TITLE: 'Mephistopheles revisited'
AUTHOR: Kirsten Kerkhof * <kirsten_xf@yahoo.com>
CLASSIFICATION: SRA
KEYWORDS: Mulder-Scully Romance
SPOILERS: Orison
SUMMARY: Post-episode
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
FEEDBACK: Cherished at kirsten_xf@yahoo.com . A Mulder's 
the reward as per usual ...

XxXxX

	She's still sitting next to me on her bed, her fingers still 
clenching around her gun. And her gaze is still so far away. She's 
scaring the shit out of me right now. Of course that wouldn't be 
the first time. But the atmosphere, the tension that billows in the 
air, it's getting to me. I need to get out of here. I rise from the 
bed. She hardly seems to notice it at all.
	'Come on, Scully, let's get out of here.'
	She looks at me somewhat puzzled, her eyes still not clear. 
There seems to be a haze before her that prevents her from seeing 
and understanding what's going on. It pains me to see that 
brilliant mind so fogged over because of what has happened to 
her.
	'Where do you want to go?' she asks nevertheless. Her 
voice is soft and a bit distant.
	I shrug. 'I don't care, wherever you would like me to take 
you. Just ... just get away from this place for now.'
	Actually I'm lying, I do know where I want to go, or at 
least what I'd like to do: I want to take her out. Nothing fancy or 
high-class, just give her a nice relaxed night on the town. Why? 
Well, why not? But it's going to be her who will in the end decide 
where we end up and if she prefers, let's say, my place then you 
won't hear a word from me.
	I hear my stomach rumble, haven't had a thing to eat since 
lunch and to be quite honest I'm starving. She first looks at my 
stomach, then raises her eyes to meet mine. And then she smiles. 
Weakly, true, but it's a real smile, and one I can't help answering.
	'I'm kinda hungry myself, too,' she admits in a barely 
audible voice.
	'Then let me take you out to dinner someplace. Someplace 
nice,' I offer.
	She shakes her head. 'Mulder, I'm not in the mood for 
dressing up and--...'
	'Not that kind of nice,' I say, smiling softly. 'I was 
thinking about Marcello's nice.'
	She rises from the bed. 'I think I could manage that ...'
	I get up as well. 'Come, take a shower, slip into something 
comfy and we'll go, okay?'
	She nods and disappears into the bathroom. I settle myself 
down in front of her TV and grab the remote from where it's 
lying on the floor. I close my eyes momentarily at the notion. 
Scully would never ever have anything just lying around on the 
floor. I admit I sometimes quite condescendingly think of her as a 
neatfreak who balks at the notion of anything out of order, but 
seeing her apartment ruined as it is, that huge bloodstain on her 
carpet and her furniture wrecked beyond repair, it makes me feel 
very sorry for her.
	And yet, at the same time, I feel incredibly proud of her, 
considering the struggle she must have put up in fighting Donnie 
Pfaster off. I bet he never expected this, even when it was his 
second visit to her. I could've told him, if I'd wanted to that is. I 
could've warned him that Dana Scully never goes down without a 
struggle, could've provided him with physical evidence how she's 
floored guys twice her weight. I admire her, I have always done 
so.
	After a little while I notice the silence. It gets me 
concerned. I switch the TV off, get up from the ruined couch and 
walk towards the bathroom, knocking softly on the door.
	'Scully?'
	No answer. The shower is running, but in a way too steady 
stream. Something's wrong here.
	'Scully, I'm coming in, okay?'
	Slowly I open the unlocked door, the steam rolling in my 
face. Slower even, because I don't want to alarm her, I push the 
shower curtain aside.
	I must admit I always thought that the sight of her naked, 
forbidden territory as it is, would get me into serious trouble with 
my hormones, but the sight I'm met with here is too heart-
breaking to make me think any carnal thoughts. I can't. I kneel 
down beside the tub and tentatively touch her face, trying my 
hardest not to make her panic. But she seems too distracted to 
even notice me as she cries soundlessly, the water from the 
shower steadily sluicing over her body. I must touch her, I can't 
help myself. There's something inside of me that desperately 
needs to comfort her and I give in to it. Gently I draw her nearer 
to me, making her headrest against my chest, the side of the 
bathtub annoyingly separating us. Her wet hair soaks my shirt but 
I couldn't care less now. I'm more upset by the steady flow of 
tears that just keeps streaming from her eyes.
