Author: Lydx
Distribution: Spookys, Ephemeral, Gossamer etc.
sure. Anywhere else is okay too as long as my
name stays attached and you mail me at either
[email protected] or [email protected]
to let me
know.
Classification: Post ep
Spoilers: Orison, Irresistible
Summary: picks up where Orison left off.
Feedback: is food for the soul, so please take a
moment to tell me what you think
Disclaimer: They're not mine, duh. They belong to
CC, the creator and most especially to GA and DD
who breathe life into them.
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<MULDER>
"I mean, what if it wasn't?"
Her question hangs between us and I have no
answer to give her. Instead I cup her face in my
hands and gently swipe my thumbs over her lips,
leaving there the ghost of a promise and a
benediction, much the same as she had done for
me not so long ago in my hallway. She does not
shy from my touch and I am so very relieved. In
fact she nearly bowls me over when she briefly
leans into my touch, closes her eyes and sighs
softly. Carefully skirting the cut on her lower lip my
thumb makes another pass and I duck my head a
bit to catch her eyes. In their seascape depths I
see she remembers and understands.
It pains me immeasurably to see her struggling
with herself like this.
The son-of-a-bitch hurt her. Hurt her physically, as
is evident from the way she stiffly holds herself and
flinches every time someone touches her or even
just brushes by her. And he hurt her mentally, in
ways I dare not even begin to contemplate.
Again I might add, on both counts.
And she killed him.
And now she hates herself for what she's done and
questions her motivations.
I don't.
Question her I mean.
Had she not shot him herself I surely would have.
When I saw her coming into the room, bloody and
dazed and with this unfathomable expression
muddying her beautiful ocean eyes I felt a
murderous rage the likes of which no cigarette
smoking bastard or one-armed-double-dealing-
murdering-rat-weasel has ever been able to
conjure in me.
Without a conscious thought my finger tightened
on the trigger and after a halfhearted attempt to
fight the impulse and another quick glance at
Scully I was ready to shoot him. I would have had
Scully not beat me to the punch.
I would have done it, felt somewhat guilty about it
afterwards and would have moved on.
She will too I'm sure, eventually. But it's evident
that she isn't convinced of that herself at the
moment.
It's not easy for her to reconcile her deeply felt
though seldom expressed religious beliefs with
what she did tonight. God and the Devil are at war
in her now, as they perhaps were earlier tonight in
that fateful moment when all her choices were
stripped from her and she committed a single act
of vengeance that shocked her to the core.
I wish I could give her all the answers to the
questions quarreling for right of way in her head
right now. I can't and we both know it. This is
something she will have to get straight in her own
head.
But what I can do is watch over her, offer her my
silent and unconditional support as she has done
for me on so many occasions. See to it that she
does not make any rash decisions or hurried
confessions she might regret later.
After another moment she pulls away and resumes
packing her bag. Her movements are jerky and I
see her fighting to get to that place within herself
where she can slip into her FBI persona, pretend
everything is fine and face leaving her bedroom
and getting past the agents and paramedics and
assorted other officials crawling around her living
room. It's not long before she is slamming her
things into her overnight bag with such force I fear
she will punch right through the material. But if
that's what is needed to get her to her safe place
and into Scully FBI mode I'll gladly buy her a new
bag.
While she is packing I stand guard by the door,
keeping out any over-solicitous medical personnel
and overzealous cops and silently observe her.
From her movements I can tell that she is already
stiffening up. She told me a little of what she went
through, the bare minimum I suspect. From it I
gathered that she fought long and hard before he
was finally able to subdue her and if the visible
damage is any indication I'm sure there are untold
bruises covering her entire body. I briefly consider
taking her to the hospital after all so she can get
checked out thoroughly but decide against it.
When the paramedics examined her earlier she
allowed them only to clean up the most obvious
cuts, had insisted there were no broken bones and
adamantly maintained there was thus no need for
her to go to the hospital. I don't want to betray her
by going against her wishes, not while she's in this
fragile a state.
