Millstones III: Fruition
by Cynthia J

STORIES ON THIS SITE ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY

Get ready for some reruns of disclaimers... I couldn't get "Gilligan's Island." You might want to go get a cappuccino or make a sandwich while I wade through all this. I'd hate to get sued, so hence the following. I mean no insult; it's just the nature of things... like having to warn "please don't stick your head in this toaster."

DISCLAIMERS!

* Warning! This story contains words and imagery that might be considered mentally damaging to some adults, all children and most small woodland animals... especially the hedgehog. The following is absolutely infested with sex, but we're having the place fumigated by teams of sensuality exterminators and should have the story sterile by the time you finish reading this. To all minors, let me warn you that the FCC has recently tightened its regulations and will now crate you up and send you to Haiti, where you will be flogged with sugar-filled Pixi Stix, if you read this story before you are of legal age. After all, your sexuality will be handed to you with your diploma, so just be patient and quit whining.

* "The X-Files" is the property of Chris Carter, and I'm not stealing it from him. If you must think of this as copyright infringement, then at least imagine that I am just sneaking into his house every night to play with his toys. However, I never take anything with me and always put things back where I found them... except for his model of the Love Boat (autographed by Aaron Spelling!), which I tend to leave floating in his bathtub. Let me show my devotion as a fan in this manner, Chris. Hell, I could be stalking your house with a script for "the best show ever" or writing to you that I'll kill myself if you don't somehow work Mr. Spock into one of the episodes. Take it easy. Relax. Ride it out. You're still a surfer at heart, remember?

* Disclaimer disclaimer: these disclaimers are mockeries and should not be taken seriously or internally... except the bit about copyrights, of course.

* The words featured in this story are the property of Modern American English, which is a transatlantic sister-corporation of Oxford English Inc., a company built upon the combined precepts of French-influenced Middle English Corp., Germanic Warrior Speech, Viking Verbosity, Celtic Runes'R'Us and the Jupiter Latin Company, industries owing their success to the Indo-European Language Foundation, formerly the struggling Guttural Utterances Company. Thank you for producing such a confusing but rich language!

* If this story in any way induces feelings of euphoria, motion sickness or verbaphobia, please return the unused portion (with a $59.95 handling fee), and I promise I won't laugh at you. Should you experience paralysis, avoid the operation of heavy machinery OR have someone lift you out of the way if you happen to be in the path of heavy machinery. Should a lawsuit arise, please contact the legal services of Crush, Rend & Maim, and I'm sure they can work something out with you... or your family members. Contact a physician if swelling persists and cover the problem area with a mixture of baking soda and water. For long-term treatment, I highly recommend you build up a tolerance by reading some of my other stories. (Hint: Always put the self-advertising bit at the end.)

* Oh there was a time in the naive bloom of youth when I said this series would likely span three parts. Well, as I've aged and soured up over the past two months, I've decided to protract the pain. In truth, I didn't have the slightest plan when I started this. I wrote the first story on a lark and had to patch on a second part because the first ended rather tensely. By that time, I had a makeshift plot that I felt compelled to bring to a satisfying conclusion. One-shot stories are wonderfully succinct, but series are high-maintenance. Because of the scope of this story line, this part in particular suffers from a horrible case of Plot. Ugh. Fear not; there's more fire to be shared, but that will have to be featured in future stories. So here we are hovering, uncertain in which direction things will flow but confident they will come to fruition. Hang on. I refuse to disappoint.

* As usual, thank you for wading through the above. If it made you sleepy, then it won't be such a shock if you find the story disappointing; you can just settle down on the keyboard and nap, but don't blame me if you wake up with "waffle face!" :) Again, bear with me. I spend a lot of time building imagery and only a scant bit sketching action. My philosophy is "What good is a story if you can't FEEL it?" I like to create textured worlds in which your imagination may roam. Bear in mind that I'm lousy at dialogue. So when you say, "This sucks!" just know that I share the sentiment. Take care and enjoy. Please stow all carry-on baggage in the overhead compartment and fasten your seatbelt. Your in-flight meal is a spearmint Tic Tac. Enjoy! Thank you for choosing this story and for giving up some of your time to share a little moment with me... there'll be a little something extra in your paycheck. I do hope you like it. Be good to yourself.

Millstones - Part Three: Fruition
by Cynthia J

"You two fall down or something?" the clerk said, trying unsuccessfully to bury his grin in his jowls.

