From: XRae1013@webtv.net (R L)
Date: Sat, 15 Mar 2003 13:49:28 -0800 (PST)
Subject: NEW: "Peaks of Insanity" by XRae 1/6
Source: direct


TITLE: Peaks of Insanity
AUTHOR: XRae
EMAIL: feedback welcome at XRae1013@webtv.net

RATED: NC-17 for adult subject matter and explicit sex. Please, if
you're underage I'd rather not contribute to your corruption. ;)
KEYWORDS: Scully POV, Major Angst, UST, RST
SPOILERS: Nothing too specific.

DISCLAIMER: Never had'em! Never will!
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, yes. Gossamer, yes. Anywhere else, sure just let me
know so I can visit...

NOTES: OK, I admit it, this entire endevor is just an excuse for me to
indulge in some 'Profiler-Mulder' angst and hot monkey luvin'...Just
keep in mind that, even if the show didn't take Mulder to these levels,
the foundation for them was set in the first three seasons. I base this
assumption after rewatching "Grotesque" recently, what a Mulder
Mind-F*** that was! Oy-Vey.

SUMMARY: Deeply affected while profiling a difficult case, Mulder
reaches the limit of his mental endurance. How far is Scully willing to
go to bring him back from the edge?


PEAKS OF INSANITY by XRae
------------------------------

He'll come tonight.

Silent as the shadows he thinks can hide him. 
He'll slide into my bed, slide into me.

And though I've surrendered my body to him before...

Tonight, in the darkness, Mulder will make love to me for the first
time.

------------------------------

[six months earlier]
Interstate 70
Outside of Dayton, Ohio
3:47 am

Slow down, Dana. Slow down. Loosing control of the car isn't going to
help you get to him any quicker.

I ease back on the accelerator and drop down to a semi-respectable 80
mph. At least at this time of night...no, wait, it's morning now, isn't
it? OK, at least this *early in the morning*, traffic, or lack there of,
is working for me and not against. Which is a good thing considering how
many times I've drifted into the other lane while preoccupied with the
damn speed dial button. I've been griping this phone since leaving
Columbus, and at this point, I wouldn't be at all surprised if my
fingers end up locked in this position.

Beware of...THE CLAW! As absurd as it may be, I start to giggle. What's
that from? I know it's Jim Carrey, but can't think of which movie...

God, I'm tired. I need a cup of strong coffee bad and a bathroom even
worse. I don't really want to take the time to stop, but if I don't, I
may end up needing to have this rental steam cleaned.

I spot what looks to be a truck stop up ahead and take the off-ramp...

About fifteen minutes later, I feel about two pounds lighter and a
little more awake as I get back onto the Interstate. In between gulps of
way too hot diner coffee and steering the car using mostly my kneecap, I
try Mulder's cell again...

"Liar, Liar"! *That's* the name of that movie! The CLAW was the game he
played with his kid! Ok. Good. Maybe the caffeine is kicking in...

Come on, Mulder. Come on. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.

Nothing. Voice mail. Again.

I don't bother leaving another message to the dozen or so I've already
left.

I call the hotel and ring his room again. Still busy. No doubt, it's off
the hook.

The road starts to blur and it's not until I feel the tears on my cheeks
do I realize why. I don't know what to expect when I finally get into
Dayton. I have no idea how far he's gone off the deep end this time.
Damn him! Damn him for doing this to himself! Damn him for doing this to
me!

No wait...that's not fair. I'm just tired. I'm just so tired.

Deep breath. Get it together, Dana.

I can't blame him. I won't.

He does this because so few others can, because so much depends on this
ability he has. This gift. This curse. And his intensions are just and
honerable, to save lives, to keep other families from suffering. And in
order to do this, he has to crawl into the minds of these killers, has
to get under their skin. How do you control something like that?

The path he must travel takes him on a solitary quest. And I've accepted
that I must invariably only witness this strange journey, only support
him from the sidelines as he willingly spirals down.

It's so hard to watch. So hard to watch the person you care most for
place himself right in the middle of insanity.

Most people can't fathom the nightmare, the dark places, he has to
search through. I can hardly comprehend them myself and I usually have
the closest view.

Usually. God, this case...

It's been hard on all of us, everyone inolved. It always is when there
are children involved. Emotions run higher. Nerves strung tighter. And
no matter what part you play in the investigation, when you see the face
of a parent who has just lost their child, you always feel like you
should be doing more.

For myself, my own usefulness is negated to my contributions as a
pathologist. And failing to find any new substantial evidence during my
time in Columbus has taken a serious toll on me. I feel weak with
disappointment, angry that now all means by which I can aid Mulder with
this investigation, to ease some of his burden, have been exhausted.

I guess I just didn't realize how much I was expecting to find something
until it became more than apparent that I wasn't going to.

I honestly didn't *want* to go, I felt my place was here, with Mulder.
But I had to be sure. Dayton is not a terribly small city but their
faciities are limited. After my cursory autopsies were conducted, mostly
in the hopes of finding some trace of physical evidence, the bodies were
sent on to the better equipped labs in Columbus for further, more
detailed tests. And when nothing new was discovered by them time and
time again, I began to doubt the efficiency of their techs. I was
possitive the Ohio forensics branch had missed *something*. And it was
my own arrogance that took me to their labs.

In retrospect, maybe I just wanted to feel as though I could somehow
help Mulder carry some of the weight. I didn't think being gone for a
few days would matter all that much.

So I left.

But first, I let the locals know of my plans, then I went to Mulder.
When he didn't answer my knock at the hotel, I scribled a short note and
slipped it under his door. I was walking away when it suddenly opened
and he stood there in a pair of dress pants and nothing else, blinking
at the sun. He spotted me finally and asked, "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven," I told him. "Mulder, have you slept?"

He shrugged and avoided the question. "You're gonna leave?"

"Yeah, I just want to--"

"I read the note, Scully." We stood there, staring at each other.

Finally, the silence became too much and I turned to go. "I'll call when
I get there."

"Just do what you have to, Scully."

I stopped and looked back to him, something just not feeling right.
"Mulder, what is it?"

"Nothing," he said a little too quickly. "Have a good trip," he mumbled
as he closed the door.

Looking back, yes, it was strange. I was just so wrapped up in what I
hoped to accomplish in Columbus to really take much notice.

He didn't want me to go. He just didn't want to have to ask me to stay.

Of course by the end of my third day there, it was obvious to me that
the entire trip was just a waste of time. I'm so ashamed I assumed their
techs were a bunch of slack-jawed yolkles. They'd been more than
thorough in their work, painstakinly so. Yet they still helped me with
test after test without complaint. A fact that not only speaks of their
professionalism, but to their dedication to the case overall.

I left as soon as possible, feeling tired and beaten. And anxious.
Mulder has sounded increasingly...not...himself the few times we've
spoken while I've been away. He hasn't faired well during my absence,
which has only added to the guilt I have over the entire trip in
general.

I've seen what working cases like this does to him and it never ceases
to amaze and terrify me. You just can't imagine how strong a person has
to be to do what my partner does. He may seem to go completely off his
rails, but it's a voluntary derailment. He surrenders to the secrets
insanity keeps hidden from the rest of us. And each and every time, I
wonder if *this* will be the time he'll reach the end of his resilience.
How far can any one man delve into the craziness before it swallows him
whole, before it consumes him?

What's my place in all of this?

I am acutely aware that Mulder's realm is not a place to tread lightly
or without caution. There's little room to make errors in judgment. One
wrong move and he'll shut me out completely.

One right move, made too late, won't make any difference.

He's been distant since this case began, long before my misguided good
intentions led to my ill-timed little road trip. He comes out of his
room only to examine crime scenes or to pursue his own avenues of
investigation. He barely talks to me.

Unless it's to insist on his privacy. He's been adament about it.
Secretive. Usually, when we're involved in different areas of an
investigation, we'll touch base before calling it a night, meet up at
the hotel and find out how things are progressing. And generally, we
discuss details or current theories in whichever of our rooms we just
happen to end up in.

But here, he's flat out refused to let me into his room.

Why?

I've respected his wishes. I mean, I can't pretend to fully comprehend
his method of profiling. All I can really do is give him the space he
needs and offer what support I can.

I learned this lesson long ago.

But still, this has seemed a little extreme, even for Mulder. Yet rather
than push him to explain, I've left him to his self-imposed exile. No
matter how uneasy I may feel about it.

I guess, if I'm being honest with myself, I know he changes when he
profiles, he really does. And sometimes, I just have no idea how to deal
with him. He's like a self contained force of nature, unpredictable and
savage. And *nothing* can steer him off course once he's engaged.
Nothing.

And now, with the investigation at a standstill, he blames himself for
the lack of progress, for not being able to pull this killer out of thin
air. 
Every time another small body is found, I see something die in his eyes.
He refuses to stop, forbids himself any respite from the torture he puts
himself through.

I've never seen him in such anguish. Ever. And I've witnessed many other
circumstances that have surely warrented it. This case has been brutal.
Difficult beyond measure at times. But as awful as this is going to
sound, I know for a fact that he's seen far worse.

I just don't understand.

It's almost as though this monster he pursues, this faceless man who
leaves no clues, no evidence, runs unbridled and unrestrained through
Mulder's very soul.

Concern and fear continue to wage war in my chest. Thank God for the
lack of traffic. With my attention so precariously devided between the
road and my cell phone, it's a wonder I'm not wrapped around a tree.

I punch the speed dial again. I know it's redundent, but some part of my
mind just refuses to accept the idea that he'd actually be stupid enough
to turn off his damn phone. He may have been brisk and distant during
the few stilted conversations we'd had while I was away, but I have a
hard time believeing he'd sever his most important means of
communication with the others working this case just so that he could
avoid me. Mulder knows as well as anyone that keeping connected is
essential. Sometimes things happen fast.

After a few more repeated attempts, I finally give up and call the local
PD working with us. 
The first thing the officer taking my call asks is if *I've* talked to
Mulder. I try to downplay my concerns, but I'm sure he hears the worry
in my voice. In an almost hushed tone, he tells me Mulder called them
just after I'd left and they haven't seen or heard from him since.
Mulder told them he planned to take the next day or so going over the
case "on his own" and to send an officer to the hotel to contact him
only if something new was found in the meantime.

He told them he was "getting close" to something and to "leave him alone
with it".

The hair on my arms stood on end.

Of course they complied with his request. The locals don't know what to
think of him and VCS is too afraid of and awed by "Spooky" to stand in
his way.

So, he's been alone. The entire time I've been gone, he's been alone.

I end the connection with a sence of such foreboding that I can feel its
weight settle hard in my stomach.

