Title: Comfortably Numb Author: Paige Caldwell Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com Part 6 of ? (WIP) He's gone. I realize it the instant I step out of the shower. I stand naked...dripping...stupefied...as I watch the last of the steam curl out the bathroom door. The emptiness of my apartment is like a vacuum. It not only sucks the humidity from the air, it evaporates the feeling of him as if he was only a vapor. Maybe he never was there... It would not be the first time I imagined him... My partner...my fantasy lover...my apparition... For years, I've kept my desire a secret. Hidden in a maze of secrets, which now twist and turn like a labyrinth of confusion. No...I had proof. Moments ago, the essence of our lovemaking glistened on my thighs. But, fear made it sticky. I washed it away, thinking I could scrub him and his accusation off of me. I was wrong. He is more than just an imprint on my skin. He's as vital as any organ. Without him, my systems start to fail. Each one shuts down, leaving me struggling to breath in an existence that's as cold as the void of space. I need him... Oh God...what a time to discover that my dependency is no longer limited to drugs. Drugs.... The floor of my hallway is pebbled with Tylenol. They slide under my feet as I shuffle to my darkened bedroom. The analogy is not lost on me. The road to my desolation is paved with pills. Mulder's bags are open on my bed. His clothes are recklessly strewn inside. Maybe, in his haste to leave, packing took too much time. Better to abandon it all. To leave it as a symbol of how I managed to disarray our love. I lift the shirt he wore earlier and press it against my cheek. His scent still lingers on the material. I inhale it deeply before slipping my arms through the sleeves. I wrap myself in an imaginary embrace, trying to substitute his skin with the fabric of his shirt. When I spot the stain of my blood near the collar, my illusion clouds over with tears. I've soiled our long awaited love with my deceit...my refusal to acknowledge the truth... "I'm so sorry, Mulder," I cry into my hands. My fingers slide down my face as a sliver of light peers through the crack of my venetian blinds. The light... It's taunting me. I can't escape it... It sears into my skin...incises my abdomen...takes that part that made me a whole woman... I smack the blinds repeatedly, trying to shut out the light and the horror that it illuminates. But, somehow my delirium turns to anger. I grapple with an awareness that is more pivotal than frightening. The light not only robbed my fertility... It stole my control... Now, it wants to ravage the only thing I have left... My ability to love... God damn it...no more...no more... In a fit of rage, I tear down the blinds and confront the source of my pain. ******** So much for a breath of fresh air. It proves to be more chilling than invigorating. I stand at the entrance to Scully's apartment complex in only jeans, t-shirt and Reeboks. No jacket to protect me against the northerly wind or socks to cushion my feet. Scully... I almost walked out on her. In a frenzy that rivaled her own, I began to pack up my frustration, stuffing clothes into my bag. Scully... I stopped. I knew I couldn't leave her. But, I could distance myself from her, if only for a moment. And now, I'm out here exposing myself to the elements rather than the heartache that waits for me inside. How did the best moment of my life turn into the worst? It's my fault. I should have know better. Where did I find such audacity to think my touch could heal her? In her eyes... They reflected such certainty...such clarity... "No, you stupid fuck," I say aloud in a harsh voice. "You saw what you wanted to see..." My own need to feel whole... I scuff the pavement with the sole of my sneaker. My breath comes out in heavy, tormented grunts. It infuriates me that I'm incapable of making a genuine sacrifice. I accuse her of deceit when I'm equally as duplicitous. Rather than focus on her emotional pain, I exploit it. I use it as a gauge of our relationship, measuring love with trust. I've been doing that all along... No wonder she turned to drugs... Better to find relief in a controlled substance than in a man who has no control...or substance... Staring at the ground, I watch my shadow fade into nothingness. It is eclipsed by another, the silhouette of a woman who stands in the sunlight trying to absorb both of our agony. My head jerks up with clairvoyant intuition. Scully.... Racing back into the building, I burst through the front door of Scully's apartment. The pills on the hallway floor crush like dust under my feet. I find her by the bedroom window. The blinds that effuse the sun's rays are crumpled on the floor. She stands immobilized, transfixed by the incandescent beam of the sun. It permeates her eyes, bleaching them, fading color into a pale, spectral glow. Tears stream down her face. My forehead beads with sweat as I watch her confrontation unfold. And, my own. There is a part of me that wants to scream her name, to free her from these flashbacks, to shield her from a light that returns her to such darkness. But, I don't. Instead, I stand by her side, hoping that my presence signals my willingness to be there for her...to share her suffering...to be her partner in pain. "The light is a laser," she sobs. "I can see it. Feel it. It controls and dissects me at the same time." I both physically and mentally cringe at her description. Dissection is a pathological term, not a medical one. Her hand fumbles for mine. "I thought you left me, Mulder..." I take it and squeeze it tightly. "I'll never leave you, Scully." "Why can't I see you?" "I'm here..." my voice breaks. "Why can't you find me?" Her whisper is like a stifled scream. "If anyone can save me from this, you can..." "I tried, Scully...I tried." A moan tears from my throat. The sound of my sobbing cuts off her own. "I know..." she murmurs. Like a blind woman, her hand fumbles for my face. The tips of her fingers caress the slits of my eyes. I'm speechless, humbled by her gesture. Even in her agony, she reaches out to comfort me. Suddenly, her hand drops. Her body sags towards me. "Mulder...I think I better sit down." When I ease her to the bed, she whimpers, "Somewhere dark..." I nod, still muted by my grief. Scooping her up in my arms, I carry her out to the livingroom where it is dimly lit. She weighs virtually nothing, but the weight of my remorse is so heavy that I collapse onto the couch. At first, her body is curled up like a tight ball on my lap. Slowly, I feel her relax. Her arms wrap around my neck. Her cheek rubs against mine, absorbing my tears. "I'd give my life for you," I whisper, trying to sound sincere and not just melodramatic. "I know..." Scully sighs. Her breath feels soft against my skin. "I think they knew that, too. That's why I was chosen." "To stop me?" I gurgle the question. "I was assigned to the X-files to stop your work," she explains. "Except, I didn't deliver..." "Neither did I..." I can't help the groan. "Oh Scully, I knew it was dangerous and I didn't tell you. I failed you, just like I failed to deliver you from this atrocity." "Mulder..." She begins to agitatedly wipe away her own tears so I won't see them. "Don't do this." "What?" I ask, not understanding. "Don't let your guilt defeat us," she pleads. "It's hard, Scully." "It's more than hard, Mulder," she sniffs, then states flatly. "It's your addiction." Ouch.... "I'm not the only one in danger of relapsing," Scully continues. Her voice becomes desperate as her fingers dig into my shoulders. "Please, Mulder, don't revert to what you were." "What was that, Scully?" "A man afraid to love...to express his love..." "Oh, Scully..." My head falls against the back of the couch. "If only it was that simple." "Make it that simple," The edge to her voice makes me lift my head. "Because if you can't, don't expect me to." "What's that supposed to mean?" Scully takes a deep breath and says, "I won't continue a relationship where sharing is limited to pain." Trust Scully to bottom line me like that. "You exorcise your demons and I exorcise mine?" I ask glibly. She reaches for the portable phone on the coffee table. "Who are you calling?" "I'm making another appointment for us to see Dr. Vandervanack," she informs me. "The Vander...quack?" "Mulder..." "Sorry," I mumble. I begin to stroke her back reassuringly. "Okay, Scully, if you think we need an exorcist." Of course, I don't tell her what I'm thinking. I'm having a premonition about Linda Blair and pea green vomit flying into my face. "We've got the first appointment tomorrow morning," Scully says as she clicks off the phone. "Bright and early?" I cringe at the thought. "Don't worry," she reassures me. "I'll wear sunglasses." To be continued..... Part 7 of ? (WIP) The next morning we find ourselves back on the therapist's couch. This one is not nearly as comfortable as the one in my living room, but Mulder doesn't seem to mind. Maybe, it's because the doctor's not "in" yet. She's on the phone in the waiting area playing the double role of therapist and receptionist. Apparently, I'm not the only one dragging my feet through the office door today. I watch Mulder flop down on the couch like he's right at home, stretching his long legs out in front of him. There isn't even a hint of nervousness on his part. While I'm as tightly knotted as a child's shoelace, he's relaxed, even cozy. I sit on the edge, my back braced by a steely rod of tension. My fingers adjust the dark sunglasses that keep slipping down the bridge of my nose. Borrowed from him, in a last minute precaution as we leave me