Title: The Celine Series - I Don't Know (1/1) Author: CC Decker Email: Oh, God, please, email me, people! If you even read it, please email me! I make it a policy to email comments for *every* piece of fan fiction I read, and I think it would be a happier world if everybody did this. Please, please, please, please, email me at ! I will forever love you if you do! Classification: TRA Rating: NC-17 for extreme violence. Summary: Inspired by the short story "A Most Dangerous Game," Mulder and Scully are kidnaped and turned loose on an island to be hunted for sport by a psychotic man. Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance, hunting, trust Spoilers: Um . . . I don't think so! Disclaimer: Aw, boy, one of my favorite parts! Let me get something clear. I have NO MONEY. If Fox Broadcasting, Ten Thirteen Productions, or Chris Carter wants to sue me, they'll be wasting their time, and being rather ungrateful. (After all, not once, but *twice* I went down on my knees at Chris Carter's feet during an X-Files convention and cried "We're not worthy, we're not worthy!" The least he can do is let me borrow the characters. I'm not making a cent off of them!) Also, Celine Dion's song, "I Don't Know," isn't mine. "A Most Dangerous Game" was written by some guy, and it isn't mine either. But then again, my story isn't *that* similar to "A Most Dangerous Game," so he shouldn't complain. But I digress. . . . AUTHOR'S NOTE: WARNING, PLEASE READ! I don't want to steal any dramatic impact from my own story, but there is a section of extreme violence of a certain nature that might disturb some people. If you don't want to read it, turn back now. If not, you've been warned. I love feedback, but please, don't get angry at me if you continue to go on. Wow . . . is it me, or are my intros getting longer and longer? Anyway, on with the story! "I Don't Know" The winds of the heart can blow me down But I get right up and I stand my ground I've tasted fear, my share of pain The wasted tears of love in vain I've held you tight, pushed you away Now with all my heart, I beg you to stay I know what I want, I know what I need But there's just one thing I must believe Deep in the night by a dying flame You will be there when I call your name I'm sure I could face the bitter cold But life without you, I don't know "I Don't Know," Celine Dion Somewhere on the North Pacific coast 5:49 P.M., March 4 The blast of a shotgun cracked the silence behind her. Almost instantaneously a tree branch one foot over her head exploded, sending shards of wood raining down. Blind panic consumed her. Every limb, every muscle in her body was working together in an effort to preserve her life, which was in absolute danger now. There was no logic. No rational thought. The only possibility was that running faster may prolong her health. "Scully!" A dark form leapt from the brush beside her, tackling her into a tree opposite. A large familiar hand clamped over her mouth, and she was dragged deep through the brush into a thicket. "We need to run, we can't hide," she hissed at her partner as he removed his hand. "He thinks you're running for cover on the north shore. You'd be an idiot not to. And if there's one thing Charles Murphy does not think you are, it's an idiot." "We have to run!" "We have to wait!" He held her tightly in his arms, pushing their bodies into the shadows. Seconds later, the footsteps of their predator were moving toward them with the trained ease of a natural hunter. If he found them now, they would die. She pressed against his body, feeling his arms tightening protectively around her. They were trembling statues as the man moved, poised with his gun, only a few feet away. The brush was barley concealing them. If Charles Murphy decided to turn, or explore, it would be a bullet for each of them. But the man passed by without disturbing the surrounding terrain. He was dressed in full Great White Hunter garb, complete with the African safari hat and moustache. In his arms he carried an antique hunting riffle. There was an antique pistol at his belt, a knife at his boot. He was alone, but they knew better than to underestimate him. Charles Murphy may be crazy. Charles Murphy was most certainly dangerous. But Charles Murphy was not stupid. They stayed frozen in the bushes for many minutes after he passed, silent as dear, as still as trees. It wasn't until her muscles went numb, then painfully prickly, did Special Agent Dana Scully of the Federal Bureau of Investigation move from Special Agent Fox Mulder's arms. "We should go the way he came," he said to her as she shakily stood. She nodded, offering a hand to help him up. She was a bit embarrassed by panicking, but considering she had been seconds away from getting shot . . . "He leaves the island every evening." Mulder continued. "I know you just had a close scrape with him, but you need to think logically." She nodded again weakly. Murphy left his island every evening at sundown by helicopter and had been doing so for the last three days he had been hunting them. The discomforts of hunting only went so far, she supposed. Then it was time to go back to his mansion on the mainland. "There he goes," she said as the helicopter roared above their head. The man was leaning half out of it, scanning the woods. But they were beneath trees and not visible. "We'll be all right, Scully. We've managed to stay out of that bastard's way for the last three days." She said nothing, only pulled her backpack from her shoulders and settled it heavily on the ground. Here was as good a place as any to start a smokeless fire and settle down for the night. ************************* It had all started with Mulder wanting to check out a lead on a string of missing persons. A call had come into the office, requesting that he and Scully meet the informant at an abandoned movie theater. They had arrived, and were immediately and without pretense shot down and drugged with dart guns. They had woken up side by side on this island, the forest leaves above them, their weapons and cellular phones stripped from them, but otherwise in exactly what they had been wearing before. Mulder was still in his suit and tie, and she was in a thin business blouse and skirt with high heels. It wasn't until the bitter cold began nibbling at her skin did she realize what an unwitting mistake it had been to remove her jacket earlier in the warm car. She had sat up uncertainly. Mulder was still out cold beside her, the dart wound in his neck not looking severe enough to warrant concern. She had paused for a moment, studying her surroundings. There was a complete lack of the sounds of civilization. No cars, planes, nothing. For a moment she sat in stupefied shock before running her hands along her body. She was looking for any kind of abrasion, bruise, bump, or scar, but she was in perfect health, apart from the dart wound. Her confusion mounted. She remembered nothing but the damn theater and pulling something out of her neck . . . And then she saw the note. "Welcome my friends, "I am sure you are confused about your whereabouts, and what has happened to you in the last forty-eight hours. You are on Murphy Island, off the coast of Canada in the northern Pacific Ocean. I am Charles Murphy, and I have an interesting plight. You see, I am a big game hunter. I have traveled to Africa, Asia, the North . . . anywhere to find a creature that could elude me, that would challenge my superior skill. Alas, no such animal exists. "It was a short story that gave me the brilliant idea of hunting humans. "People are much harder to hunt. They are smart. Intelligent. Resourceful. I have been importing human beings to my island for my sport for the last six months, and I have been delighted with the results. First it was just vagabonds, homeless people, or runaway teenage kids, all easy layabouts that were not noticed missing. However, these people were quite easy to kill as well. So I have become more ambitious. "I have never had the pleasure of hunting a woman, my dear Dana, but you'll do nicely. I quite enjoy your looks. Perhaps your death will not be the only thing I hunt for. It will be my pleasure. As for you, Fox, you came highly recommended. You have two days to familiarize yourselves with my sizable island. There are provisions one mile east of where you were dropped off. Welcome, to my most dangerous game. "Charles Murphy" When Mulder had woken up, she showed him the note. He had the same reactions he did. He had almost been too shocked to speak. To be hunted down? As an animal? The last two days had been hell. A horrible, nightmarish hell. They had received another note from Murphy telling them of the 'rules'; how he used only traditional weapons and left every night to return to his warm home. It had been with the provisions he had spoken of in his first note. And his behavior when he landed showed that he was not interested in reasoning, and was very ruthless. They had spent the last two days literally running. ************************** She stared into the new evening's fire. Dinner had consisted of canned peaches from the provisions stated in the note, and the fire's fuel was green wood . . . smokeless. Scully studied her partner. His features were regretful over the blur of the flames. His dark brown hair was messy, a light shadow brushing his f ace. Of course, it