Title: Exorcist Stairs (1/1) Author: Elanor G Email: ElanorG@yahoo.com URL: http://www.geocities.com/elanorg/ Distribution: Wherever you wish! Please send me an e-mail, just so I know. Spoilers: Post-ep for Orison Rating: R - violence, language Classification: X-File Keywords: Angst, UST Disclaimer: The X-Files is the property of Chris Carter, Fox, et al. I'm writing this simply to amuse myself - and a few others, I hope. Summary: Scully is adrift and on her own after the events of Orison. A chance encounter forces her to confront the banality of evil... XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX The thing was over and done, and Pfaster was dead by Scully's hand, and everyone except for Scully was content. Everyone except for Scully. Two days since the hearing that exonerated her of any wrongdoing in the death of Ronnie Pfaster. And Mulder had not even lied, not really. He didn't need to. Pfaster had no mourners, no supporters, no family or friends. Some counseling had been suggested for Scully, but there was no suggestion that she was unfit for duty in any way. No psychologist had testified that Scully had not been responsible for her actions. Her soundness of mind was not in question. She was thankful for that, at least. The humiliation of that would have been too much to bear, in addition to everything else. She has been on leave ever since the shooting. Skinner had strongly suggested to Scully that she use more of her accumulated leave after the hearing. At the time she didn't have the energy to protest. So she has been using the time productively. The mirror has been replaced, the rooms cleaned and cleaned, and the apartment is now back to normal. Unfortunately, she is not. The third day dawns overcast and cold. Scully looks out the window, restless and ill at ease. It's time to get out. Here alone in her apartment she has nothing to do but think, and she's tired of that. Maybe if Mulder were here, she could better channel her thoughts and her energy. But Mulder is away. He's in Dallas, testifying at a drug trafficking trial - in their purgatory away from the X-Files, they had worked surveillance on one of the defendants. He emailed Scully last night to complain about Dallas and ask, tentatively, how she's doing. She wrote him a long message in response but never sent it. When he's not with her the words never quite come out the way she intends. So instead, she told him that she's fine. Enough of this, Scully thinks. Her apartment is back in shape, now it's time to do the same for her body. She puts on her running clothes and heads out at a brisk trot, ignoring the protests of stiff aching muscles and healing bruises. Georgetown is quiet today. A few students, a few strollers on the rough brick sidewalk. She decides to head for the canal towpath and runs down 36th Street. As she moves, she takes in her surroundings and marvels at how little she knows her own neighborhood, even after all the time she's lived here. 36th ends abruptly at Prospect Street and she stops. A steep hill separates her from Canal Road, and the canal itself, and the Potomac River beyond. The shortest way is down those long stone stairs. Those infamous stairs. It's been a long time since she's even gone by this macabre local tourist attraction. Scully puts her head down and jogs down the stairs, her quadriceps shaking a bit with the effort. Damp stone and brick walls loom on either side. Absurdly she finds her heart is beating quickly, not from the exercise but from half- remembered images from a horror movie she saw once in high school. Stop that, Scully tells herself. After counting 75 steps, she emerges on the street and takes slow deep breaths. Soon Scully is running down the towpath next to the canal. The clean damp air banishes her dark thoughts. A few geese soar in the gray sky. The Potomac, visible through a screen of trees, is bloated with rain and melted snow. There are only a few runners on the path today. The only sound is the clean crunch of feet on gravel. And a thin distant scream. Without thinking Scully runs faster, toward the sound. She turns a bend and sees a small clump of people at the side of the path. One of them, a young woman, turns and runs. "Does anyone have a phone? Does anyone have a phone? Please call the police," she yells. Scully speeds up. She grows close and the group turns to look at her with pale horrified faces. People in running clothes like her, an older woman out walking her dog. "I'm a federal agent," Scully says. They fall away from her and she steps forward. The body lies tangled in the weeds growing by the edge of the canal. Only her face and shoulders rise above the muddy green water. Dark lank hair. Pale skin mottled with bruises. A young, young face, perhaps a student. And, selfishly, Scully's first reaction is anger. Not anger at the horror and injustice of it all, but anger for herself. Another place ruined for her. My God, she thinks, will death follow me everywhere now? Out for a jog, going to the Safeway for orange juice, what next? "Okay, everybody," she says, pulling away from the sight. "Let's move away." The small group pulls back obediently, except for the woman with the strangely silent terrier. "Samson just started barking and barking," the woman says numbly. "He never barks like that. He got away from me and I chased him. And then I saw her. Oh my God." Scully does not answer, but reaches for the cell phone stashed unthinkingly in her jacket. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX The day has turned darker. The scene has devolved into the jurisdictional mess typical of the District. The body was found on the C&O Canal, and so the National Park Service Police were the first to arrive. Now DC cops also swarm around the scene. The media hang around the edges, prowling for pictures. At least the cameras weren't rolling when the young woman's body was gently retrieved from the water by the DC Coroner's office. The girl has been tentatively identified as Kim Somers, a law student at Georgetown missing for several days. She was severely beaten and probably sexually assaulted, but the cause of death was a small, neat bullet hole near her temple, hidden by her hair. As always there are the spectators, curious and bored and frightened. Scully keeps an eye on the shifting clusters of people. Next to her stands Lieutenant Moses from the MPD. He has just finished taking her statement. His dark face is tired - this will be a high-profile case, and the pressure from the public and the city's politicians will be enormous. Moses yawns and rubs his eyes. "Is there anything else I can do? Let me know if you want me to come in for a formal statement downtown," she says. "Nah, that shouldn't be necessary." He frowns as he watches uniformed and plainclothes officers sift through grass and weeds and mud. "I hate these red ball cases," he murmurs. "I fucking hate these red ball cases from the bottom of my heart." But at that moment Scully isn't listening. Because her eyes on the crowd catch a shape. She squints a little to get a better glimpse and sees the form weave in and out of the spectators, ignored by everyone. Something sharp and angular that her eyes can't quite focus on, a nightmare thing barely caught out of the corner of her eye. For an instant it turns and to Scully it is the face that loomed out of the dark. The hideous face that leered at her like a taste of madness as the closet door shut out the light. She gasps and the vision passes. The half-glimpsed face melts into ordinary features before vanishing into the crowd for good. Moses looks at her sharply. "You okay, Agent Scully?" "Uh. Yeah." She tries to calm down. Her pulse races beneath her skin. "Sorry. Just tired." "I bet so," answers Moses, and briefly she wonders at his tone. Does he know about Pfaster? Her name has been carefully kept out of the news media: Notorious serial killer Donnie Pfaster was killed in self- defense by a female FBI agent when he broke into her apartment. It was a tidy story with a bit of poetic justice and the media had not delved further. But when Scully looks at Moses she sees only weariness. Only the grim knowing look of a big-city homicide detective who has seen plenty of death. The murder of a white woman in a nice neighborhood will attract the attention and the pressure, but she is just another in a long string of ruined lives. "There is something," he says. "I'm not a proud man. Help is help. I've learned that working in this city. They're gonna put a lot of extra manpower on this kinda case. But you live around here, and you keep your eyes open. So you so let me know if you see anything." "Certainly." Moses hands her his card and turns away. Scully holds it, turning it over and over in her hands as she watches the crowd on the edges of the police tape. I'm losing my mind, she thinks. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX Of course Scully does not tell Mulder about any of this. It would just worry him, and she's tired of being worried over. After it happened Mulder treated her like a breakable object, despite his best intentions. But she was not feeling particularly fragile and she did not accept it gracefully. Instead, in her email to him that night, she asks him questions. What does he think about possession, demons, evil as a tangible force slipping in and out of souls and minds? They talked about this sort of thing, briefly and haltingly, after she killed Pfaster, but never brought it up again. They've never seen eye to eye on this whole subject anyway. At least now they both respect the strength of each other's experiences. Still, she never sends the message. After a troubled night, a clear and chilly morning comes as a relief. Again restlessness propels Scully out of her apartment. Her back and legs are sore, so she decides against another jog. But it's good to walk, it's good to feel her stiff muscles work. On the way out the door Scully stops and returns to her bedroom. She takes her gun out of the top drawer and looks at it for a moment, feeling its comforting