I'm immensely thankful that she at least no longer
seems to feel the need to keep her walls up when
it's just the two of us and will do anything to keep it
that way, even if it means indulging her in this.
I wonder how I ever deluded myself into, if not
believing, then mostly accepting her many "I'm
fines," of the past. Easier I guess and certainly
safer. For my own well being that is. I never
stopped to really think of what keeping up these
walls of pretense must have been costing her all
those times. I think I'm about to get a glimpse of
what lies behind them tonight, am determined to in
fact.
She finishes packing and I see her fiddling with her
pajama top. Taking an educated guess I venture
into the ruins of her closet and extract a pair of
black slacks a loose blouse and a comfortable
blazer, wordlessly hand them to her, then go diving
for a pair of shoes. A large part of her G-woman
persona is derived from her clothes, you slip into a
suit like you would a uniform and presto, you look
the part and you're halfway there. I know it works
for me.
When I come up for air she's still standing there,
clothes dangling from her hands and a forlorn look
on her face. I hand her the shoes and slowly and
deliberately turn until I'm facing the door, my back
to her.
"Thanks," she murmurs and I hear her clothes
rustle as she starts taking of her flannel pajamas.
"You're welcome," is all I can think of to say, what
else is there. I listen to her changing into her
slacks and blouse, hear the soft slide of silk
against skin that under normal circumstances
would have me unbearably hard in no time flat.
She slips into her blazer and then I hear her sitting
down on the bed, presumably to put on her shoes.
"All done now Mulder, you can turn around," her
voice drifts towards me and there's a faint quality
to it that makes me think shock will start setting in
pretty soon, whether she wants it or not.
At any other time it would have been the perfect
opening but no glib remark rolls off my tongue. I
think I must be in a state of shock myself. Better
get out of here.
When I turn around, her expression is set and I
see that Scully FBI, or at least a very reasonable
facsimile thereof, is once more in the driver's seat.
"Let's get the hell out of Dodge, partner."
I grab her bag and when she walks past me my
hand goes automatically to its familiar place low on
her back. I immediately withdraw it when a
shudder goes through her but she takes my hand
and squeezes it softly.
"It's okay Mulder. I'm fine, just a bit sore that's all."
How sad is it that I'm actually relieved when she
shudders in pain and not in revulsion.
Just a bit sore though must be the mother of all
understatements. My heart clenches as she guides
my hand back to its rightful place. I let it hover just
above the spot it brushed moments ago, close
enough to feel the heat radiating from her, not
close enough to touch and cause further
discomfort.
As I guide her out the door I start cursing Pfaster
all over again.
I was going to shoot him myself, she just beat me
to the punch and I'm so very sorry it had to turn out
like that.
So very sorry that she is the one having to deal
with all that, on top of everything else. As if being
attacked in your own home, being beaten and tied
up and almost sacrificed to the altar of a deranged
madman's perverse fantasies isn't enough. In this
dark netherworld that we work in daily where
malignant forces are rallied against us, where evil
lurks in many guises and monsters exist of all
shapes and sizes, she has been the only touch of
purity, her unwavering commitment to truth and
justice guiding the way.
She is so very strong, stronger than any of us.
Stronger than me certainly. But even though she is
strong as steel and twice as durable, there is still a
soft core in her that has been left wondrously
untouched by all that's happened to her these past
years.
I shudder to think that Pfaster will be what finally
undoes her. That what happened here today will
finally be responsible for hardening that softness
into something wholly impenetrable and altogether
inaccessible.
This I cannot allow, the world would be a poorer
place.
For all her faults, and I fully realize she has many,
she is the closest thing to perfection I know in this
world. I see in her, have always seen in her, the
promise of victory even in defeat, the possibility of
accomplishing great things and overcoming
desperate odds. I see hope in her and the potential
for redemption.
She once, in my head, told me I have a beautiful
mind. That's nothing compared to the beauty I find
in her soul.
