Classification: SA
Rated: PG
Spoilers: Triangle
Key Words: Mulder/Scully UST
Disclaimer: I didn't make this.
Summary: "You know I'll always save you from drowning."
"You always do. You always keep my head above water."

Notes: Thanks to my beta, Lib, who has done a fabulous
job, as always :)

--------------------

 

"This must be underwater love,
the way I feel it slipping all over me...
...it is so deep,
so beautifully liquid"

--Smoke City, 'Underwater Love'



Scully can't concentrate. There's a stack of blank
reports in front of her, but she can't force herself
to move. She's been sitting here for an hour without
so much as picking up a pen, and the reports are due
on Kersh's desk by lunchtime. There's no way in hell
she'll be finished by then.

There are too many ringing telephones, hurried
footsteps and creaking chairs. People are slurping
coffee, passing notes, clacking keys and blowing
their noses. Women with raised eyebrows and sharp
whispers are gathered around the water cooler. Two
men are walking past, jabbering about a 'hot babe'
one of them is about to screw over. Scully doesn't
think she can last another day.

Her head's been clogged since she woke up this morning,
half an hour late. She popped two aspirins in a cab
on the way to work, dry-swallowing them whilst ignoring
the driver's suspicious glance. Let him think whatever
he wants. In fact, let them all think whatever they
want. She plans to tell Kersh exactly where he can
stick his reports.

There's pressure in her sinuses, her temples and her
inner ear. She feels as though she's dived from a high
board into a bottomless pool, but instead of rising
to the surface she's sinking deeper, the pressure
building. Eventually her head will explode.

She rubs her eyes and her fingertips come away slightly
sticky, like they've been dipped in raw egg. How many
tissues has she used today? She's lost count. There was
a whole box on her desk this morning. Now, crumbling a
sodden handful into the wastebasket, she realises
they're all gone.

Mulder's box, sitting beside his elbow, is of no use to
her. Even if she wasn't currently on non-speaking terms
with him, she wouldn't ask. Getting tissues from Mulder
would be a display of weakness, and she'd rather tough
it out than face his gentle concern and delicate
touches. She hates being treated like she's marked
"fragile". She isn't breakable.

She stands slowly, intent on heading to the ladies'
room, when Mulder abruptly stops typing and gets up.
He doesn't catch her sigh of relief as he heads for
the coffee maker.

His desk is only three feet away, but Scully feels
every inch. It's like she's walking a thousand miles
underwater, the currents pressing down on every side.
Her nerves are screaming by the time she reaches the
tissue box, and when she reaches to pick it up...

"Scully?"

Shit.

"Mulder," she says, trying to keep her voice steady. She
doesn't meet his gaze. Please don't let him notice, she
thinks feverishly, but knows there isn't much hope. "I
was just, um, coming to ask if you've finished your
report." Her whole face feels like it's melting off her
skull, and maybe it is. She prays that he doesn't notice.

"Riiight," he drawls. Considering she hasn't spoken to
him in five days, it's more of a reaction than she'd
expected.

"Well Mulder, have you ah...finished?"

She thinks this is probably the most awkward conversation
they've ever had. She waits for him to continue it, to
increase the tension, so she can snap at him, give him
an icy glare and send him on his way. Hasta la vista,
Mulder. She feels absurdly like giggling, or maybe like
she's about to start retching. Hopefully, Mulder will be
gone, tail between his legs, before she can do either.

But Mulder seems to be reading from a different script.
His warm finger presses beneath her chin. "Scully, are
you okay?" The concern in his voice sparks a flash of
anger behind her eyes. "Scully, you don't look well."

Damn it, she thinks, can't he just give me a tissue? She
sways slightly, trying desperately to seem controlled,
composed. But she feels like she's disintegrating, her
mind and eyes dissolving into the air, her nose slowly
dripping off.

"I'm not well," she murmurs accidentally, then tries to
backtrack, "I mean, I'm not feeling too well, but I'm
fine. I can keep working today, if that's what you're
asking."

"You're not well but you're fine? That's new, Scully.
I hadn't heard that one before."

"Keep your voice down!" she hisses, glaring up into
his eyes.

Big mistake, she thinks, when she sees how disheveled
he is. Crumpled shirt, yesterday's tie, colorless skin.
He probably didn't sleep last night, or the night before
either. Not that she cares, of course.

