From: Silver Fox <kwolenczak@hotmail.com> Date: 12 Apr 1998 04:39:23 GMT Subject: REPOST: Caged Fox 1/4 I'm reposting this now because of the sequel that was requested (a third part is still being written) and this time, no Smartquotes. Yay. <g> Title: Caged Fox Author: Kathleen Brown Rating: NC-17 (Rape scenarios and violent beatings in flashback and prnounced mental illness.) Classification: SA Mulder/Scully UST, MulderTorture, MulderAngst Distribution: Go for it, Gossamer. I love you guys. <g> Spoilers: None? Maybe some fifth season and I mention Schizogeny but no actual _spoilers_ spoilers... Summary: Several years in the future, in an unspecified year, Fox Mulder's life has changed. No longer in the FBI and separated from Scully for two years, he's lost more than his job and his best friend. His mind. His release into society brings more trials than him and Scully expected, and it is up to the two of them, together, to overcome the past. Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, I only wish I do. No Agents were harmed in the creation of this fic. "A jail cell is freedom from the pain in my home Hatred passed on, passed on, and passed on A world of violent rage But its the only one I can recognize Having never seen the color of my fathers eyes Yes, I dwell in hell but its a hell that I can grip I tried to grip my family But I slipped To escape from the pain and an existence mundane" *~*~*~*~* Caged Fox *~*~*~*~* His face told the story of a man who had seen a thousand deaths. His eyes were unable to hide the horror that went on behind them within the blackness of his tortured psyche. Thin lines lay etched into his otherwise youthful face, a testament to long, sleepless night spent alone, reliving pain-filled memories that refused to fade, remaining as clear as on the day they were created. He managed to hold himself with some degree of pride, making an unconscious effort to hide his inner turmoil and appear as professional as possible. He thought no one could see past his facade, but I did. I saw the world-weariness which plagued him daily, I heard his desperate midnight cries for his sister, and it was I, no one else, who spent the long, sleepless nights trying to comfort him, to ease the constant bombardment of thoughts and terrifying images. He could never seem to distance himself, and as much as he tried to avoid the consequences, it always would resurface. No one knew besides him and I, no one had any idea what he had been through, and what he dealt with every day. I loved him, I loved him desperately, I _still_ love him, but we never made love. He would never let it come to that. I had offered him the option, I had even tried forcing him once, but he would have none if it. This man made every effort to conduct himself as a gentleman, and it took me quite a while before I recognized it. I thought his sick humor was merely that, sick humor, but, once I looked more closely, I saw pain, held firmly behind a wall of denial, beneath a smokescreen of silence. All anyone else seemed to see was a misfit, and a terrifyingly cold man who never accepted the reality. All of his reality was rooted in pain, and how could you expect for him to accept reality, with all the agony it causes? Twenty-plus years have passed since the disappearance of his sister, and he still continued to blame himself. I had tried telling him he did all he could, but he hid the pain behind denial and the impossibility of it all. He never wanted to believe that the only monsters involved were monsters within men, monsters so like his own demons. His monsters never harmed a soul, never touched another. Think of it. Timid monsters. Mulder's monsters were a creation of his own tortured soul. They were silent to the world, their voices never meeting with anyone outside his mind. Imagine. A man of such presence, of such inconceivable strength, being brought down to his knees in an agony only a man as strong as himself could create. He created his own downfall. I blame Mulder not one bit for his actions. He was suffering from pain inconceivable to all of us, and I don't belive jailtime is a solution. Prison will cause him to retreat further inward, driving him insane with sorrow over the loss of his work. I worry about his ability to reason, mostly because of his refusal to undergo any kind of testing or psychiatric evaluation. I think Agent Mulder is aware of the severity of his illness (or illnesses), but that he wants no special treatment, that he's focusing only on what he feels is his need for punishment, both for the crime he has committed and for the abduction of his sister, which still weighs heavily on his shattered mind. It has been close to two years since I've spoken to Mulder. He's set for a parole hearing in three days, and, finally, several hours from now, I'll be able to see him, he can't refuse me. I'm terrified of the man I will meet. Will I recognize him as Fox? Will he be too far gone to accept our help? Will he even recognize me? I'm sure he will, but I fear his reaction. He never laid a hand on me, I don't fear him, and I can't go on living with this irrational worry. He _will_ recognize me, I'm sure of it, but, God, how I worry. It's hard for me to forget the news I've been getting about him. He's made two previous attempts on his own life, and found numerous ways, without ever presenting himself as a danger, to have himself put in isolation, where he could be alone, with the thoughts that torture him. I saw the raw, uncontrollable insanity in his eyes as he beat that man. I watched my partner pistol-whip a suspect nearly to death. I don't _blame_ Mulder, I blame the illness that's torn a path through my best friend. His crime was one of passion, of fear, contempt, and hate as much for himself as for the man he was killing. The man was a child abuser who killed his own three children, one of which was an eight-year-old girl (whom Agent Mulder obviously connected with the images of his sister), then went on a violent killing spree of all the children in and around his neighborhood, molesting, abusing, and halfheartedly killing them in what Mulder guessed was a sick repetition of the murder and death of his children; a twisted effort to bring back the memory of his daughter and sons. The knowledge that, finally, after a two-day, two- night stakeout, we had taken the man into custody, pushed Mulder to the edge of his emotional limits. He attacked this man, pulling out his weapon and inflicting blow upon painful blow to his skull. Mulder ranted while he beat the suspect, screaming about the damage he had done to Samantha and himself. I had tried to intervene, calling to Mulder, my gun outstretched, begging for some kind of reason. Mulder only looked at me with his black, infuriated eyes, and I could see, though his expression told me nothing, that Mulder was not in control, that his pain, his fear, his adrenaline-soaked blood was. He had pointed his bloodied gun toward me, but I refused to look at it, I instead looked to his face, searching for the man I knew, the man I _know_ is within. He then turned back to his victim, prepared to give him a fatal shot, but instead he stopped, and stared. I had warned everyone else to keep away, but now they were prepared to move in "for the kill" so to speak. I hollered again for them to keep away and took it upon myself to go to him, to look for the scared Mulder within. He stood over the man, breathing heavily, tears flowing down his cheeks. I spoke his name softly and he turned to me only briefly. I saw regret, I saw remorse, I saw agony and terror. He then did something I will never forget. He knelt beside the man he had just tried to murder, cradled his head in his lap, and rocked slowly back and forth, muttering a string of sentences I couldn't understand save for once. "I'm sorry, Dad." I don't blame Mulder. I blame his father, I blame the Cancer Man, I blame everyone who has hurt him. Mulder is a victim, not a criminal. I'm off to see him now, and it will be now, for the first time in two years, that I will see his beautiful face. I'm sure I will recognize him, but will his mind be too far gone to remember me? *~*~*~*~* Dressed in her usual ankle-length overcoat, Special Agent Dana Scully walked down a prison entryway toward her destiny. She quietly spoke with the guard, showed her FBI Identification, and waited as he wandered back into the prison. She looked around, too nervous to sit, and began unconsciously pacing the back wall of the room, the heels of her shoes tapping with each step. When the guard returned, his expression was one of intense irritation, and he merely shook his head. "He still doesn't want to see you, Agent Scully. Just like he hasn't wanted to see you every week since he got in this hellhole." "This is concerning his case, he goes up for parole in three days." She knew he was well aware of this fact, but she couldn't keep herself from saying those words, they were far too sweet to be ignored. When the officer only shrugged, she brought out the big guns. "This is FBI business." The officer grinned good-naturedly. He knew how desperate she was to see her friend, and it was beginning to annoy him that this obviously torn man continued to refuse her company. "Well, ma'am, if it's _FBI_ business..." He swung the gate open wide and allowed her to pass. When she reached the cell block she was joined by a guard who led her to Mulder's cell, meanwhile explaining the man's recent behavior. "He's a pretty good guy, as far as I can see. Well, from my viewpoint, anybody who doesn't take a swing at me is a pretty good guy. He's quiet, and has broken up one or two fights, or at least tried to... And he knows he's gonna get in trouble for it, but I guess the FBI hasn't worked itself out of his bloodstream." Scully was hardly listening, she was too caught up in calming the butterflies in her stomach, too nervous with anticipation of seeing the man she had been pining for all these months. The guard noticed her reverie and left her to be, letting her know she had arrived with only a single sweeping gesture toward Agent Mulder. He lay quietly on his bunk, resting on his right side, facing the gray-painted wall. His socked feet nearly brushed the gray-painted metal bars of the cell as he lay, probably sleeping. Scully couldn't help but wonder if jail had somehow dulled the edge of his insomnia, but something inside her said "not likely". Not sure how to let him know she was there, she reached down to his foot and grabbed his largest toe. His immediate reaction was out of pure fear; he pulled his leg in close to his body, and within a split second smashed it back into the bars, with every ounce of muscle in his leg contributing to the force of that kick. Scully stood up quickly, staring at the quaking man. His hazel eyes were wide and fearful, and Scully noticed, with no small tugging at her heart, that he was biting his full bottom lip as he fought back tears of agony. Agony brought on by both the pain in his foot and the feeling of his heart being expanded six times over, flooded with love for his partner, his love, his _Scully_. She grinned, having adopted his dry wit as a means of not only remembering him, but of keeping herself sane, even. "Miss me?" Mulder stared at her, disbelieving. The guard, grinning despite himself and touched by this heartfelt reunion, opened up Mulder's cell door, let Agent Scully enter, and locked the door behind. "I have a feeling you'll be safer in there than out here, Agent Scully. Holler when you're ready." She nodded with only half her mind on his voice, focusing only on the tattered man before her. The guard walked off, leaving the two agents to their reunion and their business. Mulder swallowed hard, barely able to believe it was truly her. "I told him I didn't want to see you." "I know. Why am I not surprised?" "I'm sorry, Scully..." "Sorry for what?" "For not letting you see me. It was selfish." "You're damn right it was, Mulder." Her expression softened. "God, look at you... what have you done to yourself?" Mulder looked at her, wondering what she meant by that. She saw his obvious confusion and realized that two years was a long time to get used to yourself. "You've lost weight." He did, indeed, look thinner, as if he, too, had been pining for his lost love. Scully shook herself inwardly and concentrated on him, telling herself that thinking could wait, for now just experience, just... remember. "Not too many fast-food places nearby." She laughed softly, realizing how much she missed the soft velvet of his voice. Then she noticed something, something she didn't quite expect. She reached out to his forehead and traced the thin line of a scar above his eyebrow. "What happened?" Mulder looked away sharply, and for the first time she noticed how quick his movements had become, how suddenly his eyes would flash from calm to fearful and back again. "Mulder?" He looked at her, trying his best to avoid her eyes, but unable to see her any other way. *He doesn't like not having the upper hand*, Scully noticed, wondering what was the root of his petrifying terror. "Mulder, listen to me. It's okay, you can talk to me about this." "I can't, Scully. It's.... it's just too personal." "It's prison, Mulder." "Just get me out of here. Get me out as fast as you can." "You want me to stay a little while longer?" "How's work?" He managed to appear interested, but his question was an afterthought, spoken as if his lifelong passion was just a minor detail. "It's good. Did you get my letters?" Mulder swallowed again, nervously scratching his brow near the fine scar. "Yeah, I did, but some of them got...destroyed. A lot of them did, in fact. I'm sorry..." "No, Mulder, it wasn't your fault." "It was, Scully." She reached out to touch his hand, but he pulled back, startled, and she saw his hands were shaking, almost violently, as he tore it away from her. "What's wrong, Mulder?" "Take a look around you, Scully, what makes you think anything could _possibly_ be wrong?" *That is not Mulder's sick humor.