Title: Penance Enough Author: Dreamshaper Feedback: I appreciate it muchly-- dreamshpr@aol.com or pensivedreamer@aol.com. Please be aware that I'm having AOL difficulties, have been for some time. Mostly, these difficulties are confined to my mailboxes--this might be the last story posted from the dreamshpr addy. Archive: Wherever, I love archives. An email first from places that are new to me, please :) Spoilers: Post-ep for Orison Rating: PG13 Summary: To accept comfort is to head down the road to breakdown... Notes: Huge thanks to Shawne for the beta and the patience, and the stalking. :) Disclaimer: The XFiles are definitely Not Mine, and I make no claims :) ********** I killed Pfaster. It wasn't my intention, I didn't plan to do it, but I killed him...and I'm not sorry. I *can't* be sorry. He had caused so much pain, not just to me, not even just to the women that he killed. Those that were victims of his desecration, their families, their friends...a huge number of people caught a glimpse of Hell because of him, and I cannot be sorry I spared those who might have seen it in his eyes in the future. I can't be sorry, but I almost feel...like I've lost something. Like I destroyed something--some integral part of me that can't be repaired. And even as I move around my room, carefully selecting clothing for tomorrow and other necessities, I wonder...what have I done? Who am I now? *What* am I now? Mulder's never far away, so I've been careful to keep my hands steady, my face reasonably calm. I've even managed to look into his eyes for more than a few seconds without breaking down, and I'm glad. I can't afford to break down yet, there's no safe place for me to go to so I can lick my wounds. There are watchful eyes everywhere, and there are reminders of Pfaster's presence in every room of my home. I can feel him on my skin every time I move, I can practically *taste* him every time I take in a breath. I can almost hear his voice crooning that damned song in my ear-- All I can do is torture myself with thoughts about what I've done, what's been done to me--what I feel has been done *through* me... But I can't afford to break down. I don't think I could drag myself back up. Settling down on the edge of my bed, I listen closely to the noise coming from the other rooms of my apartment, trying to decide whether or not people are beginning to shuffle out. It's not that important in the long run, but for a moment it's distraction enough. I focus on relaxing my body, trying to ease the tightness and the pain that burns across my skin from head to toe. I close my eyes and listen to Mulder gradually convince all the representatives of various agencies that I am fine, that this whole case can wait till morning to be resolved. The door opens and closes nearly a dozen times, and then, finally, there is silence. Mulder's going to come back in here and he'll see that my bag is packed, that I've changed into jeans, a sweater and sneakers. He'll think he has convinced me that it's in my best interests to leave, just as he convinced the swarms of uniformed passers-by that had invaded my apartment earlier. But although I packed my bag, although I agreed to go with something much less than an argument, I'm reluctant to leave. I...there's a part of me that wants to stay here, that needs to wait, is certain that Pfaster is going to come back. As my raw throat throbs and my body aches, I am almost certain he'll be back to whisper a song in my ear as he tries again to kill me. His ghost is sure to haunt me, his demon will return. And I want to be here, tight and ready, armed and cold. It's a horrible realization--I want to kill him again. I want my body to thrill again with the knowledge that I have defeated a soul so vicious that not even Death satisfies it. And I'm afraid, because his death hasn't satisfied me any more than it made me sorry. Did I become evil myself for a moment, for a brief eternity in time? Does a dark trace of that linger on in my bloodstream; will it stay with me forever? In sending Donnie back to Hell, did I somehow manage to damn myself? Will I join him there someday? The cross I've worn for so long feels cold as I close my fingers around it, the points dig into my skin with nearly enough force to draw blood, and I think that's no less than what I need. To sit, and think, and bleed till I've torn out the dark, thrilled part of me and mourned what I lost. But I can hear Mulder's footsteps in the hall, as familiar to me as my own, and I know there isn't time to mourn. He's too much distraction, too determined to cheat me of the luxuries of doubt and guilt. Those are his treasures, and he's never wanted to share them. I can hear the curtains flutter, gossamer wings sliding against the wall, and there's a shudder arching down my spine that takes all my strength to quell. I'll need to replace those or they'll hold his ghost. The candles and bath things will have to go too, the scissors, my pajamas, my slippers, the locks on my door. The lamp, my mirror, perhaps even the bathtub-- Maybe it's time to move. Too much blood has been shed in this apartment anyway, too many nightmares have come true. There's a reminder of pain in every corner, or so it seems now. But Pfaster...even if I rid myself of everything he touched, it will still feel unfinished. I think I'll still wait for him, wherever I move