Reckoning

Author: Ann K

Rating: NC-17

Classification: Story, MS Angst, U/RST, and DS – uh -- something (but nothing serious). If you adamantly opposed to any sort of DS interaction, proceed with caution -- you have been warned.

Timeline: Written post DeadAlive in a divergent timeline from the rest of Season eight. I do presume no baby William in this story, just to make life less complicated. Sorry.

Summary: Agents Scully, Mulder and Doggett finish their first field assignment together, giving Scully the opportunity to define her changing relationship with Mulder -- only Doggett is caught in the middle.

Disclaimer: I maintain no pretenses that I own them or make any money off of this. If only.

Feedback welcomed and responded to annhkus@yahoo.com. See author's notes at end.

In response to the November 2001 challenge at Whispers of X. Challenge items at end.

Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming

Wednesday, 10:24 am

"Jesus Christ!" The sudden movement startled him, causing his feet to shift beneath him on the slippery terrain. He was on his back, sliding down the short hillside, until a scrubby group of trees broke his fall. Damn, but he hated this assignment.

"Agent Doggett?" Her questioning voice rang out against the nearby mountains. A sharp contrast to his frustrated curse, her voice was as smooth as silk, edged with a note of concern. Agent Scully was many things, he had decided, but she was almost always unflappable and the consummate professional. He met her gaze as he slowly got to his feet, climbing back up to the trail. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. Just fine," he muttered, frustrated and more than a little embarrassed. He had been off center since this assignment began, slower somehow, more clumsy. He didn't like the feeling. "Something ran across my feet up there. A rodent. Startled me. I lost my balance." Sounded simple enough. So why did everything feel so complicated?

She nodded somewhat absently as he reached the top of trail, turning her attention back to the maps bunched in her hand. "Hmm. Probably a black-footed ferret. We are in the area where they are being reintroduced to the wild. They are probably still showing some signs of domestication from their time in captivity. About a foot long, short legs, long body?"

He grunted something in the affirmative, not really paying attention to her words. "They were almost extinct in 1985, so the government captured the remaining wild ferrets and have been breeding them."

He watched her lips as she spoke, a stray wisp of hair catching in the early summer breeze as they walked back to the car. Maybe that's what felt off. Him and Agent Scully and Agent Mulder. On a field assignment together. They had been working in the same office for weeks now, but this was different. Being on the road only magnified their issues and hell, they certainly had them. Like some sort of warped dysfunctional family.

His more-than-platonic feelings for Agent Scully, which he had admitted to himself some time ago. Her annoying ability to focus only on work when he knew there was more going on behind that often-impenetrable gaze. The sexual merry-go-round she and Agent Mulder were on. The tension was so thick he could almost taste it.

He drew in his wandering thoughts as they drove slowly onto the deserted byway.

"Nothing else out here to find, Agent Scully. I suppose we can sign off on those final reports and head back to DC in the morning," he said, trying to focus on the work in front of them. Nothing had come out of the strange series of disappearances reported in the park over the past month. It frustrated the hell out of him to have nothing to show for his work, their work, over the past few days, but he had decided that such results should be added as a tagline to almost any case that crossed their desk.

He could tell by her permanently wrinkled forehead and the tired lines around her eyes that Scully was on-edge and probably more than a little frustrated. She agreed with him absentmindedly, murmuring something about checking in with Mulder back at the motel, and closed her eyes, effectively ending the conversation. Since Mulder had-well, risen from the dead, in a literal sense, Doggett had been able to catalogue Scully's emotions. Euphoria, frustration, delight, sadness. Having Mulder back in the office had been a dramatic change for all them. And, now, here they were. The motley, dysfunctional crew known as the X-Files, arriving to save the day while they destroyed each other.

God, he needed a vacation.

Buffalo Bill Bungalow

Wednesday, 1:21 pm

What was the deal with national heroes and cheap motels? Couldn't they come up with an original name? The Sam Houston Motor Lodge in Texas. The Lewis and Clark Inn in California. The Davy Crockett Den in .... She couldn't remember, she realized with a sigh. Too many field assignments with Mulder. The faded sign mocked her frustration. "The Buffalo Bill Bungalow. He never slept here, but he wished he did."

