From: IndigoMus1@aol.com
Date: Sat, 15 Jul 2000 09:55:01 EDT
Subject: Seisdeadh by IndigoMuse
Source: direct

Title: Seisdeadh
Author: IndigoMuse
Rating: Varies throughout, but NC-17 overall.
Category:  Umm...I'm not too good at this.  A story
certainly, MSR, and everyone gets pretty angsty at
some point.  Beyond that, make up your own mind <g>.
Spoilers: Nothing specific.  Oblique references to
pre-S7 eps.  Assume this takes place pre-S7.
Summary:  Scully's getting stalked, and when she 
disappears, Mulder finds their relationship under
suspician, whilst he searches for her.  Meanwhile, 
she's not inclined to just sit back and wait to be
rescued.
Disclaimer: Only the bad, mad, sad and dead are mine.
All those you recognise belong to Chris Carter, 10-13 
and Fox.  

Thanks to Alicia, Karen, Soo and Kat, all of whom have
given their time and patience to this over the many many 
months it's taken to complete.  Credit for what is good
must go to them, and responsibility for what is bad
sits with me.
Thanks too, to Erryn, who confirmed the origins of the
title for me.  

Seisdeadh - a Gaelic word meaning obsessed.

          *********************************



Seisdeadh.  


Prologue.

You look so different, so innocent as you walk down the 
steps away from the church.  Oh the simple deceptiveness 
of your outward facade. You don't notice me of course. 
I am careful - not that I need to be yet. I am ordinary 
enough to merge easily into the slow moving crowd of 
those exiting from their Sunday worship.  You pass right 
by me, close enough for me to be able to reach out and 
touch you if I so desired. A hand brushed along your arm, 
perhaps pressed quickly into the small of your back.  
Maybe you wouldn't notice at all.  If you did, you might 
smile briefly at me before moving on, certain - if  you 
even bothered to think about it - that the contact had 
been an accidental one. One day.  Soon.  But not now.  
I don't want to taint myself with that which soils you. 
You see, that little girl dress of tiny printed flowers, 
the light girlish make-up, the clean and pure scrubbed 
look you wear so well; they're not enough to mask what 
he's done to you.  

As you seek him out, locating him where he lounges
nonchalantly against the post near the bottom of the 
steps, as your eyes meet his and your smile breaks, I 
can smell your thoughts and that stench of hypocrisy and 
carnality is so overwhelming that for a moment I gag on 
the foulness of it. You reek of sin.  

But I can make you clean.

I *will* make you clean.

               *****************************


Three months later.
Monday, 4.30 p.m.


Checking her watch as she marched through the door she 
wondered if she had any chance of persuading him to knock 
off early and come home with her now. A rare day spent in 
court had left her both bone and brain weary and right now 
she wanted nothing more than to escape home to indulge in 
some serious mutual pampering.

"Hey."  

At her simple greeting he lifted his head to smile at 
her but it was a smile that offered only acknowledgment 
and he returned his attention immediately to whatever it 
was he was reading.

She stood watching him with the same air of remote 
curiosity that she liked to pretend not to feel whenever 
he became absorbed in some new wonderment that had landed 
on his desk.  She'd always wait, silently indulging his in 
his ittle game, until he'd tell her, rush in with his keen 
declarations and eager theories.  The expression he failed 
to hide as he flicked through the pages in front of him 
piqued her curiosity just a touch too much though. Although 
utterly engrossed, his usual suppressed excitement, the 
boyish glee wasn't there. Beyond the obvious curiosity she 
could clearly see the encroaching edges of something that 
looked a little too much like fear for her liking.

"Mulder?"  

He looked up at her, understanding the unspoken question 
instantly and closing the file with a rapidity and a 
sudden flash of distaste that suggested it might have just 
bitten him, slid it across the desk as, fixing her with a 
blank stare, in a voice oddly monotone he spoke just four 
words.

"Look at the photographs."

She lifted out the first, regarded it with the detachment 
that years of scalpel work on dead bodies made possible.  
Just a torso. Nasty, bloody, enough to turn the stomach of 
many but nothing beyond things they had seen before and 
far less than some of the horrors she knew him to have 
been privy to in his time.  Even the letters carved into 
the flesh were just a repeated experience; different 
letters to the ones they'd seen in Aubrey, sure, but no 
more grotesque, perhaps even less so as this word at least 
made sense and did not add to the obscenity of the offense 
with the pretense of familial affection. The second revealed 
a similar scene but a different man, smaller, leaner but 
more muscular. His body told the same tale as the other, 
that single word cut deep through the skin of his stomach.  
So - a potential serial killer?  The third picture...

"Jesus!"

Her exclamation prompted the first change in his features 
since she'd opened the file, his head tilted, eyebrows 
raised, a wry almost-smile that was chilling in its complete 
lack of humor, the unspoken question crystal clear - 'You 
get the problem then?' and she nodded her silent affirmation 
as she flicked back to the first two photos, examining them 
more intently, then once more to the third.  It was easy to 
see how she'd made the mistake and she was certain that it 
had not been hers alone. Until they'd seen the precision of 
this third anyone would have made the same assumption. That 
third letter so unclear as to be unidentifiable in its own 
right, assumed to be something it wasn't because of the 
logical context within the other five. But now?  Carved far 
more neatly, letters better spaced, legibility improved, 
perhaps by practice, what had been a blurred gash on the 
first two victims was cruel and shocking in its clarity 
on the third. Not an 'R'  but an 'L'.  The inscription 
brutally carved into each of the three men read not 
'MURDER' but 'MULDER'.

Swallowing back the sudden taste of bile that had risen in 
her throat, she pulled out the sheet of paper tucked behind 
the third image.  Printed letters, precise and neat offered 
a brief declaration. 

"LOOK WHAT I'LL DO FOR YOU."

"What the hell is this?"

"I don't know, Scully."  She responded with a scowl 
that might have suggested to anyone else that she was 
somehow holding him accountable for the pages she held 
in her hand but which was really no more than a demand 
for elaboration. Unfortunately, there was none he could 
provide. 

"No, really.  I don't have a clue.  It must have come 
with the post this morning, but I've been out and about 
all day. I've only just got round to opening it.  That's 
all there is - the photos and the note." 

"So where did it come from."

He didn't bother even saying the words, just shook his 
head and shrugged the lack of an available answer.

"Well don't you think we should find out?"

He almost flinched at the sudden hostility in her 
words, but looking past the voice at the eyes that 
wouldn't quite meet his own, he identified it for what 
it really was. His name etched in blood on a dead man's 
body?  Three dead men's bodies? Her mind was racing 
through the possibilities as wildly as his.  She was 
at least as shit-scared by the implications as he was 
but neither of them would admit it voluntarily any more 
than they would deny it if asked outright.  

"Scully?"  He hadn't really noticed himself crossing the 
floor between them and his surprise at her sudden touch 
must have registered in his eyes because looking up at 
him she almost pulled away - almost - but then fingers 
snaked between the buttons of his shirt, knuckles grazed 
slowly over his skin and with a sudden chill that manifested 
as a shudder he realized she was tracing the shape of the 
letters over the same area of flesh so adorned in the 
photographs. He understood the touch, the reassurance sought 
and offered, the depth of concern emphasized by the mere 
fact of the physical contact, breaking her own taboo. This 
tiny woman who could wrestle him to the floor and strip him 
naked less than a minute after closing her apartment door 
behind him avoided, in fact categorically forbade any touch 
that bespoke even the remotest hint of physical intimacy 
when within this building, even when safe behind the privacy 
of a locked door.  For her to put her hands beneath his 
clothes, to touch him here?  He dredged his mind for some 
light hearted jest, a means to alleviate the concern 
but settled instead, far more appropriately he realized, 
for pulling her hand free, slowly and gently to make sure 
that she understood no censure was intended and placing a 
slow kiss on the fingers that curled tight around his.

"It's OK, Scully. A bit of a shock but..."

"It's horrible!"

"Yeah it's horrible...weird. But we'll figure it out."

She jerked her hand away abruptly, offering a small smile 
by means of compensation before flicking the professional 
switch in her head and turning immediately to the 
practicalities, speaking with a calm clipped voice that 
suggested this was just any other problem to be solved, 
that she hadn't just seen the name of her partner, her 
friend, her lover, drawn in split flesh and dried blood 
onto the bodies of other unknown men.

"OK then.  Let's get figuring."


7.10 p.m.

'So much for getting home early,' she muttered to herself 
as she tapped yet more buttons, searching further and 
further afield. Definitely not a Bureau case - they'd 
established that much at least and the local PD had nothing 
at all that matched ...matched Mulder's name cut into human 
flesh.  She closed her eyes against the image, trying hard 
to banish the sickening attachment her mind provided - his 
head on the body, the name a badge of identification - as 
the images merged in her head with the ones she'd been 
forced to recount all day.

Across the desk, he replaced the phone receiver after what 
felt like the thousandth fruitless call - 'Hi. My name's 
Fox Mulder. Wonder if you could tell me if you've had any 
bodies turn up recently with my name carved into them,' - 
he looked up, over to where she sat, head held in her hands, 
her eyes closed. With a sudden flush of guilt, for the first 
time since she'd stepped through the door earlier, he 
remembered where she'd been all day.  In her role as 
forensic pathologist she'd been called as an expert witness 
to testify against a man - and he used the word in its 
oosest possible terms -  who'd decided it was his God given 
duty to rid the world of children he saw with 'the devil' 
in them. As a result of his deference to this duty, twelve 
perfect, happy, healthy and loved seven year old boys 
had met their end at his hand, three of whom Scully had 
been accorded the dubious pleasure of autopsying herself.

He realized that she must be exhausted, mentally and 
physically and the truth was that they were doing nothing 
but flailing around in the dark here. They were getting 
nowhere at all with this.  Time to go home, he figured; 
give her some well deserved rest.

"Hey - Sleepy-Head."

She snapped her head up instantly, irritation evident in 
her voice. "I'm not sleeping."

"I know."  He raised his hands in mock defense, gratified 
to see the smile she grudgingly gave.  "Look, much as I 
hate to say it, it really is looking as if these guys are 
just laying around dead somewhere waiting to be found and 
however much I'd like to keep looking, fact is we're not 
going to discover anything sitting here.  You finish up and 
I'll go see if there's still anyone in VCU I can give this 
to. I don't think it's a good idea for us to hang onto it, 
given the...the..."  He waved his hand about a bit, an 
unspoken reference to the specific marks on the men.

She nodded briefly, silent comprehension and consent, 
before asking, "Are you OK with this Mulder? Relatively 
speaking? I mean the implications for you, whatever's 
going on here could be pretty nasty."

"Fine.  You?"

"Fine."   

Wry smiles formed in perfect synchronicity.  Truth it 
seemed was both their grail and their rule book and yet 
their conversations were littered with endless lies, the 
unsound declarations of health and happiness made with that 
single word.  Their only dishonesty - and they both 
recognized it, acknowledged it and pretended that it didn't 
really matter as they went about their business.

                     ************************

9.10 p.m..  Scully's apartment.

"I want to stop thinking about it Mulder, or at least try 
to."  

She realized how ridiculous the words were as soon as they 
left her mouth.  Neither of them were going to be able to 
close their eyes or minds against those images. Still, they 
could at least put the conscious pursuit of them aside long 
enough to sleep.  "C'mon, it was you who said there was 
nothing else we could do. And why the hell did you have to 
bring those pictures here anyway?"

"There was no-one there. I didn't want to leave them."

"Leave them now - please?"

"Why don't you just go to bed, Scully. I'll be through 
soon."

"Mulder?  I want you to sleep with me."  Despite how tired 
and unwilling to play she was, she couldn't suppress the 
small chuckle his sudden leer evoked. "Not tonight, Mulder. 
No euphemism. I mean that I want you to *go* to sleep with 
me."

He glanced back toward the screen of the PC, his reluctance
to give up at this point evident for just the second before 
he met her gaze and resigned himself with no small touch of 
willingness to the inevitability of his compliance.

"Bed then?"

"Sleep."

"OK. Sleep."

Habitually he shed his clothes in untidy haste, leaving 
them in a heap she had long since given up trying to 
persuade him to turn into a carefully folded pile.  By 
the time she exited the bathroom he was already comfortable 
under the sheets, watching her as she moved towards the bed,
her easy nudity never ceasing to enthrall him. 

Without words he curled around her, pulling her to himself
before she was even lying down beside him.  His cock soft 
against her back spoke the same words of love as it would 
have done pressed hard between her legs.  His hand, lazy on 
her breast simply because that is where it had come to rest 
reflected want no less than had it been massaging, teasing 
the soft nipple to hard peak.  Her arm thrown back across 
her hip, fingers resting on his, gliding down from time to 
time over his ass, casual caress given without thought, 
told the same story of passion as her nails in his flesh 
while his name crossed her lips would have done.

Despite her earlier assertion he knew that one word - any 
word could be the right one -  a recognizable shift of 
flesh against flesh, and the tableau could be exchanged for 
one of thrashing limbs, sweat on sweat, for the wet solid 
heat and heady scent of sex, but the word was not spoken, 
the movement not made because any and every expression of 
desire, of the need pertinent to that moment in time, was 
already between them in that silent slide into sleep.


        ************************************

You should have come home alone.  Today was a special day 
and you had no right to share it with him.  It was bad 
enough to see him, to watch him behind you,  his hand on 
your back, marking you, possessing you. But in his hand? 
How could you do that to me?  How could you give *him* a 
gift given with so much love to you?

When I was 11 my mother received a china horse as a gift 
from my Aunt Sophia.  She hated it before it was even 
entirely unwrapped and it remained boxed until the 
following year when she changed the wrapping paper and 
presented it to another aunt for Christmas.  Aunt Cheryl, 
who my mother asserted had never had any damn taste, loved 
it and gave it pride of place in her sitting room.  
Everyone was happy until Sophia saw it there.  She 
actually cried.  I had never seen an adult cry before and 
I was stunned that something so simple should trigger such 
a response, but I came to understand that she was hurt.  My 
mother, whom I had hitherto seen as perfect was guilty of 
creating that hurt.  I realized that she had been ignorant, 
rude.  She didn't care that gifts are always precious, 
should always be adored, not because of what they are but 
because of the value of the giving.

Like my mother, you are rude.  The pictures were a gift.
My gift to you and you have given them away before the 
day is out. Not just that but you have given them to *him*.  
You have taken what was special, intended as comfort for
you and cheapened my acts.  They were your reassurance, 
to show you how much I care.  They were the illustrations
of what I have done for you and the promise of what I 
will do, of how I will help you become clean again. I 
labored over those words, to make clear to you how 
carefully I'd thought this through - that I was acting 
on no whim. I took the time to plan for you, to care for 
you. Did you not read the promise?  Could you not see the 
gift to come, the extent to which I'll taint myself for 
you? I spelt it out so you could know, so you could 
feel safe. I wrote it on them. 

Do I have to teach you manners as well?

He didn't leave when he could of, should of.  He is 
still within your walls.  I am sure that he is pressed 
to you, taking you, driving you hard beneath him.  He 
takes and takes from you and gives you only the poison 
of his sweat and semen in return.  I know what he is 
like.  I know the things he makes you do.  I wouldn't 
use you like that.  Once you are mine I will show 
you how love can be clean.

When I first realized that he had touched you, been 
inside you?  When I first saw how that had changed you, 
I followed.  It was exhilarating to revisit those times.  
It had been many years since I had last climbed onto 
a plane to follow you, or driven long roads in pursuit
 but I remembered how good it felt to be your witness, 
your guard.

I wonder that you did not realize how flimsy cloth 
inside a lighted room leaves you visible from the darkness 
outside. I suspect the motel owner knew.  I suspect he 
liked to watch but you can rest assured that he didn't 
watch you.  Had he have done?  Well then he would have 
been your first gift instead of that acned adolescent 
shop-boy who couldn't keep his eyes off you, who joked 
coarse and crude about what he imagined he might do. 
But I digress.  I watched, but you know that my motives 
are pure - after all I'm only looking out for you.  I 
watched as he took you.  I learnt just how he soiled 
you.  I learnt all that I would never do.

When you are mine, I'll remove your clothes with fingers 
that respect the fragility and perfection of what lies 
beneath.  I won't twist your hair in my fingers and force 
your mouth to mine as I pull and tear your armor away.

When you are mine, I'll lay you on soft sheets, make you
comfortable, safe, cocooned.  I won't hook arms under your 
knees, force you to anchor yourself with a desperate grip 
around my neck whilst I slam you against the wall.

When you are mine, I'll do all the work for you, not fall 
to my back, dragging you with me, not driving you over me, 
onto me, making you ride me. 

When you are mine the words you hear will be soft and 
gentle, whispered besides you, not spat out across your 
back, hissed between clenched teeth, not bounced between 
the walls in animalistic fury.  The words you'll speak to 
me will ring with gratitude and not be sobbed between your 
groans,  breathless and raw.  You'll speak my name with 
tenderness.

When you are mine, our hands will offer duel worship, 
tender touches, not fingerprint tattoos and nail scored 
backs.

When you are mine I will adore you once we are done, 
care for you, love and  respect you.  I will cover you, 
enshroud your flesh, not lay sprawled, decadent and 
sated, clawing you to me, forcing my knee between your 
legs, watching your body slow.

When you are mine, I'll be nothing like him. 

When you are mine, we will be clean.

Are you impatient?  If you are, I'm ready to oblige.

Are you asking to be clean?  Are you ready?  

I am.
  
           **********************************

Tuesday morning.  Scully's apartment.


His touch, just fingertips light on her hip, banished 
sleep swiftly but gently.  She didn't bother to open 
her eyes to look at the clock, knowing absolutely what 
she would see. Time as always on these shared mornings 
was told by this infallible internal alarm he seemed to 
posses, the one that pressed hard against her back, 
waiting almost nonchalantly for acknowledgment.  An 
infinitely more pleasant awakening than the alarm going 
off she conceded to herself as she eased backwards, 
pressing against him, her participation confirmed.

His palm slid slow and heavy over her hip, long fingers 
gliding over the curve of her belly as he coaxed her to 
her back before straddling her.  He positioned himself 
with an ease born of familiarity, so that his larger 
frame met hers, heat on heat as he pressed himself 
against her. His greater weight enveloped without 
crushing as he bowed his back to glide his chest 
across hers, chuckling slow and low as he felt her 
nipples peak beneath him - felt but did not see, for 
neither of them had opened their eyes, nor would they.  
Silent and sightless these morning forays into ecstasy 
and yet every touch, each caress, as assured as if 
directed by the sharpest eyed of marksmen.

Her hands, confidant of the territory they traversed, 
cupped the perfect roundness of his ass, pulling him 
harder against her, encouraging his slow thrusts 
against her abdomen as she allowed a finger to trail 
up, the sharper caress of her nail scratching tiny 
circles in the dimple where buttocks met back.  
Expectation - she knew too well his weakness for that 
touch - did not lessen the satisfaction of feeling his 
deep growl against her neck, the acute pleasure as the 
featherlight touches of his fingers on her breast turned 
to invited assault, tightly grasping and pinching, 
working pale flesh to unobserved crimson as she arched 
her approval beneath him, hissed her arousal past his 
ear.

His hips slid back, intent much clearer than his aim 
as he struggled against her, unable it seemed to angle 
himself correctly until her hand slid confidant between 
them, allowing herself the indulgence of touch, of 
savoring the weight and heat of him for just a moment 
before she guided him, sliding him slow and hard, first 
over and then into herself, not relinquishing the touch 
until bone pressed against bone forcing her fingers away.

Motionless for just a moment, they lay together each 
taking flesh from the shoulder of the other between 
hard teeth, soft lips, leaving mottled purple skin, 
brand marks that spoke not of ownership but of invited 
occupation.

She was the first to break the moment, releasing his 
skin and slightly stirring beneath him, enough for him 
to read her script and, wrapping hands beneath her back 
rolling them over so she sat astride. She couldn't 
suppress the sudden groan at the increased depth of 
penetration afforded her, and had he opened his eyes 
then he'd have seen her head thrown back, bottom lip 
caught by her teeth as she savored the sensation of him.  
His groan echoed hers as she leant back, placing her 
arms behind herself to clutch his shins, pulling him 
with her, inside her, to an angle that would only have 
offered discomfort were it not for the overwhelming 
sensation of her slick heat moving up and down on him. 
As his fingers joined the play, clumsy for the few 
seconds it took him to adjust to her movements, to 
attain and maintain the pressure she sought from him, 
the rate at which she arched away from, ground herself 
against him increased.

His fingers set up a steady rotation, unfaltering, 
unchanging even as he felt her begin to contract around 
him, her breathing becoming more erratic, matching her 
frantic pace.  He knew he'd got her on the edge of the 
precipice she sought to go over but with a practiced 
polished touch he refused to let her fall. Light 
enough to drag her back each time she threatened to 
slip, skilled enough to push her right back to the edge 
less than moments later, until her panting turned to 
whimpering and he relented, exchanging the steady 
circling pressure for a sudden pinch between thumb 
and forefinger, a grip he didn't release even as she 
shattered around him.

Before her trembling had fully abated she was lunging 
forward over him, hands now clutching furiously at his 
chest for leverage as he planted large hands around her 
waist, lifting her up, slamming her down with as much 
ease as if she had been a rag doll.  His hips were 
bucking furiously beneath her, head thrown back against 
the pillow with teeth as tightly clenched as his eyes 
still were. Guided by his hands she worked a frantic 
counter rhythm until she felt his muscles tighten under 
her hands, buttocks clench hard against her lower legs 
and with an indefinable mixture of high pitched whine and 
belly low growl that undeniable vanity and satisfaction 
told her only she had ever heard, he emptied into her. 

She slumped forward over him, boneless and sated, 
recognizing the same state in his body as breathing 
slowed, occasionally slipping into synchronicity as her 
more rapid panting caught up with and then passed his. 
She lifted her head as she opened her eyes for the first 
time since waking to find him already looking, grinning 
widely.

"Good morning, Scully."

"Yeah...good," she agreed, with a lazy, contented smile. 
"I think  good covers it, Mulder. Good."

Not turning to read the clock beside him his arm suddenly 
snaked out, hitting the button to turn off the alarm at 
the exact moment it sounded and reluctantly they edged 
their way off the bed and padded in unison to the 
bathroom, the second of their morning rituals underway.

'It's just not possible to share a bathroom mirror with 
a six-foot mass attached to such overly intrusive elbows' 
she concluded for what felt like the millionth time, 
having long since lost count of the mornings she had 
resolved to buy another mirror and banish him to a corner 
to shave. As his elbow clipped her ear, jolting her head 
and causing her to spread lipstick over her cheek she 
turned and intentionally slapped his arm hard in protest.

"Fuck, Scully!"

Remorse swept in instantly as he dropped the razor into 
the sink, pressing his fingers hard over the cut she'd 
inadvertently caused and she pulled his hand away to look, 
apologizing profusely as, unwilling to be comforted, he 
jerked his head away from her touch, very real irritation 
rising in his eyes.

Just two tiny drops, two small red splashes from his chin 
that hit his chest as he recoiled from her.  She watched 
them fall as if in slow motion, landing almost 
simultaneously. Such tiny specks of color, crimson dots 
against his skin, almost unworthy of note.  In her minds 
eye though they magnified, became gashes dark and deep 
as the images from the photographs flooded back - images 
that, with a sudden swell of nausea, something in her 
identified as a promise.

She instantly paled, her hand a bunched fist against her 
mouth. It took him only a moment to make the connection 
and  then he ducked his thumb into the water in the basin 
and ran it over the blood, cleaning it away in just two 
sweeps, irritation dissipating instantly as he met her 
gaze in the glass she was now fixedly staring into.

"Hey, we'll sort this out you know?"

She nodded affirmation, turning away, unwilling to meet 
his reflected gaze, to look at the face that matched the 
name, the image of which, now re-evoked, she couldn't 
shake. 

            *****************************

I watched you leave.  You looked so pale, so tense.  I 
understand why.  Sex screams from his pores, drips like 
slime in his trail, marks you with its fetid touch. Your 
hair is still damp.  Have you been standing underneath 
scalding water, scrubbing your soft skin raw, unable to 
understand why you cannot wash his touch away, wondering 
at the stench that never leaves you?

Do you not understand that he is omnipresent?  He has 
taken you over.  While he continues to breath his every 
breath will mark you, taint you.

I remember how you used to be, how you always glowed 
clean and pure.  I remember the person you once were, 
the person I know you want to be again. The person who 
belongs with me.

I can help you.  I *will* help you, for after all I want 
it too. When the moment is right.  

In the meantime, perhaps I should send you another gift?
Do you need that reassurance, the evidence that salvation 
is coming?  It won't be much longer. I hope you can bear 
to wait, but if you need comfort in the meantime then I 
can provide it.

I'll go now and find you the proof of my promises.

I'd never lie to you.

I know what to show you to make you feel safe.

                  ***************************


11.00 am.  

That image, blood on his chest, stayed with her 
throughout the morning, whilst she sat alone in the 
office, once again searching PD records, looking for 
some mention of bodies found that matched the image 
whilst he rushed about, toting the photographs between 
labs, checking their authenticity, looking for 
fingerprints.  When he'd returned the frustration 
clearly mapped on his features only matched that she 
felt. They were getting absolutely no-where.

"VSU are taking it," he'd stated, "but there's nothing 
specific that they can do right now with no bodies, no 
suspect, no motive.  We've got to come up with 
something,  anything." 

They worked parallel, together but never infringing on 
the other's thoughts or space.  It had been almost easy,  
not exactly to ignore but to shelve the questions and 
qualms in the comfortable haven of her apartment, to 
banish them with the touch of warm breathing flesh.  
Here and now though, such tiny armors put away, each 
became engrossed in their personal vision of what might 
be happening.

She knew beyond doubt that he was wallowing in self-
recrimination without having the slightest clue what 
it was he was blaming himself for.  "You think this is 
like Barnett?"  she'd asked him, when he'd suggested 
they start searching the undrawn lists of the people 
he'd helped to put away over the years - those released,  
possible escapees - and he'd briefly nodded acquiescence 
without meeting her eye, unwilling to categorically 
acknowledge that he feared men were being killed and 
marked to prove a point, to test *him*, to punish *him*.

She gone along with the theory, unable to envisage any 
other variation on that possibility but somehow not 
quite believing it either.  It was something more than 
that, she was certain.  The image was too clear - too 
vivid. His face over those carved bodies, the blood on 
his chest.  If she hadn't known he'd laugh at her - oh, 
not a great belly laugh illustrating mockery and 
ridicule but a tiny crooked grin that dared her to step 
over the line - if it wasn't for the fact that she refuted 
the idea even as it formed, she'd have sworn it was a 
premonition. 

When he'd finally been willing to concede defeat - for 
that day at least - to accept that there was nothing 
to be found, no more avenues to explore, nothing to 
indicate that the photos had been anything but strangely 
isolated images, disconnected from any sort of reality, 
she'd driven him home, followed him upstairs, trying 
to find the way to phrase what it was she wanted to 
say without giving way to this idea of premonition, 
when he said it for her.

"I think you should move in here for a while. I mean 
until we get this sorted."

Her idea - his words, and she acknowledged the irony 
even as she battered it down to allow her anger to bubble 
over it.  She had been planning on making the self-same 
suggestion, but then she had reason.  Why could she not 
accept it when it came from him?  Because she knew what 
he meant, the words he didn't quite dare to voice - 
'Stay here, Scully, and I'll protect you'.

"Why?" 

Recognizing the dangerously low tone and the argument it 
heralded, he turned his face away, unwilling to meet her 
eyes lest she read his anger at her stubbornness and 
shut herself of completely from whatever he might say. 
Why?  'Because ever since you said his name, Scully, 
I remember Barnett's bullet hitting you.  I remember 
the shock and the pain that swept over your face.  I 
remember you falling through the air.  I remember the 
cold hard sound of your body hitting the floor.  Mostly 
I remember how I just shouted for someone to take care 
of you and followed him - because I could then.  I 
could walk away.  I could no more do that now than I 
could sprout wings and fly.  If someone wants to hurt 
me, tear my heart out, cut me to shreds then they'd 
only have to touch you, just touch you.'  But he said 
none of it.

"Because I need to know you're safe."

"Don't pull this cave man crap on me, Mulder."  She was 
pacing now; had stepped round to face him too slowly to 
see the flash of hurt that crossed his features, 
registering instead only his irritation.

"Well excuse me for actually wanting to protect you."

She shook her head impatiently.  "And why should *I* need 
protecting?  Mulder - it's not my name we've seen adorning 
corpses - it's *yours*"

"It's my name but they're not me, Scully."  He reached 
out and rested his hands on her shoulders, gently holding 
her still as he met her steady scowl.  "My take on this 
is that someone wants to get at me and is using other 
people to do it.  And if that's right - well - you're 
the obvious candidate."

"So you want to play big brave man protecting his woman?" 
She jerked backwards, shrugging his hands away. "You 
always do this to me, Mulder - take me over, make out 
like I need looking after and I don't."

'Don't push it, Mulder, don't push it', she repeated in 
her head.  She knew she was being unfair, knew she was 
throwing accusations with no basis in reality - that his 
intentions were nothing but good but she seemed to have 
an almost automatic need to refute any suggestion, 
however well placed, that she might need protection.  If 
he persisted, then she had no doubt that her sarcasm would 
evolve into blatant nastiness.  This was her Achilles heal, 
and he knew it, but still, time after time, he persisted. 
But then had she not been about to suggest that he needed 
the protection and that she should be the one to offer 
it?  What an affront to his particular brand of Mulder 
pride that would have been if she had actually got it out!  
She almost laughed aloud, almost smiled, but then realized 
that he was speaking.

"Play big brave man eh?  Let me tell you something, Scully. 
Bravery is acting despite your fears, not because of them.  
Nothing I've ever done in regard to you has had anything 
to do with bravery - it's all been supreme cowardice.  
All of it - everything. Don't kid yourself it's you I'm 
really protecting.  It's me. Your pain - my suffering.  
Your death - my demise. It's all just selfish self 
preservation so humor me OK.  Please. Just this once 
pretend you need me."

"That's a nice line in emotional blackmail, Mulder."

He nodded his agreement. "But just because it's blackmail, 
Scully, doesn't mean it's not true."

"I just don't like being treated as if I can't take care 
of myself."

"Fine.  Whatever."  He spun around rapidly and then strode
across the room, not even turning to look at her as he 
spoke.  "Tell you what, Scully, I'm going to have a shower. 
You just sit around being angry with me for giving a shit 
and when I'm done I'll feed you, then you can just home 
and look after yourself."

She sat and listened to the water running, knowing from
experience the point at which it would have begun to run 
cold and still he didn't emerge.  She knew that she'd 
been unfair, that she'd gone past pissing him off into 
hurting him and contemplated for a moment going in there, 
telling him the truth - her truth - just how damn much 
she did need him, but then she'd have to try and explain 
why she found it so impossible to actually voice the 
sentiment, and she wasn't sure she could answer that, 
even to herself.  He knew it though. He had to know, as 
surely as she knew that despite her stubbornness, he'd 
come out  trying to be the one to atone and so she decided 
to make it easy, not to make him have to ask again, kicking 
off her shoes, shrugging of her jacket to make clear she 
wasn't leaving.  She'd just stood up to turn the TV on 
when she heard him from the doorway, his tone wary but 
warm.

"Not leaving?  Not still angry then?"

Without turning to face him she shook her head no to 
both questions.  Bare feet made his footsteps soft as 
he padded up behind her, though she sensed rather than 
heard his approach and was unsurprised when heavy hands 
gripped her shoulders, tipping them back against the 
warmth of his chest. She stretched her arms behind 
herself and felt the bare flesh of his thighs beneath 
her fingers.  He chuckled into her hair as she momentarily 
turned examiner, sliding fingers upwards over his hips 
and ass, resting eventually on the equally bare skin of 
his torso.  

"Are you sure?" he muttered beside her ear, tongue 
snaking a brief line over its shell to illustrate the 
intent behind the question. "Because if I'm not 
entirely forgiven...?"

"Yeah?"

"I can think of a really good way to make amends."

Head tipped back against his face she allowed herself a 
tiny murmur of approval as his tongue marked a path 
along her cheekbone.  She moved her hands to the hem of 
her shirt, pushing her shoulders against him to shove 
him away as she lifted her hands over her head, pulling 
bra and shirt away together and letting them fall to 
the floor.  Still silent, not turning to look at him 
she slid out of the rest of her clothing, kicking it 
away across the floor before stepping back into him. 
Rested once more against his warmth as his hands crept 
slowly over her stomach, pulling her tight against 
him she tipped her head back to meet his eyes.

"So make amends, Mulder."

                 **************************

I've asked about him you know - subtlety, casually.  I've
heard many words used to describe him but the one most oft 
repeated is paranoid.  Well, for a paranoid man he is 
extremely careless about his privacy. How little respect 
he shows for your decency.  Did he really think I wouldn't 
know where to find you, that I haven't been here before? 
$74 for a crappy little pair of binoculars and the rental 
costs for this shitty apartment across the way and  I can 
see you.

His hands on your shoulders, staking claim, possessing you.  
You shed your clothes for him, for me, but you don't 
understand that I don't want to see you like that. I don't 
want to see the trails of dirt his fingers mark you with, 
your flesh painted with it, livid, rancid.  The filth of 
it touches me even from here.  

Why are still there? I've promised you that I can change 
this for you.  You should know now that you don't have to 
stay.  You'll understand soon enough that you don't have 
to tolerate just any man's touch.   

I can keep you safe while you wait for mine.  

I watch you.  I watch you as he puts those hands on your 
hips and pushes you to your knees before him, as you 
oblige his coarse command, leaning forward onto your 
hands, pushing your ass up to him, debasing yourself 
before him as he kneels behind you, touching himself,  
holding, stroking himself.  I watch you as he hooks those 
hands around your thighs, pulling you apart, clawing you 
to him as he presses himself into you - and you don't just 
let him.  I can see it on your face.  I recognize it in 
the way you arch beneath him.  You want it.  You beg for 
it.

What has he done to you to make this something you will 
miss?

I watch you as he pulls you to him, those hands gripped 
hard around your waist.  He'll leave marks that even you 
will see but his poison must run so deep that you don't 
seem to care.  You don't care as he brands you, savage 
and calm, pressing his stomach to your back, showing me 
the briefest glint of white between his lips as he sinks 
his teeth into your flesh, biting like the dog he is...
and you?  You turn your face upwards and I don't need 
to be able to hear you to know you are howling like the 
bitch he wants you to become.

I see your mouths working as you spit out sounds inaudible
to me and don't doubt you are tainting the clean air by 
spilling his name into it.  Is he panting yours?  Does he 
gasp it into your ear, using it to disguise fucking you 
as love? Do you believe the lie?

Or does he sense that you are mine now?  Is he trying to 
persuade you to stay?

I watch him slamming against you faster and faster, the 
frenzy of the flesh that connects him to you belied by 
the slow deliberation of nails raked from your shoulders 
to your finger bruised hips even as you work for him, 
pushing yourself against him, taking him deeper and deeper 
inside.  There is that mark on your back I've seen before 
but can't identify...a circle? Another brand?  At least 
one of his claws splits your skin, a tiny trail of red 
following it down your back, but you don't falter, don't 
waver.  Does he have you so hypnotized that you give him 
your blood without question?

Your blood is precious and yet he takes it so casually, so 
disdainful of its worth.

Be certain that I'll take his in retribution.

I watch you as he slams you hard enough to force you 
forward over the balance your arms struggle to retain, 
your face hitting the floor as he slumps against you, 
his body jerking, shaking and I know that he is spilling 
hot into you, filling you.  When you roll apart I cannot 
see your face.  You turn away showing me only the back 
of your head and so I am unable to discern from the shape 
of your mouth the words you speak, but I anticipate your 
plea even as he ignores it, disregarding and disrespecting 
you as, turning you to your back he plants his limbs like 
a cage on either side of your tiny body and presses his 
face to your breast.

I watch you as with fingers placed against his cheeks you 
seem to urge him on, to encourage him to suckle where only 
a babe should.  He lifts his head up with you still tight 
in his mouth, bound between his lips as he pulls your soft 
flesh harder, further than I can bear. Yet still I watch.

I think for a moment my diligence is to be rewarded.  
When I see your fingers tangle in his hair and you pull 
hard enough for me to observe the surprise that registers 
on his face I think for one brief moment that some subdued 
sense has surfaced, has shamed you into decency, that he 
is being banished from the temple of your flesh.  For one 
brief moment - but then I see you are pushing him, 
directing him as you open your legs to him and press his 
face between them, as you tip your head to laugh at 
whatever comment he directs at you over your belly, as 
you arch high before him, letting him put his mouth on you, 
his tongue inside you to taste that which he so recently 
left behind.

You are encouraging him.

I curse him for your confusion - the insidious power he 
wields, the manner in which he has so entranced you.

I cannot condone your behavior but will excuse you your
mistake.  I guess I understand what you are doing. You 
are bidding him farewell in the only language he speaks.  

If your conscience requires that, I will allow it.

After all, this is the final time.

While I go and make my plans, say goodbye for the last 
time.

Say goodbye.

        *****************************

"Mulder?"

He did his utmost to disregard the protest screamed by 
the muscles along his spine as he lifted his head from 
the floor they both lay splayed on, opened his eyes to 
her and waited.

"Do you still want to make amends?"

He raised a lazy finger to scroll across her belly. "I 
think I've more than atoned, don't you?"

She smiled at him then, that smile which, had they not 
been sprawled naked and sated on his floor he'd have 
immediately identified as her 'come to bed' smile.

"But there's something I really really want you to do for 
me."  Her voice, the way it dropped those few octaves and 
emerged somehow gravel splashed and honey coated, told him 
he had lost before the argument had even begun. "Something 
*really* special."

"Er, Scully..." and he gestured with a brief nod along the 
length of his torso, wanting to point out without exactly 
dwelling on the fact, that his ability to do 'special' 
right now had been somewhat negated by his earlier 
performance. She just grinned that grin again, as she 
turned and started to pull herself over him.

"Oh I think there's more to you than that, Mulder," and 
her mouth was right next to his ear, teeth nipping at the 
lobe between those breathy, sticky little words as nails 
scraped along his collarbone,  jump starting nerve endings. 
"It's something I *really*  want, something I *really* 
need." 

Only when he attempted to speak and his 'OK' emerged as a 
pathetic little squeak did he realize he was holding his 
breath.

"Was that an OK?"  She had moved to straddle him 
completely, leaning forward, pressing herself to him, skin 
to skin long her length. "You'll do whatever I want?"

"Yeah."  Another squeak.

"Then Mulder," - tiny bites along his jawbone as she made 
her way back to his ear, the whisper enough to prompt his 
involuntary thrust beneath her, his expectation soaring. 
"Go make me a sandwich."

Complete silence.  A moment of outrage surged through him 
before he began to laugh as he rolled her beneath him and 
rose to his hands and knees over her.  "You, Scully, are 
an evil little witch," and he climbed to his feet.

"Yeah - but you love me anyway."

His laughter stopped abruptly and she suddenly found 
herself subject to the most intense of stares, eyes too 
dark to read, mouth immobile, head just nodding slightly 
before he spoke, slow and serious, enunciating every word.

"Yes.  Yes I do.  Immeasurably."  He stood for a few 
seconds as if in waiting before he turned and began to 
step away.

"Mulder?" He turned back to face her, trying to focus on 
her face and not the way she lay so casual and comfortable 
in her nudity, hands now tucked beneath her head as she 
looked up at him and continued. "I'm sorry I was so 
stubborn and snarky earlier.  I do understand what you 
were saying, and I do appreciate the sentiment, even if 
I'm not all that good at accepting it."

He nodded his consent and acceptance of the apology and 
was turning away again before she caught him once more 
with her voice.

"And Mulder?" She waited until he had turned again, his 
eyes flicking briefly towards the kitchen as he pretended 
impatience. "That love thing, Mulder?"  He nodded.  "It's 
pretty damn mutual you know."

The smile that emerged and wrapped itself around his face 
was easily the most beautiful thing she had ever seen 
and she only hoped that the one she felt spreading over 
her own face in response could begin to match it. The 
affirmation he had wanted now his he turned again and 
sauntered bare-assed into the kitchen to make her sandwich 
and she watched him go, wishing for nothing more than 
for the worry - that sense of premonition that still sat 
heavy in her gut, to dispel.

          *******************************

Wednesday morning.  7.10 am.


"Shit!"

"What?"

"The report for Skinner. It's still at my place."

"Mulder!"

"Look, just drive round there. There's a hotel down the 
block.  It shouldn't be too hard for me to get a cab from 
there and I'll go get it.  At least that way only one of 
us is late."

"And I get to try and make excuses to Skinner!"

"Just tell him the truth - it's all my fault."

"Like that'll be news to him."

She pulled up and he began to climb out of the car, 
regarding her with curiosity as she followed suit.

"You take the car."

"What?"

"It's going to take twice as long to get back to your 
place as it is to get to work, Mulder.  It makes more 
sense for me to get a cab - cheaper too."  

The irritation she was feeling despite her words was 
almost entirely dissipated as he lunged forwards and 
placed a wet, messy kiss on her cheek before leaping to 
the kerb and waving down an approaching cab for her.  
Waiting for her, watching her as she opened the door 
he couldn't begin to hide the surprise on his face when 
she suddenly turned and lunged for him, grabbing his 
hand and squeezing it tightly, almost crushing his 
fingers in hers.  She didn't let go as she climbed 
into the cab, only reluctantly allowing him to pull away 
as she closed the door.  She didn't turn to look at him 
as the cab pulled away and he was left shaking his hand, 
attempting to get the circulation re-going in his fingers 
with the uneasy feeling that she had just been saying 
goodbye.

She tried to avoid dwelling on the same feeling, uncertain 
of what had prompted her to grab him like that, refusing 
to think about it any more as she opened the door to the 
office, failing to notice the envelope that had been pushed 
under the door until she stepped on it.  Recognition sent 
a cold chill through her as she picked it up, identifying 
instantly the rigidity of the photographs contained within.  
Tearing it open as she crossed the floor she waited until 
she was seated in his chair before taking deep breath and 
pulling them out.

"ohmygod"

She laid them out beside each other on the desk, as 
hypnotized by their horror as she was repulsed by it. 
Oddly it was not the grotesque images that prompted the 
nausea, the pale lifeless face of one, blood smeared 
cheeks, eyes gouged out, the unmarked visages of the 
other two, the mutilation inflicted on them made 
apparent by the limbs raised to lay beside their heads, 
arms ending in the bloody tattered stumps where their 
hands had been removed.  It was not the name she could 
put to one,  the familiarity of a second (though she was 
certain she didn't know the third).  It was the words.  
Inch high black letters, the same precise neat letters 
they'd seen before, printed neatly across the bottom of 
each, repeated on two. 'He touched you', and on the 
other, 'He looked at you'.

"It's not about you, Mulder. It's about me," utterly 
unaware that she was speaking aloud, as her mind began 
frantically slotting pieces together. The nausea that 
had threatened repeatedly over the past few days, each 
time the image re-emerged was swallowed back as the 
puzzle came together with horrifying clarity which meant 
that Mulder...Jesus...Mulder...

She dialed the number with frantic haste, pulling her cell 
phone from her jacket and hitting speed dial simultaneously.  
A phone held up against each ear she listened to the stereo 
sounds of his apartment and cell phones ringing.  By the 
time his answering machine came on she knew that he wasn't 
going to answer but she made her demands to the machine 
anyway, receiver tucked into her neck as she reached into 
her jacket for her car keys. 'Damn it, he's got my car...
got my car...'  

Banging the receiver down to disconnect the call as she
dropped the second phone to the desk she frantically 
considered her options, the decision made as she picked 
it up again and punched the three numbers in. She tried 
to tell herself she was overreacting, being stupid. Maybe 
he was on his way up to the apartment and had left the 
phone in the car so couldn't hear either? Maybe he was 
already on his way back, safe and sound and this was just 
going to make her look like a complete idiot. God she hoped 
so. Hoped that she'd have the chance and reason to face 
that ridicule as she took the fastest possible option 
available to her.

"This is Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI. I need 
paramedics and police back-up to Apartment 42, 2630 Hegal 
Place, Alexandria immediately. Agent down..."  and praying 
harder than she ever had in her life before that she was 
wrong, she repeated the words. "Agent down."

                     ***********************

At the same time she was opening the envelope he had been 
opening his door.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd 
just burst into his apartment without any hint of caution, 
before he'd indulged his endless paranoia and made sure 
that the locked door was not just pretending safety and 
solitude.  Had he been permitted the luxury of hindsight 
he'd have conceded that in light of things it was even more 
of a stupid act than usual, but having assumed that Scully 
would be the target why should he have expected this in 
his own apartment and less than an hour after leaving?  
The first time in a long time and certainly the wrong time!  

He heard the footstep early enough to begin to turn 
towards it, hand already reaching for his gun, but too 
late to avoid the blow.  If he'd been able to describe it 
then he'd have said how damn much it hurt; the sudden wave 
of pain, starting on the back of his head and shooting 
through his body like splintered glass, the weight of the 
blackness as it swept over him, dragging him down but not 
entirely out, the jolt across his cheekbone as his face 
hit the wooden floor. In comparison to what was coming 
though this was incidental - a virtual caress.  What he 
felt then was nothing when compared to the promise
made as he was dragged across the floor;  the promise 
made by the clean and keen blade pressed against his cheek.

                **************************


I'd been ready since you left.  I had been sure you'd find 
a way.  I was certain you'd send him to me.  He came sooner 
than I had anticipated but I thought that I understood the 
need. Now you knew just what I could do for you, would do 
for you, why would you want to wait?

I have to admit it was a great deal easier than I expected.  
He'd come running up the hallway too rapidly for me to 
really hide so I'd had to settle for the old 'behind the 
door' routine.  In the few seconds I'd had to think about 
it I really considered that it might be over, that I 
wouldn't get the chance to save you after all, but he paid 
no heed, noticed nothing.  It was too easy really.  Too 
easy.  With his own baseball bat I hit him and without a 
murmur he fell.

You know, I hadn't realized back then, when I'd done the 
first. For Susan.  I guess it's something you would have 
known, could have told me, but I really had no idea.  
Remembering the blood, the mess my precious girls had 
made, I'd taken so many precautions, laid out plastic 
sheeting, prepared garbage bags for my clothes, run the 
bath ready and waiting, except that, unlike my precious 
girls, her first present hadn't bled. Oh there was evidence 
of blood in him.  I could see that it was there as it 
rose to the surface, tempted by the blade, but not the 
flood I had anticipated.  What hadn't occurred to me at 
the time was that once the heart is stopped, there is 
nothing to do the work, to keep it moving, to propel it 
forth.  I didn't really mind that with the other gifts, 
curious, but largely indifferent as they were merely - 
grubby.  But him?  Your Mulder? He is filth.  I want to 
see him bleed.  I want to watch it spill over him. I want 
to see my art ooze crimson as his flesh pales from the 
loss. 

I want him alive while I hurt him.  

It means of course that I have to restrain him.  I've hit 
him hard, hard enough to stun but I don't kid myself that 
will afford me more than a momentary reprise.  Even 
slumped before me on the floor, even considering the ease 
with which I put him there, I can see why you are so 
entranced.  I can see the power he must wield.  

I enjoy the fact that his own clothes are his snare. His 
shirt and jacket pulled up around his hands bind arms 
together and wrists to the wood.  His pants entangle 
ankles and belt provides the binding.  Ridiculous.  
Spread out like this, so exposed, so helpless, he looks 
ridiculous - devoid of dignity.  Maybe if he can think 
past the hurt I'm going to inflict he'll realize how this 
is only just in light of the way he has shown so little 
regard for yours. 

