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applecameronAuthor: SV, 1996
Title: And Let There Be No Purpose
Fandom: X-Files
Author's Notes: Not even MSR. Not even UST. Not even UFO's. Tsk. Chris Carter owns them, I just like to play with them. I claim the Twinkie defense, although no evidence of Twinkies were found at the scene. I submit they were psychic Twinkies, exerting their influence from a distance.
No spoilers.
I'd call it an R rating for adult content, not graphic, hurt/comfort Mulder/Scully.
Reprinted by express permission.
by Sidra Vitale
Mulder vomited. Spit and blood. Last night's dinner was long gone. He leaned his forehead into the realm of cool air around porcelain and flushed for the nth time.
His face felt hot, his skin prickly.
Mulder lost consciousness.
He came back sometime later, lying on the linoleum of the bathroom.
Mulder sat up, grabbing at the counter and crashing sloppily to his knees. Began inching his way out of the bathroom.
He stopped by his coat, on the floor in front of the sofa. Wrestling the phone from his coat pocket, Mulder hesitated only slightly before hitting Scully's speed dial number.
"Scully."
He gathered his breath and croaked, "help."
"Mulder? Where are you?"
Her first name was easier, two soft exhalations of breath. "Da...na...please."
"Are you at home, Mulder? Is someone with you? I'll be right there. Just hold on."
Fox Mulder lay on the floor by his sofa, cold, bleeding, and drifted into nothingness.
He woke when gentle fingers touched his neck, feeling for a pulse.
Scully put her phone back into her coat pocket. She'd expected paramedics to beat her there. Called 911 twice. Idiots. She pulled the blanket from Mulder's sofa and draped it over him. Mulder was lying on his left side on the floor. His eyes were open, his breathing was shallow and somewhat labored. He was bleeding from facial lacerations and had the pale look of someone with internal injuries.
"Mulder, can you hear me?" Scully put her hand on his shoulder. "Paramedics will be here soon. Can you tell me what happened?"
His door had been forced open and Scully had entered with her gun drawn. There was no one in the apartment except her partner.
"Where...." he paused for a breath. "Scu..."
"I'm here, Mulder." Her partner was blinking and Scully could see one pupil was dilated more than the other. She frowned.
"Mulder, I want to examine you, okay?"
He nodded slightly, and Scully began probing him carefully,pulling the blanket aside. His normally pale skin was covered in bruises and welts. He gasped when she touched his ribs. None seemed broken, but she thought two might be almost pulled off his sternum. Scully ran her hand down her partner's back and pulled his sweatshirt up, touching his lower back. He jerked, moaning. Kidneys.
Where were those damn paramedics?
She touched Mulder's head, frowning as her fingertips came away bloody.
One hand was always on his shoulder. "Mulder? Don't go to sleep, Mulder. Can you hear me?"
Mulder blinked and seemed to see her for the first time. "Sssss........Scully."
She tucked the blanket around him as best she could and draped Mulder's coat over him. Then added hers.
Gently, "Mulder." She had to keep him awake. "Mulder, did you see who did this to you? Did you see?"
Mulder tried to focus on Scully's face, but couldn't. There were starbursts and black patches floating between him and her face. It hurt too much to try and brush them away.
"I..." He coughed. "No faces." Mulder began coughing in earnest, struggling to breathe against the convulsive hack. Scully held him has his body spasmed. "Ski mask." He finally spit out.
"Mulder, they were wearing ski masks?"
He nodded.
The doorway -- Scully had left the door open behind her when she came in -- finally filled with paramedics in blue, wheeling a gurney. One was carrying a kit. Scully moved aside for them, reporting what she knew of her partner's condition in her dryest of voices.
She snagged her coat from the floor where the first paramedic shoved it, and continued speaking. "He was unconscious when I came in. About 10 minutes ago."
By this time Mulder was unconscious again.
Scully called Assistant Director Skinner from the hospital after Mulder had been admitted.
"Sir, it's Scully. I'm here at the hospital. Mulder was attacked in his apartment."
She heard Skinner's chair squeak. "What is his condition?"
"I'll know more in a few hours. I don't know what happened, sir, but I think it was professional. Whoever did this knew how."
"Was it a hit? Did you interrupt it?"
"No, sir. He called me afterwards."
"Are there any suspects?"
"Not at this time, sir. I'd like Hair and Fiber at his apartment as soon as possible."
"I'll take care of it. And Scully, I'm sending a guard."
Relief. "Yes, sir, thank you, sir."
"Call me as soon as you hear anything, Agent Scully."
"Yes, sir."
Scully was permitted in his room a few hours later and she drew a chair over as close to the head of the bed as she could get. The guard was in place, and Mulder was officially "out of the woods." She started to sit as she flipped through his chart, then stopped, straightened, and walked out of the room.
Scully went down the hall into the ladies' room with a calm and steady pace. Vomited. Washed her hands and face and rinsed her mouth out. Ate a Tic-Tac. She headed back to Mulder's room to see Skinner standing there waiting for her. They moved away from the guard.
"How is he, Agent Scully?"
"Concussion. Bruised ribs, bruised kidneys. No surgery was necessary. Maximum pain, no broken bones. That's what made me think it was professional, but I'm not sure now, sir."
"Why?"
