Chapter Text
An uneasy feeling curls in Scully’s gut.
She wraps her hands around a cup of coffee and lets the warmth seep through her palms as she studies the craft a few hundred yards away. It’s half past sunrise and pretty pink clouds plume above the horizon, casting the craft in a dreamy haze. It’s strange, she thinks, observing the way it absorbs and refracts light. An iridescent sheen sparkles along the craft’s curved surface and Scully can’t help but scowl, finding the phenomena more unnerving than whimsical.
Sitting on a log at basecamp, she’s surrounded by dozens of site workers as they trickle in for breakfast. At dawn the guards had made their rounds to inform everyone that the lockdown had been lifted. Of course it had been welcome news, but since then, everything’s been eerily quiet. Even Femi’s usual smile appears to be waning as all of the researchers retrieve their food, swapping inaudible whispers over bowls of rice and plantains. Scully thinks he must be tense, anxiously awaiting word of what transpired the previous evening like everyone else.
Eventually Amina steps forward to command the group. “I know it’s early, but if I could have everyone’s attention,” she orders, projecting her voice over the crowd. “As most of you are aware, an unknown explosive was detonated near the northeastern perimeter last night. Obviously, this is a serious safety violation, and we are taking all of the necessary steps to investigate it. Each of you will be scheduled for a twenty minute interview, today or tomorrow, to account for your whereabouts during the time of the explosion…”
As Amina informs the staff, Scully begins to scan the group of attentive faces for Stella. Searching for a glint of platinum blonde in the rosy morning mist, she quickly realizes that Stella must be absent from the gathering just as she’d been the night before.
The thought sends pins prickling at her fingertips.
Unsure whether to be distressed or relieved not to see her there, Scully brings the coffee to her lips and takes a comforting sip. Last night had left her lightheaded and grappling to understand what the hell was going on between them. After all, they had almost kissed. Everything felt completely surreal as she walked back to her tent, replaying it over and over, until she’d climbed into her cot and drifted into a dreamless sleep. There had been a distinct moment where she’d leaned in, or Stella had leaned in, and–
Scully still couldn’t wrap her mind around it.
When she’d first arrived onsite, the idea of finding herself on a beach with butterflies in her stomach, swaying hopefully towards another woman’s lips, would have seemed impossible. Honestly, it still seemed impossible. However, beyond this seemingly impossible possibility, Scully had found the deep pang of disappointment that followed their interrupted embrace even more shocking. Standing there, wet sand slung across her clothes, the feeling had been everywhere.
Even now, the heavy weight of disappointment lingers in her limbs.
Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, memories of Stella’s half-hooded stare course through her. Entirely more captivating by moonlight, Scully thinks that she’d been effortlessly seductive. A perfect pearl poised at the glistening mouth of an oyster, shimmering from its rippled bed of black and blue. And if Scully had questioned herself before, she didn’t have to now. Last night, involuntarily leaning towards the other woman, the mess in her mind had become perfectly clear. She’d wanted her. In every sense of the word.
Scully’s eyes slam shut, willing the memory away.
What about Mulder? What about her sense of loyalty? What about dedication? Her mind screams an uninterrupted tirade of questions, each tumbling forth one after the other. Regardless of her feelings for Mulder, whatever version of love they might be, her attention needed to be on him. On saving his life. Not this. Not imagining the heated press of a stranger’s lips against her own.
“If you have any questions, do not hesitate to find me,” Amina concludes, pulling Scully from her thoughts. Murmurs immediately break out across camp as Amina steps back, leaving everyone to mull over the news. From their private conversations, Scully knows that there’s not much to go on – no one knows who set off the explosive, let alone the motivation behind it.
Nevertheless, the uneasy feeling continues to coil in her middle. Whatever, or whoever, was behind the attack, Scully knows that restrictions will inevitably double down. Everyone will be watched. Access will be even more limited. And for Scully, that only means one thing: time is running out. Of course, she’d already felt the urgency of sand slipping through the hourglass. It won’t be long until some government, secret organization, or private enterprise manages to shut this whole thing down. She only hopes to find her answers before it’s all pulled out from under them.
Looking down at her quickly cooling coffee, she decides that the caffeine isn’t doing her nerves any good. Knees aching, she stands to leave, aiming to return her mug to the catering station when–
“Omph!”
“Good gracious!”
Suddenly she feels herself collide with the wall of a man as lukewarm coffee cascades down the front of her shirt. “Oh dear,” comes Isaacs’ voice as he fumbles with a collection of scribblings and diagrams. “Dr. Scully, my most sincere apologies. Here, let me,” he laments, offering her a patterned handkerchief from his pocket.
“Dr. Isaacs,” she grimaces, accepting the expensive scrap of silk. Do people actually carry these around anymore? Carefully dabbing at her shirt, she’s not sure that fine material will be of any real use. “Pleasant to see you, as always.”
“I’m terribly sorry. Buried in paperwork as you can see,” he explains, attempting to compile the notes closer to his chest. “However, it’s actually quite fortuitous that I should run into you – if you’ll pardon the expression. I actually have a favor to ask.”
Somehow she manages not to glare. “Really?”
“Yes. You see, with your consent, I would very much like to add your name to my request for a secondary tour of the craft’s interior. Providing that you’re available and not overwhelmed with other responsibilities, of course.”
“Oh,” Scully wavers. “A secondary tour?”
“We’re quite keen to revisit a selection of symbols on the interior.”
“And you’d like me to join you?”
“Why, of course!” he exclaims, as if they were old friends instead of relatively new acquaintances. Then again, he indiscriminately treats everyone that way. “Your expertise could prove invaluable and we would be honored to have your guidance. What do you say?”
Briefly wondering if Stella had put him up to this, Scully can’t help but smile. Could there be any other explanation? After all, before Stella and Isaacs arrived she’d pulled every trick in her arsenal to gain access to the craft. And now it was just being handed to her? It seemed too easy. But knowing that she would be a fool to turn him down, she agrees. “How could I say no?”
“That’s the spirit!” he declares, congenially squeezing her shoulder before thinking better of it. Quickly, however, he realizes his mistake and returns his hand to the stack of papers in his arms, cracking on with even more enthusiasm than before. “Well, jolly good. I’ll have you added to the request and I’m sure we’ll be aboard in no time.”
“Okay,” Scully confirms. Then, as Isaacs moves to leave, she reaches to hand him the handkerchief. “Oh, here–”
“Please keep it,” he insists with a gallant smirk. “I have several.”
“I can see that,” Scully responds, observing the elegantly tied scarf around his neck. Taking in the floral elements embroidered along a rich backdrop of green silk, she cruelly wonders what gives him the confidence to pull it off. Then something curious attracts her attention. “Your neck,” she indicates worriedly. “Is it alright?
“Oh yes, nothing but a heat rash.”
“Why don’t you let me have a look?”
“That won’t be necessary–”
“I’m a medical doctor–”
“Dana!”
Abruptly, Amina calls her name. Within seconds, the site leader breaks away from the larger group and jogs towards them, interrupting Scully’s conversation with Isaacs. “I’m so glad to catch you,” she says looking relieved as she flips through a folder of important documents and authorization slips.
“Dr. Ngembe,” Isaacs greets before Scully has the chance. “How wonderful to see you this morning, looking as lovely as ever, I might add. It’s terrible all the commotion this nonsense is creating about camp. I’m sure it must have you completely crazed.”
“It’s nothing we can’t handle,” Amina assures without looking up.
