A Lifetime Back

Date: Sat, 6 Jun 1998

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Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately.

Summary: Sometimes a healing journey requires a few steps back.

DO NOT ARCHIVE without express permission from the author.

Continued Thanks and Grovellings: To Jen Collins, for everything.

****

April, and the tourists are flocking here to see the cherry blossoms.
Myself, I haven't seen a single tree this spring. It's easier for Mulder to
talk in the dark of his apartment.

April, and I'm now in my third month of my new job. My self-created,
self-inflicted job of psychologist. When I once made the tentative
suggestion that Mulder see someone, he became hysterical, and I reluctantly
took on the job myself.

April, and really, though, three months later, I can tell you honestly that
I much prefer it this way.

I get out of my car and stand for a moment, gazing up at his apartment
building. He's called again, left his signal. Nothing fancy; just hanging
up when I answer. We worked this out early on, when it was too hard for him
to admit he wanted to talk. I suppose by now we could have changed things,
but as Mulder is teaching me, old habits die hard.

It's a cloudy day, the skies a leaden gray with only a stray patch or two of
blue here and there, rain showers promised for later in the evening. Even
so, I'm wearing sunglasses. The bruising around my eye is almost gone, but
I still don't like people staring at me, wondering what happened.

What happened is simple enough: I pissed Mulder off. I forget, sometimes,
how easily he becomes enraged, how violent he can be. I forgot and he
became angry with me, and because he didn't know what else to do, he hit me.

It was the first time he'd struck me in months, since he was still in the
hospital. The blow knocked me backwards, and I rolled off the couch, onto
the floor in a graceless heap. My ears rang, and my eye closed instantly,
glued shut and unable to open.

When I could focus my other eye, Mulder was standing, backed up against the
window, as far away from me as he could get. His hand was still balled in a
fist, still raised to shoulder-level; an erection tented the fabric of his
jeans. But his eyes, oh god, his eyes. Never in my life have I seen such
animal fear, such self-hatred.

He thought I was going to hit him back, that I would hurt him. And while he
feared me, a part of him craved the pain, a part of him needed it, and not
just for the sexual release it brought. It was all I could do not to cry then.

There are times when I think he has come so far, and then something like
this happens to show me just how long this journey will be.

****

I haven't seen her in four days. Nor have I slept, eaten, or bathed. But
this morning exhaustion finally got me, and I slept, waking an hour later
from a nightmare that still makes me shudder to remember. Reflexively I
picked up the phone and called her, meaning only to listen, as I've done so
often these past few months. But she answered and I hung up, and now she is
here.

After I hung up, I was filled with panic. What in the hell was I doing?
I'd hit her, for Christ's sake. I couldn't ask her to come back. But the
fear was short-lived, and I found myself shrugging it off, falling back onto
the couch. Fuck it. Let her come. I didn't care. In fact, I relished her
coming, seeing me unshaven and smelly. I wanted her to see the dark circles
under my eyes, the tremor in my hands. Oh, yeah. We've reached the
self-pity phase here, folks. The Why Me? phase.

But here's the kicker. I've also learned that I need Scully's approval.
The way her eyes light up when I tell her things, the way she smiles softly
at me, the touch of her hand on my back. I fucking need those things.

I suppose it's better than needing to be whipped, or raped with a drill bit.

Still it pisses me off to know I need her. All I've done is exchange
mistresses. I'm still the obedient slave, kowtowing to milady's moods. The
only thing that's different is the modus operandi.

See that? I still know my shit. It's all right to be surprised. For a long
time I thought it was lost, gone forever.

All of which is neither here nor there. I decided that I didn't really want
Scully to see me looking like some refugee, so I cleaned myself up, even ate
some breakfast, although if I hold true to the pattern that's developed,
I'll throw it up some time later today.

She's coming down the hall now, the sound of her footsteps preceding her.
This is one thing I'm already better at. Used to be that even that small
sound was enough to start me screaming and crying, hearing *her* light tread
as she approached my cell. But now I'm okay with it.

She knocks, then lets herself in. As she nears, I can see the bruise around
her left eye, where I hit her. Automatically I cringe back, my body
assuming a servile posture. Shit. I try to raise my head, to look at her,
but I cannot do it. If I look up she'll hit me, I'll be able to see what
gory toy she's brought with her today...

"Mulder." She speaks, and I realize my eyes are closed and I am quaking
with fear.

"I'm sorry I hit you, Scully," I manage, before my voice breaks.

"I know. You already told me that." Casually she sits beside me, and I
flinch. But I am not shaking anymore, and the panic begins to recede. This
is Scully. Don't be such a fucking idiot.

A harsh noise escapes me, the sound I make that passes for laughter these
days. "Shit."

"Did that this morning," Scully says cheerfully. "You?"

