From: Monture_&_Wicks@magic.ca (Monture & Wicks)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Crushed Part 1
Date: Tue, 30 May 95 09:27:10 -0500


This little story is inspired, in a large part, by jsmichel@io.org's
"Oxford Blues" (I loved that story!), so I toss a large bouquet of
appreciation in that author's direction ... In terms of chronology,
this story takes place after "Our Town" and before "The Anasazi".

I thought it might be fun to approach the story from an outsider's
perspective watching Mulder and Scully at work ...  And the pangs of
unrequited love ....  *Sigh*.  So there's a lot of bittersweet mushy
stuff going on. It's my version of a "Harlequin" romance, hadda get it
out of my system so I could get back to the real stuff ... As usual,
what started out as a small sketch blossomed into a full-grown
organism.

Warning -- it's full of blatant Mulder adoration.  If that prospect
annoys you, don't read it.  It also gets an "R" rating for some
"adult" goings-on.

As always -- This story is based on characters and situations created
by Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions, and Fox Broadcasting.
No infringement of copyright is intended, and any resemblance to
persons living or dead is purely coincidental.  My ideas I copyright
to myself, so there!

Thanks again to Debbie and Jude (esp. for the FBI badge, the tapes,
and the daily dose o' wisdom ...) --



				        Crushed 
				 An X-Files Tale
		By Terri Monture (Monture_&_Wicks@mail.Magic.ca)
			

Lincoln, Nebraska
10:37 am

	Junior Staff Agent Rachel Simenon walked into the tiny kitchen
that was part of the FBI office and poured her fourth cup of coffee
that morning.  She looked into the depths of the dark bitter brew and
stirred in whitener, staring numbly at it.
	Rachel had been working non-stop for what seemed an eternity,
living in a daze of shocked confusion and outrage, and was in such a
heightened state of nervous fatigue that she could barely remember her
own name.  She had been working in the sleepy Lincoln office, but this
was her first experience with a task force, this one set up to catch
the so-called "Cat Killer."  She was now busy coordinating the
concentrated efforts of the Lincoln Task Force's Behavioural Science
Unit, a team of five members who were attempting to compile a profile
of the killer -- or killers.
	This was a particularly horrible crime to have been assigned
to, she couldn't help but think for the umpteenth time.  A series of
five murders of young boys between the ages of five and seven had
taken place in the last week.  The bodies were found in different
fields bordering the city of Lincoln, most in freshly-plowed areas.
Each body exhibited signs of mutilation, as if having been mauled by
an animal, but in this case, the surrounding human footsteps proved
that no animal had been responsible for the death of each child.  The
scene also bore mute witness to the struggle that had taken place
before the killer won out; the running footprints of a size one shoe
and then a much larger set overtaking the smaller prints until there
was only the imprint of a body.
	Since several of the murder sites were in plain view of
farmhouses, there was seemingly no explanation for why there were no
witnesses.  No sounds, no crying or screaming, not even a car had been
heard.  It was as if the killing had been done by a cat or some other
predator.  The media had been quick to pick up on this series of
murders, some AP hack coining the term "Cat Killer."
	 The city was panicked.  Since the first murder, people had
been keeping their children inside, lights flooded all the fields, but
in the morning, another body would be found by a farmer out tending to
the field.  The problem facing the law enforcement agencies was that
the last two children remained unidentified -- and that there was
virtually no physical evidence left at the death scenes.  All eyes had
been turned to the on-site Behavioral Science Unit, who had been
feeling the heat these last few days and were looking for a
breakthrough.
	Picking up an armload of files and balancing them with her
coffee, she followed Special Agent In Charge Flaherty into the corner
of the noisy second floor office of the Federal Building that had been
marked off for the BSU.  Two agents were on the phone and a third, on
loan from the Des Moines office, was riveted to a computer screen.
They acknowledged their supervisor and Rachel with weary nods and
continued working.
	Rachel set down the files on a corner of the tiny table she
was sharing with SAC Flaherty along with her coffee, knowing it would
probably be cold by the time she got a chance to drink it.  She
gathered up a series of phone messages and handed them to Flaherty,
then went back to the area where the courier from Washington was busy
handing out boxes of files to several department clerks.
	When she brought another armload back to the BSU, Flaherty, a
grizzled Bureau lifer, was yelling on the phone at someone in
Washington.  She couldn't help but overhear his side of the
conversation.
	"I wouldn't give a damn even if he had his very own psychic
hotline!"  Flaherty was shouting, waving a pink message slip in the
air.  "The guy's a lunatic!"  He glared over at Agent Hutchinson, the
loan from Des Moines, who was trying to make himself disappear into
the computer screen.  "I don't care that one of my own agents
recommended him -- I've heard about this guy, he's got major bats in
his belfry.  The last thing I need is to baby-sit some --" He calmed
down and listened for a minute.  "Look, sir, I don't think ...  You're
second guessing me, sir."  He met Rachel's worried frown and turned
away from her.  "Very well, sir.  But this is under protest."  He
slammed the phone down and turned to Hutchinson.
	"The last thing we need," he said, his voice booming so loudly
that several other people stared over the office partitions, "Is that
weirdo from Washington coming here and trying to make these murders
fit in with some far-fetched pet theory of his."
	The other two agents, Robards and Kraft, chose at that moment
to leave, mumbling something about interviews to conduct.  They left
before the supervisor could explode on them.
	Hutchinson took a deep breath, holding his ground.  "I'm sorry
if the thought of Agent Mulder makes you uncomfortable, sir.  I know
he's a little odd, but I've seen some of his profiles and the guy is
dead-on.  He was right about Monty Props, sir, and he'll probably be
right about this one."
	"What's there to be right about?" he demanded, red-faced.  "We
know it was some crazy faggot."
	Rachel was dumbfounded.  Feeling a dark anger rise, she bit
back the retort that her junior status forced her to rein in.
	Hutchinson's blue gaze narrowed in a dangerous way.  "We'll
see, sir."
	Flaherty went back to his desk, still flushed with anger and
muttering darkly under his breath.  Rachel set a stack of files on
Hutchinson's desk.  "Don't let him get to you," she whispered, patting
his shoulder slightly.  She liked Hutchinson; what she saw of him was
thoughtful, methodical, and sensible.  She liked that in a man.
	He looked up at her and his Iowa farm boy features relaxed.
He smiled.  "Thanks, Rachel," he said quietly.
	She smiled back and turned away, missing his appreciative
gaze.  Rachel was dark-haired and dark eyed, her glowing skin like the
heart of a peach, a slow dimpled smile hardly ever appearing on her
frank and serious face.  She always wore the same uniform of black
dresses and tights, not realizing that the drabness made her looks all
the more remarkable.  She looked like a gypsy dancer but did not think
of herself as attractive in any way, shape, or form.