* She couldn't be sure if this was even the Mulder she remembered. The thought terrified her, so she shook it away, thinking that this was just the normal reaction to two years of terror, fear, and utter isolation. She knew enough about Fox to know he didn't, he could not, he _would not_ change. He had too much pride. She looked at him. Where had the pride gone? Where was the cocky grin, that gorgeous "I'm fine, Scully" smile that irritated her so. Mulder's next action stunned her so badly she nearly jumped out of her skin in shock. He called out loudly, turning away, hopping to his feet and calling out to the guards posted at either end of "his" block. Her partner was pacing the bars of his cell with a rhythm she was sure he had established long, long ago. She knew he had move when he thought, and with not much else to do around here, what other kind of movement was there? He called out once more, less loudly this time. "Guard!!" Scully stood and walked to the area of the door, making sure she kept a healthy distance away from the shaking man she wasn't so sure she knew. A uniformed guard, different than before, walked to the cell, pulling out his keys with annoyance. "Shut up, Mulder, I heard you the first time." "You can go to hell." "Yeah, I'll tell my _wife_ you said that when I go home tonight." "I'm sure he'll be jealous." The guard turned away from Mulder, not giving him the attention he was begging for in his violent, Fox Mulder way, instead simply opening the door and allowing Scully out. She stepped out and turned back to him, somehow sure that Mulder would make a dash for freedom, and actually surprised when he continued pacing. She saw that his gaze was not focused, that something in him was not quite there. She stepped closer, whispering softly. "Mulder?" He stopped his pacing and looked at her, his eyes bright and clear, expressing unspeakable relief. His voice was soft, smooth, and relaxed. "Scully... Dana, please, you've got to help me." She nodded. "I'll see you soon, Mulder." She turned to step away, but was pulled by a hand on her wrist. She turned back to him, but was startled to find the guard lunging toward Mulder. "No!!" The guard stopped at her cry. "It's okay." She turned to Mulder, turning so that if he whispered to her, his words would not be heard or seen by anyone other than herself. "What is it?" He looked at her, his eyes alive with fear, and his expression could only be described as painfully desperate. "Scully, if I don't get out of here, I'm gonna die. If these people don't kill me, then I will." "Mulder..." *How do I get through to him?! He's ready to do it!* "Mulder, did you ever read 'Antigone'?" After a moment's thought, he nodded. "Are you suggesting I have an Oedipus complex, Miss Scully?" "Listen to me, Mulder. Do _not_ give up, do you hear me? There's always a chance we'll get you out of here. Don't give up." "Scully, you don't know..." "I don't have to. I know that _I_ need you and you've got to fight these people, if only for my selfish reasons." Mulder looked at her a long moment. "I think the problem here is more my concern over being killed." "By who?" "Inmates. Guards. Everybody. I'm not a very sociable person when I'm being psychotic." "So I noticed." Scully smiled, noticing Mulder's deep sigh. "Well, look at you, Mulder, you're certainly doing well physically, you're a big guy, you can take what they dish out." 'You _don't_ _know_, Scully." "You wanna tell me?" "I think my little friend is getting a little impatient." With that, Mulder gave the guard a significant glare. Scully sighed. "Are you going to be okay, Mulder?" "I've made it this far in one piece, haven't I?" "I'm not so sure." She gently brushed the stray hair away from his forehead. "Dana, I wasn't well-adjusted to begin with, you know..." "You seemed fine to me." "Look, at you two gonna be done sometime this year?" Both Mulder and Scully looked to the guard in irritation. Scully then looked back at Mulder, who obviously had something to say, something weighing heavily on his mind. Scully gently caressed the back of his hand with her thumb. "What's wrong?" Mulder snapped out of his thoughts, looking back at her. "Nothing, don't worry about it. You'd better go." "You sure?" He nodded firmly, as much to reassure himself as her. "Okay, Mulder. I'll see you on Thursday." "Get me outta here, Scully." "Just behave yourself." He nodded, crossing his index finger over his heart. "I don't wanna screw this up." "I know." She sighed. *It's time.* "Bye, Mulder." He stood up straighter, pulling away from Dana to stand at his full height, smiling only briefly as he remembered how much shorter she was. He looked at her with those hazel puppy-dog eyes, sighing softly. "Bye." *God, He's beautiful*, Dana thought as she quietly walked away. *~*~*~*~* Fox Mulder lay within the confines of his uncomfortable prison cot for what he calculated to be the seven-hundred and twenty-eighth time. He was so _tired_ of this stupid bunk and the unbearable silence of the block, which left sleep painfully out of his reach. He still craved the drone of his TV, the uncomfortable green leather couch taking his mind off the nightmares and off of his sister. He was spending far too many lonely nights here, alone, with nothing to do. His thoughts drifted back to Scully's visit. *Oh, God, how I miss her.* He could see that she missed him, too, and his guilt was immeasurable when he thought of how many times he had tried to push her away and deny them both her comforting visits. Mulder was brought back from his thoughts by the feeling of tears, not uncommon to him, pouring down his cheeks. His only comfort was the thought that he would be out of here in two days. Only two more days until he could pick up his life and move on, back to his apartment, back to Scully, back to the X-Files. Mulder's awakening was rude, as well as obviously violent and painful. His wake up call was the mind- shattering pain of being hit in the back with a guard's nightstick, the nightstick of the same guard who had pulled Agent Scully so violently away from him. Mulder gave only a soft groan to satisfy the power-hungry guard's need to cause this man pain. He tried to curl up within himself, to protect himself from a dangerous frontal assault, as he thought of it, but was pulled to his feet before he got a chance. Once again he damned the fact that he had grown so thin, so unable to pull away. The six-foot tall ex-agent was led out of his cell, much to the enjoyment of the rest of the prisoners in the block. They knew what was coming. They had endured the same treatment and were almost overjoyed to learn that their Fox in Sox would be subjected to it, too. Mulder was led to the showers, his only motivation the knowledge that the things to happen there would not be pretty, and the knowledge that another stunt, like his most recent attempt to get back to his cell, would be met again with the full force of the nightstick wielded by the guard, Willis. Once the two men arrived at the showers, Mulder turned, his hands free but hanging limply at his sides, rather unlike Willis', whose were grasping the nightstick so tightly that the knuckles were white. Mulder merely sighed peaceably and shook his head. "Whatever you're trying to provoke here, it isn't going to work, so you might as well take me back and let me lie in my bunk 'till morning." "No way, Foxy." "Why, I never knew you thought of me as attractive, Willis. Wish I could say the same nice things about you." "Shut up, you faggot!" He suddenly swung the nightstick wide, catching Mulder in his side and dropping him, easily. Mulder quietly gathered his thoughts and body, before he drew himself back up to his full height, easily towering over the man with not only the dangerous nightstick, but a police-issue firearm that could take Mulder apart in an instant. He was not afraid. He knew he wouldn't put a single mark on that man, nor would he cry out, because anything could be construed as a cry of rage to these people, these guards and inmates. He knew he wouldn't be shot or killed, he knew that wasn't what Willis wanted. Willis wanted to strip Mulder of the freedom he craved so desperately, but to give him death would be to set him free. Mulder quietly stood before the guard, knowing all which was about to occur, and refusing to give in. *~*~*~*~* Dana Scully walked down the putridly painted green hallway to a small, secure room at the doorway of which stood a single inexperienced-looking guard. Scully gave the man a nod and walked in without so much as having to pull out her ID. She shook her head sadly as she walked in, knowing that, someday, someone would be hurt because of this man. She raised her gaze to look at Mulder, and her jaw dropped open in shock. "Mulder-- My _God_ what happened to you?!" She leaned forward to him, gently brushing his hair away from his face, exposing large purple bruises on his cheek and around both his eyes. Mulder pulled away from her gentle ministrations, not needing or desiring to be babied by her. "I'm fine, Scully." "No, this isn't fine. What happened?" "I just want to go home, Scully." She nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from his battered face. She noticed that even one of his beautiful green eyes had hemorrhaged, turning the white sclera into dark crimson. She looked to the guard, the one who first led her to Mulder's cell, and he looked back with an expression of utter helplessness. She nodded. Blue wall of silence. It wasn't an inmate. Now wasn't a time to be pressing charges, and if no one was mentioning the incident, all the better. Mulder sighed deeply. His head had not stopped pounding for days, his nausea refused to subside, and he had barely slept. All he wanted was to go home, curl up in his little-used bed, and have the pain go away. *Maybe Scully will stay to keep me company...* Two years ago the thought would have irritated him to death, but now, the thought of waking up with someone, especially Scully, nearby, brought him exquisite joy. "Mulder?" He raised his head up off the desk where he had been seated in the courthouse's secure room and immediately began scanning the room, looking for the face that belonged to the beautiful voice which spoke his name. She was kneeling by his side, once again brushing back his hair. "You okay, Mulder? You fell asleep." "For how long?" "Not long. Only around a half hour. We're ready to get this started. You feeling up to it?" "You know, Scully, you're really going to have to let up on this worrying once I get out of here." "Didn't bother you for the first four years." "Sure it did..." She shook her head, grinning and ruffling his hair. "You know you love it, now c'mon." Mulder sighed deeply and stood slowly, appearing thoughtful in an effort to quell any fears Dana might have as to his physical well-being. Truth be told, he felt like death warmed over, but tell Special Agent Dana Scully, MD that and expect a field day of hospitals and worried glances and another day delaying this hearing. Instead he chose to stall only another few minutes. "Dana, you go on ahead, I gotta make a trip to the little inmate's room." She turned to him with a look of fear on her face, but the smile in his eyes betrayed his somewhat cool exterior. She smiled, too, and grasped his long fingers with her short ones, before quietly stepping away from him, walking out the door. Mulder then turned to his escort, gave him a simple, significant look, and then he, too, left. *~*~*~*~* Dana sat quietly around the large oval table of the Judge's private office, trying not to look anyone in the face. They had been waiting for Mr. Mulder for what seemed like hours, when in truth only several minutes had past. Finally the doors opened and Mulder was led quietly in, no longer restrained in handcuffs, Scully noticed thankfully, but her relief faded when she observed Mulder more closely. He was walking slowly, his body held stiffly, his gait strained by the pain he was obviously suffering. Scully obviously noticed how different this Fox was from the Fox of only several minutes go. She noticed that his bangs, hanging low before his tired, pain-filled eyes, were wet, as was the collar of his shirt. *Is Mulder sick?*, she wondered, her guts twisting at the very thought, unable to stomach the idea that he may really be ill. Scully watched him as he sat, meeting his eyes, pained and sleepy, for only a moment before the hearing began. Mulder looked at her, his expression soft and weary, giving a light nod to let her know he'd be okay, he'd survive. For now. The hearing went quickly, with the only small blemishes on Mulders' record being his three fights, none of which he instigated, and during none of which he caused any damage. Mulder's lawyer managed to convince the Judge that Mulder's previous experience as an FBI Agent, and, well, compassionate human being, led him to desire no harm be done to anyone else, especially in such battles as these, as each of them were between one inmate and a newer or younger inmate. These fights caused no damage to his case and, in fact, they were a testament to his "reform", a sign that he was a kinder man than when he arrived. If anything, these incidences _helped_ his case. Mulder merely sat through the entire proceeding, his mind not wavering in it's concentration and his conscious, supreme effort to contain his emotions and the contents of his stomach (what remained, anyhow). Scully watched him tremble, slightly, in the moments before his fate was announced. *How can he be frightened? His freedom is all but guaranteed.* And so it was. Agent Mulder would be released back into the free world, with only a weekly, then bi-weekly trip to his parole officer, for six full months, until Mulder's whereabouts were secure, and he was back on his feet as an officer of the law with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. The only condition the Judge put to Mulder's freedom was the Agent's promise to receive treatment for his pronounced and obviously severe mental illness. *~*~*~*~* A woman gazed quietly out of her apartment doorway to watch as an extremely small auburn-haired woman walked by. This was the same woman who she recognized but never met, the same woman who, every week for two years, would go to apartment 42, spend the night, and leave for work the next day. She would have suspected that the woman was having an affair with the man who used to live there, except for the fact that he was in prison, and everyone in the building knew it. And now the auburn-haired woman was back, with a tall, handsome man following behind her. The tenant gasped. *My God, is that him?!