Okay, I know a lot of stories are rated NC-17. This one, however, is rated that FOR A REASON. Rated NC-17 for violence and sex and foul language and adult situations. IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 PLEASE DO NOT READ. I promise, you can download it when you're older. If you do not feel you would appreciate scenes containing Bondage and Discipline please do not read. I do not consider this "obscene" or "indecent" because the subject matter and text is not, of itself, for the reason of pornography, however, it is, and should be rated as for adults only for the same reasons as adult material always has been. Acknowledgments to my tireless editors, Goo, Rodent, Linda, and Monkey Boy. Without them, my writing would not be what it is. More than that. They are my friends. They have all seen me through some incredibly trying times with unwavering support. Thank you. Acknowledgements to Gregory, Susan Coe, Lisby and MsBrooklyn for taking a peek at the beta version. Acknowlegments to Greg for the non-vanilla, and to Susan Coe for the reasons why, especially. The X-Files, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Skinner, the Lone Gunmen and the Cigarette-Smoking man are all property of Chris Carter and 10- 13 productions. Written 10-95 through 2-96 Mistress 1/20 by Amperage The fireplace screen was up. Mulder felt a small pang, staring around the tiny apartment. She had already put the fireplace screen up. It was decorated with only the very best. Fussy Victorian comfort Tanny had called it, laughing with her brightest laugh. The wide persian rug, an antique, left curled in someone's attic for years and years, brought down and sold and bought and eventually winding up in Tanny's living room. Mulder had lain on it naked before. His penis hard against the fine woollen material, eyes closed before the onslaught of pleasure and pain that Tanny brought. The body was in the bedroom and he did not go there at first, content to let Scully and the others photograph, examine, fix time of death by the heat of the body. A hairbrush lay on a round end table. Leather manacles for feet and wrists were tucked amid the decorator clutter on her coffee table. A spreader bar was tucked among the wood stacked beside the fireplace. Mulder did not have to go to the bedroom to know that a wide leather strop hung over the vanity. It was not often that he had visited Tanny. But he was one of Tanny's clientele. One of a few, select that Tanny chose to dominate, to rule, to domesticate. A number Mulder had heard rumored included an ex-president and several senators. He'd never understood why Tanny had called him. "I have an opening. I've been told you might be interested." She'd whispered in a dusky voice, only half-sounded. When they'd met for lunch she'd been demure, beautiful and demure and they had negotiated, tapped around the truth. Mulder had never been to a prostitute or a dominatrix before Tanny. He remembered telling her that, blushing. Telling Tanny that he really wasn't interested. Careers could be destroyed for less and he had a bright future with the FBI. Her hands had stroked his, teasing the lines of his palm, her voice rich and gentle, had pulled from him his deepest fantasies, until he found himself admitting, admitting right there in one of the smartest restaurants in DC, that he had fantasies. He didn't see Tanny often. Less than any of her other customers, he guessed. But that was why she had chosen him. She had wanted someone who only came once every few months. That was what the opening was for. He had never learned where she got his name either. Tanny did not advertise. Tanny called you. And she was confidential. For all Mulder knew, Reggie Pardue or Walter Skinner or even Cancerman could have been in her thrall. Tanny. Mulder glanced around the small room, staring at the cluttered red lacquered secretariat. Another antique piece. Tanny kept no names. Men were scheduled in her rich leather date book by slave names. Secret. That was his name. Secret. She had always called him Secret. Making the sss's long and luxuriant, sliding the name until it became either a prayer of annucation or a curse of damnation. He was Secret. And he paid by mailing his money to a PO box in Baltimore. He did not want to go into the bedroom. The big old bedroom with the massive victorian oak bed. With the vanity. With the worn places around the corner posts were restraints were slung. The rich lace sheets and the full plumped pillows. The heavy persian and oriental rugs slung against gleaming honey floorboards. The tall high boy and the wardrobe. She would have already laid his accourments. Mulder swallowed, wondered what it would have been. He went down the long hallway, slipping past the police. Scully was all professional detachment. She did not know. How could anyone know? The fire screen was up in the bedroom too. Tanny tormented, Tanny teased, Tanny domesticated. But Tanny was never cruel. For him only, there were big brass fire screens to separate the fire from his world. The strop was indeed flat against the mahogany surface of the vanity. She had been planning that he leave her with a sore, bruised, perhaps welted, bottom. Bottom. That was Tanny's word. Bottoms and cocks and balls and cunnys. She had never questioned his need for the strop. Mulder sometimes wondered if her understanding of the psychology of men outweighed any person who held a PhD. A cock strap lay directly on top of the leather strop. Mulder imagined himself trembling as he hung his clothes up in the wardrobe, had to touch the wide, oiled leather, to pull the leather around his balls, fit the harness to the base of his cock. Tanny lay in the bed. The blood had spilled onto her floor and onto a long, narrow rug. Spilled and was clotting. The smell was warm and humid and not Tanny's sent at all. Tanny wore White Shoulders, a gentle traditional scent. Her eyes, her wildcat green eyes, were open. Her perfect nose, aquiline and strong. Her rounded mouth, open now in the surprise of death. She had been wearing only a white terry robe. And the robe was pushed open. Her hair was still up in a white towel. Under the towel it was a rich, honey shade of blonde gold that clung well to her richly defined features. The robe had been cast open and Tanny had been opened from the base of her throat to her sweet clean cunny, all ivory soap for Secret to arrive. When Secret had arrived, she would be dressed in Velvet, because it was Christmas Eve. Velvet and lace and barefoot. Mulder imagined her bottom rounded under tight velvet panties and the bustier heaving. He felt a warm buzz in his ears. The world was distant and unreal. "It looks like more of the same." Scully was telling him. Mulder made some comment. He wasn't sure what. It must have been normal. She seemed satisfied. The only real thing was Tanny, lying aslant her high, beautiful bed. Tanny's legs and arms were still their soft nuzzling long. Spread against the lace. Her breasts were flopped on either side of her opened sternum. She had had large, full breasts. 34DD's, she had once told Mulder in a quiet moment, curling with him on the living room rug. Tanny had been beautiful beyond measure. Tanny had been killed in the same manner as two Senators and a member of the White House staff. An incredible, unbelievable manner. "Do you want to bet we'll find incredibly high adrenalin levels in Tanny when I check?" Scully asked. Mulder felt something in his soul come back into his warm, living flesh. He nodded. "And again, no signs of a struggle." Mulder said. He said it softly, almost under his breath. Scully looked at him critically. The police were having a fine time, here in the luxurious apartment of one of the city's highest paid call-girls. "Do you think they were her customers?" Scully asked. "Who?" Mulder stared at her, his eyes on an anal plug left among the fashionable objects on a bedside table. "The other victims," Scully stared at her partner, aslant. "Possibly. She was rumored to have quite a list." "Then I hope we find her little black book." "They're in code." Mulder spoke quickly. And Scully swallowed. "I mean. . .they're always in code. This kind of occupation. . ." Mulder explained. He was staring now at a blindfold hung on the handle of the wardrobe. Scully wondered what sexual games Mulder played. The things in this room seemed to have an effect on him, as though they were familiar friends. "Well, still. We can try." Scully replied, feeling odd. Mulder swallowed. "Yeah." He smiled hollowly. He tramped into the bathroom, another room rich in Victorian charm. He was going through her secretariat when Scully came out of the bedroom. His gloved fingers made soft rustling sounds as he found and pulled out a leather bound book. Not a planner or an organizer. A social calendar from a time long gone. Gold glinting bright on the edges. Thin vellum paper. There were several heavy fountain pens, Waterman and Parker, a Mont Blanc or two, lying on the desk top. He pushed them away, remembering once, lying on the rug, naked, while Tanny drew intricate designs on his buttocks, on his back. He had been trained well enough to resist prickles from the movement and the sharp tracery on his back. As with everything else Tanny did, she'd been an excellent pen artist. He flipped to this date, curious what she would have written. There it was. "Secret. 7 p.m." "Secret?" Scully questioned. Mulder considered other entries. "Dreamer" for this afternoon. "Blue" for last night. There were words and times. Secret. He was Secret. Mulder flipped through the book. "They're slave names." He said in a dry professional voice. "Names for her customers." "But Secret?" Scully questioned. Mulder shrugged. "It might be a secret meeting," he allowed, "but I doubt it. Probably a name." Scully stared at the thin lines the spaces. Mulder set the appointment book down. "When was she killed?" "Not too long ago. Her body is still warm. . ." Scully sighed. "Think `Secret' killed her?" Mulder considered this. It was 7:20 now. He'd gotten the call when he was already in his car, headed to Tanny's winter apartment. "He wasn't scheduled until 7:00. . .I don't know. Possibly." He replied, frowning. "If Secret did it, what about the others?" "What are you thinking?" Scully asked, sitting on an ottoman. "Well, first off, we both know that the murderer knew what he was doing. We know she didn't struggle. She probably knew her killer. Her killer is used to being in control. He's not hesitant. He knows what he's doing. The X-file is in the fact that his victims don't struggle when they're gutted. . .so he's doing something we can't identify. So it's not impulse, it's not immature. He's an older man. In his 40's. Most men who are the regular clients of dominatrix are the ones who push the envelope. Most of them are. . .the best at whatever they do. They may be in control everywhere else. This gives them a place not to be. They may be the thrill seekers. The ones who push it and push it. Who. . .who always have to go further, go harder. Who won't give in no matter what the cost. . .this is. . .this is their release." His release. His guiltless erotic journeys. His safe place where the pleasure and the pain were not connected to anything else, where his adrenalin could pump and pump and it was secure, because Tanny wasn't going to go too far. Because Tanny wouldn't do anything too much. He hadn't even had a safeword. Tanny knew what the bare keening edge of a man's pleasure was before it moved into pain. Mulder flashed suddenly. Not here in the quaint Victorian apartment. This was her winter home. No. The bright airy house, with the porch furniture and the soft pastel colors. He'd been pushed and pushed, his hands pressed against his chest in heavy leather handcuffs. His rectum was sore and his body tired. And Tanny wouldn't stop and wouldn't stop and he suddenly found himself retreating into a dizzying caliphony of some kind of. . .and then everything was gone, the vibrator and the whip and the handcuffs and the blindfold and it was just Tanny in a lace gown and the soft, high bed and the dying evening light of summer and his head against her breasts as he fell, childlike into the cool cotton and battenburg lace of her and of the bedclothes, and he'd cried and cried and cried, for hours and hours until he fell into a deep, cleansing sleep. Scully was staring at him. Mulder reached into his pocket, pulled out his reading glasses. He opened other drawers, searching. He knew Tanny kept a book. Kept a book of fantasies. Her clients' fantasies. Kept track of all that went on, recorded it, diary fashion. His own section would be thin, but others, he knew others would be fat with notations. There was no such book in the secretariat. He did find a small velvet envelope, filled with cash. Payments for sessions, some unused. Mulder rifled through the money. He'd paid 250 a session and he knew that was extraordinarily cheap. "You give me ideas. You are. . .inspiration for me. For that, 250." She'd whispered to him setting the price. "If it goes up, you'll get a note in the mail. This is the last time we ever discuss money." It had never gone up. For Mulder it was a hefty wad, but not terribly hefty. And for Tanny? Why? Why had she said that, why had she priced her services so very low? But Mulder did not set the sessions. Tanny called and left a whispered time on his machine. "This is your stylist. 7:00 Christmas Eve." The same message he'd had every Christmas Eve after Tanny came into his life. Mulder had always supposed that Tanny told him the truth. Sometimes, lying there with her, she would ask him about fantasies, dreams. She would get deeply inside his skull and demand answers of things he would never talk of with anyone else. There was about two thousand dollars in the envelope. Mulder wondered how much money Tanny earned. Most of it tax free. She declared some, enough. An Escort. Escort? Tanny never escorted anyone anywhere. Her men met her here, in quiet and in solitude, in a secret place. He set the enveloped down on the appointment book, began rifling again. Nothing. "Agent Mulder. Agent Scully. I'm glad you were able to come out on Christmas Eve." King, SAC pulled to work this case. Important people were dying. These weren't prostitutes, at least they hadn't been. Senators, cabinet members, you got on a fucking stick for that. You put 30 people on the case. Scully smiled politely. She'd been called from her family for this case. She was missing out on her family for this. She was reminding them that Missy was gone and why. From the moment her cellular had begun ringing to the moment she slipped back into the family and smiled apologetically, she was reminding them all. Mulder shrugged. "My Christmas plans were suddenly canceled right before you called." Not a lie after all. "Listen, I'm curious. . .her appointment book has a listing for 7. Someone called Secret. Do you know if anyone showed up and left? Might give us a line on at least one client." "I'll find out. What do you think the connection is?" "I would think that's kind of obvious. . .our UNSUB killed her clients, some of them anyway, now he's killed the dominatrix." King frowned, sighed. "It's probably true. But don't put it in any reports. Not until we've got the killer in custody." Mulder nodded. "Orally, we tell the top people in the investigation. No press, no families? There'll be rumours in the media." "Yeah, but not too much. Libel suits." King replied. "Okay," Mulder took off his glasses. King nodded, relieved that Spooky wasn't making trouble. "What do you think the odds are that we can find her clients or that we can get any of them to come forward." Mulder swallowed. He wouldn't come forward, never in a million years. Not if Jane Reno herself promised Mulder that nothing would *ever* happen to him. He couldn't imagine any of Tanny's supplicants coming forward. Secrecy was a premium with them all. He shook his head. "I doubt it. Think about it. If you were one of her customers, would you?" "I don't have that kind of money to toss around, Agent Mulder." King grinned. "And besides, I got my butt beat enough when I was a kid. Doesn't make me the least bit horny." Mulder grinned back, shrugged. "You never know who's into what." He replied a bit loopily, a bit out of focus. Scully was watching from the ottoman. She got up. "The body's being taken down to Quantico. . .I'm going to get the autopsy out of the way tonight. Will I be able to have Christmas morning with my family?" King nodded. "Yeah. We could probably wait on the autopsy until Christmas evening." "I don't want to open presents and be around my family knowing I have to go dissect a corpse after dinner." Scully replied. "I'll catch you tomorrow." She shot at Mulder. "If you're interested, my mom said to remind you that you're always welcome." Mulder smiled. He had planned to be here all night. But not with an FBI evidence team. He would be thrilling to Tanny's inspection of his body right now. He should be doing that. Tanny's body should not be in a black bag, headed to an autopsy bay. Tanny should be here, warm and sweet and unbearably in control. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!newsxfer2.it d.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Tue Aug 13 09:57:51 1996 Article: 22808 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!newsxfer2.it d.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: Mistress 2/20 NC-17 Date: 13 Aug 1996 09:45:12 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 385 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4uq0t8$gje@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC17 material. Underage, please go away. Offended by B&D, please go away. Usual disclaimers. Mistress 2/21 by Amperage He was sitting in his living room, staring at evidence photos of the previous deaths, staring at a small package he'd bought Tanny. A glass paperweight lay inside the expensive paper. Hand blown with a maker's mark stamped in the bottom. Tanny had loved paperweights. She kept her collection in her summer home. Mulder wondered what Tanny had gotten him. No doubt he would find out in the police reports. Something small, something that showed she understood him in a way that, based on their limited time together, she should not have. Monday Afternoon. Christmas day. He sat, rubbing his beard. Wondering what to feel, what to think. He was alone on Christmas Day. He'd needed Tanny to get through Christmas day. Because otherwise he was alone. He knew that Tanny had needed him on Christmas day. Because otherwise Tanny was alone. Well, they were each alone this Christmas day. Alone. Tanny was lying in her refrigerated spot, tagged and sewn up and minus cells and tissues and organs. Mulder was sitting on his couch wondering what he should be feeling. What he should do. There was the Scully house. The very thought of it made his gut wrench. He wanted to go back to bed and when he woke up it would be the day after Christmas and everything would be okay. He got up, went to shave, put on his shoes, his coat. He would go to Tanny's house after all. Scully sighed as she entered the apartment, saw a familiar face bent over a drawer. She had to wonder if this case didn't strike some familiar chords in Mulder. If he didn't. . .indulge in odd sexual practices. He'd been so into himself telling her what kind of man needed a dominatrix, as if trying to describe, to apologize for himself. Well, at least, she knew it sure as hell wasn't Tanneka Bonet. Even Mulder wouldn't have been able to afford *her*. "Hey." She said. Mulder looked up, light glinting off his reading glasses. He smiled. "Our little dominatrix was into a variety of activities." He said wickedly. "You name it, she had the implements. You don't even want to know what I found under the bathroom sink." Scully wrinkled her nose. "I'll pass, thanks. Found anything interesting?" "She had family in California. A cousin." Scully nodded. "They apparently knew what she did for a living and didn't approve." Mulder handed her a collection of envelopes, waited while she fumbled through her coat for gloves. Only the first few letters had been opened. Lots of references to Tanneka's life of harlotry and the forgiveness of God. Scully flipped through the envelopes. "I wonder what they'll do with this place?" "Convert it to a Sex-aholic meeting center?" Mulder's grin was manic. "You just want to have someplace to go on Friday nights." Scully replied. "Mom said she wished you'd come. What did you do, stay up all night and watch porn?" Mulder grimaced. "With *this* case? I don't really feel like it." Oh shit. Scully realized she'd misstepped. "Sorry. Ouch. I didn't think." "No. That's okay. Find anything else?" "Not much." He hadn't found the fantasy book. "One of her clients was an FBI agent. He or she left a note written on official memo paper. It was Bonet's handwriting, and no prints but Bonet's, but still. . ." "Who could afford Tanneka Bonet on what we get paid?" Scully marvelled. "A SAC could. Or a director. Someone in the brass wouldn't have a problem." Scully's mouth twitched. Mulder saw it. "Tell me what you're thinking." "I just flashed on Skinner here. . ." She bit her lip to keep from laughing. Mulder grinned as though it were hysterical, the image of Walter Skinner gagged and bound and soundly spanked. The package sitting on his kitchen table had been ornately wrapped in velvet paper. A small gold cord with a simple bow. Mulder stopped dead in his tracks when he saw it. Swallowed. He pulled his gun and made an inspection of his house. Nothing else had been touched. Nothing. It was late and whoever had left this package had come and gone and touched nothing else. He sat down at the small table and tried not think about this thing. Tried to deny where the package had come from. Tried not think. He undid the bow slowly, closing his eyes, imagining Tanny on the other side of him, smiling. The paper fell off softly into a rectangle of gold. A heavy velvet box, Mulder felt the tight resistance from the springs as he opened the box. Inside, nestled in soft white, were a pair of gold earrings. Tiny little loops. Loops he couldn't wear. There was a note. "For the Oxford years when you were allowed to forget and to laugh." Mulder fingered one loop and discovered suddenly that the loops were clip on. A very delicate, gold clip on that did not look like it. She had planned to present them to him, giving him another fantasy world. A world of innocence. There was probably a heavy leather jacket, a black leather jacket with Aviator shades in the pocket, in her wardrobe. Mulder honestly couldn't remember right now. They would have gone out. Gone somewhere no one knew them. She probably had even arranged a Harley. Gone out and he would not have been Spooky Mulder; he could have revelled in a blissful ignorance of who he was, for one night amnesiac. This night. This was supposed to have been his night. Their night. Mulder closed his eyes and began to sob. There were certain facts in Fox Mulder's brain as walked into his office December 26th. The first of these was that the killer had waltzed into his apartment, left a little present and waltzed out. The second was that the killer knew who he was, knew about his relationship with Tanny. The third was that the murder had been planned to coincide with his expected visit to Tanny. He was supposed to have arrived to find Tanny lying dead. His fingerprints were supposed to be on everything. He was supposed to look guilty. But Tanny's little Porshe 928 had been repaired. Mulder supposed he didn't want to know how much cash she had dropped to get a Porshe repaired on Christmas Eve. And Tanny had been supposed to get the keys, only Tanny hadn't answered her bell. The super had permission to put stuff in her apartment, to set things on the hallway table. Entering the house, he'd noticed that it looked like Tanny was home. Her purse was on the table. The lights were on. Mulder was supposed to have been guilty. The door to her apartment hadn't been locked. He was supposed to have walked right on in and incriminated himself. It was such a pat thing to happen, he felt even colder chills going up his spine. It was pat and arranged and perhaps the killer hadn't wanted him incriminated. Not yet, anyway. Just wanted Mulder to know he could be incriminated at any time, that the killer could set up whatever, however. To keep Mulder terrified. Scully was at her desk, reading a report on a past autopsy. "There were a few differences in the murders." She told Mulder, voice dry and professional. "Minor things. But I think the killer took more time with Tanneka." Mulder glanced at his partner. "So she meant more to him." "I think so. He tried to take the same amount of time with them all, but. . ." Scully frowned. "I just. . .his heart was more into his work on her. Perfectionist details like the straightness of the cut." Mulder absorbed this. "What about the calm of the victims?" She shrugged. "We still haven't found any evidence of drugs. I don't know." Mulder nodded. He looked like hell. Scully swallowed, considered the report in front of her. "You have a bad night?" She asked softly. Mulder went and sat down at his own desk before answering. "I had. . .some bad dreams." He answered gently. "Anything you want to talk about?" Mulder shook his head. "I was just lonely." He replied, opening a file folder, the account of the building superintendent. He felt Scully's eyes on him, felt her concern, but he ignored it as he read useless information. Quiet. Quiet. Keep your voice quiet. "Secret." Tanny's voice was soft and gentle. It purred. The silk of the blindfold lay across his face, across the bridge of his nose. Kneeling, kneeling and not knowing, skin pulsing at the sudden nearness of Tanny. His hands clasp in front, the leather around his wrists warm and sweating. How long had he been here? Trembling. Nervous. He felt tears slid down his nose, tried to hold the sobs in. He felt her draw him up, fingers linking on the chain between his cuffs. His body brushed against hers. Leather. The smooth supple texture of leather. She drew him along. He could not see. He must follow. Must trust. Out into the sunlight. He felt the sunlight. Felt the bright, white radiation on his back, felt the rough concrete under his feet. Thud. Thud. Thud your heart to the fear and the quiet of a bird sing. His feet in the thick grass. Taste of bile in his mouth. "Stand quietly and listen to me." Tanny's voice hot. Hot, wet. "Are you frightened?" He did not answer, could not find the words. Could not speak, his heart thudded so hard. His lungs burned. The strop across his buttocks burned with fire and he stumbled. "Secret." Her voice was softer. "Are you frightened?" He licked his lips. "Yes." Silibant, soft. Unvoiced. "Why are you frightened? Examine your fear and tell me Secret. Tell me what you fear." He hesitated. Felt the lash again. Well trained. Oh God, but she had him so well-trained. A good slave does not react, not to one lash. "I don't know." It burst from him, in a choking sob. "I don't know!" "Do you want it to end?" He did not know why she asked. She knew. She always knew when it had to end. How far he could go before the need became abyss. "Answer me." Her voice was not cruel, only commanding. "You will answer me." "No. No. Please. Don't let it end." His penis throbbed anguished, as a fine linen bodice brushed against him. "Please don't let it end." Mulder closed his eyes, wiped his face with his hands. Looked around the office, Scully was gone, back to Quantico, to finish the work she had started. Alone in a still and dark office and his memories threatened to overwhelm. It must be lunch by now. Or past lunch. Tanneka Bonet was still dead. Lovely, bright Tanny was dead. She would never be back again. He felt so tired, his feet cumbersome in wingtips, his skin sensitive with ache and weariness. The suit was rough against his skin. His eyes were heavy and ever so tired. Mulder thought about lunch without checking his watch and let the thought slip past him, into some forgotten place. Stared back at the profile on his monitor screen. He had his database. He had the facts. He had killers and profiles and matches. He had this profile written, except for summation and presentation. Except the killer sprawled across the computer screen had no business in reality. It was a lie, a lie the Mulder knew was not true. The earrings and the Porshe and the likely near miss, that was not so likely. It was a lie, because the records and the recorders had never felt the thick leather cuffs slid down across arms linked behind chilling backs. The questioners knew only their findings of fetish and fantasy. They did not know sensate thrill of a woman's voice whispering and whispering and filling the mind with images even as a wide lacquered paddle came down unceasingly on the firm round peach of a man's bottom. Scully stared at her partner, still hunched over the computer screen. She wondered how long he had been there, encircled by a web of files and documents and words that kept him from remembering that it was Christmas again and that he was alone. Scully watched him and wondered at the close tightness so binding him to his solitary life. "It's 3:30. Did you eat lunch?" She asked, dropping her satchel onto the desk. "I had a candy bar." Mulder's voice was distracted. Scully could not see his eyes. The glasses reflected the blue light of a computer screen. "Everything go okay?" "Yeah. The tissue samples came up negative again. We know she was HIV negative and not on any types of drugs." "I'm sure there are men who will breathe a sigh of relief." Mulder's voice, a small grin, but he continued facing that damn monitor screen. "No clues how our UNSUB gets his victims so quiet?" "No. None." Scully sighed. "I got some hate mail delivered to Quantico." "Oh?" He turned, finally. His eyes were unsettled, tired. "Yeah. Weird thing. I had it sent on. Not really hate mail. It sounds like something from our mutual friends up top." "And?" More concern. She finally had his attention. "Just a slip of paper, handwritten. It said. "I know your little secret." It looked like the kind of thing Barnett wrote those haikus on. Same kind of writing, same size paper. You sure he's dead?" She smiled. "I don't know. This time I hope so. You want me to check potter's field?" A smile, but his voice was soft and tense again. Any play was purely for show. And now she wished she hadn't mentioned any of it to him. "If he's back and walking, I think I'd rather not know." She replied with a grin. A shiver. If he could play the game, so could she. He would rather. And she could give him that. "There's supposed to be another press conference tonight." Scully said, changing the subject. "Did you look at the memo?" "It was on my e-mail." He replied. It was like playing games with a stranger. Scully frowned. Something of Mulder had been missing from this interchange from the start and now he was only talking on autopilot. "And?" "There's a press conference." Mulder turned back to the computer screen. "We're supposed to be there." Mulder's fingers poised over his keyboard. He sat, just sat and stared. "I can't. I can't." His voice was a whisper. "I just can't." <<"Can't what?" Tanny replied. "Can't what? Can't? My dear. Can't is not a word you say to me. Over the arm of the wingchair, love. Maybe 20 licks of the hairbrush will eliminate that word from your extraordinary vocabulary.">> "Can't?" Scully frowned, staring at the frozen figure. "Why not? It's just a bitch and moa. . ." Mulder's arms were around his chest. His breath was hot and tight and she heard a rasp as he tried to force sobs back in. He was unable to stop the tears. Unable to keep his crying inside. The tears were agonized, soft. Scully froze. She had, honestly, no idea what to do. She knew him well enough that the moment she acknowledged the tears, tried to show him sympathy, that he would respond badly. The fact that he was crying in her presence probably embarrassed him a great deal. Scully settled for getting a handful of kleenex and kneeling beside him. Handed him the tissue. "Do you want to talk about it?" Mulder's eyes were closed. He shook his head, wiped his nose, hands trembling. Scully thought of several questions to ask, knew he wouldn't want to answer them. Saw no point in antagonizing him. "I'm here, if you want to talk." He nodded. Drew in a deep raspy breath. Scully stayed where she was kneeling beside his chair. Waiting. She did not know for what. "Was Christmas that bad this year?" She asked softly. Mulder said nothing, just tried to stop crying. "I. . .I. . .I'm sorry." He whispered through thick lips. "There's no reason to apologize." Scully put a hand gently on his knee. Mulder blew his nose; the tears seemed to be going away. "Why don't you go wash your face and then we'll duck out for something to eat? I haven't eaten lunch either." Mulder swallowed, seemed on the verge of refusing. Then nodded. Scully stood, watched as Mulder pushed out of his chair. She sat down at her desk, began rifling through her portfolio. "I'm sorry, Scully. I don't have anything to cry about." Mulder's voice was soft. Scully looked up from her desk, startled. Stared at him. He had just as much reason to be unhappy in this goddamn fucking overhyped season as she did. His eyes were swollen and his nose was bright red. "Yes." She answered softly, swallowing. There was a lump in her own throat and if he didn't get the hell out of here soon she would be crying too. "Yes, you do. We both do." She let Mulder choose. A quiet little place, a pub with decent sandwiches and a peculiar fondness for David Bowie and Sheena Easton music. A booth where they could sit. There was a TV, but right now it was turned to Rikki Lake. Two waitresses were sitting, filling sugar and salt containers, immersed in the tribulations of a woman who was in love with her ex-husband's new girlfriend. And people said the X-files were out there. Mulder ordered a beer, watched Scully, gauged her reaction. "The press conference is at 5." Scully reminded him, eyes on the dark bottle the waitress brought with her iced tea. "I won't go in with booze on my breath." Mulder promised, rifled through his pockets. Smiled. "See." He shook the small clear plastic box. "Breath mints." "Alcohol is a depressant." She added. Mulder shrugged. "Did you know that Tanneka had a summer house?" Scully blinked. "Two residences?" "In the same city. Apparently, she kept one for summer time play and one for winter sports." Mulder dug through his pockets, pulled out a post it note, read the address. Scully whistled. "Do you know what private residences in that zip code go for?" "Our Miss Bonet wasn't a pauper." "So she had the obscenely expensive downtown apartment *and* the place in Chevy Chase?" Mulder nodded. "After that fucking press conference I'm going over to look around. Care to come?" "I would, but I can't. My mom has me roped in for a holiday dinner. Bill Jr.'s wife's family is coming over. They're Navy too, and they just moved to D.C. . ." Scully rolled her eyes. "Why don't you skip the house and come with me? You. . ." She let the sentence die. Knowing that the words were loud between them. `You don't need to be alone in that house, not if you're depressed.' "Well, as horribly tempting as that offer is. . ." Mulder gave her a ghoul's grin, "I'll decline." "What about the D.C. cops? Shouldn't you have one of them with you?" Mulder smiled patiently. Their sandwiches, French dip for Scully, Pastrami and Swiss on Pumpernickel for Mulder, arrived, with sides of thick slabbed home-fried potatoes. "I called." Mulder shrugged. "They're overworked. They don't want to pull overtime the day after Christmas, and I can't say I blame them." Scully nodded. Changed the subject to things that had nothing to do with the Tanneka Bonet case. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 11:41:54 1996 Article: 22828 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: the REAL Mistress 3/20 NC-17 Date: 13 Aug 1996 20:31:20 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 314 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ur6oo$1uf@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO Mea Culpa!!!!!!!!! I screwed up. . .much grovelling, much grovelling. Here is part 3. Material highly NC-17 and includes Bondage and Discipline. Usual Disclaimers Mistress 3/20 by Amperage Stand on the worn wooden porch. Soft patina paint. Green. Bright, shiny wood floors. Matte walls, hand hooked rugs and hand braided rugs thrown along the skittery wood. Bright, cotton chintz. Floral. Country. The big crystalline panes. He hit the light switch in the big, bright living room, only to find the bulb did not work. Dust covers over the furniture. On the mantel, small round globes glinted from hallway light. Mulder stared at them. "Stand very still." He stood, feet cold against the waxed silken of floor. It hurt. He hurt. It hurt. Unwelcome presence in his anus. A stropping. His hands twisted up in cords and sore. "Stand very still. You are not allowed to move." Stare, stare at the small glass globes. Swirls of colors, patterns against clear globs. Crying. Tears rounded down his chin, down onto his chest. Tears fell off the edge of his jaw, landed on his hip, his toes, or did not land on his body at all but the left small drops on the polished pecan wood floors. "Secret. Secret. " Tanny's voice, so very soft. "Tell me about your favorite place when you were small. Where did you go to hide? When it got too bad. Secret, tell me where you went. What you did." The anal plug tied to him, into him. Sore and it hurt. His hands, his arms, they hurt. The leather snug around his waist, the restraint belt, that held him. Unbearable. His bottom was on fire. His legs were sore. "Come on." No strikes for not speaking. Tanny's voice was gentle. Stare, stare at the small glass globes. Imagine the heat, the fire of the bellows. Orange hot glass in thick chunky globs. "Secret. Tell me about where you went when you were scared." The bed was stripped of sheets and coverlet. A high, Jenny Lind bed. Painted Creamy white. His hands touched the roughness of the thin, knewled bars. Grabbing the bars, kneeling on the firm mattress of the bed. Eyes closed in hard exhilaration feeling the strength of the paddle again on his body. The acute agony that rocketed through him, a release that sent his body into spasms of want, of need, of purely animal desire. Arching against the head, Tanny's head down low, watching his face. Arching and screaming, head thrown up to face the white of plaster ceiling. He was standing in the soft, old light of the bedroom, standing and staring at the blonde pecan wood wardrobe, eyes distant and vacant, when Scully came in. Standing and staring and his eyes were focused somewhere, on something neither she nor anyone else could see. "Hey." She spoke plainly, coming into the room, to give him time to reacclimate to her voice. Mulder spun, disoriented. His face was sad and heavy and Scully's own gut twisted in sympathy for what she saw. "I thought you had a dinner to go to?" "I did. I went. It was. . .awkward. I ducked out and left them all discussing the antics of my nephews." A lie. But not a blatant one. She had been uncomfortable but not enough to leave. Mulder made a good excuse for leaving there. Now her awkwardness made a good excuse to him for coming here. "Oh." His voice was soft and skittery. "There's not much to see, I'm afraid." Scully nodded. "She had excellent tastes." Mulder laughed. "She had excellent decorators." "You don't know that." Scully defended, trying to find something positive about the dominatrix. Mulder turned to the wardrobe and opened it. She could not see his face, only see the tense set of his shoulders. Scully again wondered at his reactions to all this. But she did not ask. She did not want to know this, that he played any of these games. Knowing his personality, knowing his type, she imagined he did play them, but his sex life was nonexistent, so he did not play them often. Not now anyway. This wardrobe was not opened when a Slave was here. This wardrobe held props. Tanny chose the props before her supplicants arrived. Chose and put them carefully in casual places, handy when needed. The feel of a vibrator inside your anus. The smooth texture of a plastic cuff. The smooth leather hooking into cock straps. It fitted like a string bikini. Leather fitted between the firm clefts of bottom. In front, a small pouch held his balls. a strap encircled his cock at the base, and when he moved the constant chafe kept him erect, unable to relax. Unable to release the frustration until Tanny would so say. Straps tight above his hips, coming down across his flat belly. He strode into the living room, nervous, ridiculous. "You are beautiful." Tanny's voice. Purring as he came to her, dressed. "You are so beautiful." His blush. His fiery blush as her eyes slid across his body, admiring the move and the curve and the size, admiring the separation of two perfectly formed halves of buttock. He'd stood, cold, chillbumps rising on all his skin. Kept his hands at his side. Well-trained slaves do not move when they are admired. "Beautiful." Tanny's eyes slanted as her dusky voice cherished her prize. "You do know you are beautiful, don't you?" Mulder bit his lip. Oh God. How could she do this? "You have big dark eyes, you have a beautiful face. A full mouth. Your body is lithe and strong. Close your eyes and think about this." Mulder closed his eyes, nervous. "No." Tanny's voice was close to him. Sharp, angry. "No. Do exactly as I say. Think about what you are. Who you are. Your body is beautiful and smooth and firm. You have a kind and gentle face." Her fingers traced along his body, electric, intoxicating his senses. "No. Do not think all those things that you were taught. You are tall, your body is lissome, agile. You are a handsome man and there is no reason for shame. I would not have a slave like you unless he was beautiful." She withdrew from him a moment. "Go to the mirror and look at yourself. You are so beautiful. And all mine. All my little Secret." He walked to the mirror, expecting to see himself. Dark eyes. He stared at a stranger with dark eyes and a fulfilling pouty mouth. Strong streamlined body. Runner and swimmer. And the immense erection, the darkness of hair and the soft, hay brown of his genital pouch. The straps biting into his skin. This was a stranger. A new and delicate creature lately come from an erotic womb. "Turn. Turn." Tanny's voice. "Admire yourself. You are beautiful. Handsome. You taste like the richest of creams." He'd turned, head straining to see the broad shoulders, the perfect, firm bottom. Beautiful. He was Secret. Tanny's beautiful slave. Tanny pressed against him, hand coming to caress and spank. His cock pressed, rock hard, against her stomach. Beautiful. He was beautiful. He was a beautiful woman's pleasurous toy. The fact buried itself and insinuated itself in all the words and all the thoughts and all the confusion. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but that he was Tanny's beautiful Secret, who did her bidding. Nothing mattered but that she found pleasure in him, in his body. There was no room for Spooky here. Mulder bit back the sob, felt Scully's hand brush him, electric. He stared at her, looking at her, startled, terrified, a rabbit caught in bright, electric headlights. Not knowing which way to turn. He rushed away from her, leaving the wardrobe open, leaving his footsteps loud against the wooden floors. He was on the front porch, staring at the long, mature lawn when she came out. Scully swallowed, not wanting to talk about what was happening, what she was seeing. "I'm going to make you an appointment for a counselor." Her voice sounded strained, even to herself. "I don't need another shrink." Mulder's voice was sharp as he clung to the railing. "The holidays are hard on a lot of people. You didn't go see your mother this Christmas, whatever plans you had, you obviously canceled for some reason or other. Your affect. . ." "Shut the fuck up about my affect!" His voice was unexpectedly savage. "I'm all right! I don't need anyone taking care of me!" He hated it even as he said it. "Oh God. I'm sorry, Scully." Scully buffeted the rage and the apology. Licked her lips. "What's wrong with you?" Quiet. Serious. "I. . .I can't. . .I can't talk about it." He hit his hand against the railing. "Why not?" "I. . .I don't. . ." Mulder took a deep breath. "I just can't." "Can you talk to a counselor? Could you talk to someone else? How about someone not in the Bureau?" "No. It's nothing. There's nothing. Nothing." "It's not just losing your father. Something else." Mulder stared at her. Wanting to tell her. But this was not about trust. "I'll be okay." Scully did not believe him, did not press. 