From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 24 Sep 2003 23:16:55 -0000
Subject: NEW - The Bar Scene: Untimely Frost by Michelle Kiefer (1/1) by michelle kiefer
Source: direct

Reply To: msk1024@aol.com


Title:   The Bar Scene: Untimely Frost
Author:  Michelle Kiefer
Email: msk1024@aol.com
Category:  Post ep; series
Spoilers: Elegy
Rating: PG-13
Classification:  V,A
Archive:  Just let me know.
Disclaimer:  Not mine.
Summary:   It had been a little more than a week since 
Harold Spuller's death, and Scully was losing ground.  
He wondered sometimes if she'd just disappear one day, 
leaving a faint but indelible smudge on his life.
COMMENTS: Please visit my other stories at:
http://artwc.org/MichelleKiefer/
Maintained by the wonderful Jennifer
Author's Notes:  There are certain patterns on the
X-Files: bad things happen in bathrooms, pivotal moments
happen in hallways, difficult conversations happen off
screen.  What if those difficult conversations also had
a pattern--a special place where they took place?  What
if the hard truths were discussed in various bar
scenes?
More comments at the end.

Red Arrow Lounge - September 1997

There was nothing like a crummy bar and a silent companion
to bring on a little too much introspection.  This was the
kind of place that almost forced a little life examination. 

Seven years.  He'd been at it for seven years, and what
did he have to show for it?  A sizable collection of
hotel toiletries, a scarred body and a partner who was
fading away before his very eyes.

Scully grew more pale every day, became thinner with each
passing week.  For so long after her diagnosis, he'd been
able to persuade himself that she was fine.  He realized
now that it had been an illusion, a smoke and mirrors
trick by a woman who wanted to be fine so badly, she
convinced everyone around her.  And to be honest, he'd
wanted to believe it as much as she did.  More maybe.

And maybe he just hadn't looked at her closely enough.

All that changed on their last case.  The illusion had
begun to shatter when she answered the door to her
apartment the night he asked for her help with the 
question of Harold Spuller's health.  For the first
time since Allentown, Scully had seemed fragile as 
she stood before him, wrapped up in the same white 
terrycloth robe.  She'd claimed to be fine, and he'd 
been so caught up in his drive to solve the case that 
he'd failed to look beyond her assurances.

But it was in the psychiatric facility corridor that 
the smoke cleared, the mirror shattered and he saw 
her--really saw her--for the first time in months.  
He didn't know who he was angrier at--Scully, for 
putting one over on him or himself, for so readily 
buying her performance.

It had been a little more than a week since Harold 
Spuller's death, and Scully was losing ground.  He 
wondered sometimes if she'd just disappear one day, 
leaving a faint but indelible smudge on his life.

Mulder drank his beer, eyes scanning the bar in his best
casual yet thorough stakeout manner.  He hoped Scully
didn't notice how his eyes flicked back in her direction
every few moments.

They'd been sitting here for an hour and a half, positioned
in this booth with a view of the front door.  Another team
was situated near the back alley exit.  Seated at the bar
was an FBI informant.  Everyone was in place except the guest
of honor, a lowlife with the unlikely name of Dwight White.

Across from him, Scully's eyes seemed huge, her face pinched
in a way that made his throat hurt.  She sipped at a club
soda, her expression unreadable.  What the hell went
through her mind, he wondered.  Scully was as difficult
to open as a Chinese puzzle box.  She shared her opinions
easily enough--too freely, maybe--but her emotions, her fears
and desires were locked up tight.

He forced his gaze away from her, to casually sweep again from 
the door and down the length of the bar.  The place was a dive,
the kind of neighborhood bar that catered to hard-drinking
working stiffs.  It hadn't been given over to a rough crowd,
nor gentrified into an upscale gathering place.  The Red
Arrow would probably survive a nuclear holocaust; it was
the bar equivalent of the cockroach.
 
His cell phone vibrated on his hip and he flipped it open and
answered the call.  The agent on the other end of the phone
delivered the update Mulder had been waiting for.

"White just left the Capital Quikimart on 3rd."

At Scully's questioning look, he relayed the news that the 
suspect was on the move.

"We don't belong here, Mulder."

Her voice startled him, both because she hadn't spoken in
nearly an hour and that she'd verbalized that particular 
issue.  They didn't, in fact, belong there.  It wasn't an 
X-File.  It wasn't their usual fare, but hopefully, it would 
be safe.

White had been under FBI surveillance for over a week, a
repulsive little man the Crimes Against Children unit 
hoped would lead them to others.  With luck, White would
bring another suspect along with him tonight and the CAC
would come closer to shutting down the operation.

Mulder and Scully had been one of a number of teams, staked
out in cars, at the mall, and now in this pit stop on the 
way to hell.  No arrest was planned tonight, just evidence 
gathering.  Just reeling in the fish a little at a time.  
Little chance of physical confrontation.  Nobody would get 
hurt, nobody would get killed.

"This is a perfectly valid case, Scully.  Skinner asked us
to help on this."

"I'm not questioning the case's validity or its importance,
merely our participation.  There are plenty of agents from
CAC.  They don't need us."

"Skinner obviously thought we could be useful."  He took a
gulp of beer.  Please, Scully, he thought, don't push it.

