This story is based on characters created by Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen
Productions. Characters used without permission. No infringement intended. 

TITLE: The Cold Room (1/1)
AUTHOR:  Jo-Ann Lassiter
EMAIL ADDRESS:  70302.3654@compuserve.com 
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT:  Post anywhere. Thanks.
SPOILER WARNING:  "Fire." Set before Memento Mori.
RATING: PG (some swearing)
CLASSIFICATION:  V
KEY WORDS: MSR (eventually)
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully are stuck in the basement during a storm. The
power's out, the heat's off, and the room is cold in more than temperature.
For awhile.

The Cold Room (1/1)
by Jo-Ann Lassiter
70302.3654@compuserve.com

FBI Headquarters
January 12

"Just forget it." She yanked her coat off the rack and pulled the door
open. "It's after five. I'm going home." 

Even though it was much later than five, her goal was to stress the
symbolic end to the workday--three hours ago.

"Yeah, whatever. Enjoy your weekend." His tone was sarcastic, and she knew
she had to get away before he--or she--said something they'd both regret.

She slipped out quietly, and with the door's soft "click," left him behind.

*****

Mulder took off his glasses and sighed. As much as he hated to admit it,
Scully was right. And therein lay his trouble: he couldn't admit it. To
her, at least. 

He wondered why this particular one was so hard. He'd acquiesced to her
interpretation before. Many times. Why was this case so different?

It wasn't just because it was personal. Hell, half their cases were
personal. What was it about Scully's opinion this time that rubbed him the
wrong way? 

He pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. Headache. Great. Perfect
end to a perfect day. Flat tire on the way to work. Skinner reaming him out
for his expense vouchers. Scully disagreeing with him over a simple case of
 arson.

Arson. Fire. Just the word made him shudder. Maybe that was the impetus? A
weakness? A flaw that he was unwilling to entertain? Yet, hadn't he already
come to this obstacle and vanquished it? He glanced at the crime scene
photo, and his palms started sweating.

Obviously not.

The door opened then, and Scully stalked to the front of his desk. Her eyes
pierced him accusingly. "The elevator's not working and the doors are
locked."

He couldn't have been more flustered if she'd told him the Pope was waiting
outside to grant him an audience. "What?"

The lights flickered off, then on, then off. "Fucking great." Scully's
voice came out of the blackness. 

Mulder fumbled around in his desk drawers until his hand closed around the
cylindrical shape. He snapped it on, and a dim shaft of light cut through
the darkness. 

"You didn't replace the batteries like I told you, did  you?"

He snapped it back off. "No."

Rummaging noises filled the air, followed by a thin, bright beam. Scully
followed it to her "desk," then walked back and handed Mulder the penlight.
"Here."

"Thanks," he said, grudgingly. He knew she'd kept the more powerful
flashlight from the table for herself.

"Don't mention it." She flipped the switch on and swept the light around
the room until it settled on the telephone. She picked up the handset and
depressed the button the obligatory five times before she hung it up. 

"Dead?" Mulder asked.

"Uh, huh," she answered, drawing out her cellular and depositing the
flashlight next to the useless phone. 

Mulder stayed quiet while she carried on what sounded like a very
unsatisfying conversation with Security. She clicked off and dropped the
phone into her coat pocket. "Fucking great," she muttered.

"What's going on?" He felt a little better now that the fluorescents were
off and there were no crime scene photos staring at him. He asked his
question gently, in deference to her feelings of frustration.

"Power outage," she sighed, blowing out a breath loudly. "Apparently
there's quite a storm outside. All of DC's affected. They don't expect
restoration until morning at least."

"Oh," he said. "Well, at least we're not cut off totally." He nodded to the
pocket which held her phone.

"Yeah. I'm going to call my mother-- Oh, God." She shot him a look of such
hostility that he was shocked enough to draw back an inch. "I was supposed
to be at her house for dinner at 7:30." Reaching into her pocket she pulled
out the phone and punched the numbers, then paced while she held the
instrument to her ear. "Come on... Come on!"

After two minutes of this, Mulder rose and blocked her path. "The lines
must be down everywhere," he said. "If it's storming as badly as you say,
she must have expected that you wouldn't make it."

"But I would have called. Shit! She probably thinks I'm stranded
somewhere." She stepped around him, then stabbed the "end" button and
jammed the phone back into her pocket.

"There's nothing you can do about it now," he said to her back. "And when
her phone's working, I'm sure she'll call your cell." When Scully didn't
move or answer, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you sit down and
relax? We'll just have to wait it out." He turned her around to face him
and gave her a tentative smile. "It could be worse."

She met his eyes then, and he was almost sorry she did; the smile faded
from his lips at the antagonism she shot his way. She headed for her chair,
but he caught the muttered, "I doubt that," under her breath.

