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


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

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

But that hadn't been the guy.

It hadn't been him.

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

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

Where was Scully?

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

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

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

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

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

                             ***********

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Open this door.  OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!"

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

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

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

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

He'll look for you?

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

He believes he loves you too.

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

I'll teach you that he got it wrong.

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

I let him off lightly.  

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Same time.  Scully's Apartment.


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

"She signed it Dana." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think I hit her?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about the rest of it then?"

"What rest?"

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

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

"So?"

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

"No. I did those."

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

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

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

"You finished?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skinner frowned as he attempted to process that.

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

"No."

"How long then?"

"Just under two years.  After the cancer." 

Skinner blinked slowly.

"That surprises you?" Mulder asked.

"I guess it does, yes."

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did he believe Mulder? 

He frowned as a sudden thought occurred to him.

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

"She hasn't!"  

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

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

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

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

"She doesn't approve?"

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

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

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

"Do you want me to call her?"

Mulder shook his head.

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

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

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

"I'm only suggesting..."

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

Silence.  

"Well?  Is it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just the waiting.  And waiting.

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

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

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

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

She just had to wait and see.

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually.

Provided you atone.

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

You've all been different.  

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

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

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

Time then.  I'm giving you time. 

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

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

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

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

And I don't want to be your substitute.

I'm going to be your everything.


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

Same time period.  Scully's apartment.
   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man shifted, slightly nervous.

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

"Hacked into my personnel file at the FBI?"

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

"In what way?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What he cut into you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mulder, you look like shit."

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

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

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

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

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

"I said OK, Mulder.  Go."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Must have seen? 

Must. Have. Seen! 

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

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

"Car!"

"Where are we going, Mulder?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gotcha!"

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

Monday evening. In the attic. 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How are you feeling?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you do?"

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

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

"Oh. That?"  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 
November 1997

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

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

"He meant well."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your place or mine?" 


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

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

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

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

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

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

"We were both drunk earlier, Scully."

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

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

"Though in my case not well."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Monday, early evening.  Scully's apartment.


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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

"Mr. Mulder."

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

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

"Shut up!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She cut in, her voice razor honed ice.

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

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

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

"Mrs. Scully, please..."

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

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

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

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

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

"Mulder."

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

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

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

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

"What have you got for me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Against?"

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

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

"Soon as, Mulder.  Soon as."

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

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

For just over five long hours he slept.

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

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

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

"De-caf." 

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

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

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

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

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

"How'd you want to do this?"

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

They all shook their heads.

"Then just give me it from the beginning."

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

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

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

"How much younger?" Mulder inquired.

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

Mulder considered a moment. "Possible exception?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

He turned suddenly as he reached the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday morning.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She couldn't suppress the whimper as he approached 
her.  Assailed by the sudden and grisly, years-old 
memory of the first murder victim she'd ever autopsied; 
a woman who'd been strangled by her husband, the 
twisted rope that had still been embedded in the 
flesh of her neck, she suddenly saw her own like end 
before her.  When he reached down and grabbed her 
left wrist, causing her to cry out with the pain as 
his fingers closed around the bruised and swollen 
flash, the consequence of the blow he'd delivered 
with the gun the night before, he'd actually hesitated 
a moment, looking almost as if an apology was 
forthcoming, before turning his head aside and 
carrying through his intent.  As she realized what 
it was, as the frenzied assault she had dreaded 
turned out to be nothing more than finding her wrists 
secured to the headboard of the bed, her relief 
emerged as a maniacal, hastily bitten back giggle.

She watched as he'd moved between the door and the 
small 'bathroom', providing clean toilet facilities, 
depositing more large bottles of water for her.  
Apparently just protecting himself against the 
possibility of attack when both his hands were
otherwise occupied, he'd released her as soon as 
he'd finished, directing her to sit back against 
the headboard as he delivered an all too welcome 
plate of toast.  Long since cold, the butter he'd 
lathered on turning the slices to greasy, soggy 
squares, she'd nevertheless chewed them down eagerly.

He just sat at the foot of the bed and watched, the 
gun as always pointing her way.  Other than the 
simple instructions he'd given, he seemed disinclined 
to speak, just regarding her in silence, until she'd 
swallowed her last mouthful.  He'd moved toward her
 then, tutting at her when she flinched, but seemingly 
content to let it pass, just reaching down to pick 
up her plate.

