**********

I killed Pfaster.

It wasn't my intention, I didn't plan to do it, but I killed him...and I'm
not sorry. I *can't* be sorry.

He had caused so much pain, not just to me, not even just to the women that
he killed. Those that were victims of his desecration, their families, their
friends...a huge number of people caught a glimpse of Hell because of him,
and I cannot be sorry I spared those who might have seen it in his eyes in
the future.

I can't be sorry, but I almost feel...like I've lost something. Like I
destroyed something--some integral part of me that can't be repaired. And
even as I move around my room, carefully selecting clothing for tomorrow and
other necessities, I wonder...what have I done? Who am I now?

*What* am I now?

Mulder's never far away, so I've been careful to keep my hands steady, my
face reasonably calm. I've even managed to look into his eyes for more than a
few seconds without breaking down, and I'm glad. I can't afford to break down
yet, there's no safe place for me to go to so I can lick my wounds. There are
watchful eyes everywhere, and there are reminders of Pfaster's presence in
every room of my home. I can feel him on my skin every time I move, I can
practically *taste* him every time I take in a breath. I can almost hear his
voice crooning that damned song in my ear--

All I can do is torture myself with thoughts about what I've done, what's
been done to me--what I feel has been done *through* me...

But I can't afford to break down. I don't think I could drag myself back up.

Settling down on the edge of my bed, I listen closely to the noise coming
from the other rooms of my apartment, trying to decide whether or not people
are beginning to shuffle out. It's not that important in the long run, but
for a moment it's distraction enough. I focus on relaxing my body, trying to
ease the tightness and the pain that burns across my skin from head to toe.

I close my eyes and listen to Mulder gradually convince all the
representatives of various agencies that I am fine, that this whole case can
wait till morning to be resolved. The door opens and closes nearly a dozen
times, and then, finally, there is silence.

Mulder's going to come back in here and he'll see that my bag is packed, that
I've changed into jeans, a sweater and sneakers. He'll think he has convinced
me that it's in my best interests to leave, just as he convinced the swarms
of uniformed passers-by that had invaded my apartment earlier. But although I
packed my bag, although I agreed to go with something much less than an
argument, I'm reluctant to leave.

I...there's a part of me that wants to stay here, that needs to wait, is
certain that Pfaster is going to come back.

As my raw throat throbs and my body aches, I am almost certain he'll be back
to whisper a song in my ear as he tries again to kill me. His ghost is sure
to haunt me, his demon will return. And I want to be here, tight and ready,
armed and cold.

It's a horrible realization--I want to kill him again. I want my body to
thrill again with the knowledge that I have defeated a soul so vicious that
not even Death satisfies it.

And I'm afraid, because his death hasn't satisfied me any more than it made
me sorry.

Did I become evil myself for a moment, for a brief eternity in time? Does a
dark trace of that linger on in my bloodstream; will it stay with me forever?
In sending Donnie back to Hell, did I somehow manage to damn myself?

Will I join him there someday?

The cross I've worn for so long feels cold as I close my fingers around it,
the points dig into my skin with nearly enough force to draw blood, and I
think that's no less than what I need. To sit, and think, and bleed till I've
torn out the dark, thrilled part of me and mourned what I lost.

But I can hear Mulder's footsteps in the hall, as familiar to me as my own,
and I know there isn't time to mourn. He's too much distraction, too
determined to cheat me of the luxuries of doubt and guilt. Those are his
treasures, and he's never wanted to share them.

I can hear the curtains flutter, gossamer wings sliding against the wall, and
there's a shudder arching down my spine that takes all my strength to quell.
I'll need to replace those or they'll hold his ghost. The candles and bath
things will have to go too, the scissors, my pajamas, my slippers, the locks
on my door. The lamp, my mirror, perhaps even the bathtub--

Maybe it's time to move. Too much blood has been shed in this apartment
anyway, too many nightmares have come true. There's a reminder of pain in
every corner, or so it seems now. But Pfaster...even if I rid myself of
everything he touched, it will still feel unfinished. I think I'll still wait
for him, wherever I move to, no matter what I replace. And considering how
deeply inside myself I feel the taint of his soul...

Mulder's hands are suddenly on my shoulders and my hand falls from my cross
to my lap as I jump, despite the fact that I knew he was coming, despite the
fact that I recognize the feel of his hands. There is as much energy in his
touch as there was death in Pfaster's, and under normal circumstances the
vibrancy is as honest and healing as breathing, but it's too much for me
right now. I open my eyes and look up, but I don't move.