“You know,” Isaacs persists, either unaware or uncaring that Amina’s focus is elsewhere. He leans in dramatically, inevitably drawing her attention from the folder as he speculates, “When we arrived, the locals seemed none too thrilled by our operation here. It makes me wonder if this explosive device isn’t some sort of retaliation. A warning perhaps, or a guerrilla-style attempt to shut us down. Don’t you think?”
“It’s too early to draw any serious conclusions.”
“Of course,” he agrees with an arrogant shrug, “but I’d take a look at the men nearby if I were you. Do that, and I have a feeling you’ll solve this sooner than you think.” With the diplomacy of a true leader, Amina nods and accepts the advice with an impressively straight face. Satisfied and apparently oblivious to her irritation, he chimes, “Always happy to assist. Dr. Scully, a pleasure. I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon.”
Watching him walk away, the uneasy feeling returns to Scully’s stomach in full force. Unable to keep her suspicions from taking form, she wonders why he wants her to accompany them on their tour, why he’s so interested in blaming the locals for last night’s explosion, and what really happened to the skin on his neck – because it definitely isn’t a heat rash.
But before she can chase the thought, Amina hands her a small yellow notecard. “I’ve got good news,” she says with a bright smile, all too happy to let Isaacs’ conjecture come and go. “Your outgoing call was approved!”
“It was?” Scully asks in disbelief, flipping the card over in her hands. Her heart races as she studies the text typed across the pale paper detailing her basic information: full name, ID number, date of birth; followed by Walter Skinner’s name, address, and telephone number. Tracing Amina’s curvy signature at the bottom, she feels her fingers begin to tremble.
“I told you it was just a matter of time,” Amina says with a comforting palm over Scully’s unsteady hands. “Take this over to Station 1, and Desmond will connect you to the satellite phone. You’ll have ten minutes.”
Scully shakily dials the number to Skinner’s landline.
Situated in the mobile office trailer behind Station 1, she tries not to notice the suffocating effects of the shelter’s stagnant airflow. As the site expands, more of these temporary trailers are popping up to ensure confidential interviews and conversations remain that way. But as she paces back and forth, blowing an errant strand of hair from her face, she wishes that the price of privacy didn’t come at the cost of overheating.
It will be worth it, she tells herself, if she can get through.
As soon as she’d arrived in Côte d'Ivoire, she’d submitted a request to make an outgoing call. Obviously, she’d wanted everyone back home to know that she’d arrived safely. But primarily, she’d been hoping to receive an update on Mulder’s condition. Amina had warned her that it might take a few days to get approved, and given the site’s ever-increasing security measures, it’s taken almost two weeks.
Not wanting to waste a moment of her allotted time, she brings the bulky brick of the satellite phone to her ear. Listening to the unfamiliar tones sing over intermittent static, she tries to be patient as she holds her breath. Eventually the line rings and adrenaline spikes through her bloodstream as she waits for Skinner to answer. But the line just rings and rings, and with each passing ring, Scully grows more anxious. Ruthlessly biting a hangnail until it draws blood, she almost hangs up when the sound of Skinner’s voice finally crackles over the line.
Voicemail.
“Dammit!”
Instantly she hangs up and dials again.
She’s waited thirteen days for this phone call. Thirteen days of hell as she’s navigated roadblocks and red tape, falling asleep each night with visions of Mulder inching closer and closer to death. So she doesn’t care if it’s two o’clock in the morning in Washington. Skinner has to answer the fucking phone. Listening to the perpetual ringing, she paces and paces, waiting until…
Voicemail.
Clutching the phone, she furiously dials and redials until it’s clear that he won’t be answering. She tries to hold back her tears, frustrated fingers massaging her temple. It’s not fair. She’d been counting on this. One last time, she punches the numbers into the phone and listens to the shrill, mocking ring until Skinner’s voice comes over the speaker. This time, she lets his prerecorded greeting finish, waiting for the machine to roll her over so she can leave a message.
Beep…
“Skinner,” she breathes, attempting to mask the despair in her voice. She sniffles quietly, wiping her eyes as if the machine might be able to see her face. “It’s Scully,” she continues, “I finally got ahold of a phone out here. I want you to know that I’m working as fast as I can. But I haven’t found anything yet. Please call me back. I don’t know if they’ll let you speak to me, but call back at: 870 535 29 1212. Anything you can tell me about Mulder’s condition, anything at all. Please just…”
At a loss for words, she ends the call, afraid that the machine will cut her off after such a long pause. She stares blankly at the phone’s clunky buttons, hoping and praying that Skinner will hear her message and call back. But she knows it’s useless. Wherever he is, he’s not at home. Then Scully immediately worries what it might mean if Skinner’s not home in the middle of the night.
What if Mulder has taken a turn for the worse? What if Skinner is at the hospital with him right now? What if this is the end and she doesn’t even know it? No. She would know. Beyond all logic and reason, something in her would know. Some kind of sixth sense, or paranormal phenomenon that she doesn’t actually believe in, would surely kick in and she would know somehow…
Wouldn’t she?
Tears streaming down her face, she wearily dials Skinner’s number for what must be the tenth time. She closes her eyes and breathes through her nose, trying her best to remain calm as the machine takes her to voicemail yet again. But when the beep prompts her to leave a message, her mind stalls. Careening over a cliff of catastrophic thinking, she knows that nothing she says right now will make a difference as to whether Mulder lives or dies. And it’s a thought that is entirely too painful to bear. “Take care of him,” she eventually asks, her voice crumbling around the request. Even though it’s a given, she knows that Skinner is doing everything in his power to ensure Mulder’s recovery, she’s not there to see it for herself. So she asks it anyway. “Please. Just ask him to hang on.”
Dropping the phone unceremoniously on a nearby folding table, Scully turns to leave. If she can’t talk to Mulder and she can’t talk to Skinner, there’s no point in staying in this stuffy shell of a room.
Drained and exhausted, she exits the flimsy door and nods to the guard stationed outside. Then, as if on autopilot, she walks the ten or so feet back to Station 1. She slips between the station’s traditionally canvased opening, the flaps billowing in the breeze, as she retrieves the yellow card with Amina’s signature from her pocket. When she’d initially arrived to make her call, Desmond, the site’s Head Administrator, had stamped it and asked for it to be returned after she’d finished. But now, as she enters the shaded structure, she practically trips over the laces of her boots when she sees him. Sitting behind his overflowing desk, she observes Desmond laughing and talking with Stella, stamping a yellow card for her, just as he’d done for Scully, and pointing her toward the trailer.
How on earth does Stella have the clearance to make an outgoing call?
Before Scully has the chance to gather her thoughts, Stella begins walking towards her. Clearly intent on exiting through the same door that Scully had just entered, Stella meets her gaze with an air of detached coolness. Then, as if Scully were any other site worker, she moves past her with nothing more than a cordial nod of acknowledgement and disappears through the canvas flaps. Shocked, Scully feels her mouth actually gape open for a moment as she watches her go.
The lights hum and flicker as Stella stares at her hands. For a moment, her vision blurs as the force of her hangover presses painfully around her eyes. It’s humid in this trailer, which definitely isn’t helping, along with the incessant sound of the generator revving outside.
At least she’d made it through her call with Kwame without letting on. As one of the most well respected professors at the University of Ghana, she knows that having him visit the site would be a huge step in translating the text. If he could identify similarities between the symbols on the craft and the native Adinkra symbols, they would potentially have a lead. But given the heightened security following last night’s infraction, she wonders if it will all be for naught. Rumblings around camp already have everyone speculating that they will halt access for new researchers until everything is resolved.
