The First Stone 
by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk)

CLASSIFICATION: XA

RATING: NC-17 for violence

SUMMARY: Three agents working on the same murder case have 
apparently committed suicide. While investigating, Mulder makes a 
painful discovery that puts him in very real danger of becoming 
the fourth.
____

DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and its characters are the property of 
Fox, 1013 and Chris Carter and I torture them without permission 
but with no mercenary intent.

FEEDBACK: Yes please

WARNING: This story isn't that gory. It's not even particularly 
graphic. But it _does_ contain violent and potentially disturbing 
subject matter. I'd hate to upset people needlessly, so if that 
sort of thing bothers you, please go away.

**********

Shades of grey. Nothing but shades of grey, burning into his eyes, 
his memory. 

Her skin was the palest of shadows, smooth as smoke. Her hair were 
wisps of ash, dry and arid, all life and vibrancy drained away. 
Dark folds slashed the slate grey of her clothes. All grey, all 
the same colour, yet at the same time cruelly different, showing 
him every detail, showing him....

Black.

Splashes of black on her clothes, in her hair, on the ground 
beneath her.

It had been _so_ red....

Black in the photograph, red in his mind. Red on her body, black 
in the gaping darkness of his soul.

His fingers were stiff, aching. How long had he been sitting 
there, staring at the photographs clutched in his hand - pictures 
he knew so well now that he could recreate every detail with his 
eyes shut?  

A minute? An hour? An eternity?

What did it matter? He would be dead soon.

He glanced one last time round the room, saying farewell to the 
trappings of a hollow life he'd once thought so full, a day ago, a 
lifetime ago. Now, they seemed so worthless, so futile. His name 
on the office door. Shelves of books. Pictures on the wall. 
Photographs of.... of her. Bright hair, bright smile, bright eyes. 
Her _smile_....

Would she ever smile again?

He pulled his gaze away, feeling her picture swim before his eyes. 
Not _her_. Not _that_ photograph, all smiles and colour and life. 
This one. _This_ one. A black and white crime scene photograph 
where death was faded into painful greys, harsh contrasts like a 
dagger in his heart. 

He laughed suddenly - a grim sound with no humour in it. God! The 
files. The notebooks. The profiles. They were all still there, 
filed away in triumph after the successes of years. Ironic that 
he'd devoted his career to understanding the criminal mind, when 
all the time he'd been so wrong about.... about everything.

What would it be like, a bullet in the brain? Would he feel 
anything? Would it hurt like.... like...?

No! No more. I can't!

Where had _that_ come from? A little voice of horror that still 
wanted to forget, wanted to carry on, wanted to live.

No, he _had_ to think of it. Mustn't fight it. Think of it. That 
memory, that thought, pounding at his head, attacking his mind, 
forcing the gun to his head.

Whirling shapes, writhing before his eyes. The twisting images of 
a screen saver, covering his work, his unfinished profile. Someone 
else would finish it now. Perhaps _him_, his visitor of an hour 
ago. Would _he_ learn the truth too, and his blood join the 
others'?

Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered any more. Just the truth, 
and his conscience speaking in his mind, and the cold hard ring of 
metal pressed against his temple.

And then, slowly, slowly, a finger tightened on the trigger.

**********

Her footsteps were the only sound in the silence.

No-one moved. No-one spoke. No-one breathed.

"Agent Scully? Is.... er...." Agent Jacobs broke the silence 
first, his words faltering into an awkward cough. "How...? I 
mean...." Another cough. A nervous shuffling of feet.

Mulder stared at the words on the computer screen, not ready to 
look up quite yet, sharing the older agent's feelings. The sound 
of sobbing had become so much part of their world that its sudden 
absence had halted words and actions, making everyone fall silent 
with awkward guilt at how such vocal grief had become simply 
background noise, of no more import than the distant sounds of 
cars.

"How is she?" Jacobs tried again, his voice still hoarse. "Will 
she.... will she be all right?"

"Of course she won't be all right!" Scully's voice was fire. "Her 
fiance's dead, for God's sake. Of _course_ she's not okay!"

Mulder looked up, a slow deliberate movement designed to catch 
Scully's eye. When their eyes met he gave a tiny shake of the 
head, gesturing with his eyes to Jacobs. He was confident she 
would get the message, even though anyone watching would no doubt 
be unaware that any communication had passed between them.

"I'm sorry." Scully sighed, wearily. Her muscles were taut and he 
could tell she was struggling to keep control. "I shouldn't have 
snapped. But she's.... Of course she's not okay, but her mother's 
looking after her now."

"That's good." Agent Jacobs tried to smile, but it was closer to a 
grimace, and he quickly gave up the pretence. "My God!" he burst 
out suddenly, kneading his temples with his clenched fists as if 
trying to drive out the truth from his memory. "_Three_ of them!"

Mulder stood up, crossing the room to Scully's side, trying not to 
glance at the body on the floor. She looked up as he approached, 
smiling wanly.

"Are you okay, Scully?" He spoke quietly, touching her lightly on 
the arm.

She shrugged. "I'm fine, Mulder. It wasn't pleasant, but.... I'm 
fine."

He gave her a quick smile, acknowledging the truth and the lie 
behind her words. Over an hour with a bereaved woman, searching 
for vain words of comfort - no-one would be fine after that. But 
still, in contrast with what they could have gone through - with 
what they _had_ gone through in the past - this was nothing. So 
much death, so much suffering over the years for _this_ to be 
nothing.

"And you, Mulder? Are you....?" She was talking again, her eyes 
clouded with concern and wariness.

He smiled, absently pulling a loose hair from her sleeve and 
twisting it around his fingers. "No. I know. I _have_ thought 
about it, but...." The hair dug deep grooves in his fingers and 
then snapped. He shook his head slowly. "I didn't know him. I 
couldn't have changed anything."

But the man's anguished face was still there, still talking in the 
back of his mind, and he knew he wasn't telling Scully the whole 
truth, just like she was lying to him. In all likelihood, he was 
the last person to see Agent Feldman alive, having spoken to him 
in his office long after the others had gone home. Perhaps he 
_could_ have seen what was going to happen. Perhaps he _could_ 
have prevented it. Perhaps. But until the case was solved those 
thoughts had to be kept strictly at bay. There was just too much 
guilt. As Scully always said, he should try to approach a case 
unblinded by personal feelings.

"Agent Mulder?" Jacobs' voice made them both start, lost as they 
had been in each other's feelings. "Are you.... I mean, do you 
have...?" 

The man was scarcely coherent. He was a seasoned ASAC, with a 
reputation for remaining calm under pressure, but the loss of 
three of his agents in as many weeks had evidently pushed him to 
breaking point. 

"I'm sorry." Jacobs took a deep breath, visibly trying to compose 
himself. "It's just.... Why are you here? I didn't have time to 
ask yesterday, with.... with that girl's murder. It's.... it's not 
the murders, is it? Is it.... do you suspect something about...." 
He ran out of words, gesturing silently towards the body on the 
floor.

"Agent Jacobs," Mulder began, then paused, searching for the right 
words. He sensed rather than heard Scully's quick intake of 
breath, felt the ghost of a touch of his hand, and flashed her a 
quick smile with his eyes, acknowledging her silent warning. She 
was right. This was no time to push his theories on a man so lost 
in grief and confusion. Better to be tactful, to play it 
cautiously.

"Agent Jacobs," he started again. "I.... I don't know. But you 
know we specialise in the.... unusual. And when three agents all 
working on the same case kill themselves, it does seem unusual."

"_Appear_ to have killed themselves." Jacobs' eyes were desperate, 
as if even he knew how flimsy the hope was. 

Scully took a step forward, her voice warm with sympathy. "There's 
no sign of forced entry at all, just like the others," she 
reminded him, firmly, though her eyes were apologetic. "There's no 
reason to doubt this was suicide."

"But he was.... They _all_ were...!" Jacobs was shouting suddenly, 
a cry of anguish that had the other agents looking away in 
embarrassment. They'd looked the same when the woman had started 
screaming, leaving Scully to step forward and take her in her arms 
and hold her while she'd cried. But this time, even Scully seemed 
at a loss for words. 

"God!" Jacobs' pounded a fist into the palm of his hand. "He had 
so much to live for. I know some profilers have.... problems 
sometimes. But he.... God! He never gave any sign he'd.... he'd 
do.... something like this."

Mulder shook his head, doubtfully, wishing he could provide some 
reassurance. The truth was, he was seriously doubting whether this 
was an X-File at all. Seeing the body, playing back the 
conversation he'd had with Agent Feldman - they only made him more 
ready to believe that these were just normal suicides after all.

"Agent Feldman?" It had been after seven that he'd knocked at the 
office door. "This is Agent Mulder. Can I talk to you for a 
minute?"

The face that had answered had been grey and ravaged, and the man 
had shrugged without a word.

"I hear you've been working on a profile on this serial killer you 
have in town?" Mulder had prompted, trying to get a response - any 
response - from those dead eyes. "Can I see it?"

Feldman had started, although his eyes still hadn't left a black-
and-white photograph he held clutched in his left hand. "I.... It 
isn't finished. I.... couldn't understand him."

"I'd still like to hear your ideas," he'd persisted. Two men had 
killed themselves while on this case. Although the murders were 
nasty, they were no worse than many others they would have seen in 
their careers - nothing to indicate why this case had pushed them 
over the edge. Maybe there was some clue in the profile - 
something chilling in the mind of the person who could do such 
things.

"I understand now." The words had been barely audible.

"What?" Mulder had taken a step forward, but the man had started 
to close the door in his face.

"I understand now. I understand the killer. I.... Come back 
tomorrow morning and I'll show you.... You'll begin to 
understand."

But he didn't understand. Not then. Not now. There were just more 
questions without answers.

"Come on, Mulder." Scully's voice recalled him to the present, 
reminding him that the scene had been recorded and photographed 
and the room was slowly emptying. "There's nothing left to do 
here."

He smiled, shaking his head. "I guess not." He patted his jacket 
pocket, reassuring himself that the print-out of Feldman's 
incomplete profile was still there, ready for him to study later. 
"Let's have breakfast. Your place or mine?"

"Well, seeing as they're both about two thousand miles away, how 
about that place we saw yesterday - the one with the pink 
tablecloths, _not_ the one with the alien in the window." She 
hissed these last words through gritted teeth in a pretence of 
anger, reminding him of the previous night's friendly disagreement 
over eating places.

"Your wish is my command, my lady." He ran in front of her, 
holding the door open theatrically, getting rewarded with a light 
swat.

It was fragile, but it was holding - this lightness that was 
sometimes the only way to make life bearable. They could laugh and 
joke and smile, both fully understanding what lay beneath the 
facade, fully knowing that the other emotions were there, but 
knowing when it was best not to push.

But then he felt his smile falter, saw the sudden anxiety 
reflected in Scully's eyes. 

Feldman's voice, a ghost in his memory, muffled by the closed 
door. "Tomorrow you'll begin to understand. But.... But I hope for 
your sake you never understand it all."

**********

It was time.

Scully turned her glass slowly round in her hand, watching the 
ring of reflected light dance across the table cloth, watching 
Mulder's smile fade as he took in her sudden change of mood.

"Mulder...." She put the glass down, leaning forward with both 
hands on the table. He'd been almost lively during the dinner, 
but, while part of her had enjoyed smiling with him, deep down she 
knew they that sooner or later they'd have to talk - that they 
would very possibly have to argue. 

The light drained from his eyes. "Are you okay?" His voice was 
quick, concerned. 

"I'm fine, Mulder," she assured him quickly. Then, before he could 
the initiative away from her, she asked, firmly, "Why are we 
here?"

There was a long silence - too long. She'd expected Mulder to come 
up with all sorts of reasons - reasons which would make little 
sense to her, but which he would passionately defend. 

"I don't know." He shook his head, sighing.

"It's just that I've been talking to people today." Although she 
was surprised by his reaction, she decided to carry on as she'd 
planned. "From all I've learnt, I.... Well, I see no reason to 
assume this is anything more than meets the eye. These agents.... 
You know how traumatic it can be working a murder case. It's 
probably no coincidence that each one of the suicides took place 
shortly after another body was found."

Mulder nodded slowly, though his eyes were full of doubt. 
"Perhaps. But I checked their records. They'd all been on cases 
much worse than this one."

"Who's to say what a person will find traumatic. Everyone..." And 
then she faded away, remembering. Donnie Pfaster. _She'd_ dealt 
with numerous murder cases, but had nearly been pushed over the 
edge by one which, to an observer, was no more traumatic than the 
others. "It's just...." She struggled to frame her words, to keep 
them objective. "It could have been an accumulation of 
circumstances. And if a colleague's killed himself recently....  
It looks like a coincidence, but if each suicide partly caused the 
next, then...." She shrugged, knowing Mulder understood her, that 
she didn't need to finish her thoughts.

"I know, Scully." He was clutching and unclutching the table 
cloth, eyes dark with regret. "I know, but...."

"You hoped you were on to something?" She kept her voice gentle, 
leaning forward so he could catch her every meaning.

"Yes. I.... When I heard about it, I thought..... It just seemed 
such a coincidence that two - now three - agents on the same case 
would just kill themselves, despite showing no previous signs of 
depression. I thought the murderer was somehow able to take 
control of their minds, forcing them to kill themselves, removing 
the people who were working to catch him."

"Mulder...." There was such regret in his voice, such a desperate 
need. But she didn't believe. How could she find the right words?

"Scully...." He took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on his coffee 
cup as if he was terrified to look at her, terrified to see 
rejection in her eyes if he confided in her. "You said once you 
were scared to believe? But I.... it scares me _not_ to believe. 
If these deaths were somehow the work of one man, then that's more 
comforting than believing that three people, doing the same sort 
of work we do, found that work too much to live with."

"Mulder." Was _this_ what was worrying him? That he might be 
seeing his own future? "There might be more to it than that - more 
to it than meets the eye."

He laughed, though whether with real humour or not, she couldn't 
tell. "I thought that was my line."

She smiled quickly, acknowledging his attempt to lighten the 
atmosphere, but wasn't deterred. "Not like that, Mulder. All I 
mean is - it's probably not just the case that pushed these men 
over the edge. Who can tell what else is going on in someone's 
life - in someone's mind. There could be all sorts of factors no-
one will ever know about."

He nodded wearily, but said nothing.

"Mulder...." She broke the silence at last. It was time to address 
that other issue that had haunted her during the long day. "Are 
you thinking..... I mean, Agent Feldman was half way through 
profiling the killer when he.... killed himself. I heard Agent 
Jacobs saying...."

"No." His voice was firm, but then he shook his head, as if trying 
to explain his vehemence. "I don't think so. I did think of it, 
but I've looked through the crime scene photos, and read his 
notes. I.... I just can't see a way into it. This man - this 
person," he added with a smile, "has killed four people in a month 
- no discernible pattern - no.... It just seems to be murder for 
the sake of murder. I can't.... Oh, I guess if I put my mind to it 
I could understand him, but I just can't seem to get into his 
mind. I...." He met her eyes, speaking with a simple honesty. "I 
don't want to try."

She was surprised to find tears pricking in the back of her eyes 
at his confession. She'd heard the stories, of course. She'd even 
seen for herself just what it could do to him to immerse himself 
in the mind of a criminal. But she'd seldom heard him talk about 
it, and was strangely touched that he was opening up to her.

"Good," she said at last, knowing her look conveyed meanings more 
than her words. "I'm.... Just don't change your mind, Mulder. 
Don't be pressurised into anything."

"No," he said simply, but she could read his eyes, and knew he 
shared her worries. If it _was_ something disturbing in the case 
that had driven these men to suicide, then Mulder was the last 
person she wanted anywhere near it.

They sat in silence for a while, her hand still resting lightly on 
his. There was no need to talk. 

"I'd like to stay a few days, anyway." Mulder broke the silence 
first, looking almost embarrassed at his desire, his fervent hope, 
that there would be more to this case than met the eye. "You 
needn't stay if you don't want to."

She affected a stern look. "You don't get rid of me that easily, 
Fox Mulder. You know you always end up hurt when I'm not there to 
look after you."

She moved her hand, planning to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, 
but he reached out and encased her hand in both of his. "Thank 
you, Scully." His voice was low, sincere.

There was a long silence. His hands returned to his coffee cup and 
he leant back, as if almost embarrassed by what he'd said, but she 
was glad for it. These last few weeks he'd been considerate of her 
beliefs, honest about his plans, and open about his feelings. 
Perhaps it was the approaching New Year, making him reassess his 
life and try and change direction. Perhaps it was simply that 
their last few cases had been free of stress. But whatever it was, 
it was most welcome.

"Six o'clock." Scully broke the silence first, speaking abruptly, 
even awkwardly. It was shifting gears again - returning from 
confidences to business. "They'll have finished the autopsy now. 
They said I could see their findings, look over the body."

Mulder pushed his chair back, quickly draining the last of his 
coffee. "You take the car. I'll walk back to the hotel.... think 
things over.... see what I can find." He didn't meet her eyes, and 
she knew he still hoped to find something paranormal, but was 
embarrassed to tell her how important it was to him. 

"Mulder...." She was about to reassure him, to tell him that she 
understood, but her words were drowned out when the man at the 
next table stood up quickly, his chair legs scraping obscenely 
against the floor. When it was quiet again, the moment had passed.

"Call me, if you like." He turned round in the doorway and 
coughed, awkwardly. "I mean, if there's anything unusual in the 
autopsy."

"I...." But then she had to break off to thank the man from the 
next table who took the door from Mulder and held it open for her.

"I'll call you, Mulder," she said, once out on the street, but he 
was already a few paces away and she wasn't sure he'd heard.

**********

The blood was still there, black against the dirt. There was no 
sound but his own breathing and the rhythmic flapping of the crime 
scene tape, needlessly fencing off an area that had already been 
forsaken. 

Blood. Dirt. Dark.... Nothing.

Mulder stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands, wishing he 
could wipe the feel of death away so easily. 

Why had he come here? He wiped his hand across his brow, 
wondering. He certainly hadn't intended to come out to the place 
where the latest body had been discovered. Visiting the crime 
scene, trying to feel the murderer's presence.... He was _not_ 
going to go that way. He'd promised Scully. He'd promised himself. 

