familiar hurried scratch that was so clearly 
Mulder's writing.  *Dana Scully*.

She let go a sharp breath through her nose.  Frohike was fixated 
on the way the tendons of her throat pulsed softly when she 
swallowed.  She cleared her throat and said carefully,  "Just 
because four of you planned it, instead of three, doesn't enhance 
your chances that I'll believe you."

The silence stretched.

Byers stepped forward, and with a degree of bravery that deeply 
impressed Frohike, he reached up to Scully's chest, past the 
barrier of her folded arms, and slipped the envelope into the 
inside breast pocket of her suit coat.  Perhaps of even greater 
surprise (and alarm) was the fact the Scully let him.

"Scully," Frohike began, "you have to know that we would never 
lie to you about something like this.  Of all things...Jesus, 
Scully, we--"

"Mulder called me this morning."

"What?"

"He called me.  I'm certain it was him.  I need you to trace the 
number.  Let's get to work."



*****



There was no more talking to her.  A wall had gone up, and the 
only chance they had of felling it was time and persistence and 
following any path that would keep them in her wake.

Minutes turned to hours, lunch came and went, and in the grey 
surreality of unexpected routine, Frohike began to wonder what he 
truly believed.  After only the briefest pause, they had all 
taken a cue from Scully and gone on, business as usual, as though 
their search for Mulder might still be productive.  But then, 
their part in the search had been a lie for some time now, so in 
many ways this wasn't any different.

He had spent the past hour waiting on a response from a telephone 
company contact.  He *was* interested in checking out the source 
of the phone call to Scully.  Though it was doubtful it was 
anything but a wrong number, the lack of information was 
suspicious, and it never hurt to keep an eye out on who might be 
keeping tabs on her.

Langly and Byers had reached an unproductive hum and had ducked 
out to hit the vending machines on the upper floor.

And Scully...well, Scully was still somewhere nearby.  Her glares 
had long since stopped him from keeping a close eye on her.

In fact, if he hadn't spilled a few drops of his coffee, he would 
not have glanced over his shoulder for a napkin.  And if he 
hadn't looked for a napkin, he would not have seen her open the 
letter.  Seated on a stool in the farthest shadowy corner of 
their den, Dana Scully had opened the rumpled white envelope.  
The letter lay half-unfolded across her knee, her suit jacket 
still open from the retrieval.  From her posture he guessed she 
was reading, but her eyes were hidden by the gentle fall of her 
hair.

Feigning nonchalance, quietly praying Byers and Langly wouldn't 
blast back in and intrude, Frohike took a tissue from his pocket 
and dabbed at the rumpled dots on his printout.

He stared at the screen for several minutes, not seeing the 
words, paging up and down without regard for content.



*****



Scully stretched and straightened her suit jacket as she drifted 
out of the shadows in the corner.

Frohike could only see her in his peripheral vision.  For a while 
he really had been working again.  Now he was only focusing 
blindly in the direction of the monitor.  And wondering if the 
vending machine upstairs was being stubborn again.

Scully stepped up beside him.  The letter was gone.  As if it had 
never been open.  She was reading the screen over his shoulder.

"What are you working on?"

He glanced her way.  Her lips were soft in the indirect light.

He shrugged.  "Long shot.  Nothing really."

A nod.  Silence for a moment.

Then....she was halfway through a sentence when it hit her.  "Any 
reply yet from your--"

And he literally saw it happen.  Saw the switch flip.  Saw the 
dead stop like an icicle in her gut.

Scully caught a quiver of air.  Her tongue slid across her wet 
lips.  She clenched her jaw and the room fell silent.  But she 
was still standing.  Still composed.  Still had plenty chance to 
pull it together.  And for a moment he thought maybe he had 
imagined the change.  Perhaps she was just thinking, just tired, 
just anything...  But then he reached a hand toward her elbow, 
saying, "Scully, what did--", and she jerked away like he'd 
burned her.

"Don't touch me," she said hoarsely, eyebrow raised, lips 
slightly parted.  And he knew he'd been right, and the sheer 
horror of being in this moment with her made his knees grow weak.

"Scully, what's wrong?"  He hated the tremor in his own voice.  
Hated the part of him that would even ask that question on the 
hope of hearing an answer other than the obvious, the part of him 
that didn't want to handle this alone.

Scully pushed her hair back, forced a swallow.  "I have to get 
out of here," she whispered, eyes far from his.

She turned on the heel of her black pump, and started toward the 
door with only the slightest stumble.  Frohike pushed off of his 
stool and half ran to catch up with her.  "Scully, wait..."

But she wouldn't look at him, much less accept the hand he 
reached toward her.

"Leave me alone," she said coldly.  She was whisking away the 
locks with unnerving efficiency and purpose.  She pulled open the 
door.

He was a step behind her.  "Scully, please stay here.  Scully, 
you need to be--"

"Stop it!"

She had crossed the landing, dropped her foot onto the first 
step.

He couldn't let her go.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd 
been so scared. "Scully, come here..."  He closed his fingers 
around her narrow wrist, and Scully whirled on him with a violent 
snap to free her arm.

"Fuck off!" she shouted, her words echoing through the deserted 
stairwell.

But this time her eyes had met his.  And it had taken no more 
than a second for the sympathy and hurt and caring in his to 
clash like water against the fire of anger and hatred sheltering 
hers.

And she faltered.

Swallowed.  Caught a breath.  Confusion in her eyes.  A lost 
child.


*****


The air was misty here.  White and fluorescent mixed with golden 
autumn sun.  There was blood on her hands.  Carrying, half-
dragging Mulder through the hospital double-doors.  *Keep 
breathing, keep breathing...keep me breathing...*  Gun shots 
echoing in the air.  Cradling his head against her chest, willing 
the life force within him to thrive, feeling it slipping through 
her fingers as she counted the heartbeats.  The countless times 
he had terrified her, hospital bed after hospital bed.  A 
thousand rainy nights and whispered and shouted prayers and a 
desperate hold on life.

Standing on Frohike's stairway.  He was slipping down through her 
arms.  Blood on her hands.  Everything melting away...*Mulder*...


*****


"He called me..."

"Scully--"

"This morning, he *called* me..."

He was shaking his head.  She was just shaking.  

"No," he said simply.

She didn't move.  If he waited a moment longer she might regroup.  
So he had to accept the reality of life--he had to hit her while 
she was down.  "And if he did, Scully, it was to say goodbye." 
Frohike had never seen Scully so pale.  Her eyes were miles away.  
"No."

He took a tentative step toward her.  She took a smaller step 
back, wavered a bit on the edge of the stair.  Her hand trembled 
at her side.

"No.  No, no, no, no...."  Talking to herself.

Frohike quickened his pace--knowing he might get kicked in the 
jaw, or slammed into the emergency exit--and wrapped his arms 
around Scully before she saw it coming.

Her struggle was admirable.

"Scully."

But brief.

"Scully..."

He felt every muscle in her body suck inward, felt her breath 
catch and her nails dig into his coat and the defiance turn to 
fear.  But it was the soft whimper of pain, like a wounded 
animal, that nearly made his own heart stop.

"*He called me...*"

"Oh, Jesus, Scully...."

She began to wilt in his arms, only a moment after the sobs broke 
free.  He caught his balance and took her weight as he lowered 
them together to the dusty stairsteps.  Scully's crisp beige 
slacks dragging through the street dirt.  So very wrong.  So very 
wrong.

"No...He's not..."  But her words were just breaths between sobs, 
and she wasn't really asking an answer anymore.

He could smell her shampoo, his mouth was in her hair, and dust 
was dancing in thin steaks of sunlight, and he felt like the 
world had shattered.  He should not have been the one for this 
job.  But here he was, and he hoped to God he was enough.

Through the haze of tunnel vision, over the sound of Scully's 
gasping breath, he recognized the voices of Langly and Byers 
returning from the vending machines, rattling snack bags.

He turned to look over his shoulder, he caught his friends' eyes 
and threw a deadly glance, silencing and sobering them in a 
moment.  They were a perceptive pair.  In a heartbeat they took 
in and digested the scene.  Their snacks dropped onto the dirty 
landing and bodies surrounded Frohike.

And Scully.  Without a word, Langly and Byers joined Scully on 
the stairsteps, wrapping their arms around her, Byers resting his 
head against her back.  Langly gripped her hand until his 
knuckles paled and she clung to him in return.  There they lay, 
four friends clinging to the life and blood in their own veins 
and mourning the lose of a fifth; keeping what was left of the 
ship afloat.  The sunlight danced across them, clouds dappled 
them with shadow.

Until Scully was quiet.

Until the silence was breathless.

Until the air held still.

Until it was time to go home.


End Chapter 3

(continued in Chapter 4...)
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NOTE TO READERS: Just to be clear...this story was conceived and 
outlined before "Requiem" aired in the U.S. (Yes, I'm that slow a 
writer...)  I realize that the coming chapters share themes here 
and there with the currently unfolding US Season 8.  This is NOT 
meant to be an AU exploration of those dynamics.  This is an 
entirely separate story.  The character of Agent Gannon Michaels 
(soon to be appearing in coming chapters) is NOT Doggett...never 
was, never will be (not that I don't like Doggett, mind you:)).  
It was all just very unfortunate timing...

-------------------------------------

WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale
Copyright (c) 2000


CHAPTER 4:



Dear Scully--

I hope you never read this.  God, I hope you never read this.  
I've sat up three nights running, wondering what to say to you in 
this letter.  This isn't my area.  This is the part where I pass 
the task off to you with a box of chocolates and a puppy dog 
smile.

So, I'll just say what needs to be said.  Yeah, I planned this.  
And yes, the Gunmen were in on it.  I'd apologize, but we've been 
through this too many times before.  You know what I have to say.

The fact is, I'm doing something really risky this time.  Even 
for me.  But I believe in my reasons.  You know I do.

The Gunmen are on our side, Scully.

I don't trust anyone like I trust you.  Never have.  But these 
three morons are next in line, however large the gap between.

I'm writing this letter for one specific reason--Despite my more 
widely advertised reputation for paranoia, it's really you who 
won't trust anyone.  Except me.  Eventually.  And probably your 
mother...

So, I armed the Gunmen with this letter, in case they were faced 
with the daunting task of convincing your cynical and stubborn 
and brilliant mind of something hard for you to believe.

There's no hard evidence on this one, Scully.  There won't be.

I imagine a lot's been thrown at you lately, Scully.  I'm 
sorry...

I guess what my rambling scribbles are trying to say is--If 
you're lost right now, can I offer you a touchstone?

Yours Scully,
M


End Chapter 4
(Continued in Book II - Chapter 5)
Feed me.
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-----------------------------------

WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale
Copyright (c) 2000
 

BOOK II:

CHAPTER 5


"Anything plain can be lovely, anything loved can be lost
Maybe I lost my direction, what if our love is the cost?"
--Bare Naked Ladies, "Falling For the First Time"



Four Months Later



**Thanks for ditching me.**



The recoil coursed through her body like an electrical pulse.

Six shots.  All in a tight shot group, inches from the target's 
center.  But the thrill was dull.  Cloaked in ironies and damp 
cloths she had not shouldered during the months of training spent 
within these walls.

Quantico.

An idiot on the highway on a rainslick Friday night, Agent 
Michaels at the wheel and Scully in the passenger seat.  A squeal 
of tires and a good hard smack into the bumper in front of them.  
A good hard jerk to her shoulder when the seatbelt locked.  Next 
thing she knew she was buried in medical validations and red tape 
and down at Quantico being re-certified on her weapon.

The machinery whirred dully as her target moved forward on the 
track.

She had gotten the certification two weeks ago, passed with 
flying colors.  But the practice time had roused her competitive 
blood, and now she had found herself down here a bit more often, 
honing her technique.

Or killing time.

Another cartridge, another target.

*Bam!*

**"I don't know how to tell you this, Agent Scully."..."Just say 
it"..."The investigation into your partner's disappearance has 
been...'downgraded'."**

*Bam!*

**"You mean shelved.  Forgotten."**

*Bam!*

**"I mean the trail's cold Scully.  We're walking in circles and 
there's nothing left to find."**

This wasn't the first time the Bureau had let her down after the 
loss of a loved one.

*Bam!*

She was pulling off her ear muffs when someone grabbed her arm.

"Jesus, Michaels, you scared me.  Didn't they teach you not to do 
that to a person with a weapon?  What are you doing here?"

Ignoring her question and her annoyance, Agent Gannon Michaels, 
cracked a smile that brought a welcome warmth to his deep set 
eyes.  "I scared you?  Could it be possible that something 
actually affected the great and immovable Agent Scully?"

Humor wasn't her bag today.  Or maybe that comment hurt a little.  
She wasn't certain if the flinch she felt within had made its way 
outside.

"What are you doing here?" she repeated, softer this time.

Michaels shrugged, nodding toward the gallery.  "I'm here for 
target practice like I am around this time every month.  The 
better question would be, what are *you* doing here?  I would 
have thought you would have had your fill of this place by now."

That earned him a half-hearted smile.  She wasn't really angry 
with Michaels.  Truthfully, he was one of the rare warm spots in 
her world these days.  Not right to abuse that on the grounds 
that it was easier not to feel.  "I guess I just want to be sure 
I have my confidence back," she said, involuntarily shrugging her 
sore shoulder.

Michaels reached out and rubbed her arm.  The assurance and 
comfort in his gesture felt good.  Not so long ago she had had 
this man so far shut out of her personal life he wouldn't have 
dared violate her self-imposed bubble.  With a glance toward her 
target, he said, "I don't think you have anything to worry about, 
Dana.  And it's my ass you'll be covering, so I think you can 
trust my opinion."

Scully smiled and nodded as he turned and walked off toward the 
equipment room.

Her partner.  Three and a half months and that one hadn't soaked 
in yet.

She dropped out her cartridge and reached for another.

Maybe just one more round.


*****


The low winter sun had long since vanished below the tree line 
when they finished at the crime scene.

Scully was cold.  Seemed she'd been cold for months now.  The icy 
wind turned her heavy wool coat to paper.  Dirty and snow-
bedraggled leaves crunched beneath her feet.

Why was it always a child who found the dead body?  A nine year 
old or eight year old or six year old boy or girl, doing nothing 
more damning than tossing around a baseball, forever scarred when 
the ball wandered up against something fleshy and vile that had 
once been sweet and soft.

There was a reason she had never sought after a spot in Violent 
Crimes.  She hadn't realized the X-files would be the same thing 
sometimes.  And over the years that fact had taken its toll.  
Even on the days she couldn't admit it.

Scully breathed warm air onto her wrist as she reached for the 
car door.  Goosebumps cascaded down her back.  Over the roof of 
the car, she saw Michaels had followed her in silence.  They had 
started to work fairly well together, lately.  They were 
developing some silent communication skills.  Quite a few, 
actually, though she was reluctant to concede that she could ever 
be in tune with anyone but Mulder.

It was different, of course.  But it hurt.

They dropped into their respective sides of the car, and Scully 
started the motor and the heater before either of them spoke a 
word.

"Want to call it a day?  Tackle all this in the morning?" 
Michaels asked.

*All this*.  *All this* meaning find out the ID of this dead 
woman being rolled into the ambulance behind them.  Find out 
where she came from.  Search desperately for a pattern to the 
madness.  A teeny tiny slip that might give them something to 
grasp and cling to and follow to the darkness behind *all this*.  
Until there wouldn't be anymore.

For a while.

Scully nodded.  You could only play the dedicated Martyr Cop for 
so long, and then you either went crazy or just admitted that you 
were doing people less good by killing yourself than by stopping 
for some sleep every now and then.

Unless you were Mulder.

She closed her eyes and revved the engine to warm it.

"You okay, Dana?"

Eyes open.  Hands on the wheel.  Shift into 'drive'.  "I'm fine."

For months they had been "Agent Michaels" and "Agent Scully".  No 
matter how late at night it was, how many cups of coffee they had 
bought one and other.  And then, one day, they had been having a 
good conversation, forgetting for a moment about the caseload 
hovering over their heads, leaning back on the basement file 
cabinets.  And Michaels had casually called her "Scully".

And she had almost lost her lunch.  Wrong voice.  "Dana," she had 
managed, with only the slightest break in composure.  Nothing he 
could draw attention to.

He had taken it as a compliment, received her offer with a smile.  
Best for all concerned.

The drive back to the office was comfortably silent.  One of the 
first things she had noticed about Michaels was his ability to 
accept silence as a good thing and not try to fight it.  
Pointless talking wore her out.  Mulder had had trouble with that 
for a while.  The first year of their partnership he had hopped 
around her, yapping away like a puppy dog as though he felt it 
his duty to fill in for her silence.  Then one day they had 
clicked.  And words hadn't mattered anymore.

The rush hour traffic was already thick tonight.  The headlights 
made her head ache.  Michaels was leaning against the headrest, 
his eyelids drooping.  He deserved a little time at home with his 
wife.  It was possible, after the last few weeks they had put in 
on this case, that he was forgetting what his children looked 
like.  But it was like him not to complain to her about it.

With a glance at the dashboard clock and a re-evaluation of the 
traffic, Scully changed routes.  The hell with checking in at the 
office.  The most they could do there was pick up more work to 
take home with them and clutter their respite.  She took the next 
exit, knowing Michaels had dozed off and wouldn't know she was 
driving him home until they were in his driveway.

Michaels was a sound sleeper.  Not edgy and restless like Mulder.  
She had been inexpressibly grateful for that fact in the first 
weeks of their new partnership.  Because for that first month 
even breathing had hurt.  And touching anyone was like acid.  
Telling anyone any of the above was worst of all.  So she had 
waited for the long car rides.  Waited for Micheals' gentle 
snores.  And used that time to cry.  She was lucky she hadn't 
driven them up a phone pole a couple of times.

The tears had been gone for a while now.

The traffic thinned as she wound through the now familiar side 
streets of her partner's neighborhood.  Lights shone from 
suburban living rooms.  Televisions flickered against window 
shades.

The white mini-van was parked in its usual place in the Michaels' 
driveway; the porch light was lit to welcome him.

Scully pulled onto the apron, and shifted into park.  She could 
see the silhouette of Amanda Michaels moving behind the living 
room drapes.  They had invited her to dinner several times now.  
She was running out of reasons to say 'no'.

Scully reached across and nudged Michaels' shoulder.  He snorted 
and jerked his head upward.  "Hmm?  What?"

"Your stop, cowboy," she said with a fleeting smile.

"Hey, you raggin' on my boots again?"

She just smiled, lowered her eyes to the black gloves in her lap.

Michaels ran a hand through his dark hair, took in his 
surroundings.  He looked younger in the sodium vapor lights.  The 
crinkles around his eyes were smoothed.  "I thought we were going 
to the office?  I was going to finish up the--"

"Go home," she said plainly.

He frowned.  "You sure?  You're not going back to work, are you?"

She shook her head, gave him the eye contact he wanted.  "No, I'm 
going home.  We'll start again in the morning.  Meet you in the 
lab at seven?"

"You got it."  He stretched over the seat to grab his briefcase 
from the rear.

On his way out the door he gave her one last pointed glance.  "No 
work?"

"No work."

He nodded, satisfied.  Closed the door and headed up the walk.

Scully backed out of the drive and was gone before Michaels 
reached the porch.  She switched on the radio, and pushed the 
speed limit back to the glare of the expressway.


*****


The warm water waved over her stomach as she shifted her leg.  
Candlelight flickered against her closed lids as she listened to 
the gentle silence of her apartment.  The top of the bath water 
was fiddling with the loose hairs at the nape of her neck.  
Awareness of the chip came and went these days.  Some days it ate 
at her every moment--through paperwork and traffic lights and 
field reports.  Other days it was there, but she accepted it.  
Still other days, she almost forgot.  Today she was passive.

She drew a deep breath, catching a mixture of scents from the 
jumble of candles burning throughout the room.  The cinnamon felt 
like Christmas at home.  It was early for her bath.  She hadn't 
even had dinner yet, just a bit of a muffin on the way through 
the kitchen for water.  But her relaxation ritual had been 
calling to her.  She needed the cleansing.  Needed the dirt and 
death off her skin.  Needed the stench cleared from her nostrils.

Eyes still closed, she lifted her thick washcloth and drizzled 
the warm water over her shoulders and chest.  She listened to the 
faint clunk of the pipes.  She concentrated on each part of her 
body in turn, consciously relaxing the muscles, letting go of the 
tension.  Forearms, fingers, neck, shoulders, chest, ankles, 
calves (oooh, calves...too much rough ground in three inch 
heels...), stomach...thighs...hips...  Water gently washing over 
her, gentle rivulets trickling along her inner thigh...Oh, God.  
And now all of her conscious attention was centered upon one 
area.  A dangerous area.  She felt the slightest amount of 
tension creep back into her shoulders.

It had been a while since she had taken care of relaxing that 
part of her.  Because there were complications these days.  There 
had always been issues, of course.  Any good Catholic girl had 
issues.  But she had worked past those over the years.  Biology 
did wonders to obscure neglected theology.  But there was more 
now.  Thoughts she had refused to put a name to, even in her own 
mind.  But with her they remained.

The ache was insistent.

Her mind ran over each of the locks on her door.  Privacy was one 
of the issues.  Each time, no matter how certain she was of her 
security, her mind would insist upon inventorying each of the 
physical safeguards, closing her off from the world.  The 
bathroom door was pushed to, but not locked.  A sound barrier 
just the same.

She let her fingers trace experimentally down her leg, tickling 
the skin with her nails.

The chain reaction was instant and thrilling.  Her heart rate 
rose in anticipation, and a dull throb pulsed in her depths.  
Damn, it had been a while, hadn't it.  The physical readiness was 
the easy part.  The trick was to keep her mind from wandering.

Settling more comfortably against the curved porcelain, Scully 
drew a slow, deep breath, and tried to place her mind someplace 
safe.  She tried to remember what it had felt like in the bed of 
her first off campus apartment in Pennsylvania.  The slightly 
worn sheets she had taken with her from the back of her mother's 
linen closet.  The crisp scent of the winter air.  She thought 
about running.  About the view along the river.  About feeling 
the pulse of life in her own body, celebrating the pure joy of 
health.

Her fingers gently stroked.  Teased.

Her breath grew irregular.  Sharp.  She felt the blood gathering 
between her legs, as if to pull her hand in closer.  Begging for 
contact.  Upping the pace without her action.

Moving ever so precisely, she drew her middle finger over the 
most crucial point.

*Oh, yes...*  It was like finally letting go of a heavy weight, 
or removing something that had been pinching her skin.

Yes, this was what she wanted.  What she needed, from the very 
core of her being.  But no...she couldn't let herself surrender 
to familiar thought patterns.  She had to keep herself on a fresh 
path.

Lying in the grass in the park across from the campus.  Looking 
up through the trees at the fragmented clouds.  Squinting in the 
sun, and feeling the delicious stretch of her stomach muscles.  
Feeling the softness of her own long hair on her shoulders.

She was massaging now.  Lazy circles, kneading thirsty flesh as 
she remembered the sun.  Her own moisture was mixing with the 
water and the bath oils, gliding over her fingers.  She ran her 
tongue over her lips, imagined making contact with another...

"No..."  No.

Distraction.  Carefully parting her folds, she curved her finger, 
moved far too easily inside.  Her breath caught.  A little tight.  
Easy for her finger, but it had been so long since she had 
welcomed anything more.

Her fingers knew instinctively what she needed.  Pressing her 
hand tight against her own heat, she reached up as far as she 
could, drew her finger lightly over that precious core of 
sensation.  The one so few men in her life had ever taken the 
time to learn how to find.  The one she had discovered how to 
position herself to *make* them find.  Quick, light strokes with 
the tip of her finger, that made her body ache and pull and arch 
upward for more.  Oh, God, yes, she needed this.

She was breathing heavily now, forgetting for moments at a time 
to even think of the layers of locks, to wonder if the pipes 
carried sound or if anyone could be listening.

When the anticipation turned unbearable, she slowly drug her 
fingers back.  Following the natural curve of her body, she moved 
through the fold, and over her now ultra-sensitive clit.

She slipped against the porcelein, grasped for support.

She couldn't put off the release much longer.

Her head was throbbing in time with her insistent strokes, 
muscles tensing for what they knew was to come.

She was losing focus.  River.  Field.  School.  What was it?  Oh, 
please...yes...can't....wait...

*The scent of his trench coat, sliding her hand against his 
shirt.*

NO....no...

Focus blurring in sensation.

She pulled her fingers back from the core of her desire, teasing 
the surrounding flesh, stretching out the sweetness into agony.  
A flush spread across her chest.

*"I've never seen you as a mother before."*

A soft whimper escaped her lips.

The wave was gathering in her thighs like the restless water 
above.

*Long fingers in her hair.  "It's okay, Scully."*

Her hand spread out, covering every inch that begged to be 
touched, never consciously deciding to give in.

*"You make me a whole person...Scully...I need you on this."*

Her tempo exploded.

"Oh...God..."  The release burned through her like an anguished 
cry.  Her rapture merged with tears and gasping breath turned to 
sobs.

*Mulder...*

Everything ached.  Her skin had been his far too long to be her 
own again now.

She couldn't see for want of breath.

Her fingers clung to the damp edge of the porcelain and she 
pulled forward and rested her forehead on her fingers while the 
tears blinded her thoughts.

Her stomach hurt from the mixture of pleasure and torture.  Her 
muscles knew the loss.

She ducked beneath the water, washing away the tear stains and 
submerging her thoughts along the way.

Scully pushed her hair clear of her face and sat upright, pulling 
her legs protectively close, fighting to slow her breath.

The candles were flickering on the water.  Evening had turned to 
night.

Silence.

It was time to move on.


*****


Scully pulled her silk robe over damp skin.  She pulled the plug 
on the bath water.  She left her underwear and pajamas in their 
neat pile on her bed, not yet ready for cloth to touch her skin.  
Still too sensitive, and not able to handle the awareness of the 
aftermath.

She towel dried her hair, then let it hang free and tousled over 
her shoulders.

Down the hall now, heading on automatic for the kitchen and 
sustenance.  But she wasn't really hungry.  And she paused at the 
edge of the living room.  Her gaze moved methodically about the 
still room, focus blurred slightly without her contacts, and 
after her tears.  She wondered about the woman who lived in these 
walls.  When she was young, Dana had always taken such care with 
the decoration of her own space.  Growing up with three siblings 
in Navy housing, she had rarely had her own room.  Identity had 
been significant in her life.  So whichever bed was hers had had 
to have just the right quilt on top.  Just the right hand-
embroidered pillows at its head.  The pictures on the nightstand 
had to be distinctively "Dana".  The picture frame above the 
headboard had to be hand chosen.  She had always tried to imagine 
someone who knew her walking into Melissa's and her bedroom, and 
hoped they would know in an instant which area was hers.

When had individuality lost out to utility and efficiency?  She 
circled the room, forgetting again about the need for food, 
running her fingers over slightly dusty picture frames, book 
bindings, remote controls and glass figurines.

Where was she heading now?  Was she spinning her wheels?  Where 
had she been before this place?  Before the tornado that was The 
X-Files(*Mulder*) had entered her life....before the 
Bureau...where had she been?...*who* had she been...?...what had 
she wanted?...who had she loved?..

The thought moved through the room like a whisper.

**Daniel.**


*****

End of Chapter 5
(Continued in Chapter 6...)
Feed. Starving. Author.
bstrbabs@gmail.com


--------------------------------------------


UTTERLY TRIVIAL POETIC LICENSE NOTE: Just for the record, I am 
well aware that "Bell Atlantic" has changed its name to "Verizon" 
and that in the timeline I've set for this story, that change 
should apply.  However, I think Verizon is a STUPID name by 
comparison, and have chosen to pretend this never happened...Thank 
you.


WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2001
 

CHAPTER 6


"And the fact that you are alive in the world and maybe alone 
makes me wish I were there."
--  Betty Buckley, 'If I Remember You Right'


*Mulder.  I don't know when I stopped finishing my sentences and 
started letting you do it for me.  When I wasn't busy finishing 
yours, that is.  I'm learning to speak in complete sentences 
again, Mulder.  Alone.*



It was both one of the bravest and most impulsive things she had 
ever done.  Just picking up the phonebook and looking up his 
number.  She had been almost certain it was just an exercise, 
that he would prove to be unlisted.  But there it was, just above 
her finger, in the big standard directory shipped each year from 
Bell Atlantic.

	Waterston, Daniel, Dr.   555-1112

It seemed unreal that the entry had been there--in a book she 
kept in her own house--for ten years now.  Waiting.

She had spent half her day on an autopsy, the other half in the 
living room of the dead woman's parents.  This was the third 
death in as many months.  All the bodies had been found in the 
kind of dreary backwoods areas of isolation and neglect that she 
and Michaels had tromped through yesterday.  All the victims had 
been twenty-something single women, all natural dark-blondes.  
And all had had the words "Watch Me" carved crudely into their 
inner forearms.  Prior to time of death.

It was an X-File only because each of these women had claimed to 
be abductees and each had claimed she was being stalked by Men in 
Black in the weeks before her murder.  Michaels was looking to 
Scully for ideas, for information, for experience, and skating 
all around the words, "but don't *you* have a chip in your 
neck?".  And she was pretending she wasn't uncomfortable as hell 
with all of this, pretending she hadn't lived in a world of 
denial where Mulder had let her slide on these cases, sheltering 
her from her own truths.

She sat on her living room couch, the television playing softly 
in the background, a dim glow emanating from the crackling fire, 
black pump propped on the edge of the coffee table.

The handset of her cordless phone was cradled gingerly in her 
hand.

The question remained, *did she want to dial?*

555-1112

The beeps accompanying the digits were uncomfortably loud in the 
cocooning quiet.

She stopped breathing as she listened to the phone ring.  She was 
about to prepare herself to hang up on an answering machine and 
was entertaining prickly thoughts of Caller ID when he picked up 
the phone.

"Hello?"  All business.  All cool.  Living a life she knew 
nothing about.  And making her chest tight with the richness of 
his familiar voice.

She caught her breath, took a moment too long to respond.  
"Hello?" he said again.  More questioning this time.  Less 
patient.

"Daniel?" she breathed, wishing her voice were stronger.

But it was all he needed.  She felt the moment of recognition 
through the phone line.

"Dana?"  So much gentler than the cursory "hello".

"Can I see you?"

"Always."

"How's, uh...are you...," her English was slipping, "tonight?"

"Do you know where I live?  Do you have a pen?"


*****


The wind blew soft against her skin as she closed the car door.  
Tonight was the warmest D.C. had seen in weeks.  The scent of 
distant spring tickled her nostrils and brought memories of 
bicycles and roller skates and lemonade.  The gentle air twisted 
and teased and caressed the bare skin at her throat.  Her 
sweater's neckline fell on the low side of casual.  She was 
alternating between confidence and self-consciousness at her 
visible curves.  A protective suit coat hung over her arm.  She 
had changed clothes twice before leaving her apartment.

How long had it been since she had chosen clothing to see a man 
she knew was attracted to her?  Long enough she needed to ask the 
question.

And she was only assuming he was still attracted to her.

No.  No, that had been apparent in his voice.  The only question 
was whether he was attracted to the woman she was now, or the 
girl she used to be.

And that wasn't something she needed to think about tonight.

Even the outside of the building was impressive.  On the drive 
over, between glances at street signs and her scribbled 
directions, Scully had watched the shift of terrain from cramped 
functionality to spacious elegance.  She had slowed the car and 
lingered over the ancient oaks lining the far side of Daniel's 
street--the differences between a government job and private 
practice.

The life she could have chosen.

The click of her heels on the concrete path played counterpoint 
to the crackle of dry branches against the brick building front.  
She was too aware of everything tonight.  Sensations were too 
vivid.

A coach light at the front door, dried roses in a barrel by the 
mat: quaint touches to soften the presence of a high security 
system.  Scully tapped in the code Daniel had given her over the 
phone, pausing only a moment when she caught the numbers spelling 
out "D-a-n-a" on the keypad.

Standing outside number 3370 in the third floor hallway, reality 
settled into her stomach with a steady quiver that made her 
dizzy.  She wasn't ready for this.  She was counting purely on 
inertia to propel her forward once she had set the wheels in 
motion.  Sticking to the familiar was always easier than making a 
change, but easy wasn't always right.  Ironically, it was these 
very same thoughts that had taken her away from Daniel's arms so 
long ago.  If she hadn't drawn a deep breath and moved, she would 
never have made it to Quantico.

Maybe some things were more about time and place than right and 
wrong.

One way to learn.

The door clicked and swung open.
 
*God...*

A year ago, Scully had reunited with an aging man with a heart 
condition, tied to oxygen and IV tubes, thrown utterly from his 
proper place *above* the ailing patient.  But the Daniel 
Waterston before her now was a million miles from that dim place.  
His camel Armani suit draped over his shoulders, outlining his 
thick muscles.  He had been working out.  Finally decided, 
perhaps, that even doctors were subject to the weaknesses of the 
flesh.  His jacket hung open over a soft grey mock turtleneck.  A 
wide gold watch caught the light at the rim of his cuff, warm 
against an unseasonably tanned arm.

Scully forced a breath.  "Hi."

Daniel narrowed his eyes.  His gaze swept the length of her 
figure, lingered a moment at the base of her neckline and she 
tried not to move.  Then his eyes softened as he tilted his head 
in her direction.  "You found me."

She nodded.  "I did.  It's an, um..." she glanced back toward the 
elevator, "...it's a lovely street.  Old trees."

"You and your trees," he said with a hint of a smile, and the 
familiarity warmed the chill of uncertainty.  He was still 
studying her, absorbing her.  With a quick, easy movement, his 
warm hand was around her wrist.  "Come on in."  Hot shivers up 
her arm.  The electricity brought a rush of memory.

**Standing side by side in the dim night-time lights of the med-
school lab.  Staring down at the work table, not seeing what was 
in front of her anymore.  Losing hold of the pretense that she 
was still just there to assist with his paper.  "I should go, 
Daniel.  I should walk out now, before..."  "Dana..."  His breath 
ruffling her hair, the loose strands outside her functional 
ponytail.  Her pulse racing, body motionless.  "Dana...I'm asking 
you...to stay."  The taste of coffee on his lips.  And all the 
logic of her world slipping through her fingers...**

The apartment was lovely.  Simple, yet elegant.  To her left, a 
grand piano opened onto the formal dining room.  Crystal 
candleholders and polished wood caught streaks of light in the 
shadows.  To her right, plush cream upholstery and a stone and 
wood fireplace promised comfort and cozy evenings.  The modern 
conveniences were there, too.  The big screen TV tucked into the 
mahogany cabinet in the corner.  The tall theatre speakers 
flanking the couch.

And just ahead was the archway to the kitchen.  "Can I offer you 
something to drink?  I was just making some coffee.  You do still 
drink coffee, don't you?"

She was trailing a few steps behind him, through the archway, off 
the carpet, onto the tile.  If this was still her Daniel, the 
pots hanging overhead were just for show.  But then...he had been 
single a long time.

"Decaf," she said.  "Probably shouldn't, but I do."

Daniel shrugged.  "Harmless vice.  I switched to decaf myself not 
long ago.  Hated it with a passion at first.  But I've found one 
that's not half bad.  Comes from a little coffee shop out by the 
water.  I stock up whenever I'm down that way."

Daniel took two coffee mugs from a standing rack on the counter, 
then glanced toward her again as she spread her suit jacket over 
the back of a kitchen chair.  "I can hang that for you, if--"

"No, it's fine.  I'll probably have it cleaned this weekend 
anyway."

She dared to make solid eye contact.  His gaze grabbed hers and 
refused to let go.  The silent exchange lasted too long.  Before 
she could pull too far away, Daniel said softly, "You really do 
look wonderful, Dana."

She smiled, feeling almost shy.  "So do you," she said.  Easier, 
as always, to turn the conversation outward.  "You look healthy.  
Strong."

"I told you I was getting well the last time we talked.  You 
didn't think I'd give up without a fight, did you?"

Her smile softened, lost some of its tension.  "Not with your 
stubborn nature, no."

"Nothing you would know about, of course."

She lifted an eyebrow, feigning innocence.  Then acquiesced.  
"Touche."

Daniel turned back to the coffee.  As he poured, Scully wandered 
out through the dining room, unable to keep still.  She ran her 
fingers softly down an arpeggio on the grand piano, relishing the 
rich, clear tone.  She shouldn't have quit piano lessons so 
early.  Once upon a time, science had seemed like everything.

In the living room, she studied each of the photos along the 
mantle.  Maggie at various ages from childhood through the 
present; group shots that looked like Maggie with a husband and a 
daughter; a formal shot of Daniel himself, looking uncomfortable 
in a stiff necktie.

"A granddaughter?" Scully asked as Daniel entered and placed the 
two mugs side by side on the coffee table.

"Frightening, isn't it?  But I'm hopelessly proud, of course.  
April is 7 now.  And she has a half-sister who's 17, from 
Maggie's husband's former marriage.  But she lives with Maggie 
and Brian.  Needless to say, those two girls keep me busy."

Scully nodded as she crossed the soft carpet.  "That's great.  I 
wish my family were closer."  She took a seat on the edge of the 
couch, close, but not too close.  She lifted her mug and blew 
across the steaming liquid.

"Are your parents still in San Diego?"

Scully shook her head, her stomach flipping as always when she 
knew she had to make that correction...*well, it's just my Mom, 
now...*...some things never wore off.  "No, they moved out here 
not long after I did.  My father took a position at the Pentagon, 
expecting to retire soon.  But, um...well, my Mom still lives out 
here, but my father passed away almost eight years ago."

The sympathy in Daniel's eyes was deep and genuine.  He knew 
better than anyone what her father had meant in her life.  It was 
unnerving being with someone again who knew her so well...  She 
had grown accustomed to her cocoon of privacy.

"Oh, Dana...I'm so sorry.  I can only imagine how hard that must 
have been for you."

She nodded, torn between how easy it would be to open up to him 
and her need to maintain a safe distance.  "But my Mom's doing 
well.  Keeps as busy as ever.  And Bill Jr.'s a Dad now."

Daniel's eyes widened.  "Good God, that's a frightening thought."

Her smile was easy.  "Isn't it, though?  But I must say, he has 
risen to the occasion admirably."

And then she realized the path this conversation would take, *and 
how's Melissa?*, and she really wanted to go elsewhere for now.

To her advantage, Daniel picked up on her shift of mood, but 
attributed the cause to something more immediate.  "What is it, 
Dana?  Why did you call me tonight?  Are you all right?"

She nodded quickly.  "Yeah, I'm fine.  Rough day at work, but..."  
She cleared her throat, took a testing sip of the coffee.  As 
Daniel watched her quietly, giving her the space she needed, 
Scully settled more comfortably on the couch.  She pulled one 
ankle up behind the opposite knee as she turned to face him.  
Resting her arm on the back of the couch, she gazed into the 
contents of her mug.

"I'm sorry to just drop in on you...out of the blue."
 
Daniel shook his head.  "It's me."

Dana closed her eyes.  Which somehow enhanced the rich scent of 
the coffee.

"Don't say I scare you."

That made her open her eyes.  "I'm the one who came here."

"You were also the one who left in the first place."

"Over eleven years ago."

"Not so very long."

She laughed dryly.  "Daniel,...you have no idea how long."

"Tell me."

She met his gaze firmly now, gauging.  Then, she nodded.  "I hope 
to."

Daniel reached out and, with his precise surgeon's fingers, he 
smoothed the delicate fringe of hair that had slipped across her 
brow.

*Jesus, how did he do that.  No wonder he scared her.*

"Is there...anyone in your life?" she asked, eyes closed again.  
Her armor tonight.

"No.  What about you, Dana?  Beautiful lady..."

She shook her head.  "There...there was.  I think.  But now..."  
She swallowed.  "No."

"Why are you here, Dana?"

She let that question linger in the air between them, feeling in 
the haze for the truth.  "Honestly?"  She looked up, surprised by 
the veracity in her firm response.  "I miss you."

Now it was Daniel who closed his eyes, thick, sandy lashes 
catching the light, and she remembered what those lashes felt 
like against her inner wrist.  Funny how time could fold and 
bend.  "Jesus, Dana.  You always did know just how to pierce my 
soul."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

It was time for a shift of subject.  Her jumbled thoughts 
stumbled upon a point of interest.  She sniffed pointedly, and 
her gaze swept the room, seeking out end tables and open 
surfaces.  Daniel's small frown asked the obvious question.

"No ash trays," she said, settling her gaze on his.  She lifted 
an eyebrow.

Daniel smiled.  "Yeah, not anymore."

"Since when?"

He shrugged.  "Since that little round at the hospital."

She nodded.  "But you stopped.  That's hard no matter what the 
motivation."

Small talk was getting easier.  More comfortable.  That was part 
of the thing about Daniel--it was never hard to be at home with 
him.  They just kept clicking, no matter how much fell between 
them.

They kept up the small talk for longer than she had expected, 
dipping occasionally into more serious topics, playing touch 
games--a finger brush as they passed a coffee cup, ravelings 
lifted from clothing.  She gave him a surface explanation of what 
the X-files were, what she did every day.  She didn't tell him 
about Mulder.  She would, but tonight needed to be about other 
things.  She listened to the subjects of his current research, 
issues in his private practice.  He was seeing patients part-time 
now, spending the rest of his time teaching and working at the 
University.  A comfortable balance.

Once the basic catching up had been exchanged, the pace of the 
conversation slowed.  Exhaustion was hitting her.  Her third cup 
of warm coffee was softening her edge, and she was starting to 
think about the drive home and what time she needed to get up in 
the morning.

"You're tired," Daniel said simply.

"Exhausted.  This case we're working has been...relentless."

He nodded.  "It's okay.  You need your rest."

She drew a deep breath, clearing her head.  This was her cue to 
stand up, to go for her coat.  But she was finding it hard to let 
go.

"Well..."  She swallowed stiffly, aware that Daniel was watching 
her every gesture, then she set her mug on the coffee table and 
moved toward the kitchen.

Daniel was right behind her, helping her on with her jacket, 
walking her to the front door--where she stopped and turned to 
face him to say goodnight.

Scully stood for a long moment, studying the effect of Daniel's 
polished leather shoes against the light plush carpet.  She ran 
her tongue over her lips, tasting the lingering tang of the 
coffee.  To her surprise, when she tried to speak her throat was 
tight with the threat of tears.

"Daniel?" she whispered.

"Yes?"

"Do you want...."  Her breath quivered.  "Do you want to 
try...*us*...again?"

The heaviness in his sigh pressed painfully upon her shoulders.

"You know the answer to that.  But, it's my turn to be scared, 
Dana.  You promised me something the last time we were together.  
And then you walked away.  Again."

--*"What do you want, Dana?" "I want everything I should want, at 
this time in my life.  Maybe I want the life I didn't choose."...  
And Daniel had held up his hand to her.  It was a gesture they 
both knew, had shared before...in two glowingly significant 
moments in their past.  A gesture of promise, a gesture of 
asking, and of answering.  And she had answered with her 
fingertips, clasped his hand and offered her heart and her tears.  
Maybe that was why she was here tonight.  A promise yet to be 
kept.*--

"You've walked away from me twice now.  Quite honestly, I don't 
think I could take that again."  His words were simple.  But his 
eyes had darkened, and the glimpse of genuine pain and 
vulnerability she caught shot deep beneath her skin.  Daniel 
smelled like autumn leaves when he was first waking in the 
morning.  His skin was silky and warm in the early moments of 
consciousness.

"You know the last thing I would ever want...have ever wanted, is 
to hurt you.  But eleven years ago, Daniel, you betrayed me 
beyond belief.  I had every right to leave."

"I only wanted to help you..."

"Be that as it may..."  Her jaw was tight now, her defenses 
reasserting themselves and pushing back the vulnerability.  There 
were arguments yet to be had.  "I'll be honest Daniel, I can't 
promise you anything tonight.  So much has changed in my life so 
fast, I..."

"I know..."

*No, you don't...*  "...but, last spring, I don't think I walked 
away from you.  I think, I stepped back.  To take stock.  To let 
you take stock.  Deal with things in your life, Maggie...  And 
then my partner...well, it just wasn't the time anymore."

Daniel nodded.  Waited.

"But there is one thing I *can* tell you," she said, walls 
shifting again.  "It has always felt...right, just being in a 
room with you.  It's like something...," a shaky breath, a beat, 
"...stops hurting."

Daniel couldn't speak.  Then his arms were around her, and relief 
flooded her limbs as she realized how hard her body had been 
pulling for his touch for the past few hours.  *Maybe longer...*

Daniel's scent was all around her, and there was a dizzying 
sensation of forgotten home.  She was struggling against her 
tears and losing, and Daniel was nestling her closer.  His hands 
had a way of sheltering, protecting her.  They were the hands of 
a father.  Of a healer.  Of a lover.

Time to go.  For now.  But Daniel's touch was like soft music 
that she didn't want to stop.  As she pulled away, his gentle 
eyes moved over her tears and asked the question without words.

She could offer only a repeated, "I missed you."

Daniel continued to tenderly stroke her hair.  "Sleep here 
tonight...just on the couch...I--"

But she was shaking her head.  "We need to move slowly.  For both 
our sakes."

His expression turned deeply serious.  "Maybe eleven years is 
slow enough."

Scully closed her eyes, and leaned her forehead against Daniel's 
chin, feeling his five o'clock shadow.  He placed a light kiss 
against her warm skin.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" he asked, teasing, yet serious.

She smiled, pulling back and gathering herself to go.  "Work.  
But not all day.  You?"

"Tell me, and I'll be there."

She swallowed.  "You always have."

*****

End Chapter 6
(Continued in Chapter 7...)
Feedback makes me a Happy Camper.:)
bstrbabs@gmail.com


-------------------------------------

WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2001
 

CHAPTER 7a


*I know you had an ear infection when you were a little 
boy.  A bad one.  And ever since then, you were more 
sensitive to loud sounds in that ear.  It used to really 
bother you when you had to wear an earpiece on a stakeout.  
You always wanted it in the good ear.  But the thing is, 
Mulder, I can't remember which ear it was that bothered 
you.  I can't fucking remember which ear.  And it's driving 
me crazy.*



Scully hated wearing an ear piece.  The loss of hearing on 
the one side always threw her off balance.

She had a thing about control.  And she always felt the ear 
piece compromised her control.  But, of course, she could 
see the necessity of it.  So she wore it when she had to.  
And today was one of those times.

Scully tugged at her earlobe, shifting the tiny receiver to 
a more comfortable position in her ear canal.

"You reading us?" she said softly.  Beside her, Michaels 
half glanced her direction, reacting to the sound of her 
voice, then quickly realized she wasn't addressing him.

"Loud and clear Agent Scully."  Detective McCall's voice 
crackled into her ear.  "Whenever you're ready."

"I guess it's now or never.  Are we ready?"  Her last words 
were aimed toward Michaels.

"Got your back," he said, holding out an arm to usher her 
forward.

"You better."

This was probably going to be easy.  At 7am this brilliant 
and chill Saturday morning, Scully had gotten a call from 
the Vernon, VA police department.  An anonymous call had 
come in to them from a young woman claiming to have 
information about the recent series of murders.  But she 
had refused to speak over the phone.  She had insisted upon 
meeting whomever was in charge of the case at a location of 
her own specification.

Generally not a good idea.  But at least the woman hadn't 
specified anything about not bringing back-up.

So it was now 10:30am and Scully and Michaels were standing 
on the second floor of a deserted warehouse in the older 
section of Vernon, wired for sound and monitored by the 
flock of local cops parked on the street below.

"Think this is the local rave site?" Michaels asked, 
pointing toward a dusting of debris along the lower floor.  
Sunglasses, scarves, crumpled paper cups, beer cans.

Scully nodded.  "Highly likely.  Let's just hope our 
informant isn't a regular attendee."

"Could be.  Might be the reason she picked the place.  
Familiarity..."

They were walking along a narrow balcony overlooking an 
enormous room.  To their left, a rusted iron railing.  To 
their right, a concrete wall with occasional open doors 
revealing small offices.  Or at least they must have once 
been offices.  Now they were nothing but dark and molded 
storage bins.  Scully and Michaels were roughly twenty feet 
from a blind corner in the pathway where the balcony ended 
and an enclosed hallway turned off to their right.  Without 
speaking, they had begun to spread the distance between 
them.  Their hands had slipped toward their weapons, and 
they were falling into formation for the standard split and 
cover turn.

"Whoa--"

With Gannon's one sharp word, Scully's legs were planted at 
the regulation 45 degree angle and her weapon was up.

"Federal Agents!  Stay right there!"  Her sharp voice 
echoed in the cavernous space.

From the hallway, a sole figure had emerged, and now she 
stood, hands raised, looking nervously between Michaels and 
Scully.

She was a young woman, presumably the one who had made this 
morning's call.  She could have been a teenager, it was 
difficult to tell.  Her mousy hair was tousled and unkempt.  
Her clothes were layered and mismatched, chosen for warmth 
and practicality with no thought of design.

"Status?" Detective McCall said into Scully's ear.  But 
this wasn't the time to respond.

"Identify yourself," Scully said firmly, her grip on her 
weapon unwavering.

The young woman shifted her weight from one tattered gym 
shoe to the other, keeping her hands aloft.  "I called the 
police this morning.  You're from the police, right?  
You're not going to arrest me, are you?  I didn't do 
anything, I was just..."

Scully shook her head.  "We're not going to arrest you 
unless you give us reason to, and we have no intention of 
hurting you.  What we do need to do, is make sure that you 
have no intention of hurting us.  Now, if you'll agree to 
it, my partner will put down his weapon, then he will come 
toward you and pat you down to be certain you aren't 
carrying any concealed weapons."

The young woman's brow furrowed, and she eyed Michaels 
warily.  As a gesture of good faith, Michaels relinquished 
the aim of his weapon, letting the gun fall innocuously 
into his open palm.

The woman gave a terse little nod of assent.

Michaels slowly and methodically returned his weapon to its 
holster and stepped forward.  Scully stood firm, flexing 
her fingers around the butt of her weapon, breath steady 
and eyes locked on the target.

"Steady as she goes, Agent Scully," came the annoying drawl 
in her ear.  "Not a lot of weapons on the street in this 
town."  Scully blocked out the white noise.

Michaels was finished patting down the young woman.  He had 
pulled a pack of Morleys from the pocket of her denim 
jacket and was dangling it before her.  "You sure you're 
old enough for these?" he asked, teasing her, working her.

"Old enough to die for my country," she said.  "Old enough 
to kill myself if I want to."

Michaels just smiled and tossed the Morleys back to her as 
he turned to walk toward Scully.  Michaels gave Scully a 
small nod to lower her weapon, which she did.  She almost 
kept hold of it, kept it at her side.  Something was 
nagging at the back of her neck ever since the young woman 
had come into sight, something felt off here in this dusty 
and sunstreaked warehouse on this brisk Saturday morning.  
The heavy, cold metal in her hand was calming, steadying.  
But she caught the young woman's eyes tracking her gun 
hand, and it wasn't worth the compromise of trust.  She 
holstered her weapon, snap still open.

"What's your name?"  Scully prompted.

"You don't need my name," the young woman said, her tone 
almost reproachful.  She was still edgy.  The removal of 
the weapons hadn't brought her down much.
 
"Fine.  You said you had some information for us," Scully 
said, making no move to step closer.

At this the young woman's eyebrow twitched, and she glanced 
over her shoulder.

"Expecting someone?"

"They're always watching," the woman said softly.

"Who's watching?" Gannon spoke before Scully could form the 
same words.

The young woman looked from Michaels to Scully and back.  
"The men."  Then her gaze turned pointedly toward Scully 
again, pinning her with an intensity that made Scully 
straighten her spine defensively.  "Bet she knows.  She 
knows they watch."

Michaels glanced over his shoulder, but Scully kept her 
gaze locked on the young woman.  "You said you had some 
information for us regarding one of our current cases."  
Scully spoke evenly, determinedly directing the 
conversation.  And her thoughts.

The woman's brow furrowed.  She shook her head as though 
listening to her internal thought process.  "I did.  I 
wanted to help them.  But you...I didn't know you'd be 
here.  I don't think I should talk to you.  You could put 
me in danger.  I know them...I know how to ditch them.  But 
you...they could have followed you here..."  She was 
looking around again, more fervent in her efforts.

Michaels was looking to Scully for a clue, but she wasn't 
playing the game.  "No one followed me here, Miss.  I am a 
Federal Agent.  I'm trained to see these things."

The young woman scoffed, losing a bit of her nervousness in 
the distraction.  "You know nothing.  Your instructors 
can't teach you what you need to know."

Scully held the woman's gaze for a long beat, her own eyes 
narrowed in critique.  Michaels was playing it quiet, 
taking everything in.  Scully took the moment to soak up 
more details of the young woman's appearance.  Her hands 
were dirty, chapped and weather beaten.  They hadn't seen a 
moisturizing soap or a bottle of lotion in a very long 
time.  Her hair was tangled and unevenly trimmed where it 
sprang from beneath her thin knitted cap.  She was living 
on the street.  On the run, perhaps.  Maybe high on 
something, maybe released too soon from rehab.  Or therapy.  
Or worse.  "We're wasting our time," Scully said, tongue 
moistening the corner of her mouth.  "Thank you for your 
time, Miss.  Call us if anything comes to mind," the rote 
instructions were a thinly guised insult.  It was so easy 
to be a bitch these days.

She felt the slight flinch from Michaels, always the 
patient diplomat.

He stepped in.  "Miss, the Bureau does appreciate your 
attempt to help us in solving a crime.  And we do 
understand your concern in stepping forward.  But if you're 
concerned purely for your personal safety, there are 
measures that can be taken, to..."

Scully could see the words rushing right past the woman's 
head without a single syllable sticking, and she didn't 
have the patience to stay around for the protocol.  This 
case was too big and the clues too far apart to waste a 
moment on the wrong path.

Scully turned on her heel.

Michaels was still talking. "..so we would appreciate 
anything you could give us in the way of--"

When everything suddenly wasn't so trivial anymore.

"YOU CAN'T LEAVE!!!"  The woman's scream echoed like a gun 
shot through the concrete cavern.  And in the moment of 
shock during which Scully and Gannon pulled their weapons, 
the young woman took a giant step backward, hauled 
something large and red from inside the opening to the 
hallway, and swung it toward them.

"What the *fuck*!?" shouted Michaels.  The amber liquid 
from the container streamed over him, drenching his clothes 
and narrowly missing his eyes.

Scully caught only the edge of the splash, but the 
unmistakable scent hit both of them.

Gasoline.

Instant Weapons Freeze.

"You know who I am now, so you must DIE!!"  The woman, now 
seeming more like a 15 year old girl in her broad gestures 
and gleaming expression, screeched at them like a bird.

"Talk to me, talk to me.  What's goin' on in there??"  
McCall in her ear again.  Not a good time to mention the 
back-up.

Scully was still holding her weapon on the woman, though 
sickeningly aware of the risks of actually firing it.  
Michaels was down on one knee, right hand still halfway 
aiming his weapon, left hand wiping at his eyes.

"Just put the bucket down," Scully said firmly.  "No one is 
going to hurt you.  We can all still walk away from this."

Without ever meeting Scully's stare, the young woman 
cautiously lowered the gasoline container and set it on the 
concrete at her feet.

"That's good," Scully said gently.  "Good.  That was a 
smart choice.  Now I want you to--"

"QUIET!!"

In one fluid movement, the young woman slipped two fingers 
into the pocket of her soiled and rumpled shirt and emerged 
with a small olive green square.

A matchbook.

Dammit, this day just kept improving.

"Michaels, run.  Now."

"What the--"

"RUN."

Before the woman could flip open the cover of the 
matchbook, Michaels had taken in the scope of the 
situation, pushed to his feet, and staggered behind Scully.

But the woman was thinking on her feet.  Her hand was back 
on the gas can in a flash, and she was on the rear swing to 
soak not only Scully but the path of ground between them.

Scully took a chance.  In two strides she was into the 
woman's space, and a swift kick to the jaw loosed her grip 
on the gas can.  The can fell to the ground, a thin drizzle 
of liquid snaking its way along the floor, back toward 
Michaels, who was still moaning softly and rubbing his 
eyes.  But Scully's focus was on the matches.  She caught 
the woman's wrist in a vice grip as she was falling back 
from the force of the kick, and she coaxed the matchbook 
from trembling fingers before the woman could fully 
recover.

The respite wasn't long, this was one strong lady, and she 
was about to start fighting back with a vengeance.  As the 
woman made a dive to retrieve the matches, Scully pitched 
them over the side railing to the warehouse floor.

Without a moment's warning, the woman came at her, 
screaming like a banshee, teeth bared and fingers curled 
like claws.

Scully was knocked off balance and the two of them hit the 
floor with a painful thud to Scully's spine.  She felt the 
dampness of the gasoline beneath them, and the woman above 
her was tearing at her hair.  Scully's fingers were locked 
around the woman's throat, holding her back from attempting 
to bite, when Michaels silhouette appeared above her, and 
she saw him bring the butt of his weapon down hard on the 
back of the woman's head.  

The woman's grip relaxed, she gave a soft whimper of pain, 
then dropped like a cartoon character, dead weight across 
Scully's torso.

Scully panted for breath for a moment, nauseated by the 
fumes from the gasoline.  "Jesus.  Gannon, are you okay?  
Where the hell is McCall?"

With Michaels' help, Scully shoved the woman onto the 
pavement beside her.  She gave a cursory check to the back 
of the woman's head and felt for her pulse.  It was strong 
and steady.  A mild concussion was probably the worst 
option in her future.  Scully got to her feet as she heard 
the rumble of distant running footsteps.  Very helpful now.

"Talk to me, Scully," McCall was saying, his uneven words 
telling her he was one of the runners.  "Are you okay in 
there?"

"She's down," Scully said flatly.  For good measure, she 
flipped out her handcuffs and snapped them onto the woman's 
limp wrists.

Gannon caught her gaze, still squinting against the fumes 
and the traces of gasoline around his eyes.  His hair hung 
in sticky clumps on his forehead.  "So," he said calmly, 
"Taco Bell or Subway?"

Scully was surprised when she smiled.


*******************

When they got out of the car at the Vernon precinct, Scully 
grasped her cell phone and walked off toward the trees at 
the edge of the parking lot.  Michaels took the hint and 
followed the local cops up the steps to the glass doors.  
At the edge of the asphalt, Scully dialed Daniel's number; 
she had committed it to memory last night in the time spent 
staring at the phonebook.

The air was warmer here on the edge of town than it had 
been at the warehouse.  Leaves crinkled beneath her boots 
as she strolled a short distance into the shelter of the 
trees.  Daniel picked up on the third ring.

"Hi, it's me," she said, not planning the familiarity.

"Dana."  A smile in his voice.  "How's it going?"

"Late, I'm afraid.  This morning's errand got...involved.  
And we've got a few bruises to prove it."  Scully shrugged 
her shoulder.  The wrestling match had flared up the 
nagging ache.

"Are you okay?"  The concern was instant--and it felt like 
an arm around her shoulders.

"Yeah, I'm fine.  We'll have some paper work to file, 
things to finish up here with the local police.  And I'll 
need a little more cleaning up than I was planning on..."  
She grimaced, looking down at the grease smudge on her 
trench coat and drowning in the permeating odor of 
gasoline.

"You're sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine, Daniel, really.  But, uh...can we push that 
lunch closer to dinner?"

"Whatever you like.  Shall I pick you up at your place?"

"Yeah, that should be fine."

"Six?"

"Six is good."

"You still like Italian?"

She smiled despite herself.  "Yeah.  I love Italian."

"You sure you're okay?"

"Positive.  I'll see you at six."

"Six it is."

Scully clicked off the phone and dropped it into her 
pocket.  She stood quietly in the clump of trees, eyes 
closed, listening to the soft wind rustling the leaves and 
the distant whoosh of trucks along the highway.  *"Hey, 
Scully,..." "Be honest, Scully, doesn't that propane tank 
bear more than just a slight resemblance to a fat little 
white Nazi storm trooper?" "Smell that.  It's perfume.  Eau 
de ball.  God, this brings back a lot of memories..."  
"Scully, you *have* to believe me.  Nobody else on this
whole damn planet does or ever will..." "How can you just 
dismiss the evidence - the tracks in the mud, the shredded 
skin, a man with the teeth of an animal?" "You've never hit 
a baseball, have you, Scully?" "We're going to wait on the 
pitch.  We're going to keep our eye on the ball. Then, 
we're just going to make contact.  We're not going to 
think.  We're just going to let it fly, Scully, okay?"*

The wind touched her cheek like a warm caress, cold only on 
the thin trail of dampness along her skin.  Somewhere 
beneath the traffic fumes and the gasoline and the wet tree 
bark was the remembered scent of spring.

Scully turned on the soft ground and walked back into the 
precinct.

*****

End Chapter 7a
(Continued in Chapter 7b...)
Feedback makes me write faster.:)
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-----------------------------


WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2001
 

CHAPTER 7b



Watching Dana Scully was a skill at which Daniel Waterston 
was infinitely practised.  The first months of their 
relationship had been nothing *but* watching.  A wealth of 
images remained burned into his brain from those early 
days.  The way her hair slipped across her cheek as she 
bent over her notepad in the lecture hall.  The distant 
expression when she had ceased to listen to the class 
discussion and turned her focus to the trees outside the 
window--or to something behind her eyes.  The efficiency of 
her hands as she gathered her hair into a rubberband in 
preparation for a lab session, wearing so little of the 
vanity of her peers, and twice the beauty.

One image stood out above the rest.

In her junior year of high school, Maggie Waterston's 
behavior had taken a swing for the worse.  Despite his and 
Barbara's efforts at maintaining a unified front, Maggie 
had felt the growing rift between her parents.  The tension 
had run through the house on Atlantic Drive like an 
electric current.  Late one Friday night, Barbara had tried 
to phone Maggie at the friend's house where she had claimed 
to be spending the night.  The friend had claimed the same 
scenario to her parents, but in reverse.  It was glaringly 
obvious the girls had made a break for the dance club 
downtown Maggie had been talking about since it opened.  To 
this day Daniel didn't know where she had gotten the fake 
ID, or how she had gotten the money to pay for it.  But he 
clearly recalled the drive downtown at near midnight.  
Walking into the club, feeling highly out of place, still 
dressed in his work clothes, having to pay a cover charge 
just to get in the door and endure the critical look from 
the ragged twenty-something manning the entrance.  He had 
found Maggie and her friend by the bar, laughing and 
drinking and shouting over the music to two men at least 
ten years their senior.

He had grabbed their arms without a word, and turned them 
toward the door before they could even land their drink 
glasses solidly back on the bar.  He had been five steps 
from the exit before he saw her.

A single clear image in the blur of bodies and sweat and 
noise and flickering lights.  A blaze of soft red hair, a 
dry smile aimed toward a faceless young man at the bar.  
Dana's make-up had been dark and seductive that night, a 
far cry from the exposed freckles and gold-rimmed glasses 
of her classroom hours.  Her hair had fallen free and thick 
and waving.  Her slender body had no longer been clothed in 
functional jeans and heavy university sweatshirts, but 
hugged tightly by a draping black dress that stopped at 
mid-thigh.  She had carried herself with a confidence and 
coolness that betrayed the maturity behind her pale eyes.  
The blue lights had flickered across her creamy skin, and 
as he had forced himself to take a step toward the door 
before Maggie noticed why he had stopped, the darkened lids 
of Dana's eyes had risen in his direction.  And for a 
single spine-tingling moment, their gazes had locked across 
the swarming room.  The thrill had rushed through his limbs 
as though she had touched him.  He was ashamed to this day 
of the images that had passed through his mind.

She had still been his student.

But whatever images lingered in his latent thoughts from 
those early years, the reality of his life had moved 
forward without her.  A kind of question had been answered 
for him last spring.  And he had attempted to restructure 
his life without Dana Scully in the picture.

Until he had picked up the phone and heard her voice last 
night--and the guise had fallen away and the truth of his 
world had exploded into full color once again.

*Funny, how just when you think you have your act together 
and all the gears running smoothly, life just has to run up 
and bite you in the ass.*

So he was watching again.

He wasn't ready to jump in with both feet.  He was standing 
back and studying her as she presented herself before him.  
Searching for clues, puzzling through the infinite mystery 
of her psyche, seeking out the truth behind her sudden 
reappearance.  Or at least that was what he kept telling 
himself; pretending he hadn't melted under her gaze the 
moment she stepped through his door, pretending he wouldn't 
come to her anywhere in the world at the slightest sound of 
her voice.

Pretending there had ever been a moment in his life, when 
he had not loved her.

*My Dana...*

Daniel shook his head, fingered the keychain in his hand, 
as he pulled himself from his inner reverie, back to the 
parking garage around him and the door of the Infiniti in 
front of him.  Now that his lunch with Dana had been moved 
to a dinner, he had chosen to spend a few hours at the 
office, catching up on paperwork, scanning through the 
backlog of medical journals piled behind his desk.  
Trusting, of course, that his brain managed to focus more 
firmly on those tasks than it had on the rote mechanics of 
commuting.

He opened the door and dropped into the driver's seat, 
slipping the key into the ignition.  The parking garage of 
his apartment building was quiet today.  Rare for a 
Saturday.  Maybe the nicer weather had gotten everyone up 
and moving early.

*"Eleven years ago, Daniel, you betrayed me beyond belief.  
I had every right to leave."*

Her words were still ringing in his ears.  One small 
reference had conveyed a flood of still raw emotion from 
her.  Her viewpoint was well practised, solidly stated.  It 
seemed she, too, had given a good deal of time over this 
past decade to running through the crashing point in her 
mind.  Daniel had been over every second, every argument, 
every detail, like an airplane pilot checking each gauge 
and instrument, desperate to find the precise gear that had 
failed him and lost him his precious cargo.

Daniel had known for a long time that he had messed up.  
But maybe hearing the hurt that remained in her carefully 
controlled voice these eleven years later, was the first 
thing to make him realize just how badly he had messed up.  
Dana's mistake had been denying him the right to apologize.  
Their mutual arrogance had always been a failing point.  
Neither ever wanted to be the first to give.  Neither could 
ever fathom being wrong.

Perhaps...just perhaps...they had both mellowed with age.  
Time and experience were the ultimate teachers.  And 
maybe...just maybe...it would be enough.

He turned the key in the ignition and backed out of his 
parking space.

*"Don't say I scare you."*

He laughed dryly at his own falsely confident words.  
*Pretty Lady...you scare the hell out of me.*


*****


The paperwork was taking forever.  Scully was seated behind 
a desk that, according to the nameplate, belonged to a SGT 
Farwell, though she had yet to meet such a person.  She had 
been handed a multitude of papers to read through and sign 
off on over the last hour, and they were all starting to 
blend together.  The past fifteen minutes had been 
relatively silent while Det. McCall argued with the ER 
nurse on the phone in the far corner, and Scully had begun 
to tune out the noise around her and turn inward.

She really didn't like this station house.  Something about 
it had been grating at her nerves from the moment she 
stepped inside, and the answer was finally seeping into her 
consciousness, unbidden.

*It feels like San Diego.  The layout of the station house 
there.  The color of the mini-blinds.  Even something about 
the smell...*

Scully pushed the rolling chair a few feet back from the 
desk, rocked her shoes back on the heels, pushed her hair 
behind her ears, shifted her shoulder.  Anything for 
distraction, focus.

The tile beneath her was scuffed and chipped.  Not up to 
par with the rest of the polished interior.

*"Mommy said no more tests."*

Scully stood up and crossed to the water cooler.  She was 
several sips into her cup, when Michaels appeared at her 
side.

"And we thought the Bureau buried us in paperwork," he 
said, as he leaned down to fill his own cup with fresh 
water.

"Guess there's always someone who has it worse, huh?"

Gannon threw her a wry smile and pushed back his unruly 
hair.  He blended in perfectly in this place.  His rugged 
Irish good looks had always said "cop" sooner than "Fed".  
Black curls above muted freckles.  Strong frame, determined 
gate.

Scully pointed her chin toward McCall where he was still on 
the phone with the ER nurse.  "Sound like there's any shot 
at talking to the suspect today?"

Gannon shook his head.  "I don't have it straight yet, but 
it sounds to me like she's refused to say a word to anyone 
since she woke up.  They're probably calling for a psyche 
eval, blah, blah, blah.  Doubt we'll get in there anytime 
soon.  They're working on an ID, though."

"From the looks of her, they may have to go back a ways."

Scully took another sip of her water.  She watched McCall 
slam down the phone, his cheeks pink.  He turned on his 
heel, walked right past the water cooler, avoiding eye 
contact with either her or Michaels, and hurried back 
toward his boss's office.

Ten paces from the water cooler to the Lieutenant's door.  
*"'Scully-FBI', what can I do for you at this ungodly 
hour?"*
 
"You okay, Dana?"

Scully looked up to find Gannon watching her with a slight 
frown.  He'd gotten damn good at picking up on her moods.  
She felt a tinge of guilt for so rarely rewarding his 
insight with an admission.  "Yeah, I'm fine."

The frown remained.  "You sure?  You didn't get beat up 
worse than you're letting on, did you?  Your ribs okay?"

She nodded.  "They're fine.  I'm fine.  Honestly.  Just 
ready to go home."

He grunted and finally looked away.  "I hear ya there."


*****


Dana Scully's evening wardrobe needed serious help.

Burying herself so deeply in work had left Scully little 
free time for browsing the malls, and her closet was 
suffering.  Even her work suits were beginning to show 
their age and her shoes were on their last legs.  She 
should set up a shopping date with her mother for sometime 
soon.  They had spent precious little time together in the 
past few months.  On some level, Scully realized she had 
been avoiding her mother.  It was easier these days to be 
with people who didn't really understand what she was going 
through.  But one knowing glance from her mother, and the 
mask of complacency was a challenge to maintain.

Further avoidance was unfair to Maggie.  And now...maybe 
Dana was ready to open up a bit more.  Or at least handle 
the evasions with less tearing of open wounds.

Her closet was certainly implying it was time to try.

After much debating, Dana settled upon a reasonably 
presentable basic black from the far corner of her 
wardrobe.  After the 45 minute shower it had taken to 
remove the last of the gasoline, followed by the ritual 
disposal of her irredeemable suit, trench coat, and shoes, 
Scully was hard pressed for preparation time, and she was 
still fastening her earrings and switching the essentials 
from her briefcase to her purse when the doorbell rang.

Scully took a long moment, hand on the door knob, weight 
resting on her open hand against the door.  *Breathe.  One, 
two, three...*  Now, open.

Daniel greeted her with a warm kiss on the cheek and a wave 
of expensive (and familiar) cologne.  Scully was surprised 
by how eagerly her body soaked up his nearness.  The 
comfort and affection after her long day was like much 
needed food or water.  She had forgotten what it was like 
to come home to someone...to have someone to tell about her 
day.  For all of their closeness, Mulder had never given 
her that.  Maybe that had been partly her fault.  Maybe he 
had thought she wanted him at arm's length, wanted her 
private time and her space.  And sometimes that had been 
true.  But sometimes...sometimes...no...

"You look beautiful," Daniel said sincerely.

Dana responded with a quick smile.  "Not too shabby 
yourself," she said, taking in the elegant grey slacks, the 
rich yarn of the burgundy sweater, the polished leather of 
his shoes.

Daniel reached out and brushed the pad of his thumb across 
her cheek.  "This from this morning?" he asked, concern 
darkening his gaze.

She shrugged it off.  "Just a scratch.  It's nothing.  
Hazard of the job."  Then, drawing the subject away, "Come 
on, come in.  I'm almost ready."  Daniel stepped past her 
as she closed the door.

Scully returned to the dining room table, busying herself 
with her purse and grabbing her cell phone and keys, while 
Daniel took in her apartment.

"Nice place on a G-woman's salary," he said, turning to 
face her.

"I like it.  I moved in about six years ago.  It suits me, 
my lifestyle."

"Not home much?"

She wasn't sure how to take that.  After half a beat, she 
opted to play it straight, give him the benefit of the 
doubt.  She shrugged.  "It goes in waves.  Right now, no, 
not very much."

Their eyes met for a long minute, seeking, reading.  
Finally Scully released a breath that was almost a nervous 
laugh.  "I'm sorry.  God, Daniel, this is..." she glanced 
up at him, once more studying his expression before she 
continued.  "I'm not quite sure how I should be acting at 
this point."

Daniel shook his head.  "It's okay.  I don't think there's 
a precedent, Dana.  For either of us.  Maybe all that 
matters is that we're honest."

Scully nodded, comfortable with his response.  "Honest.  
Okay...."  She stared at the floor, letting the noise and 
nervousness settle around her and the truth float to the 
surface.  "I'm glad you're here," she said simply.

Daniel released a soft breath, then walked forward and 
slipped his hand easily around hers.  "I'm glad I'm here, 
too."

Her fingers closed around his as she tried to return his 
smile.

"I think that's a good place to start," he said.

"I think you're right."


*****


The restaurant was lovely, the food delicious.  But this 
was an area where Daniel had always excelled.  The soft 
jazz music, the amber lights and sparkling glasses were 
soothing to her tired limbs.  She had stuffed herself with 
breadsticks and pasta, and they were basking comfortably in 
the lazy conversation between dinner and the check.

"So, anyway, my secretary never tried that again.  At least 
not without changing her name first," Daniel finished.

Dana's smile was easy.  She took another sip of the rich 
merlot.  "I'm surprised she's still working for you."

"Yes, so was I," he said with a light laugh.  They fell 
quiet for a moment.  Then when Daniel spoke again, his 
change in tone caught her off guard.  "What haven't you 
told me, Dana?"

She swallowed.  "I'm sorry?  What do you mean?"

But his look was almost a reprimand.  Trapping her beneath 
his penetrating professor's gaze, making her grasp for 
excuses what might have happened to her homework.  But 
beneath the bluster...kindness.  "You're very vulnerable 
right now," he said softly.  "And I need to know 
why...you've obviously been through something, or are going 
through something.  I don't want to take advantage of you.  
And from a selfish angle, I don't want to build on shaky 
ground.  Not again."

Dana cleared her throat, concentrated hard on the pattern 
of remaining tomato sauce on the plate in front of her.  
"Utterly obvious, am I?"

He didn't answer, but there was no judgment in his 
expression.  Only openness.  "I wasn't trying to hide 
anything from you.  I just...wanted last night to be about 
you and me, and not about..."

"About what?"

Scully drew a deep breath.  No time like the present to 
take the plunge, right?  "Okay, here goes.  I started work 
on the X-Files eight years ago.  At the time it was run by 
Agent Fox Mulder, working alone.  Against the grain, shall 
we say.  I was assigned to...to help him.  At least that's 
what I took it as.  We worked together for seven years 
without a break.  Then this last fall..."  Scully swallowed 
hard, clenched and released her jaw.  She was regretting 
the amount of food in her stomach.  "Mulder took a chance 
he shouldn't have taken.  He went undercover without 
telling me.  He walked into the lion's den, apparently, 
without giving me a chance to have his back, and..."

She sucked in her lower lip, slid her teeth slowly across 
the flesh, tasting a mixture of lip gloss and pineapple.  
"And he died."  She would get a running start, feel so 
strong at the start of her sentence, and once the words 
reached her lips, the slow burn would spread beneath her 
skin--and her throat would close.

She heard Daniel catch his breath.  "Oh, my God, Dana...I'm 
so sorry, Darling."

She couldn't look up.  Forward was the only direction to go 
these days.  "He, uh...the thing is, Agent Mulder and I 
were..."  She closed her eyes again, layering the armor.  
"We were together for a long time, working a job that 
didn't allow us much time or possibility of associating 
with anyone else.  And we were...He was more than my 
partner.  Not that we were--we weren't *together* in the 
literal sense, but--" She drew a forced breath, pushed back 
in her chair.  "It's hard to put into words."  She sat up 
straighter, felt a shift of warm gold against her neck.  
*You gave that back to me so many times...*  "We were the 
most important people in one another's lives...for a long 
time."

Daniel was listening intently, the red-blue light 
flickering on the lines and planes of his expression.  She 
lifted her gaze to meet his, and it was easier than she had 
imagined.  Felt good, actually.

"That must have dropped the floor out from under you, your 
life," he said softly.

She lifted her eyebrows in acknowledgment.  "I've been on 
autopilot for a while now...it's getting better, 
but...there are days..."  She swallowed again, cleared her 
throat.

Daniel caught sight of their waitress and lifted a hand to 
call her attention.

"Come on," he said to Dana.  "Let's get out of here."

*****

(End of Chapter 7b.  Continued in 8a...)
Feedback warms the heart.
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----------------------------

WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2001


CHAPTER 8a


"It's colder than it looks outside."
--Bare Naked Ladies, "Pinch Me"



*I said something to you once upon a cold January. 'This 
isn't about you, Mulder.  Or maybe it is indirectly, I 
don't know.'  At the time I didn't fully understand the 
truth of that statement.  Everything is about you, Mulder.  
Directly or indirectly.  I don't know the exact day that 
became the truth.  But I suspect it was shockingly close to 
the day we met.*


"Where do you want to go?"

She wasn't sure when they had started holding hands.  Part 
of her was afraid of the significance of that step.  But a 
bigger part of her couldn't face the cold that would set in 
if she let go.

The question was loaded.  They were walking the length of 
the busy street, blending with the crowds of upper crust 
diners at the restaurants and cafe's they passed, heading 
for the parking lot where they had left Daniel's Infiniti.

The question was really--"your place or mine?"  Or anyone's 
place at all?

She wasn't ready for a definitive answer.  She was in a 
dangerous place at the moment, still a little emotionally 
raw from their intimate conversation over dinner, feeling 
warmth and comfort in Daniel's presence.  She chose safer 
middle ground.  "There's a park across the way, isn't 
there?" she asked, nodding toward the far corner of the 
distant intersection.

Daniel's gaze followed her direction.  "It would seem so.  
I never really noticed."

In silent agreement, they waited for the light to change, 
walked with the crowd across the main street, then across 
the side street, and through the brick archway onto the 
concrete path.

Several paces down the path, Scully felt Daniel's eyes on 
her and she looked up.  "I love this dress," he said with a 
feather touch to the material across her midriff.  "Reminds 
me of one you owned...a long time ago."

"Are you saying I'm ten years out of date?"

"If you are, I might have a chance of keeping up with you."

She frowned.  "You're not so old."

He closed his eyes and shrugged the subject away.

Not far ahead, the path turned to a gently sloping bridge 
across a narrow stream.  The evening breeze was turning 
cooler, and Scully pulled her coat closer around her body.

"Cold?"  Daniel let go of her hand and reached his arm 
around her shoulders.

"Just a little," she said, folding her own arms across her 
chest and nestling comfortably into the curve of Daniel's 
arm.

"This is a nice park," Daniel said, looking around.  "I'm 
surprised I never noticed it, in all the times I've eaten 
near here."

"You can be a bit...focused," Dana said with a dry smile.

"Ah, I see.  As opposed to you, the picture of relaxation 
and balance."

"Of course."

"You, who forgot your own birthday during your senior 
exams."

"You remember that?  How embarrassing."

"I remember you."

Dana closed her eyes, kept walking.  They were coming to 
the bridge, stepping from the concrete onto the hollow wood 
planking.  Scully steered them toward the railing, wanting 
to linger a while, watch the rippling water below.  Daniel 
followed easily.  His hand slid down her side as she 
settled her forearms on the wide top of the rail.

His hand brushed against her thigh.  "Are you armed?"  
Daniel asked, his hand moving back over the solid metal 
strapped tightly to her lower thigh.

Scully lifted an eyebrow, inquisitive, watching his 
expression in the mixture of street lamps and moonlight.  
"Is that a problem?" she asked directly.

Daniel shrugged.  "Just surprises me, I guess.  I'm not 
used to my date packing heat.  Do you carry it all the 
time?"

"I'm not required to.  But most of the time...I've just 
learned to be safe over sorry.  Over the years, my job has 
had a tendency to--" she searched for a delicate phrase, "-
- to follow me home."

Daniel's brow furrowed.  "How bad?"

Scully smiled, her lids heavy.  "What say we cover that one 
later?"

Daniel drew a long breath and turned to look out over the 
water.

After a long silence, he said into the wind, "It doesn't 
have to be like that anymore, you know."

"What?"  Scully turned, but Daniel didn't.  He kept her 
watching his profile.

"Your life.  Last spring, you told me you didn't know what 
you wanted anymore.  I assume you've been working that out 
since we last spoke."

Scully sighed heavily.  "Well, trying to, yes.  But things 
have been...distracting."

Daniel nodded.  "I know.  I can see why, now.  Your 
partner, your friend.  Obviously he was a major motivation 
for you to stay with the Bureau.  You were a team, you had 
so much invested..."

"Daniel, what are you saying?"

"Isn't that part of why you called me now?  After all this 
time??  Losing Mulder.  You were tied to him, loyal to him.  
But you don't have that reason anymore.  And you're looking 
for satisfaction in the work alone, and its not there for 
you.  Not now, anyway.  So...you're looking elsewhere."

Scully slid her tongue over her lips and pulled a half step 
away.  "So, it still comes with the package?  You and 
medicine?  You're not interested in me as I am, only if I 
want to come back and follow you again?"

Daniel cringed, annoyed, almost impatient.  "I didn't say 
that and you know it, don't put words in my mouth."

"No, Daniel, I don't know that.  I never have.  The way you 
see me has always been wrapped up in your passion for 
medicine and mine.  I have always wondered what else you 
see in me."

He looked shocked.  "I see all of you, Dana.  I always 
have.  And what I may have missed, I *want* to see.  But 
you have to let me.  I have never tried to impose *my* 
desires on you--"

"HA!"  She pushed away from the railing and her hand moved 
onto her hip, her sarcastic smile lingering.

"Dana...*you* were the one with the real passion for 
medicine.  For understanding life.  For helping people."

Scully narrowed her eyes and locked gazes with Daniel for 
several beats.  The wind was much colder now.  "I *have* a 
passion for medicine, Daniel.  I *am* a doctor.  And I *do* 
help people.  Every day."

Daniel's eyes were dark before her stoic challenge.  "I 
don't see the passion in you, Dana.  Not like when you were 
in school."

"Yeah, well, I'm older now."

"I just want to see you happy.  That's all I ever wanted.  
As did your father.  He knew you, Dana.  That's why he 
thought your leaving medicine was a mistake."

Dana looked down at her shoes, felt her jaw hardening and 
the walls rising around her like battlements.  She tipped 
one shoe back onto the heel.  "Yeah.  Well.  Thank you for 
dinner, Daniel.  It's been fun."

And without the courtesy of eye contact, Scully brushed 
past him and started back across the bridge.

She heard the footsteps close behind her.  "Dana, wait!"

She kept walking.  "Dana!"  His voice was further behind 
now.

"Dana, don't be ridiculous.  Where are you going?  You 
don't even have a car."

"I'm not 12.  I can manage a cab."  She was peripherally 
aware of one or two people glancing her way, wondering who 
the strange lady was who seemed to be talking to herself, 
leaving the handsome doctor alone on the pathway.  She was 
too numb to care.  Too long a day.  Too many emotions.  Too 
much crumbling ground.  She needed to lie down and warm up 
and make the world hold still.

As always, it was easier to be angry and cold than it was 
to talk.

*Damn*.

Dana stopped dead in her track, no longer aware of how far 
behind Daniel might or might not be.  She was doing it 
again.  Shutting out Daniel at the first and easiest 
excuse, the way she had invented a hundred reasons over the 
past month not to meet her mother for lunch.  The way she 
had kept Agent Michaels at arms length through every effort 
at friendship and comfort.

The way she had all but told Mulder to go to hell when she 
was dying of cancer and he wasn't there at night to hold 
her.

*Damn*.

But the anger and exhaustion and frustration were still 
burning in her veins like a fire.  So, when Daniel's hand 
met with her shoulder, she whirled on him, temper ablaze.

"This is what I do Daniel, it is a part of what and who I 
am."  She was struggling to hold her voice down, 
maintaining a heavily controlled stage whisper.  "*This*, 
Daniel."  Scully pulled up the skirt of her dress just 
enough to give Daniel a good solid flash of her Sig and any 
lucky passersby a good flash of her thigh.  "This is part 
and parcel of my life, Daniel, whether you like it or not.  
I am an FBI agent.  I help people.  With my investigative 
skills and with my medical knowledge.  I keep people from 
dying and I comfort people who have lost loved ones."

"Dana, I'm not doubting that you--"

"I'm not finished.  Nothing you say can assure me of your 
support.  Nothing.  Because I believed in you once, more 
than anyone in my life, and you blew it.  Do you have any 
idea how that felt?"

Daniel had gone quiet now, his hair ruffling in the 
crosswind, backlit by the moonlight.

Scully's breath was shallow, her skin tight from the cold.  
"I went to my father--the person I loved more than 
anything, and the person whose opinion I had most respected 
my entire *life*--I went to him with the biggest decision 
of my life--And he was *disappointed* in me.  And he did 
NOT support me.  And I left there, devastated...and I went 
to *you*...my friend, my lover, my adult *family*...I went 
to you for support, for *comfort*--" her voice slipped just 
a bit, a whisper of vulnerability sliding through the 
anger, and she saw Daniel flinch, "--and you reacted - 
Exactly - Like - My Father.  You talked down to me.  You 
denied me any measure of the respect I deserved, and had 
every right to *expect* from you."  She paused a moment, 
drew a trembling breath.  She was dizzy.  Caught up in a 
memory and struggling to process where she was now and what 
any of this meant to her in the moment.  In the end all she 
knew was the pain was far fresher than she had realized.  
"Nothing you say can make me forget that."

Daniel cleared his throat, lowered his gaze.  The deep 
creases across his brow brought a quick flash of regret 
through her stomach, but she had to hold her ground.  These 
words had waited inside her for eleven years.  And nothing 
could move forward until they were dealt with.

Daniel's next words surprised her.

"Where did you go...after you left my office that day?"

She answered on reflex, her angry tone mismatched with her 
words.  "Into the woods off University Place to throw up."

Daniel winced, looked away for a moment.  "No, I mean, 
where were you living?  You left your apartment, your phone 
was disconnected...  You dropped my class."

"I didn't need it to graduate."

"*Dana*..."  He met her eyes this time, and the hurt was a 
mirror of her own.  She softened a fraction.

"I stayed at Missy's apartment."

Daniel just watched her, hands in his coat pockets, waiting 
for her to go on.

Scully couldn't meet his gaze anymore, started talking to 
his coat tail instead.  "I left a trail.  You could have 
reached me if you really needed to."

Daniel's sigh was almost inaudible.

"I did come back to say goodbye," her words were just a 
whisper.


*****

(End Chapter 8a.  Continued in Chapter 8b...)
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---------------------------------

WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2001


CHAPTER 8b


"Desperate for changing
Starving for truth
I'm closer to where I started
Chasing after you"
--Lifehouse, "Hanging by a Moment"



The air was a little warmer here beneath the street lamp.  
The crosswind off the water lost some of its strength.  
Daniel was seated on the ornate wood and iron bench at the 
center of the park.  Beside him, close, but not touching, 
sat Dana Scully, the woman he could never forget.

He was watching her again.  Watching the lines of her face 
in the deceptive light as she carefully removed each sign 
of the vulnerability she had opened to him only moments 
ago.  First the set of her mouth shifted from open to 
tight, then the angle of her jaw set, then it was her eyes.  
The gentle tenderness in their depths faded as the glaze of 
distance washed into place.

He wasn't certain when any sense of control he had felt 
over the course of the evening had slipped through his 
fingers.  Their heated exchange had torn open countless old 
wounds, fresher for all concerned than they would ever have 
guessed.

He was certain of one thing.  He could not let her walk 
away angry.  Not again.  Not when her anger clearly masked 
so much.  He had waited too long for this moment to let it 
pass them by.  He had seen too much in her eyes moments ago 
to believe she had nothing left to feel.

But it was his turn to talk.  Dana had laid her cards on 
the table.  And if anything was going to break the impasse 
it would have to come from him.  Which meant admitting to 
his own barriers.  Diving in with both feet and ceasing to 
guard himself against the potential of the pain he so 
clearly remembered.

Time was ticking.  And with each silent second she pulled 
further away.

He needed to speak.  He needed to tell her what he had 
truly felt, so long ago, and then...now.  The trick was, he 
had to admit the truth to himself before it could pass 
convincingly across his lips.

Dana shifted slightly, lowered her gaze to the uneven stone 
path.

He had to leap.  "Dana.  Do have any idea why I reacted to 
your decision the way I did?"

For a long moment she didn't respond, and he wrestled with 
the irrational notion that she could no longer hear him.  
Perhaps it was preferable to the far more obvious slight.  
His thoughts quieted when she said simply.  "No."

"Right or wrong, you weren't the only one who felt betrayed 
that day."

She drew a soft breath through her nose, her chest rose and 
fell and he wished like hell he could touch her.  Always so 
close, and just out of reach.  "How did I betray you?"  Her 
tone was neutral, guarded.

But there was a doorway there.  He felt it.

"I was in love with you, Dana.  More so than I have ever 
loved another woman in my life.  Barbara included.  You 
were what mattered to me.  I was willing to give up my 
wife, my security, my career, my daughter's respect, my 
home..all to be with you.  Without a single regret.  Not 
for a moment.  And then you walked into my office, and you 
told me that you..." he trailed off for a moment, gathering 
the reins on his emotions.  "You never hesitated to put 
your career above me.  And you didn't even act as though I 
should be shocked or hurt or...You just wanted me to be 
happy you were leaving.  You chose a job that would almost 
certainly take you away from me.  Dana...do you have any 
idea how that felt for me?  I thought we shared a dream, a 
passion...a *future*.  And when you walked in and announced 
you were joining the FBI, abandoning everything we had 
planned together..."

"Planned?  Don't you mean dreamed??"  She looked at him 
now, and he realized she was back in the conversation.

"Dreamed?  What do you mean?"

"Daniel...you fantasized about our life together, you 
*talked* about leaving Barbara and getting married.  And I 
believed you, and I waited for something to happen.  But 
nothing happened Daniel.  You weren't moving.  And things 
were getting harder and getting worse.  I didn't really 
belong in medicine anymore, not in the capacity I was 
aiming towards practicing it.  And I had thought I belonged 
with you, but I was beginning to doubt that, because I was 
becoming a permanent third wheel with no real sign of 
moving up the ladder.  I saw what I needed for myself, and 
I took it.  And I assumed that if you wanted a way out, I 
was handing it to you on a silver platter.  And if you 
didn't...well...then you'd follow me."

"I did follow you..."

She gave a weak laugh, but it hurt them both to hear it.  
"But you didn't tell me."

"No.  I didn't tell you."

"Why?"  She could give a single word such depth.  Her hair 
blew in ripples at the corner of her mouth.  Torturing him.

"I drove to your apartment one night.  You weren't home and 
I sat outside and waited for you.  Another man drove you 
home.  Kissed you goodnight.  I left."

Dana raised her eyebrow.  She held his gaze for a long 
moment, her eyes narrowed as she searched through her 
thoughts.  Then she said softly, "Jack.  Jack was rebound 
guy.  Then later...a good friend."

They sat in silence for a long moment.  And as he watched 
her, his body prickled with awareness.

"Dana...are you crying?"

She didn't respond, but her breath was shallow, her face 
hidden in the uneven shadows.

"Dana?"

"How did this happen?" she whispered, and the tears were 
now water in the flow of her voice.


*****


She asked him to walk with her.  They seemed to have agreed 
in silence that this was no longer the time for words.  
What needed to be said had been spoken, and now the truths 
needed to wash over them and settle into place.

Scully lead the way back to the main path, back toward the 
bridge.  Because she wanted to be near the water.  Because 
water had always smelled of home.

Daniel's warm hand held fast around hers and the sense of 
him was dizzying.  They stopped once more at the railing.  
The after dinner crowd was thinner now, the trees seemed 
taller, nature reclaiming its own in the blurred lines of 
night.  Daniel moved his hand to trace slow circles on her 
back.

"I strike out when I'm hurt, Dana."  His whisper was almost 
too quiet to be words.  There was a thickness in his voice.  
"You know that.  But I should never have hurt you.  Not 
you.  I'm sorry."

Dana nodded.  "I know."  She could hear Daniel's posture in 
his voice, the way he pulled up so regally when he was 
saying something honest, something noble.

She had loved this man.

Daniel brushed his fingers across the back of her hand 
where it rested on the railing.  "You're shaking," he said 
softly, intimately, and she shivered, feeling him reaching 
out for something within her.  "You seem...*scared*," he 
finished.

Scully glanced out into the darkness, swallowed to loosen 
her voice.  "Terrified," she whispered, trying to soften 
the admission with a nervous laugh.  The immediate rush of 
exposure made her stomach hurt.

"Dana..."  The word was almost a caress, though their 
bodies remained apart.  Scully closed her eyes, feeling the 
nearness of his aura.

"Why are you scared?"

A public park.  People nearby.  And yet the darkness and 
the wind made her feel somehow sheltered.  Alone with 
Daniel.  Once upon a time, they had been practiced at being 
invisibly alone in plain sight.

"It's just...it's been a long time.  I don't think I know 
how to do this anymore."

"Do what?"

She shrugged helplessly, chanced a moment of eye contact.  
The dim light softened the lines of Daniel's countenance.  
The streetlight reflected off the water and caught the 
spark in his gentle, hazel eyes.  Those eyes had always 
turned her blood to sweet cream.

"Trust," she said, her own answer surprising her.

Daniel's soft lips parted, spreading into an easy smile 
below his neat moustache.  "Dana.  Trusting is like riding 
a bicycle.  Your body will remember."  The intimacy of his 
tone, the gentle double-entendre, the cool night air, all 
were working to bring down the last of her guard, expose 
her vulnerabilities.  And the deep pools of his shadowy 
eyes were sinking through to her soul.

"My body never forgot yours," she said, eyelids heavy.  
"That was never the problem."  She could feel the 
electricity gathering in the air.  *Damn*.  It was just too 
easy to heat things up between them.  It had always been 
too easy.

The hungry anticipation remained in the air for several 
beats.  To kiss in that moment would have been without 
effort, instinctual.  But they were being so very careful, 
working so hard not to surrender until they had a solid 
mental hold on it all.

Daniel compromised.  He stepped up behind her and began a 
gentle massage of her shoulders.  His ministrations felt 
good.  Damn good.  She was strung like a steel wire, crying 
out for a soft touch to bring her back down.  She turned to 
face the water.  The wind was like fingers along her 
throat, and Daniel's warm hands were soothing her from 
behind.  She could hear him breathing.  Mulder had been a 
silent breather; creeping through dark hallways and 
sneaking up on her like a cat.  But Daniel...Daniel's 
breath had been an ever-present rhythm to the soundtrack of 
their lives.  She had missed that sound.  The sensory 
memory was almost overwhelming.

"Your right shoulder's so much tighter.  Why?"  The 
intrusion of words made her jump.

She took a moment to fathom a clear response.  "Mmmm...oh, 
I was in a fender-bender a little while back.  Hurt it on 
the seatbelt.  This morning's...*entanglement* tightened it 
up."

She felt the intent of Daniel's fingers shift ever so 
slightly from purest soothing to practiced probing.  
"You've had it x-rayed?  You want me to look at it?"  He 
leaned forward slightly to breathe into her ear.  "I *am* a 
doctor, you know."

Scully smiled softly, eyebrow raised.  When she spoke, she 
was only half-teasing.  "As am I."

Daniel took a step around her, placed a finger beneath her 
chin and turned her face up to his.  His tone was deeply 
serious.  "Yes, Dana.  You are."

Even the wind seemed to stand still.  The magnetism was 
overpowering.  Her face upturned, Daniel's gazing down upon 
her with unparalleled tenderness and respect.  She could 
still hear his breath above the wind and now she could feel 
it, ever so softly warmer than the air, brushing the bridge 
of her nose like a feather.  His fingers moved from beneath 
her chin to cradle her cheek, and the warmth of his touch 
spread beneath her skin.

He gave her more than enough time to move away.  But she 
didn't want to.  Not this time.  In fact, she moved toward 
him.  Their lips met like old friends, and the taste was 
sweet and clear and stronger than the greyed spices of 
memory.  It took no effort to turn her body to his, to slip 
her arms around his waist, beneath the shelter of his 
dinner jacket, inside the protective layers.  The tensing 
of his back muscles beneath her hands sent a thrill through 
her stomach.  There was power there.  Masculinity 
unhindered by years.  And she could remember what it felt 
like to have that power over her, around her, humbled 
beneath her.

Their kisses deepened.

Her own soft sigh as she caught her breath between kisses 
sent a symbiotic ripple through Daniel's body.

He was the one to break away.  Just enough to speak for a 
moment.  They couldn't separate further.  Forehead to 
forehead, breath meeting breath.  "Dana.  I have to know.  
You have to tell me."  His fingers curled her hair behind 
her ear.  "I don't scare you.  Not me.  Please."

"Not you," she whispered in return.  "What you bring out in 
me."  Eyes still closed, breath deep and ragged.

"What I bring out in you is beautiful, Dana."

She held the quiet, wrapped it around her like a blanket.

"Dana..."

"I want to be with you," she said softly.

Daniel pressed his moist lips every so gently to her 
eyebrow, then the corner of her eye, her cheekbone, her 
jaw.  And her head tilted back, indulging him, indulging 
herself, breathing in the night.

"I have always wanted to be with you," he whispered.

Dana slid her arms around Daniel's chest and pulled him 
tight against her.  "Keep me warm," she said, her cheek 
pressed into the expensive cloth.  "Keep me warm."

Something stopped hurting.


*****

(End of Chapter 8b.  Continued in Chapter 9a...)
Feedback.  It's the coolest.
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------------------------------------

WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2001


CHAPTER 9a


"Hurt that's not supposed to show and
Tears that fall when no one knows
When you're trying hard to be your best
Could you be a little less"
--Madonna, "What it Feels Like for a GGirl"


**You only did it once.  We were working a case for a woman 
from MUFON who claimed to have a chip implanted in her 
neck.  We were sitting on the floor of a basement records 
archive in some backwater town I've forgotten.  But I 
remember talking about what the chips might ultimately be 
for; homing devices, controlling agents, biological 
meters...  The subject of luring the victims to their 
deaths (like on a burning bridge) came up.  And we never 
mentioned the connection to me.  Not out loud.  But in the 
moment of silence before some hick cop burst in and 
interrupted us, you placed your hand on the back of my neck 
and let it rest there.  Just rest there.  Protective.  Your 
hand was so warm on my skin.  I still feel the ache.  And 
all this week, I just keep thinking, if you could place 
your hand there one more time, this mess of half clues and 
death and pain in front of me would fall into a pattern.  
And I would know what to do to make it stop.**


"It's here.  We're just not seeing it."

Dana Scully sat back against the edge of her desk, staring 
unblinking at the bulletin board in front of her.  
Snapshots of crime scenes overlaid autopsy reports and case 
notes and maps drowning in red marker.  A jigsaw puzzle 
with no interlocking pieces.  Scully hated that those.  The 
variables were too wild and too many.  "Fully Interlocking 
Pieces, please", printed in careful red letters on her wish 
lists to Santa.  She liked a world with rules and order and 
predictability.

"Maybe it's not," Michaels said to her back.  "Maybe what 
we need to know just isn't here yet.  Maybe we really 
*have* learned everything we can from what we have."

"Depressing thought," she said off the cuff, not really 
hearing her own dry humour.

Michaels stood quietly behind her, staring over her 
shoulder at the morbid panorama that wallpapered their 
days.  He asked, "So what's on the docket for today?"  He 
blew across his coffee, then took a sip and grimaced.

"Why do you keep drinking it when you so clearly detest 
it?" Scully asked, back still turned.

"Makes the rest of my day seem better by comparison."

"We're off to Talia Carson's former place of work."

"Which was where again?"

Scully glanced down at the notepad on her desktop.  "Grand 
Street Music Shoppe."

"Grand Street?"  Michaels took another gulp of his coffee 
and picked up the notepad, twirling it round to read it.  
"That's a little out of the way from where she was living, 
isn't it?"

Scully nodded.  "I noticed that, too.  But it's close to 
where she went to school and she was already working there 
part-time before she graduated four years ago.  Her current 
address only goes back nineteen months."

Scully stood now, facing Michaels and gazing pointedly 
toward the file from which she had gleaned the information.

"All right then, we'll head out.  Have I got time to check 
my email first?"

Scully lifted her eyebrows, nodded stiffly.  "Traffic might 
be thick," was all she said before picking up her briefcase 
and heading upstairs to sign out a car.


*****


The air was icy and heavily damp.  Winter had yet to have 
its final say over the helpless residents of D.C..  The 
brief respite of warmth had only given a deeper bite to the 
returning chill.

Gooseflesh brushed down Scully's shoulders, along her spine 
to the small of her back, as the cruel wind funneled into 
the underground parking lot.  She glanced at the ID# on the 
key chain in her hand, checked the space numbers in the 
motor pool.

Amazing how the smell of the world could shift in less than 
twelve hours.  Scully had fallen asleep last night, nerves 
alive with crossing sensations--warmth, desire, tenderness, 
vulnerability, fear.  The buzz had kept her awake long 
after Daniel had left her at her door, after a hot shower 
and raspberry tea, after an hour of mindless television.

And now this morning, in the cold grey fog, under blue 
lights and images of young women long dead, Dana Scully was 
remembering why she had been alone for so long.

Last night had left her open and dangerously raw.  The 
contrast of warmth and kindness made the harsh realties of 
violent crimes disproportionately piercing.  If you kept 
all the doors closed, the painful rooms were sealed away.

But so were the safe ones.

There was work to be done.  Work she needed her full 
faculties to carry out.  The clock was ticking.  Another 
woman would probably die.  Until the killer made a mistake.  
Until Scully *caught* the mistake.  That was the trick.  If 
she missed a single window of opportunity, the blood spread 
to her own hands.  And Dana Scully had enough blood on her 
hands to last a lifetime.

*Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.  I killed a man in 
cold blood, shot him in the head, right in my own fucking 
living room.*

Scully turned the key in the door of the Bureau sedan, 
climbed inside and started the motor.  She switched the 
heat on full blast and willed the cool air to rush into 
warmth.

Tick-Tock.

Who was he watching now?  How long did he watch his victims 
before he found a window to steal them away?  What did he 
need to know before the process began?  How many hours 
until another one disappeared?

Too many questions, too few answers.  Real cases never went 
the way they did on television.  It was one of the first 
things they pounded into students at the Academy.  The 
killers rarely taunted the police.  There was rarely a 
trail.  There were no Dr. Lecters waiting in the wings with 
all the answers.  The majority of the work was done on 
paper, in laboratories, trudging meticulously through 
tedious details.

Waiting for a miracle.

Somewhere out in this grey spring morning, mixed in with 
the politicians and the lawyers and the teachers and the 
homeless, there lived a methodical killer in the prime of 
his career.  How many hours until his next defining event?

How many hours?

Or had she vanished already?

Tick-Tock.


*****


The motor of their FBI issue sedan was already running when 
Michaels reached the parking lot.  Agent Scully was seated 
behind the wheel, a case file open in her lap.

She didn't speak when he climbed into the car.  After a 
brief pause, Scully closed the case folder and slipped it 
into her briefcase.  She twisted around and tossed the 
briefcase onto the back seat, her silk blouse pulling 
distractingly across her chest as she turned.

Michaels settled into his seat, accepting her silence as 
par for the course as they pulled out into the D.C. fog.

He had long ago ceased to critique her driving.  From their 
first case, Scully had made it clear that her place lay 
behind the wheel and that she would accept no instruction 
from those riding shotgun.  He assumed Mulder had not been 
much for driving and she had grown accustomed to having her 
own way.  For what it was worth, she was a better driver 
than his wife, so he figured he would survive.

The heater was still running full blast.  Michaels checked 
the dash in hopes of separate driver/passenger climate 
controls, but he knew this was too much to ask on the 
government's tab.  Instead, he cracked the window an inch 
to lighten the oppressive heat.  A moment later, Agent 
Scully reached out without a word and lowered the fan.  
Distracted, yes--bitch, no.

Dana Scully was a constant puzzle.  It crossed Michaels' 
mind on more than one occasion, to wonder what Agent Mulder 
had seen from this perspective beside her.  Mulder's 
profiling skills had been legendary.  Had he ever turned 
those skills onto his partner?  Michaels had no idea what 
the relationship between Dana Scully and Fox Mulder had 
been.  He knew only that they had been devoted to one 
another, would lay it all on the line in a second for one 
another.  But in all his months of partnership with Dana, 
he had never learned the true nature of that devotion.  
Friends?  Lovers?  Siblings?  Pure partners?  In fact, 
Agent Fox Mulder had been a taboo subject from the first 
day Michaels had begun work on the X-Files.

