From: Keleka Date: Sat, 29 Jan 2000 17:33:30 -0600 Subject: xfc: New: "Four More Words" Source: xfc From: Keleka Four More Words By Keleka Email: keleka@compaq.net Rated: PG Archive: Sure! Category: S, I guess. I haven't figured out all these categories yet. Summary: Sequel to my Orison Post Ep, "Four Words," M&S address their bilateral loss of trust. If you missed it, its still on Ephemeral, or you can find it at my brand new website at http://home.compaq.net/~keleka/ Timeline: New Year's Eve coming over a month early doesn't help things. This takes place three weeks after Orison, and before any of the post-Orison episodes take place. Let's make it very early in February. Disclaimer: Get real! If I owned this cash cow, do you really think I'd be living in Mississippi? Feedback: This is a sequel to my first XF fanfiction, "Four Words." I swear I didn't intend for "Four Words" to start a serial, but the characters had other ideas. I think all the positive feedback just went to their heads. I'm sure they (and I) would love more. Author's Note: Huge steaming piles of thanks to TBishop27 who continues to encourage me, God help her; to brat and brandi, who tolerate me and are beyond God's help; and especially to shoshana, who jumped in the when the crap was deep and helped me shovel my way out. Four More Words by Keleka "You lied to me." I freeze. My arms are still wrapped around Scully. Her face still pressed against my chest, muffling her words. I realize suddenly that the tears have stopped almost as quickly as they had begun. How long have we been standing here outside Skinner's office? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? "You lied to me," she says again, with more certainty. She pushes against me and pulls away a few inches. I slide my hands up her arms and rest them on her shoulders, not ready to let go, but giving her the space she seems to need. I look into her eyes and try to calculate the depth of emotion hidden in them. Is it anger she's hiding in there? Hatred? Disappointment? I need x-ray vision to see through the wall she has so hastily thrown up. My Oxford-educated brain slips into overdrive trying to manufacture the perfect response to her accusation. How can someone so smart have so much trouble forming a simple sentence in his native language? Before the perfect response comes to me, she says it again. "You lied to me." This time its said with an air of finality, as though my silence has convicted and sentenced me. All that is left is for her to carry out the execution. She turns away and walks calmly toward the elevator where a small group of people has been watching us surreptitiously for..... who knows how long. I can already feel the building vibrate from the wagging tongues. I watch her board the elevator, head held high but eyes scrupulously avoiding eye contact with anyone. Just as the door is about to close, she looks up. She looks at me. "Hold the elevator," I yell, and someone obediently sticks out a hand to stop the automatic door. I run to the end of the hall, board the elevator, and take my place next to Scully. Wherever she's going, we'll go there together. In the parking garage we separate, and I go home to shower and change and to give her time to unwind before we face the issue that could tear us apart. I fear that in this time she will rebuild all her defenses and there will be no hope of mending this tear in the fabric of our relationship. But I also know how vulnerable Scully is in matters of the heart. Without time to fortify herself she could shatter altogether,with the same result as if she had shut me out. Either way, I lose her. And losing her is what I fear most in the world. Outside the door to her apartment an hour later, I remember what it is like to go on a first date. My palms are damp, and a family of butterflies is dogfighting in my stomach. I tighten my grip on the bottle of fine wine I picked up on the way over and knock on the door. Nothing. I knock again. Nothing again. Now I'm beyond butterflies and into P-51 Mustangs. I fumble for my key and slip it into the lock, relieved when the door swings open unhindered by any bodies or broken glass on the floor. I step into the apartment and as soon as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see Scully sitting on the sofa. "Scully?" I say with trepidation. When I get closer I see that she is sitting on the center cushion of her sofa, her feet tucked under her, and her hands in her lap holding a bottle of beer, one of the ones she keeps on hand for me. Scully drinking beer from a bottle? This is not a good sign. The Mustangs give way to F-14 fighter jets. "I guess we won't be needing this," I say as I walk past her to the kitchen. She glances at me and a very slight smile appears on her lips. Okay, that's a good sign. I put the wine in the refrigerator, snag a beer for myself, carry it back to the couch and sit presumptuously close to her. I'm surprised and encouraged when she doesn't move to put distance between us. I twist the cap off my beer and wipe the top on my sweatshirt sleeve. She