In the Line of Duty

Looking around, she could see that, even in the bitter weather, the cemetery was well populated by tourists, fulfilling the itineraries of a handful of educational tours. They were milling around, trying to look like they weren't watching this sharp reminder that their vacation spot housed more than the historically significant dead for which it was famous.

She noted with something faintly resembling amusement that they seemed to draw a definite line between "intruding" and  observing." Despite their barely masked curiosity about the flag-draped coffin, they wouldn't come within fifty yards of it.

Rousing herself with a start, she realized that Skinner was talking, his voice a bit rougher than usual as he tried to maintain his trademark stoicism.

"...have all come to appreciate him, both as a fellow agent and as a man of honor. His sacrifice..."

Skinner's voice faded and all she could see was the warehouse. It was a logistical nightmare, shadows and echoes and mazes of storage racks cooperating to make it nearly impossible to search. Merton may have been a sociopath, but he was a brilliant sociopath-- a brilliant sociopath with military experience and a grudge against the government. Three pairs of agents were scouring his hiding place, but he had avoided them for two hours, trying to slip away but baffled by the backup units outside. Finally, tired of the dance, he had decided to take the forceful route.

"...the capture of a man who was responsible for at least fourteen deaths in the last six months..."

He was so strong, so fast. They had heard a soft sound behind them; to this day she didn't know if it was a planned distraction or if Merton had just taken advantage of the scufflings of a rat. They had been caught off guard, just for a moment, and then he was upon her with the force of an NFL lineman. She still wondered how such a large man moved with such agility and speed; before she even had time to register him as a threat he was there, holding her own gun to her throat.

Scully still remembered it with nightmarish clarity. She was suddenly grateful for the cold; it helped her maintain her grip on the sensations that could so easily sweep her away in a flood of memory.

It had been as if her senses were somehow amplified. She heard his breathing in her ear, slightly quickened but not panicky. She could smell his lunch on his breath, vinegar and onions as if from a sub sandwich. Her skin crawled with the feel of his arms locked around her, the roughness of his coat sleeve, the cold oily metal of her service weapon, pressed against her jaw hard enough to bruise. She was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of shame. How could she have let this happen? She was a trained Federal agent, she was supposed to be able to handle situations like this...

"Scully!"

Mulder's anguished cry forced her eyes open. Merton, her fear, the pain of the gun barrel, all receded when she looked at him. He stood, gun drawn, chest heaving, glaring at her captor as if he could move her out of Merton's grasp and into safety by the force of his will. "I need some help over here!" he called hoarsely, to the other four agents who were somewhere in the building. He regarded Merton with dangerous intensity. Scully could tell that he was looking for a clean shot. Procedure or not, she knew that if he had one, he would take it. She tried to calm him with her eyes. Wait, Mulder, don't do anything stupid...

"You don't want to do that," said Merton calmly. She started, and his grip tightened around her. Was the man telepathic?

"You really don't," he continued, each word hard and distinct. "Because if I so much as see your finger tighten on that trigger I am going to shoot her." He jabbed the gun even deeper into Scully's neck, and she couldn't bite back a little cry of pain. Mulder jerked as if struck and relaxed his grip obediently.

"That's it," said Merton. "I knew you'd see things my way. Now I want you to very slowly put your gun on the ground and kick it over towards me." Mulder moved to obey, his anguished eyes never leaving the gun at Scully's neck. She felt a wave of frigid terror sweep over her spine.

"Mulder, don't! He--" she was cut short by a powerful blow across her throat; it left her bruised and choking.

"Stop! Leave her alone, you son of a bitch!" Gasping for breath, Scully could see Mulder lowering his gun to the concrete floor, then kicking it over to Merton. She struggled to raise her head, to look into his eyes. Their expression, dark and hollow, tore at her. She had seen it before, when he woke screaming from a nightmare. But this was no dream. She could see him remembering, practically hear his mind accusing him.

duanebarry

Cries for help on his answering machine, blood and hair and broken glass...

donniepfaster

The crunch of her car, the darkness, running, falling, sobbing in his arms...

eugenetooms

Sickening yellow eyes, fighting for her life by herclaw-foot bathtub...

gerryschnauz

Watching the ice pick getting closer and closer, his frantic pounding on the door, her helplessness and dread...

