untitled
'TWO
STRONG HEARTS'
By:
Sally Bahnsen
ASSISTANT
DIRECTOR SKINNER’S OFFICE
HOOVER BUILDING
5:30PM
"This was your fault, Agent Mulder! Because of your blatant
disregard for Bureau protocol a young girl was nearly killed. You
let your personal feelings cloud your judgment." Skinner
heaved a deep breath, shoved at a file on his desk and said,
"What the hell were you thinking?"
"Sir, I - "
"Save it! I've got a meeting with the director in less than
an hour and one hell of a lot of explaining to do. This time it's
not only your ass on the line, but mine too. And Agent
Scully's."
I stood in front of Skinner, staring straight ahead, my eyes
fixed on a spot behind his right shoulder.
"Sir, if you'd - "
"I said *save it*!" He swiped a hand over his head,
removed his glasses, inspected the lens then pulled a cloth from
his pocket and wiped over the glass. When he'd finished, he aimed
his gaze back at me. "You're dismissed, Agent Mulder. Go
home."
"Sir, -
"Go. "
Fine. Fuck you, too, Sir.
I turned to leave.
"Wait! Leave your badge here. And your weapon. Both of
them."
I glared at him and walked the 3 paces back to his desk. Digging
my badge from my inside pocket I threw it on the desk, dragged my
gun from its holster and placed it beside my ID. I stared at
Skinner as I crouched down to retrieve the Smith and Wesson from
my ankle holster. Skinner pulled away from my scrutiny, choosing
instead to inspect something in the far corner of his office. The
revolver joined my badge and service weapon.
I waited for Skinner to acknowledge me before leaving.
Reluctantly, he broke eye contact with the rear wall and sought
me out. His jaw twitched and I thought for a second he was going
to say something, but instead, he inclined his head towards the
door indicating I should go.
I strode out of his office and slammed the door behind me. Scully
was still sitting where I'd left her 30 long ass-reaming minutes
ago. When I came out she stood, took a step in my direction and
started to say something.
I kept walking towards the elevators and held up my hand.
"Not now, Scully."
"Mulder!"
Two hard jabs at the button followed by another 3 in quick
succession failed to bring the elevator car any faster. I paced
the width of the sliding doors, one hand on my hip the other
cupping my forehead.
I kicked the wall in frustration only managing to achieve a
shockwave of pain through my big toe.
Shit!
I gave it another hit in spite of myself.
Scully would be in with Skinner now. Giving him her version of
events. Defending me, making excuses. But there were no excuses.
Caitlin would probably be in therapy for years because of me. She
was lucky to be alive. Skinner was right. I'd screwed up big
time.
I was just about to vent further frustration on the call button
when the elevator dinged its arrival. The doors slid open to
reveal four people inside. I selected the basement then moved to
the back. No one spoke. We all stood with our eyes glued to the
space just above the doors, watching the display light up as we
passed each corresponding floor. By the time I arrived at the
basement the car was empty. No one down here but the FBI's most
unwanted. Yeah, that about fits me to a tee.
I shouldered my office door open with far more force than
necessary. It rocked on its hinges, hit the wall behind and swung
back at me. I helped it on its way with a swift stab of my heel.
There was little satisfaction in the loud crack that cut through
the silence.
I started to pace the length of my office, but there was no
escaping what I'd done. Back and forth, back and forth, getting
nowhere. I stopped in the middle of the room looking at the chaos
that is my office. That is my life. God, what had I been
thinking? Risking the life of one little girl to find the truth
about another? Jeezus! It made me sick to my stomach every time I
thought about how close it had come. How differently it could
have turned out.
One cloth heart, bagged and labeled sat on my desk where I'd left
it before being summoned by Skinner. The small piece of flannel
taunted me. Highlighting my stupidity, reminding me there was
still a little girl buried in an unknown grave somewhere. And
now, because of me, we'll never know who, or where.
Go home, Skinner had said. Yeah, why the hell not? I grabbed my
car keys and reached for my coat where it was draped over the
back of my chair. It snagged on something and wouldn't budge.
Wrenching hard, I swore when I heard the lining rip. The coat
burst free and my chair toppled to its side with a resounding
crash. The temptation to kick it from here to kingdom come was
almost overwhelming. In the end I just glared at it, mentally
condemning it to eternal damnation.
As an after thought, I slipped the heart inside Roche's file and
grabbed the folder off my desk, shoving it under my arm. What
good it would do, I didn't know, but maybe this time I was better
equipped to find a clue as to where the body might be buried.
