Title: Distance Author: Missy Pennington Classification: V, MSR Rating: PG Keyword: MSR Summary: An emotional standoff and a long distance phone call Author's Note: This is the first of two follow ups to my story "Tempest," which can be found at Gossamer. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, FOX, and 1013 Productions. No monetary profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Distance By Missy Pennington "Distance is the cruelest enemy known to the human heart." -- Monique Plaisance Comfort Lodge Motel Dothan, Alabama There was nothing at all spectacular about room 117 of the Comfort Lodge Motel. Like every cheap motel on the I-75 straight-away, it supplied little more than shelter and some small modicum of security to the weary travelers housed temporarily behind its thin walls. The rooms were small, the furniture unmatched, the dim light of low wattage bulbs casting deep shadows upon the floor and walls, keenly disguising the telltale signs of age and possible neglect. Still, it wasn't the worst motel Special Agent Fox Mulder had ever stayed in. It didn't even make the bottom ten. And while it would never be mistaken for the Ritz, this one at least seemed reasonably clean. Hell, there had even been hints of luxury here: actual cellophane around the small brown ice bucket on the counter, plastic cups individually packaged, and a paper wrapper around the toilet seat, stating that it had recently been "sanitized." Of course he hadn't believed it for a minute, but he had to give them an 'A' for effort. At least someone had cared enough to lie. Besides, for the moment -- for the past two days, in fact -- it was home. "Be it ever so humble," Mulder muttered, entering the room without enthusiasm. It was quiet. Crap. He stood in the open doorway and sighed heavily at the sight of glaring sunlight filtering into the room through the half-exposed window. Damn maid. She obviously belonged to a sun-worshipping cult of neatness fanatics without sweat glands whose sole purpose in life was to ensure that after a hard day's work, a person could prolong that "not so fresh" feeling for even greater enjoyment later in the evening. It was methodical, ritualistic...make the bed, open the curtains, turn off the air-conditioner. Sadistic bitch. Mulder stepped across the threshold, shrugging out of his suit jacket and tossing it carelessly onto the nearest bed before the door even clicked shut behind him. Jesus Christ, it was hot. He pulled anxiously at his tie, loosening the knot with his left hand as his right felt for the yellowed cord that dangled freely along the edge of the window. He pulled it hard, making the heavy blue curtain halves swing inward with a quiet whoosh, overlapping each other briefly until the momentum ceased. One flick of a switch on the antique wall unit, and the machine groaned to life, beginning its familiar death rattle that expelled honest effort, but very little cool air, into the room. He hated the South. It was just so damn...rural. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, along with his tie, draping both across the back of the small wooden chair beside the bed. Ignoring his T-shirt, he stepped out of his shoes, pulled his socks off quickly, and tossed them over his shoulder onto the floor. He padded barefoot across the room to the bed, dropping backward onto it with a heavy sigh, arms outstretched. Why was he here? What the *hell* was he doing here? His mind began the rundown, silently answering the rhetorical question. He was investigating a case. He was second-guessing the obvious, hypothesizing things the average person didn't want to consider, stepping on the toes of local law enforcement. In other words, doing what he did best. He was missing Scully. Working the past three weeks without her had been an exercise in patience. He was tired of pointing out holes in his own theories...bored with his own company. The days dragged on endlessly. He wondered if she missed him even half as much. A severe leg injury, sustained in a plane crash, had put her on restricted duty for four weeks. Office work. Four weeks of the paper chase. And if he was missing his red headed partner's cynical mind and discerning eye in the field right now, he could at least take solace in the fact that he was handling her recuperation period a hell of a lot better than she was. After the first week, she had been climbing the walls. By the end of the second week, coworkers were taking alternate routes to the cafeteria to avoid bumping into her. Dana Scully was swiftly and surely going insane from the tedium of deskwork, and had vowed to take the rest of the J. Edgar Hoover Building with her. Not