From: Silver Fox Date: 12 Apr 1998 04:40:10 GMT Subject: NEW- Caged Fox II- Night Terror 1/3 Okay. Here's the deal. I didn't originally want to write a sequel to Caged Fox. I thought it worked well on it's own, but a whole buncha people suggested this. "Night Terror" (I'm horrible at naming things.. this I named in the first original save, and it actually turned out to work for the story somewhat. WOAH!!) is the result of that. I, personally, don't think it's too good looking back on it. Then again, maybe I do. I blame everything on NyQuil right now. If it's good, then I blame that last comment on the 10% alcohol. If it sucks, then I blame myself posting it on the fact that I'm so loopy and tired right now. And I've decided hard returns are a joy bestowed upon us by none other than the Dark One himself. What other better way to celebrate Easter with Mulderangst, thought, right? Oh, and, like I'd actually leave you hanging, a third part is in the works, and I hope that that will be the last. It's not even 10 pages long now and all ready better than this, but that's because I'm so sortof dissatisfied with the way this worked out. So this is the lesson I learned: Write what you want. Okay. Enough with the speil. Title: Caged Fox II- Night Terror Author: Kathleen Brown Rating: NC-17 (Pronounced mental illness and more of that fun suicide attempt stuff and some dirty words.) Classification: SA Mulder/Scully UST, MulderTorture, MulderAngst Distribution: Go for it, Gossamer. I love you guys. Spoilers: None? Maybe some fifth season and I mention Duane Barry. Some for the Rock Scene (a scene worthy of capital letters, see?) in Quagmire. I also spoil an episode/X-File that I might write down someday but probable never will (again, NyQuil). Summary: Following the story "Caged Fox", Mulder is still trying to pull his life together. A task almost impossible with the Cancer Man's syndicate still out to rule him. Fox runs away from this, only to be flung into Scully's waiting arms. Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Krycek, TLG, and all those fun people belong the that teary Vancouver-leaving surfer dude who sometimes overuses the word "uh" but still manages to churn out a kickin' series. No Foxes were harmed during the writing of this story. "Try not to get worried try not to turn onto problems that upset you don't you know that everything's all right yes, everything's fine and we want you to sleep well tonight let the world turn without you tonight." -- Mary Magdalene. *~*~*~*~* Night Terror *~*~*~*~* Gasping, and thrusting his upper body into the clinging darkness, Fox Mulder awoke from his dream, pushing away the wisps of images into the night, desperately flailing his hands into the air, reaching out for a shred of reason in his world, his own mind too riddled with insanity to create the comfort for him. In the darkened room, his face lay moist against the arm of his couch, shining slightly in the greenish light of his fish tank. His chest heaved unbearably, his throat torn and aching with half-shattered screams born in sleep. His hazel eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, probing the dark for familiarity, but instead none is to be found. No desk, no light above the door, nothing. Home? Another home. Across town from his old apartment, too far to reach this late at night. Mulder pulled the knit blanket around his shoulders as he sat up in his home, no longer new, but new enough to frighten him in the darkest hours of the unfamiliar night. He gazed across the room, recognizing a re-run of some hopeless science fiction on late-night cable before shutting off the offending program. Not because he didn't enjoy the soft lull of it's company, but because it struck too close to home, its little gray aliens too much like his own. Shuffling across the house, down a hallway which led to his bedroom, Mulder contemplated the many-lined journal which lay open beside his bed. He lifted his pen as he sat, and grabbed the book as he plunged his sock-feet down under the covers. Slowly, with the lethargy of night and only half-finished sleep, he began to write broken half-sentences, trying to recall his nightmare. scully and duane i can't help her crying in the night i can't find her, help her dad is there, nearby me, telling me mom is dead but it isn't dad. cancer man. who is mom? my mom? margaret scully scully's my sister? I lost my sister? samantha is scully *~*~*~*~* 3 Days *~*~*~*~* "And so, without much thought for my own safety, I plunged forward into the night, following my instincts for the sake of my partner. Nothing mattered any longer, not the search for my sister, not the lives of the previous victims, or following the rules of our suspect. I wanted one single thing, and nothing, no mothmen, no giant flukeworms, no walls of flame, even, could divert my path towards her. I found her exactly where I had expected she would be, huddled at the base of a tall tree not far from where we found the first victim. As I approached, she lifted her head, and I could see, in the deep blue pools of her eyes, her relief at the sight of me. I had never felt more guilty until that moment. I was the one responsible for the entire abduction, I was the one responsible for nearly getting her killed. And this didn't fall under the same category as my guilt over her cancer or her previous abduction under Duane Barry, THIS was MY fault. I made my way toward Dana, hearing the leaves crackle like fire beneath my feet, when I saw her eyes go wide at the sight behind me. I know that look, it is the stark terror of the helpless, I've had that same look in my eyes a thousand times before. I turned, but before I could draw my gun, Dana tells me, " "Damn." Fox Mulder turned away from the computer screen, sighing as he removed himself from his chair and made his way across his well-lit living room to snatch up the cordless. "Yeah." "What kind of a greeting is _that_, Mulder?" At the sound of his ex-partner's voice, Mulder smiled, thinking of her standing somewhere, Michigan this time, in her trench coat and unmistakable Dana Scully power suit, complete with the heels she wore, he knew, only to make herself seem more formidable. *No need, she's formidable enough as it is.* Mulder made his way back over the computer, saving his last few paragraphs before letting his screensaver cover up his star-covered wallpaper. The only thing unusual about the action was the fact the screensaver itself displayed a starry night. Quaint and somewhat plain, but effective enough and fitting of Mulder's ever- changing tastes. The Grays and UFOs of old given up for the sake of something more real, something slightly less exotic. Mulder shook his head, distancing himself from his thoughts, and walked toward his kitchen. "Sorry, Scully, I was a little of out it." "You okay?" A smile graced his lips, his heart swelling with pride as he registered her mild concern, feeling honored to be given such a gift from a woman so perfect, in his mind. "Yeah. I'm fine, Scully, I was just writing, so..." "Mind somewhere else." "Exactly." Mulder opened his refrigerator and was shocked, as always, by the mere fact there was actually something in it. "How's the case?" "Okay. There's _something_ fishy going on around here." "Very funny." "Come on, Mulder, are you trying to convince me of another Big Blue here? I've got to make the fish jokes, you taught me that." "My best student." Scully smiled and turned her back to the sun, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden lack of light, letting them work out their faded, ghostly patterns. Each one creating a new image, one even creating the image of Mulder, the thought most present in her mind, the one invariant in her life. Some days she'd even forget he was no longer working with her, and glance at her watch and wonder out loud where he was, until finally she'd remember and end up aching with the loss of him. Today was one of those days. "Mulder, I've got a question." "Shoot." "Have you ever heard of a Nessie-type creature crawling around on _land_?" "Sure. There's been speculation for years that Nessie lives not in the Loch but in the cliffs surrounding it. I'm surprised you don't remember that, Scully." "Forgive me for not knowing my nonexistent creature lore. And I was busier trying to make sense of all the personal things you were telling me. That was rare in those days." "Don't I know it." "Too often I was fighting off your abduction stories and I didn't want to deal with you any longer than I needed to. Hence, no social life." "You want to believe." Scully grinned. That statement couldn't be more true. "Scully, honestly, why are you calling? I'm sure that can't be the real reason, you've got the files, you'd check it yourself." "Can't an Agent check up on her partner? Make sure he's being good all by his lonesome?" Mulder frowned at the use of the word "lonesome", because some days, like today, with Scully working on a case so far from home, it was just a too-accurate description of him. He sighed and allowed himself to be enveloped in the too-familiar despair of his mind. "Are you done, Scully?" His impatience and his desire to leave, those were Scully's warning signs, they were what told her, right off the bat, that something with him was not- quite-right. "Mulder? What's wrong?" "Nothing, Scully..." He shook his head, dropping onto the couch in a heap. "Mulder, come _on_, don't lie to me. What is it?" "It's _nothing_, Scully. I'm just tired." "Did I interrupt you sleeping, Mulder?" "No, Scully, I swear, I really was writing." "What about?" "Old times." This was another clue. *Why isn't he talking?