TITLE: Ghosts SPOILER WARNING: None. RATING: NC-17 for emotional content and sexual detail. CONTENT WARNING: **Rape.** Scully/Skinner friendship. Scully/Mulder friendship. There is nothing light or amusing here, friends. I wound up traveling to a very dark place as a result of the recent discussion about rape on ATXC. Enter at your own risk. CLASSIFICATION: S,A. Especially the latter. SUMMARY: An unexpected encounter exposes Scully to memories she had thought safely buried. GHOSTS by Brandon D. Ray 1998: "Mulder, wait!" Special Agent Dana Scully ran after her partner up the steps of the county jail. He paused on the top step and waited for her to catch up. "Sorry, Scully," he said, holding the door for her. "It must be the crisp fall air making me feel vigorous or something." "Or something," she agreed, as her partner fell into step beside her. "I must say this is a perfect finish for a wasted trip." Mulder grimaced. "For once I have to agree with you; these are three days out of MY life that I'm never going to get back." The pair had spent the last three days here in rural Nebraska, investigating a series of cattle mutilations which Mulder had been sure were being perpetrated by extraterrestrials. Scully still felt a residual tingle of triumph at the recollection of the look on his face when a couple of local residents were caught in the act. It wasn't often that she was so thoroughly proven to be right that even Mulder had to admit it to her face. This had been one of those times. They arrived at the main reception desk. Mulder flipped his badge at the sergeant manning the desk, and said, "I'm Fox Mulder; this is Dana Scully. We're with the FBI. I believe you may be expecting us?" "Certainly; right this way, Agent Mulder. Agent Scully." The man led the way down a short hallway. Over his shoulder, he said, "It's kind of unusual for the FBI to show up for something like this. Usually the Marshals are the ones involved in prisoner transfers." Mulder said, "We just happened to be in the area on another matter when the word came in. Our boss called us this morning and told us to swing by and pick him up. Save the taxpayers a little money." "Guess no one can complain about that. I must say, it's the most excitement we've had around here in a long time. It isn't every day that we haul someone in for spouse abuse, and have it turn out they're wanted by the Feds." The sergeant paused before a metal door with bars across the window. Taking a large keyring from his belt, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Mulder and Scully followed. They found themselves in a small interrogation room. It was plain and functional: Gray paint on the walls, a single overhead light protected by a wire frame. The only furniture was a rickety table, bolted to the floor, and a couple of straight chairs. In one of the chairs was a man in blue jeans and a dirty t-shirt, wearing handcuffs. Scully stopped dead in her tracks, and her eyes widened. She felt a sudden constriction in her chest, and she couldn't breathe. The man's face swam in front of her eyes, and suddenly she couldn't see anything but his eyes. His eyes. His eyes. Staring at her. Staring at her. At her. The next thing she knew, she was halfway down the hallway, leaning against the wall with her eyes closed, gasping for breath. <> she thought. She tried to control her breathing, tried not to hyperventilate, but it was a losing battle. <> She felt a touch on her shoulder, and she swung around, crouched in a defensive posture. All shecould see was a man standing in front of her. Standing over her. Close. Threatening. It was him -- "Scully? What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost." Mulder. It was Mulder. She glared at him. Mulder. He was her partner, and he was standing awfully close. Awfully close. Too close. She took a step back, trying to widen the distance between them. "Scully?" She realized that the words he was speaking were directed at her. She was supposed to answer, but she couldn't think of anything to say. <> With a supreme effort of will, she forced her body back into a more normal posture. She closed her eyes for a moment, and shuddered, then took a deep breath and opened them again. "I'm fine, Mulder." And she brushed past him and walked back to the interrogation room. # # # 1983: Dana heard the phone start to ring as she put the key into the lock. Hastily, she unlocked the door and pushed inside. Dumping her books on the bed, she crossed the small room and scooped up the receiver. "Hello?" "Hi, Dana? This is Donald. Donald Emerson, from your chemistry class?" "Oh, sure. Hi." A slight smile formed on her lips. She'd been trying to get Donald to notice her for weeks, ever since the start of the term. Tall, dark-haired, good-looking...and very intelligent, too. She'd finally caught him looking at her yesterday in class, and now here he was on the phone... "Well, I was wondering if, you know...if you're not too busy...or have