Ex Obscurum, In Lux Lucius

By Poet

Summary. This takes place after the events of "Orison."

Disclaimer: Not mine. Sue someone else.

Authors note: For now I get the sense that to add more to this could be tricky. Part of me has an idea for a different ending. Chapter one is the origional ending I intended for this very very short fiction. Chapter two is more or less and extension...I'd love feedback. Which one suits?

Chapter 1

The smell. She hated the damned smell. Cordite and sulfur clinging to her hands, reeking, reminding. Suddenly the sound of the metal casing pounded in her ears as she watched it drop. It dropped. And then, after a moment so did he. Over and over she replayed it. Her sluggish movement. The weight of the weapon, drawn at last from it's useless place on the floor. The way he had looked at her, baiting her, taunting her, and then at the last moment there had simply been nothing. Except for the fullfillment in his smirk, as if she had done something he meant her to.

He had been evil. She was sure.

But what had she been?

And still the smell clung to her. The skin of her hands already raw from several harsh scrubbings which did nothing to remove the smell of black powder. Reactions. The firing pin slams into the shell, igniting the powder, propelling the bullet, the bullet tumbles and then hits it's mark. Reactions. He had tried to kill her. Again. She had killed him. Pulled the trigger. She reacted. The weapon reacted. His death was reaction. But now all she had left was remorse and guilt and a shame so ugly she felt that no amount of cleaning could ever help again. Stiffling a sob she reached to pull open the bathroom door. Instead it creaked noisly open, as if to declare that she would never escape freely again. And stepping from the bathroom, knowing his eyes were already seeking her own, she couldn't face him.

She was tainted.

X

The cold from the window drew a shudder from her pale and bruised lips. Running a finger over the split, she smiled absently, almost believeing the bruise to be from a gentle lover. Her illusions shattered when he stepped up beside her. She was ashamed, and in that she hated him for seeing her weak. Had she been stronger, braver she would have turned to strike him. But she stood, for a moment refusing to meet his gaze.

"If you want to pack some things we can get out of here"

A taste as bitter as blood rose in her throat and she wanted to scream at him. Instead she mumbled her asent, moving to keep him from intruding. To keep herself sane.

Unbidden the chill as she brushed the worn leather of her bible shocked her. Clarity struck her like the physical blows across the face she had withstood earlier. Now though, she buckled. Not trusting her legs to keep her standing, she folded herself feebly onto her bed. And again she hated the man looming above her. So tired was she of being less, of being unworthy, of being ashamed.

"You can't judge yourself"

As if he could know.

"Maybe..I don't have to." The bitterness in her voice is sure to wound him, but she needs to. Perhaps his own discomfort will chase away a moment of hers.

"The bible allows for vengance."

"But the law doesn't." He leans in to comfort her but she flinches from the guesture. The wounded look only takes a moment to be stripped from his features.

"The way I see it... he didn't give you a choice. And my report will reflect that... in case you're worried. Donnie Pfaster would've surely killed again if given the chance. "

It was at this moment that she met his eyes. Angry. Outraged. Exhausted. Every emotion playing one right after the other for him to see. He recoiled and she relished it for a moment. All to soon the true gravity of the situation sunk in and it visibly ripped her into pieces.

" He was evil, Mulder. I'm sure about that, without a doubt. But there's one thing that I'm not sure of. "

Now she sounded desperate. Trying to convince herself that she hadn't just murdered a man.

"What's that? " Finally she heard the fear hitching his voice. Fear she had seen in his eyes as he traveled so many times too far down the roads of pity and shame. He was afraid for her. Or perhaps of her.

"Who was at work in me. Or what... what made me... what made me pull the trigger. " He was evil. Wasn't he? Or was it...

"You mean if it was God? "

...me.

"I mean...what if it wasn't.?"

End