From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Sun, 17 Sep 2000 02:11:15 -0500
Subject: Mindset (1/23) by Flynn
Source: direct

Reply To: flyn121@yahoo.com


TITLE: Mindset, Chapter 1
AUTHOR: Flynn
CLASSIFICATION: S, UST
KEYWORDS: None
E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.com
Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
CATEGORY: Casefile, 'shipper- and Noromo-friendly
DATE: September 10, 2000
DISTRIBUTION: Whoever wants it, just ask. I share. Just
keep my headers, et al.
SPOILER WARNING: FTF; anything up through midpoint, S6.
RATING: PG for language, violence.
FEEDBACK: Please. I ask for so little.
SUMMARY: While working two different cases, each agent
comes to the conclusion that their partnership is the
most important thing in their lives.
DISCLAIMER: My last name is not Carter.

Author's note: This was my outlet while waiting for S7
to air, so the timeframe is apropos to that. It was
also written in reaction to a statement made in a
magazine, to wit: "They should do it and get it over
with." I found the concept repulsive. Stands to reason
that sharing a kiss would not necessarily lead to a
romp in the sack. Hope someone agrees with me.

**This was a first-attempt, and therefore has had
limited editing.

Special thanks to my friend Christine, for not laughing
at me when I asked if she could read one of my pieces.
That was about fifteen pieces ago. <g>



~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 1
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday, September 26

The cafeteria was almost empty. That wasn't surprising
for a Saturday. Looking around at the dozen or so
people around him, Fox Mulder couldn't help but wonder
whose toes they had stepped on to have pulled weekend
duty. It wasn't that he minded being there; truth be
told, he could oftentimes be found in his basement
office in what should have been his off-hours. But the
faces around him were not immediately familiar, and
that meant they did not normally spend their Saturdays
there. It couldn't be that they had nothing better to
do. The weather was fine out, though a little hot; if
nothing else, the football season was off to a
promising start. No, these good people had no doubt
been caught by the same bureaucratic hand that had
brought his partner down: the gods of Establishment
demanded their pound of flesh, and that sacrifice was
Paperwork.

"Here. One large ice-tea, with lemon, extra sweet." A
tall white cup appeared in front of his face and
plunked itself down on the table before him. Beside
him, Dana Scully dropped into her chair with a soft
grunt. Her wire-rimmed glasses were perched on the top
of her head, looking for all the world like eyes
peering outward from their nest of red hair. He nodded
thoughtfully as he took the Styrofoam cup. She followed
his gaze curiously, a wry smirk disfiguring her mouth.
"Yeah, I see Pendergast over there. We must not be the
only ones to let the paper trail fall by the wayside."
She lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug,
trying to ease the tension out of her stiff muscle,
then carefully palmed her eyes.

Mulder took a hefty swig of the tea and wiped his mouth
with the back of a hand. "How's the head?" he asked.

She squinted a moment, then sighed irritably. "It's all
right. I just need some coffee. Go on. You were telling
me something about Oxford."

He settled back in his chair with a sheepish grin. "It
wasn't all that interesting." Some of his drink slopped
over the lip of the cup and dribbled down the front of
his gray T-shirt. He quickly wiped it away. Her gaze
was unswerving, and he half-shrugged. "The Upper-
classman air show, they called it. We'd steal all the
seniors' underwear and hang it on a line out the class
Chamberlain's office window." Scully's blue eyes
narrowed almost imperceptibly, and his grin widened.
"Hey, it was boring. All those white boxers hanging
limp in the air. Sort of a cultural statement, now that
I think about it. I had to do something to break the
monotony."

Scully took a careful sip of coffee, holding his gaze
effortlessly over the rim of her cup. "And what manner
did you choose to demonstrate your Yankee ingenuity?
They don't have a Frederick's of Hollywood over there,
do they? Victoria's Secret, maybe?"

Mulder sat up a little straighter and gestured with a
forefinger for emphasis. "No, but that would have been
good too."

She sighed patiently. "So instead you used . . . ?"

He hid his smile behind his cup. "Tie dye. None of that
patriotic stuff. After all, their national colors are
the same as ours. Who'd get the joke? No, I got really
creative. Puke green and red, purple with orange the
color of life-savers . . . hey, do you know how hard it
is to dissolve that stuff in tapwater? To say nothing
of getting it off my hands. Stupid roommate lost the
spoon on the way back to the dorm."

At that Scully smiled. "Okay, so they figured out
sooner or later who the culprit was. What did they do
to get back at you? Steal your own underwear?" He
shrugged and dropped his gaze in mock-humility. When he
didn't answer, she leaned closer and tried to catch his
eye. "They didn't, did they?"

He winced as he took another swig. "What the British
lack in ingenuity, they make up for in brutality.
Besides swiping my shorts, they had the laundry staff
starch the pants of all the underclassmen. That went on
for a month. God, those long lectures were murder."

She struggled not to laugh. "I hope you learned your
lesson."

He nodded quickly. "Damn straight. The next year I
remembered to bring a big wooden spoon, and I wore
about six pairs of surgical gloves. My hands were
pristine. You woulda been proud of me."

At that, Scully couldn't help but laugh. "I doubt
that," she quipped, giggling. "I hope you don't ever
get any ideas about Skinner. Something tells me he'd
make the Oxford upper-classmen look like the Mormon
Tabernacle Choir."

He waved her away. "Never touch the underwear of a
Marine. That's where I personally draw the line."

They looked up as a handful of people made a noisy
entrance. Mulder shifted in his chair and nodded a non-
committal greeting. More unfamiliars.

"Hey, Skullbone!" one of the newcomers shouted across
the room. She looked up, startled. A round, gray-haired
agent waved as he approached their table. "Happy
birthday, punk. Seen any good livers lately? I'm
looking to replace mine soon, and I'm trolling for
candidates."

Livers again. Would Mulder ever hear the end of that
one? The joke had been funny for about the first minute
and a half, but after so many years the humor was
wearing thin. He grimaced as he looked to his partner.
To his surprise, she was pushing herself to her feet
and reaching out to shake the agent's hand. A definite
smile had lit her face, and a moment of panic made his
gut tighten. <Happy birthday. You didn't forget it
again, did you? What month is this - September? Wait,
isn't her birthday in February?>

The agent laughed as he caught her up in a bearhug. He
was taller than Scully - who wasn't? - but shorter than
Mulder by a few inches. Looked to be about sixty.
Couldn't be an old suitor, unless he was the kind who
was *too* old. No, that wasn't like her. Must be an
instructor, or maybe a friend of the family.

After a long hug Scully managed to disengage herself.
Her face glowed with pleasure as she turned back to
Mulder, slowly rising beside her. "Jack, this is my
partner, Fox Mulder. This is Jack Larson, one of the
forensics guys from Quantico. One of my instructors."

Larson turned with a broad smile. "The best of her
instructors, but she'll never admit it." He caught his
hand in a firm shake - maybe a little too firm.
Larson's eyes narrowed as he considered Mulder, trying
not to wince as he withdrew his hand. His brow furrowed
a little. "Yeah, I've heard of you. Made a splash in
the BS unit a coupla years ago. Seems there was another
name for you, wasn't there? What was it? Something
dumb. Well, I guess it doesn't matter." He clapped
Scully on the shoulder as he drew a chair up between
them, forcing Mulder to give way. "What's got you two
chained to the weekend oar? Don't tell me you've fallen
behind on your work. Mulder, have you polluted my ace
student? Say the word, Skullbone, and I'll have your
assignments changed in a heartbeat. We can always use
someone good over in the labs. You give much thought to
teaching? You'd be good at it."

Scully smiled patiently. "Yes, I have. I did. I was.
You must have been reassigned yourself." She caught
Mulder's eye. "I taught at the Academy a while. An
opening came up back here, so I took it. I'm not ready
to be sedentary just yet."

The older man scowled and made a sound like a growling
cat. "Oh, that stings! When did you develop this
attitude, Scully? Is it the company you keep?" He
looked at Mulder in mock disapproval. "Watch it, young
man. I carry a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it."

Mulder allowed himself a wry smile. "I'll keep that in
mind," he replied, slouching back in his chair.

Larson turned back to Scully and studied her intently.
"You look good, kid. Too bad you can't go out and play
with the *good* children. Let this be a lesson." He
jerked his head at Mulder. "This the guy you spend all
your time with? Better watch it, you're gonna end up a
spinster married to your job. Better to get back to the
Academy. At least you don't get shot at there."

Scully shrugged. "Wasn't it you who told me the best
agents are single anyway? Who has time for two lives?"

Larson drew his lip back in a sneer. "Hey, I know
whereof I speak. Wife left me, kids grew up and moved
away, and what am I left with? My partner. Fine with
me, but his wife doesn't understand why I hang around
all the time."

"You won't be doing that for much longer," a new voice
said. A younger agent was approaching, carefully
holding two brimming cups before him. "Here, take
these. My hands are burning."

Larson smirked as he reached for the coffee. "Wimp.
Matt, this is Dana Scully. Old friend. Not that she
looks it. Matt Tripp, my partner of fifteen years.
Matt, this is her side-kick, Mulder. I didn't get the
first name, sorry."

Scully caught his amused look. "Fox. Fox Mulder."

Tripp frowned as he sat down, evidently running the
name through his mind, searching for a match. "Mulder.
Mulder. Rings a bell. Odd name, Fox. I thought only my
people had names like that."

Scully looked at him blankly, and Larson chuckled. "His
family's Indian going way back. So what do we call you,
anyway? Foxy?"

Mulder grunted softly. "Not if you expect me to answer
you."

"Okay, Mulder it is. Skullbone, you wanna step over
here with me? Seeing you has put me in a mood."

She shrugged and nodded. As she rose to follow him,
Mulder leaned close and whispered, "Don't be gone long,
dear - we still have to finish paying the bills." Her
look was stern, and he smiled.

Tripp shrugged as he blew over his coffee to cool it.
"I don't know how he manages it," he muttered. "I hope
he didn't offend you. He doesn't mean to be an ass."

Mulder shook his head. "Takes a lot more than that to
offend me, Agent Tripp. That comment you made, though -
am I to take it that you've already planned the demise
of your partner, or do you have something else in
mind?"

Tripp's smile became fixed. "No, nothing as overtly
sinister as that. I can't afford the prison time.
Jack's retiring next month. Doesn't look it, does he?
We've been partners since I graduated. Guess I'm gonna
be the one breaking in a rookie this time."

Mulder swirled his tea thoughtfully. "It isn't so bad,"
he replied. "Just be prepared to be second-guessed at
every turn. What's your field - science? At least it's
concrete."

Tripp glanced across the room to his partner, who was
spinning Scully around as if the cafeteria had suddenly
become a dance floor. Her auburn hair was a red halo
around her head, her laughter light and clear. "Yeah.
Jack's mentioned your partner from time to time. Isn't
that her field, too?"

"What, concrete? Naw, Scully's a scientist through and
through."

Tripp nodded contemplatively. "She's a scientist. That
must make you the behavioralist. Yeah, I have heard of
you. Got some real unconventional theories about what
makes some people tick. I like that. Conventions get
boring."

Mulder grunted as he pushed himself back up in his
chair. "Yeah, especially the ones thrown by the
Republicans," he replied, setting aside his empty cup.
"Sorry to leave you here alone, but our ten minutes
were up about half an hour ago. I'd better go break up
Fred and Ginger, or we're never going to make it home
tonight. Excuse me."

Without waiting for a response, Mulder rose and turned
away. Larson had danced her around the room and was
approaching the double exit doors. An intercept course
wasn't easy to navigate through all the empty chairs,
especially since with his eyes on the couple, Mulder
wasn't exactly watching where he was going. Larson
seemed to know what he was doing, at least the dancing
part. They were talking, that much was clear, but what
was being said he could only guess. Scully was smiling,
but it seemed to be as much with embarrassment as
anything else. The man was infatuated with her, but it
didn't seem to be reciprocated. Or was it? No, he'd
known her long enough, he should be able to tell if she
was getting any thrill out of being spun around like a
top.

Shoving the last few chairs aside, Mulder made it to
the couple and gracefully caught Scully away. "Mind if
I cut in?" he asked, pulling her close for a dip.
Larson bowed his head in consent as he stepped back.
"Sorry to break up the fun, but we have work to finish.
Coming, dear?"

Scully shrugged apologetically. "Gotta go, Jack. Gimme
a call some time." She allowed Mulder to turn her away,
then firmly pushed him away.

He eyed her playfully. "What kind of professor did you
say he was?"

She scowled in mock disbelief. "Don't tell me you never
heard of the Dancing Doctor? Foxtrot and forensics?
Mulder, I'm shocked. What you saw in there - that was
on the final."

His eyebrows rose at that. "I can believe that. Does
make me wonder about the extra credit assignment
though." She said nothing, merely punched the elevator
call button and then folded her arms. He sidled up to
her and elbowed her gently. "C'mon, how come you never
danced with me? I got rhythm, sort of."

She shot him a stern look as the lift doors opened.
"Shut up and get in the elevator, Mulder."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 1
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 2
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully spent the evening catching up on domestic
chores. Of late there had been few assignments that
required them to travel, and so those tasks were
neither numerous nor complicated. She watched the news,
then switched off the TV and prepared for bed. Maybe
she would read for a while. Where was that casefile
Mulder had asked her to review? Hell, she'd left it in
the living room, on the desk beside her computer. With
a little sigh she stretched out on the bed. She would
rest there for just a minute, then get up and get the
file. Some case about a kid who heard voices. One
shrink thought it was schizophrenia, another
equivocated, and of course Mulder thought it was
communications from beyond the grave or some such
thing. Hey, they had seen stranger things. She had
learned to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The ringing phone jarred her out of a sound sleep. She
sat up with a gasp, for a moment lost in the darkness.
The alarm clock beside her read 2:10 am. Dazed, she
fumbled for the lamp, then reached for the phone. At
this hour it was never good news.

"Scully? You'd better get dressed."

Something in the tone told her not to doubt him.
"Mulder, what is it?"

He hesitated for just an instant, but it might just as
well have been an hour. "Your friend, Jack. He's been
killed." Stunned, she said nothing. "Scully, get
dressed. I'm on my way to get you."

Numb, she muttered a response and hung up the phone.
For a moment she just sat there, her mind whirling.
They had just danced. He had made her laugh. Then
Mulder's words returned in a rush, and she reached for
the clothes thrown across the foot of the bed.

The expected knock came within minutes. He had
evidently called from the road, allowing her little
time to think. She let him in, then returned to her
room for her wallet. Turning, she was surprised to find
him standing in the doorway. They were no stranger to
nighttime crime scenes, and he almost always waited for
her in the kitchen.

His eyes were full of concern as he studied her. "What
is it?" she asked.

He almost caught her arm but stopped himself. "Are you
all right?" he asked quietly.

She grunted as she brushed past him. "Of course.
Listen, I appreciate your concern, but I'm not about to
fall apart. You should know that better than anyone.
What happened to Jack?"

He nodded as he fell back a step. "He and Tripp were on
their way home when they were broadsided. Hit and run,
literally. The guy took off on foot, so he must not be
hurt too bad. There were two eye-witnesses, and the
local cops are working on gathering physical evidence."
Taking her keys, he locked the front door after them,
then pocketed them and turned with her down the hall.
"Jack was driving. Killed on impact. Tripp's been
Lifeflighted to the trauma center here in Georgetown."

Nothing more was said. Nothing more was necessary. No
one was put on a helicopter unless they were in bad
shape. Scully opened the car door and slid in beside
him. "How did you hear about it?" she asked as he
gunned the motor.

Mulder shrugged. "I couldn't sleep. Had the scanner on.
You know, just keeping an ear to the ground. As soon as
it came over, I was out the door."

She nodded silently. He didn't exactly live down the
road from her. Assuming it was reported soon after it
occurred, that put the accident time no later than
1:30.

