NOTE: This is the first somewhat NC-17 chapter, and it only gets 
worse from here.  So, if you're under 18 and have been cheating, 
get out now!

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...

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

BOOK II:

CHAPTER 5


"Anything plain can be lovely, anything loved can be lost
Maybe I lost my direction, what if our love is the cost?"
--Bare Naked Ladies, "Falling For the First Time"



Four Months Later



**Thanks for ditching me.**



The recoil coursed through her body like an electrical pulse.

Six shots.  All in a tight shot group, inches from the target's 
center.  But the thrill was dull.  Cloaked in ironies and damp 
cloths she had not shouldered during the months of training spent 
within these walls.

Quantico.

An idiot on the highway on a rainslick Friday night, Agent 
Michaels at the wheel and Scully in the passenger seat.  A squeal 
of tires and a good hard smack into the bumper in front of them.  
A good hard jerk to her shoulder when the seatbelt locked.  Next 
thing she knew she was buried in medical validations and red tape 
and down at Quantico being re-certified on her weapon.

The machinery whirred dully as her target moved forward on the 
track.

She had gotten the certification two weeks ago, passed with 
flying colors.  But the practice time had roused her competitive 
blood, and now she had found herself down here a bit more often, 
honing her technique.

Or killing time.

Another cartridge, another target.

*Bam!*

**"I don't know how to tell you this, Agent Scully."..."Just say 
it"..."The investigation into your partner's disappearance has 
been...'downgraded'."**

*Bam!*

**"You mean shelved.  Forgotten."**

*Bam!*

**"I mean the trail's cold Scully.  We're walking in circles and 
there's nothing left to find."**

This wasn't the first time the Bureau had let her down after the 
loss of a loved one.

*Bam!*

She was pulling off her ear muffs when someone grabbed her arm.

"Jesus, Michaels, you scared me.  Didn't they teach you not to do 
that to a person with a weapon?  What are you doing here?"

Ignoring her question and her annoyance, Agent Gannon Michaels, 
cracked a smile that brought a welcome warmth to his deep set 
eyes.  "I scared you?  Could it be possible that something 
actually affected the great and immovable Agent Scully?"

Humor wasn't her bag today.  Or maybe that comment hurt a little.  
She wasn't certain if the flinch she felt within had made its way 
outside.

"What are you doing here?" she repeated, softer this time.

Michaels shrugged, nodding toward the gallery.  "I'm here for 
target practice like I am around this time every month.  The 
better question would be, what are *you* doing here?  I would 
have thought you would have had your fill of this place by now."

That earned him a half-hearted smile.  She wasn't really angry 
with Michaels.  Truthfully, he was one of the rare warm spots in 
her world these days.  Not right to abuse that on the grounds 
that it was easier not to feel.  "I guess I just want to be sure 
I have my confidence back," she said, involuntarily shrugging her 
sore shoulder.

Michaels reached out and rubbed her arm.  The assurance and 
comfort in his gesture felt good.  Not so long ago she had had 
this man so far shut out of her personal life he wouldn't have 
dared violate her self-imposed bubble.  With a glance toward her 
target, he said, "I don't think you have anything to worry about, 
Dana.  And it's my ass you'll be covering, so I think you can 
trust my opinion."

Scully smiled and nodded as he turned and walked off toward the 
equipment room.

Her partner.  Three and a half months and that one hadn't soaked 
in yet.

She dropped out her cartridge and reached for another.

Maybe just one more round.


*****


The low winter sun had long since vanished below the tree line 
when they finished at the crime scene.

Scully was cold.  Seemed she'd been cold for months now.  The icy 
wind turned her heavy wool coat to paper.  Dirty and snow-
bedraggled leaves crunched beneath her feet.

Why was it always a child who found the dead body?  A nine year 
old or eight year old or six year old boy or girl, doing nothing 
more damning than tossing around a baseball, forever scarred when 
the ball wandered up against something fleshy and vile that had 
once been sweet and soft.

There was a reason she had never sought after a spot in Violent 
Crimes.  She hadn't realized the X-files would be the same thing 
sometimes.  And over the years that fact had taken its toll.  
Even on the days she couldn't admit it.

Scully breathed warm air onto her wrist as she reached for the 
car door.  Goosebumps cascaded down her back.  Over the roof of 
the car, she saw Michaels had followed her in silence.  They had 
started to work fairly well together, lately.  They were 
developing some silent communication skills.  Quite a few, 
actually, though she was reluctant to concede that she could ever 
be in tune with anyone but Mulder.

