TITLE:  SBC
AUTHOR:  TCS1121 and Michelle Kiefer
E-MAIL ADDRESS: tcs1121@hotmail.com and msk1024@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION:  Please do not archive until the story is
completed, then let us know where we can visit.
DISCLAIMER:  They don't belong to us. We just take them out
to play with and then put them back. But not like Barbie
and Ken or anything.
SPOILER WARNING:  None really.  Season 7ish.
RATING: R for really R
CLASSIFICATION: Casefile 
KEYWORDS: MSR, X, angst

SUMMARY:  Salvation for one person is tragedy for two.

COMMENTS:  Neither of us ever thought we'd post a WIP--
believe us, we're as shocked as anyone else!  We hope
to post at least one part per week.  

We'd both like to thank Kel for her insightful
and spot on beta.  
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX




He thought it was going to hurt, but as the blade of the Swiss 
Army knife sank into his wrist, all it felt was wet.  No matter 
how many times the bright metal sliced into skin, he always 
thought it would hurt, and he was always surprised.

So it wasn't pain that caused him to cry out and drop the 
razor into the sink, spattering the porcelain with merry 
red dots.  Not pain, but the sour taste of fear.  It 
rose up in his throat: burning bitter.  

Phil's hands curled into fists and he pounded 
them against the bathroom wall, smearing the tiles.  

"No...no...NO!"

With eyes tight shut, he saw one of them.  A blonde this time, 
and barely sixteen years old.  Dear God, she was young.  Her 
neck was so small that his fingertips overlapped in the back.  
When his thumbs pressed her windpipe, her gray-blue eyes 
snapped open, and her mouth went wide in a wheezing scream.  
Phil viciously squeezed the fragile neck bones, and after 
the first one snapped, the girl's head lolled back.  

Lowering the body to the ground, he pulled back on her hair 
to point the staring eyes up at the stars.  For good measure, 
he worked his thumbs up the cooling skin of her neck and popped 
the next two bones.  That allowed him to bend the neck so far 
back that the top of her head was flat against the cobblestones.  
He adjusted her skirt to cover her modestly.  Sweet little bitch.
Such lovely smooth flesh. The soft light thrown by the streetlamp 
made her pale gray skin glow, and Phil sighed happily.  

Glad of a job well done. 

Nausea swirled in him like water circling a drain and he
gagged as he knelt at the toilet.  He wasn't sure if it was 
the image of strangling the girl that made him sick, or his
obvious joy in the act.  

He pulled himself up, staring at the reflection in the mirror
over the sink.  "Fucking coward," he muttered at the 
bleary-eyed man before him.   

His hands were sticky against the sink, and he lifted them  
before him.  Blood covered his palm, continuing to drip from
the shallow wound on his wrist.  Blood.  Warm, comforting blood.

He closed his eyes to another vision.  This one was older, 
hardened, her mouth a bright gash as she smiled enticingly.
Too bad about the missing teeth, he thought.  But then, a
gappy smile was an advantage for a whore.

"Blow job'll run ya 'bout ten dollar," she slurred, as he 
led her away from the road. 

"A bargain, if I ever heard one," he said, guiding her down, 
down to the river.  He heard the rush of the water and knew the 
time was right.  Excitement burbled within him as his hand 
closed over the knife in his pocket.  "This seems like a 
good place," he said.

She shrugged and eyed the ground for a less rocky place to kneel.
His thumb tested the sharp edge of the knife.  Perfect, perfect.
Phil grinned at her, and she smiled back at him as he pulled the
object out of his pocket.  Her expression hardly changed as
he plunged the blade into her belly, just under her ribcage.  

There was no sensation on earth quite like the slide of steel
into flesh.  Her body was seizing with little jolts and starts
as he drew the blade out.  He smiled at the puzzled expression
on her face.  Poor stupid cow.  Too stunned, even, to scream.


XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX


"Why do you suppose he wanted to meet us here?" Scully's
fingertips traced over the names carved in black granite.
"Counting both the East and West panels, there are more than
58,000 names in all.  Hard to fathom."

"Do you have any idea what it does to me when you quote
statistics?" Mulder's voice was low, his body so close she
felt his breath on her skin.  "I hope you have lots of 
useful data to impart over the week-end."

The afternoon sun glinted off the polished surface of the 
Vietnam Memorial, warming her shoulders through her jacket
as his voice sent a blush of heat through her heart.  

The sunny weather and abundant cherry blossoms had brought 
tourists in droves.  The mall was bustling, noisy, except
here where the voices seemed to automatically drop in tone.

This place had always seemed haunted to her, not only by
the ghosts of people who belonged to the 58,000 plus names.  
She never came to this site without remembering a bitter 
night on the eve of the darkest time of her life.  

She forced her mind away from the uncertain days of the past.  
Things were different now.  

"Agent Mulder." 

The greeting was loud, shattering the hush that always
cloaked the memorial.  They turned to face a haggard man,
his eyes red-rimmed and his hair greasy and tangled.  

"Phil Sanderson?" Mulder asked, and was rewarded by the
merest of nods.  "How can we help you, Mr. Sanderson?"

"You have to stop me." The man's voice was unnaturally loud
causing several tourists to glance their way.  Scully 
detected an odor of alcohol, not only from his breath, but
from his clothes and skin.

"Why don't we walk a little," Mulder said, leading Sanderson
away from the memorial and the crowds.  Scully nodded her
agreement, and they moved toward the mall.

"What do we need to stop you from doing?"  Scully asked.

"I don't know how much longer I can hold off," he said,
desperation clear in his voice.  Sanderson swung his gaze 
between the two agents; his eyes seemed to burn right into 
her.  "So many women have died already.  I...I just
don't think I can stop it."

"Who, Phil?  Who's died?"  Mulder moved in close, his 
demeanor already adjusted to gain Sanderson's confidence.

"So many of 'em, Agent Mulder.  From then, and now.  
I've been doing it so long...maybe forever.  Oh God!  
There's so much blood on my hands, you have to stop 
me!  Arrest me. Please arrest me before it happens again."

Sanderson held out his hands in submission, fists closed, 
palms up, waiting for Mulder to clap on the handcuffs.  
The ragged cuffs of his green army jacket had brownish 
streaks.  She wondered if they could be blood stains.

"Have you killed someone, Phil?"  Mulder stepped back 
slightly; Scully slowly circled to Phil's rear.

"Yes--No...I don't know.  I think so.  But I must have.  
I know when you break a girl's neck, you can feel the 
little neck bone pop like a pencil snapping.  And how 
would I know that you gotta point the blade up to get 
past the ribcage, into the heart if I didn't do it?" 
He held out his arms again.

"Phil, where did you kill the women?" Mulder asked.  

"I...I'm not sure.  Sometimes, there was a river.  But
not always.  Other times, it feels like a city, but not
this one."

"Like a dream, Phil," Scully suggested.  

"No, it can't be a dream.  You don't smell and taste and
feel in dreams.  And I know exactly what the blood smells 
like when it pours from a fresh stab wound.  I smell the
smoke in the air and feel the cobblestones under my feet."

"Cobblestones?  Where exactly did these murders take 
place?" Scully asked.  

"I think it's London.  There are gaslights and horse-drawn
carriages."

"Phil, would this by any chance be turn-of-the-century
London?" she asked, carefully keeping a straight face. She
knew that if she chanced a look at Mulder, he'd be frowning
at her.  

"I don't know.  I don't know what London looked like back
then.  Hell, I don't even know what it looks like now!  All
I know is that I was there, and I killed them, and something
inside me will kill again."

Mulder's excitement was building, and Scully knew it.  She
didn't have to look up to know that his eyes were shining in
anticipation.  Disappointment washed through her as hope for
a slow, romantic week-end vanished.

"How do you feel when these things are happening to you,
Phil?" Mulder whispered.  "Do you feel like you have no
control over your actions, or do you feel detached, like 
you're watching yourself from across the room?"

"Don't you fucking get it?  Somebody else is gonna die!  I'm
coming to you for help.  I need you to help me stop!  I'll
tell you anything you want, just arrest me!"

"We can't arrest you unless you've broken the law, Mr.
Sanderson." Scully said evenly.

Sanderson whirled around and shouted in her face, "You!  You
could be next!  Or--or a high school cheerleader, maybe the
old Korean lady with the vegetable cart.  I don't know; it
doesn't matter.  The guy doing this doesn't fucking care who
you are!  This guy has only two requirements--you gotta be a
woman, and you gotta be breathing."