"Or something," Mulder said dismissively. Eyes hard, he snatched up the key and followed Scully out the door. As she lifted their bags from the trunk, he phoned the local police. While he talked, she stared across the street and watched Lake Huron roll against the shore, it's countless hands stroking the sand. The low moon silvered the tips of the waves, and their rhythmic undulation set the entire lake sparkling.

Mulder's conversation was brief and terse. Taking up their gear, he told her, "Detective Cook was called out on a case. They're going to have him contact us when he checks in again."

Scully smirked, wondering how much time they would have. The boyish twinkle in Mulder's eyes concurred. He laid the key in her hand. The metal was surprisingly warm. As she led the way up the stairs to their room, Mulder chuckled to himself, at last realizing how rumpled they both looked. Dirt and pine needles clung to the seat of her skirt, and the fabric itself seemed to have suffered a seizure. "We're a mess, Scully."

Their room was dark and cool and cramped. The double bed dominated and did its best to hide the ugly, avocado carpet. A dim bedside lamp did little to brighten the gloom. Humming to itself, the air conditioner filled the room with tiny, chilling eddies that whispered against the back of their ears from time to time. A small dresser with an enormous mirror leaned against the wall across from the foot of the bed. The decor was spartan. Anything more would have made movement impossible. As it was, intimacy was unavoidable.

Mulder let the luggage fall to the floor as Scully turned to click the door shut behind them. He whirled, pressing her against the door, his body leaning into hers. Her breath left her in one startled gasp, and she felt dizzy. As he brushed her hair aside and glided his lips across her neck, a sudden sting of pleasure brought the air crashing back into her lungs. She clutched his shoulders and immediately felt the urgency and heat of his body. The overwhelming starkness of his desire forced her to lay aside her own fragile control.

She moaned each time his lips touched her skin, tiny quivers rolling through her body. Her disheveled suit soon felt very hot and confining. Murder's lips roamed across her cheek and snatched up her lips. His mouth was careful, restrained despite his impulse to ravish her utterly. She adored his tenuous self-control, the hands on her back that trembled, wanting so badly to explore. She tugged fiercely at his lips. Their kiss soon settled into a comfortable, flowing rhythm, and she thought of the relentless touch of the lake.

After several minutes, Scully wriggled out of his grasp and fanned the heat from her face. She held his anxious--almost fierce--eyes, and doubt crossed her face, an itchy veil of uncertainty. He approached her, and she retreated toward the bathroom.

"I need a shower," she said, backing away, her clothes already working their way to the floor. Smiling weakly, she muted his confused protests by shutting the door. He called her name, but only the hiss of the shower answered.

Mulder loped around the tiny room, pausing on occasion to glare at himself in the mirror and shake his head. Thoughts he had held back suddenly careened around in his mind. He knew what she was feeling. They had not simply crossed a line: they had vaulted over it and landed in a tangle in the dirt. Emotions, desires and inevitable complications squared off and warred fiercely in his mind.

Scully stared into the mirror, thoughts churning. The shower's breath quickly steamed the glass, and she wiped away just enough to see her face clearly. She was convinced she was not familiar with the person who stared back. The flush on the face was bold and sensual, and the cast of the eyes was wild, out of control. That sudden pang of doubt had raked up countless feelings she had fastidiously buried. She tried to restore order, but the thoughts grappled, deaf to her repeated protests. Passion and professionalism. Fire and friendship. Asymbiotic pairings of ideals and instincts. Temptation tugged at her, but she believed hurt was inevitable.

Her body took up the argument, reminding her of the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the wild release in the forest. When she remembered his ridiculous howl, she laughed. A tingling, restless warmth spread through her body, the antithesis of a chill. She looked again into those eyes in the mirror and admitted that she found their warmth refreshing, almost painfully rare.

She opened the door and startled him, his hand having reached for the knob. A smirk on the rise, Scully lowered her head and gazed at him from under her brow. She cut him off before he could speak. "I could use your help in here, Mulder," she said, smoke in her voice. "There's this place I can't quite reach." Her eyebrow rose, setting fire to an already smoldering look. Leaving him to gobble air, she turned away and stepped into the shower.

