Title:            Revenge
Author:           Lovesfox
E-mail:           Lovesfox@rogers.com  (Feed me, please)
Web site:         http://www.geocities.com/kim_djd/index.html
Rating:           NC-17 (violence, consensual M/S sex and strong 
                  language)
Category:         Implied UST then MSR, Angst, Story/X-File
Classification:   XRA
Spoilers:         Not really, but up to mid-S7
Archive:          As long as my name and everything stays attached
                  Please let me know though.
Summary:          An old case of Mulder's resurfaces seeking revenge

Disclaimer:       Alas, not mine.  They belong to Chris Carter and 
                  1013 Productions.

Dedication:       To true friendship, through thick and thin. 
                  Thanks, T.

Warning:          This story contains some scenes of violence, a rape
                  attempt, implied character death, references to
                  incest, and graphic sex.
  



Revenge Part 2 of 29
by Lovesfox


Abandoned Warehouse, Dockside
Washington, D.C.
Monday
7:30 pm


Scully blinked her eyes, her vision blurry.  Slowly it cleared, 
but she could see little anyway.  Where she lay, and she had yet 
to determine where that could be, was dimly lit.  She struggled 
awkwardly into a seated position on the lumpy cot, her back 
slumping wearily into the wall behind her from the effort of 
rising.  Her hands were still bound, rather tightly, with rope.  
She swung her legs, also tied with rope, down in front of her to 
partially dangle off the edge, trying to stretch the kinks out.

She did not know how long she had been out this time.   After the 
man had shoved a cell phone in her face, telling her it was Mulder, 
and she had said his name, hearing herself slur the word, she had 
been gone again.

The room she was kept in did not have windows, and always seemed 
to be in the same stage of light, so it was difficult to judge 
the time of day.  She was not actually sure which day it was 
either.  Her captor, whom she did not recognize, and who made no 
effort to disguise himself, a fact which disturbed her greatly, 
brought her water and food, and took her to use the facilities, 
at odd intervals, so she could not guesstimate the time of day. 

He also kept her well sedated.

Her arm was sore from repeated injections.  She had lost count of 
how many there had been, and not knowing what she was injected with, 
or the dosage, she could not determine a pattern there either.  
She was almost sure though, that when she was awake, it was not for 
very long.

Her mind was clearing further.  She decided to take advantage of 
this and try and learn a bit more about her surroundings.  The wall 
against her back was cool, and a bit damp, and she shivered 
slightly.  At least she was no longer in her suit.  Some time 
earlier, and it could have been hours or days ago, her captor had 
untied first her hands and then after her feet, and thrown a 
sweatshirt and a pair of track pants, which she recognized as her 
own, at her to change into.  She had been very groggy, her muscles 
weak, and had been unable to attempt to overcome him, knowing it 
was futile at the time.  He had not turned away, or allowed her to, 
and she had been forced to disrobe and dress in front of him.  
She had done so quickly, trying not to let her emotions show on her 
face.  She was not sure if the smile on his face had been at her 
involuntary strip tease, or the fact that she had failed to disguise 
her discomfort, but whatever the reason, it had made her feel 
very uncomfortable.

She shook her head slightly.  Enough, there was no point in 
dwelling on that.  So far, and she prayed fervently that it would 
remain that way; he had not touched her except to move her about.  
She had a vague memory of him jumping out at her from a white van, 
so she must have been transported here, wherever here was, by the 
van, and then carried inside.

The room she was in was rectangular, and no more than ten feet by 
perhaps twelve feet.  The walls, including the one she leaned 
against, were cement, probably a light gray, although in the poor 
lighting, it was difficult to determine positively.  She finally 
noticed where the light was coming from.  One bare light bulb in 
the corner opposite where she rested upon the cot, up in the 
ceiling, for the scantiest of illumination.  There was only one 
door, and it appeared to be of a heavy wood.  She hadn't been able 
to work up enough energy to try and get to it and see if it was 
locked yet.  

The logical side of her brain insisted it was locked, 
there was little chance he would be so careless as to leave her a 
means to escape her prison.  The small, hopeful part prayed that 
he had somehow forgotten.

She had to try.  She straightened from the wall and clumsily 
shimmied herself forward until her feet were planted on the floor.  
It took several attempts, but she managed to heave her body into 
a standing position.  She wavered there for a moment, her head 
spinning nauseously, before she finally felt ready to try to move.
With her feet tied together as they were, she was reduced to 
hopping ignominiously, each landing jarring her head and body.  
She was thankful her hands were bound in front of her; she did not 
think she could have kept her balance otherwise.

She was panting harshly by the time she got to the door, and had 
to pause for a moment as she felt her head spin again.  Several 
deep, slow breaths helped a little, and she reached out with her 
bound hands to grasp the doorknob.

There was a scraping noise from the other side, and she gasped 
sharply.  The doorknob turned and then the heavy wood was swinging 
inwards, knocking her to the ground.  She hit hard, her breath 
whooshing out of her lungs with the impact.  Pain sang along her 
right side and hip and she groaned in reaction, curling into a ball.

"Going somewhere?" the man said, standing just above her.

Scully heard the anger in the seemingly casual words, and knew 
she would pay for her escape attempt.  Feeling she had nothing 
more to lose, she tensed all her muscles and with one swift 
movement, kicked her legs out in a sweeping motion, connecting 
with his ankles.

Either she was weaker than she had thought, or he was far stronger 
than he appeared.  The movement did not knock him to the ground 
as she had intended, but merely caused him to lose his balance 
slightly.  She could feel his eyes on her, menacing and cold, 
and a twinge of fear had her heart racing.

"That was a very bad idea," he said between gritted teeth.  He 
swooped down suddenly and grabbed her by her upper arms, hauling 
her to her feet.  He shook her hard and the motion woke the 
dizziness in her head.  She tried to contain her moan, but it slid 
past her lips as he continued to shake her.  "Did. You. Think. I. 
Would. Leave. The. Door. Unlocked?  Do. You. Think. I. Am. Stupid?"  
Each word was punctuated by another shake.

