Sandcastles for Pele (part 2 of 4)
Author: JL (formerly JaimeLyn) 

Rating: PG-13
Category: post IWTB, MSR
Disclaimer: Apparently, I'm allowed to play with them but I 
can't keep them. Damn it. (Do action figures count?) 
Anyway. Please don't sue. 
Summary: As they play a waiting game, Mulder and Scully 
call upon the past and embark on their own little 
adventure.

Author's note: This is the post-movie fic I wanted to write 
after realizing that "I Want to Believe" might be the last 
time we'd ever see Mulder and Scully. And as with most X-
Files endings, I thought there were a few untied ends that 
I really wanted to tackle.  If I had to describe this 
story, I would say that it is... not at all what you think 
it is. Take from that what you will.

Thanks to Alyssa for the honest feedback, and to my sister 
for the late night marathons.

---
Sandcastles for Pele
By JL



"Aloha mai no, aloha aku; 
o ka huhu ka mea e ola `ole ai."
- When love is given, love should be returned;
anger is the thing that gives no life.
- ancient Hawaiian proverb



-- 


Aikane Kahuna Hotel
12:30am


Scully waited by the elevator on the opposite side of the 
lobby. She was hastily dressed in a pair of shorts and 
Mulder's old Knicks T-shirt, both of which absorbed her 
until she seemed infinitely small and formless. Mulder, of 
course, he had always known better; Scully's size was her 
dirty secret, her Trojan horse, and objects in mirror were 
much more badass than they first appeared. 

Mulder paused to memorize her as an artist might map out a 
portrait; her red hair piled in bumps and knots at her 
crown, her calves moving restlessly to the rhythm of her 
tapping foot, those watchful blue eyes and her delicate 
face, dotted with freckles, free of makeup. He had a flash 
of making love to her for the first time, the two of them 
tangled on his old couch, in his old apartment, his body 
welcome inside hers, the power of release after so many 
years of waiting like an out of body experience. 

Mulder touched a hand to her shoulder, memorizing her 
warmth, and Scully turned. 

"So," she said, "Did you find the keys?" 

"No," said Mulder, "but I overheard something about an 
extra set hidden in one of the planters." He nodded his 
chin in the direction of the pots in between each elevator 
car. "I just don't know which one."

Scully nodded and caught sight of the security camera. 
"Okay, then," she said. "I'll check. You just keep a 
lookout."

Mulder peeked around the corner. At the front desk sat a 
rather bored looking girl engrossed with her cell phone. 
The brightly patterned couches were empty, and a TV above 
the girl's head glowed and flashed. Outside the glass front 
doors, the storm reached black fingers through the trees, 
every few minutes or so rattling the windows and bathing 
the dim guest lounge with bright white light. 

Mulder folded his arms and leaned against the wall. He 
watched as Scully buried a hand first inside one planter, 
and then another. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she 
said.

"I can't believe the kitchen closes at ten," answered 
Mulder, keeping a watchful eye on the girl at the desk. 
"Room service really would have sped this process up 
considerably."

Scully ignored him, continuing to root around inside the 
base of the planter, bending forward and peering in and 
then digging around with both hands. Mulder licked his lips 
and tilted his head and studied the attractive view of her 
backside as she dug around some more, her spine arched 
forward like a cat's. After a few moments of struggle, she 
finally uprighted and blew strands of hair from her face 
with a sharp exhale. "Found them," she said, with a grin. 

The glint in her eyes was bright and ancient and rich with 
history; the hunt, the discovery, the excitement, this 
feeling of never standing still - 

"Go girl," said Mulder, unable to hide his amusement. 

Scully stepped forward into his space, dangling the keys 
near his nose. "You'd better have a plan, Mulder," she 
warned.

"I do," said Mulder.

He kind of didn't. 

Nevertheless, Mulder kept watch as Scully turned the key in 
the lock. It felt strangely like old times, and yet 
ridiculously not. 

Soon they were inside the supply closet, the door closing 
swiftly behind them as Scully reached up blindly in the 
dark and groped for the light switch. They gazed around. 
The closet was little more than an enlarged shoebox with 
shelves for supplies and uniforms, and it smelled of wood 
and toilet cleaner and dust. Lacking a wide range of 
motion, Mulder pushed far into Scully's space, enfolded her 
at the waist and clasped his hands at the center of her 
back. 

