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: Let's say NC-17 just to be safe...individual parts will 
be marked NC-17 if and when they arise...
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...

WATER'S EDGE
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (aka Elizabeth Boyd-Tran)
Copyright (c) 2000
 

CHAPTER 2
 

**Two weeks have passed since you said good night. On Monday 
morning your rose had wilted. By Thursday, I threw it away.**
 

"Agent Scully. I appreciate your prompt response."

"Yes, sir."

"Please, have a seat."

"Thank you, sir."

She smoothed her skirt carefully beneath her, taking her familiar 
place in the right-hand chair before her superior's desk.

"Sir, may I ask what this is in regards to?"

Skinner watched her for a long moment, his wide, rounded 
shoulders an imposing silhouette before the window. He was 
silent, studying her. She had long ago mastered the art of the 
staring contest. Charlie was afraid of her to this day.

Scully lifted an eyebrow. Skinner looked down.

He straightened the pencil beside his desk pad. "Scully, the fact 
is, Agent Mulder filed for two weeks' emergency leave time. That 
time ended this morning, and unless things have changed since 
9am, I assume he has not made an appearance here at the Bureau."

Scully gave a quick shake of her head. "No, sir. Mulder is not 
here." So odd that her voice could sound so steady. Her face felt 
flushed. The sun from the window behind Skinner's desk seemed 
painfully bright.

"I don't suppose you could shed any light on this situation for 
me, Agent Scully?"

Cat and mouse. He was watching her body language more than he was 
listening to her words. It was an old game for them. (*"Sir, I 
would expect you to place the same trust in me, as I do in 
you...."*) For two weeks, they had been exchanging casual, 
professional comments. For two weeks Skinner had known Mulder was 
not visiting a sick relative or selling off his great aunt's 
estate. What he didn't know was how much Scully knew. Or how much 
she could be persuaded to tell.

"No, sir, I can't," she said plainly.

"Has Agent Mulder contacted you at any time in the past two 
weeks?"

"No, sir."

Of all the times she had cursed Mulder's name for forcing her to 
lie to their superiors about his whereabouts...she never thought 
she would want so much to be lying.

"I trust I can count on you to notify me immediately of any 
information that might lead us to contact Agent Mulder."

"Of course, sir." She could have left it at that. But instead she 
added, "Sir, I'm sure that Agent Mulder has merely been delayed 
in his return. As I understand it, he has been known to extend 
his leave before without following procedure until after that 
fact. I think we both know Mulder has never been one for adhering 
to proper procedure."

Skinner narrowed his eyes, regarding her warily through his 
finely rimmed glasses. Her statement hung in the air like a 
question.

"Agent Scully, for the time being I'm going to have you continue 
to maintain the X-Files Division on your own. I trust that before 
you enter into any potentially risky fieldwork you will contact 
me to assign back-up."

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"If we have not had word from Agent Mulder by this time next 
week, I will call a meeting regarding a formal investigation into 
his whereabouts. At that time, we will also address the 
possibility of assigning someone to assist you on the X-Files in 
a more permanent capacity."

Scully did not speak, but held his eye contact against the 
lengthy silence. Her tongue toyed with the backs of her teeth, 
resisting the urge to bite her lip.

"You're dismissed, Agent Scully," Skinner said at last, quietly 
tapping his pencil against his coffee cup, and wrinkling his nose 
as if against an acrid smell."Thank you, sir," Scully said 
softly, and she pushed to her feet. Her hair slipped across her 
cheek as she stood, and for now she had no desire to push it 
away.

She had already opened the door when Skinner's low rumble of a 
voice touched her back. "Dana?"

*Jesus*. "Yes, sir?"

"Should I be worried?"

She lifted her eyes to meet his, remained half in profile. Her 
chest felt too tight to breathe.

Her only answer was a forced exhale through her nose and a tense 
swallow. Then she turned and walked out, gently closing the door 
behind her.

 

*****



She had learned how to function in black and white in the winter 
of 1997. It had not happened all at once that time. The color had 
just seeped from her world a little at a time as the days grew 
shorter and the air turned colder. And she had gradually shifted 
her wardrobe to essentials of black, blending more quietly with 
the surrounding greys. Breathing had turned from life renewing 
and life affirming, to something necessary to keep hold of the 
thread. A blind continuance.

Her clearest memory of those days was how much it had hurt to 
have him look at her--and not touch her.

This time she was walking through her days...cool, efficient, 
supremely functional, distant. Preferring the black and white 
blur to the sharp pain in colors. Her body was solidly beneath 
her. Her own future not in such immediate peril. Her heartbeat 
was solid, her muscles sound. Yet the emptiness that had left her 
cold that remembered winter, traveled again with her now.

