From: Creyente Date: 23 May 1998 02:57:22 GMT Subject: NEW: "Ashes and Ourselves" By: Kristin Pohaski "Ashes and Ourselves" By Kristin Pohaski May 18, 1998 Category: Story, angst, hints of MSR, but NoRomo safe. Rating: PG Spoilers: "The End" Summary: Scully and Mulder in an attempt to heal themselves and each other after the events of "The End". Disclaimer: They're not mine, but if they were, I'd have sprung for a nice, big, fireproof safe. Or at least made some photocopies. X-Files and characters belong to Fox, no infringement intended. Feedback gratefully accepted at Creyente@aol.com. Author's notes at end. "Let it out or move on Missing what's gone They say life carries on" -Peter Gabriel, "I Grieve" And in the end, his greatest fear destroyed him. As I cling to Mulder, hoping that I can somehow save him, I cannot help but find the irony in the situation. Fire, Mulder's demon and curse, his fear of fears, destroyed his work and life. He told me once that he had dreams of being trapped in burning buildings as a child. If only tonight were such a dream. If only we could both wake up. So I stand here, surrounded by ashes and dust, water dripping over the scorched evidence of our lives, and I cling to him, hoping to find in him some kind of support. But he is in shock, like a soldier who has just witnessed his best friend take a bullet, and he stands and takes it all in. I can feel his eyes move around the room, surveying it, as I burrow closer to him and press my face into the cool cotton of his shirt. Slowly, I feel his hands move and press against my spine, trembling and unsure. He smooths his long, elegant fingers over my back as I whisper to him an empty promise that things will be alright. We are at the beginning again, left with nothing to cling to but one another, left with nowhere to start from and no one to turn to. We have traveled together these past years as partners and friends, searching for a common truth that would be known to us only upon its discovery. We stand here together tonight still friends, but doubtful partners. Our work has been destroyed, and people are seeking to separate us. But we have endured separation before, and come through only stronger for it. And so we stand, five years later, older, wiser, and closer, but with nothing left at all. His hands fall from my back and to his side, and he shifts restless beneath me. It is my silent cue, and I pull away to study his tortured features. The smell of smoke burns my throat, the ash in the air stings my eyes, but it is Mulder's pain, the pain written across his face, that hurts me the most. Yet I speak as though it were his loss alone. It is my loss as well, for in the past years I have come to accept the X-Files as my cause as well as his, my crusade alongside him, and though he was their recognized patriarch, I was the one working in the background, and I know that he realizes and appreciates that. For the first time since entering this charred remembrance of our lives together, Mulder speaks, softly, like the dripping of the water on the burnt beams, subtlety as the flashing police lights that flood through the window. "They've finally cleared the board." I cringe at his simple statement, his almost casual surrender, but as he takes my hand in his, I know that there must be some hope left within. We still have each other, and we both know the truth. His fingers are warm and smooth against my skin, but not cooling against the heat of the fire that engulfs me even now. I clasp them back, hoping to connect on some deeper, unseen level, not allowing myself to be deterred by his present state of shock and detachment. My eyes drift from his body and scan the room, looking desperately for some scrap left, some small piece of hope that may sustain us both. But his sharp profiler's eye finds it before I do, and he slowly lets my fingers slip from his and makes his way through the rubble to the wall behind what once was his desk. The poster remains, charred but still readable, still some tangible piece of faith, yet this is not what he sees. There, pinned to the wall, is the picture of us together, a file folder in hands, I in my blue Bureau jacket. Gingerly, he pulls the photo from the tack; it falls away easily. The charred edges crumble, leaving only our faces and part of our upper torsos unburned. The most delicate of hands could not have saved that picture, and as it crumbles, he looks at me with the most pained expression that I think I have ever seen, as though it were our own bodies crumbling under his touch. Ash flutters from the photo, and finally there is nothing but dust and cinders left behind. Again, he takes my hand in his, and I know that it is time to leave this place behind. I pause for a moment, taking one last look at what remains. The ashes drift through the air, smoke burns our eyes. Here, next to us, is the desk at which he sat every day, so often casually, his top button undone, his feet flung on the desk, daring gravity to challenge him. But there were other times when he worked there with such intensity that he would not notice me as I entered the room. He would be wearing his glasses, bent over some file or report, perhaps chewing over a sunflower seed or tapping a pencil. Above us, dripping water, are the three dozen or so pencils that he threw into the ceiling out of