Title: SOLITARY CONFINEMENT (1/9) Author: Jean Robinson (jeanrobinson@yahoo.com) Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network. All others are property of the author. No infringement is intended. Rating: NC-17 Classification: MSR Archive: Please ask permission. Spoilers: Up through "Firewalker." Summary: Being alone with your thoughts can be worse than sharing them. Feedback: Would rock my world at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com Author's notes at the end ***************************** SOLITARY CONFINEMENT By Jean Robinson No breeze disturbed the slightly stale, temperate air. If not for a faint hiss too regular and rhythmic to attribute to any known variety of snake, the silence would have rivaled that of the sterile void of space. No odors tickled the olfactory receptors to invoke sensory memories of freshly baked bread or rain-washed pavement. Even the light source was steady and even; daylight was on and nighttime was off. Twilight and dawn, partly sunny or partly cloudy did not exist in this environment. Eight days into a thirty-day quarantine period, Dana Scully was slowly going bananas within this monotonous setting. And she wasn't sure how much longer she could maintain a facade of rationality and normalcy in the face of it all. She sat tailor-fashion on a plain bunk, staring sightlessly at the chessboard on the mattress in front of her. Mulder, with the grim concentration of a Grand Master, had nudged his rook forward but still clutched the piece with the tips of his fingers, unwilling to commit to the move until he'd exhausted all possible considerations for how Scully might respond to his gambit. As if it mattered. As if he hadn't already beaten her every time they'd played so far. As if he truly thought she was just biding her time and lulling him into a false sense of security, all the while plotting to rise up and smite him with a counterattack worthy of Bobby Fischer. As if it hadn't been the same for the games of checkers, backgammon, gin rummy, poker and even "Go Fish," for heaven's sake. Mulder hadn't said anything so far. Had not appeared to notice his incredible winning streak. Didn't seem to find anything out of the ordinary that his partner could not even beat him at a children's card game that required only the most rudimentary memory skills. Scully was going crazy waiting for the penny to drop. Although he hadn't said as much with his mouth, Mulder's eyes betrayed him. For every foolish move she made on the backgammon board, for every time she left her queen undefended, allowed Mulder to be "kinged" yet again, forgot he had just asked her for an ace and therefore must have one in his hand, or failed to notice that he was collecting fours and unwittingly discarded one, she saw that little worried flicker in his hazel eyes. Sometimes it was accompanied by the tiny crease in his forehead as he frowned ever so slightly. The one he tried to cover by focusing on his cards or the game board. The one she knew was directed instead at her. What's up, Scully? that frown said. What's wrong? Would you like to explain why, exactly, you've had the concentration and attention span of a sea slug these last few days? Bad enough to contend with his faint but knowing expression about her scatterbrained behavior during daylight hours. Realizing that he must have heard her nightmares and still said nothing was becoming unbearable. They shared a sparse, functional ten by ten foot room, their beds separated only by a thin beige curtain that they drew when changing or sleeping. There was no way he could =not= know. Not when she woke up gasping and choking, heaving for air with the scream barely locked in her tense, aching throat. When not a night passed without one, sometimes two surreptitious trips past his bed to the bathroom to rinse away the sweat and the fear with a sinkful of warm water and the rough green facecloth she'd been allotted. Not when she'd spent the balance of two nights in the bathroom throwing up, her initial efforts to calm both her racing heart and her roiling stomach having proven unsuccessful. Yet Mulder remained mute on the subject of her distressing nocturnal activities, leaving Scully as the sole combatant in three-way internal war, torn between wanting to blurt out the entire story of the nightmares in the hope of assuaging their intensity, being relieved that he hadn't attempted to pry anything out of her just yet, and frantic with the knowledge that at some point he would just blindside her into confessing everything. They'd tried to be careful. But the Army Biohazard team had been only minutes away, and they were both still stunned and bewildered at the events they'd witnessed on Mount Avalon. Mulder's awe lay grounded in the terrible secrets Firewalker had unearthed from the volcano. Scully's own paralysis could be traced back not so much to her narrow escape from infection as to her astonishment that her partner was allowing Daniel Trepkos to walk away with Jesse's body. Even after all she'd seen and done with Mulder, that he would willfully aid and abet the escape of their sole surviving witness came as something of a shock. Add in the fact that neither of them had slept for almost three days, and it was understandable, if not excusable, that errors were made. First and foremost being that while all the infected descent team members were gone, the inactive spore traces from Jesse's contamination were still plainly visible within the containment room. Mulder had argued strenuously that both he and Scully had been outside at the time the spores had been released. The Army team, dressed in biohazard suits resembling something out of the latest sci-fi flick, had taken one good look at them and politely and implacably disagreed. At least in Scully's case. For her partner, coated with mud, leaves and volcano muck from the soles of his hiking boots to the knees of his well-worn jeans, they were willing to allow some leeway. Mulder =could= very well have been outside the bunker when the last of the fungus forced its lethal way out of its final victim. But Scully, clean and dry, her only outerwear being a light sweater which didn't hide an unexplained red mark around her left wrist, presented the perfect picture of an indoor dweller. And since the door to the containment room was not closed -- one more thing they'd forgotten to do in the chaotic aftermath of Trepkos' departure -- the military was not about to give her the benefit of the doubt. In the end it hadn't mattered anyway. They were spirited off by helicopter to the nearest high containment facility to undergo Level Four decontamination. Their destination just happened to be a place where their names were familiar and their case histories well-known. It was, Scully thought, like being on the guest register at a five-star hotel, with all the attention and none of the amenities. The perdition version of Club Med. Mulder mentioned that they'd even seen some of the same doctors as they had when they'd been quarantined here after their run-in with the luminous insects in Washington's Olympic National Forest, but Scully's recollection of the facility was fragmented and vague. Apparently the glowing little mites had been fascinated with their first juicy sample of a female food supply and decided she made a much tastier snack than her male companions. Mulder had recovered within two days, Larry Moore a day later. She had languished in a blurry, itchy haze of dehydration, giving the doctors no end of grief as they tried to stabilize her fluctuating electrolytes while soothing her irritated respiratory system. It had been nearly a week before she'd been coherent enough to even understand what had happened to her. If she never saw Winthrop, Washington again, it would be too soon. She couldn't argue with the quarantine procedures then, but when they'd arrived this time, she'd been floored by their proposal concerning the length of their stay. "A =month=?" "Yes, Agent Scully. Thirty days minimum. Assuming you don't show any symptoms between now and the end of the quarantine period, of course." "I'm not showing any symptoms now. Neither of us is. How many times do we have to tell you, we were =not= exposed to the fungus!" The figure in the protective suit merely gave her a small, empty smile and repeated, "Thirty days minimum, barring the appearance of symptoms of contagion." Scully had bitten her lip and restrained both her temper and her tongue. The coolly detached scientific side of her understood the need for caution in the face of such a potentially deadly biohazard. If she was in this technician's place, she would have quarantined herself, too. But her emotional side, which had been so badly mangled dealing with the fallout from her abduction, had longed to punch through the man's faceplate. To scream and rail that she'd just lost three months of her life and the proposition of spending another one in a confined space was intolerable. To throw herself on the floor, kicking her feet, pounding her fists and crying that they couldn't do this to her, they couldn't, not now, not after she'd just gone back to work and started to put the whole frightening incident behind her. That she'd rather die than waste another moment of time she could spend living. But Mulder had been eyeing her curiously, about to inquire what the problem was, and even worse, a few of the military personnel in the room had drifted closer the minute she'd raised her voice. Further resistance would gain her nothing other than a reputation as a troublemaker; she'd be easily overpowered in a fight and there was nowhere to escape, anyway. So she'd acquiesced, although if she'd known how uncomfortable and upsetting the daily routine would be, she might have defied them despite the poor odds. Their clothes had been confiscated and they'd been supplied with fresh scrub suits of varying colors on a daily basis. Light blue, dark blue, light green, dark green, aqua, white, maroon and the latest hue du jour: pink. It clashed with her hair and picked up some unflattering skin tones in her partner, too. Their belongings had been seized. All their bathing and grooming needs were now supplied courtesy of the U.S. Armed Forces. Scully had no idea what secret ingredients made up the unlabeled bottle of shampoo in the shower stall, but it definitely lacked a conditioner. The soap dried out her skin and the toothpaste tasted of medicine rather than mint. They'd been denied access to their files on the case; she hadn't seen her field notes since she'd climbed aboard the helicopter. On the third day, someone had given them a pad of plain lined paper and two pens, instructing them to write one letter each. "You won't be allowed to telephone or send any other messages," the technician had said. "Your superiors know where you are; we've contacted them. This is to give you the chance to tell your family that you are all right. Of course, we will censor the letter before it goes out, to be sure it doesn't contain any classified information." There had been a heartbeat of silence, then both of them had erupted in outrage. The technician had ignored Mulder's towering fury and Scully's scathing wrath. "I'll be back in an hour to collect them," he said calmly, and left them sputtering angrily in his wake. After fifteen minutes, when nobody answered their irate demands through the intercom, Scully slumped back to her bunk, defeated. "We'd better write something while we can. I doubt they'll leave the paper with us." "Damn it," Mulder muttered. "All that work. . . all of Trepkos' journals, his tapes, all your experiments. . . and =nobody= is ever going to know!" "We know." "True." He brightened suddenly, reaching for the pad and a pen. "I've got an idea." When the airlock hissed open some forty minutes later, the same technician stepped through. "All done?" he asked. "Yes." Stone-faced, Mulder handed him two folded sheets of paper, one bearing the address of Margaret Scully, the other to his mother in Connecticut. The tech took them, then, as expected, collected the pens and the pad as well. They held their breath until he exited, but he didn't notice that several more sheets had been torn from the pad, sheets that were now secreted within Mulder's mattress. On them he'd hastily scrawled the only written account they'd ever find of their time on Mount Avalon. End part 1/9 ________________________ SOLITARY CONFINEMENT (2/9) By Jean Robinson Disclaimer, etc. in part 1 No television, no radio. No windows. No visitors except the blank-faced technicians who delivered and removed their meals and the medical staff who monitored them. Scully had expected frequent examinations; if they were suspected of incubating a contagion it was only natural that they be checked daily for any variation in their state of health. Their initial admittance had included a thorough physical exam, blood and urine samples, and a decontamination shower. It was then that they'd been separated from their clothing and, still damp under their new pale blue cotton scrubs from the shower, had been ushered into their new accommodations. Mulder had made some sarcastic remark about contacting his travel agent because he'd reserved the deluxe suite, but Scully had been too appalled to even voice a protest as the airtight door clicked shut behind them. The room contained two single beds, each neatly made up with white sheets and a navy wool blanket. A door on one side of the room led to a blindingly white bathroom, where two sets of towels, one navy and one green, hung. A curtain ran the length of the room on an overhead track between the beds. Against one wall was a small bookcase holding a deck of cards and a few ancient board games, but no books. A round clock fastened to the wall above the door ticked away the minutes with audible clicks. That was it. When she'd first heard how long they were to be guests of the military, Scully's initial reaction had been, "I can't do this." But it had been a gut instinct, easily overridden by her training and her tendency to view the world in an objectively mature and scientific fashion. She'd survived some time at this facility before; she would