By Alloway
steiner@acadiacom.net
 

Comments welcome!
Summary: Pondering her mortality, Scully takes a lover at a cottage
by the sea. . .
Ratings:   R for sex and warnings for MSR and Scully angst.
Disclaimers: The X-Files, all characters therein, etc. belong to
Chris Carter, Fox network, blah blah blah.
Spoilers: Season 4, esp. MM & Never Again.  Yep, it's one of *those*
stories.
 
 

SEASIDE
 

"Honeymoon Cottage #1?" Scully was taken aback.  "You don't
understand.  I-I-I'm alone."

The voice on the other end of the phone lost none of its perkiness.
"Oh, that's all right.  We've had singles rent it before, just to be
on the beach."

"Don't you have anything else?" she asked desperately.

"Let's see."  Sounds of typing followed by a reluctant reply.  "We
have Shangri-La and Margaritaville available...they're gulf *view*
though."

"Are they actually on the beach?"

"They're just a minute's walk away."

"No.  I need to be by the water."  It had been pulling at her for a
while now.  Trapped in this dingy hotel in Florida, their case over
and their flight canceled, she could feel it as an almost physical
urge, subtle but undeniable.

It was what she had tried to explain to Ed, this connection between
her and the sea.  She'd sensed it instinctively, long before the hard
rain at her father's funeral turned earth into ocean.  Long before
she'd floated through her coma, huddled in a rowboat adrift on a cold
river.  This time, though, she knew that when the lines slipped their
moorings there would be no returning to shore.  That was the hard
truth she had needed to share.

But the things that mattered most to her always came out mangled.  It
infuriated her sometimes; she could technospeak flawlessly until even
Mulder went cross-eyed and hazy, but let anything affect
her--anything personal--and her confident speech gave way to a
startled stammer.

True to form, she had spouted some California nonsense to Ed at the
bar: circles and snakes, seas and Daddy and death.  Just like now,
when what she really needed to say was, <<I'm dying, you understand,
and for me that has always meant water...so I need to be there with
it for a little while, face it down, before I move on.  And I just
can't do that in Honeymoon Cottage Number 1; the irony would be more
than I could bear.>>

What had come out was I-I-I'm alone.  <<Wonderful, Dana.>>

"The honeymoon cottage is on the beach?" she asked reluctantly.

Sensing victory, the voice went back to cheerful.  "As close as you
can get.  There's a dune in front to protect the beach, but you just
walk over a ramp and there you are."

<<There I am.  Easy enough.>>  "All right.  I'll take it."

"Great!  May I ask how you found out about us?"

Scully flipped the magazine back over to check the cover.  "Southern
Living."

Oh, she saw the irony in that one, too.
 

*******
 

Two hours and one note to Mulder later, she was inside the guest
check-in building for the resort town of Seaside, Florida.  The
article had praised it as a shining example of new community
design--white picket fences, tin roofs, quiet and peace.  To Scully
it looked like a prime example of trying too hard: aggressive pink
and yellow paint everywhere and an inflated room rate, not to mention
a mysterious $10 "Arts and Entertainment" fee on her bill.

The woman behind the counter handed back the last of the documents.
"You'll be staying in Honeymoon Cottage #1, right here," she said,
circling a building on the map.  "I like that one--very private.
Your butler will be with you in a few moments; he's assisting another
guest right now, but you're welcome to go in and get settled.  Looks
like you're just in time for the sunset."

"Thanks," Scully said absently.  She walked out of the office,
letting the map lead her down the road.

The Honeymoon Cottages, she soon discovered, were narrow
shotgun-style two-story buildings on the beach.  Seeing them
stretching down the road in clumps of three seemed to confirm her
suspicion that she'd rented into an upscale conjugal visit yard:
something designed to allow the maximum amount of sex using the
minimum amount of floor space and expense.  She sighed, kicking off
her shoes to pad barefoot across the sandy walkway to #1.

By the time she unlocked and swung open the screen door, she realized
that she'd been too harsh in her judgment.  The cottage was lovely;
the floors were a smooth, light hardwood, the walls white-painted
wood.  To the left, a staircase spiraled upwards; on the right, a
small bath awaited.  Before her--

--Before her was the water.  Actually, it was another white room,
with a few simple wood tables and bed.  But three sides of the room
were narrow windows, floor to ceiling, letting in the light and the
tides.  Each window was half-covered with a shade stretching upward
from the floor--another sex thing, the cynical part of her
thought--that kept the viewer inside and in private, but always in
sight of the sea.