Her eyes were rolling, the nausea nearly overwhelming.  He must 
have sensed she was close to passing out, for he stopped shaking 
her and flung her towards the cot.  She landed awkwardly, her ribs 
colliding with the metal frame, her upper body on the cot, her lower 
half hanging off of it.  She had neither the strength nor the 
leverage to pull her self completely onto the cot, and tumbled to 
the floor, with nothing to break her fall but her body, which it did 
with a bone-jarring thud.

Heavy footsteps as he stomped to her side.  She cringed, expecting 
a blow, but he merely grasped her by one of her arms and pulled her 
upright again.  This time when he pushed her, he made sure she 
landed on the cot, falling onto her rear.

As frightened as she was, she was not going to cower before him.  
She lifted her head, her chin jutting out, to meet his eyes.  He 
frowned at her action, and then his eyes dropped, to her neck, 
she thought.  His frown deepened, and he muttered something that 
sounded like, "She tried to hang herself."  He moved forward, 
bending over her, and she pressed herself against the wall as his 
hand came up to touch the flesh at her throat.  He ran his fingers 
over it gently and this time she heard his words clearly.  "There's 
no scar."

Scully swallowed suddenly, a nervous reaction that he felt beneath 
his fingertips, for he blinked and pulled back.  He straightened, 
his eyes returning to hers.  "You can't escape.  It's useless to 
try," he said.  "If you attempt it again, I will have to restrain 
you further." He paused and then continued, "It won't be pleasant."

"Why..." her voice was hoarse from misuse.  She cleared her throat 
and tried again.  "Why am I here?"

He turned away from her and started towards the door.  She didn't 
think he was going to answer, but he stopped at the doorway.  He did 
not turn around, but his voice carried. "Agent Mulder took something 
from me, so I took something from him.  You."

With that, he left the room, shutting the door behind him.  The lock 
engaging from the other side was loud in the silence of her small 
prison and Scully slumped tiredly against the wall. 

Mulder.  Oh, God, what was he going through right now?  She 
hadn't really thought about why the man had made her speak Mulder's 
name into the cell phone, but now she realized the man must be 
using her to torment Mulder.  Did Mulder know who the man was?  
How was he going to find her?  For she knew he would find her, 
that he would not rest until he did.  Tears stung her eyes, and she 
shut them to stop their flow.  

She swung her legs up carefully, and lay down on the cot, her bound 
hands in front of her.  Although her head still throbbed a little 
from the shaking, she was still feeling alert.  Just as she was 
wondering why he had not drugged her again, the door opened with a 
bang.  He moved to her side quickly, bent down and jabbed a needle 
in her arm, drawing a hiss of pain from her.

Her eyelids were heavy by the time he left the room.

***


Scully's Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.
Monday
8:30 pm


Skinner entered Scully's apartment wearily, and scanned the living 
room, not spying Mulder.  The pictures were still spread on the 
table, but the cell phone was gone.  He rubbed the back of his neck 
as he crossed over to Agent Dryer, who was still manning the phone.  

"Where is Agent Mulder?" he asked gruffly, fighting the urge to 
yawn.  He was also trying not to think of the gnawing hole in his 
stomach, the coffee he had scarfed down a couple hours ago had done 
little to appease his appetite.

"Sir!" the agent said, his back straightening.

Skinner resisted the urge to tell the agent they were not in the 
Marines and repeated his question, his tone only slightly brisker.  
"Where is Agent Mulder?"

"In Agent Scully's bedroom, Sir," Agent Dryer replied, his face 
crinkling in confusion.  "He went out a while ago to check her 
car, and then he came rushing back in here, saying he needed to 
check Agent Scully's bedroom and that he didn't want to be 
disturbed.  He hasn't come out since, Sir."

Skinner nodded absent-mindedly at the agent, starting to move 
away from Dryer.  They had forgotten to check her car, but he 
doubted Mulder had found anything, he would have reported it 
if he had.  He rubbed a hand over his jaw, to conceal the yawn 
he could no longer contain.  He turned back to the agent and 
said, a little gruffly, "You're relieved for the evening, Agent 
Dryer.  I'd like you back here at 7 am." 

Agent Dryer stood and nodded, saying, "Thank-you, Sir."  He 
looked down the hallway that led to Scully's bedroom and then at 
Skinner, but said nothing.  

Skinner watched as Dryer left the apartment, and then locked 
the door.  He glanced at the pictures on the table once more 
before heading down the hall to Scully's bedroom.  He wondered 
what Mulder was doing, why he had closeted himself in there.

He rapped on the door lightly with his knuckles, and hearing 
nothing in response, slowly opened the door.  The sight that 
greeted his eyes had him pausing in the doorway.  Mulder sat on 
the floor, his back against one side of Scully's bed, his arms 
wrapped around his bent legs, staring blankly at the floor.  

Focused on Mulder as he had been, he had not noticed the 
condition of Scully's bedroom.  He stepped further inside, head 
swiveling as he scanned the room in shock.

Everything was in disarray.  Drawers were open, articles of 
clothing hanging from some, and Skinner almost blushed when he 
spied a wisp of silk and lace, the bedding in a jumble in the 
center of the bed, the pillows tossed in one corner.  The low 
dresser that rested under the windows had been shoved out and 
on an angle, and the items that had graced its surface appeared 
to have been propelled to one side.

Skinner looked back at Mulder, who had not moved in the time 
he had been standing by the door.  The agent had shed his jacket 
and tie, both of which lay on the floor where they had apparently 
been flung, and his sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up on his 
forearms.

Skinner crossed the floor and crouched beside Mulder.  The agent 
showed no sign of having heard him approach.  He reached out and 
grasped Mulder's forearm, much as he had earlier.  The flesh he 
touched was chilled and Skinner felt a twinge of alarm.  "Mulder?" 
he questioned.  No response.  He tightened his grip and shook Mulder 
lightly, repeating his name.  