Mulder shrugged off his blazer, kicked his shoes into the corner and tugged off his socks. Wearing a serious mask over his grin, he stepped around the curtain and joined her. Suddenly, he stood before her, his body blocking most of the spray. One glance at his clothes and stern face uncorked all of her tension. Her laughter rolled out luxuriously, warm as the water on her skin. Unable to resist the sweet contagion, he echoed her, pushing the strands of wet hair from her face and looking into her.

In moments, the sizzle of the water had no competition. Holding her face in his hands like a crystal bowl, he tipped her to his lips and drank deeply. She braced herself on the waist of his drenched trousers and surrendered to sensation, to desire. Their lives were such that both had forgotten how potent a kiss can be, like champagne to the lips of a longtime teetotaler. With little moans and shudders, they sipped at each other, hooked with the first taste.

Whispering over them, the spray broke on his shoulders and tickled her cheeks. She leaned into him further, and his hips trembled under her hands. Her tongue dashed neatly between his lips and swiped at the roof of his mouth, a taunt and a promise. His moan filled her mouth, spreading warmth all the way down to her toes.

Catching her breath, Scully unknotted his tie, her fingers fighting the damp silk, and pulled it away from his neck. With a smoldering grin, she wrapped it around her waist, its wide tip hanging forbiddingly between her legs. He laughed with her, a rich and intimate duet. Mulder pulled at his shirt buttons while she neatly whipped off his belt and tossed it over the curtain. As he struggled with his cuffs, she unzipped him and peeled his soaked pants from his skin. In moments, both the shirt and the pants were pooled on the tile floor.

Wrapping one arm around her waist and the other around her behind, he lifted her off her feet and leaned her against the stall. Head back, she moaned, adoring the sensation of being aloft, of being held away from the cold, controlled earth. Her back against the smooth wall only accentuated the thump of her heart, the desperate rise and fall of her breath. He held her, legs wide, feet playfully kicking. The tip of him just barely touched her, poised to enter on a whim. He felt her incredible heat, the wetness not caused by the shower.

Mulder's phone tweeted insistently. Breath roaring, he held her, and their eyes talked. With a sigh, he relaxed his grip, her feet under her again. Hating himself, he growled and hopped out of the shower. Scully peeked out to catch his body dashing away, rivulets of water flowing down his back and over his ass. Snatching the intruder from his rumpled blazer, he stomped out of the bathroom, his voice a terse rasp. She lowered her head into the spray again, laughing at herself.

Minutes later, he called. The sizzling water stole his inflection from her. She hoped he had delivered her name wrapped in a lustful tone. Having shut off the water, she yanked back the curtain and found him straightening his tie in front of the mirror. Fresh tie. Fresh clothes. She frowned, suddenly very self-conscious, thoroughly nonplused. He caught her eye in the mirror and turned. "That was Cook," he said, still fussing with his tie. "They found another body. Similar burns."

"Oh," she murmured. "Ok. I'll be ready to go in a few minutes." Seemingly all-business, he nodded in the mirror and stepped out of the room. As drops tickled down her back and fell resolutely from the end of her nose, she weathered her disappointment. In seconds, the "could haves" waned from an anxious crowd of revelers to a shameful, discordant mob. She stood still in the shower, berating herself for her lapse of judgment, for her blind indulgence. They were supposed to be investigating a case. Despite her scolding, the warm thoughts lingered in the corners of her mind, refusing to be expelled or forgotten.

As drops continued to fall from her body in quiet taps, she found herself once again rooted in self-doubt. She thought about how much she had sacrificed for the sake of work. She felt that the warm element of her life had been compromised or traded completely for her career. This dangerous but passionate affair with Mulder had reminded her she was alive. In moments, she reached a compromise: she would surrender utterly to the case, but when the work was done... She smirked but still grieved for the lost moment.

As she stepped out of the shower, he walked in again. After a few silent seconds, the agent veneer dissolved, and he smiled warmly, appreciatively. Wet and dejected, she looked so small to him. He wanted to snatch her up in his arms. Drooping from her hip, his damp tie inspired a rich, warm laugh. She looked down and fidgeted with it, unable to avoid laughing herself. She tugged it away and hung it over the shower curtain rod.

Warm and familiar, he seized a towel and carefully began to pat down her skin. Tender silence clinging to the moment, she simply watched him and accommodated his careful touch. The terry cloth brushed her cheeks and tickled behind her ears, stretching her smile wide. Feeling pampered and adored, she savored every stroke, knowing tenderness would have to be abandoned in a few moments. Mulder buffed her shoulders and chased drops down her back.

