From: Oldspice Date: Mon, 10 Jan 2000 15:08:25 -0800 (PST) Subject: Paradise (1/2) by Oldspice Source: direct Title: Paradise Author: Oldspice Rating: NC-17 Classification: MSR Spoilers: Sixth season up to Milagros Keywords: Hawaii romance, adventure Summary: Our agents travel to Hawaii to solve a mystery and end up exploring more personal territory. Disclaimer: They're not mine. Kersch, Scully and Mulder belong to CC, 1013 and Fox. (This you did not know??) Written for fun, not money Please let me know if you archive so I can visit. Feedback, please, to Oldspiceii@Yahoo.com Paradise by Oldspice FBI Building, Washington, D.C. March 31, 1999 I watch, not speaking, as A.D. Kersch hangs up the phone. "It's done," he says. "They'll be flying out tomorrow." I can tell he wants to ask questions but he does not. A.D. Kersch has a strong instinct for self-preservation. Once again, uncertainty and an appropriate quantum of fear have proved most useful tools. "Do you have a bikini, Scully?" My question stirs Scully from her review of a report which she had written on DNA pairings and was preparing to submit to a scientific journal. She sits sideways in the chair in front of my desk, her legs dangling over one armrest. Blue eyes peer at me over the top of a pair of low strength reading glasses. "A bikini? Yes, I have a bikini. And you need to know this because...." "Unbelievably, Kersch has assigned us a case in Hawaii. A real X-file. Aliens, your everyday assortment of mysterious deaths, and, of course, a totally bewildered local authority. "Five days ago a woman drove down a new section of freeway on Oahu. Her car was rolled off the the highway. Luckily she survived but she says aliens did it. This would not be significant, of course, except that two other vehicles have been rolled in nearly the same place. One man died before help arrived; the other man lived long enough to describe 'beings' who pushed his car off the embankment. He said they were tall, with smooth heads and they had large eyes. "I don't think this is aliens, though," I tell her. "I think this is troubled spirits." "I thought we had enough of ghosts, Mulder," Scully states quietly. Memories of streaks of blood in a hallway, a nightmare of thinking we had shot one another echoed in her voice. "I'm not sure we need any more paranormal psychoanalysis." Okay, so the first part of Christmas wasn't so great. But I know, and she knows I know, that we had a memorable time opening presents. Just like a couple kids. I still smile, thinking of that devilish grin she had as she attacked the wrapping paper. Besides, I want her to go with me on this. I need her. "There are many tales in Hawaii of night marchers," I tell Scully, turning on my professor voice. "They are sometimes described as either warriors or elders, traveling at night. If a live person looks at the night marchers, the live person will die. The living must fall down and pretend to be dead, or the night marchers will take them away also. "If you look at war helmets of the old Hawaiians," I pull down a book and turn to a page with an illustration, "they are carved from coconuts and would appear to have large eye sockets." Scully's interest is piqued. She moves next to me, lightly resting her head on my shoulder as she examines the drawing. "Hmm, yes, I see what you are saying." My eyes stray from the book of Hawaiian legends down to the soft hair fanned against my coat sleeve. I have to pause, stomp my errant longings to touching those satin strands back down in a steel box I keep in a corner of my heart for just this purpose. It has a label: forbidden desires, with a subtitle, Scully. It's lucky the box exists in some other dimension, because it has to keep expanding. We've had some rough times lately. After I discovered the Cigarette-Smoking Man in Diana's apartment, I was shaken. Diana was one of the few people I considered a long-time friend. She had understood my quest, joined in it. When we parted, it was because our careers drew us apart. There had been no great quarrel, no gnashing of teeth; a simple understanding that time moved on. I was happy to see her again but nothing more. I saw her as an ally. I was mistaken. Scully was right but it was hard to let go of my image of Diana, formed so many years ago. When Diana's lips pressed against me, inviting me to respond, all I could think about was finding Scully. I needed to make sure she was safe. In that moment I knew what my priorities were. If there was going to be an imminent alien colonization, I damn sure needed to find Scully and kiss the hell out of her. But, no colonization. I'm sure there is some intergalactic firestorm poised over our heads like Krychek said. At the moment I have my own interpersonal firestorm to deal with--one blazing redhead named Scully. And step one is to get Scully to focus on this new case and maybe, on me. Not that Scully seems too interested in anything other than a purely professional relationship these days. At Arcadia, she did her best to push me back, outside the circle of careless intimacy we have cultivated over the last six years. Toilet seat warnings. Phooey. She had two other bathrooms she could have used. She values me as a partner, I console myself. That has to be enough to start with again., I will be her partner and her friend, and try to keep my hands off. It was difficult at Arcadia. Trying too hard to be the clown, masking my deepest desires with smart-ass remarks but indulging that need to touch her, to be close to her, a need more consuming than a physical need. "Mulder, yo, earth to Mulder," Scully's voice brings me back to the present. "Mulder, I asked, when do we leave? And who is our contact?" "Tomorrow morning. Our contact is," I glance down at the memo from Kersch, "an Oahu detective by the name of Mark Kanaka'olunalani." Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean April 1, 1999 I can't help it, Mulder makes me, well, itchy. It's difficult to describe exactly, but I think it all has to do with the bleeping kiss that didn't bleeping happen. I get near my tall partner these days, and I feel itchy. That's why I've been trying to keep a friendly but impenetrable distance between us. I thought I had our relationship all figured out. We were partners, we were friends, we were going to be more, some day in the very near future. I bought a black wonderbra, for heaven's sake, and some pretty provocative items from a little lingerie shop just around the corner from Pennslyvania Avenue. And then that woman came waltzing back into Mulder's life. Diana. The Fowl. Mulder tells me in his own unspeaking way that I was right to be suspicious. He hasn't told me everything that happened the night he went to her apartment. I know he thinks she is connected to the Smoking Man and that's enough for guilt by association for my paranoid Mulder. Meanwhile we're off to Hawaii. Hawaii. Who would have thought Kersch would be so generous. Of course, there is a mystery to track down. I lean back in my airline seat, trying to find a comfortable position. I don't know what the physical structure was of the person the airlines had in mind when they designed this seat. It wasn't me. Mulder looks over at my feet, barely touching the floor, and my head being pushed dramatically forward by a cushion that is supposed to provide neck support. The smile on his face is a reward though. It's a "I'm suffering for you" kind of a smile. I wonder if he has any idea what those smiles do to my insides. Probably not. Just like I don't think he has any recollection of telling me that he loved me. I know he was under the influence of a multitude of painkillers at the time. I know he had just been through a terrible ordeal. I know I don't give a flying fuck. There is a part of me that happily replays the sound of him saying those words. Replays them regularly. Probably too regularly for my own mental health. Oh well. Exit plane: check. Watch floor level change: check. gather bags: check. We go together to get our rent-a-car. No mid-size generic vehicle this trip. The agency is all out of blend-in-with-everyone cars. We have an open-top bright blue jeep. Mulder appears to be having a response which is close to orgasm. "Look, Scully," he says as he walks around the jeep with a loving attitude. "This is us." He has to drive, of course. Honolulu, Hawaii April 1, 1999 We settle into our hotel. Since it's too late in the day to catch up to our local contact, we have dinner at the lobby restaurant. It's warm and tropical, overlooking a Pacific sunset. And Scully has changed into a dress that has little bits of string for straps. Scully has elegant shoulders, did I mention that. "Did you pick up a street map?" Scully asks me. I hand it over and she opens the folds while I finish my coffee. She likes to plan the whole route ahead of time when we are investigating a case in a new place. So do I. It's another one of the aspects of her personality and mine which fit together perfectly. While we each have our own radically different approaches to our work, we share a lot of the same day-to-day habits. Sometimes I think it's those little things that have drawn us so close. That and saving each other from death a dozen times, I guess. After a teasingly short moment of hanging right on the horizon, the sun disappears suddenly and the cool air drifts in with a tang of salt from the ocean. "Scully, let's go for a walk along the water." She lifts her eyes from the map and I am sure she is going to say no. I am surprised when a corner of her mouth lifts and she nods. We walk down a few concrete steps from the hotel's central open air plaza and are on the sand. The odor of coconut oil from dozens of sunbathing tourists which wafted our way at dinner has blown away with the tradewinds. Along the shore the ocean rolls gently in and out. It is still and quiet, despite being less than 200 feet from the hustle and bustle of Waikiki. I don't say anything, neither does Scully. I reach for her hand at the same time she reaches for mine. Together, hand in hand, we walk along the water's edge, not talking. In fact, we don't even really look at each other. Our hands connect and swing slightly as