had been a few days since he had shaved. But it was actually kind of attractive . . . Wait . . . what was she thinking?! "Mulder?" His eyes tore away from the flames to meet hers. She didn't want to see the tortured misery in their brown depths, but it was there, impossible to ignore. She knew he blamed himself for getting them kidnaped. "It wasn't your fault," she began. It was the conversation they had been avoiding the last two days. "I should have been more careful." She shivered as the wind picked up, the chill intensifying the already low temperatures. The day had been colder than the two earlier. Only the sunlight had kept the briskness away, but now as the sun was setting, the temperature was dropping steadily. "It's getting colder," Mulder finally commented. "Scully, please, take my jacket. You refused the last couple of days, and now I insist." "No." "Please?" "No." Mulder stared at her over the fire, but she refused to back down. It wasn't that she didn't desperately want the jacket (she did), it was that she didn't want to fall into the traditional gender roles. She had hacked it in the Boy's Club for years . . . she would not concede defeat now. She was his equal. "Your loss," he finally said, putting the jacket on the ground. "I didn't even want it." That was a complete lie, of course, but she was touched that he was willing to forgo his comfort as well, all for her pride. She smiled appreciatively and stared into the flames again, moving closer to the warmth. But they still had an important issue to discuss. "Please stop blaming yourself, Mulder. I was as stupid as you were. I went with you instead of trying to talk you out of it. I knew the risks." "I keep getting you in trouble." Mulder suddenly stood up and stepped around the fire to sit beside her. She was surprised as he took her hand. And she couldn't quite quell the sudden flutter in her chest as he touched her. "That's all right. If there was anybody I had to die with on an island, it would be you," she said before she thought. "Seriously?" The surprise on his face was obvious. God, what had she said?! She had to back it with a joke. "No, I'd take Pierce Brosnan or Brad Pitt . . ." she continued lamely. He sent her a hard stare, then smiled, and they chuckled together. She wasn't even aware he was still holding her hand until he gently squeezed it. "Seriously though. I don't know how we're going to get off this island. I know we need to keep morale up, but if we don't get off, I want to tell you . . ." "We are going to get off," she interrupted. Even still, she couldn't help but tremble at the thought of being hunted down like an animal, unarmed, practically defenseless. "I know. Dana . . ." "If you get to call me 'Dana', I get to call you 'Fox'," she interrupted. He smiled, dropping his head to avoid her gaze. "Fair enough. Scully, I . . . we have to facts. I've never told you how much your friendship and support has meant to me. You are the only person I trust. You really are my best friend. I never thought . . . that I'd have to tell you that, but here, we could die and you would never know . . ." he trailed off uncertainly. She went silent, wondering how she should respond. She stared into his eyes for a long moment, then turned away from him, resisting the urge to lean into him for warmth and comfort. A friend. That was all she was to him. But then, it had always been that way. It was the stress of the survival situation, nothing more. Studies had shown that such a situation could create false emotions. He dropped her hand when she didn't respond. "I didn't mean to embarrass you," he said, pulling away to settle on the other side of the fire. "You didn't. Thank you . . . Fox," she said hesitantly. They stared at each other for a second, then he dropped his eyes. "Well, good night then," he said, moving to the other side of the fire to lie on the dirt. She laid down as well. "Goodnight." But sleep didn't come easily. She stared into the fire for some time, thinking about what Mulder had said. He was her best friend as well. Everything he said about here was true about him. But it was uncharacteristically like him to mention it. Perhaps he really didn't think they would make it out of here alive. That he had better say it while he still could. A frigid wind suddenly picked up, whisking over her body, sending chills through her thin blouse into her skin, her very soul. She moved as close to the fire as she dared. Damn her for taking her damn jacket off in the car. She was so cold . . . the blouse was more for decorative purposes than anything else. She shivered, curling into as tight a ball as she could to ward off the freezing temperatures. It had gotten so damn cold so quickly. Scully heard rather than saw her Mulder stand up. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to embarrass him if this was a bathroom break. But he surprised her by stepping around the small fire to stand above her. She continued to pretend to be asleep, wondering what he would do. A moment late, she sensed him kneel down, and a gentle warmth suddenly covered her body as he draped his jacket over her. Then, without a word, he stood up, went back to his side of the fire, and laid down to go to sleep. Her first thought was to rise and give him his jacket back, along with a tongue lashing, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the soft warmth that spread through her body, the gentle feminine awareness that stirred in her. Perhaps . . . perhaps there was something to be said for traditional gender roles, after all. She knew it was sentimental, but she couldn't push away the tears that filled her eyes. ********************* "You didn't have to do this for me," she said the next morning, giving Mulder his jacket back. "But . . . thank you." Mulder nodded, a little embarrassed. "You needed it more than I did," he said softly. She looked so frail . . . Her brilliant red hair was plastered flat against her head, and there were smudges of dirt marring her perfect creamy complexion. Her thin blouse was wrinkled and torn in multiple places, stained with blood from the thorny claws of tree branches. Her high heel shoes were splattered with mud. Though it had only been two days without proper nutrition, Dana was already looking too thin. But still incredibly beautiful. He pushed as hard as he could, but it was impossible to press away the emotions he felt for her. The continuous urge to touch her, to cradle his face in her hands, to brush her lips with his own. The desire to hold her was overwhelming. Maybe because he had never acted on it when they had been safe. And maybe because they had never been in danger together before for any length of time. With every second that passed he was getting more worried that a bullet might rip into her before he could tell her how much he cared. He wasn't even sure if it was love. He supposed it didn't matter. "I know. But we can't just sit here. Maybe we can make spears or something . . . dig a trap?" She asked hopefully, opening a can of pears with a hand can opener they had found. Something inside him gave a deep, thrusting punch at his heart. Scully knew as well as he did that what she was proposing was impossible. It showed the desperation in her heart that she had even mentioned it. "I hate just waiting for him," he suddenly said, standing up. "What can we do? Nothing. You heard the guy. We have no chance!" "I'm not just going to wait her to die!" She snapped, leaping to her feet. "I'm going to get that bastard. With or without you." "I'm not saying we should go quietly," he said, surprised at her outburst. But as he looked around at their situation, he couldn't squelch his sarcasm. "You're right. Let's make some goddamn spears. Let's build a wooden tank and a whole goddamn fort! How are we going to chop these trees down? Or sharpen the points?" He hated himself. As if their present situation wasn't bad enough, he had to inflame her. "Stop. At least I'm trying to do something." He paused, studying her again. She was terribly frightened, though she was trying not to show it. And she was shivering in the brisk morning air, holding her arms against her body to keep warm. Her whole right side was covered in dirt, and she didn't look much better for the hard night on the cold ground. But he couldn't help it. Her features were so delicate, her spirit so unbreakable. It hurt him to see her suffering even slightly. "Scully, don't mess with me," he said firmly, putting his jacket over her shoulders. "But Mulder . . ." "Don't," he said, putting his finger on her lips. The gesture surprised both of them. He hastily pulled his hand away, and after a moment of hesitation she slipped her arms into his jacket. The sleeves were impossibly long, but he ignored that. Her petite frame was completely engulfed in his jacket. It was hard to ignore, though, how endearingly beautiful she looked as she stood up straighter and plowed into the woods. He shook away the thoughts that entered his head. He wasn't in love with Scully, it was the stress and tenseness of the situation. Then again, he had to admit the emotions he felt for her were stronger than just friendship. He couldn't fall in love with her. No. But he also couldn't die without her knowing how much he cared about her. He had never felt this way about a woman before. Women were girlfriends to