Title: Far from Home
e-mail: chalcedony.1@hotmail.com
Story: Scully comes across a drowning while on vacation in 
San Diego and Mulder comes to help on the case. 
Rating: R
Classification: MSR
Spoilers: Per Manum, Closure, Millenium, The Unnatural
Notes: This story is in two parts--the first is from 
Scully's POV and the second is Mulder's.  There is also a 
style change to magical realism. 

Hotel Del Coronado
San Diego

The hotel sits on a beach. Hexagonal red-tiled roofs atop 
white buildings.  Iron-gray ocean, cloud-smoked sky.  The 
Naval Air Station, drawing F-18s, S3s and E2s like moths to 
a flame, is to the north.  To the south lies the Naval 
Amphibious Base, below which an isthmus of sand stretches 
away to Imperial Beach, eventually leading all the way down 
to the lights of Tijuana.  To the west is the pounding surf 
of the Pacific.  And in the East, across a concrete-slab 
bay, the dull-windowed buildings of the city stare blankly, 
upon the wind-lashed sailboats and sluggish barges piled 
high with shipping containers. 

Thousands of tourists come to the hotel each year.  They 
lie on the beach during the day and at night they take the 
ferry across to the city for dinner.  Some stay at the 
hotel for dinner.  It has three restaurants, a formal 
dining room, and two piano lounges.  

There is also room 3327 which is haunted.  It is the most 
popular room in the hotel. 

Down a set of stairs is an underground row of shops with 
plate glass windows that showcase their wares.  Tourists 
can buy formal resort wear, overpriced plastic pails for 
sand castle building, jewelry, books, t-shirts, 
sweatshirts, or coasters with photos of the hotel embossed 
on the front.  There is also an ice cream shop.  

It was through one of these shop windows that a maid in the 
hotel glimpsed a woman in a black dress behind a counter.  
However, the door was locked, and no one had been scheduled 
to come in that early.  Upon later examination, it was 
discovered that a shelf of books had been disturbed.  The 
manager of the shop was certain the books on that shelf 
were in good order the night before.  Most of the hotel 
staff, including the maid, believes the woman she saw that 
morning was a ghost.    
___________________

Monday, November 27th, 7:22 a.m.

The beach was mostly empty.  The sun had not yet begun to 
pierce the heavy marine layer over the ocean.   

The ones who were there stood in little clumps, and 
generally in a semi-circle.  They were giving plenty of 
room to the police, the lifeguards, and the EMTs huddled 
over a body that lay just shy of the tide line.  The pale 
skin of a woman's face was barely visible under the wet 
seaweed tangle of curly brown hair.  

Scully was noticeable for the fact that she stood neither 
with the crowd, nor among the huddle of uniforms, but in 
the space between.  Her hair was up in an elastic band, 
away from her face.  Her black jogging pants and tennis 
shoes were wet and sandy from where she had been kneeling 
over the body earlier.  She stood with her arms crossed and 
chin slightly tucked down, cool blue eyes on the scene in 
front of her.
   
Of all the people on the beach, she alone stood patiently, 
without a hint of anxiety.  

An officer approached her with a small notepad in hand, 
"Over here." He walked in front of her.  She pivoted and 
followed, changing almost nothing in her posture--arms 
crossed, chin tucked, eyes straight ahead.    

"I'm Officer O'Roark.  I'll need your statement."  He was 
serious and respectful.  He poised himself to write, his 
head was down, mirroring her posture, but his eyes were on 
her, waiting. 

"You're FBI?" 

She assumed he'd been briefed by the other officers. "Yes. 
"
"Your full name?" 

"Dana Scully." 

"Address?" 

Which one?  I'm from Washington D.C. I'm here on vacation 
staying in the home of a friend."  

"Okay, give me both."  

Her voice was calm and steady as she continued her 
statement. "I was jogging on the beach.   It was early."  
It was her professional voice, the one she used when she 
talked to investigators or gave a briefing to Skinner.  "I 
saw the body and wasn't sure if it was someone who had 
passed out.  Someone from the hotel or the bar up there.  I 
turned her over.  Skin was cold to the touch.  There were, 
what appeared to be, rope marks and bruising about the 
neck. No pulse.  It was pretty obvious that she was dead."  
She lowered her eyes as she finished. 

The officer finished writing his notes and looked up to see 
if she had something more to say.  

She willed herself to say nothing but heard the words as 
they formed themselves on her lips, "I can offer my 
services as a pathologist if the medical examiner would 
like help with the autopsy."  She immediately regretted it. 

"Thank you.  I'll pass that information along to the right 
people.  I think we're done here. If I need something more, 
I'll be in touch."

She gave him a tight smile as he stepped away. "Thanks."

_______________________

Scully didn't move.  Part of her wanted to call Mulder.  
Her cell phone weighed heavily in her pocket.  She'd 
brought it on her jog for safety and at every moment since 
finding the body, she'd had to restrain herself from 
calling him.  The urge was automatic. But no, she needed 
time away.  

She walked down the beach, deep in thought, retracing the 
steps that she had jogged earlier in the day. 

She had come to San Diego for Thanksgiving and spent the 
weekend with Bill's family.  It had been bittersweet.  She 
wanted to enjoy being with them and seeing his wife, his 
children, her mother.  But somehow, they had been too 
careful.  There was so much that they weren't saying.  In 
years past, it had been "someday when you're married" and 
"someday when you have children of your own," but this time 
her future had not been hinted at, as though it were 
something too painful or too complicated.  She was aware of 
the shift.  

Ever since the failed in-vitro attempt she had been in a 
kind of limbo.  She felt as if she were being pulled under. 
Overwhelmed.  At times her emotions were a tight ball under 
the surface threatening to explode up and out of her 
control.  At others her thoughts were a gray mist, 
amorphous, unformed and incomplete.  They would slip and 
slide over ideas and images, adhering to nothing.  