do so again despite her desperate desire to avoid further confinement. Faced with the reality of quarantine as a quasi-prisoner rather than a true patient, all of her original misgivings had flooded back in a tidal wave of panic. I can't do this. I'll never get through a month here. I have to get out of here. ". . . this one, okay, Scully?" Mulder's voice had broken into her frantic train of thought, disrupting her freewheeling ride toward station stop Hysteria, end of the line, everybody off. "What?" "I said, I'll take this one, okay?" He'd indicated the cot nearer the bathroom, and, still dazed, she'd nodded her assent. He'd bounced on his chosen bunk, testing the mattress for give. "I'd love to have a word with the management about this place. Room service but no cable. Can you believe it? How do they expect us to survive?" Scully had nearly jumped at having her thoughts echoed back at her and caught herself just in time. Mulder's mock disgust at the prospect of a month without the Spice Channel or ESPN had a grounding, calming effect on her jangled nerves. It meant he hadn't noticed her acute, almost claustrophobic reaction to their surroundings. It meant she could still hide behind a bland expression and a cutting, cold remark, chopping his ego down to size with a well-timed rejoinder. "Contrary to what you may believe, Mulder, both 'Chantel' and the Knicks can survive without you." She woke up only once that first night. The bad dreams had not yet secured their bulldog grip on her sleep. Breakfast had arrived at 7:30 the next morning, the first of a long array of bland, tasteless meals. Cereal, juice, grapefruit, yogurt, coffee. Mulder devoured his. Scully abruptly realized she should be hungry; she couldn't remember when their last meal had been. But the unappealing wheat flakes, plain yogurt and tepid coffee failed to stir her appetite. She barely managed the juice and the fruit. At 9:00, the door whooshed open and two biohazard- suited figures had stepped in, each carrying a small black case. "I'm Dr. Ramsey," the shorter figure announced, the suit's microphone making her voice nasal and tinny, "and this is Dr. Thornton. We'll be monitoring your progress during your stay here." In other words, we're your personal physicians and this is the first of our many house calls to you. Thornton reached for the curtain. "Agent Mulder? If you'll come over to this side of the room?" And Scully had felt the first stirrings of disquiet as Mulder complied and Thornton yanked the drape across, blocking him from her view and leaving her alone on her side with Dr. Ramsey. "Please have a seat, Agent Scully." Ramsey gestured at the bed. She sank down onto the cot, fighting back the vague sense of dread. They just looked at you yesterday, she argued with herself. You're fine. They're just going to check your heartbeat, your temperature and your blood pressure, look down your throat and maybe take a blood sample. That's all. And that =was= all. Dr. Ramsey, whose expressionless dark brown eyes revealed nothing other than clinical detachment behind that Plexiglas facemask, took her vital signs and noted everything carefully on a chart. Tested her reflexes. Checked her pupillary reaction, felt around her throat for any unnatural protuberances, even drew blood with professional ease and a minimum amount of pain. Scully relaxed a fraction. "Please remove your pants and lie back." "Excuse me?" Ramsey repeated herself as if Scully literally hadn't heard her; the woman had either been trained to ignore her patient's dumfounded reaction or had been chosen for her job precisely because she honestly didn't notice it. "I just. . ." Scully seized hold of her scattered wits and tried again, dredging up a remnant of her former voice of authority. The voice she had yet to fully regain since she'd awakened in a strange hospital a whole season past her last memory. "I was given a full physical yesterday, including a pelvic exam, with no abnormalities reported. Surely this is unnecessary." Dr. Ramsey merely looked at her and repeated her request a third time. Scully opened her mouth to protest further, but the doctor interrupted her. "Agent Scully," she said, "it is not up to you to decide what procedures are necessary to establish a diagnosis concerning your possible contagion. If you do not comply voluntarily with the full requirements of these procedures, you will be subjected to them involuntarily. Is that clear?" Crystal. Although their voices had been pitched low to preserve the thin sense of privacy afforded by the curtain, Scully suddenly wondered how much Mulder had overheard. The nature of the exam he was currently enduring was abruptly revealed when Thornton's voice rang out, sounding very loud in the sudden silence on their side of the boundary. "Now turn your head and cough." It wasn't enough to make her smile, but it was enough to make her surrender her last shred of dignity, sliding off the baggy scrubs and lying back as instructed, steeling herself for the unwelcome, uncomfortable invasion. Before her abduction, a pelvic exam had been a minor annoyance, not a cause for trembling muscles and cold, sweaty palms. Before her abduction, the thought of a month cooped up with Mulder would have sent her imagination wandering in the direction of harmless little erotic fantasies, too. That was Before. Now, saddled with a body she could no longer trust and the knowledge that she would be suffering through a daily regime of personal violations at the hands of the Army physicians, she wondered when she'd snap. Ramsey's final act was to hand her a new set of scrubs -- dark blue -- and demand the old ones in return. After Scully had changed, Ramsey pulled back the curtain, conferred briefly with Thornton, and the two had departed without addressing their patients again. "You look good in that color, Scully. It brings out the blue in your eyes," Mulder commented. She stared at him, unable to speak. Mulder plucked at the hem of his own new dark blue top. "Are we the Bobbsey Twins, here, or what?" Do something, she commanded herself fiercely. Laugh, sneer, joke back. . . say something or he's going to ask you what's wrong. "It feels more like the Partridge Family to me," she responded lamely. "All we need is a velvet ruffle and a few instruments." "Not to shatter any of your childhood illusions, but you do know the only one who actually played his own instrument was David Cassidy, don't you?" She was finally able to smile, even though it felt as though her face were cracking. "Yes. I know." Thus began The Routine. Breakfast. Daily exam. Fresh scrubs. Lunch. Dinner. Lights out. Nightmare 1. Bathroom. Nightmare 2. Bathroom. And so on. In between meals and tests they napped, puffed through some woefully inadequate calisthenics or played endless rounds of the few games in their room, the only other diversion available to them. Scully lost every one. The nightmares robbing her rest were a confusing mishmash of her abduction and the Mount Avalon case. Brief glimpses of Duane Barry, bright lights, murky white figures looming over her prone body. Pain. Horrible, incapacitating pain. Wanting to run, needing to run, but being unable to move at all, trapped in a space without visible walls. Flashes of Jesse, her throat bubbling and bulging grotesquely as she gurgled and gulped for air. The thunderous pounding as the grad student flailed helplessly against the glass containment wall, followed by a soft explosion, a thud, and ominous silence. In her dream, Scully would suddenly feel a painful, unnatural pressure at the base of her own throat, and then she'd wake up. The images from the nightmares faded immediately, dissolving into a sticky, unreadable mess like wet newsprint. But the choking sensation remained, the feeling that she had been infected and was now being strangled by a foreign growth about to puncture her esophagus. No wonder she woke up sweating and gagging, clawing at her neck. One night her groping fingers had tangled with the chain of her cross, and she'd nearly snapped the fragile necklace before she'd come to her senses. They'd tried to take her cross from her, too. After the decontamination shower, the staff had noticed she was still wearing it. "I'll need that necklace, too, Agent Scully." The technician had held out one gloved hand, expecting immediate obedience. "It will be returned to you upon your departure." Mulder stopped them. As dense as he seemed to be now about her current unrest, he'd had no trouble discerning her feelings about this. Scully had stopped dead in her tracks, one hand flying up to her neck to clutch the little bit of gold in a protective fist. "No," he said, quietly but firmly. "Agent Mulder, it will be held with your badges and weapons and other non-disposable personal items. It's a contamination risk and I must insist. . ." "=No=," he said again, taking a step in front of Scully. Something dangerous glittered in his eyes, and for the first time, the tech's confident manner faltered. "It's a rule," he said uneasily. "Bend it," Mulder snapped back. "She's keeping the cross. We're not infected. I know it, you know it, and they all know it. We'll play your game, but this is one rule we're changing." They let her keep it. Eight days down, twenty-two to go. She'd never make it. "It's your move, Scully." She glanced back at the board balanced on the blanket between them and saw Mulder had indeed finally committed to his rook's position. She moved the first piece her hand touched, edging a pawn out another space and exposing her king. Mulder's bishop sat handily nearby, she realized drearily; all he had to do was move it and it would be checkmate yet again. He didn't move to end the game, however. Instead, he simply sat staring at her; she felt his gaze practically burning a bald spot on the top of her head, even though she remained with her neck bowed, glumly considering her latest potential loss. "Scully?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft, the tone deceptively neutral. Oh, God. Here it comes. The Talk. "What?" "Would you rather play 'Sweep'? It's a great Italian card game I learned from a friend of mine in college. It's kind of sexist because the jacks are worth more than the queens, but that's Italy for you. It involves math, so you might like it." "No, thanks. I think I'll just go to bed." She started to unfold her legs and swing them over the side of his cot, wincing at the pins and needles sensation caused by sitting cross-legged for so long. He reached across the board and grabbed her wrist, halting her. It wasn't a firm grip, but it was clear he wasn't going to let her go. "Scully, talk to me." "I'm tired, Mulder. I just want to go to sleep." He tightened his fingers around her arm. "It would be nice if you =could= sleep, wouldn't it?" he inquired harshly. Stung, she pulled her arm loose, rubbing her wrist. "Don't start, Mulder," she muttered sullenly. "When are you going to tell me what's the matter? You look like hell, you spend half the night in the bathroom and even when you're awake you're somewhere else. Unless you let me win sixty-seven straight rounds of 'Go Fish' on purpose to make up for some perceived deficiency in my childhood, of course," he added sarcastically. "=Nothing= is the matter," she snarled venomously. "I apologize if I've been disturbing your rest with my normal sleep habits, not that you'd know what they are." She turned to stalk toward the bathroom, intending to slam the door once she got there. Mulder was up off his bed blocking her path before she even saw him move. His hands descended onto her shoulders, holding her firmly in check. "Don't lie to me, Scully," he grated through clenched teeth. "You can lie to yourself if you want, but don't try to tell me that what you go through at night is 'normal.' =Something= is bothering you enough to keep you awake most of the night, and unless you tell me what it is, I can't help you." She struggled to free herself, but Mulder wouldn't release her. Eyes blazing with sudden anger, she glared at him. "I'm fine. I don't need your help. I don't want your help." He gave her a little shake, as if she were a disobedient child. "I don't care what you think you want or need," he growled, leaning over her to use his superior height to its best intimidating advantage. "Whatever it is, it's eating you up inside and destroying you one molecule at a time. I'm not going to stand by anymore and watch it happen, Scully. I'm not." That same dangerous light danced again in his eyes, turning their warm, friendly hazel into something dark and stormy. This was the partner who'd faced down the emotionless Army ciphers for the sake of her cross. The one who'd dared Trepkos to shoot him to prevent him from running back to the bunker to help her when he learned she was in danger of exposure to the fungus. The one who, by all accounts, refused to believe she was truly gone for good when Barry kidnapped her, and subsequently refused to give up hope when both her doctors and her family proclaimed her to be a lost cause. The only one who would ever go the extra mile to pry her secrets out of her, even if he unknowingly excavated part of her heart in the process. The tiny room suddenly seemed far too cramped, as if its dimensions had shrunk while they argued. Her ill-fitting scrub suit, which drooped off her narrow shoulders and sagged around her hips, suddenly felt tight, constricting. Everything was too close. Especially Mulder, who loomed over her, blocking out the light from the annoying fluorescent overhead, near enough for her to catch the unpleasant whiff of lye on his skin from the disgusting Army-issue soap in their bathroom. I want my own soap, she thought inanely. I want my own citrus-scented soap, my own Aveda shampoo with the body-enriching formula to prevent split ends and moisturize my dry scalp. I want to get out of here. I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here =right now=. She wrenched free of Mulder's grip and lunged for the intercom on the wall by the door. End part 2/9 ________________________ SOLITARY CONFINEMENT (3/9) By Jean Robinson Disclaimer, etc. in part 1 They'd used the communication