From:             XFcatwings <XFcatwings@aol.com>
Date sent:        Mon, 9 Mar 1998 12:58:06 EST
Subject:          Cold Hands/Simmons - 1/1


Standard Disclaimer:  The characters and situations of the television program
"The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox
Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without
permission. No copyright infringement is intended. 

TITLE: Cold Hands
AUTHOR: Christina M. Simmons
EMAIL ADDRESS: XFcatwings@aol.com

SPOILER WARNING: The Red and the Black
RATING: G
CONTENT WARNING: MSR-UST
CLASSIFICATION: MSR/UST/Post-ep
SUMMARY: "How good it feels, the hand of an old friend..."  - Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow.  With the truth he seeks more elusive and confusing than ever, a
spirit-lost Mulder realizes that the one truth he cannot bear to lose is his
partnership with Scully.
**********
The softness
of that gentle hand, unresisting
the larger palm which enfolds it,
should not be cold.

- CMS, "Sonnets in the Key of X: Hospital Bedside"
**********

She had released his hand only when they were ushered out of the car, and had
in that instant locked her eyes with his... unsmiling, face carefully blanked
against their wardens, but conveying her message with words they had taught
each other how to hear, despite their being entirely unspoken.

*Cold...*

Mulder, turning from those eyes, thought how cold his hand felt without hers
gripping it, but allowed the military police to lead him away from his
partner, while Scully watched and said nothing.

She didn't have to.

He knew that she would be waiting when the questioning was over... knew that
there would be hell to pay in Skinner's office sometime soon... knew that they
would face it together, as they always did, though god knew he should be the
one to take the heat alone... this time, especially.  She'd gone through
enough, after all, because of him... and he'd dragged her along again tonight,
as he'd done so many times for the past five years... but of all she'd faced,
willingly and not, on his account, the wrath of their superior was likely the
least of Dana Scully's concerns.

And he couldn't face it alone, at any rate.  

Not this time.  

Not when, in a single day, it seemed that every vestige of truth he'd known or
thought he'd known or feebly grasped had been torn loose from its moorings,
and now, in the hours long before dawn, it seemed that his entire world was on
the verge of coming apart at very poorly stitched seams.  He wanted to wonder
what Scully would make of him, and if she would notice that he couldn't seem
to stop shaking, but the thoughts would not form coherently, and all he could
think of was that one cold, solitary hand.

If Scully did notice, some hours later, she was kind enough not to mention it.

She drove him to his apartment in silence, both hands on the wheel, and he
knew that she'd been subjected to the same battery of questions as he had.  He
knew that a report would be on Skinner's desk by morning, and that any element
of evidence either of them could cite would have been utterly obliterated by
then, if indeed it had ever existed to begin with. Scully, within her silence,
was probably processing the events of the past twenty four hours just as he
was, but for the first time in five years, Mulder could not even begin to
guess what she might be thinking.  That bothered him, somehow.

*Hell.  It scares you to death, and you know it, Mulder.  Why don't you just
admit it?*

Her voice returned to him, unbidden.

"... without those memories, I cannot follow you.  I won't."

She'd said that, and meant it, and now it reverberated in his mind, dark with
warning.

And it chilled him to the root, even in memory.  How many times in the past
had he tested her resolve, he wondered, pushed her to the edge of her own
belief, challenged her to match him stride for stride?  Unthinking, blind to
anything but himself and his misguided questing, he'd taunted her, teased her,
cajoled and dared and persuaded in equal amounts...  

And she had always proven one better than he'd expected or hoped, had always
been there, and in his own way, he'd come to believe that she would always be
there... never unquestioning, but always present, in some way.  During those
times when she wasn't, he'd known instinctively, at his most basic level of
processing, that something was missing from him, and had been driven to nearly
frantic ends in its absence.  And she'd always come back to him, and he'd
taken that for granted.  He'd never thought to share with her the weakness of
relief he felt when she returned, completing his whole.  Never stopped to
consider a time when she wouldn't come back.  

Tonight, locked away from her by silence, hers and his, the late-night traffic
sounds
muffled outside the car, the streetlights passing in orange and gold
luminescence without hinting at location or hour, he knew that he'd come as
close as he ever had to losing her, for good and for always.  And, knowing
that, the sensation of her small hand squeezing his was dominant in his
memory.  

He'd reached for her hand once, long ago, it seemed... believing her senseless
to his voice or touch, about to cross over that barrier spanned only by a
single intake of breath... and she'd held on to that, despite his doubts and
fears and helplessness, and returned to him.  And it had always seemed, from
that time forward, that whatever was strained or cracked or broken between
them could be healed with little more than a touch... her hands on his, his on
hers, though he doubted either had ever thought of it in quite those terms.
They both felt it, and acted on it, and lived it... it existed beyond actual
thought, entirely outside the realm of consciousness.  

In her fugue state only hours before, deep under hypnosis, the fears she'd
buried
unearthed, Scully had reached out across mind's time and space for him,
seeking that tangible assurance she would not recall a moment later... and
after that, after hours of contention and opposition and strung-wire tension
between them, as he'd tried to bury his own lack of memory or explanation
beneath cold and trembling hands, she'd reached for him again, and held him,
and steadied him.  And all with a touch.