His phone is ringing. Like some morning alarm it seems 
to rouse him and I watch with vague amusement as he 
tries to rise, confused, uncomprehending as he finds 
himself incapable. I'm glad he awoke. I wouldn't have 
wanted him to miss a second of this. The phone provides 
a welcome accompaniment - music made beautiful by the 
unanswered salvation he thinks he can detect in it.  
Still, I'll turn it down I think.  I'd hate him to 
be distracted.

Time to begin.

He didn't fully return to reality until the first cut.  
I'd anticipated the inevitable scream and so had taped 
his mouth.  I was watching him carefully though. After 
all, it was important that he shouldn't choke until I'd 
finished.  I knew straight away that this wasn't going 
to be my finest work. Despite the hands and feet caught 
firm against the heavy couch I'd stretched him alongside, 
he is surprisingly mobile, twisting and turning away, but 
after all, this is more of a gesture now isn't it? You'll 
read it as surely as if it were the finest calligraphy. 
It will be so simple for you to identify the key to your 
freedom, so with knees pressed hard onto his chest I move 
my blade.

Flesh splits like soft fruit.  As skin peels away from 
skin I'm reminded of a slowly opening bloom caught with 
time lapse photography. So beautiful.  If you could only 
see him now you'd be astounded at how beautiful he has 
become. An almost audible click as my blade catches on 
something unyielding, something that lacks the wonderful 
lushness of the body of the man and I realize I've caught 
a rib.

I don't need to be able to hear the screams to delight 
in the sound of them.  Their composition is one of 
glorious symphony. The tautness of muscles in his neck 
as in desperate reflex his head smashes back against the 
floor, sound a perfect melody.  The instant film that 
covers his eyes, that wet cloudiness that bespeaks agony, 
is the finest of hymns. The blood that flows, sweet and 
red as summer cherries is a tune I can barely resist the 
urge to dance my delight to.

Curiosity leads me to turn before the second kiss of 
the blade and I find myself looking into his eyes.  
The pain is my pleasure and I cannot help but smile 
indulgently down at it. The fear doesn't surprise me. 
Of course he's scared. Only an incredibly stupid man 
would not be frightened and I do know that he isn't 
stupid.  The anger is also expected and despite myself 
I find a spark of admiration rising at just how well he 
is able to maintain it.  There is something else there 
though, something I know I should recognize but which 
somehow dances just out of reach on the border of 
identification. It bothers me.  

As I start to make another cut it bothers me still, 
drawing my attention away from my intent, inadvertently 
allowing him a moment of what must feel like relief as 
I merely score the skin. I concentrate a little more on 
the next caress. It's harder than you might think to 
turn a blade buried in a man but taking into account 
the mobile canvass I'm working with, I think I'm doing 
a pretty good job.  

As I lean closer to him, to push away the blood, wipe 
as dry as I can the space for my third letter, even as 
I make my mark I hear the sirens.  They are far enough 
away that they could be for anyone, going anywhere.  
But they're not are they? They're coming here.  I know 
that as surely as I know that you are the only person 
who could have sent them.

He knows it too.  A sudden relief envelops his body, 
a relief I render temporary as I twist the blade again, 
just to remind him that I am still here but even as he 
arches his back away from the floor and screams beneath 
the tape across his mouth, I can see he still believes.  
What faith he has in you.  What blind blind faith!  And 
I realize just what it is I can see in his eyes.  You.  
He carries you inside him.  I hadn't expected to learn 
this.

Oh no.

That isn't supposed to be there.

In the anger that rises with the realization of what you 
have done, how you have betrayed me, the thought of 
touching *you* with the blade is one that sweeps in on 
a tide of pleasure.  How can I think such things?  You're 
turning me back to that man who would hurt the one he 
still loves.

Damn you, Dana.

I don't understand.

They're getting closer.

I want to finish what I've begun.  I want to complete 
my work but I don't have the time.  I cannot linger 
here to add the remaining letters to those already carved. 
I have no time to take my trophy, remove that with which 
he has damaged you so. I had intended to leave him dead 
so I suppose I could just kill him now without finishing 
but that makes things untidy.  You have changed things 
so that I am no longer in control.  I don't know what to 
do.
  
The sirens have stopped.  They're outside now.  I have 
mere minutes, maybe only seconds to make a choice. I 
allow myself the indulgence of only a fleeting glimpse 
into his eyes trying to find the answer amid the anger, 
the despair and even that tiny touch of hope that flickers 
there.

I'm not proud of that which comes to mind.  In the haze of 
rage you have initiated I'm thinking that it should be you.

I don't need to look at him again.  Killing him now, the 
job unfinished, would be like giving you the wrapping 
paper without the gift inside.  It wouldn't mean anything 
and my gifts are always given with meaning. They'll be 
other ways to punish him.  To punish you too I think.  I 
use my foot to smash his head hard and heavy against the 
wooden leg of the couch, stealing the consciousness he has 
fought so hard to maintain before I walk away.  

Closing the door softly behind me I head for the elevator.  
I'll go up.  By the time I descend to leave, by the time 
anyone sees me, no-one will give me a second thought.  I 
am ordinary you see.  I wouldn't stand out in a crowd of 
two, never mind in the flock of vultures who'll descend 
to watch this drama on their doorstep.  So ordinary - the 
regular guy next door.

No-one will see me.

But I'll see you.  Soon I think.  Soon.


                **************************

Alexandria Hospital.  2.45 p.m.

Silently fingers traced the air above the ugly wounds 
which lay savage across his torso.  She didn't want to 
look but found it so hard to drag her attention away 
from the red and the black, the sanguine marks of the 
cuts, the darker patches where scabs would form over 
the skin puckered by the sutures.  It was so hard not 
to draw her fingertips over the raised line where 
healing was already underway, to try and deduce from 
the touch, to absorb some knowledge of the reasoning 
behind this.

Me. About me. The self-made accusations would not leave 
her alone. Looking at his sleeping face, the worry free 
expression it bore belied by the livid bruises along one 
side of it she felt absolute relief that his was not 
one of the lifeless, bloodless images from the photographs. 
Relief however couldn't dispel the guilt. 'Irrational' 
the sensible side of her called out, but prevalent 
nonetheless.  'This happened because of me'.

He touched you.

If she'd thought the image conjured before, the one 
which, despite her own self deprecatory thoughts on the 
subject had proven premonitory, had terrified her, it 
was nothing to the horror of those words.

He touched you.

                      *********

As consciousness reclaimed him, dragging him slowly and 
unwillingly out of the fog of sleep and anesthetic, smell 
was the first of his senses to return fully.  The 
desperate sense of safety and security that had came 
as the dry antiseptic aroma that only hospitals impart 
assailed his nostrils was almost enough to make him sob 
aloud.  Slowly, deeply inhaling, he sought to mark the 
scent  against the memory of it stored in his brain, 
just to make sure, just to be certain that this really 
was sanctuary and not some cruel trick being played 
before he dared expel the waiting breath.

Safe then. 

He claimed silent seconds to do no more than feel 
secure in the knowledge that if he opened his eyes 
he wouldn't be greeted by the chillingly calm 
countenance of the man who had assaulted with a smile 
that seemed to be formed more from curiosity than mania. 
A moment to relax into the luxury of being pain free; 
a luxury that heavy limbs told him was no more than 
the numbing effects of medication but luxury nonetheless. 

Safe.

However, with consciousness came recall and even as he 
furiously tried to erect the walls against them the 
memories came flooding in.  With crystal clarity he 
recalled the pain, the white hot tearing of flesh, 
the desperate need to disconnect denied as each razor 
sharp slip across his skin had dragged him screaming 
into the surreal reality that had been thrust upon him. 
Not just the pain but the fear - terror absolute.  The 
conviction that his life was to be taken from him there 
on the floor of his apartment by a madman.  To banish 
the images with the sterile white he knew was awaiting 
him he forced open heavy eyelids, and as he had hoped, 
dared even to expect, she was there, turned away from 
his face, staring down at his chest, fingers hovering  
as if she was daring herself to touch.

"At least I'll always remember my name."   The voice 
that offered the weak attempt at a humor he wasn't 
even close to feeling caused her to jump slightly and 
she pressed the dressing back into place with a haste 
that seemed to suggest she'd been caught in some illicit 
act before she turned to face him.  The smile on her face 
though genuine and registering relief at his having 
awakened, was still somehow only a ghost smile, utterly 
devoid of amusement.
 
"It's not your name."  

Instant curiosity had sent fingers scuttling to the 
edge of the dressing but she'd stilled them with her 
own.  "You wouldn't be able to make it out - it's too 
swollen.  We can't be certain. There's a C, an L, 
possibly an E but that one's a mess, and then I guess 
he got interrupted."

"Just more scars to add to the collection then?"  Even 
as spoke he wondered at the compunction he was feeling 
to try and lighten her mood, when surely she should be 
the one offering the reassurances? She swung her face 
away from his, unwilling to let him see the tears 
that were threatening far too close to the surface. 
To give herself the time she needed to claw back her 
self control she pretended that the question hadn't 
been rhetorical and that he'd really expected an 
answer so gently pulled back the dressing, searching 
for sanctuary behind the facts.

Fingers soft on the skin alongside the marks, she moved 
parallel to the first and deepest cut.  "This bit 
definitely," and then along the straighter lines of 
the second. "Not here though. This bit didn't even need 
stitching, but here," finger tips just grazing the wound, 
"...it's deep and all over the place. It'll scar but 
not smoothly."

He'd seen it on her face then. It was something that had 
greeted him in the mirror often enough for recognition to 
be instantaneous. It was far less familiar to her, not an 
intrinsic part of her emotional makeup and she hadn't yet 
learnt to hide it.  Guilt.  

"Stop it!"

She jerked her hand back suddenly, fearful that she'd hurt 
him, pressed too hard, but his own rose rapidly to grab 
it before it fully made its retreat.

"That's not what I meant. Look at me.  Look at me, Scully."

She raised her gaze to meet his, a tiny dry smile fighting 
to escape as she resigned herself to the lecture she knew 
was coming.

"Self recrimination's my character flaw, Scully. Don't do 
this to yourself.  We couldn't have guessed he'd just be 
waiting there. There's nothing you could have done to stop 
this.  It's not your fault."

"But it is.  This happened because of me."

He shook his head gently, his mind focusing on the almost 
fight of the night before, imagining she was berating 
herself for having succumbed to his insistence that they 
stay at his.  "How do you figure that?"

And so she'd told him. She'd started with the photographs,
almost deriding him for his arrogance in assuming that 
the first envelope had been for him, the presumption 
that anything that came through the door must be about 
him.  And then about the others.

She'd begun with the unknown face, the eyeless boy. He'd 
noted her detached calm, understanding its forced nature 
meant that this was somehow only the precursor to worse 
news.  She'd explained how the face in the picture, 
damaged as it was had been easily matched with a Missing 
Person's report from the local PD.  How the kid, for he 
was just a kid - 18 - had worked in the convenience store 
nearest Mulder's apartment, a store which Mulder himself 
had never actually set foot in but which she, in her quest 
to keep his cupboards stocked with fresh food had used 
regularly.  She hadn't recognized him, couldn't recall 
ever having seen him there but explained the words, the 
cold black letters which suggested all too firmly, that he 
had seen her.

He'd listened with increased trepidation as she'd told 
his about a second. A man she recognized but couldn't 
put a name to.  A man who was now having a sanitized 
version of his last known portrait toted round the 
restaurants, bars and stores near where they worked in 
an attempt to discover his identity.  A man whose face 
she recognized well enough to nod hello to if she passed 
him in the street, which she sometimes had.  A man 
she'd exchanged idle small talk with in the queue at 
the deli on occasions less than regular but more frequent 
than rare.  A man who had always struck her as intelligent, 
polite, but who no-one appeared to have known or cared 
about enough to tell anyone he was gone.  A man it seems 
who had lost his life, lost his hands - and she took the 
time to hope for his sake that it had been in that order 
- because of, she believed, the last time she had seen 
him, when she had helped him to pick up the papers he 
had dropped on the sidewalk and he had rested his hand 
for just that moment too long on her shoulder by way of 
a thank you.

She'd told him about the third, the one she could name.  
Matthew. Not well known enough to be classed as a friend 
but perhaps that little bit more than an acquaintance.  
Matthew who worked - who *had* worked, she mentally 
corrected herself - in the coffee-house she'd begun to 
frequent during those evenings when she'd waited for 
Mulder to finish his basketball games.  Matthew, who it 
appears hadn't been seen since the shop had closed after 
she had left on Sunday.  Less than a week - days that 
could be counted on the fingers of one hand; perhaps the 
same fingers that she'd entwined with those of the ever 
cheerful waiter, both bored in an otherwise empty room 
until he'd suggested she arm wrestle him for the price 
of her coffee, not expecting her to agree, even more 
surprised when she'd won.  Perhaps the same fingers on 
the hand that had been severed as cruelly meted punishment 
for some crime that never took place.

As he listened to the words he understood the guilt.
He was already forming the counter argument in his
head, the reasons why she should feel no responsibility
for the obsession and actions of a madman, but he
remembered all too clearly his own like feelings of
just those few hours...days? - he didn't know how
long he'd been out, though he suspected only hours 
- ago.  'He touched you'.  'You'.  That tiny word 
wielded far too much power when leveled as accusation. 
He saw in her the same sense of responsibility as 
he'd felt when he'd imagined that this had all been 
about him, that he had been the catalyst.  Words he 
knew, would offer no relief and so he chose instead 
to hold her, to try and ease it away with the 
reassurance of touch.

He had pulled her to him on the bed and she'd come 
willingly, wrapping tiny arms around his frame, deftly 
dodging dressings and wounds as she tightened her grip.  
He felt the tears against his neck and used gentle hands 
to tip her head back, using his thumbs to wipe them 
away as he planted deep comfort kisses on her forehead.

She allowed the contact for a few minutes - far longer 
than he'd expected, before she disentangled herself and 
slid back to her feet, brushing the creases out of her 
clothes, composure snapping back like an over taut 
elastic band as she stepped behind the mask of medical 
efficiency he had come to expect, striding across the 
room in far fewer steps than should have been possible 
on such short legs. She pulled open the door, calling 
along the corridor for attention and thus the stream 
of medical pokers and prodders, of  official questioners 
and investigators were invited in to begin.


                     **********************


I am not at all happy about this.  Angry.  You have made 
me angry.

You misled me, Dana.

You have stayed inside with him.  I would like to have 
faith - to believe you have simply been admiring my 
handiwork, indulging yourself with the vision I tried to 
create for you but I sense that you have been holding him 
and caressing him.  You have been giving to him the time 
and the tenderness that should now be mine by rights.

I would have earned them if you had let me, if you had 
only given me the time to finish.  You'd still have 
denied me though wouldn't you?  You still wouldn't have 
come.  I can see that now.  You betrayed me.  You had 
me believe that if I took him away, purification could 
begin but I see now that it was a lie. You'd have wept 
for him, mourned for him.  The memory would have kept 
you shackled to the filth.  You'd have worn your widow 
weeds, shedding them only to indulge bodily recollections, 
to fall and press your hands between your legs, his name 
on your lips before you slept on self-soaked sheets.

You are lucky that I care for you so much.  A lesser 
man would walk away.  You are making it hard for me to 
know just how to save you.  You are making it hard for 
me to figure out just how you can be saved, or even if 
you can.  I will not give up on you though.  I still 
remember how you used to be and I'll help you be that 
way again despite what you have done.

If you want to play games, bear in mind that I am a 
player too.

And I won't just play to win.

With you as the prize - I *will* win..
 
          ******************************
       
Friday morning.  Scully's Apartment.

She'd argued against him discharging himself from the 
hospital voraciously enough to persuade him to stay 
there on Wednesday night and through most of Thursday, 
expressing her doctorly concerns about his head injuries, 
the blood loss, the need for observation. The concerns 
were real enough, not exaggerated at all but what she 
had been reluctant to admit to herself was that she 
wanted him to stay there because it was that little bit 
easier for her.

In the role of protector that her medical background 
allowed her she had found it easy to hide behind her
increasing fury at the persistent questioning, the way
that he had been asked again and again to relive the 
attack for statements and reports.  She'd seen in his 
eyes how hard this was, answering the same questions 
over, trying to provide a step by step account of those
endless minutes, struggling to find the right words to 
describe the face that had stared into his with the 
promise of death.  She'd recognized the fight, the 
struggle to retain composure, not to allow his voice to 
waver, his expression to falter - to give them any clue 
that the hurt went beyond the physical. He didn't want 
them to know he had been scared, that he was scared, and 
so she'd answered the silent pleading, fallen back on 
the insistence that he needed his rest, some peace and 
thrown them out of the room. Her indignation at the 
invasion real, there was nevertheless a touch of relief. 
She could take his hand, run fingers soft along his arm, 
over his face and make believe that she wasn't actually 
hiding an apology behind the armor provided by actions of 
others.

After that one night though he'd insisted and she'd had 
no valid reason to oppose.  They'd been driven back 
to her apartment by Agents' Stone and O'Connell.  
Protection.  And at Mulder's prompting.

With Skinner listening he'd expounded the limited theory
he had managed to evolve from the confines of his
hospital bed, unable to prevent himself from analyzing 
and searching for truths even as he tried to banish the 
thoughts and images that might lead to them.  He'd 
explained as best as he was able the complete lack of 
mania he'd seen in the eyes of the man, that what had 
been done to him had been done as a means to an end, not 
as an end in itself.  

"My name..." He'd gestured toward the file in Skinner's 
hand, the photo's of the first three victims within. 
"Because I think I was his ultimate target.  He killed 
them for so little but it's not about the killing.  If 
it was - I'd be dead.  He had the time and opportunity.  
It's more - or less.  He wanted to hurt me - I was being 
punished."  He felt the way she flinched at the words 
despite the fact he wasn't touching her and turned his 
head to meet her gaze.

"Punished because of what's going off in *his* head, 
Scully - not because of you.  You're no more responsible 
for this than you are for breathing.  You're as much a 
victim as I am here.  Don't keep doing this to yourself."

"So you think he'll be back?"  The question had belonged 
to all of them but had been voiced by Skinner who had
decided that the few seconds he'd observed the dewy
eyed interaction that accompanied that little exchange 
was more than enough for him to stomach.

"Yes."  Mulder answered immediately but didn't bother
to avert his gaze.

"To finish the job?  Or for Scully?"  The words were 
intended to focus the full attention of both of them 
back onto him certainly had the desired effect.  It was 
not that both hadn't already considered either possibility, 
but the brusqueness of the delivery hit hard and fast.

"I don't know."  Mulder's words were slower, more 
considered.  "I don't think he's finished with me, but 
I also don't think he's started with Scully.  But,"  he 
offered almost in conciliatory fashion to distract from 
the implications of the previous words, "I also don't 
believe he means to hurt her.  I think he somehow 
perceived the other men, and me, as some sort of threat 
to Scully. I think *he* thinks he's protecting her.  The 
problem is when you look at the form this protection's 
taking? Well, I don't think it's safe to presume anything 
except that he's dangerous."

It had been questionable whether she surprised herself 
or Mulder more when she raised no objection to Skinner's 
insistence that they effectively be placed under guard. 
He had spoken of four to be allocated initially - two to 
take her home, to sit outside her apartment and watch 
and wait, two to do the same for Mulder, but she'd met 
the AD's steady gaze with eyes that dared challenge or 
censure as she'd explained that wouldn't be necessary. 
Mulder would be coming home with her, and staying.  Even 
if she hadn't exactly wanted him with her at that point, 
she sure as hell didn't want him anywhere else.  Skinner 
had only nodded a terse acknowledgment before walking 
out of the room in silence.

And so now here they were.

The weight of his prone form dipped the mattress 
behind her, his physicality of his presence inescapable 
despite the lack of contact.  Back in her - their - bed.
She had been laying awake for what seemed like an
eternity, ignoring the changing numerals on the clock
beside the bed despite their reminder of how late it 
actually was.  It seemed that three days of painkillers 
had slowed his usually infallible internal clock and she 
had no intention interrupting him.  Still, she could 
ignore the time no longer. Her 'escort' would be knocking 
on the door all too soon, to ferry her to work and so she
needed to get out of bed, get dressed, get ready.

She hadn't actually managed to move at all before the 
slight shift of his breathing told her he had woken and 
she tried to relax into the touch she knew was coming 
as she felt him roll to his side behind her.  A heavy 
hand worked its way beneath her, curling round to cup her 
breast as he nuzzled against her neck.  She felt his knee 
pressing against the back of hers as it began working 
them apart.

"Mulder?"  

He would normally never have missed the hint of a plea in 
her voice but sleep sedated he mistook the intonation for 
invitation. Mumbling sex tinged endearments into her ear 
he shifted, pressing his cock hard against her back even 
as he arched his upper body away from her to avoid the 
discomfort of pressure on the cuts.

She swung round in an instant, spinning herself to sit 
beside him - out of his grasp.  For a fraction of a second 
she just stared at her knees before she felt a persistent 
forefinger nudging at her chin, forcing her up to meet his 
gaze.  

"It's OK, Scully."

She stared straight at him with the pretense of not 
understanding, the denial - an insistence that she was just 
getting up, running late playing on her tongue but the look
in his eyes stopped the words short. Making sure he had her
gaze he placed the flat palm and splayed fingers of a large 
hand over the cuts.
 
"You blame yourself for this."

"Mulder, we've been through this and..."

A finger placed gently against her lips to command her 
silence he repeated the words.

"You blame yourself for this, and because of what he wrote, 
the connections you've made - you won't let me touch you."

She sought recrimination in his eyes but despite her 
determination to locate it saw only concern and a tiny 
tinge of hurt which she began to berate herself for before 
acknowledging that she really didn't need to add more 
guilt to the ball of it already sitting heavy in her gut.  
She knew absolutely that he was right but her reluctance 
to admit that and so acknowledge what she knew to be an 
unnecessary sense of responsibility coupled with an 
almost instinctual need to prove him wrong just prompted 
more denial.

"So what was I doing last night?"

He flashed a quick grin at her, exaggerating a long
'umm' before replying.

"I'd say," and his mouth was suddenly hot beside her ear,
"...that you were giving damn good head, Scully," and 
despite the petulant curiosity she was affecting she 
couldn't hold back the laugh.  But then he was suddenly 
serious again.

"But that was *you* touching *me*, Scully. When I tried 
to return the favor you were off the bed faster than
a scalded cat."

"I needed the bathroom." She knew the lie sounded 
ridiculous even as she uttered it and his taunting - she 
mentally corrected herself - his teasing grin made clear 
he knew it had been a lie.

"And the huge journey of...oh...thirty paces there and
back added to the terribly tiring process of actually
peeing left you so exhausted you just had to go
straight to sleep."

"I'm sorry." She muttered the words, but he was shaking 
his head.

"I don't need you to apologize, Scully.  I just don't
want you to feel like this.  This is *not* your fault.  
The people - the reasons - even me, it's nothing to 
do with you, not really.  If it hadn't been them - me, 
it would have been somebody else for some other
incomprehensible reason. This is all inside his head - 
whoever the hell he is - and inside his head is a pretty 
sick place,  somewhere you don't want to be with 
him."

She found herself nodding her head in agreement even as
she tried to shake it in a silent attempt to make
clear that she couldn't just pretend for his benefit.

"I can't just click my fingers and make it go away,
Mulder.  I know, really *know* that I'm not accountable, 
but the logic doesn't dispel the feelings. I can't just 
forget those words and that reasoning, illogical and 
insane as it is. I can't just forget the fact that *I* 
am a part of why this happened."  Drawn despite herself, 
her eyes moved to his chest, to his own permanent reminder.  
"And I know you can't either - not really."

He nodded. "I can't just forget - obviously.  But I'm not 
misdirecting the blame either,  Scully.  Just don't shut 
me out. Don't do his work for him, Scully."

"I don't mean to. It's not you..."

"Or you."

"No."

A moment of silence before he reached forward, his hand 
rising to her face, cupping her cheek with an almost 
familial touch, thumb working gentle strokes to make 
clear that he was not trying to simply dismiss her 
feelings even as he lifted his other to almost tentatively 
to run a finger along her collarbone. Encouraged when she 
didn't move away he leant forward to brush her ear with 
his lips, before muttering to her.

"Nothing bad can come of me touching you, Scully. Let me 
show you."  

He began with a caress as far from sexual as could ever 
be possible for a man with an achingly hard erection 
to bestow upon the naked woman he desperately wanted 
to slide inside of. Congratulating himself for his 
restraint with a mental pat on the back he placed his 
hands on her shoulder, still for just a moment before 
he began the slow slide along her arms, intentionally 
keeping his thumb alongside his fingers instead of 
allowing it to wander and brush along the soft flesh of 
her inner arm.  He swept straight past the sensitive skin 
of the crease inside her elbow and ensured that nails 
only grazed the outer side of her wrist until his hands 
came to meet hers, palm to palm as fingers entwined.

"See," and he squeezed her fingers tightly between his 
own before breaking that contact and initiating another, 
this time hands on her hips, thumbs working lazy circles 
on her stomach. He felt almost smug as he observed the 
tiny pebbling effect as goosebumps rose. A finger 
nonchalantly made its way over her hip, tracing a pattern 
around her bellybutton as he shifted closer to her, 
pressing against her side and feeling her press back, 
leaning into his embrace.

One finger still dancing indolent circles on her belly
the other slid with languid ease along her spine, 
ceasing its journey in that most familiar of resting 
places in the small of her back.

"Touching you is always a good thing, Scully. Only a good 
thing.  Don't let some mad bastard's warped sense of God 
knows what distort that."

The smile, though not full faced was also clearly not 
forced and was certainly not telling him to back off. 
He turned the caress to one given with his eyes, the 
visual appraisal hard enough to be felt, making sure 
she was well aware of the point at which the gaze 
lingered as he slowly, purposefully licked his lips 
before sliding his flat palm up over her ribcage to cup 
her breast.  Long fingers took possession as his thumb 
skimmed over the nipple which had risen erect, silently 
pleading for his attention from the moment his hand had 
begun its ascent.

He played her slowly, teasingly, allowing his hand to
slide into the valley between her breasts before
claiming his second target and according it the same
silent praise. He watched her eyes as they flooded
with the deep blue of arousal and used that sight as
his cue to increase the pressure and the friction of
the caress, offering sustenance designed to meet what
he knew to be her particular hunger.  He waited until
she arched almost reluctantly into the touch before
he slid his hand away, drawing invisible zigzags down
to where he brushed the wiry curls between clenched
thighs.  Probing, scratching, persistent fingers
worked with a sloth he was having to concentrate very
hard to maintain, wanting nothing more than to pull
her apart and slide into her warmth.  He saw her mouth
move, the beginnings of words forming and relaxed into
the expectation of some vocalization of the encouragement
her body was giving him.  The words when they came
however, were not those he had expected.

"I have to go, Mulder."

He pulled his hand away quickly - probably too quickly, 
looking at her with apology already masking his features, 
assuming and fearful that he'd pushed too far.  Her hand 
however reached out and grabbed his, pulling it back, 
pressing it not back between her legs but flat against 
her stomach, trying to convey with her touch that she 
wasn't in fact fleeing from his.

"No  Mulder.  I *really* have to go," and she gestured
towards the clock, its numeral's starkly declaring that
time had long since passed the point at which life 
outside had been due to begin. "But later - yeah?"

The words were both compensation and plea.
'understand - I'm trying - I want you - I need you - I 
can't make these thoughts just vanish but I'll try - for 
you - for me - I'll try'

He didn't move his hand away when she released the grip, 
instead allowing it to draw slowly across her skin as she 
edged away to climb off the bed.  Her smile as she finally 
stood was almost nervous and looking at it he realized he 
hadn't responded, hadn't voiced his comprehension and 
expectation.

"Sooo..." and he affected the leer purely in anticipation
of the patented Scully 'amused but won't admit it' scowl
he knew it would elicit. "Does that mean I'm on a 
promise, Scully?"

The sought after scowl was followed by a toothy grin thrown 
his way over her shoulder as she headed for the bathroom, 
ass swaying in a manner that was clearly exaggerated for 
effect.

"Oh yeah" he thought as she disappeared behind the door and 
he wrapped long fingers around his girth,indulging himself 
with just a few slow strokes before rolling over onto his 
stomach trying hard to raise his thought process above the 
level of his groin "I'm on a promise."

By the time she had exited, showered and dressed he had 
made his way to the kitchen and stood waiting, holding 
out her coffee for her, trying to find a way to phrase 
the question so that he could avoid either pissing her 
off with any hint of overprotectiveness or actually 
having to vocalize those self concerns which he really 
didn't want heard.

"When exactly will you be back?"  The tone so nonchalant 
it would have been so easy for her to sidestep the
real concerns and to ignore the questions that actually
lurked behind the words but of course she never went 
for the easy and so chose to answer the unspoken directly.

"I'll be OK, Mulder.  I'll be fine. I'm just going into 
the office to pick up some stuff then to mom's to drop 
off Charlie's present.  Stone will be here any time to 
bug the hell out of me for the rest of the morning. He's 
dropping O'Connell off so you won't be on your own."

He shrugged almost sheepishly, wondering at just what
it was that rendered him so incapable of actually uttering
the words when she knew the truth behind the silence 
anyway.  Why he couldn't just admit out loud that he 
was scared shitless of being on his own right now.  With
her he could bury his own feelings beneath the effort of
providing the absolution she seemed to feel she needed.  
Alone he knew the memories would come and with them 
the threat.  His profiler's instinct told him this wasn't 
over yet.  The man who had looked into his eyes had done 
so with calm purpose and that purpose hadn't yet been 
met - of that he was certain and it terrified him.  Scared 
for her - that was easy to admit, even easier now her usual 
rigid protestations against such sentiment seemed to have 
abated somewhat, but scared for himself as well. Despite 
the levity, the outward indifference to the injuries 
sustained, he'd never felt physical pain like it, and sure 
as hell never wanted to feel it again.  Her voice suddenly 
snapped him out of his reverie.

"You know O'Connell's going to want to go through your 
statement again?  Are you going to be OK with that, 
Mulder, or do you want to wait 'til I'm back?"

Truth be told, the last thing he wanted to do was go 
through the events of Wednesday morning yet again, 
answering questions already asked, looking for answers 
that weren't there, but he merely nodded his head. "I'll 
be fine." 

"I seem to have heard that a lot over the past few 
days."

He grinned. "Must be true then," and she smiled in turn,
both of them only succeeding in emphasizing the untruth
when their smiles failed utterly to reach their eyes.


Three hours later he sat on the couch glaring at 
O'Connell with overt hostility.  It was difficult to 
determine which of the man's two lines of questioning 
he was finding it harder to deal with.  The endless 
requests for step-by-step Technicolor details of how 
he'd been trussed and carved like a Thanksgiving turkey, 
or the incessant stream of sexually laden innuendo and 
baiting relating to Scully.  Inevitably the details of 
the case known so far had made their relationship public
knowledge and - at least O'Connell seemed to believe -
public property.  Pen and paper put aside he seemed 
to have decided to pursue the latter despite the 
increasingly aggressive rebuttals his pursuit of the 
subject had already evoked.

"So c'mon, Mulder, spill.  Tell me about Red!"

"What?" The exclamation bred from incredulity and 
escalating fury at the continued dig for locker-room 
revelations just bypassed the obtuse O'Connell who took 
it as some male posturing pretense at reticence and 
continued.

"Red.  Like is she?" he leered, his rubbery grin 
indicating that he at least found himself amusing.

"Fuck off."

"Aw c'mon, Spooky.  D'you know how many guys have wanted 
into her panties over the years?  But she's shut them all 
out. No interest.  There's one hell of a trail of 
frost-bitten dicks in her wake. So what have you got 
that's so special eh?"

"Just shut the fuck up," but the vehemence in his voice 
went undetected and the repulsively wetted lips continued 
to pursue the offensive line of questioning.

"So what's she like eh?  A real little spitfire I bet..."

"O'Connell?"

"...and she's such a tiny little thing too.  God I bet 
she's tighter than a..."

"O'Connell?"

"Yeah?" and he didn't even see the fist flying before
it made contact with his face.  



She had only been vaguely surprised when her mother
had returned from answering the door, leading him
in to the kitchen rather as if he were a lost puppy. 
He answered the question - or rather sought to deflect
it before she actually had a chance to ask.

"O'Connell had to leave suddenly.  I got a cab over 
here. I just didn't want to stay there by myself."  He
offered the last phrase, a verbal concession to his 
fear, knowing that the admission would garner sympathy 
rather than suspicion, drawing her away from further 
questioning.  He didn't really want to admit having
punched another agent to the floor before throwing
him out of her apartment, somehow sensing her
incredulity at his actions would only be made worse
by indignation over his reasoning - or lack thereof.
She'd be pissed with him for having done it, subjected
him to another of those 'don't feel you have to
stand up for me' lectures.  However, even as he settled 
down at the kitchen table and took up the cup of 
coffee the elder of the two Scully women offered him, 
he comforted himself with the fact that if she'd have
heard the odious little bastard she'd have hit harder
and faster.

             **********************************

I hadn't expected to see you today.  This is a treat. 
I had thought it would be longer, would take more 
time before you'd venture out but perhaps you feel 
secure in each other's shade.  Or is it that suited 
little sentry sat in his car waiting for you both outside 
the door?  Do you really think he would be enough to stop 
me if I chose now as the time?  He's probably looked 
straight at me more times than you could count on your 
fingers but hasn't really seen me once.  And you're 
trusting him to stand guard?  

She's pretty, your mother.  I watch her as she stands
in her doorway to bid you goodbye.  I covet the way she 
smiles at you - so warm, so loving.  She looks at you 
with all the tenderness a mother should show her baby 
girl.

Is it fair of you to have betrayed that mother love, 
that implicit trust she has in your goodness?

When she takes his hand, do you take the time to 
consider how she'd feel if she knew how it had crept 
over your naked flesh?  How could she hold those 
fingers if she had seen as I have seen the way he has 
used them to brand you his with vice like grip. Would 
she hold them so tightly if she could imagine the way he 
pushes them up into you, into places that should be
touched only with reverence, adoration, not frantic 
haste and furious depth...or the places no man should 
touch at all?  Would she loose her grip this slowly or 
drop it like fire if she had observed those same fingers 
slide from within you and press themselves to your lips, 
push into your mouth forcing you to taste yourself?

When you lean forward to laugh at some gentle 
amusement she has offered you, your hand steadying 
yourself against the doorframe, do you taint her precious 
humor with the memory of another time hands clutched 
the wooden surround of a doorframe, arms spanning the 
breadth, back bowed so low as he folded over you?  Do 
you remember his knuckles so white from the force of his 
grip that I saw the color flee from my vantage point 
behind the magnifying lenses across the street?  Do you 
dare to stand in front of her and think about the way he 
pushed himself into you, violating you absolutely as he 
touched places so secret that your body screamed beneath
him even as your voice, unheard but somehow 
understood, urged him on, sickening me to my stomach.

When she moves to bid you farewell, to touch her lips 
against yours, can she taste the spill of him on that
flesh so often tainted, impregnated with his residue?
Do you think she'd welcome the touch if she 
knew your mouth as I have come to, devouring his, 
devoured by his?  If she'd seen as I have how you 
subjugate yourself before him and take him between your 
lips, tasting him, swallowing his poison without 
hesitation, would she ever offer mother-sweet kisses
again?

If she knew how her little girl had become so easily led
into depravity, could she look at you with that same 
easy affection?

If she knew it was he who had dragged you down, 
would she not hate him for his abuse?

One day I'll stand there with you and things will be so
different.  You'll have no secrets to hide because 
everything between us will be pure.  She'll have no
need to pretend affection for the man beside you...
for that man will be me.

She'll see how much I love her daughter and she'll
love me for it.

It's not such a big leap for her to take. After all, she
likes me so much already.

I've made new plans for you, you know and I don't
want to wait any longer. 

The final pieces are already on the board.

                  ***************************


Scully's Apartment.  2.37 p.m.


"You want to tell me why O'Connell really left?"  She
asked the question as soon as they were through the
door, the audience of her mother and then Stone in the
car gone.  The thought rose even as he dismissed it
with only slightly less disdain than she would have done,
that she had somehow read his mind.  But no, he 
realized, not his mind - just him.  He hesitated for a
moment, no intention of lying to her but wondering how 
little of the truth he could get away with.

"I threw him out."

She merely nodded and he realized that those four words
told her no more than she had already surmised and that 
she was waiting to hear the rest.

"I couldn't handle the questions he was asking, Scully."
He found he couldn't quite meet her eyes as he spoke, 
telling himself that he wasn't actually lying - just
downplaying the truth somewhat, but knowing that he
was intentionally misleading - that he was intending her
to believe he was referring to questions about the attack
and so feel sorry for him.  He wasn't certain whether he
should feel guilty or relieved when he saw that it had
worked.

"He's not exactly renown for his sensitivity.  I'd have
stayed with you, you know - if you'd asked me to."
Her hand cupped his cheek as she stretched up on
tiptoes to present a consolation kiss.  Too good an
opportunity to miss he decided - something far better
to concentrate on than that tiny niggling guilty feeling
and a means to get back to where he'd been obliged 
to leave off that morning.  'And she started it' he told
himself.  She kissed me...'  and he used a strong hand
to grip her shoulder and press her firmly against the 
wall as the other hand crept up to her neck and began
flicking open buttons.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm hurt you have to ask," and he faced her with a 
pronounced pout, though his voice was tinged with 
laughter as he released her from his grip slightly before
undoing the final three buttons and pulling her away
from the wall just far enough to push her shirt off her 
shoulders.  "I'm on a promise, remember?"

"Are you up to this, Mulder?"  

He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether or not this 
was leading to rebuttal. If she was still unsure, 
uncomfortable, then however much he disagreed, however 
easily he found himself able to dismiss the motivation 
behind her reluctance, he had no intention of pushing 
her.  When he met her gaze though he saw nothing but 
genuine concern in her eyes.  He chuckled as he took 
her hand, spreading her fingers wide with his own as 
his other hand fumbled with buckle and buttons before 
drawing hers down and wrapping it around his girth.  
Flesh still malleable as he pressed her fingers tight, 
he grew almost instantaneously rigid beneath the 
conjoined touch.

"Dunno, Scully. What do you think?"

She couldn't hold back her laugh at the unspoken pun
even as she struggled to ignore his heated flesh
beneath her fingers, the evidence of her want pooling 
between her legs and to continue in 'sensible' mode.

"That's not exactly what I meant, Mulder. I meant
here," and she placed her palm - her *other*
palm he was both gratified and hopeful to note, flat
against his chest before reaching up and tapping 
a finger against his forehead, "...and in here?"

"Are you?"  He returned the question, not wanting to 
remind her of her previous hesitation but understanding
too that he couldn't let it pass as he mimicked the 
gesture, tapping his finger against her temple. "In 
here?"

Her answer was a silent one, pressed hard against his 
mouth, her tongue pushing past his lips as she muttered 
something unintelligible into his mouth, something he 
chose to take as consent, accompanied as it was by the 
tightening of her hand on his cock as she began her 
steady rhythm.  Desperately unwilling to break either 
contact he struggled against her for a moment as he 
fumbled behind her back to unclasp her bra, tugging it 
off one arm, making no attempt at all to disguise the 
whimper that came as she took her hand off him to allow 
it to slip off the other.

Contact broken and for a fraction of a second they 
just stared at - into - each other until she lifted her
hand to his mouth, proffering her palm.  Understanding
the unspoken command he grabbed for her wrist, fingers
biting into her hard enough to hurt as he pressed it 
against his lips before rolling his tongue, wet and slow
over the skin, along her fingers, just nipping at the 
tips before dropping the hold.  Arms stretched over her
shoulders he braced himself against the wall, knees
buckling slightly as her freshly lubricated hand 
recommenced an embrace beyond perfect.

As she increased both speed and force he bowed his
head forward, biting down hard on the thin layer
of flesh that covered her collarbone.  As teeth 
initially closed around the skin pulled hard between
his lips she flung her head back, stopping just short
of cracking it hard against the wall as she yelped, 
some unintelligible expletive spat out and then ignored
by them both as her determined fingers urged him on.

"Oh God..."  He managed to lift his head only to
slump down again, burying his face against her neck,
using lips and teeth in a caress almost brutal but
yet invited as her other hand tangled in his hair,
holding him there until their respective whimpers
and whines became a single harmony.

Her hand covered only inches of the whole of the
man and yet he felt her touch over every millimeter
of flesh, electric against every nerve ending.  This 
rhythm she'd made her own - so different to any
he'd perfected over long years of solitary sex.  He
couldn't replicate the particular ecstasy of this touch
no matter how hard he tried - and try he had, whether
in her absence or at her bidding as she would sprawl
before him, always an appreciative audience to his 
self manipulation.

Knees buckled as she slid, soft and slow, a stroke so 
light that only the belief it was there allowed him to 
feel it, followed by a grip so tight that were he not 
rapidly being stripped of his ability to form coherent 
thought he might have wondered how she managed not to 
skin him with the ferocity of it. On and on, over and 
over, alternating soft and savage touches.

Her second hand released its tangled hold on his
hair and slid down, nails scoring hips and buttocks 
and the precarious balance maintained by fingers that
tried to bite into the wall behind her and the anchor
of his mouth and its savage possession of her flesh
were no longer sufficient to keep him upright.  Her
laugh as the legs made boneless by her touch gave 
way and he crumpled to the floor, pulling her with him,
was as redolent with victory as it was amusement.

On his back - he had long since abandoned any pretense
of dignity and decorum, more than willing to concede
to this frantic need she could evoke in him time after
time, he struggled inelegantly with the jeans and boxers 
that had hitherto been bunched around his knees until she
leaned forward to help, pulling them quickly and 
efficiently over his feet.  Freed from their confines he 
rose slightly from his supine position and grasped the 
hem of his T-shirt before stopping, suddenly hesitant to 
reveal what lay beneath.  The silent question was asked 
and she just shook her head gently and so he released his 
hold as he scrambled to his knees and grabbed for the 
buttons at her waist.

"My turn, Scully."

"Just get on with it, Mulder." 

The words should have been encouragement, but actually 
they stopped him short.  He was reminded of his own 
tendency to demand haste, completion of the taste, when 
waiting for something rather unpleasant to be over. 
Removing his hands from her waistband, he raised one to 
gently caress her face, fingers pushing back a few unruly 
strands of hair.

"You're not just humoring me here are you, Scully?"

She snorted, a little noise of disbelief and impatience.

"Mulder - humoring you is my doing something stupid like
following you into a haunted house on Christmas Eve. It
doesn't constitute both of us half naked on my living 
room floor."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."  She rocked her hips against his legs, drawing
his attention back to the task in hand.  "So if you 
wouldn't mind?"

He smiled, leaning forward and depositing a swift kiss on
the tip of her nose before turning back and divesting her 
of her remaining clothing before sliding knees either side 
of her, straddling her body as he edged his way up over 
her chest, pushing her against the floor beneath him.

"So you want this, eh?"  They both bit back the laugh at
his appalling attempt at an overdone sexual drawl as, 
hard cock encircled by steady fingers he held himself just 
inches away from her face. Her tongue snaked out, reaching 
upwards, trying to claim him as hers but he pulled away, 
laughing down at her.  Pushing himself towards her mouth 
again, this time he allowed himself to press against her 
lips, pulling back, dodging the tongue she once again 
attempted to make contact with.

"Greedy, Scully."  

Leaning over her, supporting his weight with a hand
planted firm beside her shoulder he thrust his pelvis
forward and slid himself against her mouth for the final 
time, tipping his head back and fixing his gaze on some
invisible spot on the ceiling, knowing that he couldn't
look down at her.  If he watched her lips as they closed 
around the head of his cock, if he focused on the tongue 
that traced excruciatingly slow circles, occasionally
sliding that tiny distance to press hard, scooping up
the little pearls of moisture and spreading them like 
balm over her lips before starting again with the lazy 
hazy rotation, he knew he'd lose it there and then and 
come hard and fast against the back of her throat - and 
that wasn't part of his current game plan.

Sliding back, ignoring the squealing protest she gave
as the taste of him was snatched away he began the 
slow descent over her flesh, never breaking the 
contact between her soft skin and the heavy head 
of his cock.  Over her chin and slowly over her neck, 
hesitant for just a moment in the hollow of her throat 
then the slow creep down between her breasts and over 
her belly.  Her wide eyed, open mouthed approval rendered 
him almost incapable of continuing the slow teasing and 
with a sense of relief he settled back, straddling the 
tops of her thighs, his ass pressing firm against her 
crotch. Muttering her name and whispered instructions to 
watch - knowing even as he spoke that the sudden thrust 
against his backside and the slow smile and hooded gaze 
meant she knew what was coming and had no intention at 
all of looking anywhere but exactly where he wanted her 
to, he moved his hands into her line of vision and 
began.

He remembered the first time she'd ever asked him 
to masturbate for her.  Retrospectively, he could
only laugh at how shocked he'd actually been.  
Mr. Endless Innuendo, the pursuer of all possibilities 
hadn't been able to get his head around that one!  With 
the steady, warm encouragement she'd provided he'd 
rapidly come round to the concept but found a 
deliciously adolescent embarrassment had rendered him 
unable to perform.  Of course, a man ever unwilling
to accept what he deemed failure he had set about 
proving himself more than capable.  Now he had 
become such a performer he should be on the damn 
stage...except that this performance was for her and 
her alone.

One hand moved slowly to cup the weight of his
balls, rolling slowly as the other curled long fingers 
round his shaft and began the slow and steady pumping. 
His eyes fixed on her face, her gaze directed
towards his hands and their slow dance.  Her hips 
began to rise beneath him, eager thrusts mimicking his 
rhythm as she began her whispered intonation,
approval and instruction seeping out between the
lips that her tongue worked over and white teeth bit
down on.  He found he'd begun to slide against her, 
shifting his ass over her, delighting in the feel of her
coarse hair as it brushed the underside of his balls
with each backward slide.  Both hands now 
tightly embraced his cock, one gripping a vice like 
circle round the base while the other worked a
rapidly accelerating tempo over the head, pausing
only to collect the tiny pearl that had formed with 
the tip of his forefinger before lifting it to his mouth,
sliding his tongue out to meet it in the air before
slowly tasting himself.  He felt her thighs squeeze
together beneath him as she watched, eager face
urging him on.

Entranced he watched her as her hands slid up
over her own body, moving in perfect synchronicity
as she began a slow massage of her breasts.  He
returned to a full fisted grip, pumping hard and fast
over her as arousal surged at the sight of her small
hands as she gripped nipples, tugging and pinching,
working deep pink to its darker hue, peaked firm
between demanding fingers.

Grinding hard and furious against each other, each
driven by the sight of the other's self manipulation.
He lifted himself slightly, chuckling through his
ragged breathing as she jerked upwards, trying to
retain the contact then sunk back to the floor in
desperate relief as he worked one hand between 
them, the other still sliding over his own flesh.
Twisting his hand, the angle difficult given the
position he refused to cede he still managed to slide
two long fingers inside her, feeling her clench tight 
around him instantly but then...

"Can't...can't reach, Scully."   Whether she actually 
understood the deep hiss that carried the words or was 
just so desperate at that point for the touch he didn't 
know but her hand was down between her legs almost 
instantly, the back of her wrist brushing the underside 
of his balls as she sought her target, a low gasp of 
'yeah' the first intelligible thing he'd heard from her 
in what felt like an eternity as she began her own 
steady rotation over her clit.