When she met his gaze, his eyes, dark with horror, were screaming "my fault, my fault, myfault myfaultmyfaultmyfault..."

With a jolt she returned to the present. Skinner was finishing his speech. "...and while it doesn't ease the pain of those who are left behind, his loved ones can be proud that he lost his life in the line of duty..."

She had seen it coming. She had known he was going to do something but she couldn't stop him. She had seen the tiny shifts in his weight as he prepared to go for his holdout weapon, seen his eyes darting around the room, trying to assess his position. She was terrified, knowing both the futility of any move he could make and the utter impossibility of preventing him from trying. Mulder, no, don't do anything, wait for backup, please, they're coming, they'll be here soon, be careful...

It had happened so fast that even now it was a blur in her memory. She moved as soon as she heard his shouted warning, throwing  her weight to one side to get Merton off-balance as Mulder dove for the gun at his ankle. She fell with a jarring thud and she was on the floor and there were shots, so many shots, and a hoarse voice like a nightmare shouting, "Agent down! Agent down!"

She struggled to get up from where she lay on the grease-stained concrete but she kept slipping, and when a strong hand reached to help her she realized with a sick feeling of dread that she was slipping in blood...

They were folding the flag now, handing it to his mother, who stood tiny and beaten by the long coffin, her silver hair gleaming in the bleak winter sun. She wasn't crying.

Is she as cold as I am?

She started walking away from the little group around the graveside, seeking the shelter of a nearby stand of trees. She didn't notice the tall figure following her until he spoke.

"Scully?"

She looked at him and her heart tore. "He died for me, Mulder," she whispered, her voice rasping over the lump of ice in her throat. "How many more people have to die for me?"

His eyes slid shut as a look of guilt and misery passed over his face. "Scully, it wasn't your fault," he said. "It's never been your fault."

"I'm a trained Federal agent, Mulder." Her voice was level and merciless. "It's my job to deal with people like Merton. I didn't do my job. If I hadn't let him take me..."

"Scully, you didn't let him take you! There was nothing you could have done differently. It could just as easily have been me, or any of the other agents in that warehouse."

She stood mute and unconvinced, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Scully, listen to me," he urged, bending close to her face, his hands on her shoulders. "Agent Wilson was behind Merton. He had a clear shot to his head, but he didn't want to kill him unless he had to. I was supposed to distract him long enough to let you get away, and Wilson would take him down. But Merton must have heard him approaching. Before we had a chance to do anything, he had turned and fired. It wasn't your fault."

There was something in his voice that made her ache. She looked into his face, only inches from hers, and saw it reflected there. A barrier within her so old it felt eternal began to soften and shake.

"I feel so guilty, Mulder," she whispered.

"Scully, I told you--"

"Not because of that. It's because...  when I got up, all I could see was the blood, and they were calling me over to help him. I didn't know who it was, and we were all dressed the same... I knew he was dead; there was so much blood. He was so still. I turned him over..." she shuddered, remembering the cold horror of suspense as her hands grasped unnaturally flaccid limbs, slick and hot and red and sticky.  "Mulder, I was so glad when I saw his face. He died because of me, and all I could think of was how glad I was he wasn't you..."

A tremor ran over his body. "Scully, I--" his voice broke, and he pulled her to him, burying his face in her hair as she wept with him, silently wetting the front of his coat. "God, Scully, I was so scared. I thought he was going to kill you. And then... there were so many shots, and I couldn't see you..."

Corroded by his tears, the barrier dissolved and fell away. She said nothing, but tightened her grip on him a little. They stood together in the midst of the dead, drawing strength from their mutual reassurance, their heartbeats speaking silent words of comfort and of life.

And she realized, with slowly dawning wonder, that she was warm.