Title: Aftermath

Author: BroMichael

Archive: If anyone really would like to, certainly.

Spoilers: Orison.

Rating: PG - Subject content.

Category: V, angst.

Summary: Scully's thoughts following the episode.

Feedback: I don't write fiction, so unless I get 

some, I might just inflict myself on you again.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, nor do 

I intend to profit from their use.

 



    It was a shot I had been trained never to make, 

one that would have earned me a downcheck from my 

instructors at Quantico, in one of their innumerable 

scenarios. One that in different circumstances, would 

find me sitting in a cell, rather than huddled around 

a cup of tea in Mulder's comfortably cluttered living 

room, my body collapsed within itself, like a 

forgotten Raggedy Ann doll.



    Poor Mulder! For all the times that he has 

astonished me; his bizarre ideas and theories 

contravening those facts of science that I knew, (or 

thought I knew) I now see my attitudes reflected 

back, magnified ten fold. Nothing has prepared him 

for the past two hours and the actions of the partner 

he thought he understood and now he sits, on his worn 

leather couch, in the deafening silence that has 

enveloped this room. 

 

    His lanky body is hunched forward, tense, anxious 

to do something - anything, for me (and himself) to 

make sense of what has happened, to help fathom the 

incomprehensible.

   

     It has been an hour, no, it has been fifty- one 

minutes, (somehow it is important to me to hold on to 

an exact time frame, to reassure myself that I have 

retained a sense of proportion and rationality) since 

we arrived at his apartment, a destination we 

intuitively agreed on, after he bustled me out of my 

apartment. His hand light and dry at its familiar 

resting place on the small of my back, guiding me 

through the flotsam and jetsam incidental to a 

shooting investigation, his posture aggressive, 

protective, oddly comforting; challenging anyone to 

interfere with our departure.



    That part of me that still functions normally, 

concludes that it is therefore two hours and twenty-

six minutes since I made the shot; a reflection that 

causes another involuntary shiver to foment a small 

tsunami in my tea cup and Mulder to begin to rise 

to my aid, eyes questioning my needs - another 

blanket? - raise the ambient temperature? more tea? I 

can only shake my head and he sags back, frustrated 

that he is powerless, that his partner has again 

barred him from her emotional center, that repository 

of her essence, that she protects with all the skill 

and dedication of a junk yard dog. 

 

    I know that I can still speak, that my action has 

not rendered me mute, I proved that, when we 

exchanged our colloquy in my bedroom; but that only 

served to twist my gut tighter, to quicken my 

breathing even more. How can I ever talk to this man 

again? Is there any way that I can regain his trust? 

More importantly, can I ever rely on myself again? 

What have I become? Words slice through my 

consciousness like daggers,  "Murderer" "Rogue" 

"Torquemada" "Orison." 



    Another tremor radiates outward and as much to 

shut out the pain in Mulder's face, as for any other 

reason, I close my eyes even as I shake my head  and 

am transported back to my living room. Pfaster is 

there, as is Mulder, as am I, but the images are 

surrealistic, somehow frozen in my brain, I again 

tread into the room, as I have dozens of times in the 

past two hours.

 

    My weapon is in my hand, that Holy Grail of my 

obsession I crawled over broken glass to reach, the 

coppery taste of fear bitter in my mouth until I felt 

its hardness, its promise of life. My passage 

precise, simulating slow motion, legs bringing 

me forward, attuned as if by a metronome, to the 

blood coursing in my brain.



    Pfaster's face is turned towards me, he knows I 

will be there; I imagine that I can feel waves of 

heat radiating from him, that he is the gateway to 

the open bowels of hell; his eyes appear black, deep 

wells that contain - something, menacing, not 

readily identifiable, but which terrify me.

 

    My gun is up now, aimed, not at his center mass, 

but at the head, as if to shut those eyes forever. I 

can not look at Mulder, but I know he is there and 

that he knows what is going to happen, a human lesson 

in predestination, unable to alter what will be, 

uselessly, desperately, screaming at me not to fire.



    Now the thought becomes the deed: my brain 

commands, my finger obeys, Donnie Pfaster's head 

explodes in a shower of fragments and his body 

crashes to the floor. Now it is time to look at 

Mulder, I see the shock on his face, his fear for my 

safety, blending now with emerging anxiety for my 

sanity; the questions he aches to ask, stillborn on 

his lips, as his mind quests for answers. He 

precognitively does what is right for me, what must 

be, if I am to heal, his hand removes my weapon and 

gently lays it on the floor, then steers me into the 

kitchen. 

 

    I am aware of everything, but utterly remote, an 

Olympian Deity, whose attention is briefly caught by 

an unfolding human drama; Mulder roughly pulls out 

one of the kitchen chairs and tenderly presses my 

body into it, I shiver, for the first time and he 

darts towards the spare bedroom, almost instantly I 

feel a shawl around my shoulders along with his lips 

feather light on the crown of my head, as he 

withdraws.



    I hear his voice, shaken and uncharacteristically 

tremulous, reporting the shooting to the D.C. police, 

then he is back, his presence silent, something to be 

noted, rather than commented on.



    As wailing sirens converge, Mulder's fingertips 

brush my cheek, then briefly caress my shoulder, as 

he returns to the living room to admit the police. 

