From: Msk1024 <msk1024@aol.com>
Date: 25 Jul 2002 22:04:38 GMT
Subject: NEW -  SBC  (1/?)  by Michelle Kiefer and TCS1121 
Source: atxc

TITLE:  SBC
AUTHOR:  TCS1121 and Michelle Kiefer
E-MAIL ADDRESS: tcs1121@hotmail.com and msk1024@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION:  Please do not archive until the story is
completed, then let us know where we can visit.
DISCLAIMER:  They don't belong to us. We just take them out
to play with and then put them back. But not like Barbie
and Ken or anything.
SPOILER WARNING:  None really.  Season 7ish.
RATING: R for really R
CLASSIFICATION: Casefile 
KEYWORDS: MSR, X, angst
SUMMARY:  Salvation for one person is tragedy for two.
COMMENTS:  Neither of us ever thought we'd post a WIP--
believe us, we're as shocked as anyone else!  We hope
to post at least one part per week.  
 
We'd both like to thank Kel for her insightful
and spot on beta.  
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

SBC part 1


He thought it was going to hurt, but as the blade of the Swiss 
Army knife sank into his wrist, all it felt was wet.  No matter 
how many times the bright metal sliced into skin, he always 
thought it would hurt, and he was always surprised.

So it wasn't pain that caused him to cry out and drop the 
razor into the sink, spattering the porcelain with merry 
red dots.  Not pain, but the sour tasts of fear.  It 
rose up in his throat: burning bitter.  

Phil's hands curled into fists and he pounded 
them against the bathroom wall, smearing the tiles.  

"No...no...NO!"
 
With eyes tight shut, he saw one of them.  A blonde this time, 
and barely sixteen years old.  Dear God, she was young.  Her 
neck was so small that his fingertips overlapped in the back.  
When his thumbs pressed her windpipe, her gray-blue eyes 
snapped open, and her mouth went wide in a wheezing scream.  
Phil viciously squeezed the fragile neck bones, and after 
the first one snapped, the girl's head lolled back.  

Lowering the body to the ground, he pulled back on her hair 
to point the staring eyes up at the stars.  For good measure, 
he worked his thumbs up the cooling skin of her neck and popped 
the next two bones.  That allowed him to bend the neck so far 
back that the top of her head was flat against the cobblestones.  
He adjusted her skirt to cover her modestly.  Sweet little bitch.
Such lovely smooth flesh. The soft light thrown by the streetlamp 
made her pale gray skin glow, and Phil sighed happily.  

Glad of a job well done. 

Nausea swirled in him like water circling a drain and he
gagged as he knelt at the toilet.  He wasn't sure if it was 
the image of strangling the girl that made him sick, or his
obvious joy in the act.  

He pulled himself up, staring at the reflection in the mirror
over the sink.  "Fucking coward," he muttered at the 
bleary-eyed man before him.   

His hands were sticky against the sink, and he lifted them  
before him.  Blood covered his palm, continuing to drip from
the shallow wound on his wrist.  Blood.  Warm, comforting blood.

He closed his eyes to another vision.  This one was older, 
hardened, her mouth a bright gash as she smiled enticingly.
Too bad about the missing teeth, he thought.  But then, a
gappy smile was an advantage for a whore.

"Blow job'll run ya 'bout ten dollar," she slurred, as he 
led her away from the road. 

"A bargain, if I ever heard one," he said, guiding her down, 
down to the river.  He heard the rush of the water and knew the 
time was right.  Excitement burbled within him as his hand 
closed over the knife in his pocket.  "This seems like a 
good place," he said.

She shrugged and eyed the ground for a less rocky place to kneel.
His thumb tested the sharp edge of the knife.  Perfect, perfect.
Phil grinned at her, and she smiled back at him as he pulled the
object out of his pocket.  Her expression hardly changed as
he plunged the blade into her belly, just under her ribcage.  

There was no sensation on earth quite like the slide of steel
into flesh.  Her body was seizing with little jolts and starts
as he drew the blade out.  He smiled at the puzzled expression
on her face.  Poor stupid cow.  Too stunned, even, to scream.


XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX


"Why do you suppose he wanted to meet us here?" Scully's
fingertips traced over the names carved in black granite.
"Counting both the East and West panels, there are more than
58,000 names in all.  Hard to fathom."

"Do you have any idea what it does to me when you quote
statistics?" Mulder's voice was low, his body so close she
felt his breath on her skin.  "I hope you have lots of 
useful data to impart over the week-end."

The afternoon sun glinted off the polished surface of the 
Vietnam Memorial, warming her shoulders through her jacket
as his voice sent a blush of heat through her heart.  

The sunny weather and abundant cherry blossoms had brought 
tourists in droves.  The mall was bustling, noisy, except
here where the voices seemed to automatically drop in tone.

This place had always seemed haunted to her, not only by
the ghosts of people who belonged to the 58,000 plus names.  
She never came to this site without remembering a bitter 
night on the eve of the darkest time of her life.  

She forced her mind away from the uncertain days of the past.  
Things were different now.  

"Agent Mulder." 

The greeting was loud, shattering the hush that always
cloaked the memorial.  They turned to face a haggard man,
his eyes red-rimmed and his hair greasy and tangled.  

"Phil Sanderson?" Mulder asked, and was rewarded by the
merest of nods.  "How can we help you, Mr. Sanderson?"

"You have to stop me." The man's voice was unnaturally loud
causing several tourists to glance their way.  Scully 
detected a odor of alcohol, not only from his breath, but
from his clothes and skin.

"Why don't we walk a little," Mulder said, leading Sanderson
away from the memorial and the crowds.  Scully nodded her
agreement, and they moved toward the mall.

"What do we need to stop you from doing?"  Scully asked.

"I don't know how much longer I can hold off," he said,
desperation clear in his voice.  Sanderson swung his gaze 
between the two agents; his eyes seemed to burn right into 
her.  "So many women have died already.  I...I just
don't think I can stop it."

"Who, Phil?  Who's died?"  Mulder moved in close, his 
demeanor already adjusted to gain Sanderson's confidence.

"So many of 'em, Agent Mulder.  From then, and now.  
I've been doing it so long...maybe forever.  Oh God!  
There's so much blood on my hands, you have to stop 
me!  Arrest me. Please arrest me before it happens again."

Sanderson held out his hands in submission, fists closed, 
palms up, waiting for Mulder to clap on the handcuffs.  
The ragged cuffs of his green army jacket had brownish 
streaks.  She wondered if they could be blood stains.

"Have you killed someone, Phil?"  Mulder stepped back 
slightly; Scully slowly circled to Phil's rear.

"Yes--No...I don't know.  I think so.  But I must have.  
I know when you break a girl's neck, you can feel the 
little neck bone pop like a pencil snapping.  And how 
would I know that you gotta point the blade up to get 
past the ribcage, into the heart if I didn't do it?" 
He held out his arms again.

"Phil, where did you kill the women?" Mulder asked.  

"I...I'm not sure.  Sometimes, there was a river.  But
not always.  Other times, it feels like a city, but not
this one."

"Like a dream, Phil," Scully suggested.  

"No, it can't be a dream.  You don't smell and taste and
feel in dreams.  And I know exactly what the blood smells 
like when it pours from a fresh stab wound.  I smell the
smoke in the air and feel the cobblestones under my feet."

"Cobblestones?  Where exactly did these murders take 
place?" Scully asked.  

"I think it's London.  There are gaslights and horse-drawn
carriages."

"Phil, would this by any chance be turn-of-the-century
London?" she asked, carefully keeping a straight face. She
knew that if she chanced a look at Mulder, he'd be frowning
at her.  
 
"I don't know.  I don't know what London looked like back
then.  Hell, I don't even know what it looks like now!  All
I know is that I was there, and I killed them, and something
inside me will kill again."

Mulder's excitement was building, and Scully knew it.  She
didn't have to look up to know that his eyes were shining in
anticipation.  Disappointment washed through her as hope for
a slow, romantic week-end vanished.

"How do you feel when these things are happening to you,
Phil?" Mulder whispered.  "Do you feel like you have no
control over your actions, or do you feel detached, like 
you're watching yourself from across the room?"

"Don't you fucking get it?  Somebody else is gonna die!  I'm
coming to you for help.  I need you to help me stop!  I'll
tell you anything you want, just arrest me!"

"We can't arrest you unless you've broken the law, Mr.
Sanderson." Scully said evenly.

Sanderson whirled around and shouted in her face, "You!  You
could be next!  Or--or a high school cheerleader, maybe the
old Korean lady with the vegetable cart.  I don't know; it
doesn't matter.  The guy doing this doesn't fucking care who
you are!  This guy has only two requirements--you gotta be a
woman, and you gotta be breathing."

Sanderson was agitated, but Scully didn't want to feed his
delusions. Apparently Mulder had no such misgivings as he
put a hand on Sanderson's shoulder, "Who is this guy you're
talking about, Phil?"

"Oh, God."  Phil buried his head in his hands.

"I'll arrest him, just tell me who he is."

"Mulder." Scully warned.

"I'll do it, Phil.  I'll end it for you.  But you've got to
convince me."

Sanderson's voice was muffled by his hands, "No, no, no.
You don't understand."

"Help me understand.  Agent Scully's right.  I can't arrest
you without just cause."

Sanderson dropped his hands.  His red-rimmed eyes were
tired.  "Murder is just cause.  I've murdered women in past
lives.  More lives than I can count, and I'm going to start
again.  My destiny is to kill and keep on killing.  I'm
begging you, Agent Mulder.  I don't want any more women to
die."

"I know.  I know you don't.  I don't either."

Scully saw Mulder gently squeeze Sanderson's shoulder.
Mulder's touch was a powerful tool in establishing trust.

"Believe me, Phil, I want to help you, and maybe I can.
Would you agree to being hypnotized?"

Sanderson flinched.  He shrugged out of Mulder's grip,
shaking his head in disbelief.

"What?  'You are getting sleepy?'  You think that's going
to help me somehow? I'm asking you to lock me up."

"Mr. Sanderson, are you under a doctor's care?"  Scully
asked.

"You think I'm nuts."  Phil's eyes darted over to her, his
voice edged with sadness.  "I should have known better 
than to call you.  Forget I asked...I'll have to take 
care of this myself."

He backed away from them, hands held up in surrender before
he turned and stumbled away.

"Mr. Sanderson!  Phil!  Let us try to help," Mulder called
after him, following until Phil broke off in a run.  A brisk
breeze swirled cherry blossom petals after him, a desperate
man in a cloud of pink snow.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"I said I'd help him, Scully."

"You told him you'd arrest a man from his past life.  How
are you going to manage that?"  

"Well, technically, I said I'd arrest the guy doing the
murders," Mulder fit the key in the lock.  "I didn't know it
would be Phil from turn-of-the-century London."

"So, let me get this straight.  Phil was Jack the Ripper in
a previous life?  Why aren't people ever streetsweepers or 
laundresses in past lives?  They always see themselves as
Marie Antoinette or Jesus Christ."

"I'm not convinced that this is a past life experience, anyway.
What if some ageless evil was able to pass from person to 
person, murdering with impunity."

"Wasn't there a Star Trek episode like that?"

Mulder treated her to his best smirk. "My point is, there 
could be a paranormal reason for Phil's visions."

Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the high-set windows,
bathing their office in a lighter shade of dull gray.

"Mulder, the people who seek you out, and set up these
desperate meetings usually turn out to be..."  Scully stopped
to form the correct words as Mulder narrowed his eyes.
"...of questionable mental health."

"So, people who come to me for help are all insane?"  Mulder
threw his keys on the desktop, not at all pleased with her 
phrasing.  His last little hope for candlelight, dry, red 
wine, and Scully barely covered by bath bubbles, was dashed.

"No, not at all.  While some of them are deeply disturbed,
a number of them have been sane but dishonest."  There
was no derision in her words, only teasing affection.    

"You're a riot, Alice." He did his best Ralph Cramden,
complete with hand swirl.  

"Seriously, Mulder.  The man reeked of whiskey."  

"And your point?  Okay, I noticed the smell of liquor.  People
drink to numb the pain.  He's probably trying to dull his
visions."

"And alcohol has been know to create a few visions.  Mulder,
he's not a credible witness.  I'll bet you two back-rubs
that he has a history of mental illness."

Oh?"  He turned around.  "You want to make this interesting, do 
you?"   She was so close he could smell her cologne.  Maybe 
the bubble bath wasn't a dead issue after all.
 
"Interesting is as good a word as any."  He loved it when she 
licked her lips like that.
 
"Two back rubs, you say?"
 
"I'll throw in a foot massage if you can show me one instance 
where the owner of a past life was sane."
 
"You're an evil woman, Scully.  You know how my big feet love 
your warm little fingers."
 
"Not your feet.  Mine.  Now, show me the evidence."
 
Mulder yanked open the file cabinet and as the sun began to set, 
he tried to concentrate on the alphabet, and not on the ten 
little polished toenails nestled in the black spike pumps.
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Pumphrey's Liquor and Package Goods was not the kind of place 
where yuppies scoured the racks for the perfect wine to compliment
their herb-encrusted Dover sole.  It was dusty and cramped and 
hadn't changed much since 1952 when old Maurice Pumphrey had paid 
his first month's rent.  

No, Pumphrey's was the place where winos counted out their
panhandled change for a bottle of Thunderbird or Mad Dog. 
Old man Pumphrey gave no credit--cash on the counter or 
no booze.  Couldn't blame him really.   

Phil didn't think the wizened, pinchmouthed old man had
ever been young.  Pumphrey took Phil's crumpled singles and
rang up his six-pack of Michelob. His wrinkled brown hands
shook slightly as he bagged the beer.

Phil's palms began to sweat as he steeled himself for what
he needed to do next.  Tucking the six-pack under his arm,
Phil shuffled his feet and peered behind Pumphrey.

"Lemme see that bottle there, old man," Phil said, pointing
at a dusty box of French Oak Glenlivet.  The box must have
been there for a dozen years.  Phil didn't know why old
Pumphrey kept it, anyway.  Did he think some millionaire
was going to breakdown in front of this dump and need a
bottle of the good stuff?

"You lookin' to move up in the world?" Pumphrey asked as
he hefted the box in his hand.   His expression was 
wary as he handed it to Phil.  The old man sneezed
when Phil blew away the dust.  The wariness changed to 
outright distrust as Phil clasped the box to his chest and
stepped back. 

"What you doin' there?" the old man asked as Phil backed
away from the counter.  "You gonna pay for that?"

"Don't guess that I am, Old Man.  What you gonna do about 
it?  Come on, you old bastard.  Just reach for the damn
phone.  Or your damn gun."  

"You owe me fifty bucks," Pumphrey sputtered, but his hands
remained curled on the counter.  

"Why don't you call the cops, you old fool.  Go ahead.
What are you waiting for?  Go ahead!"

But the old man didn't move for the phone.  Phil continued
to back out the door, silently praying that the old man
would call the cops when he'd left.  

"I'm not afraid to die, you old bastard," Phil said, his
voice thick with tears.  He stood on the sidewalk, glaring
at the old man.  Suddenly, Phil turned, muttering as he ran
down the street. "Not afraid, damn it. Not afraid."


XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

 
"Don't mess up my files, Scully."  Mulder's voice was 
muffled as he leaned over the file cabinet bottom drawer.

"I wouldn't dream of disturbing your files," she answered,
flicking a file open. With a foot massage on the table, so 
to speak, she did have a vested interest in his search.   