* Scully sighed and wiped her hand across her face, which, despite the early hour, was all ready bearing lines of intolerable weariness. "_Which_ times, Mulder?" "Witching hour." Scully swallowed her bile and forced herself to face the memory, if only to try to help her friend out of the rut he'd dug himself into. "Mulder, that was not your fault." "Yes, it _was_, Scully... If it wasn't for my stupid, idiotic idea that he'd return to the scene then none of that would have happened." "Mulder, your _brilliant_ idea got him caught. We would've never gotten him any other way." "He hurt you." "He hurt you, too, Mulder!!" A soft whimper. Scully was terrified by the thought of what Mulder could be doing to himself right now. The truth was not as bad as she imagined, though. Mulder lay huddled on his couch in an almost fetal ball, resting against the leather, clutching to his phone in his right hand. His eyes were glazed as his mind tormented him with the memories of that time. When he awoke and learned that Scully had been beaten for her "insubordination" by her captors (thanks to Mulder), he had wanted nothing more than to die then and there, alone, with his pain to keep him company. This was _Scully_. No one should be responsible for her pain and live to tell about it. That was Mulder's own rule, not one he designed for his own demise. He'd never imagine he'd hurt Scully so brutally. Two minutes of silence was becoming too long for Scully. God only knows what kind of agony a tortured Mulder-mind could inflict in _only_ two minutes. "Mulder.... Mulder, come back to me. Mulder?" Another soft sound. An even softer voice. In Mulder's living room, he sat staring off, his eyes vacant, his soul in the middle of the not-so- complicated process of being torn apart limb from limb by pain unseen. His lips parted slightly, and from between his perfectly aligned teeth and pink tongue came barely audible words. "i think i'm gonna go, scully." "No, Mulder. _Mulder_, No. Stay. On. The. Line." "i'm okay, scully. i'm just going to go for a walk. i'll be fine." "Mulder, please, just talk to me. What's bothering you?" "nothing. i'm fine. i just need to go out for a little bit. i'll call you when i get back." "Mulder, acting like this you _won't_ get back... Mulder, I'm worried about you, please, _please_, stay on the phone with me." Scully _knew_, at this point, that there was no way of keeping Mulder on that phone. There was virtually no way of keeping him there. Mulder, once he's retreated into himself, can only be extracted by one person and one person only. Mulder. "i'll call you back." Dialtone. Scully sighed and hung up her phone, terror wracking her small body. She _could_ take a flight back to DC and be home in a couple hours, but she knew he wouldn't harm himself, wouldn't put himself at risk or danger. He might cut himself, but never make an attempt at suicide. He wasn't that deep within the grip of his illness. He knew his moral standards, and death at the hands of man, even if those hands were the perpetrators of their _own_ demise, was against his moral fiber. Scully couldn't help but worry, though. This was her best friend and something had set him off, pushing him spiraling down into his own personal hell until he could no longer see over the edge into the real world, until there was nothing but dark, quiet, dusty solitude. Mulder uncurled himself from his couch and laid the phone on his table, then strode forth, as a man with a purpose might, to grab his coat and keys and run away from this dark pain, into the busy city where he could not be more alone. *~*~*~*~* 1 Day *~*~*~*~* Dana Scully continued to pace. She had been pacing close to an hour without a single interruption, but she continued despite her aching knees and calves, even despite her exhaustion. Mulder was missing. The man had not been seen since the morning previous, not by anyone. He missed an appointment with Doctor Connolly yesterday, and never made it back to his house. And Dana remained helpless, chained to this God- awful case in Michigan. *Fucking _Michigan_. Might as well be the _Yukon_ for all I can do for Mulder here!* The only good news, which in itself was hardly comforting, was the fact that no bodies matching Mulder's description had turned up. Then again, though, how many people jump off the Route 1 bridge and turn up by morning. It could be days, weeks, maybe not at all. The thought was enough to flatten Scully, but for a crushed women, she looked, by all outward appearances, the epitome of calm. Except for the pacing. She'd wear a hole in the carpet at this rate. *~*~*~*~* 3 Days *~*~*~*~* Mulder sighed. He was tired, terribly exhausted and lacking in sleep from the night before. He wanted nothing more than to go home and get some rest, but home was no longer safe. Just as his old apartment had become no longer safe. They were still after him. Always the same, always them. He sighed and walked through the sliding glass doors of the small DC store. As he passed by the large rack of bagels, the smell of the owner's coffee hit him, and his stomach twisted into knots. No food for two days. He needed to eat, then he'd take care of the job. Mulder grabbed the bag of chips and small apple pie on his way to the pathetic little "health and beauty" section, for once in his life thanking God for hopeless fashion sense. He grabbed up seven or eight of the largest bottles of blood-red nail polish and a large bottle of acetone and carried them, albeit awkwardly, to the counter. The cashier raised an eyebrow at the man's purchase but said not a word, only shook his head as the man carried his purchase to his car. "You're really not going to tell us what this is about, are you, Mulder?" "No." Mulder didn't turn to his friends as he drove, making his way toward a large forest in the area. The three Gunmen were thoroughly frightened both for and of Mulder, basing this fear on not only the man's possibly altered mental state, but by the fact he seemed to be acting just as paranoid as he used to, more paranoid than themselves. Byers swallowed and tried to make sense of Mulder's request, but could not find the words. "Have you told Scully what you're planning?" "No." Now even Langly was nervous, terrified by the prospect of having to give Agent Scully the "bad news". "Mulder, this would go a lot smoother if we just knew what you were running from." "Damnit, I can't tell you!! I told you, this is too important, if too many people know I might as well just hand myself over to them." "To _who_?!" Mulder turned his gaze on Frohike and sighed. Frohike _swore_ he could see tears in those eyes. Mulder sighed and turned away, reaching his hand up to the left side of his face, presumably to wipe away a fallen tear, but Frohike could never say definitely. "Guys, I _want_ to tell you, you don't know how much, but I can't..." Byers shuddered when he saw Mulder's hand return to the steering wheel, noting how badly his fingers were shaking. "Mulder, are you entirely...lucid?" "You mean, am I being crazy?" *Busted* "Yeah." "I'm not. Then again, if I was, how could I tell, but, I can assure you, I feel this deeply, far too deeply to merely be suffering the effects of not having taken my medication today." All three Gunmen shivered. "Say "cheese"." "Bite me, Frohike." "Don't move, Mulder." Mulder sighed as he saw the flashes of the camera through his closed eyes. He could hear the sound of the camera clicking away, and see only bright red flares nearby, moving slowly around him. The nail polish was perfect in both shade and consistency, and he was sure he could make a million selling the secret to the movie industry. The only problem was the fact that it itched like hell where it caked within the hairs of his arm, and he was sure he'd be more than a little pinkish in the wrist regions for the next few days. The leaves littering the ground were caught in his hair and he shivered as the drizzle that made it through the trees managed only to find the sensitive nether-regions of his body. He sighed, but was met with harsh anger via Frohike, photographer extraordinaire. "Dead men don't breathe, Mulder." "It's not a movie camera." "They don't talk, either." Mulder opened one eye and looked up at the small, scruffy man. Frohike sighed and let the camera hang down in his hand. "She'll look for anything that can be construed differently, Mulder, and a difference in the height of your chest, maybe thanks to that great big sigh you heaved there, will tip her off. You said you wanted realism, Mulder, this is the price you pay." "If I'm not allowed to breathe then this might not be so much of a hoax." "Shut up and play opossum, Fox." Another glare from Mulder. *~*~*~*~* 3 Days *~*~*~*~* *Oh God. Oh God He's got that look again. That "Mulder's dead" look... the last time I saw that... oh _God_. Mulder's dead. How? Don't bother with the niceties of "breaking it to me", your face says it all. I just need to know how. Give it _up_, Walt, and tell me. Did he throw himself off the bridge like his doctor told me he wanted to? Did he nick an artery while he was just trying to cut himself like any normal self- mutilator? Did he slash his neck shaving? Get swallowed up by a disgruntled lake monster? Stolen by a mothman? Die of typhoid from the Newark sewer? Get hit by a bus? Drift away in his sleep like any normal man? Following an overdose of sleeping pills? TELL ME!