***************
Lammtarra - Part 5
By Ruefrex@aol.com, jhumby@iee.org, & Luvmulder@aol.com
Rating: PG-13
Classification: XA
Disclaimers in first post
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P A S T
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
"Mulder?"


"Morning, Bill."   Great timing as always.  Just what he needed after 
another night of fever dreams.   Sometimes it felt like Patterson had radar 
that could zero in on just those times Mulder least wanted his boss to 
appear.  


"Boston PD wants you back for pretrial work."


"Why?  I've got nothing new to add and I'm booked into next year."


"Hold their hands on this one, it's good PR.  Get out of here," he insisted.  
"Might do you good."


One of those looks.  Patterson knew.  Not all of it, of course, but he knew 
more than he was letting on.  And he was determined to handle it his way.  
Patterson turned to go and Mulder took a deep breath. Now or never. Do 
it now, avoid the ulcer. Maybe.


"Bill?"


Patterson turned around and looked at him.


"I know what you told me...about Jack Caulfield..."


Rather than chewing his head off, Bill actually looked interested.


"What about Caulfield?"


Mulder hesitated.


"Well...I've noticed a radical shift in his behavior -"


"That has resulted in a marked improvement in his performance," Bill 
said smoothly. Mulder nodded.


"I know. But he's distracted."


Bill sat back down and leaned forward. Mulder wasn't sure he liked all 
this attention.


"Distracted how?"


"He's distracting himself with all of these seminars and lectures, with all 
this officially-sanctioned consulting."


"You jealous, Mulder? Want some more work to do?"


Mulder glared at him. Goddammit, Bill...


"Wow. You've seen right through me. Look, I think you're making a 
mistake keeping him on the Cleveland case. Hauswald can handle it."


"If you're going to do my job for me, Mulder -"


"Dammit, that's not what this is about and you know it!" Mulder almost 
shouted. Even Bill seemed taken aback. "He'll never have a handle on 
that case. He'll go completely the other way and ignore the profile. And 
the profile is right, Bill. You know it is."


Bill Patterson leaned back and considered Mulder's words for a long 
moment.


"Caulfield was adamant that he stay on that case."


"Because he's obsessed."


Bill nodded.


"Have you talked to him about it?"


Mulder looked away. There was no way he was going to confide in Bill 
Patterson about the rift that had somehow developed between Mulder and 
Jack. Was Mulder making too big a deal out of this, or did he truly 
believe Jack needed out? Jack had believed it of Mulder when he'd gotten 
him yanked from the Oliphant case. That had been the start of their 
friendship. Could it be mended if Mulder reeled Jack back from the 
abyss?


"He won't talk to me anymore."


Bill raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.


"Why not?"


Mulder shook his head.


"I have no idea, but I think the Cleveland case is a big part of it. He's 
changed, Bill, and even though it looks like the changes are for the better, 
they're not. He'll crash. You know he will."


Mulder couldn't read the look in Bill's eyes. Bill stood up.


"I see your point."


Mulder felt a ridiculous wave of relief.


"So you'll take him off?"


Bill nodded.


"I'll take him off. It'll free him up for other things."


Christ. Leave it to Patterson to turn this into a positive for the ISU. 
Mulder just nodded. Bill turned to go, then stopped.


"Hey, Mulder?"


"Yeah, Bill?"  No lecture, he thought to himself.   I'm not in a tolerant 
frame of mind.


"Hold to six hour days and get some extra rest while you're in Boston.  
My orders."


So be it, Mulder agreed, nodding in acceptance.  He had pulled together 
his notes before Bill made it down the hallway and back into his office.  It 
would be good to get out of this town, away from a boss who nurtured 
you one day and tried to destroy you the next.  The promise of a lighter 
load and some extra rest was making him feel better already.  


And Jack?  Mulder made up his mind.  He'd corner Caulfield when he got 
back.  No more second guessing colleagues or rationalizing the challenge 
of busy schedules.  No more listening to anything but his own tried and 
true instincts.  He had to know, first hand, how Jack was doing.  Let the 
fireworks fly. 


In the meantime, he wondered how his colleagues would divide a single 
courtside Knicks ticket.


* * * * * * * * *


If he'd had to spend one more night in a real bed, Mulder wasn't sure he 
could continue to be held responsible for his actions.  His back was 
killing him -- the usual consequence of too many nights spent on  a 
mattress only a masochist could appreciate.  



Boston had turned out to be a mini-vacation.  In the final analysis, neither 
the prosecutors nor police had needed his services.   His advice had been 
appreciated and reverently recorded -- but not vital.  No gems of wisdom 
that couldn't have been faxed.  He wondered if the trip hadn't been 
entirely Patterson's idea.  The boss had been known to manipulate rest 
and relaxation into an assignment when he thought an agent would 
perform more effectively afterward.  Self-serving -- Patterson's middle 
name. 


Boston had also given Mulder the opportunity to look through some dusty 
files that had caught his eye. Weird cases; unexplained phenomena, 
abductions, mutants...the Bureau just looked the other way on these cases. 
They usually sent out a half-assed investigator who asked a lot of smug 
questions, then returned to D.C., typed up his one page of field notes, and 
dumped the file in a basement cabinet. Mulder had found that basement 
cabinet and thought the stuff was fascinating. It certainly took his mind 
off the loss of his only friend. It made him feel less alone, less scared. 
Less different.


Physically, Mulder felt better than he had in a couple of months.  He'd put 
in the shortest work week in recent memory spending his days eating, 
sleeping, typing and making phone calls.  Repeating the process again 
and again, in no particular order.  Mulder made himself available to 
locals far more than the six hour per day limit Patterson had ordered, but  
work was rarely draining when he was pounding on a laptop in the 
relative calm of a hotel room.  No interviews, no site visits, little 
antagonism to graciously deflect.  Boston was headed for the 'closed' file.  
Finally.


Shit, Mulder hated to admit anyone could read him that well.  Patterson 
wasn't always right, but he could nail him more often than not.  His 
accuracy grated on Mulder's nerves.  No more so than Mulder's own 
ability to return the favor.  Patterson resented being profiled as much as 
Mulder did.  But in this case, he reasoned a thank you was in order.


He'd offer one Monday, when he returned to the office and the rat race 
began anew.


Mulder groaned when he heard a knock at his apartment door.


The last thing he expected -- or wanted -- was company.  Who knew he 
was back in town?  Mulder was tempted to play possum when the knock 
came again, insistent and more powerful than before.  As if someone 
knew he was inside.


Damn, he muttered as he headed reluctantly to peer through the peephole 
and out into the hallway.


"Jack!" he uttered enthusiastically, as he yanked open the door.  He was 
genuinely relieved to see his friend.  Jack making the first move was 
unexpected.  A positive sign.  He looked good, too good to be in trouble.


Mulder was ready to admit he'd been wrong. 


He never got the chance.


Caulfield ignored Mulder's outstretched hand,  instead pushing past him 
into the apartment.


"What the hell are you trying to do to me, you prick!"


Mulder was stunned.  "Jack, I don't know what you mean.  I've been in 
Boston."


"Patterson ordered me back from California.  He's taken me off the 
Cleveland case." 


Here we go. Mulder had expected anger, but the white-hot fury was 
something different. Mulder took a seat on his couch, hoping to diffuse 
the situation by appearing calm.  He should have known Jack would 
blame him. What the fuck had he been thinking, anyway?


Mulder watched in dismay as his friend paced, spouting fire and fury.  
Jack wasn't likely to hear anything Mulder had to say.  Not in his current 
frame of mind.  


"I didn't think it would take you this long to get back at me for getting 
you off the Oliphant case."


"Cheap shot, Jack," Mulder said quietly. Jack glared at him.


"You have got NO idea how important this case is to me, Mulder. No 
idea."


What the hell?


"Why don't you tell me then, because it's just a case, Jack, and it's 
something anyone else can handle."


"Right. Sure. Anyone else who hadn't fucked it up to begin with, right? 
Jesus, Mulder. I thought you trusted me enough to let me handle this."


"This has nothing to do with trust, Jack. Nothing. It has to do with you, 
and what's been going on with you. I know you've been obsessing over 
the Cleveland case. I know how many revised profiles you've sent to 
Cleveland PD. I know how radically different they've all been. You're 
shooting in the dark on this one. You didn't have a handle on it before and 
you don't have one on it now. All the signs are there. You shouldn't be on 
the case. And Patterson agreed."


Jack just glared at him, fists clenched, jaw working. Furious. Crazy. 
Mulder was suddenly terrified. Why was this case so important to him?


"I have a career to protect!  What gave you the right!"


"Friendship!"  Mulder retorted, finally becoming angry in return.  "A 
blocked tailpipe and you, two steps from making the biggest mistake of 
your life," he added, quietly.


"Goddammit, Mulder, did you tell Patterson about that, too?"


Mulder stood up, angry.


"Of course I didn't. But you said you'd tell me if you...you said you'd talk 
to me, Jack. Hell, I didn't need to do much convincing. Bill saw how you 
were."


"And you saw how I was that night, and that gives you the right to dictate 
my life to me. You can hold that over my head for the rest of your life."


"Jack -"


"Who's on Cleveland now, Mulder? You? High-profile enough for you?"


"That's not fair," Mulder said. Jack stabbed a finger at him.


"You come near me again and I'll lay every nightmare, every panic attack 
I've nursed you through on the table.  I'll make sure everyone in the 
Bureau knows just how spooky 'Spooky' Mulder really is. You'll be 
finished."


"Jack, we've been friends.  Good friends.  Don't do this."


"Stay the fuck away from me!"  With that, Special Agent Jack Caulfield 
turned and walked out of Fox Mulder's personal life.  


Mulder could only hope Jack's outburst was the culmination of a very bad 
week, something they could, one day, both agree to forget.


* * * * * * * * *


SIX WEEKS LATER
"No Chief Webster, I don't think it would help for me to fly to Louisville.  
The best I've got to offer at this time has already been faxed," Mulder 
insisted, wearily.  "We're going to have to wait for the lab on this one."


Mulder rolled his eyes, listening politely as the Kentucky officer 
continued to lay out the reasons he felt the boys at Quantico should place 
his case at the top of their priority list.  The thank you call regarding the 
preliminary profile had been a ruse to get past the regional coordinator 
and through to Mulder's extension.


"Need me to ring the doorbell?" a familiar voice whispered.


Mulder looked up into the slightly bemused face of someone who'd been 
a stranger of late.  He smiled in return, motioning his visitor to take a 
seat.


"Yes, Chief.  Thanks for your call."  Mulder hung the phone up, shaking 
his head.


"They never change do they, Mulder."


"I can't blame him.  He's desperate.  Waiting's hard."  Mulder stared at 
Jack Caulfield, a Jack whose face had aged since the last time they had 
both been in this office. 


"Aren't you going to say anything?"


"You look tired, Jack."


"Everyone else says I look great."


Mulder shrugged.


"I couldn't take it anymore."


"Take what?"  Mulder asked.


Jack was studying the floor, finding it hard to look into Mulder's face.  
Finally he found the courage, his blue eyes finding salvation in the 
compassionate gaze that met his own.  


"I'm sorry," he offered humbly.  "Dammit Mulder, you've been nothing 
but a good friend to me.  It just pissed me off to have you pushing, 
prying...pressuring."


"I have to know if you're okay." 


"Of course, I'm okay.  I never stay down for long." 


Mulder stared at Caulfield, not quite sure whether to buy into Jack's 
assertion that all was right with his world.  


"If I had any problems, you'd be the first to know.  A promise is a 
promise."


Mulder sat back in his chair, mentally exhaling.  Those were the very 
words he'd ached to hear; Jack confirming that he remembered their 
agreement and would continue to honor it.  Mulder's trust had been badly 
shaken, but not misplaced.  The fact Caulfield was here at all, sharing 
sensitive information, was a step toward where they had once been, the 
best of friends.  There was just one more thing Mulder had to know.


"What about Patt..."


"Patterson suspects I had some shaky weeks, he can't prove anything."


"You think he'll leave it alone?"


"I really don't want to talk about this, okay?  It's over."


An awkward silence enveloped the small office.  As if in an attempt to 
push the mood back in the positive direction he'd envisioned, Jack 
reached over and gently slapped Mulder against the shoulder in the 
traditional 'good old boy' sign of affection.


"Thanks for hanging in there with me.  I appreciate it."


