From: To: ; ; ; ; Subject: [XFNC17ff] NEW: "Peaks of Insanity" by XRae 1/6 Date: Saturday, March 15, 2003 11:17 PM TITLE: Peaks of Insanity AUTHOR: XRae EMAIL: feedback welcome at XRae1013@webtv.net RATED: NC-17 for adult subject matter and explicit sex. Please, if you're underage I'd rather not contribute to your corruption. ;) KEYWORDS: Scully POV, Major Angst, UST, RST SPOILERS: Nothing too specific. DISCLAIMER: Never had'em! Never will! ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, yes. Gossamer, yes. Anywhere else, sure just let me know so I can visit... NOTES: OK, I admit it, this entire endevor is just an excuse for me to indulge in some 'Profiler-Mulder' angst and hot monkey luvin'...Just keep in mind that, even if the show didn't take Mulder to these levels, the foundation for them was set in the first three seasons. I base this assumption after rewatching "Grotesque" recently, what a Mulder Mind-F*** that was! Oy-Vey. SUMMARY: Deeply affected while profiling a difficult case, Mulder reaches the limit of his mental endurance. How far is Scully willing to go to bring him back from the edge? PEAKS OF INSANITY by XRae ------------------------------ He'll come tonight. Silent as the shadows he thinks can hide him. He'll slide into my bed, slide into me. And though I've surrendered my body to him before... Tonight, in the darkness, Mulder will make love to me for the first time. ------------------------------ [six months earlier] Interstate 70 Outside of Dayton, Ohio 3:47 am Slow down, Dana. Slow down. Loosing control of the car isn't going to help you get to him any quicker. I ease back on the accelerator and drop down to a semi-respectable 80 mph. At least at this time of night...no, wait, it's morning now, isn't it? OK, at least this *early in the morning*, traffic, or lack there of, is working for me and not against. Which is a good thing considering how many times I've drifted into the other lane while preoccupied with the damn speed dial button. I've been griping this phone since leaving Columbus, and at this point, I wouldn't be at all surprised if my fingers end up locked in this position. Beware of...THE CLAW! As absurd as it may be, I start to giggle. What's that from? I know it's Jim Carrey, but can't think of which movie... God, I'm tired. I need a cup of strong coffee bad and a bathroom even worse. I don't really want to take the time to stop, but if I don't, I may end up needing to have this rental steam cleaned. I spot what looks to be a truck stop up ahead and take the off-ramp... About fifteen minutes later, I feel about two pounds lighter and a little more awake as I get back onto the Interstate. In between gulps of way too hot diner coffee and steering the car using mostly my kneecap, I try Mulder's cell again... "Liar, Liar"! *That's* the name of that movie! The CLAW was the game he played with his kid! Ok. Good. Maybe the caffeine is kicking in... Come on, Mulder. Come on. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Nothing. Voice mail. Again. I don't bother leaving another message to the dozen or so I've already left. I call the hotel and ring his room again. Still busy. No doubt, it's off the hook. The road starts to blur and it's not until I feel the tears on my cheeks do I realize why. I don't know what to expect when I finally get into Dayton. I have no idea how far he's gone off the deep end this time. Damn him! Damn him for doing this to himself! Damn him for doing this to me! No wait...that's not fair. I'm just tired. I'm just so tired. Deep breath. Get it together, Dana. I can't blame him. I won't. He does this because so few others can, because so much depends on this ability he has. This gift. This curse. And his intensions are just and honerable, to save lives, to keep other families from suffering. And in order to do this, he has to crawl into the minds of these killers, has to get under their skin. How do you control something like that? The path he must travel takes him on a solitary quest. And I've accepted that I must invariably only witness this strange journey, only support him from the sidelines as he willingly spirals down. It's so hard to watch. So hard to watch the person you care most for place himself right in the middle of insanity. Most people can't fathom the nightmare, the dark places, he has to search through. I can hardly comprehend them myself and I usually have the closest view. Usually. God, this case... It's been hard on all of us, everyone inolved. It always is when there are children involved. Emotions run higher. Nerves strung tighter. And no matter what part you play in the investigation, when you see the face of a parent who has just lost their child, you always feel like you should be doing more. For myself, my own usefulness is negated to my contributions as a pathologist. And failing to find any new substantial evidence during my time in Columbus has taken a serious toll on me. I feel weak with disappointment, angry that now all means by which I can aid Mulder with this investigation, to ease some of his burden, have been exhausted. I guess I just didn't realize how much I was expecting to find something until it became more than apparent that I wasn't going to. I honestly didn't *want* to go, I felt my place was here, with Mulder. But I had to be sure. Dayton is not a terribly small city but their faciities are limited. After my cursory autopsies were conducted, mostly in the hopes of finding some trace of physical evidence, the bodies were sent on to the better equipped labs in Columbus for further, more detailed tests. And when nothing new was discovered by them time and time again, I began to doubt the efficiency of their techs. I was possitive the Ohio forensics branch had missed *something*. And it was my own arrogance that took me to their labs. In retrospect, maybe I just wanted to feel as though I could somehow help Mulder carry some of the weight. I didn't think being gone for a few days would matter all that much. So I left. But first, I let the locals know of my plans, then I went to Mulder. When he didn't answer my knock at the hotel, I scribled a short note and slipped it under his door. I was walking away when it suddenly opened and he stood there in a pair of dress pants and nothing else, blinking at the sun. He spotted me finally and asked, "What time is it?" "Almost eleven," I told him. "Mulder, have you slept?" He shrugged and avoided the question. "You're gonna leave?" "Yeah, I just want to--" "I read the note, Scully." We stood there, staring at each other. Finally, the silence became too much and I turned to go. "I'll call when I get there." "Just do what you have to, Scully." I stopped and looked back to him, something just not feeling right. "Mulder, what is it?" "Nothing," he said a little too quickly. "Have a good trip," he mumbled as he closed the door. Looking back, yes, it was strange. I was just so wrapped up in what I hoped to accomplish in Columbus to really take much notice. He didn't want me to go. He just didn't want to have to ask me to stay. Of course by the end of my third day there, it was obvious to me that the entire trip was just a waste of time. I'm so ashamed I assumed their techs were a bunch of slack-jawed yolkles. They'd been more than thorough in their work, painstakinly so. Yet they still helped me with test after test without complaint. A fact that not only speaks of their professionalism, but to their dedication to the case overall. I left as soon as possible, feeling tired and beaten. And anxious. Mulder has sounded increasingly...not...himself the few times we've spoken while I've been away. He hasn't faired well during my absence, which has only added to the guilt I have over the entire trip in general. I've seen what working cases like this does to him and it never ceases to amaze and terrify me. You just can't imagine how strong a person has to be to do what my partner does. He may seem to go completely off his rails, but it's a voluntary derailment. He surrenders to the secrets insanity keeps hidden from the rest of us. And each and every time, I wonder if *this* will be the time he'll reach the end of his resilience. How far can any one man delve into the craziness before it swallows him whole, before it consumes him? What's my place in all of this? I am acutely aware that Mulder's realm is not a place to tread lightly or without caution. There's little room to make errors in judgment. One wrong move and he'll shut me out completely. One right move, made too late, won't make any difference. He's been distant since this case began, long before my misguided good intentions led to my ill-timed little road trip. He comes out of his room only to examine crime scenes or to pursue his own avenues of investigation. He barely talks to me. Unless it's to insist on his privacy. He's been adament about it. Secretive. Usually, when we're involved in different areas of an investigation, we'll touch base before calling it a night, meet up at the hotel and find out how things are progressing. And generally, we discuss details or current theories in whichever of our rooms we just happen to end up in. But here, he's flat out refused to let me into his room. Why? I've respected his wishes. I mean, I can't pretend to fully comprehend his method of profiling. All I can really do is give him the space he needs and offer what support I can. I learned this lesson long ago. But still, this has seemed a little extreme, even for Mulder. Yet rather than push him to explain, I've left him to his self-imposed exile. No matter how uneasy I may feel about it. I guess, if I'm being honest with myself, I know he changes when he profiles, he really does. And sometimes, I just have no idea how to deal with him. He's like a self contained force of nature, unpredictable and savage. And *nothing* can steer him off course once he's engaged. Nothing. And now, with the investigation at a standstill, he blames himself for the lack of progress, for not being able to pull this killer out of thin air. Every time another small body is found, I see something die in his eyes. He refuses to stop, forbids himself any respite from the torture he puts himself through. I've never seen him in such anguish. Ever. And I've witnessed many other circumstances that have surely warrented it. This case has been brutal. Difficult beyond measure at times. But as awful as this is going to