THE BITTER TASTE OF REVENGE (1/2)
by Jill Selby (msselby@socketis.net)

Summary:  As Mulder leads a desperate search, Scully learns
the price she must pay for deliverance from the hands of a
madman.

Disclaimer:  Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten
Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network.  All others
are the author's creation.  Any similarity to any person, living
or dead, is purely coincidental.  No infringement is intended.

Classification:  XA
Relationship:    MSR
Rating:          PG
Spoilers:        None

Author's Notes:  This is a stand-alone story that fits nicely in
a post-"Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone" universe.  However, it's
not necessary to read that story in order to understand this one. 
Additional research notes appear at the end of part 2.  

Thanks to Meredith for her editing expertise, but most of all for
her friendship.

**Feedback always sincerely appreciated.**
____________________________

THE BITTER TASTE OF REVENGE (1/2)

She remembered being torn from Mulder's arms by rough, calloused
hands.

And nothing more until she woke up on a hard bed in a cold, dark
room.

The case they were investigating was brutal.  The agents were
exhausted.  Their lovemaking that night had been more cleansing
ritual than an expression of their feelings.  Scully was sorry
for that.  It was a fear neither had acknowledged aloud, but both
were aware of the danger inherent in their jobs.  Always make
love to him as if it will be the last time -- that was the
promise she had made to herself.  It was the only time she had
ever ignored that pledge.

And now, when she realized she might never see Mulder again, the
shards of that broken promise ripped into her heart.

Mulder was convinced it was some sort of beast who had abducted
and murdered five women in northwest California over a period of
three months.  As was typical for the two of them, they had
argued over the plausibility of his conjecture.  Two full days
of interviews and autopsies, crime scene visits and lab analyses,
had yielded no clues to the killer's identity.  Scully had
determined that the cause of death was the same in all cases:
internal injuries precipitated by severe beating.  One body bore
a handprint larger than any she'd ever seen, which, to Mulder,
was proof that the beast was real.  

Mulder was right.  

Beast was an apt description.  

But Scully's abductor was human, nonetheless.
____________________________

Every officer, clerk and janitor with a passing knowledge of the
case offered him condolences and food.  

Mulder didn't want their sympathy because he refused to accept
that his partner could be dead.  

He didn't want their food, because his stomach hadn't stopped
churning from the moment he realized she was gone.

She had been gone for 42 hours, and from the instant he realized
she was missing, he had repeatedly, agonizingly forced his mind
to replay the events of that morning, thinking that if he
concentrated hard enough, some all-important clue would surface
through his hazy recall.

His memory of her kidnapping unspooled in painful, sensory
flashes.

She had cried out for him.  There was an unfamiliar note of
terror in her voice that rang in his ears still.

He felt her body being yanked away.  The warmth of her skin
against his replaced with a biting chill that raked across
his flesh and seeped into his heart.

There was a foul stench in the air that permeated the motel room
and hung like an acrid cloud around the shadowy outline of a man
looming above them.  

And then . . . and then the memory faded to black.

Precious hours had been wasted in the hospital emergency room as
a team of weary, post-pubescent doctors assessed his head injury. 
Eventually he was judged fit to join the search, but there was
nothing to find.  No trail of evidence.  No useful shred of
memory to aid him.

She was simply gone.

Taken without resistance from the man who had sworn to lay down
his life to protect her.

Despite her fatigue, he had cajoled her into a quick lovemaking
session that night.  Mercy sex on her part, since he was fairly
certain she had received no satisfaction from it.  He knew he
should be sorry for taking advantage, and yet the memory of his
passion for her was all that sustained him.

Consumed by grief, devoured whole by guilt, he took out his
frustrations on the officers assigned to the case.  After one too
many of his outbursts, the sheriff pulled him aside for a
little pep talk.  "Don't lose your cool over this," he'd warned.

Such easy advice to give, Mulder thought, when it isn't your
world that just disintegrated into nothingness.
____________________________

For the first few days he kept her locked in a small, windowless
room.  She pleaded with him to talk to her.  To tell her what he
had done to Mulder.  To let her go.

For as long as she yelled, he ignored her.