"Let's go," he says quietly. His face is close to mine; I can count the
shades of color in his eyes.

"I don't think I'm ready," I tell him, and then I watch the colors in his
eyes change, darken with frustration and concern. "I don't know if I should
leave."

Mulder shakes his head. "You're ready, there's nothing you can do here. Don't
think I'll let you stay here tonight."

That is just provocative enough to leave me staring, and I wonder if my jaw
has dropped as far as I imagine it has. It's almost amusing, how quickly he
can annoy me even when I'm close to shell-shocked. "You won't *let* me stay
here? Mulder, I think--"

He stands, using his grip on my shoulders to pull me up with him. "You could
kick my ass," he murmurs, "or you could just come with me and save us both
the trouble right now. I promise, if you want to beat on me later, I'll let
you."

If I want to beat on him later--it's almost all I can do to keep myself
standing and hope I'm ready for Pfaster to haunt or hunt me again. And when
he switches his grip to my arm, grabs my bag and begins to pull me from my
shattered room, I can do little more than follow along and curse him with
every step.

The urge to scream is strong despite the fact that my throat is raw, so I
have to force myself to hold back a bit, and the curses lack some power. But
I've always prided myself on my inventiveness. More than once I see a faint
flush spread up his neck, and it gives me grim pleasure even as I find myself
settled in his car and trapped by the seatbelt.

I'm quiet as he drives, but only because I see Pfaster in every man on the
street. He's in their walks, the way they tilt their heads, in the depths of
their eyes when they look towards the car. I feel him burning in every dark
place we pass, in every pocket of light, in every dancing shadow. And every
time I feel him, a greater lassitude envelops me, my limbs feel heavier and
my senses dimmer.

When Mulder parks the car, I clamber out automatically, but that's as far as
I can make myself go. For a second's span of time, I have to wonder if
perhaps Pfaster had killed me and I just didn't realize it in my fury.

Mulder crosses around to me and has me caught up against his chest before I
even realize what he was planning to do. My arm curls around his neck, but I
scowl and fight feebly to get free.

"Scully, stop it or I'll end up dropping you," he says as he maneuvers
through the front door of his building.

"Fine. Drop me."

A sigh, and he tightens his arms around me. "You can kick my ass twice," he
promises as he carries me into the elevator. "Just make this easier now."

"There is nothing *easier* in being carried--" My protests are ignored and
we're at his door anyway, so I give in. But I swear to myself that I *will*
get him for this later.

In seconds, he's got the door to his apartment open and he's carting me and
my bag in with an ease I'd admire if I didn't feel like a burden. Through his
living room, lit by the fish tank, into his bedroom where a single lamp sends
soft light across the room. And then I'm falling--he's dropped me on his bed.

He pushes me lightly down onto my back and drops to his knees, gripping one
of my feet and carefully untying the knot in the laces of my sneaker. I sit
up and stare down at him, at the dark gleam of his hair, and I shift
uncomfortably, trying to pull free. "I can do that myself," I say beneath my
breath, still feeling vaguely resentful, ignoring the childlike petulance in
my words and tone.

"Given half a chance, you'd do everything by yourself, Scully. I have to
admire your independence." His tone is cool, almost cold, but the hand
resting on my ankle is warm, the one pulling off my sneaker trembles just a
little. Confused, lost, I look away and try to ignore him, ignore his
careful, gentle hands. Comfort is unacceptable right now, I remind myself yet
again. Comfort is an easy road to breakdown.

I'll never be able to forget the way I cried after my first battle with
Pfaster and how long it took me to pull myself together after. And I'll
certainly never forget the way Mulder looked at me--for days, he seemed
afraid that I'd shatter again, knew that I was not all right. I was
vulnerable to him then in ways I had never expected...

The instant my second sneaker has dropped to the ground, Mulder's forehead is
pressed against my thigh and his arms are wrapped around my waist, the
abruptness of his actions stealing my breath and causing me to stare down in
shock. He shudders slightly and my hands automatically reach for him, but I'm
dazed. I want to talk to him, to tell him that he shouldn't be asking me for
comfort because I can't even *breathe* without tasting something dark and
bitter in my throat.

Then comfort is a moot point--he scrambles to his feet and backs away,
posture awkward and fingers shaking as he rakes them through his hair. But
when his gaze meets mine, his eyes are incredibly clear and tender, and I
feel my chin begin to quiver, the harbinger of breakdown. The small rebellion
is not easily quelled, but I manage it and tilt my head to meet his gaze
proudly, as if my insides aren't quivering and my spirit isn't dark.