studying to do...." "Donald, are you asking me if I'll go out with you?" There was a momentary pause. Then: "Well, yes." "I'd love to." They spent a few more moments on the phone, making plans and exchanging pleasantries. He'd pick her up at seven. Dinner and a movie. Wonderful. Hanging up the phone, she looked at her watch. She just had time to get her hair trimmed. Humming to herself, she walked back out the door. # # # 1998: Scully sat in the window seat of the passenger jet, watching the ground pass by far beneath them. She and Mulder usually fought over who got to sit on the aisle, she because she was afraid of flying, and he because he wanted more room for his legs. She usually won. But this time she hadn't felt up to it. The prisoner sat between them. Of course. Standard protocol for transporting someone in custody: keep him away from the civilians, keep him where the officers involved can control him and keep an eye on him. Of course. And also of course, that meant that Donald Eugene Emerson was sitting right next to her, towering over her, looming and ominous, his upper arm brushing against her shoulder from time to time in incidental contact, and each time it happened it sent a fresh jolt shuddering down her spine. <> she thought. <> She couldn't decide if that was better or worse. In a way she was glad to have Emerson hulking beside her. She was glad, because it meant that Mulder WASN'T next to her. She knew that Mulder was full of questions, full of concerns, wanting to know why she was acting the way she was, and she just couldn't deal with that. She dreaded the moment when they would be on the ground, and the U.S. Marshals would assume custody of Emerson and take him away, because then there would be no buffer, no barrier, nothing between her and Mulder. "What?" She looked away from the window. Someone was talking to her. It was the flight attendant. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. Did you want the club sandwich or the lasagna?" Oh. They wanted her to make a decision. Club sandwich. Lasagna. Club sandwich. She tried to concentrate. What exactly did she want? Finally, aware of the young woman's eyes boring into her, she said faintly, "I'm really not very hungry, thank you." And she turned her gaze back to the window again. She tried to keep the thoughts away; she didn't want the thoughts, she wanted them to belong to somebody else, anybody else. But they were hers, and they wouldn't leave her alone. # # # 1983: Dinner had been lovely: a little out of the way Italian restaurant, with soft lighting, quiet music in the background, and excellent food. Their conversation had sparkled, and Dana felt a happy glow settling over her as Donald paid the bill and they headed back out to his car to go to the movie. The movie was BODY HEAT, with Kathleen Turner and William Hurt. It had been released two years before, and was now making the rounds of the second-run theaters. Dana hadn't seen it before, and quickly found herself wrapped up in the sultry, sensual mood of the film. Partway through the first reel, Donald's arm hesitantly slipped around her shoulders. She started slightly, but then relaxed and decided that she liked it, and after awhile she snuggled up against him. # # # 1998: Ditching Mulder turned out to be easier than she had feared. They were met at the gate by a pair of U.S. Marshals, and while Mulder was dealing with the paperwork she simply turned and walked away. Of course, by the time she got home there were already three messages on her answering machine, all of them in the last twenty minutes and all from Mulder's cell phone, according to her Caller I.D. She didn't play them back; she just took the phone off the hook and sank down on the sofa, not even bothering to remove her coat. A short while later she was aware of someone knocking on her door. It sounded distant and hollow, as if it didn't really relate to her at all. She frowned slightly. Was that a voice? Her name? She shook her head, and the frown disappeared. It didn't matter. She heard a key in the lock, but that didn't matter either, because she'd set the deadbolt before sitting down. The knocking resumed, but she simply sat on the sofa, still and calm, staring straight ahead, and finally whoever it was went away. # # # 1983: Dana sat staring dreamily out the passenger-side window of Donald's car, looking at the stars, thinking about nothing much, just drifting along in happy contentment. She had had a wonderful evening; everything had been perfect: The dinner. The movie. The company. Especially the company. She had already decided that she would let him kiss her goodnight if he wanted to. But now the car was rolling to a halt. At first she thought there must be something the matter with the car, and she said, "What's wrong? Why are we stopping?" But Donald didn't seem disturbed. He switched off the engine and turned to face her, a gentle smile on his lips. He said, in a soft, sing-songy voice, "Nothing's wrong, Dana. The night is just so beautiful; I don't want it to end. I want to get to know you better." He took her hand in his. "I like you a lot." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. Dana felt a tingle run up her arm and down her spine. "I like you, too, Donald," she said. "I mean I REALLY like you, Dana," he murmured, and scooted closer to her on the car's bench seat. "I think...I think I could be in love with you." Dana didn't know quite what to do with that statement. She really did like Donald; she even thought he was pretty sexy. But love? Gently reclaiming her hand, she said, "It's -- it's awfully soon for that, Donald. Don't you think?" He moved closer, and put his arm around her shoulders as he had in the movie. But this time, instead of feeling friendly and comfortable, it felt...demanding. Intrusive. Dana felt a slight chill run down her spine. Last year a friend of hers had been with a boy who wouldn't take "no" for an answer. Christine had come to Dana's dorm room in tears in the middle of the night, and Dana had held her and comforted her as best she could. But that had been someone else. Such a thing couldn't happen to HER. # # # 1998: Scully still sat on the sofa, hunched up into a ball of misery. Her eyes were squinched tightly shut, but the tears leaked out anyway. She held herself motionless, barely breathing; perhaps if she couldn't make the thoughts go away, she could at least make herself go away. # # # 1983: Donald was still murmuring softly to her, but she didn't really hear the words. Somehow, he had moved over until there was no space at all between them; their bodies were lightly touching. His hand on her shoulder was moving, too -- rubbing, exploring, his fingers slipping into the collar of her blouse. "No!" Dana reached up and removed the offending hand, then ducked out of Donald's semi-embrace and pushed him away. "Donald...I don't think this is a good idea," she said shakily. "I think you'd better take me home." "Oh, Dana," he said, and moved back towards her. Automatically, she brought her arms up against his chest, trying to maintain some space between their bodies. "Dana, we were so good together in the restaurant...at the movie. It was so nice. And you liked it, too, I could tell. Didn't you?" He put his arm back around her shoulders again, and now she also felt a slight touch on her knee. He moved closer, and tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away, and so he nuzzled his face in her hair instead, and whispered into her ear. "Didn't you?" Dana was starting to feel panicky now. "Donald!" she said. "Donald, what are you doing?" She tried to push him away, but he just pressed closer, and the hand on her knee started to travel up her thigh, sliding easily under her skirt. "Donald, no!" "Donald, yes!" he replied, in the same soft sing-songy voice as he pressed her back against the car door. The hand under her skirt became more aggressive, rubbing her inner thigh and finally slipping under the elastic of her panties. Meanwhile, Donald was planting kisses on her face: Brow, nose, cheek, ear. Lips. "Donald...!" She was now openly struggling, trying to force his hand out from between her legs, trying to force him away, but he was in complete control now, on top of her and holding her down, dominating her with his weight. She was crying now, hitting him on the chest and back and shoulders with her fists, trying desperately to get him to stop, to get him to back away. But he was so much bigger than she was, and so much stronger. Abruptly, the hand between her legs grasped her panties and yanked, then yanked again, and the material ripped with a horrible noise that somehow terrified her more than anything else that had already happened. NO! MAKE IT STOP! HOLY MARY, PLEASE MAKE IT STOP! She didn't even know if she spoke the words aloud or not, but it didn't matter, there was no one there to hear them, and then she was screaming in her mind, and her screams were echoing and reechoing, and he wasn't stopping, it wasn't doing any good at all. Then he was pushing his way into her, forcing his way into her, and oh, dear God it hurt! She felt as if she was being torn apart, her body was being savaged and mutilated, and she couldn't stop it, she couldn't make him stop, and she cried and cried and continued to struggle and none of it did any good. And then he started to thrust, and the car started to rock with his motions in a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. # # # 1998: Still curled in a ball on the sofa, her head buried in her knees, but now dry-eyed again, Scully started to rock. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. # # # 1983: It seemed to go on forever, and each thrust was a new violation, bringing more pain, more terror, more humiliation. Finally, she stopped struggling, and now she just lay there, sprawled on the seat, unable to resist, not thinking anything, not feeling anything, and even the tears had stopped. And the car continued to rock: Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. # # # 1998: Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. # # # 1983: Dana sat quietly in the passenger seat of Donald's car as he drove her back to her dorm. Her hands were folded in her lap, tightly clutching her ruined panties. She held herself completely still. Trying to make it go away. The car pulled to a stop in front of her dorm. Donald was saying something, but the words just flowed around her, leaving no record of their passing. Moving like an automaton, she opened the car door and got out. Leaving it standing open, she sleepwalked into the building and took the elevator up to her floor. Her room was eerily the same. Nothing had changed, and everything was different. She was walking through a dream, and everything real, everything concrete, seemed to be far, far away, at the end of a long, dark tunnel. She stood in the center of the room for a long time, her mind blank, not even trying to decide what to do. There was nothing TO do. There was nothing at all. At length, she noticed someone else in the room, out of the corner of her eye, and she wondered absently if Donald had come back. Turning her head slightly, she saw that it was her own reflection in the mirror over the sink, and she was unsurprised to see how ugly she was. Slowly, as if the air were being let out of her, she sank down on the floor, still clutching her panties, and curled up in a ball. And after awhile, it was morning. # # # 1998: Gradually, the rocking motion ceased, and Scully began to have slow, sluggish thoughts. She hadn't any idea how much time had passed; she didn't know if it was the same day, or the next, or the day after that. She felt as if she were wrapped in cotton: no sound, no light, no feeling. She didn't feel anything; she was completely detached, and it was calm, and peaceful, and quiet. She was floating in cotton, leaving the world behind and just floating away in cotton. Somewhere deep inside, a tiny scrap of sanity remained. She knew this dead, lost feeling, and much as she longed for it, wanted to drown in it, wanted to be swallowed up in it, the tiny, flickering spark at her very core would not allow it. She was not even aware of the spark, was not aware of anything but the soft, soothing cotton all around her. But slowly, so very, very slowly, she reached out and rested her hand on the telephone. Without knowing how it had happened, she had the receiver to her ear, and was listening to it ring. One ring; two rings. Nobody was answering. Nobody was home. Five rings; six rings. Nobody was home, and she was totally, completely alone. Part of her didn't mind that; being alone was good. It was safe. You couldn't get hurt when you were alone. No one was there to hurt you. The phone was answered on the twelfth ring. "Hello?" The voice at the other end was blurred with sleep, she noted absently, and for a moment she pondered the significance of that observation. The voice repeated, "Hello? Is somebody there?" She considered the voice. She realized that it was speaking to her, and that she should answer. Summoning forth all her willpower, she uttered, in a lost, wispy voice, "It's happening again." There was the barest instant of silence at the other end; then the voice said, "I'll be right there." Again she wasn't aware of any passage of time. She was lost in a sea of cotton, and nothing seemed to matter, nothing even existed except for the cotton. The spark inside of her flickered, dimly but insistently, but she didn't notice. Everything was cotton. Soft, gentle cotton. It might have been minutes, hours or even days, but she gradually became aware of a face floating in front of her. She frowned. That was odd. There shouldn't be a face there; there should just be cotton. Only cotton. Lovely cotton. "Dana." The face was speaking to her, and she frowned some more. That wasn't right, either. How could there be a face, or a sound, when there was only cotton? She wanted the cotton; she was safe in the cotton. The face and its voice should go away; they should leave her alone. She was so ugly, so very, very ugly, Only the cotton could protect her; only the cotton could keep her safe. "Dana." The face was speaking again, and she struggled against it. <> she thought angrily, not even aware that she was feeling her first real emotion since walking into the interrogation room in Nebraska. Emotions got in the way of the cotton; they made it harder for her to be in the cotton. They made her aware of her body, her ugliness. It wasn't fair! "Dana. It's me, Walter." Walter? That was a funny name for a face and a voice. Why would a face and a voice be named Walter? She wanted to shake her head, she wanted to push it away, but she knew that if she moved even a little bit, the cotton would go away, and she would be naked, and everyone would see how ugly she was. She didn't want to be ugly, and as long as she was wrapped