When I got to my apartment, Josh wasn't there.

I walked into the bedroom, opened the closet and took out the already-packed bag that had been sitting there, unmolested and gathering dust, for months now. I opened it, glancing inside to make sure I had everything I needed, then I took two extra suits and zipped them into a lightweight garment bag.

My hand was still throbbing, so I decided I would take the Excedrin I'd bought the other night, and went into the kitchen to get it.

"What are you doing home, Dana?" came a dangerously soft voice behind me.

"Josh, you startled me," I said, putting my hand over my racing heart. "I didn't hear you come in. What are you doing home? I thought you had a job interview today."

"I asked you a question, Dana," Josh said again, and I recognized the tone. But I could handle this. I'd gotten pretty good at handling Josh, and it was too soon after the last blow-up for him to get violent yet.

What I had forgotten, of course, was the suitcase and garment bag sitting on the bed. I was going somewhere, and he knew it. There was no point in pretending.

"I have to go to Miami," I said, my heart still thumping. I was surprised he didn't hear it, actually. "I have to testify in that case we were investigating when you and I met."

"I don't think so," Josh said, shaking his head, his upper lip curling. "I think you're planning to leave. Are you leaving me, Dana?"

"No, Josh, of course not," I said, with a nervous laugh. "This is just a brief appearance before the grand jury."

"Just put the suitcase away, Dana," Josh said, so quietly that I was really frightened. I actually began to think about drawing my weapon, but that seemed so melodramatic. All I needed to do was to stall him until Mulder got there, and then I could leave.

"I was going to call you and see if you wanted to come with us," I said, brightly. "We won't be there long, but it'll give you a chance to see some old friends, visit with your sister ..."

"I'm not going to Miami, Dana, and neither are you," Josh interrupted, but he sounded almost ... patient. He sounded as though he was explaining something to a small child for the umpteenth time.

Which, perhaps, was how he looked at our relationship.

"Josh, I have to go," I said, nervously. "I have to testify. I Mirandized the suspect, and I did the autopsies. You know what that means."

"I don't give a fuck what it means," Josh said, casually. "You're not going. That's final."

"I am going, Josh," I said, trying to steel myself for what was about to come. Maybe I did need my gun. "I have to go. I am under subpoena. This is not optional."

But I had forgotten Josh's police-officer instincts.

"I said you're not going, Dana," Josh said, and then his hand shot out, too fast for me to react, and he grabbed my wrist, twisted my arm up behind my back, forcing me to my knees, and disarmed me.

He jerked me to my feet, and I cried out in pain, but as usual, he paid no attention.

"Now," he said, pushing me toward the bedroom, "let's just go in there and put that stuff away, and then we'll go for a walk or something."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I said, then I cried out again as he jerked upward on my wrist.

"Dana, let's don't make this any worse than it already is, okay?" he said, in a perfectly calm tone. "Just do what I tell you and we can end this little spat right now."

"I can't," I said, and tears came up in my eyes -- partly because of the pain, but mostly because I felt so stupid for letting this happen, and so helpless to stop it. "I can't, Josh. I have to go. They'll cite me for contempt if I don't; they might even take my badge."

"So what if they do?" he said, at last letting go of my wrist, shoving me down onto the bed. My head hit the headboard, hard, and my rear end landed in the open suitcase; the latch ripped my pantyhose and left a huge scratch on my leg.

"I've been thinking, Dana," Josh said, sitting down next to me as though we weren't in the middle of another violent argument. "You really ought to get out of the FBI. It seems to bring out all the worst in you; so does that fag you work with. If you got a job at a hospital somewhere, we'd have plenty of money."

"I am not quitting the FBI," I said, growing angry in spite of my fear. "Just forget that." I struggled to sit up, but he pushed me back down. I saw my gun, stuck in the waistband of his jeans, and I decided to stay where I was.

"Dana, be reasonable," he said. "I don't want to fight with you. But we've got to think about our future, and we can't have a real future if we don't have any money."

If I'd been thinking clearly, I never would have said what I said next.

But then, if I'd been thinking clearly, I never would have gotten involved with Josh in the first place.

"I'm not sure we have a future together, Josh," I said.

I never even saw the blow coming. Josh's hard right hand rocketed down on my face, slamming my head back against the headboard again.

Then he hit me again, and I felt the blood running from my nose.

I tried to crawl away, but Josh grabbed my ankle. I kicked out at him, and hit him squarely in the nose, knocking him backwards.

I heard him howl in anger and pain, and for just a moment I was terrified, but then I got control of myself. Josh might beat the life out of me, but this time, I was going down swinging. I'm an FBI agent, for God's sake.

Somehow, by telling me to quit, Josh had only reminded me that I'm capable of fighting back.

I didn't wait to see what damage I had inflicted. I shook my foot loose and crawled off the bed, running for the door.

