Everything else is insignificant. Only he holds the answer. Only he holds
the key—the light—the finality of peace is to be found in his hands.
Only he matters.
My prey, my food, my final solution. Run as you will, you'll never escape
me.
I am the Hunter, you my Prey—
—and the time has come—
—to end it for once and for all.
"Hey, Doc. Been a while since you've been out on one of these."
"Hi, O'Malley. I'm trying to escape the paperwork sitting on my desk. I hear
you've got a doozy for me?"
"Better believe it. Perp was found sitting next to the body, rocking in a
kind of catatonic shock. He's been taken down to the precinct."
"That doesn't sound like the normal reaction to murdering someone. You sure
he did it?"
"Everything points to him, Doc. There's bruising on his knuckles to match
those found on the victim."
"Let's have a look see if we can prove that for you."
"You might want to do a rape kit as well."
"What? Why?"
"Aside from the rocking, the only thing the perp was doing was holding onto
the victim's hand and whispering goodbye. It's the freakiest thing I've ever
seen."
"Lover's quarrel?"
"Not like any I've ever seen. This wasn't any kind of scene that would make
sense in an accidental death kind of way. There was premeditation here, but
there's something odd about that as well."
It's not hard to find him, it never is. He might be able to disappear off
other people's radar but he's never been able to hide from me. Not that he's
ever really tried, he hasn't needed to. Besides he knows how futile it is,
knows there's no point in trying—I'll always find him.
But still, it was less of a chore than I thought it would be—almost as if
he was waiting for me, that he knew I was coming. I suppose I should feel
surprised by that, but I'm not. Nothing surprises me anymore—not what he
does, not what I feel. Not that he's waiting for me. It's a thread that's
been spun between us down the years, a connection that began to form with
our first meeting and has only gained in strength since then.
I can see that he's not surprised either, in fact, the look in his eyes is
almost welcoming when I walk through the door. There's a warm relief, an
acceptance of what is to come and it lights him up, completes him.
Through blood and fire we've come to this place.
And only through blood and fire will we leave it.
"The time is 1.23pm, October 14th, and the autopsy—number 00A-974, part
2—for murder victim John Doe 11: an—as yet—unidentified Caucasian
male, is being conducted by myself, Karin Riley, with James Tynan assisting.
This is the second attempt at this, as the first ended with the less than
dignified evacuation of my stomach contents onto Jamie's shoes ..."
"Jesus, Karin!"
"Don't start. When you can stand there, three months pregnant with morning
sickness from hell, and not puke at the smell of old blood and a body
starting to go ripe, then you can get back to me. Now, I will just suffer my
embarrassment in bitchy silence and continue on with this damn thing, okay?
General physical characteristics of the subject, including weight and
height, have been listed previously and don't bear repeating, because
frankly, it's redundant."
"Date of birth for this patient is unknown, but from his general physical
characteristics I would say he was between thirty-five and forty. Actually,
he's in pretty damn good condition for his age. What a waste. Can you take a
picture of that, Jamie? Thanks. The most obvious cause of death would appear
to be the leather imbedded into the cutaneous tissue of his neck. There is a
circumferential ligature with an associated furrow secondary to this
garrote. Jamie, do you think -"
"The leather was wet?"
"Yeah. Shit. What a way to go. That's a slow and fucking painful way to die.
The larynx is crushed as well. I guess the perp was lucky and didn't have
him begging not to die at the end. There are associated abrasions and
petechial hemorrhages on the neck near the ligature that correspond with the
same on the face and, yep, on the conjunctival surfaces of the eyes.
Strangulation was definitely the primary cause of death, but lets see what
else he has to tell us -"
He welcomes the pain, he always has. It's the only way it can happen, the
only way that we can touch, the only way I can let myself touch him. With
fist and fury, I beat against him. I'm the wave against his shore, nature in
all its glory. And he takes it, craves it even, because it is the only way
he can get the contact he craves, that I crave as well. We yearn for each
other but can never have. We're too elemental—fire and water—opposing,
conflicted, straining against our longing, bound by our very selves.
Inamorata.
