RESTORED TO GRACE
by Blackwood
entreamis@yahoo.com

RATING: R
CATEGORY: MSR, Story, Angst, UST, Post-ep for "Orison"
SPOILERS: Pilot, Pusher, Irresistible, Emily, FTF, Amor Fati, Orison
ARCHIVE: With intact header and a note to me.
SUMMARY: Mulder has a theory.  Doesn't he, always?
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter & Co. have legal claim.  I do not.

~*~*~*~

I don't surprise easily.  Ten-odd years spent in the service of the
FBI, especially within the loving bosom of the VCS, will pretty much
inure anybody to that.  Shit, I'm not even one of those people who
can brag about how well they handle crime scenes.  They sicken me on
a regular basis.  That's different than surprise, though, isn't it? 
Being disgusted by someone's actions is not the same thing as being
taken unaware by them.  I'm a profiler, after all--the arsenal of
choice when someone wants to know how an individual will behave.  I
anticipate what will happen and share my suppositions with others.

I'm surprised by what I witnessed tonight.  Scratch that.  I'm
shocked.  I had Pfaster dead to rights but, in the surreal context of
what followed, I wonder if I had him at all.  The D.C. cops are all
over us in a flash, or so it seems.  The acrid scent of burnt
ignition powder mingles with that of patchouli, freesia and vanilla. 
Scully's face is blank and I'm frozen, speechless.  I don't know what
to say, or do.  I turn from her, so she won't she the conflict she's
raised in me.  Astonishment?  Oh yeah, but satisfaction, too.

I make my statement while part of me listens to the other officer
questioning Scully.  Her demeanor is composed; voice steady,
resolute.  That's my girl.  She details events with scientific
detachment and it's enough to satisfy the beat cops.  The detectives
will be a different story, but I find myself unable to predict what
Scully will do or say.  We've been together nearly seven years and I
admit I've used my profiling skills to my advantage, at times.  Yeah,
I can be a manipulative son-of-a-bitch.  You don't spend as much time
as I have walking the paths of Hell without Satan rubbing off, a
little.  Maybe he's touched her, too.

I may be shocked, but I'm not surprised.

I should have seen this coming.  I blame myself for not insisting she
back-off this case from the beginning.  I suggested it, since my
fighting Irish partner would not take kindly to a direct order from
me.  I am her superior, after all; at least, technically, although
I've never considered Scully my subordinate for a moment.  It was a
toss-up between keeping her clear of Pfaster or standing with her
while she faced her demons.  Considering all the times she's put up
with me and mine, I owe her the same courtesy.  I carry a king-sized
guilt complex in my back pocket, anyway, so it's no great leap for me
to hold myself responsible for what's happened.  But (I can hear
Scully say), this isn't about me, so I swallow blame and prepare to
minister to my partner's bruises, especially the ones that don't
show.

I spy Scully at the back of the apartment and excuse myself to join
her in her bedroom, glistening glass shards from the smashed mirror
crackling underfoot, remnants of the fierce struggle that has
rendered her nearly as shattered.  I keep everything low-key, despite
the fact that I'm roiling, trying to set aside personal feelings to
better help my partner.  My voice is low and level as we discuss the
shooting.  I assure her of my support, but still she seeks
explanations for her behavior.  I have no easy answers for her very
difficult questions.  I'm the one who acts on impulse, hunches, on
what may be instead of what is.  Scully's considered approach to life
is guided by moral principal, science and carefully adhered-to
ethics.

Still, all that was before: before Modell taught us how easily the
mind is misled; before the illusion of normalcy with Emily was given
and taken away; before an icy tomb nearly claimed her and a soujourn
to the Ivory coast challenged her most sacred beliefs.  Maybe Dana
Scully had simply had enough of disillusionment and darkness.  Maybe.
 But this time, she travels the path of reincarnation alone.  That's
what we do, Scully and I.  After each encounter with the dark side,
we lose ourselves and must find a way to regenerate into functioning
human beings again.  Like a phoenix from the ashes of the
conflagration that consumes it, we rise.  It's the only way to stay
sane.  We don't talk about it.

Scully is alive.  Pfaster is dead.  There's no question as to the
utter rightness of this scenario.  He hadn't brutalized her--yet, but
he would have and Scully knew exactly what was coming when he
assaulted her.  Puts a whole new spin on "ignorance is bliss," huh? 
Maybe that's what pushed her over the edge.  I don't know.  The first
time around this dance floor, the Minneapolis PD had him under lock
and key right quick.  I remember Moe Bocks' personal promise that
Donnie would never see the far side of a prison wall again.  Scully
was younger then, and more inclined to believe that the system still
worked for those who trusted in God and America and Mom's apple pie. 
She doesn't believe that any more, at least not to the same degree.

