From: "Paige Caldwell" <paigecaldwell@hotmail.com> Date: Fri, 06 Aug 1999 20:43:54 EDT Subject: xfc: New: Comfortably Numb, MSR, NC-17 1 of ? WIP Source: xfc From: "Paige Caldwell" <paigecaldwell@hotmail.com> Title: Comfortably Numb Author: Paige Caldwell Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com Classification: MSR, S Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: Through season six Archive: Please do, just let me know where. Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it! Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story Author's Reminder: This is a work in progress...please be patient with me... Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship... smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves... Your lips move but I can't hear what you say... I have become comfortably numb... Part one (WIP 1 of ?) I am not sure where my dependency began. The term has never been a part of my vocabulary, although I am very articulate in thought and speech. Even as a child, I knew that choices in life were going to be singularly mine. My parents encouraged my autonomous nature and my siblings provoked it. To be one of four, you had to be creative in finding distinction. Your voice had to be strong and certain to be taken seriously. Even if it really wasn't my voice at all... I learned how to pretend at an early age. I became a skilled performer, capable of hiding my insecurities behind a rhetorical facade. I could parley with the best of them, including the champion of wit and sarcasm. My partner. But, now I can barely put two coherent words together. My speech is either contorted with pain or sluggish with my attempts to numb it. I am in the ladies room at work, two floors up from the basement grotto we call an office. I stare at my reflection, cringing from what I see. My hand rises to my face. Tentative fingers touch skin that feels pasty. I try to conceal my pallid complexion with make-up, but the pigment is chalky white rather than ivory. It contrasts sharply with the color of my hair, which in turn clashes with pale lips stained hideously red. I try to force a smile. The result is sadly comical. I see a clown's face staring back at me. For a moment I contemplate the bottle of Percocet, the latest in a series of pain medication prescribed by my doctor. I am tempted to empty them all down the drain. But, the pain is so acute that I feel dizzy from procrastinating the inevitable. Cupping my hand under the sink, I quickly take the pill which now commands me. In the elevator I am alone. It is late Friday afternoon. A time when government employees participate in the unspoken conspiracy of leaving work early. Except we don't. My partner and I are wrapped up in a different type of machination that doesn't break early, even for the weekend. As the pull of the elevator draws me down, I feel the sinking of my spirit. It has been two months since I was shot in the stomach by an overly ambitious agent who mistook his case partner for his case subject. Although my doctors assure me that my injury is healed, I'm still shadowed by the pain of the wound. In the past few weeks, I have undergone tests to isolate the source of this pain. I've been tubed end to end by gastroenterologists. Blood work, CT scans and MRI's reveal nothing. Nothing. My doctor tells me that I'm fine. God, I hate when someone uses my own words against me. I'm not fine. I'm in pain. I'm a doctor, damn it. If you won't help me then I'll find a way to help myself. It's then that I encounter a slight shrug of my doctor's shoulders and a hasty scratch of a pen on a pad. I leave confused and deflated, but clutching a renewed prescription in my trembling hand. I want to tell Mulder about my pain, but I don't. Medication leaves me comfortably numb. Mulder won't offer such relief. He'll prod, poke and profile my pain. I will undergo exploratory surgery for the second time in two months, but this time without anesthesia. Mulder confirms this fear with a scrutinizing look as I enter our office. This all day confinement with him has made me uneasy. I've got to get the hell out of here. "It's getting to be that time again," I say in a hurried voice, reaching for my coat. "Leaving already?" He accuses as he suddenly stands up from his desk. I take an involuntary step back. "It's called the weekend. I hope you have a good one, Mulder." I offer him what I hope is a slight smile. When he does not return the gesture, I turn away to hide what I know is a clown's broken grin. My purse is open. I quickly fold my coat over my arm to hide it. Backing away, I lift my hand in casual farewell before opening the door. "Close the door, Scully," Mulder states firmly. My hand freezes on the door knob. "I need to talk to you." He conveys as he rises from his desk and approaches me. "Can't it wait until Monday?" I make my voice sound impatient. "I think I've already waited too long," he observes. "For what?" I am tempted to roll my eyes at him. In the past, a well-rounded circle of my eyes has been most effective in conveying my exasperation with him. Or, as he sarcastically calls it, "that eye stratagem of yours". "An explanation," Mulder responds as he stops inches from me. I hold my ground, grateful that my skirt hides knees that suddenly feel weak. "I sense a disturbance in you these past few weeks," he says. His choice of words reminds me of Melissa. Or Obi Wan Kenobi. I try to lighten my next words in an effort to deflect him. "Have you been watching Star Wars again, Mulder?" He leans against the edge of the desk and folds his arms. "Why won't you talk to me, Scully?" "Because we don't talk, Mulder, we banter," I answer. "What if I just listen?" he offers. "What if we do this another time?" I cut him off. I have too. Time is running out. I took only half of my dose so I'm lucid enough to drive home. "I'm not going to let you off the hook that easy." Mulder tries to reel me in by pretending concern. "And, I have no intention of being your catch of the day." I bite back. "Have a good weekend, Mulder. You can try fishing again on Monday." I head for the elevator, leaving him speechless and myself, horrified. My own analogy is expanding in my mind. I see myself as a fish frying in an oil slick pan. ********** She's hiding something. I watch her press the elevator button. I start to follow her, but stop when I see the trembling of her hand. I am more than concerned now. I'm stunned. Scully's hands are strong. They're sturdy enough to crack open the ribs of a cadaver with one swift snip of a bone cutter. Yet, the same pair of hands are graceful and certain. They can guide, encourage and soothe me with one touch or gesture. There's something wrong. She's losing weight again. At first, I considered this a normal result of abdominal surgery. The bullet had severed an artery. She had hemorrhaged internally and almost died. But, she recuperated swiftly, returning to work within weeks when it could have easily taken months. I was so grateful to have her back that I chalked up her rapid recovery to typical Scully resilience. There's more. I begin to catalogue each change as if I was a merchant and she was my inventory. Her wardrobe is different. Black is a constant theme, as if she's in perpetual mourning. She looks disheveled rather than professional. Some of her latest getups look like they could substitute for pajamas. It almost makes sense, because half the time she looks like a woman who has just dragged herself out of bed. Today, she took her purse to the bathroom again. Ordinarily I would have attributed purse toting to her period. But, periods don't last weeks, unless you're Phoebe Green and flippantly offer this excuse as a way of withholding sex. Scully's period only lasts 4.5 days. I may not be intimate with this woman, but I'm acutely aware of the length of her cycle. It is the only time of the month that I wish my partner was a man. No, I decide. It's more than just hiding something. A moment ago, she cringed away from my touch as if I carried an alien plague. That thought prompts me to action. I grab my coat and head towards the door. My shoe crunches on something. Bending over, I find several pills scattered across the floor. I pick one up and study it closely. Oh my God, I feel myself shudder. I now know why my partner's hand trembles. ********** I no sooner arrive home and my cell phone is ringing. I am certain that it's Mulder. He is never content to allow me to have the last word. And, he knows me well enough to gauge how long it takes me to drive home. The lapse in time suggests that we are destined to argue and he wants me safely off the road before launching his next attack. His consideration is really touching, I reflect bitterly. "What now?" I snap into the receiver. There is no response, but I can tell someone is there. "Mulder?" I pause and wait for an answer. Suddenly, the other party hangs up. "Fine." I say through clenched teeth. I turn the phone off and toss it on the couch. I glance at my kitchen briefly, knowing I should eat. The thought of food makes me queasy. I move into my bedroom and start stripping away the layers of my clothes. I feel dirty in a sordid way. I want to cleanse this shame away. I want to emerge from the shower feeling pristine and fresh, even if the effect is limited to only my skin. Inside the shower stall, my hands press against the sweaty tiles to support myself. I lower my head beneath the stream of hot water. My eyes are closed. My mouth drops open to inhale the soothing steam. As the water runs through my hair and washes the makeup from my face, I lose track of time. All my thoughts and sensations are trickling down to the drain. I am becoming comfortably numb again. Because of this, I am slow to hear and even slower to react to the sudden invasion of my privacy. As the shower curtain is roughly torn back, I can only turn my head to the side and gape sluggishly at my partner. Mulder. Through the wafting steam, I can see that he is angry. I am exposed. And it has nothing to do with nudity. Mulder turns off the shower with one fierce jerk of his wrist. Goosebumps instantly rise up on my skin. I am chilled by the agitation in his eyes. I feel his fingers circle my wrist. It reminds me of a handcuff snapping in place. He tugs me out of the shower and I stumble forward against his chest. For a moment, he holds me against him. Then I feel him tense and push me away. "Here." He abruptly hands me a towel. I try to wrap it around my body, but my one hand is still imprisoned and the other is useless. The towel drops and I stare at it in odd amusement. The only thing I've manage to cover are my feet. Mulder releases his hold and leans over to pick it up. "Lift up your arms," he instructs. I do so, allowing him to circle me with the towel. As he tucks the ends