From: Silver Fox
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.
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.
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.