7:30. Scully wasn't in yet. Mulder pressed his fingers around his pen, sharp angular script detailing his findings at the summer house. The sharp scratch of pressured ink against thin document paper. "Agent Mulder?" He looked up from his writing, stared at the figure of the SAC in charge of the task force. "Sir." Mulder began to rise. "No. Keep your seat." King gestured. Took a seat across from Mulder's own. Sat back. "In early. They say you were a blueflamer before the X-files." Mulder gave a half-smile. Get to the point. Am I getting reamed and how badly? "Agent Mulder, I. . .I just read your profile. Very complete, very well done. We know we're looking for a white male, intelligent, professional, in his 40's, dominating parents. We know the main focus is Tanny and that the others are only secondary. We know that he was probably abused as a child. Compulsive planner, overly neat. No medical experience, but a hunter. . ." King recited as though it were news to Mulder what the profile said. "Yes sir." "Do you think it would be possible to profile Tanneka's. . .clients?" "What. . .what do you mean?" Mulder asked, frowning. King took a deep breath, spit out between his teeth. "There is some concern at the highest levels, that the killer will. . .strike again. . .killing more highly placed members of government. We know that her. . .clients. . .aren't going to come forward voluntarily. If we can find them we provide protection." "I. . .I can." Mulder began, feeling his stomach churn. King nodded. "There is a need for. . .confidentiality on this. It is not to go into any database. You are not keep any copies for your own use. Do you understand, Agent Mulder?" Mulder nodded. "Sir, we know that someone in the FBI was one of Tanneka Bonet's. . .clients." King frowned. Nodded. "The CIA also suspects that some of their top level people could have been involved with her. . ." He sighed. "I have some suspicions, nothing scientific. . ." Mulder said. "If I went to. . .the most likely person, what could I offer him?" King considered this. "I don't know." He said honestly. "Are you sure?" Mulder shook his head. "I have suspicions. Nothing hard." King chewed his lip. "I recommend you go to Director Skinner." He finally told Mulder. "Skinner and Freeh. Do I want to know who you think it might be?" Mulder shook his head. "No. It's not. . not who a layman might think it would be." "It isn't Freeh?" King asked. Mulder smiled. "No. It isn't Freeh." Mulder frowned as his pen gave out. Fucking government cheap pens. . .he threw the ballpoint into the trash and reached up to his cup for another. And stopped, his fingers millimeters from the assorted writing utensils. A Fat, emerald green and gold Mont Blanc pen mingled with the utilitarian ballpoints and felt tips and pencils and erasers in the old coffee mug. He felt his heart thud and his mouth fill with a sour, plate metal taste as his shaking hand retreated. He stared at the fountain pen as though it were a snake, just stared at the dark heavy surface of pen, sitting innocently among the lambs. His breath came in short pants; his chest ached. Oh God. His fingers fumbled, cold and clumsy and he could not breath. Oh shit. Oh fucking shit, it hurt. He couldn't breath. An evidence glove in the drawer and an evidence bag. Oh fucking, fucking shit. Oh hell. His fingers trembled almost uncontrollably as he stared at the heavy pen. Black ink. Tanny always used black ink. And had a jeweler engr. . .TB. Mulder uncapped the pen with spasming fingers. TB in a delicate scrip. Oh God. He dumped the pen into an evidence bag, breath coming in rapid, puppy-like pants, face stinging and cold. His joints ached, were restless as he dumped the pen into his desk drawer. Tanny's pen. He could not swallow, could not breathe. Tanny's pen had been mixed among his own. In his office. Past security guards and locks and passcards and. . . And none of that mattered to this killer. None of it mattered at all. He could not breath, his chest hurt and ached and burned and the pain wa running up and down his arms. Clinically he knew that this was an anxiety attack. Emotionally he felt like he was going to die. Oh God. Mulder swallowed, wrapped his arms around his chest, cold. He was hunkered over his reports when Scully walked in. Hunkered was the only appropriate word. Protecting himself. His hand curled over a report. Sunflower seeds sat in a little pile and the small wastepaper basket was beside him. He'd eaten some, but wasn't eating any more. His eyes were on the paper and he was writing sharp little marks. Trying not to cry. Scully thought back, tried to figure out when all this emotional instability had started. . .Christmas Day? He'd been okay in Tanny's apartment. Distracted, but okay. . .wait. He'd said his Christmas plans had been canceled unexpectedly. "Hey." She concentrated on keeping her voice as normal as possible. Mulder looked up, gave her a smile that did not touch him, was no more than an animal baring its teeth in fear. "Hey." He said, also keeping his voice as normal as possible. Whatever had happened, it had happened at Christmas Eve and it was big. "Any new theories?" She did not need to say on which case. Mulder shook his head. "They want a profile of the clients. Want descriptions of the kind of men Tanneka might have had for customers." Scully nodded. She wanted to ask how he was feeling. She knew better than to ask. "Are you going to work on that all day?" "Probably. . ." Mulder paused. "I've got a ton of reports from the body to write." And she would be right here, able to watch and observe and keep the web of isolation from getting too thick. "Agent Scully." She answered the line, hoping it wasn't some half-witted paranoid who would only talk to "Agent Spooky." You had to wonder who the Lone Gunmen gave their names to sometimes. Really. "Agent Stine." A terse voice. "We got another one." From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 11:41:54 1996 Article: 22829 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 4/20 NC-17 Date: 13 Aug 1996 20:34:47 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 338 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ur6v7$205@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17 material. If you are under 18, do not read. If you are offended by B and D, do not read. Usual disclaimers still apply. Mistress 4/21 by Amperage The house was silent and warm and Mulder watched servants retreat from the presence of the FBI. John Tower had been a rich man. Rich and powerful. Senator Matheson knew him. He was in Matheson's district. He was not in government. He was just rich and powerful and influential. From what Mulder knew of him, he'd always been in control. The body was up in the bedroom, up a tall, graceful staircase. Mulder did not go up. Why? He knew what he would see. He could see into a formal room, see a woman with ash white hair, elegant in her pearls. She looked like his mother. He could see a younger woman sitting protectively beside the woman. He could see a young man in blue jeans and a rugby shirt. He could see a DC detective talking to them. They didn't know. About Tanny. They thought Dominatrix were for paraphiles. For people with something wrong with them. He wanted to come so bad. Wanted it and wanted it and Tanny would not give the word. Her possession. Her toy. He had no choices, no will. Staring at her, at her lips gathered around his mouth and the gentle teeth barely touching as she pulled and he moaned, bucking, barely able to stand the onslaught of pleasure. His hand were attached above his head, the sensation long since having left them. She released him. Left him with his cock long and hard and unbearable with excruciating agony. It was not fear of the lash that kept him from coming, although he knew that she would whip him hard for that. It was not fear. But Tanny had ordered him to wait. Wait and wait. And he was Secret. He did what Tanny said. He whimpered. Tanny stared at him, eyes dark and quiet. Her hands pushed a dollop of lubricant out of a bottle, into her hand, he watched in morbid curiosity as she slicked her fingers, pulled herself back up to a kneel, put her hands behind him. He felt the fingers parting and holding and kept his buttocks relaxed. Felt her finger as it entered, entered and twisted and then a second finger. Enough. She entered and caressed and put her mouth again to his tender, throbbing cock. Mulder began to cry and twist, trying to escape the pleasure, to escape the torment. Her free hand came down hard on his bottom. Hard and it was worse. Worse. Ten times worse as she fucked him and sucked him and her hand came down again and again against his bottom. Michael Tower stared at the dark haired man standing in the foyer. Another cop. His father was dead. The cops were everywhere and they couldn't even go see the body. His anger was irrational and pulsating and the cop was still standing there, staring at them as though they were zoo exhibits, as though Sarah and his mother and he were all there for the amusement of bored law enforcement agents. The cop in this room was speaking in long, bored tones, trying to pull information from his mother. Michael tried to pull his attention back to the room. But the cop was still there, in the foyer. He didn't know how it felt. Fuck him. He didn't know what it felt like, to get that call, that fucking sickening call and know that your father was dead. To come into the house and see all the uniforms and the cops and hear all the unfamiliar words and see the bags and the tape and the stretcher and then see your mother sitting there, sitting there quiet and retreated as though she were on a trip inside her own mind. What did the fuck did this cop know about pain anyway? He skirted the edges of other people's torment. He was a damn vampire, feeding on other people's pain. They were all damn fucking vampires. Without knowing it, he had taken long steps over to where the damn fucking asshole cop stood, staring. The cop's attention wasn't on Michael as he swung. "Agent Scully." Scully looked up from the body, from the meat thermometer and the careful examination of location and placement. A uniformed officer. "Agent Scully, they said you needed to come downstairs. Agent Mulder was just attacked." She was up instantly, stripping off her gloves, walking behind the officer, almost running in her low, serviceable heels. Mulder was sitting on the stairs, face pressed against a bannister. There was a uniformed young woman trying to get him to let her clean up the blood on his face. He wasn't responding. Scully knelt beside him, turned his face. "Ouch." She said casually, taking the washcloth from the police officer. Mulder smiled or tried to. There were tears in his face, on his cheeks. "What happened?" Scully began gently wiping. His eye was closing and there was a tear on the corner of his mouth that was bleeding profusely. "You need a couple of stitches." She observed. "Mr. Tower's son, ma'am." The woman told her, handing Scully some disinfectant. "Attacked him. Unprovoked. Just walked up and started swinging." "Such a positive affect you have on people. This is going to sting like hell." "Can't you put butterflies on it?" Mulder asked. Scully sighed. "Yeah. But I think it'll heal more cleanly with the stitches." She cleaned the laceration, accepted a thick piece of cotton and gauze and pressed and taped it against his mouth. Stared at his eye. The officer handed her a blue chemical pack. Scully twisted it, pressed the icy coldness against his face. Mulder accepted it, put his hand up to hold the pack to his face. Her focus broadened, watching Mulder accept it. He was so quiet, so fucking quiet. The kid, Mulder's attacker was yelling something about how the `fucking cop didn't know what his family was going through. Couldn't know.' Scully felt her stomach drop. Oh God, kid. If you only knew. "What's going on?" She asked quietly. Mulder shook his head. Closed the eye not already covered. Scully sighed. He needed to get the stitches put in. "Are there any loose teeth?" She asked, although Mulder would have let them know that. She hoped. He shook his head. The quiet, withdrawn way he was just accepting all this alarmed her. Scully pushed the bangs away from his face. "Okay. I've still got to play with the body. Is there anything here that you positively *must* see?" "I wanted his appointment book." Mulder whispered in the voice of a hurt child, shocked that anyone would hurt him for no good reason. "Can you accompany Agent Mulder, help him find the appointment book, talk to. . ." Scully glanced at the almost hysterical young man and rolled her eyes. "Talk to someone in the family and make sure they know we've got it." The woman glanced at the kid in the next room and smiled. "Sure." Scully nodded. "We'll go down to the doctor's office when this is over, get the stitches." Mulder winced. "Oh God. Not your friend Foster again." "What's wrong with Foster?" Scully asked, relieved that he was acting normally. Relieved? She was fucking ecstatic. "He stabs me with his needles like it's my fault you're a pathologist." Scully snorted, shot a look at the uniform. Any problems, anything. Get me. The woman nodded. She was still in the bedroom when Mulder wandered in. "I thought you were just going to find the appointment book." "I am." Mulder replied, evenly. "I found his official one. I need his personal book." His words were slurred by the obvious pain of speaking, of moving his mouth. "His wife thought it might be in here." He glanced at the body, at tangled and drying entrails. Felt his mouth go dry. The quiet face. The tang of blood that has dried. But it all seemed so far away from him, as though he were looking at everything through a tunnel. "What are you looking for?" He asked, words indistinct. "Placement. Tanneka was on her bed. He's on the floor. I think the killer let Tanneka get onto the bed. He didn't take the time with this one." Scully shrugged, measuring distances from doorways and table legs and beds and dressers. The bottoms of her shoes were red with clotting blood. Mulder avoided the heavy carpet on which Tower lay, went into the dressing room. Came back out with a small, red leather book that would easily fit into a breast pocket. Brass edges and gold filigree. "I'll be down in a couple of minutes." Scully said before barking a distance in centimeters to the uniform with the clipboard. Mulder nodded distractedly. Stared at the body a moment. Went back outside. "Agent Mulder." Skinner swallowed, staring at the figure who strode into his office. He'd heard about the black eye. It was worse than he'd heard. "Sir. I thought you might want this." Mulder's voice was slurry; someone listening to him over the phone might assume he was drunk. In person Skinner could see the stitches adorning the left side of his mouth. "Thank you." Skinner took the plain folder. "This is the profile of Tanneka Bonet's customers?" "Yes sir. But it's very incomplete. Judging from the things we found in both her homes, Ms. Bonet probably had several types of client." "King said you thought you knew who one of Ms. Bonet's customers might be." Mulder gave as much of a smile as he was able. "It was just a wild guess. Pure speculation." "You've never been afraid of chasing down a lead based on purest speculation in the past. Are you afraid of the name?" "No sir." Mulder swallowed. "But I'm not going to that person without being able to offer them some security." Skinner nodded. "Anonymity?" Mulder nodded. "Give me his name. I guarantee that it won't go further than myself and the director." Mulder stared at Skinner. Did not speak. Bullshit. All due respect, that is *such* bullshit. "Why are you so loyal to this person?" "I'm not about to have someone's career compromised on my guesses." "I see." Skinner was nodding at Mulder. His eyes bore into Mulder, questioning. It would be so easy to simply tell him. To breakdown and yell it, scream it. *I AM SECRET. TANNY WAS MY DOMINATRIX. I WAS HER SUPPLICANT.* He swallowed nervously. "Will that be all sir?" "Yes, Agent Mulder. That's all." His apartment was quiet. Cold. The fish swam in heated luxury, but they were the only ones. He threw his briefcase down onto an unsuspecting chair. Tried not to think about how late it was. He'd turned in the profile at 6:30. Gone back down to his office. Driven home. No wonder he was so fucking tired. Go to the bedroom, put his jacket and pants over the chair to go to the dry cleaners. Pull on some sweats. Fix supper. He was too tired to think about supper. Oh God. Oh God. He'd stood there in Skinner's office and nearly told the man everything. He moved from the kitchen, body protesting at any movement, protesting the perpetual lack of sleep and the tiredness and his bones ached now, a tired, sore ache that he knew was the result of being given lidocaine and then going back and working 8 hours. The door was locked and bolted. The windows, all the windows were locked. He checked the house, not sure what he was checking for, only knowing that he had to do so, that he had to be sure, because even once his mind knew that there was no one here, it would still jump and start and he would not be able to relax. He could not relax anywhere. Mulder finished, went back into the kitchen. His supper was rotating in the microwave, under the fragile yellow light. He leaned against a kitchen counter. Scully was worried about him. Scully had problems with his behavior. Oh fucking hell. He had to pull it together. Had to. Scully was close to discussing his behavior with Skinner. Skinner would do the expedient thing, which was to put in a recommend for mandatory counselling. That's what you do. CYA. Cover your ass. He'd wanted to tell Skinner. The microwave beeped at him. Supper. A small plastic tray covered with plastic film. Hot lasagna, the "hungry man's portion." Burned on the edges, cold in the middle. Thank God for Stouffer's. He let the food sit in steaming comfort while he contemplated cabinets and chair legs and the gloomy darkness. Even with his back to the cabinets he didn't feel safe. He had no choices, defenseless unless he wanted to tell the Bureau. (Oh yeah, tell them, tell them the truth. . .) Violation. "Come on." Tanny stared at him, expectantly, licking her lustrous red lips. "Come on." She took a handful of rose petals and tossed them into the clear, steaming water of the tub. He stared at the round tub filling with hot water and the scent of roses. Pulled off his Nikes and his socks, his Levis and the tight white t-shirt and shivered uncontrollably. Put one foot into the deep water, a hand on the warm, sweating, marble edge of the tub. Put his other foot deep into the tub. Knelt, sinking down into the recesses of the white marble, shot with grey iron. The hot water surrounded him. Tanny had a small blindfold in her hand, she tossed it to him. His hand came up, out of the water, caught it. "Put it on." Her voice dictated. He fingered the material. "Secret. Put on your blindfold." Tanny said, forcefully now. He watched her eyes run over him, read things, he could not know what. He swallowed, feeling his mouth dry and his stomach cramp. "I can't." He whispered. "Why not?" "Please don't make me. Please." He whispered, staring at the stiffened material, the heavy cloth. "Secret, come here." The force in her voice was gentle and sad but left no doubt what she planned. He moved forward, glided through the hot, steaming water until he was before her. She pulled him up until he was bent over the edge of the tub, staring at a wide marble counter and rolled bath towels. The feel of the back of the brush was harsh and familiar and good. She did not stint, not until he knew his bottom was a bright, protesting red and tears stood in his eyes. "Go back into the water." She ordered, voice aristolian liquid. He did so, feeling the hot water strike and soothe bruises. Feeling his cock, hard now, hard from pain and a beautiful woman named Tanny. "Put on the blindfold." Tanny ordered. His hands moved up and he slipped the blindfold over his face. Crying. Crying like a child. Over this. This that a child might do. The fear intensified. Tanny's hand was there, holding his, stroking his body. Reassuring him that she was still there, leaning over him, watching him. His cock withered in the terror that enveloped him. Her voice, but he could not make out words, only sounds and only the undercurrent of soft consolation. Sensations but he could not feel anything but the warm of water covering and surrounding him in this private, terrifying womb. Tanny stroked him, manipulated knotted flesh. Unyielding strength, forcing him. Her hand left him, he could no long feel strong, warm bones under a supple skin. He was alone. Alone. Alone. Tanny was there, but she was the only one. Tanny would say that he could take the blindfold off and everything would be all right. Panic rose in him, tightened his shoulders and his chest, charged through his shoulders and his arms, he could not breathe. Tanny was gone. Tanny was not speaking to him. No. Tanny was sitting above him. Tanny was gone. All alone. Tanny was going to stay. Tanny would take care of him. Tanny was there. You're all alone and there's no one else in the world. They're all gone but you, Fox. All gone but you. You're all alone. Everyone is gone. Alone. Because you were bad. You were evil. Everyone else is gone. You're never seeing Sam again. They're all dead. Dead. It's your fault, Fox. No. No. All his fault. Hands tore the blindfold off, hands pulled him to her. He could not move in the sudden, searing light that inundated fragile senses, flooded him until his thoughts shrivelled into brittle paper. Held him. He struggled, incoherent. Sobbing. Words, there were so many words, but they could not shape themselves. Words. Tanny hummed a lullaby, rocking him. His head against rough linen. Stroked his hair and his head and acknowledged the raw need. Safe. You're safe here. But he could not stop his crying, could not stop, would not stop. He clutched and held so that she would not go away. He did not want to be alone with his thoughts. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 11:42:03 1996 Article: 22833 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 5/20 NC-17 Date: 13 Aug 1996 20:45:10 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 341 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ur7im$27b@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17 material. If you are under the age of 18, go away. If the idea of bondage and discipline disturbs you, you might want to go away. Mistress 5/20 by Amperage "New lead." Scully's voice was dry as Mulder entered the office. "Good morning to you too." Mulder said casually, putting down his briefcase, taking off his trenchcoat. "And yes, thank you, I slept fine after I took some Advil." Fine? He'd kept starting awake, dreaming that the killer was in his apartment. That Tanny was lying beside him in the bed, gutted and cleaned and unmistakably dead. "A neighbor, a new neighbor, a Mrs. Geiger, saw a man slipping out of the Tower residence around 11:30 the night of the murder." Mulder frowned, shrugged. "That's too early, isn't it?" "It's right above the high end of my estimate, yes. But she could be mistaken as to time." "How did she time it?" Mulder asked, not even bothering to try and grab the file away from his partner. "Letterman was just coming on." Mulder gave her a stare. Thank God for Television. If a show was just coming on or just going off you knew the time within a minute or two. Scully sighed. "Anyway, our guy's too good to be seen by a neighbor. I bet Tower had a male lover." "The investigation team asked Tower's daughter that. She was rather indignant." Mulder grinned. "I bet she was. I bet she still denies that her father used to play sexual games with a woman named Tanneka Bonet too. She's a devoted daughter. Like you were." Finally she would let him have the folder. "Ask someone else. His wife, for example. In private." "What's that supposed to me?" Scully's voice was sharp, even as she let him have the folder. Ouch. "You know what it means. You were a daddy's girl." Mulder found his reading glasses in a pocket and put them on. Then threw them down. He only had one working eye, after all. "Nothing bad about it, unless you let it blind you to flaws in his nature. . ." He read through the report. "Just some poor little fellow, turning tricks with Tower. . ." Mulder sighed. "You don't like him because he doesn't fit the profile." Scully's voice was teasing, but also a little hurt. Mulder looked up. "I'm sorry about that crack. I didn't mean. . ." "I know what you meant. And I'm not really upset." Scully replied. "You look like hell. How do you feel?" "I'll be okay once the swelling goes down." "It should start doing that today. I'm surprised it didn't happen last night." Yeah well, you run into a cabinet knob at 3 a.m. chasing ghosts around your apartment while leveling your Sig-Sauer at imaginary men and the swelling in your eye just doesn't go down as fast. Mulder shrugged. "Do you think the. . .male prostitute. . .knew Tanneka Bonet?" Mulder shrugged again. "I doubt it. It doesn't feel like her style." He closed his good eye, thought a moment. Remembered Tanny dressed in a short black slip that barely covered her cunny, with black stockings and black silk garters. Dancing, her perfect figure sinuous and erotic, voluptuous. Laughing as her hair shone and spun behind her, a perfect veil to break the honey bright light. She glowed like the chimera of gold. "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree. Where Aelph the Sacred River ran in caverns measureless to man." Her voice had rolled across the searing, lovely words, Oh, it hurt so much. A quiet day, intentionally so. Doing reports, letting other agents chase down their leads. Sometimes, Scully forgot that she was a G-12 and that Mulder was a G-14. She forgot that if someone just read their rank the automatic assumption would be that they were both successes in their chosen field. She forgot that on a case outside the X-files there would be grunts to do the busy work. "Agent Mulder?" The voice was young and nervous. Scully looked up from her comparison of autopsy reports. "Hmm?" Mulder pulled himself out of a file, peered around the glass divider. A page came into the office, laden with a bouquet of blood red roses and shasta daisies. "This arrived for you." The kid handed it off, happy to be ridding himself of the load. Looking around, getting a good eyeful and the infamous den of the elusive Spooky Mulder. Mulder took the roses, face turning pale, watching the kid leave. Okay, Scully blinked. Nice bouquet. "Who're they from?" She asked, smiling. "Nobody. There's no note." Mulder said distractedly, setting it down on a counter, one of his hands snaked out and stroked a half-opened rose. Stroked it as though it were a man's penis, as though it would respond to his ministrations with pleasure. His eyes were distant. Far distant. Scully blinked, narrowed her eyes. Listened to him breath. Mulder closed his eyes, wrapped his free hand around his chest. His face was white. "Come on." She took him by the elbows, pulled him away from the counter. Mulder did not resist. "Come on. You're hyperventilating. Mulder. Take deep breaths. Come on. Take a deep breath and then let it out slowly." Mulder collapsed into a chair but did not listen to her. His breath came in puffs and spurts and he was trembling. "You're going to faint if you don't stop that." Scully made her voice harsh and firm. A doctor's condescending voice. "Now stop that and start breathing slowly." She plucked his wrist between fingers and took a pulse. 120. "Come on. You don't have any choice. Just calm down. Calm down." Soothing now. Placative. "Mulder, I'm going to breathe with you. You've got to breathe with me." "I'm okay." He forced trembling words into his mouth. "I'm okay. I'm okay." "No. You're not. You're having problems. It looks like an anxiety attack. Is that what it is or do I need to call an ambulance?" Mulder gave a brief nod. "Come on." She took a cold, tense hand in hers, began rubbing it, massaging the smoothness. Oh fuck, Mulder. Oh fuck, what's happening to you? "I'd like him to be placed in mandatory counselling." Scully finished, staring not at Skinner but at the pen set on the front of his desk. Skinner was simply staring at blank space, listening to her rendition of the past 4 days. "Is he able to do his work?" He asked suddenly. "As far as I'm aware." Scully replied. Skinner nodded. "He cannot afford to screw this case up, you know that?" Scully nodded. "I think that's okay. I don't think he's having any problems there. I think this is a personal problem possibly associated with the stress of the holidays." Skinner sighed. "How much assistance will mandatory therapy be to Agent Mulder?" "I don't know." Scully admitted. "But he won't talk to me and his behavior is beginning to frighten me." Skinner considered this. "Agent Mulder may know the identity of Tanneka Bonet's FBI client." He said flatly. Scully blinked, surprised. "He came in here aching to tell me, but he didn't. I wish I knew who. It isn't myself or the Director. Other than that I have no idea. Every damn director in the FBI fits his profile to a T. Hell, half the SACS and ASACs fit it too." Skinner considered the form lying on top of Mulder's personnel file. Signed his name to it. Scribbled something in sharp, angular print. The roses and the daisies were gone. Mulder remembered the feel on his skin, remembered Tanny's rooms overflowing with roses and daisies. Blood red bright roses, symbols of her trade. Tanny's bouquet. He knew Scully was up in Skinner's office. He knew Skinner was signing the form she would have brought with her. He knew he would be forced in the next couple of days to go to a therapist. He did not know what to say to a therapist. He got his coat, scribbled a note to Scully. Usually he wouldn't have left the note, but now, right now, he knew she would be on edge, worried about him. She'd just gone to sign him up for day camp at Club Psych after all. He didn't know where he was going, what he was going to do. But he had to do something. He could not stay here. He could not stand for her to come back from her little meeting with Skinner, for her to come in and talk to him, to tell him in a soft, placid little voice that he had to go into therapy because he needed some help dealing with whatever-it-was. That Skinner had already signed the papers and she had a friend in psych services who'd agreed to see him tomorrow morning, bright and early. . . He could not stand that at all. There was Tanny's house. Tanny's quiet house populated with silent, uncomfortable ghosts. Tanny's house and his latex gloves and touching the smooth, cool roundness of heavy globes, swirls and patterns, globules of color trapped inside, suggesting beautiful patterns. Maker's marks trapped on the underside. Some were very old. He was halfway out the building, walking fast, walking steady when he heard her feet. Don't turn around. Don't listen. Ignore it. Ignore her. Mulder thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat. Burberry. 499.95, on sale. Lined with thinsulate, then with wool. Treated on the outside to shed water. Warm and light and goodly scratchy. "Mulder. I'm going with you." Her breathy, scratchy with running. Panting. He did not slow his pace. He did not stop. He did not acknowledge the figure puffing beside him. At the car he stopped. Held out a hand. Scully stared at him, puzzled. "I know Skinner signed." Mulder said. "Is that what this is about?" Scully asked, reaching into an inside pocket the lined the outer pocket where she kept her gloves and tissue. A sheet of paper folded twice. The carbon. Thin and Yellow. The third carbon for the intended patient. The original went to records, first copy to the signer, second copy to psych services. Third copy to him. Only Scully would have a copy too. Mulder didn't know where she would have gotten her copy. Probably a Xerox of Skinner's. "I'm sorry I had to do that. I told you what I was going to do." "I know." Mulder opened the sheet. All very civil and polite. If he didn't show up for the session the next message would be more bluntly phrased. Right now they were all smiling and asking "pretty please." Dr. Rose Crane. "She's not the one you used." He said bluntly. Scully stared at him, silently asking how he knew she had used a therapist. Mulder stared back, blank faced. "She's. . . knows her. She's a clinical psychologist. She's very good." "She sees the crack-ups, the ones they want to give a waiver to." Scully paused, closed her eyes. "You don't know who she is." "I know the type." "Then you know why you're going to Crane and not someone else." "Because it's not voluntary and I have a bad history with staff shrinks?" "Yes." No denying it. "Mulder, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to do this." "You're *not* sorry." It was a snarl. Mulder stared at her coldly. "You are *not* sorry." He whirled, hating the sound of his voice, clenching and unclenching his leather gloved fists. Staring across the parking garage at concrete walls. At directions telling government employees how to go up and down, how to get in and out. Where to go in case of fire or other emergency. "Yes. Yes, I am. I didn't want to. I honestly didn't want to. But you're falling apart in front of me. And I can't let you do that. I can't." "Shut up!" The words were out there, in the air between them and Mulder did not know where they had come from. He had no idea who had yelled them. Oh he knew, but he could not believe it. They were not his. He would not claim them. He turned to the door handle, put a hand on the latch. "Where do you want to go?" She asked. Mulder stared at her, saw that her face was sharp and white and that yes, this what hurting her like fuck too. "I'm. . ." He did not know where he was going. "I'm going to talk to Tower's widow." "Oh. Why?" "Social call," Mulder replied, swallowing any trace of a anger or fear. "Let me drive." "I'm not on any kind of restriction?" He asked, glancing at her. Scully opened her mouth to answer and then saw Mulder's questioning face. His hand was off the Taurus latch. "No," she said quietly. Sick to her stomach. "No. No restrictions. Just go see Dr. Crane tomorrow at 9 a.m. and do what she tells you to." "You're the young man Michael hit," Mrs. Tower stared at his face curiously. Mulder gave a half-smile. As much of one as he could. They were sitting in the front parlor, staring at a roaring fire. "How are you feeling?" "I'm fine," he lied facily. "I'm sorry for Michael's actions. It's just. . .it hit him so hard, and then seeing all the police in here. . .people don't know what it feels like. . ." Mulder bit his tongue. Let the old biddy ramble on. Of course he knew what it felt like. People don't think. When a tragedy happens it happens to you and to you only. It wrapped people up inside themselves and they forgot that the faceless men with their badges were human. That they had families who were not exempt from tragedy. That bad things happen to everyone. It is, for some reason, much easier, much more comforting, to believe that you are the only one. That no one else in the world has ever been hurt like you are hurt. That it has never happened before and will never happen again. That it certainly didn't happen to the people you look at on the street. And most certainly to the police who were sent out to the scene of a crime. But that was untrue. Completely and unequivocally not true. He focused in on her words as the extended, self-pitying apology wore to a close. "I need to ask you some questions about your husband." He said in a soft, reassuring voice. "You're going to ask me if he visited the dominatrix, the woman who was just killed?" Mulder did not deny it. "I used to think. . ." She sighed. "I knew he had affairs. He had a few. I had a few." She fixed her eyes first on Scully then on Mulder, daring them to condemn her. "We. . .I still loved him. He still loved me. But it gets. . .it's like it's a straight jacket, being perfect, being everything they tell you to be. It's. . .sometimes you just want to scream and scream and scream. I would go out and there would be the current piece of manflesh, all muscles and good looks and willing to have sex all night and I wasn't Mrs. Robert Tower. I wasn't the good mother and the good wife, the socialite's socialite, good works with the Junior Leaguers. . ." She sighed. "I was someone else." She paused as a housekeeper came into the room laden with a coffee service. Mulder took a large, delicate, porcelain cup and saucer. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm telling you this. I suppose you're wondering what happened to the nice matron you saw yesterday with her children." Mrs. Tower sipped her coffee a moment. "But I know Robert saw Tanneka Bonet. I didn't know her name, but I knew he was seeing someone who left welts on his bottom. . .I knew she existed, and it didn't bother me. And I'm tired of being the matron you saw yesterday." Her eyes closed and a few tears trickled down the sides of her face. "I don't care if it gets out. I'm not staying here anymore. My sister lives in Palo Alto. She wants me come out there. We'll go shopping and waste tons of money. We'll travel. With Robert we could only go on the nice trips of Europe and the Orient. We could only do what people in our set do." Her voice was bitter. "I loved him so much. But I'm so tired. I'm so tired." Mulder exchanged a glance with Scully. But his heart ached to talk to this woman truthfully, to tell her she was not alone. That he understood. Everything. "There is the report of someone leaving your home around 11:30." Scully began in soft, confidential tones. "We asked your daughter if . . ." "Kathy doesn't know anything about us. To us we're her Momma and her Dadda." Mrs. Tower sighed. "It was Luke." "Luke?" "This sweet young man. Robert's play buddy. They fucked each other. He came in to see me before he left. He's a very sweet young man. Very cute." Mrs. Tower waved it away. "Katherine thinks she was conceived by immaculate conception. She can't even imagine us having sex with each other, much less with people outside the marriage bed." "Are you sure your husband was alive at 11:30?" "Quite sure. I went across the hall and teased him about Luke leaving so early." Mrs. Tower sighed. "The best thing about money is that even when your own body sags, you can still afford to stroke firm, hard flesh. I would like for you to protect the truth from my children, they're so innocent and arrogant. But if it comes down to their protection or putting away the killer, I want you to know, that our sex secrets are unimportant." Her voice was steady and firm and granite. "I don't care. Just catch the fucking killer and fry him." From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 11:42:03 1996 Article: 22834 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 6/20 NC-17 Date: 13 Aug 1996 20:45:12 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 335 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ur7io$27d@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17, tres' disturbing stuff. If you are underage, or don't want to be disturbed, back out NOW. Usual disclaimers. Mistress 6/20 by Amperage "Agent Mulder." Her grip was firm. Bright violet eyes, tall and thin. She was not overly pretty, but neither was she ugly. Plain. "Come on in. Have a seat." A tiny little office. Just enough room for her desk and for two comfortable chairs. Mulder sat, staring at the stacked paperwork lining her desk. "I understand you're a psychologist yourself." "Yes." She was trying to be polite. A nod. "And that this is mandated counselling, initiated by your partner, Dr. Dana Scully." "Yes." "I've spoken with Dr. Scully and with Director Skinner. They both feel that you're going to be a difficult client." Mulder shrugged his shoulders. Crane looked down at the sheaf of papers on her desk. "Agent Scully reports that you've had an anxiety attack or two. . .that your behavior is erratic. Depressed. Is that correct?" Mulder swallowed. Nodded. He could see some relief, some guarded relief in Crane's posture. He admitted to problems. One thing she did not have to fight. "But you refuse to talk about what's causing it. It started at Christmas. Christmas Eve?" She looked up, blinked. Wanting Mulder to confirm or deny. Mulder did neither. "Do you want to talk about what's going on?" She asked simply "No." "If I try to draw you out is this only going to turn into a game playing session, with you proving that you're smarter and better educated than I am?" Mulder swallowed. Stared at her. "Yes." He admitted. "I don't have time to waste. I'm overworked and underpaid. There are a lot of people who want to talk to me, who need to talk to me. I don't have time for games." Crane said, staring at him levelly. "I rearranged my schedule to see you." "I'm sorry. I don't want to be here." "And yet. Here you are." Crane sighed. "You know I can't talk about whatever you tell me." "I know." "But you won't talk about it?" Mulder swallowed. Tell her. Just tell her and get it out of your way. She can't talk. She can't tell. She *can* however, recommend that you be taken off this case. That's what you'd do if you were in her shoes. She can make you take a leave of absence. You know that's what she *should* do. "I can't." He whispered, slipping past one or two strands on the shining web that surrounded him and held him. A bug in a spider's web, that's what he was. In storage until the spider came sliding down the wire, ready to suck the blood right out of him. Crane's posture softened. "Is it something work related?" Mulder sighed, closed his eyes. "Can't you just send me to a psychiatrist, get me something, some drugs or something, to make it through this case. I don't care. I honestly don't care." Crane swallowed, cold. "What's happened?" She asked softly. Mulder opened his eyes and threw the veil between them again. Stared at her cocksure, arrogant. A look he used to piss women off, a look that said "I'm hotshit because I have a cock and you don't." Crane did not blink. Her expression did not change. "Your partner seems to think you're depressed. Are you?" The word no was on his lips but he did not say it. It was a lie and Crane knew it was a lie, she just wanted to know if there was any openness any receptiveness. Mulder swallowed. "Yes." He replied. "How depressed?" "Just depressed." Mulder shrugged. "A lot of people suffer from seasonal depression. You've been through a lot recently. Your father died, you nearly died, your partner's sister died. There's good reason for you to. . ." "Shut up!" The outburst was unexpected from both parties. "I'm okay. It isn't that. Stop thinking it's that. It isn't that!" He was aware as he yelled it that he was not yelling so much at Crane as he was at Scully. Scully who was not in this room, but whose influence had put him here. Crane was staring at him, vaguely stunned by his outburst. But not upset. A great many outbursts had echoed off these papered walls. A great many FBI agents had yelled here. And cried here. "And you won't talk about what it is?" Crane asked, not really expecting an answer. Mulder swallowed. "What are you so afraid of telling me?" Her voice was soft and lulling and confidential. He closed his eyes. Felt his body trembling. Oh God, he could not cry here. "I would really like to know what's going on." More of the softness. He was