Scully didn't think it was coincidence that he opened the door
only after her voice gave out and she ceased her demands.  He
brought her food, water, and a clean shirt to replace the bed
sheet she had wrapped around her body.  He used his bulk as a
barrier to block the open doorway as he watched her eat, then he
retrieved the dishes and left, bolting the door behind him.

In medical school, she had seen pictures of people with his
disorder, but she'd never witnessed a living example of
gigantism.  His features had been hideously deformed by the
condition -- his hands and feet disproportionately enlarged, his
brow set on a bony ridge, his decaying yellow teeth spaced widely
apart.  The disorder could not, however, account for his shaggy
hair and beard or his repulsive body odor.  Those were the result
of his own neglect.  

Scully spent her endless days and nights of imprisonment trying
to calculate an escape plan.  It was difficult to be optimistic
about her chances.  She knew she didn't have all the facts about
the situation, but there were a few things of which she was sure. 
It was November, and colder than usual for that time of year. 
She had no shoes and, except for an oversized shirt, no clothes. 
And, she surmised from the sounds of the wind in the trees and
the thickly layered music of animals, birds and insects, she was
somewhere deep in the woods.

Her own body was beginning to itch and stink from the filth of
the place, but aside from the bucket he had given her to use as a
toilet, he'd made no provisions for her personal hygiene.  She
found herself taking a small comfort in the possibility that,
maybe, some essence of Mulder was still on her skin or inside her
body.

She wasn't sure if it was the fourth day or the fifth, when her
captor let her out of the room.
____________________________

Their first lead came on the fourth day of the search.  A hiker
reported hearing screams coming from a cabin near Clearwater
Lake.

A team was sent to investigate, but it turned out to be nothing
more than a couple of college kids on a weekend sex romp.

Mulder received word *after* the fact.

He was livid when he got to the sheriff's headquarters.  He
didn't give the receptionist a chance to announce his arrival
before he barged into the office.  "You had no right --"

Sheriff Wilson held up a forestalling hand, and sent the young
deputy who had been giving him a report, out of the office.  He
rose from his desk, shut the office door, and motioned for the
agent to take a seat.  Mulder remained standing.

He slammed a hand down on the sheriff's desk.  "How dare you send
officers to follow up a lead like that and not tell me.  What if
she'd been there?  Did it occur to you that she might need me
there?"

Mulder assessed the frail looking older man.  Obviously he was
near retirement age.  Perhaps his judgment was impaired.  But the
man's demeanor was assured and his voice strong when he
responded.  "What if she had been dead, Agent Mulder?  Is that a
picture you want to carry with you for the rest of your life?"

Wilson's words conjured up a horrifying mental image, and Mulder
closed his eyes momentarily to ward it away.  His throat
tightened around the words, "It wasn't your place to decide that
for me."

"I've made plenty of allowances here.  You've been kept informed
of our progress, despite your obvious personal involvement with
this case."

That was no secret.  Mulder had gone on record stating that
Scully was in his bed when the kidnaping took place.  But there
was no way he was going to trust these small-town deputies to
find her, and he would be damned if he would leave her fate in
someone else's hands.

His frustration emboldened him, and he went for the low blow.
"What if it was your wife, Wilson?  Wouldn't you want to know
every detail of the case, no matter how small or inconsequential
it might turn out to be?"  Mulder grabbed the picture from
Wilson's desk and shoved it in the old man's face.  "What if it
was her?"   

The sheriff dismissed Mulder from his office then, but the agent
could tell by the look in the older man's eye that they had a new
understanding.  After that, Mulder received hourly updates from
Wilson's office.

Days later one of the deputies told Mulder that Sheriff Wilson's
wife had been kidnapped and murdered two years ago when a man he
had captured early in his career decided to exact some payback.  

Mulder wasn't sure how, or even if, he should apologize.
____________________________

As she had assumed from the rough hewn logs that made up the
walls of her tiny prison room, the place was a cabin.  A very
rustic cabin.  What few pieces of furniture there were, looked
like a collection of shabby garage sale finds.  The kitchen
consisted of nothing more than a wood-burning stove and a wash
basin.  There was no refrigerator.  No running water.  No
electricity.  No telephone.

But there was a window.  

