By Amanda Finch
[email protected]

CATEGORY: XRA
RATING: R (Violence, Language)
KEYWORDS: Alternate universe, MSR, Mytharc, casefile
SPOILERS: Mytharc, FTF, Sixth season characters, but no US6 spoilers after
The Beginning. Minute spoilers: Fallen Angel, Young at Heart, Grotesque,
Oubliette, Paper Hearts and The Field Where I Died
DISCLAIMER: Raise your hands if you think they're mine. <hands don't raise>
See? That's what I thought. (The ones you don't recognize, however, are mine
oh mine.)
SUMMARY: Fourth story in the "Out of..." cycle. Mulder, in the center of the
vortex, thought he knew how to play the game until a new contender changes
the rules.
ARCHIVE: Yes. Pertinent info attached.

You're going to be terribly lost if you try to read this without at least a
cursory knowledge of the previous stories: Out of (1) Sorrow, (2)...Patience
and (3)...Focus. These three stories and any missing parts of the following
story can be found at my archive:

http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Chamber/7335/ficlist.html

Author's notes follow story.

xxxxxxxxxx
"Can't run no more
with the lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they've summoned up
a thundercloud
and they're going to hear from me."
-- Leonard Cohen, "Anthem"
xxxxxxxxxx

(01/16)

Washington, D.C.
02/07/99
6:34 A.M.

She woke me up as she crawled back into bed. My eyelids sensed a brightness
outside that suggested dawn, so I didn't open them. She should know by now
that the quickest way to wake up a paranoid person was to sneak around.
Apologizing for waking me, I felt her soft pull at the bedspread. These
sleepy dropped consonants and half-words were a comfortable second language,
and sometimes even they were extraneous to communication. She'd gone to bed
with wet hair again, and I vaguely remembered having something to do with the
fact. I leaned my face towards the scent of her shampoo on the linens,
towards her smell, anticipating hair. She made a soft sound. It caught my
ear once and then took on uneven rhythms. She was wheezing. My eyes flew
open then, concerned. A cold blue stare fixed on me as her blood ran out
through her mouth in a sputtering flow, exhaling something that smelled more like
betrayal than blood.

I reached for her, an inarticulate cry tearing from me as I got her blood on
my fingers. It marked her smooth forehead as I touched her face. The wet
warmth of it felt so *real* against the chilled damp of her skin -

Shocked, I echoed the movement as I reached across the emptiness for someone
who wasn't there. I was the one wheezing. A bright red stain had spread onto
the pillowcase. I matched it to the coppery taste on my tongue. The
darkness spread in me, and I put my face back down in my own blood. I was
use to nightmares yanking me out of sleep to a reality that was a relief in
comparison. Now the nightmares waited for me to wake up.

Get up, I told myself, and obeyed. Muscles, bones and joints retaliated. I
stumbled across the bedroom, caught myself on the sink. I didn't look at the
mirror. It wasn't worth it to frighten myself with my unrecognizable face.
Three handfuls of water later, the taste in my mouth was gone, but still
clinging to some inaccessible place at the back of my throat. My painkillers
looked tempting, but they made the dreams worse, and my sleep deeper. I
rose, the water still dripping from my face as a soft shuffle beyond the wall
caught my ear.

Someone was in the house.

I took my gun from the nightstand next to the bed. The change of events was
almost a relief. How nice of them to come to me instead of my having to make
a trip out of shooting him. Or her, I reminded myself.

(Yes. Or her.)

I heard them walk in and out of the bedroom-turned-office we used for work.

They were close now. I raised the gun and rounded the corner.

Maggie Scully's coffee mug shattered at my feet as she screamed. I yanked my
aim hurriedly, arms up and pulled back. I shoved the gun wordlessly into my
waistband and walked around her to get a towel out of the kitchen. She
watched me for a minute, before dropping down to gather the pieces in her
hand. I dropped the towel on the spreading stain, kneeling down next to her
to soak it up.

"I'm sorry - I wasn't expecting you until noon." I wadded up the towel in my
hands, not meeting her eyes at all.

