Fin de Siecle

By  Brandon D. Ray
publius@avalon.net


DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT:  Anywhere is fine, so long as my name stays on
it and no money changes hands.

FEEDBACK:  Go ahead; knock yourself out.

SPOILER STATEMENT:  XF:  Millennium (Season 7); Millennium:  The Time
is Now (Season 3)

RATING:  PG

CONTENT STATEMENT:  Character Death (not Mulder or Scully).  MSR.
MulderAngst.  ScullyAngst.  A wee bit of MulderTorture for my dear
friend Vickie Moseley, who hasn't written to me in *much* too long ...
;)

CLASSIFICATION:  CRA

SUMMARY:   Based on reported spoilers for the Season 7 episode
"Millennium".  Crossover with the late, lamented TV series,
"Millennium".  The final scene in that episode, as processed through
my fevered, shippy imagination.  ;)

THANKS:  To bugs, Brynna, Shannon and Shawne, for beta services
extraordinaire.

DISCLAIMER:  In my dreams...


Fin de Siecle

by Brandon D. Ray


I've always hated hospital waiting rooms.

Even when I was a medical student, I hated them.  They're such tense,
unhappy places, full of people who have lost control of their lives.
Often it's through no fault of their own -- a friend or loved one was
simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and suddenly all of their
future hopes and plans and dreams are teetering on the edge of
disaster.

Tonight, I am one of those people.  Tonight, I have lost control.  I'm
sitting in this hard, uncomfortable seat, as far from the television
as I can manage.  I have little use for TV in the best of times, and
now, on New Year's Eve, I simply cannot bear to listen to the sounds
of happy revelers, or to Dick Clark's empty prattle.  Not while
Mulder's life hangs in the balance.

It wasn't supposed to go down like this.  Mulder and Frank Black and I
had it all planned; we had it all worked out.  We'd been investigating
this radical religious sect for days, ever since Black came to us with
his suspicions of their plans for mass murder and suicide at the turn
of the millennium.  I didn't believe some of the more outlandish parts
of Black's story, of course, but we had plenty of evidence to
establish probable cause, obtain a warrant and assemble an HRT team.

Four hours ago we made our move, and at first, everything seemed to go
like clockwork.  We freed the hostages -- ninety-nine innocent men,
women and children, scheduled for a horrible death only a few hours
hence -- and rapidly secured the compound.  The sect's defenders put
up surprisingly little resistance, and not a single agent's life was
lost.

It was during the cleanup that everything suddenly went to hell.  I
was in the temporary aid station we'd established, helping the
paramedics do a quick round of triage on the hostages, trying to
determine which of them were in most urgent need of medical
attention.  Mulder and Black were ferrying supplies and equipment from
the waiting ambulances to wherever it was needed, and I was thinking
that another hour or so and we'd be able to call it a night.

I was just finishing up my ninth or tenth patient, a nice little old
man in his early eighties.  There was really nothing wrong with him
that a good night's sleep and some solid food wouldn't fix, but
because of his age I'd earmarked him for an early transfer.  I was
just reaching out to squeeze his shoulder in reassurance, when I heard
Mulder shout.

I immediately spun around at the sound of my partner's voice, but for
a few crucial seconds I didn't see anything out of the ordinary.  Then
Mulder flashed by, with Frank Black close on his heels.  I trained my
gaze in the direction they were running --

And I saw a little girl, no more than eight years old, standing in a
group of other children, about twenty yards away.  And in her hand was
a grenade.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, and all at the same time.
I saw Mulder and Black approaching the girl in great leaping bounds; I
saw the girl's face take on an expression of malevolent triumph; I saw
her pull the pin; I saw the spoon go flying off into the darkness ....

And then Mulder was there, tackling the girl and covering her body --
and the grenade -- with his.  An instant later Black landed on top of
both of them.  I found myself running forward, not knowing what I was
going to do, but needing to do *something* --

There was a flash of light from beneath the small pile of bodies, and
the sharp crack of an explosion.  Automatically, I hit the dirt and
wrapped my arms around my head.  After an eternity of perhaps three
seconds, I rolled to my feet again.  People were screaming and crying,
there was smoke everywhere, and Mulder, Frank Black, and the girl were
lying still and silent a few yards away.

