Author's Notes: I wrote this in one sitting after a 3am viewing of "The End", back in 1998, so I hope it makes sense outside my own mind. Poem is in bold italics.

Paracelceus. Once, in Tennessee, I'd heard Mulder recite that poem. I'm not sure if he knew, or even cared, that I was listening. I hadn't given it much thought at the time. I suppose I was too unwilling, afraid perhaps, to even contemplate the 'latest twist to the ongoing soap opera that is Mulder and Scully,' as Frohike had once put it. I don't know - maybe I still am.

Now, however I can't get the damned poem to stop echoing through my head like a broken jukebox.

"At times I almost dream, I too have spent a life the sages way,

And tread once more familiar paths."

I'm not sure how long we've been standing here. An hour, seconds, days, it really doesn't matter. We've been here before, countless times previous. Evidence stolen, truths revealed, the X-Files gone, and all for naught because we're back at square one. Something ventured and nothing gained.

That's not how it's supposed to go. Not that these men play by the rules. Bullies on a global playground. But aren't bullies supposed to back down when you stand up to them? Sometimes I wish for the days like our first case together. We were like children on the first day of kindergarten. Innocent, naive even - not realizing what was ahead of us. Better a lost laptop than a lost sister, a lost father - a lost partner.

When had we become so jaded? I imaginethat Mulder, that solitary, hunched over a stack of slides, FBI's most unwanted Mulder of five years ago, would look at me now, with that smartass smirk of his, and tell me to lighten up. Tell me that not everything - not everyone - is out to get you. But sometimes I wonder.

"Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance an age ago..."

I'd picked up the phone not a half-hour after the last call. Skinner's voice was flat but somehow full of emotion. Ever the soldier. "You need to get down here. You and him both." You know it's bad news when he can't even use your names, first or last.

I'd followed Mulder down the stairs, and into the basement. Unmindful of my white coat, I wandered through the office, the bottom dragging through the ash, edges stained a black coal. Not that I minded really. It wasn't really ash to me, but the remnants of a life. Probably much as it is for a wife that sifts her fingers through the greasy ashes in an urn on her mantle.

Remains. Of a husband, a child, a lover, a life. Our life.

"And in that act, a prayer for one more chance went up so earnest, so.."

I lay my head on his chest, his heart, as if to will the ache away - a part of me checking for a heartbeat as he stood there frozen. He hadn't moved since I'd come in. It was starting to scare me nearly as badly as... well, pretty much my life at this moment. I'd joked once about his slipping into catatonic schizophrenia without his cell phone, but now I'm not so sure it was all that preposterous. How could he go on? He might not be able to. Not without the X-files. NO files. Not even an office. I visually inspect the damage, my eyes not really seeing anything but the pulse of red and blue, like a heartbeat. I hold him - hold onto him - I'm not sure which is more accurate.

And we stand there, like the last drunk lovers on the dance floor of some gruesome cabaret.

I watch, and listen, to the steady beat of his heart. I'm reminded of something my father once said, whether it be from a dream, vision, or as Mulder thinks, a visitation. "Then my life felt as if it had been the length of one breath, one heartbeat. At that moment, I would have traded every medal, every commendation, every promotion for... one more second with you." I'd taken it to heart when I'd first heard it, but hadn't really understood it. I think I do now.

I would give up nearly anything, relive the pain and anguish of the past years, just so long as it wasn't in vain. Please God, I've given up so much, some of which I don't think was mine to give up, not my life, to this thing. This quest - this truth. Can't I just keep one thing, one man?

"Instinct, with better light let in by death - that life was blotted not so completely."

The firefighters and arson investigators move about us in the rhythmic dance of a job done a thousand times before. Sympathy, or a sixth sense, compelling them to not disturb us. They remove the lights and finally are gone. I can feel a fine layer of soot began to settle on my skin, in my nostrils, lendin us the appearance of two well-dressed chimney sweeps rather than agents of the FBI.

I can feel the smoke start to irritate my lungs. We have to go. I squeeze his arm. "Mulder," I whisper. It somehow doesn't feel right to break the silence - like yelling in a library. I look up at his face. His eyes are closed now; red-rimmed. He sighs, it's all the signal I need. Reluctantly I pull away, breaking the physical connection, though not the symbiotic link between our natures. My Yin to his Yang. Or is it the other way around?

I turn around to face towards the filing cabinets. Five years, and countless decades before, of cases held within. Burned, but perhaps not completely destroyed. I hope. I listen to his feet as he slowly moves to the door, hand lingering on the knob ever so briefly. I'll stay with him tonight, a suicide watch if you will. Not for fear of him killing himself, of course, but for protection of 'Us'.

The walking sponge of guilt. Knowing Mulder, he'll push me away, blaming himself - trying to spare me - thinking I'll be the next to fall. Who knows? Maybe I will. But I still wouldn't blame him. It's my choice to make. My risk to take - not his fate to decide.

"But scattered wrecks enough of it to remain dim memories, as now one

sees once more, the goal, in sight, again."

I move to the cabinets, green with the familiar speckles of blood-red rust, now warped by heat. I crouch to open the lowest drawer, my hand gently grasping the still-warm copper handle. It gives way with a screech of complaint, like the groan of a an old man struggling to walk through an ancient war injury. The acrid scent of melted film and decades-old burnt paper assaults my senses. Just as repulsive as any crime scene.

I search the headers, those not burned or drenched to the point of being illegible. Near the back, my eyes finally rest upon the object of my search. I can feel the tears start to rise, my eyes flooded, but not overflowing, with salty tears - I don't know whether summoned by my find or the air.

It reads: "Case 3x14 - Scully, Melissa - Classification: Homicide - Status: Unsolved"

I pull it from it's near grave, not bothering to open it, as the rippled but otherwise undamaged outward appearance tells me all I need to know of the condition of it's contents, and tuck it under my arm. I stand back up, suddenly again aware of the impending headache my dry cleaner has in her future.

Again, my eyes sweep the tiny room, and I can feel the hollow in the pit of my stomach form. A small voice in the back of my mind naws away, 'It's over, ' I try to ignore it, not wanting to face reality - like this isn't reality enough, and fail miserably.

'What am I going to do? What can I do?'

My eyes fall on the tattered, half-disintegrated poster. A piece of Mulder. The Truth. I feel a hand rest on my shoulder. So he hadn't left, afterall. I know we can't do anything here, that we should leave because of the air, unless we want to add bodily harm to ethereal.

And yet we stand - staring at the small, white letters. Staring at what's left of them, committing it to memory and to heart. Whatever we do, we'll make it - somehow.

W A N T T O

B E L I E V E

Once again, thanks for reading and please let me know what you thought!