Mulder continued to stare at the floor, barely even blinking, and 
Skinner shook him again, a little harder.  "Mulder, snap out of it, 
man!" he barked, and was finally rewarded by Mulder's head turning 
slowly to look at him.  His face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide 
and tortured, not quite meeting Skinner's own.

"He said he left a clue," Mulder said, his voice just above a 
whisper.  "I can't find it."  He turned his head away again, eyes 
sweeping the room.  He pulled from Skinner's grasp and stood, 
shakily.  "It has to be here.  I have to find it."

Skinner got to his feet slowly.  "Did he call again, Mulder?" he 
asked.  "What did he say?"  When Mulder did not answer, he called 
the agent's name sharply.

Mulder turned to face him.  His eyes were filled with confusion, 
and exhaustion.  "What?" he asked.

"Mulder, did the man call again?" Skinner asked again.  He moved 
over to Mulder's side and pushed him onto the mussed bed.  Mulder 
sank unresisting, his hands coming up to hold his head.

"I went outside.  To check Scully's car.  I found...I found the 
key chain I gave her a long time ago.  It was broken."  Mulder's 
recital was monotone.  "The car was clean, and I was headed back 
inside, when the phone rang.  It was him.  He asked if I found 
anything interesting with Scully's car."  His hands slid away from 
his head and he raised it to look at Skinner.  "I think he's 
watching me, watching Scully's place." The look on his face 
frightened Skinner.  "He said we had a connection, and that he was 
disappointed.  I didn't...I don't recognize his voice.  But he said 
he left a clue.  I have to find..." His voice trailed off and he 
stood and began to wander around Scully's bedroom, stopping 
occasionally to peer at things closely.

Skinner watched Mulder worriedly.  He had seen Mulder in 
distracted, concentrating states before, but this intensity was 
almost frightening.  And at the same time, fascinating to watch.  
It made him admire Mulder, and Scully for dealing with it on a 
regular basis, even more.   

Skinner knew that Mulder would not rest unless forced, and that he 
would have to be the one to force him.  "Mulder, you need to take a 
break.  You'll be no help to Scully if you collapse from hunger or 
exhaustion," he said, moving to touch Mulder on the shoulder. 
"A clear head will help you focus." 

Mulder looked at him, mumbling,  "Scully. Help Scully."  

Skinner was surprised at how docile Mulder was as he led him out of 
Scully's bedroom and to her kitchen.  He pushed him into a chair and 
set about making Mulder something to eat.  It felt awkward to be 
using Scully's kitchen so freely, but he knew she would approve the 
usage for Mulder's sake.

He listened to Mulder's disjointed ramblings as he made sandwiches 
for both of them, and poured Mulder some ice tea from the pitcher he 
found inside the refrigerator.  The words 'clue' and 'Scully' were 
uttered most frequently, and with great sadness.  He placed the 
plate and glass in front of Mulder and watched as Mulder 
mechanically picked up the glass and drained it completely.  He 
ignored the sandwich, and Skinner said softly, "Mulder, Scully would 
want you to eat."

He was not surprised when Mulder began to eat the sandwich.  He 
picked up his own and ate it in quick, economical bites.  His next 
move was to get Mulder to rest.  After clearing the dishes from the 
table and placing them in the sink to clean later, he placed his 
hand gently on Mulder's shoulder.  He hoped he would not have to 
undress Mulder, but was prepared to if that was what it took.  
"You need to get some sleep, Mulder.  Come on."  He paused and then 
added, "For Scully."

Once again, Scully's name was the magic word.  Mulder rose from his 
chair and headed down the hall to Scully's bedroom, and Skinner 
followed, slightly bemused.  He stood in the doorway and watched as 
Mulder went to Scully's closet and retrieved a blanket and a pillow, 
as if he had done this many times before.  Perhaps he had, Skinner 
mused.  He had never questioned the closeness between Mulder and 
Scully, although he had often wondered how deep it went.  A small 
part of him even envied it.

He followed Mulder back down the hall and saw him put the bedding on 
the couch.  Mulder stripped off his shoes, shirt and pants, pulling 
the cell phone out of one of the pockets, and settled onto the couch 
in his undershirt and boxers, pulling the blanket over his body.  
The cell phone he held clutched in one hand, resting on his chest.

Skinner stood for a moment, uncertainly.  Finally he headed back 
down the hall to use Scully's bathroom.  He relieved himself and 
then turned to the cabinets beneath the sink.  A quick search 
turned up a brand new toothbrush still in its wrapper.  He availed 
himself of it and her toothpaste, and then splashed water over his 
face, drying off on the hand towel folded neatly to the side of the 
sink.  Removing his tie and shirt, having taken off his suit jacket 
in the kitchen, he hung them on the hook on the back of the door 
before heading back to the living room.  He kicked off his shoes 
and sank into the wing chair, propping his sock feet on the coffee 
table, resigning himself to an uncomfortable night.  

He could not tell if Mulder was sleeping or not, but remained 
silent, hoping against all hopes that he was, and that his sleep 
would be deep and dreamless.  He closed his eyes, head falling back 
to rest on the back of the chair, and let his body relax.  His 
thoughts drifted to the many interviews he had conducted throughout 
the day, and the lack of any substantial information from Scully's 
neighbors.  He had also spoken briefly to the agent that he had 
placed in charge of conducting spot checks in the buildings that 
lined Scully's street, Traci Reynolds.  There had been nothing to 
report.  He had instructed her and the other agents to return in the 
morning to begin again.  

He took a deep breath, clearing his mind of all thoughts, including 
those that concerned Scully and her well being, knowing that he 
badly needed to get some rest in order to continue the investigation 
into her disappearance.  Within moments, he was asleep.

