Flesh Wounds

Synopsis: Which ID would I give them? Which persona of mine would actively accuse an FBI agent of rape? And what would happen when I went to the hospital? Faceless nurses and doctors would run tests and take samples that would eventually identify Mulder as a rapist.

Note: This story is first published at The Cube.

Thanks: Tyler for the punches and a splash in the face, and to Fox’s Gal for the ‘brutally honest’ criticism, powerful beta and the better title. And last but not least, Mars, for a token of shared madness in the disguise of both graphics (the cover and the back cover) added May and July 2002.

Feedback: handcuffed_4u@yahoo.com

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Flesh Wounds

I still can't believe it happened. I'll probably never *really* believe it *ever* happened.

He raped me.

*Me*.

And when it was over I ran from his apartment. Disbelief and shock overpowered my system as I sprinted away from his place. Weakened, I hit the ground more than once. I panicked, my breath coming in short, quick gasps; I couldn't remember where I'd parked the fucking car. After 30 minutes searching I found it two blocks away from his place and crawled behind the wheel, looking back over my shoulder to see if he'd followed me. He hadn't but I still felt his presence. I didn't know where he was--around me, on me or in me--he was just *there*. I don't know how long I sat there, maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. I can't remember driving home but when I finally made it there I sat on my bed and thought about what I could ... should ... do."

Normal people -- ordinary Joes -- had a procedure to follow. Normal people went to the cops and reported the incident. Normal people probably...

Who was I trying to kid? First of all, I wasn't "normal." Second of all, it was a well-known fact that the majority of sex crimes went unreported. A disjointed memory probed at me, and I remembered my irritation when I had learned that the people who had been rape victims (I hate that word and I hate that I am one) rarely reported the crime.

Maybe I was more "normal" than I was giving myself credit for.

Oh, but I had my own reasons for not reporting this. Police reports are never anonymous and neither are hospital reports. Which ID would I give them? Which persona of mine would actively accuse an FBI agent of rape? And what would happen when I went to the hospital? Faceless nurses and doctors would run tests and take samples that would eventually identify Mulder as a rapist.

Front page news if I ever heard it. Too bad I'd be dead before the story hit the presses.

Now, as I tried to close my eyes, my mind wouldn't stop going over what had made me to go to him in the first place.

For the first time since Tunguska, I lay on my bed curling up like a worm in hot water. I didn't know what hurt me more -- the fact that I was stupid enough to walk willingly into another beating or the fact that the last person I wanted to hate hated me too much to even kill me.

The last time we had met I had his gun in my hand. I remembered how I had felt his body tense in anticipation when I was pressed against him. I remembered how he hadn't flinched when my lips had pressed against the warm stubbled skin on his cheek. Had he hated me then? Was I too blind to see it?

I coughed a couple of times then got up to wash my face and brush my teeth. I stared at my reflection for a moment. Strange how I barely recognized the same face I had seen every day. As I stared at my own eyes, I remembered his. I remembered how they had burnt right through me, and I. I had been so *glad* that he hadn't hit me or insulted me even once.

There was only one conclusion to come to: I was a damn fool. And I had just lain there, *letting* him to *that* to me.

The sudden, shrill ringing of my phone startled me and I blinked, surprised to see sunlight shining through my blinds. It was morning already? When I answered it, I was mildly surprised to hear Spender's voice on the other side of the connection. He was pissed, but I couldn't understand why -- I had this weekend to myself, and reminded him of that fact.

He wanted to see me for yet another "urgent" errand.

See me? Now?

I rubbed my face, listening to his cool, detached voice. I thought it sounded like he was smiling, even though the man never smiled. He simply... smirked.

Finally I agreed. I'd meet him in forty-five minutes.

I looked at the receiver for a moment before I hung up, his words echoing in my head. Did he know what happened? No, it was impossible. He couldn't have known. I was conveniently forgetting the fact that he always knew *everything*. I rubbed my face again and walked stiffly to the bathroom.

My neck was stiff and my head and body ached. I took off my prosthetic arm and with every move I made I could still feel Mulder on my back. I peeled off my underwear without looking at them. I knew I was bloody and torn, and I *knew* that Mulder's come was inside of me, mingling with my blood. Whether he liked it or not -- whether *I* liked it or not -- he was a part of me now. I leaned against the sink and looked again at my reflection. My lips were swollen, from both the kisses and the repeated blows to my face. Nausea roiled in my stomach and I quickly turned to the shower, turning the spray on as hot as it could possibly go.

