Part one (WIP 1 of ?)

I am not sure where my dependency began. The term has never
been a part of my vocabulary, although I am very articulate in
thought and speech. Even as a child, I knew that choices in life
were going to be singularly mine. My parents encouraged my
autonomous nature and my siblings provoked it. To be one of
four, you had to be creative in finding distinction. Your voice
had to be strong and certain to be taken seriously.

Even if it really wasn't my voice at all...

I learned how to pretend at an early age. I became a
skilled performer, capable of hiding my insecurities behind a
rhetorical facade. I could parley with the best of them,
including the champion of wit and sarcasm. My partner.

But, now I can barely put two coherent words together. My
speech is either contorted with pain or sluggish with my attempts
to numb it.

I am in the ladies room at work, two floors up from the
basement grotto we call an office. I stare at my reflection,
cringing from what I see. My hand rises to my face. Tentative
fingers touch skin that feels pasty. I try to conceal my pallid
complexion with make-up, but the pigment is chalky white rather
than ivory. It contrasts sharply with the color of my hair,
which in turn clashes with pale lips stained hideously red.

I try to force a smile. The result is sadly comical. I see
a clown's face staring back at me.

For a moment I contemplate the bottle of Percocet, the
latest in a series of pain medication prescribed by my doctor. I
am tempted to empty them all down the drain. But, the pain is so
acute that I feel dizzy from procrastinating the inevitable.
Cupping my hand under the sink, I quickly take the pill which now
commands me.

In the elevator I am alone. It is late Friday afternoon. A
time when government employees participate in the unspoken
conspiracy of leaving work early. Except we don't. My partner
and I are wrapped up in a different type of machination that
doesn't break early, even for the weekend.

As the pull of the elevator draws me down, I feel the
sinking of my spirit. It has been two months since I was shot in
the stomach by an overly ambitious agent who mistook his case
partner for his case subject. Although my doctors assure me that
my injury is healed, I'm still shadowed by the pain of the wound.

In the past few weeks, I have undergone tests to isolate the
source of this pain. I've been tubed end to end by
gastroenterologists. Blood work, CT scans and MRI's reveal
nothing.

Nothing.

My doctor tells me that I'm fine.

God, I hate when someone uses my own words against me.

I'm not fine. I'm in pain. I'm a doctor, damn it. If you
won't help me then I'll find a way to help myself.

It's then that I encounter a slight shrug of my doctor's
shoulders and a hasty scratch of a pen on a pad. I leave
confused and deflated, but clutching a renewed prescription in my
trembling hand.

I want to tell Mulder about my pain, but I don't.
Medication leaves me comfortably numb. Mulder won't offer such
relief. He'll prod, poke and profile my pain. I will undergo
exploratory surgery for the second time in two months, but this
time without anesthesia.

Mulder confirms this fear with a scrutinizing look as I
enter our office.

This all day confinement with him has made me uneasy. I've
got to get the hell out of here.

"It's getting to be that time again," I say in a hurried
voice, reaching for my coat.

"Leaving already?" He accuses as he suddenly stands up from
his desk. I take an involuntary step back.

"It's called the weekend. I hope you have a good one,
Mulder." I offer him what I hope is a slight smile. When he
does not return the gesture, I turn away to hide what I know is a
clown's broken grin.

My purse is open. I quickly fold my coat over my arm to
hide it. Backing away, I lift my hand in casual farewell before
opening the door.

"Close the door, Scully," Mulder states firmly.

My hand freezes on the door knob.

"I need to talk to you." He conveys as he rises from his
desk and approaches me.

"Can't it wait until Monday?" I make my voice sound
impatient.

"I think I've already waited too long," he observes.

"For what?" I am tempted to roll my eyes at him. In the
past, a well-rounded circle of my eyes has been most effective in
conveying my exasperation with him. Or, as he sarcastically
calls it, "that eye stratagem of yours".

"An explanation," Mulder responds as he stops inches from
me.

I hold my ground, grateful that my skirt hides knees that
suddenly feel weak.

"I sense a disturbance in you these past few weeks," he
says.

His choice of words reminds me of Melissa. Or Obi Wan
Kenobi. I try to lighten my next words in an effort to deflect
him.

"Have you been watching Star Wars again, Mulder?"

He leans against the edge of the desk and folds his arms.

"Why won't you talk to me, Scully?"

"Because we don't talk, Mulder, we banter," I answer.

"What if I just listen?" he offers.

"What if we do this another time?" I cut him off. I have
too. Time is running out. I took only half of my dose so I'm
lucid enough to drive home.

"I'm not going to let you off the hook that easy." Mulder
tries to reel me in by pretending concern.

"And, I have no intention of being your catch of the day." I
bite back. "Have a good weekend, Mulder. You can try fishing
again on Monday."

I head for the elevator, leaving him speechless and myself,
horrified.

My own analogy is expanding in my mind. I see myself as a
fish frying in an oil slick pan.

**********

She's hiding something.

I watch her press the elevator button. I start to follow
her, but stop when I see the trembling of her hand. I am more
than concerned now. I'm stunned.

Scully's hands are strong. They're sturdy enough to crack
open the ribs of a cadaver with one swift snip of a bone cutter.
Yet, the same pair of hands are graceful and certain. They can
guide, encourage and soothe me with one touch or gesture.

There's something wrong.

She's losing weight again. At first, I considered this a
normal result of abdominal surgery. The bullet had severed an
artery. She had hemorrhaged internally and almost died. But,
she recuperated swiftly, returning to work within weeks when it
could have easily taken months. I was so grateful to have her
back that I chalked up her rapid recovery to typical Scully
resilience.

There's more. I begin to catalogue each change as if I was
a merchant and she was my inventory.

Her wardrobe is different. Black is a constant theme, as if
she's in perpetual mourning. She looks disheveled rather than
professional. Some of her latest getups look like they could
substitute for pajamas. It almost makes sense, because half the
time she looks like a woman who has just dragged herself out of
bed.

Today, she took her purse to the bathroom again. Ordinarily
I would have attributed purse toting to her period. But, periods
don't last weeks, unless you're Phoebe Green and flippantly offer
this excuse as a way of withholding sex. Scully's period only
lasts 4.5 days. I may not be intimate with this woman, but I'm
acutely aware of the length of her cycle. It is the only time of
the month that I wish my partner was a man.

No, I decide. It's more than just hiding something. A
moment ago, she cringed away from my touch as if I carried an
alien plague.

That thought prompts me to action.

I grab my coat and head towards the door. My shoe crunches
on something. Bending over, I find several pills scattered
across the floor. I pick one up and study it closely.

Oh my God, I feel myself shudder.

I now know why my partner's hand trembles.

**********

I no sooner arrive home and my cell phone is ringing. I am
certain that it's Mulder. He is never content to allow me to
have the last word. And, he knows me well enough to gauge how
long it takes me to drive home. The lapse in time suggests that
we are destined to argue and he wants me safely off the road
before launching his next attack.

His consideration is really touching, I reflect bitterly.

"What now?" I snap into the receiver. There is no response,
but I can tell someone is there.

"Mulder?" I pause and wait for an answer. Suddenly, the
other party hangs up.

"Fine." I say through clenched teeth. I turn the phone off
and toss it on the couch.

I glance at my kitchen briefly, knowing I should eat. The
thought of food makes me queasy. I move into my bedroom and
start stripping away the layers of my clothes. I feel dirty in a
sordid way. I want to cleanse this shame away. I want to emerge
from the shower feeling pristine and fresh, even if the effect is
limited to only my skin.

Inside the shower stall, my hands press against the sweaty
tiles to support myself. I lower my head beneath the stream of
hot water. My eyes are closed. My mouth drops open to inhale
the soothing steam. As the water runs through my hair and washes
the makeup from my face, I lose track of time. All my thoughts
and sensations are trickling down to the drain.

I am becoming comfortably numb again.

Because of this, I am slow to hear and even slower to react
to the sudden invasion of my privacy. As the shower curtain is
roughly torn back, I can only turn my head to the side and gape
sluggishly at my partner.

Mulder. Through the wafting steam, I can see that he is
angry.

I am exposed.

And it has nothing to do with nudity.

Mulder turns off the shower with one fierce jerk of his
wrist. Goosebumps instantly rise up on my skin. I am chilled by
the agitation in his eyes. I feel his fingers circle my wrist.
It reminds me of a handcuff snapping in place. He tugs me out of
the shower and I stumble forward against his chest.

For a moment, he holds me against him. Then I feel him
tense and push me away.

"Here." He abruptly hands me a towel. I try to wrap it
around my body, but my one hand is still imprisoned and the other
is useless. The towel drops and I stare at it in odd amusement.
The only thing I've manage to cover are my feet.

Mulder releases his hold and leans over to pick it up.

"Lift up your arms," he instructs. I do so, allowing him to
circle me with the towel. As he tucks the ends together, I feel
the palms of his hands brush against my breasts. I breath in
sharply and close my eyes.

"Mulder," I whisper. There is need in my voice. It sounds
urgent and pathetic.

"What? Is the numbness already fading?" he mocks me. He
retrieves several pills from his pocket and holds them out for my
inspection. "Is it time for your next fix?"

"Jesus, Mulder, don't talk to me like that," I cringe away
from him.

He meets my anguished gaze with his tormented one.

"You've been on pain killers all this time," he accuses,
pointing at the pills in his hand. "Your a doctor, for Christ's
sake. Don't you know what these things can do to you?"

"But, I'm in pain," I whisper. I want to cry. I want him
to understand.

"Scully," His tone is softer as he reaches out to graze my
shoulders with his hands. "Your injuries are healed. The
doctors gave you a clean bill of health."

"But, I'm in pain," I repeat to him. "And, those same
doctors wrote the prescriptions."

"It's called professional courtesy," he grumbled. "And,
damn them to hell for taking the easy way out."

Mulder turns me towards the sink. He directs my gaze to my
reflection.

"Look at what these pills are doing to you," he pleads.

The face behind the clown is revealed. My cheeks are sunken
in. My lips, which I once considered full, have shriveled to
thin, compressed lines. The most frightening features are my
eyes. They can't be mine. My eyes are blue. These eyes are so
pale that they hold no pigment, no light, no expression.

"What have I become?" I murmur. My reflection in the mirror
only mimics my words. My partner leans forward to whisper the
unimaginable into my ear.

"You've become drug dependent."

Hearing these words...hearing them from him...is more than I
can bear. My vision fades. Huge, guttural sobs rise from the
source of all this pain. I clutch my stomach, heaving against
throbs of agony that are splitting my insides apart. My legs
stiffen then collapse from underneath me.

I feel him lift me. I am weightless, but my arms feel like
lead and they fall helplessly to my side. He carries me out of
the bathroom to my bed. My towel is removed and I am slid under
my comforter. For a minute, he stands over me. Unable to meet
his gaze, I roll away from him and bury my face into my pillow.

I wait for him to say something, to touch me, to comfort me.
He doesn't. He has abandoned me to go off on a treasure hunt. I
can hear him rifling the bathroom cabinet, then proceeds to every
drawer of my apartment in search of what he believes to be my
stash.

Gasping, I struggle up to my elbows. He is treating me like
a junkie. I've been taking prescribed pain medication, not
shooting up like a heroin addict.

"What the hell do you expect to find?" I cry out as he tugs
open the drawer to my dresser. "Syringes?"

"God, I hope not," he says in a strained voice.

"Just look at my arms, damn you." I hold them out for his
inspection.

"I don't need too, Scully. I know you haven't reached that
point, yet."

That "yet" hangs heavily between us. He sighs and moves
back into my bathroom where he spends the next several minutes
dumping my medication. As I hear the toilet flush, I fall back
and stare up at the ceiling. Hot, humiliated tears replace the
cold ones. I feel them stream down my face.

The edge of the mattress sinks under his weight as he
returns to my bed and sits down. I refuse to look at him,
rubbing my slick, grubby face with the backs of my hands.

"What do you want me to do, Scully? Cry with you or help
you?"

His voice is hoarse. Mine resembles a sob,

"Both."

"Scully..." He grabs my hand and presses it against his
eyes. I feel it then. The wet lashes...anguished tears against
the tips of my fingers.

Oh my God...what am I doing? What am I doing to myself?
What am I doing to him?

"Mulder..." I raise myself up. The comforter falls to my
waist, but I no longer care. I am in his arms and he is in mine.
My tears are dampening his cheek. His are trickling down my neck.

I am not sure where drug dependency began. I know where it
will end. Mulder makes the necessary phone calls to get me into
a detox center that night. He balances the phone with his
shoulder as he helps me button my shirt. He is gentle, treating
me like a child. Despite his attempts at reassuring me, I have
the vague, uncomfortable feeling that I've just traded one
dependency for another.

******************************
 

Part two (WIP 2 of ?)

I was able to get Scully into a RAND program that night. It
was an ultarapid opiate detox program where a drug is
administered under general anesthesia to counteract the effect of
narcotics. Withdrawal is short lived. That would at least get
us in a better position to identify the pain she had been trying
to numb.

While the procedure was being done, I used the time to both
of our advantages. First, I phoned Skinner. I told our
supervisor the truth, not out of duty or obligation, but because
I wanted him to share in the responsibility of what had happened
to her. Neither one of us were to blame for that asshole rookie
who pumped a bullet into her stomach. But, we were at fault by
failing to see the distress she was in.

And, I was the most guilty of all.

I had assumed that Scully was infinitely resilient. That
she was the perfect little soldier, capable of being wounded time
and time again, yet ever rising unscathed. I put it in those
exact terms to Skinner. He was a Vietnam vet, quick to
understand and even quicker to give me a perspective I hadn't
considered.

"Drugs aren't always taken to ease pain, Mulder," he told me
in a strained voice. "Sometimes they're taken to silence the
scream from one trauma too many."

I fall silent, gripping my cell phone as the weight of his
words settled squarely on my shoulders. My thoughts begin to
replay the series of horrible events that my partner has been
exposed to. Abduction. Cancer. Death of a sister. Death of a
child. Being turned into a living host for a parasitic alien....

"Mulder, are you listening?" Skinner's impatient tone breaks
into my thoughts.

"Actually, I'm counting," I relay, pressing my forehead
against the wall. "And, the numbers don't look good."

"Listen, agent, you're partner is in trouble," my supervisor
warns. "You don't have the luxury of retrospect right now."

"I think the truth to all of this presents itself through
retrospect." I argue.

"Stop looking for a convenient answer, Mulder. Not
everything revolves around your guilt."

Skinner is, as always, right to the point. I resist the
urge to slide down the wall into a heap of self-loathing because
I know he expects it. I begin to match his practical outlook,
the one that speaks action and not regret.

Together we conspire to keep the truth a secret. He
suggests an emergency leave of absence and will cover up the real
reason. Drug dependency is not something an agent wants on one's
record. It doesn't matter that it stems from a work-related
injury. Those who seek to debunk us will distort the truth, even
more effectively than Scully has tried to hide it.

"I'm going to stay with her every minute through this," I
assert. "I don't care if the dust on my desk chokes every
Division Head in the Department of Justice."

"I'll alert the cleaning staff," Skinner chides me. "Relax,
Mulder, you have enough vacation saved up to carry you through
the millennium."

"Well, here's to the new era." I state firmly before I
click off the phone. And, I mean it. This time it's going to be
different. I am not going to allow my emotional dysfunction to
blind me from the truth. The truth that has been staring at me
across my desk with waning, anguished eyes.

**********

"Can I help you with that, Scully?"

I am digging through my purse for my keys. We have arrived
back at my apartment. I have just been discharged from the
hospital. The RAND unit. A place where opiate junkies are
miraculously spared the physical discomfort of withdrawal.
Except I don't feel saved. There is no miracle reaching out to
me. Just a new drug pumped through my veins to counteract the
affects of another.

Miracles don't reach those who writhe in the hell they've
created for themselves. I've created mine. Except now, I am
exposed to the heat. The pills may have numbed me from feeling
its danger, but it was my dignity that shielded me from being
scorched.

My hand no longer shakes, but it hesitates as I feel a tiny
tablet at the bottom of my purse. I catch my breath. Drawing it
out, I hand it to my partner.

"Guess you forgot to check," I mumble, offering him my purse
as well.

He shakes his head. His hand closes around mine as the
other reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve his set of keys.

"I trust you, Scully."

It's a simple statement and his tone is sincere. But, I am
assaulted by doubt, in him and in me.

"I thought our creed was to trust no one," I point out. He
gives me a brief, discerning look as he unlocks my door.

"The creed doesn't apply to those who share it," Mulder
responds. He opens the door and stands back to allow me to
enter.

I stand frozen in my steps. I don't want to go in.

"Home, sweet, home," he announces in a voice too chipper to
be convincing.

"It's prison, Mulder," I remind him. "Just with all the
frills and fancy trimmings."

My partner bows his head for a moment. I can tell that he
is processing my words, trying to come up with a catchy phrase to
reassure me. I can see that he's struggling to keep his caustic
humor in check. I'm impressed. But, I'm also cynical,
especially when I feel vulnerable, so I fill the silence with my
own retort.

"Well, I guess having you as a cell mate beats Large Marge
who spends all afternoon lying on my couch reading Gertrude
Stein."

Mulder can't resist grinning. He, too, remembers that line.

"Come on in," I sigh, beckoning him to follow me.

I stop in the livingroom, immediately noticing his suitcases
by my couch. There are two of them. It signifies more than a
few nights stay. I feel irritation creep up from my staggered
soul. I demonstrate it with my hands on my hips.

"Mulder, exactly how long is my sentence?"

"I don't know, Scully." His answer is noncommittal. "How
long will it take for you to pardon yourself?"

"Are you saying that it's up to me?" I ask, startled by his
question.

"When it comes to choice, it always has been," he responds
in his philosophical tone. "Why change that now?"

Oh God. I am incarcerated with Oxford graduate in
psychology. A "wanna-be" shrink. A profiler turned pontificate.

As he closes the door, I sense the same panic a prisoner
must feel as the bars are clanged securely in place. A cold
sweat beads across my forehead. A tremor of pain begins to swell
in my stomach.

The pain. It's returning. It is not my imagination as he
thinks and as the doctors in the RAND unit assure me. It's real.
It's virulent. It's...

"An anxiety attack..." Mulder assures me as he leads me to
the couch. He eases me down onto the cushions and starts to pat
my back as if he expects his touch will heal me. I flinch away
from him. Clutching my stomach, I snap at him.

"It's not gas, Mulder. The pain's not going to go away with
one big burp."

"I know, Dana..."

I stick a finger in his face.

"Don't patronize me," I snap.

He looks hurt.

"This is one's brain off of drugs" I tell him smugly,
distorting the message of a well advertised commercial "Get the
picture?"

Mulder says nothing. As I hunch over and bury my face in my
hands, I feel insistent fingers tug at my shoulders. He pulls
me back against his chest and wraps his arms around me.
Together, we rock through waves of pain that dampen my eyes with
tears. I relax in his embrace and allow myself to be lulled by
the comfort he is trying to offer me. I don't protest when I am

turned to face him. Smoothing back my hair, he gives me a look I
don't understand. It suggests regret and hints at tenderness.
Without a word, he lays back on the couch and draws me on top of
him.

