Ghosts
By Brandon D. Ray
publius@avalon.net
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere and everywhere, so long as my name
stays on it and no money changes hands.
FEEDBACK: Yes
Ephemeral: *FEEDBACK*publius@avalon.net
SPOILER WARNING: None.
RATING: NC-17 for emotional content and sexual detail.
CONTENT WARNING: **Rape.** Scully/Skinner friendship. Scully/Mulder
friendship.
There is nothing light or amusing here, friends. I wound up traveling
to a very dark place as a result of the recent discussion about rape on
ATXC. Enter at your own risk.
CLASSIFICATION: S,A. Especially the latter.
SUMMARY: An unexpected encounter exposes Scully to memories she had
thought safely buried.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters or situations.
GHOSTS
by Brandon D. Ray (publius@avalon.net)
1998:
"Mulder, wait!" Special Agent Dana Scully ran after her partner up the
steps of the county jail. He paused on the top step and waited for her
to catch up.
"Sorry, Scully," he said, holding the door for her. "It must be the
crisp fall air making me feel vigorous or something."
"Or something," she agreed, as her partner fell into step beside her.
"I must say this is a perfect finish for a wasted trip."
Mulder grimaced. "For once I have to agree with you; these are three
days out of MY life that I'm never going to get back."
The pair had spent the last three days here in rural Nebraska,
investigating a series of cattle mutilations which Mulder had been sure
were being perpetrated by extraterrestrials. Scully still felt a
residual tingle of triumph at the recollection of the look on his face
when a couple of local residents were caught in the act. It wasn't
often that she was so thoroughly proven to be right that even Mulder had
to admit it to her face. This had been one of those times.
They arrived at the main reception desk. Mulder flipped his badge at
the sergeant manning the desk, and said, "I'm Fox Mulder; this is Dana
Scully. We're with the FBI. I believe you may be expecting us?"
"Certainly; right this way, Agent Mulder. Agent Scully." The man led
the way down a short hallway. Over his shoulder, he said, "It's kind of
unusual for the FBI to show up for something like this. Usually the
Marshals are the ones involved in prisoner transfers."
Mulder said, "We just happened to be in the area on another matter when
the word came in. Our boss called us this morning and told us to swing
by and pick him up. Save the taxpayers a little money."
"Guess no one can complain about that. I must say, it's the most
excitement we've had around here in a long time. It isn't every day
that we haul someone in for spouse abuse, and have it turn out they're
wanted by the Feds." The sergeant paused before a metal door with bars
across the window. Taking a large keyring from his belt, he unlocked
the door and stepped inside. Mulder and Scully followed.
They found themselves in a small interrogation room. It was plain and
functional: Gray paint on the walls, a single overhead light protected
by a wire frame. The only furniture was a rickety table, bolted to the
floor, and a couple of straight chairs. In one of the chairs was a man
in blue jeans and a dirty t-shirt, wearing handcuffs.
Scully stopped dead in her tracks, and her eyes widened. She felt a
sudden constriction in her chest, and she couldn't breathe. The man's
face swam in front of her eyes, and suddenly she couldn't see anything
but his eyes. His eyes. His eyes. Staring at her. Staring at her.
At her.
The next thing she knew, she was halfway down the hallway, leaning
against the wall with her eyes closed, gasping for breath. <<Take it
easy, Dana,>> she thought. She tried to control her breathing, tried
not to hyperventilate, but it was a losing battle. <<Dammit, this can't
be happening! Please Jesus, make it not be happening!>>
She felt a touch on her shoulder, and she swung around, crouched in a
defensive posture. All she could see was a man standing in front of
her. Standing over her. Close. Threatening. It was him --
"Scully? What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Mulder. It was Mulder. She glared at him. Mulder. He was her
partner, and he was standing awfully close. Awfully close. Too close.
She took a step back, trying to widen the distance between them.
"Scully?"
She realized that the words he was speaking were directed at her. She
was supposed to answer, but she couldn't think of anything to say.
<<Put it down, Dana. Put it down and walk away from it. You've done
this before; you can do it again. Put it back in the box, where it
can't hurt you.>> With a supreme effort of will, she forced her body
back into a more normal posture. She closed her eyes for a moment, and
shuddered, then took a deep breath and opened them again.
"I'm fine, Mulder." And she brushed past him and walked back to the
interrogation room.
# # #
1983:
Dana heard the phone start to ring as she put the key into the lock.
Hastily, she unlocked the door and pushed inside. Dumping her books on
the bed, she crossed the small room and scooped up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Dana? This is Donald. Donald Emerson, from your chemistry class?"