A tall, slim brunette woman enters the room.  She identifies herself
as Officer Tolson, a certified trauma counselor.  Her uniform and her
manner are official, but her voice is soft.  Scully's eyes dart from
me to the door.  Signal enough.

Out in the living room, a chubby DC detective with a perpetual sneer
wants my version of events.  I can't tell if my credentials allay or
rouse his suspicions, but his attitude sucks.  I'm tempted to hit
him, so I shove my hands in my pockets for safekeeping.  Yes, Ms.
Scully was the shooter.  Yes, she was in imminent danger.  Yes,
warning was given.  Semantics.  We finish and I fish out my cell
phone, waking a disgruntled Skinner to let him know what's happening.

"Is she all right?" he interjects almost immediately, concern cutting
through his brusque manner.

"Time will tell," I reply with no intention of being vague.

"Was it a righteous shot?"  My boss is a smart man, already
anticipating the inquiry that will follow and the role he will play
in the outcome.

I answer "absolutely," and wait.  Eloquent silence crosses time and
space.

Finally, he says in a softer tone of voice, "Stay with her, agent. 
Keep me updated."

"I will."  I hit END and consider his words.  A righteous shot? 
Whoever dares dispute it is going to have to answer to me.  I just
wish I'd been the one to fire.  I was itching for Pfaster to misstep,
so I could justify squeezing the trigger.  Instead, he stood there,
mute with cunning in his assessment of my rage, my fear, my training.
 I didn't know, at that moment, whether Scully was alive or bleeding
to death somewhere beyond.  Had it been the latter, it would have
been my bullet through his heart, not hers.  He's lucky Scully put
him down with a clean shot.  I might not have been so merciful. 
Difference is, I can live with that while Scully stands at the
beginning of a long road to self-forgiveness.

The trauma cop emerges and I go back into the bedroom to find Scully
standing, staring out the window with her back to the door.  She is
still, except for the minute tremor I spy along the back collar of
her pajamas.  I approach without a word and touch her shoulder.  She
starts and I stammer an instant apology, cursing myself for sheer
stupidity.  I make her sit down again, re-wrapping her in the blanket
that's on the bed.

"Where's your suitcase?" I ask softly.

"Closet," she replies, just as quietly.

The door is still ajar.  I imagine Scully bound and gagged there,
literally in the dark.  Invisible hands tighten around my heart as I
stare at the methodic clusters of jackets and skirts and blouses hung
on heavy, wooden hangars or pale pink, puffy ones and wonder if
Scully's outward craving for order can help her now find it within. 
She's strong, but not invincible, much as she tries to portray that
to me.  I pull her suitcase from an upper shelf and lay it open
beside her.  I turn back to her dresser with no small amount of
guilt.  Scully's personal space has been violated more than enough
for one day.

I open the top drawer, unfamiliar with her arrangement of things. 
It's no surprise that Scully's dresser contents are like Scully
herself: well-ordered, practical, but with a softer side not always
visible to the casual onlooker.  I try not to notice the colors and
textures of the items I'm deciding on, though my mind is
involuntarily taking detailed notes of this soft scrap of blood-red
satin or that edge of elegant lace.  I feel like a voyeur and steal a
look back at Scully to see if she's watching me touching the things
that so intimately touch her.  I find her eyes already on me, sad and
trusting, tacit permission granted.  A self-conscious flush washes
over me and I turn so she doesn't notice.

In the end, I select simple cotton things, the ones that remind me of
a night spent talking in a dingy motel room in Bellefleur, Oregon. 
Did I love her then?  No, but I sure as hell was taken with her,
especially after she revealed her fears and herself to me, turning to
embrace me with genuine trust.  That night, I knew I'd met someone
unique in my life.  Love followed quickly enough, only I never
believed she felt the way I did.  The way I do.  Still, things of
late have me thinking that maybe we're finally on the same page.  Now
this, and she turns to me again, her foundation shaken once more. 
Ah, Scully.  Have we traveled so far only to find ourselves at the
beginning, again?

I rifle through the other drawers, adding trousers and a blue sweater
to the case.  "Not that one, Mulder," she murmurs at one point,
pulling at her makeshift shawl.  "The black one."  I replace one
sweater with the other, laying it next to the embroidered case where
she keeps her toiletries.

"I'm cold," she murmurs.

"Can you dress?"

She nods and I cross the room, turning back at the door.  "I will be
right outside," I state with deliberate care.  I close the door
behind me, running a hand over my mouth, blinking back outraged
tears.  The trauma lady approaches and gestures with her head towards
the door.

"Girlfriend?"

"Partner...and friend," I reply showing her my badge.