He needed that now, that physical certainty of her, when it seemed that her
thoughts and emotions were far from him, that the silent darkness of the car
was a vast gulf between them, when he was aware, more than ever before in
cycling thoughts, that he had almost lost that, and still might, and that he
had no idea how to repair what damage he'd done... or where to begin.  He
wanted to reach out for her, to be sure of her, but the fear had settled into
him, and his hands were cold and immobile, his mind drifting wide on a dark
and icy sea.

He wasn't even aware that she'd cut the motor until the car interior began to
cool, and then he realized that Scully was watching him, with eyes that were
unreadable, behind a smoked glass wall, but the expression was the same that
he knew he'd turned on her so many times... searching, analyzing, questing,
concerned.  He met that gaze, then swallowed, and knew his voice sounded
strained... but was driven to break that silence, to connect to her somehow.

"Don't go."

There was more to say than that, but he could not force the words to form, and
only sat there, praying... if he could even call it that... that she would
understand.  Five years, and so often silence had been their ally, their
conduit, their binding force.  Five years, and so much of what needed to be
said had never been spoken, and so much of what was never spoken was still
undeniably communicated, and comprehended, and held dear.

Scully's expression softened, and a look that was mixed of regret, confusion,
and helpless empathy crossed her face.  Her eyes were deep in the darkness,
and with the darkness. She tilted her head ever so slightly... as she so often
did when questioning what she'd thought he'd just said... then found the
answer she was seeking before he could attempt to speak again, and almost
smiled.

"Mulder..." she said, and it sounded as if she, too, mistrusted her own voice.
"I wasn't going to."  A heartbeat, and she turned her eyes away from him. "We
need to talk."

She walked beside him to his apartment door, hands buried in her pockets, not
looking at him.  She followed him in, waited as he locked the door behind,
then waited again for him to lead her into the darkened room.  He did not turn
on the lights, and she did not question that.  He helped her with her coat, as
if this were a social visit, or a late night brainstorming session, such as
they had... but neither said a single word in all that time, and it was only
when they were seated side by side on his sofa, staring into the shadows of
the darkened room, that she once again reached for his hand.

"I was thinking..." she said, slowly, softly.

"Seems to be a lot of that going around."  His voice sounded desperate even to
him, and the chuckle it contained was hollow, desperate, his own defenses
working against him.  "Scully..."

"Let me finish."  Her hand punctuated the request... the order... with the
gentlest pressure.  "Mulder, in the past few days, I haven't had much chance
to think about which way is up.  There's so much happening that... neither of
us... understand.  And there's so much that we know... but that we don't know,
all wrapped up into the same thoughts and memories. That shouldn't feel
unusual... but this time..."  She paused, searching for words, and this time
he did not interrupt.  "Mulder... for five years I've followed you, drawing
strength from the faith of your beliefs, allowing that faith to carry me,
carry us, when my own trust in the natural world, in the laws of science,
could not.  In the past few days, it seems thatyou've abandoned that faith...
and when I needed it most to sustain me... it wasn't there.  It was... a
shock, to say the least."  She turned to him, her face masked by shadow, her
tone comparatively naked as she drew breath and continued.  "And I was forced
to realize how very much that frightened me."

He felt his lips moving in wordless reply, but a glance quelled him.

"Five years ago, when I met you, Mulder... that faith, your beliefs, your
memories - false or true - were yours, and yours alone.  But no matter how
hard I resisted those aspects of your truth... they became a part of me, too.
Like a counterbalance.  In the past few days, everything I've known, or
thought I've known, has become... unbalanced.  I no longer know where my own
equilibrium lies.  And when you took the strength of your beliefs away... I
found that I was lost, confused, and afraid to look where to turn.  I..."

She tailed off, and he saw her face turn down to their hands, realized how
tightly he was holding on to her hand, realized that he might, in fact, be
hurting her.  He forced himself to release, but was surprised when she would
not let go.  After a moment, when it became clear she would not speak again,
he cleared his throat, searching for both words and voice to speak them.

"I... I don't know what to tell you, Scully."  His voice trembled, and he knew
she could feel him shaking now, and that she *was* being too kind to say
anything.  "I don't know what I believe anymore.  I don't know how.  It seems
that every time I latch onto the truth... or try to... it slips away, becomes
false.  My memories of my sister's abduction. The truth about the chip in your
neck.  What happened to you on the bridge.  What happened to me, tonight...  I
don't know what's true anymore, Scully.  I can't think of any explanation that
doesn't ring false.  I know the truth is out there... somewhere... but I don't
know where to look for it anymore.  Or even how."

"Mulder..."