A frantic melee of hands, each jostling another in
the wet hot pursuit of pleasure...his on himself, in
her, hers on herself, under him.  He'd been on course
much longer than her though and knew himself to
be only seconds away.  Faster and more furious, 
any attempt to maintain rhythm abandoned as his hand
worked hard around his cock even as his cock jerked 
hard into his fist and he came, the first spurt hitting 
her belly before he closed his fingers around his head
to contain the rest of the spill.  Still thrusting
ineffectually against his own touch, he slid to the 
floor beside her, hearing her little whine of protest 
as the hand between her legs fell away. As he settled 
against her, she stretched down, tugging at the one 
still wrapped around his now flaccid cock, pulling it 
to her mouth, her grip a strange mixture of caress and 
greedy demand, as if she feared hesitation might result 
in denial. Possession taken she languorously took his 
fingers inside, working her tongue around his knuckles, 
sucking and licking them clean, her little murmurs and 
mumbles of appreciation vibrating over them as she 
devoured every last trace, every last taste of him.

"Oh God, Scully." 

Her response to his words was a silent but clear one, 
sucking his fingers harder in her mouth as she thrust 
her pelvis up in invitation, asking for his attention. 
He pulled his hand free from her mouth, her indignation 
registered as she clawed at his shoulder, silently 
demanding compensation.  Instantly obliging he was 
reaching between her spread thighs, his fingers joining 
the hand she'd not yet moved away, for just a few gentle 
strokes across the wet and eager flesh. Then, just as 
she began to rock, to move against the rhythm he'd begun, 
he stopped and slid one - two - three fingers inside her 
in as many little thrusts. He shifted beside her, moving 
down the length of her frame, gliding his face over 
her soft belly, drawing his tongue across the skin, 
nipping at her as she flexed beneath his descent.  Finally 
sliding an arm beneath her butt to raise her up slightly 
he used his nose to edge away her own fingertip rotation 
so he could begin his final assault.

Thrusting so hard and deep that his palm slapped hard
against her with each penetration, his mouth went to
work, tongue hard and pointed as it took over where 
her own touch had left off.  She started with her 
breathless mutterings again, words he couldn't have
deciphered even without the handicap of wet thighs 
pressed tight against the side of his head.  He was
certain his name was in there together with a list of 
non-existent deities and other words, the mere thought 
of which would have sent her scuttling to confession in 
her adolescent years.  Heels struggled for a grip on the 
wooden floor as she fought for the leverage that would 
make this harder, faster...as she felt her crescendo 
building, trying to convey to him as she tightened muscles 
around his fingers, just what she needed.  Intuition and 
familiarity combined to make it a request easily met as 
he replaced tongue with teeth, guarding her from the 
sharpness with lips curled tight over them as he sucked 
her tiny nub between his lips and then bit down.

He cast eyes up over her belly and regarded her with
a soft amusement as she jerked hard against the floor
in the rise of her orgasm, as always trying and very 
nearly failing to swallow her cries. He'd asked her about 
it once, why she didn't just let it go, scream and wail?
God knows, it certainly had nothing to do with inhibitions.
If she had any, he had yet to discover them and he 
seriously doubted there could be much left undiscovered.  
Scully, he had come to learn - and what a welcome lesson 
it had been - liked sex a lot. And a lot of sex. 

He'd told her of the fantasies he'd harboured before
the nights of being naked with her had begun, of his
dream Scully - shouting, howling, screaming his name as 
she came.  She'd tried once to indulge him the fantasy, 
but the first cry turned to full belly laugh before it 
was fully developed.  "It's just how I am, Mulder," 
she'd said, and as reality gradually developed into 
something that overshadowed and then battered into 
pathetic irrelevancy the years of fantasy, he realised 
that there was too much that was erotic in the almost 
silent stretching of her neck, in the way she'd bite 
her lip, snap her eyes shut, hold her breath until she 
had ridden out the waves, for him to miss what he had
once imagined might have been.

He stayed where he was as she slowed around him, fingers 
still sliding in and out of her, no longer trying to
stimulate, but not wanting to give her up just yet.  
He idly rested his head on her thigh and waited for her 
to initiate movement.  He had no desire to pursue it for 
himself, more than happy just to wallow here with her.  
Too soon though she was trying to wriggle out from under 
him.

"The floor's cold Mulder - and hard." She offered the 
words in response to the wounded look he affected.  
Conceding to her discomfort he finally withdrew his 
fingers, wiping them nonchalantly on his T-shirt before 
pushing himself to his feet and taking her hands to 
pull her up after him.  As soon as he had her on her 
feet he moved to embrace, curl her up in his arms
but she stepped back.

"I need to go pee, Mulder."  His expression stayed blank
as he tried to figure out what sudden form of rejection 
this was and why.  "No, Mulder..." and her hand was
soft across his cheek as she read the doubt he failed to 
cover.  "This time I *really* need to pee."  He smiled
but the doubt only partially lifted as she began to
turn away.  She caught it written clear across his face 
and exasperated, unwilling to stand and give unnecessary 
reassurances, she reached back and slapped his ass - not 
hard enough to really hurt but certainly enough to sting.  
"Just don't be so damn paranoid! It's tiring, Mulder."

"Ouch!"  The strange mixture of intimacy and affection 
in the slap did exactly as she intended and dispelled 
the doubt which he attempted to replace with a poor 
imitation of irritation. "You know, woman - one day you're 
going to do that once too often and I'm going to put you 
over my knee and give you a damn good taste of your own 
medicine."   

"Know what, Mulder?"  and as she began to walk
towards the door he stood waiting, grin plastered 
across his face as he anticipated the inevitable 'try it 
and I'll break both your legs' comment.  "One day I'm 
going to let you!"

If she hadn't been looking over her shoulder ensuring
she caught the look on his face, the way his jaw 
dropped forming an expression of complete incredulity 
as his brain attempted to process her teasing, then she 
might have paid more attention to what was actually in 
front of her. As it was she saw nothing, just felt the 
godawful smack as her face came into contact with the 
edge of the door.  "Fuck..."

He was beside her in an instant, pulling fingers away,
trying to assess the damage.  The redness was already 
rising, a bruise promised along the line of her
cheekbone.  She shrugged him off furiously, almost as
if he'd been responsible before marching into the 
bathroom to relieve that need. She was slightly less
indignant when she emerged, wrapped in her robe,
mumbling from behind the hand she didn't want to remove 
something that might have been an apology and something 
about 'stupid' which he realized was directed only at 
herself.

"Just unlucky, Scully.  Anyway we'll match now," and
he gestured towards the bruises still evident on his 
face.

"Oh great.  His 'n' Her's black eyes!  Just the romantic
bond I've been waiting for."  

He couldn't help it.  She was so cross - and though he 
hated to think of her hurting - it *had* been a damn 
stupid thing to do - so he started laughing.  For a 
moment the look of fury she cast his way could have 
melted steel but then the smile broke and her giggles 
joined his as he placed his hand on her shoulder and 
steered her towards the couch.

"Let me kiss it better."

She jerked away, hand cupped protectively over the 
damaged flesh. A hurting Scully was a vicious Scully.
"Touch it at all and I'll break your arm!"

"How 'bout this then?"  He got up and disappeared
into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a
clean dish towel wrapped around all the ice he'd
gathered from her ice box.  She nodded consent,
flinching as he settled the bundle against her cheek
but then allowing it to rest there as they sat against
each other.  It had only been a few minutes before
her phone rang.

"Ignore it."

"I can't," and she pulled away, sitting forward to reach
the phone. Picking it up she placed it, force of
habit against her right ear, flinching perceptibly
at the contact with the bruised flesh.  Tutting at
her, sounding more like a mother than even her mother 
ever had, as if she were a small child in need of 
comfort he took the phone out of her hand, pulling her 
back against him on the couch,  holding the ice back 
against the injury as he held the phone for her against 
the other ear.  Marveling at the fact that she seemed 
prepared to accept the babying he was prepared to
relax until the "What?" she expelled as she began to 
struggle to sit upright again, snatching the phone out 
of his hand, her expression intent.  His querulous look 
was met by a mumbled aside, totally unintelligible though 
she was by now smiling.  He shrugged the question at her 
again only to have her hand flapped at him in a 'shut up 
and let me listen' gesture and so he sat back to wait, 
both curious and irritated.

"OK, we'll be ready."  She obviously didn't get the 
response to this she expected he concluded, seeing the 
brief look of puzzlement that fleetingly covered her
face before she spoke again.  "OK - yes of course I'll 
tell him.  See you shortly then, sir."

"Skinner?"  The manner of address had identified the 
caller.  She nodded quickly before replacing the 
phone and turning to him.

"They think they've got our guy!"

"What?"  

She was trying hard to suppress the smile, not wanting
to relax into the relief before she was certain he could 
share it.

"Who? Where? How?"  

"No precise details.  There's a bit of a battle going on 
about jurisdiction apparently.  The MPD pulled him in on
some traffic violation, found our dead guys in the back 
of his van. At the moment they're holding onto him. But 
they've got the bodies, some forensics, a busted alibi.  
If the lab work confirms the tie in with our photos - 
it's the bureau's case and we'll get all the answers.  
Until then - you're just a victim and a witness, though 
from what little Skinner knows, they're 98% certain. He's 
coming over to drive you down there.  They want to see if
you can ID the guy and give them that final 2%."

He stayed silent for only a moment, burying the 
apprehension of actually seeing his attacker again 
underneath the relief waiting to be claimed when
he could confirm the guy was behind bars.  Then...

"A traffic violation?"  She nodded confirmation
even as he shook his head as if denying the fact.

"That's just too simple, Scully."  His mouth was set 
in that shape she recognized, mind attempting to process
this information and fit it into the 'Fox Mulder knows
the answer' box in his mind.  He suddenly flopped 
back on the couch, turning his gaze to the ceiling.
"It's a stupid way to get caught, Scully.  Stupid."
His voice seemed oddly ethereal, almost detached
from the man as he directed his words upwards, 
refusing to turn to look at her and make eye contact.

"I won't be able to ID him, Scully.  Not a chance.  I 
couldn't tell you a single thing regarding what he
looked like y'know.  I looked into that face for far far
too long and yet I couldn't tell you with any certainty
whether he even had a mouth - nose...much less describe 
him.  I don't know what shape his eyes were, what color 
they were. So much for a photographic memory huh?  I 
guess pain tends to rather blur the focus."  He snatched 
at the hand she slid over his thigh, the comfort grabbed 
at and clung to as he continued.  "But I can tell you 
everything that was in them and stupidity wasn't in 
evidence, Scully.  He's too smart to get caught like 
that."

"Maybe not, Mulder.  We don't know all the details."
She was trying to convince herself as much as him,
though she could still hear the confidence in Skinner's
voice, his certainty that the ID would just be a 
formality.  She'd learnt over the years to trust Mulder's 
instincts but,  at least in terms of practical 
investigation, she trusted Skinner's judgment too - and 
as it was the latter that fitted most readily with what 
she wanted to believe, it was that which she chose to 
believe.  "Smart people do stupid things Mulder.  I mean - 
there's this really smart guy I know and he runs off and 
gets holes drilled in his head.  Want to tell me how much 
more stupid it gets?"

He averted his gaze from the ceiling and looked at her
with a mixture of irritation at the reference and a wry
smile at the truth behind the words.  He could see her
staring at him, willing him to accept the possibility,
almost as if his agreeing would be enough to assure the 
truth. 

"Maybe you're right.  And maybe I will recognize him if
I actually see him again.  But why Skinner?  Why's he 
driving all the way over here to take me all the way
back into the city?  Why not Agent Whatshisname? He's 
still sat outside playing faithful guard dog isn't he?  
Surely he's let off the leash now?"

"Dunno.  Why just you?  When I said 'we'd' be ready
he made quite clear that I was not going along for the
ride.  He said he had something he needed to discuss
with you?"  The question rose in her voice but he just
shrugged a 'don't know' and then stood up from the
couch.

"Where are you going?"

"Scully..." and he gestured towards his lower body
with his hands.  "In case it's escaped your notice  
I'm kind of exposed.  I don't think this is a vision
Skinner needs to be greeted with, do you?"

                  ***************************
             
Mulder was still in the bathroom nearly half an hour 
later when the knock on the door came.  Trying to shower 
without getting your chest wet was no mean feat though 
he seemed determined to try it instead of pursuing the
far simpler course of just washing at the basin.

She opened the door and waved Skinner in, made instantly
uncomfortable as he just stood immobile, staring at 
her, his scrutiny making her acutely aware of the fact
she was still wearing her robe and nothing else. When he 
spoke though it was clear her state of dress  - or 
undress - was not the cause of his concern. 

"Agent Scully, are you all right?"  He nodded towards 
her, a silent reference to her rapidly darkening cheek 
which darkened further with sudden flush of embarrassment 
as she lifted her hand to cover the bruise.

"Oh...yeah.  I walked into the door.  Stupid."

"Umm."  The look on his face was one of both curiosity
and disbelief as his eyes seemed to flit over her in
a manner that caused her to shift slightly, pull her 
robe tighter around herself.  Only as she did this did 
she become aware of where his gaze was directed; the
rising fingerprint bruises clearly visible on her
wrist and the marks she knew must be evident on her 
collarbone and neck.  Trying to pretend she hadn't 
noticed his stare she turned the collar up, tried to 
pull her arms up into the sleeves as she spoke.

"Please, sit down, sir.  Mulder'll be out in a moment.
He was just...er...getting dressed."

"Agent Scully."  To her surprise, instead of moving 
towards a chair he stepped up to her, placing a hand
on her forearm in a manner she would have considered 
a gross invasion of her personal space had it not felt
oddly paternal, an overtone only accented by the
almost coaxing voice that followed.  "The reason I
came to collect Mulder, what I needed to discuss with
him? Agent O'Connell has filed assault charges against
him.  Apparently Mulder swung at him and broke his 
nose."

"Did he?"

She strove to keep her face impassive as she replied,
her question clearly rhetorical, though he followed it
with another of his own.

"He hadn't mentioned it to you?"

"No."

"But you don't sound very surprised."  He suddenly
seemed to have stepped closer, the hand on her forearm
making its way to her shoulder as he nodded again 
towards her cheek.  "Scully, if Mulder is having 
problems dealing with all of this...?"

"Oh no!"  The route this conversation was taking 
suddenly opened up before her, where he was 
coming from and where he thought this was going.
"No.  If Mulder hit O'Connell then he probably had
good reason but if you're suggesting for a second
that he..." and she flailed her arm around furiously, 
dislodging his light grip, gesturing towards her face 
in lieu of saying the words  "...then you can leave.  
Now."

"I'm sorry."  The words were accompanied by a shrug
that pretended the apology were real and that she
was believed.  

"About what?"  Mulder's voice, light with curiosity 
darkened somewhat as he stepped across the room, 
meeting Skinner's cold and almost accusing glare.  
"What?"

"O'Connell's filing an assault charge against you."
Both men turned to stare at her as she spoke, though
she avoided meeting the eyes of either, angry with
both at this moment, though for different reasons.

"Oh.  I guess I should have expected that."  The words
were spoken almost to himself and she flashed a
furious glare at him in response to the explanation 
which he didn't offer as he turned to Skinner.  "So 
that's why you're playing chauffeur is it?  Want to 
bawl me out about it?" 

"I wanted to discuss it with you, yes."  His overtly 
hostile look left Mulder a little surprised.  He might
have expected that Skinner wouldn't exactly be skipping
for joy at the news but he wouldn't have expected this
steady glare that suggested he was a lower life form 
than pond scum.  "I was hoping you could give me
a reasonable explanation so I could see if I could 
deflect this before he manages to get your ass 
canned."

"I don't want to discuss it."

"Fine."  The word came at him in stereo.  He considered
for a second trying to figure out which of them seemed
most pissed at him at this precise moment but decided
it was probably too close a call to be worth the effort.
Instead he just leant forward, figuring he might as well 
be hung for the sheep as the proverbial lamb, pressing 
a kiss to her lips, gratified that she didn't actually 
push him away but not exactly surprised at the fact 
that there was no reciprocation at all.  He realized 
that either or neither might be a response to Skinner's 
presence.  Pulling away he offered an 'I know you're 
going to kick my butt later' grin and had no difficulty 
at all reading the 'better believe it buddy' response 
in her eyes.  Both of them missed Skinner's narrow eyed 
observation of the silent exchange - an exchange he 
believed he understood, not realizing he lacked the 
basic ability to translate their particular language.  
He'd already made up his mind regarding what was going 
on here and his conclusions were far from favorable.

Scully managed to keep the smile off her face until the
door had closed behind the two men when she allowed 
it to spread slowly across her face.  She was undeniably
irritated that he'd lied, or been somewhat economical
with the truth but she also had no difficulty figuring 
out what it might really have been about. She'd had her
own run-ins with O'Connell over the years.  She'd still
kick his butt she decided, but if he made good with
the whole truth first she'd at least let him enjoy the
process. In the meantime she decided to shower, shucking 
off her clothes in a steady trail behind her as she 
headed for the bathroom.

The water seemed to wash away the tension.  She knew 
the idea was a fanciful one but allowed herself to 
cling to the image. It was as if some invisible weight 
had been lifted from her. Somehow the water felt fresher, 
the towel felt softer, the day felt cleaner.  They had 
him.  The concern for Mulder, heading down there now to 
face his attacker went unabated.  Her trepidation 
regarding the revelations that would inevitably follow 
- the who and why that might offer some form of 
explanation for the damage done filled her with dread 
but relief kept both those concerns in check - safe, 
manageable.  It was over.  Done with.  No one else was 
going to get hurt, no one would be watching her.

She pulled on clothes with casual haste, taking 
time only to ensure the sleeves covered the bruises on 
her wrist from his grip, that the collar rose above the 
marks on her neck.  She was unsure whether Skinner would 
actually return with Mulder and his curious and critical 
stare earlier had been more than she was willing to 
tolerate in that respect.  Her face though, the skin 
surrounding her eye already sporting a livid hue, a 
fresher echo of Mulder's own now paling injury, was just 
going to have to stay open to speculation, knowing as 
she did that for all its truth 'I walked into the door' 
would be utterly disbelieved.

As she stepped out of her bedroom so unexpected was 
the voice that bit into her relative ease, with its 
accompaniment of cold steel pressed against the base 
of her skull that she practically folded before it.  
Had she been asked she'd have described it as the most 
terrifying she had ever heard.  Not because it threatened, 
sang with violence or menace but paradoxically because 
it was so safe, so low and lilting. He spoke to her the 
way a friend would speak, knowing, the words tinted with 
affection even as he held a gun to her head.  She tried 
to turn to look at him, moving those few millimeters 
against the scrape of the steel pressed against her 
scalp.

Stay calm.  Saying the words inside her head as if 
forming them might be enough to make it happen.  Stay
calm.

He was familiar, undeniably familiar and yet as her 
brain tried to race through some mental inventory of 
people she knew, had known, nothing more came to her.  
Yet so familiar - or perhaps it was just the fact that 
he looked so ordinary, almost featureless.  His was a 
face that could belong to anybody or nobody.

"They've got the wrong guy."  She hadn't intended the 
words to be said aloud but his faintly amused 
confirmation suggested they had been as he continued 
in his same unnervingly chatty tone, speaking as if he 
were a casual companion doing no more than making easy 
small talk and not a killer with a gun to her head.  
She stood motionless and listened to him, trying to 
concentrate on his words even as her brain raced in 
search of solution, any way she might get herself out 
of this. Hope sank beneath low however as he calmly 
informed her that there was no point her looking 
for her weapons. One was pointed at her head.  The 
other, kept in the drawer beside her bed was also 
in his possession. The fear that bit sharp then came 
less from the warning than from the realization that 
he had known where to look and it was with heavy 
resignation that she took heed of the instructions he 
was issuing and made to turn to begin the short walk 
towards her desk as bidden.

His gasp at her movement made her jump and for a 
fraction of a second she actually believed he'd pulled 
the trigger but instead his hand was moving to still 
her, fingers rising to rest on her face, the side that 
had hitherto been turned away - the side with the 
ripening bruise.  His touch was so gentle it couldn't 
be misdefined. It was a definite caress and that 
thought, more than any blow could ever have done, 
bred terror painted expectation which scratched in 
her chest with persistent fingers, pooled in her 
stomach and clutched tight at her bladder.  

'He's not going to hurt me.  He's not going to hurt 
me.' The words Mulder had spoken in the hospital came 
back to her and she clung to them, a desperate litany, 
as his fingers continued their slow progression across 
her features whilst his eyes raked over her.  She 
recognized the moment his focus found another target, 
the red of Mulder's bitingly hard caress intruding from 
beneath her collar.  His hand dropped suddenly to her 
neck, tugging her collar gently aside as he probed 
beneath the fabric before moving to pop open the top 
button, allowing him better access to her flesh.  
Caressing still, a soft massage over the livid bite 
marks.

"He did this to you." 

The words were enough to snap her out of the 
apprehensive reverie she had sunk into and a low 
whimper escaped her, even as she struggled to bite 
it back, damning herself for what she deemed a 
weakness.

He's not going to hurt you.  

Any sense of salvation the words might have offered 
were rendered ineffectual by the intimacy of the touch.  
There's more than one kind of hurt she thought, suddenly 
contemplating the possibility of where this caress was 
leading and she reached for the fury that was submerged 
nder the fear and pulled it hard and fast to the surface.

"You're not going to touch me. You'll have to fucking 
shoot me before I let that happ..."

The words were brought to an abrupt close by the
rapid fire of the hand across her face as he slapped
her hard against the wall.

"Watch your mouth, Dana.  I won't tolerate language
like that from you!"   

Despite the rising tide of dread this scarily rapid 
mood swing evoked with its confirmation of the 
instability of the man, for a fraction of a second 
she had almost laughed.  Despite the fiery burn against 
her cheek and the copper tang of blood in her mouth 
she actually found this funny - a man who apparently 
had no scruples about torture and murder but who 
objected to her cursing?  However, any thoughts of 
humor were banished by the bony fingers that grabbed 
her face, pressing in to her cheeks as the presence
of the gun was stressed, pressed hard against her 
temple.  For the first time since he had begun 
speaking the friendly tone was gone, the words he 
now spat into her face were hissed with venom and 
heavy with threat.

"Don't try and pretend you're some little virgin 
princess with her decency to protect. I've seen 
you, Dana.  I've seen you under him, on top of him.  
I've seen you perform for him like some two-bit 
whore.  I've seen you let him take you in ways that 
even animals wouldn't tolerate.  And you think I 
want to touch that?  You think I want to taint 
myself with the filth of your corruption?"

The grip relaxed slightly but she felt the threat 
increase as he stepped even closer to her, the heat 
of his breath on her face as he spoke again. Some 
of the alarmingly lilting tone had returned but the 
menace still stood out.

"Don't you dare judge me by the standards he has 
set! I'd never touch you against your will, never 
force you to do things."

"*He's* never forced me to do anything."  The words 
were out before she really thought, her almost 
instinctual tendency to defend Mulder matched with 
the overwhelming indignation at the assumption that 
she would ever allow such a thing.

"Shut.  Up."  He punctuated each of the two words by
tapping her head against the wall behind her.  "I know
how you were and I know how you are.  The only thing
between is him.  Don't tell me he didn't do this to 
you."

Despite the fear she was feeling she forced herself to 
meet his eyes, to stare - not flinching, not wavering.  
Oddly, this seemed to calm him, his pincer grip on her 
face relaxed and the eerily fraternal smile returned.  

"So are you going to kill me?"

The voice that answered sounded oddly affronted by the 
question but the answer when it came seemed weighted 
with consideration.

"I don't want to, Dana", and she flinched at the 
undeniable affection with which he spoke her name.  
"I mean, look at everything I've done for you," and 
the second flinch became a shiver. "It would all be 
rendered pretty futile if you had to die.  But if 
you have to - if you don't do what I say, Dana, if 
you don't let me help you - I'm not really sure 
I'll have any choice.  You're my last chance, Dana.  
So yes - I think that probably will. Much as it will 
hurt me to do it - if you misbehave now, I'll kill 
you."

He made it sound so reasonable, as if he were imparting
a recipe or giving out directions to a lost motorist
and it was this certainty, this calm resolution that 
told her she had little choice but to comply with 
whatever he decreed, at least until that gun was 
pointing somewhere other than directly at her head.

At his bidding she sat at her desk, took up her pen 
and followed his dictation. The words were so cold, 
so impersonal and yet she realized, so wholly 
believable.  He dictated details that forced tears 
she tried desperately to choke back...references to 
Tuesday night's frantic coupling on the floor of 
Mulder's apartment.  Humiliation battled fury as she 
realized that somehow he had been watching them, he 
must have seen.  Despite the knowledge that the words 
weren't hers she felt guilty about them, about the 
hurt she knew they could inflict if they were ever 
believed.  Could - would Mulder ever believe that 
these words might really be hers, might be true?  He 
grunted approval over her shoulder as she placed the 
final full stop on the page.

"Very good.  Sign it and put it in the envelope for 
him.  And now let's sort out your job."  

Faint hope glimmered as she registered the words and 
hoping that there was at least something, this one 
thing that he might not know, with just four small 
letters she took her chance.  She barely dared lift 
the pen when she had finished, anticipating a second 
burst of rage when he realized what she had done but 
he just looked at the paper, oblivious, and she 
swallowed her relief hurriedly before he saw it on 
her face and thought to question.

On the second piece of paper, addressed this time to 
Skinner she followed the dictation again, unnerved 
by his insight into how she'd speak, just what she'd 
say if it really were her choice to ever put these 
words on paper.  A second envelope, addressed to 
Skinner joined the first.  And then a third.  She 
bit back the denials, realizing both the stupidity 
and utter pointlessness of arguing truth with a man 
who stood dictating dishonesty with a gun pressed 
to her head.  Words that damned and denied Mulder 
were put forth as false explanations and then followed 
by what had sounded disconcertingly like real concern 
for her mother's feelings. A page full of convincing 
reassurement and promises which could so easily have 
fallen from her own pen. 

                     *********************

Good girl.

See - I knew that you could be a good girl.  I am sorry
that it seemed to take a little bit of force to persuade 
you to obey.  I'm not a violent man - not really, but 
sometimes, just like the others, you make me so angry.  
Then there's nothing else I can do.  Maybe it's a woman 
thing?  It does seem to be the only way to make you all 
understand.

Try not to make me hurt you again, Dana.  

I'd hate to grow to like it.

You're stronger than I thought you'd be.  I'd expected
tears and pleas but you just stared.  I see the contempt
in your eyes, but I know that I can banish that.  One day
you'll look at me with gratitude and love.  I know it.
I have faith.

One day you'll walk by my side willingly, holding my
hand.  It will be so different to that regrettable 
process where you comply because of the damage I could 
do with your weapon.  

I saw your eyes seek the salvation you thought might be
waiting for you outside, your little sentry.  I could 
have told you that he left behind your precious partner 
but it's almost fun to see the hope faded by self 
realization. It was nice riding alongside you in the car.  
By your side. Of course it would have been nicer if you'd 
been there voluntarily, if I hadn't needed to keep a gun 
pressed into your side to ensure your presence and 
complicity but that time will come.

It will be a long journey I know.  I saw it in your 
eyes - in your dirty filthy mind - when I directed you 
into that alleyway and out of the car.  You almost made 
me angry again - those same sordid suspicions rising.  
You insult me with such thoughts.  You think I'd ever 
violate you as he has done?

It made it easier for me to bind you though, not to
feel regret as I closed the trunk down over you.  It 
just wouldn't have been a good idea to let you see just 
yet - to know where you are.  Not right away.  You can't
know until you are willing to stay.

Now we're here.  Just wait...I can see you trying to
take in the surroundings - the dark of the garage and
the position of the doors.  Are you looking for clues,
looking for an exit maybe?  You're wasting your time.
There's no way out until I say so Dana.

I know you must be scared though you hide it well.
Relax a bit - work with me.  I've got something so
special to show you. I knew this would be hard at 
first, and I so wanted you to feel at home.  This'll
be just what you need to feel better.

I've worked so hard on this, making sure I've
got every detail right.

Come with me and see.


Through the doors, up the stairs...two flights.  She 
counted as they walked, trying to file the information
away with the location of all doors and windows.  The 
barrel of the gun had attained a strange warmth from 
its proximity to her skin but still chilled with its 
touch. He opened the door slowly, almost shyly, looking 
at her in the way a child offering a lovingly compiled 
picture for parental approval might do as he ushered 
her in.  Nothing could ever have prepared her for what 
was waiting inside the room.  Almost frenzied she swung 
her head around, looking out behind her, back into the 
hallway trying to convince herself that this was some 
strange hallucination.

That feeling, butterflies in her stomach. Maniacally 
she found herself wondering why butterflies...why not
something more representative of the horrendous 
apprehension, the choking weight.  Elephants.  Lead
elephants.  How long must it have taken him to do this?  
How long must he have been watching her?  How many 
times must he have intruded, invaded and violated her 
space, her privacy?  

From the moment at which he had stepped behind the
door in her apartment she had felt fear - but it had
been a controlled fear.  Rising now, on bubbles of 
nausea and a hysteria that she knew would claim limbs 
and voice in crazed explosion if she dared to move or 
open her mouth came realization of the extent of the 
madness surrounding her.  Familiarity breeds contempt.  
The proverb leapt into her mind and began a raging 
circuit in there. Familiarity breeds contempt, 
familiarity, familiarity... Wrong she thought.  Wrong 
wrong wrong.  Familiarity breeds terror, a terror 
which resonated with the words he spoke.

"Welcome home, Dana."

From: IndigoMus1@aol.com
Date: Sat, 15 Jul 2000 09:55:01 EDT
Subject: Seisdeadh by IndigoMuse
Source: direct
             
              *********************************


He climbed out of the squad car with a cursory nod of 
thanks toward its driver before he realized where it 
had stopped.  There shouldn't be a space here.  Her 
car should have been parked in this very spot.  Eyes 
turned up to the window and the sudden fear that had 
curled round his gut tightened its grip when he saw 
them dark.  He turned back to the car for...for what?  
Reassurance, back-up? It didn't matter anyway. Having 
become thoroughly pissed off with his taciturn passenger 
only minutes into their journey, its driver was already 
turning the corner at the end of the block, far too 
pleased to be seeing the back of him.

OK.  He attempted to subdue his rising panic as he 
pelted through the door and up the stairs.  Think 
rational, logical.  She went out for a paper, 
groceries, something...anything.  It's not really 
dark enough for the lights anyway.  Maybe she's 
asleep...or she moved the car.

But that hadn't been the guy.

It hadn't been him.

They hadn't believed him of course.  Skinner had 
reminded him rather more publicly than was entirely 
professional of the stilted conversation they'd 
shared on their way, that he himself had stated he 
wouldn't be able to identify him.  But that didn't 
mean it wasn't him.  Some pompous detective had waved 
the crisp new file at him and listed its contents 
with smug superiority; the bodies, the knife in the 
glovebox, the blood on the knife, semen stains on 
clothes conveniently already tagged as Scully's - 
he'd been delivering her dry cleaning for crying out 
loud. And when arrested he'd lied about his whereabouts 
on the Wednesday morning when his attack had taken 
place. Mulder just wouldn't, couldn't accept it though.  
It was all too easy.  Too simple.  But they seemed to 
have just grabbed at the connection, content to imagine 
the motive. 
 
But it wasn't him.  He knew it wasn't him.  He might 
not have been able to describe what his attacker had 
looked like but he sure as hell knew what he didn't 
and the man who'd made his mark on his chest was no 
shit-scared delivery boy, still too stoned to recite 
his own address with any degree of competence.

He'd tried pointing out that all the forensics proved 
nothing. Hell, they'd had no lab work back yet. 
Everything was circumstantial.  They dismissed him 
with barely concealed intolerance. They'd wanted him 
to wrap it up by pointing his finger and saying that 
was the guy.  If he couldn't, wouldn't...well then he 
could just go back home.  All he could do was rage at 
them.  Where was Scully with her calm scientific 
rational when he needed her?

Where was Scully?

The question became set in stone the second he burst 
through the door.  He didn't need to search the rooms, 
to check for a sleeping form beneath the covers on 
the bed, to investigate the bathroom to know. He could 
sense her absence with the same unalienable sense of 
her being that always alerted him to her presence.

His feet suddenly rooted, momentarily fixing him in 
place as unbidden images of severed hands, split flesh 
and the patchwork of his own torso rushed to the fore 
to direct his thoughts.  Bending forward, hands on his 
knees, he drew in deep breaths, trying to calm himself, 
not to allow the sense of panic assailing his senses to 
get control.  Calm.  Calm down and think.  Think. 

Eyes flicked maniacally around the room, searching for 
something, anything, and came to rest in the corner 
of the room, on the two white envelopes stood up against 
the PC monitor. One addressed to him, the other to 
Skinner. He didn't bother to wonder at the content of 
the latter, knowing he'd be opening it too, as soon 
as he'd read the other. Tearing the envelope designated 
his with a haste and ferocity that also ripped the 
single folded sheet inside he pushed the pieces together 
on the surface of the desk and began to read.

Oh God, this couldn't be real could it?  No. Common 
sense, faith - trust - everything he believed of Scully 
tried to tell his that these words were a lie.  However, 
seeing them in cold and real, black on white before him 
was enough to provoke the doubt and fear. 'I'm leaving 
you'.  Not real.  '...had enough', '...take no more'.  

'Not fair,' the little boy inside him cried, his voice
momentarily louder than that of the more rational man 
he coexisted with.  'I've already been hurt.  I don't 
deserve this.  Not fair.  Not fairnotfairnotfair...not 
true.  Can't be true.'  With each word he read he told 
himself this wasn't real - not her, but the doubt, the 
'what-ifs' wouldn't let go.  And then he reached the end 
and caught the one small word that made his heart soar 
with the relief that she hadn't done it, she hadn't left 
him, even as the final confirmation of what that 
realization meant grabbed the relief with dark bony 
fingers and squeezed it dry.

                             ***********

He had stood silently watching as her eyes raked the 
scene set out before her, just staring at her with 
that rather insidious child like expression. It was 
almost as if he were waiting for approval, some 
confirmation that he had done well and that she 
liked what she saw. Her response when it came was 
involuntary.  In fact it wasn't until she saw his 
eyes glaze over with what she recognized as anger 
that she became aware that she was shaking her head, 
denying him the confirmation he sought.

She fully anticipated the hand that came flying towards 
her but it didn't generate the blow she expected.  
Instead it landed firm on her shoulder and spun her as 
she was pushed forward into the room.  

"You can shout if you want to but no-one will hear you.  
I'm the only person here."  

A finger traced its path along her cheek, searing the 
skin despite its gentleness, leading her to some 
instinctual baring of teeth, an almost growl, as if 
she were some small dog that would snap the digit off 
if it got too close to her mouth.  The possibility 
seemed to cross his mind too as he jerked away, a wry, 
oddly nervous - considering that he was the one holding 
the gun - smile fleetingly crossing his face.  

"It's OK, Dana." His tone was coaxing, calming, as if 
he imagined soft words might lull her into some sort 
of acceptance of this abduction.  "You need to stay 
here for a few days and work things out of your system.  
You need to withdraw.  Then we'll begin. Then we'll 
work together and make everything right."

She was searching for a reply, a retort, some threat 
that might actually permeate the armor of his almost 
serene rambling when he stepped back and closed the 
door, separating them. She heard the slow click that 
indicated a lock had been turned.  It worked as a 
trigger, releasing her from the virtual stupor that 
had taken hold and she flew at the door, tugging at 
the handle as she kicked furiously against the solid 
wood.

"Open this door.  OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!"

Kicking and shouting and pounding until her hands and 
feet hurt from the impact and her throat was raw from 
the screaming she turned and slumped to the floor.  She 
glanced around the room before her, unwilling to move.  
It wasn't as if she needed to explore; she knew with 
chilling certainty exactly what was waiting on every 
surface, in every corner, in every drawer.  Apart from 
the conspicuous lack of natural light and the sloping 
ceiling of the loft, the strangely sharp-sweet smell 
of new carpet and recent paintwork, she was to all 
intents and purposes standing in the bedroom of her 
own apartment. This must have taken him weeks, maybe 
even months to create.  And if he'd taken this long to 
get to this?  It was with an almost calm dread that 
she realized his plans weren't going to involve her 
leaving in any sort of hurry.

"He'll look for me.  He'll look for me."  

The words were as much prayer as assertion and she didn't 
realize that they had been uttered aloud until she heard 
the laugh permeate the wood behind her.

         **************************************

He'll look for you?

I'm sure he will, Dana.  I understand better than you 
think I do. You believe you love him.  I know this now.  
I was ready for this.  I must admit I was fooled as to 
the depth of your confusion but it's something we can 
deal with.  Now that I've cut you free from the addiction 
he created you can start anew.  I know now how to put 
it right.  I realize I was going about things the wrong 
way. If I had just taken him, you'd have never let him 
go.  That is after all why I chose not to kill him when 
I had the chance.  What I learnt from the man himself 
though, from the look in his eyes when I peeled his 
rotten flesh was something else.

He believes he loves you too.

He's wrong of course.  He doesn't know what love really 
is.  He thinks that love feels like the malleability of 
your pale flesh beneath his callused fingers.  He thinks 
that love sounds like his name as he pumps it out of you, 
forces you to gasp for breath through his brutality.  
He thinks love is the taste he gets when he slides his 
tongue into your mouth, over your flesh and between your 
legs.  He thinks love is hard, red hot and brutal.  Blood 
red kisses over teeth mauled lips. 
 
He made you believe it too. 

I'll teach you that he got it wrong.

I'll teach you how it can be.  How it should be.  How 
much better my body will fit yours than his ever did.  
I'll show you that you never need to offer your body as 
sacrifice again. On my altar you will only ever be 
worshipped. 
 
Of course his arrogance won't allow him to believe the 
letter you left for him but it doesn't matter.  He can 
look.  He won't find you.  No-one will believe him.  
No-one will help him.  I'm too good.  They've got the 
man they want. I gave them someone to blame.  Even if 
he can convince them that you've been taken, the only 
man that they believe might have taken you is locked 
away.  Oh, and don't feel sorry for him by the way. 
He'd probably have made the choice himself.  A decade 
or so in prison or his life at my hands?  

I let him off lightly.  

Do you know what he used to do with your things, with 
the cloth that had covered your body?  He'd sit in his 
van with his fingers wrapped around himself and think 
his dirty sordid thoughts about your perfect body 
before spilling his bitter seed over your clothes.  
Take them away and bring them back clean.  You never 
knew what you were wearing.  

Your precious Mulder.  Don't you see now what his 
sordid sexuality did to you?  You reeked of sin, 
carried with you his aura of carnality.  He debased 
you in front of all these men. His essence made them 
think that you were cheap, available, easy.  They 
thought that you could be theirs.  That's why they 
put their hands on you.  That's why I had to stop them.

He'll look for you Dana.  I'm as certain of that as 
you are.  But he won't find you.  I'm more than happy 
for you to believe he will though.  That will be so 
much the better for me. Belief will give you hope and 
when hope finally shatters, when you realize he isn't
coming, you'll see him for the man he is.  Weak.  
Ineffectual.  He won't be able to give you the 
salvation you think you want and that will open 
the gate for me to come to you with the salvation 
you truly need.

You'll be mine then.  You'll be mine because you'll 
want to be with me.  You'll see a man who knows the 
proper way to show you love, the decent way to share 
that love and you will know that everything I've done 
I've done for you.  We will be as one.  He believes he 
loves you and he's stubborn enough to cling on to that 
belief.  When he sees that you belong to me now, that 
you want to belong?  You'll cut him deeper than any 
blade of  mine ever could.  

I'll get to see him die anyway won't I?

I'll leave you to calm down a bit now I think.  The 
early stages of withdrawal are always painful, Dana, 
but you'll come through and I'll be waiting.  
Meanwhile, I'll just take your letter round to your 
mother.  We wouldn't want her to worry about you when 
she gets back, would we?


            **********************************

Same time.  Scully's Apartment.


"OK..."  The older man's voice was clearly tainted with 
the obvious effort of holding temper at bay.  "Explain 
this to me again, Mulder. Just how it is that you know 
this letter, written you do concede, *by* Agent Scully, 
is not in fact *from* her?"

"She signed it Dana." 

Skinner sighed heavily, patience wearing dangerously 
thin.  He had by now taken more than he felt he could 
tolerate of  Mulder for the day.  Hell - for the year.  
After a monosyllabic conversation in the car on the 
way to the precinct earlier he'd found his temper 
rising at his agent's continued refusal to explain 
why he'd seen fit to punch another agent in the face.  
The scene Mulder had created once they were there, 
his refusal to accept that the PD had actually pulled 
the right guy, had been both arrogant and embarrassing.  
He'd left then, knowing he was going to be abandoning 
his agent to either beg a ride home or to fork out a 
huge amount of cab fare to get back but at that point 
he hadn't given a shit.  Now, despite himself and 
against his better judgment he was back with him, 
having been interrupted only seconds after climbing 
into the shower by a persistent phone and something 
that had sounded far too much like an order to get 
over here.

"Forgive me for pointing out the extremely obvious 
fact here, Mulder, but that *is* her name!"

"Not to me.  She'd never refer to herself like that to 
me."

That was it.  The straw that broke the back which had so 
resolutely been bearing the weight of his escalating 
irritation. His fist hit the desk hard enough to cause 
Mulder to visibly recoil as he pushed his face directly 
into his agent's.

"Cut the crap, Mulder.  So you two have started playing 
at Romeo and Juliet? Quite frankly, as long as you get 
your job done, I don't give a shit!  But this whole pile 
of crap blew your secret little affair right out of the 
water and into the public forum, so cut this 'We're just 
Agents' Mulder and Scully' bullshit.'  At least do me the 
basic courtesy of not insulting me to my face with your 
opinion of how damn stupid you think I am."

Pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the crash of the 
chair as it hit the floor behind him Mulder struck a 
pose which could have been interpreted as either 
defense or attack as he opened his mouth to try and 
explain before being cut short by the voice that started 
in on him again.

"Her timing stinks, Mulder, I'll concede that. But this 
is NOT something I needed to be dragged into. I'm your 
AD not a damn Relationship Counselor.  You've been dumped, 
Mulder, plain and simple, and quite frankly, given what 
appears to have gone off here before I arrived earlier 
I can't say I'm at all surprised, unless it's at the fact 
that she didn't shoot you again!"

For a moment the deafening roar of silence was the only 
thing either man was aware of.  Skinner saw the fury 
cloud Mulder's eyes and found himself bracing against 
the blow he was certain would follow.  The only thing 
to strike him however were words, low, slow and resonant 
with a barely contained fury.

"You think I hit her?" 

No reply.  He stepped forward, pressing his face into 
that of the larger man.

"Her face?  You think I hit her?"  He actually allowed 
himself a small laugh, though it emerged sounding more 
like a groan. "And you think I'd still be walking and 
talking if I had?"  He shook his head, far less in denial 
than in disbelief.  "Whatever you think of me - and that 
wouldn't appear to be very much - I thought you had a 
higher opinion of Scully. Do you honestly believe that 
she'd put up with that?  That she'd ever tolerate it, 
never mind excuse it?  Hell, if I'd have hit her, you'd 
have come through that door to find me nailed to the wall 
by my balls at the very least. You have no idea at all 
what you're talking about."
 
"Then explain it to me, Mulder."  Skinner snatched the 
torn letter up from the desk, waving it in front of 
Mulder's face. "If these words are a lie, if I'm so 
wrong, explain to me why, when I came through that door 
earlier I found one of my agents looking like she'd been 
physically assaulted if she hadn't."

Mulder huffed, a little indignant snort, as he recalled 
the damning scowl he'd been met with when he'd emerged 
from the bathroom earlier, and the weak apology he'd 
heard Skinner offer Scully, and realized what it was 
they'd been discussing.

"If you asked her - and judging by the look you gave me 
when I appeared earlier, I'm presuming you did, then 
she certainly told you herself. She walked into the 
door."

"It's the oldest excuse in the book, Mulder. Along 
with 'I fell down stairs'."

Mulder ran his hands across his face, frustrated and 
disbelieving that this conversation was even taking 
place. "So don't you think that if she *was* making 
up excuses, someone as smart as Scully might not 
come up with something a little more original?" he 
asked.

"What about the rest of it then?"

"What rest?"

"Her arms, Mulder.  All round her wrist.  Fresh 
bruises. The sort you get if someone is manually 
restraining you. Her neck, her collarbone. Other
 bruises. The door did all that too did it?"

"Quite observant aren't you?"  The words rolled 
sarcastically off his tongue.

"So?"

Mulder suddenly slumped into the couch, his face in 
his hands as he sighed long and deep, before turning 
back to glare at Skinner, feeling too defeated to 
muster up the anger and indignation was certain he 
should be feeling.

"No. I did those."

The lack of surprise on Skinner's face jarred him far 
harder than the disgust.  

"But it hardly constituted assault.  It's just...just...
it's just how we are.  Sometimes it happens."  A sudden 
flash of Scully's nails in his back, her sharp, 
demanding mouth marking her purpled route across his 
body, and he bit back the 'sometimes you should see the 
other guy' quip that threatened to exit with a sudden 
twisted caricature of a smile.  Skinner however, was not 
smiling at all.  

"So what is this, Mulder?  Where you sit back and tell 
me that - what?  Scully likes it rough?  That's just 
some other piss-poor excuse given too often to justify 
violence against woman."

"You finished?"

The words and tone were not the ones he'd expected, 
but the look on Mulder's face was one Skinner was all 
too familiar with.  Having recovered form his momentary 
sense of defeat, defiant Mulder was back and appearing 
to take Skinner's sudden silence as confirmation of 
closure, he continued speaking.

"I'm not justifying anything to you.  Because there 
is nothing that requires justification, and because 
your assumptions are so far off base you're insulting 
me and you're insulting Scully.  You want to keep on 
casting aspersions on *any* aspect of our private life 
and there's only one question you're likely to get 
answered, and that'll be the one of why and just how 
damn hard I hit O'Connell."

'Oh, way to go, Mulder', he thought, mentally kicking 
himself  even as the words left his mouth. 'Try to 
convince your boss you're not violent by threatening 
to punch him in the face.'

They just stared at each other for a while, Mulder 
waiting, Skinner weighing.

"Mulder..."  Skinner eventually broke the silence in 
a tone which seemed surprisingly placatory.  "I'm not 
trying to imply an ongoing abusive relationship.  I 
just think that with what happened to you, perhaps 
you're not as able to deal with issues arising from 
this recent extension of your relationship with 
Scully..."

"No."  Mulder just shook his head, anger flashing in 
his eyes as he refuted both what was spoken and what 
was implied. "And you're out on your timing as you 
are with your facts."

Skinner frowned as he attempted to process that.

"This...I mean you and her...the two of you.  So 
it's not a new thing?" he asked.

"No."

"How long then?"

"Just under two years.  After the cancer." 

Skinner blinked slowly.

"That surprises you?" Mulder asked.

"I guess it does, yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know, Mulder," Skinner sighed.  "I guess I'd 
always assumed that the two of you had...you know...
fooled about.  But I'd always figured it for being 
something you'd done and moved past near the beginning 
of your partnership.  I suppose I never imagined it 
would be something with durability.  For it to be 
happening now?  I suppose it just seemed logical to 
me that I would have already been aware of it if it 
was anything other than a fairly recent development." 

"Didn't think she'd put up with my sorry ass?"

"I think she's one of very few people who ever would 
or could."  Skinner leaned back against the desk. 
"Or at least I might have thought that. Circumstances 
being what they are, I'm not really sure what I think 
right now."  He paused for a second, expecting Mulder 
to come back at him with some snappy rebuttal but all 
he saw was the shadow in his eyes as it seemed to get 
a little darker before he turned to the desk, picking 
up the letters from where Skinner had dropped them 
and smoothing them flat before pointing, first at 
Skinner and then at the words laid out before them, 
apparently having decided that particular topic was 
now closed.  

"In answer to your earlier point.  No, not Dana. Never 
Dana. She is always Scully. That's who she is to me, 
what she is to me. And then there's this..." and he 
jabbed his finger at the name, first printed and then 
signed on the second sheet, the letter of  resignation 
addressed to Skinner.