I stood under the steady stream of water, scrubbing myself with soap, trying to cleanse myself of him. I washed myself and looked down at the filthy water swirling around my feet. Blood mingled with the soap and sloughed skin cells, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Mulder's come was mixed in there somewhere. Suddenly I heard him as clearly as if he were standing right behind me. I jumped slightly, his words crawled into my ears... Before long, I was shaking again. I turned off the water and stepped out of the confining shower stall. I had never felt so humiliated in my life.

I looked up in the mirror again to see if I was still recognized the reflection. I saw Mulder standing right behind me. Spinning around, I found nothing but the empty room. With a growl of frustration, anger, and humiliation, I sent my fist slamming against the bathroom mirror. I saw it happen before I felt it, and felt the sticky warmth ooze from the cuts before I felt the pain from my sliced skin. Swearing softly, I rinsed my hand and wrapped a smaller towel around it to catch the blood. I quickly dried myself with a towel, trying not to *touch* myself, and strode out of the bathroom, slamming the door hard behind me.

....

The moment I saw Spender I could feel his eyes on my bandaged hand. Then he looked up at me. His eyes danced over me, then into me. Did he know?

He couldn't possibly know.

What now? If he *did* know, what did he stand to gain from the situation? Sure, there were endless options -- blackmail to start with. It was low, but no less than Mulder deserved.

(And what did *I* deserve for going there in the first place?)

I began to envision a plan. Spender's plan, really. I imagined him puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette, regarding this as the perfect chance to get Mulder kicked out of the Bureau forever. He'd be revealed as nothing but a psychopathic rapist, left to kiss the X-Files goodbye.

I could see him packing up the contents of his desk and office, rolling up that damned poster. He'd be forced to live with what he'd done. Every day until the world ended -- or until *he* did -- he would replay that crucial moment, regretting the moment he had touched me. He'd regret touching me like he regretted trusting me.

And underneath all of the anger and betrayal, I couldn't help but recall a time when he had called me "Alex."

For a moment, the entire world faded to gray and I could *see* him again -- just as clearly as I'd seen him in my reflection. I could see him as I had walked up to him, offering my hand nervously as I introduced myself. I could see him, his faced bathed in the glow of his monitor as we sat in front of the computer like two schoolboys doing their homework together. I could see his face, clearly flushed the moment he pushed me against the phone booth and I remember the embarrassment I felt the way our bodies rubbed together, creating heat, like flint.

And then I saw him, his eyes flat and lifeless as he thrashed me so hard I bled, his breath, heavy with the scent of liquor, on my face as he panted...

I blinked and realized that Spender was staring at me, clearly waiting for an answer to a question I hadn't heard. He fixed me with a strange glint in his eyes.

He asked me if I understood what he had told me. I said yes.

His eyes narrowed, and he stubbed out his cigarette. He asked me if I was alright.

//Alex. Did I hurt you? Believe me, I've never wanted to hurt you...//

I said I was fine through a lump in my throat. I swore I heard Mulder's voice whispering in my ear, saying things he'd never said.

I was suddenly cold all over. If he knew, Mulder was fucked. And I didn't know if that was a good thing, or a bad thing.

As I turned to leave, I felt his scrutinizing eyes boring into back and I wished I could turn around and shoot the bastard dead.

.....

It was after midnight when I had finally returned to my apartment. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Had I slipped anything to the old man? Had he seen the stiffness in my gait? Could he smell the blood on my clothes? Could he still smell the sex on me like *I* could?

Did he know that Mulder made *me* come?

Did he know that my erection wasn't simply a physical reaction to stimulus? Or was it? Was there any way to tell?

I rubbed my face again, a headache forming behind my eyes.

I wasn't sure of what had happened. I had gone there of my own accord. I had wanted *him*, but had I wanted *this*? The pain was blinding, but then why did I come so hard I cried?

I could have fought it. I should have fought it.

Why didn't I *fight*?

I could have stopped it, but all I had done was lay there. I had just lain there and let him come in me. When he came, he hissed something like my name. And for all of the pain, all of the humiliation... After all of what he'd put me through, I still could not escape the fact that now he was inside of me -- he was a part of me. Mulder would be there when I fell asleep at night and when I awoke in the morning. He was there with me constantly, whether he liked it or not.

Whether *I* liked it or not.