system only once, yelling unanswered questions and demands after they'd been told they were to be held incommunicado. They'd discussed whether they might be under some kind of video or audio surveillance, and had ultimately decided the answer was no. The Army had them neatly boxed in their airtight cage; they didn't bear round-the-clock monitoring. No one had responded to their indignant shouts, but the faint look of shame on the technician's face when he'd returned for their letters indicated that they had been heard. But they'd since decided against ever using the intercom again, except in the case of an emergency. Presumably the staff, however unwilling they might be to supply information, had orders not to let their pet science projects expire without intervention. "What are you doing?" Mulder yelled. Scully fumbled frantically with the little panel, her stabbing fingers missing the correct button repeatedly in her panic, breaking two nails. She barely heard her partner, barely registered anything outside the sudden dizziness that assailed her and turned her normally steady hands into so much trembling uselessness. Nothing mattered except the need to escape the room, the dreams, the tests, the whole routine. Somewhere, someone was hollering, "Let me out of here! I have to get out of here!", a sentiment she echoed wholeheartedly. Then an arm curled around her waist, and Scully found herself hoisted off her feet and thrown forcefully on her mattress, flat on her back. A crushing weight followed, pinning her to the cot and pressing her wrists into the pillow above her head. She realized Mulder had tossed her down and now lay on top of her with his full body weight. At the same instant she understood that the voice demanding her release in shrill, piercing tones had been her own. "Scully! Scully, =stop it=!" Now she could hear him pleading with her to calm down, but the panic, once unleashed, refused to back down and relinquish control to her rational side. Instead, his overt action escalated her hysteria to the next level; she continued screaming into his face while battling to break his hold. Mulder leaned in closer, placing his entire upper body weight on her wrists, and kissed her. He caught her mid-cry; she uttered a strangled sound into his mouth and froze in momentary shock. Mulder shifted his lips on hers, pressing more firmly, sliding them until he found a comfortable angle, but never losing contact. Renewed panic overrode her paralysis and Scully fought back, desperately seeking the leverage to either throw him off or at least move her head. But her partner allowed her neither option; if anything he seemed to make himself even heavier, until she feared her bones might just collapse in on themselves from the burden. But steady and unrelenting as it was, the pressure on her mouth was not threatening or bruising. Mulder gently smoothed his tongue over her lips and the front surfaces of her teeth, but made no attempt to thrust further into her mouth, respecting her sense of space even while maintaining the intimate connection. Slowly, slowly, she felt the panic falter, lose its tenacious grasp on her sanity. And then it was gone altogether, leaving her limp and exhausted underneath him. But not so exhausted that she didn't begin to respond, to move her lips of her own accord to fit with his, to savor the lingering taste of processed chocolate pudding from their dessert that night. He'd had a double portion; she'd handed hers over without demur when it was clear he'd enjoy it a lot more than she would. Mulder licked her lower lip one final time and lifted his head, his eyes dark and unreadable from her backlit view. "Better?" he asked, his voice more than a little ragged around the edges. She nodded mutely, dimly aware that she was so out of breath she was practically panting. Slowly withdrawing his hands from hers, Mulder placed them on either side of her shoulders and rested his weight on them, his lower body still firmly pressing against her. He offered her a small, slightly embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry, Scully. I didn't mean to scare you. But it was either kiss you or slap you, and you would have kicked my ass if I'd hit you." She brought one hand down to cup his cheek. "What makes you think I won't still kick your ass?" she inquired huskily. His smile broadened. "Just workin' the odds." He pushed with his hands and rolled off her, landing on his side facing her on the narrow bunk. "C'mere," he instructed, pulling her shoulder until she lay flush against him, her face pressed to his chest and her hands curled into flimsy fabric of his top. He rested his chin on top of her head. "You want to tell me what that was all about, now, or are we going to go through another song and dance routine again?" His voice vibrated through her scalp, sending tiny frissions of warmth speeding out to her cold hands. "Why did you do that?" "Do what? Kiss you?" "No. Why did you stop me from using the intercom?" He tugged her pliant body closer; any other time she would have stiffened and pulled away, uncomfortable at the prospect of sharing her personal space. Now, bone- weary from the events of the past week and the aftermath of her outburst, she found herself all too eager to be held and reassured, as if she were again a small girl seeking comfort after a nasty bout of playground name-calling. Their legs tangled together in a cozy muddle, fitting together surprisingly well despite the difference in length. His top hand found its way around her back, rubbing lazy, soothing circles across her spine, while his lower one burrowed into her hair, cradling her skull. "If you'd started screaming like that into the intercom, I think they would have let you out. Under sedation, that is. We're only good to them as long as we stay quiet and calm and docile. I think they would have come down here, drugged you to the gills and hauled you off to spend the rest of your time in a little padded room that has even fewer things to recommend it than this one does." He gave her a little squeeze and she squeaked involuntarily. "And then they would have had to drug me and haul me somewhere, too, because I don't think I could have stood by while they manhandled you like that." He paused, then added a tentative, "Okay?" "Hmm." She'd closed her eyes while he was talking, feeling remarkably drowsy all of a sudden. The sweep of his hand across her back, the thud of his heartbeat under her ear, the sweet fresh-cotton smell of his shirt and the furnace-like heat radiating from his body all conspired to create a naturally soporific effect, turning her rigid muscles to jelly and making her eyelids droop. She started to say something, but her words melted into a jaw-breaking yawn. "Shh. It's all right, Scully. Just go to sleep." Sleep. Yes. She could do that. Good idea, Mulder. And she drifted off, relaxed in the warm, safe haven of his embrace. ************** (Please. Don't try to stop Duane Barry.) (Who are you? What do you want with me? NO! DON'T!) (Jesse? Jesse, what's wrong? Oh, my God, JESSE!) Scully jolted awake, disoriented and chilled, her breath lodged in her throat like a chunk of ice. Her hands flew to her neck like startled doves, pressing in agitated haste to locate the lump that must surely be forming, pulsing, thrusting out to kill her. . . "Scully?" The soft surface she'd mistaken for the wall spoke, and the illusion vanished. There was a rustling noise as Mulder shifted position. "You okay?" She tried to speak and for a second could only produce a thin, reedy whine. "Scully?" He was sitting up now, his hands landing on her shoulders, concern and a tiny fraction of alarm tingeing his sleep-roughened voice. "What is it?" Swallowing helped ease the imaginary blockage and worked some saliva into her mouth, so that when she attempted another effort at communication it was at least partially understandable. "It's dark," she coughed, sitting up as well. She remembered falling asleep with Mulder holding her, and she'd been certain the lights were on at the time. "I got up and shut them off about an hour ago. You were dead to the world." "Why didn't you go back to your own bed after that?" "I didn't want to leave you alone over here. Besides," he continued, and now she could hear the teasing smile surfacing in his voice, "this one was already all warmed up. I hate cold sheets." Scully lay back down, exhaling slowly. Nightmare. The usual. But at the same time, it had lacked some of the intensity of her previous bad dreams. Nothing like a giant-size, live-action teddy bear to keep the monsters under the bed at bay. "Do you want me to go back to my own bed?" His question was hesitant; her response instantaneous. "No." "All right," he agreed soothingly, and also lay back down to face her again in the darkness. There was a brief silence. Scully listened to her partner breathe and tried to match her jagged respiration pattern to his soft, even one. He reached out to stroke her hair, brushing it back from her forehead, and she marveled that he could accomplish this maneuver without poking her in the eye, even though he couldn't see her in the absolute darkness of the room. "So. We're both awake. Like to tell me what's going on now?" he asked wryly. She felt the last vestiges of the dream slip away along with constriction in her throat under his gentle ministrations. For the first time she understood why most dogs positively loved to be petted. "I want to go home," she confessed in a low voice. "I gathered that. I'm not all that thrilled to be here myself, Scully, present company excluded." She blinked, feeling the tears prickle at the back of her throat and the corners of her eyes, extremely glad that he couldn’t see her face. "I hate being confined in here for no reason. I have so many things to do at home, so many people I need to call or write or meet for lunch. There's already so much mail piled up on my desk I may never get through it all." "You will. In twenty-two days, it'll all be over." But maybe it wouldn't. Her greatest fear, the one she was too terrified to admit to herself, let alone speak aloud to Mulder, was that maybe it would never be over. That the military would continue find one excuse after another to keep them prisoner, keep =her= prisoner, and prevent her from ever returning to a normal existence. That maybe she'd gone from a three-month coma of unconsciousness to an eternal waking one. This is your new life, Dana Scully, nothing but this little room and these daily tests and a few battered board games, until the only way you can distinguish the days of the week is by the color of your scrub suit. Pink? Hey, must be Sunday. Citrus-scented soap? No, that's for normal people. People with a real life. People like you get rough white bars that don't lather and reek of chemicals. Sorry. But you'll get used to it. Everyone does. No. They couldn't. She couldn't. Her imagination's ghoulish portrait of the future threatened to smother her soul. Blindly she reached for Mulder, desperate to blot out the vision before it overwhelmed her. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close to his body. "It's all right, Scully. I swear it'll be all right." "Make it go away," she murmured, despising herself for being so weak, so needy. So afraid. For allowing the abduction to demolish her normal self-confidence until it seemed she'd never had any to begin with. "Make it go away, Mulder." He rubbed her back. "I can't. I wish I could." She pulled back, squinting, as if that could somehow make the darkness recede and allow her to see his expression and him to see hers. "You can," she told him fiercely. "You know you can." She wasn't lying; she could feel the proof of his ability pressing firmly against her thigh. "I want you to, Mulder." "Scully. . . " He sounded lost, uncertain, unconvinced. So she convinced him. End part 3/9 ________________________ SOLITARY CONFINEMENT (4/9) By Jean Robinson Disclaimer, etc. in part 1 Pushing him over on his back, she slid her hands up under his loose shirt, mapping out the unfamiliar and unseen geography of his chest with the pads of her fingers. Impatient with the access her current position afforded her, she threw a leg over his hips and straddled him, shoving the hem of his shirt all the way up to his collarbone to expose the entire expanse she wanted to explore, even if she couldn't see it. Mulder made a small noise as her wandering fingers scratched delicately over his nipples. "Scully. . ." This time she was the one who stopped his words with her mouth. This time she invited a reciprocal exploration by instigating her own investigation first, learning the rough ridges of the roof of his mouth, the soft, spongy insides of his cheeks, the smooth, hard surfaces of his teeth. Her tongue sent back sensory notes of taste along with texture: the almost imperceptible tang of metallic fillings mixed in with chocolate and salt and the unknown spice that had flavored their dinnertime chicken, and something that wasn't anything other than =him=, a flavor that could not be described, only experienced. Her hands, which had been memorizing each rib, slid up to his face, holding him in place for the duration of the kiss. For his part, Mulder remained passive beneath her; although his hands had come up to rest lightly on her hips, she sensed he had put them there more to aid her balance than out of a desire to touch her. She planned to remedy that state of affairs. Immediately. But first, air. She reluctantly broke the kiss, wishing she could see his face, wondering if his eyes were glazed or his cheeks flushed. From the feel of his flesh under her palms she assumed the latter was true; Mulder's face burned as though he'd suddenly spiked a high fever. "Scully. . . " he began for the third time, his voice now so rusty he had to stop and swallow before he could continue, "Scully, are you. . ." "Yes." She leaned down and kissed him again, briefly, running one hand through his hair. "Yes, I'm sure. Yes, this is what I want." And you want it, too, unless I'm very much mistaken about that lump I'm sitting on. His hands had sneaked under her shirt and were now gripping