"Dana Catherine Scully."  Skinner enunciated the words 
slowly, looking for whatever it was Mulder was so 
adamant was there, then just shook his head.  "Once 
again, that's her name, Mulder."

"No."  His finger was jabbing frantically at the page. 
"Not like that it's not.  Dana Catherine...C...C. She 
spells her name with a K not a C.  Katherine - K, not 
Catherine - C, or do you also think she forgot how to 
spell her own fucking name?"  Suddenly his hand was 
tight on Skinner's arm as he pulled him across the 
room and through the bedroom door, his free arm 
gesturing towards the doors and drawers he'd pulled 
open earlier and the conspicuous absence of absence 
they revealed.

Drawing in a single slow breath as he struggled to 
subdue the urge to scream out what appeared to him to 
be the most rudimentary of facts, so that he might 
appear rational enough to sound believable he continued 
in a tone that seemed to waver between assertion and 
plea.

"Would she also have forgotten to pack?  Not taken any 
spare clothes?  Nothing personal?  Not one single thing 
is missing. If she walked out of here, she did it with 
only the clothes she was wearing, both her guns and her 
keys.  Nothing else. Not even her damn toothbrush."  
He suddenly snorted, almost as if he'd found something 
funny before pointing to a still damp towel heaped on 
the floor, facing Skinner with a look that begged for 
belief before continuing in a tone of wry 
self-deprecation.  "Even if she *had* left me, she'd 
never walk out of here of her own accord and leave 
that there."

Skinner looked long and hard at Mulder, face entirely 
dispassionate.  He tried to line the facts up in his 
head; the man in custody and all the evidence clearly 
showing his guilt, the agent who had stood before him 
earlier, face bruised and swollen as he asserted an 
unprovoked attack. Then there was Scully's darkening 
face, the unmistakable signs of violence he'd seen in 
fingerprint form on her wrist and adorning her mauled 
neck - and God only knew what else had been hidden 
beneath her clothing.  No sign of a break in, no sign 
of a struggle.  Nothing to indicate Scully had been 
taken against her will...nothing at all that could be 
directly related to her absence except the woman's own 
name written in her own hand and words that explained 
her departure as surely as they damned the man standing 
before him.  Not a single piece of evidence in Mulder's 
favor, and too much, albeit subjective, against him.

Did he believe Mulder? 

He frowned as a sudden thought occurred to him.

"How about her mother?  Have you spoken to her yet?  
I mean, if Scully has in fact left of her own accord..."

"She hasn't!"  

Mulder barked the words out, anger battling defiance 
as his stare silently challenged Skinner to push the 
point again before recognizing that the quick nod, the 
pursed lips showed that he would at least not argue the 
toss here and now however far removed it was from actual 
belief.  He continued in a far more even tone. 

"And no, I haven't.  Apart from the fact that she's 
actually in transit at the moment - she's gone to see 
Scully's younger brother - I have to admit I'm scared 
shitless of telling her this.  I'm always the one who 
gets to make these bad-news calls."  He paused for a 
moment, gave an almost embarrassed shrug, as if 
admitting to the extent to which he dreaded confronting 
her mother with this news was a confession of something 
shameful.  "That makes me the obvious target when the 
worry turns to anger, and quite frankly, I have neither 
the energy nor the inclination to be Margaret Scully's 
whipping boy right now."

Skinner managed to look simultaneously surprised and 
suspicious.  "I thought the two of you were close?  I 
mean, I barely know the woman, but from what I understood 
about the time Scully was missing - and when she was ill?  
You seemed to have a pretty strong relationship."

Mulder gave a dry chuckle.  "Yeah well, adversity makes 
allies of the strangest people. Besides, that was all 
before we...well before."

"She doesn't approve?"

"If she was your daughter, would you?" The silence 
which followed was no more or less than the answer 
he'd expected, though Skinner did at least have the 
grace to look almost embarrassed when he realized 
Mulder had clearly read affirmation into his silence. 
Trying to cover the moment he posed another question.  

"So if..." palm splayed toward Mulder, a silent order 
not to speak, not to repeat the indignant denials, 
"...*if* Scully has gone, and did tell her mother, 
given that Mrs. Scully is not your greatest fan, would 
she tell you?  I mean, would she..."

Mulder interrupted with the reassurance.  "Oh she'd 
tell me. Or at least she wouldn't lie to me. And it's 
not exactly that she doesn't like me. She just doesn't 
like me being involved with her daughter. But then, 
she loves Scully.  Maybe more than that, even if she 
doesn't always respect her choices, she respects *her*.  
Love and respect for Scully. That's two pretty big 
things we've got in common. It means that whatever her 
personal opinion she accepts that her daughter, for 
whatever reason, has chosen to be with me.  The two 
balance out I guess, and keep her walking that thin 
line whereby she'll tolerate me for as long as Scully 
continues to, and I give the woman credit.  She does 
it with a smile on her face, however false it may be."

"Do you want me to call her?"

Mulder shook his head.

"Mulder, if you seriously believe her daughter has 
been abducted, you can't just not tell her.  She has 
a right to know.  If you're really so reluctant, let 
me do it."

Mulder recognized the unspoken question, the barely
concealed suspicion behind the words. 'If you're so 
adamant she's gone, why not?'.  He hesitated for a 
moment before shaking his head again.

"*I* will tell her.  But there's nothing to be either 
gained or lost except a few more hours peace of mind 
for the woman, if I delay doing that, whichever way it 
goes.  If Scully was taken, then she hasn't seen or 
spoken to her since we left her house earlier today.  
If you're right..."

"I'm only suggesting..."

"No, you're not."  The words were resigned and spoken 
with bitter rancor.  "You think she's walked out and 
I can see in your face that nothing I say is going to 
convince you otherwise, is it?"

Silence.  

"Well?  Is it?"

Skinner shook his head slowly, the impressions he'd 
formed too damning for him to be able to voice the 
lie. "No."

"Which means you're not going to help me find her?"

The question was superfluous; of course he wasn't - 
you don't go looking for someone you don't believe 
is lost, and Mulder knew it even before his mouth 
closed around the final word and he didn't wait for 
the negative response before his anger 
broke.  

"Then I'd appreciate it if you'd just fuck off out 
of my apartment."

"I'll remind you that I'm still your superior, Agent 
Mulder."  Skinner's tone was instantly icy, any 
lingering vestige of doubt he may have harbored 
obliterated by Mulder's words.

Mulder just shrugged, a well practiced and pretended 
nonchalance in his tone as he repeated the words, 
whilst hustling Skinner toward the front door.  

"Then I'd appreciate it if you'd just fuck off out of 
my apartment, *sir*."

"This isn't your apartment, Agent Mulder."

To his great surprise, Mulder actually smiled at him, 
though the resulting impression given by his upturned 
lips was far more of a sneer.  He pulled the door open, 
and with a final shove that stopped just short of 
violence, forced Skinner out into the hallway before 
replying.

"No, it's not.  But it *is* my home. And the fact you 
could even begin to believe me capable of what you're 
accusing me of, means there's no point me trying to 
explain that to you."

The door was slammed shut, and whilst Skinner stood on 
one side staring before turning and stalking angrily 
along the hallway, Mulder sank to the floor on the 
other, his mind a tangled mess of fear, desperation 
and the frustrated fury germinated by Skinner's disbelief.

             *********************************
 
Having pulled herself to her feet after what seemed 
like hours but which, after a quick glance at her 
watch she estimated to have been a little under 
fifteen minutes, she resisted the urge to turn the 
unabated fury once more against the unyielding 
door and turned instead to survey the room before 
her.

The fear that been ever present beneath the surface 
since his appearance in her apartment was resolutely 
pushed away. She was not so foolish as to deny it; 
the unshakable memories of the photographs, of his 
handiwork on Mulder left her with no doubts at all 
regarding what he was capable of and though he had 
so far been almost courteous in his kidnapping, the 
one lapse from that - the calmly considered promise 
of death as reprisal for misbehavior - and the 
possibility she had so far avoided dwelling on, 
of exactly what he would be expecting or demanding 
under the guise of good behavior - made the fear 
a sensible and necessary part of the armor of self 
defense.  But she would not allow it any leading role 
in whatever play was mapped out before her.

'And you didn't pick an amateur here, you bastard,' 
she muttered to the empty room.  'Dana Scully - 
professional abductee.  That's me', except no-one 
else, not those as yet unknown and un-named, not 
Barry, not Pfaster, not Schnauz, not Arens and that 
motley band of cannibals or even that shape shifting 
alien-whatever-the-hell-Mulder- thinks-he-is thing 
had been this damn stupid and given her the huge 
advantage of leaving her unbound.  Not just that, 
but unbound in a room as familiar as it was strange.  
Just how familiar she knew she had to explore as 
surely as she wanted to ignore.

Initially she headed for the door on the far side of 
the room.  Logic told her that he was hardly likely 
to have locked one behind her only to leave her 
access to another that offered an escape route but 
the possibility caused her to almost run the short 
distance there.  Resignation rather than disappointment 
struck when she pulled the door open to see windowless 
sloping roof and the partially tiled but unmistakably 
solid walls.

The small room was not empty though.  She felt a 
sudden flush of gratitude which she chided herself for, 
reluctant to permit any hint of positive thought towards 
her kidnapper, as she took note of the chemical toilet 
placed in the center of the small floorspace and the 
three huge bottles of water with a bucket placed 
nearby showing he had at least given some consideration 
to basic hygiene. Dropped against the wall was a single 
grocery bag which she moved to investigate.  A 
collection of  toiletries - soap, shampoo, a toothbrush 
and paste.  All the brands she used at home, a fact 
which prompted no surprise at this point.  The receipt 
still in the bag did though - today's date.  

Whereas the bedroom showed clearly this was something 
long planned, this indication of an early morning 
shopping trip suggested to her something more hurried 
and looking around again, considering the half tiled 
walls she wondered if he'd been intending on extending 
the duplication to include her bathroom. If so, then 
the abandonment of the task  implied that he'd brought 
whatever plans he might have forward. This, she 
contemplated, could be one small fact in her favor.  
Haste might have made him careless, might mean that 
he had no immediate certainty regarding how he intended 
to proceed. But then it also indicated unpredictability 
which she knew could prove a dangerous adversary.

Unbound.  Her greatest asset and one she knew she had 
to utilize before he chose to return.  Unarmed, 
admittedly, but surely in a fully equipped room she 
could find something that could be transformed into 
an effective weapon should the opportunity arise?

She wondered at where to start.  She didn't really 
expect any surprises and so supposed she should know 
where to go, what to head for, but then she'd never 
had to regard her bedroom as a potential arsenal before.  
There had always been the obvious and easily accessible 
weapon within her own walls, the gun in the drawer 
beside the bed.  No point in even looking to see if 
he'd taken his duplication to those extremes.  Turning 
from the 'bathroom' door she once again broadly 
surveyed the room before almost unconsciously slipping 
into investigator mode, some small comfort gleaned 
by the purpose and sense of detachment it armed her with.

He'd done well she had to admit.  Things weren't 
quite the perfect replication they appeared to be at 
first glance but he'd done a more than passable job 
at mimicry. Her furniture, almost the same.  A 
slightly different pattern on the carved handles of 
the dresser, the closet a slightly darker wood tone.  
The bedding would have been easy, her taste for 
plain linens available in any department store. With 
the initial shock dissipated, the furnishings, the 
functional, she found herself able to examine with 
an almost dispassionate ease, but the smaller things?  
The more personal, more intimate items? It proved 
far less easy to stay the investigator instead 
of feeling like the victim when she came to those.

The clothes inside the wardrobe were not too great a 
shock. A brief glance at color and style told her 
he'd been playing match-up there too.  However, when 
she opened the top drawer of the dresser, to see it 
filled with underwear, she'd taken the time to pull 
it out, to inspect closely.  The realization was 
abhorrent.  It brought home to her more than any of 
the larger, more obvious pieces of evidence had, the 
extent to which he'd violated her privacy, her home.  
How he must have been inside her space, invading 
everything, touching.  How he must have put his 
hands on her lingerie, run fingers across the fabric, 
touched and examined carefully enough to have been 
able to so closely match color and size, and how she 
must have put them on later, unknowing, unaware that 
his hands had been on that which was now touching her 
so intimately.  She dropped the scraps of clothing back 
into the drawer and slammed it violently, wiping her 
hands over the cloth of her pants as if she could wipe 
away the thought of him.  Of one thing she was certain; 
whatever his plans for her, whatever his intention in 
buying them, she made a sudden and firm resolution 
that he'd see her naked before she'd put these on of 
her own accord.

Bookshelves crammed full of the same volumes that 
graced the ones in her room.  She shivered slightly, 
imagining him in her apartment, perched on the edge 
of her bed copying down titles so he'd know what to 
buy. Somehow the knowledge he would have gleaned from 
this, from her choice of literature, the books he'd 
have seen to be more well thumbed than others and 
any insight into her he may believe himself to have 
gathered as a result, seemed as great an invasion 
as his obvious foray into her underwear had.

Nowhere however, could she find anything that could 
be redesigned as weaponry.  She could throw books, 
maybe the lamp beside the bed, the drawers from the 
dresser, but none of that suggested to her any 
realistic form of attack, or indeed defense. It was 
only when she returned to the not-quite bathroom to 
take a drink of water that the tiles caught her eye. 
Stacked against the back wall, from when his plans 
had entailed finishing this room, a half pack of 
the tiles he'd started placing on the wall.  

The first, as she cracked it against the doorframe 
merely shattered. Too many small pieces, none which 
could be held tightly enough even if they had been 
better shaped.  The second she tried snapping between 
the door and the frame as she pulled it hard into 
place. Again it just shattered, but she noticed amid 
the broken debris one almost perfect straight line, 
a mere inch in length, but coming from where the 
tile had scraped against the catch on the door, 
scored by the slightly protruding metal. With the 
third then, she worked the square tile back and forth 
across the metal, corner to corner, until the line 
scraped into it was clearly visible.  A couple of 
gentle cracks against the frame and she had it.  
The break was jagged;  the almost triangular piece 
was nowhere near as acute, as comfortingly sharp as 
a knife or a scalpel would be, but she had no doubt 
of its potential to damage, wielded with enough 
determination, and she had that.  All she needed 
now was opportunity.

Ever conscious of his possible return, with an ear 
carefully attuned for sound on the stairs outside 
and her tile dagger resting comfortably in the 
pocket of her jacket, she'd dragged the night 
stand behind her and, repeatedly clambering up 
onto and down from it,  she'd worked her way along 
every last inch of the sloped ceiling, tapping 
the panels and listening for that slight difference, 
the hollow tone that might indicate a window, 
a skylight hidden behind.  Nothing.

She'd paced the floor for hours, back and forth, 
back and forth, her feet marching an unconscious 
accompaniment to the thoughts that raced through 
her brain; the questions, the concerns, Mulder, 
the escape plans she formulated and dismissed, 
the curiosity, the rage, Mulder, her mother, 
expectation and dread...and coming back time and 
time again to Mulder and her conviction that he'd 
have known, have understood as soon as he read her 
name on the bottom of those pages that the words 
were a lie and she was nowhere she wanted to be, 
and certainly nowhere she'd gone freely.

Not, she told herself, that she had any intention 
of all of sitting around and waiting to be rescued.  
She'd never done the damsel in distress routine 
with good grace.  Even in the fairy tale world 
of children's make believe she'd allowed Melissa 
to swan about as the 'waiting to be rescued' 
princess and taken the knight in shining armor 
role for herself.  Now certainly wasn't the time 
to change track.

'And we're a good team' she thought. 'Always a good 
team. You out there and me in here, Mulder. We'll 
get me out of  here. The two of us.  We'll get me 
out of here'. 

She kept returning to the 'bathroom' and glaring at 
the bottles of water, certain that the answer to at 
least one question was contained within them, that 
if she stared at them for long enough they might 
magically divide into their individual drink sized 
volumes, the number of which would indicate how long 
they were expected to last. When was he coming back?  
Her search of the rooms had revealed that there was 
no food secreted anywhere.  Not even the secret 
chocolate stash she kept in the drawer besides the 
bed. Apparently he'd deemed it unnecessary to copy 
that for her. So he didn't expect her to eat. Some 
point after her watch told her she'd been trapped 
here for just over 24 hours, she'd considered 
the possibility that it might be his intention 
simply to leave her here to slowly starve to death. 
When she could think over the growling of her stomach, 
she concluded that, in as much as any of this could 
be deemed as making sense, that made none. If that 
were the case he wouldn't have left her water, 
wouldn't have expected her to wash.  He certainly 
wouldn't have gone to the time and trouble to construct 
such an elaborate coffin.

She'd formulated and internally enacted countless 
escape scenarios, but couldn't seem to work any 
around the certain knowledge that he would still 
be wielding her gun when he chose to make his 
reappearance which precluded the likelihood of 
any face on assault succeeding. She'd considered 
only briefly waiting behind the door with her 
makeshift dagger, maybe the lamp from the bedside 
table, or one of the removable drawers from the 
dresser held high in anticipation of collision with 
his skull. However, the blow Mulder had taken to 
the back of the head suggested this guy was no 
stranger to the art of stepping from behind doors 
giving him a predisposition toward expecting such 
a scenario which was far more likely to leave her 
shot than him unconscious. No - whatever plans he 
did have, his words, his actions and the very 
existence of the room she was sitting in suggested 
to her that none of them involved her immediate 
demise and so she sought reassurance from within, 
telling herself she'd find the opportunity and 
method once she had a better grasp of both the 
situation and the man himself.

It couldn't curb the need to get out though.  In a 
brief moment of self-diagnosed lunacy, coming after 
more than forty eight hours of captivity, she found 
herself wishing that he *had* tied her, immobilized 
her, threatened, made his promises for the future, 
whatever they might be. Bound, she'd at least not be 
overwhelmed with this irrational sense of failure.  
The freedom he'd afforded her within the room somehow 
served to make her believe that her inability to utilize 
it to find an immediate escape was a fault, some 
failing on her part.  Threats and violence, however 
appalling, would at least have given her some definition, 
some means to figure out just what the hell this was 
all about.  Knowing his motives, she was sure she 
could better anticipate his plans...but she had 
nothing.

Just the waiting.  And waiting.

As the hours dragged by she found that frustration was 
outranking all other emotions.  Frustration directed at 
the man somewhere outside the equally frustrating locked 
door.  Frustration bred of wondering what was happening 
outside.  Certain that Mulder would never have accepted 
that note at face value, she had no doubts that he was 
searching, but was he doing it on his own,  or had he 
been able to convince anyone else to believe?  'Not if 
they've spoken to my mother'. The words that had been 
dictated for her came back in a rush, to taunt, to 
torment with the damning 'evidence' they'd present.  

She'd slept in short bursts, a couple of hours 
here...there. When she'd finally had to succumb to 
that need, she'd initially lain on the floor, back 
against the door, determined that she wouldn't use 
the bed he had bought, made up - and God only knew 
what else.  She didn't want to know, tried hard not 
to imagine.  However, protesting bones and common 
sense soon changed her mind.  Instead she had placed 
the lamp against the door so that it would fall and 
alert her if he returned whilst she slept.  She'd 
curled atop the covers each time, her makeshift 
weapon clenched in her fist, and each time, despite 
her questions, her fears, and her uncertain 
expectations, sleep had come immediately, though 
it had never lasted long.

Waking she'd check her watch, count up the hours, 
wondering when she was going to find out what the 
hell it was he had planned for her, how long it 
would be before he came back.

Far longer than she had anticipated turned out to 
be the answer to that one.  Two days later the door 
had still not been opened, there had been no sign 
at all of his presence, no footsteps on the stairs
...nothing.

She just had to wait and see.

It turned out to be 75 hours and 13 minutes before 
the waiting came to an end.  

****************************************************

I hope you haven't been too lonely up there, Dana.  

I made it nice for you, filled it with your things 
so you'd realize you were at home.  I'd wanted to 
have more done for you, but of course I thought I'd 
have more time.  That when I'd taken him from you, 
you'd move past him and then come to me in gratitude 
so that we could work together.  Of course, that was 
before I saw you inside him. Before you, in your 
confusion, tried to save him.

But don't worry - I rarely bear a grudge.  I forgive 
you. Each time you make me angry, I'll forgive you.

Eventually.

Provided you atone.

I worked so hard for you, Dana.  You're a very lucky 
girl. I never granted any of my other girls your 
privileges. They never got so many chances.

You've all been different.  

I'm adaptable you know.  Not set in my ways.  I've 
always done what's best for my girls, even though it 
meant my having to change the things I like.

Bringing your home here for you - I thought that was 
the safest way.  I have learned from my mistakes you 
see. I learned from Susan that just taking away the 
dirt isn't enough.  It should be, but they get so far 
inside you, those men. It's harder than it should be 
to save you.  I didn't realize she'd need the time 
to adjust, to understand and appreciate all I'd done 
for her.  She was confused I know, but that doesn't 
excuse what she did.  That bitch tried to have me 
locked up again.

I'm not going to make the same mistake with you.

Time then.  I'm giving you time. 

It's a pity you couldn't help me with this...you being 
a doctor and all.  I had to read about it.  

He's a poison you see, like a drug.  He got into you, 
tainted you, made you need him more and more, until 
you couldn't walk away, even when I knew you wanted to.

You need to withdraw, Dana.  Get him out of your system.  
Three days I read, three days for the worst of it to be 
over. There'll still be a lot of work to be done then, 
but I'll get you through it, Dana.

Of course it would be easier for you if you had some 
sort of substitute...like methadone for heroin addicts. 
But there's only me you see.

And I don't want to be your substitute.

I'm going to be your everything.


*******************************************************

Same time period.  Scully's apartment.
   

Mulder's first seventy two hours had begun with him
strung taut with a frustration that more than matched
Scully's.  Having forced himself to his feet about
half an hour after ejecting Skinner, he'd left her
apartment and made his way back down to the MPD, certain
that the man they'd arrested - one Robert Lowry - was
innocent of any wrongdoing in the deaths of the three men
and of the attack on himself, but hoping that he might be
able to find some discernible reason as to why he'd been
chosen by the real killer as a scapegoat; some connection,
however tenuous, that could point him to Scully. Arriving,
he'd been unsurprised though exceedingly angry, to find 
he'd effectively been barred from any involvement in their
case.  Neither a forced geniality and painted on smile
nor the ensuing furious threats and demands could get 
him past the newly erected bureaucratic barriers.  

It had been all too easy to detect Skinner's rapid
influence behind the words of the same detective he'd 
managed to antagonize only hours before.  It was spelled 
out for him, loud and clear, that if he persisted in 
sniffing around then he'd find himself charged with 
obstructing an investigation. Rather adding insult to 
injury, was the order, poorly disguised as a request, 
to make sure he remained available should they need to 
question him about anything regarding his assault.

With nothing else to focus on but the inaccessible man 
in the cell, he turned to his trio of mismatched Musketeers,
asking them to track her credit cards, keep a look out for
reports of her car abandoned or wrecked somewhere, though 
he knew both lines of investigation would prove fruitless.  
He doubted that much of the information gathered on Lowry 
would have found its way into the computer system yet, but 
they'd assured him they could probably get it anyway.  
"Friends in low places," Frohike had murmured, before 
a communal 'ask no question, we'll tell no lies' muttering 
closed the subject.  He'd given them much the same response 
when they'd asked why he needed them to do something that 
should have been so simple for him to do himself and they'd 
accepted his brevity with no overt display of curiosity.  

What he'd found simultaneously both reassuring and 
overwhelmingly depressing is that not once, neither with 
words, tone nor body language did they question his 
assertion that she had been taken.  Coming after the 
confrontation with Skinner, the relief at being so easily 
believed was gratifying, but it also somehow magnified the 
fear.  He knew it to be true, but when someone else believed 
it too, that truth somehow became sharper, more real and 
harder to bear. 
  
After a night of no sleep, and endless pacing, Saturday 
morning had found him once again unsurprised and irritated 
by Skinner's second hand communications.  His secretary 
had called to remind him, in her calm and clipped voice, 
that he had an appointment with the AD later that day, 
a hurriedly convened precursor to the inevitable OPR 
hearing O'Connell's accusations had placed ahead of him.  
He'd seriously considered just not turning up, effectively 
allowing his absence to tell the AD to go to hell, but 
some small vestige of common sense piped up to remind him 
that he did actually want to keep his job, and so he'd gone.

Swallowing both his pride and the anger he felt at Skinner's 
lack of faith, he'd opened the conversation by once again 
pleading the case, trying desperately to keep hold of his 
temper as he tried to convince the man sitting opposite 
him that this was real but his words had been met with a 
stony glare, a clear reminder both of the disbelief and 
the disgust. Skinner's sole concession to his attempt to 
discuss Scully was an assurance that he had no intention 
at all of accepting her resignation until it was presented 
to him in person.  He made very clear however, that he had 
no doubt that she both could and would do that, whenever 
she deemed it appropriate to return. After that it had 
been nothing more than forty-five minutes of sullen 
exchanges and glaring, at the end of which Mulder stalked 
out of the AD's office, leaving his badge and weapon on the 
desk as bidden.

He'd found himself perched on the edge of the couch, foot 
tapping in nervous expectation as he'd spoken to her mother 
who had called, as he had insisted she would, expecting 
to be able to speak to her daughter.  Her words, like the 
smile she had come to wear for him, were non-condemnatory 
but false. He'd found it relatively easy to persuade her 
to stay where she was, to continue her visit for its 
scheduled three days, assuring her that she was better 
off with her family, that he'd keep her informed, see her 
when she got back.  

She'd just sniffed down the line, haughty and disbelieving, 
when he'd told her he was sorry.  He didn't bother correcting 
her misconception.  She heard apology in the word when what 
he was offering was commiseration.  He recalled the very 
words he'd spoken to Scully.  Not your fault.  This is 
because of whatever is going off in *his* head.  He did 
not feel guilty about this, would not accept the 
responsibility for what had taken place here.  Self 
recrimination would only lead to self pity and he could 
not afford to indulge in that, if he was going to find 
her on his own.

He had been able to discern nothing more from the letter 
as he read and re-read it, his breath catching each time 
he came to the cursive 'Dana' at the bottom of the page.  
It leaped out at him, as desperate, pleading and obvious 
a cry for help as her screams on his answering machine 
had been when Barry had come for her.  

Repeatedly he'd shoved the page deep into his pocket 
and headed out of  the door, wanting, needing to be 
doing something more pro-active, but each time he'd 
got no further than the hallway, realizing that he had 
no idea where to look and recognizing the utter pointlessness 
of just walking the streets blindly, literally or figuratively
calling her name as if she were a lost puppy that might
run home to him if he just shouted loud enough.

He'd been scared for her before of course.  Too many times
and for too many different reasons, but in all those
instances, no matter how hopeless they might have seemed 
at the time, there had always been some direction.  The 
fear had always come with solutions signposted, however 
hard the struggle to make out the directions.

This time he had nothing.  No focus.  No direction. Nowhere 
to go.

It was beyond fear really, beyond the terrified 
considerations regarding her possible fate.  With no idea 
of where or even how he could begin to look for her, all 
he could do was wallow in her absence, and that absence 
had very quickly become a gaping hole in the very center 
of his being, a vacuum where she had once been, and the 
sense of loss was stupefying.

He was just about ready to crumble when the knock came at 
the door.

He'd pulled it open to find Byers standing, looking nervously 
up and down the hallway.  "What are you doing here?"  

Byers shifted uncomfortably in the open doorway, before 
holding out a sheaf of papers.  Taking them from him and 
flicking through them quickly, Mulder realized he was 
holding copies of all the paperwork concerning Lowry's arrest 
and the case being built against him.  He gestured for Byers 
to come in, kicking back with his foot to close the door.

"It's not that I'm not grateful, Byers.  But, what's with 
the personal delivery service?"

The man shifted, slightly nervous.

"Frohike wondered...well, we all did actually...why you 
couldn't just get this legitimately.  And why no-one 
appears to be helping you look for Scully.  So we...he
...we..." he stuttered.

"Hacked into my personnel file at the FBI?"

Byers nodded at the floor, glancing up at Mulder briefly 
before returning to consider the floorboards.

"Remind me to be pissed off with you all about that when 
I'm up to it."  He offered a tired smile.  "So what, you 
got sent to check up on me?"

"Sort of I suppose.  To make sure you're OK.  I mean - it 
says you assaulted someone, Mulder.  Why?"

Mulder flashed a 'cease and desist look'.  "He asked too 
many questions."  Byers clamped his mouth shut, hesitating 
slightly before allowing Mulder to shuffle him into the 
living room. He stopped dead in his tracks when he came 
level with the coffee table and caught sight of the 
pictures spread across it.  A man all too well aware of 
the many horrors in the world, he was nevertheless 
exceedingly squeamish and the evidence of the horror now 
on display in the form of carved and bloodied bodies, 
copies of the photos of the three dead men and of Mulder 
himself, was more than his constitution could bear and 
he froze, turning a pasty off-white.

"Sorry."  Mulder noticed his pallor and the direction of 
his stare and moved between Byers and the table, shuffling 
the images into a pile and sliding them underneath some 
slightly more innocuous papers.  Byers remained frozen 
until Mulder nudged him slightly, pointing him in the 
direction of the kitchen, hoping to take his mind off 
what he'd seen and give him a chance to compose himself.  
"Coffee would be good, Byers.  Everything's easy to find 
in there..." and with a slightly embarrassed nod he went.

Fifteen minutes later, his composure apparently regained, 
Mulder watched him as he emerged from the kitchen, mugs 
of coffee in hand. He dropped the newly acquired papers 
to the table with a defeated sigh and reached for the 
proffered mug.  Realistically he hadn't expected any 
great revelations, but he'd hoped there might be something 
to be picked up on, just the hint of something that might
 point him in the right direction.  The only conclusion 
to be drawn from the MPD reports though, was that Lowry 
was no more than an unfortunate pawn, whose crimes 
extended no further than a strange sexual proclivity 
toward jerking off onto women's dirty clothing and a 
soft drug habit.  The latter, he suspected, would come 
to account for the man's whereabouts and his current 
unwillingness to provide an alibi for the time his attack 
had taken place. He had no doubt at all that the former 
was the reason why the three corpses, in their varying 
states of  decomposition, had been deposited in the back 
of the van; his 'punishment' for whatever Scully-thoughts 
he'd been deemed to have had.  'Lucky guy really', Mulder 
considered. Given the real killer's propensity for 
knifework, sitting in a cell facing a triple homicide 
charge was probably preferable to bleeding to death in 
his own van, quite likely with his own severed dick in 
his hands.


"It's the timing I'm trying to get a handle on."  
They'd settled down, Byers looking awkward and 
uncomfortable on the couch and Mulder perched on the 
edge of the coffee table.

"In what way?"

"You really want to hear this?"  He gestured towards 
the pile hiding the pictures that had promoted the 
greenish skin tone not long before.

Byers shrugged.  "Not entirely no.  But you look like 
you need to say it, so..."  He left the sentiment 
unfinished, staring at his knees for a moment before 
looking up and meeting Mulder's gaze.  "And you don't 
have any other available ears right now, Mulder, as 
well as which - well - we want her back too, y'know."

They sat in silence for a few seconds before Mulder 
sighed heavily, forefingers pushing his glasses up 
onto his forehead as he massaged the bridge of his 
nose, hoping to ease away the weariness that was
 threatening to overcome him. He began to push the 
jumbled piles of notes and reports round the desktop 
before locating the one he wanted as Byers settled 
himself in anticipation of the impending narrative.

"According to this, the kid from the convenience 
store went missing just under four months ago.  
That ties in with how long the autopsy report says 
he's been dead.

'What I need to figure out if I'm going to find him 
is why then?  Serial killers, stalkers, whatever 
nefarious title we want to give this bastard...they 
don't just materialize out of thin air. They're 
created, or they create themselves. Either way, they 
evolve.  This would have to have been something he 
escalated up to, not the starting point. See, if 
he'd only become aware of her at that point, then 
it's unlikely he'd have started killing straight
away. But if it were sooner, then we'd have had 
something - some indication of his existence prior 
to this. The idea that he'd just leap from merely 
observing to murder doesn't tie in with any known 
profile.  That suggests to me that he's done this 
before, or at least something like it, and she's the 
step up, not the one and only."

Byers interrupted then, managing to look faintly 
embarrassed as he spoke.  "Your, er...relationship 
with Scully? That couldn't have been the catalyst?  
Or do I assume that has been going on for longer...?"

"You 'assume' correctly,"  Mulder responded tersely, 
recalling his conversation with Skinner. "And two 
years before you ask."

"You hid it well."  The words were laced with the 
merest hint of humor, an attempt of sorts to placate, 
but Mulder was in no mood to appreciate the overture.

"We didn't hide it at all actually, which, ironically, 
is probably why no-one actually noticed," he muttered.  
"We just kept our private life private."

Neither waiting for, nor expecting a response he turned 
to lift a sizable book from the desk behind him and toss 
it into Byers' hand.  Byers saw it was dictionary, a 
piece of paper protruding and so he opened it at this 
marker and found himself looking under 'C'.  'Cle' to 
be precise, each word with that three letter opening 
starred, the ones five or six letters long underscored 
and a heavy red circle around a single word.  Clean.

"It's the only one that fits.  Well that and 'Clear' 
but I'm going with Clean."

For just a second Byers' face registered total 
incomprehension but then realization came, accompanied 
by a grimace.

"What he cut into you?"

Mulder nodded, hand unconsciously wandering to gently 
rest on the shirt that covered the damaged flesh as he 
spoke on.

"Yeah.  See, we assumed that the photos of the first 
three were a threat against me.  But when you look at 
what he actually wrote - 'Look what I'll do for you' - 
I don't think it was intended as a threat at all, not 
in his eyes.  I think it was all a promise he was making 
to her.  Sort of 'look, if I can do this to them, then
just imagine what I'll do to him for you.' So he 
thought they were somehow tainting her, what with the 
reference to them having touched her, looked at her. 
And then me?  Well I guess if he considered them just 
having laid their hands on her as some sort of sin, 
then he's looking at me as some sort of devil incarnate."

"And he thinks he's rescuing her from you?"

"I think so." He sighed again then, frustration and 
weariness marking his face with spider fine lines and 
shadows, the hue of which almost matched that of the 
bruises still adorning his face. "But that's what I 
can't pin down.  To think he was saving her from me 
in particular, he'd have had to have known her pre-me.  
But then, he'd have had two years to work up to this,
 maybe even longer if he'd just made assumptions based 
on the time we spent together, and like I said - we'd 
have seen evidence of it earlier.  So..."

Byers interrupted. "So, we probably need to be looking 
for someone who was out of commission one way or another, 
until about February this year, for at least the two 
years prior to that, but who had the opportunity to 
know her beforehand?"

Mulder nodded his agreement.  "I think so.  And that 
rules Lowry out for a start.  He was still in school two 
years ago, and only moved to DC at the beginning of this 
year.  The problem is, how far back do we go?  He could 
have encountered her at any point before that, could have 
come into contact with her anyway and anywhere."

Byers stood and stepped towards the phone on Scully's 
desk.  "I'll call through to the boys and get them 
searching. We can check on ex-cons that fit into that 
time-scale, maybe check on federal employees.  Obviously 
you could do this quicker yourself if you can get anyone 
at the Bureau to run it for you but I'm guessing that's 
not an option?"

"Nope." Mulder shook his head, unable to entirely hide 
the brief flash of anger.  "I'm persona non grata there 
- and pretty much everywhere right now."  He sunk back 
in his chair, dropping his glasses on to the table 
and rubbing at his eyes.

"Mulder, you look like shit."

"Jeez - baby-sitter and fashion critic. You offering 
me a makeover?" Mulder retorted, his defensiveness 
emerging as a sneer that caused Byers to flinch 
slightly and then jut his chin out determinedly and 
continue.

"That's not what I mean and you know it.  You're 
exhausted.  When's the last time you actually slept, 
Mulder, or ate?"

"Don't know and..." he paused, trying to recall the 
last thing other than coffee to have passed his lips, 
"...don't know."  He shrugged, conceding the point 
with ill grace.

"For the moment, there are just checks to be run.  
You've come up with all you can.  Go and sleep, Mulder. 
They'll call as soon as they find anything.  I'll give 
you a couple of hours, then I'll order us some food.  
I'll wake you when it gets here."

"Or as soon as you hear anything."  Byers nodded.  "I 
mean *anything*.  Even if it sounds like shit to you, 
I need to..."

"I said OK, Mulder.  Go."

He hesitated for a moment, not because he actually 
disagreed with what he was being told, but *because* 
he was being told. He felt like a child being sent 
off to bed.  However, he couldn't continue to ignore 
his exhaustion, knew he did need to sleep and so with 
a cursory nod of agreement he headed to Scully's 
bathroom to shave and shower.

He fell onto the bed about half an hour later, clean 
but not having bothered to dry himself off.  It was 
really only the vague abrasiveness of the blanket he 
was sprawled over that made him aware of his bare 
flesh and it irritated him so he pulled it from under 
himself, throwing it to the floor. He thought for a 
moment of how she'd bitch about it, make him get up 
and fold it, and he almost did it - almost.  But she 
wasn't here to bitch was she?  She wasn't here.

White cotton sheets, sheets she had slept on. When 
had they last had sex in this bed?  When had he last 
rolled over as she lay here and slid into her, slammed 
against her, marking her flesh with hard fingers and 
sharp teeth, panting her name as sweat, semen and the 
overspill of her wet wet arousal tricked over slick 
thighs to mark the sheets beneath them?  When had they l
ast rolled away from the sticky scented stain, curling 
together to seek sleep away from the discomfort of 
rapidly cooling dampness?  

He sought the scent, trying to pretend to himself that 
wasn't what he was doing as he crawled across the middle 
of the bed, sliding his face across the cotton, but it 
wasn't there to find.  He could smell where she had 
slept and the fading perfume of the laundry detergent 
she used but nothing more and so he stretched along 
the bed, all too aware of his exhaustion but doubting 
his ability to shut down and sleep.

Her scent was evident on the pillowcase, the faint 
tang of the perfume that never really left her, the 
slight salt of night sweat and the almost unpleasantly 
acrid aroma from the patches she inevitably drooled on 
as she slept.  He curled the pillow like a ball before 
burying his face into it, inhaling her, fingers 
beginning to caress and knead as if she were there 
beneath him.  Instinctually he began to slide his hips 
over the cotton, grinding down into the mattress, the 
movement utterly unconscious until the solidity building 
between his thighs forced him to shift, to reposition 
himself less awkwardly.

He pushed an arm down under his stomach, a vague 
sense of guilt settling over him, the half formed 
thought that he shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't 
be hard and needy in her bed when she was...where?  
He held the thought almost as some sort of penance 
before himself even as his fingers closed around 
the waiting flesh, his hips jerked and he began 
fucking the tight channel formed by fingers and 
palm.

He sought the release, inwardly begging it to come 
quickly as he mentally scrolled through the memories 
for the one that would send him over the edge.  Not 
her tight little fist, working him hard and fast nor 
the taste and the scent which accompanied the heady 
languor that came from burying his face between her 
thighs.  He found the right one, only days old, the 
sights and sounds still fresh for the picking; the 
protestation of knees uncomfortable on the wooden 
floor forgotten as he had taken soft hips between 
hard fingers and pulled her back to him, angling her 
just so, so she was tight, so tight around him. The 
words she had hissed out, distorted by the mouthful 
of forearm she closed her teeth around, the only 
orders he ever obeyed unquestioningly, 'harder...
faster...right there...harder...again'. The 
indescribable, unrivaled beauty of looking down and 
seeing himself sliding into her, knowing he was inside 
her, a part of her. The beauty that sick bastard had 
transformed into words he'd made her write, words that 
suggested that this was somehow dirty, sordid, that 
she hadn't wanted him every bit as much and more than 
he wanted her.  That turned the private act he had 
invaded, twisted what he must have seen...

Must have seen? 

Must. Have. Seen! 

Realization doused arousal faster than water will a 
flame and he flung himself of the bed, grabbing his 
clothes almost as an afterthought before heading of 
the door.  Seen.  He'd seen them.

If Byers was at all surprised or discomforted by the 
sight of a naked and semi erect Mulder hurtling across 
the room towards him, stumbling and falling nosily to 
the floor as he attempted to climb into his jeans whilst 
still in motion, then he hid it surprisingly well.  
Initially, when he'd heard the door open he'd expected 
to have to fight the battle to get Mulder back into 
the bedroom but he had seen immediately that this was 
something more than a mere refusal to comply.  The 
determined, if tired, expression Mulder had been 
wearing was now accompanied by a cold and furious 
glare of realization.  

"Car!"

"Where are we going, Mulder?"

"My apartment."  He was already heading out of the front 
door, shoes barely on his feet, a sweater being pulled 
over his head as he strode along the hallway, his words 
clearly a command and not a request.  For a brief second 
it occurred to Byers that he really didn't want to be 
doing this and he considered calling out that no, he'd 
be better off waiting by the phone.  Instead he slammed 
the door shut behind him as he headed down the corridor 
in pursuit.

"What's going on, Mulder?"  Despite the uncertainly he 
couldn't entirely cover the curiosity and indeed the 
hope that this, whatever it was, might be something 
concrete.

"I'm a fucking idiot. That's what's going on. I can't 
believe I missed this! Look..."  Mulder reached into 
his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper, the note 
supposedly from Scully which he had taken to carrying 
about him, almost as a talisman, his proof that she had 
been taken, his faith that he could get her back.  
Pointing at the words halfway down the torn sheet, 
drawing Byers' attention to the relevant extract.  
"Look at what it says. She doesn't want me to..."

Byers jerked up his hand, a flustered plea for silence. 
He didn't want to hear the words from Mulder's mouth. 
The image of Scully on her hands and knees in front of 
him was more than clearly spelt out by the written word, 
and there were some things he just really didn't need to 
know.  He had to ask the question though.

"What's this got to do with anything, Mulder?"

"She had nothing to do with the content of this letter 
right? She wrote it but *he* created it.  So how did he 
know this?"  Despite himself he couldn't contain the 
smile at Byers obvious discomfort.  "She wouldn't have 
told him. To know this sort of detail he had to have 
*seen* it himself."

Byers nodded his comprehension.  "So he had to be able 
to see through your bedroom window?"

"Er, no."  For some reason he couldn't really comprehend, 
the idea of this solemn, almost shy man, knowing he'd had 
sex on the floor of his living room was somehow more 
embarrassing than his having been made aware of the 
specific details of the act.  "The living room window 
actually." 

Once in his own apartment, crossing that threshold for 
the first time since he'd been used for engraving 
practice on the floor, he moved quickly past the yellow 
tape flapping in the doorway, wrinkling his nose in 
automatic distaste at the strangely sweet-rotten smell, 
before identifying its source and neatly sidestepping it. 
He spared Byers only the briefest of glances, seeing him 
stumble to a halt as soon as he too realized where the 
smell was coming from, and stand transfixed by morbid 
curiosity staring at the marbled effect of the blood on 
the floorboards, now black, dry and rancid where nobody 
had yet considered cleaning.

It had taken him mere seconds to reverse the view he got 
from his own window and calculate which of those opposite 
might provide a clear line of vision into his home. He'd 
pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, searching 
through its contents, finding whatever he was after with 
a little satisfied 'humph' and then he was out of the 
door again.  Minutes later he was in the building across 
the street, hammering on doors, leaving Byers in his wake, 
awkward and apologetic as he attempted to placate the 
elderly woman, roused from her nap to answer the first 
door, the irate father of the three squawking children 
behind the second, and the blatantly flirtatious blonde 
behind the fourth.  That had left only the third 
unanswered.

"Shouldn't you get someone?"  Byers had asked, looking 
as if he expected armed police to come roaring down the 
corridor toward them at any second, as Mulder produced 
the lock pick gun from his pocket.

"I've got no authority, Byers.  Doesn't matter who I 
get.  They're not going to tell me anything without the 
incentive of my badge. I don't think 'please' will cut 
it.  Besides..."  The door swung open. "We're in."

There was nothing.  Just a single chair in one room, 
next to the window.  If Mulder had needed anything to 
confirm to himself that he was now on the right track, 
the view he got when he looked down and across, directly 
into his own living room, directly at the floorspace 
in front of the couch, was it.  Barking instructions 
at Byers not to touch anything - not that there was 
anything obvious to touch, he opened up the small gray 
case he'd pulled with the lock pick from his drawer, 
and began searching for prints.

The door handles, the chair, the glass and frame of the 
window all yielded nothing. The man had either been 
incredibly careful or fantastically lucky; he didn't 
appear to have left prints anywhere. Short of dusting 
every square inch of the apartment Mulder was at a loss 
as to what else he could do.

Frustrated, he kicked out at the wall.  "Shit!" he 
barked out in frustration, before a small smile broke.  
Marching through the apartment to the bathroom, Byers, 
cautious and curious as he followed behind, he began 
to gently flick the carbon laden brush over the raised 
toilet seat, unable to contain the grin as the prints 
came clearly into view.

"Gotcha!"

              **********************************

Monday evening. In the attic. 


Based both on past experience and logical expectation, 
if anyone had asked Scully prior to this latest 
unwelcome adventure, to describe what it would feel 
like being kidnapped yet again there were many words 
she might have used.  She would never however, have 
considered 'boring' to be among them, and yet there 
was no doubt that she was, at this point, completely 
and utterly overwhelmed by the sheer monotony of her 
situation.

There was a limit to how many different plans of attack 
she could come up with, particularly as they all seemed 
to conclude with 'postpone until you know more'.  She'd 
had to accept that it didn't matter how many times she 
searched the room, neither contents nor structure were 
suddenly going to reveal some hitherto unrealized means 
of escape. Even the internal conversations she'd been 
holding with Mulder had lost their appeal after she 
realized there was no satisfaction to be gleaned from 
beating him in arguments she controlled both sides of 
and that in his imaginary state, he had nothing practical 
to offer in the way of suggestion or hope.  Allowing 
herself to sit and worry about him was even less 
helpful, and so she did her best to prevent her thoughts 
from wandering down that particular trail.

She'd eventually resorted to curling up on the bed, one 
of the books - her books really - from the shelf in her 
hand, turning the pages, but completely and utterly 
unable to register a single word.  She just stared at 
the pages until lack of focus turned the words to black 
smudges, leaving her in almost hypnotic thrall.

It came over the quiet tapping of fingernails turned 
to drum beats on her head, as she unconsciously patted 
out her rhythm on the book cover. An unfamiliar noise 
that ricocheted around the room, jolting her out of 
her ennui. As her head jerked up from the pillow it 
was repeated, and she realized that someone was coming 
up the stairs.  Stamping up the stairs actually; each 
step unnaturally loud, exaggerated. She moved off the 
edge of the bed quickly, limbs creakily protesting their 
hours of disuse, and tried to stand as tall as she could, 
determined that he would not find her cowed.  Listening 
to the slow and heavy footsteps, she couldn't help but 
conclude that the noise was intentional, that he was 
actually making some sort of footstep fanfare intended 
to announce his arrival. She wondered if she should 
feel comforted by the thought that he appeared to have 
no intention of creeping in, trying to catch her 
unawares, or alarmed by the idea that he was intending 
the noise to intimidate, to work as a threat.  It 
couldn't have taken more than 10 seconds from when 
she'd first heard him to when he reached the door, but 
the tension of expectation had stretched out, pulling 
her nerves tight as bowstrings. When she heard the key 
in the lock, she literally jumped, a scream caught 
in her throat.  When the door swung open, the tense 
expectation balled into words, rolling out in a garbled, 
hurried mess of 'who, what and why?' that faded away, 
chased into the corner of the room by the specter of the 
gun he held, exactly as she had anticipated, and by her 
body's treacherous and welcoming delight in the food he 
was carrying.

