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Title:      Lower Heaven
Author:     Meredith
  
Classification:    MSR, A 
  
Completed:    February 1999
  
Rating:      NC-17 for sexual situations
Spoilers:    None
  
Summary:  A companion piece (not a sequel) to my 
story "Heaven in Hell's Despair." To,fully understand 
this story, you'll probably have to read the original.  
Contact me, hit Gossamer, or check my homepage
(http://www.geocities.com/area51/zone/2095/meredith.html) 
if you need a copy.
  
Disclaimer:   Mine. All mine.
  
Thanks:  Go especially to everyone over the last 2 
years who has written me on "Heaven in Hell's Despair." 
One of the reasons I'm still writing fanfic is because of 
the kind reception given that story, which at the time 
was posted by a hapless little newbie. 
  
Author's long-winded notes and personal thanks 
at the end.
  
Feedback:   When have I not begged? Any comments, 
pro and con, would be adored: meredith40@juno.com 
or meredith41@hotmail.com.
  
  
  
"Lower Heaven"
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  
"Just like my lower heaven, you know my higher hell."
       -- Ian McCullough
  ~~~~~~
  
  
  
He knew immediately that he'd made a mistake.
  
 
Her suitcase was on the dresser, her overnight bag 
hanging in the closet. If he walked into the bathroom,
he'd see her travel toiletry kit on the sink, unpacked except 
perhaps for the hairbrush.
  
The room smelled of disappointment and longing.
  
He hadn't verified her reservation before he'd hopped
 the Greyhound bus for a back-breaking 9-hour trip. 
Last time he checked, she was due in at 7:30 pm, and 
it was only 5:15. 
  
As usual, there was nothing to do but wait.
  
Mulder could kid himself into thinking he hadn't 
been counting the weeks, that she certainly hadn't. 
But it had been 43 days, 3 hours and 17 minutes since 
he had last touched her skin, last tasted her mouth, 
last succumbed to the addiction that was her. 
  
He'd been unable to get to Cincinnati. He didn't 
have the cash to meet her in Billings. It wasn't safe 
for him to travel to Atlanta.
  
Over a month had shriveled away, desiccated.   
  
Every atom in his body was screaming for a fix, 
electrons and protons mindlessly colliding in confusion 
and frustration. He needed her to breathe, to exist. Every 
day they spent apart became a test in how to wrench 
survival from thin air. At any given time he was seconds 
from flying apart, or simply imploding. 
  
And he had no one to blame but himself.
  
He shook his pounding head quickly, forbidding the 
indulgence of guilt. Punishing thoughts were cheap, 
worthless. After all this time, he had come to understand 
the futility of self-flagellation. It wasted time that he did not 
have. Time that Scully had never had.
  
With short, fierce movements, he walked to the side 
of the window, carefully staying out of view while yanking 
the blinds down against the weakly setting February sun. 
He knew to avoid windows. Daylight. Cars. Cameras. 
Policemen. Wasted time. Especially wasted time.
  
He had less than 12 hours, a small reprieve to soak 
up as much life as possible before he returned to the 
land of the dead. So he worked quickly.
  
In a habit that had become second nature, Mulder 
began to toss the room. Methodically. Precisely. With a 
thoroughness that only the justifiably paranoid could 
recognize. Light fixtures, switchplates, the phone, the 
television. The backs of the bland, generic framed 
pictures. The showerhead. The air vents. 
  
His poor timing gave him the rare chance to scour 
her luggage, and he did so without hesitation. The 
suitcase locks, the laptop, the linings of her jackets. 
Her Montblanc pen.
  
He knew that the few watchers still partially loyal to the 
Cigarette Smoking Man kept sporadic tabs on her to 
ensure the bargain was still in force. Mulder, however, 
had been successful at completely disappearing.
  
Success. A relative term.
  
Her briefcase sat on the hotel room's built-in desk, 
the contents of a manilla folder spread out on top of the 
worn brown leather. He put the papers aside to continue
the search. Satisfied that the room was clean, Mulder 
casually placed them back atop the case she had carried 
since the day he'd met her.  And accidentally read the title 
on the top sheet.
  
The words leapt off the page, striking him in the gut 
with their ramifications.
  
No. She couldn't. He wouldn't let her.
  
//Yes.//
  
It was foolhardy, wrong. Suicidal.
  
//She would be free.//
  
He just needed a little more time. She had to trust 
him.
  
//She deserves better than this sham of a life.//
  
Jesus Fucking Christ.
  
  
He swallowed the bile in his throat and collapsed on 
the edge of the bed. Shuffled through the papers, noted 
that they were personalized, but not dated. Eyes closed, 
he willed the panic and the migraine to subside before he 
completely lost control. He barely contained the former. The 
latter had long become part of his identity.
  
A wave of fatigue and hopelessness struck without 
warning. All he ever wanted, all he ever dreamed of, could 
be possible. The thought made him shudder in horror. She 
couldn't go through with this, not this way, not now.
  
If there was one thing that fueled his anger and kept 
him clawing despite all obstacles, it was his hatred of 
her status as sacrificial lamb. That was his job, even though 
she gladly stole it from him long ago.
  
The toll of the trip was suddenly upon him in minutes, the 
discomfort of the headboard digging into his back no 
competition for the quiet stealth of weariness. He 
slumped lower on the wildly flowered comforter, a scratchy 
polyester that embodied none of the features implied 
by its name.
  
He would stop her. As the room disassembled and 
shifted into hazy, shadowed memories of other rooms
past and present, he vowed silently to fight her 
stubbornness, no matter how much he wanted to lose.
  
  ~~~~~~~~~
  