	'Can't get clean, Mulder,' she whispers between barely 
audible sobs. 'I feel so filthy, I can't get rid of him ...'
	I know what she means, and I also know I can't take that 
feeling away from her, not right now. But I can comfort her, make 
her feel calmer and more at ease. I gently stroke her hair away 
from her face, trying my utmost to soothe her. I feel my heart 
breaking for her as I curse the powerlessness I feel inside. There's 
so much I want to do for her and so little I can actually do. I could 
never truly protect her, as much as I'd want to. She wouldn't even 
let me. But I want to take her pain away. For God's sake just give 
it to me, I've got enough bottled up inside of me already, what 
harm could another portion do? And it would make her so much 
happier ...
	Goosebumps begin to cover her petite body despite the hot 
atmosphere in the tiny room and I reach over to turn the water off. 
Then I grab a towel from the stool and hand it to her, turning 
around to give her a little privacy as she gets up. In a way it's 
ridiculous really, considering I've just had quite an eyeful of her 
naked body, but it's the idea that counts. The idea that even Fox 
Mulder can be a gentleman when he applies himself.
	With the towel wrapped around her she passes me to go to 
her bedroom and change. It gives me time to clean up in here a 
little. I grab her pyjamas from the floor, those intensely ugly 
pyjamas I've always hated on her whenever she wore them on out-
of-town cases, and dump them in the bin. If I ever wanted to get 
rid of them now is the perfect moment and opportunity. Besides, I 
don't think she'd want to wear them again anyway after tonight. I 
empty the tub and clean up a little, giving her time to get dressed.
	She's ready in less than ten minutes, a by-product of us 
having been forced to hit the road at a moment's notice for the 
past seven years. The transformation is remarkable. She's even 
done her hair and put on a bit of make-up. No longer is she the 
vulnerable victim I was comforting just minutes ago, instead she 
looks strong and composed as ever. I'm glad though that she has 
dressed in jeans and a shirt instead of one of her armour power 
suits. We're going out but tonight we're not on business.
	'I'm ready, Mulder,' she says, her voice softer than I 
expected. I help her in her jacket.
	'So, you in the mood for pasta tonight, Scully? I'm 
treating.'
	She smiles a bit. 'I'd love pasta, but you really don't need 
to--...'
	I stop her, taking her face in my hands and regard her 
seriously. My thumbs softly caress her rosy lips. 'Yes I do,' I reply 
very earnestly. 'Now more than ever.'
	She sighs deeply and wraps her arms tightly around me. 
'Oh, Mulder,' she sighs, 'what would I ever do without you?'
	I can barely swallow that huge knot in my throat and I 
can't answer. I can only grip her even closer, burying my face in 
her soft copper hair. I can't let go of her. It seems that every time 
I do let go something bad happens to her and it's killing me bit by 
bit.

XxXxX

	Of course, as it was already eleven p.m. when we finally 
left her apartment, finding a decent restaurant that was still open 
and serving customers wasn't the easiest thing in the world, but I 
knew Marcello's would still be open, a reasonably good place 
serving reasonably good Italian food.
	It's well past midnight now and the restaurant is almost 
deserted. Across the room is another couple sharing a few beers 
and a bowl of fries and three people are sitting at the bar, drinking 
too much. And us. That's all.
	Scully's sitting next to me, her head resting on my 
shoulder. If I didn't know better I'd think she was asleep, but I 
don't think sleep will come easily tonight.
	Another nightmare to add to her ever-increasing 
collection. Just what she needed ... I shake my head, feeling sorry 
for her. I know she doesn't want me to, but I can't help it.
	During our late night dinner we were sitting opposite each 
other. She had a seafood spaghetti -- one can always tempt Dana 
Scully with seafood -- and I had the house lasagne. Marcello's 
lasagne is like velvet on the tongue, wouldn't want to miss it for 
the world.
	We spoke little, having so little we wanted to talk about. 
Work seemed ridiculous now and Scully had launched into 
profound denial as far as Donnie Pfaster was concerned. I let her 
for now. Her eyes were telling me all I needed to know anyway.
	Not being in the mood for an actual dessert I ordered Irish 
coffee for both of us. And, with the waitress gone, I wordlessly 
asked Scully to come and sit beside me.
