From Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk Sun Jan 05 11:55:28 1997
Please don't post to ATXC
____

"The First Stone 2: After the First Death", part 1 of 4 
by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk) 
 
RATING: PG 
 
CLASSIFICATION: XA 
 
SUMMARY: Three agents have killed themselves after suffering far  
less than Mulder has already suffered. As the danger grows, can 
Scully confront her  own guilt in time to save Mulder from his? 
____ 
 
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully and Skinner are the property of Chris  
Carter, 1013 and Fox and I torture them without permission but  
with no mercenary intent. 
 
FEEDBACK: Yes please. 
____ 
 
This is a sequel to "The First Stone." If you haven't read that,  
you might be rather confused. But then Scully doesn't really  
know what happened in that story either, so you could learn  
slowly along with her. 
 
The title, "After the First Death", is another shameless  
thieving from Robert Cormier, whose novel deals, along with  
other things, with the emotional aftermath of betraying someone  
under torture. 
 
I've classified it as "X", but it isn't really plot-driven,  
although there is a case in there somewhere. But the first story  
was "X", and I wanted them together on the archive.  
 
********** 
 
She was dead now. 
 
He bent over her body, holding her shoulder with one hand, as he  
slowly eased the knife out of her chest. The blood welled  
afresh, shining in the dim light like a pool of polished jet,  
and he watched it with a detached interest, though unable, now,  
to revel in it.  
 
"There." He smiled with satisfaction as he wiped the blade clean  
on a rag, then pocketed the knife. "Another one." 
 
It was so easy, murder. He was.... well, not quite proud of it -  
not that. But he was good at it - always had been. God had given  
him a talent, so who was he to....? 
 
He stood up suddenly, the toe of one foot catching her head so  
that it lolled over suddenly, a shining trickle of blood etching  
a deep path down her chin. 
 
He hadn't looked at her, not really.  
 
Crouching down, he held her chin in his gloved hand, tilting her  
face so it caught the best of the light, idly taking in her  
features, trying to pretend it mattered who she was, but knowing  
all the while she was of no importance. 
 
Pale skin. Blue eyes staring with the glazed openness of death.  
Lips that were doubtless once red. Hair.... 
 
A cat screeched, disturbed by his sudden laughter. 
 
God! Her hair! Even in this near-darkness he could see it. A  
deep vibrant red. It was so.... appropriate. He couldn't have  
done better if he'd tried. 
 
But he hadn't. He hadn't even looked. 
 
Once, it had been important. Once, just a month ago, even, he'd  
enjoyed what he did. Then, he'd drink in their terror, etching  
their every feature onto his mind. Running his finger lovingly  
over their dead faces, committing their every contour to his  
memory. Letting their fear soak into his pores, their screams  
replay themselves lovingly in memory. It was.... it was  
beautiful. 
 
He sighed, wishing it was like that still. 
 
But it could never be like that again, not while.... not  
until.... 
 
"Damn you!"  
 
Another face in his memory now, giving him no peace, haunting  
him with its continued existence, driving him. The hypocrite. It  
was his fault. Always his fault. 
 
"Why didn't you....?" 
 
It was wrong. _He_ was wrong.  
 
_Why_ hadn't he done it? He'd shown him - taught him. Honeyed  
words that none should have resisted, weaving their spell into  
his weakened mind.  
 
"You understand now," he'd told him, seen by his painful nod  
that he _had_ understood. "So how can you live with yourself  
now?"  
 
God! He'd taken him so close, leading him by the hand, slowly  
through the lesson like a child. He'd eased him all the way to  
the brink, the had left him alone, trusting him to take the  
final step by himself. He'd even left him a gun!  
 
So why _hadn't_ he? The others had - three of them who'd learnt  
the truth and done what was right. 
 
He stood up, sighing wearily. He was a man with a mission now,  
and killing was his duty - that, and teaching. 
 
The words of the priests of his childhood. "Let he who is  
without sin cast the first stone." The duty of exposing  
hypocrites. Judge not lest you be judged. Their lined faces,  
older and wiser than the earth to the eyes of a small boy. Their  
hands on his head, bestowing their blessing.  
 
It was his duty. 
 
It was all that mattered. 
 
He took the piece of paper from his pocket, pinning it to the  
woman's blouse, absently watching as the blood stained one  
corner. 
 
What did it take to push a finger to a trigger, a bullet through  
a brain? 
 
For he - the other, the hypocrite - he _would_ do it, he knew  
that. He'd been so close, that night a few weeks ago. Just a  
little push, that was all it needed. A little tiny push.... 
 
He _would_ do it. 
 
How could he do anything else, after _he'd_ finished with him?  
 
********** 
 
"It's so typical of him." Skinner half turned towards her as she  
walked towards him, a rueful smile on his lips. 
 
"What?" Scully frowned as she reached across the desk, groping  
under the scattered piles of paper for somewhere to put the  
steaming mug of coffee. She played back the last few minutes in  
her mind, wondering if she'd missed a thread of conversation.  
Truth was, her mind was seldom in the present, not now, not  
since.... 
 
"No!" She jolted with the force of her silent rebuke, letting a  
small splash of coffee fall on the desk, grateful that the  
accident offered her a chance to cover for her brief lack of  
composure. She mustn't think of that - not here, not now. Put on  
the professional front. Smile. Lie. Pretend all was well, and  
hope Skinner would back off and give them - and give _her_ - a  
few more days. A few more days....  
 
"I want to believe." She froze in the middle of mopping up the  
coffee, then relaxed, realising that Skinner was just reading  
from the poster in the wall, his voice strangely subdued. "It's  
so typical of him." 
 
She was silent, bending closer over the spillage, dabbing  
futilely at the edges of the puddle. It was something to do -  
something to focus on. When the pool of liquid was gone, then  
she'd have to look at him, have to face whatever he'd come to  
say. She wasn't ready. God, she wasn't ready. Just a few more  
days.... 
 
"He was so committed." She could hear Skinner's soft footsteps  
approach her back, hear the strange note in his voice again.  
"So... so _desperate_ to believe things. I...." A soft grating  
as a mug was picked up, then the sound of swallowing. "Sometimes  
I almost envied him his faith. Everyone... most of us.... we  
have such doubts...." 
 
"His beliefs never brought him comfort." She straightened up at  
last, knowing her voice was harsher than Skinner deserved, but  
not really caring. She knew what game he was playing, and she  
was not going to be lulled by his uncharacteristic confidences  
into betraying Mulder. 
 
"I know that, but he still stuck to them, even if they brought  
him pain. You know that. People admired his courage - his  
integrity - even as they laughed at his beliefs." His voice was  
close now, hard to argue with. His tone was so much like  
Mulder's, trying to convince her of a theory, that she half  
leant towards his voice, expecting to feel his soft touch on her  
arm. 
 
And then she realised. 
 
"Sir!" She took an angry step back, feeling the irritation blaze  
in her eyes. But there was shame there too - yet another  
betrayal to torment her conscience during the long solitary  
nights listening to the ghosts of the past. _She'd_ said it too,  
lulled into it by Skinner's flattering tongue. "He's not....  
He's still...." 
 
"But is he?" Skinner's voice was relentless as he leant forward,  
resting both hands on the desk. "Is he, Agent Scully?" 
 
Silence.  
 
She opened her mouth, but her mind was racing, unable to find  
any words. 
 
His fingers were spread wide, resting on a file. She clung to  
the image, unable to meet his eyes, wondering why the most  
inconsequential of images burn themselves into the mind like a  
brand. Could she ever look at Skinner's hands without feeling  
this.... this _helplessness_? 
 
"Yes!" She snapped the word out sharply, knowing even as she  
said it that she'd lost all credibility with her long delay.  
 
Don't let him pursue it. Don't let him pursue it. Her hand  
unconsciously crept to the cross at her throat, as she babbled  
her silent prayer. Please.... We just need more time. 
 
But the eyes still bored into her, cold and stern, impaling her  
on a spear of accusation. 
 
"He's just on medical leave," she managed at last, cursing the  
fact that her voice sounded so defensive - so unconvincing.  
"He's not long out of the hospital. God knows it's happened  
before. There's no reason to talk about him in the past tense." 
 
"Agent Scully." His voice was so soft, so considerate - so in  
contrast to the demand in his eyes. "You needn't lie to me." He  
glanced at the door, a wry smile on his lips. "There's no-one  
listening this time. You can tell me...." 
 
"There's nothing to tell. He...." 
 
Skinner held up a hand, halting her fiery protestation. "Agent  
Scully, I _know_ there's more to it this time. I know Mulder.  
Normally he can't wait to come back to work, even before he's  
fit for it. But this time...." He shrugged slightly, as if  
apologising for what he was doing. "I've read your report, Agent  
Scully. I know his injuries weren't that severe." 
 
Scully reached out a hand to hold onto the edge of the desk,  
shutting her eyes briefly to control herself, then opening them  
quickly when she saw again the branded image of that terrible  
night. 
 
There had been so little blood. 
 
It had bothered her, intensely, insanely. Her hands had hovered  
anxiously over his body, almost scared to touch him, her  
exhausted mind torn and confused. 
 
There had been so little blood. 
 
So why was his face twisted in agony? Why had he pulled away,  
whimpering in terror, retreating so deeply into himself that she  
couldn't even touch him? 
 
And why....? Oh God! That question that had made her stomach  
clench with dread then, which made her wake in sweat-drenched  
nightmares ever since. Why....? His cocked gun, inches from his  
outstretched hand. The memory of those tormented agents who'd  
died by their own hands.  
 
"Mulder." She'd whispered his name, touching his poor battered  
face with the softest of fingertips, trying not to notice how  
he'd flinched at her touch. "It's okay. I'm here." Hopes,  
prayers, hammering in her head like certainties. He was stuck in  
some nightmare existence still. He didn't realise who she was.  
Everything would be all right. 
 
Everything would be all right.... 
 
Had she ever been so naive as to believe that, even then?  
 
Could it have been all right, if she'd handled it any  
differently? 
 
Could it _ever_...? 
 
"No!" she muttered again, pulling herself away from that train  
of thought, knowing that she couldn't let herself break down,  
not in front of Skinner.  
 
"Damn it, sir!" She forced an anger she didn't really feel,  
knowing it was the only way - the only way to keep control. "He  
was hurt worse than most people are ever hurt in a lifetime.  
Just because it wasn't life-threatening doesn't make it  
nothing!" 
 
"I know it wasn't nothing." His eyes still didn't leave her  
face. "But I also know the worst of it wasn't physical." 
 
"It was...." She started so firmly, so determined to argue, but  
then she trailed off. Who was she trying to kid? Was it really  
Skinner she was trying to convince, or herself? Tell herself  
often enough that Mulder's problems would heal along with the  
cuts and the bruises and the torn muscles, and it would come  
true? God! It was the simple faith of a five-year old, not the  
realistic approach of a professional woman. 
 
How often could she hear his cries in her memory, and still not  
face the truth? 
 
"Don't touch me!" He'd whimpered it over and over as the  
flashing light had pulsed like a heartbeat, making his face a  
mass of red and deep shadow. "Don't touch me!" 
 
"Mulder. It's me. Look at me. I'm here." She'd been babbling  
wildly by now, refusing to leave his side even as the paramedics  
fussed round him, preparing to load him into the ambulance.  
 
