Title: Imperfect Shadow
Author: Nicknoc
Email: nicknoc@hotmail.com
Webpage: http://members.xoom.com/nicknoc/
Category: Angst
Rating: G
Archive: Yes, just let me know.
Spoilers: Post-ep for Orison
Date: 6 July 2000
Notes: Many, many thanks to bugs and mountainphile. Your contributions were
invaluable, as always.
Summary: In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade.
~Imperfect Shadow~
by Nicknoc
Rain falls from a concrete sky.
Nature is making up for my inability to cry with heavy bullet drops that hit
the windshield with hollow thuds.
While I wait for Mulder, I stare at my hands. They are small and white, with
slightly pink knuckles. Despite years of protecting my skin from the sun,
they are criss-crossed with fine lines. Innocuous hands.
I hold them in my lap, forcing them to be still. When they have stopped
shaking, I slowly turn them over, then over again, as if each time they will
be different.
They *are* different. Strong dependable hands -- they are hands that have
loved, healed and held tightly to those that could not be healed. Those same
hands have now killed.
Murderer's hands.
I whisper it aloud. Murderer. I taste the word on my tongue. Although the
unfamiliar raggedness of my voice startles me, it evokes no deeper response.
I feel nothing.
I look at my hands again. I have broken a nail. A broken nail, a few
scratches and some deep bruises are the sum total of my struggle.
I run my thumb over the rough edge of the nail and shake my head. I have
broken more than a nail. I'm the mirror in my bedroom; shattered into jagged
pieces. Made of broken glass, I must move delicately to keep from
collapsing. But I'm completely numb. I can't feel the piercing shards.
Mulder is overly solicitous when he arrives, murmuring his apologies as he
allows a sluice of water to enter the car.
I'm jolted by his arrival. I'd drifted into a shadowy space behind my eyes,
recognizing only the sharp feeling of the ragged nail against the fleshy pad
of my thumb.
"Are you hungry?"
If I were still me, I would probably cock my eyebrow at him incredulously.
Hungry? But I am not me, so I shake my head and force out a sound that
passes for 'No'.
From the corner of my eye I see him pause before he turns the key in the
ignition, fixing his gaze on me. He wants to say something, but I know he is
unsure what words could possibly mend this...mend me.
I turn my head to stare out the tear-stained window, not wanting him to
speak to me, not wanting to speak at all. The sound of the engine turning
over is a relief to us both.
On the drive to his apartment I watch the same scenery whip by, sights I've
encountered a thousand times before. The river reflects the gun-metal gray
of the sky, and shrugs its indifference as we pass. Nature doesn't care that
I have killed a man.
****
When we enter Mulder's apartment I am briefly warmed by its familiar,
slightly stale smell. It is a combination of dust and leather, old paper and
coffee, sweat and aftershave. The scent is comforting, and at this moment
his apartment feels more like home to me than my own.
I settle myself on the sofa, content once more to stare into space. I need
time to run through events and process what happened.
As I do, horror and self-loathing begin to replace my numbness. The full
meaning of my action becomes larger and I shrink from its implications.
I don't want to think about this.
I don't want to feel this.
Feeling nothing was better and I strive to return to my previous state of
blank existence.
Mulder returns to place a plate of buttered toast in front of me and the
slightly burnt smell brings me out of my gray shadows.
"I know you're not hungry, but you should eat something," he murmurs. "I
think you're in shock."
I smile slightly at this. Dr Mulder's diagnosis may well be correct.
To please him, I take a bite. Although the toast is liberally spread with
butter, it feels dry in my mouth and it sticks in my throat. Mulder hands me
a cup of warm milk, never taking his gaze from my face.
I find his attention cloying, and I want to tell him to leave me alone.
Instead, I sip the milk, swallowing my words with the warm liquid and the
sharp-edged toast.
Another bite. Another sip. I have done my duty to him, so I place the mug
back on the table and stand up.
"I'm going to bed now." My voice is unnaturally loud in the funereal
stillness of his apartment and I wince slightly.
