Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part eight of twenty-five

JFK International Airport
New York
February 20, 1991
3:00 pm

He was exhausted, but he didn't want his mother to see that.  It was
everything he could do to remain upright at the curb of the airport
terminal.  Mulder tried to stand up straight, but his shoulders
wanted to hunch over, curling in on his rib cage.  It still hurt to
breathe, still hurt to cough.  

The coughs were more or less confined to the mornings now, or
whenever he did something strenuous.  Like walking off an airplane
and waiting for his mother to bring the car around.  He fought
valiantly to stifle the coughs that were tickling his throat.  If he let
one through, the rest would follow on its heels and his mother
would drive him straight to the nearest hospital instead of to her
house.

Mulder wasn't thrilled about the final destination of this trip, either. 
It wasn't that he didn't want to see his mother's new house in
Greenwich, CT.  He couldn't have cared less where she lived.  It
was that he really didn't want to spend two weeks or better being
hovered over by his mother.  

He had pleaded his case fairly effectively, he thought.  He pointed
out that he was a grown man, had been on his own for almost ten
years.  He had a small apartment, he could get anywhere in it in less
than 20 steps.  And it was _his_, he was comfortable there.  He
hadn't stepped foot in his mother's new home since she'd moved
there six months before.  He'd feel awkward, like a stranger.

All arguments had fallen on deaf ears.  Even his doctors in
Washington, upon reading his hospital file, had conspired against
him to make sure Mulder ended up in his mother's care.  He
couldn't be left alone, his medication needed to be monitored and
his breathing exercises were essential if he was to regain his full
lung capacity.  

In essence, no one trusted him to take care of himself, and everyone
concerned made it clear that the source of that mistrust was his own
attitude while he was hospitalized.  His mother had even used the
dreaded 'you made your bed, now lie in it' statement that he could
remember from a vicious bout with mono in high school.  In the
end, he hadn't even been allowed to make his own travel
arrangements, and the FBI made it quite clear that until all his
doctors signed off on his return to duty, he wasn't to set foot in the
building.

No longer just tired, he was becoming disheartened.  It was more
than he could handle, being sick _and_ staying with his mother.  It
wasn't that long ago that he was the caretaker, the one to make
sure she took her medicine, ate three meals a day, even helped her
wash and dress herself in the mornings.  To have her return those
favors now to him only served to embarrass him.  He'd gotten beyond
needing her long before he left for Oxford.  But everyone was
telling him he needed her now.

He was getting dizzy again.  Breathe, he ordered his lungs, and
reluctantly they complied, but not before the black spots marred
his vision.  Just as he was starting to sway, his mother drove up to
the curb, and hurried around to open his door.  A maternal gesture,
she guided his elbow as he sat down.  "I'm not an invalid, Mom,"
he reminded her dryly.

"I didn't say you were, dear," she shot back.  "But it would have
been more embarrassing for you to fall flat on your backside there
on the sidewalk, now, wouldn't it?"  She drove off toward the
interstate.  He was surprised when she didn't mention his dizziness. 
"I went through some of the boxes I brought from the other house. 
I'm pretty sure some of your old clothes should still fit.  At least
until we can go shopping," she commented, attempting to make
small talk.

He stared glumly out the window.

"And I can move the little TV into your room.  I was thinking
about getting a VCR for that one, in case I wanted to record a
show while I was watching a movie or something.  Would you like
that?"

He tore his gaze away from the passing snowy landscape to give
her a pained look.  "Mom, when can I go home?" he asked,
desperately trying to keep the whine out of his voice.

"You're going home right now, sweetheart," she answered with a
bright smile.

"No, Mom.  _My_ home.  DC.  When do I get to go home and go
back to work?"

"When the doctor feels you can be alone, sweetheart," she replied
cheerfully.  She shook her head at him, giving him an affectionate
pat on the arm.  "It won't be that bad.  I promise not to hover too
much.  I just have to agree with the doctors on this, Fox.  You need
to recuperate, and you would never follow their orders if left on
your own.  Remember how you got to this position in the first
place," she pointed out evenly.

He closed his eyes with a sigh.  "Wake me in three to four weeks,"
he muttered, and with little effort, fell asleep for the rest of the ride.

She woke him with a gentle shake of his shoulders.  "I'll get your
bags, sweetheart.  Please go unlock the door for me," she requested
and handed him the key.  He wanted more than anything to protest,
to get his own damned bags and have her hold the door, but his
body wasn't in the mood to agree.  He was stiff and sore and more
tired than he could ever remember being and not being asleep. 
Reluctantly, he shuffled up the sidewalk and unlocked the door to
the little bungalow.

It was dark inside the house, the sun almost gone behind the
horizon and the leafless trees.  He fumbled on the wall for a light
switch and found it just as his mother entered with their bags on her
shoulders.  "Go on in the living room, dear and put your feet up,"
she directed.  "I'm going to put these away and then I'll start some
dinner.  I have some beef stew in the cabinet I can heat up.  Would
you like that?"

She'd never been much of a cook, even when he was little, and he
had to smile at her definition of 'home cooked meal', stew from a
can.  But he was just hungry enough for it to sound good to him. 
"That's great, Mom.  I'll see what's on the news."  After settling
into a comfortable position on the couch, he clicked on the TV and
closed his eyes briefly through the few commercials.

Mulder couldn't see at first, it was dark in the room.  A smell
permeated the air, the smell of mildew.  A light flashed across the
wall--headlights from a passing car outside the window.  The
brightness burned itself on his retinas, but allowed him to get a
better look at the room around him.

It was an old flat--long abandoned.  The single window was
curtainless and the panes of glass streaked with years of dirt and
grime.  He could see piles of rags in the corners, probably left there
by the apartment's most recent inhabitants--a family of rats. 
Mulder shuddered at the thought, and felt the bile rise in the back of
his throat.  There were parts to his job that he still had trouble
dealing with.

A scraping sound pulled his attention away from the rat's nest. 
Something was being dragged across the floor in the room next to
the one he was standing in.  He moved carefully toward the door
that separated the two rooms, feeling his hip for his gun, hefting the
weight of it in his hand before going too close to the opening.  His
eyes had finally adjusted to the dimness provided by the distant
street lamps outside.  He could make out shapes, shadows.  Mostly
shadows.

Another flash of a headlight beam and he could make out the body. 
Lying on the floor, a dark puddle spreading from both hands.  He
could see the shadow hovering over the body, it seemed
malevolent, sinister, evil.  He recoiled from the shadow, but
couldn't pull his eyes from it.  

As he watched, riveted to his position not five feet from the door,
the body on the floor gasped its last breath.  The shadow engulfed
it, seemed to draw strength from it.  It took on an intelligence that
Mulder could sense, could feel.  And without any warning, it turned
on Mulder and moved rapidly toward him . . .

"Fox!  Fox, wake up!  It's a dream, sweetheart.  Just a dream!"  His
mother was practically holding him in her lap, shaking him
vigorously, both arms surrounding his shoulders.  He tried
unsuccessfully to draw in a breath, but no air would enter his lungs. 
He panicked and flailed out of her arms, still gasping for oxygen.

"I'm calling the hospital," his mother announced, her own voice
carrying a panicky edge.  "You need an ambulance."

At her words, the dam broke and fresh sweet air flooded his lungs. 
His ribs expanded painfully as he sucked in great gulps of it, with
each breath his dizziness faded.  Finally, he was able to grab his
mother's arm.

"Don't," he gasped out, still concentrating more on bringing
oxygen into his body than on getting words out.  

She hesitated, still holding the receiver of the phone.  "I want to call
the doctor, then.  At the very least.  You couldn't breathe, Fox." 
She stated the obvious to him as if she were providing new insight
into his condition.

"Nightmare," he replied, struggling to calm down and take in
normal breaths.  Now that the dizziness had passed, he was afraid
he might bring it back with a bout of hyperventilation.  "I'm OK,
Mom.  Really," he assured her.

She sat down beside him, he leaned back, dropping his head to the
back of couch.  She reached over and brushed damp locks from his
forehead.  "I was only in the kitchen a few minutes."

"Sorry," he answered.

"Fox, you barely had time to fall asleep.  That was too fast for a
nightmare," she told him grimly.

"I fall asleep at the drop of a hat, Mom.  It doesn't take me long to
get to REM sleep," he shrugged, still not looking at her.  "I think
the medicine has something to do with it."

