Frozen Hearts

SUMMARY: Continuation for the wonderful episode, "Paper Hearts". Rating for later chapters. MSR


SPOILERS: "Pusher", "Paper Hearts"


A/N: My second attempt of writing an X-Files story. I was watching "Paper Hearts" yesterday and got this little idea, which I just had to put on the paper. Or screen. Anyway. This story is from both Mulder and Scully's points of view.

Even though Scully in this story is not too fond of Jane Austen's works, I do adore them. :)

Reviews and ratings desired, flames will be ignored.


Frozen Hearts
by MrsSmeagol


I stared at the small heart shaped piece of fabric in my hands. It's not Samantha, I told myself for the millionth time that day, and for the millionth time that day, I could not believe what I said. I ignored the soft knock and kept staring at the heart. I heard my partner's footsteps and silently pleaded her not to say anything. Still, I wished that she would say something - anything. Sometimes it was enough just to hear her voice, just to know that she was still there. She put a file on my table, her voice finally reaching my ears.
"I got back some lab results. The dye analysis determined that the fabric of the last heart was manufactured between 1969 and 1974 but beyond that, there's nothing more they can tell us. Mulder, it's not Samantha - and whoever that little girl really is, we'll find her."
I still refuse to meet her eyes, keeping my gaze locked into the piece of fabric.
"How?" I asked softly, not quite trusting my voice.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I do know you."
I finally met her eyes with my own. I could drown in those blue depths and die happy. I lowered my eyes and continued staring at the heart as if it could tell me where my sister was.
"Why don't you go home and get some sleep?" she asked softly.
I felt a laughter escape my lips. My dreams were what had got us involved with this case in the first place. I could hear her answer my laughter with one of her own.


Let me confess something. I love my partner's laughter. Hell, I love everything about her. Anyway, her laughter. It makes me believe that there is absolutely nothing in the world that could hurt me. It makes me believe that there is nothing that could come between us. It makes me believe that she just might have some feelings for me, too.


I reached my hand around her waist and hugged her, pressing the side of my face tightly against her flat stomach. I could feel her hand stroking my hair gently for a couple of times before she walked out of the small office, sensing that I needed some more time alone. I looked after her for a while, feeling the smile on my face slowly die. With a sigh, I gently laid the last heart on the top of the papers in a drawer. I let my fingers glide on the surface of the plastic bag sealing the piece of evidence inside itself before closing the drawer.


I could hear my partner's words go through my head. She knows you, I told myself, she trusts you to find the answer. I managed to smile again. What would she do if she knew that she was the only reason why I still was able to keep going with this quest of trying to find my sister? What would she say if she knew that she had become dearer to me than Samantha?


I slowly shook my head. I needed a drink. Two drinks. Hell, make that a bottle of vodka. Or two bottles. That way, I could have something else to think at least. Something else than my sister. Something else than my beautiful, petite partner. The partner who I cared for far more than I cared for myself. The partner who I loved so much. I shook my head, again, this time almost violently. Without giving it another thought, I picked up my coat and left the office.


I was not sure how long I had spent in that bar. I could not even remember the name of the bar. Hell, I could barely even remember my own name. With a sigh, I lifted my face from my hands and waved for the bartender.
"One more."
He arched his eyebrow but did as he was told. "Bad day, huh?"
"Something like it."
"Problems at work?"
I sipped from the vodka shot and ignored the bartender.
"What do you do for living, anyway?"
"I'm an FBI agent."
"You like your job?"
"It's my life."
"Problem with the ladies then, eh?"
The image of my red-haired partner immediately flashed in front of my eyes. I poured the rest of the drink into my mouth, feeling it burn its way down. With a slight grimace, I nodded. "Kind of."
Another customer called for the bartender and I buried my head back into my hands.


"Is your wife cheating you or something, handsome?" a female voice asked right from his side.
He lifted his eyes and saw a young blonde with huge blue eyes, watching him intently.
"Or are you cheating her?"
He smiled grimly. "I'm not married."
"A girlfriend then?"
"Not really. We work together and we just had one hell of a tough day."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"What's your name, by the way?"
"Mulder. Fox Mulder."
"Sammy Miles, pleasure to meet you Fox."