Mulder grinned.  It felt good to have Jack back.  In time, the warm 
relationship that had been important to them both, the port to which each 
sailed when cases threatened to bring them to their knees, might return.  
Hell, it felt like it was back already.  God knows he'd missed having Jack 
in his life.


"How about we catch up over dinner?  My treat." 


"As long as it's not Dairy Queen," Jack warned.  "I've got a couple of new 
cases I'd like to run by you for gut reactions and brilliant insights.  You 
know, your usual."


"Sure," Mulder laughed.  "And I've got some for you...cases you won't 
believe.  Wild stuff.  Damn fascinating."


* * * * * * * * *


Years later, long after ISU experiences had become bittersweet memory, 
Mulder would remember the argument Jack staged in his apartment as a 
time when he'd blown it.  Mulder had allowed a situation to ride when he 
should have immediately pushed for the truth with the same diligence that 
was to become his signature.  He'd been wrong to let Jack Caulfield 
disappear, even temporarily, out of his world.  Had he pressed harder, 
Jack's future might have turned out differently.


Eventually the trail on the Cleveland case grew cold.  Other world events 
occurred that replaced the deaths of a few young Ohioans as the lead 
story on CNN.  Jack faded out of public scrutiny and back to the blessed 
obscurity of his daily job.  When the department's burgeoning workload 
grew too complex for Patterson to manage single-handedly, Caulfield was 
tapped to serve as assistant unit chief.  


Mulder grew increasingly preoccupied with cases he dubbed X Files.  
Brilliant performances in ISU, combined with ongoing enmity toward Bill 
Patterson,  prompted Director Blevins to approve full time reassignment 
to a new division devoted to the cases no one but Mulder wanted.  


Other agents scorned the work as a total waste of time and resources.  
Mulder had earned his freedom to pursue situations that captured his 
imagination and removed anomalies from society.   He took advantage of 
the offer when it came.


Jack Caulfield didn't care what anyone else thought, the kid was thriving 
in his new environment.  Mulder insisted during a shared lunch here, a 
shared dinner there, that panic attacks and nightmares had virtually 
disappeared as a part of his everyday life.  On his own, doing what fed the 
fire in his soul, being Spooky didn't seem to bother Mulder a bit.  
Caulfield was seeing the young man as he'd never known him; 
consistently healthier than the years they'd shared in ISU.


Mulder was glad to see Jack putting the pain of Cleveland and personal 
problems behind him, once again becoming a well respected member of 
the ISU team.  


Slowly, without intent, as a byproduct of days that never had enough 
hours, Mulder and Caulfield drifted apart.  They attempted to catch up on 
one another's lives at basketball games, promised to catch a baseball 
game when the chance arose.  Chances rarely did.


And then they didn't at all.


Jack Caulfield disappeared from Mulder's life, becoming a warm memory 
of what had been.  


When Jack reappeared, years hence, it would be as a statistic. A 
confirmed suicide. Or was it? Shit.
***************
P R E S E N T
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
She knew what to expect as she stood in the hallway outside Mulder's 
hospital room. She prepared herself, anticipated the response that would 
flood over her as soon as she saw him. Prepared herself to ignore it. Keep 
her feet on solid ground, ready with the ladder for when he was ready to 
haul himself out of the pit.


She was ready for what she saw, yet still it made her reel. She was 
grateful that he wasn't awake. It gave her time to take it in, absorb the 
scene, add it to her memories, store it away for her nightmares.


The blood transfusion was over. Just an IV feeding into him. She noted 
the restraints that held his wrists to the sides of the bed, the tapes that held 
the IV tap securely in position. Not just glucose and saline in the mix 
then. He wasn't asleep, he was unconscious, held under by some sedative. 
She picked up the chart from the end of the bed, studied the medication. 
It would be a while before the restraints had anything to restrain, they 
were probably just there to stop him fidgeting and dislodging the IV.


She looked over his body, shivered at the bandage that ran from wrist to 
elbow. She looked at his face, no peace in his features, no relaxation. 
Dark smudges on pale skin. He'd scarcely slept in days. He wasn't 
sleeping now.


She memorized the key data from the chart and left the room.


When Walter Skinner arrived thirty minutes later he found her in the 
waiting room staring into a cup of cold coffee.


"Agent Scully."


She looked up, startled to hear a familiar voice, immediately understood 
that she shouldn't be startled, of course Skinner would come. She read his 
look of surprise. Why would he be surprised to find her here?


Skinner spoke again. "Has something happened, Agent Scully? I'd 
expected you to be with Mulder."


Ahh, now she understood his surprise. She hadn't stuck to the rules, not 
hovered at the bedside. Not followed Mulder blindly into hell. "He's 
unconscious, Sir. They've got him heavily sedated. I don't expect him to 
come around for a while and I doubt he'll be lucid when he does wake 
up."


Skinner nodded and frowned. "Do you understand this? Why this 
happened? Why now?"


"I believe it stems from Mulder's feelings of guilt over Jack Caulfield's 
death." She was proud of the clarity of her words, the accuracy of her 
response, the tone of her voice. Just like giving evidence in court.


Skinner listened in silence, not bothering to mask his horror, as Dana 
Scully briefly recounted the visit to Patterson and the bombshell of Jack's 
previously attempted suicide.


* * * * * * * * *


Mulder had woken up. Almost woken up. Brain and body were 
screaming, that was the only thing they seemed to be able to agree on. 
The world was dull and out of focus. His body, lifeless and numb. His 
thoughts unsteady.


He tried to move his hands, but they wouldn't oblige. He looked down at 
them, blurred moving pictures. A bed, wrists restrained. Panic. 
Despairing, panicking, thrashing pointlessly. Then pain, in his arms, in 
his head, in his arm. God, what was wrong with his arm, that pain. Then a 
shadow standing over him, a syringe, then a cold, hot burning sensation in 
his arm and falling, a buzzing in the head and a falling. And a quiet 
world, where waves lapped on the shore and nothing could be done.


Dana Scully spoke quietly with the young Doctor who'd given him the 
shot, was it just her or were Doctors getting younger? "Was that 
necessary? It's not as if he was going anywhere."


"It's only Valium, Miss Scully. It'll give him time to recover, to relax, he's 
exhausted. We won't use anything more powerful during the day unless 
he's in danger. But he needs the rest if he's going to be strong enough to 
come to terms with this."


Scully bit back her reaction. It still looked like a preemptive strike to her. 
But she'd already spoken to the other staff. Heard how he'd arrived, 
unconscious through loss of blood and in shock. Then waking up 
screaming, trying to get out of bed. Even that weak, still wired high 
enough to produce a surge of energy that could frighten his care-givers. 
They had subdued him, overpowered him easily enough. Restrained him 
as he argued, as he demanded. Produced syringes of liquid compliance, 
pushed him under.


He was still awake. Maybe that was the word for it. She moved closer. 


"Mulder?"


He tried to focus his eyes on her face or at least, lock onto the source of 
the noise. Found that both actions were beyond him. He swallowed and 
tried to form words, but none came.


"It's okay, Mulder. You don't need to talk, not yet, you're going to be all 
right but you need to get some rest. They're just trying to make sure you 
get some rest."


His brain tried to surface through the murky water. Then he got it, 
remembered how to talk. "He got me. But he let me go. I called..." His 
words tailed off.


"Why didn't you call me? I'd have helped." She tried to keep the hurt out 
of her voice but she was having a tough time.


"Called 911."


"Why didn't you call me before you did this. Why?"


"You don't understand. He attacked me. I... I don't understand why he let 
me survive. But he did."


"I understand." She said softly. And she did. Of course she did. A 
nightmare so real, he'd acted it out.


Then he heard it, the cotton wool in his head thinned out for just long 
enough for him to hear it. That calm in her voice. That dispassionate, 
professional bedside manner. He fought back against it. "Scully. I didn't 
do this. I wouldn't do this."


"Mulder. Just get some rest. We'll talk later."


Her quietly solid impersonal tones terrified him, even through the haze he 
fought against it. Pulled uselessly on the restraints, desperately trying to 
sit up, to talk to her on equal terms. "I didn't do this. I did not try and kill 
myself. If I'd tried I would have succeeded."


Of course, she could believe that. Not an attempt absolutely intended to 
succeed. He carried a gun, two guns. He even carried a scalpel to take 
newspaper cuttings, scrapings at scenes of crime, an occupational nicety. 
A utility knife was messy, painful, but not a hundred percent guarantee of 
death. Called 911 himself. A cry for help. Let fate and EMT response 
times and the DC traffic choose whether he would live or die.


The same professional caring tone. "Rest, Mulder. You'll damage the 
stitches by pulling like that."


"How can I? Someone's trying to kill me."


"The stitches." A firmer warning in her voice.


He was flying high now, adrenaline winning the battle against the 
tranquilizers. "Fuck the stitches. You want to talk about a few stitches 
when someone's trying to kill me?"


"Forty stitches." She said grimly and then surveyed the panel and pressed 
the button for assistance.


It took less than a minute for the fresh injection of sedative to kick in. He 
collapsed deep into the bed, body and brain falling out of the real world. 
"You don't understand." Final words, before the world disappeared.


* * * * * * * * *


Scully had kept herself busy. She kept up on the Richmond case, worked 
on tests and fresh forensic evidence. Tidied the papers and assorted mess 
at Mulder's apartment. Arranged for cleaners to deal with the blood stains 
on the carpets and furniture.


A couple of days had passed since the incident and she steeled herself for 
yet another hospital visit. He would probably be awake. She tried to think 
of a good way to delay the trip until he was asleep. But that would be 
wrong. She was never that weak.


She arrived at his room, got an encouraging nod from the nurse watching 
the monitor screens and went in. She wished she hadn't. His arms were 
still in restraints. The auxiliary was feeding him his meal. Dana hastily 
tried to excuse herself.


She wasn't quick enough. He tensed, twisted his head away from the 
auxiliary. "Don't go."


"I'll be back in a minute. After you've eaten."


"I don't want to eat anything more." He turned to the staff member, who 
spotted his distress but chose not to fight it. She'd let him have that much 
freedom. She'd write it down on the file. She nodded her head and walked 
out of the room.


Scully stood in the doorway, unwilling to approach. Mulder closed his 
eyes and turned away from her, giving her breathing space. She hesitated 
and took another deep breath, then walked forward to sit beside the bed.


She cleared her throat. "I've sorted out some things at your apartment."


He looked around at her, suddenly expectant. "Did you find anything?"


She groaned a little. He was still claiming to be attacked then. She'd 
hoped that by now...no matter. She would tell him the truth. 


"Nothing you weren't really expecting. There was a lot of blood, the knife 
was still there, no signs the door had been forced, some furniture 
disturbed. Nothing that couldn't have been done by you stumbling or by 
the EMT crew."


He nodded and closed his eyes again. "What about the wound pattern? 
Maybe we can get something from that. Making this length and depth of 
cut with a utility knife on yourself is really hard. Making it with the left 
hand on the right arm is just about impossible. You should be able to tell 
from the angles."


She felt like screaming, but she tried to keep her voice calm. "You were 
in too much need of emergency help. They didn't have time to take any 
pictures. There was no need." Because you don't have to study suicide 
attempts from high definition images, she finished silently.


"Scully." Quiet despair in his voice. "If I was asking you these questions 
about a stranger lying in this bed, you'd help me investigate. But because 
it's me..."


She stood up. "That's just it. It's not a stranger. It's you, the man I watched 
fall apart for weeks." And didn't do anything about, she added to herself. 
This was going to be a slow and painful recovery for both of them. But 
they would recover. She was determined about that. No lies between 
them, no platitudes, no more. 


* * * * * * * * *


It had taken days in the hospital, days since the incident that had brought 
him here, days to come to this point. He closed his eyes as the bitterness 
raced through, fighting to hold the reaction back, to maintain the pretense. 
Apathy. First of all, real drug-induced apathy. Now, feigned-for-his-
audience's-benefit apathy. Quiet. Had to stay quiet.


Shouting and getting angry hadn't helped. As he studied it with the grim 
detachment of isolation he understood now that it had stood no chance of 
helping. The reactions had been suppressed with another shot of 
something stronger 'to make the pain go away Mr. Mulder' before he hurt 
himself. It hadn't seemed foolish at the time, but then his brain had been 
full of terror and drunk on their drugs. Not easy to think straight.


Pleading hadn't helped. Such desperation in his tone, people had sensed a 
panic attack building and chosen to anticipate.