She was trying to accept the reality of a future without 
children, perhaps alone, but was torn between accepting it 
and avoiding the thought altogether.  If she didn't accept 
it, maybe it wouldn't be true. 

An admiral in the Navy, an old friend of her father's had a 
home on Coronado.  Her mother suggested she take advantage 
of the offer to spend a few days enjoying herself while she 
was there.  At first she didn't think she wanted to come at 
all.  By the end of the weekend, she had agreed, deciding 
the chance to think about things and evaluate her situation 
might be just what she needed.  It was uncharacteristic, 
but she felt herself at a crossroads.

Now this death.  She didn't want more death.  She didn't 
want to face another human tragedy, see another life with 
all of its hopes and dreams and possibilities end 
precipitately.  This was her vacation.  This was not an X-
file.  

A sound that had been building suddenly got louder, until 
the roar and "whoomph" of an S3 were deafening.  Scully 
watched the shadow go over her as the plane rocketed toward 
North Island Naval Air Station.  It made her feel safe.  
Coronado was a cocoon of jets and planes and helicopters.  
She was surrounded by battleships.  Lifeguards and their 
lookouts.  Policemen and their sub-stations.  Military men 
and their guns.  

The sun was starting to burn through, and it was turning 
into a beautiful day.  But her heart was chilled through 
and she could take no pleasure in it. 
_______________________________

The Admiral's vacation home was a massive white villa with 
a blue tile roof and a fifteen foot-high front door.  
Across from the door a large glass wall which afforded a 
view of San Diego bay and all of the buildings of the 
downtown skyline.  Beyond the glass was a patio with a 
pool, a hot tub, and some furniture. Scully was awakened by 
the ringing of her cell phone.  She lay sleeping on a 
chaise by the pool still wearing her jogging clothes.

"Scully." Her mouth was dry and she felt disoriented.  

"Scully, it's me."  Her heart was still pounding from being 
unexpectedly woken up.  And then, it was Mulder's voice.   

She put her hand over her eyes and blinked hard.  The 
sunlight was still bright, glinting off of the water and 
the glass of the distant buildings.  "Hi." 

"Are you okay?" His voice was warm and smooth and a little 
sleepy sounding.  She suspected that he knew what it did to 
her.  

"I'm fine, Mulder." 

"I'm watching the news.  You're in Coronado, right?"

She knew what was coming. "You saw the story about the 
drowning."

"I'm coming out there."

"Mulder, I'm helping with the investigation.  I offered to 
do the autopsy.  There are plenty of law enforcement 
personnel here to help," she said and then paused.  

"Are you aware of the paranormal aspects of the case, 
Scully?"

"Paranormal aspects?  No.  I found a body on the beach. The 
police are looking into it.  What are you talking about?"

"The news reports mentioned that the hotel is haunted.  
Your victim was staying in the haunted room.   The one that 
has a famous ghost, a woman named Kate Morgan who died of a 
gunshot wound to the head November 29,1892"  

"So she stayed in a haunted room."

"A psychic on the news mentioned that there have been 
several recent ghost sightings and that this is not the 
first death that has occurred around the anniversary of her 
death." 

"Are you suggesting that the ghost, this Kate Morgan, 
killed her?  She drowned Mulder." She stopped short of 
calling the idea ludicrous, but her tone said it anyway. 

"Yes, she drowned, but was she lured out into the water?"

"She probably drank too much and then went swimming.  
Dozens of tourists die in drowning accidents every year.  
And if there is some other unexplained reason for her 
death, then I'll find it in the autopsy." 

He didn't respond to this. 
 
"Mulder, it's impossible to know if there's foul play until 
I conduct an autopsy.  I expect that the evidence will 
point to accidental drowning or at the worst suicide--it 
seems unlikely that the evidence will point to a homicidal 
poltergeist, but if it does, I'll call you."

"Suicide?"

"There was some bruising at her neck.  There could be 
several explanations for it."  Her tone admitted partial 
defeat.  

"Psychokinetic manipulation?"

"Mulder." 
_____________________

That afternoon she took a walk.  She headed for a European 
coffee house a few blocks away from where she was staying.  
(There was a Starbucks on the corner, but she avoided it, 
annoyed yet oddly gratified at the way her nickname had 
been hijacked.  She knew it was irrational to feel 
personally affronted by the coincidence.)  She looked 
through the glass cases at little rows of napoleons, petite 
choux, apricot tarts, and fruit custards knowing she 
wouldn't order one, but enjoying the sight and smell of 
them all the same.  A Marine was laughing with the manager 
next to the register as another one came in carrying a 
large box.  It said "Toys for Tots" on the side.  He set it 
down and they both left, saying they'd be back in a few 
weeks.  She felt kindly towards them and then cynically 
wondered if they were volunteers or under orders.  After 
paying for her coffee, she picked up a paper and sat down 
at a nearby table.  She thought back to her childhood and 
the times she'd spent in this town with her family.  It had 
changed a lot since the 70s.  No one spent any time 
downtown back then.  It was a place they drove through to 
get to a base or a ship.  There weren't any shopping malls 
or Gaslamp Districts or fancy restaurants then.  She missed 
her father--could picture him marching in a military parade 
or standing on board a ship in his dress whites.  

If she had married a military man, she might still be 
living there.  Practicing a little medicine, volunteering 
with the officer's wives clubs--the thought of the social 
politics made her stomach churn.  It wasn't a life she 
would have wanted, but?she would have had children.  They 
would have been friends with the other military brats.  It 
was a circumscribed life, but not a bad one.  She let these 
thoughts drift over her as she sat, wondering about the 
life she didn?t choose. 

When it was nearly dark, she walked back to the villa.  It 
was cold and she pulled her sweater around her a little 
tighter. For the first time in a long time she felt lonely-
-a soul-searing, bone-chilling loneliness.  Maybe this was 
why she didn?t take vacations.  It was better to work, to 
stay busy, to avoid analyzing feelings that might be 
painful.  When she was running after Mulder and keeping his 
nose clean, she didn't have time to think about the things 
that might be missing in her life.  But lately, it had been 
impossible.  "Someday" had come, and it wasn't what she had 
always imagined it would be. 

