Title: THE MOTIVES OF SILENT VISITORS (1/1)
Author: aka "Jake"
Rating: PG-13 (Adult Situations)
Classification: Post Ep 
Spoilers: "Fearful Symmetry"   

Summary: "The motives of the silent visitors who set these events in motion remain unclear. Could this be a judgment...?" -- Mulder in "Fearful Symmetry"

Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no.

THE MOTIVES OF SILENT VISITORS  
By aka "Jake"

~~~~~~~~

//Willa Ambrose and Ed Meecham have been charged with manslaughter for the death of Kyle Lang. And though the courts will rule on this matter, and justice will no doubt be served, the pall of a greater tragedy remains. The motives of the silent visitors who set these events in motion remain unclear. Could this be a judgment on a global rate of extinction that has risen to one thousand times its natural rate in this century? An act of alien conservation of animals we are driving hard toward oblivion? And if so, might it follow that our own fate and existence could finally be dependent upon the conservatorship of an extraterrestrial race?//

~~~~~~~~ 

FAIRFIELD, IDAHO
FEBRUARY 24, 1995
9:15 PM

"One more night in the Spud State, Scully. Flight leaves at 8:00 in the morning." Mulder reviews case notes, his paperwork spread from one side of Scully's motel bed to the other. He is part of the clutter, stretched out in the bed's middle, four pillows stacked behind his shoulders. The paisley comforter all but disappears beneath his collage of crime scene photos.   

Scully sits at a small, round table typing field notes into her laptop. 

//...evidence of hyperplasia and the corpus luteum...//

She pauses, fingers hanging above the keys. "Too bad about Kyle Lang."

"Too bad about the animals."

"How's your eye?" She turns to study the bruise that shadows his right temple behind the bow of his glasses.

He shakes his head, and continues to mark circles on a map, pinpointing the location of each zoo animal's reappearance.

"Jesus, Mulder, my bed looks like a tornado hit it."

"I told you, it's not tornado season."

Stiff from sitting and feeling a little thirsty, Scully abandons her laptop and rises from the table. "I'm going for ice. You want a soda? Something from the snack machine?"

Mulder ignores her, focused on his calculations. 

Invisible elephants. Their job -- her life -- is rife with irreconcilable events.

She shrugs into her trenchcoat and grabs the ice bucket. "I'll be right back." She opens the door and steps out into the rain.

