Waiting In Motion (6/10) by mountainphile mountainphile@yahoo.com MSR, NC-17 Header and Disclaimer info in Part 1 ******************** From outside the window, a child's laughter floats on the breeze. Scully's shoulders ache. She takes a shuddering breath and looks down at her hands, clenched viselike in the tangled mass of sheet and blanket. Just memories, Dana, she scolds herself, resuming her making of the bed. Shake it off. The remorse that followed the fearful incident, however, is less easy to ignore and clings to her like a cobweb. Determined to put the remembrance of last night's episode far from her, her movements become brisk. She fluffs the pillows, no longer willing to dwell on past regrets. The sound of Skeeter's approach reminds her of fresh towels and their impending delivery. With quick steps to the bathroom, she takes a drink of cool water from her cupped palm at the sink, then gathers the smaller, soiled towels into a bundle. How fortunate, she thinks, that they're bleach-white and not a darker color that would readily show how often she and Mulder have put them to more personal use. One large bath towel encompasses the others and the laundry is ready, just as a knock jars the door. "Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?" Scully holds the door open for Ruth and the woman turns unexpectedly on the threshold to look down behind her. "You go on an' play," she orders her son, "before it starts rainin' again. Get all that silliness out of your system, y'hear? But you stay close." The boy picks up a stick and turns tail, whacking at the dripping bushes as he charges away. "Are we in for more?" "Yup, sure looks like it." Ruth carries her burden of clean towels and supplies into the room and stands waiting. Taller and much broader than Scully, her large dark eyes take stock of the small, dimly-lit room, noting the straightened bed, the neat row of suitcases, the bulging mound of towels on the floor near the window. When she spots the weapon laying in its case on the bedside table, she gives a tiny grunt. "That your gun?" Scully follows her line of vision. "Yes, it's mine." "Guess you really are FBI. You look way too little and pretty. You got a badge an' all?" "I do," she assures Ruth, with a flicker of annoyance at the intended compliment. "Would you feel better seeing it?" "Naw." The hesitation is small, but inconsequential as the woman commences work, wiping and straightening the bathroom, replacing the towels and toilet paper. Her bustle reminds Scully of a mother hen, her feathers ruffled in solicitous concern, pecking and scratching for the benefit of her brood. "I got me a shotgun back in the office. You never know what kind of crazy might show up around here... an' a woman alone with a little child can't be too careful." The dropped clue is a gift of trust, a feeler. Scully receives it with grace, but isn't ready to acknowledge it openly yet. "The bed comfortable enough?" "The bed is fine," Scully assures her. Like the cold splash of water against her mouth a few minutes ago, she's hit with the irony her that she said the same words yesterday, but in an entirely different context. Has it really been less than twenty-four hours since she and Mulder entered this tiny room and let down that final barrier between them? She feels like the wind outside, unsettled and torn as it buffets leaves and small branches against the softly swaying trees and the pewter gray of the sky. It's as if she's known the touch, the intimacy of his body for a much longer time. "I bet it is." Ruth's chuckle is low and appreciative. "Y'all made it up real good already. I was figurin' on you two needin' clean sheets by now." The obvious implication irks Scully. Wishing now that she had simply stripped the bed and been done with it, she arches a brow and tightens the corners of her lips. Her sulky mouth, both Missy and Bill used to call it. Right now she feels justified. "Yeah, you don't have to say nothin'. I can tell lots about folks... things most people miss or think they can hide." "So you claim to be psychic?" Ruth ignores the raw sarcasm. "Me? Whoo! Honey, if I was psychic, my life would be Christmas-every-day and that's the God-honest truth." Getting no immediate response, she begins working her way around the room, running an old cloth over chairs, windowsills, and other wood surfaces. "Now, you an' Mister Fox... I think I got you two figured out pretty good. Wanna hear?" "I'll pass, thank you." "No need to go sour on me, 'cause I don't believe that for one red second. Not the way you gulped down that story this mornin' about Ruth and Boaz in the Bible. An' the way you two always lookin' at each other, too hot to handle... like you can't wait to get back to this room an' get down to it again." "Stop right there," interrupts Scully coolly, pivoting on her heel to face the woman. "It's not any of your business." Ruth's puttering ceases; she draws herself up to full ponderous height, peering down at the smaller woman under brooding lids. "Oh, yeah, it is. You workin' for the government, bringin' guns into my motel, stayin' in my rooms. Your partner pokin' around askin' all kinds of questions this mornin' an' then goin' off in the storm like a plumb fool. Now whose business is it?" They eye