a person who knew her doubted she could. Mulder ran a weary hand down his face, rubbing his eyes tiredly. If there was one thing he knew for sure about Scully, it was that she had the capacity to drive a person crazy. He was halfway there himself. They'd spoken only twice in the past week -- a record low for them during their partnership -- and the silence puzzled and frustrated him. In the three weeks since they'd made their way out of the Tennessee wilderness, they had yet to broach the subject that he knew was on both their minds: The Encounter. For whatever reason, fate or circumstances, he and Scully had crossed a line out there, moved from partners to...to what? Damned if he knew. They weren't lovers. Not officially, although God knew they'd made a good stab at it before rescue reared its ill-timed head. But since she'd been released from the hospital, there had been no mention of the closeness they'd shared. Maybe so, he argued with himself, but he hadn't wanted to push her. He'd fared better in the crash than Scully had -- far better. He'd walked away with only minor cuts and bruises; she'd very nearly lost her leg. So he had stepped back, given her time to recuperate and room to breathe. He'd just never expected it to drag on this long. The first week, the silence hadn't bothered him. He'd brushed it aside, chalked it up to her injury and a need for recuperative rest. But then the second week came and went. By the time this case had presented itself several days ago, he'd welcomed the chance to leave DC, thoroughly disconcerted by his partner's unwillingness to talk about what had, to him, seemed a monumental event. Unwillingness to talk about it? Ha. He was beginning to wonder if she even *remembered* it. While he'd been going out of his mind recalling the softness of Dana Scully's warm, inviting lips and the velvet silk of her bare skin everywhere against him, she was acting as though the whole experience was a bad dream best forgotten in the light of day. Three weeks and not a word. Not one mention. Nothing. Had she blocked it out of her mind? Had she decided it was all a mistake? It was no mistake. He'd known that the moment their lips met. Nothing had ever been more right. That was the $64,000 question. He'd tried for a while to get a feel for where they stood with each other, but the tenebrific silence between them gave no clue. Every psychologist profiling trick in the world wasn't enough to get a bead on Dana Scully when she didn't feel like sharing. Mulder sighed again, his body relaxing further into the too-soft mattress. They had to talk, and the sooner the better. To hell with breathing room. Fuck personal space. Obviously, he was going to have to confront her when he returned to DC, because the overwhelming desire to finish what they'd started was beginning to take over his every waking thought and most of his subconscious ones. Here he was in the middle of a case with four discolored, chemically decomposed bodies, and all he could concentrate on was the logical conclusion to what had been unceremoniously aborted on the bank of that river. If that conclusion wasn't ever going to happen, then damn it, she was going to have to tell him. It was past time. His patience had run out. He wanted nothing more in the world than to play caveman now -- go to her apartment and kiss her until she melted into his arms, resistance seeping slowly from her weakened body until she could no longer support her own weight, leaving him free to lock the whole world outside her door and carry Dana Scully to the bedroom and explore every tantalizing curve of her body, inside and out. Not his best shot, tactically speaking, but hell, a man could dream, couldn't he? Lately it felt like that was all he *could* do. He eased further into the fantasy, his body hardening at the thought of a certain red-headed beauty, breathless beneath him. The shrill double ring of the motel room phone resonated loudly over the chugging air conditioner, startling Mulder from his trance as effectively as a bucket of cold water. He turned his head toward the nightstand and reached for the receiver without raising up. It was too hot to make the effort. "Mulder." There was a momentary hesitation, and then the almost surreal sound of his daydream stepping into reality. "Mulder, it's me." As always, Scully's timing was impeccable. Just the sound of her voice sent a shock wave through him. How long since they'd spoken? Two days? Three? It felt like a month. His heart began beating double time. "I'll give you a million dollars if you'll get me out of this place," he said in lieu of a greeting. She chuckled lightly. "That bad?" "Honestly? No," he