See, while I know to give Mulder his space, I also know that I tend to
provide him with a lifeline of sorts to the world outside of his
unwavering focus. Or at least, as much of one as he'll allow. He depends
on me for this. 
Because more than anything, as solitary as this process may be for him,
he needs to know that he's not facing it alone.

It's one of the main reasons he left VCS in the first place. He couldn't
do it anymore, travel so far into darkness and find his way out on his
own.

I know this. Better than anyone, I know this. 

And yet, I still left him. What the hell was I thinking?

Mulder. Completely shut off from everything, everyone. Focused. Frantic.
Playing mental hide and seek, in hot pursuit of a lunatic--a sick,
sexual predator who has raped and murdered eleven young girls to date.

I never thought that the small, secret part of himself that Mulder
somehow always keeps as his own during cases such as this, could be lost
to the darkness he must embrace for their resolution...

What if I'm wrong?

------------------------------
continued in 2/6
------------------------------ 
  
----------------------------
Peaks of Insanity 2/6
Disclaimers in part one
-----------------------------

EZ Rest Motel
Dayton, Ohio
5:02 am

As I pull into the parking lot, I'm immediately on 
edge. His car hasn't moved position the entire time I've been away. Even
from a distance, with only the dim illumination provided by the lights
of the lot, I can still see the thin layer of dust covering the car. An
all too real manifestation testifying to its lack of use.

I park my own rental close to our rooms and walk on shaky legs to his
door. A "Do Not Disturb" sign hangs ominously from the knob, but I pound
on it anyway for about ten minutes, pleading with him to open up. I hear
him growl something unintelligible from the inside and I loose it. I use
both fists then, causing a scene and not caring. Before I know it, I'm
threatening to take out my gun and shoot off the lock.

Nothing.

A few more minutes of pounding and the hotel manager shows up, sleepy
and none too pleased about the disturbance. I flash my badge just in
case he's forgotten who the hell he's talking to and then waste no time
in ordering him to open Mulder's damn door.

He unlocks it, grumbling about how we "law folk don't think we have to
obey any rules about nuthin'". He steps aside, waiting for me to open
the door, and looks none too pleased when I briskly excuse him.

He leaves. And I stand there, imobile. For all my threats and cursing,
I'm amazed by how fast my courage has left me. I really only wanted to
bring Mulder out. Now that I'm faced with actually confronting him, I
have no clue as to how to do it.

A part of me is certain he expects me to back down. If not for any other
reason, I'm sure he assumes I'll continue to respect his privacy. And
the smart thing for me to do would be to leave now, go to my room, and
wait him out. He'll call me eventually. When he's ready to. He needs
time to adjust, to come back to me and to himself at his own pace.

But on the other hand, I could easily argue that he's had enough time
alone already and more isolation is the last thing he needs. I realize
it may be my own guilt that propels me forward, but my decision is
quickly made. I turn the damn knob and step slowly inside.

I close the door behind me and try to let my vision adjust to the
darkness of the room, to get my heart rate under control.

I feel the air rush out of my lungs when I'm finally able to get a good
look at the twisted nest he's created for himself here, feathered with
graphic crime scene potos taped across the walls, the mirrors, the
doors; pages and pages of frantically scribbled notes covering every
available surface, including most of the floor; strange and morose
sketches scattered everywhere; a large area map covering half of one
wall, peppered with colored thumb tacks and illegible writing. And
God...the smell...a stale mixture of uncirculated air and terror sweat,
pungent and thick. He's tacked a heavy blanket over the window so the
room is dark and oppressive. The only illumination comes from the muted
TV, tuned to static, and about a dozen or so candles lined across the
dresser.

The idea that *this* is an enviroment conducive to this often
unexplainable process of his makes my blood run cold...

I stand there, with my composure wavering and shock threatening to
completely undo me. Still, my eyes sweep across the room, seeking him
out.

And when I finally spot him, I find it impossible to contain my sudden
gasp. "Oh Mulder..."

He's sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, his back against
the wall, his long arms folded across the top of his bended knees. From
where I'm standing, I can see he's clad only in boxers and an unbuttoned
dress shirt. His hair spikes in every direction, and the dark stubble
across his jaw is stark against his pale skin.

He watches me with eyes I don't recognize, clouded with turmoil and
framed by deep, dark circles. I'm not sure what he sees in my own
expression, but whatever it is causes him to shake his head slowly and
his mouth to quirk up into something that he may be intending as a
smile.

"Dana Scully..." His voice is rough from lack of use. "You have just
entered 'The Twilight Zone'." He breaks into a stilted rendition of the
theme song that ends abruptly as his head falls back against the wall
and his eyes close. He tries to laugh but succeeds with only soft,
humorless grunts. "Get outta here, Scully," he whispers, but there is no
mistaking the formidible tone lacing the words.

I take a few unsure steps toward him instead.

He senses my movement and brings his head down sharply, freezing me in
place with the look in his eyes. "Scully," he says, a warning evident.
"Get out."

"I'm not going anywhere."

His eyes narrow. "Why are you doing this?"

"Mulder, I just want--"

His hand shoots up to block my words. "No. Fuck this. Don't come in here
acting like I owe you something."

"Mulder--"

"Get out!" he practicaly roars.

"No," I say as calmly as I can.

"You listen to me, Scully. You have no fucking idea how close I am..."
He runs a shakey hand through his tousled hair and looks away, his eyes
distant and unfocused. "I need to be alone," he says quietly.

"I think you've been alone long enough, Mulder."

He turns to me and I can see the accusation in his eyes. "Really?"

I soften my voice. "You just need to step back from this for a while."

"Is that your medical opinion, Dr. Scully? Amazing that you can make
such an immediate prognosis after being gone for three straight days.
What brought you to this conclusion? My decor?"

Remarkable that without any real knowledge of it, he's zeroed in on the
guilt brewing in my gut and exploits it. Did I truly think he wouldn't
see the conflict masking my motivation for coming in here?

He watches me, then smiles knowingly. It looks more like he's baring his
teeth. "It's what I do, Scully."

"Stop it. I'm not impressed, Mulder."

"Like hell you're not." He stands slowly, sliding up the wall, his arms
at his sides, hands fisted. I try not to notice his lack of clothing and
fail miserably. He lets the fabric of his dress shirt slip down his
shoulders and licks his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. He looks
predatory, dangerous. "Get out," he says evenly. "Get out or I'll throw
you out."

I feel my eyes widen, both from the site of so much bare skin, and the
hard tone of his words.
He can't possibly know how he's behaving. His body language is such an
obvious contrast to his words, I almost roll my eyes. He has two very
different needs at war inside of him and I'm not sure where I fit on
either battlefield.

The only thing I am certain of is that he's afraid. And with good
reason. His fatigue has left him stripped. It's taken away his ability
to censor his actions and words. He's acting almost on pure impulse and
his unpredictable nature is made all the more dangerous by his obvious
lack of control over it.

But the question is, who is he trying to protect from who?

Still, I've come this far. I'm not about to turn tail and run. Aware of
his behavior or not, he's still in trouble here and I'm not going to
back down. 

It's Mulder. My partner. My friend...

My spine stiffens with resolve.

I take two more steps toward him.

He responds immediately, and is infront of me so fast I don't have time
to move, to breathe. He grabs my upper arm in a vice like grip and spins
me around toward the door. He manages to drag me about three steps
before I get my equilibrium back. And with one hard twist and pull in
the opposite direction, I'm free from his hold and moving quickly
backward.

It does little to impede him. In one fluid motion, he catches me by the
wrist. I yelp as pain shoots up my arm and stagger back. He uses the
momentum to push me hard into the wall behind me. The impact stuns me
long enough for him to pull my arms above me, he uses his own to press
his weight heavily against me.

I'm trapped. I struggle briefly, but it's pointless and we both know it.

Mulder is shaking visibly, but whether from his anger or the effort it's
taken to subdue me, I'm not sure. We stay locked in position, a
stand-off.

His stare is fierce. And the heat of his proximity envelopes me like a
wet blanket, heavy and moist.

After an endless moment, he finally speaks. 
"Now what, Scully?" I look into his eyes and for just a second, I don't
know the man looking back at me. "Is this the way you wanted this to
play out?"

"Mulder. Let me go."

"Oh, *now* you want to go?" He shakes his head. "No," he whispers. "I
don't think so."

I try to pull my arms down and his grip becomes harder. "This isn't
funny, Mulder."

"You're right, Scully. It isn't," he says evenly. "You came in here
without my permission and refused to leave when asked so I can only
assume I wasn't being clear enough. So..." He leans in slowly, hovers
near my mouth before moving his lips to my ear. "Do I have your
attention now, Scully? Your *undivided* attention?"

Why can't I stop shaking?

OK, I know what's going on here, I tell myself. He's just changing
tactics, trying to put me on the offensive. And he's using his physical
advantage to intimidate me. I won't let him do this!

I try again to yank my arms from him. His hold on my wrists actually
grows unbearable, his fingers surely leaving bruises. "Ow, Mulder! Damn
it! Let me go!"

"No."

"You're scaring me, Mulder!"

"Good!" he practically shouts, his closeness causing the word to almost
vibrate through me. "You should be scared, Scully!" Tears fill his eyes.
"It's too late!" He drops his forehead to my shoulder. "Just
don't...don't fight me anymore, Scully. Let me just...Let me just..."

"Mulder, what are you doing?" I say quietly and, I hope, without threat.

He brings his heard back up toward mine, his hot breath on my face. "I
don't know what I'm doing, Scully." The anger seems to have drained from
him, though his hold on me remains absolute. "I've hit this wall. And I
know what I need is right on the other side and I just...I just
can't..."

My mind is spinning. It takes me a moment to realize he's referring to
the case, his gears shifting so sudden and completely, that I can't keep
up.

And I'm caught in the net of his conflicting need. I can see the
indecision swimming in his eyes. There are lines we don't cross, even
for the sake of comfort, even for the the sake of sanity.

I choose my next words carefully, uncertain of what he wants from me.
"Mulder, please, let me help you."

He holds my gaze steady. His pupils are dialated and the implication of
this causes me to tremble.

"I don't need you," he swallows audibly, "I don't need you to *help*
me."

"Then what do you need, Mulder? Tell me."

His voice drops down, his sandpaper drawl causing a strange flutter in
my stomach. "I need to see what's real, Scully. Need to touch it. To
smell it. I need to taste it. Scully." His thumbs begin to move slowly
back and forth on the insides of my wrists, soothing the places he'd
treated so roughly only moments before. The sensation travels down my
arms and pools low in my belly.

"This is real. Right?," he says, close against my temple. I feel his
words against my skin, feel his rough stubble as he drags his cheek
against mine. "You shouldn't have come here, Scully." He repeats the
action again, slower this time, and coming precariously close to my lips
with his own.