"Ah...here it is.  I give you "Exhibit A."  Mulder said
with a flourish.  Before Scully had a chance to come up with
a snide comment, the presentation was interrupted by the ringing 
of Mulder's phone.

"Phil?  Phil, slow down--I can't understand you."  Mulder's
expression had become deadly serious.  Cradling the phone
between shoulder and ear, he reached for a pad and pencil.

"Phil, don't do that. Please, don't do anything....give us a 
chance to help you."  Scully stood over him as he scrawled
*wants to kill himself--trace call*  "Phil, you need to 
hang on.  Come on, how much could it hurt to just talk to 
me for a while."

She felt the adrenaline pumping through her as she punched
in the extension for telecommunications.  "I need the caller
on Agent Mulder's line traced.  Yes, it's an emergency."
Couldn't they tell from the sound of her voice that it was
an emergency.  "Yes, yes. Good.  Thank you."

She waved the slip of paper containing Phil's address at
Mulder. 

"Phil, listen, I need you to sit down and take a deep breath."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

SBC - part 2

Eighty dollars a week paid for Phil Sanderson's one room 
home.  He paced the tiny room, trying to get his breathing 
under control.  He tripped when his toes caught on the uneven 
patches in the green, threadbare carpet.  It was past 
six-thirty, and the sun's rays were beginning to dim.  Phil 
pulled the faded drapes tight in front of the dirty windows, 
and turned on all the lights.  Under his bed was a footlocker 
containing his vintage gun collection.

The bedclothes felt greasy and rank as he pushed them aside 
to draw out the locker.  His hands shook as he scrabbled the 
key into the lock.  Phil sat back on his heels, smiling as he 
raised the lid and ran reverent fingers over his beloved guns.  

He hefted the World War I era Colt .45 automatic pistol in his 
right hand, and sniffed the barrel.  He loved the smell of the 
gun's oil.  This pistol was his favorite, and he followed his
ritual of placing the muzzle, first against his lips, as in
a kiss, and then into his mouth.  Closing his lips tightly,
he pressed the Colt to the soft palate and pulled the
trigger.

He had never purchased any ammunition for it.  In fact he
had no ammunition for the World War II Smith & Wesson revolver, 
his 1930's Winchester Shotgun or any of the guns in his
collection. He wanted them kept in pristine condition.

Phil ran his tongue around the muzzle before taking it out
of his mouth.  He loved the taste of gun oil.

He regretted that there was no one to leave these beautiful 
weapons to after his death.  No one would mourn his passing,
no one would say a prayer or shed a tear or even speak his
name.  
 
Phil looked at his watch.  If he died now, then the cycle of 
death, life after life, would end.  Time was short, and
soon blood would call out for blood.  Red and tangy, with a
dark, coppery taste.  Splattered on his lips and tongue as
his hand raised again and again.

This one was well past her prime.  With dark roots and 
crispy blonde hair, the barfly had a hard look.  The kind 
of woman who'd stagger into the woods behind a crummy bar 
with a guy who said he'd buy her a couple of drinks.  The 
kind of woman who'd be too drunk to notice the rock in his 
hand until it was too late.

The rock made a lovely wet sound as it came down on the
blowzy hair, knocking her to the ground.  A little river
of blood welled up where the rock had cracked her skull.
He watched it flow into a glossy red lake, a bloody halo.

Her skirt had hitched up, exposing fat thighs encased in
ripped pantyhose.  He knelt beside her watching the slow
rise and fall of her chest.  Her eyes were glassy, unseeing, 
her lips slack in a strangely obscene way.  He smiled as
he raised the rock with both hands and smashed it down on
that face.  Smashed it again and again until her face 
felt pulpy under the rock and her blood covered his
hands.  

Phil roused from the vision, his precious gun still in his
hands, poised to smash down on a bloody face.  He could
feel the slippery blood on his fingers, the slightly
metallic scent still in his nostrils.  But his
hands were clean and dry as they gripped the Colt.

He shook his head, trying to escape the iron grip of 
this last vision.  Desperation rose in his throat like
bile.  He couldn't survive another night; the visions 
were growing too strong.  No. No, he had to do something
or he'd be prowling tonight.  Dear God, he needed help.

A scrap of paper caught his eye, white against the puke
green of the carpet.  Must have slipped out of his pocket
when he fished out his key.  Phil's hand shook as he 
reached for the ragged paper.  *Mulder - 555-9355.*

"Fucking lot of help you turned out to be," he muttered.
Pretty boy FBI agent and his little doll partner.  What
did people like that know about desperation?  Their biggest
problem was deciding on a restaurant, or picking out which 
shoes to buy.  

Still, Agent Mulder had sounded like he really wanted to
help.  Phil took a long pull on the bottle of Glenlivet.
Damn, but good Scotch tasted good going down. It burned
in your gut the same way that the cheap shit did, though.
Phil stood on shaky legs and reached for the phone, thinking
that it really didn't matter whether it was the Feds or the
local cops that did it. Just depended on who showed up first.  
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX


The late afternoon sun sank below the horizon casting a
dusky shade onto the shabby strip building.  This was the
place Phil Sanderson called 'home.'

Mulder hit the brakes, turning the Taurus into the small
parking area of the Doll Motel.  It was actually the Dollar
Motel, but the "a" and "r" were darkened.  The windows
were smudgy and the orange metal doors dented and scratched.
 
The door to room #8 was wide open, and Mulder could see 
that the lights inside were blazing.  His muscles tensed, 
ready to respond automatically in a crisis.
 
Phil Sanderson stalked back and forth in front of the open
door, a half-empty bottle of Scotch in one hand, and a Smith
and Wesson revolver in the other.

"Phil," Mulder said, and he slowly opened the car door.  
"I'm here now, we can talk."  Every sound seemed amplified,
every sense on high alert.

"We already talked.  She thinks I'm nuts."  Sanderson eyed
Scully as she carefully stepped out of the vehicle.

"She doesn't think you're nuts.  We want to help."  Mulder 
stretched his arms out to his sides as he stood away from
the car.

"You don't want to help!  Nobody wants to fucking help!
You didn't listen when I asked you to help."  Phil wiped his
nose on his sleeve.  "I'm trying to save lives, and I'm the
only one who fucking cares!"  He pointed the revolver at his
temple, cradling the bottle against his chest with his
other hand.

"Phil, you don't need to do that.  We can sit down and
sort all this out.  Put the gun down.  You're not alone
anymore."  Mulder advanced step by slow step, moving closer
to the doorway.

"I've always been alone," Phil muttered, eyes squeezed shut
as his gun hand shook.  "In every life."

"You're wrong, Phil.  I'm here.  I won't let you face this
alone."

"Yeah. Sure.  What about her?  She's not going to let me face
this alone, either?"  Phil seemed to waver, moving the gun
away from his forehead.  He looked to Scully, need in his
eyes.  

"I'm here too, Phil," Scully said, moving closer.  "Why 
don't we go inside and talk?"

"I don't know if I can do it if we're inside," 
Phil said looking down.

Scully took a step to her left, closing in on Sanderson's 
gun hand.  She said, "We want to help, but we don't know 
how.  We don't know what you need."

Phil looked up, his eyes blazing into Mulder's, "Do you 
really want to help me?"

"Of course I do...we both do."

"Do you believe me?  That I've killed in other lives and 
that I'll kill again?"  His voice was dangerously low.

"Yes.  I do."  Mulder stood with his arms open, and Phil's 
expression softened.  The revolver dropped away from 
Sanderson's head, and Mulder held his breath. In one quick 
arc, Phil swung the gun around and pointed it at Scully. 

"Do you still believe me?"

Scully went rigid and Mulder took one quick step forward.  
The bottle of Scotch dropped, shattering on the pavement, as
Phil assumed a two-handed firing stance.  

"Phil, don't do this."  Mulder's voice was steady as he
measured the inches between Sanderson's gun and
Scully's head.  The lights from inside the motel room
silhouetted the surreal tableau.  Phil's gun was drawn and
pointed at Scully.  Her body was as motionless as 
porcelain.  The gun barrel didn't waver.

"I'll kill her, man.  You know what you have to do."   
Mulder's senses focused to pinpoints, and he saw the revolver's
cylinder rotate as the click of the hammer being drawn back
echoed sharply.  In the space of a heartbeat, Mulder 
understood. 

"Please, Phil." Voice cracking, Mulder's face twisted 
into a grimace.

"Just do it, okay.  DO IT!" Phil's finger squeezed the
trigger as Mulder's gun fired.

If the previous moments had been experienced in sharp
relief, the next minutes seemed to happen in a slow
motion blur.  Phil dropped to the pavement, blood
blossoming from his chest.  Dead center.  Mulder was a 
crack shot under pressure.  

Scully stood, one hand pressed over her mouth, the
other clutching her midsection.  She shook herself
and carefully knelt at Phil's side, amid the broken
glass of the Scotch bottle.  Her fingers were gentle
as she pressed them to his neck.  Mulder noticed
that she wasn't trying to staunch the blood from the
wound.

He moved around Phil, heedless of the glass shards
as he crouched.  Phil's eyes were glassy, but they
were peaceful as they focused on Mulder's face.  The
man's mouth was moving, though the words weren't 
audible.  Blood welled in the dying man's mouth, 
painting his lips red.

Mulder didn't feel the glass cut his hands as he braced 
himself to lean closer to Phil.  With his ear directly 
in front of Phil's mouth, he could finally hear the words,

"Thank....you."

Sirens wailed in the distance.  Mulder looked over at
the weapon lying on the dead man's chest just as the 
streetlamps clicked on overhead.  The gun's barrel and 
cylinder shined in the new light.  It was a Smith and 
Wesson revolver, one that hasn't been manufactured in 
a long time.  Mulder put his head down next to it, his 
ear touching Phil's shoulder. 

"Mulder, what is it?" Scully whispered.

"The chambers are empty."  He raised his eyes.  
"No bullets."

She paused and looked at him steadily.  "You didn't 
know that.  You couldn't have known that."

The sirens were getting closer.  The men living at the Doll 
Motel gathered a few feet away from them and began milling 
around, keeping a respectful distance.  

"He was unarmed," Mulder said to himself.  

"No, Mulder.  He was armed..."

"Armed with an unloaded antique!" Mulder slammed his hands 
down onto the glass-littered pavement, wincing as more of 
the scotch soaked chips cut into his palms.

The last of twilight was gone, and it was fully dark when 
the flashing police car pulled into the parking lot.  Mulder 
vaguely heard car doors slamming.  Two officers approached 
the crowd, and one said, "All right, what's going on here, 
fellahs?"

The men mumbled something then parted, the policemen 
immediately drew their weapons.

"Hands where I can see them!"

Scully stood slowly with her arms up and said, "We're Federal 
Officers.  There's been--there's been a shooting."  Mulder 
absently picked out some of the glass before raising his bloody 
hands up where the officer could see them.

"Yeah," a man in the crowd faced one of the policemen, "We 
thought Phil finally up an' loaded one of them ol' guns of his."

"It sure looked that way, the way he was pointin' it at her," 
another man added, aiming his thumb and index finger for 
emphasis.

"Let's see some ID," the officer said to Scully as he lowered 
his pistol.

Mulder felt like he was underwater, weighted down, unable to 
reach the surface and breathe.  The evening air absorbed the 
sound, and all motion around him blurred and slowed.  He sat 
next to Phil and slowly turned to watch Scully.  She looked 
small and far away as she showed her badge and pointed to the 
open motel room door.  

A few minutes later, a police backup unit arrived followed by 
a WUSA van; the local CBS affiliate.  The backup officers joined 
their comrades and listened to Scully.  Mulder saw his partner 
talking to the policemen and gesturing emphatically.  At one 
point the group of men from the Doll Motel all nodded in unison.

Mulder turned his head the other way and saw the occupants of 
the WUSA van pile out.  They uncoiled electrical cords, set up 
tripods, and spoke in urgent low voices into their cell phones.  

One of the young officers left Scully's group and walked over.

"Agent Mulder, are you hurt?" he asked looking at Mulder's 
bleeding hands.  Mulder scooted protectively in front of Phil's 
body before staring down at his bloody sleeves. He shook his head.  
It's hard to speak when you're underwater.  

A pretty black newswoman arrived and the camera's lights came on.

The officer leaned down, gently offered his hand and said, "Please,
Agent Mulder, come over here with me."

Mulder took the young officer's hand and, ignoring his stinging 
palm, pulled himself to stand.  He carefully stepped over Phil's 
outstretched hand, and let the officer guide him over to motel 
room number eight.
  
Another police unit arrived and their red and blue flashers lit
up the evening sky.

Mulder leaned on the doorframe as he watched them outline Phil's 
body.  After a few minutes, the young officer led Mulder into the
room and stood in front of the open door facing out toward the 
growing crowd.  Another officer joined him, assuming the same 
posture in front of the open motel room door.  

Mulder looked around.  This single resident occupancy motel 
room had been Phil's home, probably for the past ten years.  The 
walls and windows were stained brown from tar and nicotine puffed 
out of tens of thousands of cigarettes. 

An open footlocker lay on the floor beside the bed.  Careful not 
to touch, Mulder looked down at all the gleaming vintage firearms, 
and squeezed his eyes shut.

A commotion outside got Mulder to open his eyes.   A big, balding 
policeman placed himself between Scully and the newswoman 
waving her microphone.  The big man shielded Scully as he 
escorted her into the room with Mulder.

Scully stood in the doorway quietly stepped inside.  Her eyes 
were on her partner, as she reached out and touched his arm.  
Mulder jerked away and said, "Scully don't--just don't..." 

The big officer assumed a stance similar to his companions: 
feet spread slightly, arms crossed, and eyes outward.  

The news cameras had been filming the police vehicles, the 
motel and the parking lot while the newswoman finished an 
interview with one of the Doll Motel men.  One of the 
cameramen motioned the woman over to the motel room.  She 
wrapped the microphone cord around her forearm a couple 
of times and started walking toward it.  

Three seasoned officers got in front of her and walked briskly 
toward the motel, beating her to the door by several seconds.  
Each officer assumed the stance, completing a semicircle 
around the room housing the FBI agents. 

The newswoman came up on the first young officer and said 
politely, "I'd like to ask the shooter a few questions," and 
then sternly, "The public has a right to know."

Mulder looked out at the back of the six policemen's heads.  
They all took a short step back, closing rank, and Mulder 
heard an officer say as he closed the door, "No, Ma'am.  
Not tonight."
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

SBC - Part 3

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Room 8 stunk.  The odor of unwashed skin, rank bedding and 
stale cigarette smoke mingled with the sour smell of cheap liquor.  
Scully's stomach threatened to rebel, which wouldn't have improved 
matters at all.  But two things kept her in that horrible room:  
concern for Mulder and the media's glaring lights just outside the 
door.

If only the trembling would stop.  How long would it take before
she stopped seeing Phil's wild eyes?  Her legs felt as if they 
might give out at any moment, but there wasn't a surface in the 
room upon which she'd consider sitting. 

If she felt ragged, Mulder must have been feeling totally 
unraveled.  
He stood by the motel room window, watching the activities 
unfold beyond the filthy curtains.  His arms were wrapped around 
him, each hand tucked under the opposite armpit.

She wouldn't approach him again, not yet, but she ventured a 
little closer. From her safe distance, she watched his jaw 
repeatedly clench and release as his eyes followed the marking 
of the evidence, the bagging of Phil's body.   