winces. "What makes you think that smelly old sweat shirt is any cleaner than the bottle, Mulder?" "Smelly?" I say, feigning insult. "I'll have you know I washed this sweatshirt just last year." I take the opportunity of the jest to slip my arm around her shoulders and I am surprised again when she leans into me. We sit quietly for several minutes, drinking our beers, each trying to find the words to begin. Finally, she does. "I've had so much taken from me because of the X-Files, Mulder." "I know you have," I say softly. "My sister, my health, my daughter...." I take in a deep breath and let it out. I sense she doesn't want answers; she just wants to tell me what is on her mind, so I remain silent. "My faith....." What? Scully has lost her faith? I shift in my seat and turn to see her lift the bottle to her mouth and take a long draught from it. With her jaw upraised I can see clearly that she's not wearing her crucifix. I scan my photographic memory and realize suddenly that I haven't seen her wear it since......since Donnie Pfaster. "Scully...." I start, but she raises a hand and stops me. I pull her closer and she lays her head on my shoulder. I fear what she is about to tell me. "And now, Mulder, you've taken from me the only thing I had left. The only thing that keeps me here. Our trust in each other. My trust in you." My head swims now with all the things she has just told me. She has lost her faith? Her trust in me is the only thing that keeps her here? What does that mean? 'Here' as in Washington, D.C.? The F.B.I.? The X-Files? Life itself? The F-15s had nothing on the cruise missiles now soaring through my stomach. "You've lost your faith," I say, mirroring her earlier comment, my training as a psychologist finally kicking in. She nods. "Tell me what you mean, Scully." She pulls away from me and stands. She is drawn to a curio in the corner where she has a framed picture of her parents and others of her brothers and sister. She lifts the picture of her parents and turns to look at me. "I don't believe in God anymore." Whoa. "When did this happen, Scully?" If it was Donnie Pfaster who caused this, so help me, I'll dig up his corpse and beat the crap out of it with my bare hands. She looks at the picture in her hands and I can read her mind. They don't call me 'Spooky' for nothing. She is missing her father. I think this is a conversation she wants to have with him, but can't. That's when I realize that I'm really the only man in her life and my heart breaks for her again. She looks up. "In Africa," she says, placing the picture back on its shelf. "No, after I returned from Africa when I found you...at the DOD facility. I knew the minute I saw you lying there... when I saw what had been done to you." She returns to sit beside me on the sofa, turning to face me, taking my hands in hers. I reach for her, pushing her hair back and sliding my fingers down her cheek to wipe away her tears. "The God I was raised to believe in couldn't let these things happen, Mulder. He just couldn't. Too many innocent people have suffered horribly. You and I have suffered horribly, Mulder. We're not bad people, Mulder. Surely we've passed every test a God could possibly have for us." I struggle to find something to say. How can I, a non-believer, convince her to believe? I search her eyes, hoping that something within her will inspire me as it has so many times in the past. I come up empty. "That these things happen," she continues softly, absentmindedly picking lint from my well-worn sweatshirt, "means either that God is not the omnipotent, omniscient, benevolent deity my parents taught me to worship, or.... that He doesn't exist at all. " She stops picking lint and pushes back from me, her eyes showing the determination I've seen her exhibit so many times in the past. "After what I saw in Africa ..... I finally realized that my religious beliefs had no more validity than any others. They're all based on fear, uncertainty, and doubt. They're all just....superstitions." There are none so certain as the new convert, I think, recognizing in Scully's new beliefs the same stubborn rigidity of her old ones. She says it's the X-Files that have cost her these things, but I know in my heart that I'm to blame. And now her commitment to me and my quest has cost her that which was most dear to her: her personal relationship with God. I take her hand, encouraging her to continue. "In Africa I learned ... that no God put us here, Mulder. Extraterrestrials did. There is no benevolent spirit guiding our lives, nurturing us in His image. Our lives are just ... random." She grips my eyes with her own and in their blue depths I see what I never hoped to see in my Scully: Despair. The despair of the unbeliever. The same despair I have felt every day of my life since Samantha was taken from me. The same despair that causes my depressions and nightmares. The same despair that is lifted from me by this tiny woman's presence in my life. Every moment I have had with her has been a moment without despair. And now, she is as afflicted as I