Mulder. There was her subject of never-ending frustration. And fascination. After all their years working together, they had seen so much. He was her best friend. With the addition of Agent Doggett and Mulder's reappearance, however, their relationship changed. He was quiet, more subdued. And the ubiquitous sexual tension was nearing a breaking point. 

"Agent Scully?" She stared back at Doggett blankly, having forgotten about him for a brief moment. "I said, would you like to consult with Agent Mulder now, or wait until after lunch?" Consult? She would never become accustomed to Doggett's quirky sense of formality. "Now is fine. Then I'll treat the two of you to lunch at the Buffalo Bill Bar and Quick Stop." She was trying to lighten the mood. She knew that Doggett was as aware of tension within the group as she was. 

It was turning summer in Yellowstone, and she could feel afternoon heat in the air. It drifted beneath her skirt and blouse as she walked quickly to Mulder's motel room, stopping for the briefest of moments to admire the forest behind the bland concrete bungalow, the leaves a million different shades of green and the sky a stark blue contrast to the colorful landscape. How many scenes had Mulder taken her to see?  

"Mulder, I..." she began as she pushed open the door, and then stopped short. He was sitting at the lone table by the bed, obviously jotting notes from his morning's meeting. His glasses. Damn. She felt her heart literally skip a beat. There was something about Mulder in his glasses, even though he rarely wore them anymore, which always caught her attention. 

To be completely honest, it aroused her, plain and simple. 

She tried again. "No luck at the last site," her voice sounding husky to her own ears. Good, Scully. Give both Mulder and Doggett something to wonder about. She cleared her throat, trying for a more professional tone. "Seems as if the local PD did a fairly thorough job last week. We haven't been able to find any evidence that there was any foul play-or anything else-involved with the disappearances."  

She watched as Mulder's eyes drifted from her, to Doggett, then back to her again. Behind his glasses, they were almost unreadable. Damn. She hated when he was like this. His silence often said more than words ever could.  

She stood, feeling self-conscious, as Doggett settled into an empty chair and flipped through the notes Mulder passed over to him. She focused on Mulder's voice. "Nothing much turned up from the last eyewitness accounts either. At least we got a free trip to Wyoming." 

He grinned, a self-deprecating, yet tired smile, and Scully felt the tensions go down a notch as a glimmer of the Mulder she knew returned. "This whole thing is almost funny, Scully. All three victims were in perfect health, according to your review of their medical records. No mounting debt, family problems, depressions. No illegitimate children or sordid love triangles." 

His words hung in the air for a moment before he continued. "But, for whatever reason, they simply vanished. Hell, who knows why?" She felt an almost physical pain at Mulder's words, her heart breaking, as she knew exactly what he was thinking. It had only been a few weeks since Mulder literally woke from the dead, and the evidence was still fresh in her eyes. The scars across his face were beginning to heal, but in so many other ways, he was a different person. She knew he was haunted by what he had seen, and she sensed the rift between them widening. She also knew that Mulder was reading between the lines on this, searching for a correlation to his own disappearance.  

"It's not there, Mulder," she whispered, surprising herself by articulating her thoughts. "We've seen no connection with alien abductions here, and my intuition tells me we won't find any." 

The silence was awkward at best until Doggett cleared his throat, mumbling something about packing for their return flight. It made Scully sad, watching Doggett fumble along beside them, trying to stay out of their way, but trying to work with them, too. What a mess. 

"Mulder," she began, as the door shut behind Doggett. "I think we need to talk." He wasn't interested. "About what, Scully? The case? You? Me? I don't have much to say at this point. I'll check back in with you when I do." He gave her a frustrated glance, walking away from her to fill a glass of water from the bathroom tap. 

Scully stared in fascination, watching his long fingers tighten around the cheap plastic cup in his hands. She never grew tired of watching Mulder. Ignoring all the warning signs, she walked up behind him, putting her arms around his waist and resting her cheek on his back. He smelled like home, like all the memories they had together.

