- Camp - post The Red & The Black
Notes at the end.
Rated: PG
CAMP has been translated into German by J.
March
1998
Camp
by Shalimar
He draped toward her
suddenly and landed, his head in
her lap, his nose
in her tummy, knees curled against
the back of the car's
seat. His hand gripped hers
tightly.
She sat, unsure, her
other hand slipped into his hair,
caressing it briefly
on the way to the pulse in his
neck. Did he
faint? What the hell had happened to him
in that truck?
His pulse was light. Fast. Too fast.
"Mulder?"
"Mmmm?" More a rumble than anything.
"You okay?"
He nodded his head against her.
She kept her fingers
on his pulse. He lay quietly in
her lap, and she would
have thought he was asleep
except for the tight
grip he had on her other hand.
Finally, "Scully?"
His voice, muffled by her tummy.
"Yes?'
"Let's stop."
"Stop?"
"Let's just stop."
"Stop what?"
"This. Everything.
We'll quit. We'll tell Skinner
we're quitting."
"The FBI?"
"We'll go away, as far as we can."
She didn't answer,
just gently began stroking his hair.
His forehead felt
damp, a little too clammy. Her
fingers sought his
pulse again. Still fast.
He was quiet a long
time, and then his voice got soft
and dreamy, rumbling
against her stomach.
"We'll buy a camp,
Scully. A boys' camp. In Maine . . .
and we'll spend the
summers teaching the kids how to
build fires and how
to tell the difference between
spruce needles and
hemlock needles. . . . You'll be the
camp
doctor, Scully.
All the little boys will have crushes
on you, and they'll
skin their knees just to have you
rub Neosporin on them
and have you kiss their scrapes
and bruises and cover
them with Band-aides.
He went silent again.
"You'll need more to
do than bandage skinned elbows and
take out splinters,"
he said finally.
She smiled.
"Canoeing," she said.
Humoring him as she willed his
pulse to slow.
"I'll teach Canoeing." She thought a
moment. "And
berry picking. Blueberries."
"And there'll be archery
practice and fishing. Do you
know how to fish,
Scully?"
"I haven't fished in a long time, Mulder."
". . . .Fishing's Zen,
Scully . . . finding the perfect
flies . . . tying
them onto the line just right . . . finding
the perfect pool .
. . the perfect ripple . . . the perfect
time of day. . . ."
"My grandmother used
to make us cast into an old tire,"
she said.
"Over and over until we
could get the fly in the center
without touching the
sides."
His breath was warming
a damp spot against her lower
abdomen. "You
do know how to fish, Scuh-leee. You can
teach the boys fly
casting. We'll teach them what it
really is about.
And we'll hire an old guide and he
can teach them fly-tying.
His name will be Ben and
we'll all sit around
the campfire at night, he can tell
the boys scary tales
about the mountains and the Indian
gods. Unless
you know fly-tying, too."
"Nope, sorry.
But I can teach them how to clean the
fish--if we catch
any."
"You know how to clean
fish? Are you trying to turn me
on?" His voice
was getting sleepy and amused, her
fingers slid back
through his hair to his pulse. It
was slower, beating
a little more steadily under her
fingertips.
"And we'll have swimming
and sailing and chocolate chip
pancakes and hotdogs
and marshmallows," he went on.
"And canoe trips."
"And knot tying."
"Water skiing?"
"No." They both
said together. He laughed, "Of course,
no speed boats.
"Tents."
"Flashlights."
"Kerosene lamps."
"Wet sneakers."
"Mosquitos."
"Mosquito repellent."
"Campfires."
"Instant Tang for breakfast."
"Skinny dipping."
He laughed against
her stomach and then was quiet for
so long she thought
he'd fallen asleep. His voice was
slurred.
"You'll see, Scully
. . . it'll be okay that we don't
have our own kids
. . . we'll have the boys. . . ."
He pulled their linked
hands under his cheek, and
nestled his face more
comfortably into her lap.
Gradually his breathing
became regular, then ever-
so-softly he started
to snore.
Her hand stopped in
his hair and she sat quite still
for a very, very long
time, staring out the car window
into the night.
But what about in the
winter, Mulder? What about
then. . . ?
Winter . . . snow .
. . they'd winterize the lodge.
Ben would be spending
his winters in Florida, and
they'd have the place
to themselves . . . there'd be a
big stone fireplace
. . . ice on the lake.
An old four-wheel drive
Bronco to get supplies in from
town. A couple
of big dogs romping outdoors, tracking in
big fluffy pawprints
of snow. Bookshelves full of books,
an old red leather
couch in front of the fireplace, the dogs
asleep in front of
the fire absorbing heat . . . she and Mulder
would sit on the couch
and warm their stockinged feet on
the dogs' backs. .
. .
She started stroking
his hair again. His skin felt
warmer, not quite
so clammy. His pulse, slow and
strong.
He'd live.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Let's do it, Mulder. Let's
stop."
fin
copyright 1998
by Shalimar
Notes and Disclaimer:
Rating:
PG
Category:
Post-episode vignette MSR
Spoilers:
The Red & the Black, but nothing really.
Summary:
A continuation of the scene in the car at
the end of The Red
& the Black. Very short.
Disclaimer: These
folks belong to you, O Tubular One.
A big thanks to my
editor BeckyD. Thanks Becky!
And to Tally-Ho and
Coyote Cyn. Just for being them.
S.
Winner 1998 Spooky for Outstanding Post Episode
Story
Thanks everyone who voted.