So now he kept still, stayed quiet, kept below the defenses. Took the 
Valium like a good boy. Neglected to mention how little impact the 
dosage was having. They'd removed the restraints. But he had to stay in 
bed. A choice, sit up or lie down. And don't disturb the IV. He looked 
bitterly at the tube. He was eating and drinking now, feeding himself now 
they'd removed the restraints. The IV was a convenience for blasting him 
full of whatever drug they wanted in him next.


A case conference scheduled. And he'd been making such good progress. 
If he'd just admit that he'd attempted suicide. If he would just stop making 
claims about some mystery attacker. So much easier. Might not even need 
further in-patient treatment. Voluntary committal. So much easier.


The Doctors and Scully all agreed. Best if he just came out and told the 
truth.


Scully told him brightly about preparing his apartment for his return 
home. Told him not to worry about the Bureau. Just get well. Then think 
about work.


He unclenched his fist before he tore the stitches again.


Whatever it took. Whatever he needed to do to get out of here. He would 
do it. Present himself as others wanted him to be. Lie if he had to. Be 
invisible. Fly under the radar.


* * * * * * * * *


The Richmond case was up there on Quantico's list of high profile work. 
Spooky's much anticipated, yet still (when it finally happened) 
unexpected, breakdown was top of the gossip charts. Either way, Dana 
Scully found being the center of attention not at all to her liking. She 
could really do without the sympathetic glances and those coy, evaluating 
on-the-fly appraisals of her mental and emotional condition.


Carlson, the ISU profiler working the case, was sitting across the table 
from her ready to review the forensic and autopsy data. He was more 
honest than most. He looked her straight in the eye when he spoke and 
asked her the question most others were too spineless to ask. 


"How's Mulder? And how are you?" 


She answered with customary platitudes, but then noticed something in 
his eyes. She looked harder at Carlson. Was he actually upset? 


"Did you know Mulder?" 


She bit her lip. She'd used the past tense. She let herself off the hook for 
the slip-up. There was always going to be a before the suicide attempt and 
an after the attempt line drawn in her view of Mulder now.


The Agent nodded. "Sure. Well, as much as he let people know him. I 
rode shotgun for him on a few cases when he was in ISU. I thought he 
was indestructible."


Scully suddenly realized that she wanted to talk to someone about 
Mulder. A stranger but not a stranger like the Bureau counselors they 
kept trying to send her to. A stranger who knew Mulder, who liked him, 
was upset about him. Not someone who avoided talking about him, 
avoided talking like the way they avoided taking about someone who'd 
died. So, she made Carlson talk. He seemed hesitant at first, then relaxed 
as he started to tell her about his dealings with her partner way back 
before the X-Files.


"Like watching the Energizer bunny.... didn't sleep until he fell 
over....didn't eat unless he could hold the food in his hand while he was 
driving... would just fade out on you while you were talking to him....then 
he'd make something out of nothing, close the case and while you were 
still packing your dirty laundry he'd be looking like he'd just walked off 
some designer catwalk and cracking jokes... "


She listened as Carlson talked, hearing the words and reminding herself 
of cases. Jack's death had hit Mulder hard. Understandably so; he felt 
responsible. But there had been other deaths, other losses, other guilt trips 
he'd launched himself on. She thought of his chase for a gargoyle called 
Bill Patterson. Just working. Just the way he worked. She thought of what 
Mulder had told her of ISU, about nightmares and blackouts, because 'it 
was the job, nothing more'. What if it was the job? What if there was just 
the smallest possibility that he was telling the truth this time? He would 
have no way to prove it. Only she would.


* * * * * * * * *


Dana Scully couldn't believe the sight that greeted her when she arrived at 
the hospital.


Scully talked to the most senior of the Doctors. She'd had to switch off 
her 'friend of the patient' manner to do it and insisted that the consultant 
talk to Dr. Scully, FBI Special Agent. The junior staff member she'd been 
dealing with all week quaked at the change, withdrew and led her to their 
chief.


She cringed at her own behavior, but she needed someone with more 
authority. Their boss, Dr. Allen, hadn't even been around when her 
partner had flipped from passive, almost submissive patient into angry, 
paranoid FBI agent. Violent, too. He'd tried to get away, run from the 
room. When he couldn't force the door, he'd gone to the window, tearing 
at the bars. The video camera had the frenzy recorded for posterity. The 
nurse on suicide watch had spotted the activity in room 3 as soon as he 
left the bed. The team had been there within a couple of minutes.


She watched the film, saw the blood on his hands where he'd pulled away 
from the IV. Blood on his arm where the stitches had torn, again. On his 
fingers where he'd wrenched off a fingernail as he tried to get to the 
window. Scully looked through the observation window. The blood was 
gone now, all cleaned up. New bandages. Fresh bruises on face and hands 
from a futile battle with four auxiliaries.


Dr. Allen pointed out the chain of events. Mulder waking up anxious, 
drinking water. Fidgeting. Violent rocking movements, twisting in the 
bed, wringing his hands. Startled, tear-filled eyes. Then that panic, sheer 
blind panic, that threw him out of bed into a frenzy that sent him 
careering into the wall even before he attempted to get through the door. 
Scully watched, feeling weak tremors run through her knees and set her 
hands shaking. She watched the auxiliaries overpower him, restraints not 
just on his wrists now, but on his chest and ankles as well. Watched the 
contents of the syringe knock the fight out of him.


Dr. Allen was businesslike but gentle. "I understand how it must seem. 
Yesterday, everyone was hopeful. But he was still denying that he'd tried 
to kill himself. I don't doubt that he's an intelligent man and I'm told that 
he has psychological training. It can be a dangerous thing at times like 
this. He understood what we wanted, so he tried to give it us. So we 
dropped our guard, removed the restraints, reduced the drugs. He couldn't 
keep it up, it was costing him too much to keep it in. In the end it was like 
watching the valve on a pressure cooker blow."


Scully nodded, unconvinced. It wasn't right. That loss of control. So 
extreme. So much terror. It didn't gel. Somehow, she didn't want to 
believe.


She chose her words carefully. "Dr. Allen. I'd like to discuss the 
medication. I'm concerned that the event may have been a reaction to one 
of the drugs."


"A reaction?" The Doctor sighed and picked up the chart, there had been 
no contra indications. "Well, you're welcome to look. But basically he's 
been on that combination of tranquilizers and sleeping pills for several 
days. The dosage was being tapered off. I'm sorry."


Scully stopped herself from rocking from foot to foot. Forced herself to 
sit still, calm, confident. "I'd like to have a sample of his blood analyzed. 
I have some concerns."


"Concerns?"


"Sir. I appreciate that this is an unusual request but I feel I must insist. If 
there is any possibility, however remote, that he was drugged, that a 
crime has been committed while Agent Mulder was under hospital 
supervision I'm sure you'd want to know."


Dr. Allen nodded. "Of course." He paused. "Don't get your hopes up, 
Agent Scully."


"I won't. Thank you, Sir."


She photocopied the chart documenting Mulder's prescribed drugs, 
thanked the nurse for the blood sample she took and walked away, saying 
a silent goodbye to her unconscious partner.


Scully didn't even know what she was doing. Was she empathizing so 
much with her partner that she would leap to this conclusion? Was she so 
desperate to believe that Mulder hadn't lost his mind that she was 
ignoring her objectivity? If the FBI lab couldn't find anything, there was 
nothing to be found. But if they found something, then it wasn't so hard to 
imagine that he'd been attacked in his own apartment. Scully wondered 
what she hoped.


* * * * * * * * *


Mulder recoiled as the door was unlocked. He felt awake, as awake as 
he'd been in days. But a cold dread built in his stomach as he heard the 
door open. A visitor or a nurse arriving now. Could the next dose of 
something to shut him up be far behind? Not for the first time, he closed 
his eyes and willed himself to do nothing.


Scully entered. He recognized her walk and her scent. Scully was the 
most frightening visitor of all. He kept his eyes shut. Her voice, soft 
spoken, that same bedside manner but today there was something else, 
too. He tried to focus on her almost nervous tone and opened his eyes. 


"Mulder. Are you awake?"


He didn't reply but she saw his eyes open. Her voice fluttered. "Keep still 
for a minute, I want to get the straps off you but I don't want to hurt you."


He heard the words but didn't understand them. Then he felt the restraints 
disappear from his wrists. He looked at her, too nervous to ask what was 
happening.


Dana Scully was trying to keep calm. "I've just gotten the blood tests 
back. Someone drugged you yesterday. An hallucinogen, a very powerful 
one. Someone will come and remove the IV."


As if on cue the nurse arrived. Scully looked like she wanted to say more, 
but she just turned and left. The nurse made short work of the IV tap and 
catheters and medical paraphernalia that littered the room. 


Mulder had still not said anything, scared that any words might break the 
spell. Dana Scully returned to his side as soon as the nurse left. "Skinner's 
going to come over. We should be able to get the investigation going 
right away."  


Mulder tried to reply but it took several attempts before any words 
arrived. "I want to shower and get dressed before I see him."


"You'll need help. You've still got a lot of drugs in your system and 
you've been in bed for a week. You could get dizzy and fall."


It was starting to make sense, he was starting to understand. A bundle of 
raw nerves now, his voice rose sharply. "Then I'll get dizzy and fall." He 
heard the anguished tone in his words, corrected himself, softened his 
voice. "Please, could you find my clothes?"


"But the Doctor will want to see you, you aren't formally discharged yet."


Still softly spoken, tightly controlled. "Scully, this isn't a good time for a 
lecture."


She nodded her head, accepting the inevitable and went looking for 
clothes while he moved very slowly and unsteadily to find the shower.


Half an hour later and he was ready to talk. Clean and shampooed and 
shaved and back in his own clothes. These were the clothes that Scully 
had brought in optimistic anticipation from his apartment, days ago, 
during a frenzy of 'trying to do something' activity, days ago when she 
had no reason for optimism. Scully watched him now. Mulder noted her 
stare and guessed what she was seeing. Pale skin, dark marks under the 
shiny, unfocused eyes. Bruised hands from puncture wounds and from 
strong hands pinning him down to fasten the restraints. The bottom edge 
of a bandage on his scarred right arm visible at the cuff of the shirt. The 
finger that had lost a nail covered over.


He carefully questioned Scully on the blood test results and tried to pay 
attention to the replies. In a way the answers didn't matter; they were just 
symptoms. He was the only one who could explain the disease that would 
identify the killer, identify his attacker. They believed him now and that 
was all that really counted. Now he could go after Jack Caulfield's killer. 
A killer who had decided to play a game of cat and mouse.


Skinner could scarcely believe what he was hearing. A tightly argued 
profile on a killer who Mulder believed was escalating, a killer out of 
control. Yet the escalation had taken the most bizarre turn of all. 
According to Mulder the UNSUB was escalating not by increasing the 
rate of killing or the frenzy of attacks but by selecting a new kind of 
target and taking it slow. And now, by keeping his victim alive.


* * * * * * * * *


Mulder sat up in the hospital bed. He remembered lying down in here, 
wanting a few minutes to steady himself, regain his balance, to let his 
stomach recover from the violent contractions that had sent him choking 
into the bathroom. He remembered that he'd decided to lie down for a few 
minutes and now, according to his watch, three hours had passed. He 
analyzed his situation. No restraints, no IV's, no watchers, all good signs. 
Scully's wake-up call and the meeting with Skinner hadn't just been fever 
dreams then. Fully clothed, another good sign, it suggested he was going 
to be formally discharged. No one had wanted to turn him back into a 
patient. Scully must have fought off the staff to let him lie on the bed with 
his clothes on. He smiled at that. Scully fighting for him, again.


His head was still swimming. A grim mix of drugged drunkenness and 
hangover and nausea was still in control of his body. It would be a day or 
two before all the crap was out of his system. The sleep had helped.


Scully was smiling when she came through the door. "Back in the land of 
the living?"


"Yes, yes." He waved his arms in acknowledgment. "I know. You told me 
so. You said I'd get dizzy if I moved around too fast, too soon."


She nodded and smiled again, then sobered up sharply, speaking almost 
nervously unsure what his reaction would be. "The Agents Skinner sent 
are here to see you. Lannighan and Krensky from VCS."


"Good name for a music hall act." 


Mulder winced, he'd told Skinner he wanted to handle the case himself. 
Skinner had refused. Inevitable under the circumstances, but frustrating, 
agonizing. And worse still, he wasn't even ready to talk to the 
investigating team. Three in one -- victim, sole witness, profiler. None of 
the alter egos was in a position to give evidence. He looked gloomily at 
his bruised hands, the bandages and the band aids and decided he'd rather 
not shake hands. He'd do the interview, no choice. If he was investigating 
he'd want the witness fresh. No choice. Wouldn't do them any good 
though.