"I have keys...I just let myself in. Why don't you sit down?" She reached
for the towel. "And I can - "

"It's fine." I moved past her quickly, limping slightly, head down. I threw
the towel in the hamper and came back, running my hand through my too-short
hair. They'd had to cut it close for the stitches. I don't know what had
startled her more: me or the gun.

"You didn't tell me you were hurt, Fox." It was said like an accusation,
addressed to the tape around my ribs, pull tightly around my shoulder, still
aching from the dislocation.

Like that would've come up in the course of the conversation.

She put her hand up, towards my shoulder, and I flinched before her fingers
even touched down, taking one step back.

"Are you on something?"

I shook my head. "Not right now."

"You shouldn't even be at home," she said angrily. "You should be in the
hospital - "

"Mrs. Scully - "

She kept walking, and the ceramic shards of the mug all clinked together into
the trash can. "What doctor in their right mind would discharge you looking
like - "

"I'm alright." I grabbed her arm as she walked by, looking her hard in the
eye now. "How are *you*?"

For a split second, she just stared at me. I should've known what would
happen next. She made this sound in her throat, like the beginning of an
apology, and started sobbing. Just like she had on the phone when I called
her and told her the news.

("Mrs. Scully...Dana's gone again.")

(I can't do this.)

She sank down onto Scully's couch and half-hid her face with one hand. I
pulled several Kleenex out of the box, but she didn't take them. Sitting
down next to her, I wondered what to say. The darkness spread a little more.
I could only imagine how a mother felt in circumstances like these, from
having watched my own mother. I was just the partner, the person Scully
worked with, who had become more in the last few months, or maybe the last
few years. Maybe they weren't sure. Her pain had to be greater than mine,
and I was dying.

It was my fault. I wondered if she was thinking that.

She took the Kleenex and wiped frantically at her face with all of them.
"Charlie's going to be here with the kids in an hour. And Bill's supposed to
be flying in tonight with Tara - " She watched my face. She found nothing
there.

"I don't plan on being around, Mrs. Scully."

"I'll talk to Bill - "

"No. I'm not going to be here." The words were sufficiently firm now. "I
can't be."

"In your condition?"

"I look worse than I feel." That was a lie. I wanted her to tell me it was.
I wanted her to accuse me of not wanting to face Charlie, and Bill, and
their wives and kids with my responsibilities and explanations. Maybe I was
unsupportive. But I think she knew that the only woman - the only person -
who could get through to me right now was -

I clenched my jaw. Hard.

"Will you call me here if you find something?"

"Of course."

"Even if it's not - "

I intervened quickly. "I'll call."

She watched me cross the room intently. The aim now was to get to the
bedroom before she thought of a good way to phrase what it was she wanted to
say.

"Fox?"

I sighed, and regretted it instantly, holding my lungs in like they might
spill. I didn't turn all the way around.

"Don't you want to talk about this?"

She did. She asked the question and I just heard please, please, please. Who
was going to listen? Charlie? Bill? No one. Maybe I knew and understood.

Or she was mistaken.

"I want to find her first." I held my ribs, feeling as if I was protecting
myself. I would *not* break here. She couldn't make me. I knew what a
nervous breakdown felt like, and if I slipped away too long, I felt one
knocking on my brain like it wanted in. I couldn't afford to collapse.
Precious time had been lost in the hospital, on the flights. Time was being
lost here, right this minute.

And time would lose her, little by little, if I didn't get off my ass and fix
what I fucked up. I was still standing there, immobilized by pain and thought
from leaving her scrutiny.

"Where are you going to go?"

I had no ticket on the nightstand. I had no answers in my head. I didn't
know where to begin or how. No leads, no avenues of investigation to
exhaust. I'd been to the airport in Nebraska. I'd been to the airport in
Minot. I went to that silo as far as the fences and guards would let me. I
didn't have one ounce of instinct to tell me what my next move should be.
That scared me almost as much as the fact that I didn't know where Scully
was. Like a connection had been lost.

I let my arms falls to my sides. "I'm going to a funeral."

x

St. Michael's Church of the Ascension
8:03 AM

I hate funerals.