"I'll bring you something else later, before lunch,"
he promised.  "Something nice."  

He stared for a moment and she wondered if she was 
supposed to make some declaration of gratitude.  

"And Dana?"

She looked towards him as he moved toward the exit.

"You look a mess.  And, quite honestly, you smell 
bad.  I brought you everything you'd need to look 
after yourself. Do something with yourself won't 
you.  Have a bit of self respect."

She sat staring in slack jawed indignation at the 
door as it closed behind him.  She could pretty 
safely assert that receiving beauty and hygiene 
tips from a lunatic rated pretty near the top of 
the list of 'things not to be happy about' which 
she had mentally compiled over the past few days.  
However, what galled her more than the fact that 
he'd said it, was the undeniable fact that he was 
right.

During her initial period of captivity, the not 
knowing when, or even if, he was going to return, 
had made her wary of using the water he'd left to
 do anything but drink.  Coupled with her 
uncertainty regarding his possible reappearance 
and exactly what he'd do when it happened, she'd 
been more than a little reluctant to divest herself 
of her clothing to even the extent to simply wash. 

It was not particualry any antipathy towards being 
caught in a state of undress that had deterred her; 
she harbored no illusions regarding her chances of 
keeping her modesty intact if he came back, gun in 
hand, demanding a striptease. She just hadn't been 
willing to compromise what she knew to be her very 
limited chance of self defence any further by having 
herself potentialy encumbered by pants around her 
ankles, or shirt around her head when he did return.

So she had cleaned her teeth, splashed water over 
her face but otherwise just tried to ignore the 
scratching, grimy discomfort that arose from going 
unwashed and unchanged for four days.

There seemed no point at all in denying herself the 
pleasure of getting clean any longer though, and 
she shuffled off the bed, heading first for clean 
clothes.

She'd searched through the drawers he'd filled 
with his selection of items from her wardrobe, 
seeking attire that somehow seemed the least 
personal of all of it. She was still resolutely 
determined to forego the underwear, unable to 
shake the repulsive realization that he'd touched 
that which would most intimately touch her. What 
she came across, what she'd passed by in her 
earlier, hastier exploration, was the red
T-shirt, folded up in the middle of a pile of 
others. The original version of this had been 
Mulder's.

She'd tugged it out, screwing it up to her nose as 
if she might smell him on it, despite the knowledge 
that this was crisp and new, unworn and not perfumed 
with with the familiar scent that was Mulder.  She 
wondered briefly at how he'd made the mistake; the 
size clearly indicated that this was not hers, but 
she realized that the clothes Mulder kept at her 
apartment were usually segregated.  She'd allotted 
them their own very specific closet space and drawers.  
He'd have seen them, identified and discounted them, 
searching only her space and it must have been in 
there, caught up with her own and its details taken 
for copy, but never really seen.

Her selection made, she'd padded through the door, 
stripped off her clothes and hurriedly but thoroughly
washed the amassed four days of grease and grime from
skin and hair.  She pulled on her jeans, then stood
and tugged the too big T-shirt over her head, grinning 
at the silly little flare of satisfaction that came 
from knowing he'd inadvertently brought Mulder into 
this place himself, and that she could wear it next 
to her, flaunt it in his face without his realizing.  
It would be some sort of secret strength, ridiculous 
as it sounded even to herself. It wasn't the possession 
that made it matter; it was knowing he'd made the 
mistake. 


He'd left her alone for little more than an hour that 
time, returning with a plate of cookies and a glass of 
milk. He'd looked her over, slowly, intensely, but even 
through her distaste and discomfort, she could see 
that he was displaying none of the lust she feared, but 
rather a general sense of approval at her recently 
soaped and shampooed self. 

That was when he'd started speaking. Not to her but at 
her; little sermons from his end of the bed pulpit, a 
gun wielding preacher delivering his unvarying 
diatribes about the evils of Mulder and the salvation 
offered to her now that she was free from his insidious 
influence.

As he railed against Mulder, she bit back the angry 
retorts and refutations, though she made sure to scowl, 
to frown, to register her discontent to the degree she 
anticipated he would expect, without pushing it past 
what she imagined he would tolerate.

