Flames 
by Leyla Harrison

Disclaimer: Don't own Mulder.  Don't own Scully.  What a shame.

Classification: VA

Rating: R

Spoilers: Emily, All Souls

Summary: Mulder tries to make sense of what he has heard -- and tries to
decide how to face Scully.

****


"Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted."
	--inscribed on Sylvia Plath's gravestone




I wish I had never found that fucking tape.

Of course, it doesn't matter *how* I found it.  Only that I did.  And
that I listened to it.  That's the worst part; that I listened to it --
and listened, and listened.  I didn't shut it off.  

I should have.

Goddamn it.

Let me say this at the outset: I trust Scully.  I do.  More than
anyone.  But when she called me, asking me to play detective and look up
adoption records, I was more than a little annoyed.  I mean, she
wouldn't tell me much and she was acting very coy.  "I can't tell you
anything else, Mulder, not until you get me those records."

I was sure that she was laughing her head off after she hung up the
phone.  I was sure that she was thinking, "Yeah, Mulder, serves you
right for all those times you've done that to me."

So I was pissed.

And I made it very clear -- crystal clear -- that it was *her* case,
that she would have to solve it all on her own, that I was going to make
suggestions but that I wasn't going to do the work for her.  There you
go, Scully.  You can't tell me anything, so you figure this one out on
your own.

Of course, all of this changed after Scully told me what she told me.

She told me that she saw Emily.

And of course, the minute she did, my heart contracted.  Every nasty
comment I had made -- or thought of making -- came back to haunt me.  It
made me feel like I wanted to shrivel up and die.  Luckily Scully was so
engrossed in her own feelings that she didn't watch my face for signs of
guilt.

It all ended strangely -- not any more strangely than any of our other
cases, but strangely because of what Scully did.  She led that last girl
into the light -- and that girl died.  Scully blamed herself for that, I
know.  I know her better than anyone, and I know also that she would
never admit to me that she was wracked with agony over her decision.

As disturbing as that all was, what happened *after* it was all said and
done is what I'm sitting here killing myself over.

I found the tape from the autopsy that Scully was supposed to do on
Paula Koklos.  I listened to Scully start her external exam.  I heard
her voice change as she noted the deformities on the girl's shoulders. 
I wasn't trying to intrude.  I don't even know what it was that prompted
me to leave the tape on.  I sensed that I should turn it off.

Then I heard her whisper.  

"Oh God."

It was so quiet that I almost wasn't able to make it out.  I actually
had to rewind the tape, turn the volume up, and listen again.

It was an anguished whisper.  A sound of raw pain.

And then after that, her breath hitched.  I heard a rustle, as if she
was moving around.  And then I heard her trying to stop crying.  More
rustling.  And then, muffled, more crying.

Crying.

Jesus Christ.  What the fuck happened to her in there?

I don't need to ask that question, not really.  I already know the
answer.  I'm sure that was when she saw Emily.  

I wouldn't dare ask her.  What the hell would I say?  Hey, Scully, I
found the tape of you crying during the autopsy.  Was that when you saw
a vision of your dead daughter?

Fuck.

I didn't *mean* to invade her privacy.  I'm just desperate for
information, for an explanation.  An explanation that I don't want to
have to ask Scully for.

Since I discovered the tape a week ago, I've listened to it every
night.  Each time I hear Scully's tears, I'm oddly fascinated.  I'm
curious.  Most of all, I ache.

I ache for Scully.  For her pain.

While hearing her cry on tape, I've sat alone in my apartment in the
dark, the quiet sound of my tears joining hers.

I don't know what to do.  I have to talk to her.  She knows something's
up -- every time she catches me looking at her she throws me a funny
look, a look that says that she knows that I'm thinking something that
I'm not telling her.  God help her if she knew what I was thinking
about.  

I just have no idea how to tell her.

But I have to.

****

I'm on my way to Scully's apartment.  Carrying the tape in my pocket --
just the tape.  A tiny microcassette tape.  I don't know what I'm going
to say, but I have to at least give it the old Fox Mulder try.  Maybe
when I see her, I'll know.

I'm halfway there when I realize that traffic has slowed to a stop. 
I've taken backroads, avoided the highway, and now, at ten o'clock at
night, I'm stuck in a local traffic jam.  What the hell is going on?