"Oh, sure. Hi." A slight smile formed on her lips. She'd been trying
to get Donald to notice her for weeks, ever since the start of the
term. Tall, dark-haired, good-looking...and very intelligent, too.
She'd finally caught him looking at her yesterday in class, and now here
he was on the phone...
"Well, I was wondering if, you know...if you're not too busy...or have
studying to do...."
"Donald, are you asking me if I'll go out with you?"
There was a momentary pause. Then: "Well, yes."
"I'd love to." They spent a few more moments on the phone, making plans
and exchanging pleasantries. He'd pick her up at seven. Dinner and a
movie. Wonderful. Hanging up the phone, she looked at her watch. She
just had time to get her hair trimmed.
Humming to herself, she walked back out the door.
# # #
1998:
Scully sat in the window seat of the passenger jet, watching the ground
pass by far beneath them. She and Mulder usually fought over who got
to sit on the aisle, she because she was afraid of flying, and he
because he wanted more room for his legs. She usually won. But this
time she hadn't felt up to it.
The prisoner sat between them. Of course. Standard protocol for
transporting someone in custody: keep him away from the civilians, keep
him where the officers involved can control him and keep an eye on him.
Of course.
And also of course, that meant that Donald Eugene Emerson was sitting
right next to her, towering over her, looming and ominous, his upper arm
brushing against her shoulder from time to time in incidental contact,
and each time it happened it sent a fresh jolt shuddering down her
spine.
<<I wonder if he remembers me?>> she thought. <<He hasn't said a word,
and there is no sign of recognition on his face. Maybe he doesn't
remember. Maybe he doesn't.>> She couldn't decide if that was better
or worse.
In a way she was glad to have Emerson hulking beside her. She was glad,
because it meant that Mulder WASN'T next to her. She knew that Mulder
was full of questions, full of concerns, wanting to know why she was
acting the way she was, and she just couldn't deal with that. She
dreaded the moment when they would be on the ground, and the U.S.
Marshals would assume custody of Emerson and take him away, because then
there would be no buffer, no barrier, nothing between her and Mulder.
"What?" She looked away from the window. Someone was talking to her.
It was the flight attendant. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you.
Did you want the club sandwich or the lasagna?"
Oh. They wanted her to make a decision. Club sandwich. Lasagna. Club
sandwich. She tried to concentrate. What exactly did she want?
Finally, aware of the young woman's eyes boring into her, she said
faintly, "I'm really not very hungry, thank you." And she turned her
gaze back to the window again. She tried to keep the thoughts away; she
didn't want the thoughts, she wanted them to belong to somebody else,
anybody else. But they were hers, and they wouldn't leave her alone.
# # #
1983:
Dinner had been lovely: a little out of the way Italian restaurant,
with soft lighting, quiet music in the background, and excellent food.
Their conversation had sparkled, and Dana felt a happy glow settling
over her as Donald paid the bill and they headed back out to his car to
go to the movie.
The movie was BODY HEAT, with Kathleen Turner and William Hurt. It had
been released two years before, and was now making the rounds of the
second-run theaters. Dana hadn't seen it before, and quickly found
herself wrapped up in the sultry, sensual mood of the film. Partway
through the first reel, Donald's arm hesitantly slipped around her
shoulders. She started slightly, but then relaxed and decided that she
liked it, and after awhile she snuggled up against him.
# # #
1998:
Ditching Mulder turned out to be easier than she had feared. They were
met at the gate by a pair of U.S. Marshals, and while Mulder was dealing
with the paperwork she simply turned and walked away.
Of course, by the time she got home there were already three messages on
her answering machine, all of them in the last twenty minutes and all
from Mulder's cell phone, according to her Caller I.D. She didn't play
them back; she just took the phone off the hook and sank down on the
sofa, not even bothering to remove her coat.
A short while later she was aware of someone knocking on her door. It
sounded distant and hollow, as if it didn't really relate to her at
all. She frowned slightly. Was that a voice? Her name? She shook her
head, and the frown disappeared. It didn't matter. She heard a key in
the lock, but that didn't matter either, because she'd set the deadbolt
before sitting down. The knocking resumed, but she simply sat on the
sofa, still and calm, staring straight ahead, and finally whoever it was
went away.
# # #
1983:
Dana sat staring dreamily out the passenger-side window of Donald's car,
looking at the stars, thinking about nothing much, just drifting along
in happy contentment. She had had a wonderful evening; everything had
been perfect: The dinner. The movie. The company. Especially the
company. She had already decided that she would let him kiss her
goodnight if he wanted to.
