Mulder rolled over, back in the present, still sprawled on his 
couch still staring at the scars still feeling awful. Used. 
Lousy. Dirty, down to his soul.

Stand up. Walk. Start the shower, stare at the water as if it's 
going to bite.

He turned away from the shower, and ended up staring at his 
reflection in the mirror. He hadn't shaved today. Saturday. He 
didn't need to do anything today, technically, but it wasn't 
normal that he forgot. It wasn't normal for him to stay at home 
on the weekends, anyway. He lived in that office. But he'd been 
hiding at home more often, recently, since...

Follow the memories back, Spooky. There's something there you 
need to see. Something you need to know. Hell, you can't forgive 
yourself unless you understand all your crimes, right?

It had all started when he entered the room. It hadn't felt like 
a trap, and he was used to trusting his instincts. The door had 
swung open easily enough, and the room had been empty except for 
the woman that he'd been looking for. (Quick, his eyes focused: 
Dresser on his left, up against the wall, doorway on the right 
leading to the bathroom, and a table wedged into the near right 
corner, bed shoved into the far left, dirty carpet, light from 
the one lamp far back to his right; no room to hide anyone else; 
the bathroom, maybe?)

"Annette Gardener?" He asked, knowing he was right when she 
looked up and smiled. It was the same smile she'd been wearing in 
the only photograph they had of her; the photograph that he'd 
memorized before coming here.

His gun was covering her before he thought about it; she looked 
hurt as she stared at the weapon. "Please," she said, and her 
voice sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. "I asked you 
hear to talk, not trade bullets." She stood, sensuous and 
graceful, and held out her empty hands. There was certainly no 
place to hide a gun in the dress she was wearing. "Come... can't 
we be civilized?"

"There's nothing civilized in what you did to those kids," he 
replied. Visions of bodies covered in red floated behind his 
eyes. He blinked them away.

Her perfectly swept eyebrows raised in feigned surprise. "You 
can't be expecting me to admit to anything. You don't have 
anything that implicates me. And..." she smiled. "You won't get 
any information if you keep acting like this."

Hesitantly, he put the gun down. Still in reach if he needed it, 
but he put it down. And she smiled. "It's getting warm in here, 
isn't it? Or is that just me?" she suggested.

He glared at her. She was playing games with him. "You said we 
were going to talk. So let's talk. Why did you do it?"

Her eyes widened, exotic, beautiful, full of starlight in the 
dark room. "Oh, come on. I don't do anything unless I'm asked."

"All right, then. How'd you get them to *ask* you to carve them 
up?"

She sighed, a sound full of longing and regret, and stepped 
closer to lean on a chair near him. "It's amazing how little 
people realize their own desires." She looked back at him, 
through black black eyelashes framing those deep dark eyes. "We 
all want to die, for example... but we all want to be in control 
of our own deaths."

He drew in a breath to retort, but he tasted something in the air 
- her perfume? It filled his head, he realized it *had been* 
filling his head, and his words fell apart like paper 
butterflies, scattered on the wind as she stepped closer and 
smiled up at him, saying, "And you want to kiss me... or kill 
me... which will you do, Fox? Which will you do?"

(And in the real world, he'd made it into the shower, remembering 
the touch of her fingers on his face, his neck, and the feel of 
her lips on his as she skillfully pulled off his jacket and threw 
it on the table, pulling him forward he'd lost the gun in the 
confusion but it didn't matter as long as he could kiss her and 
taste her spices her exotic her heat her passion her...)

His shirt came off as she pushed him to the bed, her fingers 
tracing patterns up and down his chest, and he couldn't figure 
out the clasps on the back of her dress but it didn't matter, she 
pushed his hands back, and he laughed into her hair as her hands 
moved back to his sides, her fingernails cold and her fingers 
warm, the heat teasing him and every motion making him only want 
her more...

And *that* was when somehow, she'd managed to get one of his 
hands tied down.

