"Frozen" by Marie Endres joemimi@prodigy.net Classification: Post-ep for "Orison"; MSR Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: "Orison"; "Irresistible" Summary: Frozen is a temporary state. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are not mine. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended. "Frozen" I can remember skating as a kid, skating on thin ice. It seemed secure, solid underneath my feet and then suddenly, not. Layers shifted, lifted, and finally, cracked under my weight. My friend, with whom I had sneaked down to the pond, quickly noticed my quandary. Tonight, my only rescue hope is in need of me. Tonight, what cracks and slips under my feet feels as slippery and unsure as the frozen water thirty years before. If only it could be that innocent. Glass is everywhere, carpeting her floor in a frightening reminder of the past couple of hours. It lines the narrow path to her bedroom as I follow her in there, believing she is packing a bag to leave. We talk. I try to convince her of her innocence. She tries to condemn herself. What else is new? She never does get to filling that bag as an EMT walks in and taking a few of her vitals, advises us that without some rest and care, she is near to going into shock. The quilt which surrounds her is not doing its job. I know I better do mine. "C'mon, Scully," I say as I lay my hand tentatively, almost hesitantly, on her shoulder. "Let's get out of here." "No," she says definitively. I close my eyes so that she cannot see me roll them up to the ceiling. I lean in close to her, saddened and frightened anew to see her shift away from me. I lower my voice in some vain attempt to keep this disagreement private, hidden from those who still mill about us. "Scully, you are * not * staying here tonight. Please, I'll bring you anywhere. Just not here." My words take on a pleading tone, but I don't really care how pathetic I must seem. She doesn't respond. Awh, help me out here, I beg no one in particular. "Do you want me to bring you to your mother's?" I ask, attempting to make eye contact. She moves her head slightly right, then left. "Then you're coming home with me," I decide. I bring my hand to her elbow to help her rise from where she is sitting. She does not move. I cannot take that she will not look at me. I kneel down in front of her and clasp her hands together with mine. "Scully, look at me, please," I practically beg. "Please come home with me. I can't, um, won't leave you alone tonight." She closes her eyes for a brief moment of decision and begins to stand. My arm goes around her shoulder, willing her to let me shelter her. She carefully walks toward the door. As we move from her bedroom, like Lot's wife, I turn back, for one last look before leaving. My eyes sweep the room, damning the evil that was just present here. How often did this room appear in my fantasies, day and night dreams, where Scully and I would touch and not stop? Where we would taste and see that life could be good? Now instead of passion and pleasure, all this room would ever bring to my mind would be pain and perdition. "Mulder?" she calls softly, turning from her progress to the door. Knowing that she needs me more than my self indulgent pity party does, I catch up and meet her at the door. I stop the burly, local officer who meets us there with a quick raising of my hand and a promise to personally return Agent Scully when I deliver my report the next morning. Seeing the look on my face, he thinks better of pressing the matter. Good move, Sherlock. I speak to Scully in a gentle whisper: "Do you have the overnight bag in your car downstairs?" "Yes, yes I do," she stammers. "Let me get your coat and bag," I say as I turn away. Suddenly, her hand has closed around my wrist like a cuff. I return to my former place, so near to her. "It's OK; I'm just turning to get your things; I'm right here," I assure her. She nods and lowers her gaze. I retrieve the coat and bring it to her. I reach to remove the quilt from around her shoulders when her hand shoots up to throw off my touch. "I can do it myself," she hisses as she shrugs off the quilt and takes the coat from me. I instinctively take a step backward. Her sudden swings from desperately needy to fiercely independent do not surprise the psychologist in me, considering the situation. They do, however, hurt the man. "Ready?" I ask, no longer assuming her compliance. "Yes," she says without emotion. There are so many people coming and going from her apartment that we slip out without any further hindrances. Opening the door in the lobby, we feel the night air hit us like a wave at a winter's beach, bringing with it clarity and power. It feels