Comfort

Rachel Smith Cobleigh
January 9, 2000
     
Rating: PG
Classification: AV
Summary: post-Orison  vignette
Keywords: Pfaster, Scully Angst, Mulder/Scully UST
Spoilers: Orison

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.
                              
                         *****************

     She wasn't going to cry this time, and she didn't.

     The adrenaline rush, the tightly-controlled panic, the instinct 
to fight for survival at all costs was gone now, and she could only 
sink on the bed, her shoulders rounded with exhaustion, her pulled 
muscles aching, the cut on her lip a dull pain to remind her of what 
she didn't want to think about.  She didn't want to, and so she 
pushed it away and stood up from the bed.

     Mulder had gone back into the kitchen to talk to the officers 
on the scene.  The soft tone of his voice had almost broken her, but 
the memory of the gun in her hand had provided an escape, and she'd 
turned to it to avoid his eyes.  She didn't know who she had been--
but she wasn't going to think about that.

     She looked dully at the shards of the shattered mirror at her 
feet, the broken glass of her perfume bottles, their scent now 
turned revolting as they soaked into her bedroom carpet.  The shards 
reflected the dimming light from the window behind her, some 
shining, others not.  She was only wearing thin slippers, so she 
stepped carefully between the pieces and went to get a broom.  
They'd already taken all of their pictures, and they were allowing 
her to push the broken glass aside, in that small space in front of 
her bureau, so she could get her things.

     She got the broom out of the hall closet and went back into the
bedroom.  With a few strokes, she'd pushed all of the shards out of 
her way, and she left the broom leaning against the wall, where her 
bookshelf had been.  It had been there only half an hour ago, 
everything had been clean and orderly-- she needed to get her 
suitcase.  She pulled it out from under her bed, and opened it on 
the heritage chest.

     Four days to a week, at least.  She would need underwear, 
socks, her running sneakers--but there was perfume splashed inside 
one of them.  It smelled spicy and rich; it turned her stomach.  She 
pushed the sneakers back next to the bureau and told herself that 
she could buy a new pair.  Jeans, sweats, shirts, three suits for 
now, nylons and pumps, four t-shirts and how many pairs of socks did 
she pack?  Two more, just in case her feet got wet and she needed a 
dry pair.  Her slippers.  Her watch--she found it on the floor among 
the mirror shards; she'd left it on the bureau when she'd gotten 
home, it must have gotten knocked off during the struggle.  She 
slipped it on her wrist.  It was just after seven in the evening, it 
was an analog watch.

     "You all packed?"

     She looked up from her watch, over at Mulder, standing in the 
doorway.  His eyes reflected the light behind her, they were quiet 
and considerate, and she looked away.  That was what threatened her 
the most; just seeing him so sensitive to her pushed tears into her 
eyes and made the lump thicker in her throat.  She was accustomed to
his treatment of her from a distance.  She swallowed and looked down 
at the suitcase, taking inventory.  She shook her head.  Something 
was missing.

     She looked around the room, and her eyes caught on the Bible, 
now laying before her on the bed.  The sight of it just brought up 
more questions in her mind, a cold fear in her chest, but she moved 
around the corner of the bed and slowly picked it up.  Mulder made 
no sound from the door, but he walked in a few steps.  She held the 
book in both hands and looked up at him, but he only shook his head 
imperceptibly, without answers.

     With a light sigh, she placed it in the suitcase, looked at the 
contents once more, and then sealed it with a firm click.  She 
lifted the suitcase in one hand.

     "I'm ready."

     "Do you need...to change?"

     "I already did."

     "I'll get your coat."

     "Thank you."

     Her partner made his way down the hall to her coat closet, and 
he had her coat open and ready for her by the time she had reached 
him with the suitcase.  She set it down, feeling her muscles ache, 
and then she straightened up and let him help her into the coat.  
His hands slid down her arms a few inches and stayed for a moment, 
and then he moved around her and picked up the suitcase.  She didn't 
feel any need to comment on chivalry, and he made no pretense of it, 
either.  On their way out--she didn't look at the mess--she got her 
purse from the dining room table.  It was still in the same place 
that she had left it when she came home, still untouched.

     She pulled it over her shoulder and silently followed Mulder 
out of the apartment.

     The drive to his apartment--she didn't want to stay alone in a 
hotel--was silent.  She knew he was looking at her with concern, but 
she spent the whole drive with her face turned to the window.  
Through the quiet neighborhoods, still untouched, and past the 
package stores and parked cars.  They pulled into his apartment 
complex fifteen minutes later, and Mulder still didn't attempt a 
conversation.  All she felt was a kind of dull ache inside.  It was 
aftershock, she knew the symptoms.  Pfaster was dead-- she didn't 
want to think about that.