boredom. We never did have that conversation. Along the walls are outlines of his many newspaper clippings and photographs, a charred scrapbook, what was a work in progress that documented so much of what we did together. Along the opposite wall are the filing cabinets which hold the destroyed files that were his life. And on the wall next to us is the poster, somehow almost spared from the conflagration. It is still perfectly readable, what proclaimed in almost arrogance "I WANT TO BELIEVE" all those years now making a sad, silent prayer. The sticky note that he put there only a week earlier is still there. "You are here." It remains, but I wonder if Mulder's faith does. I take one last look around and wonder what these burnt walls would say if only the could talk. Gently I lead him from the room. He follows obediently, like a tired child, and we cross through the doorway and into the world outside of our own. In the hallway there are people everywhere, firefighters and agents all trying to make sense of this. There will be an arson investigation, of course, but I already know what the conclusions will be. Arson, started by a cigarette. Morley's. I lead him through the crowd; his face is downcast. They nearly ignore us, unaware to the significance of what has transpired tonight. They don't know what is lost, not only to us but potentially to all of them as well. I don't try to mask the pain on my face anymore, nor does he. There would be no point now in trying to evade ourselves or each other. We are all that we have left. We somehow reach my car and find our way inside of it, our hands parting only at the last second. I take the driver's seat; he is far too upset to drive, though he may not show it. Wordlessly, I put the car into drive and head toward home. "You missed my exit," he says, the second sentence to exit his lips in nearly an hour. I don't turn to him as I speak. "I don't particularly feel like being alone tonight," I say, slowly and deliberately. "Do you?" His silence is the only answer that I need, and I drive us both to my apartment, hoping to find some sort of refuge there. Refuge from what, I'm not sure. This night, these men behind this night, or just the world? I find a parking space in front of my apartment and pull in. As I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door, he makes no movement. I look over at him, wishing he would return the eye contact, but instead he unbuckles himself and opens the door. I linger for a moment, nearly afraid of what will transpire inside, the words that will be said and the things that we will come to accept. I don't want to leave my work, or him. I don't want it to be over. It's too soon. We make our way inside, me following behind him. He stops only when he reaches my door, waiting for me to open it. He is close as I push the key into the lock, but still so far away. Detached and in shock, I know, but I wish that he would make some sort of expression of emotion, say something, get angry or cry or do anything to let me know that he is even alive. I push the door open and walk inside. There is light only from a lamp in the corner, but neither of us turn on the overhead lights. Darkness, it somehow seems, is a refuge tonight. He absently walks to my sofa and sits down on it, his hands flung out at his sides and his long legs careless in front of him. I take off my coat and hang it over the back of one of my kitchen chairs. I would go to him, I would touch him, but I am afraid that he might break. "I'm going to make something hot to drink," I tell him softly. I do not receive so much as a nod in response. I wonder about him as I put a kettle on for tea. How long will it take him to absorb all of this, and what will he do once he has? I decide that I will be here when it is through. I turn to check on him and find him leaning forward with his head in his hands. Slowly and silently, I cross the room. I find him there, silent tears running down his face. I sigh, half with sympathy and half with relief, and carefully sit next to him on the soft. My hand squeezes his shoulder, and in a flash his arms engulf me. He draws me near and holds me tightly. His fingers dig into my spine and shoulders as my arms find their way around his neck. He buries his face between my neck and shoulder, counting on me to be the strong one tonight. "Mulder," I whisper, "I'm not going to lie to you and say that everything will be fine. I don't know that. But I will promise you that I'm going to be here, one way or another. I promise you that." At this he finally, mercifully lets go; his shoulders shake as he cries. I have seen his tears only once before, and I hold him now as I held him then. My own tears mingle with his, but mine are silent ones, tears of acceptance. His are those of despair. We hold each other there until the storm subsides, neither of us knowing how long. Finally he pulls back, but the walls do not go back up. Our eyes finally meet, bloodshot and moist, and he does not have to thank me. It has already been said. "I don't know the words," he says, and I understand perfectly everything he wants to say. I feel the same way myself. Our eyes speak, as they always have, volumes to each other. I nod, accepting him, assuring him. "You're all I have left, Scully." It is not a question but a statement; he knows that I will