"Let me finish."  And he managed a wry smile, glancing up at her.  "You say
that you drew strength from my beliefs... that you relied on that strength to
be there, to carry you, to carry us.  Scully... you don't understand.  I have
no strength... I never did... not in the way you're thinking.  That strength
was only there... because *you* were.  It's like... shadows and the sun.  I
didn't realize that until..."  And he could not say it, not with her eyes on
him, her fingers twined with his... it was too cold of a thought, that *until
I realized I might lose you.*  

"Without you, there was no reason to be strong that way... to fortify my
beliefs... to prove my truths, or try to.  Five years ago, I didn't have to
convince myself.  But five years ago, I was ages, miles, worlds away from
finding out what happened to my sister.  My beliefs, my truths... my
obsession, turning in on itself, feeding on itself.  I told you that was all
that mattered... and I meant it.  Scully, it was all there was.  But that was
five years ago... and in those five years, faced with your refusal to believe,
with your questioning of my truths... I came further in my search than I ever
had.  You say my strength, my passion, carried us along, Scully... but without
you, and the strength of your reason, I'd never have come this far."  And it
would come out, it had to come out, he would not fight it, no...  "And when
you said that you couldn't, you wouldn't, follow me any further..."

"Mulder."  *You're shaking.*  He could hear it plainly in her tone, in the way
she reached for his free hand, forcing him to turn to her.  She was strong
that way, even in what she considered her weakness... and stronger still,
seeing his own frailty.  He could not meet her eyes; he dropped his chin, but
did not pull away from her, and they sat that way, in the inside-night
darkness, each holding on for what seemed to be dear life.  It was then that
he realized that Scully was trembling as well.

*Either that, or we're having a low-scale earthquake... if I was shaking this
much alone, my teeth would be rattling.*

And in that realization, he felt somehow stronger than he had been... reached
for that strength forged from shared vulnerability.  He disengaged one hand
from hers and drew her close to him, unresisting, encircling her even as she
pressed herself close... but rather than dispel the fear that had been
building within, that action, the simpleness of her embrace, brought all his
shuddering and inner chill into terrifyingly stark clarity.  He'd almost lost
her... his partner, his friend...  and if he lost her... 

"Scully..."  He could not manage more than a ragged whisper, lips pressed into
her hair, for his breath caught in his throat, air passages blocked by the
thudding of his heart.  "Scully, please, don't go like that.  Because of this.
Don't... leave.  Please."

She pulled back, not harshly, but curiously... and the expression she wore as
she scanned his face, though half obscured by the grays and blues of pre-dawn
night, was wondering.  As if she'd never expected that request.  As if she'd
never realized that he needed her so.

*How could she realize, you idiot?  You never told her... never hinted...
nothing.  It's a wonder you didn't lose her years ago...*

"Mulder."  She kept saying that, it seemed, never adding more... but the
simple invocation, those dual syllables, conveyed more to him in their
simplicity than anything else she might say.  And now, she was shaking her
head softly, lips touched with the faintest of smiles as what he'd asked her
made itself real to her, and she lay one palm flat to his cheek... that one
small hand that had held his so tightly, that had, in its own way, held both
of them together for so long.  "Mulder, I'm still right here."

It was a choked whisper, forced out from a tear-constricted throat, and he
could see the glistening brimming at the edge of her eyes even as her thumb
caressed his cheekbone, assuring him that she was, indeed, still right there,
just as she'd said.  

Once again he pulled her close... almost fiercely, almost roughly, crushing
her to him, but she held on to him with a strength every bit as fierce as his.
He could feel her hands knotting to fists on his back, the fabric of his shirt
caught up in them... feel her forehead seeking that safe, warm place between
his shoulder and chin... and he drew her into that, even as he drew into the
safety and protection of her body-warmth.  He was stroking her hair with his
cheek, caressing her back and shoulder with one free hand as the other locked
her in, feeling her breath catch, and then his lips were pressed to the crown
of her head, her temple, her forehead as the reality of her words was
absorbed.  She was still right there, right there with him, where she had
always been, where she should be.  If the tears hadn't been creeping into his
own eyes, he'd probably have laughed from the sheer relief of that.  As it
was, he kissed her that way, tenderly, repeatedly, gratefully, and held her
close until he felt his own trembling stop.

They remained that way for what seemed like minutes... it could have been
minutes... but was likely somewhat longer, an island of warm togetherness,
strong in their mutual weakness.  Mulder felt his jarring heartbeats fall into
an easier rhythm, and felt his partner's do the same, beating softly against
the palm of his hand as it rested against her back.  Breathing was easier, and
it seemed to him that the rise and fall of Scully's breath was as a sleeper,
safe, secure.  They could not stay that way for long... he knew that, and knew
she knew that... but he would not move until she did, and would rest himself
in her warmth and presence until that time.

When she did stir, moving to regain her own personal space, the physical void
was
tangible... the shared body-warmth gone, he shivered once, but only in
sensation.  The chill within had vanished entirely, leaving only drowsy
contentment, and surety.

"Well..." he said at last, when eye met eye and sheepish smiles greeted one
another. "We're a pair, that's for sure.  A pair of what, god only knows...
but quite a pair, huh, Scully?"

"Mulder, do you honestly think there could come a time when we could be
anything other than that?"  Her voice was low and amused.  He studied her,
tilting his head to one side, and she smiled and dropped her eyes.  

"I hope not."  And there was no laughter there now, and the naked honesty drew
her eyes up to meet his once more, wide and wondering.

She did not say anything at all.

She simply reached out, found his hand, and held it tight.


- finis -