sound, I know for a fact that he's seen far worse. I just don't understand. It's almost as though this monster he pursues, this faceless man who leaves no clues, no evidence, runs unbridled and unrestrained through Mulder's very soul. Concern and fear continue to wage war in my chest. Thank God for the lack of traffic. With my attention so precariously devided between the road and my cell phone, it's a wonder I'm not wrapped around a tree. I punch the speed dial again. I know it's redundent, but some part of my mind just refuses to accept the idea that he'd actually be stupid enough to turn off his damn phone. He may have been brisk and distant during the few stilted conversations we'd had while I was away, but I have a hard time believeing he'd sever his most important means of communication with the others working this case just so that he could avoid me. Mulder knows as well as anyone that keeping connected is essential. Sometimes things happen fast. After a few more repeated attempts, I finally give up and call the local PD working with us. The first thing the officer taking my call asks is if *I've* talked to Mulder. I try to downplay my concerns, but I'm sure he hears the worry in my voice. In an almost hushed tone, he tells me Mulder called them just after I'd left and they haven't seen or heard from him since. Mulder told them he planned to take the next day or so going over the case "on his own" and to send an officer to the hotel to contact him only if something new was found in the meantime. He told them he was "getting close" to something and to "leave him alone with it". The hair on my arms stood on end. Of course they complied with his request. The locals don't know what to think of him and VCS is too afraid of and awed by "Spooky" to stand in his way. So, he's been alone. The entire time I've been gone, he's been alone. I end the connection with a sence of such foreboding that I can feel its weight settle hard in my stomach. See, while I know to give Mulder his space, I also know that I tend to provide him with a lifeline of sorts to the world outside of his unwavering focus. Or at least, as much of one as he'll allow. He depends on me for this. Because more than anything, as solitary as this process may be for him, he needs to know that he's not facing it alone. It's one of the main reasons he left VCS in the first place. He couldn't do it anymore, travel so far into darkness and find his way out on his own. I know this. Better than anyone, I know this. And yet, I still left him. What the hell was I thinking? Mulder. Completely shut off from everything, everyone. Focused. Frantic. Playing mental hide and seek, in hot pursuit of a lunatic--a sick, sexual predator who has raped and murdered eleven young girls to date. I never thought that the small, secret part of himself that Mulder somehow always keeps as his own during cases such as this, could be lost to the darkness he must embrace for their resolution... What if I'm wrong? ------------------------------ continued in 2/6 ------------------------------ ---------------------------- Peaks of Insanity 2/6 Disclaimers in part one ----------------------------- EZ Rest Motel Dayton, Ohio 5:02 am As I pull into the parking lot, I'm immediately on edge. His car hasn't moved position the entire time I've been away. Even from a distance, with only the dim illumination provided by the lights of the lot, I can still see the thin layer of dust covering the car. An all too real manifestation testifying to its lack of use. I park my own rental close to our rooms and walk on shaky legs to his door. A "Do Not Disturb" sign hangs ominously from the knob, but I pound on it anyway for about ten minutes, pleading with him to open up. I hear him growl something unintelligible from the inside and I loose it. I use both fists then, causing a scene and not caring. Before I know it, I'm threatening to take out my gun and shoot off the lock. Nothing. A few more minutes of pounding and the hotel manager shows up, sleepy and none too pleased about the disturbance. I flash my badge just in case he's forgotten who the hell he's talking to and then waste no time in ordering him to open Mulder's damn door. He unlocks it, grumbling about how we "law folk don't think we have to obey any rules about nuthin'". He steps aside, waiting for me to open the door, and looks none too pleased when I briskly excuse him. He leaves. And I stand there, imobile. For all my threats and cursing, I'm amazed by how fast my courage has left me. I really only wanted to bring Mulder out. Now that I'm faced with actually confronting him, I have no clue as to how to do it. A part of me is certain he expects me to back down. If not for any other reason, I'm sure he assumes I'll continue to respect his privacy. And the smart thing for me to do would be to leave now, go to my room, and wait him out. He'll call me eventually. When he's ready to. He needs time to adjust, to come back to me and to himself at his own pace. But on the other hand, I could easily argue that he's had enough time alone already and more isolation is the last thing he needs. I realize it may be my own guilt that propels me forward, but my decision is quickly made. I turn the damn knob and step slowly inside. I close the door behind me and try to let my vision adjust to the darkness of the room, to get my heart rate under control. I feel the air rush out of my lungs when I'm finally able to get a good look at the twisted nest he's created for himself here, feathered with graphic crime scene potos taped across the walls, the mirrors, the doors; pages and pages of frantically scribbled notes covering every available surface, including most of the floor; strange and morose sketches scattered everywhere; a large area map covering half of one wall, peppered with colored thumb tacks and illegible writing. And God...the smell...a stale mixture of uncirculated air and terror sweat, pungent and thick. He's tacked a heavy blanket over the window so the room is dark and oppressive. The only illumination comes from the muted TV, tuned to static, and about a dozen or so candles lined across the dresser. The idea that *this* is an enviroment conducive to this often unexplainable process of his makes my blood run cold... I stand there, with my composure wavering and shock threatening to completely undo me. Still, my eyes sweep across the room, seeking him out. And when I finally spot him, I find it impossible to contain my sudden gasp. "Oh Mulder..." He's sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, his back against the wall, his long arms folded across the top of his bended knees. From where I'm standing, I can see he's clad only in boxers and an unbuttoned dress shirt. His hair spikes in every direction, and the dark stubble across his jaw is stark against his pale skin. He watches me with eyes I don't recognize, clouded with turmoil and framed by deep, dark circles. I'm not sure what he sees in my own expression, but whatever it is causes him to shake his head slowly and his mouth to quirk up into something that he may be intending as a smile. "Dana Scully..." His voice is rough from lack of use. "You have just entered 'The Twilight Zone'." He breaks into a stilted rendition of the theme song that ends abruptly as his head falls back against the wall and his eyes close. He tries to laugh but succeeds with only soft, humorless grunts. "Get outta here, Scully," he whispers, but there is no mistaking the formidible tone lacing the words. I take a few unsure steps toward him instead. He senses my movement and brings his head down sharply, freezing me in place with the look in his eyes. "Scully," he says, a warning evident. "Get out." "I'm not going anywhere." His eyes narrow. "Why are you doing this?" "Mulder, I just want--" His hand shoots up to block my words. "No. Fuck this. Don't come in here acting like I owe you something." "Mulder--" "Get out!" he practicaly roars. "No," I say as calmly as I can. "You listen to me, Scully. You have no fucking idea how close I am..." He runs a shakey hand through his tousled hair and looks away, his eyes distant and unfocused. "I need to be alone," he says quietly. "I think you've been alone long enough, Mulder." He turns to me and I can see the accusation in his eyes. "Really?" I soften my voice. "You just need to step back from this for a while." "Is that your medical opinion, Dr. Scully? Amazing that you can make such an immediate prognosis after being gone for three straight days. What brought you to this conclusion? My decor?" Remarkable that without any real knowledge of it, he's zeroed in on the guilt brewing in my gut and exploits it. Did I truly think he wouldn't see the conflict masking my motivation for coming in here? He watches me, then smiles knowingly. It looks more like he's baring his teeth. "It's what I do, Scully." "Stop it. I'm not impressed, Mulder." "Like hell you're not." He stands slowly, sliding up the wall, his arms at his sides, hands fisted. I try not to notice his lack of clothing and fail miserably. He lets the fabric of his dress shirt slip down his shoulders and licks his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. He looks predatory, dangerous. "Get out," he says evenly. "Get out or I'll throw you out." I feel my eyes widen, both from the site of so much bare skin, and the hard tone of his words. He can't possibly know how he's behaving. His body language is such an obvious contrast to his words, I almost roll my eyes. He has two very different needs at war inside of him and I'm not sure where I fit on either battlefield. The only thing I am certain of is that he's afraid. And with good reason. His fatigue has left him stripped. It's taken away his ability to censor his actions and words. He's acting almost on pure impulse and his unpredictable nature is made all the more dangerous by his obvious lack of control over it. But the question is, who is he trying to protect from who? Still, I've come this far. I'm not about to turn tail and run. Aware of his behavior or not, he's still in trouble here and I'm not going to back down. It's Mulder. My partner. My friend... My spine stiffens with resolve. I take two more steps toward him. He responds immediately, and is infront of me so fast I don't have time to move, to breathe. He grabs my upper arm in a vice like grip and spins me around toward the door. He manages to drag