Sculpting the towel to her contours, he stroked her right buttock and descended tantalizingly to her foot. Her eyes fell shut, and the image of the lake's caress poured through her, drowning her apprehension, her unease. She nearly lost her balance. Chuckling, he wrapped the towel around her left foot and slowly drew it up to her behind, every touch and every minute change in pressure teasing her skin.

In seconds, the cloth whisked under her arms, across her stomach and over her breasts. She moaned luxuriously, freely. Her nipples began to sting as he circled them over and over again. Her wonderfully tortured eyes told him to move on. When it seemed he had missed only one spot, she subtly spread her legs, setting her feet firmly on the cool tile. Scully seethed, aching for touch like never before. He grinned and laid the towel over her head. She growled at him as he frantically dried her hair, but laughter soon stuttered from under the towel.

Before long, he uncovered her face, and they shared a genuine smile. Soon the towel was carefully wrapped around his hand, spiraling lazily down her torso. Deliberate and cautious, the spiky cotton brushed through her down and sizzled over her clitoris. Fire leapt through her body and sighed from her lips. Three times the towel pressed gently between her legs and retracted, a terry cloth tongue. She begged, but he withdrew, leaving her more in need of a towel than before he had touched her.

"Look," he said, his voice soft, cloying. "We'll get some work done, come back here and spend the rest of the night getting no sleep." She grinned, spirits rising. "Yeah, there's nothing like an all-night Scrabble tournament." She poked his side where she had bruised it earlier, and an unfettered laughter swept them up. He held her while wave after wave shook them.

Knowing it was missed, nervous silence slowly crept in as their laughter waned. Mulder glanced at his watch. "We've got to get moving, Scully," he said, disappointed. He carefully wrapped the towel around her and gave her a kiss laden with promises. With a resolute sigh, she released him and walked to the mirror. Frowning, she seized his hairbrush and began to quickly work her hair into some salvageable shape. Impressed by her ferocity, he got out of her way and retreated into the bedroom.

"Where are we going, anyway?" she called.

"Some woods outside of town," he said, reappearing to hand her her own brush and hair dryer. She smiled and nodded her thanks. Mulder played the servile role, bowing and backing away into the bedroom. The blow dryer buzzed to life. "Oh. And I laid out a suit for you... and some other things."

The dryer went silent. Scully leaned out, left eyebrow high. He looked away, pretending to search for something. Her olive suit lay sprawled on the bed, a white blouse tucked neatly inside. Her shoes sat at the ends of the pantlegs, completing the look of a body in repose, waiting to be taken. She longed to be inside it, if only to share its anticipation, its freedom. Eyes widening, she caught sight of the black bra and panties spread beside her suit and laughed.

"A black bra with a white blouse, Mulder?"

"Your suit will cover it," he said, quick to reassure her. "Trust me, Scully."

Willing to indulge his fantasy, she smiled approvingly and rushed to get herself ready.

The car again provoked silence and introspection. Thoughts blurring, Mulder wondered where they were headed. The arguments in his mind refused to go ignored. Could professionalism and intimacy co-exist without one eliminating the other? Would the duality break her heart in time? He caught her eye and knew in that moment that she was mired in the same viscous thoughts. She smirked, and the will to debate abandoned him. He simply felt. They would have to see where their feelings led them and act from there.

A series of quiet turns led them to a lonely road, a squiggly line walled in by dark trees. Stars looked down by the millions. The darkness had a cumbersome weight, an imposing patience. When it seemed the night might swallow them, they came upon a bend splashed with spasmodic red and blue light. Around the turn lay a small fleet of vehicles: fire trucks, police cars, an ambulance and a coroner's station wagon. The only vehicle not topped with bright, oscillating lights smoldered at the center of the tumult. A small car slumped on the road's shoulder, it's windshield melted and it's paint either bubbled or charred completely. The fire seemed to have started in the driver's seat, for the roof was swollen and smoking.

They parked behind a police car and stepped out into the erratic light. Composed, they approached a man in a long coat around whom officers and firefighters buzzed. He nodded and pointed, sending them away as fast as each came.

"Detective Cook?" Scully asked.

"Yes?" He turned slowly to face them.

"Special agents Scully and Mulder with the FBI."

"Oh," Cook said. "I was wondering when you'd get here." Mulder and Scully exchanged glances briefly before the man spoke again. "Welcome to our little circus. The hell if we can figure out what's killing these people. This one's the damnedest yet."