"Damn it, Scully," he practically shouted, whirling around and grabbing her by her wrists. "Can you leave it alone? Can you give me some space?" She stared at him, dumbfounded. And then he kissed her, and she couldn't stop the moan that escaped from her lips. It was a hard, angry kiss, born of too many nights apart and too much unsaid between them, but it felt perfect. Her tongue danced between his lips and she let her hands run through his hair, stopping to rest on his shoulders. 

He pushed her away. She heard his watch ticking in the agonizing silence and waited for him to speak. "I'm sorry, Scully. Can I have some time alone? Please?" It wasn't really as much of a question as a plea, Mulder refusing to meet her eyes in the harsh light of the motel room. Progress had been made, though to what end, she wasn't sure, and she nodded her head, walking out of the room without a sound.

Buffalo Bill Bar and Quick Stop

Wednesday, 6:15 pm

Mulder sat alone in the nearly deserted diner, nursing his cold cup of coffee and flipping through a week's old copy of the Washington Post and watching night fall over the nearby mountains. He felt lousy, angry with himself and, by extension, the world in general. Generally, he felt like an ass. But he didn't know what to do about it. It didn't help matters that he found himself at odds with the one person whose memory had sustained him throughout the past year.

"Agent Mulder." He sensed Doggett standing beside him even before the older man spoke. The new thorn in his side. A decent enough person, he supposed, but he had his hands full dealing with Scully and nightmares and overdue bills and a general sense of discomfort to play the welcome wagon. Against his better judgment, he nodded to the empty booth across from him as Doggett signaled the waitress for a cup of coffee.

They sat like that for a moment, not necessarily uncomfortable silence. Just silence. "Anything interesting in the Post?" He looked down, having forgotten about the paper, and was startled to see the obituary section staring back at him. Karma, he thought.

"Not much. Ken Kesey died. The crazy guy who wrote the book about the mental hospital." Doggett nodded. "Didn't he serve as the inspiration for that electric kool-aid acid book?" Pause. "Don't look so surprised, Agent Mulder. I am not the most avid reader, but I did go through a rebellious stage in the seventies. Maybe we all do, to some degree."

Mulder didn't realize he had reacted to Doggett's words. And his new partner didn't strike him as one who would have read Wolfe or Kesey or anyone else for that matter. "I'm not necessarily surprised, Agent Doggett. I can't say that I know too much about you, except that Agent Scully thinks highly of you and you helped her out when I was gone." When I couldn't be there for her, he thought with a touch of resentment.

He took his last sip of coffee, wincing at the bitterness. "I need to start packing for tomorrow," he announced unnecessarily, searching in his pockets for change.

He needed to get away from here, from Doggett, back to his apartment so he could again sort through what remained of his life and try to find some semblance of order. He jumped at Doggett's hand on his arm, and was taken aback by the intense gaze in the man's eyes. "Mulder, whatever it is you are dealing with, I can't begin to understand. I don't think I want to. But you are dragging Scully down with you."

He pulled back from Doggett, almost burning at the touch, and stared at him somewhat coldly. His words resonated around him, and he felt a familiar response to a situation that was beyond his control-defensiveness. He didn't need anyone else, certainly not Scully's pseudo-partner, telling him what he was doing to Scully. He could see it with his own eyes.

"You are right, Agent Doggett," he muttered, standing up and throwing a few crumpled bills on the table. "You have no idea what I am going through." Mulder whirled around, feeling a desperate need to get out of the diner, and was shocked to find himself staring at Scully. Her eyes were wide, and then she blinked, reaching out for his arm to steady him. "Mulder? What is going on?"

He could only stare at her, mute, and walked quickly past her to the door.

Buffalo Bill Bungalow

Wednesday, 7:27 pm

"Dana, wait a moment." She was angry, damn angry. How dare Mulder treat her like that, after all they had been through together? Why did he refuse to talk to her, to help her make sense of what was going on? She felt rather than heard Doggett's footsteps behind her as she walked away, in any direction. As long as it was away from Mulder.