to, no matter what I replace. And considering how deeply inside myself I feel the taint of his soul... Mulder's hands are suddenly on my shoulders and my hand falls from my cross to my lap as I jump, despite the fact that I knew he was coming, despite the fact that I recognize the feel of his hands. There is as much energy in his touch as there was death in Pfaster's, and under normal circumstances the vibrancy is as honest and healing as breathing, but it's too much for me right now. I open my eyes and look up, but I don't move. "Let's go," he says quietly. His face is close to mine; I can count the shades of color in his eyes. "I don't think I'm ready," I tell him, and then I watch the colors in his eyes change, darken with frustration and concern. "I don't know if I should leave." Mulder shakes his head. "You're ready, there's nothing you can do here. Don't think I'll let you stay here tonight." That is just provocative enough to leave me staring, and I wonder if my jaw has dropped as far as I imagine it has. It's almost amusing, how quickly he can annoy me even when I'm close to shell-shocked. "You won't *let* me stay here? Mulder, I think--" He stands, using his grip on my shoulders to pull me up with him. "You could kick my ass," he murmurs, "or you could just come with me and save us both the trouble right now. I promise, if you want to beat on me later, I'll let you." If I want to beat on him later--it's almost all I can do to keep myself standing and hope I'm ready for Pfaster to haunt or hunt me again. And when he switches his grip to my arm, grabs my bag and begins to pull me from my shattered room, I can do little more than follow along and curse him with every step. The urge to scream is strong despite the fact that my throat is raw, so I have to force myself to hold back a bit, and the curses lack some power. But I've always prided myself on my inventiveness. More than once I see a faint flush spread up his neck, and it gives me grim pleasure even as I find myself settled in his car and trapped by the seatbelt. I'm quiet as he drives, but only because I see Pfaster in every man on the street. He's in their walks, the way they tilt their heads, in the depths of their eyes when they look towards the car. I feel him burning in every dark place we pass, in every pocket of light, in every dancing shadow. And every time I feel him, a greater lassitude envelops me, my limbs feel heavier and my senses dimmer. When Mulder parks the car, I clamber out automatically, but that's as far as I can make myself go. For a second's span of time, I have to wonder if perhaps Pfaster had killed me and I just didn't realize it in my fury. Mulder crosses around to me and has me caught up against his chest before I even realize what he was planning to do. My arm curls around his neck, but I scowl and fight feebly to get free. "Scully, stop it or I'll end up dropping you," he says as he maneuvers through the front door of his building. "Fine. Drop me." A sigh, and he tightens his arms around me. "You can kick my ass twice," he promises as he carries me into the elevator. "Just make this easier now." "There is nothing *easier* in being carried--" My protests are ignored and we're at his door anyway, so I give in. But I swear to myself that I *will* get him for this later. In seconds, he's got the door to his apartment open and he's carting me and my bag in with an ease I'd admire if I didn't feel like a burden. Through his living room, lit by the fish tank, into his bedroom where a single lamp sends soft light across the room. And then I'm falling--he's dropped me on his bed. He pushes me lightly down onto my back and drops to his knees, gripping one of my feet and carefully untying the knot in the laces of my sneaker. I sit up and stare down at him, at the dark gleam of his hair, and I shift uncomfortably, trying to pull free. "I can do that myself," I say beneath my breath, still feeling vaguely resentful, ignoring the childlike petulance in my words and tone. "Given half a chance, you'd do everything by yourself, Scully. I have to admire your independence." His tone is cool, almost cold, but the hand resting on my ankle is warm, the one pulling off my sneaker trembles just a little. Confused, lost, I look away and try to ignore him, ignore his careful, gentle hands. Comfort is unacceptable right now, I remind myself yet again. Comfort is an easy road to breakdown. I'll never be able to forget the way I cried after my first battle with Pfaster and how long it took me to pull myself together after. And I'll certainly never forget the way Mulder looked at me--for days, he seemed afraid that I'd shatter again, knew that I was not all right. I was vulnerable to him then in ways I had never expected... The instant my second sneaker has dropped to the ground, Mulder's forehead is pressed against my thigh and his arms are wrapped around my waist, the abruptness of his actions stealing my breath and causing me to stare down in shock. He shudders slightly and my hands automatically reach for him, but I'm dazed. I want to talk to him, to tell him that he shouldn't be asking me for comfort because I can't even *breathe* without tasting something dark and bitter in my throat. Then comfort is a moot point--he scrambles to his feet and backs away, posture awkward and fingers shaking as he rakes them through his