From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Wed, 6 May 2009 09:23:44 -0500 (CDT) Subject: This Humming Meadow (MSR) by DBKate Source: direct Reply To: dbkate@yahoo.com Title: This Humming Meadow Author: dbkate (dbkate@yahoo.com) Fandom: X-Files Pairing: Mulder/Scully, MSR Genre: Casefile Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Not mine. CC/1013's. No characters were harmed in the making of this fanfic. Spoilers: Takes place in some random early season. Summary: "Wrapping his arms around her helps and there's nothing surrounding them except this humming meadow, alive beneath the sun." This Humming Meadow by dbkate xXx On Fox Mulder's desk there's a photograph of a Bigfoot in a freezer, dead with its guts hanging out, that he sincerely wishes was the real thing. Unfortunately he knows that it's nothing more than a costume - a very good costume - decorated with chicken innards and a little part of his inner geek dies at the knowledge that he might never get more than this - that his entire life might be a laughable hoax. He wonders why he's not clinically depressed by now like any normal person would be. Scully barely examines the photograph before slipping it into the trash. She looks lovely today, sharp in her gray suit, her blue eyes clear like a spring sky. Mulder thinks about complimenting her but decides not to. He's been feeling particularly insecure lately, afraid that she can see what a loser she's dealing with and that the slightest thing might push her over the edge into sanity where she'll be lost to him forever. "We have to finish our joint report," she says. She pinches the bridge of her nose wearily, looking a lot like the smart girl in school who's been given the class clown as a lab partner. "I'm not sure how we're going to reconcile our account of events." There's a translation for what's she's just said - something along the lines of 'I don't know how to make you sound less crazy' but she's too polite to spell things out so pointedly. "All you can do is give your opinion of the evidence, Scully," he says. "I don't want you to parrot me, I never did." One Scully eyebrow arches. "Uh-huh." "Maybe we can talk about it over lunch?" he offers, hoping that some food and fresh air will lull her into a less cynical mood. "Today's split pea soup day at the diner." Her mouth turns up a little at the corners making her look more cheerful than a person should at an offer of a bowl of green ham-laden glop. "That's an idea. Should I bring the file?" "Nah." He stretches up and reaches for his suit jacket, hoping that the ten dollars he found in the pocket this morning hasn't fallen out or otherwise gotten lost. "We both know what's in there." Scully nods. "It's hard to forget." Especially because this particular slime creature made the mistake of devouring her favorite pair of heels which made her angrier than a hornet deprived of its stinger. Emptying her gun on it, twice, didn't help her mood. He thinks she still might be a tad pissed. Maybe the pea soup will help. They walk to the elevator together and ride up in its mirrored cocoon side by side, watching the numbers light as they're carried to the outside world. It's like another planet, the FBI lobby filled with dozens of well-groomed agents striding through, all of them looking efficient and prepared for any challenge. Mulder feels slovenly and incompetent by comparison. Unconsciously, he places his hand on the small of Scully's back. He's aligning himself with her, trying to get some of her confidence to rub off on him, trusting her to shield him from the rushing sea of cold humanity surrounding him. She straightens under his touch, her head held high for both of them. The fresh air is welcome, spring warm with a faint reminder of winter's chill floating beneath. They take the long way to the diner by silent agreement. Mulder doesn't remember how they found the place, nestled in a downtown side street, open twenty-four hours a day. The food is all right for lunch, better than all right at two a.m. and there's always coffee, made fresh for them as they are now considered regulars. He rarely goes there without Scully but when he does the owners look surprised and ask for her, as if they can't imagine a world where the two of them can exist apart. It's one more reason he likes the place so much. They slide into a booth and Scully gets the tea, dipping her bag in the hot cup with measured motions. Mulder has the coffee and they both order the soup which arrives hot and thick, croutons floating on top. She smiles over her spoon at him and he's going to give her all the leeway she wants with the report because a look like that is worth its weight in slime creatures. "Did you know Jane Goodall believes that a giant North American ape probably exists? She said she wouldn't be surprised at all," Mulder says, simply because he can't resist. "Native peoples don't make up names for imaginary animals. This creature has hundreds of names, from almost every tribe." "How