From: Ellen Rodgers <aureliabluesea@yahoo.com>
Date: Sat, 10 Sep 2005 22:35:36 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: Flake by EHR
Source: direct

Title:Flake
Author: EHR
E-mail: aureliabluesea@yahoo.com
Distribution: anywhere, just let me know
Rating: PG-13
Categories: S, MS/UST, A
Keywords: Post-ep, Scully POV
Spoilers: Orison
Summary: Scully is at a crossroads the night she kills 
Donnie Pfaster. 
Disclaimer: They're not mine.


it seems to me that maybe
it pretty much always means no
so don't tell me you might just let it go
--Jack Johnson "Flake"

Flake
By EHR


I don't think there's anything to say and I'm too restless 
for comfort, so as soon as Mulder closes the bathroom door 
and leaves me alone for a moment I just... leave.  
	
Vague alarm bells pierce through my already aching skull.  
This is stupid.  It's 3 o'clock in the morning and I can't 
defend myself.  All my fight went into killing Donnie 
Pfaster tonight and now I have nothing left.
	
Maybe I want this, to walk until someone kills me, or I 
pass out.  Which doesn't seem to be very far away since my 
body is aching.  I can feel the glass that's still in my 
back and palms.  
	
*There's glass in me. My body is a sheet of broken glass, 
with flesh ground in*.  
	
I find that image disturbing, I find myself far away from 
who I thought I was.  
	
It feels like I've been walking for hours but it's barely 
been a block.  Mulder will figure this out soon and catch 
me.  Maybe he'll consider it a charade, a game and wait me 
out.  That's what Jacob did when I took my midnight 
rambles.  Somehow he knew I'd always come back, until the 
last time when he chased me down and beat me with a broken 
bottle until that spot on the sidewalk became permanently 
red.  
	
And we're back to broken glass.
	
*What are you doing thinking about Jacob?  He's not even 
the monster of the moment*, I think to myself as I bum a 
cigarette off a shady looking teenager standing on the 
corner.
	
"Rough night?" he asks, eyeing the bruises on my face.  He 
probably thinks I'm a prostitute. 
	
I snort.  "You could say that.  Thanks for the light."
	
Half a block later my phone rings.  I can't believe it.  I 
decided to escape and I brought my goddamn cell phone.  
*This is how you have a hold on me, Mulder*. 
	
I punish him and wait three rings to answer.  "Yeah?"
	
"Scully, stop."  He sounds like he's running.  I realize he 
probably saw me light my cigarette and wait to pick up his 
call.  I will pay for this.
	
Before I can think up an adequate answer-'no' comes to 
mind-I hear footsteps on the sidewalk behind me.
	
I can't help it.  I know it's him and that my body is safe 
with him, but I freeze anyway.  Suddenly it's not him.  
It's Jacob and Duane Barry and Donnie Pfaster and I am 
caught again, and dying.  
	
"Scully," he says, and catches my arm.  
	
I would scream but there's no one to hear at 3 am.  He 
turns me around and sees my face.
	
"It's just me, Scully.  It's okay."  I can see him berating 
himself in his mind; What the hell were you thinking 
running up on her like that?
	
And then he touches my face.  I start breathing again.  I 
imagine him picking me up off the sidewalk after Jacob left 
me there to die, and him telling me that Jacob has not 
stolen myself from me.  This is impossible; I dated Jacob 
five years before I even met Mulder.  I had to pick myself 
up.  I had to tell myself.
	
I close my eyes for a moment as his hands hold my cheeks.  
We have done this before and it isn't long before our 
breaths are in sync.  
	
"Let's go," I say.  
	
He puts a hand on my back and I wince and shy away.
	
"There's glass," I tell him.  "In my back."
	
Mulder makes a face I can't quite discern.  

"Scully, what the hell were you doing, running out in the 
middle of the night like this, bumming cigarettes from drug 
dealers?  You could have been killed!"
	
I feel stupid suddenly, like a child who ran off at the 
zoo.  
	
"I wanted to breathe the night air."  This sounds dumb, 
too, like I'm trying to be poetic but can't.
	
"Well first of all you can't breathe at all when you're 
smoking a damn cigarette.  Is this your plan for dealing 
with this, Scully?  Am I going to find your body in an 
alley because you got a cigarette from someone on the wrong 
corner who didn't take no for an answer?"
	