My heart is racing, jack-hammering in my chest. Fleeting touches I can
choose to ignore, but this...What the hell is this? I don't know how
to...react, respond. What I do know is that I'm finding it increasingly
difficult to remain impassive to these purposeful caresses. This ongoing
physical contact with him is intoxicating my senses. It's dangerous.

Does he know? Does he know how much I both crave and fear him?

No. How could he? I won't even let myself see it for what it is.

"You shouldn't have come here," he says again. His expression changes,
softens slightly, though I can't understand why.

At least not until he grows bolder and presses more fully against me.

Oh God. Oh my God.

I'm suddenly, painfully, reminded of how little he has on. My response
to him is immediate and uncensored. A hot rush of awareness spirals
through me and I feel a shudder race across the entire length of my
body.

His eyes darken. His head drops into the crook of my neck, a harsh
breath raking across what feels like every nerve ending I have. His hips
shift restlessly against me and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to
keep from moaning aloud.

Oh God. Oh God. This is Mulder. *This is Mulder.*

My blood feels thick. My limbs heavy. I'm loosing the battle to keep
myself under control. 

I can't help it. Feeling him this way...it's too much. It's too much!

A hot flush blossoms across my chest, spreading further to settle deep
between my legs.

I have to stop this. I have to stop this!

I try speaking to him again, afraid if I don't deter him, I'm done for.
"Mulder, what's this all about?"

"Hmmmm?" he hums against my skin. "That's the million dollar question,
Scully. What's this all about?"

"Mulder--"

"I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired." He begins to methodically drag his
partially open mouth across my skin as he speaks, from collarbone to the
underside of my ear, over and over until I feel myself grow weak from
the raw intimacy of it. "It's here. It's right infront of me..." His
tongue slides along the vein pounding in my neck and my knees completely
buckle.

"Mulder, God..." I sob. He lets go of my hands and my arms fall down to
clutch at his bare shoulders helplessly. I feel his large palms splay
across my lower back as he pulls me from the wall just far enough to
encircle his arms around me, his hold still so tight I can't move.

If he lets me go, I'll fall.

I don't want to fall.

He begins to nip and suck at my flesh. Breathing in deeply, he grunts
against my skin. "Fuck. Oh fuck, yeah..." He moans low in his throat and
inhales again. "Jesus Scully, I can smell you."

No. No. No. Panic. God, no.

I begin to struggle again, but the movement is slow and labored and only
seems to intice him further. He fastens his mouth to my earlobe and tugs
before whispering hoarsely, "Are you wet, Scully?"

Hearing him say these words is like throwing gasoline onto the fire
that's burning across my senses. I'm shocked, yes. Embarrassed and angry
over my own obvious weakness. But he's right. I am. I am wet. Soaking.
Drenched. And God, I don't seem to have any control over my body and it
terrifies me.

"I'm so sick of this twisted mother fucker, seeing what he sees and
trying to make sense of it. *To make sense of it*" His teeth sink into
the delicate skin under my chin. He bites just hard enough to make me
gasp, then pulls back. "No one should have to try to understand this son
of a bitch...Little girls, Scully. Little girls."

What is he doing? It's as if his actions are completely separate from
the words he speaks. I can't think clearly, feeling his hot, slick mouth
slide and dance against my skin. He brings his hand up and clutches at
my breast. This time, I can't stop the moan that rises from my
constricted throat. My nipple pebbles instantly, my reaction all too
visible through the thin fabric of my blouce.

Why aren't I stopping him? Why *can't* I stop him? How the hell did we
end up like this?

"Do you have any idea of how seriously depraved a person would have to
be to view a child in this light, Scully? To have it represent some sick
version of sexuality, distorted by the perverse need for power and
control?" His hold grows firmer, his breathing harsh and labored. I moan
again, beyond the ability to contain it.

He moans with me, his fingers digging into my sensative flesh.

"What could possibly cause a man to be aroused by such a corrupted
representation of what a woman truly is?" He twists my erect nipple and
groans. "Oh fuck...It's all about *this*," he says as he drops the hand
at my lower back down to crush my hips up against his erection, my feet
actually leaving the ground from the force of it. I cry out desperately,
the wave of lust crashing over me causing my vision to darken, causing
my body to quake and my cunt to throb.

"*This* is how it's supposed to be." He thrusts against me. "A man
fucking a woman." He punctuates the last word with another hard twist of
my nipple. He pumps again, shoving the hard, thick length of him against
my center. The straining power of his lower body is merciless against
me. Like steel. Percise.

He lets go of my breast and uses both hands to grip my hips ruthlessly.
He pushes into me again and snarls, "God, I wanna fuck you." I almost
come. He closes his eyes tight and drops his head back, exposing the
long column of his neck. He pumps again and grunts, a high and hopeless
sound of base, primal want. "God! Oh God! I wanna fuck you, Scully!"

I see the impact, the change, immediately following the sound of my name
falling from his lips. His head snaps back to me, his eyes full of
terror. He shoves himself away from me fast, viciously, almost falling
in the process.

Bonelessly, I slide down the wall, feeling deserted and ashamed, my legs
too weak to hold me up.

He stumbles to the wall on the opposite side of the room, panic lacing
his movement. He's like a rat in a trap, frantically turning from side
to side, not knowing which way to go or what to do with himself. "Oh
God. No, no, no, no..." he chants.

He drops down, like a puppet with its strings cut, falling to his side.
He curls his body tight, and begins to weep. Horrible, loud sobs that
break my heart with the ferocity of the pain and regret behind them.

For a long moment, I'm too bewildered to move. I can only sit against
the wall, feeling my body hum with the residual arousal that hasn't
quite catched up to the abrupt change of circumstance.

Mulder's breathing begins to hitch, his lungs unable to keep up with the
demands of his anguish.

It's this sound that finally reaches me, causing the lassitude in my
limbs to dissipate enough to spur me into action. I crawl along the
floor to him, feeling as though I'm moving through molassis, still
shaken by what's just happened. I reach him and have no idea of what to
do.

Why does he seem so different to me now? Why do I seem so different?

I sit behind him and tentatively put my hand on his bare back.
"Mulder...?"

The contact registers only long enough to cause him to scramble away
from me. He throws his body in the direction of the bed and falls
alongside it, then scoots back until he's as far from me as he can
possibly get.

I get up and walk slowly toward him. He whimpers but doesn't move to
flee, his tears falling again in earnest.

I stop before him, uncertain. And suddenly he's on his knees, wrapping
his arms tight around my waist and burying his face in my stomach. I
move my hands to his hair and run my fingers through it soothingly,
murmuring soft words to him I can only wonder if he hears.

It's a fleeting comfort. For us both. Just like that, he breaks from me
and is up and moving away again. "No. No. No. No." He turns to face me
and whispers, "No, Scully."

I nod. "OK, Mulder."

I have to work fast. I can see him withdrawing already. I have to keep
him with me.

I take a deep breath.

And then, in a steady, neutral tone, I begin to give him instructions.
He hesitates for only a second, then follows my directions without
another word...

------------------------------
continued in 3/6
-----------------------------   

------------------------------
Peaks of Insanity 3/6
disclaimers in part one
-------------------------------

EZ REST MOTEL DINER
8:42am

The silence stretching between us passed the uncomfortable mark about
two minutes into what's supposed to be breakfast. Mulder sits across
from me, looking pale and haunted, his eyes fixed on the black coffee
infront of him, his fingers wrapped around a cup he's all but forgotten
to pick up.

I guess I should just be content with the fact that I got him here. At
least now he's dressed and shaved.

The waitress returns to our table and looks a little unnerved at our
unopen menus. I smile weakly.

"Need a few more minutes?" she asks, throwing an impatient glance at
Mulder before shifting her annoyance back to me.

I ignore her little display of less than stellar people skills and ask
for a fruit bowl and wheat toast with as much politeness as I can
muster. Which isn't much

She turns to Mulder, tapping her pencil on her order pad. "What about
for you?"

He remains silent, staring at his damn coffee. He seems oblivious to
her, to me, to everything, but I know better.

I watch as she shuffles from one foot to another. After a pause that
lasts entirely too long, she turns to me, looking just about to ask a
question I can guarantee I'm in no mood to answer. I fix her with a
stare that effectively keeps her yap shut and then take the liberty of
ordering my partner food he's not likely to touch.

She scribbles down the order and finally leaves, content to dismiss us
both with a roll of her eyes.

Once she's gone, I take a minute to try to pull myself together. I need
to handle Mulder very carefully but I'm afraid I'm just not up to it.

After a few torturous moments, I decide my only real choice is to
overlook the events of this morning as best as I can and do what I can
to help him get past whatever block he seems to have now with this case.
But I have to draw him out easy. Any indication that I'm being
judgmental will only cause his defenses to kick into overdrive. Which is
something I can't risk. 
Too much is at stake here.

Gently, I place a hand over one of his and peel it from its death grip
on the cup. I don't let go, trying to establish a safe, tangible link
between us. At first, I'm certain he'll pull away but his lack of
reaction is somehow worse. As each second passes, my anxiety level rises
exponentially and for one agonizing minute, I 
wonder if I've lost him for good.

"Mulder...Mulder, please." Thinly veiled panic has seeped into my voice
and I almost cringe at the acidic sound.

Mulder has obviously heard it too because for the first time, his
expression changes, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He opens
his mouth twice before taking a shuddering breath, soft words at last
falling from his lips. "I feel sick, Scully, " he says pulling his hand
away. He folds his arms infront of him on the table and lays his head
down. "I *am* sick."

I ache for him.

Not for the first time today, I wonder if I've made another serious
miscalculation. Trying to determine what he needs now is like trying to
read Braille without fingertips. Does he hate me? Does he think I hate
him for what happened? "Mulder, I'm not angry," I say before realizing
I've just shot Plan A all to hell. "I just want to understand."

"No, you don't."

"Please. This isn't your f--"

He jerks his head up quickly, his eyes locking fiercely to mine. What I
see raging behind them vaporizes the words in my mouth. I can only stare
at him.

"Don't," he says simply. Intensity radiates from him. He silently dares
me to contradict him.

I should.

I know I should. But something in his hard gaze has paralyzed me. The
back of my throat starts to tighten and burn and I ruthlessly will
myself not to cry.

He watches my struggle for control, nothing escaping his notice. A
exhausted as I know he is, his heightened senses remain as sharp as
knives.

Poised to cut into me.

I tell myself this isn't a conscious effort on his part to chip away at
me. He's in profiler mode, and in this state details assault him with
relentless severity. It has nothing to do with what happened earlier.
His mind is just hungry, restless, fueled by frustration and fatigue. I
can hardly hold him responsible for the direction his focus takes when
not confined to his own carefully maintained parameters.

I brought this on myself. I forced myself into his safe zone and was not
prepared for his response to the added element of my presence.