long did she live with those chimps?" Scully asks. She shakes more salt over her soup. "Ten ... twenty years?" "There are recordings of their howls. The knockings. They didn't believe the African mountain gorilla existed until the turn of the century." "If you're trying to get me to fall down in amazement over a frozen rubber suit covered in bird guts ..." Mulder's jaw tightens. He doesn't know why he keeps bringing up this stuff to her. It's always the same dance to a different tune. "I'm just making conversation." "So am I. About that report ..." "You can finish it. I'll sign off on whatever you write," he says, trying not to feel too defeated. She tilts her head at him. Her expression borders on suspicious but she nods and waves over the waiter. "Could we get two black and white milkshakes?" Her smile at Mulder's baffled expression is brilliant. "In honor of my world view," she explains when the drinks arrive. He grins as they clink their glasses together, the whipped cream dripping down the sides and over their fingers. Maybe she doesn't hate his misguided soul after all. xXx He takes Sunday off and goes for a run through the rain, enjoying the cool drizzle against his face. This isn't something he does every day - his knees would never forgive him - but it's fun to imagine Cancerman's face on the ground, stomped on with every beat of his sneaker against the tar. It's a fantasy that once kept him going for eight miles until he looked around and realized that he had no idea where he was. He had to call Scully to come and get him which she did without question - it was one of those times. This run isn't like that. He's not angry today, he's just Mulder, wondering if there are giant machines controlling the weather and thinking it would be nice if Scully were jogging along beside him. "Mulder!" Scully's voice calling to him from across the street makes him stop in his tracks. He's worried for a second but she's carrying some shopping bags and waving to him, the epitome of safe. He jogs over to her and holds out his hand, offering to take a bag which she declines. "I was just thinking about you." "Really? Not imagining my face on the street this time, are you?" she jokes. She's wearing a windbreaker with a hood, damp strands of hair clinging to her cheeks. "Not at all," he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets, the weather unpleasant now that he isn't running in it. "Where are you headed? Your Mom's?" Ironically, Mrs. Scully's house is closer to Mulder's than her daughter's. But Scully has always yearned for distance, the psychologist in Mulder figured this out a few weeks after he met her. She became a doctor, but made sure her patients were already dead and her only nod toward extreme possibilities is tied to a silent, faraway deity who watches as she anchors herself to the rock solid comfort of science. Yes, Dana Scully likes to keep things at arm's length all right. Mrs. Scully is probably lucky she didn't move to another continent. "No, I was just picking up some of that sandwich bread we had last week," she says. "And other stuff." "How much other stuff?" Mulder leans over to peek in the bag. "Enough for two?" Embarrassed, she shrugs. "Enough for four. But I was hungry. I always get hungry when it rains." "Good thing you don't live in Seattle. How about coming back and sharing the booty? I promise to leave you the soppresotta." "The mushroom salad too." "You're tough, but I accept your terms," he says, taking the bags from her. She frowns but relents, walking alongside him as they head to his apartment. He's entertaining a little fantasy about her threading her arm through his as they walk, an ordinary couple on their way back from the grocery, arm in arm, the rain dripping off their noses. Since Scully's hands are stuffed firmly in her pockets he guesses she's not having the same fluffy flight of fancy. Not that he blames her, as far as fantasies go, it's a lame one. Her inner life is probably more exotic than his ever was, cheesy porn flicks aside. Once inside, he pulls out a pair of clean glasses and pours out some soda, diet and caffeine-free, the culinary equivalent of sugarless gum dipped in seltzer. She pulls out the Italian goodies and makes a pair of sandwiches, the meat piled high and mighty, looking almost too good to eat. She cuts them on the bias with a surgeon's grace and soon they are munching away in front of the television, watching a baseball game wind down. "Skinner mentioned something to me on Friday. Did you know they're renovating the back storage area? Behind our office." Mulder swallows dryly. "Why?" "That's what I'm wondering. Not that I'm all paranoid about these things," she says, the sarcasm barely noticeable. "I asked him a few questions about it and he seemed annoyed, which isn't a reasonable response." "Maybe he thinks I've ruined you. Filled you with fears," he says, half-laughing, half-believing it to be the truth. "I don't like the thought of anyone messing with our office," she