I almost made it, too. I was at the front door -- actually had the door open -- when Josh came running up behind me and slammed the door ... on my fingers.

I screamed as the heavy wooden door cut into the flesh; I thought I might have more broken bones, but I was in no condition to assess that right now. Josh was kicking me, slamming his fists into me, cursing me with the foulest language imaginable ...

All I could do was curl up into a ball and cover my head as the blows continued to fall.

Then, nothing.

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

I awoke, some time later, in the dark. There was a plastic drinking straw shoved in my mouth, which was securely closed with duct tape. My hands were taped together behind my back, and my ankles were taped, too.

I was, in essence, hog-tied -- and locked in my own closet.

I didn't know how long I had been unconscious; I don't know how long I lay there, struggling -- to no avail -- against the bindings. It couldn't have been very long, because I soon heard a knock at my front door, then Mulder's voice, calling my name.

"Scully?" he called. "Scully, are you in there?"

I tried to make some noise that Mulder could hear, but nothing was coming out, and it was hard to breathe. My nose was still swollen shut and I couldn't get air in or out; the straw, I suppose, was Josh's way of trying to insure that I didn't asphyxiate.

It wasn't doing much good.

I thrashed around as much as possible, hoping Mulder would hear. Finally, with no other way to make a sound, I beat my head against the door. I saw stars, and the pain was nearly unbearable, but finally, it seemed, Mulder heard me.

And I heard him, very clearly, through the transom.

"Stand over there, Daniel," he was saying, very quietly. "Don't move until I tell you to." I heard the familiar sound of his service weapon being cocked, ready for firing.

There was a sudden loud noise as Mulder kicked the door in. There was a brief silence, and I could almost see him, his weapon at the ready, scanning the room quickly.

"Scully?" he called out, and somehow I summoned the nerve to hit the closet door with my head one last, painful time. Almost immediately, I heard the doorknob rattling, then the scratching sound of a lockpick, and then, at last, the door was open.

"Oh, Jesus," Mulder said.

The way I was facing, I couldn't see him, but I could hear him. He was terrified; he was also furious.

"What is it?" Daniel said, from the hallway.

"Daniel, stay where you are," Mulder ordered, kneeling beside me, pulling the tape from my mouth. I spit out the straw on my own.

"Scully?" he said, and I could hear the fear in his voice. "Scully,are you all right?"

"No," I said, and I burst into tears.

I know he wanted to stay and comfort me, but he still had his weapon out, and I knew he had to make sure Josh was gone before he could finish freeing me, or let Daniel in to examine me.

"Hang on just a minute, Scully, okay?" he said, rising again. I nodded that I understood.

A scant minute later, he was back.

"Come on in, Daniel," he said, kneeling behind me. I heard the snick of his pocketknife opening, felt the pressure on my hands and feet ease as he cut through the tape.

When I looked up, Daniel was standing over me. "Oh, God, Dana," he said, shaking his head. He looked positively ill.

"I'm all right, Daniel," I said, trying to sit up, but Daniel shook his head.

"Don't move yet, Dana," he said, kneeling beside the open door. "Just lie down for a minute and let me look you over." He looked up at Mulder, who was standing next to him, watching the door, still holding his gun.

"Call 911, Fox," Daniel said, quietly, "We have to get her to a hospital."

"No!" I begged. "No, please, Daniel, no hospital. I don't want this reported to the police."

"Too late," Mulder said, tightly, as he holstered his gun, then took out his cell phone and dialed the three numbers.

"How?" I said, confused, but Mulder didn't answer me. He was talking to the operator, telling her who he was and that there was an officer in trouble.

"Dana, look at me," Daniel said, holding up a finger. "You know the drill. Track my finger without moving your head."

I complied, and the results must have been good, because I could see some of the tension leave Daniel's face. He reached into his pocket for a penlight and checked my pupils, which must also have been PERL, as we say in the medical field; Pupils Equally Reactive to Light.

That was good. What was bad was that the circulation was restored to my hand, and it was beginning to hurt like hell. In my foggy, post-concussion state, I couldn't quite remember why.

I was still lying in the dark closet with my back to the wall. I rolled over and held my battered right hand up in front of my face to see what was wrong, and I heard a gasp of horror.

I don't know if it came from Mulder, from Daniel or from me. It could have been all three.

The hand was covered in blood and swollen to about twice its normal size. The flesh over the medial phlanges of all four fingers -- the bones between the first and second knuckles -- was lacerated and contused, and I was sure the bones were fractured.

On the middle and index fingers, the cuts were so deep that I could see the bones themselves.

They were shattered.

Looking back on it, I know I not only had a concussion, but I must have been getting shocky; I was trembling, furiously, and I couldn't speak coherently.

Nothing was making much sense.

I looked up at Daniel, unable to fully comprehend what had happened. But I knew that he would know what to do.