	Flaherty was still fuming as Rachel set some files on his
desk.  He was writing on a notepad with angry strokes when a dark,
silky voice said quietly, "Excuse me, I'm looking for SAC Flaherty."
	Rachel looked up to see a tall man in a dark trenchcoat
staring back at her.  He was serious and sad looking, his shoulders
hunched slightly as if he were shielding himself from a hurt that
threatened his soul.  Rachel stared, unable to look away from him.
His dark hair stood stiffly up from a high, smooth forehead.  His
haunted, deepset eyes were hazel green and shadowed with a lack of
sleep, but there was a warm humour and intelligence in them that made
Rachel feel positively hungry to know him.  A slight mole accented the
strong line of his jaw and his high cheekbones.  His mouth was
amazing, and she found herself staring at the full lower lip and
wistfully thinking about what it would be like to kiss him.  She was
still staring at his mouth as he said, "I'm Agent Fox Mulder.  I've
been assigned to assist with the profiling."
	Rachel liked his name.  It suited him and his quiet
watchfulness.  Flaherty had turned his back but Hutchinson was on his
feet, coming to the man with his hand outstretched in greeting.
"Agent Mulder.  I'm Sam Hutchinson.  I was a JSA with the team that
caught Monty Props."
	Agent Mulder looked at him and there was a swift recognition
in him as he nodded.  "Hutch.  I remember you, you had some pretty
good ideas."
	Hutchinson chuckled.  "Not as good as yours," he said, shaking
the other man's hand.
	Mulder went over to the SAC.  "Special Agent Flaherty," he
introduced himself.  "I'm Agent Mulder."  He didn't put out his hand,
sensing the obvious hostility in the SAC.
	Flaherty looked at him like he was pond scum.  "Mulder."  He
stood, drawing himself to his full height.  Mulder didn't back down.
The men stood staring at each other, and suddenly, unexpectedly,
Flaherty looked away.
	"I'm not going to be here long," Mulder said calmly.  He put
his hands into the deep pockets of his coat.  "I just need a computer
and all of the compiled reports on the killings.  I'd also like to
check out the latest scene."
	Flaherty dismissed him.  "Ms. Simenon will assist you.  Don't
make me have to deal with you, Mulder.  I know all about you and your
wild theories."  He glared at the other agent, who looked completely
unfazed by the SAC's attitude towards him.  "Do we have an
understanding here?"
	Mulder smiled slightly.  It was a sly and dangerous
expression, and to Rachel, completely and unnervingly sexy.  He didn't
acknowledge Flaherty and glanced at Rachel for the first time.  "Ms.
Simenon?" he asked.
	She gave herself a firm shake.  "JSA Rachel Simenon, sir."  He
stuck out his hand and she shook it, noting that his grip was warm and
firm and that his fingers were very long.  She felt an electric
current leap up her arm and stared wide-eyed at him.
	He let go of her hand and she blinked, finding her voice.  "Uh
... if you step this way, sir, I can find a spare table for you and
I'll get the reports you're going to need."
	He smiled gently at her.  "Don't call me sir, Ms. Simenon.
It's just Mulder."  His voice was soft and there was a hint of
bemusement there, like he was mocking himself.
	She nodded, feeling foolish.  "Only if you call me Rachel,"
she said, giving him a rare smile.  She completely missed the hurt and
puzzled look on Hutchinson's face as he watched her look at Mulder.
	"Okay, Rachel."  She loved the sound of her name spoken in
that voice, but kept her face immobile to hide her response.
	She led him back to the table that was her desk, bringing him
a sheaf of paperwork and an entire armload of files on the murders.
waited while he scanned through the most recent pathology report,
taking the opportunity to examine him covertly.
	He leaned casually on a filing cabinet, leafing quickly
through the summary report.  Mulder was one of the best looking men
she had ever seen, she decided, but it was as if he hadn't a clue
about his effect on women.  Or even believed that he was attractive.
He was completely open, every movement natural and every gesture free
from pretension.  She noticed that he was wearing a fashionably cut
steel grey suit with a white shirt and a very gaudy tie.  He looked
like he had just stepped off the set of a fashion shoot.
	He cleared his throat and she jumped with the realization that
he knew she was staring at him.  He ignored her flush of
embarrassment.  "Have you been out to the site yet, Rachel?"  His
voice was like raw silk.  It felt as if a caressing hand had stroked
her from head to toe.
	She involuntarily shivered.  "Just .... just once."  She
swallowed, suddenly remembering the smell, the heavy miasma of death
that hung over the field where the child had been found.
	His eyes swept over her, compassionate and concerned.  "You
don't have to go back there if it bothers you."
	She stared at him.  Was he psychic? she wondered to herself.
"It -- it's just hard, knowing there's so many children dead because
of this person.  That little boy ..." She felt the tears well up, the
tears that lay constant and close to the surface these past few days.
Raw pain scraped her throat.  She looked at the floor to escape his
empathic gaze.  "I'll be okay.  I have to get my jacket."
	Mulder put his hand on hers as she reached past him for the
paperwork, a gesture of concern.  She felt the unmistakable tingle
race up her arm.  She looked down at his hand, the long fingers
resting lightly on hers; it was ringless.
	"I know this is a difficult assignment," he said slowly.
"It's going to get worse in the days ahead."  He removed his hand and
straightened to let her past him.  She could smell him as she moved
away.  He smelled wonderful, a warm male musk that made her head swim.
	Rachel flushed again, confused.  The realization that she was
powerfully attracted to this virtual stranger hit hard.  The immediate
