<![CDATA[
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "The Calm After The Storm" (Sequel to "Coming Back")
Date: Sun, 5 Nov 95 21:01:03 -0500
The Calm After The Storm (1/3)
By Karen Rasch (krasch@delphi.com)
This little ditty is the sequel to "Coming Back" which was
posted awhile back and can be found at Vincent's archive at
Ohio State. You really should read "CB" first to get a feel for
what's going on here. This story picks up with the morning
after. It is rated PG-13, no X-File (although I do hope to work
on one of those someday), no sex, some UST, lots of character
bonding, and no reference to Season III episodes. These
characters are not mine, they belong to CC and company, and
are used without permission. No offense intended. As
always, please let me know what you think. I would especially
like to know if you feel like this story is a logical progression
of what has come before it. You guys have been terrific thus
far when it comes to feedback. Please continue (I can be
found at krasch@delphi.com). As any writer on this newsgroup
will tell you, it means a lot. Special thanks on this one to Helen
who knows a few dead baby chickens go a long way, and to
all the writers who have contacted me offering praise,
encouragement, and constructive criticism. I hope I am half
as good as most of you. Enjoy.
* * * * * * * *
What she noticed first was the warmth. She had been
so cold lately, both inside and out, that the gentle, lulling heat
felt like a blessing. Although what she had done to deserve
such a gift she couldn't say. Deciding not to question her good
fortune, Dana Scully smiled with pleasure, snuggled into the
sofa's plump yet worn cushions, and dozed. The heat seeped
into her pores, surrounding her, drowning her in its healing
embrace. It was wonderful, this sensation of being cocooned,
of nestling in comfort and safety. She had no idea how long she
laid there. Part of her, the sensible no-nonsense side she
habitually showed to the world nudged her to rise. Nothing is
ever accomplished by wasting the day in bed, it lectured sternly.
Her brow furrowed in annoyance. Not yet, pleaded another
softer, needier side of her personality. Not so soon. Just let me
rest a few more minutes. Rest was important, precious, she was
certain of it. And yet, she couldn't quite put her finger on why
that was so. It was just that she felt so tired, so bone-weary.
What had she been doing . . . .?
Her eyes flickered open abruptly, and blinking away sleep,
surveyed her surroundings. Early morning light filtered in through
the cabin windows, soft and diffuse. The fire was out. Only a
handful of smoldering embers remained. The heat couldn't be
coming from there, she silently noted. She listened for a moment,
sleep's stubborn remnants making the task more difficult than it
should have been. Ever so faintly she heard the steady ticking of
a clock. The old electric one in the kitchen, she deduced with
drowsy satisfaction. Elementary, my dear Watson, she thought
wryly. The power must be back on. She let her eyes drift shut
again, content that certain mysteries had been solved, when all at
once she became aware of an even greater puzzle curled up along
side of her. She lay still, holding her breath. Her hair rustled
against the back of her neck, disturbed by a rush of air, warm and
moist against her skin. The sensitive network of nerves excited
by the contact ignited chills that traced their way down her back.
She released her breath, and waited. Not quite ready to turn from
where she lay on her side facing the hearth, Scully glanced down
the length of the couch. From her ribs to her toes she was covered
by an old wool stadium blanket that her aunt and uncle had always
kept tossed over the back of the sofa for those looking to ward
away the evening's chill. Firmly holding the blanket in place across
her middle was a man's arm. She studied the hand dangling from
the end of the arm. Even though her mind was still muddied by
sleep, she instantly recognized the strong elegant fingers, the
supple bend of the wrist.
Mulder. The realization that she did not lay on the sofa
alone, that her partner laid behind her, his long frame settled
protectively along her back like a cape, gave her a start.
Immediately, the hand she had so recently admired flexed and
pulled her possessively against him, his palm low on her belly.
He slept still, unaware that his concern for her extended to
those hours when he caught his own infrequent snatches of rest.
Bemused, Scully relaxed into his arms, and considered
her predicament. She distinctly remembered falling asleep the
previous evening with the couch against her back, not her partner.
Sometime during the night she must have literally rolled right
over the top of him. She grimaced in embarrassment. That
wasn't like her. She was usually such a still sleeper. Mulder
would probably never let her live it down.
Then, as slumber slowly slipped away, she remembered
much more about the night before. Foggy images solidified, their
clarity ultimately piercing. The thunderstorm. A ferocious
example of its kind, yet hardly life-threatening. However, the
previous evening she had been in no condition to recognize that
distinction. A terrible irrational fear had clutched her to its
bosom, thwarting her attempts to escape it. Blind panic had
possessed her, like the most unholy of spirits. Her emotions
had been laid open, stripped bare, leaving her no weapons, no
armor with which to combat her terror.
And he had been there. The man who blanketed her
body with his own, his breath even and soothing against her
nape, his arm thrown heavily across her, enveloping her in his
scent, his heat. The knowledge that he had witnessed her
wallowing in her weakness distressed her. And yet without him,
she honestly didn't know where she'd be. Probably more than
halfway to death by exposure, she acknowledged to herself grimly.
Mulder had said he had discovered her wandering in the woods.
She remembered little of her flight. She must have been pretty far
gone. She had pulled her gun on him. Or she thought she had
. . . . something Mulder had said . . . and vague impressions of
staring down her Sig's barrel into her partner's bewildered eyes
haunted her.
What had she become, she thought miserably. Who
was this person whose existence had spun so frighteningly out
of control? She scarcely recognized herself these days when she
looked in the mirror. Gone was the confident doctor, the fearless
government agent. In her place was a pale, slender woman whose
shadowed eyes had seen too much and held far too many
questions. Sometimes she would step back and look at her life as
if she were watching the heroine in one of those B grade horror
movies, the type that Mulder got such a kick out of. She'd see
herself unable to stomach food, or afraid to go to sleep at night
for fear of what her dreams might hold, and she would want to
shout at this other self, "Do something! Get out of there!"
much the way a Saturday matinee crowd knowingly calls out
advice as they watch the token nubile young thing tiptoe
upstairs alone to investigate the suspicious noise coming from
the attic. However, just like that Jamie Lee Curtis wannabe, she
had ignored all warnings, had rejected all the sensible alternatives
available to her to rectify her situation. She hadn't confided her
troubles to anyone, she hadn't sought professional help. Instead,
she had continued blithely on, pretending that if she just held on
long enough, all her problems would work themselves out. She
would miraculously return to her old self and everything would
be fine. Only it wasn't fine. She had almost died out here, a
victim of her own panic. And what was worse, she had nearly
taken Mulder's life as well.
The possibility that she might have harmed him, a man
who meant the world to her, prompted a surge of moisture to her
eyes. Angrily, she blinked it back. Damn it all to hell! It seemed
that all she did lately was cry. How ironic really that she, a
woman who prided herself on being able to keep up with the big
boys without breaking a sweat, would fall prey to that most
feminine of weaknesses, tears. She despised herself when that
happened. It played into all those myths the powers-that-be
conjured to keep women in their place: Women need to be
sheltered, protected. They shouldn't be allowed to get involved
in matters that will only wind up upsetting them. They're
emotional creatures, after all. It's genetic. Better they should
use those softer tendencies to their best advantage; to nurture
their children and look after a home.
Well, she had showed them, hadn't she. She had done it
all, and asked no quarter. From an early age she had shunned the
traditional avenues travelled by her sister, her female classmates.
Instead of playing dolls and dress-up with Melissa, she had
chased after her brothers; pestered them to teach her how to fire
a gun, bait a hook, climb a tree. And because their petite red-
headed sibling had given as good as she got, the Scully brothers
had tolerated her company when they had built their forts or
slept out under the stars. Her father had approved of her pastimes,
had told her mother it would build her character, toughen her up.
Eyes always dim with doubts, Margaret Scully had in the end
reluctantly offered her encouragement as well.