She stared fixedly at her boss's chin and spoke precisely, in low tones. "Agent Mulder was sexually assaulted, sir." She swallowed. "Rape conflicts with my earlier analysis of a professional attack."
They made eye contact. Skinner had paled. "Let's find me a chair."
Mulder regained consciousness slowly, feeling his way through white soundlessness into the antiseptic room. Scully was waiting for him. He looked at the red-haired woman, almost asleep in her chair. Then took a breath and whispered "hey," at his partner.
"Mulder." Scully stood and took the hand he reached out to her. She felt his forehead and looked at her watch. 5 a.m. "How do you feel?"
"Like a disco dance floor." He croaked.
She gave him one of her rare unselfconscious smiles, and perched lightly on his bed. She kept his hand in hers, resting gently at his side. He seemed to be fading already, limbs loosening into sleep. Scully stroked her partner's hand lightly with her thumb and watched him closely as he fell asleep.
"Sleep well, Mulder. I'm right here."
He squeezed her hand gently, making a small sound.
30 hours later, Mulder sat in Scully's car as she ducked in the corner market to pick up provisions.
"You were not released into your own recognizance, but into my care, Mulder." She had reminded him.
He was startled somehow by how gentle Scully was, handing him into her car, buckling him in herself. "I know you can't stand hospitals, Mulder, but I would have been happier if you'd agreed to stay a couple more days." I'm worried about you, is what she didn't say, but he heard it in her voice. Beyond the crisp doctor's tone. He leaned against the headrest and shut eyes, swallowing against the memory of pain.
He had given a deposition, describing what he remembered of his attacker. There were gaps in his memory and
they offended him. He couldn't play all of it back.
There was little evidence left behind by the man who broke into Mulder's aparment in the wee-est hours of the morning -- when even Mulder was asleep -- tied him up with his own dirty laundry and beat him until he cried, and well past. He had lost consciousness several times and had to be told he had called Scully at 8 in the morning. There was too much time he couldn't account for.
Scully installed Mulder in her living room on the sofa, with pillows, blankets, water, and the remote control to her TV.
When he appeared reasonably comfortable and was gazing up at her with unhappy eyes, Scully asked her partner, "will you do me a favor, Mulder?"
He nodded.
"As your doctor, I have to know what's going on with you. You're recovering from a concussion, so you're going to sleep a lot. I'll be checking on you every couple of hours. You have to tell me if your vision gets worse, if there is blood in your urine or stool, if you experience any sharp or sudden pains, especially in your lower back. I don't want you dying of renal failure or an aneurysm on my couch, all right?" She looked serious.
Mulder swallowed, and said "all right."
"Good. I'll be in the other room. Call me if you need anything." She turned away.
"Uh, Scully?"
She turned back. "Yes?"
Silence.
"Yes, Mulder." Answering what he hadn't said yet.
"Thanks, Scully."
She nodded and left the room.
Mulder turned on the TV, skipping over soap operas looking for news or a monster flick.
"Why did you do that?"
"Why did I do what, sir?"
Cigarette smoke. "Sexually assault him."
"You wanted me to remove him from duty for a minimum of week, sir. That's what I did."
The man exuded blue smoke. "That was an important task required of you."
"Which he fulfilled." The third man in the room said. "Why should it matter? At some time in the future we will use this humiliation to our advantage. It could be icing on the cake."
"Icing." More blue smoke. "Icing."
"Go." The third man said.
The first man left, then the one who defended him.
"Well, he certainly won't be going to Oklahoma City", offered the remaining observer in the room.
Silence.
The cigarette-smoking man gestured sharply to his associate. "It must be by the FBI, not us. Take care of it."
The black man nodded and left the room.
Evening. Mulder was restless. Scully had brought reams of papers from the office, but his vision was too blurry to even try to read for very long. He had tried to review the brief VCS had sent him but couldn't.
They had been scheduled to fly out to Oklahoma City to assist-- for Mulder to do the profile -- on a serial killer case. It wasn't an X-file, Violent Crimes just requested him. Not uncommon. He hadn't done a VC related trip for a while. They would send someone else to do the profile, now, since Mulder wasn't fit to travel.
He'd been at Scully's for one afternoon and would be going stir crazy already if he didn't still feel so awful. He wanted to stretch and yawn, but was afraid it would hurt too much. He had to make some kind of effort, though, to appear normal, or Scully wouldn't let him out of her sight. Every 2 hours, she came in and checked on him. Waking him if he was asleep. Now she was in the living room with him, curled up in a chair, reading some book.
He fidgeted and caught Scully's eye. "Bored out of your mind, Mulder?" She rose and checked his forehead. "You're a little warm."
"Don't you have any X-rated movies I could watch?" He whined.
"No."
"Swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated?" He asked, summoning his leer, "You know, I only get it for the articles." She looked at him with that little twitch of a smile of hers.
"No. Why don't I read something to you? Something short."
She pulled a book from somewhere behind Mulder and shoved the coffee table away to sit cross-legged on the carpet, where he could see her. She opened the thin volume, and explained that after a trip to Japan, her father had sent this book to her. Scully proceeded to read the story of the Goblin Spider, then the story of the Old Woman and her Dumpling. He was astonished. Dana Scully was capable of reading fairy tales. No one would ever believe him, that his partner would willingly sit on the floor to read out loud to him, because he was sick and bored, so he just smiled and closed his eyes.