	Marcello's has little booths, the walls of which reach right 
up to the ceiling, They're cosy and in much demand from couples 
for the privacy they offer. They're U-shaped, the bench curving 
itself around a small table just big enough for two people to have 
dinner at.
	So Scully slid across the seat to my side and, after a 
moment's hesitation, moulded herself against me. My arms came 
around her quite automatically and I haven't removed them since. 
I wouldn't be able to if I tried.
	'He wanted my hair,' she says very softly. So she is 
thinking about it after all. Suppose I shouldn't be surprised.
	I shudder involuntarily. 'I know.'
	'How?'
	'The officer called me to say that his previous victim had 
escaped, probably only because she was wearing a wig and wasn't 
a real red-head.' I bend a little closer to her. She doesn't seem to 
mind. 'That message scared the shit out of me.'
	She's silent for a moment. Then, 'Imagine being killed for 
the colour of your hair.'
	I stroke the side of her neck with my thumb, touching her 
hair. Don't ask me why. 'He was insane. God only knows what 
went around in that mind of his.'
	'The devil made him. He was pure evil.'
	I nod. 'He was. Thank God he's dead now.'
	'But for how long, Mulder? How long until we meet 
another Donnie Pfaster?'
	I can't answer, I don't need to answer, she doesn't need 
me to. We both know that tomorrow or the day after we'll be on 
our way to track down just another lunatic, hoping we'll catch 
him before he murders again. It's the way our life goes, the 
consequence of the career that brought us together in the first 
place.
	Our coffee arrives and for a moment our conversation, 
such as it is, comes to a halt.
	'I was so sure he was going to kill me,' she says after a 
moment, her hands enfolding the glass, her left forefinger tracing 
patterns in the whipped cream that drips down the side of the 
warm glass. 'And I was so goddamn angry that he'd gotten to me 
for the second time. The idea that he was attacking me again to 
feed that insane mind made me so furious I couldn't stop fighting. 
I was so scared ... And you ...' She looks at me. I can't read her 
eyes. '... at least you got there in time. But why did I shoot him?'
	I shake my head slowly. 'Sometimes ... I don't know. 
Anyway, it was either you or me, because I couldn't just ... you 
know ...'
	She nods. 'I know.' She sighs. 'But why me, Mulder? Why 
did I survive his attacks? Twice?'
	I look at her, her sapphire eyes answering every question 
and asking new ones at the same time. 'Heroes never die, Scully.'
	She makes a funny little scoffing sound as she shakes her 
head. 'I'm no hero, Mulder, I'm just ...' She pinches the bridge of 
her nose with her fingers, the movement so tired and helpless it 
break another bit of my heart. '... I'm just doing my job and ...' 
Her fingers move up further to cover her eyes as she takes a deep 
breath. I'm motionless, I haven't got a clue what to do now. 'I'm 
no hero, Mulder ...'
	I nod, smiling at her. 'Yes, you are.'
	She turns her head to meet my gaze. 'Then why do I feel 
so weak? Heroes are never weak, are they?'
	I don't know what to say. I take a deep breath. 'But what 
about Mother Theresa for example?' I whisper, looking ahead of 
me. I feel her eyes on me and I look at her. 'She was a hero to 
millions of people, though I doubt whether she could fly-tackle a 
mosquito ... And yet, she was a hero in her own way, right?'
	She nods. 'Yes, she was.' It's followed by a smile that even 
looks a bit grateful. Or at least I hope so.
	Across the room the couple gets up and leaves, making us 
the only customers still in the restaurant. Suppose we should be 
on our way as well. I signal the waitress and while Scully gets our 
jackets I settle the bill.
	The short trip to my place is spent in silence. She's leaning 
against the window of the passenger's side, staring emotionless at 
the hustle and bustle of the city as it passes us by. I don't know if I 
even want to know what she's thinking. It's only when we reach 
the familiar parking lot of my apartment building that she sits up. 
Her face is still unreadable, but I don't mind right now. We walk 
up to my apartment and when I open the door I'm rewarded by 
something that even looks like a smile.
	'Can I offer you anything to drink, Scully?'
	'Do you actually have something in that fridge of yours 
that isn't more than two years past its sell-by date?' she quips 
mildly and I grin.
	'In that case, just beer.'
	She smiles and shakes her head. 'No thanks, Mulder. I 
think I'd better pass.' Then she sighs and sits down on the couch. 
I grab a can for myself, pop it open and join her.