So we welcome the pain, welcome the blows. But even in that we differ. He
takes the physical blows, I take the psychological ones. I use my fists, he
uses his words. It's the only way we can know we're alive, that this isn't
some dream world we're living in.
His is my other half, he always has been, no matter how hard I have tried to
deny the fact.
He makes up the missing pieces of my fractured soul, just as I fill the
holes in his. A matched set, only now being put back together, only now
finding peace from the pain, from the hollow agony that has haunted us all
these years.
"—further examination of the head and neck shows a hematoma at the base of
the skull. The x-rays show an underlying hairline fracture with a radiating
pattern. This could be due to being struck with a bludgeoning weapon or
striking the floor. There's bruising across the abdomen and chest to match
the contusion and swelling around the right orbit that extends towards, and
over, the cheekbone. These are consistent with closed fist blows from a
physically strong individual, most probably a male from the width of the
knuckle abrasions and the force behind them. The assailant was most probably
right handed considering the angle of the pressure signature."
"Haven't they got the guy that did it?"
"Yeah, but O'Malley thinks there's something really odd about this case—especially considering their prime suspect seems to be in a catatonic fugue
state at the moment. I wonder if they've been able to snap him out of it?"
"Hey Karin, what do you think they are?"
"There are a matching pair of bruises bilaterally over the iliac crests,
they seem to be more from pressure bruising than from trauma, as the
majority of the contusions on the torso are. They don't fit the pattern.
That's odd. Remind me to look into that later. There appear to be fragments
of skin under the fingernails—hand me those tweezers, would you?—Thanks—They've been bagged for further analysis and genetic comparison.
Jamie, you want to go up and see if the physical exam on the guy they
brought in has been done yet?"
I can feel him against me, feel every movement, every breath. A soft and
subtle siren's song of life and existence that enraptures me, ensnares me.
For so long we've fought against this, denied this, and for what? For what
fucking reason have we denied ourselves this simple measure of human
kindness, of peace?
"Managed to get anything out of him?"
"Not a damn thing, and I don't think we're going to. The guy's away with the
fairies."
"That bad?"
"He had no problem with the physical exam, but whenever someone tries to
talk to him he starts getting weird again. You know, doing that rocking
thing. No one's been able to get him out of the corner since Mercain yelled
at him when the guy tried to touch his badge. A call's been put in for
Wallace to come down and assess him. I don't think he's going to be able to
help us, we're just going to have to go by the evidence."
"The scene's been pretty much tagged and bagged. I want to hear what the Doc
has to say about the autopsy before I start making accusations, but it
doesn't look good for him if he didn't do it, because everything we've found
so far is saying he's our perp."
"Do we know who he is yet?"
"Michelle's running his prints through the system to see if anything turns
up. If nothing does, we're back to good old-fashioned legwork."
"Oh, great. Here's hoping she finds something."
I can feel him weakening, the struggle going out of him and it makes me
smile. Makes me want to start all over just so that we can come to this
point again and again, so I can feel this encroaching peace, enjoy the
anticipation, savour the journey.
I can see the same light shining in his eyes. There's no fear there, and
only a hint of the pain that he must be feeling—but then again, he always
did have a high threshold for it. No, there's only acceptance,
understanding.
Maybe even love.
If it is love, it's a warped and twisted thing.
Just like us, just like this relationship that we deny we have.
I press my finger into the bruise on his cheek and listen to his gasping
breathing, the hiss of pain, and know that it's all real. Not a dream, never
a dream. It all ends here.
Finally.
Finally, it's time for the last reel in our mummers' dance.
And that thought makes me smile even more.
"We need to turn him over. One, two, three, and with an old heave ho—Jesus
H Christ, will you look at that!"
"If they didn't have the guy already in custody, we could've given them a
great set of prints from those."
"The length of the back is clear save for a few abrasions across the
shoulders and some intense bruising across the lower back—bruising in a
perfect spread, where fingertips have bitten into skin. You know—turn him
onto his side for a minute. Come here, put your hand there, you have bigger
hands than I do."
"It's almost a match."
