Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, as well as the copyrighted property of 1013 productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended. Posting Date : October 23, 1997 Archive Entry : "ELS" Chapter 3/25 (Part II) Classification : SRA Chapter Rating : R (Violence, Language) Story Rating : NC-17 Casting : John Ashton, "Detective Boyle" Missing Chapters: http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/els.htm Mailing List : mailto:drambo@azstarnet.com?subect=SUBSCRIBE Summary : After solving the Chicago case, Mulder and Scully attempt to take some downtime, but end up having to rush to another city in order to help stop a madman. Spoilers : Pusher, Conduit, Home. (See note below) Content Warnings: Violent content, language NOTE: Violent scenes are set off with a "@" character at the beginning and a "#" character at the end. If you do not want to read the explicitly violent scenes, set your text reader/word processor to search for "#", and when you encounter the "@" character, do a "Find Again" or "Find Next" and the program will skip it. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Aboard Delta Flight 2066 Two Hours Later The beverage cart had just rattled up the aisle. They had both ordered coffee, black. Mulder had quietly instructed the flight attendant to keep the coffee coming. She'd seen the paperwork spread out before them and had nodded, understanding without knowing the specifics that it was important that these two passengers remain awake for the flight. She'd offered to move the people in the rows in front and behind the two Agents, so their light wouldn't keep them awake. Mulder was studying the profile that had already been written, taking copious notes. Scully eyed this with more than a passing interest; she'd never known Mulder to take a single note in all the years she'd known him. Which probably meant he was distracted. And taking that as a given, she had a good idea what he was distracted _about_. The same thing she was, as a matter of fact. "How does it look?" Scully asked. "Not good," Mulder answered. "Did you see the autopsy data?" Scully nodded, trying to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. The data had been gruesome, and that was being kind. The killer, what ISU profilers called an UNSUB, (for UNknown SUBject,) seemed to have a distinct antipathy towards young blonde boys. Four boys between the ages of eight and ten years old, had been taken from the Jacksonville area in the past nine months. All four had been found dead by the side of the A1A causeway. Each of them had been found naked, hands and feet tied, with evidence of severe physical and sexual torture prior to death. @ Death had been caused, in each case, by a blow to the head with a blunt object. All the victims had suffered fractured skulls, but it was the Arlington County Coroner's Office opinion that the blow to the head had taken place immediately prior to each victim being strangled with bare hands. Pinpoint hemorrhages in the whites of the eye had contributed to that finding. The coroner listed a dual cause of death, because in his opinion, death would have occurred within minutes after the blow to the head, regardless if the choking had not taken place. Each victim bore signs of physical torture. Some had cigarette burns on the backs, buttocks and genitals. Others had what appeared to be plier marks on the nipples and genitals. The coroner had removed a cement plug from the anus of the most recent victim, and the Florida State Police Crime Lab had determined through means unknown to Scully that the plug had been inside the body for up to three days before the victim was murdered. # "He likes it," Mulder muttered. "He really likes what he's doing." "So why call it in?" Scully asked. "Why draw attention to himself?" "Only reason I can think of is that he's getting ready to fly the coop. Change locales. He wants to brag to the cops that he got away with it." Scully nodded her agreement. "Makes sense. Or is it a cry for help?" Mulder shook his head, annoyed at something. "Not that, Scully. Look at the way the bodies were positioned. All face up, all displayed in such a way to call attention to the crime. If they'd been face down, or covered, or hidden, I might have believed there was some sort of post-rage remorse. But...not in this case. His anger is still to raw, still too hungry." Scully nodded again, glad that Mulder was talking. "So...what does Littleton expect us to do?" Mulder shook his head. "I have no idea. Maybe he just wants a headquarters profiler down there, some kind of presence from the Crystal Tower." Mulder began shuffling paper, looking for the UNSUB profile. It was standard: White male, 25 to 35, with a blue-collar job, driving a ten to fifteen year-old car. The car would be heavily customized, with a powerful engine and a loud radio. The UNSUB would be clean and neat. The use of the ligatures on the hands and feet indicated an organized killer, probably with a kit. The ropes used to bind the victims had been analyzed, and were standard clothesline, available at hardware stores across the country. He would smoke, but would be trying to quit. He would be of above average intelligence, but an underachiever, both professionally and personally. He would have failed relationships, several of them, with women his own age, and would prefer younger women, especially women that looked prepubescent. Mulder wasn't sure about that last one. He had the feeling that the UNSUB was... He closed his eyes, reaching up to turn the reading light off, thrusting their row into total darkness. Scully, in the process of going over crime scene photos, turned to complain and saw Mulder's eyes twitching behind closed lids. Darkness, she remembered. Mulder went deep inside himself, looking for the UNSUB. He felt around in the darkness of his mind, one hand holding a lamp cord, the other searching for the socket, feeling along the wall. His mind turned words and phrases from the reports over and over again, glancing at them askance, turning them upside down. It shouldn't be this hard, he thought. No, not little girls. He likes little boys. But not sexually. He's not gay, and he's not a pedophilie, even though the children were molested. His sexual high isn't from the actual molestation...it's from...the revenge? The get-back? Mulder touched on a memory, and his mind drew back as if burned. He approached the memory slowly, as if it might run if startled. Ten. He'd been ten years old. Little League game. His father, dropping him off, Sam in the car. He remembered wanting his father to stay for the game, wanting his father to watch him pitch. He'd been working on his fastball. His father curtly ordering him out of the car, telling him to find his own ride home. His father turning to Sam and calling her "Princess," and how they were going to go out and buy her a new dress, so she could be pretty. Pretty for who...? Mulder remembered thinking. And he remembered not wanting that question answered, remembered the hatred and the bile that had risen in his throat as he'd turned and watched his father drive away, smiling at his little sister, remembered how the departing form of the Mulder family car had slowly revealed the baseball field, how it had shown the other boys on his team, their fathers standing on the sidelines, calling encouragement, praise, shouting out words of love and support. And then the burn. He remembered the hatred he'd felt for those boys, how he wanted them all to die, to vanish, to disappear from the face of the Earth forever. How he wanted to be them, how he wanted to have fathers like they did, fathers that didn't scream and shout and yell and point fingers, fathers that didn't drink and hit. And then the memory doubled back on itself. Mulder saw his father screaming at him, his neck corded with anger, a huge, fat, blue vein throbbing in the center of his forehead. The one game his father had managed to make, and Mulder had walked in the go-ahead run. His father, on the sidelines, jumping up and down like an organ-grinder's monkey, shaking his fist. And the ride home, after the game, Mulder's father repeating over and over again how embarrassed he'd been, how humiliated and disgusted. His son...HIS SON... walking in a go-ahead run! Failing! And the hate and the bile and the anger and the shame came rolling back again, Mulder remembering the hatred he'd felt, upset that he'd gotten his fondest wish, for his father to see a game, to see him play, and how that still hadn't been enough, it was never enough, it would never _be_ enough. Never enough. Never. Ever. "Daddy," he whispered, and then whimpered. Scully, having watched the entire episode, knew that Mulder was...being Spooky. He was in the Dark Place, as she privately called it. He was reliving something from his past. Something evil and painful and dark. Dark like the grave, she thought, and shuddered. She considered reaching out to him, but didn't know if she should. Did he want her to? Need her to? Or did he need this more, these trips into his pain, into the horror that passed for his childhood? Mulder, still inside the memory, saw himself as a boy, saw himself trudging up the stairs to his room, closing the door softly, not wanting to alert his father, not wanting to incur the wrath again, saw himself sitting on the bed, tossing the mitt on the floor and... And... Crying. Sobbing. Letting his face fall into his hands as he struggled to let the pain out as quietly as he could. Private pain, not for sharing. Not with his mother, nor his sister. No one to listen. Even then, knowing he was different, smarter than the other kids. Knowing that baseball was the great equalizer, that when he was on the field he was just another one of the kids, just a faceless, nameless number in a uniform. Knowing that now, when he needed a friend, he had no one to turn to. No one. And the memory shifted. Memory became fantasy as Mulder's mind tried to deal with the overwhelming guilt and pain. A little girl walked into the room, a little girl with red pigtails and smart blue eyes. "It's ok, Mulder," the little girl with the voice of an adult Scully said. "It's ok...I'm here." She walked over to the bed and jumped up, putting her arm around his shoulder. He turned his face into that her shoulder and sobbed, letting the tears run out, letting the pain and rage and hurt and anger flow out of him in a never ending wave of grief and sadness and just plain hurt. She stroked his back, made cooing noises in his ear, letting him cry. "I know why," Mulder told the fantasy Scully. "I know why he did it." "Who?" the fantasy Scully asked, and Mulder opened his eyes to find that fantasy had become reality, that it wasn't a six or seven year-old Scully sitting on his bed in the Chilmark house, but the 33 year-old Scully, his best, only friend holding him and letting him cry into her shoulder. He raised his face from her body, tears streaking his skin, and looked into the eyes of his partner. "The UNSUB. I know why he did it." Scully raised her eyebrows but said nothing. He saw her expression. "Maybe not the specifics, but if he calls back, and I can talk to him...I think I can get him to come in." Scully let out a deep breath. "Let's hope he calls, Mulder." "Tired," he whispered, lowering his face to her shoulder again. "So, so tired..." "Shhhh," she said, stroking his hair with her free hand. "Go to sleep, Mulder. Rest." He sighed happily, closed his eyes and was asleep within moments. Scully continued to hold him, not minding, actually welcoming it. Is this what it's like? she wondered. Is this what it's going to be like to love this man? Would be like, she mentally corrected herself. Would be like. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Jacksonville, Florida The plane landed without incident. The bump of the wheels against the tarmac woke Mulder from his sleep, and he straightened, looking at Scully with a strange expression on his face. He doesn't remember, she thought. He thinks it was a dream. "Hey, sorry," he said, a wry smile on his face. "No problem, Mulder. I've drooled on you during enough stakeouts." He nodded, suddenly remembering the Modell stakeout, how he'd reached over and teased the side of her face with his fingers, thrilling to the silky, sexy feel of her skin against his. "Yeah, that's true." "So, Mulder...come to any conclusions?" He turned to her, opening his mouth to speak, and saw the guarded expression on her face. She knew. He must have said something. He sighed. "Listen," he started. "I...when I'm working a case like this... it gets weird sometimes. If you want to...go back to Quantico, I'll understand." She considered smacking him one, but remembered how... utterly vulnerable he'd looked during his...trance. "No, Mulder," she said softly. She leaned close to him, once again pinning him with her eyes. "Listen to me...no one should have to go through what you do when you...do that. But...if there's anyone in the Bureau with half a chance to bring this...UNSUB in, I know you're the man for the job." Impulsively, Scully leaned in as if she was going to kiss him, instead settling for gently patting his hand and smiling. Stunned, Mulder could only sit there and wonder what might have happened. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Joint Task Force Headquarters Jacksonville, Florida 0521 Hours Mulder strode into the building, flashed his ID to the uniformed officer at the desk and asked for directions to the task force. Scully trailed in behind him, attempting to cover a yawn behind the back of her hand. Mulder turned and continued walking, following the cops directions, and found the conference room in short order. There were two Jacksonville detectives and an FBI agent inside. "Hey," Mulder said as he entered. "Who was supposed to meet us?" The FBI agent looked up, bleary-eyed. He lifted a wrist in the general direction of his face. "Not s'posed to be here for another hour," he said, and dropped his wrist back to the table. "How long have you been awake?" Mulder asked. "What day is it...?" "If you don't know, that's too long," Scully said. "Go home, get some sleep. Leave your pager and cell numbers." The agent stood, nodded, and wrote two numbers down, handing the piece of paper to Scully as he walked past. "The Jax ASAC and SAC are going to be in at six-thirty. Have fun. Sorry I missed you." And with that, he was gone. "Anything new?" Mulder asked the two Jax detectives. "Who are you?" one of them asked. "Mulder, ISU," he said, shrugging out of his jacket. "Fox Mulder?" the older one asked. "One in the same," Scully confirmed. The two detectives exchanged a grim smile. "Coffee?" Scully asked. "Good idea," the younger detective said. "I take mine with one sugar, no cream." "Nice to know. When you get it, make sure you get me and my partner one," Mulder said instantly. "I take it black. She takes it one cream." The two cops exchanged a glance. "Now," Mulder snapped. Scully didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed. She settled for tired, and made her way to a free chair at the conference table. "God, I'm beat," she said, collapsing into the chair. "I'll see your beat and raise you an exhausted," Mulder replied. "Call," she said, surprising Mulder. "You play poker, Scully?" "Navy brat. Two brothers. You do the math." He nodded, too tired to explore this...fascinating concept any more. Scully realized that the uncomfortable feeling in her abdomen was the pressure of a full bladder. She got up to find the bathroom, and instead discovered the community coffee urn, with the two Jax detectives hovering around it, talking in quiet, subdued tones. "...heard about him," the older one was saying. "Rumor has it he can read people's minds." "No shit?" the younger one asked. "Yeah...but only scumbags' minds. He's some kind of... weirdo. But he gets the job done, from what I've heard." "Like what?" "Oh, Lord...about nine, what...ten years ago? A case down in Tallahassee. Standard hooker slayings. All black hookers. Tallahassee vice figured it was NVNNH." He said it as "En Vee En En Aych." Scully made a mental note to discover what the acronym meant. "So this Mulder guy comes down, does the profile, and they have the guy in like two days. Tallahassee cops thought it was a black man, because serial killers rarely cross racial lines. Turns out the guy was mulatto. Mulder figured it out because the only hookers that were getting chopped were ones that were black...real black. Coal black." "Blue black," his partner confirmed, sniggering behind an arrogant smile. "Well, anyway, Mulder figured it out in about ten seconds. Once he got a look at the crime scene photos, he put it together in the space between two heartbeats. I tell you, the guy is strange." Scully quietly made her way back up the hallway and finally discovered the ladies room. After finishing, she returned to the conference room to find a steaming cup of coffee waiting for her. "So, as I asked before," Mulder was saying. "Anything new?" "Nope. We have a trap and trace going, so if he calls, we'll have him within seconds." "Don't you guys have 911 Enhanced?" Mulder asked. The cops exchanged a what-a-dumb-question look. "Yeah. Doesn't work against cell phones. The phone he's using was reported stolen six hours ago. We haven't turned it off...for obvious reasons." "The newest upgrade can work cells," Mulder insisted. "What version of the software are you using?" Neither cop had any idea. "Well, perhaps if you contact your communications section, they'll be able to tell you," Scully offered. Again, with the exchanged glances. Mulder rolled his head. "Please." They started to go. Mulder got up and walked over to the door to meet them. He took the younger one by the shoulder and pulled him close. "How long you been a cop?" he asked. "Nine years." "Eleven for me. That little redhead over there is the best partner I've ever had, and the best goddamn cop I've ever seen. You do not want to be messing with her, playing your little local law enforcement mind games. She will hurt you," Mulder whispered. "You guys call yourselves professional law enforcement officers. Start acting like it." With that, he turned and walked back to Scully's side. She could tell by the look on his face what had just taken place. The only thing that saved Mulder from getting a serious what-for was the fact that he looked like he was dead on his feet. It can wait, Scully decided. The two cops returned in ten minutes. "The third-quarter 96 version," the older one announced. "Need an upgrade," Mulder groaned. He was seated at the head of the table, leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed. "Did he say he was going to call again?" he asked. "He said that he might call us so we could listen to him kill the kid." "Ok, lemme see what you got on the most recent victim," Mulder said, opening his eyes. The older cop slid a thin folder across the table top to Mulder. The FBI agent opened it and began reading. "Nine ears old, blonde and blue. Upper middle class. Good grades. Plays sports. Hates girls, loves frogs. A typical kid. Average, maybe a little above. Still has both original parents, and a bratty little sister that he secretly adores. Everything the UNSUB isn't, and always wanted to be." "Excuse me?" the older cop asked. "Your UNSUB," Mulder said, slipping into his Lecture Voice, "is killing himself. Over and over." "Whaaaat?" "He's killing the image of what he thought he was supposed to be, what he thinks he's entitled to. A normal childhood with two loving parents. He hates...despises...the fact that these kids have a life that he never could, never did." "And you know all this because...?" Mulder grinned. "If I said it was because this is what I do for a living, would that make any difference?" "The other profiler said that he did it because he has a problem with his pedophilia and latent homosexuality." "pedophilies are not necessarily homosexuals. In most cases, they aren't. You didn't find any semen in or on the bodies. The torture of the victims is inconsistent with pedophilia. Pedos try and arouse the kids, try and get them to admit that they like it. Pedos prey on kids from dysfunctional families, kids that are lonely, not very well adjusted. This kid fits none of those profiles. Trust me on this one, guys. This guy is not a kiddie-didder." Scully winced at the term. She knew it was a defense mechanism, but it was still crude. "So what do we do?" "How big is your suspect pool?" "We're convinced he's a transient." "Good. Ok, here's what you do. Start calling all the day care centers, all the grammar and middle schools. Start waking people up if you have to. Get a hold of the personnel records. Find out anybody hired within the last sixty days that recently resigned or was fired. Doesn't matter the reason. Don't look too hard at anybody that was fired for being too close to the kids or too friendly with them." "Why? That makes no sense." "Listen to me...take these names, cross-reference them with your suspect pool. Anybody that turns up in the records check against the schools...eliminate." "Eliminate?" "This guy can't stand to be around kids, get it? He hates them. This is a quick way to narrow your suspect list a little." "Process of elimination?" "Something like that," Mulder agreed. "What if you're wrong?" the younger cop challenged. "Then we got another dead kid on our hands," Mulder answered, "and I get a new matinee for my ever-revolving series of nightmares. Now stop talking and start doing." "Anyplace besides day cares and schools?" "Sports leagues. Ice rinks. Any place where kids congregate that has blue-collar workers. Get as many men as you can spare on this as quickly as possible. We've got a clock, gentlemen. I'd like to beat it this time." "The press is going to start screaming if they get wind of this," the older cop observed. "Fuck 'em," Mulder replied cheerfully. "Easy for you to say," the cop observed. "Ride into town, solve the case, take the credit, ride out. We gotta work here. We gotta-" Mulder's hand came down on the smooth, flat surface of the table with a loud smack! "I don't care _who_ gets the credit for this," he hissed. "Just get me that goddamn information." The two cops stood and walked towards the door. "Fuckin' prima donna," the younger one whispered. "Should I order a Bundt cake?" Scully asked. Mulder grinned. She had a great memory. Almost as good as his. "What was that...fifth case?" "Something like that." ===================== END CHAPTER 3, PART II ELS Chapter 3 (Part III) By Dawson E. Rambo Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, as well as the copyrighted property of 1013 productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended. Posting Date : October 23, 1997 Archive Entry : "ELS" Chapter 3/25 (Part III) Classification : SRA Chapter Rating : R (Violence, Language) Story Rating : NC-17 Casting : John Ashton, "Detective Boyle" Missing Chapters: http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/els.htm Mailing List : mailto:drambo@azstarnet.com?subect=SUBSCRIBE Summary : After solving the Chicago case, Mulder and Scully attempt to take some downtime, but end up having to rush to another city in order to help stop a madman. Spoilers : Pusher, Conduit, Home. (See note below) Content Warnings: Violent content, language NOTE: Violent scenes are set off with a "@" character at the beginning and a "#" character at the end. If you do not want to read the explicitly violent scenes, set your text reader/word processor to search for "#", and when you encounter the "@" character, do a "Find Again" or "Find Next" and the program will skip it. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 7:30am The phone in the center of the table rang, two short trills, then a longer third, and then two shorts again. "That's him," one of the cops announced. The room had filled up; there were several detectives, the FBI SAC and ASAC, both of them giving Mulder and Scully a wide, cold berth, and much of the senior Jacksonville Police Department brass. Mulder made a motion for the phone. Someone handed it to him. "Hello?" "Who is this?" The voice was harsh, strained. He sounds as if he's out of breath, Mulder thought. "My name is Mulder. I'm an FBI agent." "Oh...from Washington, I assume." "Quantico, actually." "Oh, a shrink?" "Yes, as a matter of fact. But I don't practice." "Ready to play?" "Is this a game?" Mulder answered. "To me, it is." "No, it's not." "What?" "A game. It's not a game. I know what it is, and it's not a game." "What is it, then?" "You know." "Tell me." "Tell _me_," Mulder insisted. "You're so fucking smart, Mr. FBI man...you tell _me_." Mulder ran a hand over his face, spinning his chair so he didn't have to look at the other people in the room. "Trace started," someone said quietly. "Keep him talking." "Tell me something," Mulder said, his voice smooth, comforting. "Did it hurt?" There was no answer. "Did it hurt, the way he looked at you?" Again, no answer. "So much hate. As if...as if he never wanted you to be born, right?" A choking sound on the other end of the phone. "Shut up." "No, really...talk to me. I know you, pal. I know you inside and out." "You don't know SHIT!" the voice screamed. "Almost got it," the same quiet voice announced. "Sure I do," Mulder said. "I mean, look at them. All perfect and cute, not a care in the world. They don't know, do they?" Silence. "They don't know about the nightmares. About the pain. About what it's like to get up in the morning and think that you might as well be dead, right? Nobody'd notice. You could just...give head to a twelve gauge, and no one would care. Is he still alive?" "Y-yes." Everyone in the room except Scully let out a breath. Only Scully and Mulder, and the UNSUB, knew that Mulder hadn't been asking about the victim. "In a home somewhere? Or is he still in the house you grew up in, drinking himself into oblivion every single day?" A strangled cry. "HOW?" the voice asked. "Because," Mulder said slowly, pronouncing each word carefully. "I. Am. You. I was you, at least. I know, pal. I know exactly where you are. Inside your head, I mean." "Shit!" the quiet voice in the room said. "He's...we can't lock in on it." "Tell me," the voice begged. "He hit you, but that didn't hurt," Mulder started. "Not after a while, anyway. Pain was just something to remind you that you were still alive, that he could still touch you. You hated the hits, but the hits were better than nothing. It was the words that hurt the most, and more than that, the looks. He'd look at you across the dinner table like you were scum, like he blamed you for who he was. He'd get drunk and come and find you, tell you how worthless you were, and you believed him. You believed him because she wouldn't stand up to him. You believed him because he was your whole world, and when you did something, no matter how small, now matter how insignificant, when you did something to please him, it almost made you forget about the rest. He'd smile, and take your hand, put you up on his knee and ask you how come you couldn't always be that good little boy that had just made him happy. He wouldn't understand how long you'd searched to find that one thing, and he didn't know then, but you did, he didn't know that you'd do that same thing over and over and over again, hoping to make him happy all the time, you'd keep doing it until it annoyed him, until it wasn't a good thing anymore, you'd keep doing it until it set him off, until it made him angry, until he was hitting you and calling you names again, because the pain and the names and the anger and the hate were comfortable, familiar. You recognized those as something that you knew...it was all you knew, pal. Nothing but pain and hatred." Mulder stopped, reaching behind him blindly to hit the MUTE button on the phone. He let out two huge, gasping breaths, and then hit MUTE again. "And you see these little kids, all perfect, with a nice Dad and a nice Mom in a nice house with nice things and nice sisters and brothers and cats and dogs and you just get so angry, so jealous. You should have been them. It should have been you in that house, not in the house you were in, not living the life you were given. It should be you, not them. "Not them." The UNSUB was crying by this point. Every single person in the conference room was holding their breath. "It's not his fault," Mulder said softly. Again, everyone but Scully, Mulder and the UNSUB thought he was talking about the little missing boy. "He was weak. Don't hurt the boy, pal. He's like you were then. Afraid. He wants his father and his mother and his brother and his sister. He wants to see his dog again, wants to see his bedroom again, his bedroom with the Ninja Turtles bedsheets. He wants to wake up and go down and have pancakes for breakfast again. He wants to go to the mall with his family and play video games while his mom shops for bras because he's embarrassed to be in that adult place. He wants to stay up late and read comic books under the covers. He wants to grow up, pal. He wants to grow up to be like you want to be now. Normal. Loved. Let him. "Let him grow up." "It's not FAIR!" the UNSUB screamed. "Got him!" the voice called. Everyone in the room shifted into motion. They had a target now. The senior commander in the room lifted a portable radio to his mouth and began giving quiet orders. Somewhere in the city, two SWAT helicopters lifted off, nosed over and down, and headed south. "No one ever said life was fair," Mulder whispered. "My sister ... she was taken, when I was the boy's age. I never saw her again. She just...vanished. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't even the man who took her's fault. It just happened. Life isn't fair, pal." Mulder paused. "Will you tell me your name?" "Clay." "Clay...listen to me. You have a chance here. You have a chance to make it all right. Not for you, not for me, but for that little scared boy that wants to play another season of Little League." Mulder hit the MUTE button. "Tell SWAT to wait for my order before they go in," he said urgently. "This guy's on edge. No telling what he could do." The senior commander, grim-faced, nodded his assent. Mulder punched MUTE again. "Listen, Clay. They know where you are." Every head in the room, Scully's included, snapped around. Please, Scully thought. Please, Mulder, be right. Know what the hell you're doing. She walked over to him and gently placed her hands on his shoulders. One of Mulder's free hands came up and found hers, cupping her fingers. "They know where you are. They're on the way. I know you don't want to hurt him...I know you feel you have to. But talk to me. Stay here, on the phone, talk to me. I promise, I won't let them hurt you." "What's going to happen?" Clay asked. "The SWAT team is going to kick your door in. When they get there, they're going to let me know. I want you to do exactly what I tell you. If you do that, you won't be hurt. I promise." Mulder's gaze found and pinned the police commander. He nodded, his face stark and angry. His men had been running on coffee and bloodlust since this entire thing had started. But they had no choice. "They're going to hurt me," Clay whined. "No, they're not," Mulder promised. "They're going to do exactly what I tell them, and nothing more. Clay...is the boy all right?" "I...hurt him," Clay said. "I'm sorry." "How bad did you hurt him?" Mulder asked, his fingers tightening on Scully's. "...bad." Scully's free hand started rubbing Mulder's other shoulder. She didn't care how it looked to the room at large. "Is he alive?" "Y-yes." Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good, Clay. As long as he's alive, you and I can work together." "Touchdown," one of the cops called. "They're four minutes out." "Clay...it's almost over." Mulder hit the MUTE again. "The name! What's the boy's name?" "Tommy." Mulder hit MUTE. "Clay, I want you to put Tommy on the phone." "I can't. He's...asleep." Mulder leaned forward, breaking the contact between Scully and himself. "Asleep, Clay? Did you make him go to sleep?" "Yes." "Can you wake him up?" "No, I gave him...a pill." "What kind of pill, Clay?" "Demerol." Mulder glanced at Scully. She shrugged. "Where did you get the pill, Clay?" "From my doctor. Sleeping pills." "How many did you give Tommy, Clay?" "Two." Again, Mulder twisted to study Scully. She see-sawed her hand back and forth. Depends on his weight, she thought, and how much food he's had. She stuck a finger down her throat and then shrugged. "Did Tommy throw up when you gave him the pill?" Mulder asked. "He...moaned a little, like he was sick." Scully had moved and was flipping through the file that held Tommy's vital statistics. He weighed 76 pounds. She did a quick mental calculation. "Is there a medic on the SWAT Team?" The commander nodded. "Tell him...if he can't get Tommy to wake up to give him five milligrams of Narcan titrated in a D5W IV." The commander recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "I'm a doctor," Scully explained. "They're at the door," the quiet voice said. "Ok, Clay...listen to me. I want you to stick the phone between your head and your shoulder, and get down on your knees." "Why?" "Just do it, Clay, please?" "Oh...ok." The sound of shuffling movement filled the speaker. "Now, cross your legs at the ankle. Put your hands on your head and interlace your fingers. It's ok to lean against the wall so you can keep talking to me. Let me know when you're ready." More movement. The commander raised the radio to his lips. Mulder waited. "I'm rea-" "GO!" the commander radioed. The sound of a door being kicked in filled Mulder's ears. He heard the SWAT team calling " DOWN DOWN DOWN " through the phone. The sound of a brief struggle, and then, loudly, clearly, two sounds at once. The cold metal ratcheting sound of handcuffs closing, and, softer, in the background, a voice. "CLEAR! I FOUND HIM!" And then, seconds later, "He's alive, but barely. MEDIC UP!" The phone was lifted, and a new voice spoke. "This is Captain Taggert. We have the suspect in custody. The boy is alive, but pale. And...God...he's messed up." Mulder slumped against the table, burying his face in his arms. His shoulders sagged as the adrenaline rush dissipated. The police commander grabbed the phone from Mulder's hand. "What do you mean, messed up?" "Kid's naked, bruises all over his face and body. Burns on his butt and back. There's blood in the...in the crack of his..." "Understood," the commander said. "Get him to a hospital. Use the bird if you have to, but get him there fast." "Roger that," Taggert said. A moment later there was a click! as the phone was disconnected. For two long, long beats there wasn't a sound in the room. Then the men exploded, cheering and clapping. Scully saw more than one macho cop trying to rub tears out of his eyes. They started moving, exiting the conference room, moving to make telephone calls, lifting radios to mouths, shouting orders, getting responses. One by one, they filed by the head of the table. Some stopped, looked as if they were about to say something, and patted Mulder's back as they passed. Some mumbled thanks, congratulations. Finally, it was Scully, Mulder and the commander. "Nice work," he said to Scully, his expression asking another question, his eyes flicking to Mulder's slumped form. "Thank you," she said crisply, jerking her chin towards the door. The commander nodded and quickly made his exit. Scully sat down next to her partner. She saw him take a single hitching breath. She quickly moved to the door, stuck her head outside, glanced both ways, and quickly withdrew, shutting it. Moving back to Mulder, she reached out a tentative hand and placed it on the shoulder closest to her. "Door's shut, Mulder. It's just you and me." And then it started. Softly at first, a gentle, high keening sound that tore Scully's heart in two. Slowly, it deepened, until Mulder's body was wracked with wet, shuddering sobs. Scully had the feeling that she was seeing something no one else ever had: Mulder in in the terminal, total stages of utter emotional and psychological meltdown. She rubbed her hand across his back, saying nothing. Nothing to say, she thought. "You did it," she finally mumbled. "You got him back." "M-my job," he gasped wetly. She smiled at her partner's slumped form. "No, Mulder... your gift." And your curse, she thought. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Ten Minutes Later The two cops from before barged into the room and stopped dead in their tracks at the sight before them. Mulder was on the floor, bent at the waist, his face in his hands, sobbing loudly. Scully was kneeling by his side, holding him by the shoulders, gently rocking him. "Get OUT!" she hissed. They turned and left without a word. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Later Mulder finally stopped sobbing. He opened his eyes and glanced around. "How long?" he asked. Scully shrugged. "A bit." "How long, Scully?" "Half an hour, give or take." He nodded and stood, moving to the table and reclaiming his seat. "Thanks," he said gently. "No problem, Mulder." "Call Tony for me, ok?" Mulder asked, his voice making him sound like a lost little boy. "Now?" "Please." She dialed the phone. Littleton answered in the middle of the first ring. "Littleton." "Scully," she said. She opened her mouth to continue, and then saw Mulder waggling his fingers, asking for the phone. She handed it to him. "...going on?" Littleton asked. "Mulder, Tony. We got the suspect in custody." "The victim?" "Not this time. A survivor. He's on the way to the hospital now. He's in for a life of nightmares and therapy...but it's a life, at least." Littleton paused. "Mulder, I know it's not your thing, but would you mind speaking to the press?" Mulder's head snapped back. "What?" "Well...this is a high profile case. Could really give a shot in the arm to the ISU, if you know what I mean." Mulder shook his head. "No...Tony, I can't." "Mulder-" Scully had been listening on the speaker. She took the phone from her partner and gave him her back as she spoke to Littleton in hushed, urgent tones. "Listen to me, sir. Mulder's...he's in no condition to talk to the press right now. He'd do more damage than good." "Will YOU speak to them?" Scully twisted to face Mulder, wrapping the phone cord around her waist. He nodded. "Sure. I'm going to give the basic statement. I won't answer any questions about methods." "Understood. Thanks, Scully." "Sir?" "Scully?" "We need...some time off." "You got it. Three days enough?" "Plenty," Scully said. I hope, she silently added. "We'll fly up tonight." "Come in Monday, then. Take five days." "Deal," Scully said, hanging up. "Mulder, I'm going to talk to the press, and then we're getting the hell out of here." He nodded, lowering his head into his arms again. "Tha's fine, Scully. You talk to the press. I'll wait here." She studied his face for a moment and then strode from the room. Dana Scully had one thing on her mind: Getting Mulder back to DC where he belonged. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Outside Jacksonville Police Headquarters "...and with the cooperation of local law enforcement, we were able to generate a profile of the suspect and effect an arrest," Scully finished. "Questions?" The reporters were gathered on the steps of police headquarters. They all started shouting at once, jumping up and down, arms pumping. "Miss Scully! Miss Scully!" "Dr. Scully," she corrected. "What kind of doctor are you?" one shouted. "I'm a forensic pathologist," she answered. "Did you generate the profile?" "No, my partner, Special Agent Mulder did," she announced. "What's his first name?" a third screamed. "He prefers that you just use his first initial, "F"," Scully answered. Pointing, she said, "You." "When did you arrive?" "Four this morning," she answered. "You." "Why didn't the police call you in sooner?" a fourth asked. Scully ignored the question, pointing to a fifth reporter. "One more question, and then I'm afraid I have to leave to return to DC." "Why isn't your partner here?" "He's...finalizing some of the paperwork," she answered, knowing that it sounded like a lie. "He's not available to answer your questions right now." She paused. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That is all I have for you." She stepped to the side, and the Jacksonville Chief of Police took over, holding up his arms to silence the reporters that were still shouting questions at Scully's retreating back. Quickly making her way back to the conference room, she found a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Mulder sitting up and drinking a cup of coffee. "I'm ready," she said. "Good. So am I. Let's get the hell out of here," he said. "Let's go out the back way. The front is mobbed with the press." He nodded and followed her out. They snuck out the back door to their rental car and quickly drove to the airport. Neither one of them glanced in the rearview mirror. After turning the rental car in, they jumped on the bus to take them to the terminal. Mulder settled into his seat, leaned back and closed his eyes. Scully studied his profile as the bus chugged through the airport. From the moment they'd arrived in Jacksonville up until now, she'd all but forgotten about the kiss they'd shared in Chicago. Without thinking, Scully reached over and grabbed Mulder's face, pulling him to her. She kissed him, long and hard. He pulled away, sleepy eyes regarding her. "What was that for?" he asked. "Not that I'm complaining," he hastily added. She smiled at him. "The hero always gets a kiss from the pretty girl," she gently teased. "You're the hero, so..." "And you're the pretty girl..." he mumbled, leaning back and closing his eyes again. They rode in silence for the next few minutes. Just as the bus pulled to a stop in front of the terminal, Mulder spoke. "I'm glad you're the pretty girl, Scully." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= END CHAPTER 3 Note: In the "Spoilers" line, I mention "Conduit" and "Home." The reference to Conduit isn't really a spoiler, as it has little to do with the actual plot of that episode. In it, Mulder antagonizes the local sherriff, and upon exiting the police station, Scully chastises him. Mulder responds, "So I'll send him a bundht cake." The reference to "Home," technically isn't even a reference. Allow me to explain: In the original shooting script of "Home," the scene where Scully performs the autopsy on the baby in the sink of the police station, the camera directions had Mulder pressing up against Scully from the back. She gets a quzzical expression on her face and half-turns to face Mulder. He apologizes and says, "Oh...I have a flashlight in my pocket." Scully quirks a smile and says, "Oh...I thought a long-standing curiosity had just been satisfied." (You can guess my reaction when I found this didn't make it to the production script...) ELS Chapter 4 By Dawson E. Rambo Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, as well as the copyrighted property of 1013 productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended. Posting Date : October 26, 1997 Archive Entry : "ELS" Chapter 4/? Classification : SRA MSR Chapter Rating : R (Violence) Story Rating : NC-17 (Violence) Missing Chapters: http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/els.htm Mailing List : mailto:drambo@azstarnet.com?subect=SUBSCRIBE Summary : In the aftermath of the Jacksonville case, Scully and Mulder return to Washington and take a new look at their relationship. Spoilers : Pilot, Red Museum, Paper Clip Content Warnings: Violent content. NOTE: Violent scenes are set off with a "@" character at the beginning and a "#" character at the end. If you do not want to read the explicitly violent scenes, set your text reader/word processor to search for "#", and when you encounter the "@" character, do a "Find Again" or "Find Next" and the program will skip it. Enjoy! +=+=+=+=+===+=+= Aboard Delta Airlines Flight 220 Mulder was dreaming. In the dream, he was in the basement office of the X-Files, working away at his desk. He would glance up from time to time at Scully's desk, but it would be empty. More than that, it looked dusty, as if she hadn't been there in a long time. In the dream, this fact bothered him, bothered him deeply. Her chair was pushed completely against the desk, her computer was off, even the phone looked lonely and forlorn. Mulder thought about getting up to check the door to see if she was standing in the hallway, but something kept him at his desk. Every time the dream-Mulder thought about getting up, every time it considered opening that door, a sense of dread filled his body, and he remained seated, working away. But whenever he looked down at what he was working on, he would see...nothing. It was an X-File; he could tell that from the folder. But the pages inside were pure, blank white. No writing, no printing, no forms, no pictures, no fingerprint cards, nothing. It was an empty file, devoid of even the smallest nugget of information. Dream-Mulder continued to wonder where Scully was. Then a knock came at the door to the office. Mulder knew that he didn't want to answer it, but he knew he had to. It might be Scully, and she might need his help. In the dream, the distinct possibility that Scully was on the other side of that door, and that she needed his help grew as the dream-Mulder walked towards the door. He opened it, and found himself staring at... Himself. Another dream-Mulder stood in the hallway. He was dressed in a tuxedo, or what looked like the remnants of one. The shoes, pants and shirt were there, as were the suspenders. The tie, cumberbund and jacket were all missing. And the shirt was soaked with blood. Well, not really _soaked_, Mulder's unconcious mind noted, but spattered. Yes, that was a better term, a term more in line with what was expected of an FBI-certified National Criminal Profiler. The splotches and dots of blood indicated that the second dream-Mulder was not wounded or hurt; it was someone else's blood. That much was obvious. "Can I help you?" the first dream-Mulder asked the second. The second didn't speak. He smiled, an odd smile that Mulder had never imagined would ever be on his face. The second dream-Mulder, who Mulder was beginning to think of as Mulder2, started moving his hands like a magician. He showed both empty palms, and then backs of both, as if trying to prove that he was holding nothing. He twisted, turned, twisted again, and then was holding something in his right hand, pointing to it with the flat edge of his left, as if to say, "Ta-Da!" Mulder, in his dream, knew that he didn't want to look, but that he had to, that Mulder2 was holding something he had to see, that was _vital_ to be seen. @ He glanced down and almost screamed. Mulder2 was holding a severed head by the hair. The face was frozen in a mask of absolute terror, pain and rage. Both eyes were screwed shut, the mouth was open, a blue-black portion of tongue sticking out between the lips. With a shudder, Mulder realized that Mulder2 was holding the head of Melissa Scully. With a flourish, Mulder2 spun the head. The face turned away, and when it came back, Mulder gasped. Mulder2 was now holding the head of Deep Throat; his face wore the same expression that Melissa's had. With another flourish, Mulder2 spun the head, and Mulder waited for it to come back around. The face of Dana Scully, eyes closed, mouth open, appeared next. # Mulder screamed. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Scully snapped her own eyes open and turned to face her partner. He was gripping the armrests with shaking, white-knuckled hands. He was whimpering, tears streaming from both tightly-shut eyes. His mouth was a grimace of pain and...what? she thought. "Mulder," she said softly, reaching for his hand. The moment she touched him, Mulder winced and moved sideways, away from her, bringing both arms up, across his chest, his fists balled under his chin. He began keening, rocking back and forth, looking like an autistic child. "No," he whispered, again and again. "No. No. No no no no no." "Mulder," Scully said, a little louder this time, glancing around to see what was going on. A flight attendant, a professionally concerned expression on her face, was striding down the asile. She knelt by their seats, her eyes finding Scully's. "Is there a problem?" "Bad dream," Scully said softly. "Would you get some water and an aspirin, please?" The flight attendant nodded and moved off, grateful to have something to do. "Mulder," Scully said for a third time. His eyes opened slowly and he blinked, looking around. His eyes fell on her and he smiled weakly. "Hey, Scully," he whispered. She had trouble hearing him over the constant, subdued whine of the plane's three jet engines. "Mulder...are you all right?" He slowly stopped rocking. "Why do you ask?" "You screamed," she stated simply. He nodded, accepting this, the images of the dream still fresh in his mind. He could still see her disembodied head in Mulder2's hands, held by her hair, gently swaying. He let out a breath and slumped back, trying to reconnect to reality. It had seemed so real, he thought. So vivid. "I'm fine, Scully," he said, taking perverse enjoyment from the look of disbelief that crossed her face. "Really," he added, in what sounded like a much more normal tone of voice. She bit her lip. "Does that happen often? After...cases like that?" "Sometimes," he nodded. "But not normally like that. I haven't screamed on a plane since..." He thought back. Before her time. The Arrowhead case, he remembered. Thirteen women, all killed by an arrow to the head. It had taken weeks to track that particular monster down. "What was the dream about?" Mulder shook his head. No way was he going to tell her that he'd dreamt about her decapitated head. No fucking way, he amended. "Nothing. I really don't remember." Scully hesitated. "Mulder...look at me." He glanced down the asile. "Where's the flight attendant with that water?" he asked. Interesting, Scully thought. He heard that, even though he was still apparently asleep, still in the clutches of that dream. "Mulder, look at me." He turned his face to hers, his eyes looking anywhere but at her. "Mulder, look _at_ me." Finally, his eyes found hers. "Mulder..." Softer this time, more understanding, more gentle. "Tell me what the dream was about." He shook his head. "No, Scully. I can't." "Can't...or won't?" Mulder shrugged. "Either. Both." Scully studied his profile for a long moment. The decision made, she announced, "Mulder, when we land, you're spending the night with me." He smiled and sighed. "Scully, as flattered as I am-" "Shut up, Mulder. Just nod your head and say "Thank you." That will be all that's required." "Thank you," Mulder said, and a moment later, he nodded. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Noon, and Grand Central Station was teeming with people. Situated on 42nd Street in Manhattan, Grand Central was the terminus of the Metro-North railroad line that served the suburbs north of the city, as well as a major transfer station for the New York City Subway system. A shuttle could be taken to the Port Authority Building, connecting commuters with the NJ Transit train system for travel south of the city. Amtrak made regular stops here, giving Grand Central commuters access to the entire country. Literally millions of people made their way through Grand Central every morning and evening rush hour. For a people-watcher, Grand Central was like the Central Park Zoo: Human animals of every possible shape, color and description walked through Grand Central at all hours of the day and night. Mark Dupree sat at the bar on the upper level, peering out over the huge main room. His eyes scanned the crowd, flitting from face to face, never staying on one person for too long. Mark Dupree was scared. Very, very scared. Every single person he looked at held the mark of the Chosen. No, that was not correct, he thought. They all had words etched into the skin of their foreheads, but none of them had the magic word: CHOSEN. Take the waitress. The writing on her face was small, almost undetectable, unless you knew where, and more importantly, how to look. If he looked at them directly, straight in the eyes, the writing vanished. But if he caught them out of the corner of his eye, he could make out the words. And it was always just one word, although a different word with each person. The waitress had "adultress" on her forehead. She was sleeping around. Dupree knew it. He'd seen the wedding ring on her finger he'd seen the brand. So he knew he wasn't going crazy. He thought that he might already _be_ crazy. The waitress brought his drink (club soda) and left it on the corner of his table, smiling in that cool, distant way service professionals had. He was just a Customer to her, not a person. Dupree didn't mind that, in fact, that was why he had chosen Grand Central for this particular morning. He needed a place he could sit and think. The hunger was inside him again. It had taken a much shorter time to return. Part of him knew the reason for this. He had not taken the time to enjoy Leon King's murder. He had been cold, efficient, shooting an entire magazine into the man's head and throat. He had not taken the time to open him up, to peer inside at the grisly remains of the body while it was still warm. He missed that. He needed that. But Dupree was afraid. Afraid that if he did it again during this series of murders, that he would mark himself. He would leave a signature. Mark Dupree knew a lot about signatures. Both the kind that were made with pen in hand, and the kind that was made with a knife. He knew that a competent enough police officer, someone who know how to profile the psychology of the crminial mind, would be able to use a signature against him. The clues he was leaving were one thing; they were a challenge, a way to force the cops' hands. He needed that, too. He needed to know that he was putting one over on whoever was investigating these cases. He wondered if the USMS or the NYPD was going to catch these cases. After all, the victims were all protected witnesses. But, would the USMS want to announce that they were losing protectees? Would they want the world to know that the vaunted WITSEC had been penetrated? Probably not, which meant that the NYPD would catch the cases. And in Mark Dupree's experience, the NYPD's ability to track a serial killer was laughable at best, downright scary at worst. In his basement office, near the computers, were sixteen four-drawer steel filing cabinets. They were jam-packed full of clippings from the New York _Daily News_, the _Post_ and _Newsday._ All of them cross-referenced and categorized in a computer database of Dupree's own design. He could locate dozens of articles on topics that interested him. And one of those topics were the techniques and methods used to identify, track, arrest and prosecute serial criminals. So leaving a signature was something Mark Dupree very much wanted to avoid. But the problem was that he knew, he knew in his bones, that if he didn't start...opening them up, as he called it, he would have to kill more and more of them, and more quickly, in order to be satisfied. So the idea was to satisfy himself without leaving a signature. And the best way to do that, he decided, was to figure out a way to hide his real signature inside another one. If he could leave a false trail, a way to throw the cops off, there was no telling how long he could go on. Preferably, Dupree thought, he should come up with several "other" signatures so that the cops would be completely flummoxed. He should be able to figure a way to satisfy his needs, his urges, and still confuse whomever was looking at these crimes, be it USMS, NYPD, or God Forbid, the FBI. If the ISU got involved, all bets were off. Especially if one specific profiler was called in. Dupree cracked open his laptop and booted it, entering the four passwords that were required to get past his own security system. You got one attempt at each of them. If you entered them wrong, the system detonated. If you turned it off without entering the four passwords, the system detonated. The next time the machine was turned on, every single file would be deleted in a matter of seconds. There was no one good enough, fast enough, to defeat this security. He had thought of everything. He scanned his files quickly, using a search engine of his own design. Anyone shoulder-surfing would have quickly turned away, gagging. He was searching for the most violent, the most gruesome signatures he could find, because only with those would he be confident that his own would be hidden inside them. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland Scully pulled her car into the slot provided by her building's management and twisted the key to OFF. Mulder was in the seat beside her, his eyes far away. "Penny for your thoughts," she offered softly. "Can't make change," he teased back. "C'mon, Mulder. Pizza, movies, wine, and/or beer await." "Iced tea?" he asked, a pout in his voice. "Sure, what the hell. I'll have the pizza guy bring a six-pack of that new stuff." Mulder shot her a quizzical glance. "You know, the ones with those claymation cartoons?" Mulder shook his head. "I hear they're wonderful." "Ok." They got out of the car, retrieved their bags and made their way up to Scully's apartment. She noticed the way he made himself at home, and it warmed a part of her she often denied. It was nice to see a man comfortable in her apartment. God knew there were few enough of them lately. The bug man, she reminded herself. But he didn't count. For one, he was close to sixty. The last man she remembered having in her apartment besides Mulder was Skinner. And he _really_ didn't count. "I'll buy," Mulder said. "Good," Scully agreed. "I don't have much cash." "Antonio's takes plastic," Mulder pointed out. "Mulder, I'm not going to pay nineteen percent on a pizza!" He shrugged. "Use Amex, then." "That's even worse!" "Whatever." She tossed the cordless phone into his lap. "You buy, you choose. Anything but anchovies. I'm going to go change." Mulder stood. "Good idea," he said, moving towards her bedroom. Scully stood there, hands on her hips, wondering exactly what the hell Mulder was thinking. He moved to the chest of drawers that sat perpindicular to her bed, opening the bottom one. He pulled out a pair of sweatpants and an Oxford T-shirt he kept there. Without thinking, Mulder began stripping out of his suit, the door to the hallway still open. Scully wanted to look away, she really did. The pants came down, revealing a pair of blue and white boxers. The shirt was next. In socks and boxers, Mulder neatly folded his suit, his face still a thousand miles away. Finished, he re-emerged into the hallway, carrying his suit. "Finished?" Scully asked. "Huh?" Shaking her head, Scully moved past Mulder in the hallway. They both had to turn, backs flat against the wall, as they passed. He stood in the hallway, looking at her as she entered the bedroom. She started to close the door. "You want to hear about my dream?" he asked suddenly. "Now?" "Huh?" "Mulder...unlike you, I have some sense of...privacy." "Oh..." He seemed to come awake then, realizing where he was. "Sure, right. Sorry." He turned to go back to the living room. Once there, he quickly placed his clothes in his overnight bag and returned to the couch. Glancing over his shoulder, down the hall, he saw... Scully. She hadn't closed the door all the way. Just enough light was visible for him to catch glimpses of her as she moved around. He saw her shed the jacket from her business suit, and then cross out of sight into the closet to hang it up. She was there for a minute, and then she came back, minus the blouse as well. Mulder saw her in her bra and skirt, reaching to her left ear to remove the earring. Mulder's mouth went dry. "Did you order yet?" she called. "No," he said softly, not wanting his loud voice to alert her that she'd left the door open wider than she'd intended. "Good. Extra cheese and pepperoni," she requested. "Ok," he called back. Scully moved towards the closet again, her earrings left in a jewlery box he'd spied once or twice before. Oh God, Mulder thought. When she comes back across she's going to be- She was. Bra and panties, bare feet. She passed out of view for a second, and then she was back in his line of sight, bent at the waist, opening a drawer. He could see the gentle curve of her rump, and the soft slope of her naked back. Mulder knew at that moment what a peeping tom saw, what one felt, what one wanted to see. She didn't know he was watching, and her naturalness made it that more exciting. If she had been doing it for him, knowing he was watching, she would have put a wiggle in her hips, or a sway in her