**"Listen, Agent Scully, I just want you to know, I 
understand what it's like when you've been with one partner 
for a long time.  I'm quite sure I won't always be doing 
things the way Agent Mulder did--"  "We won't be discussing 
Agent Mulder.".  Damn.  If ice could hang off words...**

This morning Dana was a million miles away.  She hated 
murder cases.  That much he had picked up on.  She withdrew 
even further than usual during the investigations.  Sucked 
in every piece of information and processed it brilliantly-
-but she wouldn't give a glimpse of hoow it was affecting 
her.  Not healthy.

But there was something else today, the last few days.  
Somewhere else her mind was going that he would not be 
allowed to follow.

There was no point dwelling on it.  He had learned the 
futility of such pursuits months ago.  But it was helpful 
to note that it was there, to be aware of any potential 
degree of distraction in his partner and keep a low grade 
monitor on it.  In the foreground, he needed to turn his 
own profiling skills onto the case at hand--Why did Talia 
Carson die?

Which might have been an easier question to puzzle through 
if he could get a little help from Agent Scully.  He had 
done his job.  He had familiarized himself with the past X-
Files, focused most readily on the ones with thick folders 
and most especially on those in which the names Fox Mulder 
and Dana Scully appeared as more than just "investigating 
agents".

Dana Scully had a chip in her neck.  An unidentified 
computer chip, which she had had removed, and then 
inexplicably had put back.  Clearly she knew more about 
where to look for the next potential victim in this case 
than he did.  With her past experience, she had to be 
toying with theories on who might want these women dead, 
theories that were beyond what Michaels himself would ever 
surmise from the facts on the page.  Dana had hinted to him 
on far more than one occasion that she and Mulder had 
investigated the majority of their cases to a far deeper 
level than that which made it into the official reports.  
Michaels was acting without all the information, and he 
couldn't deny that made him a little bit angry.

Though it was hard to look at Dana Scully and stay angry.  
She was too clearly the walking wounded.  Even if she 
refused to deal with her lingering grief in the healthiest 
of fashions, he couldn't help but feel for her.  He knew 
what it was to lose someone central to your life, and he 
knew how it could throw your world off its axis.  During 
his third year of college, Michaels had been in love with a 
beautiful co-ed named Sara.  They had been together two 
years, they had talked about getting engaged.  Michaels had 
had no doubts he wanted to marry Sara, spend his life with 
her.  Then one day she had gotten in a car with a friend 
she thought was sober enough to drive.  The next morning, 
his world had exploded.  If he hadn't met Amanda the 
following year, he might never have gotten his life back on 
track.

But more young women were going to die.  And he and Agent 
Scully weren't working together.  Not really.  She was 
pulling further and further away and he was no longer able 
to track the paths her mind might follow.  In the weeks 
before this case had come across their desk, Dana had been 
opening up to him.  Talking.  Smiling, even.  She no longer 
flinched when he touched her, didn't back up when he 
entered her personal space.  He had been grateful the jump 
in progress had come just in time for their first major 
case together.  But as the investigation progressed they 
had been losing personal ground by leaps and bounds.  They 
were clicking on the rote investigative procedures, their 
interrogations were slick, synchronized.  But the 
guesswork, the deductions, the instinctive decisions on 
direction and focus--on these, their chemistry was failing.  
Dana's walls were growing too high to climb.

Something had to shift before they could see through the 
killer's eyes.  He was as certain of that as he was of the 
inevitable end of this unforgiving winter.

He hoped she knew it, too.


*****


The Grand Street Music Shoppe didn't open to the public 
until ten.  Apparently none of the shops along this quaint 
little section of Grand Street did, because Scully was able 
to ease the sedan into one of several open places just 
outside the music shop door.

The eclectic mix of shops, the white iron street lamps and 
tightly packed storefronts, reminded her of the University 
district she had frequented in her college days.  She and 
Daniel had had their first cup of coffee together in a 
smoky little caf� on the corner of a street very much like 
this one.  Talia Carson had walked this street every day, 
probably reliving her own college memories each time she 
stepped out the door.  Until two weeks ago, of course, when 
whatever beauty there had been in her life had been 
eclipsed by endless black.

Scully closed her eyes for a moment as she walked beside 
Michaels across the wide brick walkway, and focused on the 
cool wind on her cheeks and throat.  *Mulder...how did you 
do this?  Day in and day out in your years in VCU?  Did 
these kinds of thoughts run through your head on every 
case?  Did you know they ran through mine?*

Scully pulled off her glove and tapped the backs of her 
knuckles on the cold glass door.  After a few moments, a 
woman appeared behind the sea of peeling stickers on the 
door.

"We're closed!" the woman shouted.  "Come back at ten 
o'clock."

Scully slapped her badge up to the cluttered glass.  A 
moment later, the woman was fishing through a giant clump 
of keys and working to free the column of locks.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked as the door at last swung 
open.  She was a plump woman, probably in her early 
thirties, dressed in a long pleated skirt and generous cowl 
neck sweater.  Her brown hair was pulled back into a 
careless ponytail, and her light eyes stood out without the 
help of make-up.

"I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Michaels.  We're 
investigating the death of Talia Carson.  Did you know Ms. 
Carson?"

With this, the woman's previously indifferent countenance 
grew pale and intense.  "Oh, my God.  Yeah.  Yeah, of 
course, I knew Tally.  She worked here forever.  She was 
here when I started.  Everybody knew her.  Please, come 
in."

Scully gave a polite nod and followed the woman further 
into the store.  As they walked, she took a cursory survey 
of her surroundings.  Rote cataloging shifted to interest 
as her eyes moved over rows of polished violins, an antique 
cello, a hand carved mahogany music stand, bins of music 
books, new and used.  She was almost disappointed when the 
woman ahead of them stopped at a counter along the far 
wall.  At the register a second young woman, mousy and 
petite, was sorting through credit card slips.  She looked 
up as they approached, something like fear in her eyes.

"Amy," the first woman said softly.  "They're from the FBI, 
they're here about Talia."  She turned back to Scully.  
"I'm Jessie Tugman and this is Amy Bester.  How can we 
help?  We talked to the police, back when..."

Scully nodded.  "I know you did, and we appreciate it.  
We've read the reports.  But now that the case is under our 
jurisdiction, it would be helpful if we could speak to you 
directly."

Jessie nodded.  "What do you need to know?"

"Did you suspect in any way that Talia might be in danger 
before she disappeared?  Did she say anything to you or did 
you see anything out of the ordinary during the previous 
weeks or months?"

Jessie and Amy exchanged glances.  The receipts slipped 
from Amy's slender fingers and she pushed them aside into a 
disorderly pile.  "There was the man," Jessie said.

"What man?" Michaels asked.

"We don't know who he was.  But he was following Talia.  
She told us about him and for a while we weren't sure if 
she was just being paranoid.  You know, you never think 
something real is happening to someone you know...until too 
late.  We thought it was an old boyfriend maybe, or someone 
with a crush...  But then he started showing up close to 
the shop.  I caught sight of him a couple of times, in the 
courtyard across the street."  Jessie pointed toward a 
patch of lawn on the far side of the street, sprinkled with 
park benches and white iron lunch tables.

"Could you describe him?"

Jessie shook her head, glanced at Amy who did the same.  "I 
only saw him from a distance.  Talia always pointed him 
out.  He usually dressed all in black.  Average height, I 
think.  White, with dark hair.  That's all I could really 
see.  He had sunglasses and sometimes a hat."

"Did you see him, too, Amy?"

The mousy girl nodded.  "Twice.  Once there in the 
courtyard when we all saw him.  And once on the street 
below Tally's apartment."

"You were at her apartment?" Scully asked.

"I was there for dinner.  And we rented a video.  Tally and 
I both liked Antonio Banderas movies, and we..." she faded 
out with a quick blush.  Scully offered a gentle smile, and 
Amy continued.  "Anyhow, I was getting ready to leave and 
it was kind of late, and so Talia walked me out to the exit 
of her building to make sure I got to my car okay.  And 
when we were talking in the doorway, we saw him down the 
street.  At least we think we did.  It was really just a 
figure just outside the light of the street lamp.  But it 
looked like he was looking our way.  And just standing 
there, not moving.  Tally was really nervous and she ended 
up asking me to stay the night.  I did stay, but the guy 
had vanished by the time we got back upstairs, and we 
didn't see him again."

Scully and Michaels exchanged glances again.  "Can you tell 
us anything else about this man?  Did Talia tell you 
anything about him?  Did she have any theories who he might 
have been or share any thoughts with either of you?"

Both women shook their heads.

"Talia was a very 'up' person," said Jessie.  "She didn't 
like to focus on anything negative, so she rarely discussed 
it."

Scully nodded quietly.  There were a dozen other questions 
spinning in her head, but there was no good way to ask 
them.  And she could feel Agent Michaels standing behind 
her, and she almost wished she could have a moment alone 
with these women, to ask a few questions she didn't want 
him to hear pass over her lips.  But protocol will-out.  
And she simply nodded again.  "Well, thank you for speaking 
with us.  I know it's difficult."  She turned, half looking 
over her shoulder.  "Agent Michaels?  Do you have anything 
else you would like to ask?"

Michaels drew a deep breath, and she had known him long 
enough to hear the implications in its resonance.  "No, I 
don't believe so.  Thank you again, Ms. Tugman, Ms. Bester.  
And please do call us if anything else comes to mind.  
Anything at all, no matter how trivial it may seem to you."  
Michaels held out two business cards between his fingers, 
and Jessie took them both, passing one to Amy.

"Thank you," Scully repeated softly, as she and Michaels 
turned to go.  Jessie saw them to the door, while Amy hung 
back at the counter.

The warm, heavy air within the shop made the crisp air 
outside a half-welcome change, though the chill had 
returned before Scully had fished out the keys to the car.  
A gust of wind pushed her hair forward across her cheeks, 
tunneling her vision onto the keys in her hands, and making 
her jump hard when a hand came down on her forearm.

"Oh, I'm sorry."  It was Amy Bester, looking as timid a 
before, even more so after Scully's startled whirl in her 
direction.

Scully cleared her throat.  "No, it's fine.  What is it, 
Amy?"

Michaels was moving around from his side of the car.  
"Something else you'd like to tell us?" he asked as he 
approached.

Amy glanced his way, seeming even more mouse-like beside 
Michaels imposing physical presence.  She hadn't stopped 
for a coat, she must have been freezing in her short plaid 
skirt and thin sweater.  Scully placed an impulsive hand on 
Amy's upper arm.  "What is it, Amy?" she asked again, her 
tone softer this time.

"It's nothing important really, I mean not to the case or 
anything, I just..."

Amy faltered, and Scully raised her eyebrows, gently 
reassuring.

Michaels, to his credit, seemed to sense Amy's greater 
degree of comfort in speaking to a petite woman, and merely 
stood by, innocuous and silent.

"Talia was my best friend," Amy continued.  "I've known her 
since we were Freshmen at the University.  She was always 
so confident, and so...she always stood up for me, you 
know?  Looked out for me.  Tally wasn't scared of much of 
anything.  She knew what she wanted in life and she 
wouldn't let anything stop her from going after it."  She 
paused a moment, her delicate features twisted as she 
wrestled to put her thoughts into words.  "Look, I know you 
can't disclose any information about the case, nothing that 
wasn't in the papers.  We've hardly had any information on 
how Tally died.  And I just...I just want to know, if there 
were knives involved.  See, Tally, she was terrified of 
knives.  That was her one real fear.  She had these 
nightmares...  She couldn't stand to watch anything tearing 
skin...  And I just need to know...did he use a knife on 
her?"

*Watch me.*

*Marks inflicted prior to time of death...*

Scully's stomach burned and the contrast to the outer cold 
made her skin crawl.  She clenched her jaw, molars sliding 
together, then apart.  The wind was pushing her hair clear 
of her face now and she found herself longing for the 
shelter.  Amy's clear, innocent eyes were staring up at her 
with aching need.  Scully broke eye contact, for a moment 
looking past Amy up the cold quiet street.  The break was 
all Amy needed.

"Oh, God..." she whispered.

"Amy...I'm sorry," Scully said quietly, her hand, still on 
Amy's upper arm, tightening its grip.

Amy was staring at the ground.  She nodded stiffly.  Then 
after a silent beat, she looked up, composure intact, and 
said clearly.  "Thank you for your honesty."

And Scully just half closed her eyes, because there was 
nothing to say, and after a moment Amy was gone and 
cocooned inside the music store once again.

Five seconds later, Michaels took his own private car keys 
out of his pocket and hurled them across the empty road.  
They skidded to a halt nearly a badly painted metal garbage 
can.

Scully spread her hands wide against the edge of the car 
roof and leaned forward, seeing only the toes of her black 
shoes when she could open her eyes at all.


*****

End Chapter 9a.  Continued in 9b...

Who knows...if you send feedback, the next chapter might 
come sooner...<eg>
bstrbabs@gmail.com



-------------------------------

WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2002


CHAPTER 9B



Scully pulled the comforter closer around her shoulders and 
tucked her legs tight beneath her.  The longer she read, the 
colder her apartment felt.  Her metabolism was slowing down in 
the quiet of the early hours.  She had long since ceased to glean 
any real knowledge from the medical journals spread before her.  
Their presence was merely a distraction.  Something to keep her 
thoughts away from the case, if only for a few hours.

It wasn't working anymore.

Scully pulled off her glasses and tossed them on the nightstand.  
She rubbed at her eyes, free from daytime concerns of smudged 
make-up.

She was avoiding the vulnerability of sleep.

It was an old game for her.  Don't close your eyes and keep the 
monsters outside.  Sometimes, in the early hours of the mornings 
spent in second rate motel rooms in half forgotten towns, she 
could still hear her counterpart on the far side of the wall--
pacing the hard floor and abusing the remote control; hiding from 
the demons behind his eyes.  But then, she would come fully 
awake, and aware of the real and unforgiving silence.

Scully gathered the medical journals from her comforter into a 
neat pile and dropped them to the floor.  She reached out a hand 
to extinguish the beside lamp, but instead her hand fell to the 
telephone.  She pulled the handset into her lap.  A gentle ripple 
of thunder carried through the outer wall, and she caught a 
flicker of lightning in her peripheral view.  Spring storm season 
had come.  Rain reminded her of Oregon, and the smell of 
graveyards at night.

Scully picked up the phone and dialed the lighted numbers in the 
dimness.

A groggy voice responded on the third ring.  "Hello?"

"Hi."

"Dana."

"Did I wake you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I'm sorry.  You can go back to sleep."

"Don't be ridiculous.  Are you okay?"

"I'm fi--" She stopped.  Swallowed the taste of damp trees.  
"I'm...I'm a little shaken, I think."

"By what?"

She gave a slight laugh at Daniel's equanimity.  "You.  Work.  
This.  Everything all at once.  It's..."

"...hard for you to open up."

There was significance in her silence.  "Yeah."

"It's okay.  I understand.  You know that."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to come over?"

"Yes."  She was surprised how easy that was to say.  "But I need 
to sleep.  I have an early meeting."

"Do you want me to come over?"

She smiled.  "No.  I mean...you know what I mean."

"Occasionally."  His voice was warm, welcoming.

"Just talk to me for a few more minutes before I fall asleep."

"As long as you like."

She didn't respond, but she thought he heard her quiet sigh.

"Actually, I'm glad you called," he began, letting his voice tell 
her he heard her deeper need, yet keeping his words as light as 
she wanted.  "I forgot to ask you--I have this annual charity 
ball thing night after next...all about financing for the 
hospital, etc., etc.  I don't claim it will be the highlight of 
the social season, but I would love it if you would join me.  
It's extremely short notice, I know, so if you can't--"

"I'd love to."  Her quick response caught her off guard.  The 
whole concept was so utterly foreign to her present existence.  
But there was another Dana...a former self back there somewhere, 
who had always answered invitations this way, who had wished 
night after night over her med school books that she could appear 
in public just one time with Dr. Daniel Waterston.  She closed 
her eyes, working to pull the two lives together into her 
present.  "I need an excuse to get out.  Buy a dress," she added 
with a half-genuine smile and a derogatory glance at her closet.

"Is the storm heavy there?"

"Not yet...but I think it's moving in."

"The weather said it might go around you."

"You never really know, do you?"

"No...you never do."  He paused, and she didn't speak.  "You 
haven't gotten afraid of thunder after all these years, have 
you?"

Scully swallowed against an uncannily timed crack overhead.  "No.  
I'm not afraid of thunder."

Daniel kept talking.  And the sound of his voice kept her 
listening, as it always had.  The sound of the rain was lulling 
her from without.  She was forgetting for a moment why she didn't 
want to close her eyes.

Ten minutes later they said good night.

Scully turned off the light and let her lids fall before her 
thoughts could wander.  She drifted into slumber, handset sliding 
onto the empty pillow beside her.

The tail of Mulder's Knicks T-shirt dangled from beneath the 
pillow and brushed against her wrist as she slept.


*****


She felt the shadow cross her eyelids before she awoke.  The 
first conscious image she registered was a vaguely human 
silhouette outside her bedroom window.  In that moment, the 
figure was close to the glass, pressed tight against it as though 
straining to peer inside.  Seconds later the figure was a quick 
blur to the left and then there was nothing.

Scully was on her feet in an instant, and the cold metal in her 
hand told her she had snatched up her weapon from the nightstand.  
She was dizzy from the quick return to consciousness, but she had 
learned how to activate her adrenaline and smooth things over.  
It took only a single breath to level the room.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle while she slept.  Visibility was 
good, if shadowed.

With a quick glance around the room, Scully crept toward the side 
of her window.  Pressing her back to the wall, she sidled up 
against the window frame.  With a deep breath, she whirled toward 
the window, weapon raised, like the window was a doorway of a 
suspect's room--falling back on Academy procedure as though she 
had known it as long as which hand to use for her fork.  The 
landscape was clear.  An innocuous car swished past on the damp 
pavement.  But there were ample places to hide--bushes, trees, 
parked cars.  The thought crossed her mind with a sickening ache 
in her stomach, that the figure might have been *inside* the 
window, if she had been too hazy with sleep to distinguish.  But 
that was fear playing her.  She knew her senses well enough to 
trust them.

Scully turned from the window and made her way through the 
apartment, following the path of windows between her bedroom and 
the front door.  She scanned the lawn and street beyond for any 
movement.  But the neighborhood was quiet in these early hours.  
Slipping into a pair of pumps by the front door, Scully flipped 
the still intact deadbolts and ventured into the hallway, weapon 
still ready.  The hall was clear, well lit, making her squint 
against the sudden brightness.  She moved quickly and quietly, 
jogging down the hall and through the double doors into the damp 
night air.  Her breath was coming fast, heart racing, but she was 
on top of her game, instincts alert.

The thick dampness made her silk pajamas cling to her skin, and 
she was glad there was no one nearby to watch.  Scully walked the 
outer path to mirror the inner path in her apartment, feeling the 
chill wind more and more in the dampness.  The soaked grass 
squished beneath her feet and sucked at the heels of her pumps, 
making her feel less secure of easy escape.  But there was 
nothing to escape from.  Nothing she could see.  Everything was 
quiet.  The sky above was clearing, starlight breaking through 
the clouds.  Her breath fogged around her.  But she was alone.  
Whatever she had seen was gone.  Or lying in silent wait.

Back inside, Scully turned on all her lights and made a thorough 
search of her apartment, aware that she had left the door 
unlocked as she made her outside search.  She had memorized every 
nook and cranny in her home that could possibly be made large 
enough to harbor a person.  The process was automatic now, but 
the knot in her stomach remained as she worked.  There was an 
increased sense of intrusion as she moved near the bedroom 
window.  Just as there had been near the closet after Pfaster, 
near the vents after Tooms.  She would have to do something to 
reclaim that area for her own in the days to come.  New drapes, 
perhaps.  Or one of the crystals Melissa had left her, hung in 
the window to catch the morning light.

Scully at last came to a standstill in the center of her living 
room, listening to the soft patter of the lingering drizzle, the 
more constant trickle of the storm drain.  And her own forced 
breath.  She stood there for a long moment, weapon arm slack at 
her side.  Her breath at last had begun to slow, when her 
telephone rang and sent her pulse rate flying.  She took a moment 
to place her weapon safely on the dining room table, then picked 
up the phone.

"Hello."  Her voice was more ragged than she expected.

"Dana--Michaels.  Sorry to wake you.  I--you okay?"

"What?  Yeah, I'm fine.  I was just--"

"Just?"

"Nothing, I just...thought I heard something.  It's nothing.  
Michaels, what's going on?"

"Ennnhhh...You don't want to know."

"Dammit.  There's another one isn't there?"

"The guy's not wasting any time anymore.  Gettin' downright 
cocky."

*No, wrong attitude.  This guy wasn't flaunting it.  Not like 
that.  That wasn't what he was about.  Or was she that off base?*  
"Where?"

"Alexandria.  Two blocks from the goddamned station house."  

"I'm on my way."

The rain was getting stronger again.


*****


Four hours at the crime scene, icy rain drizzling from her hair 
down the back of her neck, making her stomach muscles quiver and 
proving harsh winter was yet present alongside the random 
glimpses of spring.

Three hours in the equally chill autopsy bay, exhaustively 
enumerating the violations inflicted upon Donna Flaners' body and 
cross referencing the similarities to each of the previous 
crimes.

Ten minutes in the bathroom off the locker bay, head turned down 
beneath the blow dryer, desperate to break the penetrating cold 
at the back of her neck.  Breathing.  Whiting out the images 
behind her eyes.

Four hours of bulletin boards and evidence bags and blown-up 
photos and wandering theories.  And now, watching the last 
glimmer of the day's sunlight vanish from the thin windows at the 
top of the basement walls, Scully sat in the quiet, hugged her 
coffee mug for warmth, and let the images on the walls envelope 
her.  Waiting for the click.  If she didn't hear the click, if 
she didn't stay here, buried in unconscionable information, until 
she heard the click, another woman would die.

She sensed Michaels' presence in the doorway before he spoke.  
"That coffee worth drinking or should I just go with hot water?"

She almost smiled, but didn't speak.

Michaels moved forward.  "Forensics is still combing every inch 
for prints, but it looks like the guy was still wearing gloves.  
They're working on DNA, hair and fibers."

Scully nodded, her eyes still scanning the images around her.

"I'm going to take an hour, go get a real meal.  I haven't had 
anything since about 5am, and I'm betting you haven't either.  
Care to join me?"

Scully gave a cursory smile she knew meant nothing to Michaels, 
but she had nothing else to offer.  "No, thanks, you go on.  I 
have some more to do here."

"We all have more to do here.  It doesn't end until it ends, but 
you gotta be smart about it, you know that."

Scully pushed up from her chair, unable to sit still any longer.  
"I know that.  Thank you, but I need to stay until more of the 
lab reports come back, and I want to start compiling the 
interview lists, we should be out in the field by tomorrow 
morning."  She set down her coffee and picked up the Flaners 
report.  Donna Flaners.  27 years old.  Done with life.

"Dana, we don't..."

"We caught this one sooner than the others, but the trail is 
getting colder by the minute, and--"

Michaels moved closer.  "That's very true, and I am no less 
dedicated to this task than you are, but--"

"I'm not saying that, I'm just saying I'm not ready to leave 
yet."

"Dana--"

Michaels' hand on her cheek caught her unarmed.  "Dana."  His 
voice was softer now and she was frozen.  "It's okay.  YOU'RE not 
Mulder."

Scully cringed and stepped away.  "I am not--"

But Michaels stepped with her, didn't give any ground.  "Dana, 
you are here.  Everyday.  You are doing your job, and you're good 
at it.  But it is okay to keep mourning at the same time."  With 
his last words, Michaels' fingers gently smoothed back her hair.  
He had never been so brave with her.

Scully drew a controlled breath, eyes constant on the surface of 
the desk.  "I know that," she whispered, but it was no longer a 
reproach.

A moment passed in silence, then Scully took a step back and 
Michaels dropped his hand.

"I'll, uh..." Scully swallowed, straightened her cross.  "I'll 
stop by the Deli in about half an hour."

Michaels nodded, then a moment later he left, closing the door 
behind him.

Scully stood in the quiet office, eyes closed, dizzy with the 
weight of ghostly echoes.


*****

End Chapter 9b.  Continued in Chapter 10a...
Feedback...oh, the joy of feedback...
bstrbabs@gmail.com

--------------------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have once again self-indulgently included 
references to scenes in two of my otherwise unrelated X-Files 
fics.  So, if you want to know about that first evening gown...go 
read "Silent Lines" (my very first X-Files fic...way back in 
first season...yes, I'm that old...)...as for the other 
reference...well, I'm sure Mim can find it...anyone else?:) 
(Cyber-cookies given)


WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2002


CHAPTER 10a


*You saw me in an evening gown one night.  We had been working 
together less than a year...yet, you had already begun to show 
that peculiar dependence on me...that bit of possessiveness I had 
not yet succeeded in recognizing for what it was.  Out of this, 
you had rung my beeper in the middle of what you knew was a date.  
A date with a man I had been seeing for several weeks and had 
begun to grow rather close to.  I didn't talk to you about things 
like that back then.  But I think you knew.  I don't remember 
what aspect of our case prompted your call that night.  I don't 
even remember what case we were working on.  All I remember is 
the first look on your face when I walked in the basement door; 
that split second before you covered your reaction.  You thought 
I was beautiful.  You looked at me as a woman, far outside the 
confines of agent to agent relations or battles of beliefs and 
minds.  And for that instant, I felt more beautiful than I had in 
years.

Fuck you, for leaving me that goddamned rose.*





The lobby was breathtaking.  The solarium ceiling would have 
flooded the room with sunlight in the day, tonight the very air 
shimmered with a thousand crystalline reflections from the 
chandeliers.  The expansive greenery mimicked more garden than 
hotel.  Climbing vines wound the stone statuary, and at the 
center of the hall stood a massive tiered fountain emptying into 
a glittering wishing well.

How long had it been since Scully had entered a place of beauty 
without the shadow of crime scene tape or the weight of Kevlar?  
How long had it been since she had taken the time to notice?
 
Beside her, Daniel blended seamlessly into the landscape of well-
shod class.  His black-tie ensemble was skillfully tailored, 
showing his broad shoulders and commanding gait to best 
advantage.  He moved with ease in this scenario, as though 
dropping in for a drink after work at a 1920s gentlemen's club.

Her vanity was admittedly stroked by the knowledge he had seen 
her as a suitably elegant companion to complete his image.  
Daniel had never been one to devalue appearances.  She had not 
missed the appreciative gaze that had swept her figure when she 
opened her apartment door; nor the lingering look that had moved 
beyond surface admiration and brought a warmth to his eyes and a 
flash of vulnerability in her presence that had pulled hard at 
long-buried emotions.

She had a weakness for men of experience; men who had truly lived 
life, seen it at its darkest and most brutal and still not lost 
their sense of the beauty in the world.  She had been through so 
much in her life, been torn so far out of the traditional paths 
of a city professional, she found it almost impossible to develop 
a close friendship with anyone outside the realm of criminal 
investigation, much less the average potential date.

But Daniel had seen enough real life in hospital halls and in the 
quiet of his own once vibrant household, that she could look into 
his eyes and find something to hold onto, someone who could see 
back into her.  If she would allow.

"This should be our table here," Daniel said, glancing down at 
the colored number on the place card in his hand.

Scully pulled herself back to reality, having been caught in her 
own thoughts, only dimly recalling their entrance into the 
crowded ballroom, checking for their names on the table of place 
cards by the door.  Had they greeted anyone?  Had she neglected 
the necessary pleasantries?

*"Watch Me".  Carved into the white skin like a heavy red marker 
on poster board.  Why, why do you want to be watched?  Who's 
supposed to watch you?  And what are we supposed to see?  A 
vulnerable part of the body, the inside of the forearm.  
Sensitive to good touches and bad ones, and so often left hanging 
out in the breeze like that young woman's arm right there, lying 
unprotected on the white linen table cloth.*

"Hmmm?  I'm sorry?" Scully turned to Daniel now, knowing he had 
spoken, but unable to remember what he had said.  His position 
made the answer apparent.  He was holding her chair.

Scully closed her eyes a moment, a slight flush of embarrassment.  
"I'm sorry," she said softly.

He was watching her, concern in his eyes, waiting for her to 
explain.  Scully closed her hand over his where it still lay on 
the back of her chair.  "Work.  It's just...hard to shut off.  
I'm sorry.  I'm here, really."

He shook his head.  "You don't have to be."

"I want to be."  She glanced around the elegant room.  "It's 
beautiful."  She took her seat, brushing her fingers gently over 
the back of Daniel's hand as she turned.  "Now, tell me who I 
should know."


*****


Dinner was delectable.  It was good to see Dana still eating 
actual meals instead of picking at her food like a bird as many 
women thought necessary these days.  Though he had been surprised 
to find she had turned vegetarian, and had watched with quiet 
amusement as she discretely removed the bacon bits from her salad 
and the chicken pieces from her linguini.  At one point she even 
surprised him by casually turning the fork to his mouth instead 
of placing the meat onto her side plate.

He could still taste her kisses, feel her breath on his neck, the 
tangy-sweet scent of her hair.  And now, just being in a room 
with her was like foreplay.  Not just physically, but 
emotionally.  This woman got under his skin, saw through him, 
like no one ever had.  She could run her hand across his cheek 
and feel what he was thinking.  He had tasted that intimacy again 
and wanted it back more than ever.

Dana was indescribably beautiful tonight, a shimmer of silver and 
auburn light.  He hadn't noticed another woman since they entered 
the ballroom.  She knew exactly how to dress everything she had 
to its best advantage.  So many of the women in this room, 
whether naturally attractive or not, had been so long in 
laboratories and exam rooms with practical haircuts and sparse 
adornments to look any more than "stuffed into" elegant evening 
wear.  But Dana had not lost sight of her femininity, not 
forgotten to nurture the essence of who she was beneath the 
professional gear.  They had had a conversation about this aspect 
of her life once...long, long ago.  A quiet, intimate 
conversation, lying on their backs in the deep shadows of the 
rooftop of the chemistry building.  Watching the midnight stars.

Her dress was luminescent silver, a thin draping material that 
slid over her smooth curves like a caress.  The neckline was low, 
elegant.  The thread-thin straps showed the soft skin of her 
shoulders, her well-toned arms.  Her hair was fastened in a 
careless French twist and the loose tendrils mixed with her 
delicate earrings.

But some of her distance had returned, as though it had slipped 
over her with the dress.  The open vulnerability she had allowed 
in the shadows of the park Saturday night was clearly something 
to be doled out in moments and glimpses.  He could wait.  Ten 
years essentially alone had shown him the odds of finding another 
woman who could make the world quiet just by touching his hand.  
He could wait.

Dana was making it more than apparent by her charming 
conversation with their four dinner companions that she could 
still move at ease in his circles, despite her many years in 
those foreign to him.  In many ways, she was still the same woman 
he had loved more than a decade ago.  Yet he was not blind to the 
lines around her eyes.  More than shallow marks of age, he saw in 
her scars of experience, battle scars of hard-earned survival and 
darkening lessons of life.  Dana had grown from a determined and 
idealistic school girl, to a woman who had fought her way through 
the world and earned her beauty.

He wanted to hear the details of every battle.  It was painful to 
know how much of her life he had missed.  And largely through his 
own mistakes.

He didn't intend to miss another day.  Not this time.


*****


Dinner had been cleared, the token speeches and presentations by 
the charity hierarchy had been waded through, and now the room 
was a mixture of minglers and lingerers over their after dinner 
coffees; the lull before the music would begin and signal the 
start of the evening's dancing.

Scully was still nursing the end of an herbal tea, and watching 
the people around her.  She had enjoyed the dinner.  It felt good 
to be out in the world again, outside of her medical or 
government personas, just the red-head in the silver gown, her 
dark polished nails tracing the rim of the china tea cup.  When 
she was listening to the old Navy stories of the older gentleman 
across the table or trading subtle and hot touches with Daniel as 
they moved through the evening, she could almost forget the dead 
bodies pasted on her walls, forget the dark government 
maneuverings to which she was privy.  But she kept getting 
flashes of mild disorientation.  As though she were no longer one 
of these people, as though she were a sort of intruder on normal 
life, waiting to go home.  Daniel was talking to the man beside 
him, something about recent research in neural receptors, and she 
would normally have been as interested in the information as he 
seemed to be, but she couldn't track it at the moment.  And the 
longer she sat drawing back within herself as the conversation 
wound down, the more she seemed to lose hold of her grasp of her 
place in this room; why she was here, and if she really wanted to 
find herself in more places like this over the weeks and months 
to come.  And, finally, she pushed back her chair, grasped her 
clutch purse, whispered a hollow pleasantry to Daniel, and 
slipped out of the ballroom.

The air in the solarium was much fresher.  She hadn't realized 
how much things had warmed up in the ballroom.  The doors to the 
outer drive had been propped open and a gentle breeze now moved 
through the greenery.  Scully stepped leisurely around the 
wishing well, watching the pattern of water flow in the fountain, 
remembering the constant sound of water in Colleen Azar's house.  
*"When?" "Almost ten years." "Daniel...you didn't move here for 
me?"*

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

"Dana?  Are you all right?"

She turned to see Daniel stepping up beside her, concern clear in 
his eyes.

"I'm fine.  I just...needed some air."

"Pretty stuffy crowd in there."  His double meaning was apparent, 
and Dana smiled.  "It's all right," he said.  "If you're not 
comfortable here, we can--" 

"No, no...it's beautiful in there.  Honestly, it's...it's lovely.  
I'm glad we came."  Her answer was open, honest.  "I just...," 
she shrugged, "I needed some air."  She looked down again, 
obviously not explaining, but letting him pick up that she was 
still sorting through the answer herself.

Daniel nodded.  Scully continued to gaze at the water, immobile.

Out of the quiet, Daniel said softly, "Do you want to be alone?"

His question rang through with far more significance than he had 
planned.  Scully took a long beat.  And when she looked up, she 
answered the real question.  "No.  No, I don't."

Daniel lifted a hand and brushed his fingers ever so gently 
through her hair.  "You are the most beautiful woman here."

She had forgotten how to take a compliment like that.

Back in the ballroom, the band had begun to play, and the music 
carried through the solarium on the breeze.

Daniel reached out an arm to her.  "May I have this dance, 
beautiful lady?"

With a small smile, Scully took Daniel's hand and stepped up to 
meet him.

It was always so natural to fit her body against Daniel's.  It 
had always been easy, too easy.  He handled her with respect, 
cradling her with something like reverence, even when his 
attention appeared to be elsewhere.  The music was soft, the 
chord changes soothing.  The open doors sent a breeze across her 
shoulders and ruffled her hair.  Scully leaned in closer, 
gradually settling her head against Daniel's solid shoulder.  She 
had heard this song before, on a radio somewhere, knew she liked 
it, but didn't know the singer.

She felt the awakening, the gradual nursing to life of yet 
another aspect of her that had been neglected for too long.  
Questions Mulder had never asked, such as "What's your favorite 
song?"

And she didn't want to let go of the moment.  She just wanted to 
keep her eyes closed and keep feeling the sweet air on her skin 
and the strength of Daniel's arms around her and smelling the 
cloth of his suit and the weight of his cologne.

As they moved closer and Daniel buried his face in her hair, his 
breath was warm and close against her neck.  She pulled up and 
into his touch, her body responding on instinct.  She didn't want 
to think anymore tonight.  Daniel felt her shift and in a moment 
he was kissing her neck, her throat.  The lobby was fairly 
deserted, most of the patrons in one of the banquet halls or 
ballrooms, and their position by the fountain sheltered them from 
prying eyes.  Scully leaned her head to the side, indulging 
Daniel, indulging herself.  She felt the familiar and long lost 
ripple of sensation spreading down her spine as her body awakened 
into his touches.  Her posture shifted, her awareness of her own 
sexuality rushing her sensations.  Memories of a life she didn't 
know she had left behind.  A way of moving, a way of thinking.  
Little reminders had come over the years (*"Scully...you do know 
that I think you're beautiful?"*), but they had always faded, 
unrealized.

Scully nuzzled her cheek against the barest trace of stubble on 
Daniel's cheek.  He turned to meet her mouth, and for a moment 
they just hovered not more than a breath away, feeling the 
magnetic pull between them, savoring the connection.  Then Scully 
moved forward, locking her mouth on Daniel's soft, generous lips, 
hungrily drinking in his taste.  Different than it had once been.  
No trace of cigarettes anymore.  But the underlying flavor that 
had stayed with her like no other man in her life was still 
there, drowning her senses.  His hands moved over her as they 
kissed, exploring her curves.  She felt him catch on the holster 
on her thigh, but this time he hardly flinched, just kept moving.  
Up over her back to the bare skin of her shoulders, drawing his 
fingers down the length of her spine and cascading gooseflesh 
down her arms.

Scully deftly worked the buttons at the front of Daniel's jacket, 
never breaking her lips from his, and slipped her hands beneath 
the folds, running her hands over his back, now hampered only by 
the silk of his vest and the thin cloth of his shirt.  She had a 
right to kiss this man.  For the first time, she was kissing 
Daniel Waterston, and there was no reason she should be pulling 
away.  If there had once been a reason in her own life, it was 
gone now.  *He's gone, Dana...listen to your own words.*  Daniel 
was free and alone without her.  There was no one left to hurt 
with their touches.

Her tongue was mingling with his and with each deep draw off of 
him, she felt the deeper arousal stirring within her.  And 
Daniel's own aching response pressed against her abdomen, 
electrifying her own sensations.

Her hands moved down over his hips and pulled the length of his 
body tighter against her own as she continued their breathless 
kisses, all but handing him her key, recognizing and welcoming 
every desire of his body.

Daniel reached up and pushed back her hair as he moved his mouth 
from her lips to her cheek, her eyes, his touch both tender and 
just rough enough to keep her wanting.

With a slight guiding tug, he turned her face up to his, asking 
for eye contact for a moment.  He gazed down at her, a world of 
emotion in his precious eyes.  "Dana Scully.  I love you."

Dana half-closed her lids, drinking in the weight of his words, 
the power with which they had been delivered.  "Daniel..." she 
breathed, her voice throaty, raw.  "Take me out of here.  Take me 
home."

The sea of greenery became a memory behind them as they stepped 
out into the night together.


*****

(End Chapter 10a.  Continued in Chapter 10b....)
Feed me--bstrbabs@gmail.com


----------------


WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2002


CHAPTER 10b


"Anyone perfect must be lying,
everything easy has its cost
Anyone plain can be lovely,
anyone loved can be lost
What if I lost my direction?
What if I lost sense of time?
What if I nursed this infection?
Maybe the worst is behind"
		--Bare Naked Ladies "Falling For the First Time"



They hardly spoke on the ride home, flying through the spring 
night air.  Dana rolled down her window and let the wind touch 
her skin.  Daniel rested his hand possessively on her thigh, 
still burning from the heat of her touch, as he steered the car 
with his free hand.  Dana seemed to welcome the contact, and 
Daniel struggled to keep his focus on the road.

If he remembered right, Dana had a strong preference for being 
the driver in any twosome, but tonight, she seemed content to 
surrender at least that much control.  She was deep within her 
own thoughts as she watched the city rush past, yet he could 
still feel her on his wavelength, tracking his movements (and 
maybe his thoughts).  He had pulled out onto the road before 
asking whose place they were returning to.  When they neared the 
exit for his neighborhood, Daniel glanced toward Dana, and she 
squeezed his hand in assent.
 
He was slowing the car now, winding through the narrower streets 
near his building.

Dana pushed her wind-tossed hair away from her cheek, leaned down 
to retrieve her clutch purse from the floorboards.  The sodium 
vapor lights dappled the skin of her shoulders like snowflakes.  
He couldn't believe she was sitting beside him.

Daniel pulled into his designated parking place beneath his 
building, shifted into park, and slipped the keys from the 
ignition.  He turned in the yellow lights to find Dana watching 
him with her characteristic intensity.  Reaching out, he touched 
his fingers to her cheek, brushed his thumb temptingly across her 
mouth.  His gaze rested on her slightly parted lips; Dana caught 
his thumb ever so lightly with her teeth, and Daniel leaned in to 
kiss her.  Her soft palm rose to cradle his cheek, and he was 
thrilled anew at the touch of her lips, the sweet welcoming 
warmth.  Their kisses were gentler now, but still with an edge of 
hunger that made him ache for her.  With a last caress down his 
arm, Dana climbed out of the car.  Daniel wrapped his arm around 
her shoulders and held on as they made their way across the 
parking lot, footsteps echoing in the deserted enclosure.  At the 
building entrance, she reached out and tapped her own name into 
the security pad, glanced at him for a moment so he knew she had 
seen the pattern on her first visit, and Daniel closed his eyes 
and kissed her temple.

At the door of his apartment, Dana leaned against the wall as he 
fingered through his keys.  She spread her silk shawl wider over 
her bare arms as the building air conditioner ground to life, and 
he longed to warm her with his own heat.

Daniel pushed the door open and motioned for Dana to step inside.  
She smiled softly, her pale blue eyes catching the lights as she 
stepped over the threshold.  Ahead of her, out of the shadows of 
the dining room, bounced Daniel's oversized Golden Retriever, 
tail wagging and nearly knocking lamps off tables as she came.

"Tasha!" Daniel called, stepping forward to hold his clumsy, 
gold-hearted companion off of Dana's evening wear, but Dana had 
already stooped down to greet Tasha at her own level.

"Hi...," she said softly as Tasha came up to lick her nose.  "Who 
are you?  Oh, my God, Daniel, is she yours?" Dana looked up at 
him with childish delight.
 
Daniel grinned at her, watching Dana massage Tasha's ears.  "Oh, 
yeah, she's mine.  Had her since she was 8 weeks old.  She'll be 
six next month."

"Where was she when I was here the other night?"

Daniel stooped down beside her, reaching out to stroke Tasha's 
back.  "She was with my sister.  I had just gotten back from a 
medical convention in Chicago about an hour before you called.  I 
had been about to drive out and get her.  You just caught me."

Scully winced.  "I'm sorry.  You should have told me, you could 
have gotten her first."

He smiled.  "And risk you changing your mind?  Never occurred to 
me.  Besides, I didn't know you were such a dog person."

"Are you kidding?  I'd give anything to have a dog again."  Dana 
touched her nose to Tasha's, eliciting another wet kiss.

Daniel laughed.  "Well, I'm glad you two are hitting it off so 
well.  She does seem to like you.  She's hardly noticed me."

"Oh, she can see you anytime," Dana teased, her focus still on 
Tasha.  "She's so beautiful."  Dana pushed to her feet, one hand 
stroking the animal's solid head.

"Can I offer you a drink?" Daniel asked, moving toward the 
kitchen.

"That would be lovely, yes."

Dana strolled along behind Daniel and Tasha hung close at her 
heels.

"Does she need to go out?" Dana asked.

Daniel nodded, retrieving two goblets from an over-counter 
cupboard.  "I'll take her down in a minute.  Wine?"

Dana shook her head.  "Just some water, or iced tea if you have 
it.  I had my limit with dinner."

He looked over his shoulder at her, eyebrows lifted in question.  
Two glasses wasn't her usual limit.

"I want to stay awake tonight," she said, her voice dropping with 
her lids, and making him swallow hard before he could regain his 
voice.


*****


Scully sipped her iced tea and settled into the luxurious couch, 
alone for the moment while Daniel tended to Tasha.  The light was 
soft, the muted colors comforting.  In the silence, her awareness 
of herself and her body focused a bit.  Her muscles were tired 
after hours of work and not a moment to rest before her evening 
out.  She started to feel the nagging pull of the clips holding 
her hair in place.  Setting her drink on the coffee table, Scully 
began methodically extracting the pins from her hair.  She shook 
its softness down around her shoulders, ran her fingers through 
the imposed bends and curls.  Crossing to the front door, she 
dropped the pins into the outer pocket of her purse.  Then she 
stopped by the mirror above the mantel, checking her hair and the 
smudges in her make-up.  It was a little unnerving to catch her 
own reflection tonight.  She was so unaccustomed to this Dana.  
This woman, in heavy evening liner and diamond earrings, 
shoulders bare and pale.  She couldn't pretend she didn't like 
what she saw.  But it was making her remember in flashes--other 
times, other places.  Times when she had known this Dana quite 
well, relished spending time in her skin.

Sinking back into the welcoming couch, she took another sip of 
the cool drink, crossed her legs and propped her shoe on the rim 
of the coffee table.  She could get used to living in a place 
like this.  Not a huge step up from her own accommodations, but 
just enough hint of affluence and luxury to tickle the senses.  
She wondered if Daniel ever played the piano himself anymore, or 
just kept it around for when his family was visiting.

*His family.*  She closed her eyes against the rush of memories 
that thought triggered.  The lingering issues there were not for 
tonight.  They would have their time.

The door clicked behind her and in a second two giant golden paws 
hit the back of the couch and a cold, wet nose shoved into her 
hair.

"Tasha!" Daniel said reprovingly, pulling the animal away from 
the couch, but Scully was laughing and reaching back to pet 
Tasha.

"I don't mind," she said, pulling a leg beneath her as she turned 
to face Daniel.

"It's a good thing," he said, unhooking Tasha's leash and letting 
her bounce around the couch to continue inspecting her new 
friend.

Daniel took his own drink from the end table and circled around 
to settle beside Dana.  He gave Tasha a gentle coaxing, and with 
a vaguely reproachful look toward her master, Tasha resignedly 
strolled away and settled in front of the dormant fireplace.  
Daniel turned his attentions firmly upon Dana.  "Now, where were 
we..."

Scully leaned an elbow on the back of the couch, twined her 
fingers together gracefully.  "I believe we were--"

"Wishing we were alone," Daniel finished, and Scully lifted her 
eyes to meet his heavy gaze.

"Yeah," she whispered.  "We were."

After a long beat of electric silence, Daniel leaned toward her, 
setting his drink on the coffee table as he moved, (giving her 
time for a defensive move), and caught her lips with his own.  
Scully responded quickly and forcefully, her body rising to the 
occasion and picking up right where they had left off at the 
fountain.

His scent was drowning her senses.  His presence, as always, had 
an element of home, of safety; of something to hold onto.  This 
felt so good, it almost hurt to let herself feel it.  It did 
hurt.  But she refused to pull away.  She couldn't keep running 
from everyone in her life, couldn't numb herself out forever.  
She was a doctor, she knew better than anyone how much it had to 
hurt to heal.  Her eyes hazed over with tears as his strong arms 
closed across her back, but she just kissed him harder, pausing 
only briefly to catch her breath.  She ran her fingers through 
his greying hair, stroked the soft skin at the back of his neck, 
cupped his face again.

Daniel's hands explored as hers did, making her shiver as his 
thick fingers moved against the thin material of her gown.  He 
stroked her back, ran his fingers deep into her hair, cradled the 
back of her neck.

Explored the back of her neck.

Flicked his finger over the minute scar tissue.

Whispered against her mouth.  "What's this from?  It's new."

And the world went surreal.

"Mmm.  Fuck."  The curse slipped quietly across her lips as she 
pushed back from Daniel, pulled away, trying to break all contact 
with his skin.

*Slam*, *crash*, every defense wall she had dropped throughout 
the past days rose into place like iron bars around a prison 
riot.  She saw the deep hurt and confusion cloud Daniel's 
countenance, but she couldn't really look, couldn't make sense of 
anything in that second.  And what the hell had she been 
thinking?  That she could have a normal life, that she could be a 
doctor's wife, that she could share her innermost secrets with 
anyone who lived outside the X-Files?  Illusions shattering like 
glass.

"I can't do this."  She felt sick, almost turned toward the 
bathroom instead of the door.

"Dana, my God, what is it?  Darling, what did I do, what's 
wrong?"

She was breathing like she had just run a mile, shaking so hard 
she knew he could see it.  "I can't..."  She stood up.  "I'm 
sorry, but I--I can't, I can't do this."  There were tears in her 
eyes and her face was burning, but all she could think was that 
she had to move.  She stood up and circled round to the back of 
the couch, toward the door.  "I have to go.  I'm sorry."

Daniel was on his feet in an instant.  "Dana, stop, please.  Talk 
to me.  Dana, what's going on?"  Always the doctor, always even-
voiced in the face of trauma.

She cringed.  "I can't..." Shifted her weight, shook her hands 
sharply at her sides, trying to shake off reality, propped them 
against her back to quiet them.

"Can't what?  Dana..."  He wanted to move toward her, she could 
see it in every fiber of his being, though she had yet to look 
him in the eye.  God Bless him for knowing when to hang back.

She drew several short breaths, trying a brief shot at control, 
just enough to get through a complete sentence.  "I can't...have 
this kind of a life.  I can't...pretend that I fit here anymore."

"Fit where?  In the medical world?"  He hesitated.  Then, "With 
me?"

The pain in his eyes hit her like a punch in the gut.  "No, it's 
not that.  Not the way you think."

"Then what way?  I don't understand, Baby."

*Dammit, don't call me that Daniel, not like that, not with that 
voice, you might as well just twist the knife.*  "I know you 
don't.  And I'm so sorry, but...  Daniel, you just...you have no 
concept of what my life has been for the past nine years.  And 
it's been so extremely outside of your frame of reference or 
anyone else's I know, that it's just inconceivable that I could 
ever share that with somebody who hasn't been there.  And I was 
just trying to forget with you and trying to go back and to 
pretend and believe it could be how it was, but it can't.  It 
can't, Daniel, and that's just how it is.  And I 
really...*really* have to go now."

She turned toward the door, but this time Daniel was around the 
sofa in a breath and had a firm grasp on her arm.  She pulled 
free, but she didn't step away.  His voice made her dizzy.  
"Dana, stop.  This is crazy, you can't just leave.  Obviously, 
something has deeply upset you, and if I did something wrong, I'm 
so sorry, but you have to tell me.  You owe me that much, Dana."

"Daniel, I'm asking you to respect me on this.  I'm asking you to 
let me go.  This can't work.  It just can't."  Her stomach was 
burning.  She had to get out of here.

"I can't accept that.  It *is* working."

"It's working, because I'm lying to you.  Lying by omission.  I'm 
not telling you what you need to know."

"Then tell me."

"Let me go."  Her hand was on the doorknob, but Daniel's hand was 
on the door.

"Tell me."  His breath was warm on her temple.

"Daniel, don't make me do this."  The more he pushed, moved in on 
her personal space, the more anger moved in over her hurt.  She 
could feel it brewing and she welcomed it, misplaced or not, 
because it was numbing her again, giving her a hint of control.  
*Come on, Daniel, make me angry.  Please.*

"I can't tell you, Daniel."

"You turned your back on me once before, a long time ago, because 
you asked me to share what I was going through at home.  You 
asked me to talk to you about my wife.  And I shut you out, kept 
you at arms' length.  And that was the biggest mistake of my 
life.  I should have talked to you then, Dana.  I hurt whatever 
chance we had when I did that.  Don't make my mistake.  I'm not a 
child, Dana.  There's nothing you can say that I can't deal with, 
*we* can't deal with."

Scully laughed.  A sickening sharp sound that hurt her own ears.  
"You don't want this, Daniel.  You don't want this in your life."

"Try me."

Scully ran her tongue over the corner of her mouth, took a step 
back, both from Daniel and from the door.  "Fine.  You want to 
hear it?  You *really* want to hear it?"  *Yes.  Anger.  Sarcasm.  
This was much safer territory.  I learned from the best, Mulder, 
never be honest when you can say something sardonic instead.*  
"All right, Daniel.  Make yourself comfortable."  She gestured 
toward the back of the couch, and Daniel, playing along with 
mocking over dramatization, settled onto the back of the couch, 
arms folded across his chest.

"Please, do begin."

Scully eyed him for a moment, her face hard, cold, wishing the 
same from him, because any real feeling was something to shy away 
from right now, to cover up and bury.

"All right, Daniel.  You want it?  Here...this is a recap of the 
last decade of my life.  No particular order, if you'll forgive."

He nodded, excessively formal.

"I'm missing 9 minutes of my life from 1992."

"Missing?  What do you--?"

"Just listen, Daniel.  You said you wanted to hear this, so just 
listen."  Her icy stare brought him to temporary silence.  "The 
following year I was abducted--either by the government or by 
aliens, that's up for grabs--but, I was missing for 3 months.  
When I came back I was in a coma with a seriously compromised 
immune system and a computer chip in the back of my neck.  
Helpful hint.  Don't take it out.

"In 1997, I was diagnosed with cancer--"

That chipped a wide nitch in Daniel's cool facade, loosed a 
glimpse of genuine sympathy, but she shut it out hard, unwilling 
to relinquish her defenses.

"An inoperable nasal pharyngeal tumor.  Chemo, radiation.  The 
whole deal.  It metastasized.  I was all but dead, when I went 
into a spontaneous remission.  Probably because that metal chip 
that was imbedded in my neck during my abduction was put back in.  
But that chip has a few side effects you might want to watch out 
for, like a tendency to summon me to burning bridges in the 
middle of the night.  So, if you ever see me taking off 
unexpectedly, you might want to stop me.  In '95 I was abducted 
and attacked by a necrophiliac.  We caught him, put him away.  
Then last year, he escaped prison and came after me.  Made it 
into my apartment, and you know what I did?  I blew him away.  In 
cold blood.  Knowing he was unarmed and my partner had him 
covered.

"Another side effect of my abduction--I'm barren.  My ova were 
taken.  All of them.  But they were used.  And I met my daughter 
once.  Beautiful, perfect little girl, named Emily.  I knew her 
for a matter of days, and I even tried to adopt her, but she was 
dying of a rare blood disease, and she died right in my arms and 
there was nothing I could do, and she didn't even know I was her 
mother.  What else, what else...oh, yeah, I'm a little paranoid 
about bees now, since I was stung by one carrying a deadly and 
possibly alien virus, and the next thing I knew I was caged in a 
vat of green slime in the Antarctic, until Mulder showed up to 
pull me out.  I have a tattoo.  I got it in a dive in 
Philadelphia, and I went out with a guy I met there, who turned 
out to be a psychotic killer who tried to throw me into an 
incinerator.  I had a 100-and-something year old man who looked 
35 try to eat my liver on two separate occasions.  My sister?  
Melissa?  She's dead.  Gunshot wound to the head.  A shot that 
was meant for me, but I wasn't there.  I thought I was protecting 
her, but I was wrong, and it was my fault.  I was stalked by this 
writer who lived next door to my partner and I had my heart 
ripped out of my chest by a character he created.  I fired my 
gun, repeatedly, right through him.  And when he was gone, I was 
soaked in my own blood, but I had no injuries."

She paused a moment, breathing heavily, not really meeting 
Daniel's eyes, but watching for every twitch of his expression.

"More?" she prompted.  "Or should I just go now...?"

Daniel was a blank page.  But she recognized the facade all too 
well, had seen it a hundred times as he stood before his students 
in a lecture hall.  He had switched into professional mode for 
the first time since she had appeared on his doorstep four nights 
ago.  She couldn't blame him for mirroring her own instinctive 
defense mechanisms, but she was lying when she told herself his 
detachment made it easier to leave.

The silence grew to an insistent presence in the room.

Scully swallowed hard, knowing she had to walk, had to return to 
her strengths, dive into her casefile, find the psycho before 
another woman died.  Time to step back into her comfortable 
basement reality.

"Right," she breathed, taking his silence as a response.  
"Well...thanks for listening.  It's been a lovely evening."  She 
turned on her heel, eyes on the floor, focus a million miles 
away.  Her shawl was still in the kitchen, but she didn't care; 
her purse was on the entrance table and that was all she needed.  
She was all but out the door, her fingers closing over the cold 
metal doorknob, when the warmth of Daniel's hand lowered on top 
of hers.

"Stop."  His deep voice was barely above a whisper and intimately 
close behind her.

"Daniel--"

"Stop...leaving me."

*Oh, God...*  The pain in his voice was like an accelerant to her 
own dark fires.  Her hard edge faltered, crumbled, and she was 
wide open, raw.  Tears blurred the doorknob into gold and flesh 
tones.  It was unforgivable to hurt him like this again.  She 
should never have opened the door...

"I don't want to."  Her voice quivered.

"Then, stay."

"I don't know how."

Daniel reached up and smoothed her hair, the most tender of 
touches...  "Yes.  You do."

She drew a trembling breath.  Weighing, waiting, wanting.  
"Everything I told you was true," she whispered, still watching 
the blur of colors below.

"I know."  His hand still moved, ever so gentle on the back of 
her head.  "I don't pretend to understand even half of what you 
said.  It's obvious we have about a lifetime of conversations 
ahead of us.  And I'm not going to promise you to offer blind 
acceptance.  I will try to rip some of those interpretations you 
just threw out to shreds, just as you would in my place.  But, 
Dana...*I want to listen*.  I want to go through it with you."

Her tears were winning now, her muscles cinching against them, 
but Daniel's hand was so warm on her hair and the cold solitude 
of the night so unforgiving.  She sniffed sharply, revealingly, 
and Daniel took the moment.  His hand shifted pattern ever so 
slightly, brushed her hair to the side, away from her neck; then 
the warmth of his lips pressed like a whisper against the cool 
white scar at the nape of her neck.

That broke her.  With a pained utterance, "Oh, God, Daniel", a 
last vocal resistance, Scully started to cry.  She turned in his 
arms, hand shading her eyes, but Daniel coaxed her shields away, 
kissing her eyes, her forehead, her warm cheeks.  His arms locked 
around her, supporting her, clinging to her.  And in a moment 
Scully was holding on just as tight.

Their kisses shifted gradually as she began to respond in kind, 
moving from purest comfort to an edge of desire.  And with every 
touch, the ache already alive within her transposed to a 
different need, fueled with the strength and passions of the 
first.

Daniel followed her every impulse, and Scully, for the first time 
in too many years, let go and took the upper hand.

She devoured his mouth with her own, reaching deep with her 
tongue, exploring every crevice, tasting each sweet juice.

Her fingers clawed at his buttons, his tie.  Working loose every 
bit of clothing she could catch.  Daniel's hands ran over her 
back, her hips, slipped between the closeness of their bodies and 
up over her ribs, tempting and teasing until she at last reached 
down and guided him up onto her breasts.  The soft moan that 
passed from his lips to hers at the contact was almost more than 
she could bear.

"Daniel...please...take me to bed," she breathed.

And in a moment Daniel had swept her slight body into his strong 
arms and was carrying her down the hall.


*****

(End Chapter 10b.  Continued in 10c...Yes, there's a "c" this 
time.:))
Feedback framed and admired daily
elizabeth@tranfamily

----------------

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm in the process of detaching my Real Life from 
my Net Life, and I'm attempting the messy process of changing my 
pen name.  All future installments will be posted under the name 
"Elizabeth Rowandale".  The website has also moved to the address 
listed above.  If this causes anyone any trouble at all, please 
write me and I'll do my best to help out.

NC-17 stuff ahead...no kiddies allowed.:)



WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale 
<bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2002


Chapter 10c



"If I remember you right, and if you haven't grown so far away 
from then, I love you still."
             --Betty Buckley, "If I Remember You Right"



She was like a fantastical mirage lain across the landscape of 
his four poster bed, enlivening the stagnant air with her very 
presence in a room that had gone too long without the scent of a 
woman.

Her silken gown had been unzipped and slipped down to hover at 
the curve of her hips.  The black lace of her strapless bra lay 
in stark contrast to the pale white of her skin, light and shadow 
accentuated by the soft light in the room.  Her auburn hair 
spread luxuriously over his pillows, leaving traces of her on 
each of his possessions she touched.

Daniel knelt on the carpet beside the bed (only mildly conscious 
of the Sig Sauer on the bedside table), lowering himself to her 
level, but hovering just this little bit apart, drinking in the 
vision of her before the sensations of touch took away such finer 
sensitivities.  Dana watched him in silence as he moved; she 
seemed to have used up her words for now, was relating to him in 
silent touches and gestures.  He reached out and gently brushed 
an unruly fringe of hair from the corner of her lips.  No woman 
had ever affected him like Dana Scully.  Every aspect of her 
physicality was deeply erotic for him.  The way she moved, the 
way she breathed, the way her fingers floated over a computer 
keyboard; the way her gold cross dangled alluringly toward her 
cleavage, tempting the eye, pulling at the groin.  Her femininity 
could not be escaped.  And through it all she remained a quiet 
and distant mystery to most of the world.  Somehow, he had been 
lucky enough--for the second time in a single life--to be given 
the privilege of being invited behind her closed doors.  Being so 
close made him nearly blind with the need to be against her skin, 
around her, inside her,  tasting and smelling, drowning.  But he 
couldn't give in yet, refused to give up the magic of this moment 
too soon.

To his infinite pleasure, Dana seemed to be nurturing an equal 
need.  Her hand moved out, reaching with the instinct of a child, 
unable to keep her fingers off of his skin.  She pulled his hand 
to her mouth, kissed the thin, sensitive skin at the center of 
his palm, drew her tongue luxuriously up its length.  Dana Scully 
had always been markedly oral in orientation, a trait no man 
could ever oppose.  He remembered in a dizzying flash an 
afternoon long long ago when he had barely heard the words of his 
own lecture, nearly betrayed himself and his career, as he had 
watched Dana at her desk, reading through her notes and 
insistently working over the tip of her pen with her teeth.  Her 
tongue had periodically traced its tip, her teeth drug slowly 
down the length of its cap, while all the while she had been lost 
in her own studious thoughts, utterly unaware of the destruction 
she was unleashing upon his helpless person.  He had never been 
one to fixate on such small gestures.  Only with her.  *It had 
always been her.  Moving in and out of his life with the 
insubstantial uncertainty of the black lace she secretly 
favored.*

Dana was coaxing him closer now, and it took no effort at all to 
pull him in.  Leaning near, he pressed his lips to the soft flesh 
just above the line of her bra, then again at the center, near 
the front clasp, tasting a trace of her perfume.  He offered a 
trail of kisses, moving down between her ribs, onto the flatness 
of her belly, and she shifted slightly beneath him, turning to 
her back and offering herself to his ministrations.  His hands 
slid down her sides, cradling her midriff, caressing her slender 
form.  His fingers and lips found the scar on her abdomen,  
stroked it tenderly, and his eyes rose to hers.

"Gunshot wound," she whispered.  "I forgot that one."

"Alien?"

"Brown-nosing agent with a nervous finger."

Daniel closed his eyes against a doctor's vision of cruel metal 
ripping through delicate flesh.  He leaned down and kissed this 
scar again, then moved down and ran his tongue beneath the edges 
of her slouching gown.

Dana reached out and pushed his jacket off his shoulders, opened 
the last of the buttons on his shirt.  She guided the thin 
material off his shoulders, caressing his skin as she moved, 
following the lines and curves of his muscles.  

Daniel moved fully onto the bed, lying half beside her, half over 
her, and Dana welcomed him in at once, sliding an arm around his 
waist and kissing him hard, moving her hips up close against his 
and sending a shiver of pleasure through his core.

Her torrent of words in the living room still rang in his ears 
despite the immediate distraction.  The flood of pain and buried 
fear and hurt she had allowed him to glimpse tonight had been 
overwhelming.  He could only imagine what her life had really 
been since their last goodbye.  And he marveled at the strength 
of her character that had brought her through all of this and 
left her standing before him as self-possessed and enchanting as 
ever.

Her tears had nearly broken him.  He had only seen her cry like 
that, really cry, once in their life together.  And the thought 
of all she had suffered without him, made him ache to hold onto 
her.

The specifics of the events she had spoken of were still a blur 
behind his eyes.  But one clear truth rang through the myriad 
contents.

Dana Scully had nearly died.

Many times.

And he had not been there, had not had a clue she was in danger.  
For a decade of his life, no matter how many times he had tried 
to detach, move on, the sacred flame of her had burned in the 
depths of his soul, carrying him through his days, feeding him 
with the knowledge that she was still out in the 
world...somewhere.  And it hit him now with horrific veracity, 
how lost he would be, if she were gone.  He never wanted to let 
go.

Her breasts were beyond perfect.  Fuller, more mature than when 
he had last had access to intimate contact.  He cupped his hands 
to their perfect roundness, kissed, caressed, revered.  He felt 
the response in her, the gentle quivers that ran from the point 
of contact to places below.  When he tried to meet her gaze, she 
slipped away, closing her eyes.  But her body was opening to him.

For a long minute Dana just lay back and indulged him, let him 
explore her curves--with his fingers, with his lips--drink in the 
landscape he had been kept from for too long.  Then once again 
she guided him up close to her, stretched out against the length 
of her body.  She brought his face close to hers, kept a hand on 
his cheek, though she didn't meet his eyes, kept her focus just 
below his chin.

"Daniel..." she whispered, her voice throaty with desire, but 
tightened with just a hint of fear that made him stop and focus.

"What, my Love?"

"I have to ask you.  When we're making love....don't--" she 
swallowed hard, "--don't pin me face down."

A million nuances ran through her simple words, rushing through 
him like a dark wind, unfettered by his skin.

Daniel reached up and brushed back her silky hair, hooking a few 
strands behind her ear.  "Someday, we'll get there.  But until I 
change the rules out loud, you can trust me with all your heart."

Dana just closed her eyes and a single tear slipped down her 
cheek.  He kissed it away.  Then he latched onto her mouth again, 
and in the wake of this most intimate exchange, all pretense of 
slow luxurious pacing was lost in the undeniable heat of lust.

*****

Daniel's hand moved up her thigh, pushing back her gown and 
sliding beneath the edge of her panties.  Scully shifted her 
weight more heavily on top of him and he gripped her ass as he 
caught her weight.  The thrill made her cry out softly.  She 
opened her thighs just a bit and sank down on top of him, 
bringing her crotch into solid contact with the hard bulge in his 
boxers.  The effect was utterly intoxicating to both sides.

She swung her hair to one side, dragging it deliberately over 
Daniel's bare skin as she trailed kisses down the side of his 
throat.  Daniel's heat against her was making her blood race, 
every shift of her hips worked the friction of the cloth of her 
panties against her already ultra sensitive clit, and she could 
feel the gentle pulse of sensation in his cock, reacting to every 
movement of her body.

She liked the power.

Daniel's hand returned to her breasts.  Definitely a hot zone for 
her.  In the distant past she had been brought near climax by 
attention to her breasts alone.  He was slipping under the cloth 
of her bra now and she lifted her own hand to fumble with the 
clasp.  Daniel took her cue and freed the hook himself.  The 
black lace slipped to the floor.  It didn't take long for the 
rest of their clothes to follow.

Scully pulled the heavy comforter over them for shelter.  She was 
less inhibited beneath the covers.  Her body seemed to have a 
memory independent of her mind.  Being against Daniel's skin 
again was awakening blurry and shaded memories and splashing them 
with the vivid color of yesterday.

His hands moved over her body, stroking and caressing her back, 
her hips, the taut muscles of her thighs.  And as wonderful as 
his touch felt, her deeper desires were calling to her, and it 
seemed he was touching everywhere but where she needed it most.

Scully focused on exploring Daniel's body.  Her hands drank in 
the firmness of his muscles, the power of his back.  He truly was 
in remarkable shape for his age; his health scare must have 
driven him to the gym with a renewed passion.  It had been so 
long since she had felt this much masculine strength above her  
(*Scully, are you hurt?*--Dammit, not now--), her body thrilled 
at every sensation.  Even the deep resonance of his soft whispers 
was like an aphrodisiac.

When his fingers drew their first light stroke between her legs, 
she nearly melted.

Scully saw the hint of a smile pass over Daniel's lips at her 
obvious pleasure.  He liked the power, too.  That had always been 
their game, sparring with words and touches, always vying for the 
upper hand.  They had fought as hard as they loved.

His fingers toyed with her for a while, and Scully's thoughts 
began to blur.  She felt her own rush of moisture slide across 
Daniel's fingers, and the slickness magnified the sensation 
exponentially.  She reached out instinctively and cupped her hand 
around his erection, drawing her nails teasingly over the silky 
sensitive skin.  She felt Daniel shiver against her body.  She 
fingered him, enhancing her own pleasure with the contact.

Time was warping in and out and making her dizzy.  Was she really 
here with Daniel now?  Here in D.C. after a long day on the X-
Files?  *Locked, cramped, little professor's office with black 
construction paper taped over the tiny window, straddling 
Daniel's lap in her worn blue jeans, kissing him until she 
couldn't breathe and the guilt faded into how safe she felt when 
he touched her hair.*

His hips were over hers now, hovering, tempting.  He was looking 
for her gaze, asking reassurance.  She couldn't speak anymore, 
she had never been coherent in the face of physical sensation, 
but she welcomed him with her hands, cupping his hips and coaxing 
him toward her.  As Daniel moved into position, Scully slipped a 
hand between them and gently guided him on the path between her 
folds.

When he slipped inside it was like the last tight hair clip 
falling free and letting her breathe again.  *Too long...far too 
long...*

He started slowly, cautiously.  She hadn't stretched this far in 
a while and he seemed to understand that.  His gradual approach 
tempered the slight pain and emphasized the pleasure.  Her hips 
sank into the rhythm easily, pacifying the aching need in her 
muscles.

The gentle friction against her clit at this angle was keeping 
her at the peak of arousal.  Daniel's unfailing attention to his 
partner's needs had always been one of his most beautiful traits.  
Rather surprising to her, really, in the midst of his younger, 
more egotistical days.  But he had always been multi-layered, 
always kept her guessing.

"Oh, God...."  Her first words in sometime and she hardly knew 
her own voice, briefly heard her own stranger's cries on a 
terrifying cassette tape long ago.  She was rapidly approaching 
her pleasure threshold--that delicate point where it almost hurt 
to take the luxury of time.

Daniel stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, her temple, and 
Scully stretched her neck and bit at his ear or licked his throat 
each time he moved near.

His pace was quickening, along with his pulse and breath.  
Hearing his arousal was as powerful as his touch.

Scully closed her eyes and wrapped her fingers around the 
vertical spindles of the headboard, nails digging into her palms.  
She pushed back with the heels of her hands, counter bracing 
against Daniel's rhythmic movements within her.

He was deeper inside now, and she could feel him nearing that 
most vulnerable place.  She knew a part of her was still 
resisting, even this small last step of opening herself fully to 
someone.   Because if she lifted her knee just a bit, accentuated 
the arch of her back...

But she hadn't.

The closer he got, the more the ache grew within her.  The most 
base and primitive representation of a world of emotional needs.  
Her need to feel anything again, her need to know herself, her 
need to be loved, to be held, her need to cry for Emily and all 
the faceless children that had been denied her.  The need to feel 
fresh air on her skin in the afternoon and to voice out loud her 
love for this man above her--

"You're all I want, Dana."  The hoarseness of his voice, 
quivering at the edge of climax, pushed her to the brink.  "Tell 
me...you need this.  Tell me."

"Daniel...Please...Oh, God--please.  Yes."

Scully pressed her face into Daniel's wrist, bit gently at the 
flexing tendons, pulled hard on the headboard.  Her resistance 
was crumbling.  Her knee pulled up just a bit, and as Daniel 
leaned to kiss her temple, she rose ever so slightly to brush her 
breasts against his chest.  And that was it.  He was there.

As the last of her walls fell, crushed by the unbearable need, 
Scully was overwhelmed with a sensation of forgotten home.  Of 
belonging and being a complete and whole woman, safe and strong 
in Daniel's arms, lost in the sensation of his heat inside her.  
She felt the familiar tightness take hold just below her stomach.

"Oh, God, Daniel..."  The world was breaking.

Scully clawed at his shoulders as her orgasm rushed in, pulling 
his weight down hard on top of her, grounding herself in the 
solidity of his form.  In this moment, this was everything she 
needed, nothing else mattered but the glorious release.  Her own 
inner muscles contracting on Daniel was all he needed to peak 
along with her.

For lost time the room was gone.  Then Scully reached down and 
quieted his hips with a gentle hand, unable to endure another 
pulse of sensation.  Overloaded.

In the come-down, she almost wanted to cry.  Pleasure and pain 
and breathlessness all mixed into one suffocating wave of 
emotion.  But she only closed her eyes and breathed.  She laced 
her fingers into Daniel's hair, nuzzled against his face.  
Realized how tired she was.

Daniel's breath was hot on her ear.  He was kissing her flushed 
skin between breaths, cradling her cheek.

"It's okay, Baby," he whispered.  "You're okay."

And she couldn't speak, silenced by the profound sensitivity of 
his words.

A gentle rain had begun outside as they were lost in their own 
world.  A mist of drops patterned the bedroom window and caught 
fragments of the street light below.

"Stay," Daniel said simply, still breathless, face still buried 
in her hair.

Scully tightened her arms across his back, feeling the thin sheen 
of perspiration, like the rain drops on the glass.  "I'm here."

*****

End Chapter 10c...Continued in 11a
Feed me, or I will wilt -- bstrbabs@gmail.com


------------


Special thanks to Carol and Nancy for loyalty in feedback above
and beyond the call of duty.:)  And further thanks to Carol for 
joining my beta squad!


WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale
<bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2002


Chapter 11a


**You kissed me once, Mulder.  Once.  It was New Year's Eve; that 
could have been all it was about.  Friends on New Year's Eve.  
But the kiss lasted too long for that.  You know it did.  I know 
it did.  And for years before, you had touched me as though we 
were kissing.  Mulder...**


Michaels had been pacing back and forth between the elevators and 
the drinking fountain for a good twenty minutes before he saw her 
emerge from the stairwell doors.  He was certain five more 
minutes and the nurse at the corner station would have had him 
bodily evicted, despite having viewed his badge twice.

He was waiting in the fifth floor psychiatric ward of Vernon 
Memorial Hospital.  Hospitals alone made his skin crawl, but the 
psych ward was the bane of his existence.  Maybe it was like the 
curse of death...if you talked about it, it seemed more likely to 
happen.  Working the kind of job he did, they all rode close to 
the edges of sanity sometimes.  It wasn't good to be reminded 
just how close close could be.

Michaels stopped near the drinking fountain to watch his partner 
as she let her trench coat fall from her shoulders, shrugged her 
suit coat back into place.  A few more brisk steps in those 
killer heels and she spotted him at the end of the hall, flinched 
with something like guilt, and averted her gaze as she kept on 
walking.

"The Prodigal Agent appears," he offered as she approached.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said, folding her trench coat over her 
arm.  "I had...some things I had to do early this morning.  Are 
we set to go in?"

Michaels nodded.  "We can talk to her.  Ground rules are, we have 
to take a nurse in with us, and at any point that the nurse deems 
us to be 'upsetting the patient', we're out on our asses."

"More likely she should be protecting us against the patient," 
Scully said under her breath.

He cracked a dry smile.

"Do they have a name for her yet?" Scully asked.

"Jane Doe."
"She's not talking?"

"Talking, yes, but she won't give a name.  Too paranoid.  Thinks 
whoever is out to get her will find her here and kill her as it 
is, if they don't let her go.  Says having her name on the 
records would just make it that much faster."

"The nurse told you this?"

He nodded.  "Ms. Charming over there at the desk."

Scully gave a brief, discrete glance toward the nurse who was now 
eyeing them both suspiciously.  "Well, this should be productive.  
Let's do it."

The room was more depressing than the hallway.  Michaels couldn't 
see how anyone in the world could work themselves into a 
*healthier* state of mind in a place like this.  But this was a 
state facility.  Money wasn't in the picture.  It wasn't The 
Snake Pit these days, but it was nowhere you ever wanted your 
kids to be.

The woman they had come to see sat beside the lone narrow window.  
The view was nothing better than the interior of the room, 
looking out over the back parking lot of the hospital to the 
utility shed.  No trees.  No warmth of any kind.

She looked a lot less threatening in this environment; dressed 
only in a hospital gown and an ill-fitting, tattered robe.  Her 
hair was flat and stringy, her feet bare on the cold floor.

Unlike himself, Dana seemed utterly unaffected by their 
surroundings.  She was as cool and professional as ever, taking 
in the room with a sweeping glance, soaking up every detail like 
a sponge.  He had learned that about her quickly enough.  She 
didn't need to look like she was paying close attention to be 
cataloguing everything in her view.  He had had things quoted 
back to him enough times in the first few weeks of their 
partnership to teach him never to doubt her focus.  She was 
zeroing in on the woman now, taking the opportunity to study her 
fully while her back was turned.  But he saw Scully catch the 
reflection in the window, knew she knew she could be seen.

The nurse was the first to speak.  "Jane?" she said gently as she 
pushed between Michaels and Scully to approach the patient.  "You 
have some visitors.  This is Agent Michaels and Agent..." she 
hesitated and glanced over her shoulder.

"Scully," Dana said.  Michaels didn't like her tone.  She was 
still pissed off about the warehouse incident.  And if they were 
going to get any real information out of this skittish lady, they 
were going to have to do it with velvet gloves.  He tried to 
catch Dana's gaze with a warning glance, but she either didn't 
feel the pull or chose to ignore him.

"Agent Scully," the nurse finished.  "They're from the FBI, and 
they would just like to talk to you for a few minutes.  Is that 
all right?"

For a long moment, it seemed the woman wasn't going to respond, 
and Michaels started to think maybe their whole trip out here had 
been a waste.  But, then Jane Doe said, "I know who they are.  
I'm the one who called them the first time.  I also tried to kill 
them."

Scully's eyes narrowed, and Michaels flinched.  The nurse looked 
at them appraisingly for a moment, then drew back into the 
corner, handing over the interview.  Scully took a step closer 
and Michaels opened his mouth to speak, wanting to set the tone 
himself.

"We're not here to accuse you of anything," Scully said gently, 
catching Michaels by surprise, and leaving him duly impressed.  
"We just want you to help us understand.  Why did you feel you 
had to protect yourself?  What are you running from?"

The young/old woman cocked her head as though in thought.  At 
long last, she turned from the window, raising her penetrating 
gaze to challenge Scully's.  Dana didn't flinch.  Again, Michaels 
was impressed.  His own gut reaction to the woman's world worn 
skin had no doubt washed across his face.  Scully should play 
cards more.  He'd tried on more than one occasion to suck her 
into his Saturday night game with the guys from the 
fingerprinting lab.  That hadn't gone any better than the dinner 
invitations.

The woman looked up through her stringy hair, eyeing Scully hard 
with her one clearly visible eye.  "You should get out of this.  
Get away."  Her voice was scratchy, hoarse as though from disuse 
or too many cigarettes.

"Why?" Scully asked evenly.  "I'm here to help, as is my partner.  
To find this man and stop the killings.  Isn't that what you 
want?  Isn't that why you contacted us in the first place?"

"It's not that," the woman said.  "It's you.  You'll be in 
danger.  If you're not already."

"Why?  Why me more than anyone else?"

The woman cracked a dry smile, her lips seeming stretched at the 
effort.  "Don't be stupid.  They all talk about you.  You're one 
of the most high profile ones."

"'Ones'?" Scully repeated.  "What ones?"

The woman just closed her eyes and lowered her head, her eerie 
smile lingering.  "Don't say I didn't warn you," she said 
quietly.

"Miss," Michaels said, stepping forward, hoping to shift the 
track of the conversation with his presence.  "Do you know who's 
been killing these women?  Is there anything you can tell us 
about these murders that might help us stop the killer?  'Cause 
despite what happened the other day, I don't think you would have 
called us in the first place if you really wanted more people to 
die.  I think you want this to stop as much as we do.  And the 
only way you can help us to make that happen is by telling us 
anything you might know."

The woman didn't move.  Didn't seem to care he had spoken at all.  
Scully was waiting her out, giving not the slightest restless 
gesture.  Michaels himself was turning, about to walk away with a 
cursory "thank you", when the scratchy voice again rose behind 
him. 

"He's killing them to stop the tests."  She wasn't looking up 
this time.  Just a massive lump of tattered robe and dirty hair 
and rough sounds.  "The date is set.  They told him he couldn't 
stop it.  So...he intends to prove them wrong."  Then she fell 
silent.

Scully was watching the woman with unnerving intensity, eyes 
narrowed, deep lines pulling her brow.  The woman had withdrawn 
into her own quiet world.  Michaels shifted his gaze between the 
two, knowing he was missing threads in this conversation.  Hating 
it, as usual.  "Date of what?" he ventured.

No one spoke.

Jane Doe turned back to the window.

"Who told him?" Scully said, her tone far less gentle now.  She 
was met with silence.  "Miss?"

The woman at the window just hugged her knees and began rocking 
back and forth.  At this, the nurse stepped forward from the 
sidelines.  "I believe she's had enough for today," she said, her 
tone a practiced blend of kindness and command.

Michaels took a step back, ready to give in and come back another 
day if necessary.  But Scully took three brisk steps forward, 
closing the gap between herself and Jane Doe, and reached out and 
pushed the clump of stringy hair from the woman's neck.  The 
woman barely flinched, though Scully's hold on her hair was less 
than delicate.  Michaels could just make out the flash of white 
scar tissue on the weather darkened skin of the woman's neck.

"If what you say is true, how did you get close to this man and 
make it out alive?"  She let go of the woman's hair, but didn't 
give up her threatening position above her.

"Because I was useful to him," Jane Doe said softly, her voice 
almost human for a moment.  Somehow that was worse.  "I told him 
who to follow.  From memory."

Scully let a soft breath pass over her lips, then she turned on 
her heel and walked out of the hospital room.  Michaels exchanged 
an uncertain glance with the attending nurse, then spoke to the 
woman's hunched back.  "Thank you for your help, Miss.  We'll do 
what we can to keep you safe while you're here.  We may be back 
with further questions."

The woman didn't respond, and the nurse was approaching her, 
saying something about a rest and some water as Michaels turned 
and followed Scully's path into the hall.

*****

Scully was already hovering outside the main elevator when 
Michaels emerged from the room.  She was watching for him, 
restless, wanting to move, shoe tilted back onto the heel.

The doors slid open as he approached, and Scully led the way 
across the threshold.  The elevator was empty except for the two 
agents.  Scully punched the Lobby button insistently; Michaels 
watched.

"Date of what?" he asked into the silence.

For a moment she didn't move.  Then, Scully turned and met his 
gaze for a long moment, deliberating, appraising.  He found 
himself oddly aware that there was nowhere to back up to in their 
confined quarters.  There was something significant in this 
moment.  Months of working together, of playing a game of backing 
in and out of topics, skipping over facts and testing trust.  One 
day Scully was going to have to make the final choice, the real 
choice--whether or not she was going to allow him to work the X-
Files with her.  The real X-Files.  Not the edge of the norm 
quirky cases they were thrown everyday to keep them pounding the 
pavement.  The work she and Mulder had devoted their careers and 
reputations to.  The work Mulder had died for.

"Colonization, I would guess," Scully said slowly.

Michaels quietly took this in.  "You believe that?" he asked 
warily.

"It doesn't matter what I believe.  What matters is what that 
woman and the killer believe."

*Queen of Evasion.  That was Dana Scully.*  "So, what do you 
think is happening here?"

Scully drew a long breath through her nose, lifted an eyebrow in 
thought.  "If this woman is to be believed...which is still a big 
'if' in my book--"  she glanced briefly up at him for his nod of 
assent, "--then I'd say a possible motive would be that this man 
believes these women are being abducted and experimented on with 
the end intent of preparing the human race for alien 
colonization, and that he has taken it upon himself as a one man 
army to kill off all the people the aliens have affected before 
they can make use of their work."

Michaels nodded.  "What about the victim profile?  The similar 
hair color, build."

She shrugged.  "It's not strikingly definitive.  Could still be 
coincidence.  And the words--'Watch Me'--they could fit this 
woman's story.  An act of rebellion against a blanket statement 
that there was nothing he could do to stop them."

The elevator doors slid open.  The two agents stepped out into a 
lobby cluttered with bodies and squinted at the lines of morning 
sun filtering in through the main doors.  They walked to the 
parking lot in silence.  Scully slipped back into her trench 
coat.  Michaels scanned the sea of cars for either her car or 
his, knowing neither of them had had time to check in at the 
office and grab something from the motor pool.  So, he was caught 
off guard when Scully slowed her pace halfway across the main 
parking lot.

"This is me," she said, pulling her keys out of her coat pocket.  
She was hovering at the trunk of a blue Jaguar.

Michaels stared past her shoulder.  "Agent Scully?"

"Hmm?"

"Call me crazy, here, but, I just don't remember that being your 
car."

Scully glanced over her shoulder, cleared her throat.  "Ah.  Yes.  
It's um...it's a friend's car.  We...carpooled one way, and then 
I ended up needing a way home..."

Michaels nodded.  "You have a friend who's willing to lend you a 
Jaguar..."

Scully never got a chance to answer.  Her gaze had latched onto 
something on the far side of the lot.  She took a step forward, 
brow furrowing.

Michaels looked over his shoulder, following the path of her 
gaze.  "What is it?"

Scully stepped around him, hand pushing back her coat tail, but 
not quite going for her gun.

"Dana?"

He followed her gaze again, scanning the far edge of the lot.  At 
last he zeroed in on a man beneath a bare oak tree, dressed in 
black from head to foot.  He was too far away to make out a face, 
but it certainly seemed the man was looking specifically their 
way.  The moment Michaels' focus settled on the dark figure, the 
figure was on the move again.  Scully was moving, too, breaking 
into a jog across the crowded parking lot, scanning for cross 
traffic as she moved.  Michaels was following her path, but got 
caught rounding a passing car and fell a few paces behind.

He stretched his legs to catch up.  When he next glanced across 
the lot he had lost visual on the figure.

"Can you still see him?" he called to Scully.

"I'm not sure," she called back, breaking into a full run as she 
dodged the traffic.  Then a moment later, "Where is he?"

She looked back at Michaels, but he shrugged helplessly.  They 
were nearing the oak tree, and Scully had dropped her pace to a 
brisk walk.  Michaels came up along side her.

"The guy in black, right?  That's who we're looking for?"

She nodded, eyes urgently searching the grounds.  "Yeah.  Did you 
see which way he disappeared?"

"No, I'm sorry.  I looked away at a car, and when I looked up he 
was nowhere."

She was breathing hard.  Harder than she should have been after 
such a short run.  She was too much in shape for that.  "I did 
the same.  Dammit."

Michaels finally quit scanning, and turned to face his partner.  
"Who are we chasin'?"

She turned and squinted up at him for a beat, chest rising and 
falling as she sucked in the crisp morning air, blouse pulled out 
of line.  A small corner of paper showed from beneath the lace 
edge of her bra.  "I don't know.  I just...I think someone may 
have been watching me."  She moistened her wind-dried lips, 
swallowed stiffly, then turned to scan the open landscape once 
more.

"Watching you how?  Have you seen this guy before?"

She shook her head.  "Not directly, no.  But I thought...I 
thought there was...there was someone outside my apartment the 
other night.  And there was someone in the Bureau parking lot 
that didn't look...*right*.  It might be nothing.  Or it might be 
someone after Jane Doe.  We should notify hospital security that 
we've seen someone around.  Maybe phone McCall, get an officer on 
it."

Michaels pulled out his phone and started dialing, but his 
attention was still on his partner.  "There was someone outside 
your apartment?  And you didn't mention that?"

"It didn't seem like anything until it started to add up.  I 
don't know.  It still might be nothing."

She was reluctantly giving up her visual search, giving him a 
little more eye contact, turning back toward their cars.

"You'll tell me if you see something else?'

She nodded.  The gesture was less than reassuring.


*****


Scully shifted a little against the back handrail of the Bureau 
elevator, felt the folded paper tucked into her bra scrape 
lightly against her breast.  She checked that Michaels was 
focused on the lighted floor numbers above the door, and slipped 
her fingers in and straightened the angle of the paper.


"My Dearest Dana--

	Good morning, Love.  I hope the alarm was early enough.  I 
hope you slept well.  Myself, I have not slept so well since the 
last time you lay beside me.
	So, you're wondering where I've gone.  As much as I would 
have loved a lazy morning of crosswords and bagels with you, I 
know how your mind works, Dana.  I know this was a big step for 
you, and I know that in the light of morning, though you may not 
regret your choices, you will want to take a step back.  To 
evaluate and regroup and check-in with yourself.  So, as much as 
I love the scent of your skin in the morning, the way you hold 
your coffee in your mouth when something in the paper catches 
your attention--I will wait.  There will be plenty of breakfasts 
to come.
		                            Love Always,
                                                Daniel

P.S. The keys to my other car are on the table by the front door.  
Space 49C in the downstairs garage.  The blue Jag.  If you have 
to return it, you'll be forced to see me again.  If not, its been 
a very reliable car.
P.P.S. Tasha has already had her breakfast--don't let her 
convince you otherwise."


"So, you really think the *doctor* was 'Jack the Ripper'?" 
Michaels asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"The old one, yeah.  The one who was doctor to--"

"The Royal Family, I know.  But doesn't that just seem a little 
too clich� to you?"

"Clich� how?  I mean, there was no precedent of that kind of 
crime in modern criminal investigation to compare it to at the 
time."

"Well, but the theory wasn't formed until much later.  I just 
think...I mean it's just so cinematically pleasing.  The whole 
'Jekyll and Hyde' thing, right when that was all the rage."

"Well, that doesn't make it less believable."  The doors swished 
open and she and Michaels began the walk down the narrow hallway 
toward their basement office.  "If anything, I think it makes it 
more believable.  Most psychotic delusions mold themselves to the 
popular images and mythologies of the time.  The same way the 
mythical explanations for natural phenomena adapt themselves to 
the current cultures throughout the years."

"But what about the physical aspects.  I mean, you really think 
this old guy was able to overpower all those young, feisty 
hookers?"

"Well, that may not even be a factor.  It depends on whether you 
believe the accomplice theory.  If they were subdued by the 
driver before the doctor took over..."

"Then you think there were two of them?"

"I think it's quite possible."

"I don't know.  It still seems too easy."  Michaels dropped his 
briefcase beside the desk and picked up the mail in his Inbox but 
ignored it.

Scully actually smiled.  "Is that your professional opinion?"

Michaels glanced up, a little surprised perhaps by the ease of 
her humour.  "Yes it is.  Detective work is fifty percent 
intuition and you know it.  The nose knows."

Scully continued to smile softly and dropped her own things onto 
the nearest chair.  She unbuttoned her blazer and pulled Jane 
Doe's file from the outer pouch of her briefcase.  "So, what does 
your nose tell you about our Jane Doe?  Is this a scam for 
attention, or does she really know something?"

Michaels stopped to consider more seriously for a moment, propped 
his arm on the X-file cabinet.  "I think I'm still muddling 
through that one."

Scully turned her back to Michaels and rested her weight against 
the edge of her desk as she paged through the woman's file.

"She seems to have had a rough life, according to her medical 
records.  Enough to make her pretty desperate for money or 
attention or both.  Borderline malnutrition, bruises and scarring 
consistent with physical abuse.  Some track marks.  Evidence of 
possible past sexual abuse.  And obviously her mental state is a 
little less than stable."

"Seems inevitable after that list you just spouted off."

Scully gave a murmured sound of assent, still reading and 
pondering.

"But what about the cop investigating the case?" Michaels asked.

"Who, you mean Detective McCall?"

"No, the Ripper case.  I mean, didn't you always wonder if he'd 
just lost it?  If he was living the ultimate profiler's 
nightmare, slipping over to the dark side?"

"I don't think he was ever a legitimate suspect.  Didn't he have 
a solid alibi for several of the killings?  I think our next step 
is to find out this woman's true identity."

"He had a woman for an alibi?"

"No, our Jane Doe."

"Oh.  They're still looking, but nothing's turning up."

"Well, I'm thinking there's someone I know who might have a 
little more luck..."

Michaels gave a heavy sigh behind her.  She heard the creak of 
the file cabinets as he settled back against them.  Her brain was 
registering all this peripherally as she tried to commit the new 
details in the file to memory, to let them merge with everything 
she already knew, try to form some sort of pattern.  "If we know 
who this woman is," she said, thinking out loud, "we can start 
talking to people who knew her, people around her.  Maybe narrow 
our field of focus a bit."

"I agree.  But you just have to wonder how this guy could 
maintain such an even demeanor during the day if he was that 
bizarre at night.  I mean if we were talking schizophrenia here--
or, no, that's multiple personality disorder now, right?"

"Hmm?  Oh, yes, it is.  For about twelve years."  She was still 
on the file, scanning the details of the blood work.

"So, if we were talking multiple personalities, aren't they 
supposed to have different skills, different attributes?  Would 
the 'Hyde' personality be lacking the medical precision of the 
Doctor when he lost all other social graces?"

"Not necessarily.  The mind is endlessly complex.  Like the way 
you can have selective amnesia, retaining all your general 
knowledge of the world, but nothing of your identity or private 
life."

"All right, I'll buy that.  But I just don't get the motive."

"Why not?  I mean, come on, Mulder, if--"

The room died.

Scully stood, half-turned toward her partner, her gaze frozen on 
the office floor.  She hardly breathed.  Blood rushed her ears 
like ocean waves.  She was crushingly aware of Michaels' quiet 
and solid presence in her peripheral view.

She cleared her throat in the cold silence.

Gannon shifted, started to speak softly, "Dana, it's--"

"*Gannon*," Scully said firmly, forcing the correction over his 
words.  "If we're dealing with certifiable insanity, we can't 
apply sane rules in pinpointing the legitimacy of a motive."  Her 
words were excessively deliberate.  Leaving no room to pull the 
conversation away.

"So, you're still convinced it was the doctor?" Gannon said 
softly.

"I think it could easily have been.  Or possibly someone who 
wasn't even a suspect."

Michaels nodded.  The air was thick.

Scully straightened her stance.  She placed the Jane Doe file on 
the desk and picked up her laptop.  "I need to finish the 
paperwork on the Flaners autopsy by the end of today."

Michaels watched in silence.  He wouldn't openly challenge her on 
this, she knew that.  This was outside the borders she had set on 
their relationship.  He would let them fall back into busywork, 
business as usual.

And Scully tried to let that happen.  She sat at her desk, pulled 
out her glasses.  She filled in some of the rote details in her 
report.  She checked her email.  She walked to the far end of the 
room and picked up the fax she had been waiting for with more 
current addresses for Talia Carson's distant family members.  She 
listened to her voice mail and jotted down return numbers.  Then 
she had to get out of that room before she threw up.

She gathered her things.  Quiet, efficient.  She took her coat 
from the coat rack and spread it over her arm.  She turned to 
Michaels, a million miles from looking him in the eye.  "I, 
uh...I think I'm going to take off for a while.  See if I can get 
that friend of mine to look into Jane Doe's history for us."

Gannon was sitting at his desk, fingers hovering over his 
computer keyboard, watching her as though a gaze could speak.  
"Yeah, okay.  Sure.  Just...give me a call later, okay?"

Scully nodded, and disappeared. 

*****

(End Chapter 11a.  Continued in Chapter 11b...)
Feedback is food for the soul -  bstrbabs@gmail.com

---------------

Special thanks to Beatha Sellman and Megan English for extensive 
medical research info which will hopefully prevent me from making 
a fool of myself in this chapter or in several to come.  Any 
idiocy that remains is purely my bad interpretation, not their 
advice.


WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale 
<bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 11b



The scent of warm cinnamon and apple that boomed across the 
threshold was like a tangible piece of home; of past sensations 
and comfort and family and security.  Her father home for the 
holidays and Missy alive and vibrant and driving Bill off his 
rocker and Charlie sticking his fingers in the icing before 
dinner had even been served.  The struggle to reconcile all this 
with the dead woman in the woods with the words carved into her 
arm was almost more than Scully could manage.

She returned her mother's bright smile with a rush of her own 
affection.

"Dana!  Sweetheart, what are you doing here?"

Scully hovered on the doorstep, hands on her hips, a gentle smile 
lingering on her lips.  She was uncomfortably aware of her mother 
zeroing in on the darker shadows hazing her eyes.  "Hi, Mom," she 
said softly.  "Is this a bad time?"

Maggie pulled her inside and into her arms for a quick tight 
embrace.  Dana was reluctant to let go.  "No, honey, not at all.  
What's wrong?"

Scully took a step back and lifted her eyebrows as Margaret 
closed the door.  The kitchen smells were even stronger here.  Or 
maybe it was a scented candle somewhere nearby.  "What, I can't 
drop by to visit my Mom for no reason?"

"Of course you can, Dana.  Always.  So...what's wrong?"

"Nothing."  She looked at the floor, but, even with her eyes on 
the immaculate linoleum, her Mother's patented gaze penetrated 
her consciousness.  (*Charlie, were you in Mrs. Menninger's shed 
again?  Charlie?*)  Scully let a heavy breath slip from the 
tightness of her chest.  *Can I just stand here and not speak, 
Mom?  Or better yet...could you just put your arms around me 
again?  Jesus, I hate this.  I just...hate this.*

"It's...it's stupid, it's the smallest thing, it shouldn't bother 
me."

Her mother's eyes narrowed, hands clasped in front of her.  
"Dana, how old are you going to be before you stop berating 
yourself for feeling what you feel?"

Scully closed her eyes for a long beat, she swallowed hard and 
her neck muscles ached from the tension.  "I called my partner 
'Mulder'," she breathed.  "I've never--"  The words hurt as she 
pushed them across her lips.  She was looking anywhere but at her 
mother, tilting her shoe back on its heel and stretching her 
knotted calves.

To her credit, Maggie knew better than to be instantly 
sympathetic.  She had never been remiss in reading her children's 
temperaments.  She knew how to edge information out of Dana 
almost better than anyone.  Only one other person had ever held 
that gift.  Maggie spoke kindly, but with a cool respect that 
kept Dana standing.   "What happened?  Did Agent Michaels react 
badly?"

Scully's brow furrowed as she shook her head.  "No, no.  He 
didn't mind at all, he just...well, he would have been 
supportive, I think, but, I didn't give him a chance to be 
anything.  I don't...generally."

Her mother just nodded.

After a long moment, Maggie said softly, "You don't need me to 
tell you, it's a perfectly understandable mistake.  More than."

Scully just swallowed again.

Her mother reached out a hand and ever so gently stroked the side 
of her face.  "You're shaking."

Scully shook her head, shook it off.

"Are you cold?"

"I, uh..."  She started to deny on instinct, but then her mind 
moved on from the denial that she was hurting into the reality of 
the question and awareness of the present, and she said, "Yeah.  
I am, actually."

Margaret smoothed a hand down the back of Dana's hair, and nudged 
her toward the archway to the front parlor.  "Go warm yourself on 
the couch, honey.  I'll make some tea."


*****


When Maggie returned from the kitchen, Scully was seated on the 
far corner of the love seat, sheltered in the gentle glow from 
the front windows.  Her elbow was propped on the wide arm rest, 
fingers fanned out to shade her eyes.

"I made apple cinnamon.  You like that, right?"  Scully heard her 
mother's voice, didn't see past her own closed lids.  She wanted 
to say yes, but couldn't speak.

Maggie set the steaming mugs on the coffee table and settled into 
the love seat; Scully felt the brush of their shoulders.  It took 
her Mom a moment to realize Scully was crying.  Her silence and 
guarded posture kept the fact well hidden, even from her own 
admission.  She felt the moment her mother understood.  She 
needed it and dreaded it.

Maggie reached out and settled her hand on the back of Scully's 
neck, the practiced, gentle touch of a seasoned mother.  "Oh, 
Baby..." she said softly.  "It's so hard in the first months.  
Believe me.  I remember."

Without a word or a thought, Dana pushed away from the arm of the 
couch and lay across her mother's lap.

Maggie twined her fingers through Dana's hair and smoothed it 
back from her face.  It felt like a million years ago--sitting at 
her mother's dressing table and trying not to squirm while Maggie 
brushed her hair up into a ponytail.  Missy's turn next.  *'Why 
does Dana always get to go first, I'm older?'*

Her stomach ached.  "I miss him every time I breathe," Scully 
whispered, and she could no longer hold back her tears.  The pain 
was blinding.  All these months and she had never let her mother 
comfort her for the loss of Mulder.  Because she hadn't been able 
to look at her.  Because she was probably the only person alive 
who understood what this loss meant to her.  Maggie slipped an 
arm beneath Dana's neck, and Dana nestled into the crook of her 
mother's elbow, knowing she was probably going to leave make-up 
smudges on the sleeve, but letting it go.  She clung tightly to 
Maggie's arm, eyes closed, crying harder than she could remember.

Her mother just held her, steadily stroking her hair and letting 
her grieve.

After a while, the sobs turned to quieter tears, and Maggie began 
whispering gentle comforts not meant to be responded to.  "I 
remember every time I heard the phone ring...my stomach would tie 
in knots.  Because in that first moment, I would think it could 
be your father.  Just for a second before reality hit.  But even 
that brief moment, was like it was happening all over again.  
Every time."

Scully just breathed.  She didn't question why her mother was 
relating the loss of a spouse to her loss of Mulder.  She didn't 
need to.

Eventually, she was quiet.  Her eyes came into focus on the 
flowered mugs on the coffee table.  The tea was getting cold.  
But she was warmer now.  And the thought of the soothing liquid 
was drawing her.  Her mother's arm was still tight around her, 
her fingers in her hair.  She didn't want to move.

She had to move.  She had to sit up, and try to keep her eyes 
open and own up to the moment.  Swallow the horrible sickness 
that always followed her moments of weakness.  So much for the 
value of catharsis.

An odd thrill rushed over her skin at the thought of Daniel's 
strong arms around her.  This was all so foreign.  Her life had 
become someone else's.

Scully sat up, reached out and lifted one of the flowered mugs, 
cradling its lingering warmth in her hands.  The transition was 
easier if she had a point of focus.  Her mother reached out and 
picked up the other mug and sipped at it.

"I can't...stay too long," she said, testing the solidity of her 
voice.  "I need to get back to work.  This case...it snowballs so 
fast."

"Give yourself a few minutes," her mother said evenly.

Scully sipped her tea.

"Have you eaten lunch?"

She shook her head.  "No, but I'm not hungry."

"I know.  But you will be.  I'll send something with you."

Scully settled into the cushions and closed her eyes, letting the 
tea nurse her back to equilibrium.

Maggie leaned back and sipped from her own mug again.  She gazed 
out the window behind Dana's shoulder.  "Is that your car?  Is it 
a Bureau car?"  Maggie reached back and pushed the curtain aside, 
peering toward the driveway.  "Is that a Jaguar?"

Scully cleared her throat, sniffed.  "Yeah...actually, it's, 
uh...it's a friend's.  I'm just borrowing it."

"Is your car in the shop?"

"No, no, it's fine, I just--"  She drew a deep breath.  "I needed 
a way home.  From his apartment."

"*His* apartment."

"Mom..."  Her tone was warning.

"What?"

Dana just closed her eyes.

"Dana?"  A pause.  "Dana...are you seeing someone?"  The question 
was gentle, non-combative.

Scully forced her eyes open and lowered her tea mug to her thigh.  
"You might say that.  Yeah."

She saw the wave of excitement wash across her mother's gaze.  
Then the deeper level of comprehension as she processed the 
implications, tied it all into the past hours' events.  She had 
only subconsciously made the connections herself, didn't really 
want them acknowledged in any concrete way.

"Anyone I know?  Stop me when I'm being nosy?"

"Stop."

"Dana..."

"You didn't really know him.  But you knew about him.  And you 
didn't approve at the time.  So needless to say, since this is a 
little new...I'm not talking."

Margaret nodded.  "Okay.  Just tell me one thing, no pressure, no 
thoughts of the future.  Right now, today--is it good?"

She was fixated on her tea mug, the slightly fluted shaping of 
the rim, the minute chip in the dark blue paint.   "Yeah.  It's 
really good."  

Her mother just accepted that quietly and took another drink of 
her tea.

Scully reached out and drew a light finger down her mother's 
chest.  "I like your blouse.  Is it new?"

She shrugged.  "I got it a couple of months ago."

Scully just closed her eyes.  *Sorry, Mom.*

"Dana?"

Scully looked up, her mother's tone drawing her out of her own 
thoughts.  "Hmm?"

"Never feel guilty for the moments you feel happy."

Dana just sat for a long minute holding her mother's gaze, 
letting the words seep into her bones.  Leave it to her mother to 
just sock her right in the gut.


******


"Hey..."

"Dana, hey.  How's it going?  Any luck with your contact?"

Scully hung her trench coat on the coat tree by the door, 
strolled across the basement office, dropping her briefcase 
behind her desk.  "They were occupied.  I caught them by cell 
phone, though, and they asked us to come by first thing tomorrow 
morning.  They should have something by then."