The journey home was a blur of car horns and raised middle
fingers as I committed at least a half dozen traffic violations.
Where's a cop when you need one? Apparently not on the route to
Alexandria much to the disgust of my fellow commuters.
There was little solace in my apartment. It was too quiet, too
cold, and too lonely, yet too crowded with shame, guilt and
self-loathing. I dropped the Roche file on the coffee table then
shed my coat and let it fall to the floor. The tie went next,
scrunched into a tight ball it sailed through the air where it
hit the far wall and slid behind a chair. My jacket landed beside
my coat, and last but not least I thumbed the top button of my
shirt loose.
Now what?
Too quiet.
I turned the television on and lowered the sound until the volume
was little more than a drone.
Too cold.
Too bad, I didn't care.
Too lonely.
I headed for the kitchen, opening and closing cabinet doors until
I found what I was looking for.
Ah there you are, Mr. Daniels. Long time, no see.
The kitchen light illuminated a thin coating of dust over the
glass bottle. It was three quarters full. Liquid fire. Man's best
friend. Man's worst enemy. But tonight, Jack was a long lost
buddy and he and I had a lot of catching up to do. I wrapped my
fingers around the neck of the bottle and a small dust cloud spun
into oblivion. With some luck I'd be heading the same way before
the night was over.
I snagged a glass and thought about ice, but the effort to
extract it from the freezer just seemed like too much trouble.
Dodging strewn clothing, I settled on the couch, kicked off my
shoes and hefted stockinged feet onto the coffee table, my heels
resting on Roche's file. I poured myself a healthy 3 fingers of
bourbon and made a mock toast to John Lee Roche. "I hope you
rot in hell, you son of a bitch!" I slugged the drink back
in one long swig. It burned all the way down, brought tears to my
eyes and squeezed a cough from my chest.
The second one went down a little easier, and by the third there
was a soothing numbness spreading through my circulatory system.
The alcohol wrapped around my brain like a silky caress.
Anesthetizing my guilt, shrinking my shame and dulling my
self-loathing until it was a mere shadow of its former self.
I toasted Skinner, imagining him squirming in front of the
Director, trying to explain my actions. His rogue agent. I
laughed out loud. But then I couldn't remember why. Had I done
something funny? Maybe another little sip would help fire up my
memory. With a trembling hand I spilled the contents from the
bottle into my glass. It splashed up the side, a few drops
landing on the case file. I stared at it, angry. What a waste of
fine Tennessee whiskey.
Better drink it before anymore spills. So I did. It was barely
making an impression now, sliding down my throat as easily as a
glass of warm milk.
Sliding down. Deeper. Buried in the pit of my stomach, seeping
into the black hole that was once my soul. A cold black hole.
Hiding the skeletal remains of Addie Sparks.
'Show me the way to go home, I'm tired and I want to go bed, I
had a little drink about an hour ago and its gone straight to my
head.'
I laughed again. Stupid lyrics. Would only make sense to a drunk.
Show me the way . . . show me the way to another victim. Number
13, number 14, 15, 16. Who are you, number 16? Where had you
lived? Gone to school? Did you have a brother? Did he tease you?
Was he taking the blame for what happened to you? Are you *my*
sister?
No. Too early.
1973 *was* too early.
It had to be.
And Roche was wrong.
'Wrong house you stupid son of a bitch.' I threw the remaining
dregs from the glass down my throat.
And poured another. A little heavy-handed, but hey, what's a few
extra ounces of bourbon among friends. And we are friends, aren't
we Roche. Can I call you John? We did share a nexus, didn't we?
Imagine that.
Me and him linked.
I shoved at the file with my heel and it skittered across the
table. "You sick FUCK!"
Oh god.
I squeezed my eyes shut, both hands clasping my head but I
couldn't shake the images scrolling through my mind. Addie
Sparks' father. <How many more people like me are you going to
visit today?>
Samantha on her swing, laughing, flying higher and higher,
squealing with joy and then screaming. Screaming in pain. Crying.
<Fox! Help me, Fox!>
A skeleton spread out on an autopsy table. <It's not her,
Scully.> It's someone, though. "Someone's child, Roche. A
fucking little kid! You murdering son of a bitch!"
I dropped my feet to the floor and snatched at Roche's file with
all the grace of a Sumo wrestler. Papers, envelopes and crime
scene photos spewed from its cover. I stared at them scattered
across the floor.
Fuck.