* Walter Skinner swallowed nervously and sighed, shaken to his toes. The small woman before him looked like she was less than two seconds away from pouncing on him and opening the envelope herself. The envelope in his hands contained the photos Skinner hoped he would never see, the proof of an event he never wanted to witness. He had no words of comfort, no way of telling her without a shock. He'd give anything not to show her those photos, but there was no choice. They were hers. Addressed to the X-Files Division care of Walter Skinner. Scully is all that's left of the X- Files Division, heart and soul. Skinner mildly pushed the envelope across the desk and awaited the onslaught. He was not prepared for tears. Dana Scully picked up the pictures as they slid across the desk. She was instantly flattened by the images before her eyes. Mulder. Her beautiful, beautiful Mulder, lying on his back, his body torn and violated, unprotected by clothing, stark naked amongst the wet leaves. He was definitely Mulder. Scar on his left shoulder, scar on his left thigh, unmistakable Mulder, his body soaked in blood too real to be ketchup, his lips blue with the pallor of death. Oh God. Mulder. His wrists slashed, but not as suicide. Scully knew this. Either way, Mulder was dead. Scully let the photos flutter from her hands onto the floor and allowed her face fall into her hands as she began to sob. The Assistant Director stood and went to her side to comfort her, but she only pushed him away and stood, making her way across the room, farther from him. "Agent Scully..." She dismissed him with a turn on her heel and a bright blue gaze. "Where is the body?" "Hasn't yet been recovered." "Then I refuse to believe it. Mulder is Mulder and I know him too well to believe that he is dead with a simple photograph, or even a _body_ for that matter. He's not dead." "Dana..." "No! How many times has Fox "died"? Yes, his FBI career is over, yes, the Syndicate has _finally_ given up on the man, but he is _not dead_!! I won't believe he's dead until I've seen his body and gotten the DNA evidence to prove that it's Mulder. I refuse to believe _that_." She poked a slender finger toward the offending pictures. *I refuse to believe that* The words of a broken man years ago, unwilling to accept the shock that his best friend is dying. *I refuse to believe it, Mulder. I won't give up on you.* *~*~*~*~* Huddling deeper into his coat and suppressing a shiver, Mulder turned away from the waters of the Vineyard, and towards the three men sharing the beach with him. Langly, Byers, and Frohike remained in the dark as to Mulder's insanity but, with the loyalty of long friendships, they remained by his side. Now, though, it seemed as if Mulder was giving them the big brush-off, the "thanks, see you again some time", the one thing they could not give their friend. "Guys..." "No, Mulder." "What?" Mulder looked at Byers in complete confusion, wondering how someone can give an answer "no" to an unasked question. Only Scully can do that. "We won't leave you like this." "Like what?" "Alone, Mulder." Langly shivered against the harsh wind blowing his scraggly hair. "Mulder, you're giving up your entire life." "I know." Frohike groaned in disgust. "WHY?" "I can't tell you!!" "Mulder, I think the reason you're not telling us is because you yourself don't know!!" Mulder looked across to the other man in the trench coat, left over from a government job so very, very long ago. To Byers the man before him looked pale, drawn, aged beyond his years, and too sick, mentally and physically, to continue on this insane tangent, to follow this notion that he must run away. "Mulder, why are you doing this?" Mulder swallowed nervously, then let his pain- filled gaze travel over the likes of his last three confidants in the world. He shivered in the crosswinds of the Vineyard and was struck by the parallel to his life. This is his crossroads. His choice, one of a thousand. Crosswinds. Okay, so it's a terrible parallel, but it's what came to his shattered mind. Mulder turned away from his friends and sighed, taking his seeming solitude into him in the form of seeming strength. "I had a nightmare." "And this made you decide to run away from the one person who gives you back the love you give?" Mulder's shoulders sagged under the weight of Frohike's statement, and he knew they'd never understand his motives. "You don't understand, Frohike. No one does." Mulder turned to face them. "Scully is doomed because of me. She'll never live a normal life so long as I'm around. I'm the world's only living bad luck charm." "Sounds like an X-File." Langly managed a halfhearted grin. Only this could bring Mulder the chuckle that the three Gunmen truly needed to hear. The next sounds out of him were far less reassuring. "I figure I might as well quit while I'm ahead, right? I mean, she can get over me being dead for a while, but there's no getting over dying because of me." "Why now, Mulder? Why not four years ago?" Logical, logical Byers. "It took being crazy for me to come to my senses?" Mulder sighed, suddenly exhausted, no longer finding warmth in his long wool coat, while tiny misty raindrops stung the back of his neck like alien icepicks. "Mulder, what did you mean when you said Scully would be able to get over your being dead "for a while"?" Frohike, slow, but unfailingly perceptive. Mulder sighed, then looked up at his friends, understanding suddenly dawning upon his face. "You think this is permanent? That I'm never going back to Scully?" A simultaneous nod by all three men. "NO!! I'm going to tell Scully as soon as I can get settled!!" "Settled where?" "That's what I was going to tell you when Byers told me "no"! That was the whole point of me bringing you all up here!! I wanted to make sure we were somewhere no one could find us, where no one could hear me tell you what I was up to!" "What about the pictures?" "I needed a cover, I needed something believable enough for Scully to give them a show and, as cruel as it seems, I need her not to know where I am for a while." "You planned all this." *Langly, catching on...* "Yes!! And I planned on your guys being oblivious for this long, too. I needed to make sure you guys were with me on this." "How can you doubt that, Mulder?" *Frohike? A loyal guy? I knew ya' had it in ya'....* Mulder shook his head and smiled, exhausted, but overjoyed by the fact that they were going to help make his plan work. "I don't know, guys. Maybe I'm just really paranoid." A shared smile. *~*~*~*~* 12 Days *~*~*~*~* Phone. Damn phone. What time is it? 1:20 Mulder, what is it now? No. Not Mulder. Mulder's.... The pictures... Scully shuddered at the thought of those pictures, the source of her nightmares ever since the day she first set eyes upon them. Mulder is the only one who calls at these ungodly hours. Who else would be calling? Mulder? Mulder, is that really you? Mulder.... it can't be Mulder. He's dead, Scully. Dead. Gone. Killed in the Georgia forests where he went searching for you, where he nearly died years before, nearly died in the same case that almost got you killed, the case that almost drove Mulder to kill. Scully was abruptly shocked out of her contemplation by the shrill ringing of her phone, wondering, again, as she snaked her hand out of the covers, who it could possibly be. "Scully?" "Hey, pretty lady." "_Frohike_?" "The one and only." "It's one o' clock in the morning, Frohike!!" "Wrong, 1:22. Sure does take you a long time to answer your phone." "Frohike, why are you calling me?" "I got somebody here who wants to talk to you." "Who--" The sounds of the phone being covered, then moved, then handed over. Silence, punctuated by tense breaths, held tightly in check by a man acutely aware of the beating of his own heart. "Hello?" "Hello?" "it's me." *Oh. God.* That same tiny, frightened voice. *Where are you? Where have you been? Why haven't you called? Are you all right? Where are you? Are you hurt? Where are you?* "Mulder?" A moment of lingering silence until his voice reached out to her, strong and confident but still, somehow, small. "Yeah. It's me, Scully." She struggled with her throat, trying to choke out all of her questions at the same time, each one fighting, insisting upon their urgency. Scully took those moments to sit up in her bed and regain her bearings. "Are you there, Scully?" *TALK TO HIM!!* "Yeah, Mulder. I'm here." "Are you okay?" "I should be asking _you_ that. Where the hell have you been?!" "Oh, here and there. All around." "Do you know about the pictures?" "I posed for them." "Are you all right?" "I'm fine, Scully." "Where the hell are you?" "Vermont." "What're you doing there?" "Oh, I've got this real nice, cozy little cabin that the Gunmen helped me set up. They handled most of the dirty work while I took care of the more important _administrative_ duties." "Damnit, Mulder, this isn't funny, you let me think you were dead for two weeks!!" "Scully, I got to you as soon as I could!" "What happened?" "I don't want to talk about it over the phone. You come up here and we'll talk." "Where are you?" "Just head north and you'll find me, Scully. Don't fly. Drive. I'll make sure you get here safely enough." "Mulder, how can you be so sure?" "Just trust me, Scully. Can you still manage that?" Scully's voice grew soft and the tone became intimate, her feelings displayed as proudly as Mulder's often are. "Of course I still trust you." "Bring your mittens...." Mulder smiled as he remembered those same lines from much, much too long ago. "Don't even start that again." Both partners smiled into the night. "I'll be there, Mulder." "See you soon." The telephone conversation ended unfinished, and, although both of them knew the way that such a call should have ended, neither was ready to say it out loud, even after all these years. *~*~*~*~* Scully sighed softly as she passed through the charred remains of a long-ago forest fire in southern New Jersey. Almost seven years and still the trees could not be restored to their former beauty. Scully found herself lost in her thoughts, thinking of getting to see Mulder for the first time in two weeks. She used to go through these long stretches without Mulder much more often, but yet this time, now knowing Mulder fully outside of work, now she was just missing him that much more. She sighed and pulled into the toll booth, flipped in her forty cents, and pulled away. She caught sight of an exit not far ahead and decided that Mulder would wait for her in the few minutes it would take to pull off and grab a cup of coffee. Better to do that than fall asleep at the wheel. Surely Mulder wouldn't mind. Mulder counted on it. He knew Scully, he knew her routes toward the Vineyard, towards Maine, towards all of New England. Her methods wouldn't change, _couldn't_ suddenly change, could they? *Now isn't the time to doubt yourself, Mulder...