Dana had basked in that approval, and her need to excel
in the strange and exciting world of men had increased. Always
an excellent student, she had gravitated towards the heretofore
understood male realm of science, then had taken that interest
one step further by pursuing medicine. Ultimately, her studies
had focused upon forensic pathology, hardly a discipline
flooded with women. And, as if all the years of schooling hadn't
been enough to prove her ability, her worth--both to herself and
others--upon graduation she had joined that last bastion of
male-dominated law enforcement, the F.B.I., over the objections
of her previously doting father.
Staring into the cold stone hearth, she considered that
unprecedented breach between her beloved Ahab and herself.
She always believed she hadn't consciously rebelled when she
had chosen the Bureau over medicine. But, unconsciously,
unknowingly, could she have been trying to send a signal to
her parents, to all who had thought they had Dana Katherine
Scully all figured out? Could she have been attempting to
announce to the world that she was, after all was said and done,
her own person? And, more importantly, might that possible
desire to veer away from what was expected of her have indeed
resulted from spending a lifetime trying to please her loving,
but demanding father?
She chewed her bottom lip as she mulled over the
possibilities, her eyes dark and troubled. Well, regardless of
what once might have been, she certainly didn't please many
people these days, she determined finally, succeeding in
silencing for now the questions that always seemed to hover
at the edge of her awareness. Her mother, supportive and
caring as ever, was in no way happy with her younger
daughter's chosen career. Although she respected Dana far
too greatly to ever try to influence her decisions. As partners,
she and Mulder were constantly at odds with Skinner and the
rest of the Bureau's brass. She had drifted apart from many of
her friends, her schedule and the psychological and physical
demands of her job separating her from them more surely than
miles ever could. Her siblings were scattered to the four corners
of the globe and so busy with their own lives and concerns that
they rarely had the chance to talk about even the most trivial
matters. Besides, how could she tell any member of her family
what really went on in the course of her work with the X-Files?
<What did I do this week, Mom? Well, let's see . . .
there was that serial killer, Eugene Tooms. Well, actually I don't
know if you can call him a serial killer. Mulder likes to refer to
him as a mutant. After all, he is genetically driven to kill and eat
the livers of his victims. He needs them in order to hibernate.
How long? Oh, decades at a time. Fascinating case. Did I
mention he tried to kill me by breaking into my apartment
through the heating vent?>
No, the people and phenomenon she routinely
encountered on the job were not the sort of things one could
bring up in polite conversation the way a teacher might mention
an amusing student or a dentist an especially trying patient. No
one could truly understand what she faced on a daily basis.
No one except Mulder.
She smiled softly. Her partner. What a strange and
aggravating man he could be at times. Brilliant, yes. Passionate
about his beliefs. Always ready to jump to the most outlandish
conclusions based on nothing more than a hunch and gift for
seeing the big picture. He was reckless. Foolishly so. Taking
chances no sane agent would dare attempt. Endangering his life.
But not hers. Not if he could help it.
No. He might ditch her faster than an empty beer bottle,
but he never took those crazy gambles with her life, preferring
instead to risk particularly dangerous situations on his own. He
was protective of her. Especially since her disappearance.
Almost to a fault. She knew that for someone as fiercely
independent as she, such action on his part should sting her
pride, or at the very least compel her to lay down some ground
rules for the gray flannel-clad Mother Hen. And yet she couldn't
find it in her to read Mulder the riot act. She recognized his
actions for what they were, an outgrowth of his feelings for her.
A reflection of their friendship . . . or whatever it was they had
between them. She found it difficult to come up with a truly
accurate description for their relationship. In the end, she
simply found it touching that he cared.
Perhaps it was the way he conveyed his concern. He
never made her feel incompetent or weak. Instead, he somehow
managed to let her know without saying a word that he was
there for whatever she might need from him; whether it be
someone to guard her back in a darkened alley, a particularly
awful joke to get her through a tense situation, or a reassuring
hug to chase away the demons. Although he wasn't above
suggesting that she back off or take some time for herself, he
respected her enough to let her set her own limits. He treated
her as an equal, even as he opened doors for her or shepherded
her into a room with a gentle hand on her elbow. The corner of
her mouth turned up in wry half-smile. Count on Mulder, a man
whose chief form of entertainment was his immense library of
pornographic videos, to muster the manners of a charm school
graduate when it suited him.
But at the same time, she acknowledged, he didn't treat
her with kid gloves, didn't enshrine her on a pedestal. Often, the
verbal sparring that made up a good percentage of their non-work
related conversation took on a decidedly sexual undertone. After
a particularly pointed remark, she would catch him watching her
intently, looking as if he was wondering whether he had finally
succeeded in putting a chink in the armor of her composure.
Usually, she could stare back coolly, raising an eyebrow in
challenge. <You'll have to do better than that, Mulder, that look
would silently say. I have two brothers. Both Navy men.> But
every once in awhile he would surprise her, and her eyes would
widen in shock while her mind frantically tried to dicipher the
meaning behind his words.
<I think it's remotely plausible that someone might
think you're hot.>
Where did that sort of teasing come from, she wondered
even as the weight of his arm reminded her of his nearness. Were
the words meant playfully, designed merely to throw her off
balance, to upset her normally unruffled exterior? Or might there
be some kernel of truth to his banter?
And more importantly, why should it matter, Dana
Katherine, she thought with a put-upon sigh, her brow darkening
in vexation. It isn't as if you and Mulder have any sort of a future
as a couple. That kind of relationship is strictly beyond the realm
of consideration. He's your partner. Your friend. Besides, you
know him far too well to ever get involved with him. At your
most basic levels you two are diametrically opposed to one
another. Hell, he'd drive you nuts in a matter of days. He makes
a much better best friend than potential lover.
Best friends make the best lovers, sang a tiny little
voice inside her head.
Good lord, she thought in consternation, what the
hell had brought this on?
Hmm, said another more worldly internal speaker, could
it be because you're laying wrapped in the arms of the man in
question? Scully didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Of course
the fact that she could feel Mulder pressed intimately against her
was influencing her train of thought. It was obvious. She was
waaaay more physically aware of him than she should be. She
couldn't escape the sensation of his warm body, boneless in
sleep, resting against her own smaller form, his arm imprisoning
her ever so sweetly in his embrace. Every breath he took stirred
the hair on the back of her neck , bringing his chest against her
back with a firm steady pressure. Her buttocks rested solidly in
the cradle of his hips. Their legs, his so much longer than hers,
lay tangled beneath the faded blanket in a jumble of knees and feet.
Her eyes strayed again to his hand. Without really
understanding the attraction, she had always found her partner's
hands strangely appealing. She would catch herself noting them
on the steering wheel as the two of them drove in yet another
rented automobile, or when his fingers pounded the keyboard
of his computer in a staccato rhythm, or as he delicately
maneuvered chopsticks (a feat she had never quite mastered)
while they dined on Chinese take-out at their desks, surrounded
by the usual mounds of official documents and files. Closing
her eyes for a moment, she remembered the gentle caress of
that hand through her hair the night before, its touch light and
soothing, almost hypnotic in the pleasure it engendered.
Perhaps that was what was really compelling, she realized, her
eyes popping open in response to the thought. Maybe what she
found so blastedly fascinating wasn't Mulder's hands at all, but
rather the touch of them on her skin.
A rush of heat that had nothing whatsoever to do with
temperature poured through her body like melted butter. Oh my,
she thought in horrified wonder. When did your view of your
partner become quite so . . . carnal, Agent Scully?
She squirmed ever so slightly, her unsettling reflections
affecting her physically now too. For his part, Mulder merely
sighed, and slipping out the hand he had kept tucked beneath
his cheek, tunneled his fingers through her tousled hair.
Scully swallowed the need to giggle. This was going
from bad to worse. If he pulled her any more closely against him,
they would soon merge into one body. Not surprisingly, with the
way her thoughts were running, she didn't find the idea all that
unappealing. Of course, all she had to do to end this farce was
to get up from the couch.
