Title: "The Terror of Night" Author: Corinne Hansen EMAIL: hansenc@internetx.net Dist. Statement: Archive anywhere, just let me know! Spoilers: None Rating: R--language, adult situations Keywords: Mulder/Scully Romance Content Warning: MSR; implied rape; graphic rape aftermath Classification: S, A, R Summary: An evil presence stalks Scully. DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Psalm 91: 5-6 are taken from the NIV Bible; 2 Tim 1:7 the KJV The definition of "shock" is directly quoted from Websters's 9th Collegiate Dictionary The Terror of Night Pain. Agonizing, tearing ripping pain. I come to in the morning with the light streaming through the windows of my room and Oh, God! I can't move, it hurts so much! Mulder, Mulder, I need you. . .. It was the darkness Mulder, the darkness. . .it came here last night. Right here to my apartment and put its cold hands around my neck and choked me and beat me and OH GOD hurt me! Brutal bestial ungodly. . . Oh, God, the pain. Please let me die, please let me die. . . Mulder. I reach out, groping blindly for my cell phone. Not on the nightstand--please God not on the floor. Painfully, I pull myself to the edge of the bed, look over. No phone. I feel under the bed, my fingers just barely brushing the floor. I feel the edge of it, almost out of reach. I stretch my fingers out and hook the phone, pulling Hurry! pulling it up into my grasp. *1. Send. It dials, it rings. He answers. "Mulder" he says. I see him at work in the basement, see him surrounded by piles of paperwork and files, sunflower seeds and litter. "It was the darkness, Mulder," I whimper. "Scully?" "It was the darkness," I hear myself whimper again. "It came and it hurt me, Mulder." The cell phone slips out of my fingers and clatters to the floor. I can hear him calling to me, but I can't move. . .I can't think. . . the pain, the pain, sucking me down and I'm lost again. . . Soon I hear him, frantic, unlocking my door. "Scully!" His hurried steps crossing the living room. I feel his presence at the door. . .open your eyes, Dana. . . "Scully." I hear the anguish in his voice. He sees me now, sees what the darkness has done. . .He kneels next to me, hand in my hair, moaning "Oh, God, no, Scully!." I open my eyes and look into his and see my nightmare reflected there. No. . .it's not fair to hurt him too. . ."Hold me." I say, but he and I both know better. . . "Later," he whispers, and covers me with a blanket. "You need help now." And he takes out his phone and he calls for help. Soon there are sirens, and people--so many people! Like a cop and EMT convention in my apartment. They laugh and joke and greet one another quietly in my living room. "Be good to her," they say, "She's one of us." And then I'm in the hospital, and the lights are so bright. They need to take pictures, they say, pictures of what the darkness has done. Proof. They need proof that the darkness was there. . . Details, I think, details. And I start to laugh. . . I put my legs up into the stirrups, while they spread the sheet over me. Mulder crushes my hand in his, ashen, staring at the sphygmomanometer on the wall. Medcor's Patented Sphygmomanometer, it says on the dial. Lifetime guaranteed. He jumps when the first flash pops, then crushes my hand tighter, if possible. I hear the whine of the battery charging up again, and I giggle. . . Sphygmomanometer. He's still staring at it. I can see him turning the word over and over in his mind. Sphygmomanometer. Sphyg-mo-ma-nom-e-ter. He's dying to ask me about it, I know. If we were anyplace else but here he would. "Is that a *doctor* word, Scully?" he'd ask, his eyes teasing, after butchering the pronounciation. And I'd give him my smallest of smiles and say "*Sphygmomanometer*, Mulder. It's an instrument for measuring blood pressure." And his eyes and his mouth would smile back at me, and we would just sit there and *look* at each other for a minute or two. . . . I giggle again. His eyes are back on me now, looking into mine. Tormented eyes. Guilt-filled eyes. Pain. I close my eyes, hating myself, hating the pain I am causing him. Go away Mulder, I don't want to look at you. I squeeze his hand. Stay. They are done with the pictures and now they are probing me, looking for "hard evidence". They swab and scrape at my insides. It hurts, oh God it hurts, but I don't make a sound. I can hear them murmuring behind the sheet. They tell me how brave I am, that