Waiting In Motion (8/10)
by mountainphile
mountainphile@yahoo.com
MSR, NC-17
Header and Disclaimer info in Part 1

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Four years is a long time for a trail to stay fresh.  A long
time for true love to wait in lonely vigil.  Could there be
a limit to such patience, an end to the yearning?  Mulder
told her once, many years ago, that he knew the difference
between expectation and hope.  Scully wonders if the same
holds true for Ruth.

The woman's story sounds too fantastic for words, yet fills
Scully with a peculiar foreboding.  It's true that this spot
on the map is remote, and wilderness areas are natural
hideouts for those seeking solitude or a tenure of imposed
asceticism.  How easy it would be for an individual actually
seeking to become lost, intent on pursuing his own anonymity
and hoping to keep it.  She prays Samuel Tolliver isn't one
of these.

And if not... then what in the world has happened to the
man?  What strange forces are at work around this
mountaintop?  She wonders about the surprising intensity of
last night's episode and is almost tempted to link it to the
unknown powers here.

She doesn't deny the existence of unusual phenomena, caused
by strange magnetic imbalances, by genetic mutation, by
psychic ability, by any number of unexplainable causes.  Her
years on the X-Files are testimony to that, despite her
commitment to science and her professional integrity within
the Bureau.  But the changes she sees within herself come
with a price tag, and are too often the result of trauma or
events which she can't explicate with scientific theory,
much less divulge to the uninitiated.

The scar on the back of her neck and her barrenness are a
daily reminder of this reality.

For this reason she would rather Mulder take the burden of
this situation and make sense of it, with his own eclectic
brand of logic and theory that has frustrated her to no end
over the years of their partnership.  Let him do the honors.
He does it so well, while she pokes her holes and struggles
to straighten the kinks with cogent, scientific rationalism.

And now, like before, it's happened again -- in Mulder's
absence, while he's out in the forest seeking the Weird,
another supernatural conundrum has fallen unbidden into her
lap.  It's not the kind of luck she wishes for.

Like sitting next to a stream in the forest, she hears
Ruth's voice as a lilting gurgle, a backdrop to her deeper
thoughts.  The leaves outside lift and rustle in
accompaniment; the occasional rumble of thunder vibrates
like a dark forbidding timpani.  She's reminded that
Mulder's still out there, somewhere, in the gray-green
wetness of the forest.  She wishes he would return so they
could leave this place for home.

Refocusing, Scully hears the other woman's words resume
shape and clarity.

"... and tourists come to stay in the campground over summer
-- stay a day, maybe two, then go...  The motel has only got
six rooms, but it keeps me busy, and I call my sister to
help me with the laundry an' cookin'.  She an' her husband
Carl live down in town and he drives her up when I get
really busy or need somethin'.  This ain't a place she wants
to come to, though.  Like pullin' teeth to fetch that girl
up here and I might as well forget it if there's a storm
comin'."

Yes, Scully muses with a smile and a swallow of the cold
tea... Ruth was correct when she said she liked to talk.

"Your man Fox... he's tall like Sam, not so big around, an'
Skeeter took a real likin' to him.  Hardly ever happens.
Scared him at first, bein' FBI an' all, but I got to tell
you... it made me cry to see your man kneelin' down after
supper last night.  Talkin' and payin' him some attention,
takin' a minute to stop an' make my little boy happy... "

Scully doesn't take issue with the goodness of Mulder's
heart, but knows there was more to his little conversation
with the boy than simple kindness.  At the same time, she's
touched by this poignant observation.  She remembers her own
emotion, observing the two of them together last night.

"Sam was always so... protective, you know?  He wanted to
see his baby so bad.  Always wanted children.  He hated
leavin' me, even to drive to town when I got real big around
the middle... "

Ruth speaks to her lap, fingers picking at a fray in the hem
of her apron.  A teardrop splashes down, making a shiny, wet
place on the dark skin of her hand.

"I told Skeeter all 'bout his Daddy, 'bout Sam.  He needs to
know what kind of man he's born from... what kind of man
he'll grow up to be some day.  I tell him that we've got to
be ready, if Sam comes back up that road.  That he don't
need to be afraid to hug this big, sweet man that tries to
kiss his mama... "

"Does he have a name other than Skeeter?"  Scully asks
gently.