together, I feel the palms of his hands brush against my breasts. I breath in sharply and close my eyes. "Mulder," I whisper. There is need in my voice. It sounds urgent and pathetic. "What? Is the numbness already fading?" he mocks me. He retrieves several pills from his pocket and holds them out for my inspection. "Is it time for your next fix?" "Jesus, Mulder, don't talk to me like that," I cringe away from him. He meets my anguished gaze with his tormented one. "You've been on pain killers all this time," he accuses, pointing at the pills in his hand. "Your a doctor, for Christ's sake. Don't you know what these things can do to you?" "But, I'm in pain," I whisper. I want to cry. I want him to understand. "Scully," His tone is softer as he reaches out to graze my shoulders with his hands. "Your injuries are healed. The doctors gave you a clean bill of health." "But, I'm in pain," I repeat to him. "And, those same doctors wrote the prescriptions." "It's called professional courtesy," he grumbled. "And, damn them to hell for taking the easy way out." Mulder turns me towards the sink. He directs my gaze to my reflection. "Look at what these pills are doing to you," he pleads. The face behind the clown is revealed. My cheeks are sunken in. My lips, which I once considered full, have shriveled to thin, compressed lines. The most frightening features are my eyes. They can't be mine. My eyes are blue. These eyes are so pale that they hold no pigment, no light, no expression. "What have I become?" I murmur. My reflection in the mirror only mimics my words. My partner leans forward to whisper the unimaginable into my ear. "You've become drug dependent." Hearing these words...hearing them from him...is more than I can bear. My vision fades. Huge, guttural sobs rise from the source of all this pain. I clutch my stomach, heaving against throbs of agony that are splitting my insides apart. My legs stiffen then collapse from underneath me. I feel him lift me. I am weightless, but my arms feel like lead and they fall helplessly to my side. He carries me out of the bathroom to my bed. My towel is removed and I am slid under my comforter. For a minute, he stands over me. Unable to meet his gaze, I roll away from him and bury my face into my pillow. I wait for him to say something, to touch me, to comfort me. He doesn't. He has abandoned me to go off on a treasure hunt. I can hear him rifling the bathroom cabinet, then proceeds to every drawer of my apartment in search of what he believes to be my stash. Gasping, I struggle up to my elbows. He is treating me like a junkie. I've been taking prescribed pain medication, not shooting up like a heroin addict. "What the hell do you expect to find?" I cry out as he tugs open the drawer to my dresser. "Syringes?" "God, I hope not," he says in a strained voice. "Just look at my arms, damn you." I hold them out for his inspection. "I don't need too, Scully. I know you haven't reached that point, yet." That "yet" hangs heavily between us. He sighs and moves back into my bathroom where he spends the next several minutes dumping my medication. As I hear the toilet flush, I fall back and stare up at the ceiling. Hot, humiliated tears replace the cold ones. I feel them stream down my face. The edge of the mattress sinks under his weight as he returns to my bed and sits down. I refuse to look at him, rubbing my slick, grubby face with the backs of my hands. "What do you want me to do, Scully? Cry with you or help you?" His voice is hoarse. Mine resembles a sob, "Both." "Scully..." He grabs my hand and presses it against his eyes. I feel it then. The wet lashes...anguished tears against the tips of my fingers. Oh my God...what am I doing? What am I doing to myself? What am I doing to him? "Mulder..." I raise myself up. The comforter falls to my waist, but I no longer care. I am in his arms and he is in mine. My tears are dampening his cheek. His are trickling down my neck. I am not sure where drug dependency began. I know where it will end. Mulder makes the necessary phone calls to get me into a detox center that night. He balances the phone with his shoulder as he helps me button my shirt. He is gentle, treating me like a child. Despite his attempts at reassuring me, I have the vague, uncomfortable feeling that I've just traded one dependency for another. ****************************** Part two (WIP 2 of ?) I was able to get Scully into a RAND program that night. It was an ultarapid opiate detox program where a drug is administered under general anesthesia to counteract the effect of narcotics. Withdrawal is short lived. That would at least get us in a better position to identify the pain she had been trying to numb. While the procedure was being done, I used the time to both of our advantages. First, I phoned Skinner. I told our supervisor the truth, not out of duty or obligation, but because I wanted him to share in the responsibility of what had happened to her. Neither one of us were to blame for that asshole rookie who pumped a bullet into her stomach. But, we were at fault by failing to see the distress she was in. And, I was the most guilty of all. I had assumed that Scully was infinitely resilient. That she was the perfect little soldier, capable of being wounded time and time again, yet ever rising unscathed. I put it in those exact terms to Skinner. He was a Vietnam vet, quick to understand and even quicker to give me a perspective I hadn't considered. "Drugs aren't always taken to ease pain, Mulder," he told me in a strained voice. "Sometimes they're taken to silence the scream from one trauma too many." I fall silent, gripping my cell phone as the weight of his words settled squarely on my shoulders. My thoughts begin to replay the series of horrible events that my partner has been exposed to. Abduction. Cancer. Death of a sister. Death of a child. Being turned into a living host for a parasitic alien.... "Mulder, are you listening?" Skinner's impatient tone breaks into my thoughts. "Actually, I'm counting," I relay, pressing my forehead against the wall. "And, the numbers don't look good." "Listen, agent, you're partner is in trouble," my supervisor warns. "You don't have the luxury of retrospect right now." "I think the truth to all of this presents itself through retrospect." I argue. "Stop looking for a convenient answer, Mulder. Not everything revolves around your guilt." Skinner is, as always, right to the point. I resist the urge to slide down the wall into a heap of self-loathing because I know he expects it. I begin to match his practical outlook, the one that speaks action and not regret. Together we conspire to keep the truth a secret. He suggests an emergency leave of absence and will cover up the real reason. Drug dependency is not something an agent wants on one's record. It doesn't matter that it stems from a work-related injury. Those who seek to debunk us will distort the truth, even more effectively than Scully has tried to hide it. "I'm going to stay with her every minute through this," I assert. "I don't care if the dust on my desk chokes every Division Head in the Department of Justice." "I'll alert the cleaning staff," Skinner chides me. "Relax, Mulder, you have enough vacation saved up to carry you through the millennium." "Well, here's to the new era." I state firmly before I click off the phone. And, I mean it. This time it's going to be different. I am not going to allow my emotional dysfunction to blind me from the truth. The truth that has been staring at me across my desk with waning, anguished eyes. ********** "Can I help you with that, Scully?" I am digging through my purse for my keys. We have arrived back at my apartment. I have just been discharged from the hospital. The RAND unit. A place where opiate junkies are miraculously spared the physical discomfort of withdrawal. Except I don't feel saved. There is no miracle reaching out to me. Just a new drug pumped through my veins to counteract the affects of another. Miracles don't reach those who writhe in the hell they've created for themselves. I've created mine. Except now, I am exposed to the heat. The pills may have numbed me from feeling its danger, but it was my dignity that shielded me from being scorched. My hand no longer shakes, but it hesitates as I feel a tiny tablet at the bottom of my purse. I catch my breath. Drawing it out, I hand it to my partner. "Guess you forgot to check," I mumble, offering him my purse as well. He shakes his head. His hand closes around mine as the other reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve his set of keys. "I trust you, Scully." It's a simple statement and his tone is sincere. But, I am assaulted by doubt, in him and in me. "I thought our creed was to trust no one," I point out. He gives me a brief, discerning look as he unlocks my door. "The creed doesn't apply to those who share it," Mulder responds. He opens the door and stands back to allow me to enter. I stand frozen in my steps. I don't want to go in. "Home, sweet, home," he announces in a voice too chipper to be convincing. "It's prison, Mulder," I remind him. "Just with all the frills and fancy trimmings." My partner bows his head for a moment. I can tell that he is processing my words, trying to come up with a catchy phrase to reassure me. I can see that he's struggling to keep his caustic humor in check. I'm impressed. But, I'm also cynical, especially when I feel vulnerable, so I fill the silence with my own retort. "Well, I guess having you as a cell mate beats Large Marge who spends all afternoon lying on my couch reading Gertrude Stein." Mulder can't resist grinning. He, too, remembers that line. "Come on in," I sigh, beckoning him to follow me. I stop in the livingroom, immediately noticing his suitcases by my couch. There are two of them. It signifies more than a few nights stay. I feel irritation creep up from my staggered soul. I demonstrate it with my hands on my hips. "Mulder, exactly how long is my sentence?" "I don't know, Scully." His answer is noncommittal. "How long will it take for you to pardon yourself?" "Are you saying that it's up to me?" I ask, startled by his question. "When it comes to choice, it always has been," he responds in his philosophical tone. "Why change that now?" Oh God. I am incarcerated with Oxford graduate in psychology. A "wanna-be" shrink. A profiler turned pontificate. As he closes the door, I sense the same panic a prisoner must feel as the bars are clanged securely in place. A cold sweat beads across my forehead. A tremor of pain begins to swell in my stomach. The pain. It's returning. It is not my imagination as he thinks and as the doctors in the RAND unit assure me. It's real. It's virulent. It's... "An anxiety attack..." Mulder assures me as he leads me to the couch. He eases me down onto