TITLE: True Reflections
WRITTEN BY: Obfusc8er
FEEDBACK: aobfuscata@hotmail.com
RATING: PG-13 for dark subject matter
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Chris Carter, FOX and/or 1013.
ARCHIVE: After The Fact, Gossamer, Mulder in Jeopardy, Enigmatic Dr's; all 
others, please request permission first.
SPOILERS: Grotesque
CLASSIFICATION: Angst, slight MT (aka fic noire)
NOTES: Thanks to xphylia, Buc252, and truthwebothknow for the betas.
SUMMARY: Mulder struggles with the aftermath of profiling.
DEDICATIONS: To XU and SE. SE, something you once mentioned to me became 
lodged in my mind. It worked itself loose and found a way into this fic, 
paraphrased, as a bit of inspiration. XU, included is some of that dialogue 
practice I promised. Thanks to you both. No page can ever contain the words 
to describe you.

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

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