Another room <<patio?>> lay beyond the bedroom, but she was more
interested now in the view from the second floor.  Circling the
stairs, Scully emerged into a small, bright room--upside-down shades
again, she noted--with a cathedral ceiling, sofa and stove fireplace,
as well as a wooden deck beyond.  As she flung open the screen door
onto the deck and collapsed gratefully into a rocking chair, the
rumble and hiss of the gulf tides welcomed her.

Sitting here, she felt...she felt all right.  There was nothing here
but her and the white wood and the water.  This was what she'd
wanted.

This was what she'd needed, ever since the first scarlet stains on
her pillow had announced that death had come a-calling.  She would
face that truth, but not on the gray winter seas and dull foam of the
eastern coastline.  Scully had had enough of huddling cold and dreamy
on a boat adrift.

This time she was going to choose the metaphor.  She chose Florida.
She was damn well going to have a beach umbrella and a cool drink or
two until he came for her.

Scully looked for him out on the horizon, where the gulls and the
kites and the sailboats gave way to a deeper sea.  It flushed pink,
the final color it would reflect until night and moonlight took over.
 

"You've washed over others," she acknowledged him.  "You'll wash over
me."  Her eyes narrowed, focusing on the memory of gentle hands on
her cheeks and a feathery kiss.  <<_The truth will save you,
Scully._>>  It gave her the strength she needed.  "Not yet, you
bastard," she hissed defiantly to the sea.  "*Not yet*.  I'm still on
the shore, and I intend to stay here for a while."

She sat and watched the tides until a knocking noise brought her out
of her reverie.  Must be the butler, she thought, walking downstairs
to open the front door.

Two young men in shorts and resort shirts came into the hall.  "Hi,"
one said.  "I'm Steve, your butler, and this is Ray.  He's a
butler-in-training.  We're here to show you the features of your
cottage."

"Hi," Ray said.

"Hi," Scully said.  "I'm Dana Scully."  Both butlers waited
expectantly.  Scully felt a blush rising to her cheeks--one drawback
of a fair complexion--and she desperately grasped for a suitable
explanation.  She couldn't explain the sea to them, didn't want to
even try.

And then the explanation came to her.  "My husband's taking a look
around while I unpack.  F-Fox.  Fox Mulder."

Mulder?

"Oh, okay," Steve said.  "Do you want us to wait?"

"He may be a while," she answered wryly.

What had possessed her to come up with *Mulder*?

<<Well, let's see.>>  He was the only man she'd spent any significant
time with for the past three years.  One of the few she'd seen
modeling underwear, that's for sure.  One of the few she trusted; one
who trusted her...only her.  But he was a partner and a friend.

<<Exactly *how much* of a friend, Dana?>> came to her.  She pushed
the thought away immediately.  "Why don't you show me the cottage?"
she suggested.

The cottage was like something out of a 'House Of The Future' tour.
The steam in the downstairs bath/sauna was activated by a button.
The ceiling fans and a/c units were more complicated; the
'his-and-hers remote', as Steve called it, featured a multitude of
buttons and readouts for the men along with three big buttons labeled
'I feel too warm', 'I feel too cold', and 'I feel all right' for the
women.

The final tour stop took place in the first-floor deck outside the
bedroom.  Mounted in the center of the gray planking was a single
fixture.  "Be sure to fill the water up over the jets," Ray said.
"No bubble bath; it'll shoot everywhere.  The timer is on the wall.
There's your rubber duck on the edge.  And keep the bedroom door open
and unlocked--if it swings shut you're trapped in here.  You have no
idea how many calls we get about people screaming in the jacuzzi
room."

"Because they're trapped," Steve added hastily.  Scully laughed
politely.

Night had fallen when Scully gathered up the nerve to approach the
jacuzzi again, feeling vaguely silly and very much alone.  <<No
chance of screaming here, Ray.>>  A single overhead bulb illuminated
the deck and the gleaming white tub, revealing her to anyone who
cared to look.  Scully walked to the screen walls on each side,
methodically unfastening the white drapes and pulling the canvas
along the railings.  The front curtains she left tied.  Bushes hid
her from outside viewers, she reasoned, and she could still hear the
water and see the stars.