"Don't touch me. Leave me alone. I don't... I mustn't...." His  
voice had been scarcely coherent - a torrent of words torn from  
the depths of his panic. "Pain.... Deserve it..... Don't  
stop..... Punishment." And then he'd tried to lash out at the  
paramedics, grimacing with agony as he tried and tried to flail  
his useless arms. 
 
"Mulder." Her voice had cracked with distress as she'd touched  
his hand again, knowing now that he couldn't fight her off.  
She'd scarcely listened to his words then, hearing them only in  
the endlessly tormenting memory. Then, she'd had enough guilt of  
her own. "I'm sorry." 
 
He'd shut his eyes tight, turning away from her voice, but her  
words had flowed across him like the tears which dripped onto  
his face.  
 
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I tried. I really tried. I should have found  
you before all this. There must have been clues. I should  
have.... You'd have found _me_, if I'd been.... I'm sorry,  
Mulder. Please look at me. Please.... I'm sorry." 
 
She shouldn't have. God! She knew that now - knew that every  
minute. She shouldn't have poured her guilt over him like that.  
It was so.... _selfish_. It was just.... He'd refused to look at  
her. He'd been though Hell and she hadn't rescued him. She'd let  
him down when he needed her. He blamed her. He felt betrayed.  
She felt guilty. So if she.... 
 
God! If only it had been so simple. 
 
If only she hadn't.... 
 
"Agent Scully." She blinked fiercely, driving back the tears,  
pulling herself through the tunnel of memories, anchoring  
herself in the present with Skinner's voice. His mug was half  
empty now. Had she been standing silent, lost on memory, for so  
long? 
 
"Sir?" She forced herself to speak, her voice deliberately calm  
and alert. She ran a hand across her hair, as if a well-groomed  
professional hairstyle would ensure a composed and professional  
state of mind. 
 
"I might be able to help." He took a step forward, raising a  
hand as if to touch her, but then let it drop again, as if that  
particular barrier was too much to break. 
 
"With respect, sir, I don't think you can." She forced herself  
to bridle at his suggestion, willing him to put on his usual  
mask. His voice was so sincere, so concerned. She didn't think  
she could take much more. Right now, she _needed_ professional  
detachment if her own mask of control was going to survive. 
 
He shook his head sadly, his eyes never leaving her face, but  
said nothing. 
 
And then it broke. 
 
"I.... _I_ can't help him, sir. I.... I don't know what's  
wrong." Her voice sounded so lost, so plaintive, but it was too  
late to worry about that. Was losing control in front of Skinner  
such a high price to pay if he could _really_ help Mulder? Maybe  
if she hadn't been so concerned at pretending she could cope -  
maybe if she'd asked for help before - then.... 
 
"You don't know?" Skinner looked genuinely surprised, his words  
interrupting her train of thought. "You mean, you _really_ don't  
know any more than you put in the report?" 
 
Scully nearly smiled through her rising tears at his tone of  
voice, thinking how long experience with Mulder had taught  
Skinner that particular lesson. "No, I don't," she began, then  
felt her voice cracking as the desperation of the past few weeks  
caught up with her. She'd never spoken about it to anyone, not  
even her mother. "He won't tell me anything. I want to help,  
but.... I can't push him. I can't." 
 
"Have you suggested he see a counsellor?" 
 
Scully did laugh then - a bitter laugh that was closer to  
hysteria, just one step away from tears. Skinner's voice was so  
sincere, so.... so ignorant. "Have I suggested he see a  
counsellor?" she repeated, wiping the moisture from her cheeks.  
"Of course I have. Everyone has." 
 
The earnest young woman who'd arrived at the hospital, just  
hours after he'd been found. "I'm Elaine Petersen," she'd said,  
as Scully had intercepted her at the door to Mulder's room. "I'm  
a counsellor with the FBI. Agent Jacobs asked me to talk to  
Agent Mulder." She'd looked nervous, and Scully had immediately  
bridled, wondering what rumours had been spreading about him,  
but she cut off a sharp reply just in time. Of course the woman  
had been nervous. Three agents had killed themselves, and  
everyone knew, although no-one spoke their fears aloud, that  
Mulder could go the same way. 
 
"I'll tell him you're here," she'd said simply, at last. To her  
shame, she'd felt almost guilty. If Mulder talked to anyone, she  
wanted it to be her. She still needed to know he didn't blame  
her. But, for his sake, she mustn't.... If he would talk to  
_anyone_.... 
 
And he _had_ talked. 
 
She knew she'd never forget the look of terror in his eyes, the  
incoherent horror that had rushed from his mouth. 
 
"No! I can't!" That had been clear, even if nothing else was,  
not at first. "Tell her to go. I can't!" 
 
"Mulder. You've been...." She'd found it hard to say the word,  
but knew she needed to get through to him. "You've been  
tortured. Of course you need to talk about it. It will help." 
 
"No!" More incoherent cries for a while, his thoughts rushing  
faster than his hoarse voice and drugged mind could articulate  
them. "She mustn't..... Can't.... Can't make it better. Need....  
I need to remember. Can't tell me it doesn't matter." 
 
"What doesn't matter?" She'd leant forward, trying to make him  
look her in the eyes, but his unfocused gaze had darted  
everywhere but at her. "What do you need to remember?" 
 
"I killed her!" He'd tried in vain to lift his hands, as if he'd  
wanted to tear at his eyes in horror, but they'd still been too  
damaged to move. "That girl.... I killed her. Murderer. She  
screamed. I don't know.... I killed her...." 
 
His voice had risen to hysterical screams, and she'd reached  
over and pressed the call button, speaking soothingly all the  
while. "A girl _was_ killed tonight, Mulder," she'd said,  
keeping her hand on his forehead even as he lashed his head  
around, trying to throw her off. "I don't know how you.... Maybe  
you heard someone talk about it earlier. But you didn't kill  
her. She'd been killed only an hour or so before you were found,  
and your injuries.... Mulder, you can't move your arms. You've  
been like that for _hours_ - we can tell. There's no way you  
killed her. Please don't.... I don't want to hear you talking  
like that again. Just concentrate on getting better.... please." 
 
Then the nurse had come in, and he'd soon sunk into a drugged  
sleep.  
 
But that.... that hysterical raving had been the closest he'd  
ever come to talking - to really talking - to her about what had  
happened. 
 
He'd never mentioned the girl again. And she, for her part, had  
never mentioned her either, scared of prompting another episode  
of the one she'd witnessed.  
 
Tiptoe tiptoe around the problem, avoiding all dangerous areas.  
Treat him normally and he'll soon act normally. Pretend that  
your own failure to rescue him left him with no scars that  
couldn't be healed in a few weeks. Carry on with the motions of  
life, and ignore the gaping hole at the centre. 
 
Oh God! She'd always thought she was so rational - so sensible.  
But what had she been doing? Ignoring what she saw. Ignoring  
what she felt. Ignoring what she _knew_ . Ignoring everything  
that didn't fit her own narrow view of how things should be. 
 
But not any more. Not any longer. It couldn't - it _wouldn't_  
carry on like this. She would.... 
 
"Agent Scully." Skinner's voice again, recalling her to the  
present. His voice was firm again, his face composed into his  
usual stern expression, but his eyes were kind, and she knew he  
understood. "This can't go on any longer, you know that. If he's  
fit to work, then he's got to come back. And if not...." 
 
He let the words hang, but she knew what he meant. Psychological  
disability. They both knew what a weapon certain people would  
make if that.  
 
"I'm sure I needn't remind you of the interest that is taken in  
Agent Mulder's career." Skinner's mouth twisted with distaste,  
his words echoing the train of her thoughts. "They're already  
using his somewhat.... irregular absence as an excuse. I've had  
to.... I can't protect him much longer." 
 
Scully smiled then, a sincere smile for the first time in days.  
She could read through Skinner's unbending exterior by now and  
knew he'd probably stuck his neck out a long way to protect  
Mulder already. "Thank you, sir," she said, simply. "I.... I  
don't know what will happen. I'll talk to him." 
 
Skinner nodded, but was silent. His hand moved to his jacket  
pocket, and he gave the impression of being about to speak, but  
said nothing. 
 
The grating of the mug on the desk was loud in the silence.  
Scully took a sip, but the drink was cold now. Glancing down,  
she realised she'd used Mulder's mug, an wondered if this too  
was an example of her denial. As long as his mug was in use and  
there were X-Files spread across his desk, then everything was  
all right? 
 
Or was she just clinging to something of his, subconsciously  
realising that he was never coming back? 
 
"What is it, sir?" She surprised herself by speaking aloud,  
meaning only to break that particular line of thought.  
 
Skinner took a deep breath. He half-pulled something from his  
pocket, then put it back, using the hand instead to pull off his  
glasses and wipe them carefully on a cloth. He seemed reluctant,  
almost embarrassed, to speak. 
 
"Is it something about Mulder?" she prompted, her voice rising  
with growing fear.  
 
"It's a case." Skinner put his glasses back, and reached into  
his pocket to pull out an envelope. "A murder." He pulled out a  
photograph, handing it to her for her to examine. 
 
Scully scarcely glanced at the picture. Just a crime scene  
photograph of a young woman, the cause of death immediately  
visible as a stab wound to the heart. Nothing special. Nothing  
to warrant Skinner's manifest awkwardness. There was something  
else, she knew it. 
 
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, trying to sound  
patient. 
 
"I...." He wouldn't meet her eye. She'd seldom seem him look  
awkward before. "I needed to know if Mulder was coming back  
soon. That's why I came down here. It... it affects this case." 
 
"Who is she?" A terrible dread was rising inside her. God! It  
wasn't _her_? She stared at the photo again, but couldn't tell.  
It didn't look like her, but there was no saying how an eight  
year old would grow up. 
 
"No-one." Then Skinner winced, as if ashamed of his words. "I  
mean, no-one connected to Mulder, as far as we can tell." 
 
But his tone held a "but." 
 
"So why....?" 
 
"There was a note." Skinner's tone was grim as he reached into  
the envelope and brought out another piece of paper. "I wanted  
to show it to Mulder first, but if he.... if he's got....  
problems then perhaps you should see it first and decide whether  
he should be told." 
 
Scully reached for the note, noticing with surprise how the  
paper trembled in her grip.  
 
It was a torn-off sheet of white paper, with a few words  
composed of letters cut out of newspapers. It was so cliched -  
so theatrical - as to almost be funny, had it not been for the  
words. 
 
"Mulder. Another one. Can you still live?" 
 
The paper floated to the floor as she stared at Skinner in  
horror. 
 
How could she tell him? 
 
The gun just inches from his fingertips. His pain-drenched eyes  
that hadn't looked at her, not really, not since.... since  
_then_. The blood and brains of the other agents, scattered  
across the carpet. And sobs, always the sobs - crying, weeping  
heartbreak of the woman left behind, seeking comfort where there  
was no comfort possible. 
 
Would _she_ cry like that, soon? 
 
God!  How could she tell him? 
 
********** 
 
end of part 1 



From Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk Sun Jan 05 11:56:47 1997
Please don't post to ATXC
____

"The First Stone 2: After the First Death", part 2 of 4
by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk)

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: XA

SUMMARY: Three agents have killed themselves after suffering far 
less than Mulder has already suffered. As the danger grows, can 
Scully confront her own guilt in time to save him from his?

