Temporary Shelter by Gwendolyn (gwendyn@aol.com)

Summary: Mulder and Scully recoup after the events of Biogenesis
and learn something from history about repeating mistakes.

Classification: SRA
Keywords: MSR, Mytharc, Post-Biogenesis
Spoilers: Biogenesis, basic mythology through US Season 6
Rating: R (for not too terribly graphic smut)

Disclaimer: If I owned them, I could probably afford a real desk,
instead of the folding table most of this was lovingly written
upon. As it is, the folks at Fox and 1013 who do own 'em all have
real furniture, made of wood and stuff, that can't be dismantled
for picnic use if needed.

Distribution: Yes, you may. Thank you very much. I'd like to
visit, though, so please let me know where it's going.

Feedback: I pay for it! gwendyn@aol.com

Many, many, many thanks for the ladies gracious enough to beta
this: Dasha K and Barbara D. Words don't cut it - you both get a
virtual margarita and my undying gratitude.

All parts can be found at
http://sites.netscape.net/gwenstuff/home.html

Temporary Shelter (1 of 4)

**

They stand in the desert or some other barren place. It is dark,
but they are illuminated.  They are back to back in the light
that descends from no discernible source. She cannot see beyond
her own hands. Her own hands that are outstretched before her,
aiming her gun into the void. He strikes a similar pose and the
only sound is their heavy breathing as they scan the area,
certain that danger is imminent, but not knowing what it may be.

It's just the two of them, trapped in this place after some
terrible struggle.  When she looks down at herself, she sees that
her clothes are torn and dirty. Their hearts are pounding and
they struggle for breath as they circle in place, like hovering,
earth-bound satellites, back to back to cover one other. They
watch and wait, knowing that whatever it is, it's about to come
for them. It's watching and waiting out in the darkness.  Or
maybe it will be cast down from the light above. Neither speaks.

The moment seems to last forever. Her mind's eye soars above
them, taking in the scene from an ever-greater distance. She sees
the surrounding area more clearly; she has never seen so much
dark space, though she is certainly a woman accustomed to
darkness. She knows that much can hide in dark spaces, and that
they have only each other for protection. Their guns are useless
props. Something's coming, she can feel it now. She feels his
back against her own, feels him tense. She braces herself for
battle.

Scully wakes with a start. Coach seating is cramped and
uncomfortable and the flight west across the Atlantic seems
interminable. The journey is long and the road is hard, she
thinks, and dreams are only manifestations of subconscious fears
and desires - not premonitions.

```

The house sits on a low hill over-looking the Gulf of Guinea,
waiting.

It is a simple stucco structure, one story high. There is a
wraparound porch with rough wooden plats. Tall windows cover most
of the front walls, allowing glimpses of the inside as one enters
through the French doors.

Inside, it is plain. There is one large room, broken only by four
stucco columns that square off and box the middle. The inside
walls are also white-washed stucco and the floors polished
hardwood. Toward the back of the house there is an area that
serves as a kitchen, with a door next to it leads to the
bathroom.

The front windows are draped with pale linen curtains. When
pulled back, they reveal a breathtaking view of vast blue sky
sinking to meet deep blue water. Deep blue water inches forward
to quench sunburned rocks and sand.

There are two pieces of furniture. A substantial Mission table
sits toward the back, near the kitchen area. It is an old thing,
made of dark wood that is worn to a shine from years of use and
careful cleaning. Toward the windows at the front sits a large
bed, resting on a high platform frame. White lace netting falls
from a rig attached to the ceiling that resembles a shower
curtain rod, shrouding the bed from the rest of the house.

The only motion in the house is created by the plantation-style
ceiling fan that clicks with every rotation. Click, click, click,
click.  Its breeze causes the lace covering surrounding the bed
to sway slightly.

In the summer months, it is wise to keep the French Doors open so
that the ocean breeze can help cool the house. Sometimes the
ocean smells rich and salty - a clean, humid smell. Other times,
it smells like dead fish and pollution.  After a hard rain, it is
a combination of both and it carries with it the scents of even
more distant lands.  Always it is married to the rich, exotic
smells of the nearby grove of trees; a left-over forest with rich
orange blossoms and coconut palms.

The place has been vacant for years, save as a dormitory for
transient archaeology students and environmentalists. Once it was
a home, designed and cared for with love. Now it is simply a
house, a structure with four walls and a roof, providing only
temporary shelter.

**

By the time they stumbled in through the back entrance Scully was
as tired and on-edge as she had ever been in her life. She
stepped in behind Mulder and dropped the bags to the floor with
an exhausted roll of her shoulders.

It had been a hell of a road from Georgetown Memorial Hospital to
this little house on the Ivory Coast, but she had to hold it
together.  She had to be strong for both of them.  More than
ever, their very existence depended on it.

Mulder walked slowly toward the middle of the room and scanned it
with tired eyes, muttering to himself. "Four columns, one house.
Four into one is point twenty-five. Twenty five percent. Four
walls, four corners, four doors.  Four eyes.  Eyes, eyes,
everywhere. Watching, they wait.  Waiting, they watch. For me.
They're coming for me. They'll come for us." His voice was a dull
monotone, as tired and distant as his eyes.

It was more than he had spoken in the entire thirty-six hour trip
that brought them there.  They had traveled to Cote d'Ivoire by
plane from Washington DC, with layovers in New York and Paris,
before finally reaching the country's commercial capital -
Abidjan. From there, they were met by a researcher from the
University, who drove them along the coast to this house beyond
Tabou, near the Liberian border.

It had obviously taken all Mulder's energy to manage the voices
that filled his head, voices of the travelers who surrounded
them, moving with them, toward and around, each saying one thing
and thinking another. Scully had been witness to the silencing
confusion. She sweat out the journey with him, allowing him to
squeeze her hand so tightly she felt as if she was branded.

At a loss for any other words, Scully decided to ask a stupid
question. "Mulder, are you okay?"

He turned to her with a start, as if momentarily surprised to
find her there. "We're alone here?"

"Yes, no one but us. Dr. Kazner has already headed back to the
University with the car." Scully pulled in close and gripped his
shoulder, her worry evident.

"Just us?" His voice was as usual, masculine and a bit flat, but
there was something child-like in the question and, without
thinking, she responded slowly, as if to a child.

"Just us. No one else. You and me."

"All the voices give me a headache." Mulder rubbed his hand over
his face as if to wipe the pain away.

Scully was tired and worried and scared and all she wanted was
rest for them both. "You must be exhausted, Mulder. We could both
use some sleep."

"Oh, God. Your voice..." He buckled suddenly into a crouch, and
cradled his face in his hands.

She bent to meet him on the floor. "You need rest."

"No. I need to stay awake. They will be coming and I need to be
ready."

"Mulder, we're safe. No one will come after us here."

"Now, you're lying." He voice didn't accuse her, just stated
simple fact.

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. We just need to get you
well. I need you to be strong again. We both need that now."

"They'll take you away from me." He was devastatingly certain of
his words.

"They can't do that. We're okay - it's just us here now. We're
fine." Dana Scully, she thought, Queen of Denial. But she banked
on the hope that if they convinced themselves of their
invincibility, they could make it true.

He shook his head and suddenly seemed to muster the energy to
play along and assume a more hopeful mood.  Pulling himself up on
shaky legs, he motioned her to join him. He picked up the bag she
had dropped on the floor and walked toward the bed.

"Nice digs you've got here."

"I did all right, I guess. Especially considering the short
notice." She glanced around the room subtly as he turned toward
her again.

"Scully?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for coming for me."

"As if I had a choice." They stood together in the middle of the
house, tired, unsure and fearful. Alone, but together. And they
smiled.

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

The Memoirs of Edna Porter
June, 1920

It was a grand adventure, our first days in the house. He built
it for me, set the stone with his own hands and the help of
native workers.  Then he brought me here, so that I might carve
out a civilized oasis in this wild land, and be closer to him
when he made his journeys into the Congo.

