DISCLAIMER JAZZ: "The X-Files" and its characters are the 
creations and property of the fabled Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen 
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I am, of course, using them 
without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. All 
other concepts or ideas herein are mine.
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Through US season 7
ARCHIVE: ONLY ON THE AUTHOR'S OWN WEBSITE 
(http://rowan_d.tripod.com/elizabethr.html) UNTIL STORY IS 
COMPLETED. This way I can mess with the early parts as later 
parts develop...
TIMELINE: Though this takes place sometime after "all things", in 
this universe "Requiem" did NOT happen...


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@earthlink.net>
Copyright (c) 2003


Chapter 18a


"It's not like you to say sorry,
I was waiting on a different story."
              "How You Remind Me" by Nickelback



*I got knocked out once last year.  Long story.  But I blacked 
out good, and woke up in a hospital room.  In the first moments I 
was opening my eyes, forging through the familiar black haze and 
clawing my way up to consciousness--I expected to see you there.  
Because in the past...you always had been.  I would wake up and 
catch the smell of medicine and disinfectant in my nostrils and 
somewhere in the undercurrent would be your perfume.  I would 
reach out my hand and you would be there.  Seated by the hospital 
bed, or standing by the window.  Or just stepping back in the 
room from a quick run to the vending machines down the hall.  
When I woke up and realized you weren't there--and then realized 
you wouldn't be--it was the loneliest moment of my life.*



"Wake up!"

Mulder jolted from his pillow, traces of his dream overlaying 
reality.  The voice he had heard seemed so incongruous he was 
tempted to credit it to his dream.  Until he heard it again.

"Jesus, Mulder, you look like hell."

Mulder shifted from his stomach onto his side, squinting at the 
thin line of sunlight spilling through the crack in the motel 
curtains.  A familiar, toad-like silhouette hovered above him.

"Rise and shine.  You've got a lot to do today."

Melvin Frohike turned and whipped open the ugly plaid curtains, 
flooding the room with late morning sun.

Mulder slapped a hand over his eyes.  "What the hell?!  Are you 
trying to blind me?  What are you doing here?  And how did you 
even get in here?"

"I came to do this."

Out of the blue, a hard object smacked Mulder upside the head.

"Ow!  What the fuck was that?"

"An attempt to save your ass, my friend.  What were you 
thinking?"

Mulder tried to lower his hand, but couldn't manage more than a 
squint in the piercing light.  He coughed, cleared his throat and 
rubbed at the side of his neck.  "What was I thinking about what?  
How did you even know I was here?" 

"We weren't expecting you to pick up your new paperwork last 
night.  Thought we had until Monday.  We slapped it together so 
fast, we wanted to make sure everything washed.  Checked on your 
credit card, and found the motel charge."

"Which still doesn't tell me what the hell you're doing in my 
room, much less why you just hit me!"

Mulder shifted position, sitting upright now, legs still beneath 
the beaten-down motel comforter.  Blue-green-maroon paisley.  The 
comforter from any of a hundred motel rooms he had slept in in 
his life.  Mulder straightened the waistband of his sweats and 
tried again to fully open his eyes.  The room was stuffy, stale.  
He needed a shower and some fresh air and a chance to sort 
through his thoughts.  He was still caught in incoherent dream 
memories.  Rain.  Needles.  A fireplace.  Red hair.  Scully's 
hand over his.  Running down a rainsoaked alley, Scully's trench 
coat ahead of him, flapping in the wind.

He needed black coffee.

Frohike frowned and leaned in for a closer view of Mulder's jaw 
in the glaring sun.  "Hey, that's an impressive color.  What hit 
you?"

Mulder lifted his head, looking at Frohike directly now, making 
no attempt to hide his displeasure.  He held out his hands, 
letting the gesture say, *"And the obvious answer would be..."*

Frohike got it fast.  His eyes widened, and Mulder could swear 
the man almost smiled.  "What...you don't mean...?   Oh, my 
friend.  You truly are in the dog house, aren't you.  Well, good 
for Dana."

"Excuse me?"

"My point in being here.  Let's assume you've approached this 
situation as the near-sighted male asshole you've proven yourself 
to be in the past."

