TITLE: Jack
AUTHOR: Exley_61 (typo@clam.rutgers.edu)
RATING: NC-17 for violence and sexual content
SPOILER: NONE
CATEGORY: casefile, msr, oh and it's a  WIP
DISCLAIMER: not mine
FEEDBACK: absolutely!!! this is my first casefile!!!

NOTE: This is a departure for me. . . and the writing
will probably seem different, as it should.

SUMMARY: At the age of innocence, a child witnessed 
the brutal murder of his mother at the hands of 
a monster. Ten years later, can Mulder and Scully 
prevent such brutality from happening again, risking 
more than their lives, but their hearts as well. . . .




               XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                     "Jack"

                       by
 
                    Exley_61
              (typo@clam.rutgers.edu)
              XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Philadelphia, PA
5th and Pine ST.
Center City
Eleanor Layne's Townhouse
July 21, 1989


"Jack, get in the closet baby, hurry... hurry now...
GO!"
 
Jack blinked slowly, peering up at his mother's
hovering face. 

"What?" he mumbled, turning to crawl his way out of
the fluffy bed covers. Plopping onto the floor with a
dull thud, he landed his batman-slippered feet onto
the plush carpeting.   

Jack looked around the shadowed blackness, weeble-
wobbling his head around to search out his mother.
Spying her as she hurriedly rounded the other side of
the bed, he stumbled toward her.  

His right foot caught on the hard plastic edge of his
Robota Man just as he felt the warmth of his mother's
hands scooping him up. Her palms slid under his arms,
carrying him the rest of the way to the double doors
of the bedroom closet.

"Mommy?" he sleepily whined, reaching over her
shoulder for his blanket left lonely on the floor.

"Shhh... shhh,"she whispered, her wet breath tickling
his ear as they stopped in front of the doors. He
rubbed a hand against his the ear, rubbing away the
tickle. 

She set him on the floor again. "Now, don't say
anything- "

A loud crash was heard from downstairs.  Both turned
their heads toward the bedroom doorway. Jack found
himself quickly pushed back into the depths of the
closet.  

Oh, he didn't like it in here, not at night, no, no,
no - but he kept quiet.  He didn't want to get in 
trouble and Mommy looked kinda mad or. . . or. . . he
didn't know but he really didn't like it.

Tripping over shoes, he landed against basketed
laundry as the warmth of his mother's hand steadied
him.

"Stay. . . in. . .  here. . . ," she ordered, rubbing
a palm against his cheek before she quickly stood back,
closing the doors and shutting the deep darkness
in with him.

Jack peeled himself off the container, splitting the
curtain of his mother's clothing that hung before him.
Leaning forward, he pressed his nose against the cool,
slatted doors, peering through the cracks.  

Moving his head back, he clumsily fisted a hand
against his eye, trying to clear his vision so he
could see better. Having rubbed the collection of
sleep from the stubborn corner, he yawned as the last
fingers of sleep slipped away from him.  

Jack leaned forward again, peering out just in time 
to see his mother's nightgown sway through the air and
disappear from his limited view.   

Cautiously stepping back deeper into the closet, he sunk
into the gripping darkness.  Unable to make out 
anything within the blackness, he felt his heart
beating real fast and. . . and he was scared.  

Huddling his body to thwart against the nighttime
spookies, he looked through the bottom slats of the
door, his eyes narrowing into a stare, his breath 
growing harsher and harsher.

Jack jumped, stringing his arms inside of his pajama
top and hugging his body as he heard his mother
scream.  He wanted to go out, wanted to go to her, but
he. . . he couldn't move. Instead he stayed glued to
where he was, his feet pressed against the door as his
upper body rocked back and forth, back and forth. 

"You really shouldn't talk, it's not good when you do
that."

Jack's movement, along with his slight whimpering,
froze in his throat upon hearing the strange male
voice.

Biting his lip, he pushed back further into the three
foot depth of closet, his back hitting against the 
wall as he crab walked backward, sitting on an invisibl
e mound of shoes.  The clothes basket rested beside him 
and the hanging shirts above just barely brushed the 
top of his head.

He tried to make himself as small as he could, tucking
his legs against his chest and resting his chin on his
knees as he picked up the the neglected rocking motion
once more.

Another scream and a crash -- the sound was getting
louder.  Jack squeezed his eyes closed. He licked his
lips and tasted salt. 

He began to silently chant, his lips forming the word,
Mommy, over and over again.

A thud, this time very close.  

Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.

He pried open his eyes and stared at his mother's
face through the slatted doors.  

She lie against the carpet in front of him.  Her
eyes were staring.  He felt like she could see him
through the door, but knew she couldn't cuz he'd 
hidden here lots and she never, ever saw him. 

But maybe. . . maybe this time?  

He smiled, tears shaking out of his eyes and
dripping down his cheeks. He unfolded his 
body and leaned forward, reaching for the door handle, 
keeping his stare pinned on his mother's features. 

Then he saw it.  It was so small at first that 
he thought he'd imagined it but when he started 
to twist the handle, he then heard his mother 
hiss.

"No. . . ."

He looked at her, watching as her head slowly 
pivoted "no" against the threads of carpet while 
her mouth opened in a silent imitation of the
word.   

He fell back from the door, mimicking his mom's 
head shake as his fingers slipped free of the 
chilled handle.    

Jack's eyes widened further as his mother 
seemed lifted off the floor, like she was 
flying. Jack quickly stood up to find
her through the higher slats of the door and 
saw the side of her leg on the recently 
abandoned bed.

The bed springs squeaked, it was the squeaks 
that always snitched on him whenever his mom 
let him sleep with her.

He would try to sneak off the bed in the morning and
go into the kitchen to pour himself the largest glass 
of chocolate milk he could find. 

Sometimes he made it, but other times, just as 
he was home free of the bed, she would spring up 
and snatch him, bringing his wiggling body against
her as she tickle attacked him into uncontrollable
giggles.  

It was no fair, but he did like that game, it. . .

"So much better, the silence. . . like a symphony 
of beauty, really."

Jack cringed.  It was that same voice, that heavy
voice he heard just minutes ago. "I appreciate you
making this bit of work easier for me, Eleanor." 

Jack tuned the man out, listening for only his
mother's words, words that squeezed at his heart 
and made his tummy hurt.

"Please. . . please. . . ." 

Mommy, no! 

He didn't know what was happening but he knew that 
she shouldn't cry. . . the man had said not to cry, 
right?  

But her sobs grew louder, clutching Jack's heart 
in complete fear.  He was shuttering.... his arms
convulsively squeezing his waist as the speed of his
rocking increased.

Again the man spoke, but Jack did not listen, only
struggling to hear his mother.  Her cries grew louder
until they eventually evolved into shrieks, shrieks
that began to sound in stereo as Jack slid his hands
through the neck of his pj top and clamped his hands
over his ears, crying out with her.

He wanted out of the closet. He wanted out, he wanted
out, he wanted out! He no longer saw the barred view
of the bedroom nor the suffocating blackness around him. 

His eyes saw one thing.

His mommy shaking her head and mouthing, No... over
and over and over again.

It was suddenly silent in the outer room, but not in
the closet as Jack chanted in a wobbly voice threaded 
with fear and tears, "No Mommy, No Mommy. . ."

His mantra was interrupted by his mother's piercing
scream, a final scream that cracked his catatonia, 
shredding him and making him jump up, rustling the 
clothes and hangers as his body spread them. He 
stepped forward but his feet tripped on the shoe 
littered floor and he fell, his hand reaching out
before him.  The door pushed open and he landed half
in and half out of the closet.
 
"Well, look at you," the man said.

Jack raised his tear-bleary gaze to face the shadowed
form of the man whom he heard climbing off the bed. 
He quickly glanced away to see the outline of his 
mother's hand dangling off the side of the bed. 

A dark wetness slowly dripped from it.

"Yes, look at you." 

Jack quickly turned his head back to the approaching
figure. He began to stutter, his head shaking back and
forth as he crawled backward, back to the safety of 
the closet. 

His body trembled as the man stopped, his shoes 
filling Jack's view of the carpet. Then he heard that
song, that song that had tickled his ears before but 
he tried to block out as he listened for his Mommy.

"Bye... bye... blackbird." The refrain repeated over
and over as he was lifted off the floor by the arms 
of his Batman pajama top.  Jack was pulled close to 
the man's face.  He could smell stinky cigarettes 
on the man's breath.

His hands squeezed Jack's upper arms, long fingers
digging into his skin and causing Jack to gasp as he
was roughly pulled closer, tears spilled down his 
cheeks in torrents. 

"Shh. . . now. Close your eyes, it's so much better
when you're quiet."

Jack closed his eyes and. . . and he made sure to be
quiet.


                 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Philadelphia, PA
City Hall
10 YEARS LATER

Monday, 11 A.M.



Fox Mulder crossed into the Broad Street entrance
of Philadelphia's City Hall. He was immediately 
consumed by the bombarding cacophony of lawyers, 
litigants, and hovering news crews.

Great, a shark frenzy.

"Scully," Mulder yelled into his cell phone as he
began to work his way through the congestion of
people.  "What did the Rodriquez body turn up? 
Anything?"

Mulder plugged a finger into his other ear, but was
still unsuccessful in deciphering Scully's words.  He
craned his head around, scanning the over packed 
hallway with aggravation.

"Scully. . .  Scully. . .  hold on, I can't hear 
you," Mulder said, searching out the corridor for 
possible refuge.

Spying a train of telephone booths flushed into the
wall, he forced his way through the pack.

Exasperated, he slammed the glass door shut and sat on
the booth's bench.

"Okay what was that?" Mulder asked.

"No, what was *that*, Mulder," Scully asked, her voice
coming through loud and clear.

"Mostly media. This parole hearing has brought out the
piranhas, not that I can blame them," Mulder answered,
squeezing the bridge of his nose and sighing heavily.

"Sounds like you're having a great time 
already," Scully replied.

The sarcasm was not lost on him.  As he was about to
retort, she continued, "Rodriquez's body turned up 
nothing.  The victim had been deceased for twelve 
hours, cause of death massive cardiac arrest.  So, no
ghosties or foul play.  It's an open and shut case."

"No 'ghosties', Scully?" Mulder prodded, digging into
his pocket for a handkerchief, a smile on his face and
in his tone.

"Not this time,"Scully responded in kind.

They both fell silent.

"I miss you," Mulder said, sinking his voice to a 
deep register.

No response.

"Scully?"

He waited.

"You've only been in Philadelphia all of five 
hours, Mulder."

"Yes, but. . . Scully," his voice seductively
admonished.  He used his handkerchief to wipe some
kind of unidentifiable sticky substance from his hand.
His face crunched in disgust as he glanced at the side
of the phone with annoyance, the side that coated his 
hand with grime.

"Why didn't you wake me before you left?" she asked,
her own voice lowered.

Mulder squeezed his eyes closed as her words licked
his senses, gripping him through the telephone wires.

"Scully, if I'd awakened you this morning. . . I 
wouldn't have left," Mulder finally replied, feeling
stirred and simmered in all the incredibly right 
places as he recalled the picture of her bared back,
draped within his white bed sheets.

A definite moan was working it's way past his lips.

He heard Scully's breath speed up as she gave a breathy, "Oh."

"Yeah, Scully, oh," Mulder seconded, leaning his back
against the glass door and facing the wall for a bit 
of much needed privacy. He was immensely thankful for
the concealing abilities of his trench coat.

"You were so beaut -- Fuck!" Mulder jumped.

Swinging around on the little bench, he banged his
knee against the phone box as he turned to glare
at whoever dared to interrupt his conversation.

"Damn it!" Mulder growled again, rubbing his kneecap
as he squinted up at the soon-to-be-dead intruder who
so soundly announced his presence on the glass door.

"Mike?" Mulder said, letting go of his knee to push
open the glass.

"What's happening, Mulder? Hello?" Scully called, her 
voice annoyed and slightly worried.

Mulder shook his head, holding a hand up to Michael 
Vaughn as he turned his attention back to the phone
and Scully's voice.

"Ahh, listen Scully, I gotta go. Nothing to worry 
about, I'll call you later." With that, he stood up
and depressed the 'end' button.  Pocketing the phone
with one hand, he reached out with the other to shake
Detective Michael Vaughn's, one of "Philly's finest".

"Yo, Mulder, how the hell ya been?" Vaughn asked,
slapping Mulder's back as he shook his hand.

"Not bad, not bad," Mulder replied taking in Vaughn's
appearance.

He nearly didn't recognize the guy.  He last saw
Vaughn ten years ago, and back then the man had a
paunch on him like a seasoned Sipowitz.  Now, Vaughn
looked like he'd misplaced a good half of himself.

Mulder took a few seconds to also note that the good
detective's blonde hair now mixed with strands of 
silver and was a bit thinner on the top.  Again, he 
saw that he had a slim, yet solid bulk to his body.

Vaughn's  face also had that haggard, seasoned look
depicted in his slightly poxed skin and his eyes that
were the color of faded blue jeans.

Mulder supposed that, from a distance, Vaughn could be
considered to resemble Robert Redford. Yet, up close
and personal-like, it was all Nick Nolte.

Basically, the detective was someone who'd seen a lot 
on the force, and life in general. He carried that aura 
around him so strongly that it was almost tangible.

Definitely a recognizable look.  Mulder was
glad to discern that Vaughn still had that easy going
edge about him as well.  It mixed with the detective's
sense of competence and danger.

No one fucked with Lieutenant Detective Mike
Vaughn.

The Lieutenant put up with very little bullshit. In
return he didn't dish much of it, himself.  The man
could be an overbearing son of a bitch, but when it
came to victims and their families, he was as soft
as the inside of a Philly pretzel.

"Vaughn, where the hell's the rest of you?" Mulder
asked, looking him over.

"Yeah, maybe you should do one of those X file
investigations on Jenny Craig, "Vaughn replied,
slapping Mulder on the back.

Mulder chuckled.

"Anyway, I saw you duck into here," Vaughn
explained, indicating the phone booth and then 
looking around the herded hallway. "It's a fuckin' 
circus 'round here," Vaughn continued, tilting a 
nodding a head toward the crowd.

"More like a shark fest," Mulder replied.

TV camera lights glared against the pool of reporters.
They circled the courtroom as if a bloodied fish was
about to be dropped into their tank.

"I see what you mean," Vaughn agreed,  turning to walk
beside Mulder as they slowly approached the 
crowd. "So, what are you doin' here, anyway?" 

"Pearl Clayton," Mulder answered.

"No shit?" Vaughn asked, meeting Mulder's gaze.

"No shit," Mulder answered, searching the inside
pocket of his trench coat for his badge.  He didn't
want to struggle for it within that media mob for 
longer than necessary.

"Well, you ready?" Vaughn asked, speaking over the
rolling waves of sound. He pulled his hands free from
his pants pocket and casted a glance beyond Mulder 
toward the courtroom door.

"After you," Mulder answered, indicating Vaughn
lead the way.

"Ahh, always the gentleman, ain't ya Mulder," Vaughn
chided, smirking.

"Yeah, Vaughn, maybe you'll learn something from me 
someday," Mulder quipped.

"Maybe," Vaughn agreed.

They began to cut their way through the gathering
when Mulder blinked, blinded by the turn of camera
lights flaring into his view.

"Detective Vaughn! Detective Vaughn, do you think
"The Switchblade" will be paroled?

"Did you find the lack of evidence to convict Keenswan
of all seven murders. . . ."

"Detective Vaughn, Vaughn, a statement?"

"Detective Vaughn?"

Mulder slipped past Vaughn's side unnoticed and 
unquestioned.  He turned his head away from the lights 
and met the security officer at the courtroom door.
Mulder flipped open his ID and passed through.

Shouts of "Detective Vaughn" still rang through the
air from the piranha of reporters. 

"No comment at this time ladies and gentlemen, thank
you."  Mulder heard Vaughn say as the doors closed and 
blocked the crescendo of questions into a masked murmur. 

Vaughn came up to stand beside him.

Mulder peered around the courtroom as he walked
further down the isle.  He discovered that the room
was filled near to capacity.  As he looked around, he
recognized the faces of the victims' families from ten
years ago.

All of them.  Each of them had a stake in this parole
hearing.  It didn't matter that there had been insufficient 
evidence to link Keenswan to the series of murders.  Terms 
such as "reasonable doubt" or "questionable state of mind" 
meant nothing other than a failure of the legal system.

Everyone, including the judge, believed that Keenswan
was a serial killer.  But even serial killers have 
attorneys, and his would have given Johnny Cochran a
run for his money. 

Only one count of murder had made it to the jury.  The
ither six counts were dismissed in a suppression 
hearing.  The prosecution had "screwed up".  Those 
were the exact words of the judge who was as furious
with the prosecution as he was with the letter of the 
law.  But, he was a judge.  An elected official.  He 
managed to keep the seventh count of murder 
intact. . . which Keenswan's attorney promptly tore 
apart.