they are almost through. They take a metal comb and run it through my pubic hair. I should be embarassed I suppose, but I'm not. It's not real. It's not happening. It's so ludicrous, that I start to laugh. Details. I laugh some more, and soon I can't stop. It's not a hysterical laughter, but a giggling, shaking, tight kind of laughter. It hurts my diaphragm but I can't stop, and I want to but I can't. They are finished now, and they give me a pitying kind of look as they cover me with a blanket. Mulder kisses my hand, gently. "It's all right, Scully" he whispers soothingly as he lays his head next to mine and his arm across my chest, comforting. We sit like that for I don't know how long, me giggling and he comforting. Suddenly, Skinner is there, all grim and wearing his pissed off look. "They found some hair," he tells Mulder. "But that's all." I laugh in earnest now. Loud and hard. Oh, it hurts, it hurts, but it's so funny. They are both looking at me, puzzled and distressed. "Details" I gasp out, at last. "Details." I hear Skinner murmur to Mulder "Please tell me that's the result of the drugs." He shakes his head "They haven't given her anything yet, sir." And he looks at me, and I see his heart shattering in his eyes. And I laugh at him, too. Horrible, painful (hysterical) gut wrenching belly laughs. . . "I love you, Mulder" I manage to say. He gives me a shaky smile as a tear escapes down his cheek. A nurse comes in, all business like, and injects something in my IV. It burns in my arm, and I am tired, so tired. . . the pain, the pain, sucking me down, and I am lost again. . . . No, not lost. Floating. I'm floating, so light. The pain is there still, but farther away. I open my eyes, and there is my mother. She smiles--an angel smile of love and compassion. I am enveloped in her love, and I float some more, safe and content. "Oh, sweetheart" she breathes and caresses my face, lightly. "I don't know where to touch you, Dana, you're one big bruise." Big bruise. No, no, the pain is far away. Here there is only light and love and Mother and Mulder. Wait. . . "Where's Mulder?" I ask my mother through the haze. "Packing for the both of you. You're going to come stay with me for a few days." I feel a smile of pure joy break across my face. Break-- --break, it feels like the smile broke my face. One big bruise. And soon, I'm in the back of my mother's car, sitting on a donut cushion, wincing at each bump in the highway. The trip to Baltimore is longer than usual. I lean sleepily against Mulder's shoulder, my eyelids growing heavier and heavier. Cozy, I think, just like a stakeout. . . . "Dana, we're home." Mom's voice awakens me. I have to pee. I don't want to, but I feel my bladder threatening to explode. Mulder and Mom help me out of the car, but I shrug them off and hobble into the house, biting back the pain. I sit on the toilet trembling. God, I don't want to do this, I don't want to do this. . goddamn stupid IV. . I don't mean to scream, but it rips itself from my throat. OH MY GOD OH MY GOD! I knew it would hurt to pee, but this. . .this. . .the urine is like salt and vinegar and alcohol and acid, all burning BURNING my torn tender flesh. I grab the trash can and puke into it. Then Mom is there and I am floating again. Floating through the pain, up the stairs, onto the cool sheets of the bed. . .floating away into the twilight. . .the darkness. . . Oh, God, no. It's back It's here in my mother's house, in my room. And I'm all alone. In the darkness. *With* the darkness. It's crouched in the corner of the room, waiting for me to move. I won't be afraid, this time, no I won't be afraid. "I will not fear the terror of night," I whisper the psalm aloud "nor the arrow that flies by day. . ." It's moving closer to me, stealthily across the floor. I can feel its chill on my skin ". . .nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday. . ." My heart starts to jackhammer. Brave words, Dana, but you are afraid, you are so afraid . . .It pounces at me and I scream, not to God but to Mulder--"MULDER!! MULDER!! MULDER!!" I scream over and over and over. . . He's here, in the light. Holding me, rocking me, caressing me. "I'm here, shhh, I'm here," he murmurs in my hair. I blink and look around, confused. It's night time. The light is from the nightstand lamp. It was a dream, I realize, just a dream, and I start to float again. I relax in Mulder's arms. Safe. I look up into