Waiting In Motion (10/10) by mountainphile mountainphile@yahoo.com MSR, NC-17 Header and Disclaimer info in Part 1 ******************** A haze of steamy moisture clouds the bathroom and warms the air. Her shoulder dips under the weight of Mulder's broad, towel-wrapped side and his arm feels like lead on the back of her neck. Lame and showered clean, he scuffs beside her toward their bed, using her smaller body as a crutch. "Hey, Scully... d'you think anyone would believe that Carl Malone actually hauled me up a mountainside?" "Doubtful," she pants. "Besides, you'd be perpetuating an untruth that would most likely come back to bite you on the ass." "Steal my fun." "Careful. Careful now -- " She peels back the bedspread, unwrapping the towel from his battered body as he eases himself naked onto the sheets and mattress. The scent that greets them is all freshness and fabric softener, the surface clean and crisp. In their absence Ruth has come to supply a welcoming gift of her own. Contrary to his earlier assessment, *good* is not the word Scully would have used to describe Mulder's condition when found. After she lowered the length of rope into the gaping hole, his shaking hands maneuvered it around his body, but could barely secure a serviceable knot. Then, during what seemed like an eternity she and Carl, communicating by triple tugs and guesswork, succeeded in bringing Mulder back up to the edge of the roadside. He'd been standing for hours in chill muddy water after sacrificing the tee shirt, his body temperature dipping low enough to cause her concern. Though layered for maximum effect, the rain gear and flannel shirt were soaked through and provided minimal warmth. Symptoms of hypothermia racked his body, evidenced by muscle spasms, bluish lips, and chattering teeth that impeded further discussion. Only when he bore his own weight on the edge of the road had she noticed the damage to his left ankle. "Next time it's Goretex all the way," he vows from the bed, accepting the extra blankets Scully piles over him. "Water- proofed head to toe." "What makes you think there will be a next time?" The retort does little to hide her discontent. She's not opposed to driving all the way home to DC, but threading the car through an intricate gauntlet of deep ruts is not her forte, nor her idea of a pleasant cruise. And, like it or not, tomorrow morning her own muscles will be suffering from the stressful workout they've received. Mulder's trembling is gone. He's checkered by raw scrapes and contusions from his fall, the worst being the angry, red swelling that's ballooned his left ankle to unnatural proportions. A dazed mask of awe remained with him during the drive back to the motel and the hasty shift to their room. It lasted through the steaming, cleansing torrent of the shower, when Ruth came to the door with chicken broth and bread. Now, taking slow sips of the hot liquid, his throat seems to thaw and he's lost the vapid bemused expression that prolonged Scully's anxiety. "I had to do it... go out there. You know that. There's no going back," he says, "not now, after what we know. After all that we've experienced.... " "You mean with the job?" "The job... everything. Our work together in the most vilified division within the FBI." "Can you really blame them? Tachyons, Mulder? Proof of alien abduction?" "At least my story's been consistent." He closes his eyes in weariness, lips moving, then opens them again to regard the tired sadness in her face. "Screw 'em. It has to end somewhere. Since when have I ever cared about protocol or playing the rules game?" "Well, you may start caring sooner than you think. Skinner mentioned that the department will be undergoing a full audit to justify expenditures in light of his budget going over the top again." "A reckoning?" "The pigeons, as they say, may finally be coming home to roost, Mulder." He smiles in a pleased, sleepy way. "Bring it on -- When does this happen? I'm game... " "Sometime in the next month or so." She seeks to change the subject, to return to the task at hand. "Drink up... you need the hydration and the heat." Swiveling her head, she throws him a stern glance and returns to her work. Bedside manner is at the bottom on her list of priorities. She's segued back into examination mode, complete with furrowed brow and pinched cheeks. Perched beside him on the bed, her fingers probe and slide from one injury to the next with skill and economy. The blanket warms his battered, cooled body; she uncovers only that limb she needs to examine. "I asked you a question before, Scully... whether you saw anything out there." The corners of her lips tighten. Reaching toward the bottom of the bed, she squeezes efficient fingertips along his bruised ankle. The pressure draws a whimper of pain. "I don't like the look of that. I want it x-rayed as soon as we get into Georgetown --" "And you still haven't answered me." His words bring a flush of annoyance to her cheeks. Not yet prepared to discuss eyewitness testimony to strange phenomena, she doesn't share in his