"As demonstrated by Jamie, the bruising on the lower back corresponds to the
bruising across the iliac crests—those on the back made by the fingertips
of the assailant—the ones across the hips by his thumbs. You know, if I
didn't know this was a murder case, I would have said they were made by a
lover who didn't know his own strength. It's odd positioning, and if the
rape did occur why do it missionary? Seems like a lot of trouble to go to
just for the power trip."
"We've seen weirder, boss."
"True, but it's just another thing about this case that's strikes me an
inconsistent with the bigger picture."
"... happy birthday to me ..."
"Why does he keep saying that?"
"... happy birthday to me ..."
"According to his fingerprints, you are looking at one Special Agent Fox
Mulder. FBI. The 13th was his birthday. What a hell of a birthday present.
We're waiting for someone from the FBI to get here, hopefully they'll be
able to identify the body."
"He's an FBI agent?"
"Looks like. I've got a feeling this case is going to be a headache to end
all headaches."
"I'll get the aspirin."
"You'd better buy it in bulk."
"Good luck."
"Somehow I don't think that's going to help much. Agent Mulder, can you hear
me?"
"... not me, not me ... happy birthday to me ... can sleep now ..."
"Hey, Karin. Have you noticed that there aren't really any defensive
injuries? It doesn't look like he fought back at all."
"Think he might have been unconscious? No, that doesn't seem right, the way
those bruises across his abdomen are placed it's more like he turned into
them. This is so fucking weird. It's almost as if he was into this, but the
crime scene didn't look anything like the set up for some hard-core S&M,
there was none of the trappings for it."
"Do you think it could have been consensual?"
"Have you ever seen a strangulation death, especially one using wet leather,
that was consensual?"
There's something poetic in the arch of his spine, something aesthetically
pleasing in the way that he strains, the way his chest and his abs contract,
become highlighted with light and shadow in the dim illumination of the
room.
It's beautiful, it's frightening—
It's so fucking sexy.
My fingers find purchase in the small of his back, palms over the blades of
his hips, my thumbs stroking the ridge of bone. A perfect fit, made for me,
made for this. The sound of each gasping breath is like heaven in my ears,
the heaven he has created for me, as we move together, moan together, come
together. Body to body, soul to soul, we fly, we fly so high that I can
finally see heaven in his eyes. I hope that he can see it in mine.
But flying can only last for so long before we fall back to earth again.
Shuddering together, we crash, we come down so hard that the impact is like
a fist. His eyes dull upon our return to reality, lose the light that so
shone there a moment before, that brief glimpse of heaven. They dull as he
goes boneless in my arms.
For the first time in his life he goes soft, soft on me like he always has
been.
Defenseless and vulnerable.
And so incredibly open.
The smile on his face is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
And, at last, it shatters me whole.
"The local office called, someone from the FBI is supposed to be in soon.
His partner is coming up from Washington. They think she might be able to
identify the body."
"Oh, great. Fibbies. Can I be conveniently out to lunch when they arrive?"
"No, you're going to go play nice and pick up Agent Scully from the airport
and then take her down to the morgue to see if she can ID the body. And
then, if you would be so kind, run her over to County to see her partner."
"Why do I get the out of towner?"
"Hey, don't give me that look, they're the Lieutenant's orders. He wants to
'cooperate with our Federal cousins'. Meanwhile, I get to entertain our
local G-man."
"He should try pulling his finger out of his ass."
"Agreed, but if it gets this case off our hands quicker, I'm all for it.
It's giving me the creeps, there's just something really weird about it."
"—There's no bruising around the anus, though there is some chafing.
Residue of a water-based lubricant is still evident on the surrounding skin
and a sample has been taken for the evidentiary chain. There's some bruising
of the rectal mucosa, consistent with sexual intercourse, though the time of
this contact can not be determined with any greater accuracy than at some
point in the last 24 hours before death. Swabs have been taken for testing
and are positive for semen, so it looks like our victim either wasn't
playing it safe or had no choice. Swabs have also been taken from the mouth
and nostrils and both have come back negative."
"It doesn't look forced, boss."
