-------------------


From "True Reflections" by Boyd Tinsley


You think your life is like a movie
Where it all works out in the end
I think your life is like a desert
Where does it go, where does it begin?
When you look into a mirror
Do you like what's looking at you?
Now that you've seen your true reflection
What on earth are you gonna do?

Find some inspiration
It's down deep inside you
Amend your situation, yeah
Your whole life is ahead of you
Your whole life is ahead of you


-------------------


Mulder stares up into the distorted, eternally stricken face of the
grotesque crouched on the roof of John Mostow's apartment
building. There is something very compelling about it, and Mulder
is pulled into its gaze, momentarily oblivious of the police, EMTs,
and FBI agents now milling about the scene of Patterson's
shooting. Something about the heavily-engraved features exudes
loneliness and despair, and he loses himself in the void of its
nature.

His muscles feel cold and stiff, and the world seems to tilt slightly
around the creature. Everything else is falling away, it seems, and
he can do nothing to stop it. The stress of the past few weeks
catches up with his exhausted body, and his legs seem suddenly
too weak to support him. Heat closes in on his face, in spite of the
cool air, and the cut beside his eye throbs to life. Nausea grips his
stomach with an iron fist as he feels himself begin to sink toward
the tarred roof of the building. Even as he descends, the granite
eyes of the creature will not release him.

Something halts his fall, and he looks to his left, meeting the
concerned gaze of his partner. He shakes his head, attempting to
rid himself of the monster's image so he can concentrate on his
partner. Her mouth is moving, but all he hears is a rush of blood
echoing in his ears. Her small hands are holding him up,
supporting much of his weight. Still, his surroundings twist into a
revolting parody of reality. Scully remains unaffected, ever caring
and flawless. He blinks at her, realizing that she is getting agitated
with his lack of response. Her wide eyes shine with pooled tears
and a crescent of light twice reflected.

"I'm sorry, Scully."

He isn't sure of what else to say, but this small reply seems to
satisfy her. The lines of worry on her forehead become less
prominent. She steers him slowly to a low ledge bordering a
ventilation unit.

"Here." She gestures toward the concrete wall with one hand and
gently places the other on the side of his face. "Your skin is cold
and clammy, and you obviously aren't all together. You should
probably sit down before you fall down."

He nods and complies, unwilling to argue or resist. His eyes are
trained downward. He is not ready to really look at her yet.
Perhaps she shouldn't see me, he thinks. What if...what if that
thing is in me? What if she should see its reflection in my eyes?
The very idea of betraying her, of abandoning her for the inferno
licking at his feet, scares him more than anything. A shiver wracks
his frame, and he hears a light rustle as she sits down beside him.

She does not touch him again for a few minutes, but merely sits in
silence. She respects his space, allowing him time to deliberate and
adjust, and he loves her for it. Finally, at somehow the right
moment, she reaches over and covers one of his cold hands with
her own small but strong one. She wraps her fingers around it,
squeezing his palm lightly.

"I should have known, Scully," he says in a low, still voice. He
continues to study the featureless pitch-black roofing. "I saw it,
right in front of me. It had Patterson the whole time."

"There was no way you could have known, Mulder."

He can hear that her voice is directed straight at him. She is
watching him, waiting for some kind of reciprocation, but he is
directionless. He feels adrift, unable to empathize with her, unable
to make sense of his own feelings. Mulder is finally seeing how
close to the edge he has come. The abyss is revealed before him,
and he is not sure if he can step back, or if the choice is even his.
He leans forward and rests his face in his hands. Scully moves her
hand to his back, just a thread to tie him to reality.

He knows he must deal with this, face the demon, but this is not
the place. The chatter and white noise of the response crews has
shattered the silence he now craves. He draws in a breath of cool
air, letting it out gradually and deliberately. It helps clear his head
of extraneous burdens, leaving only one matter to be settled. He
allows his hands to fall away from his face. He is surprised that
they are dry. Even the tears could not find their way through the
tangled knots of his emotions. He stares at his hands as though
they belong to someone else.

"Ready to go, partner?"