"I know what it's like to wonder what you've done, in a big, good versus evil
kind of way," he says quietly, breaking the silent stalemate. "I've had to
wonder more times than I can count. I'm sorry that you're going through it
now--and I wish I could say something, do something more for you. But all I
can do is tell you that you did what I would have done, what anyone would
have done. What was right."

I stare at him for as long as I can, then look down at my hands. My fingers
are knotted together and white-knuckled, so I focus on loosening them. I lay
them out across my thighs and examine my nails. There is no trace of the
blood that had dried beneath them after I fought Pfaster, there isn't even
much breakage, aren't many jagged edges, but in my mind they are stained and
cracked, sharp-edged like daggers.

"Maybe you're right, Mulder. I don't know, I don't have the answers I need,
so maybe you're right. But I can't help being afraid that you're wrong."

I clench my fists, pressing my nails hard into my palms, remembering the feel
of my cross digging into my skin, and I fight for control. The emptiness is
yawning inside me, a huge space that I'm forcing myself to regard as devoid
of everything, simply because I can't bear the thought that I've changed.
That I have perhaps allowed something horrible to blossom within me...

Mulder moves towards me, but I quickly lie down and turn away from him,
silently dismissing him. I curl my hands beneath my cheek and allow my eyes
to close. My chest feels even tighter in this position so I breathe slower,
and in seconds it's like I'm sleeping, lost in a state of light meditation
that feels almost promising. There's a heavy fog over my mind and the answers
seem lost in it, just out of reach, just beyond where I feel safe looking but
not beyond where it is safe for me to look...

The bed shifts and settles and my eyes fly open fast enough that I can watch
Mulder lie down, move too close to me, driving away the fog and the promise
of a truth I could perhaps deal with. His scent and his warmth reach out to
me from those scant inches away as surely as a touch, and they make me hurt.

"Not going to change?" he asks, and then catches the collar of my sweater
beneath his thumb and forefinger as I stare at him. He's careful not to touch
my skin but I pull back anyway, finding his familiar warmth too tempting.

He sighs, rests his cheek on his arm and watches me watching him. "I don't
know what to do for you," he murmurs. "I want to help and I can't stand the
fact that you don't want me to."

I close my eyes again--his gaze is too tender and too honest. "There's
nothing to be done," I force myself to whisper with some semblance of calm.
"I just...I have to wait."

"Wait? And what else? Blame yourself for doing the right thing, imagine what
would happen if Pfaster came back yet again? Wallow in guilt?"

I don't answer--he's come too close to the truth--so he sighs and tucks a
strand of my hair behind my ear, trails his fingers down to trace the faint
line of bruises already forming where Pfaster had choked me. I stiffen, try
to move back, but the edge of the bed is too close and I'm stuck where I am.

"I can tell what's going on in your head, you know," he says quietly. "I can
practically hear the little voices in your head picking at you. 'What have I
done, what will I do, how will I keep myself from turning to Mulder? If I
deny myself comfort, if I ignore what's inside of me, will I be doing the
proper penance?' "

My eyes open again and Mulder chuckles. "The good Reverend Orison wasn't the
only person who had holes drilled into his head in an effort to find
enlightenment," he reminds me, and for a second his face carries deeply
personal shadows of pain, though he tries to hide them under a wicked smile.
My hands automatically twitch; my instinctive reaction is to touch him, to
offer him some of the comfort I don't have for myself, that I don't even
think I have for him. But then he's speaking again, and the urge passes.

"You killed the monster, Scully. I don't know how many more times I'll have
to tell you that, but I'll keep saying it until you admit you did the right
thing. You were the damsel in distress, but you saved yourself and played the
hero..." He slips a hand under the collar of my sweater, cups the back of my
neck, gently kneading the tight muscles there. Against my will, I relax a
little--the warm, strong touch is impossible to resist.

"So where's my knighthood?" I ask, trying to keep myself on track, trying to
resist the minute flashes of pleasure his hand has sent streaking down my
spine and up into my aching scalp. "Where's the sign from my King, the
acknowledgement that I have done what's right?"

"You're alive, Scully." Mulder slides a little closer and I steel myself
against the effects of his warmth so close to me. "You're alive and that's
reward enough. Hell, it's penance enough, too."

"I don't feel alive," I whisper, the words shuddering with pain though I
hadn't even meant to say them. But I feel something ease inside me, feel
something crack, let in a little light with the confession, and so I say them
again. "I don't feel alive. And I don't--I killed him, I know he's dead, but
I keep expecting to see him hiding behind every shadow. And what I did--it
was so *wrong*, Mulder."