flesh, his thumbs tracing small circles on her hips. She shivered. "Are you cold?" Considering they had, after all, fallen asleep on top of the covers, it was not a foolish question. "No. I'm not cold anymore," she whispered, sitting up again. "And I don't ever want to be cold again." "Your wish is my command." His lightly teasing comment was the only warning she got before he shifted his hands down and back under her pants to gently squeeze her ass. She jumped. "Mulder!" "Warming up, now?" he asked wickedly, commencing a deliciously lovely kneading massage that sent sparks jolting up her spine. "Toasty, thank you." For the first time since their admittance she was happy that their two-piece uniforms lacked matching undergarments as well. She leaned forward to continue with her interrupted examination of his pectoral and abdominal regions, sampling the available selections with both fingers and mouth, while enjoying how this adjustment in her position allowed Mulder fuller access to the lower section of her anatomy. For a few moments they simply touched and caressed, his hands occasionally roaming around to smooth up and down her thighs while hers traversed across his shoulders, noting the spots that caused him to twitch or sigh in satisfaction. She was momentarily startled when he moved his hands to her ribs and pushed her upright again, then stilled as he continued their northward journey under the floppy shirt to cup her breasts. She arched her back, pressing into his touch, reveling in the feel of his slightly rough palms on her skin. Mulder remained motionless, apparently content to enjoy the small rise and fall movement of her breathing. But not for long. Anxious for him to proceed, she'd just wrapped her hands around his forearms to encourage him when he carefully pressed upwards, using all ten fingertips in turn to play a light melody across her breasts as he flexed his palms, squeezing the tender mounds. Scully groaned, her head falling back, her grip tightening involuntarily around his arms. "Oh, God. . ." He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that thrilled her almost as much as his touch did. "I'd say you're =very= warm, now, Scully." You have no idea, she thought hazily. Then again, he probably did. Warm was hardly the operant word here. She knew for a fact that the room temperature was regulated at a steady seventy degrees, but she would have sworn the mercury was now pushing into the nineties. And then his thumbs brushed across her nipples, and she amended that figure by another ten degrees. At some point she'd started shifting restively on his lap, grinding against his erection, and now he was lifting his hips to meet her, heat upon heat, separated only by two thin layers of cotton. "Mulder. . . please. . ." Was that her? Had she just =begged= him for something? He pinched her nipples lightly, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. "You're beautiful, Scully." "You. . . you can't even see me," she panted, her head snapping forward as a new flood of sharp, prickling sensations seared a path from her breasts to the juncture of her thighs from his latest display of dexterity. "I can see all I need to like this." He traced around her aroelas to emphasize his point, making her suck in her breath in reaction. "I don't need my eyes to see the truth in this case." God, she had to remember to breathe or she'd faint from lack of oxygen. But heaving for air didn't drive away the pleasant giddiness she was currently experiencing, nor did she want it to. Still, she yelped in surprise when Mulder abruptly flipped her onto her back, a throwback to his actions earlier in the day. He stroked the side of her face with one hand and kissed her gently. "Scully. . ." he rumbled hesitantly. She looped her arms around his neck. "What?" "I know the bathroom's equipped to handle most of our basic hygiene emergencies, but I don't think the management was planning on this particular scenario." "Are you sick?" "No." "Neither am I. So don't worry about it." "But. . ." he paused again, and she loved him for it even though she wasn't about to let him off the hook. "Pregnancy. . ." "Is unlikely right now, so don't worry about that, either," she finished for him. She didn't want to dwell on that last souvenir from her abduction; the meeting with her doctors upon her release from the hospital had included, among other things, a detailed discussion about her hormone levels. Apparently they were skewed wildly off- kilter, leading the medical team to believe that conceiving a child would be difficult, if not impossible, for her until they settled back to normal. "You're sure?" She nodded, knowing he could feel the motion even if he couldn't see it. "Very." "In that case. . ." His hand drifted lower to finger the neckline of her top. "What do you say we get rid of all this?" "Are you saying we're finally overdressed for something in this place?" He grasped the hemline of her shirt and drew it smoothly up and over her head. "That's what I like about you, Scully. You catch on fast. Must be all that scientific training." He flicked his arm sideways, slinging the shirt out of the way. His hands settled on her breasts again, and she batted them away before she lost the ability and the desire to do so. "Fair's fair, Mulder." He laughed and let her pull off and discard his shirt as well, then seized her wrists. "Hey!" "Is for horses, Scully, although I must admit you're one mighty fine little mare." "Mulder, comparing me to a farm animal is hardly the accepted method of sweet talk." He pressed her wrists down beside her head and held them there, and she quelled a brief flare of panic at the restraint. "That's okay, because I don't plan on talking much anymore." She squirmed, once again cursing the darkness and her own insecurities. "Mulder, what are you. . .oh!" The rest of the sentence was lost in a soft, breathless exhalation as his mouth closed over her left nipple. Oh, God. That felt =wonderful=. He nipped gently at the tip, then mumbled, "Am I talking too much for you?" "Don't. . . yes. . . no. . ." She could feel him smiling against her skin, then he resumed his previous activity. And Scully was lost, utterly lost, in the feel of his warm, wet lips caressing her breast, his tongue glancing over her nipple, his teeth nibbling a tickling trail all the way around. The bad dreams vanished, the walls of their cell vanished, everything vanished in the wake of that glorious, spine-tingling suction. She only noticed he'd released her arms when he brought his fingers into the equation, brushing his palm over her other nipple and starting a corresponding massage. By the time he switched sides to give her other breast the same oral attention, her hands had found their way to his head, twining in his hair, encouraging and guiding his motions. Maybe the no underwear situation wasn't such a good thing after all. The area between her thighs felt distinctly damp. Maybe tomorrow she'd worry about that. Right now the rough scrape of his stubbled cheek as he rubbed it along the side of her breast like a cat nuzzling its owner was all Scully could focus on. She twisted her hips restlessly, rolling her head from side to side as Mulder coaxed another soft moan from her. He finally lifted his head and pressed his mouth against hers, sweeping his tongue thoroughly around the interior and finishing with a gentle suck on her lower lip. "You ready for more conversation, Scully?" he inquired hoarsely. "Want to convene a research seminar?" She grinned wickedly and rapidly ran her fingers down his sides, slipping them under his drawstring waistband. And further. Mulder grunted as her warm fist closed around her target, squeezing lightly, as if testing him for ripeness in the same manner that one tested melons in the grocery store. "Nice opening statement," he gasped. "Wait until you hear my closing argument." She slid her hand gently up his full length, stroking over the tip with the pad of her thumb. Mulder uttered a low groan and dropped his head to rest his forehead on her collarbone. "Scully. . ." "Yes? Do you have something to add to the discussion, Agent Mulder?" She let her other hand ease in to cup his balls and he thrust reflexively into her fist. "I was going. . . to request a recess. . . to get out of the rest of these clothes." He finished the statement in a rush as she applied more pressure to her stroke. "Not a bad idea. Permission granted." She pulled her arms free to shimmy the remaining half of the scrub suit off while Mulder sat up to do the same. In a way Scully was glad he had called a brief time-out to the action. Relaxed and comfortable as she was, she needed a minute of mental preparations. Her roaming fingers had confirmed what she'd suspected since the beginning: her partner was well-endowed. Nothing excessive, nothing abnormal, but he wasn't lacking. And it wouldn't have caused her any concern but for the knowledge that she was not only smaller than average, but hadn't participated in this particular hobby for quite some time. Thus the need for a deep, cleansing breath at half-time, such as it were. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Better. Much better. Especially when the intake included the earthy, musky scent of her sweat mixed with his, a definite improvement over the usual odorless, canned air in this place. Mulder wrestled out of his pants and knelt next to her, his fingers gliding lightly from her face to her neck and down her arms to clasp her hands. "What are you doing?" "Just what I said. Research." He squeezed her hands and traveled back up her arms, igniting sparks every place he touched. Down over her breasts, lingering fleetingly over her nipples, fluttering over her ribs as though he were playing a xylophone. Skating over her rounded abdomen without pausing, as if aware of her dismay and embarrassment about the amount of weight she'd gained as a result of her abduction. The details of her captivity remained a mystery; one of the few definite conclusions anyone could draw was that she'd most likely been inactive the entire time. Her legs eased apart of their own accord; she shut her eyes and gripped a handful of blanket in anticipation of his next move. Mulder postponed the inevitable for a few more breathless minutes, taking the time to trail lazily down her legs to her feet and back up, stopping once to rub behind her knees as she jerked and sighed in response. She was going to kill him if he didn't hurry up. Kill him or simply burst into flame, engulfing both the bed and her partner. Come to think of it, was this room equipped with a smoke detector? And if so, why hadn't it gone off yet? Then he ran his fingers up the inside of her thigh and slipped between her folds, and all random thoughts of household appliances were driven from her mind in a dazzling flash. "=Oh=!" "Nice opening statement," he teased, "but I'm more interested in your closing argument." "Just. . . don't. . . oh, yes, just like that. . ." She couldn't believe how fast he'd reduced her to a babbling idiot. But what the man was doing with two fingers should be considered illegal. Then he added a third, rubbing his thumb gently over her clitoris, and she shamelessly pressed up against his hand. One finger slid inside her, and she moaned. Mulder added a second, crossing it over the first to add an extra dimension of friction as he smoothly worked them in and out. About every third stroke he grazed a certain spot inside her, making her toes curl and sending electrifying waves of pleasure radiating up through her body. She yanked the blanket loose from under the mattress when he circled over her clit again. "Mulder. . ." The whispered entreaty was barely audible, but her partner heard it just the same. He slipped his hand from her body and kissed her, lowering himself over her and nudging her legs farther apart with one knee. "Conversation over, Agent Scully?" he murmured against her mouth. She writhed under him, savoring the blazing heat of his body pressed to hers, the additional solid warmth of his erection caged against her stomach. "Conversation over," she agreed breathlessly, smoothing her hands up his arms to link them behind his neck. Mulder shifted slightly, adjusting his stance, and she felt the blunt, firm nudge of his cock at her entrance. He pressed forward slightly; she pushed up with her hips to meet his tentative thrust. "You're not going to hurt me," she assured him when he withdrew for another attempt. "I'm tougher than I look." Mulder leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose. "You don't have to tell me that. I figured that out on Day One." And this time he thrust forward steadily, pushing past the initial resistance of her body to slide in all the way, groaning as he did so, resting his forehead on her shoulder as he stopped and waited. That felt. . . oh, God. The short, stabbing ache she'd felt at his invasion dissolved into warmth, fullness. Contentment. Peace. As if she'd taken not just one organ into her body, but Mulder's entire being, adding his strength to hers, melding their thoughts and feelings into one magnificent cohesive blur. Scully sighed and wrapped her legs around his thighs. "Mulder," she whispered. With an effort he raised his head and responded by kissing her on the nose again. Then he began to move, setting a rhythm that was both gentle and slow. And Scully's pleasantly hazy, warm serenity exploded in pain. Excruciating pain, nothing like the quick spike that came from accepting him into her body, but sharp bolts of agony. Pain that could not be attributed to the languid, easy pace Mulder had established as he rocked above her. Pain unlike anything she'd ever experienced in her life with her previous lovers, but which caused her to bite down on her own lip to stifle her cry and forced unwanted tears to seep from the corners of her eyes. Pain that became unbearable by Mulder's fourth smooth stroke. End part 4/9 ________________________ SOLITARY CONFINEMENT (5/9) By Jean Robinson Disclaimer, etc. in part 1 Unable to control the sudden trembling in her legs, she let them slip down and concentrated on moving one shaking hand to his