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

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

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

Seisdeadh - a Gaelic word meaning obsessed.

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



Seisdeadh.  


Prologue.

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

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

But I can make you clean.

I *will* make you clean.

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


Three months later.
Monday, 4.30 p.m.


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

"Hey."  

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

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

"Mulder?"  

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

"Look at the photographs."

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

"Jesus!"

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

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

"LOOK WHAT I'LL DO FOR YOU."

"What the hell is this?"

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

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

"So where did it come from."

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

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

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

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

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

"It's horrible!"

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

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

"OK then.  Let's get figuring."


7.10 p.m.

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

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

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

"Hey - Sleepy-Head."

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

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

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

"Fine.  You?"

"Fine."   

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

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

9.10 p.m..  Scully's apartment.

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

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

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

"Leave them now - please?"

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

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

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

"Bed then?"

"Sleep."

"OK. Sleep."

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Do I have to teach you manners as well?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you are mine, we will be clean.

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

Are you asking to be clean?  Are you ready?  

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

Tuesday morning.  Scully's apartment.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good morning, Scully."

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

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

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

"Fuck, Scully!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'd never lie to you.

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

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


11.00 am.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not leaving?  Not still angry then?"

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

"So make amends, Mulder."

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

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

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

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

I can keep you safe while you wait for mine.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be certain that I'll take his in retribution.

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

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

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

You are encouraging him.

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

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

If your conscience requires that, I will allow it.

After all, this is the final time.

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

Say goodbye.

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

"Mulder?"

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

"Do you still want to make amends?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."  Another squeak.

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

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

"Yeah - but you love me anyway."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday morning.  7.10 am.


"Shit!"

"What?"

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

"Mulder!"

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

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

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

"Like that'll be news to him."

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

"You take the car."

"What?"

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

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

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

"ohmygod"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

I want him alive while I hurt him.  

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

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

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

Time to begin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no.

That isn't supposed to be there.

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

Damn you, Dana.

I don't understand.

They're getting closer.

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

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

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

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

No-one will see me.

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


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

Alexandria Hospital.  2.45 p.m.

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

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

He touched you.

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

He touched you.

                      *********

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

Safe then. 

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

Safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

You misled me, Dana.

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

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

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

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

And I won't just play to win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so now here they were.

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

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

"Mulder?"  

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

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

"It's OK, Scully."

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

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

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

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

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

"So what was I doing last night?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Or you."

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have to go, Mulder."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

"Fuck off."

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

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

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

"O'Connell?"

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

"O'Connell?"

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The final pieces are already on the board.

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


Scully's Apartment.  2.37 p.m.


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

"I threw him out."

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

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

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

"What are you doing?"

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

"Are you up to this, Mulder?"  

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

"Dunno, Scully. What do you think?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My turn, Scully."

"Just get on with it, Mulder." 

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

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

She snorted, a little noise of disbelief and impatience.

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

"Greedy, Scully."  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh God, Scully." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let me kiss it better."

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

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

"Ignore it."

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

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

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

"They think they've got our guy!"

"What?"  

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

"Who? Where? How?"  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are you going?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did he?"

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

"He hadn't mentioned it to you?"

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't want to discuss it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He did this to you." 

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

He's not going to hurt you.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So are you going to kill me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good girl.

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

Try not to make me hurt you again, Dana.  

I'd hate to grow to like it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come with me and see.


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

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

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

"Welcome home, Dana."