He blinked in surprise, the muzzy feeling of lust blowing away 
with the feeling of rope hauling on his wrist. "What the hell?" 
he snapped, trying to get his other hand around, but she'd 
already looped the rope around his other wrist, and managed to 
pull hard enough to immobilize that limb, too.

Too late, he realized that he was trapped. She didn't even bother 
with his pants, just tied his legs down and perched on the edge 
of the bed by his hip.

That was when he remembered the gun.

He stared at her, trying not to move, realizing that he'd made 
that One Big Mistake, that she could kill him any time she 
wanted. That she was insane; there was nothing he could do to get 
out of this.

She looked into his eyes, searching for something, and finally 
pulled back, unsatisfied. "No, no," she murmured, frowning. "Not 
this."

He dared to breathe. "Not what?"

The smile was back, and she reached down, giving him another view 
down the length of her dress. But it didn't affect him, this 
time; he was going to die and one of his last views was going to 
be the breasts of a beautiful woman framed in red, and he didn't 
care.

Annette pulled back, and held up an empty bottle. What it had 
once held was immaterial; it wasn't as dirty as the rest of the 
room. That meant she'd brought it in from somewhere, and it was 
empty, which meant--

Turning around, she hit it on the foot of the bed--it cracked, 
and she hit it again, cracking it in two. The sounds of cracking 
glass assailed his ears until she held up her prize: a single 
shard of glass, very, very sharp.

Without expression, she reached over and cut a line into his 
chest.

Mulder gritted his teeth, didn't cry out. She smirked at that, 
and she moved quickly, cutting spider-webs of red all over his 
chest, his stomach, his sides, his arms. It hurt--oh, damn, it 
hurt!--but he kept quiet, a small hope stirring, that maybe 
Scully would make it in time, that she'd get there, and she 
wouldn't be fooled like he was...

"How long did you make your partner wait?" Gardener asked, 
shattering that faint hope. "Ten minutes? Fifteen? No... she's 
the impatient type... I wouldn't say more than ten."

He tugged at the ropes binding him as she moved her hand down, 
rubbing the blood she'd drawn into his skin. Then, with sudden 
vicious intensity, she drove the shard of glass into his chest, 
digging into his ribs.

He screamed, unable to stop himself. She laughed. "That's it, 
Fox. It's all right. Let her know you're in here." She pulled on 
the shard, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out 
again. Pulling her hand back, Gardener held the bloody glass up, 
then waved it under his nose. "This is what your partner is 
smelling, right now... your blood. Your pain. Come on, Fox... 
lead her to us." She dug into his skin again and it hurt, it 
hurt, and he screamed...

He cut off sharply, breathing heavily in the hard silence, as she 
put her fingers to his throat, holding the sharp and bleeding 
glass bare inches away from his neck. He could almost feel the 
tension in the air as she listened, smiling, for footsteps in the 
hallway.

The door had opened. Scully had stepped into the room, gun 
leveled at Gardener. The two women had locked eyes.

Mulder slammed his hand into the shower tile, feeling the pain, 
letting the hot water run over him. He'd known. He'd known then 
that Scully was there, Gardener couldn't possibly reach the gun 
in time, that everything would have been all right.

(The gun wasn't the only weapon in the room. The gun wasn't the 
only weapon...)

He'd watched in quiet desperation as Scully challenged Gardener, 
as she was supposed to. He'd stayed quiet, staring, as Scully had 
sought out his eyes and stared, shocked.

Yes, partner, he wanted to say. I did it. I did something 
damnfool stupid and I need you to help me out of it.

And, just kill the bitch. She's dangerous.

But before he could move, before he could *think* the words, 
Annette twisted her wrist and put the cool, sharp glass to an 
unmarked place on his chest, and pulled...