If I wasn't so tired, I would either be amused or offended
by such intimate contact with a man who has no intention of
becoming intimate with me.

Our bodies are aligned like lovers. I struggle to feel hope,
but realize that it died the moment I learned the truth about
Fowley and Mulder. Intimacy between partners is not the
forbidden fruit that I'm led to believe. It all comes down to a
matter of taste. His. Why settle for a tart Granny apple, when
you've experienced the dark, exotic juices of a pomegranate? It
doesn't matter that the fruit is full of seeds. Maybe that's
where his stupid habit actually began.

But, harvest time has come and gone. This apple has rotted.
Worms of pain have devoured whatever sweetness ever flowed under
my waxy skin.

I don't want to feel sorry for myself. I just want to
escape from this despair. I want to be another metaphor. One
that isn't trampled on the ground, but floats high above it. I
visualize a balloon. I can drift towards the lofty sky, yet still
remained tethered to my work and my partner. Except he can't
reach my heart. He might occasionally tug at my string, but the
wind will blow me away from his painful grasp.

I smile. As I settle my cheek in the alcove between his

neck and shoulder, I sense a shifting of his body underneath
mine. For a moment, I think the unimaginable. No, it must be
stress that is distorting my perception. What feels inflated is
only the balloon inside my head.

I try something else. Something that will allow me to drift
towards a warm, fuzzy nap. As a child, I counted sheep. I try
to do so now.

One sheep...two sheep...Mulder's a sheep...He only wants to
be my friend...three sheep...four...

Then I feel it again. God damn him. My fluffy sheep has
got an erection the size of a nuclear warhead.

No wonder he can't hop that fucking fence.

This is so typical. I am no longer hovering, but plummeting
to the ground. I've been popped by a prick.

What a coward. What a sheep shit. There is desire for me.
He's just hiding it under a fleece.

I'm tempted to roll off him and direct him to my bathroom
where he can jerk off this deceit. He can even use one of my new
towels. The one that has my initials embroidered on it, a joke
gift from Christmas. It's perfect for Mulder. He can gratify
himself with a symbol and then clean himself off like it never
happened.

My thoughts sink to a level of dark design that is equally
cruel as it is thrilling. No, I have a better plan. After all,
he's always been the one hell bent on exposing the truth.

**********

My arm is going numb. Even worse, I've got the stiffest
hard-on from the woman who is lying on top of me. It no longer
matters that she's my partner. This is my Scully. The woman I
love. From the minute I felt her body relax against mine I knew
I was in trouble. Scully's acceptance of me is a potent
aphrodisiac.

She wreaks havoc on my senses without even knowing it. Even
in sleep, her hips unconsciously shift against mine. The fact
that we have not acted upon this magnetism suddenly seems
ridiculous. I want to be chivalric, but instead I feel fucking
stupid. I am not her knight in shining armor and from the
stories I've read, fair maidens don't crush their hero's ego with
biting, analytical retorts.

Scully lifts her head briefly, but her eyes are still shut.
Is she still asleep? Is she dreaming? If she is, I want to
invade whatever fantasy she is having right now. She parts her
lips slightly to moisten them with her tongue. I feel her
nipples through both of our shirts. The friction of our jeans
rubbing together is torturous.

Oh shit, I groan to myself. As tempted as I am, I will not
take advantage of this woman's vulnerability. I try to maneuver
her off of me, careful not to wake her for the sake of her
embarrassment and mine. Suddenly, her fingers dig into my
shoulders.

"Don't," she murmurs. It is then that I realize that she's
awake.

I am paralyzed by the sound of her voice and the way her
body moves against mine. The pressure of her strokes is enough
to send me over the edge. I grip the back of her jeans to pull
her away, but she begins to gyrate. Suddenly, hands which want
to deter her are actually prodding her on.

"Scully..." my voice cracks.

"This thing between us," she reaches down and squeezes the
bulge between my legs. "Is it me or just a remnant of my drug
induced imagination?"

"It's you," I gasp. "It's always been you."

"Prove it." Scully's fingers are at the fly to my jeans.

I catch her hands and hold them tightly. Her eyes are wide
open now. They glimmer dangerously into mine.

"Scully, what's gotten into you?

"Nothing yet," she smirks. "But, here's to hoping."

Shit, this is weird. One minute, she's crying about feeling
imprisoned and the next minute she's trying to hump the guard. I
begin to flip rapidly through the pages of my mental textbook on
psychology. My attempts to read her fail. As always, the pages
that reference Dana Scully are glued shut.

"What's wrong Mulder?" She interrupts my thoughts with a
voice that drips more acid than seduction. "Is the woman you've
exposed threatening your illusion?"

"Stop it, Scully," I growl.

"Is your Scully a little too sullied for you now?"

"I said stop it."

"Doesn't my dirty hand feel good?" She cups me through my
jeans. Her fierceness sends a jolt all the way to my balls.

Sensing it, she begins to churn harder. I feel her hip bone
through the barrier of our jeans. She's beginning to pump
against me like there is no tomorrow.

And, from the look in her eyes, I realize that there may
never be a tomorrow.

The hard, determined glint fades into such a hollow look
that I begin to feel pain rather than pleasure. Everything
screeches to a halt with sudden realization.

I am allowing the woman I love to believe that she is only
an object of my lust.

"No," I grit my teeth as I push her off me. "Not like this,
Scully. Never like this."

She lands on her feet beside the couch. She is panting,
breathing hard with exertion and anger. She stares at me
heatedly, revealing the true nature of a woman scorned. If she
carried her weapon, I think she'd shoot me.

Without a word, she spins around and stalks to her bedroom.
I struggle up onto my elbows in time to see the door slam shut.
As I hear the lock being turned, my thoughts spin, reeling
towards shock, startling at what had been our first sexual
overture.

Neither one of us was going to be comfortably numb again.

To be continued.....

Author's Notes: My never ending thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's
Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia,
who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. To those
readers who encourage and tolerate me.

My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing
shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring....

 
Title: Comfortably Numb
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, S
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through season six
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it!
Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story
Author's Reminder: This is a work in progress...please be patient with
me...

For previous installments you can find them
at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm

Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship...
smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves...
Your lips move but I can't hear what you say...
I have become comfortably numb...

Part 3 of ? (WIP)

I slump against my bedroom door, clutching my chest.
Humiliation is a powerful current. My heart contracts as if it's
been shocked by fully charged paddles. It beats with a frantic,
furious pace, reminding me that attacks on the heart are not
limited to those with cardiovascular problems. Previously
sluggish, dulled by the stupor of medication, the muscle
resuscitates with a vengeance. It surges liters of blood through
my veins, leaving me flushed and feeling scalded.

I clasp my cheeks which are both hot and wet. Tears of
shame slide through my fingers and course down my hands. I try
to suppress my sobs by pressing my palm against my mouth. It
doesn't work. The sound begins in my throat, like a loud,
uncontrollable moaning. The whimpering of the afflicted. The
death knell of the wounded.

"Scully..."

I hear his insistent voice and feel the door knob rattle
against my back. My head falls against the wood frame in
exasperation.

I forgot that a locked door draws Mulder like a magnet.

I can almost see him unsheathing his lock pick right now.

"Scully, please." His voice takes on a pleading tone.
"Open the door."

"And deny you the pleasure of probing inanimate objects?" I
sneer in a loud voice.

He doesn't respond.

The corner of my mouth lifts into a malicious grin.

That one got him good.

I think I'm feeling a little better.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and stand back from the door.
Staring at the knob, poised for the first sign of movement, I
hold my breath in anticipation.

Nothing.

Seconds drag into minutes. My eyes finally blink. I press
against the door, listening, trying to sense his nearness.

Nothing.

Curiosity makes me release the lock. I crack the door open
to see if he's there.

He's not.

I shuffle out into the hall, my feet deliberately noisy
against the floor to let him know I'm coming. I find him in the
livingroom, tugging on his jacket. His bags are already by the
front door.

"Where are you going?" There is fear in my voice.

I can't help it. I know he's leaving.

"I'm going home, Scully," Mulder says, not bothering to look
at me as he reaches for my portable phone on the coffee table.

"You can't leave," I protest. "You heard what the doctors
said. I shouldn't be left alone."

"Call your mother," he suggests in a bland tone.

He tosses me the phone. I let it fall to the floor, giving
it a quick glance as the receiver cracks open.

"Oops," I shrug nonchalantly. "I think you broke it."

His eyes meet mine. They are cold and uncompromising.

I realize then that I've gone too far.

He pulls his cell phone from his jacket and begins to punch
in some numbers.

Holy shit. He's calling my mother.

Panic sets in. I rush forward to grab the cell phone from
his hand. He lifts it easily over my head. I actually jump for
it several times before I recognize what a fool I'm making of
myself. I'm acting like a child and he's the babysitter who's
had enough of my naughty behavior.

"Hang up the phone, Mulder," I beg him. I don't want my
mother to know about this drug dependency.

The bastard actually lets it ring twice. I gasp and cry
out,

"Mulder, please."

He clicks the phone off. I exhale slowly with relief.

"I'll stay, Scully," he tells me in an icy voice. "But, no
more fucking wise cracks about what you think is my sex life."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"You're damn right you are," Mulder snaps. He is still
fully goaded. He vents his outrage in a torrent of words.

"You want to talk about inanimate objects? Then let's talk
about you, Scully. You're the one who tried to numb yourself into
not feeling. Now that the drugs are gone, you're trying to claw
through your pain by sinking your nails into mine."

I am too shocked to speak.

His words feel like antiseptic on an open cut. The sting is
so sharp that it snaps me back to reality. I take a deep breath
and steady myself. I scavenge through my cache of dignity, but
the reserve is too low. There's not enough to cover this
degradation, so I settle for pretending.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," I try to sound contrite. "I didn't
mean what I said."

For a split second, his eyes thaw. Then they ice over
again.

"Nice try," Mulder sneers as he reaches for my purse. He
tugs out the discharge papers that I had stuffed inside the
minute my foot stepped outside of the hospital.

"The RAND unit gave you a list of therapists," he reminds
me. "Here, pick one out."

"I already have a therapist," I protest, refusing to take
the papers from his hand.

"Who? Your little friend at the Bureau?" He shakes his
head. "No, Scully, not this time. This isn't about being
comfortable, anymore. It's about exposing the truth."

How ironic. His choice of words rub together like flint
against my brittle nerves, sparking my temper. I'm tempted to
fling the papers back at him. I don't. My mother's anguished face
is a powerful deterrent.

"What's wrong, Scully?" Mulder prods further. "Is the truth
more than you can handle?"

"Actually, Mulder, I think you're the one who can't handle
the truth." I retort. I open the crinkled paper to scan the
list. I already know the name I'm going to chose.

**********

The next day, I find myself waiting outside the office of
Dr. Vandervanak. A multi-syllabic name for a therapist who is
sifting through my partner's multi-faceted mind. The therapist
is a woman, which doesn't mean much to me, but seems to mean alot
to Scully. I squirm restlessly, flipping through magazines that
are as uncomfortable as my chair. Articles entitled "When
Partners No Longer Communicate", "Why Your Man Doesn't Hear You"
and "Sex: The Ultimate Bond in a Loving Relationship" are
screaming accusations at me. I toss the magazines aside and
stare at the floor. I begin a more useful activity of counting
its honeycombed tiles.

By the time I reach two hundred, the door opens and Scully
steps out into the waiting room. I slap the sides of my thighs
and spring out the chair, anxious to go. I don't notice the
sullen expression on her face until we're inside my car.

"You okay, Scully?" I ask.

She nods and turns her head away from me. She focuses her
attention out the window as I start the car. I drive several
miles, frequently taking my eyes off the road for a quick glimpse
of her. Although I am only presented her profile, I see that her
lips are moving as if she's talking to herself.

Leave her alone, I remind myself. When she's ready to talk,
she'll let you know.

And, shit, does she. As I'm braking for a traffic light,
she states in a toneless voice,

"Dr. Vandervanak thinks I should resign from the Bureau."

My foot drops as heavily as my heart.

The car screeches to a stop. Gripping the wheel, I try to
resist the urge to steer her away from this conclusion. I wait
for the light to change, then proceed cautiously.

"Maybe your doctor is right, Scully. But, you don't have to
resign from the Bureau to leave the X-files."

"It's not the X-files I need to leave. It's you."

Her admission almost kills us both. I almost rear end the
truck ahead of us. Scully gasps and grabs my arm. I jerk the
wheel and the car swerves to the side of the road.

For a minute, we're both too stunned to speak. I am shaking
with adrenaline, but not from the near collision. My voice is
raspy, quivering with emotion.

"This new doctor certainly cuts to the chase."

"Mulder," Scully closes her eyes and sighs. "This isn't the
first time I've seen her."

"Excuse me?"

"This summer I had a number of sessions with Dr.
Vandervanak."

"Funny how your partner is always the last to know."

"I didn't tell you because it was about you."

It's my turn to lapse into silence. I gaze through the car
window just in time to watch my world fall apart.

"Mulder?"

I don't answer her. I can't.

"You okay, Mulder?"

"Yeah," I choke out. Shifting the car back into drive, I
look for traffic before I pull out to the road.

After several miles, Scully asks me,

"What are you thinking?"

"Right now I'm focusing on my driving."

I'm a lousy liar and she knows it. Out of the corner of my
eye, I see her bite her lip. Scully's lip chewing can mean only
two things. Regret or contemplation.

God, please let it be regret.

I brake for the next traffic light. Both of us stare at it,
tensely waiting for it to turn green.

"Why can't you talk to me?" She breaks the silence first.

"Because we don't talk, we banter," I remind her, tossing my
head sarcastically.

"Light's changed," she comments dryly.

"You want to know what I'm thinking?" I suddenly release my
anguish because I can't contain it anymore. "I'm thinking about
the women in my life, Scully. Those I love always find a way to
leave me."

"I didn't know I belonged to such a distinguished group,"
she says in a hurt voice.

"Scully, you're at the top of the list."

"Oh..." She is quiet for a moment. Then her tone changes
into one of curiosity. "Who else is on the list?"

"Jesus," I grit my teeth. "I just told you that I love you
more than anyone else. Instead of acknowledging my feelings,
you'd rather scrutinize them to make sure they fit your
standards."

Scully doesn't answer. She drops her gaze to her hands
which are clasped tightly on her lap.

I park the car in front of her apartment complex. Cutting
the ignition, I turn to face her.

"What's this pain all about, Scully? Is it about us?"

Scully turns back to the window.

"There is no us, Mulder," she says in a bleak tone.

"Bullshit." I explode. "We both know better. And, so
would your therapist if you told her the truth."

"And, what truth is that?"

"That you hide from your emotions instead of dealing with
them." I tell her. "I've been watching you do it for years,
Scully. Rather than show your feelings, you conceal them under an
impassive mask."

She doesn't answer. I watch her lips pinch together and
realize I've finally touched a nerve.

"What happened Scully? What made you switch from hiding to
numbing?"

"It's not that simple, Mulder."

"Nothing ever is," I scoff. "And, I think you prefer to keep
it that way."

"Wow," she snorts bitterly. "Who needs a shrink when I have
a profiler?"

"Stop it," I catch her hand. I feel her nails dig into my
skin. "Damn it, I said stop it."

Startled, her fingers relax in my hold.

"Tell your therapist the truth, Scully." I plead. "If the
bottom line is about us, we can start seeing her together."

"No..." Her cry sounds tortured. Twisting away from me, she
bolts out of the car.

I almost break the handle of the door in my agitated efforts
to get out of the car. I sprint after her, catching her before
she enters the building.

"Why?" My voice cracks under the strain I'm feeling. When
she refuses to meet my gaze, I lift her chin so that her eyes are
level with mine.

"Why?" I whisper hoarsely.

"Because...there...is...no...us."

Scully jerks her head away. She continues in a sober voice.

"At one point, I thought there might be. But, I was wrong."

"Scully," I sigh as my eyes squeeze shut. "We can work
this out. Your therapist can help us both deal with this."

"No," she states firmly. "I've discovered another way,
Mulder. I don't need to explore it. I don't have to numb it."

Her eyes meet mine.

"All I do is walk away," she concludes vehemently.

The tension between us suddenly snaps, as does my control.

"Before you do...," I grab her arm and propel her towards
the door. "I think it's time I show you another way of dealing
with this pain of yours."

**********

We barely make it through the front door of my apartment
before Mulder is dragging me to my bedroom. Literally. The
minute I realize his intent, my feet go into brake mode. Four
inch heels dig lines across the hardwood floor. Ignoring my

protests, he lifts me up. Before I can even clutch for support,
I'm dropped onto my bed.

When I try to rise, I find myself pinned down by all six
feet of a him. His mouth lowers to mine before I can speak
another word. His lips are unrelenting. He pulls at mine,
trying different angles to gain entrance past my clenched teeth.
My fingers dig into his shoulders as I try to push him off me.

I think I'm about to suffocate when he lifts his mouth from
mine. I gasp for air and turn my head away, pleading,

"Not like this, Mulder, please...never like this."

"Are you ready to admit it?"

"Admit what?" I choke out.

Mulder speckles my neck with his lips and I feel his fingers
unbuttoning my shirt. I freeze, paralyzed by sensations that are
both frightening and thrilling. I cry out when he pushes aside
the fabric cup of my bra. His fingers lift my breast to his
mouth. He begins to suckle me, teasing my nipple with the tip of
his tongue.

Oh my God...

I almost explode with pleasure. An involuntary moan rises
from my throat.

Suddenly, he lifts his head.

"Say it," Mulder prompts me.

"Say what?" I pant.

"That there is an us," he insists in a low, threatening
voice.

"There is an us..." I whisper as I close my eyes. I hold my
breath, waiting for him to continue this exquisite assault of my
senses.

He doesn't.

I feel his weight shift off of me. My eyes pop open to find
him sitting on the edge of my bed. His face is buried in his
hands.

"Mulder," I whimper his name.

"This isn't the way it's supposed to be," he murmurs in a
broken voice.

I struggle up to a sitting position. My hands tug at his.

"What's it supposed to be?" I cry out.

He turns his head, his eyes revealing his anguish.

"An expression of love," he says softly.

"Oh...." My voice trails off, taking with it the last of my
frenzied want.

"Scully?" His hands gently draw my blouse together. "The
next time your therapist encourages you to leave me, will you
remind her that there is an us?"

"Mulder," I press my forehead against his. "The next time
my therapist makes that suggestion, we'll both be there to remind
her."

To be continued....

Author's Notes: My never ending thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's
Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia,
who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. To those
readers who encourage and tolerate me.

My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing
shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring....

 Title: Comfortably Numb
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, S
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through season six
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it!
Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story
Author's Reminder: This is a work in progress...please be patient with
me...

For previous installments you can find them
at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm

Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship...
smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves...
Your lips move but I can't hear what you say...
I have become comfortably numb...

Part 4 of ? (WIP)

     I stand in the doorway to the bathroom, glancing impatiently
at my watch while Scully performs her latest face painting
ritual. We're going to be late. Our appointment with Dr.
Vandervanack is scheduled in thirty minutes, and I can't tell if my
partner is being nonchalant or simply stalling.

     Had we been on our way to a Gap clearance sale, she would
have already been in the car, honking the horn.