"Agent Doggett," she replied angrily, disdain dripping from her voice. "I don't think there's anything you can say to me at this moment that would help, and I don't think I want to hear it in any case."

He caught her by the arm just as she reached the end of the parking lot. She whirled around in her anger, pushing him against the dingy wall of the motel. It wasn't him she was furious at, but he would do.

"How dare you? How dare you presume to understand something you could never begin to comprehend?" He was angry, she realized as an afterthought. If there was any confusion, his words defined his anger. "You are right, Agent Scully. I can never understand what you and Mulder have, and I am fucking tired of trying." Was that disgust in his voice? "But I understand you, better than I would even want to, and I am tired of watching you deflate under the weight of whatever agonies you bring on yourself."

She was stunned. Never in their short partnership had he spoken to her like that, and she didn't quite know what to make of it. He grabbed both her arms, pulling her closer to him in the darkness. "Make yourself happy, Agent Scully. Make a choice. Because you are killing all of us."

She couldn't help herself. She reached out to caress his cheek, the soft stubble on his face tickling her hand. Why not? she thought angrily. What did she have to lose? She was breathless, infuriated, and afraid. Aroused. And she kissed him. He met her lips tentatively at first, unsure of how to react to her onslaught.

Scully wasn't sure of what she wanted. She only knew she wanted to feel something, anything. She pushed him back against the wall, his hard body wrapping around hers. He kissed her powerfully, pulling her head back with his hands, his fingers laced through her hair. She sensed a sister storm dwelling under Doggett's surface, and wondered belatedly if she had unleashed more than she bargained for.

"John."

She wasn't sure what else she wanted to say, but he took advantage of her open mouth to plunge deeper with his tongue, toying with her, daring her to continue what she started. She groaned, recognizing only that she was lost in his touch.

"Stop." For a moment, she was impressed with her willpower. Then she realized the voice was not hers. "We can't do this, Dana. Not this." She pulled away from him, somewhat stunned, and stared for a moment. His shirt was open wide at the collar, and he seemed unable to take his gaze away from her lips, which she could feel were red and swollen. She felt lost, like a child.

Taking in a ragged breath, he leaned down to pick up her sweater, laying in the dirt and dried leaves of the parking lot. She tried to remember how it got there when his voice brought her back to reality. "We can't do this for two reasons, Agent Scully, both of which you know." His use of her professional title caused her to cringe as she felt him grasp for pieces of the wall that had always been between them. What had she done? "One, I respect you as my colleague and partner. And, two."

He hesitated, and she drew herself up to her full height to face him. She knew what he was going to say before he said it, because the words had been reverberating in her head since she touched him. It was her mantra, her cross to bear. He said it anyway. "I'm not Agent Mulder, Dana. I never will be. And Mulder is the one you want."

No shit. Such was her first admittedly ungracious thought. She agonized over the realization that she could never replace Mulder because there wasn't another him. She was looking for something that didn't exist except in the one place she refused to go.

John Doggett had been a loyal partner and a decent friend, and she had crossed the line. Embarrassment didn't begin to describe how she felt. She was mortified, guilty, beyond the normal Catholic guilt, which reared its ugly head more often than she cared to admit.

This was different. "I'm sorry, Agent Doggett," she managed to whisper, her shame heavy as she drew her sweater closer to her body, rambling on. "I'm not sure what came over me, except that..." He cut her off, his eyes betraying the depth of his torture that he worked so hard to keep out of his voice.

His eyes shifted across the parking lot, and then came back to her, his gaze sympathetic. "I think that's the person you are going to have to explain things to. I know a lot more than I think you understand. And I am not the one to try to fix something that ain't even broken."

Watching him walk away from her, she felt her heart sink. She could sense Mulder behind her, attempting to absorb what he had just seen. She steeled herself for battle and turned to face him.

She could only stare at Mulder as her mind raced through a million different ways to explain what had just happened. His dark, intense gaze, the ruffle of his hair, illuminated by the harsh light from the single bulb directly behind him. The way he looked at her as if she were the only person left standing on the planet. In her heart, she knew that, for Mulder, she was.