He knew both Agents. He'd worked with Krensky. Decent and hard 
working, certainly. Inspired and intuitive, no. Mulder admired Skinner's 
selections, admired it in an abstract disconnected sort of way. Safe pairs 
of hands. No history of battles with Spooky but not part of the fan club, 
the favor-swapping circle. Good choices.


Mulder looked around the room and decided he'd rather be interviewed 
on less emotionally-charged territory. They moved to neutral ground, a 
quiet bay in the hospital cafeteria, Mulder carefully trying to control the 
agenda by warning them that he remembered very little and that it would 
be better to try tomorrow when the drugs had cleared from his system. He 
was rewarded with wry 'come on Mulder, you know the score' smiles.


They were asking all the right questions, as was to be expected from safe 
pairs of hands. Mulder tried and failed to give the right answers. Even the 
simplest question seemed to lead to a set of agendas Mulder couldn't 
afford to discuss.


"Why wasn't the door bolted or chained?"


"I took a sleeping pill and forgot to do it."


"You're the most paranoid man I know, you wouldn't forget." 


Krensky was right, Mulder knew it and winced at the statement. Well it's 
like this. Agent Scully was watching over me like my baby sitter and she 
waited until I was too out of it to walk to the door before leaving. "I had a 
visitor, I fell asleep."


"The visitor's name?"


"Agent Scully. And you can knock off the look. We were working late."


"Right." A raised eyebrow.


"Fuck off."


Krensky moved back to business, strictly the facts. "You didn't hear your 
attacker come in."


"I was asleep, I'd taken a pill."


"From what I remember of you in ISU, one pill wouldn't have kept you 
down."


Mulder shrugged. "I'm not one of Patterson's junkies any more. I've lost 
my tolerance. And I'm not as young as I used to be."


Krensky nodded and offered an encouraging smile. "Not as wired, either. 
Even so, you were with Patterson the day before. Agent Scully said you 
were distressed by the meeting."


"When did she say that?"


"Here, the morning you were brought in."


Mulder studied the floor. "Not distressed enough to imagine being 
attacked or to find and take an hallucinogen five days later in here."


"Hey man. I'm not saying that. Just asking, was it only one pill?"


"I had a headache that was frying me, I was taking Tylenol. I had muscle 
cramps, I took a relaxant. I took a sleeping pill. Take my word for it. I 
was out of it."


Mulder acknowledged the expressions of the two Agents. The FBI 
patented, 'well that's all very interesting but there's nothing we can do 
with what you've told us', look. 


Mulder shrugged. "I know there's nothing useful. If I knew anything 
useful I'd tell you."


Krensky sighed. "We'll start inquiries at your apartment, ask neighbors 
and stuff, you know the routine. If you remember anything, a stalker, 
someone who's made threats. Yeah, well you know what we need."


"You need to start here, at the hospital. No one at the complex will 
remember him. But we might get him on the hospital security footage. 
They've got cameras all around the place."


The Agents nodded and left.


Mulder looked at Scully for the first time in quite a while. "Well, that 
went well. Interesting reading for Skinner in the morning." 


She frowned.


* * * * * * * * *


Mulder tried to keep the tremor out of his movements as he walked up the 
steps to his apartment. Eyes downcast, he forced his hands to unclench, to 
search his pockets for keys. Dana Scully moved forward, her spare keys 
in hand. Mulder flinched, twitched away from her offer to help, then 
sighed deeply and stood back to let her through. He could find his own 
keys later.


He avoided making eye contact with the two neighbors as they passed in 
the hall. How much did they know of what had gone on? Enough to have 
seen the ambulance, the police, the cleaning firm. Someone would have 
asked the visitors what had happened and been told about the attempted 
suicide in 42, another page in the diary of Mulder-provoked nightmares in 
the building. Maybe he really should move to some new place, spread a 
little joy somewhere else in the city.


Scully stood at the opposite side of the elevator. He recognized her 
action, her attempt to minimize the intrusion. It wasn't working. He'd 
spent days of being hovered over, monitored, watched. He needed to be 
alone. His stomach was churning, his mouth felt dry. He'd told her in the 
car that she didn't need to come in but she'd insisted. In a way he 
understood. He knew it had to be done. There had been an attempt on his 
life, a safe house had been suggested. Guards had been offered and 
rejected. He'd look after himself. Now he knew he was in danger. He 
knew how to look after himself. Now he wasn't restrained in a hospital 
bed or blasted full of drugs. He'd look after himself.


He stood in silence, trying to will Dana Scully to read his thoughts, to 
understand his need to be alone. 


He was concentrating now, thinking hard about the apartment and what 
he would see. He remembered the blood. Not easy to forget the blood. It 
was burned into his memory. There probably wasn't as much blood as he 
remembered. If there had been, he probably wouldn't have been alive 
when he got to hospital. But it didn't take a lot of blood to stain a lot of 
things. Scully had called in a cleaning firm, specialists in the management 
of scenes of violence. Cleaning up after murders, accidents, suicides. He'd 
almost cried when he heard that. No chance to investigate the crime 
scene. The crime had been washed away in a sea of disinfectant. He 
hadn't cried, he couldn't, he dared not. Another reason to be alone.


He opened the door and stood for a moment in the doorway, allowing his 
eyes to adjust to the light and to take in the scene. The room swept into 
his consciousness with a painful surge. The rug had gone, presumably 
damaged beyond repair. More startling was what else was missing. The 
sterile gap it had left behind and the emergency room smell that hung 
over the place.


Scully breathed in sharply, suddenly aware that she hadn't prepared him 
for this. She hadn't prepared herself for this. She was too excited just to 
get him home. She'd already started to forget those frantic hours after 
she'd first seen Mulder in the hospital, the hours when she'd moved like a 
whirlwind to do anything, anything to keep herself busy, keep her 
thoughts away from her partner lying sedated in a hospital bed. She had 
some talking to do. She slipped past him and told him that she would fix 
some coffee.


Mulder slammed the door and leaned back against it. He dropped the 
suitcase unceremoniously to the floor and kicked it out of the way. He 
toured the apartment, opening windows and doors. It smelled of hospitals, 
of phenol and chlorine and the sickening scent of artificial wilderness. 
Patchouli oil, supposed to mask the acrid antiseptic smells but just adding 
one more level of pungency. Patchouli, he hated fucking patchouli.


His eyes searched the room. It looked wrong. It smelled wrong. Where 
was everything? His files, videos, photos, books, missing things. He 
finally made his way to the kitchen door and supplied the one word 
question. "So?"


Scully turned to try and face him but found it too hard to look into his 
eyes so she studied the floor. "Jack's videos and files are at my place. The 
other files are either there or in the office."


Mulder nodded. His voice a model of control. "Thank you. I'll get them 
tomorrow. Now, I'd really like to have the place to myself."


"Please. Please let me help you. Let me get you some food. You don't 
have to be alone."


Mulder's voice took on an icy edge. "I do have to be alone."


"What are you going to do?"


"Nothing."


"Please. I know you're upset."


He took one deep breath, then another, then another. What did she want 
from him? Then he sensed it. She was waiting for the anger. She wanted 
to hear him lash out. She thought she deserved it. How did it come to 
this? He hesitated. She wants the truth, okay, a sample then.


One last chance, he kept his voice soft. "Go home Scully. I need to be 
alone. Thank you for getting me out of the hospital."


"I have to know you'll be okay."


Mulder tensed, then relaxed, giving in to it. Okay. She could have what 
she wanted. She could have a glimpse of the way it felt. His voice was 
steady, definite, soft, absolutely insistent. "Let me explain my plans for 
my big night. I'm going to take a shower. Several in fact, until I can't 
smell hospitals in my hair. I'm going to drink coffee and iced tea and 
anything else that contains caffeine. I'm going to eat some food that 
actually tastes like food. I'm going to slump on my couch in front of the 
TV until I fall asleep from tiredness or boredom. I'm going to go to the 
bathroom without an attendant, without any video cameras. Then in the 
morning I'll get up and go to work to get the files and ignore the stares 
and try and act like I belong there." He paused. "Okay? Is that angry 
enough for you? Like I'm in touch with my feelings? It would be better if 
we spoke tomorrow."


She nodded, picked up her jacket and walked out of the apartment.                          


He locked the door and closed his eyes.


* * * * * * * * *


Mulder and Scully sat quietly as Skinner prowled the office. Skinner's 
discomfort was obvious. Mulder was disturbingly calm, reactions firmly 
battened down, concentrating hard on not making mistakes. Scully felt 
like the fifth wheel.


Skinner had started the discussion by suggesting Mulder take a vacation, 
then suggesting a request for medical leave would be favorably received 
and then having had the offers rejected Skinner had suspended him 
pending a full psychological and physical evaluation. Mulder had sat 
through it all, politely insistent that such steps were unnecessary. The lack 
of emotion in Mulder's voice apparently enraged Skinner all the more.


Mulder watched Skinner, casually recording the phrasing, the nervous 
gestures, understanding Skinner's interpretation of the events. He thought 
back to Jack's funeral and Skinner's worried looks, even back then. When 
Skinner had been told of the attempted suicide he'd believed it, one 
hundred percent. Even today, Skinner still believed it, maybe not 
absolutely  literally, but close enough. Skinner had read Lannighan and 
Krensky's reports, heard Mulder's taped interview.


Days ago he'd heard from Scully that Mulder had failed to help Jack 
Caulfield when it mattered. Skinner could see that Mulder was on a 
dangerous track and he was determined that he would not make the same 
mistake Mulder had. Yes, Mulder understood Skinner.


Skinner watched Mulder now, waiting for the speech for the defense.


Mulder opened smoothly, pointing out that the posting of an indefinite 
suspension would lead to him having to surrender his gun, in effect 
leaving him defenseless. 


Skinner stopped pacing, suddenly looking confused as if he'd forgotten 
that his Agent actually had been attacked. Had he forgotten or did he still 
not quite believe it?


Mulder paused to let Skinner catch up with his thoughts, then he moved 
on again. Mulder was the key witness on the assault. He was also the 
best-placed analyst to consider Jack's theory of a serial killer. Most 
significantly, the X-Files partners were the only team with a proven track 
record on this kind of multi-stranded case.


Skinner stared at Scully.


Scully looked back, a cool direct gaze. "Agent Mulder's absolutely right, 
Sir. Lannighan and Krensky are good Agents but this looks like a case 
that may need a history and insight that they don't possess."


Skinner took a deep breath and sat back down.


They negotiated the suspension down to three days, assuming that Mulder 
would no longer show any residue of the drugs used on him beyond that 
time. The insistence on psychological and medical evaluation remained in 
place along with a requirement for gun re-certification because of the 
damage to his arm. Mulder had frowned at that. Going by the throbbing in 
his hand, that wasn't going to be an easy requirement to meet. 
Nonetheless, he knew he was in no position to argue.


Mulder could discuss his theories on the cases that Jack Caulfield had 
been looking at with ISU. Skinner would take Carl Wiggins' advice on 
follow up activity. Lannighan and Krensky would  run the investigation 
into the assault on Mulder but would allow Mulder and Scully full access 
to all information obtained. Compromises, as it had to be. Compromises, 
with loop holes for Mulder to escape through.


Skinner dismissed Mulder but kept Scully in the office.


"Agent Scully. I understand your support for Agent Mulder, but you 
mustn't let your judgment be influenced by erroneous ideas of loyalty. 
Mulder needs help and we need to see he gets it."


"I am trying to help him, Sir. Someone attacked him and we need to 
capture that person."


"I'm not saying I don't believe the story about the drugs at the hospital. 
But even if it's true...you know more than anyone that Mulder has 
enemies. And not all of them are in jail. They could have seen the same 
deterioration that we did. Took it as an opportunity. It doesn't make 
Mulder's own problems less serious, it makes them more dangerous."


Scully breathed in sharply. "I misjudged Mulder, my misjudgment led to 
humiliating treatment for him and left him exposed to another assault. I 
will not let him down again."


They argued without making progress. Eventually, Scully asked if the 
interview was concluded and Skinner confirmed that it was.


She left the office, eyes still flaming with anger and frustration, and 
studied the corridor, Mulder was nowhere to be seen. Skinner's 
administrative assistant told her that Mulder had gone for a walk outside.