He woke gently, on some unconscious level aware 
that the soft, rustling sounds, dim lights, and the smell of 
hot food were threads of the fabric wrapping him in safety. 
Not a dream, not a long-forgotten memory. Now. Here. Safe.
  
Coming to awareness slowly, luxuriously, he opened his 
eyes and watched her undress, her back to him. The 
jacket hung on a hanger, the silk blouse unbuttoned and 
discarded on the chair, the shoes and skirt already traded 
for comfortable leggings and socks. Her back was an ivory 
plane divided by thin, black strips of satin, and marked by 
faint splatters of freckles. 
  
He blinked long and sighed quietly, acutely aware of 
the unrest drifting, dissipating -- leaving peace in its 
wake. The tangible, physical feeling of misery evaporating 
in her presence never failed to amaze him. 
  
She turned and caught his stare, a smile gracing her 
shadowed features. A soft grey sweater hung over her 
left arm, for the moment forgotten. 
  
"You should have woken me."
  
"You were tired. You didn't hear me come in either 
time." 
  
Consternation flitted over his features. Scully walked 
to the bedside and knelt down to his level, brushing her 
fingertips over his brow and dropping the sweater next to 
him. "I came back from the briefing and saw a strange 
man in my bed. So I left to get dinner for two and a bottle of 
wine. Why waste such an opportunity?" she smiled quietly, 
unexpected joy still flickering in her eyes.
  
Mulder hitched himself up on the pillows so that he 
was half-leaning forward on his right elbow, half-laying. 
His left index finger reached out and traced the edge of 
her satin bra as it rounded the swell of her breasts. A 
grin began to take form. "You smell wonderful."
  
"That's beef stew and fresh bread from the deli down 
the block, Romeo."
  
He laughed outright, whole once again. "You sure 
know how to feed strays, don't you?"
  
Scully stood and grabbed a huge paper sack off the 
small table, returning to the bed to climb aboard and 
spread out their dinner on the floral coverlet. Mulder 
finally sat up, stopping her motion by catching her face 
in the palm of his hand. "I'm sorry I was late, Scully." 
  
She stared at him in disbelief, leaning into his hand 
while covering it with hers. Her voice, when it caught, 
was rough, slightly harsh. "No. Never apologize for 
anything related to us. There is no late. Just come."
  
He nodded, then took her left hand in his. He removed 
the band silently, almost reverently. Turning, he opened 
the nightstand drawer and dropped it in, the 18K gold
clanging harshly in the impersonal emptiness. He shut 
the drawer with a bit too much force. In the span of a 
moment, the world outside room 141 ceased to exist.
  
  ~~~~~~~
  
"You look tired," she whispered, half-panting into his 
mouth as their lips bumped and clutched under the rhythm 
of their bodies. Scully's legs tightened around his back, 
forcing him to slow the pace and lean more heavily on her 
sweat-slicked torso. Mulder stopped thrusting momentarily 
to kiss her slowly, deeply. And to catch his breath. 
  
He mumbled around her lower lip. "You can say it. I 
look like shit."
  
A hearty laugh was his gift. "You look sexy, but tired. 
You really ought to quit cutting your hair yourself," she
replied, running her left hand through the short strands. 
Her right was still sandwiched between them, cradling his 
tightening balls. "I think there might be one barber in the 
United States who isn't connected to a government 
conspiracy of some kind. And you could use a few 
more regular meals. You're getting thin."
  
He pushed deeply into her again, brushing against 
one of the spots he knew would guarantee a low moan. 
She rewarded his ego with a gutteral purr that made him 
grin. "But then you wouldn't feed me so well when we're 
together."
  
"Are you saying I assuage your appetite, Mulder?" 
she whispered into his ear, taking his earlobe between 
her teeth and biting it lightly.
  
"All of them, Agent Scully, all of them." 
  
"Good. Then roll over."
  
In two seconds Mulder was flat on his back, his 
lover over him, her auburn hair swept messily across her 
face but not enough to obscure her tightly closed eyes 
and mouth parted in concentration. She moved in a 
rhythm that obliterated the need to process language, 
and he merely groaned in acceptance of his surrender.
  
Sometimes, this was how he pictured her during the 
long nights he spent alone. She astride him, riding 
him with perfect ease and seductive familiarity. Knowing 
his preference for building up from a languid, deep 
fuck to a frantic, hard screw. Her body, hot, pulsing, 
and alive under his hands -- her face carefree and 
wild. For him.
  
Just like this. 
  
Her hands flat on his chest to balance herself, 
fingers threading through the light dusting of hair. Heat 
and friction and glorious, glorious sensations began to 
ripple in his groin, the joy of pure abandonment so intense 
he knew his brain was positively melting.
  
Just like this.....
  
As she came, he felt the shudder under his palms, 
which rested lightly on her hips; felt her muscles tense 
around his cock; heard his name pass through her lips 
like a prayer.
  
He loved her, he loved her, he loved her; she was 
his and his alone.
  
  ~~~~~~~~
  