"Food before questions Dana," he'd said, and to her 
chagrin and his amusement her stomach had loudly 
growled its agreement.  He'd hesitated for a moment, as 
if unsure exactly how he should best proceed.  After a 
moment of consideration he ordered her to move up on to 
the bed, to sit in the middle with her legs up straight 
in front of her and her hands on her lap.  It gave her 
a small buzz of satisfaction to realize that he was 
wary of her, even though following his instructions 
meant she had to remove her hand from her jacket 
pocket and so let go of her broken tile dagger.

Once she'd done as he said he moved towards her again, 
one side of the tray held firm, the other balanced over 
his forearm, her gun pointing at her from beneath it. 
She said nothing as he stood in apparent contemplation, 
obviously considering how best to proceed.  For a 
moment she wondered if he was calculating the logistics 
of actually physically feeding her but then she watched 
as he bent his knees, lowering the tray to the floor. 
Not for a second did she take her eyes off the gun, 
and not for a second did he take the gun off her.  
Pushing the tray toward her with his foot, he gestured 
for her to climb down off the bed, clearly expecting 
her to sit on the floor to eat, as he moved behind her.

His logic was impeccable.  Obviously not willing to 
rely on hunger keeping her stationary, he was placing 
her in a position both subservient and defensive. She 
felt the cold metal of the barrel pressed against the 
nape of her neck as he settled on the bed, leaning over 
her.

"How quickly would you die if I pulled this trigger 
now?"  He gave a cold, dry chuckle. "Not that I'm 
planning on doing so of course.  Not just yet, anyway.  
I just think you need to remember that if I want to, 
I can."

She sat motionless, breathing slow and deep as she 
waited for what was coming next.  When he spoke again 
however, it wasn't to put forward further threats.  
In the voice of a man warmly welcoming a dinner guest, 
he invited her to pick up the tray and eat, and her 
hunger begging her to obey, she took up the spoon 
and began.  Just tomato soup and bread.  Bland but 
more than welcome and she doubted it even touched the 
sides as she gulped it down.

She heard him chuckle to himself as she scraped the 
spoon over the now empty bowl, her hunger only 
increased rather than appeased. She heard him murmur 
her name and, sensing no threat in the word turned 
her head slowly to look at him, the gun sliding in 
cold caress from the back of her neck to the indent 
in her throat. He was reaching toward her then, and 
she suddenly envisaged him patting her head, rather 
as if she were an obedient and beloved pet that 
had just performed a trick well. Instead his fingers 
settled just below her eye, causing her to flinch 
slightly as he pressed against the flesh, the fading 
green and purple caused by her collision with her 
door.

"He'll never hurt you like this again, Dana." 

Both denial and the sheer futility of actually making 
it rose simultaneously, the latter choking the former 
so she merely squeaked out some unintelligible 
syllable before falling silent.  

"How are you feeling?"

The inquiry sounded genuine and she looked at him 
incredulously.  "How the hell do you think I'm feeling?" 
she snapped.  "You've kidnapped me and locked me in your 
attic.  I've been sat here for nearly three days not 
knowing what the hell is going on.  At this precise 
moment you've got a gun pressed to my throat.  Hell, 
yeah - I'm feeling on top of the world. I'm ready to 
party."  Her voice faltered for a moment as it struck 
her how utterly ineffectual and potentially dangerous 
this aggressive sarcasm was, as she sat at his feet, 
possibly antagonizing him into shooting her at point 
blank range.  He looked merely curious though not angry, 
and so, moderating her tone somewhat she continued.  
"You can't imagine that you're going to get away with 
this?  I'm a Federal Agent. People are going to be 
looking for me and..."

"Who?" he interrupted.  "Who's going to be looking 
for you?"

"What do you mean who?" she asked, wondering if he 
could really be so oblivious.  "People. The police. The 
FBI. My partner."

"Really?"  Despite his bland expression, he sounded 
almost as if he was trying not to laugh at her and she 
felt her anger bubbling. "You resigned from the FBI, 
remember?  Told your partner and your mother that you 
were leaving for a few days."

"They won't believe any of that.  Not after all this 
time."

"What time?  Just a couple of days really.  Not long 
for the break you said you were taking...getting away 
from things for a while. Are you really sure anyone's 
looking, Dana?"  

The 'yes' she spat out at him was automatic, but 
uncertain, and his recognition of her doubt shone 
clear in his eyes.  Oh, she was confident of Mulder's 
dogged determination, but she was also all too well 
aware that the likelihood of him having managed to 
convince anyone else of what she was certain he 
would believe, at least after this relatively short 
a period of time, was somewhere around zero.  

"Why all this?"  She made a sweeping gesture with her 
hand, indicating the room and all its contents.  "Why 
go to all this trouble?"

"I'm not trying to take you away from your life, 
Dana,"  He still sounded so calm, so rational, and 
the sudden urge to reach forward and just slap the 
even tone out of his words was almost more 
overpowering than the fear she knew she should 
feel for the gun at her throat.  "I just wanted to 
take away all of the bad bits.  Help you rid yourself 
of the poison.  Everything else can stay the same, 
just get rid of him.  I thought this was a good way 
to go about it...thought you'd feel better, knowing 
where you were and what you had."  He moved toward 
her then, head tilted, almost shy.  "And it was for 
me too I suppose.  I liked it here, surrounded by 
all of your things.  It made me feel close to you.  
And I knew I'd probably have to lock you up at first, 
just until you got used to things.  But once you've 
been here a while, got used to how things are going 
to be...once you realize how much I care, what I've 
done for you to get him out of you...you'll want to 
stay."

"You can't really believe that?"  She took a second 
to look into his eyes, to try and determine if she 
was listening to his hope or his belief.  What she 
saw, gave her no comfort at all.  "That's insane," 
she continued. "*You're* insane, if you honestly 
believe there's any chance at all that I'll *want* 
to stay here.  Ever"

He continued staring, bland and unemotive, just a tiny 
nod inviting her to elaborate.

"You can't just remove a certain aspect of a person's 
life...take another person away from them, or them 
from another person and expect them to just forget 
about them, get over it like it's some sort of disease 
you've magically cured," she snapped.

"Of course I can."  He sounded genuinely surprised at 
her words, confused - almost as if he couldn't 
understand why she would make so inaccurate a statement, 
as if she'd declared that the sky were purple and green 
or some other absolute fallacy.  "I know it doesn't 
always work. But I've done it for you before after all. 
Way back when you were closer to being the good girl 
I knew you really were."

"You mean those men you killed?" She made no attempt 
to control the contempt in her voice.  "You weren't 
saving me from them.  They'd done nothing.  They..."  

"Oh no no no."  He was shaking his head.  "Oh no, Dana. 
Before that.  When you were so much younger. You know 
when I first starting looking out for you?"

It took her a moment to realize that it was a question 
to which he was expecting an answer.

"When?" To her own disgust, her voice trembled. Did 
she really want to know how many months this man had 
been following her, watching and misinterpreting her?  
She didn't and yet, paradoxically she did.  She needed 
to be able to measure the length of his invasion into 
her life.  She could not have anticipated the words 
that followed though.

"When you were at Maryland.  I followed you there.  I
only went to look out for you, but imagine what I 
discovered? I'd heard what a good girl you were, so 
hard working. Your father was so proud, knowing his 
little girl was going to end up a doctor. Your mother 
couldn't stop talking about you.  Imagine how 
disappointed they would have been, how disappointed 
*I* was when I saw that once you were away from your 
parents, you weren't being very good at all, Dana, not 
until I stepped in to make you clean."

If she'd have been able to look in a mirror then, 
she'd have been shocked at the extent to which she'd 
paled.  There was far too much information in that 
sentence for her to process immediately, and her 
mind just latched on to the length of time he was 
implying. Calculating dates in her head, if this went 
back as far as that, to the time she'd first started 
at university? She felt only horror at the conclusion 
she'd drawn.

"Sixteen years?"  Her voice was virtually a whisper.  
"You've been following me for *sixteen* years?"

"Goodness no!"  He sounded quite indignant. "Do you 
think you'd have come to this if I'd have been around 
to look out for you? I got - sidetracked."  He paused 
for a moment, biting his lip in contemplation.  "I 
probably have to take some of the blame for how you 
turned out. I actually forgot about you, Dana, for 
quite a while actually."

"What did you do?"

"Sorry?"  He sounded almost startled, as if she had 
derailed some particularly deep train of thought.

She repeated it.  "What did you do.  To 'make me 
clean? What did you do?"

"Oh. That?"  

She'd sat in stunned silence as he recited his tale; 
the story of a young woman he identified as her, but 
whom she would never have recognized as herself from 
his words. She didn't share his memories of the quiet, 
good, lonesome student who'd been led astray by the 
reckless and thoughtless, bullying and corrupting 
youth, of the virginal innocent lured into a sexual 
relationship, too naive to refuse.

No, her memories were of a girl who had wanted more 
from her life than the physics books and classes that 
had consumed her every waking minute during her first 
year at university.  A girl who had taken a break from 
the constant parental interference, undeniably bred 
of concern but somehow mutated into control. Her 
memories were of a funny, kind and caring friend, and 
the easy and automatic transition they'd made from 
friends to lovers, actually ending, not beginning, 
the one and only - albeit relatively short - period 
of promiscuity she'd ever indulged in.

She didn't recall as he did, the girl who'd needed 
saving, whose innocence was taken and abused by some 
uncaring male, who'd tricked and manipulated her into 
giving up her body to him.

No, her memories were of Tom's wide-eyed astonishment 
when she'd first unzipped his pants and slid to her 
knees before him, taking him in her mouth.  They were 
of his mock irritation when she'd pushed his books 
off the table, and the delight that had replaced it 
when she'd presented herself as the evening's lesson 
instead.  They were of a gentle man, a loving man, 
who'd never once taken even the tiniest of liberties 
without first invoking her name as a plea. They were 
of hours of talking, of laughing, of trusting and of a 
loving made effortless by youth.

She hadn't been witness to the final scene of his 
story, but she knew that his narration was false. 
There had been no stupid man, no dirty animal needing 
to be put down, destroyed to save her from him. And 
despite the way he told it, despite the way he twisted 
what had happened, turning it into a victory for 
himself, she knew there had been no selfish abandonment 
proving how fickle and insincere Tom had been when 
he'd told her that he loved her.

No, her memories were of the phone call summoning her 
to the hospital.  They were of the story he'd told 
about the car that he swore accelerated toward him 
on the road outside the library.  They were of the 
police reports of a hit and run, of the times she 
heard repeated how lucky he'd been.  If those people 
hadn't been passing when they were, if they hadn't 
have seen it all, come rushing forward to help, then 
he might well have been dead.  

She had never regarded what had happened next as 
abandonment, even immediately afterwards, when the 
hurt was still fresh.  He'd gone home to recuperate 
and they'd spoken on the phone every day, the calls 
continuing even after she could hear in his voice 
that what there had been between them was changed.  
He'd invited her up for the weekend and she'd gone, 
knowing what was coming.  She deserved better than 
to hear it down a phone line, he'd told her, and she 
knew that his tears had been genuine when he'd said 
that he was sorry.  She'd miss him, and she couldn't 
pretend it didn't hurt, but that was the loss, not 
any sense of betrayal.  His high-school sweetheart - 
the stuff that cliches were made of - had started 
visiting and he'd fallen hard. After a few months 
of resentment and a weak portrayal of indifference 
on her part, he'd once more started calling and 
she'd found it surprisingly easy to become his friend 
again. 

She'd certainly never realized that what she'd 
always believed to have been a terrible accident, 
a misfortune touching them both to different degrees, 
had in fact been an act orchestrated by a madman as 
a step towards some sort of lunatic defined salvation.

                *********************

It was the sudden taste of salt on her lips that made 
her aware that she was crying, and the shame she felt, 
letting him see that he had affected her so, just made 
the tears fall harder.

"You bastard," she hissed, uncertain if she was 
damning him for his intrusion into her past or her 
present.

"What was that, Dana?"  His voice suddenly low, his 
question came out a virtual growl, but it was not 
the sudden switch of temperament evident in the tone 
that demanded her attention. It was the sudden painful 
cuff across her chin and, more significantly, the 
realization that he'd used his gun hand to strike her 
and in doing so had removed the barrel from her throat.  
Back in place within mere seconds, the gun she realized, 
was an offensive shield, but one with which he was 
unfamiliar.  It didn't lessen the danger from it to 
any degree, but it told her that it wasn't his first 
thought, his automatic and immediate means of defense 
or attack, in the way it would be hers. So if she 
could just goad him again, intentionally this time, 
into acting on his indignant rage, she was confident 
that at least for the first few instinctual seconds, 
his reaction would be to drop the pressure and attack 
her with his hand.

Just a second...that's all she needed.  Just a second 
in which the barrel of the gun was turned slightly 
aside.  She slid the hand furthest away from him 
slowly into her pocket, fingers tightening around the 
broad end of the tile piece, grip and angle certain, 
as she met his eyes, focusing all the disdain and 
contempt she could into her glare and spat the words 
up at him.

"I said, you bastard.  You stupid, pathetic bast..."

She saw the swing of his fist before it even happened, 
and fought against the instinctual urge to duck.  As 
soon as the contact was made, through the jarring 
pain in her jaw, she felt it, that tiny lessening of 
pressure as his grip relaxed, and before his fist had 
even lifted away, she had jerked upwards, lightning 
fast, and gouged the top of his wrist with the point 
of the tile.  

He lost his grip on the gun, more a consequence of 
surprise than any real pain or damage done, and she 
twisted around, reaching out for it as it hit the 
floor.  She was fast, so fast - but he was faster 
and before her fingers could close around the handle, 
he grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her back 
and up.  She still had the tile in her other hand, 
and even as she screamed from the pain in her scalp, 
she lashed out at him with it, first ineffectually 
trying to slash at him through his sleeve, and then 
flailing wildly towards his face.  His sudden howl 
of pain told her she'd made contact but it was a 
hollow victory as he literally dragged her by her 
hair up onto the bed, seemingly impervious to the 
few blows her thrashing arms and legs managed to 
land.

'Idiot, idiot, idiot.'  The self condemnatory 
litany played in her head.  Too little, too soon, 
and she knew that now she didn't have a chance 
against him.  Throwing himself across her, pinning 
her to the bed with his body weight, he was able 
to stretch down and retrieve the gun from the 
floor.  She hadn't actually realized she was still 
clutching the tile until he brought the back of the 
gun down hard across her wrist, causing her to open 
her hand in desperate reflex and drop it to the 
ground.  Clambering up off her, one hand around her 
neck, not squeezing as she half expected, but pushing 
up against her chin, edging her up the bed, he planted 
his knee firmly in her stomach, and she exhaled the 
pain in a desperate gasp, trying so hard not to give 
in and howl with it like she wanted - needed - to, 
not to give him the satisfaction.  Still she struggled 
beneath him, trying to gather enough breath to shout 
and scream her insults and demands, until he, sighing
almost as if she was really really boring him, 
backhanded her across her face, hard enough to stun 
her into stationary silence.

Laying there, trapped beneath him, adrenaline fading, 
she was left only with the desperate need to get air, 
to breathe.  Each heavy labored breath, drawn in 
through the pressure in her gut and the tightening 
fingers on her neck, gave little in the way of relief 
and much in the way of pain, turning the seconds that 
he hovered over her into hours.  

Then he leaned forward, driving his knee deeper, making 
the whimper of pain unavoidable, as he placed his 
mouth beside her ear and started whispering. Convinced 
that she was about to hear her epitaph, it took her a 
moment to register the actual words he was mumbling, 
and when she did, she realized that he was crooning 
nonsense sounds to her, interspersed with soft and 
sweet comfort words, telling her it was all right, 
calm down, OK, safe now.

Confused and to no degree comforted by the sudden 
tenderness which contradicted so completely the 
violence that had preceded it, she'd already taken 
another three slow, gasping breath before it 
registered that he'd removed his hand from her throat.  
She watched him, uncertain, angry and undeniably 
scared, as he raised his hand to his mouth and 
appeared to kiss his own thumb, before reaching 
down and stroking it over her lip, swollen and 
split from his blow, wiping away the trickle of blood 
carefully.  

"I should just kill you now," he crooned, even as he 
continued his gentle ministrations and when she opened 
her mouth to respond, she had no idea whether the words 
she formed would be argument, an to attempt to reason 
or begging. She wasn't to be given the opportunity to 
find out as he continued speaking.

"I blame him for this though, not you.  Maybe I didn't 
leave you alone for long enough?" Head cocked slightly 
to one side, he stared for a moment, almost 
contemplative.  "Understand me, Dana.  I want to make 
you clean.  I'd hoped it would be easier than this, 
that you'd be less resistant to being helped toward a 
decent life, toward making your mother happy."

"My mother?" she managed to hiss out.  "That's the 
second time you've..." but he shushed her, finger 
pressing over her mouth, leaving her to finish the 
question in her head.  'The second time you've spoken 
as if you know her' she thought, as he carried on 
with his little speech.

"But you are my last chance, Dana.  I deserve to be 
happy too, and you are my last chance.  I'm tired of 
trying to help you all, and getting nowhere.  You 
were my first chance - it's only right that you 
should be my last. I will help you.  I understand 
that it isn't your fault, Dana. He did this to you.  
He took you and corrupted you with his sex, his 
carnality.  I understand that he was powerful, he 
took you over.  But whether I have to coax the filth 
out of you, or beat it out of you - I *will* make 
you clean. The good girl inside of you deserves that.  
*I* deserve that, Dana."

As his words trailed off he stood, finally relieving 
the pressure on her gut, and she curled instinctively, 
almost foetally, wrapping her arms around herself, 
utterly incapable of doing anything except concentrate 
on trying to will away the pain.

Soft and slow, like a parent comforting a crying child,
he'd bent over her again, fingers stroking through her 
hair as he muttered softly to her.

"Your fault was one of weakness, Dana.  He tempted 
you, and you were foolish enough to follow.  Realize 
your mistake, think about it. Try to believe it. It'll 
help you get through this."

He'd moved towards the door then, and stepped out of 
the room, casting one of those strange half scowls 
that her father had always left her with when she was 
in trouble, the one that meant 'just sit here and 
think about this.  I'll be back when you are ready 
to own up to what you've done.'

So what was this meant to be?  Some sort of 
self-confessional? 'Bless me Father for I have 
sinned. I allowed myself to be corrupted by my partner.  
I was seduced by his superior sexual technique and 
he fucked...oops...hypnotized me into staying.'  
Despite the pulsing pain in her hand and wrist from 
where he'd hit her with the gun, the bruising discomfort 
in her gut and the steady throb of her lower lip, she 
couldn't help but 
smile. 

"God have you got it wrong," she muttered pointlessly 
at her absent abductor before slowly edging herself 
wholly up on to the bed, trying to ease herself into a 
more comfortable position. Fingers absently stroking 
her bloody, swollen lip, she closed her eyes and, 
succumbing to tears for the first time since the key 
had turned in the lock behind her three days ago, she 
tried to lose herself for a while in the comfort of 
memory. 

 
November 1997

The case had been mindnumbingly mundane - nothing to 
garner even the slightest jot of interest from either 
of them. They were neither needed nor wanted there 
and so it was weariness bred from the boredom of the 
past three days that had led them to the bar.  They 
didn't tend to drink together; in fact it was rare 
that either of them drank at all and certainly not 
in the middle of the afternoon but it just felt like 
one of those times where nothing but a cold beer will 
do.

For nearly two hours they sat beside each other at 
the bar and as the circle of empty bottles before 
them grew, they talked in a way that they so rarely 
had before.  Just chatter - bad jokes, amusing 
anecdotes, small talk about everything and anything, 
which eventually came round to the non-existent ghosts 
in this non-existent case.

"He meant well."

Mulder looked at her quizzically, just a raised eyebrow
inviting her to elaborate as he ran his fingers over
the condensation on the bottle.

"Skinner.  Sending us...sending *me* here.  I guess 
he thought it'd be an easy outing. Ease me back in 
slowly."

"And instead he's set us both up for the first ever
case of simultaneous Death By Boredom."

He flinched even as he said the words.  Jokes about
Scully dying weren't something he wanted to hear from
his own mouth.  She even less so he imagined.

He'd figured Skinner's motives out himself of course.  
It's why he hadn't protested the assignment with its 
pretense of an X-File disproved even before the 302 
had been signed.  She was just two weeks out of the 
hospital and in direct defiance of all medical advice, 
she'd insisted on coming back to work.  One part of 
him had wavered between anger at her stubbornness 
and concern for her health.  The other had selfishly 
rejoiced, wanted her to shoot his arguments down and 
tell him to shut up with her 'it's my life Mulder, 
I was dying - I'm not dead' retort, because that 
meant she was somewhere he could see her every day, 
touch her every day.

"I couldn't have lost you, Scully."  The words were
out before he'd had time to coat them with that 
smooth gloss of feigned joviality and indifference 
that usually allowed the real sentiment to slip 
right by her.  This time, presented to her in all 
their naked glory, she could not help but catch the 
inflection, the desperate truth behind the words. 

She looked up at him for just a moment, the curiosity
in her eyes far less a response to what he'd said, 
than to the fact that he'd actually - finally - said 
it.

"What would you have done?" She fixed him with her 
curious stare, fingernail chipping absently away at 
the label on the nearest bottle.

"I don't know."  He had thought about it of course.
What if?  What if he'd have come back from his 
pretended death to discover her all too real one?  
What if the chip had never been discovered, had 
never worked?  What if...?  He'd never come to any 
conclusion.  Even when 'remission' became the most 
beautiful word he had ever heard, thinking about 
what might have been was too much, unbearable.

"I thought about it you know." Her gaze had returned 
to the bottle and its abused label.  "I thought mostly 
about the things I'd got wrong."

"Regretting things you'd done?" He wasn't certain he 
wanted to have this conversation, such an acute 
reminder of her mortality, but at the same time, he 
knew he didn't want to call a halt to this rarest of 
moments, most sought after of gifts - Scully really 
talking to him, sharing thoughts with him.

"No."  She curled her lower lip between her teeth 
conveying an image of uncertainty, nervousness. When 
he dragged his eyes up from her mouth to meet her 
eyes though, there was nothing there that even 
remotely resembled uncertainty.  Fierce, intense and 
as certain as he had ever seen her. "Not the things 
I'd done, Mulder.  The things that I hadn't," and 
just in case he hadn't got it, just in case he was 
so damn impervious that he might possibly misread 
her eyes, her body, along with her words, she decided 
to clarify for him.  "The things *we* hadn't done. 
Still haven't done.  That we want to do." 

He'd actually thought for a moment of asking her 
to just confirm that he was understanding correctly 
what it was she was saying; could she actually mean 
what he thought she meant, hoped she meant?  He'd 
got as far as 'Scully...?' before she slid off the 
bar stool, pushed her hand deep down into his pocket, 
retrieving his room key and holding it up in front 
of his face with her own.

"Your place or mine?" 


Fifteen minutes later and they were in one or other 
room. She couldn't recall which one they'd ended up 
in, and it mattered no more now than it had then. 
That first touch of lips never got the chance to 
become a kiss.  Like the tiniest of snowflakes 
setting off an avalanche, once lips brushed bodies 
crashed, careless, frantic and somehow knowing, 
even in the unfamiliarity. It was hardly a moment 
of high romance, as clothing was pulled at, tangled 
and finally shed amid muttered expletives when 
fingers failed to keep up to the speed of intent.

Naked they'd landed together on the bed, mumbled 
apologies from both as he shifted his arm from where 
he'd pinned her head to the bed by her hair, and she 
eased her knee away from where it had smacked his thigh, 
causing him to yelp before the relief of her having 
missed the perilously close and far less resilient 
target registered.

Flesh on flesh, they'd tasted the salt of perspiration, 
the faded soap of morning showers in the creases of 
each other's flesh. Tracing curves, hands and mouths 
exploring with fervent haste, like two over eager 
adolescents trying desperately to beat some imagined 
curfew.  When she'd rolled onto her back, tugging at 
him so he'd follow, sliding an eager hand between 
them to guide him into place, he'd felt it and he'd 
known as soon as her fingers closed around him that 
this was already over. Less than seconds later, before 
she'd had time to move her hand, to maneuver him into 
position, she felt it too in the tightening of the 
muscles in his back, in the vibration of his mouth 
against her ear, which he would later assert was a 
groan while she insisted on squeak.  It came as no 
surprise to either of them then as he came in her 
hand.

The amount of alcohol they'd consumed had probably 
been a good thing. Stone cold sober, he had little 
doubt he'd have found this extremely humiliating 
instead of somewhat hilarious.  Sober, she had no doubt 
she'd have inadvertently embarrassed him by reciting 
intending-to-comfort platitudes and statistics concerning 
premature ejaculation. As it was, he slumped against 
her, muttered "sorry" into her ear and, after only a 
brief look of indignant concern, joined in when 
she burst out laughing.

Completely sober, inhibitions might have been gathered
from where they lay, scattered randomly around the 
room with their discarded clothing. One or the other 
might have remembered that it was only around 5.00 p.m. 
and so mustered the energy or inclination to actually 
move, to get up and try to reclaim what was left of 
the day. They certainly wouldn't have fallen asleep 
tangled around each other, each indifferent to the 
slightly beer soured breath of their bed partner.  

She'd awoken sometime later, when it was not quite 
light but not yet dark outside. Her head felt slightly 
leaden, her mouth too dry, tongue alcohol furred, but 
these sensations were over-ruled by the other, 
unfamiliar but decidedly more pleasant ones of the 
hot mouth pressed against the nape of her neck, and 
the fingers tracing random shapes over the skin 
of her inner thigh.  She mumbled something that she 
intended to be his name, and he acknowledged her 
wakened state with a sentence so rapidly expelled 
she knew he'd been laying there, waiting and rehearsing.

"We were both drunk earlier, Scully."

She understood that the words were more than mere 
statement of fact, knew he was offering her a get out 
clause.  Confess inebriation and walk away - no hard 
feelings.  However, the hand he hadn't removed from 
her inner thigh, and the way he whispered with his 
mouth so close to her ear that she felt rather than 
heard the words, told her he neither wanted her to, 
nor really believed, she would take it.

"We were," she confirmed, twisting her head so she 
could meet his eyes. "But I'd say, Mulder, that we 
were sober enough to know exactly what we were doing..." 
and she chose that moment to emphasize her point by 
clamping her legs firmly together, imprisoning his 
exploring hand where he could feel the tickle of her 
hair against his thumb. "Just drunk enough to actually 
do it at last." 

"Though in my case not well."

She frowned for a moment, not willing to battle against
his self deprecation, whatever it's origins, but saw
only the slightest touch of doubt behind the laughter
in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he continued.  "I'm not usually 
that trigger happy.  It'd just been a while."  He 
grinned then, genuine, wide, and slightly feral as 
he pulled his hand free from where she had warmly 
imprisoned it, rolled away from her before turning and 
clambering, straddling her with arms and legs, but not 
actually touching as he bowed his head toward her, 
claimed her lips with his own, mumbling into her mouth.

"You got a bit of time to spare then, Scully?  Because 
I'm certain I can do better."

He was right; he could do better - or at least he could 
do longer.  Hard and heavy, he slid into place, whilst 
kisses, shared, sloppy and frantically passionate covered 
faces and necks as he began to move inside her.  Slow 
and steady -  almost *too* slow and steady; she imagined 
she could hear the internal litany he was doubtless 
working through, his determination to delay written 
clearly over his face, and illustrated by the almost 
unnatural restraint in his movement.

She dug her heels into the mattress, arching her pelvis 
up, grinding, rotating against him to get the contact, 
the pressure she needed, so that every stroke touched 
everywhere that needed touching. Nails, sharp against 
his buttocks, she clawed him to her, acknowledging with 
a sharp squeeze his chuckled response to her mumbled 
plea for more...more, as he continued his measured 
movements, his carefully paced thrusts.

That early evening together, sober, though both 
cotton headed from the drink, cognizant and both 
more than willing, they'd had sex that was, quite 
frankly, completely and utterly...OK. 
 
Certainly more rather than less enjoyable.  Certainly 
far from the worst sex that either of them had ever 
had by a long shot, but in terms of *performance* 
nowhere near the best either. No bells had rung, no 
stars exploded, no tears of wonderment and joy were 
shed. But then, they had at least both ended the 
process satisfied, even if he had needed to ask her 
before he knew for certain. Both were still smiling, 
and as they enfolded each other and closed their 
eyes to try and claim a few more minutes sleep, an 
unspoken consensus had been reached, that it was 
something that might certainly be worth doing again 
sometime. Definitely worth doing again. Probably 
soon.

Like every other aspect of their then five year old
partnership, it had taken time to get it really 
right. They'd had to learn, or rather unlearn their 
expectations of each other. Through the first few, 
most definitely enjoyable but somehow cautious and 
almost uninspiring times, they gradually became 
confident enough with this new shared physicality, 
to forget trying to perform, to impress, and to 
simply be themselves.  

Where she had envisaged Mulder as a fierce, demanding
lover, she'd discovered a man who moved over and 
within her with a tenderness and intensity akin to 
worship.  Where he had always recognized her passion, 
he had nonetheless envisaged a woman who would want 
lights dimmed, who'd take everything slowly and 
seriously and found instead a red headed dervish, who 
fucked with a mixture of fury and inventiveness 
that often left him figuratively, if not literally 
on his knees before her, unsure whether he should be 
offering thanks or a prayer for his life.

Both discovered that they liked what they found in 
the other, and as she came to recognize the passion 
and the intensity behind the gentle touches and 
caresses, and he the tenderness and love behind her 
fierce demands, there gradually evolved between them 
a virtually perfect mix of companionship and pleasure.


Back in the present reality of this stage-set attic room,
she swallowed back the coppery salt of blood and tears.

"I didn't stay because the sex was good, you idiot," she 
muttered again into the darkness.  "You've got it all
backwards.  The sex got great because I stayed." 

                    ************************

Monday, early evening.  Scully's apartment.


After what Langly had sarcastically estimated to be 
his four thousandth demand for them to hurry up as 
they worked to access IAFIS and run the prints, the 
Gunmen had actually ordered him out of their place 
and insisted he go home.  He'd protested; actually 
he'd shouted, threatened, thrown insults and out-and-out 
refused but they were adamant, outnumbered him and made 
clear that they were willing to use force.

"We're doing the best we can for you, man,"  Langly had
snapped at him.  "You bitching isn't going to get things 
done any faster, but the extent you're pissing us off 
might very well make it slower.  You're in the way." 

Storming back into her apartment, slamming the door 
behind him, he'd immediately started pacing angry 
circles, mindlessly marching round and round, trying 
to literally stamp out some of the impotent fury he 
felt. Only when his legs ached from the effort of it 
did he sink to the couch.  So tired, his arm only 
supported his intention to pick up and re-read the 
MPD reports as far as a feeble half stretch towards 
the coffee table before it fell back, leaden into 
his lap. Sighing deeply he closed his eyes, too 
exhausted even to bother shifting from his 
uncomfortable upright position as he finally let sleep 
overtake him.

So exhausted was he that, for the lack of any real 
good the short sleep did him, it might as well have 
been two minutes rather than two hours later that 
the phone rang. He jerked forwards, an involuntary 
response to the shrill ringing, and struggled for a 
moment to bring his thoughts into focus, trying to 
shake away the cobwebby remnants of a Dali-esque 
dream, in which he'd seen Scully's face melting over 
tree branches, hands marking time over her visage, 
while his featureless attacker stood by, knife in hand, 
chanting 'tick tock' over and over, reminding him even 
in his unconsciousness that time was passing and he 
was getting nowhere.

Still moderately disorientated then, he fumbled with 
the phone, finally getting it in place and managing a 
slurred 'hello', only to be greeted by...

Silence.

"Don't fuck me about, boys," he pleaded, pushing his 
fingers across his forehead, into his hair, almost 
trying to shake himself into alertness. "Tell me what 
you've got."

"Mr. Mulder."

The address was delivered in a tone that suggested that 
the speaker was actually addressing dogshit; in fact, 
one that sounded as if they felt that conversing with 
a giant turd might actually be a far more enjoyable 
exchange than the one they were going to have. Still 
sleep fogged he screwed up his face in confusion, his 
brain not quite up to speed.  He knew the voice, but 
the form of address momentarily confused him, not 
merely because of the tone but because...?  Because...?  
Clarity. Because she usually called him Fox! 

"Mrs. Scully."  Of course, he'd promised to call her 
when she returned, and he'd completely forgotten, 
though a quick glance at the clock on Scully's shelf 
told him she couldn't have been home for more than a 
couple of hours.  "I'm sorry, I would have called you..."

"Shut up!"

He actually jerked the receiver away from his ear, and 
stared at it with surprise and alarm.  He had seen 
Margaret Scully in many different situations over the 
years, had heard her in many different moods and 
certainly had no reason at all to presume she'd be 
wearing any variety of a good one given the circumstances,
 but never, ever - not even for a second, would he have 
imagined her capable of conveying such complete and 
utter loathing in two such small words and it shook 
him to his core. Cautiously, almost as if the piece 
of plastic were a deadly snake, he brought it back 
to his ear and repeated her name, quietly and 
questioningly.

"Mrs. Scully?  What's wrong?"  The laugh that came 
down the line was about as far removed from humor as 
could be, scornful and incredulous.

"How dare you," she hissed at him.  "How dare you put 
me through that nightmare again, just to try and 
cover your own back. How *dare* you."

If he'd have known ahead of time that he was going to 
find himself subject to the vehement attack she 
launched at him through the phone, he'd have predicted 
that, coming in the wake of Skinner's accusatory 
disbelief, he would be furious, defensive, that he 
would have ranted and raged his denial. The power of 
her rage muted him however, and he stood and 
listened in slack-jawed incredulity as Margaret 
Scully roared. 

He listened, stunned, as she threw the same 
accusations Skinner had skirted around - that he 
had struck Scully, beaten her, hurt her one time 
too many, so that now she feared to be around him. 
She obviously wasn't prepared to wait for any denial 
that might have been forthcoming, slapping down 
arguments he hadn't even had the chance to form with 
words she claimed were her daughter's, read she 
informed him, from the letter that had been waiting 
for her on her return.  Only when she appeared to 
have literally run out of breath, to have exhausted 
herself with her tirade, did he speak.

"There were letters here too, Mrs. Scully. 
Faked..."

"I know my daughter's writing, Mr. Mulder."

He nodded as if she could see him. "Yes. But...but 
I think they must have been dictated to her.  And 
then he'd have mailed it to you."

"It wasn't mailed Mr. Mulder." He could hear her 
temper rising again. "It was propped up on the 
kitchen table - exactly where I'd expect Dana to 
have left any letter. It wasn't mailed by any 
mythical kidnapper.  It was delivered by Dana."

"It wasn't, Mrs. Scully."  He hated how pleading 
his voice sounded at that moment.  "I know...I know 
it's hard for you to accept but..."

She cut in, her voice razor honed ice.

"Can't you stop this now?  At least have the common 
decency to own up to what you've done, instead of 
continuing with this farce.  It's despicable."  He 
did start in with the denial then, but it was 
pointless.  She had no intention of listening to him,
and just spoke over his almost desperate refutation.  
"I don't know what you hope to gain with this 
performance, but it's pointless. Dana wrote this 
letter; she also delivered this letter, letting 
herself in, picking up my mail for me, watering my 
plants...or are you going to claim some deranged 
individual was kind enough, took the time, to do 
that for me?"  

He was trying to process that, peripherally aware 
that there sounded as if something important might 
be lurking behind the words, but nothing was falling 
into place and she was still talking, her words 
demanding his attention.

...in your trying to convince me, when you have to 
realize..."

"Mrs. Scully, please..."

"Don't 'please' me," she hissed, and he could 
practically hear her blockades go up. "This 
conversation is over. I don't want to hear from you 
again, Mr. Mulder, and hopefully Dana will have enough 
sense when she gets back to ensure the same applies 
to her.  Goodbye."

'But she's not coming back,' he whispered to the dead 
tone that followed the rapid click.  'Not by herself,' 
and he dropped the phone down onto the table, suddenly 
overwhelmed by the maelstrom of emotion the call had 
aroused.

What the hell was it about him that made it so easy 
for people who should of - hell no, who *did* know him 
better, to believe that he'd ever hurt her?  Christ 
knows, he had his faults, and an occasionally rampaging 
temper was one of them, but hurting Scully ...any woman, 
but certainly Scully?  It was not just beyond 
consideration; it was beyond capability.  He not just
 wouldn't but couldn't. 

However tempting it was at that moment in time, to 
succumb to the combination of self-pity, righteous 
indignation and exhaustion and just curl up into himself, 
he realized he could not allow himself the indulgence. 
Whatever he didn't know at this point, there was one 
thing of which he was certain.  Scully had delivered 
no letter to her mother's house - at least not of her 
own accord, which meant she had either been accompanied 
- coerced, forced, or altogether absent. Maybe a 
neighbor had seen something or someone that could 
give him something to act on.  Maybe, if he'd been 
inside the house, either with or without her, if 
he'd been confident enough of his success to take 
the time to go round watering plants, he might have 
been careless, have left some hint, some clue?  To 
investigate either, he realized with heavy heart, 
he was going to have to go and try and battle 
Margaret Scully's wrath with his unsubstantiated 
reason.

He'd just opened the car door to climb in when his 
cell phone rang.  Inhaling, fortifying himself against 
another possible tirade he answered it.

"Mulder."

"We've got a name for you," Frohike said without 
preamble. "Milne.  The prints belong to a James Milne." 

"I'm on my way."  Frohike was saying something else 
but Mulder had dropped the phone into the passenger 
seat. Within seconds he'd pulled out into the road, 
turning and driving off in completely the opposite 
direction to the one he'd had in mind only moments 
before. 

                        *******************        
  

Frohike and Langly had been hunched over their 
respective keyboards when he'd arrived, still 
searching. 

"What have you got for me?"

Byers had gestured toward a printer and surprisingly 
few pages laying in its tray.

"That's it?"  He hadn't intended his voice to sound 
as critical as it undoubtedly had and he heard 
Langly hiss and mutter 'Told you we should have 
waited to call him', so raised up his hand in a 
placatory gesture.

"I'm sorry.  It's not a criticism.  I was just 
hoping..."

"Yeah well this is real life, Mulder," Langly barked.
 "It's not some TV show. We can't just tap a few 
buttons and find the answers to any and everything 
in a few seconds."

"I know."  He'd given a quick, tight smile, waiting 
until Langly shrugged his acceptance of the apology 
inherent in the brief gesture, before speaking again.  
"So what *have* you got?"

Frohike spun round on his seat.  "Name.  But I told 
you that. That was relatively easy once we managed 
to get in and run the prints.  He's been arrested 
twice.  The most recent's the giveaway.  This is 
definitely the guy you're after."  Mulder raised a 
questioning eyebrow, and Byers stepped forward to 
take over the narrative.

"He was charged with three cases of homicide, one of 
attempted, in September '98.  We're still trying to 
get a transcript from the actual trial and all we've 
got so far just comes from newspaper reports. We've 
identified the first two victims and the attempted, 
but the third's eluding us. Seems to match your...er..." 
He waved his hand about, some non definable gesture.  
"Your pattern though. First two were men.  The 
survivor a woman and..."

"Escaped or acquitted?" Mulder interrupted.  "I mean, 
given that that was only seven months ago, it's one 
or the other right?"  

He was hoping for escaped.  An escaped convict meant 
a wanted man and so regardless of whether he could get 
anyone to believe that he had Scully, any clue as to 
his whereabouts would have to be officially pursued.  
Byers shattered the fragile hope though.

"Acquitted.""  He shrugged almost in apology, appearing 
to understand the brief flash of disappointment in 
Mulder's eyes. "It made us wonder if he was your guy, 
or if the prints were just some coincidence..." He 
ignored Mulder's disbelieving scowl and turned to 
hand him the few printed sheets.  "But like I said, 
by following up on the newspaper reports into the 
murders of the first two victims we found that they 
were both cut up..."  He hesitated, a hint of the 
squeamishness he'd displayed in Scully's apartment 
earlier evident.  "Cut up in the same sort of way 
you were. The timing fits with what you were saying 
earlier too.  Prior to his arrest in this case, he'd 
been in residential psychiatric care for 5 years.  
That was the consequence of his first arrest, when he 
didn't get off.  Aggravated assault."

"Against?"

Langly's voice cut across the room, informative now 
rather than irritated. "On to it now.  Soon as, OK?"

"Family homes?  Relatives?"  Trying to reign in his 
impatience, remembering where that'd got him earlier 
and realizing too, that they were certainly doing 
their best, as fast as possible, he bit back the urge 
to start issuing demands. "I need an address."  

"Soon as, Mulder.  Soon as."

The searching had continued, with Mulder, much to his 
chagrin, relatively superfluous to its execution.  
Whereas he could process the information they found, 
it was not appearing rapidly enough to either hold his 
attention or actually provide any sort of direction.  
His tendency to hurry them along, to direct and
dictate, was obviously causing irritation despite 
his attempts to suppress the impatience in his voice.  
He recognized too that each of these three men had 
their own particular affection for Scully, and the 
lack of discernible progress was breeding in each of 
them a frustration that would not stay subdued in 
the face of criticism.

When he'd finally stopped pacing and hovering, sliding 
his sleep deprived bones into a chair in the corner, 
he fought the immediate somnolence, unable to let go 
of the idea that the moment he closed his eyes that one, 
vital piece of information that could lead him to 
Milne's door would come in and that,  in slumber, he 
would miss it.  The fact that they would wake him the 
instant that happened refused to register. It was a 
losing battle however; his body's determined need 
winning out over his mind's ineffectual defense, and 
before too many minutes had passed, his irregular 
snoring joined the noise of keyboards clicking.

For just over five long hours he slept.

When he woke it was suddenly, almost violently.  He 
jerked up out of the seat, cursing and grabbing at 
his neck, the muscles of which screamed their protest 
at having been so inelegantly arranged far too long for 
comfort. For a moment all he felt was a strange sense 
of guilt, the idea that he'd been wasting time, not 
paying attention, when there was work to be done 
finding her.

He'd traipsed awkwardly toward where they all still 
sat, stretching and rubbing aching joints as he went. 
He'd gratefully grabbed at the mug Byers held out,
containing some substance that appeared to be
impersonating coffee, gulping a mouthful and then
very nearly spitting it back into the cup.

"Jesus, that tastes like crap!  What is it?"

"De-caf." 

"And you drink this voluntarily?  No wonder you 
all look like hell."

And indeed they did. They all stared at him, as bleary 
eyed as he still felt, and the strange sense of guilt
he'd awoken with was usurped by weary resignation as 
he saw in their almost apologetic countenances that 
the address he needed was not awaiting him.

"Nothing?" he asked, expecting the question to be 
rhetorical.

"Well, something," Byers told him, but shaking his 
head when Mulder perked up slightly in response. "But 
nothing that looks like it might tell us where she is.  
It's like some jigsaw, and we're pulling out the edge 
pieces, but can't get the actual picture in place."

Mulder sighed.  "OK, hit me with what you have got."

"How'd you want to do this?"

"You got anything specifically relating to where I might 
find him?"

They all shook their heads.

"Then just give me it from the beginning."

"OK. Once we had a name, we'd expected to just be able 
to find the guy, but he's currently invisible.  No credit 
cards, no driving license, no property registered to him, 
no job, not claiming welfare.  Zilch," Langly informed 
him. "It's as if he just disappeared after that court
 case.  We've got the bare bones of his history pretty 
much mapped out until then, but at that point he just 
drops off the radar."

They worked like some strangely awkward, and yet 
perfectly functioning three headed machine, he thought 
as he listened to them.  The narrative was passed 
between them, each picking up where the previous speaker 
ceased, handing him relevant papers, pointing out the 
snippets of information that best illustrated or 
emphasized what was being said. Langly had begun.

"Kid was born in 1966, some place called Somerville.  
That's near Boston. Looks as if he lived there until 
1985, or at least, we've got no alternate address for 
him until then.  In the interim, looks like the 
marriage went bad.  Dad upped sticks and moved to 
England. Parents divorce registered in June '92 and 
the house got sold in August, same year.  Looks like 
mom then moved down here, and took up residence in 
a property owned by a Terrence Giordano in Falls 
Church.  Both those properties have been sold on 
since then; the Somerville house three times and 
the Falls Church twice, with Giordano now living 
just outside Columbia, so there's no connections 
there.  Like we said, father in England. Owns no 
property over here since the Somerville house 
was sold.  Mother deceased.  Milne has a much 
younger sister..."

"How much younger?" Mulder inquired.

"She's sixteen now. Lives in England with the father. 
Paternal grandparents deceased.  No other relatives on 
the father's side. Mother had two sisters.  One - Cheryl 
Robertson, died in '81. The other, Sophie Harding, in 
'87.  Not a family blessed with longevity in their women 
it seems, except for the possible exception of *their* 
mother."

Mulder considered a moment. "Possible exception?"

"Yeah well, we haven't seen any evidence that she's dead, 
but equally, none that she's alive.  And it looks like 
she had her kids late in life; she'd be 96 now, so we're 
presuming deceased."

"Don't presume anything. Find her. Dead or alive. 
Please," he added as a conciliatory afterthought. 
Langly nodded, first at Mulder then towards Frohike, 
inviting him to pick up the ball.

"OK - school records.  Kid wasn't a genius but wasn't 
dumb either.  Nothing stands out, until he suddenly 
drops out at 17.  Now when I first hit this, I thought 
I was searching the wrong damn school records, because 
searching for J Milne, his date of birth - gave me 
Jacqueline not James."  Frohike waved the sheet of 
paper he was referring to as he paused a little whilst 
Mulder waited, willing to indulge the little man in 
the moment of dramatic effect, provided it was just 
a moment.  "But it turns out there's a James *and* 
a Jacqueline listed. They both just drop off the 
school records at the same time.  I dug a little 
more.  Twins - but you'd already guessed that, right?" 
Mulder nodded.  "And she died aged 17. Don't know how 
or why yet.  No record of any absences from school, 
so I'm guessing no long term illness.  Accident 
maybe?  How exactly that ties in with your guy, I 
don't know, except that that's the last we see or 
hear of him until 1985." 

Frohike glanced briefly to his left, and Byers picked 
up his cue and continued the narrative. "I think we 
found the Scully connection, Mulder.  Where did she do 
her degree?"

"Physics?"  he asked and Byers nodded.  "Maryland."

"That's what we thought.  James Milne worked as a photo 
lab technician at The University of Maryland, from '85 
til '86.  His employment records cease at what would 
have been the same time Scully graduated."  

"When she graduated?  Damn!"  He slammed his fist down 
on the edge of the table.  "Well I'm not inclined to 
regard that as a coincidence.  Shit! Fourteen years 
ago?"  He shook his head in dismay before burying his 
face in cupped hands, trying to make sense of what 
he was hearing.  "If this is fourteen years of wanting 
Scully, then that's fourteen year of planning and 
psychosis we've got to defeat."  He spun round suddenly, 
jerkily, and started pacing, muttering unintelligible 
sounds as he attempted to argue and reason with himself.  
"No."  He shook his head determinedly.  "I don't believe 
that. That doesn't fit. That might be where it started 
but I'm pretty damn sure he wasn't on her tail for the 
years between then and when he was committed.  He'd have 
made *some* sort of move during that period of time."

"No, he wasn't." Byers agreed. "We've got records of 
him leaving the country almost immediately after that.  
To England, possibly to live with his father? Nothing 
else on him then until he gets back into the country 
in  '92.  Three weeks later, he's arrested for 
assaulting the aforementioned Terrence Giordano.  
His address on the rap sheet corresponds with that 
of Mr. Giordano, which also corresponds with his 
mother's.  At that point however, mom was very 
recently deceased.  Same day as the assault and 
arrest. According to what we've got here, suicide.  
Not sure of the tie in between that and Milne 
attacking Giordano but he was charged with the assault, 
found guilty, but ended up in a psychiatric hospital 
and not prison. There for five years..."