answered. "It just falls under the heading of 'Places You Wish You Weren't.'" He closed his eyes, conjuring up an image of his partner as they talked. "Ever spent a 'hottest June on record' in Alabama, Scully? It's the Scared Straight version of Purgatory. This is where they send people to get a taste of eternal suffering in the flames of hell." "No," she bantered, "you're thinking of Nevada. Alabama is where they send you when they're just trying to piss you off." He gave an appreciative snort. "I'd laugh but it takes too much energy." "Don't let me put you out." He could hear her smile in her voice. There was a thick pause as he waited for her to speak, but she said nothing else. Finally, he broke the silence. "Tell me again what I'm doing here, Scully." She answered slowly, her voice sounding uncharacteristically tentative for some reason. "Well I can do that if you want...but I don't think it's going to make you feel any better." "Oh?" He sat up, giving her his full attention. "You got the results?" "Yeah, Mulder, I did. In fact, the tox screen is in my hand as we speak. But um..." she paused. "Considering your feelings about how you've spent the past two days, I don't think you're going to like it." He fell back on the bed in defeat. "It was negative." "Well no, not completely." Her voice was flat. "But Mr. Danby's death is unrelated to the case. There's no connection to the first three bodies." "Damn." He ran his fingers through the sweat-dampened hair that clung to his forehead. "I know," she said. "I wish I could offer something more constructive. The cyanosis of the extremities did appear to be the same as those found on the first three victims, but the autopsy on Mr. Danby turned up no trace of the chemical compounds that caused the deterioration of the tissue in those cases. In this case, the blueness was caused by exposure to a single, highly toxic substance, most likely Paraquat." "Paraquat? Sounds like an exotic fruit," he joked. She didn't laugh. "Mr. Danby was a farmer, wasn't he, Mulder?" "Yeah." "Well Paraquat is a herbicide, highly toxic by ingestion, inhalation, or even just prolonged contact to the skin. It cuts off oxygenation to the body piece by piece, which accounts for the blue fingers and toes. It also explains the ulcerated condition of the tongue and throat, since it burns its way through the internal tissue." Scully's voice trailed off, and he could hear the rustling of papers being shifted. Stacking the two pillows against the headboard, Mulder leaned back, taking a moment to process the information. "If that's true, then why haven't more of the farmers down here been affected by it?" "That, I can't answer," she told him honestly. "My best guess is that he was most likely the only one using it. Turns out it's not widely sold anymore, because of the health threat to the growers, and the few places that do broker it usually dilute it to the point that it's not a problem. Whatever toxicity is left is moderated by contact with the soil; at least that's the way it was explained to me." When he didn't comment, she continued. "Either Mr. Danby was inexperienced in using this particular herbicide, or he was just completely unaware of the risk he was taking. Either way, he was toying with a potentially explosive situation." A very unpartnerlike comment was nearly out of his mouth before Mulder stopped himself from stating the obvious. Jesus Christ, this was making him crazy. He was frustrated, he was hot, and he was now officially on a useless trip to Alabama. And the one person he'd wanted to talk to more than anything in the world was on the phone with him now. Talking business. "I've remanded the body to the Dothan M.E." "Well...thanks for letting me know," he said diplomatically. "You must have pulled some strings to get the results back this fast." "I did pull a few," she said. He heard the hesitance in her admission. "Well...thanks. I appreciate it," he told her honestly. "Anything to get out of this heat. I was going to ge--" "I didn't just do it for you, Mulder," she interrupted, gaining his attention instantly. "I did it for me too." She paused. "I miss you and..." Her voice trailed off. He heard the deepening emotion in her voice, and his body tensed in anticipation of her words. Whether or not it would be what he wanted to hear, he had no doubt that the moment was at hand. There would be no turning back from the course she was about to set. He held his breath while she gathered her thoughts, his heart sinking just a bit lower with every passing second. Awkward silence. Hesitance. That couldn't be good, he thought. But when the words finally came, they were not uncertain at all. They were