Blue Girl IITitle: Blue Girl II
Classification: SA
Keywords: none
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Ascension
Thanks: as always, to realb, Karri, and Liam
Feedback: please, to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Distribution: not that you would, but you could.  Just let me 
              know.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to 
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Summary: "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live 
         it? - every, every minute?"  (From "Our Town" by 
         Thornton Wilder) Sequel to Blue Girl.  



Salem, Missouri seemed like as good a place as any, and she'd 
been seeing the signs since just outside Richmond, anyway.  It 
was like they were calling to her, so she answered, and pulled 
into a place that looked abandoned for four in the afternoon.

The manager, a greasy man who reminded her vaguely of that man, 
Frohike, raised his bushy eyebrows as she walked through the 
door.  Probably thought she was lost, or looking for someone.

"Help ya?"  He asked, grinning around his yellow teeth.

"I'm looking for work.  Anything you've got will be fine," she 
answered simply.  Her diction made her sound out of place, she 
knew, but she really didn't fit anywhere, so it didn't much 
matter.

"We're always lookin' for girls.  C'mon in."  He motioned her 
over to a table with a beefy hand.  "Jennie!  Drinks!"

A girl, maybe twenty, and wearing only an apron, jumped to 
attention.  She set two frosty mugs of amber in front of them.

"On the house," the evil Frohike assured her.  "So tell me, what 
brings you to these parts?"

She shook her head, staring vapidly at Jennie and two other girls 
- that's all they were, girls - as they saauntered around the bar.  
Business in places like these must not pick up until dark.  "Just 
needed to get away.  I'm running out of money."

What little she'd had had led her here: Mulder didn't want her to 
get far.

Evil Frohike nodded, seeming to understand.  She was probably the 
standard around here.  He took a gulp of his drink.  "You ain't 
runnin', are ya?  No boyfriends or pimps out lookin' for ya?"

"No."  That, at least, was the truth.

He stood, downing the rest of his drink in a hurry.  "What's your 
name?"

She stood, too.  "Kathy."

"Deb!  Watch the counter.  Kathy and me's goin' to my office for 
an interview."

<><><><><><>

"Fellas like the little 'uns.  You'll do real nice," he murmured, 
moving his hand up her shirt.

She closed her eyes.

"Most of 'em like a little participation."

Taking the hint, she obediently stroked the rapidly hardening 
bulge just behind his zipper.  His breathing increased, and he 
squeezed one of her breasts roughly.

She bit her lip.

"Good...good...mm, that's nice."  His fingers found her zipper at 
her side and jerked it forcefully.  He pulled her pants - nice 
pants, dressy pants that probably went with a jacket and silk 
shell at one time, like something she would've worn to work - 
down to her knees, taking her panties with them.  His hot hand 
moved up the inside of her thigh.

She thought of Mulder's hand on her cheek just after her father 
had died.  She was glad her father was dead.

His breath hit her neck in short, wet pants.  "You clean?  No 
diseases?"

She nodded, turning her head away.

"On the pill?"

Again, she nodded.  It wasn't necessary, anyway.  She doubted 
that she could get pregnant after what had been done to her.

He was parting her lips with his cock, making vague sounds of 
pleasure.

She reached down and guided him inside her, wincing as he 
stretched her too much too soon.

She thought of the ocean at sunrise, of iced tea instead of root 
beer, of Christmas trees after New Years.  Blood spilling on a 
white cross.  Her father being proud of her.  The look on 
Skinner's face when he found out his murder suspect was a giant 
bloodsucking worm after all.  Bubble baths.  Soft beds.

He laid half on top of her, breathing heavily.  After he calmed, 
he got up, tugged his too-tight trousers over his ample hips, and 
turned away.

"You can start tonight.  Pay's six-fifty an hour, free food and 
drink.  Go get yourself somethin' to wear, be back by six."

<><><><><><>

There was this guard - the others called him Randy - who would 
always trade fresh water for blow jobs.  Every night, it seemed, 
she ended up on her knees, begging indirectly for something to 
drink.  He was gentle; he would stroke her shoulders and gather 
her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.  Underneath that, 
he was hungry and loved to prey on the vulnerable.

That's what this reminded her of.

