Category:  Story, Romance, Angst Pairing:  Pendrell/Scully Disclaimer:  Don't
own 'em.  Chris Carter does. Spoilers:  For "Irresistible" Archive:  COLB okay.
Nowhere, else thank you.

Summary:  Some Pendrell/Scully schmoop for those who enjoy it.  Takes place
sometime in the fourth season.

============= THE FOUNTAIN by CiCi Lean, 1998 cicilean2@aol.com
==============


Three weeks before Mulder had ditched her for what she'd sworn was the last
time.  Of course, she'd been lying to herself, so when he did it again that Tuesday
morning, she wasn't surprised.

She decided to walk back to Headquarters from the crime scene.  It was only a
few miles away, and besides, Mulder had taken the car.

Dana Scully passed by rows of houses, some neat and well-cared for, some
decaying and forgotten.  Strolled by broken hydrants -- saw a pile of toys in a
garbage can, with Casper's one dangling eye staring mournfully at her from the
trash.

She thought about the body she'd dissected just hours before and looked away.

The Plaza came into view.  Long benches seated a scattering of workers on their
lunch breaks.  Most of them eating distractedly.  Staring at nothing.

Scully glanced at her watch.  It was just after twelve noon, and she remembered
that she hadn't eaten since the night before.  Her stomach grumbled, but her legs
refused to be inspired enough to carry her the extra mile to a nearby deli.

With a sigh, she found an empty bench and sat. Leaned back against the cheap
wood, painted with thick strokes of green.  Stared at a broken fountain, and
wondered how long its spouts had been rusted and dry. Wondered what it must
have looked like long before.

Wondered how long she could go on like this.

A low cough sounded to her right.  Scully started, then glanced up.

Felt herself flush with a tinge of embarrassment.  "Oh, hello, Agent Pendrell," she
said, letting the mask fall and cover her features.  It was a very useful mask, hiding
so many things, for so very long.

"Hello, Agent Scully," he replied, his cheeks pink.  "Um... are you... I mean, do
you...  may I join you?"  The words raced out on a short breath.

She nodded tightly.  Straightened out unconsciously and  slid over to give him
room.  Noticed that he sat down carefully, as not to bunch his trenchcoat beneath
him.

He held a brown paper bag on his lap.  "Nice day, isn't it?" he said plaintively,
staring straight ahead, at the fountain.

Scully nodded politely.  "Very nice," she lied.

"Are you on a lunch break?" he asked.

"No," she replied, wondering if she should create some excuse to rise and flee.
"In fact, I was just..." she began.

"Leaving," he interrupted, matter-of-factly.  Somewhat sadly.

Scully felt her cheeks flush.  Turned toward the man besides her, and stared at
him.  Saw a bright pair of eyes, huge and blue, set properly within an earnest face.
For a scant second, she wondered what he looked like when he laughed.

She shook the thought from her mind.  "No, I... it's just that..."  It was her turn to
stutter.

"That's all right," he continued, his tone kind.  His expression remained carefully
neutral.  Honest.  "I'm sure you and Agent Mulder are very busy.  I understand."

Scully bit her lip.  Yes, Mulder and I are busy, she thought bitterly.  Busy driving
ourselves to the edges of a singular dark place.  Taking and taking from one
another without perspective, stealing daily from one another's souls.

Day in, and day out.

"No," replied Scully.  Firmly.  "Mulder's not at work."  She hesitated.  "Or, at least,
he's not at work with me at the moment.  He's off somewhere, over there, I'm over
here, and to be frank, Agent Pendrell..."

She turned angrily toward Pendrell, expecting shock, expecting embarrassment,
but was amazed to find his expression calm.   Thoughtful.

"Yes?" he asked softly.

She drew in a sharp breath, and, to her great surprise, felt the ice within her melt.
"To be honest, Agent Pendrell..." she continued slowly.  Wetness pricking at her
eyes.

He nodded for her to go on.

"I'm starving," she finished. Helplessly.  "And I'm too tired to walk to the deli."

"Oh," he replied. Brightly.  He opened the brown bag that had been placed so
carefully on his lap.  "In that case, Agent Scully, I have just the thing you need."

