TITLE: To Share This Room
AUTHOR: Tarin Z. Kesumin
KEYWORDS: MSR/UST, S, A
SPOILERS: Anything up to and including Fight the Future is 
fair game.
SUMMARY: And how would you propose that they got off the ice? 
RATING: PG for language, primarily.
ARCHIVE: Gossamer, Xemplary, anywhere else just let me know.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, sad to say. But someone had to get them
from Antarctica to DC…Please don’t be offended, Mr. C. “And So It
Goes” by Billy Joel is also used without permission, and again, no
infringement is intended by it’s use. Steve Roberts, and the rest 
of the McMurdo groupies are my own.

Author’s notes can be found at the end of the story.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Albert P. Crary Science and Engineering Center
McMurdo Station, Antarctica
Near the Ross Ice Shelf

"What’s the status of that incoming storm, Roberts?" 

Dr. Steve Roberts swiveled in his chair to regard the computer
monitor directly to his right. His lips thinned into a grim line 
before turning again to speak into the desk mounted microphone.
"Looks bad, Lewis. Latest satellite data has the storm coming due
south, approximate speed 15 miles per hour. I’d say it hits with the
next six hours."

Lewis’ voice came again, cracked with static. "Any predictions on
the damage?"

Roberts chuckled and again depressed the 'talk' lever. "NWS is
predicting between 12 and 18 inches. A baby by our standards."

"Thanks, Steve. I’ll put out the notice to the residents. Lewis out."
Steve nodded, despite knowing that his colleague would not be able
to see him. An old habit of conversation, he supposed. Instead of
reflecting on it, however, he returned his attention to the geological
readouts he had been perusing before Lewis’ transmission.

Roberts was one of many geologists and other scientists stationed
at McMurdo, the largest community on the continent. The station
was an eclectic assortment of researchers from a range of
backgrounds. Roberts and his team were there for the geological
activity, or lack thereof. His work was focused on trying to explain
why, in such a period of tectonic plate movement and greater 
earthquake activity, this area had remained relatively quiet. It had
been an uphill battle, from finding adequate funding, to assembling
a team of researchers dedicated enough to put three months of 
their lives towards this project. But he had been able to put it all
together. 

"Hey, Roberts." The sharp voice of assistant startled him. His eyes
darted up before his body relaxed with recognition. "Coffee time, 
and no excuses. We’ve been at this since this morning. Time for a 
sanity break."

Roberts smiled easily, and nodded. 

Seconds later, all hell broke loose. Alarms broke the quiet of the
research cabin, as computer monitors began to flash data across
their screens. 

"What the hell?" Roberts sank into his chair, eyes darting left to 
right as he skimmed the information. "Mother of God... Neil, get 
everyone in here!! Now!! We’ve got action!"

Within minutes, the five-man team had filled the small room to 
capacity, and were filling the remaining air space with sound.

"Coordinates are... south 83 degrees latitude, east 63 degrees 
longitude."

"Australians report that Mawson and Casey component stations are
both recording the activity. Other stations have been contacted and 
we’re awaiting their reports."

"Early indications show it as being at least a 5.5, maybe as high as
6.0  on the Richter. We haven’t seen this kind of activity down here
in at least five years."

"My God... was anyone out there when this happened? Get me the
locations of all research teams that might have been in the area. 
Have Communications get verbal confirmations from all teams."

A hesitant voice rose above the others. "This is strange..." Roberts
focused on the monitor and furrowed his brow. 

"Certainly is. I’ve never seen an epicenter with such a shallow depth
location. Double check all the instruments."

"I have, and then triple checked, and everything is operational."
The techie swiveled his chair to face his superior. "Dr. Roberts, we
need to get a team out there now."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The ice below us, the glare of the sun, the flakes roiling through the
gusty winds... this place overwhelms with its monochromatic
character.  

The encompassing whiteness that surrounds me is a surprising
comfort in the face of the black clouds I see looming over the
horizon. I know the white for what it is, and now faced with the
uncertainty of the oncoming storm clouds, I welcome its relative
familiarity as I sit, huddled at the edge of an abyss of ice and snow,
cradling my semi-conscious partner in my arms.  The approach of
the distant black clouds can mean nothing but more snow—more
chaos—and a higher probability of death due to exposure.  

Cold. I have a new definition and respect for the sensation. Here,
splayed on the ice like a beached whale, I am relearning this
physical sensation. The cold is no longer a solely external
experience; it seems to be radiating from my very bones as well. 

Neither of us is dressed appropriately for this kind of prolonged
exposure; Mulder may have had a chance if he hadn’t had to dress
me in his parka and snow pants. Instead, we lie here together,
neither of us safe, waiting to see which evil will overtake us first.
The white ice below us, or the rising storm clouds hovering above,
whose dark color now seems eerily reminiscent of the strange ship I
cannot—will not—deny having seen minutes ago.

I am rocking his body with mine in jerky, repetitive motions,
deriving both comfort in the contact and warmth in the movement.
I know with medical certainty that staying out on the glacier will
mean death, storm or no. I am, however, equally certain that I
cannot summon the strength to move us both. I cannot feel my feet
within the sopping wet socks protecting them, my limbs feel heavy
and awkward, my eyes burn with cold and the residue of green,
alien fluids. There is a fuzziness reaching the edges of my mind,
and I can feel my eyelids growing ever heavier as unconsciousness
beckons.

I have to get through to Mulder. He is our only way out of this. He
had to have traveled out here somehow, and I am praying that we
can get out the same way. My lips part painfully, their cracks and
fissures rubbing against each other as I lean into his ear, speaking
a loudly as I am able. "Mulder..." 

My voice is low, sandpapery and strange to my ears as it slips past
them and is carried away in the relentless wind. I repeat his name
several times with no response before I begin to feel the first seeds
of panic sprout in my belly. "Mulder, Come on. It’s time to go."

A sudden gust of icy wind assaults my face, and seems to carry
with it the last of my reserve. My lids slide shut as if on autopilot,
and my arms go to jelly around his torso. Apparently, it was this
loss of contact and warmth that was necessary to break Mulder free
of his stupor; I can feel him struggling against the now dead weight
of my body. 

As he rises and the heat of his body loses contact with me, I shiver
violently, and feel my body falling backwards to land bonelessly
against the ice.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

"Scully?" Her name falls off of my lips before I feel my mind kick
into gear. She is lying against the ice, arms akimbo, her legs
parallel to my own. Her skin is gray, a shade frighteningly similar
to the ground supporting her. I pull her body up to mine, settling
her pliant frame in my lap, stroking the frozen mass of hair
hanging from her head as I think.

We need to get to the SnowCat. There’s an extra can of gasoline in
the machine’s cab that with any luck hasn’t yet frozen solid. I could
siphon it into the tank, and we could have heat. The pallor of
Scully’s face, the force of the shudders running down my spine, and
the knife-edged wind gusting by my face all scream for an immediate
solution. I can worry about getting us to the nearest research
station later.

The complication—because there always is one when it comes to
these situations I invariably get into—is that the 'Cat is sitting on
the other side of the immense chasm that the spaceship has left in
its wake. Squinting against the merciless wind, I estimate the
distance around the fissure to be almost half a mile. And that
leaves another half mile or so to reach the 'Cat... some of which
would be spent climbing uphill. All of which would have to be
accomplished while carrying Scully, who is in no condition to travel
under her own power. Just another day at the office for the X-Files
team. 

Movement from the body nestled in my arms pulls my concentration 
away from the landscape. Scully has reached out a hand to grip 
the edge of my polarfleece jacket, turning her face into the 
space between my upper arm and torso. The grip of her hand tangled 
in my clothing is weak, and the rest of her body uncharacteristically 
pliant against me. "Scully, hang on. Just hang on," I murmur into 
her one exposed ear.

Her response was so soft, again so unlike her, that it set my heart 
pounding. "I-I don’t know if I can." The uncharacteristic admission
terrifies me and pushes me to action. I rise unsteadily to my feet,
cradling her in my arms, and began to walk.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

"Scully, try to put your arms around my neck." The world around
me was shaking again, but unlike earlier in the underground
complex, this movement was gentler, more rhythmic. Mulder has
been carrying me for what I estimate to be a half an hour, though I
have no way to be sure. A part of me is mortified that I am showing
this weakness to him; this will do nothing but add fuel to his over-
protective fire. On the other hand, I am more than well aware that 
I haven’t the energy to walk any great distance on my own. 

I fling my left arm up and across my body in an attempt to comply
with his request, but the fuzziness of my mind and body make the
movement sloppy. I think I may have hit him in the nose. I wish I
had the energy to apologize to him. Right now, it’s taking
everything I have to keep holding on to his bouncing form. 

I feel his hand grip my arm and pull it against him, settling my
hand at his shoulder. "Try and hold on to me, okay? We’re almost
there." 

Driven by curiosity and the need to feel some semblance of control,
I find myself able to mumble a question into his chest. I really hope
he can hear me over the wind. "Where are we going?" The better
question might have been to ask how we’re going to be able to get
out of this frozen wasteland, but my rattling teeth are not allowing
many words through them. 