The ambulance ride to the hospital seemed to take forever.  I used my
status as an FBI agent and a doctor to bully my way onto the vehicle
carrying Mulder, and throughout the interminable, thirteen minute trip
I crouched by the head of the litter and held his hand, while the
paramedics worked frantically, starting an IV, checking his vitals and
doing all the other necessary things.  My hands itched to push them
aside, but this was their specialty, and I was determined that Mulder
receive the very best care available.

At last we arrived at the hospital.  The little girl was pronounced on
arrival, but Mulder and Black were rushed straight to the O.R.  And
for the past two hours and eighteen minutes I've been sitting here in
this damned waiting room, trying not to think.

And failing.

We should have checked the hostages.  Even as I was giving each one a
medical check, that thought hovered in the back of my mind.  It was
part of the protocol, after all:  Just because someone *looks* beaten
and miserable, and happens to be mixed in with bona fide captives,
that does not prove that she, herself, is actually a victim.  Not even
if she's a child of eight, wearing a Winnie the Pooh nightie and with
her hair in braids.

So we should have checked.  We truly should have.  But there were so
many hostages to care for, and we'd taken so many prisoners, and we
just didn't have time --

"Dana Scully?"

I'm drawn from my reverie by a female voice, and I look across the
room to see a woman standing in the entry way.  She's older than I am
-- perhaps 45 -- and she's wearing bloodstained hospital scrubs.  And
as soon as I see the expression on her face, I know what she's come to
tell me.

No.

I keep repeating the word in my mind as I rise mechanically to my feet
and walk across the room towards her.  No, I think, and that's all.
No.  No.  No.  I close to within handshaking distance, and I allow her
to take my hand briefly in hers.

"I'm Dr. Bates," she says quietly -- and whatever doubts I may have
had as to her errand are banished by the tone of sorrow in her voice.
"Won't you please come with me?"

I nod, and numbly I follow her out of the waiting room and down the
hall.  My feet move steadily, each step bringing me closer to the room
where it will be made official that Fox Mulder is dead.

Finally, Dr. Bates stops and opens a door.  She ushers me across the
threshold, and I find myself entering a small conference room, where
perhaps a dozen chairs are spaced evenly around a long table.  There's
a painting on the wall, a reproduction of a Picasso, the title of
which I used to know, but no longer remember.

And of course, there is me.  And Dr. Bates, who is apparently waiting
patiently for permission to break the news.  I take a deep breath, and
feeling like a condemned prisoner, I force myself to turn and look at
her.

"Ms. Scully," she says, a look of sadness on her face, "as I said, I'm
Sylvia Bates.  I'm the Chief of Thoracic Surgery here, and I was in
charge of your partner's case."  She pauses, and I nod woodenly for
her to continue.  Let's get it over with, I think.  She nods slightly,
as if he had read my mind, and continues, "And I'm very sorry to have
to bring you this news, but we were unable to save him."

Time seems to stop.  I know that I'm still alive, because I can feel
my heart beating in my chest.  I know that I'm still alive, because my
lungs are continuing to draw in air and push it out again.  I know
that I'm still alive, because I can feel my soul shattering into a
million pieces.  I know that I'm still alive, because I can feel a
single tear trickling down my right cheek.

Oh, Mulder --

"Ms. Scully?"

I realize that Dr. Bates has continued speaking, but I didn't hear a
word -- I was too lost in my own mounting grief.  I force the emotion
aside, and turn my attention back to her.  "I'm sorry," I say,
struggling to keep my voice calm and level.  "I ... I'm sorry.  This
is very ... difficult.  What did you say?"

"I understand," she replies gently, in a tone of voice that says she
really does understand.  "And I am so sorry about your loss.  And I do
hate to bother you with this, but we need to contact the next of kin.
Was Mr. Black married?"

For a few seconds my heart *does* seem to stop.  Black.  Frank Black.
She's asking me about Frank Black.  *That's* who she brought me in
here to talk about.  Not Mulder.  Not Mulder.  Oh, God.  Not Mulder --

"Ms. Scully?"

Once again I focus my attention on the doctor, to find her looking
right back at me, an expression of concern on her face.

"I'm sorry," I say again.  She's nodding sympathetically, but she
still doesn't realize her mistake -- and until I hear her say the
words, *I* won't be absolutely certain, either.  "Dr. Bates ...."  My
voice trails off, and I have to pause to swallow the lump that has
lodged in my throat.  "What about ... what about the other man?  Fox
Mulder."