Mulder manages only a nod. He doesn't want her to hear the
tremble that would most assuredly cause his voice to quiver. She
can see his weakness, and that is more than enough right now.

"Okay. Take it easy, Mulder," she instructs as he rises to his feet.

Suddenly, she is there in front of him, her tiny hand splayed
against his chest, steadying a rocking motion he had not been
aware of until it had stopped. Fingertips press up against his chin,
and she forces him to look at her. He meets her gaze for a brief,
uncomfortable moment.

"Are you sure you can make it?" Her tone is serious.

That's a loaded question, he thinks. The irony of her dead aim
would have elicited a smile from him any other time. His mind
reverberates with a hundred potential replies. Part of him wants to
scream "No! I can't do this alone!" Of course, he is not alone, but
he can't quite let her in, either. He feels so hurt, so damaged, and
he doesn't want her to be affected the same way. Not for anything.
Still, he knows that he owes her an honest answer, at the very least.
A few seconds seem to take forever to pass by as he considers his
options. He looks down at her hand still resting on his chest, then
back up.

"Yeah. I think so."

She scrutinizes him for a moment, and he has to restrain himself to
keep from flinching. Seemingly satisfied with his reply, she starts
to move away. He is grateful for the opportunity to avert his eyes.
He mindlessly starts to follow her, knowing that she will lead him
where he needs to go. Lost in deep contemplation, he does not
notice the short metal hood protruding from the roof, and as she
easily walks around it, he runs straight into it with a "Clang!"

"Aah!" he protests, bending over and holding his aching shin
protectively.

Mulder hears a few snickers from the crowd of onlookers behind
him, but he does not care. He is far beyond the reach of their petty
rudeness. It is the one advantage of his blanket of doubt that he can
actually appreciate. Glancing up at Scully, he sees her register the
men's reactions with a certain set of her jaw, the one that says,
"There be monsters here." She, of course, always takes his
humiliation harder than he does, and he knows that they are both
aware of that fact. Right now, it is doubly true. She shoots poison
darts at the workers with one look, and they are silenced. Her harsh
expression melts away as she turns to him again.

"Can you walk on it?" She reaches out, attempting to examine the
injury.

He draws his leg back and shakes his head. Not here, Scully, he
pleads in his mind. Not in front of these people.

"It's not so bad. Let's just...go, please," he says through gritted
teeth.

"Okay," she agrees dubiously. "I'll drive you home."

Her statement hangs in the air, a fact not to be opposed.

"But what about...?"

"I'll have one of the other agents pick up your car."

He had known better than to even try, but he had felt compelled to
challenge her in some small way, if for no other reason than to
show he was still paying attention. He limps along next to her as
they make their way to the staircase. She puts her hand at the small
of his back, supporting him in the way he is accustomed to guiding
her. He does not shrug her off this time.

-------------------

Mulder settles into the passenger's seat. He winces with pain as
Scully helps him lift his injured leg into the car. The trip down the
stairs and into the elevator had not been so bad, but adrenaline had
been numbing his pain. It is now burned off, leaving him to feel
every tormenting protest his leg offers in great detail. He
straightens up and pulls the seatbelt around his chest, discovering
that much more than just his leg is sore. He hadn't noticed before.
The face of evil had pushed the pain, along with everything else,
into the background. The face...

"Mulder! Answer me."

"What?" he asks, dazed.

"Never mind. Look at me," she orders.

He obeys and finds himself staring into her penlight. He can't
avoid squinting, and she reaches up to pry his eyelids open, one at
a time. After this brief examination, the light is extinguished,
leaving green afterimages to obscure her face.

"No signs of a concussion, but there is something wrong. I realize
that you're tired and under a lot of stress, Mulder, but I want to
know if there is anything else you should be telling me."

"I..." He swallows hard, choosing his words carefully. "I'm still
trying to figure this out myself."