Michaels nodded.  "Sure hope so.  We could use a break."

Scully gave a dry laugh.  There were already new blow-up 
photographs spread across her desk.  Photos she had requested 
herself.  Close-ups of the scars on the backs of the victims' 
necks, unnervingly like looking in her own bathroom mirror.  
Close-ups of the cuts in their arms.  "Watch me".  *Watch me stop 
the invasion?  Stop Colonization?*  Maybe.  Maybe they had a 
little bit more of a foothold than the freefall they had been in 
this morning.

She could feel Michaels watching her when he thought she didn't 
see.  He wanted to say something about the last moments they had 
spent in this office.  It was still tangible in the air between 
them.  But she had no desire to touch on the subject.  Maybe it 
was cold or selfish of her, but it was all she had to offer at 
the moment.

Scully sat down and pulled out her glasses, opened her laptop and 
lifted the first of the photos.  Back to the paperwork, the 
legwork.  Somewhere in all the details lay the key.  And 
persistence was the only way it would ever appear.

Michaels watched her off and on a bit longer.  Then the rhythm of 
their workday began to settle in between them.  The partner 
synchronicity came into play.

And the clock ticked away on a murderer somewhere on the Mid-
Atlantic Coast.


*****


The warmth in Daniel's smile spread over her like a soft blanket.  
Scully leaned a shoulder against the door casing, hovering on the 
threshold of Daniel's apartment.  She dangled her keys in his 
line of vision.  "I brought back your car."

He nodded.  "Brought back the car.  And, of course, this was your 
only reason for visiting."

She slipped him a sideways grin.  "Of course."

The playfulness hung comfortably between them for a moment before 
Daniel said, "Come here, Lady," and pulled her into his arms.  He 
kissed her lips, full on and hard, and in a moment the traces of 
nervous tension dissolved, and Scully was back inside the circle 
of rare intimacy that had surrounded them last night.  The 
sensations rushed over her, and it felt so good to be back, to 
be...home.

The kiss ended, but they hovered close, Daniel's forehead lowered 
to rest on hers.  They breathed together, eyes closed.  Daniel's 
hand felt warm against the small of her back.  "Hi," Scully said 
softly.

"Hi."  Daniel smoothed her hair.

He closed the door and took Scully's hand, leading her deeper 
into the apartment.  Tasha came up and greeted her like an old 
friend, and Scully let the dog lick her hand to her doggie-
heart's content.

"Have you eaten?" Daniel asked.

Scully shook her head.  "No.  I had a late lunch."

"Well, you've come to the right place.  You're just in time for 
the Waterston Leftover Goulash.  Patent Pending."

"Believe it or not, that actually sounds appealing."  Scully 
smiled.

"Then I shall set the table for two," Daniel said, stepping ahead 
of her into the kitchen.  He reappeared a moment later with 
silverware and glasses for the dining room table.

Scully sat back on the rear of the couch, watching Daniel work 
and enjoying Tasha's warmth against her ankle.

She let her gaze wander the room, soaking in the details, getting 
more and more familiar with the terrain.  She had learned to pick 
up so much so fast in her years as a detective.  But sometimes 
she forgot to look with private eyes, to pay attention to the 
details that were relevant to *her* and not just to the profile 
or the crime scene.  She read the names of the music scores on 
the piano--Rachmaninoff, Prokofiev; the paperbacks on the end 
table--Colin Dexter, George Simone.  Mysteries.  She had read 
some of them herself.

"Ranch dressing or Italian?"

"Ranch," she said rotely.

Scully continued her mental inventory while Daniel moved back and 
forth between the dining room and kitchen--until she caught 
Daniel studying her as thoroughly as she was studying his 
apartment.

She met his gaze and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"What?"

He smiled.  "You're different.  I've rarely seen...this side of 
you."

"This side of me?  I don't understand."

Daniel paused, napkins still in hand.  He shrugged one shoulder.  
"'Agent Scully', I would imagine.  You're still...I'm still 
seeing traces of Agent Scully tonight.  The other times we've 
been together lately, you were just...Dana."

Dana swallowed, held Daniel's gaze a long moment, uncertain 
whether his comments were entirely positive or negative.  "Hmm.  
Truthfully, Daniel, I don't think you've seen much of Agent 
Scully at all."
 
He took that in, then nodded.

Scully pulled in a deep breath and her ribcage felt tight; she 
hadn't been breathing much this afternoon.  She wasn't surprised.  
Scully lowered her gaze to her suede pumps.  The right one was 
pinching her toes, a dull nag on the edge of her awareness.  She 
slowly realized she could take it off now if she wanted, she was 
somewhere she didn't need to keep every inch of the polish in 
place.  For now, she kept them on.

"I'm sorry if I'm a little...," she struggled for words, 
moistened her lips, tightened the fold of her arms across her 
chest.  "This wasn't my best day."

Daniel turned from the table now, moved into her space.  He 
reached out and brushed back her hair, pushed it behind her ear.  
She felt a strand catch and pull around her delicate pearl 
earring.  "Well," Daniel said softly, the intimacy electric 
between them, "let's see if we can't improve on that."

Scully closed her eyes, leaned into his hand as he caressed her 
cheek.  "We already have," she whispered.

Dinner warmed her.  She had been skimping a bit on the sensory 
aspect of meals over the past months.  She had watched her 
nutrition, been careful as always to guard her health in the face 
of stress.  But she had not taken the time to prepare savory or 
enticing meals most nights.  (And Mulder hadn't been taking her 
out for Sushi or Italian on Friday nights.)  She found herself 
luxuriating in the sensation of a good meal, the quiet comfort 
that followed.

She helped Daniel clean up afterward, the rote domesticity oddly 
comfortable between them.  In the kitchen, Daniel pulled a mostly 
eaten apple cobbler out of the fridge and placed it on the 
counter.  He grabbed two forks, offered her one, and they began 
nibbling off opposite edges of the cobbler, standing together at 
the counter and chatting idly.

"Do you go to the movies?"

Scully looked up, sliding a bit of the luscious cobbler off her 
fork with her teeth.  "Doesn't everyone?"

"Well, I meant *often*.  Is it something that interests you these 
days?"

Scully shrugged, nodded, worked over the cobbler in her mouth.  
"I like it, yeah.  I pay attention to what's playing.  Back 
when...  Mulder and I used to do a lot of field work.  I still 
do, just...not quite as much.  Mulder had a way of...finding 
things.  Anyway, when you're out in the field, staying at motels, 
everything closes for the night, you can't really get anymore 
work done, and you can only watch so much free HBO," she said 
with a smile that Daniel returned.  "So, we went to the movies a 
lot.  Kept us in touch with the world a little, I think.  Our 
work tends to...suck you into an alternate reality."

"I was getting that impression."

She gave a wry laugh, but let the subject slip by as she focused 
on carving out her next bite of cobbler.  "What about you, you 
still a movie buff?"

"When I have time, yes.  A lot of the time I'm treating my 
grandkids these days, so the selections aren't necessarily mine."

"That's sweet, though."

"Yeah, it is."

Scully dug her fork into a fresh bite, overworking the cut edge 
to make it as clean and neat as possible.  "Are you supposed to 
be eating this?" she asked, half-serious as she glanced in 
Daniel's direction.  "Aren't you supposed to be on a strictly 
'heart-healthy' diet or something of the like?"

"Atrial fibrillation as a result of hereditary high blood 
pressure--"

"--and chain smoking--"

"--and I *am* on a healthy diet, thank you very much, Dr. Scully.  
The occasional dessert is not going to kill me."

She raised a critical eyebrow.  "You're not a kid anymore, 
Daniel.  You should be careful."

"Nagging already, are we?"

"Hey, when have you *not* nagged me?  You've been telling me what 
I should do from the day we met."

"You ever plan to start listening?"

"No."

She looked at him directly for a moment, calmly defiant, and as 
she stared him down the set of her mouth hedged toward a 
suppressed smile, and the deeper edge to the conversation 
softened into affectionate and mutual laughter.

"Still my Dana," Daniel said softly.

He reached his fork toward the cobbler for another bite.  Scully 
slapped his hand.  "Enough."

"One more bite."

"No."  She jammed her fork against his, blocking his attempt.

"You just want it for yourself, don't you."

"I do not," she said, hearing the less than convincing quality to 
her voice as she spoke around the large bite already in her 
mouth.  It *was* damned good cobbler.

"I just want one more," Daniel said.  "You have to *know* it's 
your last bite, when you--"

"No!"

"Oh, but I suppose *you* get a last bite."

"Yes, I do," Scully said, smiling now, almost laughing.  In a 
quick motion, she stabbed her fork in and tried to whip the bite 
to her mouth.

But Daniel grabbed her arm and leaned forward to catch the bite 
in his own mouth.

"*No!!*" Scully struggled to get the bite to her own mouth, and 
in a matter of seconds they both had traces of cobbler on their 
noses and mouths (and part of the wall), and they were melting 
into peals of laughter.

"It's mine!" Scully cried, defeat already apparent in her voice 
as Daniel sucked the small portion remaining on the fork into his 
mouth.

"Never mess with a man's cobbler," Daniel said through his gentle 
laughter.

And Scully felt time slow, crystallize into vibrant clarity.  
This moment, this breath, the faint sound of wind chimes 
somewhere outside the open window, the lingering smells of roast 
beef mixed with the sweetness lingering on her lips--this was all 
precious.  Because she was laughing.  Because Daniel was laughing 
with her, because he was touching her skin and she was touching 
his and she was teasing him and they were acting like ten year 
olds for the sheer joy of apple cobbler and togetherness.  And 
this moment had to be captured, acknowledged.  Because for the 
first time in a million years, Dana Scully felt...happy.

Daniel felt the shift in her thoughts.  The pace of the play 
between them slowed, his gaze and breath falling into synch with 
hers.  He held her gaze intently, tender crinkles at the corners 
of his eyes.  He reached up and drew his hand down her cheek.  
Scully leaned into it.

"You have a beautiful laugh," Daniel said.

"I haven't heard it in a while," Scully replied, surprised by her 
simple honesty.

Daniel nodded.  "I know."  Then added, "Don't stop."

Scully only smiled at him.  And Daniel leaned in to kiss her.  
The kiss grew hot quickly, their arms slipping around one another 
and the sweet taste of cobbler passing between them as their 
tongues intermingled and teased and swapped passions and flavors.  
And Scully closed her eyes and let herself get lost in the 
moment.  Just this moment.  Nothing before, nothing after, 
nothing to take away from the pure happiness in this apartment 
kitchen at the end of the street of old trees.

The kiss ended with a shared smile.  Scully didn't want to speak.  
She didn't want anything to break the spell.  She just wanted to 
breathe.

They put away the cobbler and placed the last of the dishes in 
the dishwasher.

Scully drifted out onto the veranda, and Daniel followed.  Soon 
they were nestled into the cushions of the wicker love seat, warm 
beneath the heavy woven throw blankets Daniel kept by the door.  
Daniel sat in the corner, Scully in front of him, her legs pulled 
up, back pressed against his chest.  They gazed down over the 
common garden.  It was the first time Scully had really taken the 
time to absorb the view.

"This is an amazing garden," Scully said.  "I bet it will be just 
beautiful in a couple more months.

Daniel nodded.  "I'm afraid I probably haven't taken advantage of 
it the way I should.  Just never seem to find the time."

Scully gave a mirthless laugh.  "Yeah, I know how that goes."

The quiet outside was soothing, the wind gentle against her skin.  
The city seemed to fade into shadows and whispered sounds, 
cocooning them in a blanket of darkness.  Scully felt sheltered, 
quiet.  She was tired, susceptible to the smallest offering of 
comfort, and more than willing to sink into the offered calm.  
She tried not to pull back for reason of that very knowledge.

For a long time they sat together, enjoying the closeness, the 
serenity.  Daniel's breath ruffled her hair, and she listened to 
the rhythm of his breathing, the vibrations of life coursing 
through his limbs.  Less than a year ago, this man had coded on 
the table beneath her touch.  She shivered at the memory.  It 
seemed surreal--another life, another time.  Tonight seemed a 
continuation of something from long ago, something outside of 
their encounter last spring.  Something outside of the X-Files.

Tasha, at last resigning herself to the fact that the fireplace 
was not going to be relit, squeezed her way through the narrow 
crack at the patio door and curled up on the extra blanket in 
front of the love seat.

"You really had cancer?"  Daniel said softly, no preamble, no 
pretension.

Scully nodded, eyebrows lifting as she gazed out over the lush 
night.  A moth fluttered past her vision.  "Yeah.  I did."

"I can't believe you didn't call me."

She scoffed.  "Call you?  Daniel...I didn't even know you were 
divorced.  You didn't tell me..."

His chest rose and fell against her back.

She picked up the slack.  "Besides, you didn't call me when you 
had your heart problem last year."

"I didn't have to.  You had already shown up by the time I was 
awake and the test results were back to tell me what I was 
dealing with."

"But you wouldn't have."

"It's different, Dana.  You left me.  That means you play the 
first card."

"Again, you could have followed me."

Silence.  Then, "How long?  How long were you sick?"

Scully thought for a moment, realizing how long it had been since 
she had bothered to remember.  Maybe that was good.  "From the 
time I first got the diagnosis, to the remission... about five 
months."

Daniel sighed heavily, mouth pressed against her hair.  His arms 
tightened around her.  "God, Dana.  You must have been 
terrified."

"Sometimes, yeah."

"Were you...single?  Alone?"

"Single, yes.  Alone...not really.  Mulder was...well, he was 
there if I asked."

"And did you?"

She thought for a long moment.  "Kind of.  Once or twice.  But it 
was hard...to watch him watch it."

"That happens."

"Most of the time it was enough just to know...he had my back."

Daniel took that in in silence.  Scully just watched the pattern 
of headlights on the iron gate at the front of the garden.

They were quiet.

"Tell me about Melissa."

Scully closed her eyes and turned her head in toward Daniel, 
tucking her forehead against the side of his neck.  She didn't 
want to go through this.  Didn't want to relive it.  Ever.  That 
was what her dreams were for.  But Daniel needed to know.

And a part of her was grateful he had started here, and not with 
the liver-eating mutant, or the chip in the back of her neck.  
She spoke steadily and evenly, telling the story from as distant 
a point as she could reach.  "Mulder and I had gotten in over our 
heads.  Not for the first time.  We were investigating a 
government conspiracy.  I had been warned that someone close to 
me, someone I trusted would be sent to kill me.  I was suspicious 
of my Assistant Director.  That night, I had called Missy.  I'd 
had a rough day and I'd asked her to come over and talk.  Then I 
got a phone call that made me think I was being watched, that 
maybe they had come for me.  I tried to call back and stop her, 
but it was too late.  I started walking to Missy's apartment, 
hoping to catch her, but before I got far at all, Skinner, our 
Assistant Director at the Bureau, drove up and asked me to get in 
the car and come with him.  I thought he was the danger.  A 
conviction I regret on more levels than I can count.  I got in 
the car with him, thinking I was leading him away from Melissa.  
The assassin was already in my apartment, waiting for me to 
return.  Missy used her key and let herself into my dark living 
room.  I didn't hear until she was at the hospital in a coma.  
And by then Mulder and I were in hiding and I couldn't even go to 
her.  She never woke up.  She died in surgery.  I got there 
before she died, but...I didn't get to tell her anything.  
Nothing she could hear at least.  My mother couldn't even look at 
me.  She said she never blamed me, but..."

Daniel kissed her hair, smoothed it back from her face as the 
wind pulled at the unruly strands.  "Dana Scully.  You know you 
could only have done your best.  Melissa knew that, too."

"I know.  And I knew the risks when I took this job.  The risks 
to my family.  But it was my choice.  And in the end, 
therefore....my fault."

"You can't live your whole life protecting those around you.  
Loving people comes with risks, from both sides.  It's how the 
world works."

"Daniel.  Do you really know what you're saying?"

"What do you mean?"

"You need to think about...," she cleared her throat.  "Daniel, I 
still work the same job.  And I want to be sure you make a fully 
informed decision....about...being someone I care about."

"Dana.  I couldn't change how I feel about you if I tried.  And I 
have tried.  From the moment I set eyes on you and I was married 
and you were my student, through the day you walked away, and 
through eleven years of trying to have relationships with other 
women.  I don't pretend that I would have chosen this life for 
you or for me if I had the power to change it.  But there is 
nothing you could say, that could make me not want to be here on 
this balcony with you...right now."

Dana just narrowed her eyes and gazed out over the garden, 
letting his words soak into her skin, knowing he couldn't really 
know what he was taking on.  Not yet.

"What about you?" she said at last.  "Tell me more about the work 
you've been doing.  I've been following your articles, but I 
don't know about your life."

"Not too exciting.  Nothing like yours, apparently."

She almost smiled.  "That might be a good thing."

Daniel talked for a while about the traveling he had done.  About 
his grandchildren and the research grant he had won.  She 
listened intently, slowly remembering a time when she had lived 
in a world not far from his.  When she had thought this was the 
only life for her.

"How are you and Maggie getting along?  Last time we spoke, it 
seemed you two were...working some things out?"

"We're good.  Much better than we were.  I did a lot of damage 
over the years.  It can't all be fixed.  But we have a real 
relationship now, and that's something to be thankful for, 
considering where we might very well have ended up."

"That's good to hear.  I know how much you love her."

"That I do.  That's the one thing about fatherhood that I didn't 
have to work at."

"And the one thing you can't do it right without."

Daniel accepted her words with a gentle touch.

They talked a bit more, catching up on the details of life, the 
necessary steps from there to here.  Daniel had the good tact to 
avoid the X-Files for tonight.  Scully was quietly thankful.

After a long spell of quiet during which Scully had sunk more 
heavily against Daniel's chest, Daniel whispered,  "You're tired.  
You need to rest."

Scully murmured a quiet response, reluctant to break the spell.

"I'll take you home."

"Come home with me?" Scully said on pure instinct.  "Just to 
sleep."

"You never have to make that a question, Dana."

She nodded.

"Just give me a minute to get some things together," Daniel said 
as Scully pushed back the blanket.

"Bring Tasha," she said, and at the sound of her name, the dog 
looked up and smiled.

*****

(End Chapter 11b.  Continued in Chapter 12a...)
Feed me.  bstrbabs@gmail.com
http://rowan_d.tripod.com/elizabethr.html

------------

Special thanks to sarah, Kim, and suspect affiliations 
for help with D.C. area locations.:)


WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003



"Some things are better left unsaid, but they still turn me 
inside out."
						--"Why", Annie Lennox




**You left me.  You *left* me.  Alone.  Damn you...  And, Mulder, 
I can't...I don't...I...  I'm learning to read that little cube 
of numbers that gives you all the stats of a baseball game.  What 
do you call it...the box scores.**




"Where exactly are we going again?" Michaels asked as he followed 
his partner down the dim hallway.

"We're almost there," Scully said shortly, heels clicking on the 
tile flooring.

Scully had been waiting in the Bureau parking lot this morning, 
warming up the rental car before Michaels had even dropped his 
things off in the basement office.  It had crossed his mind to 
wonder if that was just dedication to the work, or perhaps a 
little overcompensation for her late entrance at the previous 
day's appointment.  Either way, he had found himself on the road 
and out in the field before he had had a chance to pull his 
thoughts out of what his wife had done to cover the burned taste 
of his waffle, or the note from Libby's Pre-K teacher about the 
spitting problem.  He had used the drive across town to glance 
over the files, settle his brain back into the case.  He needed 
to be ready for whatever information they might glean this 
morning, be quick to plug it into their known field of knowledge.  
He couldn't *always* count on Scully to make the necessary 
connections, however sharp she might be.

She had seemed a bit less distant in the past couple of days.  
She had opened to him a little, had shared her theories on the 
case, the connections to the alien colonization.  For reasons he 
had yet to understand, some of the ground they had lost seemed to 
be coming back under their feet.  He was starting to think they 
might click yet, might even pull off a miracle and save a life or 
two before this case was over.

"Did you say 'The Gunmen'?" he asked as Scully's footsteps slowed 
to a halt at the top of a short flight of stairs.

She turned and flashed her eyes at him, confirming without words.  
She hooked her fiery hair behind one ear, turned to the single 
door on the narrow landing, and rapped her knuckles on the hard 
surface.

Michaels let his gaze sweep their surroundings as they awaited a 
response.  Scully was staring at the floor, distant but 
approachable.  Her look was as polished and impeccable as ever 
this morning.  Sleek profile, each hair in place, wine lipstick 
the only flash of color in her predominantly black ensemble.  
Even her gold cross was missing today, presumably hidden beneath 
her turtleneck sweater.

A surveillance camera was mounted in the corner above the door.  
"High security installation?" Michaels asked with a twang of 
sarcasm, and Scully had just glanced his way when a nasal voice 
projected from a speaker above the door.

"Password."

"Langly, it's Scully.  Let me in."

"Password."  The tone didn't change.

Scully suppressed a sigh of exasperation and glanced toward 
Michaels.  Not quite embarrassed, but a shade uncomfortable.  A 
stretch for Dana Scully.  And even this small gesture clued him 
in to the significance of their little venture.  Apparently, he 
was stepping further over the line she had drawn so early in 
their partnership.  She was allowing him deeper into the inner 
circle of the X-Files.  He had definitely moved on from the burnt 
waffles to paying attention.

"Jar-Jar Binks must die," Scully said flatly.

"Welcome to our lair!"
 
A series of clanks and thonks rang from the opposite side of the 
door.  Locks being freed.  A staggering number of locks, from the 
sound of it.  Scully took this in stride.
 
The face that appeared when the heavy door swung open was an even 
bigger shock than the need for a science fiction password.

"Scully, how are you?"

Before them stood a man Michaels would have sooner placed in a 
record store than this strange hideout, with his long stringy 
hair and rocker T-shirt and frighteningly out of date glasses.  
But in even these few seconds, Michaels could guess he was seeing 
something outside of this man's customary demeanor when his lanky 
hand reached down and tenderly grasped Scully's fingers.  "Long 
time no see," the man said, almost shy.

Michaels watched Scully squeeze Langly's hand in return.  "I'm 
good," she said softly.

A second man appeared from behind the open door, a stark contrast 
to the first.  He was slender, fit, and well-dressed in a beige 
suit and tie; his grooming was the exact polar opposite of 
Langly's.

"Dana, it's good to see you," the man said, kindness warm in his 
voice.  He leaned in and offered Scully an awkward kiss on the 
cheek.

Scully smiled in return.  "Good to see you, too, John."

The funny little short one was the last to appear.  He came 
forward from the shadowed back of the cluttered room, oculars 
strapped to the top of his head, and moved toward Scully with a 
determined gait and a serious expression.  He wrapped his arms 
around Scully in a tight embrace.  Scully hugged back just as 
hard.  And to Michaels' continued wonder, Dana Scully let this 
strange little man hold her for several beats, her eyes closed 
and her grip firm across his shoulders.  The tight line rising 
from her brow sobered him a bit.

*This was about Mulder.  These were the friends who had supported 
them.  Supported her in the aftermath...*

The woman's life just got stranger and stranger.

When at last the odd little one loosened his grip on Scully, 
there was a quiet moment before the threesome turned as one and 
focused in on the outsider standing behind their friend.  
Michaels spread his feet into a firmer stance.

*Man, Amanda was going to love this story tonight...*

Scully glanced over her shoulder, took in the three men's 
expressions and cleared her throat.  "Ah...gentleman, I'd like 
you to meet my partner, Agent Gannon Michaels.  Gannon, this is 
Langly, Byers, Frohike.  They're...investigative reporters.  They 
publish the Lone Gunmen periodical."

Michaels nodded to each of the men in turn as Scully spoke.  They 
eyed him with open suspicion, none approaching, as though they 
thought further appraisal necessary before coming in contact with 
the unidentified creature.  Michaels fought the urge to squirm 
under their scrutiny and inquire whether they thought perhaps a 
cattle prod might be needed.  "Pleased to meet you," he said 
evenly.

At last the one called Byers stepped forward and offered his 
hand.  "Agent Michaels.  Good to meet you.  Scully speaks well of 
you."

Michaels flashed a smile and glanced past Byers to catch Scully's 
gaze.  She ducked the eye contact, but he caught enough of her 
expression to know it was the truth.  He was surprised how good 
that felt.

Michaels stepped inside, and Langly closed the door behind him, 
fastening the extensive sequence of locks.  "Good to meet you, 
man," he said as he snapped the final lock, and he held out his 
hand for a quick, firm handshake.

"Welcome," Frohike said simply, his expression still sober.  He 
extended one half-gloved hand.

Michaels took it, and somehow he sensed this greeting meant more 
than the first two.

"So, what have you got for us?" Scully said, her tone instantly 
shifting the mood.

The Gunmen sprang into action, each moving to a designated post.

"Something you can use, we hope," Frohike said.

Langly took a seat at a nearby computer, tapping at the keys to 
kick off the Spiderman screensaver.  When the screen washed into 
view, Michaels and Scully found themselves staring at naked 
caricatures of Charlie's Angels.  Langly scrambled to close the 
program.  "Sorry."  The screen revealed a scan of an official 
document with a small photo in the corner.

"Miranda Lockheart," Langly said, a note of triumph in his voice.

"That's our Jane Doe?" Scully asked.  She leaned in for a closer 
look at the screen, hand on the back of Langly's chair.  And 
Michael's wondered for the hundredth time why she didn't carry 
her reading glasses.

"Best we can determine, that's her," Langly said.  "Ran away from 
home when she was fifteen.  Cops tracked her down a couple of 
times, but she just kept bolting until she was eighteen and they 
couldn't touch her anymore.  Worked a ton of odd jobs off and on.  
Nothing to catch the attention."

"Until the most recent job," Byers chimed in, moving into 
Scully's line of view beside the monitor.

"And what was that?"  She straightened her stance, propping a 
hand on her hip and pushing back her open blazer.

"A Medical Research Center out in Maryland.  Seems she's been 
doing some grunt work for them for quite a while, caring for test 
patients, taking histories."

"With her hygiene?" Michaels asked, incredulous.

Scully glanced over her shoulder, her expression matching his 
own.  "You're serious?" she said to Byers.  "How recently?"

"Right up until you encountered her, as far as we can tell."  
Frohike this time.

"And you're sure this is the right girl?" Michaels asked.

"Sure as you're gonna be," Langly said, back to his keyboard, 
calling up further documents.

"What kind of Medical Research Center is this?  What kind of work 
do they do?" Scully asked.

"That's where it gets interesting."  Byers leaned an arm on the 
monitor, settling into the dramatic effect of their story.

"I'm listening," Scully said.

"Apparently, there are several answers to that question," Byers 
continued.  "According to the published reports, the Kincaid 
Research Center specializes primarily in sleep studies, privately 
funded.  But we dug a little further.  There's a hefty list of 
complaints from study volunteers, dating back as far as 1991.  
Patients who were told they were merely in a control group, have 
developed symptoms years later of viral syndromes their doctors 
seem unable to identify.  Syndromes not unlike Gulf War Syndrome, 
and a few others we could name."

"Was there an investigation?"

Byers nodded.  "There was, but all the official documentation 
backed up their claims of legitimate research, and any relevant 
witnesses seemed to have disappeared just when they were most 
needed.  The Center could never be legally tied to the claims."

Langly gestured toward the monitor.  "We've got an employee list 
for you from the Medical Center, as well as a list of their 
regular helpers and recent volunteers.  Seems there's a group 
with similarly stellar qualifications to your Jane Doe who helps 
these people out on a regular basis.  Might be friends of hers 
who could tell you something."

"Can you print those out?" Scully asked.

"Already done, Agent Scully," Langly said as the printer in the 
corner sprang to life.

"What about her family?  Are they still alive, do you have an 
address or phone number?"

Frohike shook his head.  "Last known address didn't pan out, and 
then we hit on the Medical Center and zoomed in on that.  But we 
can still follow up on the parents if you want."

Scully nodded.  "Thanks, we could use it.  Did she have a 
criminal record?"

"Nothing noteworthy," Byers said.  "Petty theft, possession...all 
consistent with bouts of life on the street."

"All from before she turned 18," Frohike added.  "That's why her 
fingerprints didn't bring up a match when she was arrested for 
trying to barbeque you two."

"Yeah..." Scully breathed, and Michaels gaze was drawn to her 
familiar porcelain profile as her analytical mind pieced through 
the clutter of new facts.  "What about medical records on Miranda 
Lockheart herself?"

"We're still working on that," Langly offered.  "Nothing much 
yet.  Brief stint in the psych ward, but seems to have been more 
a product of chemicals than anything inherent."

"Obviously you haven't met her," Michaels quipped.

"Nut job?" Langly asked bluntly.

Michaels smiled and Scully drew an audible breath.  "She has her 
little peculiarities."

Langly stood up and crossed to retrieve the printed information.

"Where did you say the Research Center was?" Scully asked Byers.

"Gaithersburg."

Scully looked at her watch.  "*Dammit.*"

"What?"

She met Michaels' gaze.  "Skinner called me this morning.  He 
wants an update on our case at 10.  We'll never make it back down 
270 that fast."

"Too bad.  We might actually have something to tell him, if we 
went there first."

"Or we might hit another dead end.  At least this way we can tell 
him we have a next step."

He dipped his head, acknowledging her alternate reasoning.

She took the printed sheets from Langly.  "Thanks.  We appreciate 
the help, you guys."

The three men offered shrugs and shaken heads and gestures of 
dismissal.  "Anything for our favorite Agent," Frohike said with 
an almost playful grin.  And to top off Michaels' amazement this 
fine morning, Scully gave the funny little man a genuine smile in 
return.

"We'll be in touch," Byers added, and Scully gave him a nod.

A few quick pleasantries and Michaels and Scully left the 
Gunmen's Lair and returned to the brilliant sunlight outside.


*****


"Talk to me Agents.  Tell me you've got something."

Dana Scully pulled up a bit straighter in her chair, and Michaels 
tossed a surreptitious glance toward his partner.  Walter Skinner 
recognized Scully's movement and the careful intake of breath 
from a thousand meetings before.  Translation--*"Yes, sir, we 
have *something*, but it's not what you want us to have, and it 
may not lead where you want us to go."*  Not what he wanted to 
hear this morning.  Not with his superiors onto his back about 
the press's treatment of the murders, or the continued critical 
looks from those who thought such an obvious Violent Crimes case 
should never have been given to the X-Files in the first place.  
The last thing he wanted was to see this case ripped out from 
under Scully's heels.  She was handling it as well as any of the 
VCU agents they might pass it on to.  And in truth, Skinner had 
some ulterior motives in championing Scully's right to this case.

He wasn't so certain Dana Scully belonged on the X-Files anymore.

Scully was an exceptional agent.  She had proved herself to him 
time and again.  But the nature of the X-Files was such that the 
quality of her work was rarely visible to those looking in from 
the outside.  Scully needed some obvious credibility in her file.  
A quick closure to this high profile case could turn all the 
right heads.

Walter Skinner considered himself a stoic man, professional, not 
quick to form personal attachments and never willing to have them 
affect his work.  His professional standards and expectations had 
never come under such strain as in the years he had supervised 
Agent Dana Scully.  There was something about her...something 
that made him want to take that extra interest, to pry a bit and 
find out how things were going for her, if she needed anything.  
As long as Mulder had been around (generally no more than two or 
three feet from her personal space), he had let them be.  He had 
never pretended to understand the relationship between the two 
agents.  He knew they would have died for each other, killed for 
each other.  But he had never had any more idea than anyone else 
how their relationship had worked behind closed doors; what 
intimacy level they had shared, physically or otherwise.

But whatever the balance between them, Skinner had not questioned 
that Scully was Mulder's territory before his.  On the rare 
occasions the two partners had been separated, he had tested his 
ground.  He had attempted to step in and be supportive to Scully, 
and been surprised by how distant she could be before his 
offerings.  He spent so much of his time watching her with 
Mulder, watching her infinite patience with his obsessiveness, 
watching her gentle touches to his wrist to quiet his angry words 
uttered at wrong moments, watching the way she attacked anyone in 
her path in defense of Mulder when he was wounded.

Sometimes he forgot that he didn't have the same right to that 
side of her.  He forgot that she viewed him as a far more distant 
entity.

Mulder's mother's death had left the man's psyche perhaps the 
most fragile it had ever been.  Scully had launched into mother 
tiger mode, daring anyone to try to step past her and mess with 
Mulder.  Skinner himself had become her enemy during those days 
that followed.  It still stung a bit to remember how icy she had 
been toward him.  In time of crisis, Mulder and Scully had sucked 
their little circle down to two, and heaven help anyone who tried 
to intrude.
 
Not that Skinner hadn't been on the receiving end of her 
remarkable kindness on occasion.  Her words once upon a time as 
she stood beside his hospital bed and he uttered perhaps the most 
sincere apology of his life, had never slipped far out of his 
memory.  And it was those few gentle moments and encouragements 
that gave him the confidence to remain the force in her life that 
he was.

So the two weary warriors had been separated--for good.  And 
Skinner had tried many times in the preceding months to step up 
as a friend to the last one standing.  And though she had quietly 
and kindly accepted his comforting words, she had yielded no 
ground to friendship, and volunteered nothing more intimate than 
a steady stream of tears on the day of the funeral and one tight 
squeeze across his back when he had embraced her after the 
service.  He couldn't pretend it hadn't zinged a bit when he had 
caught a stolen glimpse at the family gathering, passing by half-
open dining room doors--Scully locked tight in the arms of--of 
all people in the world--Melvin Frohike, her face buried in his 
shoulder, her red hair cascading over his rumpled and archaic 
Sunday suit.  He hadn't heard if she had been crying.  Frohike 
had just had his eyes closed, holding on for dear life.

It was Skinner's turn to take one more shot.

"Sir, we have made some progress."

"What about your Jane Doe?  What was she able to tell you?"

"Very little, sir.  She's...concerned for her safety.  The local 
police have a man watching her.  But she's reluctant to offer too 
much information for fear of being found more quickly by those 
she believes wish to harm her."

"Do you believe there's a legitimate threat?"

Scully tilted her head a shade, slipped her tongue over the 
corner of her lips.  "It's possible.  We did see someone outside 
the hospital who could have been watching her.  We tried to 
approach him, but he ran."

"Could you ID him?"

She shook her head.  "No, sir.  He was too far away."

"Did you see him as well?" Skinner asked, turning to Agent 
Michaels.

"I did, sir, but I was further back than Agent Scully."

"And we still have no idea who Jane Doe is?" Skinner asked.

"Actually, sir, we have made some progress there," Scully 
offered.  "Her name's Miranda Lockheart.  And we have an address 
of a Kincaid Medical Research Center where she was working 
recently.  We just phoned them a few minutes ago.  Their staff is 
all out of the office until 2pm, but we intend to be there as 
soon as they return."

Skinner nodded.  "Good.  I want to know everything you learn."

"Of course, sir."

Skinner looked between the two agents for a moment, lifted his 
glasses into place.  Scully's hands rested quietly on the arm 
rests, her gaze lay steadily on his desk.  He hadn't realized how 
much he had depended over the years on Mulder's body language 
over Scully's inscrutable nature to discern the true state of the 
X-Files cases.  He found himself drawn to Michaels, but at this 
stage of their partnership he was still deferring to Scully.

"What about motive?  Are we still at an impasse?"

"Officially, yes, sir."

"And unofficially?"

"Unofficially, our theories are starting to have a little 
more...cohesion."

Skinner nodded and pushed to his feet, making use of his height 
as he spoke.  "I want an update on today's progress by first 
thing tomorrow morning."

The two agents nodded.  "Yes, sir."

"I trust the two of you realize the significance of this case.  
Your progress is being...carefully watched by some influential 
pairs of eyes."

Scully's throat muscles worked softly as she swallowed.  The 
closest thing he'd caught to a reaction since she stepped in the 
door.

"Yes, sir.  We're giving this case our full attention."

"Be sure you do that, Agents," Skinner said firmly.  "That will 
be all."

Scully uncrossed her legs, and both agents moved to rise.

"Agent Scully, if you would please stay for a moment, I'd like to 
speak with you in private."

Scully raised an eyebrow to him in mild surprise.  Michaels 
hesitated mid-step and caught Scully's gaze.  She gave a near 
imperceptible nod, and he narrowed his eyes, then turned to go.  
And none of this was lost on Skinner.  This was the first time he 
had seen this kind of camaraderie and protectiveness alive 
between the new partners.  It was a promising sign, even if it 
made him the common enemy.

When Agent Michaels was safely in the hallway, Skinner sank back 
into his chair, and settled his gaze on Agent Scully.  She had 
resumed her previous unrevealing posture, and was quietly 
awaiting his words.

"Relax, Scully, you're not being chewed-out."

"I'm sorry, sir?" she asked, not dropping the professionalism for 
a moment.

He didn't call her on it.  Instead he relaxed his own posture a 
bit, hoping to vicariously warm her.  "I just wanted to check in 
with you.  Agent Michaels, the partnership.  You've been together 
a few months now--how do feel about him?  Are you working well 
together?"

Scully cleared her throat, shifted her shoulders.  She was 
distractingly beautiful today.  As always, he was struck by the 
contradictions between her appearance and the landscape of her 
daily life.  Once upon a time, in a rare unguarded moment in the 
26th hour of a marathon crime scene search, Skinner had asked 
Agent Mulder if he ever found her  striking looks a distraction 
in trying to conduct a criminal investigation.  He hadn't been 
intending to ask about a sexual attraction between them.  Before 
the words had passed over his lips, he had really meant only to 
ask about the startling contrast between the gritty reality of 
their everyday workplace, and her polished beauty that never 
seemed to fade with the endless hours.  But Mulder had actually 
smiled his rare genuine smile and said simply, "Sir, you have no 
idea."

"Agent Michaels is an excellent agent," Scully said clearly.

"Go on.  Talk to me, Scully."

Scully narrowed her gaze.  "He's a little green in a few areas.  
He's gained a lot of valuable experience in this assignment 
already, I believe, and has put it to good use.  I think he has a 
great career ahead of him."

"Good.  Now answer my question."

"Sir?  I don't think I follow."

"You've evaluated his work.  I asked you about the partnership, 
how you were working together."

"I think it's working quite well," she said, her tone a shade 
softer.  She chose her words carefully, spoke with special 
attention to clarity.  "His methods are compatible with mine.  
He's open to negotiation, alternate views and theories.  He's not 
afraid to speak up when he feels he has a valid point that I seem 
to have missed.  I think...we're working quite well together."

Skinner watched her for a long moment, letting her sweat it out a 
bit beneath his penetrating gaze.  She didn't flinch.

"Do you think of him as your partner, Agent Scully?"

That hit her.  Her eyelids slipped a bit, her gaze half-obscured, 
beauty clouded briefly by dusty memories.  Her answer was slow in 
coming.  "I am...approaching that...sir."

A long beat passed between them in silence.  Then Skinner nodded, 
and said softly, "Very good, Agent Scully.  That will be all."


*****

(End Chapter 12a.  Continued in 12b...)
Feedback is a writer's ice cream - bstrbabs@gmail.com

--------------

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Parts of this chapter are very NC-17.  If you're 
too young to be here, please go home now.


"Water's Edge"
by 
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 12b


"The more that I learn, the less that I know. 
Never thought I would want to slow down. 
Just focus on clouds in blue skies, 
Above all the rain, the sun shines. 

It's just an ordinary day. 
I'm much too strange for this ordinary world"
						"Ordinary" -- Greg Jones



Scully had always loved the scent of a university campus.  Once 
upon a time she had been more at home on campus than anywhere in 
the world.  There had been a comfort and freedom in the academic 
world that she had relished and clung to.  The endless power of 
knowledge.  Scully had once believed that somewhere in all these 
intricately carved buildings and countless volumes of texts lay 
the answers to the world.  All of her fears, she believed to be 
based in a lack of understanding, and if she just read long 
enough, found the proper teachers, the perfect chapters and 
manuscripts, the explanations would be found and the fear 
explained away.  With understanding would come security.

Scully still revered the pursuit of knowledge, still took 
pleasure in the feel of a pen in her hand, a book bag on her 
shoulder, notebooks spread across a library table.  But her 
youthful fantasies had tempered.  It didn't take very many days 
with Mulder to lose any illusions that all things under the sun 
could be explained by a book.

But this morning, Scully felt as though she were stepping back 
into a world she had once loved and quietly forgotten.  The 
expansive courtyard at the center of the campus was peppered with 
students, most in heavy trench coats sheltering them from the 
sharp bite in the wind.  The trees were still bare, save for a 
few intrepid buds testing the determination of spring.

Scully could have made a life for herself in a place like this.  
She could have gained the respect of her colleagues, she could 
have advanced through the ranks as well or better than in the 
FBI.  She could have been an influential and permanent fixture on 
a campus like this one.  And a part of her still regretted 
relinquishing that dream.

But in the end, for the world she would not change her path.  Her 
perspectives on life, her range of knowledge, of exposure to new 
ideas, people, cultures within her own she had walked past every 
day without an inkling of their existence...none of that would 
have touched her life if she had never come to the FBI, to the X-
Files.

And that body of knowledge was more precious to her than any 
subject taught in these halls.  The woman she had been in her 
academic years would never have come to a place where a man like 
Melvin Frohike would bring her herbal tea or mail her videos of 
Humphrey Bogart films to give her something to distract her in 
the too quiet evenings, and expect nothing in return but her 
heartfelt pledge of friendship.

Scully glanced down at the campus map she had obtained at the 
gate and traced her finger along the path she had walked, 
focusing on the building labeled number 36.  Biological Sciences.  
Adjacent to the Academic Building of the Medical School Complex.  
Yes, there.  Just on the far side of the quad.  She picked up her 
pace again, the clicks of her heels echoing off the circle of 
ancient stone buildings, suit jacket flapping in the wind.  She 
was glad for the turtleneck sweater sheltering her throat.  
Scully smiled softly when a boy half her age turned to follow the 
path of her breasts as she walked on in the form fitting sweater.  
Yes, of course, she was light years beyond needing that kind of 
affirmation of her worth or womanhood, but it still felt good on 
a cool late winter morning every now and again.

She pulled back the heavy door of the Biological Sciences 
building and stepped out of the chill into the shelter of the 
foyer.  Her ears settled from the silencing of the wind, and she 
followed the sounds of voices to the front office.

"Dr. Daniel Waterston's office?" she asked the slender blonde 
girl at the front counter.

The girl looked around from her conversation with her co-worker 
as if surprised at having to deal with an outside human being.  
She untwined her finger from her iron-flat hair and pointed down 
the hallway.  "Around the corner to your left.  Room 106.  I 
think he's there, but did he ask you to come?  Because he doesn't 
usually see students on Thursdays.  He'll probably make you get 
an appointment."

Scully suppressed a soft smile.  "I'm not overly concerned," she 
said evenly.

The girl eyed her for a moment, a little thrown, then shrugged as 
if to say, "Suit yourself, lady."  She really said, "Okay."

"Thanks." Scully moved off down the hall.

She found the office easily enough.  Daniel's door was only half 
closed; she could see him at his desk through the narrow opening.  
He was engrossed in something on his desktop, and she took the 
moment to observe him undetected.

He was perched on the edge of what should have been a luxurious 
arm chair, glasses slipping a bit down his nose, the front of his 
hair threatening to rebel from its carefully placed wave.  His 
suit jacket had been discarded and draped across the nearest pile 
of books.  His fingers loosely grasped the tip of an elegant pen.

He still took her breath away.

*How long had it been since she had taken a moment to let the 
pure joy of such a realization wash over her?*

The confidence in the way Daniel held himself, even in unguarded 
moments.  The focused intellect in his gaze.  The constant air of 
dignity waving off of him in the most menial tasks.  His inner 
beliefs in the role of a true gentleman.  All made their 
influence apparent in every gesture.

Daniel pulled off his reading glasses and tossed them onto a pile 
of papers.  He reached out to fish through a rack of mail on the 
far edge of the desk, and when he lifted out an envelop to 
inspect it more closely, his gaze rose and he caught sight of her 
in the hall.

With the eye contact, she gave him a languid smile.

"You realize I don't see students on Thursdays?" Daniel asked, 
leaning back in his chair and swiveling slightly.

"So, I've been told."  Scully took a step forward and pushed the 
door back, folding her arms and settling against the door jamb.  
"I hear you're pretty strict, Dr. Waterston.  Known for your 
flunk-out courses."

"That I am," Daniel said, a smile slipping across his playful 
expression.  The sparkle in his eyes warmed her blood.  "But I 
think, perhaps, today, I'll make an exception and agree to meet 
with you."

Scully moved leisurely into the room, stepping towards the far 
wall and inspecting the framed diplomas and family photographs.  
"Hmmm...I don't know.  I'm a bit suspect of what you might 
require of me in return.  I've heard plenty of stories about 
middle-aged professors and their young female students."

"Are you that young?" he asked, voice all mock-innocence, and 
Scully glared at him over her shoulder.

"Damn, you're sexy when you're angry."

Scully's mock glare softened to a sideways smile.  She returned 
her attention to the wall adornments, and Daniel rounded the desk 
and stepped up behind her.

His arms moved easily around her, one at her waist, the other 
across her shoulders, and he hugged her hard from behind.  Scully 
gripped his forearm, placed a tender kiss on his wrist, then 
rubbed absently at the trace of lipstick she had left.  She 
immediately felt herself warming, softening, as Daniel's solid 
form molded to her.  The support was tempting, welcome.  And for 
a moment she let herself sink against him, just to be there, safe 
and wanted in his arms.

"What are you doing here?" Daniel asked into her ear.  The 
sensation of his warm breath sent gooseflesh down her neck.

"Just wanted to see you.  See your office while I'm at it.  
Pretty impressive, I might add.  You've moved up in the world."

"Thank you," he said, a smile in his voice.  His hand rose from 
her shoulder to cup the side of her neck, his thumb lightly 
caressed her cheek.

"Is it okay?" she asked softly.

"What?"

"That I'm here."

Daniel's other hand moved slowly from her waist down to the 
center of her abdomen, and his open palm pressed her hips more 
firmly against him.  The small of her back hit his hardness.

"Yeah," Daniel breathed.  "It's okay.  It's always okay."

Scully swallowed and closed her eyes.  "I can't stay too long," 
she said at last.  "My partner and I have to drive up to 
Gaithersburg this afternoon to follow up on a possible lead in 
this case."

"Something big?"

She shrugged.  "Can't tell."

"Am I still seeing you for dinner?"

"I think so.  I'll call you when I'm able to get away.  When's 
your last appointment at the clinic?"

"Five.  I should be free by six at the latest."

She nodded.  Daniel bit her ear, and she smiled.  She turned 
easily in his arms, gazed up at his face in tender appraisal.

"You're so beautiful," Daniel whispered, his finger tracing her 
lower lip.

"And you...are a horny old professor," Scully said, unable to 
hide the laughter in her voice, and Daniel laughed openly with 
her.

"I may be," he said softly.  "But you're still beautiful, Dana 
Katherine."

Scully closed her eyes in silent gracious acceptance of his 
words.  She was learning how to take in lines like that.

She felt his kiss before she saw him move.  His lips closed over 
hers, gentle at first, then strong and soft and tasting of coffee 
and peppermint and a lost dimension of her life.

Amazing how years of relatively comfortable abstinence could 
vanish in one hot night, and leave the days and hours between so 
painfully lengthy.

Her sex drive had not withered with neglect, but merely waited 
patiently for its day back in the sun.

Scully lingered on the kiss for as long as she could, trying not 
to count the time, trying to forget the schedule imposed on her 
afternoon, the hours and minutes she had so carefully allotted to 
this task and that, and know that if she sank into this moment, 
she might remember it when she was 80 years old and that none of 
the rest of her thoughts this afternoon stood a chance.

When they pulled away, Scully opened her eyes and lay her intent 
gaze upon Daniel's.  He latched on immediately to the intensity 
of thought in her countenance, and questioned her silently with a 
flicker of one sandy-lashed lid.

Scully kept him waiting a moment, drew a slow breath and lowered 
her gaze to his mouth.  "There's something I've been wanting to 
do--" she cleared her throat, "--for the past few days.  Not to 
mention, the opportunity to fulfill a very old fantasy while I'm 
at it."

Daniel was eyeing her with cautious curiosity.  "And what might 
that be, Dr. Scully?"

Scully gave his chest a gentle press with her open palm.  "Go.  
Sit back down at your desk."

Daniel continued to gaze upon her questioningly, but she was 
offering no more illumination, and he was willing to play, moving 
deliberately over the path he had come and settling into his 
chair.

Scully lingered a moment, let him wait it out, waited until his 
attention shifted slightly, his gaze danced over the paperwork on 
his desk.

Then she moved.  Wordlessly, Scully crossed to the office door, 
pushed it closed and flipped the lock.  She circled the massive 
mahogany desk, feeling Daniel's gaze upon her, but focusing only 
upon her own intents, and she dropped to her knees, slipping 
easily into the desk's wide leg hole.

"Oh-ho, Dana, you..."

"Don't speak," she said, not glancing up, and she felt the 
muscles of Daniel's strong thighs flex beneath the light touch of 
her fingers.

She was enough out of practice that she couldn't manage a zipper 
entirely with her teeth anymore.  But the rest was hard to 
forget.

Despite the obvious challenges of a mouth and throat as small as 
her own, she had not forgotten most of her personal tricks.

She *had* forgotten the way the performance of the task on a man 
she adored could trigger her own arousal like a drug.

Each stroke of her tongue, each pull of suction in her cheeks, 
and each husky breath from Daniel's lips, was like a physical 
caress to her own sensitive folds.  The blood rushed through her 
limbs, making her feel strong and alive.  Delectable flutters of 
butterflies danced through her stomach, sinking ever lower.

She took her time.  Working him to the best of her abilities, 
pulling back, pushing forward, judging the slightest changes in 
his breath and gestures.  She toyed with him, drew her teeth over 
his sensitive skin, then captured the whole of him without 
warning, taking his breath away.

She felt the tension building in him, felt the insistent pulse of 
blood through his thin skin as it pressed against her tongue.  
The muscles of his thighs quivered beneath her fingers and she 
thrilled at the shared anticipation, a whisper of sensation 
brushing her own inner thighs.

Daniel's hands were in her hair, on her shoulders, caressing her 
upper back.  Demanding and gentle all at once, and she loved it 
both ways.

His hips were now moving in time with her ministrations, and she 
could feel the tremendous effort channeled into keeping his 
thrusts gentle.

His breath was rapid and sharp.  His fingers gripped at the cloth 
of her sweater, and his thigh muscles tightened as he gave a 
muted sound of deepest pleasure.  His firm brace on the floor 
faltered, and he grabbed at the desk for support.  All of this 
gave Scully a half second warning, and left her ready for him to 
empty into the back of her throat.  She swallowed; gave a throaty 
gasp for breath that sent a reciprocal shiver through Daniel.  
Suck.  Swallow.  And knowing she could bring this man of such 
intelligence and strength and influence practically to his knees, 
was both a delicious rush of power and achingly erotic for her.

Daniel's hand on her hair was so infinitely gentle.

"Dana..." he said softly.  The reverence in his voice was clear.  
The love.

Scully leaned into the warm hand that had risen to caress her 
cheek as she fell back to catch her breath.  She cleared her 
throat, licked her lips.

"Dana..."  He was so out of breath.  So content.  "Thank you, my 
love..."  She had done that for him.

Daniel pulled his pants to a careless approximation of closed and 
sank back into his chair. Scully moved with him, leaning forward 
across his lap and resting her cheek against his still quivering 
thigh.  His hand continued to stroke her hair as the other rose 
to cradle the back of her neck.  She felt the heat of his skin 
mere millimeters from where the metal chip lay beneath her skin, 
and she imagined the warmth of his touch dissipating the 
offending circuits and wires, leaving her clean and pure and 
safe.

"You always were the best at that."  A little more air and a 
little more humor in his voice now.  A hint of a laugh.

"I've always loved you," she said simply, not expecting the 
words, but knowing their truth as she heard her voice.

For a long time they just breathed together.  Scully wanted to 
keep the moment in a vase.

By mutual consent, she rose and straddled Daniel's lap, savoring 
the warm contact from his still open zipper on her own ultra 
sensitive core.  She rested her head on his shoulder, and his 
solid arms closed possessively across her back.

"I owe you one," Daniel said into her shoulder.  She nodded, not 
caring at all about payback.  Reveling in the pleasure of being 
free to give.

"I'll be here," she said.  And she believed it.


*****


Scully flipped open her badge holder as she approached the front 
desk of the Kincaid Medical Research Center.  Michaels did the 
same beside her.  "Good afternoon.  We're Agents Scully and 
Michaels from the FBI.  Would you be the gentleman I spoke with 
earlier?"

The young man nodded, his long bangs falling across pale blue 
eyes.  "Yes, Ma'am."

"Do you mind if we ask you a few questions to start off?"

Judging from the young man's expression, he minded quite a lot, 
but he merely pushed back his hair, set down his pen and shook 
his head.  "Yeah, sure," he said.

"Did you know Miranda Lockheart?"

He shrugged.  "I knew a woman named Miranda who used to help out 
around here sometimes.  I didn't know her last name."

Michaels held out a picture.  The young man held back his hair 
and took a look, then nodded.  "Yeah, that's her."

"What can you tell us about her?" Michaels asked, leaning an arm 
on the high counter around the front desk.

"Not much.  I hardly knew her.  She seemed to kind of show up 
when she wanted to and blow us off when she didn't.  I was kind 
of surprised they kept her on, frankly.  Usually this place is 
pretty picky about who they employ."

"Picky how?" Scully interjected.

"Just the usual.  Punctuality, grooming, that kind of thing.  But 
they're not as picky about the subs, I guess."

Michaels raised his eyebrows.  "Subs?"

"They're not regular employees.  Almost like volunteers, really, 
but they get nominal pay.  They help with the grunt work. No 
paperwork or contact with medical equipment that could affect our 
patients."

"And what about you, do you work with patients?" Scully asked.

The young man sat up a bit straighter.  His nametag came into 
view.  Dory Sullivan.  "Yeah, sure.  I'm a biochem major, I'm 
doing graduate work.  I'm training for lab work primarily, but, 
I'll be working with patients too.  I take histories, draw blood, 
that kind of thing.  Why?  I mean...can I ask you what this is 
all about?  I mean, why do you care what I do here?"

"We're just covering our bases," Scully said evenly.  "Miss 
Lockheart has run into some trouble, and we're just trying to 
find out more about her."

"What about the other subs?  Anyone she was particularly chummy 
with?" Michaels asked.

Dory nodded right away.  "Yeah, definitely.  Short guy, um...oh, 
what's his name...Dennis.  Yeah.  In fact, I think he's working 
today.  Do you want me to find him?"

"If you would, please," Scully said, eyebrows lifted.

Dory reached for the phone on his desk, punched in a few numbers 
with his middle finger and lifted the receiver to his ear.  
"Yeah, Nancy," he said softly, turning slightly from Scully and 
Michaels.  "Is Dennis back in the labs?...Could you send him up 
front for a few minutes?...Thanks."  He swung his hair back as he 
turned to face them again.  "He should be out in a minute."

Scully gave a cursory smile.  "Thank you.  In the meantime, would 
you mind telling us something about the research that's done 
here?"

Dory took on a more professional posture, clearly moving into 
territory he was more comfortable with.  "The Kincaid Medical 
Research Center specializes in research into various sleep 
disorders, particularly those of a severe or debilitating nature.  
We gather information, and apply that information to develop new 
therapies and technologies to improve the lives of those who 
suffer from these disorders."

"I see."  Scully bit down hard on the words, *"And is that a word 
for word quote from the pamphlet, or...?"*  A glance toward 
Michaels showed the same question on his countenance.

"How do you find your patients?  Are they primarily from doctor 
recommendations, or do you advertise?"

"Most of our patients come to us through word of mouth or doctor 
recommendation.  We're certainly not lacking in volunteers.  Most 
times we have more volunteers than we can use.  Sleep disorders 
are far more prevalent than most people realize."

Scully nodded, holding the young man's gaze intently enough to 
make him uncomfortable.  "I imagine so."

The squeak of wheels drew their attention, and Scully turned to 
see a young man in hospital scrubs, wheeling a supply cart down a 
nearby hallway.  She caught his gaze and offered a polite smile.  
"Are you Dennis?  I'm Agent Scully of the FBI, this is my partner 
Agent Mich--*Whoa*!"  The scalpel actually whistled as it whipped 
past her ear, slicing the air where her eye had been a second 
ago, and clattering noisily to the far side of the lobby floor.  
"What the hell?"

Michaels was already between Scully and the young man, weapon 
raised, by the time she straighten her head.  "Sir, I need you to 
calm down, we're not here to hurt anyone.  Are you Dennis?  We're 
just here to ask--"

"Stay away from me!"  The strangled voice echoed through the 
polished hallway as the young man turned and began a run back the 
way he had come.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stop!" Michaels called, 
lifting his weapon to regulation firing stance.

"Sir, hold your position!" Scully shouted angrily, her own hand 
grasping her weapon as she pushed off into a run in pursuit.

"Stay there," she heard Michaels say to Dory, then his familiar 
booted footsteps were clacking the floor behind her.

"Dennis, we are armed.  Stop where you are!" Michaels called.

But Dennis was moving remarkably quickly for a young man of his 
sturdy physique.  He took a sharp corner to the right and when 
Scully hit the intersection of hallways, she paused only briefly 
to check her unguarded left before following the young man's 
path.  "You're in no danger, if you halt now!" Scully shouted, 
but she knew the futility of her words.  She was merely covering 
her own ass.

The hallways lead into an endless labyrinth.  Door after door 
whizzed past her peripheral view, each alike--white with a square 
window in the upper half.

Scully was running full out, gaining on the suspect, her legs 
feeling solid and strong beneath her, her weapon a reassuring 
weight in her hand.

The dizziness hit out of the blue.  Like she'd stepped off an 
invisible ledge.

"God..."  Her pace slowed and Scully reached a blind hand toward 
the wall, her weapon slipping to her side.  She squinted at her 
surroundings, hoping for some kind of clarity, a focal point, but 
the bright white walls were blurring into meaningless light, and 
she didn't know where the walls ended and the floor began.

Scully dropped against the wall and pressed her open hand tight 
to the surface beside her hip.  She closed her eyes, but she 
could still feel the world spinning around her, the resounding 
beat of her heart and the deafening rush of blood in her ears.  
There were voices in the distance, but she was too wrapped up in 
her own swirl to calculate the meaning.

The erratic movements slowed a bit and she was venturing to move 
her eyes around by the time the sharp clack of Michaels' boots 
signaled his approach.

"Dana?"  His hand hit her shoulder with a firm impact as he slid 
to a halt.  "Dana?  What's wrong, are you okay?  Where did he 
go?"

She swallowed against a surface wave of nausea.  An after effect 
of the loss of balance.  "Go.  He turned left up there, go!"

He took half a step back, hand still on her shoulder.  "Are you 
okay?"

"I'm fine, just GO!"

She had hardly opened her eyes, made no eye contact, but her 
voice was strong, and despite the touching degree of concern in 
the lines of his face, Michaels gave her a quick nod, and 
launched himself onto the suspect's path.

Scully squinted after him, panting for breath, and letting the 
world settle down around her.  *Jesus.  What the hell?*

The hurried footsteps faded into the distance.


*****


When Michaels returned, Scully had walked half the distance to 
meet him.  They were both wanting for breath and Michaels shook 
his head as he approached her.  "Freakin' back door.  Lost him in 
the street," he said, and Scully just nodded, falling into step 
behind him as they returned to the front desk.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You sure?  What happened?"

"I'm fine, it was nothing."

Michaels watched her for a moment, but let it go.

"Are all your employees insane or is this a recent development?" 
Scully tossed at Dory as they re-emerged into the lobby.  But the 
pale color of the young man's face seemed genuine, and Scully 
doubted very much he had expected the attack.

Scully and Michaels spoke to every employee on the premises over 
the next two hours.

They got nothing but answers from textbooks and pamphlets.

They took away the address of the man who had vanished into the 
crisp afternoon.  A dingy apartment complex nearby.  They didn't 
expect to find him there.  Their instincts proved correct.

Time to go back to home base and regroup.


*****


The deep silence had so long prevailed in the basement office, 
Scully jumped when Michaels' voice broke the bubble.

"That's it.  I'm officially going in circles.  I think I'm 
calling it a day."  He snapped closed his laptop.  

Scully looked up from her own computer and pulled off her 
glasses, drawing a finger over the tense skin beneath her tired 
eyes.  "I think I'm with you.  We seem to have done enough damage 
for one day."

"We're making progress, I think," Michaels said, his tone 
revealingly open for a moment.  "We may track down Dennis again.  
We're closing in on something, or we wouldn't keep pissing people 
off so much."

Scully gave a dry laugh.  "Gannon, Mulder and I pissed people off 
daily for years in this job.  Trust me, it doesn't mean you're 
getting anywhere."

Michaels gave a soft smile.

Scully acquiesced.  "But I do think you may be right.  I think 
we're circling something.  I�m just not sure where we'll land 
yet."

They moved together in silence, working through the standard end-
of-day routines.

Michaels shrugged into his suit jacket, his belongings already 
gathered at his feet.  He turned back to face Scully where she 
stood beside her desk, still not quite ready to leave.  "Okay.  
I'm going to try this one last time.  Amanda's making spaghetti 
tonight, and she always makes about two weeks worth so she can 
have it on hand for the nights I work late, and God knows I've 
been doing enough of that, lately.  So, there's bound to be 
plenty to go round."  He lifted his eyebrows to her in open 
entreaty, "Will you join us for dinner?"

Scully didn't speak for a moment, and her partner probably 
suspected she was sorting through the countless excuses she had 
employed in the past, searching her mind for a new turn of 
phrase.  But what she said was, "Yeah, I'd like that.  Thank 
you."

Michaels stared.  "I--I don't know what to say to that, Dana.  I 
was all ready to try to convince you and now you've got me 
stumped."

Scully shifted her weight, a little edgy, skipping over his 
dalliance with humor.  "Actually, I, uhm..." she cleared her 
throat, "I'd like to bring someone, if you wouldn't mind."

Silence reigned.  "I gotta sit down."  Michaels reached out for 
the edge of the nearest table.

Scully closed her eyes and allowed a hint of a dry smile as she 
exhaled through her nose.  "I guess I deserve that," she said 
under her breath.

"Let me get this straight--Dana Scully is not only accepting my 
invitation to dinner with the family--"

"What time?"

"--but she is also bringing a *date*--"

"*What time*?"

"6:30."

"Can I bring anything?"

"I thought you were already bringin' --"

"Would you just go, please?"

"Hey, I was just--"

"Go."

"6:30?"

"We'll be there."

A faint strangling sound carried back from the hallway that 
sounded suspiciously like "*We!*".

Scully closed her eyes.


*****

(End Chapter 12b.  Continued in Chapter 13...)

Feedback fawned over at bstrbabs@gmail.com

-----------

CONTENT WARNING FOR READERS: This chapter contains a description 
of a crime scene involving violence toward very young children.  
If this is not somewhere you want to go, get out now.  If you 
don't want to go near this chapter, and yet you've been reading 
this WIP for two or three years and don't want to stop now--just 
email me, and I'll try to give you the safe parts and the bare 
bones information from the rest (no pun intended:)), so you can 
pick it up again with the next installment.



"Water's Edge"
by 
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 13 




"And so we got dragged into the LaPierre madness -- I got dragged 
into this LaPierre madness by a Mulder who never really seems to 
understand how dead children turn me inside out."
                                    --"Absolute Zero" by august



**There's more going on at that Medical Center than meets the 
eye, that's abundantly obvious.  But I don't know what it is, 
Mulder, and I don't know where to begin.  But you would know.  
I'm certain you would.  Your sixth sense for the offbeat, the 
alien, would kick into high gear within ten miles of that place, 
and you would make one of those fabulous leaps of yours and tell 
me you had a theory.  And your theory would prove to be right.  
But I don't have a theory, Mulder.  And I'm...I'm sorry.**



The early morning light painted the opposing rooftops a striking 
orange, and Daniel soaked up the splash of color over the blue-
grey courtyard as he drew in the moist air.  No matter how many 
compounding decades stood between him and childhood, there was 
still something magical about Saturday mornings.

His schedule had long since drifted from anything traditional 
enough to guarantee him a Saturday left to his own wishes and 
desires, but the spirit remained.  His early morning jog had 
taken him through the neighboring housing development, and he had 
heard the stirrings of young voices, had almost felt the thoughts 
of approaching spring--of bicycles and wagons and kites to be 
carried in eager anticipation to the park down the street.

He did his best thinking in the first hours of light.  The dawn 
had always felt like his own private possession; a secret pocket 
of suspended time he had discovered and captured for himself.  He 
never used these sacred minutes of clarity to focus on research 
or medical journal write-ups.  This time had always been reserved 
for the subjects that really mattered to him in the course of 
time.  The precious things that could so easily be pushed to the 
back burner in the rush of a hectic day.

This morning, as he paced the length of his balcony in his grey 
sweats, cooling down and soaking up the fresh morning air--Tasha 
snoring on the loveseat, content after her run--his thoughts 
centered on one subject.  Dana.

Daniel was starting to believe that twenty years at her side 
would not be enough to give him a cleaner grasp on the inner 
workings of her enigmatic mind.  And perhaps in twenty years they 
would never stop angering each other almost as much as they 
brought joy.  But he was willing to try.

She had caught him completely off guard with the invitation to 
dinner at her partner's home.  The plunge seemed monumental.  To 
date, she had hardly opened up to him about her work life in her 
own words, much less been willing to expose him to others' 
unchecked comments on the life she lived when she was away from 
him.

He could feel the tension in her from the moment they met at her 
apartment door.  The open softness he had witnessed in her body 
that morning had vanished utterly.  Replaced by a tight veneer 
that rippled the skin of her back beneath his gentle touch.

She had remained subdued throughout much of the evening.  Any 
time she was spoken to, she had been friendly and responsive, but 
her quiet distance had prevailed.  Once upon a time that would 
have frightened him, which showed he had made at least some small 
progress.  He understood how difficult this was for her, knew he 
had to leave the pacing up to her.  He was just eternally 
grateful for the step in the right direction.  Acknowledging him 
to others as a significant part of her life was really far more 
than he had hoped for at this stage of their relationship.  And 
it was certainly a courtesy he had neglected to afford her once 
upon a time.

Watching Dana's interaction with Gannon Michaels had been an 
amazing education.  Michaels had made it clear how long he had 
worked to get Dana to accept a dinner invitation, which told 
Daniel more about the significance of the evening than anything 
else.  It was obvious Michaels and Dana were friends as well as 
co-workers.  But the woman this man worked with everyday shared 
only fragments with the woman Daniel had slept beside.  Agent 
Scully--the aspect of Dana Scully he had yet to meet or 
understand.  He had dared to touch on the subject over the final 
strands of the spaghetti dinner.

*"I just find it so hard to picture.  Knowing Dana outside of her 
work like I do...I just can't picture her as the hero of an 
action movie, wielding a weapon.  I mean, look at her--it doesn't 
seem possible does it?"  His words had been offered lightly, but 
Michaels' appraising gaze had surprised him.  Michaels had 
shifted his eyes to Dana before responding and she had held his 
look, lids heavy, before letting her attention fall back to her 
half empty plate.

"Dana?" Michaels had said at last, his intense gaze back upon 
Daniel, his tone not quite lightening with his words.  "You 
kidding me?  Try her.  She'll have you on your back before you 
can blink."

Daniel had turned to Dana in question.  She had merely raised her 
eyebrows and drawn a deep breath through her nose, then turned 
away and quietly pushed the subject aside.*
 
Damn, that woman was hard to read.

The brilliant orange was lifting from the rooftops and blazing 
the sky.  The precious minutes were slipping away.  Reality was 
setting in.

The courtyard below was quiet, save for the gentle sounds of the 
water fountain.  A lone figure stood outside the garden gate, a 
mere silhouette in the brilliant sun.  A figure dressed in black, 
appearing to be gazing up toward his very balcony.  Perhaps that 
was a trick of the light as well.

Tasha grumbled and shifted in her sleep.

*Dana Scully, what do you want from your life?  Our life?*

A vibrant memory stole his senses.  A quiet moment after dinner.  
Dana had stepped away from the group.  Amanda Michaels had gone 
to the kitchen for drinks.  Daniel had gone to retrieve his 
blazer before following Michaels onto the back veranda.  And 
there Dana had stood, leaning down to pick up her purse, then 
tossing back her hair as she stood.  Blindingly beautiful.  Grace 
and beauty and everything he had remembered for all the years he 
had had nothing but memories to go on.  Her rich auburn hair 
hooked behind her ear, her soft generous lips a deep wine shade, 
the smoothness of her cheek, the seductive hollow beneath the 
bone, her heavy lashes shading the clearest blue eyes he had ever 
stared down.  Everything in her movement spoke of femininity and 
elegance.  And the final touch--she was utterly unaware she could 
take a man's breath away.  She had turned to him, perhaps sensing 
the weight of his gaze.  She had held his gaze a long breath, her 
clear blue eyes never flinching at his intensity.  Then, she had 
offered him the smallest, gentlest of smiles; the delicate down-
pull at the corners of her mouth betraying the thousand 
darknesses that weighed on her every waking moment.

And in that silent connection, he had never felt more loved, more 
touched.

He wanted to spend his life with this woman.

The sun at last broke away from the line of rooftops, claiming 
its supremacy over the world below.  Daniel drew a last deep 
breath of the warming air.  Tasha rolled onto her back and 
silently hoped for a tummy rub.  He hadn't seen Dana since 
Thursday night.  He had invited himself to cook her dinner in her 
own apartment tonight.  She had seemed appropriately amused by 
the idea and left a key for him at the management office in case 
she got roped into work.  Daniel closed his eyes and turned back 
toward his apartment.  The figure by the gate had vanished.  
Probably just a neighbor waiting for a ride that had finally 
come.


*****


"I got the call at 5am.  They said the tip came in around 4:30, 
so there wasn't much of a delay."  Scully swung the car around a 
sharp curve on the tail of the Woodbridge squad car, and Michaels 
put a hand out to steady his cup of coffee.

"And they said this guy...?"

"Matched the description of Dennis.  It was vague, but it's worth 
a shot.  Came up on their computer."

"And he just showed up at the station house?"

"Apparently.  Sounds fishy, considering our man ought to be 
avoiding law enforcement like the plague, but then again, he 
wouldn't appear to be the sharpest tack in the drawer, so..."

"Well, I'll give you that one, but he's gone now, you said?"

She nodded, eyes still on the traffic.  "Afraid so.  They didn't 
get any information on him or where he might be contacted, he 
just gave the tip about the warehouse and vanished.  They didn't 
make the connection to our search until he was already gone."

"And the tip was what exactly?  I know you told me on the phone, 
but you gotta take into account my daughter was awake scratching 
her poison oak rash until about 3am, so--"

Scully winced and glanced in his direction.  This was the first 
real reaction he had gotten out of her since he'd climbed in the 
car.  "The cream's not helping?"

"Well, it is now, but it took a while to really get ahead of it.  
So the tip was--"

"A body." She was right back in professional mode.  Hard edged 
and distant this morning.  Maybe she hadn't had much sleep 
either.  Or maybe she just didn't want to be here on a Saturday 
morning.  Either way, he wanted to be a bit more connected before 
they walked into a potentially dangerous situation, no matter how 
slim the risk.  "He claimed he had reason to believe there could 
be at least one dead body inside a deserted warehouse on the 
south side of town," she continued.  "Nothing else.  They were 
getting ready to send a car out, when they caught the connection 
to our guy, and they put in a call to see if we wanted to tag 
along."

"And of course we jumped at the idea of visiting a rotting corpse 
in a deserted warehouse before most of the world has made it out 
of their PJ's and into Starbuck's."

"Why, you don't think it's worth checking out?"

Michaels grinned.  "Did I say that?"

Scully glanced back and forth between Michaels and the road, 
appraising, processing, then said, "Are you on the forensic 
pathology thing again?"

"I'm not on anything, but too little sleep and not enough 
coffee."

"I do not enjoy dead bodies any more than anyone else..."

"I'm sure you don't.  It's not like you chose them for a career 
or anything..."

"I chose a career deciphering the endless mysteries of the--"

"Turn up here."

"I see that--of the human body, and how it effects its immediate 
environment, and vice versa, to leave a wordless story of the 
events that have transpi--"

"They're slowing down," he said, gesturing toward the squad car.

Scully followed the turn onto the crumbled and rough parking lot, 
long in a state of disuse and abuse.  Traces of fast food garbage 
and a makeshift ramp showed the lot to be a favorite hideout of 
the local skateboard crowd.

They drove cautiously across the open lot toward the building 
towering at its center.  The massive structure had been forsaken 
some years past.  Windows were broken, graffiti littered the 
peeling walls.

They coasted behind the squad car as it made a full circle of the 
building, then pulled to a halt at a near but safe distance from 
the apparent entrance.

Scully shifted the car into park and turned off the engine, 
squinting up at the building in the rising morning sun.

Michaels looked down from the building toward his partner.  
"Dana?"

She turned.  "Yes?"

"I liked your boyfriend."

Scully's gaze slipped downward a bit, the lines of her face 
softening, half distracted, half warmed.  "Thank you," she said 
softly.  Then with barely a hint of a smile, "I liked your wife's 
cooking."

Michaels returned the smile.  "She'll be glad to hear that."

Scully pushed open the door and climbed out.


*****


The wind was icy from the overnight rain, despite the determined 
sun overhead.

The two local cops were crossing from their car to meet Scully 
and Michaels.  They came together in the trashy parking lot, 
Scully watching her step lest she catch a heel in one of the 
breaks in the concrete.

"We ready?" the tall one asked, and Scully glanced his way, 
appraising his confidence and how it weighed against his 
wariness.

"There was another door around the back," she said.  "How about 
the two of you circle around and come in from there.  Agent 
Michaels and I will give you thirty seconds to get in position, 
then we'll enter through the front.  Agreed?"

"Sounds like a plan, Ma'am," the tall one said, and the two 
turned in unison and started on a wide path around the outside of 
the building.

"You really think we'll find anything in here?" Michaels asked, 
when the officers were out of ear shot.

"No idea," Scully said plainly.  "But I don't like the feel of 
the place.  Do you?"

Michaels looked up at the pale yellow of the sheer wall.  "Not 
particularly.  But what do I know?"

"Usually?  Quite a lot."

Scully was surprised how easily the comment slipped past her 
lips, though she never turned to make eye contact.  But it was 
the truth.  Michaels' instincts had proved their worth on more 
than one occasion, and she knew she wasn't the most forthcoming 
of senior agents when it came to praising her partner's work.  He 
deserved to hear her true thoughts now and again.

Michaels didn't respond, but she felt the significance of his 
gaze as it hung on her back before his focus returned to the 
warehouse.

"Thirty seconds," Scully said.

"Let's do it."

They flanked the door, weapons at the ready.  Scully reached out 
and tested the knob, not surprised to find it unlocked.  The 
broken windows on the ground floor had long since deleted any 
option of security.

The smell hit them the moment she cracked the door.

"Jesus," Michaels muttered, wincing and wrinkling his nose.

Scully locked with his gaze.  "I'm high, you're low.  On three.  
One, two, THREE!"

Scully kicked back the heavy door, and Michaels slid in in front 
of her almost before her leg was down.  They swept the massive 
expanse before them, checking their corners, eyes searching the 
rafters and catwalks above.  Despite the sunlight, the interior 
of the warehouse was a maze of shadows, and there was no reliable 
method of securing the area.  Ten to one the electricity was 
years gone.  They would have to move slowly, and watch their 
backs every step.

Scully pulled out a flashlight and gripped it with the hand 
supporting her weapon.  Michaels did the same.  In the invisible 
distance, they heard a matching clang as the two locals entered 
from the rear.

Scully crept forward, Michaels a few steps behind her, backing 
along her path, covering the other direction.  She almost slipped 
when her shoe hit the first damp place.  "God, what--"  Instinct 
told her what she would see before her vision confirmed it.  Dark 
ruby liquid mixed with dirt as it smeared across the concrete 
floor and the leather of her shoe.

"Awww...fuck.  This isn't gonna be pretty," Michaels breathed.

Scully looked up, more alert than before, sweeping the area with 
her flashlight.

"Where's it coming from?" she said, not really asking Michaels.

They moved more slowly, watching their footing.  A bird cried out 
overhead, a thin trail of sound tying them back to reality from 
the dim silence.  The blood was growing thicker beneath their 
shoes, more abundant.  Sound fell eerily dead for this cavernous 
arena.  Echoes would have been a comfort.  But nothing here was 
alive.

Scully moved through the protocol, clinging tight to procedure 
and ignoring the building sense of dread in her gut.  The smell 
of old blood was nauseating at best--one thing about her 
profession she had never developed a satisfactory immunity to.

She heard the effect on Michaels in the unevenness of his breath.

They were approaching a row of heavy machinery stretching to 
their left as far as their flashlights reached, and to their 
right only another ten or twelve feet.  Scully moved in the 
direction of the break, intending to circle the end of the row.

Another sharp clang in the distance pricked her nerves, but odds 
were it was the local cops making their way from the back of the 
warehouse.

Scully approached the last machine in the row, a massive 
press or a grinder, maybe.  She pushed her back up against the 
cold steel, weapon at her shoulder.  Michaels fell into place 
beside her.

"I gotcha," he said simply.

Eye contact again.  *One, two, three.*  Sweep in, and--

"What in hell--"

"Oh, Sweet Jesus..."

Scully processed the next moments in flashes, unable to recall 
the order in which the images entered her brain.

*Blood on the walls-crimson on the floor-fragments of thickness-
skin, bone, hair-five of them-two, two on the floor-one on a 
workbench-two on chains, hanging from chains, a cruel streak of 
dust-filled sunlight-too small too small too small-TOO FUCKING 
SMALL SWEET JESUS MAKE IT VANISH IT'S NOT HERE, IT'S NOT HERE, 
IT'S NOT HERE*

"Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..." Michaels' voice faded as he 
moved back away from her.  Scully listened as his footsteps 
quickened, the soft thud as he dropped to his knees, the 
strangled retching sounds that followed.

Eyes forward, blinking in and out of reality on the surreal 
glimpses--blood and tortured flesh, Scully backed up the ten 
paces to where Michaels had dropped, touched a stabilizing hand 
to his back.

He was silent below her.

"You okay?" she asked.

His voice was weak, but focused.  "Yeah.  You?"

Scully nodded.  "Mmm."  No real words.  There was nothing to say.  
Nothing to say.

She knew her skin was as pallid as the grey light through the 
filthy windows.

She hadn't felt cold like this since her first uncensored glimpse 
in a violated grave, one rainy Minnesota morning years and years 
ago.

*Dear God, Dear God, I can't walk around that corner again.  Not 
ever again.  Just make it vanish.  Make it vanish. THEY'RE ALL SO 
FUCKING YOUNG.  I can't...I'm not seeing this...*

*Mulder...help...*


*****


Scully stood outside the door of her apartment for a good five 
minutes before she found the stamina to draw out her key.  Daniel 
was waiting for her inside.  She knew he knew nothing of the day 
she had lived through.  Knew he was fixing her dinner, expecting 
a lovely Saturday evening for two.

And for the life of her she couldn't think of anything she wanted 
less right now than to talk with another human being, 
particularly one she cared about, and who cared about her.

She wanted to be quiet.  And numb.  And cold.

She turned the key and opened the door.

Daniel emerged from the kitchen at the sound of the door, tea 
towel over his shoulder and flour on his half open shirt.  She 
did everything she could to muster a smile.

"Hey.  Welcome home, pretty lady," Daniel said warmly, and her 
stomach cinched into a painful knot.

She leaned in as he kissed her cheek, kissed him back.  His skin 
was so alive.  "Hey," she managed.  "Don't tell me you're 
actually cooking?"  She gestured toward the towel.  "I thought 
you had used your whole repertoire on me with that last dinner?"

"Very funny.  I told you, I've become quite the chef in my years 
as a swinging single."

She should have thrown back another witty remark.  She couldn't 
find the energy.  Daniel was starting to pick up on the cold 
edge.  She didn't have the energy to smooth it over.  He eyed her 
for a moment, his piercing gaze burning through her defenses.  
She was kidding herself if she thought she could hide anything 
from him.

Then she saw the flashlight on the dining room table, and her 
next words were razor sharp.  "Where did you find that?"

Daniel missed the curve ball completely, glanced over his 
shoulder to follow her gaze.  "What...?  The flashlight?  
Uhmm...it was in your nightstand, I think.  I needed something to 
see into the back of your kitchen cabinet.  I was looking for a 
large enough salad bowl.  Why, what's wrong?"

Scully drew a breath, jaw tightening, anger numbing the ache.  
"My nightstand.  In my bedroom.  I'm sorry, I just don't remember 
inviting you to rummage through my bedroom drawers."

Daniel's eyebrows rose.  "You don't.  Well, excuse me, Ms. 
Scully.  I thought, when you gave me the key to your apartment 
and invited me to rummage through your kitchen to cook for you--"

"You invited yourself."

Daniel scoffed, hurt triggering a flare of anger on his side, and 
she welcomed the fire, knew she was being unfair and couldn't let 
herself care.

"I heard no complaints.  And I'm assuming if we had been having 
sex in your bed tonight, I wouldn't have heard any complaints if 
I searched through your nightstand drawer for a condom.  Which 
*is* where you keep them, yes?"

She slipped her tongue over the corner of her mouth, lids at half 
mast as she weathered the cut of the implications.

"Fine.  Look at what you want."

"Dana, what the hell are we talking about here?  What's going 
on?"

"Nothing.  Nothing is going on.  I just want a few minutes alone.  
I want to come home to my apartment and get washed up and 
changed.  Is that too much to ask?"

"I'm sorry, am I stopping you?"

She flashed him a wary expression, one hand on her hip, bit back 
on her words, closed her eyes.

"Apparently not," she said coldly, and she turned her back and 
walked away.

The glare of light in the bathroom stung.  For a long minute, 
Scully gripped the edge of the sink and stared down her 
reflection in the bathroom mirror.

She looked as bone-weary as she felt.  She licked her finger and 
dabbed at the mascara smudges at the corners of her eyes, tried 
to restore a modicum of her protective polish.

Her chest hurt with each intake of breath.  Her icy words to 
Daniel had only deepened the ache.  She had been wrong.  She 
didn't need cold numbness.  She needed softness and tenderness 
and ease.  But to give herself that, she first had to allow 
herself to feel...and that would be the hardest of all.

Leaning forward, Scully slid her palms over the smooth edges of 
the sink.  She closed her eyes and pulled in and released a few 
slow breaths.  Deliberately ducking her pale reflection, she 
straightened her back and opened the door.

Daniel was in the dining room, distractedly busy laying napkins 
and silverware on the table.  The only light spilled over from 
the brilliant kitchen.  She stopped a few feet short of the 
table, resting her hands on her hips--projecting nonchalance, 
truthfully needing the support.

After a moment, Daniel set down the last of the utensils in a 
clump, and sat back against the edge of the table.  He folded his 
arms across his chest, defensive but not forbidding, ready for 
battle, but taking in her shift in mood.  The scent of warm food 
left her mildly nauseous.  She kept her gaze intent upon her 
shoes.  Not all the blood had washed out of the creases in the 
leather.

She spoke softly, muting sensation.

"We went into a deserted warehouse today on a tip there might be 
a body inside related to our case.  It wasn't related to our 
case.  But there were five bodies.  None of them more than a year 
old at time of death."  Scully caught Daniel's reaction only 
peripherally.  "Some kind of ritual sacrifice, probably, or... .  
I did two of the autopsies this afternoon.  The rest are 
scheduled for tomorrow, but if I'm lucky they will have handed it 
over to the local authorities by then.  They're still ID-ing and 
tracking down...families.  It will be all over the news by 
morning."  She cleared her throat.  Paused.

Daniel had listened in silence and now took a step toward her.  
"Oh, Jesus Christ, Dana.  I--"

But she couldn't feel.  "It's not as if I've never done this 
before.  I mean, this is worse, but I've done this kind of 
thing...more times than I ever should have, it's just--" *Just 
that my support system's not in place anymore, Daniel.  And no 
matter how dense Mulder seemed sometimes, he was still always 
beside me.  No badly placed jokes this time, no strategically 
timed cell phone calls when I've had just one hour too many of 
fluorescent lights and old blood, no gentle hand at the small of 
my back, or dinner afterward in a dim sushi bar where words 
aren't necessary or even expected, but company and routine are 
quietly calming...*

"It seems like it should be easier, somehow.  I mean--easy's the 
wrong word, but...I don't know..."  The tears were starting to 
hit without warning, burning hot behind her eyes.  She wasn't 
ready to feel them yet, but biology was taking over.  That was 
the gift with Daniel.  It hurt so little to cry in front of him.  
He was unique in her world, that way.  "It's wrong for it to ever 
be easier, but it feels like it gets harder every time..."  Her 
breath was catching.

Daniel ventured another step closer.  She was still studying her 
shoes, hands on her hips, but her body wasn't pushing him away.

"It does get harder," he said, his deep voice cool and even.  
Daniel's fingers twined around her wrist and her chest ached.  
"Maybe some people find a way to cope, a way to distance 
themselves from it.  But, I know I didn't.  I started my career 
in pediatric cardiology, remember?  Then, you know what happened?  
Maggie was born.  And a week later, I found out I couldn't even 
set foot in the Neo-Natal ICU.  There's nothing harder than 
children, Dana.  Don't apologize for feeling that."

Scully lifted her head, looked off to the side, let him watch the 
tension in her throat.  "I can do the work," she said matter-of-
factly.  "But I keep seeing their faces when I close my eyes.  
Those faces that should be so perfect..."  She was losing her 
voice now.  But it didn't matter, because Daniel felt her 
slipping and his hand was on her cheek, warming her skin, the ice 
in her bones.  "Dana...I'm sorry, honey."

And in that moment she loved this man for not telling her it was 
all right.  Because it wasn't all right, dead children never 
could be.  But hearing someone else acknowledge the tragedy was 
the only kind of comfort that could be found.

If Mulder had understood that...just one time...

Scully didn't remember the moment she moved into Daniel's arms.  
But when he whispered, "It's okay, Darling.  I'm here," his voice 
was a soft rumble in his chest beneath her ear.  She closed her 
eyes and forced herself to breathe.  His shirt was soft against 
her cheek.  His arms gave her shelter, and in the end she could 
only let herself cry.


*****

(End Chapter 13.  Continued in Chapter 14a...)

Feedback to a writer is like a Valentine in Charlie Brown's 
mailbox.:) -- bstrbabs@gmail.com


-------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE WITH MINOR SPOILER:  I know you guys are dying for 
Mulder.:)  I know the Daniel thing is slowly killing you.:)  And 
I know that until recently, this WIP has been written so 
incredibly slowly that it seems like she's been with Daniel 
forever (do you realize, that in the timeline of the story it's 
only been a little over a week since Scully first phoned 
Daniel?;-)).  But you're sooooo close to Mulder.  Bear with me, 
people.  We're almost home.:)  And a million thanks to everyone 
who has stuck with me through those long dry spells without 
posting.  Life's a little smoother now, so I hope to never do 
that to you again.:)  And if you need more reassurance, my 
mailbox is always open.



"Water's Edge"
by 
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 14a


Two weeks later:

**"I called your cell phone yesterday when I was trying to reach 
Daniel at work.  I didn't realize what I'd done until a 
stranger's voice answered.  They've given your number to someone 
else."**


Scully took a sip of her iced tea and set the glass back on the 
coffee table, never looking up from the forensics report.  She 
had brought a monumental pile of work home this weekend, stopped 
by the office three times already, but she refused to spend 
another hour in the dinginess of their basement confines if she 
could manage to accomplish the work and still soak up the 
brilliant sun of the fresh spring afternoon.  She and Michaels 
had been marathoning it day after day as the clock ticked on and 
they remained in the dark as to the killer's identity.  Michaels 
had begun to show the strain, and Scully had surreptitiously 
taken on part of his workload this weekend and sent him home for 
some quality time with his family.   No further victims had been 
identified, but the silence virtually guaranteed to her the 
killer had already made his choice, was spending his days 
stalking his intended victim, oblivious to their round-the-clock 
struggle.

Late on this Sunday afternoon, Scully was sitting on the floor of 
Daniel's apartment, surrounded by file folders and spirals of her 
own barely legible scribblings.  Tasha slept on the floor beside 
her, warm body pressed up against Scully's leg.

She could hear Daniel moving about in the kitchen, unloading 
dishes from the dishwasher and shuffling through the cupboards.  
The quiet domesticity was dizzying against the death and cruelty 
radiating from the pages around her.

*What do you want?  Are we a million miles off base?  Is this 
about the invasion?  About colonization?  Or are we wandering off 
on the basis of a red herring and you're really just killing your 
step-mother's look-alike over and over again for all those times 
she snuck into your bedroom to molest you?  Give us 
something...just a hair's breadth slip...a tiny chink in your 
armor...tell me what you want.*

She picked up the map again, stared down at the four red dots 
where each of the bodies had been found.  She traced them with 
the cap of her pen, connected the dots, criss-crossed between 
them, envisioning the lines and patterns in her mind like a blind 
game of chess.

*There's nothing here, nothing here.  What are we missing?  Who 
are you watching?  Where do we begin to look?*

She straightened up from her hunched posture over the coffee 
table, stretched her back, tilted her head to stretch her neck--
and caught Daniel watching her from the kitchen doorway.  She 
lifted her eyebrows.  "What?"

He smiled, shoulder propped casually against the door casing, 
arms crossed.  "Nothing.  You just...look a bit like a student I 
had...a long time ago."

She eyed him quietly for a moment, making the adjustment back to 
reality, back to the room around her.  "Was she cute?"

"Drop-dead gorgeous."

"She must be fading by now...a few wrinkles and grey hairs here 
and there."

He shook his head.  "Not from where I'm standing."

"Maybe you should stand closer."

"Maybe I should."

Daniel crossed the room and sank down to the floor behind her.  
He immediately settled his hands on her shoulders and began to 
work the rigid muscles there.

"Mmmm...oh, God, that hurts."

"Do you want me to--"

"No, no, no, don't stop."  She closed her eyes and let her head 
fall back, sinking into his touch.  "There, yeah.  Oh, that's 
good. Mmmm...oh, God, that's nice."

"Do you have any idea how erotic you sound when you're getting a 
massage?"

Scully gave a weak but genuine laugh.  "Anyone ever tell you you 
have a one track mind?"

"Everyone.  But they're usually referring to cardiology.  This 
track is reserved for you."

She sighed, still entranced by the effects of the massage.  "Good 
answer."

"You're so tight," Daniel said softly, a thread of solemnity 
slipping into the playfulness.

Scully only murmured a wordless response.

"Your right shoulder's hard-wired to your ear.  Is it still 
bothering you?"

"Much less now.  It just gets tired faster."

Daniel's skillful fingers worked at her sea of tension a few 
minutes longer, probing her shoulder, coaxing it loose with 
impressive facility.  Then he closed his arms around her, leading 
her to fall back against his chest.  She had no desire to resist.  
"You need rest," he breathed into her ear.

"I know.  But if I don't keep at this someone else will die."

"Don't talk shop to me, I'm a cardiologist.  I've used that line 
a hundred times myself, giving my reasons for still being on the 
floor of the ICU in my 26th hour on shift.  It doesn't wash.  You 
take care of yourself, or you can't care for anyone else.  Ground 
rules.  Don't learn the hard way, like I have."

*Ouch.*  That sucked her shoulders back up a notch.  "I'm all 
right," she whispered, eyes closed, knowing her posture and tone 
betrayed her exhaustion.  But she was keeping it together, still 
a long way from stringing herself to breaking point.  She'd done 
it enough times to recognize the signs.  As long as she got a 
good night's sleep tonight...

Daniel held her close, kissed the side of her neck, and she felt 
herself sinking drowsily into the warmth.  *'Watch me.'  Why?  
Why do you do it prior to death?  If you're punishing the aliens, 
why are you punishing the victims?*  "Are you staying tonight?" 
Daniel asked into her skin.

She nodded.  "Mm-hmm.  My things are in the car."

With a last kiss to her throat, he let her go and she reluctantly 
pulled back into a sitting position.  "I'm going down to my car 
to get the cooler I left in the trunk.  I'll get your bag from 
your car.  Keys in here?" he asked, reaching toward the blazer 
she had tossed over the back of the couch.

"Yeah, left side."   She straightened her clothes, brushed her 
hair back from her face and picked up her pencil.

"Back in a few," Daniel said, and she turned only vaguely in his 
direction as her attention sucked back onto the desert of sparse 
facts spread on the table before her.

The phone ringing was like a jolt piercing through from another 
reality.  Scully looked up, registered that Daniel was still 
downstairs.  Her cue to move.  She pulled off her glasses and 
tossed them on the report in front of her, wincing slightly at 
the visual adjustment.   She pushed to her feet and Tasha 
grumbled and rolled into the warm place Scully had left.  She 
grabbed the phone on the third ring.

"Hello?"

The line was silent.

"Hello?" she tried again.

A woman's voice.  "Uh...yes, is this Daniel Waterston's 
residence?"

"Yes, it is, can I ask who's calling?"

"Who is *this*?" the voice was somewhat sharper.

Scully flinched, stomach tensing, recognition dawning.  "Uh...I'd 
like to tell Daniel who's calling."

"His *wife*."

Scully didn't respond for a long breath.  She heard Daniel's key 
in the door, watched it swing open.  "Just a moment, please."  
She held out the phone to Daniel as he approached. 

"It's your wife," she said flatly, never meeting his questioning 
gaze.

And as Daniel took the phone and said, "Hello?  Barbara?"   
Scully snatched her blazer off the back of the couch and walked 
out the door.  She heard Daniel calling her name as the door 
swung closed, but pretended she was out of ear shot.


*****


He found her on the wrought iron bench by the fountain.

She tilted her head as she registered his presence, but didn't 
lift her gaze.  He stood a safe few steps away, hands in the 
pockets of his slacks.  Her semi-casual clothes were as elegant 
as her professional wardrobe, draping and formfitting to her best 
advantage.  Or maybe it was just her.  She gave the clothes their 
elegance.  But she wore too much black these days.  He remembered 
her in blues and creams.  "She hasn't been my wife for over a 
decade," Daniel said, coolly.  "You know that."

Dana closed her eyes.  He watched her shoulders pull in as she 
drew a breath.  Her freckles glowed in the sunlight.

"We were together a long time, Dana.  Neither of us has re-
married.  Barbara still tends to leave off the 'ex'.  *I*...do 
not."

"Does she know who I am?" Dana asked.

Daniel nodded.  "She does.  Maggie knows, so..."

Dana nodded.  Then she broke her frozen posture, drew a deep 
breath, and lowered the ankle she had tucked beneath her knee.  
She propped her forearms on her knees.  "Dammit," she said 
softly.  "I hate this, Daniel."

Daniel stepped closer, easing his way into her space.  "Hate 
what, Dana?  Why is this bothering you?  This isn't about us."

She looked up at him, imploring, injured.

"Dana.  Barbara and I shared a life together.  There are still 
connections.  Our daughter, for one.  Our grandchildren.  We're 
still in touch on occasion for the sake of the family."

But she shook her head.  "That's fine, Daniel, that's not--this 
is not jealousy, that's not what...  I know how you feel."

Now it was Daniel who frowned.  He closed the distance between 
them, took a seat on the bench beside her.  A gust of wind 
carried the faintest mist from the water fountain onto his skin, 
reminded him of the sea.  "Well, then what is it?"

Dana shifted; restless and edgy.  "It's the memory.  The reality 
check.  A glimpse of the possible future.  Jesus, Daniel, what we 
did...what brought us here..."

The pain was thick in her voice, and it struck him deeply that he 
hadn't caught the scent of it before today.  He worked to 
carefully construct his next words, to rise to the occasion.  "We 
made some mistakes, Dana.  I'm the first to admit that.  I 
handled a lot of things badly.  I would change things if I could 
do it again.  But we did the best we could.  And I won't 
apologize for how I felt about you then, or how I *feel* about 
you now."

Dana turned and locked gazes with him, the intensity cutting 
through his defenses.  There was so much passion behind those 
cool blue eyes.  So few people got to see that far.  "Daniel, 
there's...there's just so much baggage left for us.  Everything 
was so messed up.  It's never been just us.  We've never been 
together without guilt, without pain, if not to us, than to 
someone else.  Even now..."

Daniel nodded, knowing he couldn't brush this off, knowing she 
needed him to hear her right now.

"That's true.  It *was* true.  But what about now?  How does that 
affect us now?"

"It has to affect us.  It has to.  There are still people in our 
lives who remain affected by the repercussions.  Your family, my 
family.  We can't just pretend that it was always like this.  *I* 
can't.  I can't instantly detach from everything I felt before.  
The time we spent together...I mean, my God, Daniel, I'm a 
Catholic.  Do you have any idea, can you imagine what all of that 
was doing to my self image?  According to my religion, I'm going 
to hell for the time I spent with you."

Daniel blanched.  "You don't really believe that, do you?  A 
woman of science?"

Dana let go a breath, allowing for the literal truth, but pushing 
through to her point.  "It doesn't matter what I do or don't 
believe now.  What matters is how it felt to me then.  And a part 
of me...a part of me has always hated you for letting that happen 
to me.  For not trying to stop me and letting that become...a 
part of my past, part of my psyche.  For not loving me enough to 
be strong for me...when I couldn't."

Daniel let that sink in, working past the gut-pain of her brutal 
honesty, to the vulnerable need she was opening to him.  "What 
happens," he began, his voice a near whisper, "when two people--
who would give the world for each other--are at their weakest at 
the same moment?"

Dana shook her head.  "I don't know.  Us, I suppose."

Daniel reached out and ever so gently stroked her hair.  It was 
like silk between his fingers.  "The world is rarely black and 
white, Dana.  The older you get the more you see the many many 
shades of grey.  Do you think this is ever what I pictured for my 
own life?  That I didn't take my wedding vows as seriously as 
anything I have ever done?  That the path of my life wasn't 
tearing me apart?"

"Dammit, Daniel."  She tossed her hair back, squinting up at the 
brilliant sky.  "I've been living in every conceivable shade of 
grey for so long now...I'm not sure I remember what the sunlight 
looks like.  I want some white light."

"You belong in the sunlight, Dana."

"I can't keep--I just...can we..." but she lost the words for her 
thought and just closed her eyes against the glare of the sun.

Daniel leaned into her personal space at last, breath inches from 
her ear.  His world filled with the scent of her perfume.  Dana 
responded to him instinctively, tilting her head to rest her 
forehead against his without opening her eyes.  For a long moment 
they just stayed there, soaking in each other's nearness, 
reaffirming their connection.  He rested his hand on her thigh as 
they weathered a fresh rush of spray from the fountain.  The 
feather-light moisture peppered across her slacks.  He lifted his 
head, and reached out to smooth her hair behind her ear.

"What do you want, Dana?" he asked, his voice low and close 
beside her.  "Last spring, you said to me you wanted everything 
you should want at this time in your life.  What does that mean 
to you?  A lover?  A home?  A child?  Let me give you those 
things."

"I can't have a child, Daniel."

"Baby, I know that," he said gently, kissing her temple.  "And 
first of all, that's only one of the things I listed for you.  
Secondly, Darling, there are a hundred ways to become a parent if 
that's what you really want."

She was quiet for a moment, then pulled away and looked up, 
probing every nuance of his expression.  "Is that something you 
want, Daniel?  You've already raised one family.  You have 
grandchildren, now."

"You never miss an opportunity to point that out, do you?"

But she didn't want the humor.  "Daniel..."

He sobered.  "I won't lie to you, Dana.  Part of me can't imagine 
giving up my freedom that way again, taking on that kind of 
commitment, restricting my life.  Realistically, at my age, the 
rest of my active life would be as a parent if I started again 
now.  But, with you--the thought of sharing a life with you, 
shaping a young life between us--that's not something I would 
ever walk away from.  Children are something you can't regret 
once you've met them--people like us can't, anyway.  So, yes, 
Dana.  If you don't want a child, I won't have missed out, 
because I've already raised a beautiful daughter.  But if you do 
want a child, I would very much want to have that child with 
you."

Dana watched him for a long beat.  Then the slightest smile 
played at her lips.  "You're talking in awfully confident terms, 
Daniel Waterston."

Daniel nodded.  "Yes, I am, and I knew I'd scare you with that.  
But Dana, you said you know how I feel about you.  If that's 
true...you shouldn't be surprised at all."

She dropped her gaze to the soft spring grass beneath their feet.

"It's all about timing, isn't it," she said.

"What is?"  He reached out and rubbed a gentle circle on her 
back.

"Everything.  Our destiny, the choices we make.  Questions laid 
before us at one time in our lives seem to have one unequivocal 
answer, but then faced with the same question years later, the 
answer is 180 degrees away, and somehow just as right.  And 
sometimes...we never get asked again.  And if the answer changes, 
we never get the opportunity, to try the other road."

He was listening quietly, watching her profile as the wind toyed 
with her fiery hair, watching the flicker of her thick lashes as 
she studied the blades of grass.

"Eleven years ago, it wasn't the right time for us.  It wasn't 
the right time for you, for a dozen reasons.  It wasn't the right 
time for your wife, and certainly not for Maggie.  And it wasn't 
the right time for me."  She paused, drew a measured breath.  
"And last year...wasn't the right time for me, because, 
conventional definition or not, I *did* have someone in my life 
that I had made...unspoken promises to."

Daniel nodded, absorbed in her words.  When she didn't speak 
again, he asked, "But...what about now?"

Dana turned to face him, not quite on the same wavelength.  Her 
eyes gave a silent entreaty.

"Now, Dana.  Is it possible, even remotely, that maybe...now is 
meant to be our time?  That maybe this time it doesn't have to be 
about guilt, or escaping, or heart wrenching choices?  That just 
maybe, it could be about smiles, and laughter, and--feeling 
safe?"

She squinted up at him, a whirl of thoughts behind her steady 
gaze.

"Dana?  Can you at least admit it might be possible?"

Finally, she nodded.  "It might be."  And there was an almost 
hopeful note in her careful words.  "It might be."

*"We're going to keep our eye on the ball. Then, we're just going 
to make contact.  We're not going to think.  We're just going to 
let it fly, Scully, okay?"*

*****

End Chapter 14a (Continued in 14b)
Feed. Hungry. Author. -- bstrbabs@gmail.com


-------------


"Water's Edge"
by 
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 14b


"I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand"
        --Sting, "Desert Rose"



She cut her finger fixing dinner.  Slipped on the cutting board 
and slashed her flesh along with the tomato.  The wound wasn't 
serious, wasn't emergency room deep, but the blood was 
unexpectedly plentiful, and Daniel was touchingly attentive, 
doctorly and loving in equal measure.  Scully's first reaction 
was to duck his attentions--"I'm fine, Daniel, it's just a cut"--
and turn her back on him as she washed off the wound at the sink.  
But he pressed her, gently, firmly, and she let her defenses slip 
a bit.  He caught her off guard and she was forced to look at how 
distant she had become over the years, and how easily Mulder had 
let her get away with it.  She was cut.  He was a doctor who 
loved her.  Was it so hard to let him bandage her finger?

Yes.

But she tried.

Dinner was good, comforting.  Missing meals was so easy when life 
was all about work.  Kissing Daniel for ten minutes backed 
against the kitchen counter was good, as well, though it still 
felt surreal.  But the human contact, skin on skin and breath to 
breath and blood in her veins was a welcome affirmation against 
the lifeless flesh in the pictures on the coffee table.  But it 
made it harder to stay numb.  She went back to work after dinner 
while Daniel settled at his massive roll-top desk to grade 
papers.  She talked to Michaels on the phone twice, brain-
storming, comparing notes and sharing theories.  His daughter was 
screaming in the background, protesting bath time and the 
approach of bed.  She wondered how he balanced that with the 
violence that surrounded their lives.

Scully would have traded with that little girl in a second.  By 
ten o'clock her eyes were closing against her will, and she was 
resting her forehead on her hands atop a toxicology report.

She gave in for the night and changed for bed.  She kissed Daniel 
goodnight, lingering in the instant heat between them.  He said 
he would follow her soon, but she knew he would stay behind until 
she was sleeping, make certain she got her rest.  She saw the 
medical journal slipped in on top of the stack of papers he had 
to finish grading that night, saw the topic of the research, and 
knew he would be awake for some time to come.  In his own way, he 
could be as compulsive as she.