"She gave me her mother's telephone number.  I suggest you call her
and tell her to meet you at the hospital."

"I can stay with her."

"Agent--"

"Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, this attack was committed on private property, within
the victim's home.  The hospital is going to insist on a family
member being present to sign paperwork and possibly, to answer
questions."

In spite of her soothing tone, I don't like her terminology and a
sudden cold swell of anger rises at her reference to Scully as a
victim.  "I can take her to the hospital and have her checked out
discretely, if that's all right with you.  I don't want to worry her
family just yet."

"You don't have that right."

I glance at her nametag.  "I have every right, Officer--Tolson, is
it?  You have no idea what you're talking about."  I'm being a prick,
of course, and she's right.  I draw in a breath, looking upwards to
hold my temper.  I hate to have to be the one to call Margaret Scully
with yet another piece of unwelcome news about her only surviving
daughter.  I close my eyes, then, releasing my breath and my
shoulders.  I bring my gaze back to hers.  "I'll take care of it," I
inform the woman, a thin edge of sarcasm in my voice.

Tolson calmly goes on.  "Is she resilient?" 

"Scully?  Yeah, she's resilient.  She's the most goddamned resilient
person I know."

"There may be repercussions."

I realize she's trying to help, but I've abruptly had enough of the
DCPD.  "Repercussions?" I begin nonchalantly, in a well-worn power
ploy.

"Yes.  Ms. Scully may exhibit post-trauma stress tonight or over the
next several weeks.  She--"

"I'm well aware of the effects of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome,
Officer, especially as it relates to women," I interrupt, voice low,
but assertive.  Tolson's face drops as I step in, eyes glaring.  "In
men, PTSD is always associated with combat stress or death of a loved
one.  Women react more commonly to incidents of personal violation:
physical attack, rape, close brushes with death.  One incident can
trigger long-term sleep disorders, nightmares and jumpy, even
irrational behavior.  Sometimes symptoms don't manifest for months,
even years, triggered by a seemingly innocent event--or not so
innocent."  I tilt my head towards her, my brow arched with a look
that asks "Any questions?"

I feel the eyes of the other cops on us and I have to give Tolson
credit for remaining nonplused under my calculated tirade.  She's
obviously accustomed to on-scene emotions running high.  She merely
steps back from me and says nothing.  That's when I realize that
Scully's bedroom door is open and she is standing at the entrance.  I
have no way of knowing how long she's been there and I wonder how it
is that this scenario, or one like it, hasn't happened until now. 
Repercussions?  It's almost comical.  I feel like saying, "No shit,
lady.  Working with Fox Mulder virtually guarantees
repercussions-by-association."  Instead, I end the standoff for
Scully's sake by saying, "She's a professional.  She'll be okay."

Ms. Trauma Counselor looks at my partner, then me, her eyes narrowing
as she sizes me up.  I dare say she's imagining what kind of work we
do and what kind of partner must I be if I can make that statement
with aplomb.  She's better off not knowing.  Reaching into her
pocket, she moves past me, pressing a business card into my hand. 
"Dana already has one," she says.

"So, why are you giving this to me?" I ask, turning towards her.

"In case you need it."  My eyes widen and she continues, "You look
like hell."  I open my mouth to speak, but no words come forth in
response to her observation.

I look over at Scully, her eyes full of gentle chastisement.  She's
dressed in jeans, a loose shirt and white socks.  The
"don't-fuck-with-me" image she projects through her professional
attire is replaced by a simpler, less formidable one.  I can't help
but notice her lack of shoes and I'm reminded of something Scully
once told me about the Irish burying their dead barefoot.  A chill
runs down my arms.  She catches me looking at her feet and tilts her
head to the side.  "I can't find my shoes," she says, almost
apologetically.  I sigh and move towards the door.  "I'll find them,"
I tell her and she steps aside to let me by.

I remember seeing her black shoes on the tile floor alongside the
tub.  I invade the bathroom, fully realizing that I'm disturbing a
crime scene.  Frankly, I don't care.  I take in the disquieting sight
of dozens of snuffed-out candles set about the room, their cloying
scent lingering while images of a bloody bath and a dead woman come
to mind.  The woman becomes Scully and the bile rises in my throat. 
I quell it, running cool water over my face before I pick up the
shoes and go back outside.

I return to find Scully arguing sotto voce with Tolson and an
ambulance attendant.  She's shaking her head.  The square line of her
shoulders speaks volumes.  The purse of her lips tells me even more. 
I come up beside her and placing my hand at her back, bend towards
her ear, asking "Everything all right?" 