I'm surprised that he's furious.  I purposely slow my pace 
and he practically stalks circles around me.  
	
"How would you have me deal with it, Mulder?  Like you?  
Should I try to drink myself to death, or run off on a 
death mission in search of some sort of redemption?"
	
He freezes; it's not right for me to have brought that up.  
He opens his mouth, but I tiredly wave a hand at him.
	
"I'm sorry.  I'm sorry, but I can't do this right now."
	
"This would be the time, Scully," he says in a low tone, 
hands now jammed in his pockets.  

I think of being a child and my father trying to prompt me 
to say I'm sorry when I had done something he deemed wrong.  

It takes me a minute to realize he's not trying to punish 
me. 

"This is when you let me be your partner, when you let go 
of... whatever it is you have to let go of"-this he says with 
a sidelong glance at me-"and just let me take care of you 
for awhile."  

But I'm already shaking my head no.  "I don't think you 
should comfort me, Mulder.  I don't think--" I don't know 
what I mean so I can't quite finish the thought "-you 
should."  

What is it about being taken care of that makes me feel 
like I'm being smothered?
	
"Why?  Because you killed him and he didn't kill you?  
Because you won?" he asks as he holds open the door to his 
apartment building for me.  

"Because I didn't kill him, Mulder, I *assassinated* him."  
When I say it aloud, I further convince myself of it.  
	
He snorts.  "That's bullshit."
	
I stand at the bottom of the stairs and feel tears slide 
down my cheeks.  I didn't cry when I realized Donnie 
Pfaster was out there, or when he nearly murdered me and I 
realized it would probably be another four years before I 
could sleep through the night again, or when I shot him and 
became him.  Now I cry because of the physical pain.  
Literally, my body is on fire.  There are daggers in my 
back and the rest of me is so sore the idea of these stairs 
might undo me.
	
I open my mouth to tell Mulder to take me home so I won't 
have to do this, but he's right behind me, gently guiding 
me up the stairs. 
	
"Damn. I wish the elevator worked," he said low in my ear.  
"Do you want a lift?"
	
It takes me a minute to realize he means he'll carry me if 
I want.  It will probably drive the glass deeper into my 
wounds so I shake my head no, and tell myself that the 
increase in tear flow is because of the pain.
	
His hands are on my waist and he propels me up the stairs. 
At the top I stop and sag against him.  He wraps his arms 
around my waist and holds me to him momentarily, and it 
hits me that he must have been terrified too.
	
We limp back to his apartment.  	
	
"Will you stay this time, or should I nail the door shut?" 
he asks.
	
My first reaction is terror, although I know he's joking.  
*Don't nail the door shut! What if he comes back and I 
can't get out*? 
	
"I'll stay," I tell him quietly.

****

Later I lay in the center of his bed propped up with 
pillows, which is supposed to make me feel comfortable but 
instead leaves me marooned and alone.  I don't expect to 
sleep.  We sat in the kitchen for an hour and he used 
tweezers to carefully pull all the glass shards out of me.  
We didn't speak.  I want the pain but I know I'll have 
enough of it even with pain relievers, so I take the 
Tylenol Mulder hands me.  Now, a little while later, I feel 
woozy and tired, and realize he must have given me a 
Tylenol PM.  *I must be pretty damned out of it not to have 
noticed* I think, and then let go.

Of course, it's only minutes later that I awaken with the 
nightmare.  I am trapped, frozen, in a bathtub with Duane 
Barry and Donnie Pfaster is pulling back the curtain and 
it's going to be all over in a minute because he's got the 
shampoo and suddenly I have a gun and I shoot them both, 
but they can't die and...
	
...and then Mulder is there.
	
He speaks to me.  It takes a while to hear him through my 
medicine-induced haze.  He is careful not to touch me.
	
"Scully," he says.  I finally open my eyes and see him 
laying on his stomach next to me.  We're separated by maybe 
three feet but he is too far away with the pillows between 
us.
	
I say tearfully, "I don't want all these pillows."
	
"Okay," he says soothingly, immediately throwing the ones 
between us on the floor.  Then Mulder moves cautiously 
towards me until I can feel his breath on my cheek.  
	
I am bereft because I don't know what to do.  I feel like 
I've had too much to drink and I'm trying to scramble back 
to consciousness but I can't.  I try to move my body, but 
even that doesn't work.
	