For days a single thought had accompanied each moment of Scully's 
life: With all the unused vacation time Mulder had built up--why 
had he taken only two weeks? Unless he had expected to return in 
time.

So why wasn't he here?

Scully cut out of work early and stopped at the Eastside Market, 
hoping for some enticing fresh fruits and vegetables to spark up 
her near barren refrigerator and perhaps her appetite as well. 
She took her time sorting through the possibilities, turning over 
ears of corn, testing the firmness of peaches. She smiled at the 
young, freckled stock girl who had come to recognize her face.

Still carrying her bags of the market's finest pickings, she 
walked a block through rush hour crowds to her favorite coffee 
house and bought an iced cappuccino. She chose one of the high 
stools by the front windows, and watched the crowds pass by as 
she toyed with her straw. A young couple near the entrance kept 
drawing her attention. The girl had long red hair and gold rimmed 
glasses. Not a look too far from the one Scully herself had 
sported in her med school years. The boy with her was obviously a 
boyfriend. He seemed near the girl's age, undergraduate probably. 
Clean cut, but not preppy. A T-shirt exalting the joys of 
imported beer. But what drew her attention was their comfortable 
ease with one another. Their calmness and frequent smiles, 
despite the inevitable stresses that must have come along with 
the bookbags at their feet. Scully couldn't ever remember her 
life having been that comfortable.

There was always something to struggle against. A reason to be 
stoic.

Someone to need, who was just out of reach.

The red-haired girl reached across the table and twined her 
fingers through the boy's hand. They went on talking. Like it was 
the most natural thing in the world. And that hand would always 
be there. No murder case calling, no rolling ocean between them, 
no faculty member watching from the shadows, eager to 
condemn...no men in black.

Scully took another sip of her coffee and turned to the window.

As the sky grew dimmer, her reflection in the glass grew 
stronger. Dusk was coming quickly these days.

She could make out the line of her shoulder now. Her black pumps 
hooked on the lowest rung of the stool. She couldn't pretend she 
wasn't at least mildly pleased by the images that met her in 
passing mirrors, she had worked hard to be the woman she was 
today. The polish mattered to her. The little hints of the 
underlying femininity and sexuality. She was aware of her 
lipstick, the way her tongue slid over her lips, the even length 
of her nails. She bought herbal shampoos and savored the 
silkiness of her own hair through her fingers. Never had she 
completely lost track of Dana in Agent Scully. The hard part came 
when other people did. Or when people tried to take it away.

Mulder could do either. To the extreme. With a single touch, a 
glance, a word, he could awaken parts of herself even she had 
forgotten existed. And with equal ease, he could cut her to the 
core, brushing off the mere thought that she was anything more 
than met the eye, expecting no more of her than any other agent 
in the bureau. And his skill in each direction seemed to increase 
in parallel.

One winter, hopelessly wrapped in his own selfish quests, he had 
cut her beyond deep. She had almost left for real that time. For 
a while she *had* left in spirit. She felt a pang of guilt that a 
part of her preferred the moment she was living and breathing in 
now--a moment when she was separated from Mulder physically, but 
their connection of mind and...whatever else...was buzzing 
stronger than ever--versus a winter when she had had him by her 
side day after day, and never connected with him for a moment.

*Would another woman have cried about his disappearance yet?* It 
was a strange question, but it rang loudly behind her eyes. She 
looked again at her reflection in the window, now barely able to 
make out the bodies crushing past beyond the glass. Mulder had 
left her high and dry so many times. She had shut off the 
sensation in that limb years ago. Remnants seeped in the edges, 
into her subconscious, her dreams.

An image of Mulder washed across her mind's eye, utterly 
unbidden. He was standing in an open parking lot, trench coat 
flapping in the breeze. He was smiling at her, angling his head 
the way he did when he was trying to get her to step close to 
him, but didn't want to say.

She could smell him.

Scully shoved back her stool with a screech that startled the 
red-haired girl by the door. She gathered her things, tossed the 
last of her drink into the nearest garbage bin, and headed out 
the door.


*****


"Hey, Scully," said Langly as he stepped back to let her inside.

She gave him a half smile. "Hi."

Dana Scully was becoming a regular fixture at the Gunmen's 
Hideout. Wouldn't that thought have blown her away seven years 
ago? Seven years ago when Mulder believed in little grey men who 
stole children at night and Scully believed everyone she had ever 
met had had human DNA and Frohike had had a hopeless crush on the 
red-headed scientist who told him to go to hell with a glance.

