Title - Stiletto Author - Aris "TGD" Merquoni E-Mail - aris@sandwich.net Rating - R Category - SA Spoilers - You know, I don't think I even ref Pusher in this one, so it's clear. Keywords - None Summary - The sequel to A Matter of Trust. Mulder looks back at what happened, and wonders why his life is spiraling into despair, blackness, depression, and horror. Archive - Heh, if you want to, go ahead. Disclaimer: 1) All characters contained herein are fictional and not meant to represent any persons living, dead, or otherwise. The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. Annette Gardener was created by me. 2) Most of the snippets of poetry that I quoted herein are from poems by Geoff Trenchard. You can find his stuff at http://www.bleedingedgespokenword.com. Support your local poets. The poems that I expressly remember quoting are: - Silence - Exit Wounds (a duet with Jamie Kennedy) 3) I've had this read by several people who are *not* X-Philes, and the general response (from the male sector at least) is exactly what I was going for. Unfortunately, this kind of reaction *can* be rather damaging if you're in the wrong state of mind. So to state this clearly: In this story, I do my level best, through whatever narrative tricks I've picked up over the years, to make S&M situations and self-mutilation seem attractive. DON'T BELIEVE ME. It is my personal belief that any behavior that leaves scars, whether emotional or physical, is *dangerous*, and should be examined fully in a level state of mind before trying it. Mulder is *not* in a level state of mind in this fanfic(neither is Scully, come to think of it,) and you should never try anything you read here without consulting a licensed and recommended psychiatrist. So, now that I've scared away all the sheep... -- It didn't *start* with Annette Gardener. Of course it didn't. There are too many reasons, too many pathways in a person's mind to ever blame a set of circumstances on a single event, a single night. There are only turning points, like a sister disappearing, like a distraught family, like an irresistible woman holding a shard of glass and saying, "Hold out your hand." And he did, not knowing why, and she smiled, rich full lips, and she brought the shard down on his arm and the blood flowed out over his hand, spilling down to the floor and it started hurting right after that, and he didn't protest didn't cry out even when she pulled back and smiled and laughed at him right there laughing... Or was that just a dream? Just a dream, that couldn't have happened, could it? She hadn't had the shard until... until... Mulder was not a man to resort to alcohol or cigarettes when he was feeling depressed. No, not cigarettes. God, no. Too many memories there. Memories he was trying to fight, right? Memories was what he was fighting, when he was deciding not to resort to anything like--like that. He was on his knees, rifling through a drawer of near-identical black videotapes, his mood getting blacker by the moment. Finally he slammed the drawer shut and rocked back on his heels, head in his hands. Normally he'd just grab a video, shove it in the VCR, and relax for an hour or so in a porn-induced trance. It had worked before--a drive back to the primitive or something. He wasn't interested in dissecting why it worked, but it did. It had always worked before. Before--maybe. Before that night--certainly. Before now--not sure. Maybe he's just thinking too much. Thinking too much, Spooky? Scared to think too much, instead? You've never been afraid of thinking before, but now... Now he pulled himself from the floor and took a few steps to sprawl facedown on the couch, staring at the scars from hundreds of cuts covering his arms. He still hurt, all over; phantom pain from remembered wounds, wrists still remembering pulling against the ropes that held him, bound, quivering... You liked it, Spooky. Admit it. You liked it. He didn't want to remember. He didn't *want* to remember how that night felt, how he'd been tricked, captured, hurt so badly... but he had to remember. He had to throw an arm across his eyes and remember. Take a walk with me. It's an office, in the basement, and he's studying the two photos he's been given while his partner's getting the shakes in the corner. Mulder had squinted at the two eight-by-ten stills, mercifully reproduced in black and white instead of color. There had been enough blood covering the two bodies pictured there that he'd known adding red would have made it impossible to concentrate. Just the images themselves, in merciful black and white, were making it hard for Scully to concentrate. Two children, both twelve years old. Both lay face-up, tied spread-eagle to a bedframe. Both were covered in slashes, angry red marks that crisscrossed their innocent forms. Half-healed scars, barely visible under all the black, covered everything that the newer cuts did not. "The suspect's name is Annette Gardener. She apparently became friends with the children, then lured them to a hotel with her, tied them down, and did... did... that." Scully's voice, fighting to stay calm against her feelings. Scully loved children. Mulder didn't know what to say to calm her down; didn't know what he could do other than solve this case, and quickly. He pointed to the photographs. "These scars couldn't have formed over one night. She must have gotten to them multiple times." He paused. "What about the third victim? Jessica... Ibrel, wasn't it?" Scully nodded, his professional tone helping to steady her. He hoped. "I don't like it. I don't *like* it, Mulder. Jessica isn't from an abusive family, she doesn't have any problems... there is *no reason* for her to say she liked what Gardener was doing to her." "Neither of the others were problem children, either, but she obviously got to them, too. More than once." He waved a hand at the photos, and Scully's jaw locked angrily. He sighed. "There's something here we're not seeing. Some sort of control she has over people." "Mulder..." She gave him a look, and he wondered what he'd done wrong. "I'm willing to believe one person with The Whammy. Maybe. But not two." "Are you willing to believe in hypnosis?" He gave her a perfectly serious glance in return. "She obviously had the time. Maybe it's a perfectly normal psychological twist. Maybe she's able to pick out people who react to pain as pleasure." Scully twitched again, and he sighed. "It's worth a thought," she finally said, reluctantly. "Right. And this is definitely worth a look. Let's see if we can find anything..." Oh, they'd found something, all right. 