***

11:30 pm

Mulder lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, his hand 
clutching the cell phone, his lifeline to Scully.  He could hear 
Skinner's deep, even breathing as the man slept.  He himself 
could not sleep.  His mind was filled with images of Scully, most 
of them from the pictures he had stared at for so long.  It seemed 
the man had been following them, following her, for quite some time 
before he had made his move.  The thought was disturbing, some of 
the pictures showed how close he had actually gotten to them at 
times, and he wondered how it was that they had not noticed.  Had 
they become so complacent in their lives, in their routines, that 
they no longer saw the unusual around them?  He had always prided 
himself in his keen senses, why had they failed him then?  And now?

A clue.  It could be so many things, but nothing jumped out at him.  
He had stood in Scully's bedroom after the phone call for what 
seemed like hours, but in reality had been only minutes, studying 
it as they had first found it, minus the photos on the bed and the 
cell phone on the dresser.  He hadn't exactly been a regular visitor 
to Scully's bedroom, but he had been there often enough, he thought, 
to recognize something out of the ordinary.  

Her closet door had been slightly ajar, and while that could just 
have been from Scully not closing it properly, he had gone over to 
it and looked inside.  Shoes neatly arranged on little shoe racks, 
were any missing?  He couldn't tell.  Skirts, pants, suit jackets, 
blazers, somewhat organized by color.  Gaps here and there, 
clothing at the dry cleaners?  Her suitcase and carry on bag stowed 
tidily in the back. 

He had pulled dresser drawers open next, seeing evidence of Scully's 
neatness everywhere, rifling through each one.  A sweet scent rose 
from each drawer, and he saw sachets tucked inside.  He had 
hesitated when he discovered her lingerie, feeling like a pervert 
for invading her privacy that way.  At the same time, he had felt 
no small thrill for touching the silks and satins she wore close 
to her skin.  He also felt shame for that thrill.

He had turned then and her bed had loomed before him, the comforter 
slightly wrinkled from when he had removed the photographs.  Other 
than the cell phone on the dresser, it had been the only other 
apparent item that had been touched or tampered with.  His legs had 
jerkingly carried him forward and then he was at one side, staring 
down at it, at the pillows her head graced each night, at the 
comforter that kept her warm.  His hand lifted from his side so 
slowly, and then suddenly he was grasping one of the pillows and 
tossing it aside.  The other one followed quickly, but they revealed 
nothing.  Cold fingers plucked at the bedding, flipping them down 
in one swift moment.  Still nothing.

The low dresser beneath the windows was next.  He shoved it out of 
the way, checking behind it, around it, his movements choppy and 
frantic.  Grabbing at the window shades, lifting them, shaking them.

Where was it?  Where was the fucking clue?

He had begun to pace, back and forth, from the window to the 
closet.  Over and over again, eyes restlessly searching.  Then from 
the bed to the door, until finally he had sank exhaustedly onto the 
floor, his back against her bed.  He drew his knees up to his chest, 
hugged them tightly to his body.

As he lay there on the couch, he remembered Skinner coming into 
Scully's bedroom, leading him to the kitchen, and making him eat.  
The sandwich sat like a leaden lump in his stomach still.  His 
fingers clenched spasmodically on the cell phone, and he wondered if 
Scully had eaten.  If she was thirsty, or tired, or hurt.

Please don't let her be hurt.

He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the darkness to overwhelm him.

***

Abandoned Warehouse, Dockside
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday
5:00 am


When Scully woke again, he was there.  Sitting on a stool he must 
have brought in, close to the cot, staring at her.  She could not 
control her startled flinch or the widening of her eyes.

He smiled at her reaction, but it was an odd smile.  A smile that 
sent a shiver through her entire body.  She pushed herself up on 
the cot awkwardly, grimacing as the motion brought pins and needles 
to her bound hands, and huddled against the wall, hating her 
display of weakness, but helpless to stop it. She blinked slowly, 
her mind still fuzzy, and tried to swallow away the dryness in her 
mouth and throat.

"Thirsty?" he asked, and his concern seemed sincere.

She nodded, watching him carefully as he reached down beside him, 
beyond her range of sight, and straightened, holding a bottle of 
water.  He unscrewed the cap and held the bottle out to her, forcing 
her to lean forward to grasp it with pained fingers.  It was 
difficult, with her hands tied so tightly, but she managed to bring 
the bottle to her mouth, tilting her head back to drink deeply.

Scully did not close her eyes as she drank, but kept them focused 
warily on him, watching for any sudden moves.  She saw that he was 
staring at her throat, seemingly fascinated by the motions of her 
swallows. It made her uncomfortable and she lowered the bottle, 
holding it carefully in her lap.  He had stared at her throat 
earlier too, and said something about her not having a scar.

She saw that he was rocking slightly, and that his eyes were a 
little glazed.  His lips were moving soundlessly, and then the 
words tumbled out.  "Her throat.  Her beautiful throat.  The scar.  
Oh, it must have hurt."

"Whose throat?" she asked softly.

His eyes snapped up to meet hers, and they narrowed in anger.  
"Shut up!" he hissed.  Suddenly he was off the stool and crouching 
over her, his body pinning hers to the cot, his hands around her 
neck, squeezing tightly.  The water bottle fell to the floor with 
a small thud.

Scully tried to suck in air, her vision going spotty.  Her bound 
hands came up to bat ineffectively at his chest.  Fortunately her 
motions must have distracted him, for he let go, pulling away from 
her, mumbling, "No, no.  Not like this.  Mulder must see..." His 
voice trailed off, and he began to pace.

Scully gulped in deep lungfuls, coughing painfully.  What must 
Mulder see?

The man's pacing had brought him back the cot, his foot kicking 
the fallen water bottle. He bent and righted it as she continued 
to cough.  "Don't you try and distract me," he said, shaking his 
finger at her.  "Mulder has to suffer, just as I did."  He turned 
away again.  "Just as she did."