Sanderson was agitated, but Scully didn't want to feed his
delusions. Apparently Mulder had no such misgivings as he
put a hand on Sanderson's shoulder, "Who is this guy you're
talking about, Phil?"

"Oh, God."  Phil buried his head in his hands.

"I'll arrest him, just tell me who he is."

"Mulder." Scully warned.

"I'll do it, Phil.  I'll end it for you.  But you've got to
convince me."

Sanderson's voice was muffled by his hands, "No, no, no.
You don't understand."

"Help me understand.  Agent Scully's right.  I can't arrest
you without just cause."

Sanderson dropped his hands.  His red-rimmed eyes were
tired.  "Murder is just cause.  I've murdered women in past
lives.  More lives than I can count, and I'm going to start
again.  My destiny is to kill and keep on killing.  I'm
begging you, Agent Mulder.  I don't want any more women to
die."

"I know.  I know you don't.  I don't either."

Scully saw Mulder gently squeeze Sanderson's shoulder.
Mulder's touch was a powerful tool in establishing trust.

"Believe me, Phil, I want to help you, and maybe I can.
Would you agree to being hypnotized?"

Sanderson flinched.  He shrugged out of Mulder's grip,
shaking his head in disbelief.

"What?  'You are getting sleepy?'  You think that's going
to help me somehow? I'm asking you to lock me up."

"Mr. Sanderson, are you under a doctor's care?"  Scully
asked.

"You think I'm nuts."  Phil's eyes darted over to her, his
voice edged with sadness.  "I should have known better 
than to call you.  Forget I asked...I'll have to take 
care of this myself."

He backed away from them, hands held up in surrender before
he turned and stumbled away.

"Mr. Sanderson!  Phil!  Let us try to help," Mulder called
after him, following until Phil broke off in a run.  A brisk
breeze swirled cherry blossom petals after him, a desperate
man in a cloud of pink snow.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"I said I'd help him, Scully."

"You told him you'd arrest a man from his past life.  How
are you going to manage that?"  

"Well, technically, I said I'd arrest the guy doing the
murders," Mulder fit the key in the lock.  "I didn't know it
would be Phil from turn-of-the-century London."

"So, let me get this straight.  Phil was Jack the Ripper in
a previous life?  Why aren't people ever streetsweepers or 
laundresses in past lives?  They always see themselves as
Marie Antoinette or Jesus Christ."

"I'm not convinced that this is a past life experience, anyway.
What if some ageless evil was able to pass from person to 
person, murdering with impunity."

"Wasn't there a Star Trek episode like that?"

Mulder treated her to his best smirk. "My point is, there 
could be a paranormal reason for Phil's visions."

Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the high-set windows,
bathing their office in a lighter shade of dull gray.

"Mulder, the people who seek you out, and set up these
desperate meetings usually turn out to be..."  Scully stopped
to form the correct words as Mulder narrowed his eyes.
"...of questionable mental health."

"So, people who come to me for help are all insane?"  Mulder
threw his keys on the desktop, not at all pleased with her 
phrasing.  His last little hope for candlelight, dry, red 
wine, and Scully barely covered by bath bubbles, was dashed.

"No, not at all.  While some of them are deeply disturbed,
a number of them have been sane but dishonest."  There
was no derision in her words, only teasing affection.    

"You're a riot, Alice." He did his best Ralph Cramden,
complete with hand swirl.  

"Seriously, Mulder.  The man reeked of whiskey."  

"And your point?  Okay, I noticed the smell of liquor.  People
drink to numb the pain.  He's probably trying to dull his
visions."

"And alcohol has been know to create a few visions.  Mulder,
he's not a credible witness.  I'll bet you two back-rubs
that he has a history of mental illness."

Oh?"  He turned around.  "You want to make this interesting, do 
you?"   She was so close he could smell her cologne.  Maybe 
the bubble bath wasn't a dead issue after all.

"Interesting is as good a word as any."  He loved it when she 
licked her lips like that.

"Two back rubs, you say?"

"I'll throw in a foot massage if you can show me one instance 
where the owner of a past life was sane."

"You're an evil woman, Scully.  You know how my big feet love 
your warm little fingers."

"Not your feet.  Mine.  Now, show me the evidence."

Mulder yanked open the file cabinet and as the sun began to set, 
he tried to concentrate on the alphabet, and not on the ten 
little polished toenails nestled in the black spike pumps.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Pumphrey's Liquor and Package Goods was not the kind of place 
where yuppies scoured the racks for the perfect wine to compliment
their herb-encrusted Dover sole.  It was dusty and cramped and 
hadn't changed much since 1952 when old Maurice Pumphrey had paid 
his first month's rent.  

No, Pumphrey's was the place where winos counted out their
panhandled change for a bottle of Thunderbird or Mad Dog. 
Old man Pumphrey gave no credit--cash on the counter or 
no booze.  Couldn't blame him really.   

Phil didn't think the wizened, pinchmouthed old man had
ever been young.  Pumphrey took Phil's crumpled singles and
rang up his six-pack of Michelob. His wrinkled brown hands
shook slightly as he bagged the beer.

Phil's palms began to sweat as he steeled himself for what
he needed to do next.  Tucking the six-pack under his arm,
Phil shuffled his feet and peered behind Pumphrey.

"Lemme see that bottle there, old man," Phil said, pointing
at a dusty box of French Oak Glenlivet.  The box must have
been there for a dozen years.  Phil didn't know why old
Pumphrey kept it, anyway.  Did he think some millionaire
was going to breakdown in front of this dump and need a
bottle of the good stuff?

"You lookin' to move up in the world?" Pumphrey asked as
he hefted the box in his hand.   His expression was 
wary as he handed it to Phil.  The old man sneezed
when Phil blew away the dust.  The wariness changed to 
outright distrust as Phil clasped the box to his chest and
stepped back. 

"What you doin' there?" the old man asked as Phil backed
away from the counter.  "You gonna pay for that?"

"Don't guess that I am, Old Man.  What you gonna do about 
it?  Come on, you old bastard.  Just reach for the damn
phone.  Or your damn gun."  

"You owe me fifty bucks," Pumphrey sputtered, but his hands
remained curled on the counter.  

"Why don't you call the cops, you old fool.  Go ahead.
What are you waiting for?  Go ahead!"

But the old man didn't move for the phone.  Phil continued
to back out the door, silently praying that the old man
would call the cops when he'd left.  

"I'm not afraid to die, you old bastard," Phil said, his
voice thick with tears.  He stood on the sidewalk, glaring
at the old man.  Suddenly, Phil turned, muttering as he ran
down the street. "Not afraid, damn it. Not afraid."


XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX


"Don't mess up my files, Scully."  Mulder's voice was 
muffled as he leaned over the file cabinet bottom drawer.

"I wouldn't dream of disturbing your files," she answered,
flicking a file open. With a foot massage on the table, so 
to speak, she did have a vested interest in his search.   

"Ah...here it is.  I give you "Exhibit A."  Mulder said
with a flourish.  Before Scully had a chance to come up with
a snide comment, the presentation was interrupted by the ringing 
of Mulder's phone.

"Phil?  Phil, slow down--I can't understand you."  Mulder's
expression had become deadly serious.  Cradling the phone
between shoulder and ear, he reached for a pad and pencil.

"Phil, don't do that. Please, don't do anything....give us a 
chance to help you."  Scully stood over him as he scrawled
*wants to kill himself--trace call*  "Phil, you need to 
hang on.  Come on, how much could it hurt to just talk to 
me for a while."

She felt the adrenaline pumping through her as she punched
in the extension for telecommunications.  "I need the caller
on Agent Mulder's line traced.  Yes, it's an emergency."
Couldn't they tell from the sound of her voice that it was
an emergency?  "Yes, yes. Good.  Thank you."

She waved the slip of paper containing Phil's address at
Mulder. 

"Phil, listen, I need you to sit down and take a deep breath."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX


Eighty dollars a week paid for Phil Sanderson's one room 
home.  He paced the tiny room, trying to get his breathing 
under control.  He tripped when his toes caught on the uneven 
patches in the green, threadbare carpet.  It was past 
six-thirty, and the sun's rays were beginning to dim.  Phil 
pulled the faded drapes tight in front of the dirty windows, 
and turned on all the lights.  Under his bed was a footlocker 
containing his vintage gun collection.

The bedclothes felt greasy and rank as he pushed them aside 
to draw out the locker.  His hands shook as he scrabbled the 
key into the lock.  Phil sat back on his heels, smiling as he 
raised the lid and ran reverent fingers over his beloved guns.  