But yet....

Out for a run, letting the thoughts and theories work their way 
through his mind, he'd suddenly realised how close he was, and had 
felt the pull, and, like some drug addict, had been powerless to 
resist.

Just for a minute. Just one look. Just in case.... Just in case 
the answers are there.

He laughed bitterly. Was there no end to his desire to understand, 
to find answers? Alone in an alley at night, in a city he didn't 
know, for.... for what?

For the truth.

But what if.... what if the truth _killed_ those three agents? 
What if to understand the suicides, he had to understand the 
murders, and to understand the murders he had to be like them - to 
learn the truth that had killed them? Was that a price worth 
paying?

Scully. Smiling in the restaurant, her hand beneath his, her eyes 
full of understanding.

Christmas. God! Christmas. Lonely days in his apartment. But 
_this_ year.... His mother. He'd nearly lost her, realised how 
much she meant to him. This year they'd neither of them be alone.

The truth? _This_ truth? Some little truth about a murderer who 
may or may not be able to control minds? The truth about three 
agents who may, after all, have had their own very different 
reasons for doing what they did? 

Was it worth the risk?

Agent Feldman's haunted eyes. His brains scattered across the 
carpet. His fiance's screams. 

Was it worth it?

Scully.

Did he even need to ask the question? Four days before Christmas. 
Scully's smile. Why cloud Scully's smile by clinging to a case 
that was at best insignificant, at worst positively dangerous?

His footsteps echoed in the alley as he turned and slowly walked 
away, heading back to the lights and sounds of the city, turning 
his back on the darkness.

Scully. Smiling and promising to stay with him for as long as he 
wanted to pursue the case. So willing to give up the last days 
before Christmas, even though he knew she wanted - _needed_ - some 
time to rest with her family.

He reached for his phone, planning to tell her he wanted to go 
home tomorrow after all, then remembered he'd left it back in the 
hotel, still inside his suit jacket.

No hurry, though. It didn't matter. He'd tell her in person - see 
her eyes light up at the thought of a long Christmas with her 
family, untroubled by cases, untroubled by him.

Nearly out of the alley now, and sounds of movement scurrying in 
the dark corners. Rats. Cats. Eyes in the darkness, watching 
him....

He quickened his pace as a shiver passed through him, reminding 
him he was dressed for running, not for the long minutes he'd 
spent crouching at the murder scene. 

Twenty minutes back to the hotel - perhaps twenty-five. Have a 
quick shower. Wait for Scully, and then....

Forget about the case. No murders. No suicides. Nothing to worry 
about. They could see a movie. They could go to a bar and just 
talk. They could walk beneath the Christmas lights and think. They 
could....

A sudden noise cut into his thoughts, making him stop quite still, 
his hand on his gun, his whole body tense, listening to the 
darkness.

Nothing. Then a quiet rattle, a soft padding.

A cat. God! Just a cat.

He put his gun back, wiping the sweat from his brow, and took a 
step forward. A car sped past, only a few yards away now, where 
the alley opened onto the road. 

Just a few steps from the light....

But then a shadow moved and something slashed through the air and 
the sudden burst of pain in the back of his head drove him to his 
knees. 

Everything went cloudy and he struggled to push himself to his 
feet, struggled to make his arms obey him, but then came another 
blow, and the darkness engulfed him.

********** 

end of part 1


He still wasn't answering. Relentlessly ringing, again and again, 
but still no answer.

Just one more ring....

He was probably in the shower. Or out running off his surplus 
energy. Or.... or....

Just one more ring. Mustn't stop now. He might have rushed out of 
the shower, dripping water all over the carpet, and be reaching 
for the phone even now.

One more ring....

He could be.... She racked her brains, desperate to find cause to 
hope. What else could have happened to separate Mulder from his 
cellphone? He could be....?

One more ring...?

"This is stupid!"

Scully put the phone down, firmly, trying to talk herself out of 
her worry. He'd be okay. She was over-reacting. There was no cause 
to worry. Just an hour and a half since she'd seen him. No reason 
to assume the case posed any danger. Nothing to worry about....

But the bruises. Yellow and brown, blue and grey. 

"I don't know why you're so interested in this case." Michael 
Hughes, who'd performed the autopsy on Agent Feldman, had walked 
across the morgue with exaggerated weariness, evidently trying to 
make Scully feel guilty for wanting to double-check his work. 
"There's no question about the cause of death."

"I know." She'd used the tactful voice learnt from long experience 
of soothing the feathers ruffled by Mulder in the course of his 
investigations. "I'm not doubting your findings. But this is the 
third suicide among this team in as many weeks."

Hughes had sighed theatrically and pulled out the drawer, drawing 
back the sheet that shrouded the body. "Cause of death is a bullet 
wound to the head. No sign of any drugs, if that's what you're 
thinking." He'd smiled, evidently thinking he'd pre-empted her 
question. "If you're thinking someone's drugging these men, 
driving them to depression and psychotic behaviour, then you're 
wrong."

But something else had caught Scully's eye. "What about these?" 
She'd gestured towards the spreading bruises across Feldman's 
body.

"Oh, those were sustained some time before death - 18 hours - 
perhaps more. Had a fight with his girlfriend, I'd guess. Maybe 
that's why he killed himself. Who can tell? But it's nothing to do 
with his cause of death."

But she hadn't been so sure - she still wasn't so sure. Little 
facts, innocent enough in themselves, had suddenly taken on a new 
significance.

How did it all fit together?

She leant her head back against the wall, reviewing the evidence, 
forcing her mind to think of the case. 

He'd be okay. Nothing to worry about. _Think_. The facts...

Agent Feldman, usually so punctual, hadn't arrived at work until 
after eleven the previous day, with no explanation for his 
lateness. No doubt about _that_ one. Several of his colleagues had 
remarked on it.

At some time shortly before this, Agent Feldman had been soundly 
beaten. No doubt about that either. She'd seen it with her own 
eyes.

It was only after his beating that Agent Feldman had displayed any 
signs of depression or mental instability. While everyone agreed 
he usually appeared happy, that last day he'd shut himself in his 
room. Thinking he was working on some fresh inspiration derived 
from the new murder, everyone had left him alone, but Mulder had 
spoken to him, and had spoken eloquently on his apparent mental 
state.

So, what conclusions could she draw?

"Agent Scully." A voice made her start. She'd had her eyes shut, 
thinking. "Here are the reports you asked for."

As she took the proffered reports, she was surprised to find her 
hands shaking. Had her subconscious made connections that her 
conscious mind wasn't ready to make, not just yet? 

The autopsy reports for the other two agents. She skimmed through 
them quickly, looking only for one thing, dreading that she'd find 
it.

It was there. In both of them, it was there.

Bruises. Cuts. Strained muscles.

"Oh God!" 

The pages fluttered to the floor as she reached for her phone 
again.

All three of the dead agents had been ill-treated shortly before 
they'd taken their own lives. 

And Mulder was missing.

Probably nothing. Probably nothing at all. Four rings now. He'd 
answer before the tenth. Nothing to worry about.

But still.....

**********

It was dark even here.

He _thought_ he was conscious, but he couldn't see. Just a 
deadening blanket of darkness, all one texture. Why was there no 
depth to the darkness - no shadows? Even the darkest of nights had 
shadows when you looked hard enough with a dark-adapted eye.

_Why_ was it so dark?

It _bothered_ him, intensely, irrationally. 

He was still unconscious. He was dreaming. He was.... he was dead. 
He was....

Where was he?

He shook his head fiercely, a last desperate attempt to clear his 
vision, but the pain in his head welled up like fire and pushed 
him down into that other darkness where there were no questions.

**********

Still the darkness - always the darkness - but this time there 
were other perceptions too. 
His hands, restrained behind his back, something hard pulling on 
his wrists when he tried to move. Something tight around his 
ankles. His cheek.... A cold rough surface beneath his cheek, 
making him suddenly desperate to change position, although he knew 
the fire in his head wouldn't allow him to move. His face... His 
eyes....

_Why_ was it so dark?

Such total darkness. Complete absence of light. Some quotation 
he'd heard somewhere and never bothered to think about - hell is 
the total absence of God. Hell. Utter utter darkness for all 
eternity.

And silence.

A terrible silence which pressed on him like a suffocating hand, 
making him breathe faster with terror until the sounds of his own 
breathing, his own heartbeats, resounded in the darkness until it 
felt that the whole room was full of people leaning over him, 
watching him dispassionately as they planned his death.

"No!" He tried to cry out loud, desperate to hear a voice - even 
his own voice - in the darkness, but something consumed his voice, 
turning it into the littlest of groans.

Something.... Something in his mouth, strangling his voice, 
choking him if he tried to speak. And then.... He concentrated, 
trying to pin down perceptions through the pain in his head. Yes. 
There was something there as well. A soft pressure against his 
face, across his eyes. Something across his face, keeping him from 
the light.

Fettered to the darkness, alone in the silence.

Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy?

It started as the weakest of questions in the back of his mind, 
but swelled until it filled his whole being. 

Help me Scully! Help me!

Voices in the darkness, and light. Shining hair burning like the 
setting sun. That rare smile that lit up all her face. 

"I would never put myself on the line for anyone but you...." 

Remember that. Cling to that. Pictures in the darkness, voices in 
his memory. Think of them. Feel them. Make them real. 

Not the darkness - not _that_. Scully. Think of Scully. 

"I was certain they would have killed you, Mulder."

I need you, Scully. Help me again.

"I just knew...."

How did I....? I felt her then - I _spoke_ to her, although we 
were far apart. How....?

Help me, Scully. 

Talk to me, somebody. Tell me why I'm here.

Help me....

********** 

He hadn't thought there could be anything worse than being alone 
in the darkness....

A noise. A small, small noise, scarcely there at all.

Breathing.

Someone was watching him.

Closer.... closer. Breathing. The slow creak of soft footsteps. 
The rustle of clothing as someone crouched down next to him. 
Then....

Silence.

Speak to me. _Do_ something. Talk to me....

The monsters of childhood, the horrors only imagined, more 
terrible than anything that was seen, that had shape.

Talk to me. Do _anything_, but just tell me _why_....

Then came the lightest of touches on his throat. Cold as ice, soft 
as feathers. Half a breath, then it was gone.

"Where?" A voice, hissing in his ear.

It touched him again, sliding lightly down his arm towards his 
wrist.

"Here?"

Then it moved again, sliding across his chest, moving in broad 
spirals down his body, whispering quietly as it touched his 
clothes.

"Here?"

Then the touch was on his inner thigh, moving slowly, oh so 
slowly, upwards.

"Or here? Shall I go higher?"

He didn't dare to move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The 
touch was everything in his world, the voice hanging in the 
darkness like a sentence of death.

"No." The voice sounded regretful. "Not yet. Later, perhaps...."

The touch disappeared, and there was a long silence. Darkness. 
Breathing. It was there, _somewhere_. It was watching. It would 
come again.

"But for now...." Whispering close to his ear.

The touch at his throat again, moving downwards towards his chest, 
pressing harder against his shirt, leaving a thin line of pain in 
its path, leaving a sudden feeling of cold air and flapping cloth 
against his chest. 

"Here." 

The touch stilled, the voice faded to the softest caress.

Silence. A long, long silence. "Here.... here.... here...." The 
word echoed in his memory, but nothing moved, nothing happened.

He exhaled, releasing a breath he never knew he'd been holding, 
relaxing the muscles he'd tensed, expecting.... what?

Silence. Still nothing but silence. 

Then a tongue of fire lashed across his stomach, and he felt the 
warm wetness pour across his skin and pool beneath him, and he 
tried to curl up, tried to clutch himself round the pain, but was 
held tight by the metal at his wrist and ankles.

"Yes." It was a purr of satisfaction. "Here."

**********

"I don't _want_ to hurt you."

How long had passed, with the darkness and the breathing? Only 
minutes? An hour?

"You can stop this any time."

The blood was still trickling across his stomach, though slower 
now. Not enough to kill him, he knew that. 

"It's your decision." The voice was calm, relentless. "Why don't 
you ask me how?"

He rolled away from the voice as best he could, knowing he only 
managed to move his head a few inches. He knew the voice wanted 
him to groan, to try and speak through his gag, but was determined 
not to give it that satisfaction. His earlier terror had faded. 
The faceless presence had a voice, footsteps, emotions. It was a 
man - just a man.

"Ask me how!" 

Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him roughly onto his 
back, crushing his bound wrists against the floor. He could sense 
the face just inches from his own, hear the fury in the voice.

"Say something!"
 
The hands moved again, one grabbing a fistful of flesh at his 
shoulder, the other digging its fingers deep into his side, and 
they pulled violently, pulling his onto his side again, then 
tipping him heavily onto his front. He was dimly aware of fingers 
working on something at the back of his head, of the pressure in 
his mouth loosening, but all sensations were like a distant mist, 
viewed through the fiery agony as the wound on his stomach was 
forced against the floor.

"Talk!"

Hands again, pawing, clutching, pulling.... He was on his side 
again. He could move his jaw properly. He could swallow without 
feeling he would choke.

But he wouldn't make a sound. He _wouldn't_.

Then a bolt of agony kicked him in the stomach, and a great cry 
echoed through the darkness, and from the raw feel of his throat 
he knew that the cry had been his, although it hadn't sounded like 
him at all but like someone.... someone tortured.

"I'll show you!"

A grip like iron around his ankles, pulling. The rough floor, 
scraping, burning. His wrists weeping as he toppled over on to his 
back, his weight forcing his hands into the raw burning floor. 
Warm moisture on his stomach and in his eyes.....

"You _will_ understand."

A door opening. A different textured floor - warmer, smoother. 
Another door.

"Here."

The movement stopped. He curled on the floor, willing the pain to 
subside, willing the world to stay will.

Silence.

He wouldn't speak. He wouldn't ask. He wouldn't speak. He 
_wouldn't._

Then a great blow landed on his face, and he heard his teeth cut 
into his lips, tasted the iron red of blood in his throat.

"What?" His own voice sounded so weak, so unlike him.

Silence.

Then, faint as the rustle of a bird's wing, came a noise. 
Breathing. Whimpering. A groan....

A woman.

Oh God! Not her. Not Scully. Not her. _Please_ not her. Do what 
you like to me, but _not_ Scully.

He couldn't see. He couldn't move his hands. He couldn't....

The voice laughed, a low chilling sound, as he started to inch 
across the floor, slowly, desperately following the sound of the 
whimpering, expecting any minute to feel a blow on his back, but 
not caring. 

He _had_ to get close. He _had_ to find out.

They were so close now. Whimpering entwining with his own 
breathing. Her breath on his face in short terrified bursts. 

He couldn't see her. He couldn't touch her....

"Scully...?"

A cruel laugh behind him, but no movement.

He leant forward, resting his cheek on her cheek, rubbing his face 
up and down against her face. She was alive. She was warm. She was 
breathing.

But....

Her smell.... The smell of terror, but behind that, very faint 
now, an unknown perfume... 

Hair on the floor, around her face.... Long. Too long....

Not Scully.

He rolled away, almost smiling with relief.

_Not_ Scully.

"Kill her."

The voice had crept up close behind him, whispering in his ear 
like a devil sitting on his shoulder.

"Kill her, and you can go free."

He couldn't find any words, overcome with the horror of what he'd 
been thinking. She wasn't Scully. He'd even _smiled_ at that, as 
if she was of no consequence in herself, simply because she wasn't 
Scully.

"Kill her, and I won't hurt you again."

He tried to recoil, but the hands held him by the shoulders again, 
and he could feel the eyes boring into him through the blindfold.

And then the voice laughed, and a finger traced the course of 
blood on his chin. "It's so easy, Fox. You don't even have to kill 
her yourself. Just tell me you want it done, and I'll do it."

"No!" He spoke at last, his voice choked with tears of remorse.

"Ah, but you don't have to decide yet." The voice was like silk as 
a hand entwined itself in his hair and pulled his head back, 
slowly, slowly, until his neck felt as if it was breaking and he 
could scarcely catch a breath. "Anytime you like, you can change 
your mind. After all, we have all the time in the world."

**********

end of part 2


After eleven, and still no word.

Scully sat on the edge of the bed, rocking gently to and fro, her 
arms wrapped tightly round her middle to keep the tears in.

Ring, damn you. Ring!

Her eyes were fixed on the phone, muttering the command over and 
over like a mantra, hearing the silence of every second like a 
physical blow.

Oh God, she thought, as her hands clenched and unclenched 
rhythmically, in time with her heart. How often....?

Long nights on his couch, waiting, dreading. That terrible night 
when Skinner and Mr X fought outside, every second taking Mulder 
closer to death. Running to her mother to escape the fiery images 
of the burning in the desert, knowing that the sight and smell 
would be with her always, however much her mother held her. 
Waiting with Skinner in a hospital, eyes always on the door, 
watching for him as the minutes turned into hours and still he 
didn't come.

But he'd come back. Every time, however hopeless it had looked, 
he'd come back. Battered and bruised, with scars emotional and 
physical, but he'd returned.

So he'd return this time, right? She said it over and over, 
willing herself to believe it.

But deep down the little voice of her fears was whimpering and 
afraid. You've been lucky before, it told her, though she tried 
not to listen to it. Now's the time for your luck to run out.

"No!" She spoke aloud, jumping to her feet, reaching for her gun. 
Now was the time to _do_ something, not just sit and wait.

"Oh Mulder." She shook her head sadly, knowing she might have left 
it too late already. She'd suspected he was in trouble, right from 
the start, as soon as she'd found out about the other agents' 
injuries. But how could she launch a search when very probably 
he'd just run off following a lead of his own? Like the boy who 
cried wolf, he'd run off so often that she never knew when he was 
really in trouble - never knew when to call in help to find him.

But now was the time, she _felt_ it.

"I'll find you, Mulder," she said out loud, wishing there was some 
way she could let him know. "Don't give up.... Please."

**********

It was rich and warm and it was the smell of coffee. A warm brown 
smell - not the rusty sharp brown of the blood in his mouth.

Strange how there were colours in the darkness now - how his eyes 
were so starved of colour that they painted sounds, smells, 
tastes.... even feelings. The rusty brown smell, always there now. 
The fiery red flashes of memory - of _her_. The darkest of greys 
of his own thoughts. The deep brown of the resonant footsteps that 
came near, then faded away.... near, and away.... near....