But, she didn't want to do that. Not just yet.
Why did she linger, she wondered. What was it that
made this stolen interlude so difficult to surrender? Her lips
flattened in disgust as the answer came readily to mind.
She was lonely.
Not for companionship or friendship. Mulder supplied
both of those generously, and on a regular basis. No. What
she missed, what she wanted was something more. Something
deeper. Something romantic. Something physical.
So you use your best friend. Sure, he's dead to the
world, but he's a warm body, right?
No! She angrily, yet silently, rejected that idea. With
the exception of her immediate family, she cared for Mulder more
than anyone. She would open her own veins before she would
willingly hurt or use him.
So, then this cuddling, this desire to prolong the physical
pleasure to be had in his arms comes as a result of real emotions
directed towards him specifically?
She nearly cringed while mulling that one over. Could
she go that far? Could she admit to feelings for her partner that
went beyond simple friendship?
Well, she knew she found good-looking. Who wouldn't?
Although she might tire of having to perpetually tilt her head back
to look him in the eye, she loved his body's long lean lines. He
had world class eyes, their ever-changing color a subtle clue to
his mood, his emotions. And his mouth. Her eyebrows raised in
silent testimony to the effect that full lower lip had on her peace
of mind. What had she told her girlfriend soon after being paired
with Mulder? Funny, the description now seemed rather tame in
retrospect. Ah yes--she had found him *cute*.
And a jerk.
She smiled to herself. She had been forced to rescind
that last comment soon after the words had left her mouth.
Mulder might be many things--single-minded, disrespectful of
authority, an All-Pro smart ass--but not a jerk. Not really.
Not to her.
She replayed in her mind the many kindnesses he had
done her during their time together. Some were small,
insignificant perhaps in the greater scheme of things: handing
her a cup of coffee in the morning, prepared just the way she
liked it, without her having to ask him; sharing his umbrella
with her to protect her from a sudden unexpected downpour.
Others showed the true measure of the man. His refusing to
let her go in after Tooms when they had discovered his lair
beneath the escalator. <You can get the next mutant.> His
willingness to let her examine him at the North Pole after she
had betrayed his trust and pulled a gun on him. The night she
remembered only in a watercolor haze of impressions and half
understood words; when he had sat beside her hospital bed
and lent her his strength, willing her to choose life and him
over the soothing sanctuary of death.
She blinked rapidly as tears threatened again. And
what about last night, Dana, she asked herself, a healthy dose
of self-loathing coloring the question. How many people do
you know would go to such lengths to secure your safety?
How many men would drive through the night in a blinding
storm, face down a gun, and then manage to comfort a person
for whom a bolt of lightning is the equivalent of an atomic bomb?
How many of your friends would do that for you?
And who else would you rather have bring you back?
Impatiently, she wiped away a single tear that had
managed to escape her vigilant restraint. It was for that sort of
thing, that kind of loyalty and devotion and--whether he
recognized it in himself or not--decency that she valued the man
who laid behind her. The other stuff was just icing on the cake.
Having come to that understanding, she knew she could
no longer take advantage of his unwitting physical solace. Trying
to move so as not to wake him, she rolled slowly towards the edge
of the sofa, saying a silent prayer of thanks when she felt his
fingers slide easily through her hair. That conversation with God
came to an abrupt end, however, when she found there was
something terribly wrong with her legs.
* * * * * * * *
===========================================================================
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "The Calm After The Storm" 2/3
Date: Sun, 5 Nov 95 21:01:45 -0500
The Calm After The Storm (2/3)
By Karen Rasch (krasch@delphi.com)
Standard issue disclaimer can be found at the start of Part I.
Again, please forward all feedback to the above address.
Thanks for reading.
* * * * * * * *
"Oh!"
Mulder was awake before her knees hit the floor.
"Scully? What is it? What's wrong?
Not quite sure how she got there, Scully found herself
on all fours, staring at the rag rug beneath her. "I don't know.
I . . . um . . . my legs wouldn't cooperate when I went to get up."
It suddenly felt as if perhaps her arms were about to follow suit.
Sighing, she sat back on her heels and looked at her partner with
frustration. "I feel like I've been beaten."
Mulder swung his legs over the edge of the couch and,
stifling a yawn with his hand, looked at her with concern. His
gaze was soft in the cabin's early morning shadows, his hair
standing at gravity-defying angles, his jawline shaded with
stubble. "Well, you put yourself through a lot over the past few
days. Lack of sleep, lack of food, your mad dash through the
woods. The way you were shivering alone was probably enough
to tie your muscles in knots. How are you feeling?"
Scully tucked a fall of hair behind her ear and mentally
took inventory of her condition. "Tired, still. A little light-headed,
but not bad. The worst part of it is my muscles. Just lifting my
hand above my shoulder is a chore. Otherwise, I think I'm okay."
Mulder reached out and laid his palm on her forehead.
"You don't feel feverish? You're sure?"
"I said I'm okay, Mulder," Scully said with a self-
conscious half-smile. He nodded at her a bit uncertainly and
removed his hand from her face. She immediately missed its
warmth. A small smile stretched his lips, and with his eyes never
leaving hers, he ran a hand through his hair as he considered her
plight. The action only made the short brown strands stand all
the more on end. Still, Scully had to admit, Mulder looked better
rumpled than most men did all showered, shaved, and pressed.
Imagining for the first time that morning what a fright she must
resemble, she mimicked his action, her fingers gliding through
her hair, and attempted once more to rise.
She fared no better this time. Her usual grace deserted
her, and with a flurry of limbs, she found herself once again on
the floor.
"So, this 'okay' is a relative term, Scully?" Mulder
ventured with a mixture of amusement and worry. Shaking
his head in surrender when she glared at him, he reached out
to reassure and steady her. "Jesus, Scully!" he said only an
instant after his fingers had closed around her slender shoulder.
"I've felt brick walls with more give. Come here."
She didn't have far to go to comply with his request.
Hesitating only for a moment, she scooted over to in front of him.
"Turn around."
She eyed him suspiciously. "This isn't where you drop
a bug down my back, is it?"
He smiled mildly. "Oh ye of little faith. Trust me, Scully.
I'm going to make you feel better."
"You've got some work to do on those lines of yours,
Mulder," she murmured wryly, even as she shifted awkwardly
to do as he had instructed.
"Why?" he asked dryly. "They always seem to work
on you."
She had a sharp-edged comment all loaded and ready
to fire, one guaranteed to wipe what she knew had to be a smug
smile from his face. Then, his hands closed around her shoulders.
"Oh!"
The pressure eased, then returned as his gentle hands
began coaxing suppleness from her rigid muscles. "Too hard?"
"No . . ." Her voice came out as something halfway
between a whisper and a groan.
"Good. Just let me know if I hurt you."
How could this hurt me, Scully wanted to ask him.
Nothing legal should feel this good. Where did Mulder learn
these things? She had been given shoulder rubs before by men
she had dated and by friends who had traded them during finals
week in college. But those people had been amateurs. The man
working on her at that moment was good. Very good. It felt as
if his hands were waking up her body, muscle by muscle. He
worked slowly, methodically. Sometimes kneading, sometimes
stroking, sometimes merely bearing down with his thumbs or
the side of his hand. She lost track of how long he spent
on her. Time became elastic. They didn't speak. Only their
breathing and the rasp of cloth against skin serving as
counterpoint to the continuing tick-tock of the kitchen clock.
She rested wearily against his leg. He hunched over her, intent
on his task. Gradually, his hands drifted down, and spread heat
and life to the area surrounding her shoulder blades, her lower
back. Scully bent over at the waist to accommodate him, her
forehead nearly touching the floor, her arms hanging heavy
and forgotten by her side.
"Lie down on your stomach."