weight and smoothness. She slips it into her holster, then puts her coat back over it. At first her wandering is aimless. The streets are quiet today, oddly quiet for such a pretty morning. After a while, Scully finds herself retracing her steps from the day before, past the campus, past the restaurants, until she is standing at the top of the stairs again. They are deep in shadow, a black stone stripe in the sunny day. She pauses briefly, then walks down, keeping her eyes on her feet. Soon she is back on the canal towpath, turning the same bend that she took yesterday morning. The scene is still cordoned off with garish yellow tape. The canal has been drained and rubber-booted police officers wade through the muck, sifting for evidence and picking up trash. Old shoes, bottles, cans, even a twisted old shopping cart decorate the green mud. A small crowd watches them work. Scully scans the backs of their heads, not sure what she's looking for. Is she watching for that twisted nightmare shape to appear again? Does she really want to see it? She is untethered, working without a net, and it's an odd feeling. She's not sure she likes it. "Agent Scully?" She was so intent on the crowd that the voice near her ear makes her jump. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." "Do I know you?" she asks, making a quick recovery. This young man is unfamiliar to her. Maybe 25, brown hair, pleasant unremarkable features. Slim, not too tall. His smile is shy. "Oh, um, my name's Joseph. Joseph Winner. I'm really sorry. I recognized you from the pictures." "What pictures?" asks Scully, her stomach beginning to churn. "Back when you testified against the death penalty for Donald Pfaster. I'm in the poli sci department at Georgetown, but I took a course at the law school on the death penalty. I found an interesting article about you when I was doing research for a project." "I see," says Scully. Her heart sinks. At least he doesn't know, she thinks. At least he doesn't know how it was all for nothing. "That's nice. I need to be going - " "I don't want to bother you, but I was hoping I could ask you about something." All Scully can see is slight embarrassment in his earnest face. Is it a face she's glimpsed around Georgetown as she's rushed from home to work and back? Maybe walking around with books, kicking a soccer ball in the park, drinking a latte at Dean and Deluca? "About what?" "Oh, I don't want to be a pest." Winner turns and begins to walk away from the scene, back toward the main part of Georgetown. Scully walks next to him, curious now. "I wanted to ask about...forgiveness." "Forgiveness?" she repeats, surprised. Well, you've come to the wrong place to learn about that, says the cynical voice inside her head. "Yeah. I just..." He pauses again, his eyes downcast. "I read the transcript - it was just so amazing that you would defend his life like that. That you could forgive him, even after what he did to you. Your testimony made a huge impression on the court. On me too." His voice is quiet. "I want to understand why." Scully remembers testifying, remembers Pfaster's strange face as he listened to her speak in that courtroom. His features were almost handsome, but subtly askew, making him more disturbing than any monster or freak. "It had nothing to do with forgiveness," she tells him. "It wasn't my place to forgive. There were the families of his other victims. And the only ones who could truly forgive him were dead." Joseph Winner gives her a swift, searching look. "Then...I don't understand. Why?" "Because I was tired of death." She thinks some more. "I was tired of *him.* I thought that he would have a greater hold over me dead than alive." She smiles a little at the grim irony. "And, I thought, there was some good that could come out of it. By simply destroying him, we could never learn anything from him. We could never understand why we became who he was. We don't get many chances to study evil like that." Scully takes a breath - she's said too much. She didn't mean to talk like this, she didn't mean to reveal so much. Now it's really time to extricate herself from this odd conversation. But Winner stops abruptly and stares at her until she becomes quite uneasy. They have walked back along the towpath, until the police and the crowd out of sight. They Key Bridge arches overhead, joining DC and Virginia. The traffic thrums above, the dark river moves beneath. Here there are no bikers or joggers, despite the sunny day. "It's funny that you should mention evil," Winner says at last. "Like it's something separate from the person. It seems like such an old idea. You hear the word evil, you think about demons, possession, stuff like that. Usually, when someone's truly sick, mentally ill, we say he's not responsible for his actions" He clears his throat and looks up at the bridge. "But evil's a sickness, don't you think? Can you hold someone responsible for evil?" "Evil is something that can work through people, just like good," Scully says neutrally. Is this what