Scully found him sitting on a park bench watching the rainbows in the 
fountain, apparently hypnotized by the flashes of light and dark, the white 
noise of the water. She sat next to him, touching his unbandaged arm to 
get his attention.


"Don't tell me you got suspended, too?"


She shook her head. "A day's mandatory personal leave."


He smiled. "Well, if it's got feathers like a duck, waddles like a duck, 
quacks like a duck, you're going to need some pretty good evidence if you 
wanna disprove the duck theory."


She surveyed the water. 


He frowned, suddenly serious, flexed his fingers painfully in front of him. 
"Scully. I need to get in this guy's head. Thing is, I'm almost invisible 
now. Only you could see me. I need you to stay visible. Promise me, you 
won't become invisible too."


She stared at the water and nodded.

"This is Fox Mulder, leave a message..."  


Scully slammed the phone down before the beep indicating Mulder's 
machine was recording had a chance to sound.  She knew his response 
already.  Anger.  Irritation that would leave her furious that she'd decided 
to call in the first place.  He'd then counter by eventually regretting what 
would be, in reality, a very natural reaction.  The scenario took a 
heartbeat to imagine; a millisecond later she had slammed the phone so 
hard her palm stung.  The hang up would register when Mulder played his 
messages and maybe that would be enough.  He'd know she cared without 
it being overbearing.  He could call back if he needed or wanted to do so.  
She hoped.  Mulder needed space, not too much, not too little.  Enough to 
feel like he could deal with this, independently, in his own way yet not 
feel alone.  It made a plausible theory and was the only way she had been 
able to successfully fight the urge to spend the night camped in the 
parking lot of Mulder's apartment complex.


Mulder didn't need to know how terrified she was on his behalf, or be 
aware she was winding through the hours with the sinking feeling that she 
might be making the wrong call in supporting him.  Scully was more than 
a little disturbed by her part in the humiliation he'd endured at the 
hospital. Coming to terms with a mistake that went against the "do no 
harm" portion of her oath was proving extremely difficult. She'd done 
harm through lack of prompt action and proper assessment. Happened to 
clinical docs all the time, but not to her. Never to Dana Katherine Scully, 
the powerhouse who graduated fourth in a med school class of two 
hundred. When was she ever going to learn not to doubt her partner?  
When he stops giving you plenty of reasons to do so, shouted the 
damnably insightful inner voice.  One minute she was sure of the path she 
had chosen and the next just as certain she was amiss in her assessment of 
the situation.


Worry was eating her alive.  Was it really safe for him to have his gun?  
If attacked a second time, could Mulder pull the trigger or fire with any 
semblance of accuracy?  Would he take down an innocent civilian, 
leaving the Bureau ripe for a lawsuit and his conscience in shreds? 
Scenarios played one right after the other with dizzying array of less than 
desirable outcomes.  


Scully was walking a tightrope, one greased by this unseen foe so 
expertly she could feel herself slipping.  The balance between Mulder, 
her job and her own sense of propriety had rarely been more precarious.   
She should be used to that by now, she supposed.  Familiarity was 
supposed to breed tolerance.  Maybe, but instead she hated the unknown 
with a ferocity that was new to her experience.  The lack of structure and 
clear-cut answers pissed her off.  Science produced reasons with a logic 
that took the bite out of fear and made the unknown manageable, safe.  
Many aspects of the human psyche, far more than she would ever admit 
to Mulder, terrified her.  Scully could project herself only so far into the 
darker regions of aberrant behaviors and thought processes that Mulder 
seemed to explore with the ready grasp of a kindred spirit.


She'd agreed the previous day to meet Mulder for lunch at their favorite 
deli.  Very public, very brazen on their parts.  Safety in being bold, or so 
he had insisted when she'd protested the idea.  Scully had come to 
appreciate his cunning on more than one level.  Mulder was keeping her 
at arms length by engineering a meeting at Killian's, a location where 
each would play a part with neither able to over analyze the other.  At 
least not overtly.  Social amenities would push the darkness aside for a 
few minutes by reminding them of an existence where malice was not the 
order of the day.  A place where adults and an occasional child laughed; 
where relationships meandered on their courses, secure in the belief the 
sun would rise on the morrow.  Behaving, more or less, like typical 
members of the lunch rush might actually lull them into thinking it was 
true.  A few minutes of peace.


Maybe.  Who knew?  She wasn't sure anymore.  Mulder certainly had no 
answers for her.  Or for himself.  At least not the ones they needed most -- 
an idea of how they would positively identify the UNSUB.


Scully couldn't push aside the images of the last few days.  Yesterday, 
after the meeting with Skinner, Mulder appeared exhausted.  Vulnerable.  
Too little time had passed for pharmaceutical aftereffects to fade.  Worst 
of all, an air of defeat had been sickeningly evident, if only for a moment 
or two.  True to his style, even washed out and drained, he was fighting 
again in no time, processing experiences that would send most agents 
willingly into mandatory leave.  Somehow when he stumbled, Mulder 
righted himself quickly.  He managed to go on, stubbornly working the 
angles to make sense of the latest mess in his life.  Lame humor was 
Mulder's hallmark, indicating he was mounted, ready to charge up the hill 
and counting on her to make the journey with him.  If she could do it 
again.  If she was willing.


What worried her was the soul beneath the dark circles.  Behind the 
weary smile was a new pain she couldn't soothe.  Deep within, that damn 
voice kept insisting she was seeing what she wanted to see, taunting that 
Mulder had indeed tried to ease his suffering permanently.  Had he lied?  
Was a suicide attempt the probable truth rather than a mere possibility 
she repeatedly shoved into the distant recesses of her mind?  


The lab results were evidence of a sort, but still, the idea of an UNSUB 
walking into a hospital and assaulting a patient as closely monitored as 
Mulder had been was a stretch.  Was she being as blind toward him as he 
had been years ago toward Jack Caulfield, repeating history by  missing 
signs that any first-year resident should spot?  Mulder's own words 
replayed immediately...'If I tried I would have succeeded.'  The truth 
validated by that memory made her ache.  Mulder was right; he would 
have done the job with the identical skill and precision with which he 
developed a profile or maintained his top ranking on the firing range. 


"Why Mulder?" Scully raged, furious at the smugly silent universe.  Why 
always Mulder?  


For once, she wished they could savor a taste of boredom.  An easy case.  
One where the pieces fit, where they did their jobs, filled out dull reports 
in triplicate, went home and concluded their day with mundane tasks.  
Like dusting.  Reading a novel.  Washing the car.  Yelling at the 
neighbors to turn down their stereo.  A chance to feel like their jobs were 
under their control instead of the other way around.  She feared those 
days were forever lost.  By-the-book-Dana was on mandatory "personal" 
leave and not the slightest bit mortified by having her knuckles rapped, 
yet again.  Her father would not be pleased.


Truth be told, Mulder had scared her yesterday.  He was afraid of being 
invisible.  Mulder, the invincible, the man willing to barge in where 
proverbial angels feared to tread, was afraid.  Even having repeated his 
words over a hundred times with a multitude of interpretations, she didn't 
have the foggiest what the fuck he was talking about. 


Invisible?  


How could he become invisible?  How could she?  What did he mean 
when he'd said only she could see him now?  


What was he trying to make her understand?  


She was sure their assailant was mocking their mutual inability to 
pinpoint his crafty elusiveness.  "Their" assailant.  Mulder would smile at 
how she'd taken up the banner.  The two musketeers, what hurts one hurts 
both.  Fight together and win, loose mutual resolve and both would suffer 
the consequences.  Nice philosophy and imminently workable when both 
saw the same enemy.  Did  this UNSUB exist?  God, she hoped the perp 
didn't evaporate, turning out to be nothing save Mulder ingeniously 
rationalizing truths about Jack and himself he was unwilling to face.  She 
kept coming back to the same issue, over and over, like an old victrola 
with the needle stuck on a particular track.  Denial had the power to kill 
him, though in a far more subtle manner, as readily as miscalculations 
should the UNSUB prove real.  Shit.


Evidence.  Use the evidence.  Quickly she grabbed a notepad and jotted 
the highlights of what they did know, hoping that subject headings might 
flush a heretofore hidden insight into the open.  She read the list over 
twice.  Then again.  Added a forgotten item and reviewed it one last time.  
Ifs and buts laced through the meager facts, vague possibilities, but it 
took Spooky Mulder to make sense of this level of information and he 
had no handle on it.  None at all.  Ridiculous to assume she could be 
better than the master himself.  Cold hard proof was the only hope either 
of them had in putting this puzzle together and it was the one thing they 
lacked.  


Abruptly Scully took the pen and threw it across the room.  Smiling 
through the frustration was past.  She'd put up a bold front for Skinner 
and for Mulder.  But it was an act.  A pathetic facade.  She'd rarely felt so 
lost, so unsure of what to do.  This was fast becoming another example of 
the job hitting too close to home, becoming way too personal.    


Scully found herself wondering for the umpteenth time this year if she 
was cut out for this life of uncertainty and continual assault.  She'd been 
so sure their first year as partners, diving into bed exhausted, but proud of 
what she was doing with and in her job.  She had no longer cared if her 
family repeatedly questioned her wisdom in accepting the X Files.  But 
now, pain was heaping yet higher onto the pyre upon which she had flung 
the bitter memories of Missy's loss and her own multiple traumas.  
Witnessing Mulder tormented yet again.  God. Was it even worth it 
anymore?


Give her a body; something concrete she could see, touch, and assess 
with her mind.  A puzzle that her training and own innate intelligence 
could solve and whose secrets were discernible within the relative safety 
of an autopsy bay.  Where she did not have to watch those she cared 
about fall prey to their own decency or be abused by a system she 
believed in but which proved to be horribly flawed nonetheless.  This 
clever someone seemed able to squash victims without a moment's 
warning.  Invisible.  Shit.  She felt herself shudder involuntarily.  


Help me, Mulder, help me understand.  Speak my language.  


Suddenly it hit her that she was going through a mild anxiety reaction.  
Utterly selfish and thinking of no one but herself at a time when Mulder 
needed her focused and there for him, perhaps more than at any period 
during their years together.  Normal psychologically, she admitted 
reluctantly, but she'd have to be normal later.  Mulder was in trouble.  She 
realized how likely it was there might be no way to reach him this time.  
That she didn't have what it would take to follow him past her comfort 
zone into his patently unique way of looking at the world.


Scully made it down the front steps of the building when she stopped 
abruptly, heading back toward her apartment.   She couldn't recall 
flipping the deadbolt.  Sure enough she had, but there was no memory of 
having done so.  She was still on automatic and the danger of being 
preoccupied was obvious.  One partner in such a state was tolerable, 
barely, but both--dangerous to the extreme.  If it was like this for her, 
what must Mulder be going through?  She was almost afraid to consider 
the possibilities.  Hopefully her imagination was far worse than reality.


Scully glanced down at her watch; another twenty minutes and she'd 
know.  


* * * * * * * * *


"You didn't think I'd show." Mulder commented matter-of-factly after 
sliding into the booth.  


"I ordered for you.  And yes, it crossed my mind I'd probably need a 
doggie bag."  


Scully scanned her partner with a practiced eye.  Almost twenty hours had 
passed since she'd seen him last, hours that meant drugs were clearing out 
of his system and bringing back his clarity.  He approached the booth 
with purposeful strides, not the unsteady gait she'd noted as they walked 
to his apartment.  Still, it would be going too far to say she liked what she 
saw.  Mulder had been through hell and even someone who barely knew 
him could read it in his face.  Scully wasn't sure she looked markedly 
better after another night fighting wars beneath the sheets.


"I was in the shower when you called."


"Who says I called?" she commented with a levity she didn't feel. 


Minutes later a waitress appeared weighed down by two triple-decker 
clubs, matching bowls of soup, a glass of tea for him, coffee for her. 


Mulder cocked an eyebrow and smiled, a genuine one that seemed to light 
the lunchroom.


"A true believer. Nice you have faith, Agent Scully."


"I counted on your not wanting to cook."  Or eat another frozen dinner 
neatly labeled by Jack's hand.  She didn't have to say that one aloud; 
Mulder had winced at the mere mention of cooking.  Scully grew serious 
as her eyes darted around the room, attempting to analyze motivations 
behind every Armani suit in sight. Could HE be among them?  "Are you 
sure it's wise for us to be here?"


"It's as safe as any place for now.  He's made his point; he's proven he can 
take me when and wherever he chooses."


The cold, clinical tones with which Mulder described his fate gave her 
pause, as if he was resigned to being a victim.  


