Soluble By Lilydale Email: lilydale10@yahoo.com Archive: Sure. Please let me know so I can visit. Category: V, MSR, A Spoilers: References through DeadAlive. Feedback: Very much appreciated. Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. They belong to 1013 Productions, Chris Carter, and Fox. Summary: A day in the life of Scully, dotted with memories and sprinkled with rain. Deep thanks to Emma Brightman, Pteropod, and Alanna for wonderful beta, encouragement, and patience. -------- Kissing usually transcends bliss. The melting of two pairs of lips, the mixing of anxious breath, the feeling of never-ending comfort. But this kissing, this kissing, Scully wants to end. The scratching of two-day-old stubble, the tasting of marinara sauce that she purposely didn't order at dinner, the craning of her sore neck. Scully hears herself say something that she never thought she would say, or could say. "Mulder, stop. No more kisses." Mulder keeps his hands tangled in her hair, but pulls his face slowly, oh so slowly, away from hers. He looks at her with dilated bedroom eyes, like he doesn't understand. Like he never expected to hear those words. Which, based on past activity - past *recent* activity - he has every reason to not expect. Of course, lately, expectations have been melting. Scully sometimes thinks of her life as a candle, every day coated with another fine layer of wax. But whereas before she slowly hardened with each passing day, she's now softening, molding, burning. She doesn't know exactly when the candle was lit, but Mulder's collection of hotel matchbooks seems to be taking up a lot less room in his desk drawer than it did a few months ago. Where there used to be darkness, there now is light. Shadows dance across Mulder's shoulders, as if from a tiny firelight instead of a window-filtered streetlight. She should say something. "It hurts." From the speed at which the color is returning to his eyes, she knows that was not the right thing to say. "I, uh...." Damn. Even painful Mulderkisses scramble her brain. Mulder keeps his hands in her hair, still absently running his thumbs up and down behind her ears. She can still redeem herself. "Your face. " Mulder's eyebrows raise. His pupils almost disappear, even in this dim light. Quick, Scully. "It's itchy," she confesses. Mulder's head falls forward and his hair tickles her nose. His sheepishness is so endearing. At the risk of offending his left hand, Scully leans her head into Mulder's other hand, burying her nose into the crown of his cropped hair. "But that doesn't mean I'm ready to sleep," she offers in a bemused, honeyed tone. No response. "Mulder?" "Your nightgown is itchy." Scully imagines that he would know. His face is nuzzling the lace around the neckline that's really too low to be considered at neck level. "That's easy enough to fix," she decides. Two sets of hands simultaneously gather handfuls of smooth satin and start to pull up. Scully doesn't even have time to miss the hands cradling her head or the sheath covering her body before Mulder pipes up. "But I am tired. It's nearly midnight." He can't be serious. She peers into his eyes. They glint and say that while not wholly serious, Mulder is indeed tired and has acquired exactly what he wants lying next to him in his bachelor bed. Exasperated, Scully coyly drawls, "What am I going to do with you?" As he rolls over onto his stomach, dropping his arm over her bare waist, he more murmurs than speaks. "Mmmm, ask me 'gain in the morn...." -------- "...rning, D.C.! It's looking like rain today, so don't forget to bring your umbrella with you as you head out the door..." It's at that point that Scully slams her hand down on the off button and audibly groans. Mulder may have liked to start his day at 5:13 a.m., but she does not. Yet, she doesn't have the heart to change it. That's the way he left it. She's having a hard time changing anything these days except for the things changing beyond her control, like waxy buildup and the little J. Edgar she's lugging around. Why did Agent Doggett have to plant that picture in her mind? Not only is it unsavory to think about, but it threatens to edge out images like a midnight-sleepy Mulder from her memory archives. And that simply will not do. If she can't see Mulder before her in all his frustratingly beautiful glory, then she at least wants to see him when she closes her eyes. Needs to see him. Like at a penny arcade. Before he married her grandmother, Scully's grandfather did odd jobs to make ends meet. Washing windows, repairing bicycles, reeling in fish nets. For a time he delivered newspapers. Sometimes he got nickels for tips. And he usually used those nickels