Ignis Fatuus
By: Lydx
lydx@angelfire.com
Date: Sat, 2 Sep 2000
Distribution: Spookys, Ephemeral, Gossamer etc, sure.
Anywhere else is okay too as long as my name stays
attached and you mail me at lydx@angelfire.com to let me
know.
Classification: XA - X-files Angst
Rating: R for violence and a couple of swear words
Keywords: 3rd person POV / some ScullyTorture
Spoilers: through season the 7th - Requiem
Summary: In the wake of what transpired in
Oregon, someone sees his way clear to go
after Scully.
Ignis Fatuus ; n. the light of combustion of
marsh gas, any delusive ideal - pl. ignis-fatui [L ignis, fire,
fatuus, foolish.]
Feedback: is food for the soul, so please take a
moment to tell me what you think
Disclaimer: They're not mine. They belong to CC, the
creator and most especially to GA, DD, and the rest of the
gang, who breathe life into them.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~
Ignis Fatuus
By: Lydx
God you're beautiful. You're still the most beautiful thing
ever, and I'm going to take you and break you if it's the last
thing I do.
I've been observing you for quite some time now, off and
on between assignments. I've watched you getting off
elevators, walking through parking garages, hospital
hallways and even the halls of the Hoover Building, always
in your high heels and business suits.
Today you are wearing the wine red one under a long dark
trench coat. I've seen you clad in your ever-present
pantsuits, skirts, the occasional pair of jeans and even --
once -- in a yellow dress that set off the striking radiance of
your hair to great effect. You look great in each of these
incarnations but this particular suit is a favorite of mine.
Lately, much to my disappointment, you've taken to
wearing only austere black suits which all kind of look the
same to me and I'm glad for whatever it was that made you
decide on the red one today.
To me it somehow defines you.
I take it as an omen.
You are a tiny slip of a woman, but the way you stride
across the pavement belies your size. Your slim body is
toned and muscular and you're obviously fit and able to
handle yourself. The strength you possess goes beyond
the physical though. It's evident in the way you carry
yourself; head held high, back ramrod straight.
I've watched you walking through hallways and crossing
streets, saw you chasing an ambulance on one occasion
and run full tilt into a dark alley chasing after a suspect on
another, always with the same purposeful, confident
movements.
Once, in my mind's eye, imagination fired by wild rumors
eagerly spread by the water cooler crowd, I even saw you
stumbling across a field of ice. This time your sure stride
faltered, but HE was there, holding you up and supporting
you until you were able to support yourself again.
Lucky bastard...
When you walk by heads swivel and conversations cease,
and you -- you don't even notice. Neither does that idiot
partner of yours. Only once or twice, when it seemed it was
all that would keep you with him or when it otherwise
suited his purpose, has he bothered to acknowledge your
importance to him and his stupid cause and I find myself
hating the self-absorbed asshole even more for it.
He has you by his side day in day out and he is absolutely
clueless about the true worth of the woman who so
faithfully supports him in his inane quest.
Stupid fool...
What's more, somewhere along the line it seems you
yourself have forgotten it too.
No more though, I'm going to change all that and I'm going
to do it, whether you like it or not.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~
Sitting in my car, slumped back behind the wheel, ducked
down low inside a too thin leather jacket I've been
watching and waiting for you to emerge from your building,
amusing myself with thoughts of how to break through your
cold facade to kill time, giving myself points for originality.
I know you've been distracted ever since Mulder
disappeared three weeks ago and, seeing my opportunity,
have already upped my surveillance of you. It's now
intensified to the point where I am almost permanently
parked outside your apartment or just around the corner
from the Hoover Building or the lair of those three those
paranoid nerds.
Aside from a highly clandestine visit to Oregon and the site
of Mulder's abduction, a visit Assistant Director Skinner
himself took great pains to hide from the auditors already
hot on your trail at the time, those are the only three places
you regularly go to anymore. An increasingly desperate
triangle from your place to the basement to the Gunmen's
grungy hideout and back home again as days grow into
weeks. A routine interspersed with quick trips chasing after
some lead or other with your chorus of geeks in tow.
Each lead you've followed has turned into a dead end,
each trip turned out to be a wild goose chase, and that's
just fine with me.
When at last you emerge from your building, I sink lower in
my seat ducking deeper into my jacket and pulling my
collar up higher to obscure my features. I see you make a
beeline for your car and your steps are hurried as you
approach. The wind and the speed with which you're
moving, make your coattails flap and snap behind you.
Your hair whips about your head, a riot of color against the
gray skies threatening rain, and gets in your eyes, making
them water. You each up and swipe the unruly locks
behind your ears with an impatient gesture and pick up
your pace -- almost running now.
Seeing the faraway look in your eyes, I smile at the
realization that today is going to be my lucky day. That
absent look tells me you're distracted enough by it all that
you won't be able to see me coming, even if you tried, too
wrapped up thinking about your idiot partner to give a rats
ass about your own safety.
Before, my fantasies of making you mine stood no chance
of ever being realized. You are a good agent, in truth, I
think one of the best in the Bureau, and you'd never let me
take you. You're so good in fact, you've already spied me
spying on you on several different occasions, though never
up close enough to recognize me.
I withdrew each time, letting you convince yourself that
you'd only imagined the shadowy figure sitting a few rows
back from you in your movie theater or drinking a solitary
beer a few booths over from where you're sitting with
Mulder at your usual table in your usual watering hole. For
weeks on end, I'd lay off shadowing you, hating the
absence of you but knowing it was necessary.
Each time though, I'd go out of my way to find some
reason to bump into you in the cafeteria or down in the FBI
records room. Each time we met like that, you'd greet me
politely enough but with absolute disinterest. I'd walk away
reassured by the absence of that half expected jolt of
recognition in your eyes and at the same time saddened at
the total disregard with which you would move on without
stopping to really notice me.
I bided my time, more or less content to watch from a
distance and fantasize about turning your disregard into
respect, of breaking you out of that habit of fierce loyalty to
your crackpot partner and taking on your fearsome
intellect. Breaking you and reshaping you into what you
should have been -- and can still be -- if stimulated the
right way.
I never thought I'd actually get a chance to try though, not
really.
Now suddenly, with Mulder's disappearance, the odds
have turned in my favor and thanking my lucky stars, I've
taken to tailing you almost constantly. Looking for an
opportunity and meanwhile making preparations to have
you stay with me in the short hours when you'd give in to
exhaustion and crash on your couch. All I needed was the
patience to wait for an opportunity to bring you home with
me, or the inspiration to create such a circumstance
myself.
It looks like my time has come.
Sitting up straighter once you've walked past my car, I turn
up the radio and start the engine, preparing to peel out
after you at a moment's notice. I see you get into your
vehicle and when you drive off with a squeal of tires, I pull
out after you, disturbed by your reckless behavior, not
looking in your rearview mirror at all before pulling into the
steady stream of traffic flowing past us.
Usually your driving style amuses me no end. So calm and
controlled in most things, you drive with a lead foot,
indicating a wilder nature hidden beneath the severe suits.
I am constantly fascinated by these contradictions in you
and constantly surprised when another layer peels back
and more of you is revealed.
Today your lead foot is coupled with a wildly erratic driving
style that in no way resembles your usual fast but expert
mastery of the road and which makes following you
difficult. Alarms start blaring in my head as you overtake an
already speeding taxi, going obscenely fast in the middle
lane. You are weaving in and out of the heavy traffic
clogging the roads recklessly and it is all I can do to keep
up with you.
I fret and worry as we make our way through DC at a mad
pace. It wouldn't do for you to wind up in an accident and
inadvertently prevent the plans I have for you from being
realized; it wouldn't do at all.
Soon we are out of the city though and tailing you
becomes both easier and more difficult when the roads
become less and less busy. I fall back a bit and bide my
time, the opportunity I have been waiting for has finally
come and I am confident in my ability to keep you in my
sights and keep you unaware of the fact that you are being
followed. Besides, I know where you're headed. Tired of
waiting for an opportunity to come knocking, I decided to
create one of my own. I planted the evidence that led you
on this useless chase so, knowing where you're headed,
I'm not overly worried about keeping up with you.
Whistling along with the radio, I let my mind drift, thinking
pleasant thoughts of having you all to myself. Of getting
you to trust me, getting you to reveal your secrets to me, to
reveal your dreams and let me tear them down and put
them back together as I see fit, usurping Mulder's place in
them and by your side.
Although I've known you for years, have watched you for
years, admiring you even as I've sometimes hated you for
ignoring me, I've barely had opportunity to really speak to
you other than our hasty exchange of greeting, for longer
then I care to remember. You're always off with Mulder
looking into some stupid fucking case or other that no self-
respecting FBI Agent would touch with a ten-foot pole. It
makes me so angry to think of you wasting your talents on
such meaningless drivel.
Mulder took you from your sure path to a position of power
within the Bureau hierarchy. When I first laid eyes on you, I
immediately knew you were destined to rise through the
ranks swiftly and I ingratiated myself to you, knowing
myself well enough to know I was going to turn out a
mediocre agent at best. Taking your promising career from
you, he thereby took from me the means to advance my
own rise through the ranks. I'm not beyond hitching a ride
on anyone's coattails and at one time, yours had seemed
ideally suited for the purpose.
Not much chance of that happening now though.
Where once you were a promising agent, now you have
more strikes against you in your personnel file than any
other Agent in the Bureau, except for that asshole partner
of yours of course. Not to mention the fact that your
medical bills are the stuff of nightmares for whichever
unfortunate auditor is sent in to review them, usually after
another wild goose chase has gone to hell in a hand
basket in spectacular fashion.
You don't seem to care though, nor do you seem to mind
that through your association with Spooky and the wild
tales of the goings on in that basement office, your
chances of promotion have been shot to hell.
I just don't understand you, chasing aliens with that
nutcase and suffering the ridicule of everyone around you
is just not something I would have thought you'd ever be
into. I'd never have thought that you'd be able to ignore the
scorn of your fellow agents and the anger of your superiors
as you have these past few years, though to be fair not
everyone thinks Mr. and Mrs. Spooky are around the bend.
There are some who think that what you're doing has this
almost mythical edge of heroism to it that apparently
appeals to this small contingent on some level I don't care
to understand.
They're obviously as mesmerized by that clown Mulder as
you are and it's time someone set them straight. I decided
a long time ago that you should be taken out from under
the influence of that creep and set back on course and now
I've resolved that that someone should be me.
It'll be a coup sure to put me back in the good graces of
those higher ups who mourn the loss of you as a fine
agent. I lost their esteem entirely when they demoted me
for one long ago act - justified and by the book I might add
-- that questioned his judgement and regretfully put you in
jeopardy. An act for which I was unfairly reprimanded by
the OPC, probably all because HE was angry at the
danger I had inadvertently put you in and called in every
favor he owed sicking them on me. His over dramatization
of what happened lost me the trust of my colleagues and
the respect of my superiors.
I want it back.
Now that he's out of the picture, I'm going to seize my
opportunity and as I follow you out of the city I take delight
in the idea that soon you will be mine and that with Mulder
gone there's no-one there to stop me.
It's payback time.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~
Dusk is setting in when you pull in to a gas station. I follow
you and see my opportunity when you head towards the
restrooms, which are situated off to the side and set
slightly back from the main building.
I park right next to the overflowing dumpster leaning
drunkenly against the side of the building, and hide in the
shadows. The smell of hamburger, greasy fries and coffee
grounds is thick in the air, making me gag and wish I'd be
able to light up to smother the overwhelming stench. Can't
though, it wouldn't do to give myself away too soon, and
the risk that you'd come out and spot the glowing tip of my
cigarette and be forewarned is not worth the small
indulgence. Besides, I gave up smoking years ago when it
became politically incorrect to poison others in the act of
poisoning yourself.
Thankfully, the wind is starting to pick up. A storm is
brewing and the air is crackling with electricity. The fine
hairs on my arms stand at attention like soldiers before
their drill sergeant and I'm as charged as the air around
me.
When you come out I step up to you and press my gun
against your ribcage.
"Just do as I say," I tell you, trying to infuse my tone with a
note of reassurance to compensate for the fact I'm holding
you at gunpoint. "And don't worry, I'm not going to hurt
you."