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. All right, take it as given that Gardener had *done* something to him. He ate a spoonful of cereal, thoughtful, spinning the spoon around his fingers. Something. Something that made the air taste like her... Smell? Pheromones? He mulled it over. Something that had smashed him between the eyes... that could have done it. It had to be. It had been something outside his control. Nodding in satisfaction, he attempted to spoon up more cereal and smacked the bowl with his hand instead, slopping milk and dissolved cornflakes all over the table. Cursing, he pushed the bowl back and grabbed a rag, managing to contain the flood before he got *too* drenched. Once he finished cleaning the table, he headed back to the bathroom to rinse off. He laughed at himself. Klutz. What would Scully think of-- Scully. Of course. It all comes back to Scully. Damn it! He stopped at the mirror and stared at himself again, teeth gritted together hard enough to hurt. If it had just been him, fine, he'd be able to put this behind him. It wasn't *his* fault. It wasn't *all* his fault. But Scully... That was his fault, all right. Damn. It was bad enough that he'd hurt her, bad enough that he'd destroyed her trust, bad enough that he didn't know if she'd ever forgive him. But he didn't know how to talk to her, didn't know how to make it better, didn't know how to heal the breach that had formed between them. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to reach out and touch her again, didn't know if he could ever bring himself to reach out and try for her again, didn't know if she'd ever let him reach out for her again-- He was reaching out, fist pressed against the silvered glass of the mirror. Suddenly angry, he slammed his hand into it, again and again and-- (because no matter how many mirrors I can smash with my fists I'm still through the looking glass with only me) He stared at the shattered pieces of mirror littering the sink, stared at the blood dripping down his knuckles, at the stinging across his hand. "Shit," he said, then shook off the shock and reached over for the antiseptic. This might sound crass, Spooky, but you're getting really good at this. He gritted his teeth and dabbed the blood off his hand, then reached down to clear the bigger pieces of glass out of the sink. Stupid, Mulder. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid... His hand clenched around the shard involuntarily, and the sharp shock of pain cut off his spiral of self-loathing, hitting him like a blast of cold water. Slowly, his fingers uncurled, and he looked down into a smeared and bloody image of himself. Dammit, Mulder, bleeding all over again? Haven't seen enough of your own blood, recently? Or maybe you just want to bawl on the floor so you can get Scully to rescue you-- He brought the glass down with a vicious swipe and cut a clean line on the back of his wrist. He stared at the bleeding line, the pain spreading as soon as the redness smeared over his skin. He felt the pain, and the nagging voice in the back of his head disappeared in a gasp of shock. Trembling, he reached out and touched the cut with his fingers. Shame built again in the back of his mind, spreading through his body and making him feel-- The glass came down again, cutting off the shame with silence. The silence lasted until the pain started fading, and he brought it down again and again-- (because no one can ignore their own pain for very long--) And it didn't matter that he was bleeding all over, blood running like sweat down his arms, because every second that he didn't have to listen to that voice in his head was another second he could stay sane-- (and if I TOLD YOU I stick 20 cigarettes in my mouth every day you'd call me unhealthy but if I go and stick one in my arm then I must be CRAZY--) And it *hurt*, it hurt *bad* as he bled, making careful incisions to prolong the pain, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out and fingers spasming around that slippery piece of mirror-- (I CUT MYSELF to clot my wounds I MARK MYSELF so that I can never be marked again--) And he traded hands to reach his other arm because he couldn't see any unmarked skin under the redness pouring over his left arm-- (because purity never existed in me--) And oh [GOD] it hurt-- (because the only way I can ever be more than the sum of what has been done to me is to do it all again to MYSELF) He finally looked up and stared at himself in the mirror, his arms covered in blood, stinging burning [hell] covering him in dripping burning [passion] and he stared and stared and didn't recognize himself in the broken mirror. (one or two brief moments of silence...) And then with a shock he jerked awake, dropping the glass and clapping a bloody hand to the network of stinging-burning cuts covering his arm. He looked down, feeling vertigo and dizziness as he staggered backward into the wall. He nearly slipped, and he looked down onto a floor liberally spattered with red and black. He leaned his head back until it touched the wall, and felt his legs giving out under him. As he slid to the floor, he closed his eyes and groaned. "I think I'm going to be sick," he muttered, trying to block out the images and the smell of blood. The smell of blood... You're going