"Then we'll see the doctor in the morning and have him change the
medicine," she said firmly.  "We can't have more of these kinds of
episodes," she added with a fierce glare, as if her will alone could
prevent them.

"I'll go see him tomorrow, Mom, I promise," he vowed.  He'd play
along, go see the doctor, take all the shit they handed him whether
pills, inhalers or shots, and grin through it all.  At some point,
everyone would get tired of bossing him around and they'd leave
him be to go back to his own world.  It happened when he was a
kid, it would surely happen again.  

His mother's interest in him had never had a long shelf life.  He
figured she was good for about another two weeks, tops.  At the
end of that time, she'd help him pack his stuff, kiss him on the
forehead and tell him to call her when he got back to his place. 
And that's the last he'd hear from her  until his birthday, or next
major Hallmark Holiday.  Two weeks was a relatively small price to
pay, all things considered.

Mulder Residence
Greenwich, CT
February 21, 1991
12:03 pm

It was noon the next day by the time they had finished with the
doctor and gone to the pharmacy.  Mulder was so tired he didn't
think he could walk all the way from the driveway to the front door
and into his bedroom.  His bedroom, the spare room that his
mother had decorated straight out of _Better Homes and Gardens_. 
It didn't even have his books from college.  They had been stored
away in crates in the attic.  The only memento left over from his
childhood room was a framed picture of himself and Sam, and even
the frame was new to match the new decor.  But it was a place to
sleep, and that was what he seemed to be doing constantly.

He woke up about three, hungry and cranky.  He had only been at
his mother's house for a day and already he was bored out of his
mind.  The rules his doctor had laid out were particularly annoying. 
Twice a day, he had to practice taking deep breaths which was an
exercise in futility since it only produced a fit of coughing.  His
mother was supposed to 'help' by pounding on his back, which
succeeded in bringing up some foul substance from his lungs.  

If he lived through that ordeal, he was then ordered to take two
puffs from his inhaler and then could do no more than sit in a chair
because it made him dizzy.  If he hadn't fallen asleep again, he
could eat, try to read until the words swam on the pages or watch
some mindless drivel on television.

His mother had decided they needed some more food in the house
and left him to watch a movie she had rented for him.  The minute
she was out the door, his hand was on the phone.  Not wanting to
worry her, or cause her to incur a large phone bill, he used his own
calling card to place a call to Washington DC.

Reggie Purdue answered his own phone, an attribute that Mulder
had always admired.  He smiled at the terse greeting.  "Purdue. 
Make it short, I'm busy."

"I doubt that, Reggie.  The new Baseball Digest isn't out for two
weeks," Mulder replied with a chuckle.

"My god, Mulder!  Is that you?  I was just passing the hat for your
funeral bouquet," Reggie shot back over the phone lines.

"The reports of my recent demise are greatly exaggerated," Mulder
pined back.

"How are you, really?" Reggie asked, concern in his tone. 
"Patterson was saying that you might not come back from this."

"Patterson should be so lucky," Mulder retorted.  "I'm doing much
better, thanks.  As a matter of fact, I was sitting here doing some
thinking."

"Why does that statement strike terror in my heart?"

"Reggie, give me a break," Mulder moaned pathetically.  "I was
curious what happened with that last case I was on."

"So call Patterson.  I'm sure Bill would love to answer any and all
questions," Reggie said evenly.

"We both know better, Reg.  Bill and I never saw eye to eye on a
lot of stuff, but on this one, I think we're definitely at odds."

"Mulder, that case was closed in Portland.  Why are you interested
in it now?"

"Reggie, c'mon.  I'm not going off the deep end here, I'm just
curious."

"Mulder, you haven't answered my question.  Why do you care?" 
That was the bad thing about his relationship with Reggie Purdue. 
From the time Mulder had stepped foot in the ASAC's office,
Purdue had been able to read him like a book.  One of the only
people Mulder had even known who could, or even cared to try.

Mulder was quiet for several seconds.  He could hear his friend
frowning over the line.  "I've had dreams, Reggie," he admitted
softly.

"Dreams," Reggie repeated.

"Yeah.  Something happened on that dock, Reg.  I don't think that
Abigail Crown was the killer.  I think she was another victim.  And
I'm pretty sure that the killer is still out there, or somewhere, and
that they are going to strike again."

It was Reggie's turn to be quiet.  "All this on the basis of a dream?"
he finally asked.

"Well, more than one."

"And how high was your fever when you experienced these
dreams?"

"I wasn't hallucinating, Reggie.  I was thinking about the case and
it came to me.  It's happened before, you know that," Mulder said
testily.

"And sometimes, those 'dreams' panned out and sometimes they
_didn't_," Reggie responded with a sigh.  "Mulder, you're still on
medical leave.  You shouldn't be worrying about this case.  You
should be resting."

"Ever tried 'resting' for two weeks, Reggie," Mulder growled.

"Yeah, it was the first definition of hell in my adult life, but I
survived, and so will you.  Mulder, go find a good movie on the
tube, put your feet up and get better.  You can look into all this
when you're back to work."

"Reggie, please.  This won't take long.  I just want to know if there
were any suspicious deaths reported in Reno, Nevada about four
days after I was found on the docks.  How hard can that be?"

"Suspicious as in how?  Get specific, Mulder.  And you're gonna
owe me big time for this," Reggie answered gruffly.

"Suicides.  Specifically a suicide that happened in an abandoned
apartment building.  Probably a six flat or something like that. 
C'mon, Reggie, how hard could it be to answer that?"

"Well, if it's so damned easy, why aren't you calling the Reno
Police and asking them directly?" Reggie sneered.  "Ah, hell, I'll do
it.  But on one condition," he said firmly.

"Name your price.  Orioles Season opener, sky box at JFK for a
Skins game . . ."

"You humble me with your connections, Mulder.  No, it's much
simpler than that.  Well, maybe not for you.  I want you to
R-E-S-T!  Got that.  I want you to go lie down and sleep and get
better so you can get back here and do your own damned leg work. 
And that's an order."

"Message received, loud and clear.  I'm going down for my nap
right now, Unc'a Reggie," Mulder said lightly.  The day was
looking up, if Reggie had agreed to help him.

"You do that.  I'll call you tomorrow, let you know what I found
out."

"Thanks, Reg.  I won't forget this one, really."

"Don't worry, Mulder.  I won't let you forget," Reggie assured him
and disconnected that line.

Mulder yawned, the fatigue settling over him again like a blanket. 
He dragged himself into his room and fell into bed.  He was still
sleeping when his mother returned and started dinner.

end of part eight
Vickie

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
Part nine of twenty-five

Mulder Residence
February 22, 1991
10:14 am

His mother woke him up a little after ten the next morning. 
"There's a phone call for you.  Mr. Purdue.  I can tell him you're
still sleeping--"

"No, thanks, Mom.  I want to take this," Mulder said, hurriedly
wiping the sleep from his eyes.  The usual morning coughing fit
didn't last as long as it had the day before, for which he was
eternally grateful.  He'd eaten breakfast at 8 but was back asleep by
9.  Sleep seemed to be the most strenuous activity he could handle
lately.  

He finally made his way into the living room and to the phone. 
"Reggie, what've you got for me?" he asked without greeting.

"Mulder, are you sitting down?" Reggie asked.

"Always," came the short reply.

"There was a suicide.  A David Markem.  The body was found in
some old tenement houses that were due for demolition last week. 
The bomb crew were doing a walk through and found him."

"How long had he been dead?" Mulder asked, his chest growing
tight with the realization his dream had played out.

"They said not that long, maybe three days.  That would put the
death on the 13.  A little past the date in your dream."

"Doesn't matter, so the killer took a little time, laid low after almost
getting caught," Mulder muttered to himself.  "Markham, he
worked for the Sands, didn't he?" Mulder asked, closing his eyes
and leaning heavily against the sofa, fear building in his mind and
body.

"Night clerk.  Ten years," Reggie answered.

"No previous signs of depression," Mulder stated.

"Not according to the Manager at the Sands.  Said he was on cloud
nine recently--was engaged to an heiress or something."

"He didn't commit suicide, Reggie--"

"Mulder, look.  You asked, I found.  But the bride to be didn't
think it was suicide, either.  She ordered an autopsy.  He slit his
own wrists--"

"How?"

"A folding Buck knife," Reggie answered with a tired sigh.

"Prints on the knife?" Mulder demanded.

"Just his own.  It was his knife, apparently she'd given him
a set of camping stuff for an engagement gift.  His initials were on
the knife handle."