me about three steps before I get my equilibrium back. And with one hard twist and pull in the opposite direction, I'm free from his hold and moving quickly backward. It does little to impede him. In one fluid motion, he catches me by the wrist. I yelp as pain shoots up my arm and stagger back. He uses the momentum to push me hard into the wall behind me. The impact stuns me long enough for him to pull my arms above me, he uses his own to press his weight heavily against me. I'm trapped. I struggle briefly, but it's pointless and we both know it. Mulder is shaking visibly, but whether from his anger or the effort it's taken to subdue me, I'm not sure. We stay locked in position, a stand-off. His stare is fierce. And the heat of his proximity envelopes me like a wet blanket, heavy and moist. After an endless moment, he finally speaks. "Now what, Scully?" I look into his eyes and for just a second, I don't know the man looking back at me. "Is this the way you wanted this to play out?" "Mulder. Let me go." "Oh, *now* you want to go?" He shakes his head. "No," he whispers. "I don't think so." I try to pull my arms down and his grip becomes harder. "This isn't funny, Mulder." "You're right, Scully. It isn't," he says evenly. "You came in here without my permission and refused to leave when asked so I can only assume I wasn't being clear enough. So..." He leans in slowly, hovers near my mouth before moving his lips to my ear. "Do I have your attention now, Scully? Your *undivided* attention?" Why can't I stop shaking? OK, I know what's going on here, I tell myself. He's just changing tactics, trying to put me on the offensive. And he's using his physical advantage to intimidate me. I won't let him do this! I try again to yank my arms from him. His hold on my wrists actually grows unbearable, his fingers surely leaving bruises. "Ow, Mulder! Damn it! Let me go!" "No." "You're scaring me, Mulder!" "Good!" he practically shouts, his closeness causing the word to almost vibrate through me. "You should be scared, Scully!" Tears fill his eyes. "It's too late!" He drops his forehead to my shoulder. "Just don't...don't fight me anymore, Scully. Let me just...Let me just..." "Mulder, what are you doing?" I say quietly and, I hope, without threat. He brings his heard back up toward mine, his hot breath on my face. "I don't know what I'm doing, Scully." The anger seems to have drained from him, though his hold on me remains absolute. "I've hit this wall. And I know what I need is right on the other side and I just...I just can't..." My mind is spinning. It takes me a moment to realize he's referring to the case, his gears shifting so sudden and completely, that I can't keep up. And I'm caught in the net of his conflicting need. I can see the indecision swimming in his eyes. There are lines we don't cross, even for the sake of comfort, even for the the sake of sanity. I choose my next words carefully, uncertain of what he wants from me. "Mulder, please, let me help you." He holds my gaze steady. His pupils are dialated and the implication of this causes me to tremble. "I don't need you," he swallows audibly, "I don't need you to *help* me." "Then what do you need, Mulder? Tell me." His voice drops down, his sandpaper drawl causing a strange flutter in my stomach. "I need to see what's real, Scully. Need to touch it. To smell it. I need to taste it. Scully." His thumbs begin to move slowly back and forth on the insides of my wrists, soothing the places he'd treated so roughly only moments before. The sensation travels down my arms and pools low in my belly. "This is real. Right?," he says, close against my temple. I feel his words against my skin, feel his rough stubble as he drags his cheek against mine. "You shouldn't have come here, Scully." He repeats the action again, slower this time, and coming precariously close to my lips with his own. My heart is racing, jack-hammering in my chest. Fleeting touches I can choose to ignore, but this...What the hell is this? I don't know how to...react, respond. What I do know is that I'm finding it increasingly difficult to remain impassive to these purposeful caresses. This ongoing physical contact with him is intoxicating my senses. It's dangerous. Does he know? Does he know how much I both crave and fear him? No. How could he? I won't even let myself see it for what it is. "You shouldn't have come here," he says again. His expression changes, softens slightly, though I can't understand why. At least not until he grows bolder and presses more fully against me. Oh God. Oh my God. I'm suddenly, painfully, reminded of how little he has on. My response to him is immediate and uncensored. A hot rush of awareness spirals through me and I feel a shudder race across the entire length of my body. His eyes darken. His head drops into the crook of my neck, a harsh breath raking across what feels like every nerve ending I have. His hips shift restlessly against me and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning aloud. Oh God. Oh God. This is Mulder. *This is Mulder.* My blood feels thick. My limbs heavy. I'm loosing the battle to keep myself under control. I can't help it. Feeling him this way...it's too much. It's too much! A hot flush blossoms across my chest, spreading further to settle deep between my legs. I have to stop this. I have to stop this! I try speaking to him again, afraid if I don't deter him, I'm done for. "Mulder, what's this all about?" "Hmmmm?" he hums against my skin. "That's the million dollar question, Scully. What's this all about?" "Mulder--" "I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired." He begins to methodically drag his partially open mouth across my skin as he speaks, from collarbone to the underside of my ear, over and over until I feel myself grow weak from the raw intimacy of it. "It's here. It's right infront of me..." His tongue slides along the vein pounding in my neck and my knees completely buckle. "Mulder, God..." I sob. He lets go of my hands and my arms fall down to clutch at his bare shoulders helplessly. I feel his large palms splay across my lower back as he pulls me from the wall just far enough to encircle his arms around me, his hold still so tight I can't move. If he lets me go, I'll fall. I don't want to fall. He begins to nip and suck at my flesh. Breathing in deeply, he grunts against my skin. "Fuck. Oh fuck, yeah..." He moans low in his throat and inhales again. "Jesus Scully, I can smell you." No. No. No. Panic. God, no. I begin to struggle again, but the movement is slow and labored and only seems to intice him further. He fastens his mouth to my earlobe and tugs before whispering hoarsely, "Are you wet, Scully?" Hearing him say these words is like throwing gasoline onto the fire that's burning across my senses. I'm shocked, yes. Embarrassed and angry over my own obvious weakness. But he's right. I am. I am wet. Soaking. Drenched. And God, I don't seem to have any control over my body and it terrifies me. "I'm so sick of this twisted mother fucker, seeing what he sees and trying to make sense of it. *To make sense of it*" His teeth sink into the delicate skin under my chin. He bites just hard enough to make me gasp, then pulls back. "No one should have to try to understand this son of a bitch...Little girls, Scully. Little girls." What is he doing? It's as if his actions are completely separate from the words he speaks. I can't think clearly, feeling his hot, slick mouth slide and dance against my skin. He brings his hand up and clutches at my breast. This time, I can't stop the moan that rises from my constricted throat. My nipple pebbles instantly, my reaction all too visible through the thin fabric of my blouce. Why aren't I stopping him? Why *can't* I stop him? How the hell did we end up like this? "Do you have any idea of how seriously depraved a person would have to be to view a child in this light, Scully? To have it represent some sick version of sexuality, distorted by the perverse need for power and control?" His hold grows firmer, his breathing harsh and labored. I moan again, beyond the ability to contain it. He moans with me, his fingers digging into my sensative flesh. "What could possibly cause a man to be aroused by such a corrupted representation of what a woman truly is?" He twists my erect nipple and groans. "Oh fuck...It's all about *this*," he says as he drops the hand at my lower back down to crush my hips up against his erection, my feet actually leaving the ground from the force of it. I cry out desperately, the wave of lust crashing over me causing my vision to darken, causing my body to quake and my cunt to throb. "*This* is how it's supposed to be." He thrusts against me. "A man fucking a woman." He punctuates the last word with another hard twist of my nipple. He pumps again, shoving the hard, thick length of him against my center. The straining power of his lower body is merciless against me. Like steel. Percise. He lets go of my breast and uses both hands to grip my hips ruthlessly. He pushes into me again and snarls, "God, I wanna fuck you." I almost come. He closes his eyes tight and drops his head back, exposing the long column of his neck. He pumps again and grunts, a high and hopeless sound of base, primal want. "God! Oh God! I wanna fuck you, Scully!" I see the impact, the change, immediately following the sound of my name falling from his lips. His head snaps back to me, his eyes full of terror. He shoves himself away from me fast, viciously, almost falling in the process. Bonelessly, I slide down the wall, feeling deserted and ashamed, my legs too weak to hold me up. He stumbles to the wall on the opposite side of the room, panic lacing his movement. He's like a rat in a trap, frantically turning from side to side, not knowing which way to go or what to do with himself. "Oh God. No, no, no, no..." he chants. He drops down, like a puppet with its strings cut, falling to his side. He curls his body tight, and begins to weep. Horrible, loud sobs that break my heart with the ferocity of the pain and regret behind them. For a long moment, I'm too bewildered to move. I can only sit against the wall, feeling my body hum with the residual arousal that hasn't quite catched up to the abrupt change of circumstance. Mulder's breathing begins to hitch, his lungs unable to keep up with the demands of his anguish. It's this sound that finally reaches me, causing