Oldie Fic #5: The River
Jun. 22nd, 2007 07:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
measiThis was intended as a sequel to Hidden Emotions. It doesn't quite gel.
And if I recall correctly, this never should have been a fanfic. This was, pure and simple, a very pissed off journal entry. Because I *do* recall bits of this particular trudge, although I can't remember for the life of me why I was doing it. But for those "in the know," the hotel in this fic most definitely was Hamilton Hell, which was in fact a HoJos before it became a dorm (and now is apartments).
Then again, I was in a very dark place at that time. A very, very dark place.
And I officially need to bite my tongue about the stupidity of songfic... because to my horror (and somehow I was in denial about this), I did, in fact, write one.
Goddess help me.
Title: The River
Author: Measi
Pairing: Mulder/Scully
Rating: soft R, for language
Spoilers: X-Files, season 3
Summary: Angst, self-projected
The River
by Melissa Kent
completed Jan. 6, 1996
--------------
Author's Note: This story is has been an unusually hard one for me to produce. It's a sequel to Hidden Emotions. . . sort of. But not exactly what I'd initially had in mind. It's a relationship story, but no sex. (I'm too chicken to write stuff like that!) There are quite a few nasty words, though, so I'd have to give this at least a PG-13 rating. A small third-season spoiler, too... but I doubt that it's one that overseas fans haven't heard already.
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, and Fox Mulder are the copyrighted inventions of Chris Carter and Ten-Thirteen Productions. I'm just borrowing them for a bit of imagination time. And yes, I do take long walks in the pouring Nor'Easter rains from time to time... =)
Historian's Note: This takes place somewhere between "Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose" and "Revelations" in the third season.
This one's dedicated to Rob, who's probably the closest person I know to how I see Mulder here. Thanks for the late night philosophy talks last year, Rob. . . I wish we lived in the same dorm so they could continue.
And here we go...
--------------
Scully was wishing that for *once* Mulder would pick a case someplace that didn't know of the word "rain."
Her raincoat, which she had assumed would be waterproof since, after all, it *was* designed for rain, now hung dripping from the shower curtain rod in her hotel room at the Howard Johnson's in Boston's Kenmore Square. . . along with all but one of her work suits, a sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans.
She turned on the Weather Channel, hoping that the announcer would proclaim that the skies would open and it would turn into a wonderful night. But when the weatherman said that New England was experiencing its first Nor'Easter of the season and would probably be wet for at least two more days, she nearly screamed.
Before emitting a sound that would scare the rest of the hotel, she quickly threw her frustration on a mental back burner.
Cool off. It's just rain, for God's sake! What's the difference between it and a shower? her conscience argued.
About fifty degrees, for starters, she shot back, but knew that she *did* need to cool off. The case they'd been working on had hit too close to home. A woman named Kathryn Lieb had been abducted, and couldn't remember a thing that had happened for the past two months. Scully had returned to the hotel mentally shaking, having refused to discuss any similarities between Kathryn's case and her own with Mulder over dinner. And while Scully could understand her partner's interest in the case for professional and personal reasons, she couldn't understand why he'd allowed her to come along without the usual "Are you sure you're okay with this, Scully?" Especially considering how overprotective he normally was since her own abduction.
She looked back at the window. The rain looked like it was letting up a bit. Maybe a walk to relax and clear her mind was what she needed, she figured. She knew that long walks always seemed to help her on stressful cases, and she remembered from her last visit to Boston how pleasant the city was to walk through.
She grabbed the parka that Mulder had loaned her for the night and her Walkman before slipping a note under the adjoining door. She wanted to avoid his worry when she got back. Might as well just tell him in a note now, she figured.
She prayed that she'd get out of the building before he stopped her.
It really wasn't a bad night to be walking, she decided as she took her first breath of the night air. It was a little chilly, but the rain didn't feel too cold. . . yet. And the wind wasn't blowing the forty miles per hour that the weatherman had said. Best of all, she had the city sidewalks mostly to herself.
Scully pulled the hood over her headphones and headed toward Kenmore Square. Her feet hit the pavement perfectly in time with the music, quickly passing the college students heading the opposite direction toward Boston University. She hardly saw them, refusing to focus on anything except her thoughts and the sidewalk in front of her.
Most of the small shops along the Brookline streets had closed hours before, either because of the rapidly approaching storm or simply because of "normal" nine to five operation hours. Now they sat, dark except for the occasional neon beer advertising sign, with sturdy chain links locked to the pavement that protected the windows. From the look of the neighborhood at night, Scully could tell she wasn't in one of the tourist attraction areas of metro-Boston. But she didn't care. She had a pissy attitude, a gun, and a mission to absolutely nowhere. She forgot the locked-up shops as soon as she saw them.