She finished the second tale silently after Mulder fell asleep, and watched him for a little while, before leaving the room.
He was too pale.
Sometime around midnight, Mulder woke trying not to scream, dreaming of being pinned to the floor with his sweats down around his ankles, crying into his gag (for Scully, for anyone) as his assailant lifted his hips and thrust inside him, impaling him, ripping him.
Then he was awake, shaking, huddled in a ball under his blanket. The dream -- no, the memory -- was so close, so vivid. He could remember his attacker's hot breath on the back of his head.
He sat up a little, one hand massaging his neck.
"Good morning, Mulder." Scully picked up the VCS brief. "We won't be needing this, Piccone left this morning."
"Oh." Mulder looked better and worse at the same time.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Did you have a special interest in this case?"
"No, no...just thinking."
"Okay. I'm going to the office to pick up some files." She gestured with the VCS document, "and drop off this. I'll be back in a couple hours. Do you want anything?" She pointed at the coffee table, where she'd placed a tray. "Breakfast, if you're up to it."
He shook his head.
"See you in a bit."
He listened to her shut the door and lock it.
Couldn't sleep without her there, someone might come in. Didn't want to turn on the TV or radio, it would mask the sounds of someone breaking into Scully's apartment. He lay on the sofa and waited, trying not to jump at every little creak. Couldn't throw himself into his work, the letters on the page wouldn't form words for him, just blurs.
It wasn't until he felt Scully's hand on his forehead that Mulder realized he had fallen back asleep after all. "Shh...shh...it's okay, Mulder, it's okay. No one's going to hurt you here. I'm right here." There were tears on his face.
Scully was kneeling next to the sofa. "Are you awake, now?"
He took a ragged breath.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Her partner shook his head, unable to look her in the eye.
"Mulder, Hair and Fiber found some clues your assailants left behind. It could be a good lead. They're working on it now."
"There was only one."
She looked at him, weighing him with her grave gaze. What else did he remember?
"How's your vision? Clearing up some?"
"Yeah, yeah, fine." Lying. He knew it, so did she. He needed to know what had happened, before they could even begin to make sense of it.
She nodded. "I brought you a present. On the coffee table."
Mulder looked. Now there was the mark of a true friend. He smiled for a moment, and Scully stood, mission accomplished, and headed out of the room.
He picked up the Swimsuit Edition and began leafing through it.
Scully had taken the time off, "however long is needed, sir", but had assured Skinner that Mulder's physical recuperation would not be too long. A week or less. There were no pressing X-Files waiting for them. His emotional recuperation could take significantly longer, and she had no guesses for that timetable.
She just worried. He was better. Still spending most of his time huddled on the sofa. Able to read for a half-hour before getting a headache. She rented monster flicks for him.
They talked, but not about it, the it that was lurking behind his eyes. She thought he might have called her name last night in his sleep but wasn't sure. Tonight she'd sleep with her door open, just in case. The apartment sweep had found some hairs that weren't Mulder's, weren't hers. Near the sofa. The primary attack had taken place there. Mulder had been bound, gagged, beaten severely before he was raped. The rapist had used a condom, common brand.
There had been a small quantity of sperm recovered from Mulder at the hospital, and analyses were being run. All she could do was wait.
Cigarette smoke.
"I planted the information, sir."
An economical gesture. "Good." Cigarette smoke. Exhale. "That was...unnecessary."
"I agree, sir."
He grunted.
She was, of all things, taking his temperature. The puppy look was definitely not working. He wondered how many times she simply let him get his way, rather than argue. Letting him think the puppy dog look was working. Hm.
"Mulder, I think tomorrow I'll take you to your place. If that doesn't make you uncomfortable."
"No, that's fine." He said without thinking. But it wasn't fine. He was scared to be by himself. Not knowing what might happen.
She looked at him closely, measuring him somehow, and he knew she knew what he wouldn't talk about. Of course she knew. Of course there had been immediate physical evidence. He was an idiot to think of hiding it from her, but he couldn't. Talk. About it.
Scully tipped his chin up and for an insane moment he thought she was going to kiss him.
Mulder shivered as she tilted her head, moving so that she blocked the light into one of his eyes, then the other. Checking his pupil dilation.
She seemed satisfied by what she saw: "Tomorrow, Mulder."
It was early in the morning and he woke to the sight of a man-- taller than himself -- looming over him on the sofa. He jerked but didn't make it out of range. His opponent was very precise, striking him on the temple, bright fire exploding behind his eyes. He faded into that fire for a moment, and when he was aware of himself again, his arms were bound behind his back. Brown eyes surveyed him as a gloved hand shoved a dish towel into his mouth.
Mulder moved, bringing up a knee, but his assailant pushed him back face down into the floor, then pulled his leg down to tie his ankles together.
Several punches to his kidneys brought tears to Mulder's eyes. He struggled as he was rolled over, trying to curl up to bring his feet into play, to strike at his tormenter. A sharp blow against his chest took his breath away.
The man in the ski mask was thorough.
It hurt.