Her mouth draws into a flat line, a sign that she is not satisfied
with his answer, but she does not say anything further. She starts
the car and puts it into drive. After glancing at him once more, she
pulls the car away from the curb. Mulder pretends to be very
interested in the passenger's side window. The passing streetlights
flash an endless code, a message that he cannot ignore. His
reflection in the window is slightly distorted. The few rays of
illumination that paint his face only do so in restrained measure.
The whites of his eyes show, as do his teeth, with only the ghost of
a visage to frame them. The image looks as hollow as he feels,
materializing for scant moments, only to disappear into shadow
again.

An endless line of questions pursue him, issuing forth with each
rhythmic pang from his wounds: Have I really lost control? Can I
ever truly be rid of this adversary? Could this have been
prevented? What if I can't protect Scully? What if I lose Scully?
What if I really have lost control, and I hurt her? What if...what if
this thing uses me to take her for its own vile purposes? The wave
of doubt is relentless, and Mulder draws in on himself, both
physically and mentally. Perhaps if he can go deep enough, it
won't be able to find him...

A touch on his shoulder startles him. He jerks away, even
producing a guttural sound in surprise. He instantly feels foolish.

"Please, say something. I want to hear that you aren't dwelling on
things you can't change."

Mulder becomes aware that his arms are wrapped tightly around
his torso, his knees drawn up as far as the seat will allow, and he is
shivering again. He forces himself to relax. After all, he thinks, the
creature can't even touch me now, right? Scully is here.

"I was just contemplating, Scully." He turns to face the front, more
neutral territory. He is trying very hard to avoid cutting her off,
perhaps his last link to sanity. "Do you think evil exists in all
people?"

Do you think evil exists in me? The latter question remains
unspoken, although it hangs in the air around him. Every moment
her answer is not forthcoming wraps another turn around his
mental slipknot. Beads of sweat roll down his forehead as the
seconds tick by. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he can see
her eyebrow angle up, an indication that his question had taken her
off guard.

"I think the potential for evil exists in each person, Mulder," she
explains in her most clinical voice. "Most people are able to resist
its pull, though. Some people are weakened by various
experiences, making them more likely to give in, and others slip
closer to evil through ignorance, I think, but pure evil is evident in
the few people who willfully and knowingly choose to embrace it.
People who revel in the suffering of others fall into that category,
in my opinion." Her voice softens perceptively. "Why do you
ask?"

Mulder feels somewhat reassured, as he is quite certain that he is
not embracing the cold entity that seems to be hiding just out of
sight, but within striking distance.

"So, you think it is essentially a power struggle? A struggle for
one's own will?"

"At times it is. However, I think that, outside decisive moments of
personal trial, it's more a matter of staying focused and remaining
true to oneself."

He is certain that she knows this is not a theoretical discussion, and
never was.

"And one's beliefs," he adds to her statement quietly.

"Yes."

He envies her beliefs sometimes, and this is one of them. He feels
a void inside, a dead weight in his chest, and he cannot seem to
find a way out of that chasm. Even under morbid stare of the
creature, he is not ready to embrace faith in a higher being. His
own flaws are glaringly obvious right now, and he knows better
than to invest his beliefs in himself. Not with his unsure grip on
reality. He glances at Scully without swiveling his head. Often
enough, he has chosen to trust her with his well being, both
physical and mental, but now he must turn himself over to her by
default. The thought makes him feel safer, but a new kind of
loneliness creeps up on him, the desolation born of a lack of trust
in self. He feels lost, as if in an unfamiliar suburb, finding nothing
but cul-de-sacs and dead ends.

The halt of the car's motion breaks his spiraled musing. He looks
up to find himself in familiar surroundings. Familiar does not equal
welcoming tonight, but he has nowhere else to go. He exhales
slowly and reaches for the door handle. Scully's voice stops him.

"Wait at the door for me, Mulder. I want to take a look at your leg.
I'll help you to your apartment, just in case, okay?"

"Okay." He doesn't have the energy to decline her offer of help. A
bruised ego to match everything else, he thinks.

He gets out of the car and hobbles slowly to the building's main
entrance. He can hear the car pull around the corner and hopes she
can find a close parking place. Mulder decides to study the
indistinct shadows cast upon the concrete by wan lamps. They
create a million different shades of grey. He wraps his coat more
tightly around himself. Weariness claims him again, and he is
forced to lean against the door for support. The shadows seem to
stretch out, sending greedy fingers after him.