It was different, of course.  But it hurt.

They dropped into their respective sides of the car, and Scully 
started the motor and the heater before either of them spoke a 
word.

"Want to call it a day?  Tackle all this in the morning?" 
Michaels asked.

*All this*.  *All this* meaning find out the ID of this dead 
woman being rolled into the ambulance behind them.  Find out 
where she came from.  Search desperately for a pattern to the 
madness.  A teeny tiny slip that might give them something to 
grasp and cling to and follow to the darkness behind *all this*.  
Until there wouldn't be anymore.

For a while.

Scully nodded.  You could only play the dedicated Martyr Cop for 
so long, and then you either went crazy or just admitted that you 
were doing people less good by killing yourself than by stopping 
for some sleep every now and then.

Unless you were Mulder.

She closed her eyes and revved the engine to warm it.

"You okay, Dana?"

Eyes open.  Hands on the wheel.  Shift into 'drive'.  "I'm fine."

For months they had been "Agent Michaels" and "Agent Scully".  No 
matter how late at night it was, how many cups of coffee they had 
bought one and other.  And then, one day, they had been having a 
good conversation, forgetting for a moment about the caseload 
hovering over their heads, leaning back on the basement file 
cabinets.  And Michaels had casually called her "Scully".

And she had almost lost her lunch.  Wrong voice.  "Dana," she had 
managed, with only the slightest break in composure.  Nothing he 
could draw attention to.

He had taken it as a compliment, received her offer with a smile.  
Best for all concerned.

The drive back to the office was comfortably silent.  One of the 
first things she had noticed about Michaels was his ability to 
accept silence as a good thing and not try to fight it.  
Pointless talking wore her out.  Mulder had had trouble with that 
for a while.  The first year of their partnership he had hopped 
around her, yapping away like a puppy dog as though he felt it 
his duty to fill in for her silence.  Then one day they had 
clicked.  And words hadn't mattered anymore.

The rush hour traffic was already thick tonight.  The headlights 
made her head ache.  Michaels was leaning against the headrest, 
his eyelids drooping.  He deserved a little time at home with his 
wife.  It was possible, after the last few weeks they had put in 
on this case, that he was forgetting what his children looked 
like.  But it was like him not to complain to her about it.

With a glance at the dashboard clock and a re-evaluation of the 
traffic, Scully changed routes.  The hell with checking in at the 
office.  The most they could do there was pick up more work to 
take home with them and clutter their respite.  She took the next 
exit, knowing Michaels had dozed off and wouldn't know she was 
driving him home until they were in his driveway.

Michaels was a sound sleeper.  Not edgy and restless like Mulder.  
She had been inexpressibly grateful for that fact in the first 
weeks of their new partnership.  Because for that first month 
even breathing had hurt.  And touching anyone was like acid.  
Telling anyone any of the above was worst of all.  So she had 
waited for the long car rides.  Waited for Micheals' gentle 
snores.  And used that time to cry.  She was lucky she hadn't 
driven them up a phone pole a couple of times.

The tears had been gone for a while now.

The traffic thinned as she wound through the now familiar side 
streets of her partner's neighborhood.  Lights shone from 
suburban living rooms.  Televisions flickered against window 
shades.

The white mini-van was parked in its usual place in the Michaels' 
driveway; the porch light was lit to welcome him.

Scully pulled onto the apron, and shifted into park.  She could 
see the silhouette of Amanda Michaels moving behind the living 
room drapes.  They had invited her to dinner several times now.  
She was running out of reasons to say 'no'.

Scully reached across and nudged Michaels' shoulder.  He snorted 
and jerked his head upward.  "Hmm?  What?"

"Your stop, cowboy," she said with a fleeting smile.

"Hey, you raggin' on my boots again?"

She just smiled, lowered her eyes to the black gloves in her lap.

Michaels ran a hand through his dark hair, took in his 
surroundings.  He looked younger in the sodium vapor lights.  The 
crinkles around his eyes were smoothed.  "I thought we were going 
to the office?  I was going to finish up the--"

"Go home," she said plainly.

He frowned.  "You sure?  You're not going back to work, are you?"

She shook her head, gave him the eye contact he wanted.  "No, I'm 
going home.  We'll start again in the morning.  Meet you in the 
lab at seven?"