urgency to gush about the subject. Mulder may want to pound willy-nilly down the unknown and unmarked trail, but she still prefers the circumspect, cautious, scientific approach. That hasn't changed one iota, levitating deer and mysterious beams notwithstanding. Looking away, she occupies herself with the continued appraisal of his injuries, her wind-blown hair a convenient veil between them. When he reaches out to brush it away she ducks and moves to stand. "Hey." He speaks low, with contrition. "Stay with me... " "I haven't cleaned up yet." Her voice is flat, evasive as the expression she wears. He sets down his mug and gropes for her hand, tugging her back to the warm depression beside him. "C'mere. You've got a leaf or something... " She expels an impatient huff, while his long fingers pick through the tangles. With gentle care he dislodges and tosses away the bit of twig. His hand moves deeper into the swirl of hair to massage her scalp and to urge her gaze toward him. Dark with concern and affection, his eyes are luminous, large from his nearness. "Never realized you were so adept with a rope," he whispers. "Besides risking lightning and limb." "You seem to forget, Mulder, that it's not the first time you've driven me to the end of my rope." His eyes twinkle. "Sounds precarious." "Not after years of practice." "Ouch. So... tell me what your buddy Carl Malone had to say." Carl, Scully relates, can supply little additional information. She approached him after he'd hauled them both to the top of the ravine and Mulder was blanketed and hustled into the passenger seat of the Taurus. The tall man seemed ill at ease, pressing his big feet into the mud and looking down as he spoke. When the light appeared and descended, he assumed it was only the searchlight from a helicopter, though he experienced a dizzy sensation and an overwhelming desire to get out of its way. "I can't understand it, Miss Scully, but then, after the light was gone, there I was -- kneelin' between two big trees like I was in church or somethin' an' the rope layin' flat on the ground. It ain't like me to fall down on a job. I was beside myself 'til you answered my yank that you was okay." Mulder groans in an attempt to sit up straighter, the numerous blankets slipping from his shoulders. "You fell?" "I... took a small tumble, yes." That simple disclosure gives her body permission to feel its wounds; she's suddenly aware of aches and throbbing bruises that before, during the rescue and care for him, were numbed by adrenaline overload. "However, nothing quite as spectacular as yours. And I'm fine, rest assured." She's rewarded with a wide, lopsided smile as he shifts his weight onto one hip. Raising his arm, he points to the sodden pile of clothes in the corner by the door. "Before I decided to play gopher, I hit about three or four different spots. Gunmen coordinates," he explains when she raises dubious brows. "Over there in my jacket pocket... " "The fruits of your labor?" "Call it *pay dirt*." Squatting barefoot, she rifles through the wet pile and finds the pocket of Mulder's jacket. Feeling a telltale bulge under her fingers, she pulls out several small plastic baggies, each one housing a minute pinch of indeterminate grayish powder. "Check it out," he gloats, punctuating each word. Sitting beside him, she hands over the bags and he toys with each one, obviously pleased with the yield. "These go straight back to the guys for analysis. Frohike'll think he's died and gone to heaven." His words trigger the weight of the new burden she carries in her heart. It comes sweeping back to overwhelm her with its keenness -- the sad tale of a woman deprived of her beloved, who faithfully waits for his return while raising the child he's never seen. Reaction and fatigue set her emotions off-kilter, and bring a glitter to her eyes that she knows will prompt Mulder to ask questions. To forestall them, she reaches for his hand, drawing it into her lap and stroking it absently with her thumbs. "I want you to speak with someone tomorrow morning, before we leave." "The manager?" Scully nods. "Yes... her name is Ruth." "I noticed you two seemed chummy." "We talked today. Several times," she admits slowly, running a thumb down the creases in the palm of his hand. "I wish I could say it was about something mundane and ordinary, but unfortunately, that's not the case. Ruth has a husband, Mulder. A husband who's been missing for over four years." "Don't tell me... " he murmurs, and already a green spark of intrigue has crept into his eyes. She nods. "She believes he's been abducted by someone -- or something. It happened on that same road where you left the car. The police came up empty, but she claims there are unusual forces at work here on the mountain." "What did I tell you?" "And Mulder... " She pauses and grips his hand, then raises solemn eyes to his. "She can also testify to seeing strange, unexplainable lights in the sky. Apparently you were right." She closes them when he leans forward to kiss her. His lips feel cool and plush