     "You know, Scully," I say diplomatically. "Your beauty is
the type that doesn't need makeup."

     Perhaps it's my tone. Maybe it's the fact that my eyes are
glued on my watch. When I glance up, her gaze meets mine in the
mirror.

     The distance of her eyes is haunting. With one look, she
conveys all that remains unspoken between us. Doubt, the decline
of trust, the cool gaze of a woman who no longer believes me.

     I can't move. I'm stunned by the fact that I've lost
something that I never realized I had.

     Scully's trust.

     How could this have happened? How did we ever reach this
point?

     "Scully..."

     She pushes past me without a word.

     We travel silently by car. I battle a gnawing sense of
dread while she chews thoughtfully on her crimson bottom lip.
Watching her out of the corner of my eye, I expect to see blood
drip from the deep indentures she is creating.

     "Here, try this," I say, reaching inside my jacket for a
pack of gum.

     I am prepared for this session. My pockets are filled with
tissues, lifesavers and even a pack of cigarettes that I found
hidden in her lingerie drawer.

     That she occasionally smokes is no surprise. Hell, there's
been times that only a quick jog or a handful of sunflowers seeds
have stopped me from returning to a habit long ago abandoned.

     What she doesn't know is that years back, during one of my
"dark" periods, I was as chain smoking as our nemesis. Only the
near incineration of my couch, while I slept on it, led me to
kick the habit.

     I'm seriously tempted to light up one right now.

     "Mulder, there's something I have to tell you,"

     My thoughts scatter, replaced by warning lights and the
blast of sirens. I shake my head and hold up a restraining hand.

     "No, you don't." I admonish. "Just because we're in the car
doesn't mean that it's confession time."

     "It's just that I need to explain...."

     "Nope," I cover my ears. "Not until I'm safely harnessed in
on my side of the couch."

     "Fine." Her teeth graze her lip as she lapses back into
silence.

     By the time we enter the reception area of the therapist's
office, my apprehension is in overdrive. Safely harnessed, my
ass. I have the uneasy feeling that I'm a crash dummy who's
about to be loaded into a test car. The obstacle course is
perilously waiting beyond the therapist's door.

     "Good morning," Dr. Vandervanack appears from her office and
waves us inside.

     Scully's therapist is a small, thin, sharp-featured woman
with a heavy German accent. I do a double take, convinced that
the stress of the moment is distorting my vision.

     Nope...the similarity is too striking to be just a
disoriented perspective. I almost roll my head back and laugh.
She looks just like Dr. Evil's assistant in Austin Powers, a
classic "shagadelic" romp of a movie that should only be my life.
But, I'm no swinging secret agent, and although my partner wears
black, she ain't no Mrs. Kensington.

     Not that I mind. I never liked the look of the woman
anyway.

     "It's a pleasure to meet you, Fox," the woman's voice hisses
the "x" sound of my name.

     I want to say "you, too, Frau", but I don't.

     I take my seat on the couch next to my partner. We sit
closely together, our shoulders bumping as we adjust ourselves on
the crinkling leather surface. When I slide my arm casually
across the back of the couch, I feel Scully shrink away from my
touch.

     "He prefers to be called Mulder," she informs Dr. Vandervanack
matter-of-factly.

     The therapist lifts one of her narrow, painted-on eyebrows.
She says nothing until she's takes her seat opposite us and folds
her hands primly on her lap.

     "Why is that, Fox?"

     Her "w's" sound like "v's". I'm so diverted by her accent
that my own droll "vit" slips out before I can stop it.

     "Vell..." I begin. "Try walking around with a name of an
animal that's conventionally thought as sly or deceitful...or
even worse, slang for a man who slinks around with his shirt
unbuttoned, trying to pick up chicks in discos."

     "I see," the therapist reaches for her pad to scribble down
a few notes.

     "That's relevant?" I lean forward to see what's she's
writing.

     "That's asinine," Scully answers. She gestures with her
hand and continues, "Just write down that he prefers to keep the
membership to the "Fox Club" exclusive."

     Whoa...I crane my head towards my partner. Where did that
one come from?

     "Care to elaborate?" I nudge her with my arm.

     "Not even my parents call me Fox." She sarcastically tosses
her head with each word.

     Oh shit. I did feed her that line, didn't I?

     "C'mon, Scully," I try to deflect her. "It's common
practice at the Bureau for partners to address each other on a
last name basis."

     "Unless you're having sex with them," Scully retorts.

     Wham. I've just been hurled into the first test wall. The
obstacle known as the "Fowley barrier" is one I'm already aware
of. Scully's animosity is one sentiment she's incapable of
hiding. And, because it's based on jealousy, I've never tried to
deter it. Maybe I should have. Call it a weakness. Call it a
pathetic attempt to elicit some type of emotional response from a
woman who'd rather suppress her feelings than show them.

     But now, I'm not appreciative. I'm indignant and
embarrassed. Sitting up straight, I look around me and ask,

     "Hey, doesn't this couch come equipped with an air bag?"

     "Excuse me?" Dr. Vandervanack interrupts, obviously confused
by my remark.

     "He's trying to be funny," advises Scully, who is flicking
invisible dust from the armrest with her fingernail. "But, what
he thinks is humerous is really the psychological equivalent of a
brain fart."

     "What a classical assessment, Dr. Scully," I interject,
suddenly irritated. "Jeez, had I known that med school was
handing out psychology degrees, I would have cancelled my
enrollment at Oxford."

     "Now, he's trying to impress you with his credentials,"
Scully continues smoothly.

     I fall back against the couch and lift my hands in
exasperation.

     "Am I allowed to speak for myself or am I just supposed to
sit back and enjoy the ride?"

     "Go ahead, Fox." Dr. Vandervanack prompts me. "Oh, I'm
sorry...go ahead, Mulder."

     "Don't give in to him." There is a noticeable anger in
Scully's voice. "It's bad enough I did."

     Her barbs are sticking to my skin, pricking me, piercing my
composure. Granted, I may not be the most mature, self-assured
man around, but I'm not going to be scolded like some juvenile.
My temper ignites like spark plugs as I reciprocate,

     "Scully, are you headed in any particular direction with
this joy ride, or are you just spinning out of control?"

     "Control is what it's all about, isn't it Mulder?"

     "Yours or mine, Scully?" I fling back. "Cause, if it's
yours then you better re-read your FBI manual about driving while
impaired."

     Scully jerks her head back as if I've just slapped her. Her
cheeks are tinged pink, the first natural pigment I've seen from
her skin in days. She swallows several times then says in a
rasping voice.

     "That was low, Mulder."

     "Yeah it was," I nod, trying to shake off my regret. I feel
like an asshole, but it's better than being made to look like
one. "Look, I didn't come here to exchange insults. And, I
certainly didn't come here to discuss why I dislike the use of my
first name."

     "Why did you come here?" Dr. Vandervanack interrupts.

     "Finally!" I lift my hands up in mock relief. "The
therapist jumps in."

     "Mulder," cautions Scully.

     I ignore her and turn to vent my frustration on her doctor.

     "I'm here because you told Scully to walk away from me." I
shake my head in agitated disbelief. "Don't misunderstand, Doc.
I have enough guilt about Scully and the trauma's she suffered to
keep you in business until you retire. But, since when do
psychologists encourage their patients to run from their problems
rather than face them?"

     "Hmmm..." Dr. Vandervanack rests her pen and pad down on the
table beside her. Her attention shifts from me to Scully. For a
moment, she studies my partner closely. Her pointed gaze hints
that something is wrong. I follow her direction and glance at
the woman seated next to me.

     Scully's profile reminds me of a statue. The tinge of her
anger drains from her cheeks, leaving her skin the color of
alabaster marble. She stares vacantly ahead, paralyzed,
impervious to our penetrating looks.

     "Dana," Dr. Vandervanack addresses her gently. "Do you
remember our last session? My recommendation was quite the
opposite. I suggested that you ask your partner to come here so
I might help you both address the issues between you."

     She lied. God damn her. She lied to me. I feel my own
breath being crushed from my lungs as I'm smashed into another
wall on this road test we call therapy. Except this obstacle is
one Scully has created through manipulation and deceit.

     "You played me, Scully?" I growl, unable to contain my fury.

     "Give her a moment," says the therapist, holding up a
restraining hand.

     "Why? To give her time to fabricate another lie?"

     "Don't try to analyze Dana, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Vandervanack
cautions. "That's my job."

     "Then do your job, Dr. Vandervanack," I snap back. "Stop
mollifying her. If you lack the sufficient experience to get
into her head and figure out what the hell is going on in there,
then step back and let me do it."

     "Excuse me, Mr. Mulder, but you've already proven to be
ineffective when it comes to communicating with your partner,"
responds the therapist crisply.

     "Stop..." Scully suddenly interrupts. Our heated debate
ceases as our attention is returned to its source.

     "If you're both going to talk about me as if I'm not here,
then I might as well leave," she announces, rising from the
couch.

     "Scully..." I grab her arm. She jerks away from me and
hisses,

     "Back off, Mulder."

     "Dana, please sit down," urges her therapist.

     "I knew this was a mistake," Scully says through clenched
teeth. "I should have listened with my head instead of my
heart."

     "Maybe you should try letting me into your heart before you
make that decision," I reproach her.

     "I can't do that," she dismisses me with an dispositive
flick of her wrist.

     "Don't think you can just brush me off, Scully," I tell her
determinedly. "I'm as imprinted on you as you are on me."

     "Well, don't start dusting for prints quite yet," she snaps.
"The match you're looking for may not be there."

     I spring to my feet. We face off like adversaries. Had we
worn them, I think both of our guns would be drawn at this point.
Her eyes clash with mine. They are no longer dull, but alive.
Brilliant, blindingly blue, shooting off sparks like the flash of
a sword. As enraged as I am, I can't help but feel a rush of
adrenaline for this woman. She challenges me, electrifies me,
stimulates me not just to anger, but sexual excitement.

     "You know, Scully. If we ever make it to bed, I think
you'll find that we're perfectly matched."

     "So typical...," she rolls her eyes and exhales sharply.
She shakes her head at Dr. Vandervanack before leaving the room.

******

     I can't believe what a fucking asshole he is.

     I am humiliated and furious over his behavior. How did I
ever fall in love with such an immature, egocentric man who
thinks the only way to my heart is through his prick?

     My mind must really be unhinged.

     Rage is a powerful amphetamine. As a doctor, I can easily
recite the effects of stress hormones. But, as a former junkie,
I merely appreciate the surge of energy that my anger provides.
Unwilling to wait for the elevator, I smack open the stairwell
door.

     I am going to escape this fiasco my doctor calls "couples
therapy". I'll walk home if I have too. I don't even care that
several miles of pavement will mostly likely grind down the heels
of my new Calvin Kline boots.

     "Scully!" I hear Mulder's voice boom from above. He's
following me. I'm two flights of stairs into my descent, so I
feel confident enough to stop and lean into the cavity of the
stairwell and shout back,

     "Fuck you, Mulder."

     My voice reverberates off the walls. It sounds foreign. I
am using profanity I only think and never say. But, now could
let loose a stream of obscenities that would curl the straightest
hair. My teeth clamp down on my lower lip as I try to fight this
crude, undignified impulse.

     I hear Mulder's steps quicken and remember that long legs
often overtake short ones. My boots clump heavily down the
stairs and I have to grasp the hand rail so I won't lose my
balance. As I reach the fourth floor landing, I hear the
screeching of his shoes as he rounds the corner of the fifth
floor.

     "I'm really getting tired of chasing you," I hear him
threaten.

     "Then don't." I yell back.

     Suddenly, Mulder vaults over the railing and lands right
behind me. It startles me so much that I lose my footing on the
steps. I teeter, almost falling backwards. He catches my arms
and tugs me towards him. He steadies me while I glance nervously
over my shoulder at the cement stairs that hazardously drop below
me.

     "Thanks," I murmur, pushing away from him.

     "You're bleeding," he observes, tugging a kleenex from his
pocket. I've bitten my lip too deeply. Without a word, he
gently dabs the blood from my mouth.

     "I'm fine," I assert, taking the kleenex from his hand.

     "You're not fine, Scully," Mulder says softly. "Then again,
neither am I. But, we've already acknowledged that there is an
"us". Let's not throw away what might be our last chance of
discovering what that can mean."

     "Don't get melodramatic on me, Mulder." I respond. "It's
simply a matter of compatibility, or rather a lack of it."

     "No, Scully, you're wrong. We wouldn't have made it through
six years if we weren't compatible."

     "That's work, Mulder. I'm talking about life. In that
venue we're too different to make "us" happen."

     "Haven't you ever heard that opposites attract?"

     "Opposites also repel," I argue. "I think we just proved
that."

     "What we proved is that it's going to take more than one
therapy session to straighten things out between us." He asserts
strongly.

     "Why do you even want to?" I cry out in frustration. "Don't
make this thing between us your new obsession, Mulder. I can't
stomach being an object of your dysfunction."

     "How can loving you be dysfunctional?" he asks solemnly.

     "Because it's damaging to us both." I lower my gaze. I
don't want to look at him. I'm afraid to.

     "Are you saying we should stop?"

     "I'm saying you should. I...I already have, Mulder."

     "Prove it." He suddenly cups my face with his hands. His
voice chokes with emotion. "Look me straight in the eyes and tell
me that you don't love me."

     My gaze meet his. The tears in his hazel eyes draw my own.

     God help me. The lie is poised on my lips, but the agony in
my heart silences it. My vision mists over with bittersweet
realization. Despite my attempts to flee, distort and deceive, I
am as bound to him as he is to me.

     "No," I whisper, closing my eyes. "I can't say that I don't
love you, Mulder, because I do. It's just that I want it to be
something other than an affliction."

     "Does this feel like an affliction?" He murmurs as his lips
brush against mine.

     It is the kiss I've been waiting for. Soft, tender, devoid
of lust, not provoked by anger or desperation. An acknowledgment
of our feelings. A renewal of our commitment.

     My hands slide up to his shoulders and twine around his
neck. My lips glide over his. His circle mine. Gently, our
mouths caress and linger against each others. As the intensity
increases, we withdraw, careful not to destroy the tranquility of
what is finally good between us.

     Oh...how many times have I dreamt of this moment? I used to
imagine it over and over, filling my mind with it, allowing it to
wash over my body and drown out the pain. The pain...when they
came for me...when the tests began...when the...

     "What did you say?" Mulder breaks away from me suddenly.

     "What?" I ask as I open my eyes.

     "You imagined us together when the pain started?" He chokes
out in an incredulous voice. "When the tests began?"

     "What are you talking about?" I gape at his puzzled
expression.

     "Scully, you just said..."

     "I didn't say anything, Mulder." I interrupt him.

     Or did I? Did I speak my thoughts aloud?

     "Oh my God," he mumbles, pulling me against him. His
embrace is fierce and protective. For a moment, my face is
pressed against the collar of his shirt. I cringe when I see
drops of blood from my lip soaking into the material.

     "Why can't I stop bleeding?" I gasp, clutching his arms in
panic.

     "We'll find a way to stop it," he promises in a strong,
certain voice.

     He knows. He now understands that my wound goes deeper than
this relationship.

     When I look up at him, I see my blood smeared against his
lips. I suddenly feel dizzy. My thoughts are spiraling, caught
in a whirlpool of fear and uncertainty.

     Must I bleed on him? Does healing involve sharing the
pain?

     I cling to him as he leads me out of the stairwell. His arm
is securely around my waist as he guides me towards the elevator.

     "I can't go back upstairs," I plead with him, thinking that
he intends to return to Dr. Vandervanack's office.

     "We're not," He assures me. "We're going home."

     Home. The way he says it makes me want to believe,
reminding me of the poster that hangs once again in our office.
I want to believe. Not in the X-files, not in the paranormal,
but simply us.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     My need to know the truth about Scully's pain conflicts with
my need to protect her from it.

     And, taunting me even more is the desire to physically
express a love that words have only managed to damage.

     Balance...I need to find some balance here....

     Scully....

     I get up from my chair and sit down on the side of her bed.
Even the distance of a few feet is too much. I need to be near
her.

     She's been napping for hours. This morning's session with
Dr. Vandervanack must have really exhausted her.

     Morning clouds give away to afternoon sunshine. The winter
sun feels tepid against my back, but its rays stream brightly
across the room. The light falls on Scully's face, bathing her
pale skin with a golden glow. In sleep, her features are
relaxed. No lines course her forehead, no tension collects
around her mouth.

     She really is beautiful. Next time, I'll make sure my eyes
express what my voice fails to convey.

     I delicately trace my finger across her swollen lower lip
before pressing it to mine.

     Earlier, I tried to absorb her blood with my kiss. I wanted
to sponge away her pain and anxiety.

     If only I could bleed for her.

     Then my blood would finally be well spent.

     Oh, Scully...

     "Your wound runs deep, doesn't it? It's not only about us.
Our tortured relationship is but one piece of your jigsaw pain."

     But, maybe...maybe if we finally glue ourselves together,
we'll be able to put the pieces of this puzzle into place.

     I rub the side of my jaw in tired agitation.

     Stop analogizing and focus.

     She gave you the biggest clue in the stairwell. The
pain...the tests...

     Her abduction.

     She's having flashbacks.

     "How long has this been going on, Scully? What triggered
it? Did it start when that ass wipe of an agent blew a hole into
your stomach?"

     I do a mental search, trying to associate one type of pain
with another. The pain of an abdominal wound, the well
categorized stories of alien abductees.

     There has to be a link between the two.

     For some reason, I think of Duane Berry and how his body was
riddled with implants. They were drilled into his teeth,
inserted into stomach...

     Holy fucking shit...

     I lift the edge of Scully's shirt and stare at her stomach.
The incision from her surgery is healed, but the scar is jagged.
It resembles a stark red line across her creamy skin.

     Although I'm no doctor, I begin to palpate her abdomen like
one. In my fear, I examine her for some tell tale sign of an
implant.

     "Mulder, what are you doing?"

     Scully's eyes are open, wide and pale blue in the sunlight.
I immediately jerk back, caught in an act that could be easily
misconstrued.

     "Sorry, Scully..." I clear my throat. "I was just..."

     She catches my hand.

     "It's alright," she whispers. "I want you to touch me."

     Screech.... I slam my brakes for what I perceive to be
another flashing red light.

     No way...don't do it, pal...you'll be sorry...

     "Do you love me, Mulder?" she asks calmly.

     "You know I do, but..."

     "Prove it," she responds in a sedate, no-nonsense voice.

     Oh God. The voice of my Scully is back. Cool, rational,
allowing for no compromise or misinterpretation.

     My palms suddenly feel as sweaty as a teenagers.

     I think she senses my apprehension. Releasing my hand, she
begins to unbutton her blouse, pausing at the third one down.
She gives me an expectant look. When I don't respond, she takes
my hand and guides it to her breast.

     Whoa....

     Well...maybe it's not a red light after all.

     Maybe it's yellow...the signal that says proceed with
caution.

     My thumb begins a slow circle around the silk of her shirt.
I feel her nipple harden under my touch and the sensation nearly
topples me off her bed. A cold perspiration teases the back of
my neck, making the collar of my shirt feel itchy. When I try to
loosen my tie, she sits up suddenly and whispers,

     "Let me do that."