He kept tugging at his bonds, trying desperately to block the man's assaults, protect his ribs, his kidneys. He kept trying to bring his legs up for leverage. He had to get away. There was a muffled sound growing in the back of his throat, a scream building with the pain, with every blow he couldn't block, tortured body straining. Trying to wiggle away, trying anything, needing to move, squirm somehow out of range.
The tears were flowing down his face now. He could feel the floor on his bare cheek, bare stomach where his sweatshirt had been shoved up by his own frantic movements.
Blows on his flesh, but the man didn't draw blood.
He tried to turn away, to avoid, looking for Scully, and fell into darkness.
He didn't know how much time had passed when he opened his eyes. Only to meet his tormentor's. There was the taste of bile in his throat. The man had been slapping his face. Then returned to the methodical punishment of his body.
He was very cold.
Surely, he was going to die here, beaten to death by this animal. The world was nothing but pain, nothing but two fists covered in leather.
Everything else was grey.
Again and again, he was pulled, clawing, from the darkness, by leather hands. He wailed, muffled, protesting the pain, crying his partner's name into the gag.
Someone was pulling him up, dragging him back out of the darkness he'd snuggled under like a blanket. Why was he cold? Air on his flesh, and he remembered where he was, and realized his lower body was bare. A surge of adrenaline, and he leapt nowhere.
He screamed for her as he was entered.
It was a little past 2 a.m. "Scully!" Then something garbled.
She was by the couch, gun drawn, before realizing she was even awake. Realizing that he wasn't. Frantically kicking at the blanket, legs tangled, clawing at something in front of him only in his dreams. He was fighting, pushing to get away.
She put the gun away, and spoke in normal tones, "Mulder, I'm right here, you're dreaming. You're safe." Then moved closer to him, repeating her assurances until she touched him, lightly, on the shoulder. He jerked forward into her arms, "Scully!", then whispering, burrowing into her, "Scully, you weren't there, I tried so hard to reach you but you weren't there." Desperate arms surrounded her waist. She winced, hugging him back.
"You did reach me, Mulder, I'm right here, I came when you called. I'm right here."
But she had come too late, and the knowledge hurt.
She called him from the office later that morning, the phone in his coat surprising him, ringing from where it had been draped over the sofa when he'd first arrived. He'd almost forgotten it was there.
"Mulder, I have good news." He sat up.
"You're bringing me another Sports Illustrated?"
He felt good enough to joke. She smiled. "No, we have a lead on the man who attacked you." She said it easily, as if it were in the past and not coloring his every look around her apartment. His temporary prison. After last night, they had silently, mutually postponed the return to his apartment. "We have a match on the sperm analysis, and a list of aliases. Mulder, a man using one of those aliases stayed in a motel not far from your apartment the night before you were assaulted. Donovan Mitchell. We're checking with other hotels now."
He drew a breath and shivered. Nodding, "this was a real hit, then."
"I think so. But the purpose wasn't to kill you."
"It was just to get me out of the way. But of what?"
"We aren't working on any X-Files." She breathed. "Mulder, I think someone didn't want you going to Oklahoma City."
"But Piccone went."
"Yes. That means they wanted to keep--"
"Me, specifically."
"You, specifically, out of that investigation. They're worried about what you might find out there, Mulder. I'll be there in 30 minutes."
Exhale.
"Far too dangerous. He could learn too much at this juncture."
"A day or two more, sir, to cover our tracks, is all we need. If he comes out next week, there will be only hints."
Blue smoke. "Hints. Icing. Fine."
She walked in, locked the door behind her, kept her hand on her gun until she saw that the only people in her apartment were herself and her partner. Mulder was waiting for her, dressed, armed.
"Did you return that file to VCS?"
"Yes. We'll just have to get it again. I requested it before I left."
Her phone buzzed. "Scully."
"Yes, sir....how, sir?"
She gestured to Mulder and held the phone so they could both hear. Skinner described the attempted apprehension and subsequent death of one Donovan Mitchell, prime suspect in the forced entry and assault against FBI Special Agent F. Mulder.
When the recitation was finished. "I have to see him. I have to know it's him."
"You told us he was in a ski mask, how would you be able to tell, Mulder?" She asked.
"Agent Mulder?" Skinner, on the phone, interrupting them. "Come down."
They shared a look. "I'll know."
But looking down at the corpse, later, he didn't know. Scully had been right. But he had to try.
Much later. In their office. Behind closed doors.
Defensively, against accusations not made, except by herself. "Mulder, I couldn't overtly participate in this investigation. If I'd gone walking around asking for sperm analysis, everybody would have known it was about you. As it stands, you were attacked. Perhaps a burglar. That's all anyone here knows. That's all they're going to know. But I know, and I want to help." She'd failed him but wouldn't again.
Silence knifed her.
"Please let me help, Mulder."
He moved and she thought he might stand, might run away from the pain, from the fear, from her, and something inside tore at the thought. He didn't deserve this. They didn't deserve this.
But instead of running, his shoulders started shaking and he leaned toward her, sliding into her arms like he belonged there. Crying quietly. Telling in slow bursts.
Scully held her partner.
Finally.
Something in the VCS file caught his eye.
Without looking up. Smiling very softly. "Hey, Scully, what's the number for the Oklahoma City office?" Trying to sound casual.
She rattled off a number and turned back to her computer, eyes dancing.
