Title: Blue Girl VIII
Classification: SA
Keywords: none
Rating: NC-17
Thanks: as always, to realb, Karri, and Liam
Feedback: please, to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Distribution: not that you would, but you could.  Just let me 
              know.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to 
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Summary: "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live 
         it? - every, every minute?"  (From "Our Town" by 
         Thornton Wilder) Sequel to Blue Girl VII.


Eureka, California.  As close to the Pacific as you could get 
without drowning, which is what several of the local residents 
had been doing in the past few weeks.  The victims had all shown 
signs of physical, some even sexual abuse pre-mortem, but the 
drownings themselves did not appear to be accidental.  It was 
baffling local law enforcement, which is why the BSU was 
interested in finding whoever had been abusing, and then dumping 
bodies into the ocean.  The perfect case for "Spooky" Mulder and 
his unfortunate partner.

He really did feel sorry for the rookie agent.  Mulder hadn't 
wanted to be here anymore than he had, but the quicker the boy 
stopped listening to the rumors and paying attention to the facts 
and the profile, the quicker they could both go home.

Diana hadn't been too thrilled at the idea of him taking off just 
a month after they'd returned from their honeymoon, and they'd 
had their first newlywed fight about it.  If she could run off to 
Europe for work, why couldn't he run off to California?  In 
truth, she had stopped her Europe trips long before that, 
preferring a more stable assignment and life.  He had been glad, 
and for the first time since...well, he preferred not to finish 
that part of the thought. He felt his life was coming together.

Scully.  He didn't think of her everyday anymore, but he thought 
of her often.  It had been almost two years since he'd woken up 
and not found her beside him in bed.  He'd thought for a moment 
it had all been a dream, that she was sleeping soundly in the 
next room, but the sheets smelled like her - like them - and all 
of her things were gone from her bedroom.

Had he done the wrong thing by making love to her?  Had he 
unwittingly pushed her away by trying to draw her closer to him?  
What would he have done if she had been beside him, smiling and 
returning his pleas of love?  Would he have called Diana and told 
him their marriage was off, spending his life loving a broken, 
lost woman who he didn't even know?  That's not what he wanted, 
and obviously, it wasn't what she had wanted either.

He'd expected some communication, at least.  He didn't get any.  
Neither did her mother.  They mourned their loss again, wondering 
during late night phone calls what they could've done differently 
and if it would've changed the way things had turned out.  They 
decided that it wouldn't have; Scully had always been stubborn 
and independent.  If she was determined to do things the hard 
way, that's the way things would get done.

So he let her go.  It had been one of the most difficult things 
he'd ever done, but in the end, it brought him more peace than a 
relentless search would have.  Still, sometimes at night, when he 
couldn't sleep, he'd think about her and wonder where she was.  
If she was in one of those horrible places he'd found her before.  
If she was safe.  Happy.  Healthy.  Warm.  Alive.  He wondered if 
she thought of him.  If she regretted turning away from him, and 
rejecting whatever life she could've had.

He doubted it.

Across from him, Agent Wilson eagerly picked up the menu of the 
diner conveniently located across the street from their motel.  
It was just like any other diner in any other city in America: 
moderately clean, sparsely populated, and food worthy of 
investing in a personal balloon catheter for your arteries.  
Behind the counter, the lone cook scrambled eggs and fried bacon.  
In the dining room, a few waitresses filled coffee mugs and 
flirted innocently with the regulars.

The place was quiet, but he couldn't concentrate on the menu or 
his appetite.  He'd been up most of the night studying crime 
scene photographs and working out the details of his preliminary 
profile.  From underneath his suit coat, he pulled the same 
photographs and set them on the table.  He wasn't hungry.

"Hey, man.  Some of us are eating," Wilson chided him.  From 
experience, Mulder knew he had yet to glance at the photos 
himself.

"So, eat," he shot back, not even raising his head.

After a few minutes, he was lost in thought, and didn't hear 
their waitress approach them for their breakfast orders.