keep my promise. He knows that we will have each other. The kettle's whistle interrupts us, and I excuse myself to get it. I feel his eyes on me in the kitchen, as though he were assuring himself of my presence. I pour two cups and put the tea bags in them. A moment later I am back with him, but after handing him his mug, I sit on the floor with my back against the couch instead of rejoining him. I don't think that we need the physical contact right now. I think that we know it's alright. I hear his sigh and wait for the words that will follow. "It was yours too, Scully. You know that?" "Yes." He seems to consider this for a moment before he continues. "I just, I never thanked you for so many things. It's all gone now, but you built all of that with me. I wouldn't have had them this long without you." I know that he is bad at thanking people, and I nod my acceptance. He seems satisfied with this and takes a sip of the hot tea. "Somewhere along the way it turned into your fight too. It shouldn't have gotten that far, but it did." He shakes his head to himself, and I wonder if it is regret or gratitude that he feels. "Thank you for tonight." This takes me by surprise, but I do not turn to face him. "For not letting me go home." I feel his hand on my shoulder; it no longer trembles, and he is himself once more. My hand covers his and squeezes it, then falls back into my lap. I finally turn to face him in the dim light, finding his gaze easily. "You would have been there for me." He nods affirmation. I unfold my legs and rise from the floor. He does not have to ask to spend the night. "I'm tired, Mulder." "You should get some sleep." I give him a half-smile. Somehow it seems appropriate, despite all that has happened. "You know where the blankets are," I say. "It's a warm night." And at that I leave him, retreating to my room but leaving the door half open. I undress in the darkness and change into an old t-shirt and cut off sweats. The light turns off in the other room, and I settle into the sheets. Sleep will not come easily tonight. I know he is thinking of me, as I am of him, in the darkness. I wonder what we will say to each other come morning. I turn to my side, clutching a pillow to my chest. I can hear only the sound of my own breath and the occasional car on the front street. The clock says it is midnight, but it feels much later than that to me. I can still smell the smoke in my mind. I can still feel the water dripping from every surface, still see our lives up in smoke. I don't hear him until he is in the room. I hear him push the door the rest of the way open, followed by the sound of his bare feet across the carpet. The last time he was in this room, he was met with hostility and doubt. I hope he knows that things will be different tonight. "Scully?" His voice carries softly, tentatively through the room. I do not turn from my side to face him. "It's OK." I feel him sit on the edge of the bed. I am lying only on half of the mattress; perhaps unconsciously I knew he would come. He pauses, unsure of himself, and I tell him again that it's alright. He stretches out beside me, never touching me, exhaling slowly. We lay in stillness for several moments, and then I feel his fingers, tentative, on my back. I let my eyes close for a moment before I move. I wonder why we are this way. Our office is gone. The files are gone. Our work is gone. There's nothing left for us to hide behind. This thought still on my mind, I turn to face him. I do not pause before rolling close to him and finding myself in his arms. I burrow close to him, letting my hands fall on his shoulders. His arms surround me, and I know that it really is alright. I will myself not to fall asleep before him. I am tired, and it is hard, but I hold him until I feel his breathing even, his hold on me loosen, and his muscles relax. I study him in the darkness, watch his face, and know that, at least for the moment, he is resting. I lay my head on his shoulder and allow myself the luxury of sleep. - - - - - During the night I dreamed that I had a child. I was his mother, and he had my light eyes and his father's dark hair, and the three of us lived together and were happy. But soon that child was taken from us, and the fire swept through our lives, and we were left standing alone, together, with nothing left but ashes and ourselves. - - - - - I blink in the early light. Carefully, I look over at the clock. It is six AM. I should get up, I tell myself. I should get dressed, maybe have some breakfast. I should not let him wake up in my arms. This is very dangerous. But then I remember, and I remind myself that there is nothing left to hide us, and I draw him near. I will stay, only if for a little while longer, until he wakes. I will take this time with him, just to have him near. Our time is short, and I do not know how long we have left together. I will keep him near. The End All feedback, praise, and constructive criticism happily accepted at Creyente@aol.com. Don't make me beg, it's not pretty. All flames will be used to toast marshmallows. You have a very nice day! :) Author's notes: This one is for Annie, who worries too much. If you have faith in only one thing, let it be that though we will fight, and things may be bad, we will always, in the end, have each other, and you will always be my friend.