Her eyes closed almost before her head touched the satin pillow 
slip.  Her last thoughts were of the feel of the knife pressing 
into her skin, the almost shocking sting at the tip against the 
smooth coolness of the length.  This triggered a sensory memory 
of another knife, another night, long ago.  She lay down 
remembering, fell asleep wrapped in the memory, and the memory 
became a dream.  And the dream brought the memory to life.


**Stupid mistake by a rookie, life or death for everyone else in 
the room.

An evidence bag left too close to a prisoner's hands.  One quick 
flash and she's on her back across an interrogation table with 
his heavy bulk on top of her and his heavy stench in her 
nostrils, and the fucking knife is pressing into her throat.

Tick-tock.  Nobody shoot, or the pretty red-headed agent might 
get her throat sliced.  Tick-tock--let's watch while the 
psychopath runs his hands wherever he wants to, grabs the pretty 
lady's crotch and fondles her breasts through her thin silk 
blouse.

Half an hour later and the incident's long over, and the fucker 
is back in his self-made prison.  It's business as usual in the 
Jersey station house.

Except that Scully's standing in the dinginess of the 3am public 
ladies room, with a washed up neck and no good reason not to be 
back in the bull pen; except she's shaking, and she can't get the 
smell of his hands off her skin.

She'll be fine in a minute.

Mulder comes to look for her.  Because he always does, sooner or 
later, and more often later.  And with his usual nerve, he steps 
right into the women's bathroom.

She wants to shout at him, and she wants to ask him to hold her.  
And what transpires is somewhere in between.

And in the end, he draws the backs of his artist's fingers 
feather-light down the side of her face.

And she doesn't move, but something inside her melts and warms.

And the moment hangs in the air for her, and she has never felt 
so intimately comforted in all her days.  She's standing in a 
trashy blue-lit bathroom, and his fingers are caressing her soul.

Mulder...MULDER!!

She's being dragged across her apartment floor, and she can't 
reach the phone, it's just beyond her fingers.  Mulder's just 
beyond her fingers and she's never needed anyone so much...

MUULLLLDDDEERRRR!!!!

She's on her back again with her weapon raised, and everything 
she's ever believed is blurring like watercolors as she loses 
trust of her senses and freezes in the sights of the demon above 
her.  And the next thing she knows it's all over, and she's in 
Mulder's arms.  Crying in Mulder's arms.  Mulder's arms.  She's 
never been there before, not like this, and she hates her own 
weakness, but she's so warm and he smells so peaceful, and 
nothing has ever felt like this before and she doesn't want to 
let go...

MULDER!!

"Scully?"**


"Mulder!"

She gasped for breath.  Her lungs pulled at the air like the 
lifeline it was.  She was disoriented, lost so far back in time 
that she couldn't equate with the option of Daniel's apartment, 
that this was where she had fallen asleep.

Mulder was on her skin; she could smell him in her tousled hair.  
Her Mulder.  Everywhere.  Everywhere and nowhere.  And it was 
like remembering herself and her life and everything in her world 
she had tried to forget and desperately needed to remember.  A 
thousand paranoid days and motel room nights, a thousand touches 
and lingering looks, a thousand words and commitments and 
arguments and comforts.  Sunflower seed shells on the car seat 
and a blackened rose petal on the edge of his desk.  Chases 
through shadowed streets and standing in one another's breath and 
long fingers on the small of her back and broken air conditioning 
in rental cars and everything, everything in the world falling 
into place.

The hand hit her back and she didn't know whose it was; only that 
it wasn't Mulder.

"Don't touch me!" Scully pushed away and sat up in the dark.  
Reality blurring into focus around her, cutting into the images 
of her dream like mixed television signals.  Daniel's room.  
Daniel's four poster bed.  Daniel's apartment.  Daniel's voice.

"Dana, what is it?  Were you dreaming?  Darling, talk to me."

She was gasping for breath, skin flushed hot, tears tightening 
her throat.  She couldn't turn around.

*Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch.*

*"You were my constant...my touchstone."*

*Mulder, did I hear your voice...?*

"Dana, what is it?  What's wrong, Sweetheart?"  She felt the 
shift of weight on the mattress behind her.  She pulled up her 
legs, rested her arms on her knees.  She couldn't get the ground 
to steady beneath her.

The more air she could pull in, the more she was moving back to 
the present.

Daniel's fingers moved like a soft breeze down her spine.  She 
stiffened, but didn't pull away.  Mulder's fingers burned on her 
cheek, the dream-memory a thousand times more vivid than anything 
she could know in her waking hours, and she wanted to close her 
eyes and never let it go.

Daniels fingers traced their gentle pattern down the length of 
her spine.  Silent, soothing.  *Come back to me*, he was asking.  
She couldn't move.  An insistent wind swirled against the bedroom 
window.

"Dana?"

She cleared her throat, testing her voice. She was so short of 
breath, as though the wind were rushing through her skin.  "It 
was...something that happened on a case...a long time ago."

His fingers continued their delicate caress, rippling gooseflesh 
across her back.  "Someone hurt you?"

She nodded.  "A knife at my throat.  Touched me."

Daniel pushed forward, close to her, and his sleep-warmed hands 
rose to cup her face, smooth her hair.  She turned with his 
touch, breath close to his in the dark.  She couldn't lift her 
eyes.  Every muscle trembled.

"I'm so sorry, Sweetheart.  But you're okay, now.  You're here.  
You're safe."

Scully nodded, adrenaline rushing through her unwillingly dormant 
limbs.

Daniel stroked her cheek, kissed her forehead.  He remained near, 
face to face, pulling her into the present.  A gentle coaxing 
hand urged her focus to meet his.  She swallowed hard.

"Look at me," he whispered.

She gave fleeting eye contact, unable to keep still, offering the 
connection.

"You're okay.  I'm here.  I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

She nodded stiffly, started to let him in, started to let his 
deep baritone resonate through her and soothe her tremulous 
nerves.  And inevitably, with that, her vision blurred into 
tears.  But her tears alleviated none of the confusion, the fear; 
did nothing to dispel the desperate memory or the voices ringing 
in her head.

She followed the warmth of Daniel's body back to the shelter of 
the bed, nestled close against him, the silk sheets cool against 
the thin sheen of dampness on her skin.

"Hush, Baby.  You're safe."

Daniel.  Her friend.  Her lover.  The man she had invited into 
her bed.

*Mulder...why did you leave me?*


*****


Daniel held his love close, her back tight against his chest.  
Every inch of her delicate body quivered against his as she 
denied her tears.  Fragments, words, phrases--he had gotten 
nothing from her to offer a clear picture of what hurt.  But he 
could guess the framework.  And he could ask the rest in the 
morning.  For tonight, he gave her the safety of his arms.  And 
for as long as she wanted that, it was hers.  He'd never seen her 
so afraid, not even in her younger, more naive days.  It hit him 
in the gut like a sucker-punch.  He didn't realize how much he 
relied on her strength, her solidity, to keep his own faith in 
the stability of the universe.  Even when he had only felt her 
presence from a distance.

Gradually, Dana quieted, relaxed into his touch.  Her breathing 
slowed and steadied.  In time his gentle comforting touches 
drifted unconsciously into caresses.  His hand moved from the 
rigid muscles of her stomach to the soft roundness of her 
breasts.  She sighed and shifted beneath his touch, her body 
opening to him.  As it always had.  In the end they made love.  
No words, just gentle touches and lingering gazes.  And by the 
time they were near to sleep once again, the wall Dana had lifted 
between them had shattered and fallen, and Daniel felt whole once 
again, connected to his other half as he had always needed to be.

*Sleep, my Pretty Lady.  Sleep and be safe.*


*****


Scully hit the office like a hurricane, visibly startling 
Michaels.  He stood at the X-Files cabinets, suit jacket off and 
shirts sleeves rolled to his elbows.

She snapped the papers in her hand.  "They've got it."

"Got what?" Michaels asked, instantly alert, shoving the cabinet 
drawer closed as he turned.

"The fingerprint lab.  It was tiny and extremely obscure, but 
they pulled a print matching Miranda Lockheart's off the insole 
of Talia Carson's shoe."

"You're kidding me."

Scully shook her head.  "I wish I were.  Get on the phone now, 
and get security at the hospital to watch her until we can get 
there."

Michael's was quick to task.  He was on the phone almost before 
Scully could catch her breath.  This was it, this was the break 
they needed.  The answers had been lying beneath their fingers 
for days and they hadn't been able to see them.  It had been too 
easy to believe that Miranda Lockheart was nothing more than a 
victim of a hard life, that she had had the best of intentions 
and never wanted anyone to die.  But Scully should have learned 
by now never to suspect the best of people, at least where her 
work was involved.

"Yeah, I'll hold."  Michaels grabbed her gaze and spoke over the 
top of the receiver.  "She can't be our killer.  Miranda 
Lockheart was still under 24 hour guard at the hospital when 
Donna Flaners died."

"I know.  But now we know she was there with Talia Carson.  And 
she first contacted us not 48 hours after Talia's time of death.  
That tells me she may very well have witnessed the murder if not 
taken part in it.  And that she didn't want it to happen again."

"You think she was present at the previous killings?  All along?"

Scully shook her head briskly.  "No way to know, unless the 
fingerprint lab finds anything else.�

The hospital picked up again on the other end of the phone line, 
and Michaels flipped the mouthpiece into place.  "Yes.  What?  
Say that again.  Jesus, you're kidding me."  He looked up and 
caught Scully's seeking expression.  She lifted her eyebrows, but 
he was still speaking only to the voice on the other end of the 
line.  "How the hell does that--what time?...All right, yes we 
will.  Thank you."

Michaels slammed down the phone, and combed his fingers through 
his hair, turning away.  "Fuck," he breathed.

"What?  Let's get over there." Her voice was a little sharp, even 
to her own ears, but she knew there was something off, and her 
adrenaline was running, primed for the approaching showdown.

Michaels spun back to face her.  "Miranda Lockheart's not at the 
hospital anymore."

"Excuse me?"

"She disappeared sometime between 3am bed check and 7am 
breakfast.  Security has no idea how."

Scully just stared at him for a moment, thoughts whirling, 
information mingling and tangling.  Then, "Of course she is...." 
she breathed.

Michaels eyes narrowed, his brows drew close.  "You lost me."

Scully's lids slipped to half-mast and she drew a slow breath, 
her voice deepening with her spirits.  "Because he's done 
stalking his next victim.  He's ready to move in, so...he needs 
his accomplice back."

"You know, Lady, I was a lot happier before you showed up here 
just now."


*****


They had been in the car over six hours, and Michaels was barely 
keeping his eyelids raised above the steering wheel.

Scully was gazing out over the brief expanse of street they had 
memorized two hours ago.  "He's not coming back here," she said 
softly, not really directing her words toward her partner.

Michaels answered anyway, because there was nothing else to do.  
"I know that.  You know that.  But until we come up with 
something better, this is the standard tack, right?  Stakeout all 
the previous crime scenes?  So, here we sit."

"They're not even crime scenes.  We don't know any of the crime 
scenes, only the sites where the bodies were found.  None of them 
were found where they were killed."

"Again.  I know that.  You know that...."

Scully gave an exasperated sigh, and pushed up in her seat, 
cutting short his words.  "We're wasting our time, waiting for a 
woman to die."

Michaels set down his empty coffee cup and turned to face his 
partner.  "You've worked with A.D. Skinner quite a while, right?"

Scully nodded, distracted.

"So...this is his call.  24 hour watch on all the crime sce--or, 
locations the bodies were found.  You don't agree with him?"

"He's doing the best he can, going on all we've got, and falling 
back on textbook procedure.  But, the point is, we haven't got 
enough."

"We've got what the killer's given us.  Which is very little.  
I'd say we're doing pretty darn good, considering."

"We had his accomplice, and we let her go."  Scully turned to 
face him directly now, anger pulsing off of her like heat.  But 
he was only standing in the crossfire, knew he wasn't the target.  
"How is that good?"

Michaels shook his head.  "Shit happens, Dana.  We did our job, 
fate played against the system this time.  We're still in the 
game.  We've got everybody in the tri-state area looking for the 
Lockheart woman.  We're compiling the evidence, lining everything 
up by the book to make certain we've got an air tight case when 
this guy goes on trial.  We do our best from here forward, that's 
all we can ask."

Scully studied him for several beats.  He tried not to flinch 
beneath her scrutiny, but she was a tough opponent in a staring 
contest.  He'd seen the Assistant Director break eye contact 
first on more than one occasion.  At last, Scully dropped her 
gaze to her lap, watching her left thumb play over the back of 
her right hand.  "I admire your beliefs," she said slowly.  "You 
seem to have a solid hold on the world.  Good for you."

"You serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious.  Why, did you think I was mocking you?"  She 
looked up at him, utterly sincere.

Michaels couldn't suppress an incredulous laugh.  "Dana, do you 
not realize that pretty much no one in the Bureau knows what 
you're thinking at any given time?  Do I need to go over the 
'poker face' thing again and invite you once more to join the 
weekly game, or--"

"You're not 'the Bureau', Gannon, you're my partner."

That stopped him.  "Well, that's true.  And when it comes to 
work, yes, I do think I have a much better hold on where you 
might be going with things than the other agents.  But, when we 
started this, we were talking philosophy, personal 
responsibility...  That's a whole different area."

Scully was quiet for a long time.  As usual, he had very little 
sense of what was running through her mind.  She hooked her hair 
behind her ear, pushed back further into the corner of the door 
and the seat back.

Normally, he would have returned to work at this point, letting 
her speak again or not as she might choose.  But they were stuck 
in this car for at least another hour, and he had finished the 
crossword, the word jumble, and the chess challenger half an hour 
ago.  "So, how is this doctor friend of yours?" he asked.  "You 
two are still...?"

Scully looked up, seeming to have moved on entirely from their 
previous exchange.  She kept her gaze forward through the 
windshield, but there was an edge of mild, guarded amusement in 
her expression.  "We are still together, yes."

Michaels smiled.  "Now you said this was an old boyfriend going 
around again, right?"

Scully nodded slowly.  "That would be correct."

"How far back are we talkin' here?"

She drew a deliberate breath before responding.  "Med-school, 
actually."

"Oooh, quite a ways back, then.  Serious that time?"

"Yeah, I'd call it that."

"But...you split up for like, what, over a decade?  That must 
have been some blow-out?"

Scully hesitated a long beat, he could see the tension in her 
throat as she swallowed.  He was edging toward her boundary line.  
"The circumstances the first time were...less than ideal," she 
said at last.

"Ah.  Okay.  I'll take that, and know when to keep my nose in my 
own business."

Scully glanced toward him, and her expression was placating, 
meant to keep things warm between them, but not inviting further 
inquiry.

"What about you, you met Amanda in college, right?" she asked.

"I did.  But she thought I was a useless cowboy with an 
overactive John Wayne complex until several years after 
graduation."

To his surprise, Dana Scully laughed.

"Hey!"

But she kept smiling, genuinely amused.  As her mood softened, 
she said, sincerely, "She's a lovely woman.  I like her."
 
"That she is," Michaels agreed.  "I like her, too."

They fell into a comfortable silence.  And that in itself, was 
something worth noting.  The final hour of their shift didn't 
seem nearly so long.


*****


Daniel stepped into Scully's apartment hallway just as she was 
fishing through her pocket for her front door keys.  The bag of 
Chinese take-out was balanced on her arm, her briefcase handle 
hooked over her fingers, her laptop over her shoulder, and her 
mail in her free hand.

"Catch the Chinese," she said, by way of greeting, and Daniel 
grinned and grabbed the slightly greasy white bag.

"Lovely to see you, too," he said, helping her with the keys, and 
Scully smiled in return.

They made their way across the threshold and dropped their 
respective loads onto the dining room table.

"So, what is this I hear about two hours?" Daniel asked.

Scully looked up at him, cringing in apology.  "I'm sorry.  But 
we're kind of on a countdown right now, and, I'm here to eat and 
get cleaned up, and then I'm right back to the office."

Daniel lifted a strong hand to cup the side of her throat, placed 
a warm kiss on her cheek, her lips.  "When do you sleep?"

"I'll let you know when the opportunity arises."  She held his 
clear hazel eyes for a moment, drinking in the scent of his 
aftershave, feeling the familiar rush of comfort and butterflies 
that accompanied his nearness.  It was still foreign, this kind 
of intimacy, the right to such physical entanglement.  "God, 
Daniel, I'm sorry.  It's not always like this.  Sometimes we go 
for weeks with nothing but paperwork and the occasional bogus 
ghost story.  And right now, when I should have most of my 
attention focused on you..."

He rested a hand on her hip.  The gesture felt deeply good, 
supportive.  "It's okay, Dana.  You can't help the timing."

"No, I can't.  Well...I am the one who chose to call you, right 
in the middle of this case, but--"

"You called me when you wanted me.  There's no time more right 
than that."

"--but it's not okay.  I hate that so much of our time together 
lately has, by necessity, been about me.  It should be about you 
just as much right now."

"Dana, it's okay.  It has been about me.  I haven't felt 
neglected.  My life is fairly level at the moment, aside from 
throwing you into the mix.  I'm not very high needs right now.  
You've been here for me, I know that.  And there'll be plenty of 
time for the details when our lives settle down."

Scully studied him for a long minute, closed her hand over his on 
her hip bone, then nodded.  "Yeah.  Okay."  She squeezed his hand 
hard, then turned back to the dining table.

She snatched up the take-out bag and carried it to the kitchen.  
"Chopsticks or fork?"

"Fork, unless you want me to still be working on dinner at 
breakfast."

Scully shrugged and tossed him a playful glance.  "You'd be here 
when I get home, that way."

"You can bribe me with better fodder than Chinese food."

"Not on this amount of sleep."

Daniel chuckled softly and slipped out of his suit jacket, 
hanging it over the back of a dining room chair.  "Looks like 
you've got phone messages, want me to check it?"

Scully was stretching up to grab bowls from the upper cabinet 
shelf.  "Sure," she said, dropping her heels back to the kitchen 
floor.  She pulled the first cartons from the bag.

"I just hit 'Play All'?" he called from around the corner.

Scully was peeking beneath the folded carton corners, identifying 
and sorting contents.  "Yeah."  Then his words rang clear, and 
the truth hit her in the gut.  "No, wait--"  But she was cut off 
as Mulder's voice echoed through the apartment.

"Hey, Scully.  I got your message.  I'll try your cell.  You're 
probably still at the morgue, but I was hoping you hadn't gotten 
stuck there this late.  If I don't catch you, I just want to say 
thanks again for tagging along with me on this one.  I know you 
don't think this is really going to amount to anything worth our 
time, but you backed me up anyway, and I appreciate it.  
Especially, with Skinner on our backs, right now.  Okay, well, 
I'll try your cell."

The follow-up stillness was deafening.  Scully barely heard the 
brief message from her brother.  Something about Matthew's Easter 
gifts?  She was still standing at the counter, hands propped on 
the edge, gaze lowered.  She could feel Daniel watching her.

"He called you 'Scully'?" he said softly.

Scully swallowed hard, bounced her leg.  "Yeah," she said, hoping 
her tone didn't sound as cold as it felt.  But there were rules 
about that message.  Times it was allowed to be played.  It had, 
after all, been the last...

Her chest was quivering.

Daniel started to move toward her, and Scully straightened up, 
reaching again for the row of red and white cartons.  "You had 
the steamed rice, did you want chicken or beef?"

"Dana..."

She turned to face him.  "Chicken or beef?"

"Dana, I'm sorry..."

"It's fine.  Really.  Let's just eat."

"Dana, don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Shut me out."

Scully released a heavy breath through her nostrils, knowing he 
was nailing her at her game.  She set down the food carton and 
lifted her hands to her hips.  "I'm okay.  That was Mulder's last 
message.  I saved it.  I don't play it often."

Daniel nodded earnestly.  "I understand."  He reached out and 
touched her cheek.  "I'm sorry."  And this time his words brushed 
past the immediate scenario, speaking to her deeper loss.

She closed her eyes at Daniel's touch and hated how quickly her 
throat tightened at the mention of Mulder.  "I'm all right.  
Really," she said solidly.  She lifted her eyes and held Daniel's 
steady gaze.  She brushed her hand across his, glanced toward the 
food.  "How about you lay this out for us, I'm going to go get 
freshened up a bit."

Daniel nodded.  "You got it."

She offered him a small, genuine smile and stepped past him 
toward the hallway.

Scully slipped out of her suit jacket and tossed it onto her bed 
as she passed.  She began working the buttons of her blouse cuffs 
as she checked her appearance in the vanity mirror.  The bed was 
sweetly inviting, but that was a temptation she couldn't 
surrender to tonight.  Food and water were her only luxuries.  
And speaking of water.  She had meant only to splash off her face 
and change her clothes, but now the thought of a shower was 
pulling at her.  She called to the kitchen.  "Daniel?  How hungry 
are you?  Do you mind if I grab a quick shower before we eat?"

He didn't respond.  "Dan?"

Scully strolled back out of the bedroom, still worrying her last 
stubborn cuff button as she walked.  "Did you hear me?  Daniel?  
Do you mind if I get a shower before dinner?"

No reply.

She started to wonder if Daniel had gone back to the car for 
something.  She was one step from the dining room, when the 
closet door swung open and hit her like a tire iron.

A second later the black-clad arm was around her throat and the 
cold blade hard against her neck.  "You're the enemy now.  They 
did that to you.  And now you have to die."

Scully couldn't breathe.


*****


End Chapter 14b.  (Continued in Chapter 15a...)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: For some time I've had this half-finished short 
story on my hard drive about a night Mulder and Scully spent on a 
case in a Jersey station house.  I've yet to find the time to 
finish the piece for posting, but the story has, nonetheless, 
become a part of my frame of reference, and when a scene arose in 
Water's Edge that required a certain type of flashback, this 
incident from said story came quickly to mind.  The snag, of 
course, being, that I'm the only one who knows about it.:)  My 
intention was to finish this story and release it simultaneously 
with this chapter as a "companion piece".  However, I have not 
managed to finish the story yet, and I was going to just hold off 
posting this chapter of WE until--yeah, that's what I thought 
you'd say.:)  So...look for the companion story at some future 
date.<g>


Authors do Happy Dances when presented with feedback -- 
bstrbabs@gmail.com

------------


"Water's Edge"
by 
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 15a



**MUUULLLLDDDEERRRRRR!!!**



Her vision was blurring from the overpowering sense of the 
surreal and the strangle hold on her throat.  She couldn't trust 
her senses.  But her body reacted on instinct.  Training was a 
powerful thing.

"Get off of me," Scully hissed.  She lacked the breath to shout.

She couldn't get the leverage to flip the man over her shoulder.  
But he wasn't slick enough to keep his hold on her throat 
impenetrable.  The slightest shift from him, and she seized her 
opportunity.  She angled away from the knife and swung him hard 
into the hallway wall.  She heard his pained gasp, weathered only 
a surface wound to her throat; saw the blood splash onto the 
carpet.  And in the moment of slack when her assailant gasped for 
breath, she ducked out of the headlock.  Her hand sucked to her 
weapon, but before she could swing it around her body, he rushed 
her, shoulder first, like a football player.  She hit his face 
with her knee and she heard the grunt of pain, but his force 
propelled her back and across the dining room table.  She cried 
out as the landing jolted fiery pain down her spine.  Every inch 
of her skin protested the contact with his form.

"Get off of me!" she shouted, this time getting the force she 
wanted behind her words.

She still had a hold of her gun.  But he was quick to pin her 
wrists to the table, and for one wild moment of nothing between 
her chest and his but thin silk and cotton, she wondered if she 
had missed something in all the autopsies, all the forensics 
reports--or if maybe this were another criminal altogether--and a 
sexual assault was imminent.  It was one of the few indignities 
of violence she had not yet suffered and secretly feared in the 
night.

The man above her wore no ski mask, no nylon stocking to hide his 
features.  He was dressed in black, but his boyish face was clear 
above her.  Which meant he was either naively confident or had 
more lines of back-up than she was aware of.  He didn't expect 
her to get away.

He couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old.  White 
with freckles and dark hair slipping over his eyes.  Neat.  
Clean.  Carefully groomed.  The picture-perfect image of the boy 
next door; the horror movie favorite for a psychotic killer.

Scully thanked the fates she hadn't kicked off her shoes.  She 
dug her heel into the man's shin.  His grip on her wrists didn't 
slacken, despite her carefully synchronized jerk for freedom, but 
he did pull his leg and hips back from her lower body just enough 
to grant her a hard kick to his crotch.  That bought her a 
second, and she pushed up and took a shoulder high karate kick at 
his jaw.  Her foot hit its target and the man in black's head 
jerked backward as he staggered a step away.

She shoved back hard, sliding across the table and swinging her 
legs around to land on her feet, placing the table between them.  
Her gun was on him before she touched the floor.

"Freeze, FBI!"
 
The man turned slightly, hand caressing his injured neck and jaw.  
She wondered if she had broken his nose with her knee.

He actually smiled.

She felt sick.

"Don't move!"

She caught a glimpse of Daniel on the floor near the kitchen, but 
she couldn't see if he was hurt or conscious or even alive.  She 
wanted desperately to look again, really *look*, go to him, touch 
him, but she had to shut that off, because every breath and 
thought had to be focused on the killer in front of her.

"You think I'm scared of your badge?" he said calmly.  "After 
what I've seen?"

"My badge means nothing in the next ten seconds.  My gun means a 
hell of a lot if you take another step."

He smiled again.

She never had a chance to see it coming.

The knife sailed through the air at lightening speed, a sharp 
whistle cutting through the air.

Scully ducked to save her face but felt a tug at her hair.  She 
heard the dull thunk as the knife lodged in the wall behind her.  
The briefest glance toward the gleaming weapon, showed a tuft of 
red hair pinned to the plaster.

Before she could recover, the man catapulted himself like a 
cannonball, bellysliding across the slick wood of the table and 
tackling her stomach as his weight flew off the table.  They hit 
the floor together, Scully catching his bulk on her delicate 
frame.  She lost the gun. 

He wedged his forearm against her throat.  "Bitch.  Stop fighting 
me.  You've already lost the battle.  You won't leave here 
alive."

"Like hell I won't," Scully spat through clenched teeth.

"Your boyfriend's dead already."

She didn't listen.  She freed a hand and clawed at his eyes.  He 
cried out and fought back, and in the struggle they slammed into 
the legs of the table and chairs, and tangled with the jungle of 
wood, and she took a nasty hit to the side of her head; and she 
remembered hiding under the dining room table with Missy playing 
treehouse hideout at the square little house on Miramar and 
secretly writing their names in the most hidden corner of the 
underworkings of the table and how Mother never found out.

She saw the gun.  His weight was on her back.  He was pulling at 
her hair, grasping and bruising her arms, but she was moving 
forward, dragging the two of them with the sheer force of her 
forearms, kicking at his legs, fighting for the use of her knees.  
Her fingers were inches from the butt of the weapon when he 
jerked her hair back hard and lunged over her head in a crash of 
chairs against table.  A flash of pain and a blur of color and 
she was on her back again, head hitting the edge of the kitchen 
tile and the cold steel of her gun wedged against the hot skin of 
her throat.

"Aaaaahhhh!"  Pure frustration.  She panted for breath, her 
throat straining away from the weapon.  Her salvation was 
transforming into her downfall.

"Why?  Why--do you want--me dead?" she managed, trying to give 
the intimidation of eye contact, but wanting to look toward 
Daniel.  She could have sworn she saw him move.

"Don't you understand?  Don't you get it?  You, out of all of 
them...  *They're coming!*.  And they put that *thing* inside 
you, under you skin.  So they can control you.  So they can use 
you and make you a fucking slave for their Nazi take-over.  Don't 
you get it?  They already own you!  You're one of them!"

"I don't belong to anybody."  *'Is any of this coming back to 
you?'  'I was there?'*

He jammed the gun harder into her throat and a pained sound 
escaped her lips.

"Don't talk to me.  I don't speak to the enemy."

*****

Daniel was slipping in and out of consciousness.  The world was 
horribly black, and he had never had to fight so hard to catch a 
glimpse of light.  But he registered random images of the unreal 
sequence playing out around him.  He didn't believe what he was 
seeing.  Dana slammed across a table; Dana, high-kicking the 
assailant who had taken him down in less than a minute; Dana 
pointing a gun; blood on the pale carpet; Dana pinned to the 
floor--*'don't pin me face down'*; Dana with a gun to her throat; 
Dana with her wrists and ankles bound in the same duct tape that 
held his own, Dana being dragged across the floor and hoisted 
back onto the dining room table.  Every fiber of his being wanted 
to move.  He ordered his muscles to obey, mustered every ounce of 
strength he had.  But all he could manage was to hold back the 
darkness.  He couldn't move.

*****

"I am not the enemy," Scully managed weakly.  But he had stopped 
responding, she had lost the window of communication, and his 
silence ate away at her wall of rage, letting crystalline drops 
of helplessness seep in.

The man in black was hard at work now, intent upon his task, mind 
deliberate upon every step of the process.  He had taken great 
care in positioning her on the table, carefully securing the rope 
to each of the table legs, then ever so attentively managing the 
shift as he fastened the rope to each wrist, tightening the slack 
in the exact second he released the tape.  Her ankles had 
followed.  The rough rope cut into her skin like tiny blades.  
Not all the bodies had had rope burns.  He must have worked with 
his surroundings, adapted to his environment.

He retrieved the knife from the wall, running a hand over the 
plaster as though assessing the damage.  The image was eerily 
domestic.  But he was wearing gloves.  Not confident enough to 
leave prints.  That, they had already known.

She focused on her breathing.  Deep and even.  If she gave in to 
rapid breath, she would soon get light-headed, trapped on her 
back.  And she had to keep thinking clearly.  You were never dead 
until you were dead.  There was never a point of surrender.

Michaels didn't expect her for another two hours.

The man crossed back into the kitchen, brazenly stepping over 
Daniel's prone form, and rinsed off the knife at the kitchen 
sink.  He dried it carefully with a paper towel, then stopped to 
drop the paper towel in the garbage.  A day's work to him.  
Nothing to rush, nothing to fear.  Nothing to shake him outside 
of daily norms and customs.

Scully pushed down a rush of nausea.  *I'm coming to get you, 
girly-girl.*

When the man returned to the table, she tensed hard, hurting 
herself as she pulled taut on the restrictive ropes.  The man 
never made eye contact with her.  His focus was locked onto her 
forearm.

He had left her gun on the end table beside the kitchen doorway.  
Carefully placed beneath the pump lamp.  It was all she could 
think about; but she refused to look.

Her right arm had been fastened to the center leg of the table, 
leaving her arm down at her side, wrist ten or twelve inches from 
her hip.  Her left arm stretched out above her head.  He had no 
use for her left arm.

The man finished unbuttoning the last stubborn button on her 
sleeve cuff, and pushed the material above her elbow.  She 
actually entertained a split-second of gratitude that the sleeve 
was loose enough to rise.   If it hadn't, he would have stripped 
off her blouse.

He brought a chair up beside the table, positioned it at a 
precise angle.  His nose had begun to bruise from the impact of 
her knee.  But he seemed unaware of the pain.  A slight puffiness 
to his jaw and a narrow abrasion of flesh marked the place her 
shoe had contacted his jaw.  Her chest was quivering with every 
breath.  She was straining in the unnatural quiet for the sound 
of activity in the hallway, for voices outside the living room 
window.  For the least sound of breath or movement from Daniel.  
She had been rewarded with a shallow sigh moments ago.  At that 
second, at least, he had been alive.

As the tip of the knife touched the pale skin of her forearm, the 
man lifted his head and sought her eyes.  "If there is any part 
of you that is still human, I'm sorry for what you must suffer.  
But they feel what you feel now.  They see what you see, and they 
know what you know.  Your memories and experiences are no longer 
your own.  And so...they must feel your punishment."

"I...am not...one of them," Scully said firmly, eyes heavy, voice 
like ice.  She knew she should be maintaining human warmth with 
her attacker, trying to appeal to his understanding, his 
sympathy.  Work within his logic.  But anger had taken hold and 
was keeping her heart beating and her head clear.  She couldn't 
sustain the duality.

The man returned his attention to her arm, and made the first 
cut.

*****

The screams brought him back to consciousness, like a primitive 
mourning cry dragging him up from the netherworlds.  Reality took 
a moment to form around the sound.  But he registered the gut 
truth before he opened his eyes.  Dana.  Dana was screaming.  
Screaming in desperate pain.  He squinted through the darkness.  
Things were clearing more quickly this time, the scope of his 
vision had widened near to normal.  The room was properly bright 
and expansive.  But the visions before him remained unbelievable.

The intruder had his back turned to Daniel.  He caught only 
glimpses of Dana, strapped to the table a few yards away.

There was more blood on the floor.

Daniel was afraid to move.  He needed to think, absorb every 
aspect of the situation before he gave up his advantage.  His 
wrists and ankles were bound, ankles roped to something heavy he 
couldn't see.  But his wrists weren't tied to anything else.  
Which meant the intruder took him to be in worse shape than he 
was.  He had to take advantage of that.  From the sound of Dana's 
cries, it was all they had.

*****

The pain blurred red across her vision. She was losing focus.  It 
was increasingly difficult to thread together the facts and 
formulate a plan.  She had caught one good look at the letters 
slowly forming on her arm, then ceased to watch.  Struggling only 
jostled the knife and tore at her flesh.  But her suffering was 
starting to work to her advantage.  The truth of that was sinking 
into her thoughts.

The more she appeared to surrender to the pain, to lose her fight 
in the agony; the more the man in black relaxed his approach.  He 
expected her to give up.  Expected her to give in.  And he was 
struggling, squirming, endeavoring to gain the proper angle for 
his work.  The further he moved up her arm, the more challenging 
the angle became.

She saw him glance at the rope.  He was considering letting it 
go.

*****

Daniel had pushed up onto his elbow just enough that he could see 
across the top of the table.  It had taken a full two minutes to 
reach this height, moving a hair's breadth at a time to avoid 
notice or sound.  It took fifteen long breaths before Dana turned 
her head and lowered her gaze to catch sight of him.  She didn't 
flinch, didn't speak, but he saw the brief flash of recognition 
in her gaze.  She turned away again, continuing to play the game.

He continued to wait in silence, watching Dana watch her 
assailant, fighting back the gut instinct to lash out, feeling 
her wrenching pain in his gut with every breath and cry.

But he had to know her plan before he could help her.  He didn't 
have much to give.  But Dana hadn't given up.  If he knew 
anything about her, he knew that.  And if he could see it, see 
the pattern of her thoughts, maybe he could help. Maybe.

He watched and waited.

Dana screamed again.

*****

All she needed was a distraction.  *And one deep breath*.  
Anything to get him off guard at the right moment.  But she 
needed Daniel to wait.  She prayed he had been watching long 
enough to realize what was coming.  Their window of opportunity 
was about to slip open.

*Let him see it, let him see it, let him see it, please GOD let 
him see it.  I haven't asked for much in a while.  You know that.  
You know why.  Please God...let him see it.*

"aaaaaAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"

The man couldn't get the angle right.

*****

The beat of her heart seemed to slow to the beats of time in her 
head.

She pretended she was taking the moment of quiet to breathe 
through the lull in the pain.  She watched in complacent silence 
as he slipped the knot over the base of her thumb, drew the loop 
of rope down the length of her hand.

Daniel threw the china figurine at the back of the man's head.  
It hit his neck, but the shot served its purpose when the man 
whirled around to face his attacker.

Scully wrenched the knife out of his slackened grip, and sliced 
at his throat before she had completed a breath.  She couldn't 
get a solid cut to a carotid from her limited angle, but she 
broke the skin enough to send him reeling away from her, and in 
seconds she had slashed the knife through the remaining three 
ropes and freed herself.

She felt dizzy when she stood up, and her sleeve fell down over 
her arm, clinging to the thick coating of blood.  But she kept 
her ground, knife raised and knees bent ready for flight.  The 
feel of the knife moving through flesh swept goosebumps the 
length of her body.  The victim never left the scene pure.

When the man turned his gaze to hers, there was a new-found 
animal fury in him.  She guessed she was the first to stop him at 
this late stage of the game.  Or to hurt him so fiercely.  His 
carefully marked plan was slipping through his fingers like the 
blood spilling over from the wound at his throat.

In a battle of brute strength, Scully would go down again, with 
her weakened arm and her strength sapped by the loss of blood.  
Her wits and training were all she had to get them through.

And she could see the way.

She had one chance to make it happen.  The set of his eyes was 
hard and dark.  She saw the plan forming, saw him coming.  She 
gave him the first two steps, waiting until his momentum was 
irreversible.  She held the knife out in front of her, carrying 
out the pretense that she meant to meet him head on.  The moment 
his foot hit the chair seat, propelling him toward the table, she 
made her dive.

Under the table and between the chairs.  Her forearms sheltered 
her breasts from the impact as she hit the hard wood floor and 
slid the last few inches out from under the table.  She sent the 
knife spinning across the floor toward Daniel to secure his 
freedom.  A foot underneath her, a lunge forward and her hand was 
on the gun.  She didn't look back, didn't know how close he was 
behind her, but she whirled even as she was rising to her feet.

He was around the table, charging toward her like a wild 
elephant.  Logic and deliberation had abandoned him and left 
nothing but action.  "I won't let them take over!  You will not 
be their slave in blue!" he screamed, and he was no more than 
three feet away when she pulled the trigger.

Her ears dimmed as the shot rang endlessly in the confined 
quarters.  Her bullet hit its target.  It always did.

He dropped to the living room carpet.  More yellow tape in her 
apartment.  More blood in the fibers, more forensics teams 
combing through her life.

The echo of deafening sound slowed down the world.  Scully took 
in every detail as the man in black's body sank to the carpet; 
the bounce and fall of his dark Irish hair; the twitch of his 
hand against the pale carpet; the momentary clawing at the deep 
pile; the hitched breath moving through his wide shoulders.

She drew four full breaths before she dared to shift her eyes.

She didn't think of lowering the gun.

He lay face downward.

"Don't move," she said.  Breathless, but firm.  The warning might 
have been unnecessary.  She wasn't certain how much damage the 
bullet had inflicted.  She refused to err on the side of risk.

She wasn't lowering the gun.

She looked to Daniel.  He remained on the floor, pale complected 
and trembling, but his feet were free now, and he was up on his 
elbow, working the knife against the tape on his wrists.
 
Her breath came so hard her lungs hurt.  "How bad?" she asked, 
cutting in and out of eye contact with Daniel to the prone figure 
before her.

Daniel nodded cautiously.  "Head injury.  Concussion, probably.  
I'll be all right."

Scully swallowed hard.  "The phone lines will be out.  It's his 
pattern.  My cell phone is on the kitchen counter.  Just above 
you.  Can you get it?"

Daniel shifted his body gingerly.  She saw him check his balance 
and maybe a wave of nausea.  But he moved on with only the 
slightest hesitation.  His fingers closed over the small piece of 
metal and plastic.  He sank back to the floor and tossed the 
phone to her feet.

She stooped to retrieve it, never lowering her weapon, and rose 
with phone in hand.

"You're still bleeding," Daniel said, his voice breathless from 
the small exertion.  "How bad, Darling?"

"I'm fine," Scully said evenly.  Her fingers shook as she pressed 
in the emergency numbers.  She didn't miss a key.  "I'll be 
fine."

*W-A-T-C--*

*****

Feedback and the Happy Dance.  One thing inevitably triggers the 
other.
bstrbabs@gmail.com

-----------


"Water's Edge"
by 
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 15b



Once upon a time, the blue-white of hospital hallways had 
represented a kind of second home to Dana Scully.  Med-school.  
Her goals.  Her future.  Her friends.  Her place.  Then somewhere 
along the way, everything had changed.  Mulder with a gunshot 
wound, chemo-therapy and throwing up in hospital pans, MRIs and 
Melissa wrapped in bandages, Mulder gasping for breath through a 
swarm of black bugs, Emily screaming for the tests to stop.  
*Emily*.  And now the dark and light impressions all mixed 
together each time she set foot in a hospital.  Once upon a time, 
a hospital was the only place Dana Scully had felt in control of 
the chaos of the world.  The only place she could cling to logic 
and rules and scientific procedures and know how to proceed in a 
crisis.  Too many years of medical horrors outside the rules had 
stolen that away.

Scully was sitting in a hard molded-plastic chair in the hallway 
outside the fifth floor medical rooms.  She knew this hospital 
well.  This was not such a bad floor to be on.  Others were much 
darker.

The nurses were settling Daniel into his room for the night.  She 
would be allowed to see him in a few minutes.  He had been 
released from the ER and checked in on the medical floor.  He had 
been right about the concussion, but so far there seemed to be no 
other serious damage, and the concussion symptoms were minimal.  
He needed to stay overnight.  Scully had been patched together at 
the scene, then stitched and monitored in the ER.  Her arm was 
heavily bandaged, her throat lightly patched.  Her head knock 
hadn't caused anything but a piercing headache.  The cuts on her 
arm would most likely scar.  They had released her with a small 
pile of painkiller prescriptions.

Scully sat quietly in the slightly dimmed night-time hallway, 
staring down at the toes of her black pumps and trying to think 
clearly.  She was beyond exhausted.  A little weak from hunger.  
But she couldn't focus on any of that until she had Daniel 
settled.  Until she knew he was okay.  Until she got the report 
from surgery on whether the man she had shot in the chest would 
live or die.

She had been waiting on that last fact for several hours.

Scully was still looking down when a pair of broken-in cowboy 
boots entered her frame of vision.

"I'm guessin' this wasn't what you had planned for this evening," 
Michaels said.

Scully tilted her head back and gazed up at her partner.  Her 
neck had stiffened as she sat.  Just walking around would hurt by 
tomorrow.  She was getting old.  She couldn't bounce back from 
this kind of abuse the way she used to.  Or maybe the effects 
were somehow cumulative.

"Well, I didn't want to come back to work this evening, so, I 
thought I'd just catch the killer on my own over my dinner 
break."

Michaels smiled, his expression gentle, eyes harboring a shade of 
sadness.  "Well, looks like you did a damn fine job."

"Are they finished at the scene?"

Michaels nodded, lowering himself to the seat beside hers.  "All 
done.  I managed to keep the damage to a minimum, I think.  For a 
bunch of people who are supposed to be aware of every paint chip 
and fiber, the forensic techs sure are a clumsy bunch of oafs."

Scully breathed out deliberately through her nose, the closest 
thing she could offer to a laugh.  "Thank you, Gannon."

To her surprise, he scoffed at that.  "For letting my partner get 
her arm carved up while I was downing a large pepperoni?  Not 
much to thank me for tonight."

Scully turned and stared him down hard.  "Gannon, we had no way 
of knowing this would happen.  None."

"Come on, Dana.  Sure we did.  This guy's been following you for 
weeks, hasn't he?  We knew that.  Why the hell didn't we see it?  
Why weren't we protecting you?"

"I don't fit the physical profile."

"The physical profile was a flimsy guess, most likely irrelevant 
to the case.  You've said as much yourself.  That's not a 
reason."

Scully looked at the floor again.  "This isn't your fault, 
Gannon.  For one thing, I didn't even keep you up to date on what 
was going on.  I just...I guess it just didn't seem possible that 
the killer would be so brazen, so obviously appearing where we 
could have gotten a look at his face.  That was one thing with 
the victims, but with the agent investigating his own case..."

"Well, it doesn't sound like this guy has much fear of 
traditional authorities."

Scully lifted her gaze again, narrowing her eyes.  "What makes 
you say that?"

"Miranda Lockheart.  The cops picked her up in a car about a 
block from your apartment.  Apparently, she was the getaway car."

"You're kidding me."

"I would not.  And she seems more than willing to talk this time.  
Sounds like this guy has some sort of God complex.  Thinks he's 
meant to single-handedly bring an end to colonization.  That he's 
God's Gift to protect the human race."

"Yeah," Scully said softly, distancing herself a bit as she was 
caught off guard by a flash of memory and a wave of bone-deep 
fear.  She cleared her throat.  "Why?  How did he...how did he 
get to this place?"

Michaels watched her intently for a moment, and Scully cocked her 
head, lifting her eyebrows in enquiry.  "Gannon?"

"His girlfriend died," Gannon said slowly.  But there was more.  
There had to be.

"Died how?"

"Fire.  On a bridge."

"What?"  But the longer Michaels stared at her, the more it came 
together in her mind.  "No.  Ruskin Dam?  The abductees?  The 
burned bodies..."

Michaels was nodding.  "Seems one of the casualties was his 
girlfriend.  I don't know much more than that yet.  I haven't 
been down to talk with her myself.  I'm headed over there when I 
leave here."

Scully leaned her forearms on her knees and dropped her head 
again.  This was too much information for tonight.  She wanted to 
know everything at once, *needed* to know, and yet she wanted to 
be quiet and numb.  Jesus, she was tired.

"And speaking of the man of the hour...what's his prognosis?"

Scully pulled up straighter and cleared her throat, grateful for 
the opportunity to slip into professional mode.  "Touch and go.  
He's still in surgery.  Has been for the past hour.  They don't 
know yet, but the surgeon has my cell phone number.  She's 
supposed to call me as soon as he's out of surgery."

"You're gonna be cleared in a heartbeat either way, you know 
that.  It was a good shoot."

Scully nodded.  "I know.  But thank you."

"They released you?  You're all right?  For real?"  He reached 
out and rubbed a gentle circle on her back as he spoke.

And the touch felt good, and in the same moment she wanted to 
push him away.  Hard.  "Yeah.  I'm fine."

"How's your guy?  He looked pretty beat up when he left."

She drew a deep breath.  "He took a nasty blow to the head.  He 
has a concussion.  He'll have to stay the night here.  I'm 
waiting to go in to see him now.  But he should be all right.  He 
has...a pre-existing heart condition, he's on Coumadin.  That's a 
blood thinner, so there's an increased chance for internal 
bleeding.  They'll have to monitor him closely for a while."

"Jesus, Dana, I'm sorry about all this."

"It's all right," she whispered.  But his hand was still on her 
back and her chest was starting to ache.  The floor beneath her 
swam through a haze of warm tears.

"You do know you're entitled to be a little freaked out about all 
this, right?  I mean, what you went through this evening would 
put most people into counseling for years.  I know you're a tough 
lady, Dana, but just because you've been a crime victim before, 
doesn't mean you don't get to feel it this time."

Scully just closed her eyes.  Her breath was shaking and she felt 
the first tear slip down her cheek.  She didn't want that now.  
She glanced up, flashed her eyes wide to dry her tears.  Michaels 
kept his hand on her back as she breathed.

"You got somewhere to go tonight?" he asked gently, genuinely 
concerned and giving her something practical to focus on at the 
same time.

"Yeah, I, uh..." she swallowed, moistened the corner of her 
mouth.  "I'm going back to Daniel's apartment.  He has...a dog.  
I need to take care of her."

Michaels nodded with a gentle smile.  "Good.  That's good.  You 
won't be alone, then."

"Ms. Scully?"  Scully looked up into the face of a young nurse.  
The woman was no more than 25, Asian, with a kind smile.  Her 
long hair was tied back in a low pony-tail.

"Yes?"

"You can go on in to see Dr. Waterston now.  He was asking about 
you.  Technically, it's long after visiting hours, but you can 
have a few minutes before you go.  Just try to keep it as quiet 
as possible, if you would."

"Of course.  Thank you."

"You can come back any time after seven tomorrow morning."

Scully pushed to her feet.  "Thank you.  And what was your name?"

"Nancy," the young woman said with a smile.

"Thank you, Nancy.  I appreciate your help."

Nancy nodded, and returned to the nurse's station.

Scully turned to Michaels who had risen to his feet behind her.  
"Do you need to leave now?" she asked.

He shook his head.  "What do you need?"

"Uh...a ride, actually.  I rode over in the ambulance with 
Daniel, and...I'll just be a few minutes, if you wouldn't mind 
waiting.  Once I'm there, I have the keys to Daniel's car, so..."

"Of course, Dana.  No problem.  Take your time, I'll be right 
here."

She nodded.  "Thank you."

"Is your apartment on our way?  We'll swing by, pick up your 
overnight things."

"No, thanks, I'm fine.  I just need a ride there."

The ghost of a teasing smile played across Michaels' lips.  
Scully was utterly lost, hardly able to track the surface 
conversation let alone the subtext.  "What?" she asked softly.  
She pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear, realized she 
hadn't looked in a mirror in hours.

Michaels shook his head.  "Nothing.  Go on.  Go see your guy," he 
said.  But the trace of a smile remained.

She hesitated a moment, then took a step away, and behind her 
back Michaels sing-songed softly.  "You have overnight things at 
your boyfriend's house..."

Scully stopped.  She drew a deep breath, turned and looked over 
her shoulder at Michaels.  And it was plain as day behind the 
amusement in his eyes, that he would have done anything to make 
all this vanish for her.  And the one thing he had to offer was 
humor, normalcy.  The inkling that everything was going to be all 
right again.  She had known someone else once upon a time who had 
been good at that kind of thing.  Scully started to say something 
clever in return.  She started to say "thank you"--for the humor, 
for the support from the moment he had appeared at her apartment 
door while the paramedics were bandaging her arm.  But none of 
that made it past her lips.  Instead, she took the three steps 
back to her partner and pushed onto her toes for a tight embrace.  
Michaels hugged back hard.  For a long moment, they didn't speak.  
Then Michaels whispered, "We got him, Dana.  Because of you, 
nobody else is going to die."  Scully didn't reply; she just held 
on.  She felt the tears on her lashes soak into the cloth of 
Michaels' jacket.  Then she released her hold and walked away 
without a glance.


*****


Daniel's room was riddled with shadows.  A single lamp above his 
headboard offered the only light, save for the thin glow through 
the exposed window.  The room was designed for two patients, but 
the first bed was empty tonight, affording them some welcome 
privacy.

When Scully stepped into the room, Daniel was propped up near to 
sitting, gazing out the window, unaware of her arrival.  When she 
reached the circle of light, he turned and smiled.

"Ah, Hurricane Scully has arrived."

A slow smile spread across her lips.  "I was summoned," she 
quoted.  The warmth of the shared memory flickered between them.  
Scully circled the bed to where the bed rail was lowered and sank 
down on the edge of the too-firm mattress.  She hated hospital 
mattresses.  The polar opposite of the cushioned sanctuary she 
kept as her own retreat.

Her hand fell easily into Daniel's.  The heat of his skin was 
reassuring.  "How are you feeling?" she asked.

Daniel shook his head.  "I'm fine.  I don't even need to be here.  
They're being over-protective."

"You have a concussion."

"A *mild* concussion.  I'm fine."

"It's one night.  Better to be safe.  If you're fine, they'll 
send you home first thing in the morning."

"Dana, you're the one I'm worried about.  You look exhausted.  
Are they keeping you here tonight?"

She shook her head.  "No, no, I'm fine, I've been released.  Cuts 
and bruises.  Nothing serious."

"Well, where are you going from here?  You're not going in to 
work tonight, are you?  Do you have to--"

"No, the reports will wait until morning.  I've already given my 
statement.  They took yours in the ER, didn't they?"

Daniel nodded.

"They picked up our assailant's accomplice, and I need to speak 
with her, but it will wait until morning.  My partner's here.  
He's out in the hall.  He'll drive me to your place, and then 
take care of the work that needs to be done tonight.  I'll take 
care of Tasha."

Daniel lifted his eyebrows and the relief was visible in his 
countenance.  "Thank you.  I didn't want to ask you..."

"You didn't want to ask me?"  Scully held his gaze for several 
seconds.  "It's *me*."

Daniel nodded.  "Yes.  But you were just attacked by a serial 
murderer and barely escaped with your life.  I don't...I don't 
know what the protocol is.  I treat the body, Dana, not the mind.  
Not the soul."

"This isn't my first time in this kind of situation," Scully said 
softly.  "I've been a victim before."  She paused a moment, let 
her gaze sink to his chest.  "I've killed before.  I know the 
stages my mind needs to go through.  I'll be okay."

Daniel tightened his grip on her hand.  "Then teach me.  So, I 
can go through it with you."

Scully closed her eyes.  She wasn't ready for that yet.  Change 
of subject.

"Do you want me to call anyone?  Your family, Maggie?"

But Daniel shook his head.  "You'll only worry them.  And 
besides...I have all the family I need right here."

Scully let her gaze move over every detail of Daniel's figure, 
her Doctor's mind in full sway.  The color of his skin, the pale 
shading beneath his eyes, the pattern of his hairline, the 
bandages where they had drawn blood, the tape for the requisite 
IV needle in the back of his hand.

And suddenly the image of Daniel, here in a hospital bed, sitting 
up talking with her, washed over her with an eerie vertigo.

She couldn't deal with the parallels, the endless "what-if" 
scenarios that flashed in Technicolor through her mind.  She 
couldn't...after all that had happened this year, she couldn't...

Daniel saw the tension fluttering through her; the tears she kept 
denying pressed at the edges of their confinement again.

Daniel reached up and touched a hand to her cheek.  The 
tenderness hurt.  She was raw, open.

"I thought you were dead on the floor," Scully whispered, her 
words soft with the breath of tears.  And she hated that she was 
asking comfort of the man who lay in the hospital bed, when she 
was the one still on her feet, but she was just so tired...

"I'm fine," Daniel said, his voice deep and soothing.  "I'm just 
fine.  I'll be home tomorrow.  Thanks to you, Wonder Girl."

But she didn't acknowledge the teasing, or the genuine wonder 
behind it.  Couldn't, right now.

Daniel was quick to fall in synch.  His tone dropped to deep 
intimacy.  "Damn, I wish you didn't have to sleep alone tonight."

Scully closed her eyes and slowly shook her head.  "I'm fine.  I 
just..."  She lifted her gaze, sniffed sharply, felt the dam 
slipping as she lost hold on her tears.  "Just...don't die on me 
any time soon."  She barely got the last words out and the ache 
in her chest was like a physical blow.  Daniel reached for her 
and Scully sank to rest her head against his chest.  His hands 
smoothed her hair, kneaded her back, caressing, soothing, 
sheltering.  She listened to the solid beat of his heart; let it 
regulate her own breath.

"I'm not going anywhere.  I promise, Baby.  I'm here.  But you 
have to promise the same, all right?"  She could hear the tears 
in Daniel's voice, felt the emotion resonating through his chest.  
"You scared the hell out of me tonight, Dana Scully."

Scully closed her eyes, and for that one precious moment, she let 
go.


*****


End Chapter 15b.  (Continued in 15c...Yeah, there's a "c"....:))
Feedback - the food of inspiration - bstrbabs@gmail.com

-------------



"Water's Edge"
by 
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 15c


Scully felt the ripple when they snapped at one another in the 
dawn hours of Wednesday morning.  The snippy remarks in 
themselves meant nothing.  The natural course of two people with 
tempers, too tired, and under too much pressure, to adequately 
feel their way through the tentative stages of a fledgling 
relationship.

*"I asked you to wake me up by 6:30.  I have to meet my partner 
by 9:00" "I thought you needed the rest.  You were awake so late 
last night, I didn't think you'd mind." "Well, surprise." -- "You 
left your keys in your coat pocket." "I did not, I gave them to 
you at the door." "The hell you did, I never had your keys." -- 
"It's the black one, the button on the far left.  God, do I have 
to tell you that every time?"*

But the snapping turned colder, generalities escalating into 
personal jabs.  She knew she was probably the first to push the 
sharp edges.

*"You're going into *work* today?" "Just to see a few patients." 
"Thirty-six hours, Daniel.  It's been thirty-six hours since you 
sustained a concussion, and the doctor told you one full week of 
minimal activity." "He was covering his ass.  You're a doctor, 
you know that.  Mild concussion, two days, subsiding of the 
symptoms..." "Fine.  Put yourself back in the hospital.  I have a 
meeting to go to." "Dana, I may not be as young as I used to be--
" "You're not young at all."*

And the personal jabs didn't take long to cut into the flesh.

"Excuse me if I'm concerned for your health, if I want you to 
behave like a responsible adult.  But, maybe that's too much to 
ask.  I'm sure your ex-wife found it so."

Scully regretted the words the moment they passed her lips.  But 
there was no taking them back.  And it felt too good to lash out 
at someone.  Anyone.  The adrenaline dulled the ache.

Daniel pulled up straighter, effectively distancing himself from 
her.  He slipped his hands into his pockets.  Scully picked up 
her cell phone and tucked it inside her suit coat.  She propped 
her briefcase near the door.  

"She very well may have," Daniel said slowly, weighing each word, 
keeping tight rein on his composure.  "But, frankly, I had always 
believed *you* thought better of me."

They had played these head games on one another once too often 
for her to slip on such an easy trap.  "Don't fuck with me.  
Don't make this about me.  This is about you.  And about you 
respecting the people you care about and not doing whatever you 
damn well please without giving a thought to how it affects their 
lives."

Daniel's eyes narrowed, his gaze penetrating her armored shell.  
There was a long beat before he spoke.  "Like cheating on my 
wife?"

Scully flinched.  Her stomach hurt.  But she wasn't playing.  She 
wouldn't surrender control.  "Like chain-smoking when your family 
has a history of high blood pressure.  Like altering your 
doctor's orders to suit your preferences while you bitch about 
how doctor's do that to you.  It's arrogant and self-centered and 
it's a pervasive philosophy with you.  We argued about it eleven 
years ago, and one year ago, and now."

Daniel hardened his jaw, signaling the depth of the nerve she had 
struck.  The familiar expression trigged a gut response of 
reciprocating anger in her. 

"Well, excuse me, Agent Scully," Daniel began slowly.  "I might 
respond more favorably to your tirade on responsibility and 
personal safety and how my life choices might affect my family, 
but I'm not the one who lead a serial killer into our living 
room."

Scully froze, blazing.

They locked gazes for a long moment, three feet of cold space 
sparkling between them.  Scully spoke.

"Fuck you.  And you know what?  It wasn't our living room.  It 
was mine."

She was out the door in a breath, slamming the hollow wood behind 
her.

*****

Daniel punched the wall so hard the plaster should have cracked, 
yet somehow it held.

And the single blaze of anger sapped him of all urge for battle.  
His breathing slowed.  He leaned his outstretched hands against 
the wall, head lowered, and let his pulse steadily quiet.

He needed to go after her.  But chances were, she was out of 
reach, by choice if not by distance.  He would have to wait.  
Ride through the tedium of his day with a knot in his stomach, 
waiting for the evening when he could see her, try to make things 
right between them.

Daniel pushed off the wall and stepped into the hallway.  At the 
far end, he pressed the button for the elevator, but instead of 
waiting, he moved to the picture window overlooking the street.

Dana's car was parked against the far curb, and she was just 
climbing inside.

He watched her slam the door and settle behind the wheel.  He 
expected her to pull the car away before the elevator even 
arrived at his floor.  But, Dana didn't move.  She sat, heels of 
her hands on the steering wheel, eyes closed.  He could see her 
chest rise and fall with her deep breaths even from this 
distance.  The last of his anger poured from his muscles as he 
watched her composure crumble and her hand raise to her face as 
she started to cry.

He stood for countless minutes at the hallway window, hearing the 
elevator come and go, forehead pressed against the glass as he 
watched her cry.  "Stubborn bitch," he whispered, but the thought 
came with nothing but love and pains of sympathy.  So close and a 
million miles of space between them.  Her pain tore at his 
stomach.  She'd been through hell in the last 48 hours, and he 
wanted nothing more than to hold her and keep her safe.  But he 
had no idea how to get to that place.  With Dana, it was never 
easy.  There were a million things they needed to say.  He was 
still reeling from all he had seen two nights ago.  The 
implications were settling and connecting in his mind.

But in the end, all that mattered was that Dana had been tortured 
and scared and hurt.  And she hadn't let him comfort her.  Not 
for that.  And until she did, the glass would remain between 
them.

*****

The cold, crisp air in the car soothed her heated cheeks.  She 
was shaking so deeply it hurt her chest to breathe.  Thirty-six 
hours of distance between her and the man with the knife and the 
smell of rotten apples in his hair and she could still feel him 
on her skin.

She felt sick.  She had managed to keep all of her small servings 
of food down in the hours since the attack.  This was a first for 
her in an experience like this.  She had always hated that 
weakness in her character, such overt loss of control of her own 
body in the face of such bone-icing fear.  Yet now she almost 
wanted to give in.  She didn't want to think she was becoming so 
jaded, that she could live through an act of violence like this, 
and emerge with little more than a flinch.

But the way she was hurting in this moment was taking away any 
concern for lack of feeling on her part.

Daniel had been released from the hospital the previous morning.  
Scully had picked him up and driven him home before she left to 
meet Michaels for yet another interrogation of Miranda Lockheart, 
this time with her court appointed attorney present.

The killer had been identified as James Maley.  He had lived 
through the surgery, but remained in a coma.  They couldn't 
guarantee he would ever wake up.  If he did, he would be in no 
condition to hurt anyone else.

In other words, she had dealt with all the crises at hand.  The 
people who needed her were all functioning on their own again.  
And she could take a moment to feel.  To inventory her own 
injuries, inside and out, and let the weight of what she had 
suffered seep into her skin.  And she didn't want to and she was 
fighting it tooth and nail.  It was a necessary step in the 
healing process, the acknowledgement of what had been hurt.  She 
knew that from countless trials and experiences.  But she 
couldn't bring herself to let it happen this time.

Daniel held all of this knowledge in his eyes.  So, when he 
looked at her there was no escape.

Except to hurt him badly enough he would back away.

*Dammit*.  She closed her eyes and a soft sound of injury slipped 
from her lips as a fresh tear descended.

*****

He watched as her crying quieted.  She pulled her make-up bag 
from her glove compartment and flipped down the visor mirror.  
She fixed every tiny imperfection in her make-up that might 
betray the pain beneath the polish.  He knew it was for the 
professional world, knew it was a necessary step in being the 
Dana Scully she was, but it hurt him to watch her painting over 
the Dana within.

He was both hopeful and wounded when she opened the car door and 
walked back toward the apartment.

*****

He opened the door almost before she knocked.

She stood on the threshold, hands in her trench coat pockets, 
gaze on the floor.  She gave a rueful twitch of a smile, eyes 
never rising above his knees.  "I'm sorry.  That was..."  She 
tried for words for a moment, then closed her eyes and sighed 
heavily.

Daniel's hand touched her elbow.  "Come inside," he said simply.

She moved into the apartment, and Daniel pushed the door closed 
behind her.  She sat back on the arm of the easy chair, and Tasha 
drifted by and nosed at Scully's hand, picking up the tensions, 
concerned for her friend.  Dana gave her warm head a reassuring 
stroke and Tasha settled at her feet.

She folded her arms across her chest, cleared her throat.  "I was 
angry at you, but...not *that* angry."  She tilted her head away 
for a moment, weathering the memory.

Daniel nodded, standing in front of her, a cautious distance 
away, letting her speak or not as she wished.

"I, uh...," her throat tightened again, and she pushed back hard 
at her tears.  Her vision blurred just a shade.  "I'm used to 
being alone for this part."

"What part?"  His voice was soft and throaty.  The anger had 
dissipated and the tenderness hovered beneath the surface.

"The part where it catches up with me," she whispered.

After a long beat, Daniel lowered himself to kneel on the floor 
at her feet.  "You're not alone anymore.  You don't have to be, 
if you don't want to."

Scully regulated her breath cautiously, tears burning in her 
eyes, but not letting herself cry.  She kept her expression 
tightly controlled, her breath quivered.  "I'm not sure I know 
how to do that."  A mutinous tear trailed down her cheek, and met 
Daniel's fingers as he reached up to touch her face.

"You know how," he said, moving into her space.  "You know how."

The ache within her was breaking free and it was harder and 
harder not to cry.  "You didn't deserve that, I'm sorry."

Daniel shook his head.  He drew a finger down her nose and mouth.  
"Sssshhhhh..."

They were silent.

"You feel him in the shadows when you're alone in the apartment 
now," Daniel stated evenly.

Scully cringed.

"Let me go back to your apartment with you tonight."

She shook her head.  "I have to do it alone."

Daniel remained silent, hand resting on her knee.

Scully went on.  "But, I would like it, if you would come by 
later?  Sleep there?"

Daniel lifted her hand to his cheek, kissed her wrist.  "I'm 
there."

And finally, she met his gaze.  "I know.  You are."  Then, "Are 
you okay?  I mean, you've never...dealt with anything like this 
before.  I know we talked last night, but--"

"I'm okay.  Justly shaken.  But I'm processing.  The hard 
part...is you."

That caught her attention.  Her brow drew in, shoulders tensed.  
"What do you mean?"

Daniel pulled in a slow breath, studying her face with his 
probing gaze.  "You slashed a man's throat.  Shot him.  Didn't 
hesitate.  That was...well, I couldn't have pictured any of that 
before I saw it."

Dana moistened her lips, a little off keel.  "Do you think that 
was wrong?"

He was quick to shake his head.  "No.  No, Dana, that's not what 
I'm saying.  You saved our lives.  You did what had to be done.  
It's just...I didn't know...you *could*.  And it takes some time 
to let that mesh with what I *do* know of you."

"I told you what I do.  What I've done.  I didn't try to hide--"

"I know that," he said, squeezing her hand and bringing it from 
his cheek down tight to his stomach.  "I know that.  But there's 
a difference between knowing and *seeing*."

She sensed the layers of thought behind his words.  Started to 
feel for more.  "Where are you heading?" she asked.

Daniel's eyes flickered closed for a moment, then she could see 
him steeling himself to dive into something she might not want to 
hear.  She did the same.  "This isn't right for you, Dana.  This 
job."

She pulled back.  "Don't do that, Daniel.  This is not about--"

"But it is.  Dana, it's abundantly obvious that you are one of 
the best at doing what you do.  And I don't deny that you have 
helped countless people in your work here, and that is a kind of 
justification in itself.  But, Darling, whatever selfish 
motivations I may have been guilty of in our life, I have always 
wanted to see you happy.  And you can't tell me, that that is 
where this career path has brought you."

She pulled her hand away.  "My partner died a few months ago.  
You can't look at this phase of my life and judge the course of 
my career and ultimate fulfillment.  Don't tell me what's good 
for me.  Don't do that.  You don't have enough information.  I 
make those decisions for myself and nothing you think you know 
can surpass my own inherent right to live my life."

"That's not what I'm trying to do.  Tell me you were happy last 
spring when your partner was alive.  That you were content with 
your life.  Look at me and tell me that."

Scully held his gaze, breathing deeply.  "I wouldn't change my 
choices," she said deliberately.

Daniel accepted that.  "Okay.  Maybe this was right for you as 
far as you have come.  Our mutual paths have brought us here.  
And I can't deny that.  I wouldn't trade that.  But tell me this, 
Dana...  Do you want a child?"

She sucked in a breath, drew back, looked away.

"Do you?"

She gazed out the patio doors, to the greenery beyond.  Escape.  
"You know the answer to that."

"Say it to me.  I need to hear it once.  Just once."

Her face felt hot.  The muscles around her eyes ached from the 
relentless tension.  The room was too quiet.  "I want a child," 
she whispered.

Daniel moved close.  He sat on the floor at her feet.  He rested 
his hand on her thigh.  The warmth in his touch warmed her blood.  
"I never told you the moment I fell in love with you."

Scully turned, caught off guard, and met his eyes, utterly open.

"You were helping me with a research project.  We had been in the 
lab for hours.  You were tired, I knew that.  You must have had a 
million things to do, and yet you stayed without a word, to help 
me.  At the time, I thought you just respected my work.  That you 
didn't want to disappoint your professor.  That you valued the 
experience of lab time with me, one on one."

"I did," she said, with a trace of a smile.

"When I finally insisted you go home--and you finally listened--
you crossed the room to where you'd left your things.  You pulled 
the rubber band out of your hair and let it fall around your 
shoulders.  You took off your glasses and dropped them into your 
coat pocket.  You gathered your things.  We had a radio playing 
in the corner.  And I saw you glance toward the radio when some 
song came on.  To this day I can't remember what it was.  But I 
could see in your expression that it was something you loved.  
And you stalled for just a few moments.  You hung in the room, 
rearranging the files in your bag, fussing with your coat, your 
gloves.  But it was to hear some part of the song you were 
waiting for.  Something you loved.  And I watched you there by 
the door.  This brilliant doctor-to-be.  Such a serious mind.  
Such a controlled manner and approach to life.  And when the song 
got to the line you were waiting for--you stopped fussing and 
closed your eyes, and just listened.  You didn't think I was 
watching.  But I was.  And then you turned to me, and said 
goodnight.  Very proper.  Very business-like.  And walked away.  
And when you left the room, a part of me floated out behind you.  
And I knew I loved you."

Scully could hardly breathe.  "I don't remember the song 
anymore," she said softly, her thoughts a million miles beyond 
her words.

Daniel gave a soft smile.  "I only remember you.  Dana Scully.  
No matter how beautiful and sleek and perfect I find the face you 
present to the world; this woman before me in this moment, this 
woman who lives and loves and hurts and cries and fights and 
survives.  This is the woman I love.  The woman I have followed 
for ten years.  Lived for.  The one I fell in love with on that 
quiet evening in a cold laboratory.  So very long ago.  Don't 
*ever*...hide that woman from me."

Scully closed her eyes and ran her fingers through Daniel's hair, 
then dropped her hand back into her lap.

"If you want a child," Daniel said slowly, "you can't continue to 
do what you do.  What if there had been an infant in your arms 
two nights ago?"

The world was vibrating around her.  Morning sun flickered 
through the trees and dappled the dining room carpet.  Footsteps 
hurried past in the hallway outside.  Her life shimmered around 
her.  Choices, soft breaths, people, love, spirits lost.

Daniel was holding her tight with his relentless gaze.  She 
turned to offer him solid and lasting eye contact.

Daniel lifted his hand in the air and held up his fingertips to 
her.  Her lungs contracted as understanding took her.  *A gesture 
of asking...and of answering.*  A fourth significant moment in 
their life.

There was far more in this question than the words spoken aloud.  
They could feel it in the air around them, quivering like 
unharnassed electricity.

Every breath stretched to an hour.  A promise.  A choice.  A 
life.  A future.

Scully lifted her hand and brought her fingers to meet with 
Daniel's, imagined she felt the physical spark of connection when 
they touched.  Another moment and their hands had locked together 
and she sank to the floor and into his arms.

A pact forged on this sunny morning, when the toast had burned 
and she was late for work.

Scully closed her eyes and savored Daniel's breath on the side of 
her neck.

*Mulder.  Did you know I loved you?*

*****

(End Chapter 15c.  End Book II.  Continued in Book III, Chapter 
16a.)

Feedback always treasured - bstrbabs@gmail.com

-----------

AUTHOR'S NOTE: My betas are the greatest there is.  Hands down.:)


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003



Book III:

Chapter 16a


17 months later:


**I remember the precise moment when I realized you were 
beautiful.  Sure, I knew you were attractive the moment you 
walked into that cluttered basement office.  I knew you were 
cute, pretty, even.  Knew you would have been considered a good 
catch.  But, believe it or not, it took me nearly a year to 
realize you were so much more than that.  That's how closed off I 
had become.  The extent to which I had learned to live inside my 
own little corner of the world.  You stood beside me for months 
and I never looked.  Then one day, we were walking around a sunny 
Nebraska field, scanning the ground for fragments of forensic 
evidence.  I looked up to stretch my neck at the exact moment you 
did the same.  And you stood there with your eyes closed against 
the brilliant sun, your red hair blazing and freckles shining--
and you took my breath away.  I can still see the sculptured line 
of your cheekbone, the soft shimmer of your slightly parted lips, 
the curve of your breasts, your hips, the generous waves of your 
hair.  I couldn't even remember why we were standing in that 
field, why on earth I had been staring at the ground instead of 
at the incredible vision beside me.  You're beautiful, Scully.  
And once I saw it, I haven't been able to see anything else 
for the rest of my life.

Scully?  Are you okay?**

 

"You do realize we're set to go to press in six hours?" Frohike 
quipped, struggling to open his miniature bag of corn chips.  
"You said this was an emergency mission."

"A six week advance copy of Death Blazer 4?  What would *you* 
call that?" Langly countered, lovingly eyeing the CD-Rom cradled 
in his hand.

"Catnip for an idiot.  Everyone knows Death Blazer is nothing but 
a poor man's rip-off of Meteor Warrior 3.  Now, show me an 
advance copy of Meteor Warrior 4: Attack of the Death Maidens, 
and I'll show you an emergency mission."

"I can't believe you two dragged me into this," Byers said.  He 
held open the front door of their building as Frohike passed.  
Langly tapped Byers chest with the disc as he entered the 
building.  "Come on, man.  Don't tell me you let frog boy, here--
"

"Hey!"

"--brainwash you.  I know you have the good taste to appreciate 
the originality and social value of a prize-winning game like 
Death Blazer."

Frohike couldn't help but smile at the expression on Byers' face.  
It was always an education to watch his two friends interact.  In 
a million years, no one would have chosen the two of them to get 
along.  And on the surface, they rarely did.  But underneath, 
they were all three as devoted to one another as the most loyal 
of brothers.  "I wouldn't know," Byers said, calmly.  "I, unlike 
some people, have been working on the latest issue of the Lone 
Gunman.  Remember The Lone Gunman?  Our life's work?"

"Oh, come off it, Byers.  I've seen you playing Death Blazer 3 
until 4 o'clock in the morning.  Just a few weeks ago I fell 
asleep on the couch, and when I woke up--"

"That is not the point," Byers said evenly, composure intact as 
always.

The door swung closed behind them as the threesome started toward 
the stairs.  

Frohike continued to worry his corn chip bag, until finally it 
exploded, blowing half the corn chips into the air.  A clattering 
of junk food rained onto the steps and the first landing.

"Dammit.  There goes half my lunch."

"They're still edible," Langly offered, leaning down.  "Just 
don't take a step.  They cleaned the hallway this morning, I 
heard the janitor when I was dozing on the couch before 
breakfast.  Just don't slide them when you pick them up."

"Thanks, really, I think I'll pass," Frohike said, leaning down 
to gather the mess, but with more of an eye toward carrying them 
directly to the garbage.

Langly looked over one rescued chip, brushed it off and popped it 
into his mouth.

"Six hours.  Now--" Byers looked at his watch, "Five hours and 
fifty-five minutes."

"I hear ya man," Frohike said, pushing against his bad knee as he 
rose to standing.  "Wasn't my idea to take this little side trip.  
I was working on the page layout all morning.  Would have had it 
done by now."

"We'll get it out on time," Langly said, munching another of the 
retrieved chips, and Frohike almost laughed aloud at the 
expression on Byers' face.

Being the only one without chips in his hands, Byers turned his 
back and began working the multitude of locks.  Key card, keypad, 
dead bolt, second dead bolt.  He pushed open the door, and the 
three men filed into the darkened room.  Frohike immediately 
crossed to the large garbage bin and dropped his handful of 
compromised corn chips.  Then he brushed off his fingers and 
pulled a clean chip from the measly cluster remaining in the bag.

"What about our lead story?" he asked as he crunched.  "Are we 
still going with the Nashville sightings?  Even without getting 
that phone interview with the pig farmer?"

Byers shook his head.  "No, I still say the Yeti encounter is by 
far the stronger piece.  Proof almost undeniable of the 
government's involvement in the suppression of--"

"Where is she?"

All three men whirled at the sound of the fourth voice.  Deep in 
the shadows of the far corner of the studio, a tall figure sat on 
the lone bar stool.  The figure pushed off of the stool and 
strode forward into the fine spill of light from the hallway.

*Great Gods Almighty.*  Frohike dropped the last of his corn 
chips.

"Oh, my God."

"Holy, Jesus."

"Are you kidd--"

"How on God's earth did you--"

"Strike me dead and call me Mary," Frohike said numbly, and he 
made a bee line for the man in the leather coat.

He wrapped his arms tight around his old friend's waist.

But his friend gave only a vague acknowledging touch, then 
spoke again to the group as a whole.  "Where is she?"  His tone 
had an insistent edge.

Frohike pulled back and squinted upward, eyes narrowing with 
concern.  "Mulder, you all right?  Calm down, my friend, we'll 
fill you in on--"

"I'm fine.  Am I being unclear?  Where. Is. She.?"

He looked from face to face as the three men stared at him, 
utterly unprepared.

Frohike spoke.  "She's fine, Mulder, she's--"

"I went to her apartment.  Someone else lives there.  I did a 
surface check of the Bureau employee records, and she's not 
listed.  Where is she?"

Byers found his voice and took a step forward.  "We know that, 
Mulder," he began, in his best mediating tone.  "And we can 
explain all of it, if you'll just--"

"Is she alive?"

"She's fine, man, really," Frohike repeated.

"Give me an address."

Langly moved forward.  "We'll tell you everything, Mulder.  Just 
slow down, take a seat.  Tell us how the hell you--"

"*An Address*."

The Gunmen exchanged glances.  An electric silence hovered for 
several beats, then Byers numbly recited Scully's current place 
of residence.

"Thank you," Mulder said with a clipped nod, teeth gnawing the 
inner edge of his lower lip.  He stepped between Byers and 
Frohike toward the exit.

"Hey, Mulder, wait--"

"Mulder, there's a few things you really need to know before--"

He turned at the threshold.  "Is she alive?"

All three men nodded, and Frohike spoke.  "She's fine, like I 
told you, but you ought to--"

"That's all I need to know."  He was around the door and on the 
landing.  "Go with Nashville!"  His voice echoed back from the 
stairwell.  And with the distant swipe of the street door, he was 
gone.

For a long moment no one spoke.  Then Frohike said simply, "Well.  
This should be interesting."


*****


It was almost surreal.  Decidedly sensual.  For two years, he had 
been looking for her in crowds, imagining a flash of red hair 
just outside his range of vision, catching vanishing glimpses in 
office windows.  And now, when he knew with his rational mind 
that this had to be her, his gut reaction told him it couldn't be 
real.  This couldn't be Scully.  *His* Scully.  100 feet away 
from him on the far side of a tree-lined drive.

He didn't recognize the car.  Seemed a little out of her price 
range, to be honest.  And her hair...twisted into a clip, loose 
tendrils blowing around her neck and face.  He had never seen her 
so soft.  So...feminine.  Like the heroine of a nineteenth century 
novel.  Her blouse fell inches from her skin as she reached into 
the back seat for her things, and he was graced with a flash of a 
view he had once been granted with a fair amount of regularity.  
He had never taken that privilege for granted, and never let her 
know he looked.

She rose from the car with a briefcase strap over her shoulder 
and a stack of file folders in her arms.  She tossed the loose 
strands of hair behind her shoulders.  Long.  Longer than he had 
seen her hair in years.  Her beige-gold suit draped over her 
slender form like silk, and even from this distance, he could see 
the quick spark of light at her throat as the late afternoon sun 
reflected off her cross.

*Scully.*

She closed the car door, turned, and looked across the street.

He saw the moment she saw him.

He saw the suspension of time and rational thought in her clear 
blue eyes.

His back muscles tensed against the iron bars of the garden gate.

He saw the moment the shock turned to fight.

"You!"  Her voice rang across the quiet afternoon.  The file 
folders were on the car trunk in a flash, top papers sliding to 
the ground, and her gun was up and she was moving across the 
street.  "Don't move!  Get your hands in the air!"

"Scully--"

"Hands where I can see them!  NOW!"

He raised his hands.  No question--this was Scully.

"Scully, just slow down.  I know this is a shock, I know, but 
it's me, Scully, just--"

"Shut up!"

She was ten feet away from him, still in the edge of the street, 
a rain gutter and a narrow stretch of sidewalk between them.  Her 
gun was trained hard on his chest, and for the first time he was 
starting to think this might not have been his best approach.

"Who are you?"

"Scully...it's me.  Mulder."

"Mulder's dead."

"No, I'm not."  His hands were still up, his pulse racing.  But 
hers was higher, he could see it.  Her chest rose and fell as her 
rapid breaths kept time with the pounding of her heart.  She was 
in high crisis mode.  Terrified and deadly all at once.  He 
fixated on the tendon shaking in her neck.

"Mulder died nearly two years ago.  Now who are you and what do 
you want?"

"Scully.  All right, I'm going to try to prove to you that it's 
me."

"You're not Mulder.  You're a clone.  Or one of *them*.  But 
you're not Mulder."

"All right, I just need you to listen.  Okay?  Just...just don't 
fire.  I'm not going to move.  Just don't fire.  And listen."

She didn't speak.  She stood, breath heavy, gaze livid.  He would 
have given anything to touch her.  But moving would have been his 
death sentence.

"Okay, Scully, your middle name is Katherine, and you like it 
now, but you hated it when you were a kid, and I think that had 
something to do with Catherine the Great, but right now I can't 
remember what."

She narrowed her eyes, but didn't speak.  The gun held steady.

"Uhhhh...you loved 'Little Women', but you don't tell people 
that.  The book, not the movie.  You didn't like either of the 
old versions, but then we were out on this case when the Winona 
Ryder version came out, and it was the last film on earth I 
wanted to see, but we were in this horribly small town and it was 
the only thing playing that late, and we saw it and you liked it.  
But it made you cry when Beth died because you'd so recently lost 
*your* sister, but you didn't think I knew that, because you 
slipped out to the ladies room and we never talked about it, 
because we never talked about anything that we should have."

She was listening.  But she was a million miles from convinced.  
Because she was Scully, and she could rationalize anything in the 
world.  He should have planned ahead, should have come up with 
something she couldn't deny...

He was blanking, couldn't think of a damn thing with that gun 
pointed so steadily at his chest and the memory of her last shot 
his direction so vivid.

"You have fifteen seconds to come up with something good.  Then 
you either vanish or I shoot you.  Your choice."

"Jesus, Scully..."  His hands sagged just a bit, and she cocked 
her weapon.

"Hands UP!"

He complied.  "They're up, they're up.  Scully, I'm not going to-
-" but arguing from that angle was pointless.  "What do you want 
to know?  Scully, *you* ask me something.  Ask me something only 
I would know.  The real me."

Scully didn't blink, didn't move.  He didn't have a clue what was 
running through her mind, and that was even more unnerving.

"Scully, I know everything was in place to make you believe I was 
dead.  I know that, because I planned it.  And I really don't 
want to tell you this while I'm still staring at the wrong end of 
your weapon, but if you'll just--"

"What did you say to me in Akron?"

She caught him completely off guard.  "What did I--in Akron?  
Ohio?"

"What did you say to me?  We were on a case in Akron, four years 
ago.  You said something to me, that you knew I would remember.  
What did you say?"

*All right, Mulder.  This is the time for your fabulous memory to 
kick in.  This is the time for you to brilliantly recall some 
random night in the Midwest when you might have said something, 
anything, that would have--Oh.  Okay.*

"I said...'I *am* home'."

Scully's breath stopped.

"What did you mean?" she asked, no feeling.

"My Mom had just died.  I had a nightmare.  I woke you up banging 
around on the veranda outside our rooms.  And somehow we ended up 
on a bench and I was lying with my head in your lap.  And you 
said I should get some sleep, so we could get up early and finish 
off our case and get me home.  And I said, 'I *am* home'."

Her breath wavered, broke rhythm.  He could see the shift in her 
eyes from distanced anger to the first glimmer of real feeling.  
The moment when she started to accept the truth.  And with that 
glimpse, he almost wished he could make her angry again.  Because 
the pain was beyond comprehension.

Her gun arm started to sag.  His lungs released just a bit.

Scully's brow drew in in confusion, hesitation.  Her voice was 
barely a whisper.  "Mulder?"

Mulder's gut physically hurt at the vulnerability in her single 
word.  "It's me, Scully.  I'm here."

Two more breaths, and the open vulnerability he had witness in 
that flash, drowned in a new wave of blazing anger, now doubly 
fueled by the raw pain behind it.  The gun was up hard and she 
moved a step closer.  "Tell me you were kidnapped!"

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me you were kidnapped.  Tell me you were held against your 
will.  Tell me!"

"I just...I'll tell you everything, Scully, I just think you 
should--"

Then he saw her left hand.  She had shifted position when she 
moved forward.  And he saw the rings.  One diamond.  One gold 
band.

He couldn't breathe.  For the briefest moment he made eye 
contact.  And he saw her flinch.  It was almost imperceptible.  
But she knew that he'd seen the rings.

"Tell me you were kidnapped," she repeated icily.

"Scully, I really don't want to answer this while you've still 
got that pointed at me, so--"

She dropped the weapon, hard and fast, exasperation and anger 
waving off of her like heat.

"Thank you.  Now, Scully, there's so much I need to tell you, and 
I know you may not want to hear it, you may not even want to see 
me right now, but we have to start--"

He should have seen it coming.  And maybe, in retrospect, he did, 
he just harbored enough guilt to feel he didn't have the right to 
deny her the satisfaction.

She closed the distance between them in a few easy steps and 
without a breath of hesitation her fist hit his jaw for all she 
was worth.

Jesus Christ, she was still in good shape.  "Aaaahhhh...Oh, 
Jesus, Scully."  He staggered a few steps away, hands to his jaw, 
wondering if any bones had actually been cracked.  His vision 
swam blue at the rush of pain.  He caught a blurry glimpse of 
Scully weathering the pain in her hand.  Must have hurt like hell 
on her side, too, that level of impact.

His stomach lurched and for a moment he was afraid he was going 
to be sick.  But the nausea subsided.  He propped his hand on his 
thigh, still hunched over.  *A wedding band.*

Scully hadn't moved.  She was cradling her injured hand against 
her stomach.  Her gun was still drawn, but aimed only at the 
ground.

He slowly pushed up to a nearly straight stance.

They stood in the street for several shaky breaths.  Not making 
eye contact.  A car rushed past.  A bird fluttered in the trees 
overhead.  He could hear the sound of water from a fountain in 
the private garden at his back.

"Can I talk now?" Mulder asked, not wanting the anger he heard in 
his own voice, but the pain was speaking right now.

"And say what?"

He pulled up straight, lowered his hand from his jaw for a moment 
and looked her solidly in the eye.  "I don't know, Scully, how 
about--it's good to see you?"

She glared at him for a long moment, then looked away.  "Look, I 
don't have time for this right now.  My son's waiting for me 
upstairs."

*Two for two with the dead-on punches Scully.  What the hell did 
you just say...*

"Your son."

She slipped her tongue over the corner of her mouth.  Her gaze 
shifted ever so slightly to settle on his injured jaw.  He caught 
a glimpse of Scully in that moment.  Of the Scully he had come 
all this way to see.  His Scully.  "You should get some ice on 
that," she said softly.  It wasn't tender, but it wasn't quite 
cold.  "You can follow me upstairs, if you want."

"Depends," he said, giving a pointed look toward her hand, "is 
your husband up there?"

Scully's look hardened.  Her lids dropped to half shadow her eyes 
as she finally holstered her weapon.  She was breathing hard.  
She didn't meet his gaze.

"My husband's dead," she said at last.  And she turned and walked 
away.


*****

End Chapter 16a.  (Continued in 16b...)

Feedback.  Oh, the joy. - bstrbabs@gmail.com

--------------


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 16b



"Haven't we met.  You're some kind of beautiful stranger."
                           --"Beautiful Stranger", Madonna


The world shimmered around her.  One quick glimpse, two seconds 
on a quiet residential street and life would never be the same 
again.  Scully had learned life could work that way one cold 
night when Deep Throat died under her hand and she found she 
could never go home again.  Or maybe she had found a new home, 
she just hadn't known it yet.

Scully's fingers quivered when she turned the key in her 
apartment lock.  Mulder watched in silence, hovering a few feet 
behind.  She saw the slight flicker of his eyelids when she 
nearly dropped the key.

She pushed the door just enough to pop the lock and hefted the 
file folders in the crook of her arm.  She hesitated.  The ground 
was shifting beneath her.  Time was all out of order and she 
couldn't process the present spilling over onto the past.  She 
couldn't catch hold of anything concrete.  The adrenaline was 
wearing off and clarity and action were giving way to fear and 
emotion.  She needed...

Scully reached a blind hand toward Mulder.  He caught her grasp 
on instinct and they clung to one another's wrists.  His pulse 
beneath her palm seemed to pump the blood through her own veins.  
Scully half-turned, didn't raise her eyes.  "Don't...just 
don't...leave, okay?" 

Mulder nodded, squeezed back hard.  *'Say a few Hail Mulders for 
me'...fingers slipping from her grasp...*  "I'll be right here."  
He started to move closer, to reach out for her.  But she let go 
and moved away.

She didn't turn to see the hurt in his eyes.

Scully opened the door, and Tasha shoved her big furry head 
through the crack, wiggling and wagging at her mistress's return.  
Scully reached down and petted her dog's ears as she stepped 
across the threshold.

"Well, hello there," Mulder said to the smiling face nosing his 
hand.  "You're a *real* dog, aren't you?  Man-sized.  And who 
might you be?"

"This is Tasha," Scully said stiffly.  She dropped her file 
folders onto the entrance table, swung her briefcase to the 
floor.

"How long have you had her?"

"She was my husband's.  He got her when she was a puppy.  She's 
almost 8 now."

Mulder nodded.

They were speaking, communicating successfully.  Yet the world 
was so surreal Scully felt detached from her own words, amazed 
when her responses matched up with his questions.

It was the next greeting that left Mulder speechless.
 
From the hallway appeared Ashleigh, pretty as always, with her 
strawberry-blonde hair and pale complexion; faded jeans and a 
snug-fitting sweater.  In her arms, she cradled Scully's baby 
boy.  At her son's first sight of his mother, his face lit up 
with the world's most brilliant smile, and his pudgy little arms 
stretched out toward her.

Mulder's face was an open book of wonder.

"Careful, kiddo," Ashleigh said with a laugh as she shifted her 
precious cargo into Scully's welcoming arms.  "Mommy's right 
there."

With her back half-turned to Mulder, Scully lifted her son into 
her arms.  She pressed her cheek close to his and kissed his ear, 
drawing strength from his vibrant energy, his innocent love.  His 
heavy warmth in her arms steadied her uncertainty.  "Hey, Little 
Man," she whispered.  "How's my favorite guy?"

Ashleigh shared in the joy of the daily reunion ritual, then 
glanced curiously in Mulder's direction.  Scully caught the vibe 
and shifted to face Mulder.  Her son rested his head contentedly 
in the crook of her neck, and that was all Mulder focused on.

"Ashleigh, this is...an old friend of mine..."  Scully sought 
Mulder's gaze, silently asking if he were really among the 
living, if she should use his real name.  He gave an almost 
imperceptible nod.  The exchange was so easy, so instinctive.  
Something buried sparked inside of her.  "Fox Mulder," Scully 
finished.  "Mulder, this is Ashleigh Dawson.  She gives the nanny 
a break a couple of days a week, when she doesn't have classes."

"Nice to meet you," Ashleigh said softly. 

Mulder nodded.  "You, too."

He was waiting to be introduced to her son.  But she couldn't.  
Not until they were alone...
 
Much to Scully's gratitude, Ashleigh filled the quiet.  "Well, 
would you believe this guy hasn't napped since I got here?  
Margarite said he dozed for about half an hour or so this 
morning, but otherwise he has been awake since you left at six."

"So you've had quite an afternoon," Scully offered dryly.

Ashleigh just smiled and reached out to stroke the little boy's 
back.  "Oh, he was fine.  But I'm sure he'll be out for the night 
by seven, seven-thirty for you.  He did eat some cereal and about 
half his carrots.  And he had his bottle about an hour ago."

Ashleigh's hand slid down the child's back onto Scully's arm and 
over her hand.  She brushed the red knuckles.  "Oh, God, Grandma, 
what did you do to your hand?"

Scully pulled back too sharply.  Surprise and injury washed 
across Ashleigh's clear face and Scully was instantly sorry.  But 
it was hard to offer an apology.  She couldn't feel anything 
right now.  Not now.

"I'm fine," Scully said softly.  "I just...hit it on the car 
door."

Ashleigh frowned, reached toward Scully's hand again, and she 
managed not to pull away.  "It looks like it's swelling, you 
should get some ice on that..."

She nodded, briskly.  "I will."
 
Ashleigh let Scully's hand go with a glance toward Mulder, and 
for the first time, she registered the damage to his jaw.  No 
genius required to put the two together.  She looked back to 
Scully, searching her face intently now, and Scully shook her 
head, dismissing the subject.

Ashleigh took a hesitant step back.  "I, uh...I guess I'll be 
going."

Mulder picked up on the unspoken dynamics and turned away.  He 
strolled a few feet into the dining room, looking over the 
furniture, the grand piano.  Scully followed him with her eyes.  
*Mulder, did you have piano lessons when you were young?  Why 
don't I know?  Mulder, are you really in my living room?  Are you 
really breathing?*

Ashleigh's urgent whisper pulled her back.  "Dana, you're 
shaking.  Are you okay?"

Scully gave Ashleigh's hand a placating touch.  "I'm fine."

Ashleigh held her gaze a moment longer, then acquiesced and 
gathered her things.

When Mulder turned back, Ashleigh had her book bag over her 
shoulder and her keys in her hand.

"So, you have class tomorrow, right?  We'll see you again 
Monday?"

Ashleigh nodded.  "Absolutely.  Bye, you," she said with a grin 
and a wrinkle of her nose toward the baby.  She leaned in and 
kissed Scully's cheek.  The warmth was comforting and unnerving.  
"Bye, Grandma."

"Drive safe," Scully said, and she closed the door behind her.

Scully felt Mulder staring at her back for a good ten seconds, 
before she turned to face him.  He moved across the room, 
stopping only a few steps from her.

She cleared her throat.  "So...Mulder.  This is Christopher 
Patrick.  He's seven months old."

She hated the flutter of vulnerability in her voice.  But this 
was her son.  And she was presenting him to Mulder.  *Mulder*...

Mulder reached out hesitant fingers and drew them ever so lightly 
down the soft cushion of Christopher's cheek.  The little boy 
smiled.  "Christopher," Mulder breathed, his voice thready with 
emotion.  "Is he...I mean...I thought you couldn't...is 
he...biologically..."

Scully shook her head.  "No.  He's adopted.  But he's ours."

She saw his flinch at the pronoun.  But he didn't let it spill 
over into his words.  "How old was he when you got him?"

"Just a couple of days," Scully said, and she couldn't suppress a 
soft smile at the memory.  The first days had been nothing short 
of magic.  "It was meant to be."

Mulder nodded, struggling to soak all of this in.  Her gaze rose 
to meet his, and in a flash, seven years of intimate eye contact 
hit her head-on, grey-green eyes that could look through her soul 
and soothe her spirit.  The intensity was far beyond what she 
could take at the moment.  She retreated.  "You need to get that 
ice."  She moved toward the kitchen.

Mulder hung back a moment, and Scully caught the sound of his 
half-suppressed sigh.  His facade resurfaced, and he followed 
her.  "'Grandma?'"

Scully pulled an ice pack from the freezer.  With a mother's one-
handed skills, she took a towel from the kitchen drawer and 
wrapped the ice pack.  "She calls me that because she knows it 
annoys me, but..."  She held out the ice pack to Mulder.  "I kind 
of am, actually.  Her step-grandmother."  She cleared her throat 
as Mulder settled the ice pack into place on his jaw.  She could 
see the sting of the cold despite the padding of the towel.  She 
weathered a sudden gut-deep urge to kiss his jaw.  The mere 
thought tightened her throat.  Scully took a second soft-pack of 
ice and strapped it to her own hand with a tea towel.  She held 
the tails of the towel in her fist.  Christopher squealed and 
stretched toward the refrigerator until she went back and pulled 
out a cold teether for him.

"She's Maggie's step-daughter," Scully continued, gaze locked on 
her own hand.  Christopher took hold of one of the loose tendrils 
of her hair and stuck it in his mouth with the teether.

Mulder furrowed his brow.  She was edging toward something, and 
he sensed it, but he hadn't caught on.

"Formerly, Maggie Waterston," she said, and the tendons in her 
throat tightened.

He had it.  "Waterston."  Mulder's voice was barely a whisper.  
"You married Daniel?"

Scully sniffed hard, arched her eyebrow.  Her eyes hazed with 
tears.  And Mulder saw it, and she knew he didn't understand.  
But he looked at her the way he always had when she cried--like 
the world would shatter if he couldn't make it stop, and she had 
missed that look so damn much it hurt even to think of having it 
back.
 
"What happened?" he whispered.
 
The tenderness in his voice pushed her limits.  "Can we, uh...," 
Scully lifted the back of her hand to her cheek for a moment, 
letting the ice pack cool her flushed skin.  "Can we go sit 
down?"

Mulder nodded.  "Yeah.  Of course."

Christopher picked up Scully's tension.  His tiny mouth screwed 
into a frown.  He spit out her hair and reached up and slapped 
gently at her face.  Scully leaned into his touch.  She turned 
and took two bottled waters from the refrigerator door, then led 
the way into the living room.

Scully took a seat on the couch and settled Christopher beside 
her, propped him as far from the edge as possible.  She reached 
down to the basket of toys beneath the coffee table and spread a 
wide selection before him.  He grasped his favorite plastic pig 
rattle and began shaking.  Tasha leapt up onto the far end of the 
couch and settled in with her nose beside Christopher's thigh.

Mulder took a seat in the rocking chair.  He was watching 
Christopher like he could never see enough.  "He has such big 
eyes," he said softly.

"I know.  He just...seems to look right into your soul sometimes.  
Like he knows everything you're thinking."

"Scully..."  She looked up.  "What are *you* thinking?"

Her stomach hurt.  She couldn't swallow her water.  "I'm thinking 
I need to know what's going on?  Mulder...you just...I come home 
from work one day, and..."  Her voice faltered, and her eyes were 
hot with tears again.  She ignored them.  She slipped to a 
whisper, let her tongue play over the corner of her mouth.  
"Mulder, where were you?"

"I was undercover.  Deep undercover."

"Undercover as what?  Where?"

Mulder held her gaze for a long moment.  He narrowed his eyes, 
deep set lines gracing his brow.  His words were slow and 
deliberate.  "I want to tell you, Scully.  And I *will* tell you.  
Everything.  But not yet.  I need to...it's things you need to 
hear, Scully, huge things, but I need your mind open and I need 
you ready to hear.  And I don't think... I just think we should 
talk for a while first.  Get...get our walls back down."

Scully hardened.  Her jaw tightened, and she looked down at 
Christopher for a moment, then back to Mulder.  "What makes you 
think that will happen before you give me one hell of a good 
explanation?"  Her anger was returning, and the numbness that 
came with it was more than welcome.

Mulder dropped his gaze to his lap.  The lines in his forehead 
didn't fade.  "No guarantees, I suppose.  I can just hope."

The openness wrenched her gut.  He looked weary.  Battle-worn.  
It didn't show on the surface.  His hair was a little longer, the 
way she liked it.  Unruly as ever.  He was dressed in tight black 
jeans, a burgundy tee-shirt, and the very same leather jacket she 
had found missing from his closet two years ago.  His skin was 
slightly tanned, his freckles prominent across his nose.  On the 
surface he looked good.  A new line or two around his eyes 
perhaps, a grey hair at his temple.  But beneath the surface, he 
was deeply tired.  And a collage of memories shimmered across her 
vision; a hundred defeated nights, seven years of dark rainy 
streets and never ending battles and propping each other up with 
all they had to give; holding up candles to paths in the dark.

Christopher dropped his rattle, and Scully leaned to retrieve it.  
He whacked Tasha's nose and she snorted indignantly.

Mulder lifted his head.  "Tell me about you, Scully.  Please.  
Tell me about...your *life*.  How did all this happen?"

Scully swallowed and focused on drawing Christopher's attention 
to a teething cow.  She surrendered it to his eager grasp, and 
leaned her arm on the back of the couch, pushing her loose 
strands of hair behind her ear.  This conversation could not be 
any more inconceivable.  She just wanted to stop speaking and sit 
and breathe Mulder's scent for while.  But she couldn't.  She 
just...couldn't.  "Well...you left.  I searched for you.  You 
closed all the doors behind you.  Eventually, I went on with 
life.  You didn't leave me much choice.  I worked, continued the 
X-Files.  A few months after you left, Daniel and I started 
seeing one another again.  Things went well, at least most of the 
time.  Fast, with our history.  After a few months, we moved in 
together.  Here.  This was Daniel's apartment.  Not long after, 
he proposed.  We got married last winter.  About..." she stopped 
to think, "...nine months ago."

Mulder nodded.  There were a thousand thoughts behind those clear 
hazel eyes, and once upon a time she would have been able to read 
them all.  Tonight she was looping in and out.  Maybe he was, 
too.  "And this little bundle of joy?" Mulder asked.  "When did 
he come into the picture?  I mean...I thought adoption was a 
pretty complicated process these days.  I've heard of people 
waiting years to get a child..."

Scully nodded her agreement.  "Absolutely.  We never expected...  
We had gone ahead and started the process.  We knew we wanted a 
family in the future.  We put in all the proper applications...we 
were looking strongly at getting a little girl from China.  We 
thought it would be a few years at the least, maybe several.  We 
meant to get married, buy a house, settle in, be ready.  Daniel's 
health and age were factors in the application process, but I was 
a strong enough candidate, that we were expected to be deemed 
qualified parents.  Then, one afternoon, Daniel was at work--
there was a family for whom he had been a kind of "family doctor" 
for a long time.  The women in their family suffer from a 
hereditary heart defect.  Treatable, but...  The family's sixteen 
year old daughter had gotten pregnant.  She had big plans for her 
future--college, law school.  Being a teenaged mother wasn't part 
of the plan.  But the family is devout Catholic, so abortion was 
out of the question.  They wanted to arrange an adoption, a 
private one.  The parents were talking to Daniel after an 
appointment, they found out we were looking...Daniel was someone 
they already trusted...  The next thing we knew, we were filing 
paperwork.  Christopher was born three months after our wedding."

Scully ran her fingers through Christopher's silky fine hair, 
remembering sitting on a hospital bench beside Daniel, their 
fingers locked together, watching the clock and awaiting the 
hourly reports from Christopher's biological grandfather.

"Meant to be," Mulder repeated back, his voice just above a 
whisper.

Scully closed her eyes.

"What happened?" he asked, and she knew he meant Daniel.  She 
didn't want to answer.  She didn't talk about it yet.

"His heart.  The risk was always there, but we thought...we 
thought he was relatively stable for the time being.  Medicine is 
not an exact science.  We lost him four, almost five months ago."

"Four months?  Jesus, Scully.  I'm so sorry.  That's...," he 
leaned forward, forearms propped on his thighs, "four months--
that must still feel like yesterday to you."

Scully stared down at Christopher's little fingers as he worked 
over his train rattle.  "Some days," she whispered.  Tasha 
stretched up and licked Scully's fingers.  She still looked for 
her master each evening before dinner.

"What about work?" Mulder asked, shifting the subject as much for 
her sake as his.  "I looked for you in the Bureau records.  You 
weren't there, so I was surprised to see your gun.  But I'm 
guessing now...you're not under Scully anymore?"

"No, I'm not."

"Are you still on the X-files?"

"Not since Christopher.  Though I still do consulting, almost 
daily, actually.  I took six weeks maternity leave.  Then I 
accepted a teaching position at Quantico.  Officially, it's still 
a temporary assignment.  I haven't surrendered my field agent 
status.  But I need to make a firm decision by the end of the 
month; where I belong."

Mulder nodded slowly, letting her take the lead.  She could feel 
a thousand questions burning behind his quiet acceptance.  "You 
have other priorities now," he said plainly.

She didn't speak.  Then at last, "I'm sorry I hit you."

Mulder gave her the slightest hint of a wry smile, and she was 
surprised how good it felt.  "Really?"

"No.  Yes.  No."  And she almost laughed.  But she couldn't hold 
eye contact.  She closed her eyes.

Christopher started banging his rattle and fussing.  She picked 
him up and put him in her lap.  He didn't want to hold still, 
squirmed in her arms and started pulling at her blouse, nosing 
her breast.

"Mmmm, somebody's hungry.  It's almost six, I--"

"Scully are you...are you breastfeeding?"

She looked up, struck by the fascination in Mulder's voice, his 
eyes.  She drew a few deliberate breaths.  "Yeah.  I am.  It took 
a while, he had to be mostly on formula for a couple of months, 
but now we're doing fine."

"That's..." he shook his head, shrugged, at a loss for 
description.  "That's amazing, Scully.  It's wonderful."

Her expression softened, cautious, but warming.  "Yeah.  It is, 
actually.  But, uh...as I was saying, it's late, I need to feed 
him, then get his bath, get him ready for bed.  If I nurse him 
any later I'll never keep him awake afterward until his bedtime.  
Instant valium, you know."

