Waiting In Motion (4/10) by mountainphile mountainphile@yahoo.com MSR, NC-17 Header and Disclaimer info in Part 1 ******************** "A bitch, ain't it?" Jerked from her sleepy reverie, Scully looks up at the manager's sympathetic face and tries, with some confusion, to piece together the point of the question. "Excuse me?" A cup of steaming coffee appears before her. Nearby sits the empty mug that Mulder's already drained several times before leaving, and a decimated plate of homemade cinnamon rolls. The one closest to Scully remains unclaimed. Spoon, sugar, and artificial creamer crowd the table. "This waitin' around is a real bitch. Don't take long before you feel it. Seems like it's all *I* ever do." Scully accepts the mug and stirs the black coffee into dusky submission. She really prefers tea this time of morning, but knows the kindness shown to her is of greater importance than being finicky. As she sips, it strikes her how the color of the drink matches the murky, overcast clouds in the early morning sky. She can't decide whether to stay awake or go back to bed and, putting a furtive hand against her mouth, she yawns. The rain has settled into a light mist. It's just past sunrise and only a few minutes since Mulder maneuvered his car up the long driveway to the road. After watching him plow through ruts and pools of watery mud, she knows it will be a miracle if rain hasn't washed away the first few inches of topsoil, much less the fragile evidence he hopes to recover. "He do that a lot?" The manager speaks from within the kitchen while she runs water into the sink. Once again Scully's sleep-starved brain struggles to stay alert and on track. The caffeine hasn't come close to kicking in. "Um, do what?" "Go off like that, by himself. It don't bother you?" "I've gotten used to it," she says, and there *is* an element of truth to that admission. Right now, however, it's difficult to feel any great measure of comfort in the words. Mulder follows a tangent with the tenacity of a bloodhound, always seeking, uncovering, and ever moving. "I wouldn't know what I'd be missing," he declared, not very long ago. Theirs has always been a job of risk -- even now, when it spills outside the FBI's jurisdiction and falls within the category of personal agenda. After his brief shower this morning, he pulled the rough faded clothing from his suitcase and dressed for the elements. The heavy boots looked waterproofed and adequate. She didn't know until minutes before his departure about the packed trunk -- the shovels, picks, and bucket, the extra batteries, rain gear. A stash of water and Power Bars. Not bad for a man who's both an Academy-trained-renegade *and* a self-proclaimed Indian guide, she told him in a teasing whisper. He'd smiled and tugged her head closer, sharing a slow farewell kiss through the open car window. A world removed from their usual polite good-byes. "Well, he better be careful. Mudslides like you ain't ever seen, up here after a storm... " The woman muses aloud as she works. "Trees blown down, rocks in the road... ruts you can stand up an' hide in... " This doomsday list prompts Scully to sit up straighter on the wooden chair, then twist toward the window to peer out into the haze. That Mulder might be in actual danger hasn't been a serious consideration until now. "I didn't think there was real cause for concern." The woman shrugs and continues wiping the counter. "You can't ever be one hundred percent sure..." "What do you mean?" "Shit happens, honey. Bad things to good people. You don't want it to... but it does. An' then it's just hell to live with." An uncomfortable silence lengthens between them, with Scully overwhelmed in thought. She's no stranger to life's propensity for throwing misfortune into her path, but dwelling on the negative is both self-defeating and unrealistic. Shaking it off, she hears the woman speak soothingly, as if sensing and regretting the uneasiness she's caused. "But don't you be worryin' about him. He's a' FBI man. He'll be fine." Scully grips the edge of the table and slides her body around toward her hostess. "You know, this is our second day here, and I still don't know your name. I'm Dana Scully." The woman, drying her hands, saunters from the kitchen. A faint smile creases her features. "My name's Ruth Jenkins." "I'm pleased to know you, Ruth. Your generosity has been, well... a blessing to us. Especially this morning, getting up to see that Mulder had something hot in his stomach before he left. You could have been sleeping in." "Naw, no problem. I like to keep busy. Makes the time go faster. Now, Skeeter... " She jerks her head toward the back rooms. "He's sleepin' in, because the storm kept him up last night. Couldn't stay in his own bed. He don't like thunder an' lightnin'... " The lightning flash was Scully's nemesis. Most of the time she can control the effect, like she did with Mulder in the car yesterday afternoon. Even running back to their room after dinner, she was able to close her eyes and let him point the way. But last night... she attributes the abruptness and severity of this most recent attack to her own fatigue and the stress caused by their convoluted discussion. "That's understandable," she says quietly, peering into her cup. "A lot of adults don't care for it either." 