his eyes. "Don't leave me," I plead. "I won't" he promises. I pull him down into the bed with me, and he molds himself against my shape, holding me tightly in his arms. Oh so gently he strokes me as I shake and shake and shake. But then the floating starts again and I drift up, up into the sky. . . I awake again, shaking. No, wait. It's not me. It's Mulder. I hear him crying softly, holding me close, trembling and weeping into my hair. Quiet, anguished sobbing. He blames himself, I realize. He blames himself that the darkness came and hurt someone else he loves and again he was powerless to stop it. "Mulder" I whisper, and suddenly he is still. I can feel him mentally kicking himself for waking me. "Mulder," I whisper again, "will you cry for me, too?" He kisses my forehead silently, as I snuggle tighter against him, floating off into the sky again... I do nothing but float. Float and shake and laugh and throw up. Mom keeps feeding me, and I eat it dutifully and throw it right back up. Then she feeds me again. And I just sit there, on my little donut pillow, floating, laughing, shaking and puking. Mulder and Mom look so pale, and sick from worry. I float a little lower to earth, low enough for Mulder's words to snag me, pull me down. "Do you remember anything, Scully?" he asks tenderly, carefully. I laugh at him again. "I told you already, Mulder, no one was there. There was only the darkness," I pause, "and the pain." Mulder sighs and rubs his forehead as I float up and away again. I hear him later on the phone to Skinner. "No, sir, she doesn't remember anything." A pause. "No, she's not doing any better, she's still in shock. . ." Now there's a doctor word for you, Mulder, I giggle. Shock: "a profound depression of the vital processes associated with reduced blood volume and pressure." That's not me. People in shock lie on tables and bleed. I'm not lying anywhere, I'm floating in the sky. But I'm getting afraid, Mulder, so afraid, because it will be night time soon and the darkness will be back. . . . . .and I look over at the chair in the corner and see that the darkness is already here, hiding in the shadows, waiting. No, not waiting, it's moving, moving toward me. Like spilled oil it oozes across the floor, under the throw rug, *under the couch*. I can't move, I can't move, if I put my foot down it will grab me by the ankles and pull me under it again. I can feel its coldness on my bottom. Oh, my God it's *in* the couch! (I will not fear the terror of night, I will not fear the terror of night). I can feel the chill seep through the upholstery cushion, up my back, curling itself around my throat. . . . . .no, no, please God, no, NOT AGAIN!. . . . ------ I awake screaming and choking. When did I go to bed? But Mulder is there, my anchor, my high ground. I cling to him with all my strength. I am not floating anymore, I am falling, falling. Hurtling headlong toward the ground at 1000 miles a minute. "I'm falling, Mulder!" I cry as I clutch at him. "Shhh, I've got you." he says. "No, you don't Mulder! No you don't!" I can feel myself start to slip away . . ."Don't let me fall, Mulder!" I panic. "Don't worry, I'll catch you." Of course he will, I think. And suddenly I'm calm. Still falling, but calm. Mulder will be there when I land, I tell myself as I lie back down, exhausted. He curls himself around me, embracing me. I hold his hand, playing sleepily with his fingers. They are so soft and warm, his hands are so big. Hands. . .hands doing paperwork at my apartment. A memory explodes in my mind. "You left me alone" I almost shout. "You left me that night and went home." I feel his body stiffen with guilt and hurt. God, he felt so guilty for leaving. Why, Mulder? You and I both know why you left. We were at my kitchen table, figuring those stupid expense reports when you started "the game." "It's awfully late," you said casually, but teasing me with those wicked eyes, hinting for the invitation you knew damn well I wanted to give. Why did I let you go? There was ice cream in the freezer, we could have curled up on the couch and made ourselves sick on it while watching monster films on Sci-Fi. ICE CREAM AND MOVIES? Who the hell do I think I'm kidding? I wanted him to stay. I wanted to drag his wicked eyes and tight ass into my bedroom and beg him to make my dreams come true. I wanted to wake up in his arms after a night of ecstasy, his devoted slave, his triumphant queen. And