**********

There were always screams in the darkness now, but through them  
this time was a voice - her voice - weaving through the night  
like the softest strands of silk, lulling the screams into near  
silence. 
 
"Mulder. It's me." 
 
He'd lived, breathed, sustained himself by her voice back then,  
when he'd first been taken to that darkness which still held  
him. The serpent voice in his ear. The pain of body and mind.  
The fear. But through it all the memory - her voice in his  
memory - urging him to be strong, telling him she was proud of  
him, that she knew he wouldn't give in. 
 
God! How could he have....? How could he ever look at her....?  
Why had she ever trusted....? 
 
He sank deeper into the couch, fingers sinking into the cushion  
he clasped to his stomach, muscles white and aching with the  
tension. 
 
"Mulder. Please pick up the phone. We need to talk." 
 
Her hope and sincerity pulsed through the silence like his heart  
beat. So warm. So human. So.... so _Scully_. 
 
The screams died. The sheets of blood washed away until he was  
alone in the dark, alone with her voice on the machine, calling  
him towards life. 
 
Go away. Don't talk to me. Leave me alone. I don't want to  
tell.... 
 
Please don't leave me. Speak to me. I need your voice. I  
_shouldn't_..... 
 
"We need to talk." 
 
We need to talk. God! We need to talk.... 
 
Those words, endlessly rehearsed in memory, whispered over and  
over with a voice hoarse with tears and lack of use.... 
 
Scully, I killed a girl. I'm a murderer. I.... I should have  
told you weeks ago. I should have told everyone. I should have  
confessed. That was the right thing to do. I tried. I really  
tried, back then when everything was red and swimming with pain  
and drugs. I told you, but you didn't believe me. But then, when  
I woke up, when I saw your eyes.... 
 
I couldn't, Scully. I was so weak. I'm still so weak.  
 
But I can't hide from the truth any longer. 
 
I killed her, Scully. She's dead, and I killed her. I.... I  
didn't hear her scream then, but now, ever since.... screaming  
in every possible imagination.  I.... I don't deserve to.... 
 
But her _eyes_.... Scully's eyes, hearing his confession. 
 
Mulder, it's not your fault. Oh, she'd try to convince him, try  
to soothe him with false words of comfort. Mulder, _I_ still  
trust you. I'll stand by you, even though.... 
 
On and on, endlessly in his imagination, the words she'd say  
when he told her. 
 
But her eyes.... Cold. Hard. Wary. Shuttered against him.  
Withdrawing, like her touch. Her hand hovering over his arm, but  
never touching him, not now she knew. Her voice, duller and  
duller with each day, calling him less and less until at last,  
soon, she'd leave him for ever. 
 
Oh God! He deserved no less, he knew that. 
 
But he couldn't. Not yet. He _couldn't_. He had to, but he  
couldn't.  
 
"Scully!" 
 
He spoke aloud now, his voice no louder than the screams that  
haunted his imagination.  
 
"Scully...." 
 
He wiped a hand over his face, feeling the dampness which was so  
like blood - which should have been blood. The red blood of her  
innocence, proclaiming his sin for all to see. The red blood of  
his guilt, trickling from his own skull, torn apart by his  
bullet. 
 
"Scully...." 
 
I'll tell you, Scully. I have to tell you. Tonight....  
Tomorrow.... Soon.... And if you leave me, then.... then that's  
only right. I have to live with this. I was weak back then, but  
now I must be strong, whatever the cost. 
 
But it's _so_ difficult. 
 
"Scully. I.... I.... Help me." 
 
But her voice was gone, and the screams filled the darkness  
again. 
 
********** 
 
It was ringing again, and the screams rose shrilly to blend with  
its cruel mechanical tone. Two.... Three.... Four.... 
 
"This is Fox Mulder. Please leave a message." 
 
The voice was from a life-time ago - from a time before the  
darkness, before the voice, before.... before the truth. 
 
Not again! I can't.... Scully, I'll have to tell.... I'm not  
ready. Just give me a few more hours.  
 
"Mulder, _please_ pick up the phone. We need to talk. I.... I  
realised today.... I know something's wrong. I was wrong to  
ignore it. I.... I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm sorry...." 
 
It was sincere, level, controlled - but he knew her. Barely  
there at all, a slight tremor. A catch in her voice. A slight  
hoarseness as if she'd been crying. 
 
Oh God, Scully! I _can't_. I'm sorry. What was I thinking of? 
 
Her voice, entwining in his memory, cutting through the haze of  
pain, of flashing lights, of the unheard screams.  
 
"Oh Mulder, I'm sorry. I should have found you." Liquid had  
fallen on his face, adding fresh guilt to his soul. "I'm sorry.  
I tried. I couldn't find you. I'm sorry." 
 
And then, sometime later, her words conveyed with a soft hand on  
his forehead, a firm voice like a beacon in the drugged  
whiteness. "You didn't kill anyone, Mulder. Don't let me hear  
you saying that again. Please." 
 
She blamed herself. Noble, misguided, selfless Scully, blaming  
herself when no-one could ever say it was her fault. 
 
How could he have thought of telling her, as if his conscience  
was the only thing that mattered, as if the only reason for  
silence was so that _he_ could enjoy a few more days secure in  
the knowledge that she didn't hate him, not yet? 
 
Tears falling from her eyes like so much rain, hair hanging in  
lank tangles, choked with guilt. I should have stopped you,  
Mulder, she'd cry. I should have tracked you down, and stopped  
you killing her. It's _my_ fault, as much as yours. I.... How  
can I be happy again? 
 
"No, Scully! Not that. You're wrong!" 
 
Her words reached out from the darkness like knives, slashing  
into his face, drawing a trail of tears. 
 
"I won't tell you, Scully. I can't risk _that_." 
 
He wrapped his hands tightly round his knees, rocking to and  
fro, bracing himself against the onslaught of her tears. The  
screams were still there - the screams were always there - but  
now they seemed to come from her mouth, to reflect her pain. 
 
"I'm sorry, Scully." 
 
Breathing, soft and broken, waiting.... Tired beyond finding  
words, but still patient. Waiting for him to speak.... 
 
Scully, I _must_ tell you. I _can't_ tell you. You.... you'll  
blame yourself. I can't.... tears in your voice. I must.... Tell  
you I'm okay. I'm okay. 
 
Hard plastic beneath his fingers. It would take so little to  
pick it up, to talk.... 
 
How are you, Scully? I'm okay. Yes.... Sorry I'm not back at  
work. I.... It still hurts, Scully. Just give me a little more  
time. I'll be okay. Just a little more time.... 
 
Calm. Calm. Deep breaths. Keep the voice level, unconcerned.  
Talk quickly, firmly, then put the phone down before she can ask  
questions, before you break down, and then cry in the darkness  
surrounded by the screams. 
 
His fingers, stroking the plastic, feeling the closeness of her  
voice. They still burnt with the memory of the trigger, his mind  
still bracing itself for the touch of the bullet. Just a little  
touch then and he could have finished it. Just a little touch  
now and he could.... what? Was there _any_ way out, except....? 
 
If only he'd pushed it that little bit further back then, back  
before he'd had time to think, back before he'd realised.... 
 
Oh, it was the coward's way out, he knew that. He had to live  
with his guilt. He had to suffer. It was only just. 
 
But it was _so_ difficult. 
 
********** 
 
It was the softest of knocks - the merest of touches on her  
knuckles. 
 
She'd _thought_ she was prepared. That quick glance in the car  
mirror before getting out. A hand smoothing her hair, rubbing  
her eyes, stroking out the creases in her clothes. A deep  
breath, straightening her back, drawing her emotions so deep  
inside that nothing would crack the porcelain mask.  
 
She was ready. She was prepared. Think that. Act that. _Believe_  
that. 
 
So why was the knock so quiet, so soft, so.... so much as if she  
didn't want an answer at all, but was rather seeking an excuse  
to run away from the truth for another day, clinging to the  
justification that at least she'd _tried_? 
 
"Come on." She berated herself silently, cursing her dread.  
"It's only Mulder. What can....?" 
 
What can go wrong? 
 
"God!" 
 
She knocked harder this time, with all the force of her silent  
cry. The sound echoed in the silent apartment, full and  
resonant, and she leant forward, struggling to hear the sounds  
of his proximity, but heard nothing. Just an aching cavern of  
nothing. 
 
"Mu...?" 
 
She coughed, forcing her voice to rise above a croak, forcing  
herself to speak as if she meant to be heard. 
 
"Mulder? It's me." 
 
No answer. No.... nothing. 
 
What was he thinking, sitting in the darkness? Hating her -  
_blaming_ her? Blaming himself? For.... for what? 
 
"Mulder. Please let me in. I don't want to...." 
 
Didn't want to push, of course - to force herself onto his pain,  
closer than was comfortable, unlocking the door to the darkness. 
 
But she had to. Of course she had to. It couldn't go on, this  
touching him with kid gloves, skirting round the problems,  
hoping they'd go away. 
 
"I'm coming in, Mulder." 
 
His key was gripped in her hand, hot and slippery now, held in  
aching white fingers. She hadn't been aware of pulling it out,  
but she'd known - some part of her must have known - that it  
would come to this. 
 
The metal clash of the key broke the silence, harshly, cruelly,  
and she started, filled with foreboding. 
 
It would work. It would work. It _had_ to work. Ask the right  
questions. Listen. Talk. Hold him in the darkness. Comfort  
him.... And then he'd smile, shakily through his tears, and  
together they'd heal each other - would face off the problem  
rather than hiding from it. 
 
But what if....?  
 
What if she couldn't....? What if he wouldn't....? What if it  
was too....? 
 
Skinner's voice, grim in her memory. "It can't go on much  
longer, Agent Scully. If he's not ready to come back, then...."  
 
Dark machinations of faceless enemies, closing the door of his  
career in his face.  
 
Dark visions of possible futures, speaking with control in her  
voice and grief in her heart. Mulder, my ex-partner. Mulder....  
He was.... Here lies... 
 
God! She'd _forgotten_! 
 
Black and red and white. Black ink and red blood and white  
paper. "Mulder, another one. Can you still live?"  
 
And the _gun_.... 
 
"Mulder. I'm coming in." 
 
The keys trembled in her hand, shivering from her grasp, drawing  
the few seconds out into an aching eternity of a door she  
couldn't open - a door she _had_ to open. 
 
Quick quick. Turning, turning.... The death-knell clunk of metal  
as the lock slid home. Shaking touch on the door handle,  
pushing. Eyes shut for a second as she summoned up the courage,  
then open again, ready to face whatever she had to. Pushing open  
the door, stepping forward, and.... 
 
The flickering wings of darkness whispered in the silence like  
her own breath. 
 
"Mulder?" 
 
There was the smallest of creaks and he moved on the couch, but  
no other sound. 
 
"Mulder?" 
 
She crossed the room, steps ringing with a confidence she didn't  
feel. She'd intended to go right to his side, but the invisible  
barrier reached out, sapping her of strength, bringing her to a  
shaky halt in the middle of the room. 
 
"Mulder....!" 
 
There was a desperate note in her voice now, and she swallowed,  
hearing the sounds loud in the silence, trying to resume to  
mantle of control. 
 
"We need to talk." 
 