The sunlight seared her eyes.  She had become so accustomed to
the darkness, that daylight was a shock to her system.  When,
finally, her eyes adjusted, she made her way to the window and
saw her worst fear realized.  There was nothing visible in any
direction except for trees.

Under other circumstances, and with a different companion, the
place could have been a romantic hideaway.  To her, the trees
were nothing more than headstones in a graveyard.  Testament to
the hopelessness she was feeling.

The kitchen stove provided the only heat in the cabin, and it
wasn't enough against the unseasonable chill.  The thin shirt she
wore engulfed her body and brushed past her knees, but the single
layer of fabric was poor insulation.  Only slightly less than
naked, she felt too cold and too exposed.

"I brought you some flowers."

It was the first time he had spoken, and it startled her.  The
days of silence had left her convinced that he couldn't speak at
all.  Her attempts to engage him in conversation had been met
with stony-faced disregard.

She turned to face him, and there, clutched tightly in his
enormous hand was a bunch of wildflowers on weedy stalks.  Her
impulse was to grab the flowers and throw them in his hideous
face. Because of him, she'd suffered days of anguish and
discomfort, and worst of all, the relentless psychological
torture of not knowing how badly he had hurt Mulder in order to
kidnap her.   Her partner would never have let someone take her
if he had been conscious.  She was certain of that much.

Mulder was the profiler.  Not her.  But her intuition told her
she would stay alive longer if she hid her revulsion for this
man.  He had given her a clue when he rewarded her with food
after she stopped berating him through the door.  Displays of
angry hysterics would gain her nothing except perhaps an even
earlier death.

Convincing herself of the wisdom of her plan was, intellectually,
easy.  Forcing her emotions not to betray her was nearly
impossible.  In fact, she couldn't have managed it had it not
been for the flowers.

One of the flowers, in particular.

Foxglove.  

The irony of the name didn't escape her.  And for the first time
in days, she felt a flicker of hope warming her spirit.

"They're pretty flowers, uh . . ."

"Jimmy."

"Thank you, Jimmy.  Do you have a vase or something I could put
them in?"

He approached until they were toe to toe.  At such close
proximity, Scully became keenly aware of just how massive Jimmy
was.  At least seven feet tall, no less than 300 pounds.  A
bare-handed killer. She shut her eyes and suppressed a shudder as
he pressed the flowers into her hand.

When she opened her eyes again, he was moving dishes around in
the cupboard.  At last he pulled a china vase down from the top
shelf, filled it with some water from the wash basin, and set it
on the table.  The vase, and indeed, all the dishes she could see
in the cabinet, were exquisite.  He must has sensed her question. 
"The dishes belonged to my grandmother.  She said I should keep
them and give them to my wife someday."

If he heard the tremble in her voice, he didn't give any
indication.  "They're beautiful.  Bone china, aren't they?"

"I don't know.  I don't use them, normally."

She nodded, and managed to still her shaking hands enough to drop
the slender stems into the vase.  The flowers drooped from the
ordeal of being so savagely plucked from their roots.  It was a
feeling with which she could sympathize.   She arranged the
flowers
with painstaking slowness, not so much to showcase their beauty,
although that was the impression she hoped to give Jimmy, but to
confirm her earlier suspicion that the tallest stalk of pink,
bell-shaped blooms was indeed foxglove. 

For the next two days she was allowed to stay out in the main
part of the cabin as long as he was awake.  In the afternoon when
he napped, and at night, she was again led into the dark little
room and locked away.

With every hour that crawled by, she could tell he trusted her a
little more.
____________________________

Mulder allowed himself to sleep only when his body gave him no
choice.  A few hours at a time.  Impromptu naps at the sheriff's
office or sitting in an uncomfortable motel chair with a lap full
of files.

This night he couldn't sleep at all.  He didn't think he deserved
the luxury as long as she was suffering.  He wondered if she had
been able to find an escape in sleep.

He was mildly comforted by the knowledge that her abductor wasn't
a rapist.  None of the other women had been sexually assaulted. 

But none of the other women had been missing for this long.
____________________________

The following morning, Jimmy brought her some books to read. 
Cheap, paperback romance novels he must have assumed she would
enjoy. She skimmed through them, but couldn't stomach the stories
of naive young women being swept off their feet by dashing
strangers.  A volume on the shelf caught her eye.  She stood and
wrapped her hand around the book's spine.  

