From: "Anne-Lise Jensen" <anilize@hotmail.com>
Date: Wed, 16 Feb 2000 15:46:29 GMT
Subject: Submission
Source: direct

TITLE: Act of Compassion
AUTHOR: Anilize
RATING: PG
CLASS.: VA
SPOILERS: None, really.
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully.
SUMMARY: We all remember the end in "The End". This is what may
have happened later that day...

FEEDBACK: Yes, please. Any comments go to anilize@hotmail.com

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Dana Scully was puttering around in her apartment, nothing big
time, just taking the time to carry out all the insignificant
little chores that keeping the place decent involved -
straightening the couch cushions, wiping a thin layer of dust
from the mantelpiece, throwing out a few potted plants that had
finally succumbed to the infrequent care she was able to bestow
on them. All of it rather mindless, but she felt that even
these small tasks helped take her mind off work. Or, rather,
the uncertainty of whether she still had one worth considering
important.
Her chores, however, didn't take her into the bedroom. Right
now, the bedroom was forbidden country, an area to be
considered out-of-bounds. The door closed, preventing her from
seeing the closet, the chest-of-drawers, the nightstand with
its alarm clock and phone extension. Preventing her from seeing
the bed. And in the bed, hopefully asleep, Fox Mulder.
She'd brought him here because she didn't know what else to do.
Taking him to his place had not seemed an option – she herself
felt the need to go home, try and calm her nerves in familiar,
safe surroundings, but she couldn't leave him alone in the
state he was in. And she knew instinctively that he would never
forgive her if she tried to unload him at a hospital, provided
she could even get a doctor to admit him.
So she'd taken him home. Gotten him to undress, ordered him
into bed and given him two Valium. At least, she thought now,
he hadn't protested, sensing, perhaps, that whatever reserves
she was currently drawing on were close to being exhausted. He
hadn't asked her where she'd got the pills from, either. Just
swallowed them, flushed them down with half a glass of water,
and then lain down. She'd looked in on him half an hour later,
and he'd been sound asleep.
Now, casting about desperately for something to do, her eyes
fell on the phone. She knew she ought to call Assistant
Director Skinner, let him know where both she and Mulder could
be found. But somehow she couldn't bring herself to do it. She
was tired of playing it by the book. She had devoted the past
five years of her life to this job, always going by the book,
and had nothing but grief to show for it. They had abducted her
and stolen her children. They had almost killed her with a
terminal disease. They had lied, cheated, deceived both her and
her partner. And now...
Now they had destroyed the X-files.
Burned them beyond salvage, beyond recognition.
Robbed her of the only source she could see of truth. Of
justice.
Right now, as far as she was concerned, they could all take a
running jump off a tall building – the roof of the FBI
headquarters would do nicely, she thought.

She went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Switched on the
kettle, found a mug, dumped a tea bag into it. Waited
impatiently for the water to boil, pacing the kitchen in
frustration. Finally poured piping-hot water into the mug. And
then almost burst into tears when she couldn't find the
Sweet'n'Low.
She let herself slump down onto a chair, rested her head in her
hands, elbows on the table. Deep breaths. Calm down, she told
herself. Don't lose it. This won't do. You have to keep calm.
_Someone_ around here has to keep a cool head.
She thought of Mulder, currently far away in Valium Valley. Of
his reaction when he came into his office this morning. The
shock. He just stood there, as if unable to comprehend what he
was seeing. She'd gone up to him and put her arms around him,
trying to comfort him, or maybe seeking comfort herself. But
he'd just stood there, much, she thought now, like Lot's wife,
looking back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and
turned into a pillar of salt for punishment. Only God couldn't
be responsible for this disaster, could He? Scully didn't think
so. If there was a God – and she still wasn't clear on her own
point of view concerning that subject – then He would surely
not have considered Mulder's desperate devotion to bringing the
truth into the light to be sinful. Would He?
With a deep sigh she got up from the table and went to check on
Mulder. She hoped she'd find him still asleep, that he wouldn't
wake up until she could sort out her own thoughts, find out
where she stood, and where she might be going from here. She
quietly opened the door, peering at the recumbent figure in the
bed. He didn't react. Still sleeping, she thought, relieved.
She decided to sneak in and grab some clothes. A quick shower
would perhaps make her feel better. And even if Mulder should
wake up, the sound of running water would tell him not to go
into the bathroom. Even he should be able to take the hint.
She slipped into the bedroom quickly, opened the closet. Jeans,
blouse. Underwear in the drawers. Grasping the knob on the top
drawer, she felt it jam. Irritated, forgetting the necessity of
quiet, she yanked at it to free it. It came suddenly, causing
her to lose her balance and stumble backwards. Onto the bed.
Across Mulder's legs.

