By Sally Bahnsen
rbahnsen@optusnet.com.au
 

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and Skinner belong to CC.

Category: MA, MT, SC

RATED R FOR POTTY LANGUAGE

This story was written for the March fic contest on MR.

A "Psychological torture/Angst" theme.

Feedback: is lovingly appreciated, please let me know what
you thought.

XxXxx
 

TWO STRONG HEARTS

xxXxx

Assistant Director's Skinner Office
 Hoover Building.

5:30PM

xxXxx
 

"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.

Thanks for reading. Feedback is greatly appreciated.

rbahnsen@opotusnet.com.au