A flash of headlights signaled another arrival.  She watched
Walter Skinner extricate himself wearily from his car.  Skinner's
face was hard as he surveyed the scene and approached one of
the officers.  He was still wearing his business suit, though
it was long past the end of the working day.  She wondered how
their boss had heard about the shooting.  

When the WUSA reporter began hurrying over to the obviously 
important newcomer, Skinner turned to the motel room.  The
phalanx of officers parted at the sight of the big man's 
FBI badge.  

Skinner's body effectively blocked out the bright lights
as he stood in the doorway.  Noting the stance of his two
agents, he seemed to hesitate a moment.

"Mulder, you look like shit."  Trust Skinner not to beat
around the bush.

Mulder turned away from the window to glance at their boss, his 
gaze returning within seconds to the tableau beyond the window.  
She couldn't remember the last time Mulder had failed to come
back with a smartass remark, and it made her stomach hurt.

"You okay?" Skinner turned to her, worry etched in his face.

"A little shaky," she found herself admitting.  "But okay."

"The officers have at least five eyewitness accounts, Mulder.
Every one of them is consistent with a justified shooting.  You
did what you had to."  Skinner's voice was rough, but not unkind.

"Justified."  The first word Mulder had spoken in what seemed
like hours.  

"Yes, justified.  As in provoked, as in no recourse.  As in
saving the life of a fellow officer.  Mulder, I'm not unaware
of how hard this is for you.  But, don't lose sight of the fact
that you were faced with a lethal threat and acted in the 
only way you could."

Mulder nodded slowly, his eyes drifting back to the window. 
"I shot an unarmed man, Sir.  You can rationalize it a dozen 
ways, but it comes back to that."

Skinner chose not to argue further, long experience probably 
telling him to leave Mulder to torture himself if that was what 
he needed.  "We'll get you a replacement weapon first thing in 
the morning.  I expect the debriefing will be tomorrow.  I'll 
let you know as soon as the OPR schedules a meeting."

"Mulder, let me look at your hands," Scully gently rested her
hand on his arm.  He didn't shake her off this time and she 
considered it a victory.  Skinner walked out into the glare, 
perhaps to see where the investigation stood.

The blood on his hands had left red streaks under his the
arms of his shirt.   Palms up, he held his hands out for
her inspection.  Several small cuts had stopped bleeding, 
but one particularly deep wound in the heel of his hand
looked like it might need sutures.

"I think we need to stop at the emergency room.  I can't
be sure if all the glass is out."

Mulder shook his head and tried to pull his hands away, but
she tightened her grip.

"We can argue for an hour, Mulder, but you're going to 
lose this one.  We have to go to the ER."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Mulder stared out the passenger side window and fingered
the gauze covering the four stitches sewn into the meaty
part of his palm.  His left hand was picked clean of
glass and sterilized within an inch of its life.  He held
both hands in his lap as he watched the streetlights pass by
the window.

The sun was just beginning to lighten the sky bringing an
end to a very long night.  He grimaced when he moved his
hands, and, sensing Scully's eyes on him, his heart broke
again.  She was driving him to his apartment, respecting his
request for silence.  Her eyes were bloodshot and her face
was pale as she clenched the steering wheel.  After all
they'd been through tonight, he couldn't offer her any
support, nor take any from her.  Mulder squeezed his eyes
shut, and concentrated on taking his next breath.

"We're here."  Scully gently shook his shoulder.

"Thanks...uh...thanks.  I can take it from here."  He gripped
the door handle and immediately hissed through his teeth.

Scully got out, walked around the front of car, and opened
the door for him.  As she leaned over in her rumpled suit,
and extended her trembling hand out to him, he realized
he couldn't send her home as he initially planned.  So he
let her walk him up to his apartment, use her key and open
the door.

"Can I come in?  Just for a little while?" she said standing
in the hallway looking in.  If only her voice wasn't so shaky.  
If only she didn't look so lost.

"Oh, Scully." He took her into his arms and kicked the door
shut.  She buried her head into his chest and wrapped her
arms around his waist.  The vision of Phil Sanderson holding
a gun, inches from her head, made Mulder ignore the pain in
his hands as he held her tightly, and stroked her hair with a
clumsy bandaged hand.

"I thought I was going to lose you tonight," he whispered
into her hair.  "And all I kept thinking was, 'Oh, God, what
would I do?'"  He pulled back to look into her tired eyes.
"What would I do?"

She tucked her head under his chin and said softly, "All I
saw was a big gun, I didn't think to look at what kind it
was, or to even consider that it might not be loaded.  I was
too scared, Mulder.  And I..." she paused for several moments.

"What?" he asked, his lips touching the top of her head.
"Tell me."

"I couldn't bear that you were there to--witness it."

All the breath went out of him, and he held onto her as
tight as he could without hurting her.  His whole life, he
realized, was tucked under his chin with mussed up hair,
smudged cheeks, and smelling like old cigarette smoke.

"I know--I know," was all he could say, rocking her in his
embrace.

They held onto each other, until Scully looked up at him and
said, "I'd better go."

Mulder used his uninjured thumb to wipe the dirt from her
cheek.  Her heart was beating steadily against him as he
looked down and whispered, "Stay."

She went a little limp in his arms, and a light blush spread
over her white skin.

"Please stay."  His sad eyes were watchful, and never left
her face.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

 
She woke to the banging of metal and the garbage truck's roar 
in the street below Mulder's bedroom.  Stretching a hand out, 
she confirmed what she already knew--she was alone.  Her head
pounded as she gingerly sat up, pushing the hair back from her
face.  

Every molecule in her body ached as she stood and tugged down 
the hem of Mulder's t-shirt.  She'd felt that stiffness before, 
a result of muscles tensed in a crisis situation.  Even if her
mind allowed her a brief respite from last night's memories,
her body would be sure to remind her.

Last night. Every second remained sharp in her mind, the jagged 
edges of that memory tearing at her.  The image of the
barrel of the gun pointed at her head, the fear and pain in 
Mulder's eyes.  Suddenly, the need to find Mulder outweighed 
the ache in her bones, and she entered the living room. 

She found him gazing out the window, bandaged hands loose at 
his sides.  Moving beside him, Scully followed his gaze through 
the tape scarred window down to the lumbering garbage truck 
disappearing around the corner. 

She reached for his arm, needing to feel his skin beneath her
fingers.  Anxiety heightened as he stiffened under her touch.
Her mind told her to give him space, but her heart compelled
her to press on.  She slipped an arm around his waist, relieved
that he didn't shrug away.

"I'll make some coffee," she said, her voice sounding strange to
her, as if she hadn't used it in years.  

"Thanks," he said, raising his bandaged hands.  "I'm not exactly
up to kitchen duty this morning."  

She hated the way her hands shook as she measured out the coffee 
and filled the pot.  It had been too much to hope that last night's 
relief at being alive would linger.  In the cold light of morning, 
there were details to attend to, accounts to be given.  And there 
was this terrible weight of memory that sat between them.  Drying 
her hands on a dishtowel, she returned to the living room.

"Mind if I turn on the TV?" she asked, hoping the cheerful 
morning chatter would diffuse the tension.  "I want to catch
the weather report."

From his post by the window, Mulder nodded his assent.  Turning on 
a television to view an image of oneself was a very strange 
experience, but there they were in glorious color, leaving
Room 8 of the Doll Motel.

*Witnesses stated Dollar Motel guest, Phil Sanderson, threatened
FBI Special Agent Dana Scully with what appears to be an unloaded
antique gun.  Her partner, Special Agent Fox Mulder shot and 
killed Sanderson in the motel parking lot last night.*

"Turn it off," Mulder muttered.

*FBI records show that Agents Mulder and Scully have been 
partners for seven years.* 

"Turn it off, Scully." His voice was louder, rough.

*Local police sequestered the agents in the motel, preventing
this reporter from*  

She scrambled to find the on/off button on the remote and
silenced the television.  In the kitchen, the coffee maker 
sounded the last throes of its brewing cycle.  Grateful for 
an escape from the awkward silence, Scully busied herself 
with finding mugs, pouring coffee.

Mulder followed her into the kitchen, his face perhaps a 
fraction softer. Always unpredictable, she thought.  
"Thanks," he said, reaching for his mug with clumsy hands.  

"Skinner said not to worry about what time we got in this 
morning."

Mulder nodded, as if mulling over this piece of information. 
"I'm glad shooting an unarmed man can still get a guy a few 
hours off work."

"Mulder, you have to stop this.  You have to stop tearing 
yourself up over that gun.  You know something?  I had a 
bird's eye view of the damn thing and it never occurred 
to me that it wasn't capable of killing me."

His gaze was fierce, but he didn't speak.  Keeping an eye 
on the twitching muscle in his jaw, she downed the last of 
her coffee.

"Let me help you get ready for work, Mulder.  You're going 
to have to keep the bandages dry for a few days."

"I'll be okay.  Why don't you go home and get dressed."

Her body felt heavy, weighed down with worry, as she rinsed
her mug in the sink.  One last offer of help was rebuffed,
leaving her feeling empty.  Dressing quickly, she gathered 
up her belongings and chanced one last glance at Mulder, 
leaning against the kitchen counter.  She let herself out 
of the apartment before the tears started to fall.


XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
 

Mulder's bandaged hands cupped his fourth small shot glass.  
He giggled as he thought for a minute that he was wearing 
mittens.  White mittens before Memorial Day? 

Maybe he'd had more than four drinks.

Cigarette smoke curled around him.  The gray tendrils wove
their way into his suit and through his hair before stopping
at the rafters of this DC bar.   He took a deep breath of
the second-hand smoke and pretended that it wasn't the same
as actually smoking.

Mulder looked down, and was surprised to see that his glass
was empty.  He moved the empty little glass aside, patted
the bar in front of him, and a nice young man replaced it
with a full one.

He raised his left wrist close to his eye.  Moving the
tattered gauze out of the way, and blinking several times,
he tried to focus on his watch to see if it was today or
tomorrow.  Shaking his head, and taking in another lungful
he thought, 'Fresh smoke smells so much better than stale
smoke.'  He dropped his hand to the bar, reached for his
drink, and made the decision that it was tomorrow.

He remembered telling Scully to leave his apartment
yesterday morning, and she had.   Mulder desperately wanted
to feel the warmth of her arms around him, and hear the soft
comfort of her voice, but instead, he sent her home.  He
couldn't be sure, but he bet her tears had started before she
even got to the elevator.   

So he'd watched her stiffly walk out his door, unwilling to 
stop her, and afraid that one day he would finally succeed 
in driving her away.  His life was like that eternal cosmic 
joke:  women--can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.  
It had hurt too much to be around Scully this morning,
it had hurt even more when he was alone.

Time slowed after she left, and through the haze of hurt,
loss, and fatigue, Mulder heard his phone ringing.  He'd
painfully maneuvered the phone to his ear, and heard Walter
Skinner's gruff voice inform him of a 5:30 PM meeting with
the Office of Professional Responsibility.  Skinner's voice
softened as he said, "It's just a formality, Mulder.  You'll
probably even get your weapon back tonight."

Skinner had obviously called in favors, and pulled whatever
strings needed pulling to get the OPR meeting over and done
with.

When Mulder walked into the dimly lit conference room, he
saw hundreds of pages of typewritten interviews and reams of
handwritten testimonies stacked neatly in rows facing the
OPR panel.  There were three members on this panel, and each
one greeted Mulder courteously as he took his seat across
from them.  Skinner stood to the side, observing silently.

Two police officers from the scene were seated behind Mulder
and to his left.  They were stone-faced and bleary-eyed, but
when Mulder entered, they each stood and carefully shook his
injured hand.

Finally, Scully walked into the room, and looking straight
ahead, took her seat to Mulder's right.  Her eyes were
bright, and her makeup carefully applied, but her skin was
pale and there were dark smudges under her eyes that her
makeup couldn't conceal.  When questioned about the events,
she spoke confidently, but Mulder saw the slight tremor at
her fingertips.

To Mulder, the meeting went swiftly but painfully.  Phil's
gun was produced and, even up close, the panel agreed that
it looked dangerous.  The WUSA interview, with a Doll Motel
resident, was used as evidence, even though the anchorwoman
was clearly not pleased with the implied innocence of the
FBI agent.

All the right words were said:

Justified shooting.  Protecting the life of a fellow agent.
Facing a lethal threat.  Officer in imminent danger.
Appropriate use of deadly force.

Never in Mulder's extensive memory have so many people stood
by him.  Usually it was he and Scully against the government
machine, with some help from A.D. Skinner.  But the support
he got for killing a sad, frightened, and possibly mentally
ill unarmed Vietnam vet, was overwhelming.

Finally, OPR gave the verdict: Phil Sanderson had committed
suicide by cop.

Mulder smiled sadly.  'Technically, it should be suicide by
Special Agent. Or suicide by Federal Officer.  Either way, 
I'm off the hook.'  He wiped his eyes, shook his head and
downed another drink.  Well, off the hook after the mandatory
counseling of not less than two sessions.  Because the FBI 
figured that a "critical incident" needed a little debriefing 
to straighten a crumpled agent back out. 

Brushing the empty glass away, Mulder propped his elbows on
the bar, put his bandaged hands together and leaned his head
against them as if in prayer.   He closed his eyes halfway
and barely noticed that someone was rubbing his shoulders.

"Time to go," a voice said close to his ear.

"No, thanks.  I gotta go," he slurred.

"Come on, Mulder.  I'm taking you home," Scully said as she
helped him stand.

"Don' wanna talk t' you right now, Scully, still mad at
you."

"You don't have to talk to me, but you do have to come home
with me."

Mulder stared down at her, blinked several times and
shrugged.  He leaned over and started to sway as he tried to
get his hand into his inside jacket pocket.

"I already paid the tab, we can go," she said, putting his
arm around her shoulders, and wrapping her arms around his
waist.

They staggered to her car; she opened the passenger side
door, and eased him down and in.  As she was picking up his
feet and placing them into the car, he petted the top of her
head.   She looked up at him and waited.  Mulder bent down,
and nodded her to come closer.  He put his mittened hand to
his lips whispered loudly, "Shh. I don' wan' you t' worry,
tho'. I love you, so I'll forgive you."
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

SBC part 4

"Have a little respect for the dead, Scully."  Mulder
emerged from the bedroom like a bear crawling from his
den. His voice was hoarse, probably from the vomiting 
that had started as soon as they got back to his 
apartment last night.  "What the hell is that racket, 
anyway."

"I hardly think that reading the paper constitutes a 
racket, Mulder."  She knew there was an edge to her voice 
and didn't attempt to soften it.  She sipped her coffee
and eyed him over the edge of the paper. The newsprint 
crackled as she turned the page. "You can go back to bed.
It's early."

"Thank you." He swayed in the doorway. "What time is it?
Hell, what day is it?"  

"Just after seven on Saturday morning."  The mug clattered 
as she set it down on the table causing Mulder to wince at 
the noise.  He looked awful, eyes red-rimmed, hair standing 
on end.  His normally tanned skin was tinged gray.  He 
covered his mouth with a shaking hand.  The bandages were 
looking rather dingy and frayed.  

"What's wrong?  Are you still nauseous?"

"The smell of the coffee...it's getting to me."  He
staggered over to the couch and dropped down with a
groan.  "My head feels like it's going to explode.  And
that might actually be a good thing."

