Title: Seaside Author: 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. xxxxxxxxxxx "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, <> What had come out was I-I-I'm alone. <> "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." <> "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 <> 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*? <> 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. <> 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. <> 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. <> 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. <> 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. <>, 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. <> The tone demanded her attention. Questioning. Challenging. Daring. And Scully understood that he was seeing *her*. No tattoos, no alien devices...just simply her. <> 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 <> 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?" <> Mulder shook his head slightly, awaiting a better response. <> "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. <> 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--<>--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. <> "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.