And this time, instead of feeling simple pain, it was like every 
nerve in his body was turned on, heat and cold and pain and 
*pleasure* rolling through him, as the broken glass sank into his 
flesh and sliced nerves open, letting red red blood bubble into 
the open air. A small sound welled up in his throat, his eyes 
closed, he leaned his head back, and he couldn't explain why his 
body was reacting, he was getting hurt but it felt wonderful.

"Stop," Scully said, from across the room and a thousand miles 
away. He almost didn't recognize her voice, as Annette continued 
to pull the shard-pain-pleasure down his chest, every inch 
pouring more adrenaline into his veins and confusing his senses 
further. "Stop, now."

"All good things must come to an end, I suppose," Annette purred, 
not stopping for an instant. He grabbed onto the ropes binding 
him, rough cord scratching his skin and *hurting*, hurting bad. 
"But I think we should ask *his* opinion, shouldn't we?"

Scully looked at him, and he looked back, and couldn't stop 
himself from staring at the fear he read in her eyes, afraid 
of... what? Gardener?

Of him?

"What do you think, hmmm?" Annette, again, changing her grip on 
the broken glass, the angle of the bloody shard as it slipped 
against his chest, crosswise to the other cuts she'd already 
made, now. He licked sweat off his upper lip, tasting his own 
fear in the salt, seeing it reflected in Scully's eyes. "I don't 
think you mind this at all," Annette continued, pulling him back. 
"I think you kind of... like it."

She smiled down at him, and he was trapped, her hand stilled, the 
pain still hitting him from a million tiny wounds, and he didn't 
know what to say, didn't know what to think. Like it? Like this? 
Like this burning-needing-pain-pleasure-fear that was singing 
every neuron, the fear-speed-agony cocktail flooding his veins? 
Like the smells that were burning his nostrils, his own sweat, 
his own blood, his own...

"Mulder..." Scully, far away now. "What's going on?"

"If you tell me to stop," Annette said, moving her hand and the 
glass and his blood to hover over his arm, "I will."

He closed his eyes, didn't see her looking at his partner, didn't 
know what she was doing, only knew that suddenly he couldn't say 
anything, couldn't think, couldn't get a word around a tongue 
that was thick in his mouth and tasting only empty air. "What do 
you think, Fox?" Gardener crooned. "Do you want me to stop?"

He couldn't answer. Oh, God, he couldn't answer. Everything was 
hurting, he'd never been in pain this badly, nothing was right, 
he was being tortured, tied down against his will, and still he 
couldn't say anything...

... and Scully was begging him, "Say something, please, Mulder, 
say something..."

And he couldn't say anything as Annette laughed, laughed and 
brought the pain down on his *arm*- oh, God, it hurt, it hurt, 
but there was another *flood* of fear-excitement-pleasure from 
somewhere, as she traced along his veins for a moment and then 
pulled back with another *twist* that made him whimper as the 
pain ran through him.

"Sometimes," Gardener was saying, "It feels good to be... 
helpless... hurt..." she put the edge to his side, smooth as 
silk, pulling down and letting the blood flow over his skin. 
"Don't you agree, Fox?"

"Mulder, no," Scully said, dim on the edge of his perception.

Oh, God... was he enjoying this?

"Oh, yes," Annette said, using her fingers to trace along cuts 
she'd already opened. Her nails were like ice on his skin, and he 
trembled at her touch - as if she was caressing him, as if she 
was caring for him! "Come on, Foxy," she crooned teasingly. "Do 
you like what I'm doing to you?"

And oh God, he did, he did, but he wouldn't say it, wouldn't 
admit how his body was reacting to what she was doing, wouldn't 
admit it, couldn't, opened his eyes and saw his partner and knew 
she'd already guessed, but she was denying it, wouldn't admit it 
even to herself. And the knife came down again and sank into his 
skin, and he *felt* what he was going to say, and knew she'd make 
him say it, but as long as he could hold on and not admit it 
everything would be all right...

"Tell me, Fox," Gardener said urgently. "Tell me or I'll stop."