Scully rose silently and took her coffee mug into the
kitchen, taking one last swallow as she walked.  She dumped
the remainder of the pot down the drain and rinsed it
and the mug out, moving with sharp, deliberate motions.

She returned to Mulder with a glass of ginger ale and two
aspirin.  He picked them off her open palm and downed 
them with a large gulp.  "Thanks.  I...ah...I'm sorry,
Scully."

She couldn't look at him.  If she looked at him, she'd 
feel sorry for him and she wasn't ready for that.
"I'd better get going.  I have some things I need to do." 

"I don't know what to do beyond apologizing.  I know 
I've been a shit the last few days."  Against her will,
her gaze drifted over to him.  His head rested against
the back of the couch, eyes squinting through pain
at the morning light.

"I just don't know when I became the enemy here, Mulder.
You've done nothing but push me away--I tried to get 
your attention after the OPR meeting last night, but you
ran out of there as if your clothes were on fire."

"I needed some space, that's all."  

"You said something last night when I found you in 
the bar.  You said you were still mad at me, but
you could forgive me. What the hell did you 
mean by that?"

"Scully, I was tanked last night.  You can't take 
anything I said seriously."

"I know exactly how drunk you were.  And I know that's
when the truth sometimes comes out.  You're angry.
Admit it--something is eating at you."

"Drop it, okay?  I'm not angry."

"Look at you--your jaw is going to snap in two if
you keep clenching it like that.  You're furious."

"Leave it alone," he said, his voice a low growl.

"No, I won't leave it alone.  What did I do wrong?  
Was I not sympathetic enough?  Too sympathetic?  What?"

"Why the hell did you have to get close enough for 
Phil to make you a target?"  He winced as his raised 
voice obviously hurt his head.  

"You think I wasn't paying attention?  That I made 
some kind of rookie mistake?  Mulder, I was trying to get 
him to trust me.  I was trying to get close enough to 
disarm him."

"You didn't even believe him, Scully!"

"I didn't *have* to believe him to help him!"

Mulder sat forward and covered his face with his
bandaged hands.  When he spoke, his voice was 
muffled, "I feel like crap.  Please forget what
I said."

Biting the inside of her cheek, she willed herself 
not to cry.

"Go back to bed, Mulder," she said as she walked 
to the door.  Hand on the doorknob, she turned to him.

"I know you're in a lot of pain, and I hate watching 
you tear yourself up like this.  But, you know
something?  This happened to both of us."  

Drawing herself up as tall as she could, she walked
out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

It would have been better if she'd slammed the door.  
He would have been able to swear at his empty apartment 
and throw the glass of ginger ale at the wall. He'd have 
been able to distract himself from the fact that he'd 
hurt her again.

His body cried out for unconsciousness, but he knew
sleep was out of the question now.  Studying his dirty
bandages, he wondered if enough days had passed 
to remove the gauze and get his hands wet.  

He unwound the bandages, hissing when they stuck
to his stitches, and dropped the tattered gauze in
the wastebasket.  His hands had begun to heal, and
somehow that surprised him.  How could torn skin
become whole again when everything else hurt so
much? 

Taking a shower was a cautious business.  This was
supposed to be their romantic weekend.  He should have 
been taking long, luxurious baths with a fragrant Scully 
in his arms, not clumsily soaping himself with sore hands.  
He wondered if he would ever hold Scully again, ever feel 
her breath against his neck.  Would two minutes in 
the Doll Motel parking lot stretch to an eternity of 
silence between them?

Stepping out of the shower, he toweled himself off and
wondered if he had finally succeeded in achieving his 
greatest fear--that he would drive Scully off. 

The phone rang, and he leapt at it, hoping it was Scully.
The morning air chilled his damp skin as disappointment
cut through him when he recognized Skinner's voice informing
him that a counseling session had been set up with a Dr. 
Capelli.  

"Have you seen Agent Scully?" Skinner asked.  "I've been 
trying to reach her.  Dr. Capelli wants to see both of you
for the first session."   

Assuring Skinner that both he and Scully would be at the
appointment, he hung up the phone.  He would certainly have
to find Scully and deliver the message.  He dressed quickly
and grabbed his keys.

He had intended to drink himself into oblivion the night
before and had taken a cab to the bar.  That appeared to
have been the last smart thing he'd done, and he was
glad the vehicle was in one piece.  He climbed into his 
car, hoping that driving hung over wasn't as dangerous 
as driving drunk.  

He turned the key in the ignition, the radio springing
to life, as if it had been patiently waiting since the 
last time he'd driven the car. 

*and of course, that big traffic jam east of the Wilson
Bridge is still with us.  Traffic is backed up past the
Route 1 Interchange almost to Telegraph Road.  So, if 
you're getting an early start on those weekend travels, 
you'll need to use an alternate route*

No jack-knifed semis or creeping rubberneckers blocked 
his road to Scully, only blinding memories and regrets.

*WBLM FM920--Morning Bedlam with Vinnie and Dave*

The hyperactive blast of station identification made 
Mulder wince.  He reached to turn off the radio, hoping 
quiet would relieve the throbbing in his head.  

*Hey, Dave, you see that shooting on the news?  The two 
FBI agents at the Dollar Motel?*

*Jeez, how could you miss it?  They ran that footage all
day yesterday.  You think they'd have done that if the
agents looked like...well, like you and me?*

Hand on the radio knob, Mulder was unable to turn it off,
as if unable to turn away from the carnage of a horrific
accident.

*The lady agent was one fine looking woman, all right.  
You know what? I think they're doing the nasty.*

*Vinnie, you're disgusting.  Just because a good-looking 
guy works with an attractive woman, doesn't mean they're
sleeping together.*

*Look, I'm thinking, dangerous job, life on the edge, late
night stakeouts.  Hell, I'd do her in a minute.  If I knew  
they had women looked like that in the FBI, I'd join in a 
minute.*

*You couldn't pass the psych test.  Hell, you couldn't pass
the eye test!*

*Come on, let's take a poll.  Do you think those two FBI 
agents are doing the naked pretzel?  Call WBLM at 555-0920 
and vote--hot FBI nookie or just business.*

With a violent twist of his wrist, Mulder snapped off the 
radio and gunned the car's engine.  He slammed his palms 
down on the steering wheel, swearing at the stinging pain 
in his injured hands.  Wherever the hell she was, he hoped
Scully wasn't listening to WBLM.

It was a good thing that his car was practically programmed
to find Scully's apartment as his mind was swirling with 
thought. Images flashed unbidden: Phil running away amid the 
flutter of cherry blossoms; Scully, gunbarrel inches away 
from her head; the trickle of blood at the corner of Phil's 
mouth.  

He didn't see Scully's car in the parking lot and tried to 
muster the courage to go up and see if she was there.  Facing 
her would be difficult; walking around the empty rooms might 
be more than he could bear.   

Squinting against the bright sunlight, he walked to the 
building and up the stairs to Scully's apartment. Pounding on 
the door only exacerbated the throbbing in his head.  He knew 
he should go home and leave her alone, but he dug her key 
out of his pocket and opened the door.

He called out her name, knowing as he did so that she wasn't 
there.  In spite of his earlier fear, he found himself 
comforted by the signs of Scully's occupancy as he wandered
the rooms.  The sink held the glass from which she'd drunk 
orange juice; the still dripping shower smelled of her shampoo.

She must have brought in the newspaper before she went out.
It lay still tightly folded on her coffee table, unread.
He spread the paper out and tried to focus on the print.
A juicy government sex scandal had captured the headline,
and he found himself absurdly grateful to the congressman
who couldn't keep his pants zipped. 

Mulder sank down into the sofa. Scully had such cushy
furniture, a pronounced taste for creature comforts.  It 
belied her starchy exterior and endeared her to him even 
more.  And it was so peaceful here.  He'd always felt safe 
when he was in Scully's presence and somehow her apartment 
had taken on some of that security. Two sleepless nights 
and the hangover from hell finally took their toll, and 
Mulder drifted off.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

She'd always found background histories, arrest records and 
past hospital admissions strangely comforting.  Tox screens,
police photographs, and autopsy reports gave her life a
sense of order.

Scully knew of a meditation exercise that used intricate,
rhythmic hand movements.  A deep meditative state could be
achieved, because the mind became so preoccupied with the
hands, that all outside distractions were snuffed out.

She shifted the reports in front of her, and adjusted her
reading glasses.  As long as there were dates, times, and
molecular weights to concentrate on, she could keep the
outside pain from diffusing in.  Scully used science and lab
results like a yogi used incense and soft music.

If only her mind would cooperate and let the details push 
the world away.  But the ache in her heart stubbornly 
persisted.  

Mulder was in pain, and she knew it.  How was it that she, 
too, was in pain and Mulder not know?  He could forgive
her. How terribly generous of him. Mulder clearly saw her
as an impediment and not an effective agent. Her biggest fear 
was playing out before her, and there was nothing she could 
do about it.

When Mulder shot and killed Phil Sanderson, she was
grateful, because he saved her from, what she believed, was
certain death.  Her gratitude turned to sorrow, as she came
to know that the gun was empty, and that Mulder blamed her
for forcing him to shoot.

However, she doubted that he would have felt better had Phil
fired the empty shot.  If Mulder had hesitated and Phil
pulled the trigger, that split instant before the hammer
clicked against the empty chamber, Mulder would have died a
thousand deaths.  And his torture would have continued as he
realized that Scully would have died if he had been wrong.

There was no way this could have had a happy ending.

'Concentrate,' she told herself as she rubbed her eyes.
There was information here she needed to find.  Puzzle
pieces, all out of order now, but placed correctly, would
make a picture of Phil Sanderson's life.  And maybe offer
some peace in hers.

Scully found the medical examiner's report and opened the
folder.

Phillip Earl Sanderson: DOB-February 29th 1952.

Caucasian male weighing 70.2 kilos

Approximately 178 cm tall

Cause of death: GSW to the chest

She sighed sadly, one bullet, at close range, burst Phil
Sanderson's heart wide open.  Skimming over the initial
findings for the cause of death, Scully looked deeper for
clues into Phil's life.

She scavenged through the file until she found the
photographs.  The pathologist routinely takes pictures of
the clothed body first, then unclothed.  Unclothed, it was
evident that the body had various scars and tattoos, and
some close-ups of very angry slashes on the wrists.
Scanning through the records, Scully looked for the x-rays
of the body and results of the external examination.

She read quickly:

".multiple healed slash wounds on forearms and wrists noted
bilaterally."

".recent unhealed, open wound to left wrist apparently with
sharp blade or razor-appears to be self-inflicted, however,
not a contributing cause of death."

".evidence of healed lower extremity fractures of left
femur, left tibia, left fibula and right fibula -consistent
with trauma sustained by impact.

".evidence of multiple healed costal fractures bilaterally."

Scully blinked and shook her head.  Phil Sanderson was a
physical wreck.  Personal hygiene had gone by the wayside
a very long time ago.  There was evidence of lice infestation
in his hair and around the genitals.  His teeth were in an 
advanced state of decay.  

Internal examination of the organs showed heavily tarred lungs, 
and an enlarged liver with evidence of cirrhoses.  Stomach 
contents indicated that his last meal was several ounces of 
Glenlivet single malt scotch, straight up.

She read and reread sections of various documents; yellow
highlighting the important segments.  She booted up her
laptop and called up sites for information and reference.

The pathologist's report prompted her to hunt down
information on any confrontations Phil may have had with the
police, and his rap sheets, if any.  She tracked down
emergency room records and found reports from three
different hospitals.  Phil's past arrests and injuries
spilled out on the desk in front of her.  Stacking the
sheets into one pile, she put them into her accordion
folder.

Dear God, it was all falling into place.  Piece by piece,
she could see more of the mosaic that was Phil's life.
Scully looked at the photographs again and ran her fingers
over the glossy surfaces, before packing them neatly into
her folder.  She had to talk to Mulder.  He needed to see
what she'd found.

Scully paused to breathe.  She knew the truth was in her
hands, and she wanted Mulder to see it.  But even if she
could get her tongue to work around the pain of looking into
his face, would he listen to her?

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

SBC part 5


"Jesus, Mulder!  What are you doing here?"  

He sat up with a start, not sure whether it was Scully's
exclamation or the sound of her briefcase hitting the
floor that woke him. She'd drawn her weapon in the shock
of finding someone waiting in her empty apartment.  He
watched with relief as she lowered her gun.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to scare you," he said.

Scully stooped to pick up her briefcase.  He noticed
that her hands were shaking as she placed it on the 
coffee table.  He had to crane his neck to watch her
walk to the desk.  

"How long have you been here?" she asked as she slipped
off her holster and fit the gun into it.  "I've been 
trying to call you."  

"What time is it?" he asked, still a bit groggy.

"A little after four," she said, her eyes cast downward.
"Why are you here, Mulder?"

He hated how pale she was, how she couldn't meet his eye.
She held her body stiffly as she placed gun and holster on 
the desk with a careful finality.  With her back to him, she 
stood over the weapon. It was long seconds before she turned
around.

"I came by to deliver a message from Skinner, but you'd left.  
I sat down for a minute, and I guess I fell asleep."  
He dry-washed his face, the stitches in his hand tickling his
face.

"The message?" she prompted.

"Oh yeah.  We have a mandatory session with a Dr. Capelli 
on Monday afternoon." He cleared his throat.  "Scully...I 
want to apologize.  I don't have any right to..."

"Forget about it, Mulder," she interrupted with resignation 
in her voice.  "You didn't say anything that wasn't true."  
 
Mulder opened his mouth to reassure her, but stopped 
himself.  In the moment after he had said them, he'd have 
given his life to snatch those words out of the air.  But 
once said, words couldn't be erased or forgotten.  You had
to live with them.

"You said you were trying to reach me earlier. What did 
you want to tell me?" he asked.  He reached out to her, 
the need to connect outweighing his fear at rejection.  
Moving past his extended hand, Scully sat on the sofa, 
close to Mulder, but not touching.  

His relief when she finally turned to look at him was 
shortlived.  There were smudges under her eyes, evidence 
of her pain and worry.  Had he been so focused on his
own misery that he'd failed to notice the toll this had
taken on her?   

"I reviewed Phil Sanderson's autopsy record, Mulder, as well
as his medical and arrest records."  She sat forward, 
opening her briefcase and removing a stack of photocopied 
documents.

"There was no great mystery there, Scully  He died because 
my bullet killed him."

"You're right.  Single gunshot to the chest was cause of
death." Turning, she caught his glance.  "But Phil Sanderson 
had been trying to die for a long, long time."

"What did you find?"

"There were numerous scars on both wrists, Mulder. Hesitation 
marks in varying degrees of healing--the most recent no more 
than a week old."

"That doesn't surprise me, Scully.  We knew he was troubled."

"Mulder, I don't think anyone knew how troubled Phil was.  
There were incidents over the years, hospitalizations and 
police involvement, but it was only when viewed together 
that the pattern became clear."

She fumbled with the papers she'd brought with her.  He laid
a hand over hers, wishing he could still her frantic 
movements.  "But you found a pattern."

"Yes.  The autopsy showed healed fractures in the ribs and in 
both legs.  I checked Phil's hospitalization records and found 
that in 1998, he'd been hit by a car while crossing the street.  
But the driver's statement from the police report said Phil ran 
into the street.  The driver couldn't stop in time and hit him."    

"And you think he was trying to kill himself?"

"The skid mark pattern indicated he may have darted into the 
path of the car.  The driver said that after running into the
path of the car, Phil hesitated and then tried to dodge away.  
I think he was attempting suicide and backed out at the last 
minute."