it scared me to think like that, scared the shit out of me, because those thoughts are so dangerous, so very dangerous. . . And instead of a night in Mulder's arms I get a night in the jaws of the beast. . . I was all business as I showed him to the door. "See you in the morning, Mulder. And don't forget it's your turn to make the coffee." He hesitates, looking at me wistfully. Let me stay, his body pleads. But my face is firm. Game over, Mulder. You lose. But don't stop playing, please don't stop playing because someday you'll win. He smiles, he leaves, and I close the door. Oh, God, the door! The door, Dana, the door! How could you be so stupid? "I thought it was you coming back, Mulder" I whispered slowly "I opened the door without looking first. And I let the darkness in." He says nothing, just squeezes my hand and kisses me oh so lightly on the forehead. I start to tremble. Oh, God, there's more. Shards of memory ripping through my mind like broken glass. "The darkness had a voice, a terrible, evil voice." Then I pause--should I tell the whole truth? "It told me to pretend it was you, and that I'd like it." He inhaled sharply at that, and held his breath. I've hurt him again. Why? Why? Isn't it bad enough that I'm hurt? Does he have to hurt, too? I look up into his face, but he doesn't look upset, only thoughtful. "Is that exactly what the darkness said?" he asks. I look back to that night, through the haze and the pain, and the smothering, violating darkness. "No, not exactly. . ." I struggle to remember. "It said something like "Just pretend I'm Agent Mulder, so you can enjoy it, too"" I watch his expression carefully as I speak, and I know in an instant he's made one of his famous leaps in logic. He has the familiar *look* in his eyes. I can see his mind working furiously behind them, turning over the idea, attacking it from all angles. Part of me wants to know his thoughts, most of me doesn't. "It was someone you know." He says at last. "No, Mulder." I shake my head "I know what I saw. It was just the darkness." I snuggle myself under his chin. He sighs, but says nothing. We are silent. I listen to his heart beat, I feel the rising and falling of his breath. After awhile, I tell him another truth. "I tried to pretend it was you, you know." I feel him tremble. "But it didn't work. You would never hurt me the way he did." A long pause. "*He* did?" Mulder prompts at last, as if I'm made of glass and his words would break me. I realize my mistake. "Not "he" exactly." I explain, yawning. "The darkness was just using him, too . . . but he liked it." I'm falling asleep. . .falling. . .falling. . . The next day is the same as before, except that instead of floating, I'm in a spinning, tumbling freefall. And I remember--not just the voice, but the *feel*, the *smell* of the darkness on my skin. I stagger into the shower, and turn it on, HOT--and hope the scalding water will burn the memories off my skin. I had been surprised at its smell. It hadn't smelled of evil but of whiskey and Polo cologne--a vaguely comforting, masculine, normal scent. But its hands had been clammy and cold, pinning my wrists above my head with one, groping, touching, abusing me with the other. Its mouth was fire and ice on my shoulder, my face, my breasts. . .and its hardness. . . Don't think about that Dana, just scrub! I slather myself in lavender gel, and scrub and scrub and scrub with my nylon puff until my skin is raw. But no matter what I do, the smell is still there, and the burning of its touch. . . Later, as I towel myself off in the bedroom, I notice Mulder's dirty clothes puddled on the floor. Slob. On impulse, I pick up his T-shirt and slip it on. It flows over me, cool and comforting, as light and soft as a caress on my tingling-raw skin. And, oh God, it smells of him--sweat and deodorant and fabric softener, and that undefinable Mulder scent. I hug it to my body, smiling. My talisman against the memories. He sees me wearing it as I go downstairs, but only smiles and tells me that it's time to eat. Then he guides me to the kitchen, his hand against the small of my back. . . That afternoon, my mother insists I take a walk. "To promote healing," she tells me. I'm the doctor, dammit. But I do what she says, walking around the garden briefly, not seeing, not caring. I come inside and huddle on my donut pillow, an afghan around me. Falling. . . . always falling. Will it hurt when I crash? No, Mulder