     Mulder pulled into a space and turned off the car.  They sat in 
silence for a few moments, and she looked at him.

     "Let's get inside," he said.

     She nodded, and they got out.  He retrieved the suitcase from 
the back seat, and she held one hand over her purse to keep it from 
swinging off her shoulder.

     When they stopped at the apartment door, Mulder fit his key in 
the lock and pushed the door open.

     "I apologize for the mess; I'll clean it up."

     "I don't mind, Mulder," she answered softly, tired.  She felt 
exhausted, but she didn't think she'd be able to sleep.  She knew 
this was the only place that she wanted to be right now, and that if 
there was any sleep to be found, it would only be here.  It gave her 
some small comfort, this familiar place with its comfortable shadows 
and well-used vinyl couch.  It reminded her of him, it smelled like 
him.  She was so tired.

     "You can have the bed.  I'll sleep out here."

     "Oh, Mulder, I couldn't..."

     "Yes, you can."  He turned back to her, and was it just her 
tired imaginings, or was he leaning closer?  "You'll be all right."

     Why did he have to look at her like that?  Because he genuinely 
cared, she knew he did.  She was not going to cry.

     He didn't seem to notice her falter, or perhaps he saw it all 
too clearly, and he turned away, bringing the suitcase into the 
bedroom.  She felt an absurd laugh at the thought--his bedroom, 
which seemed to have spontaneously appeared, cleaned, with a new 
waterbed that had sported a mirror hung overhead.

     He had set the suitcase down next to the nightstand, and she 
came into the room, too tired to feel awkward.  He pushed a few 
things off the counter into the drawer, clearing a space for her.

     "Do you have an analog alarm clock?" she asked, surprising 
herself with the strained sound of her own voice.

     "No, I'm sorry."

     "No, don't worry about it," she waved a tired hand and looked 
at the bed.  The bedposts and the tester--along with its mirror--
were gone.  She was relieved.  She never would have been able to 
sleep with her reflection staring down at her all night long.

     "Can I take your coat?"

     "What?  Oh, yes..."  She let the purse drop to the bed, and 
shrugged out of her coat; he took it and gave her shoulder a 
squeeze.

     "You'll be comfortable?"

     "I'll be fine, thank you, Mulder."

     "No problem."  He gave her a tentative smile, and she tried one 
back.  It didn't come from anywhere, though; it was just a 
responsive tug at one corner of her mouth.

     "Good night."

     "Good night."  Their eyes held for several heartbeats, and she 
felt that onslaught of crying threaten, welling up again.  She 
swallowed and looked at the floor.  Her feet were cold.

     Mulder turned away, taking her coat with him, and a few seconds 
later, the door clicked softly shut behind him.

     She looked at the bed; it was neatly made, with a beige 
comforter.  She picked up her purse from the bed and set it on the 
nightstand, got out a pair of warm socks from her suitcase, and 
after tugging them on, she climbed under the covers.  They had his 
scent, faint and indiscernible.  She stared at the ceiling.  She was 
afraid to close to her eyes; she knew what would haunt her, which 
images were burned into her memory.  She knew the Bible was in her 
open suitcase, on the floor.

     She lay staring at the ceiling for a long while; she could hear 
Mulder moving around the apartment, the water running, and then 
after a while, silence.  The light was still on; she couldn't quite 
bring herself to turn it off.  She turned on her side and looked at 
the window, then remembered her own bedroom window and rolled back 
over to stare at the fold-away doors of Mulder's closet.

     Pfaster had been hiding in her home, behind the doors--

     She felt small, cold, and alone in the bed.  The red numbers on 
the digital clock read 7:33, the little p.m. light was lit.  It was 
too early to sleep, she couldn't sleep.

     Mulder looked up from his book when Scully shuffled quietly 
around the corner into his den.  She had wrapped the comforter from 
his bed around herself, and so her short form was swathed in a 
mountain of beige.

     "I was cold, I hope you don't mind," she said, motioning with 
the blanket.

     "Not at all, do you want me to turn up the heat?"

     "Mm, no, it's okay."

     She stood, indecisive, for a moment, looking everywhere but at 
him.  He was stretched across the couch; he sat up and swung his 
legs down.

     "Can I get you something to drink?"

     "Mulder, you really don't have to."

     He stood up, leaving the book behind on the seat.

     "Hot chocolate?  Coffee?  Orange juice?"

     He came past her, and she looked up at him.

     "Ah, hot chocolate is fine."

     "Then make yourself comfortable, and I'll be right back."