He went cold. Her hand hovered over his skin, too far, too far 
away, taunting him with her eyes, and Scully was *scared* now, he 
looked at her and all he saw was fear, and he had to keep his 
mouth shut, clench his teeth together, oh, God...

"Tell me, Fox Mulder."

He couldn't.

"You can say yes, can't you?"

No.

"...or I'll stop."

His lips moved. "Yes." Silently. He couldn't speak. Every nerve 
was aching, his skin was burning, if she just touched him 
everything would be all right...

"Louder, Fox. I can't hear you."

He forced his mouth to move, forced the sound past his throat. 
"Yes! Yes, dammit!" And something inside of him gave, rebelled, 
and he leaned his head back onto the bed, having trouble 
breathing, not seeing the gleam in Annette's eyes as she touched 
him with the glass, burying the knife into his chest, scraping 
his ribs, and he was on fire, he wanted to scream, but he needed 
something in that stinging-burning-sweating oh God oh [God]...

Seconds passed like minutes, so it must only have been a million 
years before she stopped, pulling her hand back, leaving him 
sweating and bleeding on the cheap hotel sheets, breathing hard 
with his own lust and half-blinded by sweat leaking into his 
eyes. Pulled away, leaving him twisted with agony and longing on 
the bed, murmuring to herself, and then disappearing, leaving him 
cold and frightened of what had just happened.

And then she was back, and she pushed Scully into his field of 
view.

Oh, God, no.

Not Scully. Not Dana. Not her. Don't get her involved.

She was already involved, her hand clasping the shard of bloody 
glass like she was afraid of dropping it, her eyes wide and 
frightened. She stared at him as if she didn't know him, and he 
stared back at her as if he didn't know himself. Slowly, he 
realized what he'd already done.

(The gun *wasn't* the most dangerous weapon in the room, you 
fool...)

"... do you think, Fox?" Gardener was saying. "Don't you think 
*she* should be doing this?"

Oh, God.

"Not me?"

Oh, God.

He looked up, met Dana's eyes, couldn't look away. He didn't know 
what she saw. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to think.

"Come on, Fox. You want it. Tell her."

He wanted...

Scully's fingers tightened around the broken glass. It dug into 
her skin, and she didn't notice a drop of blood welling, slipping 
down, mingling with his own, until it dropped onto his skin.

It burned, oh, God, it burned. He wanted... he wanted...

"Come *on,* Fox," Annette coaxed him. "You know how to ask, don't 
you?"

He knew. The words formed themselves. He wanted to... he 
wanted...

He couldn't. One last grasp at sanity; he couldn't do that, 
couldn't abuse that trust, couldn't ask Scully to...

"You have to be polite."

Manners. At a time like this.

"You have to say please."

His throat spasmed. Please. Oh, God, it would be so easy. He 
wanted... he needed...

Dana reached out for him, ephemeral in the darkness. "Mulder..."

Oh, my- "Oh, God," my God-

"Mulder," she was desperate, she knew, she knew, oh my God she 
knew and he was about to- "You don't-"

"Please!" It burst out of him before he could stop, and when she 
didn't seem to hear, "Please, oh, God, Dana, please..."

She stared at him, and then lifted the glass, holding it in the 
light.

Then she brought it down and drew a bloody line on his chest.

Ecstasy. Pain, pain *yes*, but not the bitter aching thing that 
wracked him before, this was deliberate, measured, *trustworthy* 
pain, that brought an awakening of his senses, that pulled fire 
through him, made him close his eyes and give himself over to the 
feeling of the unknown; pain that woke him instead of pain that 
drained him, pain that fed him--

(Some people use plain old knives... some people use shards of 
glass 'cause it doesn't hurt 'till the blood appears...)