drowsy, had taken a nap and now Tanny's hands, playing with his cock and with his balls had brought him into some kind of awareness. He was not awake, not conscious, not in control. But he was in an odd way aware of the strong fingers along his growing length of the pulling of his sac. He knew her fingers were digging into the fold along his bottom. He knew that she was lying with her head on his chest. Her hair smelt sweet and her body was soft. He knew that, and he knew she was there. No thoughts. Tanny was simply there, urging his body on in animal sensation. "Would you like some Kleenex?" Crane's voice was gentle. Razor edged, deadly with softness. Deep breath and hold it until you think you'll burst. Then let it out slowly through your nose. "No. I'm okay." Mulder pinched his legs cruelly, letting the pain, the small bruises that would bloom on the outside of his thigh, cauterize the pain inside him. "I'm fine." Pinch, pinch, pinch. "Nothing's happened. I'm fine." Crane was staring at him. Bullshit. Fucking bullshit. Something terrible has happened to you and I want to know what it is. I want to know, because you're acting really hurt right now. Mulder gave her his best arrogant, fuckyou look. "How long do I have to stay here?" He asked. "Why? So you can go to the bathroom and cry?" That was exactly why he wanted know. Mulder was unaware how like a 15 year old he looked as he rolled his eyes and manipulated his face and body into an "oh puhleeeasse" look and posture. "We have about 4 more minutes. I'm going to schedule 20 minute sessions twice a week." Crane scribbled something on a card. "I've already given Agent Scully this." She handed the card to Mulder. "The front is my business card. The back has my personal number. Did you know I saw your file a little over a year ago and again in May?" Mulder blinked. "After Scully disappeared and then when I attacked Skinner?" Crane nodded. "Director Skinner had it handed to me for a purview. Your behavior wasn't any more. . .disturbing at those junctures, I wouldn't say. But we had reasons for those. If this is a reaction to some significant stressor, I can write up something and you can just come in if you have significant problems like more anxiety attacks." Mulder smiled. Nice try, bitch. "Okay. I believe the secretary set you up for Tuesday. Now you can go to the bathroom and bawl your eyes out." Bitch. He had been quiet all day, since coming in from his meeting with Crane. Quiet and working on things that had nothing to do with what was increasingly being referred to as the "Dominatrix Murders." "Big plans for the weekend?" Scully asked at 5:30, watching as the modem uploaded her opinion on an autopsy report to a Sheriff's department in Alabama. Mulder gave a half-smile, shrugged. It was unlike him. "I'll probably do some work up here on Saturday." "You going out?" He shook his head. No need to ask why. She could see that he simply didn't feel like it. "You know that if you need me, you can call. Anytime." "I'm not going to take a walk off my roof. I promise." Mulder replied, flashing what he could of a real smile. "I know. But you might get lonely." "I won't." A sigh. Scully stared at him. "Why don't you come over tonight? We'll order pizza." Mulder shook his head. "Thanks. I'd rather not." It was exasperating. "I'm going to call around 8." She was treating him like he was fragile, like he needed special handling. Mulder knew he should be angry, but he couldn't find the energy for anger. It was as though the colors had run on a painting and all that was left was a washed-out version of what had been. He just wanted to curl up somewhere and be alone. Faded and about as thick as a china cup. He did not have the strength to even be upset at Scully's overconcern. "Are you sure you don't want to come over?" "No thanks. It's a nice offer though." Scully sighed. She'd hated his anger and his flare ups, but anything seemed better than the dead way he'd moved all day, as though going to see the therapist had drawn the life from him and all that was left was an empty husk. He was quiet and withdrawn and she knew he'd cried twice during the day, just gone out and come back with puffy red eyes. It hurt to see Mulder like this and to know that she wasn't trusted. "Who owns you?" Tanny's whisper, warm and wet. "You. . .you do. . ." "And can I do whatever I want to you?" It was a dangerous purr. He closed his eyes, looked at the floor. "You're my mistress." "Does the mistress always know what is best for her slave?" "Yes." Hesitant. Nervous. "Put this in your hands. Remember that I am your mistress. Get on the bed and hold the rail." He felt the thrill of fear, listening to the soft rustled behind his vision. Fingers clenching and unclenching around the bar. He arched his back as the strop fell across the rounded halves of his bottom. Arched his back and cried out, howling at the pain that issued in electric currents. He could not think of anything, nothing. No thoughts, no reasons, only the sharp, sharp biting, charge of the strop as it fell. He held the anal plug that she had given him. fingers squashing the deep red rubber that would soon force its way into his anal passage. The stropping stopped. For a moment, he could not understand that it had stopped. His mind, lodged into a place where the leather meeting flesh in a caliphony of pain and desire could not touch him, refused to acknowledge. For a moment his mouth was still filled with the awful tang of metal. "Are you my Secret?" There was a purr of love in the words. "Yesssss!" He could not help but cry. He felt Tanny's fingers draw his hands from round wooden knewls, felt her hands push him down. He fell onto a cushion of pillows, penis pressing against embroidery and summer white drawn irish lace. Drawing into his mouth the odor of thick cotton sheets dried in cracking summer light. The anal plug taken from his hand and the feel of cold lubricant against his rectum. Visceral, preternatural, incorporeal, ecclesiastical pain. Pain without meaning or motion. The round curve of a man's bottom. The vulnerable touch and crawl of his skin. To be tortured without cause. Exposed. Unprotected. Defenseless. Without defenses or recourse. Quiet the feel and the plug stretching, straining. Silent her movements and the heat emanating from tortured flesh consumed his thoughts. In the half-darkness of a summer's evening she worked without sound, punishing his body. His mind delighted and revelled in the agony. His soul took consolation in the appeasement of corporeal submission. The pain mingled with the mouth of lustful desire. Secret. Owned by Tanneka. He was Secret. "Hi Mulder. Just calling to see if you're all right. I said I'd call about now. Call me back." Scully's voice. Careful and precise and uneasy. Mulder stared at the answering machine as the message was created and the small wheels of the microcassette recorded her concern. He thought about picking up the phone, shaping his hands around the smooth black surface of cordless. But he did not move. He did not move, fingers clutching a cheap pair of chopsticks, fried rice clinging to tiny strands of loose wood. Mulder made no move, listening to the calm logic of one of the sane. His feet ached from the jog he had taken. The jog which had pumped his adrenalin, which had taken away aches and given him hunger where there had been none. 8 miles, then 10, finally 12 The pit of despondency had lifted for a moment, even though the smooth, razor core remained untouched. Enough that he could eat. The red light of the machine flashed once. Blinked against the smooth surface of open blind. He wanted to roll against the back of his couch and simply hold his body close, staring at nothing. He had felt okay, not great, but okay until this moment, until Scully's voice invaded the quiet cocoon. But the box of fried rice kept him sitting upright in the dark shadows of night. He could not put it down, his fingers, his hands, his arms would not make the fluid motion and set the paper cup elsewhere. He could not make any move that might be calm. Not without breaking some ancient, inviolatile code a shaman from another age was wiring through his body. The square paper was warm and grease made soft what his hand held. Inside bits of pork and vegetable dotted the beige bits of starch. Warm and the smell had been good, he had wanted this after his jog. The smell had made his stomach growl in desire. The smell would make him vomit if he held it any longer. The box hit a picture and fell from there. When the small box hit the floor it tumped to one side and rice spilled onto the floor, a small bright flood. Mulder thought about kicking the coffee table away from him, thought about going into the bathroom and finding his razor and tearing apart skin on his body, thought about finding some visceral pain to calm the seething, raging, shaking misery that had sprung up at the lucid sound of Scully's voice. He realized that the thought should frighten him. But it did not. He could see the blood and his skin parting as the bright red blood trickled from a spot of sharp, vibrant pain. It would drip warm then cold and he could release deep breaths in his body and everything would be all right. He could call Scully and tell her everything was all right. He could call Scully and laugh at her worry and her overprotective nature and when he went and saw Dr. Rose Crane she would wonder that he had ever yelled at anyone. That he had ever looked so unstable. He found the strength somewhere, strength he hadn't quite known was there, and curled his body around itself, hands tucked deep into the center, pressed against his penis, which was just a flaccid instrument for dispelling urine from his body, after all. Curled his body deep and tried to breathe, to hold on. To wait. "Hi." Mulder's voice still slurry with stitches. Scully took a deep breath of relief. "Where were you? I called and. . ." "First I went jogging and then I got hung up at the Chinese take-out. . .they had a new kid working there, he mixed up my order. And then I didn't check my machine." Mulder's voice was tolerant, bemused. "You got Chinese?" "Yeah. General Tso's chicken." "Which place?" "Jesus Chinese." "Which tract did they give you?" "The one on fornication. I always get that one. I think someone's tipped them off to my porn collection. . .why do I keep going there?" "They're cheap and good and the owner always slips you extra eggrolls because you work for the FBI." Scully relaxed against her couch. "I'm going to come in tomorrow." "Why, because I am?" "Well, that and the fact that I'm behind on regular work because of all the Tanny stuff." "As your supervisor and official boss I hereby give you an extension on all of it." "Thanks, but you never have set a deadline in the 3 years we've been working together." "Well. . ." Mulder sighed patiently. "There is that. I could start." "Oh right." Scully chuckled. "When you start filling out my evaluation reports instead of chucking them over to me." "I delegate. I don't need a handholder. I'm fine." "No handholding. You get the full dinner or the half dinner?" "I paid for the half, but they gave me the full." "Bring the leftovers and I'll bring some guacamole and chips." "Internationale." "Ole." "Listen, I've got *The Day the Earth Caught Fire* in my VCR. Let me let you go." "All right. See you tomorrow." Mulder hung up the phone and stared at the gash across his bare thigh and shivered at the crossed line. Felt fear in his mouth. Oh God, Tanny. Oh God. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 11:42:03 1996 Article: 22831 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 7/20 NC-17 Date: 13 Aug 1996 20:36:06 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 332 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ur71m$210@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17 Material. Do not read if you are underage! Usual disclaimers apply. Mistress 7/20 by Amperage "Agent Mulder?" He blinked at the soft, husky voice. It was nearly Tanny's voice. "Yes?" "This is Marina Sullivan. I'm Tan's cousin. The police said that I should call the FBI for information and the switchboard said you were the only member of the taskforce working today." "Oh. Listen, Ms. Sullivan. . ." "Mrs." "Mrs. Sullivan, can I have your number and I'll call you back to save on your long distance bill." Mulder replied. "I don't think that's necessary." "Well, I'd really like to speak with you and. . ." "Are you suffering from a hangover?" "No ma'am." His mouth hurt suddenly. "I have stitches in my mouth." "Oh. Well it's not necessary. I'm at the DC Hilton." "Don't take your coat off." Mulder was drawing on his own winter trench the moment Scully entered the room. She frowned. "What?" "Tanneka Bonet's cousin has arrived; she's at the Hilton." "And this is important to us?" "There are a lot of things I don't know about that woman. If the killer had a special attraction to Tanneka, I want to know about her life." Blonde hair in a soft, gentle pile atop an aristocratic head. A perfect posture. Long, thin fingers, shaped around a spoon. In his mind, Mulder could hear the soft dusky voice, urging him on, forcing him to do, making him bear, tripping his secrets from him. "Mrs. Sullivan?" The woman looked up. Tanneka's body, Tanneka's face. Tanneka without benefit of makeup or her beautiful exotic clothes. Tanneka with wrinkles around her mouth and eyes that Tanneka never allowed herself to get. "Mrs. Sullivan, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder and this is my partner Dana Scully." He opened his badge for her. Keen eyes inspected the stitches along his mouth as though searching for trickery. This was not Tanny. This was not Tanny. His breath was hot in his nose. "Please, have a seat." A soft voice, not Tanny's. Oh not Tanny's, but something in the gentle inflection was something in Tanny's velvet. Tanny. This woman was not Tanny nor would she ever be. But she was alive and walking and breathing and Tanneka Bonet was dead and always would be. Scully and the woman were exchanging pleasantries. So sorry about your loss, no that's all right, were you close. . . Were you close? Mrs. Sullivan stiffened at this question. Mulder sniffed at it, examined the nature and texture of her reticence. "Were you?" He asked softly. "When we were children, yes. We were." Mrs. Sullivan whispered. "And then there were those long years when Tan was gone. . .and then when. . .I guess she wanted to still be close, but I couldn't. . .not with her living in sin and depravity like that." "Gone?" Mulder seized the words. "Mrs. Sullivan, the FBI's records are rather. . .sketchy. Could you tell us about your cousin?" The small blonde woman with Tanny's large full breasts, and Tanny's doe soft mouth swallowed. "I guess I figured you'd just know." "No ma'am." "We allay's played together. Our houses were across an alley from each other." A sigh. "Tan's Momma died. That was my momma's sister. Her daddy wasn't really a good Christian man. He was. . .mean. He used to belt her for everything. Anything. When he was gone or drunk, or asleep, she'd sneak over and Momma would put salve on her and feed her." Her eyes closed. Her voice was dusky and gentle, innocently sensuous. Grief and remembrance gathering in the dust. "When Tan was 14, she disappeared. Her dad, he said that she was in boarding school. But we knew better, because he didn't have the money for no boarding school he could afford and Tan wasn't a straight A student. When her momma was alive she was. . .I guess, her daddy was probably using her too." She added as an afterthought, glancing at Mulder and Scully, begging them not to say it aloud, to leave it at that. "Her father sexually abused her?" Scully asked gently. "He raped her." The voice was harsh and sharp and nasal. Tired. She sounded so fucking tired. "Over and over again. . .you'd think with that in her past she'd hate sex. You'd think `she. . ." a sigh. "What had happened to Tanneka?" Mulder asked softly. "He'd sold her. To this rich old geezer. Tanny told me that she went to live in an estate. As a slave. But she was special. Tan told me that he didn't touch her for two years after she was sold. No one touched her. She had a tutor and new clothes and her only duties were to read to him and help her master in his garden. Then he asked if she was ready to be a good slave and she said yes." A swallow. "There's more. . .I tried to talk to my pastor once, but he didn't understand. He was so. . .stupid about it. I used to think my pastor knew everything. When I tried to talk to him about Tan and he started calling her a fornicator and a devil woman and how evil she was. . .I think he was trying to convince himself she was evil. Not me. That's not what Tanny was. . .she was living in sin and she was doing evil, but it wasn't like she decided that was what she would do." "Her profession?" A nod, a soft sorrowful nod. Mulder felt his mouth go dry, staring at this woman, this woman who might have been his Tanny. He felt the urge to vomit and covered it, pinching his legs underneath the table cloth. "What happened after that?" Scully. Let Scully ask. "When she was 21, he let her go. . .she worked for a place for a while. She said she would go back to visit her old master sometimes. Stay for the weekend. . ." "Worked for a place?" Scully questioned, frowning. "You know. Like what she did. But she did both things." "Sadism and Maschoism?" Mrs. Sullivan nodded. "And after that?" "He died a year and a half later. In a plane crash. He left her good money and a letter. That's what Tan said. Letter told her who to call and she could be a dominatrix. The highest paid dominatrix in the city." "Do you know the name of. . .of her owner?" Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. "Tan never said." Oh God. The list. Who to call. Had *his* name been on that list? The list. She'd had a list. Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, opened them. Her eyes were wildcat green. "She didn't contact me until Elise was born." "Elise?" "My daughter. Elise has Spina Bifida. Tan called me then. . .I was so unhappy to know what she. . .Tan sent money every month. Wired it to an account in Elise's name. My husband didn't want to take the money, because it's sinful money. But we did. Because it was the only way we could get good treatment for Elise. The state gives her some, but not enough. That's when she called. She'd been watching out for me. But she hadn't ever called, because she knew I was a good strong Christian woman, and she knew I would be ashamed. . .I felt so sad when I heard that. Every letter I sent I tried to get her to turn from Evil and repent. I know that she didn't even read most of them. . ." Tanny's eyes closed and tears rolled down the careworn, lovely face. "She was my cousin. She was my best friend. I didn't care." Soft sobs and tears. Weeping and a man's handkerchief from a tiny leather purse. Mulder swallowed, felt his own sympathy. You couldn't ever do that. Let their world become your world. But it was his world. His legs stung with the weight of the pinching. Bruises. There were already bruises enough. He hated himself and he hated this woman with her Tanny face and her Tanny hair and her Tanny body. Hated her for being strong like Tanny. For being gentle, like Tanny. For telling him that his Tanny was scarred, that his Tanny. . .he hadn't wanted to know this. Oh God, of all the things he hadn't wanted to know, to see Tanny trapped under the weight of her father. . . His stomach and chest hurt. Mulder blinked at the woman with her blonde hair and her wildcat green eyes. He blinked away the image of a small frame home and a girl trapped inside. He blinked away the idea of Tanny's fragility and pain. The woman with her delicate face, with her calm acceptance of things too unbearable to name sat across from him. She and Scully were discussing names and birth certificates and people in Tanny's life and clue and hints and bank account numbers. Tanny's long fingers rested on the table. Oh God, what part of this woman was her father. If Tanny was this woman's cousin, they were only a quarter the same blood. So why did this woman have to fucking look so much like her cousin? Where were all those other genes? Blonde hair was recessive, even if green eyes weren't. And as Mulder well knew, recalling the moist heat of warm cunny burying his face alive, Tanneka Bonet's blonde hair was not man made. The breasts, the body, Mulder did not know what body types were recessive and which were dominant. Dominant? Everything about Tanneka Bonet had been dominant. "He asked her if she wanted to be a good slave and she said yes." He could not even whisper his apologies as he fled the table. "You okay?" Scully stared at her partner on the ride home, trying to analyze his tight, white face. "I'm fine." A fragile, careful voice. "What happened back there?" Mulder swallowed, made no response. "Do you think you might need to see a doctor?" "I am seeing a doctor. Don't you remember?" His voice was angry and sarcastic. "A medical doctor. A psychiatrist." "I'm okay. You've already roped me into Crane. Let her deal with it." Scully closed her eyes. "There are drugs that can help you deal with these anxiety attacks." "I didn't have an anxiety attack." "I see." Stop fucking lying to me. "Do you want to call Crane and ask about who you could go see or should I do it for you?" The question was innocently framed and innocuous. Will you call her and talk while I'm hovering in the background or will I have to call her? No real choice involved. Mulder pulled the Taurus off the street and into an alleyway. Shifted the car into park. "Fuck you. Fuck you! Stop controlling me. Stop telling me the fuck what to do. I'm okay. I'm okay. I don't need fucking nursemaids or therapists or shrinks prescribing drugs. I don't fucking need anything from anyone. You want me to talk and to tell you everything and just fuck you! Leave me the fuck alone, I'm not your child, I'm not your fucking charge. No one has fucking given you any papers assigning you as my conservator." He opened the door, began sliding out. "Mulder, what the hell are you. . ." Scully was stunned by his outburst, but not so stunned that she just sat there. "You can take the fucking car back to the Bureau. I'll walk." "We're in the worst part of D.C. You can't. . ." "Why the fuck can't I?" He snarled. They stood over the car, staring at one another across a glossy maroon surface. "You *don't* tell *me* what to do." Scully opened her mouth and closed it. Right now, right at this moment, what she had to do was to calm him down. What she had to do was to get him back into the car. Everything after that she could think of later. It wasn't about her winning. It wasn't about who was right and who was wrong and whether or not Mulder was willing to see a shrink. It was about his behavior right this instant. The horrible rage and pain and the fact that she had to get him in this fucking car. And it didn't matter what she had to say or had to do, because she could worry about that later. "I won't." She said quietly. Mulder wasn't listening. He was walking down the length of the car. "Mulder, please. I won't talk about it again. I won't." He wasn't listening to her. Tears stood out on his eyes and Scully got an awful feeling watching him that he was balancing on some delicate tightrope and that if he could not keep balance nothing was underneath to catch his fall. "Mulder. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't. . .I shouldn't have tried to control you." She dashed out before she could really think about it, and came to stand in front of him. "Mulder stop. Please. Stop. Please. I'm sorry I treated you like a child. I'm sorry. Come on. Please." His hands clenched and unclenched and she could see that his entire body was stiff and his face was a snarl. And suddenly she felt fear. Felt a cold, paralyzing terror settled into her bones as if sent there with a thousand stabbing needles. With the realization that he was coming very close to simply tossing her aside, that if he did that it would be because he simply had no control. That his control was so fine and thin that at this moment she could not count on it. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way." Each word distinct through angry, clenched teeth. Each word a separate growl. She was about to step aside, frightened of the fury and the misery twisting around him like a storm, when a voice at their backs interrupted the drama. "May I help you?" Cotton Candy in Hell. The voice was fresh apples and pumpkin pie. The shock made her shiver. She didn't have to turn her head to see the D.C. Policeman. Two white people in expensive clothes in a black district. Arguing. The man towered over the woman and his fists were clenched. She watched Mulder swallow. He was trying terribly hard now. Terribly hard. He did not want. . .what didn't he want? She turned, not frightened of his leaving. The officer was very young. Tall, gawky. She smiled. "May I get my credentials?" She asked, striving for a friendly tone. It came out in a quaver. The officer eyed them both. "You a cop?" He asked her. "We're FBI agents." The squawk sounded weak even to her own ears. She made a move to her trench pocket. The patrolman nodded, eyes on Mulder. She drew out her badge and opened it. Put it to her face. The officer held out a hand and she gave him the leather folder. He read it carefully. Glanced at the photo three times. "You got one?" Mulder pulled a hand up to his pocket but his hand started shaking. Adrenalin. How much fucking adrenalin was pumping through his system? He could not complete the action. Scully saw the warning signs. Oh fuck. Not here. Not now. Oh fucking hell. Don't lose it in front of the cop. Mulder jerked his hand up again. The badge came out. It trembled. It wavered and he tossed it to the cop. His breath was fast and his skin was fast gaining the pallor of a corpse. The cop examined Mulder's badge. "We were. . .having a difference of opinion." There. It was almost normal. Her stomach was in upheaval. She was trembling and she didn't know how much longer Mulder would be vertical. But her voice was perfect. "You must have thought something. . .unusual. . ." She smiled. Conscious of the fact that Mulder was going to keel over any minute. The cop handed Mulder back his credentials. "Is anything wrong?" "We're on the serial killer task force. . .It can be. . . stressful." Scully shrugged. Mulder was breathing quietly through his mouth. He didn't act like this conversation had anything to do with him. He probably had no idea what was going on. "Are you all right, ma'am?" "I'm fine. . .why would anything be wrong?" "I saw. . ." "You saw us having an argument." Scully lowered her brows. "I can't argue with my partner, officer?" "I. . ." The kid glanced at Mulder. "He looks sick." "He is sick. With the flu. And he needs to be in bed. Now. If you'll excuse us." She did not wait for his dismissal to grab Mulder by the elbow. She was taking occasional breaths through her mouth, trying to think. "I'm sorry." His voice was soft. Scully took a glance at her partner, who was slumped in the seat beside her. "Yeah. Well." Scully replied, curling and uncurling her fingers around the steering wheel. "I'll go to your psychiatrist." It was a mewling, defeated voice. Like a kitten that knows it is going to die. The words "I think you need to take a leave of absence" were in her mouth, wanting to come out. Hard to push into her vocal cords. Wanting to come out, but they were dragged back from sound by the weight and the fear in her stomach. "I think. . ." She paused. Wimp. Wimp. Wussy. "I think. . .I think that's a good idea. I can call Crane for you." "I'll do it." He wrapped his hands around his chest. There was not much else to say. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 11:42:03 1996 Article: 22832 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 8/20 NC-17 Date: 13 Aug 1996 20:37:27 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 301 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ur747$21l@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17, do not read if underage. Usual Disclaimers. Mistress 8/20 by Amperage "Agent Scully?" It was a soft, pleasant voice. "Yes?" "This is Dr. Crane. Mulder called. He said it would be all right for me to call you." "Oh. Dr. Crane. How did he sound?" "Very sad." The voice was practiced and even. "He said that you wanted him to see a psychiatrist. Can you tell me a little more about why?" Scully swallowed. Explained his behavior. She did not mean to, she had no intentions of doing so, but she found herself de- emphasizing the most erratic, most frightening aspects of Mulder's behavior. She found herself leaving out the incident with the cop. ". . .it's just those anxiety attacks. . ." She summed up. Oh God, it wasn't just anxiety attacks. ". . .if he had something to calm him down. I think he'd be able to function to par. . .I mean, he's still doing okay. But, Mulder pushes himself and he's not able to do that. . .he just needs a little help." She had made it sound as though he were having a few problems. As though he had not nearly lost it and struck out. Would he have hit her? If he had hit her, what would she have done? If he had hit her, what would he have done to himself? How close to the edge had they come? Crane's voice was relieved. "I kind of figured. . .he thought. . .your partner felt sure that you thought he was losing it. . .he's got such an extensive psych record for an agent of his standing that he must sometimes wonder about his stability. I'll get a psychiatrist. We'll get him on some drugs to help him through this." "Good." Scully closed her eyes. Mulder had been honest and she had. . .minimalized. He had been worried that if he did not level, that Scully would and it would be much worse. But she had covered and now. . now Crane believed he was much better than he was. Crane probably thought that Scully herself was overexagerating, not underreporting. Oh fucking hell. His bathroom floor would have to be cleaned. Mulder closed his eyes, putting his head against the cold toilet lid. He'd cut himself and called Crane and then come back and cut himself again and the long parallel cuts along his hip, hidden where even his swimsuit would not reveal them, were deep. He knew that this behavior was self-destructive. He knew that with the blood he felt trickling down onto his legs, onto his cock and balls, into the fold of his bottom, with that blood he had crossed lines. Lines that he should not have crossed. Scully. He'd been ready to hit her. He could see the blood on her nose if he had. He could see the way her body would have landed against the side of a brick building. He could see her stumble. He could see bright red blood. Scully's blood. Oh God, he'd almost hit Scully. Of all people. Scully. And he couldn't blame this one on drugs or aliens or anything except his own fragile temper. He told Crane about his behavior. Every detail of his behavior except for the cop, and he didn't know why he hadn't told her about the cop. But he hadn't. She'd been very calming. He suspected that she hadn't believed him. When she asked to talk to Scully he knew she didn't. He wondered when she would call back and tell him that she was filling out paper work for a psychiatric waiver. A leave of absence and his insurance could pay for a hospital. They could do a short term psych disability for him. Meanwhile the blood spilled onto a towel. He felt better seeing the blood. His own castigation for behavior this afternoon. It was not that he felt *good* when it was over. It was simply that he could not stand himself if he didn't. "Agent Mulder?" The voice was strong, measured, precise. "Yes." He rolled over in the futon, felt his hip stick to the sheets. "This is Agent Dunne. There's been another murder." There was crime tape everywhere. And a woman screaming. Mulder swallowed, reflexively. There were FBI agents everywhere. Of course. You send out the forces when it's one of your own. He finished pulling on his latex gloves, strode up to the hedges. He hadn't needed to show his badge to the cop. The cop had an agent by his side, pointing out the family from the outsiders. Through the open door of a tall two story Colonial. A hallway. There was the source of the screams, right there in a room to his right. Sitting on formal furniture, knees politely together. Her church dress was bunched. Stained. Someone else sat beside her still in a heavy cashmere coat. Holding the widow who was sobbing. Who had two griefs. The stairs were beside him and he went up, stopping at a toy filled landing. Big Bird and the Pink Ranger were askant in a corner like dust. You could smell it in here. Smell blood and death and "Agent Mulder." King was pale. Mulder nodded. Swallowed. "Director Martin is in his study." "Has Agent Scully. . ." "She's in with him." Not she's in with the body. She's in with him. "Was he a friend?" Mulder asked. King nodded. "We went back, oh God, 12 years. We were both in Los Angeles for years. Your profile was dead on." Mulder swallowed. Nodded. I bullshitted that profile. That profile was bullshit. He may fit the fucking profile. But he's not. . . Was he? Mulder wondered. A director would have the money. A director would know. . .enough to recommend. . . "Hey." Scully almost smiled. "Hi." Mulder stared around him at the small room. An agent came to him. "I have to check credentials." So there was sensitive material in this room. Mulder opened his badge. Found out that G-14 was quite high enough to be allowed access. But he was one of the few. Blood and the smell of blood. It overwhelmed the air. The body. The organs and the smell. He'd had a cinnamon colored carpet. Cinnamon didn't show the blood as much. A dark, generic stain mostly. If you looked closely it was rusty burgundy. But mostly it was just a dark stain. Spreading and crusting on the carpet. Scully was discussing the temperature of the body from the thermometer. Scully was feeling the fingers and the buttocks for blood. Scully's hands were coated in drying blood and she did not even notice as she made her clinical notations. He wanted to leave this room. This room was Martin's room. This room had all the information he would need. He just had to find it. King was still in the hall. Mulder could look through an open door and see a child's room. Bright. And posters lining the walls. "Do I have clearance to go through everything in the desk?" King swallowed. His brain kicked into gear. He sighed. "I don't know. I'll call and see. What are you looking for?" "I don't know." King nodded, defeated, wandered down the hall, found someone who could take orders. She undressed him. Tanny's fingers were soft. He didn't even see why she had called him. Why she had wanted this appointment. But he was here and she was undressing him. His feet were heavy and hot as she slipped his shoes off. His pants. His shirt. Finally his cotton boxers. She put his arms through a heavy flannel robe, tied it at his waist. "Come on." The drink was warm and sweet. Chocolate. There had been whipped cream, but she had already stirred it in. Her fingers shaped his around the steaming mug. She put it to his mouth and he drank mechanically. "Why're you being so nice to me?" His voice was quiet as she let the mug go and it slid down to rest in both hands, half dranken. "You need to have someone be nice to you. You're my Secret." "I'm your supplicant. You spank me." "I take care of you. Right now, it's not spankings you want or need. Tonight, just let me take care of you. I'll bathe you and feed you and put you to bed. You'll sleep with your head against my body and when you have nightmares I'll hold you until you fall into more pleasant dreams. You don't have to do anything but be here and let me take care of you." He nodded silently. Closed his eyes. Felt the tears slip down his face. He wandered through the kitchen. Stared at the sink. A nice stainless steel sink with a middle thingy for vegetables. You could see a swingset out the window. Tile floors and tile counters. A glasstop range. A breakfast nook and the Sunday paper lay opened on top. With a cup of coffee. Mulder swallowed, piecing the murder together. He saw Martin in his grey sweats and his tee, stumbling down the stairs. Not a regular churchgoer. His wife and child went without him. The Sunday. He got the Sunday paper and sat down with a cuppa joe and the Sunday paper. Not even halfway through. The door was open and the killer came in. . . Mulder glanced around the kitchen. There was a backdoor. His fingers tried it. Locked. Of course. The patio door leading to a postage stamp backyard. Locked. One way in. One way out. Into the hallway. The door. Mulder went into the yard. Houses were almost stacked on top of one another. Small yards. What was the cost of real estate in this exclusive little suburb? He did not know. But he could guess. Where would this guy have gotten cash for Tanny? This guy hadn't fucked Tanny. This guy had simply fit Mulder's profile to a T. Mulder went to the driveway. It was full and useless now. But the killer had parked here. Here? Why? Couldn't he have. . .walked? In this neighborhood? Not likely. The carefully manicured sidewalk to the house, edged by tiny little shrubs. Into the house. A short trip into the kitchen. Martin. . .Martin hadn't been reading. Mulder saw the bread open. The bread was open. Martin had been making something. In the other deaths the victims had known, had seen, had not. . .The killer had been here, waiting. Waiting until Martin's back was turned. Oh fuck. This guy hadn't been Tanny's. The killer never would have waited and surprised the guy. Where? Mulder went to the counter where the bread bag sat innocently open. He was making a sandwich or toast. . .need stuff from the fridge. Mulder turned around and edged towards the refrigerator. . .There. The pantry. The two double doors revealed a shallow space lined with shelves. Mulder considered the small space. His eyes roamed the kitchen, past the kitchen into the den. She hadn't been the best housekeeper in the world. Okay, but not the best. Not real anal- retentive or anything. Sometimes, Mulder bet, sometimes pantry doors got left open. The killer had to be in far enough to almost close the door. There was scarcely enough room. But enough. Oh fuck. Mulder went back through the house. Scully was still with the body. Measuring and photographing. It had been laid in a perfect diagonal to corners of the room. The arms were perfect, palms down, fingers spread. His legs were arranged. What did you do, you bastard? Drug him? Drug him and bring him here and lay him on the carpet and open him up like a carp? What did you do? He wasn't yours to take. Tanny never knew him. He fit the profile. The killer had gone shopping. Martin fit the profile. And for some reason the killer had chosen Martin. Mulder had no idea why. But this man was not Tanny's. Tanny never knew him. His fingers curled and uncurled, crunching latex under his fingers. "This guy wasn't one of Bonet's customers." Mulder's voice was soft as he and his partner watched the body being carted out of the room. Scully blinked. "What?" "He wasn't one of her customers." "He fits your profile." Mulder glanced at his partner. Never mind. "Why do you think he wasn't?" Scully asked, sensing that he wasn't going to play thrust and parry with her the way he normally did. "The killer had to surprise him. The UNSUB hid in the pantry. The moment Martin's back was turned, and he was distracted, the killer got him. I'd suspect something wickedly fast acting. You'll find it when you do your autopsy." Scully nodded. "You're sure of this?" A tight nod from Mulder. King entered the tiny room. "You're allowed to go through his things as long as another agent is present." "I don't need to." Mulder surveyed the office disinterestedly. "He wasn't one of Tanneka Bonet's submissives." King blinked. "He was killed in the same. . .hell, he even fucking fits the profile. He was my friend, and I hate to admit it, but he was everything you said." Mulder blinked at the shorter man. "In every other death the victim wasn't surprised, wasn't startled. It was almost like the UNSUB was invited in." King's eyes narrowed. "Martin was reading the Sunday paper. He got up, to make a sandwich or toast. The moment he did so, the moment Martin turned his back, the killer attacked. This guy. . .our UNSUB may have gotten hold of my profile or just decided to go after the FBI, because we're on his tail. So he picked someone similar to the people he's been killing." Weak. It sounded weak, even to Mulder. Skinner had told King, in private, unofficially, not to go any farther: Mulder was having major problems. He was seeing a shrink and the shrink was going to have him in her office three or four times a week. Skinner was telling King so King would know if Mulder was. . .well, not quite with it, to just go with the flow. So if Mulder said he couldn't be here or there, it was because he couldn't. Because he was going to be busy on a couch. King glanced at Scully. Who wasn't convinced, but wasn't unconvinced. "Besides, where would Martin get the money? It's pretty obvious most of his money is sunk right here and what isn't is probably going into retirement." That much was true. "Bonet didn't strike me as someone who took people in out of the kindness of her heart." Mulder added, seeing the way King was eyeing him. King shrugged. "Maybe." Oh fucking shit. Mulder sighed. "I'm not crazy." "No. But what are you basing your information on?" "The bread's open downstairs." King lifted an eyebrow. Right. Weak. Real Weak. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 11:42:03 1996 Article: 22835 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 9/20 NC-17 Date: 13 Aug 1996 20:45:15 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 356 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ur7ir$27f@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17, do not read if underage. Usual Disclaimers. Mistress 9/20 by Amperage Quantico on New Year's Day. As you drove in you saw the jarheads. But the FBI wasn't here. The cadets. A few instructors. . .not many cars at all. There was no reason to perform the autopsy today. It could wait until Tuesday. But Tuesday she had to be sure Mulder made it to an emergency appointment with a psychiatrist named Pandya. Oh fuck, with everything in his life, she was making him go to a psychiatrist *now*. He'd gone psychotic once and she had just tried to handle it. Her mother's report of his behavior when she'd been comatose had been. . .well, frankly, scary. The months after their reinstatement to the bureau, they'd each seen therapists, by Skinner's order. But that hadn't been. . .that had been one of those grief things that make human resources feel necessary and needed when they weren't. She knew the area by heart. Walked in like she still owned the place. Teaching at Quantico was supposed to be an honor. For Scully, only a year and a half ago, it had been a doghouse. Still. She enjoyed the place. She enjoyed the long wooded drive in, and she enjoyed the recognition of this place. The safety. Another Autopsy bay. Everything in order the way she liked it. There was that. The techs here knew her. He had been to two different appointments with two different mental health professionals before he even entered his office. When Mulder trudged in at 9, he looked as though he'd already had a full day. Scully blinked, staring at her partner. He looked like hell. He looked like fucking hell. "Hey. Happy New Year." She said in greeting. Mulder had a styrofoam cup of coffee that he unceremoniously dumped into the mug on his desk. The white mug that Scully's godson had made for her in 1st grade. With the flying saucer and the men from Mars and a redhead with a power suit. Mulder had appropriated it from the first and she knew he appreciated the humour even more than she did, so she had let him. "Hey." He replied. No discussion of New Year's celebrations. Those were for other people. Their world was the world of the murders. Mulder had spent New Year's day here, in the office, catching up on *other* work so that he could focus completely on the Martin killing. "Whatcha' got on the autopsy?" Scully sighed. "Less care was taken than with any other victim and he was given some kind of injection. I found it on his shoulder. "Stabbed with a syringe in the back." Mulder commented. "I'm right." "I sent the toxicologicals down, but even with the priority of this case, it's going to be a while before we get anything back." "I'd put a good dinner down that he was drugged." Scully sighed. "So he struggled, no one is going to agree with you. He matches the profile that you wrote. He was killed in the same way as the other victims." "He was killed sloppily. The others were killed neatly." "Still." Scully wiped her eyes. "How did your appointments go?" She might have been talking about the weather. Mulder shrugged. He seemed much too calm, Scully realized. Entirely too calm. "Did you get a prescription?" "Prescriptions." Mulder emphasized the s. "Crane wants to see me tomorrow too. I'm a popular guy. I don't know why. We just sit there and stare at each other." "Pandya?" "I have to get a blood test on Monday. He'll see me that afternoon. He didn't even have a preamble, he just told me that if I don't take the anti-depressant he'd see me in a hospital." His voice was dead when he said it, as though the humiliation of being told rules and consequences like a small boy did not bother him. As though he were reading something that didn't interest or excite him. As though it weren't important at all to him. It terrified Scully and if this was what Crane had seen it was no wonder she wanted him back. Mulder was travelling deeper and deeper into the dark and the thought terrified her. "You have a meeting with Skinner." She said, leaning back in her chair. "He wants you up there whenever you're ready." Mulder nodded. "Do you know what background info has been recovered on Tanny?" "Bonet?" "Yeah." "No. There's a team meeting at 11. You can ask." "I think our UNSUB knew Tanny when she was a slave." Scully nodded at this. "And?" "And it wasn't a servant of the house. It wouldn't be. . ." Mulder sighed. "All these people invited him in. Why? Because was their best buddy? They *let* him in. Why? Think about it. . .Someone charismatic. . ." His eyes were focused inward. This was why he was on this case, Scully reminded herself. The high-level drudge work thus far was good and appreciated, the profiles he had written were useful and were serving just causes, but this was what the brass wanted right now. This was the legend of Spooky. And right now it was hard to remember that. The jolt of reality came back to her as she realized that this man had to get a prescription of TofranilPM filled before he went home tonight. That despite whatever he was going through, he was still here, spinning insane theories that turned out to be true. "But he had a need to dominate Tanny. . .If we put this into the terms of the sexual dysfunction of Sadism and Maschosim. . ." Mulder paused. "Then he's the dominator." Scully replied. "How do we know it's a he?" Mulder asked craftily. "We don't. It's a safe assumption though." "Yeah. It is. Not only are most Serial killers men, but the few that were females are entire kilometers different from our UNSUB." Scully nodded, she knew all this. She could read. "So he dominates by killing?" "Possessing maybe." Mulder replied, absently staring at a wall. "Ownership. He's the master, he can do what he wants with the slaves. . ." His voice trailed off into a far distance. "Why did he kill Martin?" Scully stared at Mulder a long moment. "To show his power, his frustration, his. . ." She began the rote answers, trying to find one that fit. "He read my profile. I know that." "How do you know that? Because Martin fits your profile?" "Because Martin didn't see it coming. Where would Martin get that kind of money?" "I don't know. Where do you get money for Armani suits?" Mulder shot her a glare. Scully smiled sardonically, secretly thrilled with this normal behavior. "He killed Martin because Martin fit the profile and Martin was easy." Mulder's voice was soft. "I wrote a throw together profile and the killer. . ." He turned to stare at his partner. Eyes a deep, abiding dark wetness in the uncertain basement light. "The killer read it and used it as a shopping list." Assistant Director Skinner's office caught the afternoon sun very well, turning the room a vibrant gold. However, this also meant that on cold winter mornings, his office was on the chilly side, huddled in metropolis shadows, waiting for a glance from the light. "There's a task force meeting in an hour." Skinner said, unnecessarily as they both sat. "Yes sir." Mulder was polite. "There are two issues we need to deal with here, Agent Mulder. The first is that you are advancing the idea the Director Martin was not a customer of Tanneka Bonet." "Yes sir." Skinner nodded. "King doesn't like it and he doesn't know how to tell you to stop, he's used to stomping on GS-7's, not people like you. You wrote a profile and Martin fits the profile." "Respectfully sir, so do you." Skinner shifted uncomfortably in his leather executive chair. "I'm aware of that. Why do you think King doesn't want you to advance your idea?" He stared at Mulder. This was not the usual confrontation with Director Skinner. Mulder stared at the man, trying to figure out why he was being coddled. He was being coddled, right? Was he or not? He didn't know. There was a second possibility but Mulder didn't think it was the case. King and Skinner were friends. "All due respect, if King admits that Martin wasn't a client he has to deal with that fact. That the killer read my profile. And that the killer isn't following just one populace. Skinner nodded. "This is King's game now, agent Mulder, but I will not reel you in because it makes him sweat to have too many variables." Ahah. He wasn't being coddled. Skinner wasn't questioning Mulder. He was questioning *King*. Friend or no. "If you are right then the killer has access to our databases?" Mulder swallowed. "He has access to something." The pen. Had he written any of the profile when he'd found that fucking pen? He thought he had. Not enough though to kill Martin. The UNSUB would have had to come back. Come back again. Skinner leaned back in his chair. "Do you realize what that implies, Agent Mulder?" "That he knows everything about our investigation, about us and we know nothing about him? Yes sir." This was the conversation he *should* be having with King. That fact reflected in Skinner's eyes. "Due to those security questions, I'll be sitting in on the task force meeting." Skinner said. Mulder nodded. "Yes sir." "The second matter I have to discuss with you concerns a short note from Dr. Crane. She has sent an unofficial memo." Skinner sighed. "She has asked that you be removed from the Bonet case, that your duties be restricted." Mulder swallowed nervously and shifted in his chair. "It's unofficial at this point. Just a request. No power to back it up." "Yes sir." "Do you think you need to be placed on some kind of light duties?" "No sir." Skinner nodded. "Do you want to continue on the task force?" "Yes sir." "Very well then, I'll call Dr. Crane and tell her that I'm terribly sorry, but I don't see that we can spare you." "Thank you, sir." Mulder was quiet, settling into his spot at the long conference table. Lesser agents were gathered in leather chairs pressed against a wall, taking notes on their knees. Scully was a coroner and Mulder was the prize analyst. Spooky and his missus might be outcasts, but outcasts only in the way that a magic user might have been outcast in a primitive village. He did not seem to notice anyone as he sat, thumbing through files, making sure his legal pad had plenty of room for notes. In the time she had known him, Scully had never seen her partner scribble one legitimate note onto an investigative notebook or a legal pad. His idea of a note was a silent comment to Scully. She wondered sometimes if he had been that annoying in school or if this was a learned behavior since he had joined the Bureau. He seemed so oblivious to the fact that he was the only person in a room not scribbling furiously at meetings like this that Scully could only conclude that he'd always just sat, sprawled in his chair, watching, thinking, punching holes. King thanked everyone, discussed the passing of Director Martin. A report. Mulder's eyes were glazed and it was painfully obvious to everyone that he wasn't listening, but he wasn't asking his usual asinine, unanswerable questions so no one bothered him. "Did anyone do the background work on Tanneka, following up Agent Scully and my interview with her cousin?" Mulder asked as the speaker sat down. He looked around at the assemblage, silently noting the ones who had come up the ladder through politics and couldn't find a goat if it had been staked out on a hillside marking them and separating them from the ones who were simply damn good agents. Agent Rebecca Lewis cleared her throat, she was sitting at a chair against the wall. "I did." Mulder appraised her. "Did we found out who her first master was?" "No sir. But I was able to narrow the field to three men who were wealthy and died in plane crashes around the time Ms. Bonet would have been starting her. . .services." "And did they all have large scale political influence?" "Only one did, sir. Ian Long." Mulder nodded at this information as though unimpressed. "What about the story about her father?" "That is unverifiable. But her mother did die when Bonet was 10. Her father still lives in Missoula Texas. He's a welder and he is reported as having been very . . .hostile to the field agents who visited him." Lewis sat down, nervously. Mulder stared at King. Scully cringed. "You seem to have definite theories on this case, Agent Mulder." King's voice carried silk. "Yes sir." Mulder replied. "You know I hold that Director Martin was not Bonet's client." "I'm aware of it." King's voice was tired now, grating. Mulder nodded. "It's possible that the killer knew Bonet when she was in her master's house or living with her father?" Someone else at the table asked. Mulder shrugged. "Why not? Timing, opportunity, motive. . ." He shrugged languidly again. The door opened and Skinner slipped in, displacing an agent from his chair. "Director Skinner." King acknowledged his superior almost nervously. Skinner merely nodded and stared at the back of Mulder's neck. Mulder did not turn. "Can I get Agent Lewis to come down tomorrow morning? I'd like to get a more detailed look at her findings." Mulder's voice was easy and territorial. As though he were a male lion, secure in the domination of his own territory, as though he had no need to be defensive because he knew what his claws could do. King blinked. There was no answer but yes to that question. And Mulder knew it. "That's fine, Agent Mulder." He tried to make it dismissive, to make it easy. Make it nothing, a bone thrown to the hungry vagabond. Mulder and King exchanged glances. They both felt the presence of Skinner. Nothing personal, King's glance said. I just can't handle any more variables. Mulder gave a half-lidded nod. Nothing personal, but if you can't handle the job, get out. Under another director, King would be promoted, and thus be off the force, and Mulder would be reprimanded. King would be protected because of his friendships and Mulder would get his due for not playing the game. Under yet another director, King would be taken off the assignment and the title given to Mulder, and both parties would be punished for their inability to play the game with each other. Under Skinner things would be played only to the benefit of the case. They went to another report. Analysis of carpets and clothing and hairs. DNA analysis. Everything that was boring and non- essential. Their morning would be eaten up by this. Scully had already teased all the useful information from preliminary copies of these reports, or from the raw datum itself. Pointless, a waste. Mulder reminded himself of how lucky he was to have a good partner and not to be stuck with this nonsense on a daily basis. Scully's autopsy. Mulder watched his partner stand, glance at her careful notes and delineate the differences between Martin's murder and all the others. "He's getting sloppier." Someone at the table said casually. Toady. "He was neater with Bonet." Mulder mused as though it didn't make much difference. "Experience shows us that as Serial killers escalate they get sloppier." Another toady. Scully smoothed her skirt as she sat down. So fucking comfortable doing this. "Since when was it decided that this guy was escalating?" Mulder asked, again mild as milktoast. Several agents blinked. "I thought it had been generally assumed. . ." One began. Mulder shrugged. "It's about 2 or 3 days between all the various murders. Admittedly 2 between these most recent. But no longer than 4 on any of our murders. He started out fast and he's going to keep going fast. Speed is not escalation. You have to start going faster to escalate." Uncomfortable silence for just a moment. Glances at Mulder and Skinner and King. Everyone knew that Mulder thought Martin wasn't one of Tanny's, that he'd been picked like a product off a market shelf because he fit the description. Everyone knew that King didn't agree. What bugged them was Skinner. Mulder was one of Skinner's pet lambs, admittedly, but that was because Mulder upped Skinner's efficiency ratings--he solved all the nasty cases that would be otherwise marked unsolvable. But King was an old buddy of Skinner's. Mulder didn't really care. He would say what he thought and let King respond, and he was almost perfectly certain that he would provide enough of a case for his viewpoint that Skinner would not ignore it. King was glancing at Skinner too. But he obviously had not been let into the confidence that Skinner thought King wasn't quite up to the challenge. He thought Mulder might be in for a reaming. No doubt he'd gone in ranting and raving about Mulder and expecting Mulder's ass to get kicked and Skinner had merely said that he'd take care of things. "Martin was making toast when he was stabbed in the shoulder and sedated with Ketamin. The UNSUB never used Ketamin before. Not once. But he had to have the sedative with this one. Because this one didn't belong to Tanneka Bonet." Mulder began. "Once the Ketamin took affect, it was a simple matter for the killer to haul him to his own study--his study full of sensitive papers from the FBI--and kill him. He was sloppy because he didn't care. Because Martin didn't mean to him what the others meant to him. Martin wasn't the one he was dominating. This one was a thumbing of his nose at the FBI. At us. He put Martin in the study because that was as close to the actual building as was safe. If he'd had his wet dream, it would be to have done Martin on the seal in the lobby. He had my profile. He thought about all the people who fit it and who would cause a hole and who would be easy to get and kill. And Martin fit the bill all around. "Director Martin had a wife and a baby and a retirement fund. No amount of money large enough to pay for the kinds of services that Tanneka Bonet provided was missing. I wrote a profile and our killer supplied us with the appropriate victim. He's laughing at us. I wouldn't be surprised if he knew everything that's gone on in this case thus far." Mulder stared around the room at the empty, disbelieving faces. He felt a movement behind him. Skinner was up, putting his coat on. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 11:42:04 1996 Article: 22836 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!n ewstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 10/20 NC-17 Date: 13 Aug 1996 20:45:32 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 395 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ur7jc$27o@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO This is it for tonight. I'll post the rest tomorrow morning. Thanks for being patient when I screwed up. . . NC-17, do not read if underage. Usual Disclaimers. Mistress 10/20 by Amperage The hotel room was quiet and inviting. Below him, sparkling in the darkness, DC was rife with problems. Homeless people mumbled and huddled in shelters. Gangs prowled and preyed upon each other, upon wanderers unlucky enough to stumble into their paths. In homes children went to bed hungry or full. Couples argued and hated each other or made love and luxuriated in the calm of post orgasmic bliss. It was all one in the darkness and the sparkling white light, the orange of lit streets and movement of traffic. Fox Mulder dropped his overnight bag onto the solid, oaken lowboy. He would regret not grabbing a suit. He would regret it in the morning, because even though no one else in the entire Bureau would notice that he wore the same suit twice, Scully would. Her eyes would rake over him with concern, the awful concern that made his gut twist and his balls draw up into his abdomen. But he hadn't had the energy to get one. He had a new shirt and a new tie and clean underwear. The hotel would provide a toothbrush and a razor. There was a coffee pot and a hair dryer. On the desk, in a folder, there would be a room service menu and a list of "erotique" movies that could be ordered for the television by calling a certain number. He could not go back to his apartment. He could not stand to go back to his apartment. It terrified him and he did not want to think about the long shadows and the silence and the cold. So here he was. Standing in a hotel, staring out the window at the darkness of a city that crawled beneath him. Murders and robberies and rapes. Children died and screamed, trapped in secret hells. He pressed his face against the cold glass, thinking of it, trapped in private misery. Somewhere down there, out there in the darkness, somewhere a someone who had killed Tanny still prowled and no one knew his name. He did not order any high class smut after all. Just a cornish hen, probably a Christmas left over, with broccoli and wild rice, a salad with blue cheese vignagrette and rolls. Tea to drink. No. No wine, thanks. He ate it as though it were paste, sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring at the television set that had been tuned to the Cartoon Network when he came in. He forgot to get the remote off the top of the set when he turned it on, and now that he was settled it just seemed like too much trouble. Besides, he liked Scooby Doo and Johnny Quest. Okay, at least he didn't have to think to follow the jerky, bright animation across the screen. Besides, his learned response to those shows was comfort. Curled up on the couch with Samantha, under a heavy blanket, early on a Saturday morning. Nothing could ever hurt them. And Sam shut her eyes at the scary parts. He put the tray in the hall and then stood under the hot, steaming needle shower a long time, feeling the water soak deep into his skin, finally he fell into the bed, feeling the soft boiled cotton sheets against his skin in a welcome, innocent kiss. "Hey." Scully hung up her coat. "Where were you last night?" Mulder shrugged. He actually felt good. A good night's sleep. Unafraid. A hotel wake up call and bright DC sun. "I was out." "Out?" "Out." He replied mildly, blinking at her. His expression clearly read that where ever he had been it wasn't any of her business to ask. Scully blinked. "Agent Lewis is coming down around 8, been assigned the job of doing Bonet's background." Scully tried to remember who on the task force Lewis was. The little brunette. Oh. "She wasn't?" "She wasn't." A nod. "You want anything?" She asked, getting her coffee mug. Mulder considered. Dug around in his pockets and dropped a dollar bill into his mug. "Donut Sticks." He asked. "You aren't getting change on this. You know this right?" Mulder grinned, went back to reading his report. Lewis was singularly helpful. A young agent who was obviously torn between their exalted ranks and the gossip she had heard. Mulder delighted in toying with such agents, keeping them right at the edge of jumping out of their chairs and running through the basement halls, screaming. Scully thought it was as cruel as teasing a cat by putting boots on its feet, but kept her mouth shut and let him toy with his new mouse. Lewis had her information. She had her records and extensive notes on taped and transcribed interviews. Perfect and neat. Unfortunately she had little idea of the kind of things that Mulder considered important. He finally gave up on tracking anything from her impressions and tossed her out of their offices around 10. "Did you honestly expect her to have caught any. . . intonations?" Scully asked. Mulder shrugged. "You do." "I'm a trained pathologist. Did any of your other partners?" Mulder reflected. "Jerry never. Reggie already knew the game." "What are you looking for beyond the obvious?" "This guy didn't just come from the head of his god fully formed. The murders indicate that he has a great deal of control. He's not inexperienced, he's not immature. He's smart. There's never *any* indication of panic. And it's very specific. "Except for Martin, if you're right." "I'm right." Mulder said absently. "That was. . .that was. . .he's dominating. That murder was a domination of the task force. Showing us that he can do whatever whenever and that he knows everything. And, possibly, he knew that I would catch it. So we'd be squabbling among ourselves. Divide and conquer. . . where was I?" "Our UNSUB doesn't panic." Scully tossed in helpfully. "Oh." Mulder blinked. "This is something that's been building a long time. There has to be some hint of where it was building. Doesn't there?" The question, Scully realized with a start, was *not* rhetorical. Mulder got the feeling he'd probably need a pillow to sit on when this was all over, because his ass was about to be reamed up one side and down the other. He took the seat Skinner indicated, suppressing a very real desire to duck his head and stare at his wingtips. "Agent Mulder, having reviewed your reports and your records for the past three weeks, at Agent King's request." Skinner nodded towards the SAC. "I have found various irregularities." "Yes sir." Mulder swallowed and listened as Skinner delineated paperwork turned in late, a report misfiled, a voucher unreturned. The complaint of a person Mulder had interviewed. There was the case of Mulder's injuries and the question of what Mulder had done to deserve it. Skinner hammered away at small details mercilessly, pointing out small item after small item. Mulder's only opportunities for communication came in the form of "yes sir." "It won't happen again sir." and "Understood sir. I'll amend that, sir." Skinner's voice was harsh and unrelenting and never even touched on the Bonet case except in the most roundabout way. Mulder suffered through it, quite aware that Skinner had yet to slide any reprimands across the desk for Mulder to sign. Aware that any and all paperwork changes would take him perhaps thirty minutes to correct. Mulder glanced at his watch. "Is there some engagement that you made previously?" Skinner asked, staring at Mulder. Mulder shrugged and played along. Skinner had known Mulder had an appointment with Crane at this time, had told him not to reschedule. Had told him it would be fine. "Uh. . .yes sir. With Dr. Crane." "You didn't reschedule?" "No sir." Mulder swallowed, waited while Skinner rained abuse down on Mulder's head for not rescheduling the appointment with his shrink. "You may go, Agent Mulder. Please come back to my office tomorrow morning at 9." "Yes sir." "Dismissed. You will bring corrections on all paperwork that I asked for." "Yes sir." Mulder left, swallowing, feeling the blood drain back into his body. The secretary gave him a glance as he let air out of his mouth in an expression of relief. The director had just spent thirty minutes reaming Mulder out and yet Mulder was acting. . . relieved? Skinner waited until Mulder had cleared his outer office, staring silently at King. When the second door slammed, he took of his glasses and stared at his old friend. "Neal, we've been friends. . .what? 10? 15 years? It must be 15 years now. You've always been a damn good agent. It's been a pleasure to be your friend and to be your coworker and now to be your supervisor. You asked me to look over the case. To review Mulder's work." King blinked. Skinner had just dedicated a half-hour to reaming Mulder out. Obviously, Skinner's golden boy was not so Golden. Things *might* be going in his direction. "Mulder can be arrogant. He can be obnoxious. He can be extremely eccentric, and I'm well aware of the fact that he doesn't always play well with others. I just took him to task on all those flaws, and I even threw in how he manages to turn what should be minimal amounts of paperwork into the stygian stables with his cases." Skinner sighed and leaned forward. "Neal, there were three or four men whom I could have chosen to lead this task force. Whoever solves this case, if it is solved quickly and well, has a shot at a directorship. We both know that. I chose you. However, I already knew who the analyst would be before I even thought about choosing a task force leader. And that person was Fox Mulder. He's good. In fact he's the very best person for this job. I chose most of the agents on the task force for their quality and for their ability to ignore the myths that have grown up about "Spooky" Mulder. You've always worked well with Mulder." King shifted uneasily in his chair. Things were not going as he had expected. Not at ALL as he had expected. "Mulder put forth a perfectly presentable reason for the killing. In fact, he was the only person qualified to put forth behavioral theories on the motivation of the killings. His work, aside from procedural problems, has been perfect. And yet, yesterday, you came into my office to complain." Skinner took a deep breath, paused. Rubbed his eyes. "Neal, I know you don't have any personal problems with Mulder. You wouldn't be the leader of the task force if I thought you had any problems with Mulder. I've reviewed his analyses of the events and I find absolutely *no* evidence of any irregularities in Mulder's work. In fact, it's brilliant. He understands this case almost preternaturally. So I'm left to wonder *why* you aren't accepting him and what the problem is. "The only conclusion I can reach is that there are too many loose ends and too many problems if you accept that the killer read Mulder's profile and chose a victim according to it. That you don't think you could handle or control the situation if Mulder is correct." Neal shifted in his seat and wondered why the room was so hot. This was most definitely *not* the way this meeting was supposed to be going. "Now, I have several options at this point. I could make Mulder head of the task force and there are some who would do that. However, I don't need Mulder as head of the task force. I need Mulder as an analyst. He's qualified to lead a task force. He's got the rank and training and experience. But he needs to write the analyses, I think we all know that. There is also the fact that I am *supposed* to be tapering off Agent Mulder's assignments, rather than increasing them, due to some psychological difficulties he is experiencing. Making him the leader of a task force is definitely *not* tapering off his assignments." Neal found the strength to nod. "So I have a couple of other options. I could choose someone else to lead the task force. I don't like changing horses in midstream. I would rather keep you. But I cannot keep you as taskforce leader if you're out of your depths." Skinner stared at King unblinkingly. "Are you out of your depths, Neal?" King swallowed, tried to find his voice. Tried and tried again. "No. . .no. . .I mean, no sir." Skinner nodded. "Then I will assume that you will accept the advice of your analyst?" "Of course." Skinner nodded again. "Neal, this case reflects not only on you but on me and on our department and on the Bureau. If you can't handle it, I want to know now." "No. No sir. I can." "I'll be watching this closely, Neal." King nodded. Skinner took a deep breath, exhaled, let his shoulders slump. Put his face in his hands for a moment and then stared at King. "Agent Mulder has been seeing Dr. Crane every day. She wants him placed on a waiver or given involuntary leave. I cannot spare Mulder from this case. I want you to make sure that Mulder is not put under any unnessary stress. He is not to be relieved of any normal and routine duties related to the case, but he does not need any. . .avoidable stressors at this time. Do you understand?" King swallowed. His position in this case was now made abundantly clear by this last conversation, even more than Skinner's quiet, confidential dressing down had made it. Mulder was an unvarying constant. Mulder was the prize and the important one. This might make King's career, push him to top, but he was replaceable. Mulder was not. "Yes. Of course." Skinner nodded. "Accepting that Agent Mulder is right. I assume, from your previous reluctance to accept his view, that you completely understand the difficulties this raises for the Bureau." "Someone has compromised our case files. The killer or someone close to the UNSUB, has access to the profile." "A profile that Mulder wrote and hand delivered; he did not e- mail it. A profile that has been seen only by 10 persons, including the President." Skinner said sharply. King swallowed. "The OPR will be investigating the case, to find any security leaks." Skinner's voice was tired. "You need to have at least 4 agents covering it. If you can't spare the agents, I'll give you four." "Yes, please." Skinner nodded. "We've got to assume that the UNSUB has access to all records." King said, already exhausted by the thought of what that entailed. Another nod. "We'll start circulating only hard copies, numbered, which are not to be copied." King recited numbly. Skinner put his glasses back on. "Neal. I'm glad you're able to handle this. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be in attendance at tomorrow morning's team meeting." King opened his mouth to say that no meeting had been scheduled then shut it. "Of course." It was an order and a dismissal, and King knew it. "How did the meeting with Dr. Pandya go?" Crane was watering an ivy hung in her small pre-fab window when Mulder arrived. "He gave me a prescription for TofranilPM and Klonopin." "Are you taking them?" Crane did not turn from her watering. "Yes." Sullenly. Crane finished her watering, put down the small, ornamental, brass can and edged to her desk. Part of EAP were in portable buildings, overcrowded, and as such, most of the staff were slammed into tiny offices. The promise was a new annex. But who had money for EAP when there were real criminals out there? EAP was for wimps and goldbrickers and loons. "So. Do you think it will help?" Crane's voice was soft, pulling Mulder's file out of the stack. She had finally bothered to get his old records out of storage. "I don't know. The panic attacks maybe." Crane got a pen, nodded. Sighed. Leaned back and observed him carefully. "You've never reported panic attacks in the past." "No." "So I take it they're a new symptom?" Mulder shrugged. Crane gave a small nod. "I heard there's a showdown in VCS. The division ain't big enough fer' the two of you." "It's nothing. Internal politics." "Who's going to win?" "There's not going to be a winner or a loser." Mulder shook his head. "I like King. King doesn't think I'm a kook. He respects my work." "But I hear you differ widely in your interpretation of the Martin murder." Mulder wiped his face. "Skinner's not stupid." "What does that mean?" "It means he's the AD. He'll handle it. I just do my job." Crane blinked, shrugged. "Okay. You don't sound too worried." "I'm not." Mulder stared, bemused. "Secrets will out." The message was simple, sprawled in perfect plate script across a blank sheet of paper. Mulder blinked, staring at the message Scully had already dropped into an evidence bag. "It was in my purse." She reported, indignant. "I left my purse locked in here when I went to a meeting. It stayed in here until around 11:30. I was in the toilet." Mulder dropped into his desk. Blinked. His chest hurt. He wrapped on arm around it, loosely, as though it weren't important. The bastard had come into their offices and loosely dropped the note. Checked out what kind of tampons his partner used. Probably perused his porn collection. Maybe played DOOM on the computer. Oh fucking hell. He knew the killer had access. He knew that. He knew that so fucking well. But this guy couldn't be happy with knowing that. No he intruded on things that Mulder. . .hell, Mulder was pretty sure that it was something a husband didn't intrude on. . .he wanted to be inside every part of his life. Did he go through Mulder's underwear when he was home, checking to see if his good boxers had holes? Did he check to see if Mulder had a rust problem in his toilet? Did he know his prey preferred Grey Flannel cologne and contrary to bachelor expectations, knew how to cook? Mulder swallowed hard. Closed his eyes. Wished like hell he'd taken the Klonopin Pandya'd prescribed. No. Gotta have that fucking edge. Dog eat dog world out there. Didn't want to be stoned. His face was flushed. This was getting real old, real fast. He kept his breathing under control. Focused on the very real fact that he was not dying, that this was something he'd gone through before and probably would again and that it wouldn't kill him. Oh god it felt like it would. Hot waves and cold waves and his body pumped adrenalin like oil. He opened his eyes to see Scully staring concernedly at him. "I'm okay." He whispered, panting. "Oh yeah, right." She snorted. "Didn't Pandya give you a tranquilizer with those antidepressants?" Mulder chose not to answer that question. Just swallowed and considered a calendar Scully had hung up for 1996. She went and filled a glass with water. Put his hands around it. "I am so sick of this." Mulder managed, drinking. Scully smiled, brushed wet bangs away from his face. "I know. There are people trying to help you. Did you bring your tranquilizers?" He shook his head. "Okay. Just drink that. When you feel better we'll go eat. Can I take this down to Henderson?" "I'll be okay." "Okay. I'll be right back." Mulder rubbed his shoulders, tried to figure out who the hell the killer was that he could just waltz into their offices whenever the fuck he felt like it. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!newsxfer2.it d.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 15:37:52 1996 Article: 22860 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!newsxfer2.it d.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 11/20 NC-17 Date: 14 Aug 1996 12:01:55 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 435 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ust9j$m94@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17, do not read if underage. Usual Disclaimers. Mistress 11/20 by Amperage The upholstery tassel was soft against his flesh. He twisted, feeling it draw unfamiliar sensations against his skin. Tanny's laugh was warm. "Be good. Be very good. I'm aching to use my paddle. I got a new paddle." There was not far he could move, tied to the table and an armchair. The upholstery tassel fell against his navel. He heard Tanny, up, moving. The rustle of taffeta. A door. Not a normal door. Refrigerator. . .no. Freezer. She came back and the clink was crystal. "Are you a good boy?" "I try to be, mistress." "You try very hard. That's true." It pressed against his mouth. "Go ahead. Take it." A nipple. A cold, sweet nipple. Ice Cream. Praline ice cream. He sucked gently. Her hand was hard on his hip. "Harder." He sucked for life, nursed and sucked and then the nipple went away. Ice cream on his mouth. He licked it off. "Was that good, Secret?" "Yes ma'am." "Well then." The cold nearly made his back arch, but he remembered her warning. The warning that she had a new paddle. He did not so much as whimper as the frigid spoon ladled liquid ice onto his nipple. More china clink and then her mouth, hot, wet, soft, fell upon him. Her teeth were sharp and tearing as she sucked and pulled and bit him. "You're right. That's very good." Her hand, her now cold hand fell upon his belly and she wiped the tassel away. "I wonder how it would taste somewhere else." The cold drizzled down onto his cock, fell against the rigid member and dripped onto his stomach. More and more and it was fucking cold. His erection began to wither in the face of so much frigid material. "You don't like the ice cream?" Her voice pouted. "Yes mistress." He pleaded. "Yes. It's just cold." "Oh?" Her mouth again, on his cock. Sucking, licking, nibbling. "I see. You don't like cold things, Secret?" "I do." "But not on your cocknballs?" "I. . ." There was no way he could answer that. "I like whatever my mistress likes." "Then why did your hardness flag?" "I'm sorry, mistress. I was not. . .focussing properly." "I see." Tanny considered this a moment. "I suppose I could warm your bottom." He swallowed. "Yes mistress." "Or I could teach you to focus when you're cold." "Yes mistress." "Which would you prefer, Secret?" He swallowed. "I would prefer to learn." She patted his stomach. "Very good. I enjoy teaching you, Secret." Her hands went to the bonds at his feet, the bonds at his wrists. "Go to the armchair and kneel with your chest against the seat pillows." "Yes mistress." He listened to her move, as she put things up, as she went to the freezer again. The faucet ran a moment. Splashes. She came back. "Brrr. This is cold." She whispered. "Spread your legs. Good Secret." He felt the dollops of cold K-Y jelly against his bottom, her fingers worked it into his rectum and anus, quiet and soft with her work. Gentle. Her fingers massaged his prostrate. "Are you ready?" Her voice cooed. "Yes mistress." "Push out." And the cold against his waiting rectum was incredible. He obeyed his mistress. Felt the cold invade him and yelped. It was small and hard and wet and it was ice. Ice. Ice. There was ice in his rectum. He nearly howled. "Do you want me to take this out?" "I. . ." She was playing with it gently. Her hands were warm. Water dripped down to his balls. curled around it, around the hair. "Your choice. If it leaves you will be warmed. If it stays we will play together later. It won't hurt you." She reassured, voice almost amused. He pushed his body down against the pillow. Tried to control the violent shuddering that tore through him. And she slid the ice dildo in and out. "Agent Mulder." He answered, glancing around the empty office. Scully had gone home at 5:30, portfolio crammed full of papers, informing him that she could work in sweats just as well, and besides, there was good smut on Cinemax tonight. "I wasn't sure you'd be in." Skinner's voice. "I'm working late." "Could you come to my office on your way out?" Mulder was tempted to tell Skinner that he wasn't leaving until 7 or 8. Then decided against it. "I suppose I. . ." "I'll see you in 15 minutes then." The phone clicked. Great. Mulder threw down his pen, started collecting things to cram into his briefcase. The secretary was gone. Great. Of course. She left at 5 on the nose. Mulder tapped on the half-open door. Skinner was sitting at his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie MIA. He glanced up. "Come in, Agent Mulder. Have a seat." He finished up what was apparently an edit on a piece of paperwork. "I spoke with Director King. I believe he now understands the. . .situation better than he did before." "That I'm right and he's wrong?" "That's not how I would phrase it in front of King." Skinner said, leaning his head back, one elbow on the leather arm of his chair, chin resting on the outer portion of his fingers. "According to Dr. Pandya you're on some pretty heavy drugs." Oh joy. Great. Just what Mulder needed. A concerned Walter Skinner. "I'm on an antidepressant. Pandya also prescribed a tranquilizer, but that's optional." "And as such, not optioned?" "No sir." A nod. Skinner shifted, templed his hands in front of his face. "How do you think the UNSUB is getting access to our files?" Mulder swallowed. "I don't know sir. But he is." "No ideas?" Mulder shook his head. "No sir." "If you experience any problems dealing with King, you are to come to me immediately. Do you understand that?" "Yes sir." Mulder did indeed understand that. "If there are any undue. . .problems on *your* end, I would appreciate hearing about it, before you attack anyone in the bullpen again." Skinner's voice was droll. Mulder blinked. "I'm not sure King would be as forgiving as I was." Skinner continued. He was almost smiling. Mulder felt his shoulders slump. Let himself almost smile too. "Yes sir." "Hi." Scully's voice. "Hi." Mulder stared at the television set, trying to make sense out of the muted images writhing about in full technicolor. "I just got a call from Alex Foster. You're supposed to get your stitches out Friday, but you haven't called." It was a pretext and a pretty thin one. She could have addressed this at work. "I'll call tomorrow morning." Mulder promised wearily, staring at the Sig-Sauer in front of him. "I can probably set up an appointment in the morning, after I see Crane." "You've got an appointment Friday?" "Yeah. She's actually letting me skip a day. I'm fucking cured." He closed his eyes. "Skinner called me into his office after you left." "And?" her voice was cautious. "King's still task force leader. But he's under strict orders not to ruffle my feathers." "That's good, I suppose." More cautiousness. "Yeah." Mulder finished his bottled water. "I'd get some rest, Scully." "Why?" "It's been four days since Martin was killed." He heard her gulp. "He's over due." "Fucking A." Mulder agreed passively. "Who do you think he's going after?" "I don't know." Mulder stared at the figure of a woman, black leather tracings her only raiment. Her thin body arched in pretend pleasure. Tanny wore black leather. Black leather vest with a zipper. Loose white silk shirt, full sleeves that gathered at the wrist, dripping with french lace. Small black skirt that zipped behind. High black riding boots. And she pranced as she paced, the riding crop comfortable in her hands. He took the klonopin, knowing it would be the only way to relax enough to sleep, and lay in front of the TV, in and out of hypnotic dazes, dreaming that a man whose face he could never quite see, was in the apartment, looking at pictures of him and Tanny. At black and white surveillance photos of his firm round buttocks clenched reddening in pleasurepain. Dreaming that the man was kissing him and holding him and reassuring him that Mulder was indeed his slave and always would be. That what Tanny truly owned was now this man's own. He was shivering, and there was a ring of white around his mouth. Scully felt her brow creasing, watching her partner sitting at his computer, typing, cold and sweating. "Good morning." "Hi." A soft kitten's voice. He hadn't taken off his jacket and the room was hot. Scully put a hand to his forehead suddenly concerned. Mulder turned and pushed away from her hand angrily, stared at her, face wrinkled with unexpected rage, "get away," he snarled. Scully swallowed, stared at this, Her heart beat wildly. "Sorry. I'm sorry. You just. . .you looked like you might be running a fever." Mulder stared at his partner a long time. Consciously trying to remove any trace of anger from his face. "That doesn't give you any right to treat me like a child. To touch me." He spoke fast, in a rough, angry whisper. "No. It doesn't," Scully agreed, striving for a passive, neutral tone. "You're right. I'm sorry. Okay?" Mulder continued to stare at her. He had begun breathing through his mouth. Ragged, upset breaths. Scully wanted to know if he'd taken any Klonopin this morning, because she seriously doubted it. He was acting tense and nervous and far too brittle. "I'm going to get some coffee. Do you want some?" He stared at her accusatorially. "You're going to call Crane." "No, I wasn't planning