He hefted the World War I era Colt .45 automatic pistol in his 
right hand, and sniffed the barrel.  He loved the smell of the 
gun's oil.  This pistol was his favorite, and he followed his
ritual of placing the muzzle, first against his lips, as in
a kiss, and then into his mouth.  Closing his lips tightly,
he pressed the Colt to the soft palate and pulled the
trigger.

He had never purchased any ammunition for it.  In fact he
had no ammunition for the World War II Smith & Wesson revolver, 
his 1930's Winchester Shotgun or any of the guns in his
collection. He wanted them kept in pristine condition.

Phil ran his tongue around the muzzle before taking it out
of his mouth.  He loved the taste of gun oil.

He regretted that there was no one to leave these beautiful 
weapons to after his death.  No one would mourn his passing,
no one would say a prayer or shed a tear or even speak his
name.  
 
Phil looked at his watch.  If he died now, then the cycle of 
death, life after life, would end.  Time was short, and
soon blood would call out for blood.  Red and tangy, with a
dark, coppery taste.  Splattered on his lips and tongue as
his hand raised again and again.

This one was well past her prime.  With dark roots and 
crispy blonde hair, the barfly had a hard look.  The kind 
of woman who'd stagger into the woods behind a crummy bar 
with a guy who said he'd buy her a couple of drinks.  The 
kind of woman who'd be too drunk to notice the rock in his 
hand until it was too late.

The rock made a lovely wet sound as it came down on the
blowzy hair, knocking her to the ground.  A little river
of blood welled up where the rock had cracked her skull.
He watched it flow into a glossy red lake, a bloody halo.

Her skirt had hitched up, exposing fat thighs encased in
ripped pantyhose.  He knelt beside her watching the slow
rise and fall of her chest.  Her eyes were glassy, unseeing, 
her lips slack in a strangely obscene way.  He smiled as
he raised the rock with both hands and smashed it down on
that face.  Smashed it again and again until her face 
felt pulpy under the rock and her blood covered his
hands.  

Phil roused from the vision, his precious gun still in his
hands, poised to smash down on a bloody face.  He could
feel the slippery blood on his fingers, the slightly
metallic scent still in his nostrils.  But his
hands were clean and dry as they gripped the Colt.

He shook his head, trying to escape the iron grip of 
this last vision.  Desperation rose in his throat like
bile.  He couldn't survive another night; the visions 
were growing too strong.  No. No, he had to do something
or he'd be prowling tonight.  Dear God, he needed help.

A scrap of paper caught his eye, white against the puke
green of the carpet.  Must have slipped out of his pocket
when he fished out his key.  Phil's hand shook as he 
reached for the ragged paper.  *Mulder - 555-9355.*

"Fucking lot of help you turned out to be," he muttered.
Pretty boy FBI agent and his little doll partner.  What
did people like that know about desperation?  Their biggest
problem was deciding on a restaurant, or picking out which 
shoes to buy.  

Still, Agent Mulder had sounded like he really wanted to
help.  Phil took a long pull on the bottle of Glenlivet.
Damn, but good Scotch tasted good going down. It burned
in your gut the same way that the cheap shit did, though.
Phil stood on shaky legs and reached for the phone, thinking
that it really didn't matter whether it was the Feds or the
local cops that did it. Just depended on who showed up first.  
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX


The late afternoon sun sank below the horizon casting a
dusky shade onto the shabby strip building.  This was the
place Phil Sanderson called 'home.'

Mulder hit the brakes, turning the Taurus into the small
parking area of the Doll Motel.  It was actually the Dollar
Motel, but the "a" and "r" were darkened.  The windows
were smudgy and the orange metal doors dented and scratched.
 
The door to room #8 was wide open, and Mulder could see 
that the lights inside were blazing.  His muscles tensed, 
ready to respond automatically in a crisis.
 
Phil Sanderson stalked back and forth in front of the open
door, a half-empty bottle of Scotch in one hand, and a Smith
and Wesson revolver in the other.

"Phil," Mulder said, and he slowly opened the car door.  
"I'm here now, we can talk."  Every sound seemed amplified,
every sense on high alert.

"We already talked.  She thinks I'm nuts."  Sanderson eyed
Scully as she carefully stepped out of the vehicle.

"She doesn't think you're nuts.  We want to help."  Mulder 
stretched his arms out to his sides as he stood away from
the car.

"You don't want to help!  Nobody wants to fucking help!
You didn't listen when I asked you to help."  Phil wiped his
nose on his sleeve.  "I'm trying to save lives, and I'm the
only one who fucking cares!"  He pointed the revolver at his
temple, cradling the bottle against his chest with his
other hand.

"Phil, you don't need to do that.  We can sit down and
sort all this out.  Put the gun down.  You're not alone
anymore."  Mulder advanced step by slow step, moving closer
to the doorway.

"I've always been alone," Phil muttered, eyes squeezed shut
as his gun hand shook.  "In every life."

"You're wrong, Phil.  I'm here.  I won't let you face this
alone."

"Yeah. Sure.  What about her?  She's not going to let me face
this alone, either?"  Phil seemed to waver, moving the gun
away from his forehead.  He looked to Scully, need in his
eyes.  

"I'm here too, Phil," Scully said, moving closer.  "Why 
don't we go inside and talk?"

"I don't know if I can do it if we're inside," 
Phil said looking down.

Scully took a step to her left, closing in on Sanderson's 
gun hand.  She said, "We want to help, but we don't know 
how.  We don't know what you need."

Phil looked up, his eyes blazing into Mulder's, "Do you 
really want to help me?"

"Of course I do...we both do."

"Do you believe me?  That I've killed in other lives and 
that I'll kill again?"  His voice was dangerously low.

"Yes.  I do."  Mulder stood with his arms open, and Phil's 
expression softened.  The revolver dropped away from 
Sanderson's head, and Mulder held his breath. In one quick 
arc, Phil swung the gun around and pointed it at Scully. 

"Do you still believe me?"

Scully went rigid and Mulder took one quick step forward.  
The bottle of Scotch dropped, shattering on the pavement, as
Phil assumed a two-handed firing stance.  

"Phil, don't do this."  Mulder's voice was steady as he
measured the inches between Sanderson's gun and
Scully's head.  The lights from inside the motel room
silhouetted the surreal tableau.  Phil's gun was drawn and
pointed at Scully.  Her body was as motionless as 
porcelain.  The gun barrel didn't waver.

"I'll kill her, man.  You know what you have to do."   
Mulder's senses focused to pinpoints, and he saw the revolver's
cylinder rotate as the click of the hammer being drawn back
echoed sharply.  In the space of a heartbeat, Mulder 
understood. 

"Please, Phil." Voice cracking, Mulder's face twisted 
into a grimace.

"Just do it, okay.  DO IT!" Phil's finger squeezed the
trigger as Mulder's gun fired.

If the previous moments had been experienced in sharp
relief, the next minutes seemed to happen in a slow
motion blur.  Phil dropped to the pavement, blood
blossoming from his chest.  Dead center.  Mulder was a 
crack shot under pressure.  

Scully stood, one hand pressed over her mouth, the
other clutching her midsection.  She shook herself
and carefully knelt at Phil's side, amid the broken
glass of the Scotch bottle.  Her fingers were gentle
as she pressed them to his neck.  Mulder noticed
that she wasn't trying to staunch the blood from the
wound.

He moved around Phil, heedless of the glass shards
as he crouched.  Phil's eyes were glassy, but they
were peaceful as they focused on Mulder's face.  The
man's mouth was moving, though the words weren't 
audible.  Blood welled in the dying man's mouth, 
painting his lips red.

Mulder didn't feel the glass cut his hands as he braced 
himself to lean closer to Phil.  With his ear directly 
in front of Phil's mouth, he could finally hear the words,

"Thank....you."

Sirens wailed in the distance.  Mulder looked over at
the weapon lying on the dead man's chest just as the 
streetlamps clicked on overhead.  The gun's barrel and 
cylinder shined in the new light.  It was a Smith and 
Wesson revolver, one that hasn't been manufactured in 
a long time.  Mulder put his head down next to it, his 
ear touching Phil's shoulder. 

"Mulder, what is it?" Scully whispered.

"The chambers are empty."  He raised his eyes.  
"No bullets."

She paused and looked at him steadily.  "You didn't 
know that.  You couldn't have known that."

The sirens were getting closer.  The men living at the Doll 
Motel gathered a few feet away from them and began milling 
around, keeping a respectful distance.  

"He was unarmed," Mulder said to himself.  

"No, Mulder.  He was armed..."