"Much as nature intended."

Scully pushed to her feet and lifted Christopher with her.  Tasha 
raised her head, appraising the situation, and where she might 
place herself to best advantage.

"Are you hungry, Mulder?  Can I--"

But Mulder waved a hand, shook his head.  "I'm fine.  Go, take 
care of your son.  I'll be here when you get back."

She swallowed hard.  "Yeah."  She licked her lips, forced air 
into her lungs.  "Yeah."  Her leg brushed Mulder's as she carried 
Christopher toward the hall and she felt dizzy.

*Be there.  Just...be there.*


*****


He sat in the quiet of Scully's living room as the sun sank and 
cast flickering shadows of the garden trees over the dining room 
wall.  Another fifteen minutes and he would need to switch on a 
lamp.  But truthfully, the dimness was comforting.  He wanted to 
sit and let his brain fall quiet and begin to process the 
overload of new information.  This was Scully's living room.  He 
was sitting in a strange apartment where he only recognized 
fragments and pieces of the furniture.  And this was Scully's 
living room.  Elegant, attentively decorated.  Some baby items 
stuffed in here and there, obviously not part of the original 
plan.  He pushed to his feet and made a slow circle of the living 
areas, studying in more detail--the books on the shelves, the 
pictures on the mantle.  The pictures kept his attention for 
quite some time.  

Scully and Daniel sharing a piece of wedding cake.  Scully in a 
soft ivory gown.  Not a full-out wedding gown, nothing so 
elaborate and fairytale for Scully.  But subtle and elegant and 
beautiful.  Her longer hair fell soft and wavy over her 
shoulders.  And she was smiling.  A full-watt Scully-smile.  
Daniel was smiling, too.  He could see the adoration even in the 
lifeless photo.  *A wedding.  Scully...*

A photo from a beach.  Honeymoon, perhaps?  Vacation?  Scully in 
a one piece basic-black bathing suit with a translucent skirt 
tied around her waist; seated on a beach towel and squinting in 
the sunlight.

Scully and Daniel, forehead to forehead, cradling Christopher 
between them.  He was tiny.  Couldn't have been more than a 
couple of weeks old.

More family portraits he didn't recognize.  Probably Maggie 
Waterston and her children.  Ashleigh in one of the shots.  A 
photo of the Scully family at some kind of gathering.  Maggie and 
Bill and someone he didn't know, that he guessed could have been 
Charlie.  And Scully seated on the floor at her brothers' feet.  
Smiling.

Another life.  Another world.  Scully had found a life.   A 
husband, a home, a dog, a *child*.  Everything she had ever 
quietly confessed to wanting on late night stakeouts in the 
middle of nowhere, when he had failed to really listen.  A job 
that didn't require her body and soul in exchange for 
endangerment of her life.  A job that left her something to give 
her family at the end of the day.  These pictures held a Scully 
he had never seen, or barely knew.  He had worked beside her, 
*lived* beside her for seven years, waiting, watching every day, 
expecting that one day, however far away, they would move outside 
the shadow-world in which they were trapped, that he would be 
allowed precious access to the side of Scully he treasured only 
in glimpses and reflections.  The vulnerable side, the feminine 
side, the open, loving side.  The side that danced and dreamed.  
All of it was there everyday, tempering and charming every move 
she made.  But she only opened the gates wide to the rare and 
select few.

And Daniel had had it all.  In the two short years Mulder had 
been gone.

Daniel had had all of her.

Daniel.

Scully.

Mulder looked away.

A rattle of sound from the rear of the apartment moved him along.  
He didn't want to talk to Scully about the pictures.  Not 
tonight.

Mulder strolled back through the living room.  Books on the 
shelves.  Many of them medical in nature.  Could have been 
Daniel's *or* Scully's.  Mysteries.  DVD's in the corner cabinet.  
An impressive collection.  On the far right of the first shelf--
"Little Women", the Winona Ryder version.  And below it, a single 
VHS stuffed in with the DVDs--"Superstars of the Superbowls".

Damn.  Perhaps this was Scully's apartment after all.

He was in the kitchen, rustling about in search of the makings of 
hot tea, when he heard Scully in the living room.  A cranking 
noise, then a soft music-box lullaby carried in.  Probably the 
baby swing he had seen in the far corner.

A moment later Scully stepped into the lengthening shadows of the 
kitchen.

"Scully?"

She moved cautiously, her expression so intense he stopped mid-
action and offered his full attention.  Her hair was down loose 
around her shoulders now, elegant and lovely.  Her eyes were 
laced with tears, her brow deeply creased, gaze seeking.  Her 
arms folded protectively across her chest.  Her suit coat was 
gone, leaving only her thin silk blouse.  Her defenses had been 
shed with the coat; dropped, if only for this brief moment.  She 
edged closer, gazing up at him with a pleading, aching mixture of 
disbelief, want, need, desire, absence of understanding.  She was 
asking, asking if he was real, if he was standing in front of 
her, really standing in her kitchen holding a handful of teabags.  
She was asking if she was dreaming.  And all of this she conveyed 
as she stepped at last into his personal space--the first time 
since she had nearly broken his jaw--and she looked directly up 
at him without so much as a waver in her gaze.  "Mulder?"

Any resentments he had harbored moments ago were lost in the 
overwhelming need to give her something to hold on to.

Mulder nodded, solemn, regretful, and reached his hands out to 
caress her arms.  All that mattered was to be there for her.  To 
be whole and real and the other half she could always count on.  
If she would have him.  "It's me," he said simply.

Scully's face crumbled and she moved forward into his arms, 
losing the struggle with her tears.  Mulder closed his arms 
fiercely across her back, and Scully pressed into his chest.  She 
caught her breath on a choked sob muffled by the cloth of his 
shirt.  He held her tight, lost count of time.  Scully clung to 
him, nails digging into his back, and he was crushed by the 
fathomless depths of emotion in her rigid muscles.  A world of 
pain hovered beneath her pale, smooth skin, the scope of which he 
couldn't begin to grasp.

Then she shut off.  She pulled away.  Detached physically, 
emotionally--wholly.  She turned her back and left the room.

And he stood in the quiet and let his heart pound against his 
ribcage as her scent faded.

*Breathe.  Just breathe.*


*****

End of Chapter 16b.  (Continued in 17a...)

Feel free to send the little Feedback Bird my way -- 
bstrbabs@gmail.com

---------------

My betas rock.  That is all.


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 17a


**Long long ago, we worked a case in North Carolina.  Voodoo 
killings at a Haitian immigration camp.  Just weeks before, you 
had been attacked by Donnie Pfaster.  I'd never seen you so 
frightened.  To be honest, I hadn't been certain it was possible.  
From that night forward, I knew there was a world of feeling 
beneath your everyday exterior.  A world I would rarely be 
allowed to glimpse.  On that case in Carolina, you pricked your 
hand on a thorn left on our steering wheel.  I tried to look at 
the cut to see if it was deep.  You wouldn't let me touch your 
hand.  Two steps forward and ten steps back.  Flash forward seven 
years, Scully.  I still can't touch you where it hurts.**


He lay on the day bed in Scully's home office, staring at the 
hulking forms of furniture in the darkness.  One encounter with a 
Bug From Hell hanging on the ceiling above your bed and you just 
never looked at your ladder back chair the same way.  A strange 
bed, strange smells, strange sounds.  Nothing unusual for Fox 
Mulder.  It was more rare to sleep in his own bed these days.  
Hell, he didn't even have a bed anymore.  No apartment, no home.  
No name, no credit cards.  Only the measly savings the Gunmen had 
protected for him.  Scully had caught the drift of his sorry 
state of affairs and offered him a bed to crash on for the night.  
She hadn't really wanted him to stay.  She hadn't really wanted 
him to go, either.  At least he hoped that was what he had read 
on her unreadable face.

This room didn't smell like Scully.  Didn't *feel* like her.  He 
had seen her set up her laptop on the dining room table after 
dinner.  The office must have been Daniel's realm.  That thought 
felt a little weird.  Even stranger was the notion that perhaps 
Scully stayed out of here for the very reason that this room 
resonated too much of Daniel, and her pain was too near the 
surface.

Mulder rolled onto his back and gazed at the fuzzy grey ceiling.  
Christopher had fallen asleep in the baby swing, and Scully had 
carried him off to his crib.  The crib stood in the corner of her 
bedroom.  Scully shared her sacred space with her son.  Scully 
was a mother.  Scully was a *mother*.  Scully.  No more late 
night departures for Eastville, Nebraska where a young boy swore 
he saw the devil in Old Man Carver's field.  No more thirty-six 
hour marathons trailing from crime scene to autopsy bay to field 
office to crime scene.  No more X-Files.  She had made her 
choice.  To shape a young life.

He couldn't deny her that kind of joy.

But the rationale didn't soften the jolt.

His jaw hurt.

Mulder sat up in the darkness and toyed with the tempting notion 
of sneaking out to watch some quiet, mind-numbing television.  
But, Scully could be a light sleeper sometimes, and he had no 
idea what would wake Christopher.

Regardless, he had drunk far too much herbal tea to avoid a brief 
trip across the hall.  He was well on his way before he realized 
he would have to sneak past Scully's door to reach the guest 
bathroom.

Mulder had no intention of stopping or staring.  He had assumed 
the door to Scully's bedroom would be closed.  But Scully had 
left it slightly ajar.  Maybe she had wanted to keep an ear out 
for his movements; assure herself he was really there.  Or maybe 
that was wishful thinking on his part.  Maybe the air 
conditioning worked better with the door cracked.  Or maybe 
nearly a decade of paranoia had left her wanting an escape route.

Whatever the motivation, Mulder was left with a breathtaking 
view.  Scully lay, sleeping quietly, angled across the generous 
four-poster bed.  Her red hair fanned out across the silky pillow 
cases.  She had fallen asleep with the dim bedside lamp burning.  
A book lay forgotten somewhere near her thigh.  The pajamas he 
had known her to favor had been traded for something silky and 
strappy he couldn't quite make out, but her bare shoulders were 
bright against the dark red sheets.

He could hear Christopher's soft snores from somewhere in the 
shadows behind the door.  Tasha slept on the floor at Scully's 
feet.  She opened her eyes and wagged her tail at Mulder, but 
didn't bother herself to move.

Mulder quietly leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the 
door casing, unable to pull his gaze from Scully.  Two years.  
Two years with only a single momentary glimpse of his partner, 
his best friend.  And now here she was, slumbering like a 
princess in a palace, dark wood and red silk and antique lamps 
coloring her world.  He swore she looked younger than when he had 
left.  And he was afraid to wake her.  Afraid to talk to her.  
Afraid to tell her...

Her whole world had changed while he had been gone.  And he 
didn't know where he fit into it anymore.  Things had seemed so 
clear when he left.  Nothing was clear anymore.
 
Mulder had barely moved to go when his toe caught the corner of a 
hard piece of plastic, and a loud electronic chord echoed through 
the quiet apartment.  One of Christopher's toys.

Scully jerked awake, head lifting from the pillow, hand reaching 
toward the empty mattress beside her.  "Daniel?"  Her whisper was 
hoarse from sleep.

Mulder froze.

Scully was breathing hard, caught in a twilight between 
consciousness and dreamland.  She hadn't seen him in the hallway 
shadows.  He was afraid to breathe.  She held her position for a 
long time, breath gradually slowing and he saw the reality taking 
hold behind her eyes.  And he felt sick when he realized the 
nature of the reality.

Remembering her husband was dead.

Scully was up on her elbow.  She closed her eyes and continued to 
breathe deeply, quieting her racing heart.  Two years away, and 
she was as beautiful as he had pictured her in memory.  What he 
had forgotten was the way the whole world felt more real when he 
was listening to her breath.  He saw the gentle quivering of her 
chin, the slight tension in her cheeks.  He saw her make the 
deliberate choice not to cry.  Then her eyes snapped open, 
eyebrow lifted and she looked pointedly toward the front of the 
apartment.

Remembering her partner was alive.

Despite the seemingly audible wave of panic that coursed through 
his veins, she still did not see him in the shadows.  He thanked 
his remaining shards of luck.  Eventually, she lowered her head 
gingerly to the pillow and he heard her delicate sigh as she let 
her weight sink into the mattress.  He waited several more 
breaths, then crept as silently as he could down the hall to the 
bathroom.

When he emerged, a soft light was spilling into the far end of 
the hall from the kitchen.  Scully's bedroom light had been 
doused.

Mulder hovered at the office door and drew a deep breath, then he 
snugged the worn rope on his sweatpants and padded out to the 
kitchen.

Scully was standing at the counter, wrapped in a thick terry-
cloth robe and bouncing a tea bag in a steaming mug.

"Did I wake you?" he said softly.

Scully glanced up.  "No, I don't think so."

He ventured a few steps into the kitchen.  It was a cozy room in 
the early hours.  Copper pots hanging from the ceiling, fresh 
flowers on the side counter.  He recognized bits and pieces from 
Scully's old apartment.

"Little guy still sleeping?"

She didn't turn from the counter; shook the drips off her tea bag 
and placed it on a saucer.  "He's a good sleeper.  Always has 
been.  He'll wake up one more time before morning."

Which was when Mulder pinned down the vague hissing noise he'd 
been tracking to the baby monitor resting beside Scully's saucer.

He waited to see if Scully would speak, if he was the only one 
carrying the attempts at conversation.  She remained silent, blew 
across the top of her mug.  He let the silence stretch.

Then finally, "Scully, if you aren't comfortable with me being 
here, I can go for now."

She drew a deep breath and lowered her mug to the counter, still 
cupping its warmth in her hands.  "No," she said simply.

Not a four star welcome, but it ranked above 'Get out'.

He stood quietly and waited.  Because that was what you did with 
Scully if you ever wanted to hear the rest of the story.  Some 
things were never forgotten.

At last she turned his direction and leaned back against the 
counter.  Her sleep tousled hair shadowed half of her face.  The 
dim light above the stove cast deceptive shadows.  But he could 
see the small familiar scar at the top of her cheekbone, the tiny 
flaw in the center of her eyebrow.  Two years was such a very 
long time without tangible details for the senses.

"Mulder, it's not that, it's just..." she trailed off, her brow 
drawing in, tension clouding her face.  "Mulder this is so huge.  
Do you have any idea...?  So much has happened since you left, 
and to try to work back through all of that in a matter of hours, 
to try to rearrange my entire conception of the course of my life 
these past two years, it's just...Mulder, I'm still working on 
the simple fact that you're alive.  That you're here.  That 
you...*did* this."

She looked at him with her final statement, her blue eyes 
piercing through the shadows, and the nuance of her voice shifted 
ever so slightly.  He felt the pricks of ice.

There was so much she needed to hear.  So much he needed to say.  
Her sharp little mind could work so quickly.  He didn't want her 
to puzzle things out too thoroughly before she had all the facts.

"Scully, I know how hard this must be for you--"

But she closed her eyes, jaw tightening.

"I can *imagine* how hard...

She reached back and propped the heels of her hands on the 
counter, focused on the floor.  Her voice chilled his blood.  
"How the hell could you do this?"  She ran her tongue over the 
corner of her mouth, looked to the side, lids heavy.  He had 
rarely seen her this angry, this hard.  The intensity of emotion, 
so quick to the surface, shocked him.  She shook her head, spoke 
under her breath.  "*Fuck.*"

*Jesus Christ.  Mark that on your calendar, ladies and gentleman.  
I, Fox Mulder, have finally pissed off Dana Scully beyond all 
rational belief.  Where the hell do I go from that?*

"Scully, listen to me.  There's a lot you don't know yet.  I 
understand why you're angry.  But, we made so many choices in our 
time together on the X-files.  Our lives were about the work.  
Always, the work.  Anything else was secondary, be that right or 
wrong, for years we--"

"Mulder, don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't...talk."

"I thought you wanted to hear--"

"It's three o'clock in the morning, Mulder.  I just...I came out 
here to get some tea and some fresh air.  I have to get up in the 
morning."

"It's Saturday."

"I have to go in to the lab at Quantico for a couple of hours."

They stood in silence, the air electric.  The soft buzz of the 
baby monitor seemed disproportionately loud.  Christopher 
snuffled, sighed.  The refrigerator cycled and hummed.

"I came out here to get some fresh air," Scully repeated, 
glancing toward the patio doors.

She picked up the baby monitor and her tea mug.  "You 
could...join me.  If you want."

The invitation was unexpected to say the least.  But he nodded, 
his gaze never leaving her shadowed countenance.  "I'd like 
that."

Scully cringed at his response.  Pained at the distance between 
them?  He could only hope.

He followed her in silence.

*****

Stepping onto the balcony was like stepping into another world.  
The night was so beautiful, soft and warm.  The wind caressed her 
throat and cheeks like comforting fingers.  Soothed her fiery 
nerves.  The sound of the water from the fountain carried through 
the greenery on the gentle wind.

Scully set the baby monitor on the small glass drink table, 
carried the mug with her to the wide railing.

Mulder stepped up beside her, a careful distance away.  Every 
move they had made in the past eleven hours had been careful.  
Once upon a time, they had religiously respected one another's 
boundaries, but they had moved with ease and confidence within 
them.  In moments it was easy to forget why they couldn't do that 
anymore.  It was always an effort to stay angry with Mulder.  No 
matter how legitimate the motive, no matter how righteous her 
indignation, it was hard not to fall back into being "Mulder and 
Scully".  She had given in far too many times to that force of 
nature.  But Mulder had crossed a line.  There was no surrender 
here.  Some betrayals could not be buried or forgotten.  If only 
his touch didn't feel so good.  So damn good.  He still used the 
same aftershave.  *Mulder, touch my hair.  Please.  Ask me if I'm 
okay?  Ask...*

"Thanks for giving me a place to crash."

She gazed out over the flickering leaves in the night garden.  
"Yeah, well...I had a feeling the 'alternative option' you spoke 
of was the Gunmen's place.  And I have slept on that couch."

She caught Mulder's smile out of the corner of her eye.  
*'There's a Michael Jackson joke in here somewhere, but I can't 
quite find it.'*  "When did *you* sleep on their couch?"

Her expression sobered a bit.  The wind pushed back her hair and 
she let her lids fall half closed.  "You've been gone a long 
time."

Mulder just nodded, bending to her mood.

Scully stretched her neck, turned her face to the sky and let the 
wind soothe her throat.  "So many stars tonight," she said.  "I 
haven't seen them in so long.  Haven't had a moment to look."

Mulder tilted his head to share her view.  "Me either, now that 
you mention it.  Guess I forgot about my 'watch the skies' 
philosophy for a while."

"I used to look all the time," Scully went on.  "You and I...we 
were always finding ourselves in the middle of nowhere, away from 
city lights.  And there were always *so many stars*.  I would 
just stand, entranced.  Like any proper city girl would be."

She saw Mulder in her peripheral vision.  Saw the hint of a 
smile.  He turned his focus from the sky to her profile.  
Listening.  Nodding.

"I remember going out to the vending machines for a soda, outside 
our motel rooms, and just being drawn out into the shadows, to 
gaze up at the stars."  She paused a moment, soaking in the view.  
Mulder maintained his focus on her.

"You caught me once.  You came out for a snack, too, and you 
found me...star-gazing."

She chanced a real glance Mulder's direction, and found him deep 
in memory, profoundly struck by her words.

"I remember that," he breathed, hovering in the past moment.  "We 
sat on the grass and watched them together."

Scully narrowed her eyes.  "We did."

They locked gazes, a million unspoken thoughts crackling in the 
night air.  But for the brief moment, they were Mulder and Scully 
again.  He was her Mulder, not the half stranger who had appeared 
at the door to her new life.  But the man with the soft boyish 
smile and the kind eyes that spoke of a thousand hurts; who had 
been at her side for seven years whenever she reached out a hand.  
The man with aliens in his nightmares and a secret fear of fire.  
The man she had followed on nothing but gut instinct and a 
nagging sensation that she had finally found somewhere she could 
belong.  Mulder and Scully, out in the night together.

"Mulder.  I have to know where you were.  Why you left."

She saw his throat tighten as he swallowed, but he didn't break 
their eye contact.  "I want to tell you.  I've wanted to tell you 
for two years now.  I'd lie awake at night wanting to tell you."

*I'd lie awake at night wondering how much you suffered when you 
died.  If you were alone.  If you wanted me.*

She didn't speak.

"Not tonight," Mulder whispered.  "You're tired." He reached out 
his hand and ever so delicately smoothed her hair behind her 
shoulder.  Every muscle in her stiffened beneath his touch.  
Without warning, she was a breath away from crying.

Mulder dropped his hand, and Scully lowered her gaze.  Time 
seemed to stop.

Scully broke the spell.  She turned away and picked up her 
things.  "We should both sleep."

Mulder played along.  "Yeah.  You go on.  I'll be in in a few 
minutes."

Scully slipped past him, pulling back the screen door.  She 
stopped on the threshold, turning back to face him.  She 
commanded his attention.  "Mulder?  That ear infection you had 
when you were a kid, the one that made your ear so sensitive?"

"Yeah?"

"Which ear was that?"

"My right."

Scully swallowed hard.  She kept her eyes on the wooden planks at 
his feet.  "Your right.  Yeah."  She withdrew into the shelter of 
her apartment.


*****

(End Chapter 17a.  Continued in 17b...)
Feedback.  Oh, yeah. - bstrbabs@gmail.com

--------------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A few people were somewhat thrown by the "ear 
infection" comment in chapter 17a.  If you were one of those 
people, go re-read the opening paragraph of Chapter 7a.  My 
fault, I know...it's been quite a while since that one was first 
posted...:)

 


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 17b



Gannon Michaels tapped his foot impatiently on the elevator floor 
as he watched the lighted numbers above the door slink their way 
toward three.  He glanced again at his watch.  Nine.  Scully had 
said she would be out at Quantico by nine.  Which meant he had 
about ten minutes until the latest she could leave and still make 
that goal.  He really wanted to catch her before she took off.

Granted, he could have called.  Could have sent her the autopsy 
photos by fax or email.  Could have asked her from the comfort of 
his office whether she thought the body really could have been 
decapitated by that tree branch, or if there was some weird truth 
to the local legend of an Ax-Wielding Witch flying by on her 
broomstick every seventh full moon.

But he had learned a few things about Dana Scully in the time 
they had worked together.  One of those gems of knowledge: there 
was often far more information in her silences than in her words.  
Those silences didn't transfer well over a phone.  If he wanted 
to squeeze every last drop of knowledge out of Dana, he needed to 
be eye to eye.  And despite its surface absurdity, something was 
telling Michaels this case had meat behind it.  And he was the 
only one paying enough attention to try to dig it out.

The elevator bell finally signaled his arrival, and it seemed at 
least a full minute before the doors slid open.  He shot out when 
there was barely room for the width of his chest, and charged 
down the hall, boots thunking dully on the heavy carpeting.  He 
slid to a halt at number 3370.

His thumb hit the doorbell even as his feet hit the doormat.

He heard Christopher's bright little voice from somewhere in the 
depths of the apartment.  Footsteps not far away, but that could 
have been the nanny.  A moment later the door swung open to 
reveal the woman who had once greeted him each workday.  She was 
in full uniform, pressed blue suit and black heels.  Not a hair 
out of place, make-up slick and subtle; single pearl earrings 
that reminded him of a pair he had once bought his wife.  He 
wondered if someone had bought those for Dana.

"Hey, I'm glad I caught you," he said with a smile.

Dana returned his smile with a subtle sideways grin, which, for 
her, was really a lot.  The warmth between them was still subtle, 
reserved, but easier now than it had once been, and certainly 
more frequent.  Motherhood could go a long way to soften a 
woman's exterior.  Especially, when she was speaking to an 
experienced and enthusiastic father.  But widowhood had dropped a 
lot of walls back into their accustomed place between Dana and 
the world.  Unfortunately, Michaels had found himself on the 
outside of those walls a time or two.  He couldn't blame her.  
Not with what she had suffered.

"Hello," she said, slyly playful.  "Did I used to work with 
someone who looks like you?"

"You might have."

"And didn't I transfer into a department where I no *longer* work 
with someone who looks like you?"

"You might have."

"Didn't I just see you about two nights ago?"

"I'm not sayin'."

Her half-smile softened into something more genuine.  "I'm almost 
out the door.  What do you need?"

He held out a file folder.  "Decapitation.  I don't like it."

She stared at him for a moment.  "Good...?" she said, cautiously 
taking the folder.

"I mean, I don't like the case.  Seems too cut and dried.  Well, 
now that's just wrong.  I mean cut...  I need to know if there's 
something here."

Scully nodded, flipping open the folder, but only for a cursory 
glance.  "Can I get back to you this afternoon?  I really am 
running late, but I can look it over while I'm at work this 
morning, get back to you by noon?"

"No problem."

"I'll call you.  Are you home today or in the office?"

"Both.  My boy's got a soccer game this morning I don't want to 
miss, but after that I'm putting in some work time.  Backlog like 
you wouldn't believe."

"Yeah, actually, I would."

He smiled.  "Yeah, I suppose you would.  But, then again, maybe 
when you were in there--" but he broke off as his focus was drawn 
by a flicker of movement in the apartment over Scully's shoulder.  
On the far side of the living room, near the entrance to the 
kitchen, stood a man.  A man, whom, at first glance, he did not 
know.  The man stood, in black jeans, and a T-shirt, one hand on 
his hip, hanging back, yet gazing surreptitiously in their 
direction.  Gannon stared a moment longer, not wanting to be 
rude, sensing Scully's awareness of his distraction, yet unable 
to shake the notion that--no.  NO.  That just wasn't possible.

He kept his gaze on the figure in the background.  "Agent 
Waterston?" he said evenly.

Scully kept her hand resting casually on the doorknob, posture 
relaxed, but she was no longer welcoming eye contact.  "Yeah?"

"Who am I lookin' at?"

Scully drew a slow breath through her nose, then took a step 
back, pushing the door fully open as she moved.  She swung out a 
hand toward the figure behind her.  "Gannon?  Meet Fox Mulder.  
Mulder...Agent Gannon Michaels."  She didn't look at either of 
them.

Michaels almost fell off the doormat.  He looked hard at Dana, 
but she wasn't biting, her gaze locked on the floor.  The man 
behind her stepped forward with broad, confident strides, hand 
outstretched, brow furrowed.  Michaels took his hand.  Firm 
handshake.  Long, confident fingers, circling his contrastingly 
thick hands.  "Agent Michaels," the man said.  Deep voice.

"Pleased to meet you," Michaels responded, reciting on rote.  He 
saw Scully shift uncomfortably, swallow hard.

"Have you worked with Scully?" the man she called Mulder asked.

"I did for a while.  Hell of a good Agent."

"Best there is.  So, what department are you in now?"

But Scully answered for him.  "Mulder, Agent Michaels is...well, 
he's you.  He is, now, the head of the X-Files."

Mulder stared at him, eyes narrowing, a look of wonder glossing 
his expression.  "Really.  Now that is interesting.  I would like 
to have a talk with you sometime, Agent Michaels."

"I would like that myself.  We should do lunch.  Now, if you'll 
excuse me...,"  he turned to face Dana, "could I speak with you 
in the hall for a minute?"

"Yeah," Scully said, voice almost a whisper.  She glanced briefly 
toward Mulder, made solid eye contact, and Michaels saw the 
lightning silent communication.  Hot damn.  This was Mulder.  
Holy fuck.  This was *Mulder*.

Scully brushed past Michaels and out the door, letting it swing 
half closed behind her.

Michaels followed her a few feet down the hall and circled until 
they were face to face.  "Dana?"

He waited for real eye contact.  Didn't get it.  "Yeah?"

"Dana, look at me."  Got it.  He lifted his eyebrows and shrugged 
his shoulders, asking the obvious question.

Her left lid fluttered, and she folded her arms across her chest.  
"Yeah," she whispered.  "I looked about like you do now around 
five o'clock yesterday afternoon."

"You're telling me that's really Mulder in there.  *Mulder*.  
Mulder is alive."

She arched her eyebrow, nodded.  "Apparently," she said, her 
voice hoarse.

"What the--Dana, I don't know what the hell to say to that.  
Where the hell has he been?  I--did you know?  You didn't...you 
didn't know all along...?"

She shook her head.  "No.  No.  I wouldn't...," but the thought 
faded unfinished, and he couldn't even guess where the rest of 
her sentence would have gone.  "I'm less than twenty-four hours 
ahead of you, here."

And the shakiness in her voice, the whisper of vulnerability, 
turned his attentions from the shock of the situation, the 
logistics, to the impact on the woman standing before him.  He 
drew a few controlled breaths, combed his fingers back through 
his hair.  "Is he okay?" he asked, voice warming.

She nodded slowly.  "I think so.  He seems fine."

"I know you don't need me to ask this, but you're...you're 
*certain* that's really Mulder in there?"

Dana's eyes slipped closed.  "I'm certain.  It never occurred to 
me when I first saw him, either, but now...it's Mulder."

"My God..."

He let that information soak into his bones for a long minute.  
Then he realized Dana was shaking, and Michaels reached out a 
hand and cupped it to her elbow.  She stiffened, but didn't pull 
away.  "Are you okay?" he asked softly.

She gave a soft exhale that held a trace of pained laughter.  "I 
have...*no* idea," she said openly, tears hazing her eyes.

"Jesus, Dana.  I don't even know whether to give congratulations 
or condolences.  I'm really not prepared for this occasion."

This time she did give a hint of a genuine smile, but her eyes 
were still wet.  A rare thing in the world--seeing Dana on the 
verge of tears.

"I'm gonna call you later," he said firmly, hand still holding 
her elbow.

Dana nodded.  "Yeah."

"I just, I want to know...  Just take care of yourself, all 
right, and keep me updated?"

"I will.  Thank you.  I, uh...I need to get to work."  She was 
gathering her strengths, re-engaging her professional persona.  
But the arm muscles beneath his fingers were still quivering.

"All right."

"I'll look at that X-File as soon as I can."

"Take your time.  If there *is* a witch in those woods, she's 
been there for a century, she'll be there tomorrow."

"Hey, what the hell, maybe Mulder will look at it for you.  You 
could have the real thing."

"I think I've had the real thing all along."

She only closed her eyes and turned back toward her apartment.

*Mulder.*  The things that can pop into your Saturday morning.  
Boy, was Amanda going to love this one.


*****


When she stepped back into the apartment, the first thing she saw 
was Christopher in Mulder's arms.  The two of them looked up at 
her in unison, Mulder's expression sheepish, hesitant.  Scully 
was surprised how forcefully the image struck her, and she leaned 
back on the apartment door as she closed it, ostensibly pushing 
it closed.  She stayed there a beat too long, and Mulder tried to 
read her hesitation.

"He--he was looking for you.  I think he was afraid you left 
without telling him.  I just thought I should pick him up.  Is 
that okay?"

*Jesus.*  How the hell had they gone from, "Here, Mulder, trash 
my reputation, finger me as a murderer on my death bed and keep 
yourself out of prison" to "Is it okay that I touched your son?"  
They had to fix this.  This roller coaster of emotions was making 
her nauseous.  But it was his card to play.  His story to tell.  
Until he started clearing pawns off the board, they would remain 
at this stalemate.  "Of course, it's okay," she said softly.  
"Thank you."

She forced herself into motion, crossed the room to where Mulder 
stood.  She gently brushed back Christopher's hair, and he batted 
at her hand.  Then he leaned out toward her, and Mulder passed 
his sweet warmth into her arms.

"So, Agent Michaels was your partner?"

Scully kept her eyes on Christopher.  Mulder's forced casual tone 
almost made her smile in the midst of the tension.  Someone else 
had the X-Files.  She was surprised Mulder's temples weren't 
visibly pulsating.  It had damn near killed *her* to let go of 
the strings, let alone Mulder.  But somewhere deep within, some 
long needy part of her was being quietly stroked.  Mulder had 
been here this many hours--and he hadn't once asked about the 
state of the X-Files.  Only about her.  That had never happened 
before.  *"I needed your medical expertise...Harold Spuller. Oh, 
I'm sorry, I didn't even ask you. What did your doctor say?"*
"Gannon was assigned to the X-Files a few months after you left.  
We worked together until I went on leave."  Mulder listened 
quietly.  After a long pause, Scully turned and looked him in the 
eye.  "He's a good man, Mulder.  It took me a long time to give 
him a chance.  But he stuck it out, despite my lack of a generous 
welcome, and he more than proved he was deserving of my trust.  
He's sharp.  He's honest.  His heart's in the right place.  His 
wife and kids mean the world to him.  And he believes in the 
work."

"Another believer for your skepticism?" Mulder smirked.

"No, actually.  He was more skeptical than I in the beginning.  
But, I could see a bit of the ghost of my former self in him, and 
I think that helped me lead him over to the dark side."

"So...you're saying *you* took over *my* role."

"Not exactly."

Mulder smiled.  But she could see the heavier thoughts behind his 
surface lightness.

"He has a new partner, now," she continued.  "An Agent George 
Brennen.  I don't know him well."

"What does Agent Michaels think of him?"

Scully thought about that before responding.  She kissed 
Christopher's warm skin.  "My impression, is that he thinks 
Brennen is a good agent, but he's still not convinced he's right 
for the X-Files."

"So, he still comes to you for help."

"Yeah.  He does."  They held one another's gazes for a long 
moment, and Scully knew, just *knew* they were back there 
together.  Phone call after phone call, day after day.  Her in 
the lab, Mulder in the field, but in the end nothing the Powers 
That Be could do to keep them apart.  Partners to the end.

Until one of them left.  By choice.

She broke the moment.

"I have to go.  I'm late, I'm meeting a student."  She turned 
away and hefted Christopher higher onto her hip, gathering her 
things ready to go.

"Yeah, I should get moving, too."

She glanced up, surprised at his words.  It hadn't occurred to 
her he had anywhere to go.  Should have, of course.  There were 
probably a thousand things he needed to attend to.  But nothing 
was following traditional logic in her mind right now.  "Where 
are you going?"

"Gotta see a man about a job," he said with an almost sad little 
smile.  "See if I'm going to have a shot at getting myself a 
place to keep my beer anytime soon."

"You said you don't have a cell phone right now.  How can I...?"

"Is your cell number the same?  I should be back before you are."

"No, actually, mine's different.  Daniel and I--we combined ours 
onto a family plan.  I stayed with that service.  Let me write it 
down for you."  She set Christopher down in the boppy pillow 
positioned at the center of a blanket of toys on the dining room 
floor.  She snatched a notepad and pen from the roll-top desk and 
jotted down her number, ripped off the top page and handed it to 
Mulder.

"Thanks," he said, reading the number before he tucked the small 
yellow paper into his jeans pocket.

Scully hesitated, not moving.

"What?" Mulder asked.

"Um...actually, I can give you a phone to use for today."

"A phone?"

She returned to the desk and rolled back the cover.  She took a 
phone matching hers, save for the added leather cover, from one 
of the narrow cubby holes.  "I haven't gotten around to canceling 
Daniel's line.  I kept it for a while, since his patients were 
still calling.  I could have had it forwarded, or left a recorded 
message, but...that was so impersonal...  He only gave the number 
to his critical patients.  No one really calls anymore, I 
just...well...I just hadn't cancelled it," she said, her tone 
giving a finality to the subject.  But she was holding out the 
phone to Mulder and he wasn't taking it.

"Scully, I don't know.  I mean..."  He cringed, looking down at 
her, seeking, imploring.  "It's only a couple of hours..."

Scully moistened her lips, conscious of her lipstick, conscious 
of the ripples and echoes in the room.  Christopher squealed 
delightedly behind her, discovering the world one tiny moment at 
a time.  She propped a hand on her hip, still holding out the 
phone.  "Take it.  Please."

Another beat passed before Mulder's warm fingers caressed her 
palm as he scooped the small metal object into his hand.

"Thanks."
 
"I have to go."

She picked up her things--briefcase, student file folders, breast 
pump case, then stooped to the ground to gather Christopher.  On 
her feet, she pulled open the door; she was a step away from the 
hall, when Mulder's hand settled between her shoulder blades and 
took her breath away.

"Scully?"

"What?"

When she turned, his hazel eyes had darkened, color shifting with 
his mood as it always had.  A few strands of his hair had slipped 
down over his furrowed brow.  She wanted to run her fingers 
through and gather his hair in her hand.  *"...even if George 
Hale only saw elves in his mind, the telescope still got built.*  
But she only looked at him a little impatiently while Christopher 
pulled on her blouse button.

"Scully, you said you were taking Christopher to your mother's.  
Is there any chance she could keep him a couple of extra hours?  
That way...we could talk..."

And she understood almost before he spoke what he meant to talk 
*about*.

Scully swallowed hard.  He was ready to tell her.  Her stomach 
ached from too much adrenaline and too little food.

"I, uh...I'd prefer to have Christopher home, but...if I ask Mom 
to make sure he stays awake this morning, he'll nap for a couple 
of hours when we get home.  That should give us...some time."

Mulder nodded soberly.  "Okay.  I'll see you later, then?"

But she couldn't answer.  It was too much like saying "Goodnight" 
once upon a time.  Too easy to take the next "Good Morning" for 
granted.  She turned and walked away.


*****


Sheets of rain blurred the narrow strip of window at the top of 
her office wall.  Late autumn in Virginia.  Scully sat at her 
desk, trying to focus on the student paper in front of her, on 
the *student* beside her.

"I don't understand.  Dr. Waterston, what exactly did you want 
from this project that I didn't accomplish?"

Scully drew a deep breath, willed her mind into the present.  She 
propped her arm on the desktop, hand at the top of the student's 
paper.  She twirled her wedding diamond absently.  "Josh, I gave 
you an 80 out of a hundred possible points, that's a very solid 
grade.  That grade doesn't indicate any major deficiency on your 
part."

"Dr. Waterston, by some grading scales, that is a 'C'.  I don't 
get 'C's'.  I get 'A's'."

Scully sucked in her cheeks, pursed her lips.  "Josh.  This is 
not like college.  This is the FBI Academy.  A past history of 
academic excellence certainly is helpful, yes.  But this is a 
different kind of education we're offering here.  The emphasis is 
on the practical, the everyday procedures and thought patterns 
that you need to imprint upon your brain.  It's a shock, if 
you've spent much of your life focused on the purely academic 
world.  I suffered some of that shift myself when I first came to 
the Academy.  But the fact is, you may yet lack the hands-on 
experience to get straight 'A's' in this class.  And that's okay.  
This is still early.  You're getting your experience right here.  
That's one reason the final exam weighs so heavily into your 
grade.  By that time, I hope my students have gained much of the 
knowledge and experience they need to excel."

Josh continued to stare at her like she was speaking a foreign 
language.  Apparently, his entire purpose in requesting this 
private conference, had been to find a way to convince her that 
she had made a mistake on his grade.  This was not Josh's lucky 
day.

"Josh.  You wrote a good paper.  You gave me a sample scenario 
that is very much by the book.  But you were lacking in original 
thought.  Innovation, ingenuity.  In the field, ninety percent of 
the situations you will encounter will not be covered in the 
manual.  Trust me on this.  Go home.  Think some more.  Think 
about ways you might have better driven the investigation that 
are not recitations from the rule book."

"Are you suggesting I should deviate from procedure?"

"No.  I'm suggesting you not be a slave to procedure to the point 
of being blinded by it, and that you not fail to fill in where 
the instructions are lacking.  I'm suggesting you take the rules, 
then add the necessary foresight and understanding to apply them 
to a real life situation."

Nope.  Still talking to a blank wall.

She handed back his paper.  "Give it your best shot.  If the next 
paper doesn't get a higher score, come back and we'll talk some 
more."

Josh reluctantly took his leave.  Scully pushed the door closed 
behind him, sat back down, and dropped her head onto her desk.  
Every muscle was exhausted.  The previous night's sleep had been 
anything but restful.

She wondered where Mulder was.  She toyed with the idea of 
calling his cell phone.  But she was absurdly uncomfortable with 
the notion of trying it.  What if he didn't answer?  What if he 
had vanished again?  It was easier to believe he was there on the 
other end of the line if she wanted him.  No doubt he was 
tracking down various higher-ups in the Bureau who owed him 
favors, campaigning to get himself reinstated as a Special Agent.  
Maybe he was seeking out his former VCU connections.

Scully glanced at her watch.  After ten-thirty already.  She 
straightened the stack of papers on her desk and slid them back 
into her briefcase.  Her eye caught the photograph on the corner 
of her desk.  A snapshot of Daniel and herself in the park just 
down the street.  He had stopped by to surprise her for lunch one 
afternoon, brought along a picnic basket.  They had stretched out 
on the grass in the brilliant summer sun, stepping outside their 
everyday lives if only for that short hour, and looking at the 
world through children's eyes.  Daniel had been snapping pictures 
of her as she tried to duck his persistent lens.  But, in truth 
he had been a good photographer.  He had dabbled in amateur 
photography, taken classes over the years.  He had taken one 
black and white portrait of her that was the only picture of 
herself she truly loved.  Thoughtful, hair blowing in the wind.  
He had captured something, something of the woman she hoped she 
was that she had never seen in the Polaroid snaps at family 
parties and national monuments.  But this photo on her desk; for 
this one, Daniel had grabbed a young man passing on a skateboard, 
and ask him to snap the picture of the two of them.  The boy had 
been very friendly, very willing to help.  He had snapped two or 
three shots of them before moving on, one of those the picture 
she now held in her fingers.

They sat in the grass, Daniel with one knee casually raised, she 
half lying across his lap, and both of them smiling.

And when she remembered Daniel, there were two moments she most 
loved to conjure.  One on the bridge the night they had first 
kissed again.  The smell of his cologne, the feel of his breath, 
the warmth of his body, the shelter of his arms, the strength of 
his profile in the shadows.  *"Keep me warm."*  The other moment 
lay captured in this photograph.  His thinning hair tousled in 
the wind, his smile reckless and joyful, like the boy he had once 
been who had loved to ride horses and steal his sister's 
barrettes and hide them in the flour canister.  The boy who had 
believed he would always be loved, and that he would never fail 
the woman he adored.  All of it untainted.  She had felt 
beautiful, being the one to let him recapture that slice of 
innocence, if only for a moment.

*God, Daniel.  I miss you so much...*

Scully set down the photograph, and picked up her briefcase.  The 
remainder of the grades could be entered on Monday morning.  She 
would come in early if she had to, finish the computer work 
before her first class.  Right now, she needed to pick up her 
son.  She needed to go home.

*Mulder.  Please be there when I get home.*


*****

End of Chapter 17b.  (Continued in 17c...)

Feedback is better than cookies -- bstrbabs@gmail.com

------------


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 17c



She settled deeper into the couch cushions, tea glass in her hand 
and baby monitor on the narrow table behind the couch.  
Christopher had played joyfully with Maggie Scully's newest 
bottle of nail polish for nearly the whole car ride home before 
slipping into peaceful slumber a block from their apartment.  
Scully had carried his sleepy warmth up to the safe comfort of 
his crib; tucked in his Pooh Bear beside him.  Sometimes it was 
hard to let go of him when he slept.

"Are you sure that doesn't need sugar?" Mulder asked, eyeing her 
glass suspiciously as she drank.

She nodded.  "Thanks, I'm sure."

Mulder shrugged.  "Each to his own."  He took another sip of his 
heavily sweetened tea, then set it carefully on the wooden 
coaster on the coffee table.  They were trying for casual 
conversation, milling about like lost souls as they got their 
drinks, settled into comfortable places in the living room.  How 
did you make small talk leading into the pivotal subject of your 
life?

"So, how goes the teaching?" Mulder asked.  "Are you enjoying 
it?"

She nodded thoughtfully, lowered her glass to her thigh, then 
took another sip and returned it to the coffee table.  "It has 
its moments.  Some days you think you're talking to a brick wall.  
Like this morning.  But other days you feel like you're making a 
difference."

"I'm sure you are."

She tried to smile, but it wouldn't hold.  Smiles rarely did 
these days.  "What about you, any prospects of a job?"

He shrugged.  "Here and there.  It'll be easier to track people 
down on Monday.  But I hit on a contact or two.  Did the 
necessary amount of sucking up.  I think I foresee more groveling 
in my future.  We'll see."

"I think it will work out for you.  You're a good agent, and 
judging by the recruits we have coming through at the moment, I 
think the administration would be wise to hold onto the current 
talent for a while longer."

He laughed softly, and her chest contracted.

He gestured toward the piano.  "Do you play?"

She glanced over her shoulder, shook her head.  "No.  I did, a 
little.  A long time ago.  But haven't touched it in years.  I 
should--"

"I didn't want you to die."

Her stomach dropped.  His hand stroked the length of her hair.  
"What?" she whispered.

Mulder shifted position, swiped one hand down his face, kept the 
other close to her shoulder.  "Several months before I left, I 
became aware of a large group of individuals working underground.  
A kind of...covert rebel force, if you will.  Much larger, in 
fact, than I had originally guessed."

"A rebel force against what?"

He gazed at her for a long moment, a shade of kindness in his 
eyes that made her want to shy away.

Scully stiffened when he cupped his warm hand to the back of her 
neck, burrowing beneath her hair.  "This," he said simply.

She shook her head, effectively shaking him off, then mourned the 
loss.  "I don't understand."

Mulder pulled his hand back.  If he felt the affront, he didn't 
show it.  "This group was started by men who had lost people 
close to them.  Women, mostly.  Wives, girlfriends, mothers, 
sisters."

"Abductees."

Mulder nodded.  "Yes."

"And they died of...?"

"Some of cancer."  It was still hard for him to say the word.  
All these years, and she heard the threads of pain woven into his 
voice.

"They had their chips removed?"

"Yes."

"And the others?  How did they die?"

"Different ways.  Fire.  Drowning.  All of them had been...lead 
somewhere, by the chip.  Or by...whoever was controlling the 
chip.  The same way you were called to Ruskin Dam.  Some of them 
had been called on more than one occasion before the destinations 
turned lethal.  It may or may not have been the intent of those 
controlling the chips, but it was the end result all the same.  
They were caught in the middle of a war."

Scully swallowed hard.  She focused for a moment on Christopher's 
quiet breaths on the baby monitor by her shoulder.  The two 
worlds didn't mesh.  But that had been the problem all along, 
hadn't it?  The reason she had almost left Daniel in this very 
room a year and a half ago.  A vague memory of the alien pull 
washed over her.  The irresistible sense of need, purpose.  She 
had learned to turn the memory away.

"So...we know all of this.  What's new?  This group you're 
talking about, what did they do?"

"They started a kind of private research project.  Some of them 
were scientists, others just hopeful amateurs.  But they grew, 
gained resources, equipment."

"Researching what, exactly?"

"The nature of the chips.  How they function, the influences they 
exert over those in whom they have been implanted."

"Toward what end?"

"What end for the abductees?"

"For the researchers.  I mean, I'm assuming we're not talking 
pure research here.  They must have had a practical goal in mind 
when this project was begun."  It was so much easier to keep 
talking when she could distance herself from the material.  She 
was falling back into a long familiar rhythm.  Exchanging factual 
information with Mulder.  Working through motive, methodology, 
sequence of events.  Extrapolating the story.

Mulder nodded.  "Very much so.  They were seeking to find a way 
of removing the chips.  A way of freeing these people from alien 
control.  A way of giving them their lives, their security back--
without giving them cancer."

So there it was.  The sweet spot.  The seed of inspiration that 
had gone on to explode her life, rip her heart to shreds.

"I see," she said softly, eyes no longer locked with his, but 
focusing through thick lashes on the cloth of the couch cushion 
between them.

"Scully...I needed to know what these people were doing.  What 
they had accomplished."

She nodded, but didn't lift her gaze.  Her pulse was thudding 
gently against her ear drums.

"I tried.  But their doors were locked down tight.  Insiders 
only.  And even then, even within their organization, everything 
operated on a need-to-know basis.  Only the most trusted members 
are given any real intelligence on the project's approaches, 
their progress.  These people live in terror, Scully.  Terror of 
both the government and the aliens.  They believe many of the 
world's governments struck a deal with the alien forces decades 
ago, that they are now an equal danger to anyone trying to buck 
the tide, anyone working against the ultimate colonization."

"So, you decided...to go inside."

Mulder leaned toward her, scooting inches closer on the couch.  
Scully pulled away.  He spoke.  "I found out just enough to know 
that they were making progress, Scully.  Real progress.  But they 
could have been stopped any day.  By our government, or by 
others...  And it all could have been lost.  Lost to them, lost 
to us.  I made a connection, Scully.  A miracle happened, and a 
door of opportunity opened in front of me.  I chose to take it.  
I didn't see I had much choice."

Scully felt his words like a punch in the stomach.  She could 
barely catch her breath to speak.  Her cheeks flushed with heat.  
"You didn't see you had a choice," she parroted.

Mulder's expression reflected such deep pain she should have been 
pulled into sympathy with him.  But she felt only cold.  She knew 
every part of her was hurting, but she knew it only with her 
mind.  Her senses had iced over and wouldn't register the ache 
until the impending thaw.

"Scully.  I walked across a bridge filled with burned bodies.  
Some of them with red hair just like yours.  I thought you were 
one of them.  I thought you were *one* of them.  And I had been 
right beside you just that very day, and I hadn't seen a thing.  
I hadn't been able to lift a finger to stop it.  I thought you 
burned to death, Scully.  And everyday for the next two years, I 
had a knot in my stomach every moment you were out of my sight.  
Because it was ever-present in the back of my mind.  Which night, 
Scully?  Which night would it be when they called you away 
again?"

Scully folded her arms across her chest, pressing against the 
hard knot below her ribcage.  "So, you did this...so you would 
feel better?"  She was digging a knife into a wounded deer.  But 
her reaction was gut instinct.  It was all she had right now.

"Scully...your life is dependent upon the functioning of that 
chip in your neck.  You know that.  I don't care what else you 
say you might believe about the sources of your miracle cure, I 
know, that somewhere inside you, you know the truth of that 
statement.  But as long as that chip is in your body, you are not 
safe.  And neither is your son," he said, gesturing toward the 
back bedroom.

"Who the hell are you to question the safety of my son?"

"Someone who knows you.  Who knows your life."

"You know far less than you think."

Mulder took the hit, swallowed hard, and she felt her walls 
thickening.  *Hit me, again, Mulder.  Try to make me break.*  
"That may be, Scully.  But this is all I knew how to do to help 
you.  I saw my shot, and I took it."

"And what did it get you?  Did you learn anything?"

He pulled back from her, ran his tongue over his generous lips, 
his fingers combed through his hair.  "I did," he said softly, 
eyes narrowing.  "I learned a lot.  That's why I'm back here."

Scully arched a cold eyebrow.  "Well?  Where's the magic potion, 
Mulder?"

"I did bring something back with me, Scully.  But I don't want to 
talk about that now.  Let's just get through the first part of 
this before we dive into that."

Scully cracked an utterly humorless smile, looked at the ceiling, 
sideways to the fireplace, anywhere but at Mulder.  She shook her 
head incredulously.  "Oh, that's beautiful.  Yeah, it hasn't been 
long enough, Mulder.  We should wait some more.  Bury ourselves 
in more veils.  Let the lies collect."

"Scully..."

"What in God's name were you thinking, Mulder?"

"I was thinking I wanted to save your life."

"I wasn't dying."

"Not yet."

"Any of us could die any day."

"Not all of us have a slow metal killer sealed beneath our skin."

"*My* skin."

"I made a choice.  A painstaking and horrible choice, but one I 
stand by."

"It wasn't your choice to make."

"How?"

"Ho--"  Scully breathed out hard, lost for words.  She pushed up 
from the couch, paced in a circle, turned back, flicked open her 
suit coat to prop her fists on her hip bones.  "How was it not 
your choice?  You...you have got to be the single most selfish 
and egotistical bastard I have ever known in my life.  Seven 
goddammned years, and never once did you look up from your self-
centered little view of the fucking universe to see how your 
decisions might affect those around you."

Mulder was caught completely off guard, looking at her with the 
injured shock of a child turned on by his most trusted guardian.  
She had never spoken to him like this before, but maybe she 
should have.  Maybe she should have.  The flash of vulnerability 
passed in a second, and he was on the defensive, jaw hardening, 
eyes flashing.  "Self-centered.  I'm self-centered.  I may be an 
asshole, Scully, but I'm having a little trouble taking the self-
centered right now.  I don't have a house.  I don't have a job.  
I don't have my family photographs or my third grade baseball 
glove or my fish or a credit card.  I lost all of it.  Gave up my 
life, my past.  For you.  Now, how is that self-centered?"

Scully breathed heavily for a moment, eyebrows lifted, gaze on 
the floor at her feet.  "For me.  Well...," she cocked her head 
sharply to the side, "thank you.  Thank you so much."

"Well, call me crazy, Scully, for ever thinking you might 
genuinely say that to me."

She finally looked him in the eye and the fire between them 
prickled the fine hair on her skin.  "You honestly think I should 
thank you?"

He held his hands out, palms raised in mock surrender.  "The 
thought did cross my mind."

"You let me think you were dead.  For *two years*."

"I had to."

"No, Mulder.  You didn't."

"I did."

"You found something.  You wanted to go undercover.  I'm your 
partner.  Why, in the name of God, couldn't you tell me?  Let me 
work with you?"

"Scully...you would never have let me go.  You know that.  Not 
like I did, not alone."

She scoffed.  "You're damn right.  What you did was stupid, 
Mulder.  You don't go in without back-up.  It's a half-assed 
rookie mistake, and by all rights you should be dead now."

"Their security was too good, Scully.  I couldn't have any ties.  
I had to be someone else, had to go in through the back door and 
stay long enough to earn their trust from the ground up."

"So, you had to vanish, do this yourself.  Fine.  You told me you 
were *dead*."

"I had to."

She just stared at him, unable to speak.

"Scully...  You're the best agent I've ever worked with."

She looked away, "Fuck you," shut him out.

"Scully listen to me.  You wouldn't have stopped.  You wouldn't 
have stopped looking until you found me.  I know you.  When you 
set your mind to something, you make it happen.  You're a better 
agent than I am when it comes to this kind of thing.  No matter 
how hard I tried to cover my trail, there was still a chance 
you'd track me down and blow my cover.  I couldn't take that 
chance.  Not if this was it, if this was our only chance.  You 
could have blown the whole operation, the chances for all the 
other victims.  So, I set everything in place to make it 
convincing.  To make certain you believed I was gone, that it was 
pointless to keep searching."

"So you cut the strings.  You faked the Gunmen's connection.  
Sent word you had died."

Mulder's brow furrowed.  He looked sick.

The feeling was mutual.

"No, Scully.  They were aware of the plan.  When I knew for 
certain the information I'd gathered was legitimate, knew I had a 
real way in the door, I cut off surveillance communications.  And 
I sent word to start the gears in motion for the long term 
option."

Scully stared him down for a long moment, breath shallow, 
quivering.  "They knew?" she whispered.

His expression was all the answer she needed.

"Scully..."

"Shut up."

The silence in the apartment pressed heavily upon her skin.

"Scully, I had no way of knowing it would be so long.  I left for 
home as soon as I could."

"Mulder..."  She was focused on the floor, painfully dizzy, 
deliberately evening out her breath.  Her words were slow, 
precise and deliberate.  "You broke--every--sacred--trust--we 
had."

"To save your life."

"To follow a long shot."  There was a thickness in her voice, 
tears somewhere behind the surface, but that dam couldn't break 
yet.

Mulder pushed to his feet, took a step toward her.  Scully 
stepped back, and Tasha moved to sit by Scully's feet, leaned 
protectively against her leg.

"Scully.  I never wanted to have to hurt you.  You were--"

"Stop."  Her voice was quiet.  Definitive.  She couldn't look at 
him, but her composure was intact.  "I think..."  She cleared her 
throat.  "I think you need to find someplace else to stay 
tonight."

She wanted to throw-up.

Mulder stood frozen before her, long legs crammed in between the 
sofa and the coffee table, shoulders slumped beneath an invisible 
burden.

At last he nodded.  Mulder took his leather jacket from the coat 
tree.  He unhooked Daniel's phone from his waistband and set it 
beside the baby monitor.  He calmly turned back the chain and the 
deadbolt.  He left the apartment and shut the door.

Ten seconds of silence.  Then Scully grasped the porcelain vase 
from the coffee table, and hurled it across the room.  The vase 
smashed to bits on the fireplace in the echoes of her primitive 
cry.

The rush of adrenaline left her panting for breath; Tasha paced 
worriedly at her feet.  The gulps of air locked in her throat and 
the ache throughout her body awoke and spread like acid.  She 
caught her breath on a knife-sharp sob.  She lifted trembling 
fingers to shelter her eyes.  A quiet breath and she melted to 
the carpet, burying her tears in the shelter of the couch 
cushions.  Tasha lay down beside her, and Christopher quietly 
slept.


*****

(End Chapter 17c.  Continued in Chapter 18a...)
Will Write For Feedback -- bstrbabs@gmail.com

---------


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 18a


"It's not like you to say sorry,
I was waiting on a different story."
              "How You Remind Me" by Nickelback



*I got knocked out once last year.  Long story.  But I blacked 
out good, and woke up in a hospital room.  In the first moments I 
was opening my eyes, forging through the familiar black haze and 
clawing my way up to consciousness--I expected to see you there.  
Because in the past...you always had been.  I would wake up and 
catch the smell of medicine and disinfectant in my nostrils and 
somewhere in the undercurrent would be your perfume.  I would 
reach out my hand and you would be there.  Seated by the hospital 
bed, or standing by the window.  Or just stepping back in the 
room from a quick run to the vending machines down the hall.  
When I woke up and realized you weren't there--and then realized 
you wouldn't be--it was the loneliest moment of my life.*



"Wake up!"

Mulder jolted from his pillow, traces of his dream overlaying 
reality.  The voice he had heard seemed so incongruous he was 
tempted to credit it to his dream.  Until he heard it again.

"Jesus, Mulder, you look like hell."

Mulder shifted from his stomach onto his side, squinting at the 
thin line of sunlight spilling through the crack in the motel 
curtains.  A familiar, toad-like silhouette hovered above him.

"Rise and shine.  You've got a lot to do today."

Melvin Frohike turned and whipped open the ugly plaid curtains, 
flooding the room with late morning sun.

Mulder slapped a hand over his eyes.  "What the hell?!  Are you 
trying to blind me?  What are you doing here?  And how did you 
even get in here?"

"I came to do this."

Out of the blue, a hard object smacked Mulder upside the head.

"Ow!  What the fuck was that?"

"An attempt to save your ass, my friend.  What were you 
thinking?"

Mulder tried to lower his hand, but couldn't manage more than a 
squint in the piercing light.  He coughed, cleared his throat and 
rubbed at the side of his neck.  "What was I thinking about what?  
How did you even know I was here?" 

"We weren't expecting you to pick up your new paperwork last 
night.  Thought we had until Monday.  We slapped it together so 
fast, we wanted to make sure everything washed.  Checked on your 
credit card, and found the motel charge."

"Which still doesn't tell me what the hell you're doing in my 
room, much less why you just hit me!"

Mulder shifted position, sitting upright now, legs still beneath 
the beaten-down motel comforter.  Blue-green-maroon paisley.  The 
comforter from any of a hundred motel rooms he had slept in in 
his life.  Mulder straightened the waistband of his sweats and 
tried again to fully open his eyes.  The room was stuffy, stale.  
He needed a shower and some fresh air and a chance to sort 
through his thoughts.  He was still caught in incoherent dream 
memories.  Rain.  Needles.  A fireplace.  Red hair.  Scully's 
hand over his.  Running down a rainsoaked alley, Scully's trench 
coat ahead of him, flapping in the wind.

He needed black coffee.

Frohike frowned and leaned in for a closer view of Mulder's jaw 
in the glaring sun.  "Hey, that's an impressive color.  What hit 
you?"

Mulder lifted his head, looking at Frohike directly now, making 
no attempt to hide his displeasure.  He held out his hands, 
letting the gesture say, *"And the obvious answer would be..."*

Frohike got it fast.  His eyes widened, and Mulder could swear 
the man almost smiled.  "What...you don't mean...?   Oh, my 
friend.  You truly are in the dog house, aren't you.  Well, good 
for Dana."

"Excuse me?"

"My point in being here.  Let's assume you've approached this 
situation as the near-sighted male asshole you've proven yourself 
to be in the past."

"Frohike, get out of here.  You know nothing about my private 
business with--"

"You're sleeping in the Happy Home Inn, Mulder.  Last night you 
were in the lovely Ms. Waterston's guest room, I assume?"

Mulder just closed his eyes and rubbed his sleep-swollen skin.

"Tell me why you're here, again?" he said into his hand.

"To pound some sense into you before you dig yourself in so far 
you'll never get your ass out.  You got a VCR in here?"

Mulder looked up.  Lost and annoyed in equal measure.  "No, but 
there's free HBO, and if you wiggle the rear cable just right you 
can make out the general storylines on the SEXTRA Network."

Frohike nodded, nothing but business.  "I've got one in the car."  
And he was gone.

By the time Mulder emerged from the bathroom, face splashed with 
water, teeth brushed, and eyes opening fairly reliably, Frohike 
had hauled his VCR into the room and hooked up the cables.  He 
sat on the edge of the bed holding the remote.  At Mulder's 
appearance, Frohike silently crossed the room and pulled one side 
of the curtains closed to block the glare on the TV screen.

"What are we doing here, what am I watching?"  Mulder crossed to 
where Frohike had resumed his seat on the bed, but Mulder chose 
to stand.  He rubbed at his morning beard.

"Something you need to see," Frohike said, and the darkness 
threaded into his tone drew Mulder's attention.  He turned toward 
the glowing blue screen.

"Fine.  But this better not be 'Men are from Mars, Women are from 
Venus'."

Mulder focused on the small motel television, folding his arms 
across his chest.  His t-shirt was still damp from the water he 
had splashed at the sink and felt cool on his skin.

Frohike picked up the remote.  The blue screen flickered and 
vanished, and an image appeared.  It took Mulder a second to 
recognize the stagnant view.  He was seeing the hallway outside 
the Gunmen's place.  A slightly high vantage point.  The security 
video, no doubt.  For a moment, nothing came into frame.  Then 
there was the sound of the locks clicking and the door opening 
just off camera; two familiar voices.  Frohike's.  And Scully's.

*"Scully, please stay here.  Scully, you need to be--"

"Stop it."  Scully's voice, cold as ice.  Trembling.  She had 
moved into frame, crossed the landing and taken one step down the 
stairs.  She was beautiful and disheveled and all his Scully.

"Scully, come here--"   Frohike's hand on Scully's wrist.  Scully 
snapping it away.

"Fuck off!"*

Mulder froze.  His chest locked down, and he had to force air 
into his lungs.  He didn't shift, didn't make a sound, wanted to 
shut off the video, but couldn't miss a breath.

*They argued.  Scully faltered.  "He called me..."*

Her voice hit him harder than her fist.

*And then Frohike was struggling to hold her.  And Scully was 
fighting, but breaking into tears and sinking in Frohike's arms 
until she sat on the hard hallway steps and lay across Melvin 
Frohike's lap.  Moments later they were all there.  And Scully's 
desolate sobs echoed through the white and unfeeling stairwell.*

And it was all a million years away, and there was nothing he 
could do to make it stop.

Mulder stared at the screen.  He was aware of Frohike's presence 
behind him, but he refused to turn, refused to acknowledge his 
intrusion on this moment.  His heart was racing like he'd just 
returned from his run.

*Scully was quiet, save for the occasional soft utterance.  But 
the four figures clung together, Scully buried among them, red 
hair and dark suit and pale skin.*

Frohike hit the "stop" button and Scully vanished.

The silence fell like death.

Echoes of a death that never was and the mourners who still 
cried.

Mulder kept his eyes on the imageless blue screen.

Frohike set the remote on the table, not bothering to retrieve 
his VCR.

He turned before opening the door.  "That was Day 1, my friend," 
he said softly.  And he left.

Mulder sank to the edge of the bed, leaned his elbows on his 
knees and buried his face in his hands.

*Oh, Jesus, Scully.  Scully...*


*****


Scully sat cross-legged on the blanket, surrounded by toys, 
Christopher on his stomach, half across her lap.  The texture of 
the grass through the cloth of the blanket felt like childhood 
and memories of home.

She shaded her eyes in the noonday sun and tried to focus on the 
case file spread across the grass, safe distance from 
Christopher's inquisitive fingers.  The garden was near empty.  
Only one other resident was taking advantage of the crisp autumn 
afternoon, and he was sheltered by the trees at the far end of 
the grounds, focusing only on his paperback book.

Scully had glanced over Michaels' case file briefly yesterday 
evening, given him a call with some surface and disjointed 
advice, but certain details of the case had kept nagging at her 
brain throughout the sleepless hours of the early morning, when 
she had lain in the quiet darkness of her apartment and told 
herself she was not listening for the phone to ring or a knock 
upon her door.

The literal medical details in the autopsy certainly gave no 
stand-out reasons to question the theory of the young man's 
decapitation by tree limb whilst racing through the woods on his 
motorcycle.  It wasn't a common mode of death, but it wasn't 
unheard of in the annals of strange and unusual ways to die.  No 
traces of metal, so death by ax was out.  But there were other 
details that refused to stay quiet in the back of her mind.  Tiny 
incongruities of facts against the statements of the witnesses, 
little gaps in information that set off her investigator's 
instincts.

She squinted down at the statement of the local farmer who had 
first come across the body, trying to let the details seep into 
her subconscious, waiting for a more cohesive picture of her 
suspicions to form before she ventured to give Michaels another 
call.  Christopher bit at the seam in her slacks, and Scully 
reached down intuitively and nudged the cloth from his soft 
mouth, replacing it with her finger and rubbing at his tender 
gums.  A trail of drool ran down her hand and beneath the cuff of 
her blouse.

Twenty-four hours.

Silence.

Scully looked away from the file and down at the back of 
Christopher's head, the thin fringe of reddish-blonde hair 
spilling out below the line of his pale blue cap.  She could 
breathe better when she was touching Christopher's skin.

Scully ran her hand over the cell phone clipped to the back of 
her waistband, reassured by its solid presence as she might have 
been her weapon's.  Couldn't carry that 24/7 anymore.  Not with 
little fingers pulling at her clothes and accessories.

Mulder might as well have punched her in the jaw as left behind 
the phone she had given him.  *"Where will you be?" "Ironically 
enough, it's personal. It's a... place I always wanted to go."*  
Nothing like cutting the sole thin connection they had re-
established.

*He sacrificed everything for me.*

Christopher squirmed and fussed in her lap.  Scully picked him 
up, kissed his nose, nestled her face against his cheek.  His 
skin was so soft.  So perfect and untainted and fragile.  She 
would give anything to keep him feeling as secure in the world as 
he felt right now.  In truth, for all her hopes and dreams of 
having a child, when the day had come, when she and Daniel had 
brought Christopher home and the days had passed and the newness 
faded and the reality settled in--Scully had grown terrified.  No 
amount of books read or classes taken could prepare a person for 
parenthood.  She hadn't had any clue how to be a truly good 
parent.  How to guide a young life through the paradoxes and 
agonies of a world she herself struggled daily to understand.  
But in the days and months that followed, she had begun to see 
the underlying truth.  The weight of the world, the mysteries of 
the ages--those things were not her true task as a mother.  Her 
task was to love and support Christopher.  To give him everything 
she had to give, and let him face the world knowing he had meant 
more than life to the woman who raised him.  And that...was the 
only thing in the world she *was* certain she was prepared to do.

Christopher continued to squirm in her arms, pulling at her hair 
and fussing softly.  He was getting hungry.  Scully glanced at 
her watch.  Nearly two.  She had been reading the file for longer 
than she realized.  Past time for Christopher's nursing and 
afternoon nap.  Scully grabbed one of the extra blankets on the 
grass and swung it over her shoulder.  Nestling Christopher into 
her lap, she popped open the top buttons of her blouse and pushed 
back the cup of her bra, guided her nipple into his tiny, eager 
mouth.  She drew a deep breath as he latched on and automatically 
reached for her own water bottle.  She was still amazed this was 
working, this was *happening*.  It was both routine and 
wondrously new at the same time.

And Mulder had been enchanted.

She pushed that thought away.

The X-file.  Everyday life.

Christopher was half asleep when he finished the first breast, 
and out cold before he finished the second.  Scully let him 
linger, mouth suckling softly in his sleep, the sensation 
comforting and grounding for them both.  Until finally he sank 
back, mouth releasing her breast with a gentle pop.

She carried him up the stairs and settled him in his crib.  She 
took the monitor with her and went back down to gather their 
things.  She settled on the couch with a glass of iced tea and 
her checkbook to balance.

Scully set the cell phone to vibrate and kept it against her 
skin.

*Mulder...*


*****


He stood on the doormat a good minute before he knocked on the 
door.

The delay before Scully responded wasn't more than twenty 
seconds, but he could have sworn the walls contracted.

Scully pulled back the door, clinging to the doorknob and 
sweeping his figure with her gaze.  She didn't speak.  She was in 
her weekend dress, casual but elegant.  Tan slacks, a white 
cotton blouse.  Simple.  Beautiful.  Her hair was twisted up and 
loosely clipped, her make-up light and lovely.  She still carried 
herself as the Scully he knew.  It wasn't the wardrobe, the hair, 
or the make-up that made men afraid to even speak to her, let 
alone dream of the privilege of being someone significant in her 
life.  It was just Scully, the woman she was underneath.

Scully still wore her cross.  Mulder noticed the chain was a bit 
sturdier design than the ones she had favored in the past.  No 
doubt a concession to tiny fingers.  Perhaps even a necessitated 
replacement.

She was waiting for him to speak.

He cleared his throat.  "Can I come in?"  There was an edge of 
defensiveness, sarcasm, in his voice that he didn't like but 
couldn't avoid.

Scully softened, he saw the pain flicker across her expression as 
she tilted her head slightly into her shoulder.  She nodded.  "Of 
course," she said softly, and she stepped back to welcome him 
inside.

Mulder stepped into the apartment as Scully closed the door.  The 
cell phone was still on the table where he had left it.  Mulder 
summoned every ounce of nerve he had left in his body and moved 
into Scully's personal space.  He cupped his hand to her cheek 
and stroked her skin with his thumb, leaned close to her face and 
whispered, "I shouldn't have left you behind.  Scully, I'm 
sorry."

He caught her completely off guard, she was visibly vulnerable.  
Her eyes filled with tears at his words, though she hadn't lifted 
her gaze above his chest.  She started to speak, faltered, then 
let it go and closed her eyes.

"I don't regret what I did, Scully.  I believe in the reasons I 
made the choices I made, but you're right, I didn't...I didn't 
fully think about how those choices would affect you in the 
meantime.  Or me.  I thought I did, but I hardly scratched the 
surface.  And for that...Scully, I'm so sorry."

He was still close, his face mere inches from hers.  Her breath 
was soft and shallow, her slightly parted lips a vivid sensory 
reminder of a thousand quiet and perfect moments in his life.  
Everything he had missed with every fiber of his being over the 
past two years.  He remembered lying against her breast, praying 
for the moments of sleep only Scully could grant him on the night 
he had mourned his mother.  He remembered infinite daily 
frustrations with her stubborn and self-righteous little mind.  
He remembered loving every moment of the endless struggle.

"I missed you," Scully whispered, and the pain in her carefully 
spoken words tore at his gut.  She hadn't lifted her eyes.

"I missed you, too.  More than you could imagine, Scully."

"I can't forgive you yet."

"I know."  *Yet.*

"Where did you sleep last night?"

Mulder shrugged, shook his head dismissively.  "At a motel."

"Stay here tonight," she said simply.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay."

She reached up and grasped his wrist, closed her eyes and leaned 
into his hand.  Mulder seized the moment and kissed her forehead, 
deepest tenderness in his simple gesture.  She tasted of Scully.  
She tasted of home.

"Mulder, what do we do now?" Scully asked, eyes open, focused off 
to the side, on some distant place he couldn't reach.

He continued to stroke her face.  She continued to let him.  "We 
keep talking."

She nodded.  "Yeah."

"We've never really talked before, Scully, have we?"

She thought about that, he watched the tension in her brow.  
Then, "Rarely.  Maybe...never."

"Maybe it's time."

"Past."

"Yeah."

But neither of them wanted to speak.  They wanted to stand in 
each other's breathing space and be silent.

They wanted to remember how to breathe together.


*****

(End of Chapter 18a.  Continued in Chapter 18b...)
Feed An Author -- bstrbabs@gmail.com


-------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Many readers have been asking about the logistics 
of Scully breastfeeding as an adoptive mother.  This is indeed 
quite possible, though its success varies among women and in all 
cases requires a good deal of patience and effort.  It's rare to 
produce enough milk to provide 100 percent of the baby's 
nutrition, but there are all levels of success in between.  For 
more information, visit www.lalecheleague.org, click on "Search" 
and enter "adoptive breastfeeding".


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 18b



"I've got to be honest
I think you know
We're covered in lies and that's okay
There's somewhere beyond this I know
But I hope I can find the words to say"
--Vertical Horizon, 'You're a God'



She caught him completely unprepared when she swung about from 
the kitchen counter, hair smooth and falling forward, cheek 
hollow and sleek and so much the Scully he remembered from a 
hundred stakeouts and coach flights and badly navigated car 
rides.  "Mulder.  What are we?"

"'What are we?'  What do you mean?"

"Us.  What are we, Mulder?  I mean, we're standing here in my 
kitchen, on a Sunday afternoon, trying to work out," she gestured 
between them, "*this*.  But what are we?  I mean, in the past we 
were partners, that's what we were.  And when they took that 
away, we were fellow agents who still wanted to work together, 
but now..."

"We're not partners anymore.  But..even in the past, we were 
friends, Scully.  Weren't we?"

"Yeah.  That was it?  We were friends?"

He gazed at her, hard.  "Aren't we still?"

But she was comfortingly quick to respond.  "Always."  She was 
looking for something else.  "So...is that why we're here?"

"I don't understand."

"The reason we're together now, talking.  It's because we're 
friends?"

"Yes, it's because we're friends."

"Mulder, what's my favorite song?"

She lost him again.  He started to speak, wavered.  "Scully, I 
haven't seen you in two years, how would I know what you--"

"What were any of my favorite songs?  Ever?"

He thought for a moment, looked around helplessly.
 
She softened.  "Look, Mulder, I'm not trying to put you on the 
spot, or make you feel bad. I just...I'm just saying...the rules 
are all different now.  And we need to figure out...why we're 
here in my kitchen."

"Do you want me to be here?"

"Yes."

"Then...do we need another reason?"

She fell silent for a long time, met his gaze with her searching 
pale eyes.  Then, at last, "Maybe not."  He could see the 
turbulent thoughts circling behind her pensive expression.  She 
was seeking something she hadn't found.  But he didn't know what 
to give her.  Or maybe he did, and he hadn't found the courage.  
But before he could press the issue either way, she turned to the 
counter and finished assembling the turkey sandwich she had 
offered him.

Mulder downed the sandwich in under two minutes.  He followed 
Scully out onto the balcony, stood beside her at the railing.  
Christopher was still napping.  Scully had placed the baby 
monitor on the patio table.  It was strange.  New.  Scully had 
fought for as long as he had known her against any kind of 
attachment.  Any kind of tie that hampered her independence, her 
sole control over her destiny.  That need in her, almost above 
all else, had driven him to seek the key to her freedom from the 
chip.  Such a sacrifice, surrender of control, was so 
fundamentally against the nature of Scully.  The wrong screamed 
to be corrected.

But this tie, this little boy; this surrender--this one she had 
asked for.  Worked for.  Cherished.

It was new.

Scully was lost in her own thoughts, gazing out over the garden.  
She loved this balcony, this quiet place all her own.  He had 
picked up on that in the short time he had been back.  Scully had 
found some kind of safety here.  Some kind of peace.  He couldn't 
deny the stab that bolted through his gut when he acknowledged 
some of that peace had come to her with Daniel.  She had been 
loved in this place.  She had found a family.

"This is a beautiful garden.  It must be amazing in the spring," 
Mulder said softly, hoping to key into her train of thought.  But 
she turned to him, a million miles away and taking a moment to 
pull back to the immediate.

"Mulder, I need to hear more.  I need...I just can't get past 
this.  I don't understand how this could be so much different, so 
much more promising, more precarious, than any of the other 
underground leads we've followed in the past."

Mulder nodded, eyes narrowed, giving her words all the weight 
they deserved.  He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he had 
only recently regained that privilege.  He didn't want to do 
anything to chance its withdrawal.

"I can only imagine how hard it must be from your perspective, 
Scully.  And believe me, when I first caught wind of this, 
considered the possibilities of an undercover approach, I never 
dreamed it would go this deep.  And certainly never this long.  
But once I got inside.  Once I saw the way these people really 
live...I saw that I had been right.  Nothing less than the 
approach I took would have afforded me the results I've 
attained."

"And that was worth letting me think you were dead for two years?  
Worth...abusing the trust we had built over so many years?"

He winced.  *Jesus, Scully.  You never did believe in padding 
your words, did you?*  "I made a call.  I made that choice.  I 
thought it was worth it.  I thought it was the right thing to do 
for you.  In the bigger picture.  And I was willing to risk 
losing some of what I had with you...to keep you safe."

Scully blanched, a trace of mild disgust washing over her 
countenance.  "Don't make this all about your sacrifice for me.  
You made choices about my life without my consent.  And choices 
that, had I been given a choice, I would not have consented to.  
Nothing you can say will change that."

"I know that you would not have judged the risk worthwhile at the 
time, Scully.  But now that it's over, now that we know that the 
results were more than we could even have hoped for.  Now that we 
know I've made it back alive--"

"Mulder, you don't get it.  You could have brought back the cure 
for AIDS.  But you didn't know that would happen.  It was a one 
in a million shot, and the ends don't automatically justify the 
means.  It's just--"  She broke off, looking out over the view 
again, struggling for a grasp on her thoughts, a way to convey 
them in words.  He had known her long enough to read at least 
this much in her cryptic expression.

She turned and sat back against the railing, folded her arms 
across her chest.  He stood quietly, waiting for her to speak.  
"Mulder," she began softly, the intimacy in her tone raising the 
fine hairs on his arms.  "I loved my husband very deeply.  We 
were friends and lovers.  And in many ways, he shared interests 
in parts of my life that you never did.  And yet, somewhere 
inside me...from the day you left....I've felt, *alone*."  He 
could have sworn there was an underlying tremor to her voice.  He 
knew there was a knot in his own stomach.  But she kept a tight 
rein on her composure.  When did she ever do anything else?  He 
felt the weight of the confidence.  "You broke the rules, 
Mulder," she whispered.  "It was always supposed to be 'Mulder 
and Scully'.  Mulder and Scully against the ASAC, Mulder and 
Scully against the government.  Mulder and Scully against....*the 
aliens*.  You broke the rules..."  She was staring down at the 
concrete floor now, one tan pump tilted back onto the heel.
 
Mulder's voice was deep, letting the depth of his emotion spill 
into his carefully chosen words.  "I was just so terrified of 
losing the 'Scully' in 'Mulder and Scully'.  Permanently."

Scully's eyebrow drew in as she closed her eyes.

"I just can't believe...you couldn't have told me...*something*.  
You couldn't have trusted me."

"Scully, it was never a matter of trust.  It wasn't like that."

She just looked down at her shoes, crossed her ankles.

"You can't imagine the degree of paranoia under which these 
people operate.  How violently protective they are of every shard 
of information.  Even the slightest ripple, the most casual 
inquiry that might have cast a breath of suspicion upon me, would 
have lost us everything.  Scully, these people live in constant 
fear, increasing exponentially with each evidence of danger 
surrounding them.  They can't even trust their own, that's why 
their screening process has become so grueling.  To the point 
that were I to try the same infiltration today, I doubt I would 
be successful.  A year and a half ago, one of their own, a man 
who had, in fact, lost his girlfriend to the fire on Ruskin Dam, 
went on a vigilante rampage, actually torturing and murdering 
abductees.  He killed four women in a matter of months before he 
was stopped."

Scully nodded, glancing away, suddenly restless, pushing off of 
the railing.  With easy dexterity, she unbuttoned the cuff of her 
blouse and pulled up the sleeve.  She held her forearm into the 
light.  "Yeah, I'm familiar with the case," she said bluntly.

Mulder froze.  Even in the muted light the raised white scars 
shone clear on her pale flesh.  W. A. T. C..  He was going to be 
sick.

He must have been white as a sheet, because a flash of remorse 
crossed Scully's face, traces of regret for her callous 
revelation.  She sagged a bit, relented.  She lowered her arm, 
drew a slow breath.  But he couldn't tear his eyes away, even as 
the sleeve dropped down and obscured his view.  The letters were 
burned onto his vision as permanently as they had been carved 
into her arm.

"You were the last victim...," he breathed.

"*Intended* victim, thank you."  She was focusing on her wrist, 
meticulously replacing the buttons.  She swallowed hard.

"Scully..."

She shook her head, still didn't meet his gaze.  "It's fine.  It 
was a long time ago."

"It's fine?"

She closed her eyes.

"Were you...I mean, when it happened, did you have someone?  To 
be there after...  Were you and Daniel...together?"

Her eyebrow arched.  She finished the buttons and one hand rose 
to rest against her hip.  "Yeah.  He was there when it happened, 
actually.  He got hurt worse than I did.  He also helped save our 
lives."

"Oh, my God.  Scully, I didn't..."  He shook his head, feeling 
like the floor was moving underneath him, dizzy in the imposed 
darkness beneath the afternoon sun.  "I didn't know it was your 
case.  I was working my tail off in the research labs during that 
time.  I followed snippets of the case facts in the news.  But I 
never saw your name.  I never thought...since the press never 
mentioned the chips, I just assumed the case was with VCU."

"They kept the chips out of the press.  But someone caught the 
link and passed the case to Skinner, who gave it to me just after 
the third death.  I think Skinner was hoping...that I would 
distinguish myself with the case, turn the right heads."

"Get offered something better than the X-Files."

She didn't answer.

"Is that what you wanted?"

"Has that ever been what I wanted?"

He accepted that in silence.  Then, "Did it work?"

"Some opportunities arose.  I chose not to pursue them."

"Scully..."  He waited, and at long last she lifted her gaze to 
meet his.  "How bad?" he asked.

She knew what he was saying, but she played it out.  "How bad 
what?"

Mulder reached out and drew his fingers down the inside of her 
forearm.  "How bad?"

Her left lid half-closed.  "Not my best day."

"Scully, if I had had any idea..."

"Mulder, when was our work ever safe?  You left me alone for two 
years.  You relinquished your position as my partner, my back-up.  
You knew I would be in danger, and you knew you wouldn't be there 
to help.  This is no different."

But it felt like the weight of the world was crushing his chest.  
"No, I guess not," he said.

*Scully.  Do you hate me for not having been there to have your 
back?*


*****


Christopher woke after two hours.  Scully asked Mulder to join 
them on a walk to the local park.  Mulder took charge of Tasha.  
He was gradually growing attached to this gentle companion who 
shadowed Scully's heels.  He thought it to his best advantage to 
be in Tasha's good graces.

Scully lead them to an open patch of grass and settled in the 
late afternoon sun.  Tasha fell easily into place on the grass 
beside Scully as Scully lifted Christopher from the stroller into 
her lap, and Mulder guessed this was a typical routine for the 
three of them.

Scully's family.

Minus the father.  Echoes of his presence in her diamond ring 
glinting in the sun.

Scully was beautiful in the sunlight.  So much of their time 
together had been spent in the darkness.  She was elegant in 
shadows, radiant in sunshine.

He sat on the grass beside Scully.  She had stopped edging away 
from him when their knees or arms brushed incidentally.  Amazing 
the gratitude one could feel for the smallest things.  But Mulder 
and Scully had always been special that way.  From Scully's first 
days in the basement office, he had been allowed to touch her 
just a bit more freely than her distant and professional demeanor 
would have implied.  To touch her back as she moved through a 
doorway, to sit back against the desk too close beside her, 
shoulder pressed tight to shoulder.  Allowed to drop his forehead 
onto her shoulder when he was mocking defeat.

There had been a distinct lack of warmth in Fox Mulder's life 
since one violent night in his twelfth year.  His mother had been 
the only one left to touch.  And she had been too wounded to 
stand the contact with the injury.

And when all was said and done, Fox Mulder--the loony loner in 
the basement who alienated people like the loser in junior high 
who was allergic to deodorant--thrived on physical affection.

Specifically, Scully's affection.

Mulder talked to Christopher, played with him.  Scully encouraged 
them.  The unspoken edict hung in the air.  Scully did not want 
to discuss anything heavy in Christopher's presence.  She didn't 
want her son to pick up on the anger between the adults.  She had 
chosen a quieter, safer life for Christopher.  He couldn't blame 
her for wanting to shelter him from the horrors she had suffered 
in her life.

He was so innocent and beautiful.

The letters in her flesh haunted him.

As the sun lowered in the sky and the wind turned cool, Scully 
gathered their things and returned Christopher to the stroller.

They walked in silence back to the apartment.  Mulder watched 
Scully as she moved through the domestic tasks of her new life.  
She made dinner for the two of them.  She fed Christopher his 
rice and carrots.  She fed Tasha her gourmet dog food.  She 
disappeared to the back of the house to give Christopher his bath 
and ready him for bed.

And Mulder sat on the couch and closed his eyes and tried not to 
picture Scully tied down and screaming as a deranged killer 
carved her skin.


*****


"What did you bring back?"

Her voice was heady and husky in the semi-darkness.  She rarely 
heard that side of her herself these days.

Christopher has fallen asleep for the night.  Scully had wandered 
through her apartment in search of Mulder, finding him on the 
balcony, blending into the grey of the quiet night.

Scully settled into the opposite deck chair, retreating into her 
own shadows, welcoming their protection.  Mulder had clearly 
heard her question.  His grey-green eyes had turned dark, 
mirroring the black of his leather jacket and the heavy seams of 
his jeans.  He propped his arms on his knees, all long arms and 
legs in the low patio chair.  The masculine power in his posture, 
a tiger crouched in wait, keeping watch over its prey, pulled at 
her body like a heat magnet.  She had forgotten the power of that 
pull.  The overwhelming desire that came with Mulder's presence, 
the animal warmth of his body.  She didn't want that distraction 
now.  She had fallen out of practise at keeping it in check.  She 
needed to keep her distance, keep her position of power.  But the 
electricity had magnified with time, ultra-charged the need for 
connection.  Every brush of skin prickled her spine.

She straightened in her chair, uncomfortable with the 
vulnerability in her relaxed posture, her soft clothes.  She 
suddenly wished for her best Donna Karan and heels.  Nothing 
better to keep a man at arm's length than a power suit and a 
deadly stare.  A brazen vixen beneath fiery hair and burgundy 
lipstick.

"I brought a vaccine," Mulder said simply.

Scully waited for more, but nothing came.  She lifted her 
eyebrows questioningly.  "What kind of vaccine?  Against what?  
Against the black oil?"

He shook his head briskly, eyes boring through her.  "It's still 
in the experimental stage.  But they've been perfecting it for 
years.  I was privy to the innermost details of the study over 
the past year or more of human trials.  This vaccine...the end 
purpose is to allow abductees to remove their chips without any 
risk to their health or safety.  Without contracting cancer."

Scully's stomach muscles contracted.  *No.*  She didn't want to 
hear this now.  She didn't want to go back to that time in her 
life.  Didn't want to deal with this now.  She had a family, a 
home, a life.  As if on cue, Tasha wandered out through the 
narrow crack at the sliding doors and settled at Scully's feet.  
Scully tried to draw a deep breath, bring herself to speak.  She 
didn't want to go back.  But she couldn't deny the present, 
couldn't push it to the back burner any longer.  That wasn't the 
woman she wanted to be.

"You're telling me...it works?"

"I'm telling you they're close.  This most recent batch; it 
should work.  From what I know...I think it will."

"You *think* it will."

"Scully, I need you to listen, okay?  The vaccine...it's not the 
simplest process.  It has to be given monthly.  It has to build 
up in your system for at least a year before the chip can be 
removed successfully."

"And people have tried this?"

Mulder nodded.  "Yes, they have."

"Successfully."

His brow drew in.  "Some of them.  Others...the chips had to be 
put back.  But they were carefully monitored.  No one died.  
They're able to preserve the chips for a set amount of time.  I 
won't deny that the ordeal did take a toll on their bodies, of 
course, but they all went back into remission when the chips were 
replaced.  Just like you."

Scully stood up and stepped to the railing.  "I don't know that."

His kind eyes looked at her almost sadly.  "Scully...," his voice 
was like a caress.  "You do know that."

She lifted an eyebrow, but didn't speak.

"This batch, the most recent batch--the trials won't be done for 
another year.  But I didn't come back until I was certain they 
were close, that in all likelihood this *will* be the batch that 
holds.  And I've established connections now, Scully.  Inside 
informants, so that I can continue to track the research from 
here.  So, I'll know the results of this last trial, before..."

"Before what?"

"Before you try anything that could put you at risk."

She scoffed, turned away.  *You're flying solo, Mulder.*

Mulder looked down at the concrete beneath his feet, drew several 
deep breaths.  "Scully.  I returned here now, with the idea 
that...if you started the vaccine injections now, by the time 
your levels were high enough to consider removing the chip, the 
final data would be in on the trial group.  And we would know if 
you were safe."

"I see."  She was focusing on the slick painted wood at the top 
of the railing.  She could feel the draw of his presence behind 
her, the impassioned gaze burning into her back.  This was 
Mulder--at his most fervent, his most focused.  "And you expect 
me to try this?"

"I *hope* you will try this, yes."

She didn't speak.

"Scully?"  The vulnerable hesitation in his voice hurt her.  But 
she had to stand her ground, had to stay distant and rational.  
That was her role, right?  He was the obsessive, passionate, 
loose cannon, and she was the logical, level-headed scientist 
assigned to keep him under tight rein.

"Mulder."  She turned to face him, grateful for the flickering 
moonlight through the remaining autumn leaves.  "You can't 
just...you can't drop something like that on me, and expect me to 
jump right onto the train with you.  There are questions to be 
asked, a million questions."

"Of course, Scully.  I'm an open book.  What questions do you 
want to ask?"

"Well, to start with, what is the composition?  What, exactly, 
are you proposing injecting into my bloodstream?  I want a 
detailed laboratory analysis of--"

"Scully, you can't do that."

"Excuse me?"

"No labs.  Not outside the underground.  No one else can analyze 
this substance.  It's too dangerous, it would send up too many 
red flags, Scully.  None of this can ever travel through 
traditional channels.  Just having it in your bloodstream is 
enough of a security risk.  If you should have any unrelated 
medical problems requiring any in depth blood work, there's 
already that chance of trace amounts of the active ingredients 
appearing--"

"Wait, wait, whoa, whoa whoa..."  She turned to face him solidly 
now, one hand on the railing, the other on her hip, anger 
bolstering her strengths.  "I can't have this analyzed?  And now 
I can't even see my own doctor to check on my vitals while it's 
being administered?  And you still expect me to inject this into 
my body?"

"*I* would be monitoring you.  I know what to watch for.  I've 
been assisting with the--"

"You are not a doctor."

"But you are.  And combining my knowledge of the vaccine with 
your knowledge of medical science...."  Mulder trailed off, 
looking up at her, open and earnest.  His hazel eyes were 
unnervingly dark under the shadow of long suffered pain.  
"Scully...look, maybe you can perform some tests yourself, do the 
analysis covertly and alone, but, honestly... I've spent the last 
two years of my life evaluating both the effectiveness *and* the 
safety of this substance.  I was hoping...I was hoping you would 
be able to trust me.  I was hoping you would believe I would 
never do anything to hurt you."

Scully let go a slow exhale, eyes half closed.  The wind chimes 
in the garden pealed and triggered a vivid flash of a late summer 
night, standing with her back tight against Daniel's chest, music 
playing on a far distant radio, and the two of them luxuriating 
in the sensual warmth of the night and the pure comfort in one 
another's touch.

*'Scully...can I offer you a touchstone?'*

"'Trust you, never to hurt me,'" she repeated.

Understanding draped Mulder like a shadow.  "Scully..."

"Don't."  She swallowed hard.  Closed her eyes.  Then, "Mulder, 
we are toying with my life, here."

"You don't think I know that?  You don't think I've spent every 
day of the past two years focusing on nothing *but* that?"

"And what about my son?  I'm nursing him.  I need to know 
everything about anything that enters my body, before it passes 
on to him."

Mulder nodded, trying to pull her in, to work with her on a 
rational level any way he could.  But she wasn't buying it.  
"Absolutely, Scully, I understand your concern for your son, and 
obviously that's not something I was expecting to face when I 
returned, but the issue did come up during the trials, and some 
testing was done, all showing no risk as far as I know, but I 
will go through my contact, get all the information available on 
the risk factor for infants.  And I won't lie to you, Scully, the 
vaccine does carry some harmless side effects even to adults, 
but--"

She needed to get out.  "No.  I can't--I can't have this 
conversation right now.  We're not ready."

"*We're* not ready?  What are you talking about, what's wrong?"

Scully let go a soft sigh.  "What's wrong is that I look at you, 
and you're Mulder, and I want to trust you, and I want to talk to 
you like I did for seven years of my life, and then you say 
something to me like 'I won't lie to you', and two years ago I 
would have accepted that without blinking, but Mulder...  
Everything's wrong.  It's all...tainted, and I can't..."

"Scully, I went undercover.  I lied to protect my cover, yes.  
I've done that before.  *You've* done that before.  It's part of 
the process, and, yes, it's horrible when it involves someone you 
care about, but--"

She pulled away, felt herself turning cold, recollected icy 
winters past and tattoo parlors and bogus detox procedures.  "You 
know what?  Mulder, if you can't see the difference between those 
undercover assignments in the past, and what you did here...then 
we have nothing more to say."

Scully pushed away from the railing and slipped through the door 
to the dining room, leaving it open for Tasha to follow.

She heard Mulder's exasperated breath, and the shift of leather 
as he pushed up from the patio chair.  His shadow filled the 
doorway behind her.  She kept walking.  "Scully, wait.  Scully--"

She whirled on him, heel digging into the plush carpet, pain 
accelerating her anger.  "My name--" she said coldly, "--is Dana 
Waterston."

And she tried not to register the look on Mulder's face as she 
strode down the hall to her bedroom and closed the door.
 

*****


Mulder was standing in the patch of wild jasmine, the sound of 
the fountain soothing his taut muscles, when Scully stepped up 
beside him.  He sensed her.  The way he used to.  The way they 
always had.  She kept her gaze forward, watching the fountain as 
he did, stopping just half a step behind.

She had wrapped a lap blanket around her shoulders to shelter 
against the chill night wind.

Every angry thought beneath his skin melted when her tears bled 
through into her whisper.  "Please call me 'Scully'."  The raw 
vulnerability burned his skin. 

Mulder breathed out on a sound of deepest regret, gut deep 
frustration.  He reached out a blind arm and scooped her in 
close.  Mulder brought her back tight against his chest, not 
asking her to face him yet.  She let some of her weight fall 
against him.  Mulder closed his arms around her from behind, 
half-pretending to encircle her for warmth.  He leaned his cheek 
against her hair.

"I've never listened to you before.  I hadn't planned on starting 
now, Scully."


*****

(End of Chapter 18b.  Continued in Chapter 19...)
Hug an Author -- bstrbabs@gmail.com


-------------

"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 19


"I really don't mind what happens now and then.  As long as 
you'll be my friend in the end."
--Three Doors Down, "Kryptonite"


*My sister disappeared one clear autumn night in 1973.  Vanished 
from my life, taking with her the last flickering hope of 
childhood my encroaching adolescence had left me to keep; the 
little flame inside that believes in faeries who take cookies 
from your doorstep when you sleep, in Santa Claus and his merry 
elves, and that when you wake in the morning to the nudge of your 
mother's gentle hand--everything will be all right.  My sister 
took that with her.  Or so I thought.  My loyalty in the search 
for my sister was real.  But maybe one of the reasons my passion 
for her cause has so overrun my life, sprang from the need to 
hold on to more than my sister.  The need to hold on to the 
innocence she represented.  The seed of belief I thought lost.  
And then one day, an arrogant red-head walked into my life.  And 
we ran through fields beneath the stars.  And we chased after 
phantoms.  We banded together against an invisible enemy, and we 
touched the edges of death and pulled one another back.  We 
laughed in a rainstorm and we held each other in the snow.  And 
one day they hurt her.  And she silently reached out for me with 
the wide-eyed pain of a child.  And she bounced back into the 
fight with the fury and power of a woman.  And for years I 
struggled to make her believe.  And in the end...she gave me back 
my belief.  In everything.*



Scully nearly fell asleep before she finished changing into her 
pajamas.  Exhaustion was taking her.  Her muscles were shaky.  
She would grip her toothbrush, thinking she had it solidly in 
hand, and flip it into the sink.  She needed to lie down.  Close 
her eyes.  Let go.  Her skin welcomed the soft silk of her 
pajamas.  She longed for the soft cotton of her sheets.

The guest bed was still made up for Mulder.  He settled in as if 
there had been no night away.

Strange that he had never lived under her roof before, and now, 
after so much time apart, it seemed...expected.  Like staying in 
the same motel.  Maybe they needed to make up for so many hours 
outside one another's space.

Scully moved through the nightly rounds, checking doors and 
locks, turning off lights, setting the thermostat.  On her path 
to her room, Scully stopped by the den and tossed Michaels' X-
File onto the daybed, beside Mulder's ribcage.  He startled at 
the landing and looked up from the magazine in his hand.  She 
recognized one of Daniel's photography journals.  "What's this?" 
Mulder asked, eyeing the file.

Scully leaned heavily on the door casing.  "It's a case file.  
Look it over for Michaels, would you?  I think there's something 
there.  I'd like your opinion."

Mulder's eyebrows lifted, something like genuine amusement 
crossing his countenance.  And something else.  "An X-File?  
You're handing me an X-File?"

She ran her tongue over the corner of her mouth, shook her head 
tersely.  "I don't know.  Maybe not.  But I think...," she drew a 
deep breath, "I think it could use a second opinion."

Mulder nodded, his eyes narrowing.  His gaze was boring into her, 
searching for the thoughts behind her words.  She met him head-on 
for a moment, her own gaze steady and even, made stronger by the 
lethargy and unfettered honesty born in exhaustion.  The 
apartment was comfortingly quiet.  Different from the agonizing 
silence of a few hours ago.

She pushed off the door casing.  "Good night, Mulder."  His words 
followed her down the hall.  "Good night.  Scully."

Scully pushed her door nearly closed.  She left a crack.  She 
settled into bed and turned out the light.  She listened to the 
sound of Christopher's breath.  She strained in the quiet for a 
sound beyond her room.  She felt the ghost of his arms around 
her, his mouth in her hair, the scent of his skin.

She lay in the dark, and almost...almost...asked him to sleep 
beside her.


*****


*Her back hurt, shoulder wrenched and the skin of her wrists raw.

"Bitch.  Stop fighting."

His filth was all over her.  She would never wash him off of her 
skin, out of her hair.

"Your boyfriend's dead already."

*DANIEL!!*

Her forearms ached from the pull across the floor.  And for a 
moment, she was in her thin pajamas and dragging over broken 
glass with Donnie Pfaster in the next room and a hard cotton gag 
pulling at her mouth.  But then she was under her dining room 
table again with blood on her silk blouse and a killer on her 
back.

"Don't you understand?  Don't you get it?  You, out of all of 
them...  *They're coming!*.  And they put that *thing* inside 
you, under you skin.  So they can control you.  So they can use 
you and make you a fucking slave for their Nazi take-over.  Don't 
you get it?  They already own you!  You're one of them!"

The knife was pressing her vein.*

She gasped for breath.

*Jesus*.  Scully sat up in the darkness.  Switched on the dim 
bedside lamp and pushed back her hair.  *Breathe.  1, 2, 3...*  
Dreaming.  Just dreaming.  It had been a while...

Christopher murmured in his sleep, disturbed by the movement and 
light.  She squinted at the clock on the nightstand.  2:30.  He 
would wake up to nurse soon.  Her skin was covered in cold sweat, 
her silk pajamas clinging miserably to her skin, carrying 
memories of childhood fevers and the nauseating smell of cough 
syrup.  Her heart raced.  Scully reached to her nightstand for 
her glass of water.  It was uninvitingly warm, but she drank it 
down.

She twisted her wrist, habitually stretching the scarred and 
tight skin, shook it off with a snap of her hand.  Her cheeks 
were flushed.  Scully pushed back the covers and crossed to 
Christopher's crib.  He was spread out on his back, blanket 
kicked away, and skinny little bare legs glowing softly in the 
moonlight.  His face was turned toward her, perfect mouth 
slightly open, cheeks smooth and peaceful.  His chest rose and 
fell in even rhythm.  No such horrors plagued his gentle dreams.  
She would give the world to keep it that way.  She leaned her 
arms on the side rail and watched him for a while, keeping the 
time of his breaths, studying every detail of his still form; the 
set of his eyes, the feather fringe of his lashes, the little 
dimple at the base of his chin.  His tiny fingers curled around 
the corner of the crib bumper.  When she was certain he was 
sleeping soundly and wouldn't wake in the next few minutes, 
Scully crossed to the bathroom and closed the door.

She turned on the shower water and let it warm the room while she 
twisted her hair up into a clip.  Letting her sweat dampened 
pajamas fall to the floor, Scully stepped into the shower.  The 
water was both cleansing and calming.  She rarely had the chance 
to relish her time in the shower these days.  She was either 
rushing off to work, or hurrying back to Christopher.  She missed 
the leisurely baths of her former life, treasured relaxation 
rituals on the nights her work had left her alone.  Candles and 
scented beads.  Lotion and silk afterward.  Now, the candles were 
locked away, out of reach of grasping fingers, and the leisure 
time alone had become nonexistent.

Scully let the water pound on the taut muscles of her back and 
shoulders, not caring when the fine spray peppered the curls at 
the back of her neck.   After a while she was able to close her 
eyes without the images of her dream instantly rising behind her 
lids.

She shut off the water, and wrapped herself in her thickest, 
thirstiest towel.  By the time she had donned fresh pajamas and 
her pink velour robe, Christopher was wiggling and mumbling and 
working his way up to yelling for her.

Scully lifted his warm sleeping weight into her arms and settled 
them into the rocker beside her bed.

Christopher didn't nurse long before sleep took him once again.  
She sat rocking him, waiting until he was in soundest slumber 
before attempting a move.

Mulder's door creaked in the hall.  Scully looked up just in time 
to see a flash of movement as he crossed to the bathroom.  She 
waited it out, and a few minutes later, he moved more slowly the 
other direction.

She called out to him in a muted whisper.  "Mulder.  Mulder!"

He turned, sleepily surprised and squinted into the pale, warm 
light in her room.

"Scully!"

"Ssshhh."  She nodded toward Christopher sleeping in her arms.

Mulder winced and took a step inside the room.  "Sorry," he 
whispered.  "What are you doing awake?"

She half smiled.  "Being a Mom."

Mulder's eyes smiled in return, but he looked awkward, lost.  All 
long arms and legs in his sweats and time-worn tee.  A man 
displaced.  She gestured to him with her free arm.  "Come in."

He crept forward, lowered himself to sit on the floor at her 
feet, one long arm resting on raised knee.  "Did he just fall 
back asleep?" he whispered, gazing at Christopher's contented 
expression.

"Mm-hmm.  I'm waiting until I can put him back to bed."

They were quiet.  Mulder reached out with an impressively tender 
touch and lifted the baby blanket over Christopher's bare arm.

"What are you doing up?" Scully asked.

He shrugged.  "Bathroom."

But there was more.  She waited him out, quietly studying him, 
rocking Christopher, until Mulder felt her diligent probe.

"Not so great dreams."

Scully swallowed.  "What about?"

But he shook his head and said simply and falsely, "I don't 
remember."

"What happened to that impeccable profiler's memory of yours?"

"You didn't think it was so impeccable all those times I missed 
your birthday."

Scully smiled.  "You have a point."

And for a moment, their eyes met, and despite his evasive 
replies, the shared humor did more to sooth her than an hour of 
hot water could have.

"Did I hear the shower running a little while ago?"

She pulled back, looked away.  "Yeah, that was me."

He lifted his eyebrows in question.

"Just needed to freshen up," she said, the evasion like a 
presence in the air.

Mulder looked injured, but did not pry.  Which was good.  And 
hurt.