There was testimony from a renown neurologist that 
said that Keenswan suffered from a seizure-like 
disorder, which manifested itself in acute, psychotic
impulses.   

According to this expert witness, had Keenswan been
diagnosed and treated, he would have never committed 
such a vile act.  While it failed to sway the jury of 
convicting Keenswan for murder one, it did remove the
premeditated intent.   He was convicted of a lesser 
charge, thus allowing a life sentence that gave him an 
opportunity  at parole.

So, it didn't matter if Keenswan wasn't convicted of
those murders, the family knew -- hell, Mulder and the 
rest of the Philly PD knew that Keenswan should be 
rotting in the darkest depths of hell.

"Agent Mulder?" called a purposed voice from behind 
him. Mulder swung around and saw the diminutive form 
of Pearl Clayton.

"I'll catch up with you later, Vaughn," Mulder said,
pulling from him.

"Good, cuz since you're here, I wanna talk to you 
about something, a new case," Vaughn further explained 
before turning away and leaving Mulder to watch Pearl
determinedly work her way over to him.

Mulder held his hand out but Pearl just slapped it 
away, instead clamping him in a vice-like grip that
could vaguely be described as a hug.

"Ohh, Fox! I'm so glad you could make it," Pearl cried
out with an accompanied squeeze to each word she uttered.

"Pearl, Pearl. . . I. can't. breathe," Mulder gasped.

Pearl released him, pulling back to look up at his
face. She saw the grin and slapped a hand at him, "Oh,
you!"

Mulder gave a full-out smile, leaning down to kiss her
cheek and return her embrace, "You're looking fetching
as usual, Pearl."

"Fetching? Well, a girl's gotta try."

Mulder took in the coiffed quasi-bee hive/helmet of 
dyed black hair down to the black cotton two piece set
with accompanying Nikes. She was the 'Liz Taylor and
then some' of Olde City, Philadelphia.

"Besides, I ain't dead yet, baby!" Pearl crowed,
jabbing an unexpected elbow into Mulder's side and
causing him to grunt.



disclaimers in part 1. . .

"Besides, I ain't dead yet, baby!" Pearl crowed,
jabbing an unexpected elbow into Mulder's side,
causing him to grunt.

Pearl Clayton had to be the antithesis of the poster
image of a sixty-seven year old woman.  She shattered
expectations with just opening her mouth.  No taller
than five foot, Pearl's voice carried the hushed 
baritone and power of a tractor trailer disguised in 
the packaging of a timid Pinto.

Mulder could swear that she sprouted ten inches 
whenever she demanded to be heard, which as he 
recalled, was pretty much all the time.  When the 
term, "force of nature" came about there was no doubt 
in his mind that Pearl Clayton was the inspiration.

Mulder's association with both Pearl and Vaughn had 
begun those ten years ago, back when he was still a 
profiler with the VCU. He was called in to help locate
what Philly feared was a serial killer.

Mulder as SAC to his federal team and Mike Vaughn as
Detective in Charge of the local efforts, established
a relationship over beer and Pat's cheese steaks.  The
animosity that had festered between the Feds and local
PD was discussed and soon to be handled between them 
both, for Mulder welcomed  -- no, demanded Vaughn's 
insight and knowledge of his twenty years of experience
on the Philly force.

The latest victim was one, Eleanor Layne, twenty-nine
years old, Caucasian female.  She was a resident of
the Society Hill section of Center City  -- better 
known as the half a million dollar property section. 
Society Hill was composed of historic town houses too
small to be worth more than a quarter of the market 
price without the location tagged along with it.

Layne, a single mother, successful Philadelphia
businesswoman, was found in her home raped and 
butchered --

and she was Pearl Clayton's daughter.

Jack Layne, the six year old son, was found
locked in the mother's bedroom closet.  The door was a
slatted, off-white wood that allowed air into the 
closet and exposed a shuttered view for anyone left
inside.

Little Jack had seen it all, heard it all.

A witness.

Pearl's grandson. . . .

A witness that was found nearly comatose in shocked
fear.  Several city psychologists, psychiatrists and
various other city health care agents tried and failed
to elicit any information from the child.

He was suffering from post traumatic stress disorder 
and no amount of stimuli was working to break the 
shell of protection he built around himself.

Time had begun to slip away. Days turned into 
weeks and still nothing.  The pattern of attacks were 
spaced two months, and two days apart, exactly.  

Jack Layne was the only possible lead they had and he
was silent.

Then one day, as many of the days that past, Mulder
was, again, watching through the observation window 
into the children's hospital playroom.  Jack had been
sitting on the rug, playing with his favorite Batman 
action figure.  

"Batman", the movie, had been released that summer and
everywhere you went were displays and toys of the 
Caped Crusader.

And no matter how many other toys were left in the 
room for Jack to play with, anything BATMAN was what 
he zoned in on.  Mulder had narrowed his eyes as he 
crossed his arms against his chest. He bit the inside
of his lip as inspiration began to trickle in.

Five minutes later, he was running out of the hospital
and looking for the nearest toy store.

Upon returning to the psychiatric wing, he shed his
suit jacket and then tore his newly purchased toy from
the Kay-Bee bag and it's plastic casing. He piled 
his jacket and trash paraphernalia on top of the 
nurses' station's desk.  

The "Agent Mulder's you can't leave these heres.. ." 
were ignored as he crossed over to the playroom door.

Pausing, he stuffed the action figure under his arm 
and undid his tie, stripping it from his neck and 
stuffing it into a pocket. Unbuttoning the top couple
of shirt buttons, he rolled his sleeves up, and 
grabbed the toy out from under his arm as he turned
the door handle, entering the room.

Mulder walked in front of Jack, sitting down on 
the floor and facing away from him.  He then proceeded 
to play with the BATMAN figure, raising it above his 
head and making it fly in the air. 

Not once did he turn around or acknowledge Jack.  He 
just continued to play with the toy.  

"No!" the boy shouted. Mulder heard him get up from 
the rug and then felt the toy pulled from his fingers.

Mulder turned around, watching him, cautious. 

"No what?" he asked, his voice soft, gentle -- reassuring.

"Batman doesn't fly, not without his BatShip," Jack
said, cradling the doll against his chest and staring
down at the piece of plastic.  

"Do we have one of those, here?" Mulder asked, his 
eyes flitting around the collected pile of toys.

"No," Jack whispered, not looking up at Mulder.

"Oh, okay then," Mulder replied, pulling himself off 
the floor.  He neither stopped nor turned around 
as he walked out of the room.

The next day he brought with him the BatShip.

And slowly, Jack began to speak and play.  After three 
weeks and tightened hope, Jack revealed viable 
information.

Having called up children psychologist, Piaget, Mulder 
had remembered one of the fundamental tenets. 

Children developed cognitively in four stages, from 
2-7 years was called pre-operational.  This meant that
children learned something one way and refused to bend
to any other interpretation.  Often, they cannot 
handle abstractions.  They're unable to accept or 
develop tolerance for more than one interpretation.

Mulder challenged that theory and proved its validity, 
eliciting the response he hoped for from Jack by
his impropriety of his play.  

Batman doesn't fly and you can't make him!

Previously, Mulder had been watching how Jack had 
systematically played with his toys. . . careful 
not to make them do things that he learned they 
were unable to do.

It had been just the break through they needed with Jack.

Mulder never pushed.  During their following sessions 
together, he would slip in a question that seemed to 
fit within their play scenario and Jack would answer.

"What does the bad guy look like?" Mulder asked, as 
they prepared a surprise ambush against the city's 
number one nemesis, Mr. Blade.

"Like you," Jack answered, moving the figure's arms 
and placing it in position, his answer given without 
a stutter or pause in action.

Mulder adjusted the Batmobile's front wheels, rolling 
it across the rainbowed carpet as he continued with
his questions, "how like me?"

Jack stopped this time, raising his little arms over 
his head, "He's really, really tall."

"Tall, huh?" Mulder asked, picking up a Joker 
figure. "Does he have green skin like this?"

"Noooooooo," Jack answered, rolling his eyes. "He has
a cut on his face though, like when Spiderman fell on
that glass and he couldn't get up and he looked like 
he was all bloody, and his hand was hanging over the
bed and. . . and that."

Jack finished the last of his description in a whisper.

"Ahh, I didn't know," Mulder said, his insides 
tight.  He threw a glance at the mirrored wall, 
as if trying to discern what the people behind 
the glass were thinking.

"What else does he look like?" Mulder asked, 
grabbing a Bat-hook and rolling the grappling 
wire into place, " I wouldn't want to miss him."

Jack froze, and Mulder's hope diminished but he 
did not call to the boy, he waited.  

The wait paid off.

"His hair is black, long like snakes, and he. . . he 
smells like paint.  He has paint on his pants."

Mulder watched, silent.

Jack shook himself from his stare and smiled at 
Mulder, his eyes watery, "That's what Mr. Blade 
looks like."
 
After that, Pearl's gratitude toward Mulder had shown 
no bounds but, particularly when Mulder had sought Pearl 
out to speak with her.  He believed that there was an 
even deeper, underlying problem with Jack.  

During one of their sessions, before the Mr. Blade 
break through, it seemed that Jack had suffered some
type of seizure. It didn't last very long, but the 
point was that it had occurred. Mulder worried that
something serious had been overlooked within the 
battery of tests that the state had provided.

He told her he'd found a top neurologist, a Dr. 
Levitz, for her grandson to see.  Pearl, with what
Mulder was discovering to be her indomitable style,
did not break down upon hearing his beliefs. On the
contrary, she took the lead he offered, grabbed
it with both her hands and immediately followed up 
on Mulder's suggestion.  

Pearl just about feel in love with Mulder after that.
She was beyond grateful for his help with her 
grandson.  During the desperate process that Mulder
worked on getting Jack to talk again, to give any 
helpful information, she would insist upon having 
Mulder to her home and cooking for him.   

She was pleased with the treatments that Dr. Levitz
was giving to her grandson and she felt that both Mulder's 
gentleness, to which she had witnessed while in the 
observation window, coupled with the visits to 
Levitz, held, in her opinion, the best prognosis for 
her little Jack.

Due to her pleasure, Mulder found her insistence
becoming policy and no matter how much he would
protest, telling her it wasn't necessary for her to
feed him, she would become even more adamant.

She almost become insulted or so she would let on,
forcing Mulder to sigh in defeat.

It was a good kind of defeat for he had soon come to
realize that he enjoyed Pearl's motherly treatment.  It 
was something that he wasn't particularly used to, 
this abundance of warmth.  

As it turned out, after several visits and treatments
with Dr. Levitz,  Mulder's suspicions about Jack had 
been proven correct. In the process of trying to treat
Jack, the seizure that Mulder had witnessed surfaced
again.  

Further, different, batteries of tests were performed 
and it was found that Jack exhibited unusual brain 
wave activity.  This activity was classified as a 
possible precursor to epileptic or seizure type 
behavior. The doctor assured Pearl that it could be 
controlled medically. 

Not long after, and almost to deadline for his next 
victim, Jacob Keenswan had been arrested thanks to the 
information that Jack had innocently provided.

And once the medication had been administered, Jack's 
small finger of truth had been able to point to the 
face of guilt without causing himself any undo stress.  

In a police line up. . . Keenswan was identified as 
the killer.
                   XXX                     

Just three weeks ago, Mulder had submitted his written 
testimony to the parole board, supporting the 
retainment of Keenswan.  Mulder's profile of the man 
didn't fit in with a man "cured" by medication.  His 
alleged "psychotic impulse triggered by uncurtailed 
seizures "  had become a driving mission that he was 
determined to invalidate.  

But today, the killer was also "cured". . . according
to his psychiatrists.  Ten years had passed in which 
Keenswan was the model prisoner.  He was up for his 
first parole hearing and rumor had it that he was 
likely to get his freedom.

The city was in an uproar once again.

Mulder focused back on the present, looking over Pearl.

"How are you holding up, Pearl?" Mulder asked, cutting
through her rambunctious veneer.

Pearl's breath held, he could see tears glimmering in
her violet eyes, but she determinedly tucked them 
away, straightening her spine and rolling her neck. 
"I'm good, good as can be expected."

"I'm glad to hear that," Mulder replied as he was
jostled by people seeking seating within the 
courtroom.

"We should sit," Mulder suggested.

"Oh, yes, lets. . . I want you to meet my sister."

Pearl lead the way back to her seat.  Mulder found
himself sitting sandwiched in between the Clayton
sisters as Pearl plowed on, making the introductions.

"Hello Mrs. Goodrich," Mulder interjected, as Pearl
paused to take a breath.  He offered his hand but
soon found himself snaked again as Alice Goodrich
took her turn squeezing the life out of him.

He was beginning to believe that bone crushing was 
definitely a family trait.

"Call me Alice. I'm so glad to finally meet you! Pearl
told me all about how wonderful you'd been to our
family.  I only wish I could have been there but my
Ryan. . . my Ryan was sick in California back then
and I just couldn't leave him."

"Now that's all right, Al, don't you go torturing 
yourself over this again," Pearl admonished, leaning 
forward to speak past Mulder and meet her sister's 
teary gaze.

"It's nice to meet you, Alice," Mulder said, a genuine
smile tugging at his eyes as he felt submerged in the
warmth of these two women.

"How's Jack?" Mulder asked, turning to Pearl.

"He's fine, been busy with his computer work. Holing
up in his bedroom like a lot of teenagers these days.
I asked him if he wanted to be here, but he said, no.
Can't blame him, no, not at all. I would never want to
see the monster again if I'd been there. . . 
been. . . ," Pearl's voice caught in her throat.

Mulder reached into his pocket, pulling out a 
handkerchief. He grimaced, seeing and remembering the 
greased spot on the cloth. Searching out another 
pocket for his back-up, he found it and gave it over 
to Pearl.

"I'm sorry," she muttered into the linen, then sighed.

"Don't be sorry, don't be," Mulder said, wrapping an
arm around Pearl's shoulder and hugging her close 
against the side of his chest.


               XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

                  
Philadelphia
Olde City, Center City
Monday, 100 P.M.

Dimness pervaded the inner sanctum of Jack Layne's 
bedroom, the smell of days old Doritos permeated the 
air.

The flickering glimmer of a computer screen was 
obscured by Jack as he typed in the following 
command

"Merlin reads the dreams of men, influencing their 
future."

Jack pushed a greasy strand of black hair behind his 
ear and straightened his glasses as he clicked the die 
icon in the corner of the screen.  He waited to see if 
the roll would make his actions successful in the
online role playing game.


              XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
       

City Hall, Philadelphia
Monday, 130 P.M.

"It is our finding that Jacob Keenswan should 
remain remanded- "

The declaration of the parole board was drowned out  
by a victorious wave of cheers.  Mulder found himself 
once again pulled into Pearl's arms before she 
gratefully released him only to lean over him 
and hug her sister.

Mulder had to smile.  He let his head fall back and 
thanked the stars above that Keenswan remained not
quite were he belonged. . .  but he guessed hell would 
have to wait a bit longer.

"Mulder!"

Mulder looked over to the aisle.  Pearl and Alice had
stood up, freeing him. Mulder scooted down the bench
to get around Pearl so he could stand up.  He saw 
Vaughn standing at the end of his row, waiting for him.

"Excuse me, Pearl, I have to speak to someone," Mulder 
said.

"Oh well, sure. You're coming to dinner?" Pearl asked, 
reminding Mulder.

"Chicken parm, right?"

"Of course!" she replied, winking.

"I'm there," Mulder replied, bending down and placing 
a swift kiss on Pearl's temple. He quickly stepped 
away, escaping another onslaught of crushed ribs. 

"Nice meeting you, Mrs. Goodrich," Mulder said, 
nodding toward her.

"See you later, Mr. Mulder," Alice replied, waving. 
He nodded his head and then turned away.

Working around the milling people, he finally slipped 
free of the benches and met up with Vaughn.

"Listen, you able to stop by the precinct this 
afternoon?" Vaughn asked, looking around at the 
celebratory crowd.

"Sure, I didn't rent a car yet, taxi'd it here. So,
if I could hitch a ride back with you, I'm available
right now."

"Sounds good,"Vaughn agreed.

Suddenly a loud yell disrupted the cacophony of 
elation, leaving the room in harsh silence.

In a solid, slow and concise voice, Keenswan spoke.

"This is all FAR from over. You understand? Oh yes,
I'd say it's definitely far from over." 

Bailiffs tried to usher the straining Keenswan through
the doors.  Mulder watched as Keenswan purposefully 
set features unclenched into an almost beatific smile as
his gaze pinned Mulder.