Mulder interrupted again.  "That's a long time.  He'd 
have done less in prison. Do we know why?  Medical 
records?"

"Uh-huh.  Sorry."  Langly handed him another sheet of 
paper. "This is all we could get from there.  Nothing 
more than basic admin stuff really. Dates, names of 
doctors, but nothing specific to his treatment.  Have 
to say, it's the easiest medical facility we've ever 
hacked in to - maybe because they don't appear
to actually keep anything but the day to day crap on 
computers. Looks like the actual records are hard 
copy."

"So, released after five years," Byers had continued. 
"Three months later, he's back in custody on these 
homicide charges. But he's acquitted and that's when 
he just drops off the radar."

"I need the details on that.  Why he got off.  And 
that's a request, not a criticism," Mulder added, 
directing the remark at Langly, with a tight smile.  
"I know you're doing everything you can guys, and 
I'm grateful, really.  It's just that even with all 
of this, I still don't actually *know* anything 
that's going to point me in his direction." He 
paused, taking another swig of the revolting coffee, 
then unconciously humming to himself as he pondered 
his options. 

"OK then," he said. "We know who he is, 
you're still looking for where he is...which leaves 
me to figure out just what he is."  Chin in palm, 
he tapped his fingers against his own cheek as he 
tried to organize some sort of plan in his head.  
"I'm going to go to..." He flicked through the pages 
he held until he found what he was looking for. 
"...Oak Grove and talk to this Giordano.  I can be 
there and back in less than a day, and it's more 
damn use than I can be sitting here.  He knew the 
mother, knew Milne.  He's the closest thing to a 
connection I can see right now.   After that, there's 
someone else I want to talk to. Can you get me her 
address?"  He pointed to the name on the page in 
front of him.  Frohike turned his face up in 
disbelief.

"You can't just turn up out the blue and hassle the 
chick, Mulder. At least wait til we know what he did 
to her. Besides, after he got off, I doubt she made 
a point of keeping in touch y'know."

"Like I said, Frohike...you need to figure out where 
he is.  I'm after *what* he is."  He turned up the 
the sheet of hospital information that Langly had 
handed him, folding it along the line he wanted to 
emphasise, holding it out for Frohike's attention. 
"And look," he said pointing, "...at where else her 
name comes up."


Twenty minutes later, phone call made and last minute 
ticket booked, he was heading out, on his way to speak 
to Terrence Giordano.  Assuring Byers, who had taken 
on a definite Mother Hen role, that he would be sure 
to eat on the plane, extracting unnecessary promises 
from them that they'd keep searching and would call 
him back the moment they as much as sniffed at an 
address, he was ready to leave.

He turned suddenly as he reached the door.

"Can I ask you guys something?  For an honest answer?"

The three of them shared a somewhat apprehensive look, 
before all turning to face him and shrugging consent 
almost simultaneously.

"Do you believe I'd ever hurt Scully?"

Frohike was the first to speak.  "Well you can't deny
you've really pissed her off on more than a few 
occasions."

"No.  I don't mean like that.  Though I have, I mean 
pissed her off - I know I have.  But I mean *hurt*. 
 Do any of you believe I could raise my hand to her.  
Hit her."

"Hell, man - she'd kick your butt but good if you even
thought about it," Langly laughed, Frohike chuckling his 
agreement.  Byers however didn't laugh.  He stared long 
and hard at Mulder, trying to make some sense of the 
look in his eyes, a sort of desperate pleading that he 
didn't fully understand but that he realized could not 
be appeased by humor.

"No," he answered softly, stepping forward and putting 
his hand on Mulder's forearm.  "You'd never hurt her, 
Mulder. And whether they knew about the two of you or 
not, no-one with an ounce of sense would ever believe 
that you'd do that."  

They stood like that for almost a minute, before Mulder
nodded his head, tipping Byers' hand from his arm as 
he raised his hand, pressing his fingers against his 
eyes as if he could push back in the tears that suddenly 
threatened to fall.

"Thank you," he almost whispered.  "Thank you," and 
before any of them could even think of anything else 
to say, he was gone.

                   ************************

Tuesday morning.


Whilst Mulder headed out towards National to catch 
his flight to Columbia, Scully sat hunched up against 
the pillows on the bed, just staring at the door in 
much the same way she had done throughout most of 
the night.

Despite her exhaustion, despite the feeble pretense 
of security offered by her lamp-against-the-door 
alarm system, she had been utterly unable to fall 
asleep properly.  She'd remained curled up on the 
bed for nearly seven hours, occasionally drifting 
into uneasy slumber, only to jolt violently awake 
mere moments later.  

She'd only shifted off the bed once since he'd left 
the previous evening, wandering almost unconsciously 
to the small room and its water supply, eyeing warily 
the full bottle of water left. It seemed plenty, but 
of course she didn't know whether, particularly after
 what had happened, he'd be returning any time soon, 
and that wouldn't even last her a repeat of the time 
already spent in here so she'd satisfied her thirst 
with just a few careful sips before returning to curl 
up again on the bed, banishing all of the fury, the 
determination and the endless questions and allowing 
the self pity and despair to wash over her in waves.

That pointless self indulgence, as she chose to regard 
it, she pushed aside as the hands of her watch told 
her morning had come round again. Wallowing could take 
her nowhere but down, as so she determinedly tried to 
shake herself back into strong Scully, trying to 
consider what tack she could take when - if - he next 
surfaced.

Still unsure as to the intended conclusion of her 
"cleansing" his determination to achieve this come 
what may, he had made all too clear in his parting 
words.

On one hand it was tempting simply to prepare a 
speech and, on his return subjugate herself before 
him, declare acquiescence to his ambitions with a 
pretty little words - 'yes you're right, I'm dirty, 
you made me clean, let's get on with life - let me 
out of here so we can live happily ever after.' 
Inevitably however, she knew he'd realize that any 
such complete turnabout, even when phrased 
considerably more eloquently, was no more than a ploy.  
Having learnt the hard way that attack was not likely 
to work in her favor, she realized that if she hoped 
to avoid any further violence, she needed to gain his 
confidence - a confidence she had doubtlessly seriously 
compromised with her earlier actions.  She had to 
play the game, but first, she needed to figure out the 
rules.

It was just before 9.00 am when she heard his tread 
on the stairs. He wasn't stamping this time, no 
footstep fanfare heralding his approach.  He spoke 
though the door before it was opened, instructing 
her to get up onto the bed, to sit in the middle of 
it and not move.  Hating her complicity, she 
nevertheless did exactly as he asked, trepidation 
twisting savagely, morphing into a sudden burst of 
terror when the door swung open and she saw the rope 
in his hand.

She couldn't suppress the whimper as he approached 
her.  Assailed by the sudden and grisly, years-old 
memory of the first murder victim she'd ever autopsied; 
a woman who'd been strangled by her husband, the 
twisted rope that had still been embedded in the 
flesh of her neck, she suddenly saw her own like end 
before her.  When he reached down and grabbed her 
left wrist, causing her to cry out with the pain as 
his fingers closed around the bruised and swollen 
flash, the consequence of the blow he'd delivered 
with the gun the night before, he'd actually hesitated 
a moment, looking almost as if an apology was 
forthcoming, before turning his head aside and 
carrying through his intent.  As she realized what 
it was, as the frenzied assault she had dreaded 
turned out to be nothing more than finding her wrists 
secured to the headboard of the bed, her relief 
emerged as a maniacal, hastily bitten back giggle.

She watched as he'd moved between the door and the 
small 'bathroom', providing clean toilet facilities, 
depositing more large bottles of water for her.  
Apparently just protecting himself against the 
possibility of attack when both his hands were
otherwise occupied, he'd released her as soon as 
he'd finished, directing her to sit back against 
the headboard as he delivered an all too welcome 
plate of toast.  Long since cold, the butter he'd 
lathered on turning the slices to greasy, soggy 
squares, she'd nevertheless chewed them down eagerly.

He just sat at the foot of the bed and watched, the 
gun as always pointing her way.  Other than the 
simple instructions he'd given, he seemed disinclined 
to speak, just regarding her in silence, until she'd 
swallowed her last mouthful.  He'd moved toward her
 then, tutting at her when she flinched, but seemingly 
content to let it pass, just reaching down to pick 
up her plate.

"I'll bring you something else later, before lunch,"
he promised.  "Something nice."  

He stared for a moment and she wondered if she was 
supposed to make some declaration of gratitude.  

"And Dana?"

She looked towards him as he moved toward the exit.

"You look a mess.  And, quite honestly, you smell 
bad.  I brought you everything you'd need to look 
after yourself. Do something with yourself won't 
you.  Have a bit of self respect."

She sat staring in slack jawed indignation at the 
door as it closed behind him.  She could pretty 
safely assert that receiving beauty and hygiene 
tips from a lunatic rated pretty near the top of 
the list of 'things not to be happy about' which 
she had mentally compiled over the past few days.  
However, what galled her more than the fact that 
he'd said it, was the undeniable fact that he was 
right.

During her initial period of captivity, the not 
knowing when, or even if, he was going to return, 
had made her wary of using the water he'd left to
 do anything but drink.  Coupled with her 
uncertainty regarding his possible reappearance 
and exactly what he'd do when it happened, she'd 
been more than a little reluctant to divest herself 
of her clothing to even the extent to simply wash. 

It was not particualry any antipathy towards being 
caught in a state of undress that had deterred her; 
she harbored no illusions regarding her chances of 
keeping her modesty intact if he came back, gun in 
hand, demanding a striptease. She just hadn't been 
willing to compromise what she knew to be her very 
limited chance of self defence any further by having 
herself potentialy encumbered by pants around her 
ankles, or shirt around her head when he did return.

So she had cleaned her teeth, splashed water over 
her face but otherwise just tried to ignore the 
scratching, grimy discomfort that arose from going 
unwashed and unchanged for four days.

There seemed no point at all in denying herself the 
pleasure of getting clean any longer though, and 
she shuffled off the bed, heading first for clean 
clothes.

She'd searched through the drawers he'd filled 
with his selection of items from her wardrobe, 
seeking attire that somehow seemed the least 
personal of all of it. She was still resolutely 
determined to forego the underwear, unable to 
shake the repulsive realization that he'd touched 
that which would most intimately touch her. What 
she came across, what she'd passed by in her 
earlier, hastier exploration, was the red
T-shirt, folded up in the middle of a pile of 
others. The original version of this had been 
Mulder's.

She'd tugged it out, screwing it up to her nose as 
if she might smell him on it, despite the knowledge 
that this was crisp and new, unworn and not perfumed 
with with the familiar scent that was Mulder.  She 
wondered briefly at how he'd made the mistake; the 
size clearly indicated that this was not hers, but 
she realized that the clothes Mulder kept at her 
apartment were usually segregated.  She'd allotted 
them their own very specific closet space and drawers.  
He'd have seen them, identified and discounted them, 
searching only her space and it must have been in 
there, caught up with her own and its details taken 
for copy, but never really seen.

Her selection made, she'd padded through the door, 
stripped off her clothes and hurriedly but thoroughly
washed the amassed four days of grease and grime from
skin and hair.  She pulled on her jeans, then stood
and tugged the too big T-shirt over her head, grinning 
at the silly little flare of satisfaction that came 
from knowing he'd inadvertently brought Mulder into 
this place himself, and that she could wear it next 
to her, flaunt it in his face without his realizing.  
It would be some sort of secret strength, ridiculous 
as it sounded even to herself. It wasn't the possession 
that made it matter; it was knowing he'd made the 
mistake. 


He'd left her alone for little more than an hour that 
time, returning with a plate of cookies and a glass of 
milk. He'd looked her over, slowly, intensely, but even 
through her distaste and discomfort, she could see 
that he was displaying none of the lust she feared, but 
rather a general sense of approval at her recently 
soaped and shampooed self. 

That was when he'd started speaking. Not to her but at 
her; little sermons from his end of the bed pulpit, a 
gun wielding preacher delivering his unvarying 
diatribes about the evils of Mulder and the salvation 
offered to her now that she was free from his insidious 
influence.

As he railed against Mulder, she bit back the angry 
retorts and refutations, though she made sure to scowl, 
to frown, to register her discontent to the degree she 
anticipated he would expect, without pushing it past 
what she imagined he would tolerate.

Had she not already been acutely aware of the fact, 
the fresh bruises she bore were reminder enough not 
to openly antagonize him. She was confident that he 
was intelligent enough to recognize dishonesty in any 
sudden indication of complicity, and so she tried to 
play it carefully. Baby steps towards trust.

After that, he'd returned regularly throughout the day, 
the long periods of abandonment apparently at an end. 
As the hours drew on, she found herself almost eager 
to see him, and not just because her stomach welcomed 
the edible offerings he approached her with each time.  
However odious she found the man himself, however 
infuriatingly offensive she found his rambling 
soliloquies, he was company, a break from the monotonous 
tedium of solitude.  

As day moved on, the time between each departure and 
arrival gradually grew less and less, whereas the period 
of time he actually spent in there, talking at her and 
watching her, grew longer each time. Whenever he issued 
instructions, she silently and unhesitatingly obeyed, 
following his dictates as to how she should sit, eat, 
stand, move, with a physical unease that didn't come 
entirely from the ache across her ribs and in her wrist. 
Constant aggression would actually have been easier 
for her to project and manage, than this stilted 
obedience, but it seemed to please him, or at least 
it seemed to be keeping him calm, and that was a
reward she could not discount.

When he closed the door just after 11.00 p.m, bidding 
her a good night, as had become her habit when alone,
she curled up on the bed, closing her eyes and tried to
will herself toward sleep.

"Tell me I'm doing this right, Mulder," she muttered 
into the pillow.  "Tell me this is how I get out of 
here." It took her far longer than it should have done 
to actually stop listening for his answer.


It was only half way through the following day, during 
what was already his fifth appearance in the room, 
when she decided to take her first big step. Subtle if 
it worked, potentially disastrous if it did not.  She 
knew this might be too soon, knew that this slow 
deception would be best executed over a period of weeks, 
not mere days, and she suspected he was actually patient 
enough to wait.  She however, was not.

It might be stupid; in fact she told herself it was 
stupid, even allowed her imaginary Mulder to add his 
agreement of the fact.  Yes, he'd hurt her, but he 
showed no immediate signs of doing so again.  She was 
being fed, being looked after.  A prisoner certainly, 
but a comfortable one. However, she knew that there 
were only two possible outcomes if she didn't manage 
to get herself out of here.  She was either forced 
into complying with his version of togetherness; a 
version he'd left undefined, but which she found 
herself able only to read as the threat of rape, 
however prettily he might choose to dress it up with 
words of love, or else she resisted and died. Neither 
were attractive propositions and every second she 
spent within these walls, brought the twin specters 
closer. 

It was with that in mind then, sat in anticipation 
of his latest anti-Mulder diatribe, that she decided 
she'd give him what he wanted.  At the first mention 
of Mulder's name, she just shook her head as if a 
little confused, as if trying to shake loose the 
connection between the name and the man, and then, 
letting him see on her face the carefully constructed 
moment of faux realization before she hung her head, 
turned her face away slightly, as if she were ashamed 
of the memory evoked.

For the first time since she'd been here, he smiled 
at her.

               ************************

You see, Dana?  You see how right I was?  All you
needed was to get away from him, for me to help you
get away.  

I saw it in your eyes, Dana.  I know you tried to hide 
it, but I saw it there.  Shame.  You realize somewhere 
deep down, in that part of you that he forced you to 
keep hidden away, the decent part of you, that all 
those things you did with him, that he made you do, 
were dirty.

You try to hide it from me, but I saw it.

When I said his name, you had to think.  You had to 
look for the memory. I'm starting to fill that space 
that you'd so foolishly let him occupy.  I'm starting 
to push him out for you, Dana. 

Did you remember him touching you? Did you remember his 
mouth on you, marking you?  Did you remember the taste 
of him, the scent of him, as he moved, sweat heavy 
above you? Did you remember what it felt like to have 
him inside you?  Did you remember what it felt like to 
crawl on your knees for him, roll over like a bitch 
in heat for him?  Did you remember what it was like 
to kiss him, to lick him, to suck him - to demean 
yourself for his satisfaction?

Did you remember how filthy he made you, how filthy 
you were?

Is that what caused your shame, Dana?

Shame is good.  You shouldn't have tried to hide it 
from me.  Shame means you've beginning to understand, 
beginning to realize the truth.

Your shame means you're really mine now, Dana.
It's no longer just my hope.

You're really mine now.

Mine now.

          *******************************

From: IndigoMus1@aol.com
Date: Sat, 15 Jul 2000 09:55:01 EDT
Subject: Seisdeadh by IndigoMuse
Source: direct

Tuesday afternnon.  Oak Grove, SC


Packets of in-flight snack food did not a meal make
Mulder had concluded.  He'd scarfed down handfuls
of peanuts and chips, and his stomach was now 
angrily protesting their addition to the plain 
coffee diet he'd been on over the past few days. 
Three times during the fifteen mile drive between 
the airport and Giordano's home, he'd had to stop 
the car and stand hunched over at the roadside, 
expecting but never actually managing, to throw 
up. He absently wondered why it was that when you 
were so hungry you felt sick from it, actually 
eating just made you feel worse.  Or maybe it had 
just been his choice of food? Scully would probably 
know.  He'd ask her when...

When?

Not soon enough.  Delays that had been longer than 
the short flight itself, and a display of inefficiency 
and sloth which had brought him close to actually 
reaching across and throttling the vacuous girl 
behind the Hertz counter, had carried him seven 
long hours into the afternoon.  Now he found himself 
sitting in a car, watching an empty house, waiting 
for its occupant to return. Terrence Giordano was 
not at home.

He had given up on the futile excursions he'd been 
making at five minute intervals, to knock on the 
door again, peer through the windows and the letterbox, 
after a neighbor had questioned his presence, 
threatened to call the police.  At his attempt to 
reassure her that he was devoid of criminal intent, 
that he was in fact 'police', she had looked him up 
and down, frowning as she took in his crumpled 
clothes and unshaven face and shaken her head in 
disbelief, simply repeating the threat then scurrying 
back into her house to peer at him around the curtains.

He didn't even want to begin to imagine the thunderous 
consequences of Skinner's wrath should he be called
by the police force in a different state and asked 
to confirm the identity of a suspended agent, 
undertaking the non-official investigation a case 
Skinner himself refused to believe in and so he'd 
climbed back into his car and moved further down the 
street, far enough to sit out of sight of his well 
intentioned but nevertheless irritating audience, 
near enough to be able to continue watching for 
Giordano's return.

Just sitting was bad.  Bad because he had nothing but 
his thoughts to occupy his time.  However hard he 
tried to put up shields, to stop the ideas and images, 
they continued to surge forth. Every single second 
he sat in this car just waiting, was another second 
she was in the clutches of this madman and no matter 
how hard he tried to believe, *needed* to believe, 
that she must be all right, must be coping, surviving, 
his professional experience would not allow his 
personal hope to provide comfort.  It conjured up 
images of her battered and broken, the horrendous 
soul piercing fear that he might never see her again 
painting pictures he saw reflected in every surface 
when his eyes were open, burned onto his eyelids when 
they were closed. 

Some two hours after he'd first arrived at this little 
suburban home, two hours of trying not to allow himself 
to be overcome by the worry, a car finally pulled in 
in front of the house. He was out of his own and heading 
down the street toward the back of the trench coated 
figure before they had managed to move more than a few 
steps.

"Mr. Giordano," he called, and the figure turned. 
No; *not* Mr. Giordano, not unless the man was an 
exceedingly talented, though strikingly rotund, 
drag artist.  "Er...*Mrs.* Giordano?" he corrected, 
querying, and the woman gave a quick smile which 
changed almost immediately into a frown.

"No.  I mean yes, but it's Ms.  I'm Terry's sister.  
How can I help you Mr...?"

"Mulder," he supplied.  "Just Mulder.  I'm actually 
looking for your brother, Ms. Giordano.  I wonder if
you can tell me when he'll be home?  I'm hoping he 
can answer a few questions for me..."

She laughed, a sharp yet still warm sound, and leaned 
forward slightly, placing her hand on his forearm.  
"Honey, you want Terry to answer any questions, you 
better have a damn good medium with you."  He screwed 
his face up slightly, confused, and she gave a low 
chuckle, a strange noise that seemed somehow to be 
a mixture of laugh and sob.  "Honey, Terry died just 
two days ago."


Cancer, he'd learnt, fifteen minutes later, sitting 
at her kitchen table, his initial panicked thought 
that Milne may have come after the man, been 
responsible for his demise, dispelled.

"We were expecting it," she told him.  "But it still 
comes as a shock somehow.  But he's peaceful now, and 
that's what matters."

He wasn't really certain how to respond, the automatic 
comforting platitudes that would usually follow such 
an announcement lost to him, as his feeble hopes of 
possibly finding some direction here floated to the 
ground around him. His disappointment must have been 
clearly evident, as she reached out to him, her hand 
gentle on his forearm again, and spoke softly. 

"What did you want to talk to him about, honey?  
Something important?"

Her voice was still warm and curious. He shrugged, a 
silent 'nothing to be done about it now' gesture as 
he answered her.

"I was hoping he could tell me something about James 
Milne."

"That little shit!"

He looked up at her in surprise, both the expletive 
and the viciousness of its delivery seeming grossly 
out of place, coming from this softly spoken woman.

"Oh don't look at me like that, Mr. Mulder," she 
remarked.  "You know what he did to Terry, yes?  Or 
you wouldn't be here would you?  He nearly killed my 
brother back then.  Months before he was right again, 
months.  And he never *really* got over it; not just 
what happened to him, but losing Angie like that too." 

Mulder shook his head, raised his eyebrows 
questioningly, not it appeared, that she seemed to 
need any encouragement to continue.
 
"They said she killed herself because she found him 
with another woman.  It was rubbish.  Utter rubbish. 
See, the thing is that Terry would never have cheated 
on that woman, but even if he had?  Hell, she was no 
more likely to go killing herself over some man than 
I am to grow peacock feathers out my butt and fly 
naked down the street."  

Eyes scanning her 300lb plus frame, he couldn't 
contain the little snort of amusement as he considered 
the image that evoked.  He caught her eye quickly, 
concerned that he may have offended, but his amusement 
was mirrored in her own features.

"Unlikely you'd agree," she smiled.  "And that's my
point. If she'd have been the sort to be *needing* a 
man to get by, she'd have stayed with that husband 
of hers.  God knows, the man wanted her to.  She was 
strong.  Had to be, bringing up that baby on her own 
at her time of life, coping with losing that girl of 
hers the way she did."  She paused at his querulous 
shrug.  "You know about that business, honey?"  

"I know she died. Aged seventeen wasn't it?" he 
asked.

"Killed herself," she retorted.  "Plain damn selfish 
if you ask me. And that's another reason Angie would 
never have done what they said she did.  She'd learnt 
first hand how it is to live with losing someone that 
way.  She'd have never done that to the people she 
loved.  Never."

"And what about James, Ms. Giordano?" he asked, 
wondering if this had been when it all began for the 
man, the catalyst for his descent into violence. As 
the loss of his own sister had shaped the course of 
his adult life, had Milne been similarly led, but 
down a far darker path, by the loss of his?  "Do you 
know how he coped with his sister's death?  Were 
they close." 

"Close?"  She huffed a little noise of indignant 
disgust.  "Oh, they were close.  Too damn close, 
Terry always thought."

"In what way?"

She cocked her head slightly, staring at him with a 
sort of distant curiosity, as if trying to weigh 
whether or not she should tell this story to him.  
She appeared to find in his favor, folding her arms 
on the table top and leaning forward, toward him as 
if inviting him to share in some secret conspiracy.

"Terry said he first saw it in the photographs. 
Everywhere you looked in her house there were 
photographs he said.  Said the house was like a shrine 
to the girl.  Except it was never *just* her.  Always 
the two of them.  Now people say that twins have got 
some sort of connection thing going don't they?  But 
he said it seemed like something more than that, that 
there was just something wrong about it, something 
about the way they were always looking at each other 
in these pictures.  Said it gave him the shivers.

'Anyway, he - Terry that is, hadn't ever met the boy
until he came back from England.  He wasn't a boy
any more then of course, and Terry wasn't too thrilled 
about having him move into his home with them, but
there had been some sort of trouble I think, and 
he'd come back quickly, no real plans made, and Angie 
wanted him there.  He'd been back for over a week, 
and I remember Terry moaning about it on the phone 
to me, telling me that he was just some ignorant 
little punk.  Hadn't so much as set foot out of his 
room, 'cept to go to the bathroom or collect food 
from the kitchen.  Hadn't said a single civil word 
to Terry.

'He decided he'd had enough, he told me.  Went up 
the boy's room.  He just wanted to talk to him, tell 
him he was looking out for his momma, ask if they 
could just try to get along for her sake.  Opened 
the door, and the boy was on the bed, holding some 
magazine up and...well...you know..."

He shook his head.

"You *know*," she insisted, making an unmistakable 
gesture with her right hand, then dropping it rapidly 
as the blush rose on her face.

"Ah," he grinned.  "Yes, I get it."   

"Well Terry was embarrassed he said. Hadn't meant to 
walk in on anything.  The boy had seen him but he 
figured if he just shut the door again, they could 
both pretend he hadn't.  Least said, soonest mended, 
you know?  Except he went to cover himself up, dropped 
what he was holding, and Terry said he realized it 
wasn't any magazine.  It was a picture of Jacqueline.  
Now Mr. Mulder, you tell me there isn't something 
terribly wrong with a grown man doing...*that* when 
he's looking at a picture of his dead sister?"

In actuality, if the supposition being made was correct, 
Mulder didn't think 'terribly wrong' actually came even 
close. It certainly didn't help reassure him in any way, 
as he tried to find a place for that part of the puzzle 
that was James Milne.

"Do you think that incident perhaps precipitated his 
attack on your brother?" he asked her, watching as 
she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing 
on it as she considered the question.

"I don't know. Something sure as hell did.  And like 
I said, it wasn't what they all said it was.  And 
there was that other thing too."

"What thing?"

"Terry tried telling it to the police, but he was 
hurt so bad, and by the time he was able to make 
enough sense for them to understand what he was 
trying to tell them, they didn't believe him, 
thought he was just confused. See, James told 
everyone he'd come home and found his momma dead 
in the tub.  Claims he read the note, was just 
going to call 911 when Terry walked through the
door, and he was just so angry, and shocked...
acting outside of himself or something...all that 
psycho-babble crap his lawyers threw up at his 
trial...that he couldn't help himself. He just 
attacked Terry.  Thing is though, Mr. Mulder, 
Terry always swore blind to me that when he 
stepped through that door, when the kid hit him 
first, before he went down, he heard Angie 
screaming.  Not weak, dying woman screaming, but 
screaming *at* James to stop what he was doing. 
The police just didn't believe it though.  Said it 
couldn't have happened that way, that she was 
already dead by then."

Mulder spoke slowly, trying to connect the dots 
in his head, not wishing to put the idea in her 
head, but wanting to know if it was there already, 
and if it matched what he had surmised. "So you 
think he attacked your brother and *then* killed 
his own mother, dressing it up as suicide?"

She grimaced slightly. "I suppose you think I'm just 
being a stupid old woman?"

"No."  He shook his head.  "No, I don't."  It made 
perfect sense to him.  A horrible kind of sense, but 
sense.  Like the men he'd killed because of their 
entirely superficial presence in Scully's life, like 
the inexplicably aborted attempt to end his own life,
he could see that Terrence Giordano had been a feature 
in his mother's life that James hadn't happy with. 
Unhappy with and therefore removed, leaving the mother 
as his focus.  And this time? Three innocent men had 
been quite literally cut from Scully's life, his 
own amputation attempted, and now Scully was his 
focus. Exactly the same - except that the mother was 
dead, and Scully?  Scully he had to believe, was still 
alive. He had to.

"Ms. Giordano?  I need to find James.  Your brother 
never said anything to you that might help me figure 
out where he could be did he?  I know he and Milne's 
mother had only been together a short while, but did 
he learn anything about her family, special places..."

She interrupted him, a palm raised to request his 
silence.  "A short time?"  She frowned, curious more 
than disapproving.  "It wasn't what I'd call a short 
time.  Terry and Angie had been together for nearly 
five years.  She'd been living with him for three."

Mulder shook his head.  "That's not right.  Angela 
Milne was living in Massachusetts until just a few 
months before she died."

"Honey, I know where she was living and it was with 
Terry.  He'd have long since married her, but I told 
you earlier, her husband didn't want to end things.  
Took him a good while to get his head round the idea 
that she didn't want him back.  It's why he hung on 
to that house of theirs for so long, I reckon." 

"Was she still living in Somerville for *any* of those
five years?"

"No, honey.  I don't know where she was exactly.  Had 
to be somewhere round DC though.  That's where Terry 
met her; she worked in the city somewhere.  I do know 
she lived with her momma. She'd gone there after the 
baby girl was born.  Making a baby's a bad way to try 
and save a marriage, and when it didn't work, well she 
wasn't a young girl anymore, but she still did what 
girls have always done when the going gets rough.  She 
went home to her momma."  


Thanks given and his departure made, Mulder snatched
up his phone out of his pocket, the second his feet 
hit the sidewalk, punching the numbers angrily. He 
didn't even hear it ring before it was picked up, and 
Frohike greeted him.

"Hey, Mulder. I was just about to call you.  We got the 
Doc's address here.  She'd shifted out of DC after the 
trial and it doesn't really look as if she wanted to be 
found." 

Mulder's response was neither grateful nor gracious. 
"I need the grandmother.  Find her."

"Yeah, that's on the list, Mulder.  We're doing our 
best..."

"Well it's not fucking good enough!" he barked, finding 
himself in the grip of a rapidly escalating rage.  
Unjustified, some small corner of his brain cried out, 
inexcusable, but not loudly enough to stop him 
unleashing the brunt of his fury onto Frohike as he 
bellowed down the phone.

"Angela Milne moved out of Somerville around *1984*, 
Frohike. She was living somewhere in or around Washington 
with her mother for nearly eight years. Milne moved with 
her.  How the fuck did you miss that?  It was so damn 
obvious too.  Why the hell would a kid from all the way 
over in Massachusetts end up in a crappy job in Maryland?  
He had to have been more local.  You should have seen 
that!"

"Well *you* didn't," the accusatory and defensive voice 
replied and the truth in the words only served to raise 
his ire.

"Don't get smart with me, Frohike. This isn't a game.  
Scully's *life* is at stake here."

"We're aware of that, Mulder."  The little man's voice 
was icy cold now.  "And it's that fact alone that's 
keeping me from hanging up on you right now. We've been 
working our asses off for you here. For her. 'Thank you' 
is not required, but abuse is not accepted.  Now, you 
want this address or not?"

He rattled it off before Mulder could reply, pausing for 
a few seconds at the end and then repeating it.

"You got that?"

Mulder recited it back, ensuring he'd committed it to 
memory, then grunted a noise that might reasonably be 
interpreted as a 'yes' down the phone.

"Good." The tone was attempted sarcasm, but it emerged 
not unmarked by hurt.  "We'll get back to you as soon 
as possible with the other." 

He would have said thank you, he told himself, but he 
wasn't given the chance. The line was already dead.

"Shit!"  He slammed the phone down into the passenger 
seat, then grabbed it up again immediately, ready to 
call back and apologize.  A few deep breaths...and he 
put it down again.  Later.  When he was calmer and 
Frohike less raw. 

Later. 

                      **************************


Wednesday, Attic room.

It was only after he smiled, only after that silent 
indication that he'd been fooled and that he was ready 
to believe he'd broken her, that Scully started to talk.  
She began with a display of shyly mumbled words, little 
'thank yous' and 'uh-hu's' that pretended she was 
listening to him with a coyly reluctant interest, and 
not the dark contempt she actually felt. 

She had never considered herself a particularly 
accomplished flirt, never having really felt the need.  
She had either stood back, wanting and waiting, or 
she had simply stepped forward and taken when the 
waiting became too much. That little in-between dance, 
the suggestive, inviting begging she had always 
considered it to be, she had always regarded as 
somehow beneath her, and so it was a game she had 
rarely chosen to play.

How much more demeaning was it now then, she 
wondered to herself, as she doled out the carefully 
measured responses, calculated to entice, not a man 
she wanted, respected, desired, but one she despised, 
who revolted and frightened her?  How pathetic that 
her first conscious attempt at flirting since High 
School, was ultimately intended to provide her, not 
with entanglement, but with escape.  It was with 
this promise to herself in mind then, that she 
played, and judging by his ever widening grins, and 
pleased acknowledgments, she was doing so with some 
aplomb.

The more her measured vocabulary grew, the more relaxed 
his attitude became.  The nods of agreement, the 
murmured assent she tagged on to the end of each 
anti-Mulder spiel were the hardest part of the 
performance, but the part that seemed to please him 
the most.  As the hours passed by, she noticed the 
gradual shift from his returning to the room with 
little snacks, and staying for a while, to his 
staying and leaving the room only to quickly gather 
food, to make her coffee or bring her juice, returning 
in minutes.

Those few minutes of peace were welcome respite from 
the sheer effort of just being in his presence.  Even 
with the threat of violence it would entail, her fury 
would be far easier to maintain than this sham.  That 
was in part why she was trying to rush him she knew.  
She had little confidence in her ability to 
convincingly carry the act on for any prolonged period 
of time.  

The short absences also gave her the welcome opportunity 
to hurriedly use the small toilet.  Her pride already 
battered by her compliance to his will, however necessary 
it was, she just couldn't bring herself to add to the 
humiliation by having to ask his permission to get down 
off the bed and go, found herself horrified by the idea 
that he would actually be able to *hear* her.  She 
scurried off then, each time the lock turned behind him, 
doing what needed to be done.  She'd then take a mouthful 
of the bottled water, swill it round and spit it away; a 
pointless gesture to try and wash away the bitter taste 
of the lies.


Still the gun never left his hand, though he seemed 
to have stopped trying to constantly remind her of 
its presence, no longing waving it about in front of 
her in unspoken threat.  He began asking instead of 
telling her where and how to sit, then not instructing 
at all, just watching carefully, and smiling that 
oddly childish smile each time she performed as he'd 
hoped she would.

From listening, to interjecting, to speaking, to 
asking.  Step by baby step, as the hours passed, she 
played his game, subtly flattering and appeasing, 
pandering to his ego's need to impress by asking 
questions she had no interest at all in hearing the 
answers to, slowly leading to the ones she wanted to 
ask. 

Like a couple on a blind date, she thought, the 
analogy one that nauseated her as she imagined sitting 
across some candlelit table top sipping wine, with a 
cold blooded killer who saw himself as some bizarre 
savior and she as his prize. She almost laughed aloud 
at herself as she wondered why that seemed so much 
worse than the reality; sitting on a bed with the 
personification of the madman in picture of her 
imagination?

Late morning to afternoon, afternoon to evening, 
evening to night, they sat and they talked.  She 
learnt he'd never owned a pet, that he rarely watched 
TV, that he had an allergy to mushrooms. He hated 
baseball, loved football. Never touched alcohol, 
preferred tea to coffee.  All inconsequential crap 
that she couldn't care less about.  In among the 
trivia though, she fished for real facts, things 
that might answer the questions she didn't dare 
push him by asking outright.

His name was James, he told her, not Jamie, even 
as an affectionate derivation.  He hated Jamie.  
He had two sisters, though she never got to learn 
their names as he deflected any further questions 
about them.  Photography was a hobby; he had his 
own darkroom in the house, which at least told her 
where the photographs of the three dead men had 
come from. As she'd smiled inanely to cover her 
distress, he'd hinted at his plans for them, once 
she was wholly *recovered*.  He wouldn't mind 
holidaying in Europe.  How did she feel about 
Italy?  Not England though; bad memories, he'd 
mumbled. Claire, he might have said, and Katie.  
They'd let him down and he didn't want to talk 
about them.  They were in the past.  She was 
his future. When she'd asked him who Susan was, 
after he'd mentioned the name, alluding to the 
present tense, he'd just grinned.  

"Girlfriend?" she'd inquired, with a grotesque 
distortion of her face which she hoped he'd 
interpret as a smile.  "Should I be jealous?"  He 
just laughed. 

"Not any more."  He didn't make clear which part of 
the question he was answering.  "She...?  Well, let's 
just say, she wasn't good enough."  The way he said 
it set anticipatory fingers of fear dancing along 
her spine.

She had no revelations of her own to make; he knew 
it all already it appeared.  He told her where Bill 
was living, what Charlie did.  Offered condolences 
for Melissa's death, apologizing for his delay in 
doing so.  So sad for her mother, he'd told her, 
looking as if he not only meant it but that it 
mattered to him and it was here that curiosity turned 
to clumsy haste.

"How do you know my mother?"  It was the first 
question she'd asked so blatantly, the first she 
hadn't dressed up as some opening for him.  She was 
issuing a demand rather than asking a question, a 
fact made clear by her tone.  He just stared, said 
nothing, but she saw his fingers tighten slightly 
on the gun and realized that he wasn't as completely 
taken in as his behavior had suggested.  "I mean..."  
What *did* she mean, she wondered?  What could she 
say to reform that into something that could 
instantly reassure him?  "I mean...if you know her, 
then surely I'd know you, wouldn't I?  I'd remember 
meeting you somewhere and I don't.  I'd like to 
remember when we first met."

When he smiled at her, she sank back against the 
pillows in the relief that she'd obviously got it 
right.  She couldn't have anticipated at all what he 
was about to tell her, and so she had no idea of just 
how badly in fact, she'd just fucked up.

              ************************************


Whilst Scully had been in the early, silent stages of 
her attempt to convince Milne of her conversion to his 
strange brand of faith, Mulder had been pacing the floor 
in front of the information desk at Columbia Metro, 
trying to calculate whether, having missed his originally 
intended return flight due to the impromptu two hour stake 
out in front of the Giordano house, it was going to work 
out quicker for him to wait for the next flight, fly 
back to Washington and then drive toward Richmond to 
the address that Frohike had given him, essentially back 
in the direction he would have just come from, or just 
to forgo the flight altogether and drive directly.  There 
was actually less than an hour in it and it was in favor 
of making the drive but however desperately he wanted to 
get back to the area he was now certain Scully could be 
found in, he realized that killing himself by falling 
asleep at the wheel would be somewhat of an excessive 
exercise in futility.  For a saving of less than sixty 
minutes, he was better off climbing aboard the plane, and 
trying to sleep the two hour journey, so he could at least 
stay conscious long enough to drive at the other end.

He had briefly entertained the idea of calling Frohike and 
offering the apology that he knew was due, but he couldn't 
shake the idea that if they'd only have figured it out, if 
they'd only have followed up on the whereabouts of the 
grandmother instead of just blithely assuming that her advanced 
age must automatically place her in the realm of the deceased 
then he quite possibly wouldn't have needed to travel all this 
way to learn that Milne was almost certainly somewhere around 
Washington, in a house that could probably be traced to the 
grandmother.  The more he thought about it, despite the 
logical and the definitely-grateful-for their-help side of 
him piping up to remind him that he was being irrational 
and unfair, his irritation just grew. he phone call wasn't 
made.

Whilst Scully had been curled up on top of the bed,
muttering into the darkness her plea for affirmation of 
her scheme from a man not present, that man had twisted 
in his seat, thousands of feet above the ground, as her 
voice permeated the miasma of his dreamless sleep.

"You're doing great, Scully," he'd muttered aloud, in a 
voice so sleep sedated that he sounded drunk,  causing the 
woman seated next to him to glance over suspiciously, and 
try to cram as much of herself as possible into the side 
of her seat furthest away from him.  "And we're going to 
get you out of there."  

And it was as Scully dropped her head, faked her hame 
for Milne's benefit, that Mulder finally pulled up outside 
the house of the woman he hoped could sharpen the focus on 
the blurry picture he was forming of the twisted mess that 
was James' Milne's psyche.
 
                  ********************


"Dr. Susan Vincent?"
 
The woman nodded, her smile so obviously the rehearsed
contortion of someone playing hostess against her will.
Her eyes were empty, her actual features indicated that
she was someone who had not known humor for far too
long.  His initial demeanor, the prickly rage he been 
wearing like a hair shirt since his little telephone 
spat with Frohike, dispersed a little.

"My name's Mulder - Special Agent Mulder with the FBI."  
He took a moment to hope she wouldn't require 
confirmation of that from his absentee badge but she 
merely nodded her acceptance of the information and 
stood waiting for whatever was coming next.  "I'd like 
to talk to you about James Milne."

It was as far as he got before an unmistakable mask of 
pain descended over her face, muting him.  She stepped 
back instantly, trying to jerk the door shut and it 
was only his rapidly inserted foot that prevented it 
from being slammed in his face.  She looked at his foot 
before turning her face up to his but somehow failing 
to meet his eyes.

"I can't help you, Agent Mulder.  I just can't.  Some 
things just have to be left alone. You have *no* idea 
what that man is capable of.  Now go - please."  Without 
waiting for a response she turned away from him, already 
starting to push the door against his foot as if she 
could crush him into compliant departure.

"Dr. Vincent?"  She turned back to face him, head 
already shaking, refusal set firm on her face.  She 
faltered though when she saw what he was doing.  She 
had expected a repeated entreaty.  She had not expected 
to see the man on her doorstep pull his shirt out of 
his pants and begin to unbutton it, a clumsy performance, 
a bland and almost macabre striptease. If nothing else 
it certainly got her attention.  

"You're wrong.  I know exactly what he's capable of," 
and he let his shirt fall open, an illustration to 
accompany the words.  Though the cuts were cleaner 
and well on the way to being healed, though the bruises 
were beginning to fade, he knew the image was still a 
shocking one.  And yet she didn't flinch, didn't show 
any reaction at all beyond a resigned shrug and this 
reaction, or lack thereof, filled him with terror as 
he contemplated what it was she must know, what 
it was she must have experienced herself at his hands.  

"He's got my partner, Dr. Vincent. He's got my..."  
Suddenly and inexplicably words failed him.  His what?  
Girlfriend, lover, significant other?  As he tried to 
find the right word she saved him from the struggle, 
stepping back and opening the door with a shrug of 
resigned invitation.

"I suppose you'd better come in."

Stepping into her hallway, rebuttoning and tucking 
his shirt as he walked, he'd had to step over and 
round the piles of newspapers, unopened letters and 
countless flyers that littered the narrow space.  
She led him into a small study, as cluttered as 
the hallway, papers and books less stacked than 
discarded, dirty glasses sunk in the dust that 
coated every visible surface.  The entire room was 
buried in the litter of indifference and he wondered 
briefly how it was actually possible to have created 
this level of mess in the few shorts months she must 
have lived here.  Examining her with a little more 
attention than he'd paid on the doorstep, he could 
see that the lack of maintenance extended past her 
surroundings to herself. Undoubtedly once a striking 
woman, she was now sallow skinned, greasy hair pulled 
back into a barely brushed pony tail, teeth yellowed 
and clothes grubby.
  
She gestured for him to sit, and choosing the chair 
with the least debris, he perched awkwardly on the 
edge of it, wrinkling his nose in involuntary disgust 
at the sudden whiff of decay that assailed his nostrils.  
Shifting slightly, feeling behind and beneath himself, 
imagining that he'd inadvertently sat on something 
dead, he looked up at her as she stood immediately 
before him, her cold, hollow stare, and realized that 
if there *were* dead things in this room, some part 
of her was among them. 
 
"I don't want to do this, Agent Mulder.  Understand 
that."

Her voice made him jump; in the wake of his realization, 
he had somehow not expected her to speak again.  

"I've told this story as often as I ever want to." 
Though she couldn't see the gesture, her gaze 
directed rigidly at some spot on the wall behind 
him he nodded at her, a vague and futile attempt at 
empathy, as her stance and tone enabled him to begin 
to form some picture of the magnitude of the revelation 
she was working towards. His surprise at her next 
action had to be far greater than hers had been when 
only minutes earlier she'd observed him in the same 
act. Fingers trembling she began to unbutton her shirt, 
except she started at the bottom and stopped, he was 
relieved to note, half way up.  He watched solemn eyed 
as she parted the material to reveal what lay beneath.

He couldn't mimic the look of relative indifference 
she had offered him when he had displayed his wounds. 
The abhorrence he felt he knew was clearly written 
across his face, the low 'Jesus' that emerged, an 
involuntarily hiss, the only sound he was capable 
of making. The marks were older, healed scar tissue, 
a tight and puckered white that served to emphasize 
the sallow skin surrounding. That they were fully 
healed did not detract from their horror. His own 
wounds were insignificant, mere scratches in 
comparison to the damage that had been wrought 
upon her. Two diagonal white lines, each stretching 
from ribcage to the opposite hip, cruelly dissecting 
her pale frame, intersecting in a knotty mass of scar 
tissue that must once have been her navel.

He watched, almost hypnotized by his own sense of 
horror as she reached her fingers down and traced the 
length of each line.  The touch was one of reverence, 
a virtual caress and for a moment he felt the cloak of 
voyeur settle over him.  This was somehow an intimate 
moment he knew. The rotation of her fingers became 
almost hypnotic.  He wanted so badly to turn away, 
not to have to bear witness to her horror but he needed 
to hear the story that accompanied these grotesque 
illustrations and so he waited...and watched.

"Eight months."  The words no more than a whisper, he 
wasn't certain he'd heard them at all, less certain 
that he'd heard them correctly.  Pulling his eyes away 
from the show of flesh to meet her own, the pain he 
saw evoked an almost physical draw. His hand rose, 
began to slide through the air towards her, before 
he jerked it back. Comfort was silently demanded but 
he knew instinctively that the walls around her would 
knock him flat on his ass if he tried to broach them.

"I was just over eight months pregnant, Agent Mulder.
He killed my baby."

He'd sat in shocked silence, realising with a sense of 
horror that he'd just learnt the identity of the third 
unnamed victim, as she'd rebuttoned her blouse and 
moved to sit behind her desk.  He watched silently 
as she turned to take the half empty bottle of bourbon 
from the shelf behind her and  fill the dirty glass 
that sat on the desk.  He was ready to refuse any 
offer of a drink for himself, but none was made.  
She downed the glass in one go and then turned to 
pour another, shrugging at the look of poorly 
concealed concern that crossed his face.

"If you're wondering if I'm a drunk, Agent Mulder - 
I'm on my way certainly.  I find that the bottom of 
a bottle is a place I like to hide.  And I don't 
need any lectures." The second drink went down as 
quickly as the first had, but the third she seemed 
content to sip as she leaned back. "Tell me why 
you're here."

"I'm sorry."  And he realized that he truly was, 
although he had no doubt at all that, even if he'd 
been fully equipped with the knowledge of the pain 
he'd cause, he would have come anyway. "I didn't 
intend to re-open old wounds."

A sudden burst of laughter, as sharp and brittle 
as a slap in the face, came at him from across the 
desk.  "You can't re-open what never closed, Agent 
Mulder. But that doesn't actually answer my 
question."

"I need to find him."

"And what?"  She emitted a sudden, almost maniacal 
giggle. "You imagine I've got his address on my 
Christmas card list or something?"

"You were his doctor."

She nodded. "Indeed.  But I was also his victim.  
You were aware of that before you came knocking on 
my door I assume?"  

It was his turn to nod now, and she didn't wait for 
him to follow the gesture with words before continuing.  

"In which case you also know that Milne walked out 
of court a free man.  Innocent in the eyes of the law.  
So, once again - why exactly are you here, and what 
is it you imagine I can do to help you?  Why in fact 
do you imagine I *should* help you, when no-one in 
the wonderful field of law enforcement saw fit to 
help me when it mattered?"

Mulder drew his hands across his face slowly, trying 
to force himself to shut out her obvious pain long 
enough to get the answers he sought.  "Dr. Vincent? 
I'm sorry, I truly am sorry to be putting you through 
this. If no-one helped you, if the law let you down, 
I'm sorry, and believe me - I know how it feels.  
But as I said, he's got my partner.  He's had her for 
over four days now."