"Sam picked it.  In the Bible the old prophet Samuel anoints
the next king while he's still a little boy.  It seemed only
fittin' that he should be a child of the mountains, waitin'
for the day Samuel would come around to give him his
blessing... "

"David," Scully murmurs, surprised at her own recollection.

"Yep.  An' Ruth's Boaz was his great-great-granddaddy.
Seems like everybody's destined to take a turn waitin'.
It's just how it is... and they're all worth waitin' for,
honey."

Ruth stands up with a grunt, arms crossed over her breasts.
"Dana, I got to believe that Samuel will be comin' back to
see his David some day...  In the meantime, me an'
Skeeter'll just keep busy, doin' what we do.  That's all we
*can* do, besides hope an' pray.  Life goes on."

"That's true, Ruth... but it doesn't replace the man.  Or
take away the pain."

"No, that's true enough."  Ruth pins her with somber eyes.
"What would *you* do, if you was me?"

The possibility has haunted Scully for years, since her
heart began stirring toward Mulder and she realized he was
an irrefutable part of life.  While the bond of partnership
was sacrosanct, they wrote their own addendums to the creed.
His strengths to cover her weaknesses, hers to compensate
for his in their unique branch of service.  So easy to grow
careless through familiarity, to operate by assumption.
They've seen it happen to other partnerships in the Bureau,
and so have watched over one another accordingly.

She's imagined the unspeakable ... Mulder struck down in the
line of duty.  Shot, attacked, mortally injured, bleeding
from unstaunchable wounds that gush like thick oil over her
fingers and won't respond to first aid or skilled treatment.
Mulder, lying white and still on cold hospital sheets,
awaiting the last indignity before burial, though she would
be urged to let another doctor perform that final task.

She would grieve, inconsolable in private, composed as glass
in public.  She would bury him, enduring the anguish of
abandonment, a handful of friends and family at her side.
There would be a body to put to rest under his gravestone.
Like her sister, like her father... some substantive closure
before moving on, forever scarred, with the painful business
of life.

But if Mulder were to disappear the way Sam did?  Suddenly
vanished, with no trace, no information.  She can only
imagine the heartache her family suffered during her own
disappearance five years ago, before she was so
ignominiously returned.  She remembered the unrest she felt
when Mulder disappeared for days, for weeks at a time, when
she felt powerless in her ability to find him.  And then,
having found him, to leave him again for Africa in order to
find a way to save his life, to restore him to health.

At least she wouldn't have the daily reminder that is
Ruth's... having borne the child of the man she loved,
without him seeing that child come into the world.
Barrenness could be a solace instead of a bane, under such
circumstances.  She considers her own empty ovaries and the
theft of their precious contents.  Would it be a greater
comfort in the end to simply imagine the lost possibilities,
or to give birth to the child?  It's not a question she
feels she can ask of Ruth.

Both women startle when rapping shakes the door.  "Mama! Let
me in!"

"You go on an' play some more."

The child whines and hits the door again, making Scully
smile at Ruth's heavy sigh and exaggerated eye-roll.

"Ain't nothin' to do out here, Mama!"

Ruth gives Scully a quick wink and stands to open the door.
"What's that I hear?  A Skeeter-bug?"

The boy, poised on the threshold, doesn't know whether to
grin or pout.  He averts his face, shy before Scully, and
twists his body, lips petulant.  "I ain't no bug."

"Aw, you're *my* special little Skeeter-bug... an' you know
it."

Ruth snakes out an arm and grabs the child, tucking him
under her chin and squeezing him.  High-pitched giggles
erupt.  A mother-hug, Scully thinks, watching the scene with
moistened eyes.  A heart full of love for a child made all
the more precious, because of the empty place left by his
father.  The question has been more than answered, leaving
Scully suddenly empty, deflated, oddly bereft.

She sighs and stands, tucking a lock of hair in back of her
ear before running her palm over the boy's curly head.
"Skeeter," she murmurs, "you have one special mama."

"I know it.  She gonna drive me down to town this week."

Scully's smile freezes.  Somewhere in her brain a connection
is made and she finds herself in mental light-speed, sorting
through the various conversations of the last day.
Comparing, contrasting the basic elements and similarities.

"Whatever happened to the truck?" she wonders aloud, looking
out the window.

Ruth's head jerks toward her.  "Sam's?  Havin' it around was
too much of a reminder, so I got me somethin' smaller.  I
don't drive hardly at all, though, with my sister's family
helpin' out and me needin' to be here.  All the same, I
didn't have the heart to sell the truck... it's out back in
the old shed."