I believe, she wonders. She imagines huge unknowable forces at work, occasionally finding temporary vessels to enter, use, and abandon. Winner exhales loudly. "It's such a relief to talk about this with someone who understands," he says. Scully cuts him off, suddenly very tired. "Look, Joseph, is it? It's a very troubling subject, believe me. But I have to tell you that I'm as confused as you are. So, it's been nice talking to you, but -" Winner continues as if he didn't hear her. "Because this is what I keep trying to tell them but they won't listen." He looks into the distance, down the empty path. A cold breeze comes off the water, but it's not what makes Scully shiver. "'Them?'" He turns back to face her. There is a light behind the mild eyes that Scully did not see before. "The voices," he explains reasonably. "They keep telling me it was my fault but it wasn't. It wasn't my fault at all." Scully's body tenses. "What are you saying?" "I mean, I can't even remember what happened," Winner says. "We hooked up that one time but I guess it wasn't good enough for her. She came by to see my housemate, she needed to return a book or something. But I was the only one in the house that day, everyone else was out of town. Kim was acting so bitchy to me. I don't understand why she had to be that way." He shakes his head regretfully. "Are we talking about Kim Somers, Joseph? Is that what we're doing?" Carefully she stretches out a hand. "Why don't you go talk to the detective. I can take you to him. He's the one you need to talk to." "But I don't need to," Winner says, a petulant note creeping his voice. "I didn't do anything. I was just talking to her, that's the last thing I remember. And then it was like I was asleep or something, because I woke up on the floor in my room and she was there on my bed. And she was...she was so messed up. I wouldn't ever do anything like that, to her or anyone else. It couldn't have been me." He swallows. "It's just so totally of character for me." I don't want to hear this, Scully thinks. "So I cleaned up the blood and showered. And I used the little gun I bought in Arlington to, you know, to finish it." "To finish it," repeats Scully. Horror and revulsion threaten to overwhelm her but she tries to force her emotions away down and keep her mind clear. "I didn't want her to suffer," explains Winner "She was still breathing a little bit, but she wasn't going to last much more anyway. I was able to wrap her up and get down the canal. But maybe I should have put her in the river instead. Guess I wasn't thinking too clearly. The voices were so loud." He rubs eyes as if they burn. "The voices are always trying to tell me that I did it, but I didn't do it." He's talking faster now, his eyes shining. "I'm not responsible. It's like you said, there was something working through me, using me. It's not fair to punish me for something I didn't do." "Joseph," she begins, her voice hoarse. "Joseph. Please. I want you to come with me now." Rage now rises in the back of her throat like bile. Something like astonishment crosses his face. "But Agent Scully, you can't think I'm responsible." His expression changes to ugly fear. "Don't you understand?" He backs away some more and his hand moves to his jacket. "No," Scully says. She reaches behind her with instinctive speed, feels her weapon solid and reassuring in her hands. "Take your hand away from your jacket, very slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them." Winner's eyes never leave hers. He pulls his hand from his jacket. He holds the little gun loosely in his right hand. "You have to believe me. I thought you would believe me, you of all people. Something evil came into me and made me do that. I just had to clean up after it, that's all." "Put the gun down now." "I'm not responsible. It's not fair." His voice cracks and his pleasant features are distorted. "Please, you have to forgive me." He waves the gun vaguely at himself, at Scully, at the ground. "PUT THE GUN DOWN NOW." "Forgive me," he whimpers. With a slight motion of his wrist he tosses the gun into the canal. It hits the mud with a soft plop. "I just wanted to be forgiven so I could go on with my life. I just want the voices to forgive me." He sinks to his knees. And it would be so easy to shoot him now, Scully thinks. Her finger moves slightly, slightly on the trigger. So easy, so *right*, to rid the world of another monster. The path is empty, the rumble of traffic on the bridge would muffle the noise. She looks at him, his face dissolving into tears, and tries to see the nightmare shape. She tries to see the shifting demon face that lurks at the edge of her memory, that lurks around the edge of everyone's buried fears. But she can't see it. Instead all she sees is a medium-sized young man pathetic and groveling in the dirt in front of her. He begins to weep, his face twisted in fright. Scully feels the rage fade, leaving behind weary disgust. "You have the right to remain silent," she says. XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX "And so..." Mulder prompts. "And so the ballistics match, and traces of her blood were found in his room, along with matching hair and fiber. A DNA analysis is being performed on the semen found in her body, but I don't think the results will be too much of a surprise. He's at St. Elizabeth's now, being evaluated. It's unlikely that he'll even be considered competent to stand trial." They are walking down Prospect Street on their way to dinner. Her first day back at work has been a quiet day of catching up. She picked up Mulder at National Airport early that evening. "I can't believe it," says Mulder again, shaking his head. When she first told him about it, his face froze, as it usually did when he was worried or angry. Seeing her strong and whole mitigated his anger. Now, as they walk to dinner, he is almost recovered. Almost. "I'm sure Skinner was thrilled. I don't think this is what he had in mind when he asked you to take time off." "I think if he had his way he would have placed me under house arrest." As they walk the dark sidewalk, she watches the bricks beneath her feet. "But I had to know. I couldn't leave it alone. I had to understand what I saw." "What *did* you see?" Mulder asks, his breath steaming in the cold night. His tone is light but his eyes are serious. "I don't know. And, to be honest, I don't know if I need to know." His face has that open, listening look, encouraging her to continue. "There are forces at work in us, Mulder. Good, evil, God, the devil - whatever you want to call them. We give them many names. Sometimes we catch glimpses of things we aren't meant to see. But we can't - *I* can't - live life wondering about them. I can't let them paralyze me. All I can do...all I can do is try to do what's right, what's just." She stops and looks up at Mulder imploringly. "And if I fail, then I have to move on, and keep trying. Do you understand?" They stand under the streetlight, hands in pockets. Mulder nods. "But Scully, you always have to rely on your instincts. Always. You have...a radar for evil." She raises an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, but I can't think of a better way to phrase it." "I don't think it's a gift I really want," she says. "I always thought that's what you had. Your intuition. The way you can reconstruct people and their thoughts." "No, you have something different." He searches her face with warm, wondering dark eyes. "You have something that I don't understand. Not yet. Maybe someday." Standing close, he touches her face contemplatively, his warm thumb brushing just beneath her cheekbone. A very slight smile curves his lips. They start walking again, slowly. "So where are we going for dinner?" Scully asks. The subject is done, for now. "There." Mulder points down the block to 1789 Restaurant. It's in remodeled 18th-century building on 36th Street, the kind of place with fireplaces and different flatware for different courses and before- theater menus. A group of well-dressed people walks laughing to the front door. Scully looks at the restaurant's lit windows, warm and inviting in the cold night. She raises her eyebrow again. "Mulder, are you aware this place uses cloth napkins?" He grins. "I'm willing to expand my horizons." A hint of smugness enters his voice. "I made reservations from National." Scully shakes her head, a small grin of her own forming. "And what's the occasion?" "To celebrate. I've escaped from Dallas. You're back at work." He makes an expansive gesture with his arms. "Just because." They cross the street and pass by the Exorcist stairs. The Rosslyn skyline shines from across the Potomac. Scully notices how Mulder picks up the pace - she has to jog a little to catch up. "Mulder...?" "They give me the creeps." He nods toward the stairs. "What, because of the movie? Oh please..." "Scully, all I know is that I snuck in to see it with some friends when I was thirteen and I had nightmares about spinning heads for weeks afterwards." He gives her a sidelong glance. "But the puking thing was pretty cool. Come on Scully, you must have seen it. Don't tell me you weren't scared." "I don't know, Mulder. I saw it, but I wasn't scared." She returns his glance, amused. "At the time, I thought it was too implausible." He laughs as he opens the restaurant door for her. Then he follows her in, shutting the door against the cold night. End XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX So I saw the re-release of The Exorcist last weekend - great flick. I remembered Scully lives in Georgetown, where it was filmed, and inspiration struck. The Exorcist stairs exist, near the corner of Prospect and 36th - kind of a local landmark. This might be a good time to mention that The Exorcist is a Warner Brothers movie written by William Peter Blatty and directed by William Friedkin. I'm just drawing inspiration from the setting, that's all... Please let me know what you think about this odd story. Thanks for reading. EG ElanorG@yahoo.com http://www.geocities.com/ElanorG