A car slowed alongside her as she walked, and Mulder rolled 
down the window of his cab.  "Need a lift somewhere?" He 
wore a big goofy grin on his face, and for once, she was 
smiling down at him.  "Hop in."   

Suddenly her heart was a thousand times lighter.  She 
didn't think about it, just got in the car and hugged him. 

"Hey," he laughed awkwardly.  "I guess someone missed me." 

"I'm so glad you're here." She leaned her head back against 
the cab.  "Where are you staying? Have you eaten? What's?"

"Whoa, whoa--I'm staying at the Hotel Del Coronado.  I 
asked the driver here to give me a spin around town so I 
could get my bearings, and then here you were," his voice 
had lowered at that and Scully felt herself warm to the 
sound, "and I am starving! Let's get some food and we can 
catch up over dinner. He turned to the driver, "Take me to 
the best Mexican restaurant on the island." 

He nodded.  "Miguel's." 

Scully thought Mulder would faint by the time they got a 
table.  Even on a Monday night it took half an hour to get 
seated.  Looking out of place in his black trench coat and 
tie, he had nervously wandered through two or three shops 
in the courtyard of the restaurant--threatened to try on a 
pair of roller blades but then settled for purchasing a 
smashball set.  Just before their name was called, the low-
pitched honk of a tuba shakily led the stragglers of a horn 
section into what was eventually recognizable as "Feliz 
Navidad."  The local high school band was out on the 
street, apparently out practicing for the upcoming 
Christmas parade.  It was a charming but poignant reminder 
of another Christmas heading her way.  

Scully ordered a margarita and shrimp tacos.  Mulder dove 
into a grande sized carne asada burrito slathered in red 
sauce, holding both his fork and his knife up while he 
talked with his mouth full.  "When I checked in at the 
hotel, I went ahead and looked at the room where the woman 
you found was staying--they had it taped off, but one of 
the detectives was still around.  Said she'd registered 
under the name of Meghan Cort five days ago. Specifically 
requested room 3327 and she was staying at the hotel alone, 
as far as anyone could tell." 

Scully kept her eyes on him as he talked.  "Has anyone come 
looking for her yet?" 

"No, not so far.  They're running a check on the name right 
now, so hopefully they'll have something by morning. It 
could have been a suicide--the ceiling light fixture was 
broken.  Could have been from a rope, and the detective 
told me they'd found a noose in the room.  They took it 
downtown to the crime lab to have it analyzed."  

"That just doesn't make sense--who attempts to hang 
themselves and then drowns themselves instead?  Isn't a 
bottle of pills or a gun easier, why not just jump off the 
Coronado Bridge?  At least it's convenient."

Mulder looked at her strangely--"That's quite a catalogue 
of ideas Scully." Then he continued, "The concierge said he 
could put me in touch with several witnesses who have had 
ghost sightings." At the mention of ghosts, she took a very 
long sip of her margarita.    "He hasn?t had any himself, 
but he gave me a card. It's the psychic that I saw on the 
news.  I want to call him after dinner so we can get 
started right away." He set the knife down while he fished 
around in his pocket, slapping something down on the table.

Scully nodded absently as he talked, and picked up the card 
he had put down.  It read, "Joaquin Gonzales, 
Interdimensional Communicator."  Below, it listed a phone 
number. 

"Interdimensional Communicator.  Is that what they're 
calling themselves these days?" She asked.    

Mulder gulped down a particularly large bite before 
continuing on as though he hadn't heard her comment, "He's 
some kind of local celebrity.  He's made a cottage industry 
of holding s?ances in the haunted room--people come from 
all over to try to connect with lost relatives."

Scully raised an eyebrow.

Mulder's eyes widened and he pursed his lips, "What?  He's 
a material witness.  I'll need to question him."

"Fine, but I'm coming with you."  
_______________________

After dinner they walked across the street to the hotel, 
and Mulder punched the buttons on his cell phone while they 
stood outside.  There was no answer so he left a message.

"It's still early. You wanna go for a walk on the beach, 
Scully?" 

Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she shivered in 
the cold night air.  She looked up at him, huddling into 
him for warmth.  Her eyes were tired and she was a little 
drowsy from the margarita, "Can I take a rain check?" 

He draped an arm around her and rubbed her shoulder, trying 
to warm her, "Yeah, yeah, it's been a long day for you." He 
looked down and she felt his gaze really taking her in for 
the first time since his arrival, his look of concern and 
kindly tone comforted her.  

The thought of the big empty villa depressed her a little. 
She wished she weren't going home alone, but she wasn't 
sure inviting him over was a good idea either.  "Let's get 
you a cab."  He walked her to one of the cabs on the curb 
outside the hotel and handed the driver a twenty.  When he 
opened the door for her, she stood and waited, and he took 
her head in both of his hands, sliding his fingers into her 
hair and kissed her goodnight on the forehead.  He'd been 
doing that more. Ever since their New Year's Eve kiss.  She 
slipped her arms in under his coat and held him to her, 
pressing her face against his chest.   

"Good night, Mulder." 

"Good night."      

"I'm glad you?re here," she whispered. 

"Me too," he said with a final squeeze before sending her 
off.

_______________________

In spite of her surprising encounter with Luther Lee Boggs, 
Scully continued to be skeptical regarding the reliability 
of interdimensional communication.  Nevertheless, she met 
Mulder at the hotel to begin interviewing witnesses, Mr. 
Joaquin Gonzales among them.  They stood together in the 
hotel lobby waiting for him to arrive.   

An attractive man with dark hair and a thin black mustache 
walked purposefully towards them, and smiled, showing 
straight white teeth. Scully thought he looked a little bit 
like Antonio Banderas.  He wore a white button down shirt 
and his shoes were very clean.   