"This was much more romantic in my head," he said, and 
sneezed as the odor of bleach punched him in the face. 

"Don't worry," said Scully dryly, her nose twitching, "I'm 
quite familiar with your overwhelming sense of romance."

Mulder snorted. Scully's knee shifted and she knocked over 
a can of paint. 

"You know," he said, "In my defense, I was often busy 
getting my ass kicked."

"Yes," replied Scully. "I do recall getting hit in the head 
with a boot from time to time." She tilted her chin. "So 
now what, Einstein?" Her hands mirrored Mulder's, clasping 
together at the small of his back.

Mulder glanced up above Scully's head, where neatly folded 
uniforms sat on a high shelf. "How do you feel about posing 
as a conveniently forgetful chef?" He nodded at a white 
triangular cap folded amongst a throng of other white 
triangular caps. 

"No, Mulder."

Mulder grinned. "Someone needs to be the chef, Scully."

Scully frowned. "Which automatically means I have to do it? 
This whole thing was your crazy idea. I say you be the 
forgetful chef and I'll be the long-suffering partner who 
bails you out when they throw you in hotel-jail."

"Hotel jail?"

"I'm not putting on a costume, Mulder."

Mulder smiled his most dashing smile at her, his heart 
pounding under the weight of their silly, makeshift game. 
For a second, he pictured Scully still lying awkwardly on 
the sand, her hand over her nose, her fingertips the color 
of poisoned apples. 

No.  He blinked it away. He wouldn't think of that now. 

"Ah, Scully," he said instead, and leaned in close to 
nibble at the underside of her ear, turning over in his 
head whether the stupidity of his plan might inadvertently 
overpower the very convincing argument of his tongue. "It's 
just like putting on a lab coat and heading into work, 
wouldn't you say?"

"No, I wouldn't say," Scully mumbled, her head tilted to 
give him better access, "So you can stop," His mouth on her 
neck, "your argument," Her jaw, "because I wasn't kidding," 
The curve of her ear, "When I said," She whimpered softly, 
"No."

"Whatever you say," answered Mulder, and he swooped in to 
kiss her more thoroughly as he yanked a clean white chef's 
jacket from the shelf above her head.

"Don't," Scully mumbled against his mouth, her fingers 
tangled in his hair, the eyes in the back of her head wide 
and unblinking. 

"Fine. Rock Paper Scissors." Mulder kissed a line to her 
jaw. 

"Interesting proposition." Scully arched into him as his 
hand slipped underneath her shirt, his fingers playing at 
the edges of her cotton bra, trailing the delicate skin 
around her nipples. She sucked in a breath. "I hear it's 
difficult to play Rock Paper Scissors with no hands, 
Mulder."

"I can think of another body part we can play with."

"Hmm." Her fingers traced the waistband of his shorts. "I 
think the outcome of that would be quite predictable, given 
that particular body part's range of motion." She kissed 
the rim of his ear. "Either way, I'd win."

Mulder pulled back slightly so they were nose to nose. 

He raised an eyebrow at her. 

She raised hers back. 

Mulder tilted his chin. "Best two out of three." 

"You're on."

---


Aikane Kahuna Hotel
12:45am


Scully walked up to the front desk, where a dark-haired 
teenager sat chomping on gum and texting on her cell phone.  
Behind the girl, from its mount on the wall, a rerun of the 
local news twittered softly on a plasma TV.   A bright 
looking, pretty meteorologist filled the screen, pointed at 
a map, and went on and on about the storm warnings still in 
effect and how the bad weather would remain for the next 
several hours at least. 

Scully knocked on the counter and smiled somewhat stupidly.  
The more she tried to figure out why she was indulging 
Mulder in this foolishness, the more she was blinded by 
images from the past: of waking in the middle of the night 
to find pairs of droplets on her pillow, blood red, like 
eyes; of Mulder on the other end of a cell phone, his voice 
laced with fear, as he agreed to bring her overnight bag to 
the hospital; of her own face, pale and drawn and nearly 
unrecognizable, staring sadly at her from the mirror, her 
fingers clutching at her grandmother's rosary.   