At this point, part of her thinks that she doesn’t even care.
It should have been nice to speak to Kwame. After all, he’d been as kind and generous as she remembered him. It should have felt nostalgic, two friends catching up after several years gone by. But unfortunately, as they’d exchanged pleasantries and life updates, she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that his memories of her were that of someone else entirely. All those years ago, he’d known a different person. Sure, she’d been delicately dancing on the verge of disaster, but it had been the sort of thing that looked good on a twenty-two year old. Wanton and reckless, she’d been impulsive in her decisions, ravenous in her desires, and ruthless in her reclamation. Back then, her entire existence revolved around proving that she was more than the things that had happened to her. Even if the only person she’d needed to prove it to was herself. Eyes closing, she digs a finger into the pressure point between her eyebrows and wonders what her excuse is now.
“Time’s up!” A guard bangs on the door.
Trying to ignore the pounding in her head, she takes a breath and sluggishly stands from the rickety folding table. With a half-hearted shove, she opens the trailer door and spills out into the blinding sun. Blinking against the harsh rays, she looks around and tries to orient herself, forming a plan for the rest of her day. It’s still early, and while she hasn’t eaten breakfast, the thought of swallowing food makes her stomach lurch. No, she decides, walking west. She’ll grab a cup of coffee and meet Isaacs at Station 13. From there, she’ll tell him about her call with Kwame and discuss–
“Hey!”
Stella startles as Dana pops up, seemingly out of nowhere, on her right. Fucking perfect, she thinks, fighting back a groan as the redhead falls into step beside her. Reluctantly, she mumbles an obligatory, “Hey,” in return.
With last night’s less-than-professional encounter fresh in her mind, Stella’s not sure what to do. Dana had found her on the beach, a dismal sight, slightly broken and entirely vulnerable in the aftermath of her panic attack. Not only that, but her alcohol-induced sense of safety had prompted Stella to share more of herself than she would have liked. Of course, Dana had been too gracious about it. But that wasn’t the point, was it? Stella had broken her own rules, violated her own boundaries. She’d let some of her best kept secrets loose to run wild in the night. Not to mention the fact that she’d been caught with contraband as well – a worry not lost on her. Normally, Stella wouldn’t give the illicit consumption of alcohol much thought, after all, she’s not a child. But Dana’s relentless questioning about it, curious about how she’d acquired a banned substance under such strict conditions, had been vaguely humiliating.
Then, to top it all off, there’d been the little problem of admitting that she was attracted to her.
Perhaps Stella had been naive, but she’d fully expected the admission to drive Dana away. Although the attraction was mutual, of that much Stella was certain, she had seriously underestimated Dana’s daringness to act on it. After all, most of the women she’d known like Dana were all talk. With lingering looks and light touches, they might flirt with her, privately fantasize about her even, but balk at the idea of doing anything about it. Then again, Stella was beginning to realize that Dana couldn’t be categorized or pinned down. Even with that cross necklace chained tightly around her neck, even with a man waiting for her back home, she was something else.
Truthfully, Stella should have spotted the difference sooner.
But regardless of Stella’s attraction, shared or otherwise, she knows that Dana’s responsibilities take precedence over whatever’s happening between them. After all, she’s in love with a dying man and racing against the clock to save his life. If she has any hope of successfully doing so, Stella can’t complicate her mission with some sort of sexual entanglement. It might feel right in the moment, fantastic probably, but it wouldn’t be right. Not in the end.
And maybe Stella shouldn’t care to protect the other woman’s feelings.
But she does.
In fact, some wounded part of her wants nothing more than to send Dana back into the arms of her perfectly healed partner, the promise of forever etched in their parting. She can see it so clearly: the look on Dana’s face when she sees that he is finally well, the caress of her thumb across his lips, the realization that she can’t waste any more time. It’s as alive in Stella’s mind as if it were playing out before her, and while she’s always been something of a masochist, she knows that Dana deserves this. She deserves good things, and love most of all.
Brutally, Stella wonders what she knows of love. What does she have to offer? The impermanence of beauty? Fleeting moments of corporeal release? A bliss so empty that one might wonder if it ever existed to begin with? A hoarse laugh rises and retreats in her throat. It’s no wonder that she ended up out here in the middle of nowhere, ruining her life, and chasing god into the sea.
A few silent seconds later, Dana asks, “Are you okay?”
“Of course,” Stella lies badly.
“Stella–”
“Were you just standing out here waiting for me?”
“Yes.”
“I find it hard to believe they don’t teach discretion at the F.B.I.”
“Hey,” Dana reprimands, grabbing Stella’s hand and bringing them both to a halt. Her eyes smolder with the heat of reproach, scalding strands of indignation and concern flickering within the blue flame of her iris. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Stella rebuffs, trying to match her stare. But with so little fight left in her, she quickly concedes. Dropping her eyes to the sight of their connected hands, she can’t help but notice the intimate way that Dana’s fingers wrap around her own, even in anger. Strong and measured, they curl around her palm with the firm protection of a well constructed shelter, reassuring in the eye of a storm. There’s a promise of safety in her touch that Stella wishes she could ignore, a comfort that she wishes was less accessible. It might be easier to relinquish her that way.
Lifting her gaze back to the other woman’s, Stella deftly deflects the question burning in Dana’s stare by offering one of her own, a perfectly poised brow raised in response to the curve of her fingers. A flash of embarrassment colors Dana’s cheeks. Self-consciously she retracts her hand and glances towards base camp to check for unsuspecting onlookers.
Stella wishes she could be smug about it.
But confronted with Dana’s endearing complexion, Stella is reluctant to admit that she wants nothing more than steal away with her to some covert corner of the world. Away from the prying eyes of their coworkers and more regretful ghosts, Stella could see herself disappearing into everything that is soft and solid about her. It’s an echo of what she’d experienced while sitting next to her on the beach, the ease in which she’d found herself leaning into the warmth of her, the faith kindled from her attention.
Lost in the thought, Stella barely notices Dana’s awkward attempt to change the subject. “I didn’t realize you had access to the satellite phone,” she observes with the disjointed uncertainty of someone who’s staggered their way into a boxing ring.
“Well, Isaacs put in a request yesterday,” Stella explains. There’s a listlessness to her swing that makes Stella wish she could tap out and leave this confrontation for another day. But Dana’s a formidable opponent, even when she doesn’t mean to be. Even now, for instance, the confusion wrinkling across her nose has a challenge in it. “What?”
“It usually takes weeks to approve an outgoing call. Who did you talk to?”
Stella crosses her arms, safeguarding herself from what’s bound to follow. “I’m not sure it’s protocol to share that,” she says with an air of indifference and it’s an amateur move, she knows, but it’s the only one she’s got. If she’s going to be of any real use to Dana, it’s obvious that she needs space from her. She needs to focus on understanding the text and stop involving her in every step of the process, deterring her from other avenues of investigation.
“Protocol?” Dana jabs. “Since when do you care–”
“Dana–”
“I’m sorry, but after last night, that sounds a bit ridicu–”
Summoning her strength, Stella steps forward and silences her with a long and purposeful stare. “I think we can both agree that last night was not my finest moment,” she says with little volume but enough force to knock the fight out of both of them. “I’m embarrassed by my behavior and I assure you that it won’t happen again.”