Again.  


Had something happened during the few hours they had been apart? 


"Did you get any sleep?"  Scully inquired as she quietly continued 
assessing her partner.  The circles under his eyes were shades darker than 
they had been just yesterday.  Mulder looked like shit behind his reading 
glasses. He rarely wore them in public; the lenses accentuated his 
exhaustion by slightly magnifying the white sclera, each of which was 
crisscrossed with multitudes of tiny red veins.  Eyestrain.  He'd obviously 
spent the night reliving Jack's files.  She'd lost the argument about 
keeping them safely out of reach in her apartment.  


"Sleep is highly overrated."  


Mulder grabbed a mouthful of sandwich and closed his eyes, absently 
rubbing both temples with his fingertips as he chewed.  The headache was 
back with a vengeance.  He didn't really mind; pain assured him he was 
alive.  Mulder shifted in his seat and reached for the Nestea, determined 
to ignore Scully's stare.  


Scully wasn't surprised to notice Mulder's hands tremble as he guided the 
glass carefully to his mouth.  She bit her lip, knowing better than to 
comment.  Ignoring the obvious between them was a fact of partnership 
they knew well.  Low-level denial was automatic, barely causing a ripple 
of acknowledgment by either of them anymore.  'Doctor mode' was not 
what he needed or would accept from her.  He rarely did.  She knew 
Mulder would refuse simple aspirin until the remaining drugs were out of 
his system.  He was as unfit for duty as she'd seem him in a while, yet 
work was the most suitable healing option she could suggest.  The case 
gave him a focus and kept the demons at bay.  Her eyes were boring into 
his hair, willing him to look up and meet her gaze.


When tired hazel orbs finally locked onto her own, she could have sworn 
he'd aged.  "Scully, it's important we both realize one thing about all of 
this."


She suppressed her own impatience, letting Mulder pace the 
conversation.  It helped her forget she had nothing to offer in the way of 
solutions.  Besides, she wasn't sure he was ready to hear about the calls 
she'd had from both Wiggins and Skinner.


"We may never understand this entirely.  The ante in this game is high 
and the powers that be are damned selective about who has a chance in 
hell of a win."


What was he talking about now?  Couldn't he just say it?  Did she have to 
play codetalker?  Scully felt the knots grow in the pit of her stomach; 
Mulder had that look on his face. The look wasn't new and typically 
signaled emerging fever, insights or both.  She hoped it was fever.  
Abnormal body temperature was a predictable biological response with a 
logic she understood; insights often remained a mystery to everyone but 
Mulder himself.  Somewhere in that mind she found as irritating as it was 
exciting, something was happening.  As if Mulder read her thoughts, a 
smile began to slowly inch across his face.  Mulder was in his element, 
making leaps she couldn't hope to follow.  He'd clue her in when he was 
ready.  


"My God," he breathed after what seemed an eternity.  "Patterson knows 
more about this guy than he ever let on." 


"What do you mean?"  she asked with calm, even tones designed to 
telegraph support she didn't feel.  Patterson again?  This is not at all what 
she'd anticipated.  Jesus.  Let that bastard rot in his cell away from your 
life, Mulder!  Scully held her true feelings in check, aware she had to play 
the cool professional he expected or Mulder would shut her out.  If he did 
that, he was lost. 


"Bill knows who he is."  Mulder offered the bombshell with absolute 
certainty, oblivious to the absurdity such an accusation mirrored.


"Based on what?"


Mulder changed positions, getting more comfortable, the way he always 
did when digging in to paint a picture of a reality burning in his mind.  He 
took a sip of tea and waited.


"Tell me you're not suggesting that Patterson obstructed justice because 
he had some agenda with this asshole?"  Scully found herself wondering 
if her partner was having a flashback of some sort.  Sure, the idea was 
illogical based on Mulder's behavior but it was easier to swallow than the 
ludicrous notion that Patterson was intimately involved.  "Mulder, please, 
Patterson may be sick now but he was a fine agent for a long, long..."  


Mulder brushed her doubts aside without a moment of consideration and 
began again with barely controlled excitement.  "Scully, think about it.  
You want to create a new unit but the brass thinks you're nuts.  They tell 
you your methods are worthless.  You know better.  You're creative, 
innovative.  You have connections because you've been around awhile.  
In your day, you've done a lot of interagency stuff -- law enforcement and 
intelligence both.  D.C. is filled with little men, all wanting their own 
brand of glory."


"Mulder, I..."


Mulder's brow furrowed immediately, responding to her interruption with 
uncharacteristic irritation.  Scully held her tongue yet again and let him 
continue.  He was on fire, proselytizing like an evangelist staging his act 
for the faithful.


"You engineer a few cases, just to prove a point.  And prove it you do.  
Faster than you ever hoped. You live the truth that to understand the 
painter you dabble in their art. You get what you want, so does the person 
who agreed to the deal.  You do it again, and again.  Eventually it gets a 
little out of hand.  You're concerned, but you look the other way as long 
as your own aren't directly involved.  You have a reputation and a 
department to protect.  You've made a difference, assholes are behind 
bars because of the compromises you've made to prove your work 
mattered. You sleep most nights. You have an unstated agreement of 
sorts, you're nervous about it, but you hope for the best.  You're sure you 
can take care of the problem if it ever gets out of hand.  After all, you 
have power, position and influence. Things calm down and all seems 
status quo as far as you can see.  Life is busy and the years drone on."


"This might make for an interesting novel but I can't see this really 
happening in our profession!"


"Why not?  Passionate people take chances all the time!"


Most play by the rules so their professions are secure, my friend. Most 
want the futures they work so hard to engineer.  "Give me a break, the 
majority of professions are regulated like hell."


"In theory, maybe. Remember the Australian MD who was so pissed by 
colleagues scoffing at his theory about bacteria causing ulcers that he 
infected himself to prove the point!?"


Scully stared at her partner wordlessly.


"Do you?" he demanded.


Mulder had barely gotten the words out when he noticed heads whipping 
toward them from all directions.  Scully's eyes betrayed anger and 
embarrassment.  Shit, had he been shouting?  Breathe deep, bud, she 
doesn't have to be here.


"Sorry," he offered, somewhat contritely, "but dammit, Scully, 
professionals put themselves in jeopardy ALL the time."


He was deadly earnest and like it or not, he was partially right. Innovation 
and risk taking often went hand in hand.  She nodded, dug her fingernails 
into her palm and encouraged him to continue.


"Okay, say an agent comes into the picture who for some reason begins to 
pick up on cases that beg to be noticed."


"Jack Caulfield."


"Check these out."  Mulder pulled a small pack of Day Runner logs out of 
his pocket and tossed them across the table.


Another leap?  Scully felt herself struggling to keep up.  She reached over 
to retrieve the worn leather cases.  Nothing special,  cheap pocket Day 
Runners you could buy at any Office Depot. Five bucks tops.


"I don't..."


"See the post-its?  I've got the entries marked."


She read a date, an adjacent symbol in handwriting she didn't recognize. 
The earth didn't shake. No angels sang. Far from providing her the means 
to instantly substantiate veritas for her partner, she felt a 'so what' 
reaction. Scully rarely cared about being able to feed Mulder's need to be 
understood. It mattered this time, much was riding on his not feeling 
alone. And she couldn't lie even to give him the peace he craved.


"Where did you get these?" 


"Some from Jack's house. Some from the office."


"Jack's?"


"No, Bill's."  What? Bill's? Shit, he really believed Patterson was 
intimately involved.


"Don't you see, Scully?  No one saw these entries as significant.  Jack 
Caulfield did.  Something sent him into Patterson's files after Patterson 
had...gone. I think I've found a link but I need more time to be sure."


"Mulder, I'm sorry. I don't see a connection."


"Phone calls made by Patterson in each of these books match dates on at 
least three of the series of victims. The symbol identifying the caller 
matches."


"You're saying the symbol is our UNSUB?"


"I'd say it's more than highly likely. Back to Patterson's chronology.  His 
department is going nuts.  More work than anyone can manage.  No one 
notices when an agent gets sidetracked with a hobby.  Jack starts trying to 
add two and two.  The equation doesn't wash but the UNSUB is good.  
Eventually, he gets wind of the interest and pays the agent a little visit.  
But he doesn't kill him."


"He would have if you hadn't shown up."


"Would he?  I'm not sure about that. I think he'd have called 911; he'd 
have stepped in before it was too late.  Just like with me, he was there to 
make a point.  Business mixed with pleasure.  The UNSUB makes a 
decision, sets his strategy and with one action, essentially kills two birds 
with one tailpipe."


"Jack and Bill or Jack and you?"


"Good question, Agent Scully.  Probably all of us. At that exact point in 
time, the day Jack sniffed carbon monoxide in his garage, none of us had 
a clue about the other's role in the drama.  I was there by accident that 
night, and came in handy. Jack became a hobby; the UNSUB knew Jack, 
his habits and his friends. I'm sure he knew me and quickly figured the 
odds on how to make any scenario work to his advantage.  This guy plans 
for the long haul, he's patient."


"Mulder..." 


He continued, cutting her off like a man desperate to be heard.  "Years 
later our UNSUB returns to complete the job.  Why?  Motivated by what?  
Jack's continuing interest in the case?  Jack Caulfield was no more or less 
insightful than he'd been in the past.  The Bureau mainstream had never 
zeroed in on this guy nor had local law enforcement.  Jack wasn't close to 
breaking a thing that would have put this guy in jeopardy.  No official 
investigation was about to be launched...where was the threat?"


"Look, I know you see something significant here but I don't follow this, 
dammit!"


"This guy is a pro, right?  He's played it safe by being invisible.  He 
enjoyed that status; it got him what he wanted and needed.  Something 
changed.  How could he have known what Jack was up to? How could he 
have known Jack was digging in earnest? Was it something in our 
UNSUB, a shift in his psychological make up or something more 
mundane?"  


"Like?"


"Like changes related to a particular point in time."


Scully sighed.  This conversation was giving her a headache.


"I think our UNSUB spooked for a very simple reason, he thought 
someone might reveal something he had felt quite secure in the past.  
Something he didn't want known."


"Information that had been secure but no longer was?"  


"Right."


"Why?  This guy is illusive to the point of being impossible to identify. 
He gets where he needs to go with incredible ease based on your theories. 
And for decades, no less."


"This UNSUB is extraordinary, Scully.  He's got a quality about him that 
I've not seen before, an elusiveness that makes him one of the deadliest 
we've seen.  I'm beginning to sense what that quality might be.  Make that 
MUST be."


"I know you need me to meet you halfway on this but I can't.  The hits 
this man has supposedly made, the access requires resources that are not 
available to most people.  He'd need contacts, limitless financial support, 
and people willing to help him keep his tracks covered."


"That's just it, Scully."  Now was the time to drop the final bomb.  "This 
guy has the resources, all of them.  It's probable he held a position of 
authority at an agency."


Scully shot Mulder a look of consternation so severe he wasn't sure she 
was hearing him.  Could he blame her?  Even with all she'd seen, the 
establishment represented order and justice until proven otherwise.  She 
could see the corruption when she had to but it was never a path she took 
willingly.


"Do you understand what I'm saying, Scully?  He's one of us.  A Fed.  
Career man, probably put in his twenty counting coup along with his 
regular assignments.  Freelancing is fairly new, he likes it.  The job has 
always had purpose.  Not satisfying his inner needs alone, but fulfilling a 
higher purpose.  For the good of the country, at least in his mind."


Scully shook her head. None of it added up. She had listened to 
preposterous before.  Many times before.  She'd seen living proof of same 
but this conspiratorial clap-trap was bull.  This time Mulder could offer 
the math until he was blue in the face but the sum didn't equal the parts.  
She had to admit the worst part was seeing how badly Mulder needed to 
believe it.  Mulder had a brilliant mind but the reasoning was flawed. 


He needed her to take the journey in his world and confirm its truth.  God 
knows she'd tried but the journey went nowhere. The only truth was that 
Mulder was in trouble and needed help. Change the subject, get some 
distance.


"Wiggins called me early this morning."


Mulder pursed his lips and shot her a one eyebrow 'go ahead.'


"Skinner ordered them to run data from Jack's cases through the BSSBI.  
He pulled a profile."


"Have you heard anything I've said?"


She continued, ignoring him this time.  "The profile paints a radically 
different type of man from the one you are trying to get me to accept.  
Skinner wants a meeting at three this afternoon to plan our strategy. 
Lannighan and Krensky will be there."