Time passes, no one intrudes on my solitude, but I am 

aware of snatches of conversation; perhaps I am more 

attuned to his voice, or perhaps he is louder in 

protection, then the officers  are in accusation, but 

most of these are Mulder's.  "Justifiable" ..."Serial 

Killer" ... "No choice" ... "Self defense" ... 

"Formal statement tomorrow."  

                                                                           

                                                                           

        

   Time passes, I dimly recognize that Mulder's voice 

has grown less strident and more relaxed, almost 

jocular and other voices register on my senses, "Blew 

that asshole AWAY!" "Big BRASS ones." and comprehend 

that it is time for me to leave. Mulder follows me 

into the bedroom cloaked in a mantle of concern, he 

talks of justification, of Biblical injunctions, of 

pending exculpatory statements, but he cannot give me 

the answers I seek, nor can he take away the ache 

that radiates from my stomach through my upper body.   



    I open my eyes banishing the memories; Mulder's 

eyes are bright, intense, as frightened as I have 

ever seen them. He knows how close to the edge I am. 

I understand, that he would willingly join me on the 

precipice that I have been led to, but he can't 

and this may ultimately be my damnation. All he can 

do now, is to sit radiating empathy, somehow hoping 

that I will find my own path home. 

 

    But I am unable to, I have charted a course that 

bisects Scylla and Charybdis. On the one side is 

vendetta, personal vengeance, murder and on the 

other- delusion. For if I have been wrong in what I 

believe; that I was meant to do precisely what I 

did, to purge the world of the evil that was 

encompassed in Donnie Pfaster, then I am equally 

lost, shipwrecked on a shore of fantasy, of psychotic 

desperation, whose only road leads to utter 

madness and despair. 

 

   I know intuitively, that I can't navigate my way 

any longer, that if I am to be saved it can only be 

by my partner, my Odysseus, my Mulder and that the 

time for salvation is growing short, that soon I will 

be beyond redemption.



    Dear God, how many times have we fought this 

battle; a facade of strength and a terse "I'm fine, 

Mulder." my defense, to the siege engines he brings 

for his attempt to storm that castle of my repressed 

emotions, but this time is different.  This time, if 

I win, I lose, EVERYTHING: my heart, my soul, sanity, 

integrity, self respect, career, Mulder... and yet, 

the bitter irony is that if I surrender, I lose 

equally. My salvation, if it is even possible, must 

be forged in the crucible of battle. 



    For I know that I must rig the game, demand 

performance from Mulder greater than I can of myself, 

he must defeat me, to utterly shatter the walls that 

I have carefully constructed, but then as victory is 

at hand, he must instead be vanquished, help me to 

understand myself and allow my understanding to 

envelope him in his turn. He must somehow enter my 

heart, free that which I cannot and accept, what for 

him is the unacceptable and if he can not, if he 

falters, allows his basic sanity, to dictate his 

actions, then I know that I am lost, not only to him, 

but to myself.         



    I draw a deep breath, that catches in my throat 

and Mulder takes it as permission to approach, he 

drops to his knees, gently holding my hands in his, 

eyes desperate in their intensity, as they search 

mine for the answer we both seek. Suddenly, there is 

something new in them and I permit myself a faint 

hope, as he sags back on his haunches.



    "Scully..."



    His words come out as a croak, after such a long 

interlude of silence and he wets his lips and tries 

again, this time more naturally.



    "Scully...."



    Now his eyes begin to glisten with moisture and I 

watch horrified as a tear rolls down his left cheek; 

have I damned my partner to the same hell that I may 

have consigned myself to?



    "I'm so sorry Scully."



    "Mulder ?"



    I am on my knees beside him, our hands now 

intertwined. 



    "Scully, I've always asked you to have faith in 

me, in my theories, for seven years I have asked you 

to trust me, despite what your training and beliefs 

told you, but when I'm put to the test, I lost faith 

in you. I've spent the last two hours, rationalizing, 

justifying your behavior, something that I'm 

completely unequipped to do, I never listened to you, 

to what you were telling me."



    His eyes take on the look of a child, on his 

first visit to Santa Claus.

 

    "To what you were experiencing. Because I don't 

accept Religion, I shut out the possibility that what 

you believed was real, that God WAS speaking to you."



    "Mulder, I can't be sure."



    "And neither can I Scully, but isn't that the 

point of faith? To force us to choose? To allow 

ourselves to be overwhelmed, to give ourselves up to 

something bigger than we are? Ultimately to do that 

which is RIGHT, rather than allow your personal 

emotions to restrain our actions?



    "Mulder, I hated Donnie Pfaster."



    Now Mulder's face crinkles into the lopsided 

grin, that I love so much.



    "No Scully, you hated what he was and that's the 

difference. I hated Donnie Pfaster, for what he did 

to you, I wanted to shoot him, because of that 

hatred, because of what I felt; but you didn't; you 

did what you did because ..."



     I look my question.



    "Because of love, Scully, your love of goodness."



    Even as I shake my head, I began to feel the 

tension in my body ease.



    "Mulder, I'm not a saint."



    His laughter envelopes my body, soothing, 

relaxing.



    "Maybe not, but you'll do."



    I sag into his chest, weary, stress replaced by 

physical exhaustion. I know that I can sleep now. 

That I will heal, move on, accept, understand, put 

Donnie Pfaster behind me, but never forget and more 

importantly, that I can continue whatever journey 

I am on, with my partner alongside me and that is 

enough; my soul is intact.