Silence. A car passed in the street below, and the light touched  
his face for a second, but then it was gone. 
 
"Mulder....!" 
 
"Scully." His voice was cracked, hoarse. "I'm sorry. You  
shouldn't have had to come round. I should have answered the  
phone, earlier. I should have...." 
 
"Mulder." She took a step forward, fighting the barrier, and  
knelt on the floor beside him. "It's okay. I wanted to come.  
I... We need to talk about this. We should have talked weeks  
ago. I.... I'm...." 
 
I'm sorry. That's what she wanted to say, but she bit it back  
just in time. Oh, she wanted to apologise - needed to. But she  
knew him. He'd only take responsibility for her guilt, adding  
the burden of it to his own pain. It was time to deal with _his_  
problems, not her own guilt - not yet. 
 
"I care about you, Mulder. I want to help," she said at last,  
considering her words carefully. 
 
"I don't _need_ help - not that!" There was a strange note in  
his voice, almost of panic.  
 
A stab of anger rose to the surface, sharp and unexpected. God!  
It had cost her so much, these last few weeks, and he still.... 
 
"Mulder." She exhaled sharply as she spoke, hearing the  
exasperation in her voice. "Mulder," she continued, more  
quietly. "That's not true. You're.... Even Skinner's noticed." 
 
"He wants me to leave the Bureau." It was not phrased as a  
question, and his dull tone was touched with the faintest note  
of.... of hope? 
 
"Damn it, Mulder, that's not what I meant." The words snapped  
out before she could stop them.  
 
Her breathing sounded deafening in the sudden silence, and she  
dug her nails into her palls, whispering a silent mantra of  
control. 
 
Another car passed outside, and she took advantage of the brief  
light, reaching out for the switch and bathing his face in the  
soft glow of lamp light. 
  
"Mulder." She raised a hand towards him, then let it fall again,  
remembering his anguished cries of a few weeks ago. She tried a  
new tack. "Why don't you come back to work? It must be better  
than hiding here, brooding. It would give you something to think  
about - something other than.... what happened." 
 
She leant forward eagerly, only now realising the full potential  
of this solution. Give him something to think about - a problem  
to occupy his brain. Get him away from the darkness of his own  
solitude. Pull him slowly back towards life, and then, when he  
was happier, confront what had happened. It was perfect. It  
was.... 
 
"No!" He jumped back as if he'd been scalded, a look of panic in  
his eyes. "I can't!" 
 
"But...." She was stammering, incoherent with the force of his  
reaction. "Why not?" 
 
"I can't. I just can't." His arms were tightly wrapped round his  
middle and he was rocking to and fro, as terrified as she'd ever  
seen him. "How can I ever....? It's wrong. I can't. I...." Then  
he moved his head sharply, staring wildly at her, although he  
didn't look her in the eye. "Don't ever ask me again." 
 
"But, Mulder.... Does this mean....? Are you....?" She couldn't  
find the words to express her shock. He was never coming back?  
He was giving up what was always his whole life? "You're not  
thinking straight. You must...." 
 
"No!"  
 
He was out of the couch and across to the window before she  
could stop him, before she could even move. For a moment she  
felt real terror, but then he just stopped, resting his head on  
the glass, his body turned against her, shutting her out. 
 
"Come away. Come back." Her voice was so little, so plaintive,  
so unlike her own. She'd not intended this. She'd never intended  
this. She'd be all calm, all control. But this... It was  
bothering her intensely, this closeness to the window. She still  
saw that gun in the darkness of her every night. 
 
He turned round then, and he smiled, though there was no humour  
in it - no real attempt to look at her. "I'm okay, Scully. I  
wouldn't. Please don't worry. You know I.... I can't. I  
mustn't."  
 
She stood up slowly, wondering if she should go to him. She knew  
he was trying to smile reassurance, but the desperation in his  
last words chilled her blood, depriving her of words. 
 
Silence.  
 
She clenched and unclenched her fists, feeling the nails red in  
her palms. Should she ask? Could she ask? 
 
"Look, Mulder. I need to know. _We_ need to...." She took a deep  
breath, forcing her voice steady. "What happened, Mulder? When  
you were.... gone?" 
 
There was a distant voice in the corridor, a life-time away,  
swelling louder then fading away into silence. 
 
"Mulder? Please...." 
 
"I don't..... I can't...." His breathing came in shallow gasps  
and she could see his muscles, tense at the back of his neck.  
"I'll tell you, Scully. I will." His voice was desperate, but he  
was turned away again so she couldn't judge the truth in his  
eyes. "Just.... Not yet. Please. Just give me a few more  
days...." 
 
"But...." 
 
"Please!" It was a cry of such anguish that she knew in that  
instant that to push him would be to lose him. 
 
"Okay, Mulder." She put a smile in her voice, though it was the  
hardest thing she'd had to do. "Tomorrow. But I _will_ come,  
Mulder. I'll come, and we'll...." She touched him gently on the  
shoulder, to quick for him to shake her off. "We _will_ solve  
this, Mulder. I'm sure of it." 
 
But her treacherous hand reached into her pocket and fingered  
the blood-stained note, and she knew with a terrible certainty  
that she was wrong. 
 
**********  
 
Dead eyes were staring at him, surrounding him. 
 
The deadly slash of bone, searing his eyes with its whiteness.  
Grey rancid flesh, peeling, dripping. And the smell of it - the  
_stench_ of it.... 
 
"I.... I'm sorry...." 
 
He tried to speak, but the stench choked him, strangling his  
words. They gave no sign of hearing him. 
 
"Forgive me...." 
 
But they came forward, ever advancing, ever relentless, their  
dead eyes filled with accusation. 
 
"You judged us." Wailing, pounding hammer blows from all sides,  
filling his being. "You _killed_ us." 
 
Then a face rushed forward from the dead mass, surging up close  
so it surrounded him, smothered him. 
 
"You killed me, and didn't look back." In death, John Barnett's  
voice had lost its mocking laughter. It was steel - sharp and  
deadly. "You _judged_ me." 
 
And a thousand searing fingers of bone reached out and raked his  
face. 
 
"My blood is on your hands too - my agony." Luther Lee Boggs had  
no face left to stare with, but his voice was terrible. "You  
wrote your profile with so little thought for _me_. But you  
killed me - murdered me with the stroke of a pen. You didn't  
even bother to watch." 
 
"Didn't bother.... Didn't care.... Didn't matter....." The  
wailing chorus of death. "You judged us of no worth. You killed  
us." 
 
"I'm s...." 
 
He tried to speak, tried to make a sound, but the voices swelled  
up like the surging wave of torture. 
 
"Do you want to see how we died?" 
 
The screaming hands pinned him down, pulling back his head,  
fingers of bones holding open his eye-lids, making him watch. 
 
"_Do you_?" 
 
And then a thousand voices laughed - a sound so terrible that he  
wanted to scream with the horror of it all, but the dead fingers  
clamped around his throat would allow him no air.  
 
And all the while, he watched.... 
 
A bullet, burning through the brain, slicing through the  
heart.... The stench of burning flesh in the electric chair....  
Choking, burning, dying in the gas chamber....  
 
He saw them all. He felt them all. He _died_ them all. 
 
"You judged us." Again and again, rising to a crescendo of  
agony. "You judged us." 
 
He was dying. The screaming, the voices, the stench, the  
horror.... He was dying. He deserved it, but he was dying. He  
_couldn't_ survive this.... 
 
And then everything fell away and he was alone, floating in the  
soft darkness. 
 
Alone. 
 
"Where are you? Not alone.... Please, not alone. Not alone for  
ever...." 
 
But there was no sound from his own voice, no sound even of his  
own breathing, no.... nothing. 
 
"Help me. I know I don't deserve it, but I can't.... Help me,  
Sc..." 
 
"You were so arrogant." Tears welled up in his eyes as he felt  
the relief of the familiar voice. Not her, but _him_. His  
teacher. The instrument of his just punishment. "You _judged_  
people. You thought you were so superior." 
 
He nodded, feeling his muscles relax. He knew what was coming.  
He'd relived this moment a thousand times and revelled in the  
security of it. It was the certain truth in all his doubts. 
 
"But you're not. You're not superior to them at all." 
 
He was mouthing along now, soaking up the well-worn words.  
 
"You've killed now. You're just like them. Can you judge again?" 
 
It was a rhetorical question. What other answer could there be?  
But he answered still, filling his lungs with the stench-filled  
air and shouting with all his might. 
 
"No. No, I can't." 
 
But his lips wouldn't move. His voice wouldn't come. He had to  
answer - _had_ to - but he couldn't move, couldn't speak. 
 
"No!" 
 
He summoned up all his strength, knowing suddenly that  
_everything_ depended on his answering. But he was powerless  
against the darkness which surged up to him and around him,  
pushing him up into.... 
 
Where? 
 
The feel of leather beneath his cheek. Soft grey light from  
behind him. Square shadows of pictures on the walls. The blank  
staring screen of the television. 
 
Nowhere. Nowhere real. 
 
********** 
 
end of part 2 



From Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk Sun Jan 05 11:57:41 1997
Please post to ATXC
_____

"The First Stone 2: After the First Death", part 3 of 4
by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk)

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: XA

SUMMARY: Three agents have killed themselves after suffering far 
less than Mulder has already suffered. As the danger grows, can 
Scully confront her own guilt in time to save Mulder from his?

**********

Someone was watching her. 
 
Scully shuddered, pulling her gaze from the blood-stained piece  
of paper, struggling to focus on something - anything - other  
than the terrible message of death clutched in her aching  
fingers. 
 
Someone was watching her. 
 
She felt exposed suddenly - vulnerable in the pulsing red lights  
of the police cars and ambulance like a rabbit frozen in  
headlights. Of course people were watching her. Dozens of  
people, crowding forward with looks ranging from pale-faced  
horror to near relish, their eyes boring into her back. Oh, it  
wasn't her they were watching, she knew that. She was of no  
interest to them. She was alive. But still it felt like....  
like.... 
 
She shivered again, taking a few steps closer to the police car,  
closer to the other officers, but they showed no inclination to  
talk. She was the incomer - the pushy fed who'd intruded on  
their turf, demanding she be called the minute anyone discovered  
a dead body with a note addressed to Mulder. 
 
She hadn't expected it to be so soon. 
 
It changed things, this second note. The first one she could....  
oh, she knew she'd have to tell him, but it wasn't urgent - it  
could wait until he was better able to cope with it. But this  
one....  
 
"Oh God!" She passed a hand over her brow, knowing by the quick  
interested glance from the police officer nearest to her that  
she'd spoken aloud. 
 
Nearly nine o'clock. Twenty-four hours since she'd left him,  
promising to return the next day - today. She'd have to go  
round. She'd have to.... 
 
But if she told him, what then? Could he live with the guilt -  
with the messages soaked with the blood of innocents? 
 
But if she didn't, and he found out later, many deaths later,  
that he could have stopped them all....? 
 
The gun again, shining in her memory, pulsing in the red  
flashing light. His finger was so close to the trigger this time  
- _so_ close. 
 
She reached for the note again, though she knew its words by  
heart now - knew she'd never ever forget them. 
 
"Mulder. Still alive? You kill one every day." 
 
They pulsed on the paper, sucking her into their world,  
narrowing her vision so that nothing else existed. Oh, she  
wanted to be free - she wanted _him_ to be free - but there was  
no escape. 
 