Another ten minutes have passed and I've inched the car up about six
feet.  Frustrated, I pull into a nearby parking space and throw the car
into park.  Why can't this be simple?  Why can't I just go to Scully's
house, talk to her, and go home?  Why am I sitting here in the dark?

I look up into the sky and suddenly see the reason for the traffic jam
-- there's a fire somewhere up ahead.  Glancing out my windows, I see
people on the sidewalks, whispering to each other as they hurry along
the pavement towards the source of the billowing smoke.

I hate being a gawker, but I'm on a one-way street and there's no way to
turn the car around, not yet, anyhow, so I turn the car off and follow
everyone else in the direction of the fire.

Two blocks up, and right on the corner, I see it.  A church -- God, not
a church.  There's nothing more sad than a burning church.  The sign in
front identifies the burning building as St. John's.

It's a beautiful building, but it's mostly made of wood and stained
glass, and it's burning quickly.  The fire has already destroyed the
sanctuary building and has spread all the way up to the bell tower.  I
can hear crackling noises and the occasional pop of a window breaking,
followed by the shattering of glass as the pieces fall to the ground.

I'm usually afraid of fires, but for some reason, this one is holding me
transfixed.  Each time there is a boom and another piece of wood
collapses, I freeze up, but as I watch the flames licking at the holes
where windows used to be, I realize how beautiful it is.  

Police are holding back onlookers as firefighters on ladders spray the
building with hoses.  It's a hot fire, though, a large one, and will
burn until the church is nothing but a shell.

I step closer and work my way up to the barriers that the police have
set up.  On the street are pieces of glass and small chunks of brick
that have cracked and broken away from the church's walls.  I reach down
and pick one of the bricks up.  It fits in the palm of my hand, and I
close my fingers around it.  It's still warm.

I slip the chunk into my coat pocket and back away.  As beautiful as
this is to watch, it's also indescribably tragic.  I hear someone nearby
murmuring tearfully that it is an act of God.

Even God wouldn't be this cruel.

****

By the time I get to Scully's place, it's past eleven.  I knock on her
door softly, hoping that I'm not waking her.  I hear footfalls on the
other side of the door and then she opens it, dressed for bed under her
robe, I'm sure.

"Hey, Scully," I say to her, my voice low.  "Did I wake you?"

"I was just getting ready for bed.  Come on in, Mulder."

I follow her inside to the warmth of Scully's apartment.  I've always
loved it here -- the glow of various lights softens the room and makes
it feel like a safe cocoon, a haven.  I wonder idly if Scully feels that
way about her home.  

I realize that she is looking at me expectantly.  "What's going on?" she
asks.

I open my mouth and nothing comes out.  I don't know what to say to
her.  Damn it, I knew this was going to happen.

"Mulder?" she asks, her voice gentle.

"I'm sorry.  I just -- I don't know.  I'm sorry, Scully."

"Sorry for what?"

"For bothering you.  I didn't mean to."

This was a mistake.  I slip my hands into my coat pockets and feel the
tape in one and the brick in the other.  I don't know what the hell I'm
doing here.

"It's not a bother, Mulder.  You just seem like you want to tell me
something."

<You have no idea, Scully.>

"I...found this."  I reach into my pocket and pull out the tape, handing
it to her, my face as calm as I can make it, my heart pounding.

She takes it from me, turns it over in her hands.  "I don't
understand."  She looks perplexed.  "What is this?"

"It's the tape from the autopsy you were doing on Paula Koklos."  

Her face goes pale and I lower my eyes.  I can tell that she knows what
I know.

Or does she?

"It's when I saw Emily," she murmurs, her voice very soft.

She seems to have forgotten about her tears, about the fact that I heard
her *crying*, for God's sakes, on that tape.  My Scully, crying.  I
don't know how to tell her how sorry I am.  I don't know how to tell her
that I was an ass, that I was just upset because she hadn't brought me
in on the case earlier, that I wasn't sensitive enough to what should
have smacked me in the face when she brought this case to me in the
first place which was that her emotional involvement was like the tide,
rising by the hour.