He looked thoughtful for a moment then continued. "Jim Wagner. Quiet guy. Worked down at the library." The detective shrugged and pointed at the victim's car. "The windows were down, the doors unlocked and apparently this guy just sat there and let himself get burned up."

"Find anything yet, Cook?" a gruff but squeaky voice interrupted. A sprightly old man trotted toward them, the ataxic lights gleaming off his wild eyes. His unnerving enthusiasm preceded him by about three feet. "It's got to be something supernatural! I've seen a lot of strange things in my years of poking through these woods. I think you should..."

"No, Spence," Cook muttered, clearly angry the man had pulled his theatrics in front of the FBI. His jaw clenched, and his fists hid in his coat pockets. "We're on it. Maybe you should just let us handle it." He all but shooed the little man away.

"Wait," Mulder said. "I'd like to ask you a few questions if I can." Spence glanced at Cook, whose shoulders tensed, and grinned at Mulder.

He returned the man's infectious smile. "Special agents Mulder and Scully with the FBI."

"Jack Spencer (everybody calls me Spence), Forestry Department," the wiry-haired man said, standing as tall and straight as he could.

"Retired," Cook corrected.

The old man shrugged it off. "I knew you were FBI. The haircut gave it away. I was in the Bureau thirty years ago. Had the same haircut." Mulder pursed his lips. Scully smirked at him, the relentless flashing lights highlighting more than just amusement in her eyes.

Spence beamed self-importantly, eager to be taken seriously at last. He smeared his hand on his plaid shirt and anxiously pumped Mulder's hand.

Glancing about, Scully caught the detective's eye, and he frowned but remained patient, indulgent. Pitying him for a reason unclear to her, she sped him a reassuring look, as though promising they would get serious soon.

"What did you mean by 'supernatural?'" Mulder asked.

Spence licked his lips. He all but giggled, for it was rare he was humored for more than thirty seconds before being told to shut up... or worse. His eyes flared, and his manner became that of an overzealous dinner theater actor. "Well, it was like this afternoon. I was in the forest south of town checking a grove for signs of disease when I heard this inhuman howl."

Mulder tensed visibly, and Scully coughed beside him. Spence failed to notice; he was deep into his eccentric performance. "Like some sort of wolfman or something. The call died down before I could track it, though." Scully turned away, facing the charred car. Laughter wanted to bubble out of her, but embarrassment soon burst her humor. Wandering off, she half-heartedly pondered the wreckage.

Mulder cleared his throat. "What else have you come across?"

"Ok. That's enough for now, Spence," Cook broke in, interpreting the agents' discomfort as insult. He had been embarrassed enough and was thoroughly unwilling to let Spence gorge his hunger for attention on them. "If they need you, I'll let them know where to reach you. Thanks. That will be all." All too familiar with the detective's bloodthirsty glare, the scrawny man slinked away, grumbling to himself about respect for one's elders.

While surveying the bustling crowd, Scully suddenly gasped and turned urgently toward Mulder, her hand on her brow.

"What?" he said, looking at her and then over her shoulder. "Shit." A familiar-looking state trooper strode their way. Hands on hips, Mulder tried to look composed, official. Unable to move, Scully kept her eyes low, watching the hyperactive play of lights on the ground.

"Oh yeah," Cook said. "This is the man you should talk to. Trooper Murant discovered the body."

Murant stopped before them, arms crossed. The dark eyes that had hidden earlier beneath sunglasses swept over the agents and gleamed with mild amusement. "Well, I'd have to say this fire is the second-most interesting thing I've seen today." His lips quivered, suppressing a smile. He looked at Cook, who half-heartedly returned the smile. Scully shifted nervously, uncertain whether Murant had shared his story with the detective, the county or the entire state. She hoped the red flashes hid the flush burning her cheeks. Mulder struggled to appear emotionless.

Thinking they had wriggled on his hook long enough, the trooper dropped his sarcasm and took up a cold, informative tone. "While I was on patrol," he said, "I saw a column of smoke in the forest ahead. I came round the bend and found this car filled with oily smoke. Smelled terrible. Like a barbecue next to a waste treatment plant or something."