the lassitude in my limbs to dissipate enough to spur me into action. I crawl along the floor to him, feeling as though I'm moving through molassis, still shaken by what's just happened. I reach him and have no idea of what to do. Why does he seem so different to me now? Why do I seem so different? I sit behind him and tentatively put my hand on his bare back. "Mulder...?" The contact registers only long enough to cause him to scramble away from me. He throws his body in the direction of the bed and falls alongside it, then scoots back until he's as far from me as he can possibly get. I get up and walk slowly toward him. He whimpers but doesn't move to flee, his tears falling again in earnest. I stop before him, uncertain. And suddenly he's on his knees, wrapping his arms tight around my waist and burying his face in my stomach. I move my hands to his hair and run my fingers through it soothingly, murmuring soft words to him I can only wonder if he hears. It's a fleeting comfort. For us both. Just like that, he breaks from me and is up and moving away again. "No. No. No. No." He turns to face me and whispers, "No, Scully." I nod. "OK, Mulder." I have to work fast. I can see him withdrawing already. I have to keep him with me. I take a deep breath. And then, in a steady, neutral tone, I begin to give him instructions. He hesitates for only a second, then follows my directions without another word... ------------------------------ continued in 3/6 ----------------------------- ------------------------------ Peaks of Insanity 3/6 disclaimers in part one ------------------------------- EZ REST MOTEL DINER 8:42am The silence stretching between us passed the uncomfortable mark about two minutes into what's supposed to be breakfast. Mulder sits across from me, looking pale and haunted, his eyes fixed on the black coffee infront of him, his fingers wrapped around a cup he's all but forgotten to pick up. I guess I should just be content with the fact that I got him here. At least now he's dressed and shaved. The waitress returns to our table and looks a little unnerved at our unopen menus. I smile weakly. "Need a few more minutes?" she asks, throwing an impatient glance at Mulder before shifting her annoyance back to me. I ignore her little display of less than stellar people skills and ask for a fruit bowl and wheat toast with as much politeness as I can muster. Which isn't much She turns to Mulder, tapping her pencil on her order pad. "What about for you?" He remains silent, staring at his damn coffee. He seems oblivious to her, to me, to everything, but I know better. I watch as she shuffles from one foot to another. After a pause that lasts entirely too long, she turns to me, looking just about to ask a question I can guarantee I'm in no mood to answer. I fix her with a stare that effectively keeps her yap shut and then take the liberty of ordering my partner food he's not likely to touch. She scribbles down the order and finally leaves, content to dismiss us both with a roll of her eyes. Once she's gone, I take a minute to try to pull myself together. I need to handle Mulder very carefully but I'm afraid I'm just not up to it. After a few torturous moments, I decide my only real choice is to overlook the events of this morning as best as I can and do what I can to help him get past whatever block he seems to have now with this case. But I have to draw him out easy. Any indication that I'm being judgmental will only cause his defenses to kick into overdrive. Which is something I can't risk. Too much is at stake here. Gently, I place a hand over one of his and peel it from its death grip on the cup. I don't let go, trying to establish a safe, tangible link between us. At first, I'm certain he'll pull away but his lack of reaction is somehow worse. As each second passes, my anxiety level rises exponentially and for one agonizing minute, I wonder if I've lost him for good. "Mulder...Mulder, please." Thinly veiled panic has seeped into my voice and I almost cringe at the acidic sound. Mulder has obviously heard it too because for the first time, his expression changes, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He opens his mouth twice before taking a shuddering breath, soft words at last falling from his lips. "I feel sick, Scully, " he says pulling his hand away. He folds his arms infront of him on the table and lays his head down. "I *am* sick." I ache for him. Not for the first time today, I wonder if I've made another serious miscalculation. Trying to determine what he needs now is like trying to read Braille without fingertips. Does he hate me? Does he think I hate him for what happened? "Mulder, I'm not angry," I say before realizing I've just shot Plan A all to hell. "I just want to understand." "No, you don't." "Please. This isn't your f--" He jerks his head up quickly, his eyes locking fiercely to mine. What I see raging behind them vaporizes the words in my mouth. I can only stare at him. "Don't," he says simply. Intensity radiates from him. He silently dares me to contradict him. I should. I know I should. But something in his hard gaze has paralyzed me. The back of my throat starts to tighten and burn and I ruthlessly will myself not to cry. He watches my struggle for control, nothing escaping his notice. A exhausted as I know he is, his heightened senses remain as sharp as knives. Poised to cut into me. I tell myself this isn't a conscious effort on his part to chip away at me. He's in profiler mode, and in this state details assault him with relentless severity. It has nothing to do with what happened earlier. His mind is just hungry, restless, fueled by frustration and fatigue. I can hardly hold him responsible for the direction his focus takes when not confined to his own carefully maintained parameters. I brought this on myself. I forced myself into his safe zone and was not prepared for his response to the added element of my presence. Nevertheless, I drop my gaze, unable to stand his scrutiny, afraid of what he may see. Afraid of it myself. What's hapening to me? I feel as though I'm starting to fray at the edges. It's like every nerve ending I have has been scraped bare. I look back up to him, not surprized to find him still staring at me. I try to smile and feel stupid. I lick my lips and watch as Mulder's eyes slide to my mouth. He doesn't look away. I grow self conscious which, of course, only causes me to lick the again. His brows nit together. "Scully, you're nervous." It's a statement. A fact. He pins me with his gaze again. "Look, I told you I didn't want to open the god damn door. If you weren't prepared for what you found on the other side, you have no one to blame but yourself. I *warned* you. I don't need your understanding and I don't want it." I guess his defenses have already kicked into overdrive with no needed assistence from me. Oh boy. I sigh. "I won't take the bait, Mulder." "Fuck you." "Resorting to shock value now? 'Fuck you, you god damn bitch' would've gotten more of a rise outta me." He can't help it. His eyes widen. I can tell he wants to work up to something indignant but can't control his startled smirk. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Kiss your mother with that mouth?" "Not in a while. I really need to call her." He gives me a slight smile, then looks down. OK. Good. Momentary truce. The silence creeps back between us. Finally, Mulder clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I know, Mulder. I am, too." I reach across the table and wait for him to slowly take my offered hand. "I don't know what's happening to me, Scully." "I know you don't, Mulder. And I know this is difficult, but something is trying very hard to break through to you, something your subconscious has already figured out." He shudders and closes his eyes. "Time's running out, Scully. He's confident now, secure in his belief that we can't touch him. He'll take the next girl within 24 hours, that much I'm certain of. How the hell am I supposed to sit on my ass waiting for a 'break through' with a deadline like that casting a shadow over every fucking thought I have." "So what's the connection?" He pulls his hand away and runs his fingers through his hair. He looks at me and shakes his head again. "I don't know," he says, barely restraining his anger with himself. "Yes, you do." "Scully, I don't!" he practically shouts. Heads turn in our direction and he drops his voice to an intense whisper. "Stop. Please. I know what you're trying to do." I don't doubt this for a second. But if he told Dayton PD he was "getting close", something has already clicked into place for him and he's exhausted himself too much to see it. "Mulder, it's time to solve this, it's time to catch this son of a bitch. What's the connection?" He moves to stand up. "I'm going back to my room." I stand and catch his arm. "No, you're not." "Scully...," he warns. "Mulder, sit back down. He's got enough of you twisted inside out, I won't let you give him anymore. Going back to your room and allowing his crimes to further assult you isn't going to help you find him." He sits back down, exasperated. "Then what will, Scully? Hey, if you got this all figured out and think you know how to get through the layers of shit in my head, then fine, get it over with, knock yourself out." He looks me hard in the eye and whispers hoarsely, "But think very carefully and be very sure of what you're doing because we both know what getting too close to me right now can do." Yes. God, yes, I know what it can do. As ill-timed as it may be, the sensation of his hot, wet mouth trailing across my skin, his hard body against me...["Oh God! I wanna fuck you, Scully!"]