RESTLESS VESPERS
by Blackwood
entreamis@yahoo.com

RATING: PG13
CATEGORY: MSR, UST, Post-col Vignette, AU, Angst, Humor
SPOILERS: Assumptions made.
ARCHIVE: With a note to me.
SUMMARY: It's not the critic who counts.
DISCLAIMER: The usual.

*~*~*~*

SOMEWHERE, UNITED TERRITORIES OF AMERICA
Autumn, 2021


"Scully?"

"Hmmm?"

"Are you warm enough?"

"I'm fine."

"I can get you another blanket."

"Stop fussing and come sit with me, Mulder."

He turns the valve on the propane lantern and the globe of mesh
netting beneath the glass glows hotter and brighter.  Setting the
light on the rough-hewn table beside the battered sofa, he eases
himself down.

Scully lifts the afghan from her legs until he's settled beside her,
his denimed hip snug against hers.  The weight of her shoulder
against his is solid, a keystone of comfort and strength.  Layers of
wool and leather and corduroy buffer the touch of their skin.  Later,
he thinks.  She tosses the coverlet over his legs, pulling the edge
over herself.  They're quiet, comfortable with one another in a way
only very old, very good friends can be sharing silence, sharing
safety, sharing warmth.

After no more than a minute, he shifts his weight, unhappy with their
positions.  She throws him a disgruntled look, but she isn't really
angry.  He's always been restless.  She sits forward, the blanket
slipping into their laps.  She waits until his arm wraps around her
shoulder then turns towards him, resting her head in the niche of his
arm.  She runs her hand over the soft flannel covering his chest and
toys with a loose button there.

"This is nice," she murmurs and he kisses the top of her head.

A cold wind kicks up and brown leaves skitter about their feet.  The
stark, barren trees that surround the compound are singed with
sundown's sanguine glow before fading into dusky shadows.  Mulder
sighs with weariness and listens to the rising cricket nocturne.

Eyelids droop and his breath matches Scully's as she nestles against
his chest.  He wonders if she's fallen asleep.  "Hey," he soughs into
her hair and hears her sleepy sigh.  He should let her rest.  She's
been up since five and gone for most of the day, overseeing the
delivery of medical supplies to one of the more remote outposts. 
Early twilight means there's more to be done before darkness falls
and she's not one to procrastinate.

He's been busy, too, reviewing recruitment tactics with Armstrong,
leader of the SouthEastern Territory.  The Resistance there is
smaller than in other parts of the Lower 48, but growing every day. 
W. Chase Armstrong is sharp, ambitious; and Mulder is far from
certain about his loyalties.  Still, the man bears no love for either
alien race and his soldiers will reinforce the scattered Resistance
Forces.

Nearly twenty years have passed since The Swarming.  August 15, 2002
-- Vindication Day.  Hailed as the Paul Revere of the New Millennium,
Mulder's prophetic vision came to pass, at last.  Few escaped the
sting of Initialization, but those who believed resistance was
possible fled, going underground until retribution could be exacted.
The nonbelievers were absorbed as docile Select Hybrids, transmuted
by oilien bioengineering.

It's taken years of sacrifice and work to convince *them* of the
truth about their wardens, the Rebels -- or the Gezh as they called
themselves.  The Gezh, an extraordinarily intelligent and cruel
species, who had no more use for mankind than they did for the
telepathic, emotionless Grays or the nearly-extinct Fully Human. 
They needed slave labor to execute their global slash-and-burn,
absorbing genetic material as fodder for replication on their home
world.  

After years of working to uncover conspiratorial intrigue and nearly
as many negotiating a workable solution, Mulder had relinquished
freedom for haven.  The alien factions were at war with one another
and the alien-hybrids that populated the planet were nothing more
than booty to be claimed by the victor.  Bloody, but unbowed, his
role in the Resistance is vital, but abstruse.

It galls him.

It was never his style to sit back, to let others fight his battles.
Playing by the book was dull and collaboration unthinkable.  But, for
the sake of survival, he'd allowed himself to be secreted away,
protected by a cadre of select guardsmen.

Life was simpler once.  Chasing mutants, exploring extreme
possibilities, even profiling criminals of human ilk held appeal
compared to current events.  A twinge of discontent pricks his
sensibilities awake and although he knows better, asks, "Ever miss
it?"

"Miss what?"  Her voice is tinged with small apprehension as it wafts
up to him in the twilight.

He considers recanting, but can't help himself.  "The way we were."

"If you're referring to the classic Streisand and Redford film, no,
Mulder."

Her bantering tone lightens his mood.  "I miss old movies," he sighs.