The rain continued to fall, soaking through her jeans and stinging her face and hands. The drops seemed to get larger, and with each one, felt like they were hitting harder. She was positive that Nature was subjecting her to its version of the Chinese water torture. But she continued to trudge on, heading toward the lights a few blocks ahead.
She picked up her pace when she saw a number of cars cross an intersection ahead of her. Signs of traffic meant a possible subway/streetcar line, and an escape from her "walk." Finally, she reached the intersection and quickly glanced up at the sign between raindrops. "Harvard Street and Fuller Street." She turned right onto Harvard, hearing the rumble of the streetcar nearby.
She looked at her watch. . . eleven-thirty. She'd been out here for 45 minutes. No wonder she was soaked through. The rain and wind picked up again and blew directly into her face. The water had completely soaked her jeans, numbing her thighs where the wet material had stuck to her skin. She jealously peered through restaurant windows at people dining in the late-night bistros. They were in dry, comfortable warmth, unlike her.
The walk was definitely not helping her mood. Time to figure something else out, she figured.
She saw the streetcar stop and decided to run. Hopefully Mulder had change in his coat pockets so she could take the train back to the hotel.
Forty. . . sixty-five. . .seventy-five. . . eighty. . . oh, come on. . . one more nickel. . . yes! eighty-five. . .
The streetcar finally arrived, and she clomped up the steps, receiving stares from other patrons as she left puddles behind her. She stepped into the middle of the car, still in a bad mood, and now dripping wet. She ignored the whispering and giggling of two students beside her and stared out the window at the rows of brownstones as the train began to move.
"Blanford Street," the monotone, heavily-accented voice of the streetcar driver announced over the intercom.
Feeling a little better after the short ride, Scully carefully exited the train and returned to her hotel room. She quickly peeled off the drenched clothes and threw them to the makeshift laundry room in her bathtub before she noticed that none of her other clothes were still in the tub.
Oh shit. Did the maid come while I was out? She wouldn't have taken my clothes out with the towels, would she? Scully groaned and rubbed her temples in frustration. Why did everything seem to happen at once?
She sighed and wrapped herself in the spare blanket from the closet. She hoped that there was something good on TV tonight that would cheer her up. But before she switched on the TV, she noticed a new pile upon the chair in the corner. She took a closer look, and closed her eyes in relief and surprise.
All of her clothes were neatly folded on the chair, clean and completely dry, with a handwritten note placed gently on top of them.
Scully-I figured you needed a little cheering up since it's been such a rotten day. Hope this helps at least a little. -Mulder
For the first time during their trip up to Boston, Scully smiled.
Mulder, I owe you one.
----
Four hours later
Scully had drifted off to sleep fairly quickly after discovering her clean laundry since the walk had exhausted her emotionally. But she didn't sleep peacefully. She was jolted awake by a nightmare involving Melissa, her father, and Mulder. Most of the images were gone, but she was still shaking as she lay alone in the unfamiliar room. She turned over and flipped the switch on her Discman, hoping that some music would calm her down.
The soft chords floated through the air as she stared into the darkness. The music filled her thoughts; she was immersed in it, letting the images of the verses fill the empty space in front of her eyes. She had received the CD album as a gift from an old college friend after getting out of the hospital. "For those times," the card had simply said.
She drew the cover closer under her arm. She needed to cheer up, and country music *definitely* wasn't an ideal genre to be listening to. But for some reason, this song, hell, almost the entire album, was different. Most of the songs were either inspirational, or simply upbeat. One particular song gave her some hope that everything in her life would turn out okay in the end. Danger was a constant unwelcome companion now. The fear of the possible outcomes from any movement she or Mulder made often kept her awake and night and intensified the nightmares she experienced so often when she finally *did* sleep.
I can't do this anymore, she told herself. It's too difficult.
Like you ever have walked away from a challenge, Dana, her conscience mocked her.
She sighed again as she continued to stare into the nothingness around her.
"Don't you sit upon the shoreline
And say you're satisfied,
Choose to chance the rapids
And dare to dance the tides..."
He heard her voice softly singing the verses. The words were muffled by her nearly-asleep state and the pillow beneath her cheek. She'd quietly left the adjoining door between their rooms open again. He knew she was having nightmares, but had said nothing. He didn't want to embarrass her or allow her the chance to shut him out. She was so stubborn, so demanding of her space to take care of herself. It was a quality that he admired in her. . . most of the time. But now she was in serious pain, and it tore at his heart. Instead of letting her have her space, he simply remained in the doorway, listening to her voice match the melodic rhythms coming from the CD player on the bed table, hoping that his presence would be at least *some* form of comfort to her.
"And I will sail my vessel
'Till the river runs dry,
Like a bird upon the wind,
These waters are my sky.