He thrust a hand out, "Joaquin Gonzalez.  You must be Mr. 
Mulder and Ms. Scully with the FBI. It is my pleasure to 
meet you."  He had a slight Spanish accent and his 
formality made him seem all the more foreign.  They shook 
hands.  Mulder led them outside to talk.  

"When did Meghan Cort contact you?" Mulder began.  

"It was?five days ago.  She was already here at the hotel, 
and she phoned and said that she was receiving 
visitations."

"Visitations?"

"Yes, from an entity, a spirit, I suppose we would say." He 
was an expansive talker.  Used his hands a lot. 

"And you believe this entity was Kate Morgan?  What leads 
you to believe that?" 

He closed his eyes in a display of conviction.  "She is a 
powerful presence.  I'm sure it could be none other." 

"What would be the connection between the two of them?"

Mr. Gonzales shook his head, "I don't know.  Ms. Cort 
mentioned that she feared for her life.  That these 
visitations were a kind of warning.  Those were her words--
nothing that came from me." 

Scully jumped in, "Mr. Gonzales, are you suggesting that a 
ghost was warning Ms. Cort that she was about to die?  Did 
it ever occur to you that she might be mentally unbalanced? 
"

"No.  I didn't think she was mentally unbalanced."  He 
looked at Scully as though her suggestion was rude or he 
thought her unmannerly.  "I believed her, and I helped 
her." 

"If you believed her, why didn't you call the police.  If 
you thought that her life was in danger, why not do 
something?" 

He smiled ruefully, "The police wouldn't have believed me, 
and I did try to check in on her the next day, but by then, 
it was already too late." 

"Too late?" 

"Well, I couldn't reach her, and then I heard about the 
body on the beach.  I knew it was her.  I've tried to make 
myself as available as possible to the law enforcement and 
media since hearing of it." 

"Yeah, I'll bet it really lines your pockets," Scully 
muttered. 

"Excuse me?" 

Mulder interrupted, "Mr. Gonzales, what else do you know? 
Can you tell us anything further?" 

"Nothing that I haven't already told the police. I've given 
out everything that I know, "he answered, seeming pleased 
with himself.  

Just then Scully's cell phone rang and she answered it.  

"Scully," her eyes flew up to Mulder's. "Yes sir.  Yes sir, 
he's here with me."  He and Gonzales conferred near a ficas 
tree while she talked to Skinner.  She looked at her watch, 
"I can be there in ten minutes."  She clicked her phone 
off. "Skinner is here--he's down at the police sub-station 
and wants to brief one of us.

"Why don't you go.  I have a few more things to tie up 
around here.  There are one or two employees I wanted to 
interview."  He was looking slightly sheepish.

Scully wondered what was up, but assumed he was going to 
have a s?ance or a palm reading or tea leaf reading with 
Mr. Gonzales, but she didn't ask because she preferred not 
to know.  She smiled the polite smile at both of them and 
gave Mulder a little wave, "I'll call you when I'm done."  
_________________________________

As Scully was entering the police sub-station, she nearly 
ran headlong into a tall bald man in sunglasses.

She was confused for a moment trying to process why Skinner 
was standing in front of her instead of sitting in his 
office in D.C..  

Before she could say anything, he had wrapped his hand 
around her upper arm saying, "Come with me Scully," and 
gently led her out of the building. 

"What's going on?  What are you doing here?"

He spoke in hushed tones despite the fact that no one was 
around to hear them.  "Some of the military higher ups 
asked me to come down here and reign in this investigation 
before it gets out of control in the media." 

She didn't reply, but waited for his explanation. 

"The victim has been identified and her husband was a 
recent Iraq war vet.  He was released from Walter Reed 
Hospital four months ago and returned to active duty 
stateside."

"Walter Reed?  What was the nature of his injuries?"

"He suffered from severe head trauma after a car bomb 
exploded next to his transport vehicle.  He had recovered 
most of his cognitive abilities, but was having continued 
problems with impulse control and anger management." 

"So they sent him back home to the wife," Scully said with 
mild disgust.  

"They knew he would have some residual problems from the 
brain injury but they were trying to help him re-integrate 
successfully.  It's tragic what has happened.  And it 
hasn't been proven that he had something to do with his 
wife's death, but under the circumstances the military 
prefers to conduct their own investigation.  The last thing 
they want is to have this blow up into a PR fiasco.  I'm 
going to be staying in the officer's quarters on the air 
base.  I'll contact you and Mulder as needed.  Until then, 
I need you to lay low." 

"Yes sir."  
____________________________

Mulder had been distant since returning from his interview 
with Gonzales.  

He hadn't been surprised when Scully told him of the 
victim's husband.  And the news that someone in the 
Pentagon planned to hush up the case barely registered as 
either surprise or disappointment.  He nearly took it as a 
matter of course.  

"Even if her husband did kill her, it still doesn't explain 
the fact of the ghostly visitations or premonitions of her 
own death," he said.  "She contacted Gonzales--something 
must have prompted that." 

"Maybe she saw Gonzales on T.V. or in an advertisement.  
Maybe she was afraid of her husband and it was a cry for 
help. Maybe her auditory hallucinations were symptoms of a 
psychosis." 

Mulder looked at her with a hint of betrayal lingering in 
his eyes. 

"Why is it so easy for you to believe in the supernatural 
when it's part of your religion, but when someone suggests 
that spiritual beings exist outside of that context, you 
rationalize it away?" 

"I rationalize things because I think there is a rational 
answer Mulder"

She sighed.  She was tired and didn't feel like fighting.  
But for some reason she pushed it. "Why are you pursuing 
this Mulder? Is it your Mother?? 

"No," he answered quickly.  "It's?I don't know.  Don't you 
ever just wonder what is out there?  What's possible?" 

"No, not really.  Not in the way you're suggesting." 

"What would have caused her to believe she was being 
contacted by a ghost?" 

"Let it rest Mulder." 

"I want to."