     "Thanks," she said.  He nodded and disappeared into the 
kitchen.

     She went over and sat down on the near end of the couch.  She 
looked over at the kitchen, listening to him moving around for a 
minute, and then she looked around the room, and across the couch.  
He'd propped an old pillow against the other arm, and the book was 
laid next to it.  Curious, she leaned over to see what it was, and 
was surprised to find it a Bible.  Mulder?  With a Bible?  That was 
the last thing she'd expected.  It was opened to I John, and she 
scanned the lines, looking for what he had been reading.  Her eyes 
were drawn to the beginning of the fourth chapter...  *"Beloved, 
believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of 
God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world..."*

     She shivered.  The microwave beeped in the kitchen.

     "One hot chocolate, no marshmallows.  I'm sorry, I'm out."  He 
came in, carefully holding the hot mug in one hand, and a napkin in 
the other.

     "It's okay."  She actually almost felt like smiling.  He leaned 
down and made sure she was comfortable with it, surrounded by the 
blanket, before he sat down next to her with a glass of orange 
juice.  "Thanks."

     "You're welcome."

     They sat in companionable silence for a couple of minutes, 
sipping their respective drinks.  Scully began to feel a little 
warmth creep into her.  She set the mug down on the blanket folds 
in front of her, both hands wrapped around it, and looked over at 
Mulder.

     "What are you reading in it?"

     He looked sideways at her, his head leaned back against the 
wall.

     "I don't know.  I was just remembering Theology back at 
Oxford--I took it as one of the general education requirements--and 
I was thinking."

     "Mmm."  Scully sipped from her mug.

     "You know, with all of my fantastic theories about UFOs and 
conspiracies, no matter how far-fetched, I believe they're still 
things possible, that some science--maybe not ours, not yet, but 
*some* science--can explain them all.  Just because we can't 
understand them doesn't make them impossible."  He sighed, and 
tipped his head back.  "But when it comes to faith, I find it 
difficult to accept that same idea, because I don't know if any 
science can explain what's true, and what's someone's delusion, and 
what's worth having faith in.  The only safe path is not to believe 
at all, and so you protect yourself from delusions and you don't 
have to question if your faith is real--because you don't hold onto 
one."

     "I know, Mulder.  But you do have faith.  You have faith in 
those things you believe some science can explain.  So do I, even 
though I may try to oppose you at every turn.  I've seen enough that 
I can't explain to know that the only wise route to take is to 
believe that our science is incomplete--not that these things can't 
exist because I can't understand it.  But those are the relatively 
easy things to believe in, Mulder, things you can explain.  It's the 
faith that's chilling.  I don't know what to believe, anymore.  I 
grew up believing in *something,* and now I'm trying to find some 
context for that in all of this.  Or maybe all of this in some 
context for that.  I don't know.  But I can't give it up just 
because I don't understand why things happen."

     "I'm not saying you should; I envy your faith, Scully.  You 
have something to hold on to.  I'd like that, but I can't resolve it 
with what I know, or rather, what I don't know."

     "Thanks for listening to me at the hospital, Mulder.  I 
appreciated that."

     "I'm sorry for snapping at you."

     "I forgive you."  She smiled, just slightly, into her mug.

     "Thank you for the pardons, milady," Mulder answered drily.

     They were quiet again, and Scully shifted father down into the 
comforter, feeling warmer now.

     "Would you like to watch something?" Mulder asked.

     "What do you have?"

     "Um, let's see..."  He pushed himself off the couch and opened 
the doors under the television set.  Scully moved her head to look 
past his shoulder at the rows of videotapes.

     "Do you own all of those?" She asked, in a dry tone, with a 
smile underneath.

     "Yes," he answered in the same tone, not turning around.  "How 
about 'Sports Greats' Greatest Mistakes II'?"

     "Sounds perfect," she answered, smiling inwardly at the memory 
of when he gave her 'Superstars of the Superbowl', in the hospital 
room.  And her cross.  She touched the chain around her neck.

     He pushed the tape into the VCR, and then uncurled his tall 
frame from the floor space between the TV and coffee table, and 
returned to sit beside her.

     "You really know how to show a girl a good time," she said, as 
the opening credits rolled and a shortstop wearing a Yankees uniform 
was bonked on the head with a baseball.

     He laughed quietly and leaned back.  "Only the best for you."

     She let go of some of the tension in her stomach, and shifted 
in the blankets.  She leaned a little of her weight against him, 
amid the mountain of comforter, and looked sideways at him.

     "Do you mind?"

     "Not at all," he answered.

     They watched the video and laughed together a few times, and 
she got a little sleep.

                         *****************

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© 2000 Rachel Smith Cobleigh