"You, sir?  What can I get you?"  The girl asked softly, a slight 
tremor in her voice.

"Um, orange ju-"   He looked up.  His mouth went dry.

The waitress stared blankly at him, her pencil poised above her 
order pad.  Scully.

He cleared his throat, looking away again.  "Orange juice, 
please."

She nodded, Wilson reminded her about the grape jelly he wanted 
for his toast, and she walked away.

He looked back at the photos, unseeing.  Scully was here, of all 
the places in the world.  She was a waitress in some nameless 
diner.  She wasn't a prostitute or any of the other awful things 
he'd imagined her as.  

She was moving forward, at least a little.

He watched her as she moved about the restaurant, serving other 
customers and chatting with the cook.  She was still sickeningly 
thin, but he couldn't see any bruises on her skin.  Her hair was 
red again, short and tied back in a ponytail at the nap of her 
neck.  Her skin and hair were clean and hadn't smell like 
cigarette smoke.  Her clothes were modest, but faded.  She looked 
just like any other waitress would.

But she was Scully.

A few minutes later, her buzzing about brought her back to their 
table to fill Wilson's coffee mug.  She didn't look at him as she 
poured, but he could tell by the expression on her face that she 
was embarrassed and ashamed to have him watching her so hungrily.

As she turned away, he noticed her nametag said "Kathy."  He 
looked back to the photos, gathering his concentration again.

<><><><><><>

She stood behind the swinging door that separated the kitchen and 
dining room, willing herself to breathe slower and to stop 
shaking.  Mulder was out there.  -Mulder- was out there, of all 
the places on earth.  How was that it no matter where she ran of 
her own free will, he could find her, but if she was trapped in 
the same hellhole for nine years, he didn't even have a clue as 
to where she was?

Secretly, she considered it a victory every time he found her.  
If he was looking for her and wanted to take her back with him, 
he still cared about her.  He still thought of her.  As soon as 
she'd left his apartment - his bed, she corrected herself - she'd 
expected to see him standing in any of the numerous doorways 
she'd been on the other side of.  Hotels and motels as a maid, 
restaurants and diners as a waitress, but never another club or 
on the streets.  She was too good for that; he'd helped her 
remember that.

She was doing well enough on her own, though: she ate good meals, 
she didn't smoke, and her nightmares had diminished until they 
were almost non-existent.  The last time she'd left Mulder, she 
had been stronger than she realized.  She missed him terribly, 
but it made her happy and proud to know that where she had 
gotten, she had gotten there alone, and that Mulder was happy and 
content in his own life, miles away from her.

Still...she missed him.  Sometimes, she forgot how much.  She 
wondered idly if he missed her in the same way, but figured he 
didn't.  He hadn't come for her this time.

It was a little embarrassing for him to see her like this; his 
Scully, who he thought could slip back into her field agent job 
effortlessly.  It must be an incredible disappointment to see her 
so low and poor.  And of course he and that other man just had to 
sit in her area.  There were plenty of tables in Rebekah's 
section or at the counter, why didn't they sit there?

Her mother would've smiled, said it was fate, and that the Lord 
worked in mysterious ways.  She rolled her eyes and wondered if 
nine years of torture was part of those same mysterious ways she 
was raised to believe controlled the universe.

As Rebekah passed, her arm balancing an overly full tray of hot 
food, Scully held the door and followed her out.  "'Bekah, will 
you do me a favor?"

"What, hun?"  Rebekah called everyone "hun."

"See that table over there?"  She pointed around the corner, to 
where Mulder and the other man were sitting.  Mulder had his head 
towards the table, looking sad.

"Yep," Bekah said, passing out the plates to her customers.

"Do you think you could finish it for me?  Their orders are in, 
just put them out and watch their drinks?"

Finished with her temporary task, Bekah turned her round hips 
towards Scully.  "Why, hun?"

"Just...because.  Please.  I'll trade you for your next one.  
I'll take your whole section if you want.  Please."

Bekah studied her with curious eyes before shrugging.  "All 
right.  You take my next one."