How daring of me, how I gloried in my rebellion.  It was the talk
of New York City's upper crust set, how Edna Porter threw off her
very proper existence to run away with her Irish lover to the
savage continent.

He would have married me, I know, if not for his distant, but
still inconvenient, wife. I soon made my peace with that and
considered myself quite modern to live in such an arrangement.

He called me his pale gypsy and we reveled in our self-imposed
exile. My Edmund, he was a rugged man, beautiful in his way, but
never prissy like so many of the men I'd met in society. An
adventurer by nature, he fell in love with Africa during his tour
in The Great War.  Many of the old, wild places have been over-
run by modern life in the last ten years, but there are still
uncharted territories to explore in the Congo, many miles East of
our little house on the Gulf.

The coast is verdant. The forest tumbles outward to meet the sea,
part of the vibrant shore. My house stands by that shore. At
night, we would sit out on the porch listening to the phonograph
records I brought with me from the States, and watch the sea and
the stars. I never saw so many stars.

I remember telling Edmund that I would like to reach out and
touch one of those stars someday and him saying he'd pull one
down for me.

We did not know then that the stars would fall to meet us.

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

There was nothing else to do but sleep together on the bed. They
were both too sore and tired for the hard floor. Scully slept so
deeply she did not even sense him next to her as dark night
cocooned the house.

She woke first and looked over to find him lying on his back, as
straight and silent as a corpse in its coffin. In the gray half
light of early dawn, she reviewed him like an anatomy project. He
was pale, but not sallow. His hair was plastered to his head with
sweat, but it was hot and that was to be expected. Breathing was
ragged, but steady. She wanted to touch his forehead to feel for
fever, to open his eyes to examine coloring and pupil dilation,
but she did not want to wake him. It had been days since he had a
good night's sleep.

Scully carefully rolled off the bed and walked to the small
kitchen area. Some research students from the University had
stocked the refrigerator and there was canned food in the
cabinets. She carefully felt around until she found an old, tin
coffeepot and some pre-packaged coffee. Coffee, she thought. Yes.
It's a very good thing.

Feeling alone in the single room, though Mulder slept just behind
her, she quietly tried to figure out how to fix coffee in such an
antiquated contraption. She'd never felt more vulnerable in her
life. They were confronted by countless possibilities and she
feared they weren't prepared for any of them.

For years, they had battled forces that they did not fully
understand, losing the battle so often that summoning the will to
fight at all was the only victory left. But they had always
maintained their position as the seekers; they were the ones
continuing the quest.

This was different. Mulder was changed by what they had uncovered
and she was as well. She feared they had become the prey and they
had nowhere to hide that could offer real shelter.

"Yeah, we've definitely got our backs to the wall. Maybe more now
than ever before." Mulder's sleepy voice came from the bed behind
her.

"Mulder, I thought you were asleep." It was still semi-dark in
the room, so she reached overhead to pull the chain attached to
the lone bulb over the sink and turned to look at him. He was
propped up on one elbow, blinking against the light. It suddenly
occurred to her that he had known what she was thinking. Her
hands began to shake; she clenched them around the bag of ground
coffee in her hand to still them.

"Please don't do that," she said.

"I don't think I can stop." His voice was matter-of-fact but his
blood-shot eyes broadcast his apology.

She accepted the apology in silence, but she resented his ability
nonetheless. There was a part of her that wished she was as far
out of his presence as possible. Of course, that would be
counter-productive, she thought analytically.  They needed to be
together and she would have to pay the price for that.

Mulder pulled himself to sit up, his legs to the side of the bed,
feet on the floor. His hair was a fright - one side standing on
end and the other flattened by the pillow. Bed-head, she thought.
He ran his hand through to smooth it into place.

Finally, she spoke to break the silence.  "What's it like? Do you
actually think the thoughts along with me; do you hear my voice
in your head?"

"So you believe I'm experiencing this? You don't think there's
some other explanation for my symptoms?"

Randomly, she wondered why he even asked the question, if he so
obviously knew the answer.  She decided to continue, in the
interest of maintaining some sense of normality.

"I don't know if I have a choice anymore," she said.

"When I finally got back to you, in DC, in the hospital...you
were pretty out of it, Mulder.  Do you remember? You already knew
what I had seen, the ship in the water. The symbols that matched
the artifact." Her voice was distant and she was talking faster
as she recited the events leading them there, trying to
categorize everything in her own head.

"Somehow," she continued, "your knowledge didn't even surprise
me. Somehow, Mulder, I knew that you would know, that no
explanations were needed. I knew that the same way I knew when I
first saw the artifact that I had to get to you, had to find
a way to bring you back here."

He nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact.  "I can't explain
the voices in my head, or how I know. It's not clear or
consistent. I knew what you were thinking just now, when I woke
up, but I don't always know. Sometimes, it's just like I hear
gibberish in my head. Babble."

"How do they sound?"

"What do you mean?" He rose from the bed and crossed his arms
over his chest, then walked toward her.

She fidgeted with the coffee bag, turning back toward the counter
but keeping her eyes trained on her partner. "When we're
thinking, aren't our voices different to us than they are to
other people? Maybe not drastically different, but thinking
patterns and the way people hear their inner voice are different
than verbal communication."

"Right..." he narrowed his eyes, trying to follow her lead and
reason through what had happened to him.

"So, is it like you're hearing a conversation in your head, or
are you hearing it the way thoughts actually happen?" She
continued to heat the coffee.

"It's not like a conversation, nothing that ordered. You're
right, it's the chaos of normal thinking patterns, but I'm trying
to filter it through my own intellect, and it doesn't work.  I
hadn't considered that, I was too busy fighting it." He leaned
against the counter on his hip, facing her.

"I would have thought you would welcome this ability. You can
uncover the entire conspiracy.  It could help you find out what
happened to Samantha."

"I doubt it. I don't have enough control. This is the first time
I've been able to even piece together one coherent thought of my
own in days, and it's only because we're alone here." Something
in his voice held doubt. He turned to look at the rest of the
room, his eyes roaming every inch and he cocked his head as if
listening for something.

Scully dug around in the cabinets and fished out two coffee mugs.
Sensing he was tired, she decided not to push the subject
anymore.

"I thought I'd go to the site today, see if any more artifacts
have been uncovered." The words were cautious and tentative. She
worried that he would want to go with her before he was ready,
physically or mentally, to handle what he would find there.

"Don't worry, I won't try to tag along; you're right. I'm not
ready yet. It's important that I wait until it's right."

It was still disconcerting when he answered a concern that she
had not voiced aloud. "I guess I have to be careful with you,"
she said with a small attempt at a smile. She was surprised by
his decision to wait, but let it slide rather than making too
much of it.

"Careful, how?"

"That I don't think anything I don't want you to know." She hoped
her tone was light and teasing as she intended.

He answered in kind. "I've been reading your mind for years. You
can't even tell a half-truth without the deception showing in
your eyes."

"Mulder, I'm offended. Are you calling me a bad liar?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am. A very bad liar." It was a God-awful excuse
for a John Wayne impersonation, but Scully was relieved he had
the energy to attempt it.

Finally finished brewing the coffee, she poured it into the mugs
and handed one to him, pulling her own up to her mouth to blow on
it before speaking again.

"Well, I seem to remember pulling one or two over on the good old
FBI for your benefit."

"I guess I can't dispute that."

/
He remembered the darkened conference room filled with a sea of
undesirable faces - the faces of the FBI's middle management.
Blevins was there, and Skinner. They watched so intently, trying
to discern the truth from lies.  So much was at stake, the cancer
that invaded her body and uncertainty about his own fate. The
fear was stifling, the uncertainty and the desire to be gone,
escape, be anywhere but there.