I never told her so, not in so many words anyway,
and for that I am heartily sorry. But then she would
have just scoffed at the notion and considered my
image of her way too exalted and entirely
unjustified. But I'm determined now to show her in
every way possible just how fine she is to me. I will
be a mirror and will reflect the truth of what she is
back at her until she finally comes to believe it
once more.
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<SCULLY>
"You mean if it was God?"
His question haunts me.
Should I accept that it was God that moved me to
pull the trigger? There's comfort in that thought. In
cases past I have from time to time felt there were
forces at work, guiding me to do the right thing,
find the final clue to unlock the mystery. I have
hesitated to label them divine intervention because
that would place a burden on my shoulders I was
not sure I wanted. I'm still not sure but in light of
recent events it seems easier, perhaps, than
accepting the alternative.
"What if it wasn't?"
I know he takes my reply to mean I'm concerned it
was not God but the Devil that made me do what I
did.
I do not correct his assumption. I'm numb and I
don't feel equipped to discuss these weighty issues
yet. I know he can't resolve them for me anyway.
This is something I will have to figure out for myself
before I can even begin to talk about it any further.
But for now I don't want to think about it either, I
want to erase Pfaster and everything that
happened today from my thoughts for a while. In
my head I start humming to the tune of the song I
kept hearing all during this case.
"Don't look any further."
How appropriate.
This has always been part of my defense
mechanism. When something happens that I'm not
ready to deal with but which nevertheless worms
its way into my every thought this is how I shut it
out. By keeping up a steady flow of words,
repeating the refrain to some song or other over
and over and over so as not to let what's bothering
me intrude into my conscious thoughts.
Mulder sometimes catches a glimpse of this
mechanism at work and usually thinks I'm in denial
but I'm not. I'm just clearing my head, emptying my
thoughts, distancing myself from the immediate
event so that I'll be able to look at it more
objectively at a later point, hopefully when lying
back in my bathtub floating in a haze of bubbles.
I briefly wonder if Pfaster managed to ruin that little
indulgence for me too, if that's another little piece
of me he managed to steal, and quickly take up
what will be my mantra for now.
"Don't look any further."
And I don't want to. I really don't. I keep my eyes
on the road and watch the miles disappear
underneath the car as it hums steadily along
towards our destination. Mulder is driving with a
look of such concentration on his face. His features
reveal nothing but his intent to get us to where we
are going safely.
I am grateful for his silence.
I burrow deeper into my seat's leather embrace
attempting to get into a more comfortable position
and try to relax my clenched muscles. It helps to
focus on something else; something physical and it
will help with the pain and stiffness later. The
gentle swoosh of tires on pavement mixes in my
head with the cadences of the song and I let the
rhythm soothe me.
When we finally escaped from my bedroom there
were still a good number of people milling about in
my living room though their numbers seemed to
have lessened somewhat. The paramedics were
no longer there for starters, no doubt they'd given
up in disgust at another doctor being her own
worst patient. There were still a number of
photographers present, busily clicking away,
recording the devastation of my home for posterity.
A few crime scene technicians were also still in
attendance, dusting for prints though I hadn't a
clue as to why they would. After all the case was
pretty open and shut.
// Demon spawn from hell comes in to FBI Agents
home, lets her get reacquainted with every corner
of her bedroom and then some, ties her up then
lights a few candles and draws her a bath,
intending to finishing her off after a good long
soak. FBI Agent manages to break loose and
shoots demon spawn. //
Open and shut right?
Right.
I felt all heads turn when we entered the living
room and straightened my spine. When I met their
gazes, each in turn, as I walked passed them,
there was no condemnation there, only sympathy
and understanding. They all knew about Pfaster's
predilections. They'd all wandered about the
disaster area that was my home and trained
investigators that they were they could well
imagine the life and death struggle that took place
here. At a guess I'd say they had all been
wondering how they would have reacted in a
similar situation and did not like where their
thoughts had led them. The general consensus in
the room seemed to be that I had acted in self-
defense and was completely justified in shooting
my assailant. I had no doubt that each of them
would attest to that should they be asked to.
Touching but hardly fair since they hadn't been
there when I pulled that trigger.
