TITLE: Fight or Flight
(Part 1 of 1 parts)
NAME: frogdoggie
E-MAIL: [email protected]
CATEGORY: VRA
RATING: NC-17. MSR. M/SC/SK friendship. SK/Sharon. This vignette
contains explicit het sex. Forewarned is forearmed.
SUMMARY: In the end which will we choose - fight or flight? Want to
read more of my fic? Then surf here: http://www.squidge.org/3wstop
FEEDBACK - YES PLEASE, AND THANK YOU SIR, CAN I HAVE ANOTHER?
Comments, suggestions and healthy debate are always welcome. Flames?
They only serve to warm my body and mind.
ARCHIVE: Sure. Anywhere - as long as my name and e-mail addy stay on
it.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an alternate canon story - no
Requiem, no William, S8 and S9 didn't exist. Some spoilers for several
episodes but they're not really that obvious.
KEYWORDS: vignette romance angst Mulder Scully Skinner Sharon NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, Sharon Skinner
and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen
Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright
infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use.

*Author's notes: This vignette is a companion piece to another story
"Time and Tide". It was written for Sallie - one of the most
thoughtful and caring people I know. Live long and prosper, my friend,
and always - walk in peace.

Fight or Flight
by frogdoggie

He watched the old man struggle with the reel, slide in the sand,
stumble and regain his footing. The surf was up and the waves buffeted
his thin legs. It had stormed last night. He couldn't figure out why
the guy would bother - surely the fish wouldn't bite in this post
storm surge?

He took another drag on his cigarette and wondered - Did the old guy
just like the thrill of nearly loosing it in the undertow, or did he
merely hope to catch breakfast?
That could be him in twenty years - running half on the adrenaline
rush and half on hope he'd win in the end. His smile around the Morley
was inspired by irony more than bonhomie. Hell - be honest, he
thought. It described him now.

The fisherman suddenly set the hook and than braced himself in the
sand. He'd snagged something all right. Something large with an
instinct for flight - to dive and dive fast to escape. The cigarette
flared up as he inhaled - the hot smolder from the end lost in the
growing dawn.

The catch on the old man's line suddenly exploded; twisted sinuous
muscle and shimmering scales, heaving up out of the water. He held his
breath, the smoke searing his throat as the fish fought for its life.

Flight or fight, the expression occurred to him just before the prey
outwitted the predator, dislodged the hook and flopped back into the
ocean with a mocking splash. We should all be so lucky, he thought,
exhaling at last.

The smoke came out through what felt like singed nostril hairs. He
coughed and grimaced, bent down and stubbed the butt out on the door
stoop.

"I shouldn't have started again," Mulder mumbled, scuffing some sand
off his bare feet. A stiff sea breeze blew his bed hair into further
disarray. He ran his hands through the tangled strands. "Next it'll be
Bill's brand of bourbon."

A sound behind him drew his attention away from contemplating two
fathers and the ill-considered return to an old addiction. He'd left
the door open after he'd hastily pulled on his jeans for a smoke.
Scully murmured in her sleep in the beach side motel bed behind him.

To run for your life or stick it out. "Fight or Flight" he whispered.
Everything about them could be defined by those two words too. Their
relationship. Their work. He guessed he knew which decision he'd made
in regards to both. Mulder smiled.

The call came just as they wrapped up the X-File in Wisconsin.  "All
right, I believe," Skinner said. Then he gave them the address. His
only caveat was to give him twenty-four hours to settle some affairs.

They'd turned in their rental car at Mitchell Field and then bought a
used Jeep Cherokee with cash from Frohike's untraceable wire transfer.
The Gunmen had gone ahead. The documents for their new identities were
waiting for them at the PO Box in Milwaukee. They were on the road to
Crossroads, Maine in less than 6 hours. Everything had been planned -
everything but last night.

They'd made it to Maine before the twenty-four hour deadline. The
seaside motel had been another in a series of seedy road trip dives
they'd stayed in. He supposed it was appropriate that "The Rolling
Dunes Motel" was where they'd stopped running.

Stopped running from each other, from commitment, from the fact that
they needed and wanted each other. Stopped running from the fact that
only by being together could they flee *and fight* - and maybe, just
maybe win.

He remembered her red hair against the pillow, like a red halo in the
lightning flashes. He remembered her pale skin, the freckles only
visible in the lightning flashes as well. He remembered her warm
breath in his ear. She whispered, "I love you, Mulder."

Mulder remembered his arms shaking as his cock slid slowly into her
warm, welcoming body. He remembered the way she watched him enter her
- her lips half parted, breath coming quuick in excitement. He
remembered staring into her eyes, electric blue as if lit from within
by a brilliant lightning bolt. He whispered, "I love you too, Scully."

But last of all, he remembered their sweat as they rocked together,
gently, almost tentatively at first then tempestuously like the stormy
surf outside. As they came, their sweat sealed them together, cemented
them body and soul.

Thinking about last night made him want her again this morning. But
there wasn't time. He tapped on her shoulder. She sat up, reached for
her gun. The sheet slipped, revealing her exquisite breasts.

"Whoa, pardner. It's ok...just nearly time to go," he said.

She made a self-deprecating face as he flopped down on the bed.

"I guess I 'jumped the gun'."

Mulder chuckled.

"Woman - guns aren't the thing I'd like to jump."

She punched him in the arm. He laughed and she rolled her eyes. Just
like old times. It felt good. It almost felt as if things would go
their way, he thought. His silence brought Scully's hand on his.

"Mulder, we don't have time."

He sighed.

"I know."

She graced him with an understanding and sympathetic smile. Then she
kissed him. "A rain-check," she said.

He grinned. He was starting to like this part of their brave new
world.

xXx

The house wasn't large but it had a phenomenal view of the dunes, the
rocks and the ocean beyond. It didn't look rented - it looked lived
in.

A rented Ford sat in the driveway, but there was a Land Rover parked
next to it. There were rainbow colored lace curtains in the windows.
Sculpted ceramic wind chimes swayed and tinkled in the salty air. A
hand painted sign hung by a nail next to the front door. Der Zeit ihre
Kunst. Der Kunst ihre Freiheit the sign said.

"To each time its art. To that art, its freedom," Mulder translated.

Scully raised her eyebrows.

"I thought you said he was on vacation."

Mulder replied with a shrug and half-smile.

"That's what he told me."

They would never have expected Sharon Skinner to open the door.
Skinner stood behind her, loading a rifle. He looked up and gave them
a curt nod. Sharon had his Smith and Wesson strapped to her hip.

"I believe now too. We're ready to go," she said.

-The End-