to watch movies at the arcade. A small indulgence, those penny arcade movies, but one that he obviously treasured. He loved telling his grandkids about his saved-up nickels and Saturdays at the arcade. That's another memory she wants to keep. He'd tell his grandkids, as Scully sat on his lap (because that's the prime spot where the baby girl of the family always got to sit, even when she got too big), about dropping a nickel into a Mutoscope. His eyes were already pressed up against the molded plastic frame so that he could get his money's worth and start turning the handle as soon as his nickel fell down the slot. Scullys have always been practical, frugal, and methodical. That's never occurred to her before. She sighs an oddly contented sigh. Her hand absently pulls soft flannel a little tighter around her abdomen, accentuating the growing bulge. Maybe the baby will be a little more...spontaneous. As her grandfather turned the handle, the printed picture cards inside the Mutoscope whirled around and around, giving the illusion of motion. The movie images he saw were broken, choppy like a flip book. Before the days of celluloid, Technicolor, and digital bits and bytes, the rapidly revolving still images of a Mutoscope worked just fine. Just fine. Scully's been closing her eyes a lot lately, cranking through uneven memories in her mind, watching priceless mini-movies play in her head. Many, many images, spinning to form flawed yet comforting movies. The movies stabilize her days, sometimes providing the only continuity from one moment to the next. Like her grandfather, who had to stop spending his nickels at the penny arcade once her grandmother and then her father came along and had to start remembering Mutoscope movies from memory, Scully will have to reel stored movies for the rest of her life. She has a pocketful of nickels, but the arcade is gone. She couldn't find it, no matter how hard she looked. Rain begins to pelt against the cloudy glass of the bedroom window, washing away her morning half-dreams. Scully ungracefully rolls out of bed. Time to begin another day. -------- "Another day, another mystery. Ready to hop on a plane, investigate clues, and methodically debunk my latest theory?" The eagerness in his voice is charming, but it grates against her early-morning ear. Scully is sure that cell phones amplify enthusiasm along with all the background noise that modern technology should have been able to filter out. She cannot let a smile slip in to her response. "No." "Aw, come on, Scully." She silently notes that cell phones also amplify pouting. "Chicago is beautiful this time of year. The wind, the lake, the Sears Tower, the Cubs. Well, not the Cubs." Silence. "Come on. You know you're interested." The cruel irony is that she is interested. How should she let him know? *Should* she let him know? Stay calm. Stay in control. Do not encourage Mulder's knee-jerk flight fancies, taking off for faraway cities in the middle of the night and expecting her to fly on in right behind him. Even if that expectation is valid. Still, when will she get to choose the cases? When will she get the freedom to plan her own damn day? When will he finally call her in the middle of the night and drag her along on one of his impulsive jaunts rather than calling her afterwards like she's a den mother who has to know the whereabouts of her roost? When will he simply assume that she is interested? When will he just reach over and tap her shoulder in the middle of the night and whisper that there are two plane tickets with their names on them and that they better get up now before they miss their plane? "I have better places to be, Mulder." Was that non-committal enough? Did she still leave the door ajar? Who's she kidding? Even if the door was armored with an arsenal of deadbolts and chains, enough to make even the Lone Gunmen's attempts at front door security seem laughable to anyone with a bobby pin, a credit card, and a few seconds to spare, Mulder would insist on knocking on and beating down the door until his knuckles were raw and his hands were pricked with splinters. Or with metal shards. Scully has learned not to underestimate Mulder's persistence. With good reason. "There are autopsy bays here too, you know. Not that you'll be in one. The man I'm investigating is decidedly not dead." God, could he possibly sound more pleased with himself? Probably. But that is not somewhere that Agent Scully needs to go right now. "And before you ask, yes, he is a man. No mutants, monsters, half-men, half-*women*, apparitions, demons, summoned spirits, ghosts, ghouls, possessed beings, shape-shifters, mythological creatures, or aliens are