I stood up, swayed to the left and back again, then staggered
over the top of the coffee table, landing flat on my back.
The ceiling swirled in dizzying circles, sending a bout of nausea
spiraling straight to my stomach. I rolled on my side, breathed
deeply, then pushed myself up on all fours. The room spun and I
waited it out, then gripped the coffee table and dragged myself
up. Still swaying, I made it back to the couch, reached down and
scooped up the innards of Roche's file from the floor, stuffing
them haphazardly back into the folder. All except a photo of the
man himself. I stared at it until my eyes hurt and the definition
blurred almost beyond recognition.
"You are one sick bastard." I informed him.
And then I wasn't looking at the face of a monster, but that of a
little girl. Her innocence protecting her from knowing how close
she was to death. Brown doe-eyes looking up at me, trusting me.
<My name is Fox, I'm going to take you home.>
Yeah, Mister Special Agent Super-hero-Mulder! Can I offer you my
card? On duty 24/7, just call and I'll come running. My
specialty? Retrieving children from pedophiles. Yes sir, I'm your
man. Ah, but there's just one catch. The perp is on the street
because I set him free. Oh, I didn't mention that in my resume?
But it's true. Yes, yes, with one phone call, I can make all your
worst nightmares come true.
Shut up, Mulder, said the little voice in my head. Have another
drink.
Don't mind if I do.
My apartment was doing a pretty keen impression of a fun parlor
mirror. Blurry and distorted images danced before my eyes. Where
was the damn bottle?
I dropped the photo of Roche and scrubbed at my face, guilt and
horror breaking through my alcoholic stupor. I found the bottle,
poured another glass of burning liquid and downed it in one go. I
waited, relishing the warmth spreading through my body, cursing
the fact that I could still think, could still feel. Please, I
prayed to the God of all things addictive, take away the pain.
Make me numb, make it so I can't think, can't feel . . .
Just as it was getting in full swing, my pity party was
interrupted by a knock at the door. It took another few seconds
for the significance to trickle through. "Hey, Jack ol'
buddy, looks like we've got company." I lowered my voice to
a conspiratorial whisper. "I'll give you one guess."
I stood, and swayed dangerously to one side. When I had my
balance under some semblance of control, I offered my bottle of
bourbon a 'thumbs up' signal and a friendly wink.
"You got it in one."
I staggered to the door, taking out several items of furniture on
the way. There was another round of fist pounding before I
managed to get a grip on the handle. I hefted it open with
absolutely no concept of the required force needed to move an
inanimate object. It swung far too wide and I went along for the
ride. But I didn't fall. No Siree, I just hung on and swayed
backwards and forwards as the hinges creaked their protest.
"Mulder."
"Hey Shcully, waddya doin' here?" I worked my tongue
around in my mouth, giving it a little warm-up exercise before my
next attempt at speech.
"Are you, all right, Mulder?"
"Course I am. Whydya ask?"
I wish she'd quit moving.
She looked at me long and hard then shifted her line of sight
over my right shoulder. "Can I come in?"
I flung the door wider and stood to the side, stretching out my
hand as any gentleman would, indicating she should enter.
"Come in, come in. I'm having a par-tay."
I almost missed the sideward glance she gave me as she waltzed
past.
When we entered the living room, she pulled up suddenly and I
walked right into her back.
"Sorry." I muttered under my breath.
"You've been drinking."
"Who? Moi?" I can do innocent as well as the next man.
Her right eyebrow headed for the stratosphere.
She gave me another long look before moving over to the coffee
table where she picked up the bottle of Jack and inspected it
like it might suddenly lunge at her.
Placing the bottle back where she'd found it, I watched as her
gaze swept around my living room. With the tip of her index
finger, she drew the Roche file towards her, reading the name
quietly to herself.
"Doing a little homework, Mulder?"
I stumbled back to the couch and sat down heavily, scrubbing at
my eyes with both hands. "What are you doing here,
Scully?"
"I was worried about you."
"Well, as you can see, I'm just fine and dandy."
"Actually, Mulder, if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that
was the last thing you were."
I slumped back, shut my eyes and let my head rest against the
couch. Big mistake. The room immediately tilted on its axis,
turning in a sickening circle, quickly gathering speed until it
felt like I would be flung from the couch. I attempted to burrow
my fingernails into the leather cushions, and then let out a long
groan.
"Mulder?"
"Gonna . . . be . . . sick."