said he would catch me, I reassure myself as I drift off to sleep. . . <. . .Dana, Dana,> I hear the darkness whisper. "Liar!" I scream impotently into the smothering blackness. "Liar!" the darkness chuckles, cold and evil, < . . .someone needs to take your place. . . > And I am afraid again, paralyzed, frozen with fear. (I will not fear the terror of night) I pray, (I will not fear. . .) And the darkness slips away. But I know it's not gone, it's just hiding again, waiting and watching, stalking me from the shadows. . . . I wake up, not screaming for a change. Stiff and sore from the couch. I sense it's late. I look at the mantel clock--it's after midnight. Mulder is at the other end of the couch, reading. He stops and smiles when he sees me awake. "Hungry?" he asks. I shake my head no. I feel so odd, so heavy, so very, very heavy. I hold my arms out to him, and he comes to me, kneeling on the floor as I pull him close to me. We're at eye level now--a rare occurence. I hold him tightly and start shaking again. I'm so heavy, and I'm falling so fast, and I'm so afraid, I'm so afraid! "Mulder," I say, swallowing the rising, screaming fear. "Mulder, I need you to do something for me." He looks at me, puzzled and concerned. "I want you to. . .I NEED you to erase what the darkness did to me." He stares at me a long moment, completely shocked. "Scully. . . uh. . ." he begins, then stumbles for words. Idiot. He doesn't understand. I can barely walk, Mulder, I don't need you in THAT way. "No," I say "Just love me, Mulder. Hold me and love me." He's relieved, and a little bit sheepish. He wraps his arms around me, and rocks me in his embrace. I feel safe, but I'm falling, faster now, I can feel it. Faster, and faster, the wind screaming in my ears. . . . And then he kisses me, and my heart stops beating all together. Such a gentle kiss, on my forehead, the only place I'm not bruised. Then he brushes his lips oh so lightly down past my eyes to my purple and blue cheek. Another kiss. My heart jolts awake, starts to jackhammer. And then I crash hard, but bounce into the air, falling again. . .falling. . .falling. Another airy kiss on my swollen lip and jaw. Oh, God, I'm going to die, I'm going to die. . . .He moves down to my neck, nuzzling me behind the ear. There are ten contusions on my neck, one for every finger that tried to choke the life out of me. And he tenderly kisses them all. And somewhere along the way, my soul splits open and begins to wail, and oh God oh God I'm crashing, crashing, and I'm going to die. . . "Catch me, Mulder!" I scream, "Catch me!" "I've got you." he says, and I clutch at him as the sobs rip their way from my throat. Screaming, choking, almost vomiting sobs. He scoops me up into his arms then, and holds me on his lap like a child, soothing me, rocking me. "Cry, Scully. Cry and scream all you want." And I do. My mother comes down the stairs, her eyes wide with fear and heartbreak. "She's remembering." Mulder tells her. She only nods, and reluctantly, helplessly goes back to bed. Oh, God why? Why do the people I love have to hurt, too? I want to run away and hide with my pain, like a wounded, dying animal. Run away alone, and when the pain is more managable I'll just walk in as if nothing has happened. Who me? I'll say. Oh, I'm fine. Just fine. But I don't have the strength to run, the strength to even move. All I can do is sob and shake and hang on to Mulder, weeping and wailing over everything that was stolen from me by the darkness. . . After an eternity of this, I start to quiet down, hiccuping and sniffling, exhausted. And I start to remember. . . Out of the darkness a face appears. A familiar face. . . .a face I *do* know after all. Mulder will be so happy he was right. . . but, oh, God... why? Why him? Why me? Why? I look up at him and start to speak the face's name, but stop. What's wrong with you? TELL HIM, Dana! Tell Mulder who it is. Then Mulder will call Skinner, and they'll arrest the bastard, and then there'll be a trial and he'll rot in jail forever with the darkness. A trial? Oh, God. . .a trial? I know all too well how that works out. Whatever dignity the darkness left to me will be stolen now by the courts. I start to cry again. Mulder cups my face in one of his hands, tipping it up to meet his own. "You remember now, don't you?" I can only nod, the tears dripping of my face. God, my eyes hurt. I need a tissue, too. "Can you tell