Your instinctive reaction is to go for your weapon but when
I prod you with my gun, you think better of it. You go stock
still and I admire your composure as you calmly bring your
hands up and away from your sides and slowly swivel your
head in my direction. Cool blue eyes meet mine and widen
slightly in recognition. You give no other outward sign of
your surprise though and I am oddly pleased.
"Now why don't I believe that," you say, calmly looking me
up and down, an expression of utter contempt on your
usually impassive face. "Wait -- I know, must be the gun
you have pointed at me." Your voice drips sarcasm.
"Yeah well," I reply and I strive to match your tone but have
to admit I can't pull it off half as well. "I didn't think you'd
follow me just like that so I brought some added incentive."
"You were right."
With that you suddenly swivel and bring your knee up,
aiming for my crotch. I've been waiting for it though and
easily deflect your attack. Grinning at you I dance back a
step, all the while keeping my aim true, gun never
wavering. You blow a stray lock of hair off your brow and
away from your face, a speculative look in your eyes. You
seem to be sizing up your chances at besting me and I
guess you've assessed them too low when you don't follow
through on your attack.
I'm a bit surprised; I would have thought you to fight tooth
and nail. I take it as a sign that maybe you're curious as to
what I want. Encouraged, I smile at you.
You don't smile back. Instead your left hand goes to your
stomach in an almost protective gesture and you look
pained. I figure you must have pulled a muscle or
something. You keep your left hand where it is and raise
your right in a gesture of defeat, signaling your surrender.
Your eyes tell a different story though, as they travel from
the gun clutched tightly in my hand, up my arm and finally
land on my face and I'm not letting my guard down.
You pin me with a gaze cold enough to freeze over a
sizeable lake. When you speak your voice matches your
stare. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to take out your gun and chuck it in with the
garbage," I say, bobbing my gun up and down once to
underscore that I mean business. You're not overly
impressed I can tell from the way the corners of your
mouth bow down in an angry grimace. "Nice and slow," I
add when your right hand goes to the small of your back.
Never taking your eyes off me, you slowly reach for your
gun and slip it out of its holster, then step over and toss the
weapon in the dumpster where it lies, shining dully in the
half light amidst the loose trash and overflowing garbage
bags.
"Shove it in nice and deep," I say, feeling annoyed that you
obviously think you can fool me so easily and leave a trail
to follow for anyone interested enough. I don't think anyone
will be, not for a while yet. There's only Skinner and the
Three Stooges and they're all looking for your precious
Mulder. It'll be a while before they notice your absence I'm
sure, and our trail will be cold by then.
Best to be safe though, I remind myself, and watch closely
as you do as told.
I nod my thanks when soon there is no more sign of the
shiny metal.
"Good," I praise, still smiling to show my good intentions. I
motion for you to precede me in the direction of my car
with my free hand. "Now come with me, I've got something
to show you."
"I don't want to know." The open defiance in your voice is
more along the lines of what I expected of you. Your too
easy physical acquiescence makes me feel nervous for
some reason.
"Why Agent Scully --" I say, acting like I'm shocked.
"You're a Special Agent with the FBI, where are your
investigative instincts?"
"I left them at home," you reply with your trademark
deadpan delivery.
"Can you honestly tell me you aren't you the slightest bit
curious?" I ask, not entirely feigning the resentment in my
voice. In truth, I'm more than a little disappointed at your
lack of reaction.
"Trust me when I say there's nothing you could show me
that is of the slightest interest to me." The words cut me to
the quick, digging deep enough to draw blood. Feeling a
little angry, I step closer and grab a hold of your arm. I
don't mean to hurt you but you wrench it from my grasp
with surprising strength and when I look down there's a
purple smudge circling your wrist that I know will bruise.
"Get the hell away from me or so help me I'll --"
"Temper, temper my dear Agent Scully," I wave my gun in
the direction of my car. I'm gratified I finally got some
reaction and start to whistle as you start for the car; head
held high, walking towards it with that purposeful stride of
yours I love.
This is going to be interesting.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~
Not taking any chances, I have you handcuff yourself to
the door as soon as you sit down in the passenger seat.
You grudgingly oblige, not bothering to vocalize your
protests, knowing they won't do any good anyway. You
instead shoot me a look that tells me just exactly what you
think of me.
It isn't pretty.
Starting to feel more than a little uneasy at your open
hostility, I make my way around the hood of the car and
take a deep breath before opening my door. I tell myself
that I have all the time in the world to soften you towards
me and explain my purpose. Take it slow, don't force her
but get her to listen to you or this will end badly, my inner
voice cautions, and I listen carefully.
When I get in the car with you, your clean sweet scent
immediately assaults me, reminding me of that particular
smell that will hang in the air some nights and tell you rain
is going to come down in buckets in the not too distant
future.
I jam the key into the ignition, squirming a bit in my seat. I
try not to be obvious about it but your proximity is enough
to give me a raging hard-on. I arrange my coat across my
lap to conceal it. This is not what I took you for and I don't
want you to get the wrong idea, but I can't help the way
your smell and the warmth you radiate combine to leave
me flustered either. The thrill of it all has me feeling weak
in the knees like a schoolboy out on his first date. I
disguise my excitement with careful movements designed
to put both you and me at ease, starting the car and easing
it back onto the road.
We drive for a while in silence and I concentrate on what
I'm doing to distract myself from my physical reaction to
your presence. It's hard to keep from stepping on the gas
in an effort to get us to our destination as quickly as
possible but the last thing I want to do is attract attention.
Swerving to overtake a lumbering truck I move into the
right hand lane again, mindful all the while not to exceed
the speed limit. I don't want to alert anyone by going too
fast -- or too slow for that matter.
I glance at you from out of the corner of my eye and you're
staring out the window with a determined look on your face
that I interpret as you not wanting to be the first to strike up
a conversation, so I do instead.
"How have you been Dana," I ask pleasantly. "It's been a
while since we last spoke."
"Scully," you say in a low dangerous tone that's so
incongruous under the circumstances with you cuffed to
the car door and me holding the gun, that I can't help but
laugh. My smile quickly fades though when you turn your
laser eyes on me and they sear a path across my nerves.
"Why Scully?" I ask striving to remain polite. "Dana's such
a nice name."
"Only my friends call me Dana."
"Mulder doesn't." I hate the way my voice trembles just a
bit. I have all the power and you somehow make me feel
like you're the one in control of this situation.
You turn towards me at the mention of the bastard's name
and the cold flame in your eyes burns even brighter,
something I hadn't imagined possible but there it is. Your
gaze scalds me and I feel I just might catch on fire any
moment now, or suffer some serious freezer burn -- I'm not
sure which.
"Mulder's Mulder." There is a finality in your voice that
pisses me off and I find myself pressing the accelerator a
bit harder in my haste to get to our destination and get you
all to myself. There are too many prying eyes here and
there's no way for me to enforce some discipline on you
and still hope to remain inconspicuous.
When I glance at you I catch your satisfied smirk and
realize I've let my anger bleed through. I make a conscious
effort to reign in my temper and after a deep breath
continue as if nothing's happened.
"Well DANA." I taunt you with the use of your first name,
deciding on the spot to not give you the pleasure of
bending to your will and calling you anything else, "aren't
you going to ask me where we're going?"
"No."
"You're not curious are you?"
No answer.
"Don't wanna know where we're going or what's going to
happen when we get there huh?"
"I told you I'm not interested."
"Okay," I shrug to emphasize my indifference. "Be that
way."
I don't say anything else and after a few moments, I catch
you casting a surreptitious glance in my direction. I smile
triumphantly but only on the inside. On the outside, I'm
cool as a cucumber now and I don't spare you another
glance, meaning it as a punishment for your recalcitrance,
and enjoying your uncomfortable silence.
You fidget in your seat a bit and your free hand goes to
your wrist. Abrasions are already forming where the
handcuff is biting into your flesh and despite myself I
glance over and watch in utter fascination as two tiny drops
of blood well up from where your skin has broken in the
cuff's steel teeth. The droplets slide down the inside of
your wrist and then fling themselves into the unknown
territory beyond your body in a synchronized dive.
Time slows to a crawl as the tiny drops fall endlessly
through the void and I imagine I can hear the splash as
they finally shatter against the leather upholstery.
You wince the slightest bit and massage your pained wrist
and I almost allow myself to feel sorry for you, almost hand
you the keys to unlock yourself but I restrain the urge when
I see the venomous glance you throw my way. I turn my
eyes back to the road instead and start whistling along with
the radio to show your bad-tempered look doesn't bother
me.
"Stop that."
"What?"
"Just sop it," you say quietly and the pleading note in your
voice, faint though it is, is so unexpected my hands jerk on
the wheel a bit. We swerve halfway into the other lane but I
manage to bring the car back under control quickly. Luckily
the traffic is now almost non existent and there was never
any danger. The incident shakes me though and I curse
myself for my inattention. I could have killed us, scratch
that YOU could have killed us, startling me like that.
"What the hell are you on about Dana," I ground out
between clenched teeth, turning towards you with a snarl
on my face.
"Stop your whistling." You are altogether undaunted by my
show of anger, the hint of weakness gone from your voice
so completely I tell myself I must have imagined it.
"Why the hell should I?" I ask, mad but also genuinely
bewildered. The song on the radio is some old Al Green
tune, "Ain't It Funny How Time Slips Away" I think, and my
whistling is not so off key that it should have provoked
such a reaction from you.
"Just stop." Your words are like icicles, hanging in the
space between us. When -- unwilling to but heads over
something so trivial -- I give in to your demand, you turn
towards your window again and go back to ignoring me.
The reflection of your face in the window shows your
distress where your voice doesn't and I look away.
I remember now, that once, when I broke into your
apartment while you were off chasing monkey babies or
some such nonsense -- in West Virginia I think it was -- this
particular CD was in your stereo and I played it while I
went through your things. I remember thinking at the time
that it didn't quite seem like you, I'd imagined you being
more into classical music, but I liked this new facet of you
just the same. I wonder what the significance of this
particular tune is to you.
We drive on in silence and I entertain myself watching the
trees whiz by on either side of the road in an endless
parade. It's about as stimulating as watching paint dry, but
it distracts me from my confusion and resulting anger.
Not speaking has the decided advantage of letting me
enjoy your nearness without letting you spoil it by angering
me and while you continue to fidget, massaging your wrist
and squirming in your seat, I continue to ignore you.
I'm thinking that maybe if we can keep the talking to a
minimum we might just both weather this unscathed.
Physically that is, mentally I'll make sure you're thoroughly
deconstructed and then we'll put the pieces back together,
you and I, so they'll fit perfectly with that image I've carried
with me all this time of the promising agent I first knew.
A break in the trees tells me we're nearing our destination
now and my excitement grows in leaps and bounds. The
storm that's been threatening all evening finally breaks and
it starts to pour like there's no tomorrow. The steady drum
of raindrops shattering against the roof and the swish of
the wipers on the windshield underscore the quiet in the
car -- loud as they are when held against our deafening
silence.
When I slow down and turn off the main road, you glance
up and I catch the brief look of consternation that flits
across your face. It's there and gone and I would have
missed it if I'd looked at you a split second later. I admire
your quick composure and relish the chance I have of
breaking it.
"Almost there now," I say with a grin that feels like it's
about to split my face in two it's so wide.
We're on a dirt road now that's nothing but potholes and I
concentrate on not blowing a tire or wrecking the axle. The
storm is raging in earnest now and the resulting lack of
visibility is not helping matters.
Lightning flashes and thunder roars in a continuous
cacophony of elemental sound and fury that almost drowns
out the soft snick as the cuff on your wrist springs open,
your key still in it. I look up, startled, and curse myself for
being stupid enough to forget to relieve you of your cuff
keys at the same time as doing away with your gun.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
For a long moment, we're both locked in a silent freeze-
frame and all I see is the light catching your determined
eyes, the tight line of your mouth.
I'm still frozen, wholly unprepared, when you throw open
the door and fling yourself from the car with a perfectly
executed drop and roll.
