Title: Still Red as Red 
Author: E. Nairn 
Rating: R 
Keyword: Angst
Archive: If you liked the story, feel free to archive. 
Spoilers: The Truth. 
Summary: This story is a sequel to "The Beauty of Embers."

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"Abruptly the poker of memory stirs the ashes of recollection and
uncovers a forgotten ember, still smoldering down there, still hot,
still glowing, still red as red." 
- William Manchester


"You're still here?" Scully asks as she shifts position in the
hospital bed. A moan slips past her defenses; waking up is not easy
these days.

"You sound surprised," Mulder answers. From the day he came back two
months ago, Scully's looked at him as if he might vanish if she
closed her eyes. He can't blame her, really. His track record sucks.

"I thought you were going to get some rest, that's all."

He can tell from the way she's biting her lower lip that she's in
pain.

"Should I call the nurse?" he asks, but she shakes her head. 

"I can ride it out." She blows out a long breath. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine," he answers. "They're gonna toss my ass in a minute."

She hums a response, something she does when speaking even a few
words might cause her to lose focus on controlling her pain.

The chemo treatments have been brutal--terrible joint and muscle
pain, mouth sores and vomiting so bad she needed an IV after each
treatment to prevent dehydration. She's on a new medication that
seems to be keeping the nausea at bay, but it makes her sleepy.

Scully refuses pain meds as much as she can, because they interact
with the nausea meds and knock her out. Pain is, apparently,
marginally better than nausea.

As Mulder predicts, the nurse comes in to get Scully ready for bed
and shoots him a stern look. Visiting hours were over an hour ago,
but he usually stays until they force him out. With his most charming
smile, he nods at the nurse and bends over Scully's bed.

The little loop of tubing from her central line peeks out above the
neckline of Scully's pajama top. He hates the sight of it, the
knowledge of what it represents in her life.

"Good night," he says as he leans down kiss her bald head. "I'll be
back tomorrow."

"Okay," she replies. "Don't forget my green pajamas."

Her eyes seem unnaturally bright, so blue against her pale skin.
There is an ethereal quality to her beauty now.

With her head completely bald, the perfect shape of her head is
visible. Her eyelashes and brows survived chemo. After she lost her
hair, he'd teased her, saying she reminded him of the Deltan
navigator in the first Star Trek movie. She'd seemed mildly amused,
which had pleased him.

The air outside feels chilly after the overheated hospital. His body
registers hunger, so he drives to a diner and orders a cheeseburger
and fries.

He wishes Scully was there to disapprove of the cholesterol in his
meal. The food looks delicious when it arrives, but tastes like
sawdust as he tries to swallow around the lump in his throat.

When he came back months ago, Scully had finished a round of chemo
that she described as beyond horrible. Her hair had started to grow
in, though she was still frighteningly thin. She'd told him that she
was done--no more treatment, no more chemo, no more radiation. If the
cancer returned, she wouldn't fight anymore.

He'd been sure it was her guilt talking. Scully didn't want to live
anymore and deal with the pain of having given up their child. She
didn't much appreciate his psychological assessment of her and told
him to keep his opinions to himself.

When the night sweats started again and Scully found a new lump under
her arm, they both knew the gig was up. Scully's doctors ran tests.
The cancer was back.

He argued hard and long that she couldn't give up. She deserved to
live. She needed to move past the guilt and she needed to fight. Of
course, he'd have been a damn sight more persuasive if he hadn't left
her two years ago in New Mexico.

But Mulder was nothing if not persistent. It was a testament to his
ego and courage that he convinced Scully to undergo the clinical
trial her doctor found.

If he'd known the hell that she would endure, he'd have put a bullet
in her head to save her from the suffering and put one in his own to
save him from having to watch.

He finishes his food and flags the waitress to bring the check. He
drops some money down on the table and heads out to the parking lot.
He's tired, but it's too early to go back to the Scully house. Mulder
gets back in the car and drives to the 13 screen cineplex. He's seen
all the movies; this is one of his main time-killers. He decides that
the action flick could stand one more watching and shoves a ten
dollar bill into the metal trough at the ticket stand.

He falls asleep before the first big explosion, waking as the credits
roll. His legs feel stiff as he stands and yawns. It should be safe
now to go back to the house.

As he had hoped, everything is quiet when he unlocks the back door.
The kitchen is immaculate, dark except for the small light on the
stove. He opens the fridge and pours himself a glass of ice water,
downing it while he stands in front of the sink.