She doesn't meet my eyes, but her tone is irritable.  "Everything
is--" She stops short of saying "fine," and continues "I don't need
an ambulance, Mulder.  I don't need a doctor.  I just need some
rest."  She lifts her eyes to mine and her silent plea for
intervention tugs at me.

"I'll see she's taken care of," I tell the paramedic.  I feel a sigh
under my hand.  Some Bureau agents arrive, followed by Scully's
landlady.  While Scully pulls on her shoes, I ask Agent Borgia to
have the maintenance team thoroughly clean the place after the
investigative team is done.  I give the landlady my phone number and
tell her Scully will be staying with me a few days.

Tolson steps forward with the overnight case and Scully's coat.  I
read compassion in her eyes and I'm sorry for being abrupt with her. 
"You know how to reach me," she says.  I nod, grabbing the coat and
helping Scully into the sleeves.  She's moving with some lethargy,
but her shivering has stopped and she's buttoning herself up.  I turn
her towards me, lifting her collar around her neck.  "Cold out
there," I comment, while one hand strays to lift her chin.  Her
expression is unreadable, distance in her eyes.  I don't like it; not
one bit.  Picking up the suitcase, we head out the building to my car
parked across the street.

~~~~~

The roads are empty in the cold, wee hours of the morning.  We pull
into the Emergency lot at the GW Medical Center and Scully turns to
me, prepared to argue.  I shake my head at her with a look that says,
"don't even try."  She audibly sighs and lets me take her inside. 
Our credentials get us a quiet, back-door entry.  While the doctor
examines Scully, I call her mom, grateful when an answering machine
picks up.  "Dana's okay, just a little shaken," I lie, and leave my
number.  Scully will be plenty sore in a day or two, but she accepts
her bruises as she always does, without complaint.

The hospital decides Scully is fit to travel.  Another phone call to
Skinner and we're given a few days off, with Scully entrusted to my
care.  Getting back into the car, we start towards Alexandria.  I
reach to turn on the radio.  "Don't...please," Scully says so softly
I almost don't hear her.  We make the rest of the trip in silence. 
Maybe it's best.  There will be plenty of talk, later.  Of course,
there will be a review board.  We'll both be expected to make
official statements.  I wish I could predict that Scully will defend
her actions, but nothing is a sure bet right now.

It's after 2 am when we finally enter my apartment.  I flick on a dim
light and Scully heads directly to my living room.  "Hungry?" I call
to her as I remove my jacket.  There is no answer.  I enter the room
to find her standing in front of the fish tank, coat still on,
fingers lightly tapping at the glass wall.  Blue Acaras and Red Hooks
chase one another in their endless loop around the tank.  I come up
beside her, the only sound in the room the bubbling of the filter and
a distant siren that rises, then fades.  The aquarium is the only
light source here and it bathes her features in a soft, blue-white
glow.

When we're working, I don't consider or treat her as anything less
than the consummate professional she is.  But Scully is beautiful and
I'd be a liar if I didn't admit that I often situate myself just so I
can  observe her without her knowing.  And here, now, in the darkened
stillness of my apartment, I'm caught in the snare of her blue eyes
made bluer by the diffuse light and the slow blink of her lashes as
she watches the mesmerizing motion of the fish.  It can't be right,
my thinking of her like this after what's happened, but I can't help
it.

Inhale.  Exhale.  I turn her towards me, then, and begin to unbutton
her coat.  Time slows as she stands looking up at me and I slip each
button, one by one, from its steadfast place to reveal the more rapid
than normal rise and fall of her breath.  I concentrate on the smooth
contour of her neck, on the gold cross that signifies her beliefs, on
the soft line of her mouth as her tongue darts out to touch her upper
lip.  I ease the garment from her shoulders, her vulnerability a
powerful incentive to not stop, but to continue this disrobing to its
natural conclusion.

I can't look her in the eyes for fear that she will see the sudden
shift of perception in my gaze.  My pulse quickens as she leans
towards me to pull her arms clear, her nearness intruding on my
senses, the top of her head just brushing my chin, the faded scent of
her fragrance mixed with sweat still clinging to her.  An unexpected
eddy of desire swirls between us, as it so often does, awaiting
direction.
 
"Thank you," she says after I lay the coat over the back of the desk
chair, the moment of truth having come and gone, again as it so often
does, without mention.  Turning back towards the tank, she says, "Do
you think they know?"  I'm thinking cops, I'm thinking Bureau, I'm
thinking Consortium.  Then I realize she's talking about the fish,
but even I can't make a connection.

"Know what?  That they're hungry?  I'm sure of that.  Fish aren't
very good at dieting."  Her mouth twitches ever so slightly, her
barest concession to my feeble attempt at levity.  She reaches for