we stroll, and I, Spooky Mulder, the man who never rests, am at peace. I don't have the words to tell her how much she means to me so I pull her hand, still lightly clasped in mine, to my mouth, brushing the back of her hand gently along my lips. I want to pull her into my arms but I don't. I just caress her hand, the capable, soft hand of Scully. She doesn't say anything, but I take a chance and look into her eyes. I am overwhelmed. Those blue eyes that can spit fire at me are soft and trusting, and dare I go there, loving. I take her hand, the same one I kissed, and rub it gently along my cheek. Then we, in one smooth movement, turn together and walk still silent back to the hotel. I expect good night to be strained. Mulder has kissed the back of my hand. He's rubbed my hand on his cheek and he hasn't said a blasted word. At the door to my room I pause. Mulder still has my hand in his. I like that feeling. I like the tactile sensation of his large hand closing around my smaller one. I like the public declaration of holding hands as we walk through the hotel lobby. I am suddenly unsure. Where do we go from here. My trepidation ends up consigned to the future as I look down and see the corner of an envelope sticking out under my door. "Mulder, " I say, gesturing down. We retrieve the envelope. Turns out it is a message from Detective Kanaka'olunalani saying he will meet us early in the morning at the scene. He also left us a handwritten map as the new highway is not on the commercially printed versions. "He wants to meet us at 7 a.m.," Mulder tells me. "We'd better get some sleep." "Okay. Night, Mulder." "Night, Scully." I think that's the end and I run my keycard down the zipstrip in the door. "You know," Mulder says, " I read recently in Relationshippers Magazine that much of the ackwardness of dating could be eliminated if the participants kissed at the beginning of the evening. Then they don't have anxiety during the duration of the date wondering whether or not they are going to kiss." He has confused me. This is the end of the night, not the beginning of a date. Was it a date? Was he anxious? Apparently the answer is none of the above. He puts his hand under my chin, tilts my head up and kisses me. The warmth of his lips on mine causes my heart to stop a beat. So gentle. So loving. He smiles. "Night, Scully." "Night, Mulder," I say again. Bemused, I stumble into my room. I have to sit on the bed for a minute and think about this. Mulder has kissed me. Not wildly, not even wetly. Why did I always think this first kiss would ripen into a storm of clothes-peeling. Perhaps I have miscalculated here. Maybe he doesn't want me. Oh Dana, I tell myself, maybe you're not his type. I look down at my adequate, but not augmented, front, and shake my head. Another voice in my head asks, if that's so, what was the business with the hand-holding on the beach and what about that comment about dating. It's too hard to think about it. I take a long shower and slide into the sheets. To borrow a line from Scarlett, I'll think about it tomorrow. Scully ends up driving today. The wind blows through her hair as we cruise down the highway in our jeep. She looks younger, less disciplined that the ever-so-responsible Dana Scully, M.D., who walks the halls of the FBI building. I am attempting to navigate as we turn of the main highway and head for the hills that rise up behind the Honolulu skyline. I am working at pronouncing the Hawaiian names correctly. There was a short article in the complementary airline magazine giving the proper sounds for the vowels and consonants. Committing it to memory was easy, getting my tongue around some of the words is not easy. "I think we are on the Queen Kaahumanu highway," I tell Scully, as I look for road signs. so far there has been only one. "We turn right, onto Laupokahe Boulevard, travel six miles and then turn right again." "What's the name of the last road?" Scully asks, sneaking a glance toward the hand-drawn map. "Pee-peh--lee-haah," I say, carefully sounding out each syllable. "Mul-der," Scully says, and she starts to laugh. She laughs, she giggles, she snorts, tears stream down her face and unmentionable liquids even flow from her nose. I stare in amazement. Scully does not laugh. She may smile once in a while, even give a small chuckle. Very refined, very dignified. No laughs. "Mulder," she manages to get out, "the word is Pipeline." I am still smiling to myself about Mulder's botched Hawaiian pronounciation when we meet Detective Kanaka'olunalani at the four mile-marker post on the new highway. The officer, a giant of a man wearing a huge, loud floral print shirt, has a deceptively soft voice. He has an accent, faint and hard to identify, almost Spanish but not quite. He is all business, despite the shirt, which could substitute as a large deck umbrella when not being worn. We examine skidmarks and a piece of damaged railing. Mulder is dashing here and therewith that look in his eyes. The one that says something is tickling his memory, some tidbit undoubtedly buried in an X-file from 1940-something. Sure