...surfaces hotly before I can ruthlessly push it away. I feel color spread across my cheeks. "Yeah," he says low, and far too intimately. "I can see you're well aware of the risk involved." What caused his actions earlier is still just under the surface, barely held in check. Have I really never seen this side of him? "I can handle myself, Mulder." "Can you handle me?" I swallow, my mouth suddenly very dry. "It's a risk I'm willing to take." "Are you sure?" "Don't Mulder. Don't use what happened as an excuse to shut me out." He nods slowly. "Do you even know what happened, Scully? Do you have any idea how close I came to...to..." He can't finish. "I have no control over the...issues...I'm dealing with. And I sure as hell don't want you in the way of that." "Mulder, tell me. Tell me what's troubling you." He shakes his head violently. "No. And don't ask me again." "Mulder--" "I mean it, Scully. Don't push this with me. I'm entitled to some fucking privacy." I can't help it, I roll my eyes. "Are we back to this?" "I swear to God, if you don't let this go..." "Mulder...?" I say incredulously, "Are you threatning me?" "No! I'm just trying to warn you." Tears fill his eyes. "Jesus, Scully. Explain this to me. You consistantly keep me at a distance, even when I wish you wouldn't, yet the one time I actually *need* for you to give me space, you fight me on it. Why?" "I don't know," I say quietly. "Please, trust me on this. I know you just want to help, that you want to try to understand what I'm going through but...I don't *want* you to understand it. I can't bring you into this. Didn't what happened this morning scare you? It did me, Scully. It scared the shit outta me." "No Mulder, stop. I don't blame you. What took place between us earlier was a direct result of this case. And I think I already know why it happened." "Really." He leans back. "Enlighten me," he says sarcasticly, I take a deep breath, anxious to put this into perspective for both of us. He can't allow this to distract him from the case, and I can't allow it to distract me period. "Mulder, you've gotten inside of this man's head. How can you expect not to be influenced by him in some way? He is a man motivated strictly by his sexual impulses, as distorted as they may be. And you've had to delve into them, you've had to accept something abominable to you in order to figure out why he does these terrible things. What happened earlier was you rejecting those perversities, it was you reminding yourself of what's true and right with sexuality." He is silent for a long moment. "They're just kids, Scully," he says sadly. "And this sick fuck genuinely doesn't think there's anything wrong with what he does to them. Society forces him to do what he does in secret. He thinks he loves every one of them..." He lets out a long breath and closes his eyes. "I feel dirty digging into this guy." "Precisely Mulder. You said it yourself, 'No one shold have to try to understand this son of a bitch'. But you're expected to. I can't imagine how that must affect you. How can you think I could possibly blame you for the need to reaffirm--" He opens his eyes, regret and affection swimming in his gaze. "Scully, you're giving me way too much leeway here. I went too far and you know it." "Yeah. Maybe you did. But we have two choices now: we can either let this come between us or we can forget it, move on, and get this investigation back on course." I say this like I mean it, and don't get me wrong, the logical part of my mind wants to believe this is possible for us. But another part, a far more primitive part, seems so much more in control when it comes to this. "You're right," he says, not sounding any more convinced than I feel. "I don't want this to come between us. I don't want to make you uncomfortable..." He looks to me and asks quietly, "Do I make you uncomfortable now?" "I think maybe we're both just feeling very tired." Noncommittal response. I'm good at these. He smiles a little sadly. "So now what...?" "So now we catch a killer, Mulder." Our waitress, oblivious to the fact that an important conversation is taking place, picks this moment to drop our order infront of us. "Enjoy your food," she says less than enthusiastically before making a hasty exit. Mulder shakes his head and rolls his eyes. I smile. "Mulder, when this is over..." "I'm alright, Scully." I look in his eyes and know he doesn't really believe this. He avoids my gaze. "Listen, I think maybe you're right. I think maybe I have connected something and just can't see it." I'm not sure if he means this or just wants to change the subject. Either way, I'm relieved. We are silent again for a moment. "Ok...let's get this show on the road. Tell me what happened in Columbus." I sigh, weary, but grateful he's decided to follow my lead. "Nothing. I didn't find anything." He smiles, sympathy plain on his face. "Tax dollars well spent." "I can't get over how thoroughly he cleans the bodies. It's truly remarkable. I've never seen anything like it." Mulder is nodding his head, urging me to continue. "Cause of death, method, nothing out of the ordinary from your preliminary findings?" I deflate, visibly. "No, Mulder. They were all sexually assulted, died due to asphyxiation, and were painstakenly cleaned post-mortem. No hair. No fiber. No residual body fluids. Nothing. He's careful. He's methodical. And he takes his time with each victim." Mulder looks away from me, pondering. What, I don't know. None of this is new information. "What's your thoughts on all of this, Scully?" I think for a moment. "Well, I think you're right in your assumption that this man isn't a fetishist. I don't think the removal of hair is due to anything more complex than the desire to effectively cover his ass. He takes the nails fror the same reason. It's the only way he can be absolutely sure not to leave any trace evidence. He's obsessed with this process. And good at it. Coupled with the alcohol scrub, it's really quite ingenious." "I agree. He's thought about doing this for a long time. He's accepted his perversity and has created a careful method to satisfy it. Nothing he does is rash or impulsive..." He stops. "What, Mulder?" "The cleaning...There's just...There's something more to it, Scully. Something about it that goes beyond just making sure he's not leaving anything behind." I can see his mind working the knots of thought carefully. I stay with him. "It's repetitve. Methodical, like you said. He hasn't varied it, his percision is almost second nature, so--" "It has to be a process he's familiar with," Mulder finishes for me. "He's modified it. And he uses it to detach from the girls." "How so?" "He doesn't like to kill them, Scully. But he sees this as his only option. They're beautiful, fragile to him, and he loathes the brutality he has to inflict but is helpless against the impulses that drive him. He plucks their innocence, cuts them from..." He squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head. "He wraps them so delicately before disposing of the bodies. It's his apology of sorts, but he does it so he can let them go. He prepares them. It's his apology of sorts. It's true he doesn't want to be caught, letting them live is too risky, but what if this isn't what motivates the ritual post-mortem?" "It doesn't make sense, Mulder. Why bother to gift wrap them before dumping them like garbage?" His eyes snap open to look at me, a strange look on his face. "What did you say?" "What? He dumps them like garbage?" He stares at me, his eyes changing. "Mulder, what?" "No...No...He gift wraps them. He prepares them and then...then he gift wraps them. Jesus Christ." He's up and moving out of the booth before I can manage to question him. "Mulder...?" I call after him. "Mulder, where are you going?" He doesn't turn around. "I need to check something out." And with that, he strides purposely to the door. He never looks back. ------------------------------ continued in 4/6 ----------------------------- ----------------------------- Peaks of Insanity 4/6 disclaimers in part one ----------------------------- EZ Rest Motel Room 202 11:42 pm "Yes Sir, I'm hoping we'll be able to wrap things up here and be back in Washington in a couple of days." "That's good news, Agent Scully." A.D. Skinner sighs incredulously into the phone and I know what's coming. "I still can't believe it. How in the hell did Mulder make a connection like that?" I cringe inwardly, having been asked this same question by just about every member of the Dayton police force, "It was just one of those obscure details that he somehow manages to notice that no one else does. It was something he probably saw when we interviewed the parents of the victims and he filed it away with all the other minor details that he somehow keeps track of." "Yeah, but to connect the manner in which the killer wrapped the bodies with the flowers in the victim's homes--" "Yes Sir. Agent Mulder recognized the double folding as a wrapping style that florists sometimes use and from there he was able to piece together the comman thread connecting the victims." "Flowers delivered to their homes." "Apparently, 'The Flower Man' had made deliveries to the homes prior to each girls disappearence. It's why the area covering the span of the abductions seemed to have no apparent pattern. And the places he chose to dispose of the bodies were spread out over so much of Montgomery County, it was impossible to ascertain any one point as the killer's focus zone. It's extremely lucky that Mulder figured out how he chose his victims. There's no telling how long he could have continued to evade police, there was just no visible pattern." "Incredible," Skinner says and I can almost see him shaking his head in disbelief. "Only Mulder..." He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. "Believe it or not, Sir, but Agent Mulder is currently beating himself up for not seeing it sooner." Skiner sighs. "I believe it. How's he holding up?" "As expected. I don't think he's slept more than a few hours in the past four days." He clears his throat. "Well Agent, take your time down there. I'll expect a report by the end of the week. In the meantime," he says briskly, "remind your partner that he has surly saved lives. Good work, both of you." "Thank you, Sir." I end the call. I'm not sure what to do with myself now. I feel anxious, wound up. Things moved incredibly fast once Mulder figured out the common thread connecting the victims. After speaking to a number of the parents, he determined the man we were seeking was one Owen Stevenson, Dayton and the surrounding area's very own mobile florist. Calling himself 'The Flower Man', he conducted much of his buisness out of his delivery van using flowers grown from a nursery connected to his home. An immediate warrent to search the premisis uncovered a well hidden bomb shelter that now housed a veritable shrine to his victims, mostly in the form of photos. For being such a careful killer, he was ridiculously obsessive about photographing the girls. Arrest was immediate and without incident, though when we finally confronted Mr. Stevenson outside