With the night had come cold; a chill breeze drifted in, ballooning
the drapes in and out in a rhythmic pattern.  Scully shivered,
turning the knob for heat until a flood of hot water came pouring
into the tub.  A few minutes later, with the timer set, a jacuzzi
full of steaming, swirling water awaited her.

Scully hesitated, then allowed the terry robe to slip from her
shoulders.  She stood silent on the deck for a moment before easing
herself into the waters and toeing the rubber duck in alongside her.
<<Strong and silent; too bad he's just a duck.>>  She turned herself
around, lying back against the slope of the tub; the jets forced
water past her with a pressure that irritated her momentarily before
turning into a mildly pleasant sort of sensation.  She closed her
eyes, expecting the dull rumble of the jacuzzi to lull her into
calmness.

But as the streams of water continued to pour across her, snaking
over her breasts and rushing between her thighs, Scully slowly became
aware of an undeniable throbbing at her center.  She felt
embarrassed, but definitely aroused; the pathetic fact was that her
bathtub was turning her on.  <<Pathetic, sure, but...nice.>>  She
adjusted her position, giving the jets better access to her, and was
rewarded as the stream became a steady force; she leaned back again
with a sigh.

The noise of the water and the distraction of the jets was such that
Scully barely realized that someone had entered the front door.  It
sounded like Steve the butler--something about sorry to bother her,
her husband had gotten himself locked out--

When she opened her eyes, she saw Mulder staring back at her.

He was dressed in his standard federal agent outfit: pressed suit and
loud tie covered by a trenchcoat.  He loomed over the jacuzzi,
looking down at her with an quizzical expression that left her
wondering how long he'd been standing there.

"Scully?" he said.  "I was worried about you."

"I'm fine, Mulder," she replied automatically.

He tilted his head as if preparing a comeback.  But there was no
humor in his expression, no leering comment about to spring forth
from his lips.  He simply watched her.  His rapid breathing revealed
his basic physical reaction, at least, but his mental response was
another matter entirely.  <<What is he seeing?>>, Scully wondered.

No doubt he was seeing a woman who had been kidnapped, probed,
abandoned, and sentenced to slow death; an agent who had fled his
company to writhe in the mechanical caress of a jacuzzi.  His
partner...his naked, tattooed partner, alone in a cottage designed
for the pleasure of two.

Mulder spoke first.  "Husband?" he asked softly.  <<He knows.  He
knows about 'my husband, Fox Mulder.'>>  The tone demanded her
attention.  Questioning.  Challenging.  Daring.

And Scully understood that he was seeing *her*.  No tattoos, no alien
devices...just simply her.

<<And what do *you* see, Dana?>>

She saw a man.  Her partner, yes, and a good friend; but a man who
now stood watching her and wanting her.  One who had held her and
kissed her and promised to save her.

She slid her body to the edge of the tub and drew a leg against
herself to give him a better view.  "Husband," she welcomed him.

A tiny grin played about the edges of his lips for a moment.  Then,
slowly, Mulder began to strip.  He did it deliberately, delighting in
the knowledge that she hung on every gesture.

It was a honeymoon, after all.

Scully was surprised at the control with which Mulder removed his
clothing; only the slight shaking of his hands betrayed him.  The
suit and tie he folded carefully, draping them along the edge of the
tub; shoes, socks and shorts all had their place against the wall.

Naked, he spoke to her.  "Talk to me," he said.  "Scully...tell me
about this."

What did he want to hear?  Pledges of undying love?  Everything she'd
thought and felt about him for all the years they'd been together?
<<"Nice butt, Mulder?">>

I want to live?

I want to be with you?

"I-Mulder, I--" she stumbled.  He leaned over to rest a finger to her
lips; he traced them gently, encouraging her, but she was silent.

Finally he stood back up and stepped into the tub.  Scully had a
brief close-up view of a large, sand-covered foot, followed by knees,
thighs, and a bobbing erection <<taut and silky, flushed with pink,
beautiful>> as Mulder sank down to his knees, then maneuvered himself
to lie beside her.

Those always-changing eyes of his regarded her.  Her reflection,
trapped in blue irises--had she ever seen them blue before, she
wondered--but then a rasping low in Mulder's throat commanded her
attention.  He was whispering to her.

The words were not what she was expecting.  A question, yes, but an
odd one.  "Did you enjoy the wedding?" he asked.