"Why, I do believe you just might understand," 
Keenswan said, winking at Mulder.  Finally the 
Bailiffs succeeded in pulling Keenswan through the
doorway. 

The room was silent as the heavy door closed with a 
loud vacuumed click.

"Well," Mulder said, feeling a shiver run through his
spine despite himself.  He finally turned away from 
the closed door and met Vaughn's weary gaze.  

The detective shook his head.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

Vaughn's voice was low and steeled, "He may be 
right . . . he just may be right at that."


            XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Green Tree Hotel, 
Center City, Philadelphia
Monday 330 P.M.


"Hey, Scully,  if you're real quick, you can catch me
on the six o'clock news - my name in lights and 
everything," Mulder wearily sighed as he collapsed 
back upon his hotel bed.

"All right, I'll play. . . a.) why would I see you on
the news? And b.) why would I be coming to 
Philadelphia?"

"Well," Mulder began, throwing an arm over his 
eyes, "first, Keenswan was denied parole."

"Okay, that's great news, but what's the "but". . ."

"Not a "but", more of a "well". . ."

"Mulder!"

"Okay, *well*, when I left the courtroom, I was
viciously attacked by spiked microphones and blinding
camera lights."

"What?" Scully asked, incredulous.

"It seems that someone remembered me from this case
and my days of celebrity have begun again."

"Well, since you're coming back to DC tomorrow, I 
don't see as how that would be a problem," Scully 
paused, ". . .but you're not coming back tomorrow, are
you?"

"Nope."

"Which leads me to my next question b.) Why am I 
coming to Philadelphia?"   

Mulder could hear her rustling with something on the
other end of the connection and he liked to think that 
it was that sexy black skirt, the short number that 
rises up her thigh and kindly exposes more leg for him
to memorize.

"Mulder?" she prompted.

"Does, *I miss you* mean anything?"

"Mulder," she growled.

Man, even in words, he could see her brow arched and 
her eyes rolling.

"How about this then I miss you AND there have been
three copycat killings.  The killings began when news
of Keenswan's parole hearing  first started to 
saturate the media waves ," Mulder revealed, sitting 
up and toeing off his shoes.

They fell onto the carpet with a satisfying clunk.

"If they're copycat, why is it necessary for you to 
participate in this investigation? It's a new case."

"Because my dear, Scully, these murders are copied 
to the last degree, ergo including details that 
weren't released to the public, ergo, very spooky."

"Ergo, I'm coming to Philadelphia," Scully 
finished on a sigh.

"That about sums it up. I mean, as much as I get 
turned on by the mere sound and cadence of your 
voice. . . ,"Mulder paused, licking his lips and 
running a hand against his stomach. " Imagine how much
more. . . *stimulated* I would be having you here in
the flesh.  You doing your forensic pathology the way
that you do it."

"The way that I do it?"

"Oh yeah, Scully, " Mulder answered, pulling his 
shirt and t-shirt free of his pants.  His fingers 
skimmed against the soft line of fuzz on his abdomen.

"I'm on the next flight," Scully said. He heard the 
rustle again and his breath quickened.  

He didn't care if she was shifting papers or stapling
thumbs, he let his imagination identify her actions.

"I wouldn't want to miss you on the news." 

Mulder depressed the 'end' button, tossing the phone 
on the bed beside him and trailing the hand down 
lower, beneath the waistband of his pants and lower 
still. . .



           XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX




Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Philadelphia International Airport
Monday, 540 P.M.


Scully walked up the jetway leading from United 
Airlines, flight 451  -- a 737 shuttle traveling 
straight from DC's Dulles to Philadelphia 
International. 

It was a flight she almost didn't make.  

When Scully arrived at the district airport, she 
was forced to wait stand-by as a result of her 
last minute reservation.  Fortunately, her wait
didn't last long as United made arrangements
to accommodate her.

Now, following the flow of passengers, Scully
continued to wind her path through the jetway. As she 
walked on, she could feel her laptop case begin 
to slip.

Pausing, Scully hiked the strap more securely across
her shoulder. While adjusting it, she felt
herself roughly jostled to the side by impatient 
passengers scurrying their way to cross into the 
terminal.

"So much for the City of Brotherly Love," she 
whispered under her breath.

Finally exiting the jetway, she walked down the ramp
and crossed into the bustling airport activity. Walking 
down the United Airlines' wing of Philly International, 
the unmistakable scent of the city's soft pretzels wafted 
across her senses, causing her steps to falter as she 
suddenly began to feel a bit ill at ease.  

Philadelphia held a lot of memories for her.  And, they
weren't good ones.  She had the proof of her last trip
imprinted on her back.

The tattoo.  She still had it.  Her stigmata.  Proof
of her recklessness, a symbol that reminded her
of a time where agitation eclipsed rational thought.
Because she wasn't the type to self-flagellate, Scully
dismissed the experience as a prelude to the constraints 
of an even darker time.  It was only a few weeks later 
that she was diagnosed with cancer.

For a brief moment, she wondered what ever happened
to Ed Jerse.  She had no lingering ill feelings over
the man, just an odd sense of curiosity and empathy
for a soul that had been as lost as hers.

Except her soul had found its mate.

Mulder....

Where the heck was he, anyway?

She checked her watch, 547 PM. Peering around
the terminal, her gaze cut through the crowd,
finally landing on Mulder. 

He stood leaning against a wall, almost directly 
across from her, near the edge of another waiting 
lounge.  He stood there, staring  -- at her. 

She wondered how long he'd been watching her  -- a 
second, a minute, more?  Scully's heartbeat 
raced beneath her breast bone as she felt herself 
touched by the mere intensity of his gaze. He paid 
no attention to the passing travelers that would 
temporarily obscure his view of her.  

Scully maneuvered through the crowd, cutting her way 
across the stream of traffic.  As she approached him, 
she let her eyes roam over his well-tailored body, 
noting how his suit draped across his skin. He had
that effortless ability to look GQ even while 
maintaining a casual stance -- his arms crossed, his 
leg bent as his foot rested against the wall.

His posture appeared casual. Yet, why did she feel 
like he was tensed to strike, ready to consume her.

It was his eyes.  

She noticed his hair was mussed, most probably from his 
habit of finger combing his hair whenever he was in
thought. Scully also saw that his bangs continued 
their stubborn tendency to dip over his forehead.

Seeing him again, she swallowed, wondering how much
he missed her with seven more hours on top of this 
morning's previous five.  

By the look he was giving her, she'd guess it to be
a lot more.

Walking over to him, she let a smile spread across
her features.

"Can I interest you. . . ," he began, cocking his head
as she approached.

"Can you interest me in what?" Scully asked, stopping
before him, "A pretzel?"

"Nothing. . . just, can I interest you?" Mulder asked again,
peeling himself off the wall and stepping a foot between
hers.  He gripped her arms as he pulled them back into
a side alcove.  His hands slid up to her shoulders, cradling 
her neck.

Scully leaned up and met his lips, her eyes closing
as she tasted him once again. Tingles beaded her skin
in an array of goose bumps while her breathing hitched
in her throat. The heat and touch of his body so close 
to hers provoked a moan from her lips.  Finally, he 
pulled back a few inches and searched her face.

"Welcome to the Ccty of Brotherly Love, Scully," he 
whispered, tilting her face to place a chaste kiss 
on her forehead, nose, and lips. "But, if it's a 
pretzel you're looking for, I can be more than 
willing to. . . accommodate you."

'Oh, it was very heady being able to touch Mulder 
in public,' Scully thought, 'Well, being able to 
touch Mulder, period.'

And for some reason, they both felt more free to touch
each other, to be more openly affectionate outside the 
nation's capital.  

Eventually though, she hoped that the feeling of 
reserve will fade away. But for right now, 
things between them are relatively new and 
although they aren't necessarily hiding their 
relationship, they're not exactly advertising, 
it either  -- not at work nor in public.

Yet, being away from the DC area made Scully feel 
a relaxing sense of freedom.  She knew Mulder felt
it too. 

A low groan rumbled against her lips and Scully echoed
it.  As the kiss deepened, the world filled with babies 
crying, people talking, and loud speakers squawking, 
faded away.

Oh, she was in trouble!  The ability of his touch to scatter
her thoughts was a bit unnerving, but she already knew that
she'd rather be unnerved than never touched by him again.

"I've been here before, we've been here before. . . are 
you going to make me see the Liberty Bell for real 
this time?" Scully asked, playing petulant as she pulled 
away from his lips.

"The Bell is the place to be," Mulder replied, 
shaking his head as he stepped back from her. "You 
gotta get in the know, Scully."

"Fine, then," she replied, letting her bag slip softly 
to the ground.

Mulder leaned in for a final, greeting kiss, his tongue
deliciously tangling with hers. He tasted of Certs and
smelled of cologne  -- a scent that was making her knees 
feel weak.  

She absently wondered if he'd always worn that fragrance.

"Mmm, down boy, "Scully murmured around his lips, "or 
we're going to get kicked out of here for public 
lewdness.

"Come on, Scully, you know you're a closet 
exhibitionist," Mulder whispered against her 
mouth.

"Mulder, that's an oxymoron."

"Oh, Ms. Scully, teach me some more," he teased, 
coaxing another kiss from her.

Mulder reluctantly pulled back and leaned down to 
grab her laptop. Stringing it over his shoulder,
he wrapped his free arm about her back. "Let's get 
your luggage, Scully. Then I've someone you've got 
to experience."

Scully gave Mulder a questioning look. "Experience?"

"Let's just say that words  -- they can't do Pearl
justice," Mulder warned, bracing her.  

Scully was intrigued.  He'd mentioned her before, 
but nothing too specific. What she knew of this 
Pearl was that Mulder seemed to care for her a 
great deal.

Scully looped her arm around his back.

"Then I can't wait to meet her."


             XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


 
Center City, Philadelphia
Rittenhouse Square District
Rittenhouse Apartments Penthouse
Monday, 617 P.M.


Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I love how a clock sounds off the last seconds 
of life.  There's something almost peaceful
about it.  

I lick my lips, excitement infusing my 
actions.

Watching her, I sit on some kind of couch. I think 
I once read that it was called a settee.  It's nice 
enough, I suppose.  Good enough for what I am
doing now, anyway  -- watching her that is. There's 
something about the way she always trembles for me.

I stand up and walk over to her so she can see 
me.  I want her to see me, I need her to see 
me now.

She's moving her tits, rising them up and down for 
me to fuck around with, trying to distract me, 
trying to get me to stop what has to be done, 
what must be done.  

Nice try.

Reaching over her, I methodically untie the gag 
from around her lips, making sure not to tug 
the blood encrusted cloth too hard because I can
see her bottom lip is swollen from where 
I punched her.

She whimpers.   

And I like that.  It's one of the things 
that really lets me know I'm doing
my job right.  

I stand back, staring at her again.  She's a vision, 
she always is, and coupled with those whimpers, well, 
I just really do love them.  It's kinda like a stamp 
of success. 

Often she's tried to pull away from my touch 
and I really don't mind that because. . .  well, 
because she can't get away.  She can never get 
away and never does. It's all right if she 
doesn't instantly understand that fact.

She eventually comes to realize 
it -- before the end that is, and that's
enough for me.  

The whimper, though, I can't stress 
enough. It's like payment in full, my
metaphorical pat on the back.

I sit on the side of the bed, my weight depressing 
the mattress. Resting my elbow on my thigh and 
cupping the side of my head in my palm, I gaze 
at her, running an absentminded hand over 
her chest and stomach.

No, I'm not insulted when she tries to 
pull away, not at all.

Finally she speaks, like she always does. "You 
bastard, do you know who you're fuckin' with!"

"A dead woman." 

I get up and walk around the bed, watching 
her and her fear.

She's not whimpering anymore but sobbing.

"Shh, now, it's better when you don't cry so 
loud," I tell her, running my hand over her 
quivering stomach again.  

Like always, her whole body is spread 
eagle and ready for the next step.

I grab my cock, deliberating on whether 
I should fuck her again.  I always allow 
myself the opportunity for more than once 
but I think this time, I'm
just gonna move on.

With slight reluctance, I squeeze my cock 
again, tugging it against my jeans before 
letting go. 

I reach for her calf, letting my hand slide down, 
over her thigh, lower. . . lower. . . until I 
reach her stomach.  Punching her, I hear the 
familiar choked grunt spring from her mouth.  

I climb onto the bed, on top of her, ready 
to complete my business.  

I reach into my back pocket and pull my 
switchblade out, flicking it open and 
lowering it against her warm, flushed 
skin.  I can smell her sweat filling the 
air.  It's another sign that I am doing 
things right, doing more than an okay
job.

She's whimpering again.

"Thank you," I say, trailing the blade 
against her chest. 

It's time.

I start to sing, it's a favorite of mine. 

"Byeee... Byeee.. blackbird..."

Bye bye.  Like every time, the tick of 
clockwork, the look of disbelief as I cut 
into her flutters over her features.  

It's always the same, always.  

As I do my work, I try not to get too 
much blood on me. 

I continue singing.  

The whimpers have transformed into screams, 
almost matching each slice I place into her 
skin.  Having scored the various sides of her 
arms, chest and stomach, not to mention cheeks, I 
bend down, my face filling her vision so there 
is no mistake about what the last thing on earth 
she will see will be.  

It's probably the biggest perk to doing all 
of this, this moment, I mean.

I whisper into her face, slow and 
heavy, "Byeee, byeee, blackbird!" 

It's the moment when she screams the loudest 
and it's the moment when I like that to happen 
because the scream never gets to end as I draw my blade,
deep,  across her throat, cutting the vocal chords 
and silencing the terror I've helped to create.

Finished, I climb off her, checking my clothes 
for her blood.  There's a little bit, but not 
too much. I'm satisfied. I look back to the bed 
and see the river of red collecting around 
her, I can even hear her still gurgling
a bit, but that will end soon enough.

Turning away from the bed, for the first 
time, I let myself look at the closet 
doors for a few moments until I hear it.

I smile, stepping toward the french doors
as I sing in a loud, joyous voice,

"Byeee, byee, blackbird!"


 

     XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Center City, Philadelphia
Olde City District
Monday, 739 P.M.


'Oh My God!' was Scully's thought underpinning
all others as Mulder's usual tendency for 
overstatement was thrown into reverse. 

Pearl Clayton *was* an experience.

They'd finished dinner, having chicken that was so 
fattingly good that she wouldn't doubt Mulder 
was going to have to peel her out of her
chair. 

They were sitting at the dinning room table, 
talking.  Well, they talked and Scully 
listened for the most part.

"Fox, I was telling Alice about your latest
e-mail you sent me before you arrived."

Scully pulled out of her sluggish satiety,
her ears perking up at Pearl's comment.
She leaned over the table, looking at 
Pearl questioningly, "E-mail?"

"Oh yes, Dana, didn't Fox tell you? We've
kept in touch. Letters at first,
then emails," she informed, turning to
Alice.  "You know, thank the Lord Jack's
into computers, otherwise I'd totally 
be left in the stone age."

She looked over at Scully again.  "Jack taught
me how to use it, he's a regular computer
whiz.  Always doing stuff on it, damned if
I could do as much at his age."

"Where *is* Jack, I was hoping to see him," Mulder
asked after chewing the ice cube he'd been 
sucking on. 

"Oh, Jack? He was tired.  Been a pretty bad
day. He's sleeping," Pearl answered, staring
down at the table, trying to contain the 
tears quickly filling her eyes. 

Sighing, she pulled her gaze from the 
lace table cloth, her chin jutting out
determinedly. "No, that's not right. 
It's been a pretty bad few months.  Ever
since news of that monster's parole 
hearing hit the airwaves, it's been 
bad. Today? Well, today was actually
a good day what with that animal 
staying right where he belongs."

"Pearl, honey," Alice said around her
cigarette.  She grabbed her sister's
spotted hand, giving it a comforting 
squeeze.

"No. no, no. . . I'm fine, just 
fine," Pearl assured, rubbing Alice's
hand. "It's a good day today."

"Well, maybe I'll catch him tomorrow, 
then," Mulder suggested.

"Oh definitely, I think that'd be nice," Pearl
agreed, smiling over at him. "Now, let me get you
two some dessert, I've got some peach pie cooling
in the kitchen."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly eat-"

"That's nonsense, I'll just be a minute," Pearl said,
pulling from the table.

"Wait a minute, honey, you got that. . . ," Alice
said, following Pearl through the swinging door 
into the kitchen.

"But I -"

"Give it up, Scully, there's no winning 
in this with Pearl," Mulder sagely advised, 
recalling his own experiences at refusal.

Scully turned to look at him, her hand resting
against her stomach as she spoke her thought
from earlier. "You're going to have to roll 
me out that door."

"We'll roll out together," Mulder said, gripping 
his own stomach before leaning toward her.

Scully's eyes widened. "Mulder!"