"I'm hungry.  Are you hungry?"    
________________________________

They ate dinner at a brewery on Orange Avenue and Mulder 
declared the hot wings to be the best he'd tried on the 
West Coast.  

After dinner they walked past a combination karaoke bar and 
pool hall and Mulder had insisted on going in.  The place 
was full of young military guys with short haircuts.  
Scully was one of three females in the bar including the 
cocktail waitress. 

"You're not going to break out into 'You've Lost that 
Lovin' Feeling' are you Mulder?" 

He grinned down at her while picking up a pool cue, "No, 
but I did think I should follow up on your batting lessons 
with a little billiards tutorial."  Before she knew what he 
was doing he positioned himself behind her and put the 
stick in her hands.  "Anyone ever teach you how to shoot 
pool Scully?"  

She smiled and let him guide her where he liked. "I'm sure 
I would remember if they were as dedicated a teacher as you 
Mulder."   

_________________________________

Two beers and three games later, they were done for the 
night.  Scully felt a tightness in her stomach, and they 
were both acting nervous and tongue tied.  He'd been 
touching her, whispering things into her ear, warming her 
with his hands and his body heat all night long.  He'd been 
positively territorial about her in the bar--she might as 
well have been wearing a sandwich board that said 
"Mulder's."  No one was going to put the moves on her with 
him around.  She was fine with it.  She was more than fine 
with it.  She wouldn't have wanted things to be any other 
way. 

As they headed east, the lights of the city came into view.  
Inexplicably, a fireworks display started to go off over 
one of the hotels. 

Scully looked at him--a surprise and a question on her 
face.

"Wow," he laughed.  "Are those for us?" 

"I don?t know.  Is it the 4th of July?" 

"It's almost Christmas last time I checked."

She watched the brilliant color exploding against a velvet 
backdrop.  "It's nice."   Scully grabbed Mulder's hand.  
She wanted to feel close to him, to be warm, to be held.  
She could feel the alcohol, and she wondered if he would 
try to kiss her. She knew she would let him.  She threaded 
her fingers through his and wondered at herself.  

Finally, they were at her front door, facing each other, 
and she lifted her gaze to meet his.  She tugged a little 
on the hand she was holding, pulling him towards her.  This 
was not her usual behavior. 

"You're not shy, are you?" he wrapped his arms around her, 
and she settled into him.  He felt so good.  So warm.  

"Mulder," her voice was a caress, a request, a declaration. 

He was smiling at her with his eyes, but something wasn't 
right.  He looked apologetic.
"Scully, I booked the room at the hotel."  

Scully felt sick.  She felt the blood drain out of her 
face.  Had she just come on to him and been rejected?  Part 
of her wanted to crawl under a rock and part of her wanted 
to slap him.  

"No, right, you're right.  Stay at the hotel." But then she 
realized what she was saying.  "Wait, you're staying in the 
haunted room?  Is that what you're doing?" 

He looked guilty. "Scully." 

She opened the door and stepped inside.  "Good night 
Mulder."  Quitting the FBI and quitting him suddenly seemed 
like the most rational decision in the world. 
_______________________________

Scully awoke to bright sunlight streaming into the room. 
She hadn't slept well--the combination of too much alcohol 
and Mulder's decision to leave had kept her tossing and 
turning in fitful bouts of sleep.  

She spent the day in a half-conscious state.  She tried not 
to think.  She left her watch somewhere she couldn't 
remember and took off on a bike she'd found in the garage.  
She rode to the beach with only a beach towel and SPF 50.  
No book, no phone, no wallet.  

She sunk down on her towel into the sand, letting the sound 
of the crashing waves and distant seagulls wash over her.  
Drifting in and out of sleep.  Feeling the breeze on her 
already sensitized skin.  She dozed for awhile.  She went 
swimming in the ocean.  She dried off and dozed again. 

She felt herself unwinding, unraveling.  Somewhere back in 
the dark corners of her consciousness, she knew she would 
have to pick it all up again.  Screw the springs down and 
tighten up the ship.  But for now, she let herself drift.    
____________________________________

Sometime later that afternoon, she made her way back to the 
house on the bay.  She sat in the shade of the patio still 
wearing her swimsuit.  She was keyed up, bored and anxious.  
She hadn't slept last night--slept too much on the beach 
during the day.  There was that whole Mulder thing.

She decided she had better go search for her cell phone to 
see if he had called.  When she retrieved it, she was 
surprised to find three messages from Skinner.  She called 
him right away.

"Scully, where have you and Mulder been?  I've been trying 
to reach you both all day?  I know you're technically on 
vacation, but the coroner has a body down at the morgue 
that you agreed to autopsy."

Scully closed her eyes, and put her hand up to her head. 
"I'm sorry sir.  I completely forgot." 

"That's not like you. Is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine.  I'll get over there right away."    

"Thank you.  I'd like to get this thing wrapped up and go 
home." 

Scully was confused.  "Did you say you couldn't reach 
Mulder?" 

"Him or you.  I've been trying you both all day." 

"I haven't been with Mulder.  I'm surprised he hasn't been 
answering his calls." 

"Well, I'll see if I can locate him, but I need you on that 
autopsy right away." 

"Yes, sir." 
_______________________

Scully had been tired before she left to do the autopsy, 
and on her return she was thoroughly exhausted.  When she 
let herself into the villa, all she wanted to do was change 
her clothes, take a shower and crawl into bed.  

Just then her cell phone rang.  She was tempted not to 
answer, but saw that it was Mulder and picked up. 

Hey Mulder." 

"Where are you?" 

"Just back from the medical examiner's."

"How did it go? Did you find anything?"  

"The official cause of death is drowning--there was water 
in the lungs, so there's no question about that.   Whether 
it was an accident or intentional, I can't tell.  There 
wasn't any alcohol present in her system.  It's possible 
that she attempted suicide.  The evidence at the hotel room 
suggests a failed attempt and there was bruising at the 
neck? but drowning seems like a strange way for someone to 
commit suicide." 