*****
11:15 p.m.

She was just about to nod off when the sound of Mulder's chair scraping
back echoed through her head. Dismissing the sound, she rearranged her
folded arms, letting the blood flow into the one she'd been lying on, and
rested her head back down on the other. She shivered. Was it getting cold
in there? Oh, right. No power. No heat. Swell. 

Something touched her shoulders, and she jerked to her feet,  knocking it
off. Gasping, trying to blink herself awake, she grabbed up her flashlight,
flicked it on and pointed it at her attacker.

"Scully... Easy. It's just me." Mulder stood blinking in the glare.

Heart still racing from the trauma, she asked, "Mulder, what the hell are
you doing?" She lowered the beam from his face.

"The heat's off. I was going to drape your coat over you." He held it out
to her like a peace offering.

She sighed. "Thanks," she said, slipping her arms into the sleeves, then
wrapping herself tight in its folds. She noticed that he was wearing only
his suit jacket, buttoned to the top. "Where's yours?"

He looked embarrassed. "In the car. I had a flat on the beltway this
morning, and by the time I got here I was a little, shall we say, hot under
the collar?"

She nodded. He'd been short-tempered this morning, and after his meeting
with Skinner in the afternoon, he was an absolute bear. He'd done something
he'd never done before in their three years of partnership: he'd taken his
frustration out on her. 

His actions, his mannerisms told her that he regretted his behavior, but
she wasn't quite ready to forgive him for putting her through one of the
worst days of their partnership. "Well, thanks for the coat. I'm going to
try to grab some more sleep." 

She returned to her chair and clicked the flashlight off, then laid her
head on her arms and closed her eyes. The hum-hum of the battery-operated
clock was the only sound she heard.

He hadn't moved. Mulder was still standing behind her, in the dark.

"Mulder?"

There was a five-second delay until he answered. "...Yeah?"  His voice
sounded rough, like he'd just woken up.

"Go back to your desk and go to sleep."

She heard a shuddering breath. "Would you mind if I..." He stopped. 

"What, Mulder?" She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice.

"Nothing," he said softly. He shambled away, and she heard the squeak of
his chair as he lowered himself into it. 

She fell asleep to the oddly-comforting sounds of folders sliding and
papers shuffling as Mulder cleared a spot on his desk.

*****

He looked at the lighted dial of his watch for what must have been the
fiftieth time in the last hour. The last half hour. Where were those
missing time experiences when you really needed them, he wondered.

God, he was freezing. Reaching into his suitcoat pocket, he pulled out
Scully's penlight and clicked it on, cupping a hand over the beam to subdue
the brightness. He pushed his chair back as quietly as he could, but when
he stood up the squeak it emitted could have wakened the dead. 

His gaze darted to his partner at the first screech of rusty springs
against unyielding metal. She still slept soundly, her coat pulled tightly
around her. Mulder sighed shakily. What he wouldn't give to share some of
that warmth. 

He shone his beam until he found the door, then picked his way toward it.
The brass of the doorknob was icy cold against his hand; he twisted the
knob, then let go as quickly as he could. The walls of the corridor outside
were lined with boxes of newly-delivered photocopy paper and other office
supplies; there was just enough room for a person to walk. Or pace.

He felt like a toddler, wobbling down the hall on unsteady legs, until his
muscles began to loosen and his blood started pumping again. On his
eighty-seventh circuit, a creaking noise from around the corner captured
his attention, and he went to investigate. As he neared the sound, he
recognized it as one he'd heard before, when he was a boy. Metal straining.
Metal straining almost to breaking. With alarm he realized what it must be;
he looked up to confirm his fear and was whacked on the forehead as the
pipe burst. Residual water gushed out in one quick spurt, hitting him
square in the chest before the flow reduced to a trickle and then stopped
altogether. 

Frozen, he thought dazedly. He should've turned the taps on in the
bathroom. God, how cold *was* it out there? He shivered. How cold was it in
here?

Using the wall as support, he made his way to his office and stared at the
door, uncertain for a moment what to do with it. His head was aching, and
he needed to pass out, but the corridor was drafty, and he was wet--not a
good combination. His eyes closed, and he blinked them open, then shook
himself awake. Falling asleep out here was not an option.

He staggered to the door, but couldn't muster enough strength to turn the
doorknob. Lowering his head in defeat, he let it fall forward against the
door. He moaned as pinpoints of light burst before his eyes.

The door opened from the inside, and he fell in.

*****

She was too stunned and too groggy from sleep to utter a sound. Mulder lay
on his side exactly where he landed, his breathing ragged, his face
practically buried in the carpet. She knelt beside him.

"Are you all right, Mulder? What happened?" The pulse in his neck was
throbbing.

"I was trying to get warm," he began, "and--"

She frowned. "And you overdid it, as usual."