He hit her.

Not hard, but her cheek stung from the slap.  All the progress
she'd made toward gaining his trust seemed to vanish as he glared
at her with angry, coal-black eyes.

She touched a hand to her burning cheek.  Even as a child, her
first instinct when someone hit her, had been to hit them back. 
That impulsiveness landed her in trouble with her parents on
countless occasions after she'd bloodied the nose of one of her
brothers.  Of its own volition, her hand curled into a fist.  But
then she looked past Jimmy's hulking form to the wilting flowers
on the table.  If she engaged him now, she was as good as dead. 
She unclenched her hand and bowed her head in a contrite gesture. 
"I'm sorry Jimmy.  I didn't know it was a private book."

He reached for her then, and she flinched, but he merely laid
one gentle finger on her cheek.  Running it over the reddened
imprint his hand had left behind.

His voice was gentle.  "It's okay.  I shouldn't have hit you. 
It's just that . . ."

She didn't want to talk to him.  She didn't want him to become
more human to her.  But she was curious and blurted out an
encouragement for him to continue before she could stop herself.

"It's my high school yearbook."

"Oh?"  Something about his yearbook upset him, and she sensed he
wanted to tell her.  Or show her.  He pulled the book from the
shelf and sat down on the sofa, patting the cushion next to him. 
Exerting enough willpower to overcome her repugnance, she sat
down beside him.  The book fell open to a dog-eared page near the
front.

He pointed to a photo of an incredibly handsome young man with
wavy dark hair, piercing eyes, and a full, generous smile.  The
picture bore no resemblance to the bedraggled creature he had
become.

"I was voted the best looking guy in my class.  If they could see
me now, huh."  His gaze didn't waver from the photograph.

"Jimmy, I don't know much about your condition, but there are
treatments --"

"No!"  He threw the book down on the floor.  "No.  This is what I
am.  This is what I deserve."

"Why?"  She angled her head to better see his face, but he kept
his eyes focused downward.

"Because, God is punishing me."

"For what?"

He sat up straight and turned toward her.  "I can't help it.  I
just get angry sometimes, and then I hurt people."  He grabbed
her hands and squeezed them in the painful vice of his grip.  The
sorrowful, pleading tone in his voice didn't alter.  "But I don't
want to hurt you.  Don't make me hurt you."

"Jimmy --"

"You're so pretty.  I could make you happy.  I know I could.  You
don't need that other guy."

She broached a subject she knew she shouldn't, but she needed to
know.  "What did you do to him, Jimmy?  Did you kill him?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me.  Please, I --"

He dropped her hands, and this time put his full force behind the
blow.  She fell from the sofa to the concrete floor.  Before she
could gain any leverage, he had straddled her legs and was
pummeling her with his fists.  There was no way to fight back. 
She was pinned, face-down on the floor.

"Don't talk about him!  Don't you ever talk about him again!" 
His enraged screams faded with her consciousness.

She awoke, shivering violently, on the cold floor of her prison
room.  The first lucid thought that worked its way past the pain
was that the next time he would kill her.  Her only hope was to
kill him first.

If she was armed and he pointed a gun at her, there would no
ethical quandary.  Then it would be "kill or be killed."  But the
plan she was devising wasn't so straightforward.  She only had
one weapon -- a limp wildflower.  It wasn't a defensive weapon. 
She would have to take the offense.  

And that, regardless of her desperation, seemed very much like
murder.
____________________________

End part 1/2 of "The Bitter Taste of Revenge."


THE BITTER TASTE OF REVENGE (2/2)

Classification:  XA
Relationship:    MSR
Rating:          PG
Spoilers:        None

See part 1 for summary and disclaimer.

____________________________

THE BITTER TASTE OF REVENGE (2/2)


"Look, Mulder, don't get your hopes up.  The guy is about three
sheets to the wind.  He may have hallucinated the whole thing."

Mulder kept up with Wilson's surprisingly brisk pace as they made
their way to the briefing room where the witness was waiting. 
"What did he say exactly?"

"Says he came across a cabin last night while he was setting
traps, and saw a real messed-up looking hairy guy walking around
outside. Claims the guy had the biggest hands and feet he'd ever
seen on a human being. It's entirely possible our informant here
is just out to get his hands on the Crimestoppers reward, but
*if* he's telling the truth, and *if* he can find the place again
once he sobers up, we may have gotten our break."

The agent sprinted ahead, filled with hope, despite the sheriff's
admonishments to the contrary.  It was the first good news he'd
received in days, and he drank it in like water to a man too long
in the desert.

Even the sight of the witness, slumped in a chair, head tilted
back, mouth open to emit thunderous snores, didn't discourage
him.

It took some time -- much longer than Mulder had hoped -- but the
inebriated Good Samaritan finally regained his bearings, just as
the sky was beginning to brighten on the dawn of the eighth day.
____________________________

Jimmy didn't stay to watch her eat, as was his usual habit.  He
silently entered the room with her breakfast, set the tray beside
the bed, and left.  The door stood open as an invitation for her
to join him in the main part of the cabin.

Breakfast was hard biscuits, deer jerky, and water.  She wasn't
hungry, but she choked down the food rather than risk making him
angry.

Her body hurt.  Every breath was accompanied by a deep ache in
her ribs.  Not broken, but certainly badly bruised.  Walking was
difficult and excruciatingly painful, but she forced herself into
a straight posture as she moved across the room.  She approached 
him cautiously, knowing she needed to regain some of the false
rapport they had established if her plan was ever to have a
chance of success.

He was sitting on the couch, head bowed, and his shoulders were
shaking.  He was crying.  Mournful little sobs coming from the
soul of a wretched beast.  She felt her resolve weakening, even
though she knew that in seconds he could turn into the murderous
monster who had already slain five women.

Her voice came out as a tentative whisper.  "Jimmy?"

"I'm sorry I hurt you.  I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's okay, Jimmy.  I forgive you."  She laid her hand on his
shoulder and he looked up at her, clearly surprised by the
overture.  She nodded toward the kitchen.  "Would it be okay if I
made us some tea?  I think it would make you feel better."

His silence was eternal.  With each passing second, she became
more dismally certain that he would refuse.  But he relented. 
"Okay. There's some tea in the cabinet."

Those pitch-black eyes followed her every movement.  She could
feel him watching.  

There was a pitcher of fresh water on the counter, and she poured
some into the kettle on the stove.  The fire still burned
inside from his attempt to make biscuits, so the water heated
quickly.

She opened the cupboard to retrieve two of the fragile cups. 
They were made of thin, nearly translucent china.  The most
elegant she had ever seen.  The presence of such finery struck a
bizarre contrast in the modest surroundings.  

Handling the heirlooms with respectful delicacy, she set the cups
on the table beside the pitiful little arrangement of flowers. 
There were no tea bags, she had discovered, only loose tea, but
under the circumstances that was to her advantage.  A cloth dish
towel sufficed as a strainer.  She laid it across one of the
cups, dropped a pinch of tea into its center, and poured the
nearly-boiling water through the towel, into the cup.  After
allowing the tea to steep for a few minutes, she removed the
towel, discarded the leaves, and began the process again for the
second cup.

She couldn't have choreographed the scene any better.  Jimmy
diverted his attention at just the right moment, and when he
turned his head to look out the window, she pulled off several
leaves from the foxglove and mingled them with the tea in his
cup. 
Doubt began to brew in her mind, even as the mixture in the cup
darkened with tea and poison.  But if she were inclined to
forgive, the pain that spiked every breath made it impossible to
forget what Jimmy had done. She withdrew the towel, tossed the
damning leaves in the garbage, and washed her hands to rid her
skin of the toxin.  To try to rid herself of the invisible stain
she knew would forever taint her self-respect.

She left her cup of tea on the table, but carefully carried his
to him.  Her hand trembled slightly.  So did her voice.  "Jimmy,
here's your tea."

"Thank you."  It sounded, to her, as if he were saying thanks for
more than tea.  That he was thanking her for showing acceptance
and kindness that he never expected to receive again.  Guilt
tugged at her to pull the cup away, but she did nothing as he
took the tiny cup in his giant hand and lifted it to his lips. 
His eyes shone with a happy light that she was certain hadn't
appeared there for years.