says, taking a sharp bite out of a pickle. She chews sourly for a moment before continuing. "Skinner can think what he wants. Whatever fears I have aren't unwarranted. How often do you redecorate your closet?" "Never?" "Exactly," she says, putting her food down. She rubs her hands together to get rid of the crumbs and stares at Mulder's tiny window, watching the rain beat against it. "They know we're not stupid. They use our intelligence and make it work against us." The food suddenly becomes unappetizing and Mulder puts the remains down. "Curiosity killed the cat. But we're still here." Scully's face hardens. "I don't like anyone messing with our office," she repeats. She looks dangerous and pretty and Mulder's fantasies suddenly take a turn for the exotic. He coughs to cover up his suddenly labored breathing. "I'll have Frohike give me something to install tonight. We'll keep an eye on it." Her eyes widen and a smile blooms. "You're going to put a hidden camera in FBI headquarters?" Her laughter echos through the apartment. Mulder's surprised the walls don't crumble from shock at the joyous sound. "We have gone crazy, haven't we?" "You're the one who brought this up," he replies a little bit desperately. "I know!" She wipes at her eyes and her cheeks are rosy making Mulder's libido churn into overdrive, his lips itching to kiss her while his brain threatens him with scenarios of rejection too horrible to contemplate. "Oh, Mulder," she says, leaning back on the couch, still grinning. On the television, the last batter strikes out. "I'm sorry. It was a lapse. It won't happen again." Funny, that's what his mind was telling him he'd end up saying once the kiss was over. Good work, brain. Don't let those other parts betray us again, he thinks. "I'll forgive you," he says. "For some mushroom salad." "Extortionist," she says, but doesn't protest when he takes a fork and eats the mushrooms, right out of the container until every last one of them is gone. He figures it's the least she owes him for being too tempting for any mere mortal. Luckily, he's a superhero of sorts, at least where she's concerned, even if her laughter is his personal brand of Kryptonite. xXx Frohike gives him a miniature camera with a microchip inside and Mulder attaches it to a pipe directly across from the storage area slated to be renovated. It's remotely operated and at the very least, Langley can salivate at their coup, a live wire planted in J. Edgar's virtual underwear. He makes a pot of coffee and waits for Scully to come in. It's five a.m. and he's tired from trying not to think about how close he came to kissing her the day before. It's not a joyous memory, his neck prickles with fear after each recall. He only enjoys the relief he feels when he remembers he didn't actually do anything, which would have subjected them both to a can of worms that needs to remain unopened. Surfing the 'net for more Bigfoot sightings helps. He notes they are usually found near water and it's assumed they are nocturnal, which explains why they've never been officially documented, sort of. He's absorbed by each encounter, imaging their giant strides and the human-like eyes. It's scary how badly he wants to see one, a lone bit of proof that he's not completely off his rocker. He thinks about how crazy that thought is and goes back to reading. "Are you on those dirty sites again?" Scully says, leaning over his shoulder, grimacing at the giant footprint logo. "You're going to need an intervention soon." "They have a midi of their howls. Want to hear it?" he offers, but closes the browser instead. "I got back the DNA analysis from the sample I collected during out last case. It was identified as slug trail." She sighs and he's relieved to see she's annoyed by the results, which are an insult to her intelligence. Slugs are nasty but they don't come in shoe-eating sizes. "So what's next?" A fresh clipping is at the ready. "What do you know about teratorns?" "They're extinct. Got anything else?" "A seven year old was attacked two weeks ago near Pennsylvania's Black Forest. His mother swears a giant bird swooped down and tried to carry him off, but dropped him just in time. Local police aren't buying it but there have been a rash of sightings within a five mile radius. All of the same bird, with a wingspan that reaches across a two-lane road." He can feel an excited flush fill his face. It's embarrassing, but he can't change who he is. "What do you think?" "That's quite a mass hallucination they've got going on." She doesn't sound completely disinterested, which means it's a go. "Can we drive there?" Mulder is happier than he's been in weeks. "Definitely. You can have the first leg. The scenery is better on the second part." "You've been there before," she notes. "The Black Forest. Why am I not surprised?" "Some people have Disneyland. And others ..." She's already dialing the car rental. "Yes, I'd like a car. My account number should be on file," she says into the phone, tucking