     I can smell the fresh scent of her hair as she leans into
me. Her fingers are busy, tugging off my tie, unbuttoning and
stripping off my shirt.

     I'm so mesmerized that I can't move, much less breathe.

     Her hands glide up my torso, caressing and massaging the
muscles of my chest.

     "Oh God, Mulder," she murmurs in an appreciative voice.
"You really are worth the trouble, aren't you?"

     "Nothing you haven't seen before," I shrug, unable to keep
my nervousness under control.

     "Not with the vision I have now," Scully conveys.

     Her eyes are so clear that I can spot tiny gold flecks
surface from their azure depths. No longer strained in confusion
or dulled by pain, they reflect such certainty that I'm able to
find my own confidence in them.

     My hands regain their agility. The buttons to her blouse
draw me like a magnet. I hold her steady gaze as I glide the
silky material down her back. Skimming her neck with my fingers,
I twine them in her hair and lift the strands to the light.

     "Your hair shines like amber in the sunlight," I murmur.

     I'm hardly a poet, but she makes me want to try.

*******

     He's hardly a poet, but I love him for trying...

     And, I'm ready to show him.

     A minute ago, he was scared. Paralyzed. Like a deer caught
in the headlights of a car that had tried to plow him down
earlier.

     Men...they really can be such silly creatures.

     Especially this one.

     He may not understand the timing, but that's because he's
Mulder. He's always in a sexual ready mode.

     He has yet to comprehend this difference between us.

     This man is the physical to my mental. What I perceive as
an argument, he considers foreplay.

     But, the other Mulder...the one who breaks off a kiss before
it spins out of control...who watches over me while I sleep...who
sheds tears of grief because of my pain...this is the Mulder I
can make love to.

     Waking up to his pawing my stomach like an agitated puppy
does more than tug at my heart. It restores humor to a
relationship that has been so bitter lately.

     But now, my amusement and comparison to cuteness stops as
my own hands course his chest.

     This is a man. And a virile one. Strong, athletic,
muscular in all the right places, deliciously lean in others.
The afternoon sun only accentuates his tawny perfection. I can't
help but travel his body with appreciative eyes and eager
fingers. As I remove the rest of his clothes, I explore him with
all my senses intact, awakened and revitalized.

     Neither one of us wants to rush. His touch remains sensual,
drawing goosebumps from my skin and tingles down my spine. Each
layer of my clothing floats off as gracefully as a veil. He
traces the outline of my body as if he's about to commit my
figure to canvas.

     This man may not be a poet, but I think I'm about to
discover that part of him which is an artist.

     He kiss is so gentle. He circumvents my lower lip, focusing
on the one above it. I think he's afraid he might hurt me, that
the cut might not be healed enough to sustain the pressure of his
mouth.

     I'll have to put an end to his fear.

     I open my mouth, encouraging him to allow his impulse to
take over. His tongue swirls around mine, pulling, tasting,
savoring. He retreats only long enough for me to catch my breath
before beginning again.

     My hands roam the expanse of his back and shoulders. As his
lips lower to the arch of my neck, my fingers fan out across his
skin. Joints extend and nails begin to scrape in almost feline
delight as his mouth slides down to my breasts.

     I hear a sound forming in my throat....

     Please don't let it be a purr.....

     It's comes out as a moan.

     Quiet acceptable. And, appropriate, considering what he's
doing. While his tongue teases one nipple, his fingers entice
the other. My breasts are no longer mine, but his.

     Oh...he really does know what I like...

     By the time he parts my legs with his hands, my knees are
shaking. Despite myself, I tense. This is intimacy at its worst
or best, depending on your viewpoint. And, your partner.

     "Relax, Dana, I won't bite." he says in an amused voice.

     Keep it up, buddy. Take a good look at the bite mark on my
lip and remember what I'm capable of.

     "I'll keep that in mind," he responds, chuckling.

     Can he read my thoughts? Jesus, Mary and Joseph....I hope
not....

     Relax....I'm being ridiculous. And, I'm being careless.
The slip-up in the stairwell was bad enough. If I keep speaking
my thoughts, he'll know....

     Mulder inches his lips down my thigh.

     Oh God...

     I hold my breath as his fingers spread me open.

     Let my thoughts be replaced by this...

     The first flicker of his tongue makes me gasp. Like an
artist's paint brush, each stroke draws hues of exquisite
pleasure. My head falls back to the pillow. Skillful and
creative, he is painting with watercolors, filling my mind with
Monet inspired analogies.

     Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of light.

     Don't look...

     I close my eyes. I feel his finger dip into me, drawing out
another hue of arousal. Colors blend into pastel splashes of
delight. He swirls and blends, fingers and tongue, to complete
what is becoming the portrait of my desire.

     "Mulder, please...." I whisper urgently. "It's about us,
remember?"

     He stops before it's too late. Raising his head, he agrees
softly.

     "Us...."

     I feel his hands caress my hips before he gently raises
them.

     With one fluid motion we are united.

     We sway together, slide into each other, merge and meld to a
indulgent, slow rhythm. His lips find mine. Each kiss deepens,
enhancing what is destined to be our mutual gratification.

     When my breath becomes to rapid to sustain the tiniest of
gasps, he lifts his mouth and pleads,

     "Scully, open your eyes..."

     "I can't...the sun's too bright..."

     "Scully...please look at me...now...please..."

     The sound of his release discharges my own like a bullet
from a gun. It thunders in my ears as pleasure crackles like
lightening through every nerve ending. My back arches and my
eyes fly open to witness what should be the most profound moment
between us.

     Except it's not.

     I can't see him.

     The light...

     It's blinding me...it's sizzling white...laser sharp...

     The scream that follows is not one of pleasure.

*******

     I fight the temptation to clamp my hand over her mouth.

     Jeez...I never figured this woman to be a screamer.

     Not that I mind...

     I just don't want the neighbors to think I'm killing her.

     When I see the terror in her eyes, I realize that I should
have known better. Scully might be passionate, but
never...ever...does she lose control.

     Control is taken from her.

     It's happening again, right now.

     "The light...the light..." she cries hysterically, pointing
to the window.

     I roll off her, scrambling to my feet. I'm met by such a
massive head rush that I almost fall down. Staggering to the
window, I yank the blinds closed, shutting out the sunlight.

     In the dimness of the room, I see her shadow bolt from the
bed. She races for the bathroom, but is so disoriented that she
collides with the bedroom door. Her trembling hands pattern the
wall, guiding her like a blind woman to her destination.

     "Scully..." I call after her. I begin to follow, but stop
when I stub my toe on the corner of her bed.

     Shit...the pain is sharp enough to send me hopping.

     By the time I bounce into the bathroom, Scully is scavenging
through her vanity cabinet like a wild woman. Her fingers
frantically search for something. Jars of makeup, a tube of
toothpaste, her brush....all come flying over her shoulder. Only
a bottle of pills stops her frenzy.

     She stares at the label then shrieks in frustration.

     Tylenol...

     She's obviously looking for a stronger pain reliever.

     "Scully...stop." I grab her shoulders and whirl her around.

     "Make it stop..." she wails, clutching my arms.

     "Only you can make it stop," I yell back at her, clasping
her face in my hands. "Tell me what happened, Scully. Tell me
about the light."

     Suddenly, she squeezes her eyes closed. Her grip on my arms
relaxes as she pants out the last of her hysteria.

     "It's gone..." she exhales, slowly. "It's over."

     "It's not over," I insist. "It'll never be over until you
confront the truth."

     "What truth is that, Mulder?"

     "The truth about your abduction. You're having flashbacks,
aren't you?"

     "I don't want to talk about it."

     "You have to, Scully. You're incapable of repressing it
anymore. It's coming out whether you like it or not. But,
Scully...stop lying about it...stop disguising it as pain."

     "What I could really use is something to numb it," she
ignores me, voicing her thoughts out loud.

     Her eyes widen and nervously meets mine.

     "I didn't mean that, Mulder."

     "Sure you did," I release her. "And, you'll find your way
back to drugs unless you break the hold this trauma has on you."

     Scully's eyes swell with tears. They don't fall, but freeze
over into an icy stare. Her hands begin to unconsciously rub her
thighs. They are sticky from our lovemaking.

     "I need a shower," she whispers, turning away.

     "Go ahead," I tell her abruptly. "You might be able to
cleanse yourself of me, but don't think you can scrub away the
truth about yourself."

     Scully steps inside the shower stall and draws the curtain
on me and our conversation.

     Gritting my teeth, I pace the bathroom. As the steam of the
hot water fills the air, I lean over to pick up the bottle of
Tylenol. Angrily, I hurl the bottle into the hallway. The lid
pops open and scatters pills across the hardwood floor.

     So much for intimacy. She may have offered me her body, but
her heart is still miles away.

     Worse yet, I think she's inches from relapsing.

To be continued.....

Author's Notes: My never ending thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's
Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia,
who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. To those
readers who encourage and tolerate me.

     My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing
shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring....

Title: Comfortably Numb
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, S
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through season six
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it!
Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story
Author's Reminder: This is a work in progress...please be patient with
me...

For previous installments you can find them
at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm

Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship...
smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves...
Your lips move but I can't hear what you say...
I have become comfortably numb...

Part 5 of ? (WIP)

     My need to know the truth about Scully's pain conflicts with
my need to protect her from it.

     And, taunting me even more is the desire to physically
express a love that words have only managed to damage.

     Balance...I need to find some balance here....

     Scully....

     I get up from my chair and sit down on the side of her bed.
Even the distance of a few feet is too much. I need to be near
her.

     She's been napping for hours. This morning's session with
Dr. Vandervanack must have really exhausted her.

     Morning clouds give away to afternoon sunshine. The winter
sun feels tepid against my back, but its rays stream brightly
across the room. The light falls on Scully's face, bathing her
pale skin with a golden glow. In sleep, her features are
relaxed. No lines course her forehead, no tension collects
around her mouth.

     She really is beautiful. Next time, I'll make sure my eyes
express what my voice fails to convey.

     I delicately trace my finger across her swollen lower lip
before pressing it to mine.

     Earlier, I tried to absorb her blood with my kiss. I wanted
to sponge away her pain and anxiety.

     If only I could bleed for her.

     Then my blood would finally be well spent.

     Oh, Scully...

     "Your wound runs deep, doesn't it? It's not only about us.
Our tortured relationship is but one piece of your jigsaw pain."

     But, maybe...maybe if we finally glue ourselves together,
we'll be able to put the pieces of this puzzle into place.

     I rub the side of my jaw in tired agitation.

     Stop analogizing and focus.

     She gave you the biggest clue in the stairwell. The
pain...the tests...

     Her abduction.

     She's having flashbacks.

     "How long has this been going on, Scully? What triggered
it? Did it start when that ass wipe of an agent blew a hole into
your stomach?"

     I do a mental search, trying to associate one type of pain
with another. The pain of an abdominal wound, the well
categorized stories of alien abductees.

     There has to be a link between the two.

     For some reason, I think of Duane Berry and how his body was
riddled with implants. They were drilled into his teeth,
inserted into stomach...

     Holy fucking shit...

     I lift the edge of Scully's shirt and stare at her stomach.
The incision from her surgery is healed, but the scar is jagged.
It resembles a stark red line across her creamy skin.

     Although I'm no doctor, I begin to palpate her abdomen like
one. In my fear, I examine her for some tell tale sign of an
implant.

     "Mulder, what are you doing?"

     Scully's eyes are open, wide and pale blue in the sunlight.
I immediately jerk back, caught in an act that could be easily
misconstrued.

     "Sorry, Scully..." I clear my throat. "I was just..."

     She catches my hand.

     "It's alright," she whispers. "I want you to touch me."

     Screech.... I slam my brakes for what I perceive to be
another flashing red light.

     No way...don't do it, pal...you'll be sorry...

     "Do you love me, Mulder?" she asks calmly.

     "You know I do, but..."

     "Prove it," she responds in a sedate, no-nonsense voice.

     Oh God. The voice of my Scully is back. Cool, rational,
allowing for no compromise or misinterpretation.

     My palms suddenly feel as sweaty as a teenagers.

     I think she senses my apprehension. Releasing my hand, she
begins to unbutton her blouse, pausing at the third one down.
She gives me an expectant look. When I don't respond, she takes
my hand and guides it to her breast.

     Whoa....

     Well...maybe it's not a red light after all.

     Maybe it's yellow...the signal that says proceed with
caution.

     My thumb begins a slow circle around the silk of her shirt.
I feel her nipple harden under my touch and the sensation nearly
topples me off her bed. A cold perspiration teases the back of
my neck, making the collar of my shirt feel itchy. When I try to
loosen my tie, she sits up suddenly and whispers,

     "Let me do that."

     I can smell the fresh scent of her hair as she leans into
me. Her fingers are busy, tugging off my tie, unbuttoning and
stripping off my shirt.

     I'm so mesmerized that I can't move, much less breathe.

     Her hands glide up my torso, caressing and massaging the
muscles of my chest.

     "Oh God, Mulder," she murmurs in an appreciative voice.
"You really are worth the trouble, aren't you?"

     "Nothing you haven't seen before," I shrug, unable to keep
my nervousness under control.

     "Not with the vision I have now," Scully conveys.

     Her eyes are so clear that I can spot tiny gold flecks
surface from their azure depths. No longer strained in confusion
or dulled by pain, they reflect such certainty that I'm able to
find my own confidence in them.

     My hands regain their agility. The buttons to her blouse
draw me like a magnet. I hold her steady gaze as I glide the
silky material down her back. Skimming her neck with my fingers,
I twine them in her hair and lift the strands to the light.

     "Your hair shines like amber in the sunlight," I murmur.

     I'm hardly a poet, but she makes me want to try.

*******

     He's hardly a poet, but I love him for trying...

     And, I'm ready to show him.

     A minute ago, he was scared. Paralyzed. Like a deer caught
in the headlights of a car that had tried to plow him down
earlier.

     Men...they really can be such silly creatures.

     Especially this one.

     He may not understand the timing, but that's because he's
Mulder. He's always in a sexual ready mode.

     He has yet to comprehend this difference between us.

     This man is the physical to my mental. What I perceive as
an argument, he considers foreplay.

     But, the other Mulder...the one who breaks off a kiss before
it spins out of control...who watches over me while I sleep...who
sheds tears of grief because of my pain...this is the Mulder I
can make love to.

     Waking up to his pawing my stomach like an agitated puppy
does more than tug at my heart. It restores humor to a
relationship that has been so bitter lately.

     But now, my amusement and comparison to cuteness stops as
my own hands course his chest.

     This is a man. And a virile one. Strong, athletic,
muscular in all the right places, deliciously lean in others.
The afternoon sun only accentuates his tawny perfection. I can't
help but travel his body with appreciative eyes and eager
fingers. As I remove the rest of his clothes, I explore him with
all my senses intact, awakened and revitalized.

     Neither one of us wants to rush. His touch remains sensual,
drawing goosebumps from my skin and tingles down my spine. Each
layer of my clothing floats off as gracefully as a veil. He
traces the outline of my body as if he's about to commit my
figure to canvas.

     This man may not be a poet, but I think I'm about to
discover that part of him which is an artist.

     He kiss is so gentle. He circumvents my lower lip, focusing
on the one above it. I think he's afraid he might hurt me, that
the cut might not be healed enough to sustain the pressure of his
mouth.

     I'll have to put an end to his fear.

     I open my mouth, encouraging him to allow his impulse to
take over. His tongue swirls around mine, pulling, tasting,
savoring. He retreats only long enough for me to catch my breath
before beginning again.

     My hands roam the expanse of his back and shoulders. As his
lips lower to the arch of my neck, my fingers fan out across his
skin. Joints extend and nails begin to scrape in almost feline
delight as his mouth slides down to my breasts.

     I hear a sound forming in my throat....

     Please don't let it be a purr.....

     It's comes out as a moan.

     Quiet acceptable. And, appropriate, considering what he's
doing. While his tongue teases one nipple, his fingers entice
the other. My breasts are no longer mine, but his.

     Oh...he really does know what I like...

     By the time he parts my legs with his hands, my knees are
shaking. Despite myself, I tense. This is intimacy at its worst
or best, depending on your viewpoint. And, your partner.

     "Relax, Dana, I won't bite." he says in an amused voice.

     Keep it up, buddy. Take a good look at the bite mark on my
lip and remember what I'm capable of.

     "I'll keep that in mind," he responds, chuckling.

     Can he read my thoughts? Jesus, Mary and Joseph....I hope
not....

     Relax....I'm being ridiculous. And, I'm being careless.
The slip-up in the stairwell was bad enough. If I keep speaking
my thoughts, he'll know....

     Mulder inches his lips down my thigh.

     Oh God...

     I hold my breath as his fingers spread me open.

     Let my thoughts be replaced by this...

     The first flicker of his tongue makes me gasp. Like an
artist's paint brush, each stroke draws hues of exquisite
pleasure. My head falls back to the pillow. Skillful and
creative, he is painting with watercolors, filling my mind with
Monet inspired analogies.

     Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of light.

     Don't look...

     I close my eyes. I feel his finger dip into me, drawing out
another hue of arousal. Colors blend into pastel splashes of
delight. He swirls and blends, fingers and tongue, to complete
what is becoming the portrait of my desire.

     "Mulder, please...." I whisper urgently. "It's about us,
remember?"

     He stops before it's too late. Raising his head, he agrees
softly.

     "Us...."

     I feel his hands caress my hips before he gently raises
them.

     With one fluid motion we are united.

     We sway together, slide into each other, merge and meld to a
indulgent, slow rhythm. His lips find mine. Each kiss deepens,
enhancing what is destined to be our mutual gratification.

     When my breath becomes to rapid to sustain the tiniest of
gasps, he lifts his mouth and pleads,

     "Scully, open your eyes..."

     "I can't...the sun's too bright..."

     "Scully...please look at me...now...please..."

     The sound of his release discharges my own like a bullet
from a gun. It thunders in my ears as pleasure crackles like
lightening through every nerve ending. My back arches and my
eyes fly open to witness what should be the most profound moment
between us.

     Except it's not.

     I can't see him.

     The light...

     It's blinding me...it's sizzling white...laser sharp...

     The scream that follows is not one of pleasure.

*******

     I fight the temptation to clamp my hand over her mouth.

     Jeez...I never figured this woman to be a screamer.

     Not that I mind...

     I just don't want the neighbors to think I'm killing her.

     When I see the terror in her eyes, I realize that I should
have known better. Scully might be passionate, but
never...ever...does she lose control.

     Control is taken from her.

     It's happening again, right now.

     "The light...the light..." she cries hysterically, pointing
to the window.

     I roll off her, scrambling to my feet. I'm met by such a
massive head rush that I almost fall down. Staggering to the
window, I yank the blinds closed, shutting out the sunlight.

     In the dimness of the room, I see her shadow bolt from the
bed. She races for the bathroom, but is so disoriented that she
collides with the bedroom door. Her trembling hands pattern the
wall, guiding her like a blind woman to her destination.

     "Scully..." I call after her. I begin to follow, but stop
when I stub my toe on the corner of her bed.

     Shit...the pain is sharp enough to send me hopping.