He stood and looked down, saw the spot of blood on the file. Then
he saw Skinner's face over his, looking as worried and scared as
he. He realized it was not his memory at all, but Scully's he was
seeing. Her heart was beating fast, she was in pain and the panic
was palpable. She had lied for him, but also for herself. She did
not regret it now, but the memory of it still haunted her.
/

Scully looked up at Mulder, lost in thought, remembering her
biggest lie, one of her darkest hours. He pursed his lips and
nodded, his eyes full of sympathy, and she realized he was
remembering what she was; he was reading her mind.

No, no, no, she thought. That memory was hers and hers alone, not
one she would ever willingly share, not even with Mulder. The
facts of it yes, those were a matter of record, but not the
emotions. They belonged to her, damn it. Only her. He had no
right to them. She shut her eyes tightly and tried to erase all
thoughts from her mind. Maybe she could build a force field
around herself that he could not penetrate. She could push him
away.

He leaned in and spoke close to her ear. "Don't do that, Scully.
Please, don't try to hide from me."

She opened her eyes and looked up into his.

"I'm right here, Mulder."

"You know what I mean. I'm not trying to read your thoughts, it
just happens. I won't hold any of it against you." He tried to
reclaim the earlier teasing atmosphere with a smile.

Scully gave herself a mental shake; her forced laugh was only
somewhat bitter. "I guess it's a good thing you can read my mind
and not the other way around. There's no telling what I might
find in there." She tried to tease, but her voice was strained.
"I guess since there's no one else here, my mind is the only one
open for business."

"No."

"It isn't proximity, then? You're hearing thoughts from people
further away?" It was a new twist she hadn't even considered
before.

"Not exactly." He wore the enigmatic expression he donned when he
was holding some new mystery close to him, unwilling to share.

"Then what?" she asked.

"I don't think we're necessarily the only ones here."

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*


The Memoirs of Edna Porter
June, 1920

Simply put, I was unprepared to be a common-law housewife on the
wild coast of Africa. Never before have I fallen victim to such
tropical heat; it feels like being wrapped in a warm, wet blanket
for hours on end.

Everything was new and unknown. The natives frightened me, so
dark and scantily dressed.  Even the insects were unusual and
scary. No matter how often Edmund assured me otherwise, I was
certain they were venomous and out for the blood of a white
woman.

But I was mad and courageous in love, and I persevered.

Despite the hardships, our first months in the house were filled
with joy. We made trips to the fishing village two miles down the
beach, Tabou, about three times a week. However, for the most
part, our life together was a solitary one. During the day Edmund
met with researchers from the new University and pored over his
hand-drawn maps. I contented myself with knitting and reading,
though I missed the shops of the city and long afternoon
luncheons with old friends.

We made love night and day with such decadent abandon, I can't
help but wonder if my current problems are punishment. If that is
the case, I am not too modest to say that it may have been worth
it.

He grew restless, of course. I was his light and his salvation,
and every other poetic exaggeration he could apply to me. But I
wasn't enough. I was conquered. The Congo was still a challenge.

Thus he decided to leave me for his dark mistress. I begged him
to take me with him. But the Congo, he said, was no place for a
lady. And so I told him that I wasn't a lady and that I would
follow him anywhere, anytime and please, please, please, won't
you take me with you? And still he said no. I cried day and night
until he finally offered to stay behind. Perhaps I can help you
with your knitting, he said in a bitter way. And so I let him go.

And I was alone. There was a boy Edmund paid to stand guard
around the house. He slept out on the porch, under the stars, and
we tried very hard to ignore each other. I did not understand it
then, but it was a humiliation for him to stand guard over the
strange white woman. He probably thought even then that I was
touched in the head.

Once, I tried to walk down to the village by myself but the
sounds and smells, the mass of uncovered flesh, all that had been
a thrilling adventure when seen with Edmund, frightened me when
alone. After that, I stayed in the house, living off the supplies
he had left behind and sending the boy to the village when
needed. I took to talking to myself as I knitted and read and
listened to my music.  Extremely interesting conversations, they
were too, about what Emily Smoten had worn to the Worley Ball and
the latest fashions from Paris. I napped more and more until I
was sleeping as many as sixteen hours a day.

Edmund had been gone for three months and I felt I had gone mad.
That's when it started.

It was the middle of the night. All was quiet and dark, a void
seemed to surround the house.  Lying awake in my bed with the
French doors open, I gradually began to notice the absence of
sound, no chirp of insects, no rustling sway of palm trees in the
ocean breeze. I came to notice that even the sound of the waves
washing up on shore was strangely absent.

I turned to my side, facing the ocean, suddenly much more panic-
stricken than the situation merited, to see shooting stars
darting across the water, bright and close. I sat up, drawing the
sheet around myself and pushed aside the curtain that shrouded
the bed.

Those were no stars.

I stood and pulled my robe on, then walked toward the porch for a
closer look. I was frightened but couldn't pull myself away from
the show before me. Whatever they may have been, they were
beautiful. I was reminded of the fireworks held over the harbor
every Fourth of July back home. But this light was more brilliant
still. They began to weave around each other, glowing ballerinas
over the pitch-black water. I always wanted to be a ballerina.

The boy woke up from his pallet and stood up in front of me, to
watch the spectacle unfold.

"Do you see what I see?" I asked.

"Ma'am, what is it?"

"I don't know."

"Demons," he said. How ridiculous, I thought even as I drew the
robe more tightly.

Then they disappeared. They did not plummet to the ocean, as I
half expected, or take off into the night. They simply vanished.
And I heard once again the waves on the rocks, the insects
singing in the night and the rustle of the trees in the wind. In
the distance, some wild, lone animal screamed into the night.

"It was nothing," I said. "Go back to sleep."

The boy and I never spoke of it and I half convinced myself it
never happened. Until it happened again.

The second time was days later. We watched again as events
unfolded in the same pattern. When I awoke the next morning, the
boy was gone. I was truly alone.

It occurred to me to leave, go back to New York and beg the
forgiveness of my parents. I had no pride left to stop me, only
fear, fear so consuming it immobilized me. How could I leave when
I was afraid to walk beyond my own verandah?

The lights returned, infrequently at first, but soon it was a
nightly occurrence. From the village, I could see smoke from
fires on the beach and hear the chanting of the locals. I imagine
they were trying to ward off the demons with ceremony.

In my mind I knew that the lights were coming for me. That I had
come here not to be some accessory to Edmund's quest, but for
them. I had been drawn here to be taken up into their light. I
would go to them, compelled by their force, and become a sky
dancer. That was my destiny. For I had begun to doubt my own
humanity, do you see? I was alone and without human comfort. They
were all I had.

I was napping on the porch drawing the heat of the day into my
body, when Edmund returned.

"Hello there, gypsy lady," he said, waking me from the rocker
where I dozed.

At first I believed I was dreaming him. Surely he never intended
to return to our humble home on the shore. He was walking
steadily toward me though, a halo of reflected light shimmering
around him.

I fear I stared at him like a simpleton, unable to move. He came
to me and kneeled down as I began to cry, resting his head on my
lap. What a vision I must have been when he finally looked up at
me through his dark lashes. I hadn't washed in days. My hair was
a fright.  He wasn't anything to write home about either, though.
He was bearded and filthy, his eyes bruised and swollen from lack
of sleep.

"I'm sorry," I said, not knowing why.

"I know, love. So am I."

"Things happened..." I couldn't tell him what I had seen. He
would think me insane and force me to leave him. I could not bear
to be in exile.

"Shhhh...it's okay, Edna. Things happened...things happen. I
know, I know." But he couldn't have known. Not truly. And I
certainly didn't have the will to tell him.

Without another word between us, he lifted me from my chair and
carried me into the house.

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

The sun seemed larger than normal, a helium-filled, orange
balloon that threatened to burst at any moment. Scully looked
over her shoulder to watch it floating in the late afternoon sky
as she walked east toward the house. She allowed her gaze to
wander from the sun and sky behind her to the ocean shore on her
right. Inhaling deeply, she imagined the humid, salty air being
forced through her lungs and permeating her tired body.