Scully turns to stare at Ruth, her thoughts continuing to
formulate even as she grabs for her coat.  "Do you have a
flashlight?  Because I have an idea.  And I need to examine
the truck to be sure."

Through years of neglect, the path to the old building has
grown into a weedy snarl, which they negotiate with care in
the dimness of the storm's shadows.  Wet, wind-whipped
brambles pick at Scully's slacks and more than once she
pulls the thorny weeds away from her legs.  Ruth leads the
way.  Skeeter a tremulous tick at her side, whines his
displeasure.  "I hate that old shed, Mama... "

"There it is, up ahead.  Nothin' inside now except junk."

The flashlight is passed back into Scully's hands.
Fascinated, she plays the beam over the exterior of the
sagging gray structure, it's roof dappled with green moss.
Broken glass fringes the windows, the walls bristle from
peeling paint.  Creaking, the door hangs on rusty hinges and
needs only a nudge from Scully before it gives a crazy swing
to the side.  Blackness rules within.

"Don't!"

The hand on her coat is Skeeter's, his round eyes wide and
fearful.  Moved by his concern, Scully bends to the child.
"Why not, sweetie?"

"Big spiders in there," he whispers, his eyes like saucers.
"Big ugly ones... "

Ruth's strong arm scoops him back to her side.  "You let the
lady do her thing.  She ain't afraid of a few ole spiders.
Now you stand right over there and wait... we'll be out in a
minute."

The little boy seems grateful to oblige, backing away as the
two women enter the building.  The flashlight's beam bounces
over old equipment, boxes, rimless tires, long-abandoned
tools... and finally hits the dark blue shape of the vehicle
in the far corner.  A dusty hulk, it wears a coat of chipped
paint, dents, random blotches of rust-colored primer.

Ruth exhales and her breath is foggy in the damp, dark air.
"Shi-it. It always seems like a coffin to me, every damn
time I see it... "

Her voice holds the deep tremble that Scully heard earlier,
when revealing Samuel's identity and then telling his story.

"Are you okay with this, Ruth?  I can do this alone, if
you'd rather not be here.  Your choice."  Pausing, she waits
in respectful deference.  It seems only right for the woman
to decide before the investigation of the truck continues.

"I'm okay as I'll ever be, I guess."

Scully holds the flashlight up against the window on the
driver's side.  "Is it unlocked?"

"Yup.  Last time I checked.  An' it's been awhile."

The windshield is cracked, as is the rearview mirror,
suggesting collision.  The door creaks ajar with difficulty.
Scully is struck by the disparity between her own height and
the elevation of the old truck's floor, and steps up onto
the running board beside the driver's seat.

"Ruth, were you able to see the condition of the interior at
the scene?  Before the police gained access?"

"I seen it when it was still a mess.  But they already had
the yellow tape up and was checkin' around when I got down
there.  Then they lit into me right away, askin' questions.
By the time I got the truck back, it was wiped up some...
but I done most of the cleanin' later."

The flashlight pans along the stained carpet flooring, then
over the seats, cracked and worn down by years of sitting
and heavy weight.  Lips parted as she works, Scully breathes
in the dank smell of must and grease, heavy in the humid air
of the shed... and something else.  Directing the beam to
the seat, she runs her fingers over the wide, scorched area
revealed.  "Not deep cleaning, I hope."

"Naw, I didn't have the heart to go in between the seats or
nothin'.  Maybe should have, but it was trashed anyway, all
burnt and beat up.  I emptied out the glove compartment,
though, 'cause that was where Sam always kept his stuff."

"You say he never smoked?  No cigarettes hidden away?"

"Not a one.  You kiss like we did, you'd know it, all
right..."

Her reply is revealing, bringing a wry smile to Scully's
mouth.  "I know exactly what you mean, Ruth," she confesses,
examining the damage and remembering the dark, acrid taste
so frequent on Jack Willis' tongue in the days before they
parted company, so long ago it seems like a disembodied
dream, like another lifetime.

The edge of the steering wheel is blistered, as are a few
spots on the cracked dashboard.  No fire had been reported
in the interior of the vehicle and Sam didn't smoke.  How
then to explain the burns and scorching?

It would be an easier task for Mulder, taking it all in at a
glance, formulating his hypothesis, and then pinning her
with a knowing eye.  She can imagine the corner of his mouth
lifting in a tiny smirk for her benefit.  "So, what do you
think, Scully?" he'd say, waiting a moment and then leaning
in close, his presence surrounding her like an aura. "D'you
have a theory for me?"