"Scully, I'm sure the driver was distraught. Things must have
happened in a split second."

"There's more.  On June 11, 1995, Phil Sanderson presented at
George Washington University Hospital having swallowed in 
excess of fifty aspirin tablets.  He claimed he had a bad 
headache and hadn't realized how many he took."  

"He went to the hospital voluntarily?"

"Yes.  They performed gastric lavage, but they didn't buy his 
story.  He was referred for psychiatric evaluation.  He was 
hospitalized a number of times over the last ten years and 
diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic."

"A diagnosis consistent with his symptoms.  I'm sure they 
categorized his visions as hallucinatory in nature.  
But...what if they were real?"

"Does it really matter anymore?  Whether he had visions 
because he was schizophrenic, or if the visions drove him to
madness--the result was the same.  Mulder, Phil was an
tragedy waiting to happen."

"And he happened to us."  

She nodded, and he thought he saw a measure of peace in her 
face.  Scully flipped through the stack of papers.  She 
finally found what she was looking for and handed him a copy 
of a police report dated the day before.

"Metro Police got a call yesterday from Maurice Pumphrey, owner 
of Pumphrey's Liquor and Package Goods.  Phil Sanderson stole 
an expensive bottle of scotch a few hours before he called you.  
Pumphrey saw the news report and called the police."

"He had a bottle of scotch in his hands when we got there. You 
think the theft had something to do with what happened later?" 

"I don't know.  I don't think we'll know unless we talk to 
Maurice Pumphrey."  

"Well then, I think that's what we should do."  He stood and 
extended his hand, palm up.  She smiled at him, and he realized 
just how very long it had been since she'd done that.  "Come on, 
you can drive."

Mulder felt the familiar back and forth movements of
parallel parking.  He looked up from the street map, and saw
Scully squinting at the door of the liquor store across the
street.

"I'm pretty sure this is the right place," she said, "But
everything is the same shade of grime, so it's hard to tell
one storefront from another."

She sounded tired, and he wondered if his hands could take
the wheel long enough to drive them back after this
interview.  He felt pretty good, having napped on her sofa
all afternoon.

"Maybe we can find a fine, old Merlot to take home with us
tonight," he said lightly as he unbuckled his seat belt.

"We'll have to wade through the Night Train and Richard's
Wild Irish Rose to get to the 'fine Merlot' section, I'm
afraid."

"Ah, these highly fortified beverages remind me of my
college days--I think."  He hoped to ease the tension caused
by the long, silent ride to Maurice Pumphrey's liquor store.

Scully looked at him with a trace of a smile, and shook her
head.  She walked up the two steps in front of Pumphrey's
Liquor Store, but he didn't follow.  After an awkward
moment, Scully reached down and touched his arm.  "Look, I
know you think you could have saved Phil Sanderson, but I
think Mr. Pumphrey might tell us something different."

"What if he doesn't?" he whispered.

"We're going to be okay, Mulder."

He let out a shaky breath as she opened the door and walked
in.  'Please, God, let it be true.'


"Are you Maurice Pumphrey?" Scully asked, holding up her
badge.

"Yeah, that's me."  Pumphrey sat on a stool behind the
counter smoking a cigarette.  The security glass in front of
him kept the smoke circling his face.

"I'm Agent Scully, and this is Agent Mulder."

"Here, lemme see that," Maurice said, crooking his finger.
Scully pressed her badge up against the security glass.
Pumphrey batted the cigarette smoke away, slid his glasses
down the bridge of his nose, and leaned forward.  He smiled
a little then said, "I din't doubt you, I just wanted t'see
a real FBI badge.  Ain't never have."

He stubbed his cigarette out, unlocked the security door,
and came around to the front of the counter.

"I seen you two on the TV."

"Mr. Pumphrey, we'd like to ask you a few questions about
the night Phil Sanderson came here, before he died," Mulder
interrupted.

"Yeah, I seen you," he lifted a finger at Mulder, "You the
one that killed Phil.  Man, though, that Phil was fixin' to
die one way or the other."

"What do you mean, fixing to die?" Scully asked.

"I mean -- he dared me to get my gun and blow him away.
Shit, you don't say somethin' like that in this neighborhood
an' expect to wake up in the morning.  But, I on'y use my
gun to wave at the guys if they go off.  I ain't never even
pulled the damn trigger."

"And you think Sanderson wanted you to go for your gun?"
Scully took a step toward Maurice.

"Hell yeah, I do, go for my gun an' then some. Sorry, Ma'am,
I don't have no place for you to sit.  If there was chairs,
I'd never get the drunks outta here."

Mulder's deep voice asked, "What else did he say?"

"You mean befo' or after he stole the scotch?"

Mulder shrugged.

"Well, Phil gets his reg'lar six pack of Michelob rung up,
then he gets this look, and asks where I keep the good
stuff.  Single malt.  Nobody hardly ever buys any, my drunks
drink cheap.  Anyhow, I take the box down and shows it to
'im.  I figger, he ain't gonna do nothin', I know where he
lives.  Then, he picks up my goddam fifty-dollar French Oak
Glenlivet, holds in front of my face, shakes it at me, and
walks away.   He fucking shakes it at me--oh, sorry, Ma'am."

"He wanted to make sure you saw him take it?" Mulder asked.

"Oh yeah, ain't no way he was hidin' what he was doin'.  An'
you know what else?  He starts crying, calls me a ol'
bastard and says he ain't afraid to die."

"Why didn't you call the police, Mr. Pumphrey?" Scully
asked.

"Well, I did.  Tha's why you're here now, ain't it?"

"Why didn't you call the police right after Phil Sanderson
stole a very old, very expensive bottle of scotch?" Mulder
asked pointedly.  "You were out a lot of money."

Pumphrey bit the side of his cheek and closed his eyes.

Scully stepped over to him and said, "Maurice, why didn't
you call the police?" Pumphrey's back was permanently
hunched from decades of leaning over the counter.  When he
finally looked up, he was eye-level with her, and he spoke
carefully and clearly.

"I din't call the cops because I thought Phil would talk
them into killing him.  I din't want that hanging over my
head."  He turned to Mulder, "Sorry, man, I guess I was
right."
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"You hungry?" Mulder asked, pulling his eyes from the
road to glance at her.  The streetlamps cast bands of
light over his face as the car moved past the empty
storefronts and factory buildings with their broken
windows.

"Yeah," she answered.  "I guess I am."  It had been hours
since she'd grabbed a yogurt out of a vending machine at
work.

She wondered if his hands hurt as he gripped the steering
wheel and guided the car through the dark streets.  The
battered neighborhoods gave way to more upscale blocks.
She thought about Maurice Pumphrey and pictured the old
man's sad eyes as he ushered his visitors out the door.
"Take care o' yourselves," he'd said.

Mulder slotted the car into a space in front of their
favorite bar and grill, a place where the lighting was dim
and the food was good.  They found a booth in the back,
far from the noisy chatter of the bar.

They faced each other over sandwiches and beer, saying
little.  She concentrated on taking neat bites out of
her turkey on rye, trying not to let Mulder notice her
watching him.

He devoured his pastrami sandwich as if he hadn't eaten
in days.  He probably hadn't.  His eyes strayed to the
TV over the bar, perhaps hoping he could catch the score
of whatever game played out.

She felt an itch under her skin, a sense of expectation
not unlike the air before a thunderstorm.  She wondered
if he felt it too.

"Scully, show those chips some mercy, will you?" He smiled
at her and placed his hand over hers.  She looked down to
discover that she'd systematically pulverized each potato
chip on her plate.

They finished their meal and paid the check. The evening
air was moist and chilly, causing her to shiver a bit as
she unlocked the car doors.  Mulder shooed her over to the
passenger side, sliding his long body into the driver's
seat.

He easily navigated the few blocks between the bar and
her apartment.  Easing her car into the space next to his,
she wondered if he intended to make a quick exit.  Mulder
stood between the two cars, his head down, hands in pockets.

"It's early; why don't you come up for a while?" she asked,
holding in a breath.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure," she answered as she exhaled slowly.

He nodded, and then followed her into the apartment.  His
movements were stiff and awkward as he sat on the sofa. The
man who usually sprawled with his feet up on the coffee
table, now sat forward with his hands folded in his lap.

"I'm going to make some coffee," she said rubbing her hands
together.  "Do you want some?"

"Better watch it with the coffee, Scully.  You'll be up all
night."

He tried to smile at her, but she knew his heart wasn't in
it.

"I'm a little chilled.   Are you cold?"

He looked at her, and tried smiling again, but this time she
thought he just looked miserable.  "Look at us," he said
softly.  "Small talk over coffee?  We were past making small
talk the second day we met."

She couldn't answer him; she knew it was true.  And yet, he
seemed a stranger to her, this man who knew her more
intimately than she knew herself.  Mulder caught
her hands between his palms.

"You're right--they're like icicles."

Raising her hands to his lips, he warmed them with his
breath.   She tried to force herself to pull away, knowing
in her heart that the stakes were too high for them to make
a mistake.  And this could be a terrible mistake.

He pressed kisses to her palm, drawing his lips to the
tender skin of her inner wrist.  His touch burned, yet she
didn't pull away.

Scully watched as Mulder closed his eyes and prayerfully
kissed her right hand first, and then her left.

When he looked up, she saw how afraid he was.

"Make it all go away, Scully," he pleaded.  "Make it so it
never happened."

"I can't," she whispered.  "We both have to face that."

His arms snaked around her, holding her so tight she
couldn't quite fill her lungs.  Maybe she really didn't need
air when Mulder had his face pressed against her neck.  His
breath felt hot on her skin, his kisses wet with tears.

I thought I was going to lose you, he whispered.  His hands
slid under her top, feverish against the bare skin of her
back.

"You could never lose me."  The compulsion to touch him was
overpowering, stronger than common sense, stronger than
self-preservation.  As if by their own volition, her fingers
worked the buttons on Mulder's shirt.

She watched his face as he struggled to control his
expression and failed.  Fear, need, pain, desire.  All
played over his features as his hands found her breasts.

But there was no tenderness in his actions.  His hands were
desperate as he searched her body for his relief, and she
wanted just as desperately to forget the past, and ignore
the future-if only for the next few minutes.

Usually Mulder was a considerate lover, but tonight, there
were no gentle caresses or soft touches.  His eyes glazed
over as he tore at her blouse, and as Scully heard the
buttons bounce to the floor, she realized that he wasn't
even seeing her.

She didn't care.  She had needs of her own that included
Mulder doing just what he was doing.  Drowning in him, at
this moment would give her release and maybe a little peace.
He pushed the blouse off her shoulders, skimming roughened
fingers along the lace edge of her bra.

Mulder kissed her, his mouth hard and greedy.  She moaned
deep in her throat, nipping at his bottom lip.  Her hands 
slid under his shirt, stroking his fever-warm skin, clutching 
wildly at his shoulders, feverishly moving over his arms, his 
back, his chest.

They staggered to the sofa, pulling clothes off as they
moved, united in the need for skin to skin contact.  His
body covered her, sweat-damp chest crushing her breasts. 
She welcomed his weight upon her, reminding her that she 
was still alive.

"Always love you, love you," Mulder muttered into her hair
as he pushed into her.  She stifled a bitter laugh as the 
memory of last night's drunken words came back to her. She 
needn't have worried. Mulder apparently forgave easily enough 
when he was on top of her.

She forced that thought from her mind, concentrating instead
on the sensation of fullness, the friction of his skin
against hers, the rasp of his breath in her ear.

Scully closed her eyes to block the dim lamplight, and in
the darkness, drops of sweat and tears inched down her face.
Mulder growled, and pounded into her hard and fast.  Her
body responded primitively, instinctively; her hips lifted
to meet his again and again until small sparks of light
appeared behind her eyelids.

She was wet and hot as the sparks grew brighter, but she
forced her eyes to stay shut.  'Now, now it all goes away,'
she panted as her body and mind parted.

Her thighs trembled, and she arched back, biting her tongue
to stifle a cry.  In the distance, she heard a soft wail as
Mulder shuddered hard against her.

He lay on top of her, heavy and slick with sweat.  All was
silent except for his gasping and her sobs.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
 
SBC part 6

Years ago, Mulder had believed that the disappearance of his 
sister was the defining moment of his life.  One night had split 
his life in half, so that evermore there would be *before* 
and *after.*
 
Lying on Scully's sofa, bright morning light bathing the
room, he reflected on how pitifully shortsighted that view was.
The scent of sex still hung in the air, blending with the normal
Scully apartment smells.

Over the years, he'd come to understand that life was filled with
pivotal moments--events that changed everything with the subtlety
of a nuclear blast.  Shooting Phil had just been one more mushroom
cloud, sending shock waves across the desert of their lives.  They
had survived the initial blast.  He wondered if they would survive 
the fallout.

Scully must have covered him with a sheet during the night, and
he was naked and a bit sticky under it.  He pictured her shifting 
him over and extricating herself from under him once he'd fallen 
asleep.  What a cliche--selfish pig falling asleep after fucking.

And that's what it was--a fuck.  They hadn't made love.  Love 
didn't enter into the equation last night.  It had been 
primitive, raw.  With a jolt, he remembered hearing her sobs
through the haze of his orgasm.  God.  How did things get this
screwed up?

And where the hell was she?  He hauled himself off the sofa,
groaning with stiff muscles.  The VCR's clock mocked him,
making sure he knew it was past 10:30 and Scully was gone.

Had she left this morning, hoping he'd clear out while she
was gone?  He grabbed his jeans out of the pile of clothes
on the floor, sliding them on without benefit of his boxers.
Scully's clothes were no longer tangled with his this 
morning.  

He wandered into the kitchen, searching for something to 
block out the hideous taste in his mouth.  Scully hadn't 
made coffee.  That seemed meaningful, somehow.  For Scully,
a day without caffeine was like a day without air.

And she was out of orange juice, damn it.  

Knocking things aside in her refrigerator, his fingers hit
upon a brown bottle.  Mulder smirked; it was so like Scully 
to have Amstel Light as her beer of choice.  He liked real
beer, but what the hell, a nice light beer mid-morning 
sounded just right.

He rummaged through the drawer for the bottle opener, popped
the top, and stared, mesmerized by the white wisp that
curled out.

He downed it and reached for another, noting that Scully had
stocked up.  This weekend was supposed to start out with bad
movies and unbuttered popcorn, progress to sloppy
make-out sessions, and end with long, slow love-making
all night and into the morning.

"Damn it," Mulder whispered fiercely. "Where is she?"

He finished his second round and, as he tossed the bottle
away, got a good look at his hands.  The stitches were
melting away, and smooth scars were forming to take their
place, giving him a little hope. His hands were healing, and 
if his hands could heal, maybe the rest of him could, too. 

Light beer doesn't pack much of a punch, but it was morning
and he'd had two in a row.  With his stomach empty, the
alcohol made him feel mild and peaceful.  Pretty soon, he'd
have the courage to go out looking for her.

He'd apologize and tell her he loved her.  He would promise
never do it again.  Whatever "it" was; whatever she wanted
him to say.   He'd lied to her before and she believed him.  
He believed it himself; all those times he told her he wouldn't 
hurt her.   As he opened the refrigerator door, he thought
that maybe she'd believe him again.

God, he hoped so.