strong and sure, and they stunned him with their simple honesty. "I want you to come home Mulder." She took a breath. "I want you to come home to me." * * * * * * * She'd said too much. She'd pushed too far too fast. She sounded clingy. Possessive. He would run screaming in the other direction. Dana Scully sat like a stone on the grey and white corner cushion of her couch and tried to remember any other time in her life when she had ever been this nervous. Medical boards. Loss of virginity. Three hours past curfew on a school night. They all paled in comparison to the pregnant pause that assaulted her psyche at this moment. She winced. This was not going well. Nothing in her life was going well at the moment. The uneasiness that had settled between her and Mulder would never have happened if she hadn't been restricted to deskwork for so long. They could have talked about things sooner, before the silence festered. The first week she'd shrugged it off. She assumed he was giving her some space, and in all honesty, she'd been thankful. Her leg still hurt like hell; it hadn't exactly been conducive to setting the mood for a replay of recent events. But when the second week came and went she knew something had taken a wrong turn. Their breathing room had taken on a life of its own. An unpleasant one. The entire J. Edgar Hoover building seemed to be cracking under the stress of a silent standoff that nobody knew was in progress. All her coworkers seemed on edge lately, speaking only in hushed, hurried tones, going out of their way to avoid one another at all costs -- even during lunch hours. The hallways were empty, the cafeteria unnaturally quiet. Anyone else might have taken it personally, but she knew she'd been blessed with a more even temperament than most. She never showed outward signs of stress. It was a good thing, too. If people knew how she *really* felt, they'd run for cover every time they saw her coming. The seconds ticked away like heartbeats, thumping against the vacuous wall of silence. Dear God, what has she done? Mulder had been trying to tell her something with his distance all these weeks, and she had ignored the obvious, trying to will it into nothing more than a misunderstanding of good intentions. But she'd been wrong. Damage control. She needed damage control. She couldn't think. She said the first words that popped into her head, trying desperately to backpedal. "I'm sorry, Mulder," she started. "I was --" "Don't..." he interrupted. "Just...don't say anything." The unnatural tone of his voice jarred her into instant compliance. Heart pounding, she drew her legs up to her chest, curling up tighter in the corner of her couch, wishing more than anything in the world that she could erase the last five minutes. What had she expected? They hadn't discussed anything outside the obligatory work-related topics for weeks. It did tell her something. It told her too much. It told her that what happened between them had been nothing more than the heat of the moment, and she'd placed too much importance on it. Well of *course* she'd placed too much importance on it, she reasoned. She hadn't had sex in four years. It wasn't normal! Reasonably attractive, intelligent women her age did not go four years without sex unless they were mentally disturbed or lesbians in denial. Did they? Maybe they did. Her left hand came up to cover her eyes, rubbing her brow in thoughtless despair. Who was she kidding? Every mentally disturbed, lesbian-in-denial in the world had probably gotten lucky since the last time she had. This was not supposed to happen to her. She was never supposed to become this serious, career driven woman with no...outlet. Then out of the blue, he was just...there. Wet. Tan. Gorgeous. Mulder. Mulder brushing her hair. Mulder kissing her neck. He'd obviously wanted her. God only knew how badly she'd wanted *him.* So she had done what any woman with a single functioning brain cell and a shred of estrogen would do: she'd attacked him. She felt the warmth of humiliation color her cheeks. It had been so long. Too long. Now Mulder knew exactly how long it had been and he was letting her know in no uncertain terms that it was going to be even longer; he wasn't interested. Under other circumstances, she could have been okay with that, really...she could have learned to live with it. Except she'd just tipped her hand. She'd taken the chance and it backfired. Mulder didn't feel the same way. He still hadn't spoken. This was getting ridiculous. "Mulder, I'm sorry--" she started. "I shouldn't have sai--" "No!" he interrupted. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Scully. I was just...I just...needed a minute to let that sink in." She was actually sweating now. She fingered the corner of the autopsy file beside her on the couch and swallowed hard. "Look, Mulder, you don't have to say anything. I don't want you feel like I --" "I do feel like it." Her heart stopped. "You feel like what?" "Like coming home." There was silence on the line. "To you," he amended. Her heart resumed beating in the same instant that time was suspended. Relief overwhelmed her, and she sagged down into the pillows. He wanted her. She hadn't made a mistake. She knew why, but it didn't matter anymore. "I was afraid you'd changed your mind," she admitted in a hoarse whisper. "You've been so quiet. You've hardly said a word to me since...we got back. And then I was afraid to bring it up to you...and the longer we didn't say anything the more I just thought..." "I was waiting for you," he replied. "I thought you were having regrets." He thought she was having regrets? They were living an O. Henry story. "No," she told him. "Not regrets, Mulder. Just...uncertainty." "About what happened?" She could hear the twinge of hurt in his voice. "No," she rushed to assure him. "Not about what happened." "Then what?" he pressed. "About what's going to happen. About what I want to happen." She heard his soft intake of breath, and it gave her the confidence to continue. "I've been afraid, Mulder, that once you distanced yourself from what happened, you might decide it was a mistake. And when you didn't say anything about it for such a long time, well..." His voice was hoarse. "I was waiting for you, Scully. All this time I've been waiting for you. I didn't want to push you. I thought that once you distanced *your*self from it that you regretted what happened." "No," she said softly. "I don't." "Well, that's not true," she amended. "You do regret it?" He sounded confused. "No," she smiled. "But I regret one part of it." "Which part?" he asked. "The part we didn't get to finish." "Scully?" he interrupted. "Yes?" "What are you wearing?" She bit her bottom lip and looked down at her blue pants suit, her blue eyes gleaming mischievously. "Pajamas with feet and a mud mask." "You *know* what I like," he growled. She laughed. "So...when are you coming home?" "My plane leaves late tomorrow afternoon. I won't be back before 6:30 or so." "You going straight home?" she asked. "You gonna make me a better offer?" he countered. "I'll do more than make you an offer -- I'll make you dinner." "Deal." "You're easy," she laughed. "Don't let it get around," he chuckled. "We need to talk, Mulder." His voice was quiet when he replied. "We will. It's overdue." She leaned her head against the back of the sofa, perfectly content to be aware of nothing in the world outside of his voice low in her ear. "A lot of things are overdue." The words were sultry, and full of promise. There was a momentary silence. "How's your leg?" his voice ground out finally. The change in subject was abrupt, and she laughed at his tactic, unwilling to let him off the hook quite yet. She stretched her injured leg out completely, running her hand around the back of her thigh, feeling the bandage that still covered the wound. "Mmmmmmm...it's much better," she told him in a low, husky voice, playing shamelessly to the moment. "In fact, I'll bet that I can even...oh yeah...I can. Guess what, Mulder," she purred. "I've regained my flexibility." He groaned. "God, Scully." She turned and swung her legs down from the couch, feeling suddenly lighter than she had felt in years, maybe even since before Melissa was killed. God, it felt good. She'd forgotten what it was like to know promise in a coming day. Everything had been so dark for so long. "Get some sleep, Mulder." "Okay. We'll talk tomorrow." "If you're real good," she smiled, "we may even do more than talk." "Scully?" "Yeah?" "I'm damn good." "Promises, promises." "God, I miss you. If you can make that dinner a brunch instead, I'll catch an earlier flight. I've had enough distance, Scully. I've had enough to last a lifetime." She agreed without hesitation. "Brunch it is." "You're easy," he mimicked. "Don't let it get around." "I'll be home early." "I know," she replied. "See you then." "Goodnight." "'Night, Mulder." She hung up and set the phone on the coffee table, her body still humming from the sound of his hoarse whisper. The uncertainty had been erased, she knew now where they stood. That was enough for tonight. Mulder would be back tomorrow, and they would figure out where they were going. If she didn't have all the answers yet, well... at least they were closing in on the ones that mattered most. Everything else would follow. Feedback is always appreciated. :)