No.  She couldn't think of that now.

"Can I help you?" said the girl, as she flipped her cell 
phone open and shut.

"Yes, I think so," said Scully. Her smile was artificial 
and filled with teeth.  "My name's Dana and I'm staying in 
201.  I just had a real quick question."

The girl leaned forward, set her chin on her palm.  
"Shoot," she said.

"My partner and I, we had dinner at the cafe earlier, and 
we both agreed, it was wonderful."  Scully smiled harder, 
feeling ridiculous.  "Actually, ah, I was hoping you might 
know the name of the chef, so I could send him a note and 
properly thank him."  

"Oh sure," said the girl, and she reached beneath the 
counter for paper and a pen.  She wrote as she spoke.  
"Chef Kiaanna loves to hear that sort of thing - not many 
people think to thank the staff, and this is such a small 
establishment and all."  She tore the piece of paper off 
and handed it to Scully.  

"Thank you," said Scully.  She glanced at the paper and 
folded it in her palm.  "I actually have another question.  
If you don't mind."

"Not at all," said the girl.

"The security guards at the gate, they usually make rounds, 
don't they?"

The girl frowned.  "Usually, yeah.  But whenever there's a 
storm like this, we have to operate under emergency 
guideline procedure - the rounds get suspended and they man 
the gatehouse instead, block the driveway out.  It's 
amazing - we sometimes skirt right under the evacuation 
criteria, but that doesn't mean we don't get screwed."  The 
girl leaned towards Scully as if sharing a secret.  "I had 
a date tonight," she confided, and made a face.  "Some 
swell time I'm having."

Scully nodded, peeking out the corner of her eye at the 
elevator bank, where a second set of eyes peeked back.  
Scully startled for a second, widened her gaze and jerked 
her head.  Leave it to Mulder, a man who could successfully 
fake his own death, to be discovered after only thirty 
seconds of trying to break into a hotel kitchen.

"Everything okay?" asked the girl.  

Scully looked up sharply.  She forced a chuckle.  She felt 
somehow like the unwitting star of a frat house movie, and 
yet, with the delicious pounding of her heart, she also 
felt alive.  She was reminded of when she was fourteen, and 
had snuck out onto the front porch to steal cigarettes from 
her mother's leather purse.  Or the time when she was 
twelve, and had rigged a plastic skeleton with flashlight 
batteries, bulbs and wires, so that when her older brother 
Bill turned out all the lights in his room, the head 
glowed, and he screamed.  These small victories had always 
secretly thrilled her; she'd plunged headfirst into the FBI 
because of that thrill.

"One more question," said Scully, as the girl continued to 
stare at her blankly.  "Just because the weather's so 
terrible..."  She chucked her thumb in the direction of the 
window, where lightning lit up the night like the flash of 
a camera.  She leaned in closely towards the girl and 
drummed her fingers on the counter. "If I wanted to send 
over some tea or something to the guard-booth, when would 
be a good time to do that?"

"You want to send tea," the girl echoed.  "To the guard-
booth."

Scully nodded, heart pounding, as the reality of this 
extreme foolishness rushed through her; she felt jumpy, 
like a tireless child after one too many pixie sticks.  In 
her head, could hear Mulder's amused laughter, the teasing 
lilt in his voice as they drove back from an undercover 
assignment. "Your so-called acting skills," he'd air-
quoted, "Let's say they leave something to be desired.  I 
think I can safely say the last time I saw anything that 
unconvincing, I was watching Another Stakeout."

Scully glanced up at the TV and caught the tail-end of a 
Pepsi commercial.  She took a deep breath and willed 
herself not to sound moronic.  "Yes, I want to send tea to 
the guard-booth.  And I want to make sure it won't get 
cold, either."  Scully straightened her shoulders.  She had 
a ridiculous flash to her first day on the job as an FBI 
agent; her too-hot, too big, double-breasted suit, her 
stiff, short hair somehow not stiff or short enough.  She'd 
gone up to the pharmacy counter of a Ma and Pop drugstore 
to question the only witness of a serial shooting, and had 
trembled so badly she'd dropped her badge and gun before 
she could even introduce herself.