Mulder lets me struggle for a minute before taking my hand 
in both of his.  I can't describe how this comforts me.
	
"Scully, I want you to look at me," he says carefully.  I 
recognize the psychoanalyst voice and want to tell him to 
shove it, but I can't.  I just look into his eyes and am 
relieved to find him calm.
	
"Scully, you've had a bad night.  We both know you're going 
to keep having nightmares tonight.  So I want you to 
listen.  Scully, I'm here.  I'm giving you permission to 
let it go for now.  The fear, the anger, the guilt, all of 
it.  You are safe with me.  It would be okay for you to 
rest your body and rest your mind here.  And, Scully, this 
goes for tonight and any other night you want.  Hell, every 
night if you want."
	
His voice is low and calming.  In my decreased mental 
state, I cannot think of a single reason why this is a bad 
idea.  
	
"I'll still be-" I start, not quite sure where I'm going 
with this.  It sounds like I'm making a bargain with him, 
but I don't know what I want to say.   
	
He lets me try to work out the thought in my head.  I 
can't, so he speaks.  "Scully, you'll still be you in the 
morning and I hope you'll let me talk to you and try to 
help you work it out."
	
Jesus, he's good.  I say okay.  He scoots closer so his 
body is ghost touching mine.  I close my eyes again.  

****

I awaken to the sound of my phone ringing and I startle, 
horrendously confused.  I'm in Mulder's bed and my body 
hurts. Then it all comes back to me and I sigh.  A few 
hours of sleep hasn't erased what I've done.

I can't move that well, so Mulder reaches over and hands me 
my cell phone.  It says Mom on the screen, and I suddenly 
remember we have lunch plans for today.

"Shit," I mutter to myself.  Today is *not* a good day to 
put on the happy face and spend time with my mom.

"Hi, Mom," I say into the phone, trying to sound cheerful.  
Mulder sits up on one elbow as I talk, maybe curious about 
what I'm going to tell her.

"Dana! Hi!" she says.  "Listen, I wanted to see if we could 
reschedule lunch because of the weather."

"The weather?" I say stupidly, looking out the window.

Snow.

A fresh layer of it, burying the past.  Smothering me, 
because I'm still trapped in last night.

"Haven't you been out today?  It's almost noon," she says, 
sounding worried.

"No, I was out late," I tell her. 

Mulder raises an eyebrow, which I see out of the corner of 
my eye.  What the hell does he expect me to say to my 
mother? I was sleeping because last night I killed a man, 
which kept me up.  I never even told her about Donnie 
Pfaster the first time around, so it would be harder to 
explain this.

Besides, I've put my mother through enough hell.  She 
doesn't need to know that I'm a murderer.

"Oh, well, was he a nice man?" she asks hopefully.

*NO! He was evil in the purest form I've ever seen* I 
think, and then realize she isn't asking about Donnie 
Pfaster.  She thinks I was on a date last night.  She 
should know better by now.

"Mom," I say with a forced chuckle, ending her line of 
questioning.  "Listen, I'll call you later this week and 
we'll reschedule, okay?"

We exchange I love yous and hang up.  I wonder if she'd 
still love me knowing who I really am, then soothe myself 
by promising I'll start watching Oprah again to catch up on 
the answer to that question.

I sigh as I put the phone on Mulder's night stand.  I won't 
be able to go back to sleep, and now Mulder and I are 
alone.

"It's snowing," I tell him, turning around to see him 
studying my face.

"Yeah.  It has been for a couple of hours," he says, 
surprising me.

"You didn't sleep?"  He must have been up thinking, turning 
this whole thing over in his mind.  Now he won't be so 
quick to comfort me, since the whole impact of what I've 
done has surely hit him.

Mulder puts a warm hand on my arm. "I've been worried about 
you," he tells me, voice low.

I can't take this.  He still wants to comfort me, wants me 
to forgive and forget.
 
I never forgave Donnie Pfaster the first time around; why 
should I forgive myself so easily?

"I'm going to take a shower," I answer abruptly, standing 
and nearly falling over.  My sore muscles are nearly 
unwilling to carry me.

****

The water doesn't feel comforting; instead it hurts.  
Everything hurts.  I stay in for a long time, though, 
because Mulder is on the outside of the door waiting for 
me.  