Feeling uncomfortable with the silent show of
support I quickly made my way across the room.
Mulder at my back and escape beckoning.
Once outside I told him to just take me to a hotel
nearby. Of course he was having non-of that. I
should have known better. Mulder in protective
mode is not easily swayed and I was admittedly
not at my best. He suggested he take me to my
mother's instead but that idea went quickly out the
window when I told him no in no uncertain terms. I
may not have been in peak form but I was still able
to talk him out of a hare brained scheme like that.
My mother would have a fit if she got wind of what
happened here tonight and in my current state I
would not be able to cushion her from the truth
very effectively.
One good look and she would see the story written
in the burgeoning bruises marring my face and
ringing my throat. The stiffness in my gait from
pulled muscles and healing cuts and scrapes
would surely be another dead giveaway. Imagining
her shock and motherly concern was enough to
almost break me down anyway.
Having her hover over me, touching my face with
her soft hands, an anxious expression on her
careworn face and questions in her voice, is not
what I need at this stage, there will be time for that
later.
What I need right now is Mulder's brand of
hovering, his gentle eyes and silent support. His
unassuming presence and then later his bout of
guilt sure to come that I would have to negate, the
familiarity of which would allow me to reclaim
another piece of myself.
When the next thing he suggested was that I go
home with him I willingly agreed and he looked
slightly shocked at my easy acquiescence. He
assisted me to the car, helping me ease my
battered frame into the passenger's seat, trying not
to be obvious about it and failing miserably. I didn't
let on I was on to him, just silently sank back into
the cushions with a soft, "Thank you."
He looked startled and then pleased and then with
a soft smile and a curt nod settled in behind the
wheel and drove off. The car smelled of him and I
closed my eyes and let the comforting scent
envelop me.
Now we're there and he gently pulls the car to a
stop and then just sits there for a moment. His
hands still on the wheel, his eyes staring straight-
ahead and slightly unfocussed.
I reach out and touch the back of his hand with my
fingertips, brushing over the prominent veins lightly
but with enough pressure so that I can feel the
rush of blood under his skin, the solid life of him.
He shudders a bit and then straightens and without
a glance in my direction opens his door and gets
out of the car. I try to get out of my seatbelt but it
refuses to let me go. Fumbling with the locking
mechanism I find my hands are suddenly shaking
so hard that I don't have a prayer of extricating
myself and angry tears of frustration threaten. I
fight them back with promises of release to come if
they will only allow me a bit more time to get
indoors, get out from under Mulder's scrutiny.
However much impossibly closer we have become
these last few weeks, I do not want to break down
so completely in his presence. Not over Donnie
Pfaster, not again.
It's not a question of thinking he'll think me weak or
no longer competent to guard his back. I know
that's how he explains my reluctance to lean on
him but he's mistaken. It has to do with me. I don't
want to see myself as weak for fear I will find it to
be true. My self-sufficiency is a large part of who
and what I am and I do not want to relinquish it to
anyone, not even him. It's such an ingrained part
of me that I don't ever let myself cry all that much
and when I do I do it in the shower, shoring myself
up until I can stand under the spray and let my
tears mix with the water and flow down the drain.
That's what I'm promising myself now, if I can only
hold on a bit longer.
"Don't look any further." I summon up my mantra
and repeat it over and over until I have regained
control.
A cold gush of wind and a warm hand at my hip
startle me from my fight with my seatbelt for a
moment but it's only Mulder. He has quickly taken
my bag out of the trunk and is leaning over me,
freeing me from my restraints, his hand at my
elbow guiding me upright. This I will allow. Physical
weakness I am no longer hesitant to show. It's
progress of a sort I guess. It'll have to do him for
now.
We walk up the few steps to his building slowly
and then wait to get on the elevator. Sounds are
coming through distorted now. The small ding and
slight whir as the elevator doors open sound loud
in my ears. The adrenaline rush has all but left me
and I'm starting to move like an old woman,
everything hurts with varying intensity. It's not
unexpected though, shock is setting in but I'm still
lucid enough to monitor the degree to which my
system is being affected. I think I'm just going to
make it. We get in the elevator and I lean against
the side of the car, resting my weary body against
the cool metal, finding some relief there.