Scully clears her throat.  "You know, Mulder, I thought it was just my
imagination.  A hallucination brought on by the fact that I was so drawn
to this case."  I look up to see her face.  "But I know what I saw," she
tells me, her voice firm.  "I know what I saw."

I nod, my throat dry.  I don't know what to say to her.  Apologizing
doesn't seem to apply at this moment.

"I've always tried to be so strong," she says.

<Jesus, Scully, I know that.  I know.>

"And I felt so weak.  So vulnerable.  I had already been thinking about
Emily -- and then to have seen her -- it was just too much.  It was
overload."

You were crying, I want to shout.  And it doesn't make you weak,
Scully.  It *doesn't*.

She holds the tape out to me.  I look at her, surprised.  "You're giving
it back to me?"

"I'm assuming you listened to it."  I nod my head, feeling as if I have
intruded on her most private of moments.  "You didn't hear Emily."  I
shake my head.  "Do you know what she said?"

I feel like I'm going to cry myself.  I want to envelop Scully in my
arms and erase all of this.  God.

"No," I whisper.

"She said, 'Mommy, please.'  She was pleading with me."

Scully's eyes are now moist with tears.  Her chin is trembling ever so
slightly.

Oh, Christ.  Now I really think I'm going to lose it. I'm going to cry.  

"Scully."

She looks at me, her eyes shining.

"I thought I was doing the right thing, Mulder.  When I led Roberta Dyer
through that church and towards that light, I looked down and it was
Emily I was leading.  I was holding her hand.  And she spoke to me
again.  She said, 'Mommy, please, let me go.'  She was begging me to let
her go, Mulder."

Tears form in my eyes and spill over my cheeks.  I can't help it.  

She pushes the tape towards me.  "Get rid of it, Mulder.  Can you do
that for me?"

I nod, unable to speak.  I wipe my eyes, angry that I'm crying.  This is
Scully's pain, her cross to bear. Not mine.

Scully looks at me.  Suddenly I realize that it is not only her pain. 
She and I have spent years building a level of trust that binds us
tightly to each other in a way that doesn't exist for other people.  And
this means that I feel her pain just as she feels mine.

I take the tape and put it back into my coat pocket, my hand brushing
against the brick.

I look at the floor, then pull the chunk of concrete from my pocket and
offer it to her.  She actually smiles.  "What's this?"

"I know...I know it seems stupid, Scully.  But on my way here I passed
by a church fire.  It was terrible.  And wonderful.  I don't know how to
explain it."

She nods, reaching out and taking the chunk to look it over.

"This was from that church.  And although there's something horrible
about watching a church burn, there's also the knowledge that it's what
remains -- what survives -- that's important.  This piece survived. 
It's like...faith."

Understanding flickers across her face.

"I think you should have this.  As a reminder," I tell her softly.  

She reaches for my hand and touches it, her fingertips warm on my cool
skin.  She squeezes my hand lightly and then releases me.

"Thank you, Mulder," she says quietly.  "Thank you."

"I should go," I tell her, even though it's the last thing I really want
to do.  She nods.  I think she feels the same way -- that she wants me
to stay -- but I don't want to push her.  "So I'll see you at the office
in the morning."

"Bright and early," she says, her voice catching.  She's dangerously
close to crying again.

Impulsively, I reach for her and hold her close to me.  Her arms go
around my waist and I close my eyes, reveling in the feel of her body
against mine.  Despite out height differences, we fit amazingly well. 
My chin rests on the top of her head and I kiss her there, once, before
releasing her. 

Her fingers hold mine for a moment and then she lets me go, and I
silently let myself out of her apartment.

****

Home again.

I sit in the living room on my couch, in the dark.  No one here but me
and, if I put the tape in the tape player one last time, Scully. 

I turn the tape over and over in my hands, just as Scully did in her
apartment.  Then, using both hands, I break the plastic cartridge in
half.  

I carry the pieces, still joined by the tape itself, into the kitchen,
and pick up a lighter that I have on the counter.  

"May God be with you, Scully," I say aloud, before lighting the tape and
letting it drop into the stainless steel sink.

For the second time that night, I watch the flames burn brightly.

END

***************************************************
"Your soul aches relentless from the fear that they 
 will never guess -- so unfair that they can make you 
 feel so small..."		--Sarah McLachlan