Mulder picked up the phone and dialed.
Title: And Let There Be No Purpose
Fandom: X-Files
Author's Notes: Not even MSR. Not even UST. Not even UFO's. Tsk. Chris Carter owns them, I just like to play with them. I claim the Twinkie defense, although no evidence of Twinkies were found at the scene. I submit they were psychic Twinkies, exerting their influence from a distance.
No spoilers.
I'd call it an R rating for adult content, not graphic, hurt/comfort Mulder/Scully.
Reprinted by express permission.
by Sidra Vitale
Mulder vomited. Spit and blood. Last night's dinner was long gone. He leaned his forehead into the realm of cool air around porcelain and flushed for the nth time.
His face felt hot, his skin prickly.
Mulder lost consciousness.
He came back sometime later, lying on the linoleum of the bathroom.
Mulder sat up, grabbing at the counter and crashing sloppily to his knees. Began inching his way out of the bathroom.
He stopped by his coat, on the floor in front of the sofa. Wrestling the phone from his coat pocket, Mulder hesitated only slightly before hitting Scully's speed dial number.
"Scully."
He gathered his breath and croaked, "help."
"Mulder? Where are you?"
Her first name was easier, two soft exhalations of breath. "Da...na...please."
"Are you at home, Mulder? Is someone with you? I'll be right there. Just hold on."
Fox Mulder lay on the floor by his sofa, cold, bleeding, and drifted into nothingness.
He woke when gentle fingers touched his neck, feeling for a pulse.
Scully put her phone back into her coat pocket. She'd expected paramedics to beat her there. Called 911 twice. Idiots. She pulled the blanket from Mulder's sofa and draped it over him. Mulder was lying on his left side on the floor. His eyes were open, his breathing was shallow and somewhat labored. He was bleeding from facial lacerations and had the pale look of someone with internal injuries.
"Mulder, can you hear me?" Scully put her hand on his shoulder. "Paramedics will be here soon. Can you tell me what happened?"
His door had been forced open and Scully had entered with her gun drawn. There was no one in the apartment except her partner.
"Where...." he paused for a breath. "Scu..."
"I'm here, Mulder." Her partner was blinking and Scully could see one pupil was dilated more than the other. She frowned.
"Mulder, I want to examine you, okay?"
He nodded slightly, and Scully began probing him carefully,pulling the blanket aside. His normally pale skin was covered in bruises and welts. He gasped when she touched his ribs. None seemed broken, but she thought two might be almost pulled off his sternum. Scully ran her hand down her partner's back and pulled his sweatshirt up, touching his lower back. He jerked, moaning. Kidneys.
Where were those damn paramedics?
She touched Mulder's head, frowning as her fingertips came away bloody.
One hand was always on his shoulder. "Mulder? Don't go to sleep, Mulder. Can you hear me?"
Mulder blinked and seemed to see her for the first time. "Sssss........Scully."
She tucked the blanket around him as best she could and draped Mulder's coat over him. Then added hers.
Gently, "Mulder." She had to keep him awake. "Mulder, did you see who did this to you? Did you see?"
Mulder tried to focus on Scully's face, but couldn't. There were starbursts and black patches floating between him and her face. It hurt too much to try and brush them away.
"I..." He coughed. "No faces." Mulder began coughing in earnest, struggling to breathe against the convulsive hack. Scully held him has his body spasmed. "Ski mask." He finally spit out.
"Mulder, they were wearing ski masks?"
He nodded.
The doorway -- Scully had left the door open behind her when she came in -- finally filled with paramedics in blue, wheeling a gurney. One was carrying a kit. Scully moved aside for them, reporting what she knew of her partner's condition in her dryest of voices.
She snagged her coat from the floor where the first paramedic shoved it, and continued speaking. "He was unconscious when I came in. About 10 minutes ago."
By this time Mulder was unconscious again.
Scully called Assistant Director Skinner from the hospital after Mulder had been admitted.
"Sir, it's Scully. I'm here at the hospital. Mulder was attacked in his apartment."
She heard Skinner's chair squeak. "What is his condition?"
"I'll know more in a few hours. I don't know what happened, sir, but I think it was professional. Whoever did this knew how."
"Was it a hit? Did you interrupt it?"
"No, sir. He called me afterwards."
"Are there any suspects?"
"Not at this time, sir. I'd like Hair and Fiber at his apartment as soon as possible."
"I'll take care of it. And Scully, I'm sending a guard."
Relief. "Yes, sir, thank you, sir."
"Call me as soon as you hear anything, Agent Scully."
"Yes, sir."
Scully was permitted in his room a few hours later and she drew a chair over as close to the head of the bed as she could get. The guard was in place, and Mulder was officially "out of the woods." She started to sit as she flipped through his chart, then stopped, straightened, and walked out of the room.
Scully went down the hall into the ladies' room with a calm and steady pace. Vomited. Washed her hands and face and rinsed her mouth out. Ate a Tic-Tac. She headed back to Mulder's room to see Skinner standing there waiting for her. They moved away from the guard.
"How is he, Agent Scully?"
"Concussion. Bruised ribs, bruised kidneys. No surgery was necessary. Maximum pain, no broken bones. That's what made me think it was professional, but I'm not sure now, sir."
"Why?"