* She'd be there. They'd find her. "HEY! If you're not gonna buy it, don't read it!!" Sheepishly, Langly put down his magazine and walked to the back of the store, where Frohike appeared to be in the middle of a long and complicated decision as to which snack food would be most appropriate for his evening. Chips? Corn, potato, nacho, nacho-ranch, cool ranch, tortilla, or hot taco? Cheese curls? Cheezy-poofs? Across the small convenience store, in a corner, Byers stood watch among the bagels, out of sight from the store clerk, watching and waiting for the petite redhead's entrance. He was not long in waiting. Dana entered the store yawning, making her way automatically toward the back, after having been in countless such stores over the course of infinite cases. On her way to get a hot, steamy cup of coffee, she grabbed herself a small box of mild stimulants, a dangerous trick learned from Mulder. She passed by Frohike without so much as a glance, too engrossed within her own little bubble, trying to figure out how to get to Vermont, and Mulder, as fast as possible without, ironically, missing any sign she might find of her ex-partner or the Gunmen. She quietly paid for her coffee and pills and a gooey apple pie-pocket and made her way back outside, not noticing the two men following her out to her vehicle. She pulled her keys out of her pocket and touched it to the lock, looking up a bare moment, catching a glimpse of a man in a trench coat. A moment's glance and it was made clear not to be Mulder, _her_ Mulder, but she still was curious as to his business in the area. Mulder. Scully let that thought pull her away from the man in the trench coat and quietly slipped into her car. "Don't turn around." *Oh. God.* Suppressing her natural reaction, Dana tightened her body and put her hand on the handle of her door, ready to run at a moment's notice. "Relax, Dana. It's only me." "_Frohike_?" "The one and only." "God, you _scared_ me. What's going on?" "Just get back on the parkway. I'll tell you where we're going. Trust me." "I can't trust, Frohike." "Trust me, Dana." And she did. The two drove from Southern Jersey to Newark, then on to New England stopping not once, not twice, but three times to switch cars, each time with an apparently seamless switch, with Dana leaving to take care of some inane task; a trip to the ladies room, the purchase of a map, grabbing another cup of coffee, while the Gunmen drove off in some sort of switch of bodies she couldn't even begin to understand. And so she would return to another car, each one with another Gunmen, until she joined up with Frohike only several miles from their destination, a wooded cabin outside of Fletcher, Vermont. *~*~*~*~* Copyright Kathleen Brown, April 1998. Disclaimered in part 1. *~*~*~*~* There are days when I believe that I have never left the FBI. You can take the Agent out of the FBI, but you can never take the FBI out of the Agent. That's me. I have no X-Files to call my own, no dark basement office, no more "I Want To Believe" poster hanging among all the rest of my articles, but I am still, to a degree, just as obsessive now as I was when I was still with the Bureau. Of course I know that being obsessive is a part of not only my personality, but also a symptom of my illness *_Obsessive_-Compulsive Disorder*, but I nevertheless am intrigued by myself. How egotistical is that? I'm allowed to be a little maniacal, though, since I _am_ crazy. Scully's supposed to be here. The Gunmen predicted 11:21. It's about 11:15 and I'm ready to go out of my mind. It's been much too long waiting for her. I can't go two weeks without Scully. Why can't I admit, 9 years later, that I love her? She must be as lonely as me, she trusts me with everything, and unless she's gone out and gotten involved with somebody, which I don't see happening, she's completely unattached. Sadly, I seem to take up most of her time. I'm so pathetic in that way. She deserves a life I can't give her. It's been 7 years since I've had sex. Isn't that the most pathetic thing you've ever heard of in your entire life (existence, as this _is_ a simple cyber- journal.)? Kristin was the last. Since then it is only myself. Perhaps I should revise that. It's been 7 years since I've had consensual sex. Mustn't forget rape, of course, I suppose that was sex for _one_ of the parties involved. As if I could forget anyway, it's not like those evenings don't encompass all my nightmares or anything. They do. Oh, God, they do. Every moment is pure hell from the time I climb into bed to the moment I arise from it, save for the occasional wet-dream, since I can't even bring myself to take care of it on my own, I'm _that_ deeply repressed and withdrawn. I'm surprised I don't scare the Gunmen. I went off on Langly a few days ago for something-or-another (I don't even remember what) and gave him a black eye that I'm surprised has faded so soon. I miss therapy. I really scare myself. Oh, how's this for twisted? I've been finding myself in flashbacks more and more often lately. Can't imagine why, though, since I'm really _not_ spitting out my medication as soon as I take it or, as a last resort, purge myself of it. As if. I am. I openly admit it, though. To a password-protected file in my computer, perhaps, but I admit it. 11:20. I gotta admit, the boys know their time. If they say they'll be here at 11:21, they will be. One minute to chew up. Any last thoughts? I'm scared shitless. I know I'm going fucking insane before my very eyes, and I'm helpless to it. I won't be able to admit it to Scully, I'll never admit it to the Gunmen, and I won't ever dig myself out of this pit I've fallen into. I'm stuck in an endless cycle of insanity, and it'll take another two-year-long prison term to get me back into my own mind. Oh. Right. Flashbacks. Forgot about that. Not to Sam. I've given up on Sam. Sam's alive, living it up with her husband while I'm here, alone, friendless, not a single member of my family to turn to should I totally lose it. Sam couldn't care less, even if she tried, which I'm sure she does sometimes, when she even remembers I exist. Anyway. Flashbacks. To prison. Rapes. Beatings. Then, out of right field, my father. When he used to beat on me. Joy. And I think I should mention that I'm seconds away from mutilation lately. I finally punched a mirror yesterday I got so frustrated, it's the whole reason the guys thought they'd push up my Scully-date. I'm really downplaying this whole situation, too, it's truly astounding how much I do. I'm this time-bomb of insanity who just hides it really well. Oh God. Scully. I know her little footsteps, and I'm powerless to get up and answer the door. Oh God. She'll see it in me. She'll take one look at me and pull me straight to a hospital and it'll all go to hell again. I can't do this. *~*~*~*~* "Where is he?" Dana looked to Langly, who looked immediately to Byers, who shot his gaze to Frohike, who watched him passively until Byers looked again to Langly, who in turn looked at Dana. "Where was he last?" "When we left he was typing at his laptop. Journal entries or something." Scully nodded, back into Agent mode, looking for her lost and possibly endangered partner. Small feet carried her across the room to the mute, darkened laptop, turning her then to gaze across the expansive cabin. The bottom floor seemed an entire room, living area, kitchen, dining room, and a small area Scully guessed was a mixture of an annex of the Gunmen's' lab and Mulder's study. The room was topped halfway by a large loft over the kitchen and dining room, giving anyone upstairs full view of whoever may be relaxing or working downstairs. Scully looked around and found the staircase, giving the trio in the doorway the warning to stay where they stood. Scully listened to the oddly comforting creak of the wooden stairs, smiling at the smell of old wood and something she recognized as faintly Mulder, telling her that this cabin was mostly his, even though the Gunmen shared his space. She quietly padded into the area she determined was Mulder's sleeping area, a bedroom he'd never dreamed of until six months ago. She smiled when she saw the picture of herself beside his bed, but was saddened, intensely, when she noticed the picture of Samantha lacking in his arrangement of items. His heart had been so thoroughly broken when he finally came to terms with the fact that Samantha didn't want him, that Scully couldn't help but blame that woman for most of Mulder's latest round of agony. The old pain was not directly her fault, as it was brought on by her mere existence, but this pain new was all because of her, as surely as if she had taken a knife to his heart with her own hand. Scully wondered if Mulder would have preferred it. She shuddered when she realized that he would. In the darkness, the tall man huddled himself into the tightest ball he could manage, attempting desperately to quell his frenzied shivering and avert detection. Why? Had he _ever_ been able to escape her? Had he ever truly wanted to? Was this only his pathetic, unconscious attempt to draw her concern and pity to him, to receive her comfort a thousandfold? Mulder shivered and drew his legs tighter to his chest, not knowing of the light playing softly across the silk of his hair, gleaming dully in the play of light and shadow. Scully sighed. He was frightened. Of her. Of her presence invading his own, taking away his solitude, intact even in the company of the other three men. She looked at him in the darkness, smiling gracefully at the flash of hazel, bright with unshed and frightened tears. She knew she must speak with him, must let him know that he would be all right, that he _would_ be able to survive her return to him, and his return to himself. "How long have you been hiding like this, Mulder?" His eyes came out of the darkness to meet hers, shy