Mulder sat silently, his expression blank.  Scully waited, expecting him to 
demand details about the profile.  Instead his eyes took on a deep 
resignation, one she wasn't sure she'd ever witnessed.  He seemed to be 
withdrawing.  Was this the invisibility he'd begged her not to allow?  


"I'm going to find our waitress. We can take this food over to my place 
and talk more there."


Without responding, Mulder watched Scully plunge into the lunch crowd.  
He'd have to do this one alone. Fine, he'd expected as much. Preferred it 
actually.  He had no right to drag her down into the places she feared. 
This one was going to be ugly.  Mulder reached into his back pocket, 
pulled a twenty out of his wallet and threw it on the table. An accurate 
profile demanded tangential thinking with someone capable of 
understanding the complex nuances this guy sported. No fucking machine 
could peg this asshole.  


Mulder knew where to start; at the point the UNSUB had begun to take 
an active interest in Jack. Hopefully he could get a flight out. He needed 
to retrace that time, see the scenes again, figure out what he'd missed or 
find what had never been noticed.  He also needed more of Patterson's 
files, the ones tagged 'personal' and stored in one of the fireproof vaults.  
Danny could help with that one.  There were days of work ahead. The 
fact he basically felt like crap and was beyond exhaustion was too damn 
bad.  Wiggins and his fucking machine would get him killed if he waited 
on protocol.


Scully returned to their booth a few minutes later, Styrofoam boxes in 
hand. 


"Mulder?"  


A middle-aged woman who had been seated at an adjacent table quietly 
eating her lunch rose and walked over.  "He's gone.  If you'll pardon my 
saying so, it's for the best, honey. What an asshole."

***************

The small, cramped handwriting in Bill Patterson's Day Runner was 
making Mulder go blind. He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head 
against the neck rest and feeling the thrum of the 747 engines. An hour 
till Cleveland. What was Mulder expecting to find there? Did he honestly 
think clues from over ten years ago would still be in evidence?


"Would you like a drink, Sir?"


Startled, Mulder opened his eyes. A flight attendant, her face slightly 
shadowed by worry, stood next to his seat. Mulder didn't even want to 
think about what he looked like right now. He was probably scaring the 
poor thing half to death. He'd made a beeline for the airport after once 
again ditching his partner, and hadn't had time to change. 


"Orange juice?" Mulder rasped. Shit, now he sounded like hell, too. The 
flight attendant handed Mulder the world's tiniest plastic cup of orange 
juice and he gulped it down in one swallow, leaning his head against the 
head rest again. Christ, he really felt like shit. He forced himself to look 
at the Day Runners. Bill Patterson was such a suspicious bastard that 
every entry was in code. Not just phone numbers and names, but dates 
and notes as well. And it was the notes Mulder was focusing on. Bill had 
written in the margins of almost every page and deciphering any of it was 
slow going. But Mulder had been successful in deciphering one entry.


The one that said "UNSUB Cleveland - H. and J. Intercepted from M. 
Out of control."


Mulder was fairly certain the "M" stood for Mulder. 
Intercepted...intercepted...Mulder started from the idea that the "J" stood 
for Jack. The UNSUB had been in Cleveland, had already started on 
Jack...intercepted...Jack had intercepted something from Mulder. Mulder 
sat bolt upright as it hit him. Out of control...the UNSUB was out of 
control and Patterson had...Patterson had what? Did Mulder really 
believe Bill had handed him this UNSUB to catch? Wouldn't Mulder 
have been suspicious of something that blatant? In his mind, Mulder saw 
Jack cheerfully taking some of his consulting files. He did it all the time. 
He'd skim a few off the top whenever he wanted a favor. Would Bill have 
been nefarious enough to slip some of the UNSUB's work, the files that 
couldn't be traced at all to himself, into Mulder's unauthorized consulting 
work? Mulder felt sick.


So, regardless of what Scully thought, Mulder WAS involved. He was 
always involved, whether he wanted to be or not. His own superior sense 
of guilt involved him. He'd handed Jack Caulfield his death warrant. He 
knew Jack wouldn't blame him, but he should. Why wouldn't people just 
blame him? It was a lot easier. That he could handle. That he could deal 
with. This form of fake compassion that he'd gotten in the hospital and 
from people who thought he'd tried to kill himself just didn't wash. And 
he was dangerously close to feeling the same way about Scully. Sure, 
she'd gotten him out, but she hadn't believed him at first, either, and he 
wasn't convinced she believed him now. And he'd been so clear with her. 
Don't let me become invisible, he'd told her. But she didn't understand. 
She couldn't, just like Mulder couldn't when it had happened to Jack. 


He couldn't think of anything worse than this UNSUB's M.O. Make 
somebody Not Be. Erase them from the consciousness of others so that 
when something heinous happened, those who used to be so intuitive 
would just shake their heads in sorrow. I never thought he'd do it. He was 
always so strong, so well-adjusted. For Mulder, though, it was the exact 
opposite. Hey, Spooky, what fucking took you so long? 


He'd done it before, but he hadn't been able to get his hands on anything 
sharp enough. He remembered stabbing at himself with a butter knife, 
screaming and crying at the pain, reveling in the blood...but in the end it 
hadn't been enough. They'd found him, shortly afterwards. And they'd 
been so angry...


"...I don't know...just hold him down...I'll try again...sir? Mr. Mulder? 
Can you hear me?"


The voices ping-ponged through Mulder's head and he opened his eyes, 
watching in fascination as the faces swam in front of him. What the hell 
had happened? An extremely strong male flight attendant was leaving 
bruises on Mulder's wrists as he pinned Mulder down in his seat. Mulder's 
throat went dry. Oh shit. What had he remembered? It wasn't real. It was 
like the closet...it wasn't real. But it seemed so real. Are you sure it 
wasn't? The female flight attendant was speaking again.


"Do you need a doctor, Mr. Mulder? Are you all right?"


You have to answer her, Mulder told himself severely. You have to, or 
they'll call Scully and this time nobody will believe you, not even Scully.


"I'm an FBI agent," he said in a small but smooth voice. "I've been 
working on a murder case..." Mulder's voice trailed off. There was no 
way she was buying this. And he was so tired...he looked at her and saw 
her gaze riveted to the bulky file folder Mulder had managed to knock off 
the seat beside him when he'd apparently gone ballistic. What HAD 
happened? Mulder desperately wanted to ask her, but her gaze was 
horrified. The other attendant was still holding Mulder down.


"I think I'm okay now," Mulder said quietly. The young man nodded, then 
let go. Mulder massaged his wrists for a moment, then began scooping up 
the photos of the Cleveland victims. He shoved them back into the folder. 
The flight attendant was still staring. She blinked, and looked at Mulder.


"I'll bring you some water," she whispered before fleeing. Mulder wanted 
to scream. What the hell was going on with him? Where were these 
memories coming from? Why were they so real? He'd never tried to kill 
himself. He hadn't hidden in his closet when Samantha had been taken. 
He hadn't. He wouldn't. His father didn't kill himself. None of this was 
real.


Was this how Jack had felt?


* * * * * * * * *


The tiny clapboard house was stifling with the heat. That, combined with 
the lined face of a man who had suffered more than most would in their 
lifetimes, made Mulder sick to his stomach. Gordon Twining stood in the 
middle of his own living room, looking like a stranger in his own house, 
in his own life. Mulder took a sip of the lukewarm water and tried not to 
gag. He desperately needed to get out of here, but he also desperately 
needed to talk to the father of Sheila Twining, the second victim. The first 
staged victim, Mulder thought, from somewhere. He shook his head to 
clear it. Twining finally took a seat and slouched forward in a ratty 
armchair, looking defeatedly at the floor. He would answer Mulder's 
questions, but they wouldn't help. Gordon Twining's life had died the day 
his daughter had been found.


"I knew, you know," Twining said in his soft survivor's voice. Mulder 
glanced up. Twining averted his gaze, staring out the window into the 
backyard, where a swing set still stood. God, after all these years. Mulder 
tried the water again, then just gave up. After all these years, and you still 
look for your sister. What kind of fucking sense does THAT make? 
Mulder jumped, but Twining was still talking.


"I was at work...at the mill. I hadda stop right in the middle and go home, 
'cause I knew she was dead. I knew Sheila. - I knew I wouldn't be seeing 
her anymore."


At any other time, Mulder would have quizzed Twining about this kind of 
precognition but now, given all he'd either remembered or manufactured, 
Mulder was terribly, desperately afraid of Knowing. He couldn't Know. 
How could Twining live with it? Mulder took a firm grip on his emotions. 
Play profiler, you asshole, he told himself severely. Goddammit, Mulder, 
ask the right questions. Mulder remembered the first time he'd talked to a 
victim, and it hadn't been as a profiler. He'd been at Oxford. Clinicals. 
He'd fucking hated clinicals. He didn't want to make nice and supportive 
with shattered souls. He wanted to find the fuckers who made them that 
way. Too many of them reminded him of his mother, of how she'd 
dissolved throughout the rest of Mulder's so-called childhood. 


The lower-class British mother of three in front of him had fallen to the 
floor in a puddle of tears. Mulder used what he'd learned, tried to anyway, 
before finally being shoved out of the way by a much more 
compassionate classmate. The strange thing was, in his heart, Mulder felt 
for the woman so strongly that he was completely unable to help her. It 
paralyzed him. It also made him able to solve the unsolvable. Fortunately 
for him, the woman's histrionics continued so that Mulder could take the 
beginnings of one of his attacks into the washroom. 


And now, staring at the cracked visage of Gordon Twining, Mulder felt 
the twinges of empathy once more. His nerve endings danced with the 
feeling of it all. Mulder rotated his neck and tried to think. Sheila 
Twining had been strangled. Sheila Twining had been unlucky to be a 
cute little innocent blond girl.


"I just don't know what you hope to accomplish, Agent Mulder," Gordon 
Twining said helplessly, echoing Mulder's thoughts. Mulder smiled at 
him.


"I'm...looking for someone, Mr. Twining," he replied. Twining still 
looked confused. Then he didn't. Then he looked furious.


"That creep's still out there, isn't he? The one that got Sheila. Jesus Christ. 
Vic Jackson didn't kill him. He killed the wrong guy. All this time...I 
thought justice had actually been served because Vic took that 
sick...creature...out..."


Twining choked up and what life he had left seemed to whoosh out of 
him. The twinges made Mulder gasp. Flash. Sheila Twining, smiling, the 
sunlight glinting off her hair...flash...screaming, twisting, those strong 
hands around her neck...flash...the first one, meant to die...flash...four 
more...flashflashflashflash...nononono...more screaming, terrified little 
girls...different hands, choking and strangling and...cutting...


Cutting...


"Agent Mulder?"


Mulder looked at Twining.


"Are you okay?"


Not trusting his voice, Mulder nodded. The drowned girl...done by a lake, 
near the farm Raymond Forster's aunt had owned. God, Forster fit the 
profile so well...too well, Mulder thought. Like one of those textbook 
cases they used to solve at the Academy. Everything perfect, right down 
the line. But those cases were manufactured exercises. This wasn't. Was 
it? Okay, Mulder, go with this...the drowned girl. The lake. Forster's lake.


"Do you know the Lake Ridge area?" Mulder asked quietly. Startled by 
the segue, Twining nodded.


"Fish for blue gill and sunnies up there."


"All year round?"


Twining shrugged.


"Pretty much. Damned fish are like cockroaches. No limit on 'em. Why?"


"It's a private lake?"


"Yeah...Adele Forster owns the land, lets anyone come on and fish. No 
hunting, but fishing's fine. Good lake for fishing."


Jesus.


"So there's an access road," Mulder said flatly. Twining stopped in mid-
nod and stared at Mulder.


"What are you getting at?"


Mulder couldn't tell him, wouldn't tell him that not only was the murderer 
of his little girl still out there, but he wasn't even the UNSUB Mulder was 
looking for. 


* * * * * * * * *


The lake was well-known and convenient. Mulder got the same story 
from everyone he talked to. He visited the mother of the third girl, Erica 
Meyers, but he'd had to excuse himself halfway through the interview. He 
kept flashing on her dead daughter's bright face. They were so quick to 
pin it on Forster...and then, when the last girl had turned up...she'd been 
viciously assaulted and eviscerated. Cut. He'd cut her, and he'd taken the 
knife with him to the scene. He'd meant to do it. He'd wanted to. But he'd 
also needed to. Sexual sadism...with something else. 


