This story is based on the situations and characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and FOX Broadcasting. No infringement intended. "The Face of Madness" by K.D.Enriquez SciNut@aol.com 02/03/96 "We work in the dark. We do what we can to battle with the evil that would otherwise destroy us. But if a man's character is his fate, this fight is not a choice but a calling. Yet sometimes the weight of this burden causes us to falter, breaching the fragile fortress of our mind, allowing the monsters without to turn within and we are left alone staring into the abyss; into the laughing face of madness." Dana Scully looked up as the printer hummed to life. She sighed a silent sound of relief that he was finally finished. She had wanted to take him straight home after he had given his statement for the shooting of Bill Patterson but he had refused albeit non-verbally. She had suggested he go home and get some sleep but he had just stared back at her, blankly, and then gotten into his car. Not willing to let him take off alone again, she had hurriedly jumped into the passenger side without comment. He hadn't spoken on the way back to the office nor after he had sat at his desk and began typing at his computer. Dana had assumed he was working on his final report so she had taken her normal spot and tried to mask her worry from him by also working. She watched him now as he stared unseeing at a far corner, the whirring of the printer filled the silence. His eyes were haunted and deep set in his pale face. His handsome features marred by the four inch gash that ran from his temple to his cheek just below his right eye. The butterflies were stark against the surrounding bruised and swollen flesh. The symbolism of it all hit her suddenly with a painful twist in her chest. Fox Mulder was one of the most honorable people she knew. He had a good soul and a kind heart but they were also marred by an ugliness that was in complete contrast to his nature. While he tried to do what was best, to be the "good guy", his efforts were marred by the anger and violence of his own personal darkness. A darkness that, like his physical wound, was held together by seemingly fragile strips of control. But it was also that darkness which made him so good at what he did. Bill Patterson had been right. Dana had gotten in the way of what Mulder had to do. She had tried to hold him back and she had failed. She really had only been able to hold onto his intellectual coat-tails as he chased his monsters into the darkness. He caught the monster too, but he was still wrapped in that darkness trying to claw his way back out. She knew. She could see all the questions and all the doubts in his eyes. Dana stood and retrieved the small stack of papers from the tray. The printer had stopped five minutes ago but Mulder had not moved and did not show any signs of moving at all in the near future. "Mulder?" she called softly. He responded, out of instinct, by turning to look in her direction but he still stared unseeing. "Mulder, it's finished and now it's time to go home." When he still made no effort to move, she lightly grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, careful not to touch his skin. She knew he did not want the contact and frankly she was scared to discover his reaction if she ignored her instincts. She didn't know him like this. He was a complete stranger to her now. It terrified her to think about the speed in which Mulder had crawled into the ugliness of a mind that was John Mostow. God forgive her, but it was spooky. She tugged lightly at his sleeve and he came to his feet. Without letting go, she moved to the door, turned out the lights and locked the office and he trailed after her like a sleepy child. He was aware enough for basic motor skills but not much else. Again being careful of direct contact with his skin, she dug in his jacket pocket with her free hand for his car keys. Arriving at his apartment, she lead him through the door and turned on the lights. He obediently followed her slight tugging into the living room, but as she hit the switch, bringing the room out of the shadows, he stopped suddenly. The twisted and disfigured faces of Mostow's gargoyles stared evilly back at them. Their eyes seeming to follow every movement. She felt him tense beside her and she glanced at his face in time to see the anger and hatred fill his eyes. She stared in terror at the sudden transformation of her friend and partner from near catatonic to near insanity. He growled, an angered, tortured, grief-stricken sound that tore from his soul, just before he moved. He leapt at the nearest drawing, taking a handful of the stiff paper and ripping it from the wall. He continued around the room, hurriedly tearing the drawings away. Some he ripped in two. Some he grabbed by handfuls and others singly. His breath came in short, ragged gasps only to escape his lungs as painful whimpers. His fists beat against the walls in his frenzy and Dana could hear his fingernails scrape across the paint. Dana took a step forward to stop him when she began to see faint traces of blood left in his wake, but she suddenly stilled, unable to go to him. Bill Patterson's voice echoed in her ears. The advice of a madman but she knew the words for the truth that they were. Mulder needed this release and, as Patterson had also said, Dana did not think she could stop him even if she tried. So she let him finish and, when he was done, he stood, spent, in the middle of the room. His head hung down in defeat, his shoulders slumped with his arms limp at his sides the floor around him covered in discarded drawings. She watched him carefully as she moved into the room, slowly picking up the torn and crumpled papers to put in the trash can by his desk. His eyes raised equally slowly to meet her's and she could see the horror and fear in them so clearly she could almost feel the emotions herself. "You know, everything I am I learned from Bill Patterson. He may have disliked me and I him, but he was a good teacher. 