desire for him was stronger than anything she had ever experienced.
She hadn't been a believer in instant infatuation; and now she was
deep in the throes of its wild, crushing excitement.  It was
embarrassing; she hoped he couldn't tell.  But she feared that his
swift intelligence and intuitive gaze had already discerned her
feelings before she herself had realized them.
	"I'll be fine," she told him with more conviction than she
actually felt. She walked back to the BSU area on wobbly legs and got
her dark blazer from the coat rack.  She could feel his presence
behind her and was suddenly angry at herself.  Here she was, lusting
after this guy and not five blocks away a child's life had been
cruelly ended.  She forced herself to think about her job.
	"Is this your first field investigation, Rachel?" he asked her
as they walked down the stairs into the street.
	She nodded, slightly embarrassed at her rookie status.  "Yes,
I was assigned last fall to the field office here in Lincoln," she
said.  "I just graduated in the spring, and received my first
assignment out here."  She took a deep breath.  "This is -- this is
the worst thing I've ever seen in my life.  I can't believe this has
happened, that someone could do this.  I can't believe anybody would
have a reason to do it."
	He was looking at the sidewalk, like he was measuring his
footsteps.  "There's a reason, all right.  Anyone who would do this
does have a motive, regardless of how twisted or evil it may seem to
us."  There was an old sorrow in his voice that made her look at him.
His shoulders were more hunched than before, like he was bearing the
weight of some terrible knowledge, his eyes shadowed in the weak
sunlight.
	Rachel was overcome with the desire to comfort him, to take
him in her arms and kiss away that anguished look in his eyes.  She
curled her hands into fists, nails digging into her palm.  She
couldn't believe this was happening to her.  She had prided herself on
her rationality, her level-headed approach to her ambition and her
work, and this man was unintentionally disrupting all of her firmly
held notions about herself.
	Mulder led her to a silver Taurus that was obviously a rental
car.  She went around to the passenger side and sat down, almost
sitting on a laptop computer that had been hastily discarded.  "Sorry
about that," he said as she removed it from beneath her.  "Scully was
in a hurry."
	She set it carefully on the floor beneath her, making sure her
feet were well away from it.  "Scully?"
	"My partner.  She's at the ME's office, will probably be there
all day."  There was a warmth behind that statement that he didn't
bother to hide.
	Rachel swallowed her disappointment at this news.  She
wondered enviously about the woman who was his partner, what she was
like.  Mulder pulled into traffic and drove about a mile out of town.
	A knot of police cars and unmarked Federal agent vehicles
marked the site.  Mulder parked the car.  He picked a bag of sunflower
seeds off the dashboard and pocketed it as he swung himself out of the
car.  Rachel's heart skipped a beat as she watched his lithe movement,
chided herself for not keeping her mind on her work.
	As they approached the site, Rachel's nostrils twitched.  An
evil smell, the smell of something rotting hung over the field like a
black death shroud.  The closer they advanced, the more putrid and
invasive the smell became.  Rachel gagged and tried to breathe through
her mouth.  Nothing helped.  The last body had been dead for days
before it had been discovered, decomposition making identification
difficult, if not impossible.  It was likely an earlier victim of the
killer.
	Mulder seemed to be completely unperturbed.  He strode towards
the area marked by bright yellow crime scene tape and several
barricades.  He flashed his badge at the somber state trooper behind
the first barrier and stepped past, Rachel tripping over the muddy,
furrowed rows in an attempt to keep up with him.  He stopped by the
place where the body had been found.  It was marked out with red
plastic string that made a striking, surreal contrast against the
rich, black earth.  Rachel swallowed heavily and turned away.  Even
though the body had been removed, the smell of rotting flesh lingered.
It competed with the loamy earthiness of the mud and was winning,
making her feel nauseous.
	Mulder stood by the area where the body had been with his head
down, an expression of revulsion fleeting over his features to be
replaced by a dark sorrow.  Head still down, he walked the perimeter
of the area, the footprints of the killer flagged with the same red
string.  He seemed to be very far away, eyes distant and clouded over
with that shadowed weariness.
	Rachel retreated back to the barrier, feeling awkward.  She
kept an eye on him surreptitiously, watching as he made exactly three
rounds of the crime scene.  He went over to the State Homicide
detectives who were gathering evidence and spoke to them at length.
After a short time he pivoted and came back towards Rachel, striding
past her as if he didn't even see her.
	She caught up with him, realizing too late that he was
leaving.  "You don't need to see anyone else?" she asked.
	He looked at for the briefest instant as though he had no idea
who she was, then recognition lit his expression.  "I don't think so,"
he replied, shaking his head.  "I just need to read over the pathology
reports and I can get started on the profile.  Is there a computer
back at the BSU I can use?"
	She blinked.  "But you didn't take any notes, or use a tape
--" She stopped, embarrassed at her interrogative tone.
	An expression that could be called a grin danced over that
amazing mouth.  "It's all up here," and he tapped his forehead.  "I've
got -- well, I've got a photographic memory.  It's very useful when
I'm playing Concentration or Trivial Pursuit."  He reached into a
pocket and pulled out the bag of sunflower seeds, looked at them and
frowned, then put the crumpled bag back.