Then a hand raised his head, and there was a flash of the purest 
crystal as a drop of cold water trickled past his swollen lips, 
stabbing his parched throat into a pang of awakened desire. 

"More!" he mouthed, unable to stop himself, but the water was 
withdrawn and the hand lowered his head gently to the floor.

Gently....

Who?

The softest of touches on his stomach, as something wiped and 
cleaned - cool material washing away the rusty stickiness of 
blood.

Stroking, stroking.... _Gentle_....

Scully?

Bending over him, her fiery hair falling towards his, hiding the 
pure crystal blue of her eyes. Her face was tight with worry, but 
she was smiling through the tears that dripped onto his face.

Hey, Scully! I'm okay. I'll be okay. Now you've found me, 
everything will be okay. I didn't give in. I didn't let him kill 
her. It'll be okay.

"Sc..."

He struggled to move towards her, tried to move his pounding head 
from the floor, but the movement shattered the darkness into a 
thousand pieces, and Scully's face dissolved into nothingness.

"It _could_ be like this."

The voice. Oh God! The voice. Still here. Still whispering, soft 
like a caress. 

"Rest. No pain. Light...."

There was a scraping sound against the floor, and the smell of 
coffee moved closer, then passed and was gone, leaving his mouth 
aching painfully in longing.

"You know what you have to do."

The tumbled hair and the smell of fear and distant roses.

"Think about it. Scully will be so worried. You know she doesn't 
need that, not now."

Oh God! He _knew_. The voice, speaking his thoughts, playing on 
his deepest fears, tempting him.

"Think of how she was smiling. Think of the light on her hair. 
_Think_"

The wet cloth ran in small circles, gently on his stomach, and the 
voice was soft as down, seductive as the devil.

"If you won't do it for yourself, do it for her. Don't be so 
selfish. Think of _her_."

He could feel the breath on his face as the voice reached under 
his skin, entwined its fingers in his mind. 

Scully, her face ravaged with grief as the tears flowed as if 
they'd never stop. "Why were you so stubborn?" she shouted to the 
empty air. "Why didn't you do what he said, then you could have 
come back to me?"

But then her face changed into a vague misty female form, its 
features distorted with blood and its eyes devoid of life, and he 
knew he _couldn't._

"No!" It was the merest of croaks, though he'd shouted it with all 
his being.  "I won't."

"Oh, _she's_ of no importance - don't think of _her_. A faceless 
stranger. You haven't seen her, haven't spoken to her. What does 
_she_ matter. People die all the time - strangers. What does it 
matter."

"It - matters." He spoke through gritted teeth, clinging to the 
image of her unknown dead face, letting the picture drown out the 
sinuous soft words of temptation.

Silence. A long, long silence.

"Very well." The faintest of whispers, hissing from the silence.

A crumpling of fabric as someone stood up. Soft pad pad of 
footsteps across the floor, fading into nothingness.

Silence....

Alone in the dark. Silence. Don't leave me.... Not alone.

Panic fluttered like wings in his chest. He hated the voice. He 
_needed_ the voice - needed to know he was alive - needed to know 
he was sane - needed to know _someone_ knew he existed.

Come back...!

Pad pad of footsteps, an eternity of seconds later. A radiating 
warmth, close to him.

"You're still bleeding." The voice was honey, soothing like a 
mother to her child. "There's too much blood...."

Then a slash of agony opened up in the middle of his mind and he 
reeled in confusion, struggling to make sense of the tongues of 
fire that radiated from his stomach, the bitter smell of charred 
flesh that choked the back of his throat.

"That's better." 

There was a clash of metal against the floor, distant through the 
thick mist of pain, and the voice sounded a million miles away, 
slurred and pulsing, fading into nothingness.

"Because you mustn't die.  Not before...."

**********

I can do it, Scully. I can be strong. I won't give in. I won't let 
her die.

She smiled in the darkness, her hand touching his brow. "I know 
you won't, Mulder. I'm proud of you."

I'm sorry, Scully. If I never come back, I'm sorry....

"Don't talk like that, Mulder. You'll get through this. What can 
he do?"

Lie still. Don't move a muscle. The slightest movement and the 
pain would return and the memory - the vision - would shatter and 
his mind would be an echoing void, without her voice.

I can do it, Scully. You're right. What can he do? What has he 
done? A cut, cauterised now, not even bleeding. A few bruises. 
Nothing. I've had worse. I've survived worse. I can get through 
this.

"That's my Mulder." The tone of her voice brought tears to his 
eyes. "Always strong. I _know_ you won't give in. I have faith in 
you."

Then the door was thrown open and he started at the sudden noise, 
breaking the spell. Her voice faded away like a ghost and he was 
left alone, bereft, even though he knew she was only his own 
conscience, trying to persuade him by using her voice. 

Footsteps. The sound of something being plugged in. Then.... 
silence.

He tensed every muscle, knowing now that the blow could come from 
any direction, at a time completely unexpected. Counting slowly in 
his head  - one.... two.... three.... four.... 

Nothing.

Twenty-six.... twenty-seven.....

His muscles ached from holding then tense and the wound on his 
stomach screamed at him to let it relax. But he couldn't. It would 
come....

Forty-five.... forty-six....

Then a whirling screech that started low and rose until it filled 
the whole world.

Oh my God! Scully! Help me! 

Images of blood and the coming agony. A drill, gouging through 
flesh, shattering bone. Slow, oh so slow. Hearing it approach, 
bracing for the first gentle touch, then the agony as inch by inch 
it would bury itself in the flesh, throwing up a fountain of 
blood.

Scully!

He groped in his mind, wildly searching, trying to find her 
comforting presence, but she was gone. He was alone.

He could feel its passage close to his cheek - feel the cold air 
as it rushed past. The panic in his head, the screaming in his 
ears, but still, through all that, a still small voice of menace, 
whispering close.

"Where?"

No! Scully! Help me! I need your help!

Then he felt the rain on his face - hard fragments falling from 
above, dust choking him. Rain falling as the world split apart in 
thunder - in the scream of the drill as it bit into....

The pulsing after-image was loud in the sudden silence. Silence. 
No drill. No screams. No....

Slow dust on his face, falling, falling....

"That's better." The sound of hands being rubbed together in the 
satisfaction of a job well done.

"Wh....?" He shouldn't ask. He couldn't ask. He _had_ to ask. 
"What...?"

"Stand up!" The voice hissed, angry. "Stand up!"

Strong arms pulled at him, wrenching at his shoulder, pulling him 
to his feet. He _tried_ but his feet were tied, his hands were 
tied, he had no leverage. An arm under his shoulders, pulling, and 
then, suddenly, somehow, he was upright, the wall cold against his 
shoulders, his hands crushed painfully behind his back. His feet, 
numb with lack of circulation, could scarcely hold his weight, but 
he knew that to fall would bring even worse pain.

Somehow, he stood.

Then an arm wrapped itself around his neck and pulled his head and 
shoulders forward, and another hand snaked behind for his hands 
and pulled them up, up, up....

"No!" It was an involuntary cry of pain, forced from his throat by 
the screaming pain in his shoulders and arms as they were pulled 
higher behind him.

No! No further! I can't. No further! It hurts. God, it hurts!

A clash of metal on metal and his arms lowered a fraction, just a 
fraction, as the handcuffs dug into his wrists and his weight 
settled.

"See?" The voice was smug, triumphant. "A hook. _So_ effective. 
So..."

A blow crashed onto the side of his face, driving his body to one 
side, jerking his shoulders and arms into a white-hot fire of pain 
that drove tears from his eyes.

"So....?" The voice was silky soft again.

Another blow, not a fist this time, up into his ribs, forcing the 
breath from his lungs until he burned with the aching need to wrap 
his arms around his stomach and cradle the pain.

"Have you changed your mind?"

The other side of the face, this time, making the warm wetness 
trickle down his neck, making his whole spirit ache with the pain 
in his shoulders.

"Have - you?" Hissing, hissing.... A serpent in the garden, 
tempting.

A knee, hard in his groin, and he pulled instinctively to curl 
over the throbbing agony, only to pull back even faster as his 
shoulders erupted in an explosion of pain.

"Have - you?"

He licked his lips, struggling to muster a sound - any sound. 
"Kill...." It was the smallest of croaks, forced out through 
ragged gasps of pain.

The blows stopped. Strong arms held him round the body and he was 
lifted slightly, taking the worst of the pressure from his 
shoulders.

"Her?"

Peace. Resting, free from pain. Light. Scully's smile....

"Kill her?" The serpent's apple, sweet and tempting.

Death. A woman dead. A woman - maybe a girl. Blood on his 
hands....

"Kill..... _me_....."

Breath on his ear, whispering, incredulous. "You'd _die_ for a 
stranger?"

"Yes...."

The voice laughed then - a harsh and bitter laugh that went on and 
on until he wanted to scream with the horror of it. 

"You really believe that?" The words, fractured through the 
laughter. "You know so little about yourself."

Blood on his hands. A woman dead. _Think_. Think of this. Don't 
listen to him. This is the only way out.

"Kill me." It sounded so much like a whimper, though it had 
sounded so firm in his head. "Kill me. Not _her_."

"But would you _live_ for a stranger?"

The arms let go without a warning, and his bound feet scrambled 
for balance, putting the full weight of his body into his 
shoulders for a second - just a second. But it was enough to 
wrench a scream from his throat.

It was a scream that ended in a choking agony as a great blow 
landed across his stomach, making his head rush with the sudden 
dizziness of breathlessness and the white fire of his shoulders 
and the wound on his stomach.

"Your death is not an option."

A hard wooden bat across his back, driving him forward, jerking 
his shoulders....

"I'd kill a dog to end its suffering, but you...."

His face again, and a fresh iron taste in his throat, choking 
him....

"Would you _live_ for her - live like this?"

A fist in his stomach again and again, nearly knocking him from 
his feet, pulling....

"Say it."

He was a child again, powerless against a stern adult, 
remorselessly logical, impossible to resist. Leave me alone! I 
didn't mean to be naughty. Please smile at me again.

"Say it!"

A hand twisting in his hair, holding his face steady for the fist 
to land....

"Say it. Just one word. Say yes."

Go away! Leave me alone! I don't want to listen to you. I _won't_. 
Hiding inside himself, searching his memory for sounds to drown 
out the voice.

"I had the strength of your beliefs." Scully's voice, distant as 
through the deepest ocean, struggling through the fire of pain 
that was no longer in his arms, his shoulders, his stomach but was 
the whole world. 

"Say...."

No! I won't listen to you! Scully! Talk louder. I need your voice. 
It's so quiet. I need to hear you. I need the strength of _your_ 
beliefs. I _can't_ listen to him.

"You're the only one I trust." Her voice was quieter now, 
distorted by distance, barely there at all.

I need your trust, Scully. You trust me to get through this. You 
trust me to be strong. You trust me....

"Say it."

Blows on his shoulders, his face, his ribs, his legs. 

It _hurts_, Scully.

"Say it."

But it's so.... it's so hard, Scully. I don't think I trust 
_myself_ any more....

A sudden wrench on his legs, pulling them out from underneath him, 
throwing his whole weight onto his arms.

A scream echoed through the room, unearthly, inhuman, not _him_.

"Scully! I _can't_!"

**********

End of  part 3


The night had gone, and most of the day, and still she saw the 
blood.

It had been dawn - red in the dawn. A pool of blood at the end of 
the alley where the last murder victim had been found. Blood. 
_Mulder's_ blood.

"We don't know that, not for certain." Agent Jacobs, eyes haunted 
with the deaths he'd seen, had tried to reassure her, though his 
own face showed he'd long since forgotten how to feel optimism. 
"It might not be."

She'd tried to smile, acknowledging his sympathy, but had been 
closer to tears. "Oh, it's his all right. I know it. He'd come to 
the crime scene. He said he wouldn't, but I know him. He wouldn't 
have been able to keep away."

"But none of the others...."

"Oh God, sir. I just don't know." Her voice was been taut with 
strain, snapping at the easiest target even as she knew how unfair 
she was being. "If they'd been taken for a night, who would have 
known? They were all living alone. They could have been held for 
hours before.... before...."

And then Agent Jacobs had looked away, as if he had only just 
realised what she had feared with a quaking terror right from the 
start. At last he'd managed to speak, stammering and awkward. 
"Surely he won't.... You don't think...."

"I don't know!" She'd passed her hand over her eyes, dashing away 
the tears she couldn't let anyone see. "I don't.... I hope.... He 
will be okay. He _will_!" She'd almost shouted the last words, as 
if his survival depended only on the vehemence of her hope.

But that was hours ago now, and there had been no leads. A girl 
had been reported missing somewhere else in town, but that was 
all. No clues about either disappearance. No reports of suspicious 
activity in the area. Nothing.

She leant against the wall in the office, hearing the buzz of 
activity that surrounded her as the local agents went about their 
business. Phones ringing, people talking.... Nothing....

"Agent Scully!" She was jerked into an instant alertness by Agent 
Jacobs' voice. He was out of breath, even hopeful. "A woman's just 
called in. She heard our appeal, and she thinks she knows...." He 
paused and appeared to consciously collect himself, as if afraid 
he'd been saying too much, been too optimistic. "She says," he 
continued, more quietly, "that she's seen activity in an empty 
house near her. She thought she heard a scream once, but 
thought...."

She didn't wait for him to finish. "Where is it?" She checked her 
gun, reaching for her coat.

"I can send out someone else to check it out," Jacobs cut in, 
touching her shoulder with concern. "You've not slept all night."

"Of course I'm going," she snapped, then took a deep breath, 
collecting herself. "I'm sorry. But I _have_ to go. If it's him, 
and he's like the others...." 

She didn't finish the thought, but the prospect filled her with 
dread. If she was right, all the others who'd been taken had 
killed themselves within the day. She would _not_ let that happen 
to Mulder. She wanted to be there for him - the first person to 
see him, the first person to speak to him, the first person to 
hold him and soothe him and comfort him until he had recovered 
from.... from whatever it was that had been done to him. 

Jacobs nodded, accepting her decision, but then he reached for her 
arm, his eyes clouded with sympathy. "It might not..." he said, 
unable to look her in the eye. "I mean, it _might_ be, but 
don't.... don't expect too much."

"I won't," she assured him, but she couldn't look at him either. 
She _was_ expecting too much, she knew that. She'd already 
convinced herself that this was the one, simply because the 
alternative was too horrible to contemplate. 

But if it wasn't.... What would she do then? 

**********

It was sharp and it was sweet. It was everything in his world and 
it was nothing. It was repulsive and it was beautiful. It was 
blood - his own blood.

He snaked out a tongue again, picking up another bead of the warm 
liquid, revelling in the feel of it. Liquid in his parched mouth. 
A movement that was of his own volition, not forced on him by the 
voice. The sharp tang that was the only proof he had that he was 
still alive, the only sensation that wasn't pain. 

More. I want more....

He reached out again, licking the floor, finding only the earthy 
taste of bare stone.

Where's it gone? I want more. I _need_ it....

He moved his head, ignoring the pain that blossomed at every 
movement, reaching out blindly for the life-affirming liquid. 
Tears were pricking his eyes. It mattered. Somehow, it mattered 
immensely. It was more important than why he was here, more 
important than who he was, more important than anything.

Where is it? There must be more. Not far.

Wildly, he scrabbled with his hands, trying again to push himself 
up with his useless arms, knowing it was in vain. The voice had 
unlocked his handcuffs, letting him plummet face-first to the 
floor, but his arms had refused to move, refused to break his 
fall. 

I need it. I.... I don't know why, not now. But I _need_ this. 
It's more important than anything.

But there was something else. A little voice from somewhere far 
beyond the pain, whispering that there was something else. 
Something he _mustn't_ say. Something the voice _wanted_ him to 
say. The reason he was here. The reason there was nothing left in 
the world but pain.

A trickle of liquid ran down his face and he caught it greedily, 
an oasis of liquid in the desert. Tears? Blood? Sweat....?

Sweat?

It was _hot_, he realised that now, frowning with concentration as 
he struggled to find a sensation - any sensation - through the 
pain. Heat in his face, heat on his hands, heat everywhere.

Why was it so hot?

He forced his sluggish mind to drag itself through the fog. Why 
was it so hot? Somehow he sensed that he _needed_ to ask - that 
the moment he stopped asking questions was the moment he stopped 
living. 

Think. Listen. Feel. _Focus_.

The heat, everywhere. A crackling sound. The choking winter smell 
of smoke....

"No!"

He cried aloud, drawing a lung-full of smoke and wracking his 
bruised body with an agony of coughing.

No! Scully! Help me! Not _this_!

He clawed at the floor with his hands, stabs of pain lancing 
through his fingers, struggling to pull himself away, but his arms 
wouldn't support him and the heat was all round him and inside 
him. 

Where are you? Talk to me. I _can't_. Talk to me. Ask me. I'll say 
yes. _Anything_....

Crackling of flames. The sound of whimpering, low and guttural. 
But no footsteps. No voice....

Talk to me! I can't.... Not alone. Not all for nothing. Ask me.

Burning, burning.... Words, distorted by terror, dancing across 
the charred pages of memory. Burning burning.... Oh Lord Thou 
pluckest me out.... The fire.... the fire and the rose... Fire... 
Ixion on his wheel of fire.... bound on a wheel of fire, tears 
like molten lead....

Ask me. Ask me to say it. Anything.... Anything not to feel the 
flames eat my flesh. Anything not to hear my skin crackle and 
burn. Anything....

"Shh, it'll be okay, Mulder." Scully, soothing, stroking his hair. 
"Don't...."

"No!" He forced away the image. Not _her._ She couldn't help now. 
She mustn't see. Not her and the light. Only....

"Say it!"

A shuddering sigh of relief. It had come. It could stop it. 
Everything would be all right.

"Say it!"

The voice was barely there through the crackling, and he felt the 
panic fluttering in his throat as he felt it withdraw and leave 
him.

"Say.... say what?" It was the tiniest of whimpers. "Say what?"

Help me! I can't remember. Only the flames. Nothing else. Just the 
flames - the bright light. Tell me, Dad. Talk to me. What do you 
want me to say? How can I make it better? Tell me.... Please.