And then the light flickered.

And then the light died.
____________________________

The officers made a stealthy approach to the cabin, carefully
avoiding any position which might allow them to be seen from the
window.  

One by one, the team assembled near the door.  At Mulder's
signal, Deputy Cox kicked in the door and the group of armed men
poured into the entrance.

Everyone there, even, to some extent, Mulder, had braced
themselves for the worst.  No one was prepared for what they
encountered.

Dana Scully, bending over the body of her kidnapper, pumping on
his chest, breathing into his mouth.  Using every ounce of
strength in her obviously abused body to save the man's life.

She didn't even seem to notice that the cavalry had arrived.

Mulder went to her and tried to pull her away from her task, but
she leaned back toward her abductor and blew another breath into
his mouth.  Someone yelled for the paramedics.  Scully continued
her desperate attempts at resuscitation, even after they arrived. 
Mulder literally had to pick her up to get her out of their way.

His relief at finding her alive and, if not well, at least not
seriously injured, was overwhelming.  He wanted to tuck her into
his embrace and hold her until she forgot everything she'd had to
endure over the past week.  

But she stood facing away from him, intently watching the
paramedics work.  

He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her against
his body.  She felt so cold.  "Scully, are you all right?"

She continued to stare silently until the paramedics ceased their
futile efforts.  Only then did she turn around in his arms and
return his embrace.  She spoke quietly, so only he could hear. 
"Take me home, Mulder."

Thinking that perhaps she hadn't heard his earlier question, he
repeated it.  "Are you all right?"

But the answer was the same.  "Take me home."
____________________________

He was waiting for her to cry.  

She knew that.  He had been hovering by her like a personal
wailing wall for a week, expecting at any moment her facade of
control to crumble and the tears to come.

"Since when are tears more intimate than sex?" he had asked her,
when again she refused his overture of comfort.  With all they
shared, both personally and professionally, he didn't understand
why she couldn't share the hurt.  Not when all he wanted to do
was heal her.  That was the problem.  The wound was too deep. 
Each time she thought she was ready to put the ordeal behind her,
Mulder would probe, and her soul would start to hemorrhage all
over again.

When the tears came, they were private tears.  Mulder never knew
they had been shed.  He continued to wait for the dam to burst,
when in actuality, it had collapsed days ago.

He had asked for, and she had given cursory details of her
captivity.  He hadn't yet found the courage to ask the one
question she sensed lying beneath the surface of every
conversation:  why had she tried so hard to save Jimmy's life?

It didn't matter.  She didn't think Mulder would understand her
answer.

She knew when she put the foxglove in Jimmy's tea that a heart
attack was imminent.  She thought she was prepared to see him
gasping and clutching his chest.  She thought she could stand
back and watch him die.

He had fallen to the floor, eyes clenched shut against the pain.

And he had reached for her.  Jimmy's last act was to reach out
for her help.  

She couldn't deny him.  

It had nothing to do with the oath she had taken as a physician. 
It was a human response to human need.  As much as she wanted to
see him as something inhuman, he was not.

Mulder, she realized, would never comprehend that, because to
him, Jimmy was an abstraction.  An enemy, but not a person.

The bitter hatred she harbored for Jimmy was not because of
the torment he had put her through, or the injuries he'd
inflicted.

She could forgive him those things.  

She hated him because he had forced her to kill in order to spare
her own life.

She hated him, because she would never be sure which of them was
truly the monster.
____________________________

End part 2/2 of "The Bitter Taste of Revenge"

Author's Notes:  Foxglove is a real plant, sometimes used as an
ornamental, with real potential to kill if ingested.  Before
digitalis was manufactured synthetically, it was derived from the
foxglove plant.  And gigantism is a real disease, albeit
extremely rare with an annual incidence of 3:1,000,000.  It is
caused by overproduction of growth hormone, and is characterized
by increased growth, most especially of the hands and feet. 
Facial features coarsen, and the teeth begin to spread apart.  It
typically develops in adults 30-40, and can be treated medically
and surgically.

Feedback (please!) to msselby@socketis.net.