enough, he starts asking questions. "You say the woman's car was found down this gully?" he asks the detective. "That's why we called you in, " Kanaka'olunalani explains. "The skidmarks on the roadway indicate complete and total change of direction of the car from going down the road in a normal direction to going sideways, but there is no evidence of any force that would have caused the change of direction. "Ordinarily we would have just run a driving under the influence case and classed it as a major TC--traffic collision--one car. Then our reconstruction expert looked and it and she says the skidmarks don't add up. When the driver gave her statement, well, my boss got back recently from a training put on by the FBI and someone had mentioned your, uh, specialty." Mulder wants to know whether there have been any lights in the night skies seen here, the detective says no. He moves on to the injuries of the driver. Kanaka'olunalani says the woman driver had injuries consistent with a car accident. No radiation burns. No burns of any kind. No viral symptoms. None of the drivers had any such. Mulder stands on the edge of the roadway. He has on a short-sleeved cotton shirt and an ugly tie with little purple cows on it. The wind blows his hair so that it sticks straight up. I think he looks perfect. I have to force myself back to listening to the detective. I wish for a place to sit so I can sit on my hands because I have this famishing need to smooth Mulder's hair. I take down the driver's name and address and get directions to the lot where the car was towed. As I am writing in my notebook, a deafening sound stops all conversation. It feels like the jet that just flew over was only a few feet over our heads, although undoubtedly it was at a legal altitude. "Is there an air base near here?" I ask. "Just over the mountain, " Kanaka'olunalani says, pointing toward a green peak about five miles away. "We've maintained an active military presence here since Pearl Harbor." Mulder doesn't seem to be interested in practical investigation at all. "Are you saying this is the work of ghosts?" I ask quietly while the detective stuffs his accident photos back into a manilla folder. "It does have some aspects of that," Mulder responds, 'but we need to check out what was here before the highway was built." "Well, I have a theory," I tell him, "if you're interested. Officer Kanaka'olunalani indicates that there is an airbase near here and you saw how low that plane just flew. It's possible that these motorists were knocked off the roadway by the turmoil of the exhaust of a low-flying jet. "Of course, we may not be able to get any proof. The military is probably sensitive about this since that episode in Italy where the fighter took out the ski gondola line and those people all died." "That is a possibility," Mulder says, in a voice which means he doesn't believe it for a microsecond. "I would like to do some other research, however," he adds, "and that theory wouldn't explain why both of the people who survived these crashes saw big-eyed beings pushing their cars over." "We've seen this before," I say, thinking back to a certain grasshopper-like monster that maybe he and I both saw and then again maybe we both imagined. Either way, we both thought we saw what we both thought we saw. "Uh huh," he absently agrees. On the way back into town we stop at the Bishop Museum and Mulder detours into the map section while I spend a few minutes admiring ancient articles of clothing made of vibrantly colored bird's feathers. "Got it," he says, as we pile back into the jeep. "Got what?" "At the bottom of the valley where the highway runs is an ancient heiau or sacred offering place. The heiau itself was not affected by the highway: the environmental impact statement included it and the road goes around the giant stone platform. "But I believe that the highway itself is on the path of the ancient Night Marchers and it is they who are keeping their route clear," Mulder tells me. "These are the most remote islands in the world. It is entirely possible that there is another life form here that our science is not yet able to perceive. It's like the discovery of radio waves from space. The waves existed before mankind had radio receivers to hear them." There was a time when I would have scoffed at this theory. Now I don't shrug it off. "What do you suggest?" "I spoke to a Kapuna, or elder, in the basement where I was looking at the maps. He said leaves from a native plant, the ti plant, will stop the ancient ones and force them to take a new pathway." I could tell Scully was not buying into the ti leaf solution to our case but by the same token, she went with me to get the ti leaves. She also called the airforce base and spoke to someone in charge. She was pretty blunt with whoever it was, mentioned really frightening words like "individual civil liability. I have no idea what Scully is thinking tonight as we eat dinner. We walked down to the International Market Place where there is a variety of cultural fast food choices. She opted for some sort of spicy