	She's sitting with her arms resting on her thighs, staring at 
the floor. That distant look again I just can't seem to figure out. I 
reach out and place my hand on her arm.
	'You okay, Scully?'
	She looks at me and I can see how badly she wants to say 
'I'm fine', but something is stopping her. I think it's those tears I 
can see brimming in her eyes. My thoughts are proven correct 
when she shakes her head and then her face crumples and she 
falls, hell, collapses in my arms.
	I grip her tightly, holding her so tightly I'm pretty sure I'm 
hurting her, but if I do she'd not giving me signs that it bothers 
her. If anything she even holds me closer, crying harder than I've 
ever seen in her. Is this brought on only by her ordeal with 
Donnie Pfaster or is there something else that bothers her? I'm 
scared to find out. I need her strength so much and seeing her like 
this is torture. How can such a good woman be forced to suffer so 
much? I bury my face in her hair, just like earlier tonight, but this 
time I press kisses in the copper strands as I whisper soft soothing 
non-words. She's gripping my sweater and cries in long deep 
heaves. I didn't mean to hold her this tightly, but her grief hurts 
me so much and I want it all to go. I want her to be happy again, 
as happy and carefree as she was when we were first teamed up. 
When her family was still intact, her future bright and full of 
promises. When she still had the respect of her superiors. When 
she still had everything going for her, blissfully unaware of how 
this partnership was about to scar and wreck her. I know she's not 
going to leave me, no matter how often I tell her to do just that 
same thing. But I owe her everything and I just want to give her 
something in return for what she's given me ...
	She's quieting down a little. Her sobs become lighter and 
further apart, her hands slowly lessen the vice-like grip on the 
front of my sweater. I recline and she comes with me till we're 
both lying on the couch and she's in my arms.
	I don't talk to her anymore, instead I just hold her, 
stroking her hair, her back and shoulders, her arms. I know I 
cannot actively take her anguish and her grief away, but at least I 
can soothe her and make her feel safe and protected. I hope.
	She's silent now. The collar of my sweater is soaked with 
her tears but she's soft and warm and alive and I think she might 
even make it through the remainder of the night without 
nightmares.

XxXxX

	Wrong. She did not make it undisturbedly after all. Instead 
Donnie Pfaster decided to pay her one last posthumous visit, 
which was ample reason to make her bolt from my arms. My jaw 
still hurts where her fist made solid impact in her panicked flight.
	I caught up with her in the doorway where she stood, 
confused, only half awake and trembling like a rabbit caught in 
the head lights. Ready to flee.
	I don't know if she really knew where she was or what was 
going on, but I approached her carefully so as not to alarm her. I 
placed my hand on her cheek, making contact, reassuring her and 
letting her know I was there. And then, for the second time that 
night, she collapsed in my arms.
	And that's where she still is. Difference right now is that 
she is fast asleep and I'm wide awake. It doesn't matter, I don't 
need the sleep anyhow. After all, I was just fine when it all 
happened.
	I realise all too well that he could have killed her and I 
wouldn't have suspected a thing. Until the moment the police 
would come by my place and ask me to identify her mutilated 
body, that is. The thought sends shivers down my back.
	The idea takes me back to that day I had to do that very 
same thing, the case in which we investigated those damn video 
signal scramblers. I know I looked cool and composed on the 
outside -- well, except for when that jerk in the car approached me 
-- but I was a total mess inside. Afterwards, when it was over, I 
cried in the car. Briefly, but I couldn't help it. I was so utterly 
relieved.
	We're sitting on the couch again, that black leather couch I 
really should replace. She's on my lap and I fold my hands around 
her lower back, holding her very loosely as she sleeps quietly. 
She's pale, but she's alive. My Scully, she's all mine. I know 
she'd probably try to shoot me if she could read my thoughts, but 
I'm a possessive bastard, always have been, and she's my most 
precious possession. And the one possession I have the least 
control over, but would hate to control more.
	Suppose we'd be better off in bed. I do have a bed, 
actually, I even made it two days ago so it shouldn't be too musty. 
I just don't use it very much. I'm usually too tired to get up from 
the couch. Got rid of the waterbed and mirrored tiles on the 
ceiling though, those were a bit too tacky, even by my standards.