"Doesn't sound so long."  The bottle was tipped again.

"How long did it take him to do that to you?"  He 
didn't exactly regret the words as soon as he'd said 
them, willing to do or say anything, if there was 
the slightest chance it might help him to find Scully. 
He couldn't deny though, that the sudden blanching of 
a face that he wouldn't have believed could get paler 
and the choked sound she emitted caused him more than 
a minor pang of guilt, and he reached across the desk, 
stilling her arm before she could raise the glass 
again, feeling her almost turn to stone beneath his 
fingers.

"Dr. Vincent - I am sorry.  I'm sorry about what 
happened to you. I'm sorry that the man that did it 
was never punished but I can't sit here and keep 
apologizing and commiserating for something I had 
no part of and which I can't change.  What I need to 
change - what I *have* to change, is what's happening 
right now to someone I love. As his victim, you might 
just be the only person who really understands what 
a desperate situation she is in.  As his doctor, I 
guess I'm hoping there might be something - anything 
- you can tell me that'll help me find him."

"Love?"  She stared over at him and he saw the first 
flicker of something that actually looked alive in 
her eyes. It didn't look *good*; it was almost like a 
flash of obsidian, black and polished, but it was life.  
"You said she was your partner."

"She is." He was surprised at how hard he was actually 
finding it to keep his voice steady.  "She is my partner, 
but she's everything else besides.  Everything."

She leaned back in her chair, regarding him with hooded 
eyes, and he had the sudden impression of a carrion crow 
contemplating road kill.  She tipped back her glass, 
draining it in one swift swallow and then refilling it 
again, acknowledging the mixture of  disapproval and 
concern he tried unsuccessfully to hide, with a shrug.

"Don't worry, Agent Mulder," she assured.  "I'm never 
so drunk that I can't remember this clearly."  Half 
the glass went in one go, and when she started to 
speak again he wasn't certain whether she really was 
slurring or whether his expectation that she should be 
just made him hear it. "Tell me what you want to know."

He leaned back in the seat, gave a short sigh. 
"Everything. Anything. Whatever you can tell me."

Not looking at him, just staring at the glass in her 
hand as she swirled the liquid around it, she rocked back 
in her chair, considering.

"What *do* you know?"

"He was arrested in 1998 following an attack on a 
woman..."

"Me.  He attacked ME, Agent Mulder.  Please don't try 
and depersonalize this, make it sound as if I'm some 
sort of anonymous casualty for whom this began and ended 
within the confines of a court case."

He nodded, chastened.  "I'm sorry.  He attacked *you*.  
The details I've had weren't all that comprehensive.  
They didn't mention..."  He faltered, for just a second 
wishing desperately that he'd listened to Frohike's
warning not to 'hassle the chick' and waited until he 
was in possession of all the facts before he'd come over 
here; that he'd waited for the details on the unnamed 
third victim, known it had been her unborn child, and 
so been able to somehow save her from having had to say 
the words, and himself from having had to look at her 
as she had. At a loss for what he could say to try and 
explain this to her, he concluded the apology with a 
rather pathetically mumbled, "I mean I just didn't 
know the details."

She said nothing for a moment, just regarding him with 
that same dark curiosity.

"Why?" she suddenly asked.  "Why don't you know all 
this?  If you're FBI, you could easily have found all 
everything you needed to know about that travesty of a 
trial?  Why do you need to ask me?"

What should he tell her, he wondered?  Offer her some 
excuse about incomplete records, or the importance of 
the victims take on a crime?  No. If there was one 
thing this woman was due, one thing he owed her for 
pushing her to map out her pain for his perusal, then 
it was the truth. 

"I'm sorry, Dr. Vincent," he sighed, noting the sudden 
flare of alarm in her eyes as she obviously considered 
what he might be about to apologize for.  "I may have 
misled you a little.  I *am* an FBI agent.  However, 
I'm currently suspended from my job.  That means I 
shouldn't have used my title to try and persuade you 
to talk to me.  But everything else is exactly as I 
told it."

"Was it to do with this?  With him?"

"Was what to do with him?"

"You getting suspended," she answered him.  "Was it 
anything to do with Milne?"

He had a sudden flash of O'Connell clambering up from 
the floor, hand clamped over his bloody nose.  "In a 
way," he told her. "Not directly, but there is a 
connection."

"And no-one believes you?"

He shook his head.

"Well, Agent Mulder...or are you just Mr. Mulder 
now?"

"Just Mulder," he replied. "No Mr."

"Well, JustMulderNoMr," she slurred, her level of 
inebriation appearing to rise rapidly although, for 
the moment least, she seemed to have stopped drinking.
"Let me tell you - I know how that feels."  She smiled, 
but there was nothing but despair in the action.  "Sit 
back JustMulderNoMr, and let me tell you a story.

'The short version first," she'd begun. "James Milne 
killed my baby's father, my best friends husband and 
my child. Although it didn't appear to actually be 
his intention to do so - he's actually the one that 
called 911 - he came very close to killing me too."

"So how..."  He faltered.  "I mean, how the hell did 
he get off?"

"Well that's the question isn't it?"  Her sarcasm was 
biting. "OK, Agent Mulder.  Let's start at the beginning. 
I don't want to do this but I will, but not for you.  
Because if, as you say, he's got your partner then you 
need to get her back. Do you know how Milne ended up 
at Hellesdon Hall Psychiatric Hospital?"

Mulder repeated what he'd learnt about Milne: his 
mother's alleged suicide, the attack on Giordano.  He 
decided not to mention Ms. Giordano's opinion at this 
point, more interested in what he could learn here 
than what theories he could introduce.

"Yes.  Well that's about the sum of it," she agreed.  
"The information he came in with told us how he found 
his mother dead. In a moment of what was presumed to 
be grief induced insanity he attacked her fiance, whom 
he blamed for her death. And though no-one actually 
condoned it, there was a general sense in the reports, 
that it was understandable. Excusable even.  That in 
his own mind he had legitimate reason, that he believed 
this man had to all intents and purposes, caused his 
mother's death. The emotional trauma he suffered 
was assumed to be compounded by the fact that he had 
a twin sister who had also taken her own life in their 
late teens.  He'd found the body that time too."

Mulder's mind was suddenly in overdrive, remembering  
words and trying to slot all of this together.  "And 
you think...."

"I'm getting to it, Agent Mulder."  He shrugged an 
apology and waited for her to continue.

"His defense couldn't get him off.  There was no 
question at all of his guilt and he'd beaten the man 
to a pulp. However, particularly given the history 
with the sister, they were able to argue the case 
for diminished responsibility on psychiatric grounds 
and so, instead of prison, James Milne made his way 
to Hellesdon Hall.  

'I was actually the third doctor assigned specifically 
to work with Milne.  He'd already been at The Hall for 
just over three years then. It should have been much 
less.  Realistically, given the circumstance he might 
well have served less time had he gone to prison."

Mulder nodded.  "I'd wondered about that."

"Yes, well until I arrived, Milne had been 
predominantly extremely withdrawn. Exceedingly 
insular, almost to the point of catatonia at times, 
which corresponded with medical reports we had 
concerning his reaction at the time to his sister's 
death. In the rare occasions he'd actually participate 
in sessions beyond just sitting staring, he would 
ramble on, rarely actually interacting, just talking 
past or over people, about the sister, his mother, 
other nameless people he seemed to have regarded as 
having let him down in some way.  He was also given 
to aggressive, often violent outbursts.  There was 
no discernible trigger - anything might set him 
off and one at a time, he worked his way through 
the doctors, all of whom were unable to make any 
headway with him." 
  
"But he responded differently to you?"

"Well at the time I thought so, but I came to realize 
that he was just playing me." 

"How so?"

"In retrospect that's very easy to answer, Agent 
Mulder.  For whatever reason Milne developed an 
obsession with me.  At the time of course, I didn't 
see it like that.  I was only reading his records. 
This was my first job since qualifying. Here was 
this difficult, reluctant and hostile patient and he 
was responding to me where he hadn't responded to 
older, more experienced doctors. And they'd all been 
male doctors.  That should have given me some sense 
that his response was not entirely due to my 
professional skills, but I chose to believe that it 
was because I was so damn good at my job when in 
actual fact, the first woman who came along would 
have done. He was just manipulating me.  

'My professional ego was being buffed by Milne.  
He continued to refuse to work with anyone else, 
he had a reputation for being difficult and aggressive 
and yet with me he was like a puppy dog. The turnabout 
in his behavior was incredible. He began co-operating, 
communicating. He told me he regarded me as a friend 
and I was foolish enough to be flattered by that, 
and unprofessional enough to foster it. He 
eventually admitted to an attraction towards me and 
of course I should have stepped away immediately but 
I didn't. I actually believed I could manage it, that 
I could prevent it affecting any doctor/patient 
relationship and that it wouldn't matter.  That once 
I made clear to him that his feelings were not 
reciprocated, we could just move forward.  Foolish 
in the extreme of course, but the wisdom of hindsight 
is a wonderful thing."

"So what happened?  What changed things?"  The focus 
was beginning to clear but he still wanted her to 
sharpen the whole picture.  Opposite him Dr. Vincent 
downed the remainder of her glass of bourbon in one 
gulp before filling the glass again, glaring at him 
as she did so, as if daring him to pass comment.  He 
didn't bother.  He had no doubt she was heading 
for somewhere well past sober, but he also had no 
doubt at all of the accuracy of her words, when 
she'd told him that however drunk she got, she 
remembered this.

"I had to rush out of a session with him once, to 
throw up.  When I returned to the room he was almost 
hysterical with worry and so I hastened to reassure 
that there was nothing actually wrong with me...that 
I was in fact pregnant. I'm not certain what sort 
of reaction I'd expected but he became absolutely 
enraged.  He was screaming abuse at me; I was a 
whore, a cheap slut - all that sort of thing. 
Primarily that I was dirty.  Dirty. He knew I 
wasn't married, thanks to my earlier mistake of 
getting into two-way personal conversations with 
him.  He became violent, which was something I 
personally had never experienced with him before, 
and I had to push the panic button for the orderlies.

'By the following day however, he seemed largely 
over it.  The violent rage had gone at least. He 
had been asking to see me, and so I went to talk 
to him.  He started telling me that he loved me, 
that  I didn't need to worry about the baby, he'd 
sort it all out.  He could make me clean again."  
Mulder flinched, and she almost chuckled.  "He 
started telling me I was just like his sister, 
and he'd done it for her.  It made no sense at 
all at the time.  I thought he was mad."  She 
did laugh then.  "That would be even more mad 
than your average psychiatric patient," she 
snorted.  "And I told him so.  I don't think he 
was particularly amused.

'I thought about it through the day and decided that 
the only thing I could really do was abdicate myself 
from my position as his doctor.  So I went to see 
Fawcett."  She spat the name out with such contempt 
that he just had to ask.

"Fawcett?"

"I suppose you'd have called him my boss.  Doctor 
Fawcett.  Not that the man could doctor anything 
effectively.  He's an unmitigated prick."  She 
grimaced slightly as she swallowed the last of her 
drink, placing the glass on the desk, making no move 
this time to refill it.  "We'd always had 'issues'.  
He was very old school.  I was the only female doctor 
on staff and he resented even that small concession 
to gender equality. We'd had quite a few professional 
run-ins, largely based around his tendency to 
challenge every single thing I did. I think in part, 
that's why I was so easily caught up in Milne's little 
game.  I wanted to show I could do better than the 
rest of his precious little male army.

'Anyway, it seems I was a bit late.  Milne had gone 
to him pretty much immediately, requesting that he 
work with a different doctor, telling Fawcett tales 
of my apparent 'impropriety'  He had claimed I'd 
propositioned him, exposed myself to him.  All manner 
off utterly ridiculous claims. Fawcett didn't believe 
him for a second, but that didn't stop him using it 
for his own benefit.  Like I said, he'd never wanted 
me on staff, he was furious when I'd told him I was 
pregnant and applied for maternity leave and the 
like.  This was the perfect opportunity for him to 
push me out the door and he grabbed it with both 
hands.

'Normally I'd have fought him, but at the time, 
just didn't have the energy or inclination.  I'd 
had a difficult pregnancy from the word go, I was 
tired and unhappy at work and I'd been considering 
giving it up anyway.  We didn't need the money and 
I liked the idea of being a full time mom."

Her hand moved down across her belly, circling 
gently until she caught herself, saw him looking 
and pulled it quickly above the desk top, reaching 
for her bottle again.

"There was some stuff going on outside of work too.  
Jon - my partner - owned a haulage company.  He was 
lined up to give evidence in a case against  some
counterfeiter who'd been using his vehicles for 
transportation.  Designer label rip offs.  I'd never 
imagined there could be so much money in pieces of 
cloth.  It was about hundreds of thousands, and Jon 
and Michael; that's my friend's husband - they worked 
together, had both been threatened in regard to the 
evidence they were supposed to give.  No-one really 
took it seriously though.  The guy they were prosecuting
 was a businessman gone bad, not a master criminal.

'Everything was fine for a while.  I didn't really 
think about Milne at all.  Most of my resentment was 
directed at Fawcett.  I was six months pregnant when 
it all really began.  I'd driven over to Jane and 
Michael's to pick up some papers for Jon.  Jane had 
been out at some charity thing.  I'd collected the 
stuff and we were stood on the doorstep.  I remember 
this so clearly.  The baby kicked and I jumped.  
Michael was fascinated, wanted to feel it, and so 
we stood there for nearly ten minutes, him with his hand 
on my belly waiting for the next one.  It was rather 
sweet actually. We'd hugged, kissed, the usual 
parting-friends stuff and I'd left. 

'I got the call later that night, from Jane.  She'd 
come home and the house had been dark. She said she'd 
known straight away something was wrong. She'd found 
Michael in the front room.  It was so horrific.  His 
hands had been cut off, and there had been what looked 
like letters cut across his chest. It looked like a J 
and an A apparently.  Joseph Absolon was the man they 
were due to give evidence against. It seemed like the 
threats had been in earnest."

He interrupted.  "But..."

"But!" she retorted, before he could get anything 
else out.  "But you and I both know that's not what 
had happened.  It was probably J and O, and then he 
stopped for whatever reason.  At the time though, 
it made sense.  The trial was only a week away then.  
Jon was the primary witness, and the assumption was 
that Michael had been killed to warn him off.  
A few days later we got an envelope in the mail.  It 
had a photograph of Michael in it, Michael *after* 
he'd been killed, and the words 'He touched' written 
across it.  The police couldn't make any sense of 
the words but they still took this as further proof 
of Jon being threatened.  It never occurred to anyone, 
me included at that time, that the picture had been 
for me. We ended up with police sitting outside the 
house every night, following him everywhere he went.  
And then it was over and done with. He gave his 
evidence, Absolon was convicted and we were supposed 
to get our lives back to normal.

'I had three days of normal, Mr. Mulder.  Three days 
before the man I loved was mown down in the street. 
Three days before some baby faced kid, barely big 
enough for his uniform, stood in my doorway and told 
me that the man I was going to marry, the man whose 
baby I was carrying, was dead. Victim of a hit and 
run.  What he didn't tell me when he stood there 
offering me condolences and asking me to go with him 
and identify the body, what he didn't mention, was 
that the so-called hit and run driver had taken the 
time to get out of his car and to carve letter's 
into Jon's chest.  They were totally illegible at 
least until I got the letter in the post the next day.  
One sheet.  One word."

"Clean,"  he said.  It wasn't a question.

"I knew straight away it was Milne then.  I recalled 
what he said he'd do - make me clean.  I contacted the 
hospital and they told me he'd been released, three 
months after I left. Only days before Michael died. 
Fawcett's doing of course.  I told the police and they 
said they'd look into it, but somehow they were still 
stuck on the idea that this was something to do with 
Absolon; that Michael had been a threat and Jon was 
revenge. They did question him apparently, but there 
was nothing at all to tie him to any of it, except 
the word of a recently bereaved, hormonally challenged 
woman.  That's what they all thought you know.

'It was a month later that he came.  I was standing 
at the sink and he was suddenly behind me.  I didn't 
have a chance.  You know what he did to me Mr. Mulder.  
I'm not describing it for you."

He exhaled suddenly, not actually having realized 
he'd been holding his breath.  He sincerely hoped 
that the overwhelmingly relief he felt at hearing 
that appeared on his face as a far less selfish 
sympathy.  When she still sat silent five minutes 
later, it was Mulder who reached across to the 
bottle and emptied it into her glass, nudging her 
hand with it until she closed her fingers around it.

"You'll get me drunk," she drawled, a flash of razor 
sharp smile to show she was trying to joke, but the 
words just made him want to weep for her.  She 
lifted that glass to her mouth but then stopped, 
lowering it to the table.

"I knew it was him of course, but he was behind me 
all the time. I never once set eyes on him.  I don't 
know how he didn't kill me. The pain and the blood.  
So much blood. I thought he'd torn me in two.  I could 
actually see her.  I didn't know she was a girl then - 
they told me afterwards - but I could see her where 
he'd dropped her on the floor like garbage.  And 
through it all I could hear him, I could remember 
every word he hissed into my ear.  'Mine now. I've 
taken away the poison.  You're mine now.'  I should 
have died. With what he did to me, I should have 
died. I wanted to die. He should have left me to 
die but he wouldn't let me.  It had to have been him 
who called the ambulance.

'When I woke up in the hospital, when the police came 
to talk to me, they told me how lucky I'd been.  We 
must have had exceedingly different definitions of 
luck. No-one knew who'd made the call, just that it 
had come from my house. I knew that if I told them 
what had happened, and then told them it was him, 
they wouldn't believe me and so I lied. I told them 
that I'd *seen* him."

He opened his mouth to say something - he wasn't really 
sure what, but she thrust her hand toward him, bourbon 
slopping over the edge of the glass on to the table as 
she did so.  "Don't!  Don't interrupt me or I won't 
finish this.  Don't." 

He nodded.

"They couldn't find him at first.  He'd just vanished.  
He should have been living in the half-way house the 
hospital sponsored but he hadn't been there for days.  
They picked him up when he strolled into the hospital, 
calm as can be, flowers for me. He just stood over my 
bed, talking as if he had every right to be there, 
talking about when I was getting out and where *we'd* 
go together. He came to me honestly expecting me to 
want him, to be grateful for what he'd done. He 
thought killing my baby was actually a good thing he 
had done for me, taking away the last piece of Jon. 
I was screaming and screaming, and people were 
running everywhere and he just stood there, until 
the police arrived and arrested him.  And he couldn't 
understand what I was doing.  I could see it in his 
eyes.  He honestly believed what he'd done was right.

'I thought it could all be over then, but it seemed 
not.  They were holding him with regard to what he'd 
done to me, but they refused to consider that he'd 
been responsible for Jon and Michael. No proof and 
no precedent.  So I decided to find it myself.  I 
hired somebody and I had them follow up some things 
I recalled from having worked with Milne, that I  
believed might give a better picture.  We spoke to 
his father..."

"Trouble in England," Mulder muttered, remembering 
what he'd already been told.

"Indeed. And we learnt that we maybe had a precedent.  
Nothing so severe as what had happened here, but there 
had been a couple of *incidents*, I think his father 
described them as.  Milne had been interested in some 
girl who worked for his father, but she apparently, 
was totally disinterested in him.  As much as the 
father knew, was that his son was suddenly being 
questioned by the police about an assault on the 
girls boyfriend.  He hadn't believed it, and it wasn't 
pursued past the questioning, until a short time later 
the girl herself was attacked, and Milne was questioned 
again.  She was adamant he'd been responsible, claimed 
he'd been stalking her apparently. The police were 
questioning him, but no charges had been brought.  He 
said he believed James, which is understandable I 
suppose.  No-one likes to think their children capable 
of crime.  But then he said they came looking for 
James again.

'They said another girl had come forward, claiming 
James had harassed her too, had tried to hurt her 
when she told him to leave her alone.  They wanted 
to look at his room, look for things to tie him to 
the girl in the hospital and he said he took them 
up there.  They found nothing, but he saw it all.  
He said he'd never set foot in there before - it 
was James' space and he'd always respected his 
privacy.  However, he *had* actually been in the 
girl's room.  A room in a shared house.  He was a 
locksmith and he'd been doing her a favor, fitting 
her locks for her.  And what he saw was that his 
son's bedroom appeared to be a halfhearted replica 
of this girls room.

'The police had said they wanted to talk to him, but 
there was no warrant as of yet.  James came home and 
found himself being packed back off to the US post 
haste.  Get him out of the way before they did come 
back, his father said he'd thought.  He knew that 
whatever James said, he'd hurt that girl, but he'd 
already lost a daughter and to a degree, a wife. He 
didn't want to lose his son so he chose to get him 
out of the way rather than see him in trouble with 
the law.

'We never traced the one girl, but the one who's 
room he'd been trying to copy, was keen enough to talk.  
She hated him, remembered him as being really creepy 
because, she said, he professed to like her so much, 
yet spent his whole time telling her how dirty she was, 
how she needed cleaning.  It wasn't very much, but 
with the parallels to the note I'd got after Jon was 
killed, it was a start.  Then we discovered that in 
the original assault on her boyfriend, his hands had 
been broken with a hammer.  She'd found a drawing 
pushed under her door a few days later, of a pair 
of hands, and with 'He touched you' written on it.  
She'd given it to the police, but they'd been unable 
to connect it to Milne. That was similar enough to 
what had happened to Michael though, for the connection 
to be undeniable and the prosecution jumped on it.

"So what the hell happened?"  

She scowled at his interruption.  "His defense were 
smarter.  They blew us out of the water before we 
were even undocked.  They started by challenging 
the legitimacy of the charges in relation to Jon and 
Michael.  We challenged with the claim that there was 
prior evidence of other offenses, linking him to the 
notes.  They countered with the fact that we only had 
that information because I'd disregarded doctor/patient
confidentially, abused my professional relationship 
with Milne and used information provided in a 
confidential therapy setting to initiate the 
investigation into these claims. And that was completely 
true of course, however easily I could justify it to 
myself.  But it meant that right from the word go, 
my credibility was shot to hell.

'Add to that Fawcett's testimony that I had a 
personal dislike of Milne arising from his complaint 
about me leading to me losing my job, and his 
assertion that Milne was completely psychologically 
stable, the threats Joseph Absolon had made, which 
were all on record, my 'understandably extreme 
psychological distress'? His damn smart lawyer badgered 
me so much, he actually managed to get me to admit that 
I'd lied about actually having *seen* Milne that night. 
Ultimately, we couldn't prove a word of it, and the 
bastard walked."

"To go after more women he hates?"  However great his 
sympathy for her, he couldn't entirely keep the 
incredulous irritation at just how badly that had been 
mismanaged, at the mistakes she herself had made, out 
of his voice.  If she noticed though, she seemed willing 
to ignore it.

"I don't think he hates women at all, not as he'd 
probably define hate," she reflected.  "He doesn't 
fixate on these women with the intention of doing them 
harm, Agent Mulder.  Bizarre as it sounds, he's not 
looking to harm - he's looking for love.  He just 
happens to have a very seriously distorted view of 
what that entails. 

'He removes what he sees as the obstacles between him 
and whomever.  Anything that achieves that end, he 
regards as perfectly reasonable behavior.  He's a 
highly intelligent man. He's clearly aware of the 
illegality of what he does. If he wasn't then he 
wouldn't be covering his tracks so well, but he has 
no concept at all of the immorality as he attaches 
his moral barometer to what he perceives as the needs 
of the person he is trying to save."

He sucked in a breath. "But why hurt them at all?  
If you're right about his sister, if his father is 
telling the truth about the girls in England...and 
you Dr. Vincent.  Why turn against the obsession?"

"I assume because we don't play ball.  You must have 
heard it said in a religious context, Mr. Mulder?  
You can't just save someone.  They have to want to be 
saved.  He's trying to protect people from things 
they are more than happy having, being.  And when 
he finally realizes that, they become the unsaveable, 
the unclean.  People who - in his eyes - chose what 
he sees as unacceptable over what he is offering.  
Trash. And like all trash, he throws it away."

"That explains his mother."

"I never mentioned his mother," she said.

"No.  But someone else did. I spoke to Terrence 
Giordano's sister.  She told me her brother had 
always been convinced that Milne's mother was still 
very much alive at the point at which he was attacked.  
So Milne was removing Terrence from his mother's 
life - we knew that.  But then his mother must have 
reacted differently to how he'd intended.  Like you, 
she wasn't *grateful*. She wouldn't accept it, maybe 
she was going to call the police? And so he killed 
her too." He paused.  "So at least it's not going to 
be his intention to hurt Scully?"

"Not initially no," she agreed. "But he *will* hurt 
her, Agent Mulder." She shrugged, dismissing his glare, 
the fact that he really didn't want to have to accept 
that written plainly on his face.  "Please don't try 
and comfort yourself with the hope that he won't. 
No-one can possibly live up to his ideals. Even if 
she's smart enough to figure out what it is he wants 
fromher..."

"She is."

"I hope so, Agent Mulder, because it won't stop him 
but it might buy her enough time to save her life.  
His price will be a high one though." 

"So what the hell can I do?"

She raised her glass almost as if toasting him. "That's 
simple Mr. Mulder. You find him before she fails him."

But of course, it was already too late for that. 
Because as Susan Vincent's  glass hit the table with a 
dull thud,  Scully was mere moments away from *failing* 
him in quite spectacular style.


               *****************************

The attic.


When we first met?  You don't recall it, Dana?  I should 
be hurt, but I understand that I wasn't important to 
you then.  Not like now.

I remember.  Every second.

I was standing on the stairs when Mom opened the door for 
her, though I could just as easily have been turning 
cartwheels in the hallway or not there at all. No-one 
would have thought to notice.  No-one ever thought to 
notice me.  She pretended she did, with the beer and 
the cigarettes she bribed with and occasionally - if 
she thought I was going to delay my departure, a few 
dollars.  She used these things to pretend she was my 
friend when really they were just a means to get me out 
of her way so she could do those things with the boys.  

That day was different though.  She didn't just walk 
in the way she usually did.  She had someone with her, 
someone smaller and prettier.  Not a boy. She'd told 
my mom you were her sister, back from college, come 
to keep her company.  I noticed you, but what was 
far more remarkable - you noticed me.  You looked 
up to where I was standing and you said hello.  And 
you smiled.  No-one had smiled at me for a long 
time before that.  Not since the day Jacqueline...
that I...we. Well, not since that day.  You made me 
think I might be able to become real again.

Of course it didn't last.  As soon as the door had 
closed behind my mother your sister was opening her 
bag, shoving her alcohol and nicotine bribery into 
my hands and telling me to get lost.  I didn't argue.  
I never really had the inclination to argue with 
anyone anymore but I didn't go away either.  I just 
climbed a few more steps and sat out of sight.

"Why do you sit here, Missy?"  You sounded curious, 
not scornful like the boys usually did, because 
everyone asked the same question of her in one form 
or another.  "Obviously not for him."

"I sit for his sister, she's just a baby.  Asleep 
upstairs. I'll show you her later. She's a sweetheart."

"But why can't he do it?  He's more than old enough."

I didn't hear her answer but I knew what she was doing.  
Tapping her head, turning her finger.  The story told 
without words.  He's screwy.  Not right in the head
Not all there. Can't be trusted.  I knew she was telling 
you all those things without saying a word and I rose 
to my feet, ready to creep into my room knowing you'd 
hate me now like all the others. I heard the words 
just as I made the last step - "Poor kid," -  and I 
decided to overlook your slightly arrogant dismissal 
of me as some child because I could tell there and 
then that you were not like the others. I heard the 
proof in those two small words.  You were good. I 
knew that you might care.

I knew that you might understand...that you could be 
pure.

Melissa didn't know that I watched her with the boys.  
She never thought to pull the curtains.  It didn't 
occur to her that the crazy kid might be smart enough 
to know just where to sit outside so he could see all 
without being seen.  It wasn't ever much of a show.  
Pathetic boys who'd come in their pants at the sight 
of a bra coming undone. She'd let them touch her. 
Sometimes she'd let them fuck her.  It never seemed 
to amount to much more than a few minutes of strangled 
groans and hastily replaced clothing.

Two boys came that night.  You all sat together on 
the couch and hers put his tongue in her mouth.  
The other one was meant for you.  He slid an arm 
around your shoulders and pressed his mouth to 
your ear.  I nearly cried then.  I didn't want you 
to be like her, like all the others.  I wanted you 
to be pure.  And then I saw you were.  You stood 
up and pushed his arm away, turned your back on 
them and walked out of my house.  

You stayed clean.

 
           ****************************


She had listened to the whole thing without saying 
a single word, dredging her memory to try and locate 
this particular event, to pinpoint this single evening, 
but she couldn't. When Melissa had first returned 
home after dropping out of college, she'd baby-sat 
at some point for practically every child in the 
neighborhood.  Her parents had only moved there 
after she herself had gone to Maryland and so no 
one family was any more or less familiar to her 
than another.  She'd often gone along with her 
older sister, repeating evenings exactly like the 
one he detailed, although in those few short months, 
after sex had been discovered, but before Tom had 
led her to realize that the best of discoveries 
could often be those least shared, her reasons for 
doing so had hardly been marked by the indignant 
restraint he appeared to have credited her with.

Admittedly, she was all too well aware that she 
wasn't dealing with a man who possessed what she 
would be inclined to describe as a good grasp on 
sanity, but that this madness, this violence could 
have arisen from something so utterly trivial in 
her own life, an evening, one of so many, so 
insignificant that she couldn't even begin to 
place it?  It was beyond obscene. 

Some emotionally stunted adolescent, he had built 
and clung onto, way beyond reason, a fantasy 
constructed around a fallacy and in its pursuit 
had killed and maimed.  Would any of this have 
seemed better, been more justifiable had there
been some reality behind his reasoning?  No.  
Not at all. And yet the fact that he'd got it 
wrong, so very very wrong made the deaths, the 
damage done to Mulder seem somehow even worse.  
How the utterly unacceptable could be made 
more so she didn't try to comprehend, but it 
had been; his misconceived obsession increased 
the utter reprehensibility of the acts. The 
sheer futility of the act worked like a catalyst 
on her anger, the mixture of incredulity and cold 
rage spilling over in a torrent of embittered 
abuse.  When the words came, they came as hard 
and fast as bullets shattering all the manufactured 
and artificial ease they'd been building throughout 
the day with the violence and impact of fine china 
cast onto concrete.

"You stupid, stupid bastard!"

He looked at her stunned, and she realized that 
he genuinely believed that he'd been telling the 
story he thought she'd want to hear, that he 
believed she'd be impressed, delighted even, by 
this perception of her 20 year old self.

"You think you love me because of that?  Because of
some picture you painted of me all those years ago?  
You didn't know me.  You *don't* know me.  You don't 
even know what the hell it was you saw."  Neither 
indeed did she, and even as she screamed at him, 
she had no idea if the words she spoke were true, 
if they related to this one evening in time or some 
other, common enough to be so easily forgotten.  
"I wasn't running off to preserve my dignity, 
some sacred hold on virginity.  That had long since 
by the wayside.    If I left it would have been 
because I had no intention of getting laid in front 
of an audience.  I probably went to get the car and 
at the end of the block he would have been waiting 
for me.  And I probably fucked his damn brains out.  
All this... this...is about some warped ideal woman? 
You think I'm some pure maiden corrupted by Mulder?  
Christ you haven't got a clue."

When he hit her this time, it was with enough force 
to send her slamming against the headboard, head 
ricocheting off the wall behind, unable to keep in 
the roar of pain.  Strangely, when she heard the 
sudden sharp explosion echo round the room, she was
less relieved when she realised that it was the 
sound of the door slamming and not her gun firing, 
than she was overwhelmingly indignant that he'd 
walked out and left her locked by herself in the 
damn room *again*.


       ***********************************


It isn't going to work is it Dana?  I really did 
hope that you'd be different, that you'd be the one 
to prove to me that not all women are the same.  
Time and time again I try to convince myself that 
you are all misled, used, manipulated. That you can 
be cleansed, be decent and pure.  But the truth 
is far more simple.  You're all whores, sluts.  
You just can't help yourselves.  

I should never have tried to convince myself 
otherwise.  I learnt the lesson early after all.

Jacqueline taught me well. 

I loved my sister.  Of course it was only logical that 
I should. After all I was her and she was me.  We were 
one.  Oh I know that people will contradict me on that 
one - you too probably - with the medical denial of 
that fact.  Dizygotic twins.  Two eggs you would remind 
me.  No more than chance that we came into being 
together.  But I know differently.  We *were* one.

She was so beautiful.  I watched her grow.  I watched 
her change as she watched me and it was clear that 
if we could not be the same there had to be a reason 
for the differences.  The only reason we could imagine 
had to be to bring us closer.  So her body became mine 
and mine became hers.

We shared it all.

We were ourselves.

We were each other.

Forever.

We would lay beneath the sheets and look only at each 
other's faces, the only place where we remained the 
same, where the changes hadn't tainted us, where we 
were clean.  We would touch, mark out the time of a 
perfect dance, a blissful symmetry, each sharing with 
the other the ecstasy of what we gave to ourselves.

We were our secret.

We could only ever belong to each other.

The perfect curve of her smooth back was mine. The 
androgynous hips, her tight and exquisite behind were 
mine.  The stunning expansion of her adolescent 
breasts - all mine.  That once smooth, now - like 
mine - hair covered treasure between her legs belonged 
to me.

I loved her, worshipped her, treasured her.

I was loved by her, worshipped by her, treasured by her.

Betrayed by her.

Betrayed.

I came home early you see.  The football practice had 
been canceled.  I heard the music as soon as I stepped 
through the front door.  That wasn't our taste, not 
our choice.  Curious I'd climbed the stairs quietly, 
carefully.  I heard it through the door, that noise, 
that sound.  The voice that belonged to me and me alone.  
And she was giving it away.

I saw her on her back, legs spread for him.  Not even 
the decency to stay beneath the sheets.  Sprawled like 
some obscene ornamentation over the bed.  Her calves 
pressing hard against his buttocks, feet pummeling 
his rhythm as I watched him rise and fall, as I watched 
him put his hands on her,  all over her, where only 
mine had been before. When only mine should ever have 
been.  Her nails scraped his back as she begged for 
more.  Harder.  Faster.  And he gave it - *she* gave 
it.  Gave him everything that was mine.

She'd opened her eyes, looked straight at me.  She might 
have saved them both then if she'd acknowledged her 
shame, scurried into hiding, held her humiliation as a 
shield. But she didn't.  She smiled at me.  A cold cold 
smile before she turned and pressed her mouth to his, 
before she arched her back and thrust her hips against 
his, used her hands to pull him deeper into her.

Betrayal.

But everyone gets a second chance right?  The benefit 
of the doubt?  He was so easy.  The stupid stupid boy 
should have remembered to look both ways before he 
crossed the road.  A tragic accident of course.  Hit 
and run.  I got it right that time, at least.

She still had time to save herself.  If she'd have come 
back to me then I'd have forgiven her.  I'd have helped 
to make her clean again.  But she didn't.  She mourned 
him and damned me. She took her rancid, poisoned flesh 
and made it all her own. 

I had no choice.

It *was* suicide.  Don't misunderstand.  The note she 
left was no fallacy. It may have been my hand that held 
the blade and then the pen but after all - we were one. 
I was merely an extension of her, there to help her on 
her way, to show her the only way she could ever be 
clean again.

And what about you Dana?  You've had more chances
than most.  The last hope I suppose so I clung on to 
it. This wasn't all about you you see.  You were meant 
to be my salvation as surely as I intended to be yours.  
No more.

I can not waste any more of my time on you.

It would appear that we're both damned now then.

You let me down.  You didn't behave.  And I told
you what would happen if you didn't behave.  

You have to believe, I really would have preferred 
you clean. I really wanted us to be happy.

It seems you can't be clean though. You were too far 
gone. I tried too late.   

I have no choice then.

Clean or dead?

Clean or dead?

I think...dead.

Dead.

                      **************************

Late Wednesday.


He'd made it about half way back to DC, driving in a 
careless almost-trance, completely unaware of a single 
thing he passed along the way, some distant part of his 
brain glad he only had to drive in a straight line and 
not worry about missing his turn off or something.  A 
half eaten burger lay on the seat beside him, the smell 
of the grease, now cold and congealed into unattractive 
white spots adorning the unidentifiable meat, was only 
slightly less nauseating than the actual taste had been, 
but he'd swallowed as much as he could bear to, 
reminding himself he needed to eat, and to stop and buy 
something less offensive to his stomach as soon as he 
was able.

He'd turned to her before climbing back into his car, 
looked at her standing slouched and broken in the 
doorway, glass still in hand, and he'd asked her if 
she wanted to know - should he call her when they 
found him?  She'd just shaken her head.

"Never getting what you want hurts far less when it's 
not preceded by hope, Mr. Mulder," she called back to 
him.  "If you tell me you'll call me when you get him, 
then when I don't hear from you, I know he got away 
with it again.  If you just don't tell me anyway - well 
then I can just pretend." 

He'd nodded, consent and comprehension and opened the 
door of the car. He was just sitting down when she 
called out to him again.

"Promise me something though, Mulder?"

"Anything."  And even without knowing what it was she 
was going to ask, he knew that he meant it.

"If you do find him?  Hurt him."

That, he had decided, was going to be a very easy 
promise to keep.


The phone in his pocket suddenly chirruped at him, 
jolting him out of his reverie and very nearly into the 
path of the oncoming traffic.  Straightening up, ignoring 
the sudden blare of angry horns and display of obscene 
finger gestures, he flipped on the phone.

"Mulder."

"Mulder.  Where are you?"  It was Frohike.

"In my car."  He sighed.  "Look, Frohike - what I said 
earlier?  I'm sorry..."

"Yeah, never mind that, Mulder.  *Where* are you?"

"On my way back to DC. I'm about an hour away I'd guess.  
Why?"

"We found granny, Mulder."

"And?"

"Well she is still alive.  That's one thing.  
Though she's in a residential care home in Baltimore.  
Totally incapacitated by all accounts.  The thing 
is - why we couldn't find her earlier?  We checked 
the mother under her maiden name, obviously.  What 
it didn't occur to us to do, was the same for the 
grandmother but that's how we found her.  She still 
owns a house, Mulder.  But if this is where he is 
with Scully...?" He rattled off the address as Mulder 
listened, astounded.

"That can't be right?  Jesus.  How the hell...?"  

"What do you want us to do, Mulder?  If you're still 
an hour out of DC, you're talking twice that to get 
there.  We could call the police, pretend we've seen 
a prowler or something?"

"Yes.  No.  No!  If they go roaring up, then god knows 
what he might do to her.  I'll...I'll sort something, 
Frohike. Bye."

Much as he hated to admit it, there was only one person 
he could call.

Skinner sounded singularly unimpressed to hear his 
voice, sighing his name down the line almost as an 
accusation.

"I know where she is, sir," he'd started.  "And I 
need..."

"You need to leave her alone, Mulder."

"No. You don't understand..."

The volume of Skinner's voice increased not one iota, 
yet somehow he almost appeared to be roaring down the 
phone, his impatience, his dissatisfaction at having 
this subject dragged up before him again, plain. 
"I understand *perfectly*, Mulder.  I spoke to her 
mother yesterday. Contrary to what you think of me, 
however reluctant I may have seemed to believe you, 
I was not inclined to simply let the matter go 
without making some inquiries of my own.  I'd hoped 
to be able to absolve you, Mulder but do you know 
what I learnt from Mrs. Scully?  What she'd been 
told by her daughter?"

Mulder sighed, a mixture of frustration and rage. 
"I can guess, yes, but..."

"But nothing, Mulder.  Leaving aside your questionable 
motivation, in the circumstances, for wanting to find 
Scully, the fact is, right now you need to respect her 
decision and leave her alone."

"She *isn't* alone.  I know who's got her.  I know the 
people he's killed before and I know what he's done to 
the women he professes to have killed them for.  And 
I know that someone needs to get her out of there right 
*now* and I'm too damn far away for that to be me."  
He slammed his hand against the steering wheel 
furiously.

"Mulder..."  

"Look, I swear to you, if I'm wrong about this, you 
can have my badge for good.  I'll do anything you damn 
well want me to.  I will walk away from the job without 
so much as a a backwards glance.  I will walk away 
from my search for Samantha, if you'll just *do* this."  
He no longer cared if Skinner could hear the utter 
desperation in his voice, how much this sounded like 
begging, for begging was exactly what it was.  
"Please..."

He counted his breaths as he waited.  Inhale, exhale.  
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.  He nearly sobbed with 
relief when Skinner's voice came back at him, strangely 
quiet and subdued.

"Tell me where you think she is then, Mulder."  

             
            *******************************   

The Attic
   
She supposed she'd suspected, from the moment she began 
to comprehend his intent, that eventually it would have
to come to this.  She'd avoided too detailed a 
consideration though, always hoping that there would be 
an alternative. She couldn't see one now.  Any chance 
of gradually rebuilding his trust was gone.  Assuming 
he came back at all, she knew she'd have just the one 
chance - all or nothing.

The plan was fully formed by the time that her watch
showed her he'd been gone for just over two hours.
Sitting on the bed working and reworking it through 
her mind over and over she abandoned then reclaimed 
the idea repeatedly. Convinced it could work and 
then equally convinced it couldn't.  Excited at the 
possibility, revolted by the necessity.  On and on.  
Over and over.  Refining and defining...until she 
heard the footsteps on the stairs, the key in the 
lock and looked up into a face she had seen on too 
many other men to read it wrong.  He was here with 
only one intention - and that was to kill.

She had to pretend that she hadn't noticed the gun, 
the attempt to ignore it as much for her own benefit 
as his as, unwilling to let him see any hesitation, 
any hint of fear, she forced herself to stand, hoping 
that her legs would carry her the short distance 
towards him, hoping that this would be so far removed 
from what he had expected that curiosity would delay 
his pulling the trigger at least until she tried.  

She had to try.   

Before him - he hadn't fired but hadn't lowered the 
gun either.  Waiting.

She tried to calculate frenetically how far she could 
push this. He wasn't stupid.  Psychotic and delusional 
certainly, but not stupid. Too much and he'd smell 
the lie in an instant. Too little and he wouldn't 
believe.

"I'm glad you came back."  That seemed simple enough.

"Why?"  There was a cold edge to his voice that she 
hadn't heard before.  Even his anger hadn't sounded 
this chilling. Empty. Like the voice of a man who 
has lost and she knew too well that a man with nothing 
left to lose made the most dangerous enemy.  If 
there was any chance left, any hope that she might 
get out of this she knew she had to give him back 
something to believe in.

"I missed you."  He began to shake his head, a 
mocking smile stretched over his face, denying her 
words even as he lifted the hand that held the gun, 
pressing it firmly against her stomach. For a moment 
she almost lost it, almost let go of the control but 
clenching determination as tight as her bladder, 
instead she stepped closer, allowing the metal to 
poke harder against her flesh, trying not to react 
to its presence at all.  

She smiled up at him.  A smile so forced she felt 
as if the corners of her mouth were being clawed 
upwards with hooks, hoping desperately that the 
abhorrence and rage, the fear that she had figured 
out this final necessary stage of play too late, 
were not as clear in her eyes as they were in her 
mind.  

"You were right to leave me to think.  I...I needed 
the space. I was angry when I thought about what 
you'd done, but on my own, I realized...I realized..." 
She almost choked on the words, on the repulsiveness, 
the rancid taste of the lie in her mouth.  "I needed 
you to leave me before I realized how much I needed 
you here.  That's what they say isn't it?" She was 
beginning to babble.  "That you don't know what
you've got until it's gone?  You were only thinking 
of me, weren't you?  You did it all for me.  And I 
realized, I realized how much you must love me, and 
how special that is. How lucky I am. It gave me the 
time to think.  And you were right.  You were right 
about it all." 

"So...?"  He was sibilant, cold blooded in all 
respects.  "I was right was I, Dana?  He did this 
to you, changed you...turned you into that stinking, 
rancid whore I first laid my hands on.  And now I've 
shown you that you...you what?"

She tipped her head up, meeting his eyes, his challenge.  
The pressure of the gun against her abdomen had not 
diminished as she spoke the words that tasted acid in 
her throat, praying that the revulsion she felt would 
not attach itself to her tone.

"You showed me that I deserve better.  That I can be 
loved in a decent way.  And that you are the person 
I need..." She paused, swallowing back the bile that 
had risen, "...that I *want*, to show me how." 

"Now?"

Nothing she'd ever been taught, nothing she'd ever 
experienced could give her the slightest insight into 
how to read the man. If he believed her, then she had 
to say yes to carry on the facade. Or was he testing 
her, certain that even if she was telling the, this 
would be too soon and that she was trying to trick him?

"Only if you think so," she replied.  "Only if you 
think it's right, if I'm clean enough."  

                  *********************


It occurred to her briefly that she should perhaps be 
comforted by the limited privacy he was trying to give 
her, with the windowless room made dark, and the sheets 
to hide behind.  Nudity in and of itself however, was 
not something that particularly daunted her.  Any 
violation came not from what he might cast his eyes 
upon but from the intent when he did so, and that 
intent remained the same regardless of whether she 
stood clothed or nude, whether he watched her shed her 
attire or offered this strange pretense of respect.

In fact, all she felt for the cloak offered by the 
darkness was a sense of irritation, a moment of panic 
when she realized that the lack of light prevented 
her from seeing clearly where he placed the things 
she needed to be able to immediately locate.  She 
couldn't screw this up.  Apart from the fact that 
she had no doubt at all that, once he realized her 
deception, if she failed to make good her escape, 
then he would certainly kill her, the prospect of 
having to play this thoroughly distasteful game for 
even a micro second longer than necessary filled 
her with a sense of both horror and something that 
smelt like shame.

She tried to watch him then, peering through the 
dinginess, subtle glances, features molded into a 
pretense of coy uncertainty that she hoped would 
prevent him identifying the calculating cataloguing 
that was taking place behind her eyes as she noted 
and planned, rehearsing in her head the scene to 
follow.

It was difficult to maintain the protective shield 
of indifference when he slid into the bed beside 
her, and she swallowed back the sudden whimper of 
protest and revulsion that his bare flesh evoked.  
Though he was as warm, as soft and smooth skinned 
as any man could be, she felt only the reptilian 
cold of her imagination.

"Can I touch you, Dana?"

How strange, she thought, that he should even ask.  
That he genuinely failed to understand that even if 
he gave her this tiny vestige of control, what he had 
done with his watching, through the assumptions he 
had made, through the fact that being naked in this 
bed with him was the only way she could foresee herself 
staying alive, was already the ultimate of violations. 
She was thinking about this, when she heard him 
speaking again.

"I said, can I touch you, Dana?"

"No!"

She word was out, sharper than she'd intended and she 
saw a flicker of suspicion rise in his eyes.  

"No," she repeated, softly this time, and then she added
the first true words she'd spoken since he'd walked in 
with her gun.  "I'm scared."

***********************************************************


Good girl.

Such a good girl.


I wasn't entirely certain you know.  You made me so 
angry, with those dirty, filthy words.  

I mean, you looked so convincing but you're a clever 
one.  I've made no secret of what you mean to me, Dana, 
and I'd have hated to learn that you were just trying to 
manipulate me through my concern for you.  My love for 
you.

If you'd been brassy, brash, confident...I'd have 
known that the traces of him still ran in your blood, 
that you were trying to entrap me with your sexuality 
the same way he entrapped you with his.

If you'd have cowered from the invitation, refused the 
gift of and save your self.  But this is so right.  I 
understand why you'd be nervous.

It's never been like this for you before has it?  Never 
been about more than just what they can take from 
your body.  No-one's ever taken the time with you 
that I will, to tell you what is good, what is right, 
the decent way to love.

