Title: Too Frail a Word 
Author: aka "Jake"
Rating: PG-13 (Adult Themes)
Classification: 500-Words, /O, implied slash
Spoilers: "3" 

Summary: "This gives my life...life." -- Kristen Kilar, in "3"
"It's not who you are." -- Mulder, in "3"

Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no.

Authors Notes: This story was written in response to Haven's "Outside the Playground" 500-Word Challenge. 

Too Frail a Word
By aka "Jake" 

"When I was a little girl, my father beat me. Abused is too frail a word. He showed his love for me by beating me. I was dead. One night, he hit me so hard he knocked out two teeth, then locked me in my room. The blood poured from my mouth onto the floor and down my throat. It was the only way I knew I was alive."

It's a sad story, but you can't hear it. Far away from your FBI partner and the fires of Los Angeles, you are in no position to help. You are face-to-face with bloodthirsty demons of your own. You're being held against your will, subjected to unspeakable things. Panic is the only emotion you feel. Under the circumstances, you could not take on the suffering of a victim you've never met, even if you wanted to.

Your captors allow you slivers of respite between their tortures and these become oases. If you're lucky, you find yourself embraced in caring arms, and oh, God, oh, God, you hang on for dear life, silently begging these sporadic saviors, "Help me, help me, please."

"It's okay...you're safe now...shhhh." A woman's voice, full of concern, like your mom's or your sister's.

Or like Mulder's, on occasion. "Scully are you okay?" he'd asked, after Warren Dupre; "You all right?" after Eugene Tooms. Then he cocooned you in his embrace, anchoring your flyaway fear.

You miss him. You miss everything about your home and your old life. You miss being treated kindly and you miss feeling human.

Is this Hell? Are you dead?

The woman daubs your tears. You don't recognize her, and yet there is something familiar about her. Maybe you just wish you knew her because everyone is a stranger here, and you've never been more afraid.

You hide against her bosom. She strokes your hair. Her touch is gentle, comforting, desirable...not like Them, not at all like Them.   

"What's your name?" she asks, tender, kissing your sweaty brow.

"Dana."

Her hands explore your naked limbs. Perhaps she is searching for injuries, or perhaps she's only trying to comfort herself, but whatever her reasons, you don't want her to stop. Not even when her mouth nudges yours, her breath steamy on your lips. Her tongue teases you, soothing and warm, and you let her in because she feels human and wonderful and nothing has felt wonderful in this place.

She is an answered prayer and you are bereft when she breaks your kiss.  

"W-who are you?" you ask.

Doubt shimmers on her lower lashes. She looks as desperate as you feel. "I don't remember."

Her admission nearly crushes you. You squeeze your eyes shut and kiss her again, hoping to relieve her pain and yours. Compassion flows hotly through you. It's confusing, but real, and you want it to last.

Life is neither black nor white, you've discovered. Privation brings shades of pain and pleasure that don't exist in your world back in DC. Circumstances are extreme and you find yourself doing things you wouldn't ordinarily do.

THE END

Authors Notes: A recent discussion at Haven sparked the notion that Mulder and Scully would never under any circumstances engage in a same-sex encounter. I don't believe in blanket statements. Life is complicated and motivations are fluid.