chest. Her blood, which only seconds ago had been rushing through her body at an internal boil, now felt replaced by a fluid form of ice. "Mu-Mulder?" she choked, striving to repress the quiver in her voice and not quite making it. Alerted by either her tone or her touch, he stopped mid- thrust, and Scully fought to suppress a whimper. "Scully? What's wrong?" he wheezed raggedly. Not fair, this is not fair, she wanted to scream. I can't do this to him! I can't do this to me! But she had to. The pain had not backed off with the cessation of his thrusts; it remained a constant, wracking throb, broadcasting serious injury signals to every section of her body. For the first time in her life, all her education failed her; there was no way to communicate her situation without scarring him in the process. And even if there was a way, she had no time to think of it. Not when she was holding on to consciousness through sheer force of will. "You have to stop. You're. . . you're hurting me." Mulder reared back as if stung. "I'm. . . Scully, what?" "=Please=," she begged, her voice now as watery as her eyes. She pushed feebly against his chest, unable to muster the strength to move him a fraction, but Mulder got the message loud and clear. He jumped off her and off the narrow bunk in one galvanic lunge, falling to his knees on the hard linoleum floor. The minute his weight lifted, Scully automatically curled into a ball on her side, drawing her knees up to her chest and lowering her head to hide her face, obeying some primal protective behavior of the wounded. As a little girl, she'd understood that compressing herself into a tight little package could make all the hurts go away. It helped when Bill gave her an Indian rub, when Charles yanked her braids or when she fell off her bike and scraped both knees bloody. It didn't help now. If anything the agony increased, blending with nausea as her stomach joined in the rebellion. Oh, damn it, now she was going to throw up on top of everything else. Get to the bathroom. You can make it to the bathroom. She repeated the words to herself as she struggled to her feet, panting harshly, cold sweat coating her face in a greasy film and running between her breasts in chilling rivulets. Somewhere in the darkness it sounded like Mulder was pounding on the walls; she could hear him thumping around but couldn't spare the energy to wonder what the hell he was doing. Her shaking legs threatened to buckle with every inching, lurching baby step. She blundered into something soft and yielding; slapped at it with one hand while the other remained wrapped around her stomach in a vain attempt to hold in the pain. The curtain. The idiotic curtain in the middle of the room. Scully wrenched at it, overbalanced, and fell forward as the cloth popped off the overhead track and billowed down on top of her, enveloping her in its cool folds. Dazzling light suddenly speared her eyes, adding a new pain to the lengthening list of woes. Mulder had found the overhead switch. That's what all the banging had been. He turned as she lay blinking groggily amid the tangles of tan fabric, took a step toward her with outstretched arms, then froze. "You're bleeding," he whispered in horror. What? Wincing, she pushed the curtain off her legs and, like her partner, was stunned into utter immobility. Blood. Yes, she was bleeding. A lot. An alarming amount, in fact. Menstrual cycle, her rational side whispered, desperately seeking to restore order and reason to her universe with a logical explanation. No. With what she'd been told after her abduction, her normal menses wouldn't manifest itself for quite some time yet. Internal hemorrhage. Serious internal hemorrhage. Possibly fatal. The pain seemed to be easing slightly, but Scully recognized that as a danger sign rather than a relief. She was going into shock, shivering uncontrollably as her body failed to maintain its normal temperature. Mulder dived for the intercom. Yelling. She couldn't understand what he was saying and closed her eyes. Something soft and warm settled over her. Mulder had ripped the blanket from the bed and covered her with it. "Stay with me, Scully," he shouted in her ear. "Come on, talk to me!" I can't. I'm sorry, Mulder, but I can't. "Open your eyes, damn it! Come on, Scully help me here!" He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. Hard. She uttered a coughing, choked sound and that seemed to reassure him. "Hang on, help's on the way." I don't think so, Mulder. She didn't hear the distinctive hiss of the door opening, but suddenly there were other people in the room, other voices added to the cacophony, with Mulder's strident tones rising above them all. Someone lifted her, jarring her back to semi-awareness where the pain reigned supreme, and she cried out in misery. "You're hurting her!" "Agent Mulder, for the last time, =stand back=." "Where the hell are you taking her?" "The emergency ward. Now get out of the way!" The arms holding her released, dumping her onto something firm and padded. She reached out one searching hand for Mulder, but her arm was pushed back to her side. "Don't move," a voice ordered. The journey was quick, ending in a brightly lit place. She rolled her head to one side and managed to open her eyes again, squinting in the harsh glare. She lay naked on her back on a cold, unforgiving surface. White-suited figures surrounded her. One of the figures moved to the end of the exam table and pushed her legs apart, and suddenly the pain exploded anew as the figure thrust something inside her body. Scully screamed in anguish as shockwaves raved up from her abdomen, the exact spot that had so recently given her such glorious pleasure now turning traitor and becoming the focal point of her torment. Another amorphous being leaned over her, hovering. "Agent Scully? Can you hear me?" he asked, just as the one between her legs did something else to ratchet the torturous pain a notch higher. Her eyes flew open; her throat muscles locked and she couldn't even wail out her distress this time. Instead, her frantic gaze settled on the looming figure, whose Asian features were clearly distinguishable at this close distance even behind the broad, clear faceplate in his suit hood. (Bright lights.) (A table.) (Men with Asian eyes.) (Pain.) No. =NO=. NOT AGAIN. Her paralysis broke; Scully thrashed wildly on the narrow surface, swinging and kicking blindly at the shapeless forms that surrounded her. This time she was not going quietly. This time, no matter what the outcome, she was taking some of them down with her. Pandemonium erupted. "Jesus Christ!" "Hold her down! Hold her down, damn it, or we'll lose her!" "Ramsey! Get Ramsey!" She struggled halfway up, clawing at anyone who got within range, when they all seemed to attack at once. Invisible hands grabbed her wrists, slamming her arms back to her sides. Others pinned her at the shoulders, forced her legs down. A hard, plastic mask clamped down over her nose and mouth. She knew what was coming, tried not to inhale, but in the end it was useless. A sharp-smelling gas filled her lungs, numbed her body and stilled her flailing limbs. The last thing she felt was a piercing jab in her arm, and then everything was dark and quiet. End part 5/9 ________________________ SOLITARY CONFINEMENT (6/9) By Jean Robinson Disclaimer, etc. in part 1 The subdued, rhythmic beep was the first thing that caught her attention. Must have forgotten to turn off the snooze alarm, she thought blearily. Hope I'm not too late for work. "Agent Scully?" That voice. It was very familiar, yet filled her with an unnamed dread. Because she was quite certain that voice had no place in her bedroom. "Agent Scully, are you awake?" Focus, Dana. If that is A.D. Skinner, then this is probably not your bedroom. Open your eyes and guess again. So she obeyed the nagging internal voice, slowly blinking back to full consciousness, taking in the bizarre vision of her superior standing next to her bed in a white biohazard suit. Containment suits. The Winthrop facility. Month-long quarantine. Oh, yes, I remember now. And then she snapped to total awareness as the rest of the story fell into place with a thud so loud she was surprised Skinner didn't hear it and inquire about the noise. "Agent Scully?" "Yes, sir," she croaked. "I'm awake." Skinner was a hard person to read without the additional shadows cast over his face by the hood of the suit. Between the glare of the wide faceplate and the glitter off his glasses, she had no way to discern his mood now, and his voice wasn't giving her any clues, either. "How do you feel?" Taken aback at the personal question from the man who had up to now treated her with respect but emotional detachment, Scully paused to take stock. The pain was a faded echo of its earlier majesty, probably dulled by the drugs that were now fogging her vision and making the room tilt slightly as well as stealing the moisture from her mouth and the lining of her throat. She was "resting comfortably," as the medical profession would put it, except for the lingering ache in the crook of her elbow where an IV line was embedded. And the fact that sturdy, white fabric restraint belts were snugged around her wrists, securing her to the silver bedrails. Scully stared at them in disbelief and tried to move her arm. Nothing. No give at all. She couldn't sit up, roll over, or change position beyond scooting further under the blankets. Skinner followed her astonished gaze and cleared his throat. "According to the doctors in charge of your case, you became violent and had to be restrained in order to be safely treated." "Get them off." "Agent Scully. . ." "Sir." She twisted her neck to look up at him, trying to see beyond the two barriers of glass to look directly into his eyes. It was difficult to produce a calm, sensible tone when her throat and mouth felt as if they'd been vacuumed dry, but she managed, she thought, to sound convincing. "I'm all right now. I was in a great deal of pain when they were attempting to help me. I was not fully cognizant of my actions at that time." Skinner tilted his head, seeming to consider her words. "I'll get your doctor," he said finally, and left the room. While he was gone, Scully glanced around as best she could to survey her new surroundings. Physically, it was about the same size as the room she shared with Mulder, except this one had a large amount of bulky medical equipment piled around the bed. The steady beep that had dragged her from her sleep belonged to a heart monitor. The door opened, and one suited figure entered. Too tall for Dr. Ramsey, too short for Skinner. The Asian man. He smiled, immediately knocking her off guard. Nobody smiled in this place. Ever. "Afternoon, Agent Scully. Feeling better today?" He sounded so cheerful, so friendly that for a moment she couldn't think how to respond. "I. . . I do, thank you." "You look better than the last time I saw you." The man rested his arms on the bedrails, as if he'd just dropped by for a congenial little chat around the water cooler with a co-worker. At close range, she realized he was even younger than she was, perhaps someone fresh out of medical school, working off his Army scholarship. "I'm Dr. Sakamoto," he continued affably. "We were worried about you. We thought we were going to lose you there for a while." It might be a trap. His whole sociably amenable attitude might just be some new form of test; perhaps she was now the main lab rat in some experiment to determine the affects of long-term isolation. But on the chance that Sakamoto was what he seemed to be, the only person in the Winthrop facility with even a modicum of personality, Scully asked the question, knowing that the wrong answer might be unendurable. "Could you take these off, please?" He glanced down at her fidgeting fingers, and for a long, horrible moment she was absolutely certain she would be denied her freedom, that Sakamoto would just say, "No, I'm afraid people like you have to stay tied up for the rest of their time here." In her mind, she'd already heard the words. "You're not going to hit me again, are you?" he queried, a curious mix of amusement and admiration coloring his tone. "No." She stared at him warily, unsure whether he was truly teasing her or subjecting her to some kind of psychological exam in disguise. "Under normal circumstances, I'd make you cross your heart and hope to die, but I think we can skip that today." He reached down and with a few judicious tugs she was loose. She gingerly rubbed her wrists to restore the circulation, carefully avoiding making any sudden moves that might alarm him and summon subduing reinforcements. He was still watching her for some kind of reaction, she could tell; Mulder had been right. One wrong move and they would sedate her into submission. Taking a deep breath, Scully eased herself upright. "Thank you," she said softly. "You're welcome. Do you mind if I take a look at you?" Startled, she blinked. "You're the first person who's asked, you know." "Yeah, well, I haven't been here that long." He grinned. "My colleagues don't have much of a bedside manner, but truthfully, I think they're all afraid of you now." He checked her vital signs and looked down her throat. "All systems go, Agent," he announced, snapping the tongue depressor in half and dumping it into a trash bin, "but I suppose you really want to know what happened to you." She nodded, gripping the top sheet tightly. The phantom gagging sensation from her dreams rose up unbidden and she swallowed hard to dispel it. "We don't know exactly how it happened, because we weren't there, so this is just a guess." Behind the broad expanse of his hood's faceplate, his eyes were shrewd. "You and Agent Mulder were having a little late-night dalliance, were you not?" They'd been found naked, and she'd been bleeding. Of course they'd know. But it was still somewhat galling to have this trendy young man with his spiky haircut and diamond stud earring blurt it out, even if he didn't seem to care one way or the other how she and Mulder entertained themselves in their little cell. Scully realized her hands were twisting together in nervous