	He went back to the car and Rachel followed, puzzling at his
strange behaviour.  It seemed to her as if he hadn't spent nearly
enough time at the site, but then she reflected that she wasn't
familiar enough with the methods that BSU agents used, this being her
first assignment on a case of this nature.
	Mulder drove back into town, his gaze taking on that far-away
look again.  He pulled into the parking lot at the Medical Examiner's
office and opened his door to a minor mob scene.
	Families of victims and families whose children were missing
were standing outside the ME's front door, waiting for word as to the
identity of the latest victim.  Reporters stood milling about the
edges of the crowd, reminding Rachel of flocks of vultures, waiting
for their next meal to die.  Mulder put his head down again and
shouldered his way through the crowd, Rachel following, but their FBI
badges made them an obvious target.  People pressed in on them,
jabbering anxious questions and trying to press photographs of
children into their hands.
	One woman, her face tear-stained and pale, thrust a photograph
in Mulder's face.  "Please, sir, my little boy has been missing for
four months.  That wasn't him, was it?  We came down from Sioux City
when we heard the news --"
	Mulder cradled the photograph gently in his hands, then tried
to give the picture back to her.  "I don't know, ma'am," he said
softly.
	She started to cry.  "Please, if you could just --" She
dissolved into loud, heartbroken sobs.
	Mulder carefully put the photograph in his pocket.  "I'll do
my best," he promised as he pushed past her.
	Rachel stumbled closely behind Mulder when they were able to
at last get through the pleading crowd.  At the makeshift reception
area, a man was juggling four ringing telephones.  Mulder asked the
exhausted and pale man, "Is Agent Scully available yet?"
	The young man shook his head, one phone balanced on his
shoulder, the other close to his ear.  "She's in the middle of an
autopsy," he replied.  "Are you Agent Mulder?"
	He nodded.  The man handed him a piece of paper and went back
to answering the phones.  Mulder glanced at it, scrawled something in
response.  Rachel looked over his shoulder as he replaced the note on
the counter; it read "Measure the bite marks."  She puzzled over that
as he ushered her out of the room.
	They drove silently back to the Federal building.  Back at the
BSU, Flaherty was no where to be seen, and neither was Hutchinson.
Robards and Kraft were back, earnestly typing into two of the three
computer terminals.  Rachel smiled wanly at Mulder.  "You can use that
one," she told him.
	Mulder reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph
the desperate mother had given him.  He looked closely at it, then
leaned over and propped it in the space between the keyboard and the
monitor.
	Rachel looked at the photo.  In it a chubby five year old boy
beamed at the camera.  He was blue-eyed and red-cheeked, a too-large
cowboy hat sitting rakishly on the back of his head.  A pang of sorrow
that was much too large to be contained in her chest stopped her
breath for one agonizing second.
	Mulder shrugged out of his coat and suit jacket in one fluid
motion.  Pulling up a chair, he was soon intent on a report, typing
furiously and looking like he was a million miles away.  Rachel went
back to her table after hanging up her own jacket, glad that from her
angle she could continue to watch him covertly.  She started in on her
own work.