She shook her head, glancing around the bar.  Another sip of
club soda.  Every movement careful, precise.

Don'tdon'tdon't.

"Don't think you're fooling me, Mulder.  I know what you
and Skinner are doing."

"Doing?  You think this is some kind of conspiracy?  How
long have you been having these feelings of paranoia, Ms.
Scully?" he asked with an admittedly poor Viennese accent.

"This is exactly the kind of assignment that would have you
screaming blue murder.  We don't belong on this case when
there are X-Files we need to investigate.  Why didn't you
fight this, Mulder?  Why allow us to get caught up in scut
work?"

"Maybe I don't consider this scut work," he said.   "We 
could use a break, Scully."  

"You are so full of it," she said, sliding a finger along
the rim of her glass.  "What happens when you get bored?
How long until you run after some lead, leaving me in the 
dust?"

He wanted tell her it wouldn't happen.  He wished with all 
his heart to be able to reassure her, but the truth was, 
fear and desperation already tore at him.  It would
only be a matter of time before the need for answers sent 
him off in the middle of the night.   

"You're making this into more than it is, Scully.  It's an
assignment.  Leave it at that."

She pinned him with an arctic gaze.  He shifted in his seat,
forcing his eyes away to scope out the room.  It wasn't
cowardice, he told himself.  They were on a stakeout.  He
had a job to do.

"Fuck you, Mulder."

He almost laughed out loud at her uncharacteristic vulgarity.
Scully was a sailor's daughter, but she rarely swore at him. 
She shot him a look, daring him to make a comment.  Wisely,
he remained silent.

"I can do my job," she said.  "Let's face it--you 
and Skinner don't trust me to carry my weight anymore."

Her statement pierced him like an arrow.  Trust was a magic
word in their own special vocabulary.  The truth was, if this
plodding case were to take a wrong turn tonight--if Dwight White
were to enter the bar brandishing a weapon and taking hostages--
Mulder wasn't sure that Scully would be physically able to 
do the job and that made him ache inside.  And the thing that
scared him most was that Scully truly believed she could do it.

"Would you tell us if you couldn't carry your weight?" he asked.

"Damn it, Mulder.  Give me a little credit.  Do you think I 
would put you in danger if I didn't think I could do my job?"

"Maybe that's the problem.  You do think you can do it all.
Look at you, Scully.  How much weight have you lost?"

Mulder realized he'd gotten loud when a bleary-eyed drunk at 
the bar glanced his way.  Leaning forward, he continued, 
voice lowered but no less intense.   "Do you think I don't 
know how tired you are all the time?  That I don't notice 
how drained you are at the end of the day?"

"I've never complained," she said stiffly.

"That's not the point," he said.  "You never complain.  You
get up and strap on the armor every day and soldier on. 
And one day you're going to quietly collapse, and I hope to
hell it isn't when some monster is coming at you."

"I don't need to be wrapped in cotton wool and put on a shelf.   
That's what this case is--a rest cure for poor invalid Scully."

"Nobody is putting you on a shelf.  But would it kill you
to take it easy for a while?"

Shit.

Scully's face was a mask of shock.  He'd said the words--the
ones they each had worked so hard to avoid--death, die, 
kill you.  Kill you. His words hung in the stale, smoky air, 
and he wished with all his heart that he could snatch back 
every stupid, insensitive one of them.  

"I'm sorry.  God, Scully, I'm sorry."

"Why?  It's the truth," she said, tears glistening in her
eyes.   "What do you want from me, Mulder?"  

"I want you to be honest with me," he said, echoing his 
words that night after the Spuller case.

She huffed out a little laugh, her eyes straying to the
bar before returning to him.

"Honesty.  That's such a lovely abstract, Mulder.  But 
the reality of it can be ugly."

"You think I can't handle the truth?" he asked in his best 
Jack Nicholson voice.  His quip didn't have the tension 
breaking effect he'd hoped for.

"I don't know...Maybe I'm the one who can't handle the truth.
I've tried to keep going, living each day and not worrying 
about what the next one would bring.  But sometimes it all 
starts closing in on me.  I think about how my mother is 
going to bury another daughter.  I worry about what's going 
to happen to you..."

"You shouldn't," he said.  

"What?  Think like that?"

"You shouldn't worry about me."

"Can't help it.  Comes with the territory."  She smiled at him
and he could almost forget how small and thin she looked.  He
could almost pretend she was well and strong again. 

His cell phone vibrated again.  He wanted to ignore it, hoping
that perhaps Scully would keep on talking, but they needed the
update on the suspect.  With a grimace, he pulled the phone out
of his pocket and flipped it open.

"Change of plans.  Our boy made a phone call and headed home.  You
can break for the night."
 
Mulder thanked the agent for the news.

"He's not coming.  We can go home."  

Scully nodded, finishing her club soda.  Discussion over, puzzle
box closed.  She began to slide out of the booth.  Mulder reached 
out and took her hand.

"It'll be okay," he said.

Scully nodded, squeezing his hand before she walked away.
 
 
End.

Thanks to Kel for beta and advice, and to Sybil for some 
truly grand public encouragement and nagging. The nagging 
was absolutely necessary to get the story written after 
my post Big Italian Wedding veg-out.