She turned her attention back to Christopher, drawn into his 
precious quiet, unable to keep the overwhelming love from writing 
itself plain as print on her face.  She saw Mulder taking it all 
in, feeling the warmth between mother and child, and he turned 
his attention to the sleeping boy.

"How did this happen, Scully?" he asked in hoarse wonder.  "I 
mean...you're a *mother*.  You're doing it.  You're raising a 
child.  After all that we went through..."

Scully offered a jaded smile, eyes heavy.  "I know.  It's hard to 
believe, some days.  Even for me.  And now I'm a single mother, 
and..."

Mulder sobered.  "That must be pretty scary, sometimes."

"Sometimes?" she questioned, toying with a smile, and Mulder 
almost laughed, surprised by her openness.  She never tired of 
that spark in his eyes.  *"I'll always keep you guessing."*

"It looks like you're doing fine to me, Scully.  I'd say this is 
one lucky little boy sleeping here."

"I hope so," she said softly, eyes back to her son.

The silence between them was comfortable.  The way it used to be.  
She didn't want to let go.

"Scully?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we...I mean..." he cleared his throat and tried again.  She 
felt the depth of his words and looked up to give him her full 
attention.  "I want to take you out tomorrow night.  Just for 
dinner.  After Christopher is asleep, if you can find someone to 
watch him...  And I don't want to talk about the vaccine.  I 
don't want to talk about abductees or chips or government 
conspiracies or X-files or covert research facilities.  I 
just...I want to know how you've been.  And...I want to tell you 
some bad jokes, because I imagine you've been kind of short on 
them lately, and I've had plenty of time to develop a new 
repertoire and very few people to test them on."

Scully's breath lodged in her throat.  She forced the air through 
her lungs, watched the tense creases flicker around Mulder's 
eyes.  "I'll, uh...I'll ask Ashleigh if she can come by.  She's 
taking a fairly heavy class load, so she can usually just bring 
her homework over here."

"Good."

They held each other's gazes for a long silent moment.  Then 
Scully lifted Christopher, Mulder steadying her as she rose to 
her feet, and with practiced skill, she lowered his sleeping 
figure into the crib.  She kissed her son's warm forehead, and 
Mulder touched a hand to Christopher's blanketed stomach before 
he turned.  His hand deliberately brushed Scully's as he moved 
away.  She kept her hands on the crib rail, grip tight and eyes 
closed as she listened to his padding footsteps retreating to the 
guest room.


*****


Mulder ducked out the door just ahead of Scully, not wanting to 
slow down the morning frenzy any more than necessary.  The nanny 
had arrived, and Scully was heavily entrenched in exchanging the 
vital baby information while finding all the paperwork she had 
ignored throughout the weekend and transforming from sleepy 
morning Scully into the slick professional doctor she showed the 
rest of the world.

The sun was pushing its way through the morning clouds and might 
yet win out.  Mulder stepped up to the curb outside Scully's 
building, fishing his rental car key out of his pocket.  He 
scanned the street as he dug into his pocket, catching the single 
key between his fingers.

Across the street a familiar face rose from the driver's seat of 
a red Hyundai.

Mulder pushed back his coat tails and propped his hands on his 
hips, squinting in the sun as his friend approached.

"Hey, Mulder.  Glad I caught you," Frohike said as he rounded the 
car.

"Melvin Frohike appearing in the daylight twice in one week.  The 
earth must have shifted off its axis."

"Very funny.  I burn easily.  I was just stopping by with the 
rest of that paperwork we put together for you."

"And about my car....?"

"Byers is on it.  He got himself a rental this morning, so he 
should be able to get yours back to you today.  He's almost 
talked his guy down to a decent price on that Honda he's had his 
eye on, so he should back in business in no time."

"Good to know."

"Oh, and a file came in from your source."  Frohike held out a 
stack of papers stuffed into two manila envelopes.  "Did you 
request something?"

Mulder nodded tersely.  "Yeah,  I sent word last night.  I didn't 
expect such a prompt response."

"Came in around 5am.  Several pages."

Mulder was already scanning through the top pages.  "Thank you.  
Much obliged," he said, feigning his best John Wayne.

"So, how goes the job hunt?"

Mulder winced, wrinkled his mouth and closed the folder.  "I'll 
get back to you after I see who I can suck up to today.  All this 
kneeling is gonna be rough on my dry-cleaning bill."

Frohike clicked his tongue.  "You buck the system, you pay the 
price, my friend."  Then, more kindly.  "Best of luck to you 
today."

Mulder gave a small smile and nodded.  "Hey, whatever happened to 
your second source of income--that book Byers was finishing up 
when I left, the one about the cow conspiracy of '65?  He ever 
try to get that published?"

"Oh, he tried.  But you of all people should know that the 
establishment would never--"  but he broke off, catching sight of 
something over Mulder's shoulder.

Mulder turned to see Scully emerging from the front door of her 
apartment building, briefcase over her shoulder and folders in 
her arms.  Her auburn hair shone bronze and brilliant in the ever 
increasing sun.  She was walking briskly, thoughts intent upon 
her own destination, already in her professional mindset.  She 
was passing within a few feet before she glanced up and 
registered the two familiar figures on her street. 

"Dana!  Good to see you, how are--" but Frohike broke off.

Mulder's stomach clenched as he watched.  He saw Scully look 
over.  Saw her sharp blue eyes focus directly on Frohike, 
register his presence.  Knew she was well within earshot to hear 
the friendship and warmth in his words.  But her gaze shifted in 
less than a second, back to her task, back to the road ahead.  
She never missed a step on the path to her car.

Frohike's solemn gaze followed her across the road to her car.

"Scully...Scully!" Mulder called, but his voice was flat, knowing 
she wouldn't respond to his plea.

Frohike held on with sad eyes as Scully ducked into her car.  
When she closed the door, his gaze fell to the concrete.

The silence was like a cold wind.

"She'll come around," Mulder said at last.

But Frohike closed him off with a firm shake of his head.  "No.  
And if she does, she shouldn't."  He looked up with false 
bravado, pushing the subject aside.  "Good to see you man.  I'll 
get on Byers' ass about your car ASAP."

"Frohike, she just--"

"Expected her friends to tell her the truth when it counted."

Mulder's hands fell to his sides.  Nothing to say, nothing to do.

Frohike offered a small nod of understanding.  Then, he walked 
back to his car.

Scully was gone.

Mulder climbed into his own car-of-the-hour and rested the heels 
of his hands on the wheel.  He closed his eyes and thudded his 
palm against the unforgiving hand grip.  *Dammit.  Dammit.*


*****

(End of Chapter 19.  Continued in 20a...)
My mailbox is always hungry -- bstrbabs@gmail.com

----------------


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 20a


"Many miles, many roads I have traveled 
Fallen down along the way 
Many hearts, many years have unraveled 
Leading up to today"
--Madonna, "I Deserve It"



**About six months ago, I walked past someone in a crowded subway 
who was wearing your perfume.  My eyes filled with tears before 
my mind even consciously placed the source of the memory.  I 
missed my stop that day.  I was late for work.  Scully...**



Mulder vanished while Scully spent some evening time with her 
son, settled him for the night.

Mulder was running out of clothes.  And now that he had a 
functioning credit card and a few minutes to himself, he decided 
on a brief run to the mall.  Clothes shopping was not his 
favorite pastime.  In fact, it numbered shockingly low on the 
list.  But he was determined to take Scully to dinner in 
something other than the same pair of jeans she had seen him in 
for days.

You could learn a lot about a neighborhood from the caliber of 
stores fortifying its local mall.  Judging from the price tags 
now sliding through his indecisive fingers, Scully was doing all 
right.  Apparently, Daniel had had more in his portfolio than a 
piddling anonymous nest egg managed by three morons with an 
underground newspaper.  Mulder had known what it was to live this 
way once upon a time.  Life on the Vineyard seemed a century ago.

He needed his job back.

Mulder settled on the largest of the department stores and 
entrenched himself in the men's department, struggling to avoid 
the attentions of the far too young and slightly pudgy brunette 
working the counter outside the dressing room.

After far too much time in and out of the dressing room, he made 
his way to the counter with two pairs of slacks, a pair of jeans, 
two dress shirts, a tie covered in little grey alien heads (he 
had to give them props for avoiding green) and two long-sleeved 
mock turtlenecks.

It felt strange to be shopping for himself again.  To be dressing 
to his own choice of style, his own identity; not that of the 
alternate persona he had inhabited for the past two years.  He 
was Fox Mulder again.  Back in his own skin, his own clothes, his 
own car.  He felt strange just hearing the name "Mr. Mulder" 
falling so readily from the pudgy brunette's over-glossed lips as 
she rang up his purchase.

Maybe Mulder wasn't quite the loser he remembered.  It felt 
surprisingly good to be him again.

The sun had set and the parking lot opened up while he shopped.  
Mulder was halfway down the aisle to the car when his new pants 
started playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons.  The late Dr. Waterston 
had apparently been a classical music fan.

With some hesitation, Mulder flipped open the cell phone to 
reveal the lighted screen.  Above the string of numbers glowed a 
single word--"Home".

Someone else's home.

Yet the voice he knew would be on the other end of the line--for 
too long he had assumed that voice belonged to him.

"Mulder."

"Hey, it's me."

"Hey."

"Where you at?"

"Heading for my car.  Just had some shopping to do.  How about 
you?"

"Christopher's finally sleeping.  Want to get some dinner?"

"I'm on my way."

He snapped the phone closed and dropped it into his pocket.  He 
opened his car and tossed his shopping bags onto the back seat.  
He tried not to analyze why he was nervous about dinner with 
Scully.  It had once been the easiest thing in the world.


*****


She was waiting for him beside the curb, looking vintage Scully.  
Black slacks and a white blouse, long black coat hanging open in 
the wind, three inch heels disguising her height.  Squinting in 
the glare of the fluorescent street lamp, unaware of his 
approach, and looking like someone you wouldn't dare cross in a 
dark alley.

He pulled up to the curb and she offered a small smile as she 
crossed to his car and climbed inside.  "Hey," she said softly.  
Her gaze scoped the length of his figure, taking in the new mock-
turtleneck and slacks.  "Nice threads," she said, the corners of 
her mouth twitching slightly to temper her gentle teasing.

"Why thank you.  Might I say the same of you."

"You saw this outfit this morning."

He nodded.  "And it looked good then, too."

The twitch spread into a genuine smile.  And he nearly lost his 
breath.  He could count on one hand the number of those he had 
seen since his return.  Nothing warmed him like a Scully-smile.

"Little Uber-Scully out for the night?"

"For a while, I'd say.  He was tired.  Just didn't want to give 
up for the night.  Thank God for breast milk."

He had been about to pull away from the curb, but he hesitated, 
gazing full-on at Scully; the gentle wave of her hair as it 
framed her face, the line of her blouse and the shadows that 
tempted beneath.  He drew a deep breath of her perfume.  Because 
she was there, and he could.  "That's a pretty amazing thing to 
hear you say, Scully."

She was quiet a moment, holding his eye contact.  She was 
breathtaking tonight.  Like any of a hundred nights.  Stakeouts, 
late flights, covert contacts.  And he had never told her.  
Never.  He listened to the sound of her breath.  He knew her by 
her breath alone.  Even over a phone line.

*"He called me..."*

Apparently, it worked both ways.

"Yeah," Scully said simply.  "I suppose it is."  Then she tossed 
her hair with a graceful turn of her head and focused on the 
street beyond the windshield.  He touched his foot to the gas and 
carried them into the night.

They rode in silence.  Comfortable.  Routine.  Scully rested one 
hand on her small purse.  That was new, not Agent Scully 
standard.  He wondered if she had always carried a purse on her 
off hours, or if time out of the field had shifted her habits.  
He could tell by the angle she leaned upon the seatback that her 
weapon was still at the small of her back.  She never let her 
weapon in the vicinity of Christopher, which meant she had 
strapped it back on specifically for her evening out.  So either 
he was in worse standing with her than he thought, or Scully 
still fought her demons in every shadow.  Much as he did.

"I saw you once," he said without planning.

Scully turned from the window, headlights dancing shadows over 
her pale skin.  She had narrowed her eyes, watching him with that 
distant Scully curiosity he had spent so much of his life beside.  
"Saw me what?" she said softly, and the gentle intimacy in her 
voice fluttered through his stomach.  He so rarely caught her, 
defenses down.  Once upon a time it had taken a 23 hour shift and 
a red-eye plane ride to wear the edge of remoteness from her 
voice.

"In a hallway.  Five months after I left."

Her face tightened, fingers curled around the outside armrest.  
"You *saw* me?  Where?"

"At the Kincaid Medical Research Facility.  I heard your voice 
first.  I was there to pick up some blood samples.  Running an 
errand for the underground.  And I heard your voice, far away."  
*And my heart stopped.*  "Then I heard the footsteps and someone 
whizzed past the window in the door to the hallway.  And I ran 
toward the window.  I should have run the other way.  I should 
have run the moment I heard your voice, but...  I ran to the 
window, and just as I was coming near, I saw you run by.  And I 
took the last few steps and I plastered myself to the window and 
tried to watch your back as far as I could down the hall.  And I 
knew every second I was putting everything at risk.  Everything.  
But I couldn't...I couldn't look away until you were out of 
sight.  Because...it was you."

Scully gazed at him in silence, the light and shadows flickering 
deceptively across her skin.  At last she breathed out slowly, 
precisely, "The hallway.  The dizzy spell."

"The *what*?"

But she shook her head, broke eye contact.  "Nothing.  I didn't 
see you."

He nodded.  "I know.  But I saw you.  And I heard you.  And I 
knew...at least for that moment...you were okay."

They were silent, Scully's eyes on the shadows at her feet, 
Mulder feigning concentration on the road.  Then at last she 
whispered, "You were right there?"  And when she looked up, he 
was certain the dampness reflecting in her eyes was no trick of 
the light.

He glanced back and forth earnestly between Scully and the road.  
"Scully?  Scully, what--"

"Nothing."  She shook her head, answering some question he had 
not really asked, and she turned back to look out the window.

They rode on in silence.


*****


Mulder pulled to a halt in the parking lot of a B-B-Q and 
Steakhouse she had driven by a hundred times but never ventured 
inside.

"Can't beat their steaks.  And they even have good fluffy green 
stuff.  Or so I hear."--was all the explanation she got.  But the 
lighting was soft and the booths generous and thickly padded.  
Her day had been long and not without its stresses.  And it had 
been a long time since someone had taken her out to dinner at the 
end.

Scully gave her order to a perky blond named "Mindy", then 
settled into her seat and sipped her raspberry lemonade while 
Mulder ordered his big hunk of meat.  Clearly his eating habits 
hadn't changed with time.  The lemonade was good.  Not too sweet.  
Some remixed 80s dance song played behind the hum of diners' 
voices.

"So, how is the job situation by now?" Scully asked, when Mindy 
had bounced away.

Mulder nodded.  "I think I'm in.  I think I may have sacrificed 
any tiny shred of dignity I once possessed.  But ya gotta live, 
right?  And tomorrow, I've been requested to appear at the office 
of one Walter Skinner.  He requested your presence as well, if 
that's possible."

"I see.  What time?"

"8 am.  If you can't make it, that's--"

"No, I think I can.  Tuesdays are light for me.  I think I can 
get my T.A. to cover me for the morning."

He nodded.  "Okay.  Thanks."

The silence was uncomfortable for a moment.  Mulder spun a stray 
toothpick left on the table.  They weren't sure where the 
boundaries were supposed to lay on their conversation tonight.  
It was virtually impossible to avoid all realities of their 
present day lives and work.  Yet it was all too easy to slide 
from the right subject into the wrong one.  In truth, Scully had 
been more than grateful for Mulder's suggestion in the quiet 
early hours of her bedroom.  There were few ideas more inviting 
to her at present than a simple night of Mulder and Scully.  
Without all the entanglements and betrayals and regrets and 
recriminations.  Just two friends who had been through the war 
together and come out hand in hand as they had always done.  But 
another part of her was terrified to find out the one thing she 
had always believed in wasn't there anymore.  Only one way to 
know.

Mulder made the brave jump to a new subject.

"So...you got *married*."

Scully forced a last swallow of her mouth full of lemonade.  "I 
did."  She cleared her throat, ran her tongue over her lipstick.

"How did that...I mean...you told me how it happened, I just..."

"Mulder...why is that so hard for you to believe?"

"Why...I..." shakes his head.

"In the time we spent together, did I...not seem like someone who 
ever wanted to be married?"  She pinned him with her gaze, eyes 
narrowed and focused, and she knew the power she had always held 
over him when she did that.  He either looked away and ignored 
her, or spilled his soul through his eyes if not his words.

This time he hedged, but did not look away.  "Well, no, it's not 
that, exactly.  I mean.  You were focused on your career, of 
course.  You had chosen a path that didn't leave a lot of time 
for a family.  Certainly not for children.  But...I always 
assumed that you wanted someone in your life.  Eventually, at 
least.  Yeah."

"So...why are you surprised?"

"I guess...," he looked away now, shrugged, "because it was fast.  
Because I wasn't there."

"Not so fast; for a second time around.  We already trusted one 
another."

He nodded.  "I suppose that's the key, huh?"  And now the eye 
contact was back.

"I think so," she said evenly.  The undercurrent was 
uncomfortably strong and she crossed her ankles and swallowed 
hard.

She could feel the question coursing through his lanky limbs 
like adrenaline, but he wouldn't ask it.  Not now.  Not here.

Neither would she answer.


*****


The food arrived at an opportune time.  The distraction of 
arranging and comparing dinners brought them back to comfortable 
and easy conversation.  Familiar teasing and joking ensued.  
Scully had ventured beyond her traditional salad regime and 
actually ordered a French Dip sandwich (sans cheese), and Mulder 
was enjoying watching her negotiate each dripping bite to her 
mouth without endangering her white blouse.  Some of the angles 
she employed afforded him a particularly enjoyable view he tried 
very hard not to openly indulge.

"So, tell me about your family, Scully?  How is everyone?"

Scully grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the corner of her mouth, 
nodding as she chewed.  "Everyone's good.  Mom's actually seeing 
someone."

His eyes widened.  "Your Mom's dating?"

Scully grinned.  "I know, it's hard to believe isn't it?  She was 
terrified when he asked her out.  She hadn't been on a 'date' 
date in over forty years.  But, apparently, she met this man when 
she was working with a church group at the homeless shelter.  He 
volunteers there on Saturday mornings, serving food, cleaning.  
But he's a lawyer.  He's in the process of passing his practice 
on to his son and retiring."

"Have you met him?"

She shook her head, tapping her sandwich on the edge of the au 
jus cup.  "No, no.  She's been very coy.  But when I get her on 
the phone, and she doesn't have to look at me, she gossips a 
lot."

Mulder chuckled softly.  "That's great, Scully.  Good for your 
Mom."

She nodded, studying her sandwich.  "I think she was a little 
hesitant to open up to me about it in light of...my current 
status.  I think she felt a little guilty starting a new 
relationship, when I...," but she trailed off, drew a deep 
breath, set down her sandwich and took another sip of her 
lemonade.

And Mulder was left socked in the gut once more by how recently 
Scully had suffered through something so horrible.  And how he 
had been oblivious to the whole thing.

But she seemed to want the conversation to move on.  So, he let 
it.

"What about everyone else.  How about my number one fan, Bill?  
How's he doing?"

"He's good.  Matthew's growing in the blink of an eye."

"No more new little Scullys on that side?"

Scully shook her head.  "No.  I don't think they'll be having any 
more."

"Really?  I had Bill pegged as the traditional 2.5 children kind 
of guy."

She took a moment to breathe as she chewed, and he watched the 
rise and fall of her chest.  Scully never flaunted her 
femininity.  Never overtly drew attention to what she was or 
showed a consciousness of her hair or make-up or clothes.  But 
she didn't have to.  Everything about her was all woman.  It was 
part of her essence, her blood, and it rubbed off on everything 
she touched.  "Oh, I think Bill was thinking that way, too, 
originally.  But he and Tara had to try for a long time before 
they got pregnant with Matthew.  And everything went well, and 
now...Matthew's a very...'high energy' kid."

Mulder smiled and Scully reflected some of his amusement.

"I don't think Tara's any too eager to add to that demand.  And I 
think they're just happy for the miracle they have."

Mulder nodded, his gaze narrowing, searching.  "What about you, 
Scully?"

Her eyebrows rose and she stopped mid-bite.  "Me?"

"Do you want another one?"

"Sandwich?"

"*Child.*"

She closed her eyes with a brief flush of embarrassment.  Then 
she set down her sandwich and smiled softly, wistfully.  "It's a 
nice fantasy.  But realistically...no.  I don't think I do.  The 
one I've got...is amazing.  And I hardly have time to spend with 
him as it is.  Especially, now that...  Well.  I think maybe one 
little miracle is enough for me.  I'm not exactly 22 anymore."

"You're hardly 50 either."

"You sound like Daniel."

*Shit.*

Mulder frowned, hoping to show only confusion.

She unconsciously fingered her wedding ring.  "My husband was 
always quick to point out our age difference when he felt he knew 
more than I did," she said, ghosted in teasing memory.

"And was that often?"

"Quite often, yes."  She nodded.

"I find that hard to imagine."

"Well, my late husband's arrogance was rivaled probably only by 
mine."

"That couldn't have been a...*quiet* relationship."

Mulder didn't know what to feel when Scully actually laughed out 
loud.  "No," she said, still smiling.  "That it was not."


*****


"What was your name?" she asked him after Mindy refilled her 
lemonade.

"My name?" he asked, eyes begging the question.

"Your cover name.  For the last two years.  Who have you been?"

"Oh, that."  He stabbed at his hunk of steak.  Yep.  Damn good 
steaks here.  "Mike Stephens."

"Mike?"  She was tonguing her lemonade straw, catching hold of it 
while she looked ahead at him.  Unaware she was mashing his 
brain.  She had done that to him before a few times.  In little 
roadside eateries in the middle of nowhere.  Oblivious to the 
effect.  "You don't look like a Mike."

"I don't think that endangered my cover.  Besides, no-one has 
ever believed my name is Fox."

"You don't look like a Fox."

"Oh, really, *Dana*.  What do I look like?"

She took a beat to answer.  Then, "Mulder."

And he didn't realize how much he had missed the way she said his 
name.


*****


"So, that photo on your mantle...is that from your honeymoon?  
Vacation?"

Scully had finished her dinner and was now watching him chew his 
way through his gigantic blob of meat, eyeing it with something 
between skepticism and disgust.  But then she surprised him when 
she picked up a spare roll and dabbed the corner into the juice 
at the edge of his plate.  He tried not to notice.  Scully drew 
in one eyebrow at his question, probably mentally scanning the 
photographs on her mantle.  "Oh, yeah, the--honeymoon.  Yeah."

"Bermuda?  Bahama?  Key Largo?  Montego?"

She skipped the joke.  He felt at home.  Scully lifted her 
eyebrows, sucked in her lower lip.  "Italy.  Italian Riviera, 
actually."

"Italian Riviera?  You went to Italy for your honeymoon?"

"I did."

He gave a low whistle.  "Impressive, Ms. Waterston."

Her lips twisted with a hint of a playful grin.  "Well...it was 
something we had talked about...a long time ago.  In my Edith 
Wharton Italian Gardens phase.  And marrying a successful doctor 
can have its advantages."

"So, I see.  Kind of like that formidable rock on your hand."

Scully glanced at her ring, fingering the band.  "Like that, 
yes."

"It looks lovely on you," Mulder said, hoping she would hear only 
the very real sincerity in his voice.  But the look in her eyes 
told him she felt the compliment came hard.  Damn Scully for 
hearing every breath behind his words.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"You never...I mean, I never figured you for much of the jewelry 
type, Scully."

She considered that, contemplating her bread.  "Well...elaborate 
jewelry and field work don't exactly mesh.  Same goes for lab 
work.  You never much saw me outside of my profession."

"No.  No, I didn't."

Quiet.  The background music had drifted into something that 
sounded like Celine Dion.  Scully double-dipped her bread into 
his meat juice.

"So, how did he pop the question?  And did you keep the poor man 
in suspense, or did you answer him right away?"

Scully pulled back, looked down at her lap for a moment, then 
back up, brow slightly furrowed, bittersweetness fresh in her 
eyes.  He knew he'd been nearing her limits, chancing the 
inevitable eviction.  "Mulder, you don't really want to hear all 
of this, do you?"

"Well, that depends," he said around a cumbersome bite of steak.

"On what?"

"On whether you want to tell me."

He watched the muscles in her throat as she swallowed.  She 
didn't answer, but her expression was not unwelcoming.

"Is it hard for you to talk about it?" he asked gently.

"Of course.  But not...bad to remember.  The good parts."

"You had an Edith Wharton phase?"

"You still read the Chronicles of Narnia."

"Everyone still reads the Chronicles of Narnia."

"You need to get out more."

"Tell me you didn't like it."

"I liked the *first* one."

"Scully, it's all about Prince Caspian."

And he felt at that moment like maybe, just this once, he had 
said the right thing.  Because she no longer looked as though she 
might cry.


*****


The night air was fresh and cool with a wind that almost hinted 
of the sea.

Scully had subtly, but forcefully, picked up the tab, promising 
Mulder's ruffled male feathers he could have his turn as soon as 
he was on the government's payroll again.

The restaurant sat on the highway side of a long and rather 
elegant shopping plaza.  Many of the shops were closed for the 
night, but the major stores remained open and the meticulously 
landscaped walkway was well lit.

Scully tipped her shoe back on the heel and angled her head 
toward the walkway.  "After dinner stroll?" she questioned.

Mulder's gaze met hers, an intriguing crinkle at the corner of 
his right eye.  She had forgotten how he could pierce her 
defenses with the gentlest expression.  *"I just don't want you 
to think you have to hide anything from me."*  That was where 
they had begun.  Here is where they had come.

He shrugged.  "Sure, if you want."

She stepped past him, and he touched the small of her back as he 
fell into step beside her.

They walked for a while in silence.  "There's a Barnes&Noble down 
at the far end, I think," Scully said.  "If they're still open 
I'd like to stop in.  I've been looking for a waterproof bath 
book for Christopher.  Something with a rubber ducky in it."

"Rubber duckies are crucial to every child's development."

She turned and looked up at him as they walked, arched an 
eyebrow.  "Did you have a rubber ducky, Mulder?"

"I did.  But it had this weird short beak and freakishly large 
eyes and it actually kind of creeped me out.  I'm thinking it may 
have had something to do with my later obsession with aliens.  If 
my parents had just gotten me a more normal ducky, they might 
have saved a lot of people a whole lot of trouble."

Scully watched her shoes as they clicked rhythmically on the 
sidewalk.  "Mulder?" she said.  Then after a beat, she looked up 
and gave him a deeply affectionate smile, and the moment sucked 
her into a precious memory of a senate hearing and a familiar 
figure in the grandiose doorway.  "I'm glad you're not dead."

A moment of genuine amusement flashed across his features, but 
all too quickly something clouded and dark rode in on its wake.  
"Are you?" he asked, almost a whisper.

Scully halted and Mulder stopped a step ahead, angling to face 
her.  She frowned at him, concern twisting her stomach.  "Was 
there some question?"

He watched her, deep set lines of long-neglected pain painting 
his brow.

Scully moved a half step closer.  "Mulder, what is it?"

"Scully...."  His voice was distant.  Heavy.  A million miles 
from where they had been a moment ago.  "Before I left--how did 
you feel about me?  What did I mean to you?  I mean...*really* 
mean to you?"

Scully felt like all the clear air had been sucked out of the 
night and a thousand pounds come to rest upon her chest.  She 
glanced to the side, convincing herself the open air still 
surrounded her.  People moved along the elegant walkway, carefree 
and enjoying the night and oblivious to the way the ground 
shifted beneath her feet.

An invisible line drawn a decade ago had just been crossed. 


*****

(End Chapter 20a.  Continued in Chapter 20b...)
Cyber cupcakes given for feedback -- bstrbabs@gmail.com

-------------

"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 20b



"Let's go down to the water's edge, we can cast away those 
doubts.  Some things are better left unsaid, but they still turn 
me inside out..."  
                             -- Annie Lennox, "Why"




The evening wind lifted the hair from her neck, caressed her 
skin.  There was a luxurious texture to the air that hinted at a 
coming rain.

Scully tried to draw a deep breath beneath Mulder's penetrating 
gaze.

"I--I'm not sure what you're asking me, Mulder."

He flinched ever so slightly.  Looked hurt, really.  Weary.  It 
pushed her forward.  "What do you want me to say?  You were my 
best friend.  Probably the best friend I've ever had, I--"

"Past tense."

"No, don't do that, you *asked* me about the past."

"Your best friend."

"Yes.  Of course.  Wasn't I yours?"

But he shook his head, withdrawing, and turned away.  Took a step 
down the path.

Scully felt like something had hooked its claws in her stomach 
and wouldn't let go.  She took a step after Mulder, and now they 
were walking again, but she was half a step behind, and feeling 
like she couldn't catch up, couldn't reach him.

"Are we still in that same little circle, Scully?"

"What circle, what are we talking about?"

He shook his head, frustrated, pacing faster with the rush of 
emotion, and she brushed hard past the slower oncoming patrons of 
the plaza to keep up.  He kept his eyes forward.

Scully reached out and grasped his arm.  "Mulder, talk to me."

He stopped, turned toward her, and the blaze of emotion in his 
eyes made her fight the urge to take a step away.  But she never 
had and never would.  Not from Mulder.

"Talk to you?  Scully..." he gave a breathless sound like a black 
laugh.  "We don't do that, do we?  Have we ever talked, Scully?  
Have we ever just really said something real to one another?  You 
say I was your best friend.  Yet, you yourself pointed out that I 
didn't know your favorite song.  How the hell do best friends 
spend 16 hours a day together, and I don't know your favorite 
song?"

"Mulder, we lived our lives in a very narrow track, that's true.  
And some of the finer points may have suffered, but how on earth 
can you say that we never really spoke honestly with one another?  
Never shared anything?  Mulder...maybe it wasn't that real for 
you, but I know I shared things and moments, and fears and joys 
with you that I have, to this day, never shared with anyone.  And 
I will not defend that."

"Scully, I'm not asking you to."  He reached out and rubbed her 
upper arms, and she almost didn't want him to touch her so 
intimately right now.  The need hurt.  "I know we shared things.  
I don't mean to discount that.  We were battle brothers, no 
gender offense intended.  Soldiers forging a friendship in the 
trenches.  But our trust, and sometimes I fear our friendship, 
was limited to the scope of those events relating to the war we 
were waging."

"I don't think that's true.  Maybe on the surface, but not about 
the things that counted."

He looked at her for a long moment, dark eyes endlessly deep, 
holding a glimmer of something like hope, like a need that ran as 
deep as the one that made her want to keep his hands off of her 
for as long as possible.

"Mulder...your mother, the death of my father..."

He nodded, acknowledged, but she wasn't satisfying what he was 
reaching for, and he was leaving her floundering in the dark.

"Mulder...*what*?"

"What about Emily?"

"What about her?"

"Did you cry when she died?"

"What?"

"Did you cry when she died?  Beyond the day of her funeral?"

Defensiveness was molting into the sharpness of anger.  "She was 
my daughter."

He lifted his eyebrows, pushing for the hard answer.

She hardened her jaw, but spoke.  "Yes.  Of course, I cried."

He nodded.  "I never saw it."

She half lowered her lids, glanced away.  "I don't see how 
that....it was private.  *Mine* to feel."

Mulder nodded for a moment, then turned away and started walking 
again.  "Right.  Private.  Yours."

"Mulder."  She hurried to catch pace with his long runner's legs.  
"Mulder!"  He slowed a fraction, but wouldn't look at her.  
Outside glances were starting to linger on their two figures, 
passers-by picking up on the tension and surreptitiously 
eavesdropping on what they might have thought a lovers' quarrel.

Scully wanted to temper the moment, default to propriety.  But 
something long buried in her fueled her drive and she refused to 
let the moment slip away.  She kept her voice full volume.  
"Mulder, you left me.  You *left* me."  The harshness in her 
words made him stop and face her from a few paces away.  They 
were beneath the shadow of a draping willow now, minimally 
sheltered from the sparse crowd.  He was listening.  "How the 
hell was I supposed to feel?  I had two years, Mulder--*two 
years* to sit and wonder if everything that had ever been between 
us had been on my side and never on yours.  Because you were 
capable of leaving me behind like that, of doing what you did.  
Of the ultimate ditch, Mulder.  Of finally putting our quest so 
far ahead of our personal lives that you got yourself killed and 
left me permanently alone."

"You weren't alone very long."

His words washed over her like acid, anger flushing her skin like 
a shield rising for protection.  She pulled physically back.  "Go 
to hell," she breathed.

"Scully, wait--"

But she had turned and cut across the parking lot, back toward 
the car, away from the flow of shoppers.  She squinted up at the 
sky as she walked, a thin haze of clouds was moving over the near 
full moon.  Darkness was blanketing everything that had once been 
bright.  She heard his footsteps behind her, gaining speed, 
gaining ground.  She didn't slow.

"Scully.  *Scully!*"

She whirled on him just as his hand came into contact with her 
shoulder.  "*What?*"

He looked like a wounded deer.  All that height and strength and 
knowledge and he looked lost and betrayed and helpless and she 
wanted to stroke his hair and shelter him in the basement and 
threaten the life and limb of anyone who struck out at him when 
he was down.  As she always had.  But she couldn't move.  
Couldn't speak.

"Scully, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean that, I'm just...this isn't 
easy for either of us, and I'm just as guilty of old patterns as 
you are.  It's always easier to push away the people you care 
about the most.  I ought to know.  You're one of the few people 
on the planet I haven't completely alienated yet, try as I 
might."

She stood and breathed for several seconds, only now becoming 
aware of the rush of adrenaline in her limbs, the pounding of her 
heart.  The old blackmail card.  Played invariably for the needs 
of Mulder.  His one in five-fucking-billion.  His better half, to 
make him a whole person.  His touchstone.

"How could you say that to me?" she asked softly.

The lines in his brow only grew deeper.  "I'm sorry, Scully.  
You're right, of course.  You had every right to move on, to...to 
go out and find a life for yourself.  Make something happen.  
Stop driving.  Get out of the car.  Everything you wanted."

"'Find a life?'" she parroted, forced precision on each word.

He flinched slightly, a trace of confusion crossing his 
countenance.  She'd thrown him.  "Yes.  To go out and have for 
yourself all the things you always wanted that life on The X-
Files hadn't allowed.  Daniel offered you all of that.  You had a 
past with him, it only makes sense that you would--"

"Take the first proposal that came along?  I mean at my age, I 
couldn't wait too much longer, right, or maybe--"

"Scully, stop.  That is not what I was saying, and you know it, 
I--"

"No, Mulder, *you* stop.  You're missing something, here."

He just looked at her.  The hurt animal again, the deep set eyes 
that could touch her soul.  And she turned from the pain in his 
eyes to the greater darkness away from the street lamps.  She 
paced a small circle, hands on her hips, pushing back her coat 
tails.  Her heels felt incongruous on the rough concrete.

"That grey rug on the stretch of floor in front of my fireplace?" 
she began, turning only halfway his direction, giving him a 
fleeting glance.  Mulder offered an almost imperceptible nod.  
She nodded acknowledgment and once again looked up at the sky, 
ignoring the lump in her throat.  "He dropped there.  Right in 
front of me.  And I spread my mother's hand-made afghan over him 
because he was so cold.  And Christopher was sleeping on the sofa 
like an angel thinking the world would always be here and his 
father would be smiling and holding him when he woke up.  And I 
called the paramedics and unlocked the door for them, but Daniel 
was fading fast, and I knew it and he knew it.  We were both 
doctors and there wasn't a Goddamned thing we could do... And he 
just reached up and pulled me down beside him.  And I curled up 
on the floor, and spread the blanket over both of us.  And I just 
lay there with him and listened to him breathe and counted the 
seconds until the paramedics would arrive.  But by the time they 
got there, he wasn't hearing my whispers anymore.  I had unlocked 
the door, and when they came in, I was still on the floor with 
him.  And my mother was on her way over to take Christopher, so I 
could go to the hospital.  But by the time we got to the hospital 
Daniel was in a coma.  And I stayed with him for 36 hours, and I 
let Christopher sleep beside him.  And I didn't close my eyes.  
Until he stopped."  She paused, trying to breathe, to maintain 
her voice.  Her stomach ached deeply and her vision blurred 
through hot liquid.  She had to look at Mulder.  She couldn't 
manage more than a whisper.  She had never told anyone before.  
Had never recounted the moments.  "So don't you ever, Fox Mulder, 
even for a moment, consider that I married my husband for 
anything less than love."

She didn't know what she expected from him.  If she expected him 
to walk away.  To quietly take her home.  To argue with her.  To 
pull away.

But she didn't expect what happened.  Mulder moved forward 
through the shadows, and closed his arms around her, encircling 
her, enfolding her, holding her arms at her sides and swallowing 
her slender form in his long muscular arms.  He leaned his cheek 
against the top of her head, and didn't say a word.  He just held 
on, and after a long moment of stiff tension, her muscles started 
to let go.  She sniffed softly as the knots in her stomach pulled 
and loosened.  The release hurt more than the initial pain.  She 
couldn't let go completely.  But they stood like that, there in 
the dim parking lot, her cheek against Mulder's chest, with the 
rain hanging in the pregnant air; and for a moment, Scully let 
Mulder be there again.  Let him be Mulder.  Let him be the strong 
arms that had caught her every time she fell for almost a decade.  
The arms that had carried her out of an alien tomb in Antarctica, 
the arms that had sheltered her from Donnie Pfaster and held her 
up when she was poisoned by pheromones.  She let herself admit 
she had buried her husband.

Mulder was the first to move.  He kissed her hair and leaned 
away, catching her wrist in his hand as he turned, and she felt 
her own pulse against his warm palm.  She felt the loss of his 
nearness.  "Come on.  Your little boy needs a book with a 
thoroughly terrestrial duck."


*****


She squatted down at the rotating rack, sorting through the rows 
of books like they were medical records, giving each item the 
same concentration and care.  He was familiar with her 
expression, her posture, the waterfall of her fingers as she 
traced the bindings.  He couldn't help but smile at the merging 
of Scully the Scientist and Scully the Mother.

Scully caught his smile and looked up at him, eyebrow arched.  
"What?"

But he only shook his head with a gentle smile.  "Nothing."

She knew there was more, but after a moment, she turned her 
attention back to the row of plastic books.  Cool and practical, 
that was his Scully.  No one but he would have seen the gentle 
quiver to her left eyelid when she blinked that evidenced the 
lingering tension.

"Oh, hey, look!" Scully said from the floor, a note of childlike 
pleasure in her voice that made his pulse quicken.

She held up her treasure for his appraisal.  In her hand was a 
net bag containing a plastic Ernie bath book, and fastened to the 
side was one small, ordinary, large-beaked, small-eyed yellow 
rubber duckie.  "Does this meet with the Mulder Rubber Duckie 
Standard?"

Mulder reached down and lifted the duckie set for inspection.  He 
took his time, looking it over at great length, holding it at 
arm's length and staring at the duck head-on, evaluating its 
impact on the innocent eye.

Scully pushed up to her feet, quietly observing his critiquing 
process.

At last he handed it back to her.  "Yep.  I think you've found 
yourself a proper duck, Scully."

The smile between them was gently affectionate.  But, Scully 
glanced down first, drawing a quick, uneven breath and tensing 
her neck.  Something had crossed her thoughts.  Mulder felt his 
own brow draw in in sympathy, and he started to reach his hand to 
touch her arm, but she turned on her heel before he could make 
contact.  "I'm ready to go, if you are."

And he was left with no option but to follow.

Mulder paid for the duckie, insisting he wanted it to be a gift 
from "Uncle Mulder", correcting the wrongs of his own childhood.  
Scully indulged him.  But something he said hit her wrong, and he 
couldn't for the life of him pin down what it was.

They set off on the walk back down the length of the plaza in 
comfortable silence.  They were walking closer again, the way 
they once had.  Shoulders brushing now and then.

"Do you want to go back to The X-Files?" Scully asked, catching 
him completely off guard.

"Where did that come from?" he quipped, obviously delaying his 
response.

Scully wasn't buying.  She narrowed her eyes and gazed up at him 
in the dimness, awaiting a real reply.  She was beautiful in this 
light (every light).  Even after the stressful day she had 
weathered.

He turned his attention to the path ahead.  "Honestly, Scully, I 
haven't thought that far ahead.  Right now, all I want is a 
paycheck, an insurance plan, and somewhere to pay rent besides 
your guest room."

She nodded, but didn't reply.

They passed the length of another store before Mulder added.  
"Even if I did, I'm going to be on ass-wipe duty for as long as 
they can justify keeping me there.  Whip me back into submission 
after my gratuitous display of original thought."

Scully just closed her eyes.  The pattern was all too familiar 
for them.  But this was the first time the impact of his 
insubordination hadn't spilled over into her career.  Or maybe it 
had, really.  Did she truly want to be teaching at Quantico?  His 
personal choices had domino-chained an endless number of shifts 
in her life.

"Listen, Scully...about this morning."

She looked up at him now, curious, pensive.  Her cross flashed at 
her throat in the glow of the street lamp.  "What?"

"I wish you wouldn't blame the Gunmen for my choices.  I know 
they were part of it, but they were only trying to--"

Scully turned cold.  "Don't."  She gave a single brisk shake of 
her head, and the ice in her tone spread through the pit of his 
stomach.

"Scully, I just don't want you to--"

"You weren't there."  Her words were final.  She wouldn't hear 
anymore.  She turned and walked ahead, and so he let it go.  The 
last thing he wanted was another wedge between them.


*****


The sky was gathering black clouds by the time Mulder pulled his 
car back onto the highway.

Scully was sequestered in her own thoughts as they sped off into 
the night.

He watched her roll down her window a bit, and let the cool night 
air lift her hair.

He switched on the radio and fished around for a decent station.  
Byers had reset all the presets and he had to fiddle for a while 
before he could get anything but big band music and the stock 
report.

At last he landed on something that sounded like real music.  He 
vaguely recognized the melody, but couldn't place the artist.

After a few bars of the music, Scully reached out without a word 
and turned up the volume.  She propped one arm on the window 
ledge, directing the wind to push back her hair, and gazed out in 
the blur of the rushing night.

And it hit him.  This--this random melody he had found on the 
radio--this was one of Scully's favorite songs.  Mulder kept half 
an eye on the traffic as he stole long glances at Scully's 
profile and soaked in the feel of the music.  He could almost 
*see* the piano riff touching her skin, transferring physical 
sensation from the sound vibrations to her body.  Which is when 
it clicked in his brain.  Scully loved music.  *Really* loved 
music.  She closed her eyes, letting the music and the feel of 
the night surround her.  And Mulder leaned into the accelerator, 
because somehow he knew that was what she wanted. This moment of 
escape.  Of flying low through the storm-ridden night on the 
wings of her favorite strains of music.  There was a grand piano 
in Scully's living room.  She had stated herself she regretted 
stopping her lessons.  Scully loved music.

How the hell could he not have known that?

He didn't know if the lyrics mattered to her, or only the sound.  
But he couldn't catch enough over the wind to make out the 
thread.

It didn't matter.  The moment mattered.

The rain at last broke through the ceiling of clouds, and the 
further they drove the heavier the downpour until the sounds of 
the radio were lost in the roar.  The drive home felt much too 
fast.  Neither of them wanted it to stop.  When they pulled to a 
halt in front of Scully's apartment building, the silence of the 
quiet residential street left Mulder's skin vibrating in the wake 
of sensation.  Only the steady drum of the rain remained.

"Scully..." he said, testing the strength of his voice.

She looked across at him.  All blue eyes and moon-glow skin.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for coming out tonight."

She nodded.  "You knew I would."

"Scully."

"Yeah?"

"What did I mean to you?  Before I left?"

The pace of her breath rose.  "What did I mean to *you*?"

That was Scully.  "You know the answer to that."

"I don't think I do.  Maybe I once did.  But now...I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

She didn't speak, but she didn't look away.

Then, at last.  "Mulder, you left me.  I didn't know how...I 
didn't know how to deal with that.  And then to find out 
that...that you lied.  That you put me through all of that pain 
and confusion, and you could have stopped it..."  Her voice was 
quavering and she faded to silence.

"Scully...were you happy?"

"What?"

"You fell in love.  You got married.  You started a family.  Your 
life without me...it seems...like it was so much better.  Were 
you happy?"

She stared at him hard, pale eyes dark in the shadows.  The rain 
continued to pound on the rooftops.

"I had a life.  I couldn't put everything on hold on the off 
chance you might come back from the dead one more time and 
everything would be business as usual."

"I know that.  I understand that.  I hate it, but I know it to be 
the truth.  But that's not what I asked you, Scully."

She fell silent.

"Scully...I've had two years away from every part of my life.  
Two years for everything to distill.  Two years for everything to 
stand out in brilliant relief.  For it to be crystal clear to me 
which elements of Fox Mulder's life were worth going back for.  
Which elements I *needed* to go back for."

He didn't have to finish the thought.  The emotion waved across 
to her like heat.  He saw the impact on her skin like the music.

She turned at last and gazed out through the windshield, one hand 
bracing on the dashboard.  "Mulder, we worked together for seven 
years.  If you're saying what it sounds like your saying, that's 
a hell of a long time for reality to soak in."

"You said it yourself, Scully.  We were living in an artificial 
and constricted track.  Nothing followed the ordinary rules for 
us."  She didn't respond.  The distance was growing in her.  He 
saw the hardened line of her cheekbone, the set of her jaw.  He'd 
seen it a thousand times before.  He pressed forward, feeling his 
window closing.

"Scully.  I need to know this.  I need to know where we were 
before I left.  I need to know what it means to you that I'm here 
now.  I need to know...if the life you found...if that was where 
you belong."

She whirled on him with a flare of anger that caught him unaware.  
He had cut into a raw nerve.

"What.  What do you want me to say, Mulder?  You're asking for 
confirmation of things that hung in the air unconfirmed for a 
lifetime.  You're asking me to analyze the life I made for myself 
in the wake of *your* betrayal, and your endless manipulation of 
my life, my desires, my emotions.  I followed you for seven 
years.  Seven.  Years.  And if you're really too dense to realize 
that was more than professional dedication, you're not half the 
profiler you pretend to be.  And you ditched me.  You left me 
behind, like I was always second in line to the quest you really 
cared about--"

"Scully, no, that is not what--"

"Shut up.  You left me; wondering if everything I had put on hold 
for the past seven years had been for nothing.  If everything I 
had believed in and followed in my career and my personal life 
had been based on a lie.  So, I backed up.  I learned how to be 
Scully again, without the X-Files.  Without you.  I fell in love 
with a brilliant and wonderful man who had followed *me* for ten 
years even when I shut him out of my life.  I started a new life.  
So, YES, okay, Mulder?  You want to know?  Yes, I had all of it.  
All the things I always wanted and you knew I wanted all that 
time that we couldn't have any of it because all of our hopes and 
dreams had been sacrificed in pursuit of the truth.  I had the 
husband I loved, the beautiful home, the dog, parties, family, 
friends, joy, and a perfect little boy.  And with the exception 
of my son, it was all a fucking consolation prize.  Because it 
wasn't you."

He couldn't even breathe before she vanished from the car.  His 
stomach rose in his throat.  His pulse raced blood through his 
veins and he cringed at the jarring slam of her door.  He shoved 
open his own door and forged over the rain-drenched gutter.

Scully was around the car in an instant and jogging through the 
sheets of water toward the apartment entrance.

"Sculllyyy!"  He shouted after her, but his words were drowning 
in the roar of the rain and he knew the effort was futile even if 
she could hear.  Mulder slammed his car door, braced his hands on 
the side of the hood and smacked the unforgiving steel with the 
base of his hand.  He squinted down the quiet street at the 
looming figures of the trees in the blur of rain as his clothes 
sank and clung cold to his skin.

She hit him from behind.  He barely had a chance to turn before 
her full weight launched into his arms and her mouth locked onto 
his as her knees clamped his hips.  She cradled his face in her 
hands and his arms wrapped around her wet back and her lips clung 
to his in what he knew in that rain-soaked and wild moment was 
the most amazing kiss of his life.  The downpour plastered long 
red hair to their cheeks and ears and foreheads.  Water flooded 
his eyes, nose, mouth.  But all he could taste was Scully.  
Scully.  His Scully.  *Oh, God, Scully in his arms.*  The Scully 
he remembered in every detail from a single New Year's kiss so 
very long ago.  Nothing like this.  This was raw, beautiful, 
passionate, needy, loving--so hard to believe he nearly closed 
his eyes and let go of the reins of reality.

Salt prickled his tongue.  His tears or hers.  Every muscle in 
her body was quivering, her breath hitched, but she wouldn't 
break the contact, wouldn't let go of the kiss.  And there wasn't 
a force in the universe that could have pulled him away.

*Scully.  I love you.  Oh, God, Scully, don't let go.  Don't let 
go.*


*****

(End Chapter 20b.  Continued in 21a...)
bstrbabs@gmail.com

------------

"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 21a


"I'm falling even more in love with you
Letting go of all I've held on to
I'm standing here until you make me move
I'm hanging by a moment here with you"
                    --Lifehouse, "Hanging by a Moment"



**Scully...I smell like you...**



They stood in the rain longer than they should have.  They 
breathed against one another's skin.  They felt one another's 
heart beats.  They didn't care they were nearly drowning.  They 
didn't want to let go.

They climbed the stairs together.  Scully paid Ashleigh, and 
Mulder followed the girl out the door to see her safely to her 
car.  By the time he returned, Scully had started a fire in the 
fireplace.  Fingers of amber light danced about the walls.  Tasha 
basked in the warmth of the fire, no longer bothering to rise and 
sniff Mulder as a foreign presence.  Scully stooped before the 
fire, towel drying her hair.  Another fresh towel lay on the back 
of the couch for Mulder.  He reached out without a word and 
lifted the towel to dry his face and hair.

"We should get out of these wet clothes," Scully said, pushing to 
her feet.
 
Mulder lowered the towel and deadpanned for a moment, then he 
wiggled his eyebrows, and Scully closed her eyes and softened 
into a wry smile.  "And into dry ones," she said evenly.  But her 
skin flushed beneath her blouse as she turned away.
 
Scully retreated to the master bathroom to clean up while Mulder 
did the same in the guest bath.  She took her time, concentrating 
on the routine tasks, trying to focus on the immediate and not 
wanting to realize she was trembling.  Part of her was still out 
in the rain, sheltered under the black night sky, pressed tight 
to Mulder's warmth, his vibrant and real flesh surrounding her.  
Alive.  Holding onto her.

They emerged one after the other, hair still damp, skin soft from 
the rainwater; Mulder was in sweats and a T-shirt, Scully in her 
most luxurious pink bathrobe.

"Little guy sleeping?" Mulder asked, glancing toward Scully's 
bedroom.

"Mercifully quiet."

She lead the way to the kitchen, fixed them each a drink while 
Mulder hovered in the shadows, pulling at her senses.  She led 
the way to the couch and the inviting warmth of the fire.

Scully passed a goblet of white wine to Mulder and took a sip of 
her own iced tea.  She pulled her legs up beneath her, and she 
saw Mulder catch a flash of her pale skin before she straightened 
the robe around her legs.  Subtle.  But he noticed. 

They were quiet for a moment.  Then Mulder reached his arm along 
the back of the couch and drew his fingers ever so lightly down 
her cheek.  Scully shivered against the soft cloth of her robe.  
Nine years since they'd met.  And the electricity between them 
had never been so alive.

Scully closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.  "Where did you 
live?" she whispered.  "When you were gone..."

Mulder shook his head as his hand fell away, eyes deceptively 
dark in the firelight.  "Nowhere.  In a crappy one room apartment 
with no sunlight.  I didn't go out.  Didn't want to risk my 
cover.  I took the subway to work every day.  Work was 
underground--literally."

"What was it like?  I mean...were you okay?"

He nodded.  "I was.  I mean...I was safe most of the time.  There 
were risks, but, mostly it was drudge work.  Lots of down time to 
watch cable and read cheap spy novels."

She narrowed her eyes, fought to hold his gaze in the uneven 
light.  "What was the hardest part?" 

And she saw the transformation cross him like a shadow.  Pain.  
Raw and untended.  Buried.  Glimpsed unbidden.  His soft lips 
parted, and his eyes washed with tears.

Scully reached out to touch his face, and he fell so easily into 
her touch.  He closed his eyes and turned into the warmth of her 
palm.  Scully's chest ached.  Such deep pain so near the surface.  
Why hadn't she seen it before?  "The worst part was being away 
from you," he whispered.  "Scully you're the only one I've ever 
had in my life who...you're...I ...I just missed you so much."  
His voice was little more than a whisper, and he tried to tamp 
down on the well of emotion, but Scully felt it all, and her hand 
stroked his cheek.

"You were alone," she said.  And the thready tenor to her voice 
brought to life the infinite layers of his admission.

Out of the quiet, Mulder said simply, "So were you."

She gazed at him a long moment, silent communication serving them 
as it always had.  Then she nodded.  And she saw the wave of 
comfort wash over him like a blanket.  He would never wish this 
for her.  But he needed to hear it tonight.

They could only be honest.  Deception had brought them to this 
precipice.

"Scully...?"

"What?"

"How long?"

She pulled up straighter, let her hand fall from his cheek to his 
wrist.  Her eyes asked for more.

"How long have you felt...more for me?"

She swallowed hard.  *Full lips on hers, firm chest muscles 
pressing against her breasts, hips tight against her own and the 
stirring ache in her groin.*  "How long have I felt it?  Or when 
did I admit it?  To myself."

"Both."

Things could slip out so easily in the late night firelight.  
With soft clothes and damp hair, and blurry edges to once harsh 
lines.

"I admitted it when Daniel asked me if I wanted a child.  
Suddenly everything was real.  And you weren't coming home. And I 
couldn't start to let go of you, unless I admitted why...I 
couldn't."

Mulder nodded.  And it was hard to see the line between how much 
he wanted to hear her words, and how much he didn't.  But he 
asked the next question.  "And...how long...have you felt..."

The real truth.  The ruling force of her life (both their lives), 
kept silent and private like a solitary religion.  "Since I woke 
up.  And you weren't there.  And then you brought me 'Superstars 
of the Superbowls'."

She looked away over the back of the couch.  They were quiet.  
Then, Mulder said, "Damn, we're slow."

And Scully actually smiled.  Because the gentleness behind 
Mulder's teasing had always soothed her soul.

She didn't speak.  She picked up her iced tea, took a sip, and 
gazed into its amber depths.

"Are you okay?" Mulder whispered.

She kept studying her glass.  "I'm fine."

"Are you terrified?"

Her pulse quickened.  Damn, this went deep tonight.  She drew a 
breath, but her muscles quivered as she forced the air into her 
lungs.   She arched an eyebrow.  Still not looking away from her 
glass.  "Very."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Scully blanched.  She closed her eyes and the tension creased her 
brow.  *Don't promise me that, Mulder, don't do it.  I'm not 
ready to believe you again.*  When she opened her eyes they were 
blurred with tears.  She saw Mulder see it.  Saw the hesitation, 
the battling need in him to touch her.  "Slow, okay?" she said.  
But she barely got the words out without her voice breaking.  She 
was shaking.

"I think we've established that's what we're good at," Mulder 
breathed.  He was joking again, trying to warm her, but his voice 
belied the lightness.  The tenderness bled through.  And it hurt 
so much to feel this from Mulder.  *Mulder.*

She started to speak, but in the end she only breathed.

Mulder's fingers combed gingerly through the damp tails of her 
hair trailing across the sofa back.  "Scully, look at me."

She lifted her eyes on instinct, but had to work to hold it.

"I know you would never marry anyone you didn't love."

She held his gaze for several beats, swallowed thickly.  "Mulder, 
your fish are in Christopher's room."  Her voice was hoarse; she 
cleared her throat.

"What?"

"Your fish.  The tank, the fish...they're in Christopher's room.  
He likes to watch them."

"You kept my fish?"

She nodded.  He watched her with something like wonder until at 
last she looked away and set her empty glass on the coffee table.  
Mulder had forgotten his half-finished wine.

"Tell me about the X-Files," Mulder said.  "What was the most 
fascinating case that came across your desk while I was away?"

"Oh, God, um..."  Scully drew a deep breath, sat back and settled 
deeper into the generous cushions.  "I'd have to think about 
that, I...oh, I know, what you would have liked to have seen.  
That would be the haunting case in Mississippi."

"A haunting?"  Mulder leaned forward, forearm propped on his 
knee.  "Ghosts, Scully?  I seem to recall you telling me once 
upon a Christmas Eve that you didn't believe in ghosts?"

"Did I say I do?"

"Pardon me, but you just referred to this as the 'haunting 
case'."

"*Alleged* haunting case, then."

"So, it was just a hoax?  We've seen a thousand of those, Scully, 
why would that be of interest--"

"May I talk, please?"

Mulder sat back with a deliciously mischievous smile.  "By all 
means, Dr. Waterston, lecture away."

"Thank you.  So, it caught my attention, when I got this letter--
addressed to you, actually--from an 80 year old woman living with 
her son in the antebellum plantation home she had been born 
in..."

Scully talked, and Mulder soaked up her words like a sponge.  He 
was in his element again.  They were there together.  And he was 
thriving, drinking in the challenges like a man fresh from the 
scorching desert.  She recounted numerous cases for his benefit.  
He learned a bit more about Michaels and how they worked 
together.  And this lead to that and soon they were revisiting 
their old shared cases and comparing memories and arguing the 
same familiar points all over again.

The fire burned low, and Mulder drained his wine glass and the 
first refill.  Their eyelids grew heavy, and the strain of the 
day pulled at their muscles.

Scully eventually slipped away for another glass of tea.  And 
when she returned, Mulder had fallen asleep, his long frame 
sprawled haphazard across her couch.

Scully took one of the folded afghans from the trunk on the far 
wall, and spread it across his sleeping form.  She doused the 
fire.  Checked the locks for the night.  She stooped down beside 
Mulder.  Reaching out, she touched her fingertips to his temple, 
feather light in the shadows.  Her Mulder.  A thousand motel 
rooms and all night marathons.  A thousand interrogations and 
courtroom appearances and lunches at Sam's Deli.  A betrayal and 
a sacrifice and a devastating loss and a new life and a miracle 
and now here he lay.  With no one and nothing left in the world 
but her.  Sleeping contentedly on her late husband's couch.  Her 
gaze moved over his shoulder, his muscular arm, resting free on 
top of the blanket.  Another vivid flash of powerful arms locked 
across her back.

Scully leaned forward and touched her lips to Mulder's forehead 
before she turned and retreated down the hall.

In the dark of her bedroom, she folded back the covers and 
dropped her robe.  A square flash of light on her dark comforter 
caught the moonlight.  Her fingers traced over a manila file 
folder.

Frowning, she carried the folder to the bathroom and switched on 
the light, shivering in her thin nightgown.  A file folder, yes.  
With a stack of Xeroxed or faxed pages inside.  She leafed 
lightly through the slick sheets, scanning the contents, catching 
the gist of the data.  Medical records.  Documentations of 
research.  Chemical compounds.  Symptoms.  Metabolic processes.

The effects of a certain chemical compound in vaccine form on the 
child of a nursing mother.


*****


Mulder drifted out of slumber into awareness of the witching hour 
shadows on Scully's living room wall.  He glanced around, 
disoriented for a moment.  Knowing *where* he was, but not why or 
how.  Scully.  Hadn't they been talking?  One minute she had been 
there...  He must have fallen asleep.  A blanket lay heavy over 
his legs.  She had tucked him in and slipped away.

Mulder stretched and yawned, lids still drugged with slumber.  
The moon was high, the sun still a couple of hours away.  But he 
*had* drunk two glasses of wine.  And now that he was awake, 
there was little option but to drag himself up to go pee and most 
likely fall into the guest bed on his way back down the hall.

Mulder stumbled through the necessary tasks and was only steps 
from the door to the guest room, when he heard a soft sound of 
pain from Scully's room.

He froze mid-step, breath held and listening.  He thought perhaps 
he had heard Christopher murmuring in his sleep.  But the 
apartment seemed wholly quiet.  And just when he was beginning to 
think he had imagined the sound completely, it came again.

Distinctively Scully.  A delicate whimper of fear.  Pain.  
*Jesus.*

He crossed to Scully's half-open door, squinting into the deeper 
shadows.  In a moment his eyes adjusted and he could make out the 
soft curve of her figure on the far side of the bed.  He could 
hear Christopher's even breaths from the crib.

Scully was dreaming, restless and vocal in her sleep.  Mulder 
braced a hand on the door casing, gazing into the darkness.  
Frozen; darkly entranced.  He didn't have a clue where the lines 
lay.  Years ago, he wouldn't have dared set foot in her inner 
sanctum.  Somewhere in the middle, he wouldn't have hesitated to 
touch a hand to the back of her neck to wake her from a turbulent 
sleep.  Now, they were closer than they had ever been, yet he was 
less sure of his status than he had ever been.

And while he debated his rights to her trust and her personal 
space, Scully jerked awake and shoved up onto her elbow.

She was gasping for breath, panting like she'd been running.  She 
sat up, lifted the back of her hand to her cheek, breath 
hitching.  "Oh, God," she breathed, and her voice was shaking.

Mulder pushed himself forward.

"Scully?"

She startled at his appearance as badly as she had waking from 
the dream.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.  Scully, are you okay?"

He moved toward her, cautious and tentative, lowering his weight 
to the edge of her bed.

Scully was still breathing so hard.  Trembling like water in a 
surface wind.  Her eyes never rose above his waist.  "Yeah," she 
breathed.  "I'm okay, I just..."  She shuddered deeply.  "Oh, 
God."

"Hey, easy, easy."  He reached out and smoothed his hand down her 
hair, caught hold of her hand.  "It's all right.  I think you 
were just dreaming."

"I know.  It was..."  Her face crumpled and she sniffed hard 
against her impending tears.  The ache brought his hand to his 
own stomach.  "He was here again," she whispered, head tilting 
toward her shoulder.  She pushed her hair behind her ear.

"Who was here?"

"His knife was in my arm, and I was pinned to the ground..."

*Oh, fuck...*

Scully shook her head, brows tight in confusion.  "But time was 
all messed up.  It wasn't then, it wasn't...Daniel wasn't there, 
but...but I could hear Christopher down the hall.  He was yelling 
for me, and...and *he* could hear Christopher, and I knew if I 
didn't get away, if I didn't..."

She was slipping back into the throes of the dream as she spoke, 
and with her last words she was crying openly.  He had to touch 
her.  He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, cradled the side of her 
neck.  "It's all right," he whispered.  "He's not here.  He's not 
here.  Christopher's safe.  It was just a dream, Scully."

She nodded distractedly, but she still needed to speak.  So he 
pulled back to listen, hands solid on her shoulders.

"I know," she said.  "It was a dream, I just...I don't know, it 
didn't feel like...it was like..."  she was straining so hard, 
searching for something slipping just out of her grasp, fading 
out of her memory and vanishing into the black, "...like 
something's happening, or...I could feel...I don't know, I-
it's...something...it's just a dream, I...I'm sorry.  I'm sorry, 
it's...it's just a dream."  She was sagging.  Coming back to the 
room around them, and letting the brass ring fly.  But he felt 
the significance of what had brushed her.

Scully closed her eyes, pacing her breath, fighting to steady the 
world.

"It's all right," Mulder whispered again, caressing her cheek, 
the side of her neck.  She made no protest to the intimacy of his 
touch.

He took the moment and pulled her into his arms.  Her hand snaked 
up around his neck, the other grasped at his shoulder from below 
as she buried her face in his throat.  The comfort brought her to 
tears again, and he locked his arms hard across the tight muscles 
of her back.  Her nails dug into his skin.
 
"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Mulder shook his head sharply.  "Stop."

And for a few precious moments she fell silent, clinging to him, 
bare arms and shoulders hot against his skin, so much of her warm 
and trembling flesh so close to his own--letting him comfort her.  
He could count the moments in their life on one hand.

She was the first to pull away.  Quick, graceful brushes at the 
damp, tender skin beneath her eyes.  "I just...I don't 
understand, why now..."

Mulder nodded.  "We were talking about what happened.  You 
telling me about it brought it back out for your mind to play 
with.  It's only natural."

But she was shaking her head.  "No.  It's always in my conscious 
mind.  Every morning when I get dressed and push past all my 
sleeveless blouses."

*Oh, Jesus.*  She said the words so simply, so matter-of-factly.  
She might as well have karate kicked him in the chest.

But he swallowed the pain, because Scully was still distracted, 
still reaching...

He needed to sink into her thoughts.  "The attack--it was really 
bad, wasn't it?  Horrible for you."

Scully winced, lifted one shoulder protectively.  That was his 
answer.  "But it's so far in the past for me now.  It's been over 
a year since I had any kind of dream or flashback to...  And now 
two nights in a row..."

"The same dream last night?  That's what woke you?"

She drew a deep breath.  "Different, but...the same."  She wasn't 
meeting his gaze.

"You've been through a lot this week.  My dreams haven't been so 
hot lately, either, if you hadn't noticed.."

She didn't respond.  "What do you think it is?" he asked gently.

But she just shook her head, eyes closed.

He drew the backs of his fingers down the side of her face, then 
traced a path down her right arm and very deliberately over the 
inside of her forearm.  Scully shivered, eyes on his hand.

"We should be sleeping," she said softly.  "We have to face 
Skinner bright and early."

"Just like old times."

"Except this time, *I'm* not in trouble."

"Ask me to stay."

Scully shook her head, edged her hand away.  "No.  I can't--"

"Just ask me to sleep here.  Just tonight.  It's only a couple of 
hours."  He gestured toward the window, and the faintest hint of 
light on the horizon.

But Scully shook her head again.  "No.  Not yet."

"Why not?  We've slept side by side before.  Why not tonight of 
all nights?"  His voice was gentle, sincere.

"Because tonight, I want it so much."

"And that's a reason I should go?"

She lifted her eyebrows, letting the statement stand.

"Scully...do you ever think that maybe, maybe you and I have 
gotten in the habit of denying ourselves everything we really 
want for so long, that we've forgotten how to just step up and 
live.  Really be alive."

To his surprise, Scully seemed at once to hear what he was 
getting at, fall into synch.  "Of course.  I've been struggling 
with all of that while you were gone.  I tried to step back into 
a normal life, and...well...there were a lot of walls to break 
through, a lot of engrained patterns to escape before that could 
happen.  My life before was...well, you know what it was."

"No," he said softly.  "Only some of it.  I want to know more."

"Even with Christopher.  I had wanted a child for so long...and 
then when Daniel suggested we just put the gears in motion, make 
it happen.   All my instincts told me to run.  I had been denied 
for so long this thing that I wanted so badly.  I was so afraid 
to let go and...believe."

Mulder began to stroke the back of her hand where it rested on 
the mattress.  "But you did it."

Scully gave a small but genuine smile, and her fingers closed 
around his.  "Yeah.  I did.  And he's going to wake up hungry any 
minute now."

"I can't stay?"

She looked him dead in the eye, a storm of thoughts circling 
behind her intense gaze.  "Not tonight," she whispered.  "For 
tonight....leave your door open for me."

"Scully.  My door has *always* been open for you."

She closed her eyes.  He squeezed her hand.

Then he stood and walked away.


*****


He thought he would have trouble getting back to sleep.  But 
exhaustion could be a powerful force.  He woke once more before 
dawn.  And he thought his dream had spilled over into reality.  
Until he clicked into full consciousness and the very real 
feeling of Scully's back pressed tight against his chest.  Her 
breaths were deep and even in sleep, her hair cascading across 
his neck.  The piercing red light of the baby monitor glowed from 
the desk on the opposite wall.

Mulder didn't shift, didn't stir her slumber.  He lowered his arm 
ever so gently across her stomach, and Scully nestled closer.  He 
fell back asleep.  When he woke again, his clock showed only five 
minutes from the sounding of his alarm.  He moved away from 
Scully with infinite care.  He reset the alarm for fifteen 
minutes away, lifted the blanket over Scully's bare shoulder, and 
left to take his shower.


*****

(End Chapter 21a.  Continued in 21b...)
Feedback petted and well-fed at bstrbabs@gmail.com

------------


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 21b



The word had spread through the Bureau grapevine days ago, the 
information been confirmed by a call to a trusted associate in 
VCU, but in the end, Walter Skinner did not truly believe the 
outrageous reports until he witnessed the phenomenon with his own 
eyes.

Skinner opened the door to his outer office on Tuesday morning, 
instead of buzzing Kimberly to send in his next appointment, and 
felt as though he had slipped through a time warp.

On the couch across from his door sat two agents who had once 
been under his supervision (if never his control).   One too tall 
for the low-set cushions, awkward and displaced in an office 
setting; the other poised and polished and unnaturally calm, red 
hair reflecting in the hallway window.

*What the hell were those grey blobs on his tie?*

Fox Mulder was back in Skinner's office.  And Scu--Dana, right 
along side him.

They looked up in unison at the sound of the door.  Skinner gave 
a quick silent look toward Mulder, then focused his attention on 
Dana.

"Agent Waterston, may I see you alone for a moment, please?"

"Of course, sir," came her easy response.  Dana pushed to her 
feet, but not without a quick glance toward Mulder.

Skinner had never seen a more amazing example of silent partner 
communication than witnessed in Mulder and Scully.  They should 
have been the Academy's poster children for synchronization in 
the field.  Problem was, no one else seemed to understand them.  
And he had long harbored a suspicion that the phenomenon spilled 
over into their personal lives.  Which left him wondering what 
they had really meant to each other.  He was almost certain he 
would learn no more about that subject now than he had in years 
past.

Dana's slender figure slipped past him, brushing his chest as she 
crossed the threshold, barely rising to his chin even in her 
wicked heels.  He gave Mulder a moment's pointed stare before 
closing the door.  Mulder bit his lip and fussed with his tie as 
he vanished from sight.

Dana stood beside her chair, waiting for Skinner to be seated.  
He gestured toward the chair as he moved into his own.  She 
smoothed her skirt beneath her and sank neatly into place.  She 
rested her hands on the arm rests and crossed her legs, squinting 
toward the streaks of light through the blinds.

She looked tired.  Slick and elegant as ever.  But he had worked 
with her long enough, seen her through enough illness and injury 
and stress, to recognize the slight tightness across her eyelids, 
the set of her mouth, betraying the lack of rest.  Physical or 
otherwise.

He had also worked with her long enough not to assume fatigue 
would dull the sharpness of her mind.

He never liked to face Dana Waterston before a minimum of three 
cups of coffee.

"Agent Waterston, I appreciate you coming in this morning."

She gave a slight nod.  "No problem, sir.  However, may I ask 
what this is about?"

"Relax, Agent Waterston, you're not here to be lectured.  And 
Mulder's not in any more trouble than I'm sure you're already 
aware of."

She barely flinched as he spoke, the slightest flutter of her 
left eyelid.

Skinner picked up a pen and hooked it through his fingers.  "I 
heard the rumor of Agent Mulder's...*miraculous return*.  And, 
frankly, I didn't believe it.  Hell, I'm not even certain I 
believe it now.  Let me be as direct as possible with you.  I 
asked Mulder here because I wanted to get a straight story from 
him.  And I wanted to hear directly from his mouth what his 
intentions are for the future, and decide whether or not I want 
to help him pursue those intentions.  I asked *you* here, because 
before I talk with Mulder--I want to hear from your mouth that 
that is indeed Fox William Mulder in my outer office.  And if it 
is, why there is any reason in the world I should do him any 
favors right now."

Dana remained quiet, her jaw shifting, lower lip curling in.

"Dana, talk to me.  Off the record if you need to.  But God 
knows, you have more riding on this than I do.  And I want an 
answer from you."

Dana's tongue slipped lightly over the corner of her mouth, and 
she drew a slow breath through her nose.  "Sir.  That is Agent 
Mulder outside the door."

He stared at her for a long beat.  She didn't waver.  "And you're 
certain of this?"

"Yes, sir, I am certain.  I was...understandably doubtful myself, 
at first.  But I now believe with absolute certainty, that that 
is Mulder out there."

Skinner waited her out, drew a deep, heavy breath.  "And you know 
where he's been?"

"In general terms, yes, sir."

"But you can't tell me."

"You need to ask Agent Mulder that question.  Sir."

"Dana..."

She lifted an eyebrow.  He never had determined if she liked it 
or hated it when he employed her first name.

"After all tha--everything that has happened in the past two 
years; you believe Mulder is justified in his behavior?"

For the first time Skinner could remember, he watched Dana 
quietly scramble for the right words.  The hesitation was barely 
visible to the naked eye.  But it was there, loud and clear, to 
someone who had played cat and mouse games with her for so many 
years.  "That--" she cleared her throat "--is a rather involved 
and personal matter, sir.  However, if you are asking me, if I 
would like you to help Mulder with his reinstatement at the 
Bureau or in directing his career toward the best possible use of 
his ample investigative talents--I would very much like you to do 
what you can, yes, sir."

Skinner narrowed his eyes, studying her, waiting her out, 
assessing the veracity of her claims.  In the end, he could only 
believe she was being sincere.  "Very well," he said.  He leaned 
forward, pushing up his glasses and propping his forearms on his 
desk.  "And what about you, Agent?  Have you made your decision?  
Do you wish to return to field duty at this time, or would you 
prefer to arrange something more permanent for your position at 
Quantico?"

Dana's lids slipped to half mast.  Her chest rose and fell 
beneath her snug blazer, blouse shifting against her pale skin.  
"Sir, may I have a few more days before giving you my final 
reply?"

Skinner nodded brusquely.  "You may.  But I will need a firm 
answer by Friday, Agent Waterston.  The Academy is looking to 
finalize their staffing decisions for the next class, and they're 
looking to me for answers."

"Yes, sir, I understand.  I appreciate your and the Academy's 
consideration, and I will give you my response by the end of the 
week."

Skinner accepted her reply, then punched the intercom to Kim.  
"Kimberly, would you please send Agent Mulder in now?"

A moment later, Mulder stepped through the door, and the barely 
overt smile that passed between the two agents as Dana watched 
her partner's approach, left Skinner momentarily silent.


*****


"Well, that was surprisingly painless.  I'm thinking it was a 
good thing he let you stay for the duration.  The ass-chewing was 
no doubt toned down for the benefit of the innocent bystander in 
the room."

Scully closed her eyes as they walked side by side down the hall, 
letting Mulder be her eyes if only for that brief moment.  The 
pointed stares from passersby were nothing new.  But it had been 
a while.  "I think it's possible he was just glad to see you, 
Mulder."

"Yeah, well, presumably so were you, but you still pulled a gun 
on me and socked me in the jaw--which is still sore, by the way--
so you never know."

They reached the end of the hall and Mulder pushed the elevator 
call button an unnecessary number of times.

Scully slipped into a soft smile edged with regret.  "Maybe, 
because I was a little *more* glad to see you."

Mulder sobered.  He touched a gentle hand to the small of her 
back as the elevator door slid open and revealed the empty 
chamber.  He guided Scully across the threshold.

Scully sat back against the handlebar at the rear of the car, 
Mulder moved to press the floor button.  But he hesitated, long 
finger hovering in front of the panel.

She arched an inquiring eyebrow.  "Mulder?"

He turned, finger waving enticingly between two buttons.  The 
parking lot; and the basement.  He lifted his eyebrows.  *Should 
we?*

Scully held his gaze for the length of a deep breath.  She 
glanced at her watch.  Then she pushed forward off the handlebar 
and pressed the button herself.

Down to the basement.

The progression felt surreal.  Every step so familiar, they'd 
been through the motions a million times.  But in another life.  
A life she didn't know anymore.  She felt dizzy, like time was 
switching around on her, the floor shifting.  Dana Waterston, 
wife and mother and pathologist.  Dana Scully, champion of the X-
Files, Mrs. Spooky, Queen of the FBI's most unwanted.

Part of her wanted to stop the elevator and go back upstairs, get 
in her car and drive home to the apartment above the garden, with 
her son and her dog and some semblance of security.  But part of 
her couldn't wait to step into the basement hallway.

In silent synchronicity, Mulder and Scully made their way down 
the cluttered hall, past the random spare bookshelves and reams 
of copier paper.  Their footsteps slowed in unison as they 
approached the half-open door.  Gentle sounds of activity wafted 
out from the office beyond.  A keyboard clicking, a chair 
squeaking.  At least one of the current X-Files agents was in his 
office today.  Once upon a time, hearing sounds ahead of them in 
this hallway had meant danger, violation, condemnation.

Mulder led the way.

"Oh. My. God."  Gannon Michaels looked up from his desk 
(*Mulder's desk*) in the corner of the office.  Agent Brennen 
turned from his computer with marked interest at the tone of his 
partner's voice.  Gannon shoved back his chair.  "Well, this is 
something I never expected to be around to see."

Scully grinned, still hovering in the doorway, shoulder to 
shoulder with Mulder as they scanned the room.

Michaels pushed to his feet.  He stepped away from the desk, 
holding out his arms toward the vacated seat.  "I believe this 
belongs to you," he said, aiming the statement toward both the 
visiting agents.

Mulder cracked a wry smile and at last stepped across the 
threshold.  "No, no.  Not anymore.  You sit down.  This is your 
office, we're just...dropping by to say 'hi'."

*We.*  Scully shivered.  Stupid, high school girl thing to latch 
onto, to love to hear him say.  But it felt so damn good today.  
Felt like home.

They moved a little aimlessly, scanning their surroundings, 
cataloguing what had changed and what had remained.  The pencils 
were gone from the corrugated ceiling.  The "I Want to Believe" 
poster remained firmly on the wall.  The desk Scully had added 
for Gannon now belonged to Brennen.  She saw Mulder take note of 
its presence; wondered if he knew she had been the one to 
requisition it.

The stacks of file folders that had once cluttered the landscape, 
had taken on a more ordered construction.  Some of that had 
happened under Scully's reign.  Some of it had been Michaels' 
influence.  The wall of clippings that had once decorated 
Mulder's space had been relegated to a bulletin board tucked into 
a corner of the floor.  Max's hat hung from the coat tree.

"I like what you've done with the place," Mulder said 
nonchalantly.  But Scully could feel the territoriality waving 
off of him like heat.  He was itching to take his seat behind the 
desk.  To get the tangible feel of the files back in his hands.  
To search, to seek, to explore, to find.  To nurture the world he 
had created.  She was surprised how badly she wanted to join him.  
Scully closed her eyes on a flash of Skinner's probing gaze.  *Do 
you wish to return to field duty at this time?*

She opened her eyes; back in the moment.  "Mulder, this is Agent 
George Brennen.  Agent Brennen, Fox Mulder."

Mulder swung around as Brennen rose from his desk.  The two men 
shook hands, exchanged appraising glances.  "Good to meet you," 
Mulder said, sincerely, if a little too rotely.

Brennen was the youngest of the four agents.  Dark-haired and 
clean-cut.  Strong features and deep brown eyes.  His height 
nearly matched Mulder's.

"I've heard a lot about you," Brennen said with a nod.

"Like that I was dead?"

"That was one thing, yes, but a few others here and there."

"But not half of what I've heard," Gannon jumped in.  "Having had 
the advantage of long stakeouts with Agent Waterston, of course."  
He gave a playful grin as he moved forward to shake Mulder's 
hand.  "Good to see you again, Agent Mulder."

Mulder nodded and gave him a genuine smile.  "Agent Michaels."  
The warmth felt real.  Scully's obvious respect for Michaels had 
no doubt spilled over into Mulder's manner.  And even without her 
influence, Michaels was a hard man not to warm up to.  He had 
proven as much to Scully in how quickly she had moved from seeing 
him as an unnecessary and unwanted intruder to a partner and a 
friend.

Michaels turned toward Scully.  "Dana..."  He stepped forward for 
a quick, firm embrace.

Mulder soaked up every detail of the exchange.

"So, what brings you to our little corner of basement paradise 
this morning?  And am I addressing...*Agent* Mulder again, 
or...?"

Mulder nodded, his gaze tracing the walls, the bookshelves.  
"Pending some red-tape and paperwork, it's looking that way, 
yes."

"Glad to hear it.  If even half what Dana says about you is true, 
the Bureau would do well to have you back."

The corner of Mulder's mouth pulled toward a wry smile.  "Could 
you tell that to a couple of important people who want to kick my 
ass when you get the chance?"

Michaels chuckled softly.  "Hey, you can't forge new trails 
without stepping on some important toes, right?"

"Spoken like a man who's been on the X-Files for a while."

"Speaking of which, you two wouldn't happen to have a free 
minute, would you?"

Scully lifted her eyebrows, and Mulder gave Michaels full eye 
contact.  "A minute for what?" Scully asked.

"Some advice.  I've been doing more looking into this 
decapitation in Tennessee.  The file I showed you?"  Scully 
nodded.  "I dug up some new information that has me even further 
intrigued, and I'm just short of throwing this up to Skinner and 
proposing a trip out to the great Midwest.  But I'd like you to 
look at some photos for me, if you wouldn't mind."

Mulder nodded, hands on his hips, more than ready to jump into 
the game.

Scully hung back at a leisurely stroll as Michaels led the way to 
the far end of the room, to a table covered in black and white 
8x10s.  Arms folded across her chest, unaccustomed to the ever 
present damp chill in these rooms, she watched and absorbed.

Michaels had Mulder in full presence.  Mulder had already studied 
the file in detail, committed it to memory more thoroughly than 
Scully herself.  He scanned the photos in detail, pulling the 
lighted magnifying glass down for closer view, hunching over the 
table.  Michaels briefed Mulder on the newest developments, and 
Scully tried to register the case facts, but she couldn't keep 
her focus on the surface activity.  The undercurrents were too 
strong, too loud.  Mulder was coming to life.  The color in his 
cheeks was rising, his muscles working, eyes bright.  This was 
his gift.  This was his home.

This was the man she loved.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when her cell phone rang.  
Scully snatched the phone from her suit coat pocket and stepped 
toward the hall doorway to answer.

"Waterston."

"Agent Waterston--A.D. Skinner."

"Yes, sir."

"I was hoping to catch you before you left the building."

"Well, actually, you have, sir.  Mulder and I just stopped by the 
X-Files office to speak with Agent Michaels."

"I need to see you back in my office for a few minutes."

"Certainly, sir.  I'll tell Muld--"

"Just you, Dana."

She swallowed.  Something off in the sound of his voice.  "All 
right, sir.  I'll be right there."

The line clicked into silence.

Scully took a moment, slipped her phone back into her pocket.  
She glanced over her shoulder toward Mulder and Michaels.  
Brennen had wandered in their direction, but seemed not much more 
involved in the moment than she.  He leaned back on the narrow 
table that Mulder had once described as her "area".

To her surprise, after a moment Mulder sensed her absence, her 
distant manner, and looked over his shoulder to catch her eye.  
"Anything important?" he called.

"Uh...that was Skinner, actually.  He needs me back upstairs for 
a minute."

"Not me?"

She shook her head.  "No, you're fine.  Just me.  I'll meet you 
back here?"

A trace of concern ghosted Mulder's expression, but he played 
along, nodding briskly.  "Yeah, I'll be right here."

She left the warmth of voices for the silent and dim hall.


*****


She wasn't gone long.  Her return trip down the elevator, along 
the shadowy hall, was absent of memories and nostalgic thoughts, 
driven solely by purpose.  She charged through the open door with 
no moment of reflective hesitation.  Michaels and Mulder were 
right where she had left them, Mulder's jacket tossed over a 
chair, sleeves rolled up.  Both spoke animatedly about the case.  
Brennen was nowhere to be seen.  Scully caught the words "witch", 
"legend", "cult", and something about "mud patterns" before the 
two men broke off and turned her way.

"Hey, Scully."  Mulder reverted to her former name for the first 
time on Bureau grounds.  But he was instantly alert to her shift 
in mood.  "What's wrong?"  He took a step toward her.

Scully kept her stance steady, breath even if too deep and a 
shade too fast.  She saw the concern spread to Gannon's 
expression.  The room felt too small.  "Mulder, I need to speak 
with Agent Michaels for a few minutes."

Mulder frowned as he moved closer, pressing up to her personal 
space, trying to communicate, just the two of them, despite 
Michaels' presence.  Mulder's hand moved just slightly and 
feather-light fingers grazed her wrist.  "Everything all right?"

"It's fine," she nodded sharply.  "I just need to speak with 
Gannon.  About an old case of ours."  She caught Gannon's look 
for a moment, then ducked away.

The heat of Mulder's body was pulling at her.  So close.  Sudden 
impulsive desire to kiss him, wrap herself around him and escape 
from here.

"Okay.  I, uh...I need to stop by payroll, anyway.  We were 
pretty much done here, right?"  He glanced over his shoulder for 
confirmation, and Michaels nodded.

"Sure, you go on."  Gannon's mellow voice, subdued by Scully's 
tension.

Mulder grabbed his jacket.  He unrolled his sleeves and shrugged 
back into the formal confines.  He deliberately walked too close 
to Scully as he passed.  "I'll call you later."  His breath close 
to her ear.  He brushed her ribcage ever so lightly with his 
hand, sweeping his arm across her stomach as he stepped past.  So 
subtle, so well within the confines of acceptable behavior.  Yet 
the intimacy of the gesture made her knees feel weak.

She listened to Mulder's footsteps fading down the hallway.  She 
looked hard at Gannon across the silent room.  "Maley's awake," 
she said bluntly.

Gannon's jaw literally dropped.  "You're fucking kidding me."  He 
paced toward her, setting down the file folder he'd been holding 
with a resounding *thwack*.  "You slashed the man's throat, shot 
him in the chest point blank, it wasn't bad enough he was still 
hangin' on as a vegetable in a coma, but you're telling me--"

"Skinner just got the call.  Maley woke up last night.  And it 
looks like he may reach a coherent enough state to stand trial."

"Jesus Christ.  Some cases just never leave ya alone."


*****


End Chapter 21b.  (Continued in 22...)
Feed -- bstrbabs@gmail.com

-----------

"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 22	



**It is slowly killing me to be near you now--and not touch you.  
To see you as I did today, once again in the office we shared for 
so long, every bit as beautiful as you were a decade ago; your 
white blouse pulling across your chest, your skirt hugging the 
curve of your hips like a second skin, your deep lipstick drawing 
my gaze to your mouth at every turn, red hair a flame in the 
shadows.  I watched you every day for so long, knowing you were 
all I wanted--and just out of reach.  But everything changed when 
you kissed me in the rain.  I'm not alone, anymore.  You want 
this.  And seeing you as we once were, knowing you want my hands 
on you...  Scully, if we had been alone...**



She left Quantico as early as she could get away.  She wanted to 
be home.  She needed space; time to her own thoughts.  When 
Scully came in her front door, Christopher was sitting on the 
living room floor amid a sea of toys strewn across a lazy Golden 
Retriever.  Christopher squealed with delight at Scully's 
appearance.  Margarite was seated on a nearby lounge chair.  She 
smiled, at Christopher's joyous reaction.  Scully crossed to her 
son.  "Hey, Big Guy."  She stooped down and lifted her child into 
her arms, kissed his warm pudgy cheek and hugged him close.  "I 
missed you, Little One," she whispered.  She shifted him onto her 
hip, free hand cradling his tiny fingers.

She looked up toward Margarite with a small smile.  The woman 
exuded kindness.  It hadn't been a hard decision to hire her.  
Margarite had been best friends with Maggie Scully's younger 
sister for decades.  Scully had met the woman at family parties, 
heard stories about her for years.  When the need for a nanny had 
arisen, the family grapevine had dropped the perfect applicant 
into Scully's lap.

"Hello, Dana," Margarite said, her smooth voice comfortably 
soothing, her slight accent close enough to Maggie Scully's to 
speak of home.  "How was work?"

Scully nodded, stiffening a bit, despite the comforting warmth in 
her arms.  Christopher fingered a button of her blouse.  "It was 
fine," she said simply.  "How about here?"

Margarite nodded as she crossed to where Scully stood.  She 
touched a hand to Christopher's back.  "All business as usual 
here.  Went to the park for a bit this afternoon.  Tasha, too.  
So hopefully they'll be quiet for you this evening.  I swear this 
guy is trying to talk more and more every day."

Scully lifted an eyebrow.  "Any new words?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure I'm 'Wee' now.  And I *know* you're 'Ma'.  
And twice I've heard 'Ba' for bottle, just today."

Scully nodded.  "Yeah, I thought he said that over the weekend."

"And he's gotten onto a new syllable today.  Sounds kind of like 
'muh', but I can't see that he's applying it to anything yet.  
He'll be talking up a storm before you know it."

Scully smiled.  "So hard to imagine.  I can't believe he's 
growing so fast."

"Happens in the blink of an eye.  Raised five of my own and never 
got used to it."

Scully cringed good-naturedly.  "I can't even fathom five."

"You'd be surprised how natural it is when you do it."

Scully just half-smiled, her attention on Christopher and his 
perfect little nose.  She nuzzled her face close to his, forehead 
to forehead, felt suddenly too vulnerable.  Behind her, Margarite 
gathered her things.

"In the morning, then?"

"Thanks, Margarite," Scully said, glancing over her shoulder as 
Margarite slipped out the door.

The apartment fell quiet.

Scully got herself a glass of water, Tasha trailing her heels.  
She settled on the couch to nurse Christopher.  Tasha took her 
usual place, stretched out along the remainder of the couch, 
nuzzling against Scully's thigh, occasionally licking 
Christopher's toes or the top of his head.

Scully sat back and closed her eyes, hoping to calm the tension 
in her temples escalating rapidly toward a headache.  She gently 
stroked Christopher's silky-fine hair.  They had been so ready to 
take Maley to trial a year and a half ago, every evidentiary 
detail fast in hand.  Not so, anymore.  It would mean copious 
time and effort to re-familiarize themselves with the case, hours 
of coordinating work with the D.A., extra time away from 
Christopher.

Not to mention the added stresses of her dual role as 
investigating officer and victim.

It would mean seeing Maley again.

Hearing his voice.

Recounting every detail of the attack to rooms full of strangers.

Scully kept her eyes closed, centering her focus on the soft 
mouth against her skin, breathing deeply.  She lifted her head, 
took another sip of water as Christopher depleted her liquids, 
and watched her son in his quiet contentment.  Christopher sensed 
her attentions and gazed up at her, his big eyes wide and intent 
and infinitely trusting.  He reached a hand to tug at her hair, 
pulled a fistful down toward her breast to hold close as he 
nursed, effectively pinning her focus on him.

*Stay close, Mom.  Keep me safe.*

*Oh, God, Baby, I'm trying.  I'm trying.*


*****


Christopher had just spit his strained carrots on the dog when 
Scully's cell phone rang.

The Caller ID glowed with the words "Daniel's Cell".  Scully's 
pulse skipped for multiple reasons.  She punched the talk button.  
"Hey, where are you?"

"Wal-Mart."

Scully coughed.  "Wal-Mart?"

"I found an apartment.  I'm officially no longer homeless."

"But, Mulder, you don't have any stuff."

"Hence the trip to Wal-Mart."

"No, Mulder you don't have any--"

"It's a furnished apartment, Scully.  I'm here for essential 
accessories--sheets, towels, sponges, Mr. Pibb."

"Oh."  She hesitated.  Pressed past the burn in her stomach.  
"Well....good.  I mean, that's great, you found a place so 
quickly."

"Yeah, it was pretty lucky timing, actually.  D.C.'s not known 
for its excess of housing, right?  The building just had the one 
unit left, but it was clean and close by work and available for 
immediate occupancy, and I'm the prime example of an immediate 
occupant."

"Yeah, of course.  That's great.  So, are you...I mean, are you 
planning to stay there tonight?"

"Is that a hopeful note I hear, Scully?"

"No!  I mean, no, of course not, I was just--"

"Fear not, I still fully intend upon you feeding me.  I'll be 
over for dinner in about half an hour."

"You realize I'm just thawing something in a skillet?"

"You realize I'm weighing this against Taco-A-Go-Go."

"Half an hour."

"Will do.  And Scully?"

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

He stole her breath.  "I'm fine."  But the softness in her voice 
spoke a different world.


*****


Mulder assumed baby-duty while Scully heated dinner.  Christopher 
sat on a cushioned mat on the kitchen floor and Mulder stretched 
out on the tile beside him.  She watched, unobtrusively, taking 
in the subtleties of interaction between man and child.  In the 
short time since Mulder's return, Christopher had begun to draw 
him in.  She had seen the growing sense of wonder in Mulder.  The 
shift from semi-detached amazement at this new little presence in 
their lives, to the deeper connection.  He was realizing that 
Christopher was not just a baby, but an individual of his own.  
With his own thoughts, his own fears, his own likes and joys, his 
own experiences to come.

Scully had taken a few days to make the discovery, herself.  She 
and Daniel had spent so much time preparing for the day they 
would bring Christopher home from the hospital, working out all 
the technical details, the rituals of care, choosing the proper 
equipment; then the first hours had been a whirlwind of newness, 
frantic efforts to do it all right, pull it together and not blow 
anything after so much planning.  Then finally a quiet moment had 
come.  Just her and Christopher; his warm body and tiny fingers 
and his sweet little yawn and his fingers curling around her own.  
And she had realized, he was a little human being having a day, 
like anyone else.  He was just really really new at it.  And she 
had so much to teach him.  But he was Christopher, from the very 
first day.

Scully almost burned the frozen dinner-in-a-bag watching Mulder 
bouncing a pig puppet in front of Christopher to make him smile 
and squeal.  *"You like that, buddy?  Where's the pig?  Where did 
it go?  There it is!  You found it!"*

They ate dinner at the dining room table, Christopher content in 
his swing, listening to the wind-up music soother.  The food 
helped stave off Scully's headache, but she popped a Tylenol 
after dinner to keep ahead of the pain. 

When the dishes had been cleared and the kitchen cleaned, the 
three of them retreated to the living room, Christopher on the 
floor, exploring his world and Mulder's briefcase, Mulder and 
Scully on the couch.

"So, tell me about your apartment," Scully prompted, taking a sip 
of her water.

Mulder shrugged.  "Low on the glamour, fairly high on the 
functionality.  It's a three month starter lease.  We'll see 
where I'm at in three months.  Eventually, I do hope to have my 
own furniture again."

"I'm sorry we sold it."

"I didn't exactly give you much choice.  Besides, I think my 
couch might better have been torched."

Scully gave a soft smile.  "You might have a point.  But some of 
the furniture was nice.  I'm sure you miss it."

He shrugged, didn't really reply.  Scully tilted her head.  
"Mulder..." she shook her head.  "I still can't believe you did 
this.  I can't...God, Mulder, you must...it must have been 
terrifying."

"I don't think I really thought about what I was getting into 
until I was in over my head.  You've heard that before, right?  
And then...it was just day to day."

"You didn't have any back-up.  Any *friends*.  The Gunmen, did 
they know that--"

He shook his head.  "No.  I mean, they knew I might pull out, go 
deep under, but I don't think they really believed it.  They had 
me under surveillance for a few days, I think they really 
believed that's all it would be.  I cut them off."

Scully nodded, cold trailing her spine at the mention of their 
friends.  She didn't want to go there tonight.  Regretted guiding 
the subject.

Mulder seemed to sense her withdrawal, and moved the conversation 
safely away.  "However, on the plus side, not having much stuff, 
I have yet to gain the capacity to bury my bed, so I can actually 
sleep in the bedroom for a while."

Scully grinned, a vague sadness lingering in her eyes.  "That's 
good."

They fell silent, comfortable as always in simple togetherness.  
She watched Christopher pulling at the edge of the coffee table, 
firmly grasping Mulder's green highlighter.

"What happened today?"  His voice was soft and throaty, 
penetrating her defenses with a single breath.

Scully looked down at her water glass, thumb tracing the rim.  
She couldn't keep Mulder out of the loop, couldn't risk him 
hearing the news from someone else.  "For the past year and a 
half, James Maley has been in a coma," she said, voice low.  
"Little chance of him waking.  Less chance of his higher brain 
function proving intact."

Mulder's eyes narrowed, scrambling to catch up.  "Maley?"

Scully slipped below his gaze, drew a shallow breath--and Mulder 
got it.  He reached out with a tenderness that made her shiver, 
brushed the backs of his fingers down the length of her forearm.  
*Daniel had avoided touching the scars, except for rare moments 
kissing her wounds.  Mulder couldn't keep his fingers away.*

Scully focused on her lap.  "Yeah.  Last night...he woke up.  
Skinner got the call this morning.  Nothing's a lock yet, but the 
preliminary indications point toward Maley regaining the 
necessary competence to stand trial."

"You shot him."

She nodded.  "Among...other things."

Mulder sat forward, propped his elbows on his knees and combed 
his fingers through his windblown hair.  She could feel the rush 
of emotion in his muscles.  "Dammit, Scully.  I still can't 
believe that--"

"Mulder, it's okay."

He whirled on her, hitting hard with his dark stare.  "In what 
possible way?"

"It's part of the job, it's not something new, it's just...I 
didn't..."  She trailed off, victim to the tension and 
increasingly aware of the throb in her temples.  She shifted 
restlessly, placing her drink on the end table.  She brushed a 
hand over Christopher's hair as she turned back.

"You just what?" Mulder asked.  And she could hear the struggle 
in his voice, the deliberate effort to pull back from his flare 
of self-loathing and rage to the quietness he knew was required 
to hear what she needed to say.

She drew a deep breath, steeled herself against the words.  "I 
knew when I left he X-Files that there would be lingering 
responsibilities.  Incarcerated criminals being considered for 
parole, ongoing appeals of convictions...  I was never naive 
enough to think there was such a thing as a clean break from our 
job.  But of all the cases to come back, to touch Christopher's 
life....  I never...I just never wanted this to be part of his 
world."  She broke off, sniffed hard, brushed the back of her 
knuckles down the tip of her nose, and looked away.

Mulder shifted, turning more fully to face her.  He reached a 
hand along the back of the couch.  "Scully..."

"Skinner asked me today for a final decision whether I wished to 
return to field work.  He needs an answer by Friday."

Mulder's hand hesitated an inch from her shoulder.  "What are you 
going to say?"  So controlled, so neutral.  Yet she could hear 
the scream from every fiber in his body.  The only card she had 
ever held that scared the bejesus out of Fox Mulder.

Scully looked down at Christopher.  He grasped her pant leg and 
tugged, and Scully reached down and lifted him into her lap.  He 
squealed for his rubber fish until she lifted that, too.  She 
could feel Mulder absorbing her every move.

"Mulder...," she shook her head, gaze on Christopher.  "What can 
I do?"  The question was rhetorical.

"Scully, you have to be yourself.  You have to follow what feels 
right, do what you want with your heart, what would fulfill you.  
You can't be a good parent if you deny who you are.  You know 
that."

"I'm more than a field agent, Mulder."

"Of course you are."

She moistened her lips.  Took a moment.  "Michaels and I were 
working round the clock.  We knew he was on the prowl, we *knew* 
there was another death coming.  We were fighting the clock, felt 
like destiny.  You've been there."

"More times than I want to count."  *God, Mulder, it's so good to 
talk to you.  Take me to a cheap motel with connecting doors 
between our rooms and order me a flat stale pizza and try to 
convince me a blurry late-night Three Stooges movie is something 
I should stay awake to see.*

"We broke for dinner.  Michaels just grabbed something close by.  
I took a couple of hours and went home, because I was supposed to 
meet Daniel.  We met up in the hallway of my apartment, went 
inside.  I put dinner down in the kitchen, Chinese take-out.  I 
went back to my bedroom to get cleaned up.  I said something to 
Daniel, but he didn't answer me.  So, I walked back down the hall 
to see where he was.  Maley was in the coat closet.  Hit me...out 
of the blue.  When I finally got a glimpse of Daniel, he was 
already unconscious on the kitchen floor.  I thought he was dead.  
Maley fought me down.  Tied me to my dinner table.  Carved up my 
arm.  In the end--I slashed his throat and shot him in the chest.  
In my living room.  In--My--*Living Room*. "  She looked up at 
Mulder, unacknowledged tears in her eyes.  He was watching, 
unmoving, his deep eyes piercing her skin.  "And later, Daniel 
said to me...'What if there had been a child in your arms?'"  
Deep silence.  Christopher smacked his lips around his rubber 
fish, squirmed in Scully's lap and sprawled across the throw 
pillow.  Scully's tears blurred her vision, but her gaze conveyed 
the unspeakable--*What if it had been Christopher?*.

Mulder looked stricken.

"No life is safe," Scully whispered, even and deliberate.  "I 
know that.  But I cannot choose a life for my son, that I *know* 
isn't."

The air felt thinner as she waited for Mulder to speak.

Then simply, "Okay."

Her throat closed.
 
His hand stole the last distance to grasp her shoulder.  And 
before she knew it, his mouth was on hers and she was drinking in 
the tenderness of his kiss like water.  His lips were warm and 
full and the need to explore the real and physical texture of 
intimacies she had known only in fantasy was instantly 
overwhelming.  Mulder's hand cradled her cheek and her own 
fingers rose to mirror the gesture, combed through the edge of 
his hair.  The ache of connection spread deep, but the power was 
all the more for having been caught off guard.  Of all the 
thousands of heart-rending moments they had shared--careful and 
restrained, yes, wholly intimate nonetheless--this was the first 
time they had not turned away at the moment of greatest need.  
The first time she had felt her need answered.

When they broke away, Christopher's insistent fingers tugging at 
her hair, they held close.  Breath against breath, touches warm, 
lingering.  Mulder's thumb stroked her cheek, her hand cupped the 
back of his neck.  "We'll get through this," he whispered.

Scully nodded, traced her tongue over her lips, tasted the tear 
she hadn't felt escape her lashes.

"Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you go out with me?"

She gave half a laugh.  "Mulder...are you asking me on a date?"

He did smile.  "That's the usual interpretation of the term, yes.  
It's an American idiom, 'go out with', usually referring to an 
event attended as a twosome--dinner, a movie, ice skating, 
typically with some degree of romantic intent."

Her chest rose and fell, and her arm scooped instinctively around 
Christopher, keeping him from the edge of the couch.  "Yes.  I 
would like to."

"Tomorrow night?"

"I think I can work that."

"Good.  Then it's a date."


*****


The house was eerily quiet in the late hours.  Mulder had packed 
his meager belongings and driven off to his new home.  
Christopher slept peacefully in his crib.  Tasha rested at the 
end of the hallway, guarding both Scully and Christopher in equal 
measure.

Scully sat before her laptop at the dining room table, entranced 
by the cool glow of the flat screen.  Her headache was eating at 
her reserves.  Almost time for another round of medication.  She 
was surrounded by files, disks and papers.  Autopsy photos, 
witness testimony, lab results, crime scene analyses.  And it was 
all starting to blur and make her skin hurt and she could feel 
him awake out there.  Somewhere.  Miles away.  Knowing she was 
still alive.  Knowing his task had not been completed.

*Dammit.*  She pulled off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes.  
Time to move, shake it off, back up.  Scully stood, the stiffness 
in her legs telling her she'd been working longer than she 
realized.  She switched off her computer and gathered the files 
onto the tabletop, out of Christopher's reach.  She kept one 
other file in her hand.

Turning off lights and checking door locks, Scully made her way 
down the hall.  She moved quietly into her darkened bedroom, the 
only light the gentle glow from the nightlight on her bedside 
table.  She hovered beside Christopher's crib, listening to the 
even sounds of his breath.  Sinking silently, she stooped beside 
him, peering through the bars, bringing them nearly face to face.  
She slipped her hand through the bars and stroked a single finger 
down the back of his hand.

"I'm so sorry, Baby," she whispered, her words hardly a breath.  
He slept on.  "I never wanted this to touch your life.  Any of 
it.  But it will.  And this may not be the last time.  But this 
is something I have to do."  Scully shifted her weight, watched 
the slight ripple of her son's eyelids as his focus shifted 
beneath.  "As much as I want you to live in a perfect world...you 
don't.  None of us do.  And sometimes...people do bad things to 
other people.  This man--he hurt Mommy.  And he hurt your Dad.  
And he hurt a lot of other people we didn't even know.  But this 
stuff Mommy has to do now...this is to make sure that everyone 
else is safe from this man.  That he can never hurt me or you or 
anybody else, ever again.  Do you understand?  I have to do this.  
But I'm so...sorry..."  She closed her eyes and leaned her 
forehead against the wooden dowels.  Pain throbbed against her 
temples.  But the small contact with Christopher's skin spread 
like warmth up her arm, soothing her body, deepening her breath.  
He slept on, oblivious to the comfort he bestowed.