Scully shifted to do as Mulder requested, grateful for
the throw pillow he handed her from the couch on which to place
her cheek. Once she was settled comfortably on the rug, he
slipped down from his perch on the sofa, and throwing a leg
over her thighs, knelt above her, straddling her hips. She still
didn't look at him, preferring instead to close her eyes and
focus on the sensations filtering through her body like a warm
summer rain. In truth, she was afraid of what her eyes might
reveal. She was enjoying this way more than she should. It
was almost as if Mulder had somehow been privy to all her
private reveries regarding his hands and their effect on her body.
She shifted beneath him, uncomfortable with such an idea, and
wondered if he could see her blushing. Her only consolation
was, that although she couldn't be certain, she thought perhaps
he wasn't entirely indifferent to her either.
"Breathe with me now," he murmured while he worked
out a particularly stubborn knot at the base of her spine. She did
as she was told, taking in and expelling air through her mouth as
if she were giving birth.
It seemed to her that his breathing had also become a
bit more belabored. Ragged. Harsh. And was it her imagination,
or did Mulder's voice sound as if it had dropped a bit in pitch?
He leaned in over her then to gently knead her upper
arms where they lay on the floor, framing her head. His breath
tickled her ear, the heat from his body blanketing her like a cloud.
Deftly, he maneuvered the muscles in her arms, handling them
with care. Finally, he took his hands, and starting at her shoulders,
ran them down the length of her arms until they lay atop her own.
He repeated the action. The third time his hands came to rest
above hers, their fingers intertwined. Before, she even realized
she had done so, Scully gave Mulder a little squeeze. Keeping
their hands joined for a moment, Mulder squeezed back.
Then, with a quick clearing of his throat, he released
her hands and pushed himself up, scrambling back to kneel
beside her knees. Neither of them moved for a moment. Finally,
he started in on her calves.
While he worked, Scully focused on her breath, trying
to still the voice that kept reminding her how long it had been
since a man had touched her as thoroughly as Mulder had been
doing for the past however many minutes. Oh, for crying out
loud, she silently bellowed, he is giving me a massage! That's
all. I am hurting, and he is trying to do something about it. We
are both fully clothed. There is nothing sexual about this. I mean--
This is =Mulder= we're talking about here!
The man who was the subject of this voiceless outburst
had advanced his ministrations to her thighs, the area of her body
that felt the most abused. Scully found herself having to grip the
throw pillow on which she rested to keep from using her hands
to push his away. Mulder saw her struggle as he patiently
kneaded her unyielding muscles.
"Am I hurting you?" he asked softly.
"Not yet," she admitted in a low voice. "But it feels like
at any moment you could."
Mulder chuckled. "I'll be careful, I promise. Try and
relax. Keep breathing."
"Believe me--if I stopped, you'd notice," Scully muttered,
eyes still closed, her brow wrinkled in concentration.
Although she couldn't see his face, she imagined he
smiled at her quip. Regardless of his facial reaction, however,
his touch eased a bit as if to accommodate her worries.
Unfortunately, Scully found, much to her dismay, that his
gesture had an effect opposite of what he intended. Rather
than making her feel better, more assured, less threatened, the
lightness of his touch only made her vastly more jumpy. Before,
when he had worked her muscles in firm, impersonal strokes,
she could tell herself she was clearly the recipient of a medicinal
body rub. Nice, soothing, safe. Now, however, with his fingers
gliding teasingly over her thighs, his thumbs making dizzying
little circles up her leg, the lines were blurred. She was feeling
entirely too good in entirely the wrong way. The longer it
continued, the more trouble she was having remembering what
exactly they were doing in the first place. It was all she could
do to keep her hips from rocking restlessly beneath him.
Then, his hand slipped.
Mulder had finally finished with the circles and had
progressed to long strokes up the back of her thighs using the
vees between his thumbs and forefingers as tools. Starting
just above her knees, he had leaned his weight into it, and had
slowly run his hands up her legs. This was more like it, she
had thought, breathing far more easily. The pressure was once
again solid and powerful against her. She could feel her muscles
loosening, and whimsically imagined the blood flowing more
freely throughout her tired body. She had just been able to
release her death grip on the pillow, when Mulder had misjudged
his leverage. His slow glide up her legs suddenly sped up, only
to come to an abrupt halt.
With his hands cupping her behind.
For an instant, they both froze. Mulder had a tough
time extricating himself from his awkward pose as he had been
using his upper body to add power to the massage. Consequently,
his balance was off, with the bulk of his weight resting directly
atop a rather personal portion of his partner's anatomy. For her
part, Scully was pinned, and was therefore compelled to wait for
Mulder to make his move. When that didn't happen quickly
enough for her taste, she decided she better hurry matters along.
"Mulder, get off me!"
With a bit of a push and a jerk, he finally managed to do
just that. "Sorry."
Scully hoisted herself to a sitting position with arms that,
while they were still a bit shaky, were a marked improvement over
what they had been when she had first attempted to rise. Taking
a deep breath, she turned to glower at her partner. He sat
sprawled on the floor beside her, resting on his arms, his
sweatshirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his stocking-clad
feet stuck out in front of him. The blasted man had the
beginnings of a smile teasing his lips.
"Oops," he said with a shrug, a lift of his eyebrows, and
far too innocent eyes.
The smile proved contagious, and Scully found herself
joining him, marveling not for the first time at what a real grin
did for Mulder's already attractive face. The strangely
dangerous mood that had permeated the room dissipated
like mid-morning fog. "You've been holding out on me, Mulder,"
she said finally, her smile mellowing to a slight twist of her lips.
"Who knew you had such hidden talents?"
"The information was always there, Scully," he rejoined
mildly, his smile also lingering. "All you had to do was ask."
"How 'bout if I ask you this instead?"
"What?"
"Would you give me a hand off the floor? I think I'm
ready to give it another try."
Mulder nodded, and with enviable ease, stood. Crossing
to her, he extended his hands. Scully grasped them gratefully, and
with a gentle tug from Mulder, wobbled to her feet. "You all
right?" he asked quietly, his hands having moved to just above
her elbows to steady her, his face leaning into hers. "Do you
want to sit down?"
She shook her head. "I'm not an invalid, Mulder," she
murmured a bit more testily than she had intended. "I'm fine.
Really I am. Watch--I bet I can even walk."
She freed herself from his hold and took a few tentative
steps away. "See? Good as new." She looked over her shoulder
at her partner with a determinedly bright smile. Although he
nodded, he didn't look the least bit convinced. To be honest,
she wasn't all that sure herself. She felt as if she had just run a
marathon. And the light-headedness she had complained about
earlier was conspiring to shimmy the room ever so slightly before
her eyes. But she wasn't about to let that stop her. Her physical
weakness was beginning to grate on her. And she'd be damned
if Mulder was going to have to resort to carrying her from place
to place.
"Mind if I get in the shower first?" she finally asked
when it seemed as if Mulder was never going to end his silent
contemplation of her.
He gave her a short smile and shook his head. "No.
Go right ahead. I'll get breakfast started."
"Sounds good. Thanks, Mulder."
"Oh, Scully?"
She stopped a couple of feet away from the bathroom
door. "What?"
Mulder stood with his hands on his hips, his eyes
unreadable. "When you take your shower, don't skimp on the
hot water."
Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why?"
He shrugged. "It'll help keep your muscles soft."
She nodded, smiled, then turned away, intent on
retrieving some fresh clothes to take with her into the bathroom.
"After all," she thought she heard Mulder faintly mumble
as he headed away from her and into the kitchen. "I don't plan
on using much of it myself."
* * * * * * * *
Scully wished she could say that she had emerged
from her shower a new woman. Sadly, that wasn't the case.