"I know, but the evidence at the scene seems to indicate otherwise."
"Maybe the sex was prior to the attack? Or maybe the killer wasn't the guy
they have upstairs?"
"You know, I'm starting to hate this case."
"... happy birthday to me ..."
pretty pretty
itch scratch
"... happy birthday to me ..."
shadow pretty pretty
sharp jagged roaring roaring roaringroarroar
"... happy birthday to me ... not me ..."
sing with me sing
rock dance paper scissors rock
roaringroaringroarroar la la la la la
sing sing sing
"... happy birthday ... happy birthday ..."
dark pretty pretty
play sigh happy
scratch scratch
green pretty pretty
touch
hmmm
wriggle wiggle
"... oooooohhh ..."
new toy
pet pretty
play sigh happy
sharp jagged
rock dance paper scissors rock
lublub roaringroaring roar
sharp jagged bite
"... happy birthday ... happy birthday ..."
paper scissors rock rock
rock
roc...
dark soft
pretty dark
touch pretty
no play pretty
rock paper scissors rock
wet sniffle
no toy no toy
"... birthday ... no birthday ..."
happy no
wet sniffle
sad
"We may as well write this one off."
"Why?"
"That was Doc Wallace on the phone, he finished his assessment. He reckons
that the guy—you know, Mulder—isn't up for anything. Complete break from
reality and they've had to medicate him to stop his compulsive behaviour.
Looks like he's going to be shipped over to the Heights for an extended
stay."
"Certifiable, then?"
"Yeah."
"Poor bastard."
"Yeah, but hopefully he won't know what a shithole he's in."
"You sound like you feel sorry for him. The guy's a murderer, Stan."
"I know. All the evidence points that way, but, I swear, there's something
that doesn't sit right about this case. This Mulder guy was some kind of
wonder kid—you saw his file—BSU, Violent Crimes. If he was going to
snap, wouldn't it have been when he was doing that kind of stuff?"
"Stop second guessing yourself. You can't predict these things, but from the
sound of his last stint with the FBI—the X-Files, or whatever the hell
they were called—the guy's been sliding for a long time, it's just that no
one ever picked up on it. The case is done, Stan. Let it go."
"You're right, Suze. God, what a waste though, just makes you wonder."
"I know, but we've got each other to keep an eye out and you know I'll kick
your butt six weeks from Sunday if you even look at me funny."
"You'd try."
"I'd succeed, and don't you even doubt it. You're the one still carrying
around his winter weight, my friend."
"Enough, already! What've you got on the Choudry case?"
"Ballistics came back with a positive ID on the weapon -"
Dana Scully looked down at the envelope in her hand, then over at the
monitor that showed the twitching, restless form of her ex-partner curled up
on the padded floor of his cell. She still couldn't understand how things
had come to this, how Mulder's—admittedly fragile—psychological health
had slid into insanity like a collapsing house of cards. The one action that
she'd thought would free him, even as it placed another layer of guilt on
his conscience, was instead the one that had broken him.
Broken him so badly that it looked that there was no coming out of it this
time.
Looking down at the envelope again, she reached between its ragged edges and
pulled out the piece of paper inside, unable to stop herself from reading it
over once more. A unsigned plea, an absolution, a command; all wrapped up in
one letter.
Unsigned—but the author easily identifiable—it showed more understanding
of Mulder's psyche than she had ever come close to in all their years
together.
Scully,
Don't let them try and fix him, he doesn't want to be sane.
For the first time in his life he's at peace. Let him have that,
let him rest. His only peace comes from not being able to
think, mine came with death. It's over, so let it be.
Let the soldiers of this fucking war finally sleep.
An understanding that came from similar suffering, from the acknowledgment
of the dark side of Mulder's nature, which she could never truly bring
herself to accept. The enormity of his pain had always been too much for
her, too much to bear even secondhand.
But a pain shared in full, matter of factly expressed in a letter postmarked
the day before Alex Krycek's death, the day before this all went to hell.
The day before Mulder found him.
Method To His Madness
by Sin
As I have become the Hunter, he has become my Prey—my only prey.