“Oh,” Dana fades, “I didn’t mean–”
“It’s fine,” Stella sighs, her shoulders slumping forward, and she doesn’t mean it but her reserves are spent. Maybe she does need food, she thinks, her surroundings going fuzzy. A banana to replenish her electrolytes would probably do her some good, maybe some orange juice to spike her blood sugar. For a brief moment, Dana’s disgruntled face comes into sharp focus and Stella turns to walk away. “I need to get going.”
“Stella, wait,” Dana calls after her as if from far away. With a resigned turn of her shoulders, Stella stops and squints back in her direction. “Do you know where Isaacs was last night?” she asks, “During the explosion?”
Ridiculous question, Stella thinks dismissively as she responds, “I’m sure he was working in his tent.” Then, not waiting for a reply, she continues toward the center of camp.
With the wrath of a coastal tornado, Scully kicks up swaths of sand as she sweeps across camp. Finding it difficult to move with the speed that she would typically unleash through the halls of the Hoover building, she wishes the ever shifting surface beneath her boots would allow for a more aggressive stride. However, propelled by the power of her frustration, she doesn’t let it slow her down as she approaches the west side of camp.
It’s been hours since she’d last spoken to Stella, and her anger hasn’t diminished in the slightest. In fact, the more she thinks about their conversation, the angrier she becomes. Fists clenched, hair whipping in the wind, Scully briefly wonders if she’s overreacting. Somehow the thought just pisses her off more though. She doesn’t understand what happened between last night and this morning. Yesterday, Stella had been her closest ally, sharing confidential notes and information at her own risk. Today, she wouldn’t even tell her who was on the fucking phone. And the way Stella had regarded her? Forget it. Treating Scully with a caustic level of irritation, she couldn’t get away from her fast enough. Not to mention the fact that she seemed all too happy to ignore last night’s almost kiss…
What the hell was that about anyway?
It’s not as if their shared moment on the beach was something that just happens every day. Unless, of course, Stella gets drunk and confesses her attraction to coworkers on a regular basis. For all Scully knows, Stella could have flirtations with several researchers on site and she would be none the wiser. Perhaps that’s something she should have expected. Perhaps that’s what comes with the territory of coveting mysterious strangers, especially those who embody the enigmatic mythos of distant stars.
Or perhaps, a vexing voice in the back of her mind suggests, there’s something more nefarious at work. Perhaps this is part of Stella’s plan. Perhaps she came here with the intention of using her sexuality to disarm and distract, garnering trust as a means to gather intel. Not that Scully has anything to offer – it’s almost ludicrous how little she has in the way of useful information. But that’s beside the point, because this could be a strategic tactic. If Scully’s instincts are correct, and Isaacs is connected to the explosion, who’s to say they’re not in this together?
Christ, she probably sounds insane.
Nevertheless, she’s acted on much more obscure theories during her time on the X-Files. At least that’s what she tells herself as she approaches Isaacs’ tent. If he had anything to do with last night’s security breach, she’s determined to find evidence of it in his tent. And if she comes up empty handed? Then she can put this hunch behind her and deal with the fallout of Stella’s attitude, putting the complicating factor of treason aside.
Honestly, she’s not sure which outcome sounds more hellish.
Brushing the thought away, she draws closer to his tent and evaluates the surrounding area for passersby. Currently most researchers are elsewhere, likely attending the midday meal, so with a clear path forward she decides it’s safe to slip through the canvas opening.
Seamlessly disappearing inside, Scully thinks of Mulder and a sad smile wafts across her lips. She silently thanks him for desensitizing her to the now routine act of breaking and entering as she takes her first look at Isaacs’ unfamiliar lodgings. Much like everyone else’s accommodations, the room is filled with an eclectic assemblage of furniture, worn pieces sourced by the site administrators, including: a small bed, two side tables, a functional desk and chair, and an old dresser. Of course, upon second glance, his space appears to be outfitted with additional touches that subliminally elevate the space. For instance, the woven blanket and down pillows strewn across his bed appear to be brought from home. Then there’s a rather opulent looking rug, covered in dust and sand, thrown across the floor. Thinking back to the thatched mat that covers the dirt floor of her tent with Amina, Scully wonders how the hell Isaacs managed to bring this all the way out here.
But she chooses not to think on it too long as her attention gravitates towards the trinkets scattered across his desk. Scully notices a large map spanning its surface, accompanied by an antique astrolabe, a baroque wooden box, a silver pipe engraved with esoteric markings, along with several books – a trunkful by the look of it. Unprovoked, a portrait of Isaacs sitting at this desk, draped in silken scarves and puffing expensive tobacco from that precariously posed pipe, manifests itself before her. She imagines he likens himself to the legendary explorers of antiquity – Amundsen, Buttata, and Xuanzang.
A condescending laugh leaps from her tongue as she walks toward the desk, settling herself in front of a thick stack of books. Volumes from the collections of Noam Chomsky and Eve Clark, as well as several others that she cannot discern, pile high before her and she smirks as she runs her fingers along their spines. Picking one at random and flipping through its pages, she thinks this would be the perfect place to conceal information, between the pages of the greats. But as she inspects each one there’s very little to confirm this theory; nothing hidden within, no decoy covers, no hallowed out centers. With a huff of disappointment, Scully abandons the books and throws her attention over the map. Scrutinizing the sparse annotations circled without discernible design, she quickly concludes that there’s nothing to them and moves to the space below. Situated beneath his desk is a collection of accordion file folders. This is it, Scully thinks, retrieving the largest one and setting it on his desk with a thunk.
Carefully opening the clasp, she darts her fingers in and out of each section, pulling notes and documents about the symbols on the craft. As she knows next to nothing about linguistics most of it is entirely incomprehensible. That is until she stumbles upon Stella’s notes from the interior. Clearly she’d created a copy for Isaacs, and Scully glares even though it had obviously been Stella’s job to do so. The page she pulls after that contains even more about the interior of the craft, this time written in Isaacs’ own handwriting. It details inferences from his conversations with Ebo and a knowing prickle of heat flares beneath Scully’s collar. This is exactly the sort of thing she’d been looking for–
Then, before she can fully digest what’s in front of her, Scully freezes. The boisterous boom of Isaacs’ laugh suddenly reverberates through the canvas walls and her body goes rigid at the sound. Senses heightened, she listens hard, realizing that he couldn’t be more than two or three hundred feet away.
Without a moment to lose, her instincts kick in and Scully quickly stashes the notes back into their slots, closing the folder and returning it to the pile beneath his desk. A quick look around reveals a faint atmosphere of disorder, everything organically askew, and this is good. He won’t notice a thing. Listening vigilantly for signs of his impending approach, Scully peers through the slit of the canvas opening and Isaacs appears nowhere to be seen. Fearful of missing her window, she doesn’t wait, slinking from the tent and tucking herself behind a neighboring structure as the sound of his voice grows closer.
She holds her breath.
Just as her fight-or-flight response begins to recede, the breeze blows snippets of his conversation towards her. She hears Stella. Of course, Scully glowers, unable to resist the temptation to look at her. Stealthily adjusting her position, she turns to catch a glimpse of them rounding the corner. From this vantage point she’s able to see them while remaining hidden from view. But as she takes in the pair, deep in conversation as they stroll towards his tent, Scully wishes she could erase the image from her mind. They look positively chummy as Isaacs laughs, more of a chuckle this time, and Stella smiles serenely in his direction. Isaacs appears enchanted – as any sane human would be – rubbing his palm over Stella’s shoulder. Waiting for Stella’s expression to fall, something like disgust tightens at Scully’s throat, the taste of bile acrid in her mouth. Instead, she watches as a semblance of solace smoothes over Stella’s features. Does she actually like that? The patronizing touch of an older man? Her professional superior no less? Or is this all part of the same game?