on it." Although, now that he mentioned it, it was a great idea. Mulder's hands were in fists. Scully forced herself to back up, to find a chair by feel. She did not want to take her eyes off him. "You look like you feel bad." She said. Mulder stared at her, trying to draw hidden meanings. "I'm okay." Oh yeah. Right. Like hell he was okay. "I just didn't. . .I didn't get much. . .I didn't get much sleep." He said, his voice soft and defensive. "I don't feel good." Scully nodded. "Do you have a fever?" "I don't know." He breathed, swallowed. "I don't know. I don't think so." "Is it cold in here to you?" He nodded. "I'm not sick." Scully nodded. "Why don't you take some Tylenol and whatever Dr. Pandya prescribed for you?" Mulder's eyes were again sharp and paranoid. Scully swallowed. He stared at her, visually searched her. He was mad, she knew that. Mad that he was in the weak position again. But he wouldn't say anything. She hoped. Or do anything. Oh fuck, she sincerely hoped he wouldn't do anything. "We have a team meeting at 10." He said as though this excused everything. Scully couldn't see that this was a valid argument against taking a small dosage of tranquilizer, especially now that King was under orders to play nice, but she understood his position. "How about Tylenol?" Mulder nodded. "Don't call Crane," he said, very gently. Scully knew that it had to be incredibly hard for him to say it exactly as he did. "I won't. If you will, later, when you feel better. If this isn't just the flu." "Don't even joke about that." Mulder snorted. King had figured out a way to let Mulder be right without looking weak. Mulder didn't care. He uncapped his pen and doodled a hangman game to play with Scully while reports were being read and the new security measures were being put into place. Scully didn't even have to play it. "Que sais je" she wrote in the blanks. "What do I know?" She pursed her mouth into a smile. Skinner came in, late again, to peruse the situation. Mulder hadn't contributed much, had answered questions put to him about his position on the killer. Hadn't asked any questions. The other agents and King were all behaving quite relieved. "Agent Mulder." The voice came from the seat by the door. Skinner. Great. "Yes sir." Mulder turned towards the AD. "Do you think these measures will be enough to keep the killer from reading our material?" "I don't know, sir. I doubt anything will be." He glanced at King. "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try." "So you believe the killer is one of us?" "He has access to anything he wants. That's all I'd be willing to say." Mulder swallowed. "Do you think the killer could be the FBI client?" Oh shit. That was something Mulder hadn't even thought of. and should have. He knew the killer wasn't, but then he had access to information that no one else did. Oh fucking shit. "No sir. I doubt our killer works for a government agency. He's more likely to be independently wealthy. Tanny likely knew him when she was a slave. When *she* was the dominated. I think he feels so comfortable in what he's doing, because he does not view her as the dominatrix, but rather as the submissive, because that's the role he first met her in." Good. Good. Good. Fucking A. Skinner nodded, satisfied with this. He'd even given Mulder a chance to embarrass the fucking hell out of King, and Mulder had declined, which was probably the whole point. Everyone waited, but Skinner had addressed the issues he wanted to. King swallowed and began again. "So why don't I just set you up for every day next week?" Crane asked, leaning back in her chair. She was trying to be patient. Trying really hard. But Fox Mulder made it difficult. He was sitting toying with a thin slice of geode he'd snatched from her desktop. He looked up. "I'm sorry." "Then talk to me." He turned the corners of his mouth up for a bare second and then shrugged, went back to his complete absorption in the crystal. Crane considered him. Employee Assistance Program. Okay, he was an employee and this was a program. Assistance? Yeah, right. He was uncooperative and stubborn and she wasn't doing him the least bit of good. "How are your stitches doing?" She asked. "They come out tomorrow. I could pick them out myself, I guess. But the last time I did I left some of one in." He wrinkled his nose. "And then the doctor had to dig around to find it. I just let the professionals cut the damn things now." He touched the barbs of the stitches, self-consciously. "Besides, this is my face." Crane smiled at this. "I heard you came out top dog in the big showdown." He shrugged. "That was a given. Skinner's my supervisor." "How are you dealing with the panic attacks?" "I'm surviving them." Mulder looked up. "This isn't going to turn into a whole behavioral-cognitive thing where I keep charts and schedules, is it?" "I don't know. I'm trying to find ways to help you. If I can't help you by letting you talk about whatever's bothering you, then maybe I should just help you change behaviors." Mulder snorted. "What?" "Nothing. You want to know something about what's bothering me?" He shrugged. "The Klonipin gave me bad dreams." "Bad Dreams?" "I dreamed the killer was in my apartment all night." He looked up. "He kissed me and he played with me." "Played with you?" Crane blinked. "How did he play with you." "He fondled me." Mulder shrugged, cheeks growing red. "He kept saying I was his now." Crane stared at her patient, at this sudden, unexpected confidence. At this very real indicator that Fox Mulder should definitely *not* be on the Bonet murders. "Do you know why you would have that kind of dream?" Actually, Fox Mulder knew very well why he would have that dream. But it was not the answer he could give Crane. "Because, the UNSUB's fucking us over now. He's dominating the FBI. It's a very credible threat that he would want to dominate me." He swallowed, slid his palm across the slick surface of the polished stone. "Is that normal?" "What, for the Klonopin to cause that kind of reaction? I know it's not unheard of. I don't know statistics. Does it disturb you?" Mulder rolled his eyes. "What do you think? I'm here on a day you gave me off, aren't I?" "Well, you can talk to Dr. Pandya. It's not usual to give a benzodizepine with a TCA, except for maybe a small amount of Xanax." "Pandya had to do quick work, so he gave me a quick cure along with a long one." Mulder dismissed. "What did you feel like?" Crane attempted to get things back on her turf. "It felt like rape." Mulder swallowed. "It felt like I was being fucking raped." His name was Christopher Godwin. The neighbors were standing out on the communal lawn staring at the legions that were descending on the narrow, privately managed streets. "Says here he was just starting his MA. In European History or some such. Rich kid. He came back home from Vail yesterday." King told Mulder and Scully as they entered the small condo. Books, books, more books. Godwin had nice furniture, it looked like stuff a mom would picked out, but books covered everything. Mulder wrinkled his nose suddenly. The smell was everywhere. The smell of the blood that splattered the walls, the rich, conservative furniture. "Messy with this one, wasn't he?" Mulder observed, staring at the nicely framed prints on the walls of the hallway, at the blood that had dried on their smooth, glass surface. "Yeah." King glanced back at Mulder as they walked down the hallway. "His study was here." King pointed into one door. "He's here. The bedroom, I guess." The body lay on top of a queen sized bed, cattycorner, to take up as much room as possible. The sheets were the red of clotted blood and Mulder did not have to guess that they had once been another color, before this. Godwin's face was open and blank. His wrists were crossed across the top of his chest, across the open and gaping wounds. He had been pretty. Blonde hair, dark eyes. A beautiful face and mouth. His physique was lithe, that of a swimmer. He had been beautiful. Mulder felt a surge of jealousy. So far all the others had been older men, with love handles and pot bellies and bald spots. So far there had been no one with Mulder's good looks. Christopher Godwin had been beautiful. Blood on all the surfaces. Blood on the mirrors. Blood on the white walls. The smell was overwhelming. Scully was talking to the photographer even as she got a satchel from someone and rifled through it for her meat thermometer. King was ordering lesser agents and Baltimore police around with sure, easy efficiency. Mulder just stood. Godwin had been beautiful. He had money and wealth. The jealousy was a bitter taste in the back of Mulder's mouth. Mulder was nothing special. He was a charity case. Tanny hadn't needed to go out of her usual circle for someone pretty and cute. "Housekeeper came in and found the body." King took the time to inform Mulder. "He had a housekeeper?" Mulder marvelled. "The ways of the wealthy." King shrugged and gave Mulder a good natured grin. If King was willing to act normally, Mulder definitely was willing to go the extra mile and play nice back. At least in this case. He returned the smile. Mulder glanced at his partner. "Any guesses?" "He's cold but not reeealll stiff. . .today. He's fresh." She returned. Mulder nodded. Someone came in with a body bag, only it wasn't time for the body bag yet, and Scully began her usual pathologist screeching about procedure and fucking things up and things would be done right when she was the examiner, thank you very much. The crews were used to it. That's how pathologists were. Any fuck ups were Scully's fault, not theirs. He wandered out of the bedroom. Blood. The carpet was squishy with blood. Okay, the human body has a couple gallons of blood. . .Mulder tried to remember the last time he'd dropped a gallon of milk and seen it smash. That didn't. . . "There's entirely too much blood for one person?" He asked Scully hopefully, looking over his shoulder back at her. She looked up from her measurements. "Yeah. There's too much blood." Her voice was unsurprised. "So where did he get the extra?" "Especially around Christmas." Scully replied. "Blood banks are usually low around Christmas." Mulder considered this fact, gravely declining the first sarcastic comment that came to mind. It was hard to be sympathetic when he wished the guy were alive enough to kill. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!newsxfer2.it d.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 15:37:56 1996 Article: 22862 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!newsxfer2.it d.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 12/20 NC-17 Date: 14 Aug 1996 12:04:08 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 345 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ustdo$mel@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17 material, including B&D. Do not read if underage or you do not like such material. Usual disclaimers. Mistress 12/20 by Amperage His office was calm. Mulder stared across the untidiness and for once wished for a tiny little cubicle in the bullpen. Some place with a divider instead of a wall, a place where his photograph of Sam seemed naked and fragile. Here it was just more of the clutter and no one commented on it or made bad jokes. His I Want To Believe poster. Here it was just more clutter. Max's NICAP cap. More clutter. The photo of Toom's elongated fingers. Clutter. The cardboard FBI seal he'd requisitioned as a joke, surprised when he'd gotten it. Clutter. Meaningless clutter to disguise the fact that he didn't have anything meaningful in his life. Tanny. What had he been to Tanny? He'd known their relationship was that of one with power and one with out. He'd been happy in that. But he'd always thought of himself as special. Was that part of the trip for Tanny? Make all her slaves feel special, build up their self-esteems? Was he just a job? Did someone out there pay her the difference for his sessions? She knew he needed to feel special with a woman, because he hadn't. He didn't. Sex was just sex. He closed his eyes. Did the Cigarette Smoking Man pay her, his thick fingers doling out hundreds to put in the white paper envelope. Had Reggie started it, seeing how he went through women gaining nothing but the moment of physical relief? What had it been? There was nothing to be gained from this. He had a job to do. Mulder swallowed and pulled a form out of the stack. Normal, routine paperwork that had to be done. He opened the file as he searched around for a good pen. And his eyes were suddenly drawn to the slick surface of a photograph. A photograph he remembered seeing. His bottom, his red, bruising bottom, and the long aristocratic fingers holding a wooden brush. He was in the office. Scully had tried to call him on the desk phone and the cell on her way over. To tell him to pack it up and go home. To hear his voice. He was in the office but it looked like he was in orbit. "Hey." She said, dumping her satchel and purse. Mulder started. As though he hadn't noticed her. "Hey." "It's already 5:30." Scully informed him. "Yeah. I know." Mulder gave her a half-smile. "I've got things to do. . .got to update my profile. . .I want to talk to Godwin's parents. . ." His words trailed off. He frowned. "Why don't you pack it up and go home?" "Are you?" He asked. Scully shrugged. "I'd rather get this out of the way." "You finished the autopsy?" "Yeah. The hacking and whacking anyway. I've sent all the lab stuff out too." Mulder nodded. Small beads of sweat lined his forehead and cheeks. He looked perfectly awful. "Crane called Skinner again. She's more insistent that I leave the case." Scully waited. He would finish it for himself or he wouldn't. Mulder shrugged. "I can't leave the case though. Skinner even talked to someone from Investigative Support about replacing me, but even they admit I'm doing better work than they could." He swallowed, stared at nothing. "I've got work I've got to complete. Do you want to order something in?" He looked up, hopefully. Scully had a diet shake in her desk that she'd planned on having for supper. But she stared at her partner and knew she couldn't tell him no. "Yeah sure. As long as it's low fat." Mulder nodded. "Sure." She did not ask what had him so rattled. Did not ask why he was so preoccupied. Mulder was grateful, bent over his desk, eating the vegetarian chinese Scully had ordered for them both. Plain rice and stirfried veggies. At least it was almost edible, due to the peppers and the mushrooms and large amounts of soy sauce. He ate quietly, worked, tried not to think. He would have to spend another night at a hotel. That much he knew. He. . .no more of Pandya's Klonipin. A hotel would be safe. He didn't care what he had to pay. He could not face his apartment. Remember what hadn't been a dream. The voice in his ear. "You're my secret now." The feel of warm hands over his genitals. Had the others been touched and fondled and teased as he was? Was this part of the killer's pleasure? He thought about calling Tower's widow. If anyone would have known she would have. She had been forthright with him. Surely she would have mentioned anything threatening. Tower had had no reason to hide any intimidation from his widow. Godwin had been on Christmas break, skiing in Colorado. Apparently no intimidation there. Mulder closed his eyes. Godwin had looks. "What were your secret places?" "Where did you hide?" "Do you cry?" Godwin, from looks, from the outside, which could be deceiving as Mulder well knew, but from what Mulder knew now, had not had dark places. Or was he just deceiving himself? He had gone to the bathroom and been gone a long time. When he came back, Scully looked up at him. He saw the careful, profound concern in her eyes, behind the thin veil of reading glasses. "You okay?" "I'm fine." Mulder swallowed. "I'm fine." He sat down, wincing at the new bruises on his thighs. It was 7 when Scully finished, and she insisted that he leave at the same time she did. She watched him leave, watched to be sure he did not double back. Mulder felt like a child, and frowned. She had good reason, undoubtedly, but it still irked. He went back after she was gone, watched the night guard roll his eyes. Got stuff from his office. A clean shirt and underwear. He chose the Radisson. Different hotels, different nights. Musical beds. There weren't a lot of tourists right now. The desk clerk gave him a government discount for the hell of it, and upgraded him to the concierge floors for free. Her eyes begged him to tell her if he was on the outs with his wife for just one night or for long term. Mulder smiled and ducked his head and walked across the gleaming lobby to his elevator. He took the antidepressant without much thought. Got the remote and curled up on the bed in his underwear. Curled up with his chin to his knees. "Secret. You're my secret now. You belong to me." Hands reaching and tucking and pulling his sweats down. A hand against the flat of his stomach. "So beautiful. So full. You are so handsome. You're mine now. Do you understand Secret? You're mine now." He tried to focus on the TV, to watch the flittering images, but his mind relived the sensate feeling of hands stroking his genitals, of the faceless creature showing him image after image of surveillance quality photos, images stolen, evidence of long plotting. The phone sat beside the bed. It was a nice room. Elegant with a separate sitting area and a high comfortable bed and cream colored walls. Mulder pictured King and Scully coming in here, with his body spread open, his eyes wide and unseeing. Blood slicking down the floors. What was the point of the extra blood at the Godwin site? Why had he done that? Mulder considered that. The gore was important. Very important. He considered the phone. Scully can you come up to the Radisson? I need to talk. I need to tell you something. Scully, I fucked Tanneka Bonet. I'm the FBI link. Scully, I thought it was something special, but now I'm not so sure. Scully I'm going fucking crazy and I've withheld so much evidence it's appalling. Scully, those notes you've been getting? They're from the killer. Last night he was in my apartment, but I thought it was a dream. Scully, I'm going crazy. Scully, I. Yeah right. The gore was important. The Evening News. Godwin's college boy portrait and then his father. Mark Godwin. A top thug with the CIA. Great. Mulder turned up the sound, listened to the news reporter on Channel 5 delineate how this case fit into the Dominatrix murders. The fact that Martin was *not* a client still hadn't been released or leaked. Good. Mulder expected some new, bright eyed agent to let it slip in the next 24 hours, but for right now it was silent. It didn't really matter. The killer knew. Their UNSUB knew everything. It didn't matter what the press knew. But it might help keep down copycats. Oh yeah, that's a neat trick anyone can learn over the internet. How to vivisect someone and just have them look surprised. Mulder made a face. Stared at the senior Godwin for a moment. Turned off the TV. Called down to the Concierge desk for something to drink. Diet Coke. Hello. Hello Secret. Hello. A sudden movement and the sheets were gone. He was sleepy. Brightness. Wince. The pillows were soft and wet where he had drooled onto them. A sharp sting in his hip. He could not see. Feathers. Bird's wings on his face. Hello. He smelled a man's musk. I'm Uriel. Of course you are. Warm flesh on uncertain skin. Warm hands rubbing his. Something cold. Oh God. He wanted to move. He couldn't move. He couldn't move. His arms were heavy. So heavy. Like lead. He could feel, but he couldn't move. Tanny's voice, from far off: "I used to think that God changes out people's souls. I couldn't think how it could be fair, that lives are so different. So God changed out the souls--left the memories, but whatever was at center of the human spirit--he switched them out at regular intervals." He tried to lift his head. Tanny? Tanny? You're dead. Warm hands. Warm hands, playing with cock and balls. He wanted to vomit. His mouth was so dry. Wanted to move. Couldn't move. The mask made him want to vomit. He had a headache. Make it stop. Make it stop. Feathers in his face. The hands were warm against his flesh. A mouth. Down there. Down there. Don't play with strangers. Don't let them touch you. Tanny held his cock between milkwhite teeth, laughing as she took and swallowed his cum. Birds fluttered against his face. He choked, coughed, could not breathe. "Oh Fuck." His head was against the pillow. Now, strong hands holding his face. It hurt his neck. Vomit. Hot, spewing vomit. Oh God. Rolled. His face was in the vomit. Oh God. I won't do it again. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. "Secret, I think you need a spanking. A good, hard spanking. The paddle or the belt, I wonder. . ." The pillow was silk and linen smooth and pressed his cock against the softness. Secrets. So many secrets. Peel the label. It's your name first, Fox. It's dark in here and wet and you can hear the bird's wings. Felt fingers and the sudden cold. Cold. Oh God. It was so fucking cold. His arms. He wanted to move. His arms were numb. Like wooden blocks. Bird's wings fluttered and the rats ate them when they fell to the aviary floor. Dark. Oh Dark. Everything goes to the dark. Cold against his anus. Cold in his rectum. Cold and slick. Spanking. It hurt. Oh God. It hurt. Please God. Make it stop. Make it stop. Don't let them touch you down there. Strangers give you candy. Rats eat the candy and leave the bird's wings. Fluttering in the cold. Cold. IT HURT. He was patient. Fingers now. Fingers. Pushing. Pushing and pushing. "Do you know who I am, Secret?" Uriel. You're uriel. With the bird's wing mask. "I took Tanny in her time. I take you. I will keep you with me." Under your wing. Uriel sweeps us all under his dark wings. Flutter birds, flutter high. "I loved Tanny. I love you. Tanny wouldn't stay. But that's all right. You're mine now. You're not Tanny's anymore." Tanny. Blonde hair. He was prettier than the other one. Uriel? It hurt. Oh God. Please. It hurt. It hurt and he couldn't do anything. Tanny stop holding my hands. Stop it. Make him stop hurting me. The birds are fluttering in my ears and I can't hear. It hurts, Tanny. Tanny, please. Please make it stop. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Make it stop. Please. I'll do anything you say. Tanny, all I can smell are the birds and the rats and the rats are eating me. I'm alone. Oh Tanny. I promise, I'll be so good. The clock said 7:47. Mulder closed his eyes, opened them again. Felt panic rising in his chest. Oh fucking shit. Work. He was. . .this wasn't his apartment. 7:47. His mouth was dry, his head hurt, his heart was fluttering in his chest. The myriad of outer physical sensations returned at once, in a terrifying flutter of perceptions. His rectum hurt. It was slimy. His face and hair were sticky with vomit. His body hurt. He was naked. The memory of the hands returned. The hands. Mulder put his head against the smelly pillow and stared as the red light of numbers changed to 7:48. He huddled in the bathroom, on the cotton bathmat. Stared at his toes. Oh God. He had to get dressed. He had to get. . .Last night. The killer. It was all so dark. A swirling of sensations and he remembered birds. Birds fluttering in the dark. Oh God he had to get dressed. There was no physical damage. He was supposed to get his stitches out this morning. He had an appointment with Crane. God only knew what she would want to do. He had to turn in his profile. He had to. . .it was almost 8. He had to call in, tell them he was sick. He'd. . .oh God. Just that he was sick. Not Scully. Don't call Scully. Not King. He had to leave the bathroom and go into the sitting area. There was a phone. That could have been ten miles. Oh God, he felt heavy and fuzzy and it was all so odd. He had to pull it together. Get dressed. The. . .he hadn't been hurt. <<>> The dark angel with the fluttering wings. He hadn't been hurt. There was no physical damage. He could be dead. <<>> He had to get to that phone. Mark Godwin stared at the paper on Skinner's conference table. Paper Lions. Skinner was confronting a senior official with the CIA with a paper lion and hoping it would hold. He and King and Scully. Mulder. . .God knew where Mulder was. He'd called personnel at 8, sounding, according to the clerk who'd taken the call, like he was about to puke his lungs up. Running a fever. Dizzy. Just what they needed. Their analyst was home with the flu. Godwin was tall and powerful. He matched bookends with Skinner, a fact not lost on anyone in the room. Both men were balding, wore glasses and conservative suits. Both men were former marines. But Skinner was not weighed down with grief. Skinner did not have shaking hands and he did not finger a thin gold wedding band as though it were priceless. Mark Godwin's eyes were swollen. Big tough men don't cry. "So I've got the Assistant Director of Violent Crimes. The head of the task force and the pathologist. Where's the profiler, your analyst?" "Agent Mulder is home with the flu. He's promised to fax in whatever he can later." The last was a lie. But Skinner said with confidence and authority. Godwin stared at Skinner curiously struck by that name. That was all Skinner needed. Godwin's toes had been stepped on by one of Mulder's quests to uncover conspiracy and corruption in high places. "Fox Mulder?" He asked, frowning. Skinner exchanged a level glance with Scully. Great. "Yes sir. He's. . ." "He's one of your best, I know. I'm glad he's on the task force." Said still completely distracted. Eyes downcast. Skinner let King outline their progress on the case, let Scully discuss what they had learned from forensic science. Godwin listened attentively, absorbed and digested. "Is there anyway I can get hold of Agent Mulder?" "I'm not sure he's up to it. . .he seems to have a virulent gastrointestinal bug." Skinner said with an apologetic shrug. Godwin nodded. Skinner wondered that Godwin did not pursue it. Then realized: Godwin didn't have to pursue it. He simply had to call an aide and he would have everything from Mulder's telephone number to the profiler's shoe size and amount of cream the man put in his coffee. There were people who kept very careful records on Agent Fox Mulder and Skinner was certain that Mark Godwin had access to them. They said more inanities. Things designed to comfort and console a top official. Godwin listened as he probably listened to scores of inane reports from underlings. When they were through, Godwin rose. Shook Skinner's hand. "I lost my wife to cancer eight years ago. Chris was all I had left. If you need anything. I'm here." The steel in his voice left no doubt what kinds of help he was offering. Not to anyone in the room. Help that is not spoken of, help that can be condoned only by star chambers and dictatorships. From math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.co m!newsxfer2.itd.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.co m!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 15:37:56 1996 Article: 22863 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.co m!newsxfer2.itd.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.co m!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 13/20 NC-17 Date: 14 Aug 1996 12:06:51 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 475 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ustir$mhf@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17 material, including B&D. Do not read if underage or you do not like such material. Usual disclaimers. Mistress 13/20 by Amperage Mulder had been driving all day. Cruising the streets of DC without end, staring at the people, stopping for gas and bottled water. He was not hungry. He did not know where to go or what to do. It was aimless, this wandering. He found himself at the Vietnam Memorial and decided to do the tourist thing. His father had never gone to Vietnam. Mulder was fairly certain of that. He was not certain of much about his father. But he was certain of that. His father's work had been here. On native soil. There were men without legs and men without arms and women without lovers and mothers without sons. He was a son without a father and there were other men like him here too. But their fathers had been dead for perhaps two decades. Do some wounds heal? He wandered the sidewalk beside the gash of granite, in no rush. No one said anything of a government employee in his wingtips and Armani suit and Burberry trench. With his short, FBI regulation haircut, and the small designer sunglasses. No one took any notice of him. Of course, it was not crowded. Not many people, not today. Not this Friday. He watched a tall, bearded man hoist a small girl, not over 4, to his shoulders. A woman gave the girl a charcoal pencil and a strip of paper. The girl had to be guided to the right name. Her fingers touched names of the dead until she found the right place to start. Mulder swallowed. He could not watch the little girl with her dark hair and the big bright green ribbons braided into her hair. Not for very long. His car was cold. Tanneka Bonet's owner. She had been sold at 14, then trained at 16. Her owner had been a defense contractor. The killer had power in the government. He knew Tanny when she was a slave. Chris Godwin was the son of Mark Godwin. Mark Godwin of the CIA. Chris Godwin. The click was like a rifle retort. Christopher Godwin one of Tanny's clients? Yeah, right. But didn't Mulder *want* Chris Godwin to *not* be a client? But why would Chris be one of Tanny's clients? Tanny. . . Christopher Godwin? She'd have told him to go play in a sandbox. But wasn't that what Mulder wanted? Chris Godwin didn't have the hallmarks or the reasons. Blood. Blood everywhere. He'd been told. The killer knew Mulder wouldn't catch it. Chris Godwin wasn't one of Tanny's. The extra blood was to show it was a staged production. Not for real. It was just to play with Mulder's mind. It wasn't anything. The blood was important, it was a necessary prop. To tell his play goer that this was indeed, a morality play. It had nothing to do with reality. Chris Godwin didn't have any reason to need Tanny. Mark Godwin did. Fatherless sons. Sonless Fathers. The sound of the bullet ripping through the house. He had been drugged, sitting in the harsh light with darkness all around. His father's scotch scented the room. Mulder stared across the parking lot. There was a secret world that Mulder could never escape. He thought he had opened it because his sister had been kidnapped. No, his sister had been kidnapped because of his father. Mulder could have gone his own course. But They would not have let him leave the circles he had been born to. His name on the folder under Sam's. But they would have let him think he lived his own life, anyway. But he had stayed in their circles, wearing blinders for most of that time and they still kept him in blindfolds. But he was still there and always would be. Circles Mark Godwin knew. And it was in those circles that Tanny came from. Someone in those circles gave Tanneka Bonet Mulder's name. Mulder swallowed and reached into his pocket. He didn't know where Mark Godwin lived, but the FBI did. And so did the Lone Gunman. Mark Godwin was Tanny's client. Perhaps. Mark Godwin had access to information that could help Mulder capture the killer. Perhaps. But would he want to talk to Mulder? Mulder wondered if the killer had a son. His own father had been. . .implicated deeply. But he had tried to protect his son. In the end, he hadn't wanted Mulder hurt. He'd let them take Samantha. But he'd spent his entire life regretting it. Deep Throat. Mulder stared at the Cape Cod house that belonged to Mark Godwin. Deep Throat had seen in him some kind of son. The killer had never had a child. Mark Godwin might be slime. He might be honest. Mulder did not know. But Mulder was hoping that Mark Godwin loved his son. He was gambling that Mark Godwin loved his son. That Mark Godwin would at least give him something. Some bit of information. He could be fooling himself. But Mulder was running out of choices. His other choices were death or bending his knee and giving in to the killer. He didn't like those choices very much. He didn't fancy become the killer's prize. Mark Godwin turned into his culdesac and stared at the car sitting beside his home. His hand was on his cellular, finger ready to speed dial a number that would take care of unwanted guests. Then he saw the dark hair and the uncomfortable posture of a man asleep. He saw Fox Mulder's face. He saw Tanneka Bonet's Secret sitting in the car asleep. Mulder was already awake when Godwin pulled into his own driveway. Awake and getting out of his car. "Director Godwin?" Mulder said, striding across the winter dead lawn. He had his credentials.2 "Agent Mulder." Godwin said, staring at the thin face and the dark circles ringing blood shot eyes. There were stitches that needed to come out. Mulder held his credentials in his hand uncertainly. "I was told you were ill." Godwin said flatly. Mulder swallowed. "I need to talk to you about your son." "I should have guessed that you would know." They stared at each other. "You also look like you're about to pass out. Come in. We'll talk there." Mulder sat on the couch, stared at the pattern of carpet a moment. "Your son wasn't one of her clients, was she?" It was a redundant question, but it was all he could think of to say. "No." "You were." "Yes. And so were you." Mulder directed his gaze at Godwin. "I don't know what you're talking about." "I know you were one of hers. Tanny didn't know I knew. . .I. . ." Godwin swallowed. "I wanted her for Christmas. I wanted to spend the time with her. And she wouldn't have me. She didn't want me. Not then. So I found out why." It was such a petty thing, so small. So important. They stared at each other a long time. "Are you sure Chris wasn't one of hers?" Mulder's voice was soft and desperate. Godwin closed his eyes, felt the unfamiliar tears again. Men don't cry. "I'm very certain. Chris was gay." He felt Mulder's eyes boring into him. Godwin got up and poured himself a drink. On second thought, he poured a second glass full of Glenfiddich for Mulder too. Mulder took it, swirled the clear amber liquid around in the glass. "The killer didn't know." Mulder said. Godwin could almost see the wheels turning in his brain. "Unless there's some reason the killer wanted you quiet." Godwin shrugged. Mulder nodded and drank his whiskey. "Why are you here?" Godwin asked. Mulder put the glass down on the coffee table. "Because I thought it wasn't Chris. But I had to know. I didn't know if you would help me. But I thought. . .I thought I would ask." He stared at Godwin. "Your father died recently." "Not too recently. 7 months ago." "Recently. Violently." "Yes." "My wife died 8 years ago. I didn't give much thought to family before that. I had my work. I thought it was enough. Your father lost his wife. She left him." Mulder said nothing, stared at Godwin to ask why he would know so much. "I suspect that until my wife was diagnosed, I would have made a good match for your father, for all the men in that world. But that. . .I remembered why I'd married Katie. And I had a son. A young son, in his first year of high school. A son who didn't understand. I discovered. . ." Godwin stared at his glass. "I love my work. But I found out I love my family more. Your father didn' b t find that out until the end of his life. Did he?" The question came as a surprise to Mulder, who was ready more to hear a monologue than to be given questions. "I don't know." Mulder replied. He swallowed. No, Scully, it has nothing to do with my father. It has nothing to do with him. Oh God, it had everything to do with his father. His father did know. In the hogan. His father knew now. "I didn't want that world anymore." Godwin's voice was soft, breaking through Mulder's contemplation. "And I had a son I could be proud of." "Even though he was gay?" "Chris hid it, because he knew. . ." Godwin closed his eyes. His face drew up. "Because he knew that I hoped he would follow me into the CIA. No one. . .nobody knew. Oh God. If I. . .I wish he hadn't been. . .I wish the world had known." Mulder felt the scotch course through him, warming him. Alcohol is a depressant, he reminded himself, staving off thoughts of drinking more. He waited in silence for Godwin to speak. "You were her favorite." Godwin's voice was soft. "Weren't you?" Mulder swallowed. Stared at his shoes. Did not answer. "She loved you, I think." Godwin analyzed. "She wanted to be with you." Mulder closed his eyes. "Maybe. I want to think she did." "Why haven't you been killed?" Godwin's voice was rough. "Why aren't you dead?" Mulder shivered. Cold again. The bird's wings fluttered like a bumblebee's hum. He heard the voice again. Godwin waited for him to speak. Sat and waited. "He doesn't want me dead." Mulder found his voice. "He's been. . .playing with me." "You were Tanny's favorite and now you're his." It was too much. Favorite. A toy stolen from one child and held by the next. Mulder could not open his eyes. "What has he been doing to you?" Godwin was trying to keep emotion out of his words, but it leaked through. Horror and pity. Mulder opened his eyes, because he had to. He could feel the cold lubricant sliding down his rectum and into his anus. "You look like. . .like six different kinds of hell." "It doesn't matter." Mulder swallowed. He shook his head. "I'm dealing with it. If I catch him it ends. . . Sir. I think. . .What do you know of Tanny?" Godwin watched Mulder, decided not to press the issue. It was not his confidence. He would let Mulder fall back into the things he knew. He did not have to give the question large amounts of thought. The answer was obvious. "I know that she was the only choice for a man in my circumstances. She was the only one discreet enough." "Do you know who trained her?" Godwin shook his head. "Ian Long. That's why she was used by. . .people like you. The killer. . .the killer has. . .he can get anywhere. He reads everything. Knows everything. I don't. . .I'm not a player. You know that. This man is." "You could be a player." "I don't want to be." Godwin nodded. "What do you want?" "I need to know the contacts. I need to know. . .Tanny was 16 when she became Ian Long's slave. I need to know who in that household could have. . .borrowed her." "Is that the killer?" Mulder nodded. "Yes. That's the killer. I think. I need. . .I have to know. It's got to be someone well protected." Godwin ran his tongue across his teeth. Considered this knowledge. "I can get that information." He stared at the figure sitting across from him. "I want to know what's going on, please." Mulder nodded. Mulder had a bike chain for his bathroom door. He hoped it would give him peace of mind enough to sleep. A bike chain and a burger cradled in his arms, and his apartment waited on him to return. The fish were probably considering evolving far enough to get their own food out of the fridge. And he would probably have to listen to phone messages for 20 minutes. He did not realize that someone was in the room at first. Then he saw the figure in the shadows. He pulled his gun knowing it was not the killer. Too direct. Too forward. He was awake and conscious. When he flicked on the light, Scully was sitting there in the dark. Her face was pale and her eyes dilated. Oh fucking great. He swallowed, holstered his gun. She wasn't startled. She'd known he would be nervous. She still hadn't said anything. What the hell was Scully doing here? Wonderful. He'd managed to avoid her the whole day and here she was. Why was she here? Her gaze was level as he dropped his purchases into a chair. "I fed your fish." "Thank you." Why are you here?" Mulder sat down. She had a thick, padded envelope in her hands. "I. . .went to get some coffee. When I came back, this was on my desk." "More hate mail? Are you sure this isn't Monty from accounting. You know he's shy." Mulder's teasing didn't even draw a glimmer of light from her eyes. She tossed the envelope across the coffee table. "Here." Mulder picked it up. One thing in the envelope. One thing alone. He pulled out the sheet of paper. Laser printing, small tight laser printing. It described last night in intimate detail. How the killer had slipped scopolamine into Mulder's coke. Then come in, with Mulder asleep, and how he had given Mulder Fentanyl. He described the scars on Mulder's leg from a gunshot wound. He described Mulder's body. He detailed the rape from his aspect. How Mulder had vomited. Pushing Mulder's torso up onto pillows. Using KY to prepare Mulder's anus. The feel as his dick slid into Mulder's unwilling body and the face in the feathered mask whimpered for Tanny and drooled. Tanny's favorite Secret was now his. Mulder put the paper down, hands trembling. He could not speak. His breath was hot in his mouth and his chest ached. Hot and cold. He shivered. He didn't hurt me. He didn't hurt me. It doesn't matter. He put paper in the envelope. He would not think about it. Could not. "I called the hotel and found out you were there. I talked to the maid. She said there was vomit on your sheets. You were one of Bonet's clients." Scully's voice echoed a deep betrayal. Mulder had no response. "You should have called me this morning. Oh God. Mulder." Mulder wrapped his arms around his chest. Stared through his window to the lights and shadows of the street outside. "He didn't hurt me." Mulder heard the words, didn't know if they were his. The sentence cut off any words Scully might have been planning to say. She stared at him, incredulous. "He raped you." Mulder stood and walked to his desk, to where he could stare out the window. "Why didn't you talk to me before this? My God, Mulder, he's been sending me coy little notes. . .Why didn't you tell me about all this?" She was close and cloying. Mulder whirled before he could stop himself. Whirled and stared at his partner. "Tell you what? That I went to Tanny's house and she spanked me? Tell you about the anal plugs and the leather belts and the cock straps and the spreader bars? I couldn't tell you. You know I couldn't. I couldn't say anything to anyone. Sexual deviance, enough to get me dismissed from the Bureau." "You knew I wouldn't tell. You knew I wouldn't let anyone else know." "I didn't want you to know." "But I had to deal with it. I had to be there and watch you. I had to talk to Skinner and I had to. . .God, Mulder, do you think I enjoyed making you go to Crane? Do you think. . ." "It wasn't your fucking problem. It was mine. It was my problem. And I could handle it." "It stopped being your problem the moment I got a note and you knew who had sent it." "I didn't think you were in danger. You're not in danger." "He's killed 6 people and I'm not in danger?" "You're not in any danger until he's tired of using me. He won't. . .he won't kill you because then I might do something stupid." "Like talk?