She stared fixedly at her boss's chin and spoke precisely, in low tones. "Agent Mulder was sexually assaulted, sir." She swallowed. "Rape conflicts with my earlier analysis of a professional attack."
They made eye contact. Skinner had paled. "Let's find me a chair."
Mulder regained consciousness slowly, feeling his way through white soundlessness into the antiseptic room. Scully was waiting for him. He looked at the red-haired woman, almost asleep in her chair. Then took a breath and whispered "hey," at his partner.
"Mulder." Scully stood and took the hand he reached out to her. She felt his forehead and looked at her watch. 5 a.m. "How do you feel?"
"Like a disco dance floor." He croaked.
She gave him one of her rare unselfconscious smiles, and perched lightly on his bed. She kept his hand in hers, resting gently at his side. He seemed to be fading already, limbs loosening into sleep. Scully stroked her partner's hand lightly with her thumb and watched him closely as he fell asleep.
"Sleep well, Mulder. I'm right here."
He squeezed her hand gently, making a small sound.
30 hours later, Mulder sat in Scully's car as she ducked in the corner market to pick up provisions.
"You were not released into your own recognizance, but into my care, Mulder." She had reminded him.
He was startled somehow by how gentle Scully was, handing him into her car, buckling him in herself. "I know you can't stand hospitals, Mulder, but I would have been happier if you'd agreed to stay a couple more days." I'm worried about you, is what she didn't say, but he heard it in her voice. Beyond the crisp doctor's tone. He leaned against the headrest and shut eyes, swallowing against the memory of pain.
He had given a deposition, describing what he remembered of his attacker. There were gaps in his memory and
they offended him. He couldn't play all of it back.
There was little evidence left behind by the man who broke into Mulder's aparment in the wee-est hours of the morning -- when even Mulder was asleep -- tied him up with his own dirty laundry and beat him until he cried, and well past. He had lost consciousness several times and had to be told he had called Scully at 8 in the morning. There was too much time he couldn't account for.
Scully installed Mulder in her living room on the sofa, with pillows, blankets, water, and the remote control to her TV.
When he appeared reasonably comfortable and was gazing up at her with unhappy eyes, Scully asked her partner, "will you do me a favor, Mulder?"
He nodded.
"As your doctor, I have to know what's going on with you. You're recovering from a concussion, so you're going to sleep a lot. I'll be checking on you every couple of hours. You have to tell me if your vision gets worse, if there is blood in your urine or stool, if you experience any sharp or sudden pains, especially in your lower back. I don't want you dying of renal failure or an aneurysm on my couch, all right?" She looked serious.
Mulder swallowed, and said "all right."
"Good. I'll be in the other room. Call me if you need anything." She turned away.
"Uh, Scully?"
She turned back. "Yes?"
Silence.
"Yes, Mulder." Answering what he hadn't said yet.
"Thanks, Scully."
She nodded and left the room.
Mulder turned on the TV, skipping over soap operas looking for news or a monster flick.
"Why did you do that?"
"Why did I do what, sir?"
Cigarette smoke. "Sexually assault him."
"You wanted me to remove him from duty for a minimum of week, sir. That's what I did."
The man exuded blue smoke. "That was an important task required of you."
"Which he fulfilled." The third man in the room said. "Why should it matter? At some time in the future we will use this humiliation to our advantage. It could be icing on the cake."
"Icing." More blue smoke. "Icing."
"Go." The third man said.
The first man left, then the one who defended him.
"Well, he certainly won't be going to Oklahoma City", offered the remaining observer in the room.
Silence.
The cigarette-smoking man gestured sharply to his associate. "It must be by the FBI, not us. Take care of it."
The black man nodded and left the room.
Evening. Mulder was restless. Scully had brought reams of papers from the office, but his vision was too blurry to even try to read for very long. He had tried to review the brief VCS had sent him but couldn't.
They had been scheduled to fly out to Oklahoma City to assist-- for Mulder to do the profile -- on a serial killer case. It wasn't an X-file, Violent Crimes just requested him. Not uncommon. He hadn't done a VC related trip for a while. They would send someone else to do the profile, now, since Mulder wasn't fit to travel.
He'd been at Scully's for one afternoon and would be going stir crazy already if he didn't still feel so awful. He wanted to stretch and yawn, but was afraid it would hurt too much. He had to make some kind of effort, though, to appear normal, or Scully wouldn't let him out of her sight. Every 2 hours, she came in and checked on him. Waking him if he was asleep. Now she was in the living room with him, curled up in a chair, reading some book.
He fidgeted and caught Scully's eye. "Bored out of your mind, Mulder?" She rose and checked his forehead. "You're a little warm."
"Don't you have any X-rated movies I could watch?" He whined.
"No."
"Swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated?" He asked, summoning his leer, "You know, I only get it for the articles." She looked at him with that little twitch of a smile of hers.
"No. Why don't I read something to you? Something short."
She pulled a book from somewhere behind Mulder and shoved the coffee table away to sit cross-legged on the carpet, where he could see her. She opened the thin volume, and explained that after a trip to Japan, her father had sent this book to her. Scully proceeded to read the story of the Goblin Spider, then the story of the Old Woman and her Dumpling. He was astonished. Dana Scully was capable of reading fairy tales. No one would ever believe him, that his partner would willingly sit on the floor to read out loud to him, because he was sick and bored, so he just smiled and closed his eyes.