"Don't fall asleep yet."
  
"I'm not..... I promise." Scully wriggled backwards, 
cocooning herself deeper into his embrace. The room 
was now dark and unfamiliar, barely a safe haven anymore 
in the black of night. He realized he couldn't remember a 
single feature of the space now that all the lights were off. 
A generic room, so like all the others in forgetability. Their 
world had shrunk from a room to a bed.
  
Mulder's hand lightly grazed her breasts, barely aware 
of the circles his palm was painting on her skin. Sometimes, 
this was how he pictured her. Safe in his arms, he safe in 
hers.
  
"Mulder... is this enough for you?" 
  
Her words surprised him, both in their meaning and 
shy tone. He ceased his movements to lean forward and 
peer down at her shadowed face. "Scully?"
  
"This... this --" her hand fluttered between them in the 
dark. "We've never had anything but *this.* I'm getting 
tired of playing their game -- nearly all the players are dead. 
I want -- damn it, I want..." Her voice drifted away in 
resignation, as if realizing too late she had breached their 
unspoken promise.
  
The stillness grew, then stretched into a miserable 
silence.
  
Mulder's voice was a whisper in her ear as he leaned 
back again to cradle her body. "You want to come home 
from work every day and know that I'll be waiting for you 
in our own apartment. You want us to be together for the 
rest of our lives, never having to look over our shoulders ever
again. You want this living hell to end. We've saved the damn 
world, and you want to rest. You want to take that fucking 
ring and throw it down a sewer grate. You want... to be 
Dana Scully again."
  
Hot tears had begun to trickle down her cheek and 
onto his arm. He gently wiped them away. "I know, 
because that's all I ever dream about." 
  
"I could leave, you know." She whispered tentatively, 
perhaps speaking the thought aloud for the first time. 
"The smoker doesn't know where you are. One day I could 
leave with you, and he'll lose us both."
  
"No. Absolutely not." His tone was sharper than 
intended, but she simply had no idea.
  
"Why?" Scully sat up briskly, her flashing eyes daring 
him to eat his words.
  
Mulder slowly shook his head in reply. 
  
//Not here, Scully. We can't talk about that. Sanity 
is a fragile thing.//
  
She glared in return. "I'm sick of selfless nobility, 
Mulder. On both our parts. Our lives are wasting 
away, and we're not even sure anyone's paying attention." 
  
Sometimes, this was how he pictured her during 
their long separations. A sharp foil to his theories.
 A relentless companion who never let him get away 
with being less than his best. The ultimate, perfect 
challenge.
  
"They know everything you do, Scully. They may not 
always be watching, but if you disappear they'll know 
and they'll find us and make you pay." Mulder's expression 
was blank as he recited the words, as if from long practice.  
"I've watched them watch you. I've watched them collect 
his cash. I've watched them leave town for other jobs 
when his payments are late. I've also watched them 
return like well-trained dogs when the feedbowl is full 
again. Intermittent reward is the best reward, especially 
for a nearly powerless man."
  
She studied his face intently for a long moment, then 
looked down at the rumpled sheets. "Mulder, do you 
have any idea what my life is like?"
  
//Jesus, Scully. Don't play that card. I'm tortured by 
the possibilities of your ruined life.//
  
"Outwardly, yes. Inwardly, no." He didn't care that his 
voice shook. "And you know very well why."
  
A wave of pain washed over her face, and she 
instinctively caressed his face in apology. "I'm sorry. 
That was an unfair question." 
  
He nodded, dismissing the slight. "I know I've asked 
you before, but I need a little more time, Scully. I'm 
heading north tomorrow. This tip is the closest I've ever 
come."
  
Her eyes were wells of misery, but she nodded her 
assent. "Tell me where. Please. I'm tired of not knowing."
  