the receiver between her ear and shoulder. "No, not the compact. I'd prefer something sturdier, if you don't mind. Yes, that's fine. Thanks." She hangs up and shrugs at his amused expression. "You said it's bigger than the road." "Nothing is as hot as a practical woman," he says. It's the truth. And when that practical woman looks like Dana Scully ... "I'll pack some sedatives," she says. "Try not to excite the natives too much this time, all right? We're up to twelve incident reports and it's only May." xXx Contrary to plan, Scully drives the entire way, leaving Mulder to lean his head against the window and stare at the sky above the trees. Hawks and vultures circle and there's a deer with her fawn hiding in the roadside brush, peering at the car nervously as they pass. The air is so fresh Mulder imagines himself growing stronger with each breath. He could live here, easily, except for the part where he couldn't live without Scully by his side. Fresh air and nice scenery just can't compete. "Pretty," Scully remarks when they arrive at Mulder's favorite motel in the area, a series of bungalows surrounded by trees and hummingbird feeders. "But there's something you haven't explained. If this bird is so rare why aren't there ornithologists all over this?" "They don't believe it exists," Mulder says, ignoring whatever point Scully thought she was making with that wry little observation. Their bags are light and Mulder slings both of them over his shoulder, clicking the car doors locked. The manager sees them coming and waves to them, keys already in hand. "I just replaced the mattresses," she says proudly. "We also have wi-fi now. The password is in the room, next to the menus." "Told you this place was great," Mulder says, feeling a touch of triumph. Scully grins tightly. Maybe her idea of 'great' is slightly different than Mulder's but at least her back won't hurt in the morning. She takes her bag and disappears into the room, the door left slightly open. Mulder slings his bag into the closet still full - this is his version of unpacking - and heads outside again. Scully emerges a few minutes later with her hair in a ponytail and wearing a sturdy windbreaker. She's Action Scully at last, ready to debunk him, her mind faster than a speeding bullet, able to leap tall tales in a single bound. She tosses him the car keys. "I'm tired of driving." "That's okay. But you have to be look-out." He feels bouncy inside, like an overgrown kid. "It resembles a vulture, but ten times bigger." "I'll do my best not to miss it." Her eyes are open very wide, as if she's trying to resist the urge to roll them. They get into the usual arguments on the way to the boy's house. Theories about relict populations and improbability of a carrion feeder's claws being strong enough to grip a struggling human, let alone pick him off the ground. Mulder counters with the story of the ceolocanth , a living fossil found a few million years after it supposedly went extinct which doesn't exactly rattle Scully but does give her a moment's pause. She goes into the physics of bird flight instead which Mulder is grateful he doesn't have to debate because they are finally at the victim's residence. The boy's name is Martin Lowe and he's been hiding his room since the incident, his mother says, wringing her hands nervously. She looks like she's had trouble sleeping and Scully is sympathetic if still skeptical. "Are you sure it didn't merely attack him? Was he climbing trees? Got a little too close to a nest?" The mother looks Scully straight in the eye. "It picked my seven year old son off the ground, carried him a half-dozen yards and dropped him. If he hadn't been punching it, it might not have let go. It circled, sat in my tree for fifteen minutes before taking off." She motions to her coffee table which is covered with printed pictures of various large raptors. "I know what I saw. It just seems that I'm the only one who's ever seen it." Mulder rifles through the photos, flipping past golden eagles, wandering albatrosses and emus. "Do any of these come close?" "Just one." She picks up a picture labeled "Andean Condor" and hands it to Mulder. "But it was bigger, much bigger and the beak was uglier." Mulder examines the photo. The bird is huge, with a bald, misshapen head and curved beak. "Hard to believe. Being uglier that is." "It wasn't the same bird but something along those lines." Mrs. Lowe sighs. She looks like someone who's having a nightmare and morning is refusing to come. "I only told the police because I thought it was dangerous to other children. Now I'm the laughingstock of the county. Martin is scared out of his mind. I can't get him past the front door." Scully squeezes her shoulder. "We're going to look into it." "I know what I saw," Mrs. Lowe repeats. She gathers up her photos and puts the condor's picture on top. "Someday, someone else will see it too." Mulder crosses his fingers, inside his pocket where Scully can't notice. It's a nice time to make a wish