This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding. Thank you to Tish Sears for all the editing help! Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted. "Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on September 5, 1995. Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the characters are mine. ***************************************************** * THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 4 Mulder sat in silent thought as the waitress came and cleared their dishes. As she did, a young woman carrying a guitar came out into the small cleared space at the far end of the room, and took a seat on a bar stool. The bartender set up a microphone for her, and plugged it into a dusty amplifier that looked permanently part of the decor. Mulder looked up and watched the goings on. The girl looked like she might be a local college student, she was certainly too young to *drink* in the place. Pretty girl, though, with bright green eyes he could see from where he was sitting, and longish ash blonde hair. "Looks like we're going to be entertained," he said, changing the subject, and trying to bury his general annoyance at the turn events had taken. Scully was probably right. He would even admit it, willingly enough, in a little while. He was too disappointed, right at that moment, though, to feel reasonable. The distraction would do him good. "Want to stay for a while and listen?" Scully watched as the young woman chatted with the bartender, and plucked at her guitar, making last minute adjustments in the tuning. Well, after all, they had no place else to be, that evening, there *was* no case to solve, and a little relaxation might not be a bad idea. Mulder was disappointed, she could tell, and a little annoyed with her. It would probably do them both good. She smiled and nodded at him, as the singer tapped the microphone. "Hi everyone," the girl said, pushing her hair off her shoulders and smiling. "My name is Nicole White, and I'm going to sing a little for you, while you enjoy your coffee and dessert..." "Dessert?" The waitress asked Mulder. He shook his head. "Not for me. You want dessert, or a drink?" "Just coffee," said Scully, "Decaf?" The waitress nodded as Nicole White began the first of the ballads she would sing that night. Scully leaned on her elbows and listened. The woman was very good, and Scully smiled wistfully as the tunes shifted from ballad, to sea chantey, to old folk song. The waitress brought a coffee urn to the table with the cups, and left them on their own. Scully glanced at Mulder out of the corner of her eye, and her irritation gradually dissipated. Sometimes he tried too hard to believe, it was true, but it was also that very single-minded devotion to his beliefs that she found most endearing in him. She felt a sudden rush of tenderness as she watched him fiddling with his coffee. He was such a strange, frustrating and exhilarating man, was her partner. And there were many occasions when she would have cheerfully wrung his neck. But no one had ever stimulated her mind and her imagination the way Fox Mulder had, no one had ever pushed her to the very edges of her credulity, then dared her to jump. She had not jumped, she would not jump. But there was something... attractive about the dare. She had never met anyone who could charge her with this sheer sense of adventure. Scully sighed inwardly. Even this charade of passing themselves off as a couple was more amusing than annoying, if she was really honest about it. It was silly, perhaps, and a little dishonest, but she had protested more from a sense of propriety that because of any real objection. She did wish he would not spring these little brainstorms on her without warning, but still, she had to admit, it *was* a pretty good ploy. She hoped she had not offended him by her reaction, or by her subsequent squelching of yet another wild theory. "She's very good," Scully ventured, nodding at the singer, trying to make amends. "This was a good idea." Mulder looked up from his coffee, and smiled at her. "She *is* good," he agreed. "Enjoying yourself?" Scully smiled and nodded. "I've always enjoyed this sort of thing," she admitted. "Wishful thinking, mostly, I guess. I sound like something in pain, when I sing..." Mulder laughed, friends, again. He watched Scully out of the corner of his eye as she relaxed into the magic of the music. He knew she had followed him on this little adventure as much of out of friendship as out of any burning desire to solve this puzzle, and that knowledge successfully dissolved any lingering irritation he might have had over the outcome of the trip. The truth was, Scully had *never* refused to help him, no matter what her personal feeling might have been about one of his theories or ideas. In fact, she had often put her career, and even her life, on the line to assist him and his work. As much as her skepticism frustrated him, sometimes, he relied tremendously on her clarity of vision and her point of view. He had also come to depend, emotionally, on her friendship, and support. He knew that, too. He leaned back into the corner of the booth and lifted his long legs onto the seat. He took a deep sip of the hot and aromatic coffee and sighed inwardly. They might not have accomplished what he had hoped in coming here, but this was still nice. He and Scully so rarely just relaxed together as friends. They needed to do this more often. Nicole White stopped her singing for a moment. Mulder half expected her to announce that she was taking a break. Instead, she smiled, as if deciding on something, then struck a soft minor chord and closed her eyes. The ballad started slow, mournful and sweet. Mulder closed his eyes and smiled: "In Norwa land, there lived a maid Baloo, my babe, this maid began I ken na where your father is Nor yet the land where he dwells in "It happened on a certain day When this fair maiden fell asleep That in there came a grey silkie And sat him doon at her bed feet" Scully frowned suddenly, and shifted in her seat. Mulder looked at her sharply, and watched memory play across her face. It had been months since