him . . . but never *friends*. In other relationships, he had been constantly on his guard, making sure the woman never got too dangerously close to him, that he kept his barriers carefully in place for the day when one of them would leave. But Scully was different. She worked her way into his heart through her sheer . . . Scullyness. He couldn't pinpoint what it was that he loved. Her physical beauty was a bonus, but not a cause. Her determination had saved his life and irritated the hell out of him. But it was a combination of all things that made him care. Or was that just friendship, albeit deep friendship, making itself known? It was impossible to tell. Not when every thought had to be focused on the forested landscape around them. He wondered. But then, there was a very soft buzz on the horizon, breaking his thoughts. They both froze, staring frightfully into the trees. "We have to go," Mulder said, grabbing her arm. They scuffed up the fire, slipped the backpacks over their shoulders, and dashed into the woods. "Where are we going?" She whispered. "I don't know yet." Any cover they could find was probably already mapped out and possibly set with traps. They had been incredibly lucky over the last few days to have escaped Murphy. But maybe today would be different. Again his heart gave a rapid thud against his breast bone, but he ignored it. "There's cover in the caves on the shore," Scully said, breaking the silence. "When we explored them there were so many passages to hide in." "I know. But that would be what he's expecting us to do." "So?!" She suddenly halted, staring at him. "What is he going to do, Mulder?! You're the damn psychologist! What is he going to do?!" Mulder stopped, turning to her. She looked absolutely furious, and frightened, and lovely. What was he going to do about her? He wasn't going to let her get hurt. Not if he had to step in front of the bullet . . . Now where on earth had *that* thought come from? "I don't know," he said simply, answering both their questions. "But you're right. We have to make a counter offensive attack. Otherwise, it'll only be a matter of time." She nodded, regaining her composure. "So, he has two guns, and we don't. If we ambush him, one of us might get shot. To say the least of not being able to get off the island." "Scully, we will get shot eventually if we don't take risks." "You're right. I just don't want . . ." but she abruptly cut herself off, starting again into the brush. Mulder didn't have to be psychic to know what the rest of her sentence was. She didn't want to be caught alone by Charles Murphy. "Maybe we could ambush him at his helicopter," he suggested. "That might work. He landed on the other side of the island. It'll take him a while to find us again anyway." They walked for a while in silence before Scully voiced another idea. "Maybe the western shore. The one with the cliff and the rocky beach? He'd never suspect we'd go there. Nobody could get down that cliff." "Definitely wouldn't look for us there," he agreed. "Only one problem, Dana. We can't get down that cliff either." She didn't seem to think it odd he had used her first name. "Maybe there's a way." "But can we risk getting caught there?" "No." She sighed, her shoulders slumping. To see the pain in her eyes destroyed him. He would kill Charles Murphy with his bare hands. Scully was such gentle huntress - always trying to battle against the criminal element - how dare this bastard try to harm her! They continued walking, and he tried to keep his mind off of her. Then, he just couldn't stand it anymore. Flashes of her lying dying in his arms were too powerful to ignore. "Scully," he asked tentatively. "Is there anything you really regret? Doing or not doing? I mean, if we don't get off the island, we kind of have to confess to each other." The silent voice inside taunted. She was walking beside him, looking straight ahead, her face slightly lifted. Her expression immediately became one of intense internal scrutiny. "Yes. There are things I definitely regret. There are so many things I have always wanted to try. But more than that . . . I wish I had spent more time with my brothers' families. I wish . . ." But from the way she trailed off into silence he knew better than to pry. "What about you?" She returned. His heart and mind were prepared to say it, but his lips chickened out. "I'd regret not having enough time. We're so close to breaking everything, Scully, to finding the truth. I'd regret all the lies I've been telling and listening to." "I would regret not having a personal life," she suddenly said, looking ahead. "Not having . . ." "What?" But she shook her head. "It'll sound pathetic." "Okay, I'll say a pathetic regret, and then you say yours. I regret never having gone out with a Playboy playmate." "That is pathetic." "Your turn." Scully watched him, then smiled. "I'd regret not ever having found a true love, as corny as it sounds. Never having kids. I mean, I don't want them now, but it would have been nice to have had some at a later point in my life. My life has been all work. I wish there had been some love." He stopped, taking her shoulders in his hands to turn her to him. He wanted to lift her face up to his, and tell her that there was a man that really did love her, but it was impossible to do now. "You're not dead yet. Don't begin speaking of yourself in the past tense," he said instead. "I know." She shook her head. "It is pathetic, isn't it? Regretting not having a man in my life to love and love me back. Hell, it's pathetic I told you that." "No, it's not, Scully. I have almost the same problem . . ." ************************** The days had passed uneventfully. Charles Murphy had been tricked by their backtracking plan, and when they heard his helicopter roar overhead away from them, Scully couldn't but help breathe a long sigh of relief. The ominous black clouds of a storm brewing above their heads, however, did not raise their morale. The situation was looking grimmer every minute. It had taken almost three more days to explore only half the island, and Scully was rapidly becoming even more disheartened. Each night it was blistering cold, even with a fire and Mulder's jacket. Each day was spent plowing through heavy forested growth in search of anything they could use to retaliate. She was more exhausted than she had ever been in her life. Her shoes were destroying her feet, her clothing was filthy, her hair a ragged mess. She'd give anything for a hot shower and two hours in a warm bed. And she had no idea what to do about Mulder. Her emotions had to be a result of the situation. But she had never felt this way about anyone before. Her love for Fox . . . oh god, no. "Maybe we could just find a place and wait him out," she said to Mulder, who was pushing through the brush in front of her. She would try to distract herself. She was being ridiculous. "No, it'll just turn into a game of hind-and-go-seek. He knows we're on this island. He isn't about to just walk away." "Damn," she said, partly in reply to Mulder's comment, but mostly to the thorn bush that tore a tiny chunk in her arm, right through the blouse. Mulder halted and turned to her, holding her arm to examine the fresh cut. She couldn't help herself. The gentle look of concern on his face touched her. She had tried multiple times to push away the stirring deep within her, but it was impossible. Mulder's kindness in giving her his jacket, in watching over her so carefully, in touching her so tenderly . . . No. Absolutely not. No. If she didn't think it, she wouldn't have to deal with it. Because Mulder didn't return . . . he didn't . . . wasn't . . . She enjoyed Mulder's touch on her arm. The look in his eyes. The inner strength he had. And, for the first time, his life was truly on the line. Granted, it had been before, but she had always sensed his eventual safety. Now, he could be dead in days. She could be completely alone on this damn island with nothing but a rapist murderer as company. Mulder couldn't die. She desperately needed him. It was inevitable. After almost four years of arguing with his weird notions, saving his life, having hers saved by him, it was too much to push away. "Just a scratch," Mulder said, releasing her arm. He paused for a moment, looking down at her. Then, suddenly, her face was in his hands. "Don't say anything yet," he said urgently. "Just let me finish what I have to say. I've been thinking about it for three days, and I've decided I don't want to die without your knowing. I mean, I know you don't, but I have to tell you. I can't die without your at least knowing. I don't want to upset you, but I could never forgive myself if . . ." "What?" She asked, completely bewildered. "You're babbling." "I love you. At least, I think I do." There was a dead second in time, perhaps five dead seconds. "You didn't just say that," she said carefully. But her heart was pounding mercilessly in her chest. She had no idea . . . was utterly shocked . . . "I did, Dana. I know you don't return it or anything, but I needed to tell you in case I, in case we didn't . . . I mean . . . I didn't realize it before because I've never had to see you at risk, not like this, I mean. Not when I could do something about it. I don't expect you to act any differently or anything . . . but you sort of grew on me, Scully. I'm sorry . . ." "You're still babbling," she said. He stared at her a second longer, not releasing her face. Then, slowly, he stepped closer, leaning down to tenderly kiss her forehead. Her mind was racing. Mulder . . . doing this . . . The sudden revelation his her like a missile from Cupid's tank. He returned her exact feelings! And it had surfaced in the exact manner hers had. The only difference was that he had the courage to say anything about it. So, she did the most natural thing she could think of. She tilted her face up to intercept his lips with her own. He pulled her into his arms instantly, brushing her lips with a gentleness that surprised her. She settled her hands on his face, the light four day beard delightfully scratchy beneath her finger tips. This was heaven. But . . . there was . . . something was bothering . . . "Wait no," she said, pulling back. He immediately released her, as if she had burned him. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have . . ." The crushed expression on his face as he pushed away hurt even her, and she knew everything was fine. "No, you idiot. I care about you as much as anyone possibly could. I just . . . I want to make sure this is real." "Real?" "That this isn't just the stress of being here." She stood up straighter, regaining her composure, even though her lips were still burning. "Studies have shown that in many survival situations, formerly platonic relationships intensified in an effort to -" He cut off her litany but pulling her into his arms again, insistently plying her lips apart with his own. It was enough of an answer for her. They simply held each other, kissing tenderly before Mulder broke away from her. "We have to keep moving," he said, close to her ear. "I know," she whispered back, absolutely delighted. He took her hand, and she could only barely believe the sudden change in the circumstances. Mulder really did care for her? She had found someone? But his hand enveloping hers said it all. It was solid proof. "Ladies first," he said as they approached a large wooded log. He held her hand as she scrambled over the top, dropping abruptly into the brush below. She heard the snap rather than felt it. There was a dull thump on her ankle, then a brain shattering shock wave of pain. She tripped forward, losing her balance. "Dana!" Mulder's grip on her arm was strong enough that she didn't fall flat on her face, but she fell halfway. He caught in a second, but she couldn't think of anything but the wrenching pain in her left foot. She twisted, and found her ankle interlocked in the clamp of a steel jaw trap. The fangs were digging into the delicate flesh, and the pressure was incredible. The lock was chained to the log. "NO!" She cried, falling back into his arms. "No, not now!" Mulder followed her gaze, letting go of her to touch her knee, then her foot. "We need to get this off," he said. "Just hold still." She was trying desperately to hold her cries in, but she could feel the teeth ripping apart the tissue in her ankle, grinding against the bone. Mulder's hands settled on the trap, and he began to strain, trying to pull the jaws apart. They wouldn't budge. "Pressure too much," she gasped between clenched teeth. "You can't use your hands . . . special tools . . . I think my ankle is . . . broken . . ." "Okay, I can try prying it apart with a stick. Just hold on a second." He kissed her forehead and moved away. Scully tried to breathe deeply to calm the intense pain, to do anything until Mulder could help her. She tried not to recall the fact that steel-jawed traps could break the legs of most animals, that they were impossible to pry apart, that most animals caught in them died first of starvation before the hunter found them. She closed her eyes tightly to squeeze the tears back. Both Mulder and she would be able to function more adequately if she wasn't distracting him with tears and cries. She clenched her teeth, baring down on the pain. "Well, my dear," said an English voice from behind her. ************************** "Well, my dear," Charles said from the bushes, absolutely gleeful with finding his quarry here. "My ploy in staying on the island to track you has proven quite profitable for me." She twisted around instantly, inadvertently jerking the teeth deeper into her flesh. He couldn't but help draw his breath sharply when her azure eyes went large with doe-like terror. She was so delightfully vulnerable and helpless. "Go to hell, you bastard," she spat, her terror suddenly masked by a front of fury. He chuckled before he could help it. "Not the most polite of introductions, my dear Agent Scully, but it will do. I am Charles Murphy." "I know who you are!" Her hand automatically reached to her hip, but her gun wasn't there. Not that it would have been much use against him. He could easily out-shoot a small woman, FBI agent or not. The chain rattled against the log as she shifted her weight. "And you seem to have stumbled into one of my traps." He walked toward her, keeping the gun pointed at her forehead. She went very still, afraid of him. It was a definitely satisfying position for him. "Where is your partner?" "I don't know," she said sullenly. "We split up." How dare she lie to him! He, who had the guns! Though he had lost track of them a few times while following them today, she and her partner had been together. Her partner had most likely abandoned her to save his own life. And she was trying to lie about it! It was time to put her in her proper place, like all women. He flipped the riffle in his hands, bringing the butt of the gun crashing down into her head. Her faint cry was music. "Don't lie to me, my dear, I was tracking you all day. Your partner is most certainly still with you, if not in the immediate vicinity. If he hasn't left you." Her hand came up and gingerly touched her head, but she seemed to shake off the immediate pain. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she gathered a breath to ask another question. "What did you see of us?" "Not much. I was following your trail, mostly." There was a long silence. "Well, are you going to shoot me now?" The resigned pain in her voice sent thrills of erotic pleasure down his spine and coursing through his body. She was completely at his mercy. "No, not yet." He set the riffle down on the ground, just barely out of her reach. He walked to her, kneeling to release her foot from the trap. He was careful to keep his pistol out of her way as he crouched over her body, pulling a small tool from his belt. She cringed satisfying back against the dirt as he slipped the tool into the trap and began cranking it open again. The flow of blood and the raw nerves were still tearing into her, but at least the horrible pressure should be gone. She pulled her foot free, then suddenly fell back as if the pain was too much. "Such a pity," he said, carefully resetting the trap, "that you got injured. I was enjoying myself throughly." His fingers left the trap and touched her injured ankle, then moved up to her knee. She had delightfully soft skin. He could only imagine what it would be like to feel all of it, at his leisure. "Please don't," she begged, cowering in the dirt. "Why not? I have won. You should simply submit. It is the way of the wild." And it was. She was his to claim now. In his delight of finally capturing his quarry, he did not notice her tensing muscles. She suddenly threw herself at his riffle, twisting from her back to her stomach. Gone was the terror in her body. She had tricked him, the little vixen. He would have to do something about that. Her fingers were barely brushing the cold metal before he was crushing her into the dirt with his knees. The pistol clicked satisfyingly as he rammed it into her neck. She froze beneath him, curling her fingers away from the gun. "Sly," he said. "As I have said before, you, women are intriguing." Especially her tender figure, and the creamy skin he could see of her legs. It didn't take too much to imagine her completely without the grimy remnants of her business suit and Mulder's jacket. He touched the base of her neck, brushing her hair away. Ravishing this creature would be an exquisite experience. "Get your hands off me!" How amusing. "Sh. You wouldn't want me to use this on you now," he said, pressing the gun into her neck again. "That would lessen your chances for escape." Watching her like a starving predator, he rose off his knees, making sure she wasn't going to try anything again. "Get up," he commanded. A second later he wrapped his fingers in her silky hair and jerked her violently upward. She let out a small cry of pain before she scrambled to her knees. That wasn't satisfying. "To your feet." "I can't, my foot was in the . . ." Lying bitch. "I said, to your feet!" He yanked violently on her hair again, trying to pull her weight up. She hesitantly moved onto her uninjured foot, then stood on it, keeping her weight off her left. She was surprisingly small, compared to his tall six foot two. Probably weighed a fraction of what he did. She held absolutely still as he pressed the muzzle of the gun into her back. No sign from her partner. He had most certainly abandoned her. "Please, let me go," she said loudly, her voice wavering. "Sure." That was amusing. He pushed the muzzle harder against her back. "I'll get a first class ticket to send