I sat forward clasping my hand over my mouth and tried to get to
my feet. In a split second Scully had it figured out. She hauled
me up and I swayed against her, my stomach already convulsing. I
used her as a starting block and pushed off like an Olympic
sprinter, but that's where the resemblance ended. Lacking
anything close to the grace and coordination of a well-trained
athlete, I wove a clumsy path to the bathroom, kicked the door
shut and dropped to my knees in front of the toilet.
The pain of puking my guts up was almost a welcome relief from
the mental torment of the past 24 hours. I lost myself to the
sickly-sweet smell of bile and bourbon, relished the contractions
of cramping stomach muscles while it felt like everything I'd
eaten in the last week was spewing from my throat. I coughed and
gagged and the burning sensation of the alcohol going down was
nothing compared to the feel of it coming back up again.
When the heaving finally subsided, I sat hugging the rim of the
toilet, breathing through my mouth, spitting and swiping
uselessly at my chin with the back of my hand. I felt around the
top of the cistern and flushed. Water splashed from the bowl,
landing on my face. That was the kick-in-the-ass I needed to make
a move. Slowly, I dragged myself up, relying on the sink to keep
me on my feet. I stood, hands gripping the basin, chin resting on
my chest and breathed deeply.
Still with my eyes closed, I turned on the faucet and leaned
over, dousing my face and rinsing my mouth.
When I lifted my head I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Dark, sunken eyes stared back at me. The face of a coward. A man
too afraid to face his demons, a man who chooses instead to lose
himself in a bottle. You ass hole, Mulder. What gives you the
right to seek respite from the horrors inflicted on a small
child? It was *your* fault. Caitlin's nightmares tonight will
feature you in a starring role.
I watched the man in the mirror straighten like it was happening
on a movie screen. I saw him draw back his hand and then felt his
fist slam into the mirror. There was a loud crack, the glass
stayed in tact, but the skin across my knuckles split and blood
spattered across my reflection. It dripped into the basin and
gurgled down the plughole.
I felt no pain.
"Mulder!"
Scully hammered on the door, but I couldn't answer. I was
mesmerized, watching my blood mingle with the water in the sink,
forming abstract patterns on the clean white porcelain. I lifted
my hand, and the blood changed direction. It ran down my arm,
coated the cuff of my shirt, soaking into the material like a
blotter absorbing an ink spill.
The door burst open and Scully was at my side.
I heard her gasp, curse, and then her hand was on my arm.
"Mulder! What did you do?" She ran her hand along my
arm, turning it so she could see the inside of my wrist. She
swore again and rolled my hand over. "Jeezus, Mulder."
She grabbed a towel and pressed it over my knuckles, then bent my
arm so my hand was resting against my shoulder.
I watched in silence. Numb on the inside. Indifferent to the
outside.
Scully's fingers rested against my jaw, turning my head so I was
facing her. "What happened?" Gentle, like you might
address a fragile child.
My mouth started to work, but no sound came out. In the end I
gave up and just looked at her.
"Come out here and sit down."
I let her lead me from the bathroom. We headed towards the living
room and I complied without argument when she encouraged me to
sit on the couch. She sat beside me, took my injured hand in both
of hers, removed the towel and inspected the damage. I stared
straight ahead.
There were a few seconds of careful scrutiny before she
announced, "This is going to need stitches, Mulder."
So? Did I care?
Not one iota.
I kept my eyes fixed on a water stain just above one of the
paintings on the wall. It swam in and out of focus, distorting
into something hideous. A face with no eyes. A mouth drawn back
in a silent scream. It squirmed and writhed as if in agony. It
was a child. A woman. A man. A monster. It was Roche. I jumped as
if shocked by an electric current.
"Mulder, did you hear me? We need to go to the
hospital."
"No." I mumbled quietly to myself, still staring at the
water stain.
Scully tilted my head towards her. I was facing her, but not
seeing her. I knew she was there, but my mind was occupied with a
slide show of horror. Cloth hearts, grieving parents, a
frightened child, a shallow grave, more hearts, a prison,
punching Roche.
My hand throbbed.
"Mulder, look at me!" Stern. Scully was angry.
I let my eyes slide to her face, blinking until she came into
focus.
She didn't say anything, just lifted a hand to cup my jaw, her
thumb drawing soothing circles across my cheek. I heard the rasp
of smooth skin against unshaven stubble.
"Mulder, you're hurt. And . . . " Her gaze dropped to
her lap then latched onto my face again. "You need to speak
to someone." She swallowed. I saw her body language but I
didn't understand it until . . . "I think you should speak
to a counselor."