Thai mixed plate. I'm finish the last of my Greek stuffed pita bread and side order of Caesar salad. If we spoke two words, that would be an exaggeration. And yet, there is tranquility between us. We agree to disagree on what is causing the accidents on the new highway. I can't get the image of Night Marchers out of my head. I suppose it is unlikely that a stakeout will be of any use but I intend to try. Meanwhile Scully has folded her hands on the table and is looking at me. Not asking a question, not impatient. Just looking. At me. (2/2) Suddenly I have that butterfly feeling in my stomach that I used to get when I had to do public speaking. Stage fright. It's back. I realize I'm sitting in Hawaii on a warm night across from the woman I love. I don't know what to say. Some people would guess that I'm a lady's man, a smooth operator. I'm always quick with the double entendre, the slightly of-color sexual repartee. It's a cover. Without that shell, I'm shy. My social skills didn't exactly blossom after Samantha was taken. Our house was not a cheery place, I didn't invite classmates over for good times in the den. I spent my time buried in books and trying to shine at school. Maybe in some remote part of my adolescent brain I thought they'd give Sam back if I was really good. Or maybe I hoped my parents would forgive me for letting her be taken. The bottom line is I don't have a substantial dating history. Hell, you could write the whole epic on a post-it. The night air tugs at the collar of Mulder's shirt was we drive back out to the highway. I hesitate to call it a crime scene. The airforce promised me tapes of their control tower dispatch log for the days in question so I can determine whether or not any planes were out of the accepted flight patterns. Mulder wants to look at the highway at night, since that's when all of the mysterious happenings have occurred. We park along the shoulder and step out. I have to admit the quiet is somewhat unnerving. It is dark, there is precisely half a moon. Our flashlights seem out of place, making strange patterns out of the shadows of the palm trees. Perhaps we should have brought Polynesian torches. "Let's just sit here awhile,"Mulder suggests. I see that he has found a fairly flat low rock and is looking down the valley. Far in the distance we can see city lights but here in this secluded area it is dark and there is no breeze at all. Time passes and, as I have on a multitude of other stakeouts, I rest my head against Mulder's shoulder. I am comfortable with him. There is no space between us that is "personal space." It's kind of peculiar as I think about it because I have always been very good at keeping people at arm's length. Everyone but Mulder. I feel his body suddenly go very tense. "Scully, do you hear that?" I listen but I cannot tell if what I hear, and I do hear something, is chanting--which is what it sounds like--or wind moving some distant unseen trees, which is what I would prefer to think. I sense something through my feet. It is a trembling as if a train were coming near but there are no trains here. Mulder is staring at the darkness as though he could pierce it with just the intensity of his gaze. I stand, adding my futile eye-squinting to his, to see if I can make out any shapes. I catch a glimpse of the pale moonlight reflecting off a distant curved object. Is it a helmet, bobbing as though walking towards us? Alarms go off in my head. Some elemental primitive fear takes control of me and tells scientist Scully to be damned. I startle Mulder by turning and launching myself at him, knocking him over backwards off the rock. I land on him. "Don't look," I whisper fiercely in his ear. "Don't look." This of course causes exactly the opposite desire in him and he struggles for a moment to see what I think he shouldn't look at. Though I am no match for Mulder, he subsides. His face is buried against me, my chin in the general neighborhood of his cheek. There is a tingling feeling in the air, sparking as if it were electrically charged and I am positive without knowing how I have acquired this conviction, that if I looked up there would be blue haze. But I don't try. I lay quietly, Mulder beneath me, and try to control my breathing. I am filled with the greatest need to pull his mouth to mine. In a few minutes the sounds are gone, the ground is still again. I roll off Mulder and look at him, waiting for the explosion to come. If there is one character trait of my partner of which I am certain, it is his curiosity. If he were a cat, he would have used up his nine lives long ago. And I have just blocked his chance to confirm a paranormal explanation for the accidents. He says nothing to me. He raises his eyebrow slightly and nods. Nothing more. We're back at the hotel, back at her door. I kissed her here last night. She doesn't hesitate. She unlocks the door and turns to me. "Come in and have some tea." Scully has gotten in charge of the situation and put a wall back in place. I am still swimming in the memory of her body stretched out on top of me, her breasts pressed against