Was this their crossroad? In all these sweetly agonizing 
months, she'd never talked of giving in. Never traded a 
murmur about her marriage for a syllable of his fugitive 
activities. They'd instinctively trusted each other to hold 
back the most bitter details of her bargain and his defiance, 
knowing that giving voice to their mutual pain could only 
drive them further into hell.
  
Sometimes, this was how he pictured her during the 
most excruciating bouts of loneliness. In the darkest 
reaches of his selfishness, he imagined her failing to 
hold to their agreement. Running through the fire to him, 
sacrificing their small chance at a future worth living 
merely because this intermittent heaven wasn't enough.
 It shamed him like nothing else ever had.
  
Was she edging over the line tonight, or had she 
already crossed it? He knew the offer he had to make, 
and the danger it held. He had no choice.
  
"You destroy those divorce papers, and I swear I'll tell 
you where I'm going, from now on."
  
She simply stared, unable to put voice to her 
astonishment.
  
"They were on top of your briefcase," he said by 
way of apology. "I couldn't help but see."
  
"I... I haven't signed them. I..." Scully stood quickly, 
wrapping a sheet around her to avoid the chill. Walking 
over to the desk, she picked up the pages, smoothing them 
carefully before placing them back in the briefcase. When 
she finally spoke, her gaze was focused on the brown 
leather. "When I arrived and you weren't here, I took them 
out and thought about the decision. I need to know... " 
She turned to face him again, her tears shining in the 
darkness. 
  
"I need to have some control in this situation, Mulder. 
I have to know that I can walk away. At some point, I 
*will* sign these. I *will* walk away."
  
"Scully, I never..."
  
"No, Mulder. No guilt. It was my choice to go through 
with the bargain. I know if you'd been there, you would 
have forcibly drug me to Outer Mongolia to avoid the hell 
we're in. But I trusted you then, and I trust you now. I won't 
sign these -- until it's time." A faint smile flickered on her 
pale face.
  
He nodded in relief, then beckoned her back to the 
warmth of their bed with a genuine smile. "Okay. Deal. Put 
down the pen, and we'll discuss my travel plans."
  
As she crawled back into the heat of his embrace, he 
wrapped  himself tenderly around her small body. In 
five short hours, memory would once again assume the 
role of poor substitute for his lover. 
  
  ~~~~~~~~
  
At 5:20 am, the terminal was almost deserted. Mulder 
waited in the pre-dawn under the overhead shelter 
among the chugging, wheezing bus engines. The 
fluorescent lights buzzed in irritation at him and a 
lone, jittery burnout in his 50s, their brain-addling 
sound obliterated on occasion by the loud squeal and
hiss of airbrakes. Otherwise, there might have been 
silence.
  
The noxious exhaust from a dozen idling motors 
made his eyes smart, but kept him focused. The other 
passenger waiting for the same ride paced and fretted 
along the platform, smoking an unfiltered cigarette just 
in case the bus fumes didn't do enough damage to his 
lungs. Mulder leaned quietly against the outer wall of the 
terminal, his cold hands jammed in jacket pockets, 
remembering.
  
A low, throbbing idle increased in loudness until the 
headlights of the outbound bus approached, then stopped 
as the vehicle sidled up to its two stray passengers. 
Mulder casually picked up the worn backpack from the 
ground next to him, nonchalance belying the fact that an 
unregistered, loaded 9mm was tucked carefully inside.
  
For the first time in a very long while, Mulder was 
optimistic. Perhaps -- just perhaps, the only trip after 
this one would be back home to Scully, for good.
  
Until then, Minneapolis.
  
  
END
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  
Author's Notes:  I don't like to write sequels to my own 
stories because I'm a firm believer that it is extremely 
difficult to follow up the original story with a better one. 
But for some reason, I couldn't get this little snippet out 
of my mind. Hence, I'm just expanding the universe here 
a bit rather than continuing it. :-) 

Although it is a derivation rather than an innovation, I 
hope that you still enjoyed it. I'd love to hear your 
comments, as usual: just don't tell me it was as bad as 
Die Hard III. I was shooting for the level of Die Hard II. :-)
  
Personal thanks: To Lisa, for being an author's 
dream supporter (especially of the original story!). To 
Shari, for her dogged pursuit of a new piece -- and for 
the best bribes I've ever gotten! To my fellow 
ornithologists, all of whom I hope to see very soon. 
And finally to MCA, who incessant poking, prodding, 
encouragement, and skillful editing kept me going on 
this piece when I needed it the most. You can release 
the rest of the hostages now, M! :-)

Feedback:   meredith40@juno.com or 
meredith41@hotmail.com
  
My story archive, courtesy the wonderful XPFRS:
http://www.geocities.com/area51/zone/2095/meredith.html