I'll never reach my destination
If I never try,
So I will sail my vessel
"Till the river runs dry..."
He heard her soft sobs start as the last chord died. He realized that she wasn't aware of his presence of the room. She never cried in front of him.
Only once, and even then she was embarrassed afterward, he reminded himself. He saw her grasp onto the pillow and hug it tighter as she brought her knees up, curling into a small ball under the covers.
For a minute, he couldn't move. What if she'd get angry and clam up even further? But his heart screamed at him, threatening eternal guilt if he didn't move his ass. He finally tiptoed over to the bed and gently sat down on the opposite side from her.
"Hey," he whispered soothingly as he lightly brushed the strands of copper hair off her exposed arm.
She swallowed but said nothing. Her eyes remained straight ahead, staring toward the window.
"Come on, Scully. Don't shut me out this time," he pleaded, struggling to keep his fear of rejection out of his voice. He took her shoulders firmly in his hands and pulled her to him. She still said nothing, but crawled over the covers, resting her head on his shoulder as she resituated into a ball in his lap. She still stared at the wall, her eyes wide in dazed fright and sorrow.
Shit, Scully. Why didn't you tell me they were getting this bad? Mulder cried in his mind. He wrapped one arm protectively around her and stroked her tousled hair with his free hand. Her eerie silence and willingness to let him stay confirmed his fears: she'd had a vivid nightmare about her abduction.
"You're okay, Scully. I'm here," he said, rocking her gently. He was torn between wanting her to return to sleep or forcing her to tell him exactly what she'd been dreaming about. But for the moment, he knew his presence was as far as he should push.
Her shoulders trembled as she took a shaky post-sobbing breath. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to Mulder, she sniffed and blinked her eyes, showing signs of recomposing herself.
"I'm so sick of this," she growled.
"Of me?"
She shook her head violently. "Nooo. Of the dreams, of being afraid. I hate it. I want my life to be normal again."
Mulder raised his eyebrows in concern. "Define normal."
"Not X-Filey."
He paused, trying to figure out if there was a hidden message in her statement. "Do you want to transfer to get away, Scully?" he asked nervously.
She shook her head again, much to his relief. "No. I love working on them and with you. Last time I was transferred, I was thinking about the X-Files all the time. If I weren't working with you, Mulder, I wouldn't be happy in another division anyway. I just. . . oh, I don't know." She sighed in frustration.
Push it. It's gotta come out somehow. "Dana," he began, noticing the slight turn of her head at the mention of her first name. "tell me what you've been dreaming about."
"It's nothing," she mumbled.
Bullshit, Scully. "Scully, come on. I came in here to see you spaced out and scared. You looked near-catatonic." He paused, trying to calm his increasing worry. "Please. I can't stand seeing you in pain like this."
She pushed away and looked at him. Her eyes glistened with tears, reflected by the light from the parking lot. "Mulder, don't."
He closed his eyes, squeezing the tears of frustration and sympathy from her sight. He tried to squelch the pain he felt. As much as she needed to let her feelings out, she obviously *still* wasn't going to. And he respected her privacy too much. He would let her keep it inside as long as it wasn't affecting her work or personality in public. But he still hated it, and it pissed him off that she wouldn't open up to him.
He pushed himself up from the bed. "Okay, Scully. Have it your way," he sighed, defeated-his despair clearly expressed in his tone. He shrugged and turned back to the adjoining door, leaving her sitting in the middle of the bed, clutching the blanket to her chest and staring at his back. She was just beginning to realize how much her nightmares were affecting him, too.
Oh, God. She closed her eyes, giving herself a mental slap for being so blind. "Mulder, I-"
He put a hand up to silence her. His frustration was overwhelming him as he accidently let some of his pain slip through into his words. "Don't worry about it. When you finally want to talk about it, you know where I am," he grumbled. He shut the door, purposely leaving a trace of the pain lingering in the click of the door lock.
"And I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end,
The way it all would go.
Our lives are better left to chance.
I could have missed the pain,
But I'd have had to miss the dance. . ."
She slammed her fist into the mattress. Damn it! You have to be so fucking stubborn, don't you, Dana Katherine? Stupid. . .
The piano notes rippled in loneliness through the darkness as she paced the room. She knew he was simply trying to help. Trying to help both of us. So why was it so difficult to express that to him? Was it just as she'd told the counselor during the case with Donnie Pfaster? Was it that she didn't want him to know how deeply this was affecting her? Or was it more? Definitely more, she answered herself.