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Yes. Like talk. He knows I value you. He knows you're the only. . ." He could not say it. "He won't kill me because. . ." Mulder closed his eyes. "He just wants to dominate me. To control me body and soul. He doesn't want me dead, at least not until he's used me up and I'm so tired of his games that I don't care." "And when you feel that way. . ." "You're dead." The reality of what games he had been playing, of what exactly was going on, hit him suddenly. The fact that another man had forced his way into Mulder's hotel room and raped him while Mulder hallucinated and vomited, pounded into his brain. "I'm dead. But he knows I'd do anything rather than let you die." He finished, collapsing into a chair. "How much evidence have you hidden? How much of your reports is bullshit?" Mulder shook his head. "You've impeded an investigation. How do you know Martin wouldn't be dead if. . ." "If it wasn't Martin it would be someone else. And *I* have all the facts and the killer hasn't been found." "You're one person. This is a fucking murder investigation. This is more than you." "Oh come off it." His voice was sharp and he stared at his partner. "What the fuck has anyone else come up with? Spooky writes his reports and they're gospel and everyone follows Spooky. I'm the fucking perfect analyst. If I don't think something it doesn't get thought. King fucking found that out, didn't he? He disagreed with me and Skinner slapped him down pretty fucking quick." "So what now?" Her voice was quiet. "What. . .what are you going to do?" "I don't know. What I should do is call Skinner and tell him what I know, get you put into protective custody." "You'd be there with me. And the killer would still be out there. . .Tanny. . .Scully, I didn't call Tanny; Tanny called me." Scully frowned, not understanding. She knew this meant something. Was not sure what. "Tanny knew to call me. Had been told about me. Her clients. . .Chris Godwin wasn't her client. Mark Godwin was. . .My God, Scully you've been insisting that this is about my father and I've been denying it. But it fucking is. It all goes back to the fact that my name is a part of the shadow government. If I sold insurance my name would still be circling in that cesspool. . .the killer is obviously part of that circle. Skinner can't help us. Protective custody can't help us. This UNSUB *is* part of the government. I don't know who he is or what, but he has a lot more power than Skinner or you or I dream of having. Tanny was sold into this world, into the household of a man in this world who had. . .appetites. And she learned and she moved in that world. She got her clients from that world. Godwin went to her because he knew that she was the only acceptable choice for a man in his position. Someone gave her my name, someone in that world. She charged me little or nothing." He took a deep breath. "I don't know why. But I know our killer is in that world. And he. . .he wants to possess me. Body and soul. Because I was Tanny's. And maybe because of who I am." Scully took a deep breath. Released it. She remembered a time when she had laughed when someone had torn the counterfeiting strip out of her twenty. She remembered a time when she had no idea who could have dug up the bodies of two teenagers. Oh God, she remembered a time when she had autopsied bodies and been the dutiful daughter and Melissa had just seemed like a silly flake. Those days were gone. Is ignorance bliss? Most people walked among whited seplechars and never knew what foulness lurked within. But someone named Fox Mulder had shown her the inside where dead bodies reeked. The truth. That's why she went into the FBI. She sat down. It was cold in the apartment. Mulder's fish were swimming to the top of the tank, hoping Mulder wouldn't know that Scully had fed them. "Where've you been?" "I drove around." Mulder swallowed. "I went and saw Godwin." "You look like hell." He nodded miserably. She glanced at the bike lock. "What were you going to do?" "Lock myself into my bathroom tonight." Scully felt herself smile. "Been there. Done that." "I hope he can't change shape. One neat trick from this guy is enough." "I wish you had told me. I wish you wouldn't do this to me. It hurts." "I'm sorry. I couldn't." Scully nodded. She didn't want to accept. She wanted to yell and to rage. She wanted to be mad at him. "How long?" "Was I her supplicant? 6 years now." "That's where you were headed to Christmas Eve?" He nodded. 6 years. "This started before the X-files, then." "Ummm. . .yeah." Scully nodded. "What are we going to do?" "Godwin's trying to find out possible names for me. I'm going to talk to Mrs. Tower tomorrow, if she's still around." "You need to find someone to talk to. . .about what. . .about what happened to you." Mulder shook his head. "It's there. It's going to always be there." "I know. If I kill him, then it will be all right." "No, it won't." Scully sighed, changed topics. "Has he been in your apartment before?" "Yes. Two nights ago that I'm sure of. I think he had me on Scopolamine then." "You can go to my apartment." Mulder shook his head. "I can't go there. It isn't safe for either of us. He might want to prove what he can do, even when. . .when I'm not alone." "You don't need to be alone." "I'm okay." She sighed. "What are you going to do? Curl up in the bathroom with your burger special scared to death of every sound?" "He won't hurt me." Mulder swallowed. Scully stared at him. "He did hurt you. He's already hurt you. It doesn't matter if there's a lot of tearing or not. He made you have anal intercourse without your consent. That's rape. And that hurts." "SHUT UP." "Mulder, you know about this as well as I do. You know that. . ." "Scully, just shut up. I can't. . .I don't have time for this." Mulder swallowed. "Please, shut up. I can't. . .I can't think about it. He didn't hurt me." "Come home with me. I don't think you should stay here." She was kneeling before him, her eyes on his face. "Come home with me. It's going to be okay. Come with me." He didn't want to. He wanted to stay right where he was. No sleep. Just stay awake. Watch TV. Do reports. Lock himself into the bathroom. "I've got the work up on Chris Godwin." Mulder glanced at Scully. "What have you got?" "I've got my autopsy report. A few of the tests have come back." "I need them." She shook her head. This was blackmail. "I don't have time for this, Scully." "Neither do I." She was up, in his bedroom. Getting his things. Trundling through his drawers until she found his underwear. He should be up, yelling at her to stop it. Leave him alone. Stop pestering him. Leave him alone. Stop taking liberties. But he was so fucking tired. He was too tired to be angry anymore. The killer hadn't hurt him. He had to believe that. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!newsxfer2.itd.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.n ews.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 15:37:56 1996 Article: 22864 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!newsxfer2.itd.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.n ews.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 14/20 NC-17 Date: 14 Aug 1996 12:07:52 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 359 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ustko$mj0@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17 material, including B&D. Do not read if underage or you do not like such material. Usual disclaimers. Mistress 14/20 by Amperage He had no idea how long he'd scrubbed, how long he'd been in the tub. He'd spent an hour in the hotel bathroom this morning. Scrubbing and trying desperately to feel clean, to not feel the killer on him and he spent at least that now in Scully's glassed in shower, head under the water, steaming hot, almost not to be borne. He heard the pizza boy at the door and got out of the shower, drapped himself in sweats, thick thermal socks on his feet. Hair wet and slick and he was tired through to his bones. Scully had two plates on the coffee table, two cokes, and the autopsy report. He sat on the floor, flipped through the report. "Was he drugged?" "No." Scully flipped through the report. "No, no drugs." "Anything odd at all?" "The blood." "The blood was for me. He was telling me this one was a Hollywood production. But he knew I wouldn't see it." Mulder's voice was numb. "Chris was pretty. It made me feel. . .like I wasn't special." It was more than he'd meant to tell her. "Was there anything else?" Scully watched her partner carefully for a moment then opened the box and put two large slices on a plate, handed it to Mulder. "Don't get pizza sauce on it. The little clerk who runs off the Xeroxes doesn't ever believe it when I tell her it's tomato sauce." "Well, usually it isn't." Mulder allowed. "He'd had sex." Scully put herself a slice on a plate. "What?" "He'd had sex right before he was killed." Scully stared levelly at her partner. "There was some semen on his penis. It had been washed, but not well. Just kind of brushed with a washcloth." Mulder stared at his partner. "Anything else?" He could barely keep his face calm as thoughts coursed and raced through his skull. "Different knife." She added. "You're sure?" "Of course I'm sure." "Anything else?" "Well, the blood had anti-coagulants in it. To keep it from clotting before our killer played modern artist with the walls." "He'll never get in a good gallery." Mulder swallowed. "Chris Godwin was gay." Scully swallowed. "You don't think that. . ." Mulder nodded. "Where's your cordless? Never mind." He picked up his cell phone, dialed, waited. "Director Godwin? This is Fox Mulder? Pick up sir. Oh fucking shit." Scully watched him pace, muttering obscenities to himself. "Director Godwin? This Mulder. Sir. I was wrong. I was assuming some things that I've found out aren't so. Look. . .I don't know exactly what I'm dealing with, but sir, you're in danger. . .yes. I don't know. You can't stay where you are sir. Look. . .No. I don't know. I haven't really thought through it. All I know is that you can't stay home. I don't know, really, where you'll be safe. Call your offices. Don't. . .don't trust any *one* person. Trust your underlings. Trust grunts. Go through the system to be safe. All the safeguards and checks you can find. Please sir. The killer hasn't ruled you out of contention. And you're helping me. Look, call me back after you're somewhere safe. Go to a safe house. With a guard. I don't know sir. Please, sir. Please." Mulder's voice was hurried and desperate and almost panicking. "Please sir." After a moment he hung up the phone. Breathing hard. He collapsed back onto the floor and put his head against the seat pillows of Scully's sofa. "I thought Godwin was safe. I thought he was." He closed his eyes. Scully tried to follow this. "I'm missing some crucial piece of information." She managed. Mulder raised his head, mentally backtracked. "Chris Godwin was gay. No one knew, according to his father. So he wasn't promiscuous. If he fucked somebody, it would be somebody he trusted. I'm not perfectly certain, but I think it might be someone that Mark Godwin trusts too." He smiled sadly. "What're you thinking about?" "Nothing." Whatever it was, it was not nothing. Scully didn't press. "I hate him." Mulder's voice was flat. "Who?" The even, dead tone stunned her. "Chris Godwin. First, I hated him because he was prettier than I was. Because maybe I wasn't special to Tanny. But I was. I still hate him. His father thought he was more important than anything else in the world. Chris knew his father loved him. I hate him." Mulder slid his untouched pizza into the box, left the room. Scully stayed where she was. Power. Sex is a game. He lay on the couch, staring at forgettable tv, not drinking anything that hadn't been canned. Scully'd gone to sleep, finally, leaving him here on her couch with a blanket and the TV remote. This was a one night proposition. Mulder knew that. He had to go somewhere else. He didn't know where. The cuts on his hip, the killer hadn't mentioned them. The killer didn't want Scully knowing about them. He pressed his face against the couch back. And when he found the killer what would he do? If he shot their UNSUB it would be fucking evident who had done it. Change to another type of bullet? Change guns? There are people you can take out and people you cannot, though. There are people who can die and it will not garner any but the standard regulation notice. There are people who die and it requires in depth investigation. Some pigs are always going to be more equal than other pigs. Mulder's pig was one of the most equal. Tower's widow knew her husband was bi, and the killer was bi. Tower's wife also bed hopped. She might had fucked her husband's killer sometime in the past and not known it. He shuddered, felt nausea grow in his stomach. The feel of the man's touch and the pain as cock had met rectum, as he had lain in his own puke, sobbing and not able to do anything, returned. His mouth was dry. Cotton mouth, surprised it hadn't happened before, he assessed,and took a sip of cola, focussed on the TV. The answer hit him and he felt like a complete idiot. Big deal. Find out who the UNSUB is. Unless They've completely got Their heads up each other's butts, They'll know. One of Their members has been killing others of Their members. Terrorizing anyone with a predilection for paddles. And Mulder guessed that the number of men in positions of power in DC who liked to have beautiful women domesticate them was slightly higher than the norm. It wasn't satisfying in any way. But it would have to do. He had to jog. 3 am and he wasn't sleeping. A run. The key from Scully's door substituted for his own. Old trick. Lace the key from the door where you leave your junk into your jogging shoes. One key, laced in. You never feel it. He let the inanities of tricks learned take precedence in his mind, anything to numb thoughts of things he really didn't care to remember on this cold, crisp morning. He managed to get the door open without thought, and slide out without waking Scully. The streetlights illuminated his world in distinct circles of brilliance. At epoch, the light was daylight sharp. Noon with sharp shadows. At the fringes, you ran in grey ether, seeking the next circle of light. His feet pounded with unceasing regularity and he smiled when the burn set in. He ran, this night, the way he'd always gotten yelled at for running--full, flat out bore, full speed ahead, no pauses, no pacing. He was trying to exhaust himself, not get the longest distance or the best workout. His breath made small puffs of condensation as he breathed. He was vulnerable out on this street. Mulder glanced around. He'd never felt vulnerable jogging before. He was an FBI agent with hand to hand training from Quantico. He could take care of himself. No he couldn't. He couldn't stop himself from being raped in a hotel room. He couldn't stop it when a killer had fondled him. Fondled him. At least the rape. . .the rape had been between two grown-ups. Right now, feet pounding on the sidewalk, peering through the darkness, looking for malignant faces, the fondling seemed worse. Because you fondled children. Children. And the killer had fondled him, taking pleasure in the heft and weight of Mulder's genitals. With excruciating gentleness. When he was eight, he remembered, there had been some tests. He didn't remember what for. Medical tests. What he remembered was a doctor. A urologist? making him take off his pants. What he remembered was the way doctor made him lie down so that a catheter could be inserted to get a cleaner urine specimen. What he remembered was the feeling as someone held his penis in latex gloved hands and the humiliation, the horrible sensation of shame. He wanted to throw up. Mulder watched on the edges of his vision for strangers, lurking in the shadow. A stranger whose face he could not remember and whose voice was laced with the edges of birds' wings fluttering. He'd thought Tanny was there. He'd thought Tanny could get him out of it. But Tanny was dead. Tanny always would be dead. That was that. Tanny couldn't get him out of it. The killer. . . He looked down at his feet, pounding, pounding, pounding. Tried not to think of anything at all as sensations pushed at the envelope of his consciousness, tried to explode into his mind. He would not give them that leisure. He could not. Could not think about it. Or what had happened. The killer hadn't hurt him. <<"He did hurt you.">> If he admitted that he admitted. . .he admitted lots of things he couldn't afford to. It was easier to keep the pace now. The burn was gone and he was in the long, slogging stage. Running too fast, running as fast as he could, like he could leave his thoughts waiting at a streetlight and outrun them, outpace them so far they would never find their way back to him. He was tired and nauseous and the lights on in Scully's apartment made him actively want to vomit. He went up the steps, into the hallway and knelt to use his key. The door flung open. Scully had her gun. She lowered it even as she barraged him with questions. "It's four in the morning. You shouldn't have gone out jogging. Not alone. And you didn't tell me. I woke up and you weren't here. It's dangerous out there. You don't know where the killer is. Mulder, I can't believe you did this. I came within an inch of going out to find you or calling the police." Mulder pushed past her and sat in the living room. Her words were all rushing together and, now, exhausted, he could not follow the fear in her voice. He sat on the floor, panting. Scully followed him in. Too much. It was like being a child, scolded for staying out after curfew. No. Like being scolded after you went somewhere without telling them. He'd been twelve. But his mother had wanted to know where he was. All the time. "No. You'd have to be alone." He could see the fear in her eyes. Of his being alone. Because they took Samantha. And this time they might decide they wanted Fox too. She opened her mouth to continue to the barrage. "I went jogging. If I want to go jogging, I can." He paused. Hot and sweaty and thirsty and exhausted. "I couldn't think and I couldn't sleep and I just wanted to run. I stayed close." Going in circles and circles and circles around her block. He was getting mad now. It hadn't erupted immediately. Endorphins aren't good for anger. "You're not my keeper. You're not my mother. I can jog anytime I want." Scully sat down on her couch. Stared at him silently. "No you can't. And you know why." "Why?" Mulder had to ask. Had to spit it out like the pit of a cherry. "Why?" Why you fucking bitch? "Because, damn it Mulder, we already know the killer wants to dominate you. How do you know he wouldn't hurt you when you were out jogging. That's an activity that gives you pleasure. How do you know he wouldn't want to stop that pleasure?" Her voice was growing shrill. "Because I'm worried about you. Because I didn't know where you were. I hoped you were out running. But I didn't know." "Where did you think I was?" He didn't want to be rude and sarcastic and this angry but there it was. "Where did you'd think I'd gone? Out to Godwin's house to shoot him because he's a better man than my father? Out to the local Motel 6 so that my new lover and I can have a little privacy? Were did you think I was?" "I thought you were jogging." Scully answered calmly. Fucking woman's trick. Be all upset and then when you get upset, they start acting perfectly calm. One of the worst in a woman's arsenal and it infuriated him that she would use it now. "I thought you were just out working off some of your tension. But I didn't know. I thought you might be trying to hurt yourself." Mulder stared at his shoes. Pulled up his knees and put his forehead against them. "Fuck you. I was out jogging." He snarled. "It's too dangerous." "I am not going to let him destroy every. . ." "Mulder, right now, you've got to worry about your safety. You've got to." She had wound down now. Ready to make up. But Mulder wasn't. Was he? He wanted to rage and fight. But later. Right now he was too tired. Right now all that was left in him was exhaustion and an abiding desire to sleep. The anger was there, but it hovered like a yellow and red rim at his thoughts. "How was your run?" It was amazing. Every woman Mulder had ever known really well had that trick of changing emotions like trying on a new hat. They sent you into orbit and then just sat there, staring at you when you stood on the launchpad to join them. He glanced up. "It was a fucking run." "How far did you go?" "I don't know. I don't have a pedometer. I think 10 miles." She nodded. Knowing the distance was excessive. "You need to take a shower. Then you can sleep in my bed." "Scully, half of fingerprinting already has bets on. . ." "I'm already up. I'm going to get some work done." She didn't let him finish the tease. "Okay?" He nodded. Numbly finished taking off the shoe with her apartment key on it. His body was limp, like a rag doll. Mulder stared at the sunlight streaming onto woodgrain floors and did not move. There was coffee. He heard a computer whine and the clack of keys. He did not want to get up. And he knew enough to know that it didn't matter this morning. This morning there were soft white sheets and soft smell of a woman. He could lay on this bed in comfort until it grew old. Mulder drew his knees to his chest. Let his eyes flutter shut. Just for a moment. They lay curled up, spoons in a drawer, Tanny on the outside, her body snug against his. The night was long, but the bedclothes were heavy; the fire was well-banked and did not cause bad dreams. When he woke, everything was softly illuminated, no place for his mind to envision unpleasant things. He was sore and tired and the tear tracks on his face were fresh. But it didn't matter. Now there was only solace in the fresh, rough sheets, the heavy velvet comforter over them that protected so gently, so well, against chill. He was at peace, and all was right with the world. He stumbled out of bed and into fresh clothes. Blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Tennis shoes. He'd used a razor, cut apart one of her disposables he'd found in the trash. Used it to cut and cut and now he felt purified. Put the razor and the pieces in his bag where she would not find it. Would never know. Scully was still at her computer. With fresh donuts. "My neighbor got me some." She told him. "She thinks I've got a man over." "Don't you?"' Mulder wandered into the kitchen, found the bakery box, a mug. She didn't answer, considering reports and datum. Boring, boring stuff. He came out, eating a donut, sipping at his coffee. "You look better." The comment was said without rancor or condensation, merely stated as though Mulder had been sick with the flu and was now feeling human again. Mulder stared into his coffee mug, embarrassed. "Has Godwin called?" "Not yet. I'd've woken you." Scully promised, leaning back in her desk chair, turning to observe her partner. "Is he going to use your cellular?" "He should. Unless he's like one of our ubiquitous informers and he just knows everything." "You haven't thought about contacting X?" Scully asked, taking off her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Mulder took a long sip of coffee. "No," he said when he was finished. "I don't. . .how do I know it's not him?" Scully blinked at this. "Well, he *was* the one who approached you. . ." She mused. She was joking, but as she stared at Mulder's face, she realized that he was not. Oh. She gazed at her own creamcheese filled pastry. "What are you going to do if Godwin gives you a name?" "I don't think I have to do much. Just pass it on." Mulder finished off his maple filled longhorn. Scully nodded. She wanted badly to ask him to talk to someone at a rape crisis center. She wanted badly to tell him that he would have problems later on if he wasn't willing to accept what had happened to him. She did not. He knew that too, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself. He stared at the television, tried to focus on the cartoons. He remembered he'd had one night at a hotel, one safe night. And there had been cartoons. Mulder frowned. Listened to Scully's fingers tap. He had nothing to do but sit here and listen to Scully's fingers. Feel like her godson left with Aunt Dana while his parents went out to an expensive restaurant. Idly he picked up a file left on the coffee table. He'd been raped. He'd been raped and the killer had done it to let him know he couldn't be free. He should be upset and depressed and nervous. He wasn't. Mostly he just wanted to forget it had ever happened. He knew that would not happen. Mulder wondered, idly, what the killer fantasized about. With him. He suspected that it started with this and ended with Mulder as a sex slave. With Mulder subservient, fully domesticated. That was the expression. Domesticated. Mulder as a sleek house cat, living in his master's will until his master tired of him and killed the unwanted pet. It was the fantasy of a man without power. Mulder sighed. Rifled through the folders again. From math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.co m!newsxfer2.itd.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.co m!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 15:37:56 1996 Article: 22865 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.co m!newsxfer2.itd.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.co m!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 15/20 NC-17 Date: 14 Aug 1996 12:08:54 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 373 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ustmm$mjt@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17 material, including B&D. Do not read if underage or you do not like such material. Usual disclaimers. Mistress 15/20 by Amperage Godwin was brief. "I have a name. Where are you?" Mulder swallowed. "Safe." Scully was staring at him. Watching, nervous. Tense. "I need to know where you are." "Cellular conversations can be easily monitored." Godwin sighed impatiently. "Meet me at the bar where you met your mentor." "All right." "Wear comfortable clothes. And warn your partner that you're going to be gone overnight, and not to come with you or follow you. You're going to be okay." "Why will I be gone?" "Someone wants to talk to you. That's all I can say." The phone clicked and Mulder was left staring at his cellular. He sat at the bar, sipping on a beer. Staring at faces. "You ready?" Godwin asked, staring at Mulder. "I think so." Scully had been pissed and upset, but Mulder hadn't really cared. In the end she'd taken out his stitches at her kitchen table, using her manicure set and agreed with his evaluation that he didn't have much choice. She was worried. And Mulder couldn't blame her. He'd have been worried if Scully were going into this situation. Godwin nodded. Mulder threw down payment for his beer and followed the CIA director out of the bar. Godwin had a bucar and a driver. A big Crown Vic with darkly tinted windows. "I feel like I'm in a Godfather movie." Mulder commented, approaching the vehicle. Godwin smiled grimly and opened the front door. "Sit in the back." He ordered. There was someone in the back seat already. Mulder didn't much like the way this was turning out. He wanted out of the situation, and he wanted out now. He turned to leave and was faced with a man he hadn't noticed before. "Easy Agent Mulder." The bearlike creature who probably had more than his fair share of Neanderthal genes, said holding up his hands. Said it like Mulder was an escapee from a mental hospital. "Calm down." Godwin was out of the car now. "Don't," he said, shaking his head. "Mulder, no one's going to hurt you." "I'm not going anywhere with anyone. Godwin just give me the name and I'll take care of it," Mulder spat out, staring around the parking lot desperate for someone to see him, to intervene. He felt like screaming and making a break for it. Godwin took a deep breath and released it. Stared behind Mulder at the open door of the Crown Vic. "Stueben, we don't. . ." He began, then broke it off. "Don't do this to him." Mulder whirled, hating to take his eyes off the burly figure trying to shepherd him into the car. Stueben, a tall, skeletal man with flaming red hair had a syringe in one hand. Oh fucking hell. Mulder tried to duck sideways. Oh fucking, fucking hell. Someone in the parking lot. "Help!" He screeched, putting his head down, barrelling out. Strong hands grabbed him. "Fox. Don't make us call the ambulance again." He heard the voices. "NO!" He screamed and kicked, watching as a third linebacker came out of the driver's side to join the battle. Godwin still hadn't joined the fray, was trying desperately to decide what to do. He couldn't think and he couldn't breath but he managed to kick out at the kneecap of the skeleton. The skeleton went down, shrieking. Godwin was speaking then, something about ambulances and hospitals and he had his cell out. "You bastard!" Mulder screamed, finding someone to focus his rage on as the driver tackled him, pinned him to the cold, wet pavement. Skeleton was on the ground, screaming as well. Godwin was talking to someone. something, something found him. . .off meds. . .something something involuntary. . . The sting of the drug was sudden and sure and the Neanderthal was administering it a vengeful expression on his face. Mulder didn't know what it was, only that his arm was on fire and his ears were buzzing. He could not breathe. His face was hot and he couldn't breathe. A blanket. A thick wool blanket. His shoulder hurt, and there was something cold on it. Cold and straps. He had a head ache and the rest of him simply ached with a soreness that had soaked into his bones. Dislocated shoulder. He knew how those felt. Long experience with how those felt. Mulder squinted, sniffed well-worn leather against his nose. Drool. Thick, cotton pillowcase. Dark woods. Grey light. A shadowy figure. Cigarette smoke. "You're awake. Sorry about your arm." He tried to talk but it was an effort. "No, you're not." He managed finally. "Actually. I am." The voice was old and craggy. Mulder had thought the man was Cancer man. But it was not. "We didn't want to hurt you. We simply wanted to. . .talk to you. On our terms." Mulder didn't feel like moving. He continued to lay under the warm, scratchy blanket and squint through the shadows. "Where am I?" "Safe." Oh, that was a great answer. Mulder frowned. "Do you want something to drink?" He *was* thirsty. "Yes." There was a waterglass and a beautiful, simple pitcher. The man rose from his leather wingchair and poured a half glass for Mulder. "Sit up." The man commanded. Mulder pulled himself up. Put the ice pack on the floor. A sling on his arm. He sat a moment with his eyes closed as his ears buzzed and he could no longer distinguish orientation, as everything seemed to tilt. The blackness filled him for a moment, then settled and everything sorted. He opened his eyes and held out his right hand for the waterglass. "You disabled one of our people." The voice told him smoothly. "Not permanently, but I'm told that once you dislocate a patella it never does quite as well again." Mulder drank his water, did not say anything. He handed back the glass empty. "Do you want more?" Mulder shook his head. "I need to pee," he said irritably. "In a moment." "Why am I here?" He asked, putting his head against the back of the couch, looking out a window at a brick wall. "Because we wish to speak with you." "Who'se we?" "Your shadow government perhaps?" "Why did you drug me?" The man smiled. "Obviously, so you won't know where you are. We hadn't counted on your hysteria." "I wasn't hysterical." "You weren't?" The man smiled at him condescendingly. "And I suppose you weren't raped either." Mulder stared at the man. Did not say anything. Sat staring. This man had seen him naked. This man's yellow fingers in gloves, examining him. Oh God. Oh God. He felt his stomach churn. He closed his eyes. Said the only thing he could think of. "Does Godwin know?" "Do you want him too?" "No." For some reason it was important. It was terribly important that Godwin not know. "Then he won't. Would you like to pee now?" Mulder nodded. He pushed off the couch and tried to stand. He was dizzy and uncertain but shook his head as the man stood to help him. There was a room off this one, a toilet and a pedestal sink. The floor was mosaic tilework, golden patterns on the floor. The man stood beside the sink. "Do you mind?" "Actually, yes. I can stand outside if you'd prefer. But you may not shut the door." Mulder blinked. "What do you think I'm going to do?" "I don't want you fainting and cracking your head open. There's nothing I haven't already seen." Mulder swallowed, tried to get his throat to work. It was so fucking hard to swallow. He turned to face the toilet. The figure retreated to just outside the panelled door. When he was finished the man walked him back to the couch. "Why did you hurt yourself?" The man asked carefully. Mulder blinked. Said nothing. "Do you want us to tell your partner?" It was not a question but a carefully veiled threat. "Why would you?" Mulder asked. "If we felt that it was information she needed." "She doesn't need to know about it." "I'm sure you feel that way. So why?" "Because it distracted me from the pain I was feeling. Enough so that I could behave normally." The man waited. For more. "Because it feels good." Mulder admitted in a whisper. A nod. "The killer is trying to dominate you completely. Against your will." "Yes." Mulder did not even try to nod. The man in his nice, expensive, conservative suit, picked up a box of cigarettes, shook one into his fingers. Lit it with a small silver lighter. "Does cigarette smoke bother you?" "You know my father smoked." "Very true." He inhaled deeply, blew smoke out into the room, tapped ash into a silver bowl. "Your killer is dead." It should have filled him with joy. Instead Mulder nodded. "Godwin contacted Mr. Long's heir. When presented with the facts you accumulated, he knew who the killer was. We've disposed of him." "Did you get the book?" A frown creased the aging brow. "Book?" "He had Tanny's book. She kept the fantasies of her clients in a small leatherbound journal." "I didn't know. . ." "No one did. She showed it to me once. I think I'm the only person. He also had her apartment bugged. To take pictures. I haven't been to her apartment to see how he did it, and I suspect that the camera is long gone. But there were photos. Black and white photos." The man smushed his cigarette. Lit another. "We haven't found either, but we'll look for them both." Mulder nodded. "I'd like to know when you find them." "Of course." "What was his name?" "Who? The killer?" "Yes." The man waved a hand as though this were completely unimportant. "Don't worry about it. He's dead." Mulder stared around the small, well-appointed room. "We set you up with Tanny. It was a short-lived experiment. We quit paying for you soon after you entered the X-files." Mulder nodded. He'd guessed as much. "Why?" The man shrugged. "Why did you bring me here? You could have accomplished all this by phone." "I wanted to talk with you face to face. To establish your mental state." "And now?" "I don't find you suicidal. Self-destructive and if I released that information you would find yourself in a hospital." Mulder did not question why they would want to know if he was suicidal. "Will you?" "No. Not at this time. You've done a great service. I know that it was self-motivated. But you have. You pieced things together very well." A puff of smoke. It was growing much darker. "I just wanted to see you. I met you when you were small. You and your sister." Mulder stared at the man, not daring to ask any questions. "I also wanted you to be safe until we collected the murderer. We have. We'll drug you and return you. Will you take everything voluntarily?" Mulder considered this, "yes." "I must apologize, but we don't quite trust you to. . .take the drugs. It'll have to be a shot." Mulder nodded. "Your choice. Vein or butt." Mulder stared at the man and felt like bursting into laughter. "You'll have to roll up my sleeve." He said, trying for a straight face. Oh God. This was simply too much. "Hi." Scully. It was Scully. He stared at grey light. Scully. They had Scully. His own ceiling stared back at him. Grey light. Mulder shivered. "Godwin called and told me you were here. How the hell did you disolacte your shoulder?" "Long story." Mulder swallowed. "what's. . ." he frowned. Scully didn't understand what he wanted. He pushed himself up, on his one good elbow. "The light? Is it still Saturday?" "It's Sunday morning." She took advantage of situation to put more pillows behind his head. "We're having a snow storm. 12 inches. Everyone's going to be snowed in." "Oh." "I take it your meeting didn't go well." "No. He's dead." "The UNSUB?" "Yeah. I. . .they wanted to drug me to take me to see somebody and I didn't want to." Mulder waved it away. "I kicked someone's kneecap out and I think this was revenge after I was already in la-la land." It felt like a terribly long speech. "It's over." Scully's eyes searched his for the truth of it. "I'm hungry." He added. "Are all the take out places closed?" She smiled and shook her head. "No. Not yet. The snow just started. How about Mexican?" "Quesadillas with extra guacamole." Mulder ordered. "You better lay off the fat. You're not going to be jogging for a while." "I haven't eaten in 24 hours. Shut up, Scully." She grinned. Mulder smiled. It felt like a heavy pressing against his chest was suddenly gone. He could breathe. He could think. His body was filled with a nervous tension borne solely of relief. Everything was all right now. He had to get up to pee. The pills made him muzzy. They'd even left him pills with clear, explicit instructions for use. Such kindness. Tylenol 3 for pain and a muscle relaxant that Scully called Flexeril. The Tylenol 3 he didn't have to take, but Scully's predictions that he would need it were accurate. The Flexeril he did have to take. At least the Klonopin was out of the picture for a while. Had to get up to pee and the snow was falling outside. Falling and falling and falling and it was all he could see from the glow of streetlight. Back and forth. He was nauseous, just a little, and the cold beer in his fridge sounded almost good. If he felt better, he was sure it would sound good. He walked the smooth, burnished floor, wondered why his apartment seemed so small. He had at least Monday off. Tuesday, probably, too. Snow. Snow. Snow. Soft, cold snow. He wished he was with Tanny tonight, sitting with her under warm blankets, thrilling to her velvet touch. He wished he felt the wool of antique oriental carpets under his bare skin. He wished for a lot of things that would never be. And it snowed it snowed it snowed. Snow muffled everything. When he woke, the only sounds were of his aquarium bubbling, aerating the water. If he focused more closely, he could hear the hum of the refrigerator. He could hear the soft purr of the aquarium heater. The sounds of his radiator clanking as it blew warm air into the apartment. The straps of the sling were already chafing his skin. Keep your arm immobile, let the muscles in your shoulder heal. Mulder already knew all that. Snow. It would shut the city down. He had food in the refrigerator. A quart of guacamole. And some bread he'd thrown into the freezer a long time ago so it wouldn't mold while he was away. A bag of fajita fries and a bag of fried mushrooms and cheese sticks were all collecting ice crystals in the freezer. A crisper full of his favorite fruits. Scully never could understand why he wasted 4 dollars on a honeydew melon from Brazil. Because it tasted good. Tuna and vienna sausage and corn and cream of mushroom soup sat in the pantry. If only the apartment didn't seem so small. There were even five Foster oilcans if he wanted to get roaringly drunk. But then the apartment would seem even smaller. He hadn't had time to read the new Umberto Eco yet. It was sitting under a pile of something. And the Calvin and Hobbes collection someone had given him for Christmas. If the phones and the electricity agreed, he could surf the web, cross referencing interesting articles endlessly. Mulder sat up in the muted darkness. The bathroom light was on. He checked his clock. Late. 4:30 a.m. Or it would be late. Today, it didn't matter. He lay back against the bed. Wondering why he was depressed. He had a day off with nothing to do. The killer was dead. Everything was going to be all right. Except nothing was ever going to be all right. There were numbers in the phone book for women to call. Free. Confidential. Trust us. Men don't get raped. Mulder padded over to the window, stared through the blinds at a dark world. Scully was asleep in her own bed. Everyone was asleep in his or her own bed. Mulder was up. Vaguely nauseous. Was that the side effect of one of the pills? He was alone. Finally. Completely and utterly alone. He didn't want to watch TV. He didn't want noise to intrude in this quiet world. He sat on his couch. Alone. We are born alone and we die alone. And right this instant, he Fox Mulder, was alone. Scully was asleep. Tanny was dead. Mulder lay back on the couch, stared at his ceiling. He had nothing to do and all day to do it. Go back to sleep. He was tired after all. But he didn't want to go to bed. He wanted to stare at the ceiling. Tanny had said he was beautiful. Mulder knew he had never felt beautiful with another woman. Sexy. A stud. But not beautiful. Beautiful was a gentle thing. Beautiful was a quiet, soft thing. And he had never felt beautiful before. Cute and knew it. Gorgeous even. But not beautiful. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!newsxfer2.it d.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Wed Aug 14 15:37:57 1996 Article: 22866 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!newsxfer2.it d.