Puzzled, she glanced at her partner. "Mulder, why are
we going there? If the local authorities have the
investigation in hand, they aren't going to appreciate
the FBI running in and taking over." When he didn't
answer, she sighed impatiently. "What's the case?
What's the X-File?"

He gave her a lingering glance. "We aren't going in any
official capacity," he said quietly. "Tripp's wife
collapsed at the news. They need someone to ID the . .
. to ID Larson."

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

The accident scene was sprawled out in the middle of a
broad intersection. Scully shuddered as she took in the
sight. The mangled cars. A figure slumped in the
roadway, covered with a yellow tarp. Shattered glass
everywhere. Steeling herself, she approached one of the
officers and drew her ID. He shook his head,
unimpressed. "Pardon me, ma'am," he said, "but the FBI
has no jurisdiction over this crime scene. You'll have
to wait back there with the press."

Scully shrugged off his clinging hand. "I'm here to
identify the victim," she replied in her best spare-me-
the-bullshit voice. "He was a colleague. Now excuse
me."

She spared him no more energy, but hurried to the tarp
and crouched down. Taking a latex glove out of a
pocket, she slipped it on and carefully drew back a
corner of the plastic. She was prepared, of course, for
what she saw. She'd seen accident victims before, to
say nothing of the mutilated bodies of murder victims;
she had done countless autopsies, and had herself used
lethal force in the course of her duties. Not so long
ago she had identified what was, in effect, a headless
corpse in Mulder's apartment, and then quietly declared
it to be the body of her own partner and friend. In
truth, however, she could not remember seeing any
friend quite like this. This was no subterfuge intended
to save their collective asses. This inert form lying
at her feet - she had danced with him just hours ago.
He had teased her for the company she kept. For working
with a man who was arguably a genius but who also bore
the nickname of *Spooky*.

He had liked her.

Her hands were steady as she replaced the tarp and
pushed herself to her feet. What blessings would her
priest offer? Was Larson even Catholic? She started to
cross herself, but stopped with her hand suspended in
mid-air. Not with so much going on around her - so many
prying eyes. Not with Mulder watching. They could talk
about almost anything, but not that. He had his faith,
but it was not in religion. Resolute, she lifted her
chin and stepped back, then turned on her heel.

He was watching her, of course, as he leaned against
the car, his hands shoved in his pockets. His
expression was pensive. She slowed as she approached
the surly cop. Almost reluctantly he took her name and
badge number. Could she be reached at the main offices
in DC? Yes, she replied; she'd be there Monday morning.

Mulder lifted his chin at her approach. "Let's go," she
said quietly as she passed him. He turned without a
word.

They drove back to her neighborhood in silence. He drew
the car up before her building and set it in neutral,
then gave her a searching look.

Scully shook her head before he could speak. "There's
nothing wrong with me, Mulder."

He stared blankly at her outstretched hand. "What?"

Her brows furrowed slightly. "You still have my keys.
Can I have them back?"

Chagrined, he dug in a pocket and produced them.
"Sorry," he murmured, handing them over.

She nodded as she started to get out, then stopped and
looked back. "You're so worried about me - are *you*
all right?"

He half-smiled ruefully. "Yeah. Just thinking." He
sighed and looked past her to the darkness. "The crazy
things we've seen, all the shots we've taken and walked
away from. Larson and Tripp must've seen their share of
crap. This just doesn't make any sense."

Scully nodded. "I know," she murmured. "All the things
we think we have control over, and then something like
this happens. Makes you realize you're hanging on for
dear life just like everyone else." His focus shortened
to her face again and he nodded slowly. Clutching the
keys in her hand, she opened the car door and got out.
"Good night, Mulder." She started to swing the heavy
door shut, then caught it. Without looking at him, she
quietly said, "Give me a call when you get home, okay?"

He smiled and nodded. <She's thinking it too,> he
thought as he pulled away. <Those guys were partners
for fifteen years? Jesus, I don't want to do this job
without her.>

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

That stayed with him through the rest of the night,
nagging at him through the few hours he managed to
sleep, lying like a sour film over his thoughts when he
woke. Inter-personal relationships had never been his
strong suit. That's what made his association with
Scully so unique: she didn't seem to care about his
blind spots. To have to start over again with someone
new, setting the boundaries, all that bullshit that
people did to each other - the thought made him wince.

He supposed at this point he took everything for
granted. How many times had they seen one another in a
hospital bed? They had always made it back, whole. They
might have occasionally doubted themselves, but rarely
each other. The very essence of partners.

But now this. Something as mundane as a car accident
might put an end to what aliens or government
conspiracies could not. You could wear kevlar vests.
You could arm yourself with a sub-machine gun cut down
to fit in a pack of playing cards, or deck yourself out
like that Hannibal Lector guy, wearing blades hidden
all over your body. What good did it do when that guy
driving toward you was drunk out of his skull?

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

The funeral was Wednesday. It was always difficult,
attending the service of a colleague, but someone from
the Bureau made the loss all the more real. No one
liked to think of their own end, about the void left in
the office, in the lives of the agents around them.
Especially in the lives of their family.

Isn't it somehow worse if there was no family, Scully
thought to herself. Surrounded by dozens of federal
officers, each of whom were dressed in black, she
wondered how many were like Larson, and how many had
decided as Tripp had. Marriage and a family - some
agents did find it possible.

Word had reached them earlier that day: Tripp was still
in serious condition and semi-comatose, but he was
breathing on his own now. His wife refused to leave his
side, even for the funeral of his best friend. Scully
couldn't blame her for that. She'd been there a few
times herself, praying to God and to the laws of
science that *her* loved one would survive, would pull
through and be whole again. Sometimes her prayers were
answered. *She* had prevailed over illness and injury.
So had Mulder. But sometimes her prayers hadn't been
answered. Her father. Her sister. Penny Northern. She
closed her eyes and shivered despite the heat.

The service was simple and straight-forward. When it
was over, a handful of cars trailed the hearse to the
cemetery. Respect demanded Scully go too. There was a
carpool of sorts, but it was soon filled. She rode with
Skinner.

The late-afternoon sun made her black suit
uncomfortably warm, and she couldn't help but fidget in
her seat. Mulder had asked if she wanted him to
accompany her, but she had declined and he hadn't
questioned it. It wasn't merely because he hadn't known
Larson; deep down, she didn't want to associate him
with the very concept of funerals. As trying as he
could be, as unconventional and at times irritatingly
spontaneous, he had come to mean more to her than
anyone else in her life. The possibility of losing that
friendship was not one she wanted to contemplate.

The final prayers were said and the service came to a
close. Scully rose and filed after the others back to
the cars. In the distance she saw a familiar figure
leaning against a large tree, and she felt her spirits
lift a little. He tipped his head forward and regarded
her over the tops of his sunglasses. Pearls of sweat
dotted his forehead, and a few strands of dark hair
were matted against his skin. Sunflower shells were
scattered about his feet.

At her approach he held out his hand, palm up. "Seed?"

Smiling, she took one. "I thought you weren't coming."

He shrugged one shoulder. "I got bored. Besides, the
party's over. Everyone's going home." He nodded to a
distant figure. "I see Skinner made it, too."

She followed his gaze. "Yeah, I came out with him. I
didn't realize he knew Jack."

Mulder grunted softly. "I think there's a lot about
Skinner we don't know."

Scully sighed and folded her arms. "I don't see many
shells. You must not have been waiting for long."

He shoved himself away from the tree. "Figured you
might need a ride."

She frowned. "How would you know that?" He shrugged
again, a little smile pulling at his eyes. Realization
was quick to dawn, and her brows furrowed again. "Oh,
Mulder. You didn't."

His smile broadened a little. "He was an agent. He was
a friend of yours. It made sense. Besides, I think
everyone should contemplate their own mortality once in
a while. I knew you'd be doing it. Couldn't leave you
*all* alone."

As he spoke, they turned and headed for his car, parked
in a distant puddle of shade. "You hear about Tripp?"
she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah." He glanced at her when she fell
silent and for a while left her to her thoughts. No,
she was too silent, her eyes too sad. He had to say
something. "I, uh, I think I know how you feel, Scully.
Listen, they were just in the wrong place at the wrong
time. It could have been anyone."

No, that was the wrong damn thing to say. He saw her
wince and silently cursed himself for putting his foot
in it. "You're right there," she replied very softly.
"It could've been anyone."

He stopped then and caught her by the hand. She looked
at him expectantly and didn't pull away. "That isn't
how I meant it."

She smiled sadly. "I know."

He considered her for a minute, then touched a
fingertip to the point of her chin. "You look pretty
damn miserable. C'mon, I know a place that sells
gourmet peanut butter pizza. My treat."

She grimaced. "Mulder, that's disgusting."

He laughed softly and shrugged. "All right, order
whatever you want. I'll still treat. You want to go
like that, or would you rather go home for a change of
clothes?"

She scowled tenderly at him. "You aren't going to leave
me alone to contemplate my mortality, are you?"

He tugged on her hand. "No, I'm not. C'mon."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 2
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Wednesday, September 29 5:35 pm

Walter Skinner rose and paced slowly around his office.
"So you're saying it was no accident."

The two men seated before him watched him move. One
nodded solemnly; the other remained still. The single
figure standing in the shadows behind them removed his
glasses and slowly wiped them with a clean cloth.
Skinner glanced at him as he passed, but the man's eyes
were hidden by shadows.

"Our theory," one of the seated men said, "is that the
agents were tailed for some time before the incident
was staged. The assaulting auto had no plates, the VINs
were that of a Florida vehicle reported stolen six
months ago, and the absence of prints on the interior
would indicate that gloves were worn. Residue common to
powdered latex surgical gloves was found on the
steering wheel. We're crossing it against what was
found at each of the different scenes. Also worth
noting was the type of auto used. It's consistently
been a large model sub-utility vehicle. That would
indicate that the perpetrators fully intend to inflict
heavy damage to the victims' automobiles. Maximum
destructive capability, while maintaining a relatively
safe zone for the assaulting driver."

Skinner stopped at his window and looked out at the
afternoon traffic. For a moment he just stood there,
unmoving. He'd buried a friend that day. It was
something he never wanted to do again. Then he turned
and sat down again. The men stared at him fixedly. He
nodded to the one who spoke most frequently. "How many
incidents have there been in all?"

"Four that we can be sure of. Three others offer
similarities. They picked up a couple men after the
incident in Virginia, but nothing was clear enough to
make an arrest. The first victims were local deputies.
The Federal officers received the worst injuries by
far, no question. Larson was the first fatality."

The figure standing in the shadows took a long step
forward, appearing between the men as silently as a
shark from deep water. "And it's now up to us to see
that he is the last," he said, turning to regard them.
"Thank you for the thoroughness of your report,
gentlemen. That will be all."

The men exchanged glances, then rose and filed silently
out of the room. Skinner looked at the remaining figure
with raised eyebrows. "Local police are our first
contact with the community, sir," he said, his voice
flat and even. "I've found it unwise to alienate them.
I think the Attorney General would concur with me on
that."

The man smiled. "I'm sure she would. So do I. I need
them too, don't forget. Without their grunts to do the
legwork, this case would be doubly hard to prosecute."
He folded his arms across his chest and thoughtfully
tapped a finger to his chin. "You have quite a
collection of behaviorists among your agents. Who would
you suggest we assign to this?"

Skinner pursed his lips as he gave thought to the
issue. "Collins just helped bag that serial killer in
Boston. Malkowsky and Briggman have been working
together on the New York bomber. They profiled the guy
six months into the investigation. So far their
speculations have been right on."

The lean figure snorted softly. "Not that it's helped
one iota in apprehending the gentleman," he replied.
"Not a ringing endorsement. Who else? The AG's going to
want several options."

Skinner shrugged a broad shoulder. "Chrisman's good.
Has a problem with authority, but the press like him.
Then there's Mulder. He's the one who did the work on
the DC murders several years ago."

Again the man snorted. "Yes, we're familiar with Agent
Mulder. He's been quite an issue in the past. I'm
afraid the Attorney General would resist employing him.
That dish he works with... what's her name?"

"Scully," the Assistant Director said very softly.

"Yes, Scully. She'd be useful, given her particular
area of expertise. Unfortunately, she was acquainted
with the murder victim. We can't rely on her
objectivity on this. A shame. I should have enjoyed
working with her. As for Mulder, he tends to get
himself worked up with conspiracy theories, and he's
exhibited a marked pattern of rebellion against
authority. I have no time to lock horns with him over
anything."

Skinner was silent for a moment. Mulder often was a
pain in the ass, and Scully did indeed help keep him on
track; but when he was on, he was *dead* on. That case
he'd had, the vacuum-cleaner salesman - he called that
one to a damned T. Whether or not the man killed
Mulder's sister was not part of the original case, and
therefore had never been an issue in his own book - but
they got the last victim back alive. In Skinner's
estimation, that put him head and shoulders above
anyone else in the division.

Still, the Special Prosecutor didn't want to hear his
defenses of a troublemaker. Too often Mulder had done a
superior job of being just that. "Collins is your man
then," he said at last. "He's attached to the
Washington Heights incident at the moment, but a word
from your office will cut him loose. He won't be happy
about changing priorities, but once he settles in,
he'll get the job done."

The man pocketed the cloth and donned his glasses. "I
don't care if he's happy or not. I want his nose to the
grindstone, and I want it there soon." He paused. "I
trust you'll make the people under you aware of the
situation. I shouldn't want an official statement
released just now. Too much publicity might scare off
the prey. We don't want that to happen." He turned
slowly and made for the outer door of the office. "Good
day, Mr. Skinner."

The AD said nothing, merely watched him go. He half-
expected to see a trail of slime on the carpet after
him, so much did the man remind him of a slug. With a
sneer Skinner turned back to his window. "Good day," he
muttered. "It'll be a better one now that you're gone,
you son of a bitch."

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

As Mulder stepped off the elevator and dug in his
pocket for his keys, he couldn't help but smile a
little. It had been a first, going out for some reason
completely unrelated to work. She was quiet for a
while, her thoughts no doubt still on the funeral, but
eventually he was able to draw her out. It was fun.
They played darts and ate pizza - not peanut butter.
He'd called it a wake, though they were the only ones
in the place that drank no alcohol.

He locked the door behind him, then turned on the TV
and sprawled on the couch. The news was just wrapping
up. He paid little attention.

It wasn't exactly surprising that she had no idea how
to throw a dart. Coaching her was an adventure in
itself. Holding her wrist and guiding its path,
standing so close he could feel her warmth through
their clothes - he had to admit, he'd enjoyed the
intimacy. Her first few attempts went wild of course,
but she kept at it, determined to get it right. Her
efforts amused the college boys playing the next board.
Mulder liked the way they had admired her. A friend,
he'd told one of them while she was in the bathroom.
Just a friend from work.

Work, they had scoffed. That's all you can think to do
with someone like that? You must really like your job.

It has its moments, he had replied, smiling.

Though he was careful not to mention it, he was a
little curious about Larson. She'd indicated they were
professional acquaintances, and he had no reason to
doubt her. Mulder was a loner and always had been - but
Scully was different. Was there something lacking from
her life, something missed but never mentioned? They
were as familiar with each other as anyone could be, at
least in passing; but he'd found himself wondering
lately just what that meant. How did it translate? He
could order her favorite Chinese dish. He knew that she
preferred jazz at home but wanted to work in silence;
he knew that she liked her coffee light, no sugar. Did
that count for anything?

He didn't know her favorite color. Or why she had taken
to wearing black so much of the time. He didn't know
what she had dreamed of being when she was a kid, or
where she hoped to be in a year. A decade.

At times they could look at each other and know
precisely what the other was thinking. It was tempting
to take her for granted. He didn't like that thought.

Mulder rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Absently he rose
and switched off the TV. Then he threw back the
bedspread, stripped off his clothes, and tossed them at
the hamper. His mind churned. It was a long time before
he could sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 4
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Thursday, September 30 4:24 pm

"Hey Scully, can I ask you a personal question?"