What was between them that was so insurmountable? She couldn't find an answer for that as he turned away from her, his long legs carrying him quickly across the deserted parking lot to his motel room.

"Mulder," she shouted, racing after him. It was not going to be like this. They had been through enough, and she refused to live anymore with the self-imposed agonies. "Mulder," she screamed again, catching the door just as he entered the room.

He was angry. "Scully," he began, his voice laden with a tone that made her cringe. "I had no idea you and John were so close. Please, don't let me get in the way of whatever it is that makes you happy."

He moved towards the door, refusing to look at her. She stopped him, her hands on his arm, and willed him to understand. "Stop it, Mulder. What you saw was nothing. What you saw was me making a mistake. What you saw was..." He grabbed her by the shoulders, taking her by surprise. "Tell me, Scully. Tell me what I saw, because I don't think I can play this game anymore." It was the hurt in his voice, the raw, exposed anguish, which finally brought tears to her eyes.

"Mulder, when you were taken, I have never felt so alone in my entire life. Agent Doggett said he would help me find you. And he did. He also kept me grounded in sanity at a time when everything was going insane. But he is not you, Mulder. He is not..." She didn't know how to explain it. "What is he to you, Scully?" Mulder pressed. "What am I to you?"

She could only stare at him, feeling like she was seeing him for the first time since he awoke in the hospital bed. She saw the changes in their world through his eyes, and felt, rather than only imagined, his anxiety, his confusion, his frustration. She wanted to weep at all she had lost in these past few weeks. But, even more than that, she wanted to make him understand. "He is our partner, Mulder. Our partner. You are my other half. You are my truth."

She felt naked, exposed, and realized she had just revealed her most personal intimacy to the man that meant everything to her. He sat down quietly on the bed, as if overwhelmed by her response, and dropped his head into his hands. "Scully," she heard him say, his voice muffled, "I don't know where I fit in anymore. Everything has changed since I've been gone. Even you."

She opened her mouth to disagree, to tell him that she hadn't changed, but stopped for a moment, realizing that, in Mulder's eyes, she had. Even working with Doggett in a superficial, professional relationship was, to Mulder, a betrayal. "I thought coming here on this case might give me some answers, that we might find out more about why I was taken. But I am looking everywhere for something that is nowhere. There are no answers."

She knelt down in front of him and laid her head in his lap. There was nothing left to say. She could never offer the words Mulder so desperately wanted to hear, could never give him – them -- the time he wanted returned. No one could. He ran his fingers through her hair, gently at first, and then with an increasing degree of pressure. Looking up, she was startled to see the silent tears streaming down his face, and felt her heart break a little more.

Without hesitation, she kissed his face, tasting the salty tears beneath her lips and hearing Mulder's sharp breath. He held still as she ran her tongue down his cheeks, licking away the moisture, until she reached his lips. The world stopped for the briefest of moments, and she swore Mulder's ragged breath was echoing throughout her entire body. His breath, his heartbeat became her own.

"Lie down, Mulder," she murmured. He hesitated slightly, and she added a quiet "please" to her request, needing to give this to him, to herself. He settled down against the paisley bedspread, his eyes focusing on some faraway spot on the ceiling, as she slowly unbuttoned his blue dress shirt. He was as beautiful as ever, she thought, as she traced the healing scars with her tongue, flicking lightly as she reached down to his navel.

"Beautiful," she whispered as she began to unbuckle his pants. She felt as if she were swimming underwater, her hands feeling like a stranger's. He sat up, muttering something to make her stop. She placed her hand lightly on his chest. "Let me, Mulder. Please. For both of us." He had never denied her, and she could see by the look in his eyes -- the raging mixture of pain and desire and love and amusement -- that he wouldn't start now.

She pulled his pants and boxers off in one easy swoop, tracing her hand down his bare leg as she did so. God, he was exquisite. Every scar, every muscle, she memorized, recalling all too clearly the agony of his absence, and the comfort she had taken in his memory. He was completely still, but aroused. She fought the urge to take him into her mouth right away. Instead, she managed to utter, "Roll over." He began to sit up, obviously wanting to get away, and she put one hand on his chest, shivering at his warmth. "Please, Mulder. Trust me."