your body back to D.C. . . ." "Why are you doing this?" She cried again loudly. Her terror was very pleasing. "I enjoy it. Now, walk with me." "I can't." "You will do as I say." He pushed her violently forward, forcing her onto her injured foot. It bent instantly beneath her, and she went stumbling to the ground. An obvious ploy for time. "Get up!" "I can't walk!" It was time for a punishment. He struck the butt of the pistol against the back of her head, hopefully filling her vision with a range of stars. "Every time you disobey me, you will be reprimanded," he said. Though he couldn't but help enjoy seeing her blood. "I can't walk!" She screamed, gasping in feigned frustration. She had tricked him once, however, and would not trick him again. He grasped at her partner's jacket, pulling her to her feet again. "I can't walk!" She screamed it for a third time, trying to scramble away. "My foot is broken!" "Fine then, you don't have to." He would have to give her incentive, then. Obviously terrified of what that could mean, she turned to look up at him, barely catching the motion of his foot swinging to her rib cage. The blow robed her of what little air had been in her lungs, crushing a deep hole into her chest. Even he could see that. He slammed his foot into her stomach again, then into her lower stomach, almost between her legs. She curled into a tight little ball, her arms trying to protect her body from his kicks. His boot plowed into her chest, then at her head. The pain must be numbing for her. "Get up." She stumbled to her healthy foot, grasping onto a nearby tree for support. She would obey him. He had taught her who was in control. "Now, walk." She took a step, immediately pretending to lose her balance again. How enraging! He didn't think that anyone, not even a woman, would be stupid enough to keep this charade up. "You disobeyed me," he said quietly. "No! I can't walk!" She turned up to him again, trying to keep the look of utter terror on her face. "My ankle is broken!" Another lie. "I have been watching you, Dana, and I know you can do whatever you want to, when you put your mind to it." "I can't walk on a broken ankle," she gasped. "It keeps giving out." "Perhaps you don't have adequate motivation." He suddenly lunged for the front of her blouse, grasping her collar in his fist, turning her face toward him. His other fist rose behind him, menacingly. This was going to be very enjoyable. "If you touch her again, I will blow your head off," an American voice said quietly from the brush behind them. They both turned. It was Agent Mulder, Dana's partner. Poised in his hands was the antique riffle Murphy had left on the ground. The agent must have snuck around behind them. He was clever, for an American. His eyes were burning with hazel fury, and his face muscles clenched in absolute hatred. So, he had come to claim the woman? No. It would not be allowed. "What's stopping you?" Murphy asked, not releasing her. "Only the fact that I don't want to splatter your blood on my partner. And I don't want your radio to break during your fall. Let her go, you son of a bitch." Mulder's voice was unusually calm, despite the situation. Charles slowly released her, standing up cautiously, his eyes remaining on the gun. He would be able to gain the better of this situation. Two Americans would never overpower him. "Step away from her," Mulder said, gesturing with the gun. "Take the pistol off, and drop it on the ground. The knife too. If you try anything, I will kill you." Charles raised his hands, moving in the direction Mulder indicated, and dropped the weapons on the ground. He would play along until he got a good plan. "Are you all right, Scully?" Mulder asked, not taking his eyes away from the hunter. "I'm fine," she chocked from the ground. "Good. Now, Mr. Murphy, I want you to get on your radio and call your helicopter and have him come pick us up. We're getting off this damn island." "Why should I call? You can't get off the island without my consent," he sneered, though it was a blatant lie. His servants on the mainland were only that. Only his helicopter pilot knew about the prey he had been hunting, and it had cost a lot of money to keep him silent. "You might have the gun, but I still have the power." The woman glanced at Mulder, then reached for Charles's hunting knife. "Because, Mr. Murphy," she said carefully, holding the hunting knife up to test its sharpness, "we Americans tend to follow in the footsteps of our celebrities. Ever heard of the Bobbits?" Charles Murphy stared at her for a long moment. It was enraging, the way she defied him. Just like an American. However, he had no doubt that she would act on her threat. He reached for his radio. ************************** Estate of Charles Murphy 8:27, March 8 "Are you sure you're all right?" Scully was cut off by the crash of thunder and a brilliant flash of lightening. The lamps in the lavish living room dimmed for a moment, then brightened again. The room was decorated as the traditional gentleman's smoking room. "I'm fine, Mulder." Mulder watched as Scully shifted uncomfortably on the couch, keeping her gun carefully trained on Murphy. She was dressed in a T-shirt and a skirt, both on a loan from one of the maids. Pants or shorts would have been too inconvenient with her ankle. Mulder was bandaging her foot, knowing he was completely inadequate but the only one who could do the job for the time being. He touched her knee gently, exchanging a brief, tender glance with her before they both smiled and looked away. The kiss in the forest was almost forgotten. Almost, but not quite. Murphy looked on furiously from the chair he was tied to. The Canadian mainland was a few miles away from the island . . . about as far as Catalina from the West Coast. Murphy's private estate was huge, and so far away from civilization that the only route home involved air travel. Millionaires of his caliber were allowed to be eccentric like that. Communications were out as well, as the storm was interfering with the cellular transmissions. Murphy had many servants, but now Mulder and Scully were packing the weapons, and the servants weren't about to argue. The two maids and the butler had been horrified to discover Murphy's habits. They knew he was a little strange, and enjoyed hunting on his island, but never suspected he was hunting people. Only the helicopter pilot had known anything about Murphy's sick hobby. And it had taken a lot of Murphy's money to keep him quiet. Mulder had wanted to find out more, but Murphy was keeping his mouth shut. In the meantime, Murphy's helicopter to Vancouver was being fueled. All they had to do was wait for the storm that raged outside to abate. The plan was to drug Murphy with sleeping pills to get him to Vancouver. There they would turn in their reports, call hysterical family members, and have Scully's broken ankle attended to. Until then, they would wait. Scully shifted again, reaching for the Tylenol on the coffee table, her face barely twisting with concealed pain. God, she was amazing. So incredibly, exquisitely amazing. The rage refilled his veins as he thought about the needless suffering the man had put Scully through. The way he had kicked her before Mulder had been able to get to them . . . But Mulder resolutely shook his head. He would not think about it, not right now. He didn't want to get out of control. "I need to use the washroom," Murphy said sullenly. "Or don't you Americans even allow that much for your prisoners?" "Hey," Mulder said indignantly. "This coming from the man who turns people loose on his island to be hunted for sport." "Mulder," Scully said warningly. "Just take him." Mulder untied Murphy and gestured with his gun for him to get to his feet. They walked out of the living room and down a hall to the bathroom Mulder had found the medical supplies for Dana in. He let the man go on, then shut the door and stood guard. As the minutes began to tick by, Mulder started to get suspicious. He unhooked the strap to the gun. "Are you all right in there?" He asked, banging on the door. Mulder edged to the side, warily checking to see if Murphy was going to try anything. "Quite. I will come out when I am ready." Murphy was just trying to pschye him out. Mulder waited, growing indifferent, leaning against the door. Maybe Murphy had constipation. "All right," Murphy said, opening the door. He paused for a moment, wiping his brow with a large towel. Mulder's instincts flew up, but it was too late. Murphy snapped the towel downward faster than Mulder could see, and he didn't even have time to close his eyes as spray shot out of the cleaning can. A millisecond later there was a searing wave of atomic heat, burning into his brain. He let out a startled, almost silent cry and reached for his gun, trying to wipe his stinging eyes at the same time. There was a sudden crushing blow to his groin, but even as he continued to pull the gun out, there was another painful impact to his head and everything sank into blackness. ************************** Scully glanced at her ankle again. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the door. Mulder had done everything she had asked him to do, but she was still worried about infection. And with the dull ache that wouldn't leave, it was impossible to think objectively about her injury. She set the gun down on the table and reached again for the glass of water. "We're alone at last," said an arrogant English voice behind her. She lunged for the gun. "Don't even think about it. Turn around." Scully slowly pulled her fingers off the reassuring steel, turning slowly to look at Charles Murphy. He was holding Mulder's gun in his hand, a delighted sneer snaking its way across his face. "Where's Mulder?" She asked, trying to push the panic out of her voice. "He's out for a while." Her heart lodged in her throat, making breathing difficult, but she had to ask the impossible question. "What did you do to him?" "I distracted him and hit him a few times with his own gun. I wanted to tell him what became of you before I killed him." That . . . that could be true. Murphy could do it. She shifted again, trying to press away her terror. Murphy rapidly crossed the room, keeping the gun trained on her. "Pick up your weapon, and movie it to the far side of the table." She did as was told, trying to put together a semblance of a plan. It would be impossible to bolt for her gun. Jesus Christ, what was she going to do? He stepped closer, then set his gun down on one of the tables. She lunged for her gun instantly, but instead of reaching for his he flew at her on the couch. His weight slammed into her, knocking her onto the rug before she could touch the weapon. "Damn it!" She screamed, hating herself for inviting him into a physical fight. His weight was pressing her into the carpet, and her ankle was flaming from the jarring drop. "Help me!" His knee suddenly smashed into her stomach, crushing the bruises and the air from her lungs. She gasped in shocked pain, but before she could draw another breath his fist was descending at her face. The blow almost shattered her consciousness, but she managed to hang on, and began screaming even louder. The blood from her newly split lip flooded into her mouth. With a furious cry she plunged her fingers into his eyes. He howled in pain, then grabbed her by the throat with one hand and her hair in the other, smashing her head into the hardwood floor. She clawed at him desperately, all the while trying to alert the servants. But no one was coming to her aid. His fist smashed into her face again, the blow so hard it immediately numbed the area without the pretense of pain. She saw her vision clouding dangerously, and her muscles were going numb. His hands clenched onto the T-shirt she had borrowed from one of the maids, jerking violently upward. The shirt held as he dragged her away from the couch and across the room to a door she had not wanted to explore: the bedroom. Chairs and tables crashed to the floor as he careened her body into them. A vase shattered over her, shards of glass catching in her hair, her face, her chest. With another desperate move she forced herself to grab his foot, trying to knock him off balance. He immediately let go of her, stepping back. But as she moved to escape, his foot sailed in a swinging arch, catching her directly in the stomach. She crumpled to the floor, a doe that had been struck by the hunter's bullet. Completely unable to breathe, to even struggle. His foot continued to slam into her again and again, kicking at her stomach, her legs, her head, her spine. She chocked back her screams, keeping her arms wrapped around her head. She could *not* lose consciousness. His fists and his feet splintered into her mercilessly. She tried to push away the pain, to think clearly, but it was nearly impossible. Quantico had never taught her how to fight off a man while struggling against the agony of a broken ankle. They had never taught her the special move that could lay a man twelve inches taller than her and a good hundred pounds heavier on the ground. He snatched at her hair, using only the red locks to drag her into the dark bedroom. She thought she wanted to die. Her scalp was searing, her face blazing, her breath gone. But no, she would not go down without a fight. Mulder could die or she could die, and even though she had been praying for blackness seconds before, the surge of life rushed up within her. She grabbed at his hand, sinking her last weapon deep into his wrist . . . her teeth. His startled scream did nothing to lessen her pain, but it was very satisfying. She rolled onto her back, pressing away the agony in her ankle, and smashed both her feet upwards into his stomach, knocking him off balance. For a brief moment, it almost looked as if she had gained an advantage, or at least, equal footing. But he recovered swiftly, baring down on her again, seizing the front of her shirt in his hand, effortlessly lifting her up. Her uninjured foot crushed into his leg as she kicked at him, but there was little that could stop him. With a wordless enraged roar he threw her onto the bed. She lay gasping on her side as he stood at the foot. His intentions were obvious. But every movement, even breathing, was sending tormented tsunamis of agony pulsing through her body. She was going to lose this battle. There was something terrifying about realizing a five-foot two woman with a broken ankle could not defeat a six-foot three man in perfect health. In all the hand-to-hand fighting she had done, at best she had been a worthy opponent. But now, when she most needed to defeat her enemy, she simply could not. The physics of the matter worked themselves out. She was going to lose. But it didn't matter. She would not die without putting everything she had into a fight. "You bastard," she hissed. He merely stood calmly, staring at her. Then, very slowly, he unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and slipped out of the boxers he was wearing. She chocked down the instant instinctual terror that coursed through her to see his naked erection. Without hesitation she rolled off the bed, trying to do her best to hop away from him. She nearly sliced the hemispheres of her brain with the pain of the action. But he was as fast as a striking snake, moving at her and grabbing her by the wrists in a second. She tried to knee him in the groin, but he blocked it with his leg, obviously prepared. He rapidly swung her, knocking her off balance, into a dressing couch beside the bed, smashing her stomach over the high back of it. She violently pushed her arms up to throw herself off the couch, but he suddenly bent her over the back of it again, pressing her head into the seat cushions, jerking her completely off her feet. She felt his other hand rip the shirt off, then the skirt. There was no way for her to gain any kind of leverage. There was no way to push up with her arms when he was holding her head down, no way to kick effectively with her legs off the ground. She couldn't move. And she could feel her tight grasp of consciousness loosening. Her body went slack. "About bloody time." She heard above her. His hand slipped over her naked back and to her panties, and he ripped upwards, tearing the fabric over her skin. Her consciousness returned with a shattering jolt as she bit back a cry of pain. He would not have the pleasure of hearing her scream. Only then did he pause. His hand moved over her back and to her buttocks, slipping between her thighs. She forced out more kicks, but his fist smashed into the base of her spine, and he evaded the kicks easily. Before she could kick again, he was behind her, pressing apart her thighs. She could feel his burning heat against her sensitive, exposed skin. She struggled again, trying desperately to do anything. She flailed her arms helplessly, feeling his hands pull her hips into him. She had readied herself of the pain. She had seen rape victims before, and heard their stories. But the ripping penetration caught her totally unaware. He drove into her, smashing tender nerves and ripping tissue, forcing unimaginable torture. He was absolutely merciless as his stabs tore into her, every shove ramming deeper. She clenched her tongue between her teeth to catch her screams, and in a few seconds she was swallowing her own blood. He was truly taking her. She was at his complete mercy. When it came down to it, without the pleasantries of civilization, men really did hold the power over women. "I want to hear you scream!" He cried between gasps. Each cruel thrust brought her closer to losing control. His hands clawed at her hips, drawing blood. The driving rhythm increased, each movement sharpening the waves of torment smashing into her senses. He was crushing her between his body and the couch, crushing her against the fabric. Somehow, it made the pain worse. And with the final stabbing thrusts, she completely lost all control. A scream wrenched itself from her lips before she could repress it. He had completely won. And she couldn't stop screaming at the brutal agony as he climaxed, his body releasing into hers. He pulled out of her, laughing heartily, clawing his hands along her thighs. "I knew you would bend to me," he said, patting her on the back. A second later he wrapped his fingers in her hair and wrenched her off the sofa to her feet, throwing her so hard on the bed she went smashing into the headboard, her fingers rattling the beside table. She offered not the slightest resistance. The burning pain deep within her was too much to battle with. Charles Murphy keep chuckling in the background. She was going to die here like this. He had taken her