"Frohike, get out of here.  You know nothing about my private 
business with--"

"You're sleeping in the Happy Home Inn, Mulder.  Last night you 
were in the lovely Ms. Waterston's guest room, I assume?"

Mulder just closed his eyes and rubbed his sleep-swollen skin.

"Tell me why you're here, again?" he said into his hand.

"To pound some sense into you before you dig yourself in so far 
you'll never get your ass out.  You got a VCR in here?"

Mulder looked up.  Lost and annoyed in equal measure.  "No, but 
there's free HBO, and if you wiggle the rear cable just right you 
can make out the general storylines on the SEXTRA Network."

Frohike nodded, nothing but business.  "I've got one in the car."  
And he was gone.

By the time Mulder emerged from the bathroom, face splashed with 
water, teeth brushed, and eyes opening fairly reliably, Frohike 
had hauled his VCR into the room and hooked up the cables.  He 
sat on the edge of the bed holding the remote.  At Mulder's 
appearance, Frohike silently crossed the room and pulled one side 
of the curtains closed to block the glare on the TV screen.

"What are we doing here, what am I watching?"  Mulder crossed to 
where Frohike had resumed his seat on the bed, but Mulder chose 
to stand.  He rubbed at his morning beard.

"Something you need to see," Frohike said, and the darkness 
threaded into his tone drew Mulder's attention.  He turned toward 
the glowing blue screen.

"Fine.  But this better not be 'Men are from Mars, Women are from 
Venus'."

Mulder focused on the small motel television, folding his arms 
across his chest.  His t-shirt was still damp from the water he 
had splashed at the sink and felt cool on his skin.

Frohike picked up the remote.  The blue screen flickered and 
vanished, and an image appeared.  It took Mulder a second to 
recognize the stagnant view.  He was seeing the hallway outside 
the Gunmen's place.  A slightly high vantage point.  The security 
video, no doubt.  For a moment, nothing came into frame.  Then 
there was the sound of the locks clicking and the door opening 
just off camera; two familiar voices.  Frohike's.  And Scully's.

*"Scully, please stay here.  Scully, you need to be--"

"Stop it."  Scully's voice, cold as ice.  Trembling.  She had 
moved into frame, crossed the landing and taken one step down the 
stairs.  She was beautiful and disheveled and all his Scully.

"Scully, come here--"   Frohike's hand on Scully's wrist.  Scully 
snapping it away.

"Fuck off!"*

Mulder froze.  His chest locked down, and he had to force air 
into his lungs.  He didn't shift, didn't make a sound, wanted to 
shut off the video, but couldn't miss a breath.

*They argued.  Scully faltered.  "He called me..."*

Her voice hit him harder than her fist.

*And then Frohike was struggling to hold her.  And Scully was 
fighting, but breaking into tears and sinking in Frohike's arms 
until she sat on the hard hallway steps and lay across Melvin 
Frohike's lap.  Moments later they were all there.  And Scully's 
desolate sobs echoed through the white and unfeeling stairwell.*

And it was all a million years away, and there was nothing he 
could do to make it stop.

Mulder stared at the screen.  He was aware of Frohike's presence 
behind him, but he refused to turn, refused to acknowledge his 
intrusion on this moment.  His heart was racing like he'd just 
returned from his run.

*Scully was quiet, save for the occasional soft utterance.  But 
the four figures clung together, Scully buried among them, red 
hair and dark suit and pale skin.*

Frohike hit the "stop" button and Scully vanished.

The silence fell like death.

Echoes of a death that never was and the mourners who still 
cried.

Mulder kept his eyes on the imageless blue screen.

Frohike set the remote on the table, not bothering to retrieve 
his VCR.

He turned before opening the door.  "That was Day 1, my friend," 
he said softly.  And he left.

Mulder sank to the edge of the bed, leaned his elbows on his 
knees and buried his face in his hands.

*Oh, Jesus, Scully.  Scully...*


*****


Scully sat cross-legged on the blanket, surrounded by toys, 
Christopher on his stomach, half across her lap.  The texture of 
the grass through the cloth of the blanket felt like childhood 
and memories of home.