the fish food and sprinkles some on the surface of the water.  The
Acaras rise rapidly to gobble the rainbow-colored flakes, while the
Red Hooks pretend not to care.

"I mean, do you think they know they're in prison?" she asks with
some seriousness.

"Are they?"

"What else would you call it?  The fact that they don't know it
doesn't mean it's not true, even if it looks okay to them."  I follow
her train of thought with some difficulty, but I think I understand.

"You think they're spinning their wheels."

"Maybe."

"You think we're spinning our wheels."

She turns to me then.  "Mulder, I committed a crime tonight.  I
ignored my training and did the very opposite of what I'm sworn to
do.  I should turn myself in.  Now."

"He was hardly an innocent man."

"Don't patronize me," she snaps, her voice brittle.

"Patronize?"

"I saw your face, Mulder, when I fired.  I heard what you said to the
cops.  I know what you must think of me."

"I told you what I believe to be true.  You had no choice."  My words
hold conviction, but inside I have to admit I'm disconcerted by her
observation.

"He was apprehendable."

"Was he?"

Her chin rises as she lifts her face to mine, a bare flicker of hope
in her eyes.  "You have a theory?"  Her question is more statement
than query, her willingness to explore extreme possibilities
heightened by her role in it.  And in fact, I do have a theory.  All
the way over here, I've been mulling over the evening's events, the
entire case, in fact.

Taking her by the hand, I lead her to the sofa.  She sits down and I
sit opposite her, on the coffee table.  Her body is compacted into
tiny space: legs and feet evenly aligned, back erect, hands lying
quietly in her lap, eyes steady on mine.  I lean forward, forearms
pressed to my thighs, hands clasped before me.  "I think he wanted to
die," I start, my eyes watching hers.  I read the bewilderment there
as she realizes who I'm talking about.

"Pfaster?" she asks in a whisper.

I nod.  "Stay with me here," I begin, preparing to fill her in on
some of the ideas that have been banging around my head for the last
few hours and hoping she's open to hearing them.  The barest arch of
her brow assures me her attention.  "I think the Reverend Orison
really believed he was bringing the faithful back to God.  He may
have been deluding himself, Scully, but he believed it.  And he
wanted to bring Donnie Pfaster back to God.  Badly.  That's why he
helped him escape, so he could prove to God he'd succeeded in
rehabilitating Donnie before killing him and sending him to Heaven. 
We know Orison was capable of clouding the mind.  I think he may even
have been using it on *me*, preventing me from seeing what was
happening or acting on it until it was almost too late."

Scully's rigid posture reflects her mindset, but her eyes are full of
questions.  "And you think he was using some sort of mind control on
me?" she asks from under raised brows.

"Scully, that song you kept hearing..."Don't Look Any Further,"
right?"  She nods.  "You said you hadn't heard it since your high
school days and then you started hearing it everywhere."

"So?"

"So, maybe that's how Orison worked on you."

"By playing oldies-but-goodies from my childhood?"

"You said the song had special meaning.  You said he called you
Scout, that you associated that name and that song with recognizing
evil."

"And?"

"Don't you see it?  Your mind held memories that Orison could tap
into.  He picked your brain, Scully.  He knew Pfaster would seek you
out."

"Why not just warn me?  Why the mind-game?"

I shake my head.  "I think he did warn you, in his own way.  He used
the song."

"Mulder, even if I believe Orison was capable of "picking my brain",
as you put it, he was dead before Pfaster came to my apartment."  She
pauses and I know she's reliving the evening's horrific events and
her voice drops in volume.  "I heard the song playing while I was in
the closet."

My heart aches for the memories that haunt her.  I wish I had more
definitive answers for her, but I don't.  X-Files don't lend
themselves to neat, tidy endings.  "I don't know, Scully. 
Coincidence?  A restless spirit's last attempt to make good?  A
post-death suggestion?"  

Her brows knit together as she looks at me, her mind scanning the
places and conversations of the last few days, trying to draw
self-generated conclusions from my words.  She has never taken the
easy path, my Scully, nor has she allowed me to, either.  If we come
through this, it will be because of her search for the truth, a
search she now pursues with even more single-mindedness than myself,
even at risk to her career and her self-worth.

She sits back into the sofa, her body only slightly less rigid, but
it's a start.  "So, you're saying that Orison 'felt' my memories of
Pfaster and tried to warn me against him?"

"Yes."

"You're also suggesting it was Orison who made me fire?" she asks,
her eyes full of distress.

"I think we were *all* Orison's pawns--caught in his game, the rules
of which we may never know."

"Even if that's true, Mulder, that doesn't explain your original
statement about Pfaster wanting to die."
  
"When I finally reached you, Donnie knew it was over.  He knew it,
Scully, and he wasn't about to go back to prison.  I raised my gun