His steps took him to the door and she thought he was going to leave 
again.  But he turned around and came back to sit on the stool once 
more, shaking his head.  "You're making me confused," he said.  "I 
don't like that."  He reached inside the jacket he wore and 
pulled out a syringe.

The low moan rose unbidden in her throat and he looked at her 
unapologetically.  "I don't trust you not to try anything," he 
said.  "This is just a little something to make you...manageable."  
One hand grasped her by the elbow, lifting her arm up as the other 
hand injected the syringe's contents into the muscle of her upper 
arm.  His next words were lower, and she heard them only vaguely 
through the fog that was invading her mind.  "They kept her 
sedated all the time."

Scully blinked, a feeling of lassitude swamping her body, and 
wondered in a far corner of her brain who 'she' was.  Her tongue 
was thick but she managed to mumble, "Who?"

The man looked at her in surprise, seemingly unaware he had 
spoken again, and Scully wanted to remember something, but the 
thought flew away, blanketed by the fog.

Hands were at her feet, and then she was being lifted, to stand 
waveringly on the floor.  A gripping at her elbow, prodding her 
forward, and she floated across the floor and out the door.  
She felt the cold, and the dampness, but they were far away 
feelings, like something she might have been concerned with 
once upon a time.

They did not walk long before they made a turn into another room, 
the walls of which were tiled in a uniform white.  There were 
door-less bathroom stalls, and off to the side, partitioned shower 
stalls that may have once had curtains for privacy.  He stopped 
her and stood in front of her to untie her hands, then gestured 
at the room.  "Make yourself at home."

Scully stared down at her freed hands, at the redness that 
circled her wrists and then looked around.  The man was sitting 
on a chair she had not seen a moment ago, blocking the doorway, 
facing into the room.  He did not turn his head or offer her 
privacy in any way.  She walked on weak legs to the farthest 
stall, the one that was least visible from his perch, still 
capable of feeling embarrassment and shame through the 
languor. 

After she had relieved herself, she made her way to the sink, her 
shuffling footsteps loud in the quiet of the room.  She stared at 
herself in the long mirror that ran along the wall, distantly noting 
the pallor of her skin and the lankness of her hair.  There was 
actually a bank of sinks, and she thought for the briefest of 
seconds that she might be in a locker room of sorts.  His voice 
reached her then.  "You should take a shower.  There is a towel and 
soap on the counter."

Scully stared at her reflection, wondering if it were possible to 
get any paler.  Despite the drug coursing through her system, that 
seemed to chase away all her thoughts, she knew she did not want to 
take a shower in this room.  

"Refusal really isn't an option," came his voice, and she shivered 
at the menace.  "If you don't take it yourself, I will help you."

The tone was enough to have her picking up the aforementioned 
items and moving, albeit slowly, over to the shower stalls.  
Again, she chose the one farthest from him, stiffening at the low 
chuckle that followed her actions.  She kept her back to him and 
resolutely removed her clothing, trying to move as swiftly as 
possible.  Her hands were all thumbs, and as she leaned over to 
remove her shoes, she felt light-headed for a moment, reaching out 
one hand to brace herself on the cold tile.  She piled her clothes 
just outside the raised step that led into the stall, along with 
the towel, shielding her nude body as best she could, and grasping 
the soap in one hand, reached out with the other to turn the 
water on.  The flow was not very heavy, nor was it very warm, but 
it still felt good.  She stuck her head directly into the water and 
let it run over her face for a moment before scrubbing one hand over 
her eyes, although she left them closed.  If she couldn't see him, 
then he couldn't see her.  A childish thought, she knew, but one she 
needed to cling to.  She did not want to think of him watching her 
as she washed herself.  

He had not provided her with shampoo, just the soap, and as she 
lathered it in her hands, its fragrance wafted to her nostrils.  
It was a scented soap that smelled faintly of roses.  She ran the 
soap through her hair, scrubbing at her scalp, and then rinsed 
it out.  She made quick work of the rest of her body and had 
turned to rinse completely when a sound reached her ears.  She 
opened her eyes fearfully, but he was not there.  

The sound came again, and she recognized it as the scraping of his 
chair on the floor.  "Turn off the water and get dressed," came his 
voice, echoing slightly in the tiled room.  She hurried as much 
as she was able, turning the taps off and drying her body quickly 
before putting her clothes back on.  She then used the towel to 
blot the water from her hair.

She made her way to where he was now standing and he spoke again.  
"Hold out your hands."  She did, and he re-tied them.  He tugged 
at her and she stumbled into him.  He made a sniffing sound and 
then whispered, "You smell like Elizabeth."  He shook his head, 
blinking rapidly and pulled at her again, leading her back to her 
prison.  He pushed her inside, saying, "I'll bring you something 
to eat later.  I have to get ready...to torment Mulder."  

The door slammed behind her, the lock clicking into place.  She 
made her way over to the cot and sat down; surprised that he had 
not tied her feet up again.  She yawned deeply then, her body
extremely tired from the exertions of walking and showering, so 
she lay down on the cot.  

Her eyes drifted shut, her mind still not quite clear.  The words 
"torment Mulder" rang over and over.  What did he mean?  And who 
was Elizabeth?  

Sleep overtook her.

***

6:00 am

Elliot Andercott moved through the silence of the warehouse 
towards the room where he kept Dana Scully.  In his hands he 
carried his Polaroid camera, ready to proceed with the next stage 
of his plan of revenge against Fox Mulder.  He looked at his watch; 
saw that he was running a bit behind.  The scent that had teased 
his nostrils when Dana bumped into him, Elizabeth's scent, had 
thrown him for a loop.  His mind had refused to work, he could not 
get Elizabeth's image out.  He missed her so.  He had barely been 
able to leave the room where he was keeping Dana, and he had 
forgotten to inject her again.  

He was not overly concerned about not having drugged her further, 
she had been heavily sedated the night before, and the relaxant 
he had given her in order for her to shower had probably been 
enough to knock her out again anyway.