No escape.... 
 
Her fingers ached with the sudden urge to rip the paper to  
shreds - to throw it so far away that it would never haunt their  
lives again. But it was evidence. Its terrible words had to be  
preserved - had to be examined and analysed and tested by  
strangers who knew nothing of the true horror they contained. 
 
"Agent Scully?" A voice from a world away dragged her back to  
the present. It was one of the police officers. "Can we take her  
away now?" 
 
She turned towards the voice, clearing her throat to answer, but  
as she turned her gaze fell on the crowd and she saw a face that  
was vaguely familiar. 
 
"Agent Scully?" The man's hostility was poorly concealed as he  
prompted her silence. 
 
"Oh.... sorry. I thought I saw...." She shrugged, turning  
briefly towards the officer with a troubled smile of apology.  
"It was nothing. What was that you were asking?" 
 
And when she could look once more at the crowd, the face was  
gone. 
 
Probably no-one. 
 
********** 
 
He smiled.  
 
He was close now.  
 
Soon the burden would be removed - the duty would be performed.  
Although it gave him no pleasure now, he could still smile at  
the prospect as he would at nearing the end of any task. Soon,  
he could go back to what he _really_ wanted to do. Soon, he  
could.... 
 
But when the other was dead and his duty performed, would he  
then feel again the joy of killing, feel the exquisite pleasure  
of blood glistening in the night? Or was that now gone for ever  
- another crime on the head of the man who had to die - a man  
who deserved to die like no other?. 
 
He sighed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting.  
No matter. The time for that would come. For now, there was  
something more important to think about. 
 
It wouldn't be long now. 
 
He seen her hair glowing in the night - recognised the face of  
the woman he'd watched in the restaurant just before.... before  
it had happened. She was still there now, clutching his note,  
directing the scene.... 
 
He chuckled grimly, absurdly pleased that he could still feel a  
spark of the old pleasure. Directing the scene! _He'd_ directed  
the scene. He'd chosen the place. He'd shed the blood. It was  
his handiwork that was the centre of attention - _his_. 
 
And he would direct the aftermath too. 
 
She would come soon. The ambulance had gone now. The police cars  
were moving. She would come soon. 
 
And he would be waiting.... 
 
********** 
 
"Scully!" Mulder rose from the couch, speaking her name in a  
hoarse cry, almost of panic. "What's wrong?" 
 
"Nothing." She shook her head in surprise. "Nothing's wrong." 
 
God! Everything was wrong - everything. But nothing like that -  
nothing to cause the look of terrified concern on his face as he  
reached out a tentative hand towards her. 
 
"There's.... there's _blood_...." 
 
She stared at him, immobile, not understanding. 
 
"There's blood?" His voice was shaky, rising like a question.  
"On you? On your...?" 
 
The horrible realisation hit her like a physical blow. His tone  
of voice...! If his waking nightmares were so bad as to make him  
doubt reality, then....  
 
"Blood?" She cut off that thought, following the direction of  
his horrified gaze. Then she saw it - a smear of blood on her  
sleeve. "Oh. I didn't see...." She forced a smile. "It's okay,  
Mulder. It's not mine. It's nothing." 
 
"Why is there blood on your sleeve?" His voice was hoarse and  
desperate. 
 
"It's nothing, Mulder. It's not mine." 
 
But she was clenching her fists tight as she spoke, as she  
whispered a desperate silent prayer. Please don't let him pursue  
it. Let him drop it. Please.... 
 
"Why is there blood on your sleeve?" He spoke as if he hadn't  
heard her, though he still wasn't looking at her. "Why is there  
blood on your sleeve?" 
 
She chewed her lip, desperately searching but finding no help.  
She'd have to tell him. She couldn't lie to him. Protect him  
from the truth - yes. But lie to him.... 
 
She took a deep breath, looking at him almost defiantly. She'd  
_beat_ this thing. "I was at a crime scene," she said, at last. 
 
"Was someone killed?" He was staring intensely at his own hands. 
 
"Mulder. Why don't we sit down?"  
 
She took a step forward, hoping to divert him, but he still  
didn't move, didn't stop staring at his hands. What was he  
_seeing_ there? 
 
"Mulder." She sighed again, and her fingers absently brushed  
against her pocket, producing a small crackle from the notes.  
She pulled them away as if they'd been burnt.  
 
This was _wrong_ - all wrong. But she had to tell him. There  
would _never_ be a good time. 
 
"It's a case," she said, slowly, considering her words  
carefully. Just one mis-step, that's all it would take. She  
didn't want to think of the consequences of _that_. "Not an X- 
File, just something.... something Skinner wanted me to look  
at." 
 
He turned his back and walked over to the window, resting his  
face against the glass. He said nothing - no expression of  
interest - no cry of horror. Just silence. 
 
"I think.... Mulder, I think I need your help on this one."  
 
It was all she could do to keep her words steady. This was it.  
This was the important one. Would he cry out in horror like the  
previous day, or would he.... was he.... had he _thought_ about  
things in the last twenty-four hours and begun to come to terms  
with things? 
 
But there was nothing. Just a sharp intake of breath, then  
nothing. 
 
She decided to take his silence as an encouragement, though she  
knew it wasn't, not really. "Someone's killing women. He says  
he'll kill one every day. We need to catch him, Mulder. You can  
_help_...." 
 
She hoped, prayed, she was doing the right thing, but it was all  
she could think of. If she could convince him that he could do  
something positive - that he could stop people being killed -  
then it would be a start. Make him feel important, wanted,  
useful. Help him come to terms with working again. And then....  
 
But how could she tell him about the notes? 
 
She shook her head abruptly. There wasn't _time_ for that, now.  
Take it a step at a time. Slowly, slowly.... 
 
"Mulder." She tried again, tried to get some reaction - any  
reaction. "You're good at this. You can stop him." 
 
"No!" It was almost a sob. "I can't. Not me." 
 
"You _can_, Mulder." She hated doing this. All she wanted to do  
was hold him, comfort him. But this _had_ to be faced, and now.  
Another day, another note, another body, and it would be so much  
worse. "You're good at this. You understand things..." 
 
"I understand...." He echoed her words, his voice lost and  
despairing. "I understand. That's why I can't." 
 
"Can't what, Mulder? Tell me." Her tone softened, and she took a  
step towards him, reaching out to him. "Please..." 
 
"I can't." He was speaking to himself, repeating the same word  
over and over, his palms pressed flat against the glass. "I  
can't. I can't. I can't...." 
 
"Mulder!" She felt panic rising, though she knew she had to stay  
calm. "Please...." 
 
"I can't. I can't." The muscles in his arms were shaking with  
the pressure he was exerting against the glass, and she caught a  
glimpse of his reflected eyes, brimming with tears. "I can't. I  
can't." 
 
"Can't what?" She grabbed his wrist, trying to pull him away  
from the glass, terrified it would break. "Can't what, Mulder?" 
 
He whirled round, wrenching her hand painfully as he pulled from  
her grip. "I can't ju...." He cut off suddenly, looking at her  
as if he was aware if her presence for the first time in  
minutes. "Just don't ask me, Scully. Don't ask me." 
 
"No, Mulder." She would always hate herself for this, she knew  
that beyond a shadow of doubt. But it _had_ to be done. "I won't  
stop. You can't run away from this. You have responsibilities.  
People _need_ you. You can _stop_ these deaths." 
 
"I can't." 
 
"You can!" Her voice was rising, but guilt and grief was just a  
short step away from anger. "You're the only person who can. You  
_know_ this person." 
 
"I.... I know him?" He sounded like a little boy, lost and  
confused. 
 
"Yes." She was at a loss for words. She hadn't meant it to come  
out like that - wasn't prepared for an explanation. "I don't  
know how. Probably someone you put away or profiled. I don't  
know. Skinner said.... I haven't investigated yet. I've only  
just started on the case. I don't know how.... But they know he  
knows you. That's why you.... That's why we need you to help us  
on this. You're the only person who can do this." 
 
Oh God! She was babbling, the words rushing out without thought  
or sense.  
 
Calm, Scully. Keep calm. Deep breaths. Think. Assess the damage  
and.... 
 
"I know him?" His voice again, scarcely there at all. "He knows  
what I am." 
 
"I don't...." She paused, unsure what to make of his last words,  
then took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I don't know,  
Mulder. But please...." 
 
"No." He was whispering, his eyes tight shut. "I can't.... He'll  
come...." And then he seemed to smile, although she must have  
been mistaken, and repeated the last words, louder this time.  
"He'll come." 
 
"What?" 
 
He shook his head, wondering, and turned towards her. "Please go  
now, Scully. I need to.... I need some time." 
 
"But you will think about it?" She had to try, but she was lost,  
incapable of understanding the undercurrents. 
 
He turned away, staring down out of the window, and then gasped,  
stiffened for  a second, then exhaled slowly.  
 
"Mulder?" What was _that_ about. "If I go now, you _will_ think  
about it? You _will_ talk about it, some time?" 
 
Oh God! She knew she shouldn't leave, but this was such an  
exhausting battle. She had to get the truth, but she couldn't  
push. And he _had_ asked her to leave.... 
 
"I'll think about.... things." His tone was level, but she could  
hear the tremor beneath it, feel the turmoil beneath this  
exterior of calm he was desperately trying to portray. She'd  
done the same herself often enough not to know this signs.  
"You'll understand soon, Scully. Maybe tomorrow. I.... I don't  
know." 
 
It should have been a good sign, but why did it fill her with  
dread? Something about his voice - something about his  
manner.... It wasn't right. But what could she do? She couldn't  
fight him every step of the way. She had to respect his privacy. 
 
And then he spoke, so quietly that she could almost convince  
herself it was her imagination. 
 
"I'm sorry, Scully." 
 
There were tears, wet on her cheeks, as she turned to go. 
 
********* 
 
He couldn't move. 
 
He held the photograph tight in his hands, listening to her  
screams, but he couldn't move. 
 
"I'm sorry. I can't...." He frowned with concentration, knowing  
he _had_ to get through to her, even if he could barely move his  
lips. "I can't help...." 
 
"You can." Slowly, oh so slowly, grimacing with pain, she  
dragged her head round to stare at him. "You can stop this." 
 
"How?" 
 
Struggling, fighting against the pain, he managed to move his  
hands, reaching out for her face. But it was beyond him. The  
cold black and white surface of a crime-scene photograph, not  
her living face. 
 
"How?" 
 
Who was she? The woman he'd.... he'd _killed_? The woman whose  
blood had been on Scully's sleeve, some other lifetime away?  
Scully....? He couldn't tell. The frozen outlines of the  
photograph blurred and faded, always full of pain, but never  
clear. 
 
"You know." Her voice was weaker now, freezing into an eternal  
immobility of pain. 
 
"I can't." He chewed his lip till the blood flowed, warm and  
sticky, mingling with his tears. "I can't...." 
 
But she was fading now, beyond his vision, little more than a  
scream. 
 
"I'm sorry!" He didn't know if she could hear him, but he had to  
try. "I couldn't." 
 
"You're lying." It was loud now, and terrible. "You can. But you  
won't. You don't want to." 
 
"I do!" He tried to protest, but something was choking his  
throat, paralysing him. "I want to!" 
 