"Scully, I think you should go home and take a rest," he
says, turning serious. "Come on, Scully...everyone gets
sick sometimes."

"I'm not sick!" she protests, then realizes people are
beginning to stare.

"I'll drive you," he says softly, bending towards her,
his hand on her arm.

"Mulder," she whispers, "it's just a head cold."

"I'll drive you."

There's no way she can refuse--not with all the heads
they've turned. Not with her own head about to tumble
off her neck like a bowling ball, and her murky, swimming
vision. It's too late to stop Mulder, anyway. He's
already shrugging into his coat, his tired eyes brimming
with sincerity. She tries to stay angry with him.

--------------------

She tries all the way home, clasping his hand in the car,
her head lolling against the window as the city rolls
by. Mulder talks but she can't understand. His voice is
soft as the music of waves on a beach, late at night.

Sometimes she opens her mouth, expecting herself to speak,
but her throat feels stuffed with sand. Every breath is a
slow scrape of pain along her esophagus.

How did she even get into the car? She remembers Mulder
handing her a coat, leading her out of the office by the
arm. Everything after that is hazy. Somehow she got into
her coat, got into the car, and now they're halfway to
her apartment. Did he slide the coat onto her shoulders,
or did she?

Why was she mad with him again?

The Bermuda Triangle, she thinks. The ghost ship.

The boundless, barren sea.

--------------------

Mulder was in the water, floating face down. Scully
watched as Langley and Byers pulled him out. Looking at
Mulder's limp, dripping body, she tasted saltwater. She
felt it sloshing in her lungs, her stomach.

It was hard to move, even when they told her he was alive
and needed help. Hard to press her lips against his cold
ones, breathing into him. Mulder's skin was grey, his eyes
were sightless. She took her mouth from his and checked
his pulse, pumped his chest and looked down at him.

She imagined him laid out in a morgue. She saw him
stretched out, bluish and frozen in death.

Then his chest gurgled, his body jerked and her heart
started beating again.

--------------------

Mulder is beside her now, one week later, as though it
never happened. A part of her can't help labeling his
near drowning as a glitch in time, or maybe a vivid
nightmare. Sometimes Mulder seems larger than life,
almost invincible. It's a dangerous perception.

Momentarily a little less muzzy, she watches him from the
corner of her eye, pretending she isn't. He's cracking a
sunflower seed between his teeth, steering one-handed
through the midday quiet of Georgetown. How many times
has she told him not to do this? Does he have any idea
how irresponsible it is? It's infuriating, especially
when he's swerving along a freeway, recklessly plowing
between cars. Sometimes she has to grip the dashboard.

Of course, it's also exhilarating.

"So Scully, you speaking to me again?" he asks, flicking
the shell into the backseat.

"Guess so," she huffs against the window. Her fever-hot
breath condenses on the glass and she wipes the tiny
droplets with her sleeve, feeling about two years old.

Mulder's eyes dart her way, "Good," he says firmly,
"because I was starting to think we'd have to come up
with another way to communicate. You know, maybe Morse
code? Or sign language."

"Telepathy," she mumbles, sniffling.

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

Nothing we don't already have when we need it, she thinks.

--------------------

"You know, you don't have to do this," she says, as he
closes the door behind them. Her voice has mutated to a
scratchy, moist monotone. She hardly recognizes it.

Her apartment is sunlight dappled at this time of day,
with an atmosphere of calm and silence. She feels like
a disturbance, which reminds her that she really
shouldn't be here. The unfinished reports weigh on her
mind. Upsetting Kersh after Mulder's recent escapade
would be a terrible idea.

"Mulder, you should really get back to work. There are
some reports I didn't finish and I need you to fax them
to me. I'll rest here a little while and then I'll get
them done by the end of the day...Mulder?"

He ignores her, taking her arm and leading her into the
bedroom. He's shuffling her along as though she's too
frail to walk. It's entirely the wrong approach.

"I'm not your grandmother, Mulder," she snaps, pulling
her arm away. "Just go back to work and let me rest, okay?"

To her horror, coughs bubble up in her throat. Thick,
hacking coughs that bend her over almost double. Her nose
and eyes start running, one of her ears pops, and her
lungs are contorted and painful.