Reaching the door, he took a deep breath, trying to focus on the 
tasks at hand, and unlocked the door.  He pushed it open and saw 
that he was correct.  Dana Scully was out cold on the cot.  He also 
saw that he had forgotten to retie her feet.  He would have to 
rectify that for when he went out.

He crossed the floor to stand over her.  She lay partially on her 
side, knees drawn up to her chest, facing the door, curling strands 
of hair falling onto her face.  He bent over and reached one hand 
out slowly to brush the hair away, he needed her face clear.  The 
scent of roses wafted to his nose again and he closed his eyes, 
letting his fingers sift through the softness of her hair.  Just 
like Elizabeth's.

Elizabeth.

His eyes popped open and he straightened with an angry jerk.  
Lifting the camera to his eye, he pointed it at her face, and 
pressed the button.  The camera whirred noisily, but she did not 
move.  He removed the Polaroid and placed it on the stool to dry.  
He stepped back and pointed it at her again, this time including 
her body in the shot.  He took two that way, laying each picture 
aside, and then focused the camera on her bound hands, taking one 
of them as well. 

Putting the camera aside, he looked around him for the rope to 
tie her feet.  There wasn't any.  He must have left it in the 
shower room.  He cursed under his breath.  He didn't have any 
time to waste.  He would just have to inject her again.  He reached 
inside his inner pocket and pulled out another syringe.  With 
quick movements, he pressed it into her arm, holding the spent 
needle carefully in his fingers.  The Polaroids were thankfully 
dry, so he tucked them into his pocket before picking up the 
camera.  He left the room and locked the door.

He moved quickly and was soon at a small door that led outside.  
Out of habit, he glanced around as he made his way to the van, 
but this area of the docks had been deserted for months.  That 
had been one of the reasons he had decided on this place when he 
had first began to plot his revenge against Fox Mulder.

Thoughts of Mulder's reactions to his 'gift' kept him so 
occupied, that the drive to Dana Scully's apartment building 
took no time at all.  As he cruised past it slowly, he spied the 
unmarked vehicles that earmarked them as being Bureau issue.  
He swore ripely under his breath.  His distraction this morning 
had thrown his timing off.

He wouldn't be able to deliver his little package for Mulder 
himself.  He had gotten very excited at the thought of going up 
the sidewalk of her building, walking down her hallway, leaving 
his gift for Mulder at her door.  Knowing without a doubt that 
Mulder would be inside.  Hoping that he would be the one to find 
it.

Elliot pulled the van up to the curb, about a block away from Dana's 
building.  His hands clenched on the steering wheel as he began to 
spit out more curses.  He needed this, needed to torment Mulder a 
little more before the next step.  

Movement outside the passenger side window caught his attention, 
and he turned his head to see a young boy walking past.  An idea 
flared, and he quickly shifted to the other seat, rolling the window 
down.  "Hey, kid," he called.

The boy stopped and turned around slowly, his head swiveling from 
side to side as he tried to find where the voice had come from.  
Spying Elliot, beckoning from the van, he moved a little closer, 
hitching the knapsack on his back a little higher.  His eyes were 
wary and curious at the same time. "Yeah?" he asked, trying for a 
tough sounding voice, and failing miserably as it cracked.

"You want to make twenty bucks?"  Elliot asked.

The kid took a step back, his eyes narrowing.

"Nothing like that, kid," Elliot said quickly, and smiled when 
the kid did not move away.  "I need you to deliver something for me, 
that's all.  I'm running behind, I've got to get moving."  He held 
up the twenty-dollar bill he had pulled from his wallet.  "Only 
take you five minutes."

The kid tilted his head, considering, staring at the money in 
Elliot's hand.  He nodded, a grin flashing on his face, and came 
over to the van.  "Where?"

Elliot told him the building and apartment number, pointing down 
the block.  He lifted the sealed manila envelope from the floor and 
passed it out the window.  The money was next, which the kid shoved 
deep into his jeans pocket.  "Just drop it off in front of the door, 
okay?"

"Sure," the kid said.  "No problem."  He waggled the envelope at 
Elliot and headed off down the sidewalk.

Elliot smiled.  Plan B would work just as nicely.  The kid hadn't
even noticed he was wearing Latex gloves.

***

Scully's Apartment 
Georgetown, D.C.
Tuesday
7:30 am


Walter Skinner leaned one hip against the counter in Scully's 
kitchen, hands cradling a steaming mug of coffee.   The savory 
aroma wafted up to his nose, stirring his hunger, and helping to 
clear the last vestiges of sleep from his mind and body.

He had awoken twice through the night before finally rising 
completely just before six a.m.  Once with a very painful crick 
in his neck, which he had rectified by changing his position on 
the chair, and the second time by Mulder.  The agent had done 
nothing overt, such as speaking to him or shaking him awake.  
An eerie sensation of being watched had invaded his sleeping 
thoughts and he had jolted awake to find Mulder sitting upright 
on the couch, the cell phone clutched in one hand, staring with 
unblinking intensity at him.  After confirming Mulder was all 
right, or as all right as he could be in this situation, he had 
forced himself to relax back into the chair.  The experience had 
brought to mind memories of terrifying late night patrols in the 
jungles of Vietnam, and he had slept uneasily for the remainder 
of the night.

Skinner took a cautious sip of the hot liquid, feeling the burn 
all the way down to his stomach, which growled in response, still 
pondering the previous night and his early rising.  He was 
normally up with the dawn by habit, but believed he would have 
slept a little longer if not for the fact that Mulder had chosen 
to sit at the table and go through the photographs yet again.

Skinner yawned, rubbing his hand over the tenseness in his neck, 
wanting a hot shower desperately.  He flicked a glance at the 
clock on Scully's stove.  He had convinced Mulder to take a 
shower, and the agent had been in there for quite some time.