"That doesn't prove he killed himself," Mulder objected.

"Mulder, in every state in the union, yes it does.  The Coroner's
inquest was Monday--they ruled the death self-inflicted.  What the
hell do you want, a signed confession?"

"He didn't leave a note, did he?"

"And you know, Mr. Psychologist from Oxford, that not everyone
leaves a note," Reggie snapped back.

"Marrying an heiress, no history of depression and the guy ends up
dead in an abandoned building scheduled for demolition--yeah,
Reggie, you're right.  Suicide, plain and simple," Mulder hissed,
sarcasm dripping off his words.  "This one stinks, Reg," he added,
his voice rough and low.  A cough, completely out of nowhere,
shook him to the core.

There was silence on the line as Reggie waited patiently for Mulder
to finish.

"Reg?  I'm OK," Mulder said, clearing the last of the cough from
his throat.  "Were there at least pictures taken?  For the inquest? 
Maybe I can use them to get Bill to take another look."

"There's nothing you can do about it, cowboy," Reggie said gently. 
"You're sick, and Patterson isn't going to give it the time of day. 
Put it aside."

"There are going to be more deaths, Reggie.  I thought our jobs
were to prevent that kind of thing," Mulder said tersely.  His chest
felt tight, making it hard to catch his breath.  His eyes were burning
and it wasn't from a fever.  Suddenly, he was so very tired of being
sick, but beyond that, he was just very tired.  He hated being so
helpless.

"Mulder, let it go.  You shouldn't be worrying about this shit.  You
almost died, goddamnit!   Would you give it a rest?!" Reggie all but
shouted over the phone.  He lowered his tone immediately.  "I'm
sorry, man.  I'm just . . . you had me worried, OK?  Don't let it
drag you under, Mulder.  You're too good for that.  Maybe it's
time to walk away from it."

"Away from what?  The job?  You know I can't do that, Reggie--"

"Maybe you just need to get out from under Patterson.  The man's
a slave driver.  You aren't the first agent to end up hospitalized on
his watch, and I dare say you won't be the last.  He chews people
up and spits them out.  I'm not telling you to leave the Bureau, just
get out from under William the Terrible.  Just think about it, OK? 
That's all I ask.  You're in a position to go wherever you want. 
Take it and run with it."

"Yeah, right.  Where would I go?  Where would they let me go?"
Mulder grumbled.

"They're passing around the Props monograph to the kids at the
Academy.  That has to be worth something," Reggie offered.

"Big deal," Mulder sighed.  "I did that two years ago.  Do the
words 'what have you done for me lately' mean anything to you,
Reggie?"

"Look, I'm just asking you to think about it.  Who knows, you
might find someplace you'd _like_ to be," Reggie said, in an
obvious attempt to get his friend off the other end of the line. 
"Hey, I gotta go, man.  Take care of yourself.  And remember,
Mulder . . ."

"Rest.  Yeah, Reggie, I remember," Mulder sighed.  "Thanks for
looking into this for me."

"No problem.  I'll see you when you get back.  We'll catch a game
on the tube or something.  Just take care of yourself, and that's an
order," Reggie said with mock gruffness.

Mulder smiled wearily.  "Yes, sir."  He hung up the phone and
crawled into his room where he promptly fell asleep.

1:30 pm

Mulder was sitting up on his bed, a yellow legal pad he'd grabbed
out of the 'this and that' drawer in the kitchen propped on his
knees.  The pencil in his hand flew over the paper, unintelligible
scribbles stretching out across the page.  He was deep in thought
when his mother appeared at the door of his room.

"Sweetheart, you're awake!  You missed lunch and it's time for
your medicine.  Should I bring in a tray for you?  Or would you
rather try sitting at the kitchen table?"  She was rather relieved that
he'd seemed to have slept after his phone call.  Maybe he actually
was resting, she hoped.  But then, she looked down at the bed. 
Noticing the already torn pages scattered on the bedspread, she
frowned.  "What are you doing?"

"A profile," he muttered, not bothering to look up or answer her
previous question concerning lunch.

She chewed on her lip and picked up a page.  Only his mother, and
the one typist in the Bureau who was versed in cryptography, could
have gleaned intelligent sentences from the chicken scratches on the
paper.  After reading the page, she dropped it back to the bed and
started gathering them into a neat pile.  "Fox, you must stop this,"
she said, keeping her voice even.

That brought his eyes up to meet hers.  "Mom, I'm in bed.  I'm
resting.  How is this any more strenuous than watching Oprah?"

"Do you really want me to get out a blood pressure cuff?" she
demanded.  "Doctor Sullivan said . . ."

"Doctor Sullivan got his degree in Psychiatry from Sears
Correspondence School," Mulder snapped.  "He doesn't know shit
from shinola."

"Fox William Mulder!  That is enough!  Put all of this away
immediately and I don't want to hear another word about it!"  His
mother didn't get mad often, usually choosing to ignore
confrontation rather than engage in it, but she was angry now.

He blinked at her.  He sat in silence, just looking at her, but not
making a move to put down either the pencil or paper.  He had to
reason with her, but his first response was to match fire with fire. 
"Mom, I'm 29 years old.  You can't boss me around."  The minute
he said the words he realized what a mistake they were.  Childish,
even to his own ears, he could just imagine what they would invoke
in his mother.

She glared back at him, picked up the papers and tore them in half. 
"No more.  And if you continue to defy me, I'll have you admitted
to a hospital.  One that can deal with this obsession you have," she
growled, turning to leave the room with the torn papers still in her
hands.

"Mom.  Stop."  His voice was no longer contentious, it was
pleading.  She turned around slowly, her face still taut with anger,
but her eyes softening at the sound of his words.  "Please," he
continued and she took in a deep breath, then stood next to the bed
with her arms crossed.

"What, Fox?" she asked calmly.

"Mom, sit down, please.  Just hear me out."  She stood for a
minute more, just to make him realize that she could just as easily
ignore this request, but finally she lowered herself to the edge of the
bed.

"So, talk," she commanded.

It was his turn to take a breath.  His thoughts were jumbled and he
reached for the right ones, whatever would make her understand. 
"Mom, I have reason to believe there is a killer on the loose and
I'm the only one who can stop it."

She bit her lip, but kept her expression blank.  "And what leads you
to this conclusion?" she asked evenly.

He winced.  She had no idea what he did at his job.  As a matter of
fact, he'd spent much of his time in her presence making sure she
never found out.  If she knew the horrors he put himself through on
a daily basis in the name of saving lives, she would have locked him
up years ago.  "It's a deductive reasoning process, Mom."  That
sounded more logical than 'I've had dreams'.  He could be honest
with Reggie, Reggie understood, but his mother would see it as
another sign of instability and want to correct it.

"You talked to that Mr. Purdue this morning.  Is that what brought
all this on?"

When he first woke up after having talked to Reggie, he'd felt
strong again, capable.  Now, this fight with his mother was sapping
every ounce of strength he'd savored.  "Reggie had some
information.  I correctly predicted another murder.  I asked him to
look into it for me."  Mulder sagged against the padded headboard,
he didn't want to go through all this, he just wanted to get back to
writing it out, putting the pieces together.  He really felt he was
close this time but so much of the puzzle was hidden from view.

His mother shook her head slowly.  "Fox, this is exactly what Dr.
Sullivan warned us about.  That you would come up with any wild
idea to get back to work."  She took his hand, removed the pencil
and then just held it in her lap.  "Baby boy, I almost lost you.  Do
you understand what that did to me?"  Tears were glistening on her
lashes and the sight of them made the tightness return to his chest.

"Please, Mom.  I don't want to hurt you, but can't you see?  I
_have_ to do this."

"An obsession.  That's what an obsession is.  Don't you think I
understand?  You're not the only one with a college education,
Fox!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing again.

"It's not like that, Mom.  It's not an obsession," he objected.

"You can't let it be, not even long enough to rest and recover from
a life threatening illness.  You fall asleep thinking of it, you wake up
thinking of it.  You have nightmares about it and don't tell me you
don't, because you cry out in your sleep.  That is an obsession, Fox. 
Plain and simple.  Don't you dare try and deny that to me," she
growled, low and threatening.

Tears were forming in his eyes now, but not out of fear, out of
frustration.  "How can I make you understand?" he cried, wiping at
his eyes angrily.  