"Armed with an unloaded antique!" Mulder slammed his hands 
down onto the glass-littered pavement, wincing as more of 
the scotch soaked chips cut into his palms.

The last of twilight was gone, and it was fully dark when 
the flashing police car pulled into the parking lot.  Mulder 
vaguely heard car doors slamming.  Two officers approached 
the crowd, and one said, "All right, what's going on here, 
fellahs?"

The men mumbled something then parted, the policemen 
immediately drew their weapons.

"Hands where I can see them!"

Scully stood slowly with her arms up and said, "We're Federal 
Officers.  There's been--there's been a shooting."  Mulder 
absently picked out some of the glass before raising his bloody 
hands up where the officer could see them.

"Yeah," a man in the crowd faced one of the policemen, "We 
thought Phil finally up an' loaded one of them ol' guns of his."

"It sure looked that way, the way he was pointin' it at her," 
another man added, aiming his thumb and index finger for 
emphasis.

"Let's see some ID," the officer said to Scully as he lowered 
his pistol.

Mulder felt like he was underwater, weighted down, unable to 
reach the surface and breathe.  The evening air absorbed the 
sound, and all motion around him blurred and slowed.  He sat 
next to Phil and slowly turned to watch Scully.  She looked 
small and far away as she showed her badge and pointed to the 
open motel room door.  

A few minutes later, a police backup unit arrived followed by 
a WUSA van; the local CBS affiliate.  The backup officers joined 
their comrades and listened to Scully.  Mulder saw his partner 
talking to the policemen and gesturing emphatically.  At one 
point the group of men from the Doll Motel all nodded in unison.

Mulder turned his head the other way and saw the occupants of 
the WUSA van pile out.  They uncoiled electrical cords, set up 
tripods, and spoke in urgent low voices into their cell phones.  

One of the young officers left Scully's group and walked over.

"Agent Mulder, are you hurt?" he asked looking at Mulder's 
bleeding hands.  Mulder scooted protectively in front of Phil's 
body before staring down at his bloody sleeves. He shook his head.  
It's hard to speak when you're underwater.  

A pretty black newswoman arrived and the camera's lights came on.

The officer leaned down, gently offered his hand and said, "Please,
Agent Mulder, come over here with me."

Mulder took the young officer's hand and, ignoring his stinging 
palm, pulled himself to stand.  He carefully stepped over Phil's 
outstretched hand, and let the officer guide him over to motel 
room number eight.
  
Another police unit arrived and their red and blue flashers lit
up the evening sky.

Mulder leaned on the doorframe as he watched them outline Phil's 
body.  After a few minutes, the young officer led Mulder into the
room and stood in front of the open door facing out toward the 
growing crowd.  Another officer joined him, assuming the same 
posture in front of the open motel room door.  

Mulder looked around.  This single resident occupancy motel 
room had been Phil's home, probably for the past ten years.  The 
walls and windows were stained brown from tar and nicotine puffed 
out of tens of thousands of cigarettes. 

An open footlocker lay on the floor beside the bed.  Careful not 
to touch, Mulder looked down at all the gleaming vintage firearms, 
and squeezed his eyes shut.

A commotion outside got Mulder to open his eyes.   A big, balding 
policeman placed himself between Scully and the newswoman 
waving her microphone.  The big man shielded Scully as he 
escorted her into the room with Mulder.

Scully stood in the doorway quietly stepped inside.  Her eyes 
were on her partner, as she reached out and touched his arm.  
Mulder jerked away and said, "Scully don't--just don't..." 

The big officer assumed a stance similar to his companions: 
feet spread slightly, arms crossed, and eyes outward.  

The news cameras had been filming the police vehicles, the 
motel and the parking lot while the newswoman finished an 
interview with one of the Doll Motel men.  One of the 
cameramen motioned the woman over to the motel room.  She 
wrapped the microphone cord around her forearm a couple 
of times and started walking toward it.  

Three seasoned officers got in front of her and walked briskly 
toward the motel, beating her to the door by several seconds.  
Each officer assumed the stance, completing a semicircle 
around the room housing the FBI agents. 

The newswoman came up on the first young officer and said 
politely, "I'd like to ask the shooter a few questions," and 
then sternly, "The public has a right to know."

Mulder looked out at the back of the six policemen's heads.  
They all took a short step back, closing rank, and Mulder 
heard an officer say as he closed the door, "No, Ma'am.  
Not tonight."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Room 8 stunk.  The odor of unwashed skin, rank bedding and 
stale cigarette smoke mingled with the sour smell of cheap liquor.  
Scully's stomach threatened to rebel, which wouldn't have improved 
matters at all.  But two things kept her in that horrible room:  
concern for Mulder and the media's glaring lights just outside the 
door.

If only the trembling would stop.  How long would it take before
she stopped seeing Phil's wild eyes?  Her legs felt as if they 
might give out at any moment, but there wasn't a surface in the 
room upon which she'd consider sitting. 

If she felt ragged, Mulder must have been feeling totally 
unraveled.  
He stood by the motel room window, watching the activities 
unfold beyond the filthy curtains.  His arms were wrapped around 
him, each hand tucked under the opposite armpit.

She wouldn't approach him again, not yet, but she ventured a 
little closer. From her safe distance, she watched his jaw 
repeatedly clench and release as his eyes followed the marking 
of the evidence, the bagging of Phil's body.   

A flash of headlights signaled another arrival.  She watched
Walter Skinner extricate himself wearily from his car.  Skinner's
face was hard as he surveyed the scene and approached one of
the officers.  He was still wearing his business suit, though
it was long past the end of the working day.  She wondered how
their boss had heard about the shooting.  

When the WUSA reporter began hurrying over to the obviously 
important newcomer, Skinner turned to the motel room.  The
phalanx of officers parted at the sight of the big man's 
FBI badge.  

Skinner's body effectively blocked out the bright lights
as he stood in the doorway.  Noting the stance of his two
agents, he seemed to hesitate a moment.

"Mulder, you look like shit."  Trust Skinner not to beat
around the bush.

Mulder turned away from the window to glance at their boss, his 
gaze returning within seconds to the tableau beyond the window.  
She couldn't remember the last time Mulder had failed to come
back with a smartass remark, and it made her stomach hurt.

"You okay?" Skinner turned to her, worry etched in his face.

"A little shaky," she found herself admitting.  "But okay."

"The officers have at least five eyewitness accounts, Mulder.
Every one of them is consistent with a justified shooting.  You
did what you had to."  Skinner's voice was rough, but not unkind.

"Justified."  The first word Mulder had spoken in what seemed
like hours.  

"Yes, justified.  As in provoked, as in no recourse.  As in
saving the life of a fellow officer.  Mulder, I'm not unaware
of how hard this is for you.  But, don't lose sight of the fact
that you were faced with a lethal threat and acted in the 
only way you could."

Mulder nodded slowly, his eyes drifting back to the window. 
"I shot an unarmed man, Sir.  You can rationalize it a dozen 
ways, but it comes back to that."

Skinner chose not to argue further, long experience probably 
telling him to leave Mulder to torture himself if that was what 
he needed.  "We'll get you a replacement weapon first thing in 
the morning.  I expect the debriefing will be tomorrow.  I'll 
let you know as soon as the OPR schedules a meeting."

"Mulder, let me look at your hands," Scully gently rested her
hand on his arm.  He didn't shake her off this time and she 
considered it a victory.  Skinner walked out into the glare, 
perhaps to see where the investigation stood.

The blood on his hands had left red streaks under his the
arms of his shirt.   Palms up, he held his hands out for
her inspection.  Several small cuts had stopped bleeding, 
but one particularly deep wound in the heel of his hand
looked like it might need sutures.

"I think we need to stop at the emergency room.  I can't
be sure if all the glass is out."

Mulder shook his head and tried to pull his hands away, but
she tightened her grip.

"We can argue for an hour, Mulder, but you're going to 
lose this one.  We have to go to the ER."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Mulder stared out the passenger side window and fingered
the gauze covering the four stitches sewn into the meaty
part of his palm.  His left hand was picked clean of
glass and sterilized within an inch of its life.  He held
both hands in his lap as he watched the streetlights pass by
the window.

The sun was just beginning to lighten the sky bringing an
end to a very long night.  He grimaced when he moved his
hands, and, sensing Scully's eyes on him, his heart broke
again.  She was driving him to his apartment, respecting his
request for silence.  Her eyes were bloodshot and her face
was pale as she clenched the steering wheel.  After all
they'd been through tonight, he couldn't offer her any
support, nor take any from her.  Mulder squeezed his eyes
shut, and concentrated on taking his next breath.