He stared, a million words passing between them unsaid, and rolled over, the bed shifting lightly under his weight. She let her hands drift lightly down his back, and reached down to follow her path with her tongue. Mulder groaned, and she repressed a smile. She wanted to touch him, to taste all of him, to remind herself that he was here; that whatever had changed between them was never enough to erase all that they had together.

"Please, Scully," he groaned. "Don't do this if you have no intention of finishing what you started." She pulled her sweater over her head as she leaned down to whisper in his ear. "I have every intention, Mulder, as long as you will let me." She lay on top of him, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her, and ran her hands down his back to his legs. He shifted, unable to stop himself. "I want you, Scully. I always have," he managed to moan.

Scully ignored his comment, focusing instead on tasting his skin, salty with sweat from their day's work. As she reached his lower back, she felt him tense underneath her, but she couldn't stop herself. Wouldn't stop.

He jerked away from her, flipping her onto her stomach and pulling her skirt up to her waist in one easy movement. He was on top of her as she lay face down into the bed, and she couldn't remember a time where she felt more. More loved. More aroused. More sure that she belonged to Mulder. "Turnabout is fair play, huh, Scully?" His voice was gruff, heavy with arousal and tension. He reached his hand beneath her and found her wetness, groaning out loud as he slipped his fingers inside. Mulder wrapped his free hand around her neck as he pushed into her, and Scully thought she could come at that very moment.

But this was about something else. This was about Mulder, and she wanted to etch every second of this moment in her memory. It had been so long, too long.

She felt her hips twitch against him uncontrollably, and knew they were both near the edge. The emotions of the past six weeks alone were enough to push them over. She reached her arm up, finding his head and pulling him down to her with a crook of her elbow. "I want you, Mulder," she said softly, trying to maintain her composure. She could only feel him on top of her, his fingers playing inside of her, his warm breath in her ear.

He bent closer to her. "Did you want me while I was away, Scully? Did you dream of me at night? Did you see me everytime you opened your eyes? Because I saw you and dreamt of you and tasted you-" And then he was in her, and a shudder went through her body. "And I felt you, Scully, always on my skin, in my arms." She could hardly breathe, could barely process Mulder's words.

She felt his barely controlled sense of possession as he thrust deeper inside of her, moving with a sense of deliberateness, an almost feral cry coming out of him. "Tell me, Scully," he managed to whisper, the words sounding as if they were coming from a man drawing his last breath.

Or drawing his first.

She wept, the physical sensations combining with her fragile state of mind. "Oh, Mulder," she said, groaning as he pushed deeper inside of her. "Your memory sustained me. It was you, it has always been you."

 -- and he was crying out her name, and she could only feel his heat and his fingers and his cock as she came. He followed her quickly, repeating her name over and over like a plea for... forgiveness? Acceptance?

"Oh, Mulder," she uttered as the shudders began to subside, her voice cracking with emotion. He rolled her over quickly, her skirt still tangled around her waist, and simply held her against him.

She closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat beneath her head. "You're home, Mulder. We're home." His plea was one for peace, and she prayed that she would have the strength to give it to him.

END

Challenge items: angry, horny Doggett; MS UST; a ferret; allusion to one or more of three books (Milton's Paradise Lost, Barrington's Intimate Wilderness, Wolfe's Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test); Mulder's glasses; an allusion to, or the act of, rimming; reference to the Sam Houston Motor Lodge of Bad Blood fame

Author's note: This piece was not intended to be so angsty, but this is what resulted from a combination of the challenge items and my feelings that Mulder's abduction and subsequent return were not fully explored at the end of season eight. I wanted more, especially how he and Scully reconciled Mulder's feeling that he no longer "fit in."

Ken Kesey did pass away during the month of November 2001, and my notation of that in this piece was not only a reference to the challenge item, but also a small homage to an incredible author and observer of the twentieth century.  

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October, 2001