one another like combatants, the silence unbroken except for the wheeze and rattle of wind gusting against the windows, seeking entrance. Ruth is first to pick up the uneasy thread. "I see a shitload of people come through here every year, Miss Dana Scully from-the-FBI, and I got to admit you're classier and more decent than most. So, you two have to get away from home to do it -- you wouldn't be the first ones. Don't worry... I don't say nothin' to nobody." Exasperated, Scully wraps her arms across her waist and turns toward the window to mask her resentment about such personal assumption. The conversation has become intrusive and fraught with enough truth to be unpalatable. So be it. As soon as Mulder returns they'll be on their way back to DC anyway. "Are you finished?" She turns a bland face back toward Ruth and puts a hand on the curve of her own hip, smoothing the fabric with deliberate fingers. The question has nothing to do with housekeeping. "Honey, nobody blamin' or judgin' you for anything. It's life. I just call it like I see it. An' what I see now... " She clears her throat and turns a heavy eye skyward, hesitancy and distrust slowly giving way to resoluteness. "What I see now is the hand of Providence." "Explain that to me, please." Ruth stuffs the bundle of damp towels into a laundry bag and slows to a stop next to the bed. "I got a story to tell," she begins, raising her face. "An', honey, I think you and your FBI man out there are the ones need to hear it, 'cause nobody else would understand. That's what my instinct tells me." Scully feels the chill of expectation creep over her skin. "If that's the case," she concurs, tilting her head, "then I suppose we'd better talk." A short while later she tugs her coat closer around her neck and steps from the tiny porch that borders her room. Ruth is gone, the cleaning completed. A sense of deja vu pervades Scully's being, reminiscent of the surreal, slow motion events of nearly a month ago, when she re-discovered Daniel and opened new doors of awareness for herself. She's pulled along by a sense of urgency, her inner alarm poised. Some of her uneasiness is simple worry for her partner. When he left this morning his timeframe was vague and his expectations high. Perhaps going alone was too foolhardy a proposition, given the dicey weather conditions and no one to watch his back. Looking at the sky, she sees that the wind is picking up again. Gray, heaving clouds overhead boil with indecision and she can visualize him slipping through the forest in his rain gear, eyes alive and observant. Absorbing data like a sponge, seeking out the unknown factors that hold such mystery and possibility. She misses him. It is quietly amazing to her that she feels the effect of such short separation, when in the past they've gone their own ways for days, even weeks at a time. Though they share an office and the burden for each case, their individual areas of expertise demand time apart. She doesn't expect him to languish at her side in the autopsy bay, just as his quick leaps of logic and pursuit of a theory are often better served when he is free to respond to them alone and unencumbered. Ruth is ready for her knock. Mugs decorate the tablecloth alongside an old Delft china teapot, its watery blue pattern of windmills floating on the glazed surfaces. The rounded, comforting shape reminds Scully of home. Of childhood and simpler times, with warm kitchens and family closeness. Of her mother's capable hands and her sister's laughter. Memories of tender, strong conversations shared between women, bonding around the hot glue of the teapot. "It's beautiful," she notes, nodding to the table and slipping off her coat. "But what's happened to coffee?" "Coffee'll do first thing in the mornin'... but you seem like a tea-drinker to me. Just a feelin' I got." Scully's chill is not from the cool breeze alone. Once again this woman disarms her with an unsettling insight and she feels that inexplicable wheel of fate begin to turn. What is happening lately? For a good month now she's run into one unexpected twist after another, from misfiled x- rays to chakras to an old flame revisited... to her trembling acceptance of her partner's long-awaited expressions of love. Her expression is reserved as she sits and searches Ruth's broad, dark features for a sign. "What is this story about?" "His name is Samuel J. Tolliver. He's my man... and Skeeter's daddy." Scully notices for the first time that the child is absent. She casts a curious glance toward the back room. Ruth catches the look as she reaches for two plates of chicken sandwiches, halved. Placing them on the table with twin thuds, she jerks her head towards the outside door. "I sent Skeeter out to play some more. No need him hearin' everything. Besides, I like to talk, and Skeeter, well... he's okay for a child's conversation, but... not for the things grown women end up talkin' about." Scully drops her glance. Managing children is a problem she hasn't had to face and most likely never will. She has other challenges in her life, such as scrubbing away the professional persona and allowing the candid, warm, ordinary woman underneath to emerge. To let her mouth speak what her heart wants to express. "I can imagine," she