But now the car was rolling to a halt. At first she thought there must
be something the matter with the car, and she said, "What's wrong? Why
are we stopping?" But Donald didn't seem disturbed. He switched off
the engine and turned to face her, a gentle smile on his lips.
He said, in a soft, sing-songy voice, "Nothing's wrong, Dana. The night
is just so beautiful; I don't want it to end. I want to get to know you
better." He took her hand in his. "I like you a lot." He raised her
hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.
Dana felt a tingle run up her arm and down her spine. "I like you, too,
Donald," she said.
"I mean I REALLY like you, Dana," he murmured, and scooted closer to her
on the car's bench seat. "I think...I think I could be in love with
you."
Dana didn't know quite what to do with that statement. She really did
like Donald; she even thought he was pretty sexy. But love? Gently
reclaiming her hand, she said, "It's -- it's awfully soon for that,
Donald. Don't you think?"
He moved closer, and put his arm around her shoulders as he had in the
movie. But this time, instead of feeling friendly and comfortable, it
felt...demanding. Intrusive. Dana felt a slight chill run down her
spine. Last year a friend of hers had been with a boy who wouldn't take
"no" for an answer. Christine had come to Dana's dorm room in tears in
the middle of the night, and Dana had held her and comforted her as best
she could. But that had been someone else. Such a thing couldn't
happen to HER.
# # #
1998:
Scully still sat on the sofa, hunched up into a ball of misery. Her
eyes were squinched tightly shut, but the tears leaked out anyway. She
held herself motionless, barely breathing; perhaps if she couldn't make
the thoughts go away, she could at least make herself go away.
# # #
1983:
Donald was still murmuring softly to her, but she didn't really hear the
words. Somehow, he had moved over until there was no space at all
between them; their bodies were lightly touching. His hand on her
shoulder was moving, too -- rubbing, exploring, his fingers slipping
into the collar of her blouse.
"No!" Dana reached up and removed the offending hand, then ducked out
of Donald's semi-embrace and pushed him away. "Donald...I don't think
this is a good idea," she said shakily. "I think you'd better take me
home."
"Oh, Dana," he said, and moved back towards her. Automatically, she
brought her arms up against his chest, trying to maintain some space
between their bodies. "Dana, we were so good together in the
restaurant...at the movie. It was so nice. And you liked it, too, I
could tell. Didn't you?" He put his arm back around her shoulders
again, and now she also felt a slight touch on her knee. He moved
closer, and tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away, and so he
nuzzled his face in her hair instead, and whispered into her ear.
"Didn't you?"
Dana was starting to feel panicky now. "Donald!" she said. "Donald,
what are you doing?" She tried to push him away, but he just pressed
closer, and the hand on her knee started to travel up her thigh, sliding
easily under her skirt. "Donald, no!"
"Donald, yes!" he replied, in the same soft sing-songy voice as he
pressed her back against the car door. The hand under her skirt became
more aggressive, rubbing her inner thigh and finally slipping under the
elastic of her panties. Meanwhile, Donald was planting kisses on her
face: Brow, nose, cheek, ear. Lips.
"Donald...!" She was now openly struggling, trying to force his hand
out from between her legs, trying to force him away, but he was in
complete control now, on top of her and holding her down, dominating her
with his weight. She was crying now, hitting him on the chest and back
and shoulders with her fists, trying desperately to get him to stop, to
get him to back away. But he was so much bigger than she was, and so
much stronger.
Abruptly, the hand between her legs grasped her panties and yanked, then
yanked again, and the material ripped with a horrible noise that somehow
terrified her more than anything else that had already happened. NO!
MAKE IT STOP! HOLY MARY, PLEASE MAKE IT STOP! She didn't even know if
she spoke the words aloud or not, but it didn't matter, there was no one
there to hear them, and then she was screaming in her mind, and her
screams were echoing and reechoing, and he wasn't stopping, it wasn't
doing any good at all.
Then he was pushing his way into her, forcing his way into her, and oh,
dear God it hurt! She felt as if she was being torn apart, her body was
being savaged and mutilated, and she couldn't stop it, she couldn't make
him stop, and she cried and cried and continued to struggle and none of
it did any good. And then he started to thrust, and the car started to
rock with his motions in a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm. Back and
forth, back and forth, back and forth.
# # #
1998:
Still curled in a ball on the sofa, her head buried in her knees, but
now dry-eyed again, Scully started to rock. Back and forth, back and
forth, back and forth.