Nevertheless, I drop my gaze, unable to stand his scrutiny, afraid of
what he may see. Afraid of it myself. What's hapening to me?

I feel as though I'm starting to fray at the edges. It's like every
nerve ending I have has been scraped bare.

I look back up to him, not surprized to find him still staring at me. I
try to smile and feel stupid. I lick my lips and watch as Mulder's eyes
slide to my mouth. He doesn't look away. I grow self conscious which, of
course, only causes me to lick the again.

His brows nit together. "Scully, you're nervous." It's a statement. A
fact. He pins me with his gaze again. "Look, I told you I didn't want to
open the god damn door. If you weren't prepared for what you found on
the other side, you have no one to blame but yourself. I *warned* you. I
don't need your understanding and I don't want it."

I guess his defenses have already kicked into overdrive with no needed
assistence from me. Oh boy.

I sigh. "I won't take the bait, Mulder."

"Fuck you."

"Resorting to shock value now? 'Fuck you, you god damn bitch' would've
gotten more of a rise outta me."

He can't help it. His eyes widen. I can tell he wants to work up to
something indignant but can't control his startled smirk. He takes a
deep breath and shakes his head. "Kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Not in a while. I really need to call her."

He gives me a slight smile, then looks down. 
OK. Good. Momentary truce.

The silence creeps back between us.

Finally, Mulder clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he says softly.

"I know, Mulder. I am, too." I reach across the table and wait for him
to slowly take my offered hand.

"I don't know what's happening to me, Scully."

"I know you don't, Mulder. And I know this is difficult, but something
is trying very hard to break through to you, something your subconscious
has already figured out."

He shudders and closes his eyes. "Time's running out, Scully. He's
confident now, secure in his belief that we can't touch him. He'll take
the next girl within 24 hours, that much I'm certain of. How the hell am
I supposed to sit on my ass waiting for a 'break through' with a
deadline like that casting a shadow over every fucking thought I have."

"So what's the connection?"

He pulls his hand away and runs his fingers through his hair. He looks
at me and shakes his head again. "I don't know," he says, barely
restraining his anger with himself.

"Yes, you do."

"Scully, I don't!" he practically shouts. Heads turn in our direction
and he drops his voice to an intense whisper. "Stop. Please. I know what
you're trying to do."

I don't doubt this for a second. But if he told Dayton PD he was
"getting close", something has already clicked into place for him and
he's exhausted himself too much to see it. "Mulder, it's time to solve
this, it's time to catch this son of a bitch. What's the connection?"

He moves to stand up. "I'm going back to my room."

I stand and catch his arm. "No, you're not."

"Scully...," he warns.

"Mulder, sit back down. He's got enough of you twisted inside out, I
won't let you give him anymore. Going back to your room and allowing his
crimes to further assult you isn't going to help you find him."

He sits back down, exasperated. "Then what will, Scully? Hey, if you got
this all figured out and think you know how to get through the layers of
shit in my head, then fine, get it over with, knock yourself out." He
looks me hard in the eye and whispers hoarsely, "But think very
carefully and be very sure of what you're doing because we both know
what getting too close to me right now can do."

Yes. God, yes, I know what it can do.

As ill-timed as it may be, the sensation of his hot, wet mouth trailing
across my skin, his hard body against me...["Oh God! I wanna fuck you,
Scully!"]...surfaces hotly before I can ruthlessly push it away.

I feel color spread across my cheeks.

"Yeah," he says low, and far too intimately. "I can see you're well
aware of the risk involved." 

What caused his actions earlier is still just under the surface, barely
held in check. Have I really never seen this side of him?

"I can handle myself, Mulder."

"Can you handle me?"

I swallow, my mouth suddenly very dry. "It's a risk I'm willing to
take."

"Are you sure?"

"Don't Mulder. Don't use what happened as an excuse to shut me out."

He nods slowly. "Do you even know what happened, Scully? Do you have any
idea how close I came to...to..." He can't finish. "I have no control
over the...issues...I'm dealing with. And I sure as hell don't want you
in the way of that."

"Mulder, tell me. Tell me what's troubling you."

He shakes his head violently. "No. And don't ask me again."

"Mulder--"

"I mean it, Scully. Don't push this with me. I'm entitled to some
fucking privacy."

I can't help it, I roll my eyes. "Are we back to this?"

"I swear to God, if you don't let this go..."

"Mulder...?" I say incredulously, "Are you threatning me?"

"No! I'm just trying to warn you." Tears fill his eyes. "Jesus, Scully.
Explain this to me. You consistantly keep me at a distance, even when I
wish you wouldn't, yet the one time I actually *need* for you to give me
space, you fight me on it. Why?"

"I don't know," I say quietly.

"Please, trust me on this. I know you just want to help, that you want
to try to understand what I'm going through but...I don't *want* you to
understand it. I can't bring you into this. Didn't what happened this
morning scare you? It did me, Scully. It scared the shit outta me."

"No Mulder, stop. I don't blame you. What took place between us earlier
was a direct result of this case. And I think I already know why it
happened."

"Really." He leans back. "Enlighten me," he says sarcasticly,

I take a deep breath, anxious to put this into perspective for both of
us. He can't allow this to distract him from the case, and I can't allow
it to distract me period. "Mulder, you've gotten inside of this man's
head. How can you expect not to be influenced by him in some way? He is
a man motivated strictly by his sexual impulses, as distorted as they
may be. And you've had to delve into them, you've had to accept
something abominable to you in order to figure out why he does these
terrible things. What happened earlier was you rejecting those
perversities, it was you reminding yourself of what's true and right
with sexuality."

He is silent for a long moment. "They're just kids, Scully," he says
sadly. "And this sick fuck genuinely doesn't think there's anything
wrong with what he does to them. Society forces him to do what he does
in secret. He thinks he loves every one of them..." He lets out a long
breath and closes his eyes. "I feel dirty digging 
into this guy."

"Precisely Mulder. You said it yourself, 'No one shold have to try to
understand this son of a bitch'. But you're expected to. I can't imagine
how that must affect you. How can you think I could possibly blame you
for the need to reaffirm--"

He opens his eyes, regret and affection swimming in his gaze. "Scully,
you're giving me way too much leeway here. I went too far and you know
it."

"Yeah. Maybe you did. But we have two choices now: we can either let
this come between us or we can forget it, move on, and get this
investigation back on course."

I say this like I mean it, and don't get me wrong, the logical part of
my mind wants to believe this is possible for us. But another part, a
far more primitive part, seems so much more in control when it comes to
this.

"You're right," he says, not sounding any more convinced than I feel. "I
don't want this to come between us. I don't want to make you
uncomfortable..." He looks to me and asks quietly, "Do I make you
uncomfortable now?"

"I think maybe we're both just feeling very tired." Noncommittal
response. I'm good at these.

He smiles a little sadly. "So now what...?"

"So now we catch a killer, Mulder."

Our waitress, oblivious to the fact that an important conversation is
taking place, picks this moment to drop our order infront of us. "Enjoy
your food," she says less than enthusiastically before making a hasty
exit.

Mulder shakes his head and rolls his eyes. I smile.

"Mulder, when this is over..."

"I'm alright, Scully." I look in his eyes and know he doesn't really
believe this. He avoids my gaze. "Listen, I think maybe you're right. I
think maybe I have connected something and just can't see it." I'm not
sure if he means this or just wants to change the subject. Either way,
I'm relieved.

We are silent again for a moment.

"Ok...let's get this show on the road. Tell me what happened in
Columbus."

I sigh, weary, but grateful he's decided to follow my lead. "Nothing. I
didn't find anything."

He smiles, sympathy plain on his face. "Tax dollars well spent."

"I can't get over how thoroughly he cleans the bodies. It's truly
remarkable. I've never seen anything like it."

Mulder is nodding his head, urging me to continue. "Cause of death,
method, nothing out of the ordinary from your preliminary findings?"

I deflate, visibly. "No, Mulder. They were all sexually assulted, died
due to asphyxiation, and were painstakenly cleaned post-mortem. No hair.
No fiber. No residual body fluids. Nothing. He's careful. He's
methodical. And he takes his time with each victim."

Mulder looks away from me, pondering. What, I don't know. None of this
is new information. "What's your thoughts on all of this, Scully?"

I think for a moment. "Well, I think you're right in your assumption
that this man isn't a fetishist. I don't think the removal of hair is
due to anything more complex than the desire to effectively cover his
ass. He takes the nails fror the same reason. It's the only way he can
be absolutely sure not to leave any trace evidence. He's obsessed with
this process. And good at it. Coupled with the alcohol scrub, it's
really quite ingenious."

"I agree. He's thought about doing this for a long time. He's accepted
his perversity and has created a careful method to satisfy it. Nothing
he does is rash or impulsive..."

He stops.

"What, Mulder?"

"The cleaning...There's just...There's something more to it, Scully.
Something about it that goes beyond just making sure he's not leaving
anything behind."

I can see his mind working the knots of thought carefully. I stay with
him. "It's repetitve. Methodical, like you said. He hasn't varied it,
his percision is almost second nature, so--"

"It has to be a process he's familiar with," 
Mulder finishes for me. "He's modified it. And he uses it to detach from
the girls."

"How so?"

"He doesn't like to kill them, Scully. But he sees this as his only
option. They're beautiful, fragile to him, and he loathes the brutality
he has to inflict but is helpless against the impulses that drive him.
He plucks their innocence, cuts them from..." He squeezes his eyes
closed and shakes his head. "He wraps them so delicately before
disposing of the bodies. It's his apology of sorts, but he does it so he
can let them go. He prepares them. It's his apology of sorts. It's true
he doesn't want to be caught, letting them live is too risky, but what
if this isn't what motivates the ritual post-mortem?"

"It doesn't make sense, Mulder. Why bother to gift wrap them before
dumping them like garbage?"

His eyes snap open to look at me, a strange look on his face. "What did
you say?"

"What? He dumps them like garbage?" He stares at me, his eyes changing.
"Mulder, what?"

"No...No...He gift wraps them. He prepares them and then...then he gift
wraps them. Jesus Christ."

He's up and moving out of the booth before I can manage to question him.
"Mulder...?"

I call after him. "Mulder, where are you going?"

He doesn't turn around. "I need to check something out."

And with that, he strides purposely to the door.

He never looks back.
   
------------------------------
continued in 4/6
-----------------------------

-----------------------------
Peaks of Insanity 4/6
disclaimers in part one
-----------------------------

EZ Rest Motel
Room 202
11:42 pm

"Yes Sir, I'm hoping we'll be able to wrap things up here and be back in
Washington in a couple of days."

"That's good news, Agent Scully." A.D. Skinner sighs incredulously into
the phone and I know what's coming. "I still can't believe it. How in
the hell did Mulder make a connection like that?"