and he just stood there.  He knew I wouldn't fire without cause."

"But, if he wanted to die--"

"Not by *my* hand."  I reach out and clasp Scully's hands between
mine, their smallness belying their strength.  "You had to be the
one.  I know that all he did was turn to look at you, but in your
state of mind, Scully, it was threat enough.  Pfaster wanted to hurt
you...to claim you...to exact your--"  I look down at her fingers in
mine "--flesh," I finish with barely a sound, before returning my
gaze to hers.

"Pfaster was unarmed when I fired, Mulder, and I made a choice."

"Robert Modell didn't hold a weapon to us either, Scully, but he held
our lives in his hands just the same."   

She drops her head and pulls her hands from mine.  I know she's
recalling a small hospital room where we faced another master of mind
control.  We came out of that case seeing one another with new eyes,
our partnership forever changed.  When she looks back up at me, her
eyes are bright, tears withheld.

"You're suggesting that neither of us was fully in control of what
happened tonight?"

"I'm suggesting you had no choice, one way or the other," I reply
softly, my eyes squinting as I watch her reaction.  Semantics, again.

"I don't know if I can accept that."

I chew on my lower lip, mentally preparing my next question.  "Answer
me a question, Scully, would you?"  She waits.  "You believe in a God
that's omnipotent, right?"

"Yes.  God knows all."

"Past, present, future?"

"What are you getting at?"

"If that's so, then God knew right from the moment of creation that
man would fall from grace."  She is staring at me, carefully
listening to the agnostic recall his catechism.  "And if that's true,
why bother to give man, or woman, free choice at all?  It's all a
done deal, anyway."

"No--"

"No?"

"No, Mulder.  We make choices.  Reality is made up of all the
infinite choices made from all the infinite possibilities presented. 
Once a path is chosen, it must run to its inevitable conclusion,
excluding all other possibilities."

"Part of your thesis, wasn't it?"  That garners me the first true
glimpse of a smile I've seen all day.  "So, God knows all the
variations, even though only one gets played out?"

"Something like that."

"Then he's just a lottery vendor, pulling the winning numbers without
controlling them."  I see her annoyance growing as she leans forward.
 I know she's angry with my metaphor and my impertinence, but it's
better than self-recrimination.

"We make choices," she states in her best "this conversation is over"
tone of voice, rising from the sofa and moving towards the doorway.

I stand and look after her.  "How?" I call to her back.  She sighs
and turns towards me.  I see the fatigue in her eyes, but I can't let
this go.  I'm looking for any angle that will help her begin to
vindicate her actions.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what's the process?"  She considers me for a moment, then the
question.  This is basic FBI canon: Investigative Methods 101. 
She'll either dismiss me or answer me.  I close my eyes with an
exhale of breath when she begins to respond.

"Well...first you identify the problem," she says in recitation mode.
"Then you gather data, assess your options, make a plan and carry it
out.  Of course, that all happens relatively quickly, in most cases."

I nod as she ticks off the checklist.  "What you're saying is you do
the best you can given the information you've got."

"Always," she replies without missing a beat and a small piece of me
begins to rest easier, knowing that my shrewd partner will eventually
fit the pieces of this demonic jigsaw together, in due time.

"Always," I repeat for her benefit and look into her eyes, willing
her to make the connection to her own choices.  "Physician, heal
thyself," I gently tell her, a sudden weariness overcoming me with a
deep sigh.

"You're tired," she says and I chuff softly at her consideration of
me, even now.  It doesn't matter whether my theories are accurate or
not.  I will defend her actions completely.

"I think we both need some sleep," I respond.  "You take the bedroom.
 I'll sleep here."  She says nothing, but nods; and I can see our
conversation has given her pause.  Walking to where her suitcase sits
beside the entry, she picks it up and heads into the bedroom.  I'm
suddenly glad I replaced the leaky waterbed with a normal mattress
and box spring.  Somewhere along the way, I acquired bed linens, so
the room is actually livable.

She returns to the doorway of the living room for a moment, looking
as if she wants to say something, then reconsiders before
disappearing from view.  I take off my shoes and unbutton the top of
my jeans.  Sitting back, I allow my head to drop backwards against
the wall while I listen to the sounds of Scully preparing for bed. 
They are small sounds, comforting sounds--sounds of normalcy.  They
are sounds of Scully going through the motions of a normal life. 
It's the best I can do for her, right now.  Stretching out on the
sofa, I turn on the television and channel surf until Gary Cooper
wearing a cowboy hat stops my wanderings.  I turn down the volume and
drop the remote to the floor, slumber overtaking me.