"Tea for the guards," said the girl, as if she weren't 
convinced at all. "I guess that's a nice thing to do."  She 
sighed, looking once again bored.  "The guards have their 
last shift change for the night in about forty-five minutes 
or so, so you should send it out before that.   They have 
to close up for a bit.  Sign in and out and all."

Scully nodded thoughtfully.  "Thanks," she said, and 
turned, glancing one last time at the news.  A jovial male 
anchor was reporting live from Kauai Veterans Memorial 
Hospital, something to do with budget cuts and financial 
disputes.  "And although this little boy's condition, a 
rare form of terminal cancer, has worsened this afternoon, 
his parents remain hopeful that the new hospital 
administration, unaffected by recent budget cuts that have 
plagued --" 

Scully paused for a moment, gazing at the screen, feeling 
something strange and familiar flicker in her abdomen.  Her 
heart fluttered, like the moment right before a kiss, and 
she wondered for a second whether she should call the 
hospital back home to check on Christian.  Then the girl at 
the desk groaned, grabbed the remote, changed the channel, 
and the spell was broken.  With a quick shake of her head 
to clear her thoughts, Scully made her way back to the 
elevator bank.  She found Mulder loitering in an alcove by 
the soda machine, looking beautifully stupid in a too-small 
chef's jacket.

"Robert Kiaanna," said Scully without further explanation.  
"And the guards will be away from the road blocks in forty-
five minutes."

Mulder grinned.  Inside him still lived the heart of a 
wide-eyed, curious ten year old, and never was it more 
evident than when he was dragging her off on some fool's 
errand.

"You ready, Doc?" said Mulder.  

Scully smiled ruefully.  "Aren't I always?"

He reached a hand out to Scully, and she took it.


--


Aikane Kahuna Hotel
1:05am


When she was a teenager, Scully and her older sister 
Melissa would often sneak downstairs in the middle of the 
night to smoke marijuana in their parents' basement. 

Melissa never told Scully where she'd gotten the stuff, but 
would just miraculously appear at the top of the stairs 
when least expected, a brown paper bag in hand, a dangerous 
glint in her eye. 

The two of them had entered into an unspoken agreement - to 
meet at two-am at the top of the stairs whenever Melissa 
had "gotten lucky," and then go downstairs together for a 
forbidden, delicious playdate.  Right up until college, 
Scully and her older sister had carried out these secret 
meetings, curling up like French fries on the ratty old 
rec-room couch, watching Breakfast at Tiffanys and How to 
Steal A Million and giggling for hours.  At some point 
they'd wander back upstairs in the black, liquefied silence 
of the house, and pull open the refrigerator.  They'd run 
their fingers over the selections, memorizing textures: jug 
of milk, bag of apples, cup of pudding, bowl of leftover 
fudge, bag of mostly-peeled carrots; cold, round, plastic, 
sweet, wet.   Against the ugly lime-green refrigerator 
they'd sit, two stoned rebels on the cold kitchen tile, 
eating pudding out of cups with their fingers, closing 
their eyes to savor the taste.  

This was the memory that came to Scully as Mulder came up 
behind her and stuck some chocolate covered piece of 
caramel in her mouth, sending tiny explosions of pleasure 
across her tongue.  She turned and hummed appreciatively, 
and licked the rest off the tips of his fingers as he 
raptly watched.  

"Good," she said, a challenging twinkle in her eye, "But I 
thought you were looking for ham."

"Turtles," Mulder explained, holding up a box of chocolate 
covered caramels.  He grinned, looking altogether too 
pleased with himself.  Although Scully would never admit 
this to him, she secretly thrived on his confident 
ingenuity, this ability he had of adapting to any 
environment, of turning the ordinary and the mundane into a 
workable adventure.

On the whole, the kitchen had been a strange but amusing 
experience, and surprisingly easy to break into -- likely, 
because the janitor spoke very little English.  Still, 
Mulder had played up his costume well, insisting he worked 
for the cafe and providing the janitor with a name for his 
list, and then spinning a disturbingly detailed story about 
having left his house keys in either the microwave or the 
industrial mixer ("you know how the equipment all starts to 
look alike after awhile," he'd said lamely) and the 
janitor, seeming both bored and uncomprehending, had 
unlocked the door for him.  "Fifteen minutes," the janitor 
had declared, and then left for the supply closet. 