The sound of Scully's key's hitting the counter startled him.
He hadn't heard her come in, what with the fine buzz going on
in his head.  He slammed the refrigerator door shut and stood
up.  The empty beer bottles had been thrown away, but there 
were two bottle tops on the counter next to her keys. 

"Breakfast of champions, Mulder?" she asked, her voice 
razor sharp.  

"Beer's made with hops and grains, you know.  It's practically
Cheerios."  He aimed for a glib tone, but couldn't quite keep 
the desperation out of his voice.  "Where were you, Scully?"

She handed him a folded sheet of blue paper, "Holy Trinity 
Catholic Church" printed along the top of the closely
typed page.  

"It's Sunday morning, Mulder.  I forgot to leave you a note,
but I thought you'd figure it out."  His eyes remained focussed
on the church bulletin, unwilling to meet her gaze.

"Looks like the youth group's having a car wash," he said,
hoping to distract her from the shiny bottlecaps.  "And 
Bible study classes start next Thursday."    

She took the bulletin out of his hand, tossing it onto the 
counter next to her car keys.  "Come on and sit down, Mulder,"
she said, taking his hand.  "I want to talk to you."

He allowed her to lead him to the sofa, happy for any physical
contact at all.  Memories of last night's activities flooded
back as they sat down.  She didn't release his hand, and he 
wondered if she needed to feel his touch as much as he needed
to feel hers.

"I don't suppose you'd like to make out instead of talk," he
said.  

"I don't think that's going to solve anything.  Mulder, I'm
worried.  You've had more to drink in the last three days than
I've seen you drink in two months."

"I had exactly two beers last night and two this morning, Scully.
I fully admit to getting drunk Friday night, but I hardly think
that's evidence of a drinking problem."  

"I never said you were developing a drinking problem, Mulder, but
it's a definite change in behavior and I think it's a sign."

"A sign?  A sign that I'm becoming unglued?  So, maybe I'm having
a hard time dealing with this, but you're not exactly the poster
girl for serenity these days either."

She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to disagree with him, but he
continued, "When was the last time you slept through the night?
You have circles under your eyes and about as much color as a 
glass of milk.  Go ahead, tell me you're doing fine."

A look of shock passed over her features, before she composed her 
face into calm perfection.  Did she think he didn't notice her, 
didn't pay attention to every breath she took? 

"All right then, maybe we both need help."

"What kind of help?"  He eyed her warily.  "You mean the
mandatory therapy sessions?  You think they'll help?  Well,
I already know what I'm going to say to the mandatory
therapist."

"You've practiced scamming the therapist?"

"It's not like I really need this headshrinking shit,
Scully.  It won't even work on me since I already know all
the tricks of the trade."  He lowered his voice, "How about
something like, 'I think it's perfectly normal for a law
officer to be upset over killing an unarmed man.'"

"And you think the therapist will buy that?"  She stood up.

"I am upset.  It's normal!  She'll buy it!"

"There's nothing 'normal' about all this."  Her cheeks
reddened.  "I know you're hurting, but even *you* can't
think it's normal to lose sleep and get drunk like this?"
She waved her hand at him.

"I am not..."

"And add lying to the FBI therapist to that!"  Her voice
rose angrily.  "Do you think it's normal to shut yourself
off, hide in a bar, blame your partner for screwing up, then
use her for a comfort fuck?"  Her mouth slammed shut.

"So, is that what this is about?" he took two steps toward
her.  "Well, partner, it seems to me that you were giving as
good as you were getting.  We were *both* pretty comfy there
for a few minutes."  He stood over her.  "One bad fuck and
now you think I need therapy?"

"Yes!"  Her hands flew covering her ears.  "I know you do!
I know I do! "

Her words staggered him.  He took a breath and stabbed his
finger at her.  He took another breath and tried again, but
no sound came.

"We won't survive like this, Mulder.  Together or apart,"
she said to the floor.  "We both need help or we won't make
it."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"Agent Mulder is here, Assistant Director."

"Thank you.  Tell him I'll be with him in a moment."

Skinner paused to go through his story again.  It was difficult 
enough conjuring the details in his head, but it was always worse 
when he spoke them aloud.

Mulder entered, clean-shaven, well dressed and barely recognizable.  
Skinner had seen Mulder crumble after the shooting, but thought 
that his agent would bounce back after the OPR review cleared him.  
Instead, Mulder deteriorated.  Skinner watched him sink, quietly 
isolating himself from others. 

He glanced away, and told himself that this pale, somber man was 
the same curious, stubborn believer he'd known for years.  

"You wanted to see me, sir?"  Mulder asked softly.

"Yes.  Please sit down; this may take a few minutes.  You and Agent 
Scully have an appointment today with the Bureau counselor..."

"Sir, I'm not going into this with you..." Mulder got up and headed 
for the door.

"Agent Mulder!  I've been where you are now, and I don't want 
*you* to fall for it!"  Skinner stood, shoving his chair aside.  
"Don't believe that bullshit."  

Mulder stopped, but didn't face him.  "What bullshit?"

"That men like us, who carry guns, and live by the words: Fidelity, 
Bravery, Integrity, don't make mistakes.  And that we aren't 
supposed to need help when we do."

Mulder sighed and shook his head.   "With all due respect to you 
and the  FBI motto, Sir, I don't care to discuss this."
 
"Mulder,  you're going to have to talk to someone."

"Et tu, Skinner?"

"No Mulder, I'm not siding with the enemy.  There is no enemy 
here."  
Skinner walked up to him.  "But I would be betraying you if I didn't 
try to help you."

Mulder spoke sadly, "I was supposed to help, too.  That's what I'm 
trained to do, but I blew it.  My partner couldn't help me.  I 
seriously doubt that you can."

"It happened to me, too, Mulder.  I helped kill a man who wanted 
to die."

Mulder finally looked at him.  Skinner continued.  "Somehow, it 
feels 
worse, when you abet a death wish.  No matter who it is, the lack of 
malice on the part of the victim at that moment..." 
 
"...makes him innocent."  Mulder completed.

"Except in my case," The A.D. turned and sat on the edge of his 
desk, 
facing his agent, "I knew the victim wasn't innocent.  But it still 
took me a long time to get through it."

Mulder's tired eyes became curious, "What happened?"

Skinner looked up and took a breath, "You thought the gun pointed at 
Scully was loaded.  Well, I thought the gun pointed at me was 
real."  
He paused, "But there was no gun." 

"Oh..." Mulder began to understand.

"I shot a man who just pointed his finger at me."

The two men stared at each other, then Mulder sat heavily into the 
seat in front of Skinner's desk.

"You had no choice, sir, Modell was a murderer."

"Yeah, right, and every time I told to myself, 'it's fine, no 
problem, you did the right thing.'  I heard your voice, Mulder, 
warning me about him.  I should have listened to you." 

"It wasn't your fault," Mulder said.  "Modell made you do it."

"Just like Phil Sanderson made you do it."  Skinner stood.  "You 
have to talk about what happened, Mulder.  You have to tell his 
story, like I had to, after I fired the round that killed Robert 
Patrick Modell."

"Sir, this is different."  Mulder closed his eyes.

"Is it?  For weeks after, I hardly slept, and I drank too much.  
How are you sleeping at night?"  There was no sarcasm in his 
voice, and he waited for a reply.

Mulder shook his head.

"Your drinking, aren't you?  You look like hell." 

"Why don't I just have my insurance pay you for the counseling?" 
Mulder said tersely. 

Skinner ignored him.  "How's Agent Scully handling it?  Do you 
even talk to her any more?"  

Mulder's eyes widened, and Skinner knew he hit on something.
  
"Mulder, killing Modell wasn't my fault, but it took me many 
months to understand that.  And after all this time, I still 
feel responsible; but at least I can cope with it, now.  Until 
I learned how, it was killing me, like it's killing you.  And 
like it's killing Scully."

Mulder stiffened, and turned away.  Skinner knew that playing 
the Scully card was a last ditch effort.  But at this point he 
would bare any lie, tell any tale, and invoke the love of 
Mulder's life, in order to save it.

"Trust me on this," Skinner said.

"Okay," Mulder said as he stood.

Skinner nodded.  "Okay."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"Sorry I'm late."  Mulder said from the doorway. "Traffic
was tied up."

"Don't worry about it.  Dr. Capelli must be running late," 
she said, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice.  Mulder
took a seat, several feet away from her.  Scully didn't 
want to think about why so much space existed between
them in this empty waiting room.

She'd come alone, making the excuse that she needed to stop 
at her mother's afterwards.  He could always tell when she 
was lying, but probably was no more eager than she to take 
that silent ride home together.  

The air crackled with tension, and they both jumped when 
the inner door to the waiting room opened.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting."  A tall, comfortably
upholstered woman entered the room, hand outstretched.  "I'm
Guilia Capelli."

Years of living were evident in the laughlines and creases
in the therapist's face.  Her short hair was dark and wiry, 
shot through with gray.  

"Dana Scully."  Scully's hand was enveloped in firm embrace.

"I'm Fox Mulder," he said, extending his hand. The muscle in
his jaw pulsed with a steady tattoo.  "But you knew that 
already."  

"Yes, I did.  The FBI provided me with some background
information."  Dr. Capelli ushered them into her office.  The 
room had been decorated with a rich red overstuffed sofa 
facing two comfortable gold chairs.

"Please, have a seat," the therapist said as she took one of
the chairs.  Scully was sure the doctor noticed their discomfort 
as they eyed the remaining chair before sitting on the couch, 
leaving a foot or so of space between them.   

"We might as well get this show on the road," Dr. Capelli
said.  Her speech had a lilt, not quite an accent, but a
hint of another language.  "I've read  reports on the 
incident that brings you here."

"Did you find them exciting?" Mulder asked, his voice 
studiously neutral.  Scully kept her gaze on her carefully 
folded hands and tried to ignore the pounding in her head.

"Not at all.  I found them very sad.  Loss of life is always
sad.  Sometimes, though, it is inevitable, and when it is,
we need to accept our limited options."

Scully's head snapped up, and Dr. Capelli smiled at her.  
"This is not always an easy thing to do, is it?  One can
come to question those choices, reaching, perhaps, for 
options that were never there."

"Forgive me, doctor," she said tightly, "But you've never had 
to face those options."

"Believe me, Agent Scully, I have my scars.  There have been 
times, when I have failed to notice things I'd been trained to 
notice, and people have died."  Dr. Capelli's voice was firm 
but soft.  

"Your jobs are extremely difficult and you found yourselves 
in a no-win situation," the therapist continued.  "It's normal 
to have difficulty dealing with that.  But it's also normal
to need help."

The FBI agents were silent.  With bitter irony, she remembered 
Mulder's strategy for dealing with therapy.  Maybe he'd met 
his match with Dr. Capelli.

"I'm going to start by asking you, one at a time, to briefly 
describe what you were feeling at the time of the shooting."  
The doctor opened a notepad.

Mulder rolled his eyes and stood.  "This isn't going to work." 

"So, you felt a sense of disbelief?"  She stared into Mulder's 
eyes.

"No!  That's not...I mean yes, I..."  He looked at Scully, and 
then back at Dr. Capelli.  "Yes," he sighed.  "I couldn't 
believe that I'd just killed an unarmed man."  He looked down.  
"I wanted to believe that the gun was real."

She watched Mulder sit way over on his side of the couch. 

"Agent Scully?"  

She absently rubbed her left arm with her right hand.  "Relief."  
She winced, that didn't sound right.  "To...uh...to be alive.  
I thought I was going to die," she amended.

"Agent Mulder.  Did you think she was going to die?"

"Yes, I did." Mulder sat up straight.  "At first."

"And now?"

Mulder narrowed his eyes, "And now, what?"

"And now do you feel relief?"

"Dr. Capelli, my partner was never in any real danger.  The 
gun Phil Sanderson aimed at her was an old, unloaded World 
War II Smith and Wesson revolver.  My fear for her life 
was...unwarranted."

Scully sucked her breath in through her teeth.  Her head 
pounded in earnest, as she stared at her hands, trying not 
to cry.  

The doctor nodded.  "The line between right and wrong sometimes 
becomes blurred, doesn't it?  The recipes we've been taught to 
follow don't always work.  How does it feel knowing that you're 
not infallible?" 

"Shit," Mulder stood again and began pacing.  "I know I'm not 
infallible."

"Then why do you feel guilty?"

"Because I could have saved him!"

"How?"

Mulder stopped, his back to Scully, and she was sure he didn't 
want her to see his face.

"If I had confronted Phil alone, I know I could have reached 
him."  His voice was thin and pained.  "I've stood in his shoes, 
and I would have made him understand.  I would have talked him 
into handing me his gun.   If my partner hadn't gotten close 
enough to become a target..." 

"But she was there, and at the moment you are agonizing over, 
you cannot remove her from the equation. So, in that 
confrontation, what could you have changed?"

"I...I..." Mulder paced madly, wildly looking side to side.  
"I would have changed places with her, so...so Sanderson 
would have shot me instead."

"Then Scully would have killed Phil Sanderson."

Mulder returned to the couch, dropping down wearily.  He
rubbed his forehead as if in pain. 

"She's strong...so much stronger than I am.  Like a female 
archangel Michael with holy sword and shield, driving the 
evil into hell; she could have saved me from this...could 
have saved us both from this..." 

"Do you feel like a female archangel, Agent Scully?"  

Her hands were so tightly fisted that her fingernails dug 
little crescents into her palms. Scully shook her head,  
"Far from it."

"Are you surprised that your partner sees you as an 
invincible force?"

"I'm never quite sure what my partner thinks," Scully answered.
Her voice sounded hollow in her ears.  "But, this week? I 
definitely would not have guessed he saw me as invincible."

"How so?"

Mulder shifted his position on the sofa, his movement sending
a little shockwave vibrating through her.  She fought the urge
to look at Mulder.

"My general impression was that Mulder found me a hindrance. 
That he felt I was incompetent the night of the shooting."

"No, I never thought that."

"You asked me how I could have let myself become a target, 
Mulder."  She allowed her gaze to shift to Mulder.  "You were 
fairly direct in your opinion."

Eyes washed with pain, Mulder seemed to be searching for words.
"I was hungover at the time, as I recall.  Scully, if you 
could see yourself through my eyes, you'd never doubt your
abilities or my opinion of them."

Dr. Capelli cleared her throat.  "Ah, but we rarely see ourselves
the way our loved ones see us."  Scully's headache pounded as
she turned to the doctor, wondering how much the doctor had 
guessed about her relationship with Mulder.

"I'd like to go back, Agent Mulder, to what you said earlier," Dr.
Capelli continued.  "You said that your partner could have saved
you--saved you both.  How would things be different if she'd been
the shooter?"
  
"I doubt Scully would be falling apart right now," Mulder 
muttered.  "She handles things."

"Agent Scully, you are shaking your head. You disagree?"

She hadn't realized her negative reaction was so obvious.  Tears
threated in her voice. "My track record for 'handling things' 
leaves a lot to be desired. Mulder, if I could, I'd take this 
burden on me.  But I guarantee you, I wouldn't be handling it 
*any* better than you are."

Mulder sat forward, his hands loosely clasped between his 
knees.  "I'm sorry," he said, nearly inaudible.  "I wouldn't 
wish this on my worst enemy. I certainly wouldn't wish it on you."

"I'm going to draw this session to a close." Dr. Capelli's
voice was soft and compassionate.  "You've done some
good work today, but our time is nearly up.  I'd like to meet
with you again later in the week--I have an opening for this
same time on Thursday."