of the shelter, Mulder begged him to run, to give him an excuse to shoot. And he meant it. I've never seen him more violent toward a suspect. Even after the perp was cuffed and loaded into a nearby police car, Mulder kept his gun on him. When it was all over, he went back down into the shelter where balistics was still busy taking photos and collecting evidence. He stood motionless in the middle of the room, a blur of activity swirling around him. No one dared enter his space. I knew what he was thinking, what was further tormenting him. The similarity to this room and his own at the hotel was striking and downright...well, *spooky*. The only major difference being the actual pictures. Mr. Stevenson had the "Before". Muder had the "After". Put them together and you'd have complete documentation of the murders. It had to affect him. Almost worse though, was the sight of the area Stevenson used to prepare the bodies of the victims. One look at the thorn remover normally used on roses and suddenly the reason why he took their nails made some sick sort of sense. Mulder had been right, the post-mortem preparation hadn't been to cover his ass at all, it was Mr. Stevenson's way of letting them go. The girls were beautiful to him, just like his flowers. I felt so disgusted. Mulder was silent and brooding after we left. Outside of giving his statement, he hardly spoke a word after Mr. Stevenson was taken into custody. Well, aside from "I should've caught that sooner, Scully. It was right there and I couldn't see it." There was no point in trying to argue with him, at least not right then. It was too fresh for him. Dayton PD was axious to get the ball rolling on formally charging our suspect. Which, given the circumstances, was entirely understandable. They've taken alot of flack for not catching the killer sooner and now that they had him, they weren't wasting any time. Statements were taken. Forms were filled out. And during all of it, Mulder was maybe one notch away from meltdown. I could see it in his eyes, in the way every movement seemed to take focused calculation. One more clap on the shoulder and I think he might have taken out his gun and shot somebody. I had no idea what was going on in that brilliant but often self destructive mind of his. But he wasn't feeling any of the relief that usually comes just after ending a difficult case. He wasn't experiencing the slightest bit of resolution despite the fact that he'd almost single-handedly solved it. Of course, I realize that for my partner, catching the killer doesn't signify the end for him. Just like it's a process to get into the minds of these maniacs, it's also a process to get back out. So, hoping to make the transition as painless as possible for him, I had him back on the road for our hotel as soon as we were able to wrap things up and wade through the press outside of the precinct. I knew he needed time to let go. And I knew, above all else, he needed to get the hell away from all of the commotion around him and get some place quiet in order to do it. I imagined a night consisting of a hot shower, a good meal, and some well deserved sleep. And then tomorrow, maybe he'd be in better shape to do this, to find his closure. I figured we'd both be spending our evening this way. Apart, most likely. But in light of all that had happened between us lately, I admit I was hoping we'd spend some of it together. I felt shaken by the events surrounding this case, and though I didn't want to openly admit it to him, I needed to be with him, even if all we were doing was vegging infront of a TV. So...imagine my...shock, I guess you'd call it, when we pulled into the parking lot, and Mulder tells me he's going to go "unwind" at the bar a couple of blocks away. At first, I thought he was kidding. I mean, Mulder's idea of "unwinding" usually meant sunflower seeds and pay-per-view porn. Not to mention the fact that he was running on empty. I didn't think he had enough enery in his reserves to walk the distance to his room, much less make it to the bar we'd passed. My disbelief was apparently evident. "Don't start with me," he said, irriated. "Mulder, I'm not! I just thought you'd want--" "*Don't* act like you know what I want." "Mulder--" "I'll see you tomorrow, Scully." Feeling completely off balance, I did the most pathetic thing I could have possibly done: I asked to go with him. At the time, I told myself it was out of concern for him. I didn't think he should be alone. I didn't want him to be alone. And, damn it, *I* didn't want to be alone. He opened the car door and got out. He didn't even turn around. "I'm a grown man, Scully. I can handle myself in a bar just fine." And that was it. And that was three hours ago. I admit it, I've been pacing. I've tried to occupy myself, honestly, I have. Dinner and a shower took up all of about an hour. The call to Skinner, less than ten minutes. Channel surfing, jumping on the bed, banging my head against the wall, another fifteen minutes. Which has left roughly one hour and thirty five minutes of worry. Worry that quickly degenerated into anxiety. Anxiety that turned into frustration. Frustration into anger. I feel deserted. I know how co-dependant that sounds and I hate myself for it. But, rational or not, I can't help but feel ditched. I would have respected his desire to be alone...if it didn't seem to entail being around alot of *other* people. He didn't want to be by himself, he just didn't want to be around me either. And I could analyze this until I'm blue in the face and still not come up with a reason for it. Well, I guess outside of the fact that "Oh God! I wanna fuck you, Scully!" is still ringing in my own ears, maybe it's ringing in his, too and now that the case is over, he's embarassed. I don't doubt he's full of regret over his behavior. But, he must realize that I don't hold him responsible for his actions. I told him that. And I meant it. And God, come on...There was definitly a part of me that wanted him to make good on his statement. It's not as if he were the only one responding to the heat of the situation. He made that rather indelicate observation himself. But maybe now that it's over, he feels disgusted by how we both reacted. Or maybe just disgusted by me. At least he has the pretense of the case to explain his motivations. When he profiles, every thought, every word, every action, connects somehow to what his mind is entrenched in, whether he's completely aware of it or not. He doesn't have to contend with the idea that he may have wanted it to happen, no matter how fucked up the circumstances were. No, this particular humiliation is mine and mine alone. I don't know, my relationship with Mulder has so many layers, I can't seem to ever peel enough of them away to get to what's at the heart of it. What I do know is that I've never wanted to look too closely at how I view him *physically* and I fully admit that how I responded to him this morning shocked the hell out of me. I've always acknowledged that a part of me wanted him, but I was certain that this part was under tight reign. I'm having a hard time dealing with the fact that I not once tried to make him stop what he was doing. Token protests at first, yes. But "Mulder, get you hands off me!" or "Hey, rubbing *that* against your partner is against FBI regulations!"...no, nothing like that came out of my mouth. And this is a very bitter pill for me to swallow. How far would I have let him take it had he not managed to stop himself? And what the hell does all of this *mean*? I'm so tired. I don't want to think about any of it anymore. It messes with my head and does worse to my body...God, I wish I could sleep. I have to try. I'm so exhausted. And anyway, I refuse to wait up for Mulder. He said it himself, he's a grown man. Een if he doesn't always act like one. I'm about to go through the motions of my nighty ritual when I hear noise from outside. Laughter Distinctly feminine laughter. Close by. I tell myself there's no way. NO way. It can't be coming from outside of Mulder's room. I believe him capabe of many things, but to bring a woman back to his room while on assignment--NO! Fuck that!--To bring a woman back to his room with *me* right next door! Especially now! After...after...Oh my God. Don't go to the window, Dana. Don't do it. Then I hear it. Fumbling keys trying to hit a lock and Mulder's low growl of frustration. Followed by another fit of giggles from his...companion. Shrill. The sound hits my nerves like an electric shock, bolting along my synapses and causing my blood to boil. My anger is so acute, red tinges the corners of my vision, as if my blood vessels are actually bursting from the impact of the rage trying to course though them. I hear the door finally give way, hear the sloppy movement of the inebriated as they fall into the room. ENOUGH! There's no god damn way I'm going to listen to Mulder have drunk sex in the room right next to my own! I grab my gun...my gun?!? Yeah, what the hell. I'm just about to my door when I hear a scream from the other side of the wall. Mulder's loud voice. More shrieking. We open our doors at the same time. I'm suddenly standing, with my weapon drawn, pointing it squarely at the ridiculously dressed bimbo trying her best to stagger out of Mulder's room on four inch fuck-me pumps. She doesn't even notice me, obviously too hysterical from whatever happened in...in his room! Oh my God, I can only imagine what his room must have looked like to this woman in her current less than sober state. As if to confirm my suspicions, she shrieks "You sick mother fucker! What the hell kind of fucked up shit are you into? I'm calling the police!" I can't resist the cue. I level my gun. "I am the police. Freeze, FBI!" She stops, cold in her tracks, swaying and bewildered. She turns in my direction and sees my gun, her teased mane of dyed fire engine red hair seeming to further defy gravity to stand on end. She looks to me, face streaked with tears, and it dawns on me that this woman is truly shaken by what she's seen. And who could blame her? Mulder is suddenly looming in the doorframe. His shirt already off, the bastard. He doesn't even see me, or if he does, he doesn't acknowledge me. "Come on, get back in here," he tries to soothe to the woman. "I'll keep the lights off." She looks at him, the cartoon caricature of an incredulous expression on her make-up streaked face. "Are