- - - - - - - - - -


I checked my cell phone for the millionth time that night and for the millionth time that night I was disappointed to notice that he had not called. I sighed and curled into a small ball under the comforter, trying to sink into the sofa. All I could think about was my partner. God, how I had wished to stay there with him, not to let go of him ever again. Yet, I knew that he needed his time alone. He needed to process all of this. I could only wish that he would not do it with a bottle of vodka and some cheap blonde. I did not expect him to come to speak with me about this whole thing, no. I had known him way too long to even consider that he might do that. I had noticed that whenever I was feeling especially down, it was enough for me just to be with him. It did not matter if we were in a rental car, that office basement or Skinner's office, just as long as he was there. No words were necessary, either. We were long past the point of having to communicate with them. The smallest of gestures would tell all that we needed to know. A frown, a hint of a smile - a gentle touch.


I sighed and reached for my cell phone, in order to check it once again. Nope. Nothing. I slowly picked up the book, which I had been reading and opened it, trying to continue reading it. I had never learned to love Jane Austen and even now, I was almost physically sick with "Emma". With another sigh, I forced myself to focus.


"Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr and Mrs Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune."


Where could Mulder be? I could almost see him sitting in some crummy bar with an empty glass in front of him, his head buried into his hands. The cases dealing with missing children were almost hard for him but I had never seen him like this, like he had been with John Lee Roche. Mulder had fallen straight into his trap.


"Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr and Mrs Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune."


God, I hoped he would not attempt to do anything stupid. I could still remember how easily he had fired the gun pointing to his own head when he was under the control of Robert Patrick Modell. It seemed almost as if he would have practiced it. What if he was in his apartment now, a gun in his hand? No, no. He wouldn't do that to me. Or would he?


"Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr and Mrs Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune."


What if he had found someone at the bar? I was sure that he had gone to one. I knew that a guy as attractive and handsome as my partner would definitely found himself company if he wanted to. And he probably wanted. I couldn't really blame him, though. I would not mind, either, if someone would share my bed this night. Preferably, that someone could be a tall, dark, handsome FBI agent called Fox William Mulder. I actually blushed at the thought.


"Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr and Mrs Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune."


I could call him. Just to make sure that he had not blown his head off and that he was not about to do it.
Damn it, Dana, you only want to know that he is home alone.
What if I did want to know? What if I was jealous of him? What if I was sick of all those busty, tall blondes, those women that caught his attention - those women that were everything that I was not? What if I wanted him to be mine and mine only? What if I had fallen in love with him so long ago that I could not remember what my life was like without him? What if he was the last thing going through my mind at nights and first thing I thought of when I woke up?


Yes, sometimes I could have killed him. He could call me at 6 AM on Sunday, expecting me to be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. He ditched me almost always when we were working on a case. He always expected me to be ready to perform an autopsy - even when I did not know the first thing about the case. And his theories? God, sometimes I think that he makes them up just in order to annoy me. Yet, I still love him.


One phone call would not kill anybody, would it?


I reached for my cell phone and I was just about to press the speed dial button, when I heard a soft knock from her door. Quickly, the cell phone was replaced with my gun. I switched the light off and began walking towards the door as quietly as I could. Another knock. A quick look through the peephole. The hallway was dimly lit, yet I had no problem in recognizing the man standing in front of my door. I opened the door, unconsciously cocking an eyebrow at him.
"Mulder."
"Scully," he answered, meeting my gaze.


It is amazing, how many meanings my partner was able to include within those two syllables. It was an apology and a greeting at the same time. Yet, there was something more there that I could not exactly recognize. It could have been the slurring - he was definitely drunk. Still, disheveled or not, my partner was unbelievably attractive man. He was wearing the same clothes he did at the office. He smelled faintly of smoke and perfume that definitely was not mine. How could it have been mine, anyway?


"May I come in?" he asked softly, bringing me back from my thoughts.
"Sure."
I switched the lights on and watched him hang his coat and run a hand through his hair.
"What are you doing here at this time of the night, Mulder?"
"Did I wake you up?"
"No, you did not, but it's still past midnight."
"I'm sorry. Do you want me to leave?"
"No, it's ok. Want some coffee?"
"Yeah. Sure."


He followed me into the kitchen. I could feel his eyes on me all the time as I was making coffee. First, I was incredibly uncomfortable with the feeling but slowly I began to almost enjoy it. At least, now I had his attention. Soon, I sat down on the other side of the table, handing him a mug of coffee.
"You have been drinking."
It was not really a question.
"Yes, I have."
We both sipped from our mugs, never breaking the eye contact.
"I had a reason to come here, you know," he told me after a couple of minutes of silence.
I gave him a questioning look.
"I wanted - no, needed to speak with you."
"About what?"
He ignored my question. "I needed to see you, Scully."


For my utter surprise, he reached over the table, touching my cheek gently with his fingertips, caressing it gently. I barely managed to keep from leaning closer to his touch.


Why had he come?