It gets to the point where it's ridiculous for me to stay 
in the shower any longer and so I reluctantly and awkwardly 
towel off.  Mulder must have heard the shower stop, but he 
stays in the bedroom while I leave the bathroom.

I realize that I could make a break for it.

My first instinct in life, which Mulder I'm sure has spent 
hours psychoanalyzing, has always been to flee.  And so I 
start moving.  I don't have my car; I'll have to get out 
and call a cab.  Mulder would probably drive me home, but I 
don't want him to try to talk me out of leaving.

I can only walk about three steps before my body stops me, 
anticipating a marathon-type endeavor down the hallway, the 
stairs and God-knows wherever the hell else I planned on 
going to catch a cab(and that old song, give me three steps 
give me three steps mister give me three steps towards the 
door flashes in my head).   

Out of the living room window I see more snow falling, and 
I think of the clich‚d connotation of snow and purity.  You 
know, I could try to do that, too. I could get back to my 
apartment somehow and try to put my home back together.  I 
could redecorate and rebuild or move out and tell everyone 
(who am I kidding; the only one I'm close to anymore is 
Mulder) I've moved on.

I could bury it all under a layer of snow and call it 
beautiful.  

All right, it's extending the metaphor too far to talk 
about slush or black snow.  

The point is, that is what I always do.  It's how I've lost 
everyone close to me, with an elaborate game of pretend 
that one or both of us sees through and tires of.  I don't 
know that I regret it; some people are worth losing. (This 
is not counting those that I've indirectly gotten killed).

I would regret losing him.

Anyway, I'm not fine about last night.  Mulder knows that, 
and he'd know it even if I tried the white-snow approach.  

Did Donnie Pfaster deserve to die? He was evil, and if 
anyone has the right to die for being evil I think he did.  
I think I will struggle forever with the personal vengeance 
aspect of it: I didn't kill Pfaster because he was about to 
murder an innocent woman, I killed him because he had 
almost hurt *me*.      

So maybe I could just stay here.  Which seems like the 
right decision as I drop my purse and my body won't bend to 
pick it up.  

I turn because I know Mulder's there, I know he's been 
watching my inner struggle, and I'm thankful he didn't try 
to make me stay.

"Were you leaving?" he asks, in that same low voice he used 
what seems like hours ago when he told me he was worried 
about me.

Why? I want to ask him.  Why doesn't it worry you that I 
killed a man last night? Why don't you look at me 
differently today?

But I don't want to know the truth about that today.  Maybe 
that's the difference between Mulder and I-he *has* to know 
and understand and be able to hold the entirety of 
something in his mind before he can rest.  That could be 
noble, or tiresome.  

I don't know, but I am willing to not tie this up today, 
put a label on it and decide how I'm going to play it the 
rest of my life.  That seems like progress, or maybe a more 
stylized form of denial, I don't know. 

"No," I tell him.  "No."

It's selfish to stay here and be safe, I think, as he tries 
to get through to me with his eyes.  Not this time, Mulder.  
I've learned on more than one dark night that there are 
some places you go alone.  

God, that sounds like a rejected line from a Dashiell 
Hammett novel.

Anyway, after all that dark night bullshit I'm still here 
with him. 

"Well," he says, almost uncomfortably, "I remade the bed."    

I arch an eyebrow, because it's what he would expect me to 
do.  

His posture relaxes and he smiles boyishly at me.

I don't know what to think, something about snow and guilt 
and those heating pads you can buy that stick to you.  Of 
course, they're a rip off and I need about twelve of them 
right now.  And the warmth of Mulder's hand as he takes 
mine and leads me back to his bed.

If Donnie Pfaster had this, I think idly and stupidly, as 
Tylenol PM and Mulder's heartbeat lull me into a coward's 
sleep and snow quiets into a flurry out the bedroom window, 
he could never have done what he did.  But then if last 
night had been different, would *I* have this moment?

Well whatever led up to this, it's here and I'm tired and I 
could never get a cab to come to Alexandria in this 
weather.  

Having sufficiently rationalized the moment, my last hope 
is that Mulder sleeps, too, so we can be at the same 
disadvantage later when we wake up and have to face this.

End

****
Yeah maybe a little depressing for an ending but she did 
just kill someone. Anyway, you can send feedback to 
aureliabluesea@yahoo.com