Mulder nodded mutely.  Scully turned to the doctor, "We'll be 
here."

"I like to give my patients an assignment for the period between
appointments.  My assignment for you is not to discuss
the shooting at all until our appointment.  If being together
in the office makes that difficult, perhaps you can work 
separately this week."

Dr. Capelli rose and escorted them to the door.  "You will
get through this.  Have faith."

Scully hoped that was true, but the ache in her heart made
that faith hard to grasp.  Dr. Capelli gently shut the inner
door, leaving the agents alone in the waiting room.

"Scully..."

She raised her hand in a gesture of goodbye and, with a
short nod, fled before her shaky composure fell along with
her tears.


XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX 

SBC part 7

"Are the two of you involved?"

Any chance at remaining detached during this therapy
session was lost as Mulder sat forward on the couch.
He leveled a stare at Dr. Capelli. H had resolved to 
maintain detached during this therapy session, but 
Dr. Capelli's question undermined his plan.

"Have you been listening to WBLM?" he asked.

He almost smiled at the look of confusion from both 
Scully and the therapist.  It was a good thing Scully
hadn't heard that radio broadcast a few days after 
the shooting.

He'd been sneaking looks at Scully since she entered the
room; three days of missing her had left him jittery.
At first, he'd felt relief at not having to face the 
pain in her eyes, but by Thursday, the urge to call her
was overwhelming.  

"I fail to see why that's important," he said.

"I know it sounds as if I'm delving beyond the scope
of our work here, but I assure you, it is pertinent."

Dr. Capelli looked carefully at Scully before turning
her gaze on Mulder.  "I've picked up a certain feeling 
of...intimacy between you, and we've established that 
neither of you has a significant other.  So, forgive me
if I've jumped to the wrong conclusion."

Her steady gaze told Mulder that she knew her observation 
had struck home.  He nodded slowly, glancing at Scully to 
gauge her reaction.  She shrugged slightly, as if too
weary to deny the truth.

"You mentioned that you have no family, Agent Mulder," 
Dr. Capelli said.   "Apart from Agent Scully, of course,
who do you talk to when something is troubling you?"

"I...don't," he said, stealing a glance at Scully.  "At
least about something like this.  The people who might 
have understood this are gone.  The few friends who are
left have no frame of reference."

"And you, Agent Scully.  Who do you talk to when you're
upset?"

"My mother, I suppose," Scully said after a moment. 

"And have you told her about the shooting?"

"No.  She worries so much--about my work being dangerous.  
I couldn't bring myself to upset her."   

"We all need someone who can objectively listen to us when 
we're troubled," Dr. Capelli said, her hands steepled 
together.  "It seems as if each of you normally fulfills 
that role for the other.  But what happens when the person to 
whom we would unburden ourselves, is also hurting?"

"Some people don't unburden themselves."  He hadn't meant
for his voice to have such a hard edge.  He glanced again
at Scully. Her face was a study in impassivity. "At least 
not easily."

"Well, even if it doesn't come easily, I'd like to try a 
little exercise."  Dr. Capelli cocked her head to the side.  
"Agent Mulder, I suspect that you have less difficulty in 
'unburdening.'  I'd like you to talk to Agent Scully, not 
as the work partner who had a gun drawn on her, but as your 
dear friend, the person you can talk to. I want you to refer 
to 'your partner' when you tell her about that night."

"I'm really not up for your gimmicks today, Doctor.  We
did that during the last session, so, if it's all the same 
to you, I'll pass."  

He stood up from the couch, propelled to the door by his 
desire to escape.  He turned to Scully, trying to catch her 
eye, hoping she'd follow.  

The misery in her eyes stopped him in his tracks.  He glanced 
from her to the door, and then back again.  "Okay," he said, 
surrender in his voice.  "I'll play."

He dropped back onto the sofa in defeat. 

"What do you want me to do?" he said.

"I want you to take Agent Scully's hand, and tell her
what happened that night.  Talk to her as if you were telling 
her the story for the first time."

Mulder hesitated, clamping his lower lip between his teeth.  
Scully sat to his left, quiet and still, her sad eyes on him 
the whole time.

He met her eyes and slid closer.  He took her icy hand between 
both of his, hoping to warm it.

"We arrived..." Mulder swallowed and started again.  "My partner 
and I arrived at the motel, and found Phil pacing in the parking 
lot, outside of his room.  He was wild, desperate, ranting that 
nobody wanted to help him.  I wanted to help him."  

He rubbed her icy fingers, and looked away.  "I've known that 
kind of desperation and thought I could get through to him."  
He looked back at her.  "But he seemed fixated on getting you 
to..."

"Your partner," Capelli said softly.

"Huh? Oh, right.  He seemed fixated on getting my partner to 
believe his story.  She wanted to help him, too...I know she 
did.  But she got too close, and he leveled the gun at you...her.

"My heart started pounding, and all I could see was the
fear in her eyes, and the gun pointed at her head.  That damn 
gun filled my sight, and yet I never noticed it was old.  I was 
sure he was going to kill her, and I was furious that someone else 
was going  to use my partner against me.  Is it fucking tattooed 
on my forehead: 'Scully is the way to control me'?"  

Tears were rolling down Scully's face, and her chin trembled 
slightly, but she held herself straight and strong.  
"I'm sorry," she whispered.  "So, so sorry."

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and squeezed her
fingers.  "And then I shot him.  I pulled the goddamn trigger 
and he dropped like a sack of laundry.  Do you know what he said
to me, as he was dying?  He said 'thank you'."

Mulder let go her hand, and looked away.  

"Didn't that tell you something, Agent Mulder?"

"Yeah."  He looked at the doctor.  "He used me to hold the gun 
for him, because he couldn't do it himself, and he used my 
partner to get me to do it.  He was such a coward, such a 
fucking coward.  And I hate him for it."

"Agent Mulder..."

"I'm done."  Mulder stared at the ceiling, and blinked several 
times.  "I'm done."

Dr. Capelli apparently believed him, for she turned to Scully 
and said, "Agent Scully, it's your turn."

Mulder felt Scully shift in her seat, but she didn't speak.  He 
turned toward her, gave her his hand, and said softly, "She's 
right, it's your turn."

Her eyes crinkled at the edges as she gave him a small smile.  
Her hand was still cold, but not as icy as before.  

She cleared her throat and said, "My partner received a call 
from a distraught individual..." Mulder squeezed her hand, and 
looked her in the eye.  She began again.

"Phil called us.  He threatened to kill himself, and we 
believed him.  When we arrived at the motel, and I saw how out 
of control he was, I thought I could calm him down.  My partner 
was right; it seemed important to Phil that I believe his story 
about his past lives.  I thought that if I could convince him 
that I wanted to help him, and please believe me, Mulder, I 
wanted to help him..."

"I know. I never doubted it."

"I thought I could disarm him, but I had to be close.  I didn't 
think..."  She looked at Dr. Capelli, then at Mulder.  "I didn't 
believe he would turn the gun on me.  But he did."  She took a 
breath.  "He did, and my partner shot him.  After it was all over, 
I couldn't help but wonder..."  She stopped.  "Never mind."

"Go on," the doctor urged.

Scully shook her head, "We both thought he was armed.  I never, 
for a moment, thought the gun wasn't loaded..."

"You couldn't help but wonder, what?  Agent Scully?"

"The revolver's chambers were empty, and knowing that now..." 
She paused, and looked away.  "Knowing that now, I couldn't 
help but wonder what would have happened if my partner 
hesitated pulling the trigger."

Mulder sucked his breath.  "You're blaming me?"

"No!  No!  Don't you get it, Mulder?"  She yanked her hand 
away, and looked straight at him.  "What would have happened 
to *you* if you'd hesitated?"  

"Scully..."

"That's enough for today."  Dr. Capelli's voice was firm.  

"Scully?"

"Enough."  The doctor raised her hand, and her voice.  
"That's enough for today.  We'll pick up that thought 
when we meet again."

They looked at each other, Scully's eyes imploring, his filled 
with questions.

"I have one more assignment for you."

They both slumped.  Scully shook her head; Mulder ran his hand 
through his hair, and sighed heavily.

"Something fun.  Do something together, outside of the office.  
Interact as friends."  She paused.  "You're best friends," she 
amended.  "Go bowling, or to a concert.  Someplace to have fun 
and not discuss this case, or any other."

Mulder shifted his eyes to the other side of the couch.  Scully 
looked up, and adjusted her hair behind her ear.

"You are friends," the doctor said as she stood.  "And it 
looks to me, like you are all the both of you have."  She 
opened the door for them.  "Go out and rediscover that."

They both stood, Scully looked up at him, and brushed his 
cheek with her fingertips.  He ran his hand gently down the 
curve of her spine to the small of her back, and led her out 
of the room.  The doctor closed the door behind them, and 
they silently walked down the corridor.   

After ringing for the elevator, he turned to her.  "You know 
what I do for fun?"

"Yes, and those movies aren't my idea of a good time."  He 
could see she was trying, but her heart wasn't in it.

"I'm talking about doing something fun, together Scully," he said.  
"Doctor's orders."

"Mulder, I know that Dr. Capelli told us to do something together, 
but I'm not sure I can."

"You remember batting a horsehair ball around, don't you?"  He was 
sounding pathetic, but plodded on.  "Let's go to a ballgame."

She shook her head and looked down.

"I'll buy you some peanuts and Cracker Jack."  He leaned over to 
catch her eye, but her gaze was locked to her shoes.

"Okay, forget it.  It was a crazy idea."  The elevator door opened 
and he stepped in.  "You don't even like baseball."

She followed him into the empty elevator car, and sighed softly.  
"All right.  I'll go."   Her eyes met his for an instant, and then 
she looked away. "I like baseball."

He touched her chin, and tilted her face up.   

"Scully, we have to," he said gently.  "We have to do this."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

 
"Look what I got, Scully.  Club box seats and a pass to the Eutaw 
Street parking lot."

"No way!" she exclaimed.

Scully had heard that parking at Oriole Park at Camden Yards was 
a hassle unless you had a pass for one of the reserved lots.  The 
tickets were good, but the parking pass was golden.

"How did you manage to get these on such short notice?"  she 
asked as they walked the twenty yards from his car to the gate.

"There are lots of things this F.B.I. badge can do, if you know 
how to use it."

"Please tell me you're kidding."

He smiled and nodded, but didn't answer.  After handing their 
tickets in at the gate, Mulder took a deep breath.

"Smell that, Scully?"  He closed his eyes blissfully.

She sniffed the air.  "Yeah, it's popcorn."

"Nope, that's the scent of America's National Pastime."  
He blinked.  "Even though it does smell like popcorn."

She watched him run over to buy a program for tonight's game.  
He was like a big kid, grinning from the moment he walked into 
the stadium.   She wanted to share his delight, and not ruin 
the evening for him.  He needed this.  No, they both needed 
this.  And he was her best friend.  

"I know you're not a big baseball fan," he called over to her.  
"But you have to admit, the crack of the bat, the roar of the 
crowd...it's magical." 

He was right; she wasn't a fan, but his happiness was contagious.  
He bounced from the concession stand to the souvenir shop.  

She smiled broadly as she accepted his gift of a large, orange 
and black foam finger with the inscription "#1."

"Cleveland Indians, Scully, and I hope we whip their ass."  He 
turned around to talk to her, but kept walking backwards, "Those 
Cleveland fans are animals!  Last time I saw a game at Javits 
Field, I thought they were going to lynch me!"

"How did they know you were an Orioles fan?" 

He laughed sheepishly as he stepped onto the escalator.  "It 
was the top of the seventh, and Cal 'Iron Man' Ripkin fired a 
line drive past third.  Two guys slid home, and I kind of gave 
myself away."

He got off the escalator and headed for the club box level door, 
and held it open for her, and several other revelers.

"How did you give yourself away?"  She shouted over the crowd.  
He stopped and smiled; his eyes twinkled.

"O!"  He put his hands in a circle over his head.

"R!"  Imitating the letter "R" he put his right foot out and 
made a smaller circle with his arms

"I!" He raised his arms over his head and clapped his hands. 

"I get it, I get it!"  Scully laughed.  She realized that it had 
been a long time since she laughed.  It almost felt normal.

Mulder turned and beamed at her.  She looked into his happy, open 
face, and smiled again.

"Our seats are over here," he said, touching her arm, then running 
his hand down to her wrist.  "Let's have the waitress get us some 
overpriced hot dogs and beer."

"I thought you were going to buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack."  
Her cheeks felt flushed, as she stared into his bright green eyes. 

"I'll buy you anything you want, but there's something you have to 
do for me."  His voice was serious, but the corners of his eyes 
crinkled in mischief.

"And what would that be?" she asked warily.

He leaned down and spoke into her ear.  His breath blew through 
her hair as he said, "You know about the seventh inning stretch, 
right?"

"I'm guessing it happens somewhere around the seventh inning?"

"Yes, it does."  He nodded.  "They always play John Denver's, 
'Thank God I'm a Country Boy.'  As a loyal fan, I demonstrate 
support for the team in my own, unique fashion.  And I'm asking 
you now to join me, because I hate to dance alone."

She laughed out loud, tilting her head back, and Mulder sat 
chuckling beside her.  A warm breeze blew through the stands, 
carrying the aromas of onions, mustard and Budweiser. Scully 
smiled up at the flashing big screen, and then down at the 
diamond below.   Organ music played, as a wave approached them 
from the right.  And at least for the next nine innings, life 
really was nothing but a funny, funny riddle.
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

SBC Part 8


Mulder felt that their therapy days were numbered.
'Baseball isn't just a game,' he thought.  'It's magic.'

Their 'date' had been more than fun; it felt like their
lives were coming back together again. The Orioles lost to 
the Indians, but the season wasn't over.  Mulder realized 
that his and Scully's season wasn't over yet, either.  
They filled the evening with playful banter, and affectionate
kisses on the cheek.  At the end, Mulder curled up in his
own bed, alone and happy.

Dr. Capelli was going to be proud of them, and he smiled as
he entered her waiting room.  Scully wasn't there, so he sat
on the sofa and opened a New Yorker magazine although he was
eyeing People.  There was still a part of him that wanted
Scully to think he was a distinguished Oxford graduate.

"Agent Mulder."  Dr. Capelli opened the door to her office
and smiled.  "You're early!  Agent Scully may be a few
minutes late.  She said something about a cup of coffee and 
a white silk blouse."  She smiled warmly, "We can chat for 
a few minutes if you like."

"Is that allowed?"

"It's my office."  She pointed to her chest.  "So I make the
rules.  Come on in."

Mulder immediately went to the couch and sat in the center,
leaving Scully the choice of either taking the gold chair,
or sitting close to him.  Dr. Capelli may have noticed that
as she asked, "Did you have a good time together?"

"I had a wonderful time.  I hope Agent Scully did, too."  He
smiled, leaned back and crossed his legs.  "Is that what
we're going to talk about today?  How bad the Orioles got
whipped by Cleveland?"

"I'm afraid not."  Her tone was polite, but something made
him a little anxious.

"Am I late?" Scully asked, entering the room. Her face was
a little pink, as if she had been rushing.  She looked
healthy and vital, and he couldn't keep a smile from
his face when she sat next to him on the couch.
"I had to mop up a bit."

"No, you're right on time," Dr. Capelli said.  "I was just
about to tell Agent Mulder that while you've made some
excellent progress, you still have some work to do."

"What more could we have to talk about?" Mulder asked.
"Why drag this on?"