hair. But when his gaze meets mine, his eyes are incredibly clear and tender, and I feel my chin begin to quiver, the harbinger of breakdown. The small rebellion is not easily quelled, but I manage it and tilt my head to meet his gaze proudly, as if my insides aren't quivering and my spirit isn't dark. "I know what it's like to wonder what you've done, in a big, good versus evil kind of way," he says quietly, breaking the silent stalemate. "I've had to wonder more times than I can count. I'm sorry that you're going through it now--and I wish I could say something, do something more for you. But all I can do is tell you that you did what I would have done, what anyone would have done. What was right." I stare at him for as long as I can, then look down at my hands. My fingers are knotted together and white-knuckled, so I focus on loosening them. I lay them out across my thighs and examine my nails. There is no trace of the blood that had dried beneath them after I fought Pfaster, there isn't even much breakage, aren't many jagged edges, but in my mind they are stained and cracked, sharp-edged like daggers. "Maybe you're right, Mulder. I don't know, I don't have the answers I need, so maybe you're right. But I can't help being afraid that you're wrong." I clench my fists, pressing my nails hard into my palms, remembering the feel of my cross digging into my skin, and I fight for control. The emptiness is yawning inside me, a huge space that I'm forcing myself to regard as devoid of everything, simply because I can't bear the thought that I've changed. That I have perhaps allowed something horrible to blossom within me... Mulder moves towards me, but I quickly lie down and turn away from him, silently dismissing him. I curl my hands beneath my cheek and allow my eyes to close. My chest feels even tighter in this position so I breathe slower, and in seconds it's like I'm sleeping, lost in a state of light meditation that feels almost promising. There's a heavy fog over my mind and the answers seem lost in it, just out of reach, just beyond where I feel safe looking but not beyond where it is safe for me to look... The bed shifts and settles and my eyes fly open fast enough that I can watch Mulder lie down, move too close to me, driving away the fog and the promise of a truth I could perhaps deal with. His scent and his warmth reach out to me from those scant inches away as surely as a touch, and they make me hurt. "Not going to change?" he asks, and then catches the collar of my sweater beneath his thumb and forefinger as I stare at him. He's careful not to touch my skin but I pull back anyway, finding his familiar warmth too tempting. He sighs, rests his cheek on his arm and watches me watching him. "I don't know what to do for you," he murmurs. "I want to help and I can't stand the fact that you don't want me to." I close my eyes again--his gaze is too tender and too honest. "There's nothing to be done," I force myself to whisper with some semblance of calm. "I just...I have to wait." "Wait? And what else? Blame yourself for doing the right thing, imagine what would happen if Pfaster came back yet again? Wallow in guilt?" I don't answer--he's come too close to the truth--so he sighs and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, trails his fingers down to trace the faint line of bruises already forming where Pfaster had choked me. I stiffen, try to move back, but the edge of the bed is too close and I'm stuck where I am. "I can tell what's going on in your head, you know," he says quietly. "I can practically hear the little voices in your head picking at you. 'What have I done, what will I do, how will I keep myself from turning to Mulder? If I deny myself comfort, if I ignore what's inside of me, will I be doing the proper penance?' " My eyes open again and Mulder chuckles. "The good Reverend Orison wasn't the only person who had holes drilled into his head in an effort to find enlightenment," he reminds me, and for a second his face carries deeply personal shadows of pain, though he tries to hide them under a wicked smile. My hands automatically twitch; my instinctive reaction is to touch him, to offer him some of the comfort I don't have for myself, that I don't even think I have for him. But then he's speaking again, and the urge passes. "You killed the monster, Scully. I don't know how many more times I'll have to tell you that, but I'll keep saying it until you admit you did the right thing. You were the damsel in distress, but you saved yourself and played the hero..." He slips a hand under the collar of my sweater, cups the back of my neck, gently kneading the tight muscles there. Against my will, I relax a little--the warm, strong touch is impossible to resist. "So where's my knighthood?" I ask, trying to keep myself on track, trying to resist the minute flashes of pleasure his hand has sent streaking down my spine and up into my aching scalp. "Where's the sign from my King, the acknowledgement that I have done what's right?" "You're alive, Scully." Mulder slides a little closer and I steel myself against the effects of his warmth so close to me. "You're alive and that's reward enough. Hell, it's penance enough, too." "I don't feel alive," I whisper, the words shuddering with pain though I hadn't even meant to say them. But I feel something ease inside me, feel something