# # #
1983:
It seemed to go on forever, and each thrust was a new violation,
bringing more pain, more terror, more humiliation. Finally, she stopped
struggling, and now she just lay there, sprawled on the seat, unable to
resist, not thinking anything, not feeling anything, and even the tears
had stopped.
And the car continued to rock: Back and forth, back and forth, back and
forth.
# # #
1998:
Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
# # #
1983:
Dana sat quietly in the passenger seat of Donald's car as he drove her
back to her dorm. Her hands were folded in her lap, tightly clutching
her ruined panties. She held herself completely still. Trying to make
it go away.
The car pulled to a stop in front of her dorm. Donald was saying
something, but the words just flowed around her, leaving no record of
their passing. Moving like an automaton, she opened the car door and
got out. Leaving it standing open, she sleepwalked into the building
and took the elevator up to her floor.
Her room was eerily the same. Nothing had changed, and everything was
different. She was walking through a dream, and everything real,
everything concrete, seemed to be far, far away, at the end of a long,
dark tunnel.
She stood in the center of the room for a long time, her mind blank, not
even trying to decide what to do. There was nothing TO do. There was
nothing at all. At length, she noticed someone else in the room, out of
the corner of her eye, and she wondered absently if Donald had come
back. Turning her head slightly, she saw that it was her own reflection
in the mirror over the sink, and she was unsurprised to see how ugly she
was.
Slowly, as if the air were being let out of her, she sank down on the
floor, still clutching her panties, and curled up in a ball. And after
awhile, it was morning.
# # #
1998:
Gradually, the rocking motion ceased, and Scully began to have slow,
sluggish thoughts. She hadn't any idea how much time had passed; she
didn't know if it was the same day, or the next, or the day after that.
She felt as if she were wrapped in cotton: no sound, no light, no
feeling. She didn't feel anything; she was completely detached, and it
was calm, and peaceful, and quiet. She was floating in cotton, leaving
the world behind and just floating away in cotton.
Somewhere deep inside, a tiny scrap of sanity remained. She knew this
dead, lost feeling, and much as she longed for it, wanted to drown in
it, wanted to be swallowed up in it, the tiny, flickering spark at her
very core would not allow it. She was not even aware of the spark, was
not aware of anything but the soft, soothing cotton all around her. But
slowly, so very, very slowly, she reached out and rested her hand on the
telephone.
Without knowing how it had happened, she had the receiver to her ear,
and was listening to it ring. One ring; two rings. Nobody was
answering. Nobody was home. Five rings; six rings. Nobody was home,
and she was totally, completely alone. Part of her didn't mind that;
being alone was good. It was safe. You couldn't get hurt when you were
alone. No one was there to hurt you.
The phone was answered on the twelfth ring. "Hello?" The voice at the
other end was blurred with sleep, she noted absently, and for a moment
she pondered the significance of that observation. The voice repeated,
"Hello? Is somebody there?"
She considered the voice. She realized that it was speaking to her, and
that she should answer. Summoning forth all her willpower, she uttered,
in a lost, wispy voice, "It's happening again."
There was the barest instant of silence at the other end; then the voice
said, "I'll be right there."
Again she wasn't aware of any passage of time. She was lost in a sea of
cotton, and nothing seemed to matter, nothing even existed except for
the cotton. The spark inside of her flickered, dimly but insistently,
but she didn't notice. Everything was cotton. Soft, gentle cotton.
It might have been minutes, hours or even days, but she gradually became
aware of a face floating in front of her. She frowned. That was odd.
There shouldn't be a face there; there should just be cotton. Only
cotton. Lovely cotton.
"Dana."
The face was speaking to her, and she frowned some more. That wasn't
right, either. How could there be a face, or a sound, when there was
only cotton? She wanted the cotton; she was safe in the cotton. The
face and its voice should go away; they should leave her alone. She was
so ugly, so very, very ugly, Only the cotton could protect her; only
the cotton could keep her safe.
"Dana."
The face was speaking again, and she struggled against it. <<Leave me
alone!>> she thought angrily, not even aware that she was feeling her
first real emotion since walking into the interrogation room in
Nebraska. Emotions got in the way of the cotton; they made it harder
for her to be in the cotton. They made her aware of her body, her
ugliness. It wasn't fair!
"Dana. It's me, Walter."
Walter? That was a funny name for a face and a voice. Why would a face
and a voice be named Walter? She wanted to shake her head, she wanted
to push it away, but she knew that if she moved even a little bit, the
cotton would go away, and she would be naked, and everyone would see how
ugly she was. She didn't want to be ugly, and as long as she was
wrapped in cotton, she wouldn't be. Cotton....cotton....cotton....