apartment. The sun shines brightly today, and the last thing I need is to be "dazzled" by its radiance. Dr. Vandervanack joins us in her office. She gives me a suspicious glance before delivering a condemning one to my partner. I scratch the side of my neck, release a dry chuckle, and try to explain. "It's not what you think, Dr. Vandervanack," "What do I think, Dana?" Mulder interrupts before I can answer. "That behind those spiffy Raybans you're sporting a real shiner." "Very funny," I smirk at him before I turn to my therapist. I quickly lift the glasses to prove that I'm not. "I must admit that I was concerned by the urgency of this appointment," relates the therapist. "The first session for couples is a difficult one. It can trigger an unpleasant reaction, even a physical altercation." My hand clamps down on Mulder's knee when I hear his snicker. Clearing my throat, I state in a prudent voice, "Actually, Dr. Vandervanack...that is, in part, why we're here." "Really?" the woman eyes open wide, as she lifts her pad and pen. "Which part?" "Well...," I toss my head, debating my words. "How should I put this...we...ah..." "We got physical, Doc," Mulder chimes in, "and that may have triggered her unpleasant reaction." "Mulder," I gasp. "That's not what caused it." I feel hot embarrassment tinge my cheeks. As, I poke my sunglasses back in place, he leans forward and whispers, "Your blushing, Scully." His fingers tease the back of my neck. I flick him off like a pesky fly. "I'll remind you of that later," he promises in a bawdy tone when he sees that I'm using my middle finger to "flick". "Try it, Mulder, and I'll show you the true definition of an unpleasant reaction," I hiss back. Dr. Vandervanack studies us both closely. Her mouth works itself into a tight line. I can't tell if she's amused or offended by our sexual banter. "Perhaps, for now, we should limit ourselves to this," she suggests, waving her finger at my sunglasses. I exhale loudly, nodding, beginning my reluctant narrative, "There was this light..." "A light..." my therapist scribbles down my words. "Actually," I lean forward to correct her. "It was the afternoon sun coming through my blinds." "Got it..." Dr. Vandervanack crosses out a word and replaces it with another.. "...in her bedroom..." Mulder chirps in. "That part I already assumed, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Vandervanack points her pen at my partner. "But, thank you." "Anyway," I give him another scowl before I continue. "Well...during...ah...how should I put this? Well..while we were being intimate..." I'm interrupted again, this time by snorts of his laughter. "Would you excuse us a moment?" I say, giving my doctor a polite smile. I jerk Mulder to his feet, which is quite a accomplishment given our height/weight ratio. After I drag him out to the waiting area, I confront him angrily, "Why are you doing this?" "Doing what?" "Acting like such an asshole." "I'm sorry, Scully," The corners of his mouth curl up into a mischievous grin. "I guess you really do bring out the devil in me." This is, of course, is his attempt to belittle my "exorcising our demons" analogy. "Or..." he pauses, arching an eyebrow. "It could be just an unpleasant reaction to how you're behaving." "Which is how?" I question him impatiently. "Like you've got a bug up your ass," Mulder ridicules. "Lose the Polly Puritan attitude, Scully. This is couples therapy, not a Quaker sewing circle." "Fine, Mulder," I grit my teeth and turn away. "But, you had better stow away that little pitchfork of yours." "Consider it done," he opens the door, his arm swooping low to gesture me inside. Once back inside, we take our seats. Dr. Vandervanack scrutinizes the tip of her pen as she prompts me, "You were saying, Dana?" I respond in my most clinical voice, "While we were engaged in intercourse, a flashback interrupted my orgasm." Mulder's half-strangled gasp is such a sweet reward. Serves him right... "Let's try focusing on the flashback," my therapist recommends. Good idea. That will, at least, give Mulder a chance to crawl back up to the couch. "The intensity of the sunlight prompted the flashback," I relate, smoothing the creases of my slacks. My fingers don't quiver. They flex out comfortably, relaxed, certain.... "The intensity...hmmm...." Dr. Vandervanack begins to write down what she thinks is a reference to something else. "Of the sun..." One finger lifts from my thigh to emphasize this critical factor. "Intense...sunlight." I'm suddenly back on my feet, yanked up by my partner. "Excuse us a moment," Mulder says to my therapist. The tone of his voice prompts me to keep two feet ahead of him as we leave the room. "What the hell are you saying?" He demands in a heated, but hushed tone. "Are you trying to tell me that your orgasm wasn't intense?" "I didn't say that," I give him a wide-eyed, innocent look. "You're implying it," he growls. I sure am. And, I doing it deliberately. I want to make sure his pitchfork shrinks down to the size of a salad fork. The territory I'm about to explore is a dangerous one and I don't need his swaggering ego to distract me. "Don't worry," I pat his arm with mock reassurance. "This isn't about sex." "Then why do I suddenly feel like I've just been fucked?" It isn't his choice of words that softens me, but the blended misery of his gaze and voice. My cynical edge crumbles instantly. My fingers slide down to his hand, coaxing him to accept the touch of my apology. He jerks his hand away. "Mulder..." "Let's just get this over with," Mulder snaps, opening the door to the office. This time he doesn't join me on the couch. He finds his place in a corner, brooding, arms folded like a petulant child. Just like a child... I hate it when he does that.... I poke my sunglasses back into place. The lens are fogging over with the heat of my agitation. I don't want to mother him... I'm not the mothering type... I never was... I grasp the cushion of the couch as another flashback fills my mind. This time, it expresses itself in the most poignant pain... Emily... I see her, touch her, smell her... Delicate baby's breath in my fallow garden... Her eyes, the same color as mine, silently communes a look of unconditional trust. I sit on the edge of her hospital bed, holding her waning gaze, stroking her hand as it grows cold in mine. Oh God... My child is dying... The pain is more than I can bear... My vision suddenly goes dark. I don't realize I'm hyperventilating until I feel the pressure of a hand pushing my head between my legs. My lungs struggle to breath. I gasp, choke and shudder against this feeling of suffocation. "That's it, Scully, take it slow..." Mulder's breath fans the side of my face. He's crouched over me, holding me, urging me out of this state of asphyxia. I turn slightly, inhaling his presence as if it's air. Mulder nods, giving me a slight smile of encouragement. "Is she alright, Fox?" Dr. Vandervanack leans over with a paper cup of water. "I think so," he says, taking the cup and placing it to my lips. "Thanks, Doc." I push the cup away, my hands agitatedly patting my eyes. The sunglasses are gone. "My glasses..." I gasp. "You tore them off, Dana," my therapist tells me. I feel her sit down on the couch next to me. "You were calling a name over and over....Emily...." "Her daughter," Mulder conveys sadly. Hearing someone actually say those words helps bind the wound. My daughter... "She was mine, wasn't she?" I mumble, clutching his hand for support. "Emily will always be yours, Scully." "So will this heartache..." I groan. "Dana," Dr. Vandervanack addresses my solemnly. "These flashbacks...they're not just limited to the light, are they? I shake my head. "And, they're increasing in frequency, aren't they?" I nod slowly. "Could it be that your subconscious is trying to jump-start your emotional awareness?" advises Dr. Vandervanack. "If it is, then I have one hell of a cruel subconscious...." my voice cuts off into a jagged cry. "Dana, often the subconscious absorbs what the conscious mind can't accept. Although you may not understand it now, you will in time. What triggers these flashbacks, whether it be the symbolism of a light, the agitation of an argument, even the intensity of a certain moment...the real mechanism is you." "I don't understand." "You don't want to understand, Scully..." Mulder expands on my therapists' analysis. "What you weren't capable of rationalizing, you repressed. And, when that stopped working, you numbed yourself with drugs." I shake my head. I don't want to accept this. It makes me feel so weak. "Dana, it's not a weakness given the number of serious traumas you've undergone." Dr. Vandervanack tries to clarify. I realize that I've once again spoken my thoughts. My therapist continues, "To survive, I believe you've emotionally detached yourself, viewing each one as fact rather than an experience." "How do I stop it?" "You can't. And believe or not, you don't really want to." "Care to expand on that?" I squint my eyes at her. "You want to connect...and that's where Mr. Mulder comes into play." "Are you saying that I'm the cause?" Mulder asks. "No, Mr. Mulder." Dr. Vandervanack give us both a knowing look. "You're not the cause...you're the incentive." ******** "You're supposed to be resting on the couch," I tell her when she comes into the bedroom. "How am I supposed to nap with all this noise," Scully rubs her eyes. I'm trying to fix her mini-blinds which keep falling down. What should be a simple task is not. The brackets were torn down with enough force to leave deep gouges where the screws go in. I reinstalled them, but within twenty-four hours the blinds have twice