to bleed to death if you don't do something quick. Shaking, shivering, vision narrowing and fading, he reached out and started crawling forward. He pulled himself to his feet on the door somehow, stumbled bleeding into the next room, fell onto the couch and scrambled for the phone, feeling the plastic slide under his fingers and the buttons stab his fingers as he stabbed them. Ring. Ring. "Scully." "Scully, I-" he gritted his teeth as a wave of greyness swept over him. "I need your help." "Mulder?" She was startled, concerned, and he was rapidly losing his ability to hear. "What's wrong?" "Just... can you make it to my place?" Another spasm, and he could barely keep his hands on the phone. "I... I'm sorry..." The phone slipped from his fingers as he collapsed, curling around his arms. After timeless minutes, he tried to push himself up, to get the blood on anything but the carpet, ended up back on the floor, cursing as the rough carpet bit into the slashes on his arms and not being able to do anything about it. Stupid, Mulder. Just out of the hospital, do you want to go back again so badly? Giving up so soon? ... yes... It was two stupors and a blackout before Scully opened the door to his apartment, and his vision went grey before she found him on the floor. He blinked up at her from his fetal position, everything going blurry. "...hi?" he croaked. She was staring at him. Her eyes were wide, a beautiful blue- green. Why had he never noticed that color before? "I... I couldn't get up..." he tried to explain. "Oh my God, Mulder," she said. "It's all right," he said, and even to his ears his voice was fading. "It doesn't really hurt..." Everything was black for a long time. He woke up on his couch, and for a moment he wondered how he'd gotten back to bed. Then he looked down and saw the makeshift bandages wrapped around his arms, one of his sheets that had given up its life for him and was now completely soaked in blood. *Then* things started to hurt. He raised an arm--carefully!--and covered his eyes with a hand. "What... the *hell* did I do?" he said. "I was hoping you'd tell me." He looked over and saw Scully sitting in one of his chairs, arms crossed, rings faintly showing under her eyes. He involuntarily flinched back from the hurt in her eyes. "I..." he looked down, winced at the blood, and looked back up. "I guess I..." "What in Christ's name were you doing? No, take that back," she snapped. "Not in Christ's name, damn it, I'm pretty *damn* sure it wasn't anything like that." Mulder took a deep breath. "I cracked." The admission *hurt*. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut, and he didn't need that after today. "I couldn't stop thinking about... about..." Scully flinched, her arms slipping slightly to wrap around her stomach. "Don't... talk... about... that," she forced out through gritted teeth. "Scully, I'm sorry!" he cried. "Can't you believe me?" There was quiet for a long time. Finally, she said, "Can't we just leave it alone?" "We tried that." She glanced back at his arms, winced again. "Why do you keep blaming yourself?" she finally said. "Because it's my fault." He sat up carefully, trying to ignore the flashes of pain as the improvised bandages scraped his skin. "It's all my fault, and I don't expect you to forgive me." "No, Mulder," she said, visibly keeping herself under control. "You said yourself that Gardener was doing *something* to you." "Yeah, and I think I've figured it out, too. It's no excuse." "You-" Mulder shook his head. "I don't know if I can explain this, but I'm going to try. What was the most dangerous weapon in the room?" Scully stared at him. "What?" "Just think about it. What was the most dangerous weapon in the room?" She grimaced. "Your gun, I guess. You dropped it and she could have shot both of us." (The gun) "Wrong." (wasn't the most dangerous) "The gun wasn't the most dangerous weapon in the room." (weapon in the room) "Then what was? That shard of glass she was holding at your throat?" "No, Scully... it wasn't anything like that. It was control." (Control.) "Control?" "Yes. And she gave it to me." "I don't understand." "Don't you? In a B&D relationship, who's the one in control?" "Mulder, I don't know anything about-" "It's *always* the person that's been tied down. That's because of trust. It only goes as far as *they* want it to." "That doesn't make any-" "I didn't trust Gardener worth a damn, Scully, but as soon as you walked into that room and put a gun to her head, she couldn't kill me. And I thought I could take anything but that." There was silence for a long time. Mulder leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Yes," he finally said, "Yes she *was* screwing with my head. I think she managed to overload my brain with pheromones. But dammit, that's no excuse." "Mulder, I've got your blood on my hands. Literally. I've been so... so..." "All the perfumes of Arabia," he muttered. Scully laughed, a choking sound, and he looked over at her again. "I was just thinking... I'm not a priest, I can't give you absolution..." He stared. "Is that what you think..." "Well, I think you needed it." She gestured at his arms. "You were trying to say something, at least." "I... yeah." Mulder stared at her until she looked away, a funny feeling in his throat. "Scully... Dana... can you ever forgive me?" Silence. She took a deep breath, then looked back. "Mulder, you said... you trust me?" she finally asked. He met her gaze evenly. "With my life." She smiled. "Of course I forgive you. And I trust you, too." Oh, God. She crossed the room and put a hand on his shoulder. "All right. Now *heal*, okay? And don't do this again." Her gaze was wary. "I don't want to know what'll happen to you if you get desked." He shook his head. "I'll be all right. I promise." "Good." She turned to leave, then paused and said over her shoulder, "And we don't need to talk about this again." The door closed softly, and Mulder slept.