===========================================================================

From: Monture_&_Wicks@magic.ca (Monture & Wicks)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Crushed Part 3
Date: Tue, 30 May 95 09:27:23 -0500


				        Crushed 
				 An X-Files Tale
		By Terri Monture (Monture_&_Wicks@mail.Magic.ca)
	

This section contains a PG-13 (for a bit of "adult" carryings-on)

8:07 p.m.


	They walked into the soft spring night, the scent of rain
heavy in the air.  She wondered if he was involved with his partner,
pushed aside the thought.  They wouldn't be working together if anyone
had detected any romantic involvement; Bureau policy made such
entanglements impossible, usually through outright cross-country
transfers.
	"So, where are you taking me?" he asked, car keys jangling in
his hand.  He unlocked the passenger door for her first and walked
around to the driver's side.
	"There's a really nice country kitchen place down the street,"
she said.  "Good, plain food, unpretentious decor, friendly service.
Best fried chicken this side of the Mississippi ..."
	Mulder shrugged.  "Sounds great, but I think I'll skip the
chicken."
	She bit her lip.  "You're a vegetarian?" she asked, mentally
reviewing all of the restaurants in the city and finding them wanting.
	He shook his head.  "No, it's just -- an assignment we had not
long ago kind of turned me off chicken.  Possibly permanently."  He
pulled onto the street.  "But I'll settle for a steak."
	"Well, they do up an amazing sirloin," she said.  "It's one of
the better things about being assigned to Lincoln."
	"You're not from the Midwest," he stated.
	She shook her head.  "No.  I'm from Aberdeen, Washington."
	He grinned.  "Cool.  Kurt Cobain's hometown."
	"It's not that cool, and he left long before I did," she said,
her earlier nervousness forgotten.  Mulder was surprisingly easy to
talk to.  She wanted to tell him about herself, her natural reticence
vanished as if it had never existed.  "It's a pretty tired, dull
place.  My grandparents raised me.  My parents died in a car accident
when I was very young.  I left as soon as I could."
	He nodded.  "I know the feeling," he said, commiserating.  "I
couldn't get out of my hometown fast enough."
	"Turn left at the light," she said.  "I got a scholarship to
the University of Virginia and got recruited by the Bureau in my
senior year.  I wanted to get into the Violent Crimes Investigation
unit, only ..." she faltered.
	He glanced at her.  "Only now you're not sure?"
	She shook her head.  "No, I'm not.  I'm not sure I have the
... that I have what it takes."
	"Don't be so hasty," he said softly.  "Don't mistake
compassion for weakness.
 It can make you a better investigator."
	For the first time since Rachel had been assigned to this
case, a sense of hope, a sense that she was capable flooded through
her.  She looked at him, startled.
	His profile was sharply handsome in the dim interior of the
car.  She liked this man, she realized, a warm, tingling sensation
flooding her belly.  And she wanted him.  She wanted to be with him,
naked and sweating, gasping for breath, her back arched, her nails
digging into his wide shoulders.
	He was saying something in that black velvet voice.  She shook
herself, glad the dull light hid her blush.  "Sorry?" she managed, her
voice a small, strangled rasp.  She cleared her throat.
	He glanced at her, amused.  "I said, this must be the place."
He slowed the car.  The red neon sign proclaiming Clara's Kitchen"
hung silhouetted against the darkening sky like a slash of scarlet
lipstick in a pale face.
	"Good investigative technique," she said lightly, covering her
embarrassment with flirtation.
	"Observation is the key to any investigation."  He pulled into
the tiny lot and parked, grinning engagingly at her.  She had to tear
her gaze away from him, lest she pull his face to hers and kiss that
incredible mouth so hard that she lost her mind.
	She fumbled with the car door and got out as if she were
sleepwalking.  Mulder didn't seem to notice.  He followed her into the
warm, brightly-lit restaurant, which smelled of freshly-baked bread
and a slow-cooking potroast.  Rachel walked to her favourite booth at
the back by a window and sat down, composing herself as she took off
her jacket and reached for the menu.  Mulder slid into the booth
across from her, looking about him in an idle fashion that belied the
keen observation behind his glance.
	"I love places like this," he said, sighing happily as he
picked up a menu.
	"Almost as good as mom's," she agreed.
	He chuckled slightly.  There was a sad, regretful note there
that made her look up at him.  "Better than my mom's," he said, nearly
whispering.  A shadow passed over his eyes and was gone as fast as it
had come.
	A faded blonde appeared at the table, pouring water into the
glasses and smiling at Rachel.  "Hi, hon," she said, cracking her gum.
She snuck a look at Mulder, winked lasciviously at Rachel.  "What can
I get you?  Today's special is potroast."
	"Just a cheese omelet and homefries, Bonnie.  And a cup of
coffee."  She looked over at Mulder.  "It's my treat, by the way."
	"No way," he replied.  "This is on the taxpayer's dime."  He
tossed the menu aside.  "I'll have the potroast.  With mashed
potatoes, please.  And an iced tea."
	"Anything for you, darlin'," purred Bonnie.  She winked at
Rachel again and sashayed off to the kitchen.
	Mulder slumped against the red leatherette seat and rubbed his
eyes.
	"Are you okay?" Rachel asked shyly.
	"Hmm?  Oh -- yeah.  I'm just tired.  I -- I don't like to
profile anymore.  I try to avoid it these days, but this case --
Scully told me I couldn't say no."  He sighed and draped one arm
across the back of the seat, his gaze level with hers.  "We were
pulled off an investigation in Kansas and sent here to see if I could
do the profile.  I haven't done one in a while.  Normally the
investigations we conduct don't require it."  He looked pensive.  "At
this point, I just want to go home.  I feel like I'm in an episode of
the Twilight Zone -- I keep coming back to what looks like the same
motel room only in a different town."
	"But I thought that you were with the BSU, back in Quantico."
	He shook his head.  "No ... not for these last three years.  I
... I've got another assignment now."
	She picked up a fork, toyed with it.  "Hutchinson mentioned
that.  Something about the X-Files ...?"
	Mulder's eyes narrowed.  "What did he say?"  His tone became
furtive, almost paranoid.
	Rachel shook her head.  "Nothing, he just said that was the
department you were working for.  I didn't even know such a section
existed.  By its designation I'd say that it has something to do with
the investigation of unexplained phenomena."
	His eyes were still wary.  "That's correct."  He didn't
elaborate.  Bonnie appeared then, placing her coffee and his iced tea
in front of them.  Rachel was glad for the interruption.  Putting
cream and sugar in her coffee gave her something to do, to hide her