collapsed to the floor. Finally, I get the idea. Drilling fresh holes, I install the brackets, but the blinds won't cooperate. "Damn," I curse under my breath. "I must have mis- measured," "Maybe we should call the maintenance man," she suggests in her practical tone. "I think I can handle it," I glower back. "Here, let me help you," Scully drags over a chair and climbs up on it. She takes one end of the rod as I lift the other. "The brackets are uneven," I grumble. "Shit..." "They're aligned just fine," she persists. "Just ease it in, Mulder." "It doesn't fit, Scully," I protest, wiping my forehead with the edge of my sleeve. "It's a perfect fit, Mulder," Scully assures me. "Try coaxing it." "Too much tension," I shake my head, "It might fall." "It won't. It's a lot stronger than you think." My eyes glide over to hers. "We're not talking about these friggin' mini-blinds, are we?" I ask. "Try it again," she urges. Her voice holds all the motivation I need. I snap my end into place. The blinds hold, each panel rippling down to closure on the window sill. "See?" she smiles. "A perfect fit." "Yeah," I take a deep breath as I approach her. "Think so, huh?" "Know so..." Still standing on the chair, she reaches down to course her fingers through my hair. My hands glide up her legs and skim the curve of her hips. I play with the drawstring of her sweats, twisting it, tieing it, tugging it... Without a word, she guides my fingers to the waistband and together, we peel off her sweats and underwear. Resting her hands on my shoulders, she daintily steps out of them. Like a goddess, she stands before me on her throne. Even if she's nude only from the waist down... I know where to begin my worship. I press my face into the softness of her abdomen, kissing it when I hear her stomach gurgle. It sounds like bubble of hunger, but it has nothing to do with food. This sexual fast may have lasted almost twenty-four hours, but she's not dehydrated by it. I feel her wetness even before I taste it. It glides over my tongue with the texture and sweetness of honey. Scully balances on tip-toed socks so I don't have to bend over too far. How benevolent my goddess is, I muse, alternating the flat moistness of my tongue with flicks of its tip. I hear her hand smack against the blinds as she grapples to support herself. I pause, turning my mouth away to say, "Tear those blinds down, Scully, and I swear..." "Is that drill bit of yours hard yet?" God, I love a woman who thinks and speaks in dirty metaphors. "Pick a wall," I unzip the fly to my jeans. "A wall?" she gasps. "Ever do it up against a wall before, Scully?" I taunt her as I strip off my clothes. "Does the wall of a pool count?" "Scully..." I chuckle as I pull her off the chair. Her legs wrap around my back, ankles clicking into place. "Have you been holding out on me all these years? Is Dana Scully really capable of fun?" "Just pick a wall," she whispers into my ear before giving it a playful bite. Afterwards, after we fall crumpled and wasted to her bed, I lift the edge of her sweat shirt so I can study her nipples. I may be no poet, but I've proven to be a handy carpenter. At least, I think so... Yup....hard and turgid as nails... "What are you doing?" Scully gasps, still shaking from what I think was her "intense" reaction. "Just checking to see if I really am a master carpenter." I touch each nipple to calibrate my assessment. "You need to check?" she moans, twisting away from my fingers. "You were pretty quiet this time, Scully." "No, Mulder...you were just loud." I lean over to kiss her with a sound smack of my lips. "No flashbacks this time," I smile with relief. "Nope," Scully grins back. "Well, unless the little fantasy trip back to my high school carpentry class counts." "You took carpentry in high school?" "It was that or Home Economics, and I had no intention of being domesticated," she laughs. "That explains your cooking," I nuzzle her neck. "And, the instructor was such a fox..." She sizzles the "x" sound of the letter. "God damn name," I grimace before lifting my head. "Hey, wait a minute...exactly what was your little fantasy about?" She just laughs. And, because it's been so long since I've made her laugh, I decide not to prod her further. Well... At least not with questions.... Later, while I'm trying out my culinary talents in her kitchen, Scully sits at her desk sorting through her mail. I'm making spaghetti. Hell, anyone can make spaghetti. A little boiled water for the pasta...a little nuking of a jar of pre-made sauce... "Don't forget the garlic bread in the freezer," she calls over her shoulder. "And, a mixed salad would be nice." "Not only wanton but greedy..." I chuckle as I open the freezer. "Just starving...and I'm..." her voice trails off. "You're what?" I ask, tugging out a loaf of frozen garlic bread and closing the door. There is no answer. At first, I'm too much of a bon vivant to notice. I preheat the oven to 400 degrees and pull out a baking tray. Opening the end of the tinfoiled bag to vent, I drop the loaf onto the pan. Chef Boyarde, meet your match.... "God damn you to hell, Mulder..." Whoa....what did she just say? I turn to find Scully standing, shaking violently by her desk. Her chair is toppled over to the ground. In her hand is what appears to be a photograph. "Scully?" I approach her, noticing the large manila envelope which is crumpled at her feet. "What is it?" "Proof of your enduring love," she snarls, thrusting the photograph into my hands. Oh my God.... It is a photograph of a kiss. The kiss Diana gave me the night I broke into her apartment seeking evidence that she had betrayed me. A kiss I misinterpreted...strategically delivered as well as captured by a hidden camera. My forehead beads with sweat... "You know what they say," I hear Scully sneer as she scrutinizes my reaction. "If you can't take the heat...get out of the kitchen." My eyes meet hers. "And, my apartment," she adds bitterly. "Scully, I can explain..." "Can you? Go ahead, Mulder, but while you're fabricating your lie you'll need to weave in Fowley's other gift." She reaches behind her and produces a vial of pills. My legs go weak at the knees. "Percocet, Mulder." She hisses. "Seems that your lover knows your partner's call brand." "There's got to be a mistake," I shake my head. The runner not only stumbles, he falls... "A mistake? Talk about an understatement," Scully seizes the vial back from me. "Here, I'll keep those..." "Scully...." "You can keep the photo..." She pushes me out of her way and storms into the bathroom. My wobbly legs enable me to reach the bathroom door as it slams in my face. I pound against it, flooding with panic as I hear the sink being turned on. My worst fears are being imagined...she's cupping the water in the palm of her hand...tossing a pill into her mouth... "Don't do it, Scully!" With a burst of frantic energy, I crash the door open with the brunt of my shoulders. Scully stands over the sink, trickling the pills into the basin, washing them down the drain. She looks up at me with deadened eyes. "Don't worry about a relapse, Mulder," she tells me coldly, "you're not worth it." To be continued..... Part 8 of ? (WIP) He said he'd never leave me... He certainly picked a lousy time to prove what a liar he is... I collapse onto the couch with a wet rag pasted across my eyes. They don't burn with tears, but a series of hot flashbacks that involve my abduction. The connections are popping off like overcharged light bulbs. Each repressed memory explodes into my consciousness like glass shattering, revealing the filament of my apocalypse. Oh God...I cry over and over, writhing on the couch in agony. The inhumanity of the tests are horrifying. Because the laser heals as fast as it incises, anesthesia is not deemed necessary. Pain is believed to be limited to consciousness and perception is supposed to be suppressed by the pulsating beam. But, there is darkness creeping into this light. At first, it is a shadow among other dim figures, an outline of a person known, but unknown. I concentrate on the image, pushing back fear that paralyzes me like invisible restraints. I reach out to touch it, to add substance to a vision still unclear. I feel it then. A hand colder than ice. Jerking away from me as if I'm a corpse that has just opened it's eyes. "That's right....I'm alive..." I scream my indignation. "You may dissect me like a cadaver, but my blood still runs warm." My eyes reflect the light like a prism, illuminating the face of the woman who hovers over me. Fowley.... Oh God...it's her.... She wears an uncomfortable expression, as antagonism competes with shame when confronted with another human being's suffering. She was there... The cold chill of my anger dulls my pain more effectively than the drugs she so obligingly sent me. My hand fumbles for the portable phone on the table. "Mulder..." His voice sounds expectant, as if he's been waiting for my call. "Your lover was there..." I seethe maliciously into the receiver. "Scully?" "She was there...observing...monitoring the tests conducted on me." There is silence on the other end of the phone. How dare he be speechless... The sound of my front door being unlocked makes me jump up from the couch. The washcloth drops from my eyes and my legs collide with the coffee table. Balance lost, I tumble backwards onto the floor. "You've been out in the hall the whole time?" I grimace, rubbing my backside. "I told you I'd never leave you." He says this to the door as he softly closes it. I hear the stifled click of the deadbolt being slide into place. "Well, you gave one hell of a simulation." "And, you ran into the kitchen, eyeing