She shaded her eyes in the noonday sun and tried to focus on the 
case file spread across the grass, safe distance from 
Christopher's inquisitive fingers.  The garden was near empty.  
Only one other resident was taking advantage of the crisp autumn 
afternoon, and he was sheltered by the trees at the far end of 
the grounds, focusing only on his paperback book.

Scully had glanced over Michaels' case file briefly yesterday 
evening, given him a call with some surface and disjointed 
advice, but certain details of the case had kept nagging at her 
brain throughout the sleepless hours of the early morning, when 
she had lain in the quiet darkness of her apartment and told 
herself she was not listening for the phone to ring or a knock 
upon her door.

The literal medical details in the autopsy certainly gave no 
stand-out reasons to question the theory of the young man's 
decapitation by tree limb whilst racing through the woods on his 
motorcycle.  It wasn't a common mode of death, but it wasn't 
unheard of in the annals of strange and unusual ways to die.  No 
traces of metal, so death by ax was out.  But there were other 
details that refused to stay quiet in the back of her mind.  Tiny 
incongruities of facts against the statements of the witnesses, 
little gaps in information that set off her investigator's 
instincts.

She squinted down at the statement of the local farmer who had 
first come across the body, trying to let the details seep into 
her subconscious, waiting for a more cohesive picture of her 
suspicions to form before she ventured to give Michaels another 
call.  Christopher bit at the seam in her slacks, and Scully 
reached down intuitively and nudged the cloth from his soft 
mouth, replacing it with her finger and rubbing at his tender 
gums.  A trail of drool ran down her hand and beneath the cuff of 
her blouse.

Twenty-four hours.

Silence.

Scully looked away from the file and down at the back of 
Christopher's head, the thin fringe of reddish-blonde hair 
spilling out below the line of his pale blue cap.  She could 
breathe better when she was touching Christopher's skin.

Scully ran her hand over the cell phone clipped to the back of 
her waistband, reassured by its solid presence as she might have 
been her weapon's.  Couldn't carry that 24/7 anymore.  Not with 
little fingers pulling at her clothes and accessories.

Mulder might as well have punched her in the jaw as left behind 
the phone she had given him.  *"Where will you be?" "Ironically 
enough, it's personal. It's a... place I always wanted to go."*  
Nothing like cutting the sole thin connection they had re-
established.

*He sacrificed everything for me.*

Christopher squirmed and fussed in her lap.  Scully picked him 
up, kissed his nose, nestled her face against his cheek.  His 
skin was so soft.  So perfect and untainted and fragile.  She 
would give anything to keep him feeling as secure in the world as 
he felt right now.  In truth, for all her hopes and dreams of 
having a child, when the day had come, when she and Daniel had 
brought Christopher home and the days had passed and the newness 
faded and the reality settled in--Scully had grown terrified.  No 
amount of books read or classes taken could prepare a person for 
parenthood.  She hadn't had any clue how to be a truly good 
parent.  How to guide a young life through the paradoxes and 
agonies of a world she herself struggled daily to understand.  
But in the days and months that followed, she had begun to see 
the underlying truth.  The weight of the world, the mysteries of 
the ages--those things were not her true task as a mother.  Her 
task was to love and support Christopher.  To give him everything 
she had to give, and let him face the world knowing he had meant 
more than life to the woman who raised him.  And that...was the 
only thing in the world she *was* certain she was prepared to do.

Christopher continued to squirm in her arms, pulling at her hair 
and fussing softly.  He was getting hungry.  Scully glanced at 
her watch.  Nearly two.  She had been reading the file for longer 
than she realized.  Past time for Christopher's nursing and 
afternoon nap.  Scully grabbed one of the extra blankets on the 
grass and swung it over her shoulder.  Nestling Christopher into 
her lap, she popped open the top buttons of her blouse and pushed 
back the cup of her bra, guided her nipple into his tiny, eager 
mouth.  She drew a deep breath as he latched on and automatically 
reached for her own water bottle.  She was still amazed this was 
working, this was *happening*.  It was both routine and 
wondrously new at the same time.

And Mulder had been enchanted.

She pushed that thought away.

The X-file.  Everyday life.

Christopher was half asleep when he finished the first breast, 
and out cold before he finished the second.  Scully let him 
linger, mouth suckling softly in his sleep, the sensation 
comforting and grounding for them both.  Until finally he sank 
back, mouth releasing her breast with a gentle pop.