* Her neighbor was returning to his apartment. Maybe he _hadn't_ been in prison after all? No way, she could tell. His gait was different, strained, no longer easy or graceful as it once was. His face was marred by a scar above his eyebrow, and his hair had been grown a little longer. His face had been battered, severely, but she knew those marks would go away in time. His shoulders were bowed, as if he carried the weight of the world upon them, and his eyes...those lovely green eyes now were hidden beneath the bangs of his hair, his head hanging forward, as if he felt he wasn't worthy of looking into the face of anyone else. He certainly _was_ worthy. In the eight years he had lived here he had _never_ conducted himself improperly, and she was sure he could never commit an act which made him unworthy. "Mr. Mulder!" Fox lifted his head, pulling his mind from his dark, fearful thoughts and looking up into the future. He reached up to push at his long hair (too long, for his tastes) and see the face of an older woman, a widow, he now guessed, watching him from the end of the hall. "Welcome home, Mr. Mulder." Realizing that she knew what had happened, where he had been, Fox turned away in shame, nodding sadly. He was terribly grateful Scully pushes her key into the lock when she did, because Mulder needed to get into his apartment, and away from the accusing eyes he saw wherever he turned. He stepped into his apartment timidly, not sure what to expect. Had it been neglected in this time? Had all his food spoiled, would his things be covered in dust, would his phone be disconnected, or did Scully replace everything he had in his life, throwing away precious mementos, the only things he had left as a reminder of who he was? He lifted his head to rest his painful, weary eyes upon his apartment. It was exactly as he had remembered, exactly what he had hoped to find. Everything lay as it had, but, he noticed with no small degree of pride, that Scully had neatened up for him, but not disturbed the items that belonged in their state of permanent disarray. This was as how it should be. He wandered further into his home, glancing into his kitchen, wandering through his bedroom, throwing a glance into his bathroom, and finally turning to Scully. He was at a loss for words. She had taken care of him, even when he thought there was no way she could. "Thank you." She only smiled. "I just did what I thought I should, Mulder. Are you hungry?" He nodded slowly. The angry queasiness from earlier in the day had subsided in the car of the way here, turning instead into a ravenous hunger, not only for food, but for life, for the assault on his senses that came with living freely. "Anything you'd like to request?" Mulder looked at her, almost surprised, and made the effort to slowly shake his head, almost frightened to let her know what _he_ would like. Since when does what _he_ want matter? For two years he's had to live by everyone else's rules, quietly succumbing to whatever their desires dictated from him. "Whatever you want to give me, Scully..." He trails off into half-mumbling, about how it doesn't matter to him, that she knows what's best for him. Scully nearly stared at him, completely thrown-off by his passiveness, the dullness in his eyes, his complete and total lack of...life. She swallowed, telling herself she now must somehow "teach" him how to live again, how to be the Agent he was and, more importantly, regain his freedom and perhaps some fleeting joy. "Mulder, this is your first meal of your own choosing in two years, what do you want? You can have anything you like." "I want you to choose for me." "Okay, you can have anything _but_ that." "I'm not hungry." Mulder sighed softly and walks over to his couch, flopping down heavily, letting his head fall into his hands. Scully crossed over to sit on the couch beside him, she made sure she kept a sizable enough distance away. He was changed, his comfort zone had spread far out around him, and Scully didn't find that unreasonable _or_ shocking. He had obviously been through a great trauma, or, most likely, numerous ones, while in prison, paralyzing enough so to make him want to end his own life. The scar along his brow was a testament to his desperation then, and Scully knew, even now, that he was still not solidly devoted to his decision to live. *~*~*~*~* Copyright Kathleen Brown February, 1998 Disclaimered in part 1. Rape Scenarios. *~*~*~*~* She had heard the news through Skinner and the Bureau; called up from the basement, which still managed to retain the warmth Mulder had left, up into Skinner's familiar, dreaded office. She sat down, quietly, looking at Skinner with tired eyes mirroring his own expression of fear and dread. She sighed and wrung her hands, knowing Mulder was the reason for this visit. "Agent Scully, have you heard anything about Agent Mulder's current status?" "No, sir. Not since several days ago when I tried to visit him. He refused to see me, and the guards there said that he had been in a bit of a...funk lately, that he has been refusing to leave his cell." Skinner nodded, having figured that she knew as much, but just trying to get some kind of informational "buffer" in between the time she entered, and the time he gave her his sensitive information. "Is Agent Mulder all right, Sir?" Skinner looked at her, her frightened blue eyes appearing large in the middle of her pale face. He shook his head. "Last night Agent Mulder tried to kill himself, Agent Scully." She gazed at Skinner, almost disbelieving, but then realized that it made perfect sense. Mulder, a man who has spent his entire life trying to be free, partially from the assumptions and rules of others, but, mostly, from the guilt of his sister's disappearance, has been held against his will for the past _year_, alone, with no one, especially not Scully, to help him through it. *Poor man must be terrified....* Scully lifted her head, then, stunned out of her thoughts by a starling idea. "How, Sir?" Skinner swallowed, knowing that the woman must be positively dying inside, insane with grief. "He repeatedly and forcefully beat his own head against the wall of his cell." "Didn't anybody try to _stop_ him, Sir?" "The guards at the facility say that they couldn't be sure whether or not it was a psychotic episode, and they weren't prepared to send untrained officers into an enclosed space with a mentally unstable prisoner." "Mulder is _not_ a mentally unstable prisoner! He's..." Scully trails off, trying to think of an argument that could explain Mulder's behavior, but she comes up empty. "He's not." Scully looks around the office, then down at her hands, trying to overcome the flood of emotion within her to get the information that can put together a clearer picture of Mulder's state. She raised her head to observe Skinner. "Didn't he stop, Sir?" "Only after he lost consciousness." Scully stood and began pacing the room in a manner which reminded Skinner of Mulder's restless gait. "How is he, Sir?" Skinner looked down at the somewhat vague report which lay before him. He then looked back up at Scully, meeting the piercing blue gaze which showed _no_ sign of retreating. Skinner swallowed hard, craving a good Scotch, and dropped his glasses onto the desk. "He's in a secure ward of Howard University Hospital under observation. He's got several hematomas in his brain, and a severe concussion. It could be months before he's back in prison." Scully sighed deeply, from the very bottom of her soul. She stood purposefully, and Skinner didn't need to be an FBI Agent to know what was going through her mind. Skinner stood, too. "Dana, _don't_." The use of her first name instantly caught her attention. She watched him closely. "He is not the man you know right now. He's _desperate_ and _sick_ and you're going to end up hurt if you continue to pine for him like this, Agent Scully." She glared at him, and Skinner wondered if his words would _ever_ make an impact upon her. "Sir, my partner is confused, hospitalized, and, like you said, very, very desperate. This won't be the first time I'll be seeing him in such a condition. I need to see him, Sir." Scully then did a crisp turn on her heel and beat a hasty retreat, closing the door carefully behind her. *~*~*~*~* Scully looked up quickly, stunned out of her thoughts by the soft sounds coming from the man beside her. Curled up on the couch was Mulder, his face buried in the black leather, attempting to muffle the sound of his sobbing. Obviously, she had not been the only one daydreaming. Reaching up to his shoulders, Scully knelt on the sunken cushions of the couch, pulling herself closer to him. She whispered, softly, into his ear, trying to talk him into speaking with her, trying to get him to ease up, if only a fraction. "Mulder. Mulder?" He lifted his face out of the cushions, allowing her precious few moments to look into his red, bloodshot eyes, and view his blotchy cheeks with the tear tracks running down them. Without another moment's hesitation, though, Mulder jumped to his feet and began to pace nervously, his eyes never leaving the floor. To Scully, this display appeared to be nothing more than downright _psychotic_. She watched, in no small degree of surprise, as he lifted his fingers to his mouth and began biting at his all ready scabbed nails and cuticles in some primal effort to reveal a stress Scully couldn't even _begin_ to imagine. She swallowed hard as she realized that she had to stop this, to get him to relax, perhaps sleep or eat something. She knew, though, that it was far too soon to even entertain the idea he may possibly willingly speak to her. Scully stood and approached Mulder, finally capturing his wrist as he paced towards her. "Mulder, stop." He stopped, flicked his tongue quickly over his parched lips, and stood quietly, looking at the floor, waiting for her next order from her. *My God, he doesn't even know what to do with himself anymore.* Scully wondered what had put him in such a position of subordination, what had taken his very _desire_ for freedom away. "Mulder, c'mon, look at me." Hazel eyes met blue, and Scully found herself looking into a pit of despair far deeper than she had ever happened upon before. "Mulder, what's happened to you? Who hurt you to make you this way?" Mulder turned away and walked into his kitchen, quietly finding himself an unopened, fresh bag of sunflower seeds before beginning to quietly suck on the first precious salty morsels. He stood at his counter for several minutes, creating a healthy-sized pile of sunflower husks before sighing and turning away, walking back into his living room. Scully followed him, knowing something must be going through his mind, something must be brewing. For nearly an hour, Mulder sat quietly in the very middle of his couch, staring into some world unpenetrable by anyone else, including Scully. He wandered throughout the terrifying corridors of his own mind, searching memories from as long ago as when he was a mere child, reading about Fox in Sox as a child *I hated that book, but Mom insisted it was my favorite...she never let me express my opinion...her thoughts were my thoughts, and there was no way around it, no matter how hard I tried to fight her.*, to a time when he was belted by his father, berated for making a sound *I don't even remember what it _was_.* that awoke his father from a drunken sleep *My father beat me into submission, too, insisting that I never tell a soul, not even Scully can know, he'll still hurt me...alive _or_ dead.*, to the nights spent cloaked in terror during his stint as Spooky Mulder, Expert Profiler, too terrified to sleep, too drugged to work, and far too alone to talk about it *They left me alone, even though I begged them not to... they hurt me with their silences.*. All this led up until he met Scully, his one and only savior, who he could never trust with his heart, only his life, which meant precious little in Scully's defense *I might as well trusted her with my least favorite tie, as much as my life means to me....*, before finally reaching the times only a year ago, when he was so desperate to die he rammed his head into a cinderblock wall for close to three hours; a vain attempt to silence Samantha's screams, and end the never-ending torture or existence in that painfully lonely cell block. As Mulder pulled himself from his thoughts, he laid on his couch in the now-darkened room, curling up on his side and weeping openly. Scully witnessed this display with what Mulder believed to be her usual compassion, an act of kindness he sorely missed. She laid a worn afghan over him and gently rubbed his shoulder, whispering a goodbye before walking to the door. Mulder lifted his head and looked toward her. "Scully." She turned, seeing him silhouetted against the blue-violet light outside. She stepped toward him, trying to discern his green eyes and the wetness on his stubbly cheeks. "Scully, please.... Stay. I... I can't be alone tonight. I just need to know I'm not alone." With that, Scully smiled, lifted her coat back onto that hopelessly gaudy billiard-ball coat rack, and walked back over to him. She pushed away newer issues of Mulder's hopeless Abductee magazines and sat on his coffee table, gently rubbing her hand along his shoulder. Within moments he was asleep. Scully awoke smiling, turning her head and watching Mulder's entire apartment come into view. She turned away, trying to curl up for a few more precious moments of sleep, reveling in the knowledge that, finally, Mulder was home. She breathed deeply of the scent of his couch, the smell of the leather nearly gone, but the warm Mulderscent still fresh. She never could guess what it was he smelled like, she only knew it was warm and clean and distinctly...Mulder. He wore no cologne, perhaps the smell of his shampoo was what did it, but somehow Scully was happy she'd never know what it really was, it only added to the veil of mystery that seemed to be fractionally lifted each time they went out on a case. Scully tried her best to forget the two years Mulder spent alone in that prison cell, tried to forget the fact she ripped through partner after partner, each one quitting because of her curtness, her anger at them for being so un...Mulder. Finally too deep in thought to sleep, Scully lifted her head and looked around once more, seeing her shoes in the floor by the couch, looking not at all out place, the only thing that seemed to be out of place was Mulder. He seemed to be nowhere, not anywhere to be found. Scully slipped off of the couch, letting the afghan fall into place on the cushions as she walked away, looking first into his kitchen, then his dining room, then, oddly, into his Spartan bedroom. She couldn't help but smile at the irony of it all. She was sure that for two years he had craved the familiar comfort of his couch, but yet now that it was within reach, he turned to his bed, virtually unused, save for several nights of love which Scully didn't doubt occurred in his years in Washington. He lay curled within his blankets, his head resting softly upon his plump pillow, draped over with an innocence and beauty Scully missed with every fiber in her being. She smiled and left him to his sleep, walking back into his living room. *~*~*~*~* Scully's phone was ringing. She hastily shoved her key into the lock, turned it, and headed for her kitchen where her new cordless lay on her counter. She picked it up, pushed at her hair, and walked back to her door as she spoke with the voice on the other end of the line. "Hello?" Mulder swallowed, flicking his tongue over his lips, sweat glistening on his forehead. "You left me, Scully." Quietly flicking the lock of the door, Scully reeled at the amount of pain in his voice, thinking of how strained and tightly wound he must be. "You were sleeping, I didn't want to wake you. I thought you could use some time alone for today." Mulder tried to think, wracked his brain for a response. "I need to talk, Scully. I was being a jerk last night, I know that, Scully, but if you'll give me another chance... I need to talk to you." Scully again pushed at her hair, not sure what exactly was transpiring. "Mulder, I'm not mad at you. I left you a note, did you find it?" "Where?" "On your picture." Mulder walked quietly out of his kitchen and went to his desk, to his picture of him and Samantha, only to find his face obscured by a large yellow post-it. Rather than take off only the note, Mulder lifted the entire picture, looking at the note as best he could without his glasses. *Mulder, Back at noon. Went home to get a few things. I've got lunch.