the cushions and starts to pat my back as if he expects his touch will heal me. I flinch away from him. Clutching my stomach, I snap at him. "It's not gas, Mulder. The pain's not going to go away with one big burp." "I know, Dana..." I stick a finger in his face. "Don't patronize me," I snap. He looks hurt. "This is one's brain off of drugs" I tell him smugly, distorting the message of a well advertised commercial "Get the picture?" Mulder says nothing. As I hunch over and bury my face in my hands, I feel insistent fingers tug at my shoulders. He pulls me back against his chest and wraps his arms around me. Together, we rock through waves of pain that dampen my eyes with tears. I relax in his embrace and allow myself to be lulled by the comfort he is trying to offer me. I don't protest when I am turned to face him. Smoothing back my hair, he gives me a look I don't understand. It suggests regret and hints at tenderness. Without a word, he lays back on the couch and draws me on top of him. If I wasn't so tired, I would either be amused or offended by such intimate contact with a man who has no intention of becoming intimate with me. Our bodies are aligned like lovers. I struggle to feel hope, but realize that it died the moment I learned the truth about Fowley and Mulder. Intimacy between partners is not the forbidden fruit that I'm led to believe. It all comes down to a matter of taste. His. Why settle for a tart Granny apple, when you've experienced the dark, exotic juices of a pomegranate? It doesn't matter that the fruit is full of seeds. Maybe that's where his stupid habit actually began. But, harvest time has come and gone. This apple has rotted. Worms of pain have devoured whatever sweetness ever flowed under my waxy skin. I don't want to feel sorry for myself. I just want to escape from this despair. I want to be another metaphor. One that isn't trampled on the ground, but floats high above it. I visualize a balloon. I can drift towards the lofty sky, yet still remained tethered to my work and my partner. Except he can't reach my heart. He might occasionally tug at my string, but the wind will blow me away from his painful grasp. I smile. As I settle my cheek in the alcove between his neck and shoulder, I sense a shifting of his body underneath mine. For a moment, I think the unimaginable. No, it must be stress that is distorting my perception. What feels inflated is only the balloon inside my head. I try something else. Something that will allow me to drift towards a warm, fuzzy nap. As a child, I counted sheep. I try to do so now. One sheep...two sheep...Mulder's a sheep...He only wants to be my friend...three sheep...four... Then I feel it again. God damn him. My fluffy sheep has got an erection the size of a nuclear warhead. No wonder he can't hop that fucking fence. This is so typical. I am no longer hovering, but plummeting to the ground. I've been popped by a prick. What a coward. What a sheep shit. There is desire for me. He's just hiding it under a fleece. I'm tempted to roll off him and direct him to my bathroom where he can jerk off this deceit. He can even use one of my new towels. The one that has my initials embroidered on it, a joke gift from Christmas. It's perfect for Mulder. He can gratify himself with a symbol and then clean himself off like it never happened. My thoughts sink to a level of dark design that is equally cruel as it is thrilling. No, I have a better plan. After all, he's always been the one hell bent on exposing the truth. ********** My arm is going numb. Even worse, I've got the stiffest hard-on from the woman who is lying on top of me. It no longer matters that she's my partner. This is my Scully. The woman I love. From the minute I felt her body relax against mine I knew I was in trouble. Scully's acceptance of me is a potent aphrodisiac. She wreaks havoc on my senses without even knowing it. Even in sleep, her hips unconsciously shift against mine. The fact that we have not acted upon this magnetism suddenly seems ridiculous. I want to be chivalric, but instead I feel fucking stupid. I am not her knight in shining armor and from the stories I've read, fair maidens don't crush their hero's ego with biting, analytical retorts. Scully lifts her head briefly, but her eyes are still shut. Is she still asleep? Is she dreaming? If she is, I want to invade whatever fantasy she is having right now. She parts her lips slightly to moisten them with her tongue. I feel her nipples through both of our shirts. The friction of our jeans rubbing together is torturous. Oh shit, I groan to myself. As tempted as I am, I will not take advantage of this woman's vulnerability. I try to maneuver her off of me, careful not to wake her for the sake of her embarrassment and mine. Suddenly, her fingers dig into my shoulders. "Don't," she murmurs. It is then that I realize that she's awake. I am paralyzed by the sound of her voice and the way her body moves against mine. The pressure of her strokes is enough to send me over the edge. I grip the back of her jeans to pull her away, but she begins to gyrate. Suddenly, hands which want to deter her are actually prodding her on. "Scully..." my voice cracks. "This thing between us," she reaches down and squeezes the bulge between my legs. "Is it me or just a remnant of my drug induced imagination?" "It's you," I gasp. "It's always been you." "Prove it." Scully's fingers are at the fly to my jeans. I catch her hands and hold them tightly. Her eyes are wide open now. They glimmer dangerously into mine. "Scully, what's gotten into you? "Nothing yet," she smirks. "But, here's to hoping." Shit, this is weird. One minute, she's crying about feeling imprisoned and the next minute she's trying to hump the guard. I begin to flip rapidly through the pages of my mental textbook on psychology. My attempts to read her fail. As always, the pages that reference Dana Scully are glued shut. "What's wrong Mulder?" She interrupts my thoughts with a voice that drips more acid than seduction. "Is the woman you've exposed threatening your illusion?" "Stop it, Scully," I growl. "Is your Scully a little too sullied for you now?" "I said stop it." "Doesn't my dirty hand feel good?" She cups me through my jeans. Her fierceness sends a jolt all the way to my balls. Sensing it, she begins to churn harder. I feel her hip bone through the barrier of our jeans. She's beginning to pump against me like there is no tomorrow. And, from the look in her eyes, I realize that there may never be a tomorrow. The hard, determined glint fades into such a hollow look that I begin to feel pain rather than pleasure. Everything screeches to a halt with sudden realization. I am allowing the woman I love to believe that she is only an object of my lust. "No," I grit my teeth as I push her off me. "Not like this, Scully. Never like this." She lands on her feet beside the couch. She is panting, breathing hard with exertion and anger. She stares at me heatedly, revealing the true nature of a woman scorned. If she carried her weapon, I think she'd shoot me. Without a word, she spins around and stalks to her bedroom. I struggle up onto my elbows in time to see the door slam shut. As I hear the lock being turned, my thoughts spin, reeling towards shock, startling at what had been our first sexual overture. Neither one of us was going to be comfortably numb again. To be continued..... Part 3 of ? (WIP) I slump against my bedroom door, clutching my chest. Humiliation is a powerful current. My heart contracts as if it's been shocked by fully charged paddles. It beats with a frantic, furious pace, reminding me that attacks on the heart are not limited to those with cardiovascular problems. Previously sluggish, dulled by the stupor of medication, the muscle resuscitates with a vengeance. It surges liters of blood through my veins, leaving me flushed and feeling scalded. I clasp my cheeks which are both hot and wet. Tears of shame slide through my fingers and course down my hands. I try to suppress my sobs by pressing my palm against my mouth. It doesn't work. The sound begins in my throat, like a loud, uncontrollable moaning. The whimpering of the afflicted. The death knell of the wounded. "Scully..." I hear his insistent voice and feel the door knob rattle against my back. My head falls against the wood frame in exasperation. I forgot that a locked door draws Mulder like a magnet. I can almost see him unsheathing his lock pick right now. "Scully, please." His voice takes on a pleading tone. "Open the door." "And deny you the pleasure of probing inanimate objects?" I sneer in a loud voice. He doesn't respond. The corner of my mouth lifts into a malicious grin. That one got him good. I think I'm feeling a little better. I wipe the tears from my eyes and stand back from the door. Staring at the knob, poised for the first sign of movement, I hold my breath in anticipation. Nothing. Seconds drag into minutes. My eyes finally blink. I press against the door, listening, trying to sense his nearness. Nothing. Curiosity makes me release the lock. I crack the door open to see if he's there. He's not. I shuffle out into the hall, my feet deliberately noisy against the floor to let him know I'm coming. I find him in the livingroom, tugging on his jacket. His bags are already by the front door. "Where are you going?" There is fear in my voice. I can't help it. I know he's leaving. "I'm going home, Scully," Mulder says, not bothering to look at me as he reaches for my portable phone on the coffee table. "You can't leave," I protest. "You heard what the doctors said. I shouldn't be left alone." "Call your mother," he suggests in a bland tone. He tosses me the phone. I let it fall to the floor, giving it a quick glance as the receiver cracks open. "Oops," I shrug nonchalantly. "I think you broke it." His eyes meet mine. They are cold and uncompromising. I realize then that I've gone too far. He pulls his cell phone from his jacket and begins to punch in some numbers. Holy shit. He's calling my mother. Panic sets in. I rush forward to grab the cell phone from his hand. He lifts it easily over my head. I actually jump for it several times before I recognize what a fool I'm making of myself. I'm acting like a child and he's the babysitter who's had enough of my naughty behavior. "Hang up the phone, Mulder," I beg him. I don't want my mother to know about this drug dependency. The bastard actually lets it ring twice. I gasp and cry out, "Mulder, please." He clicks the phone off. I exhale slowly with relief. "I'll stay, Scully," he tells me in an icy voice. "But, no more fucking wise cracks about what you think is my sex life." "I'm sorry," I whisper. "You're damn right you are," Mulder snaps. He is still fully goaded. He vents his outrage in a torrent of words. "You want to talk about