When we are inside his apartment at last I breathe
a huge sigh of relief. Mulder shuts the door and
gives me the softest push in the direction of his
bedroom.
"You go lie down Scully, I'll make us some tea."
"I'd like that but could I take a shower first?"
"Oh Scully," he breathes in a broken whisper and it
startles me. He's been so stoically in control up till
now. Giving me space and room to breathe, but
this it seems of all that I have suffered is what's
going to crack his composure. He knows that after
a difficult case, I usually recuperate with a long, hot
soak, immersing myself in a blanket of bubbles
and baptizing myself anew with scented water. He
knows if things were as they should be, if they
were even half-okay, I would have asked to take a
bath.
He quickly collects himself though. Looking at me
with the saddest expression in his liquid eyes he
doesn't say another word and instead picks up my
bag and carries it through into the bathroom.
When I walk in after him he's already turned on the
shower, letting the water heat up. He turns around
with a pair of big fluffy towels in his hands and his
heart in his eyes. I try to reassure him with a smile
but it comes off more as a grimace. Averting my
eyes I accept the towels from him and step past
him towards the shower stall.
"Thanks Mulder. You go make the tea, I won't be
long."
It's a dismissal and he knows it but he doesn't
move, only looks at me with those knowing eyes.
We stand there in silence for what seems like a
very long time and then his soft voice floats
towards me through the rising mist.
"He didn't give you a choice."
"Mulder don't, I can't deal with this right now," I
look up at him beseechingly. The moisture in the
air clogs my throat and sinuses. My voice is
breaking, jagged shards falling to the floor like my
mirror did.
"Please don't, there will be a time for this later."
"I know and I'll leave you alone in just a second.
But I just want you to know where I stand first," his
gentle eyes nearly rob me of the last vestiges of
my self- control, his words undo me.
"Scully we're talking about Donnie Pfaster here,"
his voice chokes on the name. "You and I both
know he was the worst kind of monster, a demon
in human guise. I want you to know I was this
close to pulling the trigger myself."
His confession shocks me, though it shouldn't
have. I know the length and breadth of his
protective streak, the things he'd do and has done
for me.
"He didn't give you a choice," he repeats and his
eyes beg with me to please believe him and let
myself of the hook. I look away and he emits a soft
hurt sound but doesn't back down. Merely lets his
voice drop to a whisper as he continues his plea.
His hands are fisted at his sides and I sense in him
the overwhelming need to touch me. Part of me
wishes he would, a bigger part of me is thankful he
doesn't, I couldn't deal with that just yet. He seems
to sense this too and valiantly curbs his impulse
and caresses me with his voice instead.
"You granted him more clemency than he ever
deserved when you asked the judge for life. He
was given a second chance and used it to come
after the one person who showed him mercy. You
gave him his life and he tried to take yours." His
voice is so soft now I can hardly hear it. The fog
misting up the bathroom makes my eyelashes
heavy and when I blink I feel the wetness they
have left on my cheeks, a perfect curve of tiny
droplets standing in for the tears I still refuse to
shed. Impatiently I wipe them away and look at
Mulder with a mute plea for solitude in my eyes.
He reads me like he's always been able to and
knows his message has been received. In his eyes
I see myself reflected back at me. I see how he still
holds me in such high regard, how he would do
anything to lift this burden from me and longs
desperately for me to let him.
I can't and he knows it.
My reflection, taking up all the room in his irises, is
slightly distorted, the image clouded by tears. I
don't know if they're his or mine and I don't know
that it matters either way, we've become
indistinguishable from one another in so many
ways already.
With a last lingering look he turns towards the
door. His voice cuts through the fog like a blade.
"Whatever made you pull that trigger, God or the
Devil or any of their minions, you were justified, he
deserved no more mercy."