He looked up at the sound of her shuddering breath and saw the
look of anguish on her face, the pain in her eyes.  It struck him once
again.  How could he do this to her, he berated himself.  His heart
broke, he was always bringing her pain.  "I'm sorry, Mom," he said,
reaching out to pull her into an embrace.  "I'm sorry.  I won't do it
anymore.  I'm sorry," he murmured.  

He sagged against her then, completely spent, her arms were the
only things holding him up.  He was so tired.  Too tired to fight
anymore.  She could sense this and responded immediately.  Gently,
she scooted down the bed, lowering him to a recline against the
pillows.  Then she pulled away, but not before she brushed his
forehead with a kiss.

"It's all right, Fox.  It's all right.  You take a nap.  When you wake
up, you'll feel better and then we can have lunch.  We'll talk about
this later.  Right now, you get some sleep."  She sat there a few
minutes more, rubbing his chest as he fell asleep.

Sadly, she tiptoed from the room and went into the living room. 
She didn't need to look for the business card, it was sitting in her
address book by the phone.  She glanced at the number written in
neat script and dialed it, then waited for the connection.  A young
woman's voice came over the line.  

"Dr. Franklin's office, may I help you?"

She drew in a deep breath, then forged ahead.  "Yes, I was referred
to Dr. Franklin by Dr. James Sullivan in Portland.  It's about my
son.  I'd like to make an appointment."

end of part nine

Vickie

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part ten of twenty-five

Office of Dr. Lawrence Franklin
February 24, 1991
9:14 am

It had taken every trick in the book to get Mulder to the
appointment.  His mother had tried to reason with him at first, but
eventually went the gamut through anger, humiliation and finally,
that old stand-by, tears.  In the end, she was pretty certain she'd
just worn him down to a point where he would have agreed to
anything just to shut her up, but that really didn't matter.  As far as
she was concerned, her job was to get him to the doctor's.  After
that, it was up to the doctor to get him the rest of the way.

Mulder was sitting, or more accurately, was slumped in a chair in the
corner of the waiting room.  He had picked up a magazine, Sports
Illustrated, but hadn't bothered to open the cover.  Every nuance of
body language was directed at letting his mother, and anyone else
who looked at him, know exactly how little he expected of this visit
and how much he didn't want to be there in the first place.  Every
two minutes, he would check his watch and emit a just audible
growl of frustration.

"It's not like you have anywhere else to be," Mrs. Mulder said
pointedly after the fifth time he'd gone through that particular
display of impatience.

"I'm missing 'Sally' and 'Oprah'," he grumbled.

"You told me you don't like the talk shows.  Too many freaks," she
said absently thumbing her way through a three year old Better
Homes and Gardens.

"Yeah, too close to home, I guess," he shot back and began ripping
through the SI on his lap, not even really looking at the pages.

She shook her head in disgust.  "Behave," she ordered, her voice in
a whisper only he could hear.

"I promise I won't throw a tantrum, Mother," he said through a
fake smile.  "I'm good at this game, you should have remembered
that," he added before turning his attention to a picture of Denis
Rodman.

That brought a sigh to her lips.  "I'm doing this for your own
good," she told him, putting her magazine down and reaching for
his hand.  He pulled his arm away before she could get a good grip.

"I've heard that one for 18 years, Mom.  It's getting old."

Luckily, the nurse called his name before they had a chance to
venture into another lengthy discussion

Dr. Franklin was a tall, athletic man, early forties and no sign of
gray in his jet black hair.  He had a pleasant smile and welcomed
Mulder at the door to his office.  "Come in, Fox.  Make yourself
comfortable."

Mulder cringed at the sound of his given name.  It brought back too
many old memories, all of them bad.  The times he had to sit in
psychologists offices, psychiatrists offices, after Samantha had been
taken.  Everyone assumed that since he possessed an eidetic
memory he knew what had happened that night.  Even he believed
that somewhere in his mind details of her captors were locked and
he had only to access that place within himself to find her.  

The time after Sam's abduction had been surreal for him.  He woke
up from a catatonic coma and into a nightmare where his parents
didn't talk to him or each other, and no one seemed to know what
had happened to his sister.  For years, night terrors plagued him,
but they never provided any clues, any answers. 

In the last few years, his dreams had taken a dark turn, with images
he didn't understand.  Thinking it might finally be the memories of
that night coming to his consciousness, he'd felt the need to seek
professional help.  But the regression hypnosis he'd undergone had
left him with more questions than answers.  Some of the questions
frightened him worse than the dreams and he was powerless to
move forward.  He stopped seeing his hypnotherapist six months
back.

Basically, Mulder had been through it all at one time or another. 
From his own treatment, as a child and more recently, and even in
college when he'd undergone therapy as part of his course work in
psychology.  He wasn't expecting anything out of his sessions with
Franklin, other than getting his mother off his back.

"Your mother called to make the appointment today," Dr. Franklin
stated, breaking Mulder out of his thoughts.  "I can only assume
that you agreed with it."

Mulder blew out a breath and stared out the window.  "She thinks
it will help," he stated casually.

"And you don't?" Dr. Franklin probed.

Mulder smiled.  And this guy was supposed to be 'good'?  Mulder
had been down this road so many times, it wasn't even funny
anymore.  "I don't think I've been exhibiting behavior that
necessitates professional involvement," he smiled back at the
doctor.

Franklin took a moment to glance through his notes.  "Masters in
Psychology from . . . Oxford University!  Quite impressive, Fox,"
he said and flashed a smile.  "I had to settle for Yale."

"Hey, we all do what we have to, right?" Mulder shot back, the
smile now looking a little dangerous around the edges.

"So, it's obvious that you don't want to be here, and that you know
enough of the field to play mind games till the two of us are past
retirement age, so let's cut the crap, huh?" Franklin said evenly. 
"Why is your mother worried about you?  I don't get the
impression that she's exhibiting Munchausen by Proxy.  I think she
truly thinks something is wrong.  And if you are under the
impression that psychologists never need help, I'd be more than
happy to contact your old professors in England and have a word
with them."

Mulder drew in a breath, but not too deep as to cause a cough. 
"She thinks I'm obsessing over a case that I was working on before
I came down with pneumonia," Mulder said with a sigh.  "I had
some more insights into the case and made a few calls.  All this
around several naps and I haven't left the house except to go to the
doctor.  Basically, my mother is trying to control what I think, and
it's because I scared the crap out of her."

"You were in a coma for some time," Franklin noted.  "At one
point, your prognosis was not very good."

"My illness was life threatening, I won't deny that."

"I also note that you didn't seek medical attention when you first
became ill and even after seeing a doctor, you chose to ignore his
instructions."

"I was on a case.  A murder case.  Lives were at stake.  It's what I
do.  I stop killers.  Get inside their heads."

"A behavioral profiler, I've heard of them.  Read some of the
journal articles," Franklin interjected.

Mulder snorted.  "Bet that was fun reading," he commented.  "I got
the medication for my cold, I just kept forgetting to take it.  And as
for staying in bed--when was the last time _you_ canceled all your
appointments for a week and stayed home to get over a bad cold?"
Mulder accused.

Franklin had the good grace to nod with slight embarrassment. 
"You've got me there.  I hate being sick."

"Well, I screwed up and got _really_ sick.  Since I was released
from the hospital, I've been a very good boy.  I couldn't be bad if I
wanted to.  Mom counts my pills in the morning and again at night. 
So, I was sick to death of daytime TV and I had some ideas about
a case that the Bureau thinks is closed, but I don't think so.  And
for that, Mom drags me to a shrink.  No offense, but I think we are
wasting each other's time.  At least you're getting paid for it, but
you could be helping someone who really needs you."

"Let me be the judge of that," Franklin said with a grin.  "Tell me
about this case.  As much as you can, of course."

Mulder was getting frustrated.  He didn't want to go into the details
of the case, even when the other person was sworn to uphold
patient confidentiality.  "Look, all told, seven people have died, six
men and one woman.  There are about four more in line, if my
analysis is correct.  They are dying at a rate of one every four to
five days.  While I sit here, playing whose university's dick is
longer, the killer is already planning his next attack.  And the really
bad part is, I can tell what city it will  happen in, the approximate
location, and the time, but I can't tell who is the victim or who is
the killer.  And this guy is good.  It will look like a suicide."

"Can't the medical examiner tell the difference?" Franklin asked,
suddenly interested.

"No, this guy is good, I tell you.  I see him as a shadow . . . a cloud. 
I can't get a picture in my head of the killer."

