TITLE: The Safety of His Shore

AUTHOR: J. Nelson

RATING: PG

SUMMARY: Would things really be easier after *that*
night?

SPOILERS: all things

CATEGORY: MSR, Angst, kind of sort of a post-ep for
all things

DISCLAIMER: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana
Scully belong to FOX, Chris Carter and 1013
Productions. No monetary gain is being made from this
piece. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

DEDICATION: As always, Kelly, who hopefully will
forgive me for the outcome of this story.  And for
Leslie, Alexia and Sue who have supported me along the
way. 


The Safety of His Shore
By J. Nelson

It's peaceful here, surrounded by the swirls of blue
that blend into turquoise.  The weight of the water
pushes me down, beckoning me toward its depths,
willing me to sink to its sandy bottom.  I allow
myself to be pulled down, lulled into a false sense of
security, a false sense of hope and peace.  If I allow
myself, I could let go, slowly exhale the precious
breath in my lungs and inhale the salt that courses
through the sea.  Permit it to run through my veins;
allow it to replace my blood; allow it to overtake my
life.

I'm drowning in a sea of despair and an ocean of
regrets. Tossed into the angry waves of deceit and
resignation, I stand before this man, my firm resolve
to never stop searching for the truth wavering with
each passing beat of the heart monitor.  I wanted to
spend the rest of my life with this man, no matter the
cost to his daughter, the cost to his wife, the cost
to my self-respect.  None of these sundry items were
too expensive for my wants and desires.  For his
wants and desires.

He's thrown me a lifeline, attempted to rescue me and
drag me to the safety of his shore.  A seemingly
fruitless mission, as I pull away from his reach, and
allow the tide of my choices to pull me out to the sea
of my truth.

************************

It was an unusually warm spring day as the giddy
daffodils bordered the roadside, beckoning winter
weary travelers to partake of their particular
sunshine.  It had been a harsh winter, cold and
heartless, causing further disarray in an
already haphazard and disorganized world.  Her soul
had felt the frigid air of his longing and the warm
breeze of his closure as she had sought warmth from
her own memories of the past.

"You need to make a left up ahead, Scully."  His voice
had broken the quiet reverie of her musings, a stark
reminder she was not alone.  She wanted to be alone.

She turned toward him and smiled, deferring to his
innate sense of direction, her own requiring a complex
set of instructions and directions clearly conveyed in
block writing. "I read the map, Mulder.  I know where
I'm going."  It was a polite, yet antagonistic reply
and she hoped he would tug at her, propelling her
annoyance to anger.

"Do you really, Scully?"

Scully turned toward him, the afternoon sun behind
him,
causing her to squint, recalling in an instant the
location of her sunglasses on the table by her front
door.  He stared at her, hard, questioning her,
reaching to her without reaching for her.  As she
turned her eyes back toward the road, she stood her
ground.

"At this very moment, Mulder, I know where I'm going."
 She knew what he wanted, what he desired.  He had
shown her. In the quiet hours of a sleepy night, after
confessions of regrets and happenstance, he had shown
her.

And she had watched and listened, but she had not
learned.

************************

"We could order out for Chinese or we could venture
into the city, see if there's anywhere interesting to
eat?"  He was standing in the doorway, greedily
hogging the last of the daylight, expecting a reply.

She stood there, wanting to let him in, knowing his
question had little to do with satiating a need for
food.

She crossed her arms, lowered her chin to her chest
and shuddered with a sigh that had been held in far
too long.  "I thought this would be easier.  At least,
I expected it to be easier."

He stepped back from the doorway and onto the landing,
resting against the railing, crossing his arms as he
imitated her stance.

"It could be easier."  He was rather astute, most of
the time, often wandering through her own meandering
mind.

She looked up at him and smiled a small, precious
smile.  "It could be easier, if I'd allow it be
easier."  She paused as realization washed over her. 
"Isn't that what you're implying, Mulder?"

He liked worming his way into her thoughts, tunneling
through her desires, burrowing through her wants.  His
smile reflected that.

"I didn't realize how hard it was to choose between
Oriental or Western cuisine, Scully, but this evening
you've turned it into a trip down anxiety lane."  He
was teasing her, requesting that the soft woman he had
held in the darkest hours of the night come back to
life.

The sunset was subtle, the colors of the day bleeding
into the ink of the night, surrounding Mulder and
enveloping her.