"Over that hill," he offers in between labored breaths, and as I look
ahead I notice a black outcropping of rocks that mar the otherwise
monotonous white landscape. In that moment, I also realize that
his estimation, uttered moments ago, was a blatant lie intended for
my benefit. The outcropping looks to be almost a quarter mile
away. I can feel Mulder’s arms against my back and under my
knees, trembling with the strain of holding me up for so long. There
is no way he is going to make it there with me as extra baggage.

"Mulder, put me down." He stops dead in his tracks, and looks at
me as if I have sprouted a third head.

"Scully, you can’t walk."

I hate the truth in his simple statement, that I am as helpless as a
child, and equally as dependent. I hate even more that he has given
voice to this fact, and I long to deny his words. I grudgingly admit
to myself, however, that lying will not help either of us right now,
that the situation calls for honesty, not pride. "I know. But you
can’t carry me that far." I pull my face away from the relative heat
of his chest to look into his eyes. They are the color of the clouds
above, an ominous slate gray. "Put me down, and come back for me
later."

"No." 

It’s good to know that, despite the situation, Mulder’s still the same
man I’ve known for years. Still driven by his emotions, and not his
head. I guess I had better just let him know what I’m thinking.
After all, I am the logical side of this partnership, and I don’t think
anything but logical thinking is going to be able to get us out of this
mess. "Mulder, if you keep carrying me like this, neither of us will
make it over that hill."

I wait nervously for his response, hoping he sees and accepts my
logic. As the seconds pass, however, I feel a growing hum in my aching
chest, and realize that I am becoming frightened that he may, for
once, accept my way of thinking. Maybe I’m not feeling as noble as I
had first thought. 

Finally he gives a tiny smile and, showing an astounding
demonstration of his infamous Mulder-logic, says, "Then, I’ll just
have to carry you another way." With this, he slowly sets me on my
feet, his hands sliding to my waist to offer gentle support. Before 
the cold of the ice can seep through the already sodden socks on my
feet, he has me again in the air, this time bringing me against his
torso, carrying me as a mother would a small child. 

"Wrap your legs around my waist, and your arms around my neck,
Scully." I do as he asks, crossing my ankles behind him and
bringing my pelvis snugly against his stomach. I pull my arms
tight, careful not to cut off his wind passage, and bury my face in
the warm haven of his neck. I want to do right by him, and so
devote my waning strength to hanging onto him, so that he won’t
need to hold me up. I can tell by the hoarse timbre of his voice that
he will need to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other
if we are to make it to... well, wherever he has in mind. At this
point, I find myself not really caring where it is we are headed; as
long as I can close my eyes, sleep, and be warm once we get there.

And Mulder. Mulder would be there as well. I wouldn’t go without
him, no matter what comforts were offered me. We go together, one
way or the other.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

If I still didn’t feel the pressure of her legs squeezing against my 
upper abdomen, I would think she had lost consciousness. The 
tightness is there, and also can be felt in the warm circle her arms 
have created at my neck. I am equally focused on these sensations, 
and on the distance I feel passing beneath me with each heavy plod 
of my foot. We are almost to the rocks; after that, it will be 
another... twenty minutes or so down to the 'Cat—if we are lucky. 
Tack on another fifteen to siphon the gasoline and get the motor 
running... There is a remote chance that we could be warm and safe 
within the hour, and it is this dim hope which quickens my steps. 

Of course, all of the previous mental calculations have been based 
on my earlier trespass; they have not factored in the extra hundred-
plus pounds of Scully I have wrapped around my upper body, or the
fact that my head feels like someone is staging a production of Stomp
behind my eyes. "We’re going to make it, though," I murmur out loud 
before I realize that I have vocalized the thought.

"Mmmm..." I feel more than I hear the soft moaning response 
against the exposed skin of my neck, the vibration caressing like a 
kiss. 

As I reach the foot of the rugged incline, I realize that I am again 
going to have to shift Scully if we are to continue. "Scully?" Another 
soft moan tells me that she is listening. "Scully, I need to shift you 
again, okay? I’m going to put you on my back so I can free up my 
hands, all right?" I can feel her nod against my neck, and her grip 
on my body slackens.

I slide her down so that she is standing on her feet, and look down 
to see her looking up at me with wide eyes. Her pupils, I note with 
a degree of detached concern, are too large; she won’t be able to 
stay awake much longer. I feel a squeeze at my hips; she is holding 
on to me, her legs too wobbly to hold their own. I give her a smile I 
hope shows an energy I no longer feel, turn my back and stoop so 
that she can again grip my neck, this time from behind. 

In a sharp motion, I hoist her up, in the same moment she swings 
her legs about my waist. My arms now free, I begin our ascent as 
the first snowflakes from the offending black storm clouds above 
begin to drift around us. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I can see it. It is obscured by the flakes of snow now drifting thickly 
around us, but unmistakable. Standing out in strong contrast to the 
white, smooth expanse surrounding it sits a large black SnowCat, 
its tracks winding like a tail into the far horizon. This is our 
salvation; I can tell by the way Mulder’s footsteps have quickened 
upon making eye contact with it about twenty minutes ago. 

He has now shuffled into a broken jog, bouncing me against his 
back with each step, and causing me to fight to maintain my hold 
on his shifting shoulders. I could care less; we are only minutes 
away from it now, and once we get there... heat. A place to sit, 
and rest. Rest... it is all my body has been screaming to do for 
the past hour, but I have fought against the urge. Once we both 
are safe, then I can let go. Not until I am sure that Mulder can 
do the rest without me. I won’t abandon him.

I was going to do just that, no more than two days ago. I stood at 
the doorway to his apartment, and told him I was quitting—the 
FBI, our search, all of it. I had abandoned him, and yet when I 
needed his help, he wasted not a moment in coming for me. He 
came here, to find me and bring me home. I may have been ready to 
abandon him, but he is in no way ready to leave me behind just yet.

How can I refuse him? I had thought I was doing the right thing, 
letting go of something that was obviously not fated to be. Mulder 
proved me wrong today, however, as he has so many other times in 
the course of our work. I had come to the logical, scientific 
conclusion, only to find that those avenues had led me astray.

Now, with my defenses down, and my mind freed by the haze of 
fever and fatigue, my heart was allowed to speak and drown out my 
ever-possessive voice of reason and control. I can’t leave Mulder. 
Our lives are too intertwined. Science would dub our 'nature' to be 
symbiotic. He feeds off of me, and I off him, each growing and 
flourishing from the relationship. I learn the symptoms congruent 
with abduction, while he learns the tell-tale signs of a cardiac 
infarction. He learns to question, while I learn to take things on 
faith. And somewhere in the process, I think that we both may have 
learned what it is to love. 

I smile slightly into Mulder’s neck at this thought, at the same time 
finally losing the battle against the darkness that has been calling 
to me.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It is as I come to a stop at the passenger side door to the 'Cat that I 
feel Scully’s grip slacken around my middle and shoulders. I throw 
my arms back a moment too late; her legs slide against the sides of 
my arms as she falls down my back and lands on the ground below. 

I fall to my knees and pull at her coat, checking her pulse. It is 
there, weak and thready under my numbed fingers. I doubt that 
she will be waking up anytime soon; I am absolutely amazed that 
she had had the strength to hold on for this long. 

The key. I need to get the key and get Scully inside, out of the wind 
and snow. I pull again at the coat which dwarfs her frame, trying to 
find the pocket where I had earlier tucked the grooved metal piece.  
Pulling it from a side pocket seconds later with a triumphant cry, I 
rise to meet the door, the last barrier we are to cross. And with a 
determined yank, I have reached our salvation.

Scully is limp and cold in my arms as I lift her from the ground. 
There is frost clinging to the dulled strands of her hair. I long to see 
it as it looked that fateful day in Dallas—windblown, bright, 
shining like fire in the sun. 

Snow flakes are landing with deceptive gentleness against her face, 
catching on her lashes and melting against her lips. Tiny reminders 
of the precious time that is passing. I move carefully, irrationally 
fearful that if I jar her, I might wake her. I know this to be foolish; 
Scully is not sleeping, she is unconscious. A voice, sounding 
remarkably like my beloved partner, echoes in the space between 
my ears: 'Denial is an subconscious response meant to help a victim 
deal with an emotionally trying situation. A defense mechanism.' 
Even though I know it is not she who has spoken the words, I smile 
down at her as I climb up and rest her against the seat. 

There is a lonely blanket in the cab, and I pull it hastily from under 
the seat and drape it across her body before reaching down again 
for the gas can. As I feel my hand grip its handle, I send up a 
prayer to God, whom I have never wanted to believe in more than 
at this moment. 

Please, don’t let this all be frozen...

Please, let there be enough...

Please, watch over Scully...

Please...

And I exit the cab with my heart pounding and my mind eerily 
blank, and begin my search for the gas cap.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Williams Field Deployment Office
16 km North of McMurdo Station

"Dr. Roberts, what is it that you see when you look out that 
window?" Air Captain Brian Perry watched the scientist as he cast 
a perfunctory glance at the window to the left of the desk. Both 
men knew very well what was happening outside.

"Sir, you and I both know that I need not dignify that question with 
a response. I am as aware of the weather conditions as you are. 
But, despite this storm, we must get a survey team choppered out 
to the epicenter site as soon as possible! Initial readings are, for 
lack of a better word, bizarre. We are losing valuable data with 
each minute that is wasted here arguing!"