"We're here."  Scully gently shook his shoulder.

"Thanks...uh...thanks.  I can take it from here."  He gripped
the door handle and immediately hissed through his teeth.

Scully got out, walked around the front of car, and opened
the door for him.  As she leaned over in her rumpled suit,
and extended her trembling hand out to him, he realized
he couldn't send her home as he initially planned.  So he
let her walk him up to his apartment, use her key and open
the door.

"Can I come in?  Just for a little while?" she said standing
in the hallway looking in.  If only her voice wasn't so shaky.  
If only she didn't look so lost.

"Oh, Scully." He took her into his arms and kicked the door
shut.  She buried her head into his chest and wrapped her
arms around his waist.  The vision of Phil Sanderson holding
a gun, inches from her head, made Mulder ignore the pain in
his hands as he held her tightly, and stroked her hair with a
clumsy bandaged hand.

"I thought I was going to lose you tonight," he whispered
into her hair.  "And all I kept thinking was, 'Oh, God, what
would I do?'"  He pulled back to look into her tired eyes.
"What would I do?"

She tucked her head under his chin and said softly, "All I
saw was a big gun, I didn't think to look at what kind it
was, or to even consider that it might not be loaded.  I was
too scared, Mulder.  And I..." she paused for several moments.

"What?" he asked, his lips touching the top of her head.
"Tell me."

"I couldn't bear that you were there to--witness it."

All the breath went out of him, and he held onto her as
tight as he could without hurting her.  His whole life, he
realized, was tucked under his chin with mussed up hair,
smudged cheeks, and smelling like old cigarette smoke.

"I know--I know," was all he could say, rocking her in his
embrace.

They held onto each other, until Scully looked up at him and
said, "I'd better go."

Mulder used his uninjured thumb to wipe the dirt from her
cheek.  Her heart was beating steadily against him as he
looked down and whispered, "Stay."

She went a little limp in his arms, and a light blush spread
over her white skin.

"Please stay."  His sad eyes were watchful, and never left
her face.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

 
She woke to the banging of metal and the garbage truck's roar 
in the street below Mulder's bedroom.  Stretching a hand out, 
she confirmed what she already knew--she was alone.  Her head
pounded as she gingerly sat up, pushing the hair back from her
face.  

Every molecule in her body ached as she stood and tugged down 
the hem of Mulder's t-shirt.  She'd felt that stiffness before, 
a result of muscles tensed in a crisis situation.  Even if her
mind allowed her a brief respite from last night's memories,
her body would be sure to remind her.

Last night. Every second remained sharp in her mind, the jagged 
edges of that memory tearing at her.  The image of the
barrel of the gun pointed at her head, the fear and pain in 
Mulder's eyes.  Suddenly, the need to find Mulder outweighed 
the ache in her bones, and she entered the living room. 

She found him gazing out the window, bandaged hands loose at 
his sides.  Moving beside him, Scully followed his gaze through 
the tape scarred window down to the lumbering garbage truck 
disappearing around the corner. 

She reached for his arm, needing to feel his skin beneath her
fingers.  Anxiety heightened as he stiffened under her touch.
Her mind told her to give him space, but her heart compelled
her to press on.  She slipped an arm around his waist, relieved
that he didn't shrug away.

"I'll make some coffee," she said, her voice sounding strange to
her, as if she hadn't used it in years.  

"Thanks," he said, raising his bandaged hands.  "I'm not exactly
up to kitchen duty this morning."  

She hated the way her hands shook as she measured out the coffee 
and filled the pot.  It had been too much to hope that last night's 
relief at being alive would linger.  In the cold light of morning, 
there were details to attend to, accounts to be given.  And there 
was this terrible weight of memory that sat between them.  Drying 
her hands on a dishtowel, she returned to the living room.

"Mind if I turn on the TV?" she asked, hoping the cheerful 
morning chatter would diffuse the tension.  "I want to catch
the weather report."

From his post by the window, Mulder nodded his assent.  Turning on 
a television to view an image of oneself was a very strange 
experience, but there they were in glorious color, leaving
Room 8 of the Doll Motel.

*Witnesses stated Dollar Motel guest, Phil Sanderson, threatened
FBI Special Agent Dana Scully with what appears to be an unloaded
antique gun.  Her partner, Special Agent Fox Mulder shot and 
killed Sanderson in the motel parking lot last night.*

"Turn it off," Mulder muttered.

*FBI records show that Agents Mulder and Scully have been 
partners for seven years.* 

"Turn it off, Scully." His voice was louder, rough.

*Local police sequestered the agents in the motel, preventing
this reporter from*  

She scrambled to find the on/off button on the remote and
silenced the television.  In the kitchen, the coffee maker 
sounded the last throes of its brewing cycle.  Grateful for 
an escape from the awkward silence, Scully busied herself 
with finding mugs, pouring coffee.

Mulder followed her into the kitchen, his face perhaps a 
fraction softer. Always unpredictable, she thought.  
"Thanks," he said, reaching for his mug with clumsy hands.  

"Skinner said not to worry about what time we got in this 
morning."

Mulder nodded, as if mulling over this piece of information. 
"I'm glad shooting an unarmed man can still get a guy a few 
hours off work."

"Mulder, you have to stop this.  You have to stop tearing 
yourself up over that gun.  You know something?  I had a 
bird's eye view of the damn thing and it never occurred 
to me that it wasn't capable of killing me."

His gaze was fierce, but he didn't speak.  Keeping an eye 
on the twitching muscle in his jaw, she downed the last of 
her coffee.

"Let me help you get ready for work, Mulder.  You're going 
to have to keep the bandages dry for a few days."

"I'll be okay.  Why don't you go home and get dressed."

Her body felt heavy, weighed down with worry, as she rinsed
her mug in the sink.  One last offer of help was rebuffed,
leaving her feeling empty.  Dressing quickly, she gathered 
up her belongings and chanced one last glance at Mulder, 
leaning against the kitchen counter.  She let herself out 
of the apartment before the tears started to fall.


XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
 

Mulder's bandaged hands cupped his fourth small shot glass.  
He giggled as he thought for a minute that he was wearing 
mittens.  White mittens before Memorial Day? 

Maybe he'd had more than four drinks.

Cigarette smoke curled around him.  The gray tendrils wove
their way into his suit and through his hair before stopping
at the rafters of this DC bar.   He took a deep breath of
the second-hand smoke and pretended that it wasn't the same
as actually smoking.

Mulder looked down, and was surprised to see that his glass
was empty.  He moved the empty little glass aside, patted
the bar in front of him, and a nice young man replaced it
with a full one.

He raised his left wrist close to his eye.  Moving the
tattered gauze out of the way, and blinking several times,
he tried to focus on his watch to see if it was today or
tomorrow.  Shaking his head, and taking in another lungful
he thought, 'Fresh smoke smells so much better than stale
smoke.'  He dropped his hand to the bar, reached for his
drink, and made the decision that it was tomorrow.

He remembered telling Scully to leave his apartment
yesterday morning, and she had.   Mulder desperately wanted
to feel the warmth of her arms around him, and hear the soft
comfort of her voice, but instead, he sent her home.  He
couldn't be sure, but he bet her tears had started before she
even got to the elevator.   

So he'd watched her stiffly walk out his door, unwilling to 
stop her, and afraid that one day he would finally succeed 
in driving her away.  His life was like that eternal cosmic 
joke:  women--can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.  
It had hurt too much to be around Scully this morning,
it had hurt even more when he was alone.

Time slowed after she left, and through the haze of hurt,
loss, and fatigue, Mulder heard his phone ringing.  He'd
painfully maneuvered the phone to his ear, and heard Walter
Skinner's gruff voice inform him of a 5:30 PM meeting with
the Office of Professional Responsibility.  Skinner's voice
softened as he said, "It's just a formality, Mulder.  You'll
probably even get your weapon back tonight."

Skinner had obviously called in favors, and pulled whatever
strings needed pulling to get the OPR meeting over and done
with.

When Mulder walked into the dimly lit conference room, he
saw hundreds of pages of typewritten interviews and reams of
handwritten testimonies stacked neatly in rows facing the
OPR panel.  There were three members on this panel, and each
one greeted Mulder courteously as he took his seat across
from them.  Skinner stood to the side, observing silently.

Two police officers from the scene were seated behind Mulder
and to his left.  They were stone-faced and bleary-eyed, but
when Mulder entered, they each stood and carefully shook his
injured hand.