their journey to Shelter Island off the coast of Maine and Scully's encounter with that extraordinary, seductive creature who had come out of the sea to bewitch her, but Mulder could see the beginnings of distress in Scully eyes. The being had manifested some magical power that had held Scully in a kind of strange, sexual thrall, leaving her helpless in the face of the creature's will. She had come close to losing her soul, and her life, to that enchantment, and apparently the effects had not totally faded, even after all that time. Mulder suppressed the urge to take her hand. "I pray come tell tae me your name And tell me where your dwelling be My name it is Gud Hein Mailler An I earn ma living oot tae sea "I am a man upon the land I am a Silkie in the sea And when I'm far frae every strand My home it is in Sule Skerry "Alas, alas, this woeful fate This weary fate that's been laid on me That a man should a come frae the West o Hoy Tae the Norwa lands tae ha a bairn wi me" Mulder leaned toward Scully, this time putting his hand over hers. There was no doubt in his mind that it *had* been a selkie that Scully had confronted on Shelter Island. The creature had nearly lured her into the sea to her death, and he did not want to put her through the pain of remembering that encounter. "Do you want to leave," he asked gently. Scully looked at him, her face stricken. "I'm okay," she insisted, struggling for composure. "I'm fine." She smiled at him. "It's just a song Mulder, I'm all right. Really." "Ma dear I'll wed ye wi a ring Wi a ring ma dear, I'll wed wi thee Thou may go wed wi whom thou wilt I'm sure ye'll never wed wi me "An she had got a gunner good An a gey good gunner, I'm sure twas he An he gae oot on a May morning An he shot the son and the grey silkie Scully startled sharply and rose to her feet as Mulder reached out his hand to her again. "Alas, alas this woeful fate This weary fate that's been laid on me "Excuse me," she said quickly, avoiding his grasp. She left quickly, as the singer finished her song: "And once or twice she sobbed and sighed An her tender heart, it brake in three." Mulder signaled the waitress and settled their bill. Then he followed Scully out. He found her standing next to a tree not far from the door, hugging her arms. "Scully?" He came up next to her. "Are you okay?" She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, and shook her head. "Yeah. No. I don't know," she admitted. "God, Mulder, it's like it was yesterday. I can feel it like it just happened. I can feel that *thing* calling me..." Mulder put his hand on her shoulder, sensing the depth of her distress, and remembering the reasons for it. He felt her trembling. "It's okay," he comforted. "Just take a deep breath and relax. I'm right here." Scully nodded and closed her eyes. After a few moments, she stopped shaking. A few moments more, and she straightened up. Mulder dropped his hand. She took a deep breath and nodded at him. "I'm all right, now," she said, and he could see, this time, that it was true. "I think it was just the shock. I didn't expect to be reminded, and I wasn't prepared for the reaction." She shook her head. "I hope I'm not going to have to spend the rest of my life dealing with this," she sighed. Mulder smiled. "Well, it might be a good idea to stay out of bars with folk singers in them, for a while..." he teased, trying to get her smile. It worked. She laughed a little, and glanced up at him, then away quickly. He could see a shadow play across her face. "What is it?" he asked. Scully shrugged. "It's just a little embarrassing, I guess," she admitted. Mulder made a clucking noise at her. "Oh, come on. None of that." He reached over and caught her chin with a fingertip, lifted her face until she was looking him in the eye. "It's only me." Scully gave him a strange look. "No such thing," she said softly. Then she dropped her eyes. Mulder frowned at her wonderingly. Scully cleared her throat and blew out a breath decidedly. "I'm ready to call it a night," she said firmly, and the moment was broken. Mulder said goodnight to Scully at the door of her motel room, but she could tell by his eyes that he was still concerned. She was grateful, and touched, but she was too tired, and frankly still too agitated, to want to talk further that night. She wanted to be alone, to think and eventually to sleep. Besides, she was in no danger. It was true that the encounter in Maine had come very close to ending her life, but the creature itself was long gone. Dead, probably. She had probably killed it herself. "I'm really okay, Mulder," she said, giving him her very best reassuring smile. "I'm just a little rattled. It's nothing a good night's sleep won't take care of." She reached out and squeezed his arm affectionately. Mulder gave her a searching look, then nodded. "Okay. Good night, then," he finally relented. "But call me if you wake up, okay? Or if you have trouble sleeping?" Scully smiled warmly. She nodded. Then she yawned, and Mulder laughed. "All right, all right," he said. "I'll let you go. Get some sleep." Scully merely covered her mouth and nodded. Mulder watched her until she closed her door, then he went on to his own room. Scully might have been tired enough to call it a night, but Mulder was still wide awake. He made a face at the television; passive entertainment was not what he wanted. He thought about taking a run, but that was not what he really wanted, either. His eyes lighted on his brief case, and he sighed. The Colter ghosts were still heavy on his mind, despite Scully's reasonable contention that there was nothing they could do. He needed to think, and he often did that best with a pen in his hands. Opening the briefcase, he took out his field journal, and made himself comfortable at the small desk in the corner of his motel room. Fox Mulder was perfectly comfortable with computers, and technology. He used them every day. Nonetheless, he still kept certain anachronistic habits from his college days, and from his early years with the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit; habits that relaxed him and helped him to think. One of those habits was keeping his field notes "in hand." Scully had teased him, at first, about this peculiarity, pointing out how much easier field reports were when one could cut and paste from a "word" document. But she had come to understand that writing and thinking were often synonymous to her partner. She stopped giving him a hard time. Mulder opened the small loose-bound notebook he used as a field journal, and stared at the blank page, the end of his pen resting on the bottom lip of his mouth. Then he sighed, and started to write: "Although nothing conclusive could be learned at the Colter farm this afternoon, the story told by David Bowman concerning his aunt's and his own alleged encounters with the spirit of Catherine Hewlett do agree with accounts of spectral encounters recorded by parapsychologist Han Holzer, as well as others. It is Agent Scully's contention that Bowman's alleged encounter is merely his mind's way of dealing with the trauma of his apparent rape as a child. While this contention is both valid, and likely accurate, I cannot help but feel that Bowman is completely sincere in his belief that he was 'rescued' from this heinous attack by spectral intervention. Moreover, his story does resonate strikingly of other reported spectral rescues... "I remain convinced that the deaths on the Colter farm property are the direct result of the attempts to sell this parcel toward the end of tearing down the house, and that they are the defensive reactions of the spirits of Catherine Hewlett, and possibility Jeremiah Colter. "Phantoms, ghosts, spirits, by whatever names they are called, these phenomena are generally believed to be the emotional and psychological detritus of lives that have ended through some trauma, or with earthly issues left unresolved. They are, in effect, pieces of a consciousness left behind to re-enact the trauma, or attempt resolution of the issue, over and over, for eternity. While it is undoubtedly their great, though unconsummated, love that continues to bind Catherine Hewlett and Jeremiah Colter to this realm, I believe that it is the house, itself that provides the anchor keeping their spirits on this side of what Dr. Holzer refers to as "the veil". As long as attempts to transact a business deal that will result in the destruction of the house proceed, I am convinced that the deaths will continue. "One must ask oneself, in all of this, if the ghosts, themselves, would not be 'better off' if the house was simply destroyed, and if the intervention of a psychic to assist them back across the line between life and death might not be the kindest thing. How terrible it must be to go through eternity seeking to reconcile a love that was never completely and fully expressed in life..." Mulder put down his pen, and rubbed his eyes wearily. He stretched, then leaned forward against the desk and stared into space, his fist pressed thoughtfully against his mouth. It took him a moment to realize that he was not staring into space after all. The blank wall upon which he gazed was the one that separated his room from Scully's and he wondered if she had been able to get to sleep. He felt a sudden rush of tenderness and concern, and a restless desire to go check on her. He subdued the urge, guessing that it would not be too well received. Still, he hated the thought of her over there, alone, wrestling with whatever demons might have been stirred up that night. He shook his head in frustration at his own inability to comfort and protect her. Protect her, he groaned to himself in amusement. She would undoubtedly *love* to know he was worried about *that*. He smiled to himself and picked up his pen again: "I do not anticipate that Agent Scully's and my scheduled visit to examine the interior of the Colter farmhouse will yield any more conclusive evidence of spectral inhabitation than was gained today. It is extremely rare for persons not psychically sensitive to witness a spectral manifestation. The fact that both Bowman and his aunt claimed to have seen evidence of the ghost of Catherine Hewlett actually lends credence to Bowman's story, as psychic sensitivity tends to run in families. I make no claims to such sensitivity for myself, however, and I am equally sure that Agent Scully, were she asked, would insist, also, that she is free of any psychic powers..." Mulder smiled to himself, imagining Scully's reaction to such a question. "However," he finally concluded, "the opportunity to tour a bona fide haunted house is just to tempting to pass up...." Despite her agitation, Scully had very little trouble falling asleep. She took her time with washing up, and got herself organized for morning. It was not particularly necessary that she do so, this was not a real case they were investigating, there was no need to be out the door at first light, but the routine was soothing. She thought about packing, but their plane did not leave until 2:00 pm the next day, and there would be plenty of time to do so once they returned from the Colter farm. Their plane. Scully sighed and shook her head, wondering what the chances were that their absence would remain undetected, and that a summons from Assistant Director Skinner, demanding an explanation, would not be waiting for them when they got back. She considered that it had, perhaps, not been a very good idea to follow Mulder up here. Except that God only knew what kind of trouble he would have gotten himself into if she had not. Scully laid out jeans and a work shirt for the next morning - she was not going to get caught out in that field, again, in business wear - then glanced over at her laptop computer. It was her habit to spend some time each night before going to bed compiling her field notes from the day, but in this case there really was no need. There *was* no case, if they were lucky no one even knew they were there, and no report to Skinner would be necessary. In any case, Mulder would be making copious notes, she was sure, and if he needed her impressions, he would ask for them. She crawled into bed, switched off the table lamp, and was asleep as soon as her head touched her pillow.