'To know an artist you have to look at his art.' To catch a monster you have to become one. He was right. That's the only way to do it. You have to live their life, try to think their thoughts and feel what they feel. Bill lived John Mostow's life for three years. *Three years.* When it was over he couldn't get back out and then it only took five days for him to falter. Five days to fall into the abyss." He paused. "You must think I'm nuts," he said quietly while wariness jockeyed for space in his eyes. She knew the conversation they were about to have. Wished she could put it off. "No," she whispered back. "I don't." He looked away, chuckling without humor. "Yes, you do." He sniffed. His voice wavered with the need to cry and the effort not to. "If you didn't think so then you wouldn't have thought I had taken Mostow's knife from evidence. You wouldn't have told me to stay put like I was an animal who could only follow direct orders. You wouldn't have turned your gun on me... again." She opened her mouth to deny it but couldn't find her voice. Patterson's words came back to her again. Again, the words rang true. He turned to her then. Anger flaring in his eyes now. "That's the third time, Scully. Three times I've looked down the barrel of your gun. Do you think me so far gone that you have to keep me in line with a weapon?" "No," she whispered again. Finding herself trapped between his fish tank and the couch. Her answer seemed to deflate his anger but an aching sadness surfaced to take its place. His eyes filled with tears but he blinked rapidly to keep them from falling. "Do you not trust me enough..." his voice trailed off, unable to finish the question. And she suddenly understood everything: his insecurities, his doubts and his fears. This whole past year since New Mexico she had been unable to see past her own loss. She didn't want to deal with her grief with Mulder, something that should have been done. They had both been traumatized and they should have healed together but she had been unconsciously pushing him away. She had not wanted to remember that Mulder had lost too. Not only had his father been murdered but the illusions he had held for his father and the work he did had been mercilessly stripped away. He was no longer sure how much of his own past was real. He was desperate for a steady present to cling to and she had been distancing herself from him. And while he pushed her away with equal force she now had to wonder at the reasoning behind it. Their last case in Comity had thrown them both for a loop and then Mulder was handed this horrible case. He had needed her support tonight and she accused him of things because inconsequential evidence had pointed at him instead of trusting him and his abilities. Instead she had watched him battle demons not his own and turned on him when he had needed her steadying presence to pull him back to earth. The look of terror in his eyes reminded her that she hadn't answered his unfinished question. "Oh... no, Mulder," she breathed. "I trust you." "Then why?" He lost his fight with his tears and they streaked down his face. He made no move to wipe them away. "Why?" Dana stared at him in stunned silence. He was crying. Fox Mulder was standing in plain view, in a lighted room, crying. She'd never seen him cry, in fact she remembered once wondering if it was even possible. He looked suddenly so tired and so alone. She moved to him, the lost look in his eyes intensifying, and reached her arms up around his shoulders. She pulled his head down to her shoulder, cradling his face in the hollow of her neck. She could feel his tears against her skin. He made no move to hold her in return. His arms remained motionless at his sides. She could hear him repeating his question over and over and she realized, as she followed him down when he slid to his knees, that the meaning of his question had changed. He was asking why a man like Patterson could fall. If Patterson could fall then so could he. Dana had no answer for him so she just held him, one hand in his hair holding him to her and the other making small circles across his back, as he had once held her. She said all the nonsense words of comfort just so he would hear her voice. He was tired, she could feel his weariness. His sobs held none of the physical tremors they needed and the reality of his crying alone spoke volumes of his fatigue. She idly wondered when he had slept last but the question was moot as his sobs drifted off and his muscles relaxed under her hands. Dana smiled and continued to stroke his back, knowing he couldn't consciously feel it but also knowing it was something he subconsciously needed. She knew he would be fine eventually. He would bounce back after a good night's sleep like he always did. Fox Mulder had faltered but not fallen. End.