against the scratched skin of her cheekbone. "What else?" Easing back against the pillow, his face is a picture of piqued, boyish curiosity. "I get the feeling you've got something else hidden up your sleeve." Sighing, she stands and crosses to her suitcase, bending to retrieve her packet of white-gray dust. Next to Mulder's meager gleanings her bag looks like a hefty dose of street narcotic, and she drops it into his eager palm. His breath hisses in admiration. "You found this... where?" "In Sam's truck." When Mulder's eyes widen at the name, she mentally berates herself for blindsiding him. "His first name is Samuel," she amends quietly, "and Ruth kept the truck stored in an old shed. I went on the assumption that if you could find evidence of supposed abduction elsewhere, then the vehicle he was driving when it occurred should be searched for clues. That's what I found between the seats... as well as scorch marks on the driver's side." Mulder's brows are quirked and his full lips part in what appears to be pleased incredulity. "What?" She crosses her arms in a defensive, self-conscious posture. "I think a soulful rendition of 'Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better' is in order." "Well, I need that hot shower," she sniffs, snatching her robe and slipping toward the bathroom. "Be quick. I'm still waiting for the 'piece de resistance'." Scully throws a quizzical look back over her shoulder. "Think about it," he suggests, winking. She thinks about it, luxuriating in the heat and steam of the shower, savoring the beat of water against her skin and the warm, drowsy sensation it produces. Like the hot spring, several nights ago... no, ages ago, it seems to her weary body and exhausted spirit. In the lull of the magical water at the estate, she'd allowed Mulder intimacy to her body for the first time, touching him and welcoming his bold caresses. It was a step of faith for her in the physical realm. But the emotional, psychological realm still remains precarious territory laden with pitfalls and debris from a life of self-protection, imposed restriction, and denial. Her iron-willed inner strength seems destined to work against her. Perhaps Mulder's right in his theories that draw science and the paranormal into tight embrace. The things she's seen while at his side and now holds as truth would certainly have daunted the younger, greener Dana Scully of long ago. She's matured and ripened in her convictions. Her earlier beliefs in the limitations of an ordered universe no longer hold firm. Years ago she stated to him that nothing stands in contradiction to nature, only in what is known of it. How far in that direction can she trust faith to take her? Can she truly accept what Mulder has espoused for so many years -- tacit recognition of terrible powers and the alien menace that stands poised over mankind? Yet... she's seen evidence in Africa, in the form of a ship under the sea. Has experienced, like a living nightmare, the monstrous machinery of evil on a bridge at night, in a frozen underground chamber in Antarctica. She knows the insidious attempt of CGB Spender, of the surviving remnants of the Consortium, to pilfer and harvest from Mulder's own brain. Mulder's belief in an inevitable alien invasion remains unwavering. And now, this very evening, the incomprehensible beam of light in the forest... the deer, legs flailing against the hold of an enemy from the sky. Invisible, bizarre... but is it really possible? She finds herself wondering what she's truly seen, knowing that the human mind is prone to play self-protective tricks in times of duress. Emerging from the bathroom, she takes comfort that her personal wilderness of unbelief permits exploration. Its boundaries of doubt and denial can be breached, but only in the slow, careful increments that patience and faith and love allow. Perhaps they can chart the map together over time, she and Mulder. He's still sitting up in bed, but asleep, her bag of ash perched on his chest. Head tipped to one side, his dark hair bristles with cowlicks against the pillow. When she approaches on bare silent feet to ease the packet from his hand, he rouses and reaches out for the belt of her robe. "Mulder, what are you doing?" The sensuality and suddenness of the gesture almost make her gasp. Cheeks warm, she finds herself gazing into hazel- green eyes that brook no refusal. "No one's doctored the doctor yet." She realizes, with a start, how much things have changed over the last few days. It's time to re-accustom herself to the casual intimacy that now exists between them, after slipping back into her professional shoes and role. Still so new, the two worlds seem juxtaposed and contradictory. "Thanks for the concern, but I'm okay." "I'll be the judge of that," he quips. She hears his sharp hiss of alarm as he parts her robe and runs soothing hands over the welts and gouges the rope has scoured on her narrow ribcage. "Jesus, Scully... " "I know," she says quietly, calming his dismay. "It's nothing serious, really." She's well aware of the