A/N: Please note there are some violent attack scenes in this first chapter - it may be triggers for some. I wish I could say it will lighten but as the title dictates, it's a darker look at a Scully and Mulder relationship.

Dark.

Black.

I can't see. It's so dark. Everything is hidden in the darkness.

It hurts. I have to close my eyes to the pain. It spreads wildly through my mind. A fire set ablaze.

I'm being moved, dragged. The force tears at my arms. The cool cement floor grates against my back. My whole body seems to be aching with discomfort.

My head hurts. Everything is so dark. I can't remember… why I… I was in the basement. I don't know… I was looking… searching… Pain. The throbbing binds me, hindering my thoughts.

My movement stops suddenly. I open my eyes to the darkness. Dim. A face in front of me, above me.

Mulder?

It grins at me, this pale face with yellow teeth bared. Black hollow eyes stare at me. Pink chapped lips curl into a snarling smile.

I remember.

I struggle, kicking and scratching. I try to scream but I can't. I find a thick rag being jammed into my mouth, choking my voice and breath. I try to fight.

I'm losing. I'm losing to Brent Grendel.

He grabs hold of me. My head slams back into the cement floor.

And again.

Black.

Mulder walks into the office, a sullen look on his long face. He drops a file on the desk.

"VCS wants a hand with this," he mutters and sits across from me.

I open it. Someone's been taking the young women of Annapolis and killing them. I've seen it in the newspaper headlines. I read the file, reading for the first time the horrible truths behind these murders. The kind of truths that the public never hears about. The sickening truths.

The MO is the same with each case. The women disappear, taken quietly from their homes during the night. All of them are petite and young. Doreen Jameson, twenty year old college student. Becky Winlock, eighteen year old cheerleading captain. Jessica Bessel, twenty-two year old nurse. Smart young women whose only fault was being light blondes with bright blue eyes who mistakenly crossed paths with a dark abnormality of the human race. Their bodies are usually found three to four days later. The women were tortured. Brutalized. Raped. Mutilated.

I shiver when I see the pictures. Madness. Pure madness.

"They want us on this?" What would VCS need us for? I wonder to myself. The case doesn't seem to have an X-Files feel to it.

Mulder folds his hands neatly over his chest, leans back in his chair and stares carelessly up at the ceiling. "A bright light was reported the night the last victim was taken. A neighbor, an elderly man, saw it around the same time the investigators believe she was taken."

I frown. "VCS thinks these deaths have something to with aliens or paranormal activities?"

"No, Scully," he answers slowly and sits back up. "The public is scared and blaming the law enforcement agencies for not protecting their young women. They're grabbing at straws and our names were picked. They need help with a profile. Something to help them get this guy. So they called in the prodigal son to help."

I hear the bitterness but we help anyway.

We pour over the photos and details. Gruesome details. Raped repeatedly. Fingers missing, taken while the victims were still living. Bruises, broken bones and dozens of stab wounds at the end. Overkill. So much anger.

The young women did not die quickly. I pray they are safe now.

Another body is found. Nineteen year old Caitlyn Price. I perform an autopsy. I find what we need to get started. A clue, an imprint of a class ring.

Mulder does his thing. I watch him, dragging himself in deeper and deeper. I know why he left the Violent Crimes Section. I'm glad he left. It darkens his soul, burning it and leaving a mark on him that takes time, so much time, to heal. It bleeds him.

He goes alone as he stalks the mind of a murderer. I watch him carefully, watch him fall into the darkness. I can't follow him. I don't have the gift, the curse, to follow. I couldn't help even if I wanted to. He goes alone.

Another girl is taken. He's picking up his tempo. A time squeeze and her name is Brenda Anderson. We have less than three days to find her.

Then, suddenly, Mulder does it. He finds him.

Brent Grendel, thirty-five year old white male with brown hair and dark brown eyes. Six foot, two hundred pound man living with his elderly and disabled mother. Unemployed with a history of violent offenses and attempted rape. A monster.

We go to hunt him like the animal he is. A shabby apartment building in a rundown neighborhood. The team goes in.

For some reason, Mulder watches the scene quietly, distant. He drifts. A single look from his hazel eyes tells me his thoughts. Brent isn't at home. He takes care of business elsewhere.

Across the street stands an old office building, boarded up and shut down. All the privacy and darkness a monster would need. Mulder takes the upper floors, bounding up the stairs two at a time. I go down, drawn to the basement, dark and damp. A stale smell filters through my nose. I hear… breathing?

A force, a blow, knocks me to my knees. My gun goes skittering across the cement floor. I don't have time to cry out. Another blow.

And everything goes dark.

Pain.

Dark.

A hand grabs at me, shaking me harshly. A blur, a flash of memories trample my mobbed mind and I remember. I can't move. My hands are locked in my cuffs around a pipe. I'm on my back and helpless on the floor, gagged and bleeding. My vision is hazy in the darkness that surrounds me. My head hurts, pounding loudly.

My eyes focus on the figure hovering over me. It smiles at me. I'm scared. Waiting, Brent was waiting for me to wake up. He wanted me awake.
I glance around me wildly. I'm still in the basement… I think, I hope. I haven't been out long, have I?

Mulder, I need Mulder.

I struggle, thrashing on the dank floor. I scream into the muffling rag, gagging me. Hear me. Oh, please, hear me.

It looms over me. "You're very pretty," it breathes, a rotting stench films around me.

It lowers.