"See? Easy as pie," Mulder had said, stripping off his 
white jacket and discarding it behind a trash-can.  He'd 
taken her hand and pulled her quickly through the unlocked 
door, nibbling on her neck and finishing, "Mm, I hope 
there's pie."

Scully tried to hide her grin as she swiped another piece 
of stolen chocolate from the box of candy and popped it 
into her mouth.  When Mulder leaned forward to lick the 
caramel from her fingertips, her smile broke free, and she 
felt both electrified and impossibly drunk. 

"So how many licks does it take to get to the center?" 
joked Mulder, as he kissed the inside of her palm, letting 
his tongue linger on the creases of her skin.

Scully eyed him with quick, uneven breaths.  Her pulse felt 
thready.  "You know," she said, eyebrow arched, "You're a 
real cocktease, Mulder."

Mulder pressed his hand to his chest.  "Am I?"  He shook 
his head.  "Such language, Dr. Scully."

Scully laughed and shoved at him.  "Find me ham," she 
ordered.  "Otherwise, you're useless."  

"Look."  Mulder waved the hand with the turtles. "Don't 
knock my strategy here.  Chocolate first, then ham.  The 
best way to a goddess-disguised-as-a-volcano's heart is 
through her stomach, and chocolate is simply more 
tantalizing."

"Is it, now?" asked Scully, backing up against the counter. 
"Because I have to say, if you think a ham and chocolate 
sandwich is the way to any woman's heart, I think someone 
ought to draw you a map."

Mulder walked forward into her.  "Woman, be appreciative."  
He set the chocolate turtles beside her on the counter. 
"I'm making a fool out of myself for you.  Surely, you 
realize that."

Scully leaned forward and kissed his jaw.  "Oh, Mulder," 
she said, "I think we both know you'd make a fool of 
yourself anyway."

Mulder brushed his palm against her cheek.  He leaned 
close, bending forward so their foreheads could touch.  
Whenever words failed them, there was always still this, 
however small. 

"Maybe," he finally said, his fingers gentle against the 
planes of her skin.  "But it's only fun with you."


---

Aikane Kahuna Hotel
1:30am


The two of them stood at the window of their hotel room, 
contemplating.  

Outside, squalls of rain slanted sideways.  The night lit 
up and turned to darkness.  On the nightstand sat a little 
plastic cooler with what might have been a picnic lunch on 
any other day:  a ham sandwich, a (half filled) box of 
chocolate turtles, a box of Swedish fish from the vending 
machine (Mulder had insisted that if he squinted they 
looked like multicolored alligators), and a container of 
strawberries (half of which Mulder had pilfered along with 
a jar of chocolate syrup, naughtily rationalizing, "The 
tongue wants what it wants, Scully.")  

Mulder set his hands on her shoulders and rested his head 
atop hers.  Scully leaned back into him and thought of the 
day she'd come home from the hospital, Cancer-free.  She'd 
been pale and hollowed in the cheeks, had developed dark 
circles under her eyes the color of half-healed bruises.  
Mulder had walked her up the stairs, wandered into her 
apartment, and meandered uncertainly as Scully had changed 
clothes and returned to face him.  She'd not invited him to 
stay and he'd never asked permission, although the 
arrangement had been somehow agreed upon and understood by 
both.  Not knowing quite what else to do or say, they'd 
settled together on the couch, close but not touching.  
Scully turned on the TV.  Mulder shyly reached for her 
hand.  He'd stayed with her until she began to nod off, and 
then he'd carried her to bed, tucked her in, and quietly 
let himself out.

"This is crazy," said Scully, brushing the image back, her 
gaze focused on the banana leaves as they strained 
sideways.

"Yes," said Mulder.  "It is."

"We shouldn't be driving in this." 

"Probably not," agreed Mulder.  "Remember that time I drove 
us through a hurricane?"

"Yes."  A crackle of thunder rattled the walls and a flash 
of lightning followed, and the world went momentarily 
white.  "I recall that being a stupid idea, too."

Mulder shrugged against the top of her head.  "You 
delivered a baby that night, didn't you, Scully?" 

"I did."

"I think that's pretty incredible."

Scully smiled.  "It was."

"You ready?"