He pulled out a neatly wrapped sandwich, with four sharp corners of wax paper
folded to perfection.  "This one is turkey," he said gravely.  "With lettuce and
mustard.  The other one..."

He pulled out a second sandwich, just as flawlessly ensconced.  "This one is
turkey as well, but with Swiss and mayo.  I was supposed to work late tonight, but
that's been canceled.  One sandwich was going to be dinner, but..."

He shrugged.  "You know how they get after a few hours.  Inedible, really."  He
looked at her hopefully.  "So, please, won't you take one of them off of my
hands?"

Scully stared at the offered sandwich.  Speechless.

 "You know," he said shyly,  "you can even take it back to the office with you.  I
won't mind a bit."

Scully almost laughed aloud at his gravity, and suddenly, the sun seemed much
warmer and brighter than it had moments before.

"Heck no," she said cheerfully, taking the first sandwich, unwrapping it, and took a
huge, quick bite, smiling at Pendrell's astonished expression.  "Like I told you,"
she said, her mouth full, her eyes twinkling.  "I'm starving."

He beamed back at her.   "Good, good," he said joyfully, and together they ate
lunch, not speaking, but, to Scully at least, there seemed to be no longer a need to.

==========

For the next two weeks, she met him daily for lunch.

Same spot, same time, same bench.  They alternated bringing the sandwiches, and
talked pleasantly of things that Scully thought she'd forgotten about completely.

Daily life.  The weather.  Their families.  Short, warm conversations floated
between them, without a single hidden meaning or agenda.  Scully reveled in the
normality, enjoyed the comfort of being more ordinary than she'd ever been
before, perhaps in her entire life.

Just a working woman.  Eating lunch.  The monsters locked away safely, for one
hour every day.

She noticed the smile that lit Pendrell's face when she spoke to him, and kept
wondering what his laugh sounded like.  She tried a few jokes, but he merely
raised an eyebrow at her, and she ended up being the one who laughed instead.

And each day, after they were finished, he walked her back to Headquarters,
pressing the basement button in the elevator for her, and the tenth floor button for
himself.

She was still smiling when she went back to work, back to Mulder, who she found
still bent over his files in the exact same position that she'd left him in an hour
before.

"We're going to Spokane," he said, without looking up.

"We are?" she asked.  "Why?"

"Donnie Pfaster's escaped," he said.  Drily.  Emotionlessly.

"Oh," she replied, the darkness falling, and enveloping her within it.  With a short
wave of her hand, Scully excused herself from the office, went into the
bathroom...

And quietly vomited her lunch back up into the toilet.

==========

Two nights later, Scully was sitting alone in a motel room, three thousand miles
away from any semblance of sanity.

Mulder had disappeared again, and she was alone.  Terrified.  Keeping her gun
within an inch's reach of her hand, praying she wouldn't shoot blindly at the first
person who knocked on the door.

She stared at her laptop screen, trying to work, but fear gnawed at her soul, and
kept her from seeing clearly. She blindly switched between screens, her fingers
cold and trembling on the mouse.  Checked her E-mail mindlessly, and was
surprised when it informed her of a message received.

Curious, she opened it.

"To:  dscully@fbi.gov From: bpendrell@fbi.gov Subj: For You

Dear Dana,

Thought you could use this. -- Brian"

Curiously, she downloaded the attachment, and before her opened up a "Virtual
Lunch."  A small drawing of a sandwich, wearing a tomato hat and a smile.

Scully smiled back at it, in spite of it all.  In spite of the fear and the cold and the
darkness.  She quickly typed a reply.

Promising to buy their next lunch.

========

She'd caught Pfaster in a funeral home just outside of Spokane proper, a pair of
scissors in his hand.  

When he leapt for her, she'd pulled the trigger without hesitation.

He screamed as he fell, screamed out that he was dying, dying, and he couldn't
believe that she'd killed him. He wailed loudly, crying out against death,
something he'd once loved with all the passion that his twisted soul could hold.  

Mulder had come running at the sound of gunfire, and caught the rattle of
Pfaster's last gasp.  Turned to his partner and stared as she carefully checked her
gun, and placed it back into her holster without a word.