Perry shook his head. "And in the process risk the lives of your own 
team members and one of my pilots?"

Roberts felt his blood pressure rising; he had never appreciated the 
military presence at the station. They never seemed to understand 
the needs and demands put upon those of the science community. 
He did, however, know one language they did understand: the 
language of liability. 

"Sir, the data that is coming from our own equipment and from 
neighboring stations is just the beginning of the investigation. The 
foundation, so to speak. We need to get out there, survey the 
damage to the ice sheet itself to make any real conclusions. For all 
we know, right now there is damage to the underlying ice here at 
the station. But we won’t be able to make such a judgment until we 
get out to these coordinates!"  

Perry hated it when researchers pulled these kinds of stunts. By 
bringing into question the safety of the station, Roberts had 
effectively put any liability on the hands of the military, and more 
specifically, Perry himself. He had just run out of options. 

"God dammit, I hate it when you scientists pull this crap! One 
chopper, minimal personnel. I want constant radio contact and 
weather surveillance for the area. If there is any question as to our 
ability to fly that chopper back here, your team is out of there. 
Understood?"

Roberts fought the impulse to smile. "Yes sir. We’ll be ready for 
departure in 45 minutes."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The first sensation I have is a painful buzzing feeling in my toes. 
The tingling soon grows to be an aching burn as my mind makes 
the gradual swim towards consciousness. I hear a moan, sounding 
as if it is coming from miles away, yet I know that it has been 
ushered from my own lips. My ears feel cottony, as does my tongue. 
I think that I might be feverish, and to confirm this I try to raise an 
arm to touch my face, only to find it restricted by an unknown 
weight.

My eyes feel as if they have been fused shut, and it takes a 
monumental effort to crack them open. I look down as my eyes 
focus on the rough shape of an arm, hidden beneath a coarse 
looking military issue blanket. 

I shift my gaze up, allowing my head to fall back until I see 
Mulder’s face drift partially  into view. I feel his breathing, a steady 
rise and fall against my back, and I am comforted by the rhythmic 
motion of his rest. His face is relaxed, and beaded with water 
droplets of snow and sweat produced in his efforts to get us here. 

Here. It doesn’t concern me in the slightest where that may be. All 
that I asked for in my earlier prayers is here: A place to lie down, 
heat, and Mulder. I let my eyes slip shut again as I relax against 
him, before the implications of my latter thoughts truly register. 
When in fact they do, I jolt upright, eyes wide. We are warm. 
Heat... Omigod, I feel warm! And I feel a trickle of chilled water run 
down the back of my neck at the same time I feel the searing heat 
of a tear run across my frostbitten cheek.

My sudden movements have woken Mulder, whom I can feel 
shifting below me as he struggles to join me in a sitting position. 
"Scully?" I turn on him with what must be interpreted as a wild, 
disoriented look, because his face registers shock before he reaches 
for me. "Whoa, Scully, it’s all right. You’re safe. Shhh..." I don’t try 
to correct him, tell him that his concerns are unwarranted.  Instead, 
I allow him to pull me against his chest, to coo these soothing 
words into my damp hair. And why not? I need his strength, 
because at this moment, I feel as if any strength I once had has 
been drained from my body.

From the safety of the cocoon of his arms, I reach a hand out 
tentatively towards an air vent, and feel the burning rush of 
artificial air flow through my fingers. The pleasure-pain radiating 
from my thawing body is the most wonderful sensation I could 
know at this moment. I hear myself whisper, in much the same 
voice I had used as Mulder freed me only hours ago, the opposite 
observation: "Warm." 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Warm." 

Scully sounds bewildered as she speaks, and I smile softly at her. 
She does not see me; her eyes are transfixed on the air vent that 
she is running her fingers across in a slow, repetitive motion. As 
she leans forward further, she must feel the draft against her legs, 
because I can see her eyes widen before a hand darts to the hem of 
the blanket and she peers underneath at her body. She looks up a 
moment later, eyes accusing. "Mulder, where are my clothes?"

I can’t help it; I reply, "Don’t you mean my clothes, Scully?" Which 
only serves to anger her further. I hold up a hand as the chuckles 
subside, and reach for her hands. She tries to dodge me, but is 
unsuccessful, and I squeeze her fingers in reassurance. "Scully, 
those clothes were soaking wet. I had a few extra shirts in my bag," 
I point to the duffle in the footwell, "and thought it might be better 
to have you dry. See, same for me," I add, pulling at the neck of my 
own dry shirt.

She is fingering the hem of my—now her—shirt, a heavy long-
sleeve Henley that came down to her knees when I pulled it over 
her head. "Oh," is all she says, and I can swear that I see a blush 
staining her cheeks. She’s embarrassed about my seeing her body; I 
can’t understand why; after all, she’s seen mine a number of times. 

In any case, I decide that I had better explain our situation to her, 
both to get her mind off of our similar states of undress, and to 
satisfy what I know is her need to quantify the situation. "We were 
lucky. There was some ice in the gas can, but I was able to fill the 
tank to..." I glance at the gauge, "about a third full. I don’t want to 
risk using the engine to drive out of here, though. I don’t think we 
have enough fuel to get us anywhere civilized. I’m hoping that the 
seismic activity the ship caused will bring out some kind of survey 
or geological team." 

She casts wide, glassy eyes on my face, the fire that had been 
burning in their depths only moments ago gone. I wonder if she has 
a fever. "You mean, we’re stuck here?" I have never seen her look as 
tired, or as vulnerable as she does at this moment, peering at me 
with genuine fear in her eyes. I reach up and swipe my open palm 
across her forehead, wiping a soggy tendril of hair back at the same 
time as I gauge her body temperature. She is hot, though from fever 
or from the air vents I cannot be certain. 

In the next moment, something changes in her eyes, the glass lifts 
and her pupils sharpen, and suddenly she is again the woman I 
have spent five years adoring. "Mulder," she says in her abuse-
roughened voice, "Where is here?" I have forgotten that she doesn’t 
know this simplest of details. The last thing she probably 
remembers before my freeing her from that ice pod is laying on the 
floor of the hallway in my apartment building, listening to my 
frantic pleas.

Before answering, I pull her gently back down to me, so that she is 
again lying down, and pull the blanket more tightly over us.. To my 
relief, she fights against me for only a moment before relaxing 
herself and snuggling closer. She is showing signs of coming back to 
herself, and this both pleases and pains me at once. I will miss 
being able to overprotect her, as she has been allowing me. But I so 
love the strong woman who has stood beside me for so many years. 

"Scully," I begin with an air of comic nonchalance, "haven’t you ever 
wanted to get away, go to a remote place, somewhere that people 
will never find you?" I glance down with my eyes, and even though I 
can’t completely see her face, I know Scully is giving me the look. I 
can literally feel it, a crawling sensation down my neck... In other 
words, it’s time for a straight answer. No more stalling.

So, I tell her. From the beginning, because I know that she wants 
the whole story, and won’t stop nagging-or allow herself to rest as 
she needs to-until she knows everything. I start with the 
hospital... and of course the Gunmen. I get a smile when I tell her 
about the trio being there when I first woke up. Her face darkens at 
the mention of our clean-cut British 'friend'. She squeezes my wrist 
where it lays across her chest when I tell her what I learned about 
Samantha. And I love her for each reaction she shows me, for her 
ability to be the one person who will listen to me... and understand. 
Perhaps not believe, but she does understand.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

I can’t believe what I am hearing. Antarctica. I had thought 
perhaps we were in Alaska. Maybe somewhere in Canada. Never, 
never I my wildest imaginings did I think that we would have been 
here, at the bottom of the Earth. My fear overpowers my sense of 
awe; memories of my abduction roil untethered through my mind, 
and I can feel myself shudder. Mulder feels it too; he stops his 
narrative and pulls his arms more tightly around my torso, and I 
curse myself for my weakness. A trip down nightmare lane is not 
what he, nor I, need right now.

"Scully? What is it? Are you cold?" His voice is laced so heavily with 
concern that I can feel the impact against my heart. I can’t tell him, 
not now. It is too raw, and I am too tired and emotional. I just 
shake my head and push myself up and around, so that I can face 
him.  

"Mulder? Why…what were you thinking coming all the way out 
here? How could you have known that what that man said was the 
truth? How did you know that it wasn’t a ploy to kill you?" My voice 
has become frantic as thoughts I had not planned on voicing come 
forth from my mouth as quickly as the snow is falling outside the 
cab windows. The emotions I had so hoped to hold in check and 
unnoticed are suddenly escalating along with the pitch and volume 
of my voice. I sound like a... well, a shrill woman. God, I hate 
that.

My frantic eyes finally register the absolute disbelief registered on 
Mulder’s face. His mouth opens and closes several times before he 
speaks, in little more than a pained whisper. "How... how can you 
even ask me that, Scully? I told you... I’m not whole without you 
beside me. I had to find you. He gave me that chance, Scully, and I 
took it. I would do the same thing again if it meant finding you."