Like I had showed Jacqueline.
Like I wanted to show Claire.
Like I tried to show Katie.
Like I had to show my mother.
Like I would have showed Susan.
Like I *will* show you.

You're so pretty like this, Dana.  Not ugly like you 
were when you used to bare yourself for him. 

Now, give me your hand...that's right.

Just there. 

Let me tell you what to do. 

Gently now, always gently...

                              ******


She ran her hand so slowly along his arm, feeling the 
trembling revulsion in her own touch, hoping that he 
would define it as nerves.  To his waist as bidden, 
still slow.  She considered just heading for her 
primary target, getting this over with, but knew that 
she needed him completely calm,  relaxed and utterly 
without expectation. So she lay as he'd instructed, 
on her side facing him as he rested on his.  Not 
touching anything except where her hand grazed his 
flesh.

Strange, what she felt like doing right now, was 
laughing. No coy little giggle, or nervous titter, 
but harsh, damning bolts of ridicule dressed as 
humor to be thrown in his face.  That he imagined 
*this* was love making?  That he imagined this 
cold and sterile choreography could ever progress 
into even a pale shadow of passion? As his mumbled 
instructions led her hand to his hip, she thought 
of Mulder, of the man whom this apology for one 
beside her, had damned as corrupting.  Of Mulder, 
who over the course of the past two years had 
grown to know her body - its form, its secrets, 
its desires, at least as well as he knew his own.  
Mulder, who could draw out pleasure into a seemingly 
endless spiral of nerve tearing, flesh clawing 
intensity.  Mulder, who could, with even the briefest 
of touches, the softest of words, have her coming 
harder and faster than a runaway freight train. 
That this *thing*, this body beside her could ever 
imagine that he might know her better, show her 
anything greater?  Her disdain stepped in to harden 
her resolve, and as her hand slid round his hip to 
his penis and he looked into her face, the smile he 
saw there was genuine enough, though he was soon to 
discover the extent to which he misjudged its 
motivation.

She brushed her fingers slowly down the length of 
him, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears she 
feared would give her away.  Fingers gentle on his 
balls; she made just two tiny, feather soft strokes 
against the flesh, feeling him begin to sink boneless 
against her.  No more than ten seconds since she'd 
first touched his bare flesh and yet it felt like 
an eternity in hell - an eternity she brought to a 
sudden and vicious end as, in one swift movement
she molded her palm around the soft globes of his 
testicles, squeezing them into a single tightly 
misshapen globe, arched her fingers just so...and 
drove fingernails deep into the baby soft flesh, 
claws piercing, the tight skin popping like an 
over-ripe tomato, even as fingers squeezed tight 
toward her palm and she twisted and pulled, sharp 
and hard. 

She was off the bed before the ringing in her ears 
from the falsetto scream he produced had stopped, 
scrambling around under the neatly folded pile of 
clothes he had left beside the bed looking for the 
gun, the keys, sparing him only the most momentary of 
glances as he instinctually curled and cupped in futile 
and belated self preservation on the mattress beside 
her. 

Keys...keys...she needed his keys.  Where the hell were 
the keys? Lock him up in here.  Or gun.  Shoot the 
bastard.  Anything to make sure he couldn't give chase. 
That was what the plan had dictated, but she couldn't 
see them.  They had to be here, couldn't be far...but 
she had no idea how long his whimpering immobility would 
last, and with her hand still burning from the journey 
it had made across his flesh, with her body pumping with 
the panic, the adrenaline, all she could consciously 
think was "escape..." and so, grabbing at the nearest 
item of clothing, clutching it in her hand, she bolted 
out of the door and down the stairs.

Two flights.  She remembered that from the slow march 
up them those days ago.  He'd brought her in through 
the garage, the kitchen, but the front door she was 
certain she recalled, sat immediately opposite the 
foot of the lower flight of stairs.  Round the corner, 
 bare feet on the carpet, as she tried to tug the 
T-shirt she'd grabbed over her head without stopping 
or slowing her pace at all.  Her relief at seeing 
the door exactly where she remembered it being was 
short lived as, in her haste she misjudged the 
distance to the top step and found herself flying 
head over heels down the carpeted staircase, all 
awareness gone by the time she hit the bottom.

How long she lay unconscious she could not even 
begin to figure out.  It could only have been 
countable in seconds, she was certain, but what she 
really cared about was the realization that, however 
long  or short a time it had been, it had apparently 
exactly equaled that of  his incapacity.  As she 
began to come round, head swimming, neck aching when 
she raised her face from the carpet, she could hear 
him, now bellowing pure rage, and his footsteps on 
the stairs above her.

Clambering to her feet, careening against the wall 
as a sudden wave of dizziness assailed her, she 
pushed herself away, reaching for the door.  She 
wrenched back the deadlock, struggled with the 
bolts at the foot and the top of the door, straining 
on her toes to reach the higher of the two. She 
didn't dare look behind her, feeling that the 
movement might slow her, that the sight of him 
closing in on her might somehow render her immobile.

The door open, she launched herself outside, slamming 
it shut behind her in an attempt to slow his pursuit 
a little.  She was a good twenty paces past the door 
before her surroundings really came into focus and 
then she just stopped.

Blinking, shaking her head to clear her vision, rather 
as she might have done had she been exiting some dark 
hole, she found herself stunned into immobility as 
awareness of exactly where it was that she was standing 
seeped in to her consciousness.  She would never have 
suspected this, not even given the hints she'd had.  
This was so...so...

She heard the door behind her then, crashing open
and all thoughts of geography were cast aside as she 
was jolted into action, starting to sprint forward 
again.  The first shot missed her, if not by the 
proverbial mile, certainly by a good metre, serving 
only to impel her further, faster, forward, screaming 
out loudly as she ran, desperate to draw attention 
to her plight.

                   *********************

When the woman had made her plans for the day, they 
had been simple ones.  They involved driving over 
to collect her friend and heading into town to shop, 
eating somewhere nice and taking a look round the 
small water color exhibition currently showing in 
the local library.  If you'd have asked her then 
she could have given you an endless list of the 
things she might have expected to see during the 
course of exercising that itinerary. *This* certainly 
wasn't one of 
them however.

When she heard that startling bang and turned her 
head to see, just idly curious really, when the 
image first came into her peripheral vision as she 
started reversing slowly out of the drive and onto 
the road, some mechanism in her brain pushed back 
the message from the optic nerves, disdainfully 
sneering at her not to be so stupid.  Impossible.  
It was so utterly out of place, so unimaginable 
that such a scene might really be being played out 
on such a perfectly manicured lawn in her quiet, 
respectable neighborhood.  No.  Not real her brain 
told her, and so she didn't even turn her head to 
take a second look.  Strange how the mind works to 
protect sometimes. 

In the seconds it took her to straighten the vehicle 
on the road and start to pull away however, 
realization came crashing towards her - literally - 
and bounced off the hood of her thankfully slow 
moving car to the accompaniment of screams which 
seemed to her to sound out both desperation and 
relief.

As two bodies recoiled from the contact, she was 
already out of the car, her frantic cries now an 
echo of the ones she'd heard only moments before.  
Her escalating hysteria had nothing to do with the 
fact she'd hit them.  They were both already 
clambering to their feet and by then her brain 
was permitting her to acknowledge what she was 
seeing and so, somewhere in the back of her mind 
she realized that the bruises and cuts that marked 
the face of one of them had been visible to her 
before the collision occurred, and so were not of 
her doing. No.  Her hysteria arose from the fact 
that running her car into a bloody and bruised, 
nearly naked women and her wholly naked, gun 
wielding pursuer just yards from her own front 
door, was not exactly the reunion with her absentee 
daughter that Margaret Scully had envisaged.

She would try to recall the order of things later, 
when the female police officer, with her practiced 
sincerity and sympathy had asked her to explain 
exactly what happened.  Her memory was unclear 
though; not the step by step account that they 
wanted but a mass of jumbled images all painted 
on top of each other and framed with her litany 
of denial.  Not a denial of "I didn't do it,"
but of "this just couldn't really have happened." 

She did recall seeing the gun on the road.  She 
supposed he'd dropped it when the car had hit him.  
She also recalled seeing both her daughter and her 
neighbor lunge for it at the same time.  She didn't 
recall moving towards it herself.  She couldn't 
even begin to comprehend why she might have done 
such a thing.  It had been nearer to her she 
thought, but still...

But still. She recalled the collision, the impact 
as his shoulders took her out at the knees just as 
she plucked the weapon out of his reach.  She 
remembered hearing the shot just at the moment she 
hit the road with her backside and the car with the 
back of her head and wondering, in the midst of all 
the confusion, just where such a loud noise had come 
from. She didn't recall pulling the trigger at all, 
but then, she didn't suppose she had really intended 
to.  Misplaced instinct?  An accident?  It hardly 
mattered now.  

She knew she would never forget Dana's face, her 
eyes wide in shock, disbelief and pain as she had 
tried and failed to stand, her intention not yet 
registering her incapability.  She'd certainly never 
forget the blood that was so much darker than she'd 
ever imagined blood might be, as it marked the pale
face of her daughter in a macabre parody of her 
childhood freckles, nor the screaming that it took 
her nearly ten full minutes to realize was her own.


            *************************************


He'd grabbed at the phone like a lifeline - which in 
a way it was, he realized with a grimace.

"Mulder?"  

It was not the voice he had been hoping to hear.

"Shit!" He pulled himself up immediately, apology 
tripping over his tongue. "Look Byers...I'm sorry OK, 
but I need you off the line.  I'm waiting for Skinner 
to call me and right now I'm on my way to..."

"GMBC."

"What?"

"Baltimore Medical..."

"I know *what*, Byers.  I meant what - as in why?"

"Mulder, I'm not sure what you tell you here but..." 
The voice that came down the line at him was nervous, 
underlayed with sorrow.  The sudden seconds of silence 
that followed came at Mulder like a punch in the gut. 

"Jesus, Byers.  WHAT?"

"This isn't very clear, I mean we've got no 
confirmation..."

"Just tell me, for crying out loud!"

"We've...we've just picked Scully's name off the 
police scanners, Mulder."

"And?"  The lump that materialized in his throat, 
threatened to swell sufficiently to suffocate him and 
he was certain he could hear his heart beating over 
the low rumble of the engine, and the roar of the 
traffic outside. It was certainly louder than Byers' 
reluctant whisper.

"A fatal shooting, Mulder."   

He had heard the expression before of course, he had 
used it in reference to himself on more than one 
occasion, but never until that moment had Mulder 
really truly understood what it felt like to have one's 
blood run cold.

               ******************************

Baltimore Medical Center


She knew it was him as soon as she heard the door at 
the end of the corridor sweep open.  Just the sense of 
his presence assailed her stoic self control; it was as 
if were the proof she needed that this was all over.  
One part of her, by far the larger part, just wanted to 
turn and run into his arms, be held, and comforted, 
rocked while she cried five long days of tears, but 
another part told her that if she started, then she 
might never stop.  Instead she just stood and waited, 
not even turning to face him as he practically ran 
toward her.

"Scully."  The word was question, answer, relief and 
disbelief rolled into one.  "They said you'd gone...
I didn't know...I mean I thought they meant...but 
you're here," his babbling petered out and he reached 
out for her, pulling her into his embrace, squeezing 
her tightly as his hands roamed over every inch of 
flesh they could reach, as if checking she was all 
here.  When he grazed the edge of her ass and she 
flinched, he'd released her, stepped back, panic and 
concern in his eyes. The fear that had been sitting 
at the edge of his brain, waiting to be released ever 
since the ER nurse had told him she'd refused to be 
examined, refused any further medical treatment, reared 
its ugly head.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to..." 

She shook her head, silencing him, then glanced quickly 
up and down the corridor making sure no-one else could 
see them before she turned slightly into him, tugging 
the elastic of the scrub pants she was wearing down 
over her hip to reveal the patches of gauze taped 
across her buttock.

"Sore," she explained. "I've just spent forty-five 
minutes bent over a table having someone pick gravel 
out of my butt whilst trying to engage me in a 
conversation about the weather."  She pulled the waist 
back up, leaning into him, easily as grateful for his 
presence as he was for hers, the subdued nature of 
her reaction to him, no indication of the depth of 
emotion it entailed.  "When he fell he landed on top 
of me and I seemed to collect quite a bit of the road.  
Then when mom..."  She broke off, turning to look at 
the closed door in front of them, behind which Margaret 
Scully currently lay.

"Mulder, she doesn't want to talk to me."  She sounded 
more resigned than upset, though her lip trembled a 
little.

He put his hands on her shoulders, pulled her forwards 
slightly to deposit a brief kiss on the top of her 
head.  "She'll come round, Scully."  He offered the 
words as fact, not merely token reassurance, never 
thinking to question the accuracy of his assertion, 
but she just shook her head.

"Mulder, both of us...we've both killed people.  
Probably far more than most other agents.  And never 
once have I had the slightest doubt, the slightest 
question in my mind that when it happened, it *had* 
to happen.  A necessary evil if you will. But every 
time I point that gun at someone and pull the trigger, 
Mulder, I hate it.  I hate how I feel, knowing I've 
killed someone."

"But you should, Scully."  He pushed her back slightly, 
nudging her forehead gently with his chin until she 
looked him in the eyes. "The day you can kill someone
 - anyone - and not care about it, is the day you're 
no longer fit for this job."

"I know."  She stepped closer to him again, burying 
her face in his shirt. "But if *we* still feel that 
way, Mulder, with our training, with that horrendous 
weight of knowing each time that it's not the first 
time, with the law on our side and the believing that 
what we've done is right - if we still feel that 
way, can you even begin to imagine how my mother 
feels, Mulder.  She *killed* someone.  She took a l
ife.  It goes against every facet of her being, of 
her faith."

"She almost certainly saved *your* life, Scully."

"I know that. She knows that.  And the thing is 
that I know she'll use that fact to help herself 
to live with what she's done, but I also know 
she'll use that same fact as a means to remind 
me that ultimately I'm responsible for her 
guilt."

"Scully..."  He stopped, uncertain of what he 
had intended to say.  Some automatic urge to 
refute her words rose, to tell her no, it wouldn't 
work that way. That Margaret would never hold 
Scully responsible for what had happened, but he 
realized he couldn't.

"I'm not saying she'll do it intentionally, Mulder, 
or with any sort of vicious intent, but she *will* 
do it. And the irony is...I'm so damn angry with 
her too. As much as she could ever blame me for this, 
I blame her, Mulder."  She looked again towards the 
door. "It's unreasonable, and illogical, but it's 
there. I blame her and right now, I don't want to 
see her either.  And what scares me is I'm not sure 
how the two of are ever going to get over this." 

"I don't understand."  He mumbled the words in to 
her hair and she nuzzled against his chest, sniveling 
a little, before she realized that she was actually 
wiping her nose on his shirt, and pulled away.

"We all had it," she told him. "The role to live up 
to.  Bill's was easy - he was the oldest.  Charlie's 
easier still - the baby. Melissa was the accepted 
eccentricity and that left me to be the good girl - 
the straight A student, the polite, respectable, 
play by the rules girl. And I played my role. I 
played it well enough for them never to notice that 
they were killing me with it all.

'I met him years ago, Mulder.  So fleetingly, so 
insignificantly that it didn't even register when he 
related the moment for me. It was just one tiny memory 
among countless others.  And it should have been that 
way for him too, but he had this idea in his head, and 
it seems that my parents knew him, and talked to him 
about me. They fed his delusion with their tales of 
their perfect daughter, the does-no-wrong little girl 
they had always insisted I should be.  If I had been 
able to be more like Melissa, if they'd have known what 
was going on *inside* me, then he would never have got 
that picture in the first place.  This would never have 
happened to me."

"He would have just found somebody else."

"That's no comfort right now, Mulder."

"I know."  He began to rock her gently.  "I know, 
Scully.  I know," and before she could help herself, 
she was doing exactly what she'd been determined she 
wouldn't. A single tiny whimper turned to huge, 
wracking sobs and they stood, melded together by her 
tears as she cried herself dry outside the closed door 
to her mother's room.

                **************************


She'd offered neither comment nor protest as he'd led 
her to the car, just climbing in silently, then turning 
her head to stare out of the window as he began to drive.  
He'd reached across with his right hand, wondering how 
he'd bear it if she rejected the overture, but she 
grabbed at it, not turning to look at him, but 
squeezing his fingers softly.  It was just over ten 
minutes before she spoke and then she suddenly pulled 
herself upright in the seat, voice betraying the 
merest hint of panic as she asked, "Where are we 
going Mulder?"

He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead of 
them, unwilling to meet her gaze.

"Hotel.  I thought..."  He closed his eyes briefly, 
wondering about the extent to which he might have 
fucked up here.  He'd made assumptions on her behalf, 
made decisions for her, and if she hated that at the 
best of times, he realized she wasn't entirely likely 
to respond to well to it now.  He'd thought?  He'd 
thought, having heard from Skinner the details of the 
room she'd been held in, of the degree to which its 
creation showed him to have invaded her personal 
space that she didn't need to be back home; not to 
where he'd been he'd been, to look at what he'd copied.

"I just thought that..."

"Good."

He glanced across at her, just briefly.  She gave a 
quick, half-smile and then settled back down in the 
seat.

"I didn't want to go back there."  Her voice was tiny, 
an almost whisper.  "It's not exactly as if it's the 
first time someone's broken in, been inside there.  
But this was different y'know?"  

He nodded, even though he wasn't entirely certain if 
he did.

"All the other times I've known...or at least I assume 
that I have. Him though?  He must have been in there 
*so* many times, Mulder.  Again and again.  Touching 
and moving things.  Checking and invading.  And I 
never knew.  I never noticed. It's so much worse 
somehow."  She paused.  "I don't know if I can really 
explain it."

Her voice trailed off and the rest of the journey was 
completed in silence.  It wasn't until he'd got her 
inside the door, until she stood in the middle of the 
suite that she spoke again.

"Sure it's big enough?"  She couldn't help the smile.

"Well it's an 'until the weekend only' offer," he 
chuckled. "My credit card's more used to motel prices."  
His smile fell away then, replaced by a look of wary 
concern as he shrugged towards the open door leading to 
the second bedroom and the bed visible through it.  
"Besides, I didn't really know if you'd want me to..."

"I do."

"Scully..."

"I do."  

He still looked uncertain, as she raised her hand, 
cupped his cheek, letting her thumb play in the corner 
of his mouth for a moment.

"Remember what you told me, Mulder, that morning in 
my bed when I was running shy?"  She'd dropped her 
hand now, reaching for his own and tugging him down, 
to sit beside her on the bed, their fingers 
tangling in an untidy dance.  "All of this was 
inside his head, Mulder.  No one's fault - and 
certainly not mine."  She leant back briefly, closing 
her eyes.  "Not my mother's either, despite what I 
said at the hospital."  She snapped herself back to 
attention. "Nothing he did changes what there is 
between you and me, Mulder.  Nothing.  All of this 
was about him trying to take you away from me.  I 
refuse to let him succeed in that, for any period 
of time.  He will not win, Mulder.  OK?"

He nodded confirmation, a slow smile playing over 
his face, as he continued twisting her fingers in 
his own.

"That's not to say you're getting any, Mulder."  He 
looked up, surprised at the almost jokey tone, as 
well as the subject and the choice of words and
 hastened to reassure her.

"I hadn't assumed..."

"I know you hadn't."  She was serious again.  "He's 
not taking that away from us either, Mulder.  But 
right now, at this stage, and maybe for a while, I'm 
just not up for it."

                  ********************

They'd spent the next two days never venturing out 
of the rooms.  He'd found himself surprised at her 
reluctance to step outside, certain that she'd want 
nothing less than to be confined within the same 
four walls, but no matter how hard he coaxed and 
cajoled, she would not leave. He'd suggested walks, 
maybe a movie, dinner. He'd even offered to subject 
himself to the torture of shoe shopping, but she 
would just smile, reassure him that she was OK, 
but still never approach the door.

On the surface, she was almost serene, calmly 
delivering "I'm fine's" each time he inquired, the 
hackneyed phrase neither appreciated nor beleived. 
He supposed that he should be thankful that she 
appeared to be coping so well, but in fact her 
calm and controlled demeanor just filled him with 
alarm.

It wasn't that she was cold, distant.  He'd worried 
that first night, when they had been ready to sleep, 
what he should do.  He'd come out of the bathroom, 
climbed into the bed beside her, surprised when she'd 
instantly turned to him, even more so when his hands 
closed over bare flesh.  It was not that it was unusual; 
she habitually slept naked when they were together, 
but he somehow hadn't expected it that night, had 
thought it inappropriate somehow, which is why he 
was so uncomfortably attired in his sweats.  

She had laughed at him, soft and teasing, before 
hooking her hands in the waistband and sliding them 
down, using her feet to push them off and away.

"Thank you," she'd muttered into his ear, understanding 
what he'd been trying to do.  "But it's OK you know, 
Mulder.  I don't want you to feel you can't touch me, 
Mulder.  I let him do that to us before.  Not again." 
She'd rocked her hips against his slowly, no hint of 
invitation, rather just drawing his attention to her 
awareness of his cock, semi-erect despite all his good 
intentions, nudging against her belly.  "I mean, I'm 
not offering any active participation in the relief 
effort here..."  She snorted a little at her poor pun, 
before continuing.  "But I'm OK here, like this - if 
you are that is."

How could he possibly *not* be all right, he wondered.  
She was alive, relatively healthy and in his arms.  
There was nothing else that mattered right now.  

"I'm OK, Scully," he'd whispered to her.  "Your rules, 
your pace.  Whenever or never.  You're here, so I'm OK."   

He meant ever word of it, and indeed it was almost true.  
He told himself he was willing to sit back and wait, 
not so much for her to open her body to him - that was 
the very least of his concerns -  but to let him in to 
what was going on inside her head.  He was respectful 
of her need to set the boundaries, to dictate the pace 
of revelation, but as the day dragged on and she 
somehow managed to talk non-stop, but say nothing 
at all, he found he just wanted to grab her tight 
and demand...tell me...tell me.  He needed to know, 
and he knew, he was certain, that she needed to talk.

He had tried not to be hurt when she'd asked him to 
leave the room before she'd talk to the police who 
came to take her statement.  He told himself he 
understood, but in truth he didn't. He was terrified 
that he knew her reasons, what it was that she thought 
she was keeping from him, and it chewed at his heart 
that she didn't feel she could trust him with it.  
When the FBI agents came later, with the same questions, 
she hadn't needed to ask.  As soon as she'd turned her 
gaze his way, he'd stood, made his excuses and left.  
He hadn't looked back at her, for fear she would see 
not just the hurt, but the touch of recrimination in 
his eyes. If he had have done though, he might have 
seen the apology and the confusion in her own.

In between the visitors and the phone calls, they 
moved around each other, the worries, the niggling 
doubts not forgotten but put aside while they tried 
to pretend that they were both coping. 

She had sat in stunned amazement and watched him eat 
- and eat - and eat. "You'll make yourself sick," 
she'd told him, and he'd just grinned at her.

"Funny you should say that.  There was something I 
wanted to ask you..."

She took long baths, but refused to get dressed, other 
than for the sake of basic decency when her various 
interviewers arrived. He'd realized on the first day 
that she didn't actually have any clothes with her, 
had offered to go out and get her some while she soaked 
in the bath and she'd agreed.

"But Mulder," she'd called out to him, just as he'd 
been about to step out of the door.  "No underwear.  
I don't want anyone buying me underwear."  He hadn't 
understood, but he heard in her voice that she was 
serious, and so he didn't buy her underwear and then 
he pretended very hard that he was not turned on by 
the thought of her walking around without it.

She'd been willing to listen, to learn all that he 
had about Milne and his history, occasionally nodding, 
'umming' agreement, muttering that that made sense...
but she never ventured over the line of  revelation, 
never told him what she'd seen and heard and felt 
herself.  

She'd held him when he'd cried, long and hard, after 
he'd made the call he'd said he wouldn't, believing 
Susan Vincent deserved to know that the man who'd 
taken so very much away from her was dead. What he 
learnt, was that there was now another woman's name 
to be added to the list of people the man had killed.  
What must have been less than hours after he had left 
her on her doorstep, she'd added a cocktail of 
medication to the alcohol he'd watched her drink, 
and slept peacefully for the first time in months.  
She never woke up.  He'd sobbed into her shoulder 
that it was his fault, that he should never have gone 
there.  He'd learnt nothing from her that had helped 
ultimately anyway, just information to satisfy his 
curiosity.  She'd rocked him and cooed over him, 
reminding him of everything he'd told her, of the 
death he'd seen in her eyes.

"She'd been dead since he took her baby, Mulder," 
she'd told him.  "She just kept breathing somehow.  
But he killed her that night as surely if they'd 
buried her then. *He* killed her."

Their 'united front' was genuine enough, if exaggerated 
a little for effect, when Skinner had shown his face, 
apologetic and concerned.  Mulder had shaken the hand 
that was offered him, given his own genuine thanks for 
the fact that the man had finally had enough faith 
in him to listen, even if it had all come too late to 
have changed anything.

And that was why the resentment still festered, even 
when the apology was accepted and the tacit agreement 
that they would just move on made.  She spotted the 
unspoken lie though, challenging him with it as soon 
as their boss had left.  The rage she had felt, when 
he had assumed violence when standing concerned in 
her apartment, was surprisingly not exaggerated by 
the revelation of the later extent of his accusations.  
She just wanted to move past it; the apology was 
genuine, she was certain, and resentment a pointless 
waste of time.

"If he'd have believed me at the beginning though, 
Scully," he'd tried to explain to her, "Then we'd 
have found you so much sooner.  Other people would 
have been involved, the Gunmen wouldn't have been 
the only source of information." It was more than 
just that though.  "It was about truth, Scully.  I 
told him the truth and he didn't believe me. I've 
never expected blind faith, Scully and I'm not 
someone who stores up debts, expecting them repaid 
at some point.  But I've believed in him in the past 
when no-one else did, not even you. I've put my 
neck out, fought for his job, his reputation.  He 
owed me, Scully.  He owed me at least the benefit 
of the doubt, and instead what I got was accusation 
and disbelief."

"My mother believed it too," she reminded him.

"That's different."

"How?"

"She's your mother, Scully.  You tell her someone 
hurt you and she's meant to believe you.  I was 
angry and hurt at the time, but when it comes down 
to it, she had no reason to believe that letter 
wasn't from you.  So as far as she knew, *you* had 
told her I hurt you.  She had to believe you and 
hate me for it.  She was actually quite scary," he 
chuckled.  "But she was a mother looking out for her 
child.  I wouldn't have expected anything less of her."

She'd laughed a little, agreed with him...but still 
she didn't talk.


It didn't happen until the night before they were 
due to leave the hotel.  He had no idea where they 
were going to go the following day - or where *she* 
was going to go.  The only time she'd voiced an 
opinion on the subject had been in the car on the 
way over here, indicating she didn't want to go 
back to her own apartment. They'd been tucked 
beneath the sheets, his body spooned around hers 
as they continued with the nonsense chatter, when 
he'd asked her about her mother.

"I haven't called," she'd told him, a guilty little 
huff escaping her.  "I don't know what to say to her, 
Mulder.  I don't know where to begin and I don't 
understand why it's so damn hard to even think of 
being round her right now." 

"Are you angry at her for shooting him?"

"God no.  I'm glad she killed him."  She suddenly 
clapped her hand over her mouth, shocked by her verbal 
expression of the sentiment.

"That's understandable.  He hurt you.  He almost 
certainly would have killed you."

She wiggled a little against him, trying to tuck his 
knees in behind her own, to get more comfortable.  
"It's more than that, Mulder.  If she hadn't have 
killed him, if he'd have survived and this had gone 
to trial, then I'd have come out of it really badly."

"How the hell do you figure that, Scully?  You were 
the *victim* here?" 

"No more than you were.  Less so actually if we look 
at it from a physical point of view."

"Really?"  There was no mistaking the combination of 
hope and doubt in his words and she realized that she 
couldn't continue ignoring his concern in the hope 
that it would just go away by itself, so saving her 
the trouble of having to deal with it, to explain 
things she wasn't certain she was ready to explain. 
She'd been deflecting any attempt he'd made to talk.  
It wasn't fair though, to just keep avoiding it, not 
telling him and expecting him to just carry on 
tiptoeing around her because of what he was frightened 
of stumbling into. 

"Mulder..." The decision made, she reached out 
suddenly and flicked on the lamp beside the bed 
before rolling out of his grasp and turning to face 
him, able now to see into his eyes. "Ask me."

"Ask you what?"  

But she knew that he knew what.  She could see in his 
eyes exactly what she'd heard in his voice, the 
between his personal need to know and his desire to 
respect her feelings, protect her from having to face 
up to what it was he feared she had been hiding ever 
since her escape.  She hadn't described events to him, 
but knew he had read the police reports, read the 
detailed descriptions of her state of undress and of 
Milne's.  She knew exactly what it was he worried 
she'd kept out of the reports, with her refusal to 
accept any medical attention past that which had 
almost been forced on her.

"You know what, Mulder.  Ask me."

He was silent, but as he pulled her toward himself, 
tucking her as tightly as he could against his body, 
hands moving over her, offering a caress totally devoid 
of any hint of sex and yet so intimate and tender she 
ached from it, she realized he wasn't ignoring her 
the request, wasn't hesitating or avoiding.  He was 
simply and silently telling her that when he did ask, 
whatever her answer, whatever she revealed, it could 
change nothing of what he felt for her.

"Ask me."  She whispered it to him this time, and 
hooking her close with his leg thrown over hers, he 
cupped her face, placing his forehead against hers.  
She felt him exhale, heard the stuttered beginning 
of a word broken off as he swallowed before he took 
a deep breath and said it, the words when they came, 
spat out on a sob.

"Did he rape you?" 

"No."

The word was like a pin, bursting the balloon of tense 
fear he'd been holding in.  He shuddered next to her, 
heavy gasps of relief, before he buried his face into 
the pillow beside her, squeezing back the tears.  

"No, Mulder."  He lifted his head to look at her when 
she began speaking again. "He didn't rape me.  He 
didn't sexually assault me. He didn't actually lay a 
single finger on me in any way that could be construed 
as sexual.  But please understand - I need you to 
understand - that's not to say he didn't violate  me.  
I feel violated by all that he did - the watching, 
the stalking,  his being in my apartment, the 
assumptions he made about me, about you and me, but 
in real terms, in *legal* terms, beyond a split lip, 
he did me no actual harm at all.

'Mulder, if he had lived and this had gone to trial, 
if his lawyer had asked the right questions and if 
I had told the literal truth, I would have had to 
stand up and say that no, not once did he make any 
sexual advances toward me at all, not once did he 
touch me in any way that could be construed as sexual.
That he didn't force me or threaten me to get me 
into that bed with him.  I would have had to tell 
how *I* asked him to have sex with me, how I told 
him I needed him, that I wanted him. That once 
we were in bed together, he actually asked my 
permission to touch me, that he complied with my 
refusal to grant that permission, and that I in 
fact touched him.  And that's what I hate.  That's 
what I can't bear, and what makes me feel dirty 
and used.  I had to use sex to get myself out of 
there, Mulder.  It may not have gone down to the 
wire as far as the actual act was concerned, 
but..."

"You're not dirty."  He was kissing her, just 
baby, comfort kisses, littered over her face, her 
neck, her head.  "You're beautiful and brilliant 
and brave.  So beautiful.  Not dirty."  Where his 
mouth didn't touch, his hands did, just featherlight 
brushes, caresses, fingers trying to tell her what 
he somehow lacked the words to express more eloquently. 
"You did what you did because that was your only way 
out."  She hadn't truly appreciated how worried she 
had been about how he'd react to hearing this until 
the wave of relief she felt as she realized his words 
were not a question but a statement washed over her. 

"By then, yes," she agreed.  "He would have killed 
me, Mulder.  I have absolutely no doubt about that.  
He came in with my gun intending to kill me and I 
had to tell him what he wanted to hear to stop him 
pulling  the trigger.  I'd..."  She faltered, pulling 
away from him and turning to her back, eyes fixed on 
the ceiling.  "When he was in my apartment, Mulder, 
when he took me, I thought then that he intended to 
rape me.  I told him he'd have to shoot me first and 
I really thought I that meant it. That I would do 
*anything*, anything at all rather than endure being 
raped. When it really came down to it though, I wasn't
 going to die for him.  I had to decide whether I 
valued my life over..."

"Shhh."  He raised himself on his elbow,  placed his 
finger against her lips, leaning forward and kissing 
away tears she hadn't even realized were flowing. 
"If you're telling me this because you need to say 
it, Scully, then I'm listening.  I'll listen whenever 
you need me to, to whatever you need to say.  But if 
you're telling me because you think you owe me any 
explanations, or because you think that I need to 
be convinced of anything then they're unnecessary 
words."

She rolled back to face his again, hands reaching out 
and framing his face as she brought her mouth to his.  
"I love you, Mulder," she whispered to him, then 
cocked her head querulously as he chuckled.

"Do you know that's the first time you've ever said 
that to me?  I mean the actual words?" he explained. 
She looked suddenly stricken, and he laughed again, 
to reassure.  "I've always known.  You've always let 
me know.  It's just I've never heard you say the 
words."  He nuzzled against her, nose to nose, a 
clumsy Eskimo kiss.  "I like it," he whispered.

"Then I'll have to do it more often, Mulder.  Because 
I do."

"I love you too, Scully.  So much."

"I know," she softly mumbled against his lips.  "You 
tell me all the time."

They'd held one another in silence for a long while, 
just 'being'; no reason, no expectation, no effort, 
just touching, occasionally kissing, content.

He broke the moment reluctantly, but unable to ignore 
the question he wanted to ask any longer.

"Where do you want to go tomorrow, Scully?"

She didn't reply straight away, just lay there, chewing 
on her lip, her fingers tracing lines of contemplation 
along his forearm.

"My apartment."

"You've decided against moving?"

"Yeah."  She fell silent again, just staring at some 
point just past his shoulder, until he nudged her gently, 
prompting her to speak.  She sighed.  "At first I thought 
that I couldn't go back there, not so much knowing that 
he'd been there, but the never knowing just how much he'd 
seen, touched.  It's less the physical invasion I find 
hardest to deal with, than the one he made with his 
assumptions, the conclusions he drew but I've realized 
that I can't get away from that, Mulder.  Even if I move, 
unless I'm planning on throwing away every single thing 
I possess, I can't be certain that he hadn't touched it, 
used it in some way to draw his conclusions about me. I 
can't remove that, so I guess I have to learn to live 
with it." She sighed.  "Am I making any sense here?"

"Plenty."  He kissed her cheek softly, then bent his 
head down, tucking his face into the crook of her neck 
as he mumbled,   "There is a third option you know?  
I mean, other than simply move or stay."

"Umm?"

"You could move in with me.  I mean, either at my place,
or if the watching he did there spooks you, we could 
find somewhere else, somewhere new?"

Her hands suddenly froze in place, where she'd been 
stroking his back, and he daren't lift his head to 
look at her as she expelled the loudest, longest sigh 
he'd ever heard.

"Are you asking me because that's what you actually 
want, Mulder, or because it seems like the right thing 
to say?"

His silence spoke louder than any words could, and 
embarrassed at having been so rapidly found out and 
at his inability to lie, he buried his face deeper 
into her neck.

"That's what I thought."  He looked up then, expecting 
her to be hurt but saw her smiling.

"Mulder, I don't want to live with you any more than 
you want to live with me.  Not really. We spend most 
of our time together anyway, and it's good, Mulder...
really good...but I need to know I can kick you out the 
door when you start to bug the hell out of me.  You 
need to know you can walk away when you need some time 
and space and vice versa."

It wasn't exactly that he didn't want to live with her.  
If she had said yes, he'd have carried through, far 
more than willing. But ultimately, she was right.  
He'd been asking because right there and then, it 
seemed like the right thing to do. He was curious 
then, as to why this felt like a rejection when she 
was really only echoing his own point of view.  

"So we just carry on as we have been doing for the 
past two years," he asked, vaguely perturbed at the 
petulance he could hear in his voice.

"You know what they say, Mulder.  If it's not broken, 
don'tfix it."

"And we're not broken?"  The tone was teasing, but the 
question sincere.

She laughed.  "No Mulder, we're most definitely not 
broken.  A little cracked in places..."  He snorted 
a laugh out against her neck.

"Only a little?"

She returned the laugh.  "OK, maybe a bit more than a 
little. In your case a lot."  He glared at her in mock 
indignation, smiling as she gave out the hint of a 
giggle, before hooking her hand behind his neck and 
pulling him down for a kiss.  "But that's all part of 
the pattern, Mulder.  And it's a pattern I like and I 
want to keep."

                  *******************************

Epilogue  (The gratuitous smut section really.  No 
redeeming value whatsoever.  Sorry <g>)


3 weeks later.

She made the final sweep with the roller, turning the
last few inches of cream wall to pale blue then stood 
back to regard her handiwork.

"Done?" he called out from his perch on her stool, from 
where he was determinedly trying - and failing - to fix 
her new wooden curtain pole.

"Yep."

"Feel better?"

She nodded.  "It does, yeah.  Already." She turned 
slowly in the doorway, looking at the freshly painted 
walls of the rooms on either side.  "I know it probably 
sounds silly - I mean, I know it's the same place and 
he was in here, but he wasn't inside *these* walls now, 
y'know?"

"I know." He jumped down from the stool, his handyman 
efforts temporarily postponed and he scanned the room 
in front of him, hand clutching his chest in mock 
horror.

"Look at the mess, Scully.  How the hell do you manage 
it? You're usually so completely an..."  He stopped 
suddenly.

"Carry on, Mulder."  She was advancing on him with the 
paint wet roller in her hand, grinning wickedly.  "I'm 
usually so completely what?"

"Tidy," he chortled, reaching out to try and grab her 
wrists and try to hold her weapon of choice at bay but 
she bounced back out of his reach.  "You're so tidy."

"Oh I don't think that's what you were really going to 
say at all, Mulder, was it?"  

He laughed and tried to dodge out of her way, but she 
stuck her foot out as he moved past her, and sent him 
tumbling to the floor.  Before he could get up she was 
on him, sitting across his chest.  He could have 
dislodged her easily, but he was enjoying himself far 
too much.  This was the first time that fun-Scully 
had come out to play for far too long.

"Sooo..." She held the roller at his throat, almost 
but not quite touching  "What were you *really* 
going to say?"

"You wouldn't dare, Scully."

"No?"

"No," he replied confidently, then rather worryingly 
only just managed to close his mouth before she pushed 
the roller up over his face, leaving him with a pale 
blue chin, nose and forehead.  "Oh hell!  I don't 
*believe* you just did that, Scully."  He gave her 
no time to enjoy her victory though, turning suddenly 
and flipping her beneath him, one long arm stretching 
along her shorter one to grab the roller. She had no 
intention of ceding it, flicking it out of her hand, 
sending it scuttling across the floor, before 
grinning up at him, teeth bared in a victory growl.

"Uh-hu, Scully.  You're not getting away with it that 
easily," he told her, reaching out beside him.  When 
she realized what he was doing she began to struggle 
in earnest, kicking up at him, squealing her protest.

"Don't you dare, don't you dare, don't you dare..." 
but he wasn't listening as, with a whoop of pure 
delight, he lifted his paint smeared hand from the 
roller tray and proceeded to rub it in her hair.

Open warfare ensued.  They rolled, and grabbed, and 
teased, and smeared, and laughed, and splashed, and 
crawled, and kissed and kissed and kissed, until they 
lay exhausted and panting on the floor, her periodic 
little bursts of giggling accompanied by his bass laugh.

"This had better wash off," he chuffed at her.

"Easily as long as it doesn't dry.  Shower," she 
ordered, and he stood up, holding his hand out to 
pull her up from the floor.

"Is that a you and *then* I shower, or a you and I 
shower," he asked her, almost shyly, still cautious 
of the boundaries that had begun to fall only slowly.

She'd looked up at him, devilment in her eyes.  "Well 
we wouldn't want the paint to dry on you while you 
were waiting, would we now?" 

They stood under the water, his face and arms stinging 
slightly from the force she'd used to scrub off the 
blue.  He was working strong fingers through her hair, 
rolling strand between his fingers to wash away the 
color while she scrubbed his blue palm print off her 
arm. 

"Done," he declared proudly, as the last trace of blue 
swirled down the drain, followed rapidly by the last 
traces of shampoo.  She leaned back against him, 
reaching back with her hands to cup his ass.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure," he answered.

"Oh, it will be."  He didn't have the time to ask her 
what she meant before she'd turned and placed her hand 
in the center of his chest, pushing him gently until 
his back hit the wall.  Before a single noise could 
cross his lips, she was on her knees in front of 
him, his soft cock rapidly hardening between her 
lips.

"Scully..."  It was a protest too weak to be called 
even half hearted, but she stopped anyway, sliding 
her mouth off him, and staring up at him questioningly.  
"I don't want...I mean, only if you..."

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

He was sure that there'd been a reason he was 
hesitating, something he wanted to ask, be sure of, 
but all of a sudden it didn't matter in the slightest, 
because her mouth was back around his cock and the 
ability to form any words with more than a single 
syllable was completely and utterly lost to him.  

She scraped her nails down his inner thighs, enticing 
him to open his legs further and further for her, until 
some natural instinct towards self preservation kicked 
in where conscious thought couldn't and stopped him 
before he fell flat on his ass.

He'd flailed around for a minute, trying to give his 
hands purchase somewhere, unable to grip the slick 
tiles, finally settling them on her head, fingers 
twisting strands of hair as he gripped.  Initially 
and  unconsciously, he used his hands to pull her 
forward, jerking hard against the back of her throat, 
but she'd pulled back, teeth closing on him past 
the point of pleasure, a quick, sharp warning not 
to do it again.

She played him, a beautifully cruel game, where 
she'd work him, mouth or hand, in a steady rhythm, 
teasing, drawing him to the very edge and then she'd 
just stop, lean back and look at his face with 
affectionate amusement, his clenched teeth, his 
screwed up eyes.

She had her hand around the base of him, sliding 
slowly, tightly gripping while her lips encircled 
his head, tongue hard and pointed, sliding across 
the tip.  He'd just got used to the rhythm, started 
to relax into it, move with her, when she changed, 
hand working his full length as her mouth slid down 
and over his balls, pulling each misshapen globe 
in in turn, releasing each to the sound of a 
resounding 'plop' and a belly low growl emanating 
from above her, as her teeth gently grazed the 
soft flesh.  Again, she brought him to the very 
edge - and again she just stopped, gently pressing 
thumb and forefinger against him to bring him down.

"That...please...this...don't..." he managed to 
mutter, aware that he was making no sense at all, 
but somehow not surprised that she appeared to 
understand him completely.  

"Ah but Mulder," she whispered against the soft fur 
of his belly.  "Just think how good it's going to 
feel when you do come." 

Good might possibly have been the understatement of 
the millennium, he thought to himself later.  The 
second his trembling had abated, she was on him 
again, stroking him from balls to tip with her 
tongue, then moving suddenly down over him, 
enveloping him in her hot mouth, pushing slowly 
forward until he felt himself sliding against the 
back of her throat, her nose nudging his pubic hair.  

"Oh.  Ohhh," was the level his vocabulary had been 
reduced to, and she laughed around him, the 
vibrations sending paroxysms of pleasure from his 
cock to every single nerve ending in his body.  
Mouth moving around him, teeth grazing him on 
every upstroke, tongue caressing as she moved 
down, one hand continually massaged his balls, the 
other he felt moving between his legs, gliding up 
between his buttocks, as she sought and then 
found her target, pushing her finger up inside 
him, angling just so, and tracing tiny fingertip 
circles over his prostate.

His fingers tangled tight in her hair again and 
he was jerking at her head, hard, hard, pulling 
her onto him as he thrust himself into her, not 
having forgotten the toothy threat, but quite frankly 
not caring in the slightest at this exact point in 
time whether she actually bit the damn thing off, 
because he was coming and coming and coming, harder 
than he had ever come before and it was so damn 
good that there was nothing at all in the entire world 
that mattered but the pleasure pain pleasure of it all.

He was still thrusting, empty and ineffectual against 
her when his legs finally gave way, and he thudded 
to the bottom of the tub beside her, watching in 
unashamed delight as she ran her tongue over her 
lips, slow and sensuous then stood, moving back 
beneath the now tepid water, quickly soaping herself 
off before stepping out of the bath.  She turned to 
look at him, grinning with no small touch of pride 
at his horizontal status and the goofy grin plastered 
across his face.

"Are you intending to just sit in the tub all 
afternoon," she asked him with a grin.

He tipped his head back and opened his eyes, regarding 
her from beneath heavy lids.  "No choice.  I can't get 
up.  I think I just shot my bone marrow."  

"Lovely image, Mulder," she replied sarcastically, 
wrinkling her nose, trying to look disapproving and 
failing miserably. "But there's paint all over the 
living room that needs cleaning, and you my sweet, are 
going to have to do it because I..."  She lifted his 
watch from where he'd put it next to the sink, staring 
pointedly at it.  "I, on the other hand, am going to 
meet my mother for coffee."

He had already started to clamber to his feet, reaching 
out for a towel.

"How are the two of you doing?"

She shrugged.  "We meet in public places because 
it's easier for one of us to get up and leave that 
way.  We have polite conversations about the weather 
and traffic pollution, while this enormous great 
mountain sits between us in the table, invisible but 
immovable.  Neither of us ever asks the other how 
they are because we're terrified we'll get an honest 
answer."  She gave a dry laugh.  "Oddly enough, 
we're doing better.  It's going to take her some 
time.  She needs to deal with the guilt she feels, 
before she can really deal with me."

They'd made it through to the bedroom by then, 
and tugging on clothing.

"We'll get there with a bit of work though," she 
continued.  "In time anyway."

"You've got time."

"Yep," she agreed.  "Except not of the sort I 
right now.  I'm late and I don't really think my 
mother is likely to appreciate my reasons why."  She 
slipped into her shoes, shucking on her jacket and 
heading for the door, stopping half way across the 
hall when the phone rang.  She listened first, 
waiting for the machine to click in, stepping forward 
to pick it up when she heard who it was, but Mulder 
stilled her arm.

"Leave it.  He's probably calling for me anyway," and 
indeed, as had quickly become the case, now that their 
relationship was public and that it was assumed that
either would be found in the home of the other
when  not in their own, the brief message left seemed 
to bear that out.  

"How long's this going to go on, Mulder?" she asked 
him.  "You can't keep on being angry with the man."

"I'm not exactly angry.  It's just - I don't know.  
I still resent him.  I find myself around him and I 
wonder what he's really seeing when he looks at me. 
If he believed that I'd hurt you, Scully, for all 
his apologetic words, what does he really think of 
me?"

"He got you off that charge re O'Connell," she 
reminded him.  He didn't respond.  "He's a good 
man, Mulder," she sighed at him.  "He made a mistake.  
He's done it before and I have no doubt he'll do it 
again, but we're all still here after this one, so 
surely you can try and let it go?"

"Maybe."  She frowned.  "OK.  I can but try."  

"Good."  She stretched up on her toes, planting a brief 
kiss on his cheek.  "And now I have to go because I'm 
really late."

"Blame me."

"Oh, I will do." She turned to go.  "Clean up my living 
room, Mulder," she called over her shoulder.  "And if 
you do a good job, I might let you make me late for 
supper too."

He grinned at her departing back, then stooped to pick 
up the roller she'd thrown across the floor, stepping 
back and placing his foot square down in the middle of 
the paint tray, flinching at the gelatinous cold, 
wincing at the loud crack that echoed round the room 
as the plastic split.

He turned to pick it up and examine it, pull and flex it, 
until satisfied it was salvageable, he dropped it back
to the floor.  

"Cracked but not broken, Scully," he said softly to the
empty room, smiling as he spoke.  "Never broken."


        
END.







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