The notices crossed my desk every morning at work. They were mostly for the
parents and children of fellow agents. Occasionally, it was an aunt or
uncle. It was expected that a show of solidarity be put forth by the mourning
agent's unit. It didn't always happen, though.

Actual agent or ex-agent death notices were on a thick yellow paper. Reggie
had told me once, only half-jokingly, that for him to consider attending a
funeral with my name on the notice, "It would have to be *your* dumb ass in
the box." I'd thought about that years ago when I hefted up one corner of
his coffin on my shoulder and walked it to the ground. Agent down,
permanently.

I hadn't been to one since.

I got out of my car and slammed the door. Only a handful of cars were
already here, probably just those belonging to the priest and staff
themselves. It was early. From my own vague, nondenominational brushes with
religion, I was prepared to just stand by his grave and gather my thoughts.
But then, Catholic burial grounds fenced in their dead like they feared they
might abscond. I could see the backhoe parked up on the hill, its gaudy
orange making the ornate mausoleums around it seem that much grayer. An
angel stood, solemn-faced, mottled by rust and tarnish, arms seemingly weary
at the weight of what he regarded.

(The world...rapidly godless.) I felt my skin draw up with unchecked anger.
Let the godlessness begin with me.

I spotted McGrath's double-cab truck, gleaming bright red with its too-big
tires.

("I'm telling you, Mulder - that truck is responsible for the reanimating of
my sex life. We get in that baby and she - ")

("This violates the sniper-client agreement.")

("What sniper-client agreement?")

("The one I'm going to draw up that says you can't talk to me about your sex
life.")

I winced at the brightness of the memory, reading the sticker on his back
bumper. Right next to the sticker that declared his kid could beat up the
reader's honor student was the harsh white text on black, declaring they
could have his gun when they pried it from his cold, dead fingers. The
sudden image of his thumb, rigored around a trigger that he'd never gotten a
chance to pull, burned itself forever into my memory. Involuntarily, I sank
heavily against the front end of my car and buried my face in my hand. One
foot on the brink and a bad sense of balance, taunted a voice in my head. I
scowled. Patterson use to say that.

No, I couldn't do this at all.

"Mulder?"

(Scully?)

I reeled around before I could catch myself.

A woman in a black suit removed her sunglasses to reveal red-rimmed brown
eyes. She was pale under her short black hair, and the stark sunlight
beating down on the uncovered lot did nothing to illuminate her, just as it
did nothing to make it warmer. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
She extended her hand. "April McGrath, Ray's wife. We talked on the phone."

The call to Scully's mother had been somehow easier to make. Three rings and
a kind hello had bought April McGrath just this side of hell. With McGrath's
two kids shrieking happily in the background, she'd absorbed the news the way
a body absorbed a snakebite. The kids had grown very quiet as her voice
grew more terse. What did I mean he was dead? Who in the hell was I to say
such a thing?

God, I wanted to talk. I wanted to ask her if she could feel temperatures,
or if her body felt numb and neutral like mine. I clenched my fists and
couldn't feel the strain of muscles. I got angry and couldn't hear the blood
in my ears. Until the night before, I hadn't slept, and I stumbled off that
plane like it had all been one long walk since. I didn't *want* to be awake.
I didn't *want* to make contact. But my eyes were taped open, and I was
tied down to the chair and forced to watch the damned Clockwork Orange my
life had become. Is this what it was like?

I took her offered hand firmly, but didn't shake it. "I'm - " The words
refused to come out. I cleared my throat. "I'm so sorry..."

She just nodded, and I released her hand. She put her sunglasses back in
place. "I was just... back there." She gestured at the landscaped grounds
at the other end of the parking lot. "Trying to pull myself together.
Thought it might be in bad taste to smoke at the visitation. I saw you park
and the federal permit in the back glass. Put one and one together." She
rubbed her temple inquisitively. "Does that hurt?"

I touched the area she meant, bruised under my fingers. "Yeah."

"You're early."

"I just wanted to - go."

She nodded. It required no further explanation. "Do you care if I smoke?"