"Say yes."

Water sheeted down his face as the flames moved closer, making his 
skin sting and burn. 

"Yes!" A cracked whisper, distorted by smoke. What is it? Why? A 
word, no meaning but escape. "Yes...."

"Louder." The relentless voice with the tongue of flame.

"YES!"

And then everything fell away and he was left in a darkness that 
was without sound, and alone.

**********

"After three." The gun was slippery in Scully's hand as she 
mouthed to the other agents, tensed and waiting outside the house. 

He's in here. He's in here. He's in here.... You _have_ to believe 
that. The simple faith of a child, wrapped in her father's 
stories. Believe it strong enough and it will be true....

"One...." 

Take a deep breath, steady the gun.... Concentrate.

"Two...."

Can you hear me, Mulder? I'm here. I'm coming

"Three...."

There was a crash as the door burst open, and feet pounded across 
the room, guns flashing in the torchlight. 

"Mulder!" She called aloud, knowing that surprise wasn't an issue 
now. "Mulder! Where are you?"

She ran through the downstairs rooms, searching, searching. They 
were empty, hollow caverns, with only the barest ruins of 
furniture, grey and bereft. No hiding places, she could see that. 
No hiding places at all. But still she looked - she had to look. 
Peering into corners that she knew were empty, hoping....

"Freeze! FBI!" 

She whirled round, blood pounding in her head, at the sudden cry 
from upstairs.

"I said, freeze!"

Dust flew up in clouds as she pounded through the empty room, 
following the voices up the stairs. 

Oh God, Mulder, I'm sorry. I should have been the first to find 
you - not some stranger. Someone who can hold you and comfort you 
and.... and _understand_. I'm sorry. But I'm coming. I'm here now. 
I'll....

It was a frozen tableau. Two agents, pointing their guns at the 
bed, and there, white-faced with horror, a boy and a girl, wrapped 
in the dirty sheets and each other's arms.

"What are _you_ doing here?" She stormed forward, bitter 
disappointment needing an outlet, although she knew full well that 
it wouldn't make it better - that _nothing_ could make it better. 

"I.... We...." The girl spoke first, pulling the sheet closer 
around her body. "We wanted.... Our parents won't let us, and we 
haven't got a car, and it's too cold outside. We thought.... No-
one lives here. We didn't think we were doing any harm."

Suddenly knowing that nothing could keep the tears from her eyes, 
Scully turned and left without a word, running down the stairs as 
if all the demons of hell were after her. 

"Oh Mulder!" she cried silently, wrenching open the car door. Her 
nail broke on the handle but it didn't matter - nothing mattered. 
"I'm sorry. I thought.... I was so _sure_ it was you."

She leant forward, resting her head on the steering wheel. She 
could almost see him - alone and frightened, crying out for her, 
too quiet for her to hear.

What clues had there been that _his_ quick mind would have 
noticed, had the situation been reversed? Always so good at 
getting into the mind of a criminal, would he have done it any 
differently? Would he have _listened_, rather than running after a 
shadow, so convinced that it was the truth just because it was the 
first lead to present itself?

"I'm sorry, Mulder."

Had she _ever_ found him - ever been of any real use? She'd have 
lost him in Alaska if it wasn't for Skinner. She'd left him for 
dead in New Mexico, and only Albert Hosteen had realised the 
truth. Someone - some unknown person - had saved him on that 
train. And all the others - all the other times he'd gone.... What 
had she done then but just wait until he decided to return?

"Oh God, Mulder. What can I do? Where are you?"

**********

The gun was cool beneath his finger tips. 

Nearly there. Just a fraction more, and he'd have it, could wrap 
his fingers round it, and slowly, painfully force his arm to lift 
it, and then....

Agent Feldman, eyes glassy and staring. "You'll begin to 
understand," he'd said, face ravaged by guilt. "I hope, for your 
sake, you won't understand it all."

"But I do understand!" He spoke the words aloud, knowing he was 
too weak for the words not to get blown away by the winter night. 
"I do understand it all."

"You were so arrogant, just like the others." The voice had been 
without accusation as a hand had reached out and given him water, 
coaxing his body away from the world of pain. "You didn't want to 
understand."

He'd hardly listened, then. It had been soon - too soon. The fire 
had still crackled in his memory, and his skin had still 
remembered it's heat.

"I heard you, sitting there with your partner, talking about me. 
You didn't want to understand. You had nothing but contempt for 
someone who could take the life of a stranger."

The life of a stranger.... How could he have been so touched by 
the fire that he hadn't remembered, even at that, the terrible 
thing that had given him no peace ever since?  

"Just like them. They were even worse. That first one, standing 
over the body, face full of revulsion. I heard him. 'The death 
penalty's too good for people like that' - that's what he said. 
But he.... He only lasted two hours, and he was begging for her to 
die."

He'd pulled away then, memory crashing over him like a physical 
blow. Oh God! What have I done? What have I done? What have I 
done?

"You all think you're so superior, you cops. So quick to judge and 
to hate. Always so sure that you could never for one second be 
tempted to do what I do."

Her hair. Her tumbled hair, and her faded perfume. Her scream. He 
hadn't heard her scream. Had she screamed? How had she died?

"How can you live with yourself now, and still presume to judge? 
_You've_ killed now. For purely selfish reasons, you killed 
someone. _You're_ a murderer now."

Blood. Was that blood on his hands, slippery and warm? A welling 
tide of blood, pulsing from the floor, washing all over him until 
he choked in its thick liquid, unable to breathe.

But the gun could _end_ that....

"Can you live with yourself?" The voice had hissed in his ear much 
later, when the night air was cold on his face and the grass wet 
beneath his cheek. "It's here, if you want it - if you decide you 
can't judge others now you've been found wanting yourself."

"No!" he'd whimpered then, hearing again the imagined scream that 
replayed itself endlessly in his memory - now shrill, now low - 
now long, now abrupt. How had she screamed? How had she died?

He couldn't bear to think of it, but he _needed_ to see it. A 
black and white crime scene photograph, immortalising his sin, 
showing him her face for the first time. Flash flash of camera, 
maybe even now, somewhere else in the city. He still heard the 
dull thud as her body was thrown from the car, somewhere else, 
before they'd driven to this place. Death in a dark alley, far 
away from here, when she should be entwined with him, her blood on 
his hands as it was surely in his soul.

What would it feel like, a bullet through the brain? Could it hurt 
more than.... than _this_?

The last words he'd heard, a long eternity of minutes ago, as 
fingers had untied his blindfold, leaving him free - as if he 
could ever be free. "Let him who is without sin cast the first 
stone...."

He who is without sin.... He who is without sin....

Thou shalt not suffer a sinner to live.... 

No! That's not quite right. That's not it. Help me, Scully. Help 
me, Sc....

No! Not her! How can I even utter her name? So principled, so 
strong. "You can be strong, Mulder" - I heard her say it, back 
then. She trusted me, and I let her down. I was weak. How can 
I..... God! I can't! I can't _look_ at her again.

The gun. Just one little movement of the finger, and then....

Tempting, _so_ tempting....

Just a little movement - like this....

Finger on the trigger, easing, easing.....

"No!" There was a crash of metal as he cast the gun away with all 
the force that his useless arms could muster. "I _can't_!"

Thoughts, scuttering across his mind, panicky and rapid. 

I can't! To pull the trigger is to end the pain, and to end the 
pain is to be weak. End the pain - that's what I did earlier. The 
fire.... End the fire. Selfish, selfish. The coward's way out. I 
was weak. Couldn't face the pain - _couldn't_. Mustn't..... 
Mustn't be weak again. Face the pain. _Suffer_ the pain. Can't run 
away. Penance....

Footsteps, echoing in a confined space. A woman, screaming, "Oh my 
God! Call an ambulance!"

He wrenched his eyes open, forcing himself to look into the night. 
Grass beneath him. A building above him, the wall close to his 
face. Windows, empty and faceless. A hotel - God! It was the hotel 
he'd been staying in with.... with _her_.

Panic pounded in his chest. She.... _She_.... Light on her hair, 
face clouded with worry, still believing he was worth worrying 
about, not knowing the truth. She was close. She was _here_. She 
was close....

He rolled over, shoulders screaming with pain, and curled into a 
tight ball, hiding from the light and the voices.

He couldn't look at her, not yet.

**********

"The First Stone 2: After the First Death"
by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk)

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: XA

SUMMARY: Three agents have killed themselves after suffering far 
less than Mulder has already suffered. Although he's lived for 
three weeks, he's not out of danger yet. Can Scully confront her 
own guilt in time to save him from his?
____

DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully and Skinner are the property of Chris 
Carter, 1013 and Fox and I torture them without permission but 
with no mercenary intent.

FEEDBACK: Yes please.
____

This is a sequel to "The First Stone." If you haven't read that, 
you might be rather confused. But then Scully doesn't really 
know what happened in that story either, so you could learn 
slowly along with her.

The title, "After the First Death", is another shameless 
thieving from Robert Cormier, whose novel deals, along with 
other things, with the emotional aftermath of betraying someone 
under torture.

I've classified it as "X", but it isn't really plot-driven, 
although there is a case in there somewhere. But the first story 
was "X", and I wanted them together on the archive. 

**********

She was dead now.

He bent over her body, holding her shoulder with one hand, as he 
slowly eased the knife out of her chest. The blood welled 
afresh, shining in the dim light like a pool of polished jet, 
and he watched it with a detached interest, though unable, now, 
to revel in it. 

"There." He smiled with satisfaction as he wiped the blade clean 
on a rag, then pocketed the knife. "Another one."

It was so easy, murder. He was.... well, not quite proud of it - 
not that. But he was good at it - always had been. God had given 
him a talent, so who was he to....?

He stood up suddenly, the toe of one foot catching her head so 
that it lolled over suddenly, a shining trickle of blood etching 
a deep path down her chin.

He hadn't looked at her, not really. 

Crouching down, he held her chin in his gloved hand, tilting her 
face so it caught the best of the light, idly taking in her 
features, trying to pretend it mattered who she was, but knowing 
all the while she was of no importance.

Pale skin. Blue eyes staring with the glazed openness of death. 
Lips that were doubtless once red. Hair....

A cat screeched, disturbed by his sudden laughter.

God! Her hair! Even in this near-darkness he could see it. A 
deep vibrant red. It was so.... appropriate. He couldn't have 
done better if he'd tried.

But he hadn't. He hadn't even looked.

Once, it had been important. Once, just a month ago, even, he'd 
enjoyed what he did. Then, he'd drink in their terror, etching 
their every feature onto his mind. Running his finger lovingly 
over their dead faces, committing their every contour to his 
memory. Letting their fear soak into his pores, their screams 
replay themselves lovingly in memory. It was.... it was 
beautiful.

He sighed, wishing it was like that still.

But it could never be like that again, not while.... not 
until....

"Damn you!" 

Another face in his memory now, giving him no peace, haunting 
him with its continued existence, driving him. The hypocrite. It 
was his fault. Always his fault.

"Why didn't you....?"

It was wrong. _He_ was wrong. 

_Why_ hadn't he done it? He'd shown him - taught him. Honeyed 
words that none should have resisted, weaving their spell into 
his weakened mind. 

"You understand now," he'd told him, seen by his painful nod 
that he _had_ understood. "So how can you live with yourself 
now?" 

God! He'd taken him so close, leading him by the hand, slowly 
through the lesson like a child. He'd eased him all the way to 
the brink, the had left him alone, trusting him to take the 
final step by himself. He'd even left him a gun! 

So why _hadn't_ he? The others had - three of them who'd learnt 
the truth and done what was right.

He stood up, sighing wearily. He was a man with a mission now, 
and killing was his duty - that, and teaching.

The words of the priests of his childhood. "Let he who is 
without sin cast the first stone." The duty of exposing 
hypocrites. Judge not lest you be judged. Their lined faces, 
older and wiser than the earth to the eyes of a small boy. Their 
hands on his head, bestowing their blessing. 

It was his duty.

It was all that mattered.

He took the piece of paper from his pocket, pinning it to the 
woman's blouse, absently watching as the blood stained one 
corner.

What did it take to push a finger to a trigger, a bullet through 
a brain?

For he - the other, the hypocrite - he _would_ do it, he knew 
that. He'd been so close, that night a few weeks ago. Just a 
little push, that was all it needed. A little tiny push....

He _would_ do it.

How could he do anything else, after _he'd_ finished with him? 

**********

"It's so typical of him." Skinner half turned towards her as she 
walked towards him, a rueful smile on his lips.

"What?" Scully frowned as she reached across the desk, groping 
under the scattered piles of paper for somewhere to put the 
steaming mug of coffee. She played back the last few minutes in 
her mind, wondering if she'd missed a thread of conversation. 
Truth was, her mind was seldom in the present, not now, not 
since....

"No!" She jolted with the force of her silent rebuke, letting a 
small splash of coffee fall on the desk, grateful that the 
accident offered her a chance to cover for her brief lack of 
composure. She mustn't think of that - not here, not now. Put on 
the professional front. Smile. Lie. Pretend all was well, and 
hope Skinner would back off and give them - and give _her_ - a 
few more days. A few more days.... 

"I want to believe." She froze in the middle of mopping up the 
coffee, then relaxed, realising that Skinner was just reading 
from the poster in the wall, his voice strangely subdued. "It's 
so typical of him."

She was silent, bending closer over the spillage, dabbing 
futilely at the edges of the puddle. It was something to do - 
something to focus on. When the pool of liquid was gone, then 
she'd have to look at him, have to face whatever he'd come to 
say. She wasn't ready. God, she wasn't ready. Just a few more 
days....

"He was so committed." She could hear Skinner's soft footsteps 
approach her back, hear the strange note in his voice again. 
"So... so _desperate_ to believe things. I...." A soft grating 
as a mug was picked up, then the sound of swallowing. "Sometimes 
I almost envied him his faith. Everyone... most of us.... we 
have such doubts...."

"His beliefs never brought him comfort." She straightened up at 
last, knowing her voice was harsher than Skinner deserved, but 
not really caring. She knew what game he was playing, and she 
was not going to be lulled by his uncharacteristic confidences 
into betraying Mulder.

"I know that, but he still stuck to them, even if they brought 
him pain. You know that. People admired his courage - his 
integrity - even as they laughed at his beliefs." His voice was 
close now, hard to argue with. His tone was so much like 
Mulder's, trying to convince her of a theory, that she half 
leant towards his voice, expecting to feel his soft touch on her 
arm.

And then she realised.

"Sir!" She took an angry step back, feeling the irritation blaze 
in her eyes. But there was shame there too - yet another 
betrayal to torment her conscience during the long solitary 
nights listening to the ghosts of the past. _She'd_ said it too, 
lulled into it by Skinner's flattering tongue. "He's not.... 
He's still...."

"But is he?" Skinner's voice was relentless as he leant forward, 
resting both hands on the desk. "Is he, Agent Scully?"

Silence. 

She opened her mouth, but her mind was racing, unable to find 
any words.

His fingers were spread wide, resting on a file. She clung to 
the image, unable to meet his eyes, wondering why the most 
inconsequential of images burn themselves into the mind like a 
brand. Could she ever look at Skinner's hands without feeling 
this.... this _helplessness_?

"Yes!" She snapped the word out sharply, knowing even as she 
said it that she'd lost all credibility with her long delay. 

Don't let him pursue it. Don't let him pursue it. Her hand 
unconsciously crept to the cross at her throat, as she babbled 
her silent prayer. Please.... We just need more time.

But the eyes still bored into her, cold and stern, impaling her 
on a spear of accusation.

"He's just on medical leave," she managed at last, cursing the 
fact that her voice sounded so defensive - so unconvincing. 
"He's not long out of the hospital. God knows it's happened 
before. There's no reason to talk about him in the past tense."

"Agent Scully." His voice was so soft, so considerate - so in 
contrast to the demand in his eyes. "You needn't lie to me." He 
glanced at the door, a wry smile on his lips. "There's no-one 
listening this time. You can tell me...."

"There's nothing to tell. He...."

Skinner held up a hand, halting her fiery protestation. "Agent 
Scully, I _know_ there's more to it this time. I know Mulder. 
Normally he can't wait to come back to work, even before he's 
fit for it. But this time...." He shrugged slightly, as if 
apologising for what he was doing. "I've read your report, Agent 
Scully. I know his injuries weren't that severe."

Scully reached out a hand to hold onto the edge of the desk, 
shutting her eyes briefly to control herself, then opening them 
quickly when she saw again the branded image of that terrible 
night.

There had been so little blood.

It had bothered her, intensely, insanely. Her hands had hovered 
anxiously over his body, almost scared to touch him, her 
exhausted mind torn and confused.

There had been so little blood.

So why was his face twisted in agony? Why had he pulled away, 
whimpering in terror, retreating so deeply into himself that she 
couldn't even touch him?

And why....? Oh God! That question that had made her stomach 
clench with dread then, which made her wake in sweat-drenched 
nightmares ever since. Why....? His cocked gun, inches from his 
outstretched hand. The memory of those tormented agents who'd 
died by their own hands. 

"Mulder." She'd whispered his name, touching his poor battered 
face with the softest of fingertips, trying not to notice how 
he'd flinched at her touch. "It's okay. I'm here." Hopes, 
prayers, hammering in her head like certainties. He was stuck in 
some nightmare existence still. He didn't realise who she was. 
Everything would be all right.

Everything would be all right....

Had she ever been so naive as to believe that, even then? 

Could it have been all right, if she'd handled it any 
differently?

Could it _ever_...?

"No!" she muttered again, pulling herself away from that train 
of thought, knowing that she couldn't let herself break down, 
not in front of Skinner. 

"Damn it, sir!" She forced an anger she didn't really feel, 
knowing it was the only way - the only way to keep control. "He 
was hurt worse than most people are ever hurt in a lifetime. 
Just because it wasn't life-threatening doesn't make it 
nothing!"

"I know it wasn't nothing." His eyes still didn't leave her 
face. "But I also know the worst of it wasn't physical."

"It was...." She started so firmly, so determined to argue, but 
then she trailed off. Who was she trying to kid? Was it really 
Skinner she was trying to convince, or herself? Tell herself 
often enough that Mulder's problems would heal along with the 
cuts and the bruises and the torn muscles, and it would come 
true? God! It was the simple faith of a five-year old, not the 
realistic approach of a professional woman.