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and she says, "Mr. Mulder?  He's
doing fine.  Just a few fragments in the shoulder; one of the
residents took care of it."  She glances at the clock.  "He should be
in Recovery by now."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath as the world reassembles
itself.  He's alive.  Mulder's alive.  I know it's completely
inappropriate, under the circumstances, but I can't keep a crazy grin
from spreading across my face.  I open my eyes just in time to see Dr.
Bates' features change from puzzlement to a mix of shock and
embarrassment as she slowly begins to realize what she's done.

"Ms. Scully," she says slowly, "Frank Black *is* your partner, isn't
he?"

I shake my head, still smiling.  I know it's wrong to be so happy.
Black had a daughter, and now she will be an orphan, which is at least
as great a tragedy as my own loss would have been.  But I just can't
help myself.  I just can't fight the waves of joy that are sweeping
through my system.

"I'm terribly sorry," the doctor begins, but I cut her off with
another shake of the head.

"It's okay," I say.  And it really is okay, because during those few
terrible seconds when I thought Mulder was dead, something changed
inside of me; something crystallized.  The emotions had been there for
years, of course, and I've been consciously aware of them for months
-- ever since the Padgett case.  I've not acted on those feelings for
a number of reasons, but now, tonight, everything seems to be falling
into place.

It's time.

I look once again at Dr. Bates, fidgeting uncomfortably in front of
me, and I suddenly remember the question she asked me about Frank
Black's family.  She needs to contact his family.

Unfortunately, I don't know how to do that.  I've only known Black for
a few days.  Fortunately, I know someone who does know how, or who at
least will be able to find out:  Skinner.

I glance around the room, then grab a notepad and pencil from the
conference table and scribble Skinner's name and cell phone number on
it.  I hand the pad to the doctor, who still seems stunned by her own
error.  I want to reassure her; I want to make sure she understands
that I'm not angry over what just happened, that it was an
understandable mistake.

But I just don't have the patience.  I want to see Mulder.  I *need*
to see Mulder.  Nothing else seems to matter right now.  And so I ask
her where he is, and then I'm out the door and heading back up the
hall.

Thirty seconds later, I'm standing outside of Recovery Room 3.  The
door is standing partway open, far enough for me to see that the
lights are out.  For a moment I hesitate, wondering if Mulder might be
asleep.  Even if he only has a comparatively minor shoulder wound,
he's still had a rough time of it.  Maybe I should let him sleep ....

I shake my head firmly, pushing the thought away.  I know myself too
well for that.  If I walk away from this, by morning my walls will be
up again, and things will just continue as before.  I've had this sort
of experience in the past; I *know* what will happen.

With more confidence and determination than I really feel, I reach out
and push the door the rest of the way open.  Then I step forward
across the threshhold and into the room.

I pause just inside the doorway.  Instinctively, I fumble for the
light switch, but then I stop myself.  The illumination coming in from
the doorway is more than enough for me to see ....

Mulder.

He's alive.

I don't think I've ever seen anything so beautiful in all my life.  My
partner is lying in bed, the covers pulled up to his armpits.  He has
an IV in the back of his left hand, and judging by the extent and
thickness of the bandages on his right shoulder, his injuries are even
less serious than I'd imagined from Dr. Bates' description.

He's alive.

Even as those words repeat themselves in my mind, Mulder is turning
his head to look at me.  I see his eyes widen slightly, and the
expression of relief that washes over his face is unmistakable -- and
then a slow smile starts to form on his lips.

He's alive.

"Scully," he murmurs, lifting his hand and reaching towards me.
"You're ... here.  You're okay."

I feel my eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  *I'm okay?*  But I quickly
realize that he had no way of knowing that, and that he's probably
been just as worried about me as I was about him.

"Yes, Mulder, I'm okay," I say, starting to walk slowly towards him.
What I really want to do is run across the room and throw myself at
him -- but that wouldn't be me.  It wouldn't be us.  I go on, "I
didn't even get a scratch."  I reach his bedside and take his good
hand in both of mine, and look deeply into his eyes.  "I really am
okay."

He nods slowly.  Then, very softly:  "You have no idea how ...
relieved I am to hear that."

"I think maybe I do," I reply, just as softly.  Abruptly, tears are
forming in my eyes -- the tears I didn't shed a few minutes ago when I
was talking to Dr. Bates.

"Scully?  What's wrong?"  Mulder frees his hand from mine and reaches
towards my face in an apparent effort to wipe away the tears that are
beginning to trickle down my face.  I catch his hand before he gets
there, though; I need these tears, and for once I'm willing both to
acknowledge them, and to allow him to see them.