I cringe inwardly, having been asked this same question by just about
every member of the Dayton police force, "It was just one of those
obscure details that he somehow manages to notice that no one else does.
It was something he probably saw when we interviewed the parents of the
victims and he filed it away with all the other minor details that he
somehow keeps track of."

"Yeah, but to connect the manner in which the killer wrapped the bodies
with the flowers in the victim's homes--"

"Yes Sir. Agent Mulder recognized the double folding as a wrapping style
that florists sometimes use and from there he was able to piece together
the comman thread connecting the victims."

"Flowers delivered to their homes."

"Apparently, 'The Flower Man' had made deliveries to the homes prior to
each girls disappearence. It's why the area covering the span of the
abductions seemed to have no apparent pattern. And the places he chose
to dispose of the bodies were spread out over so much of Montgomery
County, it was impossible to ascertain any one point as the killer's
focus zone. It's extremely lucky that Mulder figured out how he chose
his victims. There's no telling how long he could have continued to
evade police, there was just no visible pattern."

"Incredible," Skinner says and I can almost see him shaking his head in
disbelief. "Only Mulder..." He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to.

"Believe it or not, Sir, but Agent Mulder is currently beating himself
up for not seeing it sooner."

Skiner sighs. "I believe it. How's he holding up?"

"As expected. I don't think he's slept more than a few hours in the past
four days."

He clears his throat. "Well Agent, take your time down there. I'll
expect a report by the end of the week. In the meantime," he says
briskly, "remind your partner that he has surly saved lives. Good work,
both of you."

"Thank you, Sir." I end the call.

I'm not sure what to do with myself now. I feel anxious, wound up.

Things moved incredibly fast once Mulder figured out the common thread
connecting the victims. After speaking to a number of the parents, he
determined the man we were seeking was one Owen Stevenson, Dayton and
the surrounding area's very own mobile florist. Calling himself 'The
Flower Man', he conducted much of his buisness out of his delivery van
using flowers grown from a nursery connected to his home. 

An immediate warrent to search the premisis uncovered a well hidden bomb
shelter that now housed a veritable shrine to his victims, mostly in the
form of photos. For being such a careful killer, he was ridiculously
obsessive about photographing the girls. Arrest was immediate and
without incident, though when we finally confronted Mr. Stevenson
outside of the shelter, Mulder begged him to run, to give him an excuse
to shoot.

And he meant it. I've never seen him more violent toward a suspect. Even
after the perp was cuffed and loaded into a nearby police car, Mulder
kept his gun on him.

When it was all over, he went back down into the shelter where balistics
was still busy taking photos and collecting evidence. He stood
motionless in the middle of the room, a blur of activity swirling around
him. No one dared enter his space.

I knew what he was thinking, what was further tormenting him. The
similarity to this room and his own at the hotel was striking and
downright...well, *spooky*. The only major difference being the actual
pictures. Mr. Stevenson had the "Before". Muder had the "After". Put
them together and you'd have complete documentation of the murders.

It had to affect him.

Almost worse though, was the sight of the area Stevenson used to prepare
the bodies of the victims. One look at the thorn remover normally used
on roses and suddenly the reason why he took their nails made some sick
sort of sense. Mulder had been right, the post-mortem preparation hadn't
been to cover his ass at all, it was Mr. Stevenson's way of letting them
go. The girls were beautiful to him, just like his flowers. I felt so
disgusted.

Mulder was silent and brooding after we left. Outside of giving his
statement, he hardly spoke a word after Mr. Stevenson was taken into
custody. Well, aside from "I should've caught that sooner, Scully. It
was right there and I couldn't see it." There was no point in trying to
argue with him, at least not right then. It was too fresh for him.

Dayton PD was axious to get the ball rolling on formally charging our
suspect. Which, given the circumstances, was entirely understandable.
They've taken alot of flack for not catching the killer sooner and now
that they had him, they weren't wasting any time. Statements were taken.
Forms were filled out. And during all of it, Mulder was maybe one notch
away from meltdown. I could see it in his eyes, in the way every
movement seemed to take focused calculation.

One more clap on the shoulder and I think he might have taken out his
gun and shot somebody.

I had no idea what was going on in that brilliant but often self
destructive mind of his. But he wasn't feeling any of the relief that
usually comes just after ending a difficult case. He wasn't experiencing
the slightest bit of resolution despite the fact that he'd almost
single-handedly solved it. Of course, I realize that for my partner,
catching the killer doesn't signify the end for him. Just like it's a
process to get into the minds of these maniacs, it's also a process to
get back out.

So, hoping to make the transition as painless as possible for him, I had
him back on the road for our hotel as soon as we were able to wrap
things up and wade through the press outside of the precinct. I knew he
needed time to let go. And I knew, above all else, he needed to get the
hell away from all of the commotion around him and get some place quiet
in order to do it.

I imagined a night consisting of a hot shower, a good meal, and some
well deserved sleep. And then tomorrow, maybe he'd be in better shape to
do this, to find his closure.

I figured we'd both be spending our evening this way. Apart, most
likely. But in light of all that had happened between us lately, I admit
I was hoping we'd spend some of it together. I felt shaken by the events
surrounding this case, and though I didn't want to openly admit it to
him, I needed to be with him, even if all we were doing was vegging
infront of a TV.

So...imagine my...shock, I guess you'd call it, when we pulled into the
parking lot, and Mulder tells me he's going to go "unwind" at the bar a
couple of blocks away. 

At first, I thought he was kidding. I mean, Mulder's idea of "unwinding"
usually meant sunflower seeds and pay-per-view porn. Not to mention the
fact that he was running on empty. I didn't think he had enough enery in
his reserves to walk the distance to his room, much less make it to the
bar we'd passed.

My disbelief was apparently evident. "Don't start with me," he said,
irriated.

"Mulder, I'm not! I just thought you'd want--"

"*Don't* act like you know what I want."

"Mulder--"

"I'll see you tomorrow, Scully."

Feeling completely off balance, I did the most pathetic thing I could
have possibly done: I asked to go with him. At the time, I told myself
it was out of concern for him. I didn't think he should be alone. I
didn't want him to be alone. And, damn it, *I* didn't want to be alone.
He opened the car door and got out. He didn't even turn around. "I'm a
grown man, Scully. I can handle myself in a bar just fine."

And that was it.

And that was three hours ago.

I admit it, I've been pacing. I've tried to occupy myself, honestly, I
have. Dinner and a shower took up all of about an hour. The call to
Skinner, less than ten minutes. Channel surfing, jumping on the bed,
banging my head against the wall, another fifteen minutes.

Which has left roughly one hour and thirty five minutes of worry. Worry
that quickly degenerated into anxiety. Anxiety that turned into
frustration. Frustration into anger.

I feel deserted. I know how co-dependant that sounds and I hate myself
for it. But, rational or not, I can't help but feel ditched. I would
have respected his desire to be alone...if it didn't seem to entail
being around alot of *other* people.

He didn't want to be by himself, he just didn't want to be around me
either. And I could analyze this until I'm blue in the face and still
not come up with a reason for it. Well, I guess outside of the fact that
"Oh God! I wanna fuck you, Scully!" is still ringing in my own ears,
maybe it's ringing in his, too and now that the case is over, he's
embarassed. I don't doubt he's full of regret over his behavior. But, he
must realize that I don't hold him responsible for his actions. I told
him that. And I meant it.

And God, come on...There was definitly a part of me that wanted him to
make good on his statement. It's not as if he were the only one
responding to the heat of the situation. He 
made that rather indelicate observation himself. 
But maybe now that it's over, he feels disgusted by how we both reacted.

Or maybe just disgusted by me.

At least he has the pretense of the case to explain his motivations.
When he profiles, every thought, every word, every action, connects
somehow to what his mind is entrenched in, whether he's completely aware
of it or not. He doesn't have to contend with the idea that he may have
wanted it to happen, no matter how fucked up the circumstances were.

No, this particular humiliation is mine and mine alone.

I don't know, my relationship with Mulder has so many layers, I can't
seem to ever peel enough of them away to get to what's at the heart of
it. What I do know is that I've never wanted to look too closely at how
I view him *physically* and I fully admit that how I responded to him
this morning shocked the hell out of me. I've always acknowledged that a
part of me wanted him, but I was certain that this part was under tight
reign. I'm having a hard time dealing with the fact that I not once
tried to make him stop what he was doing. Token protests at first, yes.
But "Mulder, get you hands off me!" or "Hey, rubbing *that* against your
partner is against FBI regulations!"...no, nothing like that came out of
my mouth. And this is a very bitter pill for me to swallow.

How far would I have let him take it had he not managed to stop himself?

And what the hell does all of this *mean*?

I'm so tired. I don't want to think about any of it anymore. It messes
with my head and does worse to my body...God, I wish I could sleep. I
have to try. I'm so exhausted. And anyway, I refuse to wait up for
Mulder. He said it himself, he's a grown man. Een if he doesn't always
act like one.

I'm about to go through the motions of my nighty ritual when I hear
noise from outside.

Laughter

Distinctly feminine laughter. Close by.

I tell myself there's no way. NO way. It can't be coming from outside of
Mulder's room. I believe him capabe of many things, but to bring a woman
back to his room while on assignment--NO! Fuck that!--To bring a woman
back to his room with *me* right next door! Especially now!
After...after...Oh my God.

Don't go to the window, Dana. Don't do it.

Then I hear it. Fumbling keys trying to hit a lock and Mulder's low
growl of frustration. Followed by another fit of giggles from
his...companion. Shrill. The sound hits my nerves like an electric
shock, bolting along my synapses and causing my blood to boil.

My anger is so acute, red tinges the corners of my vision, as if my
blood vessels are actually bursting from the impact of the rage trying
to course though them.

I hear the door finally give way, hear the sloppy movement of the
inebriated as they fall into the room.

ENOUGH! There's no god damn way I'm going to listen to Mulder have drunk
sex in the room right next to my own!

I grab my gun...my gun?!? Yeah, what the hell. 

I'm just about to my door when I hear a scream from the other side of
the wall. Mulder's loud voice. More shrieking.

We open our doors at the same time. I'm suddenly standing, with my
weapon drawn, pointing it squarely at the ridiculously dressed bimbo
trying her best to stagger out of Mulder's room on four inch fuck-me
pumps. She doesn't even notice me, obviously too hysterical from
whatever happened in...in his room!

Oh my God, I can only imagine what his room must have looked like to
this woman in her current less than sober state. As if to confirm my
suspicions, she shrieks "You sick mother fucker! What the hell kind of
fucked up shit are you into? I'm calling the police!"

I can't resist the cue. I level my gun. "I am the police. Freeze, FBI!"