She glanced up from the report she was reading. "The
kid told his therapist he heard voices, but it says
here he never told his father. They're supposed to be
close. If the kid's hearing things, don't you think he
might mention it to Dad?" She shook her head as she sat
back and took off her glasses. "I don't know, Mulder. I
haven't read anything that makes me think this is
anything other than an over-indulged kid trying to
wiggle his way out of a criminal situation. These
voices he claims to have heard - "

"Do you want to get married?"

She didn't miss a beat. "Yeah, sure. I'm not going to
iron your shirts though, I'd better not be the only one
taking the garbage out, and I'm not wearing white.
These voices telling him to do these terrible things -
it's a little too convenient to me. He killed the
neighbor's dog because he was told to, but *didn't*
kill the neighbor because it was wrong. Now, was it
wrong to stab the golden retriever twenty-seven times
or wasn't it?" She looked up when he didn't respond.
"Mulder?"

He blinked and gave his head a shake. "Well, do you?"
he asked.

She stared at him for a moment, her mouth hanging open.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to say."

He waved a hand at the report. "Leave that alone for a
minute. The dog isn't going to get any deader."

Abruptly she sat back and tossed her pen down on the
stack of folders before her. "Okay, let's get this over
with."

"Get what over with?"

She didn't quite laugh, but it was close. "You've been
acting odd since before the funeral. What is going on
in your head? Are you having some sort of crisis?"

He shook his head fiercely. "No, I'm not. I'm just
asking you a question. We've never really talked about
it. It isn't such an odd question, is it?"

She gave him her best blank look. "A marriage proposal
isn't such an odd question?"

He waved a hand impatiently. "No, I don't mean to *me*.
I mean in general. Something Larson said, it's been
sticking in my head. Where do you see yourself in ten
years?"

She stared at him, her exasperation growing. "Mulder,
did you hear anything I just said? Where are you going
with this? How is this germane to anything we've been
talking about?"

He rose and rounded the desk, sitting back against it
and folding his arms before him. "That's just it, we
haven't talked about it. Listen, I'll be content to
stay here in this room until someone torches it again
or until my social security checks start coming in,
whichever comes first. If there's some other place you
want to be, whether you know about it right now or not
. . . I don't want you sticking around here out of some
sense of loyalty to me."

Her gaze was unwavering. "Is that your concern? You
think I'm not satisfied here? After what I've seen and
done with you - the questions I still have unanswered,
the issues that haven't been resolved . . . do you
honestly think there's some other place I should be?"

"Have you answered my question?"

Impatience sparked in her eyes. "What am I supposed to
say? That if Mr. Right comes along, I'll pull my Sig
and shoot him? I can't give you an answer right now,
I'm sorry." She likewise crossed her arms. "Let's look
at the situation from a different perspective. Do *you*
ever want to get married? No, don't just shake your
head. Come on, it's a fair question."

He waved her away again and went back to his chair.
"Getting a little defensive, aren't you, Scully?"

She opened the file again. "Can we just get back to
work, please?"

At that moment the phone between them gave a short,
shrill ring. Mulder plucked the handset off the cradle
as she reached for it, and he smiled at her fierce
glare. "Yeah? Oh, yes sir. No, she's right here. When?
All right, we'll be there." He shrugged as he hung up.
"Skinner wants us in his office in ten. "

Scully shoved her chair back and stood with a jerk.
"Fine. I think it's pretty clear we're not getting
anywhere here. I'm going up for coffee." He said
nothing, merely nodded as he examined his steepled
fingers. She opened the door, then stopped and glanced
back. He looked up, and her gaze dropped. "Mulder, I
don't know if this answers your question . . . but I
can't think of any place I'd rather be than right
here." With that she turned and let the door close
behind her.

The elevator was evidently held up somewhere, so she
took the stairs. The exertion helped take the edge off
her temper. <What is it with him,> she wondered sourly,
shouldering aside the door to the ground level. The
cafeteria on that floor was just around the corner,
within easy reach of those new arrivals who needed a
quick fix. The vending machine stood silent, waiting.
She hesitated an instant. Caffeine at this hour? She'd
be up all night -

"The hell with it," she muttered, feeding a dollar into
the money slot. Tomorrow was Friday - she could be a
little late if she had to be. She wanted the damn
coffee.

His question preyed on her. Neither of them were
getting any younger, and with the funeral so fresh in
their minds, she wasn't surprised that he would ask
such a fundamental question. She remember Jack's advice
to stay single and unattached, but then she also
thought of Tripp lying there in the intensive care unit
with his wife at his side. They found a way to make it
work. It would be a long time before he returned to
work, if he made it back at all. At least he wouldn't
be alone.

She took a tentative sip and winced at the bitterness.
It was very strong. Slowly she moved to a table and sat
down.

She caught herself thinking about Jack Larson and
rebuked herself. Took another sip, and glanced at her
watch. Mulder would be waiting, and so would Skinner.
With a twinge of regret, she poured the coffee down the
drain in the drinking fountain, then hurried down the
hall to the elevator and pressed the call button. The
car was ascending from the basement floor - no doubt
Mulder was on it. She sighed, mentally bracing herself
for more questions.

He nodded when he saw her and stepped aside to allow
her to pass. They rode in silence for a moment.
"Sorry," he said quietly.

She looked at him in surprise. "What for?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "I've been doing some
thinking since Saturday, but I shouldn't have dumped it
on you like that." He elbowed her gently. "Still
friends?"

Scully sighed. "Just don't mention marriage again, all
right? God, for a minute you sounded a little like Aunt
Alva."

He glanced at her, a wry smile starting. "Alva? I
thought her name was Olive. God, Scully, how many aunts
you got?"

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

Skinner was at his desk, as he usually was, bent over a
short stack of reports. At their entrance he glanced up
and gestured to the chairs before him. "Please take a
seat. There're several points we need to cover, and I
don't have much time, so I'll make this brief.

"This case you're working on now, the kid and the
neighbor's dog. I'm afraid you'll have to set it aside
for now. I want you in Oregon as soon as you can get
there. A family's disappeared from their home. You
two'll prove invaluable to the investigation, for both
forensic analysis and profiling." He ran his finger
down the paper before him. "Sheriff's a guy named
Salerno. My assistant is making the travel arrangements
right now."

Scully nodded. "Good enough. Anything else?"

Skinner hesitated. In that brief pause Mulder heard
enormous portent. Something was going on, something the
AD didn't relish discussing. Lying was not his
strongest suit - would he deny outright, or equivocate
and pull rank? He'd done both in the past.

She had caught it too, Mulder could see in her posture:
a slight stiffening, a narrowing of her eyes. He caught
it in a glance.

"This incident involving Agents Larson and Tripp,"
Skinner said at last. "It isn't as cut and dried as you
probably think. There's evidence now that it wasn't an
accident." Mulder exchanged quick glances with his
partner. Skinner quickly held up a hand. "I've been
asked to submit a list of behaviorists to the Office of
the Attorney General on this matter. Mulder, your name
is on that list. But we must be realistic. The Attorney
General - "

" - doesn't want me anywhere in sight," Mulder finished
for him.

Skinner grunted softly. "That's the sentiment. Besides,
Agent Scully's neutrality would be called into question
because she was acquainted with the victim. At any
rate, this situation in Oregon will keep you busy
enough." He sat back in his chair and leveled a hard
look at them. "If there aren't any questions . . ."
They didn't even look at one another, but rose as if
they were connected by some invisible line. "I'll
expect an initial report in seventy-two hours. That'll
be all."

They said nothing until they were alone in the
elevator. Mulder scowled at his partner. "Tell me you
caught that."

She nodded. "Federal officers being assaulted, and
we're flown out on a case not exactly within our
bailiwick. Did he mention an X-file, or did I miss
something?"

Mulder raised an eyebrow. "He's protecting us, and
judging from his reticence, I doubt it's with the
section chief's blessing." He gave his head a quick
shake. "I can't leave now. Suppose you go on out alone
and do your slice'n dice thing. I want to do some
investigating around here before -"

"No." The refusal was unequivocating, her eyes calm but
resolute. "Skinner doesn't want us involved, and for
once I agree with him. Pack your bag, Mulder - we're
going to Oregon."