waiting to be graced with your presence in the fair city of Chicago. Just a man." "And me." "What do you say, Scully?" She could practically see him bouncing on the balls of his feet, a half-grin plastered on his otherwise life- beaten face. What could she say (with feigned annoyance) except, "When do I leave?" Some hours later, softened by the heat of travel, ultraviolet, and anticipation, Scully stands on a city sidewalk, phone pressed to her ear. "Yes, I'm in Chicago. I'm on the northeast corner of 7th and Hunter just like you asked. Only you're not here. So where are you?" -------- Yes, where are you? Dammit, Mulder, why aren't you here? Because he hates being outside in the rain, her automatic mind responds. Doggett acquiesced with a quiet nod of his head when Scully said that she was going outside to eat lunch. She knew it was raining. He knew it was raining. They both knew enough not to point out the obvious. She has the wisdom to sit on a relatively dry bench, somewhat protected from the elements by an overhang of concrete jutting off one of the plain government buildings that pepper the center of D.C. Her wisdom is arguably canceled out, however, by her walking to said bench without benefit of the umbrella that she left in the office against the radio announcer's advice. Yes, she has on her overcoat, but her neatly packed brown bag lunch swung back and forth in the air with each one of her assertive steps. By the time she sat down on the bench, the bag was so completely dotted with rain splotches that its original pale brown color was all but eliminated. Her whole wheat bread is little more than brown mush at this point. The chicken salad inside started as mush, true, but the outside humidity isn't making it any more appetizing. She tosses the unwrapped but uneaten sandwich into a nearby metal trashcan. Her dark brown bag and all its uneaten contents soon follow it, landing in the can with a gentle squish. Apparently, gaining weight will not be too much of a worry with this pregnancy. Good. She dreads having to shop for new, larger clothes enough as it is. Maybe she can get away without shopping for any at all. Every so often her mother brings something over, simply hanging it in the closet or draping it over the back of the sofa without saying a word. That should be enough to get her through the next few months, shouldn't it? Would she be so stoic if it was someone else bringing over the clothes? Someone else covertly hinting that there were a lot of preparations that needed to be made? She'll never know. Dammit, Mulder, why aren't you here? Scully's eyes unglaze and trail from a random spot on a tree in front of her and down to the ground. A rain puddle gathers in a crumbling section of sidewalk in front of the bench. If the puddle spreads much farther, it will run into her right shoe. Drowning would be a horrible way for an exquisite $150 shoe to die. Hmmm, would it be a more awful way for a single pregnant woman to die? Scully's head whips up at the thought. She doesn't want to die. Does she? She actually has to think about it. Her brow furrows, her hands wring, and her empty stomach knots. Does she? No, surely not. Surely not. Missy's gone. So is her father. And though it doesn't yet seem real, Mulder is not coming back either. But that doesn't mean that she wants to join them, wherever they are. Surely not. She did briefly think about joining Mulder in that cold, dug-out hole in North Carolina. It actually flashed in her mind to toss herself in there along with a handful of dirt. But Skinner was there, and her sanity was remarkably intact. Besides, that's not where Mulder is. He once told her that souls reside in starlight, but even if that's true, she can't be there either. Or the baby. Not just yet. But sometimes she wishes. Sometimes she wishes. She has strength. She has courage. She has a lot left to do. She picks up her body and starts the wet walk back to the basement. -------- "To the basement!" Mulder exclaims. She half-expects him to pull a secret lever to expose a pair of firemen's poles so that they can slide in tandem into the Batcave. But he just pushes the "down" elevator button, and the doors routinely open. Scully has always been amazed at Mulder's predilection for making obtusely humorous remarks at the most inappropriate times. Today is no exception. That's not entirely true, Scully quickly reminds herself. Just a few moments ago Mulder silently held her confused body in a Bureau hallway after they tried to convince each other to fuse and to part. "So do you think Skinner would have a problem with us sharing a room in Oregon? Because, you know, I've sort of gotten used to sharing a room with