you fucking NUTS?" She turns to me. "You need to arrest this fucking sicko! He's got pictures of dead girls all over his room!" He follows her line of sight and practically lunges at me. "Scully, put that god damn gun away!" I side step him and move to stand infront of his date. Or whatever. She clutches at my arm. "Shoot him! Shoot him! He's gonna kill me!" She yells so loud my ears ring. Mulder takes a step toward her. "Oh for Christ's sake. Get back in the room!" Her long nails dig into my arm. OK. It's official. I've had it. "Mulder, STOP! Enough is enough! Get your ass back in your room and let me call this woman a cab. Whatever you had planned, I don't think she has any intension of being part of it now." He glares at me. I mean, *really* glares. He takes one more fleeting glance at the woman and then turns around and goes back into his room, slamming the door so hard the frame cracks. "Hey you, FBI, what the hell is goin' on out here?" I turn to see the hotel manager wobbling toward us. Jesus could this night possibly get any worse? "Everything is under control. This young woman had a misunderstanding with my partner but it's been taken care of." The girl shakes her head in confusion. "Your what?" I ignore her. "She could use your assistence in calling her a cab." The man's chest instantly puffs out, already assuming the alpha male position. "Of course. Come along to the office, Miss." He comes and takes her by the elbow. The woman walks slowly away from me. "But...But...What about...?" "I'll deal with him," I say to her. I'll deal with him??? How the hell am I supposed to deal with him??? ---------------------------- continued in 5/6 --------------------------- ----------------------------- Peaks of Insanity 5/6 disclaimers in part one ----------------------------- First things first, I'd better take my gun back to my room and get it securely out of reach. Best not to have it easily accessable when I see him. I may just aim a whole lot lower than his shoulder this time. I take the few steps back to my door and have barely turned the knob when Mulder is suddenly behind me, using every bit of his height and weight advantage to push me roughly inside of my room. He follows, kicking the door shut behind us. "What the fuck was that all about, Scully?" He grabs me by the collar of my shirt and drags me up, closer to him. "Fucking ANSWER ME!" Instantly, more out of reflex than anything else, my mind percieves "THREAT!", my training kicking in on autopilot, and I bring my gun up with both hands, putting the barrel against his chest, against his heart. Oh God, what the hell am I doing? Is the safety on? Did I remember to put the safety on? He lets go of my shirt, backs up only slightly and looks at the nose of the gun digging into his bare chest. His eyes slide back to me. They're wild, his rage scalding. "Go ahead, Scully," he taunts, his voice rough, low. "Do it. Pull the god damn trigger. DO IT!" The shout startles me and I waver. He wastes no time, sensing his opening and taking it, snatching the gun from my numb fingers. He pushes me back and I stumble, loosing my balance and landing on the bed behind me. He turns the weapon over in his hands. "The saftey's off, Scully." I can't help it, I sob, choking on it. Oh my God. One sudden move and I couldve killed him. He flicks the saftey and places the gun on the table a few feet from him. "You want it back, you go through me to get it." I scramble back across the bed to stand on the opposite side of the mattress, needing more distance from him. NOW WHAT?, my mind is screaming, running in loops. NOW WHAT? NOW WHAT? NOW WHAT? "Do you have any idea what you've done to me?" "What *I've* done?" My voice sounds small, frightened. "I told you you wouldn't want to understand this, Scully. Why can't you just leave me alone to deal with what I need to in my own way?" I feel a spark of anger. "I appologize, Mulder. I didn't realize the drunken bimbo was part of your personal therapy." His own anger flares. "That's none of your fucking business, Scully!" I flinch as if he's slapped me. "Of course it is! You're my...my..." I falter. Why is this so hard? "What? I'm your what?" He takes a couple of steps toward me. "I'm what?" His voice is rising again. "Tell me, Scully. Tell me what I am." I open my mouth to say something but words fail me. I can't answer him. I don't know how to respond. It's not a question I can answer. Not even to myself. Mulder nods his head. "Yeah, that's right. Your partner, maybe your friend as long as I keep my distance. Outside of that, I'm fucking *nothing* to you. Nothing! So you have no place in telling me how to live my life or making judgements on any of the choices I make." My chest hurts. I swear I can feel my heart splintering into pieces. "Mulder, I...I care about you. How can you say that? How can you believe it?" "Quit trying to save me, Scully." "The only thing I was trying to save you from tonight was a sexually transmitted disease, Mulder." He glares at me. "The only thing you saved me from was some fucking peace, Scully, so you shut your god damn mouth when it comes to things you don't understand. Just because *you* choose to live life *sexless* doesn't give you the fucking right to condem the rest of us for wanting more. I don't need to be lectured about safe sex from someone that hasn't had a dick between her legs since I've known her." I can only gape at him, my mouth falling open at his words. "You...you...you son of a bitch!" He's never spoken to me like this. Never. Oh, he's gotten nasty toward me at times, mean even...but he's never, ever disrespected me, or...or belittled me. "My God, Mulder." I bite my lip and shake my head, closing my eyes against the sight of him. I feel a hot tear slide down my cheek. "How can you...How..." I fight from sobbing, but the deep sense of hurt I feel is just too potent. I stand as motionless as possible, afraid any small movement will result in an eruption of the pain so close now to the surface. I have to steal myself against it as much as possible just to reopen my eyes. He's looking at me in an obvious state of shock, the harshness of his words finally hitting him full force. He looks like he's about to be sick. He shakes his head, never taking his eyes from me. "Oh my God, Scully. I don't..." A tear slides down his own cheek and I can't help but take some perverse pleasure from it. "I...I'm sorry." I must look as confused and devastated as I feel because Mulder sighs and hugs his arms across his chest. "Jesus, Scully. Please don't look at me like that." I bite my lip hard but the sob escapes anyway. He looks down, stricken. "I didn't mean...I wasn't trying to..." I struggle to finally find my voice. "No. You're right, Mulder. I guess I don't understand. Your personal life is your own. It was inapropriate of me to assume anything about it, especially given that according to you, I have no place in it." I can feel a small swell of anger rise up under my humiliation, and latch on to it for all I'm worth. "I can only ask that you pay me the same curtesy you're demanding I give you. You are so *fucking* off base. You know *nothing* about me sexually, so stop with the psycho-analyzing justifications for behaving like a bastard." "What do you mean, I'm 'so fucking off base'? What's that supposed to mean?" I can hardly believe it, but there's an accusation in his voice. Has he heard anything I've said? His eyes grow wide when I remain silent. "Are you...?" He sets his jaw. "Who is it, Scully?" The temptation to make him squirm is almost too great, but the way he's firing in every direction is geting scary so I know the only semi-rational thing to do is reign in this entire, ridiculous conversation. "Mulder, just stop. I didn't mean it like that--" "Then what did you mean?" he says angerly. I sigh. "Mulder, for someone demanding his own privacy, you're certainly insisting on some extremely personal information from me. Do you not see the complete idiocy of this? For either of us to claim we have no intrest or place in the other's personal life is ludacris." "Why won't you answer me?" "Oh for Christ's sake, Mulder! Will you please stop trying to twist this into something about *me*?" He presses his lips together in a thin line, then takes a deep breath, his eyes dropping to the floor. "You're right...You're right...Scully, I'm so fucking messed up," he whispers hoarsely. "If you could see what I do when I close my eyes, you'd know why I brought her back here. And you wouldn't blame me." "How much would getting drunk and laid have solved for you, Mulder?" "I'm not drunk, Scully. I nursed the same beer for three hours, everyone else was too intoxicated to notice or care." "And this is still just about the case." It's more of a statement than a question but Mulder shakes his head anyway. "You have to move past this, Mulder. His crimes can only torment you if you continue to allow them to hold such power over you." "It goes deeper than that. Don't hate me for what I need..." He doesn't finish, just looks away, uncomfortable. "I know what you need. You need some sleep. You need--" I stop, the bitter longing in his eyes telling me I'm way off base even before he manages to say, "No, Scully." "Do you honestly think I can't understand your needs, Mulder?" "It's not about getting laid, Scully. I know I've made it seem like that, but it isn't," he says quietly. "I know what it's about." He looks to me then, the words stirring something in his gaze. "No, Scully. You *don't* know. If you did, the sight of me would turn your stomach. This case...it's done something to me. It's changed me. I didn't realize how much until I stood in that shelter and saw how deep this connection ran. I can't explain it. Fuck, I don't *want* to. I just want it to stop before I end up hurting you anymore than I already have. Those things I said, Scully...that isn't me. Please. God, Scully, you have to believe me." "I know, Mulder...Tell me what I can do." He turns to me, exasperated. "That's just it, Scully! You can't help me. I won't let you." "You won't let me?" I can't keep the angry astonishment out of my voice. "But you'll let a complete stranger 'help' you? You'd fuck a woman like that rather than--" He wheels around to face me. "Rather than what? Rather than fuck you, Scully? Should I be fucking you instead?" I swallow, hard. "No...No, that's not...I didn't..." I'm stammering, panicked. He's