Six months ago, they'd gone out to dinner. Not as working partners, but simply as close friends. And after dinner they'd taken a walk by the reflecting pool. And he had told her that he loved her. And she had admitted that she felt the same. They hadn't acted upon it, though-other than cuddling together as they slept that night. There were some hugs, more evenings together watching movies in comfortable friendship, a few more walks by the reflecting pool. But nothing else. Neither of them was ready to take their relationship further. The Bureau disapproval of dating relationships weighed heavily on their minds, but the fear that their relationship could suffer and eventually disappear from acting on their feelings frightened both of them.
So they just didn't act on their emotions. But recent events had come between them, straining their relationship. The deaths of Mulder's father and Melissa still were at the forefront of their interactions. It had nearly torn them apart, but instead had merely built a wall between them that begged to be torn down, but was left alone out of fear. Very little had been done to improve their personal relationship, and Scully feared that they were at the beginning of a downward spiral.
Was it the right choice? she asked herself. Probably not, but she just couldn't risk losing him entirely at this point. But you could lose him by not acting, too, Dana, her conscience replied.
She nodded and took a deep breath. She could do this. She *was* strong enough. She squeezed her left hand into a self-assuring fist and knocked on the adjoining door.
"Mulder?" she said softly. "Mulder, open the door, please."
No answer.
She knocked again, a little louder. "Mulder, please. . . I'm sorry. Come on."
She stood back from the door, assuming it would swing open immediately.
He's probably been leaning against the door the entire time, she told herself.
But the door didn't open.
She stood there staring at it, hoping that he was just taking his time to walk across the room and open it. But after two full minutes, she knew it wasn't going to happen.
She dropped her head and dragged herself to the window to stare at the full moon It looked so peaceful above the rain-soaked streets glittering from the reflected lights of the streetlamps.
She looked down, and saw Mulder sitting on the curb under an overhang. He was in front of the lobby with his head in his hands, his knees higher than the rest of his body because of the low curb height. A combination of a dim streetlamp and moonlight shone off his hair, casting a sad, dark blue glow over him and the surrounding walkway. He hadn't bothered to put on his robe. He just sat there in his ratty Nicks t-shirt and boxers, barefoot.
She sighed, deciding how she was going to approach him as she searched for her room key.
Mulder heard the bare feet slapping on the sidewalk behind him, but didn't bother to turn around. He knew it was Scully. Two small feet kicked out as she slid onto the curb beside him. He raised his left eyebrow as he noticed that she hadn't bothered to put on a robe, either. She just sat there in her oversized pj's, looking more like a first-year college student than a 31-year-old doctor.
For a couple of minutes, they sat silently, watching the occasional taxicab speed down Commonwealth Avenue and students returning home after parties and late- night study groups. They relished the peaceful silence of the city after the storm. A few droplets fell from the hotel lobby awning, splattering into tiny pools on the curb.
Then he felt her hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I just hate the fact that I'm not going to be able to solve this one on my own."
He closed his eyes, silently thanking whatever beings there were in the Heavens that he had been able to finally hear her say those words. "No one is completely self-sufficient, Scully. You taught me that. I'm always here for you, you know."
She smiled-a wide, beaming smile that threw a jolt of sunshine into every nerve in his body. "Thanks. I guess this case has just hit a little close to home for me." She leaned her head against his shoulder as he slowly brought his left arm around her back. "I'm sorry that I was such a bitch today, Mulder," she said softly.
He leaned over and gave her a soft kiss on the top of her head. "It's okay, Scully. Don't worry about it. Relax, okay?"
She nodded, happy that their friendship hadn't been damaged beyond repair. They let the silence surround them again. The night wind from the Charles River began to blow through the treetops across the street as they sat, hugging each other. A chill ran across Scully's back as she tried to press further into Mulder's protective embrace. She was exhausted, both physically and mentally, from her evening. Mulder's arms just seemed perfect as a bed right now. . .
"Come on, Scully. Let's go back inside before you fall over," Mulder said, amused at his partner's dead-weight in his arms.
She nodded, only partially aware of his assistance in putting her on her feet or getting her back into her room. She felt her feet slide onto soft cotton and a heavy blanket fall over her before hearing his voice again.
"I'll be next door if you need me, Scully."
She heard his footfalls going toward the adjoining door.
"Mulder?" she mumbled.
He turned. "Yeah?"
"Mind if I take you up on that offer now?"
He smiled and returned to her bedside. "No problem." He sat down and adjusted the pillow behind his back as she snuggled up to him. He brushed a few unruly waves of hair from her face and stared up at the ceiling, silently rejoicing that she'd finally let him get close enough to protect her.
He sighed, content as he lightly covered them both with the comforter, and drifted off to sleep.
