| Up in Flames By Amanda Finch [email protected] CATEGORY:
SA, UST, Post-ep, Sequel You're going to be severely lost without "Putting Out Fires," this story's predecessory. You can find it here: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Chamber/7335/putfires.html or, at Ephemeral: http://obsidian.teter.indiana.edu/ephemeral.html Author's notes follow story Readers, I offer up a little tagline bon mot: Assume Nothing. xxxxxxxxxx Somewhere along the Potomac Washington, D.C. 10:45 PM Without the headlights on, the moon was free to trick his vision, and refracted through a prism of ice and rain off the water below. He kept popping and unpopping the clip in his gun. Had he driven down far enough? Sure. Had he tied up all the loose ends? No, and maybe that was the point. One more loose end to tie up -- in his life, in Scully's. It was the loosest end of all. What would she think when she found out? He shook his head violently. Those were the kind of questions that had always kept him from following through with a plan, because they had no viable answers. (What *would* she think?) The clip popped harder in his hands, trying to deaden the sensation of the voices. (Can you see her face?) An alcohol-roughened voice on the radio wailed that it was the shadow of the season, without a reason to carry on. He wished he had some alcohol to rough it up right now, because his inhibitions were at an all-time high. (This could all backfire.) He weighed the gun in his hand, like the kids in the academy always did when they were first handed out, squinting that one eye and staring down the top of it. As if they were comparing it to other weapons they used on a day to day basis, as if they knew what they were getting themselves into as they glared at their invisible menaces on the range. The first thing they had to unteach the cadets was that cool, Pacino eye squint at the target. How were they gonna shoot with one eye all screwed up like that? Mulder switched the gun to the other hand. Good Lord, he had enough trouble aiming with both eyes wide open. (You got 'em wide open now, agent?) Wide as they've ever been, he answered himself. This was everything he'd ever worked for: the truth, the lies, the cohesiveness of one vision, of several different avenues, all coming together to unify into one solid point. The end, justifying the means. (There are ways to do this that won't risk losing *everything*.) He'd tried those ways. He popped the clip one last time. It was all or nothing. Well, mostly it was nothing. (She's either going to get over it eventually and be happy for the decision or she's going to hate you for the rest of time.) His reflection dully surprised him from the windshield, and he turned off the overhead light. x Alexandria, W. Virginia Apt. 42 11:16 PM Scully waited. She looked at her wristwatch. Where *was* he? She'd already done everything she could do in his apartment to occupy herself -- from feeding the fish to wading through the newspaper articles he'd clipped, arranging what she would say later to declaim them. There was something a brownish green in the fridge that could've been either roast beef or some tortillas that got wet. Either way, she'd thrown them out. One thing she would say for messy, disorganized spaces: hunting through them was an adventure, and Mulder's unoccupied space was no different. He'd kept some of his old report cards from grade school. In one of them, a teacher had inscribed: "Tell Fox to concentrate less on Weird Tales and more on his Earth Science classwork." Now *that* was suitable for framing. Short of watching some porn, there was nothing left to do but wait. (You're his partner, dammit. You can call him. Call him!) The leaves of yellowed paper in his Rolodex spun absently in her hand. There were the Fs right there. Fowley, Diana B. No, Dana, thirty-four year olds have no business surmising what the B might stand for. The address was scrawled across the paper in cracked blue ink. None of these addresses were recent. The Bureau teleserve would know it. She was his partner. She could call. Of course, the meaning of partner could go...either way. If Diana was even *vaguely* the piece of this puzzle that Scully believed her to be, it wouldn't be a matter of something that felt embarrassingly like jealousy. It all came down to whether or not she could stop herself before she did something extremely rash. And whether she'd *want* to stop herself if the opportunity arose. She blinked at the adjacent apartment building through his window, hearing the sounds of evening traffic roaring upwards from the street below as bridges were shaken and windows were rattled by passing stereo systems. His cell phone rang and rang. Like the sounds of the city winding itself down into sleep, it went unanswered. x Her phone rang at approximately 11:35, just like she'd been told it would. She leaned over leisurely from across the bed, letting Nabokov's sentence end as it rightfully should before lifting her gaze from the page. Taking a sip of her cafe' au lait, she lowered the cup by the keening phone. The fifth ring was always the shin-kicker for these men. Oh, how they hated to wait. She smiled, and let the sixth ring pass. The frayed nerves, however numbed by nicotine abuse, were not smoothed by her graced hello. She'd barely gotten the word out as he began talking. "How did it go, Diana?" "It went *fine* -- " She almost called him by his first name. It was tempting, but there would be time for that later. "He limped off into the darkness like he had no reason to live. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" He dragged on his cigarette from the other end of the receiver, and it was just a vocalized pause now. It gave him time to formulate some meaningful non-sequitur of a response. Even the characters in his writing couldn't seem to answer yes or no without taking up half a page. "That's exactly what I wanted. Did you show him a good time? Before the story I mean." "The subject was unresponsive," she said with forced petulance, burrowing down into the lace and linen of her bed. Forms like Fox's were made for beds like this, and she wouldn't have minded using him once more at all. She thought the kiss had booked him for the night. "It would've been a nice touch." "Yes," he concurred, clearing his throat. "Not that you'll be wanting for company." "Is that a promise?" She teased, fingers sliding out of her fixed place in the book, losing her place. His soft inhale filled her ear. "Of course it is. After I make sure we've set the scene, you'll use that envelope I left with you to get the gun. She's already there, waiting for him like we are. As soon as he comes in, we need to be ready. He would've headed straight for home, don't you think?" "To wallow in it," she answered. Fox was so goddamn predictable that way. All the pretty ones were, she joked to herself. In the silence, she heard a sound in her hallway. Remembering his offer of company, the book was thrown aside as the footfalls hastened to her front door. "You cad! You were right downstairs in the lobby of my building all this time." She hung up the phone. Opening the door, it took her a long moment to scream. Only part of it had passed her lips before the fingers clamped over her mouth. It would be mistaken for some guttural sound made in the heat of passion, as could the thumps and stumbling that followed it across her apartment. She should've seen it coming. Betrayal was inevitable. But how it arrived was always a surprise. x Midnight It was hate keeping him alive now. In small doses, it was poison, but now, in this last large dose, it was a pulse. What was it about the dark-haired girls who hated him that was so alluring, nihilism? That was especially ironic now. He'd always known Diana, or someone just like her, would be the one to destroy him. But not like this. And he assumed that he'd pick the time. Well, he was picking the time now. In retrospect, it all made so much sense now. Too much sense. In what dim, imperceptibly stupid part of his brain did he imagine that what he and Diana had was healthy? To the extent that he had found himself slipping a ring on her finger, sharing a last name with her, giving her plethora of new ways to verbally and emotionally castrate him? Had he hated himself *that* much? So much that her hatred of him paled in comparison? Everything she offered, he accepted like a gift. Here are the X-Files, Fox - and he made them his life. Meet Dr. Werber, Fox - and he claimed a quest. They're hiding stuff from us, Fox - and he was jaundiced with the vindication those words gave him. She left, and it was as if he kept all the mementos she left behind firmly clutched to his side. By the time they'd said, Here's a pretty new partner, Fox, who you're going to love so much it *hurts*, he'd just turned, preoccupied, and said, "Put her over there." (Put her over there where they can use her as some deus ex machina to make everything in my life happen the way they plan. Where they can, on some sick whim, take her away, and in the twists of wrists make her suffer, make her barren, make me come running.) This was the *only* way to save her. He primed the Sig Sauer. "Write." (Write what?) Diana always *had* been one of those voices in his head, hadn't she? It was apparent now. In good company up there with Patterson and his father. They all deserved one another. "Write!" And he began to speak it out. (It has only recently become obvious to me that I am a pawn in a game, and that the actions I was compelled to take have endangered the lives of too many others for me to take it any further.) x 12:53 AM Scully snapped awake to the insect trilling of her phone, disgusted at herself for being able to fall asleep when she was so worried. So once she assured herself that it wasn't just another the-phone-is-ringing dream (she *despised* those), she found the phone where it had fallen out of her hand and wedged itself behind Mulder's couch cushions. "Mulder?" There was a pause on the other end of the line, audible with the breathing that accompanied it. A. D. Skinner's voice made the awakening that much ruder. "No, Agent Scully. Where are you?" "I'm -- " She could tell him. "At Agent Mulder's apartment, Sir. I don't know where he is right now..." (But I've got a good idea it involves him getting laid by someone I have every reason to suspect of human sabotage.) "He's here. You need to get down here *now*." "Where, Sir?" "You familiar with the Potomac banks areas, Agent Scully?" The recreational areas, sure. She'd been there. He didn't wait for her answer. "This ain't the part with the picnic tables and barbecue grills. Get down here now." (Oh my God, Mulder -- ) No formalities now. "What in the hell happened to him? Is he okay?" This is the part where Mulder would've hung up. "Sir!" "I can't tell you over the phone." His voice was raggedly desperate now. "I won't." (What have you done, Mulder?) x 1:24 AM When she got to the scene, it was surrounded by flashing lights and the sirens of a police car, an ambulance, and a fire truck always blended into one droning howl that was almost tangibly visible to her before she even knew what she was trying to find. The bright reds and blues had filtered through the trees, making the iced and rain-covered surfaces appear like props, clever fakes. Skinner flagged her down almost instantly, as if he were afraid someone else would bend her ear first. "Sir?" She screamed above the clamor of the emergency vehicles. "The car's down there!" he told her, right in her ear. (This isn't happening. God, tell me this *isn't* what I think it is.) An automobile accident? No, the car looked mysteriously unharmed. What then? And why wasn't he preparing her for what she was about to see? What in the hell was the matter with him? What if Mulder had come down here to -- ? (I *refuse* to believe that's true.) They were only a few feet away