suddenly infront of me, his hands on my shoulders. "I would *never* reduce you to that. No matter..." He stops himself. I should be touched by the conviction in his voice, but I'm not. "I would never do that," he says again quietly. "Never." "Even if I let you?" His eyes widen. He drops his hands and staggers back a few steps, his whole body shaking. "Oh Scully...Please. Please, no." His bottom lip trembles. "Scully, please. You're the only thing left in my life that still feels pure. I can't bring you down to my level. I can't. Even if I wanted to." "So you're saying you don't want to?" "Scully, what in God's name do you think I'm torturing myself over? I'm not talking about making love. The thought of that...with you...Jesus, I ache for you in places inside of me I never knew existed." He stops. His eyes close. I feel as though the wind has been knocked out of me. What is he trying to say? Is this why he's tried so hard to keep me at a distance, to say and do such aweful things just so I won't further blur the lines for him? He licks his lips, still keeping his eyes shut. "Scully...This is about something so radically different from what I struggle so hard to keep from wanting from you. If I," he takes a deep, shakey breath and opens his eyes to meet me gaze intently, "If I fucked you the way I need to, I wouldn't be able to look you in the eye afterward. And for what? So I can finally sleep? It isn't worth it. Not to me, it isn't." "Mulder--" "No. Listen to me. I'm pulled so tight, I can feel it down to my fucking toes, Scully. I can't stand it anymore. When I close my eyes all I want to see is a god damn *woman's* cunt behind them and there's only one way I can think of to pound that image past all the others connected to this fucking case." I feel dizzy, conflicted between the fear and desire his words inspire...God, I can't stand this. "Tell me, Mulder. Tell me what you need to do this." He bites his lip. "Scully, stop it! Do you know how out of control I feel?" "Tell me," I repeat, sounding far bolder than I feel. What am I doing? Why am I pushing him? His eyes grow dangerous with arousal. "I won't do this." "Yes, you will." His body is actually quivering now, holding back, restraining, and all I can think of is how much I want to be the woman he wants and needs and craves so desperately. "Tell me how to fuck you, Mulder." "Oh Jesus..." I watch, mesmerized, as his hand drops instantly to the bulge at the front of his pants. He clutches his erection through the material, his eyes squeeze shut. "Oh God." He sucks in a gulp of air. "I don't wanna think...I just...I just...I don't wanna feel anything except...except..." He whimpers. I move to him and close my hand over his. We stroke the thick length of him together and we both shudder violently. "Then do what you need to with me. Let me give you this." He lets out a tortured sob and opens his eyes. "Scully." He grabs my hand and holds it out away from him. "No. Don't. Not like this. Not for this." He drops my hand and walks backward, his eyes not once leaving mine. He sways slightly when he reaches the door and leans heavily against it, his breath still coming in soft pants. "How could I look into your eyes when you come, *when you come*, and feel nothing, Scully? I could never just think with my cock and fuck you blindly, no matter how much I want to. So much more would come into play, things I'm in no condition to deal with. Now do you understand? I couldn't do it, watch your face, hear you, Oh God, hear you moan my name, and still expect to keep it on the level I need to." He turns to open the door. "Where are you going?" I ask, my voice hardly a whisper. "I can't be around you right now, Scully." A cold fear seizes my chest. "Mulder, you're not going back to that bar, are you?" I couldn't take it. Not now. Maybe not ever. He turns to me and smiles a sad smile. "No..." he says simply. "I'm gonna go do some redecorating. Maybe it'll be enough to help me get some sleep." He doesn't sound very hopeful as he softly closes the door behind him. ------------------------------ 3:02 am I can hear him. Not the purposeful sounds of him reclaiming his surroundings, the sounds of tearing paper, drawers opening and closing, the sound of the shower...those died away about a half hour ago. Now, I only hear his quiet weeping. He's trying valiantly to smother the sound into his pillow, but I can still make out the sobs, the sorrow. I've been lying here awake for what feels like an eternity, going over the events of the past twenty four hours and trying to make some progress in understanding them. The most important thing is that we caught a killer. And I haven't lost sight of that. Everything else should feel trivial next to the magnitude of this. It should. But it doesn't. My mind keeps bringing me back to what this success has cost Mulder. And why. Why were things so different for him this time? I've looked at this from a wide range of possibilities: That the abductions themselves, little girls disappearing in the night without a race, brought up the trauma of Samantha's disappearance again. Or maybe that this case has brought up issues from a previous one that perhaps didn't have a positive outcome or resolution. And there's also the fact that Mr. Stevenson's prefrences come so close to those of Roche that maybe all of Mulder's unresolved trumatic feelings relating to him caused him to confuse the men... Then, there's what should be concidered as the most obvious and likely possibility: This is the third such case VCS has dumped on Mulder in just a little over three months. He hasn't had enough recuperation time between them. They've demanded he keep pushing the line back further and further and now, this time, he may have pushed it too far and can't get back. There are more, of course. But none of them really provide the answer. And after all is said and done, I believe the reason is actually quite clear: Mulder reached the peak of his tolerance. This time, when he opened himself up to the mind of Owen Stevenson, he didn't just create a passage into this man's head, he created a bridge that allowed this man and his insanity access into *him*. He started to see with different eyes and what he saw both facinated and appalled him in equal counts. Oh, I don't mean to say he got off on the images or the thought of raping young girls. I think what happened to him was worse than that. Despite his words to the contrary, he started understanding *why* Owen Stevenson did get off on these things. And for an individual as cerebral and intelligent as Mulder, understanding the complexities of the motive in such a profoundly personal way, was almost as unspeakable as the motive itself. Because he didn't relate to this with the clinical, detached interpretations of a psychologist. He related as a man. It explains why he's rebelled so angerly and adamantly against Owen Stevenson's crimes, crimes which, though terrible, were far from the worst he's ever seen. For him, it's gone deeper than just the empathy he usually feels so acutely for the victims and their families. He was understanding this killer's motive from a different perspective and it became too much for him to contend with. It's why those images taunt him so now. Why he feels he's betrayed himself. And them. Why he needs so desperately to reconnect with the sexual part of himself. And why he needs to do this on his own terms...terms that became convoluted with his feelings toward me and the carefully carved place I have in his life. I see it now, the reason he began to distance himself early on in this case. He knew adding me to the developing mix of confusion had the potential for personal disaster for both of us. Only I saw his actions as rejection and he saw them as survival. But all of this, whether caused by his overt efforts to push me away or my reactions to them, has opened up something between us now that was closed off before. In no uncertain terms, I know now that he sees me as more than just his partner. He may have been trying to protect me from the more primal aspect of his feelings, but the fact remains that these feelings exist, and their power is staggaring. And so, here I am. Faced with exactly the very thing that terrified me from the beginning, though maybe not in the context I'd thought I'd be confronting them...How far am I willing to go for him? It seems like such a monumental question, with so many factors to reason and weigh. But really, I've known the answer all along, and now I'm choosing to admit to this knowledge. It's Mulder. How could I consider anything but going all the way. ------------------------------ I hear his door shut and sense an opportunity. He won't accept this if I offer it to his face. So I have to offer it to something else. To the one part of him that *wants* to accept. I peek out from the window of my dark room. The sky is still black outside, the parking lot quiet. I spot Mulder as he walks across it wearing his running clothes. I suspect it'll be a short run, he's just trying to wind his body down and this isn't what it's asking him for. Frustration will bring him back quick so I need to work fast. I figure I have a limited window of opportunity to get into his room undetected. I wait until he's well out of sight before quietly opening my door and stepping out. The weather here is chilly and it feels so good against my over heated skin. I take just a second to breathe in a healthy lungful and revel in the crisp sensation of it slicing into my chest. I feel calm. I don't know how this is possible considering what I'm about to do. Maybe it stems from the sense of inevitability I felt settle deep inside of me once this decision was made. I know what he told me. I know he thinks he believes it. But I am the *only* one who can release him from this. I'm the only one who should. I crouch down infront of his door and start to pick the lock. All too easily, I let myself inside. It looks so different. Three large trash bags lay against the wall closest to the bathroom. I know what's inside, and though his "redecorating" hasn't helped as much as he'd hoped, I feel such relief that at least he's fighting against the hold of those images. And now, there's just one thing left to do. I move my hands up to my blouce and begin to carefully pluck the buttons apart.. ------------------------------ continued in 6/6 -----------------------------