body, completely defiled her, and now he would take her life. Almost every spot in her body was aching, throbbing, or crying with a pain that had no name. She glanced around, her eyes filling with tears, at the room she was going to end in. Murphy, with another malicious chuckle, walked out of his bedroom into the adjoining bathroom. Then, as she scanned the room, her eyes rested on his beside table. She blinked in utter disbelief. There was no way that 10mm Glock 20 was really sitting there. She reached for it, the reassuring metal very real beneath her fingertips. She slipped it into her hands, pulling the clip out. Fully loaded. Tears of gratitude began streaking down her cheeks. With a snap she pressed the clip back in. "What the hell?" Murphy had walked back in, and was now staring at her in stupefied amazement. She gripped the gun tighter, slowly moving to her knees in the bed, ignoring all the pain. The steel in her hands made that easy. "It's not loaded," he said quickly. He was still naked from the waist down. "Do you think an FBI agent wouldn't be able to tell whether a gun is loaded or not? Put on your damn pants," she snarled, "before I blow your head off." "You Americans and blowing people's heads off," he said mockingly. "Care to explain the obsession?" "Just shut up!" She cried, raising her voice. The balance of power was now completely in her favor. For the first time, she saw fear in his eyes. "Are you sure you don't want to trade that pistol in for this one?" He asked with a leer, pointing at his flaccid penis. "I said, shut up!" She tried to calm herself as he moved slowly toward her, bending to pick up his pants. "It doesn't matter. You can shoot me now." He met her eyes, his psychotic blue wide with feigned innocence. His eyes traveled slowly over her body. "I have already taken what I wanted from you." He paused. "You were good." She lost it. Her first shot struck him in the shoulder, her second in the groin. His cry of pain didn't slow her, it fed her wrath. She wanted to revenge herself. Make him feel the same agony she did. So he could never touch another woman. The bastard had brought it upon himself. Logical thought fled to the deeper and purer utter fury. She kept pulling the trigger, each blast satisfying a need deep within her. For the first time in her life, Dana Katherine Scully was not killing in self preservation, concern, or duty, but in the purity of blinding rage. Murphy completely dropped to the ground, but she couldn't stop. She unloaded the entire clip, all fifteen bullets, before the silent clicking brought her back into her mind. Charles Murphy was very dead. She paused, kneeling on the bed in near disbelief. Then, very slowly, she dropped the gun on the sheets and stumbled to retrieve what was left of her clothing. ************************** "Mulder? Come on, drink some of this. Wake up." A noxious odor under his nose brought him startlingly into the real world. "Oh," Mulder said, grasping his head. The back of his head was throbbing, and his eyes were stinging. His vision kept blurring . . . just a grey blur, then a red blur, then a creamy blur. "Hold still." He felt Scully's fingers on his face, opening one of his eyes with careful precision. A sharp drop stung his eyes again, but the pain lessened shortly after. She repeated with his other eye, and in a few seconds his vision was clearing. Scully was leaning over him, tenderly patting a wet cloth against his forehead, putting a bottle of eye drops back on the table. He gasped in surprise. Her lip had been split, and there were angry purple bruises covering the left side of her face. There were a few light cuts marring her complexion. Other than that, she looked alive and healthy. "What happened?" Scully shifted, avoiding his eyes. "He shot the two maids and the butler. Then he came after me." "But he hit you," Mulder said, touching her cheek. "Yes, we got into a physical fight before I could get to a weapon. This was all the damage he did. But I managed to get to a gun, and I . . ." she shifted and looked down. "I killed him." "But you're all right," Mulder said, studying her. The sweet relief to find her alive and almost well nearly flooded out all other emotions. "I'm fine. He didn't really hurt me that bad. Just a few bruises." "That's good." He leaned back, taking a closer look at her. She had been seriously beaten. The damage was not minimal, as she had been trying to convince him. But then, that was Scully. It didn't matter. Even with the bruises, she was still beautiful. At least Murphy hadn't shattered her cheekbones or broken her nose. And the grey silk blouse brought out the blue in her eyes. For some reason, her hair was wet, as if she had just gotten out of the shower. But that didn't make any sense. "Hey," he said, reaching to touch her hair. "How come -" She moved forward to examine his head as he spoke, suddenly putting the pressure of her hand on his stomach. He gasped at the sore spot she had inadvertently inflamed. Murphy must have kicked him several times after hitting him. "Oh, Mulder, I'm sorry." He rubbed his stomach, then looked around. He was in one of the guest bedrooms. He dimly recognized it. It was down the hall from the living room, two doors away from where Murphy had gotten him. How Scully had managed to drag him down the hall and into the bed with a broken ankle was beyond him. She really was an amazing woman. He slipped his finger under her chin, studying the damage. "If Murphy wasn't already dead, I'd do it again for what he's done to you." She started in his hands, a look of surprise flickering across her features. Then she pulled back, looking down at her hands. "Thank you, Mulder." "'Fox'," he said, catching her fingers in his. "Call me Fox." She glanced at him quickly, obviously surprised. "Mulder . . . Fox . . . I . . ." But she cut off, looking away. "Never mind." He wondered if he should pursue the conversation, but figured she'd tell him when she as ready. He sat up, swinging his legs around her, getting groggily to his feet. Dana reached for a crutch she must have found somewhere in the house and edged onto her feet as well. "I'll help you move the bodies," he said, rubbing his head. She moved stiffly to block him. "That's not nessecary. The storm is almost over." "Scully, don't be ridiculous." He stepped past her. "Where is Murphy?" "In the master bedroom," she said faintly. He turned to her again, wondering at the tone, but walked down the hall, shaking off his headache. He turned briefly to glance at her again, his intuition pressing against him but not revealing its suspicions. There was something familiar about the way she was walking, something he had seen before . . . but he strode into the living room and forgot all that. He arched an eyebrow at her. "Tackled me," she said. "On the couch." He glanced at the floor, constructing the probable fight scene there, then followed the path of destruction to the closed bedroom door, noting with a certain sickness the blood splattered everywhere, the shards of glass near an unusually bloody spot. Then, slowly, he opened the door. The room had the faint odor of dead blood, but the stench of decay had not yet set in. He immediately noticed the angle of the sheet-covered body. It really bothered him. "Did you move him?" "No." An unusually large amount of blood had already soaked through the sheet. He walked over and grabbed the edge. "Mulder, please don't." He pulled it away. Murphy's eyes were still wide open, nasty bullet wounds going through what was left of his cheek and forehead. He pulled the sheet down further. His body was completely decimated. It looked . . . well, as if she had unloaded the entire clip into him. He had to swallow at the brutality of the wounds and where most had struck: Murphy's naked lower torso. Closing his eyes, he stood up and pulled the sheet back over the man's body. He had been shot from the bed. The Glock 20 was still a mighty black impurity against the starkness of the sheets. He went over and picked it up. The clip was empty, as he had expected. There was a brief splattering of blood on the bed, as there had been with everything else. The evidence all added up, but not the main point. A deep, sickening ball began to knot in his stomach. He scanned the room slowly. And then his eyes settled on the dressing couch. "Sweet Jesus, no," he whispered, taking a step toward it. He knelt slowly, his fingers brushing against the cloth. He knew there was only one way blood could have ended up here, like this. He desperately tried to blink back the tears that filled his eyes as he stared at the blood, the mental images flashing at him uncontrollably. Her tiny body being pressed unmercifully over the back of the couch, Murphy standing behind her, inhumanly grinding into her, her screams ripping uselessly through the air. The evidence of the rape she had experienced was more brutal than any he could remember investigating, even when he had been with the VCS. And she had tried to keep it from him. Now it all made sense. The wet hair from a hot shower or bath to purify herself, the changed blouse, the stiff way she moved. He now understood why that had been bothering him. It was the sore walk of a rape victim. He had seen it before, many times, but had never dreamed he would see it on Scully. Slowly he turned to her, straightening. She