"*I love you, Christopher.*"

She readied herself for bed.  She left her nightlight burning.  
She took the single file to bed with her, poring over the 
contents once again.


*****

End Chapter 22.  (Continued in 23a...)
Feedback=Author Candy - bstrbabs@gmail.com

----------

A NOTE ABOUT UPDATES: I am about to move cross-country with my 
family, so my Real Life is about to intrude quite heavily upon my 
writing time.  Our movers start work mid-July and there will be 
packing days, travel days, motel days, moving in days, unpacking 
days, etc., before we finally get settled on the other end and I 
can get back to a regular posting schedule.  I just want everyone 
to know my situation, so no one panics about the status of the 
WIP.:)  Rest assured, I will be back to regular posting as soon 
as I can possibly manage it, and I will be writing throughout the 
ordeal (on truck stop napkins if need be).  Also keep in mind, my 
Net access during these next few weeks will be spotty at best, so 
if you write to me and don't receive a reply, I'm probably 
offline and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.  I appreciate 
your patience and understanding.


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 23a


"Everything about her was warm and soft and scented; even the 
stains of her grief became her as raindrops do the beaten rose."

                 --"House of Mirth" by Edith Wharton



**Scully, you have this way of listening to me when I talk.  You 
focus in, and that little line at the inner edge of your eyebrow 
deepens, and sometimes you fold your arms across your breasts and 
lean just a little bit toward me.  And you're always skeptical 
and sometimes critical, and you know when I'm hurting and I won't 
admit it, and you're deeply concerned and quietly empathetic, but 
always *always* you listen.  No one ever listened to me like you.

I missed you.**


Gannon Michaels pulled a slightly flattened peanut butter 
sandwich from his briefcase and stared at it non-commitally.  He 
reconsidered his decision to decline his partner's invitation to 
lunch and entertained visions of Agent Brennen sitting 
comfortably on the bench outside the Hoover building chowing down 
on a large ham on rye.

But hunger and immediacy won out and Michaels plunged into his 
peanut butter.  He brushed a few crumbs off the rather gruesome 
crime scene photos painting his desk; the latest blow-ups from 
the Tennessee Witch case he wasn't supposed to be concentrating 
on anymore.  But the case had lodged itself firmly between his 
teeth, and try as he might, he couldn�t get it out without 
further investigation.

That's what lunch hours were for.

He had been poring over the same repetitive case facts for no 
more than ten minutes before a soft tap on his half open office 
door startled him to attention.

Fox Mulder stood in his doorway.

"Mind if I intrude?"

Michaels struggled to swallow his peanut butter and set down the 
file folder.  "Agent Mulder!  Not at all.  Just me and my 
sandwich, here.  My partner went out to grab some lunch of his 
own."

Mulder nodded and eased forward, perhaps a bit too casually.  He 
tapped a hand against his thigh as he once again scanned his 
surroundings.  Michaels could only imagine how strange it was for 
Mulder to be back in this room.  It was strange enough to be 
watching a man Michaels had felt in these walls for so long only 
as a ghost.

Michaels pulled a soda can from his briefcase.  "Can I offer you 
a drink?  I've got an extra."

Mulder turned, hesitating a moment as if pulling himself back to 
the present.  *How many ghosts haunted these walls for him?*  
Mulder moved toward the desk.  "Yeah, I'll actually take you up 
on that."  He took the can, popped the top and took a long drink 
of the sweet carbonation.  He stared at the top for a moment, 
then said,  "So, how are you liking life in the infamous X-Files 
division?"

Michaels curled his mouth into a sideways grin.  "Well, I'd say 
these couple of years have been more of an education than any of 
the prior training I had."

Mulder laughed.  His smiles, though tainted with hints of 
darkness, came much easier than Dana's.  "Yeah, I can believe 
that.  You definitely don't come out of this room the same as you 
went in."

"All hail to that," Michaels said, tilting his own soda can in 
Mulder's direction.  They both took a drink.

Mulder swung the chair away from Brennen's desk to face Michaels 
and dropped into it, long legs stretching out before him.

"So, background checks?" Michaels asked.

Mulder nodded.  "Don't worry.  If you stay on the X-Files long 
enough, you'll piss off enough people to get your turn."

Michaels laughed.  "Man, I wish you were kidding."

Mulder took another sip of his soda.  "So, what's on your plate 
right now?  Still working on that Tennessee Witch or did you give 
that one up?"

Michaels shook his head.  "Nah, haven't given up, but I'm gonna 
need something better than what I've got to get another 302 
approved."

"Comin' down on you, are they?"

"Well, let's just say, from what I can surmise, you and Dana in 
your heyday used up the travel budget for well into the next 
century."

Mulder cringed.  "Sorry about that."

"Hey, I would have done the same in your shoes."

"From what Scully says about you, I'm sure you would."

Michaels felt a flash of warmth at the implied compliment.  
Somehow, the idea of Dana speaking well of him to Fox Mulder 
carried more weight than any other agent in the Bureau.  He took 
a bite of his sandwich.  Reaching down into a bag beside his 
desk, Michaels pulled out a paltry package of BBQ chips.  "You 
had lunch?" he asked Mulder as he tossed the crinkly package to 
the far side of the desk.

Mulder waved it away.  "Nah, I'm fine, thanks."

And from what little Dana had hinted about Mulder's appetite, 
such a refusal virtually guaranteed the man had something on his 
mind.

"I got some interesting data from the Smyrna, Tennessee registrar 
this morning," Michaels said.

Mulder looked up, eyebrows lifting like a hunting dog perking his 
ears.  "That so?" he asked.

Michaels nodded.  "Death records.  It would seem that the 
townsfolk have at least some factual basis for their gruesome 
little legend.  Although, there certainly hasn't been a 
decapitation every seventh full moon, there have been an unusual 
number of decapitations in those woods over the last 30 or 40 
years, attributed to a variety of causes.  And I'm still counting 
back and comparing the dates and charts, but the ones I've 
checked so far *do* fall during full moons.  I'm still counting 
to see if they fall on the would-be sevens...."

Mulder pushed up from his chair, and circled to Michaels' side of 
the desk as Michaels shuffled through his papers, bringing some 
of the morning's faxes to the forefront.

Mulder leaned a hand on the desk beside Michaels, scanning the 
data over his shoulder.

"I'd say that's a little more than a coincidence, wouldn't you?"

Michaels nodded.  "I would.  But I'm thinkin' finance might see 
it a little differently at this point.  I'm hoping to come up 
with something with a little more punch to it."

"Yeah, I see your point," Mulder said, catching the edge of his 
lip between his teeth as he scanned the paperwork.  He picked up 
one page and straightened up for further study.  "What does 
Brennen think?" Mulder asked, not looking away from the page.

"He thinks I ought to listen to Skinner and leave it to the local 
authorities for now."

Mulder didn't reply.

"Can I ask you a tactless question, Agent Mulder?"

That got his attention.  Mulder lowered the paper to the desktop 
and gave Michaels genuine eye contact.  "You wouldn't be the 
first one around here, of late," he said with a wry smile.

"You planning to make your way back into this office one of these 
days?"

Mulder stared him down for a beat.  Then he dropped his gaze, 
hands propping on his hips, pushing back his coat tails.  
"There's a lot to consider there.  I don't have an iron clad plan 
right now."

"Dana's out of the game, isn't she?" he asked softly.

Mulder didn't reply, but his lids lowered just enough to make the 
answer clear.

"I can't blame her," Michaels said simply.

Mulder shook his head.  "You've got kids of your own, don't you?" 
he asked.

"Two little rugrats.  A wife in there somewhere, too."

Mulder tried a smile.  "Do you really know what you're into here, 
Agent Michaels?"

Michaels shook his head.  "Probably not.  But I'm learning.  And 
for now, I see a job here that needs to be done.  And I don't see 
anyone else jumping up to do it."

Mulder laughed, but there was little genuine humor in the sound.  
"That's a dangerous philosophy, Agent Michaels.  I think Agent 
Waterston can vouch for that."

Michaels fell quiet, sorting through the undercurrents of the 
conversation.  "My family's my priority.  Always will be."

"Just being here in this office puts them at risk.  You realize 
that?"  He locked gazes, testing him.

Michaels held his ground.  "I do.  And Dana and I have talked 
about that.  At length a few times, actually."

That seemed to catch Mulder by surprise.  But it also seemed to 
relax him a bit.  At long last, he said, "Would you mind keeping 
me updated on that Tennessee case?  If anything new does come 
up?"

"Absolutely.  Be happy to have your help, anytime."

Mulder nodded.

"And in the meantime, I wouldn't mind asking you about a few 
things in those cabinets over there, if you�ve got a few 
minutes..."

Mulder turned to look pointedly at the X-File cabinets.  "A *few* 
minutes?" he asked, the edge of humour returning to his voice.

Michaels laughed.  "To start."

An hour passed before either of them looked at the clock again.  
Brennen was late returning from lunch.  Mulder pushed up from his 
seat on the floor and retrieved his suit coat from the back of 
Brennen's chair.

"Hey, I appreciate the time," said Michaels, returning files to 
their proper slots.

Mulder shrugged.  "Anytime."

He was already at the door, jacket slung over his shoulder when 
he turned back.

He didn't meet Michaels' gaze when he asked, "Her husband...was 
he good for her?"

Michaels breath caught; he forced a deep draw of air on the 
thought, wished he knew more about the man he was answering this 
for.  Finally, he said honestly, "At the time, yes.  He was a 
good man.  I liked him, from the little I knew him.  And I know 
he loved her."

Mulder continued to stare at the floor.  A long beat of tremulous 
silence, then Mulder simply nodded, pushed off the door casing 
and vanished down the hall.


*****


Ashleigh opened the door for him.  Scully was in the back of the 
apartment settling Christopher for the night.  So Mulder was 
standing somewhat awkwardly in Scully's living room, making small 
talk with a college girl who would have caught his eye a lifetime 
ago but looked like a child to him now--when the most beautiful 
woman he had ever seen strode casually down the hall.

He knew Scully was beautiful.  That information had been part of 
the fabric of his days for so long he couldn't remember life 
outside its influence.  But tonight...  Scully was dressed in a 
deep navy gown, gentle draping skirt stopping just above her 
knee, satin hugging her midriff like skin.  A deep V-neck and 
bare shoulders flashed him with pale skin.  Shoes in matching 
navy, wide ribbons twisting and twining about her ankles.  Her 
hair was tied; long, straight sections hanging loose and elegant 
around her face.  Her earrings caught the soft yellow light, 
flickering in and out around her hair.  Diamonds  and something 
else...sapphires, maybe?  (*A gift from Daniel?*)  Her make-up 
was darker, more dramatic than he had ever seen in the office.  
Yet she applied it with practiced perfection.  Something about 
her rang out as vaguely European.  Made him remember the 
hypnotizing intrigue of the elusive French women he had seen 
shopping in the better parts of London during his college years; 
with their ease of motion and graceful confidence, standing out 
in a crowd as much for their subtlety, their quiet elegance, as 
for their beauty.

And she was his date tonight.

"Hey, Mulder," Scully said, a hint of a smile softening her 
voice.

"Hey, yourself," he said.  Because Ashleigh was there, and he 
couldn't tell Scully she was beautiful for the first time with 
her babysitter eaves-dropping.  But the wonder in his eyes and 
the hoarse tone of his voice must have carried to Scully, because 
he caught the slight warming of her cheeks, the surreptitious 
fall of her glance and the gentle pulse in her throat.

"Christopher's asleep," she said to Ashleigh, but Mulder could 
feel the connection still hot between Scully and him.  Their 
partner radar was in high gear.  And maybe a few other things....

"Sounds good," Ashleigh said, tucking her fingers into the tight 
pockets of her low-rise jeans.  "I'll just be here, dragging my 
way through the Industrial Revolution.  You go have fun."

Scully smirked.  "Hey, I did my time in school.  More than."

Ashleigh smiled in return.  "I'll give you that one."

Scully picked up a small black purse from the dining room table 
and a silky shawl that she draped across the crooks of her elbows 
like she dressed this way everyday.  She took her trench coat 
from the coat tree, but didn't put it on.  "Are we ready?" she 
asked, finally meeting his gaze.

He nodded.  "Ready when you are, G-woman."

Ashleigh laughed behind him at the affectionate name.  He 
wondered who this girl saw when she looked at Scully.

"All right, well...we shouldn't be too late," Scully said, and 
Ashleigh just nodded.  "If we are, just keep the monitor by you 
and crash on the couch."

Ashleigh waved her out the door.  "I've got it, I know the drill.  
We'll be fine.  Go."

Scully relented.  "I know you do.  All right.  Thanks, honey," 
she said, brushing an affectionate hand over Ashleigh's arm.

And Mulder was captivated.  The easy affection, the intimate 
interaction...something to marvel at with Scully.  The most he 
had seen of this side of her had come at the bedsides of patients 
and victims; when her mother or sister had come to visit *her* in 
the hospital.  Had she always been this way with her family?  Had 
motherhood softened her?  Or was she finally just showing him 
Dana along with Agent Scully?  He didn't know which scenario he 
wanted to be true.  He only knew he was entranced.

*Scully, did you just call someone 'honey'?*

"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing toward the door.  Scully fell 
into step beside him, and he opened the door for her.  Scully 
worked the lock before pulling the door.

"Have fun, Grams," Ashleigh called.

"*Stop!*"  Her voice was firm, but the affection was unclouded.

Ashleigh was laughing as the door closed.

"She really enjoys that, doesn't she?" Mulder asked.

Scully swung on him with a warning eyebrow.  "Don't start."

Mulder lifted his open hands like a white flag.  "Did I say 
anything?"

"Don't."

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Waterston."

Her glare was enough to subdue him into silence.

He touched a hand to the small of her back as they fell into step 
down the hall.  Touching Scully was so comfortable, so easy.  
Even in the early years of their partnership, Scully had felt 
more like home than anywhere in Massachusetts.  She watched her 
shoes as they walked.  At the elevator, Mulder pressed the 
button, Scully looked up at him appraisingly.  She took in the 
suit, the somewhat ordinary tie, the newly polished shoes.  "You 
look nice," she said softly, left eye half-closing.  "You always 
do."  You could learn the world from Scully's left eyelid.

For once in his life, Mulder consciously spoke to Scully without 
the filter between his brain and his mouth.  He reached out and 
drew the backs of his knuckles down the line of her jaw.  
"Scully.  You take my breath away."

Visible sensation danced across skin, through her quivering 
breath to her hooded lids--and shot straight to his core like a 
leaping flame, and the memory of her hips hugging his left him 
aching like a teenaged boy.  *Scully, do you know how long you've 
been the only woman I see?*

"Thank you," she whispered.

But he only shook his head.  It wasn't a compliment; it was a 
statement of truth.

The elevator bell sounded as the doors slid open, and Scully 
stepped inside.

She slipped into her trench coat the moment the chill night air 
touched her arms.  She circled to the passenger side of Mulder's 
car.  And he would have followed to open the door for her--and 
part of him wanted to drown her in chivalry, give her the red 
carpet treatment--but he sensed she wouldn't want that now.  The 
lines were so jumbled between them.  *What was the protocol for 
old friends to fall in love? *  There could be no falsehoods, no 
distances, no formalities.

Scully sank into the passenger seat she had once occupied on a 
regular basis.  She scanned her surroundings, probably noting the 
lack of fast food bags and misplaced file folders.   "Looks like 
Byers kept your car in fairly decent shape."  She met his gaze, 
chin lifted slightly in challenge.  "And you haven't had it long 
enough to mess it up yourself."

Mulder wrinkled his nose at her.  "Ha. Ha."  She was right, of 
course.  "Yes, well, not all of us have the keys to a Lexus on 
our chain."

Scully was quiet as he pulled out onto the road, the deeper 
implications of his words quivering in the air, and he was almost 
sorry he had spoken.  At last she said simply, "It's good to be 
back in your car."

And he felt like a vise on his temples had been released.


*****


The restaurant didn't take reservations, and when they arrived 
the wait was estimated at 45 minutes to an hour.  Neither of them 
minded.  The night was crisp and clear, the veranda surrounding 
the restaurant was redwood and spacious and inviting.  They 
strolled the circle together, brushing past other diners-to-be, 
gazing out across the night.

"So, how goes the training of the next generation?" Mulder asked, 
because work had always been the easiest way to start.

Scully nodded, watching the traffic on the distant highway.  
"This current group isn't too bad.  Encouraging, for the most 
part."

"Good to know the future of forensic pathology is safely in your 
hands."

She gave a fleeting smile.  She was a little distant tonight.  
Beautiful.  Lovely.  Soft.  But pulled away somewhere, or pulled 
inside.  He needed to edge his way within.

He had never trusted his abilities to do that.  She either melted 
beneath his glance or iced him entirely.

"What about you?" Scully asked.  "Did you get your official 
assignment yet?  Or are you still on General Assignment?"

"Oh, no no.  No General Assignment for Fox Mulder.  I am now, 
Officially the Domestic Terrorism Background Check and Fertilizer 
Inspection King.  Once again."

"Oh, you're kidding me.  They couldn't even put you on white 
collar crime?  Copyrights, or...

But Mulder was shaking his head.  "For the FBI's Most Unwanted?  
The man who won't even die right and stay out of their hair?"

But Scully didn't smile.  She was studying his face, her eyes 
narrowed, gaze unnervingly penetrating.  "I'm sorry," she said at 
last, and there was a gentle sympathy in her voice. 

Mulder shrugged, shook his head.  "They have to save face.  Make 
an example of the renegade.  If I keep my mouth shut long enough, 
they'll reassign me to something worth my time.  In the mean 
time, it pays the bills."

"That's a big 'if', Mulder."

"It is, I know, yeah."

And finally she smiled, but her eyes still held an elegant 
sadness.

They kept walking.

"What about Michaels' X-File?  The...Tennessee Witch.  It seemed 
to catch your attention.  Have you learned any more?"

"Actually, I did, yeah.  I dropped by on my lunch hour.  He's 
been tracking the town's history.  Seems they really have had an 
unusually high number of decapitations in those woods."

"Really?"

"Yep.  I think Michaels is hoping to patch together enough 
suspicious info to convince Skinner to okay another lovely little 
trip to the forest, give him a chance to dig a little deeper."

"There's a meeting I'd like to witness."

Mulder grinned, feeling the shared memories between them.

They walked together in comfortable silence.

"Was it hard to leave Christopher?" he asked, catching her by 
surprise.  "When you first went back to work?"

Scully looked up at him, eyes deepest blue.  "Torturous.  But I 
trust Margarite.  She's been a friend of my aunt's for decades.  
But I would give the world to be home with him.  I miss so 
much..."

"Could you do that?"

She arched an eyebrow.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean...I'm assuming you probably can't, financially, but could 
you...could you stand to be away from work, for that long?"

Scully considered this for a moment, taking the question 
seriously as it had been asked.  "I think I could.  There was a 
time when I would have said no.  But now that I have 
Christopher...there's very little I wouldn't sacrifice to be 
there for every moment of his early life.  Makes everything else 
seem...less."

Mulder nodded.  "I can only imagine.  But...it seems like you."

She narrowed her eyes, studying him in the indefinite light.  She 
didn't need to speak to ask her question.

He cleared his throat, stumbled through his words.  
"Well...Emily.  You were willing to do just about anything.  So 
fast."

She took that in, a passing darkness clouding her lovely 
countenance.  She turned her gaze forward as they walked.  "Yes.  
I was."

He was ready to change the subject for her, an old reflex, when 
she said, "You accused me of never talking to you about Emily.  
About...losing Emily."

And suddenly he was back years in time and his heart was caught 
in his throat.  *And if you had, would I have had a clue what to 
say?*  "It wasn't an accusation."

"I never said I wouldn't talk to you.  You never asked me."

"Of course, I did, Scully.  You just didn't want me to."

"Yes," she said firmly, her pace quickening with her breath, "I 
did."

He kept pace with her in silence.  Then finally his thoughts 
slipped past his lips.  "Did you talk to Daniel about Emily?"

Scully nodded, looking away.  "He knew about her, yes."

"No.  Scully.  Did you *talk* to him about her?"

Her eyelids flickered and she folded her arms across her chest.  
The wind toyed with her hair.  He wanted it to be his fingers.  
*He was on a date with Scully.*  Her steps slowed.  "No."

She turned toward an open space at the veranda railing and he 
followed, came to a halt by her side.

"I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have asked you that."

He watched the muscles of her throat working as she swallowed.  
"No," she said clearly.  "You shouldn't have had to ask."

*Scully.*  "You still think about her?"

"Every day.  I always will."

Scully tossed her hair back in a quick motion that startled him.  
She looked out over the parking lot and tapped the toe of her 
shoe.  "God, Mulder, I just...I don't know how to do this."

He touched a hand to her elbow, instantly concerned, greedily 
seeking eye contact.  "Whoa, do what?  What are we talking about 
here?"

She gestured between them.  "*This*.  A date.  With you.  Mulder.  
So much has changed since we were partners, I just...it's hard to 
know who I'm supposed to be with you now.  Tonight."

He shook his head in uncertainty.  "You can't just be yourself?"

"I'm just...I'm not..."  She turned and leaned her hips back 
against the railing, folded her arms.

"Scully...haven't you--I mean, haven't you ever been yourself 
with me before?"

"More than anyone."  The answer was so simple.  So matter-of-
fact.

She lost him.  "So, now...I'm confused."

She was thinking it out, puzzling through the facts as he had 
seen her do a thousand times with other people's lives, so rarely 
with their own.  "Well, it was in a limited framework, Mulder.  
It was...I mean, there were rules about what part of our lives we 
were supposed to share, and we never crossed...  You've never 
seen me playing in the sprinkler with my nephew or picking out 
shoes with my mother or...trying out 50 different lipsticks 
trying to find one that doesn't make my teeth look yellow."

Mulder suppressed a smile.  "That's true.  And that's all new 
and--" he ducked to grab her eye contact, "--*fascinating*.  
Except maybe for the lipstick thing."  Scully almost gave a 
smile.  "But I don't think that's something you need to worry 
about, Scully.  Those things...they aren't the kinds of things 
that could ever change the way I look at you.  The way I feel 
about you.  It's the big things that matter.  And those...I think 
we've pretty well covered.  I know who you are when the chips are 
down, Scully.  When people are hurt, when lives are at stake.  I 
know who you are inside.  And you know the same about me."

She was listening, but her mind was still spinning, pale eyes 
seeing beyond the simple vision of wooden deck and weeknight 
edge-of-the-city crowd.  "It's so strange.  I mean...," she gave 
a quick flick of her hand indicating her clothes, "...I dressed 
up trying to look attractive for *you*.  And to have 
you...looking at me with," her cheeks flushed slightly as she 
struggled for a tactful phrase, "an eye to a potential end."

Her trace of a shy grin spread to his own lips.

Scully looked down at the ribbon circling her ankle.

"Scully."

She didn't move.

"Do you honestly think I've never looked at you with that 
potential before?"

The air seemed to fall to silence between them.  He was painfully 
aware of her body, every breath and tensed muscle.

"I was never...*sure*," she said carefully.

Mulder moved closer, moving into her space.  "Well, let me 
reassure you," he breathed against her ear, her auburn locks 
tickling his nose in the wind.  *Scully, it feels so good to be 
close to you again.*  Sensory memories overwhelmed him--
whispering case facts kept secret from suspects, the sound of her 
breath, the feel of the collars of her suits, pressing tight in 
front seats of off-road transports, crowding together over tiny 
hand-scrawled maps and fingerprints and blood stains.  Breathing 
her perfume, her shampoo, her soap, her breath.  A thousand 
accidental brushes.  Shoulders, cheeks, hair, thighs, hips, 
breasts.  And the times she had brushed too close to *him* 
afterward.  And the knowledge like a live wire in the air between 
them, though she never looked at him once or said a single word.  
Yet the vibrations were audible between them...

"How could you not be sure?" he said now, mouth still close to 
her ear; almost touching.  His hand rose to cradle the side of 
her neck, and he felt the quickening of her breath, though her 
arms were still folded across her chest.

She turned ever so slightly until her temple nearly rested 
against his.  She started to speak, but her words failed, and she 
only breathed out on a soft vulnerable sound that flamed the ache 
in his groin.

"Is your headache better today?" he asked, thumb smoothing her 
cheek.

He watched her swallow, watched her brow tense in confusion.  
"Yeah," she said uncertainly.

"What is it?"

"I didn't tell you I had a headache last night."

He only gave her a soft smile, unwilling to surrender an inch of 
her personal space.  "Wouldn't you know if *I* did?"

She paused.  Finally let the side of her face graze his.  Then, 
"Yeah."

He lifted his chin and kissed her temple.   He felt the 
gooseflesh dance down her neck.  Felt her muscles quiver beneath 
his hands.  He pulled back just a shade, touched a gentle hand to 
her forearm.  "You're shaking," he whispered, quiet awe mixing 
with concern.
 
Scully arched an eyebrow, but didn't lift her gaze from the deck.  
Someone walked past, no more than a foot away, but for all his 
investigative skills, Mulder couldn't have said if the figure 
were man, woman, child, or canine.  He was absorbed by Scully.

"Scully...I've seen you get harassed by convicted serial killers 
and never flinch.  I've seen you walk into dark sewer tunnels 
amid outbreaks of violent, animalistic deaths with, frankly, 
inhuman calm.  And tonight..."

"I'm scared," she finished in a whisper.

"You're scared.  Of what?"  He caught a loose strand of her hair 
between two fingers and smoothed it along the side of her face.

Scully shrugged, eyes dancing away.  "Needing you.  Losing you.  
Disappointing you."

"Scully, you could nev--"

"Don't."  She shook her head sharply.  "Don't promise me things 
you can't control."

"I wasn't going to," he said firmly, devoid of anger.

"Mulder it's just...with you..."  She sighed heavily.  He could 
feel the deep pain in her, feel her grasping for words in the 
dark.  Her words carried to him on an intimate breath.  As though 
she wanted to speak and yet not speak.  "Mulder, with you...the 
view from the top...it's so high...it could be the most beautiful 
I've ever known.  But the potential fall...is just so far down.  
And I'm...I've lost so much..."

He leaned down closer again.  "Scully, I know that.  I know the 
risks.  You don't think I'm taking them, too?  And I can't 
promise you perfection.  I won't.  I can't promise the future, 
what might or might not happen between us, same as you can't 
promise me.  I can't promise we'll conquer the mountain and never 
slide.  But what I can promise you, Scully...is a rope to hang on 
to.  And I would never...*never*...let go of that rope.  I never 
let go when the government or the aliens or whoever the hell they 
were took you away.  I wouldn't let go when Donnie Pfaster locked 
you up.  I wouldn't let go when you were dying of cancer or when 
you were buried under the ice in Antarctica.  And there is 
nothing in the world that would make me let go now.  Nothing."

The tension in her delicate frame was painful to watch.  Her arm 
hung at her side, and she brushed her thumb unconsciously across 
the pads of her fingers.  He hadn't seen that nervous gesture 
from her in a very long time, thought perhaps she had left it 
behind.  Her next whisper hit him like a knife in the stomach.

"You let go two years ago."

"No.  *No.*"  Every fiber of his being needed to convey this to 
her.  "It just took me longer to find my way back this time.  But 
Scully...everything I did every day of the past two years was 
toward the goal of keeping you safe.  The only way I knew how."

"You let go," she repeated, almost the petulant child.  
Determined.  Hurting.

"No," he said firmly.  Sudden, aching vision of Scully sinking to 
the stairs of the Gunmen's dusty hallway.  Sobbing.  Alone.

She didn't speak.

He slipped his fingers cautiously around her hand.

She let him.

He held on tight.

"I'm hungry," she said at last.

And he almost smiled in relief.  "We should be up next."

"Good."

The wind blew across and around and over them, and he was 
cocooned in the scent of her skin.


*****

(End Chapter 23a.  Continued in 23b...)
Speak to me, Baby -- bstrbabs@gmail.com

-----------


SPECIAL THANKS for this chapter go to the lovely Kudra, who was 
kind enough to feed a starving author (literally, not with 
words:)) traveling cross country on a special diet.  Without her 
help, I might never have managed to sustain original thought.

HELPFUL HINT: I have a reputation for obscure references to 
aspects of my own fic that even the most meticulous of readers 
cannot be expected to recall.  This chapter is no exception (and 
nicely timed after a hiatus, no less).  So, this time, I'm going 
to give y'all a heads-up.  One of the significant lines in this 
chapter requires a working knowledge of some of the dialogue in 
Chapter 16a.  So, for those who might want to review, you'll want 
to focus on that very first conversation between Mulder and 
Scully in the street when she has the gun trained on him...:)


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)


Chapter 23b:


"This won't work as well as the way it once did, 'cause I want to 
decide between survival and bliss."
			"Precious Illusions" - Alanis Morissette



He had seen her be flirtatiously oral before: caressing a yogurt 
spoon with her tongue, teasing the straw of a lemonade, lolling 
over popcorn in a movie theatre.  But he had never been certain 
of the consciousness of the effort, never found the line between 
the natural sensuality of her manner, and actions aimed in his 
direction.  In any case, the results were formidably distracting.

The atmosphere in the restaurant was as delicious as the food.  
Scully seemed to sink into her surroundings with far more ease 
than he himself could entertain.  Her comfortable elegance exuded 
the same confidence in soft light and silk as her commanding 
nature could in bullpens and Kevlar.  The crystal chandeliers 
played off the white of her skin, the soft music from the slick 
and muted jazz band seemed to accompany her slightly husky 
evening voice.  The carpets were lush, the tablecloths thick.  
There was even a small dance floor near the band.

The restaurant had been Scully's suggestion.  He didn't want to 
ask if she had come here regularly.  With Daniel.

Scully toyed with her Caesar salad, catching a crouton on the end 
prong of her fork, then sliding it off with her teeth.

Mulder feigned deep involvement with his mozzarella sticks and 
tried not to see the gloss on Scully's lipstick shimmer in the 
flattering light.

Two days since they had gone out to dinner--an evening catching 
up as old friends, ex-partners.  Two days later--

An ocean away.

It was easier in the throes of mundane tasks--too easy almost--to 
just be Mulder and Scully again.  A typical day, grabbing dinner 
after work.

But the difference was ever-present; every inadvertent brush of 
skin, every verbal exchange eliciting an unprecedentedly intimate 
response.  The intimacy was sudden and beautiful and thrilling.  
An almost palpable entity, companion to them for the night.  He 
was afraid if he closed his eyes, it would stop.

Mulder lifted his gaze from his mozzarella sticks to find Scully 
watching him with an air of quiet amusement, the characteristic 
tell-tale twitch of a smile hanging at the corners of her mouth.  
He paused, cheese stick halfway to his mouth.  "What?"

She fell into a close-lipped smile.  "Nothing.  You're just still 
so... Mulder."

His marinara sauce dripped on his bread roll.  "Is that a good 
thing?"

Scully took another bite of salad.  She nodded.  "Yeah.  It's a 
good thing."

She went back to stirring her salad, but he could tell she was 
still following a train of thought.
 
He waited.

Scully tilted her head, earrings swinging, brushing the base of 
her jaw.  The tiny, shallow chicken pox scar on her right cheek 
bone was still there.  He hadn't realized how much he had missed 
that scar.  "It's just that it's been so long.  And it's as 
if...as if you stayed somewhere we used to be.  On hold, almost.  
And you came back as so much the person you were when you left.  
Which is not a bad thing at all, it's just that while you were 
gone....*my* life turned upside down and inside out, and--"

"And what?"

"And I'm *not* the person I was when you left.  How could I be?  
I've been married.  I've been widowed.  I have a son.  My 
relationships with my mother and brothers have shifted--for the 
better, I think, but different all the same.  I became part of a 
new family through my husband, a family I still have ties with.  
I left my job, the one constant, the one factor I was certain of 
for so long, that defined my sense of purpose and worth."

"The thing you put your back up against."

"Exactly."

"So....you think this is a problem?"

Scully met his gaze head on, blue eyes penetrating his defenses 
like an oar through water.  The jazz band faded to silence and 
set down their instruments for a break.  "If you're asking me if 
the way I feel about you has changed," she said clearly, "the 
answer is no.  I want to be at this dinner tonight as much as I 
ever have.  The question, I guess, is...whether it's a problem 
for you."

His eyebrows lifted as the shock coursed through his system.  
"Wait, you're worried that I won't be as attracted to who you are 
now?  Are you serious?"

"Actually, Mulder, I'm pretty damn serious, yeah."  Her 
fingernails drummed lightly on the edge of the linen placemat.

"Scully.  All right--"

"Mulder, don't brush past this, it's a legitimate--"

"No, Scully, I'm not.  Just--listen to me.  Think about something 
for me for a minute, okay?  I want you to think about the first 
day you walked into my office at the Bureau.  Think about what 
you wanted, why you were there, what mattered to you in those 
days.  What you wore, how you talked, what movies you watched.  
You there?"

Her eyes narrowed; she was cautiously taking the ride with him.  
"Okay."

"Okay, now think about the fourth year we were together.  About 
Leonard Betts and his re-grown head, or the poor hapless victims 
of Eddie Van Blundht or John Lee Roche and his damn cloth hearts.  
Think about who you were then, and what you cared about and how 
you looked at the world."

She was sinking deeper into thought, getting caught in his game.  
"Okay."

"Different?"

"180 degrees."

"Okay, now think about our seventh year.  About the genie of the 
ages we met and backwoods Tennessee and Rev. O'Connor and his 
snakes and the super-speed teens of Pittsfield, Virginia.  Think 
about who you were then, and your ideas about the world and where 
you came from and where you were going.  Another jump?"

She nodded.

"Now think about this.  There wasn't a day on that path when you 
weren't the most important person in the world to me.  Scully, 
life is change.  It's growing and learning and shifting.  And, 
yes, the more eventful your life the deeper you look and the 
faster you learn and change and grow.  But who you are, *who* is 
making that journey; that is what ultimately matters.  I want to 
know what you've been through while I was gone, I want to know 
what you've learned and how you feel and what has changed.  I 
want you to make me part of that journey, but, Scully...you're 
still Scully.  You've just grown further into the life you came 
to this planet to lead."

Scully held his gaze for a long, intense moment.  The hair on the 
back of his neck rose beneath the vibrations of her scrutiny.  He 
was about to step out for air lest he pass out under pressure, 
when Scully said simply, "Jesus, Mulder.  You should come up from 
the basement more often.  Because when you do apply your mind to 
things less than alien...it works rather amazingly well."

Mulder smiled.  Full watt.  Nothing felt better than a compliment 
from Scully.  Save, perhaps, for the slight softness around her 
eyes that told him his words had touched her.  "I have my 
moments.  So start filling me in."

Their main courses arrived, and for a while the conversation 
turned to Pasta Primavera and Eggplant Parmigiana.  But as the 
feeding frenzy slowed, their words grew deeper; drifting to 
notions of careers, and family, and the ultimate challenge of 
becoming a parent.

Mulder leaned forward, enthralled, certain Scully would stop 
talking at any moment, and he would be closed outside again.  He 
didn't want to miss a word.

"I didn't know how much would change how fast," she continued, 
"having a child.  Things I never thought I wanted, things I 
always considered to be for other people...are suddenly things I 
care about.  Parts of life I used to think were cliche or 
mundane, suddenly seem so vital and....fulfilling.  It just...it 
changes the filter through which you view everything."  She was 
chewing slowly, working through her thoughts as she worked the 
muscles of her jaw.

Mulder nodded, soaking in every nuance of gesture, every choice 
of phrase.  "I can only imagine," he said softly.  Scully 
responded to intimacy in his voice.  He could use that to pull 
her into his sway.  He hated that he had employed that knowledge 
to his advantage in the past, however noble his larger 
intentions.  "Tell me.  What kinds of things do you want?"

She breathed out heavily through her nose.  She swallowed a bite.  
"It's hard to describe, I--simple things, family things, like," 
she paused, tilting her fork against the side of her plate.  Her 
left eyelid sank, fluttered.  "Missy.  I mean, I missed her 
before, of course, but from the moment I brought Christopher 
home, I've wanted her here to see my son...so badly.  I want him 
to be her nephew, I want him to grow up with a crazy quirky aunt 
with crystals all over her house who loves him like her own son."

"Of course you do.  I'm so sorry."

"And my father, of course, but that's...I mean, I was one of the 
younger children in the family, I always knew I would lose my 
father before my kids were grown."

He smiled wistfully.  Scully pinned him with her gaze, eyebrow 
raised.  "What?"

"Nothing, you just...you say that like you always meant to have 
kids."

Her brow drew tense for a moment, pensive.  She picked up her 
fork again, though she made no move toward eating.  "Yeah.  I 
suppose I did always mean to have children.  Time just...moved 
faster than I thought it would."

"Doesn't it always?"

She gave a dry laugh, but didn't reply.

They worked through the last of their food.

"What about you, Mulder?" she asked.

"Kids?"

"Yeah.  Did you plan to have children?"

Mulder propped his elbows on the edge of the table, giving his 
reply proper consideration.  Scully waited with distinct 
interest.  "I think I always meant to, yes.  But my life went 
such a different direction than I had ever intended.  I think I 
always felt I needed to work through my own stuff before I 
inflicted it upon an innocent child.  Didn't want to be my 
father, I suppose."  He shrugged, gazing into the depths of his 
water glass.

"You're never like your father."

Mulder let that soak in.

"What was that like?" he asked, finally.  But he hadn't clued her 
in on his train of thought.

"I'm sorry?  What was what like?"

"That whole...being married thing."

Scully half-smiled.  "A lot more work than it looks like."

"I can imagine.  You've been in sole charge of your own life for 
so long.  And determinedly so, I might add.  It must have been 
hard to learn to let someone share the reins."

"To say the least."

"What was good about it?"

"A lot of things were good about it, or I wouldn't have--"

"No, I mean, what one thing.  What...one little thing surprised 
you or meant something to you, that you loved about being 
married.  That you missed when it was gone.  I mean...for me, I 
think it would be the simple fact of someone being in the house 
when I came home.  As much as I enjoy living alone, I just...I've 
just never liked coming home to an empty apartment.  Never liked 
it when I was a kid, either.  I don't mind being alone for the 
rest of the evening, but it's just that first five minutes.  
Opening the door to nothing but stale air and quiet.  I always 
wanted a dog to at least have the dog to greet me, you know?  
Fish are just a bit too British in their enthusiasm.  But as you 
oh so cruelly discovered, our job just didn't mesh with the 
canine routine."

"That it did not.  I never knew that about you, Mulder."

"It wasn't all dogs I was annoyed by, Scully, it was just your 
choice of--"

"That you didn't like going home to an empty house."

"Ah.  Well, maybe that's why I'm telling you now."  He paused, 
and they let his words hover between them.  He didn't have a clue 
what Scully was thinking.

"What's your thing?" he asked.

Scully drew a breath, started to speak, then dropped her gaze, 
hedged away.

"Scully?"

"I don't know.  I mean, I do, but it's not something I want 
to...Mmmmm."  She sighed heavily, slipped her tongue over the 
corner of her mouth.

He could see the tension in her midriff, the cinching of her 
stomach muscles.

He watched her with narrowed gaze for a half a beat, almost 
regretful, then said, "Tell me about work.  What's the latest 
word on Maley from the--"

Scully pushed back her chair so hard he dropped his fork.  "No."

"No?  Scu--"

"No.  I can't go back to--I can't do this..."

"Do what?  Wait...  I don't understand."

"This, this...dance.  I can't go back to the old patterns, can't 
delete things, skip things..."  She was picking up her purse.

"Scully, WHOA.  I just didn't want to pressure you.  You don't 
have to say anything you don't want to.  You don't--"

"Mulder, how can we expect to change so many years?  I'm not 
accusing you of anything, it's not you, it's us, it's me.  I mean 
it's been so long that we've stuck to these engrained patterns of 
behavior.  To rules and lines we drew governing what we were 
supposed to say, what we had silently agreed to ignore...."

"But we're changing that, aren't we?  We're entering new 
territory here, yes, but isn't that..." he trailed off, searched 
her pained gaze.  "What are you hoping for, here?  What do you 
*want*, Scully?" 

Scully caught on his words, drew back and let go of her purse.  
"What do you want, Dana?" she whispered on a shallow exhale.  She 
wasn't speaking to him.  And clearly, the words held some deep 
irony he was not equipped to understand.  Mulder watched with 
silent longing for comprehension.

Scully's breath was quick.  The soft skin at the hollow of her 
throat quivered over taut muscles.  Her eyes hovered at half 
mast.  She was so...beautiful.

Her throaty voice weighted her careful words.  "I want someone 
who follows me out of the theatre when Beth dies."

Mulder's chest contracted, and for a quick moment he was back in 
that small town, images of nineteenth century New England 
flickering above him, a sick knot forming in his stomach; frozen 
to his seat, unable to crack the shell of silence.

"I never did that before, because you never *wanted* it before.  
At least not from me."

Scully nodded, gaze on her hand beside her plate.  "Well now...I 
do.  And I want someone who would expect the same from me."  Her 
words were hushed but strong.

"I've gotcha covered."

She swallowed hard. 

The music played softly again.  Their food was all but finished.

"I miss being held," she said.  "Anytime.  I mean...anytime you 
really need that physical presence, there's always someone there, 
when you're married.  Always someone there in the middle of the 
night.  At the end of the day...and on the days that just...  I 
don't claim that I've had a particularly hard life, but during my 
years on the X-Files, I went through...a lot more than many of my 
peers--"

"You went through hell."

"--and for so much of that time I was alone.  The longest stretch 
in my life, really.  The nature of our work precluded close 
friendships outside the X-Files.  Even family couldn't share what 
we were dealing with.  And then these past two years....  Well, 
let's just say it took a long time and a lot of pain inflicted on 
the opposite party to learn how to let someone be there.  Even on 
my limited terms.  And then after all that...to have it 
vanish..."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing for my life.  I want my life."

"I didn't mean it that way."

"I know.  Neither did I."

"Scully?"

"Yes?"

"Do you want dessert?"

"Do you know how many calories were in that Eggplant Parmig--"

"Scully?"

"Yes?"

"Do you want dessert?"

"Cheesecake?"

"Couldn't have chosen it better myself."


*****


They shared a single piece of cheesecake.  Then they shared 
another.

Scully's earrings sparkled in the gentle light.  Her scent 
reminded him of everything he still valued in himself.

He held out his hand.  "Scully?"

"What?"

"Would you dance with me?"

The music was soothing, melodious.  Scully stepped up close to 
him.  Closer.  The low back of her dress brought his hand into 
easy contact with the cool of her skin.  And he felt the 
vibrations of response in her.  She moved with such ease and 
grace in his arms.  She matched his steps beat for beat.  They 
had always moved well together.  You go left, I'll go right.  
Swing your weapon high, I'll swing mine low.  Grab his wrists, 
I've got his hips.  I'll lead, you follow.  I have your back.  
One, two, three.  Follow me, Scully.  Don't ever let go.

He felt the shift, felt her nails digging hard into his shoulder 
as her touch moved from gentle closeness to possessive need.  He 
held her closer, leaning his mouth down close to her ear.  "Hey.  
What is it?"

She held on tighter.  "You're here," she whispered, tears hazing 
her voice.  "You're really here.  Mulder.  I missed you so much."

He wanted to surround her, drown her in his embrace and never be 
away from her again.  "Scully, you're all I thought about."

Her soft hand was so slender in his.  So delicate for a hand he 
knew held such power.  The power of life and death--around a 
scalpel or around a gun.  He tucked their interlocked hands in 
the hollow of his shoulder.

He was entranced by the curve of the small of her back, the 
gentle slope to her hips.  He couldn't imagine there were other 
women in the room, in the world.

"This is so terrifying," Scully breathed against his ear.

"What is?" the urgency in his own voice intensified his 
empathetic ache.

"Opening up to you."

She was trembling.

He held steadfast.  "Scully.  I'm here.  It's me.  Just me."

She nuzzled her cheek against his ear.  "I know."

They kept dancing.  He never wanted the music to stop.


*****

End Chapter 23b (Continued in 24...)
Feedback is just so very cool -- bstrbabs@gmail.com

----------

"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)


Chapter 24:


"I still believe it when you say
it's another perfect day"
        --American Hi-Fi , "Another Perfect Day"



**It was the closest we ever came.  You in that burgundy suit of 
yours and the cream blouse with the low low neckline and the deep 
red lipstick and black heels that almost made you look tall.  We 
were working so late, hunched close over the drafting table in 
the back of the office.  No one else had set foot in the dark 
basement hallways for hours.  Your neck smelled so sweet and raw, 
and we had been so much closer to one another that winter, 
clicking at every turn.  You had started to talk to me, really 
*talk* to me, every now and then.  I had started to catch 
glimpses of the woman behind the fa�ade.  And I had started to 
let you see parts of me I had thought would always be trapped 
inside.  Subtle, these glimpses back then, for both of us.  But 
they were real, and they were progress.  We were tired that 
night.  Knit close.  Bonded in battle.  And I came nearer than I 
ever had to pushing you down onto that drafting table and 
smashing my mouth against yours and running my hands up your 
thighs to claw at the lace tops of those stockings that had 
flashed and tempted and teased me for countless hours.  I could 
hear your breathing--the pace, the depth.  I could feel your 
thoughts, the physical pull.  You wanted it, too.  I would have 
bet my life on it.  Jesus, Scully.  If you hadn't called it a 
night...if you hadn't stopped it...something would have happened.  
And if it had...I couldn't have left.  I couldn't have left.  And 
if I hadn't left, none of this...**



"Mulder, when you said 'after dinner surprise' I thought you 
meant double cappuccinos or Mrs. Field's Chocolate Chip cookies 
or something."

Mulder just lifted his eyebrows, glancing briefly away from the 
road and toward her sodium-vapor lit figure, his expression pure 
innocence and sincerity .

"So?" she prompted.

"So...."

*Frustration, thy name is Mulder.*  "*So*, Mulder, why are we 
driving so far out of town I'm starting to see more cows than 
people?"

"Do you have to be home right away?"  He glanced at the dashboard 
clock, half serious now, hazel eyes darkening.  "Does Ashleigh 
need to get home?  Or is Christopher likely to wa--"

"They're fine, Mulder.  I've got time.  But where are we going?"

"Scully, are you unfamiliar with the word 'surprise'?"

She tilted her head back, eyeing him through narrowed eyes.  At 
last she looked back toward the road ahead, playing along.  
"Okay."

She caught the suppressed grin beside her.

They kept driving.

When Mulder pulled onto the dirt shoulder of the narrow road, she 
thought for a moment he had gotten lost; that he had pulled over 
to consult a map or check on their bearings.  But to her 
surprise, he opened the door, popped the trunk release, and said, 
"We're here, Scully."

"We're *where*?" she asked, eyeing the surrounding darkness.  But 
Mulder was already out of the car and circling to the trunk.

She climbed out of the car and onto the rocky shoulder.

Meeting Mulder at the trunk, Scully found him retrieving an open-
topped bag of supplies that had partially spilled across his 
trunk as they drove.  He took a thick, tightly rolled blanket 
from the wheel well and tucked it under his arm.

"Mulder, I'm not camping in an evening gown."

"Faith, Scully.  You wound me."

She sighed, a small smile of acquiescence curling her lips.  
*Mulder, you have no idea the faith I have in you.  The faith I 
had in you...have in you...had...*

She squinted out across the dark expanse of road and remembered 
rain and orange spray paint.

He closed the trunk of the car, and held out his hand.  "Ready?"

She grabbed on tight.  "Right behind you."

The grass was soft beneath her feet, the ground forgiving but not 
so soft her high heels sank into the dirt.  She trailed up the 
make-shift path behind Mulder, letting him hold her hand, letting 
him lead her as she once would have refused.  Except for those 
rare times she let him be chivalrous, let him look out for her in 
the field.  *Burned onto her skin, jumping down from a helicopter 
in the Cascade mountains, strong, protective hands tight on her 
ribcage, the subconscious sense-memory of other, unauthorized 
hands far too fresh in her mind.*

The trees grew thicker as they climbed and the landscape darker.  
She was wondering why Mulder hadn't switched on the flashlight 
she had seen in his bag, when he said softly over his shoulder, 
"People don't like flashlights.  Makes it harder to see."

"See what?"

"I think we're almost there."

They slowed their pace to be sure of their steps.  And just when 
Scully was starting to feel the pressure of the woods around her 
and the deeper darkness of country life, they caught first wind 
of muted voices above.  And before she could comment on that, 
pale moonlight cut through the trees, and their next steps 
brought them out of the foliage into a wide, lush clearing.

Six, maybe seven other bodies peppered the clearing, most sitting 
or lying on the carpet of grass.  One stood fussing with a tripod 
camera.  Another was spinning around leisurely, eyes on the 
stars.  No one seemed surprised by the arrival of the man and 
woman in dinner dress.

Mulder and Scully hovered at the edge of the clearing, hand in 
hand as they surveyed their surroundings.

When Scully turned to Mulder, he was grinning like a five year 
old with a new train set.

Her mouth twitched at the corner, unable to resist the contagious 
effect.  "Mulder...where are we?"

"Faerie's Meadow."

"Faerie's Meadow," she repeated.  She lifted her eyebrows, 
waiting for more.

He continued to smile.  "It's a local hot spot right now.  The 
word's spreading like crazy in all the usual circles."

"What word...?" she asked, tone growing more cautious.  The 
question 'What circles?' would have frightened her more.

"About the lights."

"The lights."

"Yep."  Mulder started to walk out into the field.  He kept hold 
of her hand and she was obliged to follow.  He slowed, then 
stopped at a place off to the left, a fair distance from the 
other spectators, the shadows of the distant trees giving a kind 
of privacy despite the moonlight.  He let go of her hand to shake 
out the blanket rolled under his arm.  She watched him for a 
moment, then finally took pity on him and grasped the far side of 
the blanket and helped smooth it over the ground.

Wordlessly, Mulder guided her to sit on the thick furry cloth.  
Scully settled herself, legs stretched out before her, ankles 
crossed.  She leaned back slightly onto her hands.  Mulder took 
his place beside her.

"Look up, Scully," was all he said.

She looked up at the beauty of the night sky, the endless stars 
of the clear night.

"It's beautiful," she said softly.  "But what am I looking at."

"I don't know yet," Mulder said, his own throat stretched as he 
gazed at the night sky.  "But they say they appear almost every 
night, now."

"They?"

"The lights.  For weeks, people have been gathering here to see 
the lights in the sky.  They're amazing and no one can explain 
them.  The authorities won't even acknowledge them.  Or they 
explain them away with something completely uncredible.  They 
were first sighted by a couple of teenagers, out here using this 
field as the local Inspiration Point, but since then researchers 
and astronomy professors have been out here...  It is, also, 
incidentally, still used as the local Inspiration Point."

"Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"You brought me out here to look at UFOs?"

He finally looked across at her, eyes bright in the moonlight, 
looking right through the pale blue of her eyes, reaching beneath 
her skin to tickle her soul.  "Yeah.  I did."  The playfulness 
was still there; but there was something deeper.  A question.  
And a hint of...need.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Mulder took that in.  "And if nothing should happen to appear, 
it's also a beautiful hilltop.  With a great view of the 
constellations, and a stunning look down over the valley."  
Scully followed his pointing finger, having not even bothered to 
gaze out through the break in the trees on the fourth side of the 
clearing.  She was awed by the expanse and distance, visible even 
in this deepest dark.

"Wow..." Scully breathed.

"Yeah." 

"Why do they call it Faerie's Meadow?" Scully asked, still gazing 
out over the valley.

"Historically speaking, I don't know, I haven't had a chance to 
look it up."

She heard the subtext.  "But you have a theory?"

He didn't speak for a moment, and she looked at him in the 
shadows.  The glimmer in his soft eyes sent a flutter of pleasure 
through her stomach.

"I do have a rough outline of a theory, yes."

"I'm waiting."

"Well, as I said, I haven't done the research yet, but I'm 
guessing the lights aren't new.  They're most likely just now 
*recurring*.  I mean, you know as well as I do, Scully, that many 
places are UFO 'hotspots' for years, decades even.  Sometimes 
constant through that time, sometimes recurrent after downtimes 
of days or months or years.  And I'm sure you've heard the 
theories on the correlations between the alien mythology and the 
faerie legends."

Scully nodded.  "The idea that the phenomenon has been present 
all along, we just process and categorize and define the 
experience according to our cultural perceptions.  Irish peasants 
see Faerie Lights, we see ships carrying Little Greys from 
Reticula."

Mulder was grinning again.  "Should we be picking out china 
patterns or what?"

Scully smiled, holding his steady green eyes.  He was the first 
to turn away.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I see a thermos in that bag?"

"There is a thermos in that bag."

"Would it happen to have tea in it?"

"Cocoa."

"Cocoa?!"

"I thought you liked--"

"Pour."


*****


The night was cool, but not cold.  The blanket was thick enough 
to keep the cold from seeping up from the ground.  The cocoa, 
still amazingly hot, warmed them from within.

It was easy to speak here in the dark, to slip into a more 
intimate place.  More than a few quiet secrets had been shared or 
revealed in the dim early morning hours of stakeouts.  Dark 
softened the edges.  And she could still feel his arms around her 
on the dance floor.

Mulder had shifted closer on the blanket.  Or maybe she had.  But 
parts of their bodies were touching now, and the points of 
contact were hot on her skin, warding off more than the chill 
wind.

Mulder was speaking softly as she gazed into her half empty 
thermos mug.  "Well, things were different by then, Scully," he 
said.  "I mean, after your cancer....you were much more open to 
letting things come into your life.  You had...a better 
perspective on what you wanted out of your life, I think.  Or at 
least...that you needed to focus on finding out.  And such a 
short time later, when Emily came into your life, I think you 
were so much more ready to take on the possibility and the 
challenge of a little girl.  Much more than you would have been a 
year or two earlier."

Scully sat quietly, eyes on the hem of her dress.  She said 
softly, "I didn't know you were paying attention."

Mulder, gave a half laugh, though his meaning was entirely 
sincere.  "Who else was I going to pay attention to, Scully?  You 
were the only one who would put up with me."

She winced, stung as always by his self-deprecation.  
"Mulder...there are a lot of people who would want to be friends 
with you.  You just don't let them.  You push people away."

Mulder nodded.  "Then why did you stick around so long?"

"Well...mainly because I didn't like you very well."

His eyebrows rose.  "Excuse me?" 

She nodded.  "You pissed me off.  I mean, when I met you, I was 
very much in my 'prove myself to the world' era.  You didn't 
trust me from day one, never even considered that I might 
actually be an *asset* to your work.  You didn't think it was 
possible I could ever understand where you were coming from.  So, 
there you were, one in a long line of arrogant male authority 
figures telling me I was in a job I didn't belong in and couldn't 
possibly excel at, and naturally that powerfully motivated me to 
prove you mistaken."

"Which you did, ten-fold."

"I believe so, yes."

He smiled.  He was sitting so casually now.  Like a man in a park 
in a GAP ad, long legs folded, arm draped across his lifted knee.  
His easy grace had always drawn her.  For someone with so many 
insecurities, Mulder carried his GQ frame with an engaging 
confidence and lack of vanity.  "So, what kept you around after 
that?" he asked.

"Well...by then, I liked you a little bit better."

"Really."

"Really."

They shared a smile for a long beat, and Scully had forgotten how 
perfect the world could feel, just for that moment when she and 
Mulder were smiling together.

"There she is," he whispered.

She didn't understand.

"My Scully.  The Scully I risked my life for.  The Scully I've 
missed more these past two years than I've ever missed anyone or 
anything in my life."

She couldn't breath.  His fingers drew down the line of her 
cheek, and she closed her eyes and savored the touch.  She kissed 
his fingers as they passed, grasped his wrist with her hand.

"This is so amazing," he whispered.

"What?"

"Seeing you.  Like this.  Scully.  No Bureau.  No morgue.  No 
conspiracies or dark alleys.  No schedule to make it stop.  
Just...you."

She swallowed hard.  "Just us."

He nodded.  "Just us."

"Why did you let them have a funeral?  Why did you make me do 
that?"

"I asked them to.  I insisted, actually."

"Why?"  Her voice was fading.

"I thought...it would help you."

She closed her eyes.

The answer was thick in the air.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Mulder's hand was against her cheek, her fingers on his wrist.  
"No more, Mulder.  I can't watch you die again.  I won't."

"I know.  No more."

*It's hard to believe your 'no mores' Mulder.  It always was.*  
"Okay."

The gathering around them had shifted.  The college date crowd 
had thickened.  Another professorly type with a camera had set up 
camp.  But they were still fairly sheltered on their private 
patch of ground.

Scully sat up straighter and reached for the thermos, pouring out 
the last of the cocoa.  She pulled her coat closer around her.

"Are you cold?" Mulder asked, rubbing his open hand over her 
back.

*If I say yes, will you keep touching me?*  "I'm fine.  It's kind 
of nice to be outside again, actually.  I'm stuck inside so much 
more in my new position.  I miss field work.  Fresh air.  At 
least Christopher gets me out of the house on the weekends."

"I still can't believe you have a little boy, Scully."  The sense 
of childlike wonder in his voice made her forget the cold.

"Pretty amazing, isn't he?"  She sipped her cocoa.

"That doesn't even begin to cover it.  This whole new little 
life, discovering the world.  And ten years from now, you, 
Scully, will be a Mom with a ten year old boy who plays soccer or 
basketball or plays the violin or travels the country for chess 
competitions and reads comic books and races a mountain bike."

She laughed.  "Pretty crazy, isn't it?"

"It's wonderful, Scully.  Did you want a boy?"

She shook her head.  "I didn't care.  I think maybe Daniel was 
hoping for a boy, since he already had Maggie, but he would have 
adored a girl, too.  We didn't try to choose.  But, you know, 
when I found out Christopher was a boy, I couldn't have been more 
thrilled.  It just felt...right."

"It was right."

The first flicker of light caught her eye, and Scully nearly 
dropped her cocoa mug.  "Oh, my God..."  Three of them.  Tiny, 
glittery lights, like blinking stars, flitting around the sky 
like fireflies.  "Oh, my God, Mulder, what *is* that?"

The hillside came to life around them, voices rising and bodies 
shifting as everyone remembered why they were out on this 
hillside tonight and scrambled for the best possible view.  
Scully was captivated.  Four lights now.  Five.  Moving through 
the sky like choreographed dancers.  "Mulder, how can they do 
that?  That can't--that can't be aircraft, can it?  They're so 
close together, and the speed, the turn ratio.  Mulder, what--"

She glanced over her shoulder.  Mulder had not moved, still 
seated beside her, knee lifted, gazing at her profile.  "Mulder, 
look."  She pointed at the sky, glancing back and forth from the 
lights to the man beside her who had single-handedly reinvented 
The X-Files.  "Mulder--"  But he still had not moved.  A gentle 
contentment hazed his eyes.  "Mulder, *look*!  You're missing 
it!"

But he shook his head and said softly, "I'm not missing a thing."

The timbre of his voice stole her breath.  Suddenly she couldn't 
remember the lights.  She only knew the heat of the body beside 
her and the way he was watching her that made her feel like the 
most beautiful woman in the world.  The voices rose and fell 
around them, closed behind a velvet curtain of darkness.  Mulder 
leaned in first, but she was only a breath behind, her hand 
rising to his cheek as his lips met hers.  His mouth was warm and 
gentle in the cool night, and tasted of cocoa and night sky, and 
she couldn't drink enough.  A thousand stakeouts and terrifying 
nights and dark cars and dusty station houses and a decade of 
need and they were finally breaking through the glass wall.  She 
slipped her tongue into his mouth (*her tongue inside Mulder, 
inside Mulder*) and he was instantly open to her, his hand 
clinging to the back of her neck.

Right where they had left off in the rain.  She caught a glimpse 
over his shoulder of the glimmering lights in the sky, but they 
couldn't pull her away.  Nothing could have pulled her away.  She 
slipped her hand beneath Mulder's open jacket over the thin silk 
material of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath as 
she pressed her lips harder against his.  Mulder.  This was 
Mulder.  Her shelter, her touchstone, her other half.  No longer 
kept apart, but wrapping himself further around her by the 
second, his long fingers in her hair, the rough collar of his 
suit coat brushing her throat, his body sheltering her from the 
night and the dark, his tongue in her mouth, hands on her back.  
She had never felt so warm, so safe.  So hot.

She functioned on instinct.  She tugged at Mulder's shoulder 
until he lowered her gently onto the blanket, grass textured and 
soft beneath her back.  His long body stretched out beside her, 
half on top of her.  She was achingly aware of how close his hips 
lay to hers.  The pull in her core was like a physical ache, 
drawing his heat to her own.

He hovered above her, the moonlight angling over his shoulder 
onto the skin of her throat.  And he was gazing down upon her 
with the purest adoration she had ever felt.  Her stomach 
trembled.  He stroked the side of her face, devoid of words.  She 
gave him the faintest smile.  Acknowledging it all, opening to 
him.  She pulled his mouth to hers again--this man who had lost 
the security of his family at such a tender age, who had spent a 
lifetime alone and searching for his sister--and her body was 
instantly alive, prickling and glittering like the Faerie Lights 
above.  Scully rolled toward Mulder as she reached over his back, 
dimly aware in the shadow of her mind that they were probably 
giving the others in the clearing more of a show than any of the 
college couples.  But she didn't care.  And Mulder didn't seem to 
care either, as his hand slid up her leg, beneath the hem of her 
dress, and up the back of her thigh.  She felt her vaginal 
muscles contract in reply, moisture softening her.  She wanted 
this so deeply it hurt.

She had never been so terrified.

She lost track of time.  She didn't know how long they lay there 
beneath the celestial wonders, drowning in each other's taste.  
Like a couple of teenagers in the back of a car.  When she 
registered reality, the sky had darkened, and much of the crowd 
had cleared.  She was lying on her side, Mulder's arm beneath her 
neck, her leg draped partially over his.  His hand rested on her 
ribcage and he was merely watching her.  She never wanted to look 
away.

Her body was shimmering.  Her breasts longed for the return of 
his too brief touch.  The rushing blood between her legs seemed 
audible, and the thought of going without the necessary contact 
to slake that thirst seemed unbearable.  But they couldn't rush.  
She knew that.  He knew that.

It was hard to speak.  So they lay, wordless, in the soft 
darkness of the middle of nowhere, where at least, for once, it 
was not raining, and gazed into each other's eyes, breathing one 
another's skin.

"I want you," Mulder whispered.

Scully closed her eyes, shaking.  His husky voice was like a 
touch.  Her breath accelerated.  "I want you," she replied.

"I've wanted you for so long.  Just you."

She couldn't speak.

He reached up and tenderly brushed her hair behind her ear.  She 
touched his lips with her fingers.  Mulder had the most sensual 
mouth she had ever seen on a man.  Not a day had passed in their 
time together when she had not been aware of that.  Even on the 
days she wanted to kill him.

"You ready to go home?" he whispered.

"No.  Yes.  If you come with me."

"Try and tear me away."

She closed her eyes.  She took his hand.


*****


Christopher was sleeping like an angel.  The baby monitor hissed 
softly from the end table.

They sat, half-lay, together on the living room sofa, ostensibly 
watching TV and talking, truly just avoiding separation.  They 
didn't want the evening to end.

Mulder's eyelids were sinking.  Scully herself was courting 
Morpheus.

But she didn't want to surrender the day.  Because Mulder was 
back.  And tonight, she had come home in a way, and her thoughts 
were spinning, but all she was certain of, was that she never 
wanted to let this feeling out of her grasp.  And she was afraid 
to sleep, lest it slip through her slackened fingers.

In the end exhaustion won out, and she was forced to content 
herself with the warmth of Mulder's body against her back and the 
reassuring rhythm of his snores.  Her last sleep-ridden memory 
was a shifting of weight as Mulder spread the sofa afghan over 
their bodies.


*****


"Mulder?"

Scully woke to cold and dark.  For a moment, she couldn't 
remember where she was, only that Mulder had been there and now 
he was gone.  But her focus gradually returned and she recognized 
her own living room, remembering the evening in a rush of rich 
smells and flickering sky lights.

But Mulder had fallen asleep beside her.  And now he was gone.  
She sat up in the dimness, draping the afghan around her 
shoulders, and scanned the empty darkness of her apartment.  He 
had probably gone home.  Perhaps he had kissed her goodbye and 
she had slept through the gesture.  She squinted down the hall to 
the guest bathroom, but the door stood open and the light was 
off.  He had probably gone home.

But something felt wrong.  Scully swiped a hand over her eyes, 
remembering she had never even removed her make-up.  Most of her 
hair had worked its way loose of the clasp, though she had never 
taken out the adornment.  She padded gently in her stocking-ed 
feet around the couch and into the dining room where she caught 
sight of Mulder's car keys still tossed on the table.  And then 
she saw the sliding door to the balcony slightly ajar.

Pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders as she neared 
the trail of cool air snaking into the apartment, Scully crept 
toward the door.

Then she stopped, ice cold spreading through her stomach at first 
hint of the sound.  Someone crying.  No, not just crying.  
Sobbing.  Gut-wrenching sobs.  And she knew the voice too well.

The mixture of urgency and aching hesitation in her were dizzying 
as she slipped into her black pumps and hurried toward the 
balcony.

Scully stepped out into the cold night air, squinting at the 
security lights in the garden below and bracing against the blast 
of wind.  At the far end of the balcony, Fox Mulder knelt, arms 
folded on the railing, slender neck stretched to rest his head on 
his hands.  And he was sobbing, body shaking, as she had not seen 
or felt since the night his mother died.

She felt sick.

"Mulder?" she whispered into the surreal night, uncertain if he 
had even registered her presence.

He didn't startle, didn't react.

She took a small step closer.  "Mulder, what's happened, what's 
wrong?"  She pushed a clump of hair away from the corner of her 
mouth.

He didn't look at her, barely raised his head, but he started to 
speak, and the tone of his voice was so deeply desolate, she felt 
her knees melting beneath her.

"I just...I can't believe you married someone else.  I left...but 
I was only gone two years."  He was almost talking to himself; 
his long hands grasping at the air, trying to catch something 
that was no longer there.  "Two years, and I just...I thought...I 
just thought you'd be here..."  She could barely comprehend his 
words through his tears, but the meaning hit her in the gut, and 
she couldn't breathe.
 
There was nothing to say.

She sucked at the cold air.

"You married someone else..."  Mulder dropped his head, 
surrendering to a fresh wave of quiet sobs and he could just as 
well have clawed her guts out.  The hunch of his powerful back 
was an unnatural clash.  Such a man as Mulder should never be 
broken.

Scully started to move toward him, but Mulder jerked his head up 
and looked her dead in the eye.  The intensity of his gaze nearly 
pushed her back a step.  "What would you have done?" he asked.  
"What would you have done if Daniel had been alive when I came 
home?"

Scully shook her head, sharply.  "Don't do that.  Don't play 
that.  I won't.  I thought you were dead.  If you hadn't left, I 
would never have married Daniel.  That's all we can say."

Mulder searched her face for an excruciating moment, then he 
turned away and let his forehead fall back onto his hands.

Scully stood in the cold wind on the balcony above her treasured 
garden and felt stiff and hard and dark.  There was nothing to 
say.  Nothing she could deny.  She clung to her solidarity, 
resurrected her deep belief in herself.  She would weather the 
moment.

Scully advanced.  She reached out and touched a tentative hand to 
Mulder's shoulder, bracing for the possibility she would be 
pushed away.  But with less than a second's hesitation, Mulder 
reached blindly toward her and locked his arms around her waist, 
burying his face in her stomach.  Her blanket fell to her elbows, 
and she encircled him as best she could, sheltering him, running 
her fingers through his hair.  She sank to the edge of the deck 
chair, and Mulder pressed his face between her breasts, knelt 
between her legs.  Scully draped the afghan around them both like 
the wings of a mother bird and sheltered him to her breast, 
feeling the shakes of his sobs rock them both.

She kissed his hair, stroked his chilled skin.  She wanted to 
tell him it had never happened.  That she had never loved her 
husband.  But she had.  Words couldn't convey how she truly felt.

Finally, she whispered into his hair.  "It's okay."

And Mulder pushed off of her, hard, and stood up.  He was through 
the glass doors and into the apartment in less than a breath.

"Mulder!"

He was gathering his keys by the time her shoes touched the 
carpet.  "I have to go, Scully."

"Mulder, don't do this.  This is hard, I know, so much has 
happened--"

"Scully, I have to go."  He swiped across his eyes with his 
sleeve, picked up his jacket from where she had missed sight of 
it on the back of the couch.

Her blanket dropped, forgotten, to the floor; her bare arms were 
exposed to the air.  She was trembling.  "Goddammit, Mulder.  You 
left me.  You *lied* to me.  You were dead.  And I suffered 
through months, years, of mourning the most important person in 
my life, because you made a choice without my consent to--"

But he was striding briskly across the carpet to stand in front 
of her, touching a painfully tender finger to her lips to silence 
her words.  His nearness cut into her edge.  "Scully, it's all 
right.  Stop."

She was breathing like she'd run five miles, heart pounding in 
her chest, and her eyes were hot with unshed tears.  She knew he 
saw them.  She was barely awake.  It all still felt like a bad 
dream.  "Scully, I know all of that.  And I'm not shirking my 
part of the blame.  But right now all I know is that six months 
ago," he caught hold of her hand, held it up between them, so 
gently, and fingered her wedding ring, "you were in love with 
someone else."

Her breath hitched, her gut clenched as her reply caught in her 
throat...  She snatched back her hand; protective, hurt.

"And Scully, I...I've *never* loved anyone else."

*Oh, Sweet Jesus.*

"Don't leave."

Mulder drew a finger ever so lightly down her cheek, his tears 
fading now, a deeper sadness pooling in his dark eyes.  "Scully, 
I'm not leaving you.  Not like that.  I promised you I wouldn't 
let go of the rope, and I'm not.  And I'm not blaming you for 
your choices.  It's okay.  It'll be okay.  But I just...I can't 
be here tonight.  I can't..."

She winced, tried to reach for his hand, but let her own fall 
away.

"It's okay," he said again, eyes kind, a ghost of a sad smile 
gracing his lips.  She wanted the anger back.  "Don't be scared.  
We'll get there.  I just...I can't stay tonight."

"Why?"  Her voice was hard, but it wasn't anger.

Mulder cupped a hand to the back of her neck and leaned down and 
kissed her lips hard.  The intimacy of the contact rushed her 
eyes with tears and she wanted to pull away and she wanted to 
never let go.  He kept his mouth against the skin of her cheek as 
he whispered.  "Because I'm somewhere you're not."

And in a breath he was gone, pulling a gust of cold wind from the 
balcony as he closed the door.


*****

(End Chapter 24.  Continued in Chapter 25a...)
I sing for Feedback (oh, wait, that might discourage you...) - 
bstrbabs@gmail.com


----------------

"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)


Chapter 25a:


"Tell her not to cry 
I just got scared that's all 
...
Tell her nothing if not this; all I want to do is kiss her."
                        "Tell Her This" by Del Amitri



**Mulder, this is a moment.  Take me home.**



Christopher woke just after 3am.  Scully nursed him.  Then she 
pulled him into her bed and let him sleep curled beside her.  
Christopher slumbered peacefully, utterly contented against his 
mother's warmth.  Scully took comfort in his nearness.  She 
drifted into a restless sleep.  And having Christopher against 
her breast as she had so many nights in his infancy, her mind 
wandered in and out of dreams and memories, and twice she half 
woke, sensing Daniel's body behind her and finding an empty 
mattress.

She remembered Mulder was gone.

When the alarm sounded at 5:30, her body would barely respond.

Scully dressed in the early morning darkness.  Christopher woke 
by 6:30 and she sat in the rocking chair in her tan suit and 
heels and offered him his breakfast.  Then she brought him to the 
kitchen and fed him some cereal before Margarite arrived.  
Christopher's sweet smile and gentle fingers on Scully's skin 
kept her focus on the joy of her son and away from the dull ache 
in her chest.

She said goodbye to Margarite, kissed Christopher, and hurried 
out the door.

Traffic was a nightmare.  Her head hurt from the lack of sleep.  
Her eye muscles felt stiff.  The sky was heavy and grey.  Scully 
was almost grateful.  She wasn't ready for brilliant sun.  The 
wind was cold on her sleep-deprived skin.  Winter was coming.

Maybe winter was here.


*****


"Dr. Waterston, there you are!"

*Oh, fuck me.*

Scully pulled her keys from the outside pocket of her briefcase.  
"Josh.  I'm sorry, did we have a meeting this morning?"

Josh Weller--the Academy's most anal student--pushed up from his 
encampment on the floor outside her office.  "No, no, nothing 
formal.  I was just hoping to catch you before your first class.  
You said if I had any trouble with the next assignment I should 
speak to you again.  I know the assignment isn't due until next 
Friday, but I had a few questions on your expectations, if you 
had a minute now..."

*I would rather drive through a massive skunk massacre with the 
windows down than talk to you right now.*

Scully glanced at her watch.  "I can spare a few minutes, I 
think, if we make it fast.  I don't technically have office hours 
until this afternoon."  She turned the key in the lock and pushed 
open the door.  "Have a seat."

Josh took his usual place beside her desk, and Scully tried to 
listen to his inquiries.  Josh was a true test of her 
determination in her new vocation.  How long was considered a 
respectable period to keep pushing on a brick wall before giving 
up the pretense of forward progress?

"Josh, I'm not sure I understand your question.  With this 
project, I'm asking you to take a case from history, something 
from a far more primitive era of investigation, and look at it 
through a modern day lens.  Tell me how that changes the case.  
Give me a different reconstruction of the scenario and try to 
back it up.  Widen your eyes to see the multitude of 
possibilities, to the inexactness of the science."

"But, we can't get back there, Dr. Waterston.  We can't run DNA 
tests, or CAT scans or..."

"I understand that.  I'm not asking you to.  I'm asking you to 
search your brain for the resources you do possess.  Look at 
photos from the crime scene and apply what you know about blood 
splatter patterns that the investigators of the time did not.  
Tell me if you see something that contradicts their assumptions.  
If you don't find anything wrong, that's fine.  Write up for me 
what steps you took and explain to me how your findings support 
the original outcome of the case and how your approach differed 
from theirs.  Maybe tell me why your proof is more substantial 
than theirs.  But if you do find something questionable, tell me 
about it.  Tell me what steps you would take if you *did* have 
the resources, what tests you would perform to back your own 
theory."

"I guess I just...I mean, I don't mean to question your 
authority, Dr. Waterston, I just..." Josh combed his fingers back 
through his close cropped curls and pushed his black framed 
glasses up his nose.  "I don't think I understand the benefit of 
attempting to work a case without the benefit of the modern 
advances we now have in our possession."

Scully drew a deep breath, staring down the small green alien-
head paperweight on her desktop.  "Josh...I can't help but feel 
you're essentially asking me the same question you ask every time 
we speak.  Which probably means I'm not doing my job."  She 
uncrossed her legs and fingered her the fountain pen on top of 
her grade book.  "I guess what I want you to learn is that 
despite what the PR department will tell you, we don't know 
everything yet.  We can't explain everything yet.  And sometimes, 
as wonderful as all these advancements are, they can be as much 
of a hindrance as a help.  Sometimes you can forget, that the 
single most valuable tool in any investigation is the mind of the 
investigator.  Machines will never look outside the box.  Things 
that look perfect on paper, may never work out in practice.  And 
sometimes the things that seem like the most bizarre possible 
scenarios when first presented, ultimately boil down to be the 
only possible solutions.  And I want...to open your minds...to 
those kinds of...extreme possibilities."  She paused for a 
moment, wrapping her own mind around the words, hardly aware of 
Josh's presence anymore.  "Sometimes--without ever letting go of 
the advantages science gives--you have to have the courage to let 
go of the safe guards, and take a leap of faith."

When Scully registered her student again, Josh was eyeing her 
almost suspiciously and she felt the familiar unspoken comment.  
*"That's right.  You were Spooky Mulder's partner for years, 
weren't you?"*.  At last he nodded, glanced at his watch and 
picked up his duffle bag.  "Okay, yeah, I'll give it a shot.  I 
appreciate you taking the time to see me, Dr. Waterston."

Scully nodded.  "No, problem."  She cleared her throat sharply.

Josh left the office and closed the door behind him.  Scully sat 
motionless several beats, then she blinked back her tears and 
turned to her lesson plans.


*****


By lunch there were two voice mails on Scully's cell phone.  She 
recognized the number.  She didn't listen to the messages.

On her afternoon class break, she checked her email.  Spam.  
Staff meeting notices.  One letter from Plan9Boy@hotmail.com
Subject: Scully
Body: 'Are you okay?'

She sent back a two word reply.

'I'm fine.'

And she went back to the autopsy bay.

At 4:30 she got a call from Gannon Michaels.  Maley's hearing had 
been set for two weeks away.  She told him to come to her 
apartment after work and bring the motherlode of files.  Before 
she left her office, she sent one more email.

'Must work late tonight, Maley's hearing is set.'

And she turned off the computer.


*****


Gannon Michaels had never fully adjusted to the fact that Dana 
Waterston was no longer his partner.  In that, he guessed, he 
held something in common with the elusive Fox Mulder.  As much as 
he had learned over the past two years, he certainly did not feel 
he was qualified to be the end of the line in charge of the X-
Files.  Agent Brennen was a good guy.  Well meaning, a decent 
agent.  But Gannon was still riding the fence on whether Brennen 
was right for the X-Files.  He was certain A.D. Skinner would be 
checking in with him soon, subtlety prompting him for an 
evaluation, and he hadn't yet decided what he was going to say.

But for tonight, he knew where he stood.  He and Dana would be 
working together whenever they could, for as long as it took to 
make sure James Maley lived out the rest of his days behind bars.

The down side was the extra hours away from his family.  He 
couldn't even let Dana quietly catch a little more of the load 
anymore now that she had a family of her own to get home to.

He juggled a large box of file folders and a giant bucket of 
fried chicken into one arm while he tapped softly on the door, 
not wanting to ring the bell and risk waking Christopher.

A moment later, he heard the sliding of the lock.

"Hey," Dana said, stepping back to let him inside.  She saved him 
from disaster by grabbing the bucket of chicken.  Tasha was happy 
to help.

Dana eyed the bucket suspiciously.  "Clearly you've never been to 
Dudley, Arkansas."

"Excuse me?"

But she shook her head.  "Nothing.  An old X-File."

She was looking as stunning as ever.  Tan slacks and a white 
blouse, killer heels, hair tied up in a twist.  But he had worked 
with this enigmatic woman long enough to recognize that she was 
off tonight.  Something was bothering her.  Probably not case 
related.  Probably not something he would ever hear about.  But 
it was there.

"Little guy sleepin'?"  he asked, clunking his box onto the 
dining room table and tousling Tasha's ears.  She wagged her tail 
at him for a moment, then followed the chicken.

"Snoring away.  Margarite took him to the park today, and he 
rolled himself around in the grass for a couple of hours.  He's 
thinking about the Army Crawl, lately."

"Ah, yes, the scoot and roll stage.  I remember it well.  Nothing 
like fresh air and exercise to konk the little guys out and give 
you some peace and quiet."

"How are your guys?" Dana asked, returning to join him at the 
table with the bucket of chicken, two small plates and a thick 
stack of napkins.

"Crazy as ever.  Love 'em to death," he said with a wide smile, 
hands on his hips.

That made Dana grin.  "I'd like to see them again."

Michaels shrugged.  "Open invitation.  Amanda's been askin' when 
you'll be over again."

Dana dropped her gaze to the table as she pried open the lid of 
the chicken bucket.  "Can I get you something to drink?" she 
asked.

"Got any scotch?"

She looked up and lifted her eyebrows.  "Pepsi?"

"Close enough."

Dana went to pour the drinks while Michaels began sorting through 
the overflowing box of file folders.

"I talked to the D.A. this morning," he called toward the 
kitchen.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah.  He's pretty pumped.  Thinks we're fairly solid.  He wants 
to see us tomorrow, if we can, Monday at the latest, and go over 
what we've got."

"What time tomorrow?"

"Early afternoon, maybe?"

She reappeared with the drinks, nodded brusquely.  "Maybe."

They sat down, face to face across the dining room table, and 
each took a drumstick from the top of the bucket.  Tasha rested 
her head in Dana's lap.  Michaels had spread several files across 
the table to scan while they ate.  Dana took a bite with her eyes 
on an autopsy report, then she pushed back the top page with her 
pinky fingernail to expose the crime scene photos he had 
deliberately left covered in the interest of dinner.  She didn't 
even flinch.  She took another bite and wiped the corner of her 
mouth.  He would never understand how she could do that.

"Are you as fuzzy on all this these days as I am?" Michaels 
asked.

Dana's left eyelid sank for a moment.  "Actually, not as much as 
you'd think.  Guess he made an impression on me.  Have we talked 
to Miranda Lockheart yet?  Does she know about Maley?"

Michaels shook his head.  "No phone privileges.  Don't know if 
she's heard, her lawyer jumped on it ASAP.  But I'm waiting for 
him to call back to set up a meeting, see if she's willing to 
testify."

Dana fell quiet again, absorbed in a combination of reading and 
chewing.

"Hey, Dana.  I just want you to know, I'm really sorry this is 
coming up for you right now."

She shrugged, didn't look up.  "It's a case, it's part of the 
job.  I just want him put away."

"Well, yeah, but it's not *just* a case for you.  You're not just 
an investigating officer on this one, you're--"

"A victim?"  She nodded.  "Really, that's not so uncommon for me 
either."

And he knew that would be the end of the subject for the duration 
of the trial.  So, with his usual nerve or stupidity, Michaels 
reached out and squeezed Dana's forearm.  "Well, that sucks," he 
said.

Dana looked up at him mid-chew, caught by surprise.  Then, to his 
relief she broke into a genuine smile.  "I've missed you, 
Gannon," she said simply.

"That's just 'cause you've forgotten what I was really like day 
to day."

"Probably true."

They worked well into the night.  The chicken was followed by 
grapes and apple slices and the dining room table became the 
carpet around the coffee table and eventually they landed on the 
couch with designer coffees.

When Gannon actually fell asleep mid-sentence, Dana called it for 
the night.

"Go home.  Sleep."

He gathered his things, leaving most of the files for Dana to 
work over through the weekend.  They planned to meet again 
Saturday after his son's soccer game.

At the door, Dana stopped him.  "Could I, uh...could I ask a 
quick favor?"  The tone of her voice was almost shy, hesitant.  
And that was so rare with Dana, the phenomenon always commanded 
his attention.
 
"Anytime.  What's up?"

"Could you just stay here for a minute and listen for Christopher 
while I make a run down to the basement storage area.  I need to 
bring something up and I don't want to leave him alone."

He gestured her out the door.  "I got it."

Dana nodded her thanks and grabbed her keys from the top of the 
polished rolltop desk.  She was back in less than five minutes, 
carrying only a dark piece of cloth, a t-shirt, maybe, which she 
quickly tossed on the couch.

"Kiss the kid for me," Michaels said as he opened the door.

"And yours for me," Dana replied, exhaustion thick in her voice.  
Whatever was hurting was hitting her hard tonight.

He closed the door and started for home, looking at his watch, 
and deciding he would be half an hour late for work in the 
morning and take the time to have breakfast with his kids.


*****


Fox Mulder stared at the dogs playing poker over his headboard 
and tried to gauge the levelness of the frame.  He tapped a 
corner and stepped back again.  Better.  The rustic farmhouse 
watercolor that had come with the apartment just hadn't done it 
for him.

He was trying to stay busy.  Work was a bad place to do that 
these days.  Not much to keep his attention.  Certainly nothing 
to keep him after hours.

He had finished dinner two hours ago, and nothing good was set to 
come on TV for another hour and a half.  Monkeyman's B-Line 
Cinema was showing Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, and he figured 
after two dozen viewings, one more couldn't possibly hurt.  He 
had grown accustomed to Friday nights at home over the past two 
years.

Almost 48 hours since he had spoken to Scully.  His hair was 
starting to ache.

He hadn't gone so long without a phone call when they had been 
strictly partners.

They had never been strictly partners.

How he had gone two years was beyond his wildest imagining.

The 'back-off' vibes were resoundingly clear.  Yet he was almost 
certain he was the one who needed to resolve this.  He had been 
the one to rip the bandages off the carefully tended wounds.  He 
hadn't slept in 26 hours.  He hadn't smiled in longer than that.

Mulder gave the picture frame a last quick tap, and retreated to 
the kitchen to check on his microwave popcorn.

He needed to see Scully.

He was terrified to see Scully.

Mulder had changed out of his work suit into jeans and a navy t-
shirt with the intent of bumming around the local strip mall, but 
he had failed to motivate himself to physically leave the 
apartment.  As he stared into his empty refrigerator, he started 
to debate using hunger as a motivation to go out.  Frozen dinners 
didn't stick with you very long.

He forgot it all when the doorbell rang.

Dana Scu-Waterston stood in his hallway.  The moment his gaze 
settled upon her familiar figure, her sunset hair and strong jaw, 
all the reasons he hadn't wanted to face the moment of 
confrontation crumbled into dust in the air, and he found a 
genuine smile gracing his lips.

"Scully, hey--" but he broke off as she touched a finger to her 
lips with a small smile and a nod toward the baby carrier at her 
side.  Christopher was fast asleep beneath a heap of blankets and 
a pale blue cap.  "Oh, sorry," Mulder whispered.

But Scully only gave a soft smile, and glanced down at her son 
who hadn't stirred at the sounds.

Mulder touched a hand to Scully's elbow and nudged her forward.  
"Come on in," he said softly.

Scully shifted the weight of Christopher in his carrier and eased 
them through the door, only slightly reluctant in her entry.  She 
scanned her surroundings with a specific intent, then found what 
she sought and settled Christopher in a cozy corner beside the 
easy chair.  Standing, she turned back toward Mulder who waited 
like a nervous teenager, long arms useless at his sides.

"I, uh...I got him ready for bed, then we just got in the car and 
he fell asleep on the way over."

Mulder nodded.  "Sure.  Do you want to put him down somewhere?  I 
mean...we can make a place for him somewhere, if--"

"No, it's okay.  He's all right there for now."

His eyes narrowed, bracing at the implication that she did not 
intend to stay.

Scully slipped her hands in her trench coat pockets and moved a 
few paces into the room, soaking up the full scope of her 
surroundings.  She caught his gaze for a moment, then continued 
her surveillance.

"It's nice," she said at last.

"You like it?"  He was surprised how much her answer mattered to 
him.
 
"I do.  The furniture's not quite you," she said plainly.  "But 
you'll fix that."  She turned and really met his gaze and the 
intensity was like an adrenaline shot through his veins.

He swallowed hard, then shrugged his shoulders and tried to 
escape into the lighter formalities.  "Meaning I'll add some 
pizza stains and old sweats?"

The corner of her mouth flickered in a failed attempt at a 
cursory smile, but her thoughts were a million layers deeper. 

"I missed you last night, Scully," he said, not planning the 
words.

She drew a pensive breath through her nose, but she did not 
speak.

She turned her attention back to their surroundings.  He watched 
her focus on the less than impressive 20 inch television, the 
green plaid sofa, the bookcases devoid of his collections and 
directories of the strange and unusual.  She peered through the 
archway into the kitchenette and breakfast nook.  The tiny little 
Formica-topped table was old and far out of style, but truthfully 
it was his favorite piece in the apartment; it reminded him of a 
table he and Samantha had played summer games on on his 
grandmother's screened porch.

He was hardly breathing, waiting for Scully to speak.

In the silence, Scully walked a very deliberate and graceful 
circle, stopping with her back to him, a silhouette of elegance 
against the soft light on the end table.  Scully dropped out of 
her trench coat and tossed it across the couch.  Her blazer had 
been left at home, only her creamy silk blouse remained.  As 
Mulder stood, frozen to the floor, Scully methodically unbuttoned 
her blouse.  His heartbeat skipped as she reached the last button 
and sank to the edge of the coffee table.  She pushed the silk 
material down off her right shoulder, smoothing her hand 
deliberately over her bare skin.  Her hooded lids rose and her 
eyes locked onto his with a piercing intent.  There were words in 
her silence.

He heard them like a shout.  *Oh, God.*

Scully was waiting, breathing heavily, one eyebrow rising ever so 
slightly, as her hand still held her blouse off the white skin of 
her shoulder.

He took a half step forward.  "Scully... no.  You don't have to."

But he recognized the tightening of her jaw, the steel set of 
determination.  She had been through it all.  She had read the 
research, weighed her options, heard his claims.  She had made 
her choice.  This wasn't a weakened plea for forgiveness.  This 
was a firm decision  And he needed to respect that, to respect 
her.
 
"Scully.  Are you sure?"  His voice sounded far away.

Scully drew a breath through softly parted lips, and the first 
tiny glimmer of vulnerability washed across her countenance.  
"I'm sure if you are," she said simply.  And his chest clenched.  
*Scully.*  A dozen images flashed before his mind's eyes.  Scully 
on a bridge, hands against his and blood on her lip as the woman 
who could have been Samantha was sentenced to death; Scully 
conceding to bear witness to Mulder's own death; Scully's 
shadowed eyes and pale hand pulling at him, begging him to finger 
her for a murder she didn't commit, *"...you have to lay it on 
me..."*; Scully pulling a weapon over his hospital bed to fire at 
a monster in which she did not believe.  His Scully.  His one in 
five billion.

Mulder wanted to protest again.  To tell her she didn't have to 
make this choice.  But that would have been an insult now.  He 
nodded, wordless.  He crossed the room to a heavy black bag in 
the corner bookcase.  He hefted the bag off the shelf and dropped 
it onto a nearby table.  Silently, ever aware of Scully's 
presence behind him, Mulder removed a metal box with a 
combination lock.  He worked the numbers, long fingers quivering.  
He removed a neatly packaged syringe, and a small amber bottle.

He turned at last to Scully, who had not moved her position, 
though her eyes had trailed his activities.  She was utterly 
still, save for her shaky breath.  Mulder knelt beside her and 
her scent filled his nostrils.  It was the closest they had been 
since the moment he walked away, and his body was pulling toward 
hers like a butterfly to an open window.  Her breath was a rush 
of surf in his ears.  He kept his eyes down for a long moment as 
he meticulously measured and filled the syringe.  Then he set the 
bottle aside and made eye contact with the best friend he had 
ever known.

Scully's endless blue eyes were looking to his, asking 
reassurance, needing...*him*.  Mulder reached up and drew a 
single finger down the hollow of her cheek.  "You want this?" he 
whispered.

She nodded.  "Yes."  The word was barely a breath.

He cradled his hand to the side of her throat.  "Okay.  It'll be 
okay."

She cringed and broke their gaze.

He knew what hurt.  "Christopher will be okay."

She only drew a long quivering breath.

He swallowed hard.  "Now, I need you to know that this can really 
hurt going in."

"I know.  I read the files."

"I know you did.  And for some people it's not too bad.  But for 
others...it's a little rough.  But the pain does not signify 
anything wrong, okay?  It's not doing any damage.  Okay?  You got 
it?"

She nodded stiffly.  "I know.  Okay."

Mulder kept his hand on her throat a beat too long.  Then he 
pulled away and returned his attention to the syringe.  Cradling 
her upper arm in the warmth of his hand, he squeezed the supple 
flesh to form a solid surface for the injection.  Scully held 
still, too accustomed to needles in her life.

He moved slowly, his stomach tensing against the final moment of 
truth.  Mulder slipped the cool steel along her lightly freckled 
skin and at last broke the surface, catching the vein perfectly, 
still surprised that somewhere in this blurry two years he had 
gained some formidable medical skills.  That was supposed to be 
Scully's forte.

He pressed the pump of the syringe steadily but firmly, having 
learned early that if he didn't finish the contents before the 
pain hit, it was sometimes impossible to keep the patient still 
for the remaining drops.

He saw it hit Scully with a blush of color across her collarbone.  
She sucked in a hard breath.  "*Oh, God....Aaahhhhh....*"  He had 
the needle out in a breath and tossed it onto the table to free 
his hands.  *Dammit.*  This was going to hurt her like hell.

Scully cried out again and held onto his forearm and dug her 
nails into his skin.  Mulder was on his feet above her, hugging 
her from behind, arm across her stomach, offering her all the 
strength he had to give.

"Scully, it's okay--"

"*Aaaaaaaahhhhh!  Oh, Jesus....*"  Scully could barely breathe, 
head down as she pulled at his arm, clawing at his skin.  He 
hadn't seen her in this kind of pain since one blood soaked and 
half-imagined Christmas Eve.  He could barely hold her still as 
she reached up and pulled at the shoulder of his T-Shirt.  
"Mulder...."

"It's all right.  Hang on."

She caught her breath on a half sob, the tendons of her throat 
hard as rock.  He held on for dear life.

"It's okay.  I'm so sorry.  It'll be gone in a minute.  I 
promise.  I've seen it done a dozen times..."

But she was barely hearing him.  Her voice was pure 
vulnerability.  "Oh, God, it hurts."  She hunched over and he 
leaned down and kept his chest tight to her back.

His heart was pounding in his ears.  "Hang in here.  It's almost 
over, Scully.  It's almost over."

She cried out in deepest pain.  He held on as his eyes burned 
with tears.  They tried to breathe.

It felt like forever before he sensed her relaxing a bit.  Just a 
whisper.  Just enough that she could straighten her back, sit 
further upright.  As the waves of pain rippled and ebbed, her 
stomach muscles still quivering beneath his arm, her grip on his 
muscles slackened, and her anguished cries fell quiet.

Mulder dared to loosen his grasp.  He lifted a hand to stroke the 
back of her neck.  Scully kept her eyes closed and didn't 
respond.

"It's all right," he whispered.  And she gave a faint sound of 
acknowledgement.

They sat together for time without count.

In the encroaching stillness and the silencing of the pain, 
Mulder grew achingly aware that Scully's blouse had slipped from 
her other shoulder in the struggle, that her breasts were resting 
snugly against the tensed muscle of his forearm, that her bare 
back was only a thin tee-shirt from his chest. She was panting 
for breath and he could feel her pulse on his skin.

"Are you okay?" he breathed in her ear.

She nodded, swallowed hard.  "Yeah."  Her voice was weak.

He continued to stroke her neck, leaned down and kissed just 
below her hair.

"I'm so sorry.  It's not that bad for everyone.  Only some."

She swallowed again.  "Lucky me."

He almost smiled.

Mulder lowered his weight to the coffee table behind her, arm 
still locked around her midriff.  He rested his head on the back 
of her hair.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"No," she said, voice suddenly stronger, though she did not move.  
"I want this...*thing*...out of my body.  And I don't want to 
die."

*Scully...*  Mulder wrapped both arms around her and held on 
hard.  "Then we're gonna do it."

"I hate you for leaving me," she whispered.

"I know."

"Mulder?"  There were tears in her voice.

"Yeah?"

She took several breaths to find her voice.  "You did this for 
me.  You gave up...everything.  For me."  She breathed again.  
Then, "Thank you."

His heart was in his throat.  "Scully.  I would do anything for 
you.  And if you don't know that by now...you're a lot stupider 
than you come across."

He felt her smile.  He felt her cry.

Their skin was touching.  And Scully was starting to feel it to.  
The nature of her touch had shifted, the way she moved against 
him, her carriage.

Mulder kissed the skin between her throat and her shoulder.  
Scully leaned her head away to sink into his ministrations, hair 
falling across his chest, and he had never been so hard in his 
life.  Dana Scully was pressed up against him, looking in the 
soft light like an erotic impressionist painting of the timeless 
red-head by firelight.

He reached up and smoothed his hand down the side of her neck, 
over her shoulder, the length of her arm.  Scully twined her 
fingers through his as he met with her hand.  Then she let him go 
and traced her own fingers up his forearm.

She turned like a dancer in his arms and before he knew it her 
lips were on his and he was kissing her like it was the first 
time.  And she was kissing him like she wanted to draw him inside 
her and never let go.  She was all soft cloth and silky white 
skin and petals of perfume in his arms.  He loved her longer hair 
and the way it was always brushing his skin like feather kisses.  
It had always been so hard for him not to touch her hair...he 
could scarcely believe he had free license at last.

Scully hooked one leg over his to keep her on the narrow table.  
His hand was on the small of her back, skin on skin, exploring 
the precise notches of her spine.  The tattoo was still there.  
He had caught glimpse of it when her blouse first fell.  He 
wondered what she thought of it now.  What it meant to her after 
all these years.  What Daniel had thought of the snake on his 
wife's back.  If Daniel had ever known the woman who had walked 
into a seedy tattoo parlor in Philadelphia.  If Mulder himself 
ever had.  He knew he wanted to know.

Scully's tongue was in his mouth.  Her cheeks were flushed from 
the adrenaline and the pain and the tears and the heat between 
them.  He saw her on a thousand cold nights, hands in her trench 
coat pockets, cheeks wind-burned and flushed from running, and 
soft, moist lips beneath misty breaths.  Three feet between them 
then.  Nothing but electricity between them now.

Mulder wrapped his arms tight across her back and kissed her with 
all he had.  She responded with every muscle in her body, 
sensitive to each offering and gesture.  Her body was as in tune 
with his touch as her instinct had ever been with his maneuvers 
in the field.

Christopher sighed softly and shifted in his carrier.  Scully 
listened for a moment, and when he was silent, she pressed her 
mouth tight to Mulder's again, and he was lost in her touch.

"Mulder," she breathed on a hoarse thread of air.  Her eyes were 
on his mouth and he wanted her with a gut-wrenching ache.  
"Please be with me."

Mulder leaned forward and kissed her eyebrow with as much feeling 
as he had ever given her lips, and he could smell the hallway of 
his old apartment and feel her lips against the bandage on his 
forehead.  A lifetime ago.  "I want you more than I have ever 
wanted anyone in my life."

Mulder pressed to his feet and lifted Scully with him, her 
graceful arms around his neck and legs hugging his hips.  She 
kissed him again.

He spoke against her mouth.  "And the true beauty of this 
apartment, is that I haven't lived in it long enough to bury the 
bed."

Her laughter was the sweetest he had heard since the day he left.


*****

End Chapter 25a (Continued in 25b...)
Happy Happy Joy Joy....Feedback - bstrbabs@gmail.com

-----------

AUTHOR'S NOTE: NC-17 stuff ahead in this installment.  No kids.  
No kidding.

 

"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)


Chapter 25b



"Take my hand, I'll show you how I got here
You're everything..... Beautiful."
                        --Josh Zandman, "Beautiful"



Scully was timelessly beautiful in an evening gown.  Scully was 
everything a woman should be in a Liz Claiborne suit and high 
heels.  Scully was husky-voiced and lovely and sexy in jeans and 
hiking boots.  But Scully's bare skin...

Her blouse had gotten lost along the way, and she sat on his 
rental bed in her low-rise slacks and black lace bra with her 
mouth devouring his.  Her fingers were in his hair and he 
relished the sensations along his scalp.  She had touched his 
hair once in a cold parking garage when his foundation was 
slipping from beneath him, and she had left her print for all the 
years to come.

Scully was quiet by nature (until you got her on the right 
subject).  She was always more likely to listen than to speak.  
Her dead-on one liners would floor a room that thought she wasn't 
paying attention.  Scully was always paying attention.

He had learned very quickly that in the realm of physical 
contact, Scully sank into her nature as a creature of motion and 
touch and silent communication.  He had learned her body language 
so long ago...it was far easier to slip across these lines than 
he had expected.

Mulder knelt in front of Scully, tucked between her thighs.  As 
he broke from her kiss for breath--*just the conscious thought 
that Scully was kissing him was straining the denim of his 
jeans*--he smoothed his open hand down the side of Scully's 
throat, down the free skin of her chest, through the valley of 
her breasts and across her bare stomach.  He felt the gooseflesh 
spread beneath his hand.  She wanted his touch.  Scully let her 
head fall to the side, hair over her eye, lids half closed as she 
sank into his caress.

"I've wanted to take care of you for so long, Scully," he 
whispered.  "And you are so strong.  You don't need anyone.  You 
never...wanted me to help you."

She listened in silence.  Didn't agree.  Didn't contradict.

"And when I tried...I probably wasn't much help, anyway.  But, 
everything I did the last two years, Scully.  That was me--taking 
care of you, the only way I knew how."

Scully swallowed hard, twined her fingers around his forearm.

"I know you feel I betrayed you.  But if I saw a chance to 
protect you, to give you your security back, and I didn't take 
it.  I thought that...would be betraying your trust, as well.  
And I couldn't live with that, just to be selfish and stay by 
your side another day."

"It wasn't just for you."

He nodded.  "I know.  But know this."  He cupped his hand beneath 
her ear and stared hard into her pale blue eyes.  She didn't look 
away.  And he felt like he was home.  She had always been the one 
who listened.  "I didn't leave you, Scully.  I was always coming 
back.  Always.  I came back for you.  Here.  Now.  And now 
this...*this* part--" he drew the backs of his fingers ever so 
tenderly down her cheek, "--of taking care of you.  This part...I 
think I can get right.  If you'll let me."

In answer, Scully caught his hand and cupped it to her breast as 
she kissed the corner of his eye.

He was powerless against the feel of her skin.  Scully.  The soft 
touch that appeared at his bedside when he woke in the hospital, 
the gentle perfume in the car beside him after a gruesome crime 
scene.  The warmth that would surround him when his life was 
slipping apart.  Finally here, in his arms.  Opening to him.  
Easing him out of his t-shirt.

But this wasn't all about him.  It couldn't be.

He edged away from their gentle exploratory kisses, tossed his 
shirt free from his wrist.  "Scully, look at me."

She lifted her gaze, so intensely with him.

"Is this okay?  Are you sure?  I mean...this can't be easy for 
you right now.  You lost your husband."

Scully nodded, brows drawing into the lines of concern he knew 
too well.  "I did," she said clearly.  Then she reached up and 
touched her slender fingers to the light stubble on his cheek.  
"But, I lost you, too."

He closed his eyes.  The depth of emotion in her voice was like a 
warm hand in a cold night.
 
Scully leaned away.  She reached to the back of her neck.  
Carefully, hair over her eyes, sheltering her expression, Scully 
unfastened the clasp to her gold cross.  Mulder watched in 
fascination as she spread the delicate chain across her fingers.  
Then she slipped her wedding rings from her finger and dropped 
them onto the chain.  As she lifted the necklace to re-fasten it 
at her throat, he caught her hands, taking the clasp from her.  
"Don't take it off until you're ready.  I don't need you to.  
It's all right."

Scully nudged his arms, prompting him to fasten the lock.  When 
he was finished, he drew his hands down the length of her arms, 
carefully avoiding the site of the injection, and sat back to 
listen, because he could feel something she needed to say.  The 
soft bedside lamp made her skin glow like silk.

As always, Scully took her time with her words.  "Mulder...I 
loved my husband--I *love* my husband--very, very much.  But 
there's something you need to know.  Ever since I was a little 
girl..."  Scully paused for a breath, and he realized she was 
struggling not to cry.  She was giving him something intimate.  
Something deep.  A gift.  "...there has been this place inside 
me...a place that no one understood or expected.  And most of the 
time, it didn't fit with the vision of me held by the people who 
loved me, despite the fact that to me, this part was the ultimate 
essence of who I am.  My family, my friends, parents, grand-
parents, teachers...  So, I stopped letting that part show.  As 
much as I could without losing myself.  I played the parts that 
were expected of me, because despite what you may think, Fox 
Mulder...I need people to like me."  He returned her faint smile, 
but his eyes still held to the seriousness of her words.  Her 
voice was just above a whisper.  "And when I started to feel 
trapped and asserted who I really was...things like changing 
colleges, leaving medicine for the FBI...I risked the support of 
those I loved.  And they waited for it to pass and for me to 
return to 'myself'.  Or who they thought I was."

She paused again, drawing several deliberate breaths, gaze never 
rising from her hands.  He kept his hands gently stroking her 
arms, her thighs.  "Daniel...never felt it," she said, her voice 
trembling.  "But from the first day I met you, Mulder, you looked 
at me...and you saw...*me*.  And all the things that everyone 
else had feared or disliked or ignored in me, were the things you 
were drawn to.  The things that you applauded and the 
things...you came to love."  She sniffed softly, face tensing as 
her tears pressed forward.  It was so hard not to kiss her.  She 
caught a wet breath.  "You are the only one who has ever...  
You're the only one."