He tries to back away from the encroachment, but the hard surface
behind him offers no consolation or harbor. An irrational fear
violates his mind, but it is immediately beaten back by the tapping
of Scully's shoes on the pavement. The tapping sounds grow
louder as she approaches, and the shadows retreat to their original
boundaries. He is ashamed to face her now, frightened by the
bogeyman like a little boy, but he knows she would never judge
him for it.

At last, she rounds the corner. Upon seeing him, her eyes widen
and her steps quicken.

"Mulder," she says, her eyes roaming his face, "you're as pale as a
sheet. I know this is a stupid question, but do you want me to call
an ambulance?"

"No. Really, I just need some time to think and relax." He notices a
key omission in his statement and quickly corrects. "In my
apartment."

"Let's get you set up, then."

She supports him as they enter the foyer, and he finds himself
reluctantly putting more weight on her. Waves of pain radiate from
his injured leg, but that is not the main obstacle. All of his muscles
seem to be giving out. The elevator opens, and they enter. It seems
to take a few extra minutes to reach the fourth floor tonight.
Mulder knows that he is not far from fainting if he cannot sit down
soon, so his patience dissolves.

A "ding!" announces their arrival, and the doors open to his
hallway. He is basically moving his feet only to stay upright now.
Scully is bearing most of his weight, and she drags him slowly to
his door. He unlocks it, and she pushes it open, heading straight for
the couch with her passenger. He wastes no time collapsing upon
its soft leather surface.

His energy level is seriously flagging, and he cannot keep his
eyelids from drifting shut.
"Stay with me, partner. I need to look at that leg."

Her voice cuts through the fog. In all of his lassitude and
confusion, he knows only to follow her direction. He blinks
heavily in an attempt to keep sleep at bay.

"'M with you."

She grabs a throw pillow and places it at the other end of the
couch. Then, she carefully picks both of his feet up off the floor.
Mulder straightens himself out as she helps him swing around. He
watches her in silence. She makes short work of his shoes, setting
them next to the couch, out of the way.

"Oh," she states as a large tear is revealed in the shin of his pant
leg, "looks like you scraped it up pretty good."

He lets out a bemused grunt in reply. She gets up and goes to his
desk, rummaging through its contents for a few moments, and
returns with a pair of shears he did not even know he owned. Oh
well, he thinks. These pants are ruined anyway. Scully cuts from
the cuff to the knee. Blood originally obscured by the dark material
is now evident against his skin. He leans up to get a better look at
it. It had trickled down his leg, some of it matting his sock, but
most of it is now dry. The scrape itself is still shiny with fluid,
surrounded by red, swollen tissue.

"Can you move your foot for me? Up, down, and side to side."

He cringes while trying to pull his toes up. His foot moves, but it
only does so with some gritting of teeth on his part. Moving it from
side to side does not hurt at all, and bending it down causes just
slight pain. Scully catches his foot and peels off the scabbed sock,
removing its mate, also.

"Well, it looks like you have a normal range of motion, at least for
now. Probably some contusions and internal swelling putting
pressure on the tendons and muscles."

She manipulates his foot, confirming that it moves freely. She then
walks off, disappearing into the bathroom before wandering off
into the kitchen. She returns with a glass of water and two
acetaminophen tablets. He takes the pills, doubting very much that
they will ease his pain, but the cool water seems to spread inside
his body, as if he had never tasted it before. Its refreshing qualities
are quite welcome, and he readily slakes his thirst. She takes the
empty glass from him and pauses. He knows that she is
considering whether or not to say what is on her mind.

"Mulder, I don't know if you're aware of this, but your hygiene
hasn't been exactly meticulous lately. I think a shower would do
you good, if you think you can handle it right now. It wouldn't hurt
to rinse some of the dirt off of that wound, either."

He wiggles his toes at her and tries to look innocent, but it does not
fool her for an instant. She smiles anyway, though. Her smile does
wonders for his energy reserves, at least for the time being.