"You've seen him.  How?  In dreams?"  Franklin's eyes had
narrowed considerably.  He was eager now.

"Yeah, dreams.  Nightmares.  Waking visions."  Mulder stopped
and crossed his arms to warm himself from a sudden chill.  He
could tell just by looking at Franklin that the little psych wheels
were turning in the wrong direction.  "Look, you ever hear of a guy
named Monty Props?"

Franklin chewed on his bottom lip.  "Serial killer.  Murdered
secretaries and mutilated the bodies.  Yeah, I heard of him."

"I caught him.  My profile, and later my monograph, lead to his
arrest and conviction and ultimately, his execution by the state of
New York."

Franklin swallowed.  "Don't those people in your profession have
to see a counselor on a regular basis?"

Mulder laughed this time.  "Yeah, each other.  Or if we're really
pressed for time, we just look in the mirror.  Get serious!  They're
afraid someone might 'cure' us.  Especially those of us who are
good at what we do.  If we weren't twisted, we couldn't do this."

"You're comfortable being 'twisted'."  It wasn't a question, it was
a statement.  Mulder thought long and hard before answering.

"I've learned to live with it."

Franklin nodded, then grew silent for a moment.  Mulder could see
him trying to come up with some middle ground they could work
from.  "This case, the one that's still open, will anyone listen to
you?  I mean, aren't they going to discount your analysis because of
your recent illness?"

Mulder shrugged.  "Maybe.  Some of them will.  The ones who
know me, they'll listen.  This isn't the first time a case has been
closed until I found it.  I doubt it will be the last.  And even if they
don't listen to me, maybe some one will.  Maybe I can identify the
next victim before the killer gets to him.  Maybe I can save a life."

Franklin absently chewed on the end of his pen, then
self-consciously stopped himself.  "Let's do this.  If you will agree
to come see me, on a twice weekly basis, I'll tell your mother that
you should be allowed some time each day to work on this case. 
You will have to abide by whatever restraints your medical doctor
puts on you, but I dare say if you continue to rest adequately and
take all your prescribed medication, that could be as much as three
or four hours a day."

Mulder frowned.  Three or four hours?  On a case, he frequently
worked 18 to 22 hours.  At the rate of three or four hours, he'd
have the case solved sometime around his 40th birthday.  

"And if I say no?  I really don't want to be 'cured'.  It could be bad
for my career," he commented with a lop-sided grin to soften the
steel in his voice.

Franklin matched Mulder's grin with one of his own.  "I have no
intentions of 'curing' you, Fox.  I simply think you might do better
with a 'smooth veneer' over that 'twisted interior'."

Mulder thought about that for a while.  He looked around the
room, looked hard at Franklin.  The man was truly interested in the
case.  Probably as close as the poor sot would ever come to living
'True Crime' and not just watching it on television.  Besides,
Mulder assured himself, if the topics got to close too the bone,
diversion was always available as a defensive measure.  He was
good at this game.  And if it kept his mother at bay, it might be
worth it.

"Well then, if I'm going to be seeing you again, you have to do me
a favor," Mulder said, getting up from his seat.

Franklin waved him on.

"Don't call me Fox.  I work on a last name only basis."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Franklin replied with a grin
and watched Mulder leave the room.  

Mulder sat in the waiting room, finally interested enough to read
the ancient sports magazine, while his mother talked to Dr.
Franklin.  After twenty minutes, she came into the room, wiping her
eyes, but smiling at him.  "Ready to go?" she asked brightly.

He nodded, putting the magazine aside.  He got up slowly, his ribs
still ached and it was too easy to get dizzy if he rose too quickly. 
He pulled on his parka and started for the door.

"I'll be right out, dear.  I just want to set up your next
appointment," his mother said with a tone that was far too chipper
for Mulder's mood.

He shuffled out to the car and unlocked the passenger side door. 
The doctor had said that he shouldn't drive for at least another
week, possibly longer if the dizzy spells remained.  Lack of oxygen
to the brain could do that, and his lungs weren't drawing in enough
O2 for his size at the moment.  He lowered himself into the freezing
car and reached over to insert the keys, starting the engine and
creating a whirlwind of cold air right at his face.

Damned New England winters.  The air burned as it entered his
lungs and forced more dry coughs out of him.  In desperation, he
put his hands over his nose and mouth to warm the air before he
breathed it in.  It helped a little.

His mother arrived at her door just as the air from the car heater
was starting to hint at warmth.  She sat down, checked the mirrors
and pulled out of the parking lot.

"So, what did you two chat about?" Mulder asked, trying to keep
the sarcasm out of his voice.  Tried, but didn't succeed.

"Oh, this and that.  I guess I might have over-reacted a little.  Dr.
Franklin said that there's no harm in you doing a little desk
work--as long as you rest when you're told and take you medicine,"
she emphasized the last part, for his benefit alone.

"I've been resting, Mom.  That's all I've been doing," he sighed and
decided to stare out the window at the white and gray and black
landscape.

"Well, I've got a little lap pad that I use sometimes for my
crossword puzzles.  You can use that.  And I think I have some
more legal pads.  I just don't want you to overdo, Fox.  I know you
think this is all very essential, but your health comes first," she said
sternly.

"Yes, Mom," he said, hiding a victorious smile as he turned his face
again toward the window.

"And we're going to have to get more food in you.  You are skin
and bones, Fox William.  Skin and bones."

"Whatever you say, Mom," he replied calmly.  It didn't matter,
whatever his mother forced him to do.  His mind was already back
on the case.

end of part ten

Vickie

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part eleven of twenty-five

Mulder Residence
Greenwich, CT
4:25 pm

The jingling of the phone woke him out of a sound sleep on the
living room sofa.  Mulder cleared his throat, thankful he didn't have
to cough this time, and reached for the receiver.  His mother had
beat him to it.

" . . . asleep, Mr. Purdue.  I'll have him call you tomorrow . . ."

"I've got it, Mom, thanks," Mulder interrupted and then waited
until his mother put down the phone in the living room before
addressing his friend.  "Reggie, did you hear back from Reno?"

Mulder could hear his old friend sigh.  "Yes, Mulder, I did.  I'm
sorry, but no one found a matchbook."

"Did they send someone back to go over the site again?" Mulder
asked anxiously.

"Mulder, this wasn't considered a crime scene, remember?  The
building was scheduled for demolition and as soon as the Coroner's
inquest was returned with a suicide verdict, the building came
down.  I'm sorry."

"How about Tahoe?" Mulder asked, still not discouraged.

"Nothing, Mulder.  Nothing was found."

Mulder felt the cold pang of disappointment, but was not
completely desolate.  "That's OK, Reggie.  It just would have given
me some physical evidence of the next site.  I have the tour dates in
my head.  I wish they had included the actual motels and hotels
Paige appeared at and not just the cities."

"Mulder, ah, Bill Patterson called me this morning," Reggie said
quietly.  Mulder could tell he didn't want to talk about it, but felt he
had no choice.

"What did ole Bill want, Reg?"

"He found out you are still working on this.  Mulder, keep in mind,
Patterson's ego is about as big as the Pacific and just as deep.  He's
not happy that you won't let this thing go."

"So?  Patterson and I have never really gotten along.  Big deal,"
Mulder scoffed.

"He went over our heads this time.  All the way to the AD level. 
Ever hear of Walter Skinner?"

Mulder thought for a moment.  "He was in the New York regional
office, wasn't he?  ASAC, I think."

"That's the one.  He got bumped to AD.  Jumped over Blevins to
do it.  Fair haired boy, apparently.  Anyway, the orders came down
from his office.  No one is to help you with this one.  No one."

Now Mulder did feel desolate.  "Reggie, I'm stranded here," he
wailed.  "What the hell can I do from a goddammed bed?!"

"Recover from your illness and get back to work," Reggie said
gently.  "I'm sorry, man.  I'll help if I can, but I can't make any
more 'official' phone calls or call for technical assistance in anyway. 
It's out of my hands."  There was silence on the phone until Reggie
spoke again.  "You really can't let this one go, can you?" he asked
softly.

"No, I can't," Mulder said firmly.

"I always suspected you were part pit bull.  I just thought it was
that nose," Reggie chuckled.

"Thanks, Reggie.  Want to wait till I'm on the floor laughing so you
can kick me when I'm down?" Mulder shot back.

"Sorry man.  Hey, remember Danny?  In Research."  Something in
the way Reggie said it made Mulder certain this was not just a
change of subject.  