Finally, Scully walked into the room, and looking straight
ahead, took her seat to Mulder's right.  Her eyes were
bright, and her makeup carefully applied, but her skin was
pale and there were dark smudges under her eyes that her
makeup couldn't conceal.  When questioned about the events,
she spoke confidently, but Mulder saw the slight tremor at
her fingertips.

To Mulder, the meeting went swiftly but painfully.  Phil's
gun was produced and, even up close, the panel agreed that
it looked dangerous.  The WUSA interview, with a Doll Motel
resident, was used as evidence, even though the anchorwoman
was clearly not pleased with the implied innocence of the
FBI agent.

All the right words were said:

Justified shooting.  Protecting the life of a fellow agent.
Facing a lethal threat.  Officer in imminent danger.
Appropriate use of deadly force.

Never in Mulder's extensive memory have so many people stood
by him.  Usually it was he and Scully against the government
machine, with some help from A.D. Skinner.  But the support
he got for killing a sad, frightened, and possibly mentally
ill unarmed Vietnam vet, was overwhelming.

Finally, OPR gave the verdict: Phil Sanderson had committed
suicide by cop.

Mulder smiled sadly.  'Technically, it should be suicide by
Special Agent. Or suicide by Federal Officer.  Either way, 
I'm off the hook.'  He wiped his eyes, shook his head and
downed another drink.  Well, off the hook after the mandatory
counseling of not less than two sessions.  Because the FBI 
figured that a "critical incident" needed a little debriefing 
to straighten a crumpled agent back out. 

Brushing the empty glass away, Mulder propped his elbows on
the bar, put his bandaged hands together and leaned his head
against them as if in prayer.   He closed his eyes halfway
and barely noticed that someone was rubbing his shoulders.

"Time to go," a voice said close to his ear.

"No, thanks.  I gotta go," he slurred.

"Come on, Mulder.  I'm taking you home," Scully said as she
helped him stand.

"Don' wanna talk t' you right now, Scully, still mad at
you."

"You don't have to talk to me, but you do have to come home
with me."

Mulder stared down at her, blinked several times and
shrugged.  He leaned over and started to sway as he tried to
get his hand into his inside jacket pocket.

"I already paid the tab, we can go," she said, putting his
arm around her shoulders, and wrapping her arms around his
waist.

They staggered to her car; she opened the passenger side
door, and eased him down and in.  As she was picking up his
feet and placing them into the car, he petted the top of her
head.   She looked up at him and waited.  Mulder bent down,
and nodded her to come closer.  He put his mittened hand to
his lips whispered loudly, "Shh. I don' wan' you t' worry,
tho'. I love you, so I'll forgive you."
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"Have a little respect for the dead, Scully."  Mulder
emerged from the bedroom like a bear crawling from his
den. His voice was hoarse, probably from the vomiting 
that had started as soon as they got back to his 
apartment last night.  "What the hell is that racket, 
anyway."

"I hardly think that reading the paper constitutes a 
racket, Mulder."  She knew there was an edge to her voice 
and didn't attempt to soften it.  She sipped her coffee
and eyed him over the edge of the paper. The newsprint 
crackled as she turned the page. "You can go back to bed.
It's early."

"Thank you." He swayed in the doorway. "What time is it?
Hell, what day is it?"  

"Just after seven on Saturday morning."  The mug clattered 
as she set it down on the table causing Mulder to wince at 
the noise.  He looked awful, eyes red-rimmed, hair standing 
on end.  His normally tanned skin was tinged gray.  He 
covered his mouth with a shaking hand.  The bandages were 
looking rather dingy and frayed.  

"What's wrong?  Are you still nauseous?"

"The smell of the coffee...it's getting to me."  He
staggered over to the couch and dropped down with a
groan.  "My head feels like it's going to explode.  And
that might actually be a good thing."

Scully rose silently and took her coffee mug into the
kitchen, taking one last swallow as she walked.  She dumped
the remainder of the pot down the drain and rinsed it
and the mug out, moving with sharp, deliberate motions.

She returned to Mulder with a glass of ginger ale and two
aspirin.  He picked them off her open palm and downed 
them with a large gulp.  "Thanks.  I...ah...I'm sorry,
Scully."

She couldn't look at him.  If she looked at him, she'd 
feel sorry for him and she wasn't ready for that.
"I'd better get going.  I have some things I need to do." 

"I don't know what to do beyond apologizing.  I know 
I've been a shit the last few days."  Against her will,
her gaze drifted over to him.  His head rested against
the back of the couch, eyes squinting through pain
at the morning light.

"I just don't know when I became the enemy here, Mulder.
You've done nothing but push me away--I tried to get 
your attention after the OPR meeting last night, but you
ran out of there as if your clothes were on fire."

"I needed some space, that's all."  

"You said something last night when I found you in 
the bar.  You said you were still mad at me, but
you could forgive me. What the hell did you 
mean by that?"

"Scully, I was tanked last night.  You can't take 
anything I said seriously."

"I know exactly how drunk you were.  And I know that's
when the truth sometimes comes out.  You're angry.
Admit it--something is eating at you."

"Drop it, okay?  I'm not angry."

"Look at you--your jaw is going to snap in two if
you keep clenching it like that.  You're furious."

"Leave it alone," he said, his voice a low growl.

"No, I won't leave it alone.  What did I do wrong?  
Was I not sympathetic enough?  Too sympathetic?  What?"

"Why the hell did you have to get close enough for 
Phil to make you a target?"  He winced as his raised 
voice obviously hurt his head.  

"You think I wasn't paying attention?  That I made 
some kind of rookie mistake?  Mulder, I was trying to get 
him to trust me.  I was trying to get close enough to 
disarm him."

"You didn't even believe him, Scully!"

"I didn't *have* to believe him to help him!"

Mulder sat forward and covered his face with his
bandaged hands.  When he spoke, his voice was 
muffled, "I feel like crap.  Please forget what
I said."

Biting the inside of her cheek, she willed herself 
not to cry.

"Go back to bed, Mulder," she said as she walked 
to the door.  Hand on the doorknob, she turned to him.

"I know you're in a lot of pain, and I hate watching 
you tear yourself up like this.  But, you know
something?  This happened to both of us."  

Drawing herself up as tall as she could, she walked
out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

It would have been better if she'd slammed the door.  
He would have been able to swear at his empty apartment 
and throw the glass of ginger ale at the wall. He'd have 
been able to distract himself from the fact that he'd 
hurt her again.

His body cried out for unconsciousness, but he knew
sleep was out of the question now.  Studying his dirty
bandages, he wondered if enough days had passed 
to remove the gauze and get his hands wet.  

He unwound the bandages, hissing when they stuck
to his stitches, and dropped the tattered gauze in
the wastebasket.  His hands had begun to heal, and
somehow that surprised him.  How could torn skin
become whole again when everything else hurt so
much? 

Taking a shower was a cautious business.  This was
supposed to be their romantic weekend.  He should have 
been taking long, luxurious baths with a fragrant Scully 
in his arms, not clumsily soaping himself with sore hands.  
He wondered if he would ever hold Scully again, ever feel 
her breath against his neck.  Would two minutes in 
the Doll Motel parking lot stretch to an eternity of 
silence between them?

Stepping out of the shower, he toweled himself off and
wondered if he had finally succeeded in achieving his 
greatest fear--that he would drive Scully off. 

The phone rang, and he leapt at it, hoping it was Scully.
The morning air chilled his damp skin as disappointment
cut through him when he recognized Skinner's voice informing
him that a counseling session had been set up with a Dr. 
Capelli.  

"Have you seen Agent Scully?" Skinner asked.  "I've been 
trying to reach her.  Dr. Capelli wants to see both of you
for the first session."   

Assuring Skinner that both he and Scully would be at the
appointment, he hung up the phone.  He would certainly have
to find Scully and deliver the message.  He dressed quickly
and grabbed his keys.

He had intended to drink himself into oblivion the night
before and had taken a cab to the bar.  That appeared to
have been the last smart thing he'd done, and he was
glad the vehicle was in one piece.  He climbed into his 
car, hoping that driving hung over wasn't as dangerous 
as driving drunk.  

He turned the key in the ignition, the radio springing
to life, as if it had been patiently waiting since the 
last time he'd driven the car. 

*and of course, that big traffic jam east of the Wilson
Bridge is still with us.  Traffic is backed up past the
Route 1 Interchange almost to Telegraph Road.  So, if 
you're getting an early start on those weekend travels, 
you'll need to use an alternate route*

No jack-knifed semis or creeping rubberneckers blocked 
his road to Scully, only blinding memories and regrets.