and yet huge, inquisitive. "Not long." She smiled, urging him to come back to her, to recover himself and get a handle on his fear. "Why are you hiding from me, Mulder?" The mere sight of her was enough to break him out of his shell, to crack open that fear and show him a way out. Mulder stirred and let his legs fall open, tucking them immediately under him. He sighed and huddled in closer to the wall, shivering slightly. "I can't leave here, Scully. I'm safe here." "Safe from what, Mulder?" He shook his head. "There's no time." "Mulder, we have all the time in the world." "It's still not enough." "Mulder, you need a doctor here, with you. You need someone to talk to, someone who you don't have to live with, too." "Scully, no. Scully, you're enough." "Mulder, you may think that, but I don't know that. Mulder, you're sicker than you think, and you need care that I'm just not strong enough to give you." "You act like I'm dying of a disease, Scully." "Mulder, you _are_." He looked up to her, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "Why do you want to hurt me?" "Mulder, to hurt you is the _last_ thing I want. I want you to be well, but that's not something I can do for you, I'm not the psychologist you need." He sighs, softly blowing his hair out of his eyes. "Mulder, why don't you tell me what's driven you to such fear that you felt you had to run so far away, and lead me to believe you were _dead_?" "Right now the gunmen are taking care of your death, Scully." She stared. *Excuse me?* "What?" "They can stop it if you don't want to stay, Scully, but if you don't want to stay, you can never see me again, never speak of me, never, _ever_ contact me." "When do you need this decision?" "Midnight." She glanced at her watch. 11:50. She looked back up at Mulder. "You're giving me ten minutes to make the biggest decision of my life, Mulder." "Scully, think of all the times you've made decisions without reservation that could've killed you in a fraction of a second. Draw upon those finely-tuned FBI skills." "Mulder, I'm not leaving here until I know what the hell is going on." "It'll take years to tell of those three days, Scully." "I've got all the time in the world." And a smile cut through his darkness. *~*~*~*~* Dana wrapped her hands around the mug Mulder presented to her as he came out the front door of the cabin. He sat beside her on the porch swing and she graciously wrapped the other half of the blanket around his shoulders. He settled in beside her, letting his toes rock them back and forth ever so slightly. The gunmen left for their hotel lair not long before, leaving Scully to deal with the increasingly unstable Mulder while they executed Scully's suicide plan. Scully sipped at her tea and quietly eyed Mulder. She could smell the unique and somehow wild and untamed odor on his neck, and the sweet peach scent of his hair. She contemplated the smooth curve of his neck and the exact way in which his soft hair met his pale flesh. She allowed her gaze to travel along his strong jaw and across the shadow of hair along his otherwise smooth face. She became startled when he suddenly turned to her, meeting her eyes with an intense and almost startlingly lucid gaze. "What is it, Mulder?" "I'm sorry I got so spooky back there, Scully." "Mulder, it's okay. I'm not upset by that. You've been through more lately than I think anyone can imagine." "But it's really nothing, Scully. There's nothing new happening in my life. Nothing so strange as to attack me like this. I should be fine." "Mulder, you're sick. You can't expect yourself to act normally when you're ill like this." "Scully, it's been weeks since I took my medication. I ran out almost a week ago and have just been swallowing down tic-tacs in an effort to calm down Frohike. I don't think he knew that I had been refusing to take them, either." "What do you mean?" "I'd argue, then take them, then, if I had no other option, throw up just to avoid having them, Scully." "Why, Mulder? Why are you so desperate to be rid of your medication when you know you need it and you know that you feel so much better with it." He turned away as he swallowed nervously, trying (and failing) to regain his calm. "I don't know, Scully. I mean... I just don't know." Scully nodded, understanding how strange he must be feeling, with the logical part of his brain telling him he needs his medicine, but with the other part telling him, without reason, that he must not take it. *How confusing it must be to be so ill.* Scully sighed. Poor Mulder. Poor, poor Mulder. "Don't pity me, Scully." *Did I say that out loud? I couldn't have. Psychic? Look at yourself, Dana, you've turned into him...* "I don't need your pity. I need your help, Dana. You can't resign yourself to the fact that I'm just destined to be this way. We can fix this." She managed a nod as his eyes once again met hers, the hazel orbs wet with tears. "Mulder?" He wiped the back of one hand across his tear- stained cheek. "Yeah..." "What happened?" He looked to her and sighed. "I'm sorry I had to put you through that, Scully." "Just don't ever die on me and you'll be fine." He sighed. "Now, what happened?" *~*~*~*~* Nineteen days ago, Mulder stalked out of his home in a blind, sick haze, unable to fight the emotions writhing within the slim casing of his body. Mulder made his way to the Route one bridge, walking along the pavement until he could see the water below and know that it would be enough to kill him. He climbed over the railing, his long coat sliding over last, following behind him. Mulder shivered against the cold wind, but closed his eyes to feel the life-giving air, polluted as it might be, redden his cheeks with cold. Mulder let his arms open up to his sides and a twisted smile emerged upon his lips as the cold wind whipped across him. He looked as some warped imitation of the crucified Christ, offering himself up to a God he wasn't sure existed. He shivered suddenly, shrinking back, wrapping his arms around his stomach, where a cold, empty ache was forming. Pain swirled in Mulder's head and dizziness overwhelmed him until he staggered, perilously close to an edge he'd rather sail across, but only through his own power, and not as a botched attempt. Mulder let himself slide into a sit upon the thin ledge, breathing deeply of the icy air as his body began to shiver. Mulder recognized the familiar warnings of panic, but couldn't understand what the driving force was behind this attack. He was not afraid to die. He was normally not afraid of heights, or of bridges, or wind or water. What was the only thing that frightened him this way? Fire? *There's no fire here, so why am I so afraid? What frightens me about this? What is more frightening than anything? Living without Scully? I'll meet her... Never finding Sam? Sam doesn't want me. Fire? Fire always... surrounding me... Could I actually end up that way because of this? It's quite a risk I'm taking here....* "Do it, Mulder." Mulder whipped his head up, searching for the voice permeating his existence through the pounding of the blood in his head and the ringing in his ears. He huddled closer to himself, shivering uncontrollably in both terror at the sound of that voice and because of the cold too intense for his black wool coat. Mulder let his gaze focus upon the shoes of a well-dressed man, in a long coat not unlike his own. But, unlike Mulder, his hair is shorter, darker, his eyes black, his face, too, lined with years and scarred. His left hand tucked protectively into his pocket. He leaned forward, reaching his right hand out to Mulder, who only briefly toyed with the idea of yanking him over the edge, but scrapped that theory, realizing that Krycek would only, like he had for so many others, metaphorically or no, pull him down along with him. Fox sighed and grabbed the younger man's hand, if only for the symbolism, still not trusting him at all, and holding his weight completely on his own. He sighed and looked eye-to-eye at the man he swore would forever be his enemy, to avenge the death of his father. But all the information Fox received, all the knowledge gained those last years, showed Fox that his father perhaps earned his demise, and that his death was perhaps not as tragic as Fox had originally thought. "Why are you bothering me now, Krycek? Of all the times...?" "I wanted to warn you, Mulder." "Warn me? Since when do you even _care_?" "I always cared, Mulder, it was _you_ who didn't." "Get it over with, Krycek, and let me die in peace. I'm doing your work for you." "You don't need to do this, Mulder." "What do you mean?" Nervously, Mulder shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Krycek sighed and looked all around them, noticing the woman across the bridge watching them, wondering what the black-haired man was doing to help the man whom she was so sure a second ago would throw himself off the bridge. Krycek looked at Mulder, noticing the shiver in his thin body. "Aren't you cold, Mulder?" A sharp nod. "Let's find someplace to get warmed up, we'll talk then." Mulder nodded numbly and led Krycek back to his car. In the warm cafe not far from Mulder's house, they sat quietly, Mulder with his cold, pale hands wrapped around a mug of tea, and Krycek sipping from a Starbucks coffee. Mulder didn't fail to notice the use of Scully's nickname. Whether or not it was at first the name of Ahab's first mate isn't important, but to him, no matter what, it would always be Scully's nickname first. Mulder sighed, shook off the last of his shivers, and looked across the table at his companion, once partner, once enemy. Alex Krycek. "What was this you wanted to warn me about?" "Mulder, you don't have to live like this." "Live like what? I don't live, Alex, I haven't lived in almost five years." "That's because they're still trying to control you. They even did it in prison. They grossly underestimate you, Mulder." "Gee, thanks." "I'm serious. They never thought