inanimate objects? Then let's talk about you, Scully. You're the one who tried to numb yourself into not feeling. Now that the drugs are gone, you're trying to claw through your pain by sinking your nails into mine." I am too shocked to speak. His words feel like antiseptic on an open cut. The sting is so sharp that it snaps me back to reality. I take a deep breath and steady myself. I scavenge through my cache of dignity, but the reserve is too low. There's not enough to cover this degradation, so I settle for pretending. "I'm sorry, Mulder," I try to sound contrite. "I didn't mean what I said." For a split second, his eyes thaw. Then they ice over again. "Nice try," Mulder sneers as he reaches for my purse. He tugs out the discharge papers that I had stuffed inside the minute my foot stepped outside of the hospital. "The RAND unit gave you a list of therapists," he reminds me. "Here, pick one out." "I already have a therapist," I protest, refusing to take the papers from his hand. "Who? Your little friend at the Bureau?" He shakes his head. "No, Scully, not this time. This isn't about being comfortable, anymore. It's about exposing the truth." How ironic. His choice of words rub together like flint against my brittle nerves, sparking my temper. I'm tempted to fling the papers back at him. I don't. My mother's anguished face is a powerful deterrent. "What's wrong, Scully?" Mulder prods further. "Is the truth more than you can handle?" "Actually, Mulder, I think you're the one who can't handle the truth." I retort. I open the crinkled paper to scan the list. I already know the name I'm going to chose. ********** The next day, I find myself waiting outside the office of Dr. Vandervanak. A multi-syllabic name for a therapist who is sifting through my partner's multi-faceted mind. The therapist is a woman, which doesn't mean much to me, but seems to mean alot to Scully. I squirm restlessly, flipping through magazines that are as uncomfortable as my chair. Articles entitled "When Partners No Longer Communicate", "Why Your Man Doesn't Hear You" and "Sex: The Ultimate Bond in a Loving Relationship" are screaming accusations at me. I toss the magazines aside and stare at the floor. I begin a more useful activity of counting its honeycombed tiles. By the time I reach two hundred, the door opens and Scully steps out into the waiting room. I slap the sides of my thighs and spring out the chair, anxious to go. I don't notice the sullen expression on her face until we're inside my car. "You okay, Scully?" I ask. She nods and turns her head away from me. She focuses her attention out the window as I start the car. I drive several miles, frequently taking my eyes off the road for a quick glimpse of her. Although I am only presented her profile, I see that her lips are moving as if she's talking to herself. Leave her alone, I remind myself. When she's ready to talk, she'll let you know. And, shit, does she. As I'm braking for a traffic light, she states in a toneless voice, "Dr. Vandervanak thinks I should resign from the Bureau." My foot drops as heavily as my heart. The car screeches to a stop. Gripping the wheel, I try to resist the urge to steer her away from this conclusion. I wait for the light to change, then proceed cautiously. "Maybe your doctor is right, Scully. But, you don't have to resign from the Bureau to leave the X-files." "It's not the X-files I need to leave. It's you." Her admission almost kills us both. I almost rear end the truck ahead of us. Scully gasps and grabs my arm. I jerk the wheel and the car swerves to the side of the road. For a minute, we're both too stunned to speak. I am shaking with adrenaline, but not from the near collision. My voice is raspy, quivering with emotion. "This new doctor certainly cuts to the chase." "Mulder," Scully closes her eyes and sighs. "This isn't the first time I've seen her." "Excuse me?" "This summer I had a number of sessions with Dr. Vandervanak." "Funny how your partner is always the last to know." "I didn't tell you because it was about you." It's my turn to lapse into silence. I gaze through the car window just in time to watch my world fall apart. "Mulder?" I don't answer her. I can't. "You okay, Mulder?" "Yeah," I choke out. Shifting the car back into drive, I look for traffic before I pull out to the road. After several miles, Scully asks me, "What are you thinking?" "Right now I'm focusing on my driving." I'm a lousy liar and she knows it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her bite her lip. Scully's lip chewing can mean only two things. Regret or contemplation. God, please let it be regret. I brake for the next traffic light. Both of us stare at it, tensely waiting for it to turn green. "Why can't you talk to me?" She breaks the silence first. "Because we don't talk, we banter," I remind her, tossing my head sarcastically. "Light's changed," she comments dryly. "You want to know what I'm thinking?" I suddenly release my anguish because I can't contain it anymore. "I'm thinking about the women in my life, Scully. Those I love always find a way to leave me." "I didn't know I belonged to such a distinguished group," she says in a hurt voice. "Scully, you're at the top of the list." "Oh..." She is quiet for a moment. Then her tone changes into one of curiosity. "Who else is on the list?" "Jesus," I grit my teeth. "I just told you that I love you more than anyone else. Instead of acknowledging my feelings, you'd rather scrutinize them to make sure they fit your standards." Scully doesn't answer. She drops her gaze to her hands which are clasped tightly on her lap. I park the car in front of her apartment complex. Cutting the ignition, I turn to face her. "What's this pain all about, Scully? Is it about us?" Scully turns back to the window. "There is no us, Mulder," she says in a bleak tone. "Bullshit." I explode. "We both know better. And, so would your therapist if you told her the truth." "And, what truth is that?" "That you hide from your emotions instead of dealing with them." I tell her. "I've been watching you do it for years, Scully. Rather than show your feelings, you conceal them under an impassive mask." She doesn't answer. I watch her lips pinch together and realize I've finally touched a nerve. "What happened Scully? What made you switch from hiding to numbing?" "It's not that simple, Mulder." "Nothing ever is," I scoff. "And, I think you prefer to keep it that way." "Wow," she snorts bitterly. "Who needs a shrink when I have a profiler?" "Stop it," I catch her hand. I feel her nails dig into my skin. "Damn it, I said stop it." Startled, her fingers relax in my hold. "Tell your therapist the truth, Scully." I plead. "If the bottom line is about us, we can start seeing her together." "No..." Her cry sounds tortured. Twisting away from me, she bolts out of the car. I almost break the handle of the door in my agitated efforts to get out of the car. I sprint after her, catching her before she enters the building. "Why?" My voice cracks under the strain I'm feeling. When she refuses to meet my gaze, I lift her chin so that her eyes are level with mine. "Why?" I whisper hoarsely. "Because...there...is...no...us." Scully jerks her head away. She continues in a sober voice. "At one point, I thought there might be. But, I was wrong." "Scully," I sigh as my eyes squeeze shut. "We can work this out. Your therapist can help us both deal with this." "No," she states firmly. "I've discovered another way, Mulder. I don't need to explore it. I don't have to numb it." Her eyes meet mine. "All I do is walk away," she concludes vehemently. The tension between us suddenly snaps, as does my control. "Before you do...," I grab her arm and propel her towards the door. "I think it's time I show you another way of dealing with this pain of yours." ********** We barely make it through the front door of my apartment before Mulder is dragging me to my bedroom. Literally. The minute I realize his intent, my feet go into brake mode. Four inch heels dig lines across the hardwood floor. Ignoring my protests, he lifts me up. Before I can even clutch for support, I'm dropped onto my bed. When I try to rise, I find myself pinned down by all six feet of a him. His mouth lowers to mine before I can speak another word. His lips are unrelenting. He pulls at mine, trying different angles to gain entrance past my clenched teeth. My fingers dig into his shoulders as I try to push him off me. I think I'm about to suffocate when he lifts his mouth from mine. I gasp for air and turn my head away, pleading, "Not like this, Mulder, please...never like this." "Are you ready to admit it?" "Admit what?" I choke out. Mulder speckles my neck with his lips and I feel his fingers unbuttoning my shirt. I freeze, paralyzed by sensations that are both frightening and thrilling. I cry out when he pushes aside the fabric cup of my bra. His fingers lift my breast to his mouth. He begins to suckle me, teasing my nipple with the tip of his tongue. Oh my God... I almost explode with pleasure. An involuntary moan rises from my throat. Suddenly, he lifts his head. "Say it," Mulder prompts me. "Say what?" I pant. "That there is an us," he insists in a low, threatening voice. "There is an us..." I whisper as I close my eyes. I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue this exquisite assault of my senses. He doesn't. I feel his weight shift off of me. My eyes pop open to find him sitting on the edge of my bed. His face is buried in his hands. "Mulder," I whimper his name. "This isn't the way it's supposed to be," he murmurs in a broken voice. I struggle up to a sitting position. My hands tug at his. "What's it supposed to be?" I cry out. He turns his head, his eyes revealing his anguish. "An expression of love," he says softly. "Oh...." My voice trails off, taking with it the last of my frenzied want. "Scully?" His hands gently draw my blouse together. "The next time your therapist encourages you to leave me, will you remind her that there is an us?" "Mulder," I press my forehead against his. "The next time my therapist makes that suggestion, we'll both be there to remind her." To be continued.... Part 4 of ? (WIP) I stand in the doorway to the bathroom, glancing impatiently at my watch while Scully performs her latest face painting ritual. We're going to be late. Our appointment with Dr. Vandervanack is scheduled in thirty minutes, and I can't tell if my partner is being nonchalant or simply stalling. Had we been on our way to a Gap clearance sale, she would have already been in the car, honking the horn. "You know, Scully," I say diplomatically. "Your beauty is the type that doesn't need makeup." Perhaps it's my tone. Maybe it's the fact that my eyes are glued on my watch. When I glance up, her gaze meets mine in the mirror. The distance of her eyes is haunting. With one look, she conveys all that remains unspoken between us. Doubt, the decline of trust, the cool gaze of a woman who no longer believes me. I can't move. I'm stunned by the fact that I've lost something that I never realized I had. Scully's trust. How could this have happened? How did we ever reach this point? "Scully..." She pushes past me without a word. We travel silently by car. I battle a gnawing sense of dread while she chews thoughtfully on her crimson bottom lip. Watching her out of the corner of my eye, I expect to see blood drip from the deep indentures she is creating. "Here, try this," I say, reaching inside my jacket for a pack of gum. I am prepared for this session. My pockets are filled with tissues, lifesavers and even a pack of cigarettes that I found hidden in her lingerie drawer. That she occasionally smokes is no surprise. Hell, there's been times that only a quick jog or a handful of sunflowers seeds have stopped me from returning to a habit long ago abandoned. What she doesn't know is that years back, during one of my "dark" periods, I was as chain smoking as our nemesis. Only the near incineration of my couch, while I slept on it, led me to kick the habit. I'm seriously tempted to light up one right now. "Mulder, there's something I have to tell you," My thoughts scatter, replaced by warning lights and the blast of sirens. I shake my head and hold up a restraining hand. "No, you don't." I admonish. "Just because we're in the car doesn't mean that it's confession time." "It's just that I need to explain...." "Nope," I cover my ears. "Not until I'm safely harnessed in on my side of the couch." "Fine." Her teeth graze her lip as she lapses back into silence. By the time we enter the reception area of the therapist's office, my apprehension is in overdrive. Safely harnessed, my ass. I have the uneasy feeling that I'm a crash dummy who's about to be loaded into a test car. The obstacle course is perilously waiting beyond the therapist's door. "Good morning," Dr. Vandervanack appears from her office and waves us inside. Scully's therapist is a small, thin, sharp-featured woman with a heavy German accent. I do a double take, convinced that the stress of the moment is distorting my vision. Nope...the similarity is too striking to be just a disoriented perspective. I almost roll my head back and laugh. She looks just like Dr. Evil's assistant in Austin Powers, a classic "shagadelic" romp of a movie that should only be my life. But, I'm no swinging secret agent, and although my partner wears black, she ain't no Mrs. Kensington. Not that I mind. I never liked the look of the woman anyway. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Fox," the woman's voice hisses the "x" sound of my name. I want to say "you, too, Frau", but I don't. I take my seat on the couch next to my partner. We sit closely together, our shoulders bumping as we adjust ourselves on the crinkling leather surface. When I slide my arm casually across the back of the couch, I feel Scully shrink away from my touch. "He prefers to be called Mulder," she informs Dr. Vandervanack matter-of-factly. The therapist lifts one of her narrow, painted-on eyebrows. She says nothing until she's takes her seat opposite us and folds her hands primly on her lap. "Why is that, Fox?" Her "w's" sound like "v's". I'm so diverted by her accent that my own droll "vit" slips out before I can stop it. "Vell..." I begin. "Try walking around with a name of an animal that's conventionally thought as sly or deceitful...or even worse, slang for a man who slinks around with his shirt unbuttoned, trying to pick up chicks in discos." "I see," the therapist reaches for her pad to scribble down a few notes. "That's relevant?" I lean forward to see what's she's writing. "That's asinine," Scully answers. She gestures with her hand and continues, "Just write down that he prefers to keep the membership to the "Fox Club" exclusive." Whoa...I crane my head towards my partner. Where did that one come from? "Care to elaborate?" I nudge her with my arm. "Not even my parents call me Fox." She sarcastically tosses her head with each word. Oh shit. I did feed her that line, didn't I? "C'mon, Scully," I try to deflect her. "It's common practice at the Bureau for partners to address each other on a last name basis." "Unless you're having sex with them," Scully retorts. Wham. I've just been hurled into the first test wall. The obstacle known as the "Fowley barrier" is one I'm already aware of. Scully's animosity is one sentiment she's incapable of hiding. And, because it's based on jealousy, I've never tried to deter it. Maybe I should have. Call it a weakness. Call it a pathetic attempt to elicit some type of emotional response from a woman who'd rather suppress her feelings than show them. But now, I'm not appreciative. I'm indignant and embarrassed. Sitting up straight, I look around me and ask, "Hey, doesn't this couch come equipped with an air bag?" "Excuse me?" Dr. Vandervanack interrupts, obviously confused by my remark. "He's trying to be funny," advises Scully, who is flicking invisible dust from the armrest with her fingernail. "But, what he thinks is humerous is really the psychological equivalent of a brain fart." "What a classical assessment, Dr. Scully," I interject, suddenly irritated. "Jeez, had I known that med school was handing out psychology degrees, I would have cancelled my enrollment at Oxford." "Now, he's trying to impress you with his credentials," Scully continues smoothly. I fall back against the couch and lift my hands in exasperation. "Am I allowed to speak for myself or am I just supposed to sit back and enjoy the ride?" "Go ahead, Fox." Dr. Vandervanack prompts me. "Oh, I'm sorry...go ahead, Mulder." "Don't give in to him." There is a noticeable anger in Scully's voice. "It's bad enough I did." Her barbs are sticking to my skin, pricking me, piercing my composure. Granted, I may not be the most mature, self-assured man around, but I'm not going to be scolded like some juvenile. My temper ignites like spark plugs as I reciprocate, "Scully, are you headed in any particular direction with this joy ride, or are you just spinning out of control?" "Control is what it's all about, isn't it Mulder?" "Yours or mine, Scully?" I fling back. "Cause, if it's yours then you better re-read your FBI manual about driving while impaired." Scully jerks her head back as if I've just slapped her. Her cheeks are tinged pink, the first natural pigment I've seen from her skin in days. She swallows several times then says in a rasping voice. "That was low, Mulder." "Yeah it was," I nod, trying to shake off my regret. I feel like an asshole, but it's better than being made to look like one. "Look, I didn't come here to exchange insults. And, I certainly didn't come here to discuss why I dislike the use of my first name." "Why did you come here?" Dr. Vandervanack interrupts. "Finally!" I lift my hands up in mock relief. "The therapist jumps in." "Mulder," cautions Scully. I ignore her and turn to vent my frustration on her doctor. "I'm here because you told Scully to walk away from me." I shake my head in agitated disbelief. "Don't misunderstand, Doc. I have enough guilt about Scully and the trauma's she suffered to keep you in business until you retire. But, since when do psychologists encourage their patients to run from their problems rather than face them?" "Hmmm..." Dr. Vandervanack rests her pen and pad down on the table beside her. Her attention shifts from me to Scully. For a moment, she studies my partner closely. Her pointed gaze hints that something is wrong. I follow her direction and glance at the woman seated next to me. Scully's profile reminds me of a statue. The tinge of her anger drains from her cheeks, leaving her skin the color of alabaster marble. She stares vacantly ahead, paralyzed, impervious to our penetrating looks. "Dana," Dr. Vandervanack addresses her gently. "Do you remember our last session? My recommendation was quite the opposite. I suggested that you ask your partner to come here so I might help you both address the issues between you." She lied. God damn her. She lied to me. I feel my own breath being crushed from my lungs as I'm smashed into another wall on this road test we call therapy. Except this obstacle is one Scully has created through manipulation and deceit. "You played me, Scully?" I growl, unable to contain my fury. "Give her a moment," says the therapist, holding up a restraining hand. "Why? To give her time to fabricate another lie?" "Don't try to analyze Dana, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Vandervanack cautions. "That's my job." "Then do your job, Dr. Vandervanack," I snap back. "Stop mollifying her. If you lack the sufficient experience to get into her head and figure out what the hell is going on in there, then step back and let me do it." "Excuse me, Mr. Mulder, but you've already proven to be ineffective when it comes to communicating with your partner," responds the therapist crisply. "Stop..." Scully suddenly interrupts. Our heated debate ceases as our attention is returned to its source. "If you're both going to talk about me as if I'm not here, then I might as well leave," she announces, rising from the couch. "Scully..." I grab her arm. She jerks away from me and hisses, "Back off, Mulder." "Dana, please sit down," urges her therapist. "I knew this was a mistake," Scully says through clenched teeth. "I should have listened with my head instead of my heart." "Maybe you should try letting me into your heart before you make that decision," I reproach her. "I can't do that," she dismisses me with an dispositive flick of her wrist. "Don't think you can just brush me off, Scully," I tell her determinedly. "I'm as imprinted on you as you are on me." "Well, don't start dusting for prints quite yet," she snaps. "The match you're looking for may not be there." I spring to my feet. We face off like adversaries. Had we worn them, I think both of our guns would be drawn at this point. Her eyes clash with mine. They are no longer dull, but alive. Brilliant, blindingly blue, shooting off sparks like the flash of a sword. As enraged as I am, I can't help but feel a rush of adrenaline for this woman. She challenges me, electrifies me, stimulates me not just to anger, but sexual excitement. "You know, Scully. If we ever make it to bed, I think you'll find that we're perfectly matched." "So typical...," she rolls her eyes and exhales sharply. She shakes her head at Dr. Vandervanack before leaving the room. ****** I can't believe what a fucking asshole he is. I am humiliated and furious over his behavior. How did I ever fall in love with such an immature, egocentric man who thinks the only way to my heart is through his prick? My mind must really be unhinged. Rage is a powerful amphetamine. As a doctor, I can easily recite the effects of stress hormones. But, as a former junkie, I merely appreciate the surge of energy that my anger provides. Unwilling to wait for the elevator, I smack open the stairwell door. I am going to escape this fiasco my doctor calls "couples therapy". I'll walk home if I have too. I don't even care that several miles of pavement will mostly likely grind down the heels of my new Calvin Kline boots. "Scully!" I hear Mulder's voice boom from above. He's following me. I'm two flights of stairs into my descent, so I feel confident enough to stop and lean into the cavity of the stairwell and shout back, "Fuck you, Mulder." My voice reverberates off the walls. It sounds foreign. I am using profanity I only think and never say. But, now could let loose a stream of obscenities that would curl the straightest hair. My teeth clamp down on my lower lip as I try to fight this crude, undignified impulse. I hear Mulder's steps quicken and remember that long legs often overtake short ones. My boots clump heavily down the stairs and I have to grasp the hand rail so I won't lose my balance. As I reach the fourth floor landing, I hear the screeching of his shoes as he rounds the corner of the fifth floor. "I'm really getting tired of chasing you," I hear him threaten. "Then don't." I yell back. Suddenly, Mulder vaults over the railing and lands right behind me. It startles me so much that I lose my footing on the steps. I teeter, almost falling backwards. He catches my arms and tugs me towards him. He steadies me while I glance nervously over my shoulder at the cement stairs that hazardously drop below me. "Thanks," I murmur, pushing away from him. "You're bleeding," he observes, tugging a kleenex from his pocket. I've bitten my lip too deeply. Without a word, he gently dabs the blood from my mouth. "I'm fine," I assert, taking the kleenex from his hand. "You're not fine, Scully," Mulder says softly. "Then again, neither am I. But, we've already acknowledged that there is an "us". Let's not throw away what might be our last chance of discovering what that can mean." "Don't get melodramatic on me, Mulder." I respond. "It's simply a matter of compatibility, or rather a lack of it." "No, Scully, you're wrong. We wouldn't have made it through six years if we weren't compatible." "That's work, Mulder. I'm talking about life. In that venue we're too different to make "us" happen." "Haven't you ever heard that opposites attract?" "Opposites also repel," I argue. "I think we just proved that." "What we proved is that it's going to take more than one therapy session to straighten things out between us." He asserts strongly. "Why do you even want to?" I cry out in frustration. "Don't make this thing between us your new obsession, Mulder. I can't stomach being an object of your dysfunction." "How can loving you be dysfunctional?" he asks solemnly. "Because it's damaging to us both." I lower my gaze. I don't want to look at him. I'm afraid to. "Are you saying we should stop?" "I'm saying you should. I...I already have, Mulder." "Prove it." He suddenly cups my face with his hands. His voice chokes with emotion. "Look me straight in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me." My gaze meet his. The tears in his hazel eyes draw my own. God help me. The lie is poised on my lips, but the agony in my heart silences it. My vision mists over with bittersweet realization. Despite my attempts to flee, distort and deceive, I am as bound to him as he is to me. "No," I whisper, closing my eyes. "I can't say that I don't love you, Mulder, because I do. It's just that I want it to be something other than an affliction." "Does this feel like an affliction?" He murmurs as his lips brush against mine. It is the kiss I've been waiting for. Soft, tender, devoid of lust, not provoked by anger or desperation. An acknowledgment of our feelings. A renewal of our commitment. My hands slide up to his shoulders and twine around his neck. My lips glide over his. His circle mine. Gently, our mouths caress and linger against each others. As the intensity increases, we withdraw, careful not to destroy the tranquility of what is finally good between us. Oh...how many times have I dreamt of this moment? I used to imagine it over and over, filling my mind with it, allowing it to wash over my body and drown out the pain. The pain...when they came for me...when the tests began...when the... "What did you say?" Mulder breaks away from me suddenly. "What?" I ask as I open my eyes. "You imagined us together when the pain started?" He chokes out in an incredulous voice. "When the tests began?" "What are you talking about?" I gape at his puzzled expression. "Scully, you just said..." "I didn't say anything, Mulder." I interrupt him. Or did I? Did I speak my thoughts aloud? "Oh my God," he mumbles, pulling me against him. His embrace is fierce and protective. For a moment, my face is pressed against the collar of his shirt. I cringe when I see drops of blood from my lip soaking into the material. "Why can't I stop bleeding?" I gasp, clutching his arms in panic. "We'll find a way to stop it," he promises in a strong, certain voice. He knows. He now understands that my wound goes deeper than this relationship. When I look up at him, I see my blood smeared against his lips. I suddenly feel dizzy. My thoughts are spiraling, caught in a whirlpool of fear and uncertainty. Must I bleed on him? Does healing involve sharing the pain? I cling to him as he leads me out of the stairwell. His arm is securely around my waist as he guides me towards the elevator. "I can't go back upstairs," I plead with him, thinking that he intends to return to Dr. Vandervanack's office. "We're not," He assures me. "We're going home." Home. The way he says it makes me want to believe, reminding me of the poster that hangs once again in our office. I want to believe. Not in the X-files, not in the paranormal, but simply us. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My need to know the truth about Scully's pain conflicts with my need to protect her from it. And, taunting me even more is the desire to physically express a love that words have only managed to damage. Balance...I need to find some balance here.... Scully.... I get up from my chair and sit down on the side of her bed. Even the distance of a few feet is too much. I need to be near her. She's been napping for hours. This morning's session with Dr. Vandervanack must have really exhausted her. Morning clouds give away to afternoon sunshine. The winter sun feels tepid against my back, but its rays stream brightly across the room. The light falls on Scully's face, bathing her pale skin with a golden glow. In sleep, her features are relaxed. No lines course her forehead, no tension collects around her mouth. She really is beautiful. Next time, I'll make sure my eyes express what my voice fails to convey. I delicately trace my finger across her swollen lower lip before pressing it to mine. Earlier, I tried to absorb her blood with my kiss. I wanted to sponge away her pain and anxiety. If only I could bleed for her. Then my blood would finally be well spent. Oh, Scully... "Your wound runs deep, doesn't it? It's not only about us. Our tortured relationship is but one piece of your jigsaw pain." But, maybe...maybe if we finally glue ourselves together, we'll be able to put the pieces of this puzzle into place. I rub the side of my jaw in tired agitation. Stop analogizing and focus. She gave you the biggest clue in the stairwell. The pain...the tests... Her abduction. She's having flashbacks. "How long has this been going on, Scully? What triggered it? Did it start when that ass wipe of an agent blew a hole into your stomach?" I do a mental search, trying to associate one type of pain with another. The pain of an abdominal wound, the well categorized stories of alien abductees. There has to be a link between the two. For some reason, I think of Duane Berry and how his body was riddled with implants. They were drilled into his teeth, inserted into stomach... Holy fucking shit... I lift the edge of Scully's shirt and stare at her stomach. The incision from her surgery is healed, but the scar is jagged. It resembles a stark red line across her creamy skin. Although I'm no doctor, I begin to palpate her abdomen like one. In my fear, I examine her for some tell tale sign of an implant. "Mulder, what are you doing?" Scully's eyes are open, wide and pale blue in the sunlight. I immediately jerk back, caught in an act that could be easily misconstrued. "Sorry, Scully..." I clear my throat. "I was just..." She catches my hand. "It's alright," she whispers. "I want you to touch me." Screech.... I slam my brakes for what I perceive to be another flashing red light. No way...don't do it, pal...you'll be sorry... "Do you love me, Mulder?" she asks calmly. "You know I do, but..." "Prove it," she responds in a sedate, no-nonsense voice. Oh God. The voice of my Scully is back. Cool, rational, allowing for no compromise or misinterpretation. My palms suddenly feel as sweaty as a teenagers. I think she senses my apprehension. Releasing my hand, she begins to unbutton her blouse, pausing at the third one down. She gives me an expectant look. When I don't respond, she takes my hand and guides it to her breast. Whoa.... Well...maybe it's not a red light after all. Maybe it's yellow...the signal that says proceed with caution. My thumb begins a slow circle around the silk of her shirt. I feel her nipple harden under my touch and the sensation nearly topples me off her bed. A cold perspiration teases the back of my neck, making the collar of my shirt feel itchy. When I try to loosen my tie, she sits up suddenly and whispers, "Let me do that." I can smell the fresh scent of her hair as she leans into me. Her fingers are busy, tugging off my tie, unbuttoning and stripping off my shirt. I'm so mesmerized that I can't move, much less breathe. Her hands glide up my torso, caressing and massaging the muscles of my chest. "Oh God, Mulder," she murmurs in an appreciative voice. "You really are worth the trouble, aren't you?" "Nothing you haven't seen before," I shrug, unable to keep my nervousness under control. "Not with the vision I have now," Scully conveys. Her eyes are so clear that I can spot tiny gold flecks surface from their azure depths. No longer strained in confusion or dulled by pain, they reflect such certainty that I'm able to find my own confidence in them. My hands regain their agility. The buttons to her blouse draw me like a magnet. I hold her steady gaze as I glide the silky material down her back. Skimming her neck with my fingers, I twine them in her hair and lift the strands to the light. "Your hair shines like amber in the sunlight," I murmur. I'm hardly a poet, but she makes me want to try. ******* He's hardly a poet, but I love him for trying... And, I'm ready to show him. A minute ago, he was scared. Paralyzed. Like a deer caught in the headlights of a car that had tried to plow him down earlier. Men...they really can be such silly creatures. Especially this one. He may not understand the timing, but that's because he's Mulder. He's always in a sexual ready mode. He has yet to comprehend this difference between us. This man is the physical to my mental. What I perceive as an argument, he considers foreplay. But, the other Mulder...the one who breaks off a kiss before it spins out of control...who watches over me while I sleep...who sheds tears of grief because of my pain...this is the Mulder I can make love to. Waking up to his pawing my stomach like an agitated puppy does more than tug at my heart. It restores humor to a relationship that has been so bitter lately. But now, my amusement and comparison to cuteness stops as my own hands course his chest. This is a man. And a virile one. Strong, athletic, muscular in all the right places, deliciously lean in others. The afternoon sun only accentuates his tawny perfection. I can't help but travel his body with appreciative eyes and eager fingers. As I remove the rest of his clothes, I explore him with all my senses intact, awakened and revitalized. Neither one of us wants to rush. His touch remains sensual, drawing goosebumps from my skin and tingles down my spine. Each layer of my clothing floats off as gracefully as a veil. He traces the outline of my body as if he's about to commit my figure to canvas. This man may not be a poet, but I think I'm about to discover that part of him which is an artist. He kiss is so gentle. He circumvents my lower lip, focusing on the one above it. I think he's afraid he might hurt me, that the cut might not be healed enough to sustain the pressure of his mouth. I'll have to put an end to his fear. I open my mouth, encouraging him to allow his impulse to take over. His tongue swirls around mine, pulling, tasting, savoring. He retreats only long enough for me to catch my breath before beginning again. My hands roam the expanse of his back and shoulders. As his lips lower to the arch of my neck, my fingers fan out across his skin. Joints extend and nails begin to scrape in almost feline delight as his mouth slides down to my breasts. I hear a sound forming in my throat.... Please don't let it be a purr..... It's comes out as a moan. Quiet acceptable. And, appropriate, considering what he's doing. While his tongue teases one nipple, his fingers entice the other. My breasts are no longer mine, but his. Oh...he really does know what I like... By the time he parts my legs with his hands, my knees are shaking. Despite myself, I tense. This is intimacy at its worst or best, depending on your viewpoint. And, your partner. "Relax, Dana, I won't bite." he says in an amused voice. Keep it up, buddy. Take a good look at the bite mark on my lip and remember what I'm capable of. "I'll keep that in mind," he responds, chuckling. Can he read my thoughts? Jesus, Mary and Joseph....I hope not.... Relax....I'm being ridiculous. And, I'm being careless. The slip-up in the stairwell was bad enough. If I keep speaking my thoughts, he'll know.... Mulder inches his lips down my thigh. Oh God... I hold my breath as his fingers spread me open. Let my thoughts be replaced by this... The first flicker of his tongue makes me gasp. Like an artist's paint brush, each stroke draws hues of exquisite pleasure. My head falls back to the pillow. Skillful and creative, he is painting with watercolors, filling my mind with Monet inspired analogies. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of light. Don't look... I close my eyes. I feel his finger dip into me, drawing out another hue of arousal. Colors blend into pastel splashes of delight. He swirls and blends, fingers and tongue, to complete what is becoming the portrait of my desire. "Mulder, please...." I whisper urgently. "It's about us, remember?" He stops before it's too late. Raising his head, he agrees softly. "Us...." I feel his hands caress my hips before he gently raises them. With one fluid motion we are united. We sway together, slide into each other, merge and meld to a indulgent, slow rhythm. His lips find mine. Each kiss deepens, enhancing what is destined to be our mutual gratification. When my breath becomes to rapid to sustain the tiniest of gasps, he lifts his mouth and pleads, "Scully, open your eyes..." "I can't...the sun's too bright..." "Scully...please look at me...now...please..." The sound of his release discharges my own like a bullet from a gun. It thunders in my ears as pleasure crackles like lightening through every nerve ending. My back arches and my eyes fly open to witness what should be the most profound moment between us. Except it's not. I can't see him. The light... It's blinding me...it's sizzling white...laser sharp... The scream that follows is not one of pleasure. ******* I fight the temptation to clamp my hand over her mouth. Jeez...I never figured this woman to be a screamer. Not that I mind... I just don't want the neighbors to think I'm killing her. When I see the terror in her eyes, I realize that I should have known better. Scully might be passionate, but never...ever...does she lose control. Control is taken from her. It's happening again, right now. "The light...the light..." she cries hysterically, pointing to the window. I roll off her, scrambling to my feet. I'm met by such a massive head rush that I almost fall down. Staggering to the window, I yank the blinds closed, shutting out the sunlight. In the dimness of the room, I see her shadow bolt from the bed. She races for the bathroom, but is so disoriented that she collides with the bedroom door. Her trembling hands pattern the wall, guiding her like a blind woman to her destination. "Scully..." I call after her. I begin to follow, but stop when I stub my toe on the corner of her bed. Shit...the pain is sharp enough to send me hopping. By the time I bounce into the bathroom, Scully is scavenging through her vanity cabinet like a wild woman. Her fingers frantically search for something. Jars of makeup, a tube of toothpaste, her brush....all come flying over her shoulder. Only a bottle of pills stops her frenzy. She stares at the label then shrieks in frustration. Tylenol... She's obviously looking for a stronger pain reliever. "Scully...stop." I grab her shoulders and whirl her around. "Make it stop..." she wails, clutching my arms. "Only you can make it stop," I yell back at her, clasping her face in my hands. "Tell me what happened, Scully. Tell me about the light." Suddenly, she squeezes her eyes closed. Her grip on my arms relaxes as she pants out the last of her hysteria. "It's gone..." she exhales, slowly. "It's over." "It's not over," I insist. "It'll never be over until you confront the truth." "What truth is that, Mulder?" "The truth about your abduction. You're having flashbacks, aren't you?" "I don't want to talk about it." "You have to, Scully. You're incapable of repressing it anymore. It's coming out whether you like it or not. But, Scully...stop lying about it...stop disguising it as pain." "What I could really use is something to numb it," she ignores me, voicing her thoughts out loud. Her eyes widen and nervously meets mine. "I didn't mean that, Mulder." "Sure you did," I release her. "And, you'll find your way back to drugs unless you break the hold this trauma has on you." Scully's eyes swell with tears. They don't fall, but freeze over into an icy stare. Her hands begin to unconsciously rub her thighs. They are sticky from our lovemaking. "I need a shower," she whispers, turning away. "Go ahead," I tell her abruptly. "You might be able to cleanse yourself of me, but don't think you can scrub away the truth about yourself." Scully steps inside the shower stall and draws the curtain on me and our conversation. Gritting my teeth, I pace the bathroom. As the steam of the hot water fills the air, I lean over to pick up the bottle of Tylenol. Angrily, I hurl the bottle into the hallway. The lid pops open and scatters pills across the hardwood floor. So much for intimacy. She may have offered me her body, but her heart is still miles away. Worse yet, I think she's inches from relapsing. To be continued..... Part 5 of ? (WIP) My need to know the truth about Scully's pain conflicts with my need to protect her from it. And, taunting me even more is the desire to physically express a love that words have only managed to damage. Balance...I need to find some balance here.... Scully.... I get up from my chair and sit down on the side of her bed. Even the distance of a few feet is too much. I need to be near her. She's been napping for hours. This morning's session with Dr. Vandervanack must have really exhausted her. Morning clouds give away to afternoon sunshine. The winter sun feels tepid against my back, but its rays stream brightly across the room. The light falls on Scully's face, bathing her pale skin with a golden glow. In sleep, her features are relaxed. No lines course her forehead, no tension collects around her mouth. She really is beautiful. Next time, I'll make sure my eyes express what my voice fails to convey. I delicately trace my finger across her swollen lower lip before pressing it to mine. Earlier, I tried to absorb her blood with my kiss. I wanted to sponge away her pain and anxiety. If only I could bleed for her. Then my blood would finally be well spent. Oh, Scully... "Your wound runs deep, doesn't it? It's not only about us. Our tortured relationship is but one piece of your jigsaw pain." But, maybe...maybe if we finally glue ourselves together, we'll be able to put the pieces of this puzzle into place. I rub the side of my jaw in tired agitation. Stop analogizing and focus. She gave you the biggest clue in the stairwell. The pain...the tests... Her abduction. She's having flashbacks. "How long has this been going on, Scully? What triggered it? Did it start when that ass wipe of an agent blew a hole into your stomach?" I do a mental search, trying to associate one type of pain with another. The pain of an abdominal wound, the well categorized stories of alien abductees. There has to be a link between the two. For some reason, I think of Duane Berry and how his body was riddled with implants. They were drilled into his teeth, inserted into stomach... Holy fucking shit... I lift the edge of Scully's shirt and stare at her stomach. The incision from her surgery is healed, but the scar is jagged. It resembles a stark red line across her creamy skin. Although I'm no doctor, I begin to palpate her abdomen like one. In my fear, I examine her for some tell