Three doors down, she turns her collar to the wind and feeds coins into the machine. She buys Mulder an apple juice and a Payday and then selects a diet root beer for herself. Filling the ice bucket, she tilts her head from side to side and tries to work the kinks from her neck. When a car pulls into the parking lot behind her, she peers over her shoulder and gazes directly into the twin beams of its headlights. 

~~~~~~~~ 

You stretch, unknotting your spine with a pleasant pop-pop, and squint against the brightness. This room teems with sunlight despite the overhanging roof and the mini-blinds. An expansive one-story affair with plenty of elbowroom, this house is grander than you ever expected to share with Mulder...or with any man, for that matter. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, all over-sized to the point of extravagance. Such decadence comes with a hefty price tag, however. Can you afford this rambling, golden-aired dwelling?

You might believe this all a dream if you hadn't woken only a few hours ago from a nightmare about invisible elephants and disappearing tigers.

Mulder still sports a black eye, fading memento courtesy of Sophie the talking gorilla. The injury does little to diminish his good-humored good looks. He parades barefoot and bare-chested around the house, his skin as golden as the Midas-kissed air. He is at ease in a way you have never seen him. Did you realize his laugh could buckle your knees?

Do you know why you are here?  

"It ain't no pickle barrel," Mulder teases, referring to the size of the house, reminding you of Kyle Lang's comment about Ganesha's 50- by 50-foot cage. "You like it, Scully?" he asks, and swoops in to kiss the back of your neck.

"It's beautiful, Mulder." 

You stand together at the kitchen counter where you pour twin cups of fresh coffee. The mugs are white. The cupboards are white. The countertops, the coffeemaker, the floors are white, white, white, like the gauzy pajama bottoms Mulder is wearing and the flowing nightgown that swirls softly around your own bare legs. It is all make-you-go-blind-white, like the acres of sheets on your unmade bed.

Mulder's fingers trail up your bare arm. He smells of honey and muskmelon and slightly burnt toast. A few toast crumbs ride the bristle of his unshaved cheek. You wipe them away with your thumb just before his mouth slides onto yours. His pumicey jaw scours your cheek and his kiss...his kiss makes the mantle of your womb flow molten. You watch him through your rust-colored lashes -- a veil of Pele's tears. When did the two of you become so pyroclastic?

When did you become anything but platonic?

Later, you sit on the edge of the bed waiting for him to return from the bathroom. When he does, he pauses at the threshold and eyeballs the wrecked linens.

"Let me ask you something, Scully. In your opinion, the damage here -- could this have been caused by an escaped elephant?" he asks, before thundering toward you and diving headlong onto the mattress. 

His question sounds vaguely familiar, but his earthquake landing produces an aftershock that unbalances you and you forget your sense of deja vu. You tumble backward onto the bed, rolling into the well created by his body, giggling in a most uncharacteristic way. He makes you feel girlish. For the time being, you like it.

Inch by inch, he tugs your nightgown upward, baring your knees, your thighs. His hand sweeps beneath the gown's lacy hem to paint your hip with his heat. Your hips still ache from overextension when, earlier, you spread your legs wide to accommodate him. You ignore your discomfort and part your knees now, allowing him to investigate your body. He pets you and you are reminded of Willa Ambrose and Sophie.

"Mulder?"

His exploration stops.

"Mulder, how did we get here...exactly?"

He shakes his head. "Dunno," he says, and nudges your ear with his nose. "Who cares?" His fingers resume their journey through your curls.

You draw your knees together and sit up. "Do you remember driving here? Because I don't. For that matter, where is 'here'?"

"'Here' is Fairfield, Idaho."

"This doesn't look like the motel we checked into on Highway 24. I'm pretty sure my room had paisley drapes and velvet paintings."

"Must be magic. I saw David Copperfield make the Statue of Liberty disappear once."

"You made that joke yesterday."

"Did I?" He frowns in mock concern. 

"Mulder, what's going on?" You scramble from the bed and pace the room, gauging its limits.

"You okay, Scully?"

His long-limbed contentment annoys you. "*I* am fine." Crossing your arms, you reign in your temper. "We never came here...did we?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Mulder, what if...what if we were brought here, the same way Ganesha and Sophie..."

"Ganesha and Sophie...what?"

"Were taken, abducted, whatever."

"Who would take us? And why?"

"I don't know." Visions of spinning drills and Duane Barry and a white, white, white light suddenly threaten to crack your teeth. "To get me pregnant, steal my baby? Mulder, why doesn't any of this bother you?"

He smiles and climbs from the bed. "Okay, Scully, let's find out where we are." He looms over you and massages a hypnotic circle onto the nape of your neck with his middle finger. His breath sifts across your shoulders, tempering your not-so-steely resolve beneath the bloomery of his lungs -- some kind of enchanted half-carburization process that makes you too pliable and too tenuous. "You calmed down?" His voice is seed on the wind.

"Mulder, you said *that* to me yesterday, too."

"I guess I'm repeating myself. I apologize. Come back to bed  -- we can repeat something else." He tugs at your wrist and waggles his brows.

"No. I want to look around -- outside."

He shrugs and dovetails his fingers with yours. "Sure. Lead the way."

You tow him through the house, through rooms so vast they seem to take forever to negotiate. Over carpeted living space, tiled kitchen, past sheer white drapes that veil every over-bright window. Finally at the front door, you hear the clatter of wind chimes outside. You know without looking the noise comes from a string of seashells.