my travel partner." He pauses slightly, and Scully tries to focus her mind long enough to formulate a response, but it is still too addled to decide between censure and disregard. Mulder slides in, saying "Among other things...." "Mulder..." That's all she has time to whine before the elevator dings and the doors open. Mulder grins back at Scully as he walks into the basement. Mulder gathers files and haphazardly tucks them into his bag. Hardly a word passes between them. Scully stands a few feet from his desk, just watching him, wondering if he's really going to take this trip, if she really isn't. She almost kisses him in the basement that evening. They had talked about the tiny lenses watching their every move and the little foam knobs eavesdropping on their words, but sometimes, Scully now knows, sometimes you should throw caution to the wind. You can't always say goodbye with a kiss, but she almost kissed him. She wishes that she had kissed him once more. After filling his bag with more files than necessary for such a short trip and floating a soft goodbye, Mulder leaves the office for Bellefleur. Scully is just left. -------- Just left. The only directions she got from the bored guy behind the counter were 'left.' Some things must be easier to find than others. For all the time that Scully has spent over at Mulder's apartment, she doesn't really know her way around his neighborhood. Walking the streets on foot, anyway. After turning a few corners and avoiding more than a few puddles leftover from a day of rain, she found this little coffee shop and the cashier who could never work for Rand McNally. Coffee sounded like a good idea. Heat on her hands through a dimpled cup wrapper and caffeine in her veins should keep her awake and remind her body how to feel. But coffee isn't part of her diet anymore, so she opted for hot chocolate instead. Now that she's taken a few sips, warm sugar pulses her with life as she wanders 'left' down the sidewalk in search of a park. She was surprised to hear herself asking how to get to the nearest park. But as the words passed her lips and dollar bills left her hands, she knew that a park was the perfect place to go that night. She does not want to spend another night inside with only the fish. Not that she is going to spend the whole night in the park, of course. FBI agents only late-night loiter in parks on stakeouts. They do not get swing-set hands under the moonlight simply because the fish tank's gurgles amplify the silence. Apparently Scully will not have to worry about getting any playground battle scars tonight because this park is void of playthings. Just her luck to find the most antiseptic, kid-unfriendly park in D.C. Actually, she's quite pleased that she found a swatch of green grass at all amidst the squished buildings and sandwiched parked cars in this neighborhood. And in the face of those spectacular directions. The park at least has trees. They're all middle-age trees, no doubt planted for the baby boomer kids. Stones litter the ground, forming a path of sorts weaving around the trees and stretching the length of the park. The stones shine with moisture tonight, but when dry, parents would probably let toddlers sit on them and older kids hop on them. Two damp wooden benches facing each other from opposite sides of the narrow park, bisected by the curve of the stone path, supply all other ornamentation. Scully turns into the park, walks left out of habit, and gingerly sits down on a bench. Her world pauses. Her hot chocolate turns cold sitting next to her on the bench. It's comfortable here. And quiet. She'll have to remember how to get to this park; the baby won't care if there's no slide. What makes her think that she'll be anywhere near this neighborhood by the time that the baby is born in a few months? Nothing ties her here. Not anymore. Then again, she has just as many ties here as anywhere else. Scully lets out a long breath. Was she holding her breath? The things she clings to make no sense. She slowly stands up, poised to finally find her way home. Scully's eyes drift shut as her head tips back and her shirt collar disappears under a mass of red hair. Her arms dangle aimlessly against her pregnant body. Both of her hands slowly close and grip the air as if it provides something to hold on to, to tie her to this earth. She stays in that position for some time before her hands unfold and her eyes see the stars. "I'll meet you in the sky," she whispers. "I'll meet you in the sky." -------- August-September 2001 lilydale10@yahoo.com Additional thanks to the Nields for their song with the great title "I'll Meet You in the Sky," which you can find at www.nields.com.