The image of Mulder, standing hollow-eyed and stubble-cheeked, 
holding the cell phone he had refused to relinquish even for a 
moment, before nodding jerkily and shuffling defeatedly down the 
hall, would remain in Skinner's head for a very long time. 
The desperation and desolation apparent on Mulder's face was 
haunting, and Skinner hoped with all he had in him that Scully 
would be found safely, and soon.  For all their sakes.

A rapid knocking at the door startled him from his dark thoughts, 
and he nearly spilt coffee on himself.  He placed the cup on the 
counter and made his way to the door, expecting to find either 
Agent Dryer or Agent Taylor.

He opened the door to reveal another agent, whose name escaped 
him at the moment, standing with one hand on the shoulder of a 
young boy.  In his other hand he held a manila envelope.

Skinner had a very bad feeling about the envelope, and could not 
control the muscle that began to twitch in his jaw.  He resisted 
the urge to grab it from the agent, and instead asked, "What is 
it, Agent?"

"Sir," the clean-cut, young-looking agent said.  "Agent Reynolds 
had stationed me in the lobby, to check the names of everyone 
entering and exiting, to make sure we have interviewed everyone, 
and this young man came in, saying he had to deliver this 
envelope.  When I asked him which apartment number, I realized 
it was Agent Scully's, so I brought him up. Sir."

Skinner looked from the agent to the young boy, who wore an 
expression he could not quite define.  Fear, with a touch of 
belligerence?  He nodded to the agent, saying, "Thank-you.  
I'll handle this from here.  Back to your post."

"Yes, sir," the agent said, and nudged the boy forward with the 
hand on his shoulder.  He passed the envelope to Skinner and 
turned to go back to the lobby.

The boy walked inside, and Skinner shut the door behind him.  
He was torn between wanting to look inside the envelope and 
questioning the boy.  His quick glance showed Mulder's name 
printed on it in block letters, and he knew he could not open 
it without Mulder.  Which left the boy.  Skinner sighed, and 
rubbed his free hand over his neck again.  He had little, if 
any, contact with children, and hadn't the faintest idea 
where to begin.

He turned to see the boy staring at something off to the side 
and spied Mulder standing there in a pair of jeans with a 
towel around his neck.  His chest and feet were bare, and for
a brief second Skinner wondered where Mulder had gotten the 
jeans, before he saw that Mulder's eyes were focused on the 
manila envelope he held.

"When did that come?" Mulder asked hoarsely.  His hands clenched 
spasmodically on the ends of the towel, and his face was white.  

Skinner was sure he had not even noticed the boy standing less 
than ten feet from him.  "Mulder, we just got it.  This boy was 
delivering it."

Mulder seemed to come alive then, crossing the floor in rapid 
strides to stand before the boy, bending at the waist to grasp 
the kid's shoulders.  "Where did you find it?" he asked, nearly 
spitting the words out.

Skinner moved a few steps closer and said Mulder's name warningly.  
He was relieved when Mulder released the boy's shoulders and 
straightened.  He watched the agent's eyes flick from the boy 
to the envelope and back, and knew that whatever calmness or peace
Mulder may have gotten from his long shower was gone.  He held the 
envelope out, saying, "Mulder, let me talk to him."

Mulder's hand shook as he grabbed the envelope, and Skinner 
watched him head back down the hall, no doubt to Scully's bedroom, 
before turning back to the boy.  He smiled, but it must have looked 
more like a grimace, for the kid scowled back at him.  He gave up 
on the smile and said, "Sorry about that, son.  My name is Walter 
Skinner, and I'm with the FBI.  We're investigating a possible 
kidnapping, and I really need to know where you found this envelope."

"FBI?" the kid repeated.  "Cool!" He seemed to relax with the 
information that Skinner was with the FBI.  He shrugged his 
shoulders, and looked around Scully's apartment.  "I didn't find 
the envelope."

Skinner frowned, and resisted the urge to grab the kid's shoulders 
as Mulder had.  He sighed, and perched his butt on the arm of the 
chair, to be more level with the kid.  "If you didn't find it, where 
did you get it?"

"Some guy gave me twenty bucks to bring it up here," the kid said.

Jesus Christ.  Skinner sprang to his feet, pointing his finger 
at the kid. "Stay there!" he barked, and raced down the hall, 
bellowing Mulder's name.  Scully's door was closed, but Mulder came 
out seconds later.  He had put on a tee shirt and a pair of 
running shoes, and his face was paler and starker than ever before.  
Skinner skidded to a halt, eyes shooting from Mulder's face to his 
hand, to what looked like Polaroid pictures clutched in his fingers.

"Mulder?" he asked, feeling his body go cold.  Please don't be 
pictures of her dead, he repeated over and over in his head. 
STOP! He told himself.  "Mulder, the kid said some guy paid him to 
bring the envelope up here."

Mulder brushed past him to run to stand next to the kid.  "What 
guy?" he asked, bending at the waist to stare into the kid's eyes.  
"What guy paid you to bring the envelope?" he repeated, louder.

The kid shrugged.  "Guy in a van.  He called me over, asked if 
I wanted to make some money.  Gave me the address and the 
apartment number."  He shuffled back a step, looking down at his 
sneaker-clad feet, a look of fear crossing his face.  "I didn't 
do anything wrong, did I?" he asked.

Skinner had followed on Mulder's heels, and he put one hand out to 
pat the kid awkwardly on the shoulder.  "No, you didn't do anything 
wrong.  Can you tell us about the van?"

At those words, Mulder ran over to the door and yanked it open.  
Skinner could hear the sounds of his footsteps thudding down the 
hall.  He tightened his grip slightly on the kid's shoulder and 
directed him to sit on the couch.  "I need you to wait right here.  
It's very important.  An agent is coming to come in, and I want you 
to tell him everything you can remember about the man, and the van 
he was in, okay?"

The kid nodded, still looking scared half to death.

"It's okay," Skinner said.  "You did good, okay?"  He tried to 
smile, but his heart was pounding frantically.  He needed to move.  
"Stay," he repeated and left the apartment, shutting the door 
behind him.