Mulder moves silently through the house. It's awkward for him with
Scully in the hospital. Margaret Scully tolerates him when Scully is
here. One evening, in an unguarded moment, she even thanked him for
all he'd done for Scully--carrying her up to bed when she was too
weak to climb the stairs, driving her to doctor appointments and
picking up prescriptions at the drugstore. But he knows that in her
heart, Mrs. Scully believes that in prolonging her daughter's life,
he prolonged her suffering.

This is, after all, the woman who, years ago, had her daughter's
headstone carved before they were sure she was dead and who had
Scully's life support turned off when he still held hope that she
would recover. Margaret Scully had seemed determined to close the
chapter on her daughter. Perhaps by burying Dana, her mother would
finally be able to stop worrying about her. But Scully had lived.
Scully still lived. If he says it enough, perhaps he can make it
continue to be so.

He's been sleeping on a inflatable mattress in Scully's room. Without
her breathing to listen to, Mulder lies awake and wonders what it
would be like if Scully died. Her mother would turn to the church and
grieve and move on. Mulder knows he will never really be able to move
on.

The years he spent away from Scully, first burning with anger and
finally caught up in his own guilt, should have served as a dry run
for mourning her death. But she had never been dead to him in that
time. That wasn't how it was at all. He always pictured her staunchly
going on with her life, not looking back at the things she'd lost,
but looking relentlessly forward. And maybe on some deep level, he
felt she was better off without him.

He'd been dead once, not that he remembered it. And then he'd been
apparently not dead, though it was hard to call what he felt "alive."
Now, the idea of living in a world that doesn't contain Dana Scully
something he can't imagine.

**********************

Three days later her doctor releases Scully from the hospital, or
more accurately, Scully won't take no for an answer and her doctor
agrees to release her. Mulder isn't convinced this is such a good
idea, but this round of treatment is over and there is nothing left
to do but wait.

Scully is frail, but her face is resolute as she throws items into
her bag. They have quite a collection of calibrated plastic cups and
little boxes of scratchy tissues from her various visits.

By the time they arrive home, it's apparent that she is operating
completely on adrenaline. Scully has exhausted all of her energy
reserves and can't get out of the car on her own steam. Margaret
Scully rushes ahead to unlock the front door, while Mulder carries
Scully inside. She feels, alarmingly, like a skeleton in a sweatsuit.

She sleeps all the time, hours during the day and then all night
long. Mulder spends the better part of his days watching her,
listening to her breathe, looking for signs.

She wakes long enough to eat a little but can barely keep her eyes
open. This afternoon, she's out like a light on the sofa, the TV set
to the soaps.

He's had a lot of practice watching over a sleeping Scully. It was a
secret pleasure of his, in those years of boring stakeouts and long
plane trips to feel the weight of her head on his shoulder and to
listen to her soft snuffles against his suit jacket. It pleased him
to see his starchy little partner unguarded and vulnerable.

But nothing beat lying next to her after they'd made love. In a role
reversal that would surely fascinate a psychologist, Scully would
routinely fall asleep, pretty much as soon as she came down off her
orgasm high, while he would be wired and awake for hours. So he'd
enjoy the opportunity to gaze at her while she couldn't get annoyed
with him.

Scully had the most amazing skin. He'd run the gentlest of hands over
its creamy surface, afraid to wake her, but unable to resist. If he
was lucky, she would stretch in her sleep, baring the prettiest
breasts he'd ever seen.

That seems like a hundred years ago. He's surprised to feel a sexual
stirring, something he thought was long dead. What kind of sick
bastard was he, anyway? Scully can barely walk ten steps and he's
thinking about sex.

In the two years he was away from her, he sublimated his urges,
running for miles late at night. He couldn't bring himself to
fantasize about sex with Scully, not when he'd forfeited that right
by leaving her. Women came on to him, but he mostly steered clear. It
was too complicated to answer their questions. Was he married or
single? Separated? Divorced? How could he explain that his status was
best described as "amputee."

"What are you looking at?"

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakes," he says. She turns on her side and
smiles drowsily.

"I'm sorry I can't stay awake," she says. "It must be boring for you.
Maybe you can get out for a while."

"I'm fine," he answers. "Catching up on 'my stories' and
reminiscing."

"Reminiscing? About General Hospital?"

"Yeah, I'm pining for the days of Luke and Laura. Actually, I was
remembering that stakeout in South Dakota. We had that rental car
with the broken heater and just about froze to death. Remember,
Scully? Scully?"

He looks over and smiles. She's fallen asleep again.

As the days go by, Scully spends more time conscious. He thinks she's
getting stronger, but fears that it's just wishful thinking on his
part. He watches her carefully, looking for signs.

Her face loses that deathmask look, the sharp lines softening just a
little. Her collarbones no longer look like they're going to poke
right out of her skin.

Scully's hair is growing in, too. It starts baby fine, the rusty
color reminding him of a ripe peach. He's sure she'd slap his hand
away if he tried to see if it is as soft as peach fuzz.

Then comes the stubble look, which Scully hates, muttering that it
makes her look she should be wearing flannel and reading Gertrude
Stein. The hair can't grow fast enough for her.

But finally, her hair has grown into soft, head-hugging waves, still
short, but looking gamine and sophisticated. It doesn't matter to
him. He thought she was beautiful when she was bald as a cue ball,
but Scully seems happier when she looks in the mirror.

He comes home from a trip to the grocery store to find Skinner's car
parked in the driveway. As Mulder carries the bags into the house, he
hears voices in the living room. He drops the bags on the kitchen
counter, squaring his shoulders before he makes his way to the living
room. Mulder stands in the doorway, watching Skinner sit beside
Scully on the sofa, his huge paws covering her small hands.

Seeing the two of them together like this slices through Mulder like
a knife. There is nothing sexual about their posture, but the
intimacy hits him square in the face.

"Hello, Mulder," Skinner says, rising to shake his hand as he comes
into the room.

"Hello, Walter. You're looking well." He's looking far too
comfortable in Margaret Scully's living room. Mulder wonders how much
emotional support Skinner provided Scully in the two years he was
missing.

"Thank you. I was on my way out. Why don't you walk me to my car?"

Skinner leans over to kiss Scully's cheek, giving her hands a final
squeeze. Mulder follows him out the door into the bright sunlight.

"Scully says she's feeling better. She looks so frail."

"She looked a lot worse a month ago. She's doing pretty well,
actually."

"She says you're taking good care of her," Skinner says scuffing a
toe in the gravel drive way. "Good. That's good. Don't hurt her,
Mulder, or you'll have me to answer to."

Mulder nods and watches Skinner drive away.

A few days later, Margaret Scully announces that she's going to San
Diego, "while Dana is feeling better," as if it's a temporary state
and she'd better take advantage of it before the bad times start
again.

Scully smiles and tells her mother to have fun and give her love to
Bill and Tara. Mulder tries hard not to hate Margaret Scully for her
lack of faith.

When Scully sleeps, he pores over cancer websites on the Internet. He
reads every survivor story, holding his breath when he gets to the
end of each story, hoping hard that there is no post-script added by
a family member notifying the reader of the date that so-and-so lost
their valiant battle with cancer.

What finally convinces him that maybe, just maybe, things are looking
up is the day he announces he's going for a walk and she says, "Hold
on, I'll come with you."

They walk all the way to the little market two blocks from her
mother's and buy fudgesicles that they eat on the way back. Mulder
can hardly contain his happiness.

Scully is far more cautious in her optimism. She admits to feeling
better and stronger and will even own up to satisfaction in the
changes to her appearance. But she won't allow him to open the
champagne he's had in the fridge for a week.

After a series of exhaustive and uncomfortable tests, it's time to
receive the verdict on the clinical trial.

She seems indifferent, numbed by the dashed hopes and bad news of the
past. His only clue to the fragility of her hope is her request that
he come into the consultation room with her. His throat is tight,
nervous sweat pooling at the waistband of his jeans as he follows her
into the room.

She grips his hand hard enough to break bones as the doctor looks up
from her test results and smiles. The news is good. The cancer cells
are gone. She's clear.

It's only as he drives them back to the house that he realizes that
everything is going to change.

From the day he'd come back, Scully had been fighting for her life.
They'd only skimmed the surface of what had happened to him, to her,
to them. And then she'd been sick and probably dying and there was no
point in dredging up old betrayals.

Scully seems too stunned, now, to speak at all. Her eyes are wide as
she stared out the windshield, hands clasped tightly in her lap. When
they get home, she wanders through the house, touching things,
picking up objects and then putting them down again.

"I should call my mother," she says but makes no move toward the
phone. It's a whole day until Scully makes the phone call. Mulder
finds something to occupy him in another room so he doesn't have to
listen to Scully's halting deliverance of the good news.

When she comes into the kitchen, where Mulder is hiding out and
drying the lunch dishes, she has her arms wrapped around her
midsection.

"Was your mom glad to hear the news?" he asks.

"Oh yes," Scully replies. "She's thrilled."

"That's good," Mulder offers as he places a glass on the shelf. 