He has caught me speechless twice now within... well, what feels 
like 24 hours, but is more like 3 days. I simply don’t know what to 
say to a Mulder who says such things. I can take the innuendoes, 
the sarcastic comments. That’s the Mulder I am used to, have 
worked with for 5 years. But an honest, emotional Mulder is 
someone new and foreign to me. He is a man I could so easily allow 
myself to fall into...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She has that look on her face again—the one from the hallway, 
disbelief, amazement, fear, and something else I can only label as 
love. She says nothing, as she did before, only reaches up with one 
pale hand to skim her fingers down my cheek and across my jaw. I 
want to kiss her when she looks at me with those eyes, deep blue 
and openly loving. 

It is not until I feel the damp silk of her cheek at the pads of my 
fingers that I realize I am mimicking her gesture. Her eyes are 
locked with mine, the flow of words and emotions between them 
rolling freely for the first time... no, the second. The first 
time was in a dimly lit hallway, when the end of all we knew seemed 
imminent. Now, though... Now, I know, we have all the time in 
the world to learn each other in this way.

"Mulder," she murmurs, still tracing her fingers back and forth 
across my cheek, seeming to enjoy the rasp of stubble against her 
fingertips. She gives a quick glance to her hand before returning 
her gaze to mine, and offers a small, knowing smile... before her 
mouth unwillingly gapes wide to emit a yawn.

She flushes a deep scarlet and shies her eyes downward, away from 
me. I can’t help but smile with affection at her, at this moment, 
another instant left incomplete. "I’m sorry," she says, raising her 
head to again look at me. "I... I want to finish this-"

"Shh..." I lay my lips against the crown of her head in a gentle 
caress. "Shh... Scully, it’s all right. This can wait until later. Just 
rest, okay? It’s been quite a day at the office, don’t you think?" Now
that has to be the understatement of the year. Scully's body is probably 
busily incubating pneumonia, while the head wound and concussion I 
have compliments of the Consortium, are making themselves known with
a quite impressive display of pain-induced fireworks across my line 
of vision. You know it's been a good case when the pair of us have 
been put out of commission.

She chuckles against me, and I am infinitely relieved that she has 
not taken my words the wrong way. She knows that we won’t 
forget, or deny, this. "For both of us," she adds before turning and 
snuggling down into the blanket that surrounds us. She reaches out 
and wraps my arm more securely around her body, and sighs 
deeply with satisfaction. "I never knew being held by you could feel 
so good." 

The words are said so quietly that I almost don’t hear them. I begin 
a rhythmic stroking of her hair, easing the strands away from her 
face. I never knew holding you could feel so wonderful either, I think 
fondly while I speak out loud a light reprimand. "Shhh. Sleep. I’ll 
stay awake and watch for the cavalry."

She is quiet for only a minute or two before she queries, in a sleepy, 
teasing tone, "Don’t you think you had better sing something, 
Mulder? So that I know you’re awake?" 

A moment in time flashes across my eyes, a dark night in a 
Florida forest, and I smile. "Scully, you can’t be serious."

In little less than a breathy whisper, she smugly replies, "Payback’s 
a bitch, Mulder." 

How can I deny that logic? Or such a quality comeback, for that 
matter? It is good to know that some of my sarcastic wit has rubbed 
off on her. And so, I begin a soft rendition of 'Let is Snow', pleased 
to hear the small groan that rises from beneath the blanket a 
moment later. It isn’t until I feel the jab of an elbow against my 
stomach that I stop. "Okay, sorry, couldn’t help myself."

"You’d better help yourself, or that elbow will be aimed lower next 
time." Time to quit the joking. A Scully threat is enough to put
any man on the straight and narrow.

I think a moment before selecting a song, and then softly, in what I 
hope to be a soothing tone, begin to sing. "In every heart there is a 
home, a sanctuary safe and strong, to heal the wounds of lover’s 
past, until a new one comes along. I spoke to you in cautious tones, 
you answered me with no pretense, and still I feel I said too much, 
my silence is my self defense..."

I continue to sing softly, feeling Scully’s breathing slow and even, 
the weight of her body sink more heavily against me as she drifts to 
sleep. Once the song is completed I continue to hum nonsense to 
her, loving the sound of my voice as it runs melody to the harmony 
of her breathing. And I find this song, the song we sing together, 
lulls me to sleep as well.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

500 ft. above the crater

"Latest reports have the winds steady at 22 miles per hour, sir."

Roberts spoke into the mouthpiece. "Roger that. Let’s hope it stays 
that way, or this will be the shortest survey you’ve ever seen." He 
could barely hear the sound of agreement through the humming static 
of the comm system. Turning to the pilot who was seated beside 
him, Roberts smiled. "Take 'er down."

The military pilot gave a sidelong glance at the scientist before 
cutting the throttle and easing the tiny craft downwards into the 
swirling snow. 

"Oh my God," was the cry from the back, where the rest of the 
science team was strapped in. Collins, the tech director, was 
pointing in awe out the window, eyes fixed on the cavernous hole in 
the ice. "I have never in my twenty years of research seen 
<anything> like that."

Beside him, Micowski whistled. "Time to get in touch with all those 
science journals that’ve been laughing at us. That right there," he 
said, nodding to the black expanse below, "is paydirt."

"Don’t get too excited, boys," Roberts fuzzy voice came over the 
comm. "We need the data first, and with this weather, we’re going 
to need to work fast to get it."

"No problem, boss. In and out within two hours. No way we’re 
letting this one get away."

"All right, then," Roberts continued, "let’s double check the 
equipment before we land. I want everything to be set when we 
touch down to save time. Collins, take the thermal, Micowski, you 
run the diagnostics on—"

"Whoa, hold up," the pilot broke in. "What the hell is that?" he said, 
reaching out to point at a dark spot in the ice, its shape 
indiscernible through the swirling flakes. "This is the landing area; 
there isn’t supposed to be anything but ice on this area of the shelf."

"Rock? Spit up by the seismic activity?" Micowski asked, sounding 
unsure as he strained to get a better look.

"Could’ve been uncovered by the ground movement," Collins added.

"Well," the pilot said, dipping the craft, "we’ll know in a few 
minutes because I’m gonna bring her in to land close by."

Minutes later, the small helicopter touched down on the ice, its 
blades billowing snow from the area with the force of their rotation. 
The pilot strained his eyes to see through the mess of wind and 
white, and was met with the sight of a black SnowCat standing not 
more than 100 yards away. "Holy shit!"

Roberts, who had thrown open the craft’s door and was quickly 
pulling out equipment with the help of his team, looked up at the 
exclamation coming through the comm. His eyes searched, then 
widened as he saw what had caused the pilot’s reaction. "Jesus, I 
thought they said there wasn’t anyone out here! Collins, Micowski, 
get out here now!"

"Boss, what? What is it?" Roberts was already jogging through the 
snow, now a good six inches deep, intent on reaching the vehicle. 
He was surprised to have the deep rumble of a running engine meet 
his ears as he jogged alongside to the driver's side door.
The windows were coated with snow kicked up by the storm wind and 
helicopter activity, and Roberts had to swipe at the crystaline 
layer before peering inside.

"Shit," he muttered as both his team members reached  his side. 
"Help me, guys," he instructed, and began working the vehicle door 
to the vehicle open. Collins and Micowski grabbed hold as well, 
and together they were able to pry the door open, and were greeted 
by a blast of humid, hot air.

Looking inside, the three men were greeted by the sight of two 
people, apparently unconscious, huddled together under a heavy 
blanket. Roberts climbed into the cab carefully. "Either of you two 
got medical training?"

Collins climbed up beside him. "I know some basic first 
aid…here, let me take a look." He reached past Roberts and 
pressed his fingers to the neck of a tall, dark haired man. "Well, 
better tell the pilot to start ‘er up again. I don’t know how these two 
got out here, but they’re going to need us to get ‘em out," he 
finished as he reached for the woman’s neck. "She’s got a weak 
pulse... he seems to be better off, which isn’t saying much, really. 
They both need to get to a doctor."

Roberts began climbing back out of the cab. "Alan, go tell the pilot 
we need to make room for two more, and to radio in that we need 
medical to meet us at the landing pad."

Micowski looked stricken. "But, Boss, what about the survey? Man, 
this is what we’ve been waiting years for!"

Roberts gave him a hard look. "We’ve got two seriously ill, possibly
injured people here, Alan. I think that their survival takes priority."

"We don’t even know who they are!"

"We will once we get them back to base, won’t we? Now, go tell the 
pilot to radio in and find a way to get these extra people on 
board. We’ll come back to the site after we drop them off at the 
medical facility." 

"Goddamnit!" Micowski yelled in frustration as he turned and 
jogged his way back to the helicopter. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I can’t stand the ringing in my ears, so I try to raise my hands to 
block them, only to feel a pair of hands at my arms, pushing them 
back down to my sides. Scully. It has to be her. I can feel the 
beginnings of a smile brushing my face before I realize that she is 
in no condition to be taking care of me. "Scully..." I murmur, 
prying my eyes open with the intention of giving her a reprimanding 
stare. Instead, I am greeted with a stranger’s face hovering over 
me. To say that I am momentarily confused is an understatement. 
The face, however, greets my eyes with a tight smile and begins to 
speak. 