How often could she hear his cries in her memory, and still not 
face the truth?

"Don't touch me!" He'd whimpered it over and over as the 
flashing light had pulsed like a heartbeat, making his face a 
mass of red and deep shadow. "Don't touch me!"

"Mulder. It's me. Look at me. I'm here." She'd been babbling 
wildly by now, refusing to leave his side even as the paramedics 
fussed round him, preparing to load him into the ambulance. 

"Don't touch me. Leave me alone. I don't... I mustn't...." His 
voice had been scarcely coherent - a torrent of words torn from 
the depths of his panic. "Pain.... Deserve it..... Don't 
stop..... Punishment." And then he'd tried to lash out at the 
paramedics, grimacing with agony as he tried and tried to flail 
his useless arms.

"Mulder." Her voice had cracked with distress as she'd touched 
his hand again, knowing now that he couldn't fight her off. 
She'd scarcely listened to his words then, hearing them only in 
the endlessly tormenting memory. Then, she'd had enough guilt of 
her own. "I'm sorry."

He'd shut his eyes tight, turning away from her voice, but her 
words had flowed across him like the tears which dripped onto 
his face. 

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I tried. I really tried. I should have found 
you before all this. There must have been clues. I should 
have.... You'd have found _me_, if I'd been.... I'm sorry, 
Mulder. Please look at me. Please.... I'm sorry."

She shouldn't have. God! She knew that now - knew that every 
minute. She shouldn't have poured her guilt over him like that. 
It was so.... _selfish_. It was just.... He'd refused to look at 
her. He'd been though Hell and she hadn't rescued him. She'd let 
him down when he needed her. He blamed her. He felt betrayed. 
She felt guilty. So if she....

God! If only it had been so simple.

If only she hadn't....

"Agent Scully." She blinked fiercely, driving back the tears, 
pulling herself through the tunnel of memories, anchoring 
herself in the present with Skinner's voice. His mug was half 
empty now. Had she been standing silent, lost on memory, for so 
long?

"Sir?" She forced herself to speak, her voice deliberately calm 
and alert. She ran a hand across her hair, as if a well-groomed 
professional hairstyle would ensure a composed and professional 
state of mind.

"I might be able to help." He took a step forward, raising a 
hand as if to touch her, but then let it drop again, as if that 
particular barrier was too much to break.

"With respect, sir, I don't think you can." She forced herself 
to bridle at his suggestion, willing him to put on his usual 
mask. His voice was so sincere, so concerned. She didn't think 
she could take much more. Right now, she _needed_ professional 
detachment if her own mask of control was going to survive.

He shook his head sadly, his eyes never leaving her face, but 
said nothing.

And then it broke.

"I.... _I_ can't help him, sir. I.... I don't know what's 
wrong." Her voice sounded so lost, so plaintive, but it was too 
late to worry about that. Was losing control in front of Skinner 
such a high price to pay if he could _really_ help Mulder? Maybe 
if she hadn't been so concerned at pretending she could cope - 
maybe if she'd asked for help before - then....

"You don't know?" Skinner looked genuinely surprised, his words 
interrupting her train of thought. "You mean, you _really_ don't 
know any more than you put in the report?"

Scully nearly smiled through her rising tears at his tone of 
voice, thinking how long experience with Mulder had taught 
Skinner that particular lesson. "No, I don't," she began, then 
felt her voice cracking as the desperation of the past few weeks 
caught up with her. She'd never spoken about it to anyone, not 
even her mother. "He won't tell me anything. I want to help, 
but.... I can't push him. I can't."

"Have you suggested he see a counsellor?"

Scully did laugh then - a bitter laugh that was closer to 
hysteria, just one step away from tears. Skinner's voice was so 
sincere, so.... so ignorant. "Have I suggested he see a 
counsellor?" she repeated, wiping the moisture from her cheeks. 
"Of course I have. Everyone has."

The earnest young woman who'd arrived at the hospital, just 
hours after he'd been found. "I'm Elaine Petersen," she'd said, 
as Scully had intercepted her at the door to Mulder's room. "I'm 
a counsellor with the FBI. Agent Jacobs asked me to talk to 
Agent Mulder." She'd looked nervous, and Scully had immediately 
bridled, wondering what rumours had been spreading about him, 
but she cut off a sharp reply just in time. Of course the woman 
had been nervous. Three agents had killed themselves, and 
everyone knew, although no-one spoke their fears aloud, that 
Mulder could go the same way.

"I'll tell him you're here," she'd said simply, at last. To her 
shame, she'd felt almost guilty. If Mulder talked to anyone, she 
wanted it to be her. She still needed to know he didn't blame 
her. But, for his sake, she mustn't.... If he would talk to 
_anyone_....

And he _had_ talked.

She knew she'd never forget the look of terror in his eyes, the 
incoherent horror that had rushed from his mouth.

"No! I can't!" That had been clear, even if nothing else was, 
not at first. "Tell her to go. I can't!"

"Mulder. You've been...." She'd found it hard to say the word, 
but knew she needed to get through to him. "You've been 
tortured. Of course you need to talk about it. It will help."

"No!" More incoherent cries for a while, his thoughts rushing 
faster than his hoarse voice and drugged mind could articulate 
them. "She mustn't..... Can't.... Can't make it better. Need.... 
I need to remember. Can't tell me it doesn't matter."

"What doesn't matter?" She'd leant forward, trying to make him 
look her in the eyes, but his unfocused gaze had darted 
everywhere but at her. "What do you need to remember?"

"I killed her!" He'd tried in vain to lift his hands, as if he'd 
wanted to tear at his eyes in horror, but they'd still been too 
damaged to move. "That girl.... I killed her. Murderer. She 
screamed. I don't know.... I killed her...."

His voice had risen to hysterical screams, and she'd reached 
over and pressed the call button, speaking soothingly all the 
while. "A girl _was_ killed tonight, Mulder," she'd said, 
keeping her hand on his forehead even as he lashed his head 
around, trying to throw her off. "I don't know how you.... Maybe 
you heard someone talk about it earlier. But you didn't kill 
her. She'd been killed only an hour or so before you were found, 
and your injuries.... Mulder, you can't move your arms. You've 
been like that for _hours_ - we can tell. There's no way you 
killed her. Please don't.... I don't want to hear you talking 
like that again. Just concentrate on getting better.... please."

Then the nurse had come in, and he'd soon sunk into a drugged 
sleep. 

But that.... that hysterical raving had been the closest he'd 
ever come to talking - to really talking - to her about what had 
happened.

He'd never mentioned the girl again. And she, for her part, had 
never mentioned her either, scared of prompting another episode 
of the one she'd witnessed. 

Tiptoe tiptoe around the problem, avoiding all dangerous areas. 
Treat him normally and he'll soon act normally. Pretend that 
your own failure to rescue him left him with no scars that 
couldn't be healed in a few weeks. Carry on with the motions of 
life, and ignore the gaping hole at the centre.

Oh God! She'd always thought she was so rational - so sensible. 
But what had she been doing? Ignoring what she saw. Ignoring 
what she felt. Ignoring what she _knew_ . Ignoring everything 
that didn't fit her own narrow view of how things should be.

But not any more. Not any longer. It couldn't - it _wouldn't_ 
carry on like this. She would....

"Agent Scully." Skinner's voice again, recalling her to the 
present. His voice was firm again, his face composed into his 
usual stern expression, but his eyes were kind, and she knew he 
understood. "This can't go on any longer, you know that. If he's 
fit to work, then he's got to come back. And if not...."

He let the words hang, but she knew what he meant. Psychological 
disability. They both knew what a weapon certain people would 
make if that. 

"I'm sure I needn't remind you of the interest that is taken in 
Agent Mulder's career." Skinner's mouth twisted with distaste, 
his words echoing the train of her thoughts. "They're already 
using his somewhat.... irregular absence as an excuse. I've had 
to.... I can't protect him much longer."

Scully smiled then, a sincere smile for the first time in days. 
She could read through Skinner's unbending exterior by now and 
knew he'd probably stuck his neck out a long way to protect 
Mulder already. "Thank you, sir," she said, simply. "I.... I 
don't know what will happen. I'll talk to him."

Skinner nodded, but was silent. His hand moved to his jacket 
pocket, and he gave the impression of being about to speak, but 
said nothing.

The grating of the mug on the desk was loud in the silence. 
Scully took a sip, but the drink was cold now. Glancing down, 
she realised she'd used Mulder's mug, an wondered if this too 
was an example of her denial. As long as his mug was in use and 
there were X-Files spread across his desk, then everything was 
all right?

Or was she just clinging to something of his, subconsciously 
realising that he was never coming back?

"What is it, sir?" She surprised herself by speaking aloud, 
meaning only to break that particular line of thought. 

Skinner took a deep breath. He half-pulled something from his 
pocket, then put it back, using the hand instead to pull off his 
glasses and wipe them carefully on a cloth. He seemed reluctant, 
almost embarrassed, to speak.

"Is it something about Mulder?" she prompted, her voice rising 
with growing fear. 

"It's a case." Skinner put his glasses back, and reached into 
his pocket to pull out an envelope. "A murder." He pulled out a 
photograph, handing it to her for her to examine.

Scully scarcely glanced at the picture. Just a crime scene 
photograph of a young woman, the cause of death immediately 
visible as a stab wound to the heart. Nothing special. Nothing 
to warrant Skinner's manifest awkwardness. There was something 
else, she knew it.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, trying to sound 
patient.

"I...." He wouldn't meet her eye. She'd seldom seem him look 
awkward before. "I needed to know if Mulder was coming back 
soon. That's why I came down here. It... it affects this case."

"Who is she?" A terrible dread was rising inside her. God! It 
wasn't _her_? She stared at the photo again, but couldn't tell. 
It didn't look like her, but there was no saying how an eight 
year old would grow up.

"No-one." Then Skinner winced, as if ashamed of his words. "I 
mean, no-one connected to Mulder, as far as we can tell."

But his tone held a "but."

"So why....?"

"There was a note." Skinner's tone was grim as he reached into 
the envelope and brought out another piece of paper. "I wanted 
to show it to Mulder first, but if he.... if he's got.... 
problems then perhaps you should see it first and decide whether 
he should be told."

Scully reached for the note, noticing with surprise how the 
paper trembled in her grip. 

It was a torn-off sheet of white paper, with a few words 
composed of letters cut out of newspapers. It was so cliched - 
so theatrical - as to almost be funny, had it not been for the 
words.

"Mulder. Another one. Can you still live?"

The paper floated to the floor as she stared at Skinner in 
horror.

How could she tell him?

The gun just inches from his fingertips. His pain-drenched eyes 
that hadn't looked at her, not really, not since.... since 
_then_. The blood and brains of the other agents, scattered 
across the carpet. And sobs, always the sobs - crying, weeping 
heartbreak of the woman left behind, seeking comfort where there 
was no comfort possible.

Would _she_ cry like that, soon?

God!  How could she tell him?

**********

There were always screams in the darkness now, but through them 
this time was a voice - her voice - weaving through the night 
like the softest strands of silk, lulling the screams into near 
silence.

"Mulder. It's me."

He'd lived, breathed, sustained himself by her voice back then, 
when he'd first been taken to that darkness which still held 
him. The serpent voice in his ear. The pain of body and mind. 
The fear. But through it all the memory - her voice in his 
memory - urging him to be strong, telling him she was proud of 
him, that she knew he wouldn't give in.

God! How could he have....? How could he ever look at her....? 
Why had she ever trusted....?

He sank deeper into the couch, fingers sinking into the cushion 
he clasped to his stomach, muscles white and aching with the 
tension.

"Mulder. Please pick up the phone. We need to talk."

Her hope and sincerity pulsed through the silence like his heart 
beat. So warm. So human. So.... so _Scully_.

The screams died. The sheets of blood washed away until he was 
alone in the dark, alone with her voice on the machine, calling 
him towards life.

Go away. Don't talk to me. Leave me alone. I don't want to 
tell....

Please don't leave me. Speak to me. I need your voice. I 
_shouldn't_.....

"We need to talk."

We need to talk. God! We need to talk....

Those words, endlessly rehearsed in memory, whispered over and 
over with a voice hoarse with tears and lack of use....

Scully, I killed a girl. I'm a murderer. I.... I should have 
told you weeks ago. I should have told everyone. I should have 
confessed. That was the right thing to do. I tried. I really 
tried, back then when everything was red and swimming with pain 
and drugs. I told you, but you didn't believe me. But then, when 
I woke up, when I saw your eyes....

I couldn't, Scully. I was so weak. I'm still so weak. 

But I can't hide from the truth any longer.

I killed her, Scully. She's dead, and I killed her. I.... I 
didn't hear her scream then, but now, ever since.... screaming 
in every possible imagination.  I.... I don't deserve to....

But her _eyes_.... Scully's eyes, hearing his confession.

Mulder, it's not your fault. Oh, she'd try to convince him, try 
to soothe him with false words of comfort. Mulder, _I_ still 
trust you. I'll stand by you, even though....

On and on, endlessly in his imagination, the words she'd say 
when he told her.

But her eyes.... Cold. Hard. Wary. Shuttered against him. 
Withdrawing, like her touch. Her hand hovering over his arm, but 
never touching him, not now she knew. Her voice, duller and 
duller with each day, calling him less and less until at last, 
soon, she'd leave him for ever.

Oh God! He deserved no less, he knew that.

But he couldn't. Not yet. He _couldn't_. He had to, but he 
couldn't. 

"Scully!"

He spoke aloud now, his voice no louder than the screams that 
haunted his imagination. 

"Scully...."

He wiped a hand over his face, feeling the dampness which was so 
like blood - which should have been blood. The red blood of her 
innocence, proclaiming his sin for all to see. The red blood of 
his guilt, trickling from his own skull, torn apart by his 
bullet.

"Scully...."

I'll tell you, Scully. I have to tell you. Tonight.... 
Tomorrow.... Soon.... And if you leave me, then.... then that's 
only right. I have to live with this. I was weak back then, but 
now I must be strong, whatever the cost.

But it's _so_ difficult.

"Scully. I.... I.... Help me."

But her voice was gone, and the screams filled the darkness 
again.

**********

It was ringing again, and the screams rose shrilly to blend with 
its cruel mechanical tone. Two.... Three.... Four....

"This is Fox Mulder. Please leave a message."

The voice was from a life-time ago - from a time before the 
darkness, before the voice, before.... before the truth.

Not again! I can't.... Scully, I'll have to tell.... I'm not 
ready. Just give me a few more hours. 

"Mulder, _please_ pick up the phone. We need to talk. I.... I 
realised today.... I know something's wrong. I was wrong to 
ignore it. I.... I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm sorry...."

It was sincere, level, controlled - but he knew her. Barely 
there at all, a slight tremor. A catch in her voice. A slight 
hoarseness as if she'd been crying.

Oh God, Scully! I _can't_. I'm sorry. What was I thinking of?

Her voice, entwining in his memory, cutting through the haze of 
pain, of flashing lights, of the unheard screams. 

"Oh Mulder, I'm sorry. I should have found you." Liquid had 
fallen on his face, adding fresh guilt to his soul. "I'm sorry. 
I tried. I couldn't find you. I'm sorry."

And then, sometime later, her words conveyed with a soft hand on 
his forehead, a firm voice like a beacon in the drugged 
whiteness. "You didn't kill anyone, Mulder. Don't let me hear 
you saying that again. Please."

She blamed herself. Noble, misguided, selfless Scully, blaming 
herself when no-one could ever say it was her fault.

How could he have thought of telling her, as if his conscience 
was the only thing that mattered, as if the only reason for 
silence was so that _he_ could enjoy a few more days secure in 
the knowledge that she didn't hate him, not yet?

Tears falling from her eyes like so much rain, hair hanging in 
lank tangles, choked with guilt. I should have stopped you, 
Mulder, she'd cry. I should have tracked you down, and stopped 
you killing her. It's _my_ fault, as much as yours. I.... How 
can I be happy again?

"No, Scully! Not that. You're wrong!"

Her words reached out from the darkness like knives, slashing 
into his face, drawing a trail of tears.

"I won't tell you, Scully. I can't risk _that_."

He wrapped his hands tightly round his knees, rocking to and 
fro, bracing himself against the onslaught of her tears. The 
screams were still there - the screams were always there - but 
now they seemed to come from her mouth, to reflect her pain.

"I'm sorry, Scully."

Breathing, soft and broken, waiting.... Tired beyond finding 
words, but still patient. Waiting for him to speak....

Scully, I _must_ tell you. I _can't_ tell you. You.... you'll 
blame yourself. I can't.... tears in your voice. I must.... Tell 
you I'm okay. I'm okay.

Hard plastic beneath his fingers. It would take so little to 
pick it up, to talk....

How are you, Scully? I'm okay. Yes.... Sorry I'm not back at 
work. I.... It still hurts, Scully. Just give me a little more 
time. I'll be okay. Just a little more time....

Calm. Calm. Deep breaths. Keep the voice level, unconcerned. 
Talk quickly, firmly, then put the phone down before she can ask 
questions, before you break down, and then cry in the darkness 
surrounded by the screams.

His fingers, stroking the plastic, feeling the closeness of her 
voice. They still burnt with the memory of the trigger, his mind 
still bracing itself for the touch of the bullet. Just a little 
touch then and he could have finished it. Just a little touch 
now and he could.... what? Was there _any_ way out, except....?

If only he'd pushed it that little bit further back then, back 
before he'd had time to think, back before he'd realised....

Oh, it was the coward's way out, he knew that. He had to live 
with his guilt. He had to suffer. It was only just.

But it was _so_ difficult.

**********

It was the softest of knocks - the merest of touches on her 
knuckles.

She'd _thought_ she was prepared. That quick glance in the car 
mirror before getting out. A hand smoothing her hair, rubbing 
her eyes, stroking out the creases in her clothes. A deep 
breath, straightening her back, drawing her emotions so deep 
inside that nothing would crack the porcelain mask. 

She was ready. She was prepared. Think that. Act that. _Believe_ 
that.

So why was the knock so quiet, so soft, so.... so much as if she 
didn't want an answer at all, but was rather seeking an excuse 
to run away from the truth for another day, clinging to the 
justification that at least she'd _tried_?