* * * * * * * * THE END * * * * * * * *
--
****************************************************************
* "That's why we like you, Mulder. *
* Your ideas are weirder than ours." *
* Melissa Kent *
* mkent@acs.bu.edu, measi2@aol.com *
* Wiccan, Trekker, X-Phile, and definite klutz *
* THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE *
****************************************************************
And if I recall correctly, this never should have been a fanfic. This was, pure and simple, a very pissed off journal entry. Because I *do* recall bits of this particular trudge, although I can't remember for the life of me why I was doing it. But for those "in the know," the hotel in this fic most definitely was Hamilton Hell, which was in fact a HoJos before it became a dorm (and now is apartments).
Then again, I was in a very dark place at that time. A very, very dark place.
And I officially need to bite my tongue about the stupidity of songfic... because to my horror (and somehow I was in denial about this), I did, in fact, write one.
Goddess help me.
Title: The River
Author: Measi
Pairing: Mulder/Scully
Rating: soft R, for language
Spoilers: X-Files, season 3
Summary: Angst, self-projected
The River
by Melissa Kent
completed Jan. 6, 1996
--------------
Author's Note: This story is has been an unusually hard one for me to produce. It's a sequel to Hidden Emotions. . . sort of. But not exactly what I'd initially had in mind. It's a relationship story, but no sex. (I'm too chicken to write stuff like that!) There are quite a few nasty words, though, so I'd have to give this at least a PG-13 rating. A small third-season spoiler, too... but I doubt that it's one that overseas fans haven't heard already.
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, and Fox Mulder are the copyrighted inventions of Chris Carter and Ten-Thirteen Productions. I'm just borrowing them for a bit of imagination time. And yes, I do take long walks in the pouring Nor'Easter rains from time to time... =)
Historian's Note: This takes place somewhere between "Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose" and "Revelations" in the third season.
This one's dedicated to Rob, who's probably the closest person I know to how I see Mulder here. Thanks for the late night philosophy talks last year, Rob. . . I wish we lived in the same dorm so they could continue.
And here we go...
--------------
Scully was wishing that for *once* Mulder would pick a case someplace that didn't know of the word "rain."
Her raincoat, which she had assumed would be waterproof since, after all, it *was* designed for rain, now hung dripping from the shower curtain rod in her hotel room at the Howard Johnson's in Boston's Kenmore Square. . . along with all but one of her work suits, a sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans.
She turned on the Weather Channel, hoping that the announcer would proclaim that the skies would open and it would turn into a wonderful night. But when the weatherman said that New England was experiencing its first Nor'Easter of the season and would probably be wet for at least two more days, she nearly screamed.
Before emitting a sound that would scare the rest of the hotel, she quickly threw her frustration on a mental back burner.
Cool off. It's just rain, for God's sake! What's the difference between it and a shower? her conscience argued.
About fifty degrees, for starters, she shot back, but knew that she *did* need to cool off. The case they'd been working on had hit too close to home. A woman named Kathryn Lieb had been abducted, and couldn't remember a thing that had happened for the past two months. Scully had returned to the hotel mentally shaking, having refused to discuss any similarities between Kathryn's case and her own with Mulder over dinner. And while Scully could understand her partner's interest in the case for professional and personal reasons, she couldn't understand why he'd allowed her to come along without the usual "Are you sure you're okay with this, Scully?" Especially considering how overprotective he normally was since her own abduction.
She looked back at the window. The rain looked like it was letting up a bit. Maybe a walk to relax and clear her mind was what she needed, she figured. She knew that long walks always seemed to help her on stressful cases, and she remembered from her last visit to Boston how pleasant the city was to walk through.
She grabbed the parka that Mulder had loaned her for the night and her Walkman before slipping a note under the adjoining door. She wanted to avoid his worry when she got back. Might as well just tell him in a note now, she figured.
She prayed that she'd get out of the building before he stopped her.
It really wasn't a bad night to be walking, she decided as she took her first breath of the night air. It was a little chilly, but the rain didn't feel too cold. . . yet. And the wind wasn't blowing the forty miles per hour that the weatherman had said. Best of all, she had the city sidewalks mostly to herself.
Scully pulled the hood over her headphones and headed toward Kenmore Square. Her feet hit the pavement perfectly in time with the music, quickly passing the college students heading the opposite direction toward Boston University. She hardly saw them, refusing to focus on anything except her thoughts and the sidewalk in front of her.
Most of the small shops along the Brookline streets had closed hours before, either because of the rapidly approaching storm or simply because of "normal" nine to five operation hours. Now they sat, dark except for the occasional neon beer advertising sign, with sturdy chain links locked to the pavement that protected the windows. From the look of the neighborhood at night, Scully could tell she wasn't in one of the tourist attraction areas of metro-Boston. But she didn't care. She had a pissy attitude, a gun, and a mission to absolutely nowhere. She forgot the locked-up shops as soon as she saw them.