was standing in the doorway, her features completely blank, studying him as if nothing at all had happened. And he would have believed she was mentally well with the crime, except for the fact she had lied to him about the incident and shot Charles Murphy fifteen times when one bullet would have sufficed. "Scully," he said, slowly walking over to the door. Her eyes stayed on his, not even flickering briefly around the room. "Dana, why didn't you tell me about this?" "I'm fine, Mulder," she said, looking at the ground. The lump in his throat was threatening to cut off his oxygen. "No, you're not," he said quietly, moving closer to her. He reached out carefully, taking her shoulders in his hands. She paused, trembling in his hands for only a second before wrenching away from him, stumbling back into the living room. "I'm fine!" She screamed, grasping onto a local chair for support. "I don't want to be a victim! Don't you dare make me into a victim!" "Dana, please. Can we talk about this? What can I do?" "No!" She retreated further, leaning on her crutch, keeping her eyes on him. "You can't do anything! Just forget it!" She lunged backwards again, her good foot catching an out jutting footrest, sending her toppling onto the hardwood floor. She landed heavily on her side. His first urge was to rush to her aid. But even as he was taking the step to help her, he knew she would never forgive him if he did. He had to wait for her to accept that she couldn't face the world alone, that nobody could. That she wasn't invincible. That Dana Scully, just like everybody else, needed help. He froze, staring at the crumpled form of her body, waiting. There was a very long silence. Then, very quietly: "Fox, please . . . help me." In an instant he was at her side, gathering her in his arms, holding her head against his chest. There was a silent moment as she wrapped her arms around him, then her horrible piercing sobs shattering the stillness. He held her as tightly against him as he could, wishing not for the first time that he could draw some of her pain into himself. He was such an incredible idiot. He should have foreseen Murphy's attack. He should have been able to protect her from this. "I'm sorry," he whispered, rocking her like a small child. Her fists clenched in his shirt as he murmured at her. "I'm so, so sorry." ************************** Dana Scully's Apartment 7:45 P.M., March 11 Special Agent Dana Scully stared into the dancing flames unblinkingly. Not even when her eyes began to itch, then burn, then water, did she close them. She had done it often in the last few days she had been back in the land of the normal. She was so absorbed with her thoughts she didn't hear her front door open. "How are you feeling?" Mulder asked from the doorway. Dana looked up, startled and delighted. She hadn't seen Mulder for a few days. "Okay," she said with a faint nod. He crossed the room and settled himself beside her on the couch. She took him in, studying his strong features, the carelessly tousled hair, his hazel eyes as he suddenly looked not at her, but into her. "Tell me," he demanded gently, taking her hand in his. "Tell me how you feel." He kissed the back of her hand tenderly, then looked adoringly into her yes. A chill ran up her spine and smacked the back of her head, then ran back down her spine again. She loved it when he looked at her like that. "Like I said, I'm feeling much better. I didn't have to stay in the hospital, and now I get some time off to heal." "Have you talked to anybody?" Trust Mulder . . . Fox . . . to catch her real meaning when even she didn't know it. "No," she began, reaching for the glass of water on her coffee table. Mulder's hand closed over her wrist before she could touch it. "You need to talk to someone," he said, his eyes boring into her. That enraged her suddenly, inexplicably. She could certainly take care of herself! She wrenched her wrist away. "I'm fine, Fox, I don't need anyone!" "Jesus Christ, Dana! How come you always do this? Why can't you ever lean on someone for help? You don't have to be so damn independent!" She stared back into his eyes, shocked at the attack. It was so out of character for him to explode like this! What on earth was wrong with him? "Mulder!" "Damn it! Why won't you let me help you?!" "But," she said, trying to defend herself against the furious assault, "you weren't even around the last few days!" "I was trying to give you space!" He suddenly leapt off the couch, turning his back to her. "Where is this coming from?" She asked, bewildered. He went over and looked out her window, keeping his eyes away from her. "Over the last few days I've had time to think. You're a hard woman to love, Dana. I mean, it's easy to love you, but you are so unaccepting of that love. I've had relationships like that. I always get . . ." but he cut himself off, lifting his eyes to stare into the dark sky. "I don't want to be in another." She was shocked into silence. Mulder didn't . . . he was not going to . . . "What are you saying?" She asked, trying to force the tremble from her voice. Before she could even begin to contain them, tears were streaming down her cheeks. She didn't want to lose him, not like this. "I'm saying," he said, finally turning to her, "I love you. But you have to let me in. I can't do this if you won't let me in." She stared at him quietly, letting the tears slip down her cheeks without repression. "I don't know . . ." He cut her off, moving toward her. "You have to trust me." "But I . . ." "You have to trust me with everything you have. Not just your life, but your emotions. I want you to trust me that I won't hurt you like Murphy did." His hands hovered over her face, ready to take it. She gazed up at him longingly. There was a part of her - Special Agent Dana Scully, a.k.a. The Ice Queen - that wanted to glare cooly up at him and insist she was fine. That part of her wanted to push him away, to make sure he couldn't hurt her. It wanted to force her to keep reminding herself of how she had missed the Glock the first time she had been thrown on the bed. But the other part of her - Dana Scully the woman - wanted to lean on him. That part realized she really *couldn't* go it alone, no matter what the first part told her. That before she was an FBI agent, she was a woman. "I can do that," she whispered. "I . . . I already do." His lips and hands were on her immediately, holding her in an exquisitely gentle embrace. She let herself melt without the slightest resistance as his tongue flickered briefly across her lips. She hesitated, the opened her lips to him. He tenderly pulled her up, holding her against his body. Painful images flickered through her memory. She pulled away, but he didn't let go. "Tell me," he said. "Tell me what you're feeling." The embarrassment was unbelievable. She was a grown woman. She knew logically that Mulder would never touch her like Murphy had. She knew she could trust him. She knew the whole situation seemed like something that belonged in a TV movie of the week. But it was impossible to battle an invisible enemy, and emotions were most certainly invisible creatures. "I'm fi-" she began. But the look in his eyes halted that. "I'm frightened," she confessed, "that I might lose again. That you'll think I'm weak for falling apart over such a common incident." She looked away from him, hating herself for breaking down. She tried to steel herself against the tears. She didn't want him to see her weakness. But the memories she had been trying to repress instead of confront struck her with agonizingly clear intensity. She found the words pouring off her lips uncontrollably, describing the terror and pain of the brutal rape, and her complete loss of control afterward. And Fox just held her silently, without judgement, pure love in his eyes as he listened. Again her fingers knotted in his shirt, and her tears soaked into his fabric. Secrets about the things she most despised and feared about herself came out, but instead of pushing her away in disgust, he was still holding her lovingly. And when she grew silent, he brushed his fingers along her cheeks, wiping the tears away. "Now," he said, giving her another affectionate squeeze. "I've heard all that and I still love you. No one can go through life completely alone. Not even you." She pressed her head against his chest, inhaling the sweet scent of his cologne. He was right. It was a bittersweet sensation to depend completely on him for even a few emotional moments. But the weight lifted from her shoulders of finally being able to *talk* out weighed even her embarrassment. "Thank you," she whispered. He chuckled, and she could feel his long breath as he sighed. "I know this was hard for you, and you think talking is a sign of weakness." He stroked her hair gently. "Hell, most of the time, I feel the exact same way. But you aren't weak, Scully. You would fight against anything and never give up. You could face any tragedy, and you'd go on." She looked up at him, smiling at the love in his eyes. It was nice to see Mulder completely serious, looking into her with earnest eyes, probing gently to help her heal. "You're right. I'm sure I could face anything," she agreed, snuggling into him. "But life without you? I . . . I don't know." The End please, tell me how you liked it! Please! I spent a lot of time on