consternation over his sudden coldness.
	She decided to take a different tack.  "Why don't you like
profiling?  Agents like Hutchinson seem to thrive on it."
	Mulder seemed to relax, but he still looked sad.  "What do you
know about the process?"
	She set the spoon on the saucer beside the cup, staring at it
while she gathered her thoughts.  "I know that by analyzing the crime
scene and applying behavioral psychology models a probable profile of
the characteristics of the criminal can be produced."
	He grinned at her, dispelling the chill that had settled over
him.  "That's a nice recitation of the standard FBI press release."
	His smile did not reach his eyes.  "I -- I have something of a
talent for it.  It takes not only good analysis of crime scene and a
knowledge of psychology, but an intuitive leap into the mind of the
killer.  It's more of an art form than a scientific investigative
technique."
	The distance in his eyes returned.  "Sometimes I ... once in a
while I get so caught up in a monster's head that I lose myself."  He
blinked, gave a self-conscious laugh.  "They live in a horrid realm of
fantasy and it's easy to fall into their madness.  That's not supposed
to happen to us.  But that's what's so horrifying, that I can get to
the point where I *understand* what makes a man do these things, and
why."  He laughed then, a bitter, hollow sound.  "And then he doesn't
seem all that monstrous to me anymore."
	Rachel shivered; she now understood the sadness she saw in his
eyes.  He had been so good at the profiling technique that these
monsters still lived in his head, and with each case, he would lose a
little bit more of himself.  She also understood why the X-Files would
be so appealing after working in the BSU -- he could put his talent to
use investigating strange phenomenon without the risk to his own
psyche.  After the BSU, even the injuries to his body probably seemed
less risky than the danger to his mind.
	Bonnie came then, placed two platters of steaming food in
front of them.  Rachel watched as Mulder shook himself out his
melancholy reverie and dug into his food with a passion.
	They enjoyed a leisurely dinner and Rachel changed the
subject, talking about books she had read and movies she had seen.
Mulder was charming and witty, making her laugh so hard on occasion
that she had to reach for her water glass to prevent her from choking.
When this happened he would grin at her, wide-eyed with a little boy's
innocent appeal, an expression she found earth-quakingly sexy.
	They lingered over a refill of coffee, but she knew by
Mulder's drooping eyelids and her own weariness that they had to
leave, even though she didn't want the night to end.  At last she
signaled to Bonnie for the check.  Mulder took it to the cashier to
pay for dinner while she gathered up her things.
	Bonnie sidled up beside her.  "So who's the babe?" she
whispered conspiratorially.  "He's very tasty."
	"Bonnie!" Rachel hissed, shocked.  "He's an agent that I have
to work with."
	"Well, hon, I say you should go for it."  Bonnie snapped her
gum decisively and started clearing the table.  Rachel rolled her eyes
and walked over to the door where Mulder was waiting for her.
	The damp May night smelled of newly-mown grass and fresh mud,
and was sweet and rejuvenating as Rachel breathed deeply.  The indigo
sky was dotted with thousands of twinkling stars that shone even past
the glare of the city's lights.  Mulder opened the car door for her
with a gallant sweep of his arm and she floated into the seat,
determined to pretend that the night was not ending.
	She gave him directions to her apartment complex and curled up
into her seat, dreaming.  On the radio, Julee Cruise's sweet little
voice crooned, "Tell your heart that I'm the one/Tell your heart it's
me ..."* She felt Mulder's warm presence near her and wished upon a
star that she was the one for him.
	The song ended as they pulled into the driveway of her
building.  The announcer came on, his voice booming after the soft
song.  "In Lincoln today the remains of what police believe to be the
first victim of the "Cat Killer" has been identified."
	Mulder turned the volume up.  "Sources from the Lancaster
County Medical Examiner's Office confirm that the body is that of
Dylan James Gallagher, five years old, of Sioux City, Iowa.  The child
had been missing from his home in Sioux City for over four months ..."
	Rachel couldn't stand it anymore.  She saw only the
chubby-cheeked, smiling little boy in the photograph on the keyboard
Mulder had used, the child's open gaze twisting into her stomach with
the cruelty of a blow.  The last few weeks of extreme hours, the
heartbreaking work and the stress caused by reining in her emotions
crashed through the dam of her composure and she burst into sobs, her
shoulders shaking with the force of her sorrow as she buried her face
in her hands.
	She felt herself being pulled into a warm, firm embrace. A
strong hand was stroking her hair, her cheek; and a soft voice was
whispering, "It's okay to cry, Rachel ... Let it out ... Keeping it in
only hurts you more ..."
	Rachel clung to Mulder, to his warmth, to his strength that
she could feel emanating from his wide shoulders and capable hands.
In the extremity of her misery, she did what under normal
circumstances she never would have done -- she raised her tear-stained
face to his and found his mouth with hers, tasting him tentatively.
He remained very still for an instant, then returned her kiss in a
gentle, questioning way.  He pulled back, examining her eyes swiftly.
Whatever he saw there decided him and he pulled her to him, growling
lowly in his throat.
	Rachel closed her eyes with the pleasure of it as he kissed
her thoroughly, hungrily, the way a man kisses a woman when he hasn't
done so in some time.  Her tears were forgotten.  Her heart beat
wildly in her chest, her arms wound their way around his neck.  Time
blurred, the world stopped spinning; the entire universe became this
man, her arms full of him and her mouth on fire beneath his.
	With a groan Mulder pulled himself away from her.  "I'm sorry
..." he said in a small voice, running a shaky hand through his hair.
	She found her bearings in the stormy sea of her emotions,
turned to him.  "Don't be," she said, gasping.  "Don't you dare be
sorry.  I want this as much -- or more -- than you do."  Her passion
made her bold.  She felt the Rachel she had become slip away from her,
felt herself becoming a woman who was daring, who was sensual and
demanding that her desire be fulfilled.  She put her hand on his
thigh, feeling his muscles tense beneath her seeking fingers.
	He looked at her, his eyes wide with his confusion and his
hunger.  "I -- are you sure?"
	She nodded.  "Come with me," she whispered throatily, feeling
as if she were on fire.  "Please?"
	He pulled the keys out of the ignition and was out of the
door, slamming it shut and coming around her side of the car to pull
her out into his arms.  He kissed her again.  "I will," he told her.