Mulder paused inches before her face, his 
eyes searching her's, his nose rubbing
against her own.

"What?" he asked softly.

"Pearl?" she said, her eyes darting toward
the door and back to Mulder.

"Pearl isn't blind, Scully," Mulder said, 
closing the distance, his lips pulling on
hers in small, gentle touches.

"But, <kiss> Mulder, <kiss>, I," Scully
gave up as his tongue reached out and 
tangled with her own.

"Mmm, you taste like chicken," he said, releasing
her mouth as he leaned his forehead against hers.

Scully couldn't help herself, she shook her
head back and forth, chuckling as Mulder caught 
her lips again, petaling her with another kiss
as he caught her laughter.

"All right now, here you go," Pearl announced,
coming back into the dining room.

Scully quickly pulled away from Mulder while he
casually sat back in his chair.

"Now, Dana. . . what are you doing, jumping
like that?" Pearl asked, setting the pie down
on the table.  "I think showing affection for your
man is sweet, isn't that right, Al?"

Pearl turned to look over her shoulder as Alice 
entered into the room, shaking out another cigarette
from her pack.  Pearl shucked her oven mitts, 
leaving them on the credenza behind her.

"Damn straight! I remember when my Ryan and I were
young.  Hell, even when we weren't.  Ain't nothing
wrong showing the one you love a little 
sweetness," Alice agreed, sitting back in her chair
and crossing her legs.  She reached into her
cigarette case, extracting her lighter.

Scully felt her cheeks burning, as embarrassment
coated her. She refused to look at Mulder. 

A few moments later, she felt his hand rubbing
against her back, hidden from the view of the 
two women.

"You know what, you're absolutely right, 
Pearl," Mulder continued, still stroking
Scully's back until she relaxed into her 
seat once more.

"Don't I know it!" Pearl agreed, smiling
up at him.

Mulder removed his hand from Scully and 
crossed his arms, leaning his forearms 
against the table as if getting ready 
to tell a secret, "That pie smells 
delicious." 

Pearl, met his gaze, smiling and nodding 
her head.  "All right, then. " 

Scully saw that Pearl had caught Mulder's
pointed attempt at redirection.

Pearl sliced the pie, passing pieces down 
to everyone.  The aroma rose from Scully's 
portion, tickling her senses and making
her realize that she just might have room 
for this after all.

"How long have you two been an 
item?" Alice asked, tapping her 
cigarette into the ashtray and 
directing her gaze at them.

Mulder looked to Scully. She shrugged
her shoulders, and held her hand
out, indicating that he go ahead
and answer.

"Scully and I, we've been partners at the 
FBI for a little over seven years, but 
we started seeing each other about four 
months ago," Mulder informed them.

"July 4th," Scully interjected, her eyes
narrowing as she recalled the night Mulder 
showed up on her door step, insisting she 
come with him and not telling her where 
it was they were going. 

Normally her mother would have thrown
some kind of barbecue that day but she'd 
decided to treat herself and had gone on 
a cruise with an old friend of hers. 

So, Mulder abducted her and as it turned out,
took her to a firework display. It was a 
display that ended up dulling in comparison 
to the sparks that flew between them 
when he unexpectedly leaned over, giving them
their first kiss. 

Scully smiled, remembering the moment.

"Ah, fourth of July. . . say no more," Pearl
said, winking at them and nudging Alice
under the table.

"Owww, I ah. . . well, that's nice."

Scully watched Alice give Pearl a dirty
look as she reached down under the table
to rub her shin.

Scully bit back a chuckle, not daring to
meet Mulder's gaze.  If she looked at him,
she knew she wouldn't be able to contain 
the laughter that was close to spilling 
out.

"I'll tell you, Dana, I was so ecstatic 
when Fox called this afternoon and asked 
if he could bring you to dinner. I nearly 
died.  I never thought I'd get to meet 
*His Scully*," she said, winking again.  

Scully chanced a glance at Mulder at
that comment.

He just shrugged his shoulders in
response, feigning innocence. 

Scully just shook her head at him,
before looking back to Pearl. 

"Well, I'm glad I've meet you
too," Scully said, and she meant it.

Although she was beginning to feel tired,
listening, watching and trying to keep
up with the buoyant Pearl. She had
to say that after only a couple of
hours in her presence, Scully could
understand Mulder's affection for her.

Yes, Pearl definitely was an "experience"
as Mulder had warned... but an experience
worth having.

"Pearl, this is really good," Scully said,
taking another bite of the peach pie that
melted against her taste buds.

"Oh, it was noth-"

The trilling of a cell phone interrupted 
Pearl's response.

"It's mine, I'll be right back, I left it
in my jacket," Mulder said, standing up. "If you
will excuse me?"

"Of course, Fox," Pearl said, wiping her
mouth with a napkin then waving her hands
at him for to go.

Scully watched him round the corner, turning
out of view.

"So, Pearl. . . ," Scully began, looking back
at the two women.  She took a sip of her 
coffee, "I hear. . . ." 


             XXXXX


"Mulder," he said, answering his phone.

"Listen, Mulder, could you meet me at
the precinct?" Mike Vaughn asked through
the line.

"Yeah, sure what's up?" he asked, staring
down at the way his shoes smooshed the plush
rug while he paced back and forth in the 
warmly lit living room.

"We got another one," Vaughn replied, sighing.  

"All right, be right--"

"Bye. . .  byee. . . blackbird. . . ." 

Mulder looked up, his gaze traveling down 
the darkened hallway that lead off the 
living room. He saw what had to be the 
back of Jack Layne entering the bathroom
as he yawned out a muffled song.  When Jack 
turned around to shut the door, his singing 
stopped, his whole body pausing. 

Mulder could see embarrassment coloring his 
features  -- what he could see of his 
features that is. The boy's black hair 
hung down in front of his face.   

Mulder gave a little wave and shrug of his 
shoulders. Jack tilted his head up, his
eyes rounding as he quickly slammed the 
door closed.

"Mulder?" Mike called out from the receiver. 

Mulder shrugged again, smiling as he shook his 
head.  He turned his gaze towards the front 
windows as he answered Mike.

"My partner and I'll be right there," Mulder 
answered, clicking the 'end' button.




     XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX




Center City, Philadelphia
Rittenhouse Square District
Rittenhouse Apartments Penthouse
Monday, 827 P.M.



Scully followed behind Mulder, letting him
cut a path through the barrage of forensic 
examiners, detectives, and patrolmen crawling 
over the penthouse.  

Passing the study, Scully spotted a man 
sitting on a black leather couch, he was 
dressed in an expensive business suit. His 
head lie hanging down, his shoulders slumped 
and shaking in sobs while a detective stood
over him, notepad and pen in hand.

They moved on, continuing down the main 
hallway toward more forensic personnel 
fingerprint brushing, toward the strobing 
light from the crime scene photographer,
and toward the body that awaited them.

All around the apartment could be heard the dull 
hum of varied conversations.

Cresting the doorway to the master bedroom,
Scully stepped out from behind Mulder to
witness the scene.  

She almost wished she hadn't.

No stranger to violent crime, it nevertheless 
wasn't a treat to observe the sight before her,
but she did it, anyway. She began by tracking her 
eyes from the sprawled hands above the victim's 
head, trailing down the victim's face, down the 
body and sliding over her legs.

The corpse was severely lacerated from the head to
the bottom of the torso. The lower extremities 
were almost blatantly left untouched.

The victim's legs were left spread-eagle.  

Scully blinked, the camera flash disturbing her
perusal as the photographer documented every 
angle of the woman's body.  Scully blinked 
again as the camera turned toward her and 
Mulder, the flash bulb glaring in her eyes 
as it splashed the room in white light.  

Scully sighed, feeling the partnering sadness 
at such a loss. Brutality never gets easier to 
see and the day that it does was the day that 
she would quit.

"Scully. . . Hey, Scully," Mulder called over 
to her, tapping her shoulder.

"Hmm, what?" she asked, turning away from the 
body to look at Mulder.

A rather tall, grizzled blonde man stepped 
forward, holding out his hand.  Scully 
gripped it.

"Hi there, Lieutenant Detective Mike 
Vaughn," introduced the detective, as 
he followed her gaze which had landed
back on the body again.  "What a waste, 
hunh?"

Scully had to agree, his disgusted tone 
matching her feelings.  

"Nice to finally meet you," Scully said,
looking back to him.  She couldn't 
help feeling like she'd seen him before, 
her eyes narrowing.

Mulder walked over, standing beside Scully.  Mike 
watched her, smiling.

"Nick Nolte," he provided.

"That's it!" Scully cried, nodding her head 
and then smiling sheepishly. 

"Yeah, well it's a curse I'm forced to live 
with," he responded, joking.

Scully smiled in reply, but the grin drained 
from her face as the corner of her eye caught 
the crimson colored skin laid bare on the bed.

"What happened, here?" Scully asked, arms 
crossing and waiting for the debrief, "Any 
leads?"

"Looks like this is number four, the same MO, but 
nothing specific yet," Vaughn sighed, glancing
over the body. "Mulder tells me you're a 
forensic pathologist. Would it be too much 
to ask if you'd perform the autopsy? We could 
use a fresh pair of eyes on this one, not to 
mention a pair of experienced hands."

"Not a problem." Scully reached into her coat 
pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves.
Snapping them into place before taking a deep,
settling breath, she walked over to the body
and began her preliminary examination.

"Her arms and her feet are spread out as 
if they were tied," Scully began, pointing 
to the victim's wrists and ankles. "And there 
appears to be bruising along with chafing around
the wrist and ankle areas, indicating that she 
had been."

Scully looked over at Vaughn who had been
writing down her notes. "Has anyone found the 
bounds?"

"No, nothing's been found," Vaughn sighed, 
rubbing a hand to his forehead, careful not
to get the pen ink near his skin.  "Damn
it, it's just like the others. The same incisions 
from what I can tell  -- ah, Christ."

Scully nodded her head as she worked around 
the body. "Of course, I'll be able to tell you 
more once I've autopsied the victim, but death 
seems to be by the massive amount of blood loss, 
as if the ultimate form of death was intended to
*be* the letting of her blood."

Scully walked around the body repeatedly, examining 
the varied cuts.  

She always found herself taking away the sex of 
the victim as she did this.  Sex was secondary to
the hidden mysteries to be discovered.  By not 
allowing herself to allow sex to enter her 
examination process, she was more successful at 
distancing herself, leaving her mind open to 
further possibilities.

"All right, I'm seeing that the wounds are 
definitely only deep enough for the blood loss. 
It appears that no vital organs have been 
punctured.  The laceration on the victim's throat 
is deeper than the rest, but would not guarantee 
instant death."

"You tellin' me that she was alive as the blood 
was draining out of her?" Vaughn asked. Scully
looked up and saw his eyes flitting over the 
violated body.

"Quite possibly, due to the thickness of the blood.  I 
also suspect that she has been raped, the pubis area
is irritated and swollen.  I'll be able to tell more 
once I have the proper equipment," Scully replied, 
snapping her gloves off and dumping them in a 
biohazard bag that a patrolmen held open for her.

Scully stood back as a gurney was wheeled into 
the room.

"Time of death was fairly recent. Her body is still 
retaining warmth," Scully said, walking over to Mulder 
and Vaughn, both of whom stood listening to her
findings.

Scully watched Vaughn flip his notebook 
open again, a pen trailing down his notes 
as he began to read off his gathered 
information.

"The maid found her, according to Mrs. Lopez. 
Mrs. Isabel Spencer, the victim, had gone to 
lie down for a nap before attending her husband's 
business party tonight," Vaughn informed, biting
the cap of his pen.

"Has the husband been notified?" Mulder asked, his 
brow furrowed.

"Yeah, actually, he's here in another room.  Came 
home 'round the same time that the first units 
arrived and that was about an hour and half ago.  Seems 
he's clean. He came home with three suits, all of them 
vouching that they'd just come from drinks at the 
Cardinal Room," Vaughn continued, flipping his 
notebook closed and looking up at Scully and
Mulder, again.

"And no one saw anyone suspicious, coming 
in or out, I take it," Mulder asked, sighing as 
if knowing the answer already.

"Not a one," Vaughn replied, tapping the notepad
against his thigh.

"What?" Scully questioned,  looking back and
forth between the two men.

"It's just like ten years ago," Mulder informed 
her, walking away to step beside the bed before 
softly repeating. "Just like ten years ago."

Mulder turned around, hands on his waist as he 
regarded Scully and Vaughn.

"We need to speak with Keenswan," Mulder said.

"He's sharing his tricks of the trade, you 
think?" Vaughn asked, stuffing a hand into his 
pocket and jiggling the keys within.

"Something's going on Mike, I mean, hell,
the last detail," Mulder said.

Scully watched him meet Vaughn's leveled gaze.
She felt significantly out of the loop.  She 
wasn't familiarized yet with the previous cases 
and felt inadequately prepared.  

"I'll do the autopsy," Scully agreed, turning her 
gaze from one man to the other "But tomorrow, I 
need to be caught up with the information on these 
past homicides so I'll at least know what to keep
an eye out for."

"We can arrange to have an autopsy bay ready 
for you tomorrow morning," Vaughn nodded in 
agreement.

"I'll be ready by nine," Scully said, turning 
around to watch the coroner's team lift Isabel 
Spencer's body from the bed. "Can you furnish 
me with the necessary files as soon as possible?"

"Of course, I'll call down to the precinct and 
get them pulled," Vaughn answered, reaching into 
his leather jacket and pulling out his cell phone.

"All right," Scully replied, staring back at the pool 
of blood left on the now empty bed. "Good."

"Okay, all set," Vaughn informed, stepping toward
her. "I appreciate your help in this. Listen, we're almost
through here for tonight. How 'bout we go back to the
station and then I take you guys to Anthony's. Mulder
and I can begin to brief you on the old cases while 
I add the latest info."

"Yes, let's do that," Scully replied, cocking
her head toward Mulder, "Mulder?"

"Yeah, I'm liking the idea, besides it'll be 
nice to catch up," Mulder said, bending
down beside the bed and pulling the bed sheet
back with a pair of tweezers.

"Find anything, Mulder?" Vaughn asked.

Mulder bobbed his head back and forth, then
sighed, standing up again. "No, nothing."

"All right, well, let me go talk to the
other dick in charge, then we'll be off," Vaughn
said leaving Mulder and Scully to themselves.

Scully's gaze went back to the bed again.
She'd managed to keep the threat of bile 
in check but as she looked at the pool of 
blood still saturating the bed sheets
and dripping onto the floor, she felt 
a burgeoning wave of nausea. 

Taking a deep breath, she turned away from the
sight.

"You all right, Scully?" Mulder asked, touching
her arm.

Scully lifted her eyes, shaking her 
head, "I'm fine."

          
         XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX



Center City, Philadelphia
Olde City Section
Anthony's Tavern
Between 2nd and 3rd, Market Street.
1132 PM


"Lacey, another Sam Adams," Vaughn ordered, 
raising his hand.   

"Comin' right up, Lieutenant." 

Scully watched the waitress look up, giving
Mike a wink while seemingly not missing any 
of the order she was currently taking down a 
few tables away.

The owner, as Vaughn had explained upon entering
the tavern, was now Anthony's son, Rich Spinelli. 
And the bar, as Vaughn had further explained, has 
been a staple on Market street since 1889. 

Rich still tended the bar, Vaughn told them. Scully
saw that Rich Spinelli was a small, rotund man 
that reminded her of everyone's grandfather.  Rich 
also knew everyone who came into his place, 
which now included Scully and Mulder.

Scully liked this pub. It was small, warmly 
lit, and filled with the owner's amazing 
collection of local memorabilia. Everything
from a Phillies pennant to a Mom and Pop five
and dime sign dated back to 1897, were displayed 
on the walls throughout the bar. 

She noticed that the only windows to the place 
were the big bay window at the front, and the 
door. 

Two TV's playing ESPN, sat above either end 
of the long mahogany bar. The bar itself stretched 
to almost the entire length of the room.  On the 
other half of the pub, separated by tables, were the 
booths to which she, Mulder and Vaughn now sat.

The place was filled with low murmurs, clinking glasses
and the smell of the usual tavern fare, simple
yet hearty. Mulder and she were going to have to 
come back here for dinner.

Actually, now that she thought about it, Anthony's 
reminded her of a place back in San Fransico where 
her dad used to go with some of his Navy buddies. 

She sighed, it was here.

"Scully, you should have seen Vaughn -"

Scully turned back to face Mulder.

"Oh, come on, man- "

"No, no. . . ," Mulder interjected giving the detective
a pointed look.

"What?" Scully asked, taking another draught of her 
beer.