I swallow, trying to ease the soreness in my throat, but it won't go away so
I continue, voice low and harsh. "This is something I *should* be punished
for, Mulder, but I won't be. Even if we're entirely honest in our reports,
even if the unvarnished truth comes out, I'm certain I will not be punished
for what I've done. He was a murderer, after all, of a particularly heinous
breed."

Mulder nods slowly, seems to mull it over for half a second before finding
something to say. I interrupt him before he's had a chance to do more than
part his lips--I don't want to be reassured right now, I don't want to be
agreed with. I want Mulder to understand...*I* want to understand all the
conflicting thoughts scraping against my self control.

"He was unarmed. A man who already had one agent on him, who was making no
move. Yet I chose to break every rule there is, both legal and moral, and
shoot." My heart races in my chest, frantic, beating with the bruising thuds
of something  trapped that yearns desperately to be free. I fight to calm it,
look away from my partner's eyes because all he needs to do is show me a
little more tenderness and he'll shatter me . "It wasn't me, Mulder, I almost
want something dark to have been working through me in that moment because I
don't want to think..."

Mulder makes a soft sound deep in his chest and I take in as deep a breath as
I can manage with my swollen throat and sore ribs, feeling the pull of his
sympathy and yearning to give in.

"I can empathize. I've broken enough rules, twisted enough laws to suit
myself..." His voice wraps around me and my next breath is easier. I fight to
keep my fear, to hold on to it because it's easier to deal with than the
depths of myself, because I have to wonder what I will find in myself just
beneath that slick layer...

My attention is drawn back to him when he continues. "It's a horrible thing,
to have demons like Pfaster immortalized in your memory. But you can't let
him make you doubt yourself. You beat him, Scully, and no matter how much you
hate what you did, it can't be undone. It shouldn't be undone. Trust me.
Trust yourself." Mulder tugs me a little closer, the palm of his hand a
light, branding warmth on the back of my neck. Caught by that warmth, caught
by his gaze, I find myself unable to continue battling the comfort, the
understanding he seems determined to offer.

And then he presses a light kiss to the corner of my mouth, not with any
degree of force, careful of the cut on my lip, and my tightly caught control
begins to melt away.

"I can't--" The words burst from me without any more thought behind them than
an instinctive denial, and he kisses me again, just as gently.

"Accept this," he urges me quietly. "Accept the comfort I can give you.
Please. For my sake as much as your own."

The last of my control is gone, eaten away as much by his need as my own, and
I finally give in, throwing myself across the last inches between us and
wrapping my arms around him, tucking my face into the warmth of his neck. I
allow the tremors that have been building inside me to jerk free, and I cry,
losing myself in pain.

It seems like an eternity before I find myself again, but it might have only
been hours, I don't know. But when I find that I can cry no more, when the
pain in my body has eased enough for me to stop shuddering, I breathe heavily
of his scent, focusing on it to calm myself and to close off my mind. I don't
want to examine my soul and find it completely shattered.

He kisses me again, pulls the blankets over us and wraps me close. The pain
in my back and neck makes me gasp, but his breath slips into my lungs--

Mulder rolls over me, bracing himself on his elbows, holding my face between
his hands and looking into my eyes. I touch his cheek with trembling fingers,
making my first move towards him, and then I realize that he has turned off
the lamp, that we are bathed in a bright, blue-white light. The moon is
shining through his bedroom window, reaching in to touch us with deep warmth.

He smiles and rests his forehead against mine. "You'll be all right," he
whispers, the words barely breathed against my skin. I can't answer because
I'm not nearly so certain, but I do relax back into him and close my eyes,
determined to defeat my fear.

His hands brush the hair away from my temples, soothing, he's so close I can
feel his heart beat faintly and rhythmically...

I'm already so close to sleep that it's easy to just give in and let the day
die away into memory. I half-form a prayer for a dreamless sleep, but the
fall is upon me before I'm done, and the prayer is lost...but that's almost
all right.

Pfaster is gone and Mulder is here, ready to protect me. Morning will come
whether I dream or not, whether I'm ready for it or not, and I'll face my
demons then. Until tomorrow, I'll accept Mulder's protective, undemanding
comfort.

For now, I'll just let go.
 

**********

Yeah, I've heard there are a few post-eps (and a few debates <g>) for this
one, but I like mine and wanted to share. I hope you enjoyed it! Write to
tell me, if you have the time :)

Dreamshaper
([email protected] or
[email protected])
 

Back to Post-Episodic Stories

Back to LA-X-Files Fanfic