She twists in the tight space, forcing her fingertips into
the narrow gap between the seat and its back in the dark
truck.  It feels gritty on her fingertips, packing under her
nails like a cache of old dust.  Like thick ash, soft and
yielding.  Laying the flashlight on the seat, she slips a
plastic bag from her pocket, looking back over her shoulder.
"Do you have something I can dig with?"

"I got this old pocketknife. It ain't sharp, though."

"Then it's perfect."

Unearthed from the deep groove of back and seat, the gray-
white treasure is scraped out and brushed into the bag.
Scully straightens and faces front, sliding her fingers
along the top edge of the plastic bag, hefting her palm
beneath it.  In the end, all she's garnered is a few
teaspoons of a powdery unknown substance.  Unlike Mulder,
however, she's not about to dip in a moistened fingertip and
venture a taste.  That's why labs exist; the bag could hold
anything from insecticide to talcum powder to grout to
narcotics.  In light of that, was it even worth the trouble,
coming out to this ramshackle shed and truck, acting like
she knew what she was doing?

And is there any chance in hell that this substance is
something even more remarkable, with origins proving to be
otherworldly?  Feeling foolish, she wonders if she's been
swept too far along by the melodrama of the tale.  The
missing man named Samuel.  She considers, too, that Ruth's
intense paranoia has had possible effect on her judgment.

Mulder, though pleased, would still expect her to test the
substance and weight the theory.  "Your goddamned strict
rationalism and science has saved me a thousand times over,"
he entreated her once in the hallway outside his apartment,
during that black, hollow time when hope had waned and the
walls of their partnership threatened to collapse under the
weight of insidious, overwhelming bureaucratic pressure.

She hopes that she's not unduly or unfairly stirred false
hope in Ruth, the woman who loves and waits for a man
missing for over four years.  Yet, here it is in her hand...
the dust Ruth had spoken of, identical in appearance to the
residue Mulder showed her from his files last night.
Substance supposedly garnered from alien abduction sites,
proving the existence of tachyonic activity.  Frohike and
his buddies will be hard pressed to show her, step by step
and in the face of current scientific knowledge, how their
bizarre conclusions have been formulated.

Yet, if she's honest with herself, this ashy powder is
identical to what she's already seen first-hand.  Created
under similar unusual circumstances, if the reports haven't
been fudged and her vague memories of the night at Ruskin
Dam are indeed accurate...

She hands the knife down to Ruth, then steps to the dirt
floor of the shed.

"Got somethin'?"

"Possibly. Come back outside, I'll show you."

The rain comes again, pinging and twirling the leaves
overhead against the darkened sky.  Skeeter, fretful and
restless, has stomped out a soggy wallow under the tree.  He
runs to his mother and hugs her until she stoops to heft him
onto her hip.  "Hey, you gettin' *way* too big for this... "

The woman and child regard the soft gray-white substance
held before them in its plastic bag.  Their solemn
expressions speak volumes.  No doubt the powder has all the
promise of snake oil or a quack's cure.  The average person
would have little or no awareness of the significance
represented and Scully purses her lips, knowing full well
that the explanation she's given must sound like nonsense.

"Ruth, it's inconclusive, but this and other forms of
*evidence* like it have been found in places... "  She
pauses, searching for the right words.  "in places where
other people have also disappeared under mysterious
circumstances.  It's a long shot, at best.  I'd almost have
to call it an impossibility.  But -- "

"But you never know," the woman interrupts.  "Somethin'
inside of me is tellin' me not to lose hope.  Maybe you and
your partner can find somethin' that the regular police
didn't.  An' I can wait as long as I need to if it means I
might see Sam again."

Scully looks from mother to son, touched by the woman's
tenacity.  God, what a situation to endure...  She squeezes
Ruth's arm and swallows.    "I can't promise you anything
substantive... but I'll show this to Mulder when he gets
back and see what he thinks.  There may be other avenues to
explore that I'm not yet aware of."

The rain returns in earnest.  Its pattering accentuates the
depressive mood, lending an air of discontent to an already
surreal afternoon.  Walking back toward the motel office,
they hear a far-off engine growl its way through the rain
and mud obstacle course.  Above them, headlights stab
through trees and dismal haze.