10:11 p.m.

	Rachel's apartment was dark and cool; she had left the windows
open that morning before she left and now the smell of the night air
was heavy in the room.  She didn't even bother to turn on the lights.
	Rachel threw her jacket and coat carelessly on the floor,
kicking off her shoes and leading Mulder by the hand to the couch.
Pulling his coat off him, she sank into the cushions, reaching up with
a wanton hand to pull him by the tie down onto her.  His kisses were
feverish and intense, driving Rachel half out of her mind with desire.
She pulled his shirt out of his pants and ran her hands up and down
the length of his lean, naked torso as he showered kisses on her
mouth, her cheeks, her neck.
	Mulder hiked the skirt of her dress up over her thighs,
snaking a hand up under her bra to tease the nipple between his thumb
and forefinger.  Rachel gasped and arched forward, her breast filling
his hand.  He brought his mouth down on hers, tracing the outline of
her lips with his tongue.  He pressed a series of wet, warm kisses
down the column of her throat, her collarbone, and buried his face
between her breasts.
	Lifting her hips, she captured his legs between hers, grinding
her pelvis into his with an abandon that she had never enjoyed before.
With uncharacteristic daring, she reached down between them and undid
his pants, stroking his hard, flat belly until her questing hand
reached the soft tangle of curls between his legs.
	Mulder moaned as her hand stroked him relentlessly.  "Oh god,
that's so good, Da --" He stopped as if a pail of cold water had been
thrown on him.  His body stiffened and suddenly he was sitting up,
sliding off the couch to sit with his knees drawn close his chest and
his face hidden behind his hands
	Rachel raised her head, her body on still on fire and her mind
a swirl of confusion.  "Please don't -- what's wrong?" she panted,
struggling to sit up.  She pulled her dress down.  "Mul ... Fox," she
whispered, reaching out to touch his head.  He flinched away from her
touch and she froze as if she had been slapped, hand still extended.
	He drew a sharp breath and suddenly sagged, as if all the
tension in his body had fled to leave him as limp as a rag doll.  "I'm
sorry, Rachel," he whispered.  There was an incredible pain in his
voice that made her flinch.
	Rachel withdrew her hand and wrapped her arms across her body,
making herself as small as possible in a corner of the couch.  "Is ...
is it me?" she whispered, not wanting to say those words but being
unable to stop herself.
	Mulder stared straight into her eyes, shaking his head
vehemently.  "Of course not!  I don't want you to think that, not even
for a second.  You're so beautiful, and I'm such a geek ..."  He
groaned and lowered his head, banging it on his own knees.  He got up
then and looked wildly about the room, like he wanted to flee.
	Rachel made herself even smaller.  You should have known, she
screamed at herself.  How could someone as wonderful as he was want
anything to do with her, much less want to make love with her?  She
swallowed the huge lump that had formed in her throat.
	Mulder stared down at her and a dark shadow that looked like
regret, followed quickly by an equal measure of guilt, grew in his
eyes.  He came swiftly to her side and knelt beside the couch, taking
her hands in his.  "This has nothing to do with you," he declared,
"and everything to do with me."
	Rachel couldn't look at him.  The rejection bit so deeply into
her it was like a live thing with sharp teeth, wounding her pride and
her heart.
	Mulder put a hand to her chin and raised it until she had to
look at him.  "Please believe me, Rachel.  I'm so ... I'm so fucked
up, I don't even deserve to be here.  You've been so sweet to me, so
gentle and so wonderful, and I .."
	A light flared in Rachel's head as she looked at him and
suddenly she saw the truth.  "Is there someone else?" she asked
softly.
	Mulder's eyes were dark pools of pain.  She knew he was
fighting with himself, fighting with the knowledge.  "Yes," he blurted
finally. "I -- we -- she --" He looked down at the floor, whispering
urgently, more to himself than to her, "-- she can never know."
	Rachel was overcome with the desire to comfort him, but knew
he would not accept that, not after he had rejected her sexually.  She
sat with Mulder in the darkness of her apartment, saying nothing,
intuitively giving him the time to gather his wits to him so he could
make a graceful exit.
	The sharp, tinny ring of a cellphone shattered the silence.
Mulder fumbled for his coat on the floor and found the phone in a
pocket, angrily pulling up the antenna.  "Mulder," he barked, running
a hand through his hair.  "Oh, hi, Scully."  He was doing his best to
sound normal, Rachel realized, and it almost worked.  "No, I'm okay
... I just got sidetracked."
	Rachel peered at Mulder in the gloom, unable to see his face
as he turned away from her, gathered up his coat.  "I'm sorry I didn't
call earlier.  I'll be right there ...  no, really, I'm fine.  See you
in a bit."  He thumbed the off-switch and put the phone back in his
coat.
	 Rachel turned her face to the wall.  Mulder stood awkwardly
before her as he tucked his shirt into in his pants and put his suit
jacket back on.  He closed his eyes again, taking a deep breath.
"Rachel, I --" he began, voice stilted and embarrassed.  "I'm really
sorry ..."
	She felt the tears well behind her eyes, willed herself with
every ounce of strength and dignity left to her not to cry.  "Just
go," she pleaded.  "Don't say anything.  Don't apologize.  Just go."
	He nodded stiffly and fled, closing the door gently behind
him.  Rachel sat numbly, staring at nothing.  She sat for a good hour
or more, watching as the night deepened and the room grew colder.
Finally she made herself go to bed.  Like a sleepwalker she took off
her clothes, leaving them puddled on the floor.  Finding her favourite
flannel nightgown, she wrapped herself in its warm folds and lay down,
trying to pretend there was no pain in her heart.
	And when she woke in the morning, there was an unmistakable
ache deep in her groin and her pillow was wet with tears.

===========================================================================

From: Monture_&_Wicks@magic.ca (Monture & Wicks)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Crushed Part 2
Date: Tue, 30 May 95 09:27:15 -0500



				        Crushed 
				 An X-Files Tale
		By Terri Monture (Monture_&_Wicks@mail.Magic.ca)
	

7:19 p.m.