"Thank you," Scully breathed, relieved.

Bekah caught her by the arm as she turned, and she tried not to 
jump.  "Hun, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

<><><><><><>

When Wilson's food arrived, it put an end to the stifling silence 
that filled the air between the two partners.  Mulder put his 
photos away, not wanting to scare the waitress who he noticed was 
not Scully.  It was too late, though.  She had already noticed.

"Where'd you get those?"  The woman - Rebekah, her nametag said - 
asked as she filled Wilson's coffee mug.  That boy could put away 
more coffee...

"They're crime scene photos.  We're with the FBI," Wilson 
answered for him.  He wasn't quite past his showing-off stage 
yet.

"Oh," she drew the syllable out.  "If you need anything, just 
holler."

They both nodded, and she waddled away quickly, disappearing 
behind the swinging door.

Mulder scanned the restaurant over his glass of orange juice that 
he wasn't tasting.  He didn't see Scully anywhere.  For a moment, 
he wondered if he'd just imagined seeing her at all.  It wouldn't 
be the first time.

<><><><><><>

"Kathy?  Kathy!"  Bekah said, rushing to her.  "Why didn't you 
want to serve those men?"

Scully looked startled, and stirred the sugar into the fresh tea.  
"I, um...I just didn't."

Bekah put her hands where her hips should've been.  "Did you know 
they're from the FBI?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"Are they here to see you?  They're not looking for you, are 
they?"

She paused in mid stir, and cocked her head, thinking.  No.  It 
wasn't likely that he was looking for her.  Just a random 
coincidence.  It had been too long, now.

"No.  They just gave me the creeps," she lied.

<><><><><><>

His head snapped towards her as she emerged, but she didn't come 
in their direction.  Instead, she walked over to a table on the 
other side of the restaurant and handed out menus.  Their 
waitress came back, asked if they needed anything, and then 
walked away.

She took the new arrivals' orders and disappeared into the back 
again, keeping her head down and studiously avoiding looking 
anywhere but at her feet.  He knew that game.  She was avoiding 
him.

"I'll be right back," he mumbled to Wilson, who was orgasmicly 
downing his sausage.

He walked over to the other side of the restaurant and sat down 
at the table behind the new arrivals to wait.  She had to come 
back sooner or later.

A few minutes later, Scully came back out with glasses of coke 
and a pot of decaf coffee.  When she saw him sitting behind her 
customers, she stumbled and fought with her tray to keep it 
steady.  She didn't look at him again as she passed out the 
drinks, then started to walk away.

He tugged at the corner of her apron, pulling her back.  The last 
time he'd seen her, she hadn't liked to be touched unexpectedly.  
He remembered.  He hadn't forgotten everything.

"Can I get you anything?"  She asked the toes of her stained 
white tennis shoes.

"You can talk to me," he said quietly.

She shook her head.  "I'm busy."

"Just a few minutes."

She bit her lip in confusion, and then sighed.  "Give me a 
minute."

He nodded and let go of her apron, watching as she buzzed to the 
counter, exchanged a few words with the cook, the walked slowly 
back to his table.

"My break is fifteen minutes," she said, straightening the Sweet-
N-Lows in their little container on the table.

"How are you?"  He asked, watching her trembling fingers.  It 
seemed like a benign way to being the conversation.

"How am I?"  She repeated to herself in a whisper.  "I'm fine."  
She swallowed, moving on to the napkins.  "How are you?"

"I'm okay."

"That your new partner?"

"Not so new; we've been working together for almost a year."  She 
didn't reply, so he continued rambling to fill the silence.  
"He's a little cocky and doesn't quite realize that the FBI isn't 
a game, but other than that, he's doing okay.  Not the best I've 
worked with..."

She nodded.  He could see tears in her eyes.

"How long have you been here?"

"Almost eight months.  I ran out of west."

He half-smiled, and it melted immediately.

"You look like you're doing better than the last time I saw you," 
he finally said.

She nodded, biting her lip nervously.

"Where do you live?"