The charm of the moment was almost enough to make her forget the
ache in her shoulders and the sweat that ran down her neck and
forehead.  She was tired and dirty after a day at the excavation
site, and the jeans and t-shirt she wore were heavy on her body.
She picked up speed as she imagined peeling them off and taking a
long cool shower.

Arriving at the house, she found Mulder standing on the porch,
leaning over the railing. After three days of almost constant
sleep and lots of fluids, he seemed refreshed and a great deal
healthier. Wearing old khaki shorts and a faded blue polo shirt,
with the ocean wind ruffling his hair, he looked downright boyish
and much better than she imagined she did.

"Look who's home from the wars," Mulder called.

"That would be me." Scully slowly made her way up the bluff to
the house, weighed down by the backpack she carried.  He rushed
down the stairs to meet her and took the bag from her shoulders.

"You look exhausted, Scully. Hard day digging?"

"Yes, and very little to show for it. I'm hot and tired and
thirsty. My feet hurt, my back hurts, my arms hurt. Even my
earlobes hurt."

"Well, you look as fresh as a daisy."

Clearly, the man was full of shit. She looked like a wrung out
wet rag.

"Maybe, but definitely a high-class wet rag," he said lightly.

"I didn't say that out loud, Mulder."

"Oh, sorry." He shrugged apologetically.

It was still disconcerting to have him read her thoughts as
easily as if he heard her speak them, though it wasn't as
disturbing as it had been three short days ago. He assured her
the ability was inconsistent and unreliable and that he was
trying very hard not to read her.

They had entered the house and were heading for the table before
Scully touched Mulder's shoulder, signaling him to stop and face
her.

"Mulder, how are you feeling?" she asked.

"That's a record, Scully. Three whole minutes." He gave a long-
suffering sigh as she reached up to feel his forehead. With a
typical doctor's disregard for personal dignity, she angled his
head with hands rough from recent physical labor so that she
could inspect his eyes and skin tone.

"Don't change the subject. How do you feel?"

"Resentful. You get to go out and have all the fun and I'm stuck
here. I'm like the Watson to your Sherlock," he teased as she
released him.

"Really? I was thinking of you more as the Ethel to my Lucy."

"Well, you are both natural redheads."

"Oh, sarcasm. Attractive. So, Mulder, I'll ask you again. How are
you feeling?"

He set the backpack down on the table and sat back against it.

"Much better. Really. The isolation here is what I need and now
that I'm over the effects of the drugs they were pumping into me
at the hospital, I don't feel as out of control."

"And..." she prompted him.

"And. I still have the headaches, but they're manageable. I've
been awake for most of the day, walking the beach. I read through
a couple of those riveting medical journals you left me."

"You're bored."

"Out of my already fragile mind," he said wryly. But she could
sense the serious fear behind his façade.

"And the voices?" She asked.

"About the same. It's like a high-pitched static, just
disconcerting. Nothing I'm not handling."

She allowed herself to be reassured by his words.

Scully walked over to the table and opened the bag she had
carried with her from the site. She pulled out the books and
journals tucked inside and stacked them neatly. "Dr. Kazner
brought this research material from the library at the
University. He thought they would be useful. I didn't have a
chance to go through them."

"Ah-ha. Useless busy work."

"Mulder, do you want to come to the site tomorrow? You know I'm
not stopping you. Not that I could if you really wanted to come."

"No. It's not time."

She did not fully understand what he meant by that oft-repeated
phrase. It's not time.  Instead of requesting an explanation, she
nodded and took him at his word, since his word nicely coincided
with her own desire. She still doubted he was ready for it
physically and feared the effect on his psyche.

"Fine. I'm going to go get cleaned up." She grabbed some clothes
from her open suitcase next to the bed and walked to the bathroom
to do just that.

Rather than take a shower as she had intended, Scully opted for a
quick sponge bath and change of clothes. She was anxious to eat
something and spend some time with Mulder. It only took a couple
of minutes to change into the long, muted purple cotton dress.
With a halter shaped top and v-neck, it was an old favorite,
designed purely for comfort.

She walked out to find him sitting at the table, concentrating on
the books she had brought. He turned to look at her as she walked
to the sink.

"Scully, have I ever told you how adorable your pink, little toes
are, all naked like that?"

"Gee, Mulder, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to
me." She put the stopper in the large sink and began filling it
with cold water.

"I think those bare toes are illegal in some states."

"I think the sight of you in those glasses might be illegal in
some states."

"Agent Scully, are you flirting with me?" He pushed the glasses
higher on the bridge of his nose and smiled at her.

"I'm too tired to flirt," she said, watching the sink fill. "I'm
just stating facts."

"Damn, I thought it might finally be raining sleeping bags."

Scully turned off the faucet and looked at the water-filled sink
suspiciously for a moment before unceremoniously dunking her head
in.  After the initial cold-shock, it felt wonderful. There was a
part of her that wanted to cast off from the real world and keep
her head submerged for days. Of course, there was the issue of
oxygen deprivation. Not until she felt her lungs struggling for
air did she push back from the sink, flinging her head back and
scattering droplets of water all over the floor.

"Better?" He asked, amused.

"Much." She grinned back at him and pulled a towel from the
counter to soak up some of the excess water from her shoulders
and neck. She ran her fingers back through her wet hair to smooth
it away from her face. "I've been imagining doing that all day."

"And how was today - aside from the digging?" He turned in his
chair to focus his attention on her.

"It's a lot of work. I have no idea how we're going to keep this
thing protected. It's huge and too many people know about it
already."

"I think the fact that we've been left alone this long means they
already know about it.  They must have some plan of action other
than coming after us, it, right now." She saw him working out the
puzzle, trying to second guess their unknown enemies.

"I agree," she said, approaching the table and pulling out a
chair to sit next to him. "Maybe they're just waiting for us to
sabotage ourselves. There are fewer workers at the site every day
and a lot of suspicion surrounding the artifact among the
locals."

"What about the radiation levels?"

"Same as before. Very high degree of CGR Radiation."

"Is that dangerous for you?"

"It's hard to say. Probably not, but with everything else..." She
faltered, willing to let the rest of her concerns go unspoken.

Mulder didn't shy away, though. "Your cancer.  The chip. Are you
sure you want to risk your health like this?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation.

"I guess I have to respect that. For now. Don't put yourself in
unnecessary danger, though.  It's not worth it."

But it was worth it, it had to be, or there was no reason for all
the sacrifices that came before. Suddenly, she had an intense
desire to change the subject. She pointed to the stack in front
of him.

"Anything interesting in there?"

He shook his head, allowing her to re-route the conversation. "It
looks mostly like old weather statistics, some local news
reports, going back to the beginning of the century. There is a
journal here with what looks like a woman's hand-writing. At
least ought to be more interesting than old fishing reports. You
don't care, though, because you're hungry."

"You're right. You didn't happen to make me dinner, did you?" She
asked with an air of false hope.

"I have some exotic fruits and vegetables in there that I grew
just for you."

"Well, what are we waiting for then? Get them and meet me out on
our lovely verandah, house-boy."

"Yes, ma'am."

The ocean winds chilled the air outside, but Scully barely
noticed as she watched the setting sun cast shadows of orange and
deep purple over the ocean. The play of light and shadows on the
darkening water seemed almost otherworldly. She rolled her neck
to work out some of the kinks and sat on the west side of the
porch, allowing her legs to dangle over the edge.

Mulder emerged from the house with a bunch of bananas and some
bottled water. He sat down next to her with a satisfied sigh.

"Bananas and water? What happened to my exotic fruits and
vegetables?"

"Bananas are exotic. Not to mention Freudian.  I'm thawing a Mrs.