me who it was?" Yes, yes! TELL HIM! And then there'll be no trial--not a rape trial anyway. You know what he'll do. He'll never call Skinner. He'll get his gun and go over to the son-of-a-bitch's place and blow his brains all over the walls. And honestly, Dana, don't you think that the face knows it's only a matter of time before Mulder comes looking for him? Don't you think that the face will be ready and waiting? Whose brains are going to be on those walls? "No." I whimper. "No." "No?" Mulder's eyebrows shot up. "You don't know who it is?" And suddenly, it's like I can see through Mulder, right into his soul. I can see the white hot fury in his heart, the need for revenge. I can see he's lain awake these past few nights, thinking of all the ways you can torture and hurt and humiliate a person, how you can make him scream and beg for mercy before you have the satisfaction (pleasure) of killing him. And I can see the darkness there, sneaking in there, smiling at me as it curls an ice cold tentacle around Mulder's heart. What was done to me wasn't enough? Now the darkness wants Mulder, too? "NO!" I scream, "NO!" "Scully! Shhhh. It's all right, it's all right. You'll remember when you're ready." He strokes my hair, as he hugs and rocks me again. Oh, God, he thinks he needs to protect me. . . . . .protect ME! You're the one who needs protecting, Mulder. . . . . "Want to go to bed?" He asks. There's a joke in there, but we're both too tired to make it. I allow him to scoop me up, carry me upstairs. He tucks me into bed with him, but I can't sleep. I only lie there rigid, staring at the ceiling. I'm not floating or falling anymore. I feel very heavy, very defeated. What do I do? Either way the darkness wins. Tell Mulder the name, and Mulder commits murder. Don't tell Mulder the name, and the face goes free. Free to be used by the darkness again. Free to hurt in the darkness again. Oh, God, Oh God. . .don't let the darkness win. . . . "Close your eyes, Scully" Mulder whispers, then begins to sing to me. Soft, silly sentimental songs. Against my will I relax, grow sleepy, sleep. . . .and dream. . . Here there is no darkness. Only light. Blinding, joyous, loving light. The light surrounds me, overwhelms me, and is inside me, too. "Don't be afraid of the darkness, Dana." The light whispers in my soul "For I have not given you a spirit of fear, but of power and of love, and of a sound mind." "Mulder, too?" I ask the light. It smiles back at me. "Mulder, especially. Rest now, Dana. Rest in my strength. Tomorrow you will know what to do." I surrender myself to the light, and sleep deeply and without dreams. I will beat the darkness. In the morning, the light is still there. It comes in from the window, flowing over us warm and bright and golden. I feel rested and alive, and strong again. How long will it last, though? How long will it take me to regain everything I've lost to the darkness? No, don't think about that now, Dana. Let tomorrow take care of itself. I roll over and look at Mulder in his sleep. He looks stressed and pale. These past few days have been so hard on him, too. God he looks so vulnerable, sleeping there, so vulnerable. . . .and so beautiful, too. (Promise me we'll be lovers when this is all over, Mulder. Promise me we'll always be partners, one way or the other. For I know now that I can't live without you by my side in everything.) I lean over and wake him up with a kiss. His eyes flutter open in surprise. I smile my very best smile at him, the one I usually save only for Christmas and birthdays and paperwork-done-right-the-first-time. The one that makes him feel weak all over, as I can see it's making him feel now. "Good morning, Sunshine." he murmurs, pulling me closer to him. And suddenly, I know what I need to do. I pull away, Special Agent Scully again. "I want you to drive me back to D.C." I say firmly. "I want to talk to Skinner." He looks at me, suprised and hurt, his eyes reproaching. But you don't want to talk to *me* they say. I'm tempted to ignore them, but I don't. I just smile the special smile again, and he makes no protest. Two smiles in two minutes and he can deny me nothing. After breakfast we leave. I'm wearing only jeans and a sweater. Mulder didn't think to pack any professional clothes for me, and I feel naked and vulnerable. If you look the part, you feel the part, right? And I feel more like an FBI agent in pantsuits and sensible shoes, a gun