"Come on." She berated herself silently, cursing her dread. 
"It's only Mulder. What can....?"

What can go wrong?

"God!"

She knocked harder this time, with all the force of her silent 
cry. The sound echoed in the silent apartment, full and 
resonant, and she leant forward, struggling to hear the sounds 
of his proximity, but heard nothing. Just an aching cavern of 
nothing.

"Mu...?"

She coughed, forcing her voice to rise above a croak, forcing 
herself to speak as if she meant to be heard.

"Mulder? It's me."

No answer. No.... nothing.

What was he thinking, sitting in the darkness? Hating her - 
_blaming_ her? Blaming himself? For.... for what?

"Mulder. Please let me in. I don't want to...."

Didn't want to push, of course - to force herself onto his pain, 
closer than was comfortable, unlocking the door to the darkness.

But she had to. Of course she had to. It couldn't go on, this 
touching him with kid gloves, skirting round the problems, 
hoping they'd go away.

"I'm coming in, Mulder."

His key was gripped in her hand, hot and slippery now, held in 
aching white fingers. She hadn't been aware of pulling it out, 
but she'd known - some part of her must have known - that it 
would come to this.

The metal clash of the key broke the silence, harshly, cruelly, 
and she started, filled with foreboding.

It would work. It would work. It _had_ to work. Ask the right 
questions. Listen. Talk. Hold him in the darkness. Comfort 
him.... And then he'd smile, shakily through his tears, and 
together they'd heal each other - would face off the problem 
rather than hiding from it.

But what if....? 

What if she couldn't....? What if he wouldn't....? What if it 
was too....?

Skinner's voice, grim in her memory. "It can't go on much 
longer, Agent Scully. If he's not ready to come back, then...." 

Dark machinations of faceless enemies, closing the door of his 
career in his face. 

Dark visions of possible futures, speaking with control in her 
voice and grief in her heart. Mulder, my ex-partner. Mulder.... 
He was.... Here lies...

God! She'd _forgotten_!

Black and red and white. Black ink and red blood and white 
paper. "Mulder, another one. Can you still live?" 

And the _gun_....

"Mulder. I'm coming in."

The keys trembled in her hand, shivering from her grasp, drawing 
the few seconds out into an aching eternity of a door she 
couldn't open - a door she _had_ to open.

Quick quick. Turning, turning.... The death-knell clunk of metal 
as the lock slid home. Shaking touch on the door handle, 
pushing. Eyes shut for a second as she summoned up the courage, 
then open again, ready to face whatever she had to. Pushing open 
the door, stepping forward, and....

The flickering wings of darkness whispered in the silence like 
her own breath.

"Mulder?"

There was the smallest of creaks and he moved on the couch, but 
no other sound.

"Mulder?"

She crossed the room, steps ringing with a confidence she didn't 
feel. She'd intended to go right to his side, but the invisible 
barrier reached out, sapping her of strength, bringing her to a 
shaky halt in the middle of the room.

"Mulder....!"

There was a desperate note in her voice now, and she swallowed, 
hearing the sounds loud in the silence, trying to resume to 
mantle of control.

"We need to talk."

Silence. A car passed in the street below, and the light touched 
his face for a second, but then it was gone.

"Mulder....!"

"Scully." His voice was cracked, hoarse. "I'm sorry. You 
shouldn't have had to come round. I should have answered the 
phone, earlier. I should have...."

"Mulder." She took a step forward, fighting the barrier, and 
knelt on the floor beside him. "It's okay. I wanted to come. 
I... We need to talk about this. We should have talked weeks 
ago. I.... I'm...."

I'm sorry. That's what she wanted to say, but she bit it back 
just in time. Oh, she wanted to apologise - needed to. But she 
knew him. He'd only take responsibility for her guilt, adding 
the burden of it to his own pain. It was time to deal with _his_ 
problems, not her own guilt - not yet.

"I care about you, Mulder. I want to help," she said at last, 
considering her words carefully.

"I don't _need_ help - not that!" There was a strange note in 
his voice, almost of panic. 

A stab of anger rose to the surface, sharp and unexpected. God! 
It had cost her so much, these last few weeks, and he still....

"Mulder." She exhaled sharply as she spoke, hearing the 
exasperation in her voice. "Mulder," she continued, more 
quietly. "That's not true. You're.... Even Skinner's noticed."

"He wants me to leave the Bureau." It was not phrased as a 
question, and his dull tone was touched with the faintest note 
of.... of hope?

"Damn it, Mulder, that's not what I meant." The words snapped 
out before she could stop them. 

Her breathing sounded deafening in the sudden silence, and she 
dug her nails into her palls, whispering a silent mantra of 
control.

Another car passed outside, and she took advantage of the brief 
light, reaching out for the switch and bathing his face in the 
soft glow of lamp light.
 
"Mulder." She raised a hand towards him, then let it fall again, 
remembering his anguished cries of a few weeks ago. She tried a 
new tack. "Why don't you come back to work? It must be better 
than hiding here, brooding. It would give you something to think 
about - something other than.... what happened."

She leant forward eagerly, only now realising the full potential 
of this solution. Give him something to think about - a problem 
to occupy his brain. Get him away from the darkness of his own 
solitude. Pull him slowly back towards life, and then, when he 
was happier, confront what had happened. It was perfect. It 
was....

"No!" He jumped back as if he'd been scalded, a look of panic in 
his eyes. "I can't!"

"But...." She was stammering, incoherent with the force of his 
reaction. "Why not?"

"I can't. I just can't." His arms were tightly wrapped round his 
middle and he was rocking to and fro, as terrified as she'd ever 
seen him. "How can I ever....? It's wrong. I can't. I...." Then 
he moved his head sharply, staring wildly at her, although he 
didn't look her in the eye. "Don't ever ask me again."

"But, Mulder.... Does this mean....? Are you....?" She couldn't 
find the words to express her shock. He was never coming back? 
He was giving up what was always his whole life? "You're not 
thinking straight. You must...."

"No!" 

He was out of the couch and across to the window before she 
could stop him, before she could even move. For a moment she 
felt real terror, but then he just stopped, resting his head on 
the glass, his body turned against her, shutting her out.

"Come away. Come back." Her voice was so little, so plaintive, 
so unlike her own. She'd not intended this. She'd never intended 
this. She'd be all calm, all control. But this... It was 
bothering her intensely, this closeness to the window. She still 
saw that gun in the darkness of her every night.

He turned round then, and he smiled, though there was no humour 
in it - no real attempt to look at her. "I'm okay, Scully. I 
wouldn't. Please don't worry. You know I.... I can't. I 
mustn't." 

She stood up slowly, wondering if she should go to him. She knew 
he was trying to smile reassurance, but the desperation in his 
last words chilled her blood, depriving her of words.

Silence. 

She clenched and unclenched her fists, feeling the nails red in 
her palms. Should she ask? Could she ask?

"Look, Mulder. I need to know. _We_ need to...." She took a deep 
breath, forcing her voice steady. "What happened, Mulder? When 
you were.... gone?"

There was a distant voice in the corridor, a life-time away, 
swelling louder then fading away into silence.

"Mulder? Please...."

"I don't..... I can't...." His breathing came in shallow gasps 
and she could see his muscles, tense at the back of his neck. 
"I'll tell you, Scully. I will." His voice was desperate, but he 
was turned away again so she couldn't judge the truth in his 
eyes. "Just.... Not yet. Please. Just give me a few more 
days...."

"But...."

"Please!" It was a cry of such anguish that she knew in that 
instant that to push him would be to lose him.

"Okay, Mulder." She put a smile in her voice, though it was the 
hardest thing she'd had to do. "Tomorrow. But I _will_ come, 
Mulder. I'll come, and we'll...." She touched him gently on the 
shoulder, to quick for him to shake her off. "We _will_ solve 
this, Mulder. I'm sure of it."

But her treacherous hand reached into her pocket and fingered 
the blood-stained note, and she knew with a terrible certainty 
that she was wrong.

********** 

Dead eyes were staring at him, surrounding him.

The deadly slash of bone, searing his eyes with its whiteness. 
Grey rancid flesh, peeling, dripping. And the smell of it - the 
_stench_ of it....

"I.... I'm sorry...."

He tried to speak, but the stench choked him, strangling his 
words. They gave no sign of hearing him.

"Forgive me...."

But they came forward, ever advancing, ever relentless, their 
dead eyes filled with accusation.

"You judged us." Wailing, pounding hammer blows from all sides, 
filling his being. "You _killed_ us."

Then a face rushed forward from the dead mass, surging up close 
so it surrounded him, smothered him.

"You killed me, and didn't look back." In death, John Barnett's 
voice had lost its mocking laughter. It was steel - sharp and 
deadly. "You _judged_ me."

And a thousand searing fingers of bone reached out and raked his 
face.

"My blood is on your hands too - my agony." Luther Lee Boggs had 
no face left to stare with, but his voice was terrible. "You 
wrote your profile with so little thought for _me_. But you 
killed me - murdered me with the stroke of a pen. You didn't 
even bother to watch."

"Didn't bother.... Didn't care.... Didn't matter....." The 
wailing chorus of death. "You judged us of no worth. You killed 
us."

"I'm s...."

He tried to speak, tried to make a sound, but the voices swelled 
up like the surging wave of torture.

"Do you want to see how we died?"

The screaming hands pinned him down, pulling back his head, 
fingers of bones holding open his eye-lids, making him watch.

"_Do you_?"

And then a thousand voices laughed - a sound so terrible that he 
wanted to scream with the horror of it all, but the dead fingers 
clamped around his throat would allow him no air. 

And all the while, he watched....

A bullet, burning through the brain, slicing through the 
heart.... The stench of burning flesh in the electric chair.... 
Choking, burning, dying in the gas chamber.... 

He saw them all. He felt them all. He _died_ them all.

"You judged us." Again and again, rising to a crescendo of 
agony. "You judged us."

He was dying. The screaming, the voices, the stench, the 
horror.... He was dying. He deserved it, but he was dying. He 
_couldn't_ survive this....

And then everything fell away and he was alone, floating in the 
soft darkness.

Alone.

"Where are you? Not alone.... Please, not alone. Not alone for 
ever...."

But there was no sound from his own voice, no sound even of his 
own breathing, no.... nothing.

"Help me. I know I don't deserve it, but I can't.... Help me, 
Sc..."

"You were so arrogant." Tears welled up in his eyes as he felt 
the relief of the familiar voice. Not her, but _him_. His 
teacher. The instrument of his just punishment. "You _judged_ 
people. You thought you were so superior."

He nodded, feeling his muscles relax. He knew what was coming. 
He'd relived this moment a thousand times and revelled in the 
security of it. It was the certain truth in all his doubts.

"But you're not. You're not superior to them at all."

He was mouthing along now, soaking up the well-worn words. 

"You've killed now. You're just like them. Can you judge again?"

It was a rhetorical question. What other answer could there be? 
But he answered still, filling his lungs with the stench-filled 
air and shouting with all his might.

"No. No, I can't."

But his lips wouldn't move. His voice wouldn't come. He had to 
answer - _had_ to - but he couldn't move, couldn't speak.

"No!"

He summoned up all his strength, knowing suddenly that 
_everything_ depended on his answering. But he was powerless 
against the darkness which surged up to him and around him, 
pushing him up into....

Where?

The feel of leather beneath his cheek. Soft grey light from 
behind him. Square shadows of pictures on the walls. The blank 
staring screen of the television.

Nowhere. Nowhere real.

**********

Someone was watching her.

Scully shuddered, pulling her gaze from the blood-stained piece 
of paper, struggling to focus on something - anything - other 
than the terrible message of death clutched in her aching 
fingers.

Someone was watching her.

She felt exposed suddenly - vulnerable in the pulsing red lights 
of the police cars and ambulance like a rabbit frozen in 
headlights. Of course people were watching her. Dozens of 
people, crowding forward with looks ranging from pale-faced 
horror to near relish, their eyes boring into her back. Oh, it 
wasn't her they were watching, she knew that. She was of no 
interest to them. She was alive. But still it felt like.... 
like....

She shivered again, taking a few steps closer to the police car, 
closer to the other officers, but they showed no inclination to 
talk. She was the incomer - the pushy fed who'd intruded on 
their turf, demanding she be called the minute anyone discovered 
a dead body with a note addressed to Mulder.

She hadn't expected it to be so soon.

It changed things, this second note. The first one she could.... 
oh, she knew she'd have to tell him, but it wasn't urgent - it 
could wait until he was better able to cope with it. But this 
one.... 

"Oh God!" She passed a hand over her brow, knowing by the quick 
interested glance from the police officer nearest to her that 
she'd spoken aloud.

Nearly nine o'clock. Twenty-four hours since she'd left him, 
promising to return the next day - today. She'd have to go 
round. She'd have to....

But if she told him, what then? Could he live with the guilt - 
with the messages soaked with the blood of innocents?

But if she didn't, and he found out later, many deaths later, 
that he could have stopped them all....?

The gun again, shining in her memory, pulsing in the red 
flashing light. His finger was so close to the trigger this time 
- _so_ close.

She reached for the note again, though she knew its words by 
heart now - knew she'd never ever forget them.

"Mulder. Still alive? You kill one every day."

They pulsed on the paper, sucking her into their world, 
narrowing her vision so that nothing else existed. Oh, she 
wanted to be free - she wanted _him_ to be free - but there was 
no escape.

No escape....

Her fingers ached with the sudden urge to rip the paper to 
shreds - to throw it so far away that it would never haunt their 
lives again. But it was evidence. Its terrible words had to be 
preserved - had to be examined and analysed and tested by 
strangers who knew nothing of the true horror they contained.

"Agent Scully?" A voice from a world away dragged her back to 
the present. It was one of the police officers. "Can we take her 
away now?"

She turned towards the voice, clearing her throat to answer, but 
as she turned her gaze fell on the crowd and she saw a face that 
was vaguely familiar.

"Agent Scully?" The man's hostility was poorly concealed as he 
prompted her silence.

"Oh.... sorry. I thought I saw...." She shrugged, turning 
briefly towards the officer with a troubled smile of apology. 
"It was nothing. What was that you were asking?"

And when she could look once more at the crowd, the face was 
gone.

Probably no-one.

**********

He smiled. 

He was close now. 

Soon the burden would be removed - the duty would be performed. 
Although it gave him no pleasure now, he could still smile at 
the prospect as he would at nearing the end of any task. Soon, 
he could go back to what he _really_ wanted to do. Soon, he 
could....

But when the other was dead and his duty performed, would he 
then feel again the joy of killing, feel the exquisite pleasure 
of blood glistening in the night? Or was that now gone for ever 
- another crime on the head of the man who had to die - a man 
who deserved to die like no other?.

He sighed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting. 
No matter. The time for that would come. For now, there was 
something more important to think about.

It wouldn't be long now.

He seen her hair glowing in the night - recognised the face of 
the woman he'd watched in the restaurant just before.... before 
it had happened. She was still there now, clutching his note, 
directing the scene....

He chuckled grimly, absurdly pleased that he could still feel a 
spark of the old pleasure. Directing the scene! _He'd_ directed 
the scene. He'd chosen the place. He'd shed the blood. It was 
his handiwork that was the centre of attention - _his_.

And he would direct the aftermath too.

She would come soon. The ambulance had gone now. The police cars 
were moving. She would come soon.

And he would be waiting....

**********

"Scully!" Mulder rose from the couch, speaking her name in a 
hoarse cry, almost of panic. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She shook her head in surprise. "Nothing's wrong."

God! Everything was wrong - everything. But nothing like that - 
nothing to cause the look of terrified concern on his face as he 
reached out a tentative hand towards her.

"There's.... there's _blood_...."

She stared at him, immobile, not understanding.

"There's blood?" His voice was shaky, rising like a question. 
"On you? On your...?"

The horrible realisation hit her like a physical blow. His tone 
of voice...! If his waking nightmares were so bad as to make him 
doubt reality, then.... 

"Blood?" She cut off that thought, following the direction of 
his horrified gaze. Then she saw it - a smear of blood on her 
sleeve. "Oh. I didn't see...." She forced a smile. "It's okay, 
Mulder. It's not mine. It's nothing."

"Why is there blood on your sleeve?" His voice was hoarse and 
desperate.

"It's nothing, Mulder. It's not mine."

But she was clenching her fists tight as she spoke, as she 
whispered a desperate silent prayer. Please don't let him pursue 
it. Let him drop it. Please....

"Why is there blood on your sleeve?" He spoke as if he hadn't 
heard her, though he still wasn't looking at her. "Why is there 
blood on your sleeve?"

She chewed her lip, desperately searching but finding no help. 
She'd have to tell him. She couldn't lie to him. Protect him 
from the truth - yes. But lie to him....

She took a deep breath, looking at him almost defiantly. She'd 
_beat_ this thing. "I was at a crime scene," she said, at last.

"Was someone killed?" He was staring intensely at his own hands.

"Mulder. Why don't we sit down?" 

She took a step forward, hoping to divert him, but he still 
didn't move, didn't stop staring at his hands. What was he 
_seeing_ there?

"Mulder." She sighed again, and her fingers absently brushed 
against her pocket, producing a small crackle from the notes. 
She pulled them away as if they'd been burnt. 

This was _wrong_ - all wrong. But she had to tell him. There 
would _never_ be a good time.

"It's a case," she said, slowly, considering her words 
carefully. Just one mis-step, that's all it would take. She 
didn't want to think of the consequences of _that_. "Not an X-
File, just something.... something Skinner wanted me to look 
at."

He turned his back and walked over to the window, resting his 
face against the glass. He said nothing - no expression of 
interest - no cry of horror. Just silence.

"I think.... Mulder, I think I need your help on this one." 

It was all she could do to keep her words steady. This was it. 
This was the important one. Would he cry out in horror like the 
previous day, or would he.... was he.... had he _thought_ about 
things in the last twenty-four hours and begun to come to terms 
with things?

But there was nothing. Just a sharp intake of breath, then 
nothing.

She decided to take his silence as an encouragement, though she 
knew it wasn't, not really. "Someone's killing women. He says 
he'll kill one every day. We need to catch him, Mulder. You can 
_help_...."