*WBLM FM920--Morning Bedlam with Vinnie and Dave*

The hyperactive blast of station identification made 
Mulder wince.  He reached to turn off the radio, hoping 
quiet would relieve the throbbing in his head.  

*Hey, Dave, you see that shooting on the news?  The two 
FBI agents at the Dollar Motel?*

*Jeez, how could you miss it?  They ran that footage all
day yesterday.  You think they'd have done that if the
agents looked like...well, like you and me?*

Hand on the radio knob, Mulder was unable to turn it off,
as if unable to turn away from the carnage of a horrific
accident.

*The lady agent was one fine looking woman, all right.  
You know what? I think they're doing the nasty.*

*Vinnie, you're disgusting.  Just because a good-looking 
guy works with an attractive woman, doesn't mean they're
sleeping together.*

*Look, I'm thinking, dangerous job, life on the edge, late
night stakeouts.  Hell, I'd do her in a minute.  If I knew  
they had women looked like that in the FBI, I'd join in a 
minute.*

*You couldn't pass the psych test.  Hell, you couldn't pass
the eye test!*

*Come on, let's take a poll.  Do you think those two FBI 
agents are doing the naked pretzel?  Call WBLM at 555-0920 
and vote--hot FBI nookie or just business.*

With a violent twist of his wrist, Mulder snapped off the 
radio and gunned the car's engine.  He slammed his palms 
down on the steering wheel, swearing at the stinging pain 
in his injured hands.  Wherever the hell she was, he hoped
Scully wasn't listening to WBLM.

It was a good thing that his car was practically programmed
to find Scully's apartment as his mind was swirling with 
thought. Images flashed unbidden: Phil running away amid the 
flutter of cherry blossoms; Scully, gunbarrel inches away 
from her head; the trickle of blood at the corner of Phil's 
mouth.  

He didn't see Scully's car in the parking lot and tried to 
muster the courage to go up and see if she was there.  Facing 
her would be difficult; walking around the empty rooms might 
be more than he could bear.   

Squinting against the bright sunlight, he walked to the 
building and up the stairs to Scully's apartment. Pounding on 
the door only exacerbated the throbbing in his head.  He knew 
he should go home and leave her alone, but he dug her key 
out of his pocket and opened the door.

He called out her name, knowing as he did so that she wasn't 
there.  In spite of his earlier fear, he found himself 
comforted by the signs of Scully's occupancy as he wandered
the rooms.  The sink held the glass from which she'd drunk 
orange juice; the still dripping shower smelled of her shampoo.

She must have brought in the newspaper before she went out.
It lay still tightly folded on her coffee table, unread.
He spread the paper out and tried to focus on the print.
A juicy government sex scandal had captured the headline,
and he found himself absurdly grateful to the congressman
who couldn't keep his pants zipped. 

Mulder sank down into the sofa. Scully had such cushy
furniture, a pronounced taste for creature comforts.  It 
belied her starchy exterior and endeared her to him even 
more.  And it was so peaceful here.  He'd always felt safe 
when he was in Scully's presence and somehow her apartment 
had taken on some of that security. Two sleepless nights 
and the hangover from hell finally took their toll, and 
Mulder drifted off.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

She'd always found background histories, arrest records and 
past hospital admissions strangely comforting.  Tox screens,
police photographs, and autopsy reports gave her life a
sense of order.

Scully knew of a meditation exercise that used intricate,
rhythmic hand movements.  A deep meditative state could be
achieved, because the mind became so preoccupied with the
hands, that all outside distractions were snuffed out.

She shifted the reports in front of her, and adjusted her
reading glasses.  As long as there were dates, times, and
molecular weights to concentrate on, she could keep the
outside pain from diffusing in.  Scully used science and lab
results like a yogi used incense and soft music.

If only her mind would cooperate and let the details push 
the world away.  But the ache in her heart stubbornly 
persisted.  

Mulder was in pain, and she knew it.  How was it that she, 
too, was in pain and Mulder not know?  He could forgive
her. How terribly generous of him. Mulder clearly saw her
as an impediment and not an effective agent. Her biggest fear 
was playing out before her, and there was nothing she could 
do about it.

When Mulder shot and killed Phil Sanderson, she was
grateful, because he saved her from, what she believed, was
certain death.  Her gratitude turned to sorrow, as she came
to know that the gun was empty, and that Mulder blamed her
for forcing him to shoot.

However, she doubted that he would have felt better had Phil
fired the empty shot.  If Mulder had hesitated and Phil
pulled the trigger, that split instant before the hammer
clicked against the empty chamber, Mulder would have died a
thousand deaths.  And his torture would have continued as he
realized that Scully would have died if he had been wrong.

There was no way this could have had a happy ending.

'Concentrate,' she told herself as she rubbed her eyes.
There was information here she needed to find.  Puzzle
pieces, all out of order now, but placed correctly, would
make a picture of Phil Sanderson's life.  And maybe offer
some peace in hers.

Scully found the medical examiner's report and opened the
folder.

Phillip Earl Sanderson: DOB-February 29th 1952.

Caucasian male weighing 70.2 kilos

Approximately 178 cm tall

Cause of death: GSW to the chest

She sighed sadly, one bullet, at close range, burst Phil
Sanderson's heart wide open.  Skimming over the initial
findings for the cause of death, Scully looked deeper for
clues into Phil's life.

She scavenged through the file until she found the
photographs.  The pathologist routinely takes pictures of
the clothed body first, then unclothed.  Unclothed, it was
evident that the body had various scars and tattoos, and
some close-ups of very angry slashes on the wrists.
Scanning through the records, Scully looked for the x-rays
of the body and results of the external examination.

She read quickly:

".multiple healed slash wounds on forearms and wrists noted
bilaterally."

".recent unhealed, open wound to left wrist apparently with
sharp blade or razor-appears to be self-inflicted, however,
not a contributing cause of death."

".evidence of healed lower extremity fractures of left
femur, left tibia, left fibula and right fibula -consistent
with trauma sustained by impact.

".evidence of multiple healed costal fractures bilaterally."

Scully blinked and shook her head.  Phil Sanderson was a
physical wreck.  Personal hygiene had gone by the wayside
a very long time ago.  There was evidence of lice infestation
in his hair and around the genitals.  His teeth were in an 
advanced state of decay.  

Internal examination of the organs showed heavily tarred lungs, 
and an enlarged liver with evidence of cirrhoses.  Stomach 
contents indicated that his last meal was several ounces of 
Glenlivet single malt scotch, straight up.

She read and reread sections of various documents; yellow
highlighting the important segments.  She booted up her
laptop and called up sites for information and reference.

The pathologist's report prompted her to hunt down
information on any confrontations Phil may have had with the
police, and his rap sheets, if any.  She tracked down
emergency room records and found reports from three
different hospitals.  Phil's past arrests and injuries
spilled out on the desk in front of her.  Stacking the
sheets into one pile, she put them into her accordion
folder.

Dear God, it was all falling into place.  Piece by piece,
she could see more of the mosaic that was Phil's life.
Scully looked at the photographs again and ran her fingers
over the glossy surfaces, before packing them neatly into
her folder.  She had to talk to Mulder.  He needed to see
what she'd found.

Scully paused to breathe.  She knew the truth was in her
hands, and she wanted Mulder to see it.  But even if she
could get her tongue to work around the pain of looking into
his face, would he listen to her?

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

"Jesus, Mulder!  What are you doing here?"  

He sat up with a start, not sure whether it was Scully's
exclamation or the sound of her briefcase hitting the
floor that woke him. She'd drawn her weapon in the shock
of finding someone waiting in her empty apartment.  He
watched with relief as she lowered her gun.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to scare you," he said.

Scully stooped to pick up her briefcase.  He noticed
that her hands were shaking as she placed it on the 
coffee table.  He had to crane his neck to watch her
walk to the desk.  

"How long have you been here?" she asked as she slipped
off her holster and fit the gun into it.  "I've been 
trying to call you."  

"What time is it?" he asked, still a bit groggy.

"A little after four," she said, her eyes cast downward.
"Why are you here, Mulder?"

He hated how pale she was, how she couldn't meet his eye.
She held her body stiffly as she placed gun and holster on 
the desk with a careful finality.  With her back to him, she 
stood over the weapon. It was long seconds before she turned
around.

"I came by to deliver a message from Skinner, but you'd left.  
I sat down for a minute, and I guess I fell asleep."  
He dry-washed his face, the stitches in his hand tickling his
face.

"The message?" she prompted.