***


4:30 pm

Mulder raked one hand through his hair, uncaring that it was 
spiked in every direction, and sighed harshly as he stared at the 
composite sketch of their suspect.  His eyes burned, the image 
blurring, and he blinked several times.   The paper shook in his 
hand, and he finally had to put it down on the table before he 
dropped it.  His chair caught on the Oriental rug as he pushed it 
back from the table and he kicked at it in frustration, muttering 
a curse. 

The chair fell over with a loud bang, and both Skinner and Agent 
Dryer reacted with surprised exclamations.  Mulder shot them a 
look but did not apologize.  He angrily scooped the chair up and 
slammed it down in place before stalking over to stare out the 
window.

As he stared down at the street, his mind wandered back to earlier 
that morning, after the envelope of Polaroids arrived.

He had raced outside of Scully's apartment building, flying past 
the two agents stationed in her lobby, vaguely hearing their cries 
of startlement, to skid to a stop at the edge of the walk.  He 
remembered whipping his head from side to side to look up and down
the street.  The number of vans had stupefied him, and as he stood 
there, his breath panting in and out harshly, he had realized he 
didn't even know what type of van.  He had run out of the apartment 
before the kid had told them.

A mini-van had passed slowly, and he had stepped forward, head 
craning to see inside.  A woman had been driving, giving him a 
narrow-eyed look of suspicion.  He had seen a toddler in a car seat 
in the middle row, and stepped back, shoulders slumping.

Skinner had come out then, to bring him back inside.  He had gone, 
unprotesting.

The boy, twelve-year old Joshua Hamilton, had been sitting quietly 
on the couch with Agent Reynolds when they got back to Scully's 
apartment.  Skinner had muttered something about women dealing 
better with children.  Joshua had told them his story while they
waited for the sketch artist to arrive.  It had been a panel van,
and very dirty.  He thought it was white, and that it had red 
lettering on the side.  He did not remember reading what it had 
said.

His details of the suspect had been a little better, resulting in a 
fairly decent composite sketch.

Mulder cursed again, turning away from the window to start pacing.  
The sketch he had been staring at for the better part of the day, 
in between staring numbly at the new Polaroids of Scully, and at 
the cell phone, which remained stubbornly silent.

He did not recognize the suspect.  

He ran through the details yet again. Dark brown hair, slightly 
curly, thick eyebrows over deep-set eyes, that Joshua was fairly 
sure were brown, a largish nose, a thick mustache over thin lips, 
and a small goatee.  An average face. A fairly pleasant face.  
Agent Reynolds had astutely asked Joshua about the man's teeth, 
and he had said they were big and white, not gross at all, which 
had made everyone smile.

Everyone but Mulder.

His pacing took him past the table and the Polaroid pictures of 
Scully caught his eyes.  He stopped, the index finger of one hand 
going out almost involuntarily to trace her features on the top 
one.  He picked it up, bringing it close to his face.  He tried 
to take solace in the fact that she was dressed in different
clothing, telling himself that it meant she was still alive, that 
the pictures were recent.

He cringed as he looked at her bound hands, the slackness of her 
face, the dinginess of the bedding on which she lay.  It appeared 
that she was on a cot of some sort, and he could make out a section 
of wall behind her, it looked like concrete.  Not that these details 
helped any.  She could be in a room anywhere.  Someone's basement 
or garage.  An abandoned building.  Anywhere.

He was not aware that Skinner had been talking to him, until he 
felt the AD's hand on his shoulder.  He turned his head slowly, 
watching the man's lips move.  "What?" he mumbled.

Sound rushed in.  "Mulder, I want you to take a break.  Have 
something to eat.  You're not going to do Scully any good, nor 
yourself."  Skinner's tone was low, but still firm.

He shook his head.  Skinner didn't understand, and he could not 
explain, that he could not eat, that the thought of food turned 
his stomach.  "I need to go to the Hoover building.  Start going 
through my files." He swallowed, corrected himself.  "Our files." 
He jutted his chin at the composite sketch lying on the table. 
"I don't recognize him at all, and that bothers me, because 
I don't forget faces.  Maybe I'll see a picture in one of the 
files, get a name."

"Fine," Skinner said.  "I'll come with you, after we eat 
something."  Implacably.  His arms were crossed over his chest 
as he stared Mulder down.

Mulder nodded his defeat.  Eating could be faked, he had done 
it many a time when Scully got in one of her over-protective, 
mothering moods, and insisted he needed sustenance to keep up
his strength.  Scully.  

His gut clenched, and then his mind flashed back to one afternoon 
in their office.  She had tried to tempt him with her yogurt and 
he had accidentally on purpose knocked the container over and 
then laughed uproariously at the look on her face as she stared 
down at the mess on the floor.  She had been so ticked off, but 
still unable to keep the smile from lifting the corners of her 
mouth.  She had used his freshly typed report due to Skinner that 
day to wipe the mess up in retaliation.

He closed his eyes as a wave of weariness and pain washed over him, 
followed by dizziness, and dimly heard Skinner bark his name.  
Then he was being shoved into the chair he had vacated earlier. 
He brought his elbows to his knees and propped his head in his hands.

Banging and thumping sounds from the kitchen, and then the press of 
something cold against his hand.  A voice telling him to drink.  He 
lifted his head up, seeing a blurred Skinner holding out a glass of 
what looked like water.  He took it with a trembling hand and 
swallowed several mouthfuls before shaking his head and shoving the
glass towards Skinner, feeling the water hitting his empty stomach.

He bolted from the chair and down the hall to the bathroom, 
shuddering with dry heaves.

Moments later a cold cloth was rubbing his face and then hands were 
lifting him and guiding him into Scully's bedroom.  He did not 
fight as the hands pushed him gently onto the bed and covered him
with the comforter.  He turned his head into the pillow and inhaled
her scent, loneliness and despair clutching at his heart.  

Scully, please be okay. 

***

end Part 2 of 29