He paused, wrinkling his nose as though the scent was still pervasive. "I couldn't see inside, though. Even with the windows down and the windshield all melted out, the smoke kept rolling around inside. Then the wind shifted, and I nearly lost my lunch." He absently rubbed his throat, his eyes losing their sharp focus. "The guy was little more than a skeleton. All gnarled. The weirdest part is that he was still clutching the steering wheel."

Scrambling for emotional stability, Scully latched onto her work. Her feelings sank away as her clinical counterweight rose. "Let's have a look at the body," she said.

There were no arguments. In moments, they were at the rear of the coroner's station wagon frowning over the remains. Fused in a sitting position, the body lay on its side on a folded gurney. Every bit of the corpse was charred black. It appeared and disappeared in the flashing lights, highlighted in sinister red and then gone again in an instant. The erratic lights gave the skull an unnerving illusion of screaming.

"From what I can tell, he burned from the inside out," Scully said. "I won't be able to tell more until the autopsy is completed."

Mulder turned to Cook. "Did anyone see this man before this happened?"

"We have witnesses that can confirm he was at Penny's Diner about a half-hour before Murant found him." The detective looked grave, seeing too much anguish in the skull's yawning jaw. He could well imagine that fatal scream. "Beyond that, we can't find anyone who can place him after he finished work yesterday. The folks at the diner said he seemed fine. Happy, in fact."

Mulder mumbled to his partner, "Remind me not to order the chili." His dark humor rolled off her. She continued to study the body, perplexed. The burn patterns were symmetrical. It seemed the victim had not struggled at all.

Anxious to distance themselves from the corpse, Cook and Murant excused themselves and tended to other business. Surprisingly, their absence did little to alleviate the tension. Frowning, Mulder leaned close and tried to study her, but she would not hold his gaze. Sinking a little inside, he knew there was more to her sudden removal than the body. Silence stood forbiddingly between them for several long moments.

Unwilling to listen to his thoughts, he said, "It's ok, Scully. Murant had his fun, and it's over. We have nothing to worry about."

She bit her lip and rounded on him, her harsh gaze augmented by the unrelenting lights. "It's not ok! The humiliation is only part of it, Mulder!" When he grimaced a little, she lowered her voice, but flames still licked around her words. "Be realistic. We both know this can't work." Patient, he did not move to speak. The more disappointment and loss weighed upon her, the angrier her face--her entire body--became. "Look at us! We're not doing our jobs. This man is dead, and we're busy sorting out our feelings for each other. This can't work!"

He knew there was more personal anguish in her tone than there was professional concern. He knew how her feelings were rallying inside her and how they were still being cut down despite their valor, their passion. He knew how foolish it had been to become intimate. However, none of it changed his feelings. Mulder opened his mouth and then closed it, unable to find words at all, let alone the right ones.

Scully's eyes began to water, but failed to extinguish her scorching gaze. "Look. I'm going with the coroner to begin the autopsy. While I'm there, I'll check the records of the other victims." Her eyes and her anger suddenly dropped. A cold resoluteness stained her voice, stealing its passion. "After that, I'm going to take the other room at the motel."

Mulder gobbled air. Moments flitted quietly by, and he held her eyes. Anguish hammered through her veneer of anger, and he wanted to hold her. The flashing lights diminished as people bustled past and slammed a ragged chorus of doors. Fire trucks chugged by. Surrender was not a matter of choice. A tow truck carefully led the burned car away. I knew this dream would have to end eventually, he thought. It's time to wake up alone.

"Ok," he said at last. "I'll follow Cook to the police station and see if he has any leads on the other victims." She seemed satisfied, but it was only relief that the heartrending moment was over. Police cars zoomed away, leaving only the pulsing lights of the coroner's wagon and the detective's car. Cook loomed over his hood, intensely interested in the dramatics between the agents. Badly bald and bespectacled, the coroner shuffled over and helped Scully reset the body and close the hatch. Without a word, she walked around to the passenger's door.

"Scully...," Mulder began. Over her shoulder, she shot him one last grievous look, and he dropped his eyes to the pavement. He watched the station wagon disappear around the bend and kicked a stone into the shadows.

A distance away, Cook silently climbed into his car and started the engine. Mulder looked his way and headed resolutely to his own car. The detective led the way, his car's lone light a beacon crawling through the night. Mulder stared into the quiet dark, commiserating with its loneliness, and began to build retaining walls around his feelings. He started the car and followed the detective.

There was supposed to be more to come, but alas, it never made it. - x-sites

Cynthia J, exclusively for this site

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