Thank God he's back...  After tracing the path of a man who
disappeared without cause, after beholding the tears of his
brave wife and the loneliness of his child left behind,
Scully's nerves are taut with an undercurrent of worry.  She
and Mulder have been here far too long anyway and she's
reminded of her overdue report begging to be finished.  Now,
with his return, they can compare a few notes, finish
packing up... and perhaps make love one more time before
sleeping.  Morning will herald their new journey back to the
real world.

"Might be Carl," says Ruth, squinting up the driveway.
"Looks like his truck."

Scully exhales sharply as an old black pickup negotiates the
ruts toward them.  The possibility that someone else might
arrive had not even crossed her mind in the wait for Mulder.
Stunned by a wave of disappointment, she masks her feelings
by raising a forearm over her face to shield it from the new
rain.

Ruth plants both hands on her hips in obvious
disgruntlement.  Skeeter, however, excited by the prospect
of a family visit, hops from foot to foot beside them and
waves at the approaching beater.

"Carl's my sister's husband.  He usually makes a trip up
from town to check on me or bring supplies.  I wondered why
I didn't see his sorry ass up here sooner, with the storm
an' all."

Roaring to a stop near them, an extremely tall, dark-skinned
man emerges from the vehicle.  He wears a navy blue hooded
rain jacket and an expression of concern mixed with
trepidation.  He sets aside his discomfort momentarily to
lift and hug the small nephew who's run to greet him.  "Hey,
Sis," he calls out.  "You doin' all right?"

"Yeah, we survivin', but no thanks to you.  Where you been?
We coulda been washed clear down the mountain for all you
town folks care."

He sets Skeeter down, acknowledging Scully with a respectful
nod.  "Ma'am... "

"This is Dana Scully from Washington DC.  She and her
partner are stayin' here till the bad weather blows over.
Dana, this is my brother-in-law, Carl Malone."

"Don't tell me you're a basketball player too?" Scully
deadpans, taking the huge hand offered to her.  His height
necessitates tilting her head far back in an attempt to make
eye contact with the massive, lanky stranger.  She regrets
the question immediately, feeling it to be foolish and
inappropriate, but knowing Mulder would relish the
introduction and tweak her for months about this greeting to
an NBA namesake.

A ready grin splits the man's face.  "Not me... and I hardly
ever watch the Jazz play, neither," he jokes.  "You ain't
the first person has asked me that, Miss Scully."

"I imagine I'm not.  Sorry."  She colors at his good-
natured, gracious banter, blinking her eyes against the
rain.  The soft shower of hair across her right eye brings
temporary refuge.

"Anyway, I was wonderin' if that was your car down there on
the back road.  White car, pulled off on the side?  Nobody
in it now."

It's the scenario she's dreaded.  Better to stay rational
and reasonable, to assess the true situation before jumping
to conclusions.  Her face feels stiff with tension, but her
voice remains level and modulated while she gathers
necessary information.

"Was it a Taurus?"

"Don't know for sure.  Dirty white car.  Not many people
know to use that road to town."

Scully shoots a quick, almost accusatory look at Ruth.
"What road is that?  I wasn't aware of any other than the
main road that brought us here."

The woman shrugs.  "There's the back road that some local
folks use.  Quicker than the road that you took an' less
traffic in the high season.  Tourists don't know where it
goes an' pretty much stay off it."  She allows herself a
patient sigh and jerks her head toward the shed behind them.
"I told you about it a while ago, Dana.  Sam's truck was
found out there, remember?"

Scully closes her eyes, makes the connection, then looks
away.  "Ruth, I'm sorry," she says in quick apology.  "I do
remember, now that you mention it."  It isn't like her to be
so easily rattled, but she can attribute the emotional
fragility to any number of possibilities, from separation
anxiety to stress to waiting on obvious tenterhooks for her
very overdue partner.

"An' it just seems real strange," ventures Carl, "but when I
walked aroun' to the front of the car, there it was on the
windshield, plain as day."

"What did you see on the windshield?"

The underlying tension in Scully's voice bleeds out, drawing
the man slowly toward her in the hushed drizzle.  "Maybe
this gonna mean somethin' to you, maybe not.  But it sure
seems strange to me... "

"Please, tell me."

"It's just... I swear to God -- but somebody put a big
letter 'X' up on that window, Miss Scully.  An' that's the
God-honest truth."

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END (8/10)
Waiting In Motion
by mountainphile