Date: Mon, 18 May 1998

Title: Fire Burns Cold
Author: Marguerite <marguerite@swbell.net>
Rating: PG
Classification, V,A
Archive: Gossamer. Others please let me know where.
Spoilers: The End
Summary: The camera pans away and Scully continues the story

Disclaimer: 20th Century Fox and 1013 productions own all rights. No
copyright infringement is intended

*****

He's so cold.

In the midst of the acrid smoke and hot, steaming ashes, he's cold.
Standing there, as silent as the grave, as pale as a marble headstone,
he's looking at the utter destruction of his life's work.

Destroyed by fire. What he loves most, destroyed by what he fears most.

What he loves most. I can't think about that right now.

My hands run up and down his arms, trying to warm them. He's unyielding;
the chill runs outward from his blood to his skin. Shock. I force myself
to speak.

"Mulder, let's get out of here. Come on."

I pull away and try to tug at him. He does not move. His eyes are fixed
to the wall. I follow the path of his chilly gaze.

Somehow, in the midst of all the chaos and ash, the center of the poster
is still legible. The words, printed in white, stand out starkly against
the darkness of the charred walls. "I want to believe."

Oh, Mulder.

"Mulder, I believe," I tell him. "I believe we can survive this."

His posture is still ramrod straight, a soldier standing at attention.
Only the liquid softness of his eyes betrays him. I have to stand on
tiptoe to bring my face near enough for him to see me. See me, Mulder.
I'm here.

The dark lashes flutter and rest against his cool, pale face. When he
opens his eyes again, the last remnant of pliancy is gone and they are
twin emeralds. Brilliant but hard, with a glacial beauty.

Finally I can bear it no longer. The first tears work their way down my
cheek. I cannot, will not, let him see this, so I turn quietly away and
look down at the blackened floor with its coating of ash and foam.
Unlike Alice, I shall not cry a river of tears. There are a few, but I
hold back just enough to maintain my dignity and equilibrium.

"Agent Scully."

It's Skinner, who has finished talking with the fire chief. He stands
respectfully at the door to the office, like a mourner who is not quite
part of the family. His face is drawn. I go quietly to him, the only
sound in the room coming from my shoes as they travel through the slush.
There are tears in my eyes. I don't care if he sees them.

His hand comes out and takes me gently by the wrist. "Dana."

The sound of my name is foreign in this place. My surprise must be
evident, for Skinner gives me a knife-blade of a smile.

"I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am about..." he gestures in vain.
"...this."

"Thank you, Sir," I manage to choke out.

He wants to hold me and I want to be held, but I stand my ground.

Just like Mulder.

My partner.

But not any more.

"It's over, isn't it?" I ask Skinner, and he nods.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. You have to know that I would
never..."

I cut him off. "I know." My eyes travel the long distance upwards to
meet his. "I know." Again he nods, and he lets my hand go. "What happens
now?"

"I have instructions to send you back to Quantico. You'll be in
forensics."

"That's not so bad. I liked teaching."

He takes off his glasses, wipes them, and replaces them. The gesture is
slow. He's stalling. "You'll be an assistant, Agent Scully."

Demotion. Pay cut. A slap on the wrist. "Why?"

He shrugs. "To test you. I don't know."

"Test me? Haven't I proven myself over and over again? What the hell
more do I have to do to prove to these people..."

"You have nothing to prove," he says in a firm voice. "You don't have to
accept the assignment."

We stare at one another. "What other options do I have?"

Skinner is so uncomfortable in this position. "You're a medical doctor,"
he says after a long pause.

I can't breathe. Oh, my God. The dark room swims and grows darker for an
instant, and I find myself being held next to Skinner's sturdy frame. I
push back. "I'm okay, I'm okay," I tell him. The words sound hollow even
to me. Forcing air into my stinging lungs, I fight until I can look
directly at him. "What happens to Mulder?"

"There won't be a suspension; I talked the Justice Department out of it
somehow." I nod my thanks and appreciation. "He's being sent to the
Violent Crimes section."

"But not as a profiler." Of course not; they won't let him do anything
at which he might be successful.

Skinner reads this thought in my eyes and shakes his head. His
expression is grim. "We're talking about scum of the earth stake-outs.
Dangerous work."

They want him dead.

And again he knows what I'm thinking. "Without you to temper
his--enthusiasm, Agent Scully, I don't think he'd last six months."

My lips are pressed together so tightly that I can't feel them. I wish I
couldn't feel my heart. "I'll find a way to look after him."

Skinner's sharp eyes travel from my exhausted face to Mulder's rigid
back. "I know you will. And I hope you know that you can count on me for
anything, anything you need."

How could I ever have suspected him of betraying me?

He continues, still watching Mulder's unmoving form. "I'd like to take
you two back home. I don't think either of you is in any condition to
drive."

"I'll see if he's ready." Once more I hear my footfall as I draw nearer
to Mulder. The alternating red and blue lights suddenly turn off, and
we're left in the shadows once more. "Mulder?" I take his hands in mine
and squeeze them tightly. He blinks and swallows. "Mulder, it's time to
go. There's nothing we can do until morning."