She carried him up the stairs and settled him in his crib.  She 
took the monitor with her and went back down to gather their 
things.  She settled on the couch with a glass of iced tea and 
her checkbook to balance.

Scully set the cell phone to vibrate and kept it against her 
skin.

*Mulder...*


*****


He stood on the doormat a good minute before he knocked on the 
door.

The delay before Scully responded wasn't more than twenty 
seconds, but he could have sworn the walls contracted.

Scully pulled back the door, clinging to the doorknob and 
sweeping his figure with her gaze.  She didn't speak.  She was in 
her weekend dress, casual but elegant.  Tan slacks, a white 
cotton blouse.  Simple.  Beautiful.  Her hair was twisted up and 
loosely clipped, her make-up light and lovely.  She still carried 
herself as the Scully he knew.  It wasn't the wardrobe, the hair, 
or the make-up that made men afraid to even speak to her, let 
alone dream of the privilege of being someone significant in her 
life.  It was just Scully, the woman she was underneath.

Scully still wore her cross.  Mulder noticed the chain was a bit 
sturdier design than the ones she had favored in the past.  No 
doubt a concession to tiny fingers.  Perhaps even a necessitated 
replacement.

She was waiting for him to speak.

He cleared his throat.  "Can I come in?"  There was an edge of 
defensiveness, sarcasm, in his voice that he didn't like but 
couldn't avoid.

Scully softened, he saw the pain flicker across her expression as 
she tilted her head slightly into her shoulder.  She nodded.  "Of 
course," she said softly, and she stepped back to welcome him 
inside.

Mulder stepped into the apartment as Scully closed the door.  The 
cell phone was still on the table where he had left it.  Mulder 
summoned every ounce of nerve he had left in his body and moved 
into Scully's personal space.  He cupped his hand to her cheek 
and stroked her skin with his thumb, leaned close to her face and 
whispered, "I shouldn't have left you behind.  Scully, I'm 
sorry."

He caught her completely off guard, she was visibly vulnerable.  
Her eyes filled with tears at his words, though she hadn't lifted 
her gaze above his chest.  She started to speak, faltered, then 
let it go and closed her eyes.

"I don't regret what I did, Scully.  I believe in the reasons I 
made the choices I made, but you're right, I didn't...I didn't 
fully think about how those choices would affect you in the 
meantime.  Or me.  I thought I did, but I hardly scratched the 
surface.  And for that...Scully, I'm so sorry."

He was still close, his face mere inches from hers.  Her breath 
was soft and shallow, her slightly parted lips a vivid sensory 
reminder of a thousand quiet and perfect moments in his life.  
Everything he had missed with every fiber of his being over the 
past two years.  He remembered lying against her breast, praying 
for the moments of sleep only Scully could grant him on the night 
he had mourned his mother.  He remembered infinite daily 
frustrations with her stubborn and self-righteous little mind.  
He remembered loving every moment of the endless struggle.

"I missed you," Scully whispered, and the pain in her carefully 
spoken words tore at his gut.  She hadn't lifted her eyes.

"I missed you, too.  More than you could imagine, Scully."

"I can't forgive you yet."

"I know."  *Yet.*

"Where did you sleep last night?"

Mulder shrugged, shook his head dismissively.  "At a motel."

"Stay here tonight," she said simply.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay."

She reached up and grasped his wrist, closed her eyes and leaned 
into his hand.  Mulder seized the moment and kissed her forehead, 
deepest tenderness in his simple gesture.  She tasted of Scully.  
She tasted of home.

"Mulder, what do we do now?" Scully asked, eyes open, focused off 
to the side, on some distant place he couldn't reach.

He continued to stroke her face.  She continued to let him.  "We 
keep talking."

She nodded.  "Yeah."

"We've never really talked before, Scully, have we?"

She thought about that, he watched the tension in her brow.  
Then, "Rarely.  Maybe...never."

"Maybe it's time."

"Past."

"Yeah."

But neither of them wanted to speak.  They wanted to stand in 
each other's breathing space and be silent.

They wanted to remember how to breathe together.


*****

(End of Chapter 18a.  Continued in Chapter 18b...)
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