The rain continued to fall, soaking through her jeans and stinging her face and hands. The drops seemed to get larger, and with each one, felt like they were hitting harder. She was positive that Nature was subjecting her to its version of the Chinese water torture. But she continued to trudge on, heading toward the lights a few blocks ahead.
She picked up her pace when she saw a number of cars cross an intersection ahead of her. Signs of traffic meant a possible subway/streetcar line, and an escape from her "walk." Finally, she reached the intersection and quickly glanced up at the sign between raindrops. "Harvard Street and Fuller Street." She turned right onto Harvard, hearing the rumble of the streetcar nearby.
She looked at her watch. . . eleven-thirty. She'd been out here for 45 minutes. No wonder she was soaked through. The rain and wind picked up again and blew directly into her face. The water had completely soaked her jeans, numbing her thighs where the wet material had stuck to her skin. She jealously peered through restaurant windows at people dining in the late-night bistros. They were in dry, comfortable warmth, unlike her.
The walk was definitely not helping her mood. Time to figure something else out, she figured.
She saw the streetcar stop and decided to run. Hopefully Mulder had change in his coat pockets so she could take the train back to the hotel.
Forty. . . sixty-five. . .seventy-five. . . eighty. . . oh, come on. . . one more nickel. . . yes! eighty-five. . .
The streetcar finally arrived, and she clomped up the steps, receiving stares from other patrons as she left puddles behind her. She stepped into the middle of the car, still in a bad mood, and now dripping wet. She ignored the whispering and giggling of two students beside her and stared out the window at the rows of brownstones as the train began to move.
"Blanford Street," the monotone, heavily-accented voice of the streetcar driver announced over the intercom.
Feeling a little better after the short ride, Scully carefully exited the train and returned to her hotel room. She quickly peeled off the drenched clothes and threw them to the makeshift laundry room in her bathtub before she noticed that none of her other clothes were still in the tub.
Oh shit. Did the maid come while I was out? She wouldn't have taken my clothes out with the towels, would she? Scully groaned and rubbed her temples in frustration. Why did everything seem to happen at once?
She sighed and wrapped herself in the spare blanket from the closet. She hoped that there was something good on TV tonight that would cheer her up. But before she switched on the TV, she noticed a new pile upon the chair in the corner. She took a closer look, and closed her eyes in relief and surprise.
All of her clothes were neatly folded on the chair, clean and completely dry, with a handwritten note placed gently on top of them.
Scully-I figured you needed a little cheering up since it's been such a rotten day. Hope this helps at least a little. -Mulder
For the first time during their trip up to Boston, Scully smiled.
Mulder, I owe you one.
----
Four hours later
Scully had drifted off to sleep fairly quickly after discovering her clean laundry since the walk had exhausted her emotionally. But she didn't sleep peacefully. She was jolted awake by a nightmare involving Melissa, her father, and Mulder. Most of the images were gone, but she was still shaking as she lay alone in the unfamiliar room. She turned over and flipped the switch on her Discman, hoping that some music would calm her down.
The soft chords floated through the air as she stared into the darkness. The music filled her thoughts; she was immersed in it, letting the images of the verses fill the empty space in front of her eyes. She had received the CD album as a gift from an old college friend after getting out of the hospital. "For those times," the card had simply said.
She drew the cover closer under her arm. She needed to cheer up, and country music *definitely* wasn't an ideal genre to be listening to. But for some reason, this song, hell, almost the entire album, was different. Most of the songs were either inspirational, or simply upbeat. One particular song gave her some hope that everything in her life would turn out okay in the end. Danger was a constant unwelcome companion now. The fear of the possible outcomes from any movement she or Mulder made often kept her awake and night and intensified the nightmares she experienced so often when she finally *did* sleep.
I can't do this anymore, she told herself. It's too difficult.
Like you ever have walked away from a challenge, Dana, her conscience mocked her.
She sighed again as she continued to stare into the nothingness around her.
"Don't you sit upon the shoreline
And say you're satisfied,
Choose to chance the rapids
And dare to dance the tides..."
He heard her voice softly singing the verses. The words were muffled by her nearly-asleep state and the pillow beneath her cheek. She'd quietly left the adjoining door between their rooms open again. He knew she was having nightmares, but had said nothing. He didn't want to embarrass her or allow her the chance to shut him out. She was so stubborn, so demanding of her space to take care of herself. It was a quality that he admired in her. . . most of the time. But now she was in serious pain, and it tore at his heart. Instead of letting her have her space, he simply remained in the doorway, listening to her voice match the melodic rhythms coming from the CD player on the bed table, hoping that his presence would be at least *some* form of comfort to her.
"And I will sail my vessel
'Till the river runs dry,
Like a bird upon the wind,
These waters are my sky.