Had she not already been acutely aware of the fact, 
the fresh bruises she bore were reminder enough not 
to openly antagonize him. She was confident that he 
was intelligent enough to recognize dishonesty in any 
sudden indication of complicity, and so she tried to 
play it carefully. Baby steps towards trust.

After that, he'd returned regularly throughout the day, 
the long periods of abandonment apparently at an end. 
As the hours drew on, she found herself almost eager 
to see him, and not just because her stomach welcomed 
the edible offerings he approached her with each time.  
However odious she found the man himself, however 
infuriatingly offensive she found his rambling 
soliloquies, he was company, a break from the monotonous 
tedium of solitude.  

As day moved on, the time between each departure and 
arrival gradually grew less and less, whereas the period 
of time he actually spent in there, talking at her and 
watching her, grew longer each time. Whenever he issued 
instructions, she silently and unhesitatingly obeyed, 
following his dictates as to how she should sit, eat, 
stand, move, with a physical unease that didn't come 
entirely from the ache across her ribs and in her wrist. 
Constant aggression would actually have been easier 
for her to project and manage, than this stilted 
obedience, but it seemed to please him, or at least 
it seemed to be keeping him calm, and that was a
reward she could not discount.

When he closed the door just after 11.00 p.m, bidding 
her a good night, as had become her habit when alone,
she curled up on the bed, closing her eyes and tried to
will herself toward sleep.

"Tell me I'm doing this right, Mulder," she muttered 
into the pillow.  "Tell me this is how I get out of 
here." It took her far longer than it should have done 
to actually stop listening for his answer.


It was only half way through the following day, during 
what was already his fifth appearance in the room, 
when she decided to take her first big step. Subtle if 
it worked, potentially disastrous if it did not.  She 
knew this might be too soon, knew that this slow 
deception would be best executed over a period of weeks, 
not mere days, and she suspected he was actually patient 
enough to wait.  She however, was not.

It might be stupid; in fact she told herself it was 
stupid, even allowed her imaginary Mulder to add his 
agreement of the fact.  Yes, he'd hurt her, but he 
showed no immediate signs of doing so again.  She was 
being fed, being looked after.  A prisoner certainly, 
but a comfortable one. However, she knew that there 
were only two possible outcomes if she didn't manage 
to get herself out of here.  She was either forced 
into complying with his version of togetherness; a 
version he'd left undefined, but which she found 
herself able only to read as the threat of rape, 
however prettily he might choose to dress it up with 
words of love, or else she resisted and died. Neither 
were attractive propositions and every second she 
spent within these walls, brought the twin specters 
closer. 

It was with that in mind then, sat in anticipation 
of his latest anti-Mulder diatribe, that she decided 
she'd give him what he wanted.  At the first mention 
of Mulder's name, she just shook her head as if a 
little confused, as if trying to shake loose the 
connection between the name and the man, and then, 
letting him see on her face the carefully constructed 
moment of faux realization before she hung her head, 
turned her face away slightly, as if she were ashamed 
of the memory evoked.

For the first time since she'd been here, he smiled 
at her.

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

You see, Dana?  You see how right I was?  All you
needed was to get away from him, for me to help you
get away.  

I saw it in your eyes, Dana.  I know you tried to hide 
it, but I saw it there.  Shame.  You realize somewhere 
deep down, in that part of you that he forced you to 
keep hidden away, the decent part of you, that all 
those things you did with him, that he made you do, 
were dirty.

You try to hide it from me, but I saw it.

When I said his name, you had to think.  You had to 
look for the memory. I'm starting to fill that space 
that you'd so foolishly let him occupy.  I'm starting 
to push him out for you, Dana. 

Did you remember him touching you? Did you remember his 
mouth on you, marking you?  Did you remember the taste 
of him, the scent of him, as he moved, sweat heavy 
above you? Did you remember what it felt like to have 
him inside you?  Did you remember what it felt like to 
crawl on your knees for him, roll over like a bitch 
in heat for him?  Did you remember what it was like 
to kiss him, to lick him, to suck him - to demean 
yourself for his satisfaction?

Did you remember how filthy he made you, how filthy 
you were?

Is that what caused your shame, Dana?

Shame is good.  You shouldn't have tried to hide it 
from me.  Shame means you've beginning to understand, 
beginning to realize the truth.

Your shame means you're really mine now, Dana.
It's no longer just my hope.

You're really mine now.

Mine now.

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