Truths 2 
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 DISCLAIMER : See part 1

The warmth of her embrace and her touchingly unselfish willingness to share herself, to literally bare her soul to me, could not extinguish the pangs of guilt that kept gnawing at my heart. Sometimes, in order to survive, you do what you have to do just to get to the next day, hour, or minute, even if it means taking much more than you can ever give back.

I only began to comprehend the "paramasturbatory" element to my recent nightly therapy sessions with Scully when the psychotic storm looming menacingly at the edge of my mind began to subside.

Ironically, those visits weren't motivated by a desire to know Scully more deeply. They satisfied a need much more primitive and urgent than an intellectual or even sexual desire. Scully was my human touchstone. She was the only thing in the world that kept me from believing the pretense of my madness. Every night, I needed to hear her think -- hear the warm, murmuring vibrations that I'll forever recognize as Scully's inner voice. Her voice was my tether to reality, my lifeline.

It scared the hell out of me the first time I heard it. All the voices came to me at once in a maddening cacophony of noise that was physically painful. I was surrounded by mouths that seemed to be moving out of sync with what was actually being said in a way that reminded me of a claymation animated Christmas special. Even then, I was able to recognize Scully's voice uniquely above the many others.

"Something's not right, Mulder," she thought. "Tell me what's wrong." I didn't hear the words as much as feel them. They vibrated and had warmth and carried emotions that the mere definition and context of her words could only hint at describing. It would be easier to transcribe an entire symphony based only on the music emitted from a single flute, rather than the complex tones, pitches and timbres of an entire orchestra. It was intoxicating in a way that compelled me to focus exclusively on her.

This made my separation from her incredibly difficult. She was unable to hide her ambivalence about leaving me alone in my "condition" behind her practiced facade of competence. "I don't know if I can do this," she worried. I forced myself to channel my pain into the lie that would ultimately protect the truth.

Incapacitated by the noise of thousands of simultaneous voices, the screaming came easily to me. It took only slightly more effort to reach down inside myself and find the impetus to feed my anger, fuel the rage.

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Static.

I didn't know if it was a merciful, innate protective mechanism, or if it was a byproduct of dangerously conflicting emotions, but Diana has been the only person I've been unable to focus on. The anticipation of finally knowing what dark secrets she's nurtured over the years I've known her was incredibly empowering. I let her take the lead, confident that my newly acquired talent would allow me to negotiate the inevitable tangled web of deception she methodically spun around me.

Instead, there was static. At first I thought that it was mental or physical fatigue setting in. The excruciating pain that seemed to resonate through my head along with the voices had left me weak and confused. Going home to rest, away from the stimulation of the incessant human activity of a busy workday, was a seemingly benign suggestion.

I should have realized that if only one person could be impervious to my Svengali mind meld, it would be Diana Fowley. There had been times in the past that I'd truly wondered if she was human at all. Even in the early, naively pleasant days of our relationship, she was unlike any woman I'd ever known. She was as mysterious as she was brilliant, tempting and terrifying, seductive and sadistic. With her catlike eyes, she could penetrate my soul, demanding my submission even though I knew I was surrendering more small, irretrievable bits of my humanity and sanity the longer I was with her. In a word, she was spellbinding.

The years and miles grafted adequate patches over the numerous small but deep wounds in my psyche. I had moved on. I had the X Files, and I had Scully. Scully mystified me in an entirely different way. Her intelligence far surpasses Diana's, but it evokes respect instead of fear. Diana was about manipulation, degradation and suffocation. Scully is about rationalism, dedication and compassion. When she was first assigned as my partner, I wondered how I'd ever be able to live with her. Now, I wonder how I'd ever be able to live without her.

When Diana and I were alone again in my apartment, I felt disoriented. It seemed as if she had the power to transcend the confines of time. For the first moment since we followed our separate paths, I felt intimidated and powerless in her presence.

Arrogantly, she made herself comfortable in my apartment as I struggled to get into bed. I closed my eyes and let the darkness and silence envelop me like a warm blanket. It was then that I realized that something was terribly wrong.

Static.

The voices that flooded my head just minutes earlier had been replaced by a soothing but disconcerting buzzing. Slowly, fearfully, I opened my eyes and surveyed my room, expecting to find a radio or the television left droning by Diana, who had commandeered my phone. As I watched her punching numbers into the keypad, I realized that she was the source of the strange white noise. I felt my adrenaline surge and my heart pound as I struggled to understand why Diana's thoughts remained ensconced in a cloud of static. Then the sudden shock of my discovery compounded my insurmountable fatigue, and all was black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In my unusual line of work, I've had the dubious honor of waking up in restraints more than once. As the darkness of unconsciousness slowly lifted, I realized I had probably been sedated. My head throbbed, and I slowly became aware of the voices again. They were too numerous to be intelligible, but the vibrations that seemed to emanate from certain words began to agitate me. I glanced around quickly, not comprehending the unusual dimensions of the small room. The cell lacked the sharp angles I needed to orient myself. I began to hyperventilate. A straight jacket made my movements slow and awkward. I threw myself against the soft marshmallow walls in an attempt to establish a focal point that demarcated where the atoms of my body were not meshed with those of the room.