from the car now. (You've always said he was selfish. You've always said he was broken. What's more selfishly broken than this?) Skinner panned his flashlight into the driver's side window, as she stood at the back bumper of Mulder's car. Can't do it, she silently pleaded, letting herself sag against the side of the car. Can't do it. His flashlight caught her now. "Agent Scully?" Suddenly, he must've recognized in her face that she was out of the loop on this one, and he dragged her to the car's door. The dark head was slumped into the steering wheel, hands pugilistically framing the hidden face. "Carbon monoxide poisoning," Skinner said without prompting. "She left a note, too." Agent Diana Fowley had killed herself. She glanced only briefly at the horribly scrawled handwriting, at the words composed in a flurry of tears with an uneven hand. "It has only recently become obvious to me that I am a pawn in a game..." "Sir," she said, thrusting the words back at him. "Where's Mulder?" He glanced over his shoulder. "He's right over there. He agreed to meet her so he could speak with her. He had some suspicions that she wasn't working in the best interests of the X-Files. Some ballistics information came up this morning, almost by accident. The bullet the medical examiner's office pulled out of Agent Spender when the two of you found him in the office was matched to Diana's sidearm." Mulder stood a few yards away, as surreal in the siren glare as everything along the Potomac, first red, then blue. He saw her looking at him, and he looked away again. Skinner followed her gaze up the hill. "Obviously, Diana didn't take the information or the interrogation well. She forced Mulder into the car and drove them out here. But he kept her talking too long, and by the time she was ready to shoot him like she planned, the carbon monoxide had already taken effect." He crouched and showed her the bullet hole in the passenger side glass. "See?" She ran up the hill towards Mulder. (Was it wrong to be relieved?) He didn't look at all like he needed arms to fall into, but she provided them anyway and he accepted, tight bewildered smile. "The paramedics told me to stand here and breathe really hard until I needed to vomit," he said, harsh whisper in her ear. "I think they're underestimating how much I'd like to throw up." "It's okay, Mulder," she said firmly. God, she'd feared the worst. She'd pegged him wrong again. "It's okay now." x Of course it was, he agreed, standing there with her while the police converged on the car. The paramedics were in no great need to rush a dead woman at warp speed to the closest hospital, and stood there until the two agents Skinner had yanked out of their beds at the ungodly hour had documented the scene. This wouldn't look good for the Bureau. Nope, not at all. Not to mention they'd find, like he did, the slip of paper in her wallet with Scully's address on it and the stubby orange padlock key of a locker in Georgetown. Being on the other end of his weapon had scared the life and the truth out of her. What began as a purportedly innocent evening for two was to end with a staged murder-suicide between him and Scully, respectively. One of them would shoot her and then give him the option of shooting himself. If he didn't take it, they would've gladly pulled the trigger. The locker had a gun in it. So strange how she thought telling him all of this was somehow a card she could bluff with. If he would just let her out of the car and get the gun off of her, she would stop what "those bastards" were going to do to them. And if he hadn't been able to see through that flimsy bullshit excuse, he needed a bullet in the head. So of course Diana could stop what they were doing -- by dying. Knowing that her extended plans for the evening included having his last vision before biting his own bullet be of his partner lying dead in his apartment made it a lot easier to stuff those rags in the exhaust pipe, roll up all the windows, and hold her face down until she was dead. The bullet hole in the passenger side glass worked well in retrospect. He simply fired it to keep himself from passing out once he started feeling the effects. Soon after though, the pulse had gone out of her stiff white throat, and he bailed out of the car. The shot of course had brought the police, the paramedics, the whole cavalry. The paramedics had pulled Skinner's phone number from his wallet -- it would've been much different if they'd called Scully. Of course, he didn't have to write her number down anywhere. He remembered it better than his ATM number. He just laid in the grass waiting for them, forcing it all out of his lungs. (What does this make you now?) Not sure, he answered, arm dropped absently to the small of Scully's back as he pulled them away. (Does it make you any better than them?) Did *not* taking a stand make him a better person? He scowled into the distance as it throbbed with the lights. Integrity was nice, but overrated. If he'd stuck to his own, he'd be the alleged killer of his partner and of himself by the next morning. They had another piece of the truth now. Sure, it was falling into a mosaic that seemed to grow larger with each passing day, but they could follow it. Like they always did. They had the X-Files back again. That was what Skinner told him as they stood there waiting for Scully. He was alive. Scully was alive. That was all that would ever matter. ~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^ Thanks to Rachel and Lionmother for Beta-Reading and location information for the story settings. Thanks to Trav for the title, and to all of the readers who got my inspiration kick-started to take care of business somehow, even if I still like the bad ending of the first version for my own morbid reasons. <g> The lyrics paraphrased in the first scene are from Screaming Trees' "Shadow of the Season" (Sweet Oblivion). -------------------------------------- April 1999 |