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.
SUMMARY: Believing Mulder dead, Scully slowly moves on to a new 
life (or an old one). But perhaps the adventure has not yet 
ended...:)
TITLE: WATER'S EDGE
AUTHOR: Elizabeth Rowandale
RATING: NC-17...individual parts will be marked NC-17 if and when 
they arise...
CLASSIFICATIONS: (SAR)
KEYWORDS: Scully/Other, MSR
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@yahoo.com)
Copyright (c) 2000
 

Time passes in moments.

There have always been moments in my life that have hung in the 
air around me as I walked through all the succeeding days, laying 
their images across my vision to quietly reshape all that I 
perceive in the present.

So many of these moments have come since the day I first set foot 
in that basement office, the one Blevins labeled the Copier Room 
when first directing me to its location.

I never thought I'd miss the smell of wet dust.

If only we could know in advance which were the moments that 
would stick with us forever, the moments that would stand out in 
our memories as the signposts of all that surrounded them. 
Perhaps we would pay more attention that way. Or maybe it's right 
that we don't.

Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, when my mind and 
body have not yet fully accepted wakefulness, single moments from 
those two critical years flash through my mind like scattered 
snapshots.

The sound of water from the fountain below the balcony.

Daniel's fingers twisting through mine. His skin tingling my 
nerves, spreading warmth up my arm.

Your hand on my back as you said goodnight on that far too 
ordinary day before you disappeared.

The smell of Frohike's leather jacket and the way it felt against 
my cheek as I held onto the cloth and tried to breathe.

The glaring sun reflecting off the line of windshields, drawing 
crosses of light in the air, like angels along the cemetery path, 
watching and waiting as my husband passed on.

The incredible softness of a tiny cheek nestled against my 
shoulder.

The sound of the wind the moment I saw you by the wrought iron 
garden gate.

The look on your face the moment your eyes found the ring.

First contact with your fingertips.

Mulder. This is a moment. Take me home.

 
(To be continued in Chapter 1....)
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