am. Then something registers. "Are you telling me that you believe in aliens now, Scully?" Her lips begin to curl up and I see an ironic smile emerge. "How could I not after what I saw in Africa?" "You don't seem to have any trouble putting down my theories," I say, unable to suppress a smile myself. "Mulder, just because I still don't buy every hair-brained paranormal theory you come up with, doesn't mean I don't believe in extraterrestrials. For that matter, none of your recent hair-brained theories has involved little green men." "Gray," I remind her with a smile. "Reticulans are gray." We take a break for a moment, for her to visit the necessary and for me to take our empty bottles into the kitchen. I return with the wine bottle and two glasses, stopping to look at the picture of her parents she'd held earlier. I know her mother is very strong. She and I have been through much together. I wish I had gotten to meet her father before he died. I often wonder how much of the man there is in the daughter. I often wonder whether he'd approve of me, or agree with his son that I'm a "sorry son-of-a-bitch." I wish I had had a chance to find out. When she joins me on the sofa and we fill our glasses, I try to steer her back to the subject of her faith. "Scully... why didn't you tell me? When you lost your faith I mean? I thought we told each other everything." She looks away from me and sips her wine. I sense that she has wanted to tell me this for a long time, but hasn't been able to. "At first, I tried to find God again. I spoke to Father McCue almost every day. But everywhere I looked I found .... nothing. No evidence that could withstand scientific scrutiny. I realized at last that I had been fooling myself for a long time. I made you subject your beliefs to my scientific standards, but never had the courage to subject my own to the same rigorous scrutiny." Her voice quavers a bit on the last and I take her hand. She looks up at me and takes me in with her eyes again. "For that, Mulder, I apologize." She squeezes my hand and we share a silent moment. I am stunned, not that she now believes in extraterrestrial life, but rather, that she thinks she needs to apologize to me for *anything.* "I kept up appearances for my mother's sake," she continues unbidden. "I went to Mass. I took Communion. I wore my crucifix. I couldn't tell her. I *can't* tell her. It will break her heart. But now...." " Donnie Pfaster...." I interrupt. " Donnie Pfaster...," she begins in a weary voice, reaching for the wine bottle to refill our glasses. "Donnie Pfaster was irrefutable proof that there is no God. Any doubts I may have had were erased when he threw me against the wall. I can't pretend anymore. Mulder, if I had still believed, I could never have ...." "You could never have killed him." She nods. "Not the way I did. Not... in cold blood." "Scully, I .... " "Don't, Mulder." She looks away for a long moment and I fear I have lost her again. But finally she turns to me, tears stubbornly clinging to her eyes. I hold my breath, unsure what she is about to say. "Why did you lie to me, Mulder?" Now its my turn to look away. How do I explain the unexplainable? I stand and walk to the curio, looking for a moment at her pictures, stalling, trying to find the words. When I turn back she looks at me patiently. "Scully, if there is one thing I know for an absolute certainty, it's that Donnie Pfaster deserved what he got. In fact, he got *better* than he deserved. He deserved to die just as horrible and painful and terrifying a death as his victims had. As *you* would have." "That doesn't excuse...." she interrupts, but I cut her off. "No, it doesn't. But imagine if I hadn't arrived when I did. What would have happened?" She thought for a moment and then in a tiny voice said, "I would have killed him." "Exactly. You had freed yourself by then and gotten your weapon. He was headed to your bedroom when I got here. He would have run into you and you would have killed him in self defense." "But that's not what happened, Mulder." "I know it isn't. But it is what would have happened. Its *my* fault it went down the way it did, not yours." "That still doesn't explain why you weren't straight with me, Mulder. Why you lied." "I know you, Scully. Or at least I thought I did. I knew you would beat yourself up over what you had done. I knew that your religious scruples would drive you to confess to a mortal sin." "How could ridding the world of Donnie Pfaster ever be considered a sin?" "Exactly. And I knew you would see it that way eventually. But I was afraid of what you might do until then. I ... distorted the facts enough to convince you that you had done nothing wrong." "Distorted the facts." "I lied." "You lied to *me.*" I walk quickly back to her and lower myself to one knee in front of her. "I'm sorry, Scully. But I would..." I look away for a moment and then take her hands in mine and lock eyes with hers. "I would do *anything* to spare you pain. I would lie. Cheat. Steal. And if I could, I would go back in time and kill that bastard in his prison cell so that none of this would have ever happened." She doesn't respond, but she doesn't look away either, and for a moment I'm tempted to kiss her. Not another platonic New Year's Eve kiss either, but one that will show her what I can't speak. "We've both lied to protect each other before, Scully." She nods almost imperceptibly and I think maybe I've been forgiven. If ever there was a 'white lie,' surely this was it. A white lie to prevent a disaster from turning into a catastrophe. A white lie to save a good and just woman from eternal damnation, if only in her own eyes. "How can you ever trust me again?" she says, and now I know we've gotten to the crux of her distress: my display of distrust in Neyland Stadium. She thinks I've lost my trust in her professional judgment. She knows that if I have, it's the end of our partnership. She may forgive me for lying, but can she forgive me for doubting? I pull myself up and sit beside her on the sofa. All I can think is that I've got to make this better. Before I can answer, she speaks again. "Mulder, I ... understand ... if you need a new partner. One you can trust." "Jesus, Scully. Don't even think that!" I'm angry now, for reasons I can't fathom. I turn and grip her shoulders tightly with my hands. Her eyes widen and I think maybe I'm hurting her just a little, but I don't loosen my grip. "I don't *ever* want another partner." I stand and move to the window, pushing back the soft curtain and looking out into the dreary February evening. Life always seem to go on outside these windows, no matter how painful our own lives may be. I turn and look at her, trying frantically to find the words to express what I feel inside. "Scully, I *do* trust you," I say at last. "I don't know what that was back in Knoxville. I wasn't thinking." She looks at me skeptically. I know that it's precisely the lack of thought that damns me. Deep inside me there is some doubt. If I could reach inside myself and rip it out I would. Where the hell is Padgett when I need him? She comes to me and takes my hand. I feel her thumb gently stroking my palm and see understanding in her eyes. Apparently this mind reading thing goes both ways between us. "I think we both have some work to do, don't we, Mulder?" she says softly and I nod in agreement. "I need to know you won't lie to me again, for *any* reason, no matter how noble." I look down for a moment, feeling chastised, but then I return to her gaze. "And I need to know that you...." I'm not sure what to say. That she won't....kill all our suspects? Go off her rocker? After a short but uncomfortable silence she finishes my sentence for me. "That I'll 'go by the book.'" We both laugh and I agree with her. "At least as much as I do, Scully." "I'll try," she says. "I'll try too," I say. She wraps her arms around me and holds me as though I am the most precious thing in her life. I know she is in mine, and so we stand for several moments, holding each other and making silent promises. When we return to the sofa it's with a decided air of relief as another crisis has been averted, or at least postponed. We talk about everything but work. She catches me up on her family and I amuse her with the latest exploits of The Lone Gunmen. After a while she gets quiet and I sense a change of subject coming. "I won't be in tomorrow, Mulder. I'm taking a few days off," she says. "I called Skinner before you got here." "Why, Scully?" I ask, thinking she's still hurting from my fumble in Knoxville. "I can't live here anymore, Mulder," she says, motioning to mean her apartment. "There are too many bad memories. I've got to find a new apartment. Somewhere I don't have to step over Missy's body every time I walk in. Where I don't have to see Donnie Pfaster every time I take a bath or light a candle. With windows that don't have Duane Barry lurking outside." "I know someplace you can feel safe, Scully." She looks at me expectantly. "Come live with me." I think I've surprised her. No, I *know* I've surprised her. "You know I never sleep in the bedroom. You can have it all to yourself. I promise I'll try not to be a slob." She blinks and struggles to find her voice, and I don't know why, but I have this visceral feeling that she might accept, but then the phone rings, distracting her. She raises a finger and bounces it in front of my face. "Hold that thought," she says, rising and crossing to the phone. Her voice noticeably cheers when she realizes it's her brother, Bill, on the phone. But then, just as noticeably, the entire room is chilled and her body goes rigid. I hear her say, "I'll be right there, Billy" just before she hangs up the phone. When she turns to me it is with a look of pure horror on her face. I go to her quickly, leaning into her space. "What is it? What's wrong?" "My nephew...Matthew...," she says, choking back tears, "Billy's boy was abducted from his school yard." [end] ______________ Keleka My small but growing collection of fanfiction and my X-Files fanfiction recommendations can be found at: http://home.compaq.net/~keleka/ ICQ: 3341000