	I lift her up and carry her into the bedroom, lying her 
down on the clean covers, after which I go in search of something 
for her to wear to bed. Tee-shirt and boxers will do I guess, she's 
worn those before. I know she steals some of my tee-shirts and 
boxers on a regular basis. The idea of her wearing my clothes to 
bed is a notion too dangerous to contemplate and I quickly remove 
the thought from my head. Think pure thoughts, Fox. No use 
getting excited about something you're never gonna get.
	With these items in my hand I sit back down on the bed 
and gently stroke her cheek, getting her to wake up just enough to 
get changed.
	'Scully,' I say very softly. 'Dana, sweetheart ...'
	She seems to be waking up, murmuring softly. I caress her 
face, softly enough not to send her into a flying panic.
	'Scully, time to get changed for bed.'
	Her eyes open and after a second they seem to focus on 
mine. I smile and then her eyes go softer than I've ever seen them 
before. It stirs something inside of me, something tender and 
protective. She smiles, sitting up slowly and accepting the pieces 
of clothing. She looks soft and drowsy and feminine in her state of 
half-sleep. I rise to leave her some privacy to get changed.
	'Mulder, where do you think you're going?' she asks 
instead and I turn around.
	'Well,' I begin. Yes, where the hell am I going? 'I thought 
I give you a bit of privacy while you ...'
	She smiles a bit more. 'Thank you, but you don't need to, 
you know ...' She reaches for my old Knicks tee-shirt. 'Besides, 
weren't you looking for this?'
	I smile a bit sheepishly, it makes her grin in a very sweet 
and tender way. She tosses the garment over to me and I catch it 
with one hand.
	'Come,' she says softly, 'we can handle this, we're both 
grown-ups.'
	I sit down on the bed. 'Actually, that is precisely what's 
bothering me.'
	It makes the tips of her ears turn pink. I love that in her, I 
love the idea that our mutual quest hasn't hardened her to a 
degree that she can no longer blush. She doesn't answer me 
though, instead begins to take off her jeans and sweater and 
change into the tee-shirt and boxers I've selected for her. I'm glad 
she's not making a fuss of this and somehow her calm and 
uninhibited way of changing settles my nerves, making me feel 
quite relaxed with the prospect of having my beautiful partner 
sharing my bed with me tonight.
	I'm ready first and I neatly fold back the bedcovers. She 
looks a bit uncertain and I can assure you that's exactly how I'm 
feeling as well, but she has nothing to fear from me. I hold out my 
hand in invitation. I don't have anything to hide from her now, 
she's safe with me. Well, that would make a nice change, 
wouldn't it? She accepts my hand and scoots closer to me and 
eventually we end up in each other's arms. She feels better than I 
could ever have imagined.
	'I don't know if I'll ever be able to sleep in my own bed 
again,' she says softly, her head tucked under my chin. I can feel 
her breath in soft puffs against my throat.
	'You need to give yourself time,' I answer.
	'Maybe you'll have to start sleeping with me permanently. 
To chase the demons away.'
	'You don't need me for that. You're so strong. I think you 
don't even realise how strong you really are,' I answer slowly. 
This is pretty hard. 'But I will always be there for you.'
	She nods. For minutes neither of us speaks a word and I've 
just begun to think that maybe she's fallen asleep again when she 
speaks, 'But how will we be able to keep our relationship a 
professional one if we start sleeping together?'
	My fingers are tangling in her hair. She's gonna hate me 
in the morning. But, yes, how on earth? I smile although she 
cannot see me. 'If you want my honest opinion, I don't think we 
will in the end. But we don't have to force anything and we're in 
no hurry,' I add softly. She shakes her head.
	'You're right.' 
	I hug her a bit closer, feeling her tremble slightly.
	'I'm still scared, Mulder ...'
	I kiss her hair. 'Don't be,' I whisper. 'We'll beat this. As 
long as we stick together we can face the world and all the 
demons it holds. We will beat this ...' And I do believe this, I just 
know that we can beat even this demon, this memory.
	She stops shivering after a few minutes and her steadier 
breathing indicates that she has finally fallen asleep. I hope she'll 
make it through whatever remains of the night without being 
disturbed. Tomorrow I'm going to call in the Gunmen to help me 
refurbish her apartment -- there's no way in hell I'm letting her 
do that -- and as far as Scully and me are concerned, well, we'll 
just wait and see what the future has in store for us. We can wait. 
We've been waiting seven years already ...

END

Kirsten Kerkhof
The Netherlands, 12-1-2001