a knife like you intended to slice off something other than a piece of garlic bread," Mulder remarks turning around. "Are you calmed down enough to talk?" "Do I look calm?" "You look knocked off your ass." He moves around the couch and offers me a hand. "You would be, too," I smack it away. "I am, Scully. Trust me...I am..." Mulder grabs my forearm and hauls me to my feet. "I no longer trust you, Mulder." I remind him. "And, you certainly don't look upset." "You want to see upset?" His eyes flash with a sudden anger as he releases me. They settle on the closest breakable object, which just happens to be a crystal vase on my end table. I gasp as he hurls it against my fireplace, shattering it into a spray of glass. "Is that upset enough for you?" He bellows furiously. I nod in stunned dismay. "That was a gift," I whisper. "You want to talk gifts? Let's discuss the ones Diana sent you." Mulder seizes the photo from my computer table and thrusts it in my face. "Do you finally understand why this picture was taken? "Because it was a Kodak moment?" I scoff, refusing to look at it. "To add it to her scrapbook of memories?" "No, Scully, to stop yours." "What do you mean?" "The kiss was staged, Scully. The photo was taken with the intent to send it to you one day. That day came when you stopped taking painkillers." "She wanted to provoke a relapse?" "More than that. She wanted to stop your flashbacks... which included her." I sink down onto the couch, weighed down by his crushing analysis. "You said it yourself. It was her job to gather data on you." Mulder fumes as he stalks to the window and peers out the blinds. "Apparently, she still is. She must have gotten her hands on your medical records from the RAND unit." "Do you think she's out there watching me?" I crane my head to the side to see what he's looking at. "No," he shakes his head, letting the blinds snap shut. "She wouldn't dare come this close knowing I was here. No, she strikes from afar, this time courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service." "It's not about me, is it?" I ask him directly. "It's about you." "It's about us," Mulder relates, inching towards me. My hand shoots up, flagging my warning. "Wait a minute..." I object. "Are you implying that she was more than just an observer during my abduction?" "I think she was involved in your abduction," he reluctantly tells me. I see the dread in his eyes. The tension between us thickens like a fog, obscuring my sight and discernment. "I don't understand," My voice falters. "Is it because I was your partner?" Mulder stares at his feet which shift restlessly. "You were more than that to me..." His jaw begins to quiver with emotion. "She must have sensed it." "The intuition of a ex-lover?" I ask, holding my breath. "The intuition of an ex-wife." His says slowly, his eyes lifting to meet mine. ******** I think I'm having a flashback... The face I see is Scully's, but it reminds me of another time and another place. We are seated around a table and Modell is telepathically ordering me to shoot my partner. As I lift my gun and aim it at her eyes, I see them glaze over with tears of disbelief. One trickles down her cheek, flooding me with such anguish that I want to scream... Run...Scully...run...as far and fast as you can. Run from the pathetic fuck-up that I've become, shackled by a past, by a bitch whose fucked up my life...and now wants to fuck up yours... She must sense my thoughts, because she acts upon them even as I think them. Panicked, I lunge for her as she springs up from the couch. She fights me, twisting...slapping...letting loose such a stream of obscenities that I visualize the "good ole boys" down at the Bureau rising up from their chairs to salute her. I pin her back down onto the couch, but only to keep her there. I make my body and face easy targets for her hands. Only physical pain will alleviate my emotional agony. And, by not stopping her assault, I give myself a fighting chance... If I can get her to injure me as I have her, then maybe we can start over... Start over... A fresh, clean slate, where no secrets smear the writing of our future. I'm sorry...sorry...sorry... The third slap draws blood. I can feel it on my lower lip, taste it as it drips into my mouth. Let me bleed for you, Scully... Suddenly, she stops and gapes at my face. I can tell that she's horrified by what she's done. Profanity may be occasionally acceptable to this woman, but violence is not. To her it is repugnant, a crude reaction, a compromise of her intelligence and dignity. To me, it's simply hope. I think, finally, my blood is well spent... "Mulder..." Her cry is so fractured that only now do I wince with pain. She traces the rim of my lip, staring at the blood on the tip of her finger. Her wet, luminous eyes lift to mine. They impart more than just an apology, they flicker with sudden understanding. Like me, she realizes the symbolism of our blood. Too much of it has been shed at our expense. And, now we're becoming the expense. Her lips absorb my blood like a soft sponge. The taste of salt turns to the taste of her. My mouth gropes for hers in desperation, wanting her to heal me. I need her breath to restore me, her lips to cleanse away the sourness of my guilt. Scully pulls away to gaze solemnly at me. She swallows once, then says in a thick voice, "I shouldn't have done that." I'm not sure if she regrets slapping me or kissing me. I scramble for an excuse, for an apology, for words that might breach the gap between us. Instead, my voice comes out like a groan. "Scully, you have every right to hate me." "I don't hate you." "I should have told you." "Yes, you should have." She pauses and considers her next question. "Why didn't you?" "There are so many reasons that I've lost count," I mumble. "Then limit it to one that involves us." I turn my head away in shame. "I wanted you to be jealous of Fowley," I confess. "I needed validation of my feelings, some type of emotional response from you." "Is that all you thought I was capable of, Mulder?" She asks in a hurt voice. "Jealousy?" "Actually, it was more than I deserved." I respond meekly. "If you knew the truth of my relationship with Fowley, you'd feel only pity." "Why?" "Because it wasn't the type of marriage you think." "What type was it?" "The worst type," I respond hesitantly taking her hand. "Why?" "Because similar ideas and beliefs doesn't guarantee a perfect partnership." I say with certainty. "Diana always expected more, always demanded more than I was capable of giving." Scully doesn't respond. I'm not sure if she's being tactful or just doesn't want to know. "In every aspect, Scully." I hint. "You don't need to explain further," she says, trying to withdraw her hand from mine. "I want to," I grip her hand firmly. "I...I need to, Scully. Diana made some...well...uneasy alliances while we worked on the X-files. She refused to identify them, taking the lead in investigations, making contacts behind my back." "What contacts?" "I wasn't sure, until now." I admit. "Because of you, Scully, your memories, the pieces of my puzzle are coming together." "Are you saying..." "Let me put it to you this way." I interrupt her. "The last night of our marriage, she came home at 3 a.m. Her face was flushed and her clothes were disheveled." Scully drops her head, unable to meet my gaze. "Scully..." My fingers twine through her auburn mane, lifting a gingery strand to the light. "Her hair smelled like smoke..." ******** I now understand the worst conspiracy of all... The one that has eluded us for years... A conspiracy of emotions. A collusion of secrets which were buried by him and repressed by me. We allowed fear to beguile our hearts, cloak our perceptions and distort our trust. No more... We're both victims, but more to ourselves than to those who exploited us. I'm not willing to be a casualty of my own war. And, I'm not going to let him be one, either. "I love you, Mulder," I tell him, lifting my head. "What?" He stares at me with incredulous eyes. "I love you," I repeat, lifting my mouth to kiss his. "Scully..." His cry changes to a moan when I open his lips with mine. His hand clasps the back of my head, first pulling me towards him, then grasping my hair tightly to push me away. The conflict of his response doesn't surprise me. Nor will his guilt deter me. My fingers have developed an expertise of their own. They tug at his jeans with a singular purpose, to expose that part of him that I intend to lavish with attention. Up to this point, I've allowed him to make love to me. Not that I wasn't an eager or responsive participant. But, now I want to take the lead, to show him that I'm capable of giving, and not just receiving intimate alternatives. I slide to my knees in front on the couch, taking his jeans and boxer shorts with me. My hands stroke his calves, his thighs, spreading his legs open with such certainty that he gasps with awed delight. Oh Mulder, don't you think I know what you like? I prolong each touch, my fingers trailing the creases that adjoin legs to torso, skimming the dark hair in between. Lowering my head, my lips follow the descent of my fingers. They open to him so he can sample the warm, wetness of my mouth. My tongue circles the tip of him, slides down him, explores the part of him that tightens in the cup of my hand. "Scully," he murmurs my name. I hear the crinkling sound of my couch cushion being gripped by his fingers. "You better stop before I..." There is no way I'm going to stop. I guide him deeper into my mouth, urging him, relaxing my throat to receive him. This last gesture is really more symbolic than it is sexual. I want him to know