She's aware of Mulder's hands soothing her back, his
rich voice in her ear, his warmth beside her. As her
coughs subside, he scoops her into his arms and walks
towards her bed. She's can't protest, because her throat
now feels like it's been torn down the middle.

When Mulder reaches the bed he pulls the sheets and
comforter off, laying her down on the mattress. He props
up her head with a few pillows, pulls off her shoes and
tucks her in, then brushes his fingertips across her
cheek. "Just rest now," he whispers, quietly padding
out to fetch a glass of water.

By the time he returns, sleep has pulled her under.

--------------------

Deep green all around.

The water swells into her ears, nose and mouth, a briny,
burning taste, a choking pressure.

Above there is a faint light, like through coloured,
rippled glass. She starts swimming upwards, limbs
flailing, on the verge of panic. She's so deep and
the water around is dark and stinging with cold.

She's getting closer to the light but now shapes
are moving around her, dark masses that could be
anything. They circle silently, without ripples
or bubbles.

She's frantic until she sees they're just
shadows, cast by objects floating above. Not
sharks, just shadows, and she's almost
reached the surface now. She can almost
touch the floating objects. What are they?

One is larger than the rest, and she's
drawn towards it.

Then she sees, her lungs bursting,
that it has fingers, clothes and
tendrils of hair.

It's a corpse, floating on its
stomach, peering down at her with
dead eyes. It's a buoyed body
with a bloated face, a bluish
tinge to its skin.

It's a corpse with Mulder's
hair and his fingers and his
eyes and God,

oh god no, oh god it's
mulder.

she can't breathe. his
eyes are blank, cold,
marble-white, and she
can't scream.

when she opens her
mouth the light
dims and her
lungs ache
and then she
feels herself
being pulled,
down and
down, mouth
wide open,
lungs
filling
with
the cold
water.

mulder
is dead
and the
light
is
gone
and
oh
god
she
can't
scream



She's gasping, twisting, but there's something pinning
her down. "No," she whimpers, struggling. Icy water
drips out of her hair, sliding over her face and neck,
pooling in the hollow between her clavicles. Something
wipes it away, a cloth, and then gentle hands are
smoothing her hair.

Mulder's voice is crooning in her ear, "Shh, Scully,
it's okay, you're okay."

She's shaking. How can he be here? Her head aches as
though she's sunk to the bottom of the ocean, and she
sees the swollen face of his corpse in her mind's eye.
Mulder's dead, she thinks, as her eyes leak scalding
tears. He's dead and he isn't here, and I'm down in
the sea, deep beneath the waves.

"I'm here, Scully, it's okay. Can you open your eyes?"

"No," she whispers. She can't speak any louder. "Mulder,
are you really here?"

He laughs quietly, thumbs caressing the sides of her
face. "Where else would I be?"

"You were floating in the water." Her voice is a
raw gasp. "Mulder, you were drowned, in the ocean,
and I was pulled under. It was dark, Mulder. I couldn't
breathe."

She feels herself being lifted slightly, then Mulder's
arms sliding around her, gently holding her to him. "It
was a nightmare," he says, kissing her forehead briefly.
"Open your eyes, Scully."

She nods, her eyelids stinging as she slides them open,
then blinking rapidly to clear her swimming vision. She
smiles faintly when she sees Mulder leaning over her,
painted in golden lamplight, his eyes swirling with relief.

"Hey," he whispers.

Her breathing slowly calms, her pulse rate lowering.
"You're really here." She reaches up, her fingers
brushing his nose, then tracing over his face until he
softly catches her hand in his.

"I'm really here," he responds with a grin.

Her nightmare images dissolve, draining out of her mind
at his warm, gentle touch, at his smile. The ache in her
head and lungs is diminishing, and her brain is nothing
but mush.

Tension flows from her body as she yawns, her eyes
fluttering closed. "Mulder, I want to sleep some
more," she murmurs. "Tell me a story, so I can sleep."

Slowly, he tilts her out of his embrace, back onto the
bed. "A fairytale?" he asks. If she were more aware,
she'd hear the smile in his voice, a faint lilt.
However, her Special Agent Superwoman persona, with its
vast powers of perception and quick-witted tongue, has
dwindled into nothingness. Her concentration wavers--
what did he just say? "Once upon a time..." he begins.