you'd be able to fight them, but you _have_, you've completely one- eighty'd their perception of you." "Make your point." Serenely, Mulder took another long sip of his tea. "They're watching you, Mulder. They're keeping you down. I don't know exactly how, whether they switched your medication or got to your doctor or what, but they've done it, and they have control over you, Mulder. You _need_ to get away." "That's what I was trying to do on that bridge today." "No, Mulder, that was giving up." "And who the hell are you to tell me what giving up is?" "Look Mulder, I may have stabbed a lot of backs over the years, and, yeah, some people got hurt, but not one of them didn't deserve it." "Melissa." "That wasn't me, Mulder." "Whatever you say, Krycek." "Listen to me, Mulder, this is the _truth_. They're seeking to hurt you. I know because they tried it on me." "Who's 'they', Krycek?" "The same 'they' it's been for years, Mulder. You know who." Mulder gives a slow, sad shake of his head and sighs. "If I still had my gun I'd blow your head off right now, you son of a bitch." "A lot of good that would do, Mulder. All you'd get is more time in prison, and I know how much of a good experience _that_ was for you." Mulder lashed out without another thought and slapped Krycek full across his cheek, sending him sprawling. Mulder stood and glared at him, waiting for him to get up like a respectable human being. More or less. Krycek stood, brushing himself off and grabbing his coat. "I'm not lying to you, Mulder. If your Thorazine was working, would you be doing the things you are? Just think about it, Mulder. I gave up trying to lie to you a long time ago." Krycek stalked out without another word, leaving Mulder standing alone, all eyes upon him, watching as his sudden informant disappeared into the crowd outside. Tossing a few dollars onto the table, Mulder walked quietly outside, seeking solace in the anonymity he would find there. *~*~*~*~* "_Krycek_?" Scully swallowed hard, disbelieving her partner's stupidity at following the man they both knew to be nothing more than a liar, a coward, and a murderer. Mulder sighed softly. "Scully, he got me thinking, and I realized he was right. Of course I didn't base everything on what he was saying, but I might have if I followed what my mind was telling me to do." "What stopped you?" "Experience." Mulder sighed deeply and looked into the ice-blue eyes beside him, wondering what she saw in him to give her expression such love, such intensity. "Scully, the power my memories hold over me has become so much greater over these past few months, at _least_ seventy percent of my time is spent in the past, it's what makes writing this book so terribly easy. Flashbacks are constant, nightmares more prevalent than ever, I find myself daydreaming, writing the past as the present, and the present the future. The fine line between my present and my past has been erased and redrawn so many times now that it's practically nonexistent, and the paper is wearing thin. I can no longer live like this, and I knew that at the time. I followed my instincts which _told_ me not to trust him, and I went to the Gunmen and I had them analyze my medication. Scully, it was the exact _opposite_ of what I needed. I didn't tell them I was taking it, I told them that it was a new prescription, that I was suspicious from the outset and that I was fine. Scully, I was, and I am, so _far_ from fine." A sigh escaped her lips in a breathy puff, blowing softly at Mulder's long hair. A thought struck her like a lightning bolt and she turned to him, suddenly reaching out to stroke that soft hair and brush it out of his eyes. "We need to get you medication, Mulder." "Scully, I need you to do that for me." "Mulder..." She sighed. "I'm not practicing." "But you can still get me what I need, Scully." A moment's thought. Tell them it's for Langly." She suppressed a smile. "Mulder, I wouldn't know what to give you." "Scully. Darling. Psychologist?" She looked at him for a long moment. "We'll decide together, okay? Besides, I hear that self-medication is safer anyway in most cases. Only you know how much you need, how bad your symptoms are. But you can't lie to me, Mulder. You need to be honest with me." "Scully, I've never been anything but." She nodded contemplatively, shivering and huddling closer to Mulder under their blankets. "Mulder, may I ask you something?" He wrapped his arms around her, tucking her ever closer to himself. "Anything." "Don't you ever get scared?" "Of course, Scully. I'm scared right now." "Of what?" He let himself smile and sighed. *If you only knew, Scully. I'm afraid I'll frighten you away, I'm scared I'll hurt you. I'm scared we won't be able to live through this, or ever get to simply be in love like we deserve. I'm afraid I'll kill myself, or have to be institutionalized. I'm afraid of dying, or of your cancer coming back. I'm afraid of going to bed at night and waking to the knowledge I never got to tell you how much I need you. I'm afraid of losing you, Scully. I'm afraid of waking up alone again, without even the knowledge that you are out there, somewhere, hopefully, thinking of me.* "Lots of things." Satisfied, Scully closed her eyes and rested her head against Mulder's chest, falling asleep to the rhythmic beating of his powerful heart. *~*~*~*~* Fox awoke in a pool of his own sweat, despite the fact his blankets had been kicked off in a nightmarish frenzy during the night. He awoke to the strange sounds of Scully in the kitchen below him, and noticed very quickly that the Gunmen weren't present, but that the other bed in the room, a large queen, same as his, had been slept in. *Scully? She slept over?* Mulder knew nothing had happened between the two of them, but he was worried about what she had seen or heard while he lay in the throes of terrifying nightmares. They were always bad, but he knew these had to be terrible, because even the usual "workload" never left him feeling so exhausted and shaken. He sighed and rolled over, letting his cheek find a spot of coolness on his pillow to soothe him, and he let that single sensation pull him back to sleep, despite the fact the rest of his body alternately trembled with fear and shook with feverish intensity. He curled up around his pillow and released his pent-up breath as tears ran in rivers down his cheeks. Scully sighed and relaxed when she heard Mulder quietly climbing down the stairs, smiling at him, only to have him give her a halfhearted glance as he made toward the vastly more interesting destination of the cabin's one bathroom. Scully turned away as Mulder carefully closed the door, then sighed deeply. She wondered if Mulder even remembered the events of the night previous; how she had held him while he shook and sobbed against her shoulder and cried desperately about rapes and beatings and the additional suicide attempt he was always careful to hide from her. She wondered if he recalled the moment when he huddled, in an almost fetal position, in the corner of the room in an effort to hide from demons he could no longer fight off. Demons that now reside inside of him and refuse to be exorcised. Scully placed a plate of waffles and bacon onto the table and hoped that Mulder would find the meal to be at least semi-edible. She was rewarded when he made a beeline for the kitchen the instant the door was open, still even wiping soapy hands on his denim shirt. She smiled at him and his tousled hair and morning stubble, watching incredulously as he wolfed down the meal she placed before him. Finally, after several minutes of his frenzied attack upon his meal, he looked to her, hazel eyes wide and startlingly innocent. "Are you okay, Scully?" "I should be asking you that, Mulder." "What do you mean?" Scully sighed and lowered herself to sit across the small circular table from Mulder, wrapping her hands around her mug of hot coffee. "Mulder, you had some pretty intense nightmares last night." She could see the caution in the slow, deliberate nature of his nod. "I noticed." "Mulder, I think you told me some things that you weren't quite ready to have me hear." "I don't want to hear about this, then." "Mulder, we need to talk about this." "Why?" Scully recoiled as if struck. * 'Why?' What kind of question is that?* "Mulder, you have very little choice here. You can either talk to me about this or you can talk to a qualified professional. If it was up to me, you and I would all ready be on our way to the nearest psychologist, but, unfortunately, I can't force you to talk to them. You either talk to them or me or I go home and face certain death at the hands of the syndicate." Cruel, but effective. Scully knew that a threat upon her own life meant a thousand times more to Mulder than one to his own life, which Mulder would give up in an instant. He had even, after all, tried to take it away by his own hand. Mulder sighed deeply and shook his head slowly, trying to shake out the haze left in his sleep-clouded mind. To give her such an answer was impossible. Either Mulder could open himself up to her, whom he must see every single day, or he must be forced to open himself up to some strange person he's never met, and certainly has no reason to trust. Mulder swallowed. This decision was intensely important to everything in his future. If he even had a future which remained. "I don't know." "You need to decide, Mulder. This is completely your decision." "I can't decide, Scully." "Mulder, you _have_ to." "NO!!!" Scully folded her arms below her breasts and sat back to passively observe Mulder's madness. She watched him seethe with anger for several minutes, then listened and watched as his quiet control returned, but in such minute proportions as compared to when they were working the X-Files. Mulder still shook slightly with his too- quickly-released adrenaline. "Mulder, you're quickly destroying any desire I had to try to help you by myself. I know I'll never