She stops, cold in her tracks, swaying and bewildered. She turns in my
direction and sees my gun, her teased mane of dyed fire engine red hair
seeming to further defy gravity to stand on end. She looks to me, face
streaked with tears, and it dawns on me that this woman is truly shaken
by what she's seen. And who could blame her?

Mulder is suddenly looming in the doorframe. 
His shirt already off, the bastard. He doesn't even see me, or if he
does, he doesn't acknowledge me. "Come on, get back in here," he tries
to soothe to the woman. "I'll keep the lights off."

She looks at him, the cartoon caricature of an incredulous expression on
her make-up streaked face. "Are you fucking NUTS?" She turns to me. "You
need to arrest this fucking sicko! He's got pictures of dead girls all
over his room!"

He follows her line of sight and practically lunges at me. "Scully, put
that god damn gun away!"

I side step him and move to stand infront of his date. Or whatever. She
clutches at my arm. "Shoot him! Shoot him! He's gonna kill me!" She
yells so loud my ears ring.

Mulder takes a step toward her. "Oh for Christ's sake. Get back in the
room!"

Her long nails dig into my arm.

OK. It's official. I've had it. "Mulder, STOP! Enough is enough! Get
your ass back in your room and let me call this woman a cab. Whatever
you had planned, I don't think she has any intension of being part of it
now."

He glares at me. I mean, *really* glares. He takes one more fleeting
glance at the woman and then turns around and goes back into his room,
slamming the door so hard the frame cracks.

"Hey you, FBI, what the hell is goin' on out here?" I turn to see the
hotel manager wobbling toward us. Jesus could this night possibly get
any worse? 

"Everything is under control. This young woman had a misunderstanding
with my partner but it's been taken care of."

The girl shakes her head in confusion. "Your what?"

I ignore her. "She could use your assistence in calling her a cab." 

The man's chest instantly puffs out, already assuming the alpha male
position. "Of course. Come along to the office, Miss." He comes and
takes her by the elbow.

The woman walks slowly away from me. "But...But...What about...?"

"I'll deal with him," I say to her.

I'll deal with him??? How the hell am I supposed to deal with him???

----------------------------
continued in 5/6
---------------------------   

-----------------------------
Peaks of Insanity 5/6
disclaimers in part one
-----------------------------

First things first, I'd better take my gun back to my room and get it
securely out of reach. Best not to have it easily accessable when I see
him. I may just aim a whole lot lower than his shoulder this time.

I take the few steps back to my door and have barely turned the knob
when Mulder is suddenly behind me, using every bit of his height and
weight advantage to push me roughly inside of my room. He follows,
kicking the door shut behind us. "What the fuck was that all about,
Scully?" He grabs me by the collar of my shirt and drags me up, closer
to him. "Fucking ANSWER ME!"

Instantly, more out of reflex than anything else, my mind percieves
"THREAT!", my training kicking in on autopilot, and I bring my gun up
with both hands, putting the barrel against his chest, against his
heart. Oh God, what the hell am I doing? Is the safety on? Did I
remember to put the safety on?

He lets go of my shirt, backs up only slightly and looks at the nose of
the gun digging into his bare chest. His eyes slide back to me. They're
wild, his rage scalding.

"Go ahead, Scully," he taunts, his voice rough, low. "Do it. Pull the
god damn trigger. DO IT!" The shout startles me and I waver. He wastes
no time, sensing his opening and taking it, snatching the gun from my
numb fingers. He pushes me back and I stumble, loosing my balance and
landing on the bed behind me.

He turns the weapon over in his hands. "The saftey's off, Scully."

I can't help it, I sob, choking on it. Oh my God. One sudden move and I
couldve killed him.

He flicks the saftey and places the gun on the table a few feet from
him. "You want it back, you go through me to get it."

I scramble back across the bed to stand on the opposite side of the
mattress, needing more distance from him. NOW WHAT?, my mind is
screaming, running in loops. NOW WHAT? NOW WHAT? NOW WHAT?

"Do you have any idea what you've done to me?"

"What *I've* done?" My voice sounds small, frightened.

"I told you you wouldn't want to understand this, Scully. Why can't you
just leave me alone to deal with what I need to in my own way?"

I feel a spark of anger. "I appologize, Mulder. I didn't realize the
drunken bimbo was part of your personal therapy."

His own anger flares. "That's none of your fucking business, Scully!"

I flinch as if he's slapped me. "Of course it is! You're my...my..." I
falter. Why is this so hard?

"What? I'm your what?" He takes a couple of steps toward me. "I'm what?"
His voice is rising again. "Tell me, Scully. Tell me what I am."

I open my mouth to say something but words fail me. I can't answer him.
I don't know how to respond. It's not a question I can answer. Not even
to myself.

Mulder nods his head. "Yeah, that's right. Your partner, maybe your
friend as long as I keep my distance. Outside of that, I'm fucking
*nothing* to you. Nothing! So you have no place in telling me how to
live my life or making judgements on any of the choices I make."

My chest hurts. I swear I can feel my heart splintering into pieces.
"Mulder, I...I care about you. How can you say that? How can you believe
it?"

"Quit trying to save me, Scully."

"The only thing I was trying to save you from tonight was a sexually
transmitted disease, Mulder."

He glares at me. "The only thing you saved me from was some fucking
peace, Scully, so you shut your god damn mouth when it comes to things
you don't understand. Just because *you* choose to live life *sexless*
doesn't give you the fucking right to condem the rest of us for wanting
more. I don't need to be lectured about safe sex from someone that
hasn't had a dick between her legs since I've known her."

I can only gape at him, my mouth falling open at his words.
"You...you...you son of a bitch!" He's never spoken to me like this.
Never. Oh, he's gotten nasty toward me at times, mean even...but he's
never, ever disrespected me, or...or belittled me. "My God, Mulder." I
bite my lip and shake my head, closing my eyes against the sight of him.
I feel a hot tear slide down my cheek. "How can you...How..." I fight
from sobbing, but the deep sense of hurt I feel is just too potent. I
stand as motionless as possible, afraid any small movement will result
in an eruption of the pain so close now to the surface. I have to steal
myself against it as much as possible just to reopen my eyes.

He's looking at me in an obvious state of shock, the harshness of his
words finally hitting him full force. He looks like he's about to be
sick. He shakes his head, never taking his eyes from me. "Oh my God,
Scully. I don't..." A tear slides down his own cheek and I can't help
but take some perverse pleasure from it. "I...I'm sorry."

I must look as confused and devastated as I feel because Mulder sighs
and hugs his arms across his chest. "Jesus, Scully. Please don't look at
me like that."

I bite my lip hard but the sob escapes anyway. 
He looks down, stricken. "I didn't mean...I wasn't trying to..."

I struggle to finally find my voice. "No. You're right, Mulder. I guess
I don't understand. Your personal life is your own. It was inapropriate
of me to assume anything about it, especially given that according to
you, I have no place in it." I can feel a small swell of anger rise up
under my humiliation, and latch on to it for all I'm worth. "I can only
ask that you pay me the same curtesy you're demanding I give you. You
are so *fucking* off base. You know *nothing* about me sexually, so stop
with the psycho-analyzing justifications for behaving like a bastard."

"What do you mean, I'm 'so fucking off base'? What's that supposed to
mean?" I can hardly believe it, but there's an accusation in his voice.
Has he heard anything I've said? His eyes grow wide when I remain
silent. "Are you...?" He sets his jaw. "Who is it, Scully?"

The temptation to make him squirm is almost too great, but the way he's
firing in every direction is geting scary so I know the only
semi-rational thing to do is reign in this entire, ridiculous
conversation. "Mulder, just stop. I didn't mean it like that--"

"Then what did you mean?" he says angerly.

I sigh. "Mulder, for someone demanding his own privacy, you're certainly
insisting on some extremely personal information from me. Do you not see
the complete idiocy of this? For either of us to claim we have no
intrest or place in the other's personal life is ludacris."

"Why won't you answer me?"

"Oh for Christ's sake, Mulder! Will you please stop trying to twist this
into something about *me*?"

He presses his lips together in a thin line, then takes a deep breath,
his eyes dropping to the floor. "You're right...You're right...Scully,
I'm so fucking messed up," he whispers hoarsely. "If you could see what
I do when I close my eyes, you'd know why I brought her back here. And
you wouldn't blame me."

"How much would getting drunk and laid have solved for you, Mulder?"

"I'm not drunk, Scully. I nursed the same beer for three hours, everyone
else was too intoxicated to notice or care."

"And this is still just about the case." It's more of a statement than a
question but Mulder shakes his head anyway. "You have to move past this,
Mulder. His crimes can only torment you if you continue to allow them to
hold such power over you."

"It goes deeper than that. Don't hate me for what I need..." He doesn't
finish, just looks away, uncomfortable.

"I know what you need. You need some sleep. You need--"

I stop, the bitter longing in his eyes telling me I'm way off base even
before he manages to say, "No, Scully."

"Do you honestly think I can't understand your needs, Mulder?"

"It's not about getting laid, Scully. I know I've made it seem like
that, but it isn't," he says quietly.

"I know what it's about."

He looks to me then, the words stirring something in his gaze. "No,
Scully. You *don't* know. If you did, the sight of me would turn your
stomach. This case...it's done something to me. It's changed me. I
didn't realize how much until I stood in that shelter and saw how deep
this connection ran. I can't explain it. Fuck, I don't *want* to. I just
want it to stop before I end up hurting you anymore than I already have.
Those things I said, Scully...that isn't me. Please. God, Scully, you
have to believe me."

"I know, Mulder...Tell me what I can do."

He turns to me, exasperated. "That's just it, Scully! You can't help me.
I won't let you."

"You won't let me?" I can't keep the angry astonishment out of my voice.
"But you'll let a complete stranger 'help' you? You'd fuck a woman like
that rather than--"

He wheels around to face me. "Rather than what? Rather than fuck you,
Scully? Should I be fucking you instead?"

I swallow, hard. "No...No, that's not...I didn't..." I'm stammering,
panicked.

He's suddenly infront of me, his hands on my shoulders. "I would *never*
reduce you to that. No matter..." He stops himself. I should be touched
by the conviction in his voice, but I'm not. "I would never do that," he
says again quietly. "Never."

"Even if I let you?"

His eyes widen. He drops his hands and staggers back a few steps, his
whole body shaking. "Oh Scully...Please. Please, no." His bottom lip
trembles. "Scully, please. You're the only thing left in my life that
still feels pure. I can't bring you down to my level. I can't. Even if I
wanted to."

"So you're saying you don't want to?"

"Scully, what in God's name do you think I'm torturing myself over? I'm
not talking about making love. The thought of that...with you...Jesus, I
ache for you in places inside of me I never knew existed." He stops. His
eyes close.