"You got it."  He stretched over the seat to grab his briefcase 
from the rear.

On his way out the door he gave her one last pointed glance.  "No 
work?"

"No work."

He nodded, satisfied.  Closed the door and headed up the walk.

Scully backed out of the drive and was gone before Michaels 
reached the porch.  She switched on the radio, and pushed the 
speed limit back to the glare of the expressway.


*****


The warm water waved over her stomach as she shifted her leg.  
Candlelight flickered against her closed lids as she listened to 
the gentle silence of her apartment.  The top of the bath water 
was fiddling with the loose hairs at the nape of her neck.  
Awareness of the chip came and went these days.  Some days it ate 
at her every moment--through paperwork and traffic lights and 
field reports.  Other days it was there, but she accepted it.  
Still other days, she almost forgot.  Today she was passive.

She drew a deep breath, catching a mixture of scents from the 
jumble of candles burning throughout the room.  The cinnamon felt 
like Christmas at home.  It was early for her bath.  She hadn't 
even had dinner yet, just a bit of a muffin on the way through 
the kitchen for water.  But her relaxation ritual had been 
calling to her.  She needed the cleansing.  Needed the dirt and 
death off her skin.  Needed the stench cleared from her nostrils.

Eyes still closed, she lifted her thick washcloth and drizzled 
the warm water over her shoulders and chest.  She listened to the 
faint clunk of the pipes.  She concentrated on each part of her 
body in turn, consciously relaxing the muscles, letting go of the 
tension.  Forearms, fingers, neck, shoulders, chest, ankles, 
calves (oooh, calves...too much rough ground in three inch 
heels...), stomach...thighs...hips...  Water gently washing over 
her, gentle rivulets trickling along her inner thigh...Oh, God.  
And now all of her conscious attention was centered upon one 
area.  A dangerous area.  She felt the slightest amount of 
tension creep back into her shoulders.

It had been a while since she had taken care of relaxing that 
part of her.  Because there were complications these days.  There 
had always been issues, of course.  Any good Catholic girl had 
issues.  But she had worked past those over the years.  Biology 
did wonders to obscure neglected theology.  But there was more 
now.  Thoughts she had refused to put a name to, even in her own 
mind.  But with her they remained.

The ache was insistent.

Her mind ran over each of the locks on her door.  Privacy was one 
of the issues.  Each time, no matter how certain she was of her 
security, her mind would insist upon inventorying each of the 
physical safeguards, closing her off from the world.  The 
bathroom door was pushed to, but not locked.  A sound barrier 
just the same.

She let her fingers trace experimentally down her leg, tickling 
the skin with her nails.

The chain reaction was instant and thrilling.  Her heart rate 
rose in anticipation, and a dull throb pulsed in her depths.  
Damn, it had been a while, hadn't it.  The physical readiness was 
the easy part.  The trick was to keep her mind from wandering.

Settling more comfortably against the curved porcelain, Scully 
drew a slow, deep breath, and tried to place her mind someplace 
safe.  She tried to remember what it had felt like in the bed of 
her first off campus apartment in Pennsylvania.  The slightly 
worn sheets she had taken with her from the back of her mother's 
linen closet.  The crisp scent of the winter air.  She thought 
about running.  About the view along the river.  About feeling 
the pulse of life in her own body, celebrating the pure joy of 
health.

Her fingers gently stroked.  Teased.

Her breath grew irregular.  Sharp.  She felt the blood gathering 
between her legs, as if to pull her hand in closer.  Begging for 
contact.  Upping the pace without her action.

Moving ever so precisely, she drew her middle finger over the 
most crucial point.

*Oh, yes...*  It was like finally letting go of a heavy weight, 
or removing something that had been pinching her skin.

Yes, this was what she wanted.  What she needed, from the very 
core of her being.  But no...she couldn't let herself surrender 
to familiar thought patterns.  She had to keep herself on a fresh 
path.

Lying in the grass in the park across from the campus.  Looking 
up through the trees at the fragmented clouds.  Squinting in the 
sun, and feeling the delicious stretch of her stomach muscles.  
Feeling the softness of her own long hair on her shoulders.

She was massaging now.  Lazy circles, kneading thirsty flesh as 
she remembered the sun.  Her own moisture was mixing with the 
water and the bath oils, gliding over her fingers.  She ran her 
tongue over her lips, imagined making contact with another...

"No..."  No.