* Mulder swallowed, hating himself for thinking for even a moment that Scully would abandon him now. "Just burgers or something, okay, Scully? I hate pizza..." "You used to love pizza, Mulder." "It gets old after a while. I'm sorry, Scully." Scully sighed, knowing Mulder would guilt himself to death over this. "Don't get crazy over it, Mulder, I figured you'd be worried. Now just have something to eat and try to settle in." Mulder nodded, flopping down on his couch. "Okay, Scully." "Bye, Mulder." With that, she hung up. *She didn't even give me a chance to say goodbye.* *~*~*~*~* Scully turned her key in the now-familiar lock of Mulder's door, plunging into the room with her shoulder slamming against the hard wooden door. She relaxed, sliding down along the door to sit with a healthy *thud*. Water running. A shower. Mulder _wasn't_ in a catatonic state, huddled in the corner of his room mumbling. He _wasn't_ lying in a puddle of blood, his wrists slashed like Scully had imagined. He was simply in the shower. Scully began to laugh, her shoulders shaking as she did, her head lowering to the hard wood as she laid in a quivering heap upon the floor. Beside her, she heard slow, frightened footsteps. She listened and heard no more water, only the silence and approaching footsteps. Beside her, she felt Mulder's warm presence, his hand upon her back, and his soft voice in her ear. "Scully?" She lifted her head, looking up at him, taking in his beautiful face. "Yeah, Mulder." His hand slid softly over her hair, his eyes seeking hers. "Are you okay, Scully?" "I'm fine, Mulder. Really, it's okay. I was just relieved. When I had to use my key I was worried..." "You were worried something had happened to me." She nodded. "Like what?" She gazed at him, puzzled. "I don't understand, Mulder." "What did you expect was going to happen to me?" "Mulder, I don't know, I was just worried. You were really out of it before and..." Mulder's eyes blazed in fury, and he grabbed her upper arms in his large hands. "Were you scared I had flipped? That I had tried to kill myself? That I was out on a murderous rampage? Don't you _trust_ me, Scully?" His anger was clear in his eyes, but his voice was positively _dripping_ in pain. "Mulder, I _do_ trust you." "Then why were you worried?" "Because I care about you, Mulder." He looked skyward in frustration. *Doesn't she get it?!* "What were you worried about?" "Losing you, Mulder. The same thing I've been worried about for years." Mulder swallowed painfully, looking at her. She bent over to retrieve the greasy brown paper bags she had dropped onto the floor. Mulder smiled and took them, his eyes lighting up as the smell of the Chinese entrees filled the room, but his smile did not last, and Scully knew it would be a while before it did for any significant amount of time. Scully nodded to Mulder's questioning gaze and he walked with the bags into the kitchen, seeking out cutlery for himself, as Scully was well-versed in the ways of chopsticks. It was then and only then that Scully noticed for the first time Mulder's choice of clothing. Well-worn gray sweatpants. A white T-shirt. How very plain and practical and...Mulder. The clothes were worn but had to be unfamiliar to his newly-lean body, despite the fact that in Scully's eyes they looked perfect and comfortable. Scully eventually was left wondering what it must be like inside those warm pants, and mentally kicked herself for not snatching one of his pairs when she still had the chance. "Scully?" She looked up, startled out of her daydreaming by Mulder's soft, velvety voice. "Scully?" She nodded, looking around her at the half-eaten boxes of Chinese food, trying desperately to piece together all that had happened in the half hour since she began her involved fantasy of her and Mulder back together, back working cases as if none of this had ever happened. She desperately wrestled with her tongue, tasting the shrimp egg roll fresh on her lips as she tried once again to remember how to articulate her words. "Yeah, Mulder." His hands dropped into his lap and he sighed, his shoulders lowering. "I need to talk, Scully." "Anything you need to say, Mulder, I'm here, I'm listening." "I'm sorry." "You don't have to apologize, Mulder." "Yes, I do. I'm sorry, Scully." "Mulder, don't apologize, I don't want your apology!" "I'm sorry that I lied to you, Scully, I'm sorry I haven't been completely honest, I'm sorry that all of this ever happened. I wish I _had_ killed myself all the chances I did. Even with my..." Mulder trails off, shaking his aching head. "...even _before_ all of this got started." "Why?" "To spare everyone the pain I cause." Scully sighed. Mulder sat back quietly, tucking his legs close to him. Scully watched him as he nervously swallowed, his eyes focused on his hands as they clasped each other around his legs. Mulder's eyes slid shut and he sighed, then looked back up at Scully, steeling himself for all that he needed to say. "Scully, I tried to kill myself." "I know, Mulder..." "No, Scully. I need to tell you this. Please." She looked at him, gazing into his pain-filled eyes. She nodded. *~*~*~*~* One Year Ago. Fox Mulder stood alone, huddled deep inside his coat for some degree of warmth in the icy DC winter. If he had been at home, he would have thought it a perfect day for a sprint or a game of Mulder versus Mulder, but here, held captive in this godforsaken prison facility, he only desired to be let back into his cell, where he could sleep and spend his days counting the minutes until he was returned to Scully. Before him a troop of hardened men were approaching, and Mulder, his back to the wall for his own protection, was helpless to resist. He watched in terror as they advanced upon him, his eyes wild like those of a trapped animal, as he stood rigid, unable to move. He was thrown to the ground, with other men's knees holding down his arms, his legs pushed close to him, his knees aching, bare, scraped against the cold asphalt of the yard, his pants ripped down about his ankles. Mulder cried out at the first inkling of sensation, as the knowledge of what was about to happen finally sunk in. Mulder screamed, shattering his world as his body exploded into pain, and a man stood hunched over him, thrusting into him, only to minutes later slump forward and withdraw, making room for the next man. Only two hours later, Mulder laid in his bunk, shaking, and huddled into the smallest fetal ball his six-foot frame would allow. Tears poured down his cheeks and his breath was coming in ragged, shaky pants, his eyes red and raw from the hours of crying. He was scared, more scared than he had ever been. More so than when he had watched Scully die in his own mind, more so even than when he was a child, and his one friend --his sister-- was taken away from him. His blood pooled onto the blankets of his bunk and pain wracked his body in shuddering waves of agony, his head pounding with each beat of his heart in his own personalized punishment. He lay in stillness, his mind racing, his heart aching deep within his chest, his inner pain overpowering the agony of his battered body. Suddenly, despite his turmoil, Mulder's mind came to rest. He saw with perfect stillness, perfect clarity. He knew what had to be done. He could see the future, see the past, see all the potential branches and forks his life could take, each one leading to a different path. With each one, however, he would have to battle the memories of the brutal rape still fresh to his body and mind. Mulder sighed deeply, sat up in his bed, and began to formulate an elaborate plan, a way out of this place, the only way he could think of. He sighed and sat at the edge of his bunk, his vision growing fuzzy around the edges, his head growing light and his thoughts growing dull. Mulder grew more afraid, not knowing why, until he remembered the blood he could feel seeping from his torn flesh. Mulder let himself go, falling backward, letting his head hit the wall of his cell, forcing his head to all but explode into agony. He smiled. This would be easy, this would work well. He sat up and, ever so quietly, began to pull himself away, then fall back. Sit up, fall back. Sit up. Fall back. Sit. Fall. Sit. Fall. Mulder was vaguely aware of the stars before his eyes, hardly conscious of the blood seeping from his ears and nose, not caring about the men milling about in the hall, the cries of disbelief as his pounding grew more frantic and his body seemed to melt away, leaving him only with the searing pain. Mulder saw through his haze of pain, looking as if from across the room, watching as he was pulled, limp and mildly protesting, away from his position slumped against the wall. He was laid across his bunk while the men waited for the medical staff, and a blanket was laid over him. He smiled inwardly at that. Another man may not have gotten the treatment, hell, even he might not get that kind of attention any other time of day, but here, now, he was taken care of. Mulder watched/felt his body trembling all around him, and he could sense the penetrating cold sweeping over his body. Overwhelmed by the pain rushing back into him, he then skipped out on them all, leaning back, falling into the deep pit of unconsciousness, his last thought a hope for forgiveness. When Mulder awoke, he was only vaguely aware of the muted pounding in his head, but fully conscious of the cloth straps restraining his hands to the sides of the bed. He turned his head to the side and saw the blessed view of DC through his hospital window. He heard a presence in the room, and turned to see Scully sitting beside him, gazing lovingly into his eyes. Mulder blinked, trying to determine whether this was a dream, a hallucination, or perhaps his own twisted view of heaven...or hell. Having Scully forever by his side, but be unable to ever speak to her or touch her. Mulder closed his eyes, imagining instead his endless heaven. The X-Files, together, with Scully, endlessly seeking the truth. Mulder instead shook away his fantasies, turning once again to Scully, who was brushing his hair away from his aching forehead. He could feel bandaging around his head but wasn't sure why, or how long he had been asleep. The shock of wakening from unconsciousness was a feeling familiar to him, but he didn't know it well enough to read the signs telling him it had been days, almost a week, since he had tried to end his own pathetic life. Mulder realized, all in a rush, what had happened to him, and what he had done to try to escape that pain. Tears sprang to Mulder's eyes, and he turned away from Scully to hide his shame. There she was, still loving him, and he couldn't hide from her. *How can she still love me after what I've done? How can she not feel how horrible I must be? How did she get in here? I'm supposed to be in prison...* Mulder turned to his partner, his eyes soft and slightly puzzled. Scully smiled, and the brightness brought only more pain to his heart. "How are you feeling, Mulder?" He swallowed and felt an aching where there must have been an intubation tube in his throat. "What're you doing here, Scully? How did you get in here?" Mulder realized that his voice was aching in disuse, and that it had been close to a month since he had even casually spoken to _anyone_, in prison or out. Scully smiled mischievously, unable to contain her joy at being present for his awakening. She whispered, her tone conspiratorial. "I'm _not_ here, Mulder, but don't worry about that now. How are you?" "I hurt." *Not eloquent, but it fits.* "I don't doubt it. Why did you do this?" "It's just not worth it, Scully." "You gotta hang on for me, Mulder, the X-Files need you." "Don't let them shut us down, Scully." "Skinner would never do that." "Well, he likes _you_." *He's back!!* Mulder's humor uplifted Scully in ways she knew he could never imagine, and it took her a moment to compose herself. She watched as he shifted uncomfortably in his bed, and noticed his tongue flicking across his lips. She turned and reached for a small plastic cup filled with slightly stale water that Mulder was grateful for nonetheless. Scully heard motion outside the door and leaned toward her partner, taking the cup away and giving him a soft, sweet kiss on the lips. "You can't tell anybody I was here, Mulder. Just know that I'm waiting for you out here, and without you I will never find the truth." "Scully, please. I need to die. You don't know..." Scully looked at him, her eyes ablaze with anger. "Dammit, Mulder, stop talking like that, you're going to be fine, you just need to hang in there. You've made it this far." "Look at where I am, Scully!" She leaned toward him, whispering fiercely. "Keep it down, Mulder!" She sighed, seeing the fear pass over his expression, feeling his hand struggling against the restraints to try to capture her fingers. She let his hand close around her own and sighed. "Mulder, I've gotta go. I'll be back to see you as soon as I can." He nodded, then watched, helplessly, as she put on her long trench coat, then slipped out of the door, instantly replaced by an officer, who merely glanced over at Mulder with a blank gaze and looked away, bored. Mulder merely turned his head away and cried, alone in a hospital full of people. *~*~*~*~* "Mulder, if that was so important to you, then why did you continue to refuse my visits?" Mulder jumped to his feet, quaking in anger. "Did you not just hear what I said?!!" Scully pulled backward, terrified by her own best friend. "I was raped, Scully! Repeatedly! When they saw the kind of damage they caused to me that first time, they began to do it nearly every single day, just to watch me suffer!" "I still don't understand your reasoning, Mulder." He glared at her, all of his pain open to her, his eyes wide and disbelieving. "I could've helped you, Mulder." Mulder sighed deeply, his voice growing soft as he let himself flop down onto the other end of the couch, pushing at the hair falling into his eyes. "I didn't want your help, Scully. I wanted to fell as much pain as I could, and punish myself for being a victim to these people. It took me a few months to learn to fight back, I mean, I was honestly so devastated that it never really occurred to me to fight them." Scully nodded sadly, knowing that Mulder must've felt _so_ helpless at this point. She watched as he shifted his position, shaking his head angrily. "I'm going to get over this, Scully. It's either give up and die or fight. I've got no choice now, now that I've got you looking at me like this, now that I know how much there is left for me to do." Scully could only smile. "What are you going to do, Mulder?" "I'm going to go back to work on the X-Files." "Are you sure that's a good thing to do so soon?" "Oh, Scully, I need to get back to work as soon as I can. It gives me purpose. It's one of the _only_ things that keeps me alive, still." "When?" "Next week. I'm hoping to go see Skinner tomorrow." "And until then?" Mulder grinned devilishly, his eyes running along her body. "I'm going to reacquaint myself, Dana." "Mulder?" Scully swallowed nervously, glancing around at his apartment, thinking for a brief moment of the unmade bed in the next room. "You gotta admit, Scully, two years is a long time." He shifted his weight towards her, moving closer. "Yes." Scully fought the image of Mulder over her, on top of her, inside her. "Well?" "Well what?" "Let's get started." She stared. "Mulder?" He smiled, enjoying her discomfort, gently tipping her chin as he lifted himself up off of the couch and walked into his bedroom, calling out behind him. "Just give me a minute to get dressed, Scully." She shook her head, then realized she had been trembling, and that he knew. *He's back.