walk. Something, something to let him know that she knew he was watching and enjoying. Not only could he never see Dana Scully doing something so...adolescent for a boyfriend or lover, but if she found him looking, she'd kill him. He turned away. Just in time, too, because ten seconds later a barefoot Dana Scully crossed her bedroom to the door and reached for the handle, only to discover that she'd left it open much wider than she'd thought. She stared at the door, her hand reaching for it. Her eyes rose from the knob, through the crack, to the back of Mulder's head. She felt her eyebrows draw together. She'd asked him if he'd ordered yet. His answer had been soft, muffled, as if through a closed door. He'd known, she realized, which meant that he'd probably... What? Peeked? The word seemed so innocent, so childish. As if Mulder was a ten year-old boy still discovering his burgeoning sexuality, that the only way the burning questions in his mind about female bodies and their mysterious sexuality could be answered by sneaking peeks. No, peeking wasn't the right word. But he had seen her. Scully wasn't sure how she knew, but she was as positive of that as she was of anything. All these thoughts crossed her mind in milliseconds. She opened the door and walked down the hall, wondering what the big deal was. Mulder had seen her in less. He'd seen her in bra and panties, on their first case together, in Oregon. It wasn't anything new. But coupled with the fact that they'd kissed twice in the last few days, it meant more than it would have a week ago. Deciding, for the moment, to ignore it, Scully joined her partner on the couch just as he was finishing his conversation with the pizza place. "That's right, you got it. See you soon." He hit the off button on the cordless and gently placed it on the coffee table. He was unable to meet her gaze, and any lingering suspicion Dana had about his wandering eyes was confirmed. "Enjoy yourself?" she asked. His head snapped around. "What?" "You know exactly what I mean, Mulder. If you had really wanted to get away with it, you should have turned away and answered me in a normal tone of voice. Then I would have seen the door open and closed it, and you would have gotten away clean." He shook his head. "I've been a really bad influence on you, Scully. Years ago, you wouldn't have noticed something like that." "I had a good teacher," she announced. He smiled, accepting the compliment. "Don't wish yourself too much like me, Scully. You wouldn't like what it did to your social life." "What social life?" she asked. "Ok, point granted. Still...trust me. Not everything I can teach you is goodness and light." And that was the crux of it, Scully felt. Mulder's desire not to talk about the dream wasn't an attempt to hide something from her, rather a reluctance to share that part of himself that made him such a good profiler. "I know that, Mulder," she said softly. "And I don't want to know all your secrets. Like what's in that drawer full of videos that don't belong to you." He smiled, accepting her gentle rebuke. Didn't she realize that she had the ability to replace whatever power those videos had over him with a simple smile and a beckoning hand? Maybe she did, he thought. "So..." she said. "Want to tell me about that dream now?" He shrugged. "Not really. I'll tell you the general outlines of it, but not the specifics." She nodded, accepting his caveats. For now. "I was in the office. There was a sense of dread. You weren't there. When a knock came at the door, I answered it to find myself standing there, covered in blood. I was holding a head in my hand." "A head?" "Yes, a decapitated head." "Whose head?" He shook his head. "Sorry, Scully. That's the end of my description of that dream." "So, Dr. Mulder, what do you think it means?" He looked at her askance, wondering if she really didn't know, or was trying to get him to admit it. "Well, Dr. Scully, off the cuff I'd have to say that I'm feeling guilty about all the pain and suffering that I've caused over the years. But that's just a fifty-cent diagnosis. I'd have to charge more for a...more thorough investigation into the entire affair." Scully nodded, silently agreeing with her partner. "Ok, that makes sense. You do know it was just a dream, right?" "Yeah. Serious as a heart attack, but still a dream, right?" "Mulder, you have nothing to feel guilty about. You solved three cases this week!" He shrugged. "Seattle and Chicago solved two of them-" "With your profiles as impetus!" "...and Jacksonville wasn't exactly a solve. More like a capture under favorable circumstances." She nodded. "Ok. But still, you have nothing to feel guilty about!" "Scully, none of the heads had anything to do with these three cases." As soon as he spoke, he knew he'd made a mistake. "Heads?" Shit. She'd caught it. "Yes. Three of them. Subject closed. End of discussion." Scully reached across the couch for his hand, taking it between both of hers. "Mulder, you peeked at me as I changed clothes. I'm not upset. It's actually kind of flattering. That indicates a rather...intimate relationship between us." She saw his eyes widening, and felt his hand trying to pull from between hers as his mouth opened to explain. "Not that kind of 'intimate,' Scully said, and thought: not yet, anyway. "...but an intimate friendship. It doesn't bother me that you saw me change. It's actually kind of nice to know that I can still keep a man's attention." Mulder opened his mouth to avoid _that_ topic. "Shh...let me finish. What I mean to say is that...you owe me. I gave you a nice little treat, and now I want payback. Tell me about the heads, Mulder." Mulder's mouth fell open. "Scully...there is a huge difference between...friendly intimacy, as you call it, and telling you about three severed heads in one of my dreams. I really don't see how one-" "Tell you what," she said softly. "I'll let you watch-" "Ok, ok," Mulder said, pulling his hand away. "I give. And you don't have to let me watch." I'm not sure I could handle whatever it was she was about to let me 'watch,' Mulder thought. "The first head was Melissa's, the second was Deep Throat's and the third was...yours." Scully sat back, drawing her knees up to her chin, crossing her arms across her legs. "Oh," she said. See, Scully? he thought. See why I didn't want to tell you? "What do you think that means?" she asked. "The...selection of the...heads." "Obviously, three people I feel guilty about," Mulder said, matter-of-factly. "But I'm not dead." "There's more than one way to kill someone, Scully." She looked at him, tilting her head in that way she had that drove him up a wall. Did she know how the light hit her hair when she did that? The way the shadow of her nose made her eyes look even bigger, even bluer? Probably not, he decided. And that was what made it all the more attractive. "I'm responsible for killing..." Mulder trailed off, counting on his fingers. "...your career, your social life, any chance of a normal existence, three months you can't account for..." "Mulder, stop," Scully said softly. "...not to mention the fact that your mother must hate me. I mean-" "Mom doesn't hate you," Scully said sharply. God, if you only knew how many times my mother has defended you! "Mulder, she invites you over to every single family event, and more than a few private ones." "She just wants to remind me that if anything happens to you, it's my ass." Scully nodded. _That_ much was true. "Your brothers hate me," He pointed out. "My brothers don't even _know_ you," she retorted. "All the more reason, then." Mulder fell silent, searching for words. "Scully," he finally said, "I know you don't feel that way, and I'm pretty sure your mother doesn't. God knows why, but I actually think she likes me. But, in order to do what I do, as well as I do it, you have to develop a certain sense of...responsibility. The people that started profiling, the legends of the fall, so to speak, used to tell us that we had to remain professional, detached, isolated. That we had to think about the killer as an UNSUB, and the victims as just that: Victims, not people. "That was good, as far as it went. But just like the HIV virus seems to find a new way to mutate every time the doctors figure out a way to kill it, it seems like serial killers figure new ways to confound profilers as our own skills and techniques develop. It's almost like they're an extremely virulent disease, able to shift and mutate to escape detection and cure. "And the only way that I've found to counter that over the years is to get inside their heads. And to do that, I have to think like them. And that is not a good feeling, Scully. It's like nothing you'll ever know." "I'd like to know," Scully said stubbornly. "No," Mulder disagreed, shaking his head. "No, you wouldn't. Remember that mine shaft we went down after I got back from New Mexico?" "Files," Scully said, smiling. "Lots and lots of files." "Yeah, that place. Remember how dark it was, before we found the emergency lighting?" Scully nodded. "The place inside of me that I had to find in order to get inside Clay's head was darker than that place. Darker than any place I've ever been to in reality. When I'm in that place, I want to die," he said. Scully's head whirled around to find his again. "What?" "You heard me, die. I want to die. But, not to take my own life. It's...complicated." "Try me," Scully said. "I really do want to understand." He moved, standing, walking to the window, splitting the blinds with his fingers, peering out to the street. "Pizza's here," he said distractedly. Scully got up, and then realized Mulder was paying. "Thanks for telling me," she said, moving to stand behind him. On impulse, she slid her arms around his waist from behind. "Where's your wallet?" she asked softly. "In my bag," he said in a voice that told her he didn't really want her to move to get it. Reluctantly, Scully moved away, found Mulder's bag and quickly dug through it. She found his wallet and opened it, turning it sidways to the money compartment. She found about two hundred bucks in cash, all of it in twenties, and a dozen receipts. She took a twenty and was closing the wallet, intending to return it to his bag, when something about the pictures caught her eye. The first in the series was Samantha, of course. Glancing back up at Mulder, she saw his attention was still focused on the window. His pictures were kept in an accordian-style folding portfiolio. She let the picture of Samantha fall foward, revealing two more pictures. The first was predictable: His father, his mother, himself and Samantha, a family portrait taken during happier times. The other picture was unexpected. Completely, utterly, totally. It was her. Or, rather, it was them. ===================== END CHAPTER 4, PART I ELS Chapter 4 (Part II) By Dawson E. Rambo Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, as well as the copyrighted property of 1013 productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended. Posting Date : October 26, 1997 Archive Entry : "ELS" Chapter 4/25 (Part II) Classification : SRA MSR Chapter Rating : R (Violence) Story Rating : NC-17 (Violence) Missing Chapters: http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/els.htm Mailing List : mailto:drambo@azstarnet.com?subect=SUBSCRIBE Summary : In the aftermath of the Jacksonville case, Scully and Mulder return to Washington and take a new look at their relationship. Spoilers : Pilot, Red Museum, Paper Clip Content Warnings: Violent content. NOTE: Violent scenes are set off with a "@" character at the beginning and a "#" character at the end. If you do not want to read the explicitly violent scenes, set your text reader/word processor to search for "#", and when you encounter the "@" character, do a "Find Again" or "Find Next" and the program will skip it. Enjoy! +=+=+= She had no idea when it had been taken, or by who. They were seated on a bench in a park, and after a moment, Scully realized it was _their_ bench, down by the reflecting pool. She was looking at Mulder with an expression that could only be read as a mixture of disbelief and incrudelity. He was smiling back at her with his trademark lopsided grin. There were deli bags on the bench next to each of them, and she held a diet soda in one hand. Mulder held an iced tea in his. Glancing back up at her partner, Scully quickly slid the picture out of the envelope and turned it over. "A gift, Frohickie," was written across the back. She should have known. The little worm. Quickly re-arranging the wallet, Scully slid it back inside Mulder's bag and stood, pocketing the twenty. She was halfway to where he stood, ready to slide her arms around his waist again, when the knock came at the door. Dammit, she thought. Turning back to the door, she opened it. The pizza guy stood there, only this time it was a pizza gal. "Sixteen even," she said, holding out her hand. Scully handed the girl the bill and took the pizza in the same motion. "Keep it," she said, closing the door on the woman's face. Mulder turned at the smell of the pizza. He moved to take the box from her and she let him, her mind still on the wallet and the pictures it contained. Is that how he sees me? she thought. How he wants to remember me? Laughing at one of his theories? Or was it simpler than that, a picture of a simple moment between two friends? Scully had noticed that there were no pictures of girlfriends, ex-lovers...no Phoebe Green nude shots. Just Sam, his family...and them. Again answering a sudden impluse, Scully walked quickly into her bedroom and found her camera. It was what her brother referred to as a "PhD" camera. Auto-focus, auto-zoom, auto-exposure. All you did was push a single button: Push Here, Dummy. Returning to the kitchen, Scully turned the camera on and waited for the little light to tell her that the flash was ready. When it glowed a steady green, Scully lifted it to her face and pointed it in Mulder's direction. He had the pizza box open on the counter beside the sink, and was using two hands to lift a dripping, gooey slice of pizza to his mouth, having to use his free hand to support the weight of the extra toppings. "Mulder," she called. He turned to her and she pressed the button. The flash caught him by surprise. He blinked, almost dropping the pizza. "Scully?" he asked around a mouthful of cheese and dough. "Nothing," she said. "Just one more, ok? Of us?" Mulder quirked an eyebrow. "Someone's been going through someone else's wallet," he chided, wagging a finger in her direction. "Yeah, so? So what if I want a picture of us, too?" His smile was warm and genuine. "Here," he said, offering his hand. She gave him the camera. He moved to the microwave, and studied the camera for a second. He set it for self-portrait mode and set it off, pointing it where Scully stood. He moved to her side, and was surprised to feel her arm slip around his waist. He did the same to her. The camera's soft beeping quickened, and then stopped. A moment later the flash went off, blinding them both. They stood there for a long moment, neither one of them quite ready to move yet. Finally, Scully pulled away, walking over to get a piece of pizza for herself. "So," she said through a mouthful, "tell me