Title - Cold
Author - Jaimee Kidder
Email - specialagentdana@aol.com
Rating - PG-13
Classification - SA
Spoilers - Gethsemane
Keywords - Character death
Summary - Scully is finding it impossible to cope with Mulder's death.
Notes - This story takes place after the literal events of Gethsemane. Just pretend there was no entry wound to the face.
Disclaimer: ::sighs:: I don't wanna do this...
OK, fine. Mulder and Scully don't belong to be. Neither does Skinner. Neither does the episode 'Gethsemane.' In fact, I have absolutely nothing to do with The X-Files aside from watching and adoring it every Sunday and being completely obsessed with it. That's all. :)
* * *
His apartment was cold, shockingly cold. It had always been slightly warm before, still chilly, but with a warmth that spread to the whole apartment and everyone who entered. As far as she knew, she was the only one who had actually come into his apartment in a long time.
Time moved in heartbeats now. With every beat of her heart, she could feel her feet moving closer and closer to the sheet-draped form on the floor. Closer. There were men standing around, she saw vaguely, but they were immaterial. They had no place in this moment.
The officer leading her moved to kneel by the sheet and slowly pulled it off, revealing a face she had known, once. It was his face. Covered in blood and tears and grayness and lifelessness. She could feel her heart throbbing in her chest, slowing in reaction to the sight before her. Not quickening the way it should have. Her breath came slowly.
It was cold and so was she. Cold like him now, cold from the missing warmth that had always filled a room when he was there. It felt like minutes, standing there staring at the motionless face that used to belong to him. She turned finally, faintly, to leave, speaking to people, seeing their faces with her eyes, but all the while seeing, with her mind's eye, nothing but his face.
* * *
She lay in bed, staring dully at the ceiling. Her thoughts keep going around and around in circles, expending so much energy that she had little left to do anything else. She couldn't understand how it had happened. His face. Streaked with tears for some reason that she would never understand. He had left her, and she would never know why. There was nothing she could do. No science would bring him back, or wishing, or praying, or crying. She needed him. How could he leave her to deal with this alone?
Going to work had never crossed her mind. That surprised her. Normally she needed to keep her mind on something else to hide from the pain, but this time... It would only have made it worse, and besides, she couldn't. She didn't want to leave her bed. She wanted to call him, to pour out her grief and sadness and loneliness and love to him, but it was too late. Too late for everything. It was too much to ask for her to feel anything for another minute. She was overwhelmed.
How was she expected to go on? It was impossible. Living every day without him, seeing the same faces every day with one missing, being forced to live while he was dead.
The phone rang, but her thoughts were louder. The machine answered. "Scully, this is Assistant Director Skinner. I know you're there, Scully. Please answer the phone; I need to talk to you." She ignored it without much effort. Finally he hung up, and she sat up in bed.
No one had asked her to live.
It was as if something was released inside her. She slid her bare feet over the side of the bed, feeling the cold air outside her blankets envelop them, an unreasonable, personal cold. Her feet met the floor and she stood, a flickering shell of strength protecting her heart from the harsh chill that now covered the world.
The kitchen was so far away. She inched closer to it, her feet taking her ahead one agonizingly slow step at a time. It drew nearer. The world was moving around her, pulling her closer and closer to her destination. Finally she stood in the kitchen, her feet numb against the icy floor, and watched her hand reach out to open a drawer. There glistened a shining, sharp array, and she stared into the brilliance as a tear on her cheek caught the light.
She wanted to be warm again.
She put her hand into the drawer and withdrew it again, now holding a small knife, and leaned back against the drawer to close it. She contemplated the instrument she held in her hand for a moment. It shone brightly, casting a warm glow onto her hand, and for a moment, she could almost feel him standing there, filling the room with the warmth of his presence. She pressed the broad side of the blade down on her wrist, looking at it gleaming against her skin.
After a long second of not so much hesitation as expectation, she slowly twisted her hand with the knife, more and more until she felt a sting of pain. Farther she went, with her eyes closed now. Her heart was pounding; she could hear it crashing in her ears, and the pain was a distant cry, far away from her.
Her eyes opened suddenly as she felt the knife fall from her shaking, dulled fingers, and she looked down. She saw her wrist, covered in velvety red blood. The pain assaulted her senses, and she crumpled on the floor in her kitchen, clutching her paralyzed arm tightly.
There was a moment of blinding pain, almost past endurance. Then her thoughts cleared. She looked at her wrist again and saw that she had made a fairly deep cut to the large center vein. There was no chance she would survive, she realized calmly. Not long now.
She was lying on the floor now, in a spreading pool of blood. It was warm here, she thought. There was no pain anymore. She could feel her breath slowing. It was quiet and peaceful. She would see him soon.
She could hear the door to her apartment open and footsteps suddenly nearing the kitchen at a run. "Scully!" a familiar voice cried. Through the growing fog she remembered, and felt Skinner pull her up from the floor and hold her. She could feel hopelessness coming from him, and despair and sadness, and wanted to tell him that it would be all right, that she was fine. She wanted to disappear like a rock into a pond, without a ripple left behind.
Her head fell onto his arms, holding her tightly, and she could feel something being pressed against her wrist. Everything would be all right now that she was warm again, she thought. Why didn't he see that?
Time was measured in heartbeats again. Slower heartbeats. She was looking at Skinner's face, her eyes forever fixed in that one direction. He was crying, and she thought dully that she had never seen him cry before. She could feel some weight pressing on her body, a black mist coming closer. Now. I'm coming, Mulder, she thought joyfully, and embraced the blackness.
* * *
Skinner sat on the kitchen floor, cradling Scully on his lap. Her eyes were half-closed, and he brushed his shaking hand over them, closing them completely. There had been an expression on her face that he would never understand. She looked strangely peaceful, despite the blood covering her body. There were tears on her face. He could guess the reason.
As he laid her gently down on the floor and stood to use the phone, he looked again at Scully's beautiful face, and realized he was crying in spite of himself.
The room was horribly cold.