Watched as she walked away without looking back.

In the lobby of the funeral home, Scully caught sight of herself in a huge mirror,
and saw a full length portrait of a slim, trembling woman dressed in black.  Saw a
salt-white face peering back at her, a masked face, hiding so many broken things
behind its smooth, cold exterior.  She kept walking. 

Drove back to the motel room alone.   

Switched on her laptop, and checked her E-mail.  Saw another letter waiting.

"To:  dscully@fbi.com From:  bpendrell@fbi.com

Dear Dana -- I was outside today, and wanted to test out the Lab's new instant
camera. Thought I'd send you the results.   BTW... I missed your company today.
-- Brian"

She downloaded the attachment, and watched as a fountain slowly came into view.

A broken fountain.  She stared at it for a long time and wondered how long it had
been dry.  How long it had been neglected, left alone to rot and rust.   Wondered
what it had once looked like, when it was new....  when it was still loved.

With a shaking hand, she closed the picture.  

Closed her eyes, lay her head down, and allowed herself to cry.

========

"I don't think they'll ever fix this fountain," was the first thing Pendrell said when
she arrived back at their lunchtime spot a few days later.

It was a very cold day, possibly the last one of the year to be eating outside in.

She nodded in agreement.  "It looks like it's been overlooked for a long time."

He accepted the sandwich she offered.  Took a small bite, chewing thoughtfully.
"It was probably very splendid once.  Look at the brass fixtures.  I'll bet they
looked like gold."

"The rest is copper," she noted.  "It's completely green now, but when it was first
unveiled it must have been..."

"Beautiful," he finished for her, his voice soft, and Scully felt a slight flush fill her
cheeks.

She stared at the food in her hands, acutely aware of the eyes fixed upon her.
Swallowed hard.  "It's getting very cold these days," she said, briskly.  "I don't think
we'll be able to eat outside anymore."

She glanced over at Pendrell, who turned away.  "No," he said quickly.  "We won't
be."

She felt a twinge when she saw him wrap up his sandwich, and carefully put it back
in the bag.  Gave him a questioning glance.

He shrugged.  Sadly.  "I'm not really that hungry today."

Scully nodded.  Looked carefully at him and tried to rationalize the ache in her
heart.  "We can eat in the lunchroom instead perhaps," she said feebly.

He shook his head.  "No.  I don't think I'd be comfortable in there."

"Me neither," she said softly, wishing that she'd followed her first instinct and ran
like hell the first day he'd asked to sit beside her.

"The spring will come, eventually," he said, his voice uncharacteristically thick,
his eyes too bright in the late fall sun.  "And who knows?  Maybe someday, in the
spring, it'll all be different."

He turned to her, his face pale. "And who knows, Dana? The fountain might even
be fixed by then."

She nodded, the tears stinging.  She placed her hand within his, and squeezed.
Hard.  "Yes," she said, her vision blurring.  "It might be."

He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed back. Smiled.  And for the first time,
Scully heard him laugh, a wonderful sound that warmed her straight down to her
bones.

"Besides," he said, placing a tiny kiss on the back of her hand and letting it go.
"I'm getting tired of sandwiches every day, aren't you?"

Slowly, Scully rose.  She put a hand under Pendrell's chin and tilted his face up
toward hers.  Shook her head. "No," she said, reveling in all the things that she'd
never noticed about him before. "No, I don't think that I am."

Saw him blush, a warm shade of pink, and he rose with her. Scully watched as
Pendrell fumbled in his coat, and pulled out a small coin, tossing it into the
fountain. It landed with a sharp "clink" at the bottom of the dry marble.

She raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged in reply.

"Just making a wish," he said warmly.  

He offered her his arm, and she hesitated.  Slowly, she reached up and took it,
sliding her hand through its warmth and together, they walked back to work,
leaving the bench, the fountain and a single wish behind.