The sensory stimulation was overwhelming. A low, deep growl involuntarily escaped my mouth and quickly increased in volume and pitch. I screamed. I screamed so loud, so long, and so hard that I temporarily forgot about the voices. As I gasped for breath, the voices returned, more fervent than ever. I gradually became aware of the fact that the louder and harder that I screamed, the more relief I had from the onslaught of the voices. For a while, I experimented with various combinations of screaming and thrashing, sobbing and gnashing my teeth. The most exhausting combinations of this affected madness ironically brought the most relief from the indescribably painful and foreign sensation of receiving other peoples' thoughts.

I became aware that there were several people nearby. There was something familiar in the cadence of their speech that allowed me to match the thoughts to the people they originated from. Assistant Director Skinner was there, as was Scully. There was also that maddening static.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the first time in days, I was concerned for Scully's safety more than I was my own. Scully had intuitively sensed that Diana's agenda was contrary to our own, and I had dismissed her concerns several times. I thought I was protecting her the less attention given to Diana the better. Weakened both physically and emotionally by my altered condition, I cried out to Scully. I screamed her name.

To my amazement, she answered me. Apparently, my cell was equipped with a camera and recording device to monitor my condition. Although I couldn't see her, if I concentrated hard enough, I could isolate her thoughts.

"I see you on the monitor, Mulder. I'm okay. I'm going to get you out of here as soon as I can, but I need your help."

I looked around and finally saw the tiny red light in a corner of my cell where the padded wall met the ceiling. I looked straight towards the lens and screamed her name.

"Mulder, I'm here. Everything's going to be okay."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the nights I went to her apartment, we talked about how we were able to orchestrate our plan while I was still restrained and hospitalized by the communication of her thoughts with my lunatic screaming.

"Smoke and mirrors," I said tentatively.

She smiled, nodded and said, "Smoke and mirrors," but she thought, "I would have broken the locks on the doors myself if I had to." She looked into my eyes, but her mouth stayed closed, her jaw set. Like an undertow that precedes a wave, I felt the warmth of her thought retract a little before it poured in, carrying equal amounts of gratitude and relief. "Thank God it worked, Mulder. Thank God."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Each day that I had to wear the mask of a psychotic became more difficult. Normally, the first lie is often the easiest, breaking the barriers of moral and ethical restraint to pave the way for the ensuing charade. Sometimes, even the Liar comes to believe the Lie. It wasn't that way for me. Maybe it was because the lie was too close to the truth. I had indeed come dangerously close to breaking down.

The only thing that got me through each day was the knowledge that I'd be with Scully that evening. I'd exchange my day's worth of dirty lies for a few hours of sweet, blissful, unadulterated truth.

At first I was surprised by the breadth of her concern. I expected her usual concerns for my physical condition, since bandaging my wounds and nourishing my body was one of the only ways she was ever truly comfortable showing her affection for me. It was a low risk investment. Dr. Scully would never be rejected from a patient in need of her medical expertise. It was her concern for my heart, my soul, that took me by surprise.

She wondered about Diana. She knew instinctively that she'd hurt me, and she wondered why. Skinner also made her curious. Friend or foe? He was hiding something, she felt certain. They both made her angry.

When she thought I'd drifted to sleep, she thought about us. She wondered why we said so little to each other sometimes, and why when we did choose to speak, we carelessly selected words that hurt. She resolved to try harder not to do things that would somehow drive us apart.

I never wanted our "sessions" to end. I secretly wished that she'd think about our future. What would happen if....?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As she reaches for her handgun, I wonder for a second if the telepathy has completely left me, or even worse, if I'd been crazy all along. Were those "sessions" merely part of a delusion? Then I consider the more probable reason for it my confession to her tonight has left her feeling outraged and violated. As I accept the weapon, knowing it's loaded, I wonder if I should use it on myself.

The touch of her body against mine pushes those thoughts away from me now. I realize the symbolism behind her gesture with the gun. She's voluntarily lowering her defenses. As she lays her head against my chest, I feel the tide of her thoughts, emotions, and now, even the hopes and dreams she's scarcely dared to contemplate herself rush over me. Our souls have embraced.

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