scattered nicks and scrapes over her body. Badges of courage, she muses, some bluish bruises, others etched in scratches of raw burgundy. She still has the sensation of dangling at the end of a rope. Amazing, what she does at the drop of a hat for this man... He coaxes her closer, leaning forward to burrow his face between her breasts. "I missed you." Swallowing, she feels him cup her fullness with his hands, massaging the soft skin. His hot mouth lingers over her nipples, crowning each cool, blushing tip with a kiss. The touches, so tender and intimate, prompt a surge of desire that forces a sigh from her lips. "Hey," she whispers down to him, "please... don't start something we're much too tired to finish." As if by consent, Mulder lifts the sheet with one hand as she shrugs off the robe. His other spreads along the smooth curve of her hip to draw her weary body toward him, and he tucks her damp head under his chin. Large palms descend to cup and squeeze her bottom, then ease gingerly up over the rope burns beneath her breasts. "You tuckered out, Scully?" "Exhausted," she sighs. As she relaxes under the sheet, her legs loosen and shift like silk against his warm thighs. Once again she's overcome by the deep comforting sensation of homecoming, as if this is where she belongs. Outside, the storm is at its ebb, the rain a restive patter on the roof. "Me too. For now, anyway," he adds. Smiling at the qualifier, she turns her head to kiss his throat, rubbing her nose and closed eyes against the tickly hair of his chest. He flexes his muscles against her body and gives a low groan of pain. "What's wrong?" "Just... sore as hell. Jeez, what I wouldn't give for a soak in a hot spring right now." "You'd have to improvise, like before," she whispers, enjoying the tease and remembering their first truly intimate foray a few days earlier. "The spirit is horny beyond belief, but the flesh..." "... isn't in marathon condition, I know. A pity." "Sounds like my wild woman's back." His eyebrows barely manage a suggestive tilt. Though chuckling, he's unable to stifle another wide-mouthed yawn. She's jostled when he leans back with a groan to snap off the bedside lamp. His arms return to tighten around her nakedness. In the dark, she feels her chin lifted, the heavy, moist caress of his mouth glossing her lips with drunken slowness. Opening to him, she takes in his essence like a warm, soothing drink before sleep. "S' strange," he mumbles into her hair. "Your friend Ruth called me a name before. Sounded like 'Boaz'... " "It probably was." The rain quiets again. Distant flashes outline the window, throwing murky light across the bed. He seems to wait for an explanation, eyes already closed while his breathing deepens, sinking into slumber. When he speaks it's from slack lips, a gravelly mutter she can scarcely decipher. "I want full disclosure..." "Sleep first. I'll explain it all tomorrow." "Even the 'piece de resistance'?" Let him wait. She needs time and a good night's sleep before evaluating what she's really seen and experienced. More jostling and the crisp coolness of the sheet hugs her backside. His arm becomes the pillow cushioning her head. Pulled close to his warm chest in the darkness, she slips her arm around his ribs and is pleased by the ample heat he's generating. She muses that Mulder's body, with its rich familiar scent, is the only blanket she'll really need until morning. "We'll see," she murmurs, closing her eyes. ********************* THE END Waiting In Motion by mountainphile April 18, 2001 AUTHOR'S NOTES: The writing of this story, which took nearly a year to complete, has been a labor of love, molded in part by the unflagging encouragement, beta, and faith of a group of special women -- the writers of Musea. Words can't adequately express my gratitude to each: Angel Blackwood... for being loving yet firm with me, and for insisting I uncover the casefile that was hidden here all along. You were so right, chere, and I appreciate your great patience and example in the craft. Diana Battis... for enthusiasm, language help, discerning beta, and for being an incomparable "Mulder-barometer" when I needed one! And for late-night cyber-hugs! Audrey Roget... for appreciating the dramatic moments, for pointing out Scully-inconsistencies and checking up on canon. For encouragement and sharp insights when the tunnel seemed endless... Mish... for cheery support and beta, enthusiastic prodding, and for being my "southern accent-barometer." Y'all rock, hon! Forte... for not being shy about pinpointing the weak spots and for complimenting the strong ones. For Scully- impressions. As always, your beta was astute and thorough. Jintian Li... for the pointy stick, opinions on language, and for wise analysis by posing specific questions that made *me* think. For reminding me that stories over 100K are entirely possible. Cameo... for completing the circle by being an example of strength and perseverance, faith and friendship, encouragement and love. I dedicate this story to all of you. mountainphile, April 18, 2001