"You - put - me - here." Every word was an icy whisper. "You -  
killed - me." 
 
"I know," he whispered, suddenly understanding. "I know. I'm....  
sorry." 
 
"Does that make it better?" She was nowhere now, and everywhere  
- her voice an eternity of swirling blacks and greys. 
 
"No." His throat hurt with the desire to sob, but he was still  
paralysed. "No...." 
 
"But you will understand. You will understand what it feels  
like." 
 
And then the blacks and the greys and the immobility were all  
around him, and he knew at last why he couldn't move. _He_ was  
in the photograph. Frozen forever in agonised immobility, unable  
to cry out, unable to escape. It was.... terrible. It was just.  
It was all he deserved. But it was.... 
 
The red, when it came, was like a scream, slashing his eyes. 
 
Blood. 
 
And the worst of it was on his own hands. 
 
It was burning, corroding, agonising like acid, but he couldn't  
move, couldn't wipe it off - _shouldn't_ wipe it off. 
  
And her _eyes_. Burning worse than the blood, staring at him  
from her decomposing face, hating more than anyone had ever  
hated. 
 
"I'm sorry...." The blood trickled and dripped and burnt as he  
struggled to speak, using every last ounce of strength to move. 
 
And then.... 
 
And then everything fell away and he was awake, and he alive,  
and he could breathe, and he could move.... 
 
But the blood was still on his hands, though it was cold now,  
cold and sinuous. He couldn't see it in the darkness, but he  
could smell its acrid iron smell and feel the chill of death. 
 
But.... But I'm awake! His mind whimpered in terror, still half  
lost in nightmares. I don't understand. Why....? 
 
"Did you sleep well, Fox?"  
 
The voice. The voice that brought pain and the voice that taught  
truth. 
 
He sighed, feeling almost comforted. This was the end. It had  
started like this, and it would end like this - just him and the  
voice - the teacher and the pupil. There would be no need to  
fight, not for much longer. 
 
"Do you have nightmares, Fox?" It was hissing, soft as a caress.  
"Nightmares about.... _her_?" 
 
He cleared his throat, trying to speak. He knew he had to  
answer. How could he think of hiding things from the voice who'd  
known him for what he was as soon as it had seen him? "Yes," he  
stammered, at last. "Yes, I do." 
 
"Do you ever think of ending the nightmares, Fox?" There was a  
soft grate of metal and he knew the voice had a gun. "You know  
how to do it." 
 
"I.... I _can't_!"  
 
"No." The voice was slow with regret. "You can't." 
 
His breathing came in short gasps, loud in his ears. He could  
feel the presence of the gun in the room, almost fancy he could  
feel the soft touch of the trigger against his fingertips.  
 
"It's better this way, isn't it, Mulder? Hearing her screaming.  
Does _that_ ever stop, Fox?" Sounds of pacing, softly round the  
room, and the voice calm and soothing. "Is it just nights, or  
days as well?" A soft laugh. "No matter. It's for the best.  
Nightmares. Memories. The screaming...." 
 
He couldn't stop a sob escaping at that, but the voice carried  
on as if he hadn't spoken. 
 
"How long will they go on for, I wonder. Weeks? No, they've been  
weeks already. Months? Years?" A long pause. "For ever? Will you  
see her death every day until you die?" 
 
"No..." He sank his head into his sticky hands, feeling the  
smears of blood on his face. He couldn't. He just couldn't.... 
 
"But it's for the best, Fox." A hand touched him on the shoulder  
as the voice whispered confiding in his ear. "You know that. At  
least you'd still be alive." 
 
Oh God! He couldn't. Three weeks of this, and he was nearly  
broken. Months more.... _Years_ more....? God! How could he....? 
 
"And if you have nightmares every day until you die, then...."  
The voice made a small sound, as if shrugging. "Well... You can  
live with that, can't you? You've lived until now." 
 
Until you die. Until you die. Until you die.... The words echoed  
in his head, pounding, relentless, showing him flashed of  
images. The gun. The trigger beneath his finger. Blood on the  
floor....  
 
"Until I die....?" He hadn't meant to speak, but the words came  
out, closer to a sob than to speaking. He turned his head,  
desperately searching for the dark figure of the voice. He need  
teaching. He needed guidance. Where was he? 
 
"Ah, Fox." The voice was far across the room, but the soft sound  
of footsteps brought it closer. "Fox. You don't understand, do  
you? I know what you're thinking." 
 
"What?" he asked, his voice tiny. He didn't doubt the claim,  
remembering how the voice had understood him better than he had  
himself.  
 
The voice faltered, stammering. "I don't.... I don't think I  
should tell you. I don't want to.... to give you ideas. Things  
that are _wrong_...." 
 
It was wrong. God, yes, it was wrong! He mustn't.... He  
shouldn't.... He'd promised.... 
 
Then there was a laugh. "No. I was wrong. You wouldn't.... I  
know you wouldn't be thinking of that. You haven't got the  
stren.... I mean, you're too.... principled." Another laugh,  
short and embarrassed. "I was thinking, when you said.... I  
thought you meant that if you died now, then the nightmares...."  
A quick touch on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Forget it. You  
wouldn't do that, I know." 
 
The blood snaked down his arm, gouging through his skin like a  
knife. 
 
Silence. Complete and utter silence. Even the screams were  
still, holding their breath and waiting. 
 
He wanted to scream - anything to break the silence. Eyes were  
boring into him through the darkness. 
 
"It.... it would be wrong." Was this his own voice, so little,  
so drowned in doubts? 
 
"Yes." 
 
"Killing...." 
 
"Yes. Killing is wrong." 
 
Killing is wrong.  
 
The _screams_. High, low, short, sustained.... Endlessly  
replayed in every possible imagining, but never heard. He'd....  
He'd cared so little that he hadn't even seen her die. 
 
Killing is wrong. 
 
The black and white image of frozen death. The decomposing  
faces. Tormenting accusing fingers of bone.  
 
Killing is wrong....  
 
"No!" He clawed at his face, knowing he couldn't live. 
 
"Killing is wrong. It would be a sin to die." Relentless, smooth  
as honey, firm with righteousness. 
 
"But.... But _I_ killed.... That was wrong.... Punishment...."  
He was incoherent, his voice drowned with horror. 
 
"It wouldn't bring them back, your death. It would do nothing.  
Why should you suffer, unless it brings them back?" 
 
"But death _isn't_ suffering! Not like this. Not like..."  
 
The screams. The nightmares. The memories. Her eyes. 
 
"Why should you suffer, unless it brings them back?" Louder,  
more emphatic this time, as if he hadn't spoken. Perhaps he  
hadn't. The voices of memory were so loud. 
 
And then he paused, not breathing. Why should he suffer?  
Penance. An endless lifetime of guilt and pain, in penance for  
what he'd done. However tempting it looked, however bright the  
trigger was in his memory, he couldn't run away - he _couldn't_. 
 
But why not? She was still dead. They were still dead. Whatever  
he did, he couldn't bring them back.   
 
Why not....? 
 
Oh, to rest.... to run away.... to end all this....  
 
"....so you mustn't." How long had the voice been talking?  
"There's no need to you to suffer needlessly. And it would be  
suffering." It was a whisper, close to his ear. "Do you know  
what it feels like, a bullet through the brain?"  
 
Nothing. A quick flash of pain, and then nothing. Nothing like  
this. 
 
And then he stopped.  
 
Scully. 
 
Her eyes swollen and red against her white skin, her lips  
mouthing words of sorrow he couldn't hear. Endlessly replaying  
the memory of discovering him dead on the floor. Crying in her  
mother's arms. 
 
She'd be.... He'd hurt her, if he... if he killed himself. No- 
one else would care, but she... She'd blame herself. She'd think  
she could have prevented it. She would.... 
 
"Scully...." It was a groan of agony. He wanted to. He needed  
to. But he couldn't.  
 
"Yes. Your partner. I saw her, earlier." 
 
"What?" He hadn't thought he could feel any anger at anyone but  
himself, but it was there, pushing through the guilt. "If you  
_hurt_ her...." 
 
"I just watched her. I needed to follow her - let her bring me  
to you. But I didn't hurt her, Fox. I didn't need to. You've  
done that." 
 
"I've done....?" Fresh tears coursed down his face. "Yes. Yes I  
have. But if...." 
 
"It would hurt her. You should think of _her_." 
 
"I do! That's why I can't...." 
 
"She was crying." The voice was calm, interrupting him. "In the  
car outside, and at the crime scene. She cried for _so_ long  
before she could drive away, earlier." 
  
"She cried?" Scully - calm, controlled Scully, her face an icy  
mask even at her sister's funeral.... Scully had _cried_? 
 
"She's probably crying now. She cares about you. She hates to  
see you like this." 
 
"What can I do?" He dug his fingers into the flesh if his  
thighs, clenching into fists. "I don't.... Scully! I don't want  
to hurt you." 
 
"She'll get used to it. After a few months, crying every night,  
she'll be more used to it." It was casual, off-hand. "Maybe  
years. But it doesn't matter." 
 
"It does!" Pain was shooting up and down his legs, but it was  
not enough - not  nearly enough. "She matters." 
 
"Of course she does." A hand touched his arm, soft, like _her_  
touch. "But it's better than if you kill yourself. The grief  
she'd feel then.... It would get better over time, of course.  
Just a few months. Maybe less. But while it lasts, it would be  
worse." 
 
"It would get better." He didn't know it he was speaking aloud,  
but what did it matter? The voice knew him for what he was, and  
he had no secrets from him. "A clean break. Bad for her.... But  
she'd recover. She'd make a new life. Away from me.... She'd be  
happier." 
 
There was a soft sound as something was put down on the couch  
next to him. Slowly, tentatively, scarcely daring to hope, he  
reached out a hand, and touched it. 
 
The gun.  
 
His fingers closed round it and he held it, caressing it like a  
lover. 
 
Silence. 
 
"She hasn't told you, has she?" Pad pad of footsteps away from  
him, then back - away and back - pulsing, hypnotic. 
 
"What?" But he hadn't meant to speak again. Let his last words  
be of _her_ - of his wish for her happiness. 
 
"The notes? The deaths?" 
 
Oh God! The blood on her sleeve. The killer who knew him for  
what he was. He'd _forgotten_. Had he learnt so little, even  
after all this time? 
 
"You have three on your conscience now, Fox? Where do you think  
that blood came from?" 
 
Blood on his hands. Blood on his face. Blood.... _Her_ blood.  
Not his. 
 
It was wrong. It was his guilt. It should be his blood. 
 
"You said you understood, Mulder. I trusted you. I thought you'd  
do what was right. But you didn't, did you?" It was relentless,  
pacing up and down, hissing. "You took the selfish way out,  
didn't you? And so two more died." 
 
"I didn't know. I didn't know. I'm sorry....!" He raked his  
nails down his cheeks, suddenly desperate that the blood should  
be his own. 
 
"Oh, you did know, Mulder. Deep down, you knew. But you were  
still selfish. And so they died. And tomorrow..." 
 
"No!" 
 
The trigger was moist and slippery beneath his finger. 
 
"But what does it matter, Fox? You can't... You know you  
mustn't." 
 
"I can! I will!" 
 
He could have pulled the trigger then without a second thought,  
but a car door shut outside, sounding like a gunshot in the  
terrible darkness, and his attention wavered. 
 