murmurs. Moving her forefinger within the circle of the mug's handle, she ponders a reply, feeling the need to contribute to the vague thread of conversation. She searches for a response and finding none, sighs. Ruth blunders ahead, grabbing the other chair and sitting heavily. "How long you two been partners?" "Seven years." "An' after seven years, this is the first time you finally hittin' the sack?" Her shining eyes are wide with glee and incredulity. "Is it so obvious?" Affronted, Scully peaks an eyebrow and crosses her arms. Ruth snorts at her question. "It sure is to me. But I don't miss too much, neither. Just ask anybody that lives aroun' here." Scully's wondered how easily she and Mulder will be *read* when they get back to DC and civilization. To the office and the open halls of the Hoover, with its pockets of chatter and bureaucratic grapevine. Sitting across the polished desk of the assistant director, under his inscrutable eye... Skinner, squinting and removing his glasses, looking first at her, then at Mulder, and back to her again... "He keeps you guessin', don't he?" Startled, she turns her head to look at Ruth. "Why do you say that?" "Cause he looks like a teasin' kinda man. Don't show his whole hand right away -- not because he don't trust you, but because that's just the way he does things. Slow an' in his own time... " Ruth's tone changes, growing warm and thick with memory. "That kinda man makes a real good lover, you know. You think it can't get no better... and then he ups and surprises you with somethin' else... " "You said you have a story to tell," Scully reminds her, inhaling deeply and then taking a sip of tea. She hopes the quick change of subject isn't too manipulative, but she'd rather dispense with small talk and get down to the business at hand. "Is it about Samuel?" "Yeah, it's about Samuel... " Ruth takes a bite of her sandwich, chews and swallows, before continuing and looking up at Scully. "This story is gonna have two parts, Dana. First I'm gonna tell you about Sam, about what happened. Then I'm gonna tell you why I think you and your Fox can maybe understand... maybe even help." In the cozy warmth of the building, Scully feels a chill of anticipation and wonders if it's fate's hand or just the coldness of the breeze outside that's raised her skin to gooseflesh. "His name is Samuel J. Tolliver," Ruth repeats with solemn tones, "but everybody just calls him Sam. Except some of his old Army buddies still call him Sammy T. We started takin' up together years ago, right before he went into the Service and overseas." "Not the best timing," says Scully, with sympathy. "That's the truth... but it wasn't too bad. He got himself some trainin' an' education at the same time. More than I ever got, that's for sure... " Ruth's mouth widens into an indulgent smile. "An' while he was gone, I could brag from here to sundown about my serviceman in his fancy uniform." Scully's small laugh masks her own nostalgia. She remembers her mother's pride and shining eyes whenever her father donned his officer's uniform. He presented himself for the family's inspection and approval and she can still see the elaborate richness of detail, the dazzle and flash of medals in the sunshine. The crisp, authoritative, stiff-backed charm of a military man in full dress. Her mother's tender and adoring gaze... "I waited a long time for Sam. They shipped him off to Desert Storm for a spell, but he came back safe, thank the Lord. I was on my knees every day till he came home and walked through that door... " She sighs with memory, eyes shining. "He was so sweet, wantin' me to help him run this old place. I said, 'Sam, honey, it takes more than good ideas an' rollin' in the hay to make this thing work.'" Scully glances down into her teacup, the growing pathos of the story prompting her imagination to draw mental pictures of a man she's never seen. "He *loved* my cookin'. An' did I ever cook for that man! Meat an' potatoes... biscuits, pies... whatever he wanted. My mama taught me real well. He'd be drivin' down that mountain at least twice a week, doin' the shoppin', gettin' the supplies. Always bringin' me back little surprises from town... " "So, you married when he came back from the Gulf?" "Oh... " Ruth shrugs and fiddles with her food, her lower lip jutting into a firm shelf. "We ain't ever really been married. Not with a preacher or nothin'. Just common law. Never got around to doin' it right." "What stopped you?" "Not sure. It just didn't seem important then. We didn't have much money between us. Folks aroun' here didn't seem to care so much... except for my sister, who's married an' still warms up raggin' my ass about it." She shrugs again and her rich voice softens. "Maybe just lovin' seemed to be enough for us then. You know?" Scully nods, musing over the untouched sandwich before her. She licks her lips before verbalizing the one question she's been dreading to ask, hoping Ruth would instead volunteer the information on her own. "What happened to Sam, Ruth?" The two women regard each other in the tense afternoon silence. "That's a good question, Dana Scully, an' you know what? I don't have a good answer for it." "I'm sorry," Scully counters, thinking it wise to wait for details rather than proceed