"Was that it?  Did you find anything else?"

She took a deep breath and said, "I found something in the 
blood test." She felt her eyes beginning to water. "She was 
pregnant." 

Mulder didn't respond. 

"By the size of the fetus, she was about twelve weeks 
along." Her breath hitched and she was having difficulty 
continuing. 

"Scully," Mulder said softly, "I want to see you.  I'm 
meeting Gonzales in twenty minutes.  I just have a feeling 
about this case, and I need to follow up on it." 

"Okay, Mulder," she said with a note of resignation.   

"What? You're not going to insist on coming?" 

"No, I'll leave that to you."    
____________________________

Scully put on her silk pajamas and crawled into bed.  She 
was beginning to regret her choice to stay there in San 
Diego.  Nothing had been sorted out.  Mulder had been more 
impossible to read than ever.  The collision of this case 
with her vacation felt like another disaster.  The darkness 
invading again when all she wanted was peace.  The 
knowledge of that dead life inside of the victim pulled at 
her, tore at her heart, made her feel hopeless and that 
life was unendurable.  She closed her eyes and let 
exhaustion bring the only escape she seemed capable of 
finding. 
_________________________________

Later, Scully awoke to hear the front door closing softly.  
She heard his footsteps and quiet movement when he came 
into the room.  She was lying on her side with her back to 
the door.  She heard more than felt the bed move as it was 
a huge California king with a massive slab of a mattress.  

He slid his body down alongside her, spooning her, reached 
around her belly with his long arm and pulled her back 
against him.  His warmth was an exquisite pleasure so 
sharply in contrast with her sorrow that tears immediately 
sprang to her eyes.  She kept her them closed.  

"Are you awake?" 

"No," she whispered.  

"I'm sorry." 

"It's OK, I needed to get up anyway." 

"No. I mean, I'm sorry about this case, about the 
pregnancy, about how hard all of this is for you.  I know 
how much it meant to you, when we were?" here he hesitated.  
He wasn't sure how much to say.  "When you tried." 

Her emotions were so close to the surface, just the 
suggestion gave her a tight feeling in the back of her 
throat.  "Thank you," she whispered, trying not to cry.  
"It means a lot to me that you would say that."  She didn't 
turn around.  Couldn't look at him.  Tears were slipping 
out and she couldn't stop them. 

She could feel his chest against her shoulder blades.  He 
burrowed his face into her hair and her neck.  He placed 
his lips on her neck and she let out a shaky breath.  He 
opened his mouth against her and it occurred to her that he 
was kissing her.  Slowly, she began to understand what he 
was doing, and she softened.  

Here was Mulder, whom she loved.  It was as undeniable as 
her grief, and she gave in to both feelings.  Love and 
grief were confused and knotted and tangled all together.  
The feelings were overwhelming.  She wanted him, and she 
wanted his child, and if she couldn?t have his child, then 
he was all there was, and the wanting was the greater for 
it.  She had held it off for so long, held it back, didn't 
allow herself to imagine it.  But now, she couldn't think 
of a reason to deny this.  She moved so that she was flat 
on her back and turned her head to bury it in his neck, 
brushing her tears against him.  He pulled back and her 
eyes met his as he cupped her face. "Scully," he murmured 
it into her lips as he leaned down to kiss her, meeting her 
open mouth with his own.  His thumbs came up to brush away 
her tears. And he kissed her cheeks and her eyes and 
whispered at her temple, "Shh, Scully.  It's OK."   He 
cradled her head with both of his hands, looked into her 
eyes, and their mouths melded in a kiss that raged through 
her body from the top of her skull to the tips of her toes.  
His breath was hot in her mouth, their tongues meeting and 
sliding, lips angling for purchase against each other.  It 
was a kiss that lasted longer than they could think or 
remember and then he was kissing her neck still wet from 
her tears, sliding his hands up under her shirt and over 
her ribs, while she grazed his skull with her fingernails, 
a touch so electric that he almost saw stars.  She bucked 
into him and he pressed her hips down with his.  He pulled 
her shirt up over her bra, her breasts nearly spilling out 
of it. He kissed the tops of her breasts, tonguing them, 
sliding his tongue under the lace and sucking her nipples 
until she cried out. Then he slipped her shirt over her 
head and unclasped her bra, the cold air hitting her 
nipples turning them into hardened nubs.  He closed his 
eyes and grazed his cheeks over her chest, while Scully 
held his head in her hands, letting her fingers run over 
his ears and through his soft hair.  

She had stopped crying and he pulled back to look at her, 
to take her in.  He met her eyes, and she was terrified 
that he might stop, might find some reason not to take her 
all the way over the edge, past the point of no return, 
past the point of her heartache to where she could mend 
again.  "Scully, you are so beautiful," he breathed.  And 
then he leaned down to place tender kisses on each of her 
breasts.  She was relieved.  Scully pulled him back up and 
kissed him unbuttoning his shirt, and reaching for the top 
button of his pants.  She was determined and he was 
relentless, and there was no turning back for either of 
them.    
_______________________________


Later, she wandered barefoot out onto the patio where he 
stood looking at the skyline in the dusk.  To their left, 
the occasional commercial plane would come in low over the 
city, and to their right, the Coronado bridge stretched up 
and over the bay.  A lone kayaker made his way across the 
water which was unusually still and smooth.  Ships of 
various sizes chugged slowly or slipped quickly by.  And 
the golden light of the setting sun glinted warmly off of 
the mirrored windows of the hotel and office buildings.  
Lights were just beginning to glow in the darkening 
evening. 

He glanced at her sideways. She was sleep warmed and 
drowsy.  Her hair was mussed and her gaze was unfocused as 
she wrapped herself in an oversized gray sweater.  They 
were both quiet-- mute with relief and awe and joy.  

He pulled her towards him and pressed his lips down into 
her hair and breathed her in.   She slid her arms around 
him and rested her head against his chest . "I love you," 
Mulder whispered. 