**"The construction worker who was killed had his spine crushed like a string of seashells, and a circular abrasion on his torso in roughly the shape of an elephant's foot."**

Mulder's words...also from yesterday. Is this really as simple as deja vu?

"Allow me." Mulder opens the front door and you are momentarily blinded by the radiance that pours across the threshold. Mulder surprises you by scooping you off your feet and striding out into the midday heat.

"Mulder, what are you doing?"

"I didn't carry you in, so--" He accidentally bumps the wind chimes with one shoulder and starts them rattling. A string of seashells hangs like an infant's spinal column from the overhanging roof.

Cradled in Mulder's arms, you feel weightless and dizzy, ungrounded, un-you. "Put me down."

He sets your bare feet onto a plain of warm sand that extends beyond the reach of your vision. The terrain is flat and barren. A ground-fog of cascaho billows around your ankles in a whirling dervish that stings your skin. You are on pins and needles.

"Mulder, what is this place?"

"Looks like the desert to me."

"It doesn't look a thing like Fairfield, Idaho." You scan the sky, squinting against the brilliance only to somehow lose the sun in the clear, forget-me-not sky. "Mulder, what time is it?"

"Not wearing my watch. Why?"

"Have you noticed we don't have any shadows?"

"Then it must be noon." 

"So where is the sun?"

He scratches his tousled hair, takes a few tentative steps away from the house and stares straight upward. Dissatisfied with his inaction, you begin to explore the dwelling's perimeter. Your footsteps kick up ghostly mini-tornados. He jogs to catch up with you. Halfway around the house, the landscape remains featureless.

"Got any theories?" You're hopeful. He shakes his head and you continue to circle the house. "What is this place, Mulder?" you ask again when you stand once more at the front door.

"I'm...not sure." 

You turn your back on the house and face the empty horizon. "Come on."

"You want to just start walking? Across a desert?" He stands firm.

"What choice do we have? Did you see a phone in the house? Fax machine? Computer?"

"Scully, we're not prepared. We have no water, no compass, no sunscreen..."

These should be your words, not his. "We have no sun, either, so I don't think melanoma is a serious consideration. And since when did you become so overcautious?"  

A question mark appears in the folds above his brows. "The wind will cover our tracks. We won't be able to find our way back."

"Why would we want to come back?" You picture your vanishing footprints and begin to walk a straight line toward nothing. 

He trails after you. "This is crazy, Scully."

"At least we agree on that."

You keep walking. The further you travel, the harsher the wind blows, sandblasting your skin. You protect your eyes with one upraised arm and dig your toes into the desert with each step. Soon your calves burn and your throat is raw from sucking grit into your gullet. Sweat slicks your back, pasting your nightgown to your shoulder blades.

"Scully, stop. Please." Mulder is right behind you and tags your arm. 

You slow down, turn, take two steps backward before stopping. 

"The house..." He points. The house has diminished to a mere dot on the horizon. "If we go any further, it'll be out of sight."

"I don't care." 

He traps his lower lip between his teeth and surveys the blank horizon ahead. "I have an idea. You stay here. I'll keep going until I can barely see you. That'll almost double our range. If there's nothing beyond that, we can still go back."

"I don't want to go back, Mulder. We don't belong there."

"Why not? Was it really that bad?" He strokes your arm and you want to give in, you really do. 

"This is a jail cell," you say.

"This?" He pivots and an unconvinced laugh chuffs from his lungs. "But it's huge."

"Then it's like a habitat at the zoo. Same thing." You drag yourself from him and start walking once more. 

The space between you grows. You know without looking he watches your back -- he has watched your back for almost two years, why would he stop now? You try to ignore the ungodly loneliness that grates your breastbone by concentrating on one foot in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other. Doubt hammers at you until you decide to beat it back by chanting, "This can't be real, this can't be real, this can't be real."

"Scullee!" Mulder's voice is almost lost in the hiss of sand. You spin and he stares at you from the end of the earth, the house invisible somewhere behind him. You can see him sway, battered by a whirlwind. He waves you back and his unrecognizable attitude wreaks havoc with what you see with your own eyes. 

You have studied this man for months -- his riffled hair and his quirky half-smile, the mole on his cheek and the way he keeps his nails trimmed even though he admires the natural beauty of a devil woman in New Jersey. You have noticed his Adam's apple rise high in his throat at the smell of a cadaver or at the sight of you handcuffed to an iron radiator. You have watched him chase mutants, idolize astronauts, fear nothing but fire and romantic commitment. You know he believes the stories of alien abductees, champions deadly extraterrestrial life forms, and has saved your life in Steveston, Massachusetts, Minneapolis, Minnesota, and as close to home as Baltimore...twice. But it is his relentless search for his long lost sister that has shown you he never, ever stops asking questions. His unwillingness to give up is perhaps the thing you admire most about him.  

This man isn't Mulder. He is a stranger. Or a figment of your imagination.

What is this place? 

Ahead of you is more white desert and forget-me-not sky. Behind you is a mere illusion, a magic trick. Maybe David Copperfield is in town. 

Feeling lost, you bend to scoop up a handful of sand. Miniscule grains stick to your humid fingers. Crushed seashells? Or the wind-scoured bones of a trillion fetal skeletons? 