I bend and pick up my bag that is still at my feet. It feels heavy -- as if
I've packed for a vacation -- and I wonder what I put in it. Did I remember
my toothbrush?
As I turn to go, unable to meet his eyes, he reaches out and grasps my hand.
"Scully, don't do this to yourself."
He tugs me toward him. I resist, unsure why I don't want to sit next to him,
only knowing that I don't. But Mulder is nothing if not persistent. When he
refuses to let go of my hand I reluctantly drop the bag and sit.
I refuse to meet his eyes, and instead stare at the mole on his cheek. Small
and brown; it's a piece of normality that brings me into focus. I steel
myself for the words of comfort and reassurance that I know will come next.
"What you did was understandable. He was trying to kill you. You did what
anyone in your situation would do."
His tone begs me to accept the truth as he sees it. I sense a panic in him.
He is afraid of what I am thinking, that I am irreparably splintered, unable
to piece together the whole that was me.
Or is that what I'm afraid of?
I only realize that I haven't responded when he speaks again, this time more
urgently.
"Scully, you can't blame yourself. You were in shock. He was an evil man,
Scully."
He is leaning forward in his desperation to convince me and I put my hands
up to push him away from me. I'm struck by the contrast of my flesh against
his black sweater. White against black.
That's what he wants me to think. White against black. Good against evil.
Black and white, open and shut. But it's all gray to me. I am unable to
respond to his statements, so I take a different tack.
"Mulder, I don't want you to lie for me. I don't want you to lie in your
report."
"I won't be lying, Scully. I'll tell it how I saw it - I didn't have Pfaster
under my control, he turned toward you and you reacted to that threat. You
reacted automatically; I could see in your eyes that you weren't yourself."
I would like to believe that. I would like to believe that I wasn't myself,
but I don't. It was me, but it was a side of me that I've never seen before.
Mulder is wrong. I didn't react automatically. I had time to think and I
chose to pull that trigger. It may not have been a completely voluntary
choice, but it was still my choice.
Mulder's hands reach up to cradle my face and he forces me to look him in
the eye.
"Scully," he says in a low voice, "Pfaster was evil. It's not a bad thing
that he's gone."
I shake my head, dislodging his grip.
"Mulder, I can't justify what I did, and I don't want you to either. There
*is* no justification. I pulled that trigger, Mulder. It wasn't the hand of
God, it wasn't some evil force. It was me." I hold up my hands again,
unsure if I'm warding him off, or showing him proof. "I did it. I pulled the
trigger."
Maybe if I say it often enough, it will sink in.
Mulder takes my hands and cocoons them in his. "Scully, you and I both know
that the world is a better place without him."
I nod in agreement as I slip my hands out from between his. That much is
true. But Mulder doesn't understand. "Mulder, I - I don't care that he's
dead. I care that *I* killed him. I'm a murderer."
I know he's shocked. I can see it in his eyes, even as he tries to hide it.
I am mildly surprised at my own bluntness, but now that I have started I
feel a need to seek absolution in confession.
"I did it, Mulder -- not out of shock, or some reflex action. I had time to
think and I *still* did it. It's like a part of me has been lurking in the
shadows, waiting to seize on a moment like this." I take a deep breath. "I
don't want that person in me."
Mulder seems momentarily taken aback at what I've said, but he takes it in
his stride. "We all have a dark side, Scully."
"No, I disagree," I say tightly. "Some people don't. I have always liked to
believe that I was one of those people. But now I know differently. I have
the potential for evil."
I feel eerily calm, as if we're discussing somebody else. In a way, we *are*
discussing somebody else.
"Scully, you are still the same person. You are still the Dana Scully that
is courageous, loyal and loving. That hasn't changed."
But in my mind it has. I will always carry within me the feelings of hatred
and horror that surged simultaneously as I pulled the trigger. I fought an
internal battle and I lost. Everything I believed in was pushed aside in a
brief flash of vengeance, and I feel sick to my stomach that I could
surrender myself so easily.
Mulder reaches for me, as if to draw me into an embrace, but I flinch at his
touch. He draws back, trying not to look hurt. He probably thinks my
physical reluctance is because of what Pfaster did to me, but it's not. It's
because of what I did to Pfaster. I feel dirty. I don't want to be touched
by Mulder.