me as we waited for whatever it was to pass by. I managed to still my instinctive response to her but it was a close thing. I follow her quietly into the room, admiring as I have often before, the line of her back. It has a singular grace that I find enchanting. And sexy. Very sexy. She pulls the hot pot out and fills it up, and we sip Earl Grey in another one of our on-the-road again routines. We have often spent evenings like this, companionably discussing the case, or some odd person we saw along the way. She's sitting on the bed with pillows behind her back, legs stretched out. I plop down next to her, parking my tea on the night stand. I am struck by the difference in the length of our legs. I don't often notice how short Scully is: she makes up for the lack of height with the force of her personality. And besides she is, she's Scully. It's a package deal--personality, looks, intelligence. "Scully, about tonight..." "You know, Mulder," she says suddenly and at the same time, "I was thinking." She doesn't continue. "?Thinking?" "Never mind." There's a long pause. I slouch down on the bed. I notice that my hands are in the general neighborhood of her bare feet. That disparity in length business again. I am filled with an impulse that consumes me. It is an unanswered question and like all unanswered questions, it nags at me. There is only one way to find out the answer, and not by asking. Asking this particular question might compel my otherwise compulsively honest partner to lie. So I take action instead. I grab her foot and I tickle it. The answer is yes, wonderfully terribly yes. Scully is ticklish. She is not a passive recipient of my attention, however. She fights to get away, struggling to get her hands on me and overpower me, or tickle me back, maybe. Our bodies are soon tangled up in a full blown juvenile-style wrestling match. In the course of our gyrations, I end up on top, looking down at Scully who is giggling, pinning her arms above her head. And I am --in that instant--overwhelmingly aware, aware of where I am, where she is. All the parts of her. "Mulder?" "Yes." "Are you feeling at all anxious?" I hear a tone in her voice that is teasing, provocative and just the tiniest bit unsure. It is the insecurity that touches a spring deep in me, opens a pathway straight to my soul. I cannot allow Scully to be unsure about me. Unsure about the future: yes. Unsure about the past: okay. But not unsure about me. The strongest, most durable aspect of my life is the trust between us. I know she feels it too. She told me once, "I only trust you." And while we have shaken the foundations of that trust, it has never cracked. I am blessed because Scully's trust is a gift not often given. For a long minute I revel in the feel of her under me, the beat of her heart next to my chest. I look down at her, clear blue eyes stare up at me. I think we are both holding our breath. I release her arms and take my weight on one of my elbows, pondering the emotions that rush through me. She has become the most important part of my life. I see tears welling in the corners of her eyes. I brush the wetness away with my thumb. We have been here before, our eyes meeting in a hallway, about to vanquish insecurity and anguish in our embrace. That time we were torn asunder by the machinations of evil men and one bee. I close my eyes and press my mouth against her lips. I am tentative. I mean to keep control and not frighten her with the depth of my need. Mulder's touch on my face awakens a molten spot in the middle of me. When he kisses me, I am tantalized by the gentleness of his caress. I am also provoked. I don't want to be kissed like a maiden aunt. There is a fire building inside of me and it needs quenching. I kiss Mulder back. I suck lightly on his full lower lip that has been fascinating me for years. I push my breasts into him and my thighs curve against his. I am immediately aware that he has gone hard as a rock. It's a very satisfying awareness but I seem to have lost my self-appointed task of siren. Mulder has started to kiss me and, as Sheila said, he's a very good kisser. He kisses my cheeks, my forehead, my chin and then his lips return to mine. His tongue seeks entry and I find my knees going weak. After awhile his lips leave my mouth and I would whimper a protest except that his mouth has trailed down my neck and is making excursions into that curvy spot between my breasts. I need to tell him, to explain to him, it's been a long time. I don't need foreplay. I need him, filling me and consuming me and going out of control with me. I am struggling to communicate this to Mulder but in a relationship that has flourished with unspoken words, he knows. My blouse goes, buttons roughly yanked out of holes and then my bra. There is a pause while Mulder looks at me. I hold my breath, uncertain that I have what it takes to interest him. I shouldn't have worried, not even for that instant. The look in his eyes tells me everything. I want more. I want his skin, too. I tug at his grey t-shirt and he obligingly flings it in a corner. As he rubs his