"No." The word gushed from my lips. Barely more than a
whisper. "I can't." I started to tremble, the false
warmth and security from my encounter with Jack had headed into
oblivion without me. Leaving me here to face the music alone. And
I didn't like it. The truth was something I'd always yearned for,
but now I was confronted with a truth that hurt so badly I wasn't
sure I could bear it. I'd failed miserably. My own selfish need
to absolve myself from blame; to put a reason to Samantha's
disappearance other than my own incompetence had driven me to
place another child's life at risk.
I had to make Scully understand. I had no right to expect
sympathy, or understanding. I didn't want to speak to a shrink
and have her point out in overly placating tones the twelve-step
plan I needed to embrace in order to recover from my trauma. I'm
not a fucking child. I'm a law enforcement officer. I'm supposed
to protect the public, not put their lives in danger.
Scully let her hand trickle along my jaw, down the side of my
neck until she came to my shoulder. When she spoke, her voice was
so gentle that it almost cracked my thin veneer of self-control.
"Why can't you, Mulder?"
I chewed on my bottom lip, trying to still the quivering, but
that just forced the emotion to well up in my throat. A hard ball
of pain, constricting my voice box until it was almost impossible
to swallow around it.
Hot tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I snatched my hand
from Scully; the pull of torn skin against terry cloth sent a
sharp stab through my knuckles.
Concentrate on the physical pain, I told myself. Focus on it,
hide behind it.
I wrapped both arms around my chest, squeezed my eyes shut and
rocked back and forth. It hurt, everything hurt. My chest, my
head. The core of my very being. I drew in a long breath that
sounded more like a sob and the lump in my throat grew to the
size of a small boulder. I shivered and rocked, vaguely aware of
a thin band of warmth around my back. It moved rhythmically up
and down in time to a soft crooning.
"It's okay, Mulder. Let it out. Let it go."
No! I didn't want to let it go. This pain *should* be mine. But I
couldn't hold it in. More shuddering breaths, more tears
streaming down my face and no matter how hard I squeezed my eyes,
hugged my chest it just kept coming. The dam crumbled bit by bit
until Scully drew me down towards her, my head resting in her lap
and her arms wrapped tightly around me.
That's when I let it out. All of it. "Scully," I
whispered against her stomach. So tempted to bury myself in her
warmth and stay there forever.
"Shhh, I'm here, Mulder. It's okay, it's going to be all
right."
And that was like twisting a knife in my gut. Because it wasn't
okay, no matter how much I wanted it to be, it wasn't. I'd killed
a man. A scum-sucking son-of- a-bitch but in the eyes of the law
he deserved a hearing and now I had to face the consequences. I
shuddered against her, my chest heaving, my tears soaking the
soft fabric of her shirt.
"It's my fault, Scully. I . . . it's my f . . . fault."
I felt her arms tighten around me. As if by sheer will alone she
could make it okay, take away my pain.
"I screwed up."
"No, Mulder, you didn't screw up. Under the circumstances -
" She paused. "Roche was playing with you. He knew you
were vulnerable and he used that against you. It could have
happened to anyone."
I pushed away from her and sat up. Snot and tears a slimy mess
across my cheeks. I swiped at my face with my sleeve. My hand was
still dripping blood.
I didn't care.
"Could have happened to anyone?" I asked,
incredulously. "To you? Would you have released a prisoner
based on a dream and flown him across the state purely for
personal reasons?"
She sat in silence.
"No, I thought not." I stood up, swayed and then got my
footing. "Don't sit there and tell me it could happen to
anyone, because that is BULLSHIT!"
Fuck!
Anger seethed in me like a living beast. I walked around the
coffee table, a path of blood following in my wake, and paced
between my computer desk and the door.
Scully was on her feet too. "What the hell do you want me to
say, Mulder? That you are to blame? So you can hide here and
wallow in your self-pity? And then what? What will you do when
the pity wears off, when the blame finally gets placed where it
belongs? Come . . ."
"The blame *is* where it belongs, Scully." I jabbed my
thumb at my chest. "With me!"
"And what about Roche? *He* took Caitlin, he got inside your
head and convinced you that he had killed Samantha. You're as
much a victim in this as Addie Sparks, as Karen Anne Philipontie.
Yes, you made a mistake. But . . . "
"He made me hand in my badge. And my weapons." I'd
stopped pacing.
"Who?"
"Skinner."
She huffed a weary sigh. "That's normal Bureau procedure.
Your service revolver was stolen by a known felon and you fired
your own gun. There has to be an inquiry, you know that."