holy, clean, and clear after the warm, murky malevolence that pervaded Scully's apartment. "I'm right out front," I say as a directive that I think she may need. They should give me my own parking space by now, I think to myself. Like a spot reserved for the handicapped, it would be closer to the building, except mine would say, "Reserved for the out-of-his-mind-with-fear partner of the woman who draws psychopaths like cripples to Lourdes." Why do they always want * her *? Is it her purity, her grace? Is it why I can't help but be drawn to her myself? Do they seek the same wholeness that I crave and find in her? My car is right in front of us and I'm suddenly struck with the dilemma of whether to open the door for her. I usually don't, but tonight, I want to do nothing but care for her, make anything I can easier for her. "Mulder, I need my bag. Can you get it from my car?" she says as she hands me the keys. "Sure," I reply thankful to have something to keep me from making the wrong decision about the car door. I find her car in its usual spot and open the trunk. The light within illuminates the contents. I find her bag quickly and as I lift it, I see a flyer. A post-it is attached: "Give to Mulder" it says in neat Scully handwriting. The event on the fairly new paper touts an Elvis convention combined with a gathering of psychics. I smile at her understanding of me, even if she doesn't share the comprehension. We sometimes have to look for evidence of intimacy wherever we can find it. Closing the trunk and turning to go, I realize that my feet have suddenly lost contact with the earth. Black ice, my mind absently registers. Before I can grab hold of the car, the asphalt is having its way with my ass. The fall reminds me again of the tenuous hold we have on things. One minute we are so secure; the next, we need our companions to help us off that which is not as solid as we think and put one foot in front of the other on stable ground. I scramble to my feet, dust myself off, and make my way quickly, yet carefully to my car. It's freezing and I know that being in the ice cold car is not the best of circumstances for my soon–to-be-in-shock partner. Must find warmth, must find some way to help her, must bring her home. I settle for bringing her to my place. I stand outside my door, fumbling with the key, while Scully stands a few steps back. When I open the door and move to go in and turn on the lights, she's still out in the hallway. "I walked down that hallway once, pretending that you were dead, Mulder. After everything that had happened, I almost believed the lie myself," she said in this empty sort of voice. Before I could get to her, to bring her inside, she turned to face the other direction, looking away from the elevator this time. "I was almost dead here once, too," she said somewhat wistfully. Must stop this little trip down memory lane. "Scully, come inside, please," I plead with her. Her steps are as measured as if she was trying to cross a frozen pond in April. "Do you want some tea?" I ask her as she crosses the threshold. No response. "I'll go put the water on," I say without waiting for her reply. She's still standing in the entryway, coat still on as well when I return with two mugs in hand. "Your coat," I say as I cross into my living room and put the tea down on the table, turning on lights as I go. "Come sit down," I instruct. Miraculously, she does, after shrugging out of her coat and placing it on a chair near the door. She sits a little distance from me, but at least she's sitting near to me on the couch. I hand her the mug with tea fixed as she likes it. "Thank you," she says as her cold hands skim past mine as she cuddles the mug. "No problem," I say as I raise the tea to my mouth. "Mulder, what * are * you going to say in your report?" she says with such hesitancy it makes me want to scream. "That Donnie Pfaster held you against your will, not once, but twice; that he would surely kill again if given half a chance, and that he refused to surrender when I confronted him," I say with surety as I take another swallow of the hot, smooth liquid. "Don't," she says in a voice that could stop a train. "We still don't know why or how I pulled that trigger, Mulder." I can hold myself in check pretty well; after all, I haven't tried to harm Bill Scully at any time, but this I can't stand anymore. "Scully, the only thing I see at work here is not a matter of good vs. evil; it's a simple matter of survival. That's why you pulled the trigger. You wanted to survive." I wait half a moment while I consider the frightening other option. "I know I didn't want him to survive," she says while never meeting my eyes. "And inherent in that thought is a will