"I--what?"  <<What wedding?>>  Mulder shook his head slightly,
awaiting a better response.  <<Oh.  *That* wedding.>>  "Yes," she
said, forcing her voice steady.  "Yes.  It was beautiful."

"You were lovely when you danced," he agreed, solemnly.  Suddenly he
plunged underwater, splashing up a moment later to shake his head,
gasping and sending water droplets flying everywhere.  He grinned
with pleasure, stretching back with eyes half-lidded.  "Lovely," he
repeated.  Scully regarded her partner; sleek was the word that came
to her mind for him, sleek and gleaming like an otter.  Slim, but
with well-defined muscles at arm and belly; a creature made for the
sea and for swimming.  Lying in her tub, he seemed quite content
indeed.

Or perhaps content was not the right word.  Mulder rolled against
her, then on top of her, propping himself up on his hands. "Outdoors,
at sunset..." he began.

"Barefoot," she added hesitantly.  "On the sand."

"Skinner singing 'Take My Breath Away,' half-drunk but still on-key,"
he grinned, one hand running a lazy trail through her hair.

"I threw back my head and spun alone," she finished.  Mulder raised
an eyebrow, but nodded and eased himself down onto her.

The water supported both their weights, and Scully found herself
afloat: rising and sinking, riding and falling, the motions of
Mulder's body gently guiding her into the rhythms of the waves.  She
pressed herself to his legs, stomach, and chest, careful to match him
move for move and breath for breath.

Scully closed her eyes and filled herself with Mulder's breathing:
slow resonance as his chest took in air, tickling rumble as he
expelled it, sending out salt air and her whispered name.  Then there
was silence, his warm mouth touching and covering hers; damp strands
of hair caressed the sides of her face and neck.

She broke away to send her own mouth diving lower--tasting the wet
fur of his chest and lapping the waterdrops from his nipples--and
then lower still to sample a coarser flavor of hair, until he moaned
and pulled her face back to his, wrapping his arms and legs around
her to hold her tight.  They swam together for a while, tangled eels
in a tame sea.

A nose touched her neck, then he was speaking softly in her ear.
"Scully...what else?"

He brushed teasingly against her as they rocked through the water,
nuzzling against thigh, then belly, until the ache grew too much to
bear.  She shifted her legs apart slightly, letting the length of him
nestle into place against her lips, hot and real.

"What else?" he asked again.  A hand slid down, a slight adjustment,
and then he was moving slowly inside her.  She made a noise, little
non-words, as the water flowed across her and Mulder moved through
her.  In and out, through her life...

"Filling the empty places," she murmured.

"All those dinners I cooked you, when we were dating," he said,
deliberately misunderstanding.

"That time you gave me food poisoning," she retorted, so that he
buried his face in her hair in mock shame.

"I am so sorry."

"I know."  She sucked in her breath as he pressed hard against her.
Filling her, utterly; leaving, then returning.

She exhaled raggedly, lifting her hips to take him in even more
deeply.  "I'll  take all of it, Mulder," she growled, surprising
herself.

In response he raised himself up on his hands, shifting to deep,
rapid thrusts that left her reeling.  "Then finish it, Scully," he
demanded.  <<Finish the wedding.  Finish the dance, alone on the
sand.>>

She gasped out the images that came rushing into her head.
"Spinning.  Hands held out.  Alone."  She paused, sensing Mulder's
dismay, though his motions continued.  "Alone--but you--you were
there.  Watching."  She could say no more; only follow his patterns,
and counter them with her own.  And then her legs were locking into
place, trembling, as she finished it.

"I held out my hand--"she moaned.

He smiled.  "And I took it," he said.  He put her hands around her
waist, supporting her as she arched up out of the water.  Dolphins
frolicking, she thought for no reason; she pushed against him, once,
and then she was gone.

There was no screaming--<<the butler would be disappointed>>--just a
grateful tide of pleasure crashing over her after so long a dry
spell.  Mulder stiffened, and Scully realized he was pausing to feel
her: feel her muscles clench and ripple around him, wave after wave
of her release.

<<I came to face the sea, and see only you...>>

"The sea," she whispered, "and you."  Weakly spoken, but with words
firm and clear.

He nodded, finally satisfied.  "I know," he told her.

As she wrapped her legs back around him, as Mulder began to move
within her once again, there was silence.  The promise had already
been made and accepted.

No matter what else happened, Mulder would be with her.

Both of them, together at Seaside.