Oh, God.

"Yes, bitch. Very nice. I'm going to make it very nice," Brent whispers huskily as his body makes contact with mine.

I try to kick it off. I strain against him. The weight settles over me and I can't move. Brent is too strong, too big. He b begins to touch me. His hands roam over me, violating me.

"You'll be a good fuck, little one," it groans, sliding its hand along my jawbone and grabbing hold of my throat. It squeezes with just enough practiced pressure.

Breathing escapes me. I can't breathe. My eyes open wide, frightened and panicked. I can't breathe! I struggle for air as I watch it slowly smile at my effort. The world around me is going silent. Completely quite. I can't…

Breathe. I feel the grip release just as my vision starts to go fuzzy. I breathe, drawing in all the air my lungs can hold.

My blouse is ripped open. Buttons fly, clinking against the surrounding pipes and floor. The air is chill on my exposed skin. My stomach churns as scaly fingers grind against my flesh, fumbling.

I will not cry. Instead, I fight again, trying to buck it off of me. Brent laughs and slams my body hard into the cement floor. I try to gasp for breath but the rag is blocking most of my effort. It hurts.

It covers me completely, playing with my body. "You'll learn, little one," Brent tells me. "I going to teach you a lesson you're never going to forget."

I hear a zipper unzip.

Oh God, please oh God, no.

"Such a pretty little bitch," it murmurs, squeezing one of my breasts hard. A tongue flicks out and wets my cheek.

I will not cry. A sharp pain pierces my right side. The cold steel of a knife drags along my side to my chest. It draws a trickle of blood.

Brent yanks my legs apart and moves under my skirt. My insides clench as it settles between my straining legs. It giggles maniacally, raising the blade.

"Usually I make it last longer but time's short, whore," it sneers and positions himself under my skirt, readying himself.

Oh God, no, oh God ohGodohGodohGod…

An explosion of force ruptures in the muffled room. The report of gunfire. Blood splatters on me. The weight falls off of me, toppling over.

Mulder.

He runs in, standing over Brent, aimed and ready to shoot again. Brent does not move. He can't. The part of his brain that was used for motion is now covering the floor.

Mulder pulls out his cell and dials. "I found Grendel. Across the street, basement. A hidden door under the staircase." He closes the phone and shoves it into his pocket.

Mulder turns and kneels next to me. I close my eyes because I can't look into his. I will not cry. He doesn't speak a word as he releases my cuffs and pulls off the gag. I respond with nothing. I open my eyes as I struggle to rise, careful to avoid my partner's eyes. He helps me to sit up. I don't need him to but I'm glad he does.

I try to cover my bareness with the shreds of cloth left on my blouse but there is blood coating me. So much blood. Patches of slick crimson against the cream of my skin. A slight tremble travels over me.
Mulder pulls me gently to my feet. He slips off his trench coat and wraps it around my wavering form. His hands are shaking as he pulls it tight around me.

I look up. He is crying, tears flowing down his shadowed face. I know what he thinks. The man had his pants down and there is blood on my legs. Admittedly, most of it belongs to Brent. Still, he thinks I was raped.

"Mulder," I whisper. My voice is hoarse, hurting.

He just draws me into his strong arms, holding me close. I hear him swallow thickly, choking back a sob. He's in pain. I wrap my arms around his waist, returning the fierce hug.

"I'm okay, Mulder," I try to explain. "He didn't…" I find myself unable to say the word. I start to shake. "You came.."

I will not cry.

"Shh," he murmurs into my hair, tightening his hold on me.

Does he realize? Does he believe me? Before I get my answers, the Calvary arrives. Officers, guns pulled, pour into the room. I drag myself from my partner's arms. We shouldn't be seen like… like that.

Questions flood us. Mulder protects me. I am, for once, gracious.
"We need a medic. Agent Scully was…" he struggles for the right words ".. attacked."

He leads me up to the ambulance, carefully guiding me. I hold on to him, my legs weak and unsteady. My mind is… jumbled from the ordeal. Dark motions rolling the world around me.

Mulder and a young attendant help me into the back. They lay me down on the gurney, slowly and gently. The attendant flashes a light in my eyes and begins to ask me questions. Ma'am, is anything broken? Are you having trouble breathing? Can you follow my finger please?

My answers to the attendant are dull, those of a drone. I don't focus on the questions. Nor on the pain swimming in my body. Instead, I focus on Mulder.

He's seated quietly across from me. His ashen face is hidden behind his large hands. His fingers grind harshly and methodically at his temples in small pressured circles. His body is hunched and drawn. I can feel his tension and worry. I slowly reach out a hand and touch it lightly to his knee. He peers through his hands at me.

I realize the moment my eyes meet his, it was a mistake. It's been said the eyes are the window to a person's soul. And in that moment when Mulder and I are connected, our eyes searching each other's, I see… I can see relief. I can see release… I can see…

We break. Our eyes shifting away from each other like dirty, naughty children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. My hand jumps away from his knee as if burned.

From the outside world, an officer suddenly joins our little group. "Sir," he says, turning to Mulder. "We need some questions answered. We'd like a word with you."

Mulder looks from the officer to me.

"Go, Mulder," I tell him stoically. "I'm fine."

He knows I'm not fine. But he goes anyway, taking only a brief glance back at me and walking away. It's what I want. Part of my being fine has always been about distance. We need it for the balance between us. And right now, after what I saw in his eyes, I need that distance.