Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
From: Bryherl@aol.com (Dan Mcafee)
Subject: Cape Cod Poem from Mulder
Date: Tue, 25 Jul 1995 20:46:37 GMT


	Cape Cod in August.  Fox Mulder couldn't believe it.
The bureau always seemed to send them to the wrong place at the
wrong time of year.  Chatham was cooler than Martha's Vineyard,
and easier to get to than the island, but still, it was hot.  Even
with the constant breeze off the ocean, it was hot.  He looked
over at Dana Scully.  She didn't seem to mind the heat at all,
though as they walked down the sidewalk toward the bed and 
breakfast they had rented rooms in, he could see that she was
sweating.  She was wearing flats today, and had left her jacket
in the rental car.  It always surprised him how small she really
was... her suits and heels seemed to expand her somehow.  Here,
walking next to him in a collarless beige blouse and brown slacks,
her body seemed almost... fragile, somehow.  But then she turned
to him, her red hair surrounding her face, and she was the Scully
who dived and rolled and come up shooting, the Scully who bent 
but never broke, the Scully who survived.

	"Lobster Pot tonight?"

	"How about Chillingsworth's?  My treat."

	"As long as it's your wallet, Mulder, I'll eat at
Chillingsworth every night.  What time?"

	"Nine?"

	"Good.  Gives me time for a nap and a shower."
	
	"A shower sounds good.  It's always sticky here."

	The bed and breakfast was an old house, set back from the
street.  The woman who ran it lived on the bottom floor and let
out the rooms on the top two floors to guests.  Mulder and Scully
had rooms the only two rooms on the third floor.  The only other
room was a bathroom with a small shower.  Mulder's room was the
smaller of the two, but still it was large.  One entire wall was
floor-to-ceiling bookcases stocked with old, old hardbacks...
fiction, poetry, biographies.  His bed was small, with a wicker
headboard painted white.  The walls without bookshelves held old
paintings, copies of classic works.  The room had musty, bookish
smell Mulder loved the moment he stepped inside.

	Scully's room was larger, and two of the walls were covered
with the same type of old books as in Mulder's room.  Her bed was
queen-sized, but the headboard was extremely small, just a shelf,
really, at the head of the bed.  She also had a divan and beautiful
reading lamp.  The floor was hardwood, but covered by a large
persian rug.

	Normally the bureau booked its agents into hotel rooms, but
for this quick weekend training trip, Mulder and Scully had agreed
a B & B would be funner and cheaper than more modern lodgings.

	Scully unpacked quickly and knocked on Mulder's door.

	"I'm going to get some quiet time in," she said to Fox.
"Let me know when you're done in the shower, OK?"

	"Yeah... get a load of all these books.  I found a couple
of first editions of Hemingway's here."

	"My room has even more.  It's great."

	After Scully returned to her bed, Fox took his bathroom
supplies for his shower.  The bathroom was larger than he had first
thought, and everything in it seemed like antiques.  The clawfoot
tub had a tall pipe leading up to the showerhead and a half circle
plastic curtain snaked around to keep the water in.  He opened the
small window which overlooked the tub, but no breeze came in until
he also propped the door open.  Then a the late afternoon wind
crawled through the curtains and touched him.  While he showered, 
the breeze was even cooler, refreshing, much better than the
cloistered hotel room showers he was used to.

	Finished, Mulder let Scully sleep awhile longer before he
knocked on her door.  He opened the windows to his room and found
a volume of Keats to read.  He let her sleep for an hour and then
knocked on her door.  If she had been asleep, her face didn't show
it... well, maybe a little around the eyes.
  
	"Thanks, Mulder.  I hope you didn't use all the cold water,
my room is getting no air at all."

	"Hot, eh.  You'll get a better breeze in there if you prop
the door open a tad.  It worked in the bathroom."

	"Thanks again."

	In his room, saw that Dana had left the bathroom door wide
open.  He could feel her trust wash over him like that cool breeze
in the bath.  He could see her hands, now and then, raise above
the shower curtain, he could see the window curtains, soft blue, 
moving in the breeze, and his imagination could see the rest... he
grabbed a pen from his bag.

	Small drapes curl in the breeze afternoon
	as air cools through the window of the bath,
	touching her with thin lines of falling ice
	in contrast to the water's hug of warmth.

	Off light, reflected from the waning day
	to pearlish cream, appears to radiate
	from everywhere she moves the bar of soap,
	and smooths behind a trailing line of white.

	Outside, day succumbs to sighs, sliding down
	the curve of the earth like a hand sleeking
	aloe through the soft hairs of summer trees,
	and is washed away by the sharp sea spray.

	           ----------------------

	He closed his door then, and waiting for her to come and
tell him she was ready.

			- dan