~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 4
~~~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 5
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Friday, October 1

The airport at Dos Lobos, Oregon had very little to
offer. The terminal, which wasn't much larger than
Mulder's apartment, accommodated a total of two
carriers. A few vending machines stood in the corner,
and from a pair of half-empty Mr.Coffees wafted the
unpleasant smell of stale coffee. Scully tried not to
grimace as she looked around. Turbulence had rocked
them non-stop from Washington to Texas, and the brief
nap she'd managed to get just before landing had done
nothing to refresh her. It hadn't helped when Mulder
all but fell asleep on her shoulder.

Pulling up beside her, he looked around and wrinkled
his nose in disgust. "Jesus, what is that stench? Is
that what passes for coffee around here?"

She glanced at him. "I think that's what passed for
coffee around eight this morning. Don't be alarmed. I'm
sure we'll be able to find a coffee shop. You won't
have to go without your morning brew."

He grunted as he shouldered her carry-on. "Oh, like you
don't have a little caffeine problem too," he muttered.

A county deputy was waiting for them just outside the
door. Scully sized him up quickly. Thin and lanky, he
looked too young to be an authority on anything except
Billboard's Top Ten. She dug in her purse and produced
her credentials. "Agents Scully and Mulder. I take it
you're here to meet us?"

The deputy practically snapped to attention. "Yes,
ma'am. Deputy Parnell. Almost gave you up for lost. We
heard about the storms back east. Sorry you had such a
bummer of a trip. Welcome to Dos Lobos."

Mulder nodded to the exit. "Where's Salerno? I thought
he was going to meet us."

The young officer turned on his heel. "LT's out at the
crime scene. We tried t'contact you through your people
back east, but I guess they never did get ahold of you.
We, uh, we found the missing people this morning."

They exchanged quick looks. "When was this?" Scully
asked.

Parnell glanced at her as he pushed the doors open
wide. "About seven. I guess you were on your way by
then."

A pair of police cruisers waited in the shade of the
pines not far from the door. Parnell nodded to one of
them, where another deputy stood waiting. "Sargent
Stark'll take you there. You two got more luggage,
right? I can get it and drop it at the motel for you."

Scully brushed past the second officer with a brusque
nod, but Mulder greeted him with a perfunctory
handshake. "Agent Mulder. I gather we're late."

Stark nodded as he reached for Scully's bag. "The fat
lady hasn't sung much yet," he quipped, "and from the
looks of things she won't be warming up anytime soon."
He quickly opened the car door for her. "Here, miss.
We're in here. Sir, you don't mind riding in the back,
do you?"

Mulder gave his head a shake.

The town of Dos Lobos was small even by rural
standards. The agents looked around as Stark drove down
what was evidently the main strip. Bordered by a white-
water river and thick forests, it was clearly a town
dependent upon tourists and the local sporting
attractions for its livelihood. Judging by the number
of campers occupying the parking areas outside the
diners, the end of the tourist season was as yet
nowhere in sight.

Mulder pursed his lips as he looked around. "Pretty
forested here. You have many bears?"

Stark grunted. "Yes, sir. Don't worry though, the
town's safe enough. We got men who patrol it most
nights. Haven't had to shoot a bear yet this year." He
looked at Mulder's reflection in his mirror. "I assume
you been briefed on the situation?"

Scully shot him a hard look. "We were given the
preliminary report," she said before he could respond.
"A family had disappeared from their home. Very little
else. Actually I'm at a loss as to why our superior
even assigned us to this case."

Stark glanced at her coolly. "We're right in the middle
of O'Casey National forest. Hugh Martin's a park
ranger. That makes it your business as much as ours."
She sighed impatiently, but he ignored it. "You might
just as well know now: when the bodies turned up, LT
went ahead and put a call in to the field office down
in Salem. Feds blew into town around noon. Don't know
what there is for you two t'do here now. I guess LT
didn't like you having to get right back on the plane,
not after all the time it took for you t'get here."

Scully clenched her teeth in frustration. <Great,> she
thought sourly. <A ten hour flight so we can watch the
game from the damned sidelines.>

Mulder nodded calmly. "Not a problem. Maybe we can get
in the way a little."

Stark glanced at him uncertainly. "Yeah, whatever." He
gestured out the side window with a tip of his head.
"The Martins' house is down that way a piece on this
road. The bodies were found in the ditch back up this
way. LT's there now."

"Who found the bodies?" she asked.

"Some camper out for a run. Ruined his day, let me tell
you. Oh, shit." Startled by his vehemence as well as
his choice of words, Scully quickly followed his gaze.
A mass of cars all but blocked the dirt road, and a
crowd of people were gathered around an area cordoned
off by yellow crime scene tape. "Dammit to Almighty
hell, it's the press. Ain't that just a sweet one. Bet
the lieutenant's fit to shit."

Muttering under his breath, Stark aimed the patrol car
between the vans marked with TV station logos. At their
approach, a handful of officers hurried out and cut a
clear swathe through the reporters. Cameras flashed
frantically as they passed. Scully held a hand up to
protect her eyes from the glare.

This should be interesting," Mulder said quietly.
Before the patrol car was even stopped she was on her
way out, tugging open the back door as she went. He
scrambled out after her.

Voices rang around them, their echoes trapped by the
giant trees. Ignoring a microphone abruptly shoved in
his face, Mulder caught a protective arm around
Scully's shoulders and swept her along with him, using
his bulk to keep the mob away from her. "This is
absurd," she muttered, steadying herself against him.

Ahead of them they saw a handful of plain-clothes
already busy with the crime scene. *FBI* was emblazoned
on their heavy jackets. The late afternoon sun was
quickly losing its warmth, and Scully was already
wishing she had worn something more substantial than a
thin windbreaker. After the heat of the city, the
forest was going to get downright chilly.

Mulder surveyed the scene for a moment. "You got some
protection, Scully? I don't seem to have any."

She scowled as she passed him some gloves. "Do you
ever?" she asked quietly. He gave her a lopsided smile.

"Can I help you two?" a voice close behind them
suddenly asked.

They whirled as one. "Are you Salerno?" Scully asked.

The officer frowned as he nodded. He was as tall as
Mulder, though more heavily-built. "You must be the
feds from back east. Sorry to have made you come all
this way for nothing." His dark eyes studied Scully
with what seemed to be more than passing interest. "You
the pathologist?" She nodded. "I don't suppose you
could be talked into handling the autopsies. County
doesn't have a medical examiner, and I'm not up to
doing this alone." Scully shrugged and nodded. He
looked relieved. "Good. The bodies've been taken to
Shier's mortuary in town. I hope you're not squeamish."

Her gaze was even, her tone cool. "I'm in the wrong
business if I am. Is there a report to go with them?
I'd like to know something about the particulars
surrounding the deaths."

Salerno nodded with a wry smile. "When your guys showed
up, they took over the shooting match. I've had plenty
of time to push paper this afternoon. Can you hang
here? I'll just be a minute."

When he turned away, Mulder stepped close and
whispered, "Does the word *Hartwell* ring any bells
with you?"

She eyed him cautiously, a half-smile starting. "You
aren't going to start pelting him with seeds, are you?"

He shrugged. "That depends on if he keeps staring at
you. You know I don't like competition."

She swatted his arm half-heartedly. "Don't go macho on
me."

Salerno's reappearance prevented his response. "They're
going to be busy here most of the night. Stark's going
to stay and ride herd. C'mon, I'll take you to town."
He looked at Mulder uncertainly. "You want a ride to
the motel? I can drop you on the way to the funeral
home."

Mulder nodded to his partner. "No, I'll tag along with
you two. I need to see the victims."

Salerno grunted as he looked back at Scully. "Suit
yourself. All right then, let's go."

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

Shier's Mortuary was located on the other side of Dos
Lobos, and like the town itself, it was not a large
place. The three bodies, stretched out atop the
embalming tables, were still encased in dull black body
bags.

Always mindful of the possibility of contagion, Scully
asked the attendant for clean scrubs. Salerno gave his
head a shake. "I don't think you'll find that
necessary," he said. She looked at him in surprise.
"I've seen these people, Agent. No disease did that to
them."

She looked at Mulder as she donned a smock over her
street clothes. "All right, let's get this over with,"
she said quietly, unzipping the first bag.

What they saw and smelled reminded Mulder of the
butcher shop his mother used to frequent when he was a
kid. The consummate professional, Scully took the
spectacle in stride, beginning to dictate even as she
gave the corpse a cursory exam. Salerno stood silently
nearby, arms folded, gaze locked on the etchings on his
boots.

Mulder watched as his partner gingerly placed the
severed head on the autopsy table. Three victims, a
woman and her two children, had each been decapitated.
The last family member, the husband, had not yet been
found. Was he the perpetrator - or an as-yet
undiscovered victim? Mulder's mind raced. The man could
have been another target of such a crime - but it was
more likely that he was one who had committed the
murders. Mulder understood the make-up of such
monsters, if only in principle. To save them from some
terrible fate, such a man would consign his family to
death itself, sometimes even taking their lives
himself. But this went way beyond overkill. The level
of destruction here indicated a man not trying to save
his loved ones, but to obliterate them.

Lost in thought, he absently watched his partner. He'd
seen her like this countless times, but now as always
he was struck by what he could only call her
tenderness. Her clinical detachment was obvious, but it
was clear she knew full well that the chunks of raw
meat in her hands had once been living, breathing
people. And he realized, <That's why she's so good at
what she does. It's not an abstract to her. It's never
just another case.>

To do all three of the autopsies was more work than she
could do that night, and to rush would be slip-shod.
That wasn't her style. She completed one full post-
mortem, then drew fluids from the other two remains for
labs and toxicology analysis. At last with a weary
sigh, she stripped off the soiled smock, wadded it up
and dropped it in the biohazard waste barrel, then went
to the sink and washed her hands three times.

"The results from the tox screens should be back
tomorrow," she said, blowing a loose strand of hair out
of her face. "As for the two other victims, I should be
able to complete the exams by tomorrow afternoon."

Salerno rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Any conclusions
you can make yet?"

Scully shook her head as she picked up the crime scene
photographs. Mulder knew she would never commit without
much more information. "Nothing beyond the obvious.
Decapitation was performed with a very sharp
instrument. Judging from the lack of blood remaining in
the corpses, I'd say they were alive when it happened.
The dirt on their knees would indicate they were
kneeling." She looked back at the photos, her
expression stony, then dropped them on the countertop.
Mulder was surprised to see her shudder as she turned
away. "Like I said, I'll know more in the morning."

He nodded as he moved to the door. "Lt. Salerno, we'd
appreciate it if someone could drop us off at the
motel. I don't suppose there's a diner nearby, is
there? Neither of us have eaten very much today."

Salerno winced. "If you can even look at food right
now, you're stronger than I am. Twenty years on the
force, I've never seen anything like this."

Mulder shrugged non-committally as he held the outer
doors for his partner. "We have. Pretty much another
day's work."

Scully's eyes met his for an instant. He was lying, and
they both knew it.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 5
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 6
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Friday, October 1

Salerno left them at the diner across the street from
the Campfire Inn, with a promise to meet them there the
next morning. Exhausted, they sat down at a table and
looked at the menu with bleary eyes. The food was
uninteresting but necessary. They gave their orders to
the waitress, and when the meal arrived they ate in
near-total silence. At such times conversation was
unnecessary. They knew full well how the autopsy had
affected one other.

Mulder signed for the bill, then led the way out to the
street. When Scully drew herself up again, he caught an
arm about her shoulders and gently pulled her into his
side. "Sorry I don't have a coat for you to wear," he
said.

She didn't resist the allure of his warmth. "Don't
worry about it. I have enough to get by."

He gave a soft laugh. "Funny how much of a shock this
is. What was it back in DC? Ninety? Ninety-five? I sure
didn't plan on it feeling like winter here."

She half-smiled wryly. "You mean you didn't bring your
thermals? Mulder, I'm disappointed in you."

The clerk at the inn smiled brightly when she saw them.
"You'll be the people from back east, I guess. Glad you
finally made it. The suite's down at the end of the
hallway here, over by the pool."

Scully's expression hardened minutely. "Suite? I
thought specifications were for separate
accommodations."

The clerk shrugged placidly. "Best we could do on such
short notice. Bookings are always tight this time of
year. You could call around if you want, but with the
press here now, I doubt you'll find anything else."

They exchanged quick glances. "Whatever," Scully
muttered, turning away.

Mulder quickly scrawled their names on the registration
card. "One of the deputies was supposed to bring our
cases by. You wouldn't happen to know where they are,
would you?"

The clerk smiled cheerfully. "In your room. I guess
you'll be wanting separate keys."

Disgusted, Scully threw the door aside and disappeared
outside. Mulder hurried after her. "Lighten up, would
you? It isn't like we haven't buddied up before this."

She muttered something under her breath. "This day's
gotten better and better. I just want a shower and a
bed."

He said nothing as he unlocked the door. She brushed
past him and flicked on the light.

The room was passable, though cold. The decor reflected
the area: woodsy, masculine, dull. Without a word she
went to the single bedroom. Mulder stood there for a
moment and looked around. There was a sofa in front of
the empty fireplace, a stove with two hotplates, and
one of those diminutive refrigerators the size of an
orange crate. Certainly not a room designed with the
self-sufficient in mind.

There was a sharp, vulgar exclamation from the bedroom.
Frowning, Mulder hurried to the door. "What is it?"

Scully didn't turn, just stood staring at the single
suitcase sitting at the foot of the bed. "They lost my
luggage," she said sullenly.

He looked behind the door. "Are you sure? Did you check
the closet?"

She looked at him with something like disdain, and he
immediately regretted the question. "No, I guessed."

He prudently ignored the sarcasm. "Okay, I'll call the
station. Maybe Parnell just forgot to bring it in."

She didn't agree but didn't try to stop him. Salerno
was apologetic; only one suitcase was on the plane.
They'd start the process of locating hers in the
morning. In the meantime he'd do his best to see that
she was provided with anything she might need.

Mulder hung up and looked at her contritely. "Don't
shoot me, okay? Your bag never reached DosLobos. But
don't worry - he's going to get some stuff you can
borrow."

Her mouth twisted in a sneer. "Great. That's fine for
in the morning, but what about tonight?"

He glanced at her carry-on, sitting on the floor beside
the bed. "Don't you have anything in there?"

She looked at him blankly. "I'm supposed to wear my
computer bag?"

To laugh would obviously be dangerous, but the
temptation was great. He bit his lip as he dug in his
own suitcase, bringing out a T-shirt and a pair of
jogging shorts. "Here, I've got some stuff you can
wear. Go take a shower - I'll have a look around for
the heater switch."

He found the thermostat in the bedroom and cranked it
on full. Nothing happened. He called the office, but
the clerk could offer no help. What about wood, he
asked; at least they could have a fire. Yeah, she
replied, and rattled off directions. Grabbing his oft-
used flashlight, he hurried to find it. It had been a
while since his scouting days, but he would manage.
This wasn't the most difficult thing he'd had to do.
Besides, it was kind of a challenge. City people could
survive in the woods. They didn't have to freeze to
death in their motel rooms.

By the time the shower was silent again, he had a
decent-sized fire going. She emerged from the bathroom
a few minutes later, wearing the borrowed clothing and
clutching her arms to her chest. "No luck with the
heater, huh? What did you burn, a couple chairs?"

He gestured around the room with his eyes. "Would
anyone notice if I did? You can take the bed if you
want. I'll stay out here."

He was almost surprised when she sat down on the couch.
"In a minute." She was silent for a few seconds as she
gathered her thoughts. Her fatigue was apparent in the
dark streaks under her eyes, the roughness of her
voice. "Four people disappear, and three turn up
looking like something out of a John Carpenter film.
Skinner may not have known what he had when he gave us
this case, but even I can see it's right up your alley.
I'm sure you have a theory."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

Her head tipped to the side as she looked at him.
"Mulder, sometimes you surprise me. You
haven't once mentioned the word 'paranormal.' What
gives? Are you all right?"

He gave a short laugh. "If I'm not theorizing about
aliens then something must be wrong with me?" He added
a small log to the fire. "No, this doesn't have
anything to do with the paranormal. That was clear from
the beginning."

It was her turn to frown. "What makes you say that?"

He sat back against the couch and looked up at her. "I
saw cases like this when I worked Violent Crimes. I'm
almost certain the murders were committed by the
husband. He killed them someplace they were certain to
be found. It wouldn't surprise me if it turned out he'd
taken them camping or fishing first, something that was
supposed to be fun, like a family outing."

Scully leaned closer to the fire. "One for the road,"
she murmured, shivering.

He nodded. "It also wouldn't surprise me if the wife
was pregnant, or if he thought she might be. That could
even be that one last thing that pushed him over the
edge. Maybe he thought, better not to be born at all
than live a life full of pain or anguish or whatever it
was that was bothering him." He rubbed his jaw
thoughtfully. "Trouble is, we may never find him now.
He's probably in a psychotic fugue. My guess is he'll
suicide."

She sighed and gave her head a shake. "It could never
happen to me," she said quietly. He looked at her,
frowning. She shrugged one shoulder. "Isn't that what
everyone thinks? That could never happen to me, I could
never marry a cold-blooded killer . . . I mean, how
could that woman know what sort of monster she was
sleeping with?"

They were silent for a moment. Then with a last shake
of her head, Scully slowly rose and stood before the
fire, unwilling to leave its comforting light and heat.
His shirt hung loose on her, making her look very
small, and for an instant he wanted to protect her from
the madness around them. He immediately caught himself.
<Don't be absurd. She doesn't need that. You don't want
her to end up like Jack Larson, or worse, like that
woman she worked on tonight. She isn't going to. You
gotta stop worrying.>

She turned to go. Her hand rose and hovered as if
undecided, then gently stroked his head once. He fought
the impulse to lean into the touch. "G'night," she said
softly, and turned away.

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

She lay for a long while in the dark and listened to
the night sounds around her. A breeze outside made a
tree limb rub against the window, making a noise that
sounded for all the world like a human shriek. The
sheets were almost unbearably cold. How much time had
gone by? She thought about looking at her watch - it
would glow enough to tell her the hour - but it would
mean moving, and that was something she was loathe to
do. Science dictated how fast her body heat would warm
the sheets and blankets; but science seemed to be
taking its damn sweet time. She thought about going
back out to the fire, but by now Mulder must be asleep.
She didn't want to disturb him.

She managed to doze, though with nightmarish images
flitting through her dreams, her rest was fitful. Jack
Larson, covered with a yellow tarp, staring in stunned
surprise at his own mortality. Mulder shot through and
writing in agony, his blood crimson on a bone-white
cross. Scully herself lost in an immense house, unable
to find a hiding place, unable to save herself.
Pfaster's voice saying he wouldn't hurt her, but his
eyes telling her the truth. Standing there in the
bathroom, staring at the tub full of sweet-smelling
suds and ice-cold water, knowing that if she didn't do
something, she would end up like that beautiful blonde
girl: eviscerated and then mutilated, her hair and
fingers taken for God only knew what purpose...

She woke with a start. <This won't work,> she told
herself irritably. The case was stirring up way too
many unpleasant memories. Besides, the cold was
unrelenting. Disgusted, she threw back the covers and
lurched to her feet. Wait, she'd need a blanket at
least, and a pillow. Slowly she crept to the front room
and peered out.

Mulder was sprawled on the couch, staring at the
ceiling. He frowned when he saw her, and quickly drew
his legs up to make room for her. "What's the matter?"
he asked.

She sat down opposite him and huddled in the blanket.
"Couldn't sleep. Too cold in there. The fire feels
nice, doesn't it?"

He nodded silently. Illuminated by firelight, her hair
glowed like molten copper. It was tousled, and her face
pale. Bad dreams, he thought to himself. She won't
admit it, but this case is bothering her. It isn't just
the cold - she doesn't want to be alone.

They sat there and stared at the fire. Each leaned
against an armrest, their legs drawn up close. When
they spoke, it was of surprisingly mundane things.
Clearing that shelf in the office to allow for incoming
cases. With the heat wave in DC, there would almost
certainly be a deluge of them. Filing away those that
had been solved, or at least resolved to Skinner's
satisfaction. Ejecting those that didn't meet the
criteria of an X-file. Mulder listened to her talk,
studied her as she sat there in a corner of the couch,
and thanked whatever unseen powers that had brought
them together. Rational, obstinate, at times
irritatingly rigid, she had become a focal point in his
life. For a while he didn't think it possible to ever
have a decent working relationship with her. Now he
couldn't imagine even trying to do the job without her.

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

When he woke, the sky was just beginning to lighten.
Dawn on the west coast; that would make it around nine
in DC. Yawning, he sat up and looked around. Scully was
still there, lying in a ball in her nest of blankets,
her head pillowed on the armrest. The fall of her hair
shrouded her face.

He rose stiffly and palmed his eyes, yawning again as
he stretched. Thought about making coffee, then
remembered where they were. The kitchenette might do
for hunters and tourists, but for federal employees it
was appallingly inadequate. The town might indeed have
a Seven-Eleven, but the diner was closer. He'd get two
cups to go. Maybe ask for a sweetroll. Hell, they might
even deliver. It was worth a try, wasn't it?

But he found he didn't want to move. She looked so
pretty lying there. For an instant he felt an
uncharacteristic sentiment, warm and pleasant, and
immediately rebuked himself. She was his partner. There
was no room in their relationship for close
involvement.

Still . . .

How many times in the past six years did he think about
kissing her? *Had* he even thought about it?

Lately he had.

He considered it here, now. How would she take it? He
knew her as well as he knew anyone - no, *better* than
he knew anyone - but he couldn't guess how she'd react.
He liked to think she would kiss him back, but that
just might not be the case. Such an intrusion might not
be especially welcome. Women could be funny about such
things.

He knelt beside her, tempted. His hand rose and
hovered, as hers had the night before. <Do it,> a small
voice said.

<She's asleep,> he admonished himself, quelling the
impulse. <It wouldn't be right.>

He touched her instead. <Let lips do what hands do,> he
mused, sweeping the hair back from her face. Warm.
Soft. Resilient. He thought suddenly of her illness, of
the agony of seeing her in that hospital bed, a machine
breathing for her, keeping her alive. Skinner, strained
and distracted, hating himself for having to say it,
hating that it was happening at all: <She's dying.> And
him so helpless, unable even to stay and mourn, but
dragged away by necessity and bitter circumstance.
Which had been worse for him: the very real possibility
of life imprisonment - or leaving her there alone?

Scully drew a slow, deep breath. "What time is it?" she
murmured.

His hand remained steady. Another stroke. "Almost
daylight."

She half-smiled though her eyes didn't open. "That
feels nice. You're staring at me. That isn't like you."

He couldn't help but smile. "Sorry."

She moved a little beneath his hand, enjoying the
contact, then looked at him. Her eyes were beautiful
even without makeup. "Don't worry, Mulder," she
whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

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

Saturday, October 2


Salerno met them at the diner, but he was an hour late.
Entering, he called a greeting to the waitresses, then
hurried to the agents' booth. "Sorry about the wait,"
he said quickly, dragging a chair up to the table and
straddling it as one would a horse. "It's been a day
and a half already, and it isn't even nine yet."

Mulder raised his chin in a slow gesture that was less
greeting than polite acknowledgment. "Anything in
particular, or just a bad day in general?"

Salerno waved to one of the waitresses. "Hey Dinah, can
I get a cup of coffee here? Thanks, doll." He looked at
the agents in turn, and Mulder caught his surprise at
Scully's attire: jeans and a white shirt that, though
clean and presentable, obviously did not belong to her.
His smile quickly faded. "Same old stuff when we have
to deal with the feds, playing second fiddle in our own
band." He shrugged in apology. "No offense, agents.
I'll just be glad when the job's done."

A waitress appeared at his elbow, slapped a coffee cup
down between the empty plates and filled it, then
hurried back to the kitchen. Mulder could hear distant
voices - someone had a TV on. A talk-show. He listened
for a moment but couldn't make out what was being
discussed.

Across from him, Scully absently picked up a spoon and
stirred the dregs of her coffee. "Has anything new come
up in the investigation?" she asked.

Salerno shrugged as he took a cautious sip. "They're
searching the Martins' house right now. The lakes are
slated for dragging this afternoon. That's going to
take some time - there're only about a dozen around
here." He studied her over the rim of his cup. "We've
got you down to finish up the post-mortems. You up for
that?"

She half-smiled wryly. "That's what I do." She glanced
at Mulder. "I'd like to get started on that now. What
are you going to do?"

Mulder shoved away his empty cup and dug in his pants
pocket, bringing out a handful of change and a few
bills. "You do what you're best at - I'll do the same."

Nodding, Scully rose and brushed past Salerno. "Excuse
me, gentlemen. I'll meet you outside."

Salerno followed her with his eyes, unaware of Mulder's
stony gaze. "Not a woman of many words, is she?" he
mused.

Mulder shrugged non-committally. "Small talk isn't her
strong suit. A real head for business though."

"How long you been together?"

He felt a stir of something like resentment, and
reproved himself. It wasn't the first time he'd seen
someone show an interest in Scully, but this jealousy
was something new. "That question has a lot of
different implications, lieutenant. We've been partners
for six years. That is about all we do together. What
Agent Scully does on her own time is not my business."

Salerno shrugged and nodded. "Just thought I'd ask.
Suppose I'm not really her type." He shrugged as he
pushed himself to his feet and took a last sip of
coffee. "Not many women like her around here. Town's
kind of provincial, but then you probably noticed
that." He nodded to the door. "Shall we?"

Mulder said nothing, merely nodded thoughtfully. <Her
type,> he mused. Quiet, polite, efficient without being
unfriendly. Yeah, he could see her with someone like
Salerno.

He just hoped he never would.

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

They left Scully at the mortuary, and drove to the home
of the victims. It was a simple one-story dwelling, not
much larger than the cottages rented out to tourists
and sportsmen. The press had thinned considerably, and
those that were left were held at bay a block from the
house by a pair of cops and more yellow tape. Mulder
glanced at his watch as he followed Salerno up the
cobblestone walkway to the open front door. Ten-