"No."

She dug cigarettes and a silver lighter out of her purse. "This is *not* how
Ray wanted it. Cremation and visitation, that's what he always said, but he
never signed anything legal so..." She shrugged. "I deferred to his mother
on this one, but he would hate it. Burial, I mean. He thought it was
wasteful, and kind of perverse."

"I don't like them either."

She exhaled a shaky sigh of smoke. "You get the notices in the interoffice
mail every day, too, huh?"

I glanced up. She was Bureau? It would make sense -- she was reserved,
succinct. The picture of the token woman on the recruiting brochure. (Hi,
I'm completely focused, and plan to do a good job.)

"I'm ATF," she answered. Her hand trembled and ashes fell to the asphalt.
"You know...Ray really liked you." She bit the inside of her lip and the tip
of an incisor showed as I waited for the blood. "He, uh...not as an
employer. As a friend."

"Somehow," I mumbled, kicking a rock and steeling myself. "That makes it
worse."

She was going to cry too. Goddammit, all this crying. Like it remedied
anything! I turned angrily on my heel and then right back around, pacing
slowly. Was it so fucking selfish to want to be alone?

(You have plenty of time to be alone when you get home.)

This pain spread in my chest, and my jaw dropped, making it an audible sound.
An aborted howl, barely stifled in time.

She wiped self-consciously at her eyes, checking for tears. "Shit. I'm
sorry."

I shrugged, feeling the common ground. I couldn't say anything, and she
didn't expect me to. As if a mutuality with McGrath himself was all that was
required to communicate, like veterans with their shared war stories, their
afterimages of what they'd left behind in foreign places. The dialogue of
grief was silent. For now.

"This Madeline Roark," she said finally. "Did you know her?"

I tilted my face halfway down towards her. "Thought I did."

"Is she the one who took your partner?"

A kick in the groin would've been more tolerable. "How did you know about my
partner?"

She stepped back, tactically, and I pulled myself back in, not realizing how
threatening I must look on approach. "Ray's dad - he's a Section Chief with
the Bureau. He mentioned it."

Section Chief? My eyes widened. McGrath... Section Chief Joseph McGrath. He
stood up from the other end of a long table in my memory, telling me Max
Fenig was found in a cargo container like he had a Bible verse to back it up.

I shook my head at her. "He never told me that."

"He didn't want you to know." She squared her shoulders stiffly. "He met
with you after the Senator died, but he'd brought up your name before that
around Joe. It made his father angry even to hear your name. Ray was
mortified that you'd ask him if he was any relation and refuse to hire him,
so he never brought it up. He wanted you to like him. Said you were
paranoid about stuff like that."

I wished I'd known. Maybe if I suspected him of having some suspicious
connection outside of us, I'd have watched him more closely. I'd rather have
a live, somewhat suspicious friend than a dead, perfectly reliable one. I
sure as hell wouldn't be standing here talking to his wife outside a cemetery.

(It all comes back to you, doesn't it? Everyone caught standing outside of
the tunnel vision suffers because of you.)

I fought to breathe. "I'm sorry, April."

She accepted it curtly. Why, I had no idea. "Are you going to find her?"

My partner? That was the question, wasn't it?

"The bitch who shot Ray," she clarified. Any tactful introduction now
capsized between us, and like our affiliation with McGrath, this too was
shared. "You're going to find her?"

Not waiting for my answer, she shoved her purse under her arm. "Visitation's
started."

That look on her face. (You're going to find her.) I heard the unspoken
fragment of it. (Because it's your responsibility to do so.)

(You did this.)

My eyes went from the church door to the backhoe sitting over the empty plot
to the angel and his sagging wings out among the tombstones. No, I couldn't
do this at all. What would McGrath say? If he were standing right here?
He'd ask me what I was doing, fucking around outside a church when I could be
on a plane, any plane.

Besides, he didn't want to be put in the ground. Told her so himself.

(Excuses, excuses.)

But I wasn't going in. If I stopped to mourn the dead, the dead would
increase. Wasn't that right?

No one else was going to die because of me.

xxxxxxxxxx

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