"You mustn't, Fox. Give me the gun." It was the calm,  
patronising voice of a deceiver, humouring him, lying to him  
that he shouldn't do this thing. 
 
"No! Leave me alone! I _will_ do it!" 
 
The circle of metal was cold against his forehead, and he shut  
his eyes as his finger tightened on the trigger. 
 
And then there was a bang, and a flash of sudden light, and  
there was Scully, and her hair was blazing. 
 
********** 
 
end of part 3



From Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk Sun Jan 05 12:04:39 1997
Please don't post to ATXC
_____

"The First Stone 2: After the First Death", part 4 of 4
by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk)

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: XA

SUMMARY: Three agents have killed themselves after suffering far 
less than Mulder has already suffered. As the danger grows, can 
Scully confront her own guilt in time to save Mulder from his?

**********

"Come on, come on, come _on_!" 
 
Scully stared daggers of impatience at the elevator doors, but  
still they didn't open. Just one more solid wall keeping her  
from Mulder. Would she ever....? 
 
"Damn you!" 
 
She pressed at the button again and again with an urgent left  
hand. Mulder's keys were gripped in her right hand, tight enough  
for her fingers to shake, and she knew that to let them go, just  
for a second, could make all the difference between..... between  
what? Life and death....? 
 
But at whose hand would he die? 
 
A quick glance at her watch to stifle that thought. Twenty past  
eleven. Just forty seconds since she'd last looked, and she  
hadn't even reached the elevator then. Under forty seconds  
waiting, and already it felt like an eternity. God! What was  
wrong with her? 
 
A voice sounded in the distance, and she started, reaching for  
her gun, but it was only someone talking behind the closed door  
of a ground-floor apartment. Safe behind locked doors. The  
sounds of normal life.  
 
Behind locked doors.... 
 
Would his neighbours even notice the sound of Mulder's death? 
 
"No!" 
 
She pressed the button again and again, but couldn't stamp out  
that thought. 
 
She should have.... She could have.... If only she'd.... 
 
That face - that man she'd glimpsed at the crime scene.... Why  
hadn't she remembered, earlier? Hours later, staring unseeingly  
at the television, she'd suddenly seen his face again, and had  
remembered.  
 
And then she'd known. She hadn't understood, but she'd known. 
 
Blood on the floor. Those dead agents in the morgue. The notes.  
His fingers reaching for the gun.  
 
"Mulder!" She'd reached for the phone, pressing his familiar  
number with a shaking dread, as her other hand had fumbled with  
her shoes.  
 
But his phone had been dead.  
 
Why would he disconnect his phone, if he wasn't....? 
 
She'd taken his gun weeks ago, but what did that matter? There  
were pills. There were ties. There were.... God! His palms,  
pressing against the glass. Images of blood and death, of deadly  
daggers of glass in a torrent of blood. 
 
Don't let me be too late. Don't let me be too late. Don't let me  
be too late.... 
 
The door opened and she stepped into the elevator. 
 
Enclosed on the silence, but not protected. Walls of fear and  
horror pressing down on her from all sides, reflecting her  
imaginings. 
 
A swoosh as the door opened. Nearly there. Nearly there. Just a  
few more seconds. Keys rattle. Steps echo. Step, step, step.... 
 
Don't hesitate. Quick. Turn the keys. Turn the handle, throw the  
door open with a bang, and.... 
 
The gun. Silhouetted against the window, branding itself for  
ever on her retina. The gun. Mulder. The gun.... 
 
Mulder was standing with a gun to his head. 
 
"Mu...."  
 
Her voice was hoarse with horror. What could she say? But she  
had to speak - had to try. 
 
"Muld..." 
 
But then a hand snaked from the darkness that was all around  
her, and she couldn't breathe. 
 
She couldn't breathe.... 
 
Hands, squeezing into her throat. Her hands, pawing, clawing.  
His hand, still on the gun, still unwavering. Hands.... 
 
"Do it, Mulder. It's the only way to save her." 
 
It was so intense, the darkness. Just blackness and still deeper  
shadows, growing deeper every second. Nothing in it but the  
silhouette of death against the window. She _needed_ to see his  
eyes. 
 
"Look, Mulder." A hand moved from her throat and then her eyes  
were blinking in the sudden light, her lungs aching from the  
quick breath she was able to catch. "She's dying. You're doing  
this." 
 
Tears were pouring down his face, but still his hand didn't  
move. 
 
"You can save her, Mulder. You know how." 
 
His arm tensed. Slowly, slowly, touching the trigger, his finger  
moved.... 
 
She _had_ to.... God! Kicking, squirming, hitting, pounding....  
A cry of pain, then another... A gasp of fresh air, steadying  
the swaying of the world. 
 
"Mul... der..." His name was mixed with the gasps, but he _had_  
to hear. "Don't. Please...." 
 
A slam of pain on the back of her head as she was pinned against  
the wall, held by the neck, but she was only held with one hand  
now, and could still breathe, could still speak. 
 
"Stop him, Mul...." The fingers squeezed off the end of her  
word, but she still held the other wrist with both her hands,  
keeping it away. "Stop him." 
 
"You know how to stop it, Mulder. Do it." 
 
"No, Mulder! Don't!" 
 
She _had_ to get away, but she just hadn't enough air to think  
properly.  Everything was fading except the image of his pain- 
filled eyes. 
 
"Mul... der!" But her voice was fading now, and she knew she was  
losing the battle. He still hadn't moved the gun. "Mul.... der.  
Don't...." 
 
Then her hands dropped away from the other man's wrists, and his  
two hands closed around her throat again, and she knew she had  
lost. 
 
Her last sight before she died would be of Mulder's eyes as he  
pulled the trigger. 
 
"Go on, Mulder. Do it or I'll kill her." 
 
But her eyes were closed by now, and she couldn't even see his  
death, although the noise of the gunshot would echo in her ears  
for the rest of her life. 
 
And as she slipped down into the darkness it seemed as if all  
the pressure at her throat fell away, and everything was blood  
all over. 
 
Gasping - loud, nearly as loud as the echo of the gunshot.  
Gasping, and blood. Gasping and blood... 
 
Mulder's words in the darkness, helping her back to the light.  
Her words to him, helping him back when he needed her. Mulder,  
are you okay? Scully, are you okay? Hands, touching the  
injuries, healing, helping. Helping each other with the pain.  
 
Mulder. I hurt. Where are you, Mulder? Why aren't you....? 
 
She pulled herself to her knees, slowly, still gasping, and  
saw.... 
 
And understood. 
 
"Mulder?" 
 
He hadn't moved. Tears were pouring down his face as he just  
stood and stared in horror at the body on the floor.  
 
"Mulder?" 
 
It hurt to speak, but she knew he needed help far more than she  
did. But she didn't think she could walk, not yet. 
 
"Mulder...." 
 
He took a step forward, then another, then sank down to his  
knees with a hoarse cry. He gave no sign of hearing her, of even  
being aware of her. The gun fell from his fingers with a  
clatter. 
 
"Oh, Mulder."  
 
There was blood on his hands, dark dried tracks snaking down his  
arms. She reached out a shaking hand and took his limp arm,  
probing it with her fingers, but found no wounds.  
 
"I killed..." He reached out his other hand, touching the pool  
of blood on the floor. "I killed...." 
 
God! She'd forgotten. She was a doctor, but she'd forgotten. But  
when she reached over and checked the other man's pulse, there  
was none.  
 
"Yes, you did." She sighed with relief as she spoke, although  
she knew she shouldn't. A man was dead. It was important. But  
all she could think of was Mulder, and she knew this had to be  
addressed _now_. If she'd had to call an ambulance, and  
strangers had had to talk to him about what he'd done.... 
 
She couldn't suppress a sob, although she knew she had to be  
strong. The gun at his head! The horror of it.... 
 
"I killed...." 
 
She sighed, turning back to him and wrapping her hand round his,  
pulling it away from the blood. "Yes you did, Mulder. But you  
had to stop him. He would have killed me." 
 
"I killed...." His fingers curled into claws and he struggled  
against her grip, as if he wanted to tear at his own face. "I  
killed...." 
 
"Shh, Mulder. It's okay." She put an arm round his shoulder,  
pulling him towards her.  
 
"I killed. I killed. I killed...." Each cry was more tormented  
than the last. "I killed..." 
 
"Mulder!" She forced her voice into a shout, feeling the  
desperation grow inside her. "Listen to me. Look at me. Mulder!"  
She grabbed both his wrists, and held them out in front of him,  
forcing his to face her. "Listen...." 
 
"I killed...." He turned his head away. A trail of blood  
trickled from his lip. 
 
Oh my God! What do I do? Help me. How can I get through to him?  
 
"Mulder." She _had_ to sound calm, although it was so difficult.  
She held his face in both hands, forcing him to look at her.  
"Who was that man?" 
 
She knew the answer - she feared the answer - but she had to get  
through to him somehow. 
 
"He is.... he was.... he's dead." Her hands hurt with the effort  
of keeping his head still. "I killed him." 
 
"Mulder..." Oh God! Please let me be doing this right. "He's the  
one who tortured you, isn't he? He's the man who killed...." 
 
"No! That was me. _I_ killed...." 
 
"You didn't kill anyone, Mulder. I told you, remember? There was  
no way you killed that girl" 
 
But inside she wanted to scream with guilt. She should have  
talked about it _then_, right at the start, rather than  
dismissing it as some waking hallucination born of drugs. 'I  
don't want to hear you say that again' - that's what she'd said.  
God! It was _her_ fault. If only.... 
 
"I _did_ kill her." 
 
She shook her head abruptly to bring herself back to the  
present. Now, more than any other time, she needed to stay  
focused. There was a time for guilt later - a time to lie awake  
in horror at what she'd done. 
 
"Did he kill her, and make you watch? Is that what it was?" She  
knew how it disturbed him to see into a killer's mind, but if  
he'd actually had to watch the deed, unable to stop it.... It  
was too horrible to contemplate. 
 
"No!" He was hoarse with crying, but at least he was answering  
her, his words relating to what she'd said. "I killed her." 
 
She shook her head, confusion making her silent. What could she  
do? What could she say? 
 
"I killed her." He pulled away violently, wrapping his arms  
around his knees and rocking himself to and fro, eyes focused on  
nothing. "I killed.... He said he'd stop hurting me if I....    
But I... I'd touched her. She smelt of roses. She'd have lived  
if I'd.... I said yes. I was selfish. I said yes.... I  
couldn't.... It hurt so much and I couldn't.... I killed her. I  
said yes.... " 
 
The gun was still on the floor, stained with blood. 
 
She couldn't speak. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe,  
couldn't speak. How could she...? 
 
A siren sounded in the street and she hoped, prayed, that it  
wouldn't stop, but its sound warped eerily and it passed by. 
 
"Scully?" 
 
She swallowed, trying to find her voice, but he spoke before she  
could say a word. 
 
"She's gone. She spoke to me. She told me she trusted me." It  
was the voice of a little boy, heartbroken and lost. "She said I  
must be strong but I wasn't. And now she's gone." 
 
"Mulder." She scrambled across to him, touching his shoulder.  
"I'm here. I won't leave you." 
 
"But you know! You know what I did. Why...?" 
 