chest over my nipples I am swirling in sensations. He pushes down my leggings and the bikini pantie underneath. I get my finger in the waistband of his shorts and pull south as well. We've arrived. I am laying on the bed, slightly sweaty and with a very wet cunt. Mulder is posed above me, also sweaty, with an erect cock, that looks painful, he is so swollen. Yet he pauses. My Mulder waits and looks in my eyes. "Are you sure, Scully?" he asks. I know what he's asking me. I know with Mulder there is no going back. This is not a casual fling for him. This is the ultimate trust. I look into his dear face, I run my finger along the plain of his cheek to the corner of his mouth. The words I have to say are often used, often misused, often said with no sincerity. For us, they are the capstone of a pact, a commitment that has proven its strength over a multitude of trials. It is the time for honesty. Intelligent hazel eyes blink ever so close to me, as he waits for my response. My voice cracks slightly as I tell him. "I love you. For always, Mulder. Oh God.. Mulder...I love you." His mouth crushes mine in response. As he enters me, I revel in how comfortable and familiar his body feels entwined with mine. He thrusts slowly and deeply, I echo his rhythm. I have read in many a romantic novel about how the two main characters, at the moment of their physical joining, became one. I never understood it. I certainly never felt it before. Now, though, at this time, I am one with Mulder. I feel the essence of me flying up and out of my body and dancing an ethereal dance with the soul of him. I guess this could be considered an out-of-body experience. Mulder will be proud when I explain it to him later. At the moment, however, I am conscious of a tide building in me, drawing me closer and closer to a peak when I am going to crash into a million pieces, like a wave on the rocks. I want Mulder with me when I come. I try to hold back, but like the ocean, this force is irresistable. Shudders run through me and as I feel the quakes in my uterus, Mulder cries out in my ear. We collapse; spent, sated and sealed together. He kisses my eyebrow, I brush his hair back. all these small touches, long repressed, feel so right. Scully has helped me to plant ti laves along a part of the highway at the top or the valley. While the military has not confirmed any flights in the area at the times of the various accidents, they also have not denied any flights. We have waited a few days but of course it is too early t tell whether or not the unusual nocturnal episodes will continue. And we may never know precisely what caused them. Some of our cases do lack a certain sense of closure. I have been packing while Scully writes a report on her laptop. She continues to believe the cars were blown off the highway by low flying jets. I haven't told her just yet, and maybe I won't that Officer Kanaka'olunalani checked library and oral history project records, and confirmed that the valley has been the location of many Night Marcher stories even before the highway was constructed. And while the more scientific explanation of jet turbulence is a possibility, the officer, who grew up in the islands, has more faith in the ti leaves. "I should have thought of that," he told me. Scully has finished typing and comes to stand beside me. Together we look out on the rolling turquoise waters, the sparkling life of the planet. "Scully," I say, with a deliberately sad puppy dog face, " I never got to see your bikini." "That is a shame, Mulder," she smiles. I look down at her hands and think I would like to see my ring there. A sapphire with diamonds, perhaps, the blue echoing the color of her eyes. I wonder if I can talk her into Graceland for our honeymoon. The black jet, painted as specified with numbers only as an identification code, waits for me at the end of the military airstrip. It is not a military plane, but I have my connections. It has been an interesting journey. The local talent that I hired gave me a full report. The videotape indicates that Mulder and Scully never even saw the carefully costumed marchers that I had planned for their entertainment. I must consider the implications of Scully's leap onto Mulder. Perhaps this can be used. I do excellent work. The Oahu police officer has closed his file. agents Mulder and Scully are on the way back to Washington and appear to be preoccupied with their interpersonal discoveries. They overlooked the lava tube network below the Pipeline Highway. The project troubles have been attended to by consortium scientists, future highway accidents are unlikely. Precisely as I had planned. I snuff out my cigarette and walk on board. I only have to endure a smoke-less takeoff: it *is* a private jet. I have eight hours to fly back. I need to smoke, to plan. There are developments to ponder. The end. Notes: There are in fact stories of Night Marchers in Hawaii. I don't know if ti leave would re-route them but it does traditionally have many unexplained powers. The accident scene is a figment of my imagination. Some other locations do exist.