Mulder pushed forward and wrapped his arms around her.  He hugged 
her to him, holding her close, skin against skin, and he felt 
Scully's tension ease within his embrace.  Her breath was hot on 
his shoulder.

"Scully.  I need you," he breathed into her hair, not even 
hearing the words in his head before he spoke.

She pulled him down onto the bed and drowned him in her taste.


*****


She needed his weight on top of her, needed the solid assurance 
of his flesh.  The rock-hard bulge in his jeans was pressed 
between her legs, and the contact, even through so many layers of 
clothing, sent waves of sensation through her core.  She couldn't 
quite wrap her mind around the fact that Mulder was here on a bed 
with her and they were far along the trail to making love.  Her 
senses were wandering along the blurry line between her reality 
and her dreams.  She had been here a thousand nights in her mind.

She only knew she didn't want it to stop.

She felt more alive than she had in too long to remember.  Just 
being in Mulder's aura awakened the woman she had once grown 
into, the place she had found for herself in the life that had 
slipped from her grasp two long years ago.  She wanted to go 
home.  She needed to go home. Mulder's eyes on her as she crawled 
further onto the bed, his chest against her back as he kissed her 
shoulder blades, ran his tongue the length of her spine, washed 
away the time, and brought to life the remembered Dana Scully.  
She felt fragile in Mulder's arms.  She felt protected.  She felt 
safe.  She felt strong.  She felt home.

She rolled beneath him, pressing her back to the unfamiliar 
comforter and gazing into Mulder's hazel eyes.  The nearness of 
his mouth, the deep tone of his breath sent a rush of warmth 
between her legs.  So many years of trying not to feel the pull, 
trying to stand near Mulder and never let on that his body made 
her knees weak.  And he was looking back at her.  *At* her as he 
never had in the early days.  The days when he had loved her, but 
the pull of the quest had always been stronger.  The need for the 
truth had blinded him to all else.  She had thought she knew what 
she meant to him below the surface the day he traded her life for 
the woman he thought was Samantha.  But she had lost her faith in 
that belief when he had left her as an afterthought on the brink 
of the end of the world.  And then somewhere along the way it had 
all shifted again and now, for the first time in a decade, she 
had his undivided attention.  The sensation was so achingly sweet 
she nearly cried.

Mulder was ever so gently coaxing the cup of her bra back from 
her breast.  He was still so careful.  Almost shy.  Scully arched 
her back, letting him feel her consent, the edges of her need.  
She couldn't keep her hands off the power of his shoulders.  
Those arms had carried her through the artic snow to safety, held 
steadfast against her tears, weathered her bullet.  She tenderly 
fingered his scar and Mulder smiled.

He lowered his mouth to her breast for a first tentative kiss.  
She felt his hands probing, recognizing the added firmness of the 
milk gathering for Christopher's midnight feeding.  His tongue 
lapped gently at her hardened nipple and Scully shifted to press 
her thigh up between Mulder's legs.  She felt him catch his 
breath at the contact.  She kissed his shoulder, nipped at the 
bone with her teeth. 

Mulder unhooked the front clasp of her bra and pushed the straps 
over her shoulders and the freedom made her want every inch of 
her skin against his.  She helped free the bra, then reached out 
to claw at Mulder's belt.  "I need to see you," she breathed, and 
his deep-throated sigh was like a caress.  In a moment, his 
clothes were gone and he was pulling the blankets over both of 
them for warmth.  Scully ran her hand up the top of his thigh and 
drew her fingers ever so lightly over the baby soft skin encasing 
his erection.  She was fascinated by the contrast of hard against 
soft, and she wanted to pull him deep inside her.  But she 
quelled the urge.  She couldn't rush.  She wanted this to last.  
She wanted time to stop.

Scully's hands smoothed over Mulder's back, pulling him close and 
drinking from his skin.  The ripples of his muscles as he held 
himself above her pulsed waves of pleasure beneath her skin.  He 
had stayed in shape these past two years, he had lost nothing of 
the quietly powerful physique she adored.  Mulder's fingers were 
deftly working the hook and zipper of her slacks.  He had them 
open to expose her panty line and as his fingers brushed the base 
of her abdomen, her lower parts pulsed with sensation, as though 
she could pull his touch down those few more inches with the 
sheer rush of blood...  But she was keeping Mulder too busy with 
her tongue, tasting every inch of the softness of his mouth.  She 
closed her eyes and wanted nothing but to feel the man she loved.  
To lose herself in the pure sensation.

His fingers scratched lightly across her clit through her slacks.

"Oh, Christ--"  She broke away from his kiss and gasped for 
breath against the sudden thrill.

Mulder's lovely mouth spread into a kind smile.  "Interested, 
Scully?" he said softly.

She answered only with her rapid breath and half-closed lids.

She pushed up from the mattress and lightly shoved Mulder onto 
his back, arching above him.  "My turn first," she said, voice 
low and throaty and Mulder closed his eyes in an expression of 
pleasure that made her feel powerful.

Tucking herself between Mulder's long runner's legs, Scully sat 
back on her heels and lifted the covers over her back.  She 
stretched out and rested her cheek against Mulder's stomach and 
for a moment she fell quiet, just relishing the intimacy of the 
moment, the soft feel of his body hair against her cheek, the 
heat of his genitals against her chest, and Mulder's hands moved 
to stroke her hair and he seemed to feel the gentleness along 
with her.

She pushed up with her arms and swung her hair, caressing his 
skin, as she leaned down for a first lick.

Mulder's hoarse pull of air hit her like a drug.  She had heard 
him through the thin motel walls once or twice.  Couldn't spend 
that many years together and never hear anything forbidden.  She 
knew his videos occasionally traveled with them.  But the idea 
that she herself could pull that sound from Mulder's lips was 
utterly intoxicating.

Size was going to be a factor for her less than cooperative 
throat.  But she could work around that.  Nothing about her and 
Mulder had fit at first.  Everything fit in the end.  She worked 
her tongue over the outside of his shaft, licking at him like a 
favorite dessert, pulling and drawing out his delicate skin to 
both their ultimate pleasures.  Then she cautiously took the 
plunge, taking him into her mouth as deep as she could.  It was 
enough for both of them.  She cupped her hand to his balls and 
gently massaged as she sucked and Mulder's hip muscles contracted 
beneath her as he struggled to weather the combined sensations.

She got lost in the rhythm.  She relished his taste.  He stopped 
her before her mouth was willing to let go.  "Want to last," he 
breathed shakily.  "Want to be...inside you."

She smiled, and swallowed, relaxing her jaw as she withdrew.  She 
treasured the soft gasp as he left the warmth of her mouth.  She 
kissed his hip bone, ran her tongue along the crease of his 
thigh.  As she crawled, cat-like, up the bed, Mulder couldn't 
keep his hands off her skin.  His fingers caught at her slacks, 
and she help him push the garments away.

Moments later, she lay beneath him, nothing to separate them at 
last, blankets sheltering them from the cool night air.

"I want you inside me," she breathed, muscles aching with the 
need for his touch.

Mulder closed his eyes.  And she knew he was feeling all the 
years.  All the years they had waited to know those words.

"Do we need protection?" he asked softly.

She shook her head.  "Not if you're clean.  I'm okay.  There's no 
chance I can...I mean, in a year and a half of..." she faded out, 
her meaning clear.

Mulder just stroked her cheek.  She leaned into his palm.  "I'm 
clean," he whispered.  "But I have something if you want.  It's 
okay.  Whatever you want."

But she shook her head again.  "No," she said simply.  "I trust 
you."

And apparently that was all he needed to hear.  Maybe all he had 
ever needed to hear.

In a flash Mulder was down the bed and between her legs.  And the 
first hit of his thick tongue caught her completely off guard and 
nearly sent her arousal off the charts.

"Oh, God, Mulder..."

Sweet rushes of sensation.  Everything she had been aching for, 
pulling for, drowning her in a sea of warmth and wetness and 
dizzying pleasure.

He drew his tongue along the length of her folds, pulling the 
moisture from her open core to her clit and circling his tongue 
over her pulsing flesh.  In mere seconds this was going to be too 
much to take.  She hadn't realized how deeply she needed this.  
Every part of her was prickling with life and desire.

*Mulder...*

He was still working her flesh with his gifted tongue, and Scully 
was snatching at the headboard for support, failing to find a 
good grip and finally digging her fingers in above the mattress 
and hooking beneath the base of headboard.  She would pay him the 
cost if she loosened the joints.

She could feel the muscles inside start to gather and pull.

"Oh, God, stop.  No, Mulder...stop.  I need...I need you...*in* 
me.  Now."

She felt his shadow move above her before she opened her eyes.  
The warmth of his thighs on hers as he stretched out beside her, 
half on top of her, pulled a sigh of pleasure from her lips.  
Mulder was breathing hard, tempering his own racing arousal.

"Scully.  I want you.  All of you."

Scully was beyond speech.  She shifted beneath him as they moved 
in concert.  She lifted one knee, and angled her hips as Mulder 
placed his weight between her legs.  She reached down and caught 
his hot length in her hand, gently guiding, encouraging.

And a moment later, he was in.  Careful, stopping halfway, his 
eyes speaking so clearly that he was afraid to hurt her, but he 
was in, and there were tears in her eyes because this was Mulder.  
This was Mulder against her, around her and inside her and 
holding her.  She tensed her inner muscles to hold on tight, and 
Mulder gave a soft moan of pleasure that tickled her skin.

"Stay with me," she breathed into his ear.

And Mulder wrapped his arm around her head, buried his face in 
her hair.  "I'm here, Scully.  Always.  Always."

They moved together.  And soon all she knew was the heat of their 
bodies and the desperate need in her and the smell of Mulder's 
cologne and sweat and the incredible power in his hips.  She 
matched him thrust for thrust.  She heard the hoarse cry from his 
lips that signaled the approach of his climax, and if she hadn't 
been on the brink before, that single sound was enough to push 
her.  Mulder shoved his strong arm beneath her back and held her 
tight against him as he drove into her hips and she pushed back 
against the weakening headboard.

*Mulder.  My gentle, beautiful, Spooky Mulder.*

When his muscles contracted inside her and he cried out in her 
ear, she was lost.  Scully dug her nails into Mulder's back on a 
throaty cry she hardly heard.  The pleasure was blinding.  She 
squeezed her eyes closed and gave herself over to pure feeling 
and the grounding weight of Mulder's body above her and his arm 
below.  She gasped for breath and pressed her cheek to the damp 
skin of Mulder's shoulder as the climaxes rocked them both.

She could barely breathe.

And everything was okay.  She could smell Mulder.  He was alive.  
And in her arms.  And inside her.  And Christopher was sleeping 
safely in the next room.  And she was home.

His lips set a gentle kiss on her ear as his breath prickled 
gooseflesh down her neck.

"I'm here, Scully," he whispered.  And she locked her arms across 
his back, hooked her leg behind his knee, and wouldn't let go.


*****

End of Chapter 25b.  (Continued in Chapter 26a...)
Feedback is just so cool... - bstrbabs@gmail.com

------------


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)


Chapter 26a:


"I had to find you 
Tell you I need you 
Tell you I set you apart 
 
Tell me your secrets 
And ask me your questions 
Oh let's go back to the start
 
I was just guessing 
At numbers and figures 
Pulling your puzzles apart
Questions of science 
Science and progress 
Do not speak as loud as my heart 

Tell me you love me"
                       ---"The Scientist" by Coldplay



**I watched you from a distance a thousand times.  But I remember 
most vividly the winter I was losing you.  Moment by moment, 
breath by breath, you were slipping away.  I knew there was a 
nameless monster creeping in from the edges of our world and 
waiting to steal you from me and into its darkness, waiting to 
steal your light and life.  And for all my endless hours and work 
and devotion to being the slayer of monsters--I had nothing I 
could offer.  I had no rope for you to hold onto, no magic potion 
to vanquish the evil.  And I couldn't reach you.  You wouldn't 
let me into that place inside that feared the fall.  I would 
watch you--with your flaming red hair and dark trench coat on the 
streets of a grey winter twilight--and you would catch my eye and 
give me a gentle, sad smile; try to make me believe everything 
was okay.  But I would continue to watch, and you would forget I 
was watching.  And you would continue to work in the bitter wind, 
and I would see the wear around your eyes and the distance in 
your gaze.  And I would feel the wind pulling you away.  And my 
fingers couldn't hold on.  I was afraid to blink in case you 
vanished.  I don't know what would have been left if I had lost 
you.

And then I went on to make you think I was gone.

I was too weak to be the one to stay behind.  If you had done 
what I did to you...I might not have survived the loss.

I'm sorry for every moment you hurt, Scully.

But I had to try to slay the monster.  It's all I can do.**



She was half asleep in his arms.  She was exhausted, he could 
feel it in her slackened limbs, see it in slight tension around 
her eyes and the downturn of her mouth.  He knew nothing if not 
the pulses of Scully's days, the cycles of her body.  They hadn't 
needed to take the last step as lovers to entwine their physical 
lives.  They had come to that long ago.

He also knew she had been pulling her right shoulder to loosen it 
more often than before he had left.  She had done something to 
injure it, perhaps.  He would have to ask.  There was time for 
that, now.

Scully shifted sleepily in his arms.  A gentle rain had begun 
outside, and played on the roof of his top floor apartment.  He 
hoped there weren't any leaks.  He hoped he wouldn't live here 
long.

He hoped Scully felt safe.

His eyes traced the scars on her arm.  He shouldn't appear with 
her at the hearing.  He might kill James Maley.

"What have you been studying?" Scully asked, beautiful back 
against his chest, hair in his mouth.

He couldn't stop a snorted chuckle.  Only Scully's first coherent 
words in the afterglow would ring vaguely academic.  He pushed up 
on his elbow to see her more clearly.  "What have I been 
*studying*?"

He heard her soft smile, but she was insistent.  "Yes, Mulder.  I 
mean, you've had two years of excesses of free time.  You must 
have read your way through a library of congress worth of 
paranormal theory by now.  So what's your present interest?"

He was quiet a moment, listening to the rain and listening to her 
breath.  He was blindingly aware of her bare skin.  She turned 
slightly his way, eyebrow raised.  At last, he said, "Ghosts.  
Specifically animal spirits."

"Animal spirits.  Like Indian mythology?  Spirit guides?"

"Well, related to that, yes, but more like people's pets.  The 
human-animal bond.  Return visitations from pets, often with the 
apparent intent to help or protect their former owners."

Scully was quiet.

Mulder smoothed a gentle hand down the side of her face, across 
her hair.  "You want to hear this?" he asked, unable to keep the 
childlike wonder from his voice, the innocent need.

Scully closed her eyes.  "I missed you," she breathed.  And he 
wouldn't have thought he had the energy left for the erotic 
thrill her whispered words rushed through him.

Mulder shook his head.  "I can't get used to this."

"Used to what?"

"Being allowed to touch you."

Scully rolled onto her back, still tight against him, and gazed 
up into his eyes, unblinking and unnervingly serious.  His 
Scully.  "You've been allowed for a long time, Mulder.  You just 
didn't see it."

His stomach clenched.  "We weren't ready."

She swallowed hard.  "Maybe not.  Although sometimes it felt that 
way.  A lot of things happened and didn't happen between us for a 
lot of different reasons.  Internal and external."

"But it was always you and me, Scully.  Always."

She nodded softly.  She was quiet a moment, processing things in 
her own time as she always did.  The amber light from the bedside 
lamp dusted her hair with gold dust.  "Do I surprise you?" she 
asked at last.

"Only when I come in contact with you.  But how do mean that this 
time?"

And now he caught the heavily suppressed hint of a flirtatious 
smile in the set of her eyes, the slight parting of her lips.  
"Not everyone who knows me, expects...this side of me."

He lifted an eyebrow, smirking now as he watched her wait for her 
meaning to soak in, watched her try to hold her cool.  "This 
side," he repeated.  "Meaning...you're asking me if I'm surprised 
that you're good in bed?"

Her eyes slipped away, as she drew a breath, half-shy, but she 
was still on the edge of a smile.  "Not exactly that I'm *good*--
but, thank you--as much as...that I have a very...strong sexual 
side."

And suddenly he was very serious, and as sincere as he had ever 
been in his life.  "People miss that?"

Her smile vanished.  Because there was something here that meant 
a great deal to her.  He couldn't quite define it.  But he could 
give her all he had to offer.

"Scully...I *always* saw that.  In the way you move all day, the 
way you think, the way you carry yourself, the way you touched 
me...  It never crossed my mind that you would be otherwise.  If 
it had, it would have been a whole lot easier to work beside you 
all those years."

She half-smiled at that.  But his words were soothing something 
inside of her, he could see it.  And that made *him* feel safe.  
Family was something he had denied.  Family was something Scully 
had never let him lose.

"What was it like?" he asked abruptly.

"Sex?"

He laughed out loud.  "Well, I'm hoping I already have a pretty 
clear idea where you stand on that.  No, actually, I meant--
working with a different partner?"

Scully drew a slow breath through her nose, and for the first 
time, he felt the path of that breath down the length of her body 
as her ribs and stomach and thighs pressed against his skin.  
"Weird, actually," she said.  "I mean...Michaels is a great agent 
and I think we made a good team, but...  You just never realize 
how many little things you've worked out over the years that are 
suddenly all new and you have to start again.  Just all our 
little systems when you and I were on the road...the water we 
always kept in the car, or the way we traded who filled the gas 
and who bought the coffee and sunflower seeds at gas stations and 
never had to say a word, or the way we both knew when we'd had 
too much greasy food in small town diners and started looking for 
Subways along the highway and skipping the burger joints, or the 
place we always met at the airport without arranging it.  Or that 
extra pair of my shoes that somehow found a permanent home in 
your trunk."

He grinned down at her.  "And let's not forget that Pink Floyd CD 
that found its way into your briefcase."

"I remember nothing of the kind."

"Is it still there?"

"It was never there.  I recall one time, rescuing it from a 
rental car where you had carelessly left it behind, and if it 
stayed in my briefcase for any length of time, it was simply for 
lack of opportunity to return it to you."

He nodded in mock agreement.  "Uh-huh.  Understandable, as we saw 
each other so rarely."

She glared at him.

Then after a long moment, her expression softened into something 
deeper and she reached up and drew the backs of her fingers down 
his five o'clock shadow.  "We're here, Mulder," she breathed.  
"We're doing this."  She pulled in a shallow breath across wet 
lips and it took all he had not to kiss her.  He could still 
taste her on his own breath.

He gripped her hand, hard.  "Yeah, we are.   Are you scared?"

"Of what?"

"Of...losing what we have.  Romance, lust, it can all...be so 
fleeting.  We both know that.  I mean, no one wants to think 
about it in the moment, in bed, certainly, but we're not 16 
anymore, we know that the wild lust part doesn't last a 
lifetime."

She nodded.  "So, you're asking if I'm afraid of what we'll be, 
at the end of the infatuation phase.  Me, the single mom.  You, 
the rogue agent."

"Yeah, I think so...basically.  I mean, that's the cliche, isn't 
it?  Friends who are tempted to become lovers but are afraid to 
lose what they already have if things don't...work..."

Scully shifted again, pulling away a bit, but not withdrawing, 
merely giving her words more force.  She propped up on one elbow, 
hand on her temple, and for a moment he saw the young woman in 
the white robe who had rushed into his motel room one stormy 
night in Oregon.  Except this time, she was covered only by a 
sheet tucked tactfully beneath her arms.  She was so open to him 
right now.  So soft.  He was afraid to blink, certain it wouldn't 
last.  He couldn't believe how precious every moment with her 
felt.  "I don't think we'll fail," she said simply.  "And if we 
do...it will have been worth the risks.  I'm too old to put my 
life on hold any longer.  This is what I want.  *You* are what I 
want.  And I won't be afraid to try for that.  But as far as the 
lust factor...the fire burning down after a year, two, 
three...and I know that's life, though I can't imagine it now, 
with you..." her gaze dipped deliberately as her lips entertained 
a brief, seductive smile that made his pulse quicken.  But she 
was quick to return to the heavier subject.  "What would I be 
afraid of, Mulder?  If the fire fades, worst case scenario, I'm 
left with the best friend I've ever had."-- *I didn't know, 
Scully.  I didn't know I was your best friend, too.  I only knew 
I was the only one there.*--"Only now...I get the intimacy.  I 
get to sleep beside you.  I get to hold you, when no one has died 
or caught fire.  Be held."  She paused, and he lowered himself 
down to the pillow, entranced by her sleep-hoarse voice.  She 
took his hand and pulled it against the sheet between her 
breasts.  "I get to feel safe with you," she whispered.

He closed his eyes, reached out blind to touch the skin of her 
throat.

Then he opened his eyes and met her cool gaze with all the 
strength he could find.  "Scully.  Are you scared?"

She held his gaze for what felt like forever.  And he watched as 
her throat tightened and her beautiful steel-blue eyes sparkled 
with tears.  "Yeah," she whispered.  "I'm scared."

He twined his fingers through hers, never breaking the thread of 
their gaze.  "Of what?"

"I'm afraid...to believe.  I'm afraid to believe you're really 
here.  That you won't disappear again."

They were moving instinctively closer.  As they always had when 
one of them needed shelter.  At a crime scene or alone in a 
crowded restaurant, closing their cocoon.  Just the two of them, 
safe within each other's range of breath.  The rain tickled the 
rooftop.

Mulder leaned his forehead against Scully's and she closed her 
eyes, a single tear slipping down her freckled cheek.  "I'm 
here," he whispered again.

They held still for a long moment, breathing together.  Then in a 
rush of air and motion and rain on the rooftop, Scully pushed 
forward and wrapped herself hard around him, clinging to his 
shoulder, pressing his body to hers, and he could feel the 
ripples of tension beneath her skin.  He folded her into his 
arms, cradling the back of her neck, drowning in her hair as the 
water streaked the windows.  "Hey, G-woman," he whispered into 
her neck.  He kissed the warm hollow of her collar bone, held on 
tight, but her grip did not slacken.  "It's okay," he whispered.  
"It's okay."

He wouldn't let go.  This part he could get right.  Because for 
the first time since his sister vanished, he felt like someone he 
loved needed him as much as he needed her.

He held her until they slept, and didn't let go in his dreams.


*****


Scully pulled out of a disorientingly deep slumber, mother's 
instinct not allowing her to miss the cries of her child.  She 
lifted her head from Mulder's chest as he startled into 
consciousness.

"Christopher," she whispered, clearing her throat to restore her 
voice.

She started to push up from the bed, but Mulder staid her with a 
gentle hand.  "Let me get him," he said softly.

"No, I don't have any bottles with me, he needs--"

"Just let me get him," Mulder said, his voice gentle, kind.  
"I'll bring him to you."

Scully stopped for a deep breath, let the moment sink in.  Mulder 
wanted to cradle Christopher, wanted to comfort him, come for 
him, in the night.  And suddenly she wanted that same thing very 
deeply.  "Okay."

By the time Mulder returned, inconceivably warm in nothing but 
his boxers, she had switched on the dim bedside lamp and slipped 
into the luxurious burgundy robe she had found over the back of a 
chair.

Christopher, no longer crying, but mumbling softly, was nestled 
in Mulder's arms amid a mass of blankets.  The moment Christopher 
saw Scully seated on the bed, he squealed and reached out his 
chubby little arms.

This was the best part for her.  The moment when she would reach 
for her son's warm body, and he would be in her arms again.  
These were the moments she wouldn't trade for all the career 
successes in the world.  She nuzzled Christopher's nose, drinking 
in his sleep softened skin, and he squirmed and pulled at her 
robe.  "Are you starving?" she said gently and she settled 
Christopher into place as Mulder stood above and watched.

After a moment, Mulder lowered himself carefully to the edge of 
the bed, eyes still on Christopher at Scully's breast.

"He's yours," Mulder whispered.

Scully lifted her eyes with a smile, warmed by the sense of 
wonder in Mulder's gaze.  "Yeah.  He's my boy."

"Does it...I mean, it looks like it would hurt..."

She shook her head.  "Not anymore.  At first, yeah.  But we've 
got it worked it out now."  Her eyes fell back to her son's 
profile, his eyes closed, tiny hand pressed to her breast.

They sat together in the quiet night, listening to the rain and 
Christopher's soft breath.  Christopher started to doze and 
Scully slipped his mouth from her breast.  "No, you don't, Little 
Guy.  Both sides..."  She lifted him and settled him into 
position again on the other side, and Christopher's mouth found 
her breast without him ever opening his eyes.  She stroked his 
fine hair.  He was asleep in less than five minutes, his tongue 
holding on as long as possible until he finally fell away from 
her breast with a light pop and a gentle snort.  She pulled her 
robe closed.

"Utter contentment," Mulder whispered, watching Christopher's 
sleeping figure and the drip of milk on his dimpled chin.  Scully 
caught the drip with her finger, and started to lift it to her 
mouth, but Mulder caught her wrist.  Their eyes met like an arc 
of electricity jumping in the darkness, and without a word, 
Mulder guided Scully's finger to his own lips and licked her skin 
clean.

She swallowed hard.  "I want to stay," she whispered.

"Then stay."

"I can't."

His eyes narrowed, brow tensing.  "Why?"  He wouldn't let go of 
her hand.

"Tasha."

For a moment Mulder's eyebrows rose, she had caught him utterly 
off guard.  Then the facts made sense, and he fell into a 
beautiful Mulder-smile.  "Your dog?"

"She's all by herself.  I can't leave her all night.  Especially 
with the rain.  She doesn't like it."

Mulder squeezed her hand.  "Okay."

"Okay."

She transferred Christopher into Mulder's cautious arms and she 
cleaned up and slipped into her clothes.  She returned to the 
bedroom with Christopher's car seat and stooped down beside the 
bed.  She worked at untangling the mass of blankets around her 
son.  Separating a dark piece of cotton, she caught her breath 
and said, "Oh...yeah.  Mulder, this is, um...it's your Knicks 
shirt."

"It's what?"

"Your Knicks tee-shirt.  I thought--"

"You kept my shirt?" he asked, still wearing only his boxers, 
still holding Christopher and looking down at her in the dim 
light as she knelt in her blouse and slacks and black heels with 
her hair so much longer than it had once been.

"I kept your shirt."  She slipped her tongue over the corner of 
her mouth.  "I...slept with your shirt.  For a long time."  She 
forced a deep breath, tried not to waver beneath the intensity of 
Mulder's grey-green gaze.  "Anyway, I--I actually just meant to 
bring it back, I thought you might want--"

But Mulder shook his head.  He motioned her hands to silence.  
"No, don't.  I think it looks good right where it is."

Scully closed her eyes.  She let the cloth fall back across her 
son.  "Okay."

For a moment she couldn't bring herself to move.  The world was 
too perfect right now.  She didn't want the ground to shift 
again, didn't want anything to move, anything to shake the steady 
foundation.  But life was action; stillness was death.  She had 
learned that a long time ago.  Scully slipped her arms beneath 
Christopher and Mulder passed across his gentle weight.  She 
settled Christopher into his carrier and he murmured softly in 
his sleep.  She touched her lips to his forehead and let him 
smell her close; his breath smoothed.

As Scully stood, Mulder rose with her and grazed a careful hand 
over her upper arm, across the site of the injection.  "Does it 
hurt?" he asked, a deep weight buried beneath his level tone.

She nodded.  "A little.  It's fine."

"Are you okay?"

She smiled.  "I'm very okay."

And he smiled back.  Then he kissed her, and she slipped her 
hands behind his neck and pulled him close and her senses were 
instantly overwhelmed again and she was drowning in his scent, 
his taste, the sound of his breath and the feel of his whiskers 
and she desperately wanted to stay.  When they broke away, she 
said simply, "Sleep."  Because she knew he was thinking the same 
as she.  Knew he wanted to follow her home.

He nodded.  They lingered, eye to eye, hands unwilling to let go.  
Then, at last, Scully stooped to lift Christopher and turned 
toward the door.  Mulder drifted behind her as far as the 
doorway.  As Scully freed the lock of the front door, he spoke 
from behind her.  "Scully?"

She turned, eyebrow arched.  "Hmm?"

"Next time?  Bring your dog."

She was still smiling when she reached the street below.


*****

(End Chapter 26a.  Continued in Chapter 26b...)
Feedback soothes the soul -- bstrbabs@gmail.com

------------

A special nod to my husband for inspiration in the last part of the chapter...;)


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)


Chapter 26b:



"There is no one else that I could say this to
There is nothing better than to talk to you."
                --Play, "Us Against the World"




She was so lost in case facts, the rap on the door startled her 
back to reality like an alarm clock intruding on a dream.  Tasha 
jumped up from the hearth rug and barked.  Christopher was 
pulling on Scully's hair and Gannon was absorbed in the paperwork 
decorating her sofa.  A familiar voice rang through the door.  
"Hey, Scully, it's me!"  Tasha stopped barking and wagged her 
tail expectantly.

Scully sucked in a deep breath and reached out to gather 
Christopher and extract the two of them from the files, but 
Gannon waved her back.  "I got it," he said, lips twisting in a 
sideways grin.

She nodded and sat back.

Michaels opened the door, and Scully watched from a distance as 
her new life merged with her old one.

"Agent Mulder.  Good to see you again," Michaels said, shaking 
Mulder's hand as Mulder razzled Tasha's head.  Mulder's smile was 
warm.  He was dressed in his Saturday gear, jeans and a tee shirt 
and his leather jacket and hiking boots.  And her body sparked to 
life at the mere sight of his hips beneath the tight denim and 
flashes of his skin and scent and touch washed over her like 
water.  *She and Mulder had made love last night...*

Her skin went hot when his eyes found hers.  "Still hard at work 
on the Maley case?" Mulder asked Gannon, but his focus was 
already hard on her.

"Can't miss a beat on this one," Michaels said.  The deepness in 
his tone momentarily drew a glance from Mulder, and the quick 
exchange between the two men spoke louder than words.  Resentment 
prickled Scully at the notion of a gang of male protectors.  But 
on some level it felt good beneath her skin.  Like her brothers 
looking out for her again.

Mulder crossed to the back of the couch, gaze tight with hers, a 
gentle smile hovering between them.  "Hey," he said on a soft 
breath, and he drew the backs of his fingers ever so gently down 
her cheek.  The intimacy tightened her throat.  She felt so 
beautiful.  So warm.  He was letting her take the lead, letting 
her pick the boundaries between her personal and professional 
lives, but she could feel the bridled desire in him.  He wanted 
to kiss her.  Surround her.

She wanted the same.

She caught his hand.  "Hey," she whispered back.  And in the edge 
of her vision, she could see Gannon hanging back near the door, 
see him caught between tact and curiosity.  But she couldn't 
break eye contact with Mulder.  The moment felt too good.

It was Mulder who moved first, leaning down and scooping 
Christopher into his arms.  "Hey, Slugger!" he said with a smile, 
face close to her son's.  "What do you say we hang out, read the 
box scores, and let your Mom finish up a bit."

Scully trailed her fingers down Mulder's jacket as he walked away 
with her son and tried to pull herself back to professional mode.  
She turned to face Gannon, as he lowered himself back to his seat 
on the couch.  He glanced at his watch.  "Oh, hell, we've been at 
this half our lives, haven't we?"

She smiled wearily.  "Feels that way, doesn't it?"

"You had somewhere to go, didn't you, before--"

But she shook her head, cutting him off.  "No, that's fine.  I 
just...I was going to run an errand earlier, but...it can wait."  
She felt Mulder listening from the dining room, didn't turn.

Michaels glanced over her shoulder, but let it go.

"Well, I say we pack it in for the weekend."

As Scully and Michaels gathered the files into boxes, Mulder 
wrapped Christopher in an extra blanket and disappeared onto the 
balcony, Tasha on his heels, watching over her baby.

Scully walked Gannon to the door, stiff from her time on the 
couch and uncertain in her heels.  Gannon half-opened the door, 
and Scully folded her arms across her chest against the cool 
breeze from the hallway.  He turned to her, one hand on the 
doorknob and reached out and touched her necklace, fingering the 
cluster of rings and cross.  She tensed and he didn't speak, but 
the understanding was clear.  She lowered her gaze.

"How ya doin'?" he asked, keeping his tone casual, matching his 
jeans and cowboy boots; treading the line carefully.  And she 
couldn't help but warm to his sincerity.

"I'm fine," she said softly, almost surprised by the strength in 
her own voice.

To which Gannon actually winked and gave her a thumbs-up and she 
couldn't help but laugh.

"I'm off to meet my kids and my gal at the ice park!"

Scully leaned around the door and called after his retreating 
figure.  "Gannon?"

He turned.  "Yeah?"

She kept a hand on the door, held onto his questioning gaze for a 
beat.  Then, "Thanks."

He shrugged.  "For what?"

She let her eyes slip half closed.  "Friendship."

The fine lines around Gannon's eyes softened.  "You get what you 
put out," he said softly.  And his footsteps echoed in his wake 
as he vanished down the hall.


*****


Scully came up from behind without a word and swung around Mulder 
to catch his mouth with hers.  And for a moment all he could feel 
was the wind against her warmth and Christopher's small hand on 
his ear and Dana Scully Waterston's tongue in his mouth.  She 
wrapped her arms around him, Christopher sheltered between them, 
and pulled at his mouth like water in a desert.

Christopher squealed, and Scully caught his hand, stroked his 
face, without ever opening her eyes or breaking their kiss.  
Mulder was continually amazed by her ease with her son.  He had 
had no idea the extent of the mothering instincts within her.  
She had somehow blended the independent career driven woman he 
had known with a Soccer Mom without losing a sliver of her grace 
and elegance.  She was Scully.

At last she softened their kiss and broke away with a light 
caress of his lower lip.  He regretted the tight jeans.

Scully's smile was like a reflection of the sunlight; the only 
smile he had trusted for as long as he could remember.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hey, Scully.  What's up?"

She didn't speak.

"So...I can assume you don't hate yourself this morning?  Or me."

She lowered her gaze to his mouth, smile still lingering on her 
lips, and said in her throaty voice, "No."

"No, I shouldn't assume, or no..."

"Shut up, Mulder."

"Such language in front of delicate ears."  He cupped his hand to 
the side of Christopher's head.

She was beautiful today.  Fitted ivory button-down sweater and 
black slacks, hair down free and wavy, soft gold jewelry and a 
relaxed grace he had never seen in her more guarded years on the 
X-Files.  He wondered if she had been this woman before the 
darkness had come into their lives.  Or if this was someone 
wholly new.  It didn't matter.  He wanted more.

"Isn't it beautiful today?" she asked, glancing out over the 
brightness of the crisp autumn afternoon.

"It's great.  Kite-flying weather," he said, surprised he 
remembered such things.  But Scully kept that part of him safe.  
Sandlots and lemonade and grasshoppers in butter tubs poked full 
of holes.  Once upon a time, she had let him teach her to hit a 
baseball.

Christopher would need to be taught.

"Did you need to go somewhere?" Mulder asked.

Scully squinted up at him.  "Go somewhere?  No.  Just to take 
Tasha for a walk.  I was thinking we could order in tonight, if 
that's okay with you?"

He nodded.  "Sounds great.  I just...I thought I heard Agent 
Michaels say you had an errand to run..."

She cleared her throat, and for a moment her eyes were too far 
away.  "Oh--no," she said simply.  "It's fine, I can do it 
later."

The slight hurt.  Yet...it was not so far from who they had once 
been.  Not everything could change overnight.

Christopher squealed and slapped at his chest.  "Whoa there, 
Slugger.  You have something in mind?"

"Playtime," Scully said with an affectionate smile.


*****


Christopher kicked his feet in his bouncy seat, entranced by a 
wide array of rattles and mirrors and colorful doo-hickeys that 
Mulder seemed to be struggling to identify.  Scully stood back 
and watched, letting the sensations run through her deep and 
slow.

Mulder at last pushed to his feet and Christopher began batting 
at his toy bar.

"Michaels calls you 'Dana'?" Mulder said, catching her completely 
off guard.

"Umm...yeah, I asked him to.  A long time ago.  Why?"

He was standing at the railing now, avoiding consistent eye 
contact.  She hung back.

"No, no reason, really, I just...Scully, did you want me to call 
you 'Dana'?"

He turned to search her face.  She narrowed her eyes, adopting 
the contemplative, academic manor in which she had always felt 
safe.  "Well...you have, actually."

He nodded.  "A few times, I believe.  Long ago."

"Then you stopped."

"Yeah."

She held onto his gaze, such depth.

"But...did you want me to...*more*?"  His voice had an edge of 
the childlike.

She turned away for several beats, listening to the wind chimes 
in the air and the sound of the water fountain below.  Her voice 
felt like part of the wind when she said, "No.  I mean...it's 
fine, if you want to, I like my name, but...  I guess...a long 
time ago I *did*....want you to.  A time when I felt like when 
you called me Dana...you saw something more than when you called 
me Scully.  But then somewhere along the way, the person you saw 
all the time...the person I liked that you saw...became 
'Scully'."  She swallowed hard, and she felt his eyes on her 
throat.  "So now...," she finished, "'Scully' is good."

He watched her in silence for a long moment, then his mouth 
curled into a grin.  "But it's not your name."

She let his smile spread to her eyes.  "I know."

"What did Daniel call you?"

"'Darling.'"

"Ouch."

Scully closed her eyes, but there was only warmth between them.

Then Mulder turned away with a sound of frustration, cringing, 
wrestling with something invisible.  He gripped the hand rail and 
looked out over the garden.

"What?" she asked, brow furrowing, arms folded across her chest.

He shrugged.  "I don't know, Scully.  I mean...we've never...  
Like you said, we lived in such a limited structure before.  We 
never tried to mesh our lives outside the Bureau."

"Mulder, I've packed your underwear."

"It's not the same."

"Are you sure?"

But he wasn't biting at her offer to lighten the tone.  There was 
something he needed her to see.

"And now, you--you've had this *life*.  That I had no part of.  
And maybe could never fit in.  Or give you.  You married a 
*doctor*.  A successful doctor with an apartment like this--" he 
gestured behind them, "--who put a rock on your hand like that 
one, and sapphires on your ears, and came home for dinner every 
night and drove you to dinner downtown in a Lexus.  I know that 
lifestyle, Scully, I used to be the kid in that scenario.  But 
now, I'm--I'm a guy who barely has a government job with only 
marginal potential to return to the field he was trained for, 
lives in a pre-furnished apartment and drives a car that still 
smells suspiciously like Langly even though it was supposed to 
have been for Byers.  I can't...give you that other life..."

"Mulder...  Are you feeling...inadequate?" she asked, the 
faintest trace of a teasing smile on her lips.  And this time she 
saw the flicker at the corner of his eyes, that little connection 
that had always been there between them.  He couldn't resist 
their shared humor any more than she.  Even when it didn't fix 
anything.

"You could say my manhood is somewhat at stake, here, yes."

She nodded quietly, stepping up closer beside him and gazing out 
over the garden.  She cleared her throat.  "So...I suppose this 
would be a bad time to tell you there's a blue Jag in the parking 
garage."

Mulder brought his hand to his chest in feigned suffering.  "Oh, 
Good God, Scully..."

She couldn't keep from laughing.  But when the humor of the 
moment faded she let her voice sink into the seriousness beneath.  
"Mulder.  I don't need you to *give* me a life.  I have one.  A 
pretty good one.  With a son.  A home.  And you--alive.  If you 
hadn't guessed...Daniel was rather well insured.  I'm okay.  
Comfortable.  But if you also hadn't noticed...that isn't exactly 
my priority, with the exception of the added security it gives me 
in planning Christopher's future.  If I had cared about attaining 
this lifestyle above my other priorities, I would never have left 
medicine for a government job.  And I might add...that you would 
not be in your present circumstances, if you had not given up the 
life *you* made...to save mine."

Mulder stared down at his hands on the railing.  She recognized 
the intensity of his posture, the power in his arms, the depth of 
emotion carried in the cords of his neck.  She had missed that 
passion.  That life.  He turned and stared her down, hard.  
"You're happy with me?"  It took her breath away to see the tears 
in his eyes.

Scully moved closer, never blinking, never flinching.  "Mulder.  
I wanted to stay in the X-Files and not take my shot in VCU.  I 
wanted to be at 66 Exeter Street and not on Tom Colton's fucking 
task force.  I wanted to be in a haunted house on Christmas Eve.  
I wanted to be in a freezing cold rental car with you instead of 
home with my family when I thought I was dying.  I was 
*always*...happy with you."

Mulder scooped her into a fierce embrace, and she buried her face 
in his jacket, smelling a hundred cold nights and crime scenes 
and burned files and the single source of warmth and security in 
her life.  His arms held firm across her back.

A sudden cacophony filled the courtyard as a massive flock of 
robins fluttered into the sheltered trees, covering the greenery 
and statuary and even the railing of their balcony.  Scully 
lifted her head in startled wonder.  "Oh, my God.  Mulder, look 
how many there are.  They go on forever."

"That *is* impressive.  And a little alarming."

"Such a huge flock.  I can't believe we're so far through the 
year already."  His arms loosely cradled her.

"Tell me about it," he breathed.  She turned and looked into his 
eyes for a long moment.

"I never got you anything to drink," she said, her eyes speaking 
different words.  "You must be thirsty by now.  I need something, 
too.  Christopher needs a snack and I need to replenish."

Mulder nodded.  "I've got it," he said gently, drawing a finger 
down her jaw line.

Scully nodded as he let her go.  She folded her arms across her 
chest to ward off the chill that came with the loss of his 
warmth.  Mulder shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around 
her shoulders before he vanished inside the apartment.

A moment later he was returning with two tall iced teas, placing 
them carefully on the small glass table.

"You're *sure* you don't want any sugar?" he asked, expression 
once again dubious.

"Positive," she said with a glance over her shoulder.  Then she 
turned back toward the garden, and the images in front of her 
blurred like watercolors.  "Mmm..."  She reached out and grasped 
the railing, closing her eyes against the haze.  The balcony 
moved like a ship's deck beneath her feet.  "Whoa..."

Mulder's hand hit her back.  "Scully?  You okay?"

She couldn't quite speak and keep her feet beneath her.  
"Mmmm..."  Couldn't open her eyes.

"What's wrong?  Are you dizzy?"

She swallowed against a wave of nausea.  "Yeah..."  She gripped 
the railing until her fingers hurt.

Mulder's arm wrapped tight around her waist, grounding her.  
"Okay, it's okay.  It's the vaccine, Scully.  You're just getting 
some side effects.  It's not uncommon.  You should be okay in a 
minute.  You can't, whoa--"

Her knees let go, and Mulder caught her weight with an arm 
beneath her elbows and another around her ribs.

"Okay, it's all right.  Easy, Scully.  Let's get you in the 
chair."

His words seemed far away, but she was still tracking the thread 
of events.  Her feet felt weighted down, but she managed the few 
steps to the love seat and sank to its edge.  Mulder knelt before 
her, supporting her as she leaned down to get her head between 
her knees.  He pulled her hair back from her face, holding it at 
the base of her neck.  "It's okay," he whispered.  "I've got 
you."

After a moment, she rose just enough to prop her elbows on her 
knees, relishing the brisk wind on her cheeks, heart fluttering 
in her chest.  "This isn't going to happen to Christopher, 
right?" she said, voice shaking.  "Tell me it's not going to 
happen to Christopher, he isn't going to--"

"You know it's not," Mulder said strongly, gripping her wrists 
and getting in her face.  "Scully, look at me.  Look at me."  She 
tried to keep her eyes open, squinted to bring his features into 
focus.  "The side effects are caused by the interaction between 
the vaccine and the changes that chip is constantly making in 
your body.  Christopher doesn't have a chip.  He doesn't have the 
chip.  So there's nothing to cause a conflict.  The traces of the 
vaccine just glide right through him."

"And he can't get any of what the chip's producing through me?"  
The floor was still moving.  Her pulse was fluttering.

"No.  You know that.  You read the file.  It's not something the 
chip's producing, it's the changes it's forcing in the normal 
processes of your own body.  YOUR body.  It doesn't pass to 
Christopher.  He's okay.  YOU'RE okay.  Just take it easy and 
breathe for a minute.  Okay?"

She nodded, closed her eyes and forced a deep breath through her 
nose.  The air made her light-headed and clearer at the same 
time.  Mulder stayed close, arms resting on her thighs.  His 
jacket was still around her shoulders.  They remained together in 
silence, his body strengthening hers with its nearness.

"You okay?"

She swallowed again.  "Better."

"Just rest."

She nodded, not wanting to move her head too much.

More breathing.

"You gonna puke on me?"

"I'll let you know."

He shrugged.  "Wouldn't be the first time, right?"

Her breath came out in a laugh despite her best efforts to the 
contrary.


*****


The world held still again.  Her blood pulsed through her veins.  
Her thoughts were clear.

She nursed Christopher, and he dozed off for his afternoon nap.  
The sun was sinking early as winter stretched his ice-cloaked 
branches into autumn's terrain.

Christopher slept in his bouncy seat, resting just inside the 
sliding doors, sheltered from the biting wind as the shadows grew 
longer.  Mulder and Scully stretched out on the love seat beneath 
the worn afghan, watched the reflections of late afternoon light 
on the trees.

Scully weathered a dull headache in the aftermath.

Mulder stroked her hair.  "How you feeling?" he whispered, breath 
warm on her cheek.

"I'm fine.  Just tired."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

They fell silent.  His warmth against her back made her want to 
close her eyes and sink into his gentle cocoon.

Mulder's hand drew gentle circles on her stomach beneath the 
afghan, and the intimacy of the touch sent shivers down her 
spine.

She ran her hands over his arms, traced the definition of his 
shoulders, forearms.  She touched his hips behind her, his 
thighs.  It didn't take long for the touches to deepen in nature.  
Clothes loosened and slipped out of place.  But they were gentle, 
reverent.  The wonder of touch between them was still something 
to be savored.

"Tell me, Scully."

"Tell you, what?" she whispered.

"Tell me where you like to be touched."

"I think you had a pretty good handle on that last night."

Mulder smiled against her ear, but he pulled the mood back to 
something more serious.  "No, I mean...not like that."

She shifted in his arms, and held his eyes with hers until she 
understood.  She reached for his hand and gently guided his palm 
to the side of her hip.  She moved him down her form, smoothing 
over the walking muscles in her buttocks, down the back of her 
thigh.  The sensation nearly melted her.  Mulder's lips curled 
into a smile, and he repeated the motion.  She closed her eyes.  
Then after a moment, she took his hand again, and guided him to 
the middle of her back, to the sheet of muscles just beside her 
spine.  There was something here for her.  A kind of intimate 
vulnerability.  No matter how much she stretched, exercised, 
bathed, relaxed, there was a pocket of tension there that had not 
been there when she was young.  Like a storehouse for the 
inescapable remnants of pain and need in her past.  She whispered 
simply, "It hurts a lot."  Yet somehow, he seemed to understand.  
Words had always been a formality between them.

He caressed her back, calmed her.

She started kissing him.

"Are you still scared?" Mulder whispered.

"Yes."

"Me, too."

"I can't... "

"You won't."

Kisses turned to more.  Mulder worked the zipper of her slacks 
and eased his hand inside her clothes.  Scully sighed deeply, 
moisture creeping toward her thighs in anticipation of his touch.  
She closed her eyes and gave conscious thought over to pure 
sensation; the cool wind on her face, the rough wool of the 
afghan, the warmth of Mulder's skin on hers.  She kept the two of 
them sheltered from neighbors' view, kept her voice quiet.

Every touch of Mulder's hands sent ripples of sensation over her 
skin.  Her nipples hardened and Mulder pressed his arm to her 
breasts, cupped one side and began a gentle, kneading massage in 
time with the circles of his lower hand.  She knew they should 
move to the couch inside, they should move somewhere more 
comfortable, more discreet, they should move...they should...*Oh, 
God*...

Mulder's beautiful hands touched her like artists' hands on clay.  
She had survived on the fleeting touches of those hands for so 
long.  Their healing powers, their kindness, their silent 
conveyances of love.  Now, to have such unlimited contact was 
almost overwhelming.

Her nails hooked into the wicker arm rest as her body raced with 
escalating pleasure.  Mulder kissed her neck and she turned into 
the warmth like a cat.  She had lost all power of language.  The 
need curled in the pit of her stomach.  Moved lower.  When her 
climax hit, Mulder locked her body against his with an arm across 
her stomach and she felt the pulses of his cock against her ass 
in time with the rushes of ecstasy as her blood turned to 
flowers.  She let herself ride the waves.

She was breathless in his arms.  He held her until the world 
beyond him returned.  He kissed her neck and she gripped her own 
hair.  He cupped her hand, kissed the tops of her breasts.  His 
hand slipped from the warmth of her panties and drew a line of 
moisture up her belly.

"You..." she managed.

But Mulder just kissed her ear.  "I'm staying the night," he 
whispered.  "There's time."


*****

End Chapter 26b. (Continued in 27a...)
My Mailbox Is Always Happiest When Fed -- bstrbabs@gmail.com

-------------------
IMPORTANT NOTE: Anyone who has written to me in the last couple 
of months about anything (feedback or personal) and has not 
received a proper reply, please write to me again or forward your 
previous message.  My mail program somehow ate my folder of 
messages to be replied to.  I have no idea how this happened.  
The file was not corrupted, it scans without errors, yet the most 
crucial of the many folders simply vanished.  And I am much too 
scatterbrained to remember everyone who still had something in 
there...<sigh>...


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)


Chapter 27a:


"I remember stormy weather  
The way the sky looks when it's cold  
and you were with me 
content with walking
so unaware of the world"
                --"Tuesday Morning" by Michelle Branch



**'Hey, Scully.  What's...' Soft blue eyes.  Pale and haunted.  
Trench coat and untucked blouse on my motel room threshold and my 
pulse stops and lets my blood swim before my eyes.  'What's 
wrong?'

A quiet sigh, deep lines in your freckled brow.  A whisper that 
tears my heart.  'My ankle hurts.'  And it's clear as a voice in 
the room that you're not saying that at all.  And I scoop you 
inside my room.  And we watch TV.  And in the end you cry, but 
it's all about the hurts inflicted upon you in the battle with 
our demented killer of the week and as such it's understood we'll 
never mention it in the morning.  And in the morning when you're 
slick and together and back in the field, but won't quite look at 
me, it's my chest that's been ripped open and raw.

Scully.  You're talking to me.  Don't ever stop.**



Scully was awake by first light and dressing herself and 
Christopher for early Mass.  Mulder watched her shadowing about 
the curtained room through half-closed lids, not yet ready to 
face the day.  He had caught her arm when she first left the bed 
for the shower, sleepily grasping at her warmth, questioning why 
she was pulling away, but she had only kissed him tenderly on the 
temple and whispered, "Church.  I've missed the last couple of 
weeks.  Mom wants us there."

He wasn't sure who "us" was.  He wasn't sure if Maggie Scully 
knew he was alive.  Or if she knew and wished him dead again.  He 
closed his eyes and let Scully move around him.

When she was about to head into the kitchen to feed Christopher, 
he pushed up to a sitting position on her massive four-poster 
bed, blankets falling back to expose his bare chest to the chill 
morning air.  "Hey, Scully.  How are you feeling this morning?" 
he asked.  He coughed, then cleared his throat.

Scully adjusted Christopher's weight in her arms.  "I'm fine.  No 
problems."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Scully...did you...I mean, did you want me to come with you?  I 
can be ready in a few minutes, I just...if you don't want..."

Scully came to a halt in her routine busyness and focused on him 
fully.  She took a step closer, sat down on the edge of the bed 
and let Christopher spill over her arm onto the blankets to 
explore.  She drew a deliberate breath and rested her hand on 
Mulder's leg through the comforter.  Her hands were always so 
feminine and graceful.  Even brushing away dirt in a field full 
of dead bodies.  "I do...*want* you to.  But my Mom...I haven't 
talked to her yet."

Mulder combed his fingers through the mess that must have been 
his hair.  "She doesn't know I'm alive."

To his surprise, Scully's eyebrows rose, her gaze fixed somewhere 
beside his hip.  "No, actually, she does know that.  The first 
Saturday after you showed up, when I took Christopher over to her 
house while I went into work for the morning, and I asked her to 
keep him awake so he would nap later...she and I ended 
up...talking..."

Mulder narrowed his eyes, listening quietly, trying to process 
Scully's trademark underlayers of information through the haze of 
his sleepiness.  "So...she hates me?" he said, only half-joking.

Scully cracked a fleeting grin.  "No.  No more than I did.  Less, 
probably.  She just...I haven't told her that we're... 
well...here," she said, meeting his gaze with gentle affection in 
the lines around her eyes.

"Ah.  And you're not quite ready to appear at church with the new 
guy when you're technically still in black," and even as he 
spoke, it registered in his brain, that this Scully who had once 
worn almost exclusively black in her life and had shown him a 
variety of colors since his return, now wore simple black slacks 
and blazer and black heels.

She didn't speak, but her gaze fell to his lap.  "You're not 
exactly new," she said softly.  "And *I'm* ready.  I just don't 
want to... There are a lot of feelings to be hurt.  Daniel's 
daughter--not that she would be there this morning, but--it took 
us so long to get close.  And she loved her father so much.  And 
she finally came to believe that I did, too...and, for 
Christopher, I just don't want--"

But Mulder stopped her with a finger on her lips.  "Ssshh.  It's 
all right.  Go to church."

She swallowed hard, but didn't lift her gaze.  "Mulder, I don't 
want you to think--"

But he pushed forward and silenced her this time with his lips.  
And she instantly awoke to the kiss, hand rising to the back of 
his neck, mouth pulling at his lips.  "It's okay," he whispered.  
"Since when have we ever let the rest of the world in on our 
lives anyway?"

That brought a genuine smile to her lips.  He could drink from 
her all day and never miss water.  Scully.

She remained there with him for a long moment, forehead to 
forehead, Christopher sucking on the corner of the comforter.  
Tasha stretched her furry head as far as her neck would take her 
across the foot of the bed.  And it was hard to believe he and 
Scully had once almost died in an arctic wasteland.

Scully gathered Christopher and turned to go.

She turned the blinds to throw the first strands of morning light 
onto the ceiling.  At the doorway, she lingered and held Mulder's 
gaze for a timeless beat, clear blue eyes endless in the dawn 
glow.  Her eyes could spread warmth through his chest like cocoa.

Her mouth moved ever so gently, no voice with her shaped words; 
the silent passage of thought and sensation he had waited a 
lifetime for -- "I love you."

Mulder's pulse skipped, ears pounding.  He mouthed the words back 
to her, suspended in the spell of morning light.  "I love you."

The faintest trace of a smile brushed Scully's lips.  Then she 
turned and was gone.


*****


The candlelight and sunbeams through stained glass were 
comforting.  Quiet and familiar.  Christopher dozed through the 
first part of the service and Scully sat quietly with her fingers 
entwined with her mother's, enjoying the return of the easy 
affection between them that had been scarred during the darker 
years of her life.  Halfway through the sermon, Christopher 
awakened, ready to attack the day, and Scully slipped out with 
her vibrant son to the crying room at the back to pace the bright 
toy-filled carpet with a smattering of other mothers in fine 
clothes draped in burp cloths.

When the service let out, she drifted with a quieter Christopher 
into the side vestibule to step up beside her mother for their 
traditional Sunday ritual.  Without a word, she reached out her 
free hand and closed it over her mother's aging knuckles as they 
moved the flame together to light a candle for her father, one 
for Melissa, one for Emily...and one for Daniel.

They used to light one for Mulder.

They lowered the candlelighter into the sand, and Maggie kissed 
Dana's cheek as they moved toward the exit.

The sun was brilliant in the crisp autumn sky.

Scully and her mother lingered on the landing at the top of the 
church's front steps.

"Do you have to get home, or do you want to come back to the 
house for a while?" her mother asked, pulling on her black 
leather gloves.  Scully had always thought her mother looked like 
a movie star in her perfect, soft leather gloves.  They had often 
appeared as Christmas presents from her father to her mother, 
sometimes from exotic ports overseas.  She remembered vividly the 
first time she had been afforded the privilege of borrowing a 
pair of those always elegant gloves to attend Melissa's cello 
competition at the opera house in downtown San Diego.  She had 
felt like a woman that night.  Elegant and feminine and powerful.  
The charm of the right gloves had lingered in her sentiments.

"Actually, I do need to get back," Scully said.  "I'm meeting 
Mulder."

Her mother's eyelid flickered ever so slightly, a mixture of 
quiet concern and wariness and motherly warmth.

"Are you two...working things out?" she asked carefully.

Scully nodded.  "We're okay.  We're good."

"Is he back at the Bureau now?"

"On grunt work, yes.  He hates it, but he's taking his due."

Her mother nodded, then reached out a gloved hand and brushed the 
luxurious leather against the soft skin of Scully's throat as she 
fingered the rings on her daughter's gold chain.  "Go easy on 
yourself, okay?" her mother said softly.

Scully swallowed hard, snugging her hold on Christopher, 
adjusting the blanket around him.  "I'm okay," she whispered.

And her mother held her gaze for a long moment.  "Okay."  Then 
she nodded and lowered her hand, declaring the subject closed.

"But what about you?" Scully asked as they moved in silent 
concert down the first of the concrete steps.  "Where's the 
elusive Sean today?  I thought you were still hitting the Sunday 
afternoon Arts in the Park exhibits."

Maggie glanced over her shoulder twice, a half-shy twinkle in her 
gaze, before answering.  "We are.  But he's out of town this 
weekend.  We're meeting for dinner tonight."

Scully smiled as they reached the bottom of the stairs and 
started up the street toward their cars.  "Mom?" she said softly.

"Hmm?"

"A very wise woman once told me...never feel guilty for the 
moments you feel happy."

Her mother's steps stopped abruptly and she halted beside her, 
eye contact hard and intense.  Scully-blue to Scully-blue.  Then 
at last her mother nodded softly.  "She did, didn't she?"

Scully narrowed her eyes against the wind and brilliant sun and 
let the moment stand, slipping in and out of sensory visions of 
her father on Christmas morning, of his imposing figure lying on 
the floor with her brothers tackling him, of her mother being 
lifted off her feet in a passionate embrace when her father 
returned from sea.

And Mulder's lips on the scar on the back of her own neck and his 
arm around her shoulders in a backwoods in Massachusetts and his 
arms around her ribs as she nearly fainted on her balcony and her 
head resting in Daniel's lap on the living room couch as he 
stroked her hair.

Unspoken thoughts vibrated around and between the two women on 
the sidewalk.  Then Scully kissed Christopher's warm forehead, 
and her mother leaned across and did the same, her eyes softening 
with the special brand of affection she reserved for her 
grandchildren.  They walked on in silence.


*****


When Scully opened the apartment door for him, she was still in 
her church clothes, heels and all, looking every bit the Agent 
Scully he had seen behind his eyelids for as long as he could 
remember.  The smile that greeted him without the eyebrow of 
skeptical question at his presence, however, was something new.

"Hey," she said.

And he stepped in and pulled her to him with a hand on the small 
of her back for a quick but deep kiss.

A childhood music box melody played in the background; 
Christopher's baby swing.

"Perfect timing.  I just finished feeding Christopher."

She turned back into the room, picking up a teddy bear rattle and 
crossing to pass it to her son who squealed and began shaking the 
toy vigorously.  As Mulder closed the apartment door, Tasha sat 
down and leaned her full weight against his leg.  He tried not to 
tip over.

"Scully, I think your dog is a small horse in disguise."

Scully glanced over her shoulder with a wry smile.  "At bath time 
I'm inclined to agree with you.  Did you eat lunch yet?"

He nodded.  "Grabbed something at the corner deli.  You?"

"I'm fine."

He frowned slightly.  "Not quite an answer.  Did you eat?"

She straightened from where she had been leaning to fix her son's 
bib and tossed her hair back from her face as she turned.  She 
met his gaze solidly enough.  "I ate a few bites.  I think the 
vaccine's...nagging my stomach a little bit.  I'm okay.  I'll eat 
some more later."

His eye muscles tightened.  "Yeah?  You really okay?  You keeping 
your food down?"

She nodded, reassuringly.  "Oh, yeah.  I'm fine.  Really.  Just 
starting slow today."  Her smile was fleeting but genuine enough 
he let the subject go.

"So, did you finally get yourself some groceries?" she asked, 
moving closer to him.

"That I did.  The Mulder refrigerator is now appropriately 
stocked with frozen dinners, bagels, beer, and orange juice."

Scully touched a hand to her stomach and cringed with a sweet 
touch of humor.  "Oh, God, Mulder, please don't mention that all 
in one sentence right now."

He laughed softly.  "Sorry, Scully."

"How about your cable, did they ever turn it on?"

He shrugged.  "Basic's working, but I'll have to call them again 
Monday morning about the kinky channels."

Scully lifted an eyebrow and Mulder fell into a mock-lecherous 
grin.  "Though, if I play my cards right, I'm guessing I might 
not miss it tonight."

Scully just eyed him with a look of the victorious cat.

"Oh," Mulder said, jarred from the spell by memory, "and I keep 
forgetting--I officially have my own cell phone again.  I'll give 
you the number.  And--" he reached into his jacket pocket, "--
here you go.  Appreciate the loaner."

Scully froze mid-breath, staring hard at the small black object 
in Mulder's hand.  He fell immobile, too, unsure what to do.  At 
last, Scully held out her hand and let him pass Daniel's cell 
phone into it.  Her skin felt cool.  Her focus remained on her 
hand.  "Yeah, uh...you're welcome, no problem.  I'm glad you've 
got your own again," she said, nodding tersely.  But her thoughts 
were a million miles from her words, and he wondered if she even 
heard her own voice.

"Scully..."

"I guess...I mean, I suppose I can cancel this now.  It's served 
its purpose."

He watched her watching the phone.  He waited for the radar to 
kick in between them, hoping as always to read her thoughts.  
Once in a blue moon it worked, and he could feel where she hurt.  
"You don't want to," he said solidly.

The tendons in her neck tensed.  "It's stupid, isn't it?" she 
said, glancing up.  "I mean...I cleaned out his closet, I've gone 
through his business papers, boxed his old letters for 
Christopher, but I can't...I can't cancel his cell phone."  She 
released a sharp breath through her nose, almost self-
deprecating.

Mulder reached out with a single finger and pushed back her hair.  
"It's not stupid.  Nothing you feel is stupid.  It's always 
something small that hits you wrong.  And his cell phone...that 
was your connection, right?  Your link with him.  That's how it 
always was with us..."

She didn't move.  He waited, wanting so deeply to touch her, but 
she was so tightly strung, so carefully poised, he couldn't cross 
the bounds.  The right to touch her was so new.

Scully drew a soft breath and seemed to want to speak, but he 
could see the hurt behind her eyes, and her throat locked.  She 
was holding her composure, hardly flinching, but there was so 
much behind her facade.  She was fighting so hard not to cry his 
stomach hurt.

It was so easy to forget what she had been through so recently.  
So easy to get lost in the joy of the moment, *his* moment, and 
not see the thorny path along which she had come.

Scully tightened her jaw, then, without ceremony, closed her hand 
around the phone and turned her back and walked away.

"Scully?"  Mulder was no more than five paces behind.

He was amazed by his bravery when he pushed through her half 
closed bedroom door and stepped into her private chambers 
uninvited.

Scully stood, silhouetted against the streaks of noonday sun, 
back to him, hand to her brow.

"Scully?  Are you okay?" he said softly.

He watched her shoulders rise and fall as she breathed.  "Just 
give me a minute," she said, voice water-soft.

"No," he said simply.

Her hand fell and she turned slightly as if to look over her 
shoulder, though her hair still sheltered her face.  "*No?*"

He shook his head and took a step closer.  "No.  We can't do it 
that way.  It can't be like that."

Her voice was so open, so vulnerable.  "Like what?"

"Scully, you lost your husband.  Just months ago.  If it had been 
years, maybe...  But, Scully...if we're going to do this; if 
we're going to be...something more, this subject can't be off 
limits.  You have to let me be here for you.  Be part of your 
mourning process."

He could feel her hesitation.  She was still half looking over 
her shoulder, still hiding her face.  He could almost see the 
tension in her back, in the vulnerable place beside her spine.  
"Mulder, that's...it's wrong, I can't do that to you--"

"No.  It's not wrong.  Scully, we've been best friends for a 
decade.  And I hope, that no matter what else happens between us, 
that will *never* change.  And I refuse to give up that role now 
of all times."

She was quiet and still, save for the unevenness of her breath.

Mulder softened his voice.  "Scully, I won't lie to you.  I wish 
you'd never been married.  I wish you had never loved anybody but 
me in your whole damn life.  But, life doesn't work that way, and 
we're both old enough to know that.  We're human beings and as 
such, we meet many people on our journey.  And what matters, is 
that right now, today--you and I are here.  And we're together.  
And, hopefully, it will stay that way for a while.  But if I 
can't be here for you along the way..."

The silence suspended time in the room, like the slow motion 
swirls of the dust particles in the sunlight and the orange 
streaks of Scully's hair in this very same sunbeam where she had 
told him she loved him.

Then Scully reached out a hand behind her.  And Mulder stepped up 
and caught it.

"He was too young," she choked out.

And a moment later she was wrapped in his arms, and he was 
muffling her sobs with his chest.  He let his own tears soak 
undetected into her hair.  He had never been able to stomach the 
sound of her tears.

And something told him this was bigger than the moment.  It was 
about the suffocating silence months ago when Scully had watched 
her husband pass away and gone home to an empty apartment with no 
Mulder there to hold her.  *She had needed him.  Just him.*  And 
he almost dared to believe that.  That maybe she had never really 
let anyone comfort her for her loss until he came home.

She fit so perfectly beneath his chin.  As she had once upon a 
time in a hospital hallway, when his heart had nearly stopped at 
the sight of an empty bed and he had soaked up every nuance of 
her substance and vitality and tried to will with sheer desire 
her continued existence.  He wouldn't lose her then.  He wouldn't 
lose her now.

She held on tight, digging her fingers into the muscles of his 
back, until at last they were still and just holding on in the 
warm rays of sun.

She pulled back first and gazed up at him, comfortably quiet as 
she so often seemed to be in his presence.  He cradled the side 
of her neck.

"Where did you need to go yesterday?" he asked, voice soft and 
hoarse.

She lifted an eyebrow.  "What do you mean?"

"The errand you put off."

Her jaw tightened and her lids fell to half-mast.  "Just a 
personal errand.  It can wait."

He held her in his gaze, eyes narrowing, hands stroking her hair, 
her face, keeping her warmed to him.  "You were going to visit 
Daniel, weren't you?" he breathed.

Scully gave a soft, dry laugh, bristly, but not cold.  Her voice 
was low.  "Stop profiling me."

He shook his head.  "I could never profile you, Scully.  And not 
for lack of trying.  You usually go every weekend?  Every other 
weekend?" he asked, tone casual, but deep.

Her eyes widened, half to dry her tears, half to push him away.  
"Stop," she said deliberately.

He kissed her forehead.  "Come on.  Let's go.  I'll take you."

"No."

"Come on.  I'll hold Christopher for you, give you some time 
alone.  When was the last time you got that luxury, hmm?  Come 
on."

She was wavering, holding his eye contact, though her brow was 
lined with concern.  He swept an arm around her shoulders and 
scooped her toward the door.  "Come on.  Get your boy ready."


*****

(End Chapter 27a.  Continued in 27b...)
Feed. Author. bstrbabs@gmail.com

-----------



"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)


Chapter 27b:


She sank down onto the grass, flipping out the tail of her blazer 
as she rested an arm across her raised knees.  She squinted into 
the sun as she caught a quick glimpse of the distant figures 
beside her car.  Mulder and Christopher.  Looking like they had 
always been together.  The image made her dizzy.

Scully closed her eyes against the brilliant sun, then opened 
them again to gaze down at Daniel's gravestone.

"Hey, Danny Boy," she whispered.  She traced her hand over the 
surface of the grave.  "A lot to talk about, huh?"  She slipped 
her tongue over the corner of her mouth, dry in the wind despite 
her lipstick.  "I guess you know Mulder's not with you," she said 
with a sideways grin.  "Seems everybody knew but me."  She 
shifted her weight back onto her hands, sniffed softly in the 
autumn wind and shook back her hair.  The day was so tangible.  
Kite-flying weather, like Mulder had said.  Seemed at odds with 
the setting.  And yet...it felt like that perfect day in the park 
with Daniel, the day some stranger had snapped their picture and 
forever captured a moment of happiness in two scarred people's 
lives.

"This is so strange...it's like some days I can't make sense of a 
timeline, you know?  Everything's so jumbled up.  My life...it's 
like it's jumping time.  A little bit like when you and I first 
got back together.  And it was as if we had never been apart that 
whole decade.  Yet at the same time we were such different people 
and so much had changed...  And now, Mulder's here again, and 
you're gone.  And everything's a million miles away from where it 
was when he left... And the part that is most confusing of all 
and so utterly masochistic and bizarre, is that from the moment I 
learned Mulder was alive I haven't been able to stop thinking 'I 
wish you were here so you could meet him'."  She laughed through 
a haze of tears.  "That's crazy, right?"  Then she added, softly, 
"But then, you always thought I was crazy.  And it never seemed 
to stop you."

She folded her arms across her stomach, the wind seeming suddenly 
colder.  "I miss you so much, Daniel.  Christopher is so 
big...you wouldn't believe how heavy he is.  And he's trying to 
talk.  More all the time.  He smiles so much now, and he 
just...he *listens* so closely to everything you say, and I hope-
-Daniel, I hope I'm saying everything you would want him to hear.  
Because, he needs to know...what his father would have said, too.  
He needs to know the man his father was.  I'm trying.

"It wasn't supposed to happen this way.  You've heard me say that 
a hundred times, sitting here...  But I still can't--I can't...I 
can't rationalize what happened to you, your life being cut 
short.  I want to hate someone or hunt someone down and make them 
pay.  And there's no one to hate, and even if there were...you 
still wouldn't be here to hold your son.

"You know how I feel.  You know what I believe--we talked through 
all of it so many nights--what I circled through and came to have 
faith in again when I lost my father, and Melissa.  You know...  
Daniel..." her breath was thin, thready, her chest tight as 
reality caught her, "Baby, this is right.  Mulder.  And me.  This 
is where...I need to be now.  And I don't want to say this to 
you, I don't...right now, I just wish I could hold you while I 
talk.  But Mulder's over there with Christopher, and Daniel...  I 
need him.  I...*love* him.  I belong with him.  And I 
can't...walk away just because it's so soon after losing you.  
And I don't want you or anyone else to think that I loved you any 
less.  You know how I felt, how I *feel*.  You *know*.  But it's 
like the way you and I were, you remember?  When we came back 
together after so long...so quickly...  Mulder and I were 
together for such a long time.  In our own strange way, yes, but 
together nonetheless.  And you know that.  I think you knew it on 
a much deeper level than we ever spoke about.  I felt that from 
you.  You didn't miss much.  And I loved you for never pushing 
that."

She sat in silence for a long time, wind in her hair and sun on 
her skin.  When she closed her eyes, she could almost smell her 
husband's aftershave and remember the feel of his body beside 
hers in a movie theatre or the way his hand rested on the gear 
shift in the Jag and then slipped across to her knee or the way 
his five o'clock shadow prickled beneath her fingers.  She pushed 
back against the knot in her stomach and the lump in her throat.  
She opened her eyes to the sunlight.

"Always be here," she whispered, drawing her hand over the neatly 
carved words in the small headstone.  Then she spread her fingers 
wide and held her hand to the grass, imagining the feel of his 
fingertips meeting hers once more, then clasping her hand in the 
timeless promise they had long long shared.

She pushed to her feet and walked away.


*****


"You okay?" he asked, seeing the tear stains catching the light 
on her cheeks.

Scully's tongue traced over the corner of her mouth and she 
nodded, looking out across the open ground.  "Yeah.  I'm fine."

He nodded.  "You ready to go home?"

She nodded, distracted.  She stepped closer and curled her finger 
around Christopher's hand.  "How's the Little Man?"

Mulder smiled.  "Oh, we're doing fine.  We're buddies."

Scully actually grinned.  "I think he's trying to say your name," 
she said with a glance toward Mulder.

And Mulder's mouth fell open.  He had never even consider the 
concept.  And suddenly a hundred things were more real, and the 
little human being in his arms was someone who might one day look 
up to him and shape his view of the world by the words that 
passed across Mulder's lips or the actions that spoke beyond his 
words.  "Are you serious?"

"Yeah.  You haven't heard it?"

He shook his head, lost for words.

"Keep listening," Scully said, so casual about the whole concept, 
smiling now and then at her son, touching his hair.

Mulder remained breathless.

Christopher fell asleep in the car on the drive back to Scully's 
apartment.  They parked on the street and Mulder popped his 
seatbelt, but Scully seemed disinclined to move and more inclined 
to talk, despite the silence that had been hovering comfortably 
between them for the drive.

"Daniel was a good person," Scully said softly, gaze on her hands 
in her lap.

Mulder swallowed hard and nodded, watching her carefully, seeing 
the thin ice and letting her lead.  "I never doubted it," he 
said.  "Or you wouldn't have married him."

"I mean...he could be stubborn and closed-minded--not unlike me, 
once upon a time...or now--but he was more a victim of his own 
limitations than a perpetrator.  He...he valued honor in himself 
above almost anything.  Which is why...our beginnings were so 
hard on him.  Even if he never let it show for my sake."

"You know, I have to be honest, Scully.  You floored me the day 
you first told me about that.  I mean, before that day, I would 
have sworn under oath that you would never have been involved in 
an affair with a married man."

She gave a dry laugh.  "Yeah, you and me both.  Life sneaks up 
and bites you in the ass every once in a while."

He nodded quietly, hearing the layers of pain and self-derision 
beneath her words.  And maybe he could understand a little bit 
more about the way Scully had always seen through him.  He wasn't 
the only one who knew a little something about self-loathing and 
perceptions of failure.

She looked up at him for a moment, pinning him with her gaze.  
"Did you think less of me?"

He shook his head without hesitation.  "No.  I knew you too well 
already not to know there was more to it."

She nodded, seeming to accept that, and dropped her gaze to her 
lap again.

"Daniel... he wasn't perfect.  No one is.  But being there for 
his family, never letting down those he loved...those were the 
things he defined himself by.  And his failure to live up to what 
he had promised his first family--his first wife and his 
daughter--that scarred him.  He gave everything he had these past 
years toward living up to his own expectations of himself.  
Toward making amends for what he felt were his past mistakes and 
building a future for his family, his son.  And I wanted that for 
Christopher's life.  I *want* that.  I want him to know that 
about his father, to follow his example."

Mulder soaked that in, giving her words the full attention they 
deserved.  His voice was deeply respectful when he said, "I would 
have liked to have known him."

To his blatant surprise, Scully burst out laughing, nearly waking 
Christopher.

His expression said it all.  "What!?"

"I'm sorry, Mulder, it was just...I was just wondering if the two 
of you could be in the same room without the universe imploding 
or something..."  She was still laughing softly, and the sound 
warmed him, despite the peculiarity of the circumstances and the 
trace of tears in her eyes.  "You see, that's one of the 
problems, Mulder.  On some fundamental level, the two of you are 
far more alike in your way, than either of you would ever be 
willing to admit."

"I doubt that, Scully.  I mean, as you well pointed out, I'm not 
the kind of guy you rejoice about bringing home to meet the 
family.  Come on, Scully, your Mom had to be a hundred times more 
thrilled to see you contemplating marrying a doctor for an 
impending quiet life of medical research and youth soccer games.  
Hell, she might even see you for the full stretch of Christmas 
Eve every year, have you there for her birthday.  Even if Daniel 
got called away for medical emergencies every now and then, he 
didn't have to drag you with him and he was back in a few hours 
without any bullet wounds."

Scully was listening respectfully but with a quietly amused smile 
tempting her lips.

"Hell, Scully, even Bill probably loved the guy."

This time Scully's sudden laughter roused a squirm and a loud 
sigh from Christopher and Mulder's eyebrows shot to the roof.

"Mulder..." she said through her laughter, "Bill hated Daniel's 
guts."

Mulder was quiet a moment.  Then he said, loudly, "Well, thank 
God."

And a moment later they were both lost to hopelessly rich and 
cleansing laughter.


*****


FBI Training Academy
Quantico, Virginia
Monday morning

The feel of a weapon in his hands wasn't foreign.  He had pulled 
his weapon once or twice in the past years.  But most of the time 
he had kept it hidden.  Wasn't much call to license a medical 
researcher to carry a concealed weapon.  Particularly a 
researcher with fake credentials.  Not much time in target 
practice.

But his targets were ending up more satisfactorily punctured than 
he had expected.  Apparently, he hadn't lost all his skill with 
disuse.  Might even get himself recertified on the first try.

*Bam.*

Krycek.

*Bam.*

Cigarette Smoking Man.

*Bam.*

Luis Cardinale.

*Bam.*

James Maley.

Oh, yeah.  That target card looked good.

He might not be on grunt work his whole life, if he could just 
keep his mouth shut a little while longer (without Scully at his 
side to temper his words).  Wouldn't want to lose his competitive 
edge in case he wasn't finished running uphill to save the world.

As his card came toward him on the wire, he pulled off his 
earmuffs.  He heard a rapid six round cycle fire off in the 
adjoining booth and leaned forward to look at the card in the 
next lane.  Damn.  Whoever he was, obviously he *had* been to 
target practice in the last two years.

He gathered his things and stepped out of his booth.  A familiar 
shock of red hair caught his eye from the lane beside him.

"Scully?"

She didn't hear him.  She was lining up for another round.  Six 
more shots in rapid succession.  Then six more with a beat 
between each.  All twelve no more than an inch from the center of 
the target.  All in a tight shot group.  Jesus Christ.  How much 
had she been practicing while he had been gone?

He waited until her finger was off the trigger and her gun down, 
before he touched her shoulder.  She startled and whirled, 
pulling off her earmuffs.  "Mulder!"  Her pulse was racing, he 
could see it.  Her hair was tied up in a French twist, no longer 
loose and luxurious as he had grown accustomed to it at home.  
Apparently this was her new "at work" standard.

She was breathing hard.  "What are you doing here?"

He smiled.  "Getting recertified on my weapon.  The better 
question would be what are *you* doing here?  Don't you have a 
class, *Dr.* Waterston?"

She nodded, not playing into the humor.  "I'm only down here on 
my break."

He stepped forward, touched a gentle hand to the side of her 
waist, cautious in her workplace.  He was studying her, probably 
profiling a little bit.  Or maybe just being the man who had 
worked beside her for almost a decade.  "What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?  I'm just here for target practice, like you."  
She turned her focus to reloading her weapon.

He nodded quietly.  "I can see that."  He gestured toward her 
card.  "I can also see you don't need much practice.  And that 
apparently you've had a lot of it."

She breathed out heavily, eyes still on her weapon, but her 
posture softening a bit.  "Yeah, well...it kind of kept me from 
thinking too much sometimes after you left.  And it kind 
of...became a habit."

He stroked his hand gently down her back.  "Under stress," he 
finished for her.

She snapped in her clip; reached for her earmuffs and pulled them 
back on.  She lifted her weapon and he let his hand fall away as 
she squeezed off four more rounds with glowing success.  Then she 
stopped and lowered her weapon.  Eyes still on the target, she 
swung her earmuffs to her neck and said softly.  "I don't want to 
be in a room with James Maley next week."

Mulder breathed for a moment, then stepped forward and wrapped 
his arms around her waist from behind.  Scully didn't pull away.  
She closed her eyes and lowered her head.

"I know," he whispered close to her ear.  "But you won't be alone 
this time."

"I know."

"I mean...*you* won't be alone.  I'll be with you.  I'll be right 
outside.  Right here."  He pressed his open hand to her stomach.  
Then he lifted her earmuffs back onto her ears, still tight 
against her back.  He guided her to pick up her weapon, and 
together they raised it, his arms paralleling hers, hands over 
hands (*"I'm in the middle!"*) like a long ago baseball bat.  
They took aim and fired.  And the bullet hit dead center.  He 
pulled her earmuff away just enough to whisper against her hair, 
"And as long as we're together, we'll be okay."  Scully closed 
her eyes and leaned into his touch.

They were taking the stairs back to the lobby when her cell phone 
rang.

"Waterston."

*Dammit, Scully, would you quit doing that.*

"You *what*?"

He glanced across at her and she met his gaze, eyes wide, lips 
slightly parted, as she continued to ascend the stairs.  He 
lifted his eyebrows in question, but she was still listening to 
the voice on the other end of the line.

"What time, is it there yet?"  She glanced at her watch, and he 
did, too, though he had nothing to compare it with.

"Okay.  Yeah, as soon as my last class ends...okay.  I'll call 
you."

She snapped off the phone and turned to face him on the busy 
landing.

"What is it?"

"Michaels.  There's been another killing in Tennessee.  Another 
decapitation in the woods.  And he's sent the body here, asked 
for me to do the autopsy.  If I pull something viable, he thinks 
Skinner may sign on for another trip to the woods."

"Nothing like the joy of another body in the freezer."

The dry smile he got could have withered a sunflower.

"Hey, I thought you *liked* morgue humor."


*****


(End Chapter 27b.  Continued in 28...)
Come on...you know you wanna...:) -- bstrbabs@gmail.com


------------

"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)


Chapter 28:



"But when the leaves fell on the ground
Bully winds came around, pushed them face
down in the snow

He got the urge for going
And I had to let him go"
                 --Joni Mitchell, "Urge for Going" 





**I didn't ditch you, Scully.  I never ditched you.**



"So who found the body this time?" Mulder asked, keeping brisk 
pace beside Gannon Michaels in the hallway of the Quantico 
morgue.

"City clean-up crew," Michaels replied.  "Had a nasty round of 
storms out there end of last week, took down a lot of old trees, 
knocked out some above ground power lines.  Crew was out there 
picking up some of the felled trees and literally tripped over 
the body."

"I'm guessing the city doesn't pay them enough for that."

Michaels gave a soft chuckle, eyes still on the file in his 
hands.  A few paces later, Michaels stopped in his tracks and 
snapped the file shut, whirling on his boot heel to face Mulder.  
"I got a question for ya," he said, eye contact solid.

Mulder nodded, arms slack at his sides.  "Shoot."

"I just came from A.D. Skinner's office.  If Agent Waterston 
comes up with something suspicious enough on this examination, 
the A.D.'s willing to sign off on another trip to the backwoods.  
Thing is, early yesterday morning, Agent Brennan left for a week 
at his Dad's farm in Oregon.  Now, I'd rather not be in the 
middle of nowhere, Tennessee, with no back-up within an 
afternoon's drive.  But I don't see calling Brennan back, seein' 
as his Dad's not in the best of health right now.  So, I'm hoping 
you don't mind--I made a subtle suggestion to A.D. Skinner.  And 
I got the distinct impression that if I do get the okay to head 
back to Tennessee, Skinner would be willing to temporarily assign 
you to assist me with the case.  Now, if I'm overstepping my 
bounds here, you just let me know and I'll turn my horse around 
and head home."

Mulder felt his heart thudding against his chest.  The hall 
seemed unusually dim.  He gave no outward motion save the 
tightening of his jaw muscles.  He shrugged, nodded tersely.  
"I'll do what I can.  Don't think I'll be direly missed in 
background checks."

*An X-File...*

Michaels gave a wry smile.  "I don't know, the way I hear it, 
you've had more experience there than just about anyone in the 
department."

Mulder gave a close-lipped smile.  "Just wait."

Michaels cracked a smile and continued down the hall.

As they pushed through the double doors of the autopsy bay, Dana 
Scully was pulling off her goggles, and disentangling the elastic 
from her ponytail.  "Hey," she called as they entered; 
breathtakingly beautiful in a disarray of scrubs.  Her eyebrow 
was raised and her eyes shone with the energy of professional 
discovery Mulder had learned to sight a mile away.  "Perfect 
timing," she said.

"Came as soon as you called."  Michaels pushed back his coattails 
and rested his hands on his hips as he stepped up beside the 
sheet-draped body.

Scully nodded briskly, and for a split second as she reached for 
the clipboard at the foot of the autopsy table, her gaze locked 
onto Mulder's, and a spark of personal connection arced between 
them.  A delicious thrill coursed from Mulder's chest to parts 
below.  For a moment he forgot about the body on the table.

Something had definitely shifted in his life.

"So how did this poor sucker die?" Mulder asked, moving up beside 
Michaels.  

Scully pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and flipped 
back the cover sheet to the victim's waist.  "Well, on the 
surface, that part's obvious," she said as Mulder and Michaels 
grunted, covered their mouths, and took matching steps backward.  
"He was decapitated,"  Scully said without a flinch.  She reached 
out a latex-gloved finger and poked lightly at the man's head, 
rocking it free of the neck below.  "But the real question is 
how?"

Mulder squinted at her over his hand, begging the question.  
"So...how?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know," Michaels repeated.

Scully shook her head.  "No.  But it was no tree limb.  The cut 
is too clear, too even.  This was something manmade, something 
uncannily akin to a blade."

"But...you're saying it's not a blade," Mulder finished.

"I'm saying from all appearances on the cut itself, it would seem 
to be a blade.  But there is no metal residue whatsoever around 
the wound.  Which means it was synthetic.  Plastic or...a cord of 
some kind..."

Michaels nodded.  "So, it was a manmade weapon."

Scully's eyes narrowed.  "Yeah..."

Her tone was less than authoritative.

Mulder stepped a shade closer.  "Scully, that's a 'yeah' I 
wouldn't want to hear after a question like 'Are you sure it's 
the *red* wire that deactivates the bomb?'"

She didn't react to the humor, mind still absorbed in the 
scientific puzzle.  "Well, that's the official answer, but I 
just...this cut just looks so...I just can't believe there's no 
trace of metal.  It looks like a knife, or a cleaver..."

"Or an ax..."

Scully looked up at him, jaw cocked.  "Mulder, no.  That is not 
what I'm saying."

Mulder raised his hands like a white flag and immediately 
regretted letting go of his nose.  "Did I say anything?"

"I am not implying this was some sort of magical weapon, wielded 
by--"

"Then what are you implying, Agent Waterston?" he countered.

Scully held his gaze for a long beat, lids half lowered, trace of 
a dry smile on her lips, and Mulder was half aware of Gannon 
Michaels quietly watching their exchange.  Mulder didn't care.

"I'm *saying*, Agent Mulder," she replied, "that there is more 
here than meets the eye.  Based primarily on the preliminary tox 
screen I got back a few minutes ago."

"Oh, yeah?" Michaels asked.  "What did you find?"

"Laymen's terms?"  She glanced toward Michaels.

He gave a single firm nod.  "I think you know me well enough by 
now."

"A whole lot of chemicals that shouldn't have been there.  Most 
of them traceable to local plant life in Tennessee."

"What does that mean?" Michaels asked.

Scully met Mulder's gaze, head tilted slightly back, and in that 
eye contact he knew she knew they both had an answer even if she 
would be the only one to speak.  "It means someone has been 
playing pharmacy at home.  Experimenting with tried and true 
recipes.  Namely...playing witch."

Michaels' eyes sparkled.  "This stuff illegal?  Potentially 
poisonous?"

"A little of both, yeah," Scully said, spreading the sheet back 
over the victim's body and pulling off her gloves.

"This wasn't just some kid who drugged himself up and got himself 
killed when he was high?"

Scully shook her head.  "No.  Our witch is a modern one with some 
technical skill.  The drugs were injected directly into the 
bloodstream.  And the only needle puncture I found on the body is 
on the base of the right shoulder blade.  Not a convenient place 
for self-injection.  And since he was alone--only one set of 
prints in the mud--it wasn't likely a 'buddy high'."

Michaels tossed a glance toward Mulder.  "Then we got it, don't 
we?  That enough to get Skinner to go for it?"

Scully nodded.  "I would guess so, yes.  I would have a lot of 
trouble calling this accidental death."

Michaels held his hands up.  "Then we're off."

Mulder nodded, eyes on the sheet covering the body, caught up in 
the potential scenarios flashing before his investigator's eyes.  
*Ritual death?  Ritual sacrifice?  A thin attempt to bring the 
legend to life?  Perhaps a seed of truth?  Or something else 
entirely...?*  "Yeah, I'd say, so.  So, we're off to Tennessee."  
And with his last words he lifted his gaze and caught Scully's 
clear blue gaze.

And all his excitement dissipated.  Not three tickets to 
Tennessee.  Not three.  She didn't do this anymore.  Her part of 
the job was done already.  She had walked away from the field 
work.  Stepped out of the game.  Out of that life.  *His life.*  
Two tickets...

Scully's gaze fell away, and Mulder couldn't tear his own from 
the tender lines at the corners of her eyes.

Michaels fell silent, deferring to the connection before him.

"Agent Michaels spoke with Skinner," Mulder said softly.  "He 
requested I be temporarily assigned to assist him with the case 
while Agent Brennan is out of town."

Scully nodded lightly without looking up.  The possibility must 
not have been news to her.

"Scully..." Mulder began softly, but he lost the words.

Scully caught a shallow breath, eyebrow lifted, gaze down.  
"I'll, uhmm...I'll get my official findings written up as soon as 
possible and get a copy up to Skinner.  I imagine he'll want to 
review it before signing off on the 302.  If I get it to him 
tonight, you may be able to leave by morning."

Mulder nodded, silently.

Scully turned away and began returning bottles he couldn't 
identify to their assigned places in the cabinets above the 
counter and sink.  She was too short to reach some of them.  He 
knew better than to offer help.

"All right, well...I'll go pull together the rest of the case 
file to put with your report for the A.D.," Michaels said.  
"Really appreciate the last minute help on this, Dana.  Didn't 
think we'd get another shot at this one."  She glanced over her 
shoulder, smiled briefly.  "Anytime."

Michaels started toward the door.  Mulder didn't move.  Scully 
picked up her clipboard and retrieved the audio tape of the 
autopsy proceedings.

When Michaels reached the threshold, he turned around, "You need 
a ride back, Mulder?" he asked.

Mulder flinched.  It was hefty cab fare from Quantico to the 
Hoover Building in rush hour, and Michaels had given him a ride 
over.  "Yeah, I'll be right there."

Scully was instantly onto his intentions.  She didn't want him to 
stay alone, didn't want to talk.  She turned and met his gaze, 
"Yeah, you go on," she said evenly.  "I'll see you tonight?"

He kept his back to Michaels, eyes narrowed, fighting to 
penetrate her facade.  At last he nodded slowly.  "Yeah.  I'll 
call you later?"

She nodded, but she wasn't looking at him anymore.  She was all 
pathologist.  And his stomach ached.

He turned and followed Michaels out into the hall.

And five paces later he turned on his heels and slammed back 
through the double doors and caught Scully utterly off guard with 
a kiss like it was the first time, lifting her off her feet and 
swinging her around like a paper doll, held tight to his lips.  
She kissed back, hard.  And a moment later, he let her go, 
landing her solidly on her feet, and turning without a word to 
push back through the still swinging doors, her rapid breaths 
carrying to his ears.  Michaels hadn't even made it to the 
elevator.


*****


She lay in the moonlight, listening to the chorus of life around 
her.  Christopher's soft breaths in his crib, Mulder's soft 
breaths in her hair.  Her insides still quivered with the 
aftershocks of Mulder's touch, muscles craving continued 
attention.

But sleep evaded her.

Not the case for Mulder.

Or so she thought.

"What's wrong?" he whispered.

Scully startled, jumping in his arms.  "Jesus, I thought you were 
sleeping."

"What's wrong?" his arm tightened around her stomach.

"Nothing," she breathed.  But it wasn't an answer and both of 
them knew it.

"Are you okay with this?" he asked.

She drew a deep breath, practiced in forcing evenness.  "With 
what?"

"With me working an X-File."

She closed her eyes.  "It's what you do, Mulder."

"It's what you do, too.  But you don't do it anymore."

"I left.  You didn't."

"You left to protect your child."

*My Christopher.*  "Yes.  I made that choice.  For me.  For my 
son."

Mulder was silent.  The apartment was silent.

"Mulder...I saw you this afternoon, last week...  Do you know how 
long it's been since I saw that spark in you?  That spark of 
adventure.  That gleam you get in your eye when you catch the 
scent of something unexplained, something you can sink your teeth 
into...the same man who painted orange X's in the rain and tried 
to make me believe in aliens over a decade ago."

"Scully..."

"And made me fall in love."

"*Scully...*"  His breath was hot on her neck.

"Mulder, this is what you do.  It's your gift.  It's what makes 
you...*Mulder*."

"*You* are what makes me Mulder."

She closed her eyes and let that sink into her skin like 
sunshine.  She turned in his arms and met his eyes in the 
moonlight.  "Mulder.  You have to do what you do.  Go.  Go...be 
Mulder."

The lines in his brow pulled at her.  "But, Scully...you gave up 
what we do, because you didn't want our work near your son."

She swallowed hard.  "I did.  But I've never asked you to do the 
same."

He held her gaze in deep silence, pulling at her thoughts, 
searching for her soul.  She kept her walls in place.

"It's one case," he said, softly.

She nodded.  "Go find the witch," she said with a soft smile.  
"I'll be here when you get home."

But he only frowned harder, contrasting the lightness of her 
tone.  "Are you sure?"

"Mulder.  Haven't I always been here?" she said.

He watched her for a long breath, then he pulled her to him for a 
fierce embrace.  She clung to him hard, face pressed into his 
shoulder, and it wasn't long until sleep took him again.

She was able to slip away with only an ineffectual fumbling of 
his hand toward her departing form before sleep reclaimed him in 
full.

She slipped on her robe and closed the door of the bathroom 
behind her.  She turned on the water to blur the sound.

She sat back against the counter and braced her hands on the cold 
Formica as she cried.

Half an hour later she was asleep against his warm skin.


*****


"Why is it always Gate 42.  Have you *ever* flown out of Gate 2?" 
Michaels asked, snapping his ticket straight and quickening his 
pace down the crowded terminal.

Mulder offered a dry smile.  "I had Gate 5 once, but it was my 
birthday, so I figured it was something about the alignment of 
the planets..."

Michaels laughed as he switched his suitcase handle to his 
outside hand to avoid a collision with Mulder's carry-on.

It was all Michaels could do not to remark on the notable change 
between Scully and Brennan when it came to slackening pace for 
her shorter legs in the midst of a desperate rush to the gate.  
With Mulder a good three inches above Michaels, he guessed the 
man could secretly relate; but Michaels judged it best to keep 
quiet.

It was obvious the former King and Queen of the X-Files were more 
than friends, these days.  And for that, he was infinitely happy 
for Dana.

The two men walked in silence until they reached the gate.  There 
were only a few seats left in the waiting area, but the boarding 
had not yet begun.  The lighted board above the attendant showed 
a ten minute delay.

Michaels dropped into the nearest available molded plastic chair 
and turned to take in the brilliant blue sky, streaked with the 
last traces of sunrise.  Off on another adventure.  Amanda hadn't 
even been awake when he had left this morning, mumbling 
unintelligibly to him as he had kissed her goodbye.  He would 
have to give her a call when they touched down in Nashville.

Mulder sat two chairs down, coats piled between them.  The taller 
man stretched his long legs out before him, already seeming 
cramped and uncomfortable in his surroundings before the 
restricting flight hours had begun.

"So, what do you think we're up against here?" Michaels asked.  
"Is this an X-File in the purest sense or just some whacko 
messin' with our heads?"

Mulder shook his head, hands folded on his stomach; chewing his 
lower lip as he contemplated his shoes.  "Too soon to tell.  
Probably nothing.  But there's a killer there either way.  And 
sometimes that's more of what the X-Files is about than anything-
-taking on the cases everyone else is too quick to laugh at 
before innocent people die."

Michaels nodded.  "I'll drink to that."

Mulder didn't reply.  He was gazing out across the crowd of 
waiting passengers.  Michaels focused in on a woman at the check-
in counter, pleading with the attendant.  "How can you say I'll 
still have a chance if you're already overbooked on every 
flight?"

"Ma'am, as I informed you, there are still a few minutes to the 
cut-off time for this flight, when we will make the final 
determination for our passengers on stand-by.  But as I've said 
before, this is a very popular flight, so I can't promise you a 
place.  You might have a better chance on our ten-fifteen flight-
-"

The woman sagged and walked away from the counter, dropping back 
against a nearby pillar and releasing her bag to her feet.

"Poor sucker," Gannon said with a sideways smile, and Mulder 
chuckled softly, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Mulder took a bag of sunflower seeds from his pocket and shook a 
few out into his hand.  His held his hand across to Michaels.  
"Seed?" he asked.

Michaels shook his head.  "No thanks.  They give me hives."

"Ooo.  Sorry."  Mulder retracted his hand, dumped the seeds into 
his mouth and began cracking the shells between his molars.

The two men fell silent as they waited in the quiet coolness of 
the early hours.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we'd like to welcome you this morning to 
flight 1013 with service to Nashville and continuing service to 
Detroit.  At this time we would like to start boarding our First 
Class passengers."

Michaels glanced at his ticket, registered that he would be in 
the next to last group to board, and pulled a crossword puzzle 
out of the outside pocket of his carry-on.  

Mulder pulled his legs closer and leaned forward, forearms 
resting on his knees.

The flight was boarding group two and Michaels was contemplating 
what a four letter Egyptian beverage could possibly be when 
Mulder straightened up beside him.

"I gotta go," he said with a definitive crack of a sunflower 
seed.  He pushed to his feet and grabbed his jacket.

"Go?  What's going on?"  Michaels dropped his crossword onto his 
suitcase and shoved to the edge of his chair.

Mulder stepped a few paces forward without a reply.  He leaned 
toward the stand-by woman still resting against the column, 
flipping through a small address book and punching numbers into 
her cell phone.  He tapped her on the shoulder with his ticket.

"Take this up to the counter," he said simply.  "Go to 
Nashville."

The woman's eyes widened; her fingers tentatively brushed the 
proffered ticket but were hesitant to grasp.

"Take it," Mulder prompted.  "I can't use it."

"Mulder..." Gannon prompted from behind.

But the woman was taking the ticket and starting to thank Mulder 
with innocent wonder.  Mulder nodded dismissively and turned away 
to pick up his bag.

Gannon pushed to his feet.  "Mulder, what's going on?  Where are 
you going?"

Mulder turned and met Michaels' gaze intently and respectfully.  
His green eyes were unnervingly piercing and it crossed Michaels' 
mind to wonder at the things this man had seen in his life, the 
utterly foreign lens through which he must view the same world.  
Michaels himself had only begun to tap at the surface of that 
world.

"I'm going home," Mulder said plainly.

The two men held eye contact for a long moment until Gannon 
narrowed his eyes and gave an almost imperceptible nod of 
understanding.

Mulder matched the gesture.  "Take care of The X-Files for me, 
will ya?" he said.  Then he popped another sunflower seed into 
his mouth and turned and walked away.

Michaels stood in the busy airport, missing the call for his 
boarding group as he watched the legendary Fox Mulder's figure 
blur into the crowd and vanish into the distance.

He turned and boarded the plane for Tennessee.

He had a witch to catch.


*****

(End Chapter 28.  Continued in the Epilogue...)
bstrbabs@gmail.com

-----------


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)


Epilogue:



**Time passes in moments.

Sensual breaths on the wind, treasured intimacies and storms of 
change.  Sometimes you can feel them as they happen.  Sometimes 
they crystallize with distance and memory.

I will miss Melissa for the rest of my life.  And Ahab.  And 
Emily.

*And Daniel...*

I will dream about the cramped and dusty little basement office 
at the J. Edgar Hoover building for as long as I breathe.

I will never pass a day of my life that is not colored by the 
sound of my heels slapping the wet pavement as I ran toward Deep 
Throat's prone figure.

We have done something with our lives, Mulder.  Something 
extraordinary.

You're not entirely out of the fight.  Neither am I.  We don't 
work isolated X-Files anymore.  No more sewer monsters or spooks 
or reincarnations or invisible men.  Though, it's not unusual to 
get a call from Michaels and Brennen on a lazy Sunday morning and 
throw them a few helpful hints from our endless store of morbid 
and arcane knowledge, all the while hoping Christopher is not 
really listening to what we say.  But the real fight.  The fight 
against colonization.  The fight for the future.  We're not out 
of that yet.  I don't think we ever will be.  It's part of our 
past.  Part of our blood.  If we didn't continue that fight, we 
might be keeping Christopher safer for today and tomorrow.  But 
not for his future.  And not for his children's future.  We stay 
low profile as much as we can.  Until Christopher is older.  
Until he can be taught a little more about the world he lives in.  
And how it's just a little bit different than the one his friends 
live in.

I wish he didn't have to live that way.  But I am selfish.  I 
want to raise a child.  My life is what it is.  And there is no 
way to keep my child anything less than a part of my life.  In 
the end, Spooky Jr. must inherit the remnants of the life Lord 
and Lady Spooky have built.

You vanish now and then.  For days at a time.  You tell me you'll 
be back.  Sometimes you tell me where you've been, what more 
we've learned.  Sometimes you don't.  That's not new.

I wouldn't trade my current life for the world.  But 
sometimes...sometimes, when the wind smells of a coming storm, 
and the streetlights are glittering on the rain dampened streets, 
and a shadow glimmers at the mouth of an alley--I want to just 
get in the car and drive.  Get in the car beside you and throw 
caution to the wind and drive off on the adventure, stay in a 
scuzzy motel room and struggle with small-minded local cops and 
climb inside elephants and chase phantoms into damp trees.  I 
want to pull my weapon and hear you pull yours beside me.  I want 
to leave sunflower seeds on the cheap and worn comforter of the 
extra bed in our motel rooms.  I want to run in heels and get 
blood on my white silk blouse.  I want to patch your wounds with 
a makeshift med kit from a motel office.  I want to be Mulder and 
Scully.  Sometimes I stand out in the night and breathe in that 
pregnant air, and tell myself the dampness on my cheeks is the 
first drops of the impending rain.

But in the end, I climb the stairs to our apartment.  To 
Christopher.  To you.

It may not always be this way.  Five years from now we may all be 
on the run.  We may be chasing through corn fields in South 
America.  We may be living underground and carrying cases of 
vaccine against the black oil and dreaming of the soft couch in 
our quiet living room.

But it's all about the moments.  The snapshots of life that stay 
with you for all the days to come.

Hitting your body with mine, rain drowning our senses.

Closing my eyes on the dance floor, your hand so tender against 
the small of my back.

The smell of your cologne in the upholstery of my car.

The sound of your breath in the darkness of my bedroom.

Christopher pulling up on the coffee table for the first time and 
you looking more ecstatic than you did when you learned my cancer 
was in remission.

Waking up to the feel of your lips on my spine.

Melvin Frohike crying when I finally asked him back into our 
apartment for dinner.

The wind in Christopher's face as he smiled so brilliantly at the 
kite you flew for him in the park.

The pain of the injections; the fire beneath my skin and your 
protective arms pulling the ache from my flesh.

James Maley's eyes tracking my every motion and breath at the 
hearing.

Standing beside my car afterward for a good ten minutes, 
motionless, cocooned in your trench coat, sheltered by your arms; 
remembering to breathe, scars burning on my arm.

Your mouth drinking from my breast.

I have loved you for so long, Mulder.  I knew that.  I didn't 
know I could barely keep my feet beneath me without you close by.

I thought the X-Files was something I would one day leave.  I 
thought someday in the future my life would shift away from this 
bizarre and foreign terrain, and take me back home.

I didn't realize home is not the place you began.  Home is the 
place you hope to find.

Home was something you couldn't find when we met.  Maybe that was 
the truth we were both looking for.

But now...when I stand at the water's edge and I feel the soft 
touch of Emily's fingers against my palm, and I remember the 
smell of my Mom's perfume on the day my father's ashes scattered 
across the water, and the wind turns cold and my inner eye 
flashes through needles and white lights and cold medical tables 
and rough hands on my skin--I reach back and my hand meets your 
warm flesh.

And for me...that is the final piece of the quest.

Mulder?  Baby?  I think we're home.**


******

End of "Water's Edge"
bstrbabs@gmail.com

Edgeheads--I love you all.
Look to the "Water's Edge" website in the next couple of weeks 
for extensive thanks to all those who helped with and contributed 
to this project, as well as production notes, song lists, 
alternate scenes, and a plethora of other behind-the-scenes 
information.
This has been an amazing ride, and I could not have done it 
alone.
Words cannot express my gratitude to my tireless and timeless 
betas: MaybeAmanda, SheaClaire, Carol, Miriam, HelenHighwater (my 
marvelous mother:)) and my Darling Husband Lankshire.  They deserve 
more credit than I have the financial where-with-all to give.

We made it!!!!:):)  I hope you all had even a fraction of the fun 
reading that I have had writing!:)