"Sure.  We used to play basketball at lunch."

"Well, he asked about you.  You might consider giving him a call. 
For old times sakes."  Reggie's voice was full of underlying intent.

"Thanks, Reg.  I just might do that."

Mulder remembered Danny more for his lay ups than for any
expertise in research, but was more than happy to find a
sympathetic ear.  After talking for a few minutes, he got down to
the matter at hand.

"I just wish I could find the names of the motels where Paige and
Crown stayed during their tour dates.  Patterson had it, but I have
to tell you, by that time, I was pretty much out of the loop."

"I heard you almost croaked on him, Mulder.  That would have
really pissed the old man off," Danny said with a laugh.

"Nah, I think I pissed him off more when I lived," Mulder said in
perfect deadpan.  "Do you think you could find those locations for
me?"

"Let me work on it.  You know, there was a general bulletin put
out that none of us are to talk to you," Danny said quietly, so as not
to be overheard.  "But that doesn't mean I can't clean up my files,
right?"

"That's my read on it, Danny.  And thanks.  I'll figure out some
way to repay you."

"I've got my eye on that sky box you're always promising my
colleagues," Danny replied.  "I'll get back to you."

"Thanks.  Oh, and Danny, if my mom answers and tells you I'm
asleep, have her wake me."

"Geez, what a life," Danny muttered in disgust and disconnected
the line.

Mulder Residence
March 4, 1991
9:30 am

Danny was true to his word and called a little after nine on Monday
morning.  Mulder had just finished his breakfast, finally convincing
his mother that he could sit at the kitchen table and eat.  She had
been clucking at the sink since he'd walked in, muttering little
phrases like 'needs more rest' and 'has to eat more'.  He'd done his
best to ignore her and choke down as much of the oatmeal as his
stomach would let him.  Danny's call was like the bell at the end of
a very hard round of boxing.

"OK, Mulder, here's what I have.  Five more cities.  After Reno,
Paige appeared at the Majestic in Tahoe.  Two nights, four
performances.  Then he hit the big time--sort of.  A little casino in
Las Vegas--the Paramount.  Three nights.  A stint in Sacramento,
just two nights in the Capital City.  After that they went to Carson
City, Nevada and appeared at the Mountain View.  The tour ended
in Denver at the Airport Holiday Inn."  

"Danny, you're a god send.  Can I have your baby?" Mulder teased.

"No, but you can get me tickets to the season opener for the
Orioles.  I hear you have connections," Danny said sarcastically.

"Actually, I do," Mulder said with a sly smile.  "Thanks, Danny.  I
might have need of your expertise again."

"I'm here, Mulder.  Just holler."

Mulder retreated to the bedroom and the lap pad.  At some point,
he considered asking his mother if she could get a desk moved into
the room, but it wouldn't fit with all the little 'touches' she'd put in
the room already.  Not to mention that she wouldn't stand for him
_sitting_ at a desk.  He was pushing the limit to sit up in bed.

She hadn't always been so smothering, he tried to convince himself. 
But the period after Samantha's disappearance had turned her into
a quintessential smother-er.  He remembered waking up in the
hospital, his mother sitting by his bed, just as she had in Portland. 
For three days she refused to answer his questions about his sister. 
She wouldn't tell him anything, and kept the doctors and the police,
even his own father at bay.  

Finally, when the doctors assured her that she was harming her son
more by not telling him about his sister, she allowed them to tell
what was known of the night of November 27, 1973.  When the
young Fox Mulder had become hysterical at the news that his sister
was missing, she had refused to allow the doctors to sedate him and
instead, had sat by his side, in the narrow hospital bed, cradling him
like a baby as he sobbed himself to sleep.

Mulder realized that he'd made her fragile then.  She was afraid that
she would lose him, too, and she knew that she couldn't survive
that.  He was the last chance, but by clinging so hard, neither of
them had a chance to find happiness in each other.  He sighed, and
went back to work.

He was getting a clearer picture now.  Abigail tended to go for men
who were working the night shift.  It was easier to slip away from
Steve at night, find a quiet closet or empty room and have her
trysts.  She didn't seem to be looking for more than sex, at least
that was how Mulder viewed it.  A release.  Something that Paige
couldn't give her, or maybe something she lacked in herself.

He stopped himself.  Crown might not be the killer, but she
definitely played a part.  She was the reason these men were being
killed.  She was the marker, the one who identified the victims.  By
profiling Crown, and maybe the previous victims, he might be able
to figure out the next likely target in Las Vegas.  He glanced at his
watch and moaned.

The murder in Tahoe would have already happened.

Atlanta Regional Office of the FBI
March 4, 1991
11:15 am

"Agent LaMana, there's a call for you on line three.  A Stephen
King," the receptionist said in her soft Southern accent.

Jerry looked at her quizzically, waiting for the punch line, but when
none was forthcoming, he picked up the phone.  "Agent LaMana."

"So, find any hot women in the Peach State, LaMana?" came
the voice that put a smile on Jerry's face.

"More than you ever could," he shot back.  "God, Mulder, how are
you?"

"Very tired of my mother's attempts to fatten me up.  Aside from
that, I'm feeling better."

"Hey, I'm sorry I haven't called," Jerry apologized sincerely.  "I got
down here and they've been running my ass off.  I did talk to DC a
couple of times, and they told me that you were home with your
mom now."

"Yeah, I'm being the perfect little patient here, Jer.  Hey, I have a
favor to ask.  Remember the case from Portland?"

Jerry felt his stomach drop out from under him.  "Yeah," he
answered hesitantly.  "What about it?"

"Jerry, remember when you and Patterson came to see me in the
hospital?" Mulder prodded gently.  

Jerry snorted.  "I might not have a photographic memory, like you,
Mr. Polaroid, but I think I can remember past two weeks ago," he
huffed.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Jer.  I'm just trying to set this
up.  I'm certain we didn't catch the killer.  I know that Abigail
Crown didn't kill those men."

Jerry was silent on his end of the line, trying desperately to think of
anything to say that might dissuade his friend.  

"Jer, you still with me?" Mulder asked, concerned.

"Mulder, look.  That case is closed.  Stapled shut.  Why are you
doing this?" Jerry asked, hating the whine in his voice.

"Jerry, there have been more murders.  Two of them, I'm certain. 
There was one on Saturday night," Mulder hissed, losing his
temper for a moment before reigning it in.  "Please, Jer, as a favor. 
I don't ask many, you know that.  Could you please make some
'quiet' inquiries?"

"What kind of inquiries?" Jerry moaned.

"Look at suicides that happened in the last 48 hours.  Particularly
any male staff members at the Majestic Hotel in Lake Tahoe. 
Would be a clerical position, probably night desk clerk or
something.  And call me back."

"Majestic, Tahoe.  So what am I doing here, calling to see if
somebody didn't show for work?"

"That would be a place to start.  And call the morgue, the guy
might still be there, if they've found him," Mulder said, thinking
aloud.

"I'm on it.  And Mulder, how are you, really?  I mean you sound
great on the phone, big improvement over the last time I talked to
you, but . . ."

"I'm doing better, Jerry.  Really.  I'm not quite ready to go back to
work, yet.  Even I'll admit that one.  But I'm feeling better every
day.  There might be something to this 'rest and recuperation' crap
the doctors are handing me."

That brought a smile to Jerry's face.  "I know how much that took
for you to say that, Mulder," he said seriously.  "And I won't
breathe a word of it to anyone," he added with a small chuckle.

"Make sure you don't," Mulder warned in an amused tone.  "Jerry,
this means a lot."

"Well, I can't promise how much I can help after this, but this, I can
do."

Mulder put the phone down and stared at the papers on the bed. 
He needed a list of employees at the motels in question.  He needed
some way of contacting them and warning them to the possible
threat to their lives, but he didn't want to start a panic.  And it was
clear that he would have no official backing in such a warning.  The
frustration, coupled with a nice dose of eye strain, was giving him a
headache.

Slowly, he pulled himself off the bed and headed into the kitchen.

"Lunch is almost ready," his mother said as she breezed from the
stove to the sink.  He could smell the pot of chicken rice soup, his
favorite from childhood, bubbling on the stove.  "I ran out and got
some deli meats for sandwiches.  And believe it or not, I was able
to get my hands on a tomato!  Didn't even have to mortgage the
house, either," she said with a grin as she turned to look at her son. 
The grin faded and was replaced by a concerned frown.  "Fox, you
don't look well.  Sit down, Sweetheart."