"Yeah. I think you're right."

He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the couch. Scully
moves to help him get to his feet.

"When you're done, I'll take care of that nasty scrape. It's starting
to get pretty late, or early, technically, so I'd better go home and let
you get some rest after that," she says, helping him over to his
dresser.

"Okay. I think I can take it from here."

Mulder pulls a thick towel and pajama bottoms from the dresser as
Scully's footsteps retreat into the living room.

"I'll be right here if you need anything," she calls out.

"Thanks, but I think I can manage, really."

He smiles to himself for a moment. She seems all too eager, he
muses. Must be the limp. The limp carries him to the bathroom. He
sets his pajamas and towel on the edge of the sink and braces
himself against it for a moment, head down, breathing deeply. In
spite of the reinforcement afforded by Scully's devotion, the icy
grip of the sinister makes him shudder. He looks up, and the face
in the mirror makes him physically draw back, his heart pounding
violently.

After the initial shock, he is drawn to study the image. The skin is
dreadfully pale and shiny with sweat. Nostrils flare with each
inhalation, and the lips below them are set in a grim line. The jaw
is lined with a dark shadow of stubble, the muscles on either corner
clenched to form small triangles. The area surrounding the eyes is
dark and shiny, a sign of neglect. An angry bruise accompanies the
bandaged cut beside the right eyebrow, in stark contrast to the sea
of pallor. The eyes themselves stare back at him with a hollow
gaze. They look unfamiliar, lifeless. Mulder cannot bring himself
to look into his own eyes for very long, as he feels the same
appalling allure that the carved image of the creature held him
with.

Mulder's mind reflexively dredges up a memory from the library.
Patterson's presence had brought with it a menacing air. Mulder
had not realized it at the time, thinking perhaps that the sensation
was merely due to the case itself or his personal differences with
the senior agent. However, when Patterson left the room, the
ominous atmosphere did not.

He remembers walking over to the large window and gazing at the
view available, in this case, the building across the street. The
limestone grotesque lying in wait for him there had frightened him.
He recalls the awe inspired by its perfectly tortured form, and
when he had shifted slightly to his right, his own reflection was
superimposed upon its face. The resulting fusion occurred all too
readily, resulting in a macabre hybrid of flesh and stone, passion
and contempt, substance and nihility. That face, that aberration of
nature, is looking back at him now.

He tries to blink it away, as his stomach churns with the thought of
the creature. The image persists, but the memory fades away,
smothered by the words of his partner echoing in his mind.

"...it's more a matter of staying focused and remaining true to
oneself."

He knows he is accomplishing neither at the moment. He lowers
his eyes and shakes his head slowly, deciding that, if he cannot
stay true to himself, at least he can stay true to Scully. She is his
source of hope, he admits to himself, and she is the duct tape that is
holding his soul together.

Finally feeling free enough to move, he quickly divests himself of
his tie, and shrugs off his shirt. He also leaves his slacks and
boxers behind on the way to the shower, his injury causing little
difficulty in the process. He steps inside and draws the curtain
closed, wasting no time in turning on the water. It gushes forth in
soft, warm droplets, and he stands motionless below it, allowing
the water to embrace him, running in streams down his body.
Tension begins to leave Mulder's aching muscles and bludgeoned
psyche.

His hand automatically finds the soap, and his musings drift in the
steam as he scrubs away the putrid stench of Mostow's apartment
and acridity of his own fear. What if Scully is right? he wonders.
That means I have to trust myself again before this thing will leave
me alone.

Alone. He meditates briefly on the word. It has more power than
the gravity that summons the water to the drain and binds him to
the earth. He wants to be rid of the threat of evil, seemingly coiled
above every doorway, ready to strike, but he does not want to be
alone. He knows he can find faith in himself if that is what it takes
to keep Scully with him. She fills a void within, and he can no
longer feel complete without her.

Mulder turns his back to the shower, the cascade kneading the
knots out of his shoulders. He knows his situation is tenuous at
best. Relying on a fragile bond to a strong person allows little
room for error, but at least the solution is tangible. He trembles
slightly, suddenly realizing how his recent behavior must have
affected her.

