Title: Sea Changes 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 lydx@club.tip.nl or lydx@angelfire.com to let me know. Classification: Vignette/Angst Rating: PG Keywords: hurt/comfort 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. >~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~< "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. >~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~< "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. >~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~< 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: lydx@angelfire.com or lydx@club.tip.nl