Joy And Sorrow

Scully is back. Weeks of her life vanished from time and her memory.

Krycek is gone. Vanished the same number of weeks and now - more.

Scully is back. "I'm fine Mulder. I've lost enough time as it is, Mulder" "I need something to hold on to." She meant work, of course, not me.

//"I could hold you forever", he whispered, when he thought I was asleep.//

It's an ordinary enough day in Santa Fe, three sightings of alleged levitations outside the Cantaloupe and Cactus Health Food Restaurant.

I came to New Mexico alone. Skinner was, for once, happy enough to sign the travel request, apart from commenting, "They are probably just full of gas after eating unlimited refried beans and getting to the bottom of the tequila,"

Scully grimaced, and he pushed his glasses more firmly up his nose. She was getting her sea legs back after the month we'd spent in quarantine.

No one will follow up on the possibility of silicon-based life forms in the foreseeable future.

More weeks of lost time, although she wrote a paper on forensic cat- scan methodology while she was waiting. She will get to spend some time this week with her mother in Baltimore when she presents it at Johns Hopkins.

I spent the time comparing every abduction case since 1973.

//His hair, after he showered, was always smooth and soft. His mouth, hot and wet. I would sift the strands through my fingers and give in to the rhythm, the slow mindful rhythm that drove me mindless.//

I'm glad for the sun. It's merciless and drives everything else out of my mind except the longing for shade and a gallon of ice tea.

Everyone hanging around the Cantaloupe and Cactus is more bored than hostile and not at all surprised the FBI is investigating. New Mexico has a history of strange happenings.

I like that in a state.

Scully's retaliation for having her life interrupted was with a new haircut, a brighter shade of henna, and another half-inch on her heels. The round-cheeked softness was rapidly fading from her face, and I could see the underlying strength of her cheekbones and chin becoming more pronounced.

Hardship was defining her. Her patience for the lack of hard scientific proof was wearing thin. Or. was it her impatience for me had become as solid as a rock?

//He had infinite patience, when he mapped each muscle and contour from my ankles to my mouth, with his tongue. He did it in the dark, with the air-conditioning on full blast. I learned the oxymoron icy/hot, when he would impale himself on my goose-fleshed body.//

The desert levitations aren't paranormal, and it isn't the refried beans. It's peyote, too many tequilas and the slanted shadows of the desert landscape. I saw it too, after my fourth shot of tequila and a fifth beer . I lose my way on the walk back to the motel, while walking the few blocks through the adobe and glass of a new housing development set between the desert's edge restaurant and the older squat highway motel.

It unaccountably starts to rain, and I catch glimpses of an unrecognizable man in window reflections and rain puddles. He must be drunk, because he sways, and he must be careless, because he has no coat. He picks himself up after he misses the curb and trips; he must really be drunk.

I wipe the reddish mud from my trousers and the palms of my hands.

//He rubbed cool rain scented cream on my back, and he warmed it - and my skin - with long sure strokes. No seduction, "You ache Mulder, relax and rest." I woke in the early morning and took him quietly; he tasted like rain, fresh from the coast, the flesh of his belly was a smooth white beach, and the liquid heart in his eyes was as green as the sea. His coral lips mouthed an eternity in their depths. I resisted drowning.//

I'm soaked, sore, and exhausted, when I fumble my way into the motel room.

I really shouldn't drink.

The room spins when I close my eyes.

I reach to anchor myself but the bed is empty.

I hear the rain forcefully splatter across the windowpane and the roof.

Tomorrow the cacti will bloom in the desert and I will catch a flight back to DC.