fifteen. A man wearing a familiar FBI windbreaker stood
in the hallway. He glanced at Mulder's ID badge and
nodded them past.

Mulder brushed past Salerno and went to the living
room. Everything was impeccably clean. The decor was
standard issue for a forest community: heavy oaken
furniture, and photos of the family man standing over
dead animals, beaming in pride. <Whatever,> he thought
to himself, turning slowly in place and taking in the
details. <To each his own. I hope I'm never reduced to
killing just to prove . . . something.>

A collection of framed photos adorned the mantle. He
studied them at length. Some were from a camping trip,
and judging from the age of the kids, not long ago. The
happy family, he mused. There was one of the woman he'd
watched Scully autopsy. She was laughing. Her husband
was standing behind her, arms extended, as if he were a
bear coming in for the attack. Mulder remembered what
Scully had said about sleeping with a killer, and
shuddered. <Don't get carried away. It's too easy to
look back now and see the dangers. Give the guy the
benefit of the doubt. Something made him snap.>

There was a computer on a table in the corner. He
frowned as he studied it. "Anyone look in that for a
suicide note?" he asked no one in particular.

One of the agents glanced up from what appeared to be
an address book. "Not yet. We're still cataloging the
hard evidence. Forensics is sending someone up to tear
it apart and see what's the what." He shot Mulder a
hard look. "It's tempting to think Hugh did it, but I
don't think we can make that assumption just yet. You
must be the headshrink from back east."

Mulder winced. "So to speak."

For an hour he poked about the residence, then procured
a car and drove to the local hospital. It was a small
facility, and so he had no difficulty finding the
office in question. Hyram Wickersham, MD. The good
doctor was understandably shaken by the news. The
warrants had just arrived over the fax; the records
were already being prepped. Anything he could do to
assist in the investigations, yadda yadda yadda. Mulder
tucked the box under one arm, shook his hand politely,
and drove away.

It was just past noon when he arrived back at the
motel. Housekeeping had already been; the bed was
neatly made, and more firewood was stacked in the box
beside the hearth. Scully's suitcase had also made a
somewhat miraculous reappearance. He grunted as he dug
in her briefcase for a tablet and pen. Still no heater,
but at least she would have her own stuff now.

He kicked off his shoes and opened a fresh bag of
sunflower seeds, then spread the medical charts out on
the rickety kitchen table and settled down to work.

Hours passed, unnoticed.

The scrape of a key in the lock caught his attention.
Scully shouldered the door aside, looking tired and a
little disheveled.

"You were right, Mulder," she said without preamble,
dropping the key on the table beside the door. "Blood
tests confirmed it. Holly Martin was pregnant at the
time of her death, though just."

He smiled as he stretched. "Music to my ears, but it's
just the beginning." He indicated the stack of folders
with a turn of his head. "Medical records aren't what I
would call an exciting read, but they are enlightening.
I did a little checking on some prescriptions I found
in the Martins' bathroom. Heavy duty antibiotics, and a
hefty dose of prednisone. Two months ago Hugh Martin
was diagnosed with acute lymphocytic anemia." Scully's
eyes widened noticeably. "Yeah, no kidding. I called
and spoke with his supervisor. Seems he missed a lot of
work since being diagnosed, and not always because of
his illness. Judging from the amount of alcohol stashed
around the house, I'd say he was on quite a bender
there toward the end."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully as she sat down across
from him. "Talk about a double whammy. ALA's not
necessarily fatal though. I wonder why he didn't get
treatment for it."

Mulder folded his arms. "I think I can explain that.
Hugh Martin was into the strong male thing in a serious
way. Quite the hunter. Besides, medical care is costly.
It could be he was too tapped out to get treatment for
himself, especially with another kid on the way."

She frowned. "And thus the family annihilator," she
murmured, giving her head a shake. "The prednisone
could have contributed to his crackup as well. What
about the house search? Was there any sign of a murder
weapon?"

He grunted softly. "I haven't seen it, but yes. An
eighteenth-century katana. There were traces of blood
on the hand guard. It's being sent with the other
forensic stuff to the field office in Salem. A
description of Martin himself is being circulated
around the state, and especially at the Oregon-
California state line, in the off-chance that he tries
to flee. I doubt anything'll come of that." He picked
up his pen and tapped it thoughtfully on the table,
then jerked his head toward the open bedroom door. "Not
to change the subject, but your suitcase showed up
while we were out."

Scully rose with a weary sigh. "Good. I'm going to take
a shower, then walk across the street for dinner. God,
I wish they delivered."

He frowned. "Dinner? Jesus, what time is it?"

She didn't even stop. "It's past seven. Which means,
for you and I, it's past ten. Get a move on if you're
coming - I'm starved."

Salerno found them at the restaurant. In a gesture that
was becoming familiar, he asked the waitresses for
coffee and then sat down in a chair, backwards. "Sorry
to disturb you," he said, flashing a smile at Scully.
"Thought you should hear - Hugh Martin turned up an
hour ago in Coleman reservoir. He was in his car at the
bottom of one of the launch ramps, still strapped in
his seat." He gave his head a shake. "That Fed from
Salem, Higgins - he says the investigation's still
ongoing, but it's pretty clear how it's gonna turn out.
Middle-aged man fights a losing battle with illness and
depression, and decides to take his family out with
him." He gave his head a shake. "He picked an unusual
way to kill them. I did hear it said once that
decapitation is about as painless a way there is to go.
The victim's dead as soon as the spinal cord's cut,
before the brain can register any pain." He turned to
Scully for confirmation, but she just looked away.

Mulder didn't miss the revulsion in her eyes. "So what
you're saying is we're no longer needed here," he said.

Salerno rolled one shoulder up in a half-shrug. "Local
feds say they'll finish up. I didn't think you two'd
mind missing out on the action. So yeah, unless you're
interested in fishing, there's nothing to keep you in
this corner of Heaven."

Scully didn't give Mulder the chance to argue. "Fine
with me. I'll go make the arrangements."

Salerno took a sip of his coffee as he watched her go.
"Tell you the truth, I'm glad this whole business is
about over with. Not good for business, headless
corpses turning up. I don't see how anyone can be so
nonchalant about it." He looked back at Mulder,
chagrined. "No offense."

Mulder smiled politely. "None taken. We actually don't
get them every week in Washington either. We do see a
lot of strange things though. That's our specialty."

Salerno hid a smile with his cup. "Yeah, I heard some
of the field guys talking about you."

Mulder sighed. <Here it comes. Spooky. Even in the
middle of Nowhere I can't get away from it.>

But the officer didn't say it. He drank a little more
coffee, then set the cup down with a thud. "Well, I got
to be getting back. Press conference in an hour. Not my
favorite part of the job, but it's gotta be done. I'd
best go find Agent Higgins." He nodded to the motel
across the way. "Thank your partner for her help. Saved
me a lot of headaches. In the morning I'll have one of
my men take you back to the airstrip." He tipped his
head politely - if he'd been wearing a hat, he would
have doffed it. "Good night, Agent Mulder."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 6
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 7
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Sunday, October 3

The flight back to Washington was uneventful. Scully
spent the first half of the flight working on the field
report she would submit. Mulder sat quietly in the seat
beside her, staring at the seat in front of him and
calmly splitting sunflower shells.

With a satisfied grunt she closed the computer. The
incident was far more cut-and-dried than the majority
of their cases, and for once she felt she was able to
paint an accurate portrayal of the situation. Not at
all like a giant internal parasite, or a town full of
vampires.

As if reading her mind, he looked at her with a wry
half-smile. "Salerno was sweet on you, you know. At
least he wanted to be."

Scully glanced at him. "I know the look. I don't have
the time or patience to be patronized. It slows the
work."

He looked at her in surprise. "I didn't see him
patronizing you. Stark, sure. He didn't even talk to
you. Salerno seemed pretty sincere. You didn't even
give him a second look."

She gave him one of her blank stares. "You want me to
go back and ask him out after gym? Forget it. Cases
aren't personal. You know that as well as I do."

He forced a casual shrug. "Just thought you might be
missing out on something. Maybe I was wrong."

She grunted softly as she looked away. "Yes, you were."

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

Nothing more was said on the subject. They conferred
briefly on the case, then set about drawing up their
separate notes. These would be filed, along with a copy
of the final report, with AD Skinner. Satisfied that
something had been accomplished on the trip, Scully
settled back in her almost comfortable seat and tried
to compose herself for sleep.

She recalled the feel his hand stroking her face, not
in a touch meant to seduce, but one that conveyed a
deeper attachment. The memory made her smile.

Occasionally over the years she had tried to define
their relationship, either to herself or an
acquaintance, and always she had found herself stymied.
Sometimes it seemed that they had been put together not
so much to influence him with her level-headed
rationalism, but to test the limits of her own
patience. And what a test that could be. Other times,
however, it was clear that their individual biases and
talents simply would never have been sufficient to meet
whatever task they had been assigned. The partnership
was, in a very real sense, a perfect marriage of two
radically different minds.

She found this new preoccupation of his disquieting.
First his inordinate concern for her after Jack's
funeral; then asking her those strange personal
questions, and now his musings regarding Salerno - it
was as though he was trying in some way to affirm
himself, to validate his standing with her, without
openly broaching the subject.

A gentle nudge drew her attention back to the here and
now. "You awake?" he asked.

She sighed. "What is it?"

There was a gentleness in his tone, and even without
looking she knew he was smiling. "You ever wonder where
we'd be if we hadn't been assigned together?"

A shiver brushed up her spine. That he could be
thinking about the same things she herself was . . .
well, it was spooky. She drew her arms up closer around
her, deliberately avoiding his gaze. "I don't give it
much thought. Why? Are you going somewhere?"

It was a lie, and she wondered if he realized it. He
shrugged. "Just thinking. I guess I'm just getting
older. Physically, at any rate."

She murmured in agreement. "We don't often see the
better side of human nature. The accident with Jack,
and now this - small wonder you're feeling a little . .
. "

"Gloomy?" He grunted very softly. "It doesn't help when
all we see is the aftermath of sorrow and madness." He
was silent for a few seconds. "I thought about it last
night. I don't know where I would be, but I'm pretty
sure I wouldn't be with the Bureau." She looked at him
in surprise. "Seriously. Can't you just see me, working
with a bunch of people who think I'm as crazy as any of
the nuts they're after. How long would it be before
they took away my badge? What fun would this job be
without . . . without my gun?"

That wasn't what he almost said, and she knew it. She
smiled. "I think you're selling yourself short. You do
good work, even if no one understands what makes you
tick."

He nodded, though his expression was still pensive.
"Sometimes I think it was a mistake to accept this
assignment. From your standpoint, I mean. No, really -
where might you be if you hadn't been consigned to the
basement with old Spooky? Head of your own section,
maybe. Director of Forensics at Quantico."

She shook her head. "Or just another agent working out
of the field office in Iowa." She looked at him
curiously and with no little concern. If only she could
divine what thoughts were racing behind those quick
eyes.

As she studied him a suspicion rose, vague and wispy,
and so bitter that it made her wince. Ever since the
funeral he had spoken of the path her choices had put
her on. Wasn't there something she would rather be
doing. Would she have been happier going the hearth-
and-home route. If he wasn't questioning her
priorities, then perhaps was he doubting his own. She
looked away, disquieted. There had been a time when she
was ready to quit the Bureau. Was he trying to tell her
now that he was quitting? Why now, of all times? The X-
files had re-opened, the section chief had approved
their reassignments, albeit grudgingly; and there were
always fresh cases that needed Mulder's particular
brand of genius.

What the hell was he thinking? Was he distancing
himself from her one step at a time, as it certainly
appeared? Or was she imagining things? Had his paranoia
begun to rub off on her?

No one knew him better than she did. She should be able
to understand his musings, whether spoken or not. But
wasn't it possible for her to see more into his remarks
than he meant by them? The events of the past week had
left her drained. Leaping to a wrong conclusion at this
point would be understandable.

Or would it? <Dammit, you should be able to settle this
without all this bullshit.> Distressed, she found sleep
elusive, though it was well past midnight when the
plane finally touched down in Washington. She'd watched
him sleep, of course; watched and thought, and prayed
she was wrong.

He stirred and woke as the plane was on its final
approach. Scully was on her feet even before it reached
the terminal, gathering what she had, anxious to get
home and, with any luck, wash the unsettling thoughts
down the drain along with the Oregon grime.

Circumstances, it seemed, were simply not going to work
in her favor. Upon reaching the long-term parking, they
found one of the tires on his car had gone flat. Scully
swore roundly. With a shrug, Mulder stashed the luggage
in the back seat, then handed her his flashlight and
dug around in the trunk. He scowled at her when she
sighed impatiently. "What's wrong with you? This isn't
that big a deal. Hold that still, I need to find the
lug wrench."

Anxious and distracted, she helped him search.
"Nothing's wrong with me that a shower and a few hours
of sleep won't cure," she said sullenly. "There it is,
under the carpet." She brushed her hair back
impatiently as she straightened. Sweat was beading on
her skin, gluing her hair unpleasantly to her forehead.
"I think we should just call a cab."

He glanced at her. "Because of a flat tire? No way. We
do that tonight and I'll have to come out tomorrow and
deal with this anyway. I don't want to waste a day
farting around with a car. C'mon, this won't take
long." He shook his head doubtfully. "Who are you,
anyway? My Scully's not a whiner."

She gave him a withering look. "I'm not whining. *Your*
Scully, huh? I guess that means you've decided not to
farm me out to Joe Sheriff out west."

He gave her an incredulous look, and she immediately
regretted her words. He shook his head as he bent back
to the task. "Jesus, you're cranky. You keep acting
like this, I'm not sharing my toys with you at recess."

Scully couldn't help but smile at that. The poignancy
of his jest, however, only made her that much more
apprehensive. He knew just what it took to cajole her
out of an ill humor. How could she *not* have that in
her life? She swallowed back the threatening tears and
set her chin firmly. "C'mon, hurry up, would you?
Jesus, it's hot here."

He grunted as he struggled with the last of the lugs.
"Take it easy, I almost got it. There. Gimme the jack."

It only took a few minutes to exchange the tires. "All
right," he said, swatting debris off his pant legs as
he stood up. "All better. Here, hand me that. Look out,
you're gonna trip on the wrench."

She scooped it up and dropped it in the trunk. "All
right, let's get the hell out of here."

He unlocked the doors and slid in, and she dropped in
beside him. He started the engine and turned on the
a/c, then turned and gave her a searching look. She
held his gaze firmly, not allowing her anguish to show.
His brow furrowed a little as he studied her. "Scully,
is there something wrong?"

Her first impulse was to deny. Blame it on the trip, or
the bloody murders. It wasn't like this was the first
time she'd been rattled by something she'd seen. But as
his eyes held hers, she felt herself relent. He knew
her too, well enough to recognize inner conflict when
he saw it, and well enough to know when she was
bullshitting him. Her eyes sagged shut. For a minute
she didn't speak, fearful that her voice would break.
He waited silently if not patiently. "Mulder," she
asked at last, "are you going somewhere? Anywhere?"

He frowned, confused. "Yeah, I'm going home. Where
should I be going at one in the morning?"

She looked at him again. "That isn't what I meant." She
bit her lower lip. "Are you planning on transferring?
Are you breaking us up?"

He stared at her for a few long seconds. "What?"

She sighed impatiently. "Some of the things you've been
saying. And that bit about Salerno. I-I just want to
know if you're planning on making a change. I need to
know."

The corner of his mouth drew back in a familiar
gesture, and his eyes didn't waver as he slowly shook
his head. "I'm shocked you'd even think that." His hand
touched hers, and to his surprise her fingers laced
tenaciously with his. He looked down at them, then back
at her. "Scully - I don't know what to say. I've been
examining some of my own decisions, yes, but not for
the reasons you think, and certainly not with anything
like that in mind." He paused. "I wouldn't like it if
something I did caused you to miss out on what you
wanted, even if you aren't aware right now of wanting
it."

Relief swelled in her, and she found herself close to
tears again. Impulsively she caught him in a hug. "God,
I'm so glad," she mumbled against his shoulder. "I
thought you'd made a decision and didn't know how to
break it to me."

He smiled as he held her. "C'mon, you know me better
than that. I wouldn't change anything. Really I
wouldn't."

She drew herself away. The kiss was intended for his
cheek, but at the last instant he turned and it caught
him at the corner of the mouth. It was an impulse, and
little more than a peck - but at the same time it was
much more than either of them were expecting. They
stared at each other, astonished. "Scully," he
breathed, "what's gotten into you?"

Embarrassed, she started to pull away from him. "I
don't know. I don't know, maybe I'm losing my mind."

His eyes were still wide. "You make that sound like a
bad thing."

She looked at him uncertainly. Slowly, tentatively, he
leaned toward her again. This time the kiss was slow
and soft. His hands didn't go anywhere they shouldn't
have - but they didn't let go of her either. For an
instant they were back in the hall outside his
apartment, saying good-bye the only way they could,
giving as well as getting - until that God-damned bee
stung her . . .

With a shiver she turned her face away, breaking the
contact. He let her go, and they sat for a moment in
silence. Then without a word he put the car in gear and
backed out. Neither of them spoke, but as he turned
onto the freeway and headed for the city, his hand
found hers in the darkness and held it. Just held it.

The blow came without warning, slamming into the rear
of the car with crushing force and sending it into a
spin. Mulder swore as he battled physics, fighting the
vehicle out of a wild skid, trying to keep it on the
road. The second impact was more than he could handle -
the car began to veer wildly. The third caught it in
the middle of the rear passenger door and sent the car
careening off the road. Shattered glass exploded in on
them. He heard one startled cry from Scully . . . and
then the darkness took him.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 7
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 8
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Monday, October 4 (early hours)

Pain was his first awareness. Sounds, then lights.
Piercing strobes of red and blue. The metallic taste of
blood. He tried to call out her name, but his head was
trapped in a neck brace, his mouth swathed with gauze.
Desperately he tried to sit up, but hands caught him
and held him immobile. Stark fear rose in him like
bile. Somehow he managed to wrench an arm loose and
tear the bandages away from his mouth. "Scully!"

"Steady there," a woman's voice said. Hands caught his
arm back and secured it with tape back to the
backboard. "You're going to be all right. Your
girlfriend's being tended to. Do you remember what
happened? Do you know your name?"

He stared, wild-eyed, at the face suspended over his.
"Where's Scully?" He struggled to turn his head, but
all he could make out was a vague blur from the corner
of his eye. Frustration swelled in him. "Where is she?
Dammit, where's Scully!"

The hands squeezed his shoulders in a gesture of
reassurance. "She's unconscious, sir. They're getting
her ready for transport now."

A new terror clutched at his innards. "They're not
putting her in a helicopter, are they? They don't take
them in a God-damned helicopter when they're going to
be okay. I want to go with her. Dammit, now!"

The paramedic turned to someone with a beleaguered
sigh. "This guy's really agitated. Have you got room on
that ambulance? He's pretty adamant about staying with
her."

There was an answering grunt. "It'll be tight - yeah, I
guess so. Come on with him if you're coming - she needs
to get to a trauma center."

The nauseating sensation of being carried. He clenched
his teeth to keep from vomiting. Concussion? It didn't
matter. He took deep breaths, and the feeling subsided.
"Listen to me," he said slowly and, he hoped, clearly
enough to be understood. "I'm an FBI agent. That's my
partner. Look, my ID's in my front pocket."

Hands dug carefully in the indicated area and came away
with the leather wallet that held his credentials.
"Here it is. Agent Mulder, Federal Bureau of
Investigation. Shit, he's got a gun, too."

He glared at the speaker, who seemed unimpressed
despite the evidence before her. "That's right, Agent
Fox Mulder. That's my partner. Now I need someone to
call Assistant Director Skinner. Tell him what's
happened and where we're going." His eyes focused on
the hands which were filling a syringe. "Get that away
from me. What's going on with Scully? Jesus, get this
crap off me!" He strained against the stiff tape,
trying to free his arms.

The paramedic busy with Scully gave him a hard look.
"Okay, we're going to have to do something here. You
got that IV going? Give him 2 mgs of ativan. That'll
simmer him down."

Mulder willed the needle away, but to no avail. "Just
tell me how Scully is," he snarled.

An unseen speaker chirped up. "Jesus, just talk to the
guy! She's got a probable concussion, with blood in one
of the orbits. Not pretty, but not too awful. It
doesn't look like she was wearing a belt. Wait, I think
she's coming around. Miss, can you hear me? Do you know
your name?"

Mulder strained his ears and was rewarded with a
familiar voice, weak but disdainful. "Of course I do.
Special Agent Dana Scully. Where's my partner? Where's
Mulder?"

Relief made him weak - or was it the drug they were
feeding into his vein? "Scully," he breathed, closing
his eyes against the roller-coaster sensation pressing
down on him. He tried to fight the spinning darkness,
and lost again.

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

He hated hospitals. Not that he was afraid of them,
because he wasn't; but rarely had anything good
transpired in those bright, bustling, rank-smelling
halls.

He hated emergency rooms as well. Against his mumbled
protests, they whisked Scully away to another room.
From there he lost all track of time. More drugs. The
indignity of a catheter. Pressure on his head, his
chest. Voices rising out of the darkness.

Someone said his name, and he woke with a jerk.
Skinner. The AD's dark eyes were blood-shot, the glass
frames askew, as if he'd jammed them on in a hurry. No
coat and tie; just a T-shirt. "Mulder," he said again
softly. "You're going to be okay. You hear me? Some
bruised ribs. Cuts and a lot of bruises."

He tried to talk, but his mouth felt full of cotton
wool. "Shkull?" he whispered.

The bald head bobbed up and down a few times. "She's in
the next room. They're stitching her up even as we
speak."

"Sh'okay?"

"Bruises, like you. Put her hand through the windshield
and cut it pretty good. And they're worried about
concussion."

Mulder's eyes refused to focus. "Who hit us? Was it the
guy?"

Skinner hesitated before nodding again. "It looks like
it. We have a forensic team working the scene. Don't
worry, they'll find something."

Mulder tried to shake his head, but the collar wouldn't
allow it. "Don't placate me. And don't divert me with
another case. I'm gonna figure out who those bastards
are and I'm gonna tear them apart."

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

Brave words, and he meant them. First he had to heal.
For twelve hours he languished in a small private room,
restrained by pain as much as by monitors and
intravenous drips. To breathe was to draw fire into his
lungs. To move was an agony he had rarely ever known.

His nurses quickly came to tire of him. At first his
demands to be moved into Scully's room were met with
polite smiles. <Only married couples can be roommates,
sir. FBI partners don't qualify.> He persisted though,
and Skinner even put in an argument. <Less bother.
Mulder won't give up - believe me, it's easier to give
him what he wants.> At last the assistant administrator
was called in to decide. She allowed the move.

Skinner was right: it was less bother. Within hours
Mulder was up, sitting beside his still-unconscious
partner. Her preliminary CT scans revealed a troubling
shadow: blood on the brain. Concussion. She must have
taken a real blow, the radiologist concluded. Not a
great sign that she's still in and out. Gotta give her
time.

Mulder did that, and more. Upon being discharged two
days later, he went home and showered, then packed a
bag. Two hours later he was back at the hospital.

He watched her throughout that day and into the night,
at last dozing off in the chair beside her bed. Awoke
from a fitful sleep to find her looking at him.
Immediately he lurched forward, grimacing in pain as
his ribs protested the sudden movement, and switched on
the small light over the bed. Her left eye was a little
swollen, but the right, filled with fresh blood from a
ruptured vessel, looked horrible. She blinked slowly at
him, and the faintest of smiles drew at the corner of
her mouth. "Hey," he murmured.

She closed her eyes for a moment. "Breathe, Mulder. I'm
okay." She winced. "Head hurts. Must have a
concussion."

He leaned closer, wanting to touch her, needing that
affirmation but fearful he would hurt her. "Smart
girl."

She was still for a moment, summoning her strength.
Slowly she raised an arm and beckoned with a hand.
"Help me turn over. I can't seem to manage it."

Carefully, mindful of her injuries as well as his own,
he caught her arm around his neck and helped her roll
onto her side, then wedged a pillow against her back.
The right side of her face was heavily bruised, the
bloody eye ringed with a smear of black. It looked even
worse up close, and he couldn't help wincing.

She noticed, of course. "I don't s'pose you have a
mirror on you," she murmured, settling her head back on
the pillow.

He smiled apologetically. "No, and if I did, I wouldn't
let you use it."

Her eyes closed briefly. "What day is it?"

Mulder glanced at his watch. "Technically it's
Thursday. Barely. Quite a week we've had."

She carefully felt the side of her head with her
bandaged hand. "There's broken glass in my hair."

He nodded as he perched himself on the edge of the
chair. "Yeah, we each took out a window. My car will
never be the same again. I guess I should've let you
call that cab. Do you remember what happened?"

It was her turn to wince. "I think so." Her eyes were
calm as they held his. "They must have followed us from
the airport. How would they know who we were?"

He touched her hand, smoothing the bruise from a failed
IV site. "Tags on the car, maybe. Or someone with
inside connections."

A frown drew her brows together. "You're awfully calm
about it."

He slowly shook his head. "I'm faking it. I've already
worked it out with Skinner. The hell with what the
Attorney General says - as soon as we're back on our
feet, we're on the case."

She nodded silently as she studied his hand. After a
moment she met his eyes again. "How badly were you
hurt?"

He smiled. "I've had worse falling off a bike. They cut
me loose yesterday."

"And you've been sitting in that chair ever since?"

His smile slowly faded, but his voice held a tone of
resolve. "I couldn't leave you here by yourself. Not
this time."

She understood his meaning at once. "We got through
it," she murmured.

His hand tightened on hers. "You were alone too much."

She shook her head firmly. "That couldn't be helped. I
knew it then."

"This is different." His quiet certainty silenced her.
"Where should I be if not here?"

She found she had nothing to say. He leaned over the
bed and gently kissed her temple, then settled back in
the chair again. "Try to sleep. You need anything, I'm
here."


~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 8
~~~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 9
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday, October 8 10:54 am.