* *~*~*~*~* When I was sixteen years old, I had a recurring nightmare which, I know, stemmed from my fears of abandonment. I dreamt that I was completely alone, in the middle of a dark forest, and no matter how far or how fast I would run, I would never find my way out. Sometimes, I would get close to the edge of the woods, only to find myself suddenly flat on my back, staring at the stars. I could never move, never escape from that cold, terrifying place, with the stars so far off, so unreachable. Then the real nightmare would begin. I would awaken and plod through my days, the long, lonesome silences of the house, punctuated only by my mother's sobbing or the whistle and sting of my father's belt through the air as it came down upon me in blow after blow. Most men would use such an upbringing as an excuse for their actions, saying that since they knew no love as children, they grew up psychopathic, and that they should not be punished for the rapes, the murders that they committed, that, instead, their parents, _their_ abusive, alcoholic fathers should be the ones to receive their punishment. I don't see it that way. Everything I received in prison, the beatings from the guards, the rapes, the taunting, the god-awful helplessness, the terror of being led to the showers late at night; I deserved every inkling of torture, torture I would wish only upon my worst enemies. Scully doesn't seem to understand that, though. She still sees this demi-god when she looks at me, and it makes me terribly uncomfortable that she's hiding from the truth about me. Meanwhile, she wants to put me in therapy to deal with my "issues" over the rape and everything, but I don't want anything to do with that. _I_ know that I deserve to be sick, but the only thing that's making me go to this doctor is the court order telling me to. I don't want to know what my problems are caused by, I'm a fucking psychologist, I know the signs and symptoms, and I _know_ I worry and guilt myself to unreasonable proportions, so why is she forcing me to do something I know will never help? I saw the Gunmen today. Langly damn near pissed himself at the sight of me, hell, maybe he did the way he bolted like that. Scully and the Gunmen have obviously been working together in my "absence", and now _I_ feel like the outsider. I've lost two full years of my life to this goddamn sentence, now how much more do I have to lose? I can't imagine life at the Bureau now. If I was "Spooky" then, what am I now? What has Scully done without me? Will my presence be unnecessary or, God help me, unwanted? I've never been so scared of work before. I'm meeting Skinner in an hour. *~*~*~*~* Copyright Kathleen Brown February, 1998 Disclaimered in part 1. More bad stuff, and self mutilation and bad words. *~*~*~*~* Sitting outside Skinner's office, face to face with a new receptionist who sat filing her nails, Fox Mulder reclined nervously, cracking the husk of a sunflower seed between two perfect white teeth. He jumped at nearly every sound, regarded the sound of a door slamming down the hallway with nothing less than stark horror, and continuously found his eyes wandering to the slim legs peeking out from under the secretary's desk. He shook his head visibly, averting his eyes. *I will _not_ be reduced to an ex-con stereotype, I will _not_ be reduced to an ex-con stereotype...* He repeated it until it became his mantra, unable to go more than several seconds before beginning again. He sighed deeply, frustrated by the tenacity with which he grasped onto his sanity. *Wouldn't it just be so much easier to go stark crazy and give up this charade?* Adjusting his position in the chair, Mulder leaned far forward, allowing his head to fall into his hands. "You okay, Mister?" Mulder lifted his head to find the secretary looking up from her perfectly shaped nails, over the tops of wire-rimmed glasses to watch him. Mulder only managed a nod at this woman, her allure forgotten in her hopelessly childlike, nasal voice. Mulder swallowed and felt the walls close in upon him, needing out of here like he never had. He stood, towering over this small, sitting woman. "I'll be in the hallway if Agent Scully comes out looking for me." The secretary nodded, watching the attractive man escape into the hallway. She would not allow herself to become attracted to him, though, she had heard far too many stories of his aliens and, mostly, about the case that put him into prison. Sure, the guy deserved it, everyone at the Bureau knew it, but _no one_ expected that kind of an overkill reaction in Mulder. She merely shook her head and sighed, muttering under her breath merely because she knew she could. "Spooky." "Where's Mulder?" The woman's panicked voice brought her head up with a snap, and once again she was torn away from her creamy, pearlized tips. She sighed and recognized the small, fiery Agent Scully. She knew, just by the way the woman reacted to certain things, that she was in love with Mulder, though this was a secret she preferred to keep to herself, rather than get involved in the large office-staff betting pool. "He went out into the hallway for some air quite a while ago, Agent Scully." *Oh, God, Mulder, please don't....* Even in the split second it took for Scully to get from the door to Skinner's office to the door to the hallway, Scully was deep in prayer that when she opened that door, Mulder would be there, waiting for her, not gone, ditching her and his entire life, his _career_, for anything else, for God knows what. *Thank God...* Scully smiled as she walked over to the man sitting so comfortably on the hall bench, his head resting back against the wall, his chest rising and falling rhythmically as he dozed. Feeling the slight dip in the deep cushioning as Scully sat behind him, Mulder woke, taking a moment to realize where he was. He looked around, then, finally, turned to face Scully, only seconds before the wooziness following his deep, warm nap began to settle in. He leaned forward and sighed, wiping his hand across his face, groaning. "I fell asleep." Scully smiled. "Yes, you did." She reached out to gently brush his freshly-cut hair away from his face. "You tired?" "I guess so." He turned to face her. "Skinner want to see me?" Scully looked up, hearing the creak of the door as Skinner opened his office door, looking around for his Agents, then seeing them through the windows of his outer office. Scully grinned. "I guess so." The two partners strode into Skinner's office, and Mulder was struck by how little had changed. Even in the middle of the office Mulder found his mind wandering, wondering how it suddenly got to be that when you were younger things seemed to change every day, then, as you got older, life stood still. Feeling Scully's hand upon his sleeve, Mulder realized he had been staring off, and probably missed half of Skinner's words. Fortunately, though, Skinner understood the effects the passage of time unreminded can have of a person, especially someone with such a memory as Mulder. "Good morning, Agent Mulder." Fox Mulder stared. He looked at his watch first to see if he could refute Skinner's 'Good Morning', then realized the implications held in the words _after_ the greeting. *AGENT Mulder?* "All ready? So soon? So I'm back in?" Skinner grinned at the boyishness of the question, the enthusiasm this lately-morose man suddenly held. Skinner knew it wouldn't last, and that he shouldn't allow himself to be so caught up in the extreme happiness of his underling, but, Scully was right, Mulder is...infectious. Skinner looked sternly at Mulder. "Provided you don't make a complete ass of yourself in the next ten minutes." Mulder settled back, quieted, and looked long and hard at his wristwatch. Skinner pushed back his grin and sighed inwardly, leaning slightly toward his agents. "Your return hinges upon several imperative conditions, Agent Mulder." "That I seek therapy." "_Other_ than that." Mulder nodded, allowing the man to continue. "You need to keep low profile, Agent Mulder. For as long as you can manage." Mulder's mind reeled. *What?* "To tell you the truth, Sir, lately I've been wanting nothing more than to scream my presence from the rooftops." Skinner nodded sadly, understanding the younger Agent's plight. "I'm not asking you to change your lifestyle, just don't make any effort at exposure. Your return is all ready the talk of the entire VCU, and the last thing we need is Big Brother to think you're back in business." "I'm _going_ to do my job, Sir." "I know." Skinner considered his next words carefully. "It's just that lately things have quieted down for all of us. We're trying to avoid reminding them that you're a dangerous adversary." Mulder gazed off thoughtfully, suddenly contemplating a reality he had known for years. "Who would alter the truth and think that everyone involved would just ignore what really happened? Are these men we're dealing with so _blind_ as to think that the public just wouldn't care?" "Mulder, it's not exactly like that." He turned to Scully's voice beside him. "Mulder, one of the largest things we've uncovered is your father's involvement in all of this. His work with the State Department... _he's_ the one in charge of the project, Mulder, and we've got a relatively good idea of exactly what happened to your sister." "My sister's alive, Scully. I've seen her." *Oh, God, did I just tell her that?* Scully stared. "What you've seen is a _clone_, Mulder." "No, Scully. My sister is alive, and I've seen her." "She was raised by Cancerman." "Yes, Scully. And she has a husband and her own family. Have you found her, Scully?" Scully gazed into his desperate hazel eyes. She felt utterly tempted to lie, to tell him no, but she could never lie to him, not now, not since he began to look to her for help. She sighed deeply, gently touching his hand, nodding. "We know where she is, Mulder. She lives in Maine." "I want to go to Maine. I have to see her, Scully." "No, Mulder. She doesn't want to see you. She wants _nothing_ to do with you." "Why?" "She doesn't know you. You are nothing to her." "You're making this up. I'm her brother." "Mulder, she doesn't want to see you." "I want to see her." Skinner stared at the exchange taking place before him. His two best agents completely helpless against the pleas of the other, and neither one was winning, each one was slipping backward. He wanted to intervene, but could not find it within him, desperately trying to merely keep a hold on himself for the duration of this conversation. "Agent Mulder. Agent Scully." They both turned to him, and he sighed, deeply, trying to get a handle on himself. "This is a conversation between the two of you which should not be discussed in this room." The two agents nodded. Skinner sighed deeply. "Agent Mulder, the conditions of your release have also been discussed. Your parole conditions have been adjusted. If you're on a case during a time when you should see your officer, you need only stop by the nearest Bureau branch office to check in." "And if I can't? Things happen..." Skinner nodded. "Then you only need to call into me or your officer and appraise us of the situation. Rules will be stretched in your case." "Don't do me any special favors." "Agent Mulder, this would be done for any Agent in your situation doing work as important as yours." Mulder nodded and sat back in his chair, satisfied with Skinner's reply. Skinner turned to Agent Scully next. "Agent Scully, as discussed, you will be our constant link into Agent Mulder's state. Should he at any time become unstable, you are to make note and call us immediately. Use your discretion, but do not hesitate should you become fearful for your, or Agent Mulder's, own safety." Scully nodded, nearly whispering. "Of course, Sir." Skinner looked across the expanse of his oaken desk, looking for any details he may have missed. Finding none, he reached into his desk and pulled out Agent Mulder's badge and weapon. He handed Agent Mulder the badge, but, to Mulder's alarm, handed the weapon to Agent Scully. "You're required to requalify at the range, Agent Mulder. You can do that at any time, though I don't doubt you're going there next. You're also required to take a physical and undergo the usual physical exams." "Joy." Mulder sighed resolutely and slid his identification into the inner pocket of his overcoat, then stood and looked at the both of them. "Would it be all right if I stopped down at the office for a while, Sir?" Skinner nodded, despite the fact that as an agent Mulder should be armed, knowing the fact that he couldn't get into _too_ much trouble simply in the building, and that the man must be aching to see his old office. Skinner smiled inwardly and nodded. For such a messy man, Agent Mulder certainly does cherish the order with which he keeps all the files and books and god- knows-what in that office. It was with a slight jump that Skinner regained his senses, as he realized his door had shut and he was once again alone. He couldn't help but wonder if the powers that be knew what had transpired in this room, or if they simply no longer cared. Special Agent Fox Mulder flipped on the light to his office, and smiled as the fluorescents flickered reluctantly on. He slid out of his overcoat and placed it on the back of a chair as he made his way over to his desk, sinking gratefully into his office chair. *Maybe two years isn't so long after all...* He was glad Scully had sensed the need for a man to be alone with his office, and basked in his own private joy at the ease which washed over his all ready relaxed body. He slipped his hand into pocket and began a good-sized pile of empty seed husks, grabbing some X-Files Scully surely had dropped there for his perusal. He snickered under his breath, passing quickly through all the "lights in the sky" sightings in an effort to get to a decent case, something he could throw himself into and enjoy solving, but, instead, found only the alien-type cases. Puzzled, he walked over to the door to find Scully, who should've be there with the coffee by now, and threw open the door, only to find himself face-to-face with a startled and perfectly still Scully. He took his coffee out of her hand and let her in, then closed the door behind her. "Scully." She turned. "What's wrong?" "Nothing, umm... what's with these X-Files?" "What do you mean?" "These." He shoved the files toward her and sipped his coffee as he sat. Scully merely shrugged innocently, trying not to let on that these had been especially for him, a 'given' as a welcome home case. Mulder merely shook his head and leaned his elbows on the desk, face to face with Scully as she sat primly before him. "Do you still think that's all that matters to me?" "I'm not sure, Mulder." He sighed. "I've found my sister, I've seen the lies, I've come to understand what it is we're up against, Scully, and we can't plunge into this all alone. I'll look into cases with little missing girls, but not if you insist upon pulling me away once we find out there _are_ no little green men involved." Scully sighed and spoke softly under her breath. "Gray." Mulder let a smile tug at the sides of his mouth, seeing Scully become his prot‚g‚, as well as his ally. Scully faced him. "Are you trying to tell me that you don't care about the truth anymore, Mulder?" "Of course not!" His voice was filled with disgust at the fact she could even _ask_ that. "I'm just saying, that I..." He tried to collect his thoughts and articulate them, but wasn't sure, in fact was extremely self-conscious, as to how to make his feelings known. "Scully, I feel a greater urgency to help these people. I don't want to search out lights in the sky that no one really cares about on the farfetched idea that _maybe_ they'll lead me to the truth. I've gone beyond believing that. I want to know the _truth_, not the lies to cover it. And, in the meantime, I want to try to save lives, Scully." She could only nod. As sensible as this man before her seemed, she remained unsteady, suddenly recalling the years that passed which now left them separated. Before her, she was only half-aware of the huge sigh her partner released, but his soft words penetrated her reverie with startling clarity. "We can't pretend that I was never in jail, Scully." She suddenly snapped her head up, shocked. "I've begun to see differently." Mulder quietly picked at the corner of the desk blotter which was so conveniently replaced by Scully. He swallowed nervously and allowed himself a furtive glance in her direction, seeing her through the fall of his "regulation" bangs. When he next spoke, his voice was barely audible, and Scully had to strain to hear his husky voice. "I never got to tell you I was sorry, Scully." "Mulder, there was never any need. I know you're sorry for what happened." He glanced up at her, his tone even, challenging. "Do you really?" She nodded. "_I_ don't know that I'm sorry, Scully." He sighed and lifted his head to face her. "I don't know that I regret going off on him." "Mulder, why exactly _did_ you go off on him?" He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, lost in thought. "Mulder, it's okay, you don't have to. I'm sorry..." Scully reached out to touch his hand. He pulled away, shaking his head in response to her tenderness. "No, Scully. I should be able to face this." He took a deep breath, then released it slowly before jumping to his feet and turning to the books and papers covering every surface behind his desk. His body shook as he released his breath. "I thought he was my father, Scully." He shook his head, and she sat, completely puzzled. "I saw him hurt those kids, Scully, and I wanted to get revenge for them. I just broke, Scully. I lost it." Scully stood, aching to comfort him, but still, irrationally, afraid. "Mulder?" "I saw my father's actions in the abuse he inflicted upon those kids." The implications of Mulder's words came crashing down on her. This was something she had always suspected, but he had never voiced. He turned to her, looking for disgust and ridicule. Instead, in her eyes, he saw only sympathy and her willingness to comfort him. He shook his head. "It's not excuse, I know, and I know that for my own good I shouldn't even bring this up with you, but I can't seem to help myself." He flicked his tongue over his lips, leaving them glistening with moisture. He shifted uneasily, but didn't allow her to gain control over him. "I can't guarantee I won't do it again, Scully. I don't know if I'm sick or just crazy, or if I'm just a violent sociopath, but, Scully, I don't know if I can contain that kind of anger." "Mulder--" He cut off her soft voice with only the meeting of their eyes. He shook his head ever-so-slightly, so slightly Scully was sure she'd never perceive in anyone else. His voice reached her, soft and deep with longing. "Don't try to comfort me. I appreciate the effort, but I'll only drag you down with me." "I will gladly join you, Mulder. This goes beyond our partnership, this reaches our friendship, which matters so much more to me than the Bureau." His hazel gaze skipped almost reluctantly all over the entire room, and Scully could see the emotion there, and the tears he was holding so bravely back from her. Scully shook her head in wonder that any prison could hold a man so determined to live as this. Overcome, Mulder glanced down at the watch so heavy on his left wrist. He sighed, reaching up to push back his hair as he walked over to grab his coat off a chair. "I've got some appointments tomorrow, Scully, I'll see you around, okay?" "I'll stop by." "Sure, whatever, Scully." Scully watched her partner hastily escape the room, as if it were filled by some hellish creature he remained unable to face. Scully slid into his chair, still warm from his body, and sighed softly, trying to decide which was worse, living without Mulder, or living with this Mulder that was not quite Mulder. *~*~*~*~* Lucas McKennitt. What does that name mean to you, Agent Mulder? What forced you to hurt him, Agent Mulder? Did your father beat you often? Did your mother know? Do you love your mother? Why are you so angry? Do you love her? Get off it, Agent Mulder, it's clear in every word you speak. Sit down, Agent Mulder!! Now, why are you crying, Agent Mulder? Raped? Agent Mulder! Agent Mulder!! My review of your psychological state determines whether you do or do _not_ stay in the Bureau. You're sure you want to do this? All right. I admire your courage in that decision. No, no, Fuck _you_, Agent Mulder. AGENT MULDER!!!!!! *~*~*~*~* Dana Scully ran down the hospital corridor, her unbuttoned overcoat flying out behind her like a cape. She ran into the Emergency Ward, standing in the middle of it, circling, looking throughout the curtained rooms for her partner. Seeing him, she hurried forward, running to his side, watching, wincing, as a gash on his arm was stitched. The thought of the pain her partner must be in was enough to make her feel almost physically ill. She surveyed the rest of him in an instant, saw his hand shaking as it reached out to meet her own. Her eyes met his as their fingers intertwined, and she saw the pain in those deep hazel pools. "Mulder..." His tongue flicked over is lips and he swallowed, pushing down the bile rising in his throat. He didn't trust himself to speak. Scully's hand reached out to brush his hair away from his forehead, and he could see her hidden agenda behind that motion. Checking to make sure he wasn't acting under some fever-induced psychosis. *Sorry, Dana...* Dana sighed and looked at her partner, making sure to keep her eyes away from the cut on his forearm. She also tried to avert her thoughts from the humorous fact that she was a _doctor_ afraid to look at blood. *This is different... this is _Mulder's_ blood...* "Mulder, what happened?" "Well, what I need to tell you depends on what they told you to get you here." Scully looked away, fighting the moisture rising in her eyes. "They told me that you got angry at Doctor Costello. That you attacked him." Mulder shook his head, shuddering slightly. "I didn't, Scully. I wanted to, but, Scully, I didn't." She nodded. He would not lie to her, not even in the presence of this hopeless, Scully guessed, second- year intern. "What did he say to you?" Again, his tongue flicked over his lips. "Scully...." He shook his head again. "Scully, I can't explain it to you. It sounds so asinine when I even _think_ it. I need to let you hear it." "What do you mean?" "He taped the session." Scully only nodded. "Are you sure you didn't get mad at him, Mulder?" "Oh, I got mad at him, Scully... _Very_ mad, but I _didn't_ attack him, I swear it to you." "I believe you, Mulder, but what _did_ happen?" "He pissed me off, he went _too_ far, Scully. I got angry and, so help me, I _wanted_ to kill him right then and there, but I didn't. I just did the first thing that came to mind. I'm sorry, Scully..." He shook his head and closed his eyes, but her hand on his arm pulled him from his hiding and back into reality. "What did you do, Mulder?" Her voice was firm, hard, but sympathetic. Saying that she _must_ know, but there will be no punishment. "Scully, I grabbed a letter opener off his desk and I cut myself. It was the _only_ thing I could do!" Her eyes grew wide with disbelief, but her voice remained soft as she tried to clarify his statement. "You hurt yourself, Mulder?" She tried to bring her eyebrows down, to show him that she accepted this part of him, but his soft, shameful nod only heightened her shock. "Mulder, why would you do such a thing?" Seeing him swallow for the third time in a minute, Scully suddenly looked around, then turned back to him. "You thirsty, Mulder? Want something to drink?" He nodded, and his face took on an expression of both shame and helplessness. As Scully darted off to find a glass of water, Mulder glanced back down at his arm, realizing with horror that there stood a man beside him sewing his own flesh together with a needle and thread. Mulder's stomach surged and his body heaved. The doctor noticed the man's discomfort only as he pulled away from him, ripping the last few stitches out of his arm and gushing crimson blood in a wide arc around his bed. The doctor watched as Mulder turned away, burying his face in the pillow of his semi-upright gurney, his body curled to nearly fetal proportions while his stomach clenched unmercifully. As she turned the corner into the Emergency Department, Dana Scully's gut twisted in fear. She nearly dropped the full can of Sprite she carried as she ran toward Mulder's cubicle, but was not shocked to find him in distress, she _was_ shocked, however, to find him gushing blood onto the crisp white sheets of the gurney and heaving uncontrollably. Frantically, Dana ran her hands along her partner's traitorous body in a hurried caress, trying to grant him some comfort in her presence and, being unable to find anything more to assist in her effort, lowered herself toward him, whispering into his ear. "Mulder? Mulder, what's wrong?" In the dark recesses of his mind, Mulder could not hear her frantic pleas, but only the own agonized screams of his memories. Writhing in agony, Fox lay in a pool of his own blood, his body rocked forward by each kick impacting with his back. White-hot pain seared along his spine and shot down both his legs as he tucked them close to his chest. The kicking continued unmercifully, the heckling and insulting continuing as he begged for solace with his silence. Only after Mulder was fully unconscious, hiding within the deepest corners of his psyche, seeking comfort in his memories of warmth and quiet, using the same techniques as a child, and once again returning to Scully, was he granted reprieve from his torture and the bliss of quiet. Mulder was lifted to his feet, too weak for his own legs to support him, his blood flowing freely from the gashes and scrapes lining his flesh with pain. He allowed himself to be taken to a medical care room, where his wounds were gently bathed and his terror was alleviated by the last person he could bestow his trust, a red-haired doctor, not unlike his Dana, who never ceased to care for him, and never allowed his physical pain to go unnoticed. Mulder only wished this woman could feel his inner agony, a pain which dogged his steps his entire life and never granted him solitude. Mulder was laid upon a bed between crisp white sheets. It was there, and only there, where he could weep openly in his agony and shake with unbearable fear, the blood of his wounds pooling onto the floor beneath him. *~*~*~*~* "Session Number one, patient number 1681-111581. Special Agent Fox William Mulder, FBI." Scully listened intently to the softly crackling low-quality audio tape, trying to picture the scene in her mind. A typical therapist's office, Mulder, sitting cross-legged on a couch, glaring suspiciously upon the older man with the graying blonde hair. Costello's voice remained soft, but even Scully, the one who _wasn't_ sick, could hear the accusing tones. "Lucas McKennitt." Mulder. His voice soft and passive, his demeanor withdrawn. "What about him?" "What does that name mean to you, Agent Mulder?" "He was the man I nearly killed. The man I _wanted_ to kill, the man who beat and killed all those kids. X-File 365712." "What forced you to hurt him, Agent Mulder?" "I thought he deserved it. He _still_ deserves it, deserves to be punished for hurting so many innocents. My father hurt innocents. He hurt me. I saw a little piece of my father in Lucas." "Did your father beat you often?" "Often enough." "Did your mother know?" The mention of his mother, who died not so long ago, is enough to put Mulder on edge, his voice tightening around the videotape. Scully balled her hands into fists, short nails digging into her palms. "No child is that clumsy." "Do you love your mother?" "Of course I love her! What the hell kind of question is that?! Do I not seem capable of love?! I am!!" "Why are you so angry?" "You're challenging my love for my _mother_. And Scully..." Scully drew back, reeling. *And Scully what, Mulder?