With that he opens the door and leaves. The gust
of cold air that sweeps through the bathroom chills
me and I shudder and make short work of
disrobing and getting under the scalding spray.
The hot water pounds against my aching back and
I feel my clenched muscles relax, feel the tension
drain out of them. Leaning my forehead against the
wall I finally allow my tears to fall. They mix with
the water flowing down my face and disappear
down the drain. If I close my eyes I can pretend
they were never there.
With my tears flowing and my quiet sobs sounding
out a rhythm all their own I am unable to keep my
mantra going and our earlier discussion
resurfaces.
God or the Devil, his words haunt me. He asked
me if I thought it was God, his voice told me he
was afraid I thought it was the Devil.
How do I tell him that what I'm afraid of is that it's
~me~ that decided Plaster's reign of terror should
end.
>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<
<MULDER>
She's in my bathroom and I left her there like a
coward. Unable to comfort her, unable to bear
seeing her in such pain, unwilling to stand there
any longer and watch her battle her tears.
I know she's in there crying right now and however
much I want to go to her I can't do that to her. She
needs to come to me on her own terms; I need to
let her.
And so I busy myself putting the kettle on and then
tidying up my bedroom and putting clean linen on
the bed, thankful that these mundane tasks keep
my mind at least partway occupied. The other half
of my brain is busy calculating the odds that this
will get her censured or worse. With the
abundance of physical evidence regarding his
connection to the death of Orison and the girl, his
violent assault on Scully, not to mention the fact
that he was a convicted murderer on the lam, I
think she'll be all right. From a legal standpoint
anyway. Besides, I'm the only witness.
The emotional impact however I am unable to
gauge. I myself was shocked, not so much by what
she did but that it was HER that did it. My eidetic
memory serves up the look of shock on her face
when she realized what she'd done in stark detail. I
know what happened today will feature in her
nightmares for years to come, as it will in mine;
that and the question which needs to be answered
if she's ever to find peace again.
"What if it wasn't."
How can I convince her that she could never be an
instrument of the devil? That as flawed as she is,
she is the purest being I know; that although I have
always been an atheist, she makes me believe that
there might be a God after all. After all, a creature
such as her could not be the product of random
forces and a big bang, of uncaring eons of
evolution and happenstance, nor can it be
corrupted to do Evil.
If there was anything at work in her, as she
seemed to imply when we briefly discussed it in
her bedroom, then it must have been God, I think
and I cannot suppress a self deprecating chuckle
at the thought.
Who woulda thunk it, she'll make a believer out of
me yet.
She's in the shower for a long, long while and
several times I approach the door and find my
hand on the doorknob before I reconsider and
resume puttering about trying not to worry, trying
not to listen too closely to the sounds emanating
from the bathroom.
When at last she comes out I quickly settle myself
on my couch and pretend I wasn't hovering outside
the door waiting for her. She walks towards me,
clad in a pair of dark red satin pajamas, her hair
wet and wild and curling quite a bit around her too
pale face. She stops before me, smiling slightly
and I know she sees right through me. I pat the
couch and she sits down beside me, close but not
so close we're touching.
She looks infinitesimally more relaxed but her eyes
are red rimmed and the contusions on her face are
swelling and growing more pronounced by the
minute it seems. Her cheek especially is already
livid. I gently reach out and let my fingers whisper
across her skin. She doesn't flinch but then she
doesn't yield to my touch either.
"Would you like some ice for that?"
"That would be good," she flashes me another
small smile and it feels like a gift.
I get the ice from my fridge and wrap it in a
dishtowel then gently press it against her cheek.
She hisses in a breath but lets me minister to her
and when I sit down beside her, close enough so
that our legs are touching from hip to knee, she
doesn't pull back. At first though she sits next to
me awkwardly, back ramrod straight. After a bit
she lets herself slump into a more natural position
and relaxes her rigid posture. She sighs a soft sigh
that sounds almost like contentment and I feel her
breath whisper against the skin on the inside of my
wrist. Suddenly I feel like its Christmas and I got all
the really good presents under the tree.