It was just touches, hesitant, never deep enough to do real 
damage, just enough to spark that feeling, drawing moans and 
cries from somewhere deep inside, not *caring* anymore, not 
*needing* to care not *caring* to care, just letting everything 
go and letting Dana take *care* of everything--

(He had a special need / To feel the whip and line--)

He was spiraling in agony, in ecstasy, two extremes, sides of the 
same coin, bittersweet and spice and blood, so much blood, 
fingertips following him back and down and tears soaking hot on 
his skin--

(and if I TOLD YOU that I paint abstract expressions on the backs 
of these forearms and wrists with razor blades and meat cleavers 
and broken beer bottles--)

Oh my God oh my God oh God [oh God] oh [G_O_D]

(and he was back in the shower staring as the hot water spattered 
over those scars and realizing that he was trying to reopen some 
of them with his fingernails--)

And everything was on *fire*

(but if I TOLD YOU that I like a little *blood* with my come that 
fellacio can be sexier with a *gun* that deep-throating a loaded 
hunting rifle has the same metallic taste as semen--well, I guess 
you'd call my sexuality a pathology--)

And it was very, very quiet as the world came spinning back in 
front of his eyes.

He took a deep breath, then another, and for the first time the 
air didn't taste like Annette Gardener.

He opened his eyes, and saw Scully, curled in on herself, 
shaking, scared.

Oh, God, he thought, what have I done?

"Scully?" he asked in the silence.

She opened her eyes reluctantly, stared. He bit his lip, and 
tried to think of something to say that wouldn't make the 
situation worse.

(The most dangerous weapon... damn you, Fox Mulder, damn you)

"I..." he stopped, tried again, couldn't think of anything, 
finally asked, "Can you help me out of this?"

She nodded, hesitant, but untied his right hand and let him get 
his left, moving down to untie his ankles as he massaged feeling 
back into his hands and stared at himself, at the blood covering 
everything, and tried not to be sick.

God. What was *Scully* thinking?

He took a deep breath and nearly choked. He smelled--between the 
sweat, the blood, and his own semen, he smelled like a rape 
victim. He wondered how close to the truth that was.

He looked up at her again when she'd finished getting the ropes 
off his feet, and couldn't think of anything to say. Desperately, 
he looked past her, then back, and said, "Look, there's a 
bathroom over there. I'm going to clean off..." hoped she 
wouldn't see it for the evasion it was, would just let him alone 
for a while to get his thoughts together.

She'd let him. She'd collapsed behind him, he was sure, but he'd 
been too worried about not slipping on his own blood, on getting 
to the sink. He'd stared at himself, at the blood crusting over, 
sweat covering everything, and wondered what the hell he'd done 
wrong that night.

He stared at himself *now*, in the mirror, at the interlaced 
scars covering his chest and his arms, and wondered what the hell 
he'd done wrong that night.

What had felt so good? What had felt so good that he'd asked his 
partner--his own *partner*, dammit--to cut him up?

His sex life had always been normal, aside from a couple 
experiments that were always more Phoebe's idea than his. He 
wasn't, he didn't *think* he was into anything kinky. Of course, 
he hadn't had much chance to find out for the last few years.

He twitched, shuddered, grabbed onto the sink to steady himself. 
And thinking about his partner... didn't... help.

God. Scully was beautiful, brilliant, and she'd been avoiding him 
since he got out of the hospital. She'd wanted him to talk to a 
therapist; he'd refused, knowing it'd go on his record, knowing 
it'd destroy what shambles of his career he had left. He couldn't 
take that--his career was all he had left, now that Scully... oh, 
God, he had to keep coming back to her. He had to keep coming 
back.

Scrounge for clothes. Get half-dressed at least, no one'll see 
the sweats and undershirt, right? Stare at the mirror again, at 
the body fed too long on hospital nourishment, the skin too long 
out of the sun, the half-dead body covering the dead eyes.

No. Back off.

He took a deep breath and pushed away from the mirror, out of the 
bathroom, and crossed to the kitchen. There was very little in 
the fridge, but there was enough milk to make cereal, and he made 
himself breakfast(brunch? Lunch?) and sat at the table staring 
into space.