knots in her lap and made them stop. "Okay. That's not my business really. When we came in you were bleeding heavily from the vagina, so we brought you down to surgery to see what was going on." "I'm a medical doctor, too. I understand the protocol." "Well, there isn't much more to the story. What we found was scar tissue that had been disturbed by your recent. . . activity. A large amount of scar tissue, actually, in the vaginal canal and the uterus. It wasn't something that Dr. Ramsey had noted in your chart, because we weren't really looking for that during your daily exams. All your tissue samples were normal. Once we had you stabilized, we were able to remove most scar tissue with laser surgery. You're lucky; we've got a ton of fancy gadgetry here for all sorts of nifty procedures. You're going to be a little sore for a while, but you should heal without complications. As far as we can tell, you shouldn't experience a recurrence of the problem." Dizzying relief swept over her, leaving her more light- headed than could be accounted for by the medication alone. As he had described their findings, she'd felt a bottomless pit opening beneath her, ready to swallow her whole at the prospect of having her sexuality snatched away from her, too, when she'd already lost so much of her life in the past year. At least they'd spared her this. The damage they'd caused in this instance had not been permanent, although whether that was by chance or design she would never know. Sakamoto was speaking again, and she forced herself to concentrate. "You lost a lot of blood, so you'll feel a little weak for a while. And we've got you on some fairly heavy painkillers for now." "How long do I have to stay here?" For the first time since his entrance, Sakamoto became evasive. His let's-be-pals grin faltered just a bit, and he dropped his hands from the bedrails and stepped back. "Let's just see how you feel tomorrow, all right? You've been unconscious for over thirty hours, so why rush things?" "=Thirty hours=?" When he'd said, "Afternoon," she'd assumed it was the afternoon of the same day. "I said we almost lost you, Agent Scully. I wasn't kidding." More than a day. She'd been out cold for more than a day. Scully brought her hand up to the base of her throat in a gesture of disbelief, her fingers automatically searching for her cross and its familiar sharp points for reassurance. It wasn't there. "We had to take it off before you tore it off. Your boss has it." Sakamoto answered the unspoken question, perhaps sensing the panic ebbing beneath her furtive scrabbling. "He wants to talk to you." She let her hand drop. "Thank you." "Sure. I'll be back later to check on you again. Don't go anywhere." In the five minute interlude before Skinner returned, Scully suddenly wondered why her superior was there at all. Surely he hadn't flown three thousand miles across the country to visit her sickbed with a bouquet of flowers or a box of chocolates. He hadn't been among the dozens of Bureau visitors parading through her hospital room after her abduction. He'd expressed his formal condolences but nothing more when her father died, never even questioning her appearance at the office that day. A.D. Skinner didn't make housecalls, so to speak. Unless they'd been lying to her all along and she was infected. And therefore dying. Along with Mulder. The gruesome possibility so deadened her nerves that when Skinner did come back in, she was gaping at the wall with glazed eyes and slack features, her hands limp on the covers and her mouth slightly open. "Agent?" She snapped back to attention, reacting to the military inflection in his tone, so similar to her father's when she was growing up. It was a nuance that brooked no argument, no question of disobedience. Melissa had eventually rebelled, but even she retained some of the habits and traits instilled by their father's form of command. "Yes, sir?" "You spoke with Dr. Sakamoto?" "Yes, sir." Scully hesitated, then added quietly, "He informed me that you have my cross, sir." "Here." Skinner held it out, a gleaming little puddle of gold heaped in the palm of his white-gloved hand. Scully scooped it up and fastened it around her neck, taking comfort and strength from its slight weight. If he was about to tell her she and Mulder had mere days to live, she would need it. "Agent Scully, you are an agent under my supervision. What you do on your personal time is neither my concern nor my interest, unless it affects your job performance." What was he talking about? "I was contacted by the commander of this facility and informed that you had suffered a serious accident. One that bordered on life-threatening. And that the circumstances of this accident were of a suspicious and alarming nature. He requested that I come out to question you personally and advise him of how to proceed with the remainder of your quarantine period." "Sir?" It must be the medication, she thought wildly, that was making this all seem so muddled and confused, like a jigsaw puzzle she'd had as a child of Disney's 101 Dalmatians. There were spots everywhere, and it was next to impossible to figure out which spots belonged to which dog. Skinner wasn't making any more sense than that long-ago brain-teaser had. Only she couldn't donate him to a rummage sale, the way she'd finally dealt with Pongo, Perdita and all their irritatingly identical offspring. The double layer of glass didn't dilute his stern expression this time. His eyes bored through her; she involuntarily stiffened her spine in preparation for his next statement. As baffling as the conversation was, it clearly had nothing to do with any possible contagion, and she feared the real heart of the matter might be something far worse than death by fungus. "Agent Scully, you and Agent Mulder were engaged in sexual relations immediately prior to your injury, correct?" Time, the universal invariant, did not stand still. It transported her back to third grade, standing before Sister Catherine and stuttering that yes, she'd been the one to upset the holy water font after confessions that morning, blushing to the tips of her ears and rumpling the pleats in her plaid skirt in her fists, certain she'd be damned to Hell for eternity for this mortifying transgression. It was all she could do now to maintain eye contact with her superior; even the knowledge that such relationships, while frowned upon, were not prohibited did nothing to temper her chagrin. "Yes, sir." Skinner's next question stunned her to speechlessness. "Was this a consensual act?" Scully's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as the full implications behind his query hit her with the force of an openhanded slap. "Sir?" she managed, nearly strangling on the simple one-syllable word. Skinner lowered his chin slightly and frowned, as if her failure to answer properly the first time was in itself some sort of confirmation of his awful conjecture. "Was this a consensual act, Agent Scully, or did Agent Mulder hurt you?" The lighting in the room remained steady, but Scully's vision went briefly to black regardless. She'd heard and understood him correctly, however much she hadn't wanted to believe it. They thought Mulder had assaulted her. No. They weren't sure, and they didn't want to be responsible for any legal ramifications down the road, possibly haunting them and their funding for years to come. So they'd called in Skinner to set the matter to rest. Later, when she alone and able to separate her frayed emotions from the equation and analyze it with a certain amount of distance and perspective, she would understand and sympathize with the facility commander's view. For now, nothing mattered except the overpowering need to convince her superior that his suspicions about Mulder were blatantly untrue. Time to grab for all those lost bits of confidence, summon every reserve of conviction and authority that had been left by the wayside after Duane Barry had stolen her out of her own home and somehow reduced her former standing of strength and competence in the eyes of this man. "It was a consensual act. Sir." She spoke steadily, making direct eye contact, refusing to blink, flinch or allow her body to engage in any kind of nervous tic that might diminish or negate the certainty of her words. Skinner held her gaze with his, daring her to crack under his scrutiny. "You're sure about that, Agent Scully?" he inquired, intimating that if she wanted to change her story, it was now or never. "Yes, sir," she responded firmly. Part of her longed to continue, to go on and fully exonerate Mulder. But she knew it would be a mistake. Skinner had surely received a medical report from her doctors; there was nothing new she could tell him about her condition. Unlike the people at the facility, however, Skinner also knew about her recent health crisis. He was not a stupid man. He could put two and two together the same way she had, and understand that whatever had happened had been the ultimate result of her abduction, not her partner's intimate attentions. So she answered only his questions without offering qualifying explanations, as if she were testifying in a court case with a defense attorney who was just waiting for her to run on and talk herself into a contradictory statement. Skinner pursed his lips, regarding her silently for a long, uncomfortable moment. Scully stared back at him somewhat defiantly, holding her hands still and flat on her thighs, trying to breathe normally. "You're saying I may tell the commander that when you've recovered, you wish to be returned to the room you have been occupying with Agent Mulder for the duration of your quarantine period?" Last chance, Agent. Very last chance. "That is correct, sir." "Very well. I'll see you back in Washington when you've been officially discharged from here." Skinner turned to leave. "Sir?" He looked back over his shoulder. "What, Agent Scully?" She swallowed convulsively, hoping he couldn't hear the dry click in her throat. "Did you speak to Agent Mulder about this already?" "Yes, I did. I interviewed him while you were still unconscious." "What did he say?" Skinner turned around, and his face was completely devoid of all expression. "Agent Mulder consistently refused to defend himself. He merely stated that you would provide any necessary answers to my questions, and that I was to interpret your version of events as the official record of my investigation into this matter." "Oh." Scully's voice was small and stunned. That he had such faith in her as to risk a rape charge was more than humbling, it was unbelievable. And frightening. Mulder was already eaten up with guilt that he had not only failed to protect his little sister, but also his younger, junior partner from abductions by unknown parties with nefarious agendas. Now he apparently thought his actions had resulted in her injuries, no matter how clear she'd been about welcoming his advances. End part 6/9 ________________________ SOLITARY CONFINEMENT (7/9) By Jean Robinson Disclaimer, etc. in part 1 Two days later, they deemed her well enough to be released from the infirmary section and sent back to her former room. Mulder was sitting on his bed playing solitaire when they opened the door to escort her back in; he leaped to his feet as if his mattress had suddenly goosed him with an electrical charge, scattering cards every which way. Scully stood up from the wheelchair, grateful to be on her own two feet again. No amount of arguing or pleading had budged them from their insistence that she make the trip sitting down. She'd threatened to stand up and walk away, and Sakamoto had threatened right back to belt her in and tie her arms down. Furious, she'd given in, calling him every rude name she could dredge up from her extensive Navy repertoire. Sakamoto pushed her along, blithely responding, "Yeah, yeah, and my mother wears Army boots," to each of her jibes. Two days of enforced bedrest had left her feeling frailer than ever. She was anxious to get back to some sort of exercise routine, however mild or spatially limited. At this rate, she wouldn't be fit to maintain her field status when she got back to D.C. "All set, Agent Scully?" Sakamoto turned the chair around. "Thank you, yes." Her eyes were on Mulder, who was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before. "Been a pleasure. I don't know how I'll occupy myself now that you won't be around to sneer at me anymore. Take care, now." He left, and they were alone, separated by a distance of six floor tiles and one thousand miles. Mulder broke the silence. "You're out of sync." "What?" She cocked her head in confusion, then got it. Mulder had revolved through the clothing color cycle back to dark green in the time that she'd been gone, while she'd remained garbed in hospital white. "Oh. Well, so much for the Bobbsey Twins." "Scully, I. . ." he stopped, making a small, futile-looking gesture with his hands, as if he wanted to touch her but didn't quite dare. She took three steps forward and wrapped her arms around him, laying her cheek against her chest. "Don't. I'm fine. Don't apologize. You have nothing to be sorry about." His arms found their way around her back, hugging cautiously, tentatively, as if afraid he might crush or bruise her. His voice was muffled against her hair. "I'm sorry I hurt you." "You didn't." Scully pulled back to pin him with a ferocious glare. "You didn't do this, Mulder. =They= did it. The people who took me, whoever they were. This was not an issue before my abduction." Which was, she realized too late, a rather crude way of informing him that she'd slept with other men, but under the circumstances, she didn't think Mulder would be too bothered by her admission. "They wouldn't tell me anything," he said softly, one hand moving to stroke her hair, the motion seeming to reassure him that she was indeed okay. "All they would say was that you were all right, but they never told me what happened. Jesus, Scully, there was so much blood. . ." As the staff hadn't been particularly forthcoming about anything, including such insignificant items as the weather, since they'd been here, she figured Mulder had been