I'll never reach my destination
If I never try,
So I will sail my vessel
"Till the river runs dry..."
He heard her soft sobs start as the last chord died. He realized that she wasn't aware of his presence of the room. She never cried in front of him.
Only once, and even then she was embarrassed afterward, he reminded himself. He saw her grasp onto the pillow and hug it tighter as she brought her knees up, curling into a small ball under the covers.
For a minute, he couldn't move. What if she'd get angry and clam up even further? But his heart screamed at him, threatening eternal guilt if he didn't move his ass. He finally tiptoed over to the bed and gently sat down on the opposite side from her.
"Hey," he whispered soothingly as he lightly brushed the strands of copper hair off her exposed arm.
She swallowed but said nothing. Her eyes remained straight ahead, staring toward the window.
"Come on, Scully. Don't shut me out this time," he pleaded, struggling to keep his fear of rejection out of his voice. He took her shoulders firmly in his hands and pulled her to him. She still said nothing, but crawled over the covers, resting her head on his shoulder as she resituated into a ball in his lap. She still stared at the wall, her eyes wide in dazed fright and sorrow.
Shit, Scully. Why didn't you tell me they were getting this bad? Mulder cried in his mind. He wrapped one arm protectively around her and stroked her tousled hair with his free hand. Her eerie silence and willingness to let him stay confirmed his fears: she'd had a vivid nightmare about her abduction.
"You're okay, Scully. I'm here," he said, rocking her gently. He was torn between wanting her to return to sleep or forcing her to tell him exactly what she'd been dreaming about. But for the moment, he knew his presence was as far as he should push.
Her shoulders trembled as she took a shaky post-sobbing breath. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to Mulder, she sniffed and blinked her eyes, showing signs of recomposing herself.
"I'm so sick of this," she growled.
"Of me?"
She shook her head violently. "Nooo. Of the dreams, of being afraid. I hate it. I want my life to be normal again."
Mulder raised his eyebrows in concern. "Define normal."
"Not X-Filey."
He paused, trying to figure out if there was a hidden message in her statement. "Do you want to transfer to get away, Scully?" he asked nervously.
She shook her head again, much to his relief. "No. I love working on them and with you. Last time I was transferred, I was thinking about the X-Files all the time. If I weren't working with you, Mulder, I wouldn't be happy in another division anyway. I just. . . oh, I don't know." She sighed in frustration.
Push it. It's gotta come out somehow. "Dana," he began, noticing the slight turn of her head at the mention of her first name. "tell me what you've been dreaming about."
"It's nothing," she mumbled.
Bullshit, Scully. "Scully, come on. I came in here to see you spaced out and scared. You looked near-catatonic." He paused, trying to calm his increasing worry. "Please. I can't stand seeing you in pain like this."
She pushed away and looked at him. Her eyes glistened with tears, reflected by the light from the parking lot. "Mulder, don't."
He closed his eyes, squeezing the tears of frustration and sympathy from her sight. He tried to squelch the pain he felt. As much as she needed to let her feelings out, she obviously *still* wasn't going to. And he respected her privacy too much. He would let her keep it inside as long as it wasn't affecting her work or personality in public. But he still hated it, and it pissed him off that she wouldn't open up to him.
He pushed himself up from the bed. "Okay, Scully. Have it your way," he sighed, defeated-his despair clearly expressed in his tone. He shrugged and turned back to the adjoining door, leaving her sitting in the middle of the bed, clutching the blanket to her chest and staring at his back. She was just beginning to realize how much her nightmares were affecting him, too.
Oh, God. She closed her eyes, giving herself a mental slap for being so blind. "Mulder, I-"
He put a hand up to silence her. His frustration was overwhelming him as he accidently let some of his pain slip through into his words. "Don't worry about it. When you finally want to talk about it, you know where I am," he grumbled. He shut the door, purposely leaving a trace of the pain lingering in the click of the door lock.
"And I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end,
The way it all would go.
Our lives are better left to chance.
I could have missed the pain,
But I'd have had to miss the dance. . ."
She slammed her fist into the mattress. Damn it! You have to be so fucking stubborn, don't you, Dana Katherine? Stupid. . .
The piano notes rippled in loneliness through the darkness as she paced the room. She knew he was simply trying to help. Trying to help both of us. So why was it so difficult to express that to him? Was it just as she'd told the counselor during the case with Donnie Pfaster? Was it that she didn't want him to know how deeply this was affecting her? Or was it more? Definitely more, she answered herself.
Six months ago, they'd gone out to dinner. Not as working partners, but simply as close friends. And after dinner they'd taken a walk by the reflecting pool. And he had told her that he loved her. And she had admitted that she felt the same. They hadn't acted upon it, though-other than cuddling together as they slept that night. There were some hugs, more evenings together watching movies in comfortable friendship, a few more walks by the reflecting pool. But nothing else. Neither of them was ready to take their relationship further. The Bureau disapproval of dating relationships weighed heavily on their minds, but the fear that their relationship could suffer and eventually disappear from acting on their feelings frightened both of them.