     By the time I bounce into the bathroom, Scully is scavenging
through her vanity cabinet like a wild woman. Her fingers
frantically search for something. Jars of makeup, a tube of
toothpaste, her brush....all come flying over her shoulder. Only
a bottle of pills stops her frenzy.

     She stares at the label then shrieks in frustration.

     Tylenol...

     She's obviously looking for a stronger pain reliever.

     "Scully...stop." I grab her shoulders and whirl her around.

     "Make it stop..." she wails, clutching my arms.

     "Only you can make it stop," I yell back at her, clasping
her face in my hands. "Tell me what happened, Scully. Tell me
about the light."

     Suddenly, she squeezes her eyes closed. Her grip on my arms
relaxes as she pants out the last of her hysteria.

     "It's gone..." she exhales, slowly. "It's over."

     "It's not over," I insist. "It'll never be over until you
confront the truth."

     "What truth is that, Mulder?"

     "The truth about your abduction. You're having flashbacks,
aren't you?"

     "I don't want to talk about it."

     "You have to, Scully. You're incapable of repressing it
anymore. It's coming out whether you like it or not. But,
Scully...stop lying about it...stop disguising it as pain."

     "What I could really use is something to numb it," she
ignores me, voicing her thoughts out loud.

     Her eyes widen and nervously meets mine.

     "I didn't mean that, Mulder."

     "Sure you did," I release her. "And, you'll find your way
back to drugs unless you break the hold this trauma has on you."

     Scully's eyes swell with tears. They don't fall, but freeze
over into an icy stare. Her hands begin to unconsciously rub her
thighs. They are sticky from our lovemaking.

     "I need a shower," she whispers, turning away.

     "Go ahead," I tell her abruptly. "You might be able to
cleanse yourself of me, but don't think you can scrub away the
truth about yourself."

     Scully steps inside the shower stall and draws the curtain
on me and our conversation.

     Gritting my teeth, I pace the bathroom. As the steam of the
hot water fills the air, I lean over to pick up the bottle of
Tylenol. Angrily, I hurl the bottle into the hallway. The lid
pops open and scatters pills across the hardwood floor.

     So much for intimacy. She may have offered me her body, but
her heart is still miles away.

     Worse yet, I think she's inches from relapsing.

To be continued.....

Author's Notes: My never ending thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's
Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia,
who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. To those
readers who encourage and tolerate me.

     My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing
shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring....

Title: Comfortably Numb
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, S
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through season six
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it!
Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story
Author's Reminder: This is a work in progress...please be patient with
me...

For previous installments you can find them
at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm

Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship...
smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves...
Your lips move but I can't hear what you say...
I have become comfortably numb...

Part 6 of ? (WIP)

     He's gone.

     I realize it the instant I step out of the shower.

     I stand naked...dripping...stupefied...as I watch the last
of the steam curl out the bathroom door. The emptiness of my
apartment is like a vacuum. It not only sucks the humidity from
the air, it evaporates the feeling of him as if he was only a
vapor.

     Maybe he never was there...

     It would not be the first time I imagined him...

     My partner...my fantasy lover...my apparition...

     For years, I've kept my desire a secret. Hidden in a maze
of secrets, which now twist and turn like a labyrinth of
confusion.

     No...I had proof. Moments ago, the essence of our
lovemaking glistened on my thighs. But, fear made it sticky. I
washed it away, thinking I could scrub him and his accusation off
of me.

     I was wrong.

     He is more than just an imprint on my skin.

     He's as vital as any organ. Without him, my systems start to
fail. Each one shuts down, leaving me struggling to breath in an
existence that's as cold as the void of space.

     I need him...

     Oh God...what a time to discover that my dependency is no
longer limited to drugs.

     Drugs....

     The floor of my hallway is pebbled with Tylenol. They slide
under my feet as I shuffle to my darkened bedroom.

     The analogy is not lost on me.

     The road to my desolation is paved with pills.

     Mulder's bags are open on my bed. His clothes are
recklessly strewn inside. Maybe, in his haste to leave, packing
took too much time. Better to abandon it all. To leave it as a
symbol of how I managed to disarray our love.

     I lift the shirt he wore earlier and press it against my
cheek. His scent still lingers on the material. I inhale it
deeply before slipping my arms through the sleeves. I wrap myself
in an imaginary embrace, trying to substitute his skin with the
fabric of his shirt.

     When I spot the stain of my blood near the collar, my
illusion clouds over with tears.

     I've soiled our long awaited love with my deceit...my
refusal to acknowledge the truth...

     "I'm so sorry, Mulder," I cry into my hands.

     My fingers slide down my face as a sliver of light peers
through the crack of my venetian blinds.

     The light...

     It's taunting me.

     I can't escape it...

     It sears into my skin...incises my abdomen...takes that part
that made me a whole woman...

     I smack the blinds repeatedly, trying to shut out the light
and the horror that it illuminates. But, somehow my delirium
turns to anger. I grapple with an awareness that is more pivotal
than frightening.

     The light not only robbed my fertility...

     It stole my control...

     Now, it wants to ravage the only thing I have left...

     My ability to love...

     God damn it...no more...no more...

     In a fit of rage, I tear down the blinds and confront the
source of my pain.

********

     So much for a breath of fresh air. It proves to be more
chilling than invigorating. I stand at the entrance to Scully's
apartment complex in only jeans, t-shirt and Reeboks. No jacket
to protect me against the northerly wind or socks to cushion my
feet.

     Scully...

     I almost walked out on her. In a frenzy that rivaled her
own, I began to pack up my frustration, stuffing clothes into my
bag.

     Scully...

     I stopped. I knew I couldn't leave her. But, I could
distance myself from her, if only for a moment.

     And now, I'm out here exposing myself to the elements rather
than the heartache that waits for me inside.

     How did the best moment of my life turn into the worst?

     It's my fault. I should have know better.

     Where did I find such audacity to think my touch could heal
her?

     In her eyes...

     They reflected such certainty...such clarity...

     "No, you stupid fuck," I say aloud in a harsh voice. "You
saw what you wanted to see..."

     My own need to feel whole...

     I scuff the pavement with the sole of my sneaker. My breath
comes out in heavy, tormented grunts.

     It infuriates me that I'm incapable of making a genuine
sacrifice. I accuse her of deceit when I'm equally as
duplicitous.

     Rather than focus on her emotional pain, I exploit it. I
use it as a gauge of our relationship, measuring love with trust.

     I've been doing that all along...

     No wonder she turned to drugs...

     Better to find relief in a controlled substance than in a
man who has no control...or substance...

     Staring at the ground, I watch my shadow fade into
nothingness. It is eclipsed by another, the silhouette of a
woman who stands in the sunlight trying to absorb both of our
agony.

     My head jerks up with clairvoyant intuition.

     Scully....

     Racing back into the building, I burst through the front
door of Scully's apartment. The pills on the hallway floor crush
like dust under my feet.

     I find her by the bedroom window. The blinds that effuse
the sun's rays are crumpled on the floor. She stands
immobilized, transfixed by the incandescent beam of the sun. It
permeates her eyes, bleaching them, fading color into a pale,
spectral glow.

     Tears stream down her face.

     My forehead beads with sweat as I watch her confrontation
unfold. And, my own. There is a part of me that wants to scream
her name, to free her from these flashbacks, to shield her from a
light that returns her to such darkness.

     But, I don't.

     Instead, I stand by her side, hoping that my presence
signals my willingness to be there for her...to share her
suffering...to be her partner in pain.

     "The light is a laser," she sobs. "I can see it. Feel it.
It controls and dissects me at the same time."

     I both physically and mentally cringe at her description.
Dissection is a pathological term, not a medical one.

     Her hand fumbles for mine.

     "I thought you left me, Mulder..."

     I take it and squeeze it tightly.

     "I'll never leave you, Scully."

     "Why can't I see you?"

     "I'm here..." my voice breaks.

     "Why can't you find me?" Her whisper is like a stifled
scream. "If anyone can save me from this, you can..."

     "I tried, Scully...I tried." A moan tears from my throat.

     The sound of my sobbing cuts off her own.

     "I know..." she murmurs.

     Like a blind woman, her hand fumbles for my face. The tips
of her fingers caress the slits of my eyes.

     I'm speechless, humbled by her gesture. Even in her agony,
she reaches out to comfort me.

     Suddenly, her hand drops. Her body sags towards me.

     "Mulder...I think I better sit down."

     When I ease her to the bed, she whimpers,

     "Somewhere dark..."

     I nod, still muted by my grief. Scooping her up in my arms,
I carry her out to the livingroom where it is dimly lit. She
weighs virtually nothing, but the weight of my remorse is so
heavy that I collapse onto the couch. At first, her body is
curled up like a tight ball on my lap. Slowly, I feel her relax.
Her arms wrap around my neck. Her cheek rubs against mine,
absorbing my tears.

     "I'd give my life for you," I whisper, trying to sound
sincere and not just melodramatic.

     "I know..." Scully sighs. Her breath feels soft against my
skin. "I think they knew that, too. That's why I was chosen."

     "To stop me?" I gurgle the question.

     "I was assigned to the X-files to stop your work," she
explains. "Except, I didn't deliver..."

     "Neither did I..." I can't help the groan. "Oh Scully, I
knew it was dangerous and I didn't tell you. I failed you, just
like I failed to deliver you from this atrocity."

     "Mulder..." She begins to agitatedly wipe away her own tears
so I won't see them. "Don't do this."

     "What?" I ask, not understanding.

     "Don't let your guilt defeat us," she pleads.

     "It's hard, Scully."

     "It's more than hard, Mulder," she sniffs, then states
flatly. "It's your addiction."

     Ouch....

     "I'm not the only one in danger of relapsing," Scully
continues. Her voice becomes desperate as her fingers dig into
my shoulders. "Please, Mulder, don't revert to what you were."

     "What was that, Scully?"

     "A man afraid to love...to express his love..."

     "Oh, Scully..." My head falls against the back of the couch.
"If only it was that simple."

     "Make it that simple," The edge to her voice makes me lift
my head. "Because if you can't, don't expect me to."

     "What's that supposed to mean?"

     Scully takes a deep breath and says,

     "I won't continue a relationship where sharing is limited to
pain."

     Trust Scully to bottom line me like that.

     "You exorcise your demons and I exorcise mine?" I ask
glibly.

     She reaches for the portable phone on the coffee table.

     "Who are you calling?"

     "I'm making another appointment for us to see Dr.
Vandervanack," she informs me.

     "The Vander...quack?"

     "Mulder..."

     "Sorry," I mumble. I begin to stroke her back reassuringly.
"Okay, Scully, if you think we need an exorcist."

     Of course, I don't tell her what I'm thinking. I'm having a
premonition about Linda Blair and pea green vomit flying into my
face.

     "We've got the first appointment tomorrow morning," Scully
says as she clicks off the phone.

     "Bright and early?" I cringe at the thought.

     "Don't worry," she reassures me. "I'll wear sunglasses."

To be continued.....

Author's Notes: My never ending thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's
Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia,
who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. To those
readers who encourage and tolerate me.

     My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing
shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring....

Title: Comfortably Numb
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, S
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through season six
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it!
Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story
Author's Reminder: This is a work in progress...please be patient with
me...

For previous installments you can find them
at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm

Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship...
smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves...
Your lips move but I can't hear what you say...
I have become comfortably numb...

Part 7 of ? (WIP)

     The next morning we find ourselves back on the therapist's
couch.

     This one is not nearly as comfortable as the one in my
living room, but Mulder doesn't seem to mind.

     Maybe, it's because the doctor's not "in" yet. She's on the
phone in the waiting area playing the double role of therapist
and receptionist. Apparently, I'm not the only one dragging my
feet through the office door today.

     I watch Mulder flop down on the couch like he's right at
home, stretching his long legs out in front of him. There isn't
even a hint of nervousness on his part. While I'm as tightly
knotted as a child's shoelace, he's relaxed, even cozy.

     I sit on the edge, my back braced by a steely rod of
tension. My fingers adjust the dark sunglasses that keep
slipping down the bridge of my nose. Borrowed from him, in a
last minute precaution as we leave me apartment. The sun shines
brightly today, and the last thing I need is to be "dazzled" by
its radiance.

     Dr. Vandervanack joins us in her office. She gives me a
suspicious glance before delivering a condemning one to my
partner. I scratch the side of my neck, release a dry chuckle,
and try to explain.

     "It's not what you think, Dr. Vandervanack,"

     "What do I think, Dana?"

     Mulder interrupts before I can answer.

     "That behind those spiffy Raybans you're sporting a real
shiner."

     "Very funny," I smirk at him before I turn to my therapist.
I quickly lift the glasses to prove that I'm not.

     "I must admit that I was concerned by the urgency of this
appointment," relates the therapist. "The first session for
couples is a difficult one. It can trigger an unpleasant
reaction, even a physical altercation."

     My hand clamps down on Mulder's knee when I hear his
snicker. Clearing my throat, I state in a prudent voice,

     "Actually, Dr. Vandervanack...that is, in part, why we're
here."

     "Really?" the woman eyes open wide, as she lifts her pad
and pen. "Which part?"

     "Well...," I toss my head, debating my words. "How should I
put this...we...ah..."

     "We got physical, Doc," Mulder chimes in, "and that may have
triggered her unpleasant reaction."

     "Mulder," I gasp. "That's not what caused it."

     I feel hot embarrassment tinge my cheeks. As, I poke my
sunglasses back in place, he leans forward and whispers,

     "Your blushing, Scully."

     His fingers tease the back of my neck. I flick him off like
a pesky fly.

     "I'll remind you of that later," he promises in a bawdy
tone when he sees that I'm using my middle finger to "flick".

     "Try it, Mulder, and I'll show you the true definition of an
unpleasant reaction," I hiss back.

     Dr. Vandervanack studies us both closely. Her mouth works
itself into a tight line. I can't tell if she's amused or
offended by our sexual banter.

     "Perhaps, for now, we should limit ourselves to this," she
suggests, waving her finger at my sunglasses.

     I exhale loudly, nodding, beginning my reluctant narrative,

     "There was this light..."

     "A light..." my therapist scribbles down my words.

     "Actually," I lean forward to correct her. "It was the
afternoon sun coming through my blinds."

     "Got it..." Dr. Vandervanack crosses out a word and replaces
it with another..

     "...in her bedroom..." Mulder chirps in.

     "That part I already assumed, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Vandervanack
points her pen at my partner. "But, thank you."

     "Anyway," I give him another scowl before I continue.
"Well...during...ah...how should I put this? Well..while we were
being intimate..."

     I'm interrupted again, this time by snorts of his laughter.

     "Would you excuse us a moment?" I say, giving my doctor a
polite smile.

     I jerk Mulder to his feet, which is quite a accomplishment
given our height/weight ratio. After I drag him out to the
waiting area, I confront him angrily,

     "Why are you doing this?"

     "Doing what?"

     "Acting like such an asshole."

     "I'm sorry, Scully," The corners of his mouth curl up into
a mischievous grin. "I guess you really do bring out the devil in
me."

     This is, of course, is his attempt to belittle my
"exorcising our demons" analogy.

     "Or..." he pauses, arching an eyebrow. "It could be just an
unpleasant reaction to how you're behaving."

     "Which is how?" I question him impatiently.

     "Like you've got a bug up your ass," Mulder ridicules.
"Lose the Polly Puritan attitude, Scully. This is couples
therapy, not a Quaker sewing circle."

     "Fine, Mulder," I grit my teeth and turn away. "But, you
had better stow away that little pitchfork of yours."

     "Consider it done," he opens the door, his arm swooping low
to gesture me inside.

     Once back inside, we take our seats. Dr. Vandervanack
scrutinizes the tip of her pen as she prompts me,

     "You were saying, Dana?"

     I respond in my most clinical voice,

     "While we were engaged in intercourse, a flashback
interrupted my orgasm."

     Mulder's half-strangled gasp is such a sweet reward.

     Serves him right...

     "Let's try focusing on the flashback," my therapist
recommends.

     Good idea. That will, at least, give Mulder a chance to
crawl back up to the couch.

     "The intensity of the sunlight prompted the flashback," I
relate, smoothing the creases of my slacks. My fingers don't
quiver. They flex out comfortably, relaxed, certain....

     "The intensity...hmmm...." Dr. Vandervanack begins to write
down what she thinks is a reference to something else.

     "Of the sun..." One finger lifts from my thigh to emphasize
this critical factor. "Intense...sunlight."

     I'm suddenly back on my feet, yanked up by my partner.

     "Excuse us a moment," Mulder says to my therapist.

     The tone of his voice prompts me to keep two feet ahead of
him as we leave the room.

     "What the hell are you saying?" He demands in a heated, but
hushed tone. "Are you trying to tell me that your orgasm wasn't
intense?"

     "I didn't say that," I give him a wide-eyed, innocent look.

     "You're implying it," he growls.

     I sure am. And, I doing it deliberately. I want to make
sure his pitchfork shrinks down to the size of a salad fork. The
territory I'm about to explore is a dangerous one and I don't
need his swaggering ego to distract me.

     "Don't worry," I pat his arm with mock reassurance. "This
isn't about sex."

     "Then why do I suddenly feel like I've just been fucked?"

     It isn't his choice of words that softens me, but the
blended misery of his gaze and voice. My cynical edge crumbles
instantly.

     My fingers slide down to his hand, coaxing him to accept the
touch of my apology.

     He jerks his hand away.

     "Mulder..."

     "Let's just get this over with," Mulder snaps, opening the
door to the office.

     This time he doesn't join me on the couch. He finds his
place in a corner, brooding, arms folded like a petulant child.

     Just like a child...

     I hate it when he does that....

     I poke my sunglasses back into place. The lens are fogging
over with the heat of my agitation.

     I don't want to mother him...

     I'm not the mothering type...

     I never was...

     I grasp the cushion of the couch as another flashback fills
my mind. This time, it expresses itself in the most poignant
pain...

     Emily...

     I see her, touch her, smell her...

     Delicate baby's breath in my fallow garden...

     Her eyes, the same color as mine, silently communes a look
of unconditional trust. I sit on the edge of her hospital bed,
holding her waning gaze, stroking her hand as it grows cold in
mine.

     Oh God...

     My child is dying...

     The pain is more than I can bear...

     My vision suddenly goes dark. I don't realize I'm
hyperventilating until I feel the pressure of a hand pushing my
head between my legs. My lungs struggle to breath. I gasp, choke
and shudder against this feeling of suffocation.

     "That's it, Scully, take it slow..." Mulder's breath fans
the side of my face. He's crouched over me, holding me, urging
me out of this state of asphyxia. I turn slightly, inhaling his
presence as if it's air.

     Mulder nods, giving me a slight smile of encouragement.

     "Is she alright, Fox?" Dr. Vandervanack leans over with a
paper cup of water.

     "I think so," he says, taking the cup and placing it to my
lips. "Thanks, Doc."

     I push the cup away, my hands agitatedly patting my eyes.

     The sunglasses are gone.

     "My glasses..." I gasp.

     "You tore them off, Dana," my therapist tells me. I feel
her sit down on the couch next to me. "You were calling a name
over and over....Emily...."

     "Her daughter," Mulder conveys sadly.