It's a fleeting thought that peters out quickly. Her
pajama top has slipped down one shoulder and for
the first time I catch sight of the damage around
her throat and shoulders. Sitting her upright I slide
my finger across the delicate sweep of her
collarbones, the way they stand out, fragile and
strong at the same time has always fascinated me.
I love it when she wears her low cut shirts and
blouses and I can watch the play of light and
shadow across the delicate protrusions of bone,
the way her cross rests just between them,
glittering subtly, and the way the shadows gather
in the hollow at her throat.
Now both her throat and collarbones are covered
in darkening bruises, the ones around the column
of her throat look suspiciously like fingerprints.
She shies back from my touch and gathers the two
sides of her pajama top together, covering up the
hurt, shutting out my gaze. She masks her retreat
by going for her teacup, abandoned on the coffee
table and takes a careful sip of her by now
lukewarm tea.
"Oh Scully," my voice breaks on her name and I
reach out my hands to touch her. Sensing my
movement she retreats towards the other side of
the couch, her back to the armrest, her knees
drawn up against her chest, teacup resting on the
plateau of her kneecaps.
I've been good and haven't intruded on her beyond
what she was willing to allow me and now I find I
cannot keep it in any longer.
"Scully I'm so sorry I wasn't there. So sorry he hurt
you."
I need her to know how very sorry I am that I
wasn't able to protect her. That I was so slow in
putting two and two together and realizing Pfaster
would come after her that I almost lost her. The
habit of self-flagellation is so ingrained it's a
wonder I've been able to hold out until now.
"You can't blame yourself. You couldn't have
known he was going to come after me."
"I should have known, I'm a criminal profiler
remember? I should have known what his next
move was going to be."
"Shut up Mulder, don't do this to yourself. You
can't predict the actions of a madman!"
Her reply is fast and furious and judging from it she
has been spoiling for a fight. Anger rolls off her in
waves and I welcome it. It's the first emotion
besides grief that I've seen stir in the deep blue
depths of her changing eyes tonight.
Stoking the fire I slump on my couch, clasp my
hands between my knees and examine my
fingernails. All the while I studiously avoid looking
at her and continue to berate myself out loud. It
serves the dual purpose of letting me articulate my
feelings of guilt and letting her reclaim a piece of
herself in the normalcy of our interaction. We have
been through this spiel more times than I care to
remember and we both need it so I'm not letting
the opportunity pass me by.
We go back and forth for a bit and I surreptitiously
admire the way she's riled up and the way her
eyes have changed from slate gray to the color of
the ocean during a storm. Lost in their depths I go
too far in my desire to keep her animated and she
nearly takes my breath away when suddenly she
blindsides me with a truth neither of us can deny.
"Enough with the guilt trip Mulder. Don't make this
about you, this happened to me."
She's right of course but I'm not about to let her
shoulder this on her own. Besides she's wrong in
so many other ways. I choose the simplest way of
letting her know that, hoping it will be enough.
"It happened to both of us Scully."
Her face softens and my heart shatters.
"I know this affects you too, don't get me wrong.
But it's ~me~ who pulled that trigger. This is
something ~I~ am going to have to live with...
make sense of."
"I meant what I said Scully. You can't judge
yourself."
"But if I can't judge myself Mulder, who am I to
stand judge and jury over another human being."
I realize she is no longer talking of God and the
Devil, is coming to accept that it was her who
decided Pfaster's life should end.
I have nothing to say to that, we have come to the
crux of the matter and the rest she will have to
figure out herself. I've no doubt that she will in her
own time but leave her with one last thought.
"You're just you Scully. It may not have been
divine intervention and you know I profess to not
believe in God but if in truth such a being existed
you'd be the closest thing to Him I could ever have
found on this earth."
I cannot decipher her expression for a moment but
then a tiny smile surfaces.
"You know Mulder, your image of me is way too
exalted and entirely unjustified. but thank you
anyway."
I am struck dumb by the way she voices my earlier
thought and can't think of a thing to do but return
her smile and sip my tea.