in cotton, she wouldn't be. Cotton....cotton....cotton.... "Dana, this is Walter talking to you. Come back, Dana. Come back." She sighed, and closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, the cotton had receded a bit. She was sitting on the sofa again, still hunched into a ball, and Walter Skinner was crouched in front of her, studying her with concern in his eyes. "Are you back?" he asked. Slowly, reluctantly, she gave a single nod, and the cotton receded further, and then was gone, evaporating back to wherever it had come from. She licked her lips, and tried to speak, but her mouth and throat were dry, and she couldn't. She closed her eyes again and swallowed, and when she opened her eyes again she could talk. "How...how did you get here?" she asked. "You called me. Don't you remember?" She shook her head. "You did." He smiled slightly. "I had to climb the trellis to get in; you'd bolted the door." The smile vanished as quickly as it came. "Looks like this one was pretty bad. Do you know what happened?" Still he didn't move, but remained crouched in front of her, squatting on his heels, and she noted absently that he was still wearing his coat. And he was waiting quietly for her to answer his question. He seemed to be willing to wait all night. Finally, she said, "It was that man." His face was puzzled. "Which man?" "That man," she repeated. There was silence for a minute, but she could tell from his face that he still didn't get it. She didn't want to say it; she didn't want to make it real by speaking the words. But she had to share it with someone; it was too much to keep to herself, and he was the only one she could tell it to. "That man," she said again. "The one....the one....the prisoner...." Comprehension seemed to dawn on his face. "You mean Emerson?" She nodded, and now tears were running down her cheeks. "He was the one...the one who...?" She kept nodding, and the tears kept flowing. "Son of a bitch!" "Don't tell Mulder," she said, suddenly frightened by the expression of loathing on Skinner's face. It was okay for Skinner to see her ugliness; it was okay for Skinner to hate her. But not Mulder. Not Mulder. Please, God, not Mulder. "Please don't tell Mulder. I couldn't stand it if he...if he..." She couldn't find the words, couldn't express her emotions. She was so ugly; so very ugly. The world wobbled, and she wished for the cotton to return, but she knew that it would not. It never came more than once, and now it was gone...gone...gone. She had lost the cotton. "It's okay, Dana," Skinner was saying gently. "I won't tell Mulder. I won't tell anyone." "Mulder," she said sadly. If only things were different. If only she weren't so ugly. If only...if only...if only.... "Mulder...." Then abruptly she collapsed on her side and wept, great wracking sobs pounding through her body, hammering at her, tearing at her throat, wrenching her soul. Slowly, slowly, she ran down, and finally she was lying on the sofa, still curled in a ball, quietly weeping and sniffling. She opened her eyes again, and Skinner was still there, blurry through her tears, still squatting in front of her, not moving, his eyes watching her with gentle concern. She managed a smile; it seemed like her first smile in ages. "You must be pretty tired of squatting there like that," she said. "Nah," he replied. "Used to do it in Nam all the time." He slowly started to stand up, and somewhere a joint popped audibly, and he winced. "On the other hand, I was only 19 at the time." Somehow, she actually managed to laugh. "Times change," she said, still sniffling. "Indeed they do." He stood there looking at her for a moment. "Indeed they do." Awkward pause. Finally: "I want to thank you for coming over here tonight," she said, and laughed again, shakily; a ragged, tearing sound. "I'm a real piece of work, aren't I?" "We both have our ghosts, Agent Scully," Skinner replied. "I know," she said softly. "I know you have ghosts, too. That's why I called you." There was another moment of silence. "You've done so much for me, both tonight and...and the other times. Would...would you do one more thing for me?" "You want me to call Mulder for you?" She nodded slightly. "Consider it done." He moved over to the phone, and she heard his voice but did not listen to the words. Finally, he came back and sat down crosslegged in front of her. Just being there. "You called him?" she asked. "He'll be here in twenty minutes." Twenty minutes. She could wait twenty minutes. A sudden fear passed briefly through her. "You didn't -- you didn't tell him --" "I didn't tell him a blessed thing," Skinner replied, cutting her off. "I just told him to get his ass over here." She nodded in relief, and closed her eyes. Mulder didn't know....he didn't know....he didn't know that she was ugly. "Thank you," she whispered, and she drifted off to sleep. And when she awoke in the morning, Mulder was sitting on the floor in front of the sofa. Waiting for her. Fini