"No, no," she murmurs, burrowing into her pillow.
"Something weird. Tell me a tall tale, Mulder."

He chuckles. "Okay then. There was an old man with a
beard, who said--'It is just as I feared. Two owls and
a hen, four larks and a wren, have all made a nest in
my beard.'"

"That wasn't a story, Mulder," she whines.

Mulder takes her hand, running his thumb across her
palm. "All right, all right. How about...'The Owl and
the Pussy-cat'?"

"'Kay."

"'The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea, in a beautiful
pea green boat. They took some honey, and plenty of
money, wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked
up to the stars above, and sang to a small guitar, 'Oh
lovely Pussy! Oh Pussy, my love -'" Mulder pauses, his
eyebrows raised for effect, "You know Scully...I never
thought about it before, but this poem has some bad
connotations."

Her reply is nothing but a sleepy sigh, so he continues
his tale, watching her eyes slowly flicker into REM.

--------------------

It's dark now, the trees shuddering outside in a night
wind. Streetlights shine through her windows and rain
splatters against their panes, giving her bedroom a
murky, blurred illumination. She sees Mulder half-draped
over her bed, his head lying next to her elbow. His
features are sleep-smoothed, pale in the light.

"Mulder?" she croaks, lightly curling her arm around
his neck.

"Hmm..." he snuffles.

"Mulder?"

He nuzzles into the warm skin above her elbow, "Mmmph."

"Mulder!"

"Wha..." he finally lifts his head, gazing up at her with
his big, dark eyes. "Oh, hey Scully. How're you feeling?"

She smiles, running her fingertips over the shorn hair
at the back of his neck. "I can feel my face again...
that's a start, right?"

"Your fever broke a few hours ago. Do you remember?" He
sits up, letting her arm fall to the comforter, but then
takes her hand and brushes his lips across her knuckles.
"I had to wake you up with ice water."

"I remember something..." she scans her memory, lips
pursed. "I remember you started reciting Edward Lear."

Mulder grins, "You asked me to tell you a story."

"I remember feeling like my lungs were full of water."

"You had a nightmare." His expression darkens and he leans
closer, inadvertently displaying the taught worry lines
across his forehead, around his bloodshot eyes. "You were
screa...calling out, in your sleep. That's how I knew to
come in here."

"I was drowning," she says, recalling the dream now, the
dark ocean. "Mulder, you pulled me out."

He's silent, but he clasps her hand tighter, looking down
at their entwined fingers. Suddenly she is astounded by
this simple contact, awed by his creased palm and the
slope of his thumb. Touching him is such a rare, precious
thing. It happens so infrequently, she sometimes forgets
the feel of his skin over the passage of time.

"Scully, you've pulled me out more times than I could
count," he murmurs finally. "Last week, for instance...
and I didn't even deserve it."

"You know I'll always save you from drowning," she
responds, with the quirk of a smile.

"You always do. You always keep my head above water."

Scully bites her lip and bends her head, not wanting him
to read her. She can't believe they're having this
conversation--that he's actually saying these things
to her. It's too much and too little at the same time,
because while she wants him to keep talking, to keep
touching her, she's also afraid of the consequences.

But, she thinks, do there have to be consequences?

It's just her and Mulder, sitting in her room as the rain
drenches the city outside. So why does it feel dangerous?
Why does it feel like something's already happened
between them?

She only knows she doesn't want him to leave. Not tonight.

Tugging his hand, she meets his eyes again.

"Mulder," she says, rough-voiced. "Mulder, come here."

His eyes widen slightly when she lifts the bedcovers, but
he swiftly recovers, kicking off his shoes and climbing
in beside her.

She doesn't have the energy to wonder if this is a mistake.
Instead she lies down, pulling Mulder onto the mattress
beside her. He folds his long limbs around her, smiling
against the crook of her neck.

They curl into each other's arms, holding on as they drift
out of consciousness.

--------------------

Tucked together in her bed, they are dry and safe in their
embrace. She slides her hands over his and he sighs into
her hair, pulling her against him, his breath softened as
he sleeps.

They have dragged each other out of the depths, but now
they're falling into another ocean. A serene body of
water this time--the cool waters of healing, of baptism
and life.

Unaware, they fall closer.

--------------------

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