	Rachel pushed the last of the paperwork away with a tired hand
and stretched, yawning hugely.  She rubbed the knot at the base of her
neck and looked at the clock, grimacing at the time.  The rumbling in
her stomach reminded her about the hunger she had ignored.
	She glanced over at Agent Mulder, taking care not to rest her
gaze there too long.  The other agents were also present, all madly
working away, and she did not want to appear to be compromising her
hard-won professional respect by panting over the "weirdo from
Washington", as Flaherty insisted on calling him.
	Mulder was still hunched over the computer terminal, his
earlier flurry of typing having given way to the occasional languid
edit.  He had been pretty much in the same position all day, except
for the occasional cat-like stretch, a couple of rounds of slow pacing
with a cellphone cradled on his shoulder, and the odd trip to the
washroom.  He had also filled a nearby wastepaper basket with
wadded-up paper; nothing had been written there, it was merely
scrunched and thrown into the receptacle like a basketball.  She
recognized that his game of paper basketball was a device used to
sharpen his thoughts, much in the same way she used to make little
origami cranes out of post-it notes when she was writing papers in
college.
	Rachel had snuck a look in the Bureau's computerized personnel
system about Mulder, her curiousity, in the end, greater than her
respect for his privacy.  Much of what had gone in his file was
classified, but she was able to glean a few interesting tidbits of
information.  One hugely intriguing item was that, after having been
pegged as one of the Bureau's rising stars in the wake of the Monty
Props capture, he had faded into a kind of career obscurity, spending
his time and intellect on the so-called "X-Files", a department within
the Bureau she wasn't even aware existed.
	She had tried to get a look at some of the reports that he had
filed in pursuit of investigations involving the X-Files.  Many of the
finished reports had been deleted -- or were ominously empty when she
opened them up to read them.  She had been more successful in
retrieving Agent Dana Scully's field reports, many of which spent
paragraph after paragraph debunking a working theory, usually leaning
towards the paranormal, that her partner had developed.  Rachel had
noticed, however, that Agent Scully's most recent reports were missing
as well, as if she too had been censored by the unseen hand that kept
Mulder's work out of the databases.
	Another interesting piece of information was that Mulder had
received numerous medical treatments -- a broken leg, gunshot wounds,
concussions, lacerations, a dislocated shoulder, a broken rib.  He had
also been quarantined for months on several different occasions, and
had recently spent a month in a military hospital in Alaska.  The
reasons for these mysterious hospitalizations were never explained,
the reports gaping with places where text had been deleted.  Either he
was extremely accident prone or these X-Files were dangerous, Rachel
mused as she had exited the system.
	She glanced in Mulder's direction.  He was speaking with
Hutchinson, hands making descriptive arcs in the air as he explained
something to him.  The other agents stopped their work to listen to
him, the skepticism in their faces marked clearly by their furrowed
brows.  Rachel couldn't take her eyes off him.  He was too compelling.
	The fax machine beside her beeped loudly, startling her from
her perusal of Mulder.  It started spewing page after page of a
pathologist's report.  She picked it up and saw that it was addressed
to Agent Mulder from Agent Scully, the name scrawled in a firm,
confident hand.  "Call me" was printed in block letters across the top
of the first page.  Waiting until the machine was finished spitting
the entire thing out, she gathered up the pages and took them with
her.
	As Rachel approached, Mulder was saying, "This is the work of
two organized killers.  They take great pains in selecting the killing
site -- enough that it remains undetected until identification of the
body becomes extremely difficult, if not impossible.  One
participates, the other watches, until he is so caught up in the
frenzy of the killing that he becomes involved as well."
	Kraft snorted incredulously.  "There's been nothing to suggest
that there are two killers," he said, sneering.  "The footprints --"
	Mulder shrugged.  Picking up a crime scene photo, he pointed
to a clear print of a boot imbedded in the mud.  "This print is a size
smaller than the other one.  Same kind of tread, but smaller -- bet
you five bucks it's a Doc Marten boot tread."
	He handed the photo to Kraft who took it gingerly, frowning
all the while.
	"Some of the wounds on the body are smaller, the postmortem
ones in particular, indicating that they were made with less strength
behind them."  Mulder picked up another photo from the table, handed
that one to Kraft.
	"That could just mean he was losing steam," argued Robards,
his dark face clouded with skepticism.
	"Possibly," Mulder agreed.  "But unlikely."  He picked up
another photo, this one a morgue photo that Rachel had to steel
herself to look at.  He pointed to a series of gaping wounds on the
corpse's small torso.  "On this victim, three of the bite marks seem
to indicate a smaller dental arch.  Through comparison of the
intercanine width this initial conclusion was confirmed."
	Kraft stared at the picture.  "I didn't even see that," he
muttered, his earlier bluster vanished.
	"It's easy to miss.  I had Agent Scully go back and measure
each bite mark, since the earlier examination had failed to note the
differences."
	"Then why these particular victims?" demanded Robards, still
skeptical.  "Why would two adults kill juvenile males without there
being a sexual assault?"  He gestured at his computer.  "We've got the
offender down to being a white male, age 25-40, exhibiting a
pedophilic psychology.  Two males wouldn't go after such young
children."
	"These killers are just starting out on their career," Mulder
answered dryly.  "The age, the sex of the victim is irrelevant.  They
are interested only in the killing -- that's what turns them on.  The
victims are convenient, chosen because they are available at the
moment and vulnerable."  He tossed the morgue photo back onto the desk
where it fluttered mercifully upside down.  "They're going to
escalate, no doubt about it.  Bigger prey, harder to get at.  That's
when the real thrill for them will start."  He frowned then, rubbing
his jaw, something like a light turning on in his eyes.  "I don't
think they're very old -- late teens at the most.  One of them may
even be female."
	Kraft threw up his hands in disgust.  "Now you're really
reaching for it," he said angrily.  He turned to Robards.  "Let's go
-- I don't need to hear any more of this crap."  He stalked away,
Robards following him with a bemused backward glance at Mulder.
	Mulder smiled sadly at Hutchinson.  "Told you they wouldn't
like it."
	Hutchinson sighed, put his hands in his pockets.  "Nope.  You
were right."
	Mulder looked up at Rachel, noticing her at last.  "Is that
for me?" he asked, smiling at her in a way that made her heart hammer
in her chest.  She nodded, unable to speak.  His fingers brushed hers
as he took the fax from her and she felt that wild surge of excitement
again.  She snatched her hand away as though from a hot stove and was
instantly mortified at her reaction.
	Hutchinson frowned as he watched Rachel blush.  Mulder was
oblivious, scanning rapidly through the fax.  He reached for his
cellphone and dialed a number from memory.  "Hey, Scully," he said,
turning away from them.  "What's up?  And guess what -- not an alien
or mutating lifeform in sight with this one ...  just your basic
old-fashioned human monster."
	Rachel didn't really want to leave, so she made a little small
talk with Hutchinson, who became animated as she paid attention to
him.  All the while she listened to Mulder's conversation; it appeared
that Scully was returning to the motel they were staying at and would
see him later.
	Rachel broke off her conversation with Hutchinson as Mulder
was folding away his cellphone.  Before she lost her nerve, hoping her
voice didn't tremble with her anxiousness, she casually asked, "Do you
want to get something to eat?"
	Mulder, intent on saving what he had typed into the computer,
nodded.  "Sure.  I'm starving."
	Hutchinson looked first at Mulder and then at Rachel, and was
dejected.  "I'm just going to go back to the motel and order a pizza,"
he said, a hollow bravado shoring up his words.
	Rachel didn't even hear Hutchinson, didn't notice his
melancholy face as he slowly gathered up his suit jacket and loaded
himself down with an armload of files.
	Her eyes were filled with Mulder, watching as he put his
jacket back on and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair.  He
smiled at her.  "I'll drive, if you want," he said.
	She nodded.  "Okay.  I'll get my things."  She floated back to
her desk, stomach full of butterflies.  She picked up her briefcase
and jacket, smiled shyly at Mulder.  "Ready," she said, praying her
voice was steadier than it felt.
	He pocketed a disk he had pulled out of the computer and
picked up a stack of files.  "I'm going to run this by Scully," he
explained at Rachel's quizzical look.
	"Does she do profiling as well?" she asked as they walked into
the hall and he pushed the door of the stairwell open for her.
	He shook his head.  "No, but she's always worth consulting.
She tends to balance my ideas with a more .... rational approach."
Mulder smiled wryly, but she sensed the depth of affection behind that
smile.
	And wondered what Scully really meant to him.

--

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