The UNSUB who had killed Tina Mathers and then started killing to 
cover up that crime hadn't liked it. He'd needed it, but he hadn't liked it. 
He'd personalized those little girls into being him. He was trash; he threw 
them in the trash. He sexually assaulted them, but he didn't mutilate them. 
Raymond Forster had known Tina Mathers. But goddammit, how many 
other men in the general area fit the profile and knew the girl? 


Mulder felt sick. The killer wasn't Raymond Forster, but they'd known 
that eventually. What Mulder hadn't discovered until now, however, was 
how thoroughly Jack's UNSUB had set Forster up. Why hadn't he just set 
up the real killer? Because then Victor Jackson would have killed the real 
killer, and that wouldn't have driven Jack to the brink of insanity. Jack 
thought his UNSUB was tormenting him by committing more murders in 
Cleveland. But he wasn't. He didn't. He cut the last little girl to ribbons, 
but whoever the real killer was, was still out there. He'd probably been 
picked up for something else, which was why the murders had stopped 
and why Jack's UNSUB had had to frame Forster. 


He implicated Forster by killing one when Forster clearly didn't have an 
alibi. He was invisible and he enjoyed his not-being. He flaunted it. Had 
he done that to Mulder? Had he fucked with the Boston case? Mulder's 
hands started to tremble. They'd had copycats in Boston...this couldn't 
have been happening ten years ago. It just couldn't. Not to Mulder. But it 
had happened with Jack, hadn't it? If you believe this shit, some fucking 
psycho UNSUB came back, ten years later, and murdered Jack Caulfield 
the same way he'd tried and failed to kill him before. What had changed? 
Why now?


Why now...what had changed...Bill Patterson had changed. Stunned, 
Mulder looked down at the Day Runners in his hands. The answer was in 
there. The answer wasn't in Cleveland, or Boston, or D.C. It was in the 
crumpled pages of Bill Patterson's Day Runner. And it was up to Mulder 
to become invisible enough for the UNSUB to show himself.


* * * * * * * * *


Scully wouldn't blink. She didn't know why, but she felt it would signify 
weakness. Finally, Assistant Director Skinner sighed and removed his 
glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose.


"As far as the Bureau's concerned, Agent Mulder's still on leave. He has 
the right to go anywhere he wants."


Scully hadn't wanted to do this, but she had no other recourse. Mulder 
had disappeared from the restaurant. As soon as Scully had found him 
gone she'd raced at breakneck speed to his apartment, but he'd never 
shown up. He'd vanished. And he'd begged her not to let him...Scully 
shook off the bright image of an unconscious Mulder lying in the gutter, 
his wrists slit for good this time. He'd told her he hadn't done it. He'd 
promised. What the fuck was wrong with her, believing him like that?


"Do you think he's...unstable?" Skinner was still trying to draw her out. 
Scully sighed.


"Sir, I don't know. He's still obsessing over Jack Caulfield's suicide..."


Skinner leaned forward and gazed at her. Scully shifted in her chair.


"What do you want me to do, Agent Scully?" he asked softly. What DID 
she want him to do? Think like an FBI agent, Dana. Go on. Tell him. 
Mulder can take care of himself. Can't he?


"Given that Agent Mulder is considered still on leave, Sir, and given that 
I no longer am...I wondered what I should be doing."


Skinner looked taken aback. Good. He should. Scully quelled the feelings 
of resentment but some of the bitterness still remained in her voice.


"Am I or am I not a member of the X-Files division, Sir?" Scully asked 
evenly. 


"You're looking for an assignment."


Scully nodded. You bet I'm looking for an assignment, she thought. It's 
either that or sit at home and worry about Mulder. And those days are 
over. This was it.


"I've actually been considering something, Sir, and I wanted your opinion 
on it. And your recommendation, if you'll give it."


Skinner raised an eyebrow and nodded. Scully took a deep breath.


"I've been thinking about applying to the Academy Program."


Nothing she could have said would have surprised Skinner more, she 
thought. He actually looked dumbfounded. Goddammit, what was so 
ridiculous about it?


"Sir?" she asked, rather contemptuously. He didn't miss her tone. 


"Sorry, Agent Scully, I'm just...surprised. This seems rather sudden."


Scully shrugged awkwardly. She supposed it did. It had become a 
conscious thought rather suddenly, too.


"I've been thinking about it for awhile."


"So you want to leave the X-Files."


There it was, all out in the open. Scully didn't know what to say. It 
sounded like the height of betrayal because what Skinner was really 
asking was, Do you want to leave Mulder? The X-Files and Mulder were 
inextricable. The X-Files and Scully, well...


"The way I understood it, Sir, was that it was an assignment. Nothing 
more."


"Nothing more," Skinner echoed, still surprised. Skinner stood and began 
his slow pacing around the office, the pacing that meant he needed to try 
and figure out where his agent was coming from and where she really 
wanted to go. Fuck you, Scully thought. You're not my therapist. Skinner 
turned to look at her.


"I was under the impression that the work meant something to you, Agent 
Scully."


Scully stiffened.


"All of the work I've ever done has meant something to me," she said 
icily, suddenly so uncomfortable at being Mulder's shadow that she 
couldn't stand it. "I want to make a difference, Sir, for me, not for 
Mulder. I want to advance in my own work."


It didn't sound as good as it had when Scully had rehearsed it earlier. 
Here, it sounded jealous and petty. Jesus Christ, she wasn't jealous of 
Mulder, was she? But she knew a part of her was. Somewhere deep 
inside, she resented Mulder's passion and dedication to his cause. Oh, she 
had dedication, but it came more from a sense of duty and honor than 
passion. She'd liked what she'd seen in the ISU. She'd been welcomed as 
Dr. Dana Scully, Special Agent. Not as Mrs. Spooky, basement dweller. 
It may not mean much to Mulder, but it meant something to Scully.


But alongside her resentment lived her sense of loyalty.


"It's an application to the program, Sir. Even if I am accepted, I would 
still continue working. I just...I need something, Sir. Something like -"


Scully stopped as she saw the look on Skinner's face. God. He thought 
she was trying to emulate Mulder! If it hadn't been so offensive, she 
would have laughed. Scully rose.


"I'm sorry I took up so much of your time, Sir," she said stiffly, turning to 
go.


"Agent Scully."


She stopped, still coldly furious.


"If that's what you want, it would be foolish of me to deny your request, 
and to deny the ISU your skills. I'll draw up a letter of recommendation 
and send it over to Carl Wiggins."


Scully turned slowly. Skinner looked sincere...and apologetic. She 
nodded.


"Thank you, Sir," she said softly.


"And Agent Scully...if you hear from Mulder..."


Skinner left the request unanswered, as did Scully. She nodded again and 
left, closing the door quietly behind her.


* * * * * * * * *


Mulder tried to ignore the seedy motel walls closing in on him. He 
focused on the grainy television images. Jack had taped practically every 
hour of CNN news, going back ten years. Watching all of it was an 
impossible task. What Mulder finally decided to do was to focus in on 
any oddities, anything that would be out of character in the huge pile of 
tapes. 


What Mulder needed to do was to become Jack. Jack was the victim here, 
and after that long, stuffy lecture Mulder had given Scully about the 
importance of victimology, he'd gone and ignored his own advice. What 
he was still consciously ignoring, though, was himself as victim. He may 
be too close to Jack to do his memory much good but he was definitely 
too close to himself. He was so close to himself, in fact, that the strange 
waking nightmares he'd been having about his childhood seemed too 
much like memories for his own good. What if they were memories? 
What if the base of life experience that Mulder had built his life and 
career upon was faulty? He determinedly aimed the remote at the TV, 
hoping to block out the horrid thoughts in his wandering mind with Jack's 
tapes.


"...kill them. I have to. It's not a decision."


"It's your job."


Long hesitation.


"It...was...my job..."


Mulder jerked awake and paused the image on the screen. He'd been 
watching the program for what seemed like hours but he hadn't been 
paying any attention, finally drifting off at some point. He stared at the 
flickering image of the silhouette of a man's face. It was an interview. 
Mulder sat up straighter, then grabbed for Jack's videotape log and 
flipped through it. It was a CNN round-table discussion from the early 
days of CNN and, it seemed, the early days of profiling. Mulder 
remembered Robert Ressler's live TV interviews with Ed Kemper and 
John Wayne Gacy. This seemed to be something along those lines. What 
the hell was it called?


Assassins.


It took Mulder's breath away. He leaned forward and rewound the tape. It 
was all there. All of it. His profile. Jack's profile. 


Their killer.


But Mulder had no idea who it was.


* * * * * * * * *


Langly swiveled around in his chair, expertly picking up the receiver with 
one hand and punching the "record" button on the tape recorder with the 
other.


"Lone Gunmen."


Langly frowned as he heard the hesitation on the line. That raspy 
breathing...


"Mulder? That you?"


Nothing. Langly hesitated, then reached out and flicked off the recorder.


"Tape's off."


"Thanks," came the quiet reply.


"What's up, Mulder?" Langly tried to act casual. He was bad at it. Mulder 
caught it.


"Before you delve, I'm fine. I need a question answered."


"You told Scully where you are?" Langly asked, immediately regretting 
the question. Now Mulder knew Scully had talked to them. Days ago, but 
she'd come to Langly, Byers and Frohike, eyes shaded with worry. No, 
they hadn't heard from him. Sure, they'd let her know if he contacted 
them. Yes, they promised. Fuck. They'd promised.


"I haven't told Scully." Mulder sounded so tired, so drained...when 
Frohike blundered into the room, Langly threw up the hand of caution. 
Accustomed to sneaking around, Frohike quietly popped the tab on a 
Coke and sat down in the non-squeaky chair, picking up a pair of 
headphones.


"Are you sure you're okay, Mulder? She's -" Langly caught himself. 
Damn. Mulder almost laughed, then coughed. Frohike winced and shook 
his head, then reached out and turned on the recorder again. Just in case.


"She's worried. I know. When you call her to tell her I made contact, like 
you must've promised her you would, just let her know I'm fine, and that 
I'm making headway."


Frohike rolled his eyes and grabbed the phone from Langly.


"Don't take that tone with us, Mulder. Just to prove how trustworthy we 
are, we've withheld one intriguing tidbit of information from the lovely 
Agent Scully."


"What?" Mulder asked tiredly. Frohike hesitated, then sighed.


"You flipped out on a flight, didn't you?"


Silence. Frohike and Langly exchanged glances. Not good. Langly raised 
an eyebrow that said 'you went too far'. Frohike glared at him.


"Mulder, look. From what I can tell, Scully has every right to be worried 
about you."


"I did not try to kill myself," Mulder said flatly. "I just want a fucking 
favor. I don't need you to play counselor with me, Frohike. If you're not 
going to help, if you're going to believe what everyone tells you, why 
don't you let me know right now so I can go back to being invisible. 
Okay?"


Frohike slowly took the receiver down and covered it with his hand. He 
looked grimly at Langly.


"Call Scully," he murmured. Langly nodded and hopped-to. Frohike put 
the receiver back to his ear.


"What do you need, Mulder?"


"I'm looking at a CNN broadcast from around eighty-six or so. I don't 
have the date. It's some kind of forum with professional assassins."


"Shit!" Frohike almost shouted. He sat up. "God, Mulder. Where'd you 
get that? I've been trying to get my hands on that forever."


"It doesn't matter where I got it. I need to know who they were."


Frohike shot a glance at Langly, who was murmuring into the phone.


"Nobody knows, Mulder. After it aired there was some talk about it being 
a hoax, but there wasn't enough proof."


"It's not a hoax."


"How do you know?"


A long silence. Frohike gripped the receiver tightly.


"Mulder? You there?"


Frohike could only hear the crackling static of the phone. Finally, Mulder 
sighed.


"I need to know who they were."


"Okay, Mulder, but how do you know -"


"Because I've got a half-finished fifty-page profile of one of them, that's 
how," Mulder said angrily. Oh holy mother of God, Frohike thought. 
Mulder's in it again.


"Okay, it's not a hoax. Fine. I'll do what I can, Mulder, but I don't think -"


"E-mail me if you find anything."


Click. Frohike stared at the dead receiver, then looked at Langly.


"Did you get a hold of Scully?"


Langly shook his head.


"She's not answering her cel. Left a message at home, didn't want to leave 
one on Mulder's machine at the office."


Frohike nodded.


"I would have made that mistake."


"Frohike, you have made that mistake. How's Mulder?"


Frohike leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.


"Bad, Langly. Real bad."

******************
Continued in Part 6