His head lolled to the side, and it wasn't the nasty cut on his forehead
that made her want to eat her words. It wasn't the violent shivering that
caused her to feel two feet small. It was his eyes, when they met hers. He
looked like she'd just kicked him in the gut.

"What happened?" she asked softly, in a tone she hoped conveyed apology.

"Pipe... burst..." he managed, in between shudders.

It was then that she noticed how much darker his jacket looked. She touched
the material, and was suddenly fearful for his health. "Let's get you out
of those wet things," she said, helping him to his feet and kicking the
door closed. 

"I'm so fucking cold, Scully." His voice was shaking, and he sounded like
he was about to cry.

She bit her lip. He was cold when he brought her coat to her; he was cold
when she sent him back to his desk; and he was cold when she heard him
leave to walk the hallway. "I know you are, Mulder," she said, giving him a
squeeze. "That's why I want to get you over to your desk, so we can get rid
of that wet jacket and shirt." She shifted the flashlight to the hand
supporting him, and with her free hand felt the rest of his clothing. To
hell with propriety, she thought, as her hand skimmed "personal" territory.
"Thank God, your pants are dry."

"Not for long, if you keep doing that," he muttered, and she was amazed
that his mind could still go there.

They reached his desk, and he automatically aimed for his chair; Scully
diverted him to the desktop. "Sit on the desk for now, okay?" Scully said.
"I need you fairly vertical until we get you out of those wet clothes." He
nodded and sat down heavily. His hand gravitated to the cut, which had
grown to the size of a golf ball, and she tugged at his jacket. "Come on.
Get this off now. I'll worry about your head later." She set the flashlight
so that it was shining up at the white ceiling, giving off enough of a glow
to see him clearly.

He was shaking too badly to be of any help, so Scully stripped him, quickly
and efficiently, using his not-quite-soaked T-shirt to dry his chest. He
looked so miserable yet he smiled his thanks at her, and in that moment she
forgave him. 

She removed her coat and slung it over her arm; the chill in the air hit
her immediately, and her concern for him climbed another rung. "Stand up,"
she ordered, and when he did, she threw her coat over his shoulders.
Shivering, she slid her arms under her coat, wrapping them around his
waist.

She was surprised when his arms encircled her and pulled her closer. For
someone who was a few degrees shy of becoming a popsicle, he felt
remarkably warm against her chest. She felt him shuddering, and although
she knew it was from the cold, for a brief moment she allowed her mind to
believe that it was because of her. She tightened her hold on him.

"Am I making you cold, Scully?" His grip loosened and his arms started to
slide away.

"Not at all," she said. "Just the opposite, in fact."

He ceased all movement; even his shivering stopped. Then he rubbed a hand
across her shoulder blades. "You're generating some pretty good heat of
your own."

"Why didn't we think of this earlier?" she wondered.

"I did," he said, very quietly. "You weren't exactly in a responsive mood."

She drew back, her not-yet-forgotten anger resurfacing. "Can you blame me?"

He shook his head, then winced and touched the cut gingerly. "I was a prize
ass today. You were right," he said. "About the case. The fires were the
work of an arsonist. A non-telekinetic arsonist. Rags and gasoline. The
works."

"You thought that all along, didn't you?" She pushed him away, and he let
her. "Let me see that," she said gruffly, inspecting the laceration.

He lowered his head obligingly; her coat hung loose off his shoulders. "I
believe I did, subconsciously. Once I allowed myself to see beyond my ego
and admit that this case scared me, it came to the surface."

"The fires?" she asked softly, tilting his head up so she could see his
eyes--and not just to check his pupils.

"Uh, huh. The crime scenes, specifically. I could just *feel* him out
there, watching me. Watching us. I kept waiting for the whole scene to
erupt in flames at any minute." He shuddered. "I didn't want to think that
any normal human being could set a fire--would *want* to set a fire."

"He may not be telekinetic, Mulder, but he's not normal, either." She left
him then, and retrieved the first aid kit from the bottom drawer of one of
the filing cabinets. 

"God, I hope not." He hugged his arms, and she thought how he'd never
looked so alone in all the time she'd known him.

She cleaned and dressed the cut, then dropped the kit on top of his desk.
"Come on," she said gently. She held her arms open. "Survival techniques.
Remember?"

A little of the spark lit up his eyes. "Oh, is that what you call them?" He
squeezed her to him very gently, very sensuously. "It's times like these
that I'm glad you're not a man."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm flattered." Then, "Times? What 'times,' Mulder?
Or did you seduce me when I was unconscious?"

"Never," he said, softly. "Just thinking of the future, Scully."

"Oh," she said, rubbing up against him. "That's good." 

He smiled at her, yet his concentration was not entirely on their
conversation. "Yesss. Good."

She looked into his unfocused eyes. 

"...But I was rather hoping to concentrate on the present."

The End

Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.   --Phyllis Diller

Comments appreciated! Jo-Ann at 70302.3654@compuserve.com