Assistant Director Skinner was halfway through Scully's
field report when his desk phone rang. His assistant
had not announced the call - it was the private line.
Only a scant handful of men had that number, and he
disliked them all. He glared at it as it rang a second
time. It wasn't hard to guess who it was. Immediately
cautious, he snapped the receiver up and stabbed the
blinking line. "Yes?"

For a second he thought he could actually smell
cigarette smoke oozing out of the speaker. "Good
morning, Mr. Skinner. How're our patients feeling
today?"

Skinner resisted the impulse to hang up. "I haven't
spoken with them yet. I'm sure you could enlighten me,
though."

The voice was characteristically light, its tone smug.
"I could. Yes, your two favorite agents are just about
ready to go home. Personally, I'm pleased. Tell me
something, Mr. Skinner - I've heard you agreed to
include Mulder in the Larson investigation.
Unilaterally, I might add."

Skinner bridled at the patronizing tone. "In an
unofficial capacity, yes."

To his surprise, the caller didn't protest. "Good,
good. We couldn't have arranged a better scenario, not
without making the good people at the Justice
Department curious. You should have consulted us. We
actually don't mind if he lends a hand, or even if he
were to help settle this situation once and for all."

Skinner stared at the wooden pen set on his desk, his
eyes narrowing. "That's generous of you. I can't help
but wonder, though, why you could possibly want him
busting his hump on this case."

"Yours isn't to wonder, Mr. Skinner. Suffice it to say,
if he's expending his seemingly limitless energies on
this, he *won't* be involved in other possibly more
delicate cases. Give him what information you have at
your disposal. We wouldn't want this one settled any
too soon, would we?"

The implication was not lost on Skinner. As always, the
bastard would filter what information he himself
received, no doubt compromising the safety of other
agents for some purpose that would never be explained
to his satisfaction. Frustration goaded him. "It
wouldn't surprise me, sir, if he were to disregard your
preference for, shall we say, thoroughness over speed
on this. It isn't just another case to him. Now he's
involved. He's going to be after blood."

There was a soft chuckle. "Yes, he'll no doubt take it
personally. Then again, he does that so often, doesn't
he? Oh, and Mr. Skinner, touching on that subject - you
should be aware of something else. From their
conversation just prior to the accident, it seems one
or both of our intrepid agents are growing dissatisfied
with the parameters of their working relationship. I
suppose that comes as no surprise, really. So many
years of working so closely - well, they're bound to
start feeling certain . . . I don't know. Yearnings?"

Skinner bunched his free hand in a fist. "What are you
talking about?"

The voice sounded even more smug than usual. "Just
thought you should be aware." There was a soft click as
the phone went dead.

With an effort, Skinner calmly replaced the receiver
and sat back in his chair. Rage made his gut tight, and
for an instant he wanted to lash out at something. He
quelled that impulse, forced himself to turn back to
the field report. The mocking tone continued to play in
his head though and made concentrating on Scully's
narrative difficult. After a few minutes, when he
realized he was reading the same passage for the third
time, he sat back and stared at the ceiling. It came as
no surprise that the bastard had a bug in Mulder's car.
So they were fond of each other. They were supposed to
be - trust between partners could hardly be sustained
without a certain amount of affection. But too much
could be a hindrance, a liability if not a danger. Too
much might make Mulder a tool to someone's designs -
more than he already was.

