It Made All the Difference (1/1) Deirdre (deirdre@x-philes.com) Rating: PG Category: VA Summary: How would you feel if you realized you pushed another to his death? Keywords: Post-episode. Character death. Spoiler: Gethsemane Archive: Archive freely; this story is released into the public domain. Disclaimer: Don't own them, don't want to. Just borrowing for the moment. Author's notes: I still haven't figured out Gethsemane, and don't think I'll ever come up with whatever explanation CC will toss at us. But, because it doesn't make sense for the Consortium to kidnap Mulder, no matter what he'd decided, I believe that he did his on his own. And wondered how someone would react to the news. ***** He watched the scene once again, her pale face shining in the dim light of the conference room. The words falling from her lips, her struggle to hold back her tears. "Agent Mulder died late last night from an apparent self inflicted gunshot wound to the head." Studying every nuance of her expressions, her sad blue eyes for any hint of deceit or doubt, he realized that she sincerely believed every word of her factual confession. She believed that her partner had blown out his brains sitting in his lonely, dark apartment. And her belief that Fox Mulder was dead convinced him. No matter how his heart protested, no matter the anger and grief that tore it in two. He *believed* her toneless voice, her recitation of facts. Dana Scully couldn't be that good an actress. The glass of scotch crashed into the wall, its amber contents streaking the paneled oak. He stared at the dark stain, allowing the video to continue in the background, unwatched. Damn it! He believed him strong enough to struggle, not to crumble. Fox's strength, his need to continue searching, lay at the heart of their plan. No matter what, he always believed the man could stand under any pressure, could maintain his belief despite the obstacles. Although Dana's disappearance had almost shattered Fox, he'd closed his eyes to the implications. When Blevins had rushed the tape to him, and insisted he watch the last five minutes, he'd at first thought the man insane. Sure, he knew the duo had concocted some plan to pull the wool over his eyes - that's why he hadn't attended her little conference. Despite whatever she'd been through, however her clueless partner had wounded her heart, she'd never actually betray the fool. She had a sense of personal loyalty equal to Bill Scully's, his red-headed darling following in the footsteps of her father. No matter what plan, what rift the two had carefully planted between them, she'd never truly betray anyone she'd given her trust to. Especially one she'd given her heart and her mind to. Whether in friendship, or in some other type of bond he would never understand, she'd linked her life and her fate with the man she was once supposed to destroy. And through all his wild plans, all his wild theories, she'd remain at his side, even when suffering through her own fate. So, he'd not attended the meeting, given up his chance to look into her eyes and gain a false victory. They'd planned this, he thought, revenge upon him for all he'd done. Convince him of victory, only to somehow regain the upper hand. He understood their plan, understood them better than they understood themselves. But when he'd first heard those words ... After slamming the door behind Blevins, he hadn't even needed to place phone calls. The messages overwhelming his voice mail confirmed that everything was in action, every avene being explored. Goddamn bad morning to take a few hours for himself. All he could do was sit, watching the video again and again, listening to her dead voice, watching her dead eyes. Watching as she repeated the words, over and over, the words that tore at his heart. Nothing more existed. Somehow, everything had just suddenly stopped. ***** He'd thought he'd grown beyond it. Years ago, when he'd tried to force her to choose, and lost everything, he'd thought he'd grown beyond it. Beyond the need for love, beyond caring for anything other than his cause, beyond the need for the emotions that lesser humans immersed themselves in. Grown to a point where only he, and the project remained. Where he could focus his energy on the future, and ignore the emptiness of the present. Only the future, only the experiments that led to the future, meant anything, anyhow. When he protected him, when he stood in the way of those who wanted to end the threat, he always did it for the good of the project. Although risky to allow him to live, and time-consuming to led him astray, killing him was riskier. A martyr only advanced the cause, right? Damn it! He was supposed to be strong, right? Able to stand up under their plans, their tortures, able to survive all life could throw at him with his beliefs intact, with his faith unshaken. Even with a doubting partner ... Yeah, choosing Scully had been a damn fool idea. A partner was supposed to hinder him, not to become the center support of his quest and his life. Not to become the reason he lived for ... ... and the reason he died for. ***** A tear gathered at the corner of his eye, and he glanced towards the file on the end table. The pictures he only needed to see once ... the pictures now burned forever into his memory. So clean ... the apartment remained so clean ... Too clean, he'd thought at first, but Mulder'd known exactly what to do. More considerate in death than life. His landlady would probably thank his spirit. The security deposit would probably take care of any of the cleaning costs. Despite the blood, the gore ... enough remained. Too much remained. Too much to leave any question. A head wound ... blow off the face, and who could actually ID the body? Get the partner to make the identification, and all was well. Fake out the old guy, who'd probably burned and drunk too many of his brain cells to hell, right? Yeah, a way to go about it ... but the pictures gave lie to his suspicions. Even he could see the face, see the familiar lines carved into the face uniquely Fox Mulder. Even with the eyes glazed in death, even with the sarcastic mouth limply expressionless, the face staring blankly at the ceiling remained. The eyes once so full of life, the spying eyes of a twelve-year-old, the suspicious and hateful eyes of a thirty-something ... hazel eyes of pain and humour ... Hazel eyes darkened to black ... ***** The door slammed. His eyes remained on the static dancing across the television screen. "Bastard." The voice rumbled from the direction of his doorway, deep and angry. "Bastard. I never ..." It trailed off. "And I became a part of this." Cold steel touched the base of his neck. "Aren't you going to say a word?" "Fuck it, aren't you going to say a word?" "Jackass, aren't you going to admit you're responsible? Responsible for Mulder's life? He only pulled the trigger thanks to all your help." He bent his head a little to the side. Responsible? Hell, he was responsible for more than this one ever dreamed of ... responsible for things this one could never begin to imagine. One more death ... Yes ... one more death ... he closed his eyes. The metallic sound - metal against metal - moving into place. "Damn it." It left his neck. "Damn you." A fist slammed into the side of his head, knocking him to the floor. The roaring of blood filled his ears, and foot bruised his shoulder. "Son of a bitch. I'd be just like you. Not for him." A door opened. "His memory deserves better." The slam echoed through his head. ***** He pulled himself up by his desk, gasping for breath. Collapsing into the chair, he stared at the ordered oak desktop, every paper and file in its place. The roar of the static still filled his ears, but the remote remained somewhere on the floor, out of sight, out of reach. He touched the place where the gun had rested, imagined he could still feel the cold iron resting there. Then he opened the bottom drawer of his desk, a drawer neatly organized - unlabeled file folder after unlabeled file folder - and reached for something hidden beneath all that perfect row-by-row organization. A photo. A dog-eared, faded photo. A serious boy, hazel eyes regarding the photographer, his arm tightly holding his smiling sister. His lighter flared in the dimness. Within seconds, the sharp odor of a burning photograph filled the air, and only ashes remained, a small smoking pile dirtying the glass ashtray. Coughing at the acid smoke, he lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He knew a gun lay just within his desk drawer. So easy ... too easy. Murder was acceptable. Suicide was not. Murder showed that someone feared you - suicide showed that you were afraid, weak. Damn Fox. Why did he have to go and kill himself? Damn Skinner. Why did he have to discover his sense of ethics? Damn his heart. Why did it have to remember things it should not? Why should memories so far in his past cause him pain? Why should one event, one event like those he dealt with on a regular basis, those he *caused*, why should it make all the difference? A tear slowly traced its way down a wrinkle on his face, its coolness startling him for a second. He knew why it made all the difference.