"What about Caitlin? She could have been killed."
"But she wasn't. You figured it out, Mulder. You saved
her."
I laughed this time. A hollow, offensive sound. "It's
because of me that she was taken in the first place. Don't you
get that, Scully? How can this be anything *but* my fault."
I turned in a circle, one hand pressed against my forehead.
"Shit!"
Scully stood by the couch, both hands massaging her temples. She
had to be seeing how it really was. How could she possibly have
imagined it any other way?
"Skinner is on your side, Mulder."
This time when I laughed I was genuinely amused. "Skinner's
on my side? He just spent the afternoon reaming me a new
ass!"
"Hey, I didn't say he was happy. Because he's not. But he
does know what Roche was doing to you. And yes, you probably
could have acted with more care and discretion, but there were
extenuating circumstances."
"Yeah, my narcissistic need to prove that Roche was involved
with Samantha's disappearance. Despite the fact that I've
believed she was abducted by aliens for the last seven
years."
"Mulder. What do you want? To spend the rest of your life
beating yourself up over this? Or do you want to work through it,
take whatever disciplinary action the OPR sees fit to issue and
then move on?"
"You sound like a shrink, Scully. I'm the one with the
degree in psychology, remember?"
"Then, use it, Mulder. If you won't speak to someone else,
move past the emotions and work on the facts. Roche is gone. But
the world is full of other men like him. Monsters preying on
innocent children. You figured out what made him tick, you put
him behind bars the first time, and you caught him before he
could kill again the second time. There's still a little girl out
there who needs you. You're the best hope her family has to find
closure."
I let her words wash over me. Absorbed them. Allowed them to
offer me a small glimmer of hope.
"Mulder."
"What?"
"You're dripping all over the carpet. Come and sit down and
let me fix your hand."
I stared at my right hand. The knuckles were swollen and purple,
blood oozing from two jagged cuts, and for the first time since
punching the mirror I was starting to feel it the pain. I held my
hand against my chest and sat beside Scully on the couch.
Another 'doctorly' examination took place before she declared;
"You know I'm going to have to take you to the ER, don't
you."
I groaned. "Can't you just put a band aid on it?"
"I'm not even going to dignify that question with an
answer." She stood and walked to the kitchen.
I sat studying the self-inflicted abuse to my knuckles. Could
Scully be right? Was there a way to move past this? No matter
which way you cut it, the long finger of blame was pointing
squarely at me. But I had a goal now. Something else to focus on
other than my own self pity. The last victim.
"Here you go, Mulder."
Scully was back. She sat beside me and took my hand. I flinched.
The more my internal torment subsided, the more the external
battering was staking a claim.
"What's that?" She was pressing a folded hand towel
against my knuckles.
"Ice. I want to stop this from swelling any more. You might
need an X ray."
"Scully, I don't want to go to the ER. Not tonight."
"Mulder . . ."
She must have seen something in my eyes. Pleading, desperation.
Not exactly hard to miss.
A slow nod, then. "I've got my medical kit in the car. I'll
butterfly the lacerations and we'll keep the ice pack on all
night."
"We, Scully?"
"I'm not leaving you alone tonight, Mulder."
"I can take care of myself. I don't need a nursemaid."
Scully ran a critical eye over my apartment. My clothes were
still spread across the floor. The Roche file lay on the table
next to the near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. My living room
looked like someone had been murdered, blood spatters coating the
polished floor boards and rug. Not exactly great endorsement for
responsible living.
When she'd finished mentally cataloging the disaster zone I
called home, she turned to me. "I'm not staying as your
nursemaid, Mulder. I'm staying because I care about you."
I stared long and hard into her eyes, habitually seeking some
hint of deception, before I remembered who I was dealing with.
This was Scully, the one person in this god-forsaken world of
monsters and deviates that I could depend on for the truth.
I didn't want to be alone. I needed her. Wanted her to stay. If
only to keep the demons at bay for a few hours.
I mumbled a quiet, self-conscious thank you.
Her smile constricted my chest, sending already unstable emotions
into a flurry of activity.
She scooted back against the couch, twisting slightly so she was
facing along its length, then she pulled me back against her.
Both of her arms encircled me. "It will be okay,
Mulder," she whispered in my ear. "It will."
I nodded against her shoulder, feeling the beat of her heart
against my back, the even rise and fall of her chest, and at that
precise moment in time, I believed her.
THE END
Disclaimer:
Mulder, Scully and Skinner belong to CC.
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