"Mmmm.  Hot baths and soft towels."

"Heineken on tap."

"Mushroom pizza."

"Baseball games."

"Shopping at Neiman's.'"

"The Triple-X Channel."

"Mulder--"

"Sorry."

A few quiet moments spin between them.  She says, "It really is the
simple things you miss the most, isn't it?  Small comforts, old
habits."

"Like falling asleep watching 'Plan 9 From Outer Space.'"

At that, she shifts until she can see his face.  "You can't be
serious."

"Of course I am.  I miss Ed Wood.  Don't you?"

"To be honest, no; although I could stand to watch an old George
Clooney film now and again."

"You like him?"

"What's not to like?"

"He's kinda pretty," he begins then adds, "And way past prime by
now."

"So are you," she parries, her arm snaking around his waist to give
him a squeeze.

"Pretty or past prime?"  He sounds worried.

She chuckles low in her chest.  "Both," she teases and lifts her
face. "But all mine."   His face drifts close and soft lips nuzzle
and caress, content to wait for the slow building of the fire that
would begin as an ember and end in a blaze.

Vanity satisfied, he says, "I thought you went for the rugged look."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Willis, Waterston... Doggett."

She pulls away from him then, amusement in her eyes.  "John Doggett."

"You never--?"

"No, Mulder," she responds.  "Not even a passing thought."  

He looks away, eyes scanning the waters beyond while his lips purse
to conceal his satisfaction with her reply.  "He's got it bad for
you, you know."

"Still insecure after all these years?"

"I just like to know who my competition is."

"If you're expecting me to feed into this little ego trip, you can
forget it."

"Damn," he mutters, dropping his head to his chest.

"And Doggett is watching *our* son's back."

His face pivots towards her. "Never said I'm not grateful."

"He's a good friend to us," Scully states with quiet conviction.

"Who'd have thought?"

"I did, Mulder, despite your suspicions to the contrary."

With a lift of his chin, he retorts, "Like you didn't harbor doubts
about Skinner's loyalty?"

"I never--"

"Sure you did.  It's okay.  He understood."

They lapse into silence at the memories that rise.  Walter Skinner's
heroic and untimely death had guaranteed their escape during the
early days of colonization so many years ago.  Mulder spies the shine
of tears in her eyes, knowing his own reflect similar sentiment.  In
the darkness, a night bird coos and the water laps the rocky shore in
counterpoint.

All at once he stands, throwing off the blanket and striding to the
edge of the covered porch.  He leans forward, arms extended stiff to
the wide railing before him.  Peering into the sky, he watches icy
clouds wash across a pale moon.  He's tired, but his fatigue is born
of ennui, not labor.

"I could have done more," he declares.

The sofa creaks as she rises.  He feels her standing behind him,
knowing what she will say before she says it.  "We did all that we
could.  You did more than anyone could have asked."

"Did I?"

She lays a hand on his sleeve, but he isn't ready for absolution. 
"Of course you did," she says so gently it feels like a caress. 
"You're Will's father.  You negotiated with the Rebels when no one
else could and," she pauses. "I never would have survived without
you."

"You would have gone on, Scully.  It's who you are."

"Breathing isn't the same thing as living."

"It's Life."  When her hand slips down his sleeve to cover his in
solidarity, he adds, "We could have stayed."

"For what purpose?"

"To fight.  To help.  Instead, we're here."

"Mulder, shall I remind you that we fled for our lives after
realizing there was nothing to be gained by staying?  The Resistance
needed a leader and Will had to be protected."

"But-—" 

"But nothing," she says and tugging at his hand, forces him to face
her.  He steps nearer and in the glow of the lantern, reads conflict
and concern in her visage.  He pulls his hand from hers to pinch the
bridge of his nose, quelling heartache for what is lost -- family,
friends, comrades -- to say nothing of the life they once knew.

"You do miss it, don't you?" she murmurs.

His eyes flit back to hers.  "Do you?"

She pushes herself up onto the wide ledge then back, leaning against
the heavy square post that supports the overhang.  Drawing up her
legs, she encircles them with her arms and looks outwards, her face
in profile.  

"Musty motel rooms, fast food and endless paperwork.  Nno-o, I don't
miss those.  And I do *not* miss being chased after, shot at, or
generally abused by insane or supernatural criminals."  The
melancholy lament of the loons on the water punctuates her statements
and he's haunted by remembrance of other times.  "But," she
continues, then pauses to look at him.  "I do miss working cases with
you."

His eyes soften at the compliment.  "We were a good team."

"Were?"

"In the investigative scheme of things."

"We still are."