to be that somebody else. xXx They drive aimlessly after that, past farms and fields wet from spring rains. Scully keeps looking like she wants to say something but doesn't. Mulder takes each turn as it comes, hoping that luck will place them smack in the middle of something wonderful. Eventually they see the sheriff's car so they pull over to talk to him. He's a harried-looking man with a paunch, probably the result of too many late night snacks and no one to chase. Five domestic disturbances a week isn't quite enough to keep a man fit and he salutes Mulder and Scully with a smile. "You just came back from the Lowes I take it," he says. "Nice lady but kinda high-strung. Got worse after her husband took off. The kid probably came face to face with a turkey vulture and freaked out. I don't blame him; they're ugly up close." Scully nods, agreeing with this assessment. "And no else has reported seeing this bird?" The sheriff bites his lip. "Well ..." "Well?" Mulder prompts. "I've gotten a few reports here and there about some giant bird, wingspan as wide as the road but that's ridiculous. The roads here are twenty-five feet across. Can you imagine? How could something that big get off the ground? My cousin has a homemade airplane that's not that large." He shrugs, already tiring of the subject. "Hunter John supposedly took a film of it, but all I saw were some turkey vultures flying around. It's spring, what can I say? People go a little crazy in the spring." "A film?" Mulder's heart beats a little faster. "Where can we find this man?" "Hunter? He's everywhere, you'll probably run into him if you stick around. You can try the bait shop, he's always trying to sell his flies there." The sheriff's radio goes off. The dispatcher's voice sounds scratchy and distant as she reads off names and codes. "The Willards are fighting again," he explains, in the same voice that he might mention the sun rising or the sea being wet. "Idiot pulled out a gun." Mulder shakes his head. "First time he did this?" "She. And no, she did it once before. But this time she's getting locked up. I'm done," the sheriff huffs, adjusting his holster with a defiant look. "Be careful," Scully cautions politely as the sheriff gets in his car. They wave to him as he leaves. Mulder is ready to head to the bait shop and wait all day if he has to but Scully looks restless, as if she's already made her mind up about this case and decided there's nothing more to search for. "Come on, I'll buy you some bait, a couple of cheap poles and we can go fishing," he wheedles. Mulder doesn't know why he thinks that might be an attractive proposition. It just seems like something she might secretly enjoy. His instincts prove right. She brightens a little before flushing with embarrassment. "Mulder ..." "There's a small lake by the road. We'll see if this Hunter character is around then go on a stakeout. With poles. And flies." "Fly fishing is different," Scully corrects. "We can get a couple of lures, I guess." Mulder can't stop smiling. Finding out something new about Scully always makes his heart feel five sizes bigger and they'll be following after another of his quests, together, without argument. This day can't get much better. The bait shop is a dusty affair. It's supplied with the perfect pair of twelve dollar poles already equipped with reels and a hanging pack of rubber bass lures. Scully makes a face at them and goes to the wall to pick out something more appropriate for the area, a pair of broken-back minnows, glistening silver with three sharp sets of treble hooks hanging beneath. Mulder pays the grateful owner and asks about Hunter John's bird film. The owner laughs. "Has he hawked that video to you too? I dunno, it looked like a regular bird to me." "You weren't there, Robbie," a voice calls out and there's a big man standing in the doorway, wearing a denim vest and a ratty leather hat, the brim bent in all the wrong directions. His voice booms through the bait shop, like a carnival barker's. "Howdy, I'm Hunter John, trapper, guide and naturalist. Been filming the local wildlife for twenty years and haven't seen anything like it before. Care to take a look?" He offers his compact video camera to Mulder who carefully examines it. "I usually record on film but that rig gets bulky when you're on the lake." "You filmed this while on the lake?" Scully asks, tiptoeing up to lean over Mulder's shoulder. He's pulled out the viewer and she helps him find the 'play' button. It's a short film of a long-winged bird landing on a tree, then taking off. It looks quite large but without any solid height comparison it's impossible to gauge the bird's actual size. "How big did you estimate it was?" "The largest bird I've ever seen. Thirty foot wingspan, at least." Mulder hears the disbelief in Scully's voice. "It's getting bigger by the hour." She lowers herself firmly onto the soles of her feet. "Do you have any theories as to what kind of bird it could possibly be?" Hunter John nods solemnly, like