We've developed quite a morbid sense of humor these days. We've had to, in
order to talk about the things we do. I give her credit, Scully. She's
never once flinched from the horrors I've recounted, never once tried to
tiptoe around something. She gets down and dirty right alongside me.

"So," she says, "what's up for today?"

****

Mulder looks down. I always leave it up to him to initiate conversation.
Some days he can't, and we just sit for hours, side by side. Sometimes
during these occasions he cries, but never like that first time, that day
three months ago when he finally let himself break down.

It's difficult for him to start, and we always sit in silence like this at
first. This is when Mulder is most susceptible to his anger, when he is most
defenseless. He hates that he finds it hard to talk, hates that he has to
talk about it, hates that it even happened at all. I sit quietly until he
begins talking, for to move is to risk having him transfer all that hatred
onto me.

The silence drags out longer than usual and I begin to think this will be
one of those days when he is incapable of speech, that finding and uttering
the right words are beyond his strength. It's emotionally exhausting for
him to talk to me; I don't think he knows how draining it is for me to
listen, to hear how he suffered.

Finally, he speaks, in a low voice I have to strain to hear. "When you
walked in, Scully...I was afraid of you."

It's a blatantly obvious statement. Even if he hadn't been cringing from
me, I would have seen the fear in his eyes. "I know," I say in my most
neutral voice.

He looks up at me hastily. "I'm not now," he says quickly. "Just when you
first walked in. I didn't know what to expect."

"You knew," I correct. "You just knew two entirely different things. You
had two sets of expectations."

Mulder nods. "Yeah," he says faintly. "I--I do that a lot." Abruptly he
sits up. "I *hate* being afraid! It...it just pisses me off that I'm still
so afraid of everything, you know?" He shoots me a glance that doesn't get
anywhere near my eyes. "It's been months, Scully. So what the fuck is the
matter with me?"

I clear my throat. Time for another Confession of Dana Scully. Mulder
isn't the only one spilling his guts during these sessions. "Did I ever
tell you, after Duane Barry, when I came back home, that I had to turn the
radio on in order to fall asleep?"

I wait. Some days Mulder is too impatient to listen to my stories, but
today he shakes his head. "No, I didn't know that."

I nod. "I did. If I didn't, I would lay awake, thinking I heard him at the
window. I needed the noise." I pause, and my cheeks heat. "Do you know
when I stopped needing that radio, Mulder?" I have to drop my eyes from
his. "I still need it, is the answer. I still can't fall asleep at night
unless I have that radio turned on, softly in the background." I force
myself to look at him. "Maybe being afraid isn't something you can expect
to outgrow."

"She liked when I was afraid," Mulder says. "She'd lick her lips with that
little pink tongue and lean in, all the better to see the fear in my eyes.
God, I hated that! There was one time..." His voice trails off.

I'm used to this, too. He needs time to be able to say it, and I wait. His
eyes close and he shudders, but he still does not say anything. I prompt
him gently. "Mulder?"

"Yeah." His voice is thick, he's not yet achieved the necessary emotional
distance. "Once..." Again, he cannot continue.

I wait and wait, until it becomes clear that he won't be able to finish.
"It's all right, Mulder."

"Goddammit, I'm trying!" he shouts. "Would you let me think?"

I jump back, my hands instinctively rising.

At my exaggerated startle, Mulder freezes. "Don't," he whispers, a plea I
am sure he is unaware of making.

I don't lower my hands, but I keep my voice soft. "Please don't shout at
me, Mulder."

He is stricken. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Scully." His eyes darken as his
fear mounts. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

Just last month my request would have only further angered him. At this
moment I can't decide which is worse.

"It's all right, Mulder," I say. We've gotten nowhere today, and there's no
chance now of starting over. It's wasted days like this that utterly
frustrate me. I let my hands fall dejectedly back into my lap.

****

I'm being torn in two. Half of me is terrified beyond words. I've thwarted
her, she wanted to talk and now she's not gotten her way and she will punish
me for this, hurt me until I scream and bleed and...oh God.

The other half, though, is furious. She shouldn't have pushed me, and damn
my fucking cock to hell why does it always do this when I'm afraid, and it's
not her, it's not that bitch, it's only Scully for fuck's sake.

I don't know what to feel. Both of these emotions are right, both are
proper. What is it she said? Two sets of expectations. Damn right.

She speaks, and I hear a ghostly overlap. "Mulder?" <Fox?> Sky blue eyes
cloud over, become a stormy black.

No contest now. Fear takes off, galloping through my chest, paralyzing me in
its wake. A high-pitched, breathy whine escapes me.

"Mulder!" Her voice is sharp. <Fox!> She turns her hands, palms up,
revealing they are empty <revealing the razor blade>.