"What's a pretty li'l thing like you doin' in a place like this?"  
A man asked as she past, sliding his hand up the back of her 
thigh to tug her hips closer to his chest.

"Waitin' on somebody like you," she forced.  This diction fit her 
style, and she was beginning to pick up the vocabulary, too.

He grinned at his friends, all leering and whistling, not yet 
having snared their meals for the evening.  Turning back to her, 
he shook a cigarette out of a pack, lit it, and took a long drag.  
He probably thought he made the act look erotic, and indicative, 
but it repulsed her.

"Got one for me?"  She asked in her best sugary-sweet naivete.

"Oh, I got somethin' for you alright," he answered, handing her 
the cigarette.

His friends erupted into applause and vulgar name-calling as he 
slid out of the booth and followed her to her room.

"You deserve better than this," he told her as he moved long and 
slow inside her.  "Girl like you could get five hundred a night, 
easy.  I know how to hook you up."

She pressed her face against his chest, not smelling the prison 
or the testing rooms or her own fear-sweat on her clothes in her 
mind.

He pumped faster.  "You in?"

She nodded, and he exploded, moaning some approximation of her 
name.  It was close enough.

<><><><><><>

He'd done what he could, which admittedly wasn't much.  Two days 
after he and her mother had spent hours standing over her 
tombstone, he'd called the cheapest of the local motels.  One 
said they had a guest matching Scully's description, so he 
cleaning out his savings account and left the money in an 
envelope for her at the desk.  Inside, he'd put a note saying to 
please, please call him if she needed anything, and that he would 
be waiting to help her however he could when she decided to 
return home.  If she got the envelope, she'd not let him know.  
He'd shrugged, straightened his shoulders, and went on.  He had a 
life to live, too, after all.

APB's were a week later, when Skinner had come to ask him how she 
was.  It hurt him to say she'd left, and that he hadn't done 
nothing, so he did something.  After that, he didn't know what 
else to do.  Maybe she'd come home when she was ready, or maybe 
he'd get a call one day asking him to identify a dead body.

Diana answered the phone and, with a frown, passed it to him.  
"Missouri Task Force officer," she said, her hand covering the 
receiver.

He took it from her without an expression.  "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder?  This is Jim Downing with the Missouri State 
Police.  I was told by my superior officer to contact you."

"Yeah?"

"We found your missing agent, Dana Scully.  Got her in state 
prison in St. Louis."

He stood, leaving his dinner to cool on the table as he went to 
pack.  "Prison?  What for?"

The man cleared his throat.  "We led a bust on some prostitution 
rings the other night.  Got her for solicitation."

He sighed, knowing something like this was coming. "Is she okay?"

He hesitated.  "She's pretty beat up, but her HIV and drug tests 
have come back negative so far.  You coming to get her?"

"Yeah, I'll be on the next flight out.  Thank you."  He hung up 
the phone, dragging his suitcase to the door.

"What was that about?"  Diana asked, clearing their dinner that 
wasn't.

"They think they've found Scully.  I gotta go get her."

"Fox, wait."  He stopped, turned, and did as she'd asked.  "If 
she wanted you to find her, she would've let you know somehow.  
Maybe this is how she wants it."

"She doesn't know what she wants right now," he answered, 
calculating flight times, driving times, and how much bail would 
cost.

She walked up to him, rubbed her hands up and down his arms 
soothingly.  "I know you feel responsible, but you did all you 
could.  You offered to do more.  She didn't take it.  This is her 
fault, now."

He shook his head.  "I'll call you," he said, walking out of 
their apartment without kissing her goodbye.

<><><><><><>

To maintain his sanity, he didn't imagine what she might look 
like.  He was shocked by what he finally saw.

Her hair - black, though not completely, and her roots were 
showing - hung limp and stringy down her back.  It, and the rest 
of her, probably hadn't been washed in a week.  She was 
emaciated, pale, and shaking, black and purple bruises molting 
the skin of her wrists and around her eyes.  He thought she 
might've been asleep, but when the guard fit the key in the lock, 
she snapped awake, looking ready to run and fight if only she 
weren't so weak.

When she saw him, she rolled her eyes, and curled back into a 
ball on her bunk.