kept in the dark about the details of her condition. She imagined he had been half out of his mind with worry, magnifying the damage until he had her lying comatose in a secure location, never to recover. Again. "Let's sit down," she urged, tugging him over to his bed. The clinical recitation didn't take long, nor did her tale of Skinner's visit and her remarks to him. Then she demanded he explain his apathetic response to the Assistant Director's interrogation. "It wasn't my place to second-guess you, Scully." "Bullshit," she snapped angrily. "I was a full-fledged participant that night, and you know it. For God's sake, Mulder, I came on to you; you should be the one filing sexual harassment charges. If you don't think I was completely prepared and willing to accept the consequences of what we were doing, then you're not the person I thought you were. I. . . " she stumbled, flagging as her anger snarled together with bare emotional need. "I thought it. . . meant something, that you cared about me. Was I wrong? Were you just willing to screw me so I'd sleep through the night and stop bothering you?" By the time she was finished, she was nearly shouting and Mulder looked as though he'd bitten into a ripe, red apple and swallowed a wasp. "I. . . no," he stuttered, blanching a shade lighter than his current indoor pallor at the extent of her wrath. "That's not why. And I =do= care," he continued, her challenging glare finally igniting the desire to justify himself in a way that all their supervisor's threats had not managed to spark. "Otherwise I would have slapped you to begin with when you started to lose it. I would have let you throw up and have bad dreams and lose at cards until we got out of here, and then I would have said, 'Next case, Scully, pack your bags because we're going to North Dakota to check out some lights in the sky,' and not cared if you were still suffering or not. I don't regret what happened between us. But damn it, Scully, the last time I saw you you were covered in blood and crying in pain and I didn't know what to think! They wouldn't tell me if you were even awake, let alone discuss with me your deep, dark thoughts on what it meant to you to sleep with me!" She bit her lip, fighting back the tears that seemed to form all the way down in the pit of her stomach, scouring a hot path up her throat and turning his edges fuzzy as they filled her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I. . . I'm sorry." He pulled her into a soft hug. "I think you and I spend way too much time telling each other we're sorry about something." She sniffled, two escaping tears making tiny dark dots on his top. "I have a feeling it's a trend that's not going to stop any time too soon, unfortunately." "Okay. Let me see if I've got this straight. I've done nothing wrong, you've done nothing wrong, you forgive me for not doing anything wrong, I forgive you for not doing anything wrong, and neither one of us needs to apologize because we've done nothing to apologize for. Did I miss anything?" She laughed shakily. "Pretty good for an opening statement, Mulder." He chuckled, the sound vibrating out from his chest to her cheek, pressed against his heart. "You should hear my closing argument." Her body reminded her just then of exactly how low her energy reserves had fallen; Scully yawned, feeling a numb heaviness in her arms and legs. "Sorry," she mumbled, then smiled. "I mean, excuse me." Mulder stood up, pulling her with him. "Come on, I'll tuck you in." She smiled blurrily at him. "Tuck me in, nothing, buster. You're coming with me." "Scully. . ." "Don't argue with me, Mulder. I've been sleeping alone for two days, and it stinks. Now get over there and warm up my bed." He led her across the room and turned down the covers. "On one condition." "Oh? What's that?" She crawled in and scooted over to the wall, making room for him in the narrow bunk. Mulder climbed in after her, wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her firmly against him, snuggling her back to his chest. She sighed and laid her arms on top of his, arranging his grip until he cupped a handful of breast through her shirt. Mulder began teasing her nipple with the side of his thumb and she hummed her approval and cuddled further into his embrace. He kissed her behind one ear and whispered his deadly ultimatum, his breath tickling the sensitive flesh. "Don't you dare let me win another game of 'Go Fish' on purpose, Scully. I'll be watching from now on." She pressed back with her bottom against his groin, enjoying his soft, strained exclamation. "Actually, I'm a card shark. From now on, you're dead meat." "Not if you keep doing that." End part 7/9 ________________________ SOLITARY CONFINEMENT (8/9) By Jean Robinson Disclaimer, etc. in part 1 Eighteen days later, formally declared healthy and uninfected, they were back in Washington. A.D. Skinner silently read through Mulder's report, neatly reconstructed as an official document from his smuggled handwritten notes, then sat back and eyed the two of them. "Do you have anything to add to this, Agent Scully?" "No, sir." "It is your opinion that Daniel Trepkos and Jesse O'Neil are both dead?" "Yes, sir." Skinner let them stew a moment longer, then flipped the folder shut. "All right. That'll be all, Agents." They left. ************** "Scully, are you sure about this?" She reached across from the passenger seat and laid a hand on his knee. "I told you I'm healed. I'm fine." Physically, she had recovered as predicted, without complications. And while they'd remained confined in the Winthrop facility, Mulder curled up in her bed had kept the night demons from intruding on her rest. That she'd started having disturbing dreams again on the flight home was something she did not intend to discuss with him. She was fine. The only thing she needed was an uninterrupted evening with her partner, preferably one involving her bathtub, her bed and as few clothes as possible. Although it did feel good to be fully dressed again. The facility staff had taken their measurements and presented them with sweaters, jeans, underwear and sneakers for the trip home, all of which fit surprisingly well and were reasonably stylish. But, she thought, stretching one leg in the close confines of the car, she'd practically dived for her closet the minute she'd gotten home, tossing shoes and pantyhose and suits hither, thither and yon in a fashion frenzy born of a month of clothing deprivation. Give me my power suit and my stacked heels and I can conquer the world. They were on their way to her apartment. As discussed in hushed tones on the plane ride home, lest Suzie, their perkily overattentive flight attendant, happened by to inquire if they needed one more ice cube in a plastic cup already brimming with them or yet another napkin to add to the pile of six on Mulder's tray table. To continue what had started out as such a sweetly sensuous experience and ended in disaster. After satisfying her garment greed she'd re-stocked her apartment larder with this night in mind. White wine, strawberries, Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk, chocolate sauce and whipped cream. Life is short, eat dessert first. Once she'd locked the door behind them, however, all thoughts of physical hunger evaporated. Mulder, who'd earlier seemed hesitant, almost reticent, still concerned about her fragile state of health, grabbed her before she could even get her coat off. Bending down, he covered her mouth with his and plunged his tongue inside. Scully seized his arms for balance, wobbling on her heels with the force of his newfound desire. Mulder drew back slightly to feast on her lips, running his tongue over them as if to memorize them. She was gasping when he finally let her go. "Wow," she said weakly. He grinned at her. "I've been wanting to do that all day. Especially in Skinner's office. When he asked if you had anything to add it was all I could do to contain myself." If she hadn't been aroused before, she was now. Just like that, as if someone flicked an internal switch marked "hot." Her leg muscles felt mushy, and beneath the comforting layers of wool and nylon and cotton was a gathering pool of wetness. Still, she felt obliged to ask. She was, after all, the hostess, and her mother had taught her that role well. "Would you like something to eat?" And Scully blushed when he licked his lips and pulled her against him, his fingers fondling her ass through her clothes. "Oh, there's something I'd like to eat, but you don't have to cook it," he replied lecherously. The mental image nearly unhinged her knees; if Mulder hadn't had such a firm grip on her butt she would have landed on it on the floor. "Bedroom," she said huskily, taking his hand to lead him. The room was lit by a single reading lamp on the nightstand by her bed. Their coats were tossed onto a convenient chair. Scully started to kick off her shoes, but Mulder stopped her. "Let me." "What?" "Let me undress you, Scully. I want to see you." Through a heady fog of wanton desire she vaguely recalled that their single previous encounter had taken place in the dark; once the lights had come on their attention had been otherwise diverted. The thought of letting him strip her naked sent tiny shivering tremors racing through her body, not all of them pleasant. However cozy they'd become during a month of enforced togetherness, there were still some secrets she preferred not to expose to the light of the room and his scrutiny. The unwanted excess pounds that made her soft in places she had previously kept firm. The dim, ominous echo of the dreams. The residual humiliation from being so recently and continuously poked and prodded like a slab of meat by so many different doctors. The freshly-kindled turmoil brooding whether other, more harmful repercussions from her abduction still lurked unbeknownst to her. Scully shoved the ugly thoughts away. This was Mulder, and he had nothing to do with those unpleasantries. This was the man who was staring at her clothed body with worshipful eyes, who would no doubt revere her naked form with even more idolatry. No to mention lust. "All right," she agreed, closing her eyes. Mulder's hands closed around her upper arms and he guided her to the edge of her bed. "Sit," he instructed in a low tone, "and open your eyes, Scully. I want you to look at me. I want you to watch me." She obeyed and found him kneeling at her feet, caressing one slim ankle with his fingertips. He slipped her shoe off and gently massaged the sole of her foot, taking care to apply enough pressure so as not to tickle her. "You've got the cutest little feet, Scully, you really do." "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mulder." She smiled, luxuriating in his ministrations. She hadn't worn heels for so long her toes were cramped and her arches ached. Mulder eased her other shoe off and repeated the massage, smoothing away the soreness, restoring the circulation until both feet tingled warmly. "Feel better now?" He gave her toes a final squeeze. "Wonderful." She flexed them gratefully. "If you ever leave the Bureau, you could have a second career in podiatry." "I'm only interested in your bunions, Scully, not anyone else's." He removed his jacket, yanked off his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his blue dress shirt. "Hey, no fair. You're supposed to be undressing me, not yourself," she complained good-naturedly. Mulder chuckled. "I need a little room to maneuver. Give me a break, here." "Well, just this once, I suppose. But don't do it again." "In that case, allow me to even the score." His hands danced over her shoulders, sliding her suit jacket off. "You're one to talk about fairness, when you're wearing a blouse with one button in the back. I was hoping to unbutton you down the front one stud at a time. Now I'll just have to mess up your hair." Come to think of it, why hadn't she considered that possibility when she'd dressed herself this morning? She'd been so gratified to have her own selection of silk shirts back that she'd picked her outfit based on how well it flattered her outward appearance, not on how simple or difficult or arousing it might be for Mulder to tear off her body with his teeth. Oh, well. Too late to worry about it now. His fingers ruffled her hair, searching for the elusive closure at the back of her neck. Mental note to self: you need a haircut, big time. Second mental note to self: stop taking mental notes. His face was close to hers as he toyed with the little fabric loop and the small pearl button. She took advantage of the opportunity and, placing her hands on his shoulders, captured his lower lip between her teeth. Mulder jumped, but didn't pull back. Finally completing his task with her blouse, he slowly spiderwalked his fingers up her back, drawing the shirt free of her skirt waistband and up into his fists. "Mmm. . .Scully?" he mumbled, playfully nipping at her lips as well. "What?" "Lift up your arms." A second later the blouse was gone, cast to the floor somewhere beyond the foot of the bed. "Are your knees all right?" she asked, leaning back on her hands to arch her back provocatively. Mulder gazed at her chest with frank admiration. "I can't even feel them, Scully. Nor do I care." "But =I= do. The last thing I want is a lame lover." "I'll get up in a minute, I promise." She smiled despite herself, feeling her nipples tighten deliciously at his intense observation and the unintentional double entendre. "You'd better." "Dana Scully, you have a dirty mind," he exclaimed in mock outrage. "For that, you have to be punished. Lie back right now." Laughing, she did as bidden, sinking slowly down onto her bedspread, its quilted softness cool against her heated skin. Mulder's fingers whispered across her stomach to reach the zipper on her left hip. A tug, a wiggle and a shimmy and the skirt was gone, tossed to the same apparel burial ground as her blouse. Another slithery slide and her half slip left the party. "What color do you call these?" Mulder was running his fingers up and down her calves, sending shivery little waves of warmth straight up her legs to her breasts. "Nu-nude," she