Distraction.  Carefully parting her folds, she curved her finger, 
moved far too easily inside.  Her breath caught.  A little tight.  
Easy for her finger, but it had been so long since she had 
welcomed anything more.

Her fingers knew instinctively what she needed.  Pressing her 
hand tight against her own heat, she reached up as far as she 
could, drew her finger lightly over that precious core of 
sensation.  The one so few men in her life had ever taken the 
time to learn how to find.  The one she had discovered how to 
position herself to *make* them find.  Quick, light strokes with 
the tip of her finger, that made her body ache and pull and arch 
upward for more.  Oh, God, yes, she needed this.

She was breathing heavily now, forgetting for moments at a time 
to even think of the layers of locks, to wonder if the pipes 
carried sound or if anyone could be listening.

When the anticipation turned unbearable, she slowly drug her 
fingers back.  Following the natural curve of her body, she moved 
through the fold, and over her now ultra-sensitive clit.

She slipped against the porcelein, grasped for support.

She couldn't put off the release much longer.

Her head was throbbing in time with her insistent strokes, 
muscles tensing for what they knew was to come.

She was losing focus.  River.  Field.  School.  What was it?  Oh, 
please...yes...can't....wait...

*The scent of his trench coat, sliding her hand against his 
shirt.*

NO....no...

Focus blurring in sensation.

She pulled her fingers back from the core of her desire, teasing 
the surrounding flesh, stretching out the sweetness into agony.  
A flush spread across her chest.

*"I've never seen you as a mother before."*

A soft whimper escaped her lips.

The wave was gathering in her thighs like the restless water 
above.

*Long fingers in her hair.  "It's okay, Scully."*

Her hand spread out, covering every inch that begged to be 
touched, never consciously deciding to give in.

*"You make me a whole person...Scully...I need you on this."*

Her tempo exploded.

"Oh...God..."  The release burned through her like an anguished 
cry.  Her rapture merged with tears and gasping breath turned to 
sobs.

*Mulder...*

Everything ached.  Her skin had been his far too long to be her 
own again now.

She couldn't see for want of breath.

Her fingers clung to the damp edge of the porcelain and she 
pulled forward and rested her forehead on her fingers while the 
tears blinded her thoughts.

Her stomach hurt from the mixture of pleasure and torture.  Her 
muscles knew the loss.

She ducked beneath the water, washing away the tear stains and 
submerging her thoughts along the way.

Scully pushed her hair clear of her face and sat upright, pulling 
her legs protectively close, fighting to slow her breath.

The candles were flickering on the water.  Evening had turned to 
night.

Silence.

It was time to move on.


*****


Scully pulled her silk robe over damp skin.  She pulled the plug 
on the bath water.  She left her underwear and pajamas in their 
neat pile on her bed, not yet ready for cloth to touch her skin.  
Still too sensitive, and not able to handle the awareness of the 
aftermath.

She towel dried her hair, then let it hang free and tousled over 
her shoulders.

Down the hall now, heading on automatic for the kitchen and 
sustenance.  But she wasn't really hungry.  And she paused at the 
edge of the living room.  Her gaze moved methodically about the 
still room, focus blurred slightly without her contacts, and 
after her tears.  She wondered about the woman who lived in these 
walls.  When she was young, Dana had always taken such care with 
the decoration of her own space.  Growing up with three siblings 
in Navy housing, she had rarely had her own room.  Identity had 
been significant in her life.  So whichever bed was hers had had 
to have just the right quilt on top.  Just the right hand-
embroidered pillows at its head.  The pictures on the nightstand 
had to be distinctively "Dana".  The picture frame above the 
headboard had to be hand chosen.  She had always tried to imagine 
someone who knew her walking into Melissa's and her bedroom, and 
hoped they would know in an instant which area was hers.

When had individuality lost out to utility and efficiency?  She 
circled the room, forgetting again about the need for food, 
running her fingers over slightly dusty picture frames, book 
bindings, remote controls and glass figurines.

Where was she heading now?  Was she spinning her wheels?  Where 
had she been before this place?  Before the tornado that was The 
X-Files(*Mulder*) had entered her life....before the 
Bureau...where had she been?...*who* had she been...?...what had 
she wanted?...who had she loved?..

The thought moved through the room like a whisper.

**Daniel.**


*****

End of Chapter 5
(Continued in Chapter 6...)
Feed. Starving. Author.
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