Mulder's old Boy Scout leader used to before telling the first campfire tale of the night. "Yes ma'am. It's Wochowsen , the great thunderbird whose presence foretells the coming of a tremendous storm. When he flaps his wings, he creates the thunder that brings the holy rains." "For Christ's sake, Hunter," the store owner groans. "I suppose a species name is out of the question then," Scully says. She fixes Mulder with an impatient look. Mulder hurriedly interrupts Hunter's diatribe. "Teratorns are often considered the basis for thunderbird tales. We shared a short biological time window with them during the Pleistocene and those collective memories translated into the myth." "That doesn't convince me that this creature isn't anything but a figment of overactive imaginations. In fact, it cements my opinion rather than otherwise," Scully says. She raises her pole in salute to Hunter John. "And with that, gentlemen, I'm going fishing." Hunter tips his hat to her. His smile is knowing. "Good luck. If you're fishing the lake, go to the north side. The males hang out there. The girls on the south end aren't touching anything this time of year." Torn, Mulder stares after her, then back at Hunter. He lowers his voice and speaks quickly. "Seriously, what do you really think?" Hunter leans in close, his expression reminding Mulder of certain Native American wise men he's known throughout the years. "I think when a lady that good-looking wants to go fishing, you'd better run after her as fast as you can. You might not get a chance like this again." It only takes a few seconds for Mulder to agree. He meets her in the car and they drive to the lake, a few miles back. The hike to the north side isn't too bad - the bugs aren't out in full force yet - and there are multiple rocks to sit on. Being her usual proactive self, Scully brings their trunk kit along -water, granola bars and a tiny first aid package of her own creation; scissors, bandages, a pair of tweezers and an extra cell phone battery lined up neatly in a zip pouch. "The problem with fishing is that you sometimes catch one," she says. "Getting them off the hook is the messy part." "I'm sure they're not too crazy about it either," Mulder says, already wrestling with a tangled line, his lure hanging off his coat sleeve by its hooks. "Damn it." Scully puts down her pole and goes in for the assist. "Don't move," she cautions, unhooking the lure. Slowly and steadily, she assembles his rig. "Do you know how to cast?" "Sure," he says. He demonstrates, promptly snagging the lure in a nearby willow tree. "Damn it." A few more tries and he finally gets it, leaving Scully to cast in and they fish companionably together the lake glistening with dappled sunlight, trees swaying gently in the breeze. They each get a bite or two, jerking their lines up toward the sky but the fish are either full or smart, spitting the lures out before they get hooked. They laugh and keep casting until they are tired, sharing a granola bar and sitting on a flat rock, looking out over the lake. The ripples create the illusion of movement. For a moment Mulder imagines they are on a magical boat, floating backwards toward a secret destination, holding hands and heading for that happy future they both deserve. Scully is watching the water as well. Her expression is wistful. "I think I know what your problem is, Mulder." "To think what my mother paid all those psychiatrists," he says with a grin. "What's your theory, Doctor Scully?" "You're a hopeless romantic." She shrugs, her eyes bright with a sad indulgence. "The poster says it all: you want to believe. You want to imagine there's more to this heaven and earth than what is dreamed in my dreary philosophy. The mundane limits of the tangible depress you, so you insist there's more. An alien there, a relict population here, a few mutants in-between ..." "My fevered imagination doesn't explain everything away, Scully." He takes the water from her hand and drains the bottle. "The people we meet who have these experiences. Are they all hopeless dreamers too? That woman and her son, they look like they'd like to go back in time and erase the entire experience if they could. Just because I wish I could have seen it ..." His voice trails off. He thinks he's divulged a little too much. Scully tilts her head at him. Behind her, the sun is setting in waves of pink and gold, framing her in its fading glow. "This may surprise you but I wish that too, Mulder. If anyone deserves to have a dream come true - as strange as those dreams are - it's you." He grins at her understanding, the way she tempers her skepticism with honest affection. There might be someone out there who would agree with him, would indulge his every whim but that wouldn't be the person he'd want by his side. Scully is the only one and he couldn't imagine anyone taking her place. "Maybe we should head back to the car," he says. "Dusk is when the bat people come out." She purses her lips at him. Together, they gather