True, she was cleaner. Soaping up her hair had proved especially
gratifying. But, in the midst of her ablutions she had been
mortified to discover that she couldn't make it through an entire
shower without sitting down. Her legs had stubbornly battled
her will, and finally won, forcing her to rinse from a seated
position on the floor of the tub. Climbing up and out of that
locale had posed still greater challenges, porcelain being a far
from friendly surface, especially when slicked with suds. And
yet, she had kept ever so carefully forging on, knowing that
should she go tumbling onto her behind, the resulting thud
would without a doubt bring Mulder bursting through the door,
privacy be damned. Vowing that she would rather die than let
her partner see her indisposed au natural, she somehow found
the strength and the traction to clamber out of the bathtub
unscathed. Her efforts had wearied her still further however, and
by the time she had plopped herself heavily down on the toilet
seat to dry her hair, she couldn't help but think just how
welcoming that ratty old couch seemed at that moment.
No, she told herself resolutely. I will not give in to this.
I can't lay around here all day. I need to get back. Mulder needs
to get back. We have jobs to return to, people who are expecting us--
Mom.
Pulling her legs into her oldest, most comfortable pair of
jeans, noting as she did so the way they gapped at the waistband,
and tugging a bulky forest green sweater over her head, she
finished getting dressed. Taking time only to re-bandage the
wound at her temple, she then padded into the great room in
her stocking feet.
"Mulder, what time is it?"
He looked up from a pan of scrambled eggs, and checked
his watch, "7:26. Why?"
"I need to call my mom," she said, leaning against the
couch to pull on her loafers. "She's got to be out of her mind with
worry."
"I tried calling her yesterday," Mulder admitted. "But
the phone was out. Couldn't get my cell phone to work either."
Scully nodded. "It's the mountains. We get some dead
pockets up here. Unfortunately, I think the cabin sits right in the
middle of one."
Mulder turned off the burner, and crossing over to the
wall phone next to the refrigerator, picked up the receiver. What
he heard made him grin. "Hey, must be your lucky day, Scully.
Electricity =and= telephone service."
"All the comforts of home," she murmured with a smile,
and walked stiffly over to take the phone from him. The hand-off
was awkward, her lack of mobility and the narrow confines of the
galley kitchen contributing to the problem. As she moved to step
around Mulder to reach the phone, her hips brushed lightly
against his, throwing her momentarily off balance. His hands
reached out to steady her, landing lightly on her waist. For a
heartbeat, neither moved. Then, looking up, she smiled her thanks.
He nodded, stepping back in silent apology. Their eyes held for
a moment; hers dropping away first, although her smile remained
fixedly in place.
As she dialed her mother's number, he said briskly, "Eggs
are ready. Bread is in the toaster. Coffee is on. I think there's still
some o.j. in the fridge."
She smiled, thinking that his terse recitation of their
breakfast menu reminded her of that old Saturday Night Live skit.
<Coke, no Pepsi>. Then, she heard her mother's voice.
"Hi, Mom. It's me. I hope I didn't wake you."
Mulder pointed to himself, then gestured towards the
bathroom. She nodded. He grabbed his gym bag and exited the
room.
"Dana, honey. No, of course not. You know I'm always
up with the birds. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Mom," she lied smoothly. "There's nothing
to worry about. Everything is fine."
"Is Fox there?"
Hearing the shower start up in the bathroom, Scully
smiled. To her knowledge, outside of his immediate family, her
mother was the only person Mulder allowed to call him by his
first name. She had to admit, his granting such a privilege after
denying it to her, made her just the *teensiest* bit jealous.
After all, she didn't really understand his prejudice against his
name. True, it wasn't common. And, because of it, she had no
doubt he had suffered his share of teasing over the years. But
she found the very rarity of the moniker strangely fitting. She
couldn't imagine her one-of-a-kind partner with an ordinary
name like Bob or Tom. "Yeah, Mom. Mulder got up here
yesterday morning. I'm sorry we didn't call, but the phone
lines were down."
"Yes. Fox thought that might be the case. Why didn't
you two drive back yesterday?"
Think, Dana, think. "Oh, well . . . Mulder was tired
after driving all the way up here, and the weather didn't look
too promising, so we figured we'd wait and come back today."
"Don't the two of you have to be at work this morning?"
Trust Mom to state the obvious. Oh well, it looked like
she had another phone call to make as soon as she finished this
one. "I've still got time coming, Mom. And I think Mulder has
accumulated so many vacation days that he could probably
stop working now and collect a paycheck into the next century.
Skinner should be okay with it. I'll call him as soon as I hang up
with you."
"Okay. If you think it will be all right. Just call me when
you get back to D.C., will you? I want to know that you made it
back in one piece."
Scully smiled. "Okay. I will."
"All right, sweetheart. Dana . . . You're sure there's
nothing wrong? You had a good week?"
Scully really didn't like lying to her mother twice in one
phone call. "I'll tell you all about it when I get back, Mom.
I promise."
Margaret Scully pondered that enigmatic comment for
an instant. "Good. Come over to the house for dinner, why
don't you. I haven't seen you in ages."
Scully shook her head fondly. "It's a deal."
"Okay then. In the meantime, take care, honey. Drive
safely. And Dana--tell Fox thanks for me."
"I will, Mom," Scully murmured softly, wondering what
exactly her mother had said to Mulder to convince him to come
up to the cabin in the first place. "I'll talk to you soon. Bye now."
"Bye."
Scully sighed, listened to the phone click on the other
end, then ended the call herself. She knew her mother. The
woman may not hound her children with questions, but that
didn't mean she didn't have any. Margaret Scully was also no
fool. She had a sixth sense about her children, particularly
when one of them was in trouble or in pain.
Well lately, you've certainly been both of those, she
wryly said to herself as she dialed the Bureau's number from
memory. Oh, she knew without question that her mother was
wise to her. Much as she dreaded the deed, she also knew
that the kindest thing she could do would be to tell her mother
what had happened. As bad as the truth was, she had learned
from experience just how much worse a person's imagination
could make a situation. Certain details would have to be
omitted--she had no intention of telling her gentle mother how
she had pulled a gun on her best friend. But, in the long run,
it would be better for both the Scully women if she just came
clean.
Just as she came to that decision, she was connected
to the FBI switchboard and calmly requested Skinner's
extension. Feeling like a truant schoolgirl, she kept her fingers
crossed that her no-nonsense boss wouldn't yet be in. Her
luck held and she got his voicemail. As succinctly as possible,
she told the little white lie she had concocted while dialing:
She had gotten on the road last night and visibility had proven
so bad that she had decided to find a motel and wait out the
storm. She would return to the office tomorrow.
Good. That was done. Let Mulder come up with his
own story.
Hanging up the phone with satisfaction, she took a deep
breath and ambled over to the pan of eggs Mulder had left on the
stove, stirring them tentatively. They were still warm. She had to
admit, her partner had done a good job with them. Fluffy, yellow
with white flecks, not runny, but not rubbery. A very credible job
of scrambling.
It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep
from gagging.
The smell--the rich oily odor of fried butter and . . . never
to be hatched baby chickens.
Her reaction was ridiculous, she knew. She had eaten
eggs quite happily since childhood. For heavens sake, it wasn't
as if she was a vegetarian! She wasn't even one of those people
who restricted themselves to chicken and fish. Although she
watched what she ate, she loved a good steak, cooked medium
rare over a grill, like her father use to do when his family was
young. Every once in a great while, she would even indulge her
secret passion for McDonald's Quarter Pounders With Cheese.
Never had she had a problem with animal products.
Of course, that was before this whole nightmare began.
Before her body had begun rebelling against the things hidden
so deeply in her mind.
It's just because your stomach is empty, she told herself
calmly. You haven't eaten in awhile, and your system is reacting
overtime to the scent of food, that's all. Swallowing hard, she
forced herself to scoop a small spoonful of the eggs onto a plate
Mulder had thoughtfully set on the counter beside the stove.
She lowered the bread into the toaster, and retrieved a glass of
orange juice from the refrigerator before coming around to sit on
a stool at the breakfast bar, the plate in her hand. Through the
closed bathroom door, she heard Mulder turn off the shower.
Sipping the juice as if for strength, she contemplated the lumpy
yellow mound before her.
She'd have to at least take a stab at eating these.
Mulder had gone to the trouble of fixing them. It was only polite.