     Hearing someone actually say those words helps bind the
wound.

     My daughter...

     "She was mine, wasn't she?" I mumble, clutching his hand for
support.

     "Emily will always be yours, Scully."

     "So will this heartache..." I groan.

     "Dana," Dr. Vandervanack addresses my solemnly. "These
flashbacks...they're not just limited to the light, are they?

     I shake my head.

     "And, they're increasing in frequency, aren't they?"

     I nod slowly.

     "Could it be that your subconscious is trying to jump-start
your emotional awareness?" advises Dr. Vandervanack.

     "If it is, then I have one hell of a cruel subconscious...."
my voice cuts off into a jagged cry.

     "Dana, often the subconscious absorbs what the conscious
mind can't accept. Although you may not understand it now, you
will in time. What triggers these flashbacks, whether it be the
symbolism of a light, the agitation of an argument, even the
intensity of a certain moment...the real mechanism is you."

     "I don't understand."

     "You don't want to understand, Scully..." Mulder expands on
my therapists' analysis. "What you weren't capable of
rationalizing, you repressed. And, when that stopped working,
you numbed yourself with drugs."

     I shake my head. I don't want to accept this. It makes me
feel so weak.

     "Dana, it's not a weakness given the number of serious
traumas you've undergone." Dr. Vandervanack tries to clarify.

     I realize that I've once again spoken my thoughts.

     My therapist continues,

     "To survive, I believe you've emotionally detached yourself,
viewing each one as fact rather than an experience."

     "How do I stop it?"

     "You can't. And believe or not, you don't really want to."

     "Care to expand on that?" I squint my eyes at her.

     "You want to connect...and that's where Mr. Mulder comes
into play."

     "Are you saying that I'm the cause?" Mulder asks.

     "No, Mr. Mulder." Dr. Vandervanack give us both a knowing
look. "You're not the cause...you're the incentive."

********

     "You're supposed to be resting on the couch," I tell her
when she comes into the bedroom.

     "How am I supposed to nap with all this noise," Scully rubs
her eyes.

     I'm trying to fix her mini-blinds which keep falling down.
What should be a simple task is not. The brackets were torn down
with enough force to leave deep gouges where the screws go in. I
reinstalled them, but within twenty-four hours the blinds have
twice collapsed to the floor. Finally, I get the idea. Drilling fresh
holes, I install the brackets, but the blinds won't cooperate.

     "Damn," I curse under my breath. "I must have mis-
measured,"

     "Maybe we should call the maintenance man," she suggests in
her practical tone.

     "I think I can handle it," I glower back.

     "Here, let me help you," Scully drags over a chair and
climbs up on it. She takes one end of the rod as I lift the
other.

     "The brackets are uneven," I grumble. "Shit..."

     "They're aligned just fine," she persists. "Just ease it
in, Mulder."

     "It doesn't fit, Scully," I protest, wiping my forehead with
the edge of my sleeve.

     "It's a perfect fit, Mulder," Scully assures me. "Try
coaxing it."

     "Too much tension," I shake my head, "It might fall."

     "It won't. It's a lot stronger than you think."

     My eyes glide over to hers.

     "We're not talking about these friggin' mini-blinds, are
we?" I ask.

     "Try it again," she urges.

     Her voice holds all the motivation I need. I snap my end
into place. The blinds hold, each panel rippling down to closure
on the window sill.

     "See?" she smiles. "A perfect fit."

     "Yeah," I take a deep breath as I approach her. "Think so,
huh?"

     "Know so..." Still standing on the chair, she reaches down
to course her fingers through my hair. My hands glide up her
legs and skim the curve of her hips. I play with the drawstring
of her sweats, twisting it, tieing it, tugging it...

     Without a word, she guides my fingers to the waistband and
together, we peel off her sweats and underwear. Resting her
hands on my shoulders, she daintily steps out of them.

     Like a goddess, she stands before me on her throne.

     Even if she's nude only from the waist down...

     I know where to begin my worship.

     I press my face into the softness of her abdomen, kissing it
when I hear her stomach gurgle. It sounds like bubble of hunger,
but it has nothing to do with food. This sexual fast may have
lasted almost twenty-four hours, but she's not dehydrated by it.
I feel her wetness even before I taste it. It glides over my
tongue with the texture and sweetness of honey.

     Scully balances on tip-toed socks so I don't have to bend
over too far. How benevolent my goddess is, I muse, alternating
the flat moistness of my tongue with flicks of its tip. I hear
her hand smack against the blinds as she grapples to support
herself. I pause, turning my mouth away to say,

     "Tear those blinds down, Scully, and I swear..."

     "Is that drill bit of yours hard yet?"

     God, I love a woman who thinks and speaks in dirty
metaphors.

     "Pick a wall," I unzip the fly to my jeans.

     "A wall?" she gasps.

     "Ever do it up against a wall before, Scully?" I taunt her
as I strip off my clothes.

     "Does the wall of a pool count?"

     "Scully..." I chuckle as I pull her off the chair. Her legs
wrap around my back, ankles clicking into place. "Have you been
holding out on me all these years? Is Dana Scully really capable
of fun?"

     "Just pick a wall," she whispers into my ear before giving
it a playful bite.

     Afterwards, after we fall crumpled and wasted to her bed, I
lift the edge of her sweat shirt so I can study her nipples. I
may be no poet, but I've proven to be a handy carpenter. At
least, I think so...

     Yup....hard and turgid as nails...

     "What are you doing?" Scully gasps, still shaking from what
I think was her "intense" reaction.

     "Just checking to see if I really am a master carpenter." I
touch each nipple to calibrate my assessment.

     "You need to check?" she moans, twisting away from my
fingers.

     "You were pretty quiet this time, Scully."

     "No, Mulder...you were just loud."

     I lean over to kiss her with a sound smack of my lips.

     "No flashbacks this time," I smile with relief.

     "Nope," Scully grins back. "Well, unless the little fantasy
trip back to my high school carpentry class counts."

     "You took carpentry in high school?"

     "It was that or Home Economics, and I had no intention of
being domesticated," she laughs.

     "That explains your cooking," I nuzzle her neck.

     "And, the instructor was such a fox..." She sizzles the "x"
sound of the letter.

     "God damn name," I grimace before lifting my head. "Hey,
wait a minute...exactly what was your little fantasy about?"

     She just laughs. And, because it's been so long since I've
made her laugh, I decide not to prod her further.

     Well...

     At least not with questions....

     Later, while I'm trying out my culinary talents in her
kitchen, Scully sits at her desk sorting through her mail.
I'm making spaghetti. Hell, anyone can make spaghetti. A little
boiled water for the pasta...a little nuking of a jar of pre-made
sauce...

     "Don't forget the garlic bread in the freezer," she calls
over her shoulder. "And, a mixed salad would be nice."

     "Not only wanton but greedy..." I chuckle as I open the
freezer.

     "Just starving...and I'm..." her voice trails off.

     "You're what?" I ask, tugging out a loaf of frozen garlic
bread and closing the door.

     There is no answer. At first, I'm too much of a bon vivant
to notice. I preheat the oven to 400 degrees and pull out a
baking tray. Opening the end of the tinfoiled bag to vent, I
drop the loaf onto the pan.

     Chef Boyarde, meet your match....

     "God damn you to hell, Mulder..."

     Whoa....what did she just say?

     I turn to find Scully standing, shaking violently by her
desk. Her chair is toppled over to the ground. In her hand is
what appears to be a photograph.

     "Scully?" I approach her, noticing the large manila
envelope which is crumpled at her feet. "What is it?"

     "Proof of your enduring love," she snarls, thrusting the
photograph into my hands.

     Oh my God....

     It is a photograph of a kiss. The kiss Diana gave me the
night I broke into her apartment seeking evidence that she had
betrayed me.

     A kiss I misinterpreted...strategically delivered as well as
captured by a hidden camera.

     My forehead beads with sweat...

     "You know what they say," I hear Scully sneer as she
scrutinizes my reaction. "If you can't take the heat...get out
of the kitchen."

     My eyes meet hers.

     "And, my apartment," she adds bitterly.

     "Scully, I can explain..."

     "Can you? Go ahead, Mulder, but while you're fabricating
your lie you'll need to weave in Fowley's other gift."

     She reaches behind her and produces a vial of pills.

     My legs go weak at the knees.

     "Percocet, Mulder." She hisses. "Seems that your lover
knows your partner's call brand."

     "There's got to be a mistake," I shake my head.

     The runner not only stumbles, he falls...

     "A mistake? Talk about an understatement," Scully seizes
the vial back from me. "Here, I'll keep those..."

     "Scully...."

     "You can keep the photo..."

     She pushes me out of her way and storms into the bathroom.

     My wobbly legs enable me to reach the bathroom door as it
slams in my face. I pound against it, flooding with panic as I
hear the sink being turned on. My worst fears are being
imagined...she's cupping the water in the palm of her
hand...tossing a pill into her mouth...

     "Don't do it, Scully!"

     With a burst of frantic energy, I crash the door open with
the brunt of my shoulders.

     Scully stands over the sink, trickling the pills into the
basin, washing them down the drain. She looks up at me with
deadened eyes.

     "Don't worry about a relapse, Mulder," she tells me coldly,
"you're not worth it."

To be continued.....

Author's Notes: My never ending thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's
Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia,
who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. To those
readers who encourage and tolerate me.

     My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing
shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring....

Title: Comfortably Numb
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, S
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through season six
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it!
Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story
Author's Reminder: This is a work in progress...please be patient with
me...

For previous installments you can find them
at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm

Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship...
smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves...
Your lips move but I can't hear what you say...
I have become comfortably numb...

Part 8 of ? (WIP)

     He said he'd never leave me...

     He certainly picked a lousy time to prove what a liar he
is...

     I collapse onto the couch with a wet rag pasted across my
eyes. They don't burn with tears, but a series of hot flashbacks
that involve my abduction. The connections are popping off like
overcharged light bulbs. Each repressed memory explodes into my
consciousness like glass shattering, revealing the filament of my
apocalypse.

     Oh God...I cry over and over, writhing on the couch in
agony.

     The inhumanity of the tests are horrifying. Because the
laser heals as fast as it incises, anesthesia is not deemed
necessary. Pain is believed to be limited to consciousness and
perception is supposed to be suppressed by the pulsating beam.

     But, there is darkness creeping into this light. At first,
it is a shadow among other dim figures, an outline of a person
known, but unknown. I concentrate on the image, pushing back
fear that paralyzes me like invisible restraints. I reach out to
touch it, to add substance to a vision still unclear.

     I feel it then. A hand colder than ice. Jerking away from
me as if I'm a corpse that has just opened it's eyes.

     "That's right....I'm alive..." I scream my indignation.
"You may dissect me like a cadaver, but my blood still runs
warm."

     My eyes reflect the light like a prism, illuminating the
face of the woman who hovers over me.

     Fowley....

     Oh God...it's her....

     She wears an uncomfortable expression, as antagonism
competes with shame when confronted with another human being's
suffering.

     She was there...

     The cold chill of my anger dulls my pain more effectively
than the drugs she so obligingly sent me.

     My hand fumbles for the portable phone on the table.

     "Mulder..." His voice sounds expectant, as if he's been
waiting for my call.

     "Your lover was there..." I seethe maliciously into the
receiver.

     "Scully?"

     "She was there...observing...monitoring the tests conducted
on me."

     There is silence on the other end of the phone.

     How dare he be speechless...

     The sound of my front door being unlocked makes me jump up
from the couch. The washcloth drops from my eyes and my legs
collide with the coffee table. Balance lost, I tumble backwards
onto the floor.

     "You've been out in the hall the whole time?" I grimace,
rubbing my backside.

     "I told you I'd never leave you." He says this to the door
as he softly closes it. I hear the stifled click of the deadbolt
being slide into place.

     "Well, you gave one hell of a simulation."

     "And, you ran into the kitchen, eyeing a knife like you
intended to slice off something other than a piece of garlic
bread," Mulder remarks turning around. "Are you calmed down
enough to talk?"

     "Do I look calm?"

     "You look knocked off your ass." He moves around the couch
and offers me a hand.

     "You would be, too," I smack it away.

     "I am, Scully. Trust me...I am..." Mulder grabs my forearm
and hauls me to my feet.

     "I no longer trust you, Mulder." I remind him. "And, you
certainly don't look upset."

     "You want to see upset?" His eyes flash with a sudden anger
as he releases me. They settle on the closest breakable object,
which just happens to be a crystal vase on my end table. I gasp
as he hurls it against my fireplace, shattering it into a spray
of glass.

     "Is that upset enough for you?" He bellows furiously.

     I nod in stunned dismay.

     "That was a gift," I whisper.

     "You want to talk gifts? Let's discuss the ones Diana sent
you." Mulder seizes the photo from my computer table and thrusts
it in my face. "Do you finally understand why this picture was
taken?

     "Because it was a Kodak moment?" I scoff, refusing to look
at it. "To add it to her scrapbook of memories?"

     "No, Scully, to stop yours."

     "What do you mean?"

     "The kiss was staged, Scully. The photo was taken with the
intent to send it to you one day. That day came when you stopped
taking painkillers."

     "She wanted to provoke a relapse?"

     "More than that. She wanted to stop your flashbacks...
which included her."

     I sink down onto the couch, weighed down by his crushing
analysis.

     "You said it yourself. It was her job to gather data on
you." Mulder fumes as he stalks to the window and peers out the
blinds. "Apparently, she still is. She must have gotten her
hands on your medical records from the RAND unit."

     "Do you think she's out there watching me?" I crane my head
to the side to see what he's looking at.

     "No," he shakes his head, letting the blinds snap shut.
"She wouldn't dare come this close knowing I was here. No, she
strikes from afar, this time courtesy of the U.S. Postal
Service."

     "It's not about me, is it?" I ask him directly. "It's about
you."

     "It's about us," Mulder relates, inching towards me.

     My hand shoots up, flagging my warning.

     "Wait a minute..." I object. "Are you implying that she was
more than just an observer during my abduction?"

     "I think she was involved in your abduction," he reluctantly
tells me.

     I see the dread in his eyes. The tension between us
thickens like a fog, obscuring my sight and discernment.

     "I don't understand," My voice falters. "Is it because I
was your partner?"

     Mulder stares at his feet which shift restlessly.

     "You were more than that to me..." His jaw begins to quiver
with emotion. "She must have sensed it."

     "The intuition of a ex-lover?" I ask, holding my breath.

     "The intuition of an ex-wife." His says slowly, his eyes
lifting to meet mine.

********

     I think I'm having a flashback...

     The face I see is Scully's, but it reminds me of another
time and another place. We are seated around a table and Modell
is telepathically ordering me to shoot my partner. As I lift my
gun and aim it at her eyes, I see them glaze over with tears of
disbelief. One trickles down her cheek, flooding me with such
anguish that I want to scream...

     Run...Scully...run...as far and fast as you can. Run from
the pathetic fuck-up that I've become, shackled by a past, by a
bitch whose fucked up my life...and now wants to fuck up yours...

     She must sense my thoughts, because she acts upon them even
as I think them.

     Panicked, I lunge for her as she springs up from the couch.
She fights me, twisting...slapping...letting loose such a stream
of obscenities that I visualize the "good ole boys" down at the
Bureau rising up from their chairs to salute her.

     I pin her back down onto the couch, but only to keep her
there. I make my body and face easy targets for her hands. Only
physical pain will alleviate my emotional agony. And, by not
stopping her assault, I give myself a fighting chance...

     If I can get her to injure me as I have her, then maybe we
can start over...

     Start over...

     A fresh, clean slate, where no secrets smear the writing of
our future.

     I'm sorry...sorry...sorry...

     The third slap draws blood. I can feel it on my lower lip,
taste it as it drips into my mouth.

     Let me bleed for you, Scully...

     Suddenly, she stops and gapes at my face. I can tell that
she's horrified by what she's done. Profanity may be occasionally
acceptable to this woman, but violence is not. To her it is
repugnant, a crude reaction, a compromise of her intelligence and
dignity.

     To me, it's simply hope.

     I think, finally, my blood is well spent...

     "Mulder..." Her cry is so fractured that only now do I wince
with pain.

     She traces the rim of my lip, staring at the blood on the
tip of her finger. Her wet, luminous eyes lift to mine. They
impart more than just an apology, they flicker with sudden
understanding. Like me, she realizes the symbolism of our blood.

     Too much of it has been shed at our expense.

     And, now we're becoming the expense.

     Her lips absorb my blood like a soft sponge. The taste of
salt turns to the taste of her. My mouth gropes for hers in
desperation, wanting her to heal me. I need her breath to
restore me, her lips to cleanse away the sourness of my guilt.

     Scully pulls away to gaze solemnly at me. She swallows
once, then says in a thick voice,

     "I shouldn't have done that."

     I'm not sure if she regrets slapping me or kissing me. I
scramble for an excuse, for an apology, for words that might
breach the gap between us. Instead, my voice comes out like a
groan.

     "Scully, you have every right to hate me."

     "I don't hate you."

     "I should have told you."

     "Yes, you should have." She pauses and considers her next
question. "Why didn't you?"

     "There are so many reasons that I've lost count," I mumble.

     "Then limit it to one that involves us."

     I turn my head away in shame.

     "I wanted you to be jealous of Fowley," I confess. "I needed
validation of my feelings, some type of emotional response from
you."

     "Is that all you thought I was capable of, Mulder?" She
asks in a hurt voice. "Jealousy?"

     "Actually, it was more than I deserved." I respond meekly.
"If you knew the truth of my relationship with Fowley, you'd feel
only pity."

     "Why?"

     "Because it wasn't the type of marriage you think."

     "What type was it?"

     "The worst type," I respond hesitantly taking her hand.

     "Why?"

     "Because similar ideas and beliefs doesn't guarantee a
perfect partnership." I say with certainty. "Diana always
expected more, always demanded more than I was capable of
giving."

     Scully doesn't respond. I'm not sure if she's being tactful
or just doesn't want to know.

     "In every aspect, Scully." I hint.

     "You don't need to explain further," she says, trying to
withdraw her hand from mine.

     "I want to," I grip her hand firmly. "I...I need to, Scully.
Diana made some...well...uneasy alliances while we worked on the
X-files. She refused to identify them, taking the lead in
investigations, making contacts behind my back."

     "What contacts?"

     "I wasn't sure, until now." I admit. "Because of you,
Scully, your memories, the pieces of my puzzle are coming
together."

     "Are you saying..."

     "Let me put it to you this way." I interrupt her. "The last
night of our marriage, she came home at 3 a.m. Her face was
flushed and her clothes were disheveled."

     Scully drops her head, unable to meet my gaze.

     "Scully..." My fingers twine through her auburn mane,
lifting a gingery strand to the light. "Her hair smelled like
smoke..."

********

     I now understand the worst conspiracy of all...

     The one that has eluded us for years...

     A conspiracy of emotions. A collusion of secrets which were
buried by him and repressed by me. We allowed fear to beguile
our hearts, cloak our perceptions and distort our trust.

     No more...

     We're both victims, but more to ourselves than to those who
exploited us.

     I'm not willing to be a casualty of my own war.

     And, I'm not going to let him be one, either.

     "I love you, Mulder," I tell him, lifting my head.