So they just didn't act on their emotions. But recent events had come between them, straining their relationship. The deaths of Mulder's father and Melissa still were at the forefront of their interactions. It had nearly torn them apart, but instead had merely built a wall between them that begged to be torn down, but was left alone out of fear. Very little had been done to improve their personal relationship, and Scully feared that they were at the beginning of a downward spiral.
Was it the right choice? she asked herself. Probably not, but she just couldn't risk losing him entirely at this point. But you could lose him by not acting, too, Dana, her conscience replied.
She nodded and took a deep breath. She could do this. She *was* strong enough. She squeezed her left hand into a self-assuring fist and knocked on the adjoining door.
"Mulder?" she said softly. "Mulder, open the door, please."
No answer.
She knocked again, a little louder. "Mulder, please. . . I'm sorry. Come on."
She stood back from the door, assuming it would swing open immediately.
He's probably been leaning against the door the entire time, she told herself.
But the door didn't open.
She stood there staring at it, hoping that he was just taking his time to walk across the room and open it. But after two full minutes, she knew it wasn't going to happen.
She dropped her head and dragged herself to the window to stare at the full moon It looked so peaceful above the rain-soaked streets glittering from the reflected lights of the streetlamps.
She looked down, and saw Mulder sitting on the curb under an overhang. He was in front of the lobby with his head in his hands, his knees higher than the rest of his body because of the low curb height. A combination of a dim streetlamp and moonlight shone off his hair, casting a sad, dark blue glow over him and the surrounding walkway. He hadn't bothered to put on his robe. He just sat there in his ratty Nicks t-shirt and boxers, barefoot.
She sighed, deciding how she was going to approach him as she searched for her room key.
Mulder heard the bare feet slapping on the sidewalk behind him, but didn't bother to turn around. He knew it was Scully. Two small feet kicked out as she slid onto the curb beside him. He raised his left eyebrow as he noticed that she hadn't bothered to put on a robe, either. She just sat there in her oversized pj's, looking more like a first-year college student than a 31-year-old doctor.
For a couple of minutes, they sat silently, watching the occasional taxicab speed down Commonwealth Avenue and students returning home after parties and late- night study groups. They relished the peaceful silence of the city after the storm. A few droplets fell from the hotel lobby awning, splattering into tiny pools on the curb.
Then he felt her hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I just hate the fact that I'm not going to be able to solve this one on my own."
He closed his eyes, silently thanking whatever beings there were in the Heavens that he had been able to finally hear her say those words. "No one is completely self-sufficient, Scully. You taught me that. I'm always here for you, you know."
She smiled-a wide, beaming smile that threw a jolt of sunshine into every nerve in his body. "Thanks. I guess this case has just hit a little close to home for me." She leaned her head against his shoulder as he slowly brought his left arm around her back. "I'm sorry that I was such a bitch today, Mulder," she said softly.
He leaned over and gave her a soft kiss on the top of her head. "It's okay, Scully. Don't worry about it. Relax, okay?"
She nodded, happy that their friendship hadn't been damaged beyond repair. They let the silence surround them again. The night wind from the Charles River began to blow through the treetops across the street as they sat, hugging each other. A chill ran across Scully's back as she tried to press further into Mulder's protective embrace. She was exhausted, both physically and mentally, from her evening. Mulder's arms just seemed perfect as a bed right now. . .
"Come on, Scully. Let's go back inside before you fall over," Mulder said, amused at his partner's dead-weight in his arms.
She nodded, only partially aware of his assistance in putting her on her feet or getting her back into her room. She felt her feet slide onto soft cotton and a heavy blanket fall over her before hearing his voice again.
"I'll be next door if you need me, Scully."
She heard his footfalls going toward the adjoining door.
"Mulder?" she mumbled.
He turned. "Yeah?"
"Mind if I take you up on that offer now?"
He smiled and returned to her bedside. "No problem." He sat down and adjusted the pillow behind his back as she snuggled up to him. He brushed a few unruly waves of hair from her face and stared up at the ceiling, silently rejoicing that she'd finally let him get close enough to protect her.
He sighed, content as he lightly covered them both with the comforter, and drifted off to sleep.
* * * * * * * * THE END * * * * * * * *
--
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* "That's why we like you, Mulder. *
* Your ideas are weirder than ours." *
* Melissa Kent *
* mkent@acs.bu.edu, measi2@aol.com *
* Wiccan, Trekker, X-Phile, and definite klutz *
* THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE *
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