I feel as though the wind has been knocked out of me. What is he trying
to say? Is this why he's tried so hard to keep me at a distance, to say
and do such aweful things just so I won't further blur the lines for
him?

He licks his lips, still keeping his eyes shut. "Scully...This is about
something so radically different from what I struggle so hard to keep
from wanting from you. If I," he takes a deep, shakey breath and opens
his eyes to meet me gaze intently, "If I fucked you the way I need to, I
wouldn't be able to look you in the eye afterward. And for what? So I
can finally sleep? It isn't worth it. Not to me, it isn't."

"Mulder--"

"No. Listen to me. I'm pulled so tight, I can feel it down to my fucking
toes, Scully. I can't stand it anymore. When I close my eyes all I want
to see is a god damn *woman's* cunt behind them and there's only one way
I can think of to pound that image past all the others connected to this
fucking case."

I feel dizzy, conflicted between the fear and desire his words
inspire...God, I can't stand this. "Tell me, Mulder. Tell me what you
need to do this."

He bites his lip. "Scully, stop it! Do you know how out of control I
feel?"

"Tell me," I repeat, sounding far bolder than I feel. What am I doing?
Why am I pushing him?

His eyes grow dangerous with arousal. "I won't do this."

"Yes, you will." His body is actually quivering now, holding back,
restraining, and all I can think of is how much I want to be the woman
he wants and needs and craves so desperately. "Tell me how to fuck you,
Mulder."

"Oh Jesus..." I watch, mesmerized, as his hand drops instantly to the
bulge at the front of his pants. He clutches his erection through the
material, his eyes squeeze shut. "Oh God." He sucks in a gulp of air. "I
don't wanna think...I just...I just...I don't wanna feel anything
except...except..." He whimpers.

I move to him and close my hand over his. We stroke the thick length of
him together and we both shudder violently. "Then do what you need to
with me. Let me give you this."

He lets out a tortured sob and opens his eyes. "Scully." He grabs my
hand and holds it out away from him. "No. Don't. Not like this. Not for
this."

He drops my hand and walks backward, his eyes not once leaving mine. He
sways slightly when he reaches the door and leans heavily against it,
his breath still coming in soft pants. "How could I look into your eyes
when you come, *when you come*, and feel nothing, Scully? I could never
just think with my cock and fuck you blindly, no matter how much I want
to. So much more would come into play, things I'm in no condition to
deal with. Now do you understand? I couldn't do it, watch your 
face, hear you, Oh God, hear you moan my name, and still expect to keep
it on the level I need to." He turns to open the door.

"Where are you going?" I ask, my voice hardly a whisper.

"I can't be around you right now, Scully."

A cold fear seizes my chest. "Mulder, you're not going back to that bar,
are you?" I couldn't take it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

He turns to me and smiles a sad smile. "No..." he says simply. "I'm
gonna go do some redecorating. Maybe it'll be enough to help me get some
sleep."

He doesn't sound very hopeful as he softly closes the door behind him.

------------------------------

3:02 am

I can hear him. Not the purposeful sounds of him reclaiming his
surroundings, the sounds of tearing paper, drawers opening and closing,
the sound of the shower...those died away about a half hour ago.

Now, I only hear his quiet weeping. He's trying valiantly to smother the
sound into his pillow, but I can still make out the sobs, the sorrow.

I've been lying here awake for what feels like an eternity, going over
the events of the past twenty four hours and trying to make some
progress in understanding them.

The most important thing is that we caught a killer. And I haven't lost
sight of that. Everything else should feel trivial next to the magnitude
of this. It should. But it doesn't.

My mind keeps bringing me back to what this success has cost Mulder. And
why.

Why were things so different for him this time?

I've looked at this from a wide range of possibilities: That the
abductions themselves, little girls disappearing in the night without a
race, brought up the trauma of Samantha's disappearance again. Or maybe
that this case has brought up issues from a previous one that perhaps
didn't have a positive outcome or resolution. And there's also the fact
that Mr. Stevenson's prefrences come so close to those of Roche that
maybe all of Mulder's unresolved trumatic feelings relating to him
caused him to confuse the men...

Then, there's what should be concidered as the most obvious and likely
possibility: This is the third such case VCS has dumped on Mulder in
just a little over three months. He hasn't had enough recuperation time
between them. They've demanded he keep pushing the line back further and
further and now, this time, he may have pushed it too far and can't get
back.

There are more, of course. But none of them really provide the answer.

And after all is said and done, I believe the reason is actually quite
clear: Mulder reached the peak of his tolerance. This time, when he
opened himself up to the mind of Owen Stevenson, he didn't just create a
passage into this man's head, he created a bridge that allowed this man
and his insanity access into *him*. He started to see with different
eyes and what he saw both facinated and appalled him in equal counts.
Oh, I don't mean to say he got off on the images or the thought of
raping young girls. I think what happened to him was worse than that.
Despite his words to the contrary, he started understanding *why* Owen
Stevenson did get off on these things. And for an individual as cerebral
and intelligent as Mulder, understanding the complexities of the motive
in such a profoundly personal way, was almost as unspeakable as the
motive itself. Because he didn't relate to this with the clinical,
detached interpretations of a psychologist. He related as a man.

It explains why he's rebelled so angerly and adamantly against Owen
Stevenson's crimes, crimes which, though terrible, were far from the
worst he's ever seen. For him, it's gone deeper than just the empathy he
usually feels so acutely for the victims and their families. He was
understanding this killer's motive from a different perspective and it
became too much for him to contend with.

It's why those images taunt him so now. Why he feels he's betrayed
himself. And them. Why he needs so desperately to reconnect with the
sexual part of himself. And why he needs to do this on his own
terms...terms that became convoluted with his feelings toward me and the
carefully carved place I have in his life.

I see it now, the reason he began to distance himself early on in this
case. He knew adding me to the developing mix of confusion had the
potential for personal disaster for both of us. Only I saw his actions
as rejection and he saw them as survival.

But all of this, whether caused by his overt efforts to push me away or
my reactions to them, has opened up something between us now that was
closed off before. In no uncertain terms, I know now that he sees me as
more than just his partner. He may have been trying to protect me from
the more primal aspect of his feelings, but the fact remains that these
feelings exist, and their power is staggaring.

And so, here I am. Faced with exactly the very thing that terrified me
from the beginning, though maybe not in the context I'd thought I'd be
confronting them...How far am I willing to go for him?

It seems like such a monumental question, with so many factors to reason
and weigh. But really, I've known the answer all along, and now I'm
choosing to admit to this knowledge.

It's Mulder.

How could I consider anything but going all the way.

------------------------------

I hear his door shut and sense an opportunity. He won't accept this if I
offer it to his face. So I have to offer it to something else. To the
one part of him that *wants* to accept.

I peek out from the window of my dark room. 

The sky is still black outside, the parking lot quiet. I spot Mulder as
he walks across it wearing his running clothes. I suspect it'll be a
short run, he's just trying to wind his body down and this isn't what
it's asking him for. Frustration will bring him back quick so I need to
work fast.

I figure I have a limited window of opportunity to get into his room
undetected. I wait until he's well out of sight before quietly opening
my door and stepping out. The weather here is chilly and it feels so
good against my over heated skin. I take just a second to breathe in a
healthy lungful and revel in the crisp sensation of it slicing into my
chest.

I feel calm. I don't know how this is possible considering what I'm
about to do. Maybe it stems from the sense of inevitability I felt
settle deep inside of me once this decision was made. I know what he
told me. I know he thinks he believes it. But I am the *only* one who
can release him from this. I'm the only one who should.

I crouch down infront of his door and start to pick the lock. All too
easily, I let myself inside.

It looks so different. Three large trash bags lay against the wall
closest to the bathroom. I know what's inside, and though his
"redecorating" hasn't helped as much as he'd hoped, I feel such relief
that at least he's fighting against the hold of those images.

And now, there's just one thing left to do. I move my hands up to my
blouce and begin to carefully pluck the buttons apart..

------------------------------
continued in 6/6
-----------------------------   

------------------------------
Peaks of Insanity 6/6
disclaimers in part one
-----------------------------

He's just outside and I sigh in anticipation.

For just a second, I fell a spark of nervousness, afraid he may still
reject me. I push the feeling aside and assume my position.

He wants this. He needs this. I have it to give.

My knees firmly planted on the floor, I bend over at the waist and slide
my upper body down until my chest is flush against the carpet. I bring
my arms forward, bent just slightly at the elbow to cradle my head
between them as I stretch my hands up further to grip the leg of the
bedframe tightly. The television provides the perfect lighting, casting
my raised hips in soft light while the rest of my body remains in
shadow.

The key turns in the lock and I spread my knees further apart, offering
my wet sex up to him like a sacrifice.

The door opens and closes, the draft cool between my folds. Forgoing the
light, I hear him move to the nearest chair, his harsh puffs of air
audible as he attempts to get his breathing back under control from his
run. I hear his shoes hit the floor with equel thuds. Then he stands,
the sound of his sweats landing heavily on the bed echoes like thunder
in my ears.

He turns more fully into the room, intending to head for the shower.

I know the exact moment he finally sees me. A short, unmistakable grunt
claws its way from his throat. "Oh fuh...Oh fuh...Oh God." His legs
buckle beneath him and I hear him fall to his knees behind me.

The sight of what he most wants so close and ready for him does exactly
what I'd hoped it would. The image circumvents his brain, passing
directly from his eyes to his dick and leaving nothing behind to be
debated or analyzed or agonized over. In a matter of seconds, all he
recognizes is the hot, pounding pulse of need that surges between his
legs and demands what's infront of it.

Yes, Mulder. Yes.

My chest heaves with the efforts of my breaths, my thighs tremble. I can
almost feel a physical teether between his cock and my opening, pulling
him, urging him, *begging him*, to come closer.

"Ohhhhh God," he moans.

A long moment passes. Then the atmosphere in the room shifts, feels
heavy, saturated with hunger and need and I know a decision has been
made.

He moves, slowly crawling toward me, and I am dripping for him. I feel a
glistening trail of moisture as it slides seductively down my inner
thigh. The scent of my arousal floats on the air like musky perfume.

He stops, stradling one of my legs, though he makes no attempt to touch
me or to get too close. Drops of fluid suddenly fall across my calf to
pool in the crevice of my bent knee. Oh God...it's from him, precum from
the tip of his cock suspended somewhere above me. I bite the inside of
my arm against the devastating shock of lust that pounds through me.
"God, Mul--"

"NO!" he says sharply. And I understand immediately. His terms.

"Tell me who you are," he says, his voice like the soft crunch of wet
gravel. "Tell me."

I know what he wants, what he needs me to say in order to finally give
himself permission to take what he wants. "I'mmmmmm just a woman," I
pant moistly against my arm. "Please. Please!"