"Well -- "

"Well, things were going to shit real quick. . . egos
were slapping against each other and people were gettin'
bruised," Vaughn cut in. " So Mulder here, he's the 
one that sought me out first.... "

"Yeah, but Vaughny," Mulder laughed, running a hand
through his hair, his eyes a bit bright. Scully could
see the buzz of alcohol hallo-ing him. "After we had
our little tete-a-tete.

"Tete-a-tete?" Scully smirked, eyebrow raised.

Mulder just gave her a look, before smiling.  A few
moments later she felt his hand against her knee. He
began rubbing it in little circular motions.

"Yeah, Scully, tete-a-tete," he continued, turning to look
at across the table at the detective. "So Vaughn here,
goes to speak to the troops-"

"God, we were hard asses, every last one of us," Vaughn
interjected as Lacey placed the requested beer and a steaming
cup of coffee on their table. He looked at the coffee.

"Orders from, Rich," she said, explaining it away.

"Thanks, hun," Vaughn said slightly subdued as
he nodded his head.

"No problem, Lieutenant," Lacey responded squeezing
his shoulder before walking away.

Scully watched the display without comment. Mike
raised his eyes and caught Scully's knowing look. 

"Sober," he mouthed, holding up two fingers.

Scully gave a reassuring smile. Mike smiled back
then directed his attention on Mulder again, ending 
their coded conversation.

"Anyway, we gather the gang and Vaughn breaks 
right in saying -"

"Okay ladies, you can either shit or get off the fuckin' pot,"
Mulder began only to be joined by Vaughn. "Let's find this 
bastard and make our mommies proud."

Scully's glance pivoted back and forth, watching the 
verbal volley between the two men. They were definitely 
feeling no pain.  It amazed her that they hadn't seen
each other for ten years.  If she were a stranger observing
them she'd have said they'd been separated all of ten 
seconds.

"Seriously though, the city was in a panic. Six
murders, different locales, ranging from Center City to
South Philly... all the same MO," Mulder said, stringing 
his right arm along the back of the booth behind 
Scully's head.

"Yeah, after the third victim surfaced, the words 
*serial killer* blared all the way from the city 
sewers to the skyscrapers," Vaughn said, sighing as he
took another drink from his bottle and slammed it on
the table with a loud clink. " With the murders 
continuing, the city's women were more and more 
terrified. . . Shit, I was worried about my Lisa
and the kids, big time."

Scully's brow narrowed in confusion as Mulder's arm slipped
from the back of the booth to string around Scully's shoulders.
At first she was stiff, shooting a glance at Mulder but
then relaxed. . . they weren't in DC and this was a friend.

"How are Lisa and the little monsters?" Mulder interjected,
turning to wink at Scully.

"Not so little anymore, "Vaughn answered, tearing 
his gaze from the beer bottle to look up at Mulder 
and Scully, his voice full of pride. "Good, actually.
Mikey Jr. is up at U Penn.  Freshman there, playin'
junior varsity ball, and Lisa and the girls, they're 
doing well, too. Went to some concert at the 
Spectrum tonight. . . Backstreet Boys or somethin' 
like that."

"How old are your children, Vaughn?"Scully asked, 
leaning on the table toward him.

"Mike, Scully.  Call me Mike," he said, admonishing 
her as he waggled his finger.

"Dana, then," Scully responded in kind.

"Hey, he gets to call you Dana?"

"Shut-up, Mulder," Scully said, throwing a smile toward
him.

"Well, let's see. Mikey's nineteen, bigger than me but I
carry a gun and he remembers that. . . ," Mike laughed.
Scully could see the proud smile hanging on his lips when
he thought on his son, the affection near brimming over.

Mike sighed, "Ah, anyway, my oldest girl, 
Christina  -- she's fifteen -- quite the scholar. Then
there's little Paige, she's nine -- a collected ball
of energy, for sure.  Chrissy looks like Lisa while
Paige was blessed with my coloring and stunning 
good looks."

Scully smiled, shaking her head.

"Poor girl," Mulder quipped.

Scully rounded her head, giving Mulder a stare.

"What?"

She shook her head and looked back at Mike.

"*All* of 'em are beautiful kids, " Mike finished, 
reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet.

He leaned over the table toward Scully, flipping the worn
brown leather open, displaying a family photo. 

She looked at it. 

Lisa Vaughn was a fairly tall woman with straight, long 
black hair and green eyes  -- slim and very beautiful. She
looked to be in her late thirties. 

The children, Mike Jr. was indeed taller than Mike Sr., 
topping his father's six foot three inches by a good 
two more. . . a definite, solid football type. 

Christina, the fifteen year old was very small, fragile
looking and a bit pale, but had her mother's beauty whereas 
Paige did indeed take after her father. Her hair was long,
blonde and curly. She was also tall for her age and just 
very adorable. 

The whole family was gorgeous.

Looking at the picture, Scully couldn't help but feel a small
pang of remorse that such a photo would never grace the
inside of her wallet.  It was something she tried not to 
think about, but with a mix of alcohol in her, the door 
against such thoughts was a bit off its hinges.  

"Very beautiful family, Mike."

"Thanks, Dana," he replied, pocketing his wallet again.

"Yeah, Vaughn great family, there," Mulder said sincerely, 
squeezing Scully's shoulder.

"Yeah, well. . . you guys should get yourself one of 
these, I highly recommend it," he responded, winking
at Scully.

Scully kept a smile framed on her lips but inside she felt
slightly kicked askew.  She felt Mulder slip his arm off
her shoulder, letting his hand fall to the center of her
back. He rubbed between her shoulder blades in small 
concentric circles, pulling the tinges of pain from 
her chest with his hand.

She nearly cried at that, at his intuitiveness coming
through once again.

Scully leaned back into his touch and turned to meet 
his eyes, giving him a small smile.  He smiled back, 
sliding his hand up her back to her neck and giving it 
gentle, rhythmic squeezes.

"So, the UNSUB's MO was to rape, then slice and dice
his victim's bodies," Mulder said, bringing the
subject back to the murders and turning his glance
back to Vaughn. Scully followed suit but relaxed into
the soothing touch of Mulder's hand against her neck.

'She just might love him after all,' she jokingly
thought because there was no "might" about it.

"Yeah, with a final cut across their throats using a
switchblade. Hence the media title for Keenswan, "The 
Switchblade".  We hadn't even classified these as
serial homicides, at least not publicly... but somehow
it got leaked to the damn press," Vaughn said, pausing.

Scully watched as Mike's lips curled in disgust
and she empathized with him.

"All the press did was offer that sick fuck some 
celebrity.  We had put a release out for women to 
beware of a stalker, then this broke.  I tell ya, 
the wide spread panic had escalated like wild fire. 
Talk about the piranhas this morning, 
Mulder. . . ," he said, eyebrows raised as he 
was caught in memories. 

Scully looked at Mulder nodding his head while
he quietly listened along with her.

"It wasn't a good time for Philly. We were sure
that we'd be able to catch the bastard, we
were close a few times or so we thought."

Mike took another draught of his second beer, rolling
the bottle between his hands, his wedding band
clinking against the glass as he continued. "When
news of the serial murders broke, we had an angry 
mob of protesters outside of city hall.  Turns out 
it was the best thing that could have 
happened. . . it forced Mayor Goode to work 
toward swifter action, meaning alerting the
FBI that we indeed had a serial killer and that
we needed help... no matter how much we wanted to
deny that. I mean, hell, it was our city, right?
Take care of our own."

Mike tossed two spoons of sugar into his coffee
before continuing. "So you fibbies arrived. . . "

"It was rough going at first," Mulder interjected.

"Well Mulder over there, he wined and dined me. You see,
I was the dick in charge and he the SAC.  We ended up
getting ourselves on the same page," he teased, 
placing his spoon on the saucer as he leaned back in 
the booth seat, smiling.

"Yeah well, I was always told to respect my 
elders," Mulder said, taking a swig of his beer.

"You remember that, old man," Mike said, nodding his 
head. "You're no spring chicken anymore."

"What?" Mulder said, aghast, leaning back against
the booth seat, mocking insult.

Scully chuckled, her nail tracing the wood grain on the
table before picking up her own drink.  All things 
considered, she was unexpectedly enjoying this trip 
to Philadephia and this more intimate glimpse into 
Mulder's past.

"Hey," she cried as Mulder picked her beer out of her
fingers, stealing a draught of it for himself, "You 
have your own."

Mulder leaned his head back and downed nearly half of what
Scully had left of her beer before slapping it on the table
with an accompanying "ah".

"S'empty," he replied.  Wiping a hand against his mouth, 
he turned to give Scully a silly smile as he slid his
hand from her neck to slowly let it drift down her back
again, his eyes capturing hers.

Scully felt her heart skipping a few beats, her skin
feeling a bit flushed from more than just alcohol.

"Should I leave you two alone?" Mike interjected. 

Both Mulder and Scully jumped, turning back to face
Vaughn, their posture becoming a bit more stiffer at 
his teasing tone.

"No, no. . . go on. . . I need to know the back
history of this case," Scully answered as Lacey 
placed two more cups of coffee on the table. One 
in front of Mulder and one in front of Scully
as she made her way to another table.

"I swear, Rich is worse than my own mother," Mike
griped good-naturedly before pushing the dish of
sugar toward them.

Scully looked over at the bartender. He 
waved at her and gave a wink. She smiled 
in return.

"Well, unfortunately, even with us Fibbies 
and the local PD finally all in a 
row. . . ," Mulder pointedly said, using 
Vaughn's description.  

Scully turned her full attention back 
to the conversation.

Mike smirked, raising his coffee cup 
in salute. Mulder nodded his head at 
him. "Even with us there, egos handled, 
all of us working cohesively, and the profile 
I'd worked up, even with all that, we 
were still left hitting dead ends."

"No witnesses, either" Mike added. "All the victims 
were single women, attacked in their own homes."

"Then the last victim, Eleanor Layne, 
surfaced along with Jack and you know 
the rest of that story, " Mulder said,
turning a glance to Scully as he picked 
up his coffee and sipped at it tentatively.

And she did know. At least some. Mulder 
had told her a bit about Jack and his 
relationship with Pearl before Skinner 
had given him the approval to appear at 
the parole hearing. Speaking of which. . . .

"Skinner wants us to call him tomorrow 
with a report on the current status of 
this new case."

"I know, I spoke to him before you 
arrived," Mulder replied, looking at her 
then turning to Vaughn. "Skinner's our Assistant
Director at the Fibbie bureau."

"Fibbie?" Vaughn asked, eyebrows raised. Scully
could see the teasing glint in his eye.

Mulder looked at him with his own set of raised
brows, head cocked. 

All was quiet between them, until Scully broke 
into laughter and the other two followed.   

"Okay, Mulder," Mike said.  Giving an eye 
roll, he looked at Scully which only made 
her laugh more.

Mike was a man who truly knew the art of eye
movement.

Well, if she wasn't before she was definitely 
feeling no pain now. She decided to sugar her 
coffee and get down to drinking it even though 
she knew it wouldn't really make her more sober.

"The copycats?" she said, getting back on 
task before taking a sip of the hot liquid.

"Well, I don't know how much Mulder's told 
you but it's basically the same MO as previous 
and that's including the little incidentals
that weren't released to the press.  Makes me 
believe in those X-Files of yours, what with 
how similar this new crop of murders are 
turning out to be."

Scully's back stiffened, preparing for an 
attack.  She sighed.  She had been getting 
along so well with Vaughn. 

"They are legitimate cases," Scully responded, 
stiffly.

"Oh, no. . . I believe that.  Hell, lord 
knows the mysteries goin' on around this 
world. . . Why things happen the way
they do, things happening out of the blue 
and causing such pain, such . . . ah well.  
You know, you work'em," Mike said, pulling 
out of his diatribe.

Scully relaxed, leaning back into 
Mulder's touch again.

"Well, I think we need to get a cab, 
cuz Lisa and the girls gotta be home 
by now and I'm sure the girls'll 
wanna talk my ear off about the show 
before hitting the sack."

"Yes, I have the casefiles for the latest three 
victims," Scully said as she followed Mike's 
action of exiting the booth, Mulder right 
behind her.

"Yeah, and the autopsy bay will be ready 
for you at 10 AM, tomorrow, it'll give you 
some time in the morning to read over what
we got here.  Hey, is it tomorrow or is it 
today?" Mike lifted his arm, pushing the 
wool sleeve of his overcoat back. "Yup, 
just. . . twelve oh three in the AM."

"Sounds good, Mike," Scully said as Mulder 
held her coat open for her to slip her 
arms through.

She turned to grab her briefcase filled 
with the newest files but Mulder took it,
slinging it over his own shoulder.
That was fine by her.

"Let's get the taxi, I don't wanna be 
standing out in that freezing cold for
too long. Taxis start arriving down this 
strip and get occupied real quick starting 
right about now."

"Let's go then," Mulder said.

"See ya later, Lacey, Rich," Mike said, 
waving as they weaved their way back to 
the front door, passing the waitress 
and bartender.

"See ya, Mike," Rich answered, waving 
a bar rag.

"Later, Lieutenant," Lacey echoed, 
crossing back to the rear of the small 
pub, a tray of food balanced over her 
shoulder as the three of them exited the 
building.

           XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
GreenTree Hotel
Center City, Philadelphia
Broad St. and Locust
Tuesday, 132 A.M.
 

Scully squeezed the bridge of her nose, 
pushing her glasses up as she shook her 
head.  She'd been reading through the 
two casefiles and piecing together further 
information that might be of help with the 
autopsy she was performing in. . . 
 
She looked at the large numbered, digital clock
that was sitting on the bureau . . .  the autopsy 
she was performing in less than nine hours.
 
She groaned then turned to look across the bed, 
toward the bathroom door on the other side of the 
room.
 
"You and Mike seem like really good friends --
you've been holding out on me, Mulder," Scully 
teasingly accused, calling out. 
 
"I haven't *seen* him in ten years, but we've 
kept in touch," Mulder replied, his voice muffled
yet amplified behind the bathroom door that was
left cracked open. 
 
She heard him pushing the shower curtain 
back, the rungs scraping against the rail before 
he continued. "He's helped me out on a few 
cases, kept me up to date on his 
family . . . shit . . . ouch. . . ."
 
"You all right in there, Mulder?" Scully asked,
looking toward the bathroom again.
 
"Yeah, just stubbed my damn toe," he answered 
then continued with his train of thought. "Mike's
called to harass me about the Sixers whenever 
they've defeated my Lakers -- No wait, reverse
that, that's what I do. Sixers suck."
 
Scully shook her head, smiling.  Her eyes once 
again landed on the paperwork spread across the 
bed. She sighed. 
 
"Mulder, explain this to me again, how'd 
you get Jack Layne to talk to you when nobody
else could?" Scully questioned as she leaned
over and began to gather the folders into a 
pile atop the king-sized bedding.  
 
"Well, I'd like to say that my boyish 
enthusiasm hit a chord with him, but that 
wasn't quite it," was Mulder's muffled
reply. 
 
Towel drying his hair, he opened the door
all the way, flicked off the light switch
and stepped out into the bedroom. The remaining
shower steam billowed, following a bit behind 
him as he approached his side of the bed. Another 
towel rode low, wrapped around his hips.
 
Scully's breath caught while Mulder's head 
was covered beneath the towel he was dragging
over his hair. Quickly, she uncrossed her legs 
and occupied herself by unhooking her glasses 
from behind her ears. 
 
She placed them on the bedside table and grabbed 
the pile of folders, turning to place them on the 
nightstand beside her glasses.  
 
She wanted to talk with Mulder first, but she
knew herself. No, she now knew Mulder and if 
she displayed how excited she already was, talk 
would be put on indefinite hold while they
occupied each other with more personal things.
 
"Continue," she said, her voice calm as she 
slid from the bed and opened the bedside
table, playing at being busy.
 
"Well, Dr. Scully, I did what any self 
respecting person with a doctorate in psychology 
would do. . . ."
 
"Which was?" Scully asked, closing the drawer and
turning to face him across the width of the bed, her 
face composed in what she hoped was an inscrutable 
mask.
 
"Well, I referred back to my Intro to Psychology 101.  
That Piaget really knew what he was talking 
about," Mulder concluded, smiling at her with 
that little boy smile he used against her as he 
tossed the wet towel on the floor behind him, taking
another step toward the bed, toward her.
 
Uh oh, she was in trouble.
 
"Mulder, you should hang that up to dry," Scully 
said, fidgeting as she watched him. She had to pull
her gaze from his, so she looked at his chest.

Mistake!
 
Scully watched as he searched his hair smattered 
skin for whatever, then rubbed a hand on his muscled 
abdomen. He bent his head, leaning down to capture 
Scully's eyes, a dangerous smile tickling 
his face and tumbling her stomach. "Did
I miss a spot, Scully?"
 
She let her breath nearly whistle through 
her teeth before looking past him at the 
towel on the floor.
 
She would never get tired of seeing his 
chest, the way the muscles defined themselves 
in different areas depending on which way 
he turned his torso.  She loved to trace 
the sculpted areas of his stomach muscle with 
her index finger, drawing her nail over his 
skin in a torturously slow decline that got 
him completely worked up.  
 
Mulder caught her eye again, and stepped into 
her line of vision as he tugged the towel around 
his hips off.  Continuing to hold her gaze, he
tossed that towel behind him as well, where she
saw it landed on top of the other one with amazing 
accuracy.
 
Scully, by a shear force of superhuman will,
held her complacent gaze as she spoke 
again, meeting his eyes. "You are such a slob, you 
know that?" 
 
"So I've been told," he replied taking a step
forward with that unhinging, 'melt her bones
and boil her blood' smile of his.
 
"Just as long as you know," Scully softly
choked out, her chest rapidly rising and
falling as her facade of calm began
to fray at the edges.
 
"Oh, I know," he seductively assured. Crossing 
his arm over his chest, he reached to rub at
his shoulder, his fingers playing over his skin
in slow strokes as he examined it.
 
Scully had to close her eyes, as she began to
breathe heavily out her nostrils.  She shook 
her head while crossing her arms over 
her pajama top and rocking back and forth on
her feet.
 
"Besides, Scully," he said, pinning his gaze
on her again. "You love me, slob or no slob."
 
Scully thought that at this moment, should she
try, she'd be unable to get an accurate
heart rate because, as it seemed to her, her 
heart had just burst out of her chest.

She swallowed back a moan. Mentally shaking
herself, she retook control of her emotions,
if only temporarily.
 
"Yes, well, some might say I've become demented, 
breathing in all that musty basement air," Scully 
responded, proud of herself that she'd been
able to talk at all, let alone formulate a 
comeback. 
 
"I don't *even* want to infer what that means 
about me," Mulder said, absently rubbing a 
hand against his chest again while still holding 
her gaze.  
 
Scully desperately wanted to lower her eyes 
to his nether regions but if she did, then she 
would lose this round in the game they were 
playing, the game that always excited her, the 
game of maintaining an air of nonchalance when
it totally wasn't there.
 
"So, Piaget helped you how, Mulder," Scully 
asked, breaking the eye contact. 
 
Walking from the side of the bed, she crossed
to the bureau.  Scully opened the drawer and 
pulled out her bottle of body lotion. 
 
When she raised her eyes to the mirror in 
front of her, she saw Mulder still standing 
on his side of the bed, waiting.
 
Straightening her shoulders and telling her 
heart rate to behave, she walked around the 
bed to stand in front of Mulder.  Handing him 
the lotion bottle, she turned around and stripped 
her night shirt off, exposing her bare back.  
 
Without instruction, Mulder caught the shirt and
laid it against the nightstand. She then saw Mulder 
squeeze some of the vanilla scented lotion into his 
palm, watching him through the mirror across the 
room. She saw Mulder look up from the lotion.
 
Before touching her with his hands, he instead,
through the mirror, took a moment to caress her 
face with his eyes.
 
Scully breath caught in her throat.  It 
took her a few moments to swallow and begin 
the breathing process again.
 
Mulder released her stare and turned his attention
to her back as he started to dab spots of the lotion 
against her skin.
 
Scully's teeth dug into her lips hard, as she barely
stifled a moan.
 
"How did I get Jack to talk to me? Well, I'm 
so glad you asked, Dr. Scully," Mulder softly said,
leaning forward and letting his breath fan the back of 
her neck.  Scully quivered, her nipples hardening from 
the cool air mixed with the warmth of his exhalation.
 
She was tossed in savage sensation and had no 
clue what he was talking about anymore, but she 
offered a token, "Uh huh."
 
Mulder started to rub the dollops into her 
shoulder blades and down her backbone in slow, 
measured strokes that were doing more to excite 
then simply soothe.
 
"You see, I'd been watching him for days, conferring
with various people and none of the tricks of
the trade were working.  He just wouldn't 
respond to any of us.  Though, he would play 
with this one Batman toy."
 
Respond. Batman toy . . . oh right, Jack. 
 
She gave herself a mental shake, refocusing 
her attention on his words and trying not to 
focus on his hands that were moving lower, 
massaging deeper into her skin. "Let's move 
to the bed, Scully."
 
"Good idea," she breathed in response.  Her 
legs were beginning to get frighteningly weak. 

Crawling on top of the bed and lying 
down on her chest, she crossed her 
arms to pillow her head against them.  
Mulder climbed over her, straddling
her pajama-clad hips.  She grunted at the
feel of his weight on top of her.
 
Christ, Mulder on top of her. Mulder
naked and on top of her. She was one 
damn lucky woman!
 
His voice washed over her, soft and lulling. 
As she listened to him, his hands sinfully 
manipulated her muscles, causing Richter
scale reactions just beneath the surface 
of her flesh.
 
And to her credit, Scully actually listened 
as Mulder further explained what happened, 
about challenging the development of Jack's 
six-year-old brain with the noted child 
psychologist's philosophies.
 
"So, the Caped Crusader saves the day," Scully 
murmured against her arm.
 
"I wasn't wearing a cape then," Mulder replied, 
sliding his hands down the sides of her waist.
 
Scully was almost falling asleep. She was 
drifting until she felt Mulder's fingers pause.  
 
Both of them froze, and then all hell broke 
loose as he danced his fingertips over her 
body, launching an excruciating tickle 
attack.
 
"Oh God, Mulder stop, stop, stoooppp!" Scully 
screamed twisting and writhing beneath his
naked body and his fingers as he leaned over 
her, his hands eliciting deep throated 
and desperate gasps of breaths and laughter. 
 
"Oh, please, please, pleeease," Scully gasped, 
struggling to suck air into her lungs, tears of
laughter rolling down her cheeks.
 
"Say it!" Mulder demanded, his fingers playing 
over her waist, reaching under her to attack her
stomach then sliding into her arm pits.
 
"Never!" Scully cried, prying his hands off 
of one area only to have him place them 
somewhere else. 
 
Mulder reached back and clamped a hand on her 
pajama covered thigh, squeezing and causing 
Scully to arch her back, howling in gales of 
uncontrollable giggles as she tried to 
push him off and away from her.
 
"Say it!" Mulder demanded, attacking 
her behind the knees, alternating between 
tummy and knees and reaching down to her 
calves. "Come on, Dr. Scully, you can end 
this undignified spectacle you're creating, 
if you *just* say it."
 
"Nee . . . never," Scully continued 
obstinate as energy began to seep out 
of her and she began to feel like a wet 
noodle, her protests, weakening as well.
 
"I'm waaAAAaaiting," Mulder sung, bending 
over her. She twisted her head to look 
at him. He clasped her chin, planting a
kiss upon her lips then let her go, quickly
pulling away. 
 
Which was good he did because Scully was 
seriously wondering if she could bite him 
and free herself.
 
"Okay, okay, okay," Scully conceded in 
defeat. Mulder instantly stopped his 
torture as she tried to recover her 
breath.  He sat up on his knees and she
slid across the comforter, putting distance 
between them, a false sense of tickle-free 
security.
 
"I'm still waiting," Mulder reminded, 
threateningly flexing his fingers as Scully
flipped over to her back.  Her eyes widened,
transfixed on the pleasure-turned-torture tools.
 
"I said okay!" Scully breathlessly whined, laughter
still tinging her voice as the air finally decided 
to settle back into her lungs.
 
Mulder raised an eyebrow, his lips curved in 
that smile.   
 
"Elvis lives," Scully said, rolling her eyes. 
She knew that he knew she'd said it without 
the strength of conviction. It didn't 
matter.  
 
It seemed to be enough because Mulder then began 
to break out into song, to which she dreaded, 
mockingly searching for a pillow to put over her 
head.
 
"Wise . . . men . . . say. . .  Only fools, rush, 
in . . . but I, can't, help, falling in love with 
you. . . ."
 
"Ugh!" Scully rolled her eyes, groaning 
and falling back against the mattress.  
Mulder reached over and tugged her pajama 
bottoms off, proceeding to make her as 
naked as he was before climbing over 
her, and singing in his best version of 
an Elvis swagger. He punctuated each 
word with a kiss. 
 
First his lips touched her forehead, then 
her cheeks, followed by her chin as he 
skipped over her lips.  His tongue slid 
out and licked down her neck to that indent
at her collar bone.  His lips clamped onto 
her skin, giving her a resounding suck before 
continuing his musical journey downward. 
 
Suddenly his body left hers, causing Scully to 
groan in protest until she felt her big toe 
sliding into the warmth of his mouth.
 
Oh, Jesus Christ!
 
His lips slipped off her toe and climbed 
up, kissing the inside of her ankles, then 
the bottom of her knee cap.  His tongue 
slid out again and licked over the knee.
 
Scully felt that she really didn't mind 
Elvis at this moment.  He continued to
sing, his mouth ever crawling upward, 
cresting her thigh, his hands rubbing up 
and down beneath them.  
 
Scully body responded, feeling herself 
slick at his most minimal of his touches.
She moaned as his breath fanned her 
center.
 
Suddenly he tugged her closer, sliding her
across the bed as he reached down to delve 
into her apex, his tongue licking her sensory 
perceptions into an inferno. 
 
"Mulder," she gasped, reaching for him and 
running a hand through his chocolate 
strands.  Mulder lifted his face and she
met his eyes, her view feeling glazed 
as she saw his pleased smile.
 
"I love you," she mouthed, looking at 
him. Mulder smile widened. He reached up
and laced his fingers within hers.
 
"I love you, too," Mulder replied.  Scully 
dropped her head back against the mattress. 
Mulder kissed her center, restoking her 
flames with his mouth.  
 
She was quivering all over as he manipulated 
her senses, causing her heart to trip 
beat -- pausing to fall and then be caught 
again in the heat and wetness of his 
tongue. He nuzzled and stroked, exploring 
the deep ravines of her desire, causing 
her to get lost in the wet darkness of 
his tongue.   
 
Scully cracked her eyes open, turning 
her head.  She could see them in the bureau 
mirror, his head moving between her legs,
kneeling on the floor while she lie sprawled 
open for him.  The light from the bedside 
lamp cast the vision of them in a warm, 
comforting glow.  
 
Scully raised her hips in the air as another wave 
of pleasure pulsed from her center. Her eyes closed,
her head tossing back and forth, back and forth.

Mulder increased his speed, stroking her, 
sucking her between his lips and teasing 
her with his teeth.  She squeezed her eyes 
shut harder, feeling and losing all sense of time 
and space as a deluge of firecracker heat 
rumbled over her body. With each flick, 
stroke, and nip, his head moved faster and 
faster between her thighs, his hand squeezing 
hers in response to the tugging on his.  
 
"Mulder, Mulder," she chanted over and 
over until she couldn't say anything, 
curling into herself and out of herself, 
slowly shimmying back to earth and 
registering the down of the comforter 
and the kisses Mulder was now placing on her 
inside thigh. 
 
Finally, her breathing became more even 
and she was able to open her eyes.  Mulder 
crawled up over her, resting his weight 
against her body, pressing her hot, flushed 
skin against his.  Her legs hugged the sides 
of his stomach, her knees bent in the air.
 
She loved the warm, hot feel of his hairy
chest against her sensitive breasts as 
he adjusted their embrace, instantly
compensating so they could lie face to 
face, chest to chest.  
 
Mulder held some of his upper body weight 
off of her by sliding his elbows on either 
side of her chest, his arms threading 
under hers so his hands could play with 
the back of her neck and linger in her 
auburn strands.  
 
Scully opened her eyes, looking up into 
his face.  His hazel eyes twinkled in shades 
of green and brown, each color struggling to 
reign supreme.  She raised her hands 
to cup his face.  
 
Leaning up from the bed, her hair 
slid off her shoulders and draped 
behind her as she kept her eyes open, 
placing a soft, gentle kiss on his lips.  
 
Mulder closed his eyes at the contact, 
slowly reopening them as she pulled 
slightly away.  Scully smiled, a smirk 
really, as she said, "Long live the King!"
 
Mulder looked at her, confused for a 
second, then burst out laughing, meeting 
her chuckles as he buried his face into 
the crook of her shoulder.
 
Mulder whispered in her ear, "Thank you, 
thank you verrae much."
     
Scully's body convulsed with more 
laughter, feeling his body join hers in 
a small chuckle fest as they rested 
against each other.
 
Mulder flipped over, dragging her on top of 
him.  They laid there for a while, bundling 
themselves in the bedding and relaxing.
 
Just as Scully was about to drift into 
sleep, Mulder spoke.
 
"So, tell me, how did you like Vaughn?  What 
did you think of him?"
 
Scully sighed, opening her eyes and 
meeting his.  She knew what he was 
doing.  She knew he hoped that she 
would like him. It was important to 
Mulder.
 
Scully stroked his hair from his 
face as she thought about Mike Vaughn, 
and Mulder, particularly.
 


          XXXXXXXXXX


 
It seemed Mulder had created a family for 
himself by silently surrogating people into  
one to replace his own.  
 
A lover with her, a mother figure with Pearl, a 
brother with Mike -- it was something an orphan 
might do and in many ways Mulder was an orphan, 
emotionally anyway.  Scully was glad he was able 
to make ties with people, that he was able to 
overcome the trappings of the refined, denied 
emotional environment that he had grown up in.  
 
Scully could see how easy Mulder got along 
with Mike. She had watched them talking
at the tavern, watching the way that they
shared opinions about this case and other
things.  There was a companionship between
the two men that she'd never witnessed Mulder
having before.  
 
It actually made her very happy to 
know that he did have it -- had that 
certain something that Scully felt she 
had always shared with her sister, Melissa, and 
to some extent her brother, Charlie. 
 
There was a mutual respect between the 
two men. Most surprisingly of all, at 
least to her, was that a hardened -- well, 
maybe not so hardened, but that a Philly cop would 
support Mulder and the X-Files.  
 
It seemed Lieutenant Detective Mike Vaughn wasn't
a man to judge another's mission in life and that
was the type of thing that guaranteed Mulder's
loyalty and trust. Mike's acceptance was an almost 
foreign experience, yet the lieutenant proffered
it without recrimination.
 
Thinking on Mulder's surrogate family ties, she 
couldn't stop herself from dwelling on Pearl, the 
other quasi-family member she'd met tonight.  
 
Pearl, well, how could she not like Pearl?  
 
Pearl was such a passionate, sprightly woman 
that you couldn't help but find yourself 
hanging on nearly every word she said to 
you.  There was a genuine goodness about 
her, a goodness that had suffered through 
extremely hard times.  
 
Losing a daughter was something Scully could 
relate to on the most basic of levels.  She 
didn't know if she could truly imagine losing 
a child after having them be a part of your life 
for over twenty-nine years.  
 
It was something she didn't want to contemplate,
to do so would bring up more emotions than she
wanted to deal with.

She remembered Pearl's words of quiet calm 
when Scully asked about her daughter as 
Mulder had left the dining room to answer
his cell phone. . . . 
 
"A parent should never have to outlive 
their child.  Never," Pearl said vehemently. 
 
Scully felt tears welling in her eyes, a 
tunnel narrowing her spectrum of sight 
until Pearl spoke again widening her
siphoning view with the outstretched hand 
of her voice. " I suspect you've experienced 
that knowledge first hand."
 
"Did Mulder tell you that?" Scully asked, 
her voice wavering.
 
"No, child, he did not," Pearl said, reaching
across the table to squeeze her hand. 
 
Scully wondered if Pearl was so intuitive 
that she could sense a similar loss.  Or, 
was she becoming more transparent with her 
feelings?  Was it an unspoken affinity that
women shared, the loss of a child, a loss so 
profound and painful that words could not begin 
to explain it.  Scully wasn't about to try.  But, 
Pearl knew that and the gentle touch of her 
hand confirmed that words weren't necessary.
 
Just then Mulder had returned coming up to stand
behind her.  Pearl released Scully's hand,
and turned to smile at Mulder.  Scully 
sat still, blinking her eyes and secreting away 
a few fallen tears.
 
She looked across the table at Alice, almost 
forgetting she was in the room. To Alice's 
credit, she seemed to be busying herself
with her cigarette case.
 
When they were leaving Pearl's, Scully 
found herself hugging the older woman 
just as tightly as Pearl was hugging her, both
of them seemingly squeezing the very life out
of one another.  
 
"See you later, Dana, Fox, be good," Pearl 
said, catching the screen door as they 
walked down the steps.
 
"I'll be back tomorrow morning if that's 
all right," Mulder said, pausing on the 
bottom step.
 
"I'll have breakfast and Jack waiting for you, 
just give us a call before you come," Pearl 
agreed, smiling.  
 