Her eyes widened and she pulled back to look up at him, an 
indescribable smile on her lips.  "I know," she said 
looking away and leaning her head back down again.  "I love 
you, too."

After a moment she looked up at him again, digging her chin 
into his sternum.  Her eyes narrowed, "Mulder, just what 
was it that you were doing all this time in that hotel 
room?  Did you ever find any clues to the case?" 

His eyes widened and she could see the wheels turning as he 
tried to come up with an explanation.  "If I said it was 
the free cable would you believe me?" 

At that, Mulder's cell phone began to ring.  He looked at 
it.  "It's Skinner."  He flipped open his phone, "Mulder.  
Yes, she's here with me?.Right, we're on our way." 

Scully waited with a question in her eyes.

"We need to get over to the base.  The husband is there and 
made a full confession.  The military needs your sworn 
statement since you're the primary witness."  He said this 
with some skepticism and she raised an eyebrow. 

"What?"

He looked back at her, "What?" 

Scully looked at him and smiled, just a tiny hint of a 
smile, "Maybe we should call Gonzales.  If he can channel 
the ghost maybe we can get *her* sworn statement into the 
testimony."

Mulder smiled broadly and crinkled his eyes, "Yeah, that 
would be a good one."  

____________________________

Part 2
What Mulder was Doing

Witnesses in the hotel and on the beach that night watched 
as Mulder slipped through the hotel and down to the water.  
Some say they saw him walk straight into the ocean.  Others 
say he simply vanished in front of them.  But the witnesses 
had been drinking and most couldn't be sure.  

Mulder is in the hotel.  He is sitting in a chair in room 
number 3327.  He finds himself resting in an unusually cold 
downdraft of air and watches an ashtray hover above the 
carpet like Skywalker's landspeeder.  He narrows his eyes 
until they are mere slits and then catches the tiniest slip 
of movement in his peripheral vision.  He snaps his head to 
the left, and the ghost materializes, visible and 
invisible: a woman in a Victorian era dress, buttons 
marching all the way up her chest to her neck, hair piled 
atop her head like a Gibson girl. There is a small bullet 
wound at her temple.  She summons him with her hand, 
beckoning him to follow her.  When she turns her back to 
him he sees that a part of her skull is missing, exposing a 
section of brain.  He rises slowly as one in a trance and 
she leads him out of the room, down the hallway, through 
the courtyard and out onto the beach.  

Mulder follows the ghost where she walks.  Placing his feet 
where the ghost places her feet.  She leads him out to the 
tide, and he stands there with her while the wind blows, 
seemingly buffeting her hair and twisting the hem of her 
long, black gown.  They stare out to the ocean where the 
waves are crashing and where flashes of  phosphorescence 
glow green and then disappear.  Slowly, deliberately, their 
steps move forward into the cold depths as the waves swirl 
around Mulder's legs and hips and then chest.  The water 
surges and pulls and he does not resist. 

Mulder has researched this ghost extensively during the 
course of his present case--the drowning death of another 
guest of the hotel.  This ghost--the one who he is 
following--is Kate Morgan, who died November 29, 1892.  She 
was found dead on the steps of the Hotel Del Coronado, a 
presumed suicide.  Mulder knows that she was murdered.  
Photos from the crime scene showed that the position of the 
gun in relation to the body was all wrong.  Her husband had 
staged her death as a suicide because he was sick and tired 
of her and also, she was pregnant.  He didn't want to be a 
father, or a husband, so he killed her.  She has led Mulder 
here, but to what purpose?  She comes and goes and 
vanishes.  And he is alone.   

After he has been submerged for a time (perhaps as long as 
a night and part of the morning or maybe just half an 
hour), he begins to make out things around him.  Clear-
eyed, he sees tiny plankton floating in the gray-green 
water.  Varieties of fish swim by singly and in schools, 
and as he looks upwards, his hair waves as gently as kelp.  
Large ocean creatures glide noiselessly past--a humpback 
whale, three dolphins, a fat silvery tuna.  A pod of black 
and white killer whales float into view, their calves 
swimming alongside them.  Their tales undulate slowly back 
and forth. They hover. One stops directly above him and the 
calf snuggles in close.  It nuzzles its mother and begins 
to nurse.  Mulder is convinced that whales can feel love.    

Mulder chases aliens, hunts lake creatures, tracks feral 
women.  He has boarded an alien spacecraft grinning like an 
elementary school kid invited to ride on a parade float.  
Taking an underwater stroll with the ghost of a murdered 
woman is just another side trip: one of many during his 
long career of paranormal meanderings.  

He is here with the ghost for the simple reason that he can 
be and he wants to be.  He longs for stillness and 
solitude. The wisdom of silence.  Freedom from his 
unrelenting thoughts.  Union with things that are a part of 
the beyond.  

Changes are happening in his life that are beyond his 
control.  He can't control Scully's emotions--her needs and 
desires.  He fears they will take her away from him.  
Security, a family, a child--he wants her to have those 
things.  She deserves them.  Yet, he wants her to be with 
him, aiding him in his quest, endangering herself on his 
behalf.  He is torn by the things that he wants and senses 
his inability to reconcile them all to himself.

Scully is terra firma: a place where he can place roots.  
He's not sure he wants to be rooted.  His searching, his 
curiosity, his questions--these are things he must pursue.  
Yet these threaten to unmoor him--to loose him out into the 
elements, ungoverned by laws manmade or natural.  

The ocean is a haven--neither earth nor air, but a space in 
between.  He rests here, anchorless and floating.   
  
As he hovers, images of his life flash before his eyes.  He 
sees his father and his mother--they are together and 
laughing.  He pictures Samantha with her hair in braids--
her room scattered with Barbie dolls, an Easy Bake Oven, an 
old record player and a box of 45s.  The vacation house on 
Martha's Vineyard.  

He floats over a rock shelf and looks down to see electric 
eels peering out at him.  A sea turtle paddles by and then 
an octopus..  