"Let's go, Scully," the guard said to her, and she lumbered to 
her feet, rubbing her eyes like a sleepy child.

The other women watched her with contempt as she stepped outside 
the bars.

"I told you: that's not my name," she said when they reached the 
front desk.  Her voice was hoarse, and he imagined her screaming 
and screaming and screaming for help that never came.

The guard gave him a look that said, "this is your problem now, 
buddy," and signed her release papers, then walked away.

They stood toe-to-toe, but she wouldn't look at him.  Finally, at 
a loss for anything else to do, he took her by the elbow and led 
her outside.  "I'm taking you to a hotel, then we're going to the 
airport.  You have a choice: you can go to Texas and stay with 
your mother or you can come back to Washington with me.  If you 
haven't decided by the time I call Delta, I'm choosing for you."

"I need a cigarette.  Do you have a cigarette?"  She asked, 
ignoring him.

If she made him choose, he wouldn't let her mother see her like 
this.  He'd had a hard enough time thinking of something to say 
when he called her on the plane down here, and had settled for, 
"we found her.  I'll call you when I know more," on her machine.  
He'd purposely called when he knew she'd be at church, praying 
for her daughter.

He only rented one room, but he wasn't planning for them to stay 
overnight anyway.

She sat heavily on the bed, or maybe she collapsed, he wasn't 
sure.  He set the bag down next to her.  "There's some clothes 
and toiletries.  Take a shower, get cleaned up.  We'll get 
something to eat on the way to the airport."

She rubbed her arms furiously.  "Will you get me some 
cigarettes?"

He tilted his face to the ceiling, practicing for defeat.  
"Yeah."

There was a machine in the motel lobby he'd noticed.  If he went 
while she was in the shower, he could watch their door and make 
sure she didn't try to run.

<><><><><><>

It was her third in a row, and she didn't seem to be slowing 
down.  The lights from the approaching cars blinded him, and he 
kept looking at the white line near the edge of the road.

"Have you decided?"

"Decided what?"  She asked, her voice flat.

"Your mother or me?"

She scoffed a laugh, and took a long drag.

"All right, then.  You're coming home with me.  You're sick, 
Scully, whether you realize it or not.  Post traumatic stress at 
the least.  Rape trauma, physical trauma, survivor's guilt.  I'm 
thinking private therapy at least once a week, group therapy once 
a week, a low-dose anti-depressant, a support system.  
Stability."  He'd done some research about how POW's are re-
introduced into society, talked to some military psychologists 
about their techniques, success rates, recovery time.  "It'll 
work, Scully.  You just have to give it some time."

She flicked the dead cigarette out the open window, pulled 
another one out of the pack.  "Maybe I don't want to waste the 
time."

"It's not a waste of time!"

"It is to me."

<><><><><><>

She was asleep this time, he was sure.  He got her a Diet Coke as 
the stewardess passed anyway.  He remembered she liked to drink 
those.

He pulled the airphone from its holder on the back of the seat in 
front of him, swiped his credit card, and dialed his number.

"Hello?"

Her voice instantly soothed him, and he wondered how to tell her 
this.  "It's me."

"Hi, Fox.  How's Dana?"

"Not good.  I'm bringing her home with me, and she'll need a 
place to stay."

Diana sighed and tried to sound generous.  "Okay."

He closed his eyes, wondering when the last time he'd slept was.  
"It won't be for long, hopefully.  It's the least I can do."

"I know.  It's okay," she assured him.

"We'll have to push the wedding back.  Not until she's better; at 
least a little bit."

Another sigh.  Sometimes it seemed as if they'd never get there.  
"Okay."

A few more sentimental exchanges and he hung up, swiping his card 
again to call Maggie Scully.

She was awake beside him now, tears in her eyes.  "I never meant 
to ruin your life," she said soundlessly.

He shook his head, moved a hand towards her face.

She jerked away, against the window.  "Don't.  Don't touch me."

He nodded; another thing he should've known.  "I'm sorry."

He didn't ever think he could say it enough.

<><><><><><>

Diana met them at the airport.  He was still leading her by the 
elbow, still afraid that she'd run if she got the chance.  She 
was tolerating it, barely, and he'd learned that slow, 
telegraphed movements and soft voices worked best.

"Scully, this is Diana Fowley," he introduced.  Diana stuck her 
dainty hand out, and smiled widely.

Scully stared at her shoes that were too big; he hadn't known 
what size to get, so he did his best.  As usual, his best wasn't 
good enough.

"Fox has told me a lot about you," Diana tried, tilting her head 
and searching for eye contact.

At his given name, Scully scoffed another laugh.  "Fox?"  She 
mimicked to herself.

Diana gave him a weird look, and he shook his head.  "Let's get 
you home," he decided to say, moving the action along.  Scully 
didn't move until he moved her, seeming a million miles away from 
the world.

He sat in the back with her as Diana drove them home.  She closed 
her eyes.  In another world, at another time, this might have 
been normal: getting off a plane with him and being chauffeured 
around some paranormal-stricken little town by the sheriff.  
Except in that world, in that time, they'd be exchanging case 
notes, theories, and making juvenile stabs at each other with 
words.

In this world, in this time, they sat in silence, and she let the 
motion of the car lull her to sleep.

From the rearview mirror, Mulder's eyes met Diana's, and she 
could see the pain there.  Guilt.  What if this had been 
Samantha?  Would he have let her get into a taxi and drive out of 
his life?  Would he have let her sell her body on the streets 
like it was the only skill she had left?

No.  So why did he let her do it?

She didn't awake until they were almost up the stairs.  Mulder 
was carrying her, and he sat her down a high, soft bed that 
smelled safe and clean.  She vaguely thought she might be 
allergic to those scents.

He bent to the foot of the bed to pull a quilt over her, thinking 
she was still sleeping.  When he reached her shoulder, he saw her 
eyes were open, glued to the window at her side.

He sat down on the bed, his head in his hands.  "Will you talk to 
me?  It *will* help, Scully."  No answer.  "You have to talk to 
someone."

Nothing.  He'd not really expected anything, anyway.

"Well, you can listen to me, then."  He bit his lip.  "I don't 
blame you if you hate me, and I don't blame you if you hate your 
mother.  We did what we had to in order to go on - and we had to 
go on.  We had to live our lives, Scully, and, to do that, we had 
to let you go.  I know...I know you can't understand that right 
now, but I don't know how else to explain it.  We did what we had 
to.  We did what anyone else would've done."

No, not what anyone else would've done.  Mulder would've moved 
Heaven and Earth to find his precious sister, but he wouldn't 
lift one goddamned finger to look for her.  In truth, he was 
probably glad to have her out of his way; another obstacle, gone.

"I know your mother has been seeing a therapist to try to make 
sense of all this, and I've been talking to psychologists and 
psychiatrists, trying to figure out a way to help you.  But the 
truth is it won't do any good unless you want it to.  Unless you 
want to start living your life again, the best therapists in the 
world won't do a damn bit of good."

Didn't he get it?  God, didn't he see?  He *was* a fucking 
psychologist, couldn't he understand this?  Her life - the person 
she was professionally, privately, her friends, family, co-
workers, everything that had made her who she was, everything 
that had defined her existence, made it distinctly her - was 
gone.  The places in peoples' lives she'd inhabited had been 
sealed closed.  She was gone, and everyone had moved on.  There 
was nothing left for her here, *nothing.* What the hell was she 
supposed to do?

He looked back at her to see if she was listening, and it didn't 
appear that she was.  He might as well be talking to the wall.  
"But we still have lives to live, too.  We couldn't stop them 
because you died, and we can't stop them because you came back."

She closed her eyes again as he stood, let her tears slip into 
the pillowcase as he closed her door.

Later, after it was dark, she changed her clothes and stepped out 
of her room, tip-toed down the stairs, and searched for the front 
door.

Mulder was sitting at the kitchen table, watching her silently.  
Their eyes locked for a long moment.

He didn't move or speak as she opened the door, and left.

<><><>End<><><>

All you pokers-for-a-sequel don't get too excited.  I've had the 
idea for this story for a while, but had no context or background 
for it.  The Blue Girl universe seemed like as good a place as 
any.

Website: geocities.com/lil_gusty
Feedback would be nice to lil_gusty@hotmail.com