We're going slow because of the rain as it is. I hit the
breaks and don't even wait for the car to roll to a complete
stop before I throw myself after you.
I can just make out the flap of your dark coat disappearing
into the trees lining the side of the road and sprint after
you. All the while I'm cursing myself for my inattention,
cursing you for your craftiness, cursing the rain for instantly
soaking me, cursing the mud for seeping into my shoes
and staining my pants legs.
Now I'll have to go home and change before going into
work tomorrow which means I'm going to have less time to
spend with you. I'm annoyed but I don't blame you for your
rash action though. I can understand the impulse that
drove you to try and escape. We're moving off the main
road and soon you'll be out of everyone else's sight and
completely at my mercy. You've still no idea that I'm not
out to hurt you but only want to help you and I figure I'd
better start to explain myself as soon as we reach our
destination.
First, I need to recapture you though.
Catching sight of you in a break between the trees I
redouble my efforts trying to intercept you and slowly gain
ground, even though you're going at breakneck speed. I
wonder how you manage to set such a pace clad in a skirt
and with those three-inch heels on and worry about you
falling and breaking something.
When I'm finally close enough to hear your breath rasp in
and out of your lungs, I fling myself into a flying tackle and
bring you down.
The air whooshes out of your lungs and you're face down
in the mud, your hand goes to your stomach again and it
seems that with the force of our fall, all the fight has gone
out of you. Perhaps it hitched a ride on your breath as it
was so forcefully and unexpectedly expelled from your
body.
I grab you by the hair non-too gently and shove my gun
into the soft flesh underneath your jaw, forcing you up,
treating you with more roughness than I'd ever intended
when I first snatched you to get my point across.
Don't try this again.
From your angry but subdued movements as we walk back
to the car I think you got the message.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~
We finally arrive at our destination; a small secluded cabin
that has been in my family for decades but which has gone
unvisited by any of us for years. When I conceived of this
plan upon Mulder's disappearance, I checked it out to see
if it was suited for my purposes.
I'd discovered the place had fallen into disrepair quit a bit
since I last visited it but was, nevertheless, ideally suited to
my purposes. I spent the last few weeks cleaning it up and
refurbishing it, making it ready for you, spending most of
my time setting up a room for you to stay in. It has only the
bare necessities, a bed and a chair, both bolted to the floor
and bedside table, similarly locked in place. I provided
bottled water and some paper cups for you to drink from
and even a few books to keep you occupied while I'm not
here and set a corner aside for you to wash and relieve
yourself.
I also made sure the chain on the single shackle I bolted
into the wall is long enough to allow you to reach it easily.
I'm not a monster; I want you to be as comfortable as
possible while I go about my business as usual during the
day. I even spruced up the living room so that you and I
can spend my off hours there getting reacquainted in
comfort, getting Mulder out of your head and getting me --
and the you I know you can be -- in it.
We enter the cabin and proceed through the living room to
the back where the bedrooms are. We're both dripping with
rain and tracking mud in from our earlier scuffle but I don't
particularly care that it is undoing all my hard work. I'll
clean it up after I've settled you in your room. It'll give you
some time to get familiar with your surroundings in peace.
I hope you'll be pleased with what I did for you and am
barely able to suppress my excitement.
I open the door to your room and as you hesitate in the
doorway, I give you a gentle shove, holding on to the chain
linking your hands with my left hand. They're now both
cuffed behind your back; I'm not taking any more chances.
You stumble inside and I quickly reach back with my free
hand, hit the light switch and lock the door. While you're
still squinting against the unexpected burst of light I push
you away from me and grab a hold of my gun, pointing it at
you and motioning for you to walk over to the bed at the far
end of the room.
You stand stock still though, unable to comply with my
instructions as you gape about the room, trying to take in
the sight that greets your eyes. I grin and observe you and
silently cheer when your shoulders slump in defeat. You
turn your stunned eyes on me and I imagine that there are
a few tears hidden inside that steely blue gaze you rake
over me.
"How long have you been preparing this?" you ask and
your voice is colorless and betrays nothing of your
thoughts and feelings. The corners of your mouth twitch
down almost imperceptibly though, and I think it means
you're unsettled.
"A few weeks now," I reply, "but I've been watching you for
years."
"That much is obvious," you say, letting your eyes travel
down the row of photographs lining the walls of your room
without another hint of emotion.
Somehow, you managed to find that deadpan face again
and I'm confused as to whether you're taking in what's
before you and trying to comprehend it or are just totally
uninterested in making the effort.
"Do you like it?"
"What's not to like." Sarcasm drips from your tone like acid.
It corrodes away at my patience but I reign in my temper
and try for a cheerful smile.
"I did it all for you Dana."
"You shouldn't have," you say and the sneer is still just as
heavy in your voice but you're getting a bit nervous now, I
can actually tell this time by the way your thumbs move
back and forth across the pads of your fingers. You were
always so cool, calm and collected doing whatever you did,
and I learned to discern that this was one of your few
concessions to showing unease or nervousness.
"Oh but I beg to differ Dana," I say, keeping my voice and
demeanor pleasant, not daring to show my sense of
triumph at having gotten to you, if even slightly.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do all this?"
"Because I want you to see what you were when I first
knew you and I want you to see what you've slowly
become."
I wave towards the wall with my gun and you precede me
to the first picture hanging near the door. It shows you
going into a classroom, face half turned away, speaking to
someone over your shoulder, red shock of hair piled high
atop your head in a ponytail designed to make you look
taller than you are. A few curly tendrils have escaped and
caress your face. You look fresh and innocent. Beautiful
beyond belief, if a bit heavier than was fashionable at the
time. But then, on your small frame any excess weight is
sure to make you look chubbier than you would have liked.
Freckles stand out starkly against you fair skin and there's
a smile on your lips, aimed at someone off camera. I think
it was taken sometime during your first week at Quantico.
Without a comment, you move on to the next picture. Not
just you this time but you're the focus of the shot anyway.
Your red hair makes you stand out in a group of about
twelve people running on some track somewhere. You're
all of you dressed in FBI sweats and winded. Your face is
flushed with exertion and sweat beads your brow, it makes
your hair curl wildly and stick to your face in messy strands
but you look relaxed, despite the exertion, and happy.
There's a stunning smile on your face.
Next you're in an autopsy bay, bone saw in your gloved
hand, protective glasses in place, hair again in a ponytail
and a serious expression on your face negated by the
gleam of excitement in your eyes; the first time you got to
do an autopsy all by yourself.
Another shot of you walking down a hallway, briefcase in
hand, baby fat still clinging to your cheeks, clad in a gray
plaid pantsuit and a gray blouse. Your glorious red hair
toned down to a reddish-brown color and longer - past
your shoulders -- and shockingly straight. It's obvious
you're trying to look stern and professional but you're not
quite pulling it off courtesy of the small delighted grin
etched on your face.
I prod you on to the next picture, which is one of you and
Mulder. You balk and I don't press you, knowing that
there'll be ample time for us to resume our trip down
memory lane later.
Stopping our circuit, you turn to me.
"So I was a lousy dresser with bad hair, worse shoes and a
little too much fat on my bones when you first knew me. No
big revelation there, any of it. I was there; I know all this. If
that's what you kidnapped me for to show me, you
shouldn't have." Your voice is laced with a double serving
of that acerbic humor you seem to have patented.
Angered by your sarcasm I prod you in the small of your
back with my gun and push you forwards past the row of
pictures to the last photo in line.
It was taken about two weeks ago and it shows you
walking out of a church somewhere. You're dressed all in
black as though you're in mourning and your face is very
serious. Deep lines angel from your nostrils to the corners
of your mouth, chiseled as though hacked from unforgiving
stone by some master sculptor. You're no longer smiling or
slightly chubby looking, or exited or delighted. You're thin
as a reed and your cheekbones stand out prominently in
your too pale face. A frown pulls your eyebrows together
and there's pain and despair in your eyes -- they're as dark
as the sky was an hour ago, just before the storm broke.
You turn towards me with a startled look on your face and
behind it, I see comprehension dawn at last.
"Now do you see?" I ask as I motion you towards the bed.
"What?" The startled look is already being replaced,
composure settling over your features again like a mask
slipping into place.
"Now do you see what he's done to you?"
The ire in your voice is carefully controlled. "All I see is you
violating my civil rights; kidnapping me, following me and
taking unwanted pictures of me."
You take up position beside the bed and look at me with
defiance but I imagine I see a hint of insecurity.
"They're to show you what he's done to you, all of this is to
show you what he's done and what you've allowed him to
do." I gesture at the photographs lining the wall, a
testimonial to what that obsessive freak has put you
through and your eyes flicker towards the first few
photographs and then back to me.
"Mulder hasn't done anything to me but be the best friend
and partner I could've ever had," you say and I'm thankful
you don't play dumb with me pretending you don't know
who the hell I'm talking about. At the same time, I'm furious
with you for trying to deny what's obvious.
"Hasn't he now," I say as I turn away from you in anger and
move towards the door, keeping my eyes on you at all
times. I had been meaning to let you out of your handcuffs,
and out off your muddy, waterlogged coat. Instead, I now
decide, I'll leave them on for a while longer and let you fret
for a bit while I go into the other room. It'll serve to get my
point across and underscore who's in control here. The
interlude will also let us both calm down enough to talk to
each other rationally when I return.
"He hasn't."
"If that's what you believe then I suggest you take another
good look at those pictures and when I come back you tell
me what they tell you." With that I slam the door closed
behind me and lock it, leaving you standing there in the
middle of the room, muddy and bedraggled and with an
incredulous look on your face.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~
I putter around the living room a bit, cleaning up the mess
we made crossing it. Muddy footsteps lead from the front
door in a straight line towards the bedroom and there's a
puddle, where we stood still while I opened the door. I
notice with a pang that my footprints are way larger than
yours are and regret flits through me at my earlier rough
treatment of you.
I feel the urge to join you again and talk to you, explain
why we're here but I restrain myself and go make some tea
instead. I finish up cleaning the floor and mopping up the
puddles we left just as the kettle begins to whistle. I pour
myself a cup and sit down on the couch in front of the
fireplace. As I blow into the hot tea and push my face into
the rising steam, I contemplate my next move.
I'm inclined to leave you to yourself a while longer, let you
think things through for a bit. On the other hand, I don't
want you to get the wrong idea, which will happen if I don't
clarify why you're here, and try to make you understand my
reasoning. I think that with the way I left, maybe now you're
thinking you're here solely so I can spite Mulder. Although
that's part of the reason, it's the least of it. My purpose is
not to slight Mulder but to rescue you out from under his
influence. There is a difference there but I'm not at all
convinced you'll see it like that, you certainly won't if I don't
explain it to you better.
I realize I need to talk to you if we're ever going to clear up
the air between us. I get up, pour you some tea, grab some
gauze for your bloody wrist from the first aid kit under the
sink and a towel to dry your hair with, and make for your
room.
You're sitting with your back against the foot of the bed,
wet coat spread out behind you as far away from your
body as you've been able to arrange it. Messy tendrils of
damp hair partly obscure your face and a few drops of
water slide down from where they gathered on the tip of
your nose and in your wet lashes and plink onto the picture
on the floor in front of you. It's one of Mulder and you
together from towards the end of the display, you're in one
of your business suits and he's in casual jeans and
wearing a cap that says "Stonehenge Rocks".
You're staring at the photograph so intently that for a
moment you don't notice my entrance. A momentary flash
of triumph surges through me. Could it be that you have
already grasped and come to terms with what I'm trying to
do here?
When you look up, I see that I'd better think again.
Anger burns in your eyes like a flame on a Bunsen burner,
blue and hot enough to scorch.
"You fucking bastard," you say and I'm taken aback, not at
the use of profanity but because the words are coming
from YOU. I've never known you to swear beyond the
occasional "what the hell" and "crap" and hearing these
words coming from you somehow shocks me in some
elemental way.
"What..?" Not much of a comeback but I'm too stunned to
react otherwise.
You get up with a grace and dignity that should be
impossible with your hands still cuffed behind you back
and stalk on over to me.
Despite your much smaller stature, I take an involuntary
step backwards at your furious approach.
"You had no right," you say in that low, deadly tone you
use when interrogating suspects -- the more despicable
ones that disgust you on some visceral level.
"I believe I had every right," I reply and point my gun at you
to emphasize the point. "Now sit down on the bed."
Turning around with an angry scowl you do as I say and as
you sit down I walk over to the other side of the bed and
put the tea and the gauze down on the bedside table.
You're sitting with your back to me and I see the way the
cuffs have bitten deep into both your wrists. Deep cuts and
angry contusions circle them and you've obviously been
working on trying to get loose because the bruises and
abrasions go halfway up your hands, which have started to
go blue from lack of circulation.
Moving to stand at the foot of the bed, I toss my keys at
you and you pick them up with clumsy fingers and make a
valiant attempt to try and unlock the cuffs. Your face
grimaces with pain and effort and for a moment I don't
think you're going to be able to do it. Getting yourself out of
a pair of tightly locked handcuffs is a feat almost
impossible to pull off even with your hands cuffed in front
of you. Then suddenly you smile in triumph and your hands
come out from behind your back.
"Impressive Agent Scully," I say, appreciating your
dexterity.
"Lots of practice." The curt reply is hardly an opening for
further conversation and we both fall silent. I pick up the
cuffs and fidget with them, not knowing what to say or do
to break the tension between us.
You look at me with a steadiness that's unsettling until a
resounding sneeze explodes from you suddenly and your
body bends double with the force of it.
The noise shatters the silence and seems way too big to
have come from your tiny frame.
"I brought you some tea." I point at the steaming cup on
the bedside table and try a friendly smile in an effort to
appease you. Your eyes swivel back to me, and you
resume your intense scrutiny, all the while massaging your
wrists, no doubt in an attempt to get the circulation going
again. The feeling of blood rushing back into areas too
long deprived must be excruciating; pins and needles like
going to sleep lying on your hand and waking up with it
asleep, only much, much worse.
There's not a whimper out of you though and I'm duly
impressed.
"Aren't you going to drink it?" I ask, unnerved by the
unwavering intensity of your stare.
"I'm not thirsty."
"Suit yourself, I'll leave it here in case you want it later." I
move to face you, stooping to pick up the picture you left
lying on the floor at the foot of the bed when my foot
connects with it.
I glance at the wall and wonder how the hell you managed
to get the picture down with your hands tied behind your
back, then I wonder what made you go for this particular
picture out of all the images displayed up there.
"Take your coat off Dana," I say and am actually a bit
surprised when you do as told. The heavy waterlogged
fabric drops to the ground with a small thud. I'm glad to see
your red suit has escaped the mud and, though it hasn't
escaped the downpour and is wetly clinging to your skin, is
essentially non-the worse for wear.
I take a moment to appreciate your ample curves. God for
such a small woman you're well endowed. I long to put my
hands on those flaring hips or cup those proud breasts in
my palms, even though that's not why you're here. I
actually take a step towards you but I'm abruptly shaken
from my reverie when you bring your hand up to your face
and sneeze again. Impossible as it seems, the sound is
even louder than the first time. I toss the towel at you and
you catch it one handed and use it to pat dry your face and
hair.
When you sit back on the bed, dabbing at the cuts on your
bloody wrists with the now damp towel, I try again.
"I'm sorry for the gun and the handcuffs and all Dana."
"Then why use them?"
"Because I didn't think you'd follow me of your own accord
and I needed you to come with me."
"Why?"
"To see the truth."
Your lips twist down and for a moment I mistake your
expression for a grimace, then I realize you're trying to
suppress a smile.
"The truth?"
"Yes, the truth," I snap. "Someone needs to bring you to
your senses, show you what he's done to you."
Your only response is a raised eyebrow and it's as
eloquent as any verbal statement of denial would have
been.
"Come on Dana, work with me here, we need to talk."
"You need to let me go," you counter.
"I will," I say and I'm gratified at your surprised glance, "but
first you need to recognize the ruin he's caused in your life
and your career."
"If either of them were in ruins, which they aren't, then the
person to blame would be me," you say and lean back
against the headboard, your posture so utterly relaxed it
infuriates me no end, "and I'm not having this conversation
with you."
With that you turn towards the bedside table and move to
pick up the gauze I left for you there.
"But..." I start to say, feeling dismissed and feeling anger
rise in me at the thought.
"I said I'm not having this conversation with you." Your
harsh words drift back to me through a haze of anger. You
haven't even bothered to turn to me to utter them to my
face and the implicit rejection stings worse than your
words.
I decide that you need to be reminded who's in charge and
am on you like a flash. You're half turned away from me,
leaning on the bed with one hand in the act of grabbing the
gauze. When I pounce on you my weight pins you to the
bed and makes your arm bend at an awkward angel. You
grunt in pain, the sound muffled by the sheets into which
your face is pressed.
I turn you over on your back and sit on your hips, feet
locked on your legs, gun pressing into your cheek just
below your eye, both your wrists clamped in one hand.
Pain flits across your face and I can feel your blood slicking
my palm, feel the delicate bones in your wrists as they are
ground together in my large fist.
"I suggest you start treating me with some respect Dana."
I'm pleased to note I have found the same low, menacing
tone of voice you used on me before.
I see fear make a brief appearance in your eyes but then
you manage to chase it away and you look to be totally in
control again. You don't say a word.
Furious with your determination to not react to me, I press
the gun into your flesh a bit harder and watch as the skin
breaks in a delicate cut just beneath and to the side of you
right eye. A drop of blood inches slowly down the side of
your face. A crimson tear disappearing into the red of your
hair. I'm getting more than a little excited at the sight and
realize it's time for me to get some distance between us or
I'm not going to be able to keep it together. I get up slowly,
pointing my gun at you all the way.
"I'd planned on spending a pleasant evening together
discussing our next step but I see you're not ready yet." I
take a few steps back to take in the full effect, smiling at
the sight of you splayed out before me, wishing for a
camera to document the moment.
You don't acknowledge my stare. You just roll over onto
your side and don't say anything, left arm tight against your
body, right hand clasping your left elbow, the one that was
bent at such an unnatural angel just moments ago.
I leave you like that, figuring that if anything were really
amiss, like broken or something, you'd let me know.
You do know I'm doing this to help nut hurt you don't you
Dana?
I send the thought your way hoping you'll catch it like I saw
you do with Mulder so many times but you just lie there
and -- disheartened -- I gently shut the door behind me.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~
The next morning I shackle you, clamping the iron band
around your ankle to prevent any attempts at escape while
I'm not there. I make sure to pad it, winding some of the
gauze that's still lying untouched on your bedside table
around your ankle before clicking the shackle shut. I
apologize profusely while I do it but you don't react and I
leave you to pout and ponder your circumstances some
more.
I go home to shave and change and arrive at work bright
and early.
Not wanting to arouse any suspicions, I go about the
business of the day as usual, slaving over expense reports
that don't have to be sent in for days yet. Signing off on
case reports only after carefully scrutinizing every word to
see how it reflects on my performance.
I make it a point though to visit the water cooler about once
every hour. It's always been the place to catch the latest
rumors first and today is no exception. I try to remain
inconspicuous and don't approach when the same people
are there that were there the last time. I normally never mix
in office blather as I think it's detrimental to the
advancement of your career to be caught gossip
mongering and I don't want my presence to be noticed and
noted as unusual. Don't want to become the subject of
debate amongst the water cooler crowd.
During my second stop to catch the latest gossip, it
includes you not getting into work this morning. Talk is,
you're either sick or pregnant or dead or possibly abducted
by little green men -- oops sorry little gray men -- like your
partner or any and all combinations of the above. That or
you just took some time off.
The third stop includes the news that AD Skinner has
personally checked every listed and unlisted telephone
number where you can habitually be reached and is now
getting extremely worried. Next, the water cooler gossip
has him sending agents to your home address and even
trying Mulder's apartment. By about lunchtime, word is he's
putting together a task team and has already found quite a
number of agents, some of the Bureau's finest in fact,
ready and willing to sign up and the hunt is officially on.
All this activity has me more than a little worried. I hadn't
counted on such quick and decisive action being taken,
figuring that the erratic hours you keep and the ongoing
search for Mulder would explain your absence for a while
longer.
I try to get a seat in the cafeteria next to Skinner's assistant
Kimberly during my lunch break to get the scoop on the
who's who of this task team that Skinner is amassing but of
course everyone who's anyone in gossip land tries to do
the same. Figuring I'll hear about it soon enough anyway, I
slink back to my desk and stay out of the way. Wouldn't do
to attract attention to myself now, now would it?
In between stops at the water cooler, I spend the
remainder of the day idly doodling on my note pad, trying
to appear busy, and meanwhile thinking of how tonight
we'll sit down and talk things through like the reasonable
adults we are. Our attempts at communication have up till
now been thwarted by your stubborn refusal to talk about
Mulder. I'm not sure how to break through this and the
more I think about it the more it disturbs me. The fact that
you're in total denial about his influence on you being
anything but good is not helping things either.
Idly reflecting on what to do for dinner tonight, I snap to the
fact that for some unknown reason people tend to act more
civilized towards on another over food. The thought leads
me to plan an elaborate meal for us, which gets me
through the last two hours without further worsening my
mood. I convince myself that a nice dinner will be the ideal
way to open the lines of communication between us again
and even perk up enough to go online to try and find the
perfect wine to go with the Spaghetti con Funghi dinner
I've planned for us.
Don't want to appear unknowledgeable when ordering and
I certainly don't want to come off as lacking in social
graces when sharing a meal with you. I'm sure Mulder
knows exactly which wine to order with what and is never
out of his depth in any given social situation, the privileged
bastard.
I shake that thought, not allowing it to intrude on my ever-
improving mood and gather my things as I start to make
my way towards the elevators and you. My brain already
busy computing the fastest route between here, the Deli
and our cabin, anticipating your delight, not wanting to
waste another minute getting back to you.
Daydreaming of our date and the way it's going to go, I
step onto the elevator when the doors ding open, finding it
thankfully empty.
When Skinners gruff voice booms across the hallway, I
nearly jump out of my skin.
"Agent, a minute of your time," he calls out in that
authoritative voice that comes so naturally to him. You
share that with him and I'm suddenly and irrationally
jealous.
He's on me in three long strides and his big hands slap
against the closing elevator doors, forcing them into
retreat.
"Sir?" I say, looking at him with what I hope is an innocent
expression on my face. Don't you just hate how your face
registers guilt automatically when confronted by a superior
asking difficult questions, even when you're innocent of
any wrongdoing?
"Agent I've been meaning to ask you," he says and one of
his eyelids twitches minutely behind his polished glasses.
"Have you seen Agent Scully?"
"Sir?"
"She hasn't come in to work today and I haven't been able
to reach her." I'm fascinated by the way his jaws are
clenched so tightly together when he speaks. It's amazing
that any intelligible words make it past, you would think
they'd be ground to bits before leaving his mouth.
"I'm sorry Sir, but I haven't seen or spoken to her for quite
a while now."
"Oh." The single syllable somehow speaks to his doubt as
to the veracity of my statement. He looks me up and down
as if I'm a specimen under a microscope and he's going to
cut me open and discern the truth from the way my insides
are arranged.
"I mean I bumped into her a couple times but I haven't
REALLY spoken to Agent Scully for a long time," I hasten
to amend my statement. "Too long in fact." I say the last bit
with a wistful smile plastered on my face and watch his
jaws unclench a bit. He obviously agrees that any time
spent not talking to you is time wasted and it's evident that
he carries somewhat of a torch for you from the way he
looks just a bit flustered at the open admiration in my
voice.
He nods once in understanding and I know I've found my
way out of my predicament. Now for an opportunity...
"I'm sorry Agent, it's just that someone mentioned they'd
seen you with her a few weeks back, I just thought..." He
trails off and looks a bit helpless, an incongruous look for
such a big and powerful man and I cough discreetly to
suppress an ill-timed chuckle.
"No matter Sir, it's perfectly understandable. Dana's a fine
Agent and I'd hate for anything to have happened to her."
"Any ideas where she might be?"
Aha, the opportunity I've been waiting for come knocking
already, thank you, thank you, thank you.
"She's been rather distracted ever since Agent Mulder was
lost." I reply innocently, knowing full well that Skinner was
with Mulder when he disappeared. His face flushes red in
embarrassment, something I never thought I'd live to see
the day of. Baiting him further, I continue as if musing
aloud, "I hope she hasn't done anything foolish."
"She wouldn't," he's quick to assert but there's an edge of
doubt to his voice that leaves me to wonder just how well
he knows you, how intimate you two have become these
past weeks.
"Perhaps she just took some time off to process what's
happened," I suggest and an idea starts to take shape in
my head.
"Hmm, perhaps." He doesn't sound convinced and his face
takes on a strange cast, eyes turned inward as if he's
scanning some file folder, yours probably, looking to see if
what he's hearing fits with the profile.
I can't begin to guess which conclusion he reaches but
suddenly all self-doubt vanishes from his face. He sighs
once and then straightens up to his full imposing height
again and it's only when he does that I notice his shoulders
were slumped in something very much like defeat until
now.
"Thank you for your time Agent," he says, and let's go of
the elevator doors. "If by chance you do hear from her let
me know."
"Yes," I say, "I'll be sure to Sir." I hold open the doors for a
moment longer, looking him in the eye, aiming for sincerity.
"If there's anything I can do to help please let me know."
"I've since put together a task team Agent," he says with a
frown. Then a small smile flits across his face. "It's frankly
too big already as it is." He turns towards his offices again,
apparently dismissing me, but then he turns back to me
and that small smile puts in another appearance. "Your
offer is much appreciated though and gratefully accepted.
Report to me tomorrow morning first thing."
"Thank you Sir," I say, chalking up points on my career
path score card at the same time as gloating over having
found an opening that will keep me in the know as to
where the search for you is headed. The irony of me
having created this opportunity myself is not lost on me,
nor are the many possibilities to this development presents
me with going to go unused.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~
I get back to our cabin and throw my briefcase on the
couch, put our dinner in the oven and then make for your
room, setting the wine on the counter as I pass. I call your
name and then knock on your door, gun in hand. When
there's no answer I unlock it, point my gun square in the
middle of the doorframe, right where your head would be,
and push it open with my foot.
You're sitting against the headboard, cross-legged, the
chain on your ankle trailing to the floor, a blanket thrown
around your shoulders. You've managed to pull all of the
photos from the wall, though some -- I could have sworn --
are well beyond the reach of the leash you're on. The
pictures are arranged in two piles in front of you and you're
studying the images intently. As your hand moves over
them, putting the one you've been studying face down on
the first pile, picking up a fresh one from the second, I see
you've tended to your wrists and they're now swathed in
the gauze I brought you.
When the door creaks softly as it swings open you look up
and I gasp in surprise. The flesh around your right eye is
bruised and swollen, the crescent shaped cut where I
pressed the gun muzzle against your cheek painfully clear
against the surrounding purple and green discoloration.
"God Dana...did I do that?" I ask and I feel myself
blushing scarlet as you nod in silent confirmation. "Do you
need something for it?"
"Too late now."
"I'm sorry I hurt you," I say and mean it.
"I'm sure."
"I am."
"Whatever."
"You brought it on yourself you know. Making me angry
like you did last night."
"Hmm."
Disappointed with your petulant behavior, I nevertheless
extend my free hand in invitation. You stare at my hand as
if wishing your look could make it spontaneously combust
and I withdraw a step and motion you up with my gun
instead.
"To make up, I brought us a nice dinner -- join me?" I'm
careful to keep my manner courteous to offset the threat of
the gun, hoping to charm you into accepting my invitation.
"I'm not hungry," you say and look away, ignoring my
outstretched hand. I'm slowly but surely getting annoyed at
you for sulking like you are but I don't show it.
"You have to eat."
A beat of silence, as you continue to disregard me.
"Ah come on Dana, I want to make amends," I cajole.
I'm a bit surprised when you suddenly decide to give in to
me.
You let the blanket slide from your shoulders but keep a
tight hold of the picture you've been studying and don't let
go of it as you get up. Though I'd prefer it if you left it in
your room, I don't tell you to get rid of it. I don't want you to
revert to your earlier sulk.
You straighten up to your full height and stand there,
swaying a bit and eyeing me wearily. I see now that your
cheeks are flushed and tiny beads of sweat stand out on
your forehead. I figure you may have caught a chill
yesterday, out in the rain and I resolve to get you some
extra blankets.
I toss you the key to unlock the shackle around your ankle
and as you bend down, I take a moment to admire the way
you move. I like the way the red fabric of your skirt
stretches across your backside. You're graceful as ever
but I do notice how you're cradling your left arm against
you protectively. I make a mental note to ask you about it
later.
"Nice and easy now Dana," I say when you straighten up.
You throw me a venomous glare and start making for the
door but I stay you and stretch out my free hand -- palm
upward -- demanding my keys back when you don't return
them to me of your own volition.
Your face hardly registers your disappointment but your
sharp movements and rigid back do as you precede me
into the living room. I allow myself to gloat a bit when I
realize I'm getting more adept at reading your body
language all the time.
We move into the dining area and I make you sit down and
cuff you to the table. You look pissed off and wince
dramatically when the cuff closes on your wrist but I'm sure
most of it is just you playacting to get my sympathy and I
don't react.
I'm eager to talk to you but not stupid.
With you safely secured, I move about setting the table,
putting out plates and silverware and lighting some candles
to add to the mood. I even went so far as to buy some
wineglasses when I stopped at the Deli. I did it in a
spontaneous upwelling but I'm glad I gave in to it when I
see your incredulous stare as I unwrap the delicate long
stemmed glasses and set them beside our plates with a
flourish. Stepping back to admire the nicely set table and
you sitting at the head of it in your red suit with your
glorious hair glowing in the flickering light of the candles, I
nod once, pleased with the overall effect, and walk to the
counter to retrieve the wine.
When I return to the table, you're looking at me with a
contemplative expression. The bruises on your cheek look
better in the candlelight and the flush on your face serves
to hide them further even as it brings out the blue of your
eyes.
"Why are you doing this?" You sound perplexed and
vaguely troubled. You put your precious photo next to your
plate and your eyes stray to the image of you and Mulder
as if you're somehow finding some sort of moral support in
it.
"Doing what?" I ask, opening the wine to let it breathe as
per the instructions I read through while browsing the
winery's site.
"This," you gesture with your free hand at the candles and
the glasses and the bottle of wine I set before you, just out
of easy reach of course. One of the candles blows out with
the gust of wind your gesture causes and I drop the bottle
opener on the table and re-light the still smoldering wick.
"I dunno," I reply, "why do you think I'm doing it?
"Beats me."
"Maybe I felt like it."
"Whatever." You shrug and blow a lock of hair out of your
eyes. "It's a first, that's for sure."
"What do you mean?"
"This is hardly the first time someone's taken me against
my will," you say with a chagrined expression. Then you
smile a tiny little half-smile. "It's the first time anyone's
made an effort to go about it halfway nice though."
"Oh." I don't quit know what to say to that so I just hold my
tongue. I think the small admission means you're softening
towards me though and I feel mildly euphoric. I try to mask
it by busying myself getting our dinner from the oven.
"Still, it doesn't mean I like it," you say as I return from the
kitchen area.
"Fair enough," I concede, feeling magnanimous, smiling as
I set the steaming Spaghetti dinner on the table and pour
the wine
"So why are you doing this, really?"
"Maybe I wanted to try talking to you again and hoped this
would set the mood."
"I'm not talking about our little candlelit dinner, I'm talking
about why I'm here."
"I know," I say though I hadn't followed your train of
thought that far. When I glance at you, I realize you haven't
noticed I'm about two stations behind and I sigh in relief.
The soft expulsion of breath makes you look up and
covering for my lapse with activity I heap food upon your
plate and then help myself and sit down, raising my glass
in a toast.
You return the gesture and then take a sip. Nodding your
head in appreciation you take a bigger draught, set your
glass on the table and proceed to devour the generous
helping of Spaghetti con Funghi I served you.
I follow your example and for a while we eat in what almost
feels like companionable silence to me. The food is good,
the wine is better and I start to feel pleasantly relaxed.
When you put down your fork and reach for your wine
again I observe the way your cuffed left arm lies idly in
your lap, despite the fact I made sure the chain is long
enough that it shouldn't impede you. I suddenly remember
the way you were nursing it earlier. "What's the matter with
your arm?" I point to it with my fork, masking the fact that
I'm upset with myself for not asking about it sooner with
callous behavior.
"I think I sprained it yesterday," you say. When I blanche at
the implication of your words -- that I hurt you somehow --
you're quick to catch up on it and hasten to add, "It's no big
deal, don't worry about it."
"I'm sorry," I apologize, still feeling the need to, though
you've obviously forgiven me.
"It's okay."
I look at you a long moment and see that you're
underplaying the discomfort you're in but I decide not to
call you on it. You return to your food and I observe you as
you eat. Your appetite is ferocious and when you finish
your plate I get up without saying a word and heap some
more Spaghetti on your plate.
"Thank you," you say and the small admission of gratitude
further convinces me I might actually be getting through to
you.
"You're welcome," I say, smiling my most winning smile as
I sit down opposite you again. Encouraged I press on, "Did
you get a chance to think over what we talked about last
night?"
"Yeah, I did." You sound to my hopeful ears like you did
more than just think about it. I wait patiently for you to
continue but you don't follow through, instead attacking
your second helping with as much enthusiasm as the first. I
suddenly remember I forgot to leave you anything to eat
this morning and I blush with the realization. Thankfully,
you don't seem to notice.
Taking a sip off my wine to steady myself I see you've
already drained yours and I seize my opportunity to make
amends, getting up and leaning over the table to refill your
glass though I'd earlier decided not to overdo the alcohol.
"What did you conclude?" I try to sound casual as I sit
back again.
You finish eating and lean back in your chair, picking up
your wine and taking a small sip. "You tell me." You
manage to sound relaxed and look almost bored as you
set your glass on the table.
"No fair making me spell it out Dana."
"No I mean it," you say with a frown standing out like an
exclamation point between your eyebrows. "Tell me
because all I got was a headache trying to figure out what
you want from me."
"You were a promising agent once..." I trail off when I
finally catch up to the undertone of mockery in your voice.
You shrug. "And?"
"I want you to go back to that again and make good on that
promise." I take a swig of wine and set the glass down with
enough force to spill some of the contents over the
tabletop. It's red -- like blood.
"So all this is to get my career on the right track again?"
you say after a moment, left eyebrow rising in a perfect
question mark.
"Yeah." Getting angry now...so angry.
"Well for your information, it doesn't need straightening
out," you say and your eyes do that freezing thing again.
"The hell it doesn't!" I get up and shove my chair away with
such a violent push it topples over.
You don't back down at my display of anger and this
infuriates me even more.
"I can't believe we're having this conversation," you say
and the expression on your face is one of bemusement.
You raise your glass to your lips and take another sip.
"This is my career and my decision, it's not anything to do
with you."
"Maybe not but you can't tell me you're happy to see your
career going straight down the toilet via Spooky's fucking
basement!" My fingers hurt and when I look down, I see I'm
gripping the edge of the table so tightly my knuckles are
white with the strain.
It seems the angrier I become the calmer you become and
I don't like it.
"So okay," you say, "not that it's any of your business, but
just for the hell of it, tell me how you think I should go
about saving it?"
I lean over and get right in your face and whisper, "Leave
the X-files."
"Excuse me?" Your eyebrow does that gravity defying bit
again as it raises nearly to your hairline.
"Leave the X-files and partner up with me. We'll be the
best damned team the Bureau has ever had."
"What?"
It seems I finally succeeded in flummoxing you and I smile
as I unclench my fingers and straighten up. "You heard
me."
"I already have a partner," you say and shove the
photograph that's been lying beside your plate all this time
at me.
The reminder of how close the two of you actually are
serves to inflame me again.
The picture was obviously taken at a crime scene. You're
both wearing latex gloves and otherwise look like the FBI's
finest in your business suits and trench coats. Crouched
side by side, you're looking down at something intently and
though there's nothing in the picture to indicate anything
untoward is going on between you two, you're still just a
little bit too close to comfortably deny it either.
"But where is he now?" My voice sounds cruel to my own
ears. I'm getting beyond angry. I move around the table
and stalk over to where you're sitting, helplessly bound in
place.
"I don't know, but I know he'll be back." The total conviction
in your voice grates on my nerves.
I reach for the picture and you try to snatch it back. My
patience snaps like a rubber band stretched too wide and I
lunge for the photo, grab it and violently rip it in two, then
hold the half showing Mulder over the flickering flame of
the nearest candle.
Breath coming in short hard bursts, you jump up and strain
towards the picture so hard that for a moment I fear either
the cuff will give or your wrist will, but neither does. You
give another hard, impotent jerk and then watch on as
flames consume the image of Mulder.
You're leaning towards me, getting as close to me as the
chain on the handcuff will allow, left arm stretched back so
far I know it must be painful, right hand planted firmly on
the tabletop.
"You unmitigated asshole." Your whisper is louder than a
shout and your beautiful face is twisted into a snarl of such
ferocity I actually take a step back. Your expression makes
me realize you've just been playacting all this time, trying
to get on my good side by feigning attention. You're not
interested at all in what I'm saying, all you've been trying to
do is play on my emotions so that I'll be more easily
persuaded to let you go.
With the realization anger sweeps through me, blotting out
everything else, and I let it.
My gun is out in one quick movement and I jam it into the
back of your right hand -- hard. My free hand goes diving
into my back pocket searching for the handcuff key. It's not
there and for a moment, I believe you're somehow
responsible for making it disappear on me, that's how far
you've pushed me with your unreasonable behavior.
I shake the thought, dig through my other pockets, nearly
rip trough the seam on the left front one, and finally come
up with the key. Grinding the muzzle of my gun harder into
the back of your hand, I unlock the cuff and grab your other
wrist, twisting your arm up high behind your back.
I can actually hear the tendons in your shoulder and elbow
creak in protest. You make a strangled half sound, as if
you're biting your tongue trying not to let me hear your
pain. I'm so angry that I don't care that I'm hurting you; in
fact, I kind of like the sound you just made. It beats having
to listen to that superior tone I realize in retrospect you've
managed to use throughout our argument.
I march you towards your room and when you struggle as I
push you through the doorway, grabbing onto the doorpost
with your free right hand, I respond by wrenching your arm
up another few inches. I hear something give, the sound
sharp and concise like a bat hitting a ping pong ball, and
this time you do moan. Instead of feeling guilty, I let myself
enjoy the sound, you brought this on yourself after all,
defying me every step of the way, and after I brought you
dinner and wine to boot.
We cross the room and when I throw you down on the bed
face first, your head connects with the wooden headboard
with an audible crack. You go limp and though your eyes
are open, they're unfocused. There's no struggle when I
grab your foot and you remain still like that as I close the
manacle around your ankle.
Completely out of it and unresponsive, your heads lolls on
your chest when I grab your arm and try to pull you upright.
You moan softly but after a moment your eyes open a bit
and, gratified by this sign of returned consciousness, I
release you. You only fall back again, weakly flailing for
some purchase then slumping when your left arm won't
support your weight.
I feel a little remorseful when I step back and see the tiny
heap you make on the bedspread.
Grabbing one of the paper cups from the bedside table, I
fill it with water and sit down beside you on the bed, careful
to keep pointing the gun at you and to keep a safe distance
between us.
Clumsily I pour some water between your slack lips and
after a moment you cough and roll over onto your side,
blinking awake. It takes a long moment for you to come to
your senses and during it you just lie there, staring at me.
Then suddenly you're all there and as soon as my
proximity registers you jerk back and start to rise. I feel
sorrow and anger warring for dominance within me at your
instinctive recoil. When you lean on your bad arm, it folds
under you again. I watch on as with a groan you flop back
on the bed, boneless like a rag doll.
The sight of you so incapacitated cools me down a bit
more and I get up to help you.
"Don't touch me," you say and the look you throw me
makes me rethink my chivalrous impulse. Bound and
helpless as you are, the expression on your face tells me
you'd find some way to get in a few good licks. I value the
various parts of my anatomy that would come within your
reach enough to want them all in working order, thank you
very much
You struggle upright and sit there with your left arm
hanging limply at your side, right hand pushing your hair
away from your face then gravitating towards the photo's
scattered about on the bed, as if you need them to draw
strength from.
Without a word, I turn towards the living room and grab a
notebook and a pen from my briefcase. When I return
you're clutching your shoulder and gingerly trying to rotate
your elbow and I catch you wincing -- hard -- before you
notice my presence and the impassive mask I've started to
hate closes over your features again.
"Get out," you say.
"Not before you help me out," I counter.
"No way."
I throw the notebook and pen on the bed beside you. "You
don't have a fucking choice Dana."
You snort derisively and anger courses through me again.
Jesus you have a knack for pissing me off. I point my gun
at you to underscore how serious I am.
"I'm not helping you." There's an absolute edge to the
statement that's utterly convincing and it has me
scrambling for a means to persuade you to rethink it.
When I observe the way you're carefully not using your left
arm as you scoot back on the bed until your shoulders are
pressed against the headboard, a cruel idea pops
unbidden into my brain.
"I suggest you do Dana dear," I say as I approach you.
I reach for the handcuffs and dangle them in your face.
"If you don't, I'm going to handcuff you to this here bed in
the most uncomfortable position I can think of." I prod your
bad shoulder with my gun and you cringe and clench your
jaw. "How long do you think it'll be before you start begging
me for mercy huh?" I increase the pressure a bit and see
the muscles in your jaw bunch as you bite back a whimper.
It's the only reaction I get though, which leads me to think it
might be a good long while before you do give in to me, if
you do at all. Just as I start to contemplate how far I'm
willing to take this, you surprise me again by suddenly
yielding to my request.
"What do you want?"
I withdraw my gun and prompt you to pick up the pen. Your
fingers clench around it and I see my gun has caused a
rapidly darkening bruise to form on the back of your hand.
"Something to throw Skinner for a loop while we hash out
our differences, you and I."
My eyes are riveted to the perfect circular imprint I left on
your flesh and the way it ripples with the movement of the
veins and muscles under your skin as you write out the
message I dictate. A message that will, hopefully, send
Skinner scurrying back into his office, calling off the task
team he's so diligently put together in shame, freeing us to
take this to its conclusion.
I'm no longer sure about what that conclusion is going to
be though. You don't even recognize how far you've fallen
down the ladder of success and you're obviously not going
to be easily persuaded to start climbing it again. Let alone
allow me to join forces with you when you do succeed in
clambering out of the hole Mulder -- with your own help I
might add -- has dug for your.
I'm not beaten yet though and when you finish writing I
gather my pen and notebook and wish you goodnight.
Tomorrow will be another day and after I get Skinner off
the case, I'm hoping that maybe I'll be able to take a few
days off. I'm certain I'll be able to make you come around if
only we can spend more time together.
As I take my leave I watch you sitting there on the bed and
notice for the first time how deep the lines of pain are
etched in your face.
"Do you need something for your arm?" I ask, stopping in
the doorway.
"A doctor would be nice," you say with that deadpan
expression that bothers the shit out of me since it I can
never tell whether you're joking or not because of it.
"Yeah right." I decide you must be joking because you
know I could never allow you your request. "I have some
extra strength Tylenol in my briefcase."
I bring you the pills and you swallow them down then turn
away from me and lie down on the bed without thanking
me.
"You're welcome," I say and when you ungraciously don't
even bother to reply I walk out and leave you to stew in
your own juices for a while.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~
Before I go to work the next morning I prepare you an
extensive breakfast and I remember to provide a snack for
lunch too. I know you normally take only a light lunch so I
don't overdo it, yogurt and some fruit should be okay, I
think.
I enter your room to find you're still fast asleep. You're
moving restlessly beneath the covers and murmuring
unintelligibly and don't wake up when I put your breakfast
tray on your bedside table. When I put my hand to your
forehead, you feel a little warm to my touch. Worried you
might actually have caught a cold, I put out some Tylenol
just in case you might need it, then leave for work.
I show up at the office early enough to drop the letter in
Skinner's in tray without anyone noticing and quickly make
my way back to my desk to wait until I can show up again
for our early morning meeting.
I've been careful not to actually handle the letter myself so
any forensic investigation will reveal only your fingerprints.
I'm thinking that that, and the message written out in you
bold hand, will be convincing enough for Skinner to call off
the troops.
Curious to see if my scheme will indeed pan out I shove
papers to and fro on my desk, waiting for him to show up
and wondering how much time I should let elapse before I
show up in his office.
Unable to wait any longer I enter Skinner's offices again
some thirty minutes behind him and Kimberly announces
my presence and then shows me in when Skinner's voice
comes over the speaker.
He's at his desk, eyes riveted to the letter we wrote and he
doesn't acknowledge me at first. I don't dare sit down just
like that and remain standing in front of his desk.
While he continues to ignore me I take the opportunity to
let my eyes roam his office and I like what I see. It's
spacious, with heavy oak furniture -- distinguished. A
conference table big enough to comfortably seat half a
dozen people dominates one quarter of the room and a
big, comfortable looking, leather couch takes up much of
the space against one wall.
I picture myself behind the stately oak desk in Skinner's
stead and like that even better.
When he finally looks up his eyes are hidden behind the
refraction of his wire rims and his expression is inscrutable.
"It seems your presence is no longer required Agent," he
says, gesturing for me to take a seat.
His words are brusque enough to give me a scare despite
myself and I sink down gratefully in one of the chairs
opposite him, sitting back and crossing my right leg over
the left, trying to look at ease.
"Sir?" I manage not to choke on the word and to succeed
in just sounding confused.
Truth be told I am -- more than a little bit -- by his words
and manner and I find myself fidgeting. Afraid of giving
myself away, I make a conscious effort to control the
restless up and down movement of my right leg and plant
both feet firmly on the ground instead.
Sizing me up, Skinner thrusts the letter at me and I pretend
to read it, using the time it affords me to get a hold of
myself. I know the words by hart already, having read over
the letter many times between you writing it and me
dropping it off.
"Sir -- it says --
I realize my not showing up for work yesterday must have
caused something of a stir and I'm sorry. I should have
called and let you know I'd be taking a few days off but
I feared you would want to have someone following me --
"just for my own protection" I can hear you say it now --
and I assure you I don't need that.
What I need is to get out of my own head for a bit and let
what happened sink in.
I need to start dealing with the fact that I might never see
Fox Mulder again and I need to figure out where to go from
there.
I will contact you when I can.
Dana"
I carefully wait long enough to convince him I've read
through the entire thing before I raise my head and look at
him, feigning confusion.
"Sir?"
"This showed up in my inbox this morning."
"You're sure it's her Sir?" I say, handing back the letter as
he extends his hand.
He takes it and sighs. "Yeah. Yes I am. I had the lab dust it
for fingerprints but I suspect that won't yield anything." He
shrugs and leans back in his chair, twiddling with his pen.
"Besides, I recognize her handwriting. It's her alright."
"So she's 'getting out of her own head for a bit' huh?" I
manage to sound as if I'm seriously contemplating the
issue. Getting better and better at this duplicitous bit my
man, I meanwhile congratulate myself. "Where do you
think she is then Sir"?
"I have no idea Agent."
"Perhaps she went to Oregon again to look for him?" I
suggest. I look him in the eye, daring him to tell me if he
figures your leave of absence is not voluntary.
"She wouldn't, not without alerting me." His words are
much more confident than the tone with which they're
delivered.
He gets up from behind his desk and turns towards the
window, one hand on his back, the other holding on to the
letter so tightly it crumples a bit in his grasp. His shoulders
are slumped and I allow myself a tiny victorious smile.
"So you think Agent Scully's okay?" I ask for good
measure.
"It would appear so yes," he says and turns towards me,
giving me a piercing look. His hands fiddle with the piece of
paper clutched in them.
"But...?" I prompt.
"There's something in this whole business that doesn't sit
right with me." He turns back towards the window and his
back gives nothing more away. "I just can't put my finger
on it.
"You suspect foul play?"
"I don't know," He rolls his shoulders and I can hear the
bones move against each other. His voice is so soft I can
barely make out what he's saying but it grows stronger as
he continues, speaking as if to himself, as if I weren't there.
"It's just a gut feeling, hardly enough to justify further
expenditure of manpower and resources, so I'm
dissembling the task team."
"You're not going to look for her then?"
"I doubt I'd be able to find her if she's decided she doesn't
want me to."
"Too true Sir."
"You're dismissed Agent," he says without turning around
and I'm out of my seat as if shot from the barrel of a gun.
I make for the door, eager to escape his scrutiny and
contemplate my next move but pause with the doorknob in
my hand, struck by sudden inspiration. "If there's anything
you need Sir," I say, "unofficially, without going through
proper channels and needing to justify expenditure, I'm
available."
He swivels his face towards me and there's a look of
surprise on his face. "I appreciate your offer Agent, I'll keep
it in mind."
Chalk up a few more points on the career path score card.
I nod and leave; pleased with myself and whistling softly as
I make my way back to my desk. I'm curious as to why he's
still unconvinced you're just taking a few days off but not
overly worried. He's pulling the task team and I made sure
he's going to be including me if he's going to take further
action. All in all, I'd say I've got all the bases covered and I
make for my desk and spend the rest of the day planning
how our evening is going to go.
No more fancy dinners and wine and candles I think. I'm
through trying to sweet talk you and I make a resolution
right there and then that I'm going to put it to you straight.
Remembering how you managed to anger me every time
we started discussing things, I begin to wonder if maybe
when I attempt once more to explain myself tonight, I
should restrain you so you won't be able to distract me.
The thought briefly revolts me but the more I think about it,
the more I realize that perhaps it's not such a bad idea
after all. Gagging you will afford me the opportunity to talk
to you without you interrupting me all the time. It'll make
our discussion that much easier, I think to myself with a
whimsical grin.
I sit up straighter and think this plan through and feel sure
that my new tactic is going to work where my attempts to
coddle and cajole you into submission haven't.
The thought also makes me realize that I have other
options open to me, if I don't succeed in getting through to
you tonight after all.
I reflect long and hard on how the promise of violence
yesterday, when I held up the handcuffs and told you I'd
use them to hurt you, made you bow to my will. I realize if
talking to you tonight as I'm planning to won't do the trick,
following through on that threat might be the only way to
convince you to see things my way.
I don't want to do it you understand but we can't keep
going back and forth like we have been, never arriving at
the conclusion I want for us to reach.
If I have to take matters into my own hands and hurt you a
little to get through to you I will. I won't like it but I'll be
strong for the both of us.
You'll thank me for it later, when -- free of Mulder's
influence at last -- you're once more on your predestined
path, me following right along behind you.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~
Resolve still firmly in place I arrive at our cabin and after
shedding my jacket, which got soaked through in the two
seconds it took me to run from my car to the front porch, I
make straight for your room.
The thunderstorm that broke the night I brought you here
hasn't let up since. I wonder if there's some cosmic
significance to that and figure that if this were a movie, the
rain will stop falling as soon as I persuaded you onto the
right path again. The thought only serves to reinforce my
purpose and I feel I'm close to winning this thing with the
strength of my convictions alone as I get to your room and
open the door.
What I find when I enter weakens my resolve until it's all
but evaporated.
You're on the bed clad only in your panties and your
undershirt and I'm instantly rock hard at the sight of your
small but beautifully proportioned body, covered in what
amount to tiny scraps of cloth when seen against the
expanse of your naked flesh.
Your firm legs are longer than I would have thought and
lead to full hips flaring out just right. The dip of your tiny
waist makes me want to try and see if my two big hands
will span it and they clench and unclench at my sides,
impatient with want and need. Travelling up, my eyes feast
on your still partially clad breasts -- black lace Dana?
Flustered, I force myself to move on to your strong, well-
muscled shoulders, ignoring the bruises there, and up the
long smooth column of your neck towards your face.
Only then, as I see the sheen of sweat on your forehead
and the way your hair is plastered to your flushed cheeks,
does the fact that your shirt is soaked with perspiration
register, as does the fact that the sheets twisted beneath
you are drenched through.
Rushing to your side I notice that your breakfast tray has
been left untouched except for the juice I poured you and
wonder why my brain would pick up on something so
seemingly insignificant just when it also registers that the
Tylenol I put out for you is gone too.
"Dana?" I get no response and tap your cheeks lightly
"Dana wake up!"
You murmur something unintelligible and then a coughing
fit racks you, making you wince violently at the spasms
shuddering through your body. My eyes travel to the arm
you injured yesterday. You're holding it against your side
protectively, as if it's filled with shards of glass and every
movement hurts and I guess it does. It's not just bruised a
bit. Now that I look at it, make myself focus on it for the first
time really, I see it's actually -- literally -- black and blue in
places and stiff with disuse.
I whisper your name again and your eyes flutter open, then
fall closed again. I'm frightened by the glimpse I got of the
entirely too vacant look in them.
"Talk to me, Scully." In my encroaching panic, I forget all
about my decision to call you only by your given name but I
don't care since it makes your eyes stutter open again.
"Mul -- " Yep, it official, there's nobody home if you're
confusing me for the bastard who put you here in the first
place. It galls me that he's the first person you think to call
out to when he's not even here and I am right beside you
but I quench the thought. Concentrate on getting her better
my man, I think to myself. Time enough to get angry later.
"Dana what's wrong?" Your eyes close again and your
head moves restlessly on the pillow.
"Sick..." You arch off the bed coughing uncontrollably and
when the fit is over you lie back exhausted. The wet rattle
of your breath as it moves in and out of your lungs
screams pneumonia to my untrained ears.
"Yeah, well I grasped that," I say as I put my hand on your
forehead. Your fever burns my palm. "Shit you're burning
up."
I get a towel from the other room, soak it thoroughly and
wipe you down with it. Under different circumstances, it
would be wildly exciting being allowed to touch your flesh
like this but all I feel is panic at how hot you are under my
touch.
I sigh in relief when, after another pass with the towel you
revive somewhat and your eyes open. They're gray with
the extent of your illness but at least you're looking at me
with awareness dawning in them.
"I need a doctor," you say and underneath the weakness,
there's the sharp familiar edge of command in your voice.
"No can do," I say, "but I can get you whatever you need.
You're a doctor yourself, tell me what to do for you."
"Antibiotics...painkillers."
"Not a problem, what else?"
The effort it takes to string a sentence together makes your
breath rasps in and out of your lungs, making it difficult to
figure out what you're saying. I lean in closer and get the
gist of it though. "Shoulder's dislocated...tried to put it
back in...need your help."
"Okay." I had a dislocated shoulder once and I know it
hurts like a son of a bitch. As much as this is going to hurt
though, trying to put it back in by yourself must have been
nothing short of agonizing. My respect for you ratchets up
another notch.
I'm unsure how to go about this but move towards you and
put my hand on your shoulder tentatively, propelled to try
anyway by the urgency of the discomfort you're in.
You jerk back with a yelp.
"Painkillers first." Your breath comes in short pants now
and your eyes are becoming unfocused again.
I nod my head in understanding. Whispering, "Okay." when
I realize your lids are now tightly closed, I brush your sweat
soaked hair off your burning cheeks. Putting the wet towel
on your forehead to cool down the fever burning you up, I
turn on my heels and race towards the door.
I'm halfway through the doorway when your voice makes
me look back, startled. It's stronger somehow, steadier.
Your head is up off your pillow -- something I didn't think
you'd have the strength for -- and you're squinting at me.
"Mulder?" In your fevered brain, my back lit figure must
resemble his in some way and I suddenly know it's where
you get your unexpected strength from.
When you manage to focus enough for you to see it's me
not Mulder standing in the doorway, your head falls back
onto the pillow and you close your eyes with a weary sigh.
I remain where I am a moment longer, observing the way
your eyes move back and forth underneath your tightly
closed lids. It looks like you're searching for him even in
your fever induced dreams. The bastard obviously has an
even stronger hold on you than I already imagined if the
mere mention of his name fortifies you like that and I'm at a
loss as to how to proceed from there.
I shake my head to clear it from any but the most pressing
concerns -- getting you the medicine you need -- and
without bothering to lock the door, I dash to my car through
the pouring rain. I curse myself all the way for having
treated you too roughly, curse you for not alerting me to
your predicament earlier, I curse the lousy weather too,
just on general principal.
Most of all I curse Mulder for bewitching you and having
had a hand in making you so strong and so weak at the
same time.
I'm soaked to the skin before I realize I forgot my jacket
and shrug off the discomfort, no sense getting it now, I
think as I slide behind the steering wheel. I'm dripping
water all over the upholstery and my wet hair is in my eyes.
I swipe it back and start the car. Looking out the front
window I can hardly see our cabin through the rain
sheeting down and for a moment I consider going back
inside and waiting out the storm. It's foolishness going out
in this weather really.
Recognizing the need to get you some help, I turn the key
in the ignition instead, carefully step on the gas and turn
the car around, pointing it back the way I came scant
minutes ago.
The rain makes navigating the dirt road difficult and I curse
the weather some more, needing to vent my frustration.
Walking would be faster but the nearest drugstore is a
couple of miles down the secondary road the trail leads to.
As soon as I hit it I'll be able to make up for lost time.
I panic at the thought of you, alone and sick and caught out
here in the middle of all this violence. What if you wake
from your restless sleep and there's no one there to cool
down your fever? What if I crash the car and no one knows
to get help to you?
Shaking my head in rueful acceptance of the turn my
thoughts have taken, I find I have enough sense to laugh
at myself for my earlier bravura, thinking I could
deliberately hurt you.
If the accidental injuries you suffered while you struggled
against me could leave me feeling like a heel and
scrambling to undo some of the damage, how am I going
to feel when you're hurt because of a premeditated act of
cruelty on my part? It's just not going to happen, my man, I
tell myself. You could no sooner hurt her on purpose than
cut off one of your own limbs.
That leaves me in somewhat of a quandary, as it closes off
the last avenue I thought I had of getting you to listen and
agree with me, but then with a flash of insight, I realize
your immediate need gives me a new handhold.
If I get you the help you need and get you well again, we'll
have a basis from which to proceed, won't we? I'll have
saved you and you'll be in my debt. The thought infuses
me with purpose and I step on the gas as much as I dare.
>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<
I cannot believe my eyes when I finally make it back and
skid to a halt by your bedside, medicine and bandages and
enough painkillers to knock out a horse stuffed in various
pockets.
The manacle that enclosed your ankle is on the bed.
There's a bit of blood on it, more on the sheets beneath it.
The broken corkscrew you must have appropriated during
our aborted candlelit dinner and used to free yourself, is
lying next to it.
The meager evidence is all that's left of your presence in
the room.
When I touch the metal bracelet, it still retains traces of
your body heat, and I know it means you're not far off. You
can't be moving too fast either. Though I now realize you
were faking some of your earlier weakness, the fever I felt
in you was real, as was the injury to your arm.
"God dammit!" I curse, swerving around and dashing
outside into the pouring rain again.
I stop on the porch and try to figure out which way you're
headed. I saw no sign of you when I approached just now,
but figure your best bet would be to follow the dirt path
back to the road and that's probably my best bet at
recapturing you as well. Going any other way would get
you lost in the woods. I'm sure you're clear headed enough
to understand that, if you were lucid enough to get me out
of the cabin and get yourself free. You probably saw me
coming by the shine of the headlights and hid in the
bushes until I passed you on my way to the cabin huh?
I start jogging back up the way I came. You're never going
to make it as far as the main road in your condition but I'm
not taking any chances slowing myself down taking the
car. It can only travel the dirt road at a snail's pace now,
what with the puddles and the mud and the rain still
coming down in sheets.
When after a few minutes I trip over your trench coat, lying
abandoned by the side of the road I know I'm going in the
right direction and I pick up my pace.
I'm concerned that you would dispose of your coat like
that. No doubt the heavy waterlogged material was slowing
you down, but at least it would have kept you somewhat
warm. The foolish action, I feel, speaks to your fevered
state of mind. I fear that, if I don't get you out of this
freezing downpour, your temperature will skyrocket and
add to your illness. The thought adds to my urgency. If I
don't get you warm soon, I know we're going to need a
doctor and then the game will be up.
Wet branches slap me in the face and mud is churning
along the dirt road, which is actually a dry river bed, I now
remember. The bad weather makes keeping up any sort of
pace increasingly difficult. I'm starting to get out of breath
and wonder how you managed to get so far.
When lightning splices the sky in two, I can make out your
tiny figure stumbling along the trail in the distance and I
breathe a sigh of relief, tuck my chin into my chest and
force a renewed burst of speed from my tired muscles,
running heedlessly after you.
"Jesus Scully," I suddenly hear a heavy voice call out and
looking up, I throw on the brakes, bringing myself to a halt
behind an oak tree big enough to comfortably hide me from
sight. Just in time too.
Up ahead, a car is parked diagonally across the dirt road.
The lights are off which tells me whoever it is, was hoping
to come down the trail undetected, probably after you and
therefore after me.
When the headlights come on, I squint into the glare and
see you come skidding to a halt, catching yourself on the
hood when you slip in the mud and start to topple over.
The driver's door is already open and a shadowy figure
unfolds itself from behind the steering wheel and comes to
stand towering above you.
"Sir?" You look up and then your legs buckle and you start
to fall to the ground. He catches you and, hanging limply in
those massive arms, you seem even tinier than you did
fleeing ahead of me moments earlier.
I'm close enough to make out the relieved expression on
your face and hear the way his breath explodes from him
when you curl into his warmth.
"Yeah, it's me Scully," Skinner says as he takes off his coat
and wraps you in it, then slides his arms around you
gently, as if you might shatter if he touches you too
roughly.
For all the care he displays, you moan as he starts to pick
you up. Startled he lets go, intending to set you down but
when your feet touch the ground, your legs fold, refusing to
carry you any longer. He kneels down with you when you
start to slide down his body and his big hands flutter over
your face.
"What is it?"
"Hurts."
"I figured," he says, "but where?" He whips out his cell
phone and with his other hand peels the coat from you and
tries to assess your injuries. He touches your damaged
arm, talking urgently into the phone and meanwhile
handling you with more gentle concern than I ever thought
he would be capable of. You shudder as his fingers trail
over your bruises and he shudders with you. Cursing under
his breath, his hand moves lower and comes to rest on
your stomach.
"I'm okay." You lift your good arm and put your hand over
his big fist. The way those two hands lie on your belly,
fingers intertwined, his big hand swallowing your much
smaller one, seems very intimate, much more so than
would be appropriate for a special agent and her superior
officer.
A tight grimace stretches his cheeks as he flips the cell
phone shut and pockets it. "Scully where is he?"
"Don't know," you whisper and then you dissolve into a
coughing fit that leaves you breathless and leaves him
shaken. He wraps his coat tightly around your shivering
body again, all the while looking around intently, peering
into the bushes, eyes drilling holes through the trees.
Where his cell phone was moments ago, I now see the dull
shine of a gun.
Your hand sneaks from the folds of his coat and reaches
up to touch his cheek. He looks down at the contact.
"Hospital." Your voice is so faint now I have to guess at
what you're saying. Skinner nods once and when he does
you sigh and your body goes slack in his arms.
As his arms go around you again, infinitely careful now, he
bellows my name -- wrapped up in a curse -- and I
suddenly realize he utters yours as often as Mulder does.
I also realize he has yet to call you 'Dana' and at least part
of the puzzle of his presence falls into place.
You're Scully to him.
What you and Skinner share is a faint echo of what you
and Mulder share, and one of its exponents is the use of
your last names. I'd thought it one of Spooky's many
idiosyncrasies but either Skinner has picked it up from him
or there's something to the syllables of your name that
make these men who protect and care for you want to
speak it aloud as much as possible.
You knew signing your first name to that letter would get
his radar up didn't you.
Crafty, Agent Scully, very crafty, I praise you even as I
curse you.
As Skinner picks you up and walks back to his car, I start
to wonder what brought him here. It can't have been the
letter, other than that tiny oversight I was very thorough in
erasing any trace evidence. I think back, trying to see
where I went wrong the past couple of days, trying to figure
out what gave me away, but nothing comes to mind.
I have a window of opportunity, when Skinner unlocks the
backdoor and then bends over to gently put you down on
the backseat, where I can still turn this whole thing back to
my advantage. All I have to do is come up behind him and
knock him out, and we're on our way, you and I, off to fight
another day.
I contemplate it for a moment but realize that somewhere
along the line, I already grasped the fact that your
conversion is just not going to happen while Mulder is still
in the picture. I've also begun to comprehend that he
always will be in there, whether he's actually physically
with you or not.
When Skinner straightens up the moment is gone, I'm not
sure I could have taken him anyway. The bastard is a hell
of a lot bigger than I am, after all.
I hear him say something to you and realize you're still
conscious. Unable to make out what he's telling you, I creep
closer in time to hear you laugh softly in reply. The sound
is so startling I nearly give myself away gasping aloud.
"How did you...find me?" Your voice floats towards me
from the backseat of the car, where Skinner is crouched
down beside you in the open door.
He frowns in obvious concern at the way your belabored
breathing makes speaking difficult. "The stupid bastard
fucked up telling me maybe you'd gone back to Oregon."
Damn.
Such a tiny slip up, and the bastard notices.
But then, he personally saw to it that your little trip to
Oregon was buried so deep nobody would be able to trace
it, didn't he?
So he would pick up on it, wouldn't he?
Stupid, stupid, stupid asshole, I scold myself, pounding my
fist into the mud. My knuckle hits something sharp and
hard, a rock or maybe the root of the tree I'm hiding
behind, and pain surges through my hand. It clears my
head enough that I can follow the thread of your
conversation but what I hear only infuriates me further.
"He would mess up...trying to suck up." You're wheezing
now and the harsh sound of your breath as it rattles in your
chest provides a counterpoint to the cutting words spoken
so softly.
Skinner lets out a startled guffaw. "He would wouldn't he?"
"Seems to be a pattern there..."
"Yeah."
"Maybe we should tell him?"
When you try to elaborate he shushes you and swipes
your soggy hair away from your brow, tucking it behind
your ear. The tendrils are so heavy with rain they
immediately slip out from behind your ear again and he
has to repeat the gesture, again and again.
"Yeah, maybe we should Scully. Just as soon as we find
him"
"Hmm..."
"But not before I kick the shit out of him okay?"
"Deal."
The rain is letting up and through the absence of the
steady drum of water pounding the ground I can hear
sirens in the distance. I slink off into the woods, realizing
just in time that if I don't get out of here in a hurry, I never
will. From what I just heard, I've no doubt Skinner would
make sure of that if he gets his hands on me now.
I throw one glance back over my shoulder and see him
tucking his coat around your shoulders like it's a blanket
and you're a wayward child up way past her bedtime. I'm
instantly jealous at the easy rapport between the two of
you. The sight of it makes me sick and I wonder why we
weren't able to establish such familiarity.
I know it wasn't for lack of trying on my part.
I'll have to ask you later.
>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~><~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<
"Welcome back baby girl. You gave us all quit a scare."
Your mother's voice drifts out into the hallway and it's too
bright, with a note of forced cheerfulness to it that doesn't
convince. I haven't had occasion to hear her speak before
today, but I can guess she doesn't normally sound like this.
I think she usually sounds more like you, or you sound like
her -- whatever -- serious though and controlled.
I'm just outside your room; have been hovering in the
hallway for hours. Walking into the hospital and finding
your room was absurdly easy but Skinner was standing
guard outside your door until just a few minutes ago. He
came in to relieve the three geeks and only went for some
coffee when your mother arrived, but I know soon he'll be
back to take root outside the room again and he's not
going to allow anyone but your inner circle of five access to
you.
I know there's no getting to you now, no window of time
sufficient for me to snatch you away and allow us to
continue where we left off.
I don't know that I want to either.
The past few days I spent with you have convinced me you
are beyond help, I thought about it long and hard while
struggling through the woods making my escape and came
to the conclusion that I don't want any more to do with your
pathetic obsession. Getting that idiot partner of yours back
is all that matters to you and even though I care for you as
much now as I did before we were thrown together, I don't
want any part of this insanity between you two.
I'm here because what I do want, is for you to have one
last reminder of our time together and of what you've given
up on. I gave it to your mother just now, taking a chance
knocking on your door and handing it to her. When she told
me you were asleep but she'd be sure to mention I came
by when you woke up, I smiled politely and left, taking up
position outside your room again where I can keep one eye
out for Skinner while listening for you.
I want one last look at you, want to see your face flush with
one last memory of you and me, before taking my leave
and leaving you to it. Giving up on you doesn't mean I can
let go of you without regrets.
"Hmm... 'm sorry." Your beautiful voice is barely a
whisper but I perk up at the sound just the same while at
the same time my heart clenches tight as a fist in my chest.
Your mother's voice is soft and I have to strain to make out
what she's saying. "I thought that this time I'd lost you, lost
both of you."
I'm disgusted at the fact that your mother too is obviously
smitten with Mulder and is as concerned about his
wellbeing as everyone else around you is.
"We're okay Mom," you say. I wonder how you can say it
with such surety when you told me earlier that you have no
clue where the hell the bastard is.
"I know." There's sadness in that soft voice and I think that
even though she's infatuated with Mulder, she sees the
damage he's done as well as I do. "And I know there was
nothing you or I could have done to prevent this from
happening."
"Don't feel bad, please?" You sound like a small child
might sound trying to console a grown-up.
"I'll be okay. I just can't help wishing I could take you home
with me and protect you and never let you out of my sight
again." She injects some levity into her voice and this time
it sounds less strained. "It's a mother thing, you'll recognize
it."
I peek into the room and see you lying in a bed that makes
you look even smaller than you are. You look tired and
much too pale but thankfully, the swelling around your eye
has gone down a bit and you seem to be breathing easier
than when I last saw you. Your wrists are bandaged and
your left arm is in a heavy cast and sling but otherwise you
look okay and I'm relieved. You could have done yourself
some serious damage going into the woods without your
coat in the middle of a thunderstorm, running away from
me as if I was going to hurt you.
Your mother is just getting up as I peek in. She has the
shoebox full of photographs I handed her in her hands and
has the one we fought over clutched in her fist, just you
now, sans Mulder.
"Where did you get those?" you say and your voice is
edged with caution, whetted with anger. Alarm colors your
pale cheeks and makes your eyes flash with that blue
flame that burns and blisters -- hot and cold.
I smile.
From now on, when you think of me it will be with a stir of
this complex mix of feelings, it's enough to make me smile.
No more callous disregard, no more disinterest and
absence of emotion, I've left my mark on you and it will be
with you forever, it's not what I envisaged when we started
out on our journey -- you and I -- but it will have to do.
Your mother sounds alarmed at the agitation in your voice.
"From a young man who came by earlier when you were
still asleep," she says carefully. "I thought he was one of
your colleagues? He said to tell you to get well soon and
that you'd know what to do with them."
I see you reach out for the box with your good hand and
rummage in it a bit. You come up with the first photograph I
had up on the wall in your room, the one of you entering a
classroom. You look at it for a full minute, lost in thought,
and your mother sits back in her chair and observes you
with a strange expression of uneasy patience on her face.
"Mom, do I look different to you?" you finally ask as you
show the picture to her.
She looks at it but doesn't take it. "Sweetie," she says as
she puts her hand to your cheek and forces you to look her
in the eye, "you're still my curious little girl, fascinated with
the world taking shape around you. Through everything
that's happened to you throughout your life, I've never
stopped seeing that precocious little girl in you."
"Do you think I will look different to Mulder when he gets
back?"
She breathes a weary little sigh. "I don't know, maybe you
will, or maybe he'll just look differently AT you, have you
ever considered that?"
"How? How will he look at me?" The picture crumples in
your tight grip and you don't even notice it you're so intent
on hearing your mother's reply.
"We're different things to different people and different
people see differ