Frohike looked up from the copy of The Lone Gunman he was 
editing. "Scully," he said in greeting. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," she said, almost coldly, almost in resentment that he 
would even ask. But the quick glance toward him afterward, and 
then at the floor, was almost an apology. She wondered exactly 
when "go to hell" had turned to "thank you".

"No word I suppose?" Frohike asked, stepping around his stool and 
closer to her.

She shook her head. "How about you guys? Did that lead you were 
talking about last night go anywhere?"

He shook his head. "Nothing yet. We're still following up, 
though."

It was a useless phrase that did nothing but attempt to sound 
better than "he's vanished without a trace". But they both heard 
the translation anyway.

Scully remained busy. She pulled off her gloves and dropped them 
in her coat pocket. Then she lifted her briefcase onto a nearby 
work table and popped the locks. "I got the information you 
wanted off of Mulder's Email. I don't know how useful it will 
be." She fished through the stack of manila folders, pulling out 
a few loose printouts of messages Mulder had exchanged with 
unfamiliar names in the past few weeks. It was an exercise. 
Mulder wouldn't have left anything of use behind. They had dug 
too deep already. If he had left a trail for her to follow, she 
would have caught the scent by now. She was stumbling in the 
dark.

It was Byers who took the papers from her hand. "Every little bit 
can help, Scully," he said kindly. Byers was always kind.

"Right." Her half-smile was nothing but a reflex.

Langly came up to her as Byers turned away. "I got some more 
printouts of plane reservations. Want to help me scan for 
aliases?" He said it like it was "want to share my corn nuts?". 
Langly.

She nodded, taking the pale grey printouts in her cold fingers. 
The paper was scratchy against her winter-dry skin. She had left 
her hand lotion in the glove compartment of her car. But it was 
too warm in here to convince her to return to the damp chill 
outside.

Scully slipped out of her coat and hung it on the scuffed wood 
coat tree near the door. Forgoing the slightly funky couch in the 
corner, she took a seat at the folding metal chair across from 
Frohike's post and spread out the printouts.

This was more busywork. But there was always that slim chance 
that either Mulder *had* left something for her to find, or that 
she knew his mind better than he realized. They couldn't just run 
a computer search through the names. There was no thorough way to 
tell the computer to "find any names that might have some slim 
significance to myself or Mulder". So she pulled her glasses from 
her suit coat pocket and set to work.

A few minutes later Byers silently placed a cup of black coffee 
beside her hand.


*****


It was hard work for Frohike to carefully study the proofs in his 
hands and carefully study the woman across from him without 
dropping some threads here and there.

The tension was building with each day that passed. The furtive 
glances among him and his co-conspirators were growing more 
frequent and more intense. The definition of loyalty was coming 
into question. They had promised loyalty to an old friend not 
long ago, and it had all seemed copacetic at the time. But the 
promise was getting harder and harder to keep with each false 
lead that ended with empty hands and forged a fresh chink in the 
armor of another old friend.

Even harder since they hadn't heard from Mulder in over four 
days.

Time was ticking. They were running out of false leads and 
artificial busywork to give credibility to their faux 
investigation. And the longer Mulder maintained silence, the more 
they began to pursue a few legitimate investigative paths of 
their own, hoping to jolt a response. Though God knows what they 
would do if one of those renegade investigations paid off.

He kept watching Scully over the copy in his gloved hands. She 
looked tired. More tired than he'd seen her in a long time. Had 
it been long enough for her to have noticeably lost weight? She 
looked thin to him. For all the time they'd spent together 
lately, he couldn't remember having seen her eat a meal.

With a delicate tap from the back of her finger, Scully hitched 
her glasses up her nose, her eyes continued the methodical 
scanning of names. He hadn't a clue how this woman's mind worked. 
If her scientific persona could bury her inner thoughts, if she 
was truly calm and safe when she was this focused on her 
work...or if it were merely a rote method of survival. If her 
less controlled feelings were still vibrant and vivid to her 
behind the outer mask of calm.

Frohike was always conscious of a certain air of the foreign each 
time Scully visited them alone. After all their time together, 
all the times she had, by action or word, entrusted him and the 
other Gunmen with her life; regardless of the faith they now had 
in her, and the genuine affection that seemed to be reciprocated, 
he always felt the distinct absence of Mulder.

It was as though Mulder were a kind of translator between them. 
Like a devoted mother between a child and a distant father. 
Certain aspects of Scully's feelings were discussed with them 
directly, empirical information was exchanged. But the rest came 
to them only through the filter of Mulder. Each time they met 
directly, both parties functioned on wavy ground.

Which was a fucking insane state of affairs if their worst case 
scenario came down. And with every silent hour, the likelihood 
grew.


End Chapter 2

(To be continued in Chapter 3...)
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