She hoped, prayed, she was doing the right thing, but it was all 
she could think of. If she could convince him that he could do 
something positive - that he could stop people being killed - 
then it would be a start. Make him feel important, wanted, 
useful. Help him come to terms with working again. And then.... 

But how could she tell him about the notes?

She shook her head abruptly. There wasn't _time_ for that, now. 
Take it a step at a time. Slowly, slowly....

"Mulder." She tried again, tried to get some reaction - any 
reaction. "You're good at this. You can stop him."

"No!" It was almost a sob. "I can't. Not me."

"You _can_, Mulder." She hated doing this. All she wanted to do 
was hold him, comfort him. But this _had_ to be faced, and now. 
Another day, another note, another body, and it would be so much 
worse. "You're good at this. You understand things..."

"I understand...." He echoed her words, his voice lost and 
despairing. "I understand. That's why I can't."

"Can't what, Mulder? Tell me." Her tone softened, and she took a 
step towards him, reaching out to him. "Please..."

"I can't." He was speaking to himself, repeating the same word 
over and over, his palms pressed flat against the glass. "I 
can't. I can't. I can't...."

"Mulder!" She felt panic rising, though she knew she had to stay 
calm. "Please...."

"I can't. I can't." The muscles in his arms were shaking with 
the pressure he was exerting against the glass, and she caught a 
glimpse of his reflected eyes, brimming with tears. "I can't. I 
can't."

"Can't what?" She grabbed his wrist, trying to pull him away 
from the glass, terrified it would break. "Can't what, Mulder?"

He whirled round, wrenching her hand painfully as he pulled from 
her grip. "I can't ju...." He cut off suddenly, looking at her 
as if he was aware if her presence for the first time in 
minutes. "Just don't ask me, Scully. Don't ask me."

"No, Mulder." She would always hate herself for this, she knew 
that beyond a shadow of doubt. But it _had_ to be done. "I won't 
stop. You can't run away from this. You have responsibilities. 
People _need_ you. You can _stop_ these deaths."

"I can't."

"You can!" Her voice was rising, but guilt and grief was just a 
short step away from anger. "You're the only person who can. You 
_know_ this person."

"I.... I know him?" He sounded like a little boy, lost and 
confused.

"Yes." She was at a loss for words. She hadn't meant it to come 
out like that - wasn't prepared for an explanation. "I don't 
know how. Probably someone you put away or profiled. I don't 
know. Skinner said.... I haven't investigated yet. I've only 
just started on the case. I don't know how.... But they know he 
knows you. That's why you.... That's why we need you to help us 
on this. You're the only person who can do this."

Oh God! She was babbling, the words rushing out without thought 
or sense. 

Calm, Scully. Keep calm. Deep breaths. Think. Assess the damage 
and....

"I know him?" His voice again, scarcely there at all. "He knows 
what I am."

"I don't...." She paused, unsure what to make of his last words, 
then took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I don't know, 
Mulder. But please...."

"No." He was whispering, his eyes tight shut. "I can't.... He'll 
come...." And then he seemed to smile, although she must have 
been mistaken, and repeated the last words, louder this time. 
"He'll come."

"What?"

He shook his head, wondering, and turned towards her. "Please go 
now, Scully. I need to.... I need some time."

"But you will think about it?" She had to try, but she was lost, 
incapable of understanding the undercurrents.

He turned away, staring down out of the window, and then gasped, 
stiffened for  a second, then exhaled slowly. 

"Mulder?" What was _that_ about. "If I go now, you _will_ think 
about it? You _will_ talk about it, some time?"

Oh God! She knew she shouldn't leave, but this was such an 
exhausting battle. She had to get the truth, but she couldn't 
push. And he _had_ asked her to leave....

"I'll think about.... things." His tone was level, but she could 
hear the tremor beneath it, feel the turmoil beneath this 
exterior of calm he was desperately trying to portray. She'd 
done the same herself often enough not to know this signs. 
"You'll understand soon, Scully. Maybe tomorrow. I.... I don't 
know."

It should have been a good sign, but why did it fill her with 
dread? Something about his voice - something about his 
manner.... It wasn't right. But what could she do? She couldn't 
fight him every step of the way. She had to respect his privacy.

And then he spoke, so quietly that she could almost convince 
herself it was her imagination.

"I'm sorry, Scully."

There were tears, wet on her cheeks, as she turned to go.

*********

He couldn't move.

He held the photograph tight in his hands, listening to her 
screams, but he couldn't move.

"I'm sorry. I can't...." He frowned with concentration, knowing 
he _had_ to get through to her, even if he could barely move his 
lips. "I can't help...."

"You can." Slowly, oh so slowly, grimacing with pain, she 
dragged her head round to stare at him. "You can stop this."

"How?"

Struggling, fighting against the pain, he managed to move his 
hands, reaching out for her face. But it was beyond him. The 
cold black and white surface of a crime-scene photograph, not 
her living face.

"How?"

Who was she? The woman he'd.... he'd _killed_? The woman whose 
blood had been on Scully's sleeve, some other lifetime away? 
Scully....? He couldn't tell. The frozen outlines of the 
photograph blurred and faded, always full of pain, but never 
clear.

"You know." Her voice was weaker now, freezing into an eternal 
immobility of pain.

"I can't." He chewed his lip till the blood flowed, warm and 
sticky, mingling with his tears. "I can't...."

But she was fading now, beyond his vision, little more than a 
scream.

"I'm sorry!" He didn't know if she could hear him, but he had to 
try. "I couldn't."

"You're lying." It was loud now, and terrible. "You can. But you 
won't. You don't want to."

"I do!" He tried to protest, but something was choking his 
throat, paralysing him. "I want to!"

"You - put - me - here." Every word was an icy whisper. "You - 
killed - me."

"I know," he whispered, suddenly understanding. "I know. I'm.... 
sorry."

"Does that make it better?" She was nowhere now, and everywhere 
- her voice an eternity of swirling blacks and greys.

"No." His throat hurt with the desire to sob, but he was still 
paralysed. "No...."

"But you will understand. You will understand what it feels 
like."

And then the blacks and the greys and the immobility were all 
around him, and he knew at last why he couldn't move. _He_ was 
in the photograph. Frozen forever in agonised immobility, unable 
to cry out, unable to escape. It was.... terrible. It was just. 
It was all he deserved. But it was....

The red, when it came, was like a scream, slashing his eyes.

Blood.

And the worst of it was on his own hands.

It was burning, corroding, agonising like acid, but he couldn't 
move, couldn't wipe it off - _shouldn't_ wipe it off.
 
And her _eyes_. Burning worse than the blood, staring at him 
from her decomposing face, hating more than anyone had ever 
hated.

"I'm sorry...." The blood trickled and dripped and burnt as he 
struggled to speak, using every last ounce of strength to move.

And then....

And then everything fell away and he was awake, and he alive, 
and he could breathe, and he could move....

But the blood was still on his hands, though it was cold now, 
cold and sinuous. He couldn't see it in the darkness, but he 
could smell its acrid iron smell and feel the chill of death.

But.... But I'm awake! His mind whimpered in terror, still half 
lost in nightmares. I don't understand. Why....?

"Did you sleep well, Fox?" 

The voice. The voice that brought pain and the voice that taught 
truth.

He sighed, feeling almost comforted. This was the end. It had 
started like this, and it would end like this - just him and the 
voice - the teacher and the pupil. There would be no need to 
fight, not for much longer.

"Do you have nightmares, Fox?" It was hissing, soft as a caress. 
"Nightmares about.... _her_?"

He cleared his throat, trying to speak. He knew he had to 
answer. How could he think of hiding things from the voice who'd 
known him for what he was as soon as it had seen him? "Yes," he 
stammered, at last. "Yes, I do."

"Do you ever think of ending the nightmares, Fox?" There was a 
soft grate of metal and he knew the voice had a gun. "You know 
how to do it."

"I.... I _can't_!" 

"No." The voice was slow with regret. "You can't."

His breathing came in short gasps, loud in his ears. He could 
feel the presence of the gun in the room, almost fancy he could 
feel the soft touch of the trigger against his fingertips. 

"It's better this way, isn't it, Mulder? Hearing her screaming. 
Does _that_ ever stop, Fox?" Sounds of pacing, softly round the 
room, and the voice calm and soothing. "Is it just nights, or 
days as well?" A soft laugh. "No matter. It's for the best. 
Nightmares. Memories. The screaming...."

He couldn't stop a sob escaping at that, but the voice carried 
on as if he hadn't spoken.

"How long will they go on for, I wonder. Weeks? No, they've been 
weeks already. Months? Years?" A long pause. "For ever? Will you 
see her death every day until you die?"

"No..." He sank his head into his sticky hands, feeling the 
smears of blood on his face. He couldn't. He just couldn't....

"But it's for the best, Fox." A hand touched him on the shoulder 
as the voice whispered confiding in his ear. "You know that. At 
least you'd still be alive."

Oh God! He couldn't. Three weeks of this, and he was nearly 
broken. Months more.... _Years_ more....? God! How could he....?

"And if you have nightmares every day until you die, then...." 
The voice made a small sound, as if shrugging. "Well... You can 
live with that, can't you? You've lived until now."

Until you die. Until you die. Until you die.... The words echoed 
in his head, pounding, relentless, showing him flashed of 
images. The gun. The trigger beneath his finger. Blood on the 
floor.... 

"Until I die....?" He hadn't meant to speak, but the words came 
out, closer to a sob than to speaking. He turned his head, 
desperately searching for the dark figure of the voice. He need 
teaching. He needed guidance. Where was he?

"Ah, Fox." The voice was far across the room, but the soft sound 
of footsteps brought it closer. "Fox. You don't understand, do 
you? I know what you're thinking."

"What?" he asked, his voice tiny. He didn't doubt the claim, 
remembering how the voice had understood him better than he had 
himself. 

The voice faltered, stammering. "I don't.... I don't think I 
should tell you. I don't want to.... to give you ideas. Things 
that are _wrong_...."

It was wrong. God, yes, it was wrong! He mustn't.... He 
shouldn't.... He'd promised....

Then there was a laugh. "No. I was wrong. You wouldn't.... I 
know you wouldn't be thinking of that. You haven't got the 
stren.... I mean, you're too.... principled." Another laugh, 
short and embarrassed. "I was thinking, when you said.... I 
thought you meant that if you died now, then the nightmares...." 
A quick touch on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Forget it. You 
wouldn't do that, I know."

The blood snaked down his arm, gouging through his skin like a 
knife.

Silence. Complete and utter silence. Even the screams were 
still, holding their breath and waiting.

He wanted to scream - anything to break the silence. Eyes were 
boring into him through the darkness.

"It.... it would be wrong." Was this his own voice, so little, 
so drowned in doubts?

"Yes."

"Killing...."

"Yes. Killing is wrong."

Killing is wrong. 

The _screams_. High, low, short, sustained.... Endlessly 
replayed in every possible imagining, but never heard. He'd.... 
He'd cared so little that he hadn't even seen her die.

Killing is wrong.

The black and white image of frozen death. The decomposing 
faces. Tormenting accusing fingers of bone. 

Killing is wrong.... 

"No!" He clawed at his face, knowing he couldn't live.

"Killing is wrong. It would be a sin to die." Relentless, smooth 
as honey, firm with righteousness.

"But.... But _I_ killed.... That was wrong.... Punishment...." 
He was incoherent, his voice drowned with horror.

"It wouldn't bring them back, your death. It would do nothing. 
Why should you suffer, unless it brings them back?"

"But death _isn't_ suffering! Not like this. Not like..." 

The screams. The nightmares. The memories. Her eyes.

"Why should you suffer, unless it brings them back?" Louder, 
more emphatic this time, as if he hadn't spoken. Perhaps he 
hadn't. The voices of memory were so loud.

And then he paused, not breathing. Why should he suffer? 
Penance. An endless lifetime of guilt and pain, in penance for 
what he'd done. However tempting it looked, however bright the 
trigger was in his memory, he couldn't run away - he _couldn't_.

But why not? She was still dead. They were still dead. Whatever 
he did, he couldn't bring them back.  

Why not....?

Oh, to rest.... to run away.... to end all this.... 

"....so you mustn't." How long had the voice been talking? 
"There's no need to you to suffer needlessly. And it would be 
suffering." It was a whisper, close to his ear. "Do you know 
what it feels like, a bullet through the brain?" 

Nothing. A quick flash of pain, and then nothing. Nothing like 
this.

And then he stopped. 

Scully.

Her eyes swollen and red against her white skin, her lips 
mouthing words of sorrow he couldn't hear. Endlessly replaying 
the memory of discovering him dead on the floor. Crying in her 
mother's arms.

She'd be.... He'd hurt her, if he... if he killed himself. No-
one else would care, but she... She'd blame herself. She'd think 
she could have prevented it. She would....

"Scully...." It was a groan of agony. He wanted to. He needed 
to. But he couldn't. 

"Yes. Your partner. I saw her, earlier."

"What?" He hadn't thought he could feel any anger at anyone but 
himself, but it was there, pushing through the guilt. "If you 
_hurt_ her...."

"I just watched her. I needed to follow her - let her bring me 
to you. But I didn't hurt her, Fox. I didn't need to. You've 
done that."

"I've done....?" Fresh tears coursed down his face. "Yes. Yes I 
have. But if...."

"It would hurt her. You should think of _her_."

"I do! That's why I can't...."

"She was crying." The voice was calm, interrupting him. "In the 
car outside, and at the crime scene. She cried for _so_ long 
before she could drive away, earlier."
 
"She cried?" Scully - calm, controlled Scully, her face an icy 
mask even at her sister's funeral.... Scully had _cried_?

"She's probably crying now. She cares about you. She hates to 
see you like this."

"What can I do?" He dug his fingers into the flesh if his 
thighs, clenching into fists. "I don't.... Scully! I don't want 
to hurt you."

"She'll get used to it. After a few months, crying every night, 
she'll be more used to it." It was casual, off-hand. "Maybe 
years. But it doesn't matter."

"It does!" Pain was shooting up and down his legs, but it was 
not enough - not  nearly enough. "She matters."

"Of course she does." A hand touched his arm, soft, like _her_ 
touch. "But it's better than if you kill yourself. The grief 
she'd feel then.... It would get better over time, of course. 
Just a few months. Maybe less. But while it lasts, it would be 
worse."

"It would get better." He didn't know it he was speaking aloud, 
but what did it matter? The voice knew him for what he was, and 
he had no secrets from him. "A clean break. Bad for her.... But 
she'd recover. She'd make a new life. Away from me.... She'd be 
happier."

There was a soft sound as something was put down on the couch 
next to him. Slowly, tentatively, scarcely daring to hope, he 
reached out a hand, and touched it.

The gun. 

His fingers closed round it and he held it, caressing it like a 
lover.

Silence.

"She hasn't told you, has she?" Pad pad of footsteps away from 
him, then back - away and back - pulsing, hypnotic.

"What?" But he hadn't meant to speak again. Let his last words 
be of _her_ - of his wish for her happiness.

"The notes? The deaths?"

Oh God! The blood on her sleeve. The killer who knew him for 
what he was. He'd _forgotten_. Had he learnt so little, even 
after all this time?

"You have three on your conscience now, Fox? Where do you think 
that blood came from?"

Blood on his hands. Blood on his face. Blood.... _Her_ blood. 
Not his.

It was wrong. It was his guilt. It should be his blood.

"You said you understood, Mulder. I trusted you. I thought you'd 
do what was right. But you didn't, did you?" It was relentless, 
pacing up and down, hissing. "You took the selfish way out, 
didn't you? And so two more died."

"I didn't know. I didn't know. I'm sorry....!" He raked his 
nails down his cheeks, suddenly desperate that the blood should 
be his own.

"Oh, you did know, Mulder. Deep down, you knew. But you were 
still selfish. And so they died. And tomorrow..."

"No!"

The trigger was moist and slippery beneath his finger.

"But what does it matter, Fox? You can't... You know you 
mustn't."

"I can! I will!"

He could have pulled the trigger then without a second thought, 
but a car door shut outside, sounding like a gunshot in the 
terrible darkness, and his attention wavered.

"You mustn't, Fox. Give me the gun." It was the calm, 
patronising voice of a deceiver, humouring him, lying to him 
that he shouldn't do this thing.

"No! Leave me alone! I _will_ do it!"

The circle of metal was cold against his forehead, and he shut 
his eyes as his finger tightened on the trigger.

And then there was a bang, and a flash of sudden light, and 
there was Scully, and her hair was blazing.

**********

"Come on, come on, come _on_!"

Scully stared daggers of impatience at the elevator doors, but 
still they didn't open. Just one more solid wall keeping her 
from Mulder. Would she ever....?

"Damn you!"

She pressed at the button again and again with an urgent left 
hand. Mulder's keys were gripped in her right hand, tight enough 
for her fingers to shake, and she knew that to let them go, just 
for a second, could make all the difference between..... between 
what? Life and death....?

But at whose hand would he die?

A quick glance at her watch to stifle that thought. Twenty past 
eleven. Just forty seconds since she'd last looked, and she 
hadn't even reached the elevator then. Under forty seconds 
waiting, and already it felt like an eternity. God! What was 
wrong with her?

A voice sounded in the distance, and she started, reaching for 
her gun, but it was only someone talking behind the closed door 
of a ground-floor apartment. Safe behind locked doors. The 
sounds of normal life. 

Behind locked doors....

Would his neighbours even notice the sound of Mulder's death?

"No!"

She pressed the button again and again, but couldn't stamp out 
that thought.

She should have.... She could have.... If only she'd....

That face - that man she'd glimpsed at the crime scene.... Why 
hadn't she remembered, earlier? Hours later, staring unseeingly 
at the television, she'd suddenly seen his face again, and had 
remembered. 

And then she'd known. She hadn't understood, but she'd known.

Blood on the floor. Those dead agents in the morgue. The notes. 
His fingers reaching for the gun. 

"Mulder!" She'd reached for the phone, pressing his familiar 
number with a shaking dread, as her other hand had fumbled with 
her shoes. 

But his phone had been dead. 

Why would he disconnect his phone, if he wasn't....?