Scully nodded.  "I am."



---


North Kahoolawe, HI
1:52am



Rain pushed past the car in ribbons, and still the car 
shimmied slowly on. 

Mulder squinted, gripped the steering wheel, and watched 
passing side-streets for the turn-off to Kings Hwy, unsure 
of what he'd say to her when they got there. He supposed 
this idea of the two of them at the foot of a volcano, in 
the middle of a thunderstorm, the pouring rain soaking 
through her shirt as his arms wound tight around her, had 
probably seemed much more romantic in his head. 

Streams of water spilled as if from a pitcher down the 
windshield, the wipers huffing and puffing their way back 
and forth, not making a dent. Thunder came quick, popping 
viciously like a cork, and was followed by the fire-hot 
sizzle of lightning. Rain fell sideways and in loops and 
swirls. The streetlights had burnt out, the road ahead of 
them a black, watery hole. Mulder flicked on the high-
beams; twin cones of light trailed off into the pitch 
black, and in his mind, Mulder could see the pulse of 
Scully's flashlight coming towards him, its beam bobbing 
frantically along hard stone walls. Occasionally, when 
Scully worked very late at night, and he was alone in their 
bed, he could still hear her frightened voice calling for 
him, and his own flashlight desperately seeking hers, the 
beams crossing in midair, the darkness all around them. 

"Mulder, we need to talk."

Mulder startled slightly, but kept his eyes on the road. 
"About what?"

Scully shot him a hard, knowing glance. 

Mulder bristled. "No," he said. In his mind's eye, he saw 
her as if through a plexi-glass divide; there she lay, 
silent, pale as ash, tangled in tubes like an insect at the 
center of a web, monitors reducing her life to a series of 
staccato beeps. Mulder jerked in his seat to erase the 
image, still so raw after ten long years. "I'm not doing 
this with you," he said, keeping a close eye on the road. 
"Not now. Right now, I'm driving you out to the beach so 
you can feed a ham sandwich to a volcano."

Scully's brows furrowed. 

Mulder frowned to himself.

"Mulder," she said.

"That came out a little more preposterous than I intended."

"Mulder."

"I actually intended to say some sweeping, poetic thing." 
He shrugged.

"Mulder!"

"What?" Mulder shot her an angry, sidelong glance before 
turning back at the road. Inside the whirls of rain, he saw 
Scully with her head tilted up at a stormy afternoon sky, 
her eyes closed, a small smile creasing her lips, her hair 
wild and curling in the humidity. She'd think he was asleep 
on the couch and would drape him with a blanket, kiss him 
gently, and wander out onto the porch, alone, to wait for 
the storm - to breathe it in, or to perhaps commune with 
God. In secret, Mulder would get up and wait for her at the 
window, still with wonder at the challenging mystery of her 
mind, as she turned her face to the sky. To him, nothing 
was more beautiful than this image.

"What do you want from me, Scully?" He saw her again, this 
time pale and weak and distant, scribbling furiously in a 
diary filled with poetic haikus of her own illness, her own 
death. Trying to merge these two unlike Scullys in his head 
made him dizzy, and he bit out, "Should I watch you 
disconnect? From the world? From me? Should I listen to you 
rattle off some flowery list of things you want to put in 
order before you die?" 

Scully reeled as if he'd hit her, and Mulder winced. "I'm 
sorry," he said. "But I just...I can't. I was never built 
that way." He sighed. "I love you far too much to watch you 
give up."

Scully sucked her lower lip beneath her teeth. He could see 
the battle in her eyes. With a shaky voice, she managed, 
"That's not fair, Mulder."

"What is, then?"

For a moment, the car was filled with nothing but the sound 
of a discontent sky. 

Scully reached for his hand on the gearshaft. She wove her 
fingers through his. "The darkness I can handle," she said, 
"You helped me see that. But I need you with me, now."

Mulder turned to her with feverish eyes and gripped her 
hand far too tightly. "No," he said passionately. "Not like 
that."

Another wave of uncomfortable silence crashed over them, 
and Scully turned away. The rain pounded its angry fists 
against the car.

Softly, she touched the pad of her thumb to his, asked, "Is 
this how you felt back then, too?" 

