Title:       Camp
Author:      Shalimar
E-Mail:      alcus@compuserve.com
Homepage:    http://Ourworld.compuserve.com/homepages/alcus
Rating:      PG
Category:    Post-episode vignette MSR
Spoilers:    The Red & the Black, Emily.
Keywords:    The Red & the Black, Camp
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 friend and editor Becky, who's not afraid to tell me
when my writing really sucks.  And to my pals Tally-Ho and Coyote Cyn.
Just for being there.

This is dedicated to Noah . . . his help with all my writing has been .
. . immeasurable.  ;-)


Camp
copyright 1998
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
grasped 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 to have you kiss their scrapes and bruises and cover them with
Bandaides.

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, Scuhleee.  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 knot tying."

"And canoe trips."

"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