"It is," Scully agrees. "She's going to stay for Matthew's preschool
graduation in a couple of weeks and then she'll come home."

There are so many unspoken issues between them, so many
uncertainties. But one thing is clear to Mulder--he'd better be out
of the house before Margaret Scully returns.

He tries to be quiet about it, but he starts looking in the Sunday
newspaper for apartment rentals. Maybe a condo would be a better
choice. He checks out a couple of decent places nearby.

He's in good shape financially. His parents estates left him with a
comfortable investment income, and Skinner has been talking about the
need for profiling consultants. Mulder may ready to look into that.
He'll need something to put his back up against soon.

He doesn't know why he's being secretive about it. Scully can't have
missed the rising tension level between him and her mother. Still,
he's taken aback when the issue surfaces.

He and Scully are eating lunch at the kitchen table, gooey grilled
cheese sandwiches and potato chips, the kind of food Scully disdained
back when she wasn't twenty pounds underweight. Scully takes a bite
of her sandwich, ducking her head to catch a thick glob of cheese
before it drops on the table. She takes a big gulp of cold milk and
fidgets with her napkin.

"I...um...I want to thank you, Mulder."

"Well, I do make a mean grilled cheese."

"You know what I'm talking about." She smiles, eyes directed down at
her plate. "I'd given up--stopped fighting. If you hadn't pushed me
to do the clinical trial...I wouldn't be alive."

"That was pure selfishness on my part, Scully. I wasn't ready to say
good-bye."

"I appreciate everything you've done. I know it's been hard for you."

"Scully..."

"I want you to know how grateful I am. You've done more than anyone
could possibly ask a friend to do. I don't want you to feel that you
owe anything more."

"Owe you. You think this was some kind of obligation?"

"I want you to be free."

"What am I? Some stray dog that you've got tied up in the backyard.
And now you're setting me free."

"Tell me something, Mulder. Would you have come back if Skinner
hadn't called you? Would you have stayed if I wasn't sick?"

He feels like he's been gutted, sliced open to bleed out at her feet.
He wishes he could give her an answer that would surprise her, but
that wouldn't be honest and she deserves the truth.

"I...I don't know."

Scully nods and rises to carry her plate and glass to the sink. She
stands, hands braced against the counter, her back to him.

"I saw you looking at the real estate section of the newspaper,
Mulder. I know you're ready to move on. I just wanted you to know
that it's okay."

She turns back to look at him and he catches the glitter of tears in
her eyes. But she has her brave face on, the don't pity me face, the
I'm strong face.

"I can't stay in your mother's house, Scully. She was never
comfortable having me here."

She opens her mouth, but he signals that he isn't finished. 

"I'm not leaving town, Scully. Just this house. The two places I've
looked at were less than a mile away. I thought, maybe...I wondered
if you'd consider coming with me."

"Come with you?" Scully said, as she came back to the table. She sits
across from him. "Mulder, you can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm serious. So serious I put a binder down on a two-bedroom
condo a few blocks away. I want you to come and see it."

"Mulder, you're crazy," she sputters, running a hand through her
short curls.

"It's been a long time since I heard you say that. I missed it."

She gives him a sad smile and shakes her head. "What makes you think
this would work? We didn't exactly make a go of things two years
ago."

"I know," he answers, reaching for her hand across the table. She
bites her lip, tears in her eyes. "Scully, you think I came back out
of guilt, and maybe I did. But that's now why I stayed. I...wanted to
be here with you. So, the question remains--do you want to be with
me?"

"Mulder, it's not that easy--so much has happened. I don't think
either one of us has come to grips with losing William."

"You had no choice, Scully. I knew that in my heart, even then. But
things were done to me. It was like I'd been hollowed me out. You
needed me, but there was nothing left but an empty shell." "What a
pair we are," she says. "The walking wounded."

"But we're still walking. That's something."

She doesn't say anything, just stares down at their joined hands. He
knows there's a staggering amount of crap that has to be dealt
with--for both of them. Maybe the pain and sorrow will be too much
for them to get through. But, god, he wants to try.

"You think we can do this?" she asks, her voice thick with emotion. 

"Well, you know me--I'm the eternal optimist."

This makes her laugh, a true laugh and not one of bitterness. She
wipes a tear with her free hand.

"I want to try," she says. "But I'm afraid."

"Don't be afraid. I'll be right there with you."

She rises and comes to stand before him. He pulls her onto his lap
and she offers no resistance. Her head is on his shoulder, her face
in the crook of his neck and he feels, more than hears her when she
finally speaks.

"Okay," she says, her breath warm against his skin. "We'll try."

The end.