about dying again? Wanting to kill yourself?" "It's not about killing myself," he said between bites. "It's about wanting to be dead. Big difference." "You mean you want to enter that etheral state of nothingness that we're told exists for those that have died?" He nodded, taking another bite. "Something like that," he agreed. "It's just...it has to do with a personal belief of mine, that's all. I believe that when people die, they attain Universal Knowledge. They know every single lie ever told to them, they know everything about anything they ever wondered about. The existence of God, how magic tricks work-" "Who took your sister," Scully pointed out. He nodded grimly. "Yes, that's one of the biggies." "I would think so. But you don't actively wish for your own death?" "Behavior to the contrary, no, I don't." For a lot of reasons that have to do with a short, opinionated redhead, he silently added. "You mad at me for watching?" he suddenely asked. "What? No...you mad at me for going through your wallet?" "No. You mad at me for having a picture of us I didn't tell you about?" She shook her head. "No, of course not. Like I said, it's kind of flattering." "You said me watching was kind of flattering. And the picture isn't of you, it's of us." She bit her lip, wondering if she'd assumed too much. "How many pictures of us does Frohickie have, anyway?" Mulder looked away, trying to hide a smile. "Of us, or of you?" "Both." "Of us...maybe ten. Of you? Are you familar with the phrase, "Order of Magnitude," Scully?" "Yes I am. That many? How is that possible?" Mulder saw the line and took it. "I think it's remotely possible that-" "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Scully said, waving him off. "I got it, Mulder." She pointed a finger at him. "And it's more than remotely possible." Oh yeah, he thought. It's a certainty. "So let me get this straight," Scully said, helping herself to another piece. "You wish you were dead, so you could have that... what did you call it? Universal knowledge. You want to be dead so that you can know all that is unknowable, see all that is unseen, and all that other jazz?" He nodded. "Sort of. It's also a wish to be in the place where I can't feel anything anymore. When I'm inside Clay's head, for example, I'm feeling every single thing that he's feeling. The rage, the anger, the pathos, the passion, the urgent, hungry desire to kill those young boys, to use pliers on their genitals, to shove that cement plug up their rectums." The casual, almost offhanded way he related his feelings as he nibbled on a piece of pizza was disconcerting to Scully to say the least. "Mulder, how can you _talk_ like that?" He shrugged again. "It's part of who I am, Scully. It's part of what makes me able to do that." "How do you cope?" Mulder reached over to the sink and yanked a paper towel off of a roll mounted at Scully-level. Spreading it on the counter, he dropped the slice of pizza he'd been eating neatly onto it and rubbed the outline of his lips with a thumb and forefinger. "Usually, I have a problem...coping. If I were a drinking man, like my father, I'm sure that I'd have no problems coping." "You'd also need a liver transplant," Scully observed, and was immediately ashamed. If Mulder took umbrage at her remark, he didn't show it. And then Scully realised that he wouldn't, that she had somehow earned the odd right to put his family down in front of him. "And," Mulder said, continuing, "since I don't do drugs, or meditate, or anything else like that, I've had to develop my own coping methods. Since I left ISU, I really haven't needed them, except for the odd case here and there." "Such as?" "Well, there was a case just before you were-" "No, such as what methods?" "Oh. Well, I tend to run a lot after a case like this. I tend to have nightmares for about a week or two. But, that's actually kind of normal these days. I'll cry a lot, when I'm alone." Scully tried to hide a soft smile. Only Mulder. Any other agent inside the super-macho FBI would never admit to anyone, let alone his longtime female partner, that he cried about anything. For Mulder, it was just another facet of his personality, like saying that he wore size eleven and a half shoes. "Do you ever wish you had someone to turn to?" she asked. "Like a therapist?" he asked. "Who would believe some of the things I'd be able to tell them?" "A therapist," she shrugged. "Or someone...else." "Like a girlfriend?" She nodded, her attention suddenely focused on his face. "Telling a woman about the things we see and do has a tendancy to make them run screaming into the night, sure that they've shacked up with a madman. No, girlfriends are out." "Generally as a concept, or just in turning to them for help after a Jacksonville or a Chicago?" Mulder had the distinct feeling that the answer to this question was extremely important. To the both of them. "Well," he said slowly, nodding as he spoke, trying out each word in his mind before actually saying it, "...generally, no. The idea is not distasteful, if that's what you are asking. It's just that..." How to explain? Be careful, Mulder. You're in very dangerous territory here. "Any woman that I get involved with is going to have a lot to put up with. First, my job schedule. We're out of town most of the time, and we leave in less than a moment's notice. Second, I can't tell her anything about my job, mostly because she wouldn't believe me, and secondly, it might put her life in danger. I mean...some of these people we deal with would jump at the chance to use someone close to me as a lever." Scully nodded, accepting what he said at face value. "And, not to put too fine a point on it, but my best friend and partner is the most important person in my life. And most women wouldn't accept that when my best friend and partner turn out to be a... woman." He'd almost said 'beautiful woman,' but had caught himself at the last moment. Scully heard the pause, and the word that he'd almost used. "You know, Mulder, that's almost the same exact reason I don't have a ..." "Boyfriend?" Mulder said. She wrinkled her nose. "I hate that term. Sounds like he's going to ask me to the prom." "Lover?" "Too 'Cosmo.'" Mulder grinned, "OK, what does _G-Woman Quarterly_ use as the current term of endearment?" "GQ?" Scully asked, laughing. "Whatever." "Signifigant other sounds too 60's, and partner is a word that we're already occupying quite nicely." "How about 'love toy'?" Mulder asked. "That has possibilities, Mulder." They ate in companionable silence. Scully finished her third slice. "Mulder, can I ask you a question?" "Sure, Scully." "How come you never made a pass at me?" Mulder froze. Every single alarm bell and danger signal in his head was ringing and flashing urgently. Minefield ahead, he thought. "Well...who says I haven't?" "I think I would have remembered a pass, Mulder." "Ok...remember when we were in Wisconsin? The Church of the Red Museum?" Scully nodded, and then remembered. "The barbeque sauce on my face, right?" "Right," he nodded. "That wasn't a pass, Mulder!" "Says who?" "Me!" "Well...maybe it was and maybe it wasn't." "Do you remember what I did?" Yes, Mulder thought. Oh, yes, I do. "You smiled at me in the strangest way, if I remember correctly." "Hmph," Scully said. "You, of the photographic memory, using that old dodge? Mulder, you remember exactly what I did." He nodded. "Yeah." "Ok, when else?" "On the bench, on the Peacock case. My comment about meeting someone with a spotless genetic makeup." "...and start pumping out UberScullies. What a great term, Mulder. So you admit you were talking about yourself." He shrugged. "Scully, it's not as easy as that. We both know that the Bureau frowns on partners getting involved. Even when I say it, it sounds like a cliche." "Yeah, but the Bureau frowns on most things we do. I think that Skinner must own stock in Tums, for all the stomach acid we both give him." "And the same goes for what I said about a girlfriend. If they found out you and I are...I mean, were...involved, they'd use it against us, one way or another." Scully nodded, chewing the inside of her lip. "Not to mention," Mulder continued, "the fact that I'm not the easiest person to get along with." "Mulder, we've been partners for five years!" "Ok, Scully...why haven't you made a pass at me?" Mulder demanded. Because I thought you'd say no for the exact reasons you're listing right now, Scully thought. "Listen," she said, "we've...grown closer in the last few days. I've seen a side of you that I've only suspected. I'm not sure that I want that to...go back to what it was." Mulder nodded, not saying anything. "...and you said in Chicago that we needed time. That says to me that you've been thinking about it." "I have," he agreed. "We obviously find each other attractive," Scully pointed out. "I do," he admitted. "And that was one hell of a kiss in Chicago." "Not to mention the bus," Scully said. "I haven't forgotten," Mulder informed her. "...and you've agreed to stop ditching me." "I have." "So...?" "So what, Scully?" "So...why don't we?" "What? Start going out? Become lovers? Move in together, get married, have babies, live happily ever after?" Scully nodded. "Well, the first one. Maybe the second." He laughed. "Ok...what about..." Mulder mentally flailed about, looking for a reason, an excuse. "Mulder, are you trying to talk me out of this?" "No...I just...it's not that easy, Scully. We've been partners and friends for so long. Don't you think it'd be just a little bit... weird to be lovers? Don't you think it'd effect the way we work on cases?" "Not if we don't let it." He nodded. "I know you could do it. I know you could go out of town with me, in two seperate motel rooms and not think twice about it. But I know myself. I'd want to knock on the connecting door and only use one bed. I know that I'd get even more protective." "That's _hardly_ possible, Mulder," Scully laughed. "And who says I wouldn't want you to knock on the door?" "Scul-eee," Mulder said, exesperated. "I know you'd want to with one part of you, but the professional G-woman inside you wouldn't let you do it. And knowing you were on the other side of that wall would drive me slowly insane." "More insane," Scully said. "Whatever. What I mean to say is that, yeah, in a normal world, I'd be dying to ... go out with you, date you, be your lover, whatever the politically correct term is these days. But we don't live in a normal world, Scully. We live in a world where monsters are real, and there's a conspiracy under every bed." "So are we supposed to put our lives, our wants, our needs on hold? I'm thirty-three years old, Mulder! I want a family, a husband, children." "I know," Mulder said, moving to where she sat. He took a chair from the table and lowered himself into it, moving close. "I know you want all that stuff, Scully, and that's one of the ways I'm killing you slowly. By working with me, being with me all these years, you've closed yourself off from the rest of the world. I did it by choice. You do it by necessity." "Do you want it?" she asked softly. "In a perfect-" "Yes or no, Mulder." "Yes. I would love to get married someday, to have a wife and some kids and a nice house and a normal career." "Let me ask you another question. If you find Samantha, find out what happened to her, and you expose this...consortium. If all your dreams come true...would you be ready then?" He shrugged. "I don't know. I think so." "Would you want it with me?" Mulder let out his breath. "Is that what this is about? Whether or not I want you?" Scully nodded, and then shook her head, and then shrugged. "Yes. No. I don't know. I'm just...this thing, this thing that happened in Jacksonville, and then on the plane. You screaming. It scared me, Mulder. Scared me a lot. I know you're not the most perfect person in the world, and probably not the most perfect man. But whenever I look at you, and I get in these strange moods, I can't see myself with anyone else. I don't think I'm in love with you, Mulder, but...I'm not sure anymore. Before, it was so easy to keep the two havles of my life seperate...my professional life, which was you, the Bureau, the X-Files...and my personal life, as stagnant as it was. But in the last few years, we've gotten so close. We've been through so much. No one knows me like you do, and I'm sure the same is true of you. Sometimes I think that if we didn't have this constant pressure of the X-Files, of finding the truth about Samantha and your father that we could just...be. Be there for each other, for ourselves, for...us." Mulder cracked a grin. "What would we do, Scully? With no monsters to chase, no mysteries to expose...what would we do with ourselves?" Scully grabbed his hands, rubbing them with her own. "I could become a coroner or a medical examiner somewhere. You could teach, or go into private practice. We..." She trailed off. "No matter what happens to our lives. Mulder, I know now that we're always going to be a huge part of each other's existence. There's just no way to turn...this..." Scully waved a hand between them. "...off. I've given too much of myself to you, and you to me, to ever have enough left over for anyone else. "I'm not asking you to make a committment to me, Mulder. Or to make any sort of promise, or to give up your search. That's not what this is about." "What is this about?" "Admitting it," she said slowly, softly. "Admitting that there is something between us, something that goes beyond partnership and friendship, into more personal, intimate areas. Admitting that it if weren't for these cases, for the choices we've both made in our careers-" "Scully, you were assigned," he gently reminded her. Anger flashed across her face. "No, Mulder. Up until I was taken, I was 'assigned,' as you put it. When they closed us down, I was reassigned to Quantico, and even then, I was still working your cases with you. After we re-opened the division, I _chose_ to come back. I made a _choice_, Mulder, a choice to be with you." "Scully, are you aware of what you're getting yourself in for? You know me! You know how I am. Are you ready to be in a comitted, romantic relationship with me? You know how I get." "I have some idea, yes," Scully said, smiling softly. "And you still want to?" "I don't know, Mulder. What I want to do is at least admit that there is something there, something worth exploring." "But what if it doesn't work out? Are you willing to risk our partnership, our friendship? Do you think we could still work together if...whatever this is...ends?" Scully dropped his hands and sat back. "Condeming us to failure before we even start, Mulder?" "No, no, no," he said quickly, reaching for her hands again. "Not at all. What I'm saying is...look, we're both adults. We're talking about this _like_ two adults. And, being adults, we have to admit that not every single relationship turns out the way we would like them to. And I would hate to lose your friendship, or ruin this partnership, because we had a romantic falling out. You're too important. To me, to our work." She was glad that he'd called it 'our' work. "Mulder...you're making this way too complicated. Simple questions, simple answers. Do you find me attractive in a girlfriend-lover sort of way?" "Yes," he answered. "I meant it when I said it wasn't _just_ a kiss, Scully." She smiled. "I'm glad. Now, second question. Do you trust me? Trust us?" "I don't trust anyone but you, Scully." "Ok...then trust me. Trust me to know when to take this to the next step, _if_ we take this to the next step. I'm not promising you anything either, Mulder. But sitting in that room in Jaccksonville, holding your hand as you went down that deep, dark well after Clay, I knew, Mulder...I knew...that there was no other place in the world that I wanted to be. That there was no other man that I wanted to be with. It's not sane, it's not logical. It's not me, Mulder. You know how practical and logical I always am, and this is anything _but_ practical and logical. And as I said, I'm not sure I'm even _in_ love with you. But I do know you're the single most important person in my life, and I'm at a point where that has to _mean_ something!" Mulder nodded. Everything Scully said was true. "So...what now?" She smiled softly. "Nothing special, Mulder. We go watch some TV, maybe cuddle a little. Nothing spectacular. Neither of us is really ready for anything...heavy." Neither one of them moved. They sat there, holding hands, looking at each other with embarassed expressions. "I feel different," Mulder said. "Me, too," Scully replied. "Different...but good, different." "Me, too." "So...uh, I repeat. What now?" "Let's clean this mess up, Mulder. That's a good start." Laughing, they broke apart, moving together to wrap the remaining pizza in aluminium foil. Mulder folded up the box into small squares and put it in the recycling pile. Scully was putting the glasses on the drying rack when she felt Mulder's arms sliding around her waist. "I suppose that this is ok now," he said in her ear. "Not only ok, but encouraged," Scully said, reaching a hand up to stroke his face. "You don't know how long I've wanted this to be ok," he admitted. "It was always ok, Mulder." "Yeah, but now it's really ok." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Dupree was back in his basement office. He was going over the files again, reading with half his concentration, the other half dedicated to the signature problem. He needed another target to appease his hunger. He knew that if he identified a Chosen he would be able to continue his other work. One name jumped out at him. Dupree studied the man's pedigree, glancing over the details quickly, memorzing them. Moving to the Sparc, Dupree entered the search parameters. He was so excited, he had to backup and re-enter them twice before he got it right. After hitting ENTER, he had only to wait seven seconds. 5410:401 appeared on the screen. Dupree nodded and looked at the display, tracing the patterns with his finger. His translation abilities were getting better. He didn't need the dictionary as much now. It was there. It was valid. It was written. Jack Nelson was Chosen. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= END CHAPTER 4 NOTE: I spell Frohicke "Frohickie" because that's the way Mulder pronounces it. I've gotten dozens of emails about it, and I'm not going to change. Date: Sun, 19 Apr 1998 20:28:36 -0700 From: "Dawson E. Rambo" Subject: RP: ELS Chapter 5a/25 ELS Chapter 5 (Part I) By Dawson E. Rambo Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, as well as the copyrighted property of 1013 productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended. Posting Date : November 3, 1997 Archive Entry : "ELS" Chapter 5/25 (Part I) Classification : SRA MSR Chapter Rating : R (Violence) Story Rating : NC-17 (Violence) Missing Chapters: http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/els.htm Mailing List : mailto:drambo@azstarnet.com?subject=SUBSCRIBE Summary : Mulder and Scully, back in Washington, spend some downtime together discussing thier new relationship. Tony Littleton makes an appearance, and a demand. Meanwhile, Dupree is on the prowl. Spoilers : All, up to the end of US4. Casting : Russel Crowe, "Mark Dupree" : Alec Baldwin, "Tony Littleton" : Barbara Barrie, "Estelle" Content Warnings: EXTREMELY Violent content. Second warning : This chapter contains violent content. I'm not pulling any punches here, folks. BE WARNED. Dedication : To RW. Keep the faith, man. NOTE: Violent scenes are set off with a "@" character at the beginning and a "#" character at the end. If you do not want to read the explicitly violent scenes, set your text reader/word processor to search for "#", and when you encounter the "@" character, do a "Find Again" or "Find Next" and the program will skip it. Enjoy! +=+=+=+=+===+=+= New York City Hungry. Not on the prowl tonight, in the basement, working the case, checking the angles, making sure it would all happen. But in his gut, a gnawing feeling, a constant rumble that was distracting and just a little bit scary. It wasn't a food thing; he'd eaten twice as much as he normally did today. It was as if his body was running twice as hot, twice as hard, a Formula One race engine stuck in a Ford Taurus. He wanted to open it up, jam down on the pedal, listen to the roar as the carbs poured gas in and the tires bit into the pavement, spinning until they heated up, got sticky, and gave him some goddamned traction. Blinking, not nervous, but feeling like a ferret in his den, Dupree stood and paced, dry washing his hands at chest level as he moved back and forth in front of his computers. He could tell he was losing it, that the need to do the Chosen was slowly overpowering him. And it was exhilarating. The raw energy that was crackling inside him was heady, intoxicating. Dupree had never done drugs and never would; the thought of sniffing, snorting, smoking or injecting anything was beyond laughable. His body was perfect in every way. He was average height, average face, average body. For his purposes, perfect. He could blend into any crowd, anywhere in the city at any time. It was also dangerous. Dupree could feel his control slipping. Control was everything. Without it, he would be caught in a matter of days. Every step of his plan had to be carefully thought out, examined, dissected and then reassembled. Nothing could be left to chance. Hunger. The word burned inside Dupree's mind, demanding attention, drawing focus away from the problem, the plan. He stopped, stock-still, his eyes flicking to the filing cabinets. He looked away, as if they could see him staring, and then back again. He licked his lips. Maybe just a little taste, he thought. A tease. He moved quickly to the cabinets, reaching for a drawer, and then froze, his fingers inches away from the handle. Idiot! he chastised himself. He straightened, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. You almost did it, you idiot. All that work, for naught. Walking slowly back to his desk, Dupree pulled open the bottom drawer and reached inside, returning with a cardboard box filled with surgeon's rubber gloves. He'd never touched the filing cabinet or any of its contents with his bare hands. There was not a single traceable fingerprint on anything in those filing cabinets. Not a single one. Donning a pair of gloves, Dupree walked back to his library and opened the top drawer. His hands flew through the files, looking for the special ones, the ones with the little red mark on the top right corner of the tab. They were his favorites. He found a good one and slid it out from between its brothers, holding it up to the light. He tilted it sideways, reading the tab. Akiro, it said. He closed his eyes, remembering. Kim Akiro, aged 27. Second-generation American, her parents had emigrated to the United States shortly after the Korean War. Dupree returned to his desk and sat down, opening the folder with shaking hands. The DD5's were on top, the most recent one entered two years ago. It was an old file, but a good one. He flipped past the reports, going deeper, looking for it, for them. He found the coroner's report and detached it from the rest of the file, moving it to the side to be savored later. And at the bottom, in a 5x7 brown manila envelope was what he was looking for. He unwound the red string holding it closed and then lifted the flap, extracting the half-inch thick pile of color crime scene photographs. Dupree felt himself harden. The first picture was what movie directors called an establishing shot. Taken wide-angle, from the door to Akiro's bedroom. The body, nude, face-up, was on the bed. What had once been pristine white sheets were dark red, almost brown, with dried blood. Dupree sighed, feeling some of the hunger abating. He could use this, could close his eyes and go back to the scene and remember. Homicide had a working theory on this case. Kim Akiro was known to frequent the popular, trendy dance clubs. She had met someone there, they had come back to her apartment for sex and drugs, and in a rage, her lover had killed her. It was the only theory that made any sense, and Dupree knew that it was bullshit. He hadn't killed her, but he had known that it wasn't a normal murder. The scene had spoken to him, the voices loud in his head. He could see the murder, even if he couldn't see the murderer. In his head, he saw them making love, saw Akiro making all those lovely little passionate noises as her lover moved above, his hands grasping her waist as he filled her again and again, making her scream and wiggle and cry and moan. Dupree felt his anger, too. Felt the killer's anger about the little naked slant-eyed slut beneath him, felt the anger and hunger growing inside the man until it snapped. Closing his eyes, Dupree went back to the scene, his hand flitting across the table to find the coroner's report. He slid it over, lifting it and opening his eyes and reading the report. @ Death, it said, had been caused by severe trauma to the chest and abdomen, most likely with a kitchen knife the killer had found at the scene. Kim Akiro had been slit open from throat to crotch, and then the stabs had started. Over seventy-six separate stab wounds, all deep, frenzied cuts. The killer was locked in a haze of angry violence, trying to kill Akiro a thousand times over as he stabbed, again and again and again. And then, the body bleeding, dying if not already dead, the killer had tossed the knife over his shoulder and mounted her body, his penis erect and throbbing again, and he had taken her as she died, burying himself inside her. Standing over the body, he had ejaculated into her wounds, performing one last act of violent desecration. # Dupree sighed, feeling the release inside him. He flipped through the stack of photos, peering at them under the bright work light. Close-up shots of the wounds, and then of her face, eyes open in surprise and shock, a blood trail across one perfect cheek, little droplets moving away from her, towards the head of the bed. One drop had landed directly on her left eyebrow. A close-up of the knife, sitting in a small pool of blood. A ruler next to the knife, giving it scale. Dupree returned to the coroner's report, reading about the autopsy. The organs, dissected and removed, were weighed and cataloged. Semen in her stomach. The coroner, judging by the digestion that had already taken place, estimated that she had ingested the semen up to four hours before her death. At the club, Dupree thought. In the bathroom, or a dark corner, she had done it, gone down on her knees and... And... With a shudder, Dupree spent. He felt the pooling wetness inside his shorts, spreading to his thighs, already sticky. She deserved it, he thought. She was not a Chosen, but she had deserved it. Getting down on your knees for a man you had just met was asking for trouble, all kinds of trouble. It gave a whole new meaning to the term "safe sex," he thought with a grin. Focused now, the hunger momentarily abated, Dupree quickly put everything back together and closed the file, returning it to the cabinet. Leaving his gloves on, he moved back to the desk and focused his considerable attention on the case of Nelson, John, AKA Jack Nelson, AKA Jack Mack. Jack Nelson had first come to the attention of federal authorities as a result of a sting operation run by the United States Postal Police. The Child Exploitation Unit of the Department of Justice had determined through unknown means that child molesters posed a grave and severe risk to the children of the United States, and had directed all subordinate federal law enforcement agencies to come up with programs designed to identify, arrest and convict child molesters and pedophiles. Special attention was to be given to the creation, distribution and possession of child pornography. The United States Postal Police hit upon a grand plan. They had seized a great deal of mob-produced child-porn in other operations, magazines and photographs that were growing dusty in evidence warehouses. They decided to place advertisements in the backs of men's magazines such as Penthouse and Hustler, promising "exotic, hard-to-get," erotica. Those two words were code phrases used by pedophiles for their sleazy wares. When some unsuspecting individual answered the advertisement and sent the twelve dollars off for a 'sample,' the Postal Police would return a few photographs featuring children in explicit sexual activities via registered mail. When the unsuspecting individual would then greet his postal carrier (an undercover Postal Police officer,) and sign for the envelope, he would promptly be arrested. The scam (some called it an 'entrapment exercise,') worked so well that the Postal Police quickly discovered they were running out of surplus child pornography. A senior supervisor realized that in addition to the actual magazines, the US Government had also seized the original negatives and printing plates from the magazines. Which is how the US Government found itself in the very odd position of becoming the ipso facto largest producer of explicit child pornography in the world. They needed the magazines to send to their "clients," and once arrested, the material was kept as evidence until trial, marked and stamped. It was unusable after that. John "Jack" Nelson was a pedophile, a pedophile being defined in this case as someone who looked to young children for sexual excitement. He answered one of those advertisements, and was promptly arrested. During the execution of a subsequent search warrant, a personal computer was discovered in his residence. A quick search of the hard drive of that computer revealed over six hundred separate digitized images of underage children involved in explicit sexual activity. What worried the Department of Justice, the FBI and the United States Postal Police was the fact that they had never seen any of these images before. Pedophiles tended to trade the same five or six thousand images over and over again, using computers to modem them from location to location. As long as the computer was never examined, it was an extremely safe way to move their illicit booty. And when one "collector," as they liked to call themselves, sent another a color print or magazine, they even went so far as to use Federal Express so that they could not be charged with using the US Mail for illegal purposes. These images were new. Judging by the backgrounds, the clothing that could be seen, even the covers of magazines glimpsed in the edges of the photographs, these were new pictures, taken within the last few months. Which meant that there was a ring, or rings, of pedophiles operating somewhere in the United States. Meetings were held, memos written, and an offer was made. In exchange for a lenient sentence, and the promise of a new life upon his release from federal prison, John "Jack" Nelson was encouraged to provide the FBI and US Government with as much testimony and evidence as he could regarding the identities and activities of other pedophiles known to him. It was made clear to him that this offer was only being made because the FBI, after extensive investigation, was unable to prove that he, Mr. Jack Nelson, had ever actually taken any of the photographs. Faced with the prospect of spending 25 to Life in a federal penitentiary, Jack Nelson forgot all about the honor code of criminals and sang like Pavarotti. Arrests were made, trials held, testimony given, convictions secured. The Department of Justice, arbiter of the purse strings for all federal law enforcement agencies, showed their pleasure by increasing the budget of the Postal Police. The FBI showed its pleasure by entering Mr. John "Jack" Nelson into the WITSEC program upon his release from the federal prison in Marion, Pennsylvania after serving eighteen months (with credit for time served.) Mr. John "Jack" Nelson was now Mr. John "Jack" Wagner, gainfully employed as a graphic artist at a Midtown advertising agency. No one there knew of his past as a convicted pedophile. None of them knew that in his off hours, Mr. Nelson fantasized about taking naked pictures of the children of his coworkers. Dupree closed the file and began planning. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland They returned to the couch and sat down, close, as if they'd been doing it all their lives. Scully tucked her legs up underneath and snuggled into Mulder's shoulder, glad that she could now do without guilt what she had wanted to for so long. For his part, Mulder threw an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer, using his fingers to tease her hair. They fell asleep that way. In the morning, they woke, stretched, smiled at each other and shared a brief, almost shy good-morning kiss. "So, what's on the agenda for today?" Mulder asked. "You," Scully said, pointing a finger at his chest, "are going to go to your apartment and so some laundry. The idea of you spending the next four days in those clothes is repulsive. When your laundry is done, call me, and we'll...make plans." Mulder wondered what she meant by that, but decided to ignore it for the time being. His mind was working overtime, and he had no desire to make assumptions based on facts that were not in evidence. Mulder got up, donned shoes, grabbed his clothes and overnight bag, kissed Scully at the door and took the cab Scully had called back to his apartment and proceeded to throw himself into his work. Scully, suffering an attack of the guilts, showered, dressed in a business suit, and drove herself to the office. The Jacksonville case report had to be written and filed, and she wanted to get it done as quickly as possible. Estelle was in the office when Scully arrived, glancing up in surprise at the red-haired FBI Agent. "Agent Scully! Mr. Littleton said that you and Agent Mulder were going to be gone for the rest of the week." Scully smiled. "Agent Mulder is, Estelle. I wanted to get the case report done as quickly as-" Estelle held up a folder. "Just sign it, and it's done." Shocked, Scully walked over and took the folder, opening it and reading. "Estelle...where did-?" "The Jacksonville Police were nice enough to fax over their version of events. I transcribed it and added what details Mr. Littleton was gracious enough to provide." She paused. "I figured that you and Agent Mulder had been through enough without having to go over every...detail...again and again." Scully quickly reviewed it. Everything was in place, just where it should be. All that was needed was her and Mulder's signature. "Thank you, Estelle. This is a big help." Estelle beamed at the compliment. "Well, I'd better be going then," Scully said, turning to leave. "Have fun with your vacation." Scully froze, one hand on the doorknob. Something in Estelle's voice had seemed different...odd. Turning back, she glanced at the assistant. Did she know? Estelle smiled a beatific grin. She did. "Uh-" "It's written all over your face, Agent Scully." Oh, shit. "And by that you mean-" Estelle threw her head back and laughed, loud and long. "Oh, you are just so precious, the both of you!" She wiped her eyes and continued. "Agent Scully, I've been with the Bureau almost since Hoover opened the damn place. I've worked for...oh, Lord, I couldn't possibly begin to count all the hundreds, perhaps thousands of agents that I've worked for. Back when only men could be sworn as Special Agents, there were a few of them that were...bent, you get my meaning?" Scully nodded. She did. "And even then, I knew it. Hell, we've got some women-only partnerships like that these days, and you can always tell. I can, anyway. I can always tell when partners are...close." "When did you first...? I mean, about Agent Mulder and myself." "The first day I showed up here, of course." Scully breathed a sigh of relief. That was normal; most people thought she and Mulder were 'involved,' due to the overly-close nature of their working relationship. That was nothing new. Scully had been afraid that somehow, Estelle had determined what had transpired in her apartment last night. "Oh, that...Estelle, Mulder and I are-" As Scully was speaking, her eyes had risen to rest on Estelle's. Don't even try denying it, the woman's face said. "That is to say..." "Honey...I don't have a problem with it, and I'm not going to tell anyone. You two seem...well matched." "Estelle-" "Agent Scully...I am assuming from reading the case file that Agent Mulder was a bit...overwhelmed by the events in Jacksonville. I think that as his partner, you should go to wherever he is and offer as much...support as is possible. Agent Mulder is a valuable asset to the Bureau, and his skills and talents are urgently needed. I have it on good authority that you two are being moved from the Cold Case Squad upstairs, to the VICAP Response Team." Scully's mouth fell open. VICAP RT's were the...elite of the elite. Called on to fly to any part of the country on a moment's notice (well, what was different about that?) to provide instant support, feedback and profiling services for police departments in urgent, dire need of such services, VICAP RT was a feather in the cap of any profiler...hell, any agent for that matter. There were only four Response Teams, two agents per team, in all of ISU. "Which team?" Scully asked. Estelle beamed. "Team One." Scully felt her world spinning out of control. Shuffled here in disgrace, the black cloud of an OPR investigation hanging over their heads, they had taken less than week to go from bastard stepchildren to stars. Team One was...it. The highest plateau a field agent assigned to ISU could obtain. They were referred to inside the Bureau as the A-Team, or alternately, as the Jedi Knights. Oh, Mulder was going to love that, Scully thought, rolling her eyes. So much for Skinner's promise of 'no profiling.' "I see. Well, I wouldn't start celebrating yet, Estelle. I have the feeling that our real boss, Assistant Director Skinner-" "Who approved the transfer himself. I saw the paperwork, Agent Scully." Well, there went that theory. "Estelle," Scully asked, glancing pointedly at her watch, "isn't it time for...a coffee break?" Estelle nodded, getting it instantly. "I think I could use a soda or something. Ten minutes enough?" "More than enough," Scully said, already moving for the phone. "Here, let me," Estelle said. "It always works better this way." Estelle dialed Skinner's number (from memory, Scully noticed,) and waited for someone to answer. "Hi, Kimberly. Estelle over at ISU." Pause. "I'm fine, dear. How are you?" Another pause, longer this time. "I have Special Agent Scully for the Assistant Director." Estelle nodded and pointed at Scully, who picked up the line at her own desk. "Please hold for the Assistant Director," Kimberly said. There was the click-hiss of being put on hold, and then a moment later, Skinner's familiar growl. "Skinner." "Agent Scully, sir." "Good morning, Agent Scully. I'm surprised that you're at the office today. I was under the impression that Agent Littleton had given you and Agent Mulder some time off." "That's true, sir, but I wanted to get the paperwork on the Jacksonville case finished." "I see. What can I do for you this morning, Agent Scully?" "Sir, it has come to my attention that Agent Mulder and myself are being transferred to an active profiling status, as Team One on the VICAP RT Squad, and I...well, sir, you did promise Agent Mulder that he wouldn't have to perform active profiling." Estelle got up, excused herself quietly, and let herself out of the office, leaving Scully alone. "Well, after Chicago and Jacksonville, I figured that Agent Mulder had undergone a change of heart." "Sir, Chicago was a cold case. That was a special circumstance. It was, sir if I may, pure blind luck on Agent Mulder's part." "Scully, I think you underestimate your partner's abilities in this area. If I may suggest something to you..." "Of course, sir. Always." "I would swing by the National Law Academy and pick up a copy of Serial Murder Investigation, Volume 3." "Sir?" "Scully, do you trust me?" The big question, Scully thought. "Of course, sir. Implicitly." "Then trust me on this. This is the best thing for Agent Mulder's career right now. I am trying to make sure that he still does have a career after this OPR matter is resolved. The... political situation has not improved very much since your departure. It would be difficult for the OPR to press a full-scale investigation, complete with depositions, background research, interviews...all that sort of stuff that the OPR loves so much, against the star profiler of the ISU and his capable partner." Scully had to ask. "Sir, what about the X-Files?" There was a pause. "Scully, I know the need for that division's continued existence. Better than you might ever suspect. In order for Agent Mulder to ever return to the X-Files, or you for that matter, this OPR situation has to be resolved in a positive way. The best way for this to happen is for you to nod, say thank you, and continue on as you have been." He paused. "Is there a problem, Agent Scully?" Scully debated how much to tell him. "Sir, Agent Mulder, as good a profiler as he is, tends to get overly involved in these cases. Sometimes I...worry about him, sir." Skinner accepted this without comment, waiting for Scully to continue. "I'm not sure what continued exposure to these kinds of cases will do for his...state of mind, sir." "Scully," Skinner said, searching for the correct words. "I'm now going to speak off the record. Your partnership with Mulder is... unique. I'm sure you don't have to be told that, and I only say this to remind you that others are aware of it. It is the perception at the highest levels of the Bureau that you and Agent Mulder are, in fact, the single best field partnership that exists today. The reasons for this are many, some of them well known, others only...suspected." His meaning was clear. Scully felt the color draining from her face. Jack, all over again. "I hasten to point out, Agent Scully, that no one feels that there is anything...inappropriate going on, anything that would bring negative attention to the Bureau. But we do understand that Agent Mulder's unique talents and capabilities do carry with them a certain...price, if I may use that term." "That price being?" Scully asked. "Agent Scully, you are putting me in a very awkward position. Suffice it to say that you and Agent Mulder are considered...elite. Special. One-of-a-kind. And so, certain...irregularities in the regulations relating to...partners...is overlooked in your case." So we have de facto permission for a relationship, if not de jure, Scully thought. "Sir, we are off the record, is that correct?" "Of course, Agent Scully." "Please spell it out, Sir. Don't worry about being polite." Skinner snorted. "Very well, Agent Scully. I, and Tony Littleton, and most of the seventh floor realize that you and Agent Mulder are in fact closer than most partners. We suspect that there is something more than friendship going on. We have no desire to have this suspicion confirmed or denied. We realize that you two work best together, left alone, doing things the way you have always done. Simply put, Agent Scully, you and Mulder get results. And those results are positive results as of right now. Three cases closed in six days is an amazing accomplishment. The decision was made, Scully, to look the other way when certain issues come up." "Like what issues?" "A report was made by certain members of the Jacksonville Police Department that, while Agent Mulder was talking to the UNSUB, you held his hand." Scully said nothing. Skinner continued. "And later, after the suspect had been taken into custody, you and Agent Mulder were discovered...embracing in the conference room." Scully rolled her eyes, glad that Skinner couldn't see her. "Sir, we were not embracing. This is exactly what I was talking about. Agent Mulder was...overcome, sir, by the emotional price of his participation in the investigation. He was...sobbing, sir, and I was...holding him. It was not an embrace, sir." "Scully, I suggest you grab a dictionary and look up the word 'embrace.'" Annoyed now, Scully responded. "Sir, the situation may have fit the definition of the word, but the connotation is that there is some kind of...romance going on between Agent Mulder and myself. And I resent that." Skinner said nothing for a long moment. "Scully, are you denying that such a relationship exists?" Damn, he used the wrong tense. If he had said, 'existed,' she could have denied it. And, truth be told, the word 'romance' was not what came to mind when she considered her relationship with Mulder. "No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I am denying that Agent Mulder and I are...romantically involved." "Scully...I'm not going to go into that particular aspect of your relationship. Frankly, it's none of my business. And the Bureau has unofficially taken the same position. So, my advice to you is this: Stay out of trouble, let Mulder do his thing, and you do whatever is necessary to make sure that happens. That way, and only that way, can I assure you that there will be an X-Files division to return to when this all blows over. Do I make myself understood?" "Clearly, sir," Scully replied. Crystal clear. "Good day, Agent Scully." ===================== END CHAPTER 5, PART I ----------- http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/index.html------------- Dawson E. Rambo | drambo@azstarnet.com | Programmer, Author, Dreamer "Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup." -- Bumper Sticker ----------------------VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS------------------------