Now as always, Skinner found he almost envied the
agents. Their relationship was unique, and strangely
satisfying. Not that he necessarily wanted what they
had. As it was, too often he was a victim of his own
conscience. His heart was his own. He wanted no other
complications.

But something was up, and he didn't like it. The chain-
smoking bastard had made that perfectly clear. He
needed to talk to Mulder, and he needed to do it soon.

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

Sunday, October 10


It was early afternoon when Margaret Scully drew her
car up in front of the hospital. The heat spell had
abated a few days before. Traffic would be a bother,
but it always was in the afternoon. She set the car in
park and got out. The nurse attending her daughter had
helped her to her feet, and the tall, slim man standing
behind them helpfully pushed the wheelchair out of the
way. Margaret - Maggie - gave him a polite smile as she
brushed past him and took her daughter's arm. "Excuse
me, Fox. Let me get Dana settled and I'll get the door
for you."

He quickly shook his head. "That isn't necessary, Mrs.
Scully. I've made other arrangements."

Her daughter glanced at him with what could only be
called disdain. "Other arrangements? You haven't even
called for a cab yet. I don't want you sitting around
here for an hour. Get in the car."

She bit back a soft groan as she settled in the front
seat. The bruises on her face, which were bad enough
under the flourescent lighting inside, seemed even
worse in the bright sun. Maggie hid her revulsion
behind a cheerful smile. "All right, are you in? Watch
your robe, dear." She shaded her eyes as she looked at
Mulder. "What about it, Fox? You don't look any too
well yourself. C'mon, get in."

He acquiesced. They drove in silence for the most part,
a silence broken by the occasional horn or inordinately
loud stereo from a passing car. Maggie studied him from
behind her sunglasses in the rear-view mirror. He was
not unscathed himself. In the days since the accident
his black eye had faded some, and the growth of beard
largely covered the abrasions on the side of his face.
He squinted in the bright sunlight, staring absently
out the front, either unaware of her scrutiny or
pointedly ignoring it. One could never be sure with
him.

Beside her, Dana shielded her eyes from the glare off
someone's rear window. "It's isn't as hot as it's
been."

Maggie glanced at her. <Another damned stay in the
hospital, and she makes a comment on the weather?>
Quickly she bit her lip to restrain what could only be
construed as a criticism. Silence rather than shooting
off at the mouth, that was what her husband had
advocated. Not that he always succeeded in it.

<Don't blame Fox for this,> she told herself half-
angrily. <That wouldn't be fair. It was an accident. So
what that he happened to be driving. For all you know,
it would have been worse if Dana had been behind the
wheel.>

It was always interesting, watching them interact. She
didn't have the opportunity very often; but as it had
often been with her husband, what the man left unsaid
was always much more revealing than anything he would
admit to. Dana's disappearance several years ago had
taken a terrible toll, and her near-fatal illness had
very nearly broken him. He clearly cherished her. Those
carefully blank expressions he wore, the cautious
stillness of those gray eyes, could not hide that fact.

The quiet that he and Dana wore so easily soon began to
grate on her nerves. Evidently they were accustomed to
spending long periods together in silence. She was in
no such habit. "You'll be okay alone, Fox?" she asked,
sparing a quick glance over her shoulder at him.

He nodded. "Yeah, thanks. Actually it'll be a nice
change from the hospital. Too many people doing too
many crazy things. You know how doctors are."

Dana hid a smile behind her hand. Evidently the dig had
not been lost on her. "Never can trust them, can you."

Maggie caught his quick smile in the mirror. She didn't
like the fact that her daughter had chosen such a high-
risk profession, but she had from necessity found a way
to live with it. Resenting her partner would do no good
at all. And it wasn't so very bad, having someone like
Fox Mulder as a son-in-law. Sort of.

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

They left him at the curb outside his building. Scully
wanted to see him in, of course, but he wouldn't allow
it. He'd thanked Maggie, then patted Scully on the
shoulder with a quick *I'll call you*. She held his
gaze for a second before nodding. As always, few words
were exchanged.

Alone in the front walk, Mulder carefully mounted the
steps and shouldered aside the heavy foyer door.
Checked the mailbox and found several bills. Joy.
Punched the elevator call button.

The movement of a shadow caught his eye and he whirled,
startled. Skinner stepped slowly toward him, nodded a
greeting, and gestured with a casual turn of his head
to the side door, as if he always followed his agents
home. "Sorry to bother you at home. This won't take
very long."

Immediately wary, Mulder followed him back outside.
"This couldn't wait until I'm back in the office?" he
asked. "That doesn't sound good."

Skinner glanced at him uncertainly. "It's hard to know
just where ears can be found," he said quietly. "Anyone
interested in what we're saying can't catch it out
here."

<Unless you're sporting a wire,> Mulder thought.
Prudently he kept it to himself. "Of course. What's so
important?"

Skinner didn't answer immediately, but came to a stop
and turned to study Mulder. His dark eyes were
unreadable. Almost. "I don't know just how to say
this," he said very softly. "Something's been brought
to my attention. It needs to be addressed."

Mulder raised his eyebrows in something like surprise.
"Out here? Must be a hell of an accusation. Don't I
need a lawyer or something?"

Skinner waved him impatiently to silence. "Not an
accusation." He pressed his lips thin as he considered
his words. "No, not an accusation. A warning. Look, I
understand your attachment to Scully. What you two have
is precisely what Blevins *didn't* want to see develop.
But Mulder - watch yourself. There are those who'd
pervert it if they're given the chance."

Rising anger made Mulder's face hot. "What are you
saying? What are we supposed to have done?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Skinner gave a harried sigh.
"I got a call today. I don't know what happened between
you two the other night, and quite frankly I don't want
to know. But someone already does. If this becomes an
issue in the future, I'll have to consider all my
options very carefully. That includes reassignment. You
and I both know how quickly a distracted agent can
become a dead agent. I'll split you up rather than see
that happen."

Mulder stared at him, his eyes carefully neutral. "That
bastard had an eavesdropper put in my car, didn't he?"

Skinner pursed his lips, neither affirming nor denying.
Frustration swelled in him, and he looked away
helplessly. "Times like this, your paranoia really gets
on my nerves. Always a conspiracy. Always someone up to
no good, with nothing but you standing in their way.
Textbook Mulder. Then something like this happens, and
you're so dead on that I almost find myself believing
you."

A wry smile pulled Mulder's mouth into something like a
sneer. "Dead on, sir? Rather a poor choice of words."

Skinner held up a hand. "Watch yourself. I don't have
to tell you what precautions to take when you talk to
Scully. She's a good agent. She'll figure it out." He
jerked his chin at Mulder then. "You look like hell.
Get your ass inside and rest. That isn't a request."

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

Scully stared dismally at herself in the bathroom
mirror. She'd seen her CT scans and the reports of the
radiologist. Though it was startling to see, the blood
in her eye looked worse than it actually was. The
ophthalmologist had taken great pains to reassure her
of that. Gingerly she combed the glass out of her hair.
Her right hand was neatly bandaged, covering the jagged
laceration. Couldn't get the stitches wet, but if she
was careful she could bathe away the sour hospital odor
still clinging to her.

Maggie had offered to stay, of course, but Scully
politely declined. Now she was regretting that. The
bruised ribs made doing anything difficult. Moving
slowly and deliberately, she stopped the tub drain and
ran water for a bath.

The phone rang as she lay soaking. The phone machine
was blinking when she checked it later. Reluctantly she
played back the messages. Most were inconsequential,
having come in during her absence. Phone carriers
soliciting her business. Her college alumni association
asking for donations. The last was Mulder. She sighed,
irritated. If he was calling to check on her already .
. .

No, there was a timbre in his voice that she recognized
at once. Something was wrong. She called him back on
his cell phone. It had been switched off. Irritated and
alarmed in equal measures, she tried his home number.
No answer. Not even the machine.

To her relief he called back a moment later. He sounded
rushed and anxious. <Have you eaten? Something we have
to discuss. Get dressed - I'm on my way.>

Weary, she did as he asked. He arrived a few minutes
later, at once pale and flushed. Scully frowned as he
hurried her out of the house. His car bore rental-
agency plates. "What's up with you? And what's with the
car? Mine's right outside."

He shook his head vehemently. "Therein lies the tale.
C'mon. We got some things to talk about."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 9
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 10
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Sunday, October 10 7:34 pm.

He took her to a diner down by the river. It was quiet
and well-lit, its few patrons scattered haphazardly
about the long, narrow room. No one was within ear-
shot.

"Skinner paid me a visit this afternoon," he said
almost under his breath. "Seems someone had an ear in
on our conversation the other night." Her eyes widened.
"He didn't say who. Probably figured he didn't have to.
He didn't take us off the case - in fact, he didn't
even mention it. That means either he's running defense
for us against our detractors, or - "

"Or someone specifically wants us working on it."
Scully carefully pinched the bridge of her nose, then
looked at him wearily. The bloody eye looked gruesome
in the harsh light. "That's why you didn't want to take
my car. You think it's wired too."

He nodded. "Call me paranoid. I'm none too sure about
our apartments either."

She dropped her face in her hands and regarded him
through the lattice of her fingers. "Jesus, this is
such crap." A look of wounded pride flared in his eyes,
and she quickly shook her head. "Not you. This whole .
. . " She made a vague, searching gesture with her
hand. "We're not working on anything all that special.
A kid stabs the neighbor's dog. A man goes samurai and
whacks his family. What the hell is there for them to
want to catch on tape?"

He shrugged, placated. "Maybe it isn't details they
want."

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it. Maybe they're just keeping tabs on us.
I use a police scanner. Maybe that's too low-tech for
them. That butt-puffing bastard might just be listening
in, monitoring us. Our work, our cases."

Scully shook her head as quickly as her sore muscles
would permit. "Wouldn't it make more sense to bug the
office then?"

His gaze was unwavering. "Maybe they have. They
certainly aren't going to give Skinner a run-down of
*everything* they hear." He stopped when she frowned
deeply. "What?"

She leaned forward intently. "Precisely. They want
work-related, they go to work. How much have we done in
the car lately?" She paused, her eyes growing distant
as her mind worked. "And why tell Skinner at all? If
they wanted to pervert it, as he phrased it, they
certainly wouldn't inform him about it first, knowing
he'd turn right around and tell us."

Mulder bit his lower lip thoughtfully. "They'd use it
to hamstring us, then go in for the kill. Jesus,
Scully, do you think . . . "

She nodded slowly. "It's possible. Someone's protecting
us." She tipped her head to the side and grimaced. "Why
now? After so many years of thwarting and scheming, and
the attempts to close us down . . ?"

Mulder scowled into his coffee cup. "I sincerely doubt
it's an act of generosity on their part," he replied.
"If they are protecting us, then it's for a reason."
His eyes narrowed. "They want us on the case. They want
us together, not out of some warm, fuzzy sentiment, but
because we're better as a team than as individuals." He
slowly smiled. "They don't know who's orchestrating
these attacks, and that has them worried. They don't
share the Attorney General's views about us, and they
don't accept her choice of agents working the case."
His smile broadened minutely. "They need us to do this
for them."

Scully said nothing for a moment as she digested those
theories. Followed them backwards, step-by-step, and
found them viable if not exactly probable. It did make
a certain amount of sense. She knew full well who "that
butt-puffing bastard" was, and she was sure altruism
had never been one of his motivations. He needed their
brain power now. "Okay, so assuming all these theories
are correct - what do we do now?"

Mulder finished his coffee and set the empty cup down
with a smack. "We're gonna start with the guys.
Frohike's got something I need. A bug sweeper. It's a
proto-type, but he's had good results with it."

With a soft grunt Scully pushed aside her untouched
mug. "If you don't mind, I'll leave that to you. I'm
not up to dealing with the Marx brothers tonight." She
cut him off before he could speak. "What's there to
hear, Mulder? Me watching CNN? Making love to my
pillow? I'm tired, I hurt like hell, and I want to
sleep. Don't look at me like that. I'll be fine. I'm
armed, right? I should be more concerned about you."

He sighed. Leaving her alone and, in his estimation,
unprotected did not sit well with him, but he didn't
push it. "Yeah, okay. You're right. C'mon, I'll take
you home."

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

She wouldn't let him see her in. He sat in the car,
unmoving, and watched until she disappeared through the
main doors. Distantly he thought about their kiss, and
it made him smile a little. By being so out of
character, it paradoxically fit her like a glove. She
wasn't the detached professional she liked to believe
she was. Not completely. She could surprise herself.
She could surprise him. He liked that.

A light came on in her apartment and he knew, all
kissing aside, that she might well fling something out
the window at him if he didn't get out and fast. His
smile broadened as he put the car in gear and pulled
back out into traffic. Like she had said, she was
armed. She'd be okay.

It was well past nine when he reached the fortress of
the Lone Gunmen. None of them were exactly morning
birds; they'd be hours away from turning in. As far as
he knew, Byers was the only one with what could be
considered a legitimate day-job. Just what that job
was, though, he wasn't sure.

He parked the car halfway around the block and walked.
The bulk of the holster on his hip was strangely
comforting. The dweebs didn't have the most impressive
address, and he himself had heard of more than one dead
body turning up somewhere in the neighborhood. He
didn't want to be a casualty of gang turf wars, or a
drug deal gone bad.

Frohike himself answered the insistent buzzing at the
entry. "Yo, Mulder. We were just talkin' about you,
man. C'mon in." He held the door wide for him, then
slammed it shut and relatched all the deadbolts - at
last count Mulder had seen nine. "We heard about your
little accident. Bummer."

Across the crowded room, which did double duty as a
cramped livingroom and computer workshop, Langley
looked up from the guts of the new PCU he was hooking
up and jerked his chin in a greeting. "Hey. Where's the
missus?"

Mulder smiled patiently. It was an old joke. "Sorry,
fellas. Scully's not up to playing tonight. She's
spending the night with CNN - a real Barnard Shaw fan."
At his elbow, Frohike snorted softly. Mulder looked at
him. "You are the man I want to see. You still have
that bug-zapper thing you knocked together?" Frohike
nodded quickly. "Good. I need to borrow it. Got a
little insect problem in my apartment. I'm fairly sure
Scully does too."

The shorter man nodded as he turned away. "No problem.
Got it here. Just swept up the place this morning, and
I'm pleased to say I didn't find a thing. It can't
disable the bugs you have, you know - it just pinpoints
'em for you. It zeroes in on the - "

"I don't need a physics lesson, Melvin. Just show me
how to use it."

Frohike immediately shook his head. "No can do. I'll
come along and do the exterminator thing for you, no
problem, but no employee of the federal government is
going to get his hands on this beauty."

Mulder smiled again wryly. "Afraid we'll pirate it?"

"No, I'm afraid you'll break it. Took a helluva long
time and sweat to build it. You G-men lose fifty IQ
points just in the first week of your training. You
been in the field how long now? It's a wonder to me you
can still dress yourself."

Mulder grimaced. "Careful with the compliments, you'll
make me blush. Fine, you do it. That suits me. How much
you gotta take? I don't know how big my trunk is."

Without a word, Frohike went to a cluttered worktable
and picked up a tangle of cables and what looked like a
palm-sized CD player. He jammed them into a small
satchel. "This is all. Take me to your bug-infested
abode."

At that moment John Byers appeared in the kitchen
doorway. Short and bewhiskered, swathed in a bathrobe
and reeking of Vapo-Rub, he was uncharacteristically
disheveled. "Mulder. I thought I heard you."

Frohike waved him away impatiently. "Go back to bed,
Byers. No one wants your germs. Sorry ass bastard - who
the hell heard of a guy catching a cold during Indian
summer?"