Questions continue to pool in Scully’s mind as she watches them enter Isaacs’ tent, the weight of his palm placed firmly on the small of Stella’s back.
It’s a beautiful evening despite the fact that Scully seems immune to it. Sitting on a log near the communal fire, she can’t bring herself to appreciate the startling clarity of the night sky. Back home, infinity seems far more elusive than it does out here with darkness dripping like a bottle of spilled ink above them. Still Scully doesn’t wonder at the endless expanse, she winces at the warmth of the fire’s crackling flames and shuns the salt air’s caress against her cheek. Luckily Amina is either too exhausted or preoccupied to notice. She is making polite – if not one-sided – conversation next to her while Scully moves rice around her plate. Every now and then Scully mutters a mindless sound of agreement until Amina eventually scolds her for not eating. “You’re not hungry?” she asks with a note of disapproval, staring at Scully’s untouched food.
“My stomach’s not quite right,” Scully explains, shirking Amina’s reproach. She sets the plate aside and wraps her arms around her middle, one over the other in a self-soothing embrace. Shielding her face from the fire, she turns toward Amina and doesn’t think much before asking, “Did you interview Isaacs today?”
“No,” Amina responds between bites. She shrugs and concedes, “But I wasn’t present for all of the interviews. The security team is leading the investigation.”
“Do you know if he was interviewed though?”
“I’d have to check the schedule. Why?”
“No reason,” Scully dismisses, pressing her forearms into her ribs. She should probably let this go, this irritating suspicion she feels towards the man. After all, he’d invited her on his next tour of the craft’s interior. So it’s really not in her best interest to start poking holes in his alibi. But before she can stop herself, she continues, “I didn’t see him last night during the explosion. Did you happen to see him anywhere?”
“Not that I recall. You know everything was a blur.”
“It’s interesting that he’s so keen to blame the locals.”
Amina’s fork hovers over her plate. “Everyone’s speculating,” she remarks with a pointed pause that goes unnoticed. “We really need to put a stop to it.”
“He just seems so eager.”
“Dana, what are you implying?
“Nothing,” Scully breathes. “I just think it’s strange.”
“I know he has a strong personality,” Amina admits, her tone shifting from the careful concern of a superior to the tired tone of a friend. It’s remarkable, Scully thinks of her ability to remain calm and collected under these circumstances. If their positions were reversed, Scully knows that she wouldn’t have the same kind of patience for herself. “Strong personalities tend to be polarizing and I know it’s hard, but we have to refrain from stirring things up. We can’t cast doubt over each other without evidence.”
“I’m not trying to stir anyth–”
The words suddenly lose their shape in Scully’s mouth as she catches a flash of Stella in her peripheral vision. Materializing across the fire, Scully watches her sink down onto a log next to Isaacs. It’s a languid thing, the way she pours herself into the seat beside him, filling up the shadows with her presence. She cradles a mug between her palms, also opting out of dinner Scully notes, as she cloaks herself into the crook of his side. Watching closely, Scully thinks she looks flimsy in her exhaustion, like the gossamer drape of a day curtain. However Isaacs continues with his dinner companions, naturally engrossed and unwilling to acknowledge Stella’s arrival except with the absent-minded placement of his hand on her thigh. Scully holds her breath, waiting for him to withdraw it. But when seconds pass and he doesn’t, she waits for Stella to withdraw it for him. Surely she will bristle once she realizes, Scully assures herself, the gesture glaring in its impudence. Surely Stella must hate that sort of thing. Waiting with withering lungs, Scully watches Stella observe the men and bring the mug to her lips. There’s an unnerving sort of passivity to her movements that threatens to starve Scully’s body of the oxygen it so desperately requires. And before Scully can comprehend what she’s seeing, Stella settles her hand on top of Isaacs’ in a noncommittal act of approval.
What the actual fuck.
“Dana?” Amina asks beside her, eyes flitting back and forth between Scully and the group gathered on the other side of the fire. But Scully doesn’t respond. She can’t speak. The breath returns to her lungs in a flood of fury that only propels her forward.
Fatigue lancing through her limbs, Stella can feel her body rebel as she sits, shuddering like the foundation of a forgotten home. Everything is catching up to her: the day, this place, her life. As she sips water from a metal mug that’s seen better days, she fears she might collapse beneath the weight of it.
This isn’t why she’d agreed to come here. This obscure expedition had been meant to offer some distance, to give her a respite to rebuild and return more fortified. But today her memories feel closer than ever. Seeping through the cracks of weakened floorboards, apparitions seem to appear around every corner, following her from the sanctity of her tent to the circle of the fire. The color of her primary school shoes swirling in the dregs of a drained coffee cup. The pink patterned roses from her childhood duvet stretched across a sheet of white paper. The scent of fresh soap pressed into the skin of her father’s neck wafting toward her on a breeze. Her father’s memory seems to linger even now. She can almost hear the faint creak of footsteps as he draws nearer, coming to stand over her shoulder or sit by her side. A comforting haunt. A ceaseless sorrow.
“Can I talk to you?”
The harsh sound of Dana’s voice shatters the revenant. Blinking the present into focus, Stella slowly registers the stunned faces of those around her. Nearby conversations skid to a staggering halt. Looking down at her hands, she sees Alan’s tanned knuckles beneath her own. For a moment, she thinks the warmth feels nice before extracting herself from it. Then shifting her attention to the woman towering over them, Stella takes in the scorching sight of Dana’s stare.
Can I talk to you? she’d asked.
Stella clears her throat and responds, “of course,” before it occurs to her to wonder whether Dana is actually as furious as she looks – as furious as she sounds. Intensity seared into each consonant, Dana clarifies, “in private,” and Stella thinks it sounds more like a threat than a request. As confusion gives rise to anger, Stella narrows her eyes. She doesn’t know what provoked this outburst but she can’t imagine that it warrants this level of response. Nevertheless Stella swallows the impulse to refuse her. She turns to Alan and the other researchers, excusing herself as she stands to leave.
Wordlessly they remove themselves from those gathered around the fire. After walking twenty paces or so, Stella evaluates the distance and figures they’ve gone far enough. With a fleeting glance back to her group, she worries what they must think of this – two women entrapped in some sort of catfight. It’s irritating, she thinks, scoffing at Dana as they come to a stop, “Discretion really isn’t your thing…”
“What the hell was that?” Dana snaps without bothering to whisper. In fact she’s quite loud and it makes Stella think they should have gone ten steps further. Not that it would have made any difference, she realizes as her arms cross defensively in front of her chest. Their body language would give them away even if Dana’s volume did not.
“Excuse me?”
“Between you and Isaacs,” Dana continues, and there’s vehemence boiling over the lip of each syllable. It spills at her feet like gasoline, a match ready to strike at the tip of her tongue. “What’s going on between you two?”
Taking a slow and even breath, Stella tilts her head and considers Dana’s posture, her energy. She’s clearly upset, having worked herself into a frenzy over something – what – Stella doesn’t know. But if she has any hope of finding out, she needs to find a way to deescalate the situation. Fixing her face with a careful mask of neutrality, Stella makes an effort to keep her voice low when she asks, “What’s this about?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Dana–”
“Do you know where he was last night? During the explosion?”
“I told you,” Stella sighs, “he was working in his tent.”
“You’re sure? Did you see him?”
“No, I didn’t see him.”