that I accept all of him, that there will be no more secrets or hidden desires between us. And, I think he know it, too. He allows the moment to carry him away for the same reason. Only by acquiescing control is surrender complete. Moments later, when he gathers me into his arms, I realize that his release is more than physical. His eyes are no longer strained with uncertainty or shadowed by the culpability of his past. "I love you, Scully," Mulder whispers. "I love you, too," I murmur back. He eases me down to the couch so I'm lying on my back. My sweats are glided off by the gentle pull of his hands. I sigh, extending my arms over my head. This is one couch session that is destined to end well. ******** "Hello Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home? Come on, now, I hear you're feeling down. Well I can ease your pain, Get you on your feet again. Relax. I'll need some information first. Just the basic facts. Can you show me where it hurts?" "What is that song, Mulder?" "I forget the title. Something by Pink Floyd," I respond, crouching in front of her stereo as I tune the station in. "I think I've heard it before," she comments, sliding two plates of re-heated spaghetti onto the kitchen table. "Classic rock, Scully," I say, gyrating my hips as I saunter towards her. "Classic...my ass..." Her eyebrows lift to emphasize her point. "Yeah...classic..." I slide my hand down the back of her sweats to squeeze the soft cheek of her backside. "I thought you said you were hungry," she protests. "What I said, Scully, was that I could eat you all..." Scully clamps a hand over my mouth before I can finish the sentence. Chuckling, she allows me to pull her chair out for her. But, as the song plays on, her laughter dies. Because, I feed off her smile, I try to tease another from her. "Now, that's what I call fine suction," I say as I watch her slurp down the spaghetti. All I get is her abstract gaze. She twirls pasta around her fork in concentrated silence. I lean forward, intent on deciphering her expression. The haunting melody seems to distract her. She cranes her head towards it, her eyes growing vacant as the refrain plays on... "There is no pain you are receding A distant ship, smoke on the horizon. You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying..." "Scully?" The fork drops to her plate. "Scully...." I rise up from my chair. Suddenly, she gags and clasps a hand over her mouth. Grabbing her arm, I try to steer her towards the kitchen sink. She shakes her head frantically. Pushing me aside, she races for the bathroom. Is it a flashback? Is it my cooking? Oh, God...please don't let it be one of those long-delayed gag reactions to what she did earlier. I arrive at the bathroom in time to find her hunched over the toilet. For a minute, I am tempted to back away. I've paid homage to the "Ceramic God" too many times in my life, and watching her vomit triggers my own putrid flashbacks. But, she looks so pathetic...kneeling and clutching the sides of the toilet. Her hair keeps falling in front of her face. Sighing, I lean over to pull the strands back. I circle her hair with one hand as I stretch the other to grab a towel. "I'm never going to want spaghetti again," she presses the towel to her mouth as the spasms pass. "Me, either," I chime in, helping her to her feet. "Mulder," she grips my arm with sudden panic. "Was it a flashback?" I ask. "There was a voice...it was..." She stops and eyes me warily. "Well, it doesn't matter whose voice it was. What matters is that I think I know where I developed my taste for drugs." "Your abduction?" I gasp. "They fed you painkillers?" "It wasn't part of the protocol. Neither was anesthesia." Scully relates, "I think she did it because she began to feel sorry for me." Her eyes widen as she realizes her mistake. And, I realize mine... I tried to forget the hideous truth about Diana. I wanted to focus on Scully, on her love, embracing it like a precious gift. Yet, this other gift still torments me. My former wife knows no charity. All she gave was a twisted mockery of pity, a promise of relief from the same hand that inflicted the pain. A gift that keeps on giving... I storm out of the bathroom. "Mulder..." I grab my jacket and car keys. "Mulder, what are you doing?" "Something I should have done a long time ago." "You're not..." Scully tries to block the front door. "Are you armed?" "You think I'd bring a gun in here?" I push her aside. "No Scully, I'm not armed." "Mulder, don't do this," she pleads in a desperate voice, tugging at my arm. "Let it go." "I can't." I jerk away from her and unlock the door. "I won't..." "Mulder..." I try not to shove her. But, I do. I flinch as she trips and falls back to the floor. "I'm sorry, Scully..." I can tell that she's not hurt, just stunned and frightened. I give her an apologetic look before I turn away, slamming the door behind me. As I stalk down the hall, my thoughts turn dark and deadly. I'm not armed, but I will be... It's time...way past time... Time for my marital status to change from "divorced" to "widowed"... To be continued... Part 9 of ? (WIP) He's going to kill her.... Fowley.... Every fiber in my body thrills to this sentence of death. Like an avenging Angel, he will suddenly materialize and strike her down without warning. The flash of light will not be a celestial sword, but the white, sizzling explosion of his gun. Kill her, Mulder... My vindictiveness resounds in my ears. I chant words of approval, allowing them to rise in my mind to the pitch of a bloodthirsty mob. Kill her...kill her...kill her.... But then I smell it. Not the burnt flesh of a bullet wound, it's more like a putrefied odor. It's the decaying of my soul.... My need for revenge is infesting me like maggots. My beliefs and values are being devoured by worms of hate. Hate... Not only for what she has done, but for what she was.... His wife.... Jealousy decomposes me like a corpse left out to rot. Rancor mixes with rage. It bursts from every pore of my skin, beading my forehead with the clammy condensation of a cold maliciousness that I thought not possible. Killing out of revenge digs more than one grave. By not stopping him, I am digging mine. I scramble to my feet and grab my phone. When I dial his number, there is no answer. My breath mimics the frantic beat of my heart as I search for shoes and car keys. It pounds so loudly that it sounds like a drum, mimicking the tempo of my panic. Stop...Mulder...stop before it's too late.... The chime on my mantle clock begins its allegorical tolling. My hand freezes on the knob of the front door. For a moment, I'm transfixed by each pulsating strike. It's midnight...the witching hour...where good turns to evil and all is lost in one vengeful moment. I yank open the door.... Fowley.... Oh my God.... It's the witch, herself. Pushing into my apartment, poking me back with the point of her gun like it was the handle of her broomstick. The ring of my clock reverberates through me like a death knell. Sarcasm turns to an icy fear as Fowley nods to the clock, saying, "Ask not for whom the bell tolls...." Her finger tightens around the trigger. "It tolls for thee...." she proclaims in an austere voice. I feel my legs hit the back of my couch. My eyes dart around for my weapon, a way to fight back. There is none. Mulder removed my gun a week ago. I'm defenseless. Licking my lips, I try to distract her with my response. "That's Hemingway, isn't it?" "Actually, he stole the line from John Dunne, a 17th century poet." Fowley reaches behind her back to close the front door. "Hemingway was a thief and a drunk. Distasteful, wouldn't you say?" There is only a hint of inflection in her voice. Her features are completely relaxed, even composed despite her deadly intent. Or, maybe it's because her intent is... deadly..... "Distasteful," I agree, sliding along the back of the couch. "But, then one must wonder what prompts addiction in the first place." "Weakness, Agent Scully." Her dark eyes glitter ominously. "It is the same characteristic that defines the thief." "Are you implying that I stole something from you, Agent Fowley?" "Don't be flippant. That only plays well when it comes from your partner." She advances on me again. I stop in my tracks. "How could I steal something that wasn't yours to begin with?" I ask, trying to goad her into anger. I know it's a mistake to provoke her. I'm a federal agent, well-versed in hostage negotiations. But, so is she. And, as much as I would like to consider myself a hostage, I have the uneasy feeling that I'm soon to be a victim. Her victim.... She confirms my supposition with a smile. When I see the perfect gleam of her teeth, I know what I'm dealing with. A dangerous, calculating woman. A woman who has no scruples or fear. A member of the Consortium. I've underestimated her. So did Mulder. She expertly manipulated us both. The photo... the pills... the reactions she knew each of us would have.... "Well, Scully. I must say that I admire your tenacity... and your audacity." She laughs at her own rhyme. I'm starting to regret my earlier thoughts about being a corpse. She's going to kill me. "You're going to kill me." I remark, trying to keep my voice strong. "No," Fowley shakes her head. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a bottle of pills, saying, "You're going to kill yourself." Oh my God.... "Consider yourself lucky, Scully. You managed to live a lot longer than the other women abductees. You beat the cancer that silenced the rest." I'm too stunned to answer. "But, it was stolen time," Fowley adds softly. Her voice pretends regret. I know she has none. Her eyes dart quickly to the clock. "Now that your flashbacks have started, time's up," she announces crisply. I start to lunge forward, but she reacts by thrusting the end of her gun against my breast. My head whips back as I hold my hands up in surrender. Fowley shifts her weapon to one solid grasp and wedges the bottle in my trembling fingers. "The drug addict overdoses, huh?" I say, shrugging, trying to appear nonchalant. "Like I said, Agent Scully, I admire you. Unfortunately, I can't allow personal feelings to interfere with the Consortium's agenda." "You're a liar." I can't help my scoffing tone. "I'm not on the Consortium's agenda, just yours." "Don't test me, Scully," the woman cautions. "I'm extending you a professional courtesy." "No... you're extending me death." She prods me with her gun, until I pop open the cap. "He was mine... first," she remonstrates bitterly. "He... is... mine... last....." I emphasize each word. "Overdose or bullet. Which is to be?" "Both are equally lethal," I calmly advise her as I empty the pills into the palm of my hand. "Except one manages to kill more than just my body." "You're stalling." Fowley's finger teases the trigger. She's right. I'm stalling. And, I'm not calm, I'm petrified.... "Take the pills," she demands through gritted teeth. "Suicide will kill his belief in me...." Her eyes finally betray her spiteful delight. "Exactly." "So much for you altruism," I sneer. "You're dead, either way," she tosses back. I'm out of time. Survival is no longer an option. The only choice left is the type of memory I leave behind. I let the pills slip through my fingers. "I may be dead... but in dying I prefer pain to being comfortably numb." My voice does not sound afraid. It's triumphant. Enraged, she forces me down to my knees. When I feel the cold metal of the gun press against my temple, I close my eyes. His face.... The last thing I want to remember is his face.... Mulder.... I jerk convulsively as the blast of gunfire fills my ears. The explosion tears through my body. "There is no pain... you are receding.... A distant ship... smoke on the horizon...." I feel as if I'm drifting. Through the mist, I can see him. "You are coming through in waves... Your lips move, but I can't hear what you say...." His stark, frightened face hovers over mine. At first, his words are intelligible, drowned out by echoing noise inside my head. "Dana..." I must be dying. He's calling me by my first name. "You're not dying, Scully." I'm not dying.... I'm in shock...jumbled thoughts are turning to words.... Mulder gathers me into his arms and holds me tightly. His breath comes out like sporadic bursts of air, contorted, almost strangled. Fowley.... I lift my head from his shoulder. I see her then. She's dead.... She's immersed in a pool of blood. It seeps through her long, dark hair. A single bullet to the back of her head.... His bullet.... Oh my God.... "Scully...." Mulder's voice is urgent. I try to listen to what he's saying, to wake from this concussion of alarm and confusion. "I need you, right now...Scully...don't lose it on me...." I shudder, closing my eyes, burying my face against his neck. I try to immerse myself in the warmth of his skin, to shelter myself in the security of his arms. "Scully...." He takes me by the shoulders and forces me away from him. "We've got to move fast." Like an obedient child, I nod, allowing him to haul me to my feet. "Listen to me, Scully." He lowers himself so that his eyes are level with mine. "We can't let anyone know about this. We've got to get rid of her body." My legs almost go out from under me. He wants to cover this up.... "Mulder, we can't hide the truth," I find my voice, but it stammers. I'm shaking so hard that my teeth actually chatter. "We have to...." "It's makes us no better than those who conspire against us." "Scully, there will be no us..." His fingers dig into my shoulders. "If the Consortium finds out what's happened here tonight... there will be... no.... us...." "Mulder...," I start to argue, but stop suddenly. Oh my God.... He's right..... But, we're too late.... The Cigarette Smoking Man's habit proceeds him. It announces him. I smell him even before I see his dark, lurking shadow. When he slithers around the corner of my door, I recoil with fear. But, Mulder doesn't. He whirls around, ready to strike. Shielding my body with his, he aims his gun at CSM's head and hisses, "Willing to join her, old man?" CSM takes a deep drag of his cigarette. He first gives Mulder a scoffing look before his gaze drops to Fowley. "Well," His voice drips sarcasm like venom, "It appears I'm not the only one who is willing to sacrifice a former wife for a noble cause." Like a snake sizing up his prey, his eyes narrow in on mine. To be continued..... Part 10 of ? (WIP) It will have blood, they say... Blood will have blood... And, I will spill more gladly.... I raise my gun to the level of my eyes. Adrenalin courses though my veins like liquid fire. It incites the beating of my heart and flares my consciousness past debate. There's no dousing effect of thought or reason... no cooling of an impulse ignited moments ago... Nothing else exists other than my need to protect her. Scully... Not my wife by law, but more of a wife than the one who lies dead at my feet. I killed her. Without hesitation, warning, or even a split- second wavering of my resolve. This executioner feels no regret. I intended my shot to be lethal. Had it not been, any fragment of life that remained in my ex-wife might have been spent jerking the trigger of her own gun. Her last reaction... her final revenge. My finger holds the same promise now. With my last breath I will defend Scully from harm. If I'm to fall, her assailant will fall with me. CSM's eyes shift from Scully to the end of my gun. Although it's inches from his face, he appears unperturbed by my threat. He doesn't flinch. There's no tensing of his jaw, no sweat sliding down the cavernous wrinkles that prunes his features. He is as cool as I am deadly. This makes for a dangerous combination. "Relax, Agent Mulder," he snickers. "I'm here to thank you, not kill you." "Yeah, right," I scoff, raising my gun so it parallels his eyes. "You've crossed a threshold," CSM remarks. "And, I'm not talking about the one that involves marital bliss. Although, I must admit you given the `til death do us a part' an interesting twist." "Consider it an annulment," I tell him. "No marriage ever existed." "Consider it done," he grins, lifting his cigarette to his lips. "By this time tomorrow there will never have been a Diana Fowley." "Why?" Scully's voice is heard behind me. It shakes, but I sense her inherent strength trying to rebound. "What's in it for you?" "Revenge..." CSM's voice cuts off as he takes another drag. "The woman betrayed me." "The adulterer feels betrayed?" I sneer at him. "Agent Scully was not the only recipient of Ms. Fowley's calling card," the man exhales a stream of smoke. "Her camera was not the only one hidden in her apartment that fateful night." CSM cautiously reaches into his coat pocket... not for a gun... but for a photograph. "Like they say, Agent Mulder, a picture conveys a thousand words." I'm not impressed or surprised. "Well...picture this," I threaten, extending my arm to gouge his cheekbone with my gun. "If you ever cross this threshold again, you'll be popping up daisies for dogs to piss on. And, that goes for your cohorts. I will hunt down every single member of your so-called consortium and show you the true meaning of revenge." "Speaking of which," CSM pauses to clear his throat. Two men appear at Scully's doorway. I hear Scully's movement behind me. My partner, my first lieutenant, reports for duty. She bolts to my side, aiming Diana's blood drenched gun at the expressionless goons who await their orders. "Call them off... you black lung son-of-a-bitch," I threaten. "Or only one of us walks away, and my gun says it ain't gonna be you." "They're not assassins, Agent Mulder," CSM smiles with genuine amusement. "Just a clean-up crew. They wear gloves, not guns..." "Check them out, Scully." I wait, my finger poised on the trigger, while Scully pats down both man. She nods confirmation and steps back. "Do you remember the saying, Agent Mulder... what is trash to one... is treasure to another?" CSM's reflects. "Well, sometimes trash... is just trash." CSM turns his head to the men. "Dispose of it," he says tonelessly. Speechless and stunned, Scully and I stand aside. The two men "borrow" the carpet from underneath her dining room table and roll Fowley's inert body it. Between the two of them, they lug it out the door and disappear down the hallway. Talk about pulling the rug out from under your feet.... CSM crushes his cigarette in the palm of his hand. His action is grossly symbolic. He's a man who feels no pain, other than betrayal. I think I've discovered his Achilles's heel. And, he has obviously found mine. "The Consortium has no intention of causing Agent Scully any harm," he advises. "Like you, Agent Mulder, we have discovered her value." "Which is?" I ask. "Ask her..., " His eyes slide over to Scully as he continues by addressing her. "Agent Scully, your flashbacks must not be silenced. Not by your attempts... or by another's personal agenda." "Why?" I hiss. "Enlightenment," the man proclaims. "The truth, Agent Mulder. What has been your obsession, is her destiny." Her destiny.... "To do what? Reveal you for the slime bucket that you are?" My voice rises with indignation. "To uncover the of her abduction, the inhumanity of the tests conducted on her and other women?" "History will decide who the war criminals are, Agent Mulder," he