Besides, even though her partner usually kept his mouth shut,
trusting her to find her own way, she really didn't think he'd let
her lack of appetite go unnoticed or uncommented upon.
And he would be right, she thought with a frown. She
had to eat. She understood that intellectually.
Now, if she could only convince her stomach.
For a moment, she toyed with the idea of trying to ingest
something besides the dreaded eggs, which were even now
cooling and congealing on her plate. But nothing else seemed
any more attractive to her than what lay in front of her, and
besides, it was the principle of the thing--she wasn't going to let
a breakfast item beat her. Taking a deep breath, she picked up
her fork and skewered the pile of eggs. Before she would allow
herself to think about it, she shoved the utensil into her mouth
and chewed as if her life depended upon it.
Chewing was clearly the wrong choice, she realized
with dismay an instant later. She could taste far too much this
way. She should have opted to swallow the mouthful whole
instead. Now, she doubted whether she would be able to
swallow at all. Spitting out the offending substance seemed a far
better alternative. But, she just couldn't allow herself to do that.
Feeling her throat closing and her stomach churning, in
desperation she grabbed the glass of orange juice and took a
gulp. The beverage poured like a river through her lips, washing
down the food, its clean acidic taste rinsing the inside of her
mouth.
The ordeal over, she sat hunched over her plate,
defeated, her eyes watering from a combination of nausea and
humiliation, her breath coming in great gasps. Just how old do
you think you are, Dana Scully, she asked herself derisively.
That's the kind of thing you and Melissa used to pull when your
mother tried to get you to eat beets. The next thing you know
you'll be holding your breath when you swallow. You keep this
up, and they'll be feeding you through a tube.
Suddenly, exhausted beyond all belief, she pushed aside
her plate, folded her arms on the counter, and laid her head upon
them.
Which was exactly how Mulder found her when he
stepped out of the bathroom.
* * * * * * * *
===========================================================================
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "The Calm After The Storm" 3/3
Date: Sun, 5 Nov 95 21:02:17 -0500
The Calm After The Storm (3/3)
by Karen Rasch (krasch@delphi.com)
This is it. The end of my story. For those of you who are into
that sort of stuff, my disclaimer and acknowledgments can be
found preceding Part I. Thanks again to all who helped with
their comments, encouragement, and criticism. I hope this was
worth the trip. Let me know at the address found above. All I
can say is I had fun. Thanks.
* * * * * * * *
She had heard the tiny click of the door in its jamb, knew
he would discover her. She had tried to pull herself together, to
sit up straight and plaster a bright cheery smile on her face. But,
she couldn't coordinate her actions quickly enough. Of course,
it didn't help that Mulder had spied her before he had even
cleared the bathroom doorway.
"Scully?" he asked softly, as if he were afraid he might
wake her. "Are you all right? Is there something wrong?"
Wearily, she lifted her head from the nest of her arms,
squinting a bit from the change in light. Mulder was watching her,
his hair still damp from his shower, his jaw clean and smooth, his
expression carefully neutral. She had seen the look on his face
before. Her partner usually wore that deliberately bland
countenance when he was faced with a criminal or a situation
he didn't understand or trust. The fact that it was currently
focused on her made her want to slap it off his face.
However, with the emotions ripping through her at
that moment, she thought it far more likely that instead she
would burst into tears.
In the end, she did neither.
"I'm fine, Mulder," she murmured, matching his voice
in volume and wishing she had a dollar for every time she had
been forced to utter those words of late. "Just a little tired."
He studied her for a moment before nodding, and
leaving the bathroom, crossed towards her, gym bag in his hand.
"There's nothing that says we have to head back this morning,"
he said casually, tossing his duffel on the floor beside the couch,
and continuing into the kitchen in white-stockinged feet. "You
could go in and lie down if you want to."
Scully shook her head, then cradled it in her hands,
her fingers burrowing in her hair, her elbows on the counter.
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes against his seeking
gaze. "I just got up, Mulder."
"I won't tell."
She looked at him then, silently willing him to drop
this line of conversation. "I don't want to go to bed," she said
flatly.
Mulder dipped his head, conceding the point. He
poured himself a cup of coffee and surveyed her breakfast
leftovers. "Apparently, you don't want to eat either," he noted
quietly, his eyes challenging hers.
"I ate some," she argued with as much conviction as
she could muster, a trace of belligerence in her voice.
Mulder set his coffee mug down with a sharp click of
stoneware again Formica, folded his arms over his chest, and
leaned back against the kitchen's far counter, the stubborn set
of his mouth telling her he wasn't going to let this one go.
"Scully, I scrambled the last two eggs in the house. There's
still some in the pan, and there's still some on your plate. If
you ate, you certainly didn't eat much."
She dropped her eyes and her hands. Both landed
on the breakfast bar, the former suddenly fascinated with the
latter. Why couldn't he leave her alone? Why now, of all
times, did he have to push? She chanced a glance up at him.
He waited, his hazel eyes sympathetic, but unyielding.
"I tried, Mulder. All right?" she whispered, the thin,
reedy quality of her voice shocking her, her eyes flickering
away from his in embarrassment. "I tried. I just . . . couldn't.
I couldn't, okay?"
She heard him move towards her. Her heart started
pounding much too quickly, the force of it echoing in her ears.
She tried to breathe deeply so as to ease the racing rhythm,
only to find that she couldn't keep the flow even. Little
catches and bursts of air kept interrupting her efforts. Her
eyes began to ache, the tears that filled them only irritating
them more. He leaned over the counter separating them.
His forefinger slipped beneath her chin and tilted up her face
to meet his eyes. She resisted him only for a moment.
"It's okay, Scully," he said softly, his voice low and
soothing, his touch warm against her skin. "Don't make it out
to be more than it is. They're just eggs, you know?"
"I know," she said, shaking her head in tiny little jerks,
fighting the urge to cry with every fiber of her being. "I know
that." She could feel herself beginning to tremble, not from
cold or fear, but anger and frustration. "I just hate this," she
muttered fiercely, pulling her face away from his hand, and
rubbing her hands over her eyes until the skin surrounding
them turned pink from the friction. "I hate the weakness. And
the need. And the questions. And the look on your face,
Mulder. I hate it. I hate all of it." The words poured out of her,
tumbling over each other in their haste to leave her mouth, the
last sentence breaking on a sob. Her lips twisting in disgust
over her lack of control, she spun away from him on her stool,
her head bowed, her hands in her lap.
Mulder wasn't about to be deterred. He came around
to stand in front of her before she even heard him move. She
still wouldn't look at him. For a moment neither of them said
anything. Then, his hand found its way to her hair. Slowly, he
combed through the shiny strands with his fingertips.
"I know you do," he murmured, his voice sounding
as if it came from somewhere deep, deep inside. "I know you
hate feeling like your life has gotten away from you. Like the
rules have changed and nobody has updated you on how to
play."
Still silent, she wound her arms around his waist in a
sudden flash of movement, and buried her face against his
chest. Mulder's arms came around her as well, holding her
tightly against him, one hand buried in her hair.
"Mulder, I just feel so lost sometimes," she whispered
against his body, her voice muffled by her tears. "I don't like
this person I've become. She's so fragile, so . . . so . . .
spineless. I hate that in myself. I do. I never wanted to be like
that. Never in a million years."
He took his hands and placed them on either side of
her head. Carefully, yet with determined purpose, he pulled her
face away from his chest. Her watery blue eyes looked up into
his intense hazel ones, and a small frission of awareness
skittered through her. She had seen those eyes afire with this
sort of drive, this sort of passion many times over the past two
years. Invariably, the spark had been ignited by one of their
cases: a report of an unusual craft in the sky, a murderer whose
methods couldn't be explained, a puzzle that dared him to solve
it. She would watch him, the excitement, the turmoil within him
blazing like a beacon, and had wondered in some far corner of
her mind what it might feel like to have the power and
attention of that gaze directed at her and her alone.