"Daniel, can you fix my hand?" I asked, holding it up to him.

"Oh, _God_," Mulder said, his jaw clenched tight. "I'm gonna _kill_ that motherfucker for this."

Daniel, to judge by his expression, was equally angry, but as always, he was completely professional. He took my injured hand and turned it over, carefully.

"Dana, do you have a medical bag?" he asked me.

I shook my head.

"There's a first-aid kit in the bathroom," Mulder said.

"Get it," Daniel said, shortly. "Quick."

Mulder ran.

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

By the time the ambulance got there, Daniel had cleaned, splinted and dressed all four fingers and had wrapped my hand in several protective layers of sterile gauze.

He did an excellent job of it, too, which I am forced to admit, a lot of doctors wouldn't have. We tend to leave the dressings to nurses or medical students, and as a result, we're not very good at it when it's our turn.

When the paramedics came in, Daniel identified himself and told them he needed a blood pressure, stat. It must have been low; he ordered a vasopressor to boost my blood pressure, and an antibiotic added to the IV they'd started.

They took me to Georgetown Medical Center, and although Daniel didn't have privileges there, I refused to consent to the surgery until the chief of staff agreed that he could scrub in.

It wasn't actually much of a sales job; Daniel is a highly regarded orthopedic surgeon, and the chief was clearly in awe of his reputation.

Daniel also had them call in a hand specialist he knows, for which I was very grateful. I was recovering enough to know that I was in grave danger of losing some of the function in that hand, and a lot of surgeons -- especially surgeons with Daniel's reputation -- might have tried to do the repairs themselves. But the hand is a complex structure, and a vital one, and a specialist is always best.

The whole thing took several hours, and they kept having to inject more anesthetic, but finally, they were done. Daniel didn't do the surgery himself -- he wouldn't have, even if we were at Bethesda, because we are simply too close for that to be ethical -- but he assisted, and he talked to me, told me everything that was happening, and I felt better just knowing that it was he who was caring for me.

While I was in recovery, I had a visit from a neurologist Daniel had also called in. This doctor examined me, ordered a CT scan and then pronounced that I had closed-head trauma; in other words, a concussion, which I already knew.