reflects. "And, the voice that will be heard will not be yours. It will be Agent Scully's." CSM looks at Scully. I see the gleaming appreciation in his eyes and shudder with revulsion. He speaks with a tone that allows no interpretation. It's certain and hopeful. "It will be you, Agent Scully. You will be the one to vindicate me in the end." "I think....not," she states with equal conviction. "It is the voice of rationalism that will re-write the course of history," insists CSM. "It is her science... her experience... her exposure... that will pass judgment on the necessity of these tests." "Judgment day is already here," Scully counters. "Would you like to hear my pronouncement?" "Reserve your judgment for another day, Agent Scully," advises CSM. "One that is close at hand. Or... as to quote the dead..." He backs up to the door and lights up another cigarette. His eyes squint past us, focusing on the mantle clock. "The bell tolls for us all...." His words permeates the air like the series of smoke rings he leaves behind. He's gone. Scully.... My attention focuses on his prophecy. The non-believer turned revelator. "Mulder," her voice now trembles. Closing the door, she slumps against it and wearily raises her finger to the clock. The clock.... "Try smashing that against the fireplace," she tells me. I don't need further prompting. I hurl it with a force that fractures glass and dents the brass chimes. I scavenge through the rubble, looking for more than just an electronic device. Somewhere in this ruin, maybe I'll find the proof to make her finally understand. "Is it bugged?" I hear Scully ask. "Yeah," I say grimly as I retrieve the bug. Scully says nothing. Her eyes are shadowed by stress and fatigue. She rolls her shoulders along the door to push herself back on her feet. Once on solid footing, she trudges to the kitchen. I roll the bug between my fingers as I contemplate my own "enlightenment". Scully's flashbacks represent more than repressed memories. Her recollection is history in the making. A series of events... beginning with her abduction, the tests, the stolen ova to create a human/alien hybrid.... And, the most critical incident of all. Scully's exposure to the alien virus made her the first recipient of the vaccine. Not only did it save her life... it's immunized her.... Scully will survive the holocaust. As a scientist, grounded in fact and schooled in logic, she will be the one to justify the means to an end. She will causally relate survival of the human race to the evil manipulations of the Consortium. Because she was their victim, her voice will be well received. Scully has become the Consortium's hope for absolution. She's also become my only hope.... Through her, my truth will live on.... Scully comes into the living room dragging a steaming bucket that reeks of ammonia. Her shoulders are slumped as if the weight she carries is not limited to the pail of water. She kneels beside the puddle of blood and studies the gun in her hand. It sticks to her skin, glued by the same bodily fluid that she now seeks to mop up. "I have blood on my hand," she whispers. I wince when she plunges her hand into the hot bucket. "It's alright," Scully gasps, clenching her teeth. She withdraws her reddened hand and lays the gun carefully on the coffee table. "Let me clean this up," I offer as I crouch down beside her. "No..." she shakes her head fiercely as she thrusts her hand back into the bucket. "I have to do it." "Why?" I ask, catching her wrist. Her fingers curled tightly around the sponge. She meets my eyes and pleads with the same intensity as her voice. "I have to scrub this away, Mulder. All of it... I need to disinfect it... to... to sanitize it...." Oh God....the "voice of rationalism" is quickly dissolving into a cry of hysteria. "No, Scully," I try to pry the sponge from her hand. "It's not the blood. You're trying to wash away the truth." In our struggle, I knock over the bucket. It floods the floor, mixing blood with hot, soapy bubbles. "Do you see what you've done?" Scully screams at me with sudden fury. "Do you see the fucking mess you've made?" "Of what?" I bellow back. "Your floor or your life?" She jerks away from me and springs to her feet. "I'm not doing this..." "The truth, Scully... " I rise up before her. "What is the truth?" "I won't say it." She shakes her head frantically. "I won't believe." "You already do," I insist. "One doesn't have to be telepathic little boy named Gibson to realize it. You believe, Scully. You just don't want to admit it." "I will never say the words to exonerate those Nazis," Scully declares hotly. "Just say the words to me," I plead with her. For a minute, she contemplates me. Her lips open slightly as if she's about to speak. I find myself holding my breath, growing dizzy with hope that she's finally going to say the words I've been waiting to hear. For six agonizing years.... Now... She'll say those words... now... Please, Scully.... Suddenly her mouth clamps shut. She gives me a withering look before making a blitz for her bedroom. I can't take her denial anymore. "See... Scully... run...," I yell after her in a scathing voice. "You can't run from the truth anymore. It's got you cornered. You can't stay comfortably numb... and I won't let you live your life pretending to be comfortably ignorant." Her response is true to form. Another fucking door... slammed right in my face. ********** Cringing from the cold, I lie alone in my bed. Naked, I've chosen to expose my skin rather than the truth. I turn to the bedroom window that I've opened, waiting for the frigid air to freeze me into oblivion. It doesn't. An hour passes to the tune of his cleaning. I can hear my maid through the bedroom door. The muffled swishing of a sponge... the bristles of a broom sweeping up broken glass... the grinding motor of my vacuum... even the clanking of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.... Fox Mulder.... Special Agent turned House Frau.... And, the "voice of rationalism" lies cowering in her bed. My mind shakes with demented laughter.... I wonder what Frau Vandervanack would think of us now? Fear is a powerful force. It's driving me to the point of madness, where sanity no longer holds any attraction. If I can't escape this horror he calls the truth, I will elude it another way. I will not be the blasphemer of my own convictions.... I'd rather die.... I feel so cold.... I want to feel cold.... The addict in me responds instantly. Lifting my head from the pillow, I kick the covers off the bed. I embrace the chill, gulping mouthfuls of the icy air, willing it to numb my thoughts as it does my body. "What the hell are you doing?" I hear Mulder's voice. I open my eyes to see him hovering over me. "Are you trying to freeze to death, Scully?" He growls, crossing the room to close the window. "I hope so..." I whisper. His hazel eyes stare into mine. I see the tug-of-war expression in them. Anger pulls against concern. Each emotion tries to jerk the other across the finishing line. "Damn you." Frowning, Mulder strips off his clothes and slides into bed beside me. With a forceful tug, he draws me into his arms. I feel his body heat permeate my flesh, melting the numbness, awakening my dulled senses. "Damn you, Scully..." he says again in a tight voice. "How can you do this to yourself? How can you do this to us?" He's crying.... My cheek is pressed against his chest which shudders with muted sobs. I slide my hand up to his face and try to wipe away his tears. He pushes it away, but holds me tighter. Afraid to accept me... yet reluctant to let me go. His obsession isn't only the truth. It's me... or what I represent. The eternal skeptic... the one he has to make believe. He doesn't cry for "us". He cries for himself. Denied validation, he's suffering his own type of withdrawal. Here, Mulder.... Let me give you a quick fix.... A different type of opiate.... Shifting myself over him, I spread my legs open in silent invitation. "No, Scully...," Mulder's voice cracks. I begin to stroke him, tease him, guide that part of him that responds easily to my touch. Suddenly, Mulder grabs my hand and rolls me onto my back. "I said no...." he states emphatically. I want to scream my frustration. I need to vent this fear and panic that is eating me alive. Digesting me.... I can feel it.... My eyes open wide with horror. I can't move. I'm paralyzed, frozen in a cryopod that has become my coffin. Green liquid pours around me, shrouding me, lowering the temperature of my skin and the beating of my heart. I'm intubated by a tube that is not rubber, but organic. It pumps putrid liquid down my esophagus, sustaining me for one purpose only. I'm a host.... To an alien life form.... I believe.... To be continued..... Part 11 of 11 I'm losing her... She's not breathing... Panic floods me as I see the pupils of her eyes dilate and fix into an oxygen deprived stare. Her throat begins to convulse with rhythmic spasms like she's trying to expel a foreign object. Her frozen, horrified expression propels me to another time and place. Oh my God.... The Profiler has studied too closely.... In my attempts to get into her mind, I find myself trapped in her most petrifying flashback of all.... I return to the cavernous, alien craft that is buried under the polar cap. The cryopod... that stores her like a refrigerated meal awaiting consumption... has finally cracked. Green, icy slush collects at my feet. When she chokes, I frantically pull the tube from her mouth. What should be less than a foot seems more like a yard. It stretches out like an unfurling intestine in my hands. Holy shit.... She's still choking. This bizarre paroxysm