"There are still some unresolved issues, Agent Mulder.
At the last appointment, Agent Scully made a comment
about the night of the shooting.  She said that she
wondered what would have happened if you had hesitated."

"What does that matter now?" Mulder asked.  "You stopped
us from talking about it last week."

"I did," Capelli said.  "You were both emotionally drained
at the end of that session.  But now, you're fresh and
the idea needs to be explored."

"Dr. Capelli, I know I brought that up," Scully said,
adjusting her blouse.  "But I don't think it's relevant 
any more.  As FBI agents it could be dangerous if we start
second guessing our actions.  In this case, the result of
that action was indelible."  She looked at Mulder.  "I was
wrong to bring it up."

"Excuse me, Agent Scully."  Dr. Capelli said softly.  "You
weren't here when I told Agent Mulder that this was my
office.  I would not presume to interfere with your
investigations.  Please don't tell me what is or is not
relevant."

Chastised, Scully tried to speak, but settled for an
embarrassed flush and a brief nod.

Capelli looked from one to the other and said, "I suspect
you both believe that the worst is behind you.  You realize
that your relationship is strong, and now it's safe to
ignore the past events."

Mulder nodded without realizing.

"You are wrong."

"Dr. Capelli."  Mulder's tone was sincere. "We know we need
to work through the details of the shooting, and that we
both," Mulder pointed to Scully, then to himself, "...we 
both need to come to grips with the fact that we had a hand 
in the death of a sad, harmless individual."  He lowered his
voice.  "I think it's perfectly normal for a law officer to
be upset over killing an unarmed man."

Scully gasped when Mulder used his carefully worded scam
line.  Dr. Capelli turned to her.

Mulder looked at Scully.  His steady stare didn't flinch.

"Agent Scully?"

Almost imperceptibly, Mulder shook his head.

"Dr. Capelli" Scully turned to the doctor.  "I was wrong
before, and I apologize.  It's obvious that we still need
your help."  Scully looked directly at Mulder, "My partner
is trying to bullshit you."

"Scully!" Mulder stood.

"Did you think I'd go along with you on that lie?  For a man
who claims that the truth is the most important thing in his
life, you were pretty quick to bury it just now."  She
pointed at him.  "I need to know that what we have is real,
and not just a cover-up we've carefully constructed to hide
our feelings.  I don't want to face what happened either,
but I need to know.  And I need to know what would have
happened if you hesitated in pulling the trigger!"  She
leapt to her feet and faced him.  "And you need to know!"

"Why do you want to rake all of that up again?" Mulder
asked, his voice rough.  His hands dug into her upper arms.  
"Let it rest."

"But that's just it, Mulder.  It will never be at rest and
neither will we.  Please.  Do it for me."  She lowered her
voice, forcing him to lean closer to her.  "Do it for us."

Her eyes held all the pain and fear he'd been so convinced
was behind them.  He felt his resolve begin to crumble.
His first reaction had been stalk out, irritated that his
bluff had been called.  But one look into those blue eyes
defeated him.

"All right.  I can't fight you both.  What do you want me
to do?"

He couldn't read Dr. Capelli's expression.  It might have
been satisfaction, or maybe relief.  He realized that he
was still gripping Scully's arms.  Afraid that he'd left
bruises, he released her and stepped back.

"Well, we have a three-person drama here, Agent
Mulder, and we have three actors.  Can you move that
chair back a bit?"

"What?  Didn't get enough stage time in your high school
drama club?"

"Why don't you set us up, Agent Mulder.  I'll play the
part of Phil."

"To really get into character, you'd need to avoid
bathing for a few months," Mulder said.  He made no
attempt to keep the irritation out of his voice.  "All
right, over by the office door--that's the door to
Phil's motel room."

"You said Phil was pacing in front of his door,"
Dr. Capelli said as she moved into place.

"Yeah.  He had the gun in his right hand and a bottle
of scotch in his left.  Scully, come over by me.  The
sofa is the car that we just got out of."

Dr. Capelli began to pace, cradling an invisible bottle of
scotch.  The air in the room grew spring-evening warm, and
the sofa and chairs faded into the background.

It wasn't difficult for Mulder to recall the motel with its
partially burned out name and the ugly orange doors.  In a
way, he'd never left.

Mulder blinked and suddenly, Dr. Capelli was holding a
half-empty bottle of Glenlivit in one hand, and a Smith and
Wesson revolver in the other.  The door to room #8 was open
behind her, and all the lights were on inside.  Scully stood
by the open car door.

Part of him knew that Scully and Dr. Capelli were speaking,
acting out the scene in slightly stilted dialogue.  But the
voices in his memory were clearer, sharper, more real.

"She thinks I'm nuts."  Sanderson nodded his head at Scully.

"No, Phil."  Mulder said aloud.  "She doesn't think you're
nuts. She wants to help you."

Scully stretched her arms out to her side showing that her
hands were empty, and walked around to Phil's right.

"I do, Phil."  She briefly glanced at his gun, but continued
circling.  "I'm here for you, too."

"You don't want to help!  Nobody wants to fucking help!  You
didn't listen when I asked you to help!"  Phil took a
menacing step toward her.

"Listen to her," he pleaded.  "I know she wants to help you,
and so do I.  Please, Phil, please don't do this."

Sanderson turned to him.  "I'm trying to save lives.  And
I'm the only one who fucking cares.  I'm going to kill
again, and I can't stop."  He sobbed and pressed the
revolver to his temple.  "I've lived so many lives, and
alone.  Always alone."

This time will be different, Mulder chanted to himself.
This time, even if only in his mind, Mulder promised that he
would make that connection to Phil, and breach that divide.

Mulder said gently.  "I know what it's like to feel
desperate and alone.  For most of my life I've been alone,
too.  I thought I'd never." He stopped to catch his breath.
"I thought I'd never find happiness.  But I did.  You can,
too, Phil.  Let me help, give me the gun."  He held out his
hand.

"Phil, we can solve this." Scully walked up to Sanderson.
"Let's talk inside."  She indicated the open door.

"Scully, get back."

"I don't know if I can do it if we're inside." Phil pushed
the gun firmly against his head.

He looked at Mulder.  "Do you really want to help me?"

Panic shot through Mulder as the realization hit.  He
started running across the small parking lot just as Phil
swung the revolver around and pointed it at Scully's head.

"You know I've killed in other lives, and that I'll kill
again."  He clicked the hammer back.  "You know what you
have to do."

"Phil." Mulder's voice was shaky.  "You don't have to do
this."

Mulder brought his gun to bear and took aim. Phil smiled
sadly and said, "Oh yes I do."

If only it could be different this time.  If only Phil
could sense his empathy.  In the split second of his
hesitation, the world exploded.

The shot was deafening.  Mulder staggered back two steps,
and immediately looked at his firearm.  He had pointed his
gun to the sky and not fired.  Scully's body slumped to the
pavement at Phil's feet; half of her head blown away by a
large caliber bullet fired at close range.

This isn't right.  If he didn't shoot Phil, everything would
be fine.  He closed his eyes, and shook his head. Everything 
would be fine.  It would be fine.  Mulder opened his eyes.

"No!  No, no, no," he cried out as he dropped to his knees
next to Scully's body.  Her remaining eye was open, staring
dully into the waning sunlight.  Phil's gun went off again,
and vaguely Mulder heard a body hit the ground behind him.

He covered his face with his hands, his body quaking with
silent sobs.  Hands were on him, rubbing his shoulders,
enclosing him in a safe world he couldn't possibly deserve.

He allowed Scully to hold him, realizing that she was
kneeling beside him.  Together they rocked, clinging
like children in the dark.  She was making soft sounds,
words of comfort that made no sense and didn't need to.

"What did you see, Agent Mulder?"  Dr. Capelli's soft voice
asked.

"I saw," he caught his breath and swallowed.  "I saw what I
believed would have happened if I didn't shoot first."

He turned to Scully.  "I believed, without a doubt, that he
would have killed you.  And, in my heart, I knew that he
wanted to die that night."  He looked up at Dr. Capelli.  "I
also know that I did what I had to do to cover my partner's
back."

He pulled Scully close and said softly, "Oh God Scully,
I know I killed a man who wanted to die, but it hurts."
He kissed her neck wetly.  "And I'm so sorry.

I've hurt you.  I've hurt us.   I'm sorry for everything."

"So, there was no other choice, was there, Agent Mulder?"
Dr. Capelli asked gently.  "You did the only thing you
could do.  Not the right thing, or the best choice, but
the only choice you could have made."

He pulled the ragged ends of his self-control together
and raised his head from the crook of Scully's shoulder.
Slowly, they separated, blinking at each other as if
they'd been thrust from the darkness into the light.

"I'm very encouraged," the Doctor said.  "You've
accomplished a great deal today, but I think you've both
reached your limit."

"That would be an understatement," Mulder said, brushing
tears from his face.  She was right, though.  He could
sense the cresting of a mountain.  The rest would be
downhill.

"I want you to spend time together this week.  Be peaceful
and reflective.  Connect with one another again, and
recognize that you are both alive."

"I think we can manage that," Scully said, smiling.

There is one more thing." Dr.Capelli looked at each of them.
"I'm going to give you the phone number of the leader of a
support group for law enforcement officers who've had
similar experiences."

"I don't know..." Mulder hesitated.

"You're not joiners, right?  You don't do the 'group
thing'.  But I want you to consider this.  No one, not
me or anyone else, can understand what you've gone through
like these men and women.  They've walked your path and
felt what you've felt."

She looked into their doubtful eyes and said, "Please think
about it."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
 

"Mulder, Dr. Capelli told us to do something pleasant.  This
is more like what we do at work."  Scully put her hands on
her hips and looked out over the shadowy hills.

He came up behind her and said, "Do you feel it, Scully?
There are energies all around here."  He placed his warm
hand on the nape of her neck, and looked around.

She didn't know what forces he was talking about, but
Mulder's energy weaved all through her.  She leaned into his
touch, as he caressed her skin with his fingertips.

They'd arrived a few hours earlier, when the late afternoon
sun had lit up the bright green of the newly sprouted
leaves. The new growth contrasted nicely with the dark green
of the long expanse of grasses and crisscrossed rail fences.

Relaxing on a blanket, they'd eaten a picnic supper: fried
chicken and potato salad liberally accompanied by white wine
in plastic cups.  Leftovers packed away, they now stood
surveying the moonlit battlefield.

"There are ghosts here, Scully.  Sightings are reported all
the time."  He gestured to the dark shadow of a rifled
cannon. "Considering that in 1862, 23,000 men died here in 
one day, it would make sense that a few restless souls 
still wander."

This trip to stay at the Piper House in the Antietam
battlefield was Mulder's idea.  As unnerving as it sounded
to her at first, she had to admit that is was pretty and
very peaceful.

"What a beautiful place to die," Mulder said softly.

"I hope not."  She reached up, tilted his chin down, and
kissed him tenderly.

He pulled her toward the blanket, and lay down, stretching
his long body out.  "Come on."  He patted the blanket.  "The
ghosts probably won't come out if they know we're looking
for them."

"Oh, is that like 'a watched pot never boils?'" she asked,
laughing as she dropped down next to Mulder.

"Something like that," he said, brushing a kiss along her
jaw.  "They're self-conscious."

His lips were soft as they pressed open-mouthed kisses on
her neck.  It tickled, and her laughter rang softly in the
night air.  His hand slipped under the edge of her
sweater, resting on her bare stomach.

She tugged his shirt up, her fingers hungry to touch his
skin.  The muscles of his back rippled, firm and strong under 
her hands.  She felt his warmth against her abdomen,
where the bared parts of their bodies met.   The sensation
was amazing, heat where they touched, cool where the night
air crept in.

"You know what would really distract the ghosts?" he asked.

"What?" she whispered fiercely.

"This."  He slipped his hand between their bodies and
quickly unbuttoned her slacks.

"That's what I love about you, Mulder," she moaned as he
drew her zipper down and began to drag her slacks over
her hips.  "You're all business."

His kisses were intoxicating as he continued to work on
removing her clothing.  Her hands weren't idle, moving
between them to free him from his denim prison.

"I'm not sure this is what Dr. Capelli was suggesting,"
she gasped as he positioned himself above her.  "She
said something about connecting with one another and 
being reflective."

"S'okay, Scully," he grunted, entering her.  "We're
following doctor's orders."  He paused, looked down 
on her, and smiled.  "We're connected, and the moon is
reflecting off my ass right now."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Epilogue
~~~~~~~

"Ready?"  

"As ready as I'm likely to get."

He and Scully stood on the sidewalk, holding hands and feeling
the warm evening breeze wash over them.  The bricks of Eleanor 
Roosevelt High School glowed like honey in the waning sunlight.

He wanted to be flippant--to suggest they play hooky and make
out in the car.  But they were way past that now, and they
needed to take the next step.

Two weeks ago, they'd had their last session with Dr. Capelli.   
She'd taken them as far as she could on their journey out of
hell.  The therapist had deemed them ready to return to work.
But she'd urged them again to seek the support of fellow
officers.

I don't know why I'm so tense about this," he said looking away 
from the building.  "It's not like we haven't hashed and re-hashed 
this into the ground with Dr. Capelli."

"This is different," Scully said steadily.  "We're wide open in 
front of these people.  They're all law officers, and have been 
where we are now."  She turned to him.  "Scamming won't work."

"And this is going to help us?"  he asked, trying not to sound 
pathetic.

Scully shrugged.  "I don't know.  I hope so.  It might be a 
relief, you know, not to have to explain things to these 
guys.  They already know."

Mulder squeezed her hand gently before dropping it.  He walked up 
to the large front door and held it open.

"After you."

He followed her through the door and down the hall, past pep squad
photo displays and a glass case full of trophies.  Eleanor Roosevelt
High smelled like every other high school he'd ever been in--of 
floor wax and boiled vegetables.   

They found room 103, pausing uncertainly at the open door.  A dozen
or so casually dressed men and women sat in a circle.  

"I'd never shot anyone before. I didn't feel like John Wayne or
Dirty Harry.  This wasn't a movie, where the cop shakes it off with
a few beers at the corner bar..."

The young man stopped speaking as he noticed Mulder and Scully in the
doorway, eyeing them with wariness.  He didn't look much older than 
twenty-five, with his casual clothes and short-cropped dark hair.

"Come in."  Mulder recognized the voice of the man he'd phoned the
day before.   "We spoke yesterday, didn't we?" he asked, smiling
in recognition, perhaps from the news coverage after the shooting. 
The burly middle-aged officer walked to the door.

"Come on in.  You're among friends now."

~~~~~~~

End  SBC

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

This has been an amazing journey, on several counts for us.   It's 
been a first collaboration for both TCS1121 and me, as well as a 
first WIP.   This story has been a true labor of love and a real 
joy for me to work with TCS--a woman who made me laugh every day.  
I'd like to thank all the people who took this ride with us, for 
helping us keep our enthusiasm and for making the experience so 
much fun--it's been a ball.  

Michelle--Please visit SBC and my other stories at: 
http://artwc.org/MichelleKiefer/


XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX 

It's always a little sad when the story's over, but what a ride 
it's been!  Thank you, readers, for your encouragement.  Thank you, 
Kel, for keeping us honest.  And, thank you, Michelle for writing 
this story with me.  

TCS--If you've missed any parts, within the week SBC will be posted 
in its entirety at my site:  www.angelfire.com/scifi2/xfilesfanfic/