"I'm going to have a shower," I say, standing up abruptly and effectively
ending our conversation.
When I enter the bathroom I refuse to look at the mirror, afraid of what I
might see. Methodically, I peel off my clothes, keeping my head down and
turned away from the shiny glass.
Finally I muster my courage and turn to look at myself.
I look normal. A little paler than usual, causing my freckles to stand out
in stark relief, hair slightly messy and a bruise already showing on my hip,
but the same Dana Scully that always stares back at me from a mirror.
I don't know what I expected really -- an evil glint to my eyes? A cruel
mouth? I look normal. For a while I just stare, and then suddenly the mirror
shatters and I'm being thrown against it. I can hear the tinkle of glass --
almost melodic -- and smell his breath.
The trembling starts faintly at my inner ankles. It travels up and radiates
out in a sick parody of an orgasm.
My knees turn to rubber and I flail as I struggle to remain upright. My face
hits the corner of the cabinet on the way down. As I land on the floor I am
momentarily stilled, cheek against the cold tiles, nose inches away from the
cheap Formica of the cabinet doors. Then I drag in my first breath, and it
sounds unnaturally loud.
Quiet, I tell myself. Be quiet. But my rasping breaths bounce around in the
bathroom, and in their echoes I can hear *his* voice. "Is your hair normal
or dry?"
Before I can gain control Mulder is banging at the bathroom door. "Scully!
Scully, are you okay?"
I push myself up, head drooping over my hands splayed on the floor, and the
blood starts gushing out. I know it's coming from my nose, but I can't feel
a thing. I must have hit it so hard that it is still numb.
The blood splashes over my fingers and I rock back onto my bottom so I am
sitting up. In the background I can hear Mulder calling "Scully, Scully,"
and I realize the door is locked.
I should open it. I should answer him. But there is blood on my hands --
blood on my hands -- and I can't remember if it is his blood or mine.
A sharp gunshot of splintering wood and I swallow a scream. A form moves
toward me. Mulder, not Pfaster. I don't want him near me -- not in the
bathroom -- so I kick out. He grabs hold of my thrashing legs, pinning them
to the floor. I lash out with my hands instead. There is blood on my
hands -- now it's on Mulder's face.
All the while, I stand apart from myself, watching my naked form twist and
turn like a slippery bleeding fish in Mulder's arms. I'm hysterical -- I
realize that -- so it's odd that I can't seem to stop myself. I observe my
writhing in sick fascination, noting that even in this frenzy of horror and
rage I still don't cry.
I stop suddenly when I bump my nose again and the pain between my eyes is
enough to snap me back to reality. I am frozen in Mulder's arms with my
mouth hanging open, and shame and embarrassment taking residence on my
cheeks.
He settles me back against the bathroom cabinet and drapes a towel over me.
Until that moment, I had forgotten I was naked. I catch his eye, and I'm
hurt by the look of horror on his face. Certainly, I am appalled by my
sudden and spectacular loss of control, but I expect more understanding from
him. Then I realize that his gaze is directed at the blood drying under my
nose.
"No, Mulder. It's okay. I hit my face on the cabinet. I'm fine." My voice is
shaky and as I lift my hand to wipe my nose, I see that I'm still trembling.
Mulder says nothing, reaching for the other towel that has fallen to the
floor in our struggle. He drapes it over me, tucking the corners in around
my shoulders. I am thankful that he doesn't make me move. I don't think I
can walk. Although he has just seen me at my worst, I don't want him to see
me lurch on untrustworthy legs.
Still feeling dazed, I watch as he gets up and soaks a washcloth in warm
water. He sits back down and runs it over my face, removing the sticky
blood. The pain in my nose has dulled to a throb, and he is particularly
gentle when he removes the blood from it.
As he wipes the blood away, we lock eyes. In that moment I let my guard down
and allow him to see into me. I let him see my fear and I think he
understands what I am feeling. He leans forward and our foreheads meet, his
gaze not leaving mine. His breathing is deep and even and my inhalations
begin to match his.