is killing her.... Scully.... I pry open her mouth and force my fingers to the back of her throat. She gags when I try to clear her airway. Her chest lurches forward and I have to press my knee against her ribs to hold her down. I probe for something I'm not sure is there. Nothing.... There's no physical hindrance to her breathing.... I call out to her, tipping her head back to initiate CPR. Just as I lean over to cover her mouth with mine, she jerks away and fills her lungs.... And screams.... The room fills with the sound of her terror. I yank her up by her shoulders, shaking her, trying to break through her wall of hysteria. "Scully...." I drown out her screams with my own. "Tell me what you see." "Creatures...," she shrieks. "They're trying to claw their way out...." Shuddering, she clutches her stomach and groans. "No, not in you," I yell back. "It never gestated in you." "The others are not dead," Scully cries, twisting in my arms. "They feel the pain. They're being slowly digested... bone... tissue... blood... but the tube silence their screams...." I finally understand the link to her stomach pain.... The gagging, the choking, the vomiting.... Her creature is horror. It has been gnawing at her for months, mauling its way through her denial, disguising itself as physical pain. I cup her face with my hands, forcing her to meet my gaze. She squeezes her eyes closed in a desperate attempt to shut me out. "Scully, open your eyes and look at me." "I can't...." "Damn it, look at me," I bellow. "Speak the words, Scully... before they really do eat you alive." My analogy finally hits home. Her eyes fly open and she screeches, "Aliens... they're aliens!" The vision in her eyes explodes into a million pieces. Her gaze is no longer frozen in muted fear. Ice melts to tears. They spill down her cheeks and onto my hands. The feel of them washes me with relief. "It's over, Scully." I tell her excitedly. "The flashbacks. They'll stop now." "What do you mean?" she sobs. "It was more than just your emotions trying to connect." I explain. "It was the truth struggling to break free." "Oh, Mulder...the truth will enslave us all." "Not you..." I emphasize, squeezing her tightly. "You're the one who was successfully vaccinated. That's why the Consortium wants you safe. Because the future courses through your veins." "Well, it better include you in it, or I'll slice through those future holding veins." I close my eyes and steel myself to her weeping. "There is a better use for your blood than to spill it for me." I remind her. She collapses against me and continues to sob. "I won't live without you," she sniffs. "Hey... don't write me off just yet." I make my voice light, trying to tease her out of this inordinate, melodramatic mood. The "voice of rationalism" is rapidly turning into the "voice of dependence" and this transition scares the hell out of me. I may not be there for her.... This is the terror of my truth. "Don't you understand why you must live, Scully? You're not only capable of rewriting history. You're capable of changing it. It's the vaccine. The key to its effectiveness is in your blood." "I want to believe...," she stops as she recognizes the impact of her own words. She edits herself and continues. "I want to feel hope." "That's okay." I press my lips against her forehead. "Right now, I have enough for both of us." Scully exhales slowly, sagging against me. Her energy level is gone, depleted by an endless night of trauma and revelation. The flashbacks have done more than just strip away layers of denial. They've sandblasted her endurance, leaving her physically drained and emotionally scathed. I offer her what comfort I can. Easing her back to the bed, I blanket her body with my own. I limit my touch to soothing caresses. I repeatedly kiss her cheeks, mopping her tears with my lips. Her lashes flutter against mine as fatigue overtakes her. Nestled in my arms, she drifts off quietly to what I know will finally be a dreamless sleep. *************** When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse Out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone I cannot put my finger on it now The child is grown The dream is gone.... I stand by the bedroom window, parting the blinds with fingers that are no longer dull, but feel sharply sensitive. It's late morning according to my clock, but the sun is hidden behind heavy clouds that predict more than just rain. They forecast the futility of my future, the bleakness of my days to come. Mulder says he has hope enough for the both of us.... That's good, because I have none.... I'm no longer comfortably numb.... I'm painfully aware.... Does he sense my anguish? He wakes the instant my thoughts turn as grim as the overcast sky. His hazel eyes snap open with a sudden alertness that suggests that this "thing between us" is a connection more profound than a joining of our flesh. I startle, as does he.... Both of us seek the other's gaze. His shines with the light of our newly shared belief. Mine only reflects the shadow of my despair. Can I thread hope through him? Do you feel me, Mulder? Is this bond, this unspoken communication between us so strong that it can transcend time and space? "Mulder," I whisper the question. "What made you come back last night?" He shifts up onto his elbow and studies me thoughtfully. "Did you hear my voice inside you? Did you turn around because I was crying for you to stop?" I see the debate in his eyes.... I guess my stomach's not done churning after all.... "Did you sense that I was in danger?" I add in a desperate voice. "Did you change your mind about revenge?" Still no answer. "What was it, Mulder?" I let the blinds close behind me. "What brought you back to me?" "It was your phone," he answers reluctantly. For a minute, the seriousness of his voice competes with the absurdity of his answer. "What?" "You kept ringing my cell phone," Mulder explains. "I finally answered." My phone.... I remember dropping it when I opened the door.... "You overheard...," my voice cuts off with a gasp. "Every sinister word from the junkie's mouth," he relates caustically. "Offering you sugar coated pills. A prescription known as suicide." "Oh...," I swallow hard, almost choking on this tablet of reality. It was a coincidence. A twist of fate. I turn back to the window, focusing my attention on the void of what my world has become. "Scully...." I hear the shuffling of sheets and comforter as he gets out of bed. "I can't lie to you, even if it means giving you hope." "I know," I murmur sadly. "There is another way," he suggests as he approaches me. When I feel his hands graze my arms, I cringe from what I perceive to be a sexual overture. "No." I push him away and reach for my robe on the bottom of the bed. "Don't you want to hear what I have to say?" "Not if you intend to regale me with your body," I retort. "Jesus... is that what you think?" Mulder shoots back, sounding both deflated and suddenly angry. "Or, is it what you've become?" "What are you talking about?" "Last night, you spread your legs open in an effort to distract me." I tie the sash of my robe around my waist, pulling it into two tight knots. "Well, maybe I need more just a distraction in return." I state coldly. Mulder scrutinizes the knot before meeting my gaze. His eyes darken with a menacing challenge. "You know, Scully, I could untie that with my teeth." "Not if you don't have any left." Mulder rubs his chin, remembering how I almost knocked his jaw off the night before. He gives me a scoffing look, saying, "Well, then I'd have to use my tongue." "Save it, Mulder. Find a better use for it. These legs are definitely closed." I watch him reach for his jeans. "Then try listening to what my tongue has to say," he berates me. "What I was trying to suggest is that we use our Bureau resources to isolate this vaccine. To stop investigating X-files and start pursuing our future." He yanks his shirt over his head and continues, "But, I can see that you'd rather wallow in self-pity, turning everything good between us into something sordid." He sits on the side of our bed, digging his sneakers out from underneath it. "And, I know why, Miss Numbness. That way, if anything happens to me, you can anesthetize your pain by making the loss insignificant." I watch him tie angry knots with the laces of his sneakers. Oh God.... He's forcing me to acknowledge another horrifying truth.... This one is not about aliens.... It's about my attempts to alienate my feelings. I rush to the side of the bed and drop to my knees. My fingers fumble against his. I try to grab the laces and loosen the knot, equating it with how I've twisted our love. "I'm sorry...," I mumble, trying to tug the knot free. When it refuses to give, I feel a rush of anxiety crash over me. Biting my lip, I try again. "I can do this." For the first time, I hear hope and determination in my voice. Mulder catches my hand in his own as he says to me gently, "We can do this." His fingers guide mine as we untie his sneakers. My hand escorts his to the sash of my robe. "Together...," I whisper against his lips as my robe falls open. I think I've discovered a better definition of dependency. The one that prescribes hope. And hope, through him, is the most profound comfort of all. The End. I'd like to thank all of you who have read and shared your thoughts about this story. So many of you guided me along this angst filled path, keeping me focused and inspiring me to a new level of appreciation. My never-ending thanks to Kimberly of Clinique's Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia, who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring....