Title: Abattoir: 6 Months (1/?) 

Author:  Xenith

Disclaimer: The X-files belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions, not
me. I'm only borrowing the characters for now.  I'll put them back when
I'm done. 

Rating: NC-17;  Deals with the aftermath of rape and sexual assault; much
angst, some graphic sex.  Under 17's if you read this, shame on you! 

Category: SA

Keywords:  MSR, Muldertorture, Scullytorture, rape

Spoilers: Thru 6th season, without Biogenesis

Archive: Sure!  Just tell me! 

Feedback: Love it! Love it! 

E-Mail address: xenitha@yahoo.com



Discussion List:  Yes!!! Yes!!! 

Summary: This is a sequel to Abattoir, following M & S for the six months
after Mulder & Scully's forced sexual encounter and Mulder's rape. It
falls between Abattoir and 1964 1/2 Mustang. 

Author's Note:  The truly great
sequel to this story is "1964 1/2 Mustang" by TBishop.  You can e-mail her
at TBishop27@aol.com



Dana Scully's Journal February 7



Mulder came home from the hospital today; against medical advice.  Why am
I not surprised?  He developed an infection stemming from his injuries at
the hands of Kurt Willard (may he burn in Hell) and the doctor wanted to
keep him until the fever was under
 control. 

Mulder, being the independent (cowardly) SOB he is, waited until I'd gone
home for a shower before he signed himself out and took a cab home.  The
only reason I found out as quickly as I did is that I had made friends
with the nurse on duty. Sandy gave me
 a call right after Mulder left, so I grabbed my car keys and rushed over
to Mulder's apartment. 

Fortunately for us both, Dr. Barnes had insisted that Mulder take a full
supply of his antibiotics and pain pills before he let him leave, AMA
release or not. I got to Mulder's apartment to find him collapsed on his
couch and clearly unable to go anywhere
 else. 

"Damn it, Mulder!  Why do you DO stupid things like this?" I fumed as I
covered him with a blanket.  I fished a thermometer out of his medicine
cabinet and popped it into his mouth. Mulder began to mumble around the
thermometer until my expression made it
 clear that my question had been purely rhetorical. 

I went on. As long as he couldn't talk back, he was going to get an
earful. "Mulder, you had surgery two days ago, you aren't even on solid
food yet, and you've developed an infection leaving you with a temperature
of..." I read the thermometer. "one hund red one degrees.  You need
medical attention. I'm calling an ambulance and you're going back to the
hospital." 

"Scully...please." 

I stopped when I heard the quiet pleading in his voice.  Mulder the flip,
sarcastic funnyman I can deal with. Mulder the vulnerable, stops me dead
in my tracks. 

"Scully, I don't want to go back. It's too...noisy there.  Too many people
around, and every time somebody touches me...I.." his voice trailed off to
a mumble, but I had a pretty good idea what Mulder was getting at. 

This time last week we had both been in the sadistic hands of Kurt Willard
and his buddy and ex-cellmate Benny Zabrilski.  Willard had offered Mulder
the impossible choice of either raping me or watching me be gang-raped. 
Mulder chose to help me, and mad e what could have been a terrible
physical violation into a gentler, dare I say loving(?) experience. Mulder
didn't rape me, he made love to me under the worst of all possible
circumstances, with cameras recording the event and the certain knowledge
that the tape would land on A.D. Skinner's desk.

I will bless Mulder's sacrifice till the day I die. He didn't have to
choose to be a victim, but he did.  For me.  And after Mulder made my
escape possible, he survived the rape intended for me.  For me. For me. 

Ah, Mulder...whatever will I do with you?  And then, the poor loving soul
believed in his heart that he was just too damaged to remain my partner.
That he couldn't, daren't face me.  I think we resolved some of that by
discussing our fears in the hospital .  But not all, I think.  Not yet. 


I still feel guilty and ashamed that I took the chance offered and ran for
my life. Forget the fact that Mulder intended me to escape, I still left
him. He doesn't blame me for it; he intended it by his action.  But I have
quietly determined to make it up
 to him in any way I can.  ANYTHING this man needs, he will get, if it
takes my last breath. 

I sat down on the coffee table opposite him.  "Is it bad?" I watched his
face closely.  Mulder can lie well, but not to me.  He said nothing for a
bit, but I could see his lips tighten and his eyes look away. 

"Not so bad," was what he said verbally. But I could see by his expression
and body language that he had been desperate to get away to someplace
quiet and alone, where he could try to recover himself in privacy. 

"Mulder, you still need medical care..." I started but Mulder interrupted. 

"No, Scully.  I'm not going back there, to be stared at and pitied..those
orderlies are the worst."  Mulder snorted. "They sort of clutch at their
genitals whenever they approach me, like what happened to me is catching."
Mulder's eyes were deep pools of anguish and embarrassment.  He'd be
pleading next, and I couldn't take that. 

"Mulder, what I was going to say is that you can get that care at my
place.  With your own, personal doctor."  I leaned forward. "I'll go in to
the office and check on you at lunch.  You should be okay on your own till
dinner time.  My guest bedroom is op en.  And I insist." 

Mulder looked as if he were about to cry with relief.  God, after all that
he'd been through, it hadn't occurred to me that a simple hospital stay
could so increase his pain. 

"If you're sure I wouldn't be imposing?" I shook my head. "Okay." Mulder
said simply.  He tried to get up from the couch without success, then
commented wryly "I think you're going to have to pack my overnight bag for
me, though."  He shifted position on the couch and winced. 

"I think it's time for one of your pain meds.  Here, you take this and
I'll go pack." I shook a tablet out of the bottle and got him a glass of
water.  Then I went to pack a bag for him. 

It is 11:00 p.m. now.  I moved the television set into Mulder's room. When
I checked on him twenty minutes ago, he was propped up in bed against some
pillows with the channels on the t.v. set scrolling rapidly past.  Then I
realized that Mulder had droppe d off to sleep with his thumb still
depressing the key on the remote.  It took everything I had not to giggle
out loud as I gently retrieved the remote and left the television on some
stupid show on the Fox Network. 

February 8

3:00 a.m. 

I woke this morning to an agonized scream.  I was halfway to Mulder's
room, gun in hand before I was fully awake. 

I charged into his room, to find him huddled in bed, pleading with Kurt
Willard to let him alone. 

"Mulder, it's okay, it's me.  He's gone.  It's okay," I repeated softly as
I approached him.  His eyes opened and met mine, the tears still running
down his face.  With all my heart I just wanted to gather him up and
protect him, but I knew that he wouldn 't let me touch him.  Mulder just
looked at me, despair in his eyes. 

"Scully..." he gulped and wiped his eyes with the bedsheet.  I nodded and
slowly sat down on the bed, close but not touching him. 

"Mulder, are you okay?  Do you need medical help?" He closed his eyes and
bowed his head, shaking 'no'. 

"Scully," he said under his breath. "I was dreaming, and I was there
again.  And he was there.  And I couldn't stop him, couldn't stop it from
happening.  I'm a goddamned trained PSYCHOLOGIST and I couldn't stop it;
couldn't prevent him attacking you, cou ldn't save mySELF.  I'm the
sorriest excuse for an FBI agent I've ever met with..." His voice died
away into silence. 

I had no words.  Only rage.  If Kurt Willard had survived the shootout, I
have no doubt that I would have grabbed my gun and he'd be dead now.  And
I wouldn't shed a tear.  What could I say?  I couldn't think of anything,
nothing I can say will ever undo it. 

"Mulder," I whispered.  "You changed things, by being there.  If not for
your protection, I would have been gang-raped.  I owe you, big time; don't
forget that.  You saved me from something terrible.  I'd like to hold you. 
Can I hold you?  Please?" 

He finally looked up, forcing himself to meet my eyes and nodded.  I moved
slowly across the bed and gathered him into my arms, pulling his head
against my heart.  I could feel the sobs he was holding in. 

"Let it go.  It's okay, just let it out." I whispered, as my voice got
shakier and finally broke.  In the end I couldn't tell where his tears
ended and mine began. 

Later--

I had to go into the office for a 9 a.m. meeting with Skinner.  I was
ready to reschedule, but Mulder talked me out of it.  He pointed out
(logically) that nightmares and flashbacks are par for the course in his
situation.  He insisted that he'd be fine a nd that he'd see me at lunch. 
Reluctantly, I left him. 

As I entered Skinner's office, I know that my eyes were still red and my
face puffy.  Makeup can only do so much.  As soon as I had taken a seat,
he fired off a question at me. 

"Agent Scully, why the *Hell* aren't you on medical leave?  Mulder wasn't
the only one sexually assaulted on the Willard case."  He glared at me as
only A.D. Skinner can glare. 

But I can out-stubborn him any day of the week.  "Sir, I am seeing my
therapist regularly and feel that I am coping well with the...trauma.  I
feel better when I keep busy. I don't want to sit at home and mull over
what happened." 

Skinner just looked at me.  Being held at gunpoint, in fear for my life
(and afraid for Mulder as well) wasn't a picnic.  I need to work, put some
distance from it. 

"All right, Agent Scully, I'll allow you back to work if your therapist
will release you as fit for duty....Oh," he said to the sheet of paper I
placed on his desk.  He reviewed it, attached it to another sheet of paper
and filed it.  Then he turned back to me and sighed. 

"And how is Mulder doing?" he asked searchingly.  "Will he be out of the
hospital soon?" 

I looked down, couldn't let him see the worry in my face.  "He's already
out.  He's staying with me until he feels better; he still needs some help
before he can care for himself again."  I smiled at Skinner projecting my
best confident aura. He didn't bu y it. 

"Agent Scully, there's no question in my mind that Agent Mulder's
psychological condition is worse than his physical. I talked to Sandy; she
says that Mulder left against doctor's orders. Tell me the real story." 

I mentally cursed efficient nurses and told him, all of it. 

Skinner sat quietly when I had finished.  Then he took a deep breath. 
"Agent Scully, are you sure that you are in any condition to take this on
right now? No.." he raised a hand at my protest. "I'm not saying that you
should abandon Mulder.  Just don't f orget that you are a victim of those
sadistic bastards as much as he is, and you need healing time too." 
Sometimes Skinner is just too damned perceptive, but I couldn't let this
one go.  I can't; I owe Mulder.  Big time. 

"Sir, I appreciate your concern, but I am fine.  Mulder is the one who
needs our support the most.  Please, I owe him so much.  I have to do
this."  I was as close to pleading as I've ever been with him.  I guess
that helped. 

"Agent Scully, your personal life is your own business.  Since your
therapist has declared you able to work, I will expect you to return to
your regular schedule, effective immediately." He smiled. "However, things
have been relatively quiet of late, so I
 don't anticipate any cases taking you out of town in the immediate
future.  But if you feel that you need to take some personal time, for
*any* reason, please feel free to do so." 

I smiled back.  "Thank you sir."  I got up to leave. 

"Oh, and Agent..." I turned.  "Take good care of him," Skinner said. 

I just nodded. 

I went home for lunch today and to check on Mulder. 

I walked into the living room to see Mulder hunched over my computer, a
credit card on the desk next to him.  The screen faded out as I approached
(Mulder is fast, I'll give him that), and he was stuffing the credit card
into his jeans pocket.  I felt a f lush of hope at that.  If he's feeling
well enough to surf the porn sites, maybe he's beginning to feel better. 

He looked up at me, flushed with embarrassment.  "Uh, hi Scully," he
mumbled. 

"Hi, Mulder," I ignored the computer and put my hand on his forehead, then
got the thermometer.  Mulder remained silent while we waited for it to
read. Temperature was 99 degrees.  Good. 

Then my nose woke up.  "What is it that smells so good?"  I wandered into
the kitchen and found a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove.  "This
looks wonderful.  Which deli delivered it?" I grabbed a spoon from the
drawer, hygiene be damned, and took
 a taste.  Divine. 

"It's not from a deli." Mulder gave me an abashed grin.  "I made it. It
didn't seem right, my sitting around all day and not contributing
something." 

I grabbed a bowl and scooped up a large helping.  "Believe me, this is a
contribution," I said, helping myself to a big helping. "But Mulder, you
still can't eat solid food." 

Mulder got a bowl.  "I thought of that.  I've got broth for me, and this
tastes better than Ensure anyway."  He dished himself a serving from a
smaller pot at the back of the stove and carefully seated himself opposite
me.  We ate lunch in a companionable
 silence. 

As I dug the last drops from my bowl, and seriously considered picking it
up and slurping the last bit, I commented to Mulder, "You never said that
you could cook." 

"You never asked," Mulder refilled my bowl and put it in front of me. 
"So, how was work today, dear?" Mulder asked, only half jokingly. 

Oh I know how much he wants to be back in the office, but he just isn't
strong enough yet, and he knows it. 

"Boring.  Skinner has me doing background checks and paperwork.  I think
he's trying to give me what he'd term 'light' work.  You aren't missing
anything."  I glanced up and Mulder looked a little less unhappy. 

"What are your plans for today?" I asked. 

"Oh, I have an appointment with William Draeger at the Rape Crisis
Center."  Mulder looked steadily down into his empty bowl. 

"I'm glad you found somebody to talk to about this.  I'm seeing my
therapist too, you know.  And Mulder, if you ever need to talk, I'm here." 

Mulder looked up at me, finally meeting my eyes. "I know that, Scully. 
And if you need a shoulder to cry on, mine's always available." He gave me
a rueful smile.  "We sure are a sorry pair, aren't we?" 

"Oh, Mulder..." I just wanted to hug him, he looked so defeated somehow. 
I leaned forward and was about to embrace him when he pulled back so
sharply that his chair fell out from under him.  He landed in a crouch
that kept me at arms length.  My hurt mus t have shown on my face, because
he got up apologizing. 

"Scully, I'm so sorry...I just can't.  You..startled me."  He held his
empty arms outstretched, then dropped them at his sides.  He looked close
to tears, and I probably looked the same. 

"It's okay, Mulder," I said, rather unsteadily.  "We'll go slow; we have
time."

Mulder just nodded and walked with a bowed head into his room.  I cleaned
up the kitchen area. When I left for work, I tapped on his door but got no
answer. 

I got home from work before Mulder returned from the therapist.  I cleaned
the apartment, tidying away the inevitable result of Mulder in residence. 
And worried about him, about us. 

I sat on my couch and thought about the dreams I've been having.  Since
Mulder was rescued and has seemed to be recovering, I've had the same
dream every night, borne, I am sure of my fantasies and hopes.  And every
time I think about the dream, I find m yself becoming aroused again. 

It starts the same way.  We are in the warehouse, naked bodies pressed
together.  But this time there are no cameras, no rapists watching us.  We
are alone. And this time, Mulder doesn't have to be coaxed into arousal. 

I feel his gentle lips trailing kisses down my breasts, his mouth suckling
first my right nipple, then my left.  His hands slowly move down the sides
of my abdomen, fondling and exploring my skin.  Then he parts my legs. 
One hand reaches in to roll my cl itoris between long fingers, while the
other gently strokes my entrance with two more fingers.  I feel him
dipping into me, then rubbing my liquid onto my clitoris, swirling his
fingers around my center. 

Just as it becomes unbearable, and I am gasping his name he stops and
meets my eyes, smiling at me, then moves down to caress my clitoris with
his mouth.  His tongue is moist and hot.  With his teeth and tongue he
increases the sensations until I can bare ly breathe. 

By this time I am pleading for it, whimpering to him to fuck me, please,
please Mulder, please fuck me....I feel him enter me slowly.  He is inside
me, stretching me.  It hurts so good.  Mulder always did demand 101% from
me.  I spread my legs farther apa rt, then wrap them around his waist and
I mindlessly beg him please, harder, harder, faster, more...He moves
powerfully, faster and with more force, taking me to himself and I
surrender to him.  I don't submit; he'd never want that, but I freely give
all that I have and am.  And I take all that he is, gladly. 

I wake up in the night, sweating and naked, alone in my bed, feeling the
emptiness of the space around me.  And I hunger for him. 

I feel embarrassed at what I have just written.  If Mulder ever saw it, I
would be mortified; but I have no one to tell these thoughts to and I must
get them out, somehow. 

Since Mulder has come to stay, I am afraid that I might awaken calling his
name.  I don't know what he would do if he knew about this dream, and I
would never want to pressure him.  But still, I look forward to the night,
and the dream. 

When I heard the key rattle in the door I quickly dropped the pillow I'd
been holding between my legs, and hoped I didn't look flushed.  Mulder
looked worn as he walked into the apartment and dropped his coat over the
chair. 

"Hey, how are you feeling?"  I asked, but didn't move to grab the
thermometer.  He looked like he needed space. 

Mulder smiled a little.  "Hey yourself.  I'm okay, just a little tired.  I
think I'll lay down for a while." 

I got up, suddenly worried. "Do you want your pain pills?" I trailed him
to the door of his room and reached out a hand to touch his shoulder.  I
could see him consciously controlling his flinch and pulled my hand back. 

"No," he shook his head.  "I just need a nap." 

I eyed him closely "I'll reheat some of that broth for dinner.  Let me
know when you're hungry."  He gave a little nod and went into his room,
then shut the door behind him.  I sat on the couch, listening for any
sounds from the room. While I absently le afed through a magazine, I
thought I heard quiet sobbing through the door and momentarily considered
checking on him.  Then I realized that privacy was the best thing I could
give him. 

After an hour or so, Mulder came out, looking even more worn than he had
before he went in.  He ate dinner without a word, then spent the evening
flipping channels in front of the television set.  Physically he was
better, his temperature was 98.6 all ev ening.  Finally, after scrolling
through all the cable channels twice, Mulder took a deep breath and
addressed me. 

"This won't work, Scully." He sat, his arms folded over his chest,
seemingly shrunken into himself.

"What won't work?"  I asked cautiously, although I had a good idea what he
was getting at. 

"I can't stand being so close to you, but I can't be with you; not
really." The look he gave me tore at my soul.  "Scully, today when you
tried to hug me my body just took over.  I couldn't get away fast enough. 
I wanted...want to hug you back.  But I ca n't, right now, not
spontaneously.  And every time I rebuff you, I'll cause you pain.  Being
here with you in the same apartment is tearing me apart.  I want you...so
much, and I'd die before I'd hurt you.."

His voice trailed off, then he began again. "Scully, I need some space, to
myself.  I've been thinking about going to the Vineyard, stay with my mom
for a while. Draeger has referred me to a therapist there." 

I was quiet for a minute.  Since Kurt Willard I have felt as though
something inside has awakened; I feel an incredible hunger that I was
unaware of before.  No, not unaware, but I suppressed it so thoroughly I
could safely ignore it.  Since that terrible
 day that Fox Mulder made love to me, I have craved his touch, longed for
his presence.  And yes, being near Mulder but not being able to touch him,
to make love to him, has been difficult.  But I could never force him to
stay close to me just to feed my own hunger. 

"How long will you be gone?" I was surprised at the longing in my voice,
but haven't the ability to hide it any more. 

Mulder smiled.  "Not long.  I'll be picking you up at 8:00 sharp on
Saturday night." 

I was puzzled.  "What for?" 

"Our first date.  We did agree that we were going to start dating, didn't
we?" Mulder suddenly looked worried. 

I hid a smile; so he wasn't that averse to physical closeness after all. 
Maybe there was hope.  "Of course.  And the attire?  Is this dinner and a
movie or something fancier?" 

"Oh, definitely something fancier.  I want to impress this gorgeous little
redhead I met at work." Mulder paused, "If you're willing." 

"Oh yes," I breathed.  Maybe there was hope, indeed. 

XXXXX


Title: Abattoir: 6 Months (2/?) 

Author:  Xenith

February 9


Mulder has gone.  When I woke this morning, he had packed and left, with a
note on the table. 

"See you Saturday.  M.", was all it said. 

Why do I feel so bereft?  We haven't been sleeping together, he only stays
with me when he's sick.  He's taken vacations before and I never felt like
the most vital half of my soul had just walked out. 

Later

I spent the morning working on more paperwork in our tiny basement office,
when I had to run upstairs to get some documents from Kim.  She's been
depressed since the Willard case.  I know that she feels guilty at being
Kurt Willard's unsuspecting dupe, an d providing him will all the data he
needed to kidnap and kill five agents, and almost Mulder and me. 

"Hi Kim," I greeted her, admiring the mammoth display of red and white
roses adorning the corner of her desk.  There must have been 24 roses in
the vase.  "Wow.  Where did those come from?" 

Kim grinned.  "That's what I want to know.  I was about to call you. 
Here's the card, Agent Scully.  They were left at the front desk for you
and security brought them up here."  She handed me a small card and waited
while I slit the envelope.  I could h ear the door to Skinner's office
open and knew that he was just as curious as she was. 

The card simply said: 

"Beautiful flowers for the fairest rose of all.  M." 

I know that I was blushing wildly as I closed the card.  I leaned forward
to sniff one of the roses, when I saw a thin gold chain draped over a
stem.  Gingerly I pulled it out and found a small bracelet, just the size
for a petite wrist like mine, with a tiny charm on it.  A gold cross. 

"Oh...that's beautiful," Kim sighed.  "Who's it from?" 

I blushed even more.  There's no rule that says agents can't date, but I
still wanted to hug the secret to myself.  I looked up and Skinner's grin
told me all I needed to know. 

"Oh, I imagine it's some secret admirer, finally making himself known." 
Skinner said cheerfully and I swear he winked at me. 

When I left Skinner's office, I felt not unlike a parade: Mrs. Spooky on
her way to the basement, hauling a truly whopping bouquet of roses (in a
vase that I could swear is crystal).  Heads poked out of cubicles
throughout the bullpen, and I could hear th e speculation buzzing through
the halls. 

Before long, I was being visited by a variety of secretaries, admin.
assistants and agents who had never bothered to find their way to the
basement before.  It was embarrassing.  It was exciting.  Okay, it made
them jealous, and it was fun to rub their no ses in it for once.  Dana
Scully had an admirer and she wouldn't say who.  I wore the bracelet for
the rest of the day, touching it occasionally to be sure it was safe. 



E-MAIL MESSAGE From: DScully@fbi.gov To: FWMulder@fbi.gov Date: February
9, 1999 Re:  Roses

Mulder,

I got the flowers, they are beautiful.  Security took them to Skinner's
office, where they promptly gave the entire bullpen a charge.  You evil
man, you knew that would happen. 

And thank you for the bracelet.  I'm wearing it now. 

Mulder, sometimes I can say things in writing that I am unable to
articulate in person.  I want you to know that I've missed you.  Coming
home to a Mulderless house is a lonely experience.  I've enjoyed having
you here; I always enjoy your company. 

As I said in the hospital, I chose you a long time ago and my feelings for
you have only deepened.  If you ever feel that you don't have the same
feelings for me, please don't be afraid to say so.  We have always spoken
the truth to each other, and I will
 never lie to you.  And my truth is, that there is an enormous hole in my
life when you aren't there. 

I hope that you find Martha's Vineyard a good, restful place to be.  If
you ever need me, for anything, please, please call me.  I'll be there. 


EMAIL MESSAGE From: FWMulder@fbi.gov To: DScully@fbi.gov Date: February
10, 1999 Re: Roses

I'm glad you liked the roses.  When I saw them, I couldn't decide whether
to send white or red, so I sent both.  White for the purity of your
outlook and red for your passionate soul.  I'm glad I chose right. 

You're right, it is easier to say the things I think by e-mail.  Somehow
when we're together, I find myself making jokes, not telling you what I
really want to say.  My feelings haven't changed since I told you I loved
you in Bermuda (and I'm not on any d rugs now!)  I'm glad you believe me
now; I guess this means that I *don't* have to rent the billboard after
all. 

Does this qualify as a love letter? Should we be using Uncle Sam's e-mails
for such obviously non-governmental business? 

EMAIL MESSAGE

To: FWMulder@fbi.gov From: DScully@fbi.gov Date: February 10, 1999 Re:
Love Letters

I'd say that the last e-mail pretty much qualifies as a love letter.  You
can get mushier if you want.  I understand that you Oxford grads can get
pretty poetic. 

Me, I'm just a scientist.  I can't write love letters without using
clinical terms like "cardiac" as in "If I don't see you soon, I will
experience cardiac arrest." 


EMAIL MESSAGE To: FWMulder@fbi.gov From:  DScully@fbi.gov Date: February
11, 1999 Re: Mushy love letters

You want mushy?  How about this: 

You are my better half and I don't feel complete when I'm without you. 
That time when you were gone, when they had you, I knew that my life was
meaningless unless you were there to share it.  When you wanted to leave,
before Antarctica, I was desperate b ecause I knew that my life was over,
my quest was worthless unless you shared it. 

And in that warehouse, when I believed that you and I could never share a
partnership again because of what I perceived that I had done to you, I
didn't want to live. 

Please don't ever listen to me when I tell you to get away from me.  I'm
separated from you now, physically, only because I have to be.  But my
heart will always be where you are, no matter what. 

EMAIL MESSAGE From: DScully@fbi.gov To: FWMulder@fbi.gov Date: February
11, 1999 Re: I love you too

Mulder,

I don't know what to say, so I'll just say it.  I love you.  When you're
cut, I bleed.  I've been praying for you every night.  I know, you aren't
religious.  Put up with it. 

I can't wait until Saturday.  It's our first date, isn't it?  Do you kiss
girls on the first date? 


EMAIL MESSAGE From: FWMulder@fbi.gov To: DScully@fbi.gov Date: February
12, 1999 Re: First date

I thought you Catholic girls NEVER kiss on the first date.  But if your
mother doesn't come out of the door waving a shotgun at me, I think I
could manage a passable goodnight kiss. Tongue? 


EMAIL MESSAGE From: DScully@fbi.gov To: FWMulder@fbi.gov Date: February
12, 1999 Re: First Date

Only if dinner ISN'T the super-garlic special at Tony's Pizza Place.  I've
had to share stake-outs with you after you've eaten lunch there. 


Dana Scully's Journal February 13, 1999

I'm waiting for Mulder to come pick me up.  I hate first dates.  The first
question, what on earth do I wear?  I have a closet filled with black
pantsuits, black and navy business suits and other outfits eminently
suited for chasing down felons and mutant s.  Nothing for a first date
with a gorgeous man. 

I did the only sensible thing.  I got my credit card and went shopping;
Mom came along.  She figured out fast why I was so flustered and why
nothing, but nothing looked right. 

"So, when is Fox going to pick you up?" she asked, oh so calmly. 

"Eight," I gave up any attempt at secrecy and told her the whole thing. 
Mom's eyes gleamed.  I hate that.  She immediately began trailing me past
the lingerie shops, then began pulling some skin-tight spandex outfits off
the rack for me to try on. 

"Mom, I can't wear this!" I gasped and held up a black spandex knit skirt. 
It could double as a belt, it's that short.  Mom just smiled and shooed me
into the changing room. 

Okay, the clingy fabric really does something for my curves, as did the
sparkly (and equally slinky) top.  Mom bought me earrings (for luck, she
said).  We did stop for shoes, and I got a pair that will never darken the
door of the Hoover Building--very v ery high heels.  No way could I chase
aliens in these.  But oh, how they look!  That and Mulder's bracelet (and
my cross) complete the outfit. 

Now I sit here on the couch and worry.  What if he doesn't like the way I
look?  What if he only likes Dr. Scully, FBI agent and not Dana, the
woman?  What if he thinks this outfit is too, well, tarty?  I don't
normally dress this sexily...God, I hate fir st dates.  I've only known
the man 6 years, and I still hate first dates.  Doorbell, he's here! 

Later
 
Finally have time to write a bit.  And I need to.  Mulder was as good as
his word.  He arrived at 8:00 sharp, holding a corsage in a box.  It was a
wreath of baby red and white roses to wear on my wrist. 

I think I must have shocked him, because when he saw me he reeled back and
it took a moment for him to catch his breath.  In a good way. 

"My...goodness Scully.  You clean up good." He stammered.  I interpret
this to mean that he was generally pleased with my appearance. 

Of course, he was wearing my favorite black Armani suit with a
conservative tie (my Christmas gift to him) and a matching red rosebud for
a boutonniere.  Yum. 

"You aren't so bad yourself."  I picked up my bag and waited while Mulder
closed and locked the door behind me.  Then he escorted me downstairs, his
hand at the small of my back. 

We went to a very small, very chic French restaurant.  It was then that I
remembered, Mulder was on liquid diet the last time I saw him.  What on
earth was he going to eat. 

"Mulder, I know you've been drinking Ensure...will this menu be okay?"  I
whispered from behind the menu. 

"It's all right.  My doctor put me on solid food two days ago, I'm just
avoiding things like chili peppers and Frohike's cooking for the time
being."  Mulder put the menu down and ordered wine. 

The evening was romantic and perfect.  Mulder found a club that plays Big
Band music and took me dancing.  I couldn't tell whether dancing cheek to
cheek bothered him, but the first time I tripped (damned shoes), he just
held me tighter and propped me up (blessed shoes). 

At midnight or so, we decided to call it a night.  I stood in the doorway,
waiting for Mulder to get the car, when I felt a shove from behind that
pushed me to the sidewalk, onto my hands and knees.  I yelled and looked
up to see a man with my purse in ha nd, pounding down the sidewalk.  I got
up and began to pursue, when Mulder passed me, running swiftly.  As I
caught up to Mulder, he was just grabbing the thief.  I tried to help but
Mulder shoved me away. 

"Damn it, Scully, let me do this!  He might be armed!" 

He had that poor thief on the ground before the guy knew what hit him.  I
held in my rage until after the police had arrived to take the purse
snatcher off our hands and had returned my purse to me. 

Our drive back to my apartment was silent, until I could hold it in no
more.  "Damn it, Mulder!  I'm just as competent an FBI agent as you are! 
I am perfectly capable of subduing a suspect!  Or helping you subdue him!" 

Mulder gave me a long look and was quiet for a moment, thinking.  "Scully,
you're right.  I'm sorry I yelled at you, but he knocked you down.  When I
saw you on the pavement...I just saw red.  I couldn't let him hurt you and
get away with it.  Somebody as saulted you, in my presence, and I couldn't
prevent it.  But I sure as hell could catch him and lock him up!  And...I
guess I wanted to be the one to..to protect you." 

"Oh," I said quietly.  We arrived at my apartment, and Mulder escorted me
upstairs.  He waited while I unlocked the door, then drew his gun and
searched the place.  I was left standing in the doorway. 

"Wouldn't you like to come in, Mulder?"  I asked the empty space where
Mulder had been.  Mulder returned quickly, holstering his gun. 

"All clear?"  I asked matter of factly. 

Mulder had the grace to look embarrassed.  "Yeah.  Sorry, I'm a little
paranoid." 

"Well, let's go in and have coffee."  I led him into the living room and
got him settled on the couch with coffee and some fudge brownies I'd had
the foresight to bake this morning.  The way to a man's heart... 

We sat there quietly munching brownies, Mulder saying nothing.  I
straightened the brownie plate, then straightened it again.  "So,
Mulder..." I began uncomfortably.  "When you said, uh, mess around..just
what did you mean by that?" 

Mulder looked a little taken aback, then grinned.  "Why Scully, I do
believe you are blushing."  He lightly lifted a strand of hair from my
face and tucked it behind my ear.  "I think I'd define 'messing around' as
something like this..." 

He leaned forward and very deliberately and thoroughly kissed me.  On the
lips.  Tongue.  Oh my.  He tasted of chocolate and espresso.  I restrained
myself from grabbing both his ears and throwing him backward on the couch. 
Barely. 

The kiss was long and sweet and led to more kissing, and soon I was the
one backward on the couch, blessing Mom for talking me into that
Victoria's Secret underwear. 

Alas, we didn't get that far.  Mulder pulled back somewhere around my
cleavage and sat up.  He cupped my face in his hands and gave me a
regretful look. 

"Too far?"  I asked him, putting my right hand atop his.  "We'll only do
what you're comfortable with." 

"Scully.." Mulder began, then looked away.  I put my left hand on his
cheek and turned him to face me. 

"Mulder, the truth is okay.  It can't hurt either of us,"  I said gently. 

"Okay...I don't want to go too far, Scully.  The..the way I feel now is
trouble enough.  But I..I can't lose control of things, can't make love to
you all the way...the AIDS tests aren't final yet.  And I don't want to go
so far that we both forget oursel ves."  Mulder looked abashed. 

"Mulder..." I paused, to make sure that I was clear in my own mind what I
was offering.  Yup, the risk was worth it. Oh yeah, six years is a LONG
time. 

 "But you probably don't have the disease.  And I know the risks.  Every
day I autopsy a body, I'm protected from AIDS and God knows what else,
only by a thin layer of latex.  It's a risk I take because it's my job." 
I looked deep into his melting haze l eyes.  "Mulder, I've waited six
years for this, and I want you.  I don't want to stop here, we deserve
more.  I..want more.  We can use condoms." 

Mulder gave me a look compounded of equal parts lust and regret.  "No,
Scully, no condoms. No exchange of bodily fluids until I test out clean." 

"But why?" My frustration was showing. "Latex is..." 

"Safer sex, Scully, not guaranteed.  And if I gave you a deadly disease I
couldn't live with myself.  No, we'll just have to wait." He laughed a
little. "But I'm glad you're as hot for me as I am for you." 

I flushed, but had to admit that he was right.  We said good night shortly
thereafter, and the kiss we exchanged was about an 11 on a 1 to 10 passion
scale.  You make do with what you have. 

I've taken a hot bath, although a cold shower is probably more
appropriate.  I'm looking forward to the dream again tonight. 


February 14, 1999

This morning I was reading the Sunday paper, when I heard a knock at the
door.  When I checked through the peephole, there was a delivery man,
dwarfed by the floral arrangement he was vainly trying to hold. 

I took it off his hands and closed the door behind me, then found the card
buried somewhere between the hothouse roses (pink) and the baby's breath. 
The card read "Next Saturday night?  8 p.m.---wear knee pads." 

Knee pads? 



EMAIL MESSAGE

From: DScully@fbi.gov To: FWMulder@fbi.gov Date: February 14, 1999 Re: 
Happy Valentine's Day

I got the flowers, and they are lovely, but honestly Mulder your credit
cards must be maxed out by now.  And I think I'm getting hay fever. 
Still, they look beautiful on my table--I'm admiring them now.  And one
other question...Knee pads? 

EMAIL MESSAGE From: FWMulder@fbi.gov To:  DScully@fbi.gov Date: February
14, 1999 Re: Happy Valentine's Day

I'm not telling.  But wear jeans with your knee pads. 
 
And Scully:  XOXOXO (That's virtual hugs and kisses) 





XXXXX

Title: Abattoir: 6 Months (3/?) 

Author:  Xenith

Fox Mulder's Journal February 14, 1999

Last night was wonderful and frightening.  I don't think Scully saw how
scared I was.  She looked so confident, so glowing with life, energy.  I
just wanted to stay close to her fire and get warm.  And I am so cold,
still so cold. 

Part of me is still in that damned, fucking warehouse; never left.  While
I was staying with her, I surfed Amazon.com and ordered some books, but
didn't want Scully to see me reading them.  About male rape, what it is,
how to recover.  The books have arri ved and they have only one
answer...it's very very difficult and painful. 

Staying with her was excruciating.  She loves me and worries about me. 
And I know that she wants me sexually.  As I want her.  But I can't have
her.  Not yet.  Not now.  In six months?  Maybe.  Maybe never. 

I didn't tell her about my call to the Rape Crisis Center.  After she left
for work, it all just built up inside, tearing, howling pain.  I knew the
next step was to eat my gun.  So I took the card and dialed the number,
got a female volunteer.  Draeger w asn't there and I needed to talk, just
talk to somebody who didn't know me.  Somebody who wasn't talking to
Spooky Mulder, ace FBI agent.  Somebody, who'd just talk to me. 

I told the woman about the attack and how I felt, and it was hard to get
the words out.  It's even harder to write about this here, but I have to. 
She didn't believe me.  She said that men don't get raped; they're strong
and they can defend themselves.  Then she accused me of being some kind of
pervert who was calling the hotline just to harass the volunteers with
smutty talk and GET OFF ON IT!!!  She actually accused me of masturbating
during the phone call.  Oh God, I'd have been laughing if I wasn't so
devastated. 

I just sat and held the phone.  Couldn't hang it up.  Couldn't move. 
Thought maybe she was right, I could have prevented this.  I have self
defense training, I'm not afraid of a fight.  Damn it, I've been an FBI
agent for 10 years!  I should have been able to defend myself.  Did I
subconsciously want this to happen?  Is that what this is really about? 
Was Kurt Willard right?  Did he see something in me that I didn't? Was I
really asking for this?  Oh God, I couldn't take this... 

Before I hung up the phone, Bill Draeger got on the line.  He overheard
the last part of the conversation and took over.  And he remembered
leaving the card.  At first I didn't want to go there, see anybody from
that organization, but he talked me into it .  We talked for about an
hour, and afterward I felt less like killing myself.  I can't say that the
thought has ever really left me; not since I woke up in Scully's arms, and
saw the crowd of FBI agents and cops staring at me.  Knowing what had
happened to me. 

Hiding all this from Scully is the hardest thing I've ever had to do.  I
couldn't protect her from the rape, hers or mine.  But I can protect her
from my crises, from being forced to watch me disintegrate.  Dating is
manageable, the structure gives you sp ace.  But I can't be around her
every minute of every day.  She's too perceptive for that.  And she can't
do anything for me, but worry.  I won't cause her any more pain. 

When I got to the center, I sat in the car a good 20 minutes, trying to
muster up the courage to walk inside.  I still don't know how I did it.  I
felt like I had a sign plastered to my forehead "Rape Victim", and
everybody could see it.  I was the guy wh o got it in the ass, the one who
was so weak he couldn't defend himself. 

The receptionist was very polite.  I didn't meet the volunteer who
originally took my call.  The waiting room had all women in it, no men.  I
tried to look like I was there to sell office supplies.  No way did I
belong in a rape center, nope, not me. 

Draeger came out and shook hands with me.  He's tall, about my height, and
built like a linebacker, tattoos up both arms.  I could feel myself
getting nervous around him, his build is a lot like Kurt Willard's, and
his complexion. 

Draeger led me to his office, but left the door open when he saw how
uncomfortable I was.  Then he told me about himself.  He's been through it
too.  He was a trucker about five years ago and stopped for the night at a
remote spot.  Two guys tried to rob him but were upset when he didn't have
much money, so they both raped him.  The local hospital didn't know what
to do with him.  The cops figured he must have asked for it, because
everybody knows that men don't get raped.  And a guy this big should be ab
le to defend himself, right?  Forget the fact that the guys had guns.  His
wife left him, couldn't live with it.  He lost his job because he got
AIDS.  He's stable on AZT right now, and living a day at a time.  But what
he went through made him want to he lp other men in the same boat. 

The local nurses and doctors have his card on file, for cases like mine. 

Talking to him gave me a lot to think about.  And I realized how much I
needed to get away.  I told Bill about Scully, and another project I've
been wanting to work on.  He said that some space might be a good idea and
gave me a referral to a counselor on
 Martha's Vineyard.  But we both agreed that I can call him any time, day
or night.  And I have, usually after midnight when I've woken up screaming
with a nightmare. 

Mom hasn't said anything about those.  Come to think of it, she got used
to that when I was 12.  She knew then that she couldn't do anything to
prevent them, so she gave me my privacy. 

I've been sending Scully salacious e-mails.  I've always wanted to do
that, now I have a good excuse.  And her e-mails to me cheer me up no end. 
She reminds me that there is still light in the world. 

I sent her flowers today, Valentine's day.  I wish I could make love to
her, all day, slowly.  Unpeel some of that black lace underwear I know she
wears.  At night, before sleeping, I imagine making love to her, real
love, not just teenaged groping.  I th ink about going down on her,
listening to her moan my name.  Then I imagine (remember, this is fantasy,
I don't know if she'd do it), I imagine her taking me into her mouth and
doing to me what she was doing to that Tofutti Dreamsicle that one day at
the office.  I've always thought she had a fiendish look in her eye as she
ate that thing.  And then, entering her, feeling her tight and hot and wet
around me, finally...at last... 

Touching her last night felt so good, and so dangerous.  I feel like I
have no skin; all the safety is gone, all the walls are down.  I want to
touch her, but it feels dishonest, too.  I am ashamed to feel this, but in
addition to pure desire (and oh, how
 I desire her), I also feel a need to prove to myself that I can love a
woman again.  I guess I'm scared that maybe I'm really gay, and that's why
Willard raped me.  I can't do that to Scully.  I can't use her like that. 
And she wants me; I can see it
 in her eyes, feel it in her touch.  I want her too, I think it's honest
desire.  No, it *is* honest desire.  But I can't, not yet. 

I don't know if I can.  Thinking about sex, any sex starts out good, then
segues into the memories.  First of Scully and me, doing it on that
concrete floor, under the cameras and lights.  Then after.  And I remember
it all, goddamned photographic memory. 
  Sounds, smells, pain..everything. 

Bill says to keep things simple right now.  My life is bound to get
disorganized.  Simple.  Me? Huh! 


February 20, 1999

I haven't had this much fun in a long time.  Probably since batting
practice with Scully.  I picked her up at 8:00 p.m. sharp, per the plan. 
She just stood in the doorway, wearing tight jeans and a suspicious
expression.  No knee pads, but she was dying to know what I had in mind. 

I didn't tell her right away. 

We stopped for dinner at Denny's and had burgers.  I could see the wheels
turning in Scully's mind as she tried to figure out my plan for the
evening.  We talked about work.  Skinner still has her doing shit jobs,
"light work" I think she calls it.  I gue ss I shouldn't be scornful of
it.  He's keeping her safely in the Hoover building, not out running down
mutants or something.  I don't want her on the streets without me to
protect her. 

In any case, we finished dinner then went to Rosie's Roller Palace, best
known for the disco-skate nights (of which tonight was one).  Scully was
so busy laughing at the knee pads I insisted she rent, we both forgot an
important detail.  I never learned h ow to skate. 

I mean, Sam knew how, but I never learned.  That's a girl thing when
you're a kid.  Scully, now, she knows how to skate.  Really well, in fact.
I guess I kind of assumed that I'd pick it up naturally.  I mean, I'm
athletic, right? 

I was the one who needed knee pads, shoulder pads, helmet, oh and
coordination.  We started out from the edge of the rink, me clinging to
Scully as she propelled us forward.  Before long, I lost my balance and
pulled us both over. Nobody hit us before Scu lly had hauled us both back
to our feet.  We set out bravely across the rink again and managed to stay
upright.  For a while, at least. 

I only fell three more times before Scully called it a night.  She said
that she had no plans to sit with me during another trip to the emergency
room, and wasn't it time I bought her that chocolate sundae I'd promised. 

Well, who am I to renege on a promise?  We went back to Denny's and Scully
put away a whole sundae plus half of my chocolate shake.  If this keeps up
I'm going to have to start taking her to salad bar places, just so she
doesn't outweigh me in six months. 
  Ouch...better erase that.  I'm dead if she ever sees this. 

Scully gave me an ultimatum.  Next week's date is on her.  Dinner at her
place, 8 sharp.  Yeah, I think I can handle it. 

We went back to her apartment and I went in for coffee and Kahlua.  No
brownies, this time.  Just a really really mellow Scully. 

We just kissed. Okay, we did more than just kiss.  With Scully's help, I
got to admire her Victoria's Secret black lace panties and matching bra. 
Very tasteful.  And so was her skin.  Tasteful, I mean.  Her lips, her
earlobes, her neck.  While I was suck ing her nipples, she was making
those shuddering movements that I once mistakenly confused with
discomfort.  But this time she was moaning and holding my head down, so I
think I was doing all right.  Had to stop there or I'd have been sharing
some body fl uids unintentionally.  This is going to be a very long six
months.  No flashbacks during the evening with Scully.  A personal best. 

February 25, 1999

I think I'm ready to move back to D.C.  I haven't said much about Mom, or
how she's reacting to this.  The reason is, she doesn't know.  I just told
her I got beat up pretty bad and needed some time off.  She's always
respected my privacy and frankly, doe sn't want to know the gory details
of my life.  She had enough of that with Dad; now she prefers to remain
ignorant. 

The local therapist is good, but I'd rather talk to Bill Draeger.  He's
invited me (no, too weak a term-he told me) that I'm joining a survivors'
group he runs.  He's in D.C. , so I guess I'm going home.  Besides, I'll
be closer to Scully there. 

Through the guys, I'm renting a garage in a quiet neighborhood.  I won't
tell Scully about it or what I plan to use it for, I don't want anybody to
know about it.  I hate this life, the way I am now.  I'm nervous wherever
I go.  I'm always looking around
 for suspicious people, heck I'm looking for Kurt Willard.  Crowds are
hard, but groups of men freeze me.  Bill says that's normal, and no doubt
it is.  But it'll be hard when I go back to being an FBI agent.  If I ever
do. 


February 27, 1999

I met Scully at her place, 8:00 sharp, as ordered.  Since I'm the guest, I
brought a bottle of wine (pre-approved by Scully of course) and a bouquet
of flowers.  She's starting to accuse me of trying to hay-fever her to
death.  But I see how her eyes glow
 when she picks up the bouquet of red and white roses I hand her.  This
woman has never been given enough flowers in her life.  I intend to change
that. 

She led me into the living room and sat me down, handing me the television
remote without being asked.  Oooh Scully, you know what I like! 

Scully brought dinner into the living room on two t.v. trays and spooned
out generous servings of macaroni and cheese along with homemade meatloaf. 
I must admit I was expecting stroganoff or something.  But then she gave
me a silly grin and pulled three videos from the television cabinet. 
 
"Mulder, I tried to think of the perfect evening for you.  Not what I'd
choose for a date, but the way you'd enjoy an evening the most.  Since I
don't feel like breaking into the Pentagon tonight, I took second best. 
So here is your macaroni and cheese w ith meatloaf.  The apple cobbler is
waiting for dessert.  And for entertainment," She picked up the first
video and read the title:" 'Planet of the Apes', followed by 'Escape from
the Planet of the Apes', ending with 'Beneath the Planet of the Apes'." 

I was floored.  "Scully...why, that's the most romantic thing anybody has
ever done for me."  She just grinned and popped the first tape into the
VCR.  We ate dinner, then at my invitation I soon found an armful of Dana
Scully snuggled against me as we wa tched the movies. 

I must have dozed off.  I woke up at about 4 a.m. with snow on the VCR and
Scully lying next to me on the couch, her arms wrapped around me and her
head on my chest, fast asleep.  I felt safe for the first time in weeks. 
I wish I could bottle her, I'd ma ke a fortune. 

She snores.  Never heard that in the car, but she makes a funny little
whistling snort.  I could listen to her for hours.  Actually, I did. 

The next morning when she woke up, I could tell her memory of last night
was fuzzy.  Oh yes, don't get Scully too tanked up on white wine.  So I
just smiled down at her. 

"So, Scully, was it good for you?"  At her look of panicky disorientation,
I took pity on her and added "The movies, I mean.  We both fell asleep. 
So, now I can safely say that I've slept with Dana Scully, can't I?" 

Scully climbed on top of my chest and gave me a good morning kiss that
left me in no doubt about how well she slept. 

While I was still getting my breath back, she sat back a bit and commented
mischievously, "So, Mulder, did you like the kiss?  Or are you carrying
your weapon in a different place?" 

I quickly lifted her off me and set her gently on the floor, then got up
myself and headed for the bathroom to reduce the "weapon" to manageable
proportions.  I never saw this side of her (not much, anyway) before we
were dating.  Has she been storing al l this up just for me? 

February 28

I've been thinking about the evenings with Scully.  How wonderful they've
been, and how normal.  But things really aren't normal, are they?  Bill
Draeger broke the news to me today.  The AZT isn't helping any more, and
he's developed some secondary infect ions, among them Karposi's Sarcoma. 
His doctors are concerned.  One terrible act by some anonymous evil man,
and Bill's life is being brought to a slow and painful end. 

Am I romancing Scully, just so that she can be the widow at my funeral? 
Do I have the right to put her through this if my turn comes?  And even if
I don't get AIDS and die, what then?  I'm half a man; all talk and no
action.  If I faced her naked, I'm no t sure what would happen.  I'm
scared.  God, I'm scared. 

XXXXX


Title: Abattoir: 6 Months (4/?) 

Author:  Xenith

Fox Mulder's Journal March 1, 1999

Went to the doctor today for a follow up.  My doctor was out sick, so I
saw somebody else.  Somebody I don't know.  He was uncomfortable with me
and I could see that he hadn't really read my file, just the nature of my
injuries.  The exam was embarrassing
 and it hurt like hell.  Physically I'm healing well.  But then he started
to ask me about my "sexual practices" and hinted that I should choose my
partners better.  Yeah, why don't I just pick up a gay pride t-shirt while
I'm at it? 

When I left the hospital, Dr. Barnes said I might need anti-depressants,
and if I felt the need I should contact him.  I feel the need, but I
couldn't talk to that insensitive prick they had filling in today.  I just
want the pain to stop.  I don't want t o drink it away, booze is just too
tempting.  Starting to think about taking up smoking again.  Cigarettes
always calmed me, but I remember what it was like trying to quit.  Got to
be something I can do, somehow.  I don't know how long I can go on like th
is. 



March 2, 1999

My life just keeps getting better and better.  I had an auto accident on
the way to the grocery store, of all places. I guess I was preoccupied, or
something.  I saw the light in the distance, but I ran it anyway.  I don't
know why. 

The next thing I knew, this huge truck was barrelling down on me at 45
miles per hour.  He swerved and clipped the the drivers' side rear corner
of my car, spinning me 180 degrees.  I came to rest on the curb, next to
the fire hydrant.  I wasn't hurt, nei ther was the trucker.  My car has a
good dent in it, but driveable. 

Boy was he mad; he spent five minutes telling me just what kind of an
idiot I am.  Can't argue with that.  I just stood there in a daze, trying
to figure out why I did it, running that light.  I mean, I knew it was
there.  Was I trying to kill myself?  Ma ybe something in me really just
wants this pain to stop.  No, all of me really just wants this pain to
stop.  Would it really matter if I had died? 

I had nightmares last night.  I relived the rape, over and over, and I
couldn't stop it and I couldn't wake up.  The pain I feel is
indescribable.  I think my subconscious was trying to tell me something on
the way to the store this morning.  I thought ab out calling Scully, but
decided not to.  It's unfair to burden her with this. 

I think I know what to do about this.  I rented that place, just for this
eventuality and I might as well get my money's worth now. 


Dana Scully's Journal March 4, 1999

Skinner has asked me to find Mulder.  He's been trying to contact him for
the past two days, but Mulder isn't answering his home phone or his cell
phone. 

I tried both numbers.  I got his answering machine at his apartment, and
nothing on his cell phone.  But Mulder's been known to ignore his machine,
so I got my key and went over there.  It was clear that the apartment had
not been occupied for the past se veral days: his answering machine
messages were two days old, there were food-encrusted dirty dishes in the
sink and two day's worth of newspapers on the doorstep. 

I called Martha's Vineyard, hoping that he had gone to stay with Mrs.
Mulder.  No such luck.  She last saw him on Saturday.  I didn't tell her
why I was looking for Mulder, and she didn't ask. 

I decided to check his desk, to see if he left a note for me.  Sometimes
he does that when he ditches me.  There was nothing in the drawers, but on
the computer I found his journal.  I've known for a long time that he
keeps one, as I do myself.  I'd never
 read it without being asked, but this situation was different.  I was
getting a chilling feeling that something wasn't right. 

I opened it up and began to read, beginning with his release from the
hospital.  I could feel myself getting colder and colder with each
sentence.  He's been in so much pain and all I could focus on was romance. 
I should have known that Mulder would hide
 his feelings away.  I sat limply down in his desk chair and kept reading. 


That terrible phone call; why didn't he tell me?  I'd have scratched that
bitch's eyes out.  Why wouldn't he let me help him?  And that doctor--damn
it!  There is no excuse for that kind of behavior.  And how it must have
made Mulder feel. 

Then the journal turned from pain to something more serious.  Oh my god, I
thought, where is his gun?  I ransacked the apartment, but the gun was
gone as well as his spare clip.  And I have no clue where he's gone. 

I'm worried.  My next stop is to check with the Lone Gunmen.  Maybe they
know where he's gone.  Holy Mother Mary let nothing have happened to him. 
I don't think I could stand it. 

Later--

I went out to the Lone Gunmen's place.  They were there, as usual, making
brunch for themselves.  I turned down a serving of juevos rancheros with
double salsa and got to the point. 

"Have you seen Mulder?"  I tried to keep the worry out of my face. 

"Why?  Is he into something?" Frohike asked casually.  "Anything we can
help with?" 

"No, not that I know of.  He...um..hasn't been himself lately," I finished
lamely.  I didn't know how much they knew about the recent past, and I
didn't want to break Mulder's privacy. 

Byers and Frohike exchanged looks, then both sat down in the chairs
opposite me, Langley behind them.  This looked ominous. 

"When's the last time you saw him?" I asked anxiously. 

"He stopped by on Tuesday."  Frohike looked concerned.  "He, uh, he didn't
look right.  We asked him what was wrong but he wouldn't say.  He just
said he had to be by himself for a while."  Frohike leaned forward.  "I've
seen him depressed, I've seen him drunk and I've seen him half-dead, but
he's never looked like that.  Just what is it that's going on?" 

I looked dumbly at the three of them, then realized that they had to know
or they couldn't help. 

Keeping the account as clinical as I could, I explained the situation. 

All three were shocked, Langley looked like he wanted to throw up.  Byers
gulped and adjusted his tie.  Frohike just looked sad. 

"We don't know where he's gone.  There is one place you might look,
though.  We helped him rent a storage space, a garage in town.  He just
paid the deposit on it a week ago.  I think we still have the address
somewhere..." Frohike fumbled among the clutt ered paper on his desk and
scribbled something on a post-it note. 

 He handed it to me and I found myself clutching it between cold fingers.
I think that the expression on my face frightened him.  "You don't think
he's ditched you, do you?" Frohike stated. 

I shook my head.  No, not ditching me in the classic sense.  I know what
he's been going through, whether he'd admit it or not.  Secretly renting a
place, an isolated place with concrete floors and cement walls, and
keeping it quiet did not bode well.  "H e hasn't been home or answered his
phone in two days.  And he still has his gun," I said quietly.  I turned
to go, moving slowly, afraid of what I'd find in that garage. 

"Scully," Byers called. "Do you want us to go with you?" 

I gave him a sad smile.  This I would have to do alone.  "No.  I'll call
you if I need you." 

I drove painfully over to the address on the paper.  If Mulder had
committed suicide, he'd probably done it yesterday or the day before. 
There was no rush, really, to find his body.  I parked out front of a
nondescript building in an industrial neighborh ood.  No blood, no signs
of disturbance. 

I pulled my gun and walked to the side door and quietly rattled the
doorknob.  The light was on inside, though.  Okay, here goes nothing. 

"Mulder!  Mulder are you in there?"  I called, trying to keep the frenzy
from my voice.  There was no response, so I fished into my pocket for the
lockpick kit Mulder had gotten me for Christmas.  Good thing he'd also
included lessons with it.  I got the door unlocked and swung it open. 


Title: Abattoir: 6 Months (5/?) 

Author:  Xenith

Scully's Diary--continued... 


Once inside I saw an old car up on jacks, then I heard the sound of an
Elvis ballad (Blue Suede Shoes?) and a clanging noise.  Then I heard a
muffled "oh shit!" 

A jeans and t-shirt clad form rolled quickly out from under the car, gun
drawn, and I beheld Mulder, covered in grease and shaking.  He saw me and
got up, grinning with relief, then holstered the gun. 

"Scully, how did you...mrmph..." I stopped him from making any more silly
comments by rushing into his arms and giving him the kiss of a lifetime. 
And incidentally, getting my new suit all over grease. 

I broke away and demanded breathlessly "Mulder, why didn't you tell me you
were out here?"  He gathered breath to answer, but had the sense to let me
finish.  "Do you know what I THOUGHT you were doing out here?  Alone, with
your gun?  Do you?  I drove ou t here fully expecting to find your
lifeless body!  You IDIOT!  DON'T do that to me ever again!"  I kissed him
again, harder.  I felt his strong arms wrap themselves around me as his
warm, live lips pressed against mine. 

When we came up for air, he leaned his forehead against mine.  "I'm sorry
Scully, I didn't consider how all this might affect you.  I guess I
haven't been thinking at all." 

"Why haven't you answered your phone?"  I demanded. 

"My phone?  But it's right here, hasn't rung in..."  Mulder picked it up
and examined it, then smiled ruefully.  "Battery's dead.  Oops.  I've
spent the last two nights here, and forgot about it." 

I stopped and took a close look at him.  He hadn't shaved in days, and was
covered with ingrained grease.  Regardless of his reassurances, he still
didn't look right. 

"Mulder, I have to apologize for something,"  I said slowly.  "When I was
at your apartment, looking for clues to where you might be, I, uh, read
your journal." 

He stilled and his eyes took on a look of betrayal and hurt.  "Scully,
that's private," he whispered. 

"I know.  I'm truly sorry, but I was so afraid for you.  Especially after
I had read it.  Oh, Mulder, why didn't you tell me what you were going
through?  Why did you come out here?" 

Mulder grew solemn.  "I suppose I owe you the truth.  You know most of it,
anyway.  When I came out here, yeah, I took my gun.  And it wasn't for
self-protection. 

He looked at the car thoughtfully, pain shadowing his face.  "I felt like
dying when I got here.  I rented this place with two things in mind, a
place to restore my car...and somewhere private that I could end my misery
if I had to.  I couldn't stand the thought of you finding me, if I took
that way out.  And I've been covered with grease and stubble for two days,
haven't I?  What's the point?  A little more dirt, added to all the filth
I feel inside." 

He gave a barking laugh, then saw my face.  "But when I got here, I
remembered the true reason I rented the place." 

He gestured toward the white car.  "I got that car when I was 17.  This is
my first love/first car, my 1964 1/2 Mustang.  I worked an entire summer
to make the money to buy her, shelving books at the library."  He ran a
loving hand over the car's white-p ainted hood.  "Sure, the guys laughed
at me, but the pay was better than they made flipping burgers.  And they
never complained when we all piled in and went cruising for girls." 

He turned to me and put his hands on my shoulders, making me face him. 
"Scully, I got here and I couldn't do it.  If I died here, I knew she'd
never be rebuilt if I weren't here to it.  And if she wasn't rebuilt, then
we couldn't have that kiss in the ba ck seat.  And I really want that kiss
in the back seat.  And more." 

He gave me a smoldering look and leaned in toward my lips.  Wow, that must
be some car.  That kiss led to others and I was wishing pretty profoundly
for a back seat when Mulder pulled away, his face abstracted. 

"Mulder?  What's wrong?"  He looked a little pale, and I had a pretty good
idea where his mind was trapped.  "Hey, Mulder."  I pulled his face toward
mine. "We're here, in the garage. It's okay."  He inhaled deeply and tried
to smile, then nodded. 

"I'm sorry, Scully.  It just hits me like that.  In clinical
psycho-babble, they're 'intrusive thoughts'.  I call them a damned
nuisance."  He rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the memory. 

"Mulder.  I want you to promise me something," I was suddenly deadly
serious and planted myself directly in front of him to make sure he
understood.  "Mulder, if you EVER feel that bad again, I want you to call
me.  No matter what time, or where you are, or where I am.  Please call
me.  I don't ever want to make another drive like today's.  And Mulder,
please, I don't want to have to figure out how to live without you.  If
you are in pain, let me share it with you." 

I could feel myself tearing up.  Damn it, I could feel them creeping down
my cheeks as I finished.  "And M..mulder, I don't want to be the one who
has to identify your body after you've committed suicide.  Please, don't
ever make me." 

Mulder stopped and wiped one tear with his greasy finger.  I rubbed at the
streak he left behind. 

"Scully, I don't know what the future holds or how bad this might get.  If
I get AIDS..." He stopped, communing with a private agony, then continued.
"I don't know what I might be capable of.  I can only promise you this,
that I will call you and try to s hare with you what I'm thinking and
feeling." 

It wasn't enough, but it was the best I was going to get.  I just held him
for a while, afraid to let him go.  I think he realized that. 

"Hey Scully, I didn't do it, you know.  I'm still here.  Let me show you
my therapist!" 

Mulder 'toured' me around the car, pointing out her obvious beauties.  The
'stang is white with a white leather interior, leather seats, chrome
everywhere.

He looked at her fondly, and I can't say I've ever been jealous of a car,
but I was getting close.  "She's been up on blocks in my Mom's garage
since Oxford, but I check on her regularly.  I've been planning to replace
the transmission and rebuild the eng ine for a while, just never had the
opportunity.  As it stands now, Skinner is firm that I can't come back to
work until mid-March at the earliest.  He says I need the time to 'work
this out'."  Mulder began wiping the grease from his hands thoughtfully,
then gave me a long look. 

"I need to build something, create something.  So much has been destroyed,
this is the only little bit of my life really under my control.  I've
already ordered parts and have started on the engine rebuild.  Then I'll
replace the transmission, work on t he brakes, rebuild the carburetor give
her a tune up and she's done." 

"Oh...that's all?" I was seeing an entirely different side of Mulder. 
Oxford educated grease-monkey?  I think I like it. 

I fished into my purse for more kleenex and began trying to remove some of
the grease from my cheeks.  Mulder laughed and grabbed the tissues, then
dampened them with spit and began to clean my face.  I just stood there
grinning, while he meticulously rem oved all the smudges. 

"There, all clean.  Man, I'm putrid!  I'm sorry I wrecked your suit.  If
you'll excuse me.."  Mulder went to a sink in the corner and carelessly
stripped of his t-shirt to scrub his arms and face. 

Oh my.  Mulder without a shirt takes the breath away.  I startled when I
saw the fading bruises on his back.  Damn.  Every time life starts to get
a little normal, Kurt Willard comes back to haunt us. 

"Mulder, Skinner sent me to find you.  He says he needs to see you right
away."  I began to ponder the implications of that, now that I was no
longer afraid of finding Mulder dead. 

Mulder looked interested and energized.  He pulled a clean t-shirt from
his gym bag and put it on.  "Does he have a case for us?  It must be
pretty important; he told me before that he didn't want to see me in the
office, under any circumstances, until m y medical leave was over." 

I pulled out my phone.  "I'll call him and let him know that I found you." 


Fox Mulder's Journal March 4, 1999

....So she picked up the phone and dialed Skinner's office.  I wandered
back to the sink and tried to scrub two days' stink off me.  It wasn't
just grease (that much was clean dirt), but the terror, the pain, the
fear. 

I wasn't lying to her.  When I got there I had every intention of shooting
myself.  Ironically, I changed my mind and decided to die more quietly
(and less messily) of carbon monoxide poisoning, so I shut the garage
doors and windows, stopped up the crack s and started up the car.  I sat
myself in the drivers' seat and prepared to end it all. 

It takes a while to die from carbon monoxide poisoning--did you know that? 
As I sat there, calmly waiting for oblivion, I heard that funny little
hitch in the engine.  She was running uneven...spark plugs?  She was
leaking oil, I'd seen it on the floor.
 Need to fix that, new gaskets...nope, wouldn't be doing that.  I'd be
dead soon. 

But what about that magic date planned for Scully?  That kiss in the back
seat, and oh the other things I had planned for her.  She'd be begging for
mercy by the evening's end.  Or I would.  That wouldn't happen either if I
killed myself. 

Scully.  What would she think?  How would she feel about this?  She loves
me; I know that.  Leaving her like this would be the ultimate act of
selfishness.  She'd wonder if there was something she could have done to
prevent it, and she'd feel guilty.  Oka y, she'd get over it.  Wouldn't
she?  And it hurts so much.  I didn't want to die, I still don't.  I just
want this pain to go away. 

And I considered.  If I died in this car, who would ever rebuild her?  Who
would want her?  A suicide car.  A death car.  She deserves better; a
happy future with happy people. 

Scully deserves better.  She should get her date in the back seat of a
1964 1/2 Mustang.  And I guess I deserve better.  I deserve Scully.  I've
waited almost 7 years for her.  And I want the years ahead, shared with
her, as many as we get. 

Scully finished her call with Skinner.  I'm to meet with him this
afternoon at 4:00.  She drove me home to take a shower.  She took one look
at my car and called a tow truck for it, even though I insisted it was
just a little dent. 

Once at my apartment, she fed me and watched every bite I put into my
mouth.  I half expected her to pick up the fork and make little airplane
noises.  Then she forcibly bedded me down on the couch (alone--damn!) for
a nap.  She's left now; she's going to
 stop by at 3:30 to pick me up. 

I wonder what it is that's so important that Skinner has to see me right
away?

-----------------

Letter, to the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation

Sir,

Please consider this my formal letter of protest over the decision to
assign Special Agent Fox Mulder to the Scott case. 

As you are aware, a serial murderer-rapist has been operating in the
general Alexandria area for the past three years.  Although seven bodies
have been found, law enforcement has been unable to develop a viable
suspect for this crime.  Violent Crimes has had the case for a year, and
is currently actively at work on several leads. 

However, the recent abduction of Erica Scott, the daughter of Senator
Gareth Scott, has undoubtedly propelled this case into the limelight.  The
method of Ms. Scott's abduction falls into the 'signature' that has been
developed for UNSUB. 

I understand that the Senator, familiar with Agent Mulder's past work as a
profiler, personally requested that Agent Mulder be assigned to this task
force and be given a lead role in it. 

As we discussed earlier, I cannot express my concern at your decision to
assign Agent Mulder to this case strongly enough. 

 As I stated to you previously, Agent Mulder is currently on an extended
medical leave for injuries (both physical and psychological) stemming from
his abduction and rape while performing his duties as a Federal agent.

In my opinion as his supervisor, he is in no condition to undertake any
duties of this kind.  I cannot in good conscience allow him to take this
assignment. 

You are aware of Agent Mulder's earlier history of stress-related problems
during his time with the ISU; his physical and emotional breakdown as a
result of the effects of his work.  He has operated as a profiler only one
time since then, with questionabl e effects on his health, although the
case was successfully closed. 

Given Agent Mulder's recent experiences with his own sexual assault, it is
unconscionably cruel to ask him to profile a sexual predator at this time,
and I must vehemently insist that this assignment be withdrawn. 

Put bluntly, if he works on this case you will certainly damage him
psychologically and will possibly kill him. He is too good an agent to
waste in this way. 

                Yours Very Truly,

                Walter S. Skinner
                Assistant Director


Title: Abattoir: 6 Months (6/?) 

Author:  Xenith

Mulder's Journal March 4, 1999

Well, I guess I'm profiling the case that might finally destroy me.  I say
that facetiously, but I have profound concerns that it might also be true. 

I met with Skinner today and he looked grim.  As I sat down, he asked me
if I wanted coffee (a first), then called Kim to bring some in. 

"So, does this mean you're firing me or promoting me?" I asked as I sipped
my Starbuck's.  Man, it must be serious if he brought out the good stuff. 

"Agent Mulder, I am very sorry to have to bring you back from leave.  How
are you doing?" He looked nervous.  It isn't like Skinner to dodge around
the main point. 

"I'm doing okay, I guess.  Physically I'm recovering well, my doctor tells
me.  I might even play the violin again..." I could see that the joke
wasn't registering with him, so I quit while I was ahead.  "What's the
matter, sir?  Why did you send Scully a fter me?" 

Skinner wouldn't meet my eyes.  He pulled a file folder off the top of his
stack and handed it to me.  "Erica Scott, the only child of Senator Gareth
Scott was abducted on Saturday.  The evidence points to a serial
rapist-murderer known to be active in t he vicinity.  The Senator knows
about your work and has personally requested you for this case.  The
killer's pattern is to hold a victim for about two weeks before murdering
her and dumping the body.  He hopes that with you on the team, it might be
possi ble to find and rescue her before that happens." 

I felt a shock go through me at the word "rapist".  No.  No, surely they
couldn't expect this of me.  Not after what happened.  I met Skinner's
eyes and saw shame and profound sadness there. 

"You should know, Agent Mulder, that I filed a formal letter of protest
with the Director over this assignment.  I don't want you on this case;
it's too close to home for you.  But it's been taken out of my hands." 
Skinner looked more upset than I've see n him in a long time.  This was
really bothering him.  Somehow, I find that comforting. 

Curious, I opened the file and began to read it.  Erica Scott, age 32,
worked as an attorney at a local patent firm.  She was kidnapped from her
home some time after work by an unknown intruder.  No evidence of forced
entry.  Either he had a key or she in vited him in.  Normal enough case. 
Then I turned the page and saw the photograph.  An elfin face with bright
blue eyes looked up at me, surrounded by long brilliant red hair.  Height
was listed as 5 foot even, weight 100 pounds. 

"She looks like Scully!" I looked up in shock.  Skinner nodded. 

"The killer's victim of choice is female, age 30 to 40, petite with blue
eyes and fair or red hair, and so far only professional women have been
victimized.  We believe that he selects the victim in advance, stalks her,
then takes her when he judges it s afe to do so.  So far, each victim was
taken from her home and there is no evidence of forced entry in any
instance. 

I just kept looking at the picture.  She wasn't dead yet, maybe she could
be saved.  Maybe I could save her, return her to her family.  She's
probably already been abused, but we don't know yet.  I couldn't save
Scully, couldn't save myself.  But this you ng woman....maybe I could do
something.  I might well be her only chance. 

Skinner tried to talk me out of it for twenty minutes, but I insisted that
I was going to take the case. 

I took the file with me and decided to take the stairs to the basement.  I
needed time to think about this before facing Scully.  Actually, I sat on
the stairs, the file on the step next to me, finally realizing all the
implications. 

When I profile, in a sense I become the perpetrator.  I try to think his
thoughts, understand his motives, and most important, anticipate his
actions.  I've walked through the minds of rapists before, but never as a
victim myself.  The thought of revisiti ng my rape through the mind of a
rapist, sickens me, the more so because of the type of victim he chooses. 
Am I crazy because I accepted this case?  Skinner sure thinks so.  Maybe
he's right. 

I don't know what this will do to me.  I've never thought of myself as
emotionally fragile before; never thought that I could break.  In recent
days, I have discovered that I can break, and shatter and live through
pain whose intensity I could never imagi ne.  Why am I doing this? 

I see Erica's face in my mind.  And I see Scully, cowering on that
warehouse floor.  And I feel my own helplessness and rage in the face of
Scully's abuse. And my own. 

Or is this just a socially acceptable way to commit suicide? 

Scully's Journal March 4, 1999

When Mulder came back from his meeting with Skinner, he looked so pale and
shaky I was tempted to check him for bullet wounds.  As it was, I shoved
him into a chair and got him a glass of water. 

"Mulder, what is it?  What did he say to you?"  I pulled my chair up next
to his and watched over him carefully as he quietly sipped.  His eyes, his
eyes looked haunted. 

"I have a new case," he pointed to a file folder he'd just dropped on the
desk top.  "Skinner asked me to come back from leave early.  My services
as a profiler were urgently requested." 

"Damn!  How can he?  Skinner knows what you've been through!"  I said
indignantly.  Mulder smiled at me sadly through his water. 

"Oh, Skinner tried to talk me out of it.  He suggested I see a lawyer, or
tender my resignation.  He said it was unfair of the Bureau to use me like
this."  He sipped his water again.  "I'm taking the case.  I told him I'd
do it." 

"But why, Mulder?  My God, two days ago you were ready to commit suicide! 
And why is this so vital, that you have to come back before you're ready?" 
Mulder looked pale to my eyes, and his hands had a fine tremor as he
picked up the folder, opening it on to the desk. 

"Erica Scott, age 32, the only child of Senator Gareth Scott was abducted
on Saturday, we suspect by a serial rapist.  He's known for keeping his
victims up to 2 weeks before murdering them and dumping the body.  The
Senator asked for me, hoping that it m ight be possible for Erica to be
recovered alive." 

I was shocked.  A rapist.  They want Mulder to profile a rapist.  Now,
after all he's been through, he has to try to capture the thoughts and
motives of a rapist.  Oh my God, I thought, no--this can't be happening. 

"Mulder, you can't do this.  You can't work on this case.  After
everything that happened to you; you were suicidal just days ago!  Let
somebody else profile this guy and find her.  This time, let somebody else
do it."  Mulder just sat, staring at the fol der. 

I reached out and put my hand on top of his, stroking the back of it with
my thumb.  "Why do you have to be the one to do this?" 

Mulder looked up at me and grabbed my hand, then turned the pages of the
folder with the other.  A color photograph of a young woman looked up at
me. 

"My God, she looks like me." I studied the photo closely

"The killer's profile so far indicates that he favors young professional
women who are petite.  He likes blondes and red-heads.  When I saw this
photograph, all I could think about was you, Scully.  I couldn't save you,
not really.  You were sexually assa ulted too, whether you want to talk
about it or not.  And I couldn't stop it.  This, maybe I can stop.  At
least she'll get out alive." 

He looked back up at me, his eyes full of emotion.  "I have to do this,
Scully.  I have to make it right somehow." 

I stood up.  "No, Mulder.  You aren't going to use me as an excuse to work
yourself to death.  I won't watch you do this to yourself; you've been
through Hell enough already and I won't participate in this."  I stomped
out of the office and slammed the do or behind me. 

I stopped at the restroom to vent some of my tears of rage.  It wouldn't
do to look anything less than calm as I walked across the bullpen to
Skinner's office. 

Skinner was waiting for me when I got there.  He let me pace, stamp, storm
and otherwise tell him what a totally idiotic thing he had incited Mulder
to do.  When I finally ran out of energy, he pointed to a chair. 

"Agent Scully, why don't you have a seat?  You're making me tired." 

I sat.  He pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.  "I see that Mulder
told you about the case.  And I agree with you, assigning him to it is not
a good thing.  But this was taken out of my hands, over my strenuous
protests.  Mulder was given the opti on to turn the assignment down, and I
urged him to do so--strongly.  He took one look at the latest victim and
there was no changing his mind." 

I stared at Skinner, knowing that he was right.  He'd never had any
ability to keep Mulder off that case, only Mulder could do that--damn him. 

"He's doing this because of me.  Because of what happened in the
warehouse," I said softly.  "He blames himself, first he couldn't get to
me because he was locked up, then, well, you know what happened.  He still
thinks he should have protected me.  He wa nts to save her." I picked lint
from the hem of my skirt.  "He wants to save me, and himself, but it's too
late.  It's already happened." 

Skinner looked at me with a sympathy I'd rarely seen in him before.  "I
know.  I expected this when I saw the file and the picture.  That's why I
fought hard to keep him off this.  Scully, I need you to trust me on this
one.  How is he really?  I need to know." 

I was silent, still feeling that it would be a betrayal to tell Skinner
just what kind of shape Mulder was really in.  Skinner sensed that and
started talking again. 

"Dana, I know he's not well right now.  God knows, he's lost weight and
looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.  But I have to know how close to the
edge he is, so that we...you and I...can take steps to protect him. 
That's the only way he's going to make i t through this." 

Betrayal, that's how it felt.  Another betrayal of this man that I love,
to admit this to Skinner.  "He's close, sir.  Very, very close.  He...has
been struggling with the rape and its aftermath.  It hasn't been easy for
him.  I think I should be on this case with him.  I can at least watch his
back."  My skirt was lint-free, but I still kept plucking at it, then
smoothed the edge. "The circumstances of Mulder's condition--do others
know about the rape?" 

"I wouldn't try to keep you off it, Scully.  And as far as I am aware,
Mulder's rape is not generally known.  Of course, the fact of your own
assault has been public for some time, although only the original task
force has actually seen the tape.  Or eve r will." 

I nodded.  People had been amazingly supportive.  "Who's leading the
team?" I asked. 

"Agent Fred Davis.  You met him on the Willard case.  At least you'll have
a sympathetic SAC." 

"We'll need all the help we can get." 

When I got back to the office Mulder was waiting.  I brushed past him and
got my coat and car keys.  "Let's go, Mulder.  I think it's time to call
it a day." 

I saw him pick up the file and tuck it under his arm.  We walked silently
out to the parking garage and it wasn't until I put the car in 'drive'
that he said anything. 

"Scully, are you mad at me for taking this case?" 

"No.  No, I'm not.  I'm just very very tired and worried."  I glanced over
at Mulder, but he was already starting to look remote.  He was processing. 

"Mulder, are you okay with this?  Analyzing the thoughts of a rapist?" 

"I'll manage."  Mulder closed the file in his lap and stared out the
window.  "And I'll keep my promise.  If it gets bad, I'll call you." 

I'm home now and, having taken a long hot soak, I'll say my prayers and go
to bed.  And I'll add an extra prayer or two for a woman my age in the
hands of a rapist. 

March 5 2:47 a.m. 

I'm up.  What a nightmare, God what a nightmare.  Erica Scott's face kept
haunting me, then she faded away and I was in the warehouse again.  I was
there and I was naked and they were all over me. 

Mulder hasn't seen the video, thank God.  He's never wanted to hear about
it, and I won't bring it up. 

I haven't written about it; I don't want to.  I don't want to think about
it.  I want to just ignore it and go ON with my life.  There's been too
much trauma already, not another violation, not another one...When will
this ever be over? 

Mulder says I won't talk about it.  He's right.  I won't.  I haven't been
to my therapist; I lied to Mulder and I lied to Skinner.  I want all this
to just go away.  Mulder is the one we need to focus on, not me.  My
issues just aren't significant.  They didn't rape me after all, Mulder
just... 

They did rape me after all.  They just used Mulder as an unwilling tool. 
Mulder was the one who refused to be used for violence and did his best to
transform it into something not so evil. 

And before they let Mulder out of the room, they... they took my clothes
and they put their hands on my...oh I can't write this.  I can't think
this.  I can't... 

I need to.  I have to get this OUT.  Oh God, I was yelling and fighting,
when one of them hit me on the face and stunned me.  When I woke up I was
naked and my legs had been untied and the younger one, Benny, was pulling
my panties off. 

Kurt just stood to one side and unzipped his pants, then masturbated
himself.  He moved in my line of sight so that I would see.  I remember
that I started crying, sobbing, and was angry with myself for being so
weak. 

While Benny knelt between my knees and began fondling my pubic area (okay
Dana, the clinical vocabulary helps), Kurt started to talk to me.  He told
me that they had decided to share me, that Benny would use me first, and
then when he was done it would be
 Kurt's turn.  And then...and then they'd both..at the same time...oh I
can't write this.  I was shaking and begging them to please, not do this. 
They didn't have to do this. 

I've autopsied so many bodies, so many victims of violent death and of
rape.  I know the wounds, know the last hours of so many women.  Looking
up at Kurt, I knew exactly what it was that my future held, blow for blow. 
And what to expect.  Knew what my b ody would look like when they put it
on the dissecting table. 

Kurt pushed Benny aside and began squeezing my breasts, hard, leaving
bruises and marks, laying on top of me.  He whispered in my ear, telling
me just what he loved to do to bitches like me who thought I was better
than him.  Thought I was so fine, an FBI
 agent, with all that college, when I was just...just another filthy
cunt...a piece of raw meat.  And when he was done with me, there'd be
nothing left. 

I could hear Mulder yelling and pounding on the door, trying to get out. 
Oh Mulder, please get out, please, I remember wishing and praying.  Benny
stood to one side, letting Karl run his hands all over me, then down
between my legs, his fingers gouging i nto my center.  I could feel his
penis against my belly.  I remember praying, please God, please get me out
of this, somehow. 

Just then, Mulder hit the door especially hard and Kurt stopped, his eyes
narrowing.  I could smell his foul breath in my face. 

"I heard that you two were close.  I guess that's true.  I wonder if he'd
like to join the party?" 

I just stared into his eyes and was silent.  I heard Benny say "Yeah.  Why
not get him out here and let him watch the fun!" 

Kurt gave his fingers a twist inside, then pulled them out of me.  He sat
back and pulled his pants back up, zipping them. 

"Okay, let's do it." 

Benny held the gun on me while Kurt went to get Mulder.  For Mulder to see
me like this...I remember that this was all I could think.  I believe I
was in shock.  I huddled on the floor, grateful that Kurt was gone, for
however short a time. 

I heard Mulder crying and pleading.  I think, I know he was trying to get
to me, to help me.  But when a figure came close to me, I winced away,
afraid it was Kurt.  It was Mulder. 

And he held me, as though he could keep the rest of the world away.  When
he held me, I felt almost safe.  I wasn't alone here, Mulder was here and
I wasn't alone. I told him what had happened and he could see my terror. 

Then Kurt saw how comforted I was and tried to destroy Mulder and me.  He
made Mulder choose to watch my rape or participate himself. 

Mulder knew what I wanted him to choose, and he helped me. And he asked me
to forgive him.

When I felt his body on top of mine, it was strange.  It felt like he was
gently sponging off their touch and replacing it with his own presence. 
He's so much bigger than I am, I felt hidden under his body, away from
their prying, evil stares. 

He almost couldn't do it, and I could see Kurt and Benny getting
impatient.  Impatient meant dead in our situation, so I kept Mulder
focused on me, on my eyes.  And I looked into his and saw such love there
that I felt humbled by it.  This man chose to jo in me in Hell, because he
loves me.
 
As I relaxed, my body had its own responses, and this was Mulder after
all.  My body knew who he was, even though my mind was still screaming.  I
feel guilty, ashamed, at my responses to this, to him. 

Mulder...they raped him, horribly, terribly. Instead of me.  Because
Mulder got me out of there.  Me, I was safe in a farmer's pickup on the
way to the hospital while they were doing that to him.  I was warm,
wrapped in blankets, talking to sympathetic pe ople while he was alone on
that cement floor. 

I have no right to feel pain, or complain of my situation.  I have no
right. 

And since then, the abuse has continued.  Oh, nobody is attacking him now. 
But the callousness he's had to endure makes me weep.  And he never said
anything.  He went to that garage to die, I know that.  He was going to do
it quietly and as cleanly as c ircumstances would allow.  He probably was
planning on leaving a note instructing them to call A.D. Skinner at the
FBI to identify the body. 

And he would leave me, bereft.  Not even a good bye.  I am angry that he
would leave me like that, but I can't stay mad.  He's in pain and he can't
see his way out.  I know how that feels, the cancer made me feel like
that. 

And now...how do I feel?  I don't know.  I don't want to know.  I can't
afford to fall apart.  Mulder needs me, more than he ever has.  He needs
me strong and capable and THERE for him.  If I die for it, I will be there
for him. 

March 6, 1999


 Davis showed us around the "War Room" where files and evidence had been
gathered.  Tacked up on the walls were 7 photographs: the victims.  I
started when I saw those faces.  It was like looking in a mirror.  They
all looked like me. 

 I could see Mulder wince as he studied each face carefully, gently
touching the edges of each photograph as though introducing himself to
each woman.  I could see him getting sadder and sadder as he looked at
them all. 

 I was, I don't know...startled.  Each woman had a pale complexion, light
hair, blue eyes and small features.  The stats for each was the same,
height under 5' 2", the heaviest weighed 106.  There were three redheads
in the group. All lived alone.  All ha d been taken from their homes in
the Alexandria area, raped multiple times then stabbed to death.

I found myself walking with my arms folded protectively over my chest by
the time I, too, saw the last face.  Mulder waited for me at the last
picture posted, Erica. 

"Are you sure you want to be involved in this case, Scully?" he asked
quietly.  "I know this is hard for you, and..these faces.  You fit the
victim profile pretty closely." 

"I'll have the same problems you will handling this case, and I'm up for
it.  As to the victim profile, where am I safer than in a group of FBI
agents, with guns?" 

He still looked worried, and something else seemed to be bothering him. 
"Mulder, let's take a walk outside." 

  I led him outside the Hoover building and we began a leisurely walk
toward the Mall.  "What's really bothering you?"  I asked. 

Mulder was silent, trying to find the words, then said "Scully, you know
how I profile.  In a very real sense, I become the perpetrator, think his
thoughts, feel his feelings.  And you know, that's why I never do it
willingly any more.  Normally, I'm in control of my actions because I have
a strong sense of who I am.  But..." He stared into space a bit, his hands
in his pockets. 

"But?" I prompted. 

 "Scully, you fit the victim profile so closely; any of those women on
that wall could be you.  I'm.....uncomfortable...about what might happen
when I really start to channel this guy, and clue in on his motives and
emotions.  Since the..warehouse..I've b een trying to rebuild myself,
re-define who I am.  I'm not so centered any more." 

 Mulder looked more than *uncomfortable*, he looked terrified. 

"Mulder, are you afraid for my safety?  Afraid that you might hurt me?" I
studied his face closely, trying to get inside his head.  Mulder is one of
the sanest men I know, granted his definitions of reality are a bit
unconventional.  He's the only one I k now of who can stare a mutant in
the face without running away in screaming terror. 

"I'm afraid of losing myself, losing control.  And lately I've discovered
that there are a lot of things about my life that are out of my control. 
I don't want you endangered." 

We had arrived at the Washington Monument.  Mulder looked up at the spire
and was quiet.  I shivered in the wind. 

"I don't want to leave you alone.  I'm afraid for you.  I don't believe
that you would ever hurt me, no matter what monster you're profiling at
the time.  Mulder, look at me." 

 He turned away from the monument.  I pulled his face down with both my
hands and kissed him.  "You are a good man, and I know that you would
never willingly cause harm to anyone, much less me.  I don't believe that
you would ever hurt me, even if you wer e profiling Charles Manson. 
Please, let me stay with you.  I need to be there to remind you who you
are.  I left you at the warehouse and now....I just can't leave you all
alone in the dark." 

Mulder just looked at me with an unreadable expression, then folded his
arms around me and held me close.  "Scully, I don't want you to go.  I
want you there, always.  But if you ever sense that I'm a danger to you ,
run.  Shoot me if you have to, because
 if I ever did hurt you I'd kill myself anyway." 

 I smiled shakily.  "Hey, I've done that before.  I can do it again." 





Title: Abattoir: 6 Months (7/?) 

Author:  Xenith

Fox Mulder's Journal March 5, 1999

Scully came into the office today paler than I've seen her since the
cancer. 

"Scully?  What's wrong?  You look upset."  I handed her a cup of
cappuccino (nonfat milk, no sugar) I'd picked up on the way in. 

She took it and tried to smile, without success.  "I didn't sleep well,
that's all," she mumbled and made a bee-line to her desk.  She promptly
opened a file at random (I know it was at random because it was the
expense report paperwork) and began to stud y it intensely. 

She obviously didn't want to talk.  Three guesses what was upsetting her,
and the first two don't count.  I'm not the only one with nightmares. 

I'm glad I chose to go into therapy for this.  Bill is a great guy, and
he's easy to talk to; all the more because he's been there.  It hurts to
discuss it with him, but I feel the pressure eased, somehow, afterward.  I
wonder if Scully really is seeing h er therapist.  She seems so bottled
up, well, more bottled up than usual.  And that's saying something. 

I got up to put a file into the cabinet, and she jerked suddenly, startled
at my movement.  I caught a look of terror on her face, too familiar, too
DAMNED familiar. 

Can't say anything to her.  She'll just say that she's "fine" and refuse
to talk.  We've been that road before. 

Thank God Davis is out of town and we don't have to face the task force. 
A quiet day in the office can be a good thing, sometimes. 

So, here I am, sitting quietly at the computer composing a journal entry
that I will e-mail to myself.  I can't hold this in until I get home from
work. 

I'm worried about her.  She seemed to take all this in stride at first,
but I should have known she was repressing it all with all her force of
will.  She has a lot of will.  Now it's getting away from her. 

And which of us is in worse shape?  The one who knows and acknowledges
that he's a cripple, or the one who's denying it? 

My next task is to open the files, all seven of them: one for each
woman--I won't call them victims.  They were people, with lives, who were
taken from the ones who loved them. 

Who is this man?  This monster?  And how do I prevent his evil from
infecting me? 

--Later---

I'm so pissed off I'm shaking.  As I was walking back from dropping off
some reports at Skinner's office, I heard some guys in the bullpen talking
about Scully and me. 

"Yeah, " said the first one. "I hear she's really hot on the video; she
and Mulder are fucking like bunnies.  By all accounts, the ice queen was
really getting off on it!  No way could you call that a sexual assault. 
Man--that's my kind of rape!" 

The second one laughed.  "Well, at least we finally know what turns her
on!  Kinky sex and she likes it rough.  How about him, though?  He looks
pretty sick these days." 

"I dunno.  I heard he got shot or something.  Either that, or they're
still doing it and she's some kind of black widow, sucking the life out of
him." 

It was all I could do to keep from drawing my gun and dropping both of
them where they stood.  So, what Scully told me was right.  Skinner had
been successful in hiding what was done to me, but he wasn't so effective
for Scully. 

Hiding.  As though what happened to me was a shameful secret.  MY shameful
secret; my shame...as if I were the one who had done something to be
ashamed of, tainted by it. 

And for Scully to be mocked....calm. Calm. Calm.  She doesn't need me up
on charges.  She needs me here, beside her. 

But that doesn't stop me from doing the next best thing.  I marched back
into Skinner's office and had a few quiet words with him. I expect that
two very insensitive agents who are definitely NOT team-players will soon
be working fertilizer detail. 


March 6, 1999

I stayed up late last night and finished reading all 7 files, including
autopsy reports and crime scene photos.  I am beginning to know the
killer. 

He is a small man; small in soul and in stature.  The angles of the knife
wounds on the victims indicate very little height differential.  He's
between 5'6" and 5'8" tall.  I suspect a stocky, muscular build, because
he was able to overpower these women. Probably a body builder.  His height
bothers him, so he'd compensate by building muscles. 

He isn't educated.  He sees these women as a threat, these professional
women.  Two lawyers, one college professor, an engineer, a nurse, an
anthropologist and a pharmacist form the group.  But he's chosen small
women.  Yet these petite women have somet hing he doesn't, stature.  That
makes him mad.  He's been unable to form a stable sexual relationship in
his life.  He is either unattached or in a troubled heterosexual
relationship.  He has been dependent, on a wife/girlfriend or on his
parents. 

These...WOMEN....these TINY FRIGGIN' WOMEN...have it all...money,
education....snooty, smug bitches.  They look down on guys like me...sure
I'm not tall, but I do okay.  Except I'm not enough for them; I'm short
and I'm a working man.  I get my hands dirt y, and wear working clothes. 
Not like them.  They get paid double what I make and they wear clean
clothes, nice expensive clothes.  And they go with tall guys in nice
suits; snub guys like me. 

I know what I'd like to do to them....all of them.  The china-doll pretty
ones are the worst.  Pretty baby-blue eyes, blonde hair, red hair, petite,
like a little doll.  I'd like to smash that little doll, make her scream,
make her dirty, dirty, dirty in her nice clean clothes.... 


Yes, it's starting.  I am beginning to know him, know his desires, his
hatreds.  He has a lot of hatreds, small and petty, just like he is.  I
don't remember writing these paragraphs above, but I know that I must
have.  That's my handwriting and my wrist is cramped. 

I hope I can maintain control.  It's never easy coming back, when I do
this.  It will be even harder this time.  I hope that I can come back. 

Reading over the words, I feel afraid for Scully.  She is small, and so
bright and so delicate.  He would love to smash her into little pieces,
because she is so perfect.  He won't.  I won't let him.  He'll die first;
or I will. 

I'm meeting Scully at the office this morning.  Davis is touring us
through the "War Room" for this task force.  I think I need to talk to
Scully about my profiling this killer, and about her personal safety. 
Maybe it isn't too late to persuade her to ge t as far away from me as she
can.  If I do lose control, if I can't find my way back again and hurt
her, I won't try for a clean end.  Just a fast one. 


---Later---

Long day at the office.  I have copies of the color photos of each victim
and am taping them to the walls of my apartment.  The key is the women,
somehow.  I will be visiting the various crime scenes...no, not crime
scenes---their HOMES, to get a better i dea of who they were and why he
chose them. 

I don't want to stay here and stare at them.  I need air, space,
something.  I feel divided, into many people: Mulder the FBI agent, Mulder
the rape victim, Mulder the...rapist?  I am, you know.  Scully may deny
it, but I am.  She no more consented to wha t happened than I did,
although it was the best choice at the time. 

I can't stand this...the same thoughts are a repeating loop in my mind. 
Why didn't I stop them?  Why didn't I jump for them BEFORE they made me
rape Scully, instead of doing it AFTER?  Did I WANT to fuck her?  Of
course I did....but...not that way...Why was I only desperate enough to
jump them only AFTER I'd had Scully?  How many times in six years have I
fantasized about just throwing her across my desk and taking her? 

I just saw the date.  March 6.  It was on March 6, 1992 that Scully was
first assigned to the X Files.  And the rest, as they say, was history. 

I'd like to celebrate this anniversary, but I can't call her.  I can't
talk to her.  She forgives me, but does she know me, really?  Do I know
myself? 

And so I sit, here in my apartment, with the piles of paper and broken
lives lying on my coffee table, and the faces of the lost staring at me
from my walls. 


Dana Scully's Journal March 7, 1999


Sunday morning, and I went to mass.  It was comforting, even more so than
usual.  I need it.  I had nightmares last night; more Kurt Willard.  I
woke up, just short of a scream.  It was the same thing...the warehouse,
Kurt Willard on top of me, telling me ... 

I needed mass today.  The stained glass and incense remind me that there
are graces beyond those of this earth.  And I am grateful to know that. 

I still feel shame, from the assault.  I know that it wasn't my fault, not
what they did to me, not what Mulder had to do, not the way I responded... 
But I feel almost a compulsion to go to Confession and ask for forgiveness
and a penance, but for what I don't know.  I just want to feel clean
again. 

Today is March 7, 1999.  On March 7, seven years ago was my first case
with Mulder, in Oregon.  It seems such a short time, but how we have
changed. 

I wish I could get Mulder to mass, that he could take the comfort that I
do in it.  But it wouldn't work.  He finds comfort in aliens, or the
belief in sea-monsters.  Not anything so truly incredible as a loving God. 

Mulder needs love, and has had so little of it in his life. 

And last night was a Saturday night but we didn't have a date.  Mulder
hasn't called. 

I want my date.  I want to keep dating him, whether this damned
investigation goes forward or not.  We are entitled to have lives, damn
it!  I'm going to call him. 

And ask him out on a date. 


Fox Mulder's Journal March 7, 1999

Scully just called and wants to meet me at my garage, where the 'stang is. 
That's curious.  She said to wear my jeans and a grubby t-shirt.  I don't
know what on earth she has planned, but it sounds interesting. 

---Later----

I don't know whether to laugh, cry or thank a God I'm not sure I believe
in for this woman. 

Scully met me at the garage, and already had the door open.  Note:  Get
this woman a key.  She's too good with that lockpick kit. 

She had spread a picnic lunch on the floor, complete with checkered table
cloth, basket, fried chicken, salad, bread and sodas. 

And next to the car sat a large paper sack with a ribbon on it. 

Scully stood there with a shit-eating grin on her face.  "Go ahead, open
it.  It's a happy anniversary gift.  We've been partners for 7 years now,
as of yesterday." 

I crouched down and opened the paper sack and found a carburetor rebuild
kit, solvent, gaskets, a Chilton's manual and several pairs of latex
gloves.  Huh? 

Scully snickered at my expression, and said slowly and patiently, "Mulder,
first we eat lunch.  Then we rebuild your carburetor.  I've thumb-tabbed
the chapters on the 1964 1/2 Mustang and I think that between the two of
us we can handle it." 

God, I love this woman. 

We spent the afternoon wearing latex (and don't think we didn't know it!),
taking the old carb apart, cleaning it, replacing gaskets and reassembling
it.  That manual had multiple grease stains by the time we were through,
but the carburetor worked like a
 song.  How could it not, with the two of us working on it? 

Seeing the normally fastidious Scully with grease on her nose was
intensely erotic.  I may be traumatized, but I'm not dead.  And I've
wanted this woman for so long.  And I still do. 

I still feel the clench in my gut that the thought of sex brings, but I
won't let it win.  I've waited so long for Scully, that Kurt Willard and
nobody else will take her from me. 

She's a pretty good mechanic, all those surgical skills coming out, I
guess.  And she's a natural in latex. 

"Scully, that was a fantastic anniversary present, the best I ever had, "
I told her as I wiped the smudge off her nose. 

She grinned.  "It's the first you've ever had...but not the last." 

"Ooh, Scully, and what are you planning for next year?"  I gave her my
best leer, and was pleased when her grin brightened. 

"Oh, you'll find out.  I'm still looking at the lingerie catalogs."  With
that, she snapped off her latex gloves and shot them into the trash
bucket.  Like I said, she's a natural. 


Journal of Dana Scully March 9

I see the bodies, everywhere I go.  And each has my face. 

I have reviewed the autopsy data, the photographs, examined those bodies
which haven't already been released to their families. 

And I see myself--powerless in the hands of murderers, my body become a
thing in the eyes of my captors.  And I feel trapped, buried in the
clinging filth of their touch.  It seeps inside my soul like a corrosive,
eating away at my essence until nothing i s left but terror. 

And when I feel this way, I think of Mulder and feel him folding me into
protective arms.  I think I know now why I have wanted him, hungered for
him so badly. 

He is my safety.  He is protection for me, clean and strong and bright. 
He is the shining glow of love in a dark pit, his fire unquenchable.  When
I touch him, I feel energized, whole again.  I am safe, loved by a man who
would die for me. 

He doesn't know how much he did for me.  I wish I could make him
understand. 

Journal of Fox Mulder March 10, 1999

I haven't written much, haven't had time.  Erica's body hasn't turned up
and time is running short.  I've been to her apartment, and the homes of
the other victims (damn! I hate that word).  Nothing immediately useful. 
Scully and I have racked our brains
 trying to find any connections between these women that might lead to the
killer.  We've gathered bills, mail, address books, e-mail and internet
bookmarks.  Nothing correlates so far. 

And every day I commune with the rapist.  Scully is afraid for me, I can
tell.  She watches me silently as we work.  I know him better, now: his
terrible hatred for women.  I know his self-hatred and his rage and above
all, his driving need for control. 

I understand that need. 

The nightmares are changing.  I'm still dreaming of the warehouse, of my
own rape.  But the perspective has changed.  I feel removed from it, as
though I am watching two separate figures, one brutally assaulting the
other.  But something in me admires the
 power of the one on top, his control of the situation.  He isn't weak,
isn't helpless, isn't crying and sobbing for help that will never come.  I
despise the weak one, the victim.  How humiliating to be so unmanned, an
object fit only for contempt. 

And then I wake up and I am afraid.  I remind myself of who I am, and what
I'm about, but I crave the control, the power, but not, please God, the
enjoyment of another's pain.  My own pain.  I haven't spoken to Scully
about this, but she senses it anyway .  I want to run, run far away from
this case.  But I can't. 

Time is running out for Erica, and I'm the best chance she has. 

Scully isn't holding up well, either.  She's losing weight and, if the
circles under her eyes are any clue, losing sleep too.  She won't talk
about it, but I can't complain because I won't discuss my nightmares
either. 

We work side by side, but we might as well both be encased in ice, for all
the comfort we allow each other.  I'm living for Saturday, when we have
our regularly scheduled date, our excuse to let the shields down a bit. 

I don't know how much longer I can live like this without turning into a
monster myself.  The dirt is piling up inside, enough that I'm left soiled
by Kurt Willard, now I have the accumulated evil of this UNSUB.


Dana Scully's Journal March 11, 1999

I am worried about Mulder.  He doesn't say much, but he's fading away from
me.  Every day he pours himself into the files, studies each and every
detail of the victims' lives, and comes up with some other bit of ugliness
to add to the profile of this kill er. 

Where that ugliness comes from frightens me.  He admits that he has
nightmares, but he won't talk about them.  But then, I won't tell him
about mine.  We are both silent in the face of a monster bigger than us
both.  It grows every day. 

I want to reach out to him.  I need him.  But he shies away, afraid that
by being with him I'll be endangered somehow.  Does he think that he
somehow brought on Willard's attacks on us? 

Fox Mulder's Journal March 13, 1999

Oh God...oh god..oh god...got to call Scully, can't call Scully...I
promised I would....I promised....  I have to call Scully.... 

Journal of Dana Scully March 13, 1999

Mulder is finally asleep, thank God. 

I am writing this, sitting by Mulder's bedside in his apartment.  He
wouldn't even let me go into the living room, needs me here--close.  I've
begun bringing this book with me wherever I go, to release the thoughts
inside when they become overwhelming. 

Today I am overwhelmed. 

He called me this morning, early, about 4:00 a.m.  I picked up the phone,
with the groggy feeling that this must be Mulder and something was
terribly wrong.  Only he calls me at this time of day. 

"Yeah...hello," I mumbled into the receiver. 

At first there was only silence, and I was ready to hang it up.  Then I
heard a low sobbing sound. 

"Mulder?  Is that you?  Mulder--say something!  Mulder!!" 

The sobbing sound continued, then he began to speak. 

"S..s..scully....please...come over.  I need you...I can't...oh god...no,
don't come over.  It isn't safe.  Bring your gun....I promised to
call...and this is it...but if you don't get here fast, I don't know if I
can wait for you....." His voice was edge d with hysteria and clogged with
tears.  I was already up and moving, dressing as I talked. 

"Mulder, I'm on my way.  Hold on, just hold on.  Wait for me--don't do
ANYTHING until I get there...okay?  I'm on my cell phone and we'll keep
talking as I go, so you won't be alone.  Just keep talking to me..." 

I pulled clothing on, grabbed my weapon and car keys, then shot out the
door my cell phone glued to my ear. 

Before long the conversation consisted of my talking to him, a stream of
soothing noises, and the sound of wrenching sobs on his end.  God, what
could have happened? 

Halfway there, his line cut out.  I couldn't tell if he'd hung up on me or
been cut off.  Oh, God, don't think about it, just drive FASTER.  I
floored the gas, praying frantically...don't let him give up, don't let
him kill himself.  Oh, Mulder, wait for me, wait for me.  Hold on...I'm
coming...I'll be there soon...soon... 

I don't think I've ever made the drive to Mulder's apartment in better
time. 

I got to Mulder's apartment to find the door locked.  He didn't answer my
knock.  I opened the door with my key to find his living room dark and
quiet.  I drew my weapon and made my way into the bedroom. 

Mulder was huddled on the bed, dressed in t-shirt and shorts, curled into
a fetal position rocking back and forth.  He held his gun in one hand; his
eyes were shut and streaming with tears and he was muttering under his
breath, "No...no...no, please no...  "  The phone had dropped to the
floor.  No obvious signs of violence. 

I approached him slowly, keeping my gun drawn. 

"Mulder...Mulder it's me.  What's happened?  What's wrong?"  Gingerly, I
sat on the bed next to him and reached out my hand to touch his shoulder. 
His eyes flew open and he recoiled violently, bringing the gun up to point
it at me, the other hand up in front of him defensively.  I drew back
sharply, and he looked down at the gun.  Then he met my eyes in horror and
dropped the weapon, covering his face with both his hands. 

"Mulder, it's me, Scully...I won't hurt you....You called me, remember? 
I'm here,"  I kept up a soft litany of soothing noises while I fished the
gun off the bedspread and stuck it into my belt.  Then I holstered my own
weapon.  He put his hands down and
 hugged his knees to his chest and began rocking again.  But this time his
eyes were open and lucid. 

"Scully..." He choked on a sob and turned his face away.  "Don't look at
me; I can't stand you to look at me...." 

"Mulder...I'm going to call the paramedics.  I think we should get you to
a hospital...."  He gave me a panicky look. 

"No..no hospital...no people...please Scully..please..." 

"Then tell me what's wrong.  Can you talk about it?"  I moved a little
closer to him, wanting to hold him, protect him from whatever it was that
was preying on his soul. 

His eyes closed and he leaned back, rolling his head from side to side. 
When he opened them again, he was staring at the ceiling and not at me. 

"I've been having nightmares, every night, since...since the rape.  But
you know that." 

I nodded.  "Yes, I know.  I have them too." 

Mulder turned his gaze to the blanket between us.  "Since we started this
case, since I've been profiling...my...dreams have changed.  I dream HIS
dreams...feel his feelings in my sleep...." 

As he spoke, he held his arms tighter across his knees, hunching smaller
and smaller. 

"I feel his needs...his power...his need for control...Every night it's
stronger...And I want his control, I want his power....I want not to be a
victim any more...." 

I was silent.  I understood the need for control; who better?  Mulder's
voice roughened and he rocked a little as he went on. 

"I've dreamed of my rape, these last nights....I've been my own rapist,
reveling in the power...disgusted with the victim's weakness...his puling
attempts to fight me off...."  He wouldn't look at me, his voice was a
soft monotone.  Oh, Mulder... 

"But I could...could...handle that.  I know what a sorry showing I made in
that warehouse....I could live with it..."  He looked up, finally and
found my eyes.  His face was pale and stricken, agony written across it. 

"I could....live....with the dreams until last night.  Last night...I
wasn't my own rapist.  I was *him*, the one I'm profiling.  I...kidnapped
Erica Scott from her living room and took her..someplace.  I started
raping her...and she screamed...and pleade d..and I loved the powerful
feeling it gave me.  And...and...I looked down at her face....she was
crying....her voice changed, and her face did....and it was YOU, Scully. 
You were underneath me, screaming at me to stop...and I didn't...I
didn't...."  Mul der covered his face with his hands, taking gulping
breaths, then continued, with his face still covered. 

"I...came inside you....then I pulled you to your feet and...and...slammed
you against the wall...and you were crying...You looked at me like I'd
betrayed you...and I had...I...You...were bleeding....from what I'd
done....And there was a knife in my hand ....I stabbed you and stabbed you
and watched the life leave your face.....  And...and...I felt ...that
rush...Oh God....I want to die.  I can't ....live....with this....I can't
let this happen..."  Mulder broke down then, and crouched forward onto the
be d, burying his face in the mattress, sobbing deep, wrenching sounds

Oh.......this was bad.  So very bad.  "Then you woke up?  And called me?" 
I spoke very softly and gently.  Mulder nodded, his face still buried. 

"Mulder, do you think that you've become the monster?"  He nodded, still
hiding his face from me. 

"Would it help if I told you that I don't think you are a monster at all? 
You're vulnerable right now to these sorts of images, and you're profiling
a very violent man.  And I do look like the victims on this case.  Mulder,
in my eyes you're a hero, and your telling me this hasn't changed my
opinion." 

He slowly looked up, meeting my eyes.  "Scully, if
this...personality...gains control over me I could kill you and get off on
it.  I...I...can't live with that; can't allow it to happen. 
I...know...that I'm vulnerable to this...I've known it since I took
 the case.  Since the warehouse...I...know I'm...tainted.  I'm your rapist
Scully, despite the comfort you've tried to give me...I still raped you. 
How much farther is there to go from that warehouse, to killing you and
enjoying it?" 

I'd sworn to myself that I would never watch that damned tape ever again,
nor would I ever encourage Mulder to do so.  But this...he truly believed
that he had raped me, and none of my reassurances would convince him
otherwise.  He'd merged the UNSUB's mo tivations and needs with his own
guilt and trauma, and his memory of what happened to us was colored by
that. 

"Mulder, I am going to make a phone call in the living room.  I'm not
leaving you and I'm not calling the paramedics, okay?  Just stay here.." 
He nodded dumbly as I carefully backed away and went into the other room. 

I dialed Skinner's home number. 

He answered groggily. 

"Sir?  It's me, Scully." 

"Scully, why the hell are you calling at this hour?  Is it Mulder?  What's
wrong?" I could hear him becoming more awake by the second. 

"Yes, it's Mulder.  He's in a bad way...I'm at his apartment.  I need you
to do something for me; could you come here and bring the tape with you? 
The one of the warehouse." 

I could hear him suck in his breath.  "Scully, if Mulder is suicidal, are
you sure that he should see that thing?  Why show it to him?  How is it
going to help him?" 

"He's reliving the rapes, through our current UNSUB's eyes.  He's
convinced that he's capable of killing me and enjoying it.  I have to show
him who he really is, and what he actually did for me." 

I heard silence at the other end, then Skinner said softly, "Are you sure
he can take it?  Can you?" 

"I can stand it.  Mulder has to *know*.  And sir, I'm calling in a
prescription for a sedative and a hypodermic syringe at an all-night
pharmacy.  Would you pick that up on your way in?  I'm afraid to leave
him." 

"I'll get them, and I'll be there as fast as I can.  And Scully, keep your
weapon handy just in case." 

I went back into the bedroom to find Mulder huddled where I'd left him.  I
found an afghan and draped it over him, then put a kettle on for tea. 

Soon I had him sitting up, wrapped in the blanket, cupping a mug of
Lipton's in his hands. 

"I'm sorry I'm such a screw-up, Scully," Mulder rasped.  "You keep having
to bail me out when I go off the deep end.  You shouldn't have to do
that." 

"You'd do the same for me.  You have."  I sipped my own tea and watched
him carefully.  "Are you feeling any better?" 

"No."  Mulder wouldn't meet my eyes.  Damn.  He was planning what he'd do
when I finally did leave.  I couldn't leave him, or he'd die. 

I heard a knock at the door and mentally blessed Skinner for being so
fast.  Mulder started when he heard the knock.  "That's just Skinner, he's
bringing some things I asked for." 

Mulder nodded.  I ran to the door and let Skinner in.  He peered around
the apartment anxiously.  "Where is he?"  He handed me a small paper sack
and a videotape. 

"Mulder's in the bedroom." 

Skinner was eyeing the walls of the apartment uncomfortably. Damn.  I'd
forgotten that Skinner has never seen Mulder's apartment when he's
profiling.  Mulder has taped up photos of the victims, diagrams of the
crime scenes, news clippings, bits of evidenc e, covering his walls with
the facts of the seven abductions.  Even graphic photos of the bodies, as
they were found, were scattered among them.  I didn't have to ask Skinner
what he thought about it; it showed in his eyes. 

"Can you handle this alone?  Do you need me here?  Do you think you're in
any danger?" 

"No, no danger.  We'll be okay.  I'll call you if I need help.  And
sir...thanks." 

Skinner nodded and left. 

I set the sack and the videotape down on the coffee-table and went into
the bedroom to check on Mulder.

Inside the bedroom, I sat down next to him.  He was still withdrawn, and
pale.  "Is Skinner here?" he asked. 

"He's just left."  I studied Mulder searchingly.  I hoped that he could
endure what I was about to do, but he had to know the truth.  All of it. 

"Mulder, I've known you for 7 years and in that time you've never flinched
from the truth, no matter how unpleasant.  You taught me that an ugly
truth is always preferable to an attractive lie, or to ignorance.  Since
the warehouse, I have asked you to be lieve a truth that you find hard to
accept." 

"I know where you're going with this, Scully, and it doesn't wash.  I know
what happened there, and I know how I felt...and how I feel.  I'm dirty,
tainted by something evil.  Profiling this case has made it worse, and
it's changing me into something I ca n't ...can't live with." 

"Mulder, the truth that I have been trying to tell you is that you are not
an evil man, you are not sadistic.  You are heroic in my eyes, and nothing
will change that belief.  The core that is *you*, Fox Mulder, is a gentle
man and violence is as alien to
 you as it is to any humane person.  But I think that you need to see
proof.  I have some evidence that I want you to see."  I got up and held
out my hand to him.  He took it hesitantly and followed me into the living
room. 

I sat Mulder down on the couch and put the tape into the VCR, then sat
down next to him.  Mulder shied away when he saw the tape. 

"No, I can't watch that.  Scully, I can't live through that again...I
can't.  With this...personality...inside me, do you know what might
happen?  Do you?"  Mulder's voice was trembling and I could see tears
beginning to roll down his cheeks.  "No, Scully ...I can't.  I'll....I'll
hurt you...or...I don't want to watch you being hurt....not by me." 

I grabbed his chin and made him look at me.  "Then we'll face it together. 
Do you think I want to lose you, day by day, minute by minute, behind a
wall of silence?  I'm tired of being "fine", I'm not "fine" and neither
are you!  The truth is...!"  I was shouting, I lowered my voice.  "The
truth is that neither of us is "fine" and we need each other to heal from
this.  I *need* you.  You *need* me.  I can't do this alone..and neither
can you.  I don't want to try any more.  Please?" 

Mulder looked deep into my eyes, the first real look he'd given me in a
week.  "Okay.  But do I get popcorn?" 

I smiled, a little trembly, but a smile.  "Maybe later."  I turned on the
VCR. 

As the snow cleared, I saw the interior of the warehouse and felt Mulder's
hand slip into mine.  I saw myself dragged into the cameras' range,
knocked out and stripped of clothing. 

I could see Mulder, next to me, begin to tremble.  He held my hand
tighter.  When I woke and Benny started to abuse me, Mulder sat very close
and put his right arm around me protectively.  I could feel myself
beginning to shake and the tears begin to fall
 down my cheeks. 

Then Kurt began to speak, terrible things, awful things, promises of what
he would do to me, what they would do.  I saw the despair on my own face;
the certainty that there was no way out.  I couldn't watch and buried my
head into Mulder's shoulder.  He h eld me close and cried with me, his
eyes fixed on the screen. 

"Scully...oh Scully, I didn't know...why didn't you tell me?"  he
whispered. 

"I tried, but I just didn't have the words.  And you were in so much pain,
I couldn't add to your burden.  I couldn't tell you... And I was so
afraid.  All I could think of was what was going to happen.  I knew what
the injuries would be--what they'd do t o me--what my body would look like
in the morgue."  I could hear my voice breaking as I began sobbing.  "I
had no hope." 

Mulder just held me while I sobbed aloud. 

Then we saw Mulder stumble in and try to go to me.  I hadn't seen it, only
heard it.  Oh, Mulder...how you tried.  And then he came to me and tried
to stand between me and the killers. 

By the time the tape got to Mulder's choice, we sat almost on top of one
another, arms wrapped about each other protectively.  On the tape, he saw
my panic and his own fear, anguish, decision.  And I think he saw my
acceptance.  I hope he did. 

While Mulder made love to me, my face showed what I hoped he would see