For a moment my partner looks puzzled, and I realize he doesn't
understand why I stopped him from offering what he intended as a
gesture of comfort.  By way of reassurance, I bring his hand the rest
of the way to my face, and gently kiss his knuckles.  He looks
surprised at this open show of affection, but then he smiles again,
and nods.  And for a few moments, neither of us speaks.

Finally, Mulder breaks the silence.  "Scully?" he repeats, squeezing
my hand.  "I'd still like to know what the matter is.  Why are you
...."  His voice trails off; apparently he can't quite bring himself
to ask me why I'm crying.  But I'm going to answer him anyway.

"Mulder," I say, swallowing back another lump in my throat.  "Frank
Black died."

There's another moment of silence while he seems to process my
statement.  Finally, he nods, and says, "I'd guessed that might be the
case.  He was lying right on top of it when it went off."  He twines
his fingers with mine.  "It's always hard when that happens," he
murmurs, almost as an afterthought.

I nod.  "Yes, it is."  I hesitate, then continue, "Mulder, how long
did they have?"

He cocks an eyebrow at me in puzzlement.  "How long did who have?"

"Black," I reply.  "And his wife.  How long did they have together?"

He furrows his brow in thought, then shakes his head.  "I'm not
exactly sure," he says.  "I think they were newly married back when I
first knew him, when we were in the VCU together.  And she died ... it
must have been early '98.  Call it ten years?  That sounds about
right."

"Ten years.  They were very fortunate."  That isn't all I want to say,
but for the moment it's all I can get out.

"Yes," my partner replies.  "Yes, they were."

I stop and think about it a moment.  From the expression on his face
and his tone of voice, I'm almost certain Mulder is thinking about the
same thing I am:  that we haven't had our ten years.  That if one of
us had died tonight, we would have been denied even ten seconds.  He
has to be thinking that.  Just for tonight, we have to be on the same
page.  Just for tonight ....

Again, I shake my head and push the thought away.  Mulder and I know
each other very well, but we're not perfect.  There's no way for me to
know with certainty that he's feeling the same things I am -- unless
I'm willing to take the risk of asking.  And so I take a deep breath,
and take the plunge.

"Mulder, I thought it was you tonight."

He nods, and says, "I know.  I'm sorry you --"

I shake my head and cut him off.  "No, you don't understand.  I wasn't
just afraid for you; I *thought* it was you.  I *knew* it was you."
My tears are starting to flow again, more heavily than before, but
somehow I manage to keep my voice steady.  "They told me it was you --
that you had died.  Not ten minutes ago, a doctor took me to one side,
and said that my p-partner ....."

And now I *do* break down.  My throat closes up, and my shoulders
start to shake.  I close my eyes, but for once I'm determined not to
hide from this.  I'm not going to hide from my feelings, and I'm not
going to hide from Mulder.

It's time.

I force my eyes open again, and I look down at my partner, to see that
he's looking right back at me.  Something has changed in the room,
just in the last few seconds.  There's a light in his eyes that I
haven't seen there in ages, and the expression of awe and wonder on
his face banishes the last of my doubts.  This is right, and Mulder
does understand.  It really is time.

I let go of Mulder's hand long enough to lower the siderail on his
bed.  He raises an eyebrow at me, but doesn't say a word as I sit down
on the bed next to him.  We both know where this is going.

"New Year's Eve, Scully," he says, very softly -- and now it's my turn
to raise an eyebrow.  "Out with the old, in with the new," he
explains.  "A time of renewal.  A time of fresh starts.  It's always
been a very important time for me."  I nod my understanding, and he
lowers his voice and continues, "It's 11:59.  Which do you want it to
be?"

"Which do I want what to be?"

He smiles.  "The kiss," he says simply.  "It can be the last kiss of
the old year, or the first one of the new.  Which do you want it to
be?"

Now I get it, and I smile back.  We really are on the same page.  And
as I lean down to offer my lips to him, I murmur, "Can't it be both?"

"I'd like that very much," he whispers.  And then our lips meet, and
there's no more talking.



Fini

--
"What he's given us, Mulder, is a rock. Alex Krycek is a liar, and a
murderer."  -Dana Scully, "Tunguska"
===========================
So far as I know, my fanfic has never murdered anyone, though:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyStories.html

And my fanfic recs certainly don't lie:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyRecs.html