     "What?" He stares at me with incredulous eyes.

     "I love you," I repeat, lifting my mouth to kiss his.

     "Scully..." His cry changes to a moan when I open his lips
with mine. His hand clasps the back of my head, first pulling me
towards him, then grasping my hair tightly to push me away. The
conflict of his response doesn't surprise me.

     Nor will his guilt deter me.

     My fingers have developed an expertise of their own. They
tug at his jeans with a singular purpose, to expose that part of
him that I intend to lavish with attention. Up to this point,
I've allowed him to make love to me. Not that I wasn't an eager
or responsive participant. But, now I want to take the lead, to
show him that I'm capable of giving, and not just receiving
intimate alternatives.

     I slide to my knees in front on the couch, taking his jeans
and boxer shorts with me. My hands stroke his calves, his
thighs, spreading his legs open with such certainty that he gasps
with awed delight.

     Oh Mulder, don't you think I know what you like?

     I prolong each touch, my fingers trailing the creases that
adjoin legs to torso, skimming the dark hair in between.
Lowering my head, my lips follow the descent of my fingers. They
open to him so he can sample the warm, wetness of my mouth.

     My tongue circles the tip of him, slides down him, explores
the part of him that tightens in the cup of my hand.

     "Scully," he murmurs my name. I hear the crinkling sound of
my couch cushion being gripped by his fingers. "You better stop
before I..."

     There is no way I'm going to stop. I guide him deeper into
my mouth, urging him, relaxing my throat to receive him.

     This last gesture is really more symbolic than it is sexual.
I want him to know that I accept all of him, that there will be
no more secrets or hidden desires between us. And, I think he
know it, too. He allows the moment to carry him away for the
same reason. Only by acquiescing control is surrender complete.

     Moments later, when he gathers me into his arms, I realize
that his release is more than physical. His eyes are no longer
strained with uncertainty or shadowed by the culpability of his
past.

     "I love you, Scully," Mulder whispers.

     "I love you, too," I murmur back.

     He eases me down to the couch so I'm lying on my back. My
sweats are glided off by the gentle pull of his hands. I sigh,
extending my arms over my head.

     This is one couch session that is destined to end well.

********

"Hello
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone at home?
Come on, now,
I hear you're feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain,
Get you on your feet again.
Relax.
I'll need some information first.
Just the basic facts.
Can you show me where it hurts?"

     "What is that song, Mulder?"

     "I forget the title. Something by Pink Floyd," I respond,
crouching in front of her stereo as I tune the station in.

     "I think I've heard it before," she comments, sliding two
plates of re-heated spaghetti onto the kitchen table.

     "Classic rock, Scully," I say, gyrating my hips as I saunter
towards her.

     "Classic...my ass..." Her eyebrows lift to emphasize her
point.

     "Yeah...classic..." I slide my hand down the back of her
sweats to squeeze the soft cheek of her backside.

     "I thought you said you were hungry," she protests.

     "What I said, Scully, was that I could eat you all..."

     Scully clamps a hand over my mouth before I can finish the
sentence. Chuckling, she allows me to pull her chair out for
her.

     But, as the song plays on, her laughter dies. Because, I feed
off her smile, I try to tease another from her.

     "Now, that's what I call fine suction," I say as I watch her
slurp down the spaghetti.

     All I get is her abstract gaze. She twirls pasta around her
fork in concentrated silence. I lean forward, intent on
deciphering her expression.

     The haunting melody seems to distract her. She cranes her
head towards it, her eyes growing vacant as the refrain plays
on...

"There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship, smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying..."

     "Scully?"

     The fork drops to her plate.

     "Scully...." I rise up from my chair.

     Suddenly, she gags and clasps a hand over her mouth.
Grabbing her arm, I try to steer her towards the kitchen sink.
She shakes her head frantically. Pushing me aside, she races for
the bathroom.

     Is it a flashback?

     Is it my cooking?

     Oh, God...please don't let it be one of those long-delayed
gag reactions to what she did earlier.

     I arrive at the bathroom in time to find her hunched over
the toilet. For a minute, I am tempted to back away. I've paid
homage to the "Ceramic God" too many times in my life, and
watching her vomit triggers my own putrid flashbacks.

     But, she looks so pathetic...kneeling and clutching the
sides of the toilet. Her hair keeps falling in front of her
face. Sighing, I lean over to pull the strands back. I circle
her hair with one hand as I stretch the other to grab a towel.

     "I'm never going to want spaghetti again," she presses the
towel to her mouth as the spasms pass.

     "Me, either," I chime in, helping her to her feet.

     "Mulder," she grips my arm with sudden panic.

     "Was it a flashback?" I ask.

     "There was a voice...it was..." She stops and eyes me
warily. "Well, it doesn't matter whose voice it was. What
matters is that I think I know where I developed my taste for
drugs."

     "Your abduction?" I gasp. "They fed you painkillers?"

     "It wasn't part of the protocol. Neither was anesthesia."
Scully relates, "I think she did it because she began to feel
sorry for me."

     Her eyes widen as she realizes her mistake.

     And, I realize mine...

     I tried to forget the hideous truth about Diana. I wanted to
focus on Scully, on her love, embracing it like a precious gift.

     Yet, this other gift still torments me. My former wife
knows no charity. All she gave was a twisted mockery of pity, a
promise of relief from the same hand that inflicted the pain.

     A gift that keeps on giving...

     I storm out of the bathroom.

     "Mulder..."

     I grab my jacket and car keys.

     "Mulder, what are you doing?"

     "Something I should have done a long time ago."

     "You're not..." Scully tries to block the front door. "Are
you armed?"

     "You think I'd bring a gun in here?" I push her aside. "No
Scully, I'm not armed."

     "Mulder, don't do this," she pleads in a desperate voice,
tugging at my arm. "Let it go."

     "I can't." I jerk away from her and unlock the door. "I
won't..."

     "Mulder..."

     I try not to shove her. But, I do. I flinch as she trips
and falls back to the floor.

     "I'm sorry, Scully..."

     I can tell that she's not hurt, just stunned and frightened.

     I give her an apologetic look before I turn away, slamming
the door behind me. As I stalk down the hall, my thoughts turn
dark and deadly.

     I'm not armed, but I will be...

     It's time...way past time...

     Time for my marital status to change from "divorced" to
"widowed"...

To be continued...

Author's Notes: My never ending thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's
Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia,
who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. To those
readers who encourage and tolerate me.

     My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing
shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring....

Title: Comfortably Numb
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, S
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through season six
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it!
Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story
Author's Reminder: This is a work in progress...please be patient with
me...

For previous installments you can find them
at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm

Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship...
smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves...
Your lips move but I can't hear what you say...
I have become comfortably numb...

Part 9 of ? (WIP)

     He's going to kill her....

     Fowley....

     Every fiber in my body thrills to this sentence of death.

     Like an avenging Angel, he will suddenly materialize and
strike her down without warning. The flash of light will not be
a celestial sword, but the white, sizzling explosion of his gun.

     Kill her, Mulder...

     My vindictiveness resounds in my ears. I chant words of
approval, allowing them to rise in my mind to the pitch of a
bloodthirsty mob.

     Kill her...kill her...kill her....

     But then I smell it.

     Not the burnt flesh of a bullet wound, it's more like a
putrefied odor.

     It's the decaying of my soul....

     My need for revenge is infesting me like maggots. My
beliefs and values are being devoured by worms of hate.

     Hate...

     Not only for what she has done, but for what she was....

     His wife....

     Jealousy decomposes me like a corpse left out to rot.
Rancor mixes with rage. It bursts from every pore of my skin,
beading my forehead with the clammy condensation of a cold
maliciousness that I thought not possible.

     Killing out of revenge digs more than one grave.

     By not stopping him, I am digging mine.

     I scramble to my feet and grab my phone. When I dial his
number, there is no answer. My breath mimics the frantic beat of
my heart as I search for shoes and car keys. It pounds so loudly
that it sounds like a drum, mimicking the tempo of my panic.

     Stop...Mulder...stop before it's too late....

     The chime on my mantle clock begins its allegorical tolling.
My hand freezes on the knob of the front door. For a moment, I'm
transfixed by each pulsating strike. It's midnight...the
witching hour...where good turns to evil and all is lost in one
vengeful moment.

     I yank open the door....

     Fowley....

     Oh my God....

     It's the witch, herself. Pushing into my apartment, poking
me back with the point of her gun like it was the handle of her
broomstick.

     The ring of my clock reverberates through me like a death
knell. Sarcasm turns to an icy fear as Fowley nods to the clock,
saying,

     "Ask not for whom the bell tolls...."

     Her finger tightens around the trigger.

     "It tolls for thee...." she proclaims in an austere voice.

     I feel my legs hit the back of my couch. My eyes dart
around for my weapon, a way to fight back.

     There is none.

     Mulder removed my gun a week ago.

     I'm defenseless.

     Licking my lips, I try to distract her with my response.

     "That's Hemingway, isn't it?"

     "Actually, he stole the line from John Dunne, a 17th century
poet." Fowley reaches behind her back to close the front door.
"Hemingway was a thief and a drunk. Distasteful, wouldn't you
say?"

     There is only a hint of inflection in her voice. Her
features are completely relaxed, even composed despite her deadly
intent. Or, maybe it's because her intent is... deadly.....

     "Distasteful," I agree, sliding along the back of the couch.
"But, then one must wonder what prompts addiction in the first
place."

     "Weakness, Agent Scully." Her dark eyes glitter ominously.
"It is the same characteristic that defines the thief."

     "Are you implying that I stole something from you, Agent
Fowley?"

     "Don't be flippant. That only plays well when it comes from
your partner."

     She advances on me again. I stop in my tracks.

     "How could I steal something that wasn't yours to begin
with?" I ask, trying to goad her into anger.

     I know it's a mistake to provoke her. I'm a federal agent,
well-versed in hostage negotiations. But, so is she. And, as

much as I would like to consider myself a hostage, I have the
uneasy feeling that I'm soon to be a victim.

     Her victim....

     She confirms my supposition with a smile. When I see the
perfect gleam of her teeth, I know what I'm dealing with. A
dangerous, calculating woman. A woman who has no scruples or
fear.

     A member of the Consortium.

     I've underestimated her. So did Mulder. She expertly
manipulated us both. The photo... the pills... the reactions she
knew each of us would have....

     "Well, Scully. I must say that I admire your tenacity...
and your audacity."

     She laughs at her own rhyme.

     I'm starting to regret my earlier thoughts about being a
corpse.

     She's going to kill me.

     "You're going to kill me." I remark, trying to keep my voice
strong.

     "No," Fowley shakes her head. She reaches into her pocket
and pulls out a bottle of pills, saying,

     "You're going to kill yourself."

     Oh my God....

     "Consider yourself lucky, Scully. You managed to live a lot
longer than the other women abductees. You beat the cancer that
silenced the rest."

     I'm too stunned to answer.

     "But, it was stolen time," Fowley adds softly. Her voice
pretends regret. I know she has none.

     Her eyes dart quickly to the clock.

     "Now that your flashbacks have started, time's up," she
announces crisply.

     I start to lunge forward, but she reacts by thrusting the
end of her gun against my breast. My head whips back as I hold
my hands up in surrender.

     Fowley shifts her weapon to one solid grasp and wedges the
bottle in my trembling fingers.

     "The drug addict overdoses, huh?" I say, shrugging, trying
to appear nonchalant.

     "Like I said, Agent Scully, I admire you. Unfortunately, I
can't allow personal feelings to interfere with the Consortium's
agenda."

     "You're a liar." I can't help my scoffing tone. "I'm not on
the Consortium's agenda, just yours."

     "Don't test me, Scully," the woman cautions. "I'm extending
you a professional courtesy."

     "No... you're extending me death."

     She prods me with her gun, until I pop open the cap.

     "He was mine... first," she remonstrates bitterly.

     "He... is... mine... last....." I emphasize each word.

     "Overdose or bullet. Which is to be?"

     "Both are equally lethal," I calmly advise her as I empty
the pills into the palm of my hand. "Except one manages to kill
more than just my body."

     "You're stalling." Fowley's finger teases the trigger.

     She's right. I'm stalling. And, I'm not calm, I'm
petrified....

     "Take the pills," she demands through gritted teeth.

     "Suicide will kill his belief in me...."

     Her eyes finally betray her spiteful delight.

     "Exactly."

     "So much for you altruism," I sneer.

     "You're dead, either way," she tosses back.

     I'm out of time. Survival is no longer an option. The only
choice left is the type of memory I leave behind.

     I let the pills slip through my fingers.

     "I may be dead... but in dying I prefer pain to being
comfortably numb."

     My voice does not sound afraid. It's triumphant.

     Enraged, she forces me down to my knees. When I feel the
cold metal of the gun press against my temple, I close my eyes.

     His face....

     The last thing I want to remember is his face....

     Mulder....

     I jerk convulsively as the blast of gunfire fills my ears.
The explosion tears through my body.

          "There is no pain... you are receding....
          A distant ship... smoke on the horizon...."

     I feel as if I'm drifting. Through the mist, I can see him.

          "You are coming through in waves...
          Your lips move, but I can't hear what you say...."

     His stark, frightened face hovers over mine. At first, his
words are intelligible, drowned out by echoing noise inside my
head.

     "Dana..."

     I must be dying. He's calling me by my first name.

     "You're not dying, Scully."

     I'm not dying....

     I'm in shock...jumbled thoughts are turning to words....

     Mulder gathers me into his arms and holds me tightly. His
breath comes out like sporadic bursts of air, contorted, almost
strangled.

     Fowley....

     I lift my head from his shoulder.

     I see her then.

     She's dead....

     She's immersed in a pool of blood. It seeps
through her long, dark hair.

     A single bullet to the back of her head....

     His bullet....

     Oh my God....

     "Scully...." Mulder's voice is urgent. I try to listen to
what he's saying, to wake from this concussion of alarm and
confusion. "I need you, right now...Scully...don't lose it on
me...."

     I shudder, closing my eyes, burying my face against his
neck. I try to immerse myself in the warmth of his skin, to
shelter myself in the security of his arms.

     "Scully...." He takes me by the shoulders and forces me
away from him. "We've got to move fast."

     Like an obedient child, I nod, allowing him to haul me to my
feet.

     "Listen to me, Scully." He lowers himself so that his eyes
are level with mine. "We can't let anyone know about this.
We've got to get rid of her body."

     My legs almost go out from under me.

     He wants to cover this up....

     "Mulder, we can't hide the truth," I find my voice, but it
stammers. I'm shaking so hard that my teeth actually chatter.

     "We have to...."

     "It's makes us no better than those who conspire against
us."

     "Scully, there will be no us..." His fingers dig into my
shoulders. "If the Consortium finds out what's happened here
tonight... there will be... no.... us...."

     "Mulder...," I start to argue, but stop suddenly.

     Oh my God....

     He's right.....

     But, we're too late....

     The Cigarette Smoking Man's habit proceeds him. It
announces him. I smell him even before I see his dark, lurking
shadow. When he slithers around the corner of my door, I recoil
with fear.

     But, Mulder doesn't. He whirls around, ready to strike.
Shielding my body with his, he aims his gun at CSM's head and
hisses,

     "Willing to join her, old man?"

     CSM takes a deep drag of his cigarette. He first gives
Mulder a scoffing look before his gaze drops to Fowley.

     "Well," His voice drips sarcasm like venom, "It appears I'm
not the only one who is willing to sacrifice a former wife for a noble
cause."

     Like a snake sizing up his prey, his eyes narrow in on mine.

To be continued.....

Author's Notes: My never ending thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's
Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia,
who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. To those
readers who encourage and tolerate me.

And...to TBishop...who's feedback letter inspired a certain passage...

     My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing
shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring....

Title: Comfortably Numb
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, S
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through season six
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it!
Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story
Author's Reminder: This is a work in progress...please be patient with
me...

For previous installments you can find them
at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm

Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship...
smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves...
Your lips move but I can't hear what you say...
I have become comfortably numb...

Part 10 of ? (WIP)

     It will have blood, they say...

     Blood will have blood...

     And, I will spill more gladly....

     I raise my gun to the level of my eyes. Adrenalin courses
though my veins like liquid fire. It incites the beating of my
heart and flares my consciousness past debate. There's no
dousing effect of thought or reason... no cooling of an impulse
ignited moments ago...

     Nothing else exists other than my need to protect her.

     Scully...

     Not my wife by law, but more of a wife than the one who lies
dead at my feet.

     I killed her. Without hesitation, warning, or even a split-
second wavering of my resolve.

     This executioner feels no regret.

     I intended my shot to be lethal. Had it not been, any
fragment of life that remained in my ex-wife might have been
spent jerking the trigger of her own gun. Her last reaction...
her final revenge.

     My finger holds the same promise now. With my last breath I
will defend Scully from harm. If I'm to fall, her assailant will
fall with me.

     CSM's eyes shift from Scully to the end of my gun. Although
it's inches from his face, he appears unperturbed by my threat.
He doesn't flinch. There's no tensing of his jaw, no sweat
sliding down the cavernous wrinkles that prunes his features.

     He is as cool as I am deadly.

     This makes for a dangerous combination.

     "Relax, Agent Mulder," he snickers. "I'm here to thank you,
not kill you."

     "Yeah, right," I scoff, raising my gun so it parallels his
eyes.

     "You've crossed a threshold," CSM remarks. "And, I'm not
talking about the one that involves marital bliss. Although, I
must admit you given the `til death do us a part' an interesting
twist."

     "Consider it an annulment," I tell him. "No marriage ever
existed."

     "Consider it done," he grins, lifting his cigarette to his
lips. "By this time tomorrow there will never have been a Diana
Fowley."

     "Why?" Scully's voice is heard behind me. It shakes, but I
sense her inherent strength trying to rebound. "What's in it for
you?"

     "Revenge..." CSM's voice cuts off as he takes another drag.
"The woman betrayed me."

     "The adulterer feels betrayed?" I sneer at him.

     "Agent Scully was not the only recipient of Ms. Fowley's
calling card," the man exhales a stream of smoke. "Her camera
was not the only one hidden in her apartment that fateful night."

     CSM cautiously reaches into his coat pocket... not for a
gun... but for a photograph.

     "Like they say, Agent Mulder, a picture conveys a thousand
words."

     I'm not impressed or surprised.

     "Well...picture this," I threaten, extending my arm to gouge
his cheekbone with my gun. "If you ever cross this threshold
again, you'll be popping up daisies for dogs to piss on. And,
that goes for your cohorts. I will hunt down every single member
of your so-called consortium and show you the true meaning of
revenge."

     "Speaking of which," CSM pauses to clear his throat.

     Two men appear at Scully's doorway.

     I hear Scully's movement behind me. My partner, my first
lieutenant, reports for duty. She bolts to my side, aiming
Diana's blood drenched gun at the expressionless goons who await
their orders.

     "Call them off... you black lung son-of-a-bitch," I
threaten. "Or only one of us walks away, and my gun says it
ain't gonna be you."

     "They're not assassins, Agent Mulder," CSM smiles with
genuine amusement. "Just a clean-up crew. They wear gloves, not
guns..."

     "Check them out, Scully."