===========

fini

cicilean2@aol.com





-----------------------------7d43dd3014004a
Content-Disposition: form-data; name="userfile"; filename="A:\FROZEN.TXT"
Content-Type: text/plain

Category:  Story, Angst Pairing:  Mulder/Scully Rating:  R for adult themes
Disclaimer:  Don't own 'em.  Chris Carter does. Archive:  Nowhere, thank you.
Feedback:  My muse starves without it.  Send to cicilean2@aol.com

========== FROZEN by CiCi Lean, 1998 cicilean2@aol.com ==========


It was ninety-five degrees in Arizona that morning, with the highway unraveling
endlessly before them, all gold sun and burnt umber sand. Bumps had been built
into the road as to keep careless drivers from falling asleep at the wheel, but
Mulder's eyes never even blinked at the monotony.

Scully ran her tongue lightly over her lips, dry cracks filled with red lipstick,
melted crimson silk, now waxy dull to the taste.  She pulled it in at every bump, to
avoid any bites.

//...miles and miles to go before I rest...//

There was only one body this time.

Two tourists, heavy with sweat and puffing under the shimmering heat had found
it, speckled with sand that blew away under the slightest wisp of air.  The body lay,
with stiff arms, hands, stretching upward through the sand, praying to a cruel sky,
the one without a solitary cloud to smile shade or rain upon the land below.  An
occasional lock of bleached hair wavered, then blew, across its sightless milk
blue eyes:  a mannequin modeling the latest style of death.

The scavengers had refused to touch it.

Scully tapped the file on her lap with self-manicured fingers, ragged cuticles
notwithstanding. She'd seen the photos, read the initial autopsy, spilt coffee on
two of the reports.  Held them up, dripping, over the garbage pail, as the victim's
face came into view, peaceful within her serene blue skin and coal iris stare.

No one knew who she was, the fingerprints hadn't been returned yet.  She was
christened underneath the scalpel, at it traced her name in blood across the Y-
incision.  

"Jane Doe" she was called now, along with the number of her file.

//...See Jane run...//

They'd discovered fingers, oddly white, bloodless, and blister-drenched.  Toes that
followed suit, and lips... lips so dry they cracked right in half to show
bloodstained teeth; two rows of rusted white.

//Victim's cause of death:  Severe hypothermia.//

"Hypo" means "more."  A foul diagnosis in a Puritan land.  "Thermia," Latin,
loosely meaning "temperature." Too much cold, too little warmth, everything else
too late.  Jane Doe was quite dead, killed by hypothermia, her body stiff and blue
underneath a relentless sun.

Jane Doe had frozen to death in the middle of an Arizona desert.

And Fox Mulder wanted to know why.

//...Run, Jane, run...//

=========

The body stank so badly by the time Scully had gotten to it, she nearly used the
cologne; a tiny spray of sweet chemicals she occasionally dotted into her mask,
only on bad days.  Like the bad days after the chemo, or the radiation, when she
knew her stomach couldn't take any stench other than the smell of her own
deteriorating body.  The smell of cancer, the smell of failure... the smell of her
own slow death.

But she was better now, and wanted to be brave again.  Young again. 

Alive again.

So, Dana Scully put the cologne aside.

She cut away at the stitches, sloppy Frankenstein lines cris-crossing rot, and dug
in with feeling. Gouging, scraping, weighing, prodding... finding nothing unusual.
As usual. The diagnosis was correct.  Every sign was clear, there was no mistake,
and Scully quickly grew bored.  Jane, sweet Jane, had been taken from a freezer,
dumped into the desert, and Mulder would more than a little disappointed.

With luck, the giant machine, the alien wizardry, he'd envisioned wouldn't be so
magnificent that it would blind him to dull fact.  Maybe this time he'd shrug and
nod, toss her the car keys and concentrate on the passing scenery as they flew
home.

Maybe this time she'd not hate herself for inspiring yet more danger and
restlessness in his eyes.

//Victim's cause of death:  Severe hypothermia.//

She clicked off the recorder before it had time to capture the sound of
instruments being thrown.

========

Mulder had greeted her in her motel room with a bottle of J.Roget, stolen from an
ancient mini-bar with a broken lock.  She'd taken a huge swallow, mindlessly, and
choked on the cheap froth that threatened her nostrils, breathing deep when done.

"I think that we should quit the F.B.I. and move here," he said, stretching out on the
bed, pulling the remote up from its Velcro place mat, and switching channels
aimlessly.