"Pearl, you're going to ruin me for all 
women," Mulder said, wrapping an arm 
around Scully's waist.
 
"I highly doubt that.  Wouldn't you agree, Dana?"
 
Scully just smiled, feeling a refreshment 
she hadn't realized she was needing. Stringing 
her arm around Mulder's waist as they turned 
away, they walked across the cobbled street 
toward their rental car.
 


              XXXXXXXX


 
"Um, Scully, earth to Scully?" Mulder called, 
tugging his teeth on her ear.
 
Scully playfully smacked the back of his head 
as he leaned over her, his teeth tightened 
on her ear lobe, "Ouch, stop that!"
 
The pain was immediately replaced by a 
long lick of his tongue.  She found 
herself twining her fingers into his 
hair and scraping her nails against his 
skin.
 
"What do you think of Vaughn?" Mulder 
repeated.  
 
"I like both Mike and Pearl.  They seem to be 
great people to have in your corner, and they
are, Mulder . . . in your corner, I mean."
 
"I know, Scully, I know," he agreed, his eyes
serious as he searched her face.
 
"You're very lucky to have them, Mulder," Scully 
said, kissing his nose and letting her head slowly 
sink back against her pillow. She gave him one of
her impish grins.
 
Mulder returned the smile, a light dancing in 
his eyes.  "Well, Scully, third times a charm.
I mean, I lucked out with you, too."
 
"Are you comparing me to a rabbit's foot, 
Mulder?" Scully teased, playing dense to 
lighten the suddenly serious mood. 
 
The air was getting entirely too heavy 
for 230 in the AM. Yet, given a choice,
she would gladly accept this heaviness 
if that's what it took to counteract against 
the cruel, outside world of serial murders 
who soaked beds in dripping pools of red.  
 
Scully gave herself a mental shake. Yeah, she 
would accept it, want it, whatever, even if it 
only worked for a little while.
 
"Come here, Scully, let me rub ya," Mulder 
said, playing along and dropping his voice down 
another register. "For more luck, of course."
 
"Ohhh," Scully moaned as she felt his 
hand slide between their bodies and cup her 
breast, kneading it between his fingers and 
sliding his hand over it until he clasped the 
tip of her nipple between his fingertips.
 
He successfully washed away the red horror of 
death and pain as his touch began to apply coats 
of pleasure against, within, and without her body.
 
"Hey, Scully?" Mulder said, his voice deep, 
throaty.
 
"Hmm?" she gasped, meeting his eyes.
 
"Are you ready for this hunka, hunka burnin' 
love?" Mulder swaggered, cutting off her giggles 
with a kiss that sealed her lips to his.

Oh yeah, she was definitely ready.

 
      XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Center City, Philadelphia
Olde City District
Pearl's Row Home
Tuesday, 947 A.M.


Mulder stood outside Pearl's townhouse, waiting for the 
door to open.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he squinted his 
eyes and tilted his head to give a leery glance at the 
sky. A canopy of bright steel-gray bolted by drifting
strips of charcoal hid the morning sun.  Turning, he looked 
down the street at the corner light.  The usual, busy AM 
cross traffic was muted, a hush of sorts coating the 
surrounding streets. 

Mulder felt a shiver course down his spine.  It was more 
than the promise of dismal weather.  It was like a 
premonition of gloom, a pervading melancholy that hinted
from the facade of this house. So different from the day 
before, when Pearl's home was bustling with activity and
optimism.

He used the door knocker again. Grabbing the railing,
he leaned over the metal work, trying to peer through the 
living room window.  

No luck.

Standing back, he pulled the sleeve of his trench coat 
up, checking the time. 

953 A.M.  

Mulder was starting to get a bit worried, he'd been 
standing out on her front stoop for nearly five minutes
with no response. As instructed, he gave fair warning,
calling after dropping Scully off at the precinct.

As he was about to knock for the third time, he cocked
his head to the side, hearing muffled voices. One was 
deeper than the other, then silence. 

Finally the front door swung open and Mulder couldn't
help but catch the tail end of a raised voice accompanied 
by a loud slamming door.

Mulder raised an eyebrow, before asking, "Is it not a 
good time, Pearl?"

"It's never a good time, anymore," Pearl grumbled, her gaze 
staring back into the direction of the slammed door.

"Pearl?" Mulder prompted, drawing her attention.

"I'm sorry Fox, come in, come in," Pearl offered, stepping 
back. Mulder opened the screen door as she welcomed him in.

Standing in the creme accented living room, he could smell the
promised breakfast cooking. Mixed with the delicious aroma
of morning fare was another scent.

"Pearl, I think something's burning," Mulder said, audibly 
sniffing the air.

"Oh shit!" Pearl exclaimed, scrambling down the small hallway
into the kitchen.  Mulder walked back to the front door and 
pushed it closed before following after her.

As he crossed into the kitchen, he saw a black iron skillet 
of eggs billowing a brownish stream of smoke.

Pearl grabbed a pot holder and wrapped it around the cast 
iron handle while Mulder walked around her and turned on the 
kitchen faucet.  Stepping back to let her run the skillet 
under the water, Mulder reached over to turn the oven 
burner off.

Pearl sat the pan in the sink, submerging it under 
the stream of water before reaching over the sink to open
the window.

Suddenly a sound burst into the room with loud, droning 
beeps that stemmed from the fire alarm.

Mulder followed the noise back down the hallway
and reached up, pulling the batteries away from 
the connection.

When he came back into the kitchen, Pearl was 
standing at the sink. The faucet still ran and
the rising water threatened to overflow as she 
remained motionless. Motionless with the exception 
of the hitching sobs that caused her body to 
tremble.

Mulder came up behind her, reached over to switch
off the faucet and pulled the drain.  Placing
his hands on Pearl's shoulders, he gave her
a comforting squeeze.  She reached a hand a top
of his, patting her thanks.

"Oh, sometimes I wish my Robert were still here," Pearl
whispered to herself, but not too quietly that Mulder
hadn't heard her.

"I know, Pearl."  Mulder turned her around to face him.
He turned her hand over in his and dropped his eyes to her
open palm.

Such a tiny hand ... yet so strong.  The type of hand 
that was capable of carrying a pallet of bricks to 
fortify the foundation of her family.  He studied the
lines of her skin, and although he was no palm reader,
he knew enough to recognize the solid curve of her life
line.  For once, he didn't smile in response to his 
own skepticism.  When it came to Pearl, there was truth
to what ordinarily would be the signs of a cheap parlor
trick.  Her life line was thick and distinct, despite
all the tragedies that could have easily impeded it.

Mulder was aware of them all.  The first loss had been
her husband.  US Army Captain Robert Clayton had been
killed in action while stationed in the Mekong Delta,
not far from Saigon.  He was the victim of an oxymoron
known as "friendly fire".  A bullet intended for the
enemy claimed his life and turned Pearl into a thirty
year old widow.  But rather than be bitter, she was
proud.  She would not mourn his death or soil his memory
with her despair.  To do so would be to dishonor a fine
man, and she was adamant that she would someday be with
him again.

As she explained to Mulder years ago, "I found
my soul mate..."

At the time, Mulder hadn't understood the significance to
Pearl's words.  The concept of a soul mate was as foreign
as the notion that he had a soul worth preserving, much less
a partner who would bind with it.

But he knew different now.  He had found Scully.  She 
was more than just his partner in work.  She had become
his partner in life, the woman who used her own soul 
to piece his back together.  And, like Pearl, her strength
was the indomitable type.  Another pair of small hands 
that were capable of carrying the weight of the world,
including the tonnage of his past.

While she was the type who offered comfort but was
reluctant to receive it.  It was the same with Scully.
They were givers, not takers.  The type of women who
nourished others, children and adults alike.  The tragedy
was that both had experienced the greatest loss of 
all . . . with Pearl is was her daughter, Eleanor. . .

With Scully . . . it was Emily. . . .

But, the two of them were resilience personified . . . and
the comparison didn't stop there.  When Pearl tried to 
withdraw her hand, Mulder found himself hanging onto to 
it tightly.

"Talk to me, Pearl," Mulder coaxed, his voice rough
as he lead her to a kitchen chair, sitting her down.

How many times had he said those exact words to Scully?

He turned back to the kitchen counter, blew out a deep breath and 
squared his shoulders.  Reaching for the stove again, he turned 
the fire off from under the crackling cajun'd bacon.  

On the corner of the Formica counter, Mulder spotted a coffee machine.
Having finished percolating, it was ready to be poured.

Plucking two mugs from the wall hooks, he set them down onto
the table for Pearl and himself before walking back to grab
the coffee pot.

Hearing the legs of her chair scrape against the linoleum, 
Mulder said over his shoulder before turning around, "Don't 
get up, everything's under control."

"Now Fox, I'm just gettin' the creamer from the refrigerator 
door, " she admonished.

Mulder nodded his head as he poured the rich liquid
into both mugs. 

A few moments later, decanter back on its heating pad, Mulder
and Pearl came back to the table at the same time. He
held her chair out for her, pushing it in once she'd 
settled on it.

"Oh, I'm not used to this royal treatment," Pearl gasped, her 
palm fluttering before her.

Mulder watched her shaking hands and reached across the table,
clasping one within his own.  He waited for Pearl to meet
his eyes before speaking.

"That's because you've always given it rather than
received it," Mulder affirmed, accompanying the decree 
with a slight, reassuring squeeze before releasing
her.

Shrugging off his suit jacket, he laid it against the back
of the wooden chair beside him before attending to his
coffee.  Pouring extra creamer into his mug, he 
prodded Pearl to talk. "Tell me, what's going on with 
Jack?"

Pearl nodded her head before turning a weary smile up 
at him.

"I. . . Oh, Lordy, I just don't know where to begin," she
stalled, blindly stirring her coffee as she gazed 
introspectively. "I don't know if I want to. . . ."

"Pearl," Mulder said, bending down to catch her view. "Tell
me, it's all right."

"Well, it's just that. . . I mean, he's sixteen, a teenager.
He's into the terrible teens, I know that but. . . ."

"Go on," Mulder said, sipping his coffee, his eyes narrowing
as he watched her becoming more agitated.

". . .but it's different from that, " Pearl continued, adjusting
her seat position as she looked up to meet Mulder's gaze. "I 
said last night that things have been bad since this Keenswan
parole hearing -- they . . . things I mean, really have been."

Pearl paused to take a sip of her coffee before setting the
cup onto the table with a clink. "Jack.  Jack's always been, 
well. . . a quiet, introspective kind of child.  He doesn't 
really have any friends, least none I know of." 

Pearl shook her head, raising a hand to pat at the black hair 
piled tightly atop of it. She sighed. "He spends so much of his 
time on that computer that he barely even bothers to say a 'how
ya do' to me anymore. That ... well, I suppose that could be 
considered normal. . . ."

Pearl paused, crossing her arms and rubbing them before 
continuing. "I'm tellin' ya, Fox, since this whole Keenswan's
come up again, he's been . . . and I don't know that I could blame 
him, really, but he's been a bit different." 

"Standoffish?" Mulder questioned, watching her.

"No, worse than that. . . I'd have to say, hostile, but
not always. . . . No, not always.  He just gets into 
these . . . tirades, funks -- something, and I never know 
when one's gonna come on. It's getting so that I feel 
like I'm walkin' around here on egg shells."

"Is he still seeing a therapist?" Mulder asked.

"Yes, as you know, he's been seeing one since
Eleanor . . . since she died," Pearl answered.
She cupped her hands around her mug, causing her 
wedding bands to tap lightly against the porcelain.
 
Mulder looked at the large diamond engagement ring and
accompanying wedding band, both were slightly tarnished 
due to wear and age.  She still wore them.

Soul mates.  

Mulder slightly shook his head before leaning toward her.

"What's the therapist have to say?" 

"Nothing, when Jack sees her he isn't like . . . like 
he has been, " Pearl sighed.  "I don't understand 
it. I mean, I've tried to talk to him about his 
feelings, figuring he needed an outlet other than 
an office visit.  I wanted him to talk to me like 
he . . . like he used to, but he shuts me out at 
every turn."

Pearl stared at the rising steam coming from the 
mug.  "You just came in on the latest failed 
attempt."

Pearl picked out a napkin from it's holder and 
started playing with it.

"I just . . . oh God, I hate to say it . . . but I just
feel tired. I feel like I'm at my wit's end, like I'm
lost. I never had anything near to this type of problem
with Eleanor," Pearl paused, her voice catching.  Mulder 
could see a tear streaming from the corner of her eye.  

Placing a hand over hers, he stopped her from shredding
the paper napkin into teeny tiny bits. 

He looked at her hands within his.  He stared at the
added wrinkles that were now new to him, but old to
her. Mulder noted more of the olive-colored aged spots 
that weren't there before. Closing his eyes, he found
himself caught in the memories from long ago. 

Shaking his head clear of his wandering thoughts, he 
pulled his chair over to her. Leaning over, he tugged 
Pearl into an embrace that rivaled the very first one, 
tucking her head beneath his chin, "Let me speak to him, 
Pearl.  Maybe I can help, see what's going on."

"I couldn't ask you to do that, Fox.  This has nothing to 
do with you," Pearl said against his shirt.

"Nothing? If we hadn't found Keenswan sooner then maybe your-"

"Don't even say it!" she admonished, pulling back and 
staring into his eyes with an angered force.  

She reached and grabbed hold of his hand, clasping it
in a tight squeeze. "I'm tired of playing the blame game
of 'what ifs'. . .  I've done that for way longer than 
I ever should have."

Mulder smiled, nodding his head before meeting her eyes 
again.  "Okay, all right, Pearl," he agreed, rubbing his 
free hand against her back. "But, I'd still like to talk 
to him after we finish our coffee.  I have a feeling I'm 
going to need to fortify my nerves," he paused to wink at 
her.  "What with the terrible teens syndrome and all." 

Mulder mock shuddered, letting Pearl go as she did him and 
sitting back against his chair.  She smiled, giving a slight
laugh and her permission. "You better have two cups before
you go into the lair."  

Softly laughing, he shook his head. Mulder took another
tentative sip from his mug and smiled.

At least Pearl still wasn't ready for 'Sainted June 
Cleaverhood' yet  -- 

She still made a horrible cup of joe.




             XXXXXXXXXXXXX




"Jack?" Mulder called, leaning toward the teenager's 
bedroom door. He rapped against the oak, waiting.

No response.

"Jack, I'm opening the door," Mulder warned, gripping 
the chilled knob.

Suddenly the door swung open, the handle slipping from 
his fingertips.

Standing back, he lingered in the hallway, an eyebrow 
cocked.  He could feel the poorly disguised curiosity 
brimming within the youth, yet the skinny teenager 
managed to keep his gaze averted, staring down at 
Mulder's shoes. 

Jack stepped back, allowing Mulder to enter into 
his inner sanctum.  Crossing the threshold, Mulder's 
eyes scanned around the room, noting the decor. For 
that 'all purpose cave effect', the mini blinds remained
closed, and the only lights in the room came from the 
dull blush off of the computer screen, accompanied by 
the black light housed in the corner of the bedroom.  

Folded clothes were heaped on his bureau, some 
having tumbled to the floor.  Mulder wrinkled his 
nose, his gaze searching for the origin of the decaying 
bouquet of 'Food Past', searching without success.  Hearing 
Jack sit, Mulder turned at the sound of creaking leather.  

With Jack facing away, he stole a few seconds to 
inspect the teenager.  

His hair was long, black and stringy. The bulk 
of which was fastened at the nape of his neck by 
a rubber band, leaving a few inches left to
hang between his shoulder blades. Mulder continued 
the inspection, noting the black T-shirt Jack wore 
along with a matching pair of black jeans. 

The Goth chic look would have fulfilled completion 
if not for the faded white sneaks.

Mulder peered over Jack's shoulder, keeping the 
distance he allotted the boy.  He could see that 
Jack'd been playing a computer game, the screen 
action frozen in place.  Taking a step closer, he 
leaned in and saw that the screen characters looked 
to be from the game Langly had him playing in the 
gunmen lair about three weeks ago.

Jack fidgeted and Mulder pulled back. He studied the
walls. Tacked up on the back of the bedroom door 
resided a Marilyn Manson poster, over the bed -- "Rage 
Against the Machine", which shimmered in shades of neon 
purple from the black light.  On the far wall was some 
kind of Dungeons and Dragons concoction.

Looking at him again, he saw, and heard, the boy's 
leg jack-hammering against the floor boards, his back 
stiff.  Accompanying the percussion beat, Mulder could 
also hear the distinct popping of Jack's knuckles.

"Jack, I'd like to talk with you . . . and I've found it's 
easier to do that face to face," Mulder said, studying 
the boy for a response.

Jack stopped the symphonics and slowly swiveled the 
squeaking chair around, affording Mulder his first 
open view of him.