“That’s interesting. Because when I spoke to him at breakfast, he was sporting a rather serious looking injury on his neck. Or perhaps I should say hiding? He was hiding an injury on his neck,” Dana exclaims, already on the verge of shouting. Stella’s eyes go wide as her volume continues to increase, wondering how many people might hear them. “He said it was a rash but it’s obviously a burn to anyone with two eyes and a semi-functional optic nerve.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Stella practically hisses, grabbing Dana’s arm and turning them away from watchful eyes. Brow creasing almost painfully, she positions Dana’s back to the congregation with an exasperated groan. She doesn’t understand where this is coming from. Yesterday, Dana had been desperate to have Alan’s assessment of the symbols. And now what? She’s accusing him of espionage?
“Did you know that he’s been spending time with Dr. Oduro? Apparently he’s been hanging around Station 5, asking questions about the craft. He’s more focused on the mechanics of the propulsion system than deciphering the text! I mean, has he even looked at your transcripts? Has he done anything with them yet?”
“What are you insinuating?”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
Stella laughs.
“Excuse me?”
“If you’re determined to be so blind to what’s right in front of you, I have to figure that you’re either sleeping with him or you’re covering for him,” Dana says, slightly winded with the acceleration of her own argument. “And I can’t believe I’m about to say this – but I hope to god it’s the former.”
Rocking back onto her heels, Stella feels as if she’s been slapped.
Could this really be the cause of Dana’s very unnecessary, and very public, tantrum? A simple flare of jealousy in response to their rendezvous the previous evening. Stella would have expected better from her. On good days, Stella likes to think of herself as an accurate judge of character. But for whatever reason she hadn’t seen this coming. Not only that, but the disparaging look on Dana’s face makes her feel heavy, sunken with shame, as if forced to imbibe something that’s not hers to bear. It leaves a surprising sting and she wonders how this happened.
A long moment passes and Dana pleads, “Are you?”
“What if I was? What difference would that make?”
“At least there would be some explanation as to why you’re not willing to see this,” Dana says desperately. Wind whips at her hair, eyes wild and dark, and she seems ready to claw an explanation out of her if necessary. “I know you’re a better detective than that, Stella.”
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
Another dismal stretch of silence passes between them before Dana admits, “Maybe I don’t,” her face falling with the admission. But Stella doesn’t care to see it. She’s done with this. She’s done placating people who are determined to project their problems onto her. After all, she has her own demons to contend with, her own price to pay, without taking on the unfair imaginings of those around her. Professionalism be damned, she’ll leave Dana to come to her own conclusions. Resignation tight between her teeth, Stella turns to walk away, ready to retreat to the privacy of her own space. But she doesn’t make it far before Dana’s voice trails punishingly behind her. “Where were you during the explosion?”
Stopping midstride, Stella’s embarrassed that she can’t hide the hurt from her voice when she responds, “You know where I was,” over her shoulder.
“I know where I found you,” Dana retorts with a cruelty that reveals she doesn’t even believe it. Merely adding insult to injury, Stella finds that it doesn’t make it any easier to take. “But maybe I should just check with the guards, right? I’m sure whichever one sold you that booze is bound to let me know where–”
“I understand that you’re scared,” Stella begins, rounding on her in a scathing return. She knows that Dana’s going through something extremely painful, potentially life altering, and that sort of change makes people behave poorly. But Stella won’t be a vessel for her suffering. Walking back to confront her, Stella’s voice remains quiet, tapered in its recrimination as she explains, “But I was in an extremely vulnerable place last night. And I trusted you with some very personal things. Don’t make me regret that.”
Stella’s not sure how long she spends looking at Dana, watching her eyes go glassy with tears, or how long she spends waiting for her own to recede. All she knows is that a goodbye eventually scrapes itself from her throat before they fall.
“Goodnight, Dana.”
As a child, I remember being surrounded by children. Sticky fingers gathered at picnic tables, climbing trees in the ancient woods, swimming for hours on end in the neighborhood pool. Back then, I always thought of myself as someone who easily formed friendships. Adults would look at me and say, ‘Dana is such a good girl.’ I remember the way it would fill me with a sense of safety. Even then I knew that being ‘a good girl’ was something to strive for above all else. To be considered polite and charming, someone who does as they’re told, was touted as the ultimate prize. After all, what greater reward could there be than winning the affection and approval of the adults in power? ‘We never have problems with Dana,’ they would say.
Eventually, I grew into someone that my friends could confide in. I remember being smart, but only showing it in a way that could make people laugh. I remember being bold, but never audacious. Back then, my friends could rely on me for a ride just as easily as they could count on me for a night out when their boyfriends were out of town. We would wear short skirts and hideous makeup, dancing and flirting until someone got themselves in trouble. I don’t remember when that changed. Suddenly I carry the faint memory of being twenty-five and spending the majority of my evenings with books, keeping the company of older men who couldn’t relate to the arousing antics of youth anymore.
Of course, that was before I joined the Bureau.
Now my friends are all married with children of their own. They are busy with bake sales and PTA meetings, comfortably settled in suburbs, and watching the seasons change from the tranquility of their front porches. Who would have been able to anticipate that I would not be among them? Could someone have looked at me, by all accounts a ‘good girl,’ and pinpointed the moment that my life would diverge from theirs?
My only recent experience with friendship has left me with more questions than answers. Some days I fear that my friendship with Mulder will leave me drowning in the shallows, unable to stand and walk away or dive for deeper waters. But then I reason that professional partnerships were not designed for the life that the two of us have built for ourselves. They were not meant to satiate every need, to fill every void, or replace every relationship in one’s life – blurring the boundaries between colleagues, friends, and lovers.
Perhaps this is why I still find myself grappling to understand the constructs of adult friendships. Even now, less than two days ago, I found myself extending an offer of friendship to a professional peer. Now I realize that this was most likely a mistake unto itself, but shouldn’t extraordinary circumstances such as these warrant such an offer? A more qualified psychologist would likely dismiss this as an excuse, but I’m not so certain. I think considering myself a precocious person, capable of something as convoluted as friendship, may have been the greater mistake.
Why else would I find myself behaving as I have? Irrationally suspicious, possessive, and unkind. Has my adult history of friendship left me unable to distinguish the difference between a colleague, a friend, or a lover? Have I taken it upon myself to deliberately break those boundaries on my own?
Or have I found myself in a mutual unraveling once more?
The tip of Scully’s pen drifts distractedly off the page as she stares into space. After a restless evening spent tossing and turning, she’d woken up feeling something just shy of hopeless. Evaluating the stability of her situation, all of her measurements and blueprints laid out before her, she’s come to the conclusion that she’s irreparably fucked up absolutely everything. As far as she can tell: she’s discovered next to nothing, Skinner has not called her back, and Stella may rightfully never speak to her again.
Last night, Scully had taken a sledgehammer to the load bearing walls of their alliance. And for what? Since Stella had arrived, she’s done nothing but try to help her. She’s been generous with her time and attention, risked her security clearance, and even managed to secure a spot for Scully inside of the craft. So naturally, Scully decided to repay her kindness with petty insults and accusations. Even all these hours later, the haunting look of hurt in Stella’s eyes still won’t leave her. Scully had been such an asshole because she’d known that Stella hadn’t been anywhere near the explosion, regardless of the fact that she’d said it with such conviction.
Letting the pages of her diary fan shut, Scully realizes that while she can’t control her findings, and she can’t control whether or not Skinner calls her back, she can control the way she speaks to Stella. If she could take last night’s confrontation back, she would. Frankly, she doesn’t understand what had come over her. For some reason the thought of Stella and Isaacs together had momentarily broken her sanity. And as Stella had so calmly pointed out, what difference would it make if they were sleeping together? Why should Scully care so much?