Paul's Fish Dinner for you for later."

"That is wrong on so many levels," she responded, peeling a
banana.

Unapologetic, he made a big show of breathing in the fresh air,
puffing up his chest and sighing with pleasure as he exhaled.
"Smell that fine sea air, Scully; and the tropical scents of the
forest. Mix in one gorgeous sunset and you've got a meal fit for
a King."

"I'd prefer a steak." Her stomach grumbled to emphasize her
point.

"Don't worry, dinner really is thawing in there. You're supposed
to be the bread-winner, anyway."

"I'm sorry. I was just kidding." Setting aside the banana peel,
she shut her eyes and raised her face to the shadowy sky,
propping herself up on her hands.

"I know you're tired. You're tired and I'm bored. A deadly
combination." He took a long drink of water while she nodded in
agreement.

"I am tired. Tired of fighting, tired of the uncertainty. But
mostly, I'm tired of digging."

"Tired, yes. But driven, too. You're spoiling for a fight."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I can read your mind, remember?"

"Yes. I forgot. See how tired I am?" She turned her head to face
him and opened her eyes slowly.

It was hardly a surprise at all when he reached over and covered
her hand with his own. After a moment, she turned her hand up to
clasp his.  She took a moment to savor the sensation, warm and
enveloping. His thumb massaged her palm in a lazy, almost
careless motion that was turning out to be very pleasant.

Still holding his hand, she sat up and leaned forward, resting
her forehead against the railing. The sunset, she thought,
absently, that's worth fighting for. The feel of Mulder's hand on
mine. That's worth at least a couple of broken nails. And it
could all be gone tomorrow.

Gone tomorrow. It was a concept almost impossible to comprehend.
Gone tomorrow.  Sunsets like this, the comfort of an old friend.
It was simple to wish permanence for those things. But the fight
wasn't just for good, they struggled also for the survival of the
harmful, the evil, the simply mundane.  The human race wasn't all
good, and neither was nature. Not all sunrises and sunsets were
beautiful. Some sunrises barely pushed away the night at all,
bringing with them only gray, overcast, joyless days.

She struggled every day to comprehend the pain humans brought to
each other, through intent and mere carelessness. Maybe ours is a
species whose time is up and maybe it's for the better, she
thought. But she didn't believe that, it was simply that she was
so tired. It would be so much easier to give in.

Mulder was watching her, reading her mind again, and for once it
didn't bother her. She wanted him to know her mind.

"Scully, do you believe that the artifact is extraterrestrial?"
he asked with genuine curiosity.

"I don't know." She could see her answer disappointed him, but
she refused to lie.

"How can you say that? How do you explain what's happened to me?"
Time again, she thought wearily. The same old argument, over and
over, but one they had been avoiding since she used all the
resources she could muster to get him released from the hospital.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I didn't say it's not extraterrestrial. It's
yet to be proven, though."

"But the radiation?" he asked with disbelief.

"It could be a hoax."

"Of course, there it is. A hoax. Don't you know a different song
by now, Scully?" She knew he was frustrated, but his dismissive
tone still cut.

"You know, I've been right before." Not that he ever gave her
credit for it, she thought.

"You're wrong now." He certainly had his old self-confidence
back.

"How are you so sure? This thing you have, the voices in your
head - you don't know where that comes from. Why you, why not
anyone else who has come in contact with the artifact?"

"I don't know. I can't figure out the connection. But I sure as
hell want to find the answer. I would think you would too."

"Of course I do. Why else would I be here? You take the fact that
I'm questioning a hypothesis and twist it into me not being
supportive of you.  That's not the case. I want the answers,
Mulder. I want the right answer."

"So do I."

"Sometimes, I think all you want is the easy answer." She knew as
she said it that she was hitting below the belt.

"And you think this is easy for me?" His voice was raised. She
looked down and realized for the first time that he was no longer
holding her hand.

"I am sure the hell going to make sure I have the proof before I
put my reputation on the line." She slumped in exhaustion.

"Your reputation is more important to you than the truth."

"No. The truth is useless if no one gives any credence to it,
Mulder. That's the point."

"So you believe it's extraterrestrial."

She had to laugh. And she remembered their first case together,
laughing up into his face in the middle of the woods, the rain
washing her doubts away and leaving her defenseless.

"Yes, I believe." She expected him to gloat, but he seemed
drained of energy, too. He just took a deep breath and grabbed
her hand again.

"So, all we need now is the proof."

"That's what I said."

"I know. I'm agreeing with you," he replied.

She could tell he was exasperated with her.

"Then, I guess we're on the same side."

"I guess so," he said with an ironic smirk.

"Good. We're a pretty formidable team." She kept her features
neutral, but she was happy to be back on track.

"Yes, we are." Unexpectedly, he leaned toward her and deposited a
lingering kiss on the side of her mouth. When he pulled back, it
was with a small, almost shy smile. They turned to face the
sinking sun.

Flexing her hand in his, Scully considered asking him why he
kissed her. But she maintained her silence, afraid of the answer
he would give.

It was because he could read her mind.

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*


The Memoirs of Edna Porter
June, 1920

I realized almost immediately upon his return that I could hear
Edmund's unspoken thoughts.

Not every thought, not all the time. There were other sounds too,
strange discordant noises that filled my mind, causing my head to
ache. Constant and inescapable, they pushed me closer and closer
to madness.

The first morning after he arrived home, I awoke to find him
sitting on the floor, legs crossed like an Indian. He thought, 'I
won't let her know, can't let her know. She won't understand. It
never happened.' Before I could question him, he turned to me,
suddenly furious.

"Don't do that!" he yelled.

"What, Edmund? I wasn't doing anything."

He leapt up from the floor and rushed the bed, crouched at the
knees like some wild animal. Pouncing on the mattress, he pushed
me to my back, his arms on either side of my head.

"You know what, you lying bitch." His voice was low, harsh. "Stop
it."

"What is it? What am I doing?" He didn't say, and the noises were
becoming louder. They had their own tempo, a rhythm I couldn't
escape. I was so scared, not knowing what was happening to me or
to him. I feared him for the first time in my life. "It's
nothing. I was just lying here, watching. Nothing more."

Edmund stilled. As quickly as the rage began, it ended. He
collapsed on top of me, crying, giant unmanly sobs. I never
thought to hear the like from him. "Oh, God. I'm sorry. I'm so
sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

And my fear was washed away as quickly as his rage. I lifted my
hands and smoothed his hair, realizing that my own tears had come
as well. "Oh Edmund, I'm sorry too. What's happening to us?" If
he had an answer, he wasn't sharing it.

We made love that morning, bathed in milky light that made its
way through the drawn curtains and the lace shroud that encircled
the bed. Drowned in tears, fearful, we gave ourselves to one
another for the last time.

To recall those last days together is almost too painful to bear.
I loved that man once, loved him with such ferocity, such single-
minded determination. Once upon a time, he was Edmund and I was
Edna and we were meant to be, bound by destiny to defy polite
society and forge new trails. In the end, he was as
unrecognizable to me as I was to myself. Two figures trapped in a
fun-house room of mirrors.

After that morning, we barely spoke. I maintained my old pattern
of reading and knitting and talking to myself. At night, I would
sneak out of our bed to watch the lights. He went on long,
aimless walks along the beach until the rains came and he was
forced into the house with me.

It doesn't escape me, the strangeness of saying that I was in
tune to the whole world, to every nuance, all at once. And that
every now and then, it all distilled and all I heard was his
voice. All I saw was what he had seen. That frightened me most of
all.

We sat at the table one night, directly across from each other,
surrounded by the sound of rain that slammed against the side of
the house. I don't know how we got there, what led us to this
point. It was like a dream. I stared into his eyes, mad and wild,
and I saw the forest, the deep, dark jungle. I witnessed his
descent into it and the things he saw. I saw the void there - the
memories he lost, his struggle to remember.