He saw that Jack had Pearl's violet eyes, only his 
shifted uneasily behind a pair of too large silver-framed 
glasses.  He was also inordinately pale, suffering 
from what Mulder suspected to be a severe case of 
computer screen burn.  

Jack was actually pretty tall -- skinny -- and a 
bit gangly. He kind of reminded Mulder of himself at 
sixteen all elbows, hands and feet and no idea quite 
what to do with them.

Mulder watched as Jack nervously picked at his 
elbows, his arms crossed against his chest in a 
defensive posture and his legs finally settling down 
to cross at the ankles.

Ending the scrutiny, he spoke.

"So . . . how have you been, Jack?" Mulder asked, 
looking around for a place to sit.  He decided 
on the rumpled bed.  The whole room had a definite 
unpleasant aroma to it. Sitting down, it became 
stronger, giving Mulder vague memories of his own 
teenage sanctuary.  

Pearl was right, this definitely was a lair.

Jack glanced away toward the shaded window. When he 
answered, his voice was a mixture of maturity and
childhood. "I'm okay."

Mulder nodded his head as if processing Jack's 
answer.  He watched Jack's leg wind-up again, beating 
a staccato to his own drummer.

Mulder made a mental note of the teenager's 
agitation before speaking. "You're grandmother 
tells me --"

"What the hell she tell you!" Jack interrupted, 
gripping the arms of his chair, his knuckles 
whitening, his leg speeding.   

Mulder remained silent, observing him. Jack 
didn't quite fit with the profile of a child who'd 
suffered post traumatic stress disorder, at least not 
at that moment.  The timid, reserved persona usually 
associated with adolescent survivors did not manifest in
such a manner as Jack was behaving -- just as Pearl 
had suggested it wouldn't.

"-- that you're into computers.  Is this Magic of the 
Realms?" Mulder asked, peering at the screen and nodding
with his head.

Jack swung around at nearly mock speed, his eyes 
exceptionally bright and glaring. "Yeah, how'd you 
know that?"

Mulder shrugged his shoulders. Sitting with 
his long legs apart, one hand rested on a thigh 
while he leaned on the other forearm that was
resting on his other thigh. He answered Jack, his 
tone casual.  "I've played it before."

"What's your high score?" Jack asked, his demeanor 
softening as he rolled himself toward Mulder.

Silently wracking his brain, Mulder tried to 
remember from the one time that Langly and he had 
played.  It didn't help that the event was colored 
in shades of Frohicke's cheap beer and stale
potato chips.

"123 Golden Rings and I think . . . no, I know. 64 diamond 
chalices," Mulder replied, impressed with himself.

"Wow, not bad, how long you been playing," Jack asked, 
uncrossing his arms and leaning toward Mulder.


"Not long," Mulder answered, unbuttoning his 
cuffs and rolling up his shirt sleeves.  He watched 
Jack begin to relax further.

"What's your character name?" Jack questioned, 
reaching behind him and burying a hand into a 
hidden bag of chips.  

Ah, so that was what it was, of course! Now he 
knew where the perpetrating stench was emanating 
from. 

"Lexicor, I was a bad ass with spells," Mulder 
replied, draping his forearms against his thighs and 
letting his hands hang between his knees.

"Yeah, spells? Me too, I'm Merlin," Jack said, slightly 
turning to grab and click the mouse, allowing the computer 
screen to display a figure in rich robes.   

Based on his earlier inspection, Mulder had 
figured his character to be a wizard of some sort. 
Besides the large posters were pictures nestled
on Jack's desk and hanging from the far wall, beyond 
the computer monitor.  There was another magician or 
wizard, whatever, drawn that resembled the figures on 
the Dungeons and Dragon's poster above Jack's bed.   

Mulder nodded his head toward the picture on the wall. "Did you
draw that?"

Jack swiveled his head and looked, a smile 
crossing over his face as he looked back at 
Mulder. "Yeah, that's one of mine."

"That's pretty good," Mulder complimented, gauging 
the boys reactions.  

He noted Jack's guard slipping further.  The 
boy was becoming even more calm, complacent.  He'd 
crossed his arms again but his demeanor was not 
as confrontational. Mulder skillfully navigated
around Jack, plucking further clues to Jack's likes 
from his room.  

"Hey, you see that new flick came out this year, 'Marquin's 
Spell'?" Jack asked, taking his turn to study Mulder.  

"I haven't had a chance, been suffering through some heavy case 
loads," Mulder explained. 

Jack was silent, staring at Mulder, looking at him from 
the tips of his leather shoes, up his tailored pants, 
crawling over the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt, until 
finally looking into Mulder's face.  Mulder sat 
passively, allowing Jack to openly examine him.

"I remember you, you know?" Jack spit out, his 
voice suddenly sharp, playing against the image 
of moments ago.  

Mulder's eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue, 
nodding his head for him to continue.

Jack stood up, walked past the bed, past Mulder, 
in a wide arc as he went over to his closet. Struggling 
against a pile of worn clothing that blocked the closet 
door, he finally wrenched it open after angrily
kicking the pile aside. 

Mulder watched, curious, as Jack disappeared into 
his closet then came back out again, carrying a shoe box.

"Here," Jack said, tossing the cardboard box at 
him. Mulder snatched it from the air, his eyes 
following Jack as he sat back in his desk chair.  

Mulder turned his eyes back to the box.  It 
wasn't heavy yet he could definitely feel something 
substantial within it.  Pulling the lid off, Mulder
uncovered the Batman toy he'd given Jack those many 
years ago.

His eyes widened, he hadn't expected Jack to 
remember him, not really.  And for Jack to still 
have the toy Mulder gave, well . . . it was a surprise.  
Jack had only been six years old then . . . and although
Mulder kept in touch with Pearl, both of them thought 
it best if he stayed beyond Jack's fragile psyche, not 
wanting to cause any undo stress with the harsh 
memories that Mulder's presence could be associated 
with.  

"Wow, you do remember," Mulder said, his tone soft 
as he let the box fall to the floor while pulling 
out the car.  Mulder smiled and started raising it 
above his head, imitating his actions from long ago.  

"No, you don't do it like that," Jack admonished, 
repeating verbatim the tone and words he'd said to 
Mulder.  Mulder looked back at Jack and saw him smiling.

Slowly lowering the car to his lap, he held the boy's gaze and
softly asked, "How've you been, Jack?"

Jack ducked his head, slightly turning away.  "I've been okay."

He turned back to face Mulder, grabbing hold of 
his stare. "You know, I remember everything.  My grandmom, 
she don't think I do, that I was too young, too traumatized.  
But I remember. . . ."

Mulder remained silent, letting him talk.

Jack looked away and back again, trying to decide whether to 
continue holding Mulder's gaze.  

He held it. 

"You . . . you. . .  I couldn't talk to anyone, you know.  
I. . . I don't know why, maybe it was cuz they treated me
like I was gonna break or something'. . . I . . . I dunno.  Maybe
I woulda, though I couldn't understand that.  Then you come in
and just . . . just start playin'.  Not with me, just playin'
and actin' like you could give a shit that I was there.  You 
weren't, ah. . . Christ, dissectin' me.  Or least, you didn't
show it."

Mulder nodded his head, "We were afraid.  You hadn't responded
to anything for a very long time.  I decided to go against 
protocol," Mulder took his turn to lean toward Jack.  "Apparently,
I'm told I tend to do that often."

"I never got to thank you," Jack said, his voice soft and 
unsure. "Back then, what I did know was that I didn't know
who to trust.  No one really talked to me.  I mean "to me". 
They talked "at me".  You didn't do that and I guess. . . I
guess . . . hell, thanks man."  

Mulder felt his heart squeeze within his chest,
his breath catching in his throat.  He never took 
himself to be a sentimental sap, but damned if he 
didn't look at Jack and see the boy, not as he was now, 
but catching a glimmer of the six year old child who 
hadn't known how to reach out. Mulder shook his head, 
seeing the teenager before him, again.

"You're welcome," Mulder replied, looking down at the car he 
found himself clutching in his hands.  He carefully placed it
back in the shoe box, closing the lid with a soft whooshing sound.  

Mulder nodded again.  Jack chanced a quick glance back at 
him before speaking. "I saw you last night with that lady."

"My partner," Mulder replied, trying to clear his thoughts
and play catch up with Jack's.

"Yeah, her," he answered and Mulder could almost hear the boy 
swallowing.

Mulder had to grin, the similarities to himself deepening 
with Jack's veiled interest in Scully.

Excepting the decor and vampiric apparel, this boy might
just have some taste, yet.

"You should meet her, I'm sure she'd like that," Mulder 
suggested. "You should have come out at dinner last night."

Jack crossed his arms again, reflexively picking at his
elbows.

"No! I mean, I was kinda tired.  I couldn't have
done that, it would have been wrong." Jack finished 
in a mutter, staring off into space.

"Excuse me?" Mulder asked, standing up as he plunged 
his hands into his pants pockets.  His eyes narrowed, 
trying to puzzle out Jack's last comment.

"Nuh. . . nothing, nothing," Jack answered, reaching 
over to his monitor and flicking the screen off. 

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm starvin'.  Pearl
burned breakfast," Mulder said, shaking his head. "Does
*she* do that often?"

Jack smirked, then laughed, "No."

"Well, I don't know 'bout you but I'm in the mood for
a sloppy dog."

"There's a vendor on Market St., his stuff's 
pretty decent, I usually get'um there," Jack said,
while toying with a piece of torn plastic on his chair.  

"Wanna go?" Mulder calmly asked, keeping 
"cool", making the request no big deal.

"Your treat?"

"This time," Mulder agreed, grinning. Jack met 
that grin.

"Hell yeah, then," Jack answered, standing up 
and pulling his Eagle's football jacket off the 
floor by his feet.  His actions began to slow down 
as he strung his arms through the sleeves.

"What is it?" Mulder asked, turning a questioning 
look on Jack.

"Would you um . . . you know . . . tell me what it's 
like. . . I mean, what you do at the FBI? That is, as 
long as you don't have to kill me after?"

Mulder smirked, before giving a shake to his head.  

Jack flinched and Mulder saw it.  Soldiering his
features into a calmer expression, he smiled, 
apologizing. "I'm sorry, it's just. . . I think
you're really gonna like what I've got to tell you.  
My uh, specialty in the FBI is just about beyond what
you could imagine."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Come on, let's go and we'll talk," Mulder said,
waving his hand.  

Mulder opened the door and saw Pearl standing at
the mouth of the kitchen entryway. 

"We're gonna go for a walk, we won't be 
long," Mulder said, holding her stare. Pearl 
quickly disappeared into the kitchen then hurried
on down the hallway to them, handing Mulder his 
jacket and trench coat. 

Nodding her head, she smiled a smile of
complete gratitude.  Mulder met that smile,
reassuring her.  Jack stood at the now open front 
door.

"We'll be back, Grams," he informed.  Mulder
watched as the boy craned his neck beyond him
to meet Pearl's eyes before walking out the door.

"Thank you," Pearl whispered, touching Mulder's forearm.

"Don't thank me yet, Pearl," Mulder warned, his
tone and gaze serious.

She nodded her head again, following behind him
as he made his way to the door.


                      XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You're shittin' me? How old do you think I am, I 
mean, come on?" Jack said, giving Mulder a leery
glance, his breath crystallizing before him.

"It's no joke, Jack.  It was a parasite really, a
flukeman in the sewer systems," Mulder assured, taking
a finishing bit of his steaming dog while they made their
 way back.

"Whatever," Jack sighed. "Don't tell me what you do, then."

Jack glanced at Mulder as he jumped over a bundled pile of
newspapers.  

"Hey, kid watch it," someone yelled.

Mulder turned around looking back to see a craggy old
man hobbling out of the alley, wearing a "Ralph's Newsprint
Media" apron. He hunkered down and hoisted the bundle onto his
shoulder.

"You're not kiddin' me?" Jack questioned again
around a mouthful of relish and dog. The teenager
refused to believe, yet at the same time, wasn't quite
sure not to.

"I'm not kiddin' you," Mulder assured, wiping his
hands on a small napkin as he huddled his shoulders
against the wind and the tiny sprinkles of rain that
began spitting from the clouds above.

Turning, they came onto Jack's street.

"How you been feelin', Jack?" Mulder asked, slanting
his gaze on him as he dug into his coat pocket for
another napkin, pilfering one from the stack he stuffed
into it.  "Pearl tells me . . . you don't seem to be 
feeling too well."

Mulder kept walking, concentrating on getting the
mustard that snuck its way under his finger nails.  He
turned to say something more and noticed that Jack was
no longer beside him.

"Jack?" Mulder turned around and saw that the boy
had stopped a couple yards back, the wind tugging at
the end of his ponytail, whipping it over his shoulder.

Walking again, Jack didn't acknowledge or look at 
Mulder, instead he past him, quickening his pace.  Mulder's
confusion grew, matching his step. "Hey, almost lost ya
 there, pal."

"Oh yeah? You wanna psycho analyze me too?  Wanna fuck
with my mind like those damn doctors and the poison they 
push on me," Jack snarled, stopping short, his sneakers
squeaking on the pavement as he faced Mulder.

"Grams thinks she's so smart, like I'm a fuckin' retard
or something.  Vitamins, what a friggin' joke," Jack 
said, storming ahead again.  Mulder didn't pull his gaze 
off of the rattled movements Jack displayed as irrational
anger and nerves attacked the teenager.

"Jack?" Mulder calmly called, secreting the perplexity 
within his voice.  He made to halt Jack, lightly touching 
the boy's forearm. Jack flung his arm, Mulder's fingers 
sliding free as he snarled.

Mulder withheld his reactions with the exception of
his eyes narrowing as he catalogued and classified the 
manic reactions.

"Jack, what are you talking about, *vitamins*?" Mulder
questioned to the boy's back. 

Jack stopped, turned around and spit on the
sidewalk before him. Mulder watched him, concerned
and undeniably fascinated by the almost polar transformation.  

He mentally marked all of Jack's actions. His
hypersensitivity. His violent, reactive nature.  Mulder
proceeded to tread lightly, attempting to garner more
information from Jack.

"Vitamins?" Mulder asked again as Jack stalled, facing him.

"Yeah *vitamins*.  That's what she calls 'em.  She
thinks I'm fuckin' stupid, that I don't know what
they are.  They're fuckin' drugs to keep me the way
*she* thinks is normal, but they cloud my thinking,
man," he pleadingly explained. "I can't do shit . . . can't
score diddly with "Magic of the Realms", that takes God
damn strategy, ya know?"

Mulder shook his head, watching, noting the
jittery gait and the storm of emotions ravaging
the boy's flushed features.  Mulder knew there was
nothing he could say to reach him at this point. So
he kept his council and followed a suddenly exhausted
Jack up his front stoop.

Jamming the key in the door, Jack threw it open,
making his presence known as he slowly stormed through
the house and back into his bedroom, soundly slamming the
door behind him.

Pearl, wandered into the living room, looking at Mulder,
her eyes were sad, and her shoulders slumped.

"I just don't know what to do with him," she said,
repeating her words from earlier.

"Come on Pearl, I think I do.  Let's go into 
the kitchen and talk," Mulder said.  Wrapping an 
arm around her shoulder, he ushered her through 
the living room, back to the kitchen doorway.

Just then his cell phone chirped.  Mulder sighed,
digging it out of his inside pocket.

"Mulder."

Raising a palm to his forehead, he rubbed his fingers
against his temples.

"Okay, yeah, shit. . . I forgot the time. It is, isn't
it. . .  All right. . . Hmm?. . . Yeah, be right
there. Thanks, Vaughn," Mulder hit the end button and
closed his phone, placing it back within his trench coat.

"Pearl, I've gotta go right now, but . . . we need
to talk --"

"Go Fox, it can hold, go on," she ushered him to
the front door.

"I'll be back later," Mulder assured.

Pearl nodded her head. Mulder felt like complete
shit. He could see the exhaustion on Pearl's face 
but there was nothing he could do about it. Vaughn had
finagled Scully and him an interview with Keenswan and
they had to be there by 1230.

Shit.

"I promise, I'll be back later today," Mulder assured
again, touching his palm to Pearl's cheek. 

Pearl nodded her head and stepped back, grabbing the door.

"All right, Fox, see you later then," Pearl said.

Mulder looked at her for one last moment and then
gave an irritated sigh.  In the few minutes he'd
returned to Pearl's the rain had broke, lightening
sizzled the sky.  The raindrops pinged on the surrounding
metal while tapping against the sidewalk and streets
with a growing roar.  


Damn.

He wished he'd listened to Scully and brought that umbrella. 


"Later, Pearl," he called over his shoulder as he made a 
break for it, hurrying down the steps and toward his rental
car. The smell of refreshed motor oil already mingling
in the air.

           


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