Scully sighs as tremors of distant thunder make their way towards the excavation site. Running a hand through her hair, she feels the fine layer of grit against her scalp and realizes that it’s been several days since she last washed it. She’s certainly overdue for a deep clean. With a storm looming off the shore, she does the mental math to calculate how much time she has. If she has any hope of cleaning herself up before the storm hits, she’ll need to act fast.
Fresh water laps at Stella’s collarbones.
Submerged in a secluded stream, she lets the current meander around her body. It slips over mossy boulders, smoothing slick stones beneath her feet, and she sighs as its calm waters brush past her. Cleansing the dirt from her skin and duress from her soul, Stella thinks that this is the closest thing she’s ever found to peace. An exalting serenity that calls for communion, she’s almost unsure where her body ends and the water begins.
Tucked ten minutes into the jungle, the stream is protected by a lush canopy of low hanging branches and vines. As a consequence of the craft’s mysterious arrival, wildlife continues to remain absent from the surrounding area. No birds twittering from their nests or insects buzzing about their day. Beyond the burble of water making its way down stream, she is bathed in absolute silence. There’s a sanctity in this sort of isolation, she thinks, as the cool water curves between her fingertips. It makes her want to float. It makes her want to lean back on the tips of her toes, arms spread like wings, arching towards the verdant ceiling in prayer. Perhaps in a place like this, she could finally surrender to something worthy of that kind of worship…
Then a twig snaps.
Startling at the sound, Stella turns towards it. “Christ,” she exhales when she sees Dana standing there, a doe-eyed expression on her face. Surrounded by the tall ferns and lichen layered rocks lining the river bank, Stella thinks the unexpected sight of her is as much a relief as it is a nuisance. On one hand, she’s grateful to see a familiar face rather than a more threatening intruder. On the other hand, Stella had promised herself that she would try to keep her distance from the woman. But, of course, it’s barely noon and they’ve already found each other.
“Sorry, I–” Dana begins, her eyes burning with the bright blush of embarrassment. Trying to form enough words to finish her sentence, she seems entirely too flustered for her own good.
Glancing down at the droplets dotted across her skin, Stella sees the reflection of her barely visible breasts below the water’s surface, and realizes that she’s likely the cause of it. An involuntary smile forms at her lips. Reminded of Dana’s delightful reaction to finding her half-dressed the other morning, Stella wishes she could indulge the moment a bit longer. It’s a tempting thought – the impulse to draw out the seconds and stretch them like taffy with her teeth. Under different circumstances, she would undoubtedly tease the tension. She would roll it with her tongue, sticky and sweet, to savor the delicious squirm of discomfort. Even now, it’s a tantalizing idea, an old craving that she can hardly refuse. But thankfully self-preservation wins out in the end, and she thinks better of it.
Last night’s exchange had shown Stella that their opposing objectives were not as compatible as she had previously thought. When she’d first arrived, Stella had thought that helping Dana would ground her in the unknown. She’d felt drawn to her – this beautiful doctor turned F.B.I. agent – and determined their connection to be a safe one. After all, Stella had thought she understood the risks of falling into bed with someone who was already in love with somebody else. A connection of convenience, she had expected something easy and ephemeral, a painless affair. But much to her dismay, pain has been her only constant since arriving here. Ironically, it’s the thing that lingers most strongly as Dana excuses herself to leave. “I didn’t realize you were here,” she says, eyes downcast. “I’ll go.”
“No,” Stella replies. “I was just leaving.”
Wringing water from her hair, Stella turns from her uninvited visitor and wonders how destabilizing it will be to witness Dana’s reaction to her exposed body once it emerges from the stream. Is she prepared for the emotional anarchy that will undoubtedly befall her? Will she be so weak as to bend at the sight of another brilliant blush? She can only imagine how angry she’ll be with herself if this self-imposed restraint is all for naught. However, before she’s forced to find out, Dana’s voice calls out behind her, “What happened to your back?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your right shoulder.”
Reaching over her shoulder to investigate, a harsh sting greets Stella’s touch. There must be a scrape, she realizes, from where her shirt had torn during her journey into the jungle. The path had been more rigorous than expected, laden with unforgiving obstacles and overgrowth. “It’s nothing,” she dismisses, her hand retreating from the wound. Unfortunately, she’d learned the hard way that she’s not as skilled with a machete as she’d like to be. “Lost a battle with a vine on my way in.”
“Can I take a look?”
Despite the pain radiating from her raw skin, Stella shrugs off the request and returns to wringing her hair. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she says. It might seem like a harmless gesture, necessary even, but Stella knows that allowing Dana to inspect her injury would violate the commitment she’d made to keeping her distance. A tenuously constructed boundary at best, she fears what it would mean to retract it so easily.
“It needs to be cleaned,” Dana pushes with a familiar edge. The sound of her irritation, strangely enough, puts Stella at ease because she’s almost certain that Dana has her hands on her hips, nose crinkled in some cranky expression. A smile flickers across Stella’s face at the image. It’s a comforting visual, something she can easily picture, as if they’d known each other longer than just a few short days. And as Dana continues, employing the rigidity of her bossiest tone, Stella can’t suppress the smile that settles across her lips. “You can’t clean it by yourself and I can tell from here that it will get infected if you ignore it. I’m a medical doctor, remember?”
Provoked by that particular turn of phrase, Stella doesn’t think she can deny herself any longer. She decides to risk a glance, peeking over her shoulder, to confirm Dana’s posture, and what she finds – hips squared in defiance, arms wrenched at her sides – is even more pronounced than she’d imagined. Entirely pleased with herself, Stella withdraws her gaze with a grin and relents, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Sure.”
At that, everything goes suddenly still. The wind seems to hold its breath and the leaves halt like overcurious bystanders. Even the stream seems to slow, skittishly winding its way through their strained silence. Suspended in anticipation, Stella grows increasingly unsure of her decision. In fact, she’s about to rescind the invitation – she’ll come up with something snide or palatable, she’s not sure which – when she hears the sound of Dana’s careful movements. It’s a painstaking procession that starts with the rustle of her bag, the thump of her boots, and the quiet zip of her trousers. With so little to distract her, Stella’s hands skim the glasslike surface of the water as she listens to her movements. She tells herself that this is fine – it’s actually more than fine because it’s nothing. A precaution at best, a meaningless misstep at worst. It wouldn’t serve her to contract an infection, she reasons, and a bit of awkwardness never hurt anybody.
This works until she hears Dana enter the current, her muscles tensing at the soft splash of her. Trying to regulate her anxiety, Stella trains her focus on the capillary waves that ripple towards her with the other woman’s approach. They increase as she draws nearer, gentle circles expanding harmoniously across the water, momentarily absorbed before they are transformed into something else. Stella finds herself temporarily transfixed by this radiant display of metamorphosis. Even as the contour of the water shifts around her, even as the stream begins to move around two bodies rather than one.
“How’d you know about this place?” Dana’s voice eventually murmurs behind her. It’s as soft as the brush of her fingers, tentatively sweeping away wet strands of hair to see the wound more clearly.
Clearing her throat, Stella tries to sound unaffected by their proximity, a pointless attempt in light of the goosebumps cascading down her arms. “This morning back at camp, that flimsy excuse for a shower finally collapsed,” she says, and her breath catches as Dana begins tracing the wound. “So Amina took pity on me and told me how to find it. Unfortunately, she didn’t warn me to look out for the more vindictive vegetation,” Stella continues in a pitiful attempt to deflect from the sting. But the joke falls flat and Dana hums behind her anyway. Eventually Stella grimaces and asks, “What’s the verdict?”