"I know. But I don't understand." She stroked his forehead,  
praying she was doing the right thing. "I don't understand,  
Mulder. I need you to help me understand." 
 
He sobbed, pulling away. "You'll understand. And then  
you'll...." The sobs swallowed his words, turning them into  
incoherent mumblings. 
 
"So this man tortured you, and told you he'd only stop if you  
agreed to this girl dying?" 
 
"Yes!" It was a cry of agony. 
 
"And you _refused_ for nearly twenty-four hours, even  
though....?" She shuddered. She'd seen his injuries, knew how  
much pain he'd suffered. 
 
"But I said yes." 
 
"And the same happened to those other agents, didn't it?" She  
had to keep going, though all she wanted to do was hold him safe  
from ever having to think about these things again. "The ones  
who'd been held for only a few hours? The ones whose.... Mulder,  
I saw their autopsies. They'd hardly been hurt at all. Nothing  
like you. You refused for so much longer than they did. You  
_were_ strong." 
 
"But they did.... Afterwards...." His hand groped wildly round  
him on the carpet, and she knew with a sudden stab of dread that  
he was still searching for the gun. 
 
"They were _weak_, Mulder. They gave into much less pain than  
you suffered. And as soon as it felt bad, afterwards, they ran  
away, without caring how much it hurt the people left behind."  
She shook his shoulder, trying to pull him towards her. "Mulder,  
you _saw_ Agent Feldman's fiancee...." 
 
It was wrong, what she was doing. She couldn't just appeal to  
guilt. She had to make him _want_ to live, not just make him  
feel he _had_ to live. But that could come later. Right now, it  
was the only argument she was sure he would listen to. 
 
"Mulder, I know that right now you can't.... I know you  
want...." Her voice trembled, and she swallowed several times to  
steady it. "It would upset me if you died." 
 
"But he said...." 
 
"You mustn't believe _anything_ he said." Her voice was poison,  
dripping with hatred. 
 
"You were crying." 
 
She coughed, suddenly awkward. "Yes, I was. I.... I hate seeing  
you blame yourself for something that's not your fault. It  
upsets me." 
 
"But it was my fault." 
 
"Mulder...." 
 
"You don't understand!" His eyes were wild. "I didn't care. She  
was so unimportant to me, I didn't even think about her, until  
afterwards. I forgot her...." He pounded a fist against the  
floor until she was scared he would break a bone. "I didn't even  
care what I was saying yes too! I didn't care!" 
 
Think, Scully. Think. Pictures in the darkness - terrible  
imaginings. Pain everywhere. A voice, insistent, demanding. 'Say  
yes. Say yes'. And the insidious threat of fire. God! The smell  
of smoke on his clothes when he'd been found! Smoke, flames,  
fists, voices, all demanding. Nothing but pain.... 
 
Tears choked her at the horror of it all. How could he possibly  
blame himself? How could he possibly _not_ blame himself? 
 
Calm. Keep calm. He needs you now, more than ever. Calm.  
Soothing. Strong.... 
 
"So, he tortured you so much you were barely conscious from the  
pain - until you couldn't remember anything - and then he made  
you say yes to something you didn't understand." She caught hold  
of his hands. "Is that how it was, Mulder?" 
 
"No...!" 
 
"Is that how it was, Mulder?" Stroking his hair, stroking his  
hands, her voice relentless but oh so soft. "Is that how it  
was?" 
 
Silence. Just his breathing, loud and painful. 
 
"Is that how it was, Mulder?" 
 
"Yes... But...." 
 
"But what, Mulder?" It was scarcely above a whisper. 
 
"But it doesn't matter why I did it. I _did_ it. That's all that  
matters."  
 
"But he forced you. He captured you. He captured her. He killed  
her. He killed the others. He put you in the situation. You  
would never have even _had_ to make that choice if it wasn't for  
him. It all his fault. Everything." She wanted to stab the body  
with the force of her hatred. 
 
Silence. 
 
"I thought..." It was muffled with sobs, and she could scarcely  
hear him. "I thought if I told you.... If I told you, you'd...." 
 
"I would never blame you, Mulder. No-one could blame you. The  
only person I blame is _him_." 
 
But it's your fault too. A little voice was clamouring inside  
her head. You didn't find him. You didn't protect him. You  
didn't allow him to talk about this, before it became  
unbearable. You.... Your fault too. 
 
He shifted in her grip, turning his face towards her. "You  
really think that? You really blame only him...?" 
 
"Yes," she lied. "It was his fault. Only his." 
 
A shuddering sigh went through his body. "You _really_  
think....?" 
 
"Yes, Mulder. Yes I do." She stroked his hair. "I know it feels  
bad. I know it's difficult. But you must _never_ think you  
deserve to suffer. You mustn't feel you're wrong to try to  
recover from this - to try to feel happy." 
 
And then he looked at her for the first time, and his face was  
lost, like a little boy. 
 
"Help me, Scully." 
 
But who would help her? 
 
********** 
 
"I can't go back, Scully - not yet." 
 
She slowly turned to face him. Her eyes, her muscles, her voice  
- everything was tired beyond exhaustion, but she had to keep  
going. It wasn't over yet. 
 
"I know, Mulder." She reached for his hand, stroking,  
reassuring. "I know."  
 
His face was wraith-like, all shadow and pale skin in the early  
grey dawn, its life worn away by the emotions of the night. He  
was scarcely moving, scarcely breathing. 
 
Silence. 
 
The blood was dark on the carpet, but the body had been taken  
away. She'd managed to fend the police off as quickly as she  
could, but she knew they'd be back - that they'd need to  
question Mulder more fully. She'd no idea if he'd be able to  
cope with it. 
 
Then the couch squeaked as he turned to her, eyes suddenly wild. 
 
Oh God! Not more. I can't take any more. I need.... _I_ need.... 
 
"Skinner....?" A croak, suffused with fear. He swallowed hard,  
obviously fighting for words, but none would come. 
 
"We'll tell him, Mulder. We'll tell him everything. But he won't  
blame you. No-one will blame you. I know it." 
 
She didn't have to pretend this time, or fight to keep her voice  
level through the tears she couldn't shed. Skinner _wouldn't_  
blame him, she knew that for certain. But the others - the  
shadowy men who hid behind a facade of legality.... What would  
they make of it? Skinner would protect him, but it wasn't over  
yet. 
 
"I need...." He paused, chewing his lip. 
 
"Time? I know you do, Mulder. I know it will take time. But I  
also know it _will_ get better." Then her hand shook and she  
lowered her eyes, almost embarrassed, before continuing. "I'm  
here for you." 
 
Silence. 
 
He stood up and walked across to the window. She followed him  
with her eyes, watching the soundless tread of his feet, aching  
at the exhaustion that showed in his every movement. 
 
"Mulder?" 
 
She ached to follow him, but knew she couldn't push. It was  
still so precarious. 
 
An engine roared into life down in the street. His head turned  
as he followed the car into the distance, then stayed there,  
turned away from her, eyes staring far away. Was he even seeing  
the present, now? 
 
His voice, when it came, startled her. It was so soft, so  
wondering, so.... so unlike the anguished cries of the long dark  
night. 
 
"He was right, you know, Scully." 
 
She wanted - she _needed_ - to object, but somehow knew he  
needed to be allowed to speak without having to fight.  
 
"Oh, I know - I think I know - he was wrong about some things,  
but he was right.... I hadn't.... None of us had...." A deep  
breath, then another, in a visible effort at control. "I thought  
I was so good at understanding people. I could understand  
killers. I could see into their minds. But at the same time, I  
still knew I was.... I was superior to them - better than them." 
 
She twisted her hands until they hurt. Where was he going? What  
new nightmare was this leading to?  
 
"It frightened me, the evil I saw inside them." He still didn't  
turn round. She didn't know if he remembered she was there. "I  
hated it, but I had to do it. I wanted to do everything I could  
to protect people from.... from _evil_ like that." 
 
It was a dull monotone, but she knew him - knew that was the  
only way he could speak at all. If he relaxed that rigid  
terrible control, if he let the slightest emotion into his  
voice, then he'd fall apart, beyond words. 
 
"But it's so easy to forget, Scully. In law enforcement.... We  
think of ourselves as the good guys, fighting evil. It's like a  
movie. It's.... it's not real life. It's not true." 
 
And then he turned to face her at last, though he didn't move. 
 
"That's why he took me, Scully. He heard me, that evening in the  
restaurant, before... He heard me hating people like.... people  
who could kill. He wanted to teach me that we shouldn't.... How  
can we judge people when we know that we can do the same  
ourselves - that the evil is in us too?" 
 
She walked over towards him, though every step pulsed with  
weariness. "Mulder. Listen to me. He didn't want to teach you  
anything. You said then.... You said he enjoyed killing. He  
liked to hurt people. And if he could kill, and torture, and  
destroy the people who could catch him - who were prepared to  
suffer to stop him...." She let the sentence hang, at a loss for  
words to express her hatred. "God, Mulder! He _was_ evil. No-one  
forced _him_ to kill." 
 
He turned back towards the window, resting his forehead on the  
glass. "But he was right too, Scully. Evil isn't something apart  
from us, and separate. It's something inside _all_ of us. We can  
all hurt people, in the right circumstances. I.... I thought....  
I forgot that, Scully. I forgot I could...." 
 
"Mulder...." 
 
There was a smear of blood on the window, brown and dry now, and  
it held her eyes, mesmerising her. Just a smear from where he'd  
leant against it, earlier, his hands still bloody, but it was  
too close to her fears of the previous night. Blood - _his_  
blood - pouring out onto sharp daggers of glass. She could still  
see it, still fear it, whenever he stood too close. 
 
"The X-Files...." He ignored her touch. He had a sudden feeling  
that she was intruding - hearing his private thoughts, despite  
his use of her name. His arms were tightly wrapped round his  
body, and his voice was turned inward. "Maybe that's what they  
were about. It was comforting to believe that evil was  
something.... something apart.... something alien. Maybe they  
were just.... running away - hiding from the fact that evil is  
inside us.... inside _me_." 
 
"They _were_?" She was stammering, her touch faltering. "The X- 
Files _were_?" 
 
Oh God! Not that! She'd thought.... It was over. They were past  
the worst. They would recover. But _this_..... 
 
He turned round and smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.  
"Oh, I'll carry on with them, I expect. It will...." A  
shuddering sigh. "It will get better in time. But...."  
 
How was it possible he still had tears to shed? How was it  
possible that she had any left to answer his?  
 
And then he looked at her, and it was the first time in weeks  
that he'd met her eyes, but she could feel no joy at it, not  
now. 
 
"You can't expect me to forget, Scully." It was scarcely above a  
whisper, and she knew she could manage no more herself. "You  
can't expect me to be the same." 
 
"I know, Mulder." She reached up to him and pulled him into her  
arms, comforting him, and he let her. His cheek was wet against  
her neck. "I know you won't." 
 
And she knew _she_ wouldn't, either. 
 
But her tears fell onto his hair, and she was smiling. 
 
********** 
 
END

**********

Now, I was going to end this by saying "See, I _can_ write a happy
ending after all," but I think that's not quite appropriate, so
I'll content myself with "See, I _can_ write a story that ends happier
than it started." I'm trying. I really am. 


********

"King Pellinor could now be seen to be visibly troubled in his brains."
from "The Sword in the stone" by T H White.