After the neurologist okayed it, I at last got an injection of Demerol for pain, and I drifted off to sleep.

~~~~~~~

I awoke in a hospital bed, with Mulder sitting beside me.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he said, trying to smile.

"Hey, yourself," I said, groggily. "What time is it?"

"Late," Mulder said, and his face turned grim again. "Too late for us to go to Miami."

Miami. In the midst of all the medical and surgical procedures, I had almost pushed from my mind the nightmare that brought me here in the first place.

"Scully," Mulder said, quietly, "I need you to tell me something. Did Josh hit you because he knew you were going to Miami?"

I nodded, numbly. I knew what Mulder was getting at. Josh hadn't just beaten his girlfriend; he had assaulted a federal agent with the intent to prevent her from doing her duty. That was a federal offense, and it meant that this case was in the FBI's jurisdiction -- exactly where I didn't want it.

"I understand that this wasn't the first time," Mulder said, gently.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "Did Daniel tell you?" I asked, keeping my voice very low in case anyone was walking by.

"Yes, he told me," Mulder said, softly. "I'm sorry, Scully."

"Sorry for what?" I said, surprised. That wasn't what I had expected to hear. "None of this is your fault."

"I don't believe that," he said, shaking his head. "And even if I did, I'm still sorry -- sorry you've been hurt by someone you love, sorry that you thought you had to lie to me, and sorry most of all that I don't know what the hell to do about it."

"You don't have to do anything," I said, trying to sound confident. "Josh is in counseling; he's getting help. Please believe me, Mulder, I wouldn't stay if I didn't think he meant it when he says he wants things to be different."

"Scully, listen to what you're saying," he said, and I could hear the first traces of anger in his voice. "You sound just like every domestic abuse victim who ever lived: 'He's sorry, he won't do it again.' It's bullshit."

"This is different ... " I began, but Mulder interrupted me.

"It is _not_ different," he said. "Not for most of these guys, and certainly not for Josh." He broke off, suddenly, as though he had said more than he meant, and I knew that, hard as he was trying to be calm, in reality he was about as angry as he ever gets.

In fact, I was pretty sure he _had_ said more than he meant.

"Mulder, what are you keeping from me?" I asked. I was half afraid that I already knew the answer, though.

Mulder didn't answer right away. He reached into his pocket and took out a folded paper, unfolded it and then sat there, just looking at it silently for long time.

I recognized the logo at the top: It was an NCIC check, the FBI's record of all reported offenses and warrants for some person. I was pretty sure I knew whose this one was.

And there was more than one page.

"Is that Josh's?" I asked, with so little inflection in my voice that it almost alarmed me.

Mulder just nodded, looking at the paper. He didn't speak.

"May I see it?" I said, still calm -- or in shock, I wasn't sure which.

"If you want to," he said, but he didn't hand me the papers.

Now that I thought about it, I decided that I didn't actually want to.

"Just tell me what it says," I said.

"All of it, or just the part that pertains to this discussion?" Mulder said, and then he was looking at me, looking at me with that keen, assessing expression that I've come to know so well.

"You decide," I said, swallowing hard. My mouth was dry, and I was beginning to feel light-headed.

"Let me ask you something first," Mulder said. "Did Josh say what he was doing in that club the night you met?"

"He was there with his sister," I said, puzzled. "Mulder, where are you going with this?"

"Where I'm going is to tell you that Josh has been lying to you from the start," Mulder said, very gently. "Josh does have a sister, but I'm pretty damn sure she wasn't in that bar that night. She's a housewife with three kids and she lives in Topeka, Kansas."

For a minute, I couldn't speak. I felt as though my lungs were paralyzed. "Are you sure?" I said, at last, although I already knew the answer.

"I'm sure," Mulder said, softly. "I'm sorry, Scully."

"Then what was he doing there?" I asked him. "What reason would he have to hang out in a gay bar?"

Mulder shrugged, and looked out the window, as though the scenery fascinated him.

"The only reason I can see," he said, slowly, "is that he goes to places like that because he's figured out that there will sometimes be straight women who are there with men they care for, but who aren't much good to them, if you know what I mean. Men like me."

"Mulder, don't say that," I said, feeling a stab of guilt. He _was_ blaming himself. "I told you, this isn't your fault."

"Yeah, it is," he said, "in a way." Then he looked back at me and smiled, or tried to. "Even so," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I still don't think I want to let you out of my life."

I nodded, slowly, and moistened my lips, but Mulder didn't move to get up, or hold my hand, or anything that might have signaled that the discussion was over.

There was more -- and it was in that NCIC report.

"What else did you find out about Josh?" I said, my voice croaking.

"That Josh lived in Topeka himself until he moved to Miami 12 years ago," Mulder said, looking down at the printout as though it was easier than looking at me. "He was indeed a police officer, but he was dismissed from the Miami-Dade Police Department six years ago when he was convicted of felony assault on his wife, Maria Sanchez Larrimore."

His wife. Strange that Josh had never mentioned a wife.

Or a felony conviction.

Or that he actually was a cop for six years, not ten, and that he was fired rather than resigned.

Well, at least that explained why he didn't want to apply for a job at the FBI Academy, I thought, amazed at how calmly I was taking this.

"What did he do to her?" I asked, although I'm not really sure why. Maybe I was dissociating, treating this as though it were just another case Mulder and I were discussing, and that was the next logical question.

"He nearly strangled her with an extension cord, which he had also used as a whip," Mulder said. "He fractured her larynx."

He was trying to be as matter-of-fact as I was, but he was failing. Of course he was -- he wasn't on Demerol and he wasn't in shock.

"She was a singer, Scully," he went on. "She taught voice lessons."

"Why is that important?" I asked, puzzled.

"Think about it," Mulder said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "She loves to sing, loves to teach singing, so he fractures her larynx and she can't sing anymore."

He stopped for a moment. I knew what was next.

"And you're a surgeon," he said, finally. "A forensic pathologist."

"I know," I whispered, looking -- for the first time -- at the huge dressing wrapped around my right hand. I kept staring at my hand, wondering if -- despite Daniel's quick, skilled care -- it would ever work properly again.

Staring at it wouldn't help, of course. I just didn't know what else to do.

"Did he do time?" I asked, not really caring anymore, but feeling that I had to act out my part in this script right down to the final curtain.

Mulder nodded. "He served two years of a four-year sentence and was paroled."

I looked away again, swallowing hard. "How long have you known this, Mulder?" I asked.

"I didn't know until this morning." He looked at me then, with the sad smile. "Until Daniel told me what had happened, I was able -- just barely -- to resist the temptation to run the NCIC check."

"Thank you for that," I said, although I didn't know why.

For a minute, I just lay there, looking at my hands, looking from the dressing on my right hand to the bare fourth finger on my left.

For some reason, it suddenly seemed significant; in that moment, I felt certain that the utter failure of this relationship had ended forever any hope I might have had of marrying and having a family of my own.

"Are you going to arrest him?" I said, finally, still looking at my hands.

"No," Mulder said, and something in his tone made me look up. His jaw was set in a grim line, but there was compassion in his eyes.

"Don't get me wrong," Mulder said, and for the first time, he reached out his hand and touched me, just brushing his fingers across my cheek. "The way I feel right now, I would happily take that son of a bitch all the way down. But I know you still love him, in spite of all this, so I'm not going to do that. I don't want to be the person who takes him away from you."