"I have a small apartment around the corner."

"Oh."  He cleared his throat.  "Are you seeing anyone?  A 
psychiatrist -"

"No.  I, um...I've been volunteering at the rape crisis center in 
town.  It helps," she said softly, glancing up at his eyes.

"That's great," he breathed, happily surprised.

She fell quiet again, playing with the salt and pepper shakers.

"I talk to your mother occasionally.  She's doing well, but she 
misses you.  Everyone does.  Even Frohike."

He thought she might've grinned, but he couldn't be sure.

"You should call her.  I know she'd love to hear from you."

"I think about it, sometimes."

"If you don't want to talk to her, you could call me, and I could 
give her a message for you," he offered.  Suddenly, he was 
desperate not to lose touch with her again.

Out of things to rearrange, she folded her hands primly on the 
table.  "Thank you."

"Do you ever think about coming home?"  He asked after a moment 
of silence.

"I am home.  I wanted to be by the ocean..."

He nodded again, thinking carefully about his next words.  
"There's ocean in Virginia."

"I know," she said sadly.

"So why'd you leave?"  He asked, his voice tinged with anger.  
When she wouldn't look up at him, he bent over the table and 
placed his hands on top of hers.  She didn't move away.

Her voice was strong.  "I couldn't stay there...I needed to get 
away.  It was for the best, really."  As her eyes found his 
wedding ring, they glazed over with tears.  "C-congratulations," 
she said, her voice trembling.

"Thank you," he said softly, regretting her seeing it.  "We've 
only been married a few months."

"Why did you wait so long?"

"She was in and out of Europe before her transfer request was 
honored.  And I was...preoccupied."  Her fingers tensed under 
his, but he kept talking.  "After you left, I didn't...I never 
told her."  He bit his lip.  "You could've woken me up.  You 
could've said goodbye, Scully, you...I didn't know what to do.  
If I looked for you, you'd just run away again...and when Diana 
came back, it seemed like the only thing I had left was her."

She swallowed thickly.  "She's good for you.  I'm glad you got 
married...you deserve to be happy."

"So do you."

She didn't answer, just took a slow, deep breath.

He linked their fingers, pulling her back to him.  "I like your 
hair.  It suits you better."

She smiled self-consciously.  "I like it, too."

"What about your nametag?"

She glanced down; Kathy.  "It's old," she explained.

"Maybe you should get a new one, and take this to go with it," he 
said almost proudly, letting go of her hands and reaching behind 
his neck to search for the clasp.

"No.  No, you keep it.  I'd rather you have it."

He dropped his hands.  "Are you sure?"

"Yeah.  Yeah, I'm sure."

They sat in silence for long minutes, she looking everywhere 
except at him, he looking nowhere but at her.

She moved to stand, smoothing her apron over her plain khaki 
pants.  "I should get back to work."

He caught her hands on the table again, forcing his fingers 
between hers.  "Can I have your phone number?"

"No.  I'd rather you didn't."

He sighed.  "Why not?  We don't have to be strangers, Scully.  If 
you don't want to come home, you can call me- "

She finally met his gaze.  "Mulder, I am home.  There's nothing 
for me in DC anymore.  I have friends here, a job, a place to 
live.  That's enough for me."

He studied her for a long moment.  "Okay," he finally whispered.  
"But if you ever change your mind..."

She looked down, smiling slightly.  She took her hands away from 
his and stood, looking sadly into his eyes.  "Are you happy?"

He hesitated, but answered truthfully.  "Yes, I am."

She didn't respond.

"Are you?"  He prompted.

Her blue eyes were drowning in tears.  "It doesn't matter."

He caught her apron again as she hurried away.  "Scully..."

She paused, looking towards him.

"It doesn't have to be like this."

"It's better like this," she countered.  "You have your wife, 
your work...I have- " she gestured around them.  She had a place 
where she fit, however ragged the edges.  He could never 
understand that, though.  "You know that I'd never be able to 
work for the Bureau again."

He dropped his head, silently agreeing. 

"If I went back to DC, I'd always be reminded of what I can't get 
back.  Even if we kept in touch...it'd be too hard.  There's too 
much...too many memories.  That night before I left...I'd rather 
stay here and have a fresh start."

He took a deep breath, slowing raising his head to look at her 
again.

"I have to get back," she told him.  Her feet stayed still.

"Okay.  Is there anything you need?  Anything I can do?"

"No, thank you."

"Take this anyway."  He dug in his pockets and came up with a 
fifty-dollar bill.  "For our food."

"It was only six dollars."

"Keep it," he told her, curling her fingers around it.  "For 
emergencies."

She held his gaze for a long, awkward moment.  "Thank you," she 
finally murmured, walking back towards the kitchen again.

When she disappeared, he slouched forward, burying his face in 
his hands.  His shoulders shook, but he stayed quiet.  He heard 
her voice as she checked on the people behind him, but she didn't 
approach him again.  Finally, he stood, and sauntered back to his 
own table.

"What's up, man?"  Wilson asked him.

"Nothing.  You almost through?"

"Yeah."  He stuck a triangle of purple-smeared toast between his 
teeth, and flipped over the ticket that Rebekah had left them.

"I already paid," Mulder told him, standing.  "The sheriff is 
waiting."

Wilson followed him to the door, but he saw Scully watching them 
from the diamond-shaped porthole in the swinging door into the 
kitchen.  She turned away, embarrassed, when she saw him looking.

"I'll meet you in the car," he said, handing the keys to his 
baffled partner.

He stood at the end of the counter until she emerged, head down, 
arms crossed.  The cook eyed him warily, flipping pancakes and 
eggs.

"I can't leave here until I know...is it worth it?  Abandoning 
your family, abandoning me...is this fresh start worth all of 
that?" he asked her in a low murmur.

She smiled despite herself.  "Yes.  I have a life now, at least."

He touched her shoulder lightly.  "I do love you," he whispered.

Her thin face contorted, and she reached to him for a long-needed 
hug.  He didn't want to let go.  When she finally pulled away, he 
kissed her forehead gently and helped her wipe the tears from her 
cheeks, neither of them admitting that his matched hers.

"You better go," she told him, glancing behind him to Wilson.

He nodded.  "If you ever need anything, if you ever change your 
mind- "  He offered again.

"I won't.  But thank you."

"But you have my numbers?"

"Yes."

He nodded again.

"Goodbye, Mulder."

"Bye, Scully."

They looked at each other for a few more seconds, then she 
disappeared back behind the swinging door, and he turned towards 
his bewildered partner.

"What was that?"  Wilson asked, settling into the driver's seat.

"An old friend of mine," he said, buckling his seatbelt.

"Way out here?"

He tapped his watch, indicating the time.  Wilson took the hint, 
and drove them out of the parking lot.

She wasn't so far off from the waif he'd pulled out of strip 
clubs, or the empty woman who'd woken up in the hospital, unaware 
that her life had been declared over without her permission.  She 
was still lonely, still lost, and still haunted.  But she finally 
had a place where she felt like she belonged.  Maybe that was 
enough to appease his sometimes-masochistic conscience.

At least now, he could rest, he could sleep soundly at night 
knowing she wasn't hurt and cold and in pain, waiting for him to 
rescue her.  He knew where she was and he knew she was safe.  If 
things became worse for either of them, or if he needed 
reassurance that the choices they had made where the right ones, 
he knew where to find her.  And she always knew where to find 
him; she had no reason to run anymore.  There wasn't a sense of 
absolute peace, but there was the freedom to breathe and the 
sense of contentment.  It wasn't quite perfection, but it wasn't 
dissatisfaction either.  

On the highway, Mulder inched closer to his latest murder victim; 
inside the diner, Scully watched their taillights disappearing 
into the early morning haze.  Slowly, the sounds of their 
respective lives intruded upon their thoughtfulness as they went 
about their day - separate lives, separate worlds, but always 
together.

<><><>End (of series)<><><>