Mulder exhaled sharply. "You mean was I in love with you 
then?"

Scully said nothing. She withdrew her hand.

Mulder took deep, calming breaths, and trained his eyes on 
the road, on the twin stripes of light pointed straight at 
nowhere. How many times had he seen her bent in 
concentration over a mutilated corpse, poking and slicing 
and then lecturing up at him as if inviting him to some 
macabre dance? How many times had he envisioned the 
nightmarish possibility of that relationship reversed? How 
many evenings had he stood alone at his window, imagining 
the space between their apartments as something vast and 
impenetrable, and wished he could see her, just to know 
what she was doing, just to make sure she was okay, just in 
case? How many times?

"You know that answer," said Mulder. "And we're not doing 
this right now."

Scully massaged her temples, leaned against the passenger's 
window. "Burying ourselves in a fantasy won't make this any 
less real, Mulder."

"So we should break out your living will even though the 
test results aren't in yet?" Mulder gripped the steering 
wheel so tightly he began to sweat. Scully reached over and 
touched his forearm.

"That's not what I mean and you know it." She turned back 
to the windshield, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm afraid, 
Mulder." Her voice was small, so small. "I'm so afraid." 

That caught him off guard, and he said nothing. 

"I need to talk to you about this.  Badly. But you -- " She 
shook her head, clenched a fist in her lap, "Here you are, 
still hiding behind a mystery, some quest, some unexplained 
thing. But listening to me, really listening to me -- 
that's out of the question. You know, you're not the only 
one who's frightened, Mulder. You're not the only one in 
this car."

Mulder shot her a glare. Behind the frightened blue of her 
eyes, he saw a woman who had marched headfirst into the 
rain and asked him to start the engine. 

He turned back to the road, answered, "I've never been the 
only one in this car."

Scully's hand slid, defeated, down his forearm. "You know 
that's not what I'm getting at." 

"Then tell me, Scully," he said, the tips of his fingers 
stinging as they dug into the steering wheel. "Tell me what 
you're getting at."

Scully's breathing changed, the edge of each exhale like a 
shudder. 

Out loud she said, "How can I?" And swallowed and breathed 
and swallowed and breathed. "How can I tell you that you 
can't build me a sandcastle cure, Mulder? How can I ask you 
not to believe when I know you need to so badly? How do I 
tell you that I don't want to spend the rest of my days 
fighting something I can't possibly fight?" She paused. "Or 
worrying that you'll turn me into another quest, that 
you'll get yourself killed trying to avenge the injustice." 

Mulder had a harsh, quick flash to a time when Scully had 
gone missing; he had felt like a man left behind, the 
remaining half of a love unrequited. He'd gone to purchase 
a headstone for her, filled out all the forms, entered her 
name in the tiny blank boxes. Name of deceased: D-a-n-a S-
c-u-l-l-y. No. Not again. Not ever again.

Mulder let out a dark chuckle. "What a ringing endorsement 
- both for me, and for a positive outcome."

"Mulder -- "

Mulder banged his hand angrily against the steering wheel. 
"Tell me again why you're in this car with me, Scully."

Scully's tears spilled over. 

Mulder deflated. He reached for her hand. "Scully, look --"

But Scully's eyes went wide and suddenly she leapt forward, 
gesturing frantically out the window. "Oh, my God!" 

"Scully, what - "

"Jesus, look out!" She grabbed his shoulder and pointed, 
and his brain flashed roughly through images: the uneven 
road, the storm, the windshield wipers, the blood red 
blinking clock: 2:01, the darkness waiting for them, 
lurking just outside. Scully shook him and pressed her palm 
to the windshield, her expression filled with horror. 
"There's a boy! A boy, there's a boy in the road --"

"What?" Desperately, Mulder searched the road for any sign 
of a boy. Rain slammed against the windshield, bringing a 
dangerous texture to the howling darkness, and Scully, wild 
with panic, reached across him to roughly grab the wheel 
and yank it towards her. 

Everything slammed sideways.

"Scully! What the hell are you - " 

The radio turned on suddenly and spiraled swiftly between 
stations, garbling music and static that screamed madly, 
and as Mulder reached for Scully and the car began to spin 
out of control, a bright white light blinded them, and then 
everything stopped.
---
END part 2