For decades, he has been weighted with baggage like a pack 
mule.  He blames no one, for he has taken it on himself.  
But now he wonders about it, wonders about that choice, and 
wonders if it isn't time to lighten the load.  Now that his 
mother has gone and he is the only Mulder left, is it time 
to move on?  

He knows that she loves him.  She has stuck by him and held 
on with him, but for how long?  And if his baggage pulls 
him under, will it drag her under too?  

He pictures her as she was in the beginning, her serious, 
shy face; her hair long and straightened.  He remembers her 
laughing and soaked in the rain.  He wants to protect that 
girl now in a way that he never did when she was younger.  
Then he was blinded by his own pursuits, but now?now he 
loves her and wonders if he can ever be good enough to 
deserve her. 

The ghost reminds him of death.  She reminds him that 
though his soul may continue on in some form, right now he 
is a corporeal creature.  Though he may float with her in 
the ocean or chase aliens to the outer reaches of the 
universe, those places are not where he most belongs.  If 
he is to live and not to die, the place that he most 
belongs is on the solid ground of the earth.  And the 
person he most belongs with is Dana Scully.  
  
The ghost places her lips so softly on Mulder's that he can 
barely feel them.  He wants this--wants to connect--to 
feel--to stop drifting.  She seals her lips to his and 
there is a feeling of air being puffed into his mouth.  His 
lungs fill up and she is suddenly pushing him away.  He 
rises up through the depths while she stays, waving almost 
imperceptibly.  His body is buoyed up, breaking the surface 
of the water which bubbles around him, draining off in 
rivulets.  He brings his head up with a shake and gasps for 
air.  

He lies there for awhile floating.  Letting his thoughts 
sink in.  He feels immense and overwhelming joy.  More than 
anything, he wants to see Scully--to be with her, to hold 
her, to tell he is so sorry for leaving her. 

He looks around and sees the sun is low on the horizon.  He 
spots land.  He is in an estuary.  And then the smell hits 
him.  He nearly throws up--but then sucks in his breath and 
makes for shore.  

When he pulls himself up through muddy, foul-smelling 
reeds, he looks like a swamp creature, covered in greenish-
brown slime.  He mucks knee deep for nearly a mile before 
finally coming to a spit of sand.  

He sees a few corrugated tin shacks in the distance and 
makes his way towards them.  A Hispanic-looking man, bowl-
legged and wearing a dirty t-shirt, looks up at him from 
under a filthy Dodgers cap smashed down over greasy black 
hair.  Mulder feels an affinity immediately.  

"Do you need some water?" he asks in Spanish.

Mulder looks confused.  "I'm sorry?" 

"Agua?"  the man asks again.  

"Oh, agua," he repeats, the man's meaning slowly dawning on 
him.  "Si, gracias, agua."  Mulder doesn?t know a lot of 
Spanish, but he can get by.     

The man dips a bucket into a nearby oil drum filled with 
water.  As Mulder comes near, the man dumps it 
unceremoniously on his head.  

"Hey!" Mulder shouts out surprised, but the man is 
laughing, and then they are laughing together, the man's 
eyes sparkling.  

"You stink!" the man says (in Spanish again), pinching his 
nose in the universal sign for stinkiness.  He fills 
another bucket and Mulder cleans up as best he can.  It's 
getting dark and he doesn't want to stay there.  He tries 
wracking his brain to think of how to ask for directions. 

"Donde esta?" he offers, gesturing around him. 

"Where are we?" the man's eyes sparkle.  "Es Tijuana. 
Tijuana, Mexico."  

Mulder nods.  "Si, Tijuana."  He must have drifted south.  
He is an alien in a foreign land.  He thinks for a moment 
and then continues, "Have you ever heard of El Chupacabra?"  
The man looks back at him blankly. 

Later the man catches some iguanas and roasts them over a 
spit.  Mulder tries to catch one, but it escapes into the 
underbrush.  He decides that iguana tastes like chicken.  

When he gets to the border, Mulder hitches a ride to 
Imperial Beach and then walks ten miles up the strand to 
the hotel 

He arrives in Coronado just as Skinner was beginning to 
look for him.  No one ever really knew that he was gone.  

The ghost is back at the hotel, preparing to frighten the 
night crew who will be arriving in a few minutes.  

The whales are migrating south. 

In the waning light of the evening, an iguana slips quietly 
along the side of the freeway, warming his cold-blooded 
body against the warm concrete.  He's had several close 
calls threading a course across eight lanes of heavy 
traffic.  He is glad to be alive.   

He smiles, and then rears up on two back feet, balancing on 
his long tail.  He does an off-beat two-step, as he hums 
along to Stan Ridgeway's "Mexican Radio" hoping to make it 
over the border and back to where he belongs. 


Notes: Thanks to Jeylan who first inspired me with her 
writing and then encouraged me in spite of multiple 
embarrassing and hideous first drafts.  Thanks to Marzipan, 
Dasha, Mimic,  bonkers, and 2shy and all of the other 
readers who graciously gave me feedback and fixed my 
punctuation.  Whatever is good in this story is yours?the 
mistakes are all mine. 

*Feel free to send feedback to chalcedony.1@hotmail.com .  
On live journal at Chalcedony_1@livejournal.com

*The title is taken from a line in Stan Ridgeway?s ?Mexican 
Radio.?  The lines might be out of order, but once Mulder 
drifted south, this was the song that was in my head.  ?I 
wish I was in Tijuana/eating bar-be-qued Iguana/I?d take 
requests on the telephone/I?m on a wavelength far from 
home.?  

*Magical Realism heavily influenced by a reading of Jeff 
VanderMeer?s ?Secret Lives? (but also secretly cursing his 
use of third person unlimited omniscient narrator which 
wreaked havoc with the POV in my story.) 

*This July and August, it was 65 degrees and foggy when I 
looked out my window, but the summer in my head was spent 
with Mulder and Scully in Coronado.