Title:  Unlikely Intercessor


Author: Agent L


Classification: S, minor MA, implied SA


Rating: PG


Spoilers: Irresistible, Orison, a well-buried reference 


to One Breath and references to the Biogenesis arc. 


Distribution: Archive anywhere, but keep my name and 


e-mail attached please! 


Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Fox:


I know they're not mine, and no money, gifts or even chocolate would be


expected or accepted for this. I wouldn't have to do this if you'd stop


taking summers off.


Summary: Mulder's thoughts after Orison. This is NOT a repost. I was


just really, really slow.








It was a righteous shooting. 





No pun intended. 





The FBI Internal Affairs committee decided that Special 


Agent Scully was in fear of her life and the life of her partner 


when she shot Donald Addie Pfaster. The Assistant Director 


discussed the situation with her personally and assured her 


that no disciplinary action would be taken, but did suggest 


she see the department shrink for symptoms of PTSD.





Everyone has exonerated Special Agent Dana Scully, 


except for her.





I wish *I* had pulled the trigger. I would have cheerfully 


sent Donnie Pfaster to Hell, where he belongs. My moral 


code says there are some humans who are just plain evil, 


and I consider it a victory for our side if one of them meets an 


untimely end. If God or fate or whatever force runs the 


universe chooses my hand to eliminate a ruthless killer, 


I don't argue. And as far as official reports and inquiries, 


I show my superiors the same respect they show me. 





I lie my ass off.





But on this particular occasion, I gave my report with a clear 


conscience. Special Agent Dana Scully acted in response 


to an immediate threat to her life and the safety of her 


partner. She acted to keep a known felon, a depraved 


killer, from escaping to kill again. 





Not one person can accurately predict how 


they would react in the situation Scully found herself in, 


facing a man who had brutalized her, emotionally raped 


her and was minutes from killing her and then defiling 


her body. 





Bad enough to go through that nightmare once, but this 


was the second time around. Deja vu all over again 


for Dana Scully. 





Four years ago, she had still been physically and emotionally 


fragile from her abduction. At least this time she was stronger -- 


but now, as then, loathe to admit any weakness, any 


chinks in that invisible armor.  





She's barely spoken to me, or to anyone, since it happened. 


She's locked herself in a cold stone cell like some medieval 


martyr doing penance. Scully is one of the few people I know 


who feels the same remorse for killing a depraved criminal that others 


would feel if they had accidentally killed an innocent man. 





And Pfaster was far from innocent.





A bullet was too easy for him. He should have died slowly 


and painfully by some lingering, wasting disease like leprosy. 


Now that would have been justice: Donnie Pfaster's 


fingers falling off.





Anyone who saw Scully that night was horrified by the 


bruises covering her small body, mottled blue, black 


and purple on her back, arms, and legs. Her pale skin


marred with angry cuts and scratches from broken glass, 


a few shards still embedded in her skin. Her wrists and 


ankles were battered and raw, her feet so swollen she couldn't 


even put her shoes on. The sight of her bloodstained 


pajamas made me feel physically sick, as did the yellow 


police tape marking her home -- her sanctuary -- as a 


crime scene. 





But it's not her injuries that leave her silent and pale, and 


moving like an automaton through the day.  





These bruises go soul-deep.





She's letting him win. Questioning her judgment, her actions, 


torturing herself as if she were still bound and gagged in that 


closet. 





The same faith she's relied on, trusted for so long, 


has become shifting sand this year. Shaken by her experiences 


in Africa, she's been struggling to put the pieces together, 


to rearrange her ideas and beliefs with what she now 


knows. Right and wrong, good and bad are no longer 


as clear-cut as they once were. She's stepped off a 


cliff, walking out into the sky where there are only clouds, 


no up or down, no solid foundation. 





She told me once she had the strength of my beliefs, 


but I don't think that's true. I think I've come to rely on 


the strength of *her*  beliefs. She's my guardian angel, 


my intercessor, pleading  my case before God and the FBI. 


So my desire to see her faith restored is selfish, in a way, 


I suppose, because I want to know that all is right again in 


my small universe...to know that on the day when I 


stand before some judgment seat in this world or the next, 


her small hand in mine and her strong confidence will save 


me from eternal damnation.





But how do I talk to her about a God we both know 


I don't believe in? And how can I intercede when I don't 


even know how to pray?





I didn't intend to come here. I went out for a run, to 


clear my head, and when I stopped I was halfway up 


the steps of St. Peter's. The front door was open, and a 


welcoming golden glow spilled out onto the cold concrete. 





Her church.





I walked through the doorway, a little surprised 


when fire and brimstone didn't crash down 


on my head. Instead, there was silence. The sanctuary 


was nearly empty except for a few heads here and 


there ... other souls seeking answers or comfort. 


This was not one of those ornate gothic churches with 


cherubim and seraphim in the corners and gold leaf 


on every metallic surface. The wooden pews gleamed 


in the soft light, well-cared for but plainly carved. 


The high ceiling soared above, clear of any paint or 


artwork, boasting only a few simple chandeliers that 


dropped down like doves from a granite sky.





Basic, simple beauty.  





I could imagine her here, sitting primly in the pew 


on Sunday morning, dressed in something feminine 


and pretty. She would rise and sit at the appropriate times, sing 


the hymns in her off-key voice and give herself up to 


the ancient, comfortable rituals.  Most proper and sober, 


until the sun happened to strike one of the stained-glass 


windows at just the right angle, and cover her in rainbows. 


Then she would look up and smile with pure joy at 


being alive. 





God, please restore her joy....





I sat in the back row, not wanting to disturb any saints 


with my less-than-holy presence, and bowed my head 


in an attitude of prayer. Just another petitioner among the 


millions. One more voice in the throng of demands, pleas, 


bargains and requests. 





God, help her. Please. Help her.





Suddenly a hand touches my shoulder. Father McCue. 


He probably would be less shocked if 


Old Scratch himself had stopped by for tea, but 


he nonetheless gives me a pleasant smile.





"How can I help you, son?"





He calls me son in a gentle tone my own father 


never used, and I feel a stinging at the back of my 


eyes. Suddenly I envy them, the people who believe 


in God, who have a touchstone, a constant in this 


crazy world.





*And you are mine.*





Father McCue waits patiently for my answer, perhaps 


hoping to chalk up another soul tonight. I, too, am 


hoping to save a soul....Maybe somewhere between 


the saint and the sinner lies salvation.





"You can't help me," I reply. "But I think you can help 


a friend of mine."





The End