Now she knew.
"You listen to me, Dana Katherine Scully, and you
listen good," he told her, his face inches from hers. "You are
the strongest person I've ever known. And nothing. Not
nightmares, not tears, and certainly not my eggs is ever, ever
going to change that."
"Mulder--"
"Look in my eyes, Scully," he urged softly, smiling
with such gentleness that she began to cry once more.
"I'm not lying to you."
She did as he asked. And found he spoke the truth.
"This will pass, I promise you," he said, his thumbs
brushing away the tears that trickled down her flushed cheeks.
"And until it does, feel free to borrow some of my strength to
get through it." He shrugged a bit self-consciously. "I can't
guarantee that I'll always have all you need. But whatever I
do have is yours."
She threw herself into his arms again, hugging him with
all her might. He rested his cheek upon the top of her head. She
thought he might have kissed her there, but she couldn't be sure.
Neither said a word, each content to merely rest against
the other. Finally, Scully pulled away, rubbing the back of her
hand over her eyes like a little girl, and offering him a wobbly
smile.
"Nothing like a good cry," she ventured dryly.
"Hey, it's the only excuse I can come up with for
'Terms of Endearment'," he teased with smile.
"I love that movie," she protested, her smile growing
stronger.
"I rest my case," he said, his arms held open in apology
as he backed away from her and into the kitchen.
She just shook her head in amusement, and gratefully
accepted the square of paper towel Mulder handed her from
the other side of the breakfast bar. Turning away from him
slightly, she wiped off her face and blew her nose, intent on
restoring some semblance of order to her appearance.
"Okay, as we've established that the eggs didn't quite
hit the spot, we've got to find you something else to eat," he
said with renewed vigor as he moved around the kitchen,
collecting her plate and the pan, and scraping the contents
of each into the garbage beneath the sink. "Lucky for you,
I'm such an easy-going guy. I'm not even going to be offended
that you didn't like my cooking."
That surprised a chuckle out of her. "Try me again in
a month or two, and you might get a different response. I'm
afraid I'm an unfairly harsh critic these days."
He wiped his hands on a dish towel, then sipped his
coffee. "I wouldn't be so sure. Unfortunately, you've just
experienced the extent of my culinary skills. Eggs I can manage,
but not much else. Of course, I have been known to open a
can of soup or two in my time."
His eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. Turning
expectantly within the kitchen's confines, he scanned his
surroundings, then began opening cabinets. "That's an idea.
Did you buy any soup, Scully?"
She watched him search, admiring the way his back
and shoulders flexed and flowed beneath his clothes as he
reached for the upper shelves. "I didn't. But my aunt and
uncle might have some in there from their last visit. I found
some odds and ends left over when I got up here."
"Aha!"
Holding a familiar red and white can aloft like a trophy,
he turned to her. "Do you like Garden Vegetable?"
She smiled wanly. "Under normal circumstances, yes."
"All right, then. Let's give it a shot," he said with a
grin. "After all, it =is= good food."
She smiled once more, and nodded in agreement.
Rummaging through one of the lower cupboards, he
pulled out a battered sauce pan and a can opener. "When I
was a kid, and would come down with the flu or a bad cold, I
practically lived on soup," he said conversationally as he
emptied the can into the pan, added water, then set the
mixture atop the stove. "It was the only thing I could ever
keep down. By way of explanation, my mom always told my
father I was a *sensitive child.*"
A sensitive man, Scully amended silently to herself,
remembering how many times that sensitivity had been used
against him.
"While we're waiting on the soup, why don't you try
a couple of bites of this?" Mulder offered, pulling out the
forgotten slices of toast from the toaster and plopping them
on a plate. "Dry toast may not the most exciting thing you're
ever likely to eat, but it might help settle your stomach."
She eyed the bread warily, then picking up a slice, ripped
off a corner and nibbled it, slowly and carefully. Mulder watched
her, trying and failing to appear nonchalant. "So far so good,"
she ventured with a twist of her lips.
He nodded and thoughtfully stirred the contents of
the pan.
While they waited for the soup to boil, they chatted
about inconsequential things; what Scully had missed at the
Bureau while she was on vacation, how Mulder's drive had
been on the way up. The mood was easier, mellower than
before, no great need for either of them to speak, and yet no
reason to remain silent either.
Finally, Mulder set a small bowl in front of her.
"Okay, breakfast, take two. Although, I don't think even
Campbell's tries to push this stuff on the public as an
alternative to cereal. Dig in."
Scully picked up the spoon he had handed her, then
hesitated for a moment.
Mulder recognized her indecision, and reaching out,
laid his hand upon her wrist. "Hey, no pressure here, Scully.
Eat what you can. If you feel like it's more than you can handle,
we'll find something else. It's just a matter of trial and error.
After all, the bread stayed down, right?"
She nodded, even though she would have liked to
have pointed out to him that she had only managed to eat half
a slice.
He nodded back, and with a little smile of reassurance,
turned away to the other side of the kitchen to pour himself
another cup of coffee. Scully knew his actions were designed
to give her space both literally and figuratively. She
appreciated the leeway and wanted to do something to prove
herself worthy of the consideration. Taking a deep breath,
she raised a spoonful to her lips and sipped it.
Hmm, not bad. Her stomach wasn't rolling like it had
with the eggs. Experimentally, she tried another mouthful.
Mulder finally turned back to her, his eyebrows lifted in question.
"It's okay, I think," she said after a moment. "Although
I can't imagine I'm going to finish all of it. Why don't you have
some?"
Mulder shook his head. "Thanks, but no. I finished up
the cereal when you were in the shower."
"Oh! That reminds me," she said after swallowing
another mouthful of soup. "Don't be afraid to finish up more.
We can't leave anything lying around. We need to close this
place up pretty tight when we leave. My uncle said he doubted
if anyone else would be using it again before spring."
Mulder nodded. "What does that entail?"
Scully shrugged. "Getting rid of all perishable foods.
Making sure the windows are locked, the chimney flue is closed.
Turning down the thermostat. Taking the garbage to the dump.
The usual."
"Okay. We'll get started as soon as you're done. But
don't rush. Take your time. I'm in no big hurry to brave D.C.
traffic."
"Hey, speaking of that--did you call in?"
Mulder's face dropped. "Shit! No. Oh damn it, I'm
going to have to talk to Skinner, aren't I?"
"'Fraid so, my friend," she said with a smile, suspecting
his hang-dog look was put on just a tad for her amusement.
"Better come up with a convincing story."
Her partner shrugged mildly, his eyes twinkling with
mischief. "Why bother? I'll just tell him the truth."
Scully's eyebrows lifted.
Mulder saw her alarm and realized she had
misunderstood his intentions. Shaking his head, then leering
comically, he leaned into her from over the counter. "I'll just tell
him that I'm hidden away in a remote mountain cabin with you."
The young redhead breathed a sigh of relief when she
recognized that her partner didn't intend to fill in their superior
on what had happened the previous night. Her lips tilting up in
the beginnings of a smile, she decided not to rise to the bait.
"Oh, that little confession ought to go over really well. The
office gossips will have a field day with it. As if they didn't
speculate enough over the two of us. This ought to add fuel
to the fire."
Mulder's expression changed subtly. He cocked his
head in question. "Do you think people gossip about us?"
At first she thought he was teasing her. "What--
you don't?"
He smiled a bit sheepishly. "I don't know. I never
really thought about it, I guess. I just don't think of myself
as the object of speculation."
Scully smiled warmly. "Mulder, you are the F.B.I.'s
=prime= object of speculation."
Her partner gave her a look. "About u.f.o.s, yes.
Abductees, sure. But, not . . . this. What do they say?"
His partner suddenly wished she had never brought
up the subject. "Well, . . . you know . . . the usual."
Mulder considered her words. "And you're okay
with it?"
Scully shrugged, wondering just how much she could
say. "People believe what they want to believe, Mulder. It
doesn't matter. You and I know the truth."