"Gee, Scully, I guess you like me."  

"Stop it," she chides, but extends her hand to caress his cheek.  He
kisses the callused palm.  "You know I like everything about you,"
she says with some seriousness.

"That's not what you said yesterday."

Her hand drops to his chest.  "I was annoyed with you yesterday.
You're not a very good loser and 'lackluster' is not spelled with an
're.'"

"It is in England."

She gives a gentle push. "So, go play Scrabble in England."

He stands his ground, earnest once again.  "Does England still
exist?"

"I'm sure it does, Mulder," she tries to assuage.  "In some way. Like
here."  

"Where is here?  The Blue Ridge?  The Smokies?"  His voice rasps with
discontent.

"What does it matter?"  Her question is simple and her subsequent
statement incontrovertible.  "It's where we need to be."

He looks past her, across the short lawn to the rocky beach where
broken pilings stretch into black water streaked by silvered
moonlight.  Fireflies spark cool yellow light against the velvet dark
and the soft lap of water on stones calms and distresses him.

"I know you're bored," she states with certainty.

"Why?  Because I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere, doing little or
nothing while the Greys manipulate and the Gezh pillage?"
 
"You've been listening to the short wave again."

"Meanwhile, I'm fully provisioned, in safety, with the woman I love
while others do what's necessary--"

"It's scuttlebutt, Mulder."  She pauses.  "Armstrong's been here
again, hasn't he?"

He looks at her.  "I need to know what's going on." 

"It's propaganda."

"He has influence."

"You have influence, Mulder.  Your vision, your courage, your
altruism has saved millions of lives."

He chuffs at her with a shake of his head, looking away once again. 
"You give me too much credit."  

"You deserve credit."

His eyes slide back to hers and he notes her earnest expression.  "My
critics wouldn't agree."

"It's not the critic who counts."

Her voice is vintage cognac -- rich, sweet and warm; and he allows
the mellow lilt of it soothe him. "Credit," she says, "Belongs to the
man whose face is marred by sweat and blood; who at the best, knows
triumph and at the worst, fails while daring greatly so that his
place shall never be with those timid souls who know neither victory
nor defeat."

"Emerson?"

"Teddy Roosevelt."

He nods, then says, "'Obla-di, Obla-da. Life goes on.'  Lennon and
McCartney."  She smiles at him and with a sigh, drops her head.  They
fall quiet and the sounds of the forest night reclaim the air around
them.

"Do you mind so much?" she says after a space.

He inhales and exhales with a rush. "Not if you're here."

"Where else would I be?"

He steps in suddenly, taking her face between his hands, tilting it
towards the sky.  Her skin is luminous in the argent light.  He
brings his mouth down on hers hard, passion revealed.  Her lips are
warm, pliant to his will.  He savors the way her mouth parts to allow
his tongue entry, the sigh that trembles through her body and the way
his blood warms in response to the press of her hands on his back and
her thigh against his groin.

When he pulls back, he's pleased that the shortness of her breath
matches his own.

"Feel better?" she asks with a glint in her eye.

"A bit," he teases.  At least they have each other, no matter
whatever else they've lost.  At least that.

Her eyes are still as blue as ever behind the round wire-rimmed lens
she's taken to wearing and streaks of white grace her shoulder-length
hair.  Well, his own hair went gray years ago, but so what?  Age is a
privilege denied to many and he's grateful for the half-century-plus
he's lived thus far.

Scully pulls out of his embrace and crosses back to the table,
picking up the lantern and heading towards the door of the cabin. 
"The team will be here tomorrow."

"Is Will coming?"

She nods assent.  "There's word of another faction gaining strength
in the NorthEast corridor.  He's going undercover again, but he
wanted to see you before he did."

"And you," Mulder tips his head at her.  "He's too young to be taking
such risks.  He should consider his mother's feelings."

"He is.  That's why he's doing this."  She pauses at the entry. 
"He's a good leader: intelligent, honorable, dedicated.  Like his
father."

"He could use another set of eyes.  I know how They think."

"So does he."  He arches a brow, but has no other response.  "We
should go in."

"I'm not sleepy."

She flashes him her best smile.  "So, we won't sleep."

The look in her eyes stirs him with its promise of intimacy.  Odd to
think that they'd spent nearly a decade avoiding one the simplest
joys they could have shared.  At least they got smart about things.

She leaves his sight and he crosses the porch to follow, closing the
door to the cabin and locking it behind him.  He climbs the stairs to
their bedroom while the moon glitters off the water and the black
loons call across the stillness of the lake.

Tomorrow will come soon enough.

END
January 2002