do enough to control you, but I see no other choice. Your memories will torment you as long as you deny them, and as long as you bottle them inside, but it looks like you'll never open up to me under normal circumstances. I have no choice but to force you." "You could just let me be, Scully." "No, Mulder. Not after what you said last night. I could've before, maybe, but not now." Mulder's shoulders sagged under the weight of this decision. "What do you want to know?" *~*~*~*~* Copyright Kathleen Brown, April 1998. Disclaimered in part 1. Unpleasant suicide thingie in here, as well as some not-fun self-mutilation (cutting) and more mental illness. *~*~*~*~* 12 Hours *~*~*~*~* Mulder wrapped his arm around Scully and pulled her closer, spinning her in a lazy circle along with him, listening to the quiet tunes of her favorite CD. She smiled and laughed happily, unable to believe this same man was the one who awoke so violently only this same morning. Now, Mulder smiled almost as brightly as herself and danced with his arms around her. True, his eyes remained red and slightly puffy with the memory of his tears, but he managed to fight that insignificant pain and continue to dance with her, listening to the words of the music and finding meaning there. Dana felt him growing timid against her, but she pushed her body closer, only to be rewarded for her efforts by Mulder's arms growing tighter around her thin back. "Scully?" She looked up into his eyes and came face to face with his pained hazel eyes, covered by a glossy sheen of tears. She couldn't recall the last time they were so close like this. Not even the last time they danced were they so close, their bodies pressed like this. Scully now pulled away from him, her hands traveling lightly along his arms until her held both his hands in hers. "What's wrong, Mulder?" He walked across the room to turn off the stereo, and Scully found the silence unnerving. Mulder turned to her and stepped wearily back to her side. He took her hand and brought her back to the black leather couch, sitting her beside him. Mulder took a deep breath, his exhale relaxing him so deeply that he actually had no choice as he sagged back against the cushions. He closed his eyes and tears tracked down his cheeks. "Mulder, what is wrong?" Scully felt the need to repeat himself, not because she thought Mulder didn't hear her, she knew he did, but she found the silence too upsetting and couldn't bear to have him crying like this, without even an inkling of explanation. Mulder opened his eyes and looked wearily at Scully. "I need to tell you some things, Scully." "What else is there, Mulder?" "Scully, everything I told you.... None of it means anything." "Mulder, your father, the ways he abused you... The rapes in prison, the ways you were tortured...." "None of it means _anything_." Scully stared openmouthed with disbelief. "I don't understand, Mulder." "Scully, all that pales in comparison to the hundreds of ways I've been tortured _inside_." "Mulder, you can't say that." "I would undergo every physical harm that has ever come upon me if I could take away my own guilt, the fear I live with, and the diseases I suffer thanks to my memories. I would rather be blissfully ignorant than tortured and brilliant. I would give up everything if it meant I could be free of this weight upon my shoulders." "Mulder..." Standing, Mulder towered over her, and for a second she could find the room within her horror to fear him until, however, he turned away in self-loathing, mentally berating himself for all his years of silence. "Scully, why else would I cut myself?" She looked up, startled when she realized that he was expecting an honest answer. She couldn't think of one, only shake her head in confusion. "I don't know, Mulder." "Not because I enjoy pain, but because it's enough to take my mind off of the emotional pain I feel. It takes my mind off it and it's terribly effective." Mulder bit thoughtfully on his full lower lip, trying to think of another way to explain it to her. "Ever notice that I used to just hurl myself into whatever case it was, with no regard for myself whatsoever? I did that for the same reason. Sometimes it was repressed suicidal tendencies, I'm sure, but sometimes it was me trying to take myself out of the game so I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. Working cases hurt me like you could never know. Sometimes I'd draw fire or whatever just to protect you." She looked at him with an expression of horrified disbelief, and his reaction, normal in his situation, was one of laughter, self-derisive and bitter. "Seriously, Scully, _that_ is how sick I was. I would take myself out just because I knew you probably wouldn't go to the same lengths I wouldn't, and you wouldn't be forced to follow my sorry ass around." "Quit it with the pity party, Mulder. It's getting old." *~*~*~*~* I almost blew it. I nearly destroyed the one relationship I care about on earth, almost killed my best friend, and brought myself completely back to square one, spilling a pint of arterial blood onto the floor of the bathroom. Scully doesn't believe me when I say that I didn't mean to go that deep, when I know I didn't mean to. I just needed to cut, I can't explain it any better than that. I just needed to. I couldn't explain it to her any better than I did to Connolly. I didn't mean to hit her. They say these patterns of abuse are learned, and they're right, I'm sure. I didn't mean to hit her. I didn't mean to push her to the floor. I didn't mean to make her fall. She's so small, I don't know how much force to use. I know the right answer would be "none", but I just can't fight that. I have so much anger, and talking to her only made it so much worse. Everything came up. Why does she think I've been repressing everything for twenty years? I enjoy this? Hardly. I just can't handle it. I get mad. I hurt myself. I fly into a rage and pistol-whip men nearly to death. I'm so scared of myself. Absolutely terrified. I'm going to destroy everyone around me before I can come back to a manageable level of sanity. I know Scully's twenty seconds from ditching me like I deserve to be ditched. What peace it would be to be left alone. Even if I did go off again, there would be no one to hurt but myself. I'd turn frightening and reclusive, though. Where's the difference? Someone once said "Oh, this is gonna get worse before it gets better...". I just wish I could remember who said it. I've never actually put into words what happened when I tried to kill myself. The first time. The time they refused to allow Scully in to see me. When they disclosed no details. Bleach vapors have got to be one of the most repellent odors there are. And it tastes far worse. Burns like a motherfuck. Give it a few seconds, though, and you can forget all about that. All you can think of is how top-heavy you suddenly feel and the pain like a million daggers in every square inch of your stomach. Christ, how did I _survive_? They musta really, really wanted to make sure I got the whole two years. I'm surprised I didn't sustain more severe brain damage. I'm surprised I'm not on a liquid diet now, and for the rest of my damn life. Doesn't help an ulcer, though. Well, neither does the stomach pumping, the feeding tubes, the surgery, the charcoal, and the two-week-long coma. None of that, you can honestly say, is real healthy for _any_ part of the body. What kind of an idiot leaves a supply closet open to a suicidal man? One who wants to see you dead, that's who, Mulder. God. Even just thinking about that turns my stomach. I can't believe I actually did that. I can't believe a whole fucking bottle of that shit. Then, of all the fucking things in the world, that is what they use to clean up all the blood and shit and vomit off the floor afterwards. Bleach. When I woke up that was all I could smell and it is forever burned into my lungs. Whenever I smell that I just go off, so far off the deep end I wish I _had_ died. I can't believe I hit Scully. I can't believe she hasn't left me. I can't believe I haven't gotten up the nerve to finish the job I started almost three years ago, when I began the spiral down, shoving my gun into my mouth and pulling the trigger over and over and over until I fell forward onto my couch in a bloody heap, tears pouring down my pathetic face, blood pouring all over my body from cuts I placed there, so filled with sorrow I couldn't stand the thought of surviving until the next morning. How disappointed was I when I awoke to a magazine I managed to empty into a perp the night before? I can tell you, I was not pleased. God, just kill me now, and save everyone a lot of pain. *~*~*~*~* What has happened to my Mulder? Today he pushed me down to the floor with one of his huge, thin hands upon my chest as he stood. I'm fine, but he's not. I hear him typing frantically above me, sitting on the floor beside his almost-bed, hardly more than an unsupported mattress, while tears pour down his cheeks. He refuses to speak to me, and I fear that every moment which passes is just that much longer Mulder will beat himself up over this. At least he hasn't retreated to the bathroom with a razor again, but most probably because he knows I'd never let him. I don't think I'll even be able trust him to go to the bathroom simply for it's intended use for at least a couple of days. It's not like I haven't seen the man in so many undefinable positions before, and it's not as if I don't _know_ him. I was just forced to stitch up a wound on his leg which could have nicked an artery! He'll never allow me to take him to the hospital for that, and so he _must_ keep it clean. I won't allow him to die of an infection that can be treated with a simple antibiotic. What use is penicillin in a first aid kit intended for a man who is allergic? I love Mulder. Dearly. I _want_ to help him, but how can I do that if all he does is hide from me? The man is scared, absolutely _terrified_. How do I fix that? Who can I reach who will help him? Who will Mulder not run away from? There's no one. No one. Skinner? I'm sure Mulder would, given a non-professional setting and enough time, but how do I get Skinner here? I don't even know where here is. I'm sure the Gunmen planned it this way, but it doesn't make for very easy planning. I fear for Mulder's life and his sanity. I'm desperately afraid for him. I want to help him, but he's too frightened to let me help him. His fingers fly over the keyboard, pumping out words I ache to hear. He, like me, tells all his troubles to a password-protected file I all ready know the password to. I know all of Mulder's passwords, so why don't I read his terrified words? I have to spare that man his pain. I can't go behind his back like that. He'll tell me in time, I just pray that it won't be too late for him. "Scully?" Dana looked up from her writing with concern perfectly present in her crystal eyes, looking up to meet Mulder up above, standing at the railing of the loft, looking down upon her. She searched for the quiet fear of his voice and found nothing which could cause him alarm, only one hand tightly clamped against his bandaged wounds, with blood slowly welling up and out and around those tightly held thin fingers, dripping off the tips in morbid beauty. Scully gently placed her small white hand over Mulder's large trembling one, his blood smearing across her neatly manicured nails as she comforted him. She completed her ministrations with the greatest of care, making sure to carefully bandage his leg and allow him the ease of motion required to stand and once again change into clean pants. Sighing softly, Scully rose to her feet and watched him button up his dark blue jeans. His hazel eyes came to meet her and she looked shyly away. "Thank you, Scully." She looked back at him and nodded shyly. "It's okay, Mulder." "It's not okay. Scully, I'm _sorry_!" She looked up, her eyes pleading for reason. "Mulder, it's not _your_ fault!" "How is me hitting you not my fault?!" "Mulder, I know you're upset, and I know you've _been_ upset. I know what I said was wrong, but that doesn't mean I deserved to get knocked to the floor by you. I understand that you shouldn't've done it, but I know you're in a very delicate state right now. I forgive you, Mulder, and you should forgive yourself." Mulder watched Scully carefully, trying to gauge how much of her speech was truth and how much was made up of lies. He saw no evidence of falsehood within her and could see no reason why he should not believe her. Heaving a deep sigh, Mulder sat back upon the black leather couch. "I'm sorry." "It's okay. I understand, Mulder." He shook his head, still amazed at her almost- naiveté. Suddenly, though, he lifted his head from the back of the couch and looked at her with startling clarity. "I need you to read something, Dana." "Of course." *~*~*~*~* "fire blazes deep in my soul with a thirst unquenchable. i fear fire. i fear myself. burning with an intensity like no other flame. both fire and myself. each fueled by needs unnamable searching always for more fuel to continue the stationary journey. needs never questioned, never understood. forever misunderstood. forever treated as a plague to be destroyed, but both fire and i persevere against the onslaught, continuing on a stationary journey, never-ending." Scully quietly read on in Mulder's daily journal, finding a cornucopia of poetry only previously tasted. She had read his poetry, but this, typed in a style reminiscent of e.e. cummings, flowing too quickly to bother with the shift key, tucked in between lengthy synopsis' of cases and page-long observations of personal pain and torture Scully would rather live not knowing about. She relished every moment. Beside her, Mulder lay curled on the couch, watching her eyes pass through document after document, pointing out a sentence or two of note and completely opening himself to her questioning gaze once she laid the laptop on the coffee table and turned to him. "You couldn't tell me those things." A somber nod, and eyes too full and dark to be expressive. Scully simply reached out and touched his hand, the trigger for a complete breakdown into tears. Scully gave a slight, satisfied smile and took him into her arms while he shook with powerful sobs. *~*~*~*~* To: pantera@209.138.26.176 CC: your_fcc@207.53.3.115 From: so_hot@207.113.76.16 mulder and dana haven't spoken a word for hours. they're just flipping channels on the tv and every once in a while mulder will lay his head down on her lap and doze off. dana sits and strokes his hair, then all of a sudden he'll wake up and she'll hold him through whatever's bothering him and they'll go back to tv. dana won't even let him out of her sight, not even for a second. mulder looks like he's in a lot of pain and i can't figure out why. do *you* know why? To: so_hot@207.113.76.16 From: pantera@209.138.26.176 haven't you seen the bathroom? my god, she did a bad job cleaning up in there. blood everywhere. not necessarily on the tile, but in the grout, everywhere. and you'd think she'd _try_ to hide the razor he did it with. try to spare us like the little peacemaker she is. To: pantera@209.138.26.176 From: your_fcc@207.53.3.115 You think Mulder tried to kill himself? To: your_fcc@207.53.3.115 From: pantera@209.138.26.176 what else could've happened? With that, Byers quietly stood from his seat in front of his small laptop and walked across the room, over to sit on the coffee table before the two ex- agents, obscuring their view of the television from where they sat. Mulder snaked a thin arm around Byers to flick off the TV. "What is it, Byers?" "Mulder, what the hell is going on?" Scully shifted in her seat. "What do you mean?" Byers looked at both of them, wondering where to even begin. "You guys haven't said a word, to us _or_ each other, and somehow you both still look like some couple curled up in front of a fireplace. Mulder, you look like death warmed over, and why is there blood everywhere in that bathroom?!" Scully sighed deeply, pushing Mulder lightly off of her. "Mulder was cutting himself over some things that had been said." "Did he make a suicide attempt?" All eyes turned to Frohike, still sitting at his computer. "No." Scully sighed and gently took Mulder's hand. "But things _were_ pretty shaky. We talked them out, and everything's okay." "I don't think so. How can everything be okay? The man needs help. Help we can't give him, help that needs to be carefully doled out periodically, not when the man threatens people and gives them black eyes and then tries to kill himself!" "Damnit, Langly, I told you I was sorry, and I didn't try to kill myself." Mulder's eyes grew dull and dim as his carefully stored strength was sapped away so much more quickly. Langly only shook his head and turned away. "Actually, Mulder, I think of all of us, Langly has the most logical reasoning for this situation." Mulder looked to Scully as if he was a squirrel suddenly having his sunflower seed ripped away by the same frightening vagrant who offered it. "What do you mean?" "Mulder, you still need help. You need medication to keep you... manageable." Scully winced at the pain stabbing at her heart, brought on by the pain she could see in Fox's eyes, the pain far too familiar. Every time she met his eyes, she was faced with this same expression; the expression not unlike the kind you'd imagine on a whipped puppy, an innocent shaped by pain and not love. Scully sighed. This was becoming too much for her. She didn't spy the movement across the room, and did not hear the whispered words. She only heard the sirens coming up the road and watched her ex-partner's shadow as it struggled to keep up with him out of the back door. *~*~*~*~* Dana's lungs burned in her chest as she tried to keep after Mulder, watching for him, his gray sweater only another shadow in the dark forest. She strained to hear his footfalls, but couldn't percieve anything other than her own agonized breathing. She could hear shouts warning her from the house, to come back, to let Mulder run, but she knew better than to leave her partner out here, alone, in the night. *~*~*~*~* They're coming after me again. I'm running and running and running and no one will find me. I'll hide so far into the forest that no one save Mothmen and Sasquatch and wayward Reticulans will find me. Them and the Consortium, the Cancer Man's syndicate, who is constantly dogging my steps. People call me paranoid, but they don't live with every moment being watched and catalogued as they try to determine your personality. Even I don't know my personality. The thing is, they can't possibly curve their studies to the ever-changing web of my sickness and the constant assults on my senses with these never-ending flashbacks. I think I recall a time when I was able to live without these terrifying visions, sounds, feelings, and perceptions, but I can't force my broken memory to find these times with any amount of reality, as every attempt at recollection is shattered by another thought, one surely less pleasant than the one I'm trying to recall. I'm still running. I hear voices, not my own voices, the ones I'm used to, but I hear the Gunmen, and they're trying to hurt me with their words. "Don't bother!" "He's not worth it!!" They're trying to hurt me; to make me run away. To drive me further and further from them. I know it. I'll show them. I'll run so far they won't be able to find me, and never again will I be forced to listen to them and their accusations. I'll just keep running until I get home. Until I reach someplace safe. *~*~*~*~* Copyright Kathleen Brown, April, 1998. The Lyrics beginning this story from the song "Everything's Alright" are from the "Jesus Christ Superstar" movie soundtrack and are copyright 1973 MCA Records. Fox's Poem, "Fear Thyself" is Written by and Copyright Kathleen Brown, April 1998.