'Fox' really his name?" The question brings Scully up short. She's not used to hearing Mulder's first name personalized in this way and a sudden desire to protect this private part of him stirs within her. "Yes, it is. However, he prefers not to be called that. To me, he's always been 'Mulder'." "And he don't call you 'Dana', neither, I noticed." "That's right." Has Mulder addressed her by name in Ruth's presence? She can't remember, but the woman must have an uncanny memory and a gift for observation. As if on cue, Scully is pinned by her thoughtful appraising stare. "My Mama named me after Ruth in the Bible. That's because they was both waitin'... my Mama waitin' for me to be born, an' old Ruth, because she was waitin' for her man." She turns away, but not before Scully detects the gray cloud of sadness that shadows Ruth's features. The woman has a child, but there's been no husband in evidence, unless he's working elsewhere. Is she a widow, perhaps? Divorced... or a single mother, with no man to claim the child he fathered? Scully's not about presume or intrude into such personal territory unless invited, but she's uneasy with the curious, unexplained tension in the air. Feeling somehow responsible, she turns her head and speaks to the woman's broad back. "You know, I'm passably familiar with the story of Ruth. Her journey to Israel and marriage to, um... " "Boaz." "Yes, Boaz. Thank you. But I don't quite understand the *waiting* aspect you mentioned." "You raised religious?" "Catholic." The woman peers at Scully, hesitating, before resting both palms on the table and leaning her body forward like a conspirator. "Well, lemme refresh it for you then. Ruth wants Boaz and he wants her. Only thing is, somethin' legal stands between 'em that's got to be taken care of first. Ruth has to wait, and Boaz... he's got to take care of the problem." Scully listens, brows posed in a questioning arch as the story grinds to a halt before it even unfolds. To her dismay, she can't summon further details and her natural curiosity begs to know more about the romantic hindrance faced by the biblical woman and her lover. "Didn't you pay attention in Sunday School?" Ruth shakes her head and sighs at Scully's bemused, slightly injured expression. She clears her throat and continues, but not before raking her, like a schoolteacher, with a scornful deprecating eye. "Now you can't forget the kinsman... By right, Ruth should go to *him* first because he's the closer relative to her dead husband. If he refuses, then Boaz gets her because he's next in line... but Boaz can't settle it 'til the next day, and so Ruth has got to wait. My Mamma would say to me, 'Ruth, you be sure to remember what Ruth's Mama-in-law told her.'" Mouth dry, mesmerized by the mental visuals the story generates, Scully takes another swallow of the coffee. She feels like she's a child again back in catechism class, hanging on to each word the nun speaks. In those pubescent days any subject even remotely romantic or sexual was a good bet to capture her attention. "Which was...?" "'Sit still, my daughter, 'til you know how the matter will turn out; for the man will not rest until he has concluded the matter this day.'" The two women stare at one another, each savoring the words from different perspectives. For Scully, it's another reminder that Mulder is, at heart, a born investigator -- always on the move, searching, exploring, in order to satisfy his craving for the unknown. She has no expectation of seeing him come back empty-handed from the forest. And perhaps, like the biblical Ruth, she will somehow be a beneficiary of his diligence and steadfast search for the truth. Ruth straightens up from the table and gives a small, smug grunt. "An' Boaz, he did it, too. Put it so that kinsman *had* to refuse, then he took Ruth, the one he loved, for his own... " "I had forgotten that part. It's quite touching," Scully admits, swirling the last of the tepid liquid in her cup and re-crossing her legs as the spell of the story breaks. "Thank you for taking the time to refresh my memory." "Refresh, nothin', girl. Y'all had *no* idea what was comin' in that story." Again the woman's insight takes Scully by surprise. Chagrined, she quickly swallows the last of the coffee and returns the cup to its spot next to the plate of rolls. It irks her that this isn't the first time since yesterday she's been compromised and caught in an untruth. "Thank you for the coffee, Ruth. And I hope you don't mind that I didn't take a cinnamon roll." "Naw. Somebody'll eat it. Maybe your partner when he gets back." She casts a doubtful glance behind Scully and shakes her head. "Except you sure could use it, honey. Ain't much bootie back there for your Mr. Fox to latch onto. Don't you know that a man likes somethin' to grab on to with his hands? That's what Sam --" The sentence dies, bitten back, and Ruth attends to a damp kitchen towel, shaking it out and snapping the cloth with unnecessary vigor. "Who's Sam?" The innocent question is a spark on dry tinder. Ruth whips around, one hand on her generous hip, eyes flashing. "For somebody so quiet last night, you sure askin' a helluva lot of questions today." "For someone who chose to mention the name first," Scully parries, "you have no cause to take offense." Ruth picks up the soiled cup and moves toward the kitchen. "I got things to finish here before Skeeter wakes up. An' you keep that roll anyway," she scolds. "There's napkins over there. Nibble on it 'til lunchtime. Go on now... " It would be rude to refuse the pastry and useless to pursue the innocent faux pas. Something, Scully muses, always seems to hang in the balance. Like last night with Mulder... mending their fragile new bond after the lightning revealed her trauma, taking the necessary steps to understand and reassure one another. It's worth the give- and-take, the defeats and the victories. They've come so far on the journey together. After drawing on her coat, she tucks a paper napkin around the roll and reaches for the doorknob. "You needin' fresh towels?" Ruth's dark elbow is the only part of her body visible around the corner, crooked and waiting for the response. "Yes... " Scully reflects. "We could use a few more. Thank you for asking." "I'll bring 'em by later." The elbow disappears and the clatter of pans resumes. As Scully heads out into the dripping mist, she casts a last, sympathetic look back at the kitchen door. It's no longer a difficult task, guessing what bad thing has happened to which good person in Ruth's life. ******************** END (4/10) Waiting In Motion by mountainphile