He mumbled something and sat up, squinting at her in the
semidark. She picked herself up off the bed and went up to him,
bending down so her face was inches from his.
"Mulder," she said softly. "Mulder, it's me. Are you okay?"
"Scully?" The confusion remained clear in his face for a
moment, then resolved itself into realization. And pain, she
saw, as he remembered what had happened this morning.
"Scully..."
"Shh," she whispered, gently grasping his upper arms. "You
should be asleep. Rest now." She tried to make him lie back
down, but he resisted.
"Scully, we have to _do_ something!" The vehemence of his
outburst momentarily frightened her, but she was determined to
keep him where he was.
"You're in no condition to do anything right now." She got hold
of the covers and tried to tuck them around him, like one might
do with a recalcitrant child.
"But we can't just..." His voice broke, and with alarm she saw
that he was crying. She let go of the bedcovers, brushed at his
face, trying to wipe away the tears. He grabbed hold of her
hands, forced them away with surprising strength.
"It isn't real, is it?" His voice pleading now. "Please tell me
it isn't, it isn't true, they didn't... the fire..." His eyes
intent on her face, begging for a sign, a word that might
comfort him, convince him it had all been a nightmare.
But she could only stare at him, unable to speak.
"Oh, God." He lay back, the faint hope fading from his eyes.
She watched, helplessly, as he started to sob, half choking, as
if even now, in the face of defeat, he was unable to succumb,
to let it out.
Because she didn't know what else to do, she lay down on the
bed beside him and reached for him. He resisted her at first –
then, as if running out of strength, he gave in and let himself
be enfolded in her arms. She cradled his head against her
breast, nuzzled his hair, whispered nonsensical words, tried to
comfort him. Make him feel safe. After a while she felt him
become loose-limbed next to her. He was still crying, but
calmer now, the convulsive sobs subsiding, as if he'd overcome
an obstacle that had prevented him from giving way to his
grief. As if he'd finally found an outlet.
She felt him start to pull away, and held him tighter. "No."
"Scully..."
"No," she repeated. "Hold me, Mulder. Don't let me go."
He looked up at her face, reached for it. "You're crying," he
whispered hoarsely. She didn't understand until she felt his
fingertips, cold against her hot cheeks, brushing away the
tears. She hadn't even realized until she felt the wetness of
her own face.
"Scully, you're crying..." His fingers reaching into her hair,
trying to brush away a stray lock. And then his lips, gently
kissing her cheek, as if to kiss away the salty wetness there.
She realized then what was about to happen; it seemed almost
inevitable. It didn't frighten her; in fact she almost welcomed
it. She turned her head slightly, and his next kiss landed on
her mouth, instead of the cheek he'd been aiming at.
He pulled away, startled, but she quickly plunged both hands
into his thick hair, pulling him back towards her.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, trying to free himself.
"Don't be," she replied, planting a gentle kiss on his lips.
"It's all right."
"No, it isn't..." But there was less conviction in his voice
now. He squinted at her, trying to read her expression.
"Yes it is," she confirmed, taking his hands and gently placing
them between her breasts, suppressing a gasp at the sudden
coldness. "Right here, right now, it's all right." She began to
unbutton her blouse, tension making her clumsy, apprehensive.
"I don't want to hurt you," he began, but she silenced him with
another kiss, her hands guiding his, leading them to the warmth
of her bare skin.
"You could never hurt me," she whispered, and kissed him again.

Fox Mulder opened his eyes and wasn't immediately aware of
where he was. The room, although vaguely familiar, wasn't his,
of that he was certain. It was also nearly dark, making it
difficult to discern the dimensions.
Looking to his right, he saw a clock radio, the luminous red
digits giving the time. 11:21. Late evening. He was also able
to make out a telephone, its white casing a patch of light gray
with a faint tinge of pink from the clock's numerals. The
configuration, clock and phone, rang a bell.
He looked left, and in a flash of comprehension, realized where
he was, and what had happened earlier.
There, about a foot away, he could make out the silhouette of a
person lying next to him on the bed. The back of a head, hair
faintly coppery, even in the dark – or was that just his
imagination? – and pale skin, defining the person's naked back.
Further down – he told himself not to look, but seemed unable
to stop himself – the bedclothes prevented him from seeing
anything more. Not that he needed to.
Scully.
Only it seemed wrong, somehow, to think of her by her last
name, now. After what had happened earlier.
Earlier...
The image of his beloved basement office, gutted by fire, rose
unbidden in his mind. The pictures on the walls blackened in
places, edges curling from the heat, all of them singed. The
filing cabinet open, only the charred remains of paper and
occasional photographs indicating that here had been, before
this conflagration, the source of his inspiration, his firm
belief, perhaps his obsession.
They had destroyed the X-files.
Dropped a match (or perhaps a burning cigarette?) into his
life's work, turning it into what one might expect to find
scattered on the ground after a campfire.
And about a useful as such remains.
And now he wanted to hunt down the person or persons
responsible (for he didn't believe for a second that the fire
had been accidental) and do unto them as they had done unto
him.
Only they had destroyed his tools to do so. He was powerless.
They had taken whatever they wanted – and in the end they
wanted everything – and had given nothing in return. They
imagined themselves omnipotent, invincible. And he had no idea
what to do about it. He didn't even have a place to start. He
had nothing left.
Except the woman lying next to him.
And even that was like a tower built on shaky ground, he
realized, looking at her. He remembered her words: "Right here,
right now, it's all right." Meaning that in another time and
place, no repeat performance would occur. Her decision – for it
had been hers – had been borne of necessity. It had been an act
of compassion, a last desperate attempt to hold them together.
Not an act of love. He _did_ love her, and knew in his soul
that she loved him, but it was a love built on respect, trust,
the closeness of knowing you could trust the other with your
life. A love that could only be diminished and demeaned by
being turned into something physical.
He understood that, now.
And he also understood that her act of compassion had resulted
in his love for her growing even deeper, more intense, than
ever.
Suddenly he wanted to laugh out loud, to challenge any demons –
real or imagined – that might be lurking in the corners,
waiting to pounce. Because there was only so much they could do
to a man. And now, no matter what the future might hold, where
destiny might take him and Dana, a part of them would always be
together, unreachable by any outside forced, no matter how
powerful. They had taken all his old tools, but they had
unwittingly – and surely unwillingly – provided him with a new
focus, a new purpose, a strength that would keep him going long
after the old Fox Mulder would have given up.
There was still hope for the future.
And there was a lot of work waiting to be done.

The End

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is just my personal take on the events
later on that fateful day at the end of Season Five. Please
don't feel offended if you see things differently.