“First-degree epidermal friction burn,” Dana explains. Out of the corner of her eye, Stella sees her reach for a bar of soap that she’d placed on an exposed boulder. Lathering it between her hands, Dana begins to cleanse the inflamed skin. “There’s no blistering,” she observes, “so it shouldn’t scar if you keep it clean. There are bandages back at camp. But if they don’t have what you need, I brought a first-aid kit. Aloe will help.”
Stella nods.
Finally, Dana rinses the injury with cool water and the pain starts to slip away with suds down her back. There’s one rinse, two, three and Stella’s head hangs forward in reprieve. Her mind goes blissfully quiet, so much so that she hardly notices the way that Dana’s palms linger over her shoulders even after she’s done. Soothing and tender, she slides her delicate fingertips from the nape of Stella’s neck down the sides of her arms and back again. A slow and repetitive motion, studious perhaps, and it occurs to Stella that this is beyond the call of the clinician. She should step away. She will step away. But for a moment, she allows herself to soak in the sensation and imagine that things are different. She imagines that she is safe. She imagines that her life isn’t falling apart. She imagines that this is the touch of someone who she can depend on, someone who cares for her.
A fantasy, short-lived, and gone on an exhale.
Gathering the strength to remove herself, Stella lets her eyelids flutter open. She turns around with a sigh and says, “Thank you,” but it’s too late to realize her mistake. Because if she had been hoping to put distance between them, this had not been the way to do it.
Faced with the brilliant clarity of Dana’s stare, Stella is momentarily stunned. Bright and liquid, her eyes shine with the lucidity of a looking glass. There’s something paralyzing about it, the unguarded vulnerability gleaming there. Is it a trick of light? A mirror image? Stella doesn’t know, but it reflects all the same fears that she keeps secreted away in the hollows of her rib cage. Intimidated by the intensity of it, Stella wonders which of her instincts will win out – the urge to avert her gaze, or the urge to keep this memory of Dana impossibly close, secured within the muscles of her heart. It’s too big to fit inside of her, Stella quickly realizes, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.
Stella looks away, desperately searching for something to ground her. She drags her eyes dangerously down the slope of Dana’s bare neck and shoulders, surprised to find her wearing a simple white cotton bra and matching briefs. Practically see-through, the thin garments cling to her like a bathing suit and do very little in the way of hiding her body. “Do you often bathe in your underwear?” Stella asks and it’s a thick thing to say, entirely inappropriate, but it’s the only thing that comes to mind.
“No, I–” Dana begins. Her face twists up like she might be insulted, the carefully crafted porcelain of her features contorted in distress. But then the expression shatters like something dropped. The glazed ceramic of her iris cracks, fragments of cobalt blue lined with flecks of gold, as shame and remorse fall like broken shards between them. “I’m so sorry about last night,” she says and her voice cracks. “I said terrible things. I wish I could take them back. You’ve been so kind to me – Isaacs too. I don’t know what came over me…”
“You were jealous.”
“No,” Dana responds quickly. It’s a reflex – the recoil and the denial – an autonomic reaction, as if jealousy did not exist as an innate part of the human experience, as if admitting it might change the very structure of Dana’s identity as a human being. And maybe it would, Stella realizes. She watches the redhead stammer, reaching for a rebuttal that never comes.
Ultimately it’s a helpless acquiescence.
Dana’s eyes roam over Stella’s face, perhaps searching for an explanation, perhaps finding one. Eventually, her voice is a whisper. “Maybe.”
“You don’t need to be,” Stella tells her.
“No?”
“No.”
The consolation escapes without Stella’s permission but it would be pointless to try to undo it. There’s a truth that breathes itself between them now. It hangs in the air that fills their lungs and sinks into the starved spaces beneath their skin. Like the swelling expanse of Dana’s pupils, the pretty fan of her eyelashes, or the slow blink of her eyes, it’s something as obvious as it is inevitable. Dana parts her lips, tongue darting out as if to taste it, drinking in a deep breath. The sight sends a shiver up Stella’s spine, a spark of electricity that shoots from her sacrum to her fingers. Glancing down, she’s relieved to discover that her anatomy is, at least, partly to blame as the sensitive skin of her nipples lifts above the water. Eyes snapping back to Dana, she watches a flash of heat streak across the other woman’s stare.
Fuck. This had not been what she’d–
Her thoughts are interrupted by Dana’s mouth. It comes crashing in, their lips suddenly pressed together in a perfectly clumsy fit. Caught off guard, it takes Stella a moment to swallow her surprise and adapt to this shift in circumstances. But once she does, her reaction is immediate. Warm and willing, she returns Dana’s kiss, leaning into the eager press of her lips. In some distant corner of her mind, Stella wonders if she would even know how to reject her.
A question for another time.
Because right now Stella is all too willing to surrender to the pull of her. Immersed in the feel of Dana’s touch, she allows herself to be drawn under, as if submerged in the shallow depths of the stream and swept away by its slow moving current. As the air leaves her lungs, clear bubbles trailing from her lips, it’s a noiseless din. The world finally feels a million miles away and this is the feeling that she’s been chasing for weeks now – the faint outline of her life going blurry around the edges, bleeding like ink on the page.
Then there’s a lick of flame that ferociously summons Stella to the surface. With a rush of hot air, Dana exhales against her lips, her tongue seeking entrance to Stella’s mouth. Her slender fingers lace around Stella’s jaw as if, perhaps, to convince her. But Stella needs no convincing. She opens herself with ease, thinking that she might offer Dana anything at all if she would simply ask it this way.
It’s as uncomplicated as that.
With a sigh of relief on her tongue, Dana presses herself closer. She licks the roof of Stella’s mouth with a moan, and it’s the needy sort of sound that begs for friction. Naturally Stella answers the request with her hands. She finds the soft skin of Dana’s hips beneath the stream and fits them intimately against her own. Water carelessly sloshes between them, sliding over their shoulders and trickling down their arms, as Stella’s breasts brush against the damp fabric of Dana’s bra. It’s a sensation that makes her weak. She scrapes her teeth over the curve of Dana’s lip in thanks as one of her thighs pushes between the redhead’s legs. On an open-mouth gasp, Dana’s fingers thread through Stella’s hair, tangling with the wet strands, as she rolls her hips. Strong and sleek and powerful, she feels absolutely amazing, until she suddenly pulls away.
Abruptly breaking their kiss, Dana exhales, “Shit.” She presses their foreheads together and whispers, “I’m sorry,” with a ragged breath.
Heart pounding, Stella’s mind races to catch up. “What’s wrong?” she asks through swollen lips.
“I can’t do this.”
For a moment everything turns very cold. Standing there nude, practically wrapped in Dana’s arms, Stella feels more exposed than she has in years. It’s a fragile feeling. Something that makes her feel uncharacteristically insecure and impossibly alone. And she doesn’t know the first thing–
BOOM!
Before she can respond, the telltale sound of an explosion reverberates throughout the jungle. They both startle at the sound, their heads swinging toward the sky. Completely shaken – by the kiss, the rejection, and the blast – Stella feels herself tremble. This explosion was close, closer than it had been two nights ago, perhaps within a half-mile. Dark clouds loom above them and thunder rumbles in the distance, almost as if in response to the blow.
Stella meets Dana’s stare.
“We need to go.”