After a few moments I lower my eyelids, cutting him off. I can sense his
disappointment, but that short moment of intimacy, while welcome, is
overwhelming for me.
He gets up again and rinses the cloth. This time he takes my left hand out
from under the towel and begins stroking the warm cloth over it. I watch as
the blood begins to fade, then disappear. He repeats the process --
replenishing the cloth with warm water, stroking and rubbing -- until the
blood is completely gone. Then he starts over again on my right hand. His
rhythmic actions lull me into a state of semi-calm. Eyes fluttering closed,
my head lolls back onto the cabinet.
When he finishes with my right hand, he lifts it to his lips and kisses my
palm. His lips are soft and warm against my cold skin, and I reflexively
close my hand, hoping to capture the heat of his kiss. I open my eyes and
he's looking at me with such tenderness that I feel my throat constrict
around a wave of emotion.
"I've been thinking about what you said," he murmurs casually, as if we are
continuing a conversation. I am grateful that he does not acknowledge my
breakdown. "You said that you believe some people don't have a dark side. I
don't agree. I believe everyone has a dark side, Scully, even the best of
us. And I believe *you* are the best of us. You are good precisely because
you rarely let your darker self take control. Many people struggle with the
good and evil in them, sometimes giving in to darker impulses, but usually
coming back to good. And some people just let evil take over...like
Pfaster."
"But I did give in," I whisper.
He nods, his eyes dark and liquid. "Maybe sometimes it's necessary to give
in to do what must be done. Dana Scully, as you know her, couldn't have done
what you did. But a part of you recognized that it needed to be done, and in
that instant, carried it out. That doesn't make you an evil person."
"I'll never forgive myself for what I did." My voice is thready, and I'm
annoyed at myself for still sounding so feeble.
"Maybe not, but hopefully you'll come to terms with what you did. You are
fallible, just like the rest of us, Scully. You've been confronted with an
aspect of yourself that you've never had to face before. But you shouldn't
judge yourself so harshly."
"How can I come to terms with something that goes against everything I
believe in? That goes against what I understood to be my most basic nature?"
He leans forward until he is a whisper away. I am still panting slightly,
and our breath mingles. "In my eyes you haven't changed. You're a life
giver, Scully, and you always will be. You've given me my life a thousand
times, in so many different ways."
Slowly, he tilts his head and presses his lips against mine in a soft kiss.
Then he picks up each hand and gently kisses my knuckles. I shiver and he
mistakes it for the cold.
"I'm sorry. Let's get you into something warm."
Taking care not to dislodge the towels that are covering me, he lifts me up
and shepherds me into his bedroom. He's already turned back the sheets and
put my overnight bag near the bed. I smile faintly, seeing the humor in the
situation. I've imagined Mulder leading me naked to his bed a number of
times, but this isn't how I've pictured it.
"I'll just get you a drink," he says, leaving me to get dressed in private.
Now I'm very cold, and my hands fumble clumsily as I pull my pajamas on. I
watch my fingers struggle with the buttons. There's some remaining blood
under the nail of my index finger, staring at me accusingly. Mulder has
tissues near his bed, so I wipe it away. For good measure, I rip the nail
back to the quick. It stings a little, but I like the pain.
The photo on his bedside table is of us, taken many, many years ago. I pick
it up to examine it more closely. We are sitting on a park bench, eating
lunch.
It is not a particularly flattering photo of either of us. I have chubby
cheeks, looking all the more chubbier because I'd just taken a bite of my
sandwich, and Mulder is squinting into the sun. But despite the dubious
aesthetic value of the photo, there is something appealing about it.
I run my finger over the photo, tracing our outlines. We still meet for
lunch in that park, usually on sunny days when we need to get away from the
rising damp in the office. We sit in the same place and eat the same
sandwiches. The trees, the lake, even the wooden bench show no mark of the
passing time. It is only us that have changed, worn down by people and
events over which we have no control.
Mulder returns with a steaming cup and glances at the photo in my hand. "We
look pretty young, don't we?"
"We look different."