"Do you see them, love?" he asked. "Do you see the monsters?"

I nodded yes. I did see them there, I felt his fear, I heard him
think that no, it couldn't be as it appeared. They were small and
gray, in some kind of flying machine, but larger, like a ship of
some sort. And they took him away, strapped him down.

Hurt him. Took his memories.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm only me, Edmund. It's Edna, no one else." But he couldn't
believe it. I knew before he said it, what the accusation would
be.

"You're one of them." That's what he said, or something like it.
My memory is becoming unreliable now. Maybe the conversation
wasn't like that at all. Maybe it was like this.

"Do you see them, love?" I asked. "Do you see the lights?"

And he nodded, yes. He did see them there over the water, felt my
fear as I watched them come to take me away. Maybe I wasn't
reading his mind, but he mine.

"Who are you?" I could have asked.

"I'm only me, Edna. It's Edmund, no one else." But I couldn't
believe it. And he knew what my accusation would be before I
voiced it.

"You're one of them," I said.

But I don't know. Maybe it's both things. And we sat out on the
porch that night and watched the lights reflected in the rain as
they danced across the sky.

"It's all going to hell," he said. I am certain he was the one
who said that. But I agreed.

I wonder if it is ever possible to have trust again, when two
people have so much power, each over the other? It was not for
us. He was sure I was with them,  that I thought that his quest
was not my quest and that I was one of the monsters from the sky.
That I meant to do him harm, so that I could abandon him.

He wanted me gone from his sight, but he was afraid I would
leave, and I was just afraid. Afraid that he was right, that I
was meant to go.

Our last night together, just a few short days ago. Or was it
longer? He dragged me out into the rains and the wind, sand
swirling around us. On the water's edge, he held me fast to him
and pointed to the lights in the sky. "Just go," he shouted. Go.
He bruised my arms with his fingers, gripped so tightly. Then he
released them, only to wrap his arm around my neck and howl his
invective into my ear. "You never believed me anyway. You don't
believe." I was too frightened to speak.

We were surrounded by darkness, alone and fearful of one another.
But we were all we had and all the fear in the world waited for
us out there. I wished for some means of defense, a gun perhaps,
though I don't know how to shoot one. I wished he was on my side
still. That we could face it together. I felt him tense and knew
it was coming. I braced myself for the fight.

But it was over. He threw me to the ground and went back to the
house. I lay there on the beach for some time and when I went
back in he was gone.

I dreamed I saw the lights come for him that night. Or perhaps
you have to sleep to dream. I fear that we are inextricable from
each other. And soon, I will leave to join him.

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

It was ridiculous, Scully thought, to be so distracted by the
memory of one small, platonic kiss. Ridiculous enough that she
forced it out of her mind until she returned to the house the
next afternoon.

Her day at the site ended early, so the sun was still high in the
sky when she walked in, this time through the back door. Mulder
was reclining on the bed, surrounded by books and papers, reading
what appeared to be some sort of meteorological report.

"You're early," he said, folding the paper.

"There you go again, with those keen powers of observation. No
wonder you were such a profiling golden boy," she teased, walking
to the sink and splashing cold water over her hands and face.

"And why are you early?" he asked, making no move to rise.

"There was nothing more we could accomplish today. We're almost
ready to move the artifact, though I doubt seriously we can get
it out in one piece. But there are supposed to be rains later
this afternoon and tonight. We spent the morning tenting the site
to protect the...whatever the hell it is." She took a bottled
water out of the refrigerator and sat at the foot of the bed,
legs over the side, and practiced avoiding eye contact.

"I think I should go out there soon, Scully. Maybe tomorrow. It's
time."

She did look into his eyes then. He sounded so reasonable,
matter-of-fact. Instinctively, she wondered how she could talk
him out of it. It was a danger to him, she knew it, but it was
insane of her to think he wouldn't see it. That he wasn't meant
to see it. Perhaps the only reason it existed at all was to be
discovered by Mulder. After a moment of hesitation, she nodded.

"Tomorrow, then," she said.

"It's going to be all right. I'll be fine. This is what I'm here
for." He spoke reassuringly, patiently. It's almost as if he's
talking to a child, she thought. Scully realized the tables had
turned. She didn't need to be strong for both of them anymore; he
was taking charge of his own destiny.

"Why now?" she asked. "Why is it time now?"

He pulled himself up to sit straight and picked up a book from
the pillow next to him. "Remember, I told you one of the
documents you brought looked like a woman's journal?"

"Yes. That's it?" She gestured to it as she pulled her shoes off
with her free hand.

"It's the memoir of the woman who first lived in this house, from
1919 to 1920. An Edna Porter." There was a familiar gleam in his
eyes as he leaned over and handed the book to her.

"And you're ready to go to the site because of a memoir from the
early 1900s?" she asked, confused.

"Scully, she saw them. She saw the lights. Aliens." He moved
closer.

"In 1920? Mulder, that's not even possible. There is no way that
artifact has been there since 1920." She opened the small
leather-bound book and thumbed through the pages.

"It could have been in the ocean for hundreds of thousands of
years. Buried in the ocean and only recently washed to shore." He
was moving closer still and she found herself inching sideways
toward him.

"Yes, that's the theory we're working under, but for it to have
landed so close to shore in 1920 is improbable. It doesn't work
out that way, with the record of the tides in the area, the
proximity to the shoreline."

"You're right. I don't think that is one of the ships that Edna
Porter saw, Scully. Maybe what she saw were ships looking for the
one we have, or communicating with it somehow."

"So, what does that prove?" Her tone was its usual professional,
brisk self, but she could barely concentrate given his proximity.
She flashed on a tactile memory of his lips on the side of her
mouth the night before.

"You need to read this for yourself, but you'll see." He seemed
oblivious to her growing unrest. "There is a very strong presence
in this house, I've felt it from the beginning. Edna suffered the
same symptoms I have. Her...boyfriend, I guess you would call
him, was abducted and brought back. His memories were erased."

"Mulder, we can't be sure this is genuine." Her voice sounded too
loud to her own ears. I should be whispering, she thought.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you think it's all a little too coincidental?"

"Scully, this is genuine. I don't have any doubts. Trust me on
this." Outside, it started to rain. She barely turned her head to
catch the light mist falling on the now green ocean.

"All right, I trust you. But how does it mean that you're ready
to go to the site?"

"Because the time has come, I know that now. Edna saw it coming.
I was given this for a reason. It's about her, what she went
through. But it's also about us."

"Us?" she asked, hoping against hope that the word hadn't sounded
wistful, but afraid that it had.

"We have to be ready. Ready to stand and face this thing
together. We can't go into it with any doubts and we can't put it
off any longer."

"We are in it together, Mulder."

"Are we?"

"Yes. That doesn't mean I agree with everything you are saying,
or everything you want to believe. But I am on your side. I
believe you're on mine."

"I am."

"Then what more do you want?" she asked.

"To go to the site."

"No one is stopping you."

"But you're scared. I need you to have faith," he implored.

"We both need to have faith." It was important to her somehow,
that she amend his statement. She needed his faith in her to be
as strong as his faith in his beliefs.

"I do have faith in you," he said. "More than in myself. It's one
reason I need you with me on this."

"We need to be together on this, Mulder. Not one following the
other."

"That's what I meant."

"All right. You know, it sounds an awful lot like we're
communicating here." She smiled at him.

"Go figure."

She pulled herself back further on the bed, legs curled so that
her feet were resting on the mattress. They were so close, close
enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell his clean,
masculine scent.

"So, tell me about Edna and her boyfriend," she said in an
attempt to distract herself.

"Edmund. He was an explorer. Went to the Congo."

"Mmmmm..." She traced her fingernail over the leather bound book,
trying in vain to focus her concentration on it instead of
Mulder.