At long last his head begins to bow as if it's too heavy for him to hold
up any longer. His jaw unclenches long enough for him to speak. "It's
all gone, Scully."

"I know. I'm so sorry, Mulder, I'm so sorry."

When he finally looks at me, my heart shatters. I've seen Mulder shot,
diseased, drugged, mourning, angry, hurt, and bitter. This is another
man I'm seeing tonight.

This man has been destroyed.

I swallow past the leaden lump in my throat. "Skinner's going to drive
us home. We can clear up in the morning."

"Home?" His pain-smeared face twitches. "I don't have a home, Scully. It
was here. It was all here, and now it's gone. Just like Samantha..."

"Mulder, don't."

"Samantha!" His shout echoes through the soot-covered room. With a cry
he pulls away from me and heads for the filing cabinet.

"No!" I scream at him, but he doesn't hear me.

There is a hiss, a moan of pain, and the smell of burned flesh. Mulder
stumbles away from the cabinet, his injured hand held in his good one.

I have reached my limit at last. Without a second thought I run to him
and take hold of the burned hand. The palm is beet-red, and already
blisters are forming. Skinner is at my side. "The fire started in the
cabinet. There was probably an accelerant used; the temperature was way
too hot for it to have been accidental. We'll know more by morning."

Mulder no longer feels the pain in his hand. His uncomprehending eyes
track Skinner's face before the lids drop once more. Defeat. His body
suddenly goes slack against mine, and Skinner and I have to hold him up
together. The few straggling firemen come in to help, but we wave them
aside. We will do this our way, together.

It takes long minutes to help Mulder into the elevator, down the
corridor, and into the parking garage. Skinner opens the back door and
lets Mulder lie across the back seat. I get in at his feet. "I need your
jacket," I tell Skinner, but he already has it half-off. I drape it over
Mulder's chest and shoulders, holding his burned hand gently.

We're on the road.

"How's his hand?" Skinner asks.

"It's not bad. He's had worse, and lately." I shudder a bit at the
recollection of his broken finger, at how he just sat there at the
kitchen table and stared moodily off into space as I set it and put it
into the splint I picked up at the drug store. "We need to go to my
apartment, Sir. I have first-aid equipment."

"Done." He takes off at a speed I don't want to know about, heading for
my apartment.

I lean over Mulder, checking his pulse and breathing. The shock is
profound but not dangerous. His eyes travel anxiously around the back
seat of the car. "Where're we going?"

"My place. I'm going to take care of your hand. It's all going to be
okay."

I sound so inane.

Ordinarily, there would be some quip, some smart-ass comment.

Not tonight.

Mulder and I spend the drive staring at each other. I'm memorizing his
face, the weight of his hand, the susurrance of his breathing. He is so
far away that I don't dare to consider his thoughts.

We go up through the kitchen entrance. Skinner leads Mulder to the
table, and my partner and I exchange a look of deja vu that would, at
any other time, make us laugh. I grab my first-aid kit from the bathroom
and take another look at the injury. It's superficial, ugly and painful
though it may be. I clean and dress the burn, then look over to where
Skinner is leaning against the wall.

"Coffee?"

"No thanks. I should be getting home."

Mulder is just sitting there, staring at the pristine bandages on his
hand. "I want to know how this happened," he says. His voice is rough.
The voice of someone who's inhaled smoke.

"Agent Mulder, I want the same thing." He moves over and puts his hands
firmly on Mulder's shoulders.

There is smoke in Mulder's laugh. "But like the song says, 'you can't
always get what you want.'" His piercing eyes demand the truth. "Isn't
that right, Sir?"

The fingers tighten on the gray cotton. "I can only promise that I'll
try."

Mulder's dark head drops onto his arms. His thanks are muffled.

"I'll leave him with you, Agent Scully. You'll call if...?"

"Of course. And thank you, Sir." I show him out and lock the door.

What do I do now? I should be worrying about the rest of my life, about
the career that no longer opens its arms to me, about the fact that I
don't really have much of a life to worry about. But I can't do it now.

Against my better instincts, I crouch next to Mulder's chair and put my
hands on his arms. "You should get some sleep, Mulder. Tomorrow's going
to be a rough day for us both."

His eyes are moist and wide: little-boy eyes. "I don't want to sleep."

Fire. Destruction. Loss. These are not lullabies.

"I know how you feel."

Abduction. Betrayal. Cancer. My lullaby for the last year, my "A-B-C
Song."

His hands find my face and hold it. Our foreheads touch; his tousled
hair is rough against my skin. "I'm so tired," he whispers.

"It'll be all right," I promise. "It'll be all right."

He toes off his shoes en route to the sofa. I turn him around and push
him into the bedroom. Beyond uneasiness, beyond innuendo, he drops to
the mattress with a long sigh. I creep around to the 'wrong' side of my
bed and lie down beside him. We do not touch.

"Good night, Mulder."

"Good night, Partner." He knows. His voice breaks on the word.

"Always," I assure him.

His fingers crawl toward mine.

His hand is so cold.

***
END

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