The smile lingers a bit but then the undertow drags
it away again and leaves her looking tired and
drawn. The marks Pfaster left stand out in stark
relief against her too pale skin.
"Mulder lets just drop this. I'm way too exhausted
to form another coherent thought."
"We both are," I continue to imprint on her the
message that she's not alone in this and seems to
have sunk in.
"I know and I'm sorry," she gets up, stretches
carefully, winces slightly and then rests her hand
on my shoulder for a moment. "Don't worry Mulder.
I promise you we ~will~ talk about this more soon.
But I need to get some sleep first"
"Will you be alright?"
"I'll be fine. I always am." she walks towards my
bedroom and pushes open the door. Before
slipping through it she turns around and I see a
flash of Mediterranean blue under the red fringe of
her hair. ".when you're around."
She disappears into the dark recesses of my
bedroom and I am left on the couch dazed and
amazed. A wave of happiness crashes over me
and I suppose it's a testament to the strangeness
of our lives that I can find joy under circumstances
such as these. I do not question it however but
merely lie back on my couch and replay her parting
words over and over in my mind.
She'll be okay; I know it in my gut. But I also
realize, really realize maybe for the first time, that
there's a long way to go, that we will not shake this
lightly.
Even though I'm sure she'll be almost back to her
regular self to the outside world next week, she'll
still be different on the inside and what happened
tonight will affect her - us - in ways both big and
small.
When she needs to pull a gun on someone next
time we're threatened will she hesitate? Will I?
Getting a haircut or a manicure, getting ready to
take a bath, lighting her candles or looking in the
mirror, all these small actions will forever bear the
taint of Pfaster's intrusion into her life.
What will she say next time she goes to
confession, will she even want to continue
attending church after this? How will she face
Skinner and plead when opposite the review
board?
We'll face each question as it comes up and get
through it together though, somehow we always
do.
I doze on and off for about an hour and then
thinking she's sure to be sleeping I quietly rise
from my couch, enter my bedroom and stand over
her. She's on her back, arms thrown over her
head, shock of red hair fanning the pillow, framing
her pale, beautiful face in a riot of color. She's lying
there so still that I hold my breath until I hear the
even rhythm of hers. Bending closer I trace the line
of her cheekbone with my index finger and it
comes away wet. I get closer still and detect the
shine of her tears in the soft moonlight that filters
into the room through the drapes. They have left
tracks on her cheeks and the fine hairs at her
temples are saturated with her grief.
I sink into the bedside chair, undecided if I should
wake her or not. The sight of her silent tears
undoes me anew and I want to weep myself.
I take her limp hand in mine and feel the delicate
bones and the strong flow of blood rushing under
her skin. I do not wake her, deciding to let her cry
her tears in silence, unaware. Settling in for the
duration I try to get more comfortable in the
hardback chair. Her hand clasped loosely in mine I
watch over her while the moon waxes and wanes.
Throughout my silent vigil her tears continue to
flow in a slow but steady trickle which I hope will
cleanse the foul imprint of Donnie Pfaster from her
soul. She never once sobs or trashes or moans
and I wonder what exactly it is she's seeing that
makes her weep so.
Much later she rouses from her slumber and when
her sleep addled eyes meet mine their deep blue
ocean depths are almost serene. She notices the
moisture on her cheeks and me silently observing
her and brushes the traitorous tears away with a
sleepy uncoordinated swipe of her free hand. She
does not turn from me in embarrassment though,
or tries to hide her tears from me and I am so very
relieved. She merely lies back, her eyes on mine,
strengthens the loose claps of our joined hands,
lets her eyelids fall closed again and though soon
fast asleep once more she does not let go for the
remainder of the night.
~>~> FIN <~<~
I repeat; feedback is food for the soul, so please
take a moment to tell me what you think. Note that
English is not my first language, if there are any
glaring errors here I would appreciate you pointing
them out.
Mail me at:
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"There are only ten ideas.What makes the
difference is how you spice them."
Tori Amos
For more of my fic efforts (though not many)
visit my fledgling website at:
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