up the poles, making sure the hooks are well secured. The roads turn dark quickly but Mulder's been here often enough to find their way back to the motel without too much trouble. On the way they stop at a diner and take out two burger deluxe specials to go, hers with an extra pickle. The motel's porches are well-lit and furnished with plastic chairs. They eat beneath the lamplight watching a few tiny bats flutter by the shuffleboard court. Bugs begin to circle, no doubt attracted to the smell of hamburger. Eventually, they pack up the remains of dinner and call it a night, retiring to their respective rooms. This is always the worst part of the evening, at least for Mulder. All motel rooms are invariably dull and lonely and he finds himself flicking through the television channels, wishing he still had Scully to talk to. At home he might rent some soft core porn to distract himself but never here, even though it's available. She's just on the other side of the wall and she might hear it and be disgusted. For some reason Mulder really hates that thought. The owner wasn't lying, the mattresses are new and Mulder falls asleep quickly, still wearing his jeans. His dreams that night are a jumble of birds and fish, old Indian mystics and Scully smiling at him while pointing to the sky, telling him his dreams have come true and look, look ... it's right there! Everything you wanted, Mulder, and he kisses her on the mouth, over and over until they are nothing but kisses. He's trying to say that she's all he really wants but the words never come out, smothered by lips that refuse to part. It's early morning when he wakes, sweaty and uncomfortable in his day clothes. Peeling off his pants, Mulder steps into the shower and promises himself that one day he'll stop being such a loser, with nothing but dreams to show for a lifetime of wishing. That, and he'll never sleep in his jeans again. xXx "Is there anything else you want to check out, Mulder?" Scully's bag is already hanging off her shoulder. Obviously the question is just a formality. "We can call and leave an address for Hunter John to send a copy of the film to. Maybe the forensics lab will have better luck with the perspectives." "Sounds good," he agrees. He'd like to stay for a while, maybe check out the other witnesses. Unfortunately, it's not a criminal they are chasing; he'd be hard pressed to find a reason to extend their expense reports past a couple of days. Snagging the keys, he motions to the passenger seat. "You drove here. Fair's fair." She doesn't argue but settles into her seat with a sigh. They take off at a leisurely pace. There's no real hurry and the scenery is gorgeous in this wild country, tall trees making a graceful canopy over long back roads. Mulder turns the radio on and the twang of bluegrass drifts through the car. Scully smiles at him and everything is well. Except ... Except for this thing standing in the middle of the road. No, not a thing, it's bird but its body is as tall as a man's and its wings ... "Oh my God," Scully breathes. She clearly sees it too, standing there with a pair of long, finger-like wingtip feathers that tickle the gravel on opposite sides of the road. "Mulder ..." The bird starts flapping its unimaginable wings but it's having difficulty getting out of their way. It's monstrously huge, defying all the laws of aerodynamics and Mulder's foot begins to press the brake when Scully squeezes his arm, shaking her head frantically. "Faster!" she cries. "You need to speed up." "What?" he yells, as the bird continues to flap, now only twenty-something yards ahead of them. "I'm going to hit it!" "Trust me, Mulder! Go faster!" He doesn't hesitate. Instead, he hits the gas and miraculously, the bird lifts off, its tail feathers brushing against the hood of the car. It starts to flap directly above them and Mulder can see the tips of each wing from his window as well as Scully's. It's terrifying and exhilarating and he thinks Scully is crying a little through her amazed laughter as they race like the wind down the road, one of God's more astonishing creatures flying above them. With a primitive caw, the bird swoops upward. Mulder hits the brakes and the car swerves to a stop in the rest lane. They both jump out at the same time and run toward a meadow on the other side of the road where they can still see it, black as night and as big as a Piper Cub airplane. They jog over the grass, hand in hand. Above them the great bird circles, and then, another bird joins in, almost as large as the first but missing the white collar of feathers that graces the first. It's his mate, Mulder thinks, breathing hard. This ancient bird has a partner in his strange, wild life and Mulder glances at Scully who is still staring at sky, tears slipping down her soft cheeks. He winds his fingers more tightly around hers. They watch as the birds disappear into the horizon, flying side by side. Scully isn't letting go of his hand. Instead, she clutches it like a lifeline. "It