"Come here, Fox," she purrs, perfect white teeth outlined by scarlet lips.
Some nights she gets that shade of red from my blood, but tonight it is only
lipstick. The <razorbatonlighterknife> in her hands catches the light,
sparking brightly.

My arms are rubbery as I push backwards, trying futilely to back up. Too
soon my back encounters resistance, and I twist my head to the side, trying
to avoid her attentions.

One tiny hand comes up and strokes my cheek, her thumb rubbing on the
healing cut along my jaw. "Did you miss me, Fox?" she croons.

My voice does not work; I whimper as she draws closer. "Fox?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, refuse to look. It's a gesture she doesn't allow,
but I can't help myself. "Fox." I am breathing raggedly; she thumps the
<whipbatrubberhoseridingcrop> alongside her firm thigh. "I asked you a
question, Fox."

"Nnnnnnn...." The scream is building within me, the pressure in my throat
rising. I have never been this afraid in all my life, never. My head jerks
to the side, pulling away from her.

She slaps me lightly. "Fox!"

I am shaking so hard surely I will fly apart. She will hurt me oh god, and
it will be the worst yet, before she is done I will be begging for mercy,
for death.

"Fox." She reaches around me, meaning to gather me in, pull me toward her,
her and that lush body. Metal clinks as she puts down the
<knifescalpelscissorspliers>.

The small sound snaps me from my paralysis, and the scream that has been
lodged behind my clenched jaw suddenly breaks free. I can move again, and I
throw myself backward with all my strength, shriek loudly enough to tear the
lining in my throat. "Noooo!" I hardly notice the weight of the iron
around my wrists as I bring my hands up, trying to defend myself from her.
I scream again, and my voice cracks, then vanishes altogether.

Then her arms encircle me, and the fear explodes in me, burying me in
fallout and in blackness.

****

Mulder goes limp in my arms, and his dead weight drags me down. We hit the
floor with a thud, but he does not stir. His eyes are open, but they are
dreadfully vacant.

I hold him, rock him, whisper words of reassurance. My chest hurts from
holding back sobs of pain. He has told me he suffers from flashbacks, from
panic attacks, but until now I have never witnessed one.

I hope to God I never do again.

I shudder helplessly as I remember the stark terror in his eyes as he looked
at me, looked *through* me. I don't need to know what he was seeing; I
know, too, if I were to see it I would probably go mad. To think that this
is what his nights are like, his times alone, that he has lived with this
for many months, suffering quietly, hopelessly.

"Mulder?" I speak softly. I called his name, frantic with worry as he
slipped further away from me. I touched his face, his arm. The only thing
I succeeded in doing was to push him deeper into the nightmare. The guilt
this knowledge brings sits like a rock in my chest, but there is no time now
to examine it.

I look once at the phone, then look away. No. There is no one I could
call, anyway. No one knows of the task I have taken upon myself. Until
now I have preferred it that way, but right now I would sell my soul to have
someone to talk to, someone to offer a shoulder to cry on.

Nearly an hour slips away while we sit on the floor, legs splayed out before
us. I lean my back against the wall and tighten my grip on Mulder's lax
body. When he finally stirs, it is such a small movement I almost miss it.
"Mulder?"

He groans softly, and moves within the circle of my arms. I loosen my grip
slightly, not wishing to alarm him, not knowing if he has come all the way
back to reality yet. "Mulder, can you hear me?"

"S-Scully?" His head falls back and his eyes blink rapidly. He looks up at
me, clearly confused. "What...Why are we on the floor?" His voice is
hoarse from screaming. Even as he speaks, I can see in his eyes when he
arrives at the answer.

"You had a flashback," I say. "When it was over you were catatonic. I was
afraid you might hurt yourself."

He sits up but makes no move to leave the shelter of my embrace. "Was
I...Did I....?"

"I can't be sure," I reply, "but I think that you were seeing her instead of
me, and hearing her, not me. There was nothing I could do."

Mulder nods. "I--I do that," he whispers. He looks up suddenly, worry
creasing his brow. "Did I hit you again?"

I shake my head. "No."

He relaxes, and falls silent. Neither of us makes a move to get up.

"You want some water?" I ask. His throat must hurt from yelling. He shakes
his head no, and I nod. I bring my hand up and begin rubbing his back,
moving my palm in a large circle. Mulder further relaxes against me.

"I don't want to be afraid," he whispers.

"I know," I say.

"*She* liked it when I was afraid."

"I know," I say.

"This is hard for me, Scully."

"I know," I say.

We sit in silence.

"There was one time..."

****

END

Notes: Three down, one to go! Thanks to everyone who wrote me after A
Lifetime Ago. This one's dedicated to you.

Send all feedback to rrusnak@avana.net

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"I have walked the paths of desire
Gathering flowers and carrying fire."
--October Project, "Paths of Desire"