Title:  Unlikely Intercessor
Author: Agent L
Classification: S, minor MA, implied SA
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Irresistible, Orison, a well-buried reference
to One Breath and references to the Biogenesis arc.
Distribution: Archive anywhere, but keep my name and
e-mail attached please!
Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Fox:
I know they're not mine, and no money, gifts or even chocolate would be
expected or accepted for this. I wouldn't have to do this if you'd stop
taking summers off.
Summary: Mulder's thoughts after Orison. This is NOT a repost. I was
just really, really slow.

It was a righteous shooting.

No pun intended.

The FBI Internal Affairs committee decided that Special
Agent Scully was in fear of her life and the life of her partner
when she shot Donald Addie Pfaster. The Assistant Director
discussed the situation with her personally and assured her
that no disciplinary action would be taken, but did suggest
she see the department shrink for symptoms of PTSD.

Everyone has exonerated Special Agent Dana Scully,
except for her.

I wish *I* had pulled the trigger. I would have cheerfully
sent Donnie Pfaster to Hell, where he belongs. My moral
code says there are some humans who are just plain evil,
and I consider it a victory for our side if one of them meets an
untimely end. If God or fate or whatever force runs the
universe chooses my hand to eliminate a ruthless killer,
I don't argue. And as far as official reports and inquiries,
I show my superiors the same respect they show me.

I lie my ass off.

But on this particular occasion, I gave my report with a clear
conscience. Special Agent Dana Scully acted in response
to an immediate threat to her life and the safety of her
partner. She acted to keep a known felon, a depraved
killer, from escaping to kill again.

Not one person can accurately predict how
they would react in the situation Scully found herself in,
facing a man who had brutalized her, emotionally raped
her and was minutes from killing her and then defiling
her body.

Bad enough to go through that nightmare once, but this
was the second time around. Deja vu all over again
for Dana Scully.

Four years ago, she had still been physically and emotionally
fragile from her abduction. At least this time she was stronger --
but now, as then, loathe to admit any weakness, any
chinks in that invisible armor.

She's barely spoken to me, or to anyone, since it happened.
She's locked herself in a cold stone cell like some medieval
martyr doing penance. Scully is one of the few people I know
who feels the same remorse for killing a depraved criminal that others
would feel if they had accidentally killed an innocent man.

And Pfaster was far from innocent.

A bullet was too easy for him. He should have died slowly
and painfully by some lingering, wasting disease like leprosy.
Now that would have been justice: Donnie Pfaster's
fingers falling off.

Anyone who saw Scully that night was horrified by the
bruises covering her small body, mottled blue, black
and purple on her back, arms, and legs. Her pale skin
marred with angry cuts and scratches from broken glass,
a few shards still embedded in her skin. Her wrists and
ankles were battered and raw, her feet so swollen she couldn't
even put her shoes on. The sight of her bloodstained
pajamas made me feel physically sick, as did the yellow
police tape marking her home -- her sanctuary -- as a
crime scene.

But it's not her injuries that leave her silent and pale, and
moving like an automaton through the day.

These bruises go soul-deep.

She's letting him win. Questioning her judgment, her actions,
torturing herself as if she were still bound and gagged in that
closet.

The same faith she's relied on, trusted for so long,
has become shifting sand this year. Shaken by her experiences
in Africa, she's been struggling to put the pieces together,
to rearrange her ideas and beliefs with what she now
knows. Right and wrong, good and bad are no longer
as clear-cut as they once were. She's stepped off a
cliff, walking out into the sky where there are only clouds,
no up or down, no solid foundation.

She told me once she had the strength of my beliefs,
but I don't think that's true. I think I've come to rely on
the strength of *her*  beliefs. She's my guardian angel,
my intercessor, pleading  my case before God and the FBI.
So my desire to see her faith restored is selfish, in a way,
I suppose, because I want to know that all is right again in
my small universe...to know that on the day when I
stand before some judgment seat in this world or the next,
her small hand in mine and her strong confidence will save
me from eternal damnation.

But how do I talk to her about a God we both know
I don't believe in? And how can I intercede when I don't
even know how to pray?

I didn't intend to come here. I went out for a run, to
clear my head, and when I stopped I was halfway up
the steps of St. Peter's. The front door was open, and a
welcoming golden glow spilled out onto the cold concrete.

Her church.

I walked through the doorway, a little surprised
when fire and brimstone didn't crash down
on my head. Instead, there was silence. The sanctuary
was nearly empty except for a few heads here and
there ... other souls seeking answers or comfort.
This was not one of those ornate gothic churches with
cherubim and seraphim in the corners and gold leaf
on every metallic surface. The wooden pews gleamed
in the soft light, well-cared for but plainly carved.
The high ceiling soared above, clear of any paint or
artwork, boasting only a few simple chandeliers that
dropped down like doves from a granite sky.

Basic, simple beauty.

I could imagine her here, sitting primly in the pew
on Sunday morning, dressed in something feminine
and pretty. She would rise and sit at the appropriate times, sing
the hymns in her off-key voice and give herself up to
the ancient, comfortable rituals.  Most proper and sober,
until the sun happened to strike one of the stained-glass
windows at just the right angle, and cover her in rainbows.
Then she would look up and smile with pure joy at
being alive.

God, please restore her joy....

I sat in the back row, not wanting to disturb any saints
with my less-than-holy presence, and bowed my head
in an attitude of prayer. Just another petitioner among the
millions. One more voice in the throng of demands, pleas,
bargains and requests.

God, help her. Please. Help her.

Suddenly a hand touches my shoulder. Father McCue.
He probably would be less shocked if
Old Scratch himself had stopped by for tea, but
he nonetheless gives me a pleasant smile.

"How can I help you, son?"

He calls me son in a gentle tone my own father
never used, and I feel a stinging at the back of my
eyes. Suddenly I envy them, the people who believe
in God, who have a touchstone, a constant in this
crazy world.

*And you are mine.*

Father McCue waits patiently for my answer, perhaps
hoping to chalk up another soul tonight. I, too, am
hoping to save a soul....Maybe somewhere between
the saint and the sinner lies salvation.

"You can't help me," I reply. "But I think you can help
a friend of mine."

The End

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