"We have a lot in common with them, you know. But we have so much
that they didn't. Well, except for the great sex." He stopped
short in an obvious invitation to her to guide the conversation.

"Sex..." she hated her voice for catching on the word.

"Right on this very bed, Scully."

"I imagine the mattress has been changed since then."

"Yeah, but the vibes are still here."

"Vibes, huh?" She laughed nervously. Oh, God, she thought, he's
going to touch me. He did - reached his hand to still her
fingers, which continued to trace the cover of the journal. Don't
stop there, she thought. His hand moved up her arm then, not in a
careless caress, but with a purpose. It stilled on her shoulder,
his fingers splayed to reach her neck. Unthinkingly, she bent her
head to the side so that her hair brushed the back of his hand.
This can't be happening, she thought, but it was.

"So what do we have that they didn't?" she finally asked.

"Trust."  Why was he whispering in her ear? Didn't he realize how
that distracted her?

"Purpose."  He fingered a tendril of her hair.

"Communication." His breath tickled her cheek.

"Well," she said, her skepticism reasserting itself, "we still
have to work on the communication."

"True. But we're getting there." He pulled closer to her, so that
his chest was pressed to her side. He rested his free hand on her
lap.

There is something about this house, she told herself. It was the
house, yes, the memories that inhabited it, that were lulling her
into a feeling of sensuousness. When was the last time I felt
like this? She wondered. Like walking through a dense cloud. The
rain was coming down harder, and somehow that made it all right
to turn her face to Mulder, allowing her breath to dampen his
neck. I want this, she thought. This is what I want.

"Be careful, Scully. I can read your mind."

"There's no need." She felt brave saying it, braver than she
felt. Brave when she raised her mouth to his and kissed him.
Brave when she wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled herself
toward him so that she was sitting in his lap.

Mulder was the one who deepened the kiss, though, parting her
lips with his tongue and slowly exploring her mouth, inviting her
to explore his. His hand moved from her face to the side of her
breast. Scully wanted to kiss him forever but he pulled back.

"Are we going to do this?" he asked.

"I think so."

"Then, can I make a request?" He was nervous. He's sexy when he's
nervous, she thought, giving him a small peck on the cheek before
answering.

"Okay. You are granted a request."

"Well, I've given this some thought over the years..." he began.

"Years, huh?"

"Scully, you can't tell me you haven't given this some thought
over the years."

"Have you been able to read my mind for years?"

"No. Of course not."

"Well, then, no. I haven't given this any thought over the
years."

"Liar."

She did not deny the accusation.

"Go on, Mulder. You have given it some thought and..."

"Well, it's been so long. Can we just do this normally, the good
old fashioned missionary position, I mean?" The words tumbled out
of him in a rush. He sounded like he was a twelve year old virgin
instead of an experienced man in his late thirties and he was
adorable to her.

"Gosh, Mulder, you really have given this a lot of thought." She
couldn't suppress a chuckle.

He laughed with her and moved his hands to cup her face. "What I
mean. I mean, Scully, that I've invested a lot of fantasy time in
this moment. And in those fantasies we have made love on
mountain-tops and beaches and in the well-appointed rooms of the
Ritz-Carlton. We have already covered all the possible positions.
No orifice has been left unturned."

"Now, you really are turning me on."

"What I'm saying is, I don't think I can take the pressure. I
can't live up to my own fantasies. Can we just take it slow?
Normal. Like regular people?"

"Mulder, we are regular people."

"Speak for yourself, woman. I can read minds."

"Then shut up, and read mine already."

Some of his nervous tension and shyness seemed to melt away when
he followed orders and kissed her again. He pulled at her shirt
in an awkward, shaky motion that forced her to draw back.

"Here, let me get that." She crossed her arms in front of her,
gripping the ends of her t-shirt, and pulled it up over her head
with trembling fingers. Her bra followed quickly.

Scully felt herself blush as Mulder stared at her in blatant
adoration. He licked his lips as he moved his hand to her breast,
cupping it first, then stroking it with gentle pressure. Her back
arched of its own accord to push more firmly into his hand as she
sighed.

Mulder leaned forward to rest his head on her chest, breathing
heavily for a moment before he pressed his lips to one nipple,
allowing his fingers to continue their exploration of the other.
Scully buried her face in his hair, and pulled up the back of his
shirt - he only had to pause for a moment to back up and let her
pull it off of him.

Once bared from the waist up, it suddenly became a matter of
grave importance that they be divested of all their clothes. To
that end they both stood up from the bed and removed their pants
and underwear as quickly as possible, laughing at themselves as
they prepared so unceremoniously for the occasion.

With a sudden movement, Mulder pulled her to him and fell back
onto the bed. Still laughing, they kissed each other with a kind
of reckless abandon that seemed to match pace with the rain as it
fell faster and faster, bulleting the house and casting rainbow
shadows through the lace netting around the bed. The sound of the
rain was joined only by that of the fan overhead that clicked
with each rotation.

These sensations barely registered to Scully, wrapped up so
completely in the sight and touch and smell of this man. They
trembled, each covered in a sheen of perspiration as he turned
her over and she spread her legs for him. They stared into each
other eyes as he entered her, slowly at first, his fingers
reaching to caress her.

The pressure was discomfiting at first, but she knew how to make
it better. "Yes," she sighed. She raised her hips to meet him,
guiding him until finally he gave in to the demands of his body
and began to move inside her.

The act became not only a physical release, but an emotional one.
She felt as she looked up at him that she could see herself
through his eyes, surround herself in her own smell and the
contractions of her muscles around him. They were all tangled up
together, in one another. I love you, she thought, I love you,
and knew no words were necessary. She knew she was answered even
without the words from his lips.

He came first, whispering a distracted apology as he found his
release. She only arched higher, pushing herself up to meet him
as he remained inside. The stroking of his fingers became more
insistent until finally, with a loud protracted moan, she came
too, her release fierce in its intensity. It was only then, still
wrapped up in him, spent, that she realized her face was washed
in tears.

Later, they lay together under the covers. They were situated on
their sides facing the ocean, Mulder behind her, with his arm
draped lazily over her chest. The rain beat against the ocean
with almost violent force, draping the whole world in opaque
gray-green.

"Scully?"

"Mmmhmmm." Her voice was embarrassingly languorous to her own
ears.

"Tomorrow..." he paused, obviously trying to find the right
words. "You're not going to try to forget this ever happened, are
you?"

"Who me? Live in denial?"

He laughed at her small self-deprecation.

"Yeah. Will you still love me tomorrow?" As usual, he cloaked a
serious question in off-hand terminology.

"Every day, Mulder. I promise."

"I'm beginning to think we really have a chance of winning this
battle." They lay in silence for some time, lost in their own
thoughts.

"You know, as happy as I am," she said, finally, "I still can't
believe we just did that."

"Me either. I guess I should thank Edna Porter."

Scully laughed.

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*


The Memoirs of Edna Porter
June, 1920

Edmund has been gone only one day.

All my old fear is gone. This end will come for me tonight. I
know it as well as I know my own name. But my end is not the end.

I must write quickly now, capture my experiences for...

I don't know what for. In the end, what have I come to? There are
no lessons to be learned from me. I am a useless socialite who
tried to break free, only to be overwhelmed by forces she could
not control or even truly understand.

What I do know:

1. Alone, we are powerless against these forces.

2. I am alone.

In my mind, though, I see a future. Not my own, no, not that. The
time is coming, though, when they will want to reclaim their
home, all of it and forever, not just bits and pieces of the
whole. Edmund and I, we are the bits and pieces.

Someday, men will have to gather forces to ward off their final
return. Because this world that we call our own was theirs first,
a nest for us to inhabit until they had need of us. They told us
to be fruitful and multiply and in our egotism, we believed that
it was because of our dominion over the earth. It was not.