"Dana, this is Walter talking to you. Come back, Dana. Come back."
She sighed, and closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them,
the cotton had receded a bit. She was sitting on the sofa again, still
hunched into a ball, and Walter Skinner was crouched in front of her,
studying her with concern in his eyes.
"Are you back?" he asked.
Slowly, reluctantly, she gave a single nod, and the cotton receded
further, and then was gone, evaporating back to wherever it had come
from. She licked her lips, and tried to speak, but her mouth and throat
were dry, and she couldn't. She closed her eyes again and swallowed,
and when she opened her eyes again she could talk.
"How...how did you get here?" she asked.
"You called me. Don't you remember?" She shook her head. "You did."
He smiled slightly. "I had to climb the trellis to get in; you'd bolted
the door." The smile vanished as quickly as it came. "Looks like this
one was pretty bad. Do you know what happened?" Still he didn't move,
but remained crouched in front of her, squatting on his heels, and she
noted absently that he was still wearing his coat. And he was waiting
quietly for her to answer his question. He seemed to be willing to wait
all night.
Finally, she said, "It was that man."
His face was puzzled. "Which man?"
"That man," she repeated. There was silence for a minute, but she could
tell from his face that he still didn't get it. She didn't want to say
it; she didn't want to make it real by speaking the words. But she had
to share it with someone; it was too much to keep to herself, and he was
the only one she could tell it to. "That man," she said again. "The
one....the one....the prisoner...."
Comprehension seemed to dawn on his face. "You mean Emerson?" She
nodded, and now tears were running down her cheeks. "He was the
one...the one who...?" She kept nodding, and the tears kept flowing.
"Son of a bitch!"
"Don't tell Mulder," she said, suddenly frightened by the expression of
loathing on Skinner's face. It was okay for Skinner to see her
ugliness; it was okay for Skinner to hate her. But not Mulder. Not
Mulder. Please, God, not Mulder. "Please don't tell Mulder. I
couldn't stand it if he...if he..." She couldn't find the words,
couldn't express her emotions. She was so ugly; so very ugly. The
world wobbled, and she wished for the cotton to return, but she knew
that it would not. It never came more than once, and now it was
gone...gone...gone. She had lost the cotton.
"It's okay, Dana," Skinner was saying gently. "I won't tell Mulder. I
won't tell anyone."
"Mulder," she said sadly. If only things were different. If only she
weren't so ugly. If only...if only...if only.... "Mulder...." Then
abruptly she collapsed on her side and wept, great wracking sobs
pounding through her body, hammering at her, tearing at her throat,
wrenching her soul.
Slowly, slowly, she ran down, and finally she was lying on the sofa,
still curled in a ball, quietly weeping and sniffling. She opened her
eyes again, and Skinner was still there, blurry through her tears, still
squatting in front of her, not moving, his eyes watching her with gentle
concern.
She managed a smile; it seemed like her first smile in ages. "You must
be pretty tired of squatting there like that," she said.
"Nah," he replied. "Used to do it in Nam all the time." He slowly
started to stand up, and somewhere a joint popped audibly, and he
winced. "On the other hand, I was only 19 at the time."
Somehow, she actually managed to laugh. "Times change," she said, still
sniffling.
"Indeed they do." He stood there looking at her for a moment. "Indeed
they do."
Awkward pause. Finally: "I want to thank you for coming over here
tonight," she said, and laughed again, shakily; a ragged, tearing
sound. "I'm a real piece of work, aren't I?"
"We both have our ghosts, Agent Scully," Skinner replied.
"I know," she said softly. "I know you have ghosts, too. That's why I
called you." There was another moment of silence. "You've done so much
for me, both tonight and...and the other times. Would...would you do
one more thing for me?"
"You want me to call Mulder for you?" She nodded slightly. "Consider
it done." He moved over to the phone, and she heard his voice but did
not listen to the words. Finally, he came back and sat down crosslegged
in front of her. Just being there.
"You called him?" she asked.
"He'll be here in twenty minutes."
Twenty minutes. She could wait twenty minutes. A sudden fear passed
briefly through her. "You didn't -- you didn't tell him --"
"I didn't tell him a blessed thing," Skinner replied, cutting her off.
"I just told him to get his ass over here."
She nodded in relief, and closed her eyes. Mulder didn't know....he
didn't know....he didn't know that she was ugly. "Thank you," she
whispered, and she drifted off to sleep.
And when she awoke in the morning, Mulder was sitting on the floor in
front of the sofa. Waiting for her.
Fini