She'd taken his gun weeks ago, but what did that matter? There 
were pills. There were ties. There were.... God! His palms, 
pressing against the glass. Images of blood and death, of deadly 
daggers of glass in a torrent of blood.

Don't let me be too late. Don't let me be too late. Don't let me 
be too late....

The door opened and she stepped into the elevator.

Enclosed on the silence, but not protected. Walls of fear and 
horror pressing down on her from all sides, reflecting her 
imaginings.

A swoosh as the door opened. Nearly there. Nearly there. Just a 
few more seconds. Keys rattle. Steps echo. Step, step, step....

Don't hesitate. Quick. Turn the keys. Turn the handle, throw the 
door open with a bang, and....

The gun. Silhouetted against the window, branding itself for 
ever on her retina. The gun. Mulder. The gun....

Mulder was standing with a gun to his head.

"Mu...." 

Her voice was hoarse with horror. What could she say? But she 
had to speak - had to try.

"Muld..."

But then a hand snaked from the darkness that was all around 
her, and she couldn't breathe.

She couldn't breathe....

Hands, squeezing into her throat. Her hands, pawing, clawing. 
His hand, still on the gun, still unwavering. Hands....

"Do it, Mulder. It's the only way to save her."

It was so intense, the darkness. Just blackness and still deeper 
shadows, growing deeper every second. Nothing in it but the 
silhouette of death against the window. She _needed_ to see his 
eyes.

"Look, Mulder." A hand moved from her throat and then her eyes 
were blinking in the sudden light, her lungs aching from the 
quick breath she was able to catch. "She's dying. You're doing 
this."

Tears were pouring down his face, but still his hand didn't 
move.

"You can save her, Mulder. You know how."

His arm tensed. Slowly, slowly, touching the trigger, his finger 
moved....

She _had_ to.... God! Kicking, squirming, hitting, pounding.... 
A cry of pain, then another... A gasp of fresh air, steadying 
the swaying of the world.

"Mul... der..." His name was mixed with the gasps, but he _had_ 
to hear. "Don't. Please...."

A slam of pain on the back of her head as she was pinned against 
the wall, held by the neck, but she was only held with one hand 
now, and could still breathe, could still speak.

"Stop him, Mul...." The fingers squeezed off the end of her 
word, but she still held the other wrist with both her hands, 
keeping it away. "Stop him."

"You know how to stop it, Mulder. Do it."

"No, Mulder! Don't!"

She _had_ to get away, but she just hadn't enough air to think 
properly.  Everything was fading except the image of his pain-
filled eyes.

"Mul... der!" But her voice was fading now, and she knew she was 
losing the battle. He still hadn't moved the gun. "Mul.... der. 
Don't...."

Then her hands dropped away from the other man's wrists, and his 
two hands closed around her throat again, and she knew she had 
lost.

Her last sight before she died would be of Mulder's eyes as he 
pulled the trigger.

"Go on, Mulder. Do it or I'll kill her."

But her eyes were closed by now, and she couldn't even see his 
death, although the noise of the gunshot would echo in her ears 
for the rest of her life.

And as she slipped down into the darkness it seemed as if all 
the pressure at her throat fell away, and everything was blood 
all over.

Gasping - loud, nearly as loud as the echo of the gunshot. 
Gasping, and blood. Gasping and blood...

Mulder's words in the darkness, helping her back to the light. 
Her words to him, helping him back when he needed her. Mulder, 
are you okay? Scully, are you okay? Hands, touching the 
injuries, healing, helping. Helping each other with the pain. 

Mulder. I hurt. Where are you, Mulder? Why aren't you....?

She pulled herself to her knees, slowly, still gasping, and 
saw....

And understood.

"Mulder?"

He hadn't moved. Tears were pouring down his face as he just 
stood and stared in horror at the body on the floor. 

"Mulder?"

It hurt to speak, but she knew he needed help far more than she 
did. But she didn't think she could walk, not yet.

"Mulder...."

He took a step forward, then another, then sank down to his 
knees with a hoarse cry. He gave no sign of hearing her, of even 
being aware of her. The gun fell from his fingers with a 
clatter.

"Oh, Mulder." 

There was blood on his hands, dark dried tracks snaking down his 
arms. She reached out a shaking hand and took his limp arm, 
probing it with her fingers, but found no wounds. 

"I killed..." He reached out his other hand, touching the pool 
of blood on the floor. "I killed...."

God! She'd forgotten. She was a doctor, but she'd forgotten. But 
when she reached over and checked the other man's pulse, there 
was none. 

"Yes, you did." She sighed with relief as she spoke, although 
she knew she shouldn't. A man was dead. It was important. But 
all she could think of was Mulder, and she knew this had to be 
addressed _now_. If she'd had to call an ambulance, and 
strangers had had to talk to him about what he'd done....

She couldn't suppress a sob, although she knew she had to be 
strong. The gun at his head! The horror of it....

"I killed...."

She sighed, turning back to him and wrapping her hand round his, 
pulling it away from the blood. "Yes you did, Mulder. But you 
had to stop him. He would have killed me."

"I killed...." His fingers curled into claws and he struggled 
against her grip, as if he wanted to tear at his own face. "I 
killed...."

"Shh, Mulder. It's okay." She put an arm round his shoulder, 
pulling him towards her. 

"I killed. I killed. I killed...." Each cry was more tormented 
than the last. "I killed..."

"Mulder!" She forced her voice into a shout, feeling the 
desperation grow inside her. "Listen to me. Look at me. Mulder!" 
She grabbed both his wrists, and held them out in front of him, 
forcing his to face her. "Listen...."

"I killed...." He turned his head away. A trail of blood 
trickled from his lip.

Oh my God! What do I do? Help me. How can I get through to him? 

"Mulder." She _had_ to sound calm, although it was so difficult. 
She held his face in both hands, forcing him to look at her. 
"Who was that man?"

She knew the answer - she feared the answer - but she had to get 
through to him somehow.

"He is.... he was.... he's dead." Her hands hurt with the effort 
of keeping his head still. "I killed him."

"Mulder..." Oh God! Please let me be doing this right. "He's the 
one who tortured you, isn't he? He's the man who killed...."

"No! That was me. _I_ killed...."

"You didn't kill anyone, Mulder. I told you, remember? There was 
no way you killed that girl"

But inside she wanted to scream with guilt. She should have 
talked about it _then_, right at the start, rather than 
dismissing it as some waking hallucination born of drugs. 'I 
don't want to hear you say that again' - that's what she'd said. 
God! It was _her_ fault. If only....

"I _did_ kill her."

She shook her head abruptly to bring herself back to the 
present. Now, more than any other time, she needed to stay 
focused. There was a time for guilt later - a time to lie awake 
in horror at what she'd done.

"Did he kill her, and make you watch? Is that what it was?" She 
knew how it disturbed him to see into a killer's mind, but if 
he'd actually had to watch the deed, unable to stop it.... It 
was too horrible to contemplate.

"No!" He was hoarse with crying, but at least he was answering 
her, his words relating to what she'd said. "I killed her."

She shook her head, confusion making her silent. What could she 
do? What could she say?

"I killed her." He pulled away violently, wrapping his arms 
around his knees and rocking himself to and fro, eyes focused on 
nothing. "I killed.... He said he'd stop hurting me if I....   
But I... I'd touched her. She smelt of roses. She'd have lived 
if I'd.... I said yes. I was selfish. I said yes.... I 
couldn't.... It hurt so much and I couldn't.... I killed her. I 
said yes.... "

The gun was still on the floor, stained with blood.

She couldn't speak. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe, 
couldn't speak. How could she...?

A siren sounded in the street and she hoped, prayed, that it 
wouldn't stop, but its sound warped eerily and it passed by.

"Scully?"

She swallowed, trying to find her voice, but he spoke before she 
could say a word.

"She's gone. She spoke to me. She told me she trusted me." It 
was the voice of a little boy, heartbroken and lost. "She said I 
must be strong but I wasn't. And now she's gone."

"Mulder." She scrambled across to him, touching his shoulder. 
"I'm here. I won't leave you."

"But you know! You know what I did. Why...?"

"I know. But I don't understand." She stroked his forehead, 
praying she was doing the right thing. "I don't understand, 
Mulder. I need you to help me understand."

He sobbed, pulling away. "You'll understand. And then 
you'll...." The sobs swallowed his words, turning them into 
incoherent mumblings.

"So this man tortured you, and told you he'd only stop if you 
agreed to this girl dying?"

"Yes!" It was a cry of agony.

"And you _refused_ for nearly twenty-four hours, even 
though....?" She shuddered. She'd seen his injuries, knew how 
much pain he'd suffered.

"But I said yes."

"And the same happened to those other agents, didn't it?" She 
had to keep going, though all she wanted to do was hold him safe 
from ever having to think about these things again. "The ones 
who'd been held for only a few hours? The ones whose.... Mulder, 
I saw their autopsies. They'd hardly been hurt at all. Nothing 
like you. You refused for so much longer than they did. You 
_were_ strong."

"But they did.... Afterwards...." His hand groped wildly round 
him on the carpet, and she knew with a sudden stab of dread that 
he was still searching for the gun.

"They were _weak_, Mulder. They gave into much less pain than 
you suffered. And as soon as it felt bad, afterwards, they ran 
away, without caring how much it hurt the people left behind." 
She shook his shoulder, trying to pull him towards her. "Mulder, 
you _saw_ Agent Feldman's fiancee...."

It was wrong, what she was doing. She couldn't just appeal to 
guilt. She had to make him _want_ to live, not just make him 
feel he _had_ to live. But that could come later. Right now, it 
was the only argument she was sure he would listen to.

"Mulder, I know that right now you can't.... I know you 
want...." Her voice trembled, and she swallowed several times to 
steady it. "It would upset me if you died."

"But he said...."

"You mustn't believe _anything_ he said." Her voice was poison, 
dripping with hatred.

"You were crying."

She coughed, suddenly awkward. "Yes, I was. I.... I hate seeing 
you blame yourself for something that's not your fault. It 
upsets me."

"But it was my fault."

"Mulder...."

"You don't understand!" His eyes were wild. "I didn't care. She 
was so unimportant to me, I didn't even think about her, until 
afterwards. I forgot her...." He pounded a fist against the 
floor until she was scared he would break a bone. "I didn't even 
care what I was saying yes too! I didn't care!"

Think, Scully. Think. Pictures in the darkness - terrible 
imaginings. Pain everywhere. A voice, insistent, demanding. 'Say 
yes. Say yes'. And the insidious threat of fire. God! The smell 
of smoke on his clothes when he'd been found! Smoke, flames, 
fists, voices, all demanding. Nothing but pain....

Tears choked her at the horror of it all. How could he possibly 
blame himself? How could he possibly _not_ blame himself?

Calm. Keep calm. He needs you now, more than ever. Calm. 
Soothing. Strong....

"So, he tortured you so much you were barely conscious from the 
pain - until you couldn't remember anything - and then he made 
you say yes to something you didn't understand." She caught hold 
of his hands. "Is that how it was, Mulder?"

"No...!"

"Is that how it was, Mulder?" Stroking his hair, stroking his 
hands, her voice relentless but oh so soft. "Is that how it 
was?"

Silence. Just his breathing, loud and painful.

"Is that how it was, Mulder?"

"Yes... But...."

"But what, Mulder?" It was scarcely above a whisper.

"But it doesn't matter why I did it. I _did_ it. That's all that 
matters." 

"But he forced you. He captured you. He captured her. He killed 
her. He killed the others. He put you in the situation. You 
would never have even _had_ to make that choice if it wasn't for 
him. It all his fault. Everything." She wanted to stab the body 
with the force of her hatred.

Silence.

"I thought..." It was muffled with sobs, and she could scarcely 
hear him. "I thought if I told you.... If I told you, you'd...."

"I would never blame you, Mulder. No-one could blame you. The 
only person I blame is _him_."

But it's your fault too. A little voice was clamouring inside 
her head. You didn't find him. You didn't protect him. You 
didn't allow him to talk about this, before it became 
unbearable. You.... Your fault too.

He shifted in her grip, turning his face towards her. "You 
really think that? You really blame only him...?"

"Yes," she lied. "It was his fault. Only his."

A shuddering sigh went through his body. "You _really_ 
think....?"

"Yes, Mulder. Yes I do." She stroked his hair. "I know it feels 
bad. I know it's difficult. But you must _never_ think you 
deserve to suffer. You mustn't feel you're wrong to try to 
recover from this - to try to feel happy."

And then he looked at her for the first time, and his face was 
lost, like a little boy.

"Help me, Scully."

But who would help her?

**********

"I can't go back, Scully - not yet."

She slowly turned to face him. Her eyes, her muscles, her voice 
- everything was tired beyond exhaustion, but she had to keep 
going. It wasn't over yet.

"I know, Mulder." She reached for his hand, stroking, 
reassuring. "I know." 

His face was wraith-like, all shadow and pale skin in the early 
grey dawn, its life worn away by the emotions of the night. He 
was scarcely moving, scarcely breathing.

Silence.

The blood was dark on the carpet, but the body had been taken 
away. She'd managed to fend the police off as quickly as she 
could, but she knew they'd be back - that they'd need to 
question Mulder more fully. She'd no idea if he'd be able to 
cope with it.

Then the couch squeaked as he turned to her, eyes suddenly wild.

Oh God! Not more. I can't take any more. I need.... _I_ need....

"Skinner....?" A croak, suffused with fear. He swallowed hard, 
obviously fighting for words, but none would come.

"We'll tell him, Mulder. We'll tell him everything. But he won't 
blame you. No-one will blame you. I know it."

She didn't have to pretend this time, or fight to keep her voice 
level through the tears she couldn't shed. Skinner _wouldn't_ 
blame him, she knew that for certain. But the others - the 
shadowy men who hid behind a facade of legality.... What would 
they make of it? Skinner would protect him, but it wasn't over 
yet.

"I need...." He paused, chewing his lip.

"Time? I know you do, Mulder. I know it will take time. But I 
also know it _will_ get better." Then her hand shook and she 
lowered her eyes, almost embarrassed, before continuing. "I'm 
here for you."

Silence.

He stood up and walked across to the window. She followed him 
with her eyes, watching the soundless tread of his feet, aching 
at the exhaustion that showed in his every movement.

"Mulder?"

She ached to follow him, but knew she couldn't push. It was 
still so precarious.

An engine roared into life down in the street. His head turned 
as he followed the car into the distance, then stayed there, 
turned away from her, eyes staring far away. Was he even seeing 
the present, now?

His voice, when it came, startled her. It was so soft, so 
wondering, so.... so unlike the anguished cries of the long dark 
night.

"He was right, you know, Scully."

She wanted - she _needed_ - to object, but somehow knew he 
needed to be allowed to speak without having to fight. 

"Oh, I know - I think I know - he was wrong about some things, 
but he was right.... I hadn't.... None of us had...." A deep 
breath, then another, in a visible effort at control. "I thought 
I was so good at understanding people. I could understand 
killers. I could see into their minds. But at the same time, I 
still knew I was.... I was superior to them - better than them."

She twisted her hands until they hurt. Where was he going? What 
new nightmare was this leading to? 

"It frightened me, the evil I saw inside them." He still didn't 
turn round. She didn't know if he remembered she was there. "I 
hated it, but I had to do it. I wanted to do everything I could 
to protect people from.... from _evil_ like that."

It was a dull monotone, but she knew him - knew that was the 
only way he could speak at all. If he relaxed that rigid 
terrible control, if he let the slightest emotion into his 
voice, then he'd fall apart, beyond words.

"But it's so easy to forget, Scully. In law enforcement.... We 
think of ourselves as the good guys, fighting evil. It's like a 
movie. It's.... it's not real life. It's not true."

And then he turned to face her at last, though he didn't move.

"That's why he took me, Scully. He heard me, that evening in the 
restaurant, before... He heard me hating people like.... people 
who could kill. He wanted to teach me that we shouldn't.... How 
can we judge people when we know that we can do the same 
ourselves - that the evil is in us too?"

She walked over towards him, though every step pulsed with 
weariness. "Mulder. Listen to me. He didn't want to teach you 
anything. You said then.... You said he enjoyed killing. He 
liked to hurt people. And if he could kill, and torture, and 
destroy the people who could catch him - who were prepared to 
suffer to stop him...." She let the sentence hang, at a loss for 
words to express her hatred. "God, Mulder! He _was_ evil. No-one 
forced _him_ to kill."

He turned back towards the window, resting his forehead on the 
glass. "But he was right too, Scully. Evil isn't something apart 
from us, and separate. It's something inside _all_ of us. We can 
all hurt people, in the right circumstances. I.... I thought.... 
I forgot that, Scully. I forgot I could...."

"Mulder...."

There was a smear of blood on the window, brown and dry now, and 
it held her eyes, mesmerising her. Just a smear from where he'd 
leant against it, earlier, his hands still bloody, but it was 
too close to her fears of the previous night. Blood - _his_ 
blood - pouring out onto sharp daggers of glass. She could still 
see it, still fear it, whenever he stood too close.

"The X-Files...." He ignored her touch. He had a sudden feeling 
that she was intruding - hearing his private thoughts, despite 
his use of her name. His arms were tightly wrapped round his 
body, and his voice was turned inward. "Maybe that's what they 
were about. It was comforting to believe that evil was 
something.... something apart.... something alien. Maybe they 
were just.... running away - hiding from the fact that evil is 
inside us.... inside _me_."

"They _were_?" She was stammering, her touch faltering. "The X-
Files _were_?"

Oh God! Not that! She'd thought.... It was over. They were past 
the worst. They would recover. But _this_.....

He turned round and smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. 
"Oh, I'll carry on with them, I expect. It will...." A 
shuddering sigh. "It will get better in time. But...." 

How was it possible he still had tears to shed? How was it 
possible that she had any left to answer his? 

And then he looked at her, and it was the first time in weeks 
that he'd met her eyes, but she could feel no joy at it, not 
now.

"You can't expect me to forget, Scully." It was scarcely above a 
whisper, and she knew she could manage no more herself. "You 
can't expect me to be the same."

"I know, Mulder." She reached up to him and pulled him into her 
arms, comforting him, and he let her. His cheek was wet against 
her neck. "I know you won't."

And she knew _she_ wouldn't, either.

But her tears fell onto his hair, and she was smiling.

**********

END