He knows he must have been a fool not to see it earlier. He faces
the shower again, placing his hands on the slick wall below it for
support as his stomach clenches in regret. Tears rain down on him,
and the tiles weep in mock sympathy. He respects Scully too much
to allow his own regrets to stand in her way, though. He reaches
down and turns the water off, watching as the remainder swirls
lazily around his feet and is whisked away, along with the blood
and dirt of the day, out of his life.

One more deep breath, and he pulls the curtain aside. The rush of
cooler air against his damp skin feels invigorating. Mulder stands
there for a moment enjoying the sensation as he rubs the
encroaching sleep from his eyes. He reaches for the towel and dries
himself off thoroughly before stepping into his pajama bottoms.

The steam has fogged up the mirror, he notices, and he wipes it off
with a few passes of the towel still clutched in his hand. He leans
close, peering into the mirror, but there are no vestiges of the
monster. The reflection still harbors weariness, but the dull, listless
vacancy is gone from its eyes. He suddenly becomes aware of how
silly he looks, staring at himself with a laughably somber
expression, hair still damp and terribly awry. He cannot help but
smile for the first time in far too long.

He walks slowly out to the living room, still favoring the injured
leg, leaving his dirty laundry in a hamper along the way. Scully
arises from the couch as soon as she sees him enter the room.

"You look much better! Feel better too, I hope."

"Yes, I do. Thanks."

"Here," she says, indicating the area she had just occupied with a
sweep of the hand. "Take a load off, and I'll fix that leg."

She helps him sit down, as he is slightly off-balance. He lies back
and watches under heavy eyelids as she deftly applies antibiotic
cream on the wound and wraps a gauze pad against it with
bandages.

"Where did you find all of that stuff?" he asks, waving his hand in
the general direction of the medical supplies.

"If you don't know where it is, I'm certainly not going to tell you,"
she replies with a mischievous grin.

He chuckles quietly.

"Well, if you think you're set, I'm going to go home and get at
least a little bit of sleep." Scully surveys the room to make sure she
isn't leaving anything behind.

Over here! Don't forget me! Mulder shouts silently.

"Okay. If I'm leaving anything behind, I'll just come by tomorrow
to pick it up. I'll leave you alone now." She turns to leave.

He cannot take seeing her walk away right now, and he swallows
hard.

"I don't want to be alone."

She stops in her tracks. The words seem to sit between them, as
striking and bold as a neon sign. Mulder cannot believe they
slipped out, and he cringes at the sound of his own desperation.

"I mean... Please don't go. Not now. I need you here."

Her face looks tired, too, and he notices how her sterner mask
softens as she realizes how hard it is for him to make this
admission, and the implications thereof.

"Okay, Mulder," she says after scant moments.

She helps him turn toward the coffee table, supporting his leg and
placing a pillow under his foot. She pulls a blanket from behind the
couch and covers him with it. After making sure he is comfortable,
Scully slips off her shoes and sits beside him. She props her own
feet on the table, and soon, he feels the warmth of her body as she
leans against him, her read resting on his shoulder. She reaches
over wordlessly and squeezes his hand. He holds onto her gently,
but with a grip no one and nothing can break.

Glancing over, he sees that her eyelids have drifted shut already.
Just as well, he thinks. She needs the rest. Actually, I do, too.
Mulder knows he will not sleep tonight, though. The gift she has
given him is too valuable to be missed through slumber. He grins
in amusement as he looks at her tiny feet next to his large ones. He
is amazed by the places those feet have taken them both, but
nothing amazes him more than the fact that he has been lucky
enough to travel the path that would have him walking beside her.

He knows she cannot always be physically next to him, but for
now, he is going to hang onto his fragile connection for all he is
worth. He exchanges his left hand for his right in her grip, and he
slides his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. He is finally
happy, happy to not be alone, happy to hold onto this gift until the
rays of morning break through the window and reveal his soul, a
light twice reflected.

-------------------


The End

The X-Files and related entities belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox. I write only for the profit of feedback, not money.