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? 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. 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. 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. 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 murmurred 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 accomodate 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 murmurred 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 manuevered 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 accomodate 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 deathgrip 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, marvelling 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 murmurred 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 rebandage 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 murmurred 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 brushing 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. . 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 priviledge 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 murmurred 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 F.B.I. 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 her's. "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 her's. "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 seatbelt 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