"Oh yeah.  We have a mandatory session with a Dr. Capelli 
on Monday afternoon." He cleared his throat.  "Scully...I 
want to apologize.  I don't have any right to..."

"Forget about it, Mulder," she interrupted with resignation 
in her voice.  "You didn't say anything that wasn't true."  
 
Mulder opened his mouth to reassure her, but stopped 
himself.  In the moment after he had said them, he'd have 
given his life to snatch those words out of the air.  But 
once said, words couldn't be erased or forgotten.  You had
to live with them.

"You said you were trying to reach me earlier. What did 
you want to tell me?" he asked.  He reached out to her, 
the need to connect outweighing his fear at rejection.  
Moving past his extended hand, Scully sat on the sofa, 
close to Mulder, but not touching.  

His relief when she finally turned to look at him was 
shortlived.  There were smudges under her eyes, evidence 
of her pain and worry.  Had he been so focused on his
own misery that he'd failed to notice the toll this had
taken on her?   

"I reviewed Phil Sanderson's autopsy record, Mulder, as well
as his medical and arrest records."  She sat forward, 
opening her briefcase and removing a stack of photocopied 
documents.

"There was no great mystery there, Scully  He died because 
my bullet killed him."

"You're right.  Single gunshot to the chest was cause of
death." Turning, she caught his glance.  "But Phil Sanderson 
had been trying to die for a long, long time."

"What did you find?"

"There were numerous scars on both wrists, Mulder. Hesitation 
marks in varying degrees of healing--the most recent no more 
than a week old."

"That doesn't surprise me, Scully.  We knew he was troubled."

"Mulder, I don't think anyone knew how troubled Phil was.  
There were incidents over the years, hospitalizations and 
police involvement, but it was only when viewed together 
that the pattern became clear."

She fumbled with the papers she'd brought with her.  He laid
a hand over hers, wishing he could still her frantic 
movements.  "But you found a pattern."

"Yes.  The autopsy showed healed fractures in the ribs and in 
both legs.  I checked Phil's hospitalization records and found 
that in 1998, he'd been hit by a car while crossing the street.  
But the driver's statement from the police report said Phil ran 
into the street.  The driver couldn't stop in time and hit him."    

"And you think he was trying to kill himself?"

"The skid mark pattern indicated he may have darted into the 
path of the car.  The driver said that after running into the
path of the car, Phil hesitated and then tried to dodge away.  
I think he was attempting suicide and backed out at the last 
minute."

"Scully, I'm sure the driver was distraught. Things must have
happened in a split second."

"There's more.  On June 11, 1995, Phil Sanderson presented at
George Washington University Hospital having swallowed in 
excess of fifty aspirin tablets.  He claimed he had a bad 
headache and hadn't realized how many he took."  

"He went to the hospital voluntarily?"

"Yes.  They performed gastric lavage, but they didn't buy his 
story.  He was referred for psychiatric evaluation.  He was 
hospitalized a number of times over the last ten years and 
diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic."

"A diagnosis consistent with his symptoms.  I'm sure they 
categorized his visions as hallucinatory in nature.  
But...what if they were real?"

"Does it really matter anymore?  Whether he had visions 
because he was schizophrenic, or if the visions drove him to
madness--the result was the same.  Mulder, Phil was a
tragedy waiting to happen."

"And he happened to us."  

She nodded, and he thought he saw a measure of peace in her 
face.  Scully flipped through the stack of papers.  She 
finally found what she was looking for and handed him a copy 
of a police report dated the day before.

"Metro Police got a call yesterday from Maurice Pumphrey, owner 
of Pumphrey's Liquor and Package Goods.  Phil Sanderson stole 
an expensive bottle of scotch a few hours before he called you.  
Pumphrey saw the news report and called the police."

"He had a bottle of scotch in his hands when we got there. You 
think the theft had something to do with what happened later?" 

"I don't know.  I don't think we'll know unless we talk to 
Maurice Pumphrey."  

"Well then, I think that's what we should do."  He stood and 
extended his hand, palm up.  She smiled at him, and he realized 
just how very long it had been since she'd done that.  "Come on, 
you can drive."

Mulder felt the familiar back and forth movements of
parallel parking.  He looked up from the street map, and saw
Scully squinting at the door of the liquor store across the
street.

"I'm pretty sure this is the right place," she said, "But
everything is the same shade of grime, so it's hard to tell
one storefront from another."

She sounded tired, and he wondered if his hands could take
the wheel long enough to drive them back after this
interview.  He felt pretty good, having napped on her sofa
all afternoon.

"Maybe we can find a fine, old Merlot to take home with us
tonight," he said lightly as he unbuckled his seat belt.

"We'll have to wade through the Night Train and Richard's
Wild Irish Rose to get to the 'fine Merlot' section, I'm
afraid."

"Ah, these highly fortified beverages remind me of my
college days--I think."  He hoped to ease the tension caused
by the long, silent ride to Maurice Pumphrey's liquor store.

Scully looked at him with a trace of a smile, and shook her
head.  She walked up the two steps in front of Pumphrey's
Liquor Store, but he didn't follow.  After an awkward
moment, Scully reached down and touched his arm.  "Look, I
know you think you could have saved Phil Sanderson, but I
think Mr. Pumphrey might tell us something different."

"What if he doesn't?" he whispered.

"We're going to be okay, Mulder."

He let out a shaky breath as she opened the door and walked
in.  'Please, God, let it be true.'


"Are you Maurice Pumphrey?" Scully asked, holding up her
badge.

"Yeah, that's me."  Pumphrey sat on a stool behind the
counter smoking a cigarette.  The security glass in front of
him kept the smoke circling his face.

"I'm Agent Scully, and this is Agent Mulder."

"Here, lemme see that," Maurice said, crooking his finger.
Scully pressed her badge up against the security glass.
Pumphrey batted the cigarette smoke away, slid his glasses
down the bridge of his nose, and leaned forward.  He smiled
a little then said, "I din't doubt you, I just wanted t'see
a real FBI badge.  Ain't never have."

He stubbed his cigarette out, unlocked the security door,
and came around to the front of the counter.

"I seen you two on the TV."

"Mr. Pumphrey, we'd like to ask you a few questions about
the night Phil Sanderson came here, before he died," Mulder
interrupted.

"Yeah, I seen you," he lifted a finger at Mulder, "You the
one that killed Phil.  Man, though, that Phil was fixin' to
die one way or the other."

"What do you mean, fixing to die?" Scully asked.

"I mean -- he dared me to get my gun and blow him away.
Shit, you don't say somethin' like that in this neighborhood
an' expect to wake up in the morning.  But, I on'y use my
gun to wave at the guys if they go off.  I ain't never even
pulled the damn trigger."

"And you think Sanderson wanted you to go for your gun?"
Scully took a step toward Maurice.

"Hell yeah, I do, go for my gun an' then some. Sorry, Ma'am,
I don't have no place for you to sit.  If there was chairs,
I'd never get the drunks outta here."

Mulder's deep voice asked, "What else did he say?"

"You mean befo' or after he stole the scotch?"

Mulder shrugged.

"Well, Phil gets his reg'lar six pack of Michelob rung up,
then he gets this look, and asks where I keep the good
stuff.  Single malt.  Nobody hardly ever buys any, my drunks
drink cheap.  Anyhow, I take the box down and shows it to
'im.  I figger, he ain't gonna do nothin', I know where he
lives.  Then, he picks up my goddam fifty-dollar French Oak
Glenlivet, holds in front of my face, shakes it at me, and
walks away.   He fucking shakes it at me-oh, sorry, Ma'am."

"He wanted to make sure you saw him take it?" Mulder asked.

"Oh yeah, ain't no way he was hidin' what he was doin'.  An'
you know what else?  He starts crying, calls me a ol'
bastard and says he ain't afraid to die."

"Why didn't you call the police, Mr. Pumphrey?" Scully
asked.

"Well, I did.  Tha's why you're here now, ain't it?"

"Why didn't you call the police right after Phil Sanderson
stole a very old, very expensive bottle of scotch?" Mulder
asked pointedly.  "You were out a lot of money."

Pumphrey bit the side of his cheek and closed his eyes.

Scully stepped over to him and said, "Maurice, why didn't
you call the police?" Pumphrey's back was permanently
hunched from decades of leaning over the counter.  When he
finally looked up, he was eye-level with her, and he spoke
carefully and clearly.

"I din't call the cops because I thought Phil would talk
them into killing him.  I din't want that hanging over my
head."  He turned to Mulder, "Sorry, man, I guess I was
right."
 
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX