By IndigoMuse

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

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

Seisdeadh - a Gaelic word meaning obsessed.

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

Seisdeadh.
 

Prologue.

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

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

But I can make you clean.

I *will* make you clean.

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

Three months later.
Monday, 4.30 p.m.
 

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

"Hey."

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

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

"Mulder?"

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

"Look at the photographs."

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

"Jesus!"

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

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

"LOOK WHAT I'LL DO FOR YOU."

"What the hell is this?"

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

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

"So where did it come from."

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

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

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

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

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

"It's horrible!"

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

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

"OK then.  Let's get figuring."
 

7.10 p.m.

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

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

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

"Hey - Sleepy-Head."

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

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

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

"Fine.  You?"

"Fine."

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

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

9.10 p.m..  Scully's apartment.

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

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

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

"Leave them now - please?"

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

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

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

"Bed then?"

"Sleep."

"OK. Sleep."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do I have to teach you manners as well?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you are mine, we will be clean.

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

Are you asking to be clean?  Are you ready?

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

Tuesday morning.  Scully's apartment.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good morning, Scully."

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

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

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

"Fuck, Scully!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'd never lie to you.

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

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

11.00 am.

That image, blood on his chest, stayed with her
throughout the morning whilst she sat alone in the
office, once again searching PD records, looking for
some mention of bodies found that matched the image
whilst he rushed about, toting the photographs between
labs, checking their authenticity, looking for
fingerprints.  When he'd returned the frustration
clearly mapped on his features only matched that she
felt. They were getting absolutely nowhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not leaving?  Not still angry then?"

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

"So make amends, Mulder."

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

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

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

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

I can keep you safe while you wait for mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be certain that I'll take his in retribution.

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

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

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

You are encouraging him.

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

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

If your conscience requires that, I will allow it.

After all, this is the final time.

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

Say goodbye.

        *****************************

"Mulder?"

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

"Do you still want to make amends?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."  Another squeak.

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

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

"Yeah but you love me anyway."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday morning.  7.10 am.
 

"Shit!"

"What?"

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

"Mulder!"

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

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

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

"Like that'll be news to him."

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

"You take the car."

"What?"

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

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

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

"ohmygod"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want him alive while I hurt him.

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

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

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

Time to begin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no.

That isn't supposed to be there.

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

Damn you, Dana.

I don't understand.

They're getting closer.

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

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

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

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

No-one will see me.

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

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

Alexandria Hospital.  2.45 p.m.

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

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

He touched you.

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

He touched you.

                      *********

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

Safe then.

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

Safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You misled me, Dana.

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

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

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

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

And I won't just play to win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so now here they were.

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

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

"Mulder?"

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

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

"It's OK, Scully."

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

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

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

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

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

"So what was I doing last night?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Or you."

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have to go, Mulder."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck off."

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

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

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

"O'Connell?"

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

"O'Connell?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The final pieces are already on the board.

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

Scully's Apartment.  2.37 p.m.
 

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

"I threw him out."

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

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

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

"What are you doing?"

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

She grinned at him briefly before settling her face
into a more serious expression.  "Are you up to this,
Mulder?"

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

"Dunno, Scully. What do you think?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My turn, Scully."

"Just get on with it, Mulder."

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

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

She snorted, a little noise of disbelief and impatience.

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

"Greedy, Scully."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh God, Scully."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If she hadn't been looking over her s