Mulder rubbed his temples and obeyed her command.  "I've just
got a little headache, Mom.  I need some aspirin and I'll be fine."

"No aspirin on an empty stomach.  Maybe you should go back and
lie down.  I can bring your tray . . ."

"Mom!  I don't want to lie down!  I'm sick of lying down, damn
it!" he yelled and immediately regretted it as the bass drum in his
head increased the tempo.  "Ouch," he winced. 

She was at his side instantly.  "I'm sorry, Fox.  I didn't mean to
upset you," she murmured, standing next to him and rubbing his
temples in slow gentle circles.  Mulder would never have admitted
it, but it did seem to help.

"No, Mom, I'm sorry.  I over-reacted.  It's just so hard to do
anything from a phone.  And it's so frustrating, not being able to
get to any files or anything."  He stopped short, realizing this
discussion would only lead into a field of emotional landmines.

He was surprised when she didn't take her customary side of the
argument.  "Maybe you just need a break for a few hours," she
suggested.  "Clear your head.  You know, you've been cooped up
here for the better part of a week, only going out to the doctors. 
Why don't we eat lunch, you can take some aspirin and maybe take
a short nap.  Then I'll see what's on at the movies.  We can take in
a late matinee before supper.  If you're feeling up to it, we might
even have dinner out tonight.  How does that sound?"

He looked at her in amazement.  Quickly, he thought about whether
or not Jerry would call.  Chances were good that he wouldn't find
anything out immediately, it would take some checking.  The offer
of a movie was enticing, but getting out of the house was absolutely
too good to pass up.  His mother was offering him something he
really could use, a night out, a chance to relax.  He didn't want
to reject the offer.

"That sounds wonderful, Mom.  I think I'd really like that," he said,
giving her an open smile.  "Now, how about some of that soup?"

After much debate, mother and son settled on seeing the new movie
'City Slickers' starring Billy Crystal and then going to a local
seafood restaurant that his mother claimed was as good as any on
the Vineyard.  They were both in good spirits as they waited for
their salads to be served.

"Fox, I wanted to talk to you about something," his mother said,
nervously unwrapping a cracker package.

Mulder fought to repress a frown.  It sounded like the evening
might have been a set up.  "What about, Mom," he said evenly.

"Your job," she replied and then hastened to cut of his objections. 
"Fox, Sweetheart, hear me out, please.  I'm not going to nag you.  I
know you love your work, I can see how important it is to you. 
But Fox, I would be lying if I didn't say it scares me.  I mean, I've
been watching you these last few days and when you're working,
Sweetheart . . . you get so intense.  Sometimes you don't even hear
me when I'm talking to you, just a couple of feet away."  

"I'm sorry, Mom.  I know I get wrapped up in things.  But it's
really not that bad," he interjected.

"Fox.  You have been on your own for a long time.  Longer than I
would have liked.  You were taking care of yourself from the time
you were in high school.  Lord knows I wasn't in any condition to
take care of you," she sighed guiltily and took a swallow from her
iced tea.  "But be that as it may, you aren't taking care of yourself
now."

"Mom . . ."

"Fox.  I know you were on an important case.  Mr. Patterson told
me that you were the only one to correctly predict the killer's
moves.  That they would never have found her if it had not been for
you.  But Fox, I think it's too much.  I think you've done this
profiling long enough.  I think it's too hard on you."  She pursed
her lips and idly toyed with her knife and spoon.

Mulder wanted to deny everything she'd said, but a part of him
realized the truth of her words.  In the beginning, it had been
exciting.  He'd been the bright, young star.  People fell all over
themselves to get his opinions.  Then, after a while, only Patterson
was there, demanding, driving, pushing him farther than he felt
comfortable going.  It became a routine.  He'd finish one profile
only to begin the next.  Sometimes he worked on more than one at
a time.  

The nightmares surprised him.  He'd had nightmares all his life. 
Many featured his sister, crying, calling out to him.  Those
nightmares were without form, substance.  He was in a fog and
couldn't see but could hear her, shouting his name over and over
again.  The nightmares brought on by work were different and more
frightening, if that were possible.  He could see himself as the killer. 
He saw himself as the victims.  Each and everyone of the those
torturous dreams had ended in his own screaming death.  It was the
stress of the job, he knew it.  But there was nothing he could do
about it.

"Mom, I'm sorry you're worried.  But it's all right.  I just have to
do a better job dealing with the stress," Mulder said lightly, happy
that the waitress had brought their salads and now they could turn
their attention to food.

"I've heard your crying at night, Fox," she said.  It was somewhere
between a confession and an accusation.  "I've gone in to check on
you and your face is streaked with tears and you're clutching your
pillow as if it's some sort of life line.  That isn't normal."

"It's stress, Mom.  Plain and simple.  I'm seeing Dr. Franklin, aren't
I?" he deflected.

"I want you to consider another job."  She held up her hand as he
shook his head vehemently.  "Fox, listen to me.  You don't have to
leave the Bureau.  I'm not a complete fool, I know there are more
divisions than Behavioral Sciences, and even there, more sections
than the one you are in.  I want you to consider asking for a
transfer.  I think you've put in your time, it's time to think of your
health.  Mental and physical."

What could he say?  If he said nothing, she'd continue.  His only
option was to agree.  "I'll give it some thought, Mom."

At her open disbelief he firmly added "I promise."

end of part eleven
Vickie

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
part twelve of twenty-five

March 5, 1991

It was late morning by the time Mulder opened his eyes.  He
couldn't remember where he was for a moment, but the frilly lace
curtains on the windows and the chintz throw pillows on the floor
which matched the bedspread quickly gave him all the information
he needed.  Then, there was the knock on the door.

"Fox?  Honey, are you awake yet?  You have to get up,
Sweetheart.  You have a doctor's appointment at 1 and the
respirator therapist at 2:30.  Get up, you have to shower, then eat
some lunch."

He rolled over and groaned when he saw the time on the alarm. 
11:15?  How in the world had he slept that long?

"Be right there, Mom," Mulder answered absently, and rolled out
of bed.  A few coughs, but nothing the warm spray of the shower
wouldn't fix, he was certain.  Still, he was amazed that he could
have slept for 12 straight hours.  That was more sleep than he often
got in a week.  But he had to admit, if only to the mirror, that he
felt better after it, stronger.  Then he remembered which doctor's
appointment he had.

Franklin again.  The biweekly appointments were already getting
annoying.

He shaved quickly, showered and dressed.  His mother was busy in
the kitchen when he joined her.

"Here, Sweetheart," she said as she placed his sandwich in front of
him.  He looked up at her in surprise and she simply smiled and
winked at him.

"It's not my birthday.  Or I really slept a long time," he said
derisively.

She gave him a superior smirk.  "No, it's not your birthday.  Fox,
can't I make my favorite son his favorite sandwich without him
becoming all suspicious?"

"First, I'm your _only_ son, Mom.  Second, you never make me
tuna fish because it makes _you_ gag, and third, . . . there is no
third.  That's more than enough to make me suspicious," he said,
but picked up the sandwich and took a healthy bite.

"Well, even if I had a dozen sons, you would be my favorite," she
told him, ruffling his hair as she sat down across from him.  He
noticed she was having turkey breast instead of tuna.

He frowned for a moment, but decided it wasn't worth the effort to
pursue the matter.  "Never look a gift horse in the mouth," he
muttered and finished off the sandwich in contented silence.

He picked up his plate and took it to the sink.  "Did I get any calls
this morning, Mom?"

She appeared to think on that for a moment.  "No, none that I
recall.  I got a call from the bridge club.  I told them that I wouldn't
be able to join them today.  I forgot all about them.  We've been
getting together on the last Tuesday of the month now for I don't
know how long.  Well, since I got here, I guess.  The woman two
doors down is the 'organizer' and we take turns being hostess."

She prattled on and he smiled, but something in the one sided
conversation bothered him.  

He helped her with the dishes, even though she tried twice to shoo
him away.  He was feeling better after the long sleep and even a
little edgy.  Mulder would have given his right arm for his running
shoes.  It struck him that he really didn't know what had become of
his clothes from Portland.  He'd left his bags in the motel room.  His
gun and badge were somewhere.  A cold feeling of dread shot
through his gut at the thought that some maid at the motel was now
in possession of his sidearm and FBI identification.  No, Patterson
or Jerry would have made sure to secure it before leaving the motel. 
Still, without them, he felt sort of lost.