~~~~~

I awake with a start to the sound of steady rain, a sixth sense
telling me I'm not alone.  Dawn's pale light and the muted flickering
of the television reveal someone standing over me.  I half rise, then
relax when I see it's Scully, wrapped in a quilt.  How long she's
been standing there, watching me, I have no idea.  "You okay?" I
rasp, my voice hoarse with sleep.  The fatigue in her posture tells
me she hasn't slept.  I'm still groggy and not thinking very clearly.
 I fumble for the remote on the floor and turn off the television,
laying the unit on the table.  "C'mere," I tell her, patting the
space beside me.  She hesitates.  "It's okay," I tell her, extending
my arm towards her, "we can share a blanket."

Under other circumstances, I wouldn't stand a shot at having her take
me up on my offer; but the night's events have left her shaken.  A
shuddering sigh rattles her and she stands for a few, indecisive
moments.  Finally, she opens her arm to drape the quilt around us as
she descends, her body settling beside me, back to front, her legs
swinging upward to stretch out alongside mine.  My breath quickens at
her proximity and I remind myself to stay calm as I recline once
more.  Her slender frame takes up virtually no space, her tousled
head resting on my folded arm just beneath my chin, the quilt
trailing to the floor.  I allow my free arm to drop around her,
chalking up her actions to a lack of sleep and fear of being alone. 
She's showered and the scent of my soap and plain shampoo assail my
nose.  It's familiar and clean, although I don't suppose Scully will
be rid of Donnie Pfaster so easily.

I lean my head a bit closer to hers. "Comfy?" I ask.  She murmurs
assent and I gaze down at her profile.  Her face is scrubbed; the
freckles she tries so hard to cover with makeup dot her nose and
cheeks, making her look younger.  Her body is supple and warm, and
the fabric of her pajamas, thin.  As she relaxes, she nestles further
into me, shifting against my groin.  Warm excitement pools and I'm
aware of every inch of her pressed to me: the sheen of her auburn
hair, the luscious curve of her ass, the feel of her waist beneath my
arm and her legs alongside mine.  I have to admit that my body's
visceral reaction to a real woman beats fantasy any day, "out
finished."  I hate that my masculine brain is so damned insensitive
to the situation, but can't help but appreciate the fact that she's
seeking comfort from me and that this feels very, very nice.

Don't think the irony of the situation doesn't strike me.  I've
envisioned Scully on this sofa many a night.  With me.  In my mind,
we enact my version of the naked pretzel in damn near every position
my fevered brain can concoct.  My mouth is dry and I'm definitely a
little stiff below the waist.  Scully must realize it.  She is
nothing, if not a sharp investigator, skilled at picking up subtle
body language cues.  Yeah, right.  Me, subtle?  Hardly.  I'm
chagrined by my body's visceral response, but it's difficult not to
react to her proffered closeness.

If she notices, she doesn't say anything.  She slips into sleep
and I feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing reaffirming her
presence in my life over and over again.  At one point, she turns
until she is on her back, more or less, her legs tangling with mine. 
Her hand reaches out to find me, settling against me when it does. I
make no move to stop her and she sighs with a soft hum in her sleep. 
We lie like that a long while, drifting in and out of dreams.  Mine
are all brief and disturbing.  The worst is a horrifying scenario of
me making love to Scully while Pfaster watches, laughing. 
DreamScully suddenly fires a gun, the bullet passing through me to
Pfaster who disintegrates into maggots and dust.

My eyes flutter open and I feel chilled.  The quilt has slipped from
Scully's shoulders and I reach down to draw it back around us.  She
awakens with a soft gasp, her dreams clearly as afflicted as my own. 
Her small frame is burrowed into mine and I realize just how much I
want this, though I wish we could get here without facing a
life-threatening crisis in the process.

She lifts her face to me, lips parted, awareness coming upon her with
measured blinks.  The naked emotion I detect in her drowsy
countenance is startling: sadness, yes; but tenderness, too, and
something else--want.  A red-hot ribbon of desire spirals through me
as I lick my lips, pushing the dream specters from mind.  When Scully
reaches up, oh so slowly, to press her lips against mine, I'm torn
between what I want to do, which is succumb to the soft velvet of her
lips and what I should do, which is wake her more thoroughly before
we both do something we'll regret.  As it is, I simply allow her to
kiss me.

"Love me," she murmurs against my mouth, her voice both plea and
invitation.  The ache in my chest is as real as the tears that burn
my eyes.  Love Scully is what I can't help but do, have always done
and will do for as long as I live.  Her entreaty is born of crisis,
of the sudden disintegration of every tenet she has held sacred, of
the need to be whole again and her need to be forgiven--by me.  My
partner has read me like a book, after all.  I've hidden nothing from
her.  In offering herself, she reveals her innermost self, her
deepest need to know that she is still, after all, a good person
worthy of love.