* "Do you love her?" Quietly. "Love who?" "Get off it, Agent Mulder, it's clear in every word you speak." "You leave Scully out of this, it's not about her!" A squeak of a leather couch, the sound of Mulder's angry pacing. "Don't talk about Scully to me! She's... she's..." Scully released her last breath and drew in another, her chest moving only a fraction of an inch, her muscles tense, unable to breathe comfortably. "DON'T TALK ABOUT HER!!" "Sit down, Agent Mulder!!" Silence. The heavy rustle of his clothes as he moved, and his jagged, heaving breathing. "Now, why are you crying, Agent Mulder?" "Things happened to me. I was beaten, taunted, just like my father used to do. I was..." Mulder's voice was no more than a whisper, his voice barely audible. Scully would have missed his words had she not been listening with every fiber in her body. "I was raped by some men. Other inmates. Like me." "Raped?" Scully heard the clear disbelief, the almost mocking tone. "Would I lie about that?! Why would I make that up?! You're supposed to be helping me, so do it!" Jumping up again, his voice growing louder and higher, his rage bringing up the hairs on the back of Scully's neck. "I will not allow myself to be mocked, I'm a fucking psychologist, too, I know what you've been taught to think about guys like me, well let me tell you, it isn't fucking true!!" "Agent Mulder! Agent Mulder!! My review of your psychological state determines whether you do or do _not_ stay in the Bureau." "Write it down!! Every fucking word I tell you, send the transcription of this goddamn session to Skinner, I don't care! I don't fucking care, I'm tired of pretending that I'm something that I'm not! I'm _not_ fucking sane!!" "You're sure you want to do this?" "YES!!" Scully felt her body heat rising, even though she knew there was no change in the temperature, only the sound of her partner's quickly quieting voice and the derisive tone of his doctor's voice. "All right. I admire your courage in that decision." "Oh, Fuck you." The small sigh of relief and the gentle rustle of his cotton shirt traveling up his arms to remain, baring his strong, thin arms. "No, no, Fuck _you_, Agent Mulder." A smile in his voice. Rage. Primal, animal rage. Fox Mulder's agonized scream echoed throughout the nearly-empty basement office, forcing Scully to jump several feet, startled. "AGENT MULDER!!!!!!" Terror. The sounds of struggle, a thud and groan as the doctor was thrown to the floor, and the smash of a coffee mug knocked off of the desk. A soft sound from Mulder's lips, the unmistakable cry of pain as the sharp almost-dagger ripped into the man's skin. Uncontrolled sobbing. The doctor's far-off cry for help, for an ambulance to pick up the weakening Agent. Scully flicked off the tape player, leaning back into Mulder's soft chair. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, gazing out the deeply imbedded windows looking out onto the Hoover Building "lawn". She started again at the sound of her cell phone against her chest, but grabbed it and answered, unruffled, as usual. "Scully." "Agent Scully, this is Agent Mulder's doctor." "Is something wrong?" "Agent Mulder's getting very agitated, and begging to speak with you." "You _have_ admitted him, right? To the psych ward, I assume." "I'm afraid so, Agent Scully. Your friend is one of the most troubled men I've ever been unfortunate enough to meet. Can you come down here?" "Oh, of course. I'm at the office but I've been told Agent Mulder has top priority at the moment. I'll be there as soon as I can." "Thank you, Agent Scully." *Just help him.* The door swung open slowly in response to the small woman's touch, opening up to her a world she'd rather not see. Agent Mulder lay on his side on the bed, his body covered by a blue knit blanket as he stared silently out the window onto early-morning DC. Terrified yet motivated by concern, Scully quietly padded across the room to Mulder's side. Over his broad shoulder, she could see the moisture in his eyes but still hear the easy rhythm of his breathing. "Mulder?" His body tensed as her hand came to rest upon his shoulder, and he managed only barely to suppress a violent shudder. "It's over, Scully." Those words chilled her to the core, sending her all ready trembling body into a state of mild shock. Still, she managed to fight the trauma and call out with all her strength, despite the fact her voice was but a whisper. "Mulder? What are you talking about?" "They'll never let me back in the Bureau now. I knew that my reinstatement was nothing more than a joke, something to appease me until they knew I would have no other choice..." "Mulder?" Shifting in his bed, Mulder turned on his back to face her. "Scully, how can I work when they're talking about institutionalizing me? Scully, I am _really_ sick." "Oh, no, Mulder. This is just a little setback. You can't tell me you're not stressed right now.... You're just having a hard time, the Bureau knows it." "Scully, I need to show you something." *You won't ever understand this.* "What is it, Mulder?" Sighing, Mulder pulled the blankets away from him, shifting the ever-frustrating hospital gown away from his thigh so Scully could see even the large scar from the bullet he took almost five years ago when the two of them were hardly partners at all. But that wasn't his only scar. Hundreds of scars lined the man's leg, each one carefully measured and perfectly straight, scars upon scars, layered in tens on top of the previous. Scully sucked in a deep breath to clear her head, trying to simply stay of her feet, at best. "My God, Mulder... What is this?" His hazel eyes slowly slid shut and he laid back, suddenly terribly exhausted. Scully reached out to lay the blanket over him again, then brushed his hair away from his forehead. "Mulder... how did you get these?" The hooded eyes opened, deep pools of emotions too overwhelming to be described in mere words. Years of agony melded with innocence and sadness mixed with terror. A rosy tongue flicking over his full bottom lip. "You think this is the first time I've been so overcome, Scully?" "But, Mulder those scars look to be _years_ old." He turned impassively to face her. "Since the summer of 1977, Scully. Since the idea occurred to me at sixteen years old and I put myself into the hospital with my excitement." Scully stared, disbelieving, knowing the severity of self-mutilation, fully comprehending the role that it plays in pronounced mental illness. "How did you hide this from me?" "You don't go almost twenty years without being found out by being sloppy, Scully. You just don't." "I always thought... I thought those scars were real." His eyes widened and a grin played along his lips. "They're not exactly made up, Scully." She shook her head, feeling herself digging herself even deeper into this unfortunate hole. "No, I meant... I thought you got them on duty or as a kid or in some kind of accident, Mulder." His voice hung heavy with sarcasm as the pain within him bit down deeply. "Are you saying that these scars are less real because I gave them to myself, Scully? That the pain of mental illness is less real?" "Mulder, you know that is _not_ what I meant!" A deep sigh escaped him and he managed a weary nod. "I know, Scully. I knew." "You just wanted to make sure that I wouldn't go and hold unsubstantiated prejudices against you because you're sick." Found out, Mulder managed a twisted smile and soft nod. Scully smiled, but it was more than a little sorrowful. "Do they know what it is that's wrong with you, Mulder?" He shook his head. "I myself have a few ideas, but of course they'll never listen to my opinion. Ph.D. or not." She reached out to tentatively place her hand on his. He managed a smile. "Anything you can work with, Mulder? Medication, therapy, stay a field agent?" "Scully, I am a danger to myself and others, they won't allow me back into the field no matter what Consortium my father belonged to." A deep sigh. "Are you going to stay with the Bureau? Maybe go back to profiling?" "No. Never that again." Scully nodded, figuring as much. "What will you do?" She smiled as he lost himself within his mind, searching lost files for new data, swallowing nervously. The gentle shake of his head was enough to startle her, though. "No back-up plan?" *This is it, Mulder. Now or never.* "I wasn't sure, even when I was in prison, if I wanted to even try to come back to the Bureau. I guess somehow, subconsciously, I made that decision for me." He reached up to run a hand through his hair, still surprised at the length of it, still longer than before, but shorter than it had been. "But I know I still want to see you, Scully. I know you probably don't want to leave the Bureau, and I'd love it if you'd keep the X-Files, but I still want to find you and keep in touch." The strength and quiet dignity of his words, the subtle hope all too plain in his inflection was enough to throw Scully into the highest state of elation she had ever felt. She heard it in his voice, the unspoken bond that was their everything only a few years ago. *The emotions really _do_ transcend time...* She quickly met his gaze and smiled, capturing his fingers in her grasp. "That goes without saying, Mulder, you know that." He smiled. An honest-to-God Muldersmile, one of those rare occasions when the heavens break apart and penetrate the haze of mental illness while the delight of all the ages bears down upon this one man; lighting up his face with joy uncharacteristic and at the same time wonderful. *I know.* *~*~*~*~* Copyright Kathleen Brown February, 1998 Disclaimered in part 1. More bad stuff (yet again.) *~*~*~*~* I am alone with the X-Files. Mulder unceremoniously quit the Bureau over the phone with Skinner two days ago, but all but begged me to keep pursuing them, which I will, of course, with him as my greatest ally, contact, and anchor. He has promised to help me out in any way he can, so long as I promised to pursue _both_ our theories. To be perfectly honest in regards to this arrangement, I am oddly comforted by the knowledge that he will not be leaving my side (metaphorically speaking, anyway), nor will I be alone in my (our? Can I even still call it ours?) pursuit of the ever-elusive truth. I helped Mulder clean out his things from our office, and I caught him on more than one occasion forced to wipe silent tears from his cheeks. I don't think he adequately prepared himself for the experience. For over seven years that office has been all his, and it was only his presence which turned it into the comforting place it has become for me over the years. Some nights not long after my disappearance I found myself driving throughout the city looking for solace and was able to sleep undisturbed only in our office, where his distinctive Mulderscent clings to his chair and parts of him lay scattered. A ruined pencil chewed nearly in half while studying forty year old files. A Polaroid I took of Queequag posted on a bulletin board, right beside the doctor's Nessie shot, photocopied far too many times. An unimaginative tie for the nights during a case when he can't go home to that dark apartment, for those occasions when only the subtle change in the silk coloring manages to appease the brass at those staff meetings. Of course in all these years only Skinner recognizes that tie as Mulder's signature of exhaustion. God, how I will miss all this. Mulder's moving. He feels it's finally time for him to get out of his apartment, maybe find a small house in a small town somewhere, away from the surveillance and midnight visits and memories of incidences we'd both love to forget. I have to help him clear out his things tomorrow, but I'm positive we'll just end up reminiscing over several cartons of Chinese. This is going to be so hard on him. Mulder's taken up therapy. He's scared, and I know it, and I see him trying to retreat, but with _daily_ sessions, he's not getting a chance. He's called me for the past two nights, awakened by nightmares no human should be forced to suffer. According to Doctor Connolly (since that bastard Costello got dropped like a bad date), Mulder's suffering PTSD, and it's reached crippling severity. He's also trying to diagnose the rest of Mulder's illnesses, which both of them believe have conglomerated into a single, huge syndrome. Doctor Connolly's just trying to determine the pieces of the whole. Mulder's thinking Obsessive-Compulsive. I just don't know. Trying to think of your best friend in terms of mental illness is not easy. To me, he's simply _Mulder_, friend and confidant, and I can't reduce him to a stereotype, label him as "mentally ill". Not Mulder. _Never_ Mulder. *~*~*~*~* I wonder often if anyone else on earth wants to die so much as I do. Every moment of my life is controlled by my wishes to die, and yet whenever I receive the chance, I can't. I could've blown my head off when I learned of Scully's cancer, I could've done it when she told me it was my fault. I could've swallowed my gun when I thought she had died at Linda Bowman's psychic hand. I could've done it as Lucas McKennitt lay dying, because then I knew that I had just thrown the switch on my own electric chair. I could've done it in prison a thousand times. I should've. A sharp knife, my best kitchen knife, is laying on the coffee table. I am wearing short sleeves. In an instant, I could slit my wrists and end it. No, I couldn't. I'm terrified. I'm not man enough to slit my own goddamn wrists. I ache to, but I can't hurt Scully. It would hurt her more than me, but I can't shake the thought, and it's tormenting me. I took the medication Connolly prescribed for me, but it's not working. I know it'll take time for full effectiveness to set in, but I'm trembling so hard I can barely write this. I want to call Connolly, but I can't, I'm scared he'll be angry, and I know I shouldn't. I want to call Scully, but I can't confide my problems to her. They're just too big for her. They're too big for me, for everyone. My search for the truth isn't about Sam anymore. It's not about Scully, either. She's healthy (as healthy as she's going to get), happy, and getting away from me, which I'm sure she wants most of all. My search was for me, and without my mind to guide me, this search is useless and, frankly, I don't care what happens one way or another, I just want to die and end my pain. I don't care anymore. My father wanted to be rid of me, and the reasons I got beaten all those years was because I fucked up, I didn't let myself be taken when I was 12. My father's project is the reason Emily was born and died, and it's the sins of a father, MY father, which had me recruited into the Bureau. I'm sick now because of him and the Cancerman and their conspiracies, and now I'm going to die by their handiwork. Some father, huh? Who am I talking about, the Cancerman or William