on assumption. "No, lemme say that better. He'd come back if he could; I know it without thinkin'. And no," she says with firm emphasis, glaring, "he ain't in prison. The man just one day up and... disappeared." This kind of tale has emerged often over the years. Missing persons reports are a sad and common part of investigative work. The solve percentage is woefully unbalanced, considering the pain of the families, the questions that go unanswered, sometimes even to the grave. Swallowing, she looks into Ruth's face. The woman's eyes are troubled, yet wary. "How long has it been?" "Well... Skeeter just turned four... so a little over four years, now. Skeeter never knew his Daddy." A deep sadness settles over Scully at this tragic admission. It also crosses her mind that a lesser man might flee the responsibility of an unplanned pregnancy, choosing to disappear rather than stay in a relationship that had lost it's magic. "Could you tell me the circumstances, Ruth?" "Like I told you before -- shit happens... " The woman pushes from the table to her feet, suddenly restless and impassioned, more from anger than the grief Scully has learned to expect. "People disappear for no reason. My Sam headed down from this mountain in a storm just like this one, to pick up a new showerhead for Number 3 out there and to fetch some supplies. Never made it to town." "A car accident?" "No... kinda like that show on TV, 'Unsolved Mysteries.' You ever watch it?" Perplexed, Scully's shakes her head. "No, but I've heard of it." "They found his truck, all right, pulled over on the side of the road. Locked. Windows all rolled up. Keys still in it. Windshield with a new crack. Burns on the seat, but they can't find any reason. Wallet on the seat, too, still got all his money in it. Dust an' dirt everywhere... " "Was there a police investigation?" "Oh, yeah. They called it that. Police came, askin' questions, checkin' out the truck... " Ruth sniffs, her eyes watering. "They asked me lotsa questions, too, makin' it look like maybe I had a reason to hurt Sam. Me, standin' big as a watermelon, my belly so fulla our baby, I was about ready to pop... " "Oh, Ruth... " "Open an' shut case for the police. Ain't been no robbery. They ain't found no body... To them, he was just another no- good hill jack run out on his family. No need for them to look further than that. Case closed." "Please, look at me. This is important," says Scully, and she gazes into the dark, wounded eyes of the woman. "What do *you* think happened to Sam? Your gut feeling." "My gut feelin'? My gut says somebody or somethin' took Sam. Kidnapped him... maybe he got hit on the head an' wandered off, can't remember who he is. I don't know... My gut tells me he's not really dead. I think he wants to come back, Dana... and he can't get it done." Still standing, she leans forward across from Scully, big shoulders hunching, hands spread palm-down on the tablecloth. There's a deadly seriousness in her demeanor that demands attention and disallows skepticism; her eyes widen with an almost superstitious gravity as she speaks. "And now -- now I'm gettin' to the second part of the story. This ain't no ordinary place, Dana Scully. I think your Fox knew that before he came up here. Maybe that's why he came in the first place. That's why I call this the hand of Providence. What do you think?" "I'm not prepared to comment," Scully counters quietly. "I want to hear your thoughts about the matter first." "Sometimes it seems almost like a twilight zone here. The radio quits all of a sudden, or the TV don't work. The damn phone lines ain't worth shit half the time, storm or not. I look forward to seein' people come by just for the company and the feelin' of security. You gettin' all this, girl?" "Loud and clear." "Folks in town laugh and think I'm exaggeratin'. They say it's because the mountain up here is so exposed to the weather. Maybe so. We get our share of lightning, same as anyplace else. But that don't allow for what I've seen -- those strange lights in the sky. I don't buy that story about it bein' just weather balloons and satellites. It almost made me jump when he asked about 'em last night, but I wasn't about to say nothin' to a stranger. Bad for business." Scully discovers she's been holding her breath, leaning forward as she absorbs this bizarre narrative. She eases back into her chair to put distance between herself and Ruth's intensity, feeling the electric effect of her paranoia in the dim room. The tea is now cold, the food no longer touched by either woman. "You get used to it after a while," Ruth mutters, almost to herself. "Havin' the shotgun helps some, but that's mostly for the two-legged varmints that cause trouble. You know, Sam ain't the first one to disappear out on that back road. It happened before, a long time ago... " "Abductions?" Scully startles herself by choosing that particular word. Mulder is beginning to rub off in ways she hasn't anticipated. "Yeah, folks disappearin'. But a person can't let fear take control of 'em. I got a life to live here an' a business to run, besides a little child to raise. There's a future ahead... somewhere. That's somethin' I just got to believe in." ******************** END (6/10) Waiting In Motion by Mountainphile