She finished the second tale silently after Mulder fell asleep, and watched him for a little while, before leaving the room.
He was too pale.
Sometime around midnight, Mulder woke trying not to scream, dreaming of being pinned to the floor with his sweats down around his ankles, crying into his gag (for Scully, for anyone) as his assailant lifted his hips and thrust inside him, impaling him, ripping him.
Then he was awake, shaking, huddled in a ball under his blanket. The dream -- no, the memory -- was so close, so vivid. He could remember his attacker's hot breath on the back of his head.
He sat up a little, one hand massaging his neck.
"Good morning, Mulder." Scully picked up the VCS brief. "We won't be needing this, Piccone left this morning."
"Oh." Mulder looked better and worse at the same time.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Did you have a special interest in this case?"
"No, no...just thinking."
"Okay. I'm going to the office to pick up some files." She gestured with the VCS document, "and drop off this. I'll be back in a couple hours. Do you want anything?" She pointed at the coffee table, where she'd placed a tray. "Breakfast, if you're up to it."
He shook his head.
"See you in a bit."
He listened to her shut the door and lock it.
Couldn't sleep without her there, someone might come in. Didn't want to turn on the TV or radio, it would mask the sounds of someone breaking into Scully's apartment. He lay on the sofa and waited, trying not to jump at every little creak. Couldn't throw himself into his work, the letters on the page wouldn't form words for him, just blurs.
It wasn't until he felt Scully's hand on his forehead that Mulder realized he had fallen back asleep after all. "Shh...shh...it's okay, Mulder, it's okay. No one's going to hurt you here. I'm right here." There were tears on his face.
Scully was kneeling next to the sofa. "Are you awake, now?"
He took a ragged breath.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Her partner shook his head, unable to look her in the eye.
"Mulder, Hair and Fiber found some clues your assailants left behind. It could be a good lead. They're working on it now."
"There was only one."
She looked at him, weighing him with her grave gaze. What else did he remember?
"How's your vision? Clearing up some?"
"Yeah, yeah, fine." Lying. He knew it, so did she. He needed to know what had happened, before they could even begin to make sense of it.
She nodded. "I brought you a present. On the coffee table."
Mulder looked. Now there was the mark of a true friend. He smiled for a moment, and Scully stood, mission accomplished, and headed out of the room.
He picked up the Swimsuit Edition and began leafing through it.
Scully had taken the time off, "however long is needed, sir", but had assured Skinner that Mulder's physical recuperation would not be too long. A week or less. There were no pressing X-Files waiting for them. His emotional recuperation could take significantly longer, and she had no guesses for that timetable.
She just worried. He was better. Still spending most of his time huddled on the sofa. Able to read for a half-hour before getting a headache. She rented monster flicks for him.
They talked, but not about it, the it that was lurking behind his eyes. She thought he might have called her name last night in his sleep but wasn't sure. Tonight she'd sleep with her door open, just in case. The apartment sweep had found some hairs that weren't Mulder's, weren't hers. Near the sofa. The primary attack had taken place there. Mulder had been bound, gagged, beaten severely before he was raped. The rapist had used a condom, common brand.
There had been a small quantity of sperm recovered from Mulder at the hospital, and analyses were being run. All she could do was wait.
Cigarette smoke.
"I planted the information, sir."
An economical gesture. "Good." Cigarette smoke. Exhale. "That was...unnecessary."
"I agree, sir."
He grunted.
She was, of all things, taking his temperature. The puppy look was definitely not working. He wondered how many times she simply let him get his way, rather than argue. Letting him think the puppy dog look was working. Hm.
"Mulder, I think tomorrow I'll take you to your place. If that doesn't make you uncomfortable."
"No, that's fine." He said without thinking. But it wasn't fine. He was scared to be by himself. Not knowing what might happen.
She looked at him closely, measuring him somehow, and he knew she knew what he wouldn't talk about. Of course she knew. Of course there had been immediate physical evidence. He was an idiot to think of hiding it from her, but he couldn't. Talk. About it.
Scully tipped his chin up and for an insane moment he thought she was going to kiss him.
Mulder shivered as she tilted her head, moving so that she blocked the light into one of his eyes, then the other. Checking his pupil dilation.
She seemed satisfied by what she saw: "Tomorrow, Mulder."
It was early in the morning and he woke to the sight of a man-- taller than himself -- looming over him on the sofa. He jerked but didn't make it out of range. His opponent was very precise, striking him on the temple, bright fire exploding behind his eyes. He faded into that fire for a moment, and when he was aware of himself again, his arms were bound behind his back. Brown eyes surveyed him as a gloved hand shoved a dish towel into his mouth.
Mulder moved, bringing up a knee, but his assailant pushed him back face down into the floor, then pulled his leg down to tie his ankles together.
Several punches to his kidneys brought tears to Mulder's eyes. He struggled as he was rolled over, trying to curl up to bring his feet into play, to strike at his tormenter. A sharp blow against his chest took his breath away.
The man in the ski mask was thorough.
It hurt.