     I wait, my finger poised on the trigger, while Scully pats
down both man. She nods confirmation and steps back.

     "Do you remember the saying, Agent Mulder... what is trash
to one... is treasure to another?" CSM's reflects. "Well,
sometimes trash... is just trash."

     CSM turns his head to the men.

     "Dispose of it," he says tonelessly.

     Speechless and stunned, Scully and I stand aside. The two
men "borrow" the carpet from underneath her dining room table and
roll Fowley's inert body it. Between the two of them, they lug
it out the door and disappear down the hallway.

     Talk about pulling the rug out from under your feet....

     CSM crushes his cigarette in the palm of his hand. His
action is grossly symbolic. He's a man who feels no pain, other
than betrayal.

     I think I've discovered his Achilles's heel.

     And, he has obviously found mine.

     "The Consortium has no intention of causing Agent Scully any
harm," he advises. "Like you, Agent Mulder, we have discovered
her value."

     "Which is?" I ask.

     "Ask her..., " His eyes slide over to Scully as he continues
by addressing her. "Agent Scully, your flashbacks must not be
silenced. Not by your attempts... or by another's personal
agenda."

     "Why?" I hiss.

     "Enlightenment," the man proclaims. "The truth, Agent
Mulder. What has been your obsession, is her destiny."

     Her destiny....

     "To do what? Reveal you for the slime bucket that you are?"
My voice rises with indignation. "To uncover the of her
abduction, the inhumanity of the tests conducted on her and other
women?"

     "History will decide who the war criminals are, Agent
Mulder," he reflects. "And, the voice that will be heard will not
be yours. It will be Agent Scully's."

     CSM looks at Scully. I see the gleaming appreciation in his
eyes and shudder with revulsion. He speaks with a tone that
allows no interpretation. It's certain and hopeful.

     "It will be you, Agent Scully. You will be the one to
vindicate me in the end."

     "I think....not," she states with equal conviction.

     "It is the voice of rationalism that will re-write the
course of history," insists CSM. "It is her science... her
experience... her exposure... that will pass judgment on the
necessity of these tests."

     "Judgment day is already here," Scully counters. "Would you
like to hear my pronouncement?"

     "Reserve your judgment for another day, Agent Scully,"
advises CSM. "One that is close at hand. Or... as to quote the
dead..."

     He backs up to the door and lights up another cigarette.
His eyes squint past us, focusing on the mantle clock.

     "The bell tolls for us all...."

     His words permeates the air like the series of smoke rings
he leaves behind.

     He's gone.

     Scully....

     My attention focuses on his prophecy.

     The non-believer turned revelator.

     "Mulder," her voice now trembles. Closing the door, she
slumps against it and wearily raises her finger to the clock.

     The clock....

     "Try smashing that against the fireplace," she tells me.

     I don't need further prompting. I hurl it with a force that
fractures glass and dents the brass chimes. I scavenge through
the rubble, looking for more than just an electronic device.

     Somewhere in this ruin, maybe I'll find the proof to make
her finally understand.

     "Is it bugged?" I hear Scully ask.

     "Yeah," I say grimly as I retrieve the bug.

     Scully says nothing. Her eyes are shadowed by stress and
fatigue. She rolls her shoulders along the door to push herself
back on her feet. Once on solid footing, she trudges to the
kitchen.

     I roll the bug between my fingers as I contemplate my own
"enlightenment".

     Scully's flashbacks represent more than repressed memories.
Her recollection is history in the making. A series of events...
beginning with her abduction, the tests, the stolen ova to create
a human/alien hybrid....

     And, the most critical incident of all. Scully's exposure
to the alien virus made her the first recipient of the vaccine.

     Not only did it save her life... it's immunized her....

     Scully will survive the holocaust.

     As a scientist, grounded in fact and schooled in logic, she
will be the one to justify the means to an end. She will
causally relate survival of the human race to the evil
manipulations of the Consortium. Because she was their victim,
her voice will be well received.

     Scully has become the Consortium's hope for absolution.

     She's also become my only hope....

     Through her, my truth will live on....

     Scully comes into the living room dragging a steaming bucket
that reeks of ammonia. Her shoulders are slumped as if the
weight she carries is not limited to the pail of water. She
kneels beside the puddle of blood and studies the gun in her
hand. It sticks to her skin, glued by the same bodily fluid that
she now seeks to mop up.

     "I have blood on my hand," she whispers.

     I wince when she plunges her hand into the hot bucket.

     "It's alright," Scully gasps, clenching her teeth. She
withdraws her reddened hand and lays the gun carefully on the
coffee table.

     "Let me clean this up," I offer as I crouch down beside her.

     "No..." she shakes her head fiercely as she thrusts her hand
back into the bucket. "I have to do it."

     "Why?" I ask, catching her wrist.

     Her fingers curled tightly around the sponge. She meets my
eyes and pleads with the same intensity as her voice.

     "I have to scrub this away, Mulder. All of it... I need to
disinfect it... to... to sanitize it...."

     Oh God....the "voice of rationalism" is quickly dissolving
into a cry of hysteria.

     "No, Scully," I try to pry the sponge from her hand. "It's
not the blood. You're trying to wash away the truth."

     In our struggle, I knock over the bucket. It floods the
floor, mixing blood with hot, soapy bubbles.

     "Do you see what you've done?" Scully screams at me with
sudden fury. "Do you see the fucking mess you've made?"

     "Of what?" I bellow back. "Your floor or your life?"

     She jerks away from me and springs to her feet.

     "I'm not doing this..."

     "The truth, Scully... " I rise up before her. "What is the
truth?"

     "I won't say it." She shakes her head frantically. "I won't
believe."

     "You already do," I insist. "One doesn't have to be
telepathic little boy named Gibson to realize it. You believe,
Scully. You just don't want to admit it."

     "I will never say the words to exonerate those Nazis,"
Scully declares hotly.

     "Just say the words to me," I plead with her.

     For a minute, she contemplates me. Her lips open slightly
as if she's about to speak. I find myself holding my breath,
growing dizzy with hope that she's finally going to say the words
I've been waiting to hear.

     For six agonizing years....

     Now...

     She'll say those words... now...

     Please, Scully....

     Suddenly her mouth clamps shut. She gives me a withering
look before making a blitz for her bedroom.

     I can't take her denial anymore.

     "See... Scully... run...," I yell after her in a scathing
voice. "You can't run from the truth anymore. It's got you
cornered. You can't stay comfortably numb... and I won't let you
live your life pretending to be comfortably ignorant."

     Her response is true to form.

     Another fucking door... slammed right in my face.

**********

     Cringing from the cold, I lie alone in my bed. Naked, I've
chosen to expose my skin rather than the truth. I turn to the
bedroom window that I've opened, waiting for the frigid air to
freeze me into oblivion.

     It doesn't.

     An hour passes to the tune of his cleaning. I can hear my
maid through the bedroom door. The muffled swishing of a
sponge... the bristles of a broom sweeping up broken glass... the
grinding motor of my vacuum... even the clanking of dirty dishes
in the kitchen sink....

     Fox Mulder....

     Special Agent turned House Frau....

     And, the "voice of rationalism" lies cowering in her bed.

     My mind shakes with demented laughter....

     I wonder what Frau Vandervanack would think of us now?

     Fear is a powerful force. It's driving me to the point of
madness, where sanity no longer holds any attraction. If I can't
escape this horror he calls the truth, I will elude it another
way.

     I will not be the blasphemer of my own convictions....

     I'd rather die....

     I feel so cold....

     I want to feel cold....

     The addict in me responds instantly. Lifting my head from
the pillow, I kick the covers off the bed. I embrace the chill,
gulping mouthfuls of the icy air, willing it to numb my thoughts
as it does my body.

     "What the hell are you doing?" I hear Mulder's voice.

     I open my eyes to see him hovering over me.

     "Are you trying to freeze to death, Scully?" He growls,
crossing the room to close the window.

     "I hope so..." I whisper.

     His hazel eyes stare into mine. I see the tug-of-war
expression in them. Anger pulls against concern. Each emotion
tries to jerk the other across the finishing line.

     "Damn you." Frowning, Mulder strips off his clothes and
slides into bed beside me. With a forceful tug, he draws me into
his arms. I feel his body heat permeate my flesh, melting the
numbness, awakening my dulled senses.

     "Damn you, Scully..." he says again in a tight voice. "How
can you do this to yourself? How can you do this to us?"

     He's crying....

     My cheek is pressed against his chest which shudders with
muted sobs. I slide my hand up to his face and try to wipe away
his tears. He pushes it away, but holds me tighter.

     Afraid to accept me... yet reluctant to let me go.

     His obsession isn't only the truth. It's me... or what I
represent. The eternal skeptic... the one he has to make
believe.

     He doesn't cry for "us". He cries for himself.

     Denied validation, he's suffering his own type of
withdrawal.

     Here, Mulder....

     Let me give you a quick fix....

     A different type of opiate....

     Shifting myself over him, I spread my legs open in silent
invitation.

     "No, Scully...," Mulder's voice cracks.

     I begin to stroke him, tease him, guide that part of him
that responds easily to my touch.

     Suddenly, Mulder grabs my hand and rolls me onto my back.

     "I said no...." he states emphatically.

     I want to scream my frustration. I need to vent this fear
and panic that is eating me alive.

     Digesting me....

     I can feel it....

     My eyes open wide with horror.

     I can't move. I'm paralyzed, frozen in a cryopod that has
become my coffin. Green liquid pours around me, shrouding me,
lowering the temperature of my skin and the beating of my heart.
I'm intubated by a tube that is not rubber, but organic. It
pumps putrid liquid down my esophagus, sustaining me for one
purpose only.

     I'm a host....

     To an alien life form....

     I believe....

To be continued.....

Author's Notes: My never ending thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's
Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia,
who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. To those
readers who encourage and tolerate me.

And...to TBishop...who's feedback letter inspired a certain passage...

     My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing
shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring....

Title: Comfortably Numb
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, S
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through season six
Archive: Please do, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it!
Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story.

For previous installments you can find them
at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm

Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship...
smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves...
Your lips move but I can't hear what you say...
I have become comfortably numb...

Part 11 of 11

     I'm losing her...

     She's not breathing...

     Panic floods me as I see the pupils of her eyes dilate and
fix into an oxygen deprived stare. Her throat begins to convulse
with rhythmic spasms like she's trying to expel a foreign object.

     Her frozen, horrified expression propels me to another time
and place.

     Oh my God....

     The Profiler has studied too closely....

     In my attempts to get into her mind, I find myself trapped
in her most petrifying flashback of all....

     I return to the cavernous, alien craft that is buried under
the polar cap. The cryopod... that stores her like a
refrigerated meal awaiting consumption... has finally cracked.
Green, icy slush collects at my feet. When she chokes, I
frantically pull the tube from her mouth. What should be less
than a foot seems more like a yard. It stretches out like an
unfurling intestine in my hands.

     Holy shit....

     She's still choking.

     This bizarre paroxysm is killing her....

     Scully....

     I pry open her mouth and force my fingers to the back of her
throat. She gags when I try to clear her airway. Her chest
lurches forward and I have to press my knee against her ribs to
hold her down.

     I probe for something I'm not sure is there.

     Nothing....

     There's no physical hindrance to her breathing....

     I call out to her, tipping her head back to initiate CPR.
Just as I lean over to cover her mouth with mine, she jerks away
and fills her lungs....

     And screams....

     The room fills with the sound of her terror. I yank her up
by her shoulders, shaking her, trying to break through her wall
of hysteria.

     "Scully...." I drown out her screams with my own. "Tell me
what you see."

     "Creatures...," she shrieks. "They're trying to claw their
way out...."

      Shuddering, she clutches her stomach and groans.

     "No, not in you," I yell back. "It never gestated in you."

     "The others are not dead," Scully cries, twisting in my
arms. "They feel the pain. They're being slowly digested...
bone... tissue... blood... but the tube silence their
screams...."

     I finally understand the link to her stomach pain....

     The gagging, the choking, the vomiting....

     Her creature is horror. It has been gnawing at her for
months, mauling its way through her denial, disguising itself as
physical pain.

     I cup her face with my hands, forcing her to meet my gaze.
She squeezes her eyes closed in a desperate attempt to shut me
out.

     "Scully, open your eyes and look at me."

     "I can't...."

     "Damn it, look at me," I bellow. "Speak the words,
Scully... before they really do eat you alive."

     My analogy finally hits home. Her eyes fly open and she
screeches,

     "Aliens... they're aliens!"

     The vision in her eyes explodes into a million pieces. Her
gaze is no longer frozen in muted fear. Ice melts to tears.
They spill down her cheeks and onto my hands.

     The feel of them washes me with relief.

     "It's over, Scully." I tell her excitedly. "The flashbacks.
They'll stop now."

     "What do you mean?" she sobs.

     "It was more than just your emotions trying to connect." I
explain. "It was the truth struggling to break free."

     "Oh, Mulder...the truth will enslave us all."

     "Not you..." I emphasize, squeezing her tightly. "You're
the one who was successfully vaccinated. That's why the
Consortium wants you safe. Because the future courses through
your veins."

     "Well, it better include you in it, or I'll slice through
those future holding veins."

     I close my eyes and steel myself to her weeping.

     "There is a better use for your blood than to spill it for
me." I remind her.

     She collapses against me and continues to sob.

     "I won't live without you," she sniffs.

     "Hey... don't write me off just yet."

     I make my voice light, trying to tease her out of this
inordinate, melodramatic mood. The "voice of rationalism" is
rapidly turning into the "voice of dependence" and this
transition scares the hell out of me.

     I may not be there for her....

     This is the terror of my truth.

     "Don't you understand why you must live, Scully? You're not
only capable of rewriting history. You're capable of changing
it. It's the vaccine. The key to its effectiveness is in your
blood."

     "I want to believe...," she stops as she recognizes the
impact of her own words. She edits herself and continues. "I
want to feel hope."

     "That's okay." I press my lips against her forehead. "Right
now, I have enough for both of us."

     Scully exhales slowly, sagging against me. Her energy level
is gone, depleted by an endless night of trauma and revelation.
The flashbacks have done more than just strip away layers of
denial. They've sandblasted her endurance, leaving her
physically drained and emotionally scathed.

     I offer her what comfort I can. Easing her back to the bed,
I blanket her body with my own. I limit my touch to soothing
caresses. I repeatedly kiss her cheeks, mopping her tears with
my lips. Her lashes flutter against mine as fatigue overtakes
her. Nestled in my arms, she drifts off quietly to what I know
will finally be a dreamless sleep.

***************

When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone....

     I stand by the bedroom window, parting the blinds with
fingers that are no longer dull, but feel sharply sensitive. It's
late morning according to my clock, but the sun is hidden behind
heavy clouds that predict more than just rain. They forecast the
futility of my future, the bleakness of my days to come.

     Mulder says he has hope enough for the both of us....

     That's good, because I have none....

     I'm no longer comfortably numb....

     I'm painfully aware....

     Does he sense my anguish? He wakes the instant my thoughts
turn as grim as the overcast sky. His hazel eyes snap open with
a sudden alertness that suggests that this "thing between us" is
a connection more profound than a joining of our flesh.

     I startle, as does he....

     Both of us seek the other's gaze. His shines with the light
of our newly shared belief. Mine only reflects the shadow of my
despair.

     Can I thread hope through him?

     Do you feel me, Mulder? Is this bond, this unspoken
communication between us so strong that it can transcend time and
space?

     "Mulder," I whisper the question. "What made you come back
last night?"

     He shifts up onto his elbow and studies me thoughtfully.

     "Did you hear my voice inside you? Did you turn around
because I was crying for you to stop?"

     I see the debate in his eyes....

     I guess my stomach's not done churning after all....

     "Did you sense that I was in danger?" I add in a desperate
voice. "Did you change your mind about revenge?"

     Still no answer.

     "What was it, Mulder?" I let the blinds close behind me.
"What brought you back to me?"

     "It was your phone," he answers reluctantly. For a minute,
the seriousness of his voice competes with the absurdity of his
answer.

     "What?"

     "You kept ringing my cell phone," Mulder explains. "I
finally answered."

     My phone....

     I remember dropping it when I opened the door....

     "You overheard...," my voice cuts off with a gasp.

     "Every sinister word from the junkie's mouth," he relates
caustically. "Offering you sugar coated pills. A prescription
known as suicide."

     "Oh...," I swallow hard, almost choking on this tablet of
reality.

     It was a coincidence. A twist of fate.

     I turn back to the window, focusing my attention on the void
of what my world has become.

     "Scully...." I hear the shuffling of sheets and comforter as
he gets out of bed. "I can't lie to you, even if it means giving
you hope."

     "I know," I murmur sadly.

     "There is another way," he suggests as he approaches me.
When I feel his hands graze my arms, I cringe from what I
perceive to be a sexual overture.

     "No." I push him away and reach for my robe on the bottom of
the bed.

     "Don't you want to hear what I have to say?"

     "Not if you intend to regale me with your body," I retort.

     "Jesus... is that what you think?" Mulder shoots back,
sounding both deflated and suddenly angry. "Or, is it what you've
become?"

     "What are you talking about?"

     "Last night, you spread your legs open in an effort to
distract me."

     I tie the sash of my robe around my waist, pulling it into
two tight knots.

     "Well, maybe I need more just a distraction in return." I
state coldly.

     Mulder scrutinizes the knot before meeting my gaze. His
eyes darken with a menacing challenge.

     "You know, Scully, I could untie that with my teeth."

     "Not if you don't have any left."

     Mulder rubs his chin, remembering how I almost knocked his
jaw off the night before. He gives me a scoffing look, saying,

     "Well, then I'd have to use my tongue."

     "Save it, Mulder. Find a better use for it. These legs are
definitely closed."

     I watch him reach for his jeans.

     "Then try listening to what my tongue has to say," he
berates me. "What I was trying to suggest is that we use our
Bureau resources to isolate this vaccine. To stop investigating
X-files and start pursuing our future."

     He yanks his shirt over his head and continues,

     "But, I can see that you'd rather wallow in self-pity,
turning everything good between us into something sordid."

     He sits on the side of our bed, digging his sneakers out
from underneath it.

     "And, I know why, Miss Numbness. That way, if anything
happens to me, you can anesthetize your pain by making the loss
insignificant."

     I watch him tie angry knots with the laces of his sneakers.

     Oh God....

     He's forcing me to acknowledge another horrifying truth....

     This one is not about aliens....

     It's about my attempts to alienate my feelings.

     I rush to the side of the bed and drop to my knees. My
fingers fumble against his. I try to grab the laces and loosen
the knot, equating it with how I've twisted our love.

     "I'm sorry...," I mumble, trying to tug the knot free. When
it refuses to give, I feel a rush of anxiety crash over me.
Biting my lip, I try again.

     "I can do this."

     For the first time, I hear hope and determination in my
voice.

     Mulder catches my hand in his own as he says to me gently,

     "We can do this."

     His fingers guide mine as we untie his sneakers.

     My hand escorts his to the sash of my robe.

     "Together...," I whisper against his lips as my robe falls
open.

     I think I've discovered a better definition of dependency.

     The one that prescribes hope.

     And hope, through him, is the most profound comfort of all.

The End.