"People change over time, Scully. You can't stop that."
"Do you like what we are, Mulder?" I ask as I place the photo back on the
table.
He sits down next to me, slopping a little bit of the hot liquid over the
edge of the mug. "I like what *you* are. Sometimes I'm not so sure about
myself."
I reach over and take his hand. "Well, *I* like what you are."
He smiles. "There you are then. We're perfect for each other."
"Must be fate," I murmur.
He holds out the mug. "It's not root beer, but it's the next best thing -
Sleepy Time tea. I though maybe you could use some help tonight."
"Does it work?" I ask doubtfully.
"No, but it tastes good," he kids.
I take the tea and blow on the hot liquid, looking at him over the rim of
the mug. "Thank you."
"It's okay." He knows that I am thanking him for more than the tea. "Do you
think you'll sleep tonight?"
"No," I answer honestly. I catch his gaze and ask him with my eyes what I
cannot say out loud.
"Would you like me to stay with you?" he asks softly.
I nod. The intimacy of sharing a bed doesn't seem as great as what we've
just shared.
He leaves momentarily to turn the lights off in the living room, and I place
the tea on the table before slipping under the cool, stiff sheets. The smell
of freshly washed sheets is a childhood pleasure and I am grateful for this
small comfort. My eyes are closed when he returns, and I listen to him
slipping off his outer layers before getting into bed. He reaches over me to
turn off the lamp and I catch his warm scent in a deep breath before he
settles back onto the pillows.
For a while we lie there, acutely aware of the other's presence. I lie on my
back, eyes closed tightly, while I listen to the sound of his breathing. I
will him to fall asleep. I am grateful for his physical presence, but I know
that I will be unable to think clearly until I am sure he is sleeping. I
need complete privacy to sort through the fragmented pieces of today and put
them together in an order that I understand.
Mulder's breathing is still shallow and I know that he is anxious. He wants
to hold me, or comfort me with words that he cannot find, but instead he
lies facing me, his steady exhalations wafting over my face.
The tension between us is palpable, both waiting for the other to sleep.
Eventually I roll over to face him. Mulder is useless at faking sleep, but
he is making an admirable attempt. His eyes twitch, but they don't open.
I let my gaze wander over his face, taking this rare opportunity to look at
him closely. He has acquired more wrinkles, each creeping onto his face
unnoticed and marking their territory with spider-web fine lines.
Although my medical knowledge immediately refutes the possibility, I wonder
if each wrinkle represents a person or event. Some people leave gaping
bullet holes that scar, but fade, while others leave lines and crevices that
only get deeper with time.
His forehead crinkles briefly, and I wonder if the deep line that cuts
across the middle is for Samantha. Is the furrow between his eyebrows for
me?
God knows I can attribute a number of wrinkles and the odd gray hair to
worrying about him. I reach up and touch my own face. It still feels smooth,
but I know that my skin carries my own personal map of horror. Especially
tonight, I think, as I touch my puffy eyes and skim over the graze on my
cheekbone.
Mulder's eyes twitch once more. I can tell he is using all his willpower to
keep them closed. He knows I'm looking at him, but I don't say anything. I
still need this time to myself.
I lie there, inhaling his coffee-tinged breath, as I finish sifting through
the rubble in my mind.
I am unable to make sense of my actions. Tonight has made me doubt the
validity of my self-knowledge and I feel as if I'm no longer able to trust
myself. But in this whirlpool of uncertainty, one thing remains clear. It is
the lifeline I cling to now -- Mulder's belief in me. His unwavering support
is enough to see me through tonight and tomorrow, until I can find the
strength to face myself.
I slip my hand under his and he smiles in acknowledgment, all pretence of
sleeping gone.
"C'mere, Scully," he murmurs. Gently he pulls me to him and I go willingly,
welcoming his warmth as he wraps his arms around me. My head rests on his
chest and his voice vibrates in my ear as he mutters my name again and
plants a kiss on my hair.
I am lulled into a sense of relative peace by the steady rise and fall of
Mulder's chest. Gray uncertainty fades to black as I drift to sleep.
THE END
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