Byers ignored him, but his eyes widened when he saw the
tangle of cables peering out of the satchel in
Frohike's hand. "Bug blaster? What d'ya need that for?"

Mulder stared at him, deadpan. "Scully thinks I'm
seeing someone. I'm just covering my ass."

Byers' jaw dropped. "You're kidding!"

"Of course I am. Someone put a bug in our car the other
day. I need to make sure my apartment's clear. Don't
want to give anything away if I happen to talk in my
sleep. Not that I do sleep."

Langley peered at them over the top of the tower.
"Embarrassing. They didn't hear anything too
incriminating, did they?"

Mulder shrugged. "Just Scully professing her undying
devotion to me."

Again Byers stared at him. "She *said* that?"

Frohike eyed him with something like disgust. "You been
taking cough medicine again, haven't you? Jesus, Byers,
bring it up to speed. They were in a friggin' car
accident. Scully's home in bed. That, by the way, is
where you belong. In bed."

"But not Scully's," Mulder added, repressing a smile
with the ease of long practice. "C'mon, Melvin. Let's
get this done. They don't have you on a curfew here, do
they?"

Frohike brushed past him. "Curfews are for young punks
like you," he replied. "Gimme the keys, Langely. Watch
Byers and make sure he doesn't wander away in his
bathrobe. I'll be back with I'm done." He looked at
Mulder. "Shall we?"

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

10:54 pm.

Melvin Frohike was, in the truest sense of the word, a
geek. That was something Mulder could appreciate. He
listened to the steady stream of undirected prattling
interspersed with gutter expletives, and all the while
wondered what his graduate professors at Oxford would
have made of this man. Paranoid, without a doubt; anti-
social to an extreme, yet in a paradoxical twist a
subject who craved attention. A man with no substantive
relationship with a woman, who therefore had no
realistic perception of that sex.

Yet he carried a torch for a certain auburn-haired
federal investigator, one that he rarely took pains to
conceal. Mulder always found that a little amusing.

Still, classic education only went so far. How had
Frohike himself phrased it? "Is it still paranoia if
They really are after your nuts?" Okay, so it wasn't
the height of eloquence - Mulder still held with the
sentiment. Few people had proven themselves trustworthy
to any degree at all. This man was one who had.

It took two hours to sweep the small apartment. For a
while Mulder stayed with him, peering over his shoulder
at the minute screen on the palm-player and doing his
best to make sense of the data. When it became obvious
that there would not be an immediate pay-off, he
sprawled gracelessly on the couch and watched the
procedure without a word. Had not the man retraced his
steps and triple-checked his results, Mulder was sure
it would have been done in half the time. However, when
the verdict came in, he knew he could at least be sure
of the thoroughness of the inspection.

"You got nada here, kid," Frohike declared as he shut
down his apparatus and set about packing it away. "You
sure about that car thing? I didn't get so much as a
squeak here."

Mulder laced his fingers across his belly and frowned
thoughtfully. "This doesn't make any sense," he
muttered.

Frohike gave his head a shake. "Since when does that
count for squat? Too bad your car's trashed. We could
find out for sure. What about Scully's? When'dya wanna
do her place?"

Mulder pursed his lips as he consulted his watch. It
was well past midnight. "That'll have to wait now." He
stifled a yawn, and winced when the bruises around his
eyes and mouth protested. He touched them carefully.
Mirror images of Scully's injuries, minus the eye. With
time that would return to normal, but shit, in the
meantime it was hideous to look at.

With a start he realized his companion was studying
him. "What?"

Frohike snorted softly. "I thought you nodded off there
for a minute. Now that I have your attention, tell me:
who'd go through the trouble to bug your car but not
your house? How'dya even figure it was there in the
first place?"

Mulder pushed himself slowly to his feet, trying not to
grimace when pain shot through his chest. Was it his
imagination, or did his ribs actually creak when he
moved? "Word got back to me about something Scully
said. It's never come up before, so there's only one
place they could have heard it."

Frohike leaned forward intently. "Ooo, I'm intrigued.
What did the lovely lady say that could be so bad?"

Mulder waved him away impatiently. At time the dirty
old man routine got old. "It doesn't matter what she
said. What matters is that it was overheard."

Frohike shrugged. "Well, you gotta have some idea who's
responsible. You do, don't you?" He frowned when Mulder
merely shrugged. "C'mon, quit stallin'. Was it old
Scratch?" He scowled when satisfaction was not
forthcoming. "Mulder, you don't understand. Byers and
Langley and me - we live through you. We want to *be*
you. You dance with the devil, we're the orchestra. You
work with a babe, we all work with her. You can't play
Fed on me now and keep your little secrets - you'll be
a dead Fed."

Mulder gave him an impish grin. "Babe, huh? Let me tell
you, the package you so obviously lust after conceals a
mind that borders on the pathological in its obsession
with detail. You envy me? You like being second-guessed
at every turn? For every brilliant point I make, she's
there with a perfectly logical and infuriatingly
mundane counterpoint. That sound like your idea of
fun?"

Frohike's eyes narrowed. "Oh, yeah."

Mulder turned away. "You're hopeless."

"And you're being evasive. More so than usual. You also
happen to be bullshitting me. She's as much a pain in
the ass as you make out, how come you still work with
her?"

Mulder looked back, his eyes neutral but his shoulders
tense. Derogating Scully wasn't something he relished,
but discussing what had happened between them just was
not in the cards. "I'm not saying we don't benefit from
our association. You just don't realize what you're
missing. Trust me."

Frohike snorted. "In all other things, maybe so. Not
this. C'mon, I've watched you two for years. It was
just a matter of time, I've always known that. You're
only human, after all. This - " He paused, searching
for the word. "This resistance only makes me suspect
the end really is near."

Mulder ducked down behind the refrigerator door.
"What're you talking about?" he quipped sourly. "The
end of what? Are you *trying* to sound like someone out
of a Dean Koontz novel? Good night. I'll catch up with
you tomorrow and we'll do Scully's place."

Feet appeared beneath the door. The older man peered
over the barrier, his face lined and careworn. "Face
it, buddy. You love her like the rest of us. You just
won't admit it."

Irritated, Mulder heaved a sigh. "Partners, yes.
Friends, yes." He slammed the refrigerator and caught
Frohike by a shoulder, hustling him out of the kitchen.
"You're looking for something that isn't there. I don't
want any more than what I already have. Don't mess with
what isn't broken." He held up a hand to prevent what
would no doubt be another sappy comment, and snapped
the front door open for emphasis. "Here's your bug-
blaster. Spare me your cliches. And scram. I got some
stuff to do, and it won't get done any faster with an
audience."

Frohike went without another word, but his half-smile
showed he was unconvinced. Mulder locked the door and
stood for a moment, hands on his hips. Too intuitive.
That was the trouble with having conspiracy theorists
as friends. They were too good at sniffing out the
truth, even when it concerned him. Especially when it
concerned him.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 10
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mindset, Ch. 11
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Early morning, Monday, October 11

Sometimes life was not fair.

After a restless night and poor sleep, Scully woke to
the cacophony of trash day in the neighborhood. Along
with the screaming hydraulics of the DC Waste removal
truck came the wail of dogs all up and down the
normally quiet street. Such times did a fair job of
reminding her why she kept houseplants.

She lay there for a while before giving up any hope of
sleep. Carefully she rolled to her feet and reached for
her robe. She noted the time absently as she made
coffee. Just past seven.

She was well into her first cup when there came a sharp
rap at the door. Carefully she peered through the
peephole; what she saw made her swear under her breath.
Grumbling sourly, she set the cup down and tied her
robe up hard around her before opening the door.
"Frohike. I think I can guess why you're here, can't
I?"

The man's eyes lit up when he saw her attire. "Morning,
beautiful. Oh, the eye looks very cool."

She locked the door and gestured him into the kitchen.
"Yeah, I figured you'd like it. You a solo act this
morning? Good - I don't think I could handle all three
of you. No offense. Help yourself to coffee. I'll be
right back."

She dressed as quickly as she could manage, then tried
to phone Mulder. There was no answer at his apartment,
and his cell phone had been switched off again. Annoyed
but not surprised, she tossed the blankets up over the
bed and peered out at Frohike. He had assembled a
bird's nest of cables and was moving at a snail's pace
around the bookcase in the front room.

"Have you heard from him?" she asked, pouring herself
more coffee.

He glanced up from the tiny screen. "Who?"

She grunted softly. "Carl Sagan. Who do you think?"

He gave his head a shake as he looked back at the
device he held. "Haven't seen him. Went by on the way
here, but he wasn't home." He glanced at her over his
shoulder. "He seem okay to you? He struck me as being a
little weirder than usual."

She slowly sat down and regarded him over her cup. The
steam felt good on her face. "Yeah, he's okay. A little
rattled by everything, especially that bug thing. You
know how he gets sometimes."

Frohike snorted indelicately. "He's got nothing to
worry about there. His place is so clean it's
disappointing. So was he, by the way. All he'd give me
was that someone had overheard something you said.
Nothing more."

She hid a smile behind her hand. "I'm not telling if
he's doesn't." He scowled at her, though she wasn't
sure if it was defiance or a silent appeal she saw in
his eyes.

Obviously miffed, he turned back to the task at hand.
"Whatever. I'll just have to plant my own bug
somewhere."

The sudden pounding on the door startled them both.
Scully shot him a dark look as she brushed past him.
"Careful with the threats, Frohike. A wiretap would be
illegal, even for you."

A second rap at the door. Irritated, she snapped it
open, this time without looking. How did she know who
it was? It didn't matter how - she just did. "Hi, we
were just talking about you."

Mulder followed her in and locked the door behind him.
"Yo, Melvin. Glad you could make it. Hey, girlfriend.
Got enough coffee for me? Good, you're dressed. You're
going to need shoes. Go on, I'll wait for you."

She stared at him, her gaze unwavering. "You'll be
waiting a long time if you don't tell me where you're
taking me."

He plucked the cup out of her hand and took a swig, and
immediately made a sour face. "Yuck, how can you drink
this without sugar?" She stood before him, unmoving. He
winked playfully. "We're gonna go check out the car
that hit us. They're holding it down at Impound. I
pulled a few strings. It might be fun."

She shook her head doubtfully. "You're telling me no
one's gone over it since the accident?" she asked,
brushing past him and returning to the bedroom.

He leaned in the doorway and stood sipping her coffee.
"Sure, a team's look at it. That's never stopped us
before. C'mon, I want to get a feel for it."

She glanced at him as she pulled on a pair of sneakers.
"That's fine for you. Why exactly am I going?"

He smiled. "Beats spending a whole lot of time here
with Dr. Suess, doesn't it?"

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

DC Impound was busy at any hour on any day. The only
difference that morning was the collection of faces
that stopped them and asked for their ID. The strings
Mulder mentioned evidently didn't include a promise of
anything resembling speed; they spent almost an hour in
plastic, uncomfortable chairs waiting for the
bureaucratic dragon to remember them. Scully passed the
time reading the forensic reports Mulder had
expediently borrowed from the desk of the investigating
officer. It was not standard procedure for any agent to
investigate a crime committed against themselves, but
this case was different. Skinner had put his stamp of
approval on it.

She bit her lower lip as she read. "They might have
something to go on here. The vehicle was abandoned,
like the others, but this time there's a nice twist.
Says here it rained a little last Saturday. Not much,
just enough to dampen the dirt at the roadside and in
effect groom it. The team picked up a nice set of
tracks running away from the scene. Have you seen
these?"

He grunted as he looked down at the photos. "Yeah. They
got part of a plaster cast. There's residue on the
steering wheel as well. Something Skinner didn't
mention to us: that same residue was found in the
assaulting vehicle in Larson's case." She looked at
him, her eyes wide. He gave an answering nod. "Surgical
gloves, treated with special hypo-allergenic powder.
You know more about those things than I do. They come
regular and extra dry, don't they?"

Her eyes grew distant as she nodded. "Yeah. Some people
have developed sensitivities to the powder, and even to
the latex itself. That's helpful, I suppose. At least
we won't have to check with each and every company who
markets latex."

A half-smile twisted his mouth. "Well, there's latex,
and then there's latex."

She didn't even look at him. "I don't think we're going
to have to go so far as to investigate manufacturers of
condoms. Not unless this case takes a very bizarre
turn. I'll call the lab this afternoon and see what the
status is on that."

Engrossed as she was in the report, she didn't hear the
clerk call out to them. Mulder touched her hand and
gestured with a turn on his head. "C'mon, we're up."

A tech handed them each a pair of gloves, then directed
them down a series of twisting hallways to the heart of
the warehouse itself. The car was just one in a
graveyard of similar hulks. It was a steel-gray
Suburban, one of the largest models available from the
manufacturer. The front end was little more than a
crumpled mass, but what remained was reasonably intact.

Almost at once she noticed something odd. Slowly she
knelt and ran a finger around one of the crumpled
headlight sockets. Mulder crouched down beside her.

"Look here," she murmured. "That's why we didn't notice
anyone following us that night."

He scowled as he leaned closer. "There's no glass. Not
so much as a shard. It looks like the lamps were
removed before the collision." He grunted. "Kind of
risky, driving that stretch of highway with no lights."

She glanced at him. "Well, it was probably moved there
before nightfall. It isn't legal to drive like this,
but cops can't be everywhere at once."

He shook his head doubtfully. "No, they were taken out
after it was parked."

It was her turn to frown. "How do you know that?"

"It just makes sense. How could anyone count on not
being pulled over for something so noticeable? A clean,
obviously well-kept car with no headlights?" He leaned
even closer. "Yeah, look at this. Oh man, check the
file. Have the guys from Latents been over this thing
yet?"

Rocking back on her heels, Scully quickly thumbed
through the file. "Yeah, three days ago they were out
and did the interior." She followed his gaze. "What
have you found?"

He caught her hand. "Don't touch anything. I see what
might be a partial there on that bit of flashing. Look,
can you see it?"

Squinting, she peered at the area before his extended
finger. A faint smudge marred the otherwise pristine
surface. "Yeah, that could be a print. Or a smear of
oil from a mechanic's hand. The car's listed as a '93.
That's a lot of tune-ups."

He grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. "Worth a
try."

She moved with him to the passenger-side door. He
opened it and leaned in, looking around.

The airbags had deployed. One slumped, spent, from the
steering column. They exchanged quick glances. "You
thinking what I'm thinking?" he murmured.

Scully half-smiled. "I'll see if someone at Quantico's
up to speed on the software."

He grunted as he looked past the steering wheel to the
shattered windshield. "No blood. No hair. Hmm." He
looked at her again. "The field where we ended up - it
was searched, right? There were the footprints at the
roadside. What do you think the chances would be that
someone jogging that road at one in the morning *and*
wearing a crash helmet wouldn't be seen?"

She nodded, frowning. "No witnesses have come forward -
maybe no one's asked the right questions."

Mulder bit his lips as he nodded. His eyes were
unfocused, his gaze distant. "A car that was probably
stolen. Headlamps removed before the fact. Footprints
running . . . to where?" He looked at her again, the
flesh between his brows crimping in a confused scowl.
He dragged his hand through his hair as he turned away.
"Details, but no pattern. Not yet."

She drew him away with a hand on his arm. "We've got
some things to start with. Come on. Let's get something
to eat, and then I'll get going on that airbag."

He slowly followed her. "Yeah, okay. See if you can
find out what happened to the car that hit Jack Larson.
Maybe we'll get lucky with that one, too."

"What are you going to do?"

His glance was quick, his expression pensive. "I'm
going to find my car and get Frohike to check it out.
Among other things."

They didn't speak until they had reached the rented
car. "I know that look," Scully said. "What're you
thinking?"

He looked at her over the roof of the car, frowning.
"Call me sentimental, but we got lucky. I don't know
why - maybe just because the attack happened out in the
open." His eyes were shadowed, troubled. "I hope no one
else has to die before we catch this guy."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~
End, Mindset 11
~~~~~~~~~~~~~