to live, free from threat and violence; Scully, it's all very clear," I assure her. "No, no it's not," she says as she stands and walks across the room in the direction of her coat. She can't go, she simply can't. I won't let her. "Don't go. Please. We can stop talking about this. Just don't leave," I implore. "I can't * stop* talking about it, Mulder," she says in a hoarse reply. "OK, so we won't. I just want you to see that what you did was not wrong or evil or any of the other reasons why you think you did this. I think you wanted to live, Scully, and that's all," I say beginning to feel exhaustion set in. Still facing away from me, she shakes her head. This can't be happening. I walk toward her and, Whoever is in charge forgive me, I grab her arm and not too gently turn her toward me. "You mean to tell me that you fought and won because of some evil compulsion rather than a decision to survive? Doesn't all that we've seen and shared count for some sort of will to live? I know it makes me take every breath, every day." "That's your reason for survival, Mulder," she spits out. "And yours?" No response. Can she be this empty inside, feel this alone while by my side, to think that she does not have a reason to survive? That because of her emptiness, evil could simply take over her heart and use it for its own agenda? I realize my hand is still on her arm when she tries to wrestle it away from me. "No, Scully. I'm not letting go. I won't ever let go, not where it concerns you," I say with a catch in my voice. "Please stop," she says as the tears start to fall. I take her into my arms, willing life back into her just one more time. She pushes hard against me and turns to flee. My hand catches hers, "Scully, maybe there * was * something in this whole mess that you were meant to learn," I say in a desperate attempt to stop her from leaving here, leaving me. "Yeah, what?" she says, as she barely looks back at me. "That song. What did it keep saying over and over again? What was it trying to tell you?" She stops and says quietly, "Don't look any further." "Scully, why can't you?" I say as I tighten my grip on her hand. Her tears are beginning to truly fall now. "Why can't you let me in?" "That's awfully egotistical, don't you think?" she replies with dripping sarcasm. Despite a sudden urge to put my fist through the wall, I just lean in closer, thanking Whomever that our hands are still joined and say, "No, I don't. Not when we've always had everything all along." One more thing, one more thought and I think I'll be just a little closer to reaching her. Either that or she'll hurt me. "What is it, Scully?" I say as my lips near her ear. "What are you afraid of? Afraid you'll *feel* something?" The next thing * I * feel is her fist connecting with the side of my head. I guess she chose the latter. It doesn't stop me. "That's it, Scully. It's alright to feel rage, to feel like you want to break free. It's alright to feel," I say with calm authority. Her knees buckle under her as her tears come in torrents. I catch her on the way down and before I realize it, she is gathered in my arms and I am rocking her like she is a child afraid of the dark. I begin: "Five years ago you allowed me to comfort you, to release you from what bound you that night in Pfaster's mother's house. Let me do that again, Scully. Don't look any further than right here, " I say as I take her hand and place her fingers over my quickly beating heart. As she leans her head against my chest, my lips come down to caress her brow while my hand covers hers. Again and again, I kiss her head, her hair, the hand that rests in mine. Her fingers reach up to touch my face to brush away my own tears that have quietly begun to fall. Her hand moves down, across my jaw, and then to the back of my neck, pulling me down toward her. When our lips meet, it is sweet, tender, loving. A fire deep inside me begins to build, making me desire even more than this, wishing for everything, with all that is within me. As much as I want her, have always wanted her, I know that tonight isn't for that, though. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after, or the day after that. Tonight, our lips gently move back and forth, giving and taking pleasure, as life hums and flows between us. It is a life born of ice and slow thaws, cold and fire that brings a beautiful, crystal clarity. It is a life that is beginning for us, stronger than any evil. A life that will go on despite the cold, no longer frozen. END Feedback: Warm me on a midwinter's day joemimi@prodigy.net Many thanks to Sue, who read this first and reassured me that all was well. And as always to Georgia, whose friendship can melt any heart. END