~~~~~~~~

"Ms. Scully?" 

Scully squints into the paramedic's penlight. Sitting above the rear bumper of an ambulance, she waves away his fearsome beam. It is nighttime and drizzling. Gyrating blue lights warn oncoming traffic to steer clear of this side of the street. The fault is hers. She's chilled to the bone and shivers beneath the medic's blanket. For some reason, an ice bucket from her hotel room rests in her lap.

"Where's Mulder?"

"We called your partner ten minutes ago. He's on his way."

On his way? From where? To where? 

"Do you know where you are, Ms. Scully? Do you remember how you got here?"

Her head wags and water rains from her saturated curls. Then she spots Mulder's car and his slouching silhouette and her teeth no longer chatter. He lopes toward her, concern etched between his brows.

"Scully," he exhales her name when he's close enough to palm her shoulder. "What are you doing out here?"

"I-I'm not sure." 

He uses his thumb to capture a drop of water as it sluices down her cheek. She shivers and he shrugs out of his trenchcoat, wraps it over her blanketed shoulders. He has body heat to spare. 

She leans close to his ear; she doesn't want the paramedics to overhear. "I don't know where I am."

"Do you remember how you got here?" he whispers back. "Did you walk?"

It would be so easy to blame it on somnambulism, but she has no history of sleepwalking. Still, the explanation is more plausible than Mulder's black holes, cosmic anomalies or alien abductions -- irreconcilable events, as impossible as an invisible elephant.

"I don't know what happened to me."

"Scully, we can't ignore where we are--"

"And where is that...exactly?" she asks.

"Three miles from the Fairfield Zoo. Six from the motel."

"Mulder, I wasn't abducted."

"Then what's your explanation?"   

A simple walk, lost in thought? Certainly not alien visitors. "Maybe tornado season came early this year." She fails at forcing a smile.

"A tornado lifted you out of your motel room and dropped you six miles away?"

"I wasn't in my room, remember? I was getting ice." She holds up the plastic bucket. 

He softly observes the bucket, working his cheek between his teeth and nodding. His Adam's apple rides to the top of his throat. "You weren't gone more than two minutes. There's not a scratch or a bruise on you, Scully. How is that?"

Mulder pursues the impossible, refusing to drop his search. Tucked beneath the drape of his arm, she knows she is where she belongs.

"No more questions tonight, Mulder. Save the investigation for morning."

"But by then any evidence--"

"Tomorrow." She puts two fingers to his lips. "Please."

He helps her from the ambulance and guides her toward the car with one arm. "Scully, I have several files on people who claim to have been picked up by tornados and put down miles away. Frank Bigelow of Four Corners, Oklahoma, insists he was carried seven miles across state lines into Sunnydale, Arkansas."

"Then why is it so hard to believe the same thing happened to me?"

"Because when Mr. Bigelow took his unexpected trip, it was tornado season. And everyone knows--"

"This is alien abduction season?"

"Something like that." Opening the car door, he helps her inside. He ducks to peer at her. "You're okay, Scully, right?"

"I'm fine, Mulder. Take me home."

THE END