"Yessssss," he hisses. "Just a woman who needs," he swallows a ragged
grunt, "who needs to be fucked, who needs to be fucked by me...Say it,"
he commands harshly.

Drop. Drop. Drop. Jesus.

I take in a large gulp of air. "Please. Please. Fuck me. Please." I know
I'm begging, and the soft moan he gives me after each word tells me he
loves it. I should feel humiliated by what he's reduced me to, but I
can't think past the consuming need to get his cock inside of me. "Fuck
me, please! God, please, fuck me!"

"Yeah. Oh yeah."

He scoots back, enough to drop down to all fours again, his face aligned
with my sex. He's so close now. Each gasp of air forced from his lungs
stirs my curls, causing tiny jolts of stimulation. I make small thrusts
back to meet these phantoms of contact, helpless to the urency of what
my body wants to give him.

I can feel his eyes burning into my tender flesh. "Yeah...Yeah. Show me.
God, please, show me."

I bow my back and slide my knees further apart, completely open. I pump
my hips slowly, sensuously, knowing where his gaze is locked and a slave
to the power of his focus. Another gush of wetness flows from me.

His breaths become labored pants. And he gives them voice, the sound of
each rough exhalation bringing with it a sharp stab of arousal that
pierces through my aching flesh.

Though I know it's inevitable that he touch me, I am completely
unprepared for it when he brings his fingers up to lightly brush against
my inner thigh. My legs twitch with anticipation, my cunt vibrates with
it. I want to push into his caress but know I need to let him set the
pace despite how hungry I am for more.

He leans in close to me, and in seconds I expect to feel his mouth where
I need it most. His husky voice floats up from between my legs. "Is this
for me...?" I whimper. He grips my thigh hard and hunches down. I feel
his cheek press into the back of my leg. "Mine..." He drags his head
down, down to where the thick line of liquid flowing from me stops. "I
wanna...I wanna drown in this...Oh fuck..." His mouth opens against the
soft skin streaked with my fluid, and he brushes his parted lips across
the wetness, coating them. His tongue darts out to taste it, brushing
against my leg, and the moan that bursts from him is almost fightening
in its intensity. He stays there, motionless for a moment, obviously
fighting for control, and then his tongue resumes it's place, trembling,
lapping, along the path upward, upward, upward...

His large palms move to encircle each hip. Oh God. This is it. This is
it.

But what I'm waiting for, he doesn't give me. His hold on my hips grows
savage, he pulls himself to his knees and brings his hips forward.
Quick. Hard.

I am undone. Despite how wet I am for him, when his cock surges into me,
it burns like fire along my walls. I can't control the sudden cry of
surprise and pain and ectasty. Insinct insists immediately that I move
away from this brutal invasion, he is too much, too fast, and my body,
though ready, isn't prepared. But his hold on my hips is merciless. When
he realizes my intension, he actually growls from behind me, his fingers
digging into the tops of my thighs to keep me still.

"Don't MOVE!" he grits out from between clentched teeth. "Fuck," he
gasps. "Oh God."

Tears slide from the corners of my eyes. This is Mulder.

He pushes my hips away from him, and my tight opening feels every inch
of his hard, thick shaft as he drags my body from his. I twine my
fingers around the post infront of them and grip it with every ounce of
strength I have. I push back into him, determined to give what I get no
matter how tight the fit is. He roars from the unexpected stimulation,
and counters the movement with a quick thrust, burying himself to the
hilt. I don't know how it can be possible, but he's actually grown
bigger, harder.

He's gonna rip me apart. And I want it. Want him.

This is Mulder.

He starts a torturous rhythm of rapid grinds, going as deep as he can
penetrate. I try to keep up, to move with him, but the fury of his lust
is impossible to capture. An endless tide of hoarse cries flow, wave
after wave, from his mouth, some given names like "Mine" and "Fuck" and
"God".

He is lost in me. He is found in me. More. More. More.

As if hearing my silent plea, he pumps his cock hard again, reaching
that place inside of my body that causes blinding pleasure to rip into
me with the force of a hurricane. A loud wail of absolute surrender
pours from my lips. He brings his hands forward to hook around my inner
thighs and lifts me up into his next brutal thrust.

"Yeah. Yeah," he moans. "Take it." Thrust.

"Take it." Thrust.

"Take it." Thrust. "Take it!"

His hold on me wavers slightly, the amount of wetness making his grip
slippery. "Come on, god damn it!" His hands curl more tightly, my knees
leave the floor. "Ahhhhhh, oh fuck! Fuck!"

The angle of penetration shifts, his nails dig into my skin. I've never
come in this position, but have a feeling that's all about to change.
And the force of what has started to coil low and tight in my belly is
terrifying. I try to rise up enough to move my knees back to the floor,
to move my arms down to support my weight, desperate to regain some
leverage, afraid of what's taking me over.

"No. No. No. No," I whimper. "Oh God. Oh God."

Mulder rocks back to sit on the heels of his feet. My arms collapse out
from under me. He pulls me up again, not willing, even for a second, to
give up any of his power, his control. He continues to pound into me,
using his hands splayed across the sides of each of my thighs to pull me
roughly to his cock. Gravity and the tops of his sweaty legs provide him
with a counter action. I start to slide down, he yanks me back up,
causing my clit to rub hard against his flexing muscles with every snap
of his hips.

"I'm gonna make you come," he pants, his voice raw from his effort and
his cries. "Fuck, you're so tight. Ahhhhhhh, oh God. So hot..." His
tempo quickens.

My body is shaking from the onslaught. I am weak. Consumed. And he is
relentless.

Finally, it's too much and I submit to him, completely, letting my limbs
go slack and allowing him to move and claim me without sanction. The
change is not lost on him. "Yeah, that's it. That's it. Yeah. Just let
me fuck you," he groans. "I'm. Gonna. Make. You. Come!" he says again,
punctuating each word with a hard, sweet thrust.

I continue to moan and whimper, unable to do anything else.

My fingers and toes begin to curl.

"Yeah. Yeah. God! You feel that? You feel it?" He lets me slide down
again, my clit aching for the friction.

My nipples grow unbearably erect. My cunt burns and throbs. I flush
cold, then hot, feeling myself grow more taunt with every plunge of his
cock inside me.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he chants behind me through clentched teeth.

I struggle for air, sucking in a deep, quick breath when suddenly my
body literally stops, suspended on that painful precipice of unbearable
pleasure. My mouth falls open, a low, keening cry starting low in my
throat and rising, rising, rising.

"AH. AH. AH. Come for me! Come for me!"

And I can do nothing now but obey him...

Pull. Pull. Tight. Tight. Tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Oh God. Oh GOD!

I shatter. My body, no longer capable of containing the rapture, swells
and constricts against the hard length of him still delving furiously
inside of its inner walls. He forces each thrust past the spasms that
rock through me, riding out each wave of my pleasure and prolonging my
release. I can only cry out, beg him to stop, beg him to never, ever
stop...

His demanding cock refuses to slow.

I weep with each crush of his hips, completely spent. I feel liquefied,
the pulsing in my cunt keeping time with each laborious beat of my
heart. I collapse forward, into the waiting grate of the carpet. Mulder
follows me down, his pace uninterupted.

He braces one arm on the floor and hooks the other low across my belly.
When I feel his hand begin to decend down toward my swollen folds, I cry
in earnest. "No. No more, please...I can't...Oh God, I can't..."

His long fingers find my clit and begin to pluck and rub. "Yeah...come
on. Come on."

"No. Please! Please!" I am desperate. I can't take anymore, I'm sure of
it. But even as this thought clouds my mind and my vision, I feel the
sting, the greed of my traitorous sex begin to respond, to reawaken,
under his demanding manipulations of my flesh.

I press myself into his hand. I don't know how not to.

"That's it, that's it," he growls. "You're mine, god damn it. Mine!"

One, two, three well directed pinches and I burst under him once more.
And even as the orgasm overwhelms me, I am distantly aware that he's
frantically brought my hips up to meet his again.

Each punch of his body into mine rips a loud, strangled moan from him
until he stills above me, ridgid. "Ugh, Ugh, Ugh, Ugh." He grips me
savagely. Several rapid fire thrusts and then he shouts, deep and rough,
exploding into me. His hips surge with each powerful eruption.

He crumbles above me, his body no longer capable of holding us up. But
his moans continue unabated, his thrusts sloppy but still insistent. "Oh
God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God," he sobs over and over and over.

His cock withholds his absolute release, remaining painfully hard and
erect. I know he's come, can feel the wet slap of our combined abandon
with each of his desperate thrusts.

His body needs more.

I know this is rare. But so is the man behind me.

"Please! Please! Please!" he begs.

I brace my hands on the floor and with every bit of strength and breath
and love I have to give, I clench my inner muscles tight and forcefully
grind back into him.

It's enough.

I feel his cock expand.

His head drops to my shoulder, his cry of deliverance smothered by my
skin, but still so intense that his open mouth sends vibrations racing
through my back. I hear the telltale pop of his sharp teeth piercing my
flesh. He sinks into it, growling low in his throat as he empties into
me, spilling hot and thick.

He shudders, milked dry.

We remain, frozen, like time itself needs to 
catch up to us.

When he slowly begins to disengage from me, his movements are slow and
deliberate. When his cock slips from inside of me, we both whimper.
Fluid flows from me at his departure.

He drops alongside me on the floor, and then his hand caresses the
length of my back, trembling.

I feel a soft, damp kiss between my shoulder blades. "I'mmmm so tired,"
he whispers. I carefully move away from him, and with some difficulty,
stand on my shakey legs. Mulder sinks into the open space I've just
vacated. His eyes already closed.

I toss a blanket over him, then grab my clothes from under the bed.

"Rest now, Mulder," I say quietly.

But he's already fast asleep...

-----------------------------

EPILOGUE

Time passes. And as always, chaos and silence reigns for my partner and
I.

We never speak of that night. And there's so much...so, so much I've
wanted to say...

Sometimes, I'll just look at her, and the memory will assult me with
sweet, painful, vivid, awareness. I've been *inside* of her. I've felt
this woman come around my flesh in a fury of lust like I've never known.
I've moved, hard and rough, in her tight body, robbed it of its secrets,
demanded its surrender. Made her moan. And scream. And beg.

And she allowed it. Because I needed her and couldn't ask. And she
offered so I wouldn't have to.

She saved me. And I've never even thanked her.

But that's about to change.

Six months ago, she came to me in the dark and gave me back my soul...

Tonight, I'll go to her and offer my heart.


END
Feedback? Bring it on! XRae1013@webtv.net

"Put'em on, bitch."--Jake
   

X-RAE'S VISION 
 http://www.geocities.com/xraex1013
X-PLICIT DISCLOSURES  
 http://www.geocities.com/xfanfic1013