"Sir, my name is Steve Roberts, and you’re on your way back to the 
McMurdo Station for medical attention." I nod at his words, 
appreciative of this information, but wishing he would get to the 
important stuff—like where Scully was. "We found you and your 
companion both unconscious in your vehicle a little over half an 
hour ago." At this my eyes widen and I begin to struggle against his 
hands, which are now holding me down as I try to rise and search 
for Scully. "Sir, sir, she’s over there, behind us," he nods to the back 
of the helicopter- I’ve finally been able to place the source of that 
annoying white noise- and I follow his gesture to where I can see 
another stranger. At this man’s side, I can just make out a shock of 
red hair, and I breathe a sigh of relief. She’s here.

My guy must have sensed my concerns, because without prompting 
he began to explain, "She hasn’t regained consciousness. She’s 
showing preliminary signs of frostbite on her face and hands, but 
we can’t ascertain the degree of severity. Fever’s holding steady at 
about 102 degrees. We’ll know more once we land."

I nod-it seems to be all that I am capable of at this moment, and 
allow him to guide me down until I am laying again on my back. 
Within minutes I can feel myself drifting to sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I think that I need to tell Mulder to turn off the heat. My skin feels 
like it’s on fire, and I can taste the salt of my sweat at the corners 
of my mouth. I want to move, to push at the blanket I can feel 
laying heavy across my body, but cannot find the energy. 

I need help, and I can’t believe how easy it is for me to admit that 
to myself. It has never been easy for me to admit weakness; but 
knowing that it is Mulder who is here to help me somehow makes 
the admission easier. Perhaps it’s because I know he respects me, 
that in some way loves me enough that I can trust him with such 
vulnerability.

No matter now... I only know that I need him to take away this 
burning heat. I open and close my mouth a couple times, trying to 
force my vocal cords into submission, but any noise I make is 
suddenly drowned out by a rush of wind and a flurry of strange 
voices. 

Omigod! They found us. My heart rate doubles and I can feel the 
razor-edged panic rising in my chest as I feel myself being lifted by 
several pairs of rough hands. My eyes fly open but my vision is 
blurred—all I can see are several dark, male forms leaning over my 
prone body. Nonono. Don’t take me away again. Mulder! I need 
help! Don’t let them take me... 

I try to fight the hands that are taking me away from him, but my 
weakness prevents me from doing little except slow tosses of my 
arms and sadly ineffectual kicks of my legs. This isn’t working, this 
isn’t working... Mulder where are you? I can’t do this, I can’t... 
do this... can’t...	

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

36 hours later
McMurdo Station
Medical Care Unit

They told me that she should make a full recovery. That there was 
fluid in her lungs—I didn’t have the energy to try and explain to the 
doctors how that had gotten there—and that she had developed an 
infection. That the high fever was a direct result of that. And that 
IV antibiotics and respiratory treatments should minimize the threat
of pneumonia. She has minor frostbite on her hands and toes due to 
exposure to extremely cold temperatures. Severe wind burn on her cheeks 
that will give her a rather rosy complexion for several weeks to 
come. And to top off the list, brusing to the sternum and ribs due to
the administration of life-saving CPR. 

God, Scully, I'm so sorry that I hurt you.

The doctor also insists each time I ask about her condition that she 
simply needs her rest if she is to recover, and would I please stop 
hovering. That I needed my rest as well, and would I please go back 
to my own room and try and sleep?

I guess I’ve been a bit overprotective of her. And it is plausible that I 
could have stood a few more hours in bed—I think the musical 'Stomp' has 
extended its run inside my head due to popular demand. But, I would never 
admit it to the doctors, or to Scully. After all, I have my stubborn, 
self-abusing image to maintain. And I would have to leave her side and 
go back to my own bed, which is out of the question, thank you very much.

They also told me that she put up one hell of a fight the one time 
she regained consciousness en route to the station. Opened her eyes 
as they opened the 'copter doors, and a moment later she was 
throwing legs and arms in every direction, mumbling what they 
later learned was my name. They said they had to restrain her, for 
her own safety during the transport. The doctors tell me that she’s 
been too weak to put up any kind of fight since then. She’s only 
woken a couple times since we arrived here, and then only briefly. 
They say that it’s to be expected; her body is merely working 
overtime to fight off the infection.

I should have been there, to tell her what was going on. She needed 
to know I was there, that she was safe. So, this time, when she 
wakes up here, in this hospital bed, I will be here for her. I’ll be the 
first person she sees. And, as soon as she is able to do so, she’ll 
probably order me back to bed, which is where the doctors here 
have wanted me all along. 

What they don’t know, of course, is that if the order comes from 
her, it makes all the difference in the world to me. Once the words 
come from her lips, then I’ll do it... Probably.

The doctor—Tyler, yes, Tyler—tells me that her fever has broken 
and she’s well along the road to recovery. That she should be 
waking up at any time. Until then, he’ll just have to put up with my 
being here. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

One would think that my initial thoughts upon regaining 
consciousness might be something along the lines of 'Where am I?' 
'What happened?' or maybe 'How did I get here?'. 

In actuality, my first thought as I slowly cracked my sticky eyelids 
was, <God, I really need to brush my teeth>. What can I say? Several 
days and God only knows how much of that green stuff later, and I 
had quite the case of morning breath. Disgusting, but true.

After a quick perusal of my chart, I learned that I had been feverish 
and out of it for some time, which helps account for the single, 
profound statement I uttered upon having Mulder’s expectant face 
come into view: "Toothbrush, Mulder."  

Apparently, the effort to say these two words was too much for me 
at the time, because I fell right back to sleep, leaving a very 
confused Mulder in my wake. But he did find me a toothbrush by 
the time I had woken up.

And he also filled me in on how we had gotten here... funny how 
that’s seems to be all that’s he’s doing lately. I’m making a 
resolution to try and stay awake for the important parts from now 
on.

So, chart read and teeth brushed, I now have the dubious pleasure of 
trying to get Mulder to go back to his own room and rest. According 
to the nurse, he never left my room—once he was able to get in 
here. True to form, Mulder apparently sneaked into my room as 
soon as the doctor had turned his head, defying orders to rest, 
inviting what I’m sure will develop into a case of exhaustion or 
worse. Don't think for one minute that I haven't noticed the precise 
stitching across his temple. Concussion, probably due to blunt trauma.
And I can guarantee that his recent knight-in-shining-armor routine has 
done little to further his recovery. But, thank God for his dedication
to that self-assumed role. It's the only reason I'm here, instead of 
being slowly consumed from the inside out.

Quite frankly, my motives for getting Mulder to rest are as selfish 
as they are altruistic. I hate this place. The hospital, the snow, the 
ice, whatever. I want to go home. I want to return to the choking 
humidity of a DC summer, feel the sun burning the skin at the 
back of my neck, have to wipe beads of sweat from my forehead. I 
need to get back to normal, and unless we both get released from 
this godforsaken hospital, I can’t get there.

And so I now embark on what I’m sure will turn into a wearied 
argument with my partner and self-appointed protector. He is 
sitting in one of those awful plastic chairs, reading aloud some 
book that one of the staff here loaned us, to help pass the time. His 
eyes are at half-mast; I have no idea how he’s been able to see the 
words through the slits his eyelids have made. 

The drone of his voice stops, and I look over to see his head 
slowing falling into his chest, the book sliding from nerveless 
fingers. Dammit.

"Mulder!" His head snaps up as if on strings, eyes wild and 
confused. I take a more compassionate tone in the hopes that this 
might persuade him. "Why don’t you go and get some sleep? I’ll be 
fine here." 

He inhales, and I know what he is going to say before the words are 
even a breath in his throat. "I don’t need to sle-ee-pp..." Too bad 
that Mulder was interrupted by what I can only describe as a full-
body yawn. Doesn’t do much to support his argument, and I tell 
him just that.

"Case closed, Mulder. Go, sleep. You don’t have to be watching me 
every minute, you know." Something dark crosses his features as I 
say this, but he schools his face into a blank mask before I can put 
a name to the emotion I see.

"Okay, Scully, if you want me to." I open my mouth, fully intending 
to send him to his room, but am halted by a slight tremble in his 
lower jaw, barely perceptible. I take a moment to scan his face, and 
note with a certain degree of fear that his eyes look too bright.

"Mulder?" I cautiously ask the question through the inflection of my 
voice, watching his face with concern and dread. His jaw is 
trembling again, this time joined by a tightening of his cheeks, the 
shuttering of his eyes. 

Oh God. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Godammit. I don’t want her to be upset; that’s about the last thing 
she needs. But I can see it in her eyes: she knows. And my being 
upset now has her concerned. Damnit. I don’t think I can deal with 
this right now, either. She’s right, I am exhausted. I just need some 
sleep, then this absolute panic at the thought of leaving her side 
will go away. 

But now Scully’s got a hold of my hand, and I know that I won’t be 
able to get away without some kind of explanation.  Too bad... I 
don’t think I’m going to be able to unlock the muscles in my jaw. If I 
do, I sense an eminent hysterical breakdown. Definitely would not 
help the situation. So I say nothing.

Unfortunately, she does instead. "Mulder? What is it?"  

What is it? How about that every time I let you in they take you 
from me. I let my professional guard down, let myself experience 
some of the feelings I have for you, and a delusional man like 
Duane Barry or some genetically engineered bug—

It takes me a moment to realize that I have been muttering all of 
these thoughts allowed, and in this tiny room, I am sure that she’s 
heard each and every bitter word I’ve uttered. Crap. 

"And you’re afraid if you leave me alone here... what?" she asks, 
still gripping my hand lightly. The warmth of her skin is seeping 
into my own, warming me, thawing my resolve. "Mulder, please tell 
me what’s going on here."

The request pulls my eyes to meet hers, and I am startled by their 
width, the fear I see in their oval shape. There are worry creases in 
the expanse between her brows, and I have a sudden urge to wipe 
them away, to soothe. I reach up and begin a feathery investigation 
of the area, tracing each line with the pads of my fingers, watching 
with focused wonder as they loosen and melt under my touch. 

With them melts my stoic resolve; on my next breath I tell her, 
"I don’t want to be forced to choose between keeping you safe and 
being with you."

Her expression shifts under my gaze as my words sink in and she 
makes sense of me. I don’t think I’m going to like what she has to 
say...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

"Mulder, why do you persist in thinking that you have to protect 
me? Why is it so difficult for you to believe that these things 
happen for reasons other than yourself?" Of all of the things I have 
tried to explain to him, this one concept seems to never quite 
penetrate that thick skull of his. 

And all he can do to answer me is give a listless shrug of his 
shoulders. I really hate it when he does that; it means that he isn’t 
listening. And that he is not likely to listen to anything I have to 
say on the matter anytime in the near future. 

Time to try a different approach. "Mulder, did you ever read those 
'Choose Your own Adventure' books when you were growing up?"
Oh yeah, that gets him. His eyes meet mine and I can see a hint of 
confusion against the overwhelming relief shining in his eyes. He was 
hoping that I wouldn't push him further on the matter. Whatever. I'm 
tossing the tired script we usually work from. We need some new lines.

He finally quirks a smile at me after a moments hesitation. "Sure, 
Scully. Those books were considered to be high literature among 5th 
graders in Ms. Templeton’s class." I give him a small smile as he 
continues, unwittingly playing along. "I really liked them because you 
could read them over and over again, and make the different choices to 
get a different story. Great for a kid with an eidetic memory. It used to 
drive my parents crazy that I would refuse to re-read my favorite books 
like other kids. But there really was no point for me; I remembered every 
word so there was no need to see them again."

Okay, he’s rambling, and is rapidly moving away from the line of 
thought I want him to be pursuing. Time for some refocusing. 
"Mulder?" He stops and shifts his gaze from his lap to my eyes, 
giving me a soft smile that makes me think he’s embarrassed by his 
narrative. I reach out and squeeze his hand for reassurance before I 
go on.

"You know, I always liked them because, no matter what choice you 
made, you could always backtrack. Go back and remake the 
decision if you ended up say, getting eaten by an alligator. You 
could just remake the decision, and get the outcome you wanted."

Mulder suddenly looks away from me, seemingly to study a long 
crack in the opposite wall. "Yeah, too bad we don’t have a rewind 
button for reality, huh?" 

I know that, in a roundabout way, what I am going to ask next will 
be goading him, trying to push him into dispelling some of the 
anger he is holding towards himself. Getting him angry may be 
that only way I can get him to talk about this. So, I ask, "Why 
would you want to be able to do that, Mulder?"

In an instant, he is up, pacing the room, arms tossing in front of 
him as he speaks. "Scully, I know what you’re doing, so you can 
stop with the innocent act." I do nothing but watch him with what I 
hope is an impassive expression. "You want me to give you an 
answer?" I nod slowly. "It’s not as if you don’t know the answer to 
this one, Scully. It’s damn obvious that I would want to be able to 
go back and change all of the times I’ve let you down, let my sister 
down."  

He stops to breathe; I think the yelling and the frantic pace of his 
steps are taking a lot out of his tired body. I had forgotten that this 
whole conversation began when I tried to send him off to bed. I 
almost feel guilty for starting this. Almost. I think I am more 
relieved than anything else to have finally gotten him to talk about 
this.

"Mulder, why would you want to go back and change those very 
things that have helped to create the man that I see here in this 
room? Why would you want to take away from me the closest friend 
I’ve ever had?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That is just not fair, Scully. I can’t believe she is going to try and 
guilt me into accepting my failures to protect those I love most. I 
should tell her what I am thinking, but instead, I just mutter, 
"What the hell does that mean?" 

She continues to look at me evenly as she speaks. "Mulder, I would 
never think to change a day of my life. Do you know why?" The 
question must have been rhetorical, because as I open my mouth to 
respond, she continues, "Because if I did, then I would not be the 
person I am now, I would not have learned and experienced 
everything I have. I might not know the people I do." She gives me 
a meaningful look with that last one.

I can’t help but bring it up, despite the conviction I hear in her 
voice. "But Scully, what about those three missing months? 
Melissa? Emily?"

She nods her head once, telling me without words that she accepts 
my challenge. Taking a deep breath, she begins her rebuttal. "I will 
concede, Mulder, that those were not the brightest points of my life. 
But that doesn’t mean that I would want to change the things that 
happened to myself, Melissa or Emily. No loss is without worth if 
one can learn from it."

"But—"

"And I have learned, Mulder." She cuts off my protest, which is 
probably a good idea because at this point I have nothing of import 
to say, I just want her to stop. She is making too much sense right 
now, and that scares me for some irrational reason. "At the very 
least, I’ve learned that sometimes, the simplest explanation is not 
the most plausible." She pauses a moment, before continuing, 
almost whispering, "Perhaps I mourn for the suffering Emily and 
Melissa had to endure, for the days they both have missed, but not 
for their passing itself. The people, Mulder, but not the event."

There is silence for several minutes, as we both process what Scully 
has said. I’m not sure if even she was expecting to say everything 
she did. She sure shocked the hell out of me. It’s rare that she 
allows one that much insight into herself in one sitting. I guess it 
speaks to her measure of the importance of this discussion. 

I wish that I could take it so seriously. 

It isn’t that I didn’t listen to her—quite the contrary—I spent the 
duration of her little speech desperately searching for a concept, a 
sentence, a word, that I could hang onto and say 'Yes, this I can 
understand. This I can accept'. I am still flailing around, however, 
looking for that precious link.

"It’s okay, Mulder. It isn’t always easy. It’ll make sense of itself in 
its own good time." What? What does she mean by that? What’ll 
make sense—

Then, it clicks, like dozens of gears, their teeth finally meshing 
fluidly, allowing the mechanical motion to begin. My mind wraps 
around it, and makes sense of it. Scully is teaching me, showing me 
how to learn and leave it behind me. And I realize that I am not 
alone in this. Scully and I can do the learning and leaving together. 

And now, as I remember her words, I think I am less fearful of 
them, of their implications. Maybe I can learn something from this, 
then. Take something from this to make it worthwhile.  

"You do not act alone in this world, Mulder," she says after an 
indefinite pause, and reaches to smooth her hand against my 
shoulder and down my arm. "None of us do." 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I could see the moment he stopped simply listening to me, and 
began to understand me. Even so, I couldn’t help but drive it home 
once more—perhaps because I know Mulder all too well. Mulder 
and his rather selective memory.

"You do not act alone in this world, Mulder. None of us do." He 
nods at me slowly, his fingers trapping mine as they connect 
between us on the bedspread. I can’t help but meet his eyes and 
offer a small smile. I feel like we’ve overcome something big in the 
past few minutes. 

Mulder smiles back at me, his eyes conveying that he’s feeling the 
same thing. He looks as if he wants to say something more, but is 
interrupted by the entrance of a short, stocky man in a white lab 
coat. Must be the doctor.

"Dr. Tyler," Mulder acknowledges, and I take note of the 
meaningful look that Tyler gives my partner as he shakes his hand. 

"So, Mr. Mulder, I see that your partner is feeling better today." 
Tyler takes the chart from the foot of the bed as he speaks, before 
turning to me. "Is that a fair assessment, Dr. Scully?"

I smile, holding out my hand for him to shake. "Dr. Tyler. Yes, I am 
feeling a bit stronger today. However, as Agent Mulder's primary care 
physician, I am curious about his current physical condition. Can you 
fill me in, please?" Mulder jabs an elbow into my side—he knows full 
well what I am trying to do here, and from the smile I see spreading 
across Tyler’s face, he’s picked up on it, too. 

"Well, Dr. Scully, Agent Mulder came in with minor frostbite to the 
hands and face, has been undergoing treatment, and the skin is 
healing adequately. He was also admitted for treatment of a recent 
gunshot wound to the head-" Upon seeing my eyes widen, he hastens to 
add, "The bullet appears to have grazed his temple only. He received 
stitches and was admitted to a hospital in Washington for observation due 
to a concussion.Exactly how he was able to leave that hospital in his 
condition is something that Agent Mulder has been unwilling to share with 
me."

I have three words for how Mulder was able to leave that hospital in DC: 
Years. Of. Experience. I decide not to let Dr. Tyler in on the secret. 
Mulder has been in his care for over 24 hours; I'm sure he's deduced exactly 
what kind of patient my partner is.

Oblivious to my internal dialogue, Tyler continues, "I believe he is still 
recovering from the effects of the head trauma he has sustained. I do have 
some concerns of more serious symptoms developing if certain measures are 
not taken."

I can’t help it, this is too much fun to just let go…even though I 
know that I’m driving Mulder crazy. "Hmm... exascerbation of the concussion
I’m sure would be your greatest concern?" Tyler nods once slowly. "May I 
ask what your recommended course of treatment might be then? I’m 
sure that our boss wants us to return to the States as soon as 
possible."

Dr. Tyler nods. "I would recommend at least eight hours of 
uninterrupted sleep, and a full meal, to help strengthen the body 
and give him some time to heal. The wound should also be dressed 
and cleaned daily-I have some concerns about infection in the site."

Finally, Mulder jumps up from his perch beside me. "Okay, okay, I 
get the picture. No need to continue with your little doctor games." 
Tyler and I share a smile before I turn to my partner. 

I think I would have been more wary of his anger if he had released 
my hand. Instead, I feel only concern for his health, and a longing 
for him to be able to stay with me a while longer. "Mulder, you need 
to take care of yourself. I’ll be okay for a little while. Maybe I can 
return that favor, and take care of you for a little while." 

This earns me a smile, and a gentle squeeze of my fingers. "I’d like 
that, Scully."

"Go," I tell him, nudging him forward with a toss of my head in the 
direction of the door, "get some sleep. I’ll try to get in touch with 
Skinner, and be in to visit in a little while."

Mulder squeezes my hand once more, a reassurance that he’s going 
to do as I ask and rest. Which leaves me feeling more able to focus 
on a more important task—trying to decide exactly what I should 
and should not tell Skinner once I get him on the phone. 

"Dr. Scully?" I look up, somehow having forgotten that Tyler was 
still in my company. "You had said something about trying to reach 
your boss?"

"Yes, at the FBI. I need to let him know where we are, and 
when he might be able to expect Agent Mulder and myself back in 
the States." It suddenly comes to mind that I’m not sure how one 
makes a call to the United States from the literal bottom of the 
world. "Is that even possible from here?"

"Oh, of course. It may take a little while; it’s not quite as simple as 
picking up the telephone, but I think something can be arranged. 
Let me make a call to the communications office for you?"

Normally, I might insist on doing the legwork myself, but I can feel 
the fatigue in my muscles, and just can’t summon the desire to 
argue. Staying here in bed for a few more minutes sounds so much 
more appealing than pulling myself from the warmth of the 
blankets surrounding me in order to fight against the bureaucracy.  
"Thanks, that would be a great help."

I watch Dr. Tyler leave, quietly shutting the door behind him before 
flopping back against the pillows with a woosh of breath between 
pursed lips. I hate to admit it, but I am exhausted. Talking with 
Mulder, and working through both his and my emotions was very 
tiring for me. But worthwhile; I feel as if we’ve cleared a lot of the 
painful cobwebs from our respective attics, so to speak. And I feel 
somewhat optimistic about where our relationship seems to be 
going. 

A light rap at the door startles me out of a light doze I was 
unaware I had slipped into. "Come in," I call, and seconds later a 
tall man enters, nodding to me as he shuts the door behind him, 
removing his NY Yankees baseball cap and shedding light on his 
white-blonde hair and brown eyes. 

"Agent Scully, it’s good to see you awake." He takes a moment to 
glance at the angry red of my hands. "I hope that the frostbite 
hasn’t been too painful. I’ve had the unfortunate experience before 
myself. Burns like hell."

This man is an unknown to me, I have no memory of seeing him before. 
But he obviously know me, my name, at least some of my diagnosis. 
I hate being at a social disadvantage—in my line of work, it can be 
dangerous. I decide to offer him my favorite protective line. "I’ll 
be fine, thank you, Mr..." 

"Oh, of course. I apologize for not introducing myself. I’ve 
forgotten that you really don’t know me, although I do know both 
you and your partner, to some extent." He extends one weather 
roughened hand towards me with the smooth grace of a dancer. 
"Steve Roberts. I was on the team that pulled both you and Agent 
Mulder from the ice shelf."

Oh, great. This man had the privilege of watching me in the throwes 
of a fever-induced fit; it takes me a few moments to tamp down my 
embarrassment. 

I sincerely hope that I didn’t hurt this guy while I was fighting off 
the 'Consortium'. "I guess a thank you is an order then, Mr. 
Roberts. I can’t see how we would have survived if your team hadn’t 
found us when you did."

"Steve, please. And no thanks necessary, Agent Scully. As a matter 
of fact, I should be thanking you; my mother raised me to always 
complete at least one good deed a day, and I was running out of 
daylight hours when the team stumbled across you and your 
partner. You two saved me from a good dose of guilt." 

I can’t help it, but I like this man immediately. And he seems 
to be trustworthy—after all, he didn’t leave us out there to become 
federal agent popsicles. 

"Glad we could lend a hand, Steve." Nice as  this guy is, I have 
work to do before Mulder wakes up and has a panic attack when I 
am not at his bedside as promised. The last thing we need is for 
him to make a scene in the hallway, screaming for the national 
guard or whatever the Antarctic equivalent might be. Time to cut 
the small talk short and get down to buisness. "I’m hoping that you 
might be here to help me get in contact with my boss in 
Washington?"

"Well, then, it seems you’ll have helped me cover today’s good deed 
as well. If you’re feeling up to it, I can take you to the 
communications center, we can patch the call through there."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

I would have opened my eyes a long time ago, if I weren’t afraid 
that Scully would stop sweeping the soft tips of her fingers across 
the arches of my brows. It just feels too damn good right now to 
spoil it. 

"You know, Mulder, the whole pretending to be asleep thing would 
be much more convincing if you would learn to regulate your 
breathing." She may have found me out, but at least she hasn’t 
stopped her fingers; she’s now tangling them in the hair lying 
across my forehead. 

She continues to speak despite my repose, speaking as if she 
were presenting autopsy findings for a case we’re working on. Of 
course, she is talking about Skinner, so the work related tone of 
voice is not all that unexpected. "I was able to get in touch with 
Skinner, thanks to quite a bit of telecommunications acrobatics. 
Mulder, how much did Skinner know about your little jaunt down 
here to find me?"

This unexpected question finally gets my eyes open, and I am 
greeted by the sight of Scully towering above my head for perhaps 
the first time in our lives. Her face hovers above mine, blue eyes 
asking silently for an answer to her question. "He was at the 
hospital, and helped the guys smuggle me out. I told him I had to 
find you, and that I had a contact who would help me."

She nods, accepting the explanation at face value. I’m a bit 
surprised she didn’t press me further, probing for any information I 
may have conveniently 'forgotten'. She’s all too familiar with my 
tendency to do that. 

"I had a sense that was the case. He wasn’t too surprised to hear 
that we were together." She says this with a little smile, and I 
think I can see a hint of pride in her eyes. Pride in me. God, it 
really feels good to see anyone-especially Scully-look at me with 
that kind of feeling. "He was rather shocked, however, to hear 
exactly where ours travels have taken us."

I can’t help but chuckle at the image of Skinner’s jaw literally 
hitting the floor in his top-floor Bureau office. 

"He also said that we should get back to DC as soon as we’re 
medically cleared and transportation can be arranged. OPR, it 
seems, has been apprised of my status as a missing person, and is 
demanding answers. Skinner feels it would be best if I were to 
deliver those answers in person."

"Does he think there may be a change in their ruling?" I can't help it; 
if there’s any hope of escaping the awful truths waiting for us at 
home, I want to take hold of it, let it give me the strength to go 
back. And face the distinct possibility that I will be working 
without Scully by my side.

"I don’t know what he thinks, Mulder. I’ll be able to present a full 
account of events, both from your testimony and my own experiences. 
Skinner knows very little; it isn’t likely that his speaking in my 
place will do very much to help my position." 

"I’m not sure that your being there, and speaking the truth about 
all this will do much to improve your position, either." I hate to say 
it, but it is unfortunately, the truth. The majority opinion at the 
Bureau is that the X-Files are a joke, unworthy of the time or tax 
dollars. Scully using an X-File as her means of defending her right 
to continue in her assignment may not be the best idea she’s had. 

Her fingers clench slightly on my head, and in that action I can 
sense her unease with what I have just said. "Mulder, are you 
telling me that I should ignore everything we’ve seen in the past 
few days? That I should bury the truth so that I can save my job?"

Okay, so she has a point. I’ve spent five years telling her that the 
truth should come out, at all costs. And now, given the prospect of 
losing her as a partner—again—I’ve changed my tune. 

"No, Scully. I don’t think you should ignore everything we’ve seen 
here, and in Texas. But maybe we should wait to give our full 
report until the hearings have been completed. I can’t see AD 
Cassidy being too receptive to an account of virus-carrying bees and 
government cover-ups."

"No, I can’t either. But that doesn’t mean that I should ignore the 
truth. It only means that I’ll need to find some proof of what we’ve 
seen. Have the bone fragments delivered from Texas, or try and 
have the fireman’s body transferred to Quantico."

"Assuming that either piece of evidence has been allowed to exist 
this long. Chances are the body and the fragments have long since 
disappeared, Scully." I hate to be the party-pooper here, but given 
our track record for procuring and keeping track of evidence in 
these cases is terrible. The only time we’ve been able to hold onto 
anything has been when we’ve given it to the Gunmen for 
safekeeping...

"The bee." Scully gives me a confused look, but it barely registers 
through the excitement I’m feeling. Scully’s going before the OPR 
may not be such a bad idea after all, now that we have some proof 
to offer them.

"Hey," Scully says with a shove in my side, "mind filling me in on 
what’s going on in that head of yours?" 

"The guys found the bee that stung you. They picked up on the 
scanner that there’d been a 911 call from my building, and came to 
investigate. Frohike found the bee dead on the hallway floor. If you
present the bee as evidence, Cassidy and the others would have no 
choice but to believe you." 

She considers this new information for a moment before responding, 
her words careful and slow, as if she is hesitant to believe that 
we have been bestowed with such good luck. 

"I would have to run an analysis on it, see if there’s any way to 
isolate the virus in or on the body. I could try to find a link
between the bee and whatever that green goo is that I was..." 
She swallows hard, forcing the words from her lips, "immersed in."

I squeeze her hand, knowing it will be more reassuring than anything 
I could say at this point. Right now, She needs to deal with those 
memories on her own. I don't think I'm quite ready to talk about them, 
either. After a moment, she continues, "Do you think there's a sample, 
or maybe a lab analysis Dr. Tyler could supply me with?"

I nod. "Sure. He asked me about it, when we first got here. I never 
gave him a straight answer." Off her questioning look, I explain, 
"it was too much to get into at the time, Scully. I think maybe it 
still is."

She can do nothing but nod at what we both know is the truth. 

"But, you could use the labs, and the fluid sample he took, Scully. 
Show them something to substantiate your story. They'd have no 
choice to believe you, and rescind the transfer to Utah." 
Even I can hear the desperate whine in my voice, but this is 
too important, and I won't hide my feelings. I need Scully, with 
me in Washington, working as the investigator I am certain she
wants to be. Medical reinstatement papers, my ass.

"We'll have to have the hearing delayed long enough so that the proper
analyses can be completed. Maybe have the Gunmen do some preliminary
work while we're stuck down here." She sounds more certain now, and as 
I look up at her, I can see that her eyes are distant, the way the get 
when she is busy cataloging tests to be run, hypotheses to be tested.

And I can't stop the joyful hope from swelling in my chest, and pushing 
tears to the corners of my eyes. She's not going to leave me-not without 
a fight. And I know, from a wealth of personal experience, that Scully,
when she's determined, is a force to be reckoned with.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mulder," she says, and I can hear the smile in her 
voice as she anticipates my thoughts. "Not without exhausting every 
possibility."

I guess my mind just can't take the overload of hopeful excitement I'm 
feeling, because suddenly I'm struck with a need to question it. Question
Scully. It was only a couple days ago that she was ready to pack it in and 
leave everything X-File in the dust. I saw it in her eyes that night in my 
apartment, a resignation so absolute that it had me confessing my heart 
more readily than I had ever dreamed possible. And Scully is not one to 
change her mind on a whim. 

"Scully, why?" I don't have to say anything else, I can tell by the increased 
tension in her posture that she knows what I am asking. And that it is not
a comfortable subject for her. Suddenly, I am very nervous about what it is 
she has to say.

"Mulder, I'm not proud of the way I acted, after the OPR hearing." In the
wake of this single statement, I come to a new understanding of the phrase,
'Heart in throat'. I'm finding it rather difficult to draw a breath.

"I was so tired, after going out to Texas to help you, the red-eye flight 
back, and the barrage of questions the board threw at me, I just didn't
have anything left to give." Scully continues on, oblivious to the fact 
that my mind is stuck, like a broken record, on her first words. <Not 
proud...>

"I don't know what made me come to see you; I knew I was too drained to be
able to defend myself to you."

"Scully, do you regret it?" The question erupted suddenly, like a bad 
sneeze; something that drives you crazy but you don't want to let loose
because of the mess left in its wake.

"Mulder, have you been listening to me at all?" Oops. She sounds pissed. 
The abscence of her hand upon my head only confirms it. I hoist myself to 
a sitting position, feeling a sudden need to be in a more defensive
posture. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I hate it when he does this. I watch as he slowly pulls himself up to a 
sitting position, as I lean back in my chair and fold my arms across my 
chest. I decide to wait in icy silence for him to give me some sort of 
worthwhile explanation as to why he's both interrupted and ignored me.

"I have been listening, Scully." And he begins parroting back my words. 
Damn eiditic memory. "Mulder, I'm not proud of the way I acted after the 
OPR hearing." 

Oh. I guess I did say that, didn't I? And of course, as seems to be the 
case when it comes to Mulder and I talking about matters close to the 
heart, there's been a misunderstanding. We're really going to need to 
work on this communication thing. I wonder if the Bureau has a seminar 
we could attend-Reaching Emotional Understanding Between Co-Dependent
Partners. Oh well. Mulder would probably bail out on account of that 
nasty annual hemrriodal condition of his, anyway.

I need to stop this before Mulder convinces himself that everything
that has transpired since the bee in the hallway was nothing more than
a delusional state brought on by the concussion. "Mulder, of course I don't 
regret it. Have I been acting as if I regret hearing how you feel about me,
about our partnership?"

He remains silent, which in this case is not such a bad thing. It means 
that he isn't going to argue-yet.

"Mulder, I apologize for not being clearer. What I was trying to explain
was that I feel that my decision to file my resignation with Skinner 
was rash, driven by a highly volitile emotional state secondary to
lack of sleep and frustration at my inability to prove myself during
the OPR hearing." 

I pause in my explanation because the bed on which my right arm rests is
shaking. I look up to find Mulder chuckling, and my eyes narrow as my anger
builds. Dammit, I'm trying. I really am. But he's making this so damn
difficult.

"Count on you, Scully, to make simple revenge sound like a clinical 
diagnosis." He sees the daggers my eyes are shooting in his direction, and
reached down to take my hand in his. "I'm sorry, Scully. I'm just relieved. 
And happy, I think."

"You think?" I ask dubiously, not yet willing to return the grasp of his hand.
Mine lies limp in his clutch of fingers.

"Well, it's been a little while since I've been happy, so I'm not sure if I'm 
able to recognize it. It's either that, or the painkillers the nurse brought me before
I fell asleep are beginning to kick in. Gotta love it when they prescribe 
the good stuff."

I think I'm supposed to be flattered that the confirmation of my feelings 
for him can be likened to what I'm guessing are some pretty strong 
painkillers. The funny thing about it is, I think that I am. 

"And how about you, Scully? How do you feel about all of this?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."

So I can't help it. Reflex action I guess. But I think, also, that for
the first time, I actually mean what I have said. I am fine with the
way things have developed between us in the past few days. I'm not
earth-shatteringly happy or anything, but I'm not suicidal either. I'm
just... fine. 

Maybe I should tell him that, given the very distant glaze in his eyes 
and the pissed-off tilt of his lips. I really can't blame him; every 
other time I've said this to him, I've been lying through my teeth.

"Really, Mulder, I am fine. I think I'm... content right now." That's a
good adjective; content. I grin a little, at my new appreciation of this
highly underrated word. 

"Content?" Uh-oh. He's sounding a dubious. Either he doesn't believe me, 
or he thinks this is a prelude to a brush-off, some long-lost cousin to
the phrase 'You're a nice guy, but...'.

"Mmm-hm." I nod, and can't seem to stop grinning. I must look a like an
idiot. Oh well, Mulder's seen me looking worse. Much worse. I decide to 
bring his hand to my lips, kissing each of the gauze-covered knuckles
in turn while my eyes never leave his.

"Oh..." he breathes, and I feel the grin bloom into a full-fledged smile.
"I think I may be feeling a little more than just content, Scully."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the dim light of his desk lamp, Dr. Harrison Tyler reclined in his 
chair, feet propped haphazardly on his desk blotter. In his hands, an
open manilla folder, the contents of which now held his undivided
attention. 

Neatly printed computer columns. Digits and decimals. Biology broken
down into its most basic elemental components. Except that several 
of the components of this fluid compound were not elements to be
found on this Earth. 

<Or, should I say, not *intended* to be found on this Earth>, Tyler 
thought with a smirk.

Dropping the sheafs of paper carelessly on his desk, Tyler swung around,
landing his feet on the floor with a thump. Spinning in the chair, he 
peered at the glowing computer screen a moment before tapping out a few
keystrokes. 

The printer behind him whirred to life, and he relaxed again against 
maroon leather at his back. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

End.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I know what you’re thinking…whoa,
flashback! This was a story that I began shortly after the movie 
was released, and then didn’t get back to for quite some time. I’m 
happy to say that I relocated my inspiration. I hope that even a 
couple years later, it breathes some new life into what was a pretty 
darn good movie <g>. 

The title for this story comes from the song “And So It Goes” by 
Billy Joel. This is a song that I fell in love with the first time 
that I heard it, and the love affair continues to this day. And it
seems appropriate for this pair and their relationship in the
context of the story. 

Many, many, thanks to my beta, Suzanne, for the wonderful editing, 
medical knowledge, and plot advice. This was my first time 
working with a beta, and Suzanne made for a great editorial
experience. 

Constructive criticism, ringing endorsements, and the like are gladly
accepted at: <Muzinke@aol.com>.

If you liked this one, you can check out my other stories at: 
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Orion/5345/TheHole.html