holstered snugly at my side. Now, I just feel like a scared little girl. We drive in silence, a comfortable one at first, then it grows chillier and chillier as we get closer to D.C. Why? What did I do wrong? Then I hear the darkness begin whispering lies to Mulder. it says. When we're forced to stop during the customary beltway jam, he turns to me and speaks. "You know who hurt you." It's more of an accusation than a question. "Yes." Suddenly, I'm afraid. I nervously examine my nails. They're like me--short, clean, professional. The darkness hisses triumphantly. I can see betrayal and fury begin to rise like thunderclouds behind his eyes. "Mulder, you know I trust you in everything." He looks at me, surprised that I know his thoughts. "Everything but this!" He spits out, his hurt and anger evident in his voice. I press my lips together, to stop the tears. Be strong, Dana, be strong for Mulder, or the darkness wins. "I've told you everything, Mulder. It was the darkness." "Scully," he says, frustrated, yet gentle. "A man did this to you." Darkness or not, I lose it. "Don't play psychologist with me, dammit!" I scream at him. "I know what you're thinking, Mulder. I'm not emotionally distancing myself from this by blaming shadows. I know what I saw. You need to trust *me* for a change because--" and suddenly my voice goes ragged on a sob. "--because the darkness wants you, too." He looks at me the way I usually look at him. Skeptical, incredulous. God, he thinks I'm half insane. I feel like a complete idiot--is this how I make *you* feel, Mulder? "And that's what you're going to tell Skinner?" He finally asks. I stand my ground. "In a manner of speaking, yes." I glare at him, daring him to argue with me. He declines the challenge. We are silent again. I limp into Skinner's office, and ease myself slowly, gingerly into the chair I'm offered. I left the donut cushion in the car, too embarassed to bring it in. Now I wished I had. "Is Agent Mulder with you?" Skinner asks. "Yes, sir." I say "But I insisted he wait outside. I want this to be between you and me." He nods, understanding. He hesitates, and fidgets in his chair. He's scared to upset me, I realize. Finally, he speaks. "You know who hurt you?" "Yes, sir." I tremble. Be strong, Dana, be strong. "It was Agent Shackford." Skinners eyes widen in shock. "Robert Shackford? In violent crimes?" I nod. He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking. He opens them, looks directly into mine. "You're positive?" "Absolutely, sir." "Do you have any idea why he would choose you?" It's the terror of night, I want to tell him. The darkness made him do it. But I only shrug. "I live close by, but other than that, I have no idea why he picked me." My voice starts to tremble. Oh, God, Dana, don't cry, don't cry here in front of Skinner. Skinner regards me compassionately for a long moment. "You have a lot of courage, Agent Scully. I'll take care of everything. Now go home and rest." He turns to his paper work, dismissing me. "Sir, one more thing." He looks up. "Please don't let Agent Mulder know until Shackford is taken into custody." He nods. "I understand, Scully. I'll give you a call after Shackford's been booked." He smiles, and I leave, unbelievably exhausted and drained. Mulder's waiting for me, sulking. "Done already?" He asks. Bastard. I lean against him, and cry. Back at home, I sit and wait and wait for the phone to ring. Have I done the right thing? Can I go through a trial? Coward. Of course you can. You'll get through this, Dana. You'll get through this. The phone finally rings. I can hear Mulder's voice, angry and indignant. I sit on the couch, small and still, staring at my hands clasped white knuckled in my lap. In a while, Mulder comes in, sitting down next to me heavily. We sit in silence. "Shackford." he says at last, more tired than angry. I look at him and see the darkness is gone, leaving him only sorrowful and weak. "Were you afraid I'd kill him, Scully?" I nod at him, tears filling my eyes. "Would you have?" He sighs, stares at the fireplace. "I don't know. Part of me would have. Part of me wants to kill him now." Then he laughs, a horrible, sharp ironic laugh. "But, you won't have to worry about that anymore." "What do you mean?" I ask, fear rising like bile in my throat. "The bastard hung himself soon after being taken into custody." Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, NO! ------- END