Mulder? I don't know. I've got OCD. I talked to Connolly about it today and he said it's most likely. Let me be the first to say: this sucks. They're not even done diagnosing all the shit that's wrong with me. I'm trying to refrain from cutting myself, but all I've succeeded in doing today was putting myself into such a massive state of mania that I ran about seven miles into DC and back again. Then I came home and ate. Then I proceeded to retch for a good part of an hour while Scully called and left messages on the machine asking where I was, telling me she stopped by to help me clean out the place but that I wasn't here. I need to get out of this apartment, but all my memories are here. I've lived here since the day I was recruited by the BSU. I'm so tired, but I can't stop my mind from skipping in and out of hyperdrive. I want to stay here in bed but I can't seem to stay in one spot. I've gotten up to pee about four times since I started writing, and I've gotten up to look out the window at least ten times on top of that. At _least_ ten times. I'm so fucking tired. I just spent twenty minutes slashing the shit out of my leg with the knife from my coffee table. There's a puddle of blood the size of a pizza on my floor and my writing is barely visible from the blood covering my hands. My blood is pooling on these nice white sheets, the polarfleece ones Scully bought me a few days ago. I'm so fucking tired. I just want to sleep. I can now. This time there's a good chance I won't wake up. *~*~*~*~* Mulder groaned as he awoke, pain aching dully in his left leg, dried blood caked over what seemed like his entire body. He ran a hand, sticky with sweat and blood, through his hair, and leaned back against the wooden headboard, wincing at the pain flaring in his head as it made sharp contact with the wall. Forcing open his sleep-heavy eyes, he took stock of his room and sighed, recalling the events of the night previous. He snaked his arm out of the warm covers, reaching for the cellular phone only inches away. He was shocked when, after he dialed, the phone that should have been receiving the call, was ringing somewhere in his apartment. Tentatively, he listened to his apartment more than the phone. Scully was listening, too, absolutely terrified. "Mulder?" His soft voice penetrated her fog, and she wandered across the dining room and into the room so conveniently sharing the wall with his living room. "Scully..." She had seen the blood, the knife, and wasn't sure whether to look for him sleeping, or pray that the paramedics would miraculously arrive and avoid her the trauma of seeing Mulder dead. The sight she saw, though, was only a fraction less disturbing than what could've been. His hair was matted with blood and sweat, his body coated with a thin layer of that same mixture. Blood pooled on the floor in sticky puddles and covered the sheets which halfheartedly attempted to cover him. His face was pale, almost grayish, and his eyes were dull, glassy. Scully wanted to run away and get sick and forget this image, but her legs would not allow her the luxury, though her stomach was more than willing. She walked toward him, reaching out her hand to touch his legs through the blankets. "Mulder, what happened?" A deep sigh escaped his lips, and Scully's heart sank to her toes. "I'm sorry, Scully. I didn't want to." *Mulder...* "What had you so frightened that you felt you needed to do this?" "I'm sick, Scully." "I know. It's plain to me that you are." "Don't you care?" "Of course I care, Mulder." "Then say something." Scully's forehead wrinkled slightly as she drew her brows together, attempting to understand what it was he was asking her. "Mulder, what do you want me to say?" "React, Scully!! Say something! Don't just go on acting like this doesn't change anything!" "Mulder, it _doesn't_ change anything!" "Don't gimme that crock of shit, Scully, I know what you think of me! You think I'm a crazy sonofabitch with no fucking clue _at_ all! You think I'm just a waste of space, some sick asshole who can't make it a day without hurting himself!" Scully swallowed hard and sat lightly on the bed, her hand laying on Mulder's calf through the blankets. "Mulder, is that what you think I think of you?" "I don't know." "Or are you just projecting your own feelings onto me?" He sighed deeply, trying to clear his mind as best he could. He turned his head to face Dana, seeking out her eyes, suddenly puzzled. "Dana, what're you doing here?" She smiled. "I wanted to know if you were all okay. I tried calling you all last night, I thought you might be out for a jog but when you didn't answer the phone this morning I got worried." He leaned back, pushing at his hair, his body protesting any and all movements outside of breathing. "I was sick. Couldn't answer the phone. Then I just forgot, I guess." She nodded, sliding off the bed to look at his cuts. "These aren't deep, Mulder, but they could get infected any minute." She lifted her face towards him, her best doctor expression turned to him. "You need to take a shower, then let me get you cleaned up here." He only nodded wearily, slipping out of bed in only a pair of boxer-briefs. Scully stood and look around. "I'll clean up in here. Then we'll see about moving you out of here, okay, Mulder?" He managed a soft nod and began the exhaustive journey of crossing the room to his small bathroom, when he once again turned to her. "Scully?" "Yeah, Mulder?" "Thank you..." She nodded, smiling, and watched the door close behind him. "Anything for you, partner." *~*~*~*~* "in the darkest nights before the dawn, there was a face i looked upon, a face of porcelain, pale, bright white, the face which brings me my only delight she is my savior, my only love, she is whom i will never speak of. my life is worth nothing, well, no less than more, and she is from my life before. i beg her presence each day and a night, but feel her near i never might, for i will die before we meet, by my own hand, as i practice my final deceit." Scully lifted her head to gaze over the top of the journal. Scrawled poetry covering pages and pages of unlined paper, each one in a completely different style, each one heavily overtoned with guilty, suicidal notions and sex and love in almost overpowering doses. Across the room Mulder sat quietly tossing VHS cassettes into a box to be thrown away, his interest in them having been satiated by the two years when he no longer needed them, no longer desiring their comfort or "assistance". "Mulder?" He lifted his head wearily, shifting his weight off of the sock-feet which lay crushed under the weight of his body, beneath his backside. Dressed in well-worn and loosely-fitting jeans, his thigh carefully bandaged, his turtleneck and sweater keeping out the chill from his windowpane, Mulder looked, to Scully, perfectly delicious. But she clamped down on those not- uncommon emotions at the moment she saw the expressive sorrow in his eyes. Those green and gold eyes traveled along the length of her, his eyes coming to rest on the book in her hands before lifting to meet her curious blue gaze. His voice, still husky from his hidden tears of moments before, came out to meet her, traveling through his slightly parted lips. "Yeah, Scully?" She lifted the journal to indicate her interest in it. She watched him as he almost painfully unfolded himself and stood before heaving a deep sigh and walking to her side, taking her hand and then sitting once again. "You weren't supposed to read that." "They're good, Mulder." He recoiled at the shock of her words, amazed that not only did she seem unaffected by the emotions contained in the writing, but also thrown off by the notion that she actually _enjoyed_ them. "You should pursue this." Now there was no shock, no partial confusion, just _nothing_. He stared, then, slowly, began to stutter out his words in almost unintelligible half- words. "I...I was just..." Scully gave a small laugh, bringing Mulder back into the present. "I was just blowing off steam. I just wrote when I had nothing better to do." She nodded, encouraging him with his approval. He shook his head and gave an exhausted half-chuckle, unable to believe Scully had read his _poetry_, a sign he knew showed more evidence of his illness than the journals, the therapy, the cutting, everything combined. "It wasn't meant for you to see, Scully." "Oh, that much is perfectly clear to me, Mulder." He turned to face her, reading the page the book lay open to, a furiously embarrassed blush creeping over his face. "They're about you sometimes." She nodded, gently bringing her hand forward to cover his. *~*~*~*~* 1115 Van Buren Ave. Alexandria, VA 1115 Van Buren Ave. Alexandria, VA 1115 Van Buren Ave. Alexandria, VA I've all ready memorized his new address, so why is it that I am _forever_ driving to his old apartment to meet him? Two weeks and I _still_ am insisting upon going in an almost completely opposite direction across Alexandria. I noticed something today that shocked me, merely because of the pure fact I should be surprised by it. Mulder treats me absolutely no differently than he used to. Why is this so shocking to me? Just because in the past two weeks he's become so much closer to me, more close than I would imagine we ever could be. In the past two weeks we've spent nearly every moment together, discussing my cases on the X- Files, arguing the validity of his theories, eating dinners together, talking, discussing philosophy, movies, pets (We're both dog people. Mulder insists in fate. I told him I don't believe in fate, he tells me that things change...). The only time when we're apart is when I'm working, but even then Mulder manages to sneak in with a tour and pop by. The first time I was completely horrified, but now it's no less than commonplace. Only once were we caught and then I gave security some line about calling him in to consult on a possible profile, which wasn't entirely false. I'm so shocked by Mulder. He's so incredibly different. He's exactly the same, but certain aspects of him...magnified. He's grown shy socially, averting his eyes whenever he's approached by a waiter in a restaurant or addressed by a checker at the supermarket (I insisted he let me go shopping with him for his new apartment; he still doesn't know how to feed himself. "You're a growing boy, Mulder."). I think that he somehow feels like they can *see* his illness, or maybe it's just a tactic he learned in prison to avoid the inevitable conflict, I don't know. Another thing about him is his sleep patterns. The man sleeps like the dead, and once he's gotten to a certain point, he'll fall asleep in an instant. Since his sickness _still_ gives him nightmares, I'm sure that this is just another defense tactic of his, plus, the fact that Mulder bores _so_ easily, he must've just spent so much jailtime sleeping, going places that were unreachable from behind prison walls. I asked him today if he ever dreamt of our cases, and he looked at me as if it was the most absurd thing I could've said. Then he laughed, shook his head, and told me, in no uncertain terms, that those were his _only_ pleasant dreams. I think that saddens me. The one thing that brought him joy that whole time was, according to him, the X-Files. And now they're gone. He's never complained, so I don't know if he misses them or not, but he seems to have nothing to do now. He tells me he's perfectly happy where he is now, but he's not yet 40, it's too young for him to be retiring! I can't _ever_ imagine Mulder retiring, he's too impatient. He'd rather go out searching for trouble than wait for good times to come to him (Hasn't he proven this enough times over the years?). He's too active, which is why I've been snooping around his apartment (Unfamiliar as it is, it's a lot nicer than the old one.) looking for clues as to what his future plans are ("That's why they put the I in FBI...." -- God, he was such a pain.). I haven't found a single thing, other than a few more psychology books than there used to be, but that could mean one of two things. Either he's considering taking up a career in clinical psychology like he planned to before the FBI came along, or he's trying to learn more about his illness. Unfortunately, I think that scenario two is more likely the case. Oh, something else I've noticed about Mulder. He's not afraid to touch me anymore. I can hardly get within three feet of the man, but give him and inch and he's all over me, hand on my back, touching my hair, the works. Of course, now we're not stomping through nut orchards or Newark's sewer system and he's not ditching me and I'm not contradicting his every word. Now, instead, we're curling up on the couch for hours and just talking about, of all things, the _rain_. We had a three hour conversation on the rain yesterday. Mulder is such a great conversationalist all of a sudden. I can only pray he's really as happy as he seems to be. *~*~*~*~* In the darkness before dawn, a lone man stands, in a dark trench coat, his shiny dark hair reflecting the moonlight. His eyes are trained to a point across the reflecting pool, away from the ever-illuminated phallus of the Washington Monument. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets and his mind is wandering, his thoughts straying ever-further away from reality and the torment of his own mind until he is in another place entirely. The universe falls away from him as he pauses, reflective, considering the path his own life has taken. *I, too, have spent a life the sages' way, and tread once more familiar paths...* He set out to learn the truth about his sister, and the horrible night when she was taken. Now, in addition to learning the horrible truth, a truth one thousand times more horrifying than ever expected, he has earned a friend for whom he would trade his own life, lost two years, found the truth, been made responsible for countless deaths, saved countless lives, and lost, of all things, his own sanity. Was it worth it? Were all those years, all those friends, all those enemies, all those agonizing days spent in futile search, making mistakes, causing pain both to himself and his best friend, were all those hours, days, _years_, worth it? Looking around him, at the one most important element in his life, Fox Mulder nodded. It was worth it. He had what he wanted most of all. Reaching out to take Dana's hand, he turned away from the past, turning instead towards the future and whatever it may bring. He was finally free. The End Fox's poem, also titled "Lies of Myself" is by Kathleen Brown and copyright Kathleen Brown, February, 1998. The lyrics beginning this story are from Rage Against the Machine "Settle for Nothing". Copyright Rage Against the Machine, 1992. No infringement is intended. This story, "Caged Fox" is copyright Kathleen Brown, February 1998. Edited by Alicia Lorenc.