I could stop her, but I can't deny her.  She moves her mouth against
mine again and I allow myself the bliss of responding to her request.
 Our kiss is soft and slow and gentle.  A soft moan tremors from her
lips onto mine, her mouth pliant as I take possession of her, my arms
enfolding her tightly, reassuring myself of her reality.  Fatigue and
desire mingle as our embrace deepens in our half-asleep state, her
lips parting as my tongue seeks hers.  I taste a bruise at the corner
of her mouth and I'm worried I'll hurt her.  I pull back at the
thought, but she follows with me with some aggressiveness, sustaining
contact, her tongue sliding between my lips to find mine, eliciting
from me a soft growl of pleasure.

We separate, at last, my breathing uneven.  I feel her mouth at my
neck, tasting my skin as her hands slowly push up my tee shirt. 
Sensations are being triggered with lightning speed.  Moving my hand
to caress Scully's fevered cheek, she takes it within one of her own,
drawing it down to cover her breast.  I savor its curve and substance
under my hand, the tender tip pushing into my palm.

Suddenly, like a bizarre form of posthumous torture, the images of
DreamScully and Donnie Pfaster rise before my eyes and I'm taken
aback with horror and pushed fully awake.  Scully's hands are still
exploring my chest with feather-light touches and I'd love nothing
better than to return the favor.  I've wanted Scully for a long time,
but not like this.  Not with that bastard laughing his triumph over
us, Scully's emotions laid bare in anguish and self-doubt.  *If* I am
her touchstone as she told me, then my role is clear.  What Scully
needs now is protection and acceptance, not seduction.  This is not
the time and I bemoan the realization that she will not understand
this until later.  I barely understand it myself, but I gently pull
her away from me.  "Scully, we can't..." 

"Please, Mulder--" she entreats, her voice betraying her need.

"Listen to me."

"I need to feel close to you--" she whispers.

"I'm here."

"I need you to hold me--"

"I will."

"I need you to love me--" 

"I do."  At that, she stops, her breath coming quickly against my
face.  I hold her gaze in mine until her eyes register what I've just
told her.  "I do," I repeat with all the tenderness I can convey.  I
watch the emotions rise in her aspect, everything I feel for her
reflected back in equal measure.  And then, then she crumples into my
chest, her tears spilling with great wracking sobs that shake her
frame from head to toe, and me along with her. 

As I hold Scully and rock her to me, I wonder how many times she can
be consumed by the fires of evil, yet rid herself of its stain.  How
many times can she venture from the dogma she considers fundamental
just to consider my skewed vision of the world without losing her
personal truth?  I nearly lost her tonight and the thought shakes me
to my unadmitted soul.  I can't imagine it.  I've tried to send her
away from me, but we both know how futile that would be.  Her tears
soak my chest.  They are tears of healing.  This much I do know.

"I'm so sorry," I murmur into her hair, my hand stroking her hair, a
few stray tears of my own dropping into auburn gold.  She lifts her
face and I spy the unspoken question in her eyes.  I realize she's
wondering if my words reflect compassion for her distress or
disinterest in pursuing this latest aspect of our relationship.  A
gentle kiss on her mouth and a smile that twitches at the corner of
mine convey that I do, indeed, want her--all of her.  "Soon," I say
softly and kiss her brow.  She settles into me more closely,
comfortable with my promise, and I wrap my arms securely around her,
giving shelter.

I continue to hold her, my hand idly stroking her back, until her
sobs quiet and she gentles completely beneath my touch.  She stills,
at last, yawning with exhaustion.  It doesn't matter that Donnie
Pfaster's body lies in the morgue at the Coroner's Office.  It
doesn't matter that a bullet through his heart has stopped his
rampage of violence and death.  Donnie remains alive and well in the
mind of a beautiful woman who pulled from her depths a part of
herself no human being should ever have to face.

That she re-entered this case of her own volition stands as testimony
to her dedication as an agent and her professional code of ethics. 
That she managed to free herself from Pfaster's clutches, stunning
witness to her prowess and courage.  And whether her error of
judgment was the result of internal or external factors, I will never
fault her for it, knowing how close I came to doing the deed myself,
simply because he threatened her.  Earthly morality be damned.  She
has served her penance and is restored to grace, with me.  One day my
smart, beautiful, sexy, ethical partner will reconcile with her
creator, as she sees fit.  Whatever I can do to help her get there, I
will.  That's right.  Take it up with me, God.

She falls back to sleep in my arms, restless in dreams.  She will
find no comfort there; but, if she needs me, I'll be here.  There's
nothing to be done while the phoenix prepares to rise, but wait.

END 
February 2000