crack, let in a little light with the confession, and so I say them again. "I don't feel alive. And I don't--I killed him, I know he's dead, but I keep expecting to see him hiding behind every shadow. And what I did--it was so *wrong*, Mulder." I swallow, trying to ease the soreness in my throat, but it won't go away so I continue, voice low and harsh. "This is something I *should* be punished for, Mulder, but I won't be. Even if we're entirely honest in our reports, even if the unvarnished truth comes out, I'm certain I will not be punished for what I've done. He was a murderer, after all, of a particularly heinous breed." Mulder nods slowly, seems to mull it over for half a second before finding something to say. I interrupt him before he's had a chance to do more than part his lips--I don't want to be reassured right now, I don't want to be agreed with. I want Mulder to understand...*I* want to understand all the conflicting thoughts scraping against my self control. "He was unarmed. A man who already had one agent on him, who was making no move. Yet I chose to break every rule there is, both legal and moral, and shoot." My heart races in my chest, frantic, beating with the bruising thuds of something trapped that yearns desperately to be free. I fight to calm it, look away from my partner's eyes because all he needs to do is show me a little more tenderness and he'll shatter me . "It wasn't me, Mulder, I almost want something dark to have been working through me in that moment because I don't want to think..." Mulder makes a soft sound deep in his chest and I take in as deep a breath as I can manage with my swollen throat and sore ribs, feeling the pull of his sympathy and yearning to give in. "I can empathize. I've broken enough rules, twisted enough laws to suit myself..." His voice wraps around me and my next breath is easier. I fight to keep my fear, to hold on to it because it's easier to deal with than the depths of myself, because I have to wonder what I will find in myself just beneath that slick layer... My attention is drawn back to him when he continues. "It's a horrible thing, to have demons like Pfaster immortalized in your memory. But you can't let him make you doubt yourself. You beat him, Scully, and no matter how much you hate what you did, it can't be undone. It shouldn't be undone. Trust me. Trust yourself." Mulder tugs me a little closer, the palm of his hand a light, branding warmth on the back of my neck. Caught by that warmth, caught by his gaze, I find myself unable to continue battling the comfort, the understanding he seems determined to offer. And then he presses a light kiss to the corner of my mouth, not with any degree of force, careful of the cut on my lip, and my tightly caught control begins to melt away. "I can't--" The words burst from me without any more thought behind them than an instinctive denial, and he kisses me again, just as gently. "Accept this," he urges me quietly. "Accept the comfort I can give you. Please. For my sake as much as your own." The last of my control is gone, eaten away as much by his need as my own, and I finally give in, throwing myself across the last inches between us and wrapping my arms around him, tucking my face into the warmth of his neck. I allow the tremors that have been building inside me to jerk free, and I cry, losing myself in pain. It seems like an eternity before I find myself again, but it might have only been hours, I don't know. But when I find that I can cry no more, when the pain in my body has eased enough for me to stop shuddering, I breathe heavily of his scent, focusing on it to calm myself and to close off my mind. I don't want to examine my soul and find it completely shattered. He kisses me again, pulls the blankets over us and wraps me close. The pain in my back and neck makes me gasp, but his breath slips into my lungs-- Mulder rolls over me, bracing himself on his elbows, holding my face between his hands and looking into my eyes. I touch his cheek with trembling fingers, making my first move towards him, and then I realize that he has turned off the lamp, that we are bathed in a bright, blue-white light. The moon is shining through his bedroom window, reaching in to touch us with deep warmth. He smiles and rests his forehead against mine. "You'll be all right," he whispers, the words barely breathed against my skin. I can't answer because I'm not nearly so certain, but I do relax back into him and close my eyes, determined to defeat my fear. His hands brush the hair away from my temples, soothing, he's so close I can feel his heart beat faintly and rhythmically... I'm already so close to sleep that it's easy to just give in and let the day die away into memory. I half-form a prayer for a dreamless sleep, but the fall is upon me before I'm done, and the prayer is lost...but that's almost all right. Pfaster is gone and Mulder is here, ready to protect me. Morning will come whether I dream or not, whether I'm ready for it or not, and I'll face my demons then. Until tomorrow, I'll accept Mulder's protective, undemanding comfort. For now, I'll just let go. ********** Yeah, I've heard there are a few post-eps (and a few debates ) for this one, but I like mine and wanted to share. I hope you enjoyed it! Write to tell me, if you have the time :) Dreamshaper (dreamshpr@aol.com or pensivedreamer@aol.com)