Scully took another long swallow.  Felt the dull throb of a headache form.  "She
was frozen, then dumped. That's my theory."

The Weather Channel came on, with an old man pasting sunny faces onto a dull
beige map.  Some of the faces wore sunglasses, looking happy over Arizona. The
others wore mitten and scarves, looking miserable and cold everywhere else.

//...Happy sun, sad sun...//

"I still think we should move here," repeated Mulder, reaching out for the bottle.

She handed it to him, but not without a final gulp.  Wondered if the mini-bar had
some wine left in it somewhere.  "I don't like the heat," she lied.

Mulder shrugged and switched to the Cartoon Network.  Watched as Tom and
Jerry beat each other with candlesticks. "It's a dry heat," he muttered, as Jerry
laughed while Tom refused to bleed.

She stared at him, and then took a surreptitious glance at his body, thin, long and
perfect over dull yellow polyester.  Momentarily pictured herself next to him,
then above him, straddling his thighs, teasing his buttons open. Picturing him
laughing beneath her, eyes bright.

//...Run, Jane, run...//

She turned away and reached for the bottle once more. Blindly.

He silently handed it to her. Flicked to the next channel, and a courtroom came
into view, filled with cameras, but no jury.  The judge was wearing makeup, her
lipstick green and runny-looking through the glimmer of the cheap screen.

Scully took a short, popping draw on the champagne, sputtered, and wished she'd
thought twice before starting to drink. She felt sick, not drunk.  Felt cold, without
a hint of warmth.  Glanced again at Mulder, who'd shifted onto his side, and was
staring at her, not sparing her the heat of his eyes.  Stripping her naked, without
crudeness or falsehoods, forcing her bare, ripping skin from white bone.

She put the bottle down.

//...Run, Jane run...//

"Sometimes," he began, and she remembered sitting in that first motel room with
him, candles burning, her robe drawn too tightly about her waist.  "Sometimes, I
think that you and I are both searching too hard for the same thing.  We start at the
same point, go in opposite directions, but stop before our destined meeting...
before we complete the circle."

Mulder rolled onto his stomach, and Scully noticed the smooth line of his back,
all spine and slim curves. She imagined the "shttttttttt" of her hand sliding down
the cotton of his dress shirt, down to where his belt, drawn too tightly about his
waist, would stop her.

She turned her gaze back to the television, and waited for the verdict instead.

//...See Jane run...//

Mulder spoke to the headboard.  "But, I think that you believe that we're traveling
in a straight line throughout all of this.  East and west, never the twain shall meet."

The judge's gavel clapped smartly throughout the room.

//Guilty.//

Scully picked up the remote and clicked the television off.  

She rose, wobbling slightly, but covered it well.  "She was frozen, then dumped...
that's still my theory," she said.  Coldly. 

Standing there, hating, no fearing, the heat that threatened winter's thaw.

"Of course," replied Mulder, tracing with a slim finger the outline of two lions
carved deeply into the headboard.  "That was my theory all along."

Scully stumbled back, just a tiny step, but recovered quickly.  "Good," she
breathed.  "Maybe you're right. Maybe we aren't that far apart after all."

"Maybe," replied Mulder, closing his eyes, as Scully nodded curtly in reply.

His eyes were still shut as she left the room without a backwards glance.  She
entered her own room, and hoped that the walls were thick enough to mask the
sound of thrown clothes, thrown shoes... thrown lamps.

Crawling into her bed without showering, Scully shivered.  It was very cold in the
desert at night, she thought to herself, trembling beneath her blankets, alone... her
bones shaking with frost, the skin pulled away, the whiteness bare. 

It was freezing.

Scully lay there for a long time, with stiff arms, stiff hands, stretching upward,
praying to a cruel ceiling of white, one without a solitary cloud to smile shade or
rain upon the woman below.  An occasional lock of tear-stained hair wavered, then
blew, across her sightless blue eyes... as if she were a mannequin modeling the
latest style of death.

As if she'd been frozen...

In the middle of a desert.

=========== The End.

All comments welcome. cicilean2@aol.com