"It's quaint here.  Quiet.  Still."  She had uncrossed
her arms, and padded out to the landing in her
stocking feet, resting her tired soul next to his. 
The cold of the iron railing was jarring, causing
a sharp intake of breath, although it wasn't hers.

He kept his arms crossed, vaguely aware she required
her own comfortable and safe perimeter. He yearned to
keep her safe, failing at almost every turn in the
winding road of disasters that seemed to befall them
weekly, monthly and yearly.

"I wish I could be more . . ." he hesitated, wanting
to finish his thought, wanting to finish their
destiny.

"Still?  Quiet?"  Scully queried, mirth bubbling up in
her voice, lapping at the corner of her lips.

His laugh was quiet and contained, threatening to
implode rather than explode in the stillness of dusk. 
"Please don't ever call me quaint, Scully. Please
don't ever call me that."

He sensed her confession before he heard it.  Quiet
and still and anything but quaint.

"When you sleep . . . when you let go of the night . .
. when you give up the chase . . .the colors . . ."
she stopped, breathless, her eyes focused on the dark
of a night in her recent past.

He turned toward her, gently pulling her hand into
his, running his fingers lightly over her palm,
entwining her heart with his. "What, Scully? What do
the colors do?"  He was pleading with her, his voice
soft as a whisper, his eyes mirroring the demands
of a spoiled 2-year-old.

She pulled out of his grasp and ran to the door,
closing it in his face and shutting out his love.

He stood before the heavy metal of her heart, gasping
for air, struggling for their lives.

**********************************

She had let herself in, quiet and still, and stood
over him, watching him sleep.  Slumber had overtaken
him, smoothing out the creases that had been branded
onto his face by those less willing to forgive.

The sheets were tangled around his form and the
pillows were lazily thrown across the bed as he
breathed deeply and evenly.

In and out.  Slow and steady.  Quiet and still.

He turned toward her, startling her, causing her to
lose her balance. He reached for her and pulled her
down to his side, rolling toward her and pushing her
down toward him.

He kissed her.  Slow and languid, fast and furious,
soft and smooth. She pulled him closer to her, further
into her heart.

Suddenly, she pulled away from him, breathless and
shaky, sure and wanton.  "It'll never be easy."

He ran his hand down her side, resting his palm on her
hip, pulling her further into his heart. "Probably
not, Scully."

Scully framed his beautiful mind with her hands and
drew him close, tenderly kissing his lips, chastely
branding him with her desire.  "When you're asleep. .
. when you are quiet . . . when you are
still . . . the colors . . . the colors . . ."

He tightened his grip on her hip and on her heart,
patiently waiting for her reply, patiently waiting for
sentence to be pronounced on his life. "Yes, Scully? 
When I'm asleep . . . when I'm quiet . . . when
I'm still . . . the colors . . .?"

She looked up into his eyes, beseeching him to wait,
as she reached for his proffered lifeline, as she let
go of her beloved sea of denial, as she mourned the
taste of her salty tears and the buoyancy of regret,
she replied, "The colors, Mulder.  The colors
all bleed into one."

The kiss was sweet and then it was bitter and then it
was dangerous and then it was over.  She held him as
he cried, she soothed him as he sighed, and she smiled
as he smiled.

The glint of gold on her left hand, on the finger that
ran to her heart, caught his eye, the moonlight
capturing the moment of the afternoon, mirroring the
gold on his left hand, on the finger that ran to his
heart.

And she watched and she listened, and this time she
learned.

*******************

It's no longer peaceful here, surrounded by the swirls
of blue that blend into turquoise.  The weight of the
water pushes me down, beckoning me toward its depths,
willing me to sink to its sandy bottom.  I push
against the pull of its false sense of security, and
swim toward a beach of hope and peace.  I slowly
inhale the precious air into my lungs and exhale the
salt that courses through the sea.  I will not permit
it to run through my veins; I will not allow it to
replace my blood; I will not allow it to overtake my
life.

I am floating on a sea of fateful choices and an ocean
of chosen destiny.  Soothed by the waves of truth and
acceptance, I stand before this man, my firm resolve
to never stop searching for the truth becoming
stronger with each beat of his heart.  I will spend
the rest of my life with this man, no matter the cost
to his search, the cost to his truth, the cost to my
own desire for the truth.  None of these sundry items
are too expensive for my wants and desires.  For his
wants and desires.

He's thrown me a lifeline, he has rescued me and
dragged me to the safety of his shore.  A fruitful
mission, as I lean into his reach, and allow the tide
of my choices to pull me onto the shore of our truth.

The End