From: Mallory610@aol.com
Date: Sun, 28 Nov 1999 01:15:41 EST
Subject: xfc: New:  "Waiting" by Mallory (1 of 1)
Source: xfc

From: Mallory610@aol.com

Title:  Waiting
Author:  Mallory
Classification:  VA, Scully POV
Keywords:  Scully, VA
Spoilers:  Amor Fati (missing scene vignette)
Rating:  PG-13 for language and implied violence
Distribution:  Anywhere
Feedback:  Yes, please send to mallory610@my-deja.com

Disclaimer:  The X Files and related characters are the property of 
Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox.  No infringement is 
intended.

Summary:  If we are harmed, it is terrible.  If those we love are
harmed, it is unpardonable.

Authors Notes:  This is my first fanfic, so tell me what you think.  
Special thanks to Nikki for your suggestions and comments.

*****

After I settled Mulder into the last of an innumerable list of 
hospital beds, I took a calculated risk -- I left his bedside.  
Under normal circumstances, I would never leave Mulder when he is 
injured, but these are hardly normal circumstances.  He will sleep 
for hours, exhausted from the events of the past few days and from 
the invasive procedure performed on him.

I have asked the Gunmen to stand guard in his room and I will 
return long before Mulder wakes, but now I need time alone to 
regroup.  My hands are shaking so badly that even Langly, who is 
usually oblivious to that sort of detail, has commented upon it.  
Thankfully, they all assume that it's simply a combination of an 
exhausting trip and worry over Mulder.  Those things are part of 
it, but the overwhelming reason is because I am enraged.

What has been done to Mulder fills me with a blinding, choking 
rage.  Before leaving his room, I stand at his bedside.  Careful 
not to disturb him, I look at him closely to reassure myself that 
he's alive.  The constant whispers and chirps of the machines 
attest to this fact, but I cannot overcome the need to confirm 
this for myself.  Taking a deep breath, I raise my eyes to 
examine the incision in his head.  A faint line of blood has 
seeped through the bandage covering the wound.  Suddenly I am 
blindsided by a primal desire to stand over the bodies of our 
enemies, to paint my face with their blood, to smear it through 
my hair and see it, slick and hot, dripping from my hands.  For 
an instant, I imagine the copper scent of blood hanging heavy in 
the air and saliva floods my mouth.

There is an indefinable point when rage becomes madness and deep 
within the rage that fills me, the darkness of madness writhes.  
Insanity lies within all of us, contained and controlled, kept at 
bay with talismans of family, friends, and comfort, but it remains 
nonetheless.

Waiting.

Now, in my living room, I'm trying to force that rage down down 
down beneath the cold layers of fear and professionalism that 
are my constant companions.  In an effort to attain a measure of 
calm, I am indulging in secret luxuries.  Before me are a glass 
of whisky and a pack of cigarettes.  The fiery burn of the liquor 
and the reek of the sulfur match seem appropriate to the hellish
situation we have endured and the harsh smoke filling my lungs 
suits my mood.

Placing my cigarette in the ashtray, I pick up a sheet of paper 
resting on the table in front of me.  On it are a list of names:  

CGB Spender
Alex Krycek
Diana Fowley

These are the people that I will execute upon Mulder's death.

This written list is hardly necessary, these names and their 
corresponding faces stalk my waking hours and rape my sleep.  
But I find it soothing to touch the paper, to trace my finger 
over the ink.  There is a certain comfort in holding madness in 
my hand.

I know what our enemies think of me.  That without Mulder I would 
be too weary and bereft to pose any real threat.  But they do not 
know me as well as they might think.  Torture and torment, grief 
and despair no longer tear at my resolve.  Instead, they temper 
the madness within me like fine steel.

If Mulder dies, there will be no respite for me.  Even if the 
Consortium were to simply leave me alone, Mulder would haunt me 
for the rest of my life.  Never willingly, for I do not believe 
that Mulder, even were it possible, would be so cruel as to 
actually *haunt* me.  But his death would, in effect, be my death.  
Whatever woman would survive that irrevocable loss would never 
again be *me,* only a shadow of Dana Scully would remain.  
Therefore, before the last of me is gone, I have decided that the 
ones I hold most responsible for the atrocities committed against 
Mulder will die by my hand.

Murder is something that they will not expect from me.  Special 
Agent Scully is too professional to consider such an extreme and 
Dana too pious to commit such a sin.  But Scully is more than 
capable of acting as executioner.

During my training at Quantico, I read an interview with a 
professional assassin that I found fascinating.  He said, "You 
never speak to the target.  All that Godfather movie "Michael 
Corleone sends his regards" stuff is bullshit, it only gives 
them time to react.  Besides, I've never taken out anyone who 
didn't know exactly why they were being hit."  

Such efficiency has always appealed to me.

The ringing of my telephone interrupts my thoughts and, as I 
reach for the phone, I hesitate.  As long as I don't answer,
Mulder is still alive.  He's alive until I answer the phone.

Bracing myself, I pick up the receiver.  It's Byers -- Mulder 
is not conscious but he is calling for me.  It seems there is 
no more time to rebuild my defenses.  I tell Byers that I will 
be there in a few minutes.  Striking a match, I touch the flame 
to the list of names and watch it turn to ash.

Mulder needs me.

Madness will have to wait a little longer.


--fini--