We hold dominion over nothing. Anything we hold dear must be
fought for some day. That day is not so distant. They are
performing tests now, determining our readiness. In the end, they
will come for us whether we are ready or not. It is their need
and not our own that must be served.

I see the lights over the water now. They dance closer to shore
than ever before. Shall I go out to meet them, or will they come
in for me? Today, in preparation, I bathed and fixed my hair for
the first time in weeks. I cannot imagine what my life would be
now if they do not come for me.

The light is so close, yellow and intense. It fills the house and
lights my path. I must go now - these words all I leave behind
me.

Fight.

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*


The world was strangely silent in the aftermath of the storm.

Scully felt at ease in the silence as she walked, hand in hand
with Mulder, toward the site, her footsteps sinking slightly in
the wet sand. She had finished Edna's memoirs in the early pre-
dawn hours after they'd made love for the third time. He had
laughed that at his advanced age and in his weakened state she
should consider three times in a twelve-hour period a great
compliment. She considered it more than that.

When she had last asked him how he was feeling, he replied that
he was tired but well. Scully took him at his word but as they
neared the site, she could feel his coiling tension and his face
appeared pale. Mulder slowed pace before they arrived, turning to
watch turbulent waters, frosted with gray clouds.

He did not speak for what seemed like minutes, but she could
sense his struggle to find words. Though his back was to her, and
she could not read his expression, something in his bearing made
her nervous. Something was not right.

"The voices are gone." He said the words plainly, almost without
emotion. But she knew he was struggling.

"Are you sure?" she asked. He only nodded in response. It was
painful to watch him standing there, so alone and forlorn. Scully
reached out to him, resting one hand on his side, above the
waist, and raising the other to squeeze his shoulder in a gesture
of comfort.

"How long have they been gone?" she finally asked.

"Since late last night, or early morning," he admitted. "I don't
think I even noticed at first. I must have been distracted." He
smiled back at her, grabbing the hand she rested on his shoulder
to cover with his own. She stood up on the balls of her feet and
reached to press a small kiss to the back of his neck.

"When did you notice? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Early this morning, after we slept. I thought it might be
temporary. I was hoping that when we got to the site they would
be back."

We're almost there, now, she thought, before remembering he
needed the words and so said it aloud. "We're almost there, now."

"Yes. They're gone. I'm afraid the voices might not be all that's
missing," he said slowly.

It took her a full second to realize the import of his words.

No. It couldn't be gone, not after all the work. They were so
close. They looked at one another in a kind of stunned silence.
Then she had to know. Had to see for herself that it was there,
that he was wrong.

Scully started to run toward the site. She heard him running
behind her, breathing hard from the exertion after so many days
of inactivity. It couldn't be true. Of course it was there.
Mulder was wrong. It was there. Proof in their hands. Mulder was
wrong. But as she finally climbed to the rock formation that
overlooked the site, she saw that he was right.

The ship was gone. All that was left was the blue tent structure
they had erected for its protection, blowing precariously in the
harsh ocean wind.

"No." She didn't know which of them said the word. No. No. No. It
seemed to echo.

"The storm," she finally spoke. "The tides could have dragged it
back to sea. We can send divers for it."

"It's a waste of time. It's gone," he said woodenly.

"We've got to try, Mulder. That's our proof."

"Go ahead, then. Go to the University. Have them send divers. See
if they have any proof left, photos or notes. It's gone. Your
proof is gone." He sounded so devoid of hope it broke her heart.

"We won't give up," she said, trying to sound more certain than
she was. But Mulder didn't seem to be listening anymore. His eyes
were closed and she imagined him to be in some distant,
unreachable place. She moved closer to him, and twined her
fingers with his to establish contact.

They stood there for some time, eyes scanning the horizon. The
leaden sky seemed to push down on them, a grounding physical
weight. As her shock began to fade, Scully thought she could feel
the force of a thousand watching eyes, all witness to her
failure. Make yourself stand here and face them, she thought.
Make them contend with you.

Finally, though, it was Mulder who turned away.

"Let's go, Scully."

She sent him a troubled look, afraid that after all he had been
through he was drained enough to walk away from it all.

He reassured her with a small upward movement of his lips and a
firm grip on her arm before continuing. "We've got work to do."

They walked away together.

~~

She returned later from the University to find Mulder finishing
the packing.

"The driver's outside," she said, "but I told him it would be a
little while."

"I'm pretty much ready. How did it go?" He turned from the bed,
where the luggage was sitting, to face her. It was strange after
so many days to see him dressed in the one blue business suit she
had brought from the States.

"About like you predicted. Nothing was left, the negatives, the
samples already taken from the artifact, all gone. Dr. Kazner
claimed there was a break-in, but I don't know anymore if I can
trust him." Her voice radiated her frustration, but also her
acceptance of what had happened. They had faced so many crushing
blows through the years; she was practiced in the art of bouncing
back quickly.

"I wish I'd been wrong."

"It's not a total loss," she reminded him. "I do have some of the
rubbings I made, the ones I left in the backpack with the other
information. And we have the journal. They were still there?"

"Yes. We have them."

"But still no effect on you? The voices..."

"Gone. For good, I think." He seemed disappointed, but resigned.
She couldn't smother a small, selfish sense of relief that he
could no longer invade her own thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I know how bad it was, but I also know that
you were hoping to use it to find answers."

"To find Samantha." He winced as he said the words. She knew that
blow was the one that hit the hardest.

"You can't lose hope. We are closer."

"One step forward, two steps back. Same old song and dance."

"No. Circumstances may have brought us back to square one, but we
changed. We made it different. I feel more confident than ever
that we can stop this."

"Are you ready to stake your reputation on it?" he challenged.

"Yes." She pursed her lips. "Are you ready to place your faith in
me, even when I don't tell you what you want to hear?"

"The faith part, yes. I don't know about the other." He smiled as
he walked toward her with a duffel bag over his shoulder. "What
you need to learn is that when you aren't telling me what I want
to hear, you're just plain wrong."

"Funny. You're a funny man." She took the bag from him and
grabbed another that sat nearby. He returned to the bed to pick
up the rest before returning to her side.

"I did have a chance to ask one of the locals at the University
about Edna Porter," she said. They both stopped and looked back
at the room where they had found so much. Through the windows
that made up the south wall, they saw another storm brewing over
the Gulf of Guinea, creating giant white-capped waves that surged
violently to shore.

"And?" he prompted.

"Officially, Edmund Burton is believed to have died on
exploration in the Congo. No body was ever found. Edna Porter
apparently committed suicide by drowning herself in the Gulf
during a tropical storm. Again, no body was recovered."

"Typical," he said, as they walked toward the door.

"At least we know the truth, or a significant part of it," she
stated confidently.

"Now all we need is a new beginning."

They turned at the door for another last look at the house.
Scully allowed her eyes to linger on the bed in a moment of
sentimentality. She wondered what it must have been like for Edna
to come to this place, then to leave it behind. To leave the
whole world behind - stranded in the aftermath of a fight she
couldn't win. Despite everything they had lost, and the battles
ahead, she and Mulder were together. She felt lucky.

"I think we've already had it."

He didn't need to tell her he agreed. She could read his mind.

~*~

The End

I would love to know what you think (especially if you liked it
<bg>) The food bowl is also known as:
gwendyn@aol.com

Did I mention Dasha and Barbara? They are the collective bomb.
Undying love and gratitude to them for whippin' this puppy into
shape.

And I would be remiss if I didn't thank my bestest friend and
roommate, Julie. She also rocks hard! (<---Sorry, I just had a
Real World moment. It passes).

I have yellow, bulbous friends; they don't taste good, but they
bring me joy. I thank them.

All parts can be found at http://sites.netscape.net/gwenstuff/home.html

Gwendolyn
18 October, 1999