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 16/20 Date: 14 Aug 1996 12:10:20 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 382 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4ustpc$mli@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17 material, including B&D. Do not read if underage or you do not like such material. Usual disclaimers. Mistress 16/20 by Amperage Morning. He was sore and tired and even through the haze of drug he felt like shit. The television blared news. He was not in the mood for anything but news. News was impersonal and current. He got his guacamole and chips and went back to the couch, grabbing a blanket to curl up under. Guacamole and chips and soft drinks and he would ride this storm out without thinking. The apartment still seemed so fucking small that he couldn't breathe. He woke with a start. His dreams had been fever dreams, although he knew he didn't have a fever. He hoped he didn't. Mulder put his head back against the pillow. Stared at the ceiling. CNN Headline news was still providing counterpoint to the quiet day. She'd installed a new tape drive to her computer, written every last single report she was supposed to have done, rearranged the furniture (again), and finished up every new book in the house. Okay. Monday at 3. Enough with the blizzard. Scully wandered into the kitchen and grabbed an orange. She'd checked out Mulder's stuff, since he hadn't had time to buy anything. He was well provisioned. About as well as she was, anyway. Lots of stuff in the freezer, getting ice crystals. Some fresh fruit that really needed eating. Who knew when another mutant would pop up in Idaho and they would be on a case for a couple of weeks or longer? She snorted, thinking of her woman friends who kept lots of food in the fridge. If she did that, she'd come back to slime and unidentifiable things. Lurking. She wouldn't even buy more than a quart of milk at a time anymore. Scully dug around in her portfolio for a pen. Was rewarded with a small, thick envelope. She pulled it free of her books and reports and bound copies of procedure datum to stare at the innocuous white bond. Oh fuck, this must have been in there since Friday. She knew what it was. She was just uncertain if she wanted to see it. Mulder didn't need to know what she had seen. Scully debated not opening it. She wasn't sure she really wanted to know more about her partner's sexual practices. She slit the envelope. The photos were small, a little over passport size. Twenty or thirty of them. Scully didn't have to look at them all. They were photographs of Mulder and Tanneka Bonet. Mulder with a spreader bar and a ball gag. Naked, his erection huge, his body glistening. There was a figure beside him, Tanneka. She had an anal plug. A bruised butt. Mulder's no doubt. A figure in handcuffs and a furry mask. Naked, head down cast. His genitals were in some kind of. . .pouch, but the head of his penis protruded. There were marks on his chest. There were nipple clamps. A wide leather strop. Scully had seen the strop before. The strop meeting Mulder's butt. She put the photos down, collected them all into the photograph. She didn't want to see this. Didn't want to read it. Didn't want to picture him like this. And know that he liked it. He preferred it. He wanted the beltings and the bruising and the humiliation and the pain. She stared at the full envelope. The sender was dead and there was no reason Mulder ever needed to see it. "I'm cold." "It's snowing." "I know." "Did you play in the snow, Secret?" "Sometimes. Why are you here, Tanny? You died." "I know. It's still cold. I don't like the cold." "Tanny. You're dead." "I'm still your mistress." "He killed you." "I know. You don't have to keep harping on it." "Where are you?" "Here. I'm sorry he hurt you, my sweet, sweet Secret. You know I wouldn't have you hurt." "I know." "I loved you, Secret. Did you love me?" "Yes." "Have you been hurt very badly?" "Yes. I don't tell anyone, even myself." "I'm sorry. I'm sorry he's doing this to you." "He's dead." Silence. "Tanny. They told me he was dead." Silence thicker and colder than tears turned to traceries of ice. He woke with a start, heart thudding in his chest. Unable to breathe, unable to think. Fox Mulder sat up, panting. Cold with the sweat running along his legs, into the nooks of his knees, along the soft, strong ridges of muscles and bone. His apartment was dark and he was alone. He wasn't sure, but he thought he wanted to be dead. CNN Headline was a mere noise. A counterpoint she barely noticed. But necessary. Scully sat under her blanket, staring at nothing, trying to control the nausea. Reconciling herself with the truth and the facts. She could not help thinking about the photographs. Her stomach heaved and she rubbed her hands against her arms, face pale. She didn't know why it upset her so. Oh yes, she did. Phones weren't down, electricity was fine. Mulder uncurled himself from the bed to grab his cordless. Probably Scully. "Hullo?" "I'm not dead." He was instantly awake. Sitting up. Staring at murky darkness. His breath was hot in his throat. The cordless, he knew the speaker had already hung up. In a moment the phone would start beeping at him. "If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try your call again. If you need help, please call your operator for assistance." Would sound in that irritating, sedative female voice. He could not breathe. He could not think. Oh God. His ears pulsed, filled with rushing sounds and his entire body was alternating between chills and hot flashes. He could not control the shaking that vibrated through his frame. He was going to fucking die. He was going to die. "Still snowed in?" Scully's voice. "Yeah." Mulder swallowed. Closed his eyes. He had the thin, fine edge of a single edge razor in his hands. The blunt safety edge against his palm. Cuts and cuts. He must be careful. There would be nasty scars if he wasn't careful. "No snow plows anywhere around here. But everything still works." "Yeah." He agreed. "I got a number." "A number?" "For a hotline. They're confidential. They won't even want to know your name. You can talk to them." How could he talk to them? For Godsakes he was going to tell a strange woman's voice about how it felt. Pull up all the thoughts and emotions. "No thanks." "I know you've pushed it down for now. But if you don't deal with it, it's going to come up and it's going to bother you. Mulder. Please." "No. I'm okay. I'll be okay." He heard her sigh, heard her want to push it further, want to insist, but know that he could not stand it if she did. "I want you to call. I want you to call whenever you feel like talking. I'm going to call again this afternoon. Okay?" "I'm okay. Scully. It's all right." He reassured. "I'm here for you, Mulder. I want you to know that." Oh God, she was sounding more and more like those damn fucking counselling classes where they taught you to be supportive. "Okay." he hung up, grateful to be left alone in his apartment, in his drafty cold apartment. Where a killer called. He had to do something. Mulder paced the apartment, drinking only things from closed bottles. He had to do something. He had to fucking do something. The phone rang and the machine picked it up. "Secret. I don't appreciate this juvenile behavior. Pick up your phone." Impatient. A deep, rich, cultured voice. A touchy sigh. "Pick up now." Mulder stared at the phone as though it were dangerous, murderous. He did not move from his place on the couch. "I know where your partner lives. And she means nothing to me." The voice of a parent, reciting a story that had already been recited too many times. His hand snaked out and he picked up the phone. "Hello?" "Hello. Why didn't you pick up the phone?" No answer. Mulder swallowed. Licked his lips. "Are you frightened of me?" Mulder did not answer. Saying yes would give this man what he wanted. But they both knew that saying no would be a lie. "Do you want me to be?" He asked softly. "You know perfectly well what I want. Tell me what I want." "You want me frightened to show your power and domination over people. You've never been able to dominate a man before." "That's not true." Outrage. "It isn't?" "No. Take off your clothes." "I thought we were discussing what you wanted." "I want you to take off your clothes." Mulder was winning the last conversation so the voice changed topics. "Why? Can you see me take off my clothes?" "Maybe. Maybe not." "How will you know?" "Take off your clothes." Trying to be dominant. Trying to be aggressive. "Do it. You do everything I say. Because I can kill anyone. I can do it and do it and no one will stop me." "They said they killed you." "They didn't. Take off your sweatshirt." So he could see. Mulder put down the phone, took off his sling, wincing. Pulled off his sweatshirt. Picked up the phone. "Very good. Play with your nipples." Mulder slowly edged his hand up his chest. Fingered the surface of his nipple, made it erect. "Lean your head against the couch and close your eyes." Mulder complied. Bitterness like the taste of metal scrapings filled his mouth. His breath came in soft, hard little pants. His stomach boiled with outrage. But he continued fingering his nipple, toying unwillingly with the hardness. "Put your hands into your sweats. Put your hands deep into your sweats and play with your dick. Play with it. Massage it. Does it feel good?" "No." "Take off your sweats. Take off your sweatpants and sit on your couch naked." He complied slowly, drawing off the clothes, awkward with the sling, wincing once, not meaning too. Sitting back on his couch, shivering. He was so fucking cold and the sweat on his body was glistening and cold and the goosebumps covered him. "Can you make yourself grow hard?" "No." "Because I'm watching?" "I don't feel like it." "Put all of your genitals in your hand. Hold them. Yes. Now take your hand and bring it up to your mouth. Very good. Yess. Put your index finger into your mouth. Leave it wet and slick. Good. Nice. Take it down to your butt. Put your legs on the coffee table. Put your legs on the coffee table and slide your butt forward. Stick that wet finger up your ass. Do it." Mulder squinted. He would not show this man anything. He would not give this man anything. His own finger felt wet and foreign and evil and he could not stand it. The voice on the phone stroked him obscenely. The voice on the phone told him to finger fuck himself. Do it. Do it now. Do it or else. Do it because otherwise Scully gets in on the little game. He had no interest in keeping her alive except as a pawn in the game he played with Mulder. She was a piece on a board. And to this man of no importance except that she meant something to Mulder. He'd wanted to go for a jog. He'd settled for being out on the streets. Only the kids were out in the snow, building snow forts and throwing snow balls. Making snow angels. The children were often light enough to trudge across the top of the snow crust without breaking it. They laughed and played in the middle of the street, Up the street where the houses were built along hills, the kids had sleds and cardboard boxes and Garbage can lids. They were hurtling headlong in the snow, sliding down the hills, their screams and screeches of pure delight. He watched them. No cares, no worries. If it had snowed like this and Tanny had still been alive, what would she have done? She would have had a silk anorak and a shetland wool sweater and she would have laughed and laughed and laughed and played games in the snow. She would have had warmth and hot chocolate with whipped cream. Oh God, Tanny. I'm trying to find him. I thought I had him. Everyone thinks he's dead. Oh God, who told them I needed you? How did they find me? My father. Tanny, we cannot escape our father's sins. You could not. We do not make our own choices, or our own paths. He trudged through Hummer tracks, staring at the cars, at the houses. At the spears of icicles glistening in the sun. The paths we take are created for us. And in the end, we do not choose. *You're a smart boy, Fox. Smarter than I ever was.* Did he know, there at the end? Had his father understood? *You never have thrown in. Once you do, their politics become your politics.* He thought of Tanny's father, a welder in Texas, selling his daughter like she was a used car. Who Tanny had been she had been because of her life. There never had been a choice for her. No matter what he did, no matter where he went he would always be his father's son. He had been so arrogant. Join the FBI. It had nothing to do with his father's work. His father had taken care of German scientists for the government. His father had coordinated things in the state department. The FBI had nothing to do with that. In the FBI he could find answers. About Sam. He could separate himself. What he was doing now had nothing to do with his father. He had not even realized any facts, any truths. Everything in his life hinged on his father. Samantha had been taken, because of his father. He was searching for Samantha. For the truth. Verber. What had been real there? What had he actually remembered? Aliens? Or mutants, some kind of obscene force the government had created? Except there were aliens, because he had met them. Except the government was experimenting with alien proteins, with the building blocks of life forms foreign to this world. And Tanny had been given to him, at first, to keep an eye on him. Then he had become more dangerous and Tanny hadn't been needed anymore. Except that Tanny needed him. And he needed Tanny. And it didn't bother anyone, because everyone knew that Mulder. . . That Mulder was his father's son. The killer wasn't used to dominating men. The killer was used to being dominated by men. The killer could dominate women. But he knew that world. He wanted Mulder. If he was in the circles he had to know who Mulder was. They thought they had killed the killer. They hadn't killed him. He was still there. Still terrorizing Mulder. But it was better now. Because everyone thought that he was dead. Chris Godwin. If he'd lived, what games would They have played with Chris Godwin and his father? What games had been played with Mulder's own father? We'll keep your son alive, even though he is becoming a nuisance. We'll keep your son alive, so long as you stay on the Vineyard. So long as you never look up from your scotch bottle and your guilt. Samantha was an old hostage. Too long ago to be of any use. But your boy Fox. He's a sharp one. And we'll let him have his head. You just keep your mouth shut, William. Do you know how he likes his sex? Is that your fault, Bill? It is. You know it is. And his father had stayed in the scotch bottle. Was this some ploy by the circle to keep Mulder in his place? Was the killer actually dead and this was someone else, someone they could use to terrorize him? They knew he had slices across his groin. The man with his cancer sticks could tell Skinner and Skinner would order Mulder to take a physical and that would be the end. But the game wouldn't be as fun anymore. And Mulder had his uses, didn't he? Mulder could be manipulated. If you knew what strings to pull. His father had been alone. But Mulder wasn't alone. He didn't want to tell Scully any of this. Not her battle. Sink into your misery. At least your father forgot about everything when he fell into a drunken sleep. He couldn't tell Scully. The killer was using her as a trump card. Fuck that. Scully wasn't a trump card. What if they took her? What if the killer split her open from pubis to sternum? Mulder looked up, surprised at how far he walked. How far he'd come. His legs ached and his body was cold. He had to talk to Scully. Some place, some way that no one would hear him. From math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!usenet2.news.uk.psi.net!uknet! usenet1.news.uk.psi.net!uknet!psinntp!psinntp!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!new sbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail Thu Aug 15 15:34:52 1996 Article: 22888 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!howland.erols.net!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!usenet2.news.uk.psi.net!uknet! usenet1.news.uk.psi.net!uknet!psinntp!psinntp!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!new sbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 17/20 NC-17 Date: 14 Aug 1996 18:22:23 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 372 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4utjiv$26r@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO NC-17 material, including B&D. Do not read if underage or you do not like such material. Usual disclaimers. Mistress 17/20 by Amperage "Scully." He had planned this carefully. So carefully. There was a thin, fine edge here he had to use. An edge to her worry. "Hi. How's it going?" "Okay. It's going okay. I went walking." "In this?" "Yeah. " Mulder stared at the bloody towel and the razor blade he'd left on his coffee table. Left from this morning just in case he might need it again. Funny. He was nervous and tense and his heart was pounding, but he didn't need the razor blade. Because now he was in control. He didn't need the cuts to make believe he was. He was. "It's. . ." "It's cold. I know. I wore my snow stuff. Scully. . .I. . ." A deliberate pause. Come on, Scully. Worry about me. He had to keep his body poised and depressed. In case someone could see. He had to play this just right. Make the other end think they'd pushed too hard and now Mulder needed help or he'd just lose it. A swallow. He sniffled. Good. But you're going to have to cry. He couldn't cry. Okay. Bite your lip. "Mulder? Are you okay?" "I'm. . ." He did not finish it. He tucked his knees against his chest. "I'm sorry." "Mulder, what are you sorry for? Mulder? What's going on?" He didn't have his gun. Important that they not think he was so close he would think about suicide. Important that Scully think he might be. "I just. . .I didn't. . .I don't. . ." "Mulder. What's going on?" "I. . ." Come on. Don't give her enough to call a hospital. Just give her enough to be scared. She's gonna kill you when she finds out what kind of games you're playing. You know that don't you, Muld? "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. . .called." "No. No. I want to talk." "It's okay." He put the phone down. Now to wait. The phone rang immediately. He let the machine pick up. "Mulder. Mulder, you answer this phone right now. Mulder, answer me. I'll call the police if you don't fucking pick up the phone. . .I mean it. I've got my cellular and I'm dial. . ." "Scully." "Don't do that again." Her breathing was heavy with worry. He sniffled and waited. "Are you feeling bad?" "I'm okay." "Like hell you are." "I'm okay." He repeated. "You don't sound okay. I think you called for a reason." He did not answer. "I just. . .I'm tired." "Tired?" He sniffled into the phone again. "I just. . .I don't know what to. . ." he stopped. Take the bait Scully. Take the damn bait. "I didn't do anything and he. . .he. . ." another sniffle. Oh yeah, take it wayyyyy over the top, why don't you? "Mulder, I don't think you should be alone." "I'm okay." "Mulder, stop saying that. Listen. I'm going to call some people. I think it would probably be better if you came here." "I'm fine. I'm fine here. I can't leave." "Why not?" Mulder swallowed. Like, oh shit. Oh shit. "I just can't. I won't go." "Mulder. I think you need to be someplace where you don't have to be alone." She was panicking. Good. She was panicking. Her partner had been raped and now he was finally reacting to being raped. Any watchers would think that they (he? they?) had pushed entirely too far. Let him go before he broke completely. He won't tell her anything. He wants to protect her too much. He always wants to protect her. He never tells her until it's too late. "I'm not crazy." The words exploded in anger. "Nobody said you were crazy." Calming words. Good. Come on Scully. Come on. He was painting himself into a corner. No way would she want him alone. No way. Come on Scully. Even you know I'm emotionally fragile. Oh God, not like I haven't thrown off enough signs. "I think you're handling everything that's happened to you very well." "I'm okay." "I know." She was calming. "I'd rather you come to my apartment. Okay? I'll go to yours, but I'd just rather you come to mine. Will you pack a bag? Hmm?" "I can't. Roads blocked." "You let me worry about that. Okay?" Something totally unexpected happened. Mulder closed his eyes, put his forehead to his knees and sobbed. Relief mostly. But also some sadness that he had to use this to get to Scully. That she would accept so readily that he was off his rocker. That he knew exactly how to play this game. That it came so easily. "It's okay. It's okay. You're going to be okay. I'm glad you called me." Her voice was warm and gentle and he wanted to laugh. He settled for a soft intake of breath. "I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to leave." He said it between the heaves of tears. "I'm sorry." "There's nothing to be sorry for. Nothing in the world." Her voice was gentle now. "Mulder, I can't. . .I can't just leave you alone. If you won't come to my house, I've got to call the police." "I'm not gonna' hurt myself." A howl. Whoever it was, that entity *had* to believe that he hadn't wanted to go. Had to. Less danger for Scully. Less danger for him. He heard her swallow and knew she had taken the bait. "I don't know if you will or not." "I'm not!" "But I have to tell them you're depressed and that I don't know if you will or not." "I don't need to go to a hospital. I won't!" "I don't want you to. I want you to come to my house. I'll let you decide. I can call the police. Or you can come to my house." He sniffled for a few moments. "It's okay. You've been through a lot. Mulder? It's okay. Are you going to come to my place?" "Yes." Sullen. Like a child. "All right. Now, you stay on the line and you get some clothes together. I'm going to get on my cellular and talk to some people. We'll get you to my apartment. Okay?" She called friends. He heard her edging around reasons. Getting no's. Finally calling someone. "Jess. Do you remember I called to get the rape numbers? That person. . .that person needs. . .no." A laugh of almost hysteria. "I need a hummer. It's important. Yeah. Alone. . .thanks." He had his clothes together, feeling like a small child being sent to the noncustodial parent's for a weekend. Had an overnight bag and the honeydew melon. Scully finally let him off the phone when the Hummer was almost there. So long suckers. The little corporal drove silently, obviously questioning why this rider had such high precedence. But she didn't ask any questions as they slid along the streets. There were some four wheel drive vehicles out in the mush now. But none were anything but emergency. Mulder did not regret this deception. Not at all. He was fine. Fine only because he had taken a step. Because he had broken patterns. Because he wasn't being controlled anymore. She was waiting. "Is this Camp Wachuka?" Mulder asked in a monotone. Scully smiled. "No. But it's close. I'm glad you're here." "Thank you." She nodded. "Come on. Let's get your snow clothes off." He took off the anorak and the expensive snow boots. She had hot chocolate. Mulder didn't know, but he suspected that there weren't cameras. He hoped there weren't cameras. He handed her a letter he'd composed while he was in the hummer. Hasty and she would probably be pissed as all hell at him. If she didn't blow it. Please don't blow it. She took the note silently, solemnly. No doubt she thought he was half a meter off the edge. She read it. Reread it. Stared at him. Mulder shrugged. "Are you tired?" Her voice was soft. "Not really." She nodded. "It's okay. I'm glad you're here." Her hand gripped his hard. He stared across the two mugs of hot chocolate. He did not see any anger in her face. Only calm acceptance. And relief that he was not going it alone. She treated him like a child, loudly making him settle in to watch TV under an afghan. Concerned and clucking. She was almost overdoing. Mulder hoped anyone listening didn't know Scully too well. She hadn't been this solicitous when he'd come around in the Arctic. "How're you feeling?" Her voice was calm as he walked into the kitchen the next morning. "I'm okay." There was hot coffee. "I'm sorry about yesterday. I don't know why I went off the deep end. I hate. . .imposing on you." "Don't be sorry. And it isn't an imposition. You know that." He did, actually. But he had to give a little oh-pity-me speech. He sat down at the table with his coffee. "My neighbor down the hall says that we aren't going to get plowed out until tomorrow or the next day. She's got a daughter in grade school." Apparently having a daughter in grade school conferred upon one magical powers of knowing when the snow plows would come. Must be an X-file. "Do you want to go to the bakery?" "Bakery? Where your neighbor with the magical snow plow prognosticating abilities got the pastries?" "Yes." "Uh. . .I don't mind breaking in. . .but won't every thing be stale?" "They've been open. The owner lives right down the street and so do her two daughters--teenage daughters." "Ah." Mulder nodded wisely. "She's usually even got some coffee to drink." Mulder stared at his partner. "And some place to sit?" "Kind of." Scully admitted. "Take a shower, get dressed and we'll go." Mulder frowned, annoyed at the maternal treatment, but let it pass. "I need my drugs." He said, trying not to let his irritation out into words. Scully had all his pills. Which made sense if Mulder were depressed. She nodded. It was cold again. The echoes of children still bounced off of the buildings lining the street, but they were less. Novelty having worn off, Mulder supposed most children were in the house, web crawling or fighting off alien invaders or watching television. They were outside in the clear, and Scully opened her mouth to talk. Mulder held up a gloved hand. Just wait. They looked like two polar bears, but experience had taught them both to keep heavy snow gear in their wardrobes. By Mulder's estimation it was not really, really cold. And so he didn't wear his insulated snow pants. He hadn't even put on thermal underwear. Scully had an easier time in the heavy muck of snow than her partner did. Mulder wished, again, for snow shoes and the knack for using them properly. Had he really gone several miles across ice pack in stuff worse than this? Had he? The bakery was small, almost unexpected. A bakery with brass trimmings and heavy wood fixtures. It edged a huddled, upscale grouping of commercial buildings that must have been "approved" by the residents as acceptable. A bakery, a dry cleaner--with *no* neon sign in the window advertising rates, and no cheesy blue and white, sparse design, such as Mulder was used to--a grocery story and a stationary story. The only store open was the bakery. It was warm and bright and friendly and when Scully opened the door it smelled heavenly. Inside, only one of the display cases had been filled, obviously with favorites. And older woman and two very young, very nubile younger women were sitting in chairs around the cash register, holding mugs of coffee and noshing on sweet dough. They were listening to a radio that blared rock hits. One looked up. "Hi." "Hi." Scully smiled brightly. "Trying to escape cabin fever?" The older of the two girls asked. Scully chuckled. "is it that obvious?" "No. That's just 95% of our business. The government shut down and ends and what happens? We get snowed in." "Oh. Well. I'm essential personnel." Scully replied ruefully. The older woman, the mother, Mulder supposed, made a face. "Lucky Duck. What do you want?" "Coffee and I want some baklava." Mulder gazed at the pastries lining the display case. "Could I have a Jumbo Cinnamon roll?" Even Scully blinked at that request, then remembered what Mulder had had in his pantry. "God, I hate men." The eldest daughter moaned, getting up. "I'm going to gain 10 pounds, just eating a little sweet dough, but you. . ." She pulled Scully's pastry and set it on a styrofoam plate, then pulled the rack of cinnamon rolls out. "You'll probably eat this and then go home and eat as much lunch as you want. It's just not fair." She expertly cut and served up the pastry. Scully paid as Mulder carried the plates over to a small, rather dilapidated table, juggling both in his right hand. The chairs at least, looked comfortable. Two tables, two chairs. And it wasn't much of a corner. Just blank space away from the display cases. Scully brought over two filled styrofoam cups of coffee. "Refills are free." Her smile was bright, almost real. He nodded absently. Seating and with a bite of cheese danish in her stomach, Dana Scully was quite ready to get on with matters at hand. "Are you angry?" Mulder asked, using a plastic knife to separate layers on his roll. "No. You did what you had to. Do you think there will be repercussions?" "I don't know. They're not going to kill me. I doubt they want to kill you. You're not much a bargaining chip unless you're alive." "They?" Scully searched his face carefully. Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes I think it's one individual lunatic and sometimes. . .I wonder if they didn't take care of the murderer and now the consortium's playing games with me. Breaking me down." Scully watched him. Not agreeing. Not disagreeing. "Besides if this is an individual killer, not the consortium, I don't think he wants me. . .he wants me miserable so he can play with me. Not so miserable I do something stupid." "Do you think the Consortium lied to you?" Mulder drew back from his position, hunched over his plate. leaned against the padded back of his chair. Stared out the plate glass at a frozen, white world. "I don't know. I honestly don't know. I know that the killings have stopped, or the consortium thinks they stopped the killings because they deprioritized the task force, right? But I don't know anything else." He shrugged helplessly. "What. . .what has the killer done to you?" Mulder shook his head. "Just phoned me. Threatened you." "Why did he have to threaten me?" "No reason." His eyes were somewhere else. Abruptly he brought his focus back to the present. "We don't have time for touchy feely stuff, Scully." "We'll have plenty of time if he sends you over the edge." Scully muttered. Mulder ate some cinnamon roll, said nothing for a moment. "I've tried contacting Godwin. I can't reach him. I don't know where he is." Scully stared at Mulder, concerned. "I don't know. Some part of me hopes he took off on vacation to avoid all the reporters and snide comments and the pressure." "That could be it." "Or it might not." Mulder sighed. "What do you want to do?" "The killer doesn't know you know anything, that's a advantage. And he thinks I'm emotionally unstable, that's another advantage." Mulder shook his head. "He's going to keep the phone calls up until he feels. . .like he's got me dominated more. He won't risk a face to face meeting again unless I'm drugged. I think the risk of a face to face is also slighter if I'm not alone." "So go through your whole angst routine tomorrow afternoon. Lock yourself in the bathroom and make me work to get you out or something. There won't be any question in his mind that you need to stay with me for a while." Mulder grinned. "Think I can pull it off?" Scully snorted. "You had me fooled." "But eventually he's going to want a face to face. I've got to. . .play it carefully. He knows what kind of person I am. So he knows it's going to be difficult. But when he thinks I'm more subjugated, I think he'll want a face to face. He'll probably have me take several Klonopin and pain killers, make me extremely woozy. Have me wear a blindfold. But he thinks I'll be alone." "Don't you think he'll be careful about where he wants to meet you?" "He's got to have a place private enough for sex." Mulder interrupted. Scully nodded at this. "And I don't think he plans on the back seat of a car either." "Okay. So, what are you going to do?" Mulder swallowed. Did not respond. "I don't know. I'll contact you. Somehow. I guess." It was not good enough. It was not acceptable. But Scully let it be. They could work something out later. Right now he was safe. Right now he wouldn't be hurt anymore. Scully licked her lips. Took a sip of coffee. Forced the next words out of her mouth. "I want you to talk to a friend of mine. She's the rape counselor at Maryland. She's the one who got you here." Mulder stared out the window. "Please. If for no other reason than the fact it will make me feel better." "I can't think about it. I can't." His voice was soft. "You can do that for a while, but not forever. And now you have some down time. You're staying with me, it's safe." "After I take care of this." Mulder replied. "Then maybe I can let myself think about it." "How long is this going to take? Weeks? Months maybe?" Scully's voice was harsh. "Are you going to stand before him in your blindfold and start screaming when you're touched? He won't want you when you start screaming." "That's not going to happen." "Are you sure? He wants you isolated. He doesn't want you getting help. You took a big, really hard step. You reached out to me. That's. . .you don't do that usually. Take another step." Mulder closed his eyes. "Look. I'll just call her. I'll make sure she understands something of the situation." "Please Scully. I can't handle that." "I think you can. I think you're strong enough to handle it." From math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!news-stk-200.sprintlink.net!zdc-e!zdc!nntp 04.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!winternet.com!uunet!in2.uu.net!newsxfer2.itd.umich.edu!po rtc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.co Tue Aug 20 09:58:18 1996 Article: 23144 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!news-stk-200.sprintlink.net!zdc-e!zdc!nntp 04.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!winternet.com!uunet!in2.uu.net!newsxfer2.itd.umich.edu!po rtc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New:Mistress 18/20 Date: 20 Aug 1996 06:20:22 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 424 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4vc3h6$qij@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO I'm back with the last three pieces parts. Had an incredibly busy weekend. . .no time. No time. When I'm finished posting this and I can GET on line w/ the fast modem and all that rot, I'll resend the entire thing. . .forgive me for my indolence and unreliability. Oh. If you want a response from me, I would suggest routing or copying it to Goo. Livengoo@tiac.net. She'll either prod me or she'll answer you herself. . .she doesn't bite unless you're into that. . . Wait a minute that last sounded a bit. . .I don't know. . .I . . .I like the mail. Love it. But I'm just. . .oh I don't know. I don't know what to say. . . Story. Yeah that's it. This is a posting for the story. NC-17 for violence, sexual situations, adult language and adult situations. Usual disclaimers to 10-13, Chris Carter, and Fox television. Mistress 18/20 by Amperage She helped him cut up the melon. Scully might scoff at the cost, but she certainly didn't turn her nose up at eating any of it, Mulder reflected as the phone rang. "Can you clean up?" She asked, running her hands under the water, racing for the phone. She came in with the phone as he was drying his hands. "No. He. . .I. . .Okay." She put the phone in his face. Mulder stared at the offending instrument. "It's Jess. My rape counselor friend." Mulder wanted to back away. He settled for a disgusted look. Scully thrust the phone at him in a manner that said she would brook no excuses. He took the phone. "Hello?" "Hi." "Thanks for. . .for getting me the ride." "I'm glad I could do it. It sounds like you've had a rough time." Mulder swallowed. Sat down. "I guess." He allowed. "Dana told me you didn't want to talk to me." "I'm okay." "Why not? Why am I such a horrible person to talk to?" Mulder bit his lip. "It isn't you. I just. . .It's over." "Are you straight?" "Yes." "So had you ever had anal intercourse?" "Not with a man." To his surprise, the woman did not laugh. "Can you tell me what happened?" "I don't want to." "Because you don't want to remember?" "I don't want to talk to you about it." She didn't say I see or anything. Just sat and let silence accumulate between them until it was thick as fog. "I certainly can't make you talk about it." "No. You can't." Mulder agreed bluntly. Closed his eyes. "I don't want to remember it. You can't make me remember it" *Bird's wings. Pain. Rats are in the bird's Nest. Tanny?* "Sometimes you can't help but remember it. And sometimes it feels good to talk to someone who understands. Who isn't shocked by it. Who can listen." "I don't want to talk about it." He was going to cry and give any listeners, any watchers, a perfect show. "I'm not going to talk about it." His finger slipped to the disconnect button before he thought about it. He sat in the kitchen, eyes closed, silently letting the tears flow down his face. When Scully came in she did not speak or cajole or try to understand. She simply took the phone and let him cry and for some reason, Scully's actions, simply letting him by, not prodding or probing or showing excesses of sympathy released something inside him. And the tears became sobs that wrapped his arm around his chest and shook him until his chest hurt with every rasping, horrible intake of breath. Scully had put the wedges of good green melon in her refrigerator for Mulder. He scooped up a small bowlful with his fingers and put the tupperware container back in place. She was in the living room, punching channels. "Anything you want to watch?" She asked as though she weren't carefully ignoring the fact that he still had red, bloodshot eyes and a puffy, snotty nose. Mulder shook his head. It was supposed to be a show, his staying here. He hadn't cried. He hadn't cried after the first. He'd been brave. That's what boys are supposed to be. He felt miserable, embarrassed. "There's nothing on but kid's shows and talk shows, anyway." Scully sighed. "I'm not ever talking to that woman again." His voice carried immense bitterness. Scully stared at her partner, surprised by this reaction. "She was just trying to help." "She wasn't helping." Each word precise and clear, sharp with perfect diction. "I don't even want any help." "Then why are you here?" Scully could not help the cool exactness of her own voice and she hated it. Mulder stared at her. "I'll go." He said softly. Scully stared back at her partner and saw that he would indeed go, no threats. He would go. He would go back to his own personal hell. She also knew he was not thinking clearly. She knew that if he left he would not ask for her help, would refuse her help. "Stop it." Her voice was sharp and carried the firmness of a parent's voice. "Stop it now. You can't go back home and you know why. You need my help and you know you need my help. Stop it. You are not going through this alone. I'm here. And I can help you. Every time something like this comes up you have to go out on your own. Like you just can't let anyone else take any risks for you. Damn it. Damn it Mulder, that's such bullshit. We all take risks in life that aren't our own. Every time you and I go out with our credentials and our guns we're taking risks that aren't our own." Mulder recoiled from her as though he'd been slapped. Stared at his partner. Scully felt like apologizing. Did not. She wondered if she had said too much for their listeners. Decided she had not. Hoped she had not. She sank back against her own chair. "I'm sorry you and Jess didn't hit it off. I still think you need to talk to someone. Eventually. You know you can't. . .hide this away forever." Mulder was staring at his bowl of fruit. "It's going to haunt you and haunt you. You've got to know that." Her voice was beginning to carry a note of desperation. "Mulder?" His fingers were pushing around small translucent cubes of melon. "I'm sorry." He said quietly. Scully wanted to hit him. "I just. . .Scully, I can't. I just can't. I can't." He sighed. "When it's time. Okay? When I can talk about it. I will. Okay?" He looked up, stared at her. It was all she could do to nod. Okay. They did not need an angsty scene to complete the portrait that evening. 7:30. The last of the wonderfully trashy, sinful Patio Mexican combination dinners fresh from *your* freezer, were sitting in Scully's microwave. Mulder couldn't believe Scully ate them. "So don't eat yours." Scully had responded, lifting her chin to this challenge. "No. That's okay. I used to eat this as a kid." Mulder stared at the cheese tamales under their thin cellophane wrap. "But I mean. . .you, of all people." Scully snorted. "This from a man who spends four dollars on a melon." A noise interrupted them. A Hummer? She saw Mulder stiffen, realized that her own body had gone into defensive and that her adrenaline was beginning to surge. Mulder's movements were quick and graceless. She watched him sag with relief. "Snow plow." "Snow plow? Now?" Scully raced to the bay window. "Oh God. Snow Plow." They watched the heavy truck throw snow onto both sides of the road. "Oh God." Mulder stared at his partners small car, now completely covered in pack. "Oh God is right." Scully commented wryly. "Because we're going to be expected back at work tomorrow, if the street's clear. . .And you don't even have a suit here." He sat in front of the soft blue light from Scully's computer, running through the web. See what you get when you start out with a completely random word like Samhein. It was distracting. He could count it as work. Gotta keep track of the scholarly and the just plain weird. He heard her pad across the floor. "You didn't take all your drugs," she murmured sleepily. "I took what I was supposed to." "You've got to take the Tylenol3 and the Flexeril." "They put me to sleep." Scully was silent a moment. "You need to be asleep. You were curled up on the couch when I went to bed. What happened?" "Nothing happened." He did not turn to face her. "I couldn't sleep. I'm web browsing." He heard her sigh. Look around. She wanted to talk to him, to find out what was going on. The idea of the bugs, of listeners, stopped her. He knew it was probably making her skin crawl. "Then just take the pain killers." "I'm okay, Scully." A fine edge had crept into his voice. Scully stared at the back of her partner, couldn't handle the fact that he wasn't facing her, wouldn't face her. Her hand grabbed the chair and spun. Mulder felt the jerk, but with one arm out of service couldn't stop her. The arm of the chair hit the edge of the desk stopping the movement half-way. But enough that they were looking at each other. "What is it?" She asked. "I'm not sleepy." "Are you having bad dreams? That's. . .normal. You know that." With a great deal of effort she refrained from pointing out that if he talked to someone that person could guide him through this. He started to tell her that that was not it. That it had nothing to do with that. He would be lying. "You have bad dreams." He reminded her. "Yes. I do." Scully felt her way back to a chair and slumped into it. "I have bad dreams that have nothing to do with being raped." "Yes. You do." Another tired, carefully neutral response. She waited. Mulder seemed content to stare at her. "I had a bad dream." "Did it have anything to do with the rape?" Mulder shrugged. "It had to do with her." "Tanneka?" Photographs in her portfolio spilling out onto the coffee table Mulder with a ballgag. Mulder with an anal plug. Mulder in a cock strap, being led by a cock leash. "Yes. She wasn't. . .it wasn't just about sex Scully." He was conscious that the voices were listening. His chest hurt from the tension of that voice, listening. "What was it about then?" Mulder orgasming onto a clear glass coffee table. Mulder hanging from his hands like a side of beef. Mulder strapped face down to a bed while hands shoved dildos up his ass. She'd avoided thinking about it. Avoided remembering it. But right now she could not stop. Mulder was thinking. "About pleasure and caring. She never did anything that. . .that I didn't really, honestly, want. She dominated me. But. . .it was. . .it was. . ." He stopped. In the morning he would know all the right clinical terms, he would remember all the psychologist words. "Do you know, if most agents found out that I had been raped, and then found out about. . .Tanny. . .they would make this horrible, horrible assumption that. . .that I wanted to be raped." Scully nodded. The reality of rape is that it is a physical act of terrorism against another person. It is an act of power. Literally, through actions, informing the victim that he or she has no power, that he or she can be violated at whim. For the rapist it was a source of pleasure, taking the power from the victim, using it to feed his own delusions, his own need for others to be subjugated to his will. But despite all the awareness seminars, despite the courses, most cops, most agents thought of rape as being strictly about sex. It was about sex. But not the way they thought of it as being about sex. And most agents, seeing the facts would simply shut the file. He wanted the rape. He wanted the domination. Scully still felt sick, her mind flitting through the small photos. But with Tanny, he knew it was all about games and all about pleasure and all about meeting needs. This was simply a violation. A theft of inward, personal powers. And it was still going on. "Are the pills still on the kitchen table?" She asked finally. It was such a plebeian thing to ask. He nodded. "Look, just take the Flexeril. Please?" Mulder stared at her. Shook his head. "I don't want it." "You can sleep in my bed and I'll sleep on the couch." He was staring at her oddly. "I don't want to be drugged. I don't want to be. . .not in control. Please?" Scully felt an electric shock ride through her body as she realized why he was so frightened. He was frightened of being raped here, in her apartment. Even the knowledge that she was in the next room could not keep him from this wary apprehension. She sat a moment. Finally nodded. "If you'll go back to sleep on your own. Or try." He nodded a response. His body felt heavy. Numb. He could open his hands and open his mouth. He could not move. He could feel his hands, big and clumsy and heavy. He could breathe. He could not move. And it should have scared him so badly he couldn't think. Drool. There was drool on his face. "Fox." He wanted the voice, wanted to feel the speaker, to make him scream. To make him scream and scream and scream and die. "Secret. You'll go back to your place. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of playing games with you. You won't tell your partner. I know what you've told her. I don't care. You won't tell her this. If you tell her she dies. I've killed many people. She doesn't matter at all. I won't hurt you. I love you, Secret. You'll take the pills that are beside your kitchen sink when you get in. You do what I say. I can hear everything you say. I can always hear everything you say. If you can't play the game she dies and then I'll just take you and play with you until you die." He saw hands moving above him. He saw a cloth. Then he saw nothing. Felt the needle sting. It hurt and it burned and it hurt. And he was spiralling away. Oh God, he was spinning and the cloth was on his face and he could not think. He could not think. His clothes were bugged. Oh dear God. The killer had heard everything. His clothes were bugged. Mulder started at the sounds of Scully in her kitchen, at the smell of coffee. Oh God. She'd made him go to bed, to sleep. With the roads. . .and his arm still stung. His clothes were bugged. He sat up, Scully, in her kitchen, back to him, did not see. The killer heard everything. How. Mulder stared at his winter coat. In the lining. He stared at his hiking shoes. Tonight. He had to be back at his apartment tonight. Or Scully would die. Hands on his body. Hands covering him. Hands. Hands. Hands. Bird's nests. Fluttering in his ears. The fluttering was so very loud. Mulder didn't say anything. Didn't eat any breakfast. Scully watched him. Wanted to talk. Wanted to speak to him. "Why don't you stay home?" Finally. The only words she could say. Mulder swallowed. Shook his head. "You don't feel like going into work. That's obvious." His head shook silently. "Mulder. Please." He shook his head again. "Mulder talk to me. You have to see Crane and Pandya today. You know they're going to want you in. High priority client." She had tried to make it light-hearted. But she saw his shoulders clench. "I'm okay. I had bad dreams last night. I don't want to be alone. Okay?" Her breath was deep and sad. "I'd rather go back." He muttered. "I'll make it through Pandya and Crane." Scully didn't see how. She swallowed. "You need to eat something." "You're not my mother." Each word so carefully modulated and precise, spat out with as much force as he could muster. He sipped at a cup of coffee. His hand shook badly. "We need to go and dig the car out. Then go by your apartment for a suit." Mulder nodded. She could not see how his heart was thudding in his chest. Scully could not see how the adrenalin was pumping inside his body so hard that he could scarcely breathe. She could hear though. And she heard his breath, tight and sharp. Scully shook out the Klonopin. They stared at one another, unspoken words passing between them in desperate arguments. He took one of the night doses. Mulder stood before Walter Skinner knowing the skin was going to be ripped from his flesh, not sure if he could stand it. Knowing he had to stand it. That it was nothing. What came tonight when he went home to an empty apartment was the only important thing. King was there. Sitting and looking pissed. And their local union representative from the Consortium #103, Templars International, was sitting in his leather chair, puffing on a cancer stick, oblivious to the fact that the Hoover building was going smokeless. Mulder stood and stared at the outside world, at the white and slush of a snowbound DC. Tried not to think about anything at all. "Have a seat Agent Mulder." Skinner's voice was sharp. Mulder sat. Skinner started talking about the case and the resolution Mulder had found. King wanted in, wanted to chew Mulder's ass. Skinner was cool. Mulder already knew the message from the tone and didn't bother trying to focus on what wasn't real. The only real things were getting through this day. The only real things were taking pills that would be left for him. Waiting and falling into sleep to be raped again. Skinner was pissed that Mulder hadn't gone through channels. Was extremely pissed but couldn't afford, ever, to say so. Couldn't afford to let King ever say so. So they wouldn't say so. They would let Mulder know simply by tone and by what was not said. Skinner shifted in his leather desk chair. Contemplated Mulder. Change in topic. Mulder tried to focus. "Agent King. Could you please leave us?" It was a dismissal. King stared and narrowed his eyes, but got up and left. It was the three of them. And the third wouldn't speak. Not today. Mulder knew that. "I have Dr. Crane's recommendation, approved by Dr. Pandya, for a psychological waiver. A leave of absence on disability pay." "Sir. I. . ." Skinner cut him off. "Agent Mulder I've already approved the waiver. We'll go ahead and say that today was on full pay. But you're on an undetermined leave of absence until psychiatric opinion is that you're well enough to work." No case, no pressing need to keep him. This was as good as a reprimand. This was better. Mulder didn't need a psychological waiver on his record. He didn't need anything else. He swallowed. "Sir, how can Crane make any observations. She hasn't seen me in a week." Skinner stared at him. Stared at Mulder as though he couldn't believe this. Look at yourself in a mirror, Agent Mulder. "Sir, please. I would prefer not to take a leave of absence. Please sir." He felt his heart thudding in his chest. Cigarette smoke curled around aging, yellowing fingers. He killed your father, Mulder. He knew. He knew all along. Sent your father pictures of you with Tanny. <> Want to know how his son turned out. Sink his father deeper into guilt. Into pain and denial. Mulder was desperate, watching Skinner open Mulder's personnel jacket. Watching fingers curl around a pen and consider the documents lying on top. "Sir, please. I'm sorry." He could hear the panic in his voice. Skinner stopped, stared at Mulder. His face held some surprise. "Please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean. . ." Oh God, he sounded so pitiful, like a dog whipped too many times. "Agent Mulder, this isn't punishment." Skinner's voice was soft. Oh yes it was. And they were taking everything away from him. Leaving him to the rapes and the fondling and. . . Skinner was staring at him. Looking at Mulder as though he were genuinely concerned. The cigarette smoker took another puff on his cancer stick. He looked calm. Leaving Mulder to rot in this pain. "I went to you and I told you how to solve your problem." Mulder heard his voice, knew he was crashing, knew he was losing his control. Skinner was about to sign temporary disability papers saying that Mulder was going fucking crazy. "I told you how to get rid of the predator who was preying on his own. And you fucked the job. You fucked up the job completely and utterly and now you're letting ME pay for it. You SONS-OF-BITCHES." He was up, wildly gesticulating with his uninjured arm. "You FUCKING ASSHOLES. DO YOU KNOW HOW IT FEELS? DO YOU? I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING TO SOLVE THE CASE." The cigarette was burning, coal travelling to the filter. Skinner was tense, uncertain, wary. "Go ahead. Sign the fucking order. I don't care." His voice was desperate and unhappy. "Do whatever you're told." Take your pills when you get in. He hadn't said night. He had known it wouldn't be night. Skinner was trying to find words. "Agent Mulder." His voice was calming. His body language was tense, but his words were calm. He still exuded the aura of control. "Are you all right?" Mulder swallowed. Felt the anger drain out of his body. He closed his eyes and slumped into his chair. From math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!news-stk-200.sprintlink.net!news-res.gsl.ne t!news.gsl.net!nntp04.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!uunet!in2.uu.net!newsxfer2.itd.umich.edu !portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news. Tue Aug 20 09:58:18 1996 Article: 23145 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!news-stk-200.sprintlink.net!news-res.gsl.ne t!news.gsl.net!nntp04.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!uunet!in2.uu.net!newsxfer2.itd.umich.edu !portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 19/20 NC-17 Date: 20 Aug 1996 06:20:25 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 532 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4vc3h9$qik@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO Highly NC-17. Do NOT read if you are underage. Usual Disclaimers Mistress 19/20 by Amperage Scully let him toss her a copy of the disability papers. "Did you know?" "No." Scully could answer honestly. She should have guessed. "How long is it for?" "Indefinite. Full disability. That's 60 percent and my insurance will cover another 10." "Starting now? He nodded. Closed his eyes. "Do you want me to drive you home?" "I have to go see Crane and Pandya before I go. I don't know. Maybe I'll just go home. What can they do that they haven't already done?" "Pandya can have you thrown into a hospital." It was an unkind cut. Mulder just shrugged. "He won't." "How do you know that?" Scully said softly. The way Mulder looked, if she were in Pandya's shoes and Mulder said just the wrong thing, gave any rope, she'd have him someplace safer. Mulder looked at her curiously. Didn't say anything. But he went and sat down at his desk. Called EAP. "Crane's still snowed in. Pandya's here, but he's already got a backlog. He wants me to take a blood test on my way home and he'll give me a call." Mulder's voice contained a hesitation, a catch. "Oh God. I can't believe I'm on disability." "Come on. I'll drive you home." Scully said, emotionlessly. "Come on." He was silent, riding in her car, face pressed against the glass. "Why don't you stay with me?" She asked. Mulder started, turned to face her. "I can't." "You can." "No. I can't. I'm sorry." He swallowed. "I just. . .I can't. I have to be alone." Scully stared at her partner's flushed face and felt an epiphany rush through her system. An epiphany she couldn't mention. "I'll be by around 6:30." She told him. "Okay?" Mulder bit his lip. Nodded. Her heart skudded against her chest and she felt the metal tang of fear. Oh God. Oh God. Mulder. His arm stung from the blood the lab had taken. He was lucky Scully hadn't wanted to go up with him. She had. But he'd talked her out of it. 6:30. She could be here to help with the clean up. He got a glass of water from the tap. Went to his table. There were four little capsules on the table. They weren't name brand. No neat minuscule printing so he could see what would be sending him off to La-la land. Some little cocktail to sedate him. He couldn't palm them. He could, but he thought there might be trouble later. He could only take the pills. He took the pills and took off his clothes, went into his bedroom and lay down. This was not what he wanted to do. He wanted. Oh God. He wanted to do anything but this. He wanted to. . .He rolled his head down onto the pillows, covered his face with his arms in desperation. Spit out the pills onto the bottom sheet. When he rolled away, still in agitation, the pills were covered by a pillow. Mulder woke with a start but did not open his eyes. He'd tossed a while, then fallen into sleep unintentionally. He was just supposed to be playing possum. He did not open his eyes, he did not hear his visitor. But he felt the presence in a tangible way. Then a creak. Sudden hands forced a blindfold onto his face. Mulder made a moan as though he were waking. A moan crossed with a scream. "Nuuuuughhhhh." A hand struck him across the face. "Shut up, faggot." Hands threw back the sheets. "Secret. You are sooo pretty, Secret." Hands, plastic gloved hands felt his scrotum. Mulder whimpered. "You can move today. I bet you don't feel like it. But you can. You won't do anything I don't tell you to. I have a gun and I can destroy Dana. Tell me what you're going to do." Mulder licked his lips. "I. . .be good." He didn't know how much disorientation the drugs would be causing. "Very good, Secret." Movement. Brush of naked hip against him. "Put your knees up. Heels against your bottom." Mulder obeyed as tears began rolling down his cheeks. The killer was hesitant, as though he'd planned this out, but was unsure of himself in the execution. Gloved fingers touched his rectum, massaged the bones of his buttocks. Mulder tried not to stiffen, did not succeed. The hand went away. "I didn't think those pills would be enough. You're still fighting too much. Roll onto your side." It was clear why Mulder was to roll onto his side. He obeyed wordlessly. Felt the killer get off his bed. The sobs shook him. He could not stop and his nose was running and he couldn't breathe and The needle stung. Oh God, it hurt. Mulder felt his breath whoosh out of him. He was not given further instructions. After a moment he felt something cold. KY jelly or vaseline. "Tanny never made you take enemas." Mulder did not answer. "I like enemas. Men are all nasty up inside them, so you clean them out. Then it's nice and clean and it doesn't smell and you don't get stuff on you." A gloved finger, then two. It pushed and it probed. "Yeah. Let's go into the bathroom." He heard the bed creak, felt weight displace. Mulder did not move. "Let's go, Secret." He'd be damned if he went into the bathroom for an enema. He didn't expect the first whack. It was a leather belt and it knocked the very breath out of Mulder. "I said let's go." Mulder brought his knees to his chest. The second lick curled around his chest. "I said LET'S GO." The voice was so fucking loud. It was so sharp and loud and it echoed in his head. Mulder brought his chin down to his chest. A third lick, back again on his buttocks. A fourth. Hands suddenly pried at him. Rough, fingernails digging into the skin. Whatever it was was coursing through his veins and making him lethargic, making him feel like he was a thousand miles away. Hands, two hands were prying at him. Mulder lunged blindly for the midsection and hit it with his best, hardest punch. Again. Again. Again. He couldn't see the face or the soft stomach or even his own bed. He could see, between the folds on his nose, flesh and the white of sheets. He could only hit and hit and hit. Even with only one arm in service, he was still doing damage. The knife gleamed in his line of vision and Mulder rolled from it, finally taking time to pull off the mask as he fell between the bed and the wall. His killer was narrow of body. Dark eyes, dark hair. He was vaguely cute, but not like Mulder. He also held a knife. There was a gun on the dresser. Mulder only had his father's gun. Skinner had his other guns. His father's gun was between mattress and box springs on the bed. On the other side of the bed. "Bastard." A scream. A knife. Psychotropic drugs. Submission. However he killed people, if Mulder hadn't worked out as good as the dreams, Mulder would be dead. Mulder was too hard for the killer to handle. The knife came down in a girlish, amateurish swipe. Mulder put up his injured arm, feeling it scream with pain even before the knife cut through dermis. Mulder's good hand grabbed the killer's wrist and wrenched the knife away with a twist. God bless Quantico, he thought inanely as the knife fell onto his pretzled body, bit into the flesh of his legs then stomach. The killer's other hand swooped down for the knife and Mulder used his bad arm to block it. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. He was going to need some serious Tylenol3. He still didn't have the knife, but neither did the killer. Not for a second. Mulder let go of the killer's wrist, barely beating him to the knife. He was in a bad position, scrunched up here. Not much room. The killer was in a good position. Lotsa' room. And a gun on the dresser. Mulder threw the knife under the bed. The killer rolled away. He was up, following as the killer went for the dresser. Mulder was drugged, and injured. "Freeze." It was a strong, alto voice. Freeze? did people actually *say* freeze? Did he ever say freeze? Yeah. He said freeze. Mulder sagged across the bed panting. Scully had a gun. The killer didn't. He was staring at Scully, eyes glittering. "Are you all right?" Scully didn't even glance at Mulder. Watching the naked man. Watching the dangerous thing. "Yes." It came out with the sobs. Mulder grabbed the sheet and pulled it around him, pushed forward. "Step away from the dresser." The man began to comply. Stopped. "Or what? You'll shoot me? You won't shoot me." Scully pursed her lips and smiled. "And why not?" "The noise." "I break into my partner's apartment to find someone raping him and I'm worried about noise?" "The truth would come out." At this Mulder had to smile. "What truth? I was sent home. I came in, took a nap. The killer broke in to rape me and then to kill me just like all the rest. Scully happened by because she's been worried about me. I'm going crazy, you know? She found the scene, had to kill you. By the time the police get here, we'll have anything incriminating hidden away. We'll be the heros of the hour." Mulder felt nothing but relief. All over. It was all fucking over. All over. No more of this. No more. He could not even find room for his anger. Just bone shaking relief. The easy, superior smile faltered. "How do you know I don't have something stored away. If I die it all comes out." Mulder shrugged. "I don't much fucking care. I might have. A long time ago." It was a lie. He still did care. "Besides. You're not the type of person to do that. You didn't even consider the idea that you would fail." "What are we going to do with him?" Scully's voice was sharp. Mulder swallowed. "Kill him. Just shoot him." Scully stared hard at her partner. In cold blood? You want me to shoot him in cold blood?" Mulder sighed and reached in between his bed for his father's gun. "I'll do it if it bothers you." They stared at each other a long time. Mulder didn't care. Honestly didn't care. He could feel rage and anger later. He could grieve for things lost later. Right now he just wanted it to be over. For the killer to be dead. He just wanted to sleep a good night's sleep without worrying about rape. He just wanted to be alone. "Get down on the floor on your stomach." Scully ordered, voice trembling. When he was down she cuffed him. "Don't move." She ordered, almost needlessly, came and sat beside her partner. "Do you really want to just shoot him?" Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. He's right. The noise would be a factor." "And you'd have to go through a rape kit." Scully swallowed, stared directly into his eyes. "Can you handle that?" They had already decided that the intruder should die. Their killer apparently had figured this out as well. He started screaming. Scully took Mulder's shirt and went over to the prisoner. Started shoving shirt into his mouth, holding his head up by the hair on his head. Then she put a pillow down and dropped his face into it. "Don't cause trouble." She ordered in a voice full of malice. Mulder closed his eyes. "There is one thing we can do." He said softly. "Give him back to his own?" Scully's reply was soft. Mulder nodded. "They can't let him go. He's a serial killer. They'll have to take care of him." Their killer was still making a helacious fuss. Scully stood again and went to her partner's bureau, looked through the drugs. A used needle and one unmarked vial. She loaded the syringe, pressured everything into their captive's right hip. Dispassionate, vindictive. Mulder made the call, not sure who to call, not sure of anything. Godwin still didn't answer his phone. He rubbed his shoulders and thought about calling Skinner while Scully left the room. When she came back she had his masking tape in her hands. Mulder knew there'd be an X in the window. The car ride was hell, and he wanted to sleep. Scully's voice kept sliding and sliding and sliding over him as he slid his head against the webbing of seat belt. Sliding and sliding and after a while he did not answer her. Her voice echoed like tinny bells in his head. They stumbled into her house, Mulder just wanting to collapse somewhere, anywhere. Scully took his good arm. He did not like it, her fingers clutching him. But it was too much too bear. And she kept asking him questions. He put his head against the pillow and her fingers were on his sweatshirt. Please. He waved them away. "Don't touch. Please." He muttered. "Please." She smoothed his brow. Said something. He was in sweats anyway. Her hands on his feet and the shoes fell off. She kept talking. Asking questions. About cuts and things and her eyes were dark blue. He didn't know. Didn't want to answer. Because it hurt and he couldn't think. Go'way. Her voice was loud and echoing and it came from the end of a canyon. And finally, when he was between cold folds of sheet, she went away. There was a dream. He could not remember where the dream came from. Laurel. He wore a laurel in his hair. He was stoned. Looking down on torches and basket and the whirring of men and women. Until he was led down to the center and all the sounds, the drums and the pipes stopped and he was laid upon the stone, stripped naked. If he was the chosen the lady would come. He knew he was the chosen, could feel it in the roundness of his mouth. He turned his face towards the fire, and his hand rolled against the aging stone. The lady had not come for a hundred years. For a hundred years they had killed the harvest king upon the stone. He knew he would die. The lady would take him. But these people, these face he had once known, they would not be the ones to cut his body. He smelled her musk. And he saw her face and watched her perfect body stride to him. He smiled. Arched his back to greet her. Mulder shook himself away from another dream. Tried to remember where he was. The light from the window was very bright. He could see the goblins outside, dancing in the moonlight. He was in Scully's bed. Tanny was not here. Oh God. He wanted Tanny to be here. Why was he in Scully's bed? He should be on her couch. He got up unsteadily. The shadows and the light edged themselves in solid forms. When he moved from blue to black he wondered if he would fall into another world. He was going to be the harvest king. Tanny was going to come for him. Arch your back. He did not turn a kitchen light on. Scully was asleep on her couch, covered in blankets. He wanted water. Then he wanted milk. When he got down a glass it slipped in his fingers. The sound of the crashing was very loud. The glass did not break on the counter, but waited until it had spun down onto the floor to shatter. Pieces of glass glittered in uncertain light and he stared at them entranced by the jewel glints. Crystalline shards. He was staring at the slivers gleaming on the kitchen floor when he heard her feet padding on the floor. "Hey." her voice was drowsy. "Why didn't you wake me?" Mulder shrugged. "I wanted something to drink." Her breaths were even and deep. "Okay." She stared at the glass. "Can you stay right there?" "I guess so." He did not understand. But she went away. She had his shoes when she came back. Her old sneakers on. She helped him put his feet into them. "What do you want to drink?" It did not sound like Scully. He thought about this. Could not find an answer. "Water." Finally. An answer from a far off place. "You go back to bed, I'll sweep." She was tired, rubbing dreams from her eyes. "Then I'll get you some water." "I can get it." He hunkered over the glass, heels on his bottom. "I can see that. You're not real steady on your feet though, are you?" He knew he was not. "I dreamed that I was the harvest king." He muttered. She nodded and he knew she did not understand. It didn't matter. He allowed himself to rock back from his squat into a sit. He was sleepy. The refrigerator's thrum echoed on and on in his ears. Scully reached out a hand. "Come on." He took it. Scully finished sweeping, finished putting a damp rag to the floor to get rid of any slivers. She hoped he was asleep, but lethargically filled a waterglass just in case. He was lying there, staring, and he sat up when she came in. He drank the water, holding the glass with both hands, slopping water onto her sheets. Scully wondered what she would do in the morning. She hadn't discussed much with him. He'd been pretty lucid when she arrived at his apartment, but the lucidity had made a rapid decline. He handed the glass back. "You want anymore?" She asked. He shook his head. "Okay. Go back to sleep." Mulder did not want to comply. But he slid back against the sheets as ordered. "Do you want me to stay a couple of minutes? You'll go back to sleep really fast." Her voice was of a parent's with a child and she hated it. He shook his head. Scully was glad and wandered out of the room. The kitchen was still lit and bright and insane against all the gentle colors of the night. She had seen cuts along his thighs. Cuts over cuts over cuts. He had been cutting himself. Mulder hadn't been terribly lucid then. Scully had bandaged the arm. It wasn't as bad as it might have been. He needed stitches, but she didn't want a doctor to see him. Not this stoned. She'd taped butterflies to the arm, holding it together. Not the best substitute and the in the morning, they'd go to Foster for a more permanent solution. Where had she been? The cuts on his groin. Scully didn't know much about self-mutilation. She knew that Mulder had been hurting himself pretty badly. She knew that it was not a automatic thing, but a learned response. That it was addictive. She knew that it wasn't a desire for suicide and that it wasn't any worse than alcoholism or drug addiction. But her mind still recoiled from the edgy, crusted cuts in a way that it didn't from the thought of other behaviors. She didn't know very much about it at all. After he had gone to sleep, she'd pulled down the books from her psych rotation. >From years and years ago. And the writers didn't know very much at all. She'd researched on Medline. Cross referenced long enough her eyes hurt. It didn't know very much at all. Just that it wasn't suicidal. Just that it was addictive. Just that it gave the user a craved for release. Everyone had a theory. Endorphins mostly. A head rush. Scully considered that it was probably true, but not entirely. Mulder got plenty of endorphins after a long hard jog. She sat alone, staring at an empty water glass. Trying to understand. There had been two rapes. The second rape. She didn't know how far it had gone and Mulder was in no way ready to tell her. In her mind she labelled it the second rape. Two fondlings and two rapes. He was still in her bedroom, still Mulder. Still hanging on. He was Tanny's beautiful slave. Her favorite. She found she could think those thoughts without revulsion. It frightened her. It attracted her. Someday this whole thing would be over. Someday it would not matter. Someday it would not be important. Lying in bed, staring at nothing, Mulder wished feverently for that someday. Right now he was just staring at the ceiling and trying to decide how bad today would be. He shouldn't be here. This was not his place. It was only women who curled up under friend's quilts after they had been raped. It was only women who fought off attackers who were naked, and who waved their blood hardened penises like spears. Only women got to cry and to mourn. The jealousy he felt towards those women was sour in his mouth. Get over it. He did not want to get out of bed. His body still felt hands sliding across smooth skin. His butt still throbbed with welts where a belt had bit into skin. He could still feel the latex of gloves coated with lubricant. The fingers as they slid into his rectum. He could still feel it all. Mulder shuddered, revulsed. He needed a shower. He simply did not think. Shut something off like shutting off a switch. Could not understand what, but he knew he had to do it. He showered until there was no more hot water, until he was shivering from the cold spray hitting his chest. Shaved, cut himself, tasted blood. Dressed and sat on the bed. He knew dread when he sat on the bed, staring at the door where Scully waited with her words. Scully waited and he did not want to face it at all. So he sat on the bed and mistrustfully watched the door. Scully hung up the phone. He probably hadn't even heard it ring. The shower and he'd bathed on and on and on. A voice, whispering in her ear like an unwanted date's tongue. Scully would take as long off as she wanted, at full pay, to take care of her partner. The apartment. They were still cleaning it. The extermination was done, but they had to clean it because of all the bugs. They would probably destroy his electronics. They would buy Mulder new ones. She had listened and had listened. And now she hung up the phone. He had to be ready. He had to be ready. It had been too long. Scully swallowed. Oh God, she hated this role. She hated this. She'd never been good with this. Like she or Mulder either one was good at this. She remembered how awkward he'd been when she'd cried on his shoulder. She remembered how awkward when Melissa died and she'd finally got to the hospital, only to sit in an empty room and he'd come in and knelt beside her. How awkward they'd been since. She'd never been good at any of it. That's why she was a pathologist. That's probably why she was unmarried and she would rather write reports than date the nice young men her friends wanted to set her up with. She took a deep breath. Mulder thought she was good at it. The door knob turned just before she was about to touch it. They stared at each other a moment. Questioning each other. Scully swallowed. The urge to say something, to explain herself was strong. She just swallowed. "My neighbor brought me fresh baked cinnamon rolls." "Because you were with a man?" His voice was dead. Scully said nothing. She had not made coffee. She always made a pot of coffee first thing. But she had not made coffee. She just hadn't. There were diet drinks and grape juice. Scully got the grape juice from her refrigerator and poured up two tall glasses, set them on the table. Hoped his first question was not the one she knew it would be. "How did you manage to stay at home?" She swallowed. "Umm. . .our. . .our personal cigarette lobbyist. . ." the joke fell flat. " . . .I got a call. I can stay home." She looked down at her loose warmups and thick flannel shirt. The canvas shoes she wore only indoors. He nodded. She got the distinct impression he wished she'd gone to work. Scully got down saucers and got a knife. Mulder sat at the table, staring at the large round tray and the white icing like cum. Scully stopped her movements. White icing like cum? She sat at the table, cut up the rolls, put one on each small plate. There was silence. Silence so thick it could be cut into small blocks and used as insulation. Scully found her fingers trembling. The words spilled out of her. All the nervous words and thoughts. Except she cloaked them in medicine and authority and a doctor's degree. Words. Cuts and self-inflicted wounds and time off and what he needed to do and it was the wrong thing to do and she knew that but she didn't know what to do instead. And the words kept pouring out of her mouth. She saw him tense, saw his shoulders bunch, saw his brow furrow. And when the explosion came, she was completely unsurprised. "Fuck you. Fuck you. With your hospitals and your bullshit." He wasn't talking well. He wasn't talking well at all. "Fuck you, Dana Scully. What do you know about this?" He was yelling and yelling and yelling and she didn't know what to say or think and he was spitting in her face the fact that she had never been raped. That she had never been stalked and terrorized. That there were cameras in his bedroom and listening devices sewn into his clothes. He was spilling venom, like a snake that's been cold and suddenly wakes in a foul temper. Informing her that her cunt was cold and that Tanny's had been warm. He was standing and hitting the counter and she knew he had wanted to hit her. For the smug words she had said. For the words that said that she knew everything and that he was weak and needed taking care of. Because everything in his life was coming apart. His lover had been killed. Killed and he couldn't show grief. Killed and the killer had stalked him. And he had been raped. And fondled. And every word listened in on. And every thing he cared about in this world threatened. And even his job was gone. And he hit the counter over and over and over again with his fist, face contorting with rage. Scully just sat at the table, staring at her cinnamon roll. Listening. It was all she really needed to do. It was all she knew how to do. When he said the words he had not meant to say, she heard and she was there, to hang onto them. The words. "And she's dead and it's my fault. He raped me and I don't know why, but it's my fault." And she stared at him. Turned her head to stare at him. And he stared at her, and the words rolled around the kitchen and they echoed off the cabinets and they echoed off the counters and they echoed off the sink. She watched him close his eyes. Watched his face go white and his shoulders tremble. And she said it very quietly and very carefully, to let him know she had heard. "Tell me what you just said?" And he stared at her. His breath was deep and shuddering. And he repeated what he had said. From math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!news-stk-200.sprintlink.net!news-res.gsl.ne t!news.gsl.net!nntp04.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!newspump.sol.net!spool.mu.edu!agate!ne wsxfer2.itd.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol Tue Aug 20 09:58:17 1996 Article: 23143 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!news-stk-200.sprintlink.net!news-res.gsl.ne t!news.gsl.net!nntp04.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!newspump.sol.net!spool.mu.edu!agate!ne wsxfer2.itd.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not- for-mail From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: Mistress 20/20 Date: 20 Aug 1996 06:24:20 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 234 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <4vc3ok$qj9@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: amperage@aol.com (Amperage) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Status: RO I need to offer more of an apology. Forgive me for posting and then stopping w/out warning. Mea Culpa. Mea Culpa. Mea Maxima Culpa as Jimmy Buffet chants so well in "Fruitcakes". I didn't know that my time would be so limited recently and that I would be so tired. When I'm home alone, I mostly just wanna' get in some quality time with my pillow right now. Sleep Deprivation is an interesting thing to study about, not to live. NC-17 Material. If you are under 18, GO AWAY. Usual disclaimers Mistress 20/20 by Amperage The restaurant was packed even at 3. It was always packed, though, Dana knew. The open garden room full of exotic plants, the fountains strung with white lights under the round liquid of water. Jess sat at a small round table for two, leaning back in a wrought iron chair that rocked. The waiter was so young. Strange that Jess and Dana had once been that young, that earnest. He flirted unmercifully with both of them, seating Scully with a shy smile. "You look like you've been through hell." Jess said, putting the huge, laminated menu down, leering over it. "Actually, I thought I looked quite good." Scully said, glancing at the choices, though she knew quite well what she wanted. "How are you?" More serious now. The waiter brought Scully her marguarita. "I'm. . ." Scully thought about this one. "I'm better." "How's Mulder?" "He's at this retreat center. Supposedly they only do week long retreats for catholics--it's a monastary--but he. . ." Scully opened her hands. "he knows someone." Albert. Mulder knew Albert and Albert knew about this real newagey retreat center up at Pecos, New Mexico, which wasn't, Mulder had reported, at all like Farmington. It was inside the mountains, and it was incredibly green. Lush. Franscican Monks and Nuns running a retreat center for catholics with heavy duty mental problems. "It's good for him." Scully smiled. He wasn't actively unhappy with it. He went exploring in the mountains. He had long discussions with one of the monks, a man with a PhD in psych from Oxford. They made him, he had reported with a self-depractory laugh, take naps. Jess nodded. "I'm sorry I managed to alienate him." Scully shrugged. "He wasn't ready," she sighed. "How've you been doing?" "I'm okay." They sat in the companionable warmth of the restaurant until the waiter came back to take their orders and left chips and con queso sauce. "Is there anything you want to talk about?" Jess asked, sipping her tea. Scully shrugged. "I. . .yeah." She let the breath whoosh out of her. "Okay. What?" Scully swallowed, sipped her frozen drink. "I think I should have ordered Irish Cream Coffee." She shivered. Jess smiled. "About Mulder's rape?" "I guess." Scully sighed. "Mulder's rapist. . .was. . .the killer in the Dom murders. And he raped Mulder because he had. . .fantasies about Mulder." She could feel Jess's eyes boring into her. "It was more than one incident?" A question, not a leading question, get Scully to spill her guts, but a question. "Yes." "Why in God's name didn't you report it?" "Because Tanneka Bonet was Mulder's lover." A hissing of breath. "Oh fuck, Dana." Scully swallowed. Closed her eyes. "Oh God, he must have been. . ." Jess put her face in her hands, elbows on the table. "It must have been such emotional hell for the both of you." Nothing for Scully to say to that. She sat, crumbling the edges of chip with her fingers. Jess remembered herself. "Dana, you did good. You know that, right?" "Yeah. I know." Scully nodded, gave a fake half-smile. "He's doing better." "And you?" Scully stared at the cheese sauce on the table in front of her. "I'm. . ." Her facade finally crumbled and the tears, oh God, embarrasing tears spilled out of her. Jess let her get herself under control, let her finish crying. Got her some coffee. Their dinners came. Scully barely touched her eyes, playing with the enchiladas. "Does it feel like he betrayed you, having a dominatrix?" Jess asked. "I. . .No. . .yes." Scully swallowed her ice water. Was immiently glad no one would hear them. "Yes." "Are you in an intimate relationship with him?" "Mulder?" The tone must have told Jess all she needed to know. "It's not fair." The words burst out of her and Scully had no idea where they came from. "What's not?" Jess stared at Scully, "that he gets to have fun and you don't?" "No." She wanted to start crying. Now was not the time or the place. Jess waved the waiter down for their bill. Let him go back for it. "What's not fair?" She asked. "She got the best of him." Scully said it, actually said it. "She got a Mulder who was. . .he was. .. he was sweet and gentle and. . ."and she really couldn't believe she was saying this. Really, really couldn't. The bill came and Jess paid it with cash. They got the hell out. Scully had planned to get roaringly drunk and take a taxi home, but instead found herself beside Jess in an old Jeep Ranger. "What Mulder do you get?" Jess asked. "I get the Mulder who. . .ditches me. And makes fun of me. I get the Mulder who. . .who. . .who. . .he'll do something and it'll make me so fucking mad. So mad I can't see straight. And then he'll get hurt or apologize soooo well. And he'll do things for me. When I was in the hospital. He was there everyday. With flowers or puzzles. He just. . .and then after he ditched me and nearly got himself killed in the artic, he was soooo nice. But he keeps doing it. He wouldn't. . .It's not fair." She blew her nose on tissue Jess had found. "I'm not an abuse counselor." Jess commented softly. "Who said anything about abuse?" Scully looked up, puzzled. "You have. Mulder sounds pretty damn abusive." "It's not like that." Jess tapped the steering wheel. "Tell me something, what do you know about your partner's childhood?" Scully shrugged. She knew quite a lot, actually. "Was he ever beaten or emotionally abused?" "Yes." "Was his mother ever abused by his father?" "No." Jess chewed on his lip. "We learn how to interact with our family from our family. How a child learns to interact when he's young is usually what he'll do when he's an adult. Some of it is modelled behavior and some of it is purely learned. Mulder saw a dominatrice, right?" "Right." "Was she serious or mild?" "She didn't leave scarring. She wasn't. . ." "Did she hit him?" "She spanked him, paddled him, belted him." "To show she loved him?" Scully didn't like where she was being led. "Yes." "So he's in the role he learned as a child, I would imagine. He gets beaten because she loves him. He strives and strives and strives to be perfect. He's good and sweet and wonderful." It was a simplification, but Scully understood the pattern. "What about you?" Jess mused. "You've got an idea, Jess." Scully turned to stare at other cars on the Beltway. "Spit it out. I'm not a client and I don't appreciate being led around like a cow." Jess gazed at her. "And it's not surprising you two found each other either." She said serenely. "I love you too." "What's that supposed to mean?" Scully replied, pushing up in her seat. "That you and Mulder neither one are the most comfortable people in the world to be around. Why do people go into pathology?" Jess said it as though musing. Scully felt as though an iron fist had slammed into her gut. "I went into pathology because I wanted to know the truth. I wanted to find things out. And I had a crush on Quincy when I was a kid." Jess laughed, wiping her eyes. "I shoudda' figured." She muttered. Scully smiled. "About your partner. He knows two ways to interact with a family, and in I would say that, to him at least, you're family. The first way is as the abusee. That's what he was with Tanny. The second way is as the abuser. That's what he does with you." "He doesn't abuse me." Jess shrugged. "Okay. He does something that hurts you emotionally and then spends the next month making up. How does that differ substancially from the man who hits his wife across the mouth and then spends the next month making up?" Scully sat silently. "I don't think it's intentional, and it sure as hell isn't as clear cut as I've made it. But, do you think it has some validity?" Scully swallowed. "Yes." Her voice was soft. "What do I do? Go back to Quantico." "Why?" "If he's abusing me and all, I shouldn't be in the. . ." "If it were clear cut, intentional emotional abuse, yes. I'd tell you to get the hell out. I don't think it is. I think that's the pattern he knows. But I think he really cares about you. And that you really care about him." Jess bit her lip. "I think you two feed off of each other." "What are you. . ." Scully stared at her friend, outraged. "Dana, you know quite well what I mean." Jess sighed. "You're not the best at dealing with people either. There's plenty of shit that you pull that isn't exactly nice either." Scully considered this. "So, do you justify abuse to the victim?" "No. But Mulder isn't an abuser. He's just acting out some patterns that he knows. And you act out the patterns of your family life with him." "There wasn't anything wrong with my family." "I know your mom. I knew your dad. I've met Mel and your brothers and sisters. You were always the quiet, good little girl. Never really dated, always made A's. Always took care of people. The only devation from form is the fact that you were a tomboy. Besides following through with patterns, it sounds like Mulder gets hurt a lot." "And I take care of him. Just like I used to take care of Melissa." "Mhm. And you're little miss perfect. Do you know how annoying that can be?" Jess's voice was gentle. "Someone who *always* has the answer?" Scully sat a moment, stunned at this sudden criticsm. Chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. "So we're both acting out patterns." She agreed numbly. Jess pulled off the beltway. They sat in silence as Jess drove through Scully's neighborhood. "So, what are you going to do?" "I don't know." Scully admitted. "Stay with the partnership. I don't know. But it hurts. It hurts." "Do you think he tries not to follow that pattern with you?" Scully watched as Jess pulled up next to her building. "Sometimes. Yes. When he thinks it will hurt me." "Does he forgive you for being a know it all, hardnosed skeptic?" "Yes." Jess shrugged. "No one is perfect in this world. Everyone's got flaws." Scully opened the door. "I just. . ." She sighed, not sure what she had wanted to say. "I get so tired sometimes." "Yeah." Jess's smile was soft. "I know." It was a hard and bitter truth. Scully got out of the Bronco. "I'll see you soon." She said in what might have been a whisper and went to her apartment. The End