He kept tugging at his bonds, trying desperately to block the man's assaults, protect his ribs, his kidneys. He kept trying to bring his legs up for leverage. He had to get away. There was a muffled sound growing in the back of his throat, a scream building with the pain, with every blow he couldn't block, tortured body straining. Trying to wiggle away, trying anything, needing to move, squirm somehow out of range.
The tears were flowing down his face now. He could feel the floor on his bare cheek, bare stomach where his sweatshirt had been shoved up by his own frantic movements.
Blows on his flesh, but the man didn't draw blood.
He tried to turn away, to avoid, looking for Scully, and fell into darkness.
He didn't know how much time had passed when he opened his eyes. Only to meet his tormentor's. There was the taste of bile in his throat. The man had been slapping his face. Then returned to the methodical punishment of his body.
He was very cold.
Surely, he was going to die here, beaten to death by this animal. The world was nothing but pain, nothing but two fists covered in leather.
Everything else was grey.
Again and again, he was pulled, clawing, from the darkness, by leather hands. He wailed, muffled, protesting the pain, crying his partner's name into the gag.
Someone was pulling him up, dragging him back out of the darkness he'd snuggled under like a blanket. Why was he cold? Air on his flesh, and he remembered where he was, and realized his lower body was bare. A surge of adrenaline, and he leapt nowhere.
He screamed for her as he was entered.
It was a little past 2 a.m. "Scully!" Then something garbled.
She was by the couch, gun drawn, before realizing she was even awake. Realizing that he wasn't. Frantically kicking at the blanket, legs tangled, clawing at something in front of him only in his dreams. He was fighting, pushing to get away.
She put the gun away, and spoke in normal tones, "Mulder, I'm right here, you're dreaming. You're safe." Then moved closer to him, repeating her assurances until she touched him, lightly, on the shoulder. He jerked forward into her arms, "Scully!", then whispering, burrowing into her, "Scully, you weren't there, I tried so hard to reach you but you weren't there." Desperate arms surrounded her waist. She winced, hugging him back.
"You did reach me, Mulder, I'm right here, I came when you called. I'm right here."
But she had come too late, and the knowledge hurt.
She called him from the office later that morning, the phone in his coat surprising him, ringing from where it had been draped over the sofa when he'd first arrived. He'd almost forgotten it was there.
"Mulder, I have good news." He sat up.
"You're bringing me another Sports Illustrated?"
He felt good enough to joke. She smiled. "No, we have a lead on the man who attacked you." She said it easily, as if it were in the past and not coloring his every look around her apartment. His temporary prison. After last night, they had silently, mutually postponed the return to his apartment. "We have a match on the sperm analysis, and a list of aliases. Mulder, a man using one of those aliases stayed in a motel not far from your apartment the night before you were assaulted. Donovan Mitchell. We're checking with other hotels now."
He drew a breath and shivered. Nodding, "this was a real hit, then."
"I think so. But the purpose wasn't to kill you."
"It was just to get me out of the way. But of what?"
"We aren't working on any X-Files." She breathed. "Mulder, I think someone didn't want you going to Oklahoma City."
"But Piccone went."
"Yes. That means they wanted to keep--"
"Me, specifically."
"You, specifically, out of that investigation. They're worried about what you might find out there, Mulder. I'll be there in 30 minutes."
Exhale.
"Far too dangerous. He could learn too much at this juncture."
"A day or two more, sir, to cover our tracks, is all we need. If he comes out next week, there will be only hints."
Blue smoke. "Hints. Icing. Fine."
She walked in, locked the door behind her, kept her hand on her gun until she saw that the only people in her apartment were herself and her partner. Mulder was waiting for her, dressed, armed.
"Did you return that file to VCS?"
"Yes. We'll just have to get it again. I requested it before I left."
Her phone buzzed. "Scully."
"Yes, sir....how, sir?"
She gestured to Mulder and held the phone so they could both hear. Skinner described the attempted apprehension and subsequent death of one Donovan Mitchell, prime suspect in the forced entry and assault against FBI Special Agent F. Mulder.
When the recitation was finished. "I have to see him. I have to know it's him."
"You told us he was in a ski mask, how would you be able to tell, Mulder?" She asked.
"Agent Mulder?" Skinner, on the phone, interrupting them. "Come down."
They shared a look. "I'll know."
But looking down at the corpse, later, he didn't know. Scully had been right. But he had to try.
Much later. In their office. Behind closed doors.
Defensively, against accusations not made, except by herself. "Mulder, I couldn't overtly participate in this investigation. If I'd gone walking around asking for sperm analysis, everybody would have known it was about you. As it stands, you were attacked. Perhaps a burglar. That's all anyone here knows. That's all they're going to know. But I know, and I want to help." She'd failed him but wouldn't again.
Silence knifed her.
"Please let me help, Mulder."
He moved and she thought he might stand, might run away from the pain, from the fear, from her, and something inside tore at the thought. He didn't deserve this. They didn't deserve this.
But instead of running, his shoulders started shaking and he leaned toward her, sliding into her arms like he belonged there. Crying quietly. Telling in slow bursts.
Scully held her partner.
Finally.
Something in the VCS file caught his eye.
Without looking up. Smiling very softly. "Hey, Scully, what's the number for the Oklahoma City office?" Trying to sound casual.
She rattled off a number and turned back to her computer, eyes dancing.
Mulder picked up the phone and dialed.