murmured, draping one stockinged foot over his shoulder. "Well, they can't be nude if you're still in them," he argued reasonably, and she found she could hardly fault his logic. "So I say we take them off and get the true nude experience, what do you think?" "Hmm. . ." She couldn't articulate anything beyond a vague hum of consent. With great delicacy, he eased his thumbs into the elastic waistband of the pantyhose and carefully slid them down her legs. His hands came back to cup her calves, kneading them gently, slowly working his way up to her knees, when she squealed and jerked. "Oh, oh. Somebody's ticklish." Ponderously Scully lifted her head and found him grinning wickedly at her. "And somebody's going to take that secret to his grave if he knows what's good for him." "So it's threats, now, huh?" His maddening touch continued up to her thighs and she stiffened. "What?" he said, his former tone of bemusement overridden by sudden anxiety. "Scully, what?" She forced herself to relax. "Nothing." He cautiously resumed his tender touch, smoothing up the outer side of her legs with his palms. "You've got gorgeous legs. Don't let anyone tell you differently." Whether he realized the real source of her discomfort or not, he did, occasionally, say exactly the right thing to quiet her self-conscious doubts. Suddenly impatient with the slow pace up her body, she grabbed for his shoulders. "Get up here." Groaning in false agony over his stiff knees, Mulder stood up between her parted legs, planting his hands on either side of her rib cage and eyeing her chest with severe disapproval. "Looks like we're down to the wire, here. The underwire, in fact." To illustrate his point, he traced the area in question with one finger, while Scully writhed and uttered a small, soft moan. "Pretty as this lace is, Scully, I think I liked you hanging loose in your Winthrop scrubs even more." She growled in frustration at the light caress. "Oh, yeah? And who was swinging side to side all day every time he took a step?" He settled on the front clasp; she heaved a breath of relief. At least her favorite beige bra had one redeeming feature aside from support. Mulder unsnapped the little fastener with practiced ease and slowly peeled the bit of satin and lace away from her body. "You are beautiful," he whispered reverently, and lowered his mouth to kiss his way down the slope of one breast, around the circumference and back to the peak. She closed her eyes and threw her arms up over her head, tangling fistfuls of hair as starflashes of color shimmered behind her lids. "Mulder. . ." He carefully sucked her nipple into his mouth, darting around the very tip with his tongue. She dragged her hands from her own hair and buried them in his as he suckled her using his lips alone. "Shall we convene that research seminar now?" he mumbled against her flesh. "I. . . you. . . shut up and kiss me, Mulder." So he did, a lengthy, exquisitely obscene kiss, making her wonder how anyone's tongue could possibly be that long and flexible. When he at last unlocked his lips from hers, she stared at him with glazed eyes and said breathlessly, "Oh, my God." "Taking the name of the Lord in vain, Scully. Bad girl. This calls for a little more serious punishment." With that he began trailing his mouth down her body, pausing to kiss her breasts again while she clutched at his biceps and panted for air. "Bless me, Father, for I think I'm about to sin." Mulder dipped his tongue into her navel and she sucked in her stomach. "The sinning has yet to begin, trust me." She chuckled, then gasped again as he kissed his way across the expanse of her abdomen, following the thin strip of elastic from one hip to the other. Then down over the material itself to insinuate himself solidly between her legs. He nuzzled her with his nose, and her heart triphammered double-time, sending blood slamming up into her face and then thundering south. "Cotton, Scully?" His words vibrated against her through the thin, damp fabric; the gentle movement of his lips nearly undoing her. "No sense of romance?" Her hands, which had been squeezing gobs of the bedspread as he'd moved out of range of her grip, moved of their own accord to her breasts to squeeze there instead. "Cotton. . . cotton breathes, Mulder," she defended herself and her underwear in a heaving little burst. She felt him smile against her. "I'll show you breathing." He pressed his mouth to her center in an openmouthed kiss and exhaled slowly. The warm rush of air traveled through the material, sending an electrified shudder straight up her spine; she tightened her hands on herself and her knees around his head with a groan. "I like that opening statement," he muttered, his voice now nearly as jagged as hers was, and with that he grabbed her last remaining article of clothing, skinned it down her legs and pitched it aside. Pressing her open with gentle fingers, Mulder proceeded to demonstrate just how ravenous he was. Lying still was no longer an option. Not when he was doing that. . . and that. . . and oh, yes, =that= with his lips and tongue, wetness upon wetness, probing, gliding, and stroking into folds and crevices, all of it slow and languid and galvanizing all at the same time. Her back arched as he rubbed the flat of his tongue briefly over her clitoris; she hissed through her teeth and flattened her palms back against the bedspread, unable to bear the dual stimulation of his mouth between her legs and her hands on her breasts any longer. Mulder took his time, lovingly exploring, tasting and experimenting, repeating the movements that caused her to thrash sinuously or sob out an unintelligible word of gratitude. The storm was gathering inside her, she could feel it. Swirling out from the juncture of her thighs, a windstorm blowing along her nerve endings, threatening gale warnings, tornadoes, coastal flooding and torrential rain. She gasped out a last word of encouragement to him, squeezed her thighs against his ears. Mulder snared her clit between his lips, pulled, then stroked her once very lightly with the tip of his tongue. And Hurricane Scully struck ground zero with category five strength. She threw her head back against the mattress, hips arcing upward against the mouth that still held her captive. Colored lights blossomed behind her scrunched eyelids, accompanied by silver and gold sparks, the whole display more vivid than any holiday fireworks could ever hope to be. Fire roared from her toes all the way out to the ends of her hair; some dim part of her acknowledged that it was scientifically impossible for an orgasm to cause her hair to curl, although she was sure she'd just proven that theory to be incorrect. Gradually she came back to herself, twitching slightly as tiny aftershocks rippled through her. When she dared to open her eyes and breathe, Mulder was sitting next to her, tenderly stroking her cheek with his thumb. "You're magnificent, Scully," he smiled. She reached up to return the caress, smiling sleepily. "I'm hot and sweaty, too. Must be so attractive." He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. "We can remedy that, you know." Her eyes traveled down to the obvious bulge in his dress pants. "Would you like me to remedy that?" "Let's do both." End part 8/9 ________________________ SOLITARY CONFINEMENT (9/9) By Jean Robinson Disclaimer, etc. in part 1 Laughing, she allowed him to drag her to her feet and stagger into the bathroom. While the tub filled, she insisted on undressing him, smoothing her hands over skin and muscle she'd only touched in darkness before. She reached for his cock, but Mulder stopped her. "Not yet." He turned to look at the array of tiny bottles on the shelf above her tub. "What is all that stuff?" "Bath oils. They soften and moisturize your skin." Mulder eyed them dubiously. "All right, but I'm not going to work reeking of lavender bouquet, am I?" Scully choose one with an orange blossom perfume and poured some under the running water. "That would get people talking. At least this will coordinate with the soap." Holding hands, they stepped in together and eased themselves down with simultaneous, "Ahhhs" as they settled into the hot water facing each other. Scully slid down until she was submerged to the neck, stretching out one cautious foot until. . . there. Mulder nearly shot out of the tub. "Scully!" She smirked, sliding her foot slowly back and forth. "Got you big time." He relaxed back into the water, leaning his head back and groaning when she eased her other foot into play, using the sole of one foot and the top of the other to apply varying amounts of stimulation, occasionally flexing her toes to "walk" along his length. "Scully. . ." He sounded strangled, his voice notched up a tone higher than usual. "Yes?" "I appreciate the. . . effort. . . but you're going to appreciate the end result a lot. . . more if you. . . stop right now." Reluctantly she withdrew her feet. Handing him the washcloth, she slid forward and whispered, "Wash me," enjoying the delighted expression on his face at the hushed demand. Her own bathtub. Her own citrus-scented soap. Mulder's gentle hands sweeping the nubby cloth over her heated, oily skin. Life was good. She washed him in turn, then they climbed out of the tub and dried each other, rubbing and patting dry all the secret places they'd so recently uncovered. Her own towels, smelling of springtime detergent instead of chlorine and old bleach. Her own sheets, well-worn, well-washed cotton, soft as a cloud and twice as cool, instead of starchy, scratchy bedding that crackled when she moved. Her own partner, gazing at her with slumberous hazel eyes, cupping his hand around her nape to pull her to him for another scorching kiss. Scully broke away and gently shoved him down on his back. "You sure you're ready for this?" Mulder's expression included some worry under the sheen of lust. She straddled his hips and, placing her hands on his chest, leaned down to kiss his lower lip one final time. "I told you," she whispered throatily, "I'm tougher than I look." He grasped her hips to support, rather than guide, her movements when she raised up and lowered herself slowly down onto him. All the way down. She closed her eyes and sighed, her palms still resting on his chest over his nipples. And then Scully began to move, carefully at first, then with greater speed and certainty. No pain. None at all. Sensing success, Mulder thrust upward to meet her downstrokes, his hands running up her sides to fondle her breasts and pinch her nipples. God, he felt amazing. No, better than amazing. Astounding. He filled her, completed her, exulted her. For the first time since she'd spied Duane Barry's bruised face outside her window, she felt like a whole woman. Almost. Mulder was nearly there, panting and bucking beneath her. For that matter, she was close herself, the hurricane was brewing somewhere south of the border, ready to blow wildly across her body one more time. She started to move her hand to help it along, but Mulder beat her to it. Dragging one hand from her breast, he slipped it between her legs, tweaking her clit between two fingers and brushing over the tip with the pad of his thumb. She tossed her head back, biting her lip as the storm ripped through her again with even greater intensity, sending her skyward into the thunderheads where the lightning sparked and the deluge drenched the unsuspecting mortals below. She clenched around him and Mulder followed, thrusting upward one final time and crying out as his body emptied into hers. Utterly spent, Scully slumped over him, her insides still pulsing lightly around his softening cock. =Now= she felt like a whole woman again. Mulder wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. For a few moments the silence was broken only by the uneven rasp of their breathing. Finally, "You okay?" She nodded dreamily against his chest. "Better than okay. Incredible." He stroked her back and squeezed her bottom. "I'm glad. Because you're incredible." "Mmmm." She was almost asleep; she'd had more exercise in the last three hours than she'd had in the last month. They drifted in and out of sleep; Scully awoke the next morning to the sound of Mulder checking his messages. "Anything interesting?" she inquired thickly, pushing her hair out of her eyes and squinting in the early morning sunshine. Mulder turned around from where he stood by the window, phone in hand. The light was behind him, and for just a second he was cast totally in shadow, his features invisible. And she saw a distorted demonic beast leering at her in his place. Scully gasped, yanking up the blanket to cover herself. Then Mulder moved and the illusion was broken; leaving her with nothing but a galloping heartbeat and the ocean roar of her own blood in her ears. Mulder's attention had been focused on the replay from the phone and he missed her terrified reaction. He replaced the handset in its cradle and shrugged. "A few things I'd like to check on, including a possible case in Minnesota. An agent from the Minneapolis field office called." "Oh." She fought to maintain a neutral tone. Apparently the monsters from her dreams were not quite finished tormenting her yet. As she struggled to find the proper words and facial expression to keep from alerting him to her distress, she wondered if they ever would be. Mulder sat down beside her on the bed and touched her cheek. "How are you this morning?" She smiled a trifle uneasily and replied, "I'm fine." End Author's notes: I decided that if CC can mess with time, so can I. ;-) So therefore this tale assumes that Moose and Squirrel really did go through a month of quarantine before starting out on their next case, which according to episode datestamps would be "Irresistible." This was my first foray into the world of NC-17, so if you've enjoyed this piece, all kudos, cookies, eclairs, lattes and credit goes to my extremely patient and encouraging beta- reader, the lovely Dasha K. ("You can do this, Jean." "No, I can't." "Yes, you can." etc.) If you don't like it, it's my fault, not hers. Either way, thank you for reading. Rock my world with feedback to: jeanrobinson@yahoo.com