needed the thermals or it couldn't take off," she whispers. "It had to have the air draft from a moving car. That's why they're called thunderbirds. They use the thermals from a coming storm so they can fly." Typical of Scully to find some science in all of this. It doesn't matter, he kisses her anyway. Just like in his dream, except this is real and she tastes like coffee and Chapstick - bitter, sweet and perfect. She responds, not by pushing him away but by pulling him closer, her fingers wound in his collar and it takes some skill to keep himself upright. Wrapping his arms around her helps and there's nothing surrounding them except this humming meadow, alive beneath the sun. He doesn't know how long they've been kissing. A few minutes or a few hours and all he knows is that it's over far too soon. Scully blushes and looks down at the grass while he tries to calm the pounding of his heart. "So, how about those thunderbirds?" he asks. It's a weak attempt at a joke. "They were wonderful," she says sincerely. "I'm so grateful to have seen them." "Me too," he says. Shyly, he takes her hand. It's a long walk back to the car but Mulder doesn't mind. He's seen a miracle, kissed Scully and she's letting him hold her hand afterwards. All in all, it's been one of their better X-Files. They drive back to Washington singing along with the radio, giggling when "Crazy" comes over the airwaves. "They're playing our song," Mulder proclaims while turning onto the freeway. "They're playing your song," Scully clarifies and they burst out laughing, the smell of a faraway meadow still clinging to their clothes, the memory of a perfect kiss still tingling against their lips. xXx Monday comes too quickly. The storage room in the back is completely done over. There are new shelves lining the walls and floor has been renovated, ancient black and white tiles replaced with fresh wall-to-wall carpeting. The newness of it sends a chill down Mulder's spine. He feels them encroaching, silent and unseen, lurking in every ugly bit of reconstruction. At around five a.m. he slips to where he hid Frohike's camera and is horrified to discover that it's gone - missing with nothing but a piece of black duct tape left in its place. Mulder knows better than to call the Gunmen. Hopefully they disconnected the uplink in time. The X-Files office is probably bugged, only a fool could think otherwise. Silently, he rages. He thought they had an agreement of sorts, a line drawn in the sand that stopped at his office door but that's not the case. Maybe it was never the case or maybe he's gotten closer to their obscene truths. Maybe he scares them. Maybe ... "You didn't make coffee?" Scully asks, putting her bag down on a chair. Mulder glances at the clock. He's surprised to see he's been seething for two and a half hours. "Sorry, no." "Okay." She disappears in the back and soon the bitter smell of coffee fills the office. "Did we get any feedback from Skinner yet?" His fingers pull at the black duct tape that had been left in the camera's place. "Not from Skinner." He grabs a notepad and scribbles on it before passing the paper to a uncomprehending Scully. She takes the note and reads it. THEY'RE WATCHING, it says. The color drains from her cheeks and she glances at the wall separating them from the storage room. I knew it she mouths at him, her eyes taking on that furious fire that Mulder knows is burning in his. Putting her bag on the floor, she sits. Her hands are folded in her lap and there are lines of tension around her mouth that Mulder wishes he could kiss away. But he can't - not while they are watching. He won't give them that, it doesn't belong to them, it's his and Scully's alone. They'll talk about it later, when he's sure they're safe. Maybe ... maybe someday they'll have another hidden moment of passion and fly like hunted birds to a better horizon, but not today. Today they have to be careful and smarter than they are even if it kills them inside. Today they have to not give in a inch to people who would turn love itself into a weapon. xXx Later that afternoon, Hunter John's film arrives. Scully has it turned into a computer file and watches on her laptop, pausing in certain spots and smiling secretly at others, especially when the bird's mate can be seen joining him at the very end of the clip. She pauses and prints out that last second, where two wingtips brush against each other. Carefully, she cuts them out and with a little bit of stick glue, pastes the photo right above the UFO on Mulder's poster. It's a reminder. To both of them. It's also a promise of something better to come. A humming meadow where there is nothing but kisses and Scully will smile at him while pointing to the sky, telling him his dreams have come true and look, look ... it's right there! Everything we ever wanted, Mulder. Everything. xXx end Author's Note: I've talked about writing this fic for years. Luckily, I finally had the time and inspiration. Feedback is loved. (dbkate@yahoo.com)