For a beat, he said nothing. Instead his eyes searched
her face. "Yeah," he said softly at last. "I guess we do."
She sensed the barely hidden currents beneath his
words, and for an instant questioned how to respond. She
finally decided to err on the side of caution. "I guess we
shouldn't really be surprised. I mean--It stands to reason,
doesn't it? About any pair of field agents, really. The long
hours, the intense interaction, all the road trips, the budget
hotel rooms. . . ."
"The delayed flights," Mulder said, dropping his silent
contemplation, choosing instead to pick up the thread, looking
at her with fondness. "The lost luggage, the hostile locals, the
fast food dinners . . . ."
"Ah, the glamorous life," Scully murmured with a tiny
smile, marveling that such a litany of tedium didn't seem
nearly as bleak when she remembered with whom she shared it.
"You don't have to tell me," Mulder said with an
answering smile, his voice low, his tone dry. "I live the dream
too."
"My father always told me I should go into private
practice," she said wryly, taking a final sip of her soup, then
pushing her bowl away.
"I'm glad you didn't."
Scully looked up, catching his eyes. They held for a
moment, then Mulder's gaze slid away.
"I mean . . . I know it's selfish. But, I can't help myself,"
he said with an embarrassed shrug, his eyes raising to engage
hers again. "I'm glad you're here."
Scully felt her heart expand within her chest, forcing
the words up through her throat with a rush. "I'm glad I'm here
too, Mulder."
For a moment, neither of them moved, then Mulder
smiled and sighed.
"Glad enough to make this phone call for me?" he
questioned hopefully.
Scully giggled. "I've got to draw the line somewhere,
Mulder," she said lightly. "Chase after you to the North Pole,
sure. Step into the line of fire between you and Skinner . . . ."
She let her voice trail off meaningfully.
Mulder looked at her in mock chagrin. "Good. Just
as long as I know where I stand."
She smiled, and taking her bowl with her, crossed
around into the kitchen to begin clean-up.
"How did you do?" Mulder asked, looking over her
shoulder at the soup dish, while he moved gracefully behind
her, starting to clear up the rest of the kitchen's mess.
"Not bad," she said with pride as she scraped the
remainder into the sink and turned on the garbage disposal.
"About three quarters of a bowl." She turned from her task to
look at him with laughing eyes. "I feel I should tell you that I
am absurdly pleased with myself."
Mulder grinned back. "As am I. I'd applaud, but my
hands are full."
"Let me take those from you," she said reaching out
for the pan and the nearly empty carafe of coffee. Their fingers
slid over each other in the exchange, and she found herself
wishing the contact would linger. "Here," she continued after
depositing the dirty kitchenware behind her, and bending
down to remove the garbage can from beneath the sink. "Why
don't you take this, empty the bathroom pail into it, then tie it
up and put it in my trunk. We'll pass the dump on our way to
the interstate."
Mulder hesitated for a moment. "Your trunk?"
"Yeah," she said, puzzled by his indecision. "My
keys are on the dresser."
"I thought we'd go back together."
"Mulder, we have two cars," she said reasonably, not
at all relishing another battle. "I'm not leaving mine here."
"Scully, I know--" he began, obviously choosing his
words with care. "But it's a long drive. Are you sure--?"
She cut him off. "The weather has cleared up. I'm
fine as long as I'm sitting down. Eating even that little bit has
made a big difference. I'm feeling better already. Besides,
you'll be with me. You'll just be in your own car."
He still looked unconvinced.
"I'm driving myself home, Mulder. Don't fight me on
this."
She waited for his acquiescence, wondering why it
mattered so much to her that he concede her this victory. It
was as if his agreeing to this arrangement would give substance
and meaning to all he had said before. If he denied her this
wish, if he fought her decision or tried to influence her, she
knew she would not be able to fully trust what had come
before.
After an eternity he spoke, his hands reaching out to
run themselves up and down her arms. "Okay. We'll do it your
way. Only I want you in front of me on the way home so I can
keep an eye on you. And you have to promise me--=swear= to
me, Scully--that if you feel the least bit tired or dizzy, you'll pull
off the road. I don't care where we are. I don't care how far we
are from D.C. Just be smart, okay? Only do what you can do."
She could feel her eyes burning. "I promise."
He held her gaze for a breath or two more. Satisfied by
what he saw, he gave her arms a squeeze. "Okay, then give me
that bag, and let's get this place packed up."
The two worked in relative silence as they readied
themselves to leave, speaking only when they needed to, each
submerged in their own thoughts. The quiet wasn't threatening,
however, or awkward. What needed to be said, had been. They
were ready to move on.
They worked quickly and efficiently, as a team. Just like
always. Mulder took a break when Scully went into the bedroom
to pack her things, and called Skinner. She heard snatches of the
conversation through the doorway, Mulder mumbling something
about a sore throat and sick days. She smiled. That excuse
wasn't likely to fool anyone, least of all their alarmingly astute
boss. However, it wasn't as if Skinner could really say anything.
They weren't involved on a particular case at that moment, and
Mulder had the time coming.
His call finished, he popped his head in through the
doorway. "Almost ready?"
"Yeah. Give me a minute."
"No rush," he assured her, as he backed out of the room.
"Just checking."
She shook her head. He was always "just checking," she
thought. Not intruding. Just keeping tabs. Keeping touch.
Hovering just beyond arm's reach in case she needed him. In
the event her strength faltered, he would be there to catch her.
She couldn't imagine a more attractive safety net.
"Okay, let's hit the road," she said with enthusiasm a
scant ten minutes later, her suitcase bumping against her thigh.
In two steps, Mulder was by her side to take it from her.
"Everything should be all set," he said, looking around
the cabin one last time. "Do you need to stop for gas?"
She smiled fondly, remembering all the times her father
had asked her such questions, not really thinking she would be
so foolish as to get on the highway without fuel, but just
needing to do all he could to make sure she got to where she
was going safely.
"No, Mulder," she said in her most patient voice.
"I filled up in town earlier this week."
"Good," he murmured with a nod and a wry smile
in response to the tone of her voice. Side by side, they
exited the cabin.
While Scully locked the little house's door, Mulder
tossed her bag into her trunk, and shut it with a thud. She
walked over to him and got her keys. Pausing a moment, she
checked the sky. Clouds prevailed, but blue sky peeked
through like a child looking through the stair railings at a
grown-up party. The day held promise. They would get
home without incident.
"Okay," Mulder said softly, his head inclined towards
hers. "I'm going to follow your lead. You go as fast as you feel
you can. You stop when you need to stop. I'll be right behind
you."
She looked at him. The light breeze ruffled his hair
like a lover's hand. His eyes appeared as a kind of golden green
in morning's muted light. Yes, you'll be behind me, Mulder,
she thought, her eyes considering her friend. The same way
I'll always be behind you. Backing you all the way.
Before she could lose her nerve, she stretched up on
tiptoe and pressed her lips to his cheek. His skin was cool
beneath her mouth, and surprisingly soft. She felt him start
ever so slightly. But, he didn't pull away. She came back
down solidly on the ground, her eyes once again finding his.
"Thanks, Mulder."
Before he could say anything, she scampered away
from him as quickly as her tired limbs could allow. She didn't
look behind her, afraid she might have stepped over the line.
It had gotten blurred of late, but that little marker that
distinguished their relationship from something else still
remained, and right now she didn't have the courage to erase it.
Had she only looked over her shoulder, she would
have seen her partner standing where she had left him. He
stood unmoving, his hand covering the cheek she had kissed
as if to hold the warmth her lips had imparted just a moment
longer. His eyes looked after her, soft and unfocused, a
wistful smile upon his mouth.
Scully didn't see this, however. And by the time she
had gotten herself situated in the front seat of her car, her coat
removed and placed beside her, her seat belt fastened, her
mirrors checked, Mulder had turned towards his own automobile.
Only the look of wonder remained on his face, now
hidden from her view.
THE END
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