tale sign of an implant. "Mulder, what are you doing?" Scully's eyes are open, wide and pale blue in the sunlight. I immediately jerk back, caught in an act that could be easily misconstrued. "Sorry, Scully..." I clear my throat. "I was just..." She catches my hand. "It's alright," she whispers. "I want you to touch me." Screech.... I slam my brakes for what I perceive to be another flashing red light. No way...don't do it, pal...you'll be sorry... "Do you love me, Mulder?" she asks calmly. "You know I do, but..." "Prove it," she responds in a sedate, no-nonsense voice. Oh God. The voice of my Scully is back. Cool, rational, allowing for no compromise or misinterpretation. My palms suddenly feel as sweaty as a teenagers. I think she senses my apprehension. Releasing my hand, she begins to unbutton her blouse, pausing at the third one down. She gives me an expectant look. When I don't respond, she takes my hand and guides it to her breast. Whoa.... Well...maybe it's not a red light after all. Maybe it's yellow...the signal that says proceed with caution. My thumb begins a slow circle around the silk of her shirt. I feel her nipple harden under my touch and the sensation nearly topples me off her bed. A cold perspiration teases the back of my neck, making the collar of my shirt feel itchy. When I try to loosen my tie, she sits up suddenly and whispers, "Let me do that." I can smell the fresh scent of her hair as she leans into me. Her fingers are busy, tugging off my tie, unbuttoning and stripping off my shirt. I'm so mesmerized that I can't move, much less breathe. Her hands glide up my torso, caressing and massaging the muscles of my chest. "Oh God, Mulder," she murmurs in an appreciative voice. "You really are worth the trouble, aren't you?" "Nothing you haven't seen before," I shrug, unable to keep my nervousness under control. "Not with the vision I have now," Scully conveys. Her eyes are so clear that I can spot tiny gold flecks surface from their azure depths. No longer strained in confusion or dulled by pain, they reflect such certainty that I'm able to find my own confidence in them. My hands regain their agility. The buttons to her blouse draw me like a magnet. I hold her steady gaze as I glide the silky material down her back. Skimming her neck with my fingers, I twine them in her hair and lift the strands to the light. "Your hair shines like amber in the sunlight," I murmur. I'm hardly a poet, but she makes me want to try. ******* He's hardly a poet, but I love him for trying... And, I'm ready to show him. A minute ago, he was scared. Paralyzed. Like a deer caught in the headlights of a car that had tried to plow him down earlier. Men...they really can be such silly creatures. Especially this one. He may not understand the timing, but that's because he's Mulder. He's always in a sexual ready mode. He has yet to comprehend this difference between us. This man is the physical to my mental. What I perceive as an argument, he considers foreplay. But, the other Mulder...the one who breaks off a kiss before it spins out of control...who watches over me while I sleep...who sheds tears of grief because of my pain...this is the Mulder I can make love to. Waking up to his pawing my stomach like an agitated puppy does more than tug at my heart. It restores humor to a relationship that has been so bitter lately. But now, my amusement and comparison to cuteness stops as my own hands course his chest. This is a man. And a virile one. Strong, athletic, muscular in all the right places, deliciously lean in others. The afternoon sun only accentuates his tawny perfection. I can't help but travel his body with appreciative eyes and eager fingers. As I remove the rest of his clothes, I explore him with all my senses intact, awakened and revitalized. Neither one of us wants to rush. His touch remains sensual, drawing goosebumps from my skin and tingles down my spine. Each layer of my clothing floats off as gracefully as a veil. He traces the outline of my body as if he's about to commit my figure to canvas. This man may not be a poet, but I think I'm about to discover that part of him which is an artist. He kiss is so gentle. He circumvents my lower lip, focusing on the one above it. I think he's afraid he might hurt me, that the cut might not be healed enough to sustain the pressure of his mouth. I'll have to put an end to his fear. I open my mouth, encouraging him to allow his impulse to take over. His tongue swirls around mine, pulling, tasting, savoring. He retreats only long enough for me to catch my breath before beginning again. My hands roam the expanse of his back and shoulders. As his lips lower to the arch of my neck, my fingers fan out across his skin. Joints extend and nails begin to scrape in almost feline delight as his mouth slides down to my breasts. I hear a sound forming in my throat.... Please don't let it be a purr..... It's comes out as a moan. Quiet acceptable. And, appropriate, considering what he's doing. While his tongue teases one nipple, his fingers entice the other. My breasts are no longer mine, but his. Oh...he really does know what I like... By the time he parts my legs with his hands, my knees are shaking. Despite myself, I tense. This is intimacy at its worst or best, depending on your viewpoint. And, your partner. "Relax, Dana, I won't bite." he says in an amused voice. Keep it up, buddy. Take a good look at the bite mark on my lip and remember what I'm capable of. "I'll keep that in mind," he responds, chuckling. Can he read my thoughts? Jesus, Mary and Joseph....I hope not.... Relax....I'm being ridiculous. And, I'm being careless. The slip-up in the stairwell was bad enough. If I keep speaking my thoughts, he'll know.... Mulder inches his lips down my thigh. Oh God... I hold my breath as his fingers spread me open. Let my thoughts be replaced by this... The first flicker of his tongue makes me gasp. Like an artist's paint brush, each stroke draws hues of exquisite pleasure. My head falls back to the pillow. Skillful and creative, he is painting with watercolors, filling my mind with Monet inspired analogies. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of light. Don't look... I close my eyes. I feel his finger dip into me, drawing out another hue of arousal. Colors blend into pastel splashes of delight. He swirls and blends, fingers and tongue, to complete what is becoming the portrait of my desire. "Mulder, please...." I whisper urgently. "It's about us, remember?" He stops before it's too late. Raising his head, he agrees softly. "Us...." I feel his hands caress my hips before he gently raises them. With one fluid motion we are united. We sway together, slide into each other, merge and meld to a indulgent, slow rhythm. His lips find mine. Each kiss deepens, enhancing what is destined to be our mutual gratification. When my breath becomes to rapid to sustain the tiniest of gasps, he lifts his mouth and pleads, "Scully, open your eyes..." "I can't...the sun's too bright..." "Scully...please look at me...now...please..." The sound of his release discharges my own like a bullet from a gun. It thunders in my ears as pleasure crackles like lightening through every nerve ending. My back arches and my eyes fly open to witness what should be the most profound moment between us. Except it's not. I can't see him. The light... It's blinding me...it's sizzling white...laser sharp... The scream that follows is not one of pleasure. ******* I fight the temptation to clamp my hand over her mouth. Jeez...I never figured this woman to be a screamer. Not that I mind... I just don't want the neighbors to think I'm killing her. When I see the terror in her eyes, I realize that I should have known better. Scully might be passionate, but never...ever...does she lose control. Control is taken from her. It's happening again, right now. "The light...the light..." she cries hysterically, pointing to the window. I roll off her, scrambling to my feet. I'm met by such a massive head rush that I almost fall down. Staggering to the window, I yank the blinds closed, shutting out the sunlight. In the dimness of the room, I see her shadow bolt from the bed. She races for the bathroom, but is so disoriented that she collides with the bedroom door. Her trembling hands pattern the wall, guiding her like a blind woman to her destination. "Scully..." I call after her. I begin to follow, but stop when I stub my toe on the corner of her bed. Shit...the pain is sharp enough to send me hopping. By the time I bounce into the bathroom, Scully is scavenging through her vanity cabinet like a wild woman. Her fingers frantically search for something. Jars of makeup, a tube of toothpaste, her brush....all come flying over her shoulder. Only a bottle of pills stops her frenzy. She stares at the label then shrieks in frustration. Tylenol... She's obviously looking for a stronger pain reliever. "Scully...stop." I grab her shoulders and whirl her around. "Make it stop..." she wails, clutching my arms. "Only you can make it stop," I yell back at her, clasping her face in my hands. "Tell me what happened, Scully. Tell me about the light." Suddenly, she squeezes her eyes closed. Her grip on my arms relaxes as she pants out the last of her hysteria. "It's gone..." she exhales, slowly. "It's over." "It's not over," I insist. "It'll never be over until you confront the truth." "What truth is that, Mulder?" "The truth about your abduction. You're having flashbacks, aren't you?" "I don't want to talk about it." "You have to, Scully. You're incapable of repressing it anymore. It's coming out whether you like it or not. But, Scully...stop lying about it...stop disguising it as pain." "What I could really use is something to numb it," she ignores me, voicing her thoughts out loud. Her eyes widen and nervously meets mine. "I didn't mean that, Mulder." "Sure you did," I release her. "And, you'll find your way back to drugs unless you break the hold this trauma has on you." Scully's eyes swell with tears. They don't fall, but freeze over into an icy stare. Her hands begin to unconsciously rub her thighs. They are sticky from our lovemaking. "I need a shower," she whispers, turning away. "Go ahead," I tell her abruptly. "You might be able to cleanse yourself of me, but don't think you can scrub away the truth about yourself." Scully steps inside the shower stall and draws the curtain on me and our conversation. Gritting my teeth, I pace the bathroom. As the steam of the hot water fills the air, I lean over to pick up the bottle of Tylenol. Angrily, I hurl the bottle into the hallway. The lid pops open and scatters pills across the hardwood floor. So much for intimacy. She may have offered me her body, but her heart is still miles away. Worse yet, I think she's inches from relapsing. To be continued.....