"Are you ready, Fox?  What are you doing?" his mother demanded
as she stood with hands on hips, surveying the mess he'd made of
the contents of the hall closet.

"Mom?  What happened to my stuff from Portland?  My luggage,
my shoes, . . . my gun?"  He was pulling boxes out in an effort to
look into the corners of the closet.

"Fox, I sent the luggage back to DC.  It's at your office, I suspect. 
Mr. Patterson packed up the room at the motel personally.  If you
have any questions, you can call him when we get back.  Now, if
we don't get moving, we'll be late for the appointment.  I think it's
starting to snow, and that gets just dreadful on the interstate."

Franklin again met Mulder at the door, shaking his hand warmly. 
"How's the case?"

"You're only taking me on as a patient so you can 'ghostwrite' a
crime novel, aren't you?" Mulder teased as he made his way over to
the leather couch along the wall of the office.

Franklin snorted and brought his steno pad and pen over to the
matching leather wing chair across from the couch.  "You know
that's not only illegal, it's unethical.  Not to mention, I couldn't
write fiction if my life depended on it.  My sexual fantasies are
pretty boring by their standards."

Mulder smiled broadly.  "And how does that make you feel, Dr.
Franklin?  A little inadequacy rearing it's ugly head?"

"Down, Oxford.  You're paying me to analyze _you_, not the other
way around.  Now, let's talk about your dreams."

"From the Freudian perspective or the Jung approach of
archetypes," Mulder said through a smile that was all teeth and no
warmth.

"Ah, it's going to be one of _those_ sessions," Franklin sighed. 
"Mulder, I thought we had an understanding," he said wearily,
rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Mulder frowned.  "How is this going to 'smooth my veneer', as we
agreed to be doing?"

"OK, let's back up a bit.  Let's not talk about your dreams just yet. 
Let's just talk about your sleep patterns.  When do you typically go
to bed at night?  Do you sleep through the whole night, or do you
wake up before morning?"

Mulder snorted.  "First, let's define 'typical'.  I don't have a lot of
what you might call 'typical' nights."

"You tell me.  You set the parameters," Franklin encouraged.

"OK, if I'm just in the office and I've only got one profile, or maybe
just helping on another, I sleep about six hours a night.  Go to bed
around midnight or one, wake about 6 or 6:30 and go for a run."

"What about 'bad nights'?" Franklin prodded.

"Bad nights, I sleep for maybe an hour or two, tops.  Night terrors,
on occasions.  Nightmares, pretty frequently, but I don't remember
much about them."

"When you say 'night terrors', what do you mean?"

"I wake up in the middle of a panic attack.  Hyperventilation is a
given.  If I have more than one night of those in a row, I keep a
lunch sack on the nightstand, so I can keep from passing out."

Franklin frowned at that.  "Have you ever passed out?"

Mulder shrugged.  "A couple of times.  Not for long.  And I'm all
right when I come around.  Unconsciousness is a wonderful 'reset
button' for the body.  It's like shutting down your computer and
then rebooting.  When I come to, I'm breathing normally.  And I
never remember what the terrors were about, but then, that's
typical of night terrors in general."

"Pretty rough way to wake up," Franklin noted.

"I'd like to avoid them, but that's not possible.  They just come and
I have no control over them," Mulder said casually.

"Have you had any since you've been out of the hospital?"

"Since I've been at Mom's?  No, I haven't."

"Ever had them before.  When you were in college, maybe?"

"No, not that I recall.  They're a pretty recent phenomenon."

"In other words, you haven't had any since you've been away from
work and you didn't have them before you started with the FBI?"

Mulder narrowed his gaze.  "Smoothing the veneer does not
include switching job titles, Dr. Franklin," he said in a low, warning
voice.

"Maybe, maybe not, but let's look at this a moment.  You said
before you've had nightmares all your life.  Have you had night
terrors all your life, too?"

He sat there, saying nothing for several seconds.  Absently, Mulder
reached up and pulled on his lower lip.  "No, not the terrors.  Not
even after Sam . . ."

"So this is somehow connected to your work.  Don't you think?"

Mulder shook his head.  "I won't leave my job.  It's a shit job, but .
. . it's important to me."

"It's something you succeed at.  You're doing things no one else
can do, isn't that right?"

Mulder's eyes flashed red for a split second.  "Don't patronize me,
Franklin.  I hate that!"

Franklin looked surprised.  "Mulder, I mean what I'm saying.  You
make it possible for people like me to sleep at night.  You catch the
bad guys.  But that takes its toll, after a while.  I just want to help
you."  He looked down at the pad of paper on his lap.  "I did a little
research, Mulder.  Called an old friend from college.  Most agents
don't stay profilers for that long.  They move up the ranks fairly
quickly.  Especially the good ones.  Like you."  He watched
Mulder's expression, but it seemed to tell him nothing.

"Maybe it's time to move along."

There, Franklin had said it.  Echoing the words he'd been hearing
from his mother, even Reggie Purdue.  The words that kept running
through his head as he fell asleep at night.  For a moment, Mulder
wanted to take the bait.  It would be so simple to agree, to let
himself be guided away from Bill, away from VCS, away from the
terror that stalked him in the night.  But his dreams, just a few
nights ago, called out to him.  He couldn't walk away.  He had a
job to do and he'd better get to it.

"Thanks, Doc.  But I think I'm as smooth as I'm ever going to
get."

He stared at Franklin, waiting for an answer. 

"You're going to fight any attempts to help you, aren't you?"
Franklin said, folding his hands into his lap and leaning back in the
chair.  The doctor seemed to sense that the trust was broken, they'd
have to work very hard to rebuild it.  If it were ever there to begin
with.

"I intend to fight any attempts to control my life that don't originate
with me," Mulder said flatly.

"You can't continue like you have been, Mulder.  It's eating you
alive.  The terrors will grow worse.  Next time, it won't be
pneumonia.  You're on the road to a complete breakdown.  I don't
want to read of your suicide in the obituaries."

"You won't," Mulder said confidently.   I'll make sure of it, he
added to himself.

"Then, I guess all I can do is wish you 'good luck'.  If you need me,
I'll still be here."

"Thanks, Dr. Franklin.  Have a good life," Mulder said lightly and
shook the man's hand before walking out into the lobby.

Teena Mulder looked up from her magazine as her son came
toward her.  "We just need to set up your next appointment," she
said, gathering her purse and coat.

"No, we don't, Mom," Mulder said, helping her on with her coat
and then putting his own on.

She stood rigidly still for a moment.  "Why?"  It wasn't a question
as much as a demand for information.

"Because I'm cured," Mulder said lightly and headed out to the car.

He was seated in the passenger's seat when his mother got in and
started the car.

"We can find another doctor.  I know they're doing wonderful
things with those new drugs . . ."

"Mom, it won't work.  And I won't stand for being drugged for the
rest of my life.  Just leave it alone."  He sighed deeply, fought the
little cough that threatened to sneak past his Adam's Apple and
stared out on the snow covered parkway.  "I've been good, Mom. 
I've rested, I've done everything you've asked.  But it's my life. 
It's been my life for a very long time.  You can't live it for me and I
can't let you try."

She was silent for a long time.  Finally, he heard a distinct sniffle
coming from her direction.

"Aw, shit, Mom, don't start with the tears," he pleaded.

"I suppose I deserve this," she said, not bothering to disguise the
melodramatic tone to her voice.  "I wasn't there when you needed a
mother.  How can I expect you to turn to me now?"

Mulder winced and shook his head.  "Mom, it's not like that and
you know it."

"Oh, do I?  You almost died, Fox William.  And how did I find out? 
I was called in the middle of the night, by a man I've never even
heard of, who turns out to be your boss of almost two years.  I had
no idea who Bill Patterson was, Fox!  And then, he's telling me that
you're in Intensive Care, that you've collapsed on a case and that
the doctors need to speak with me and he'll get an agent to drive
me to the airport.  It was too much, Fox, it was simply too much!" 
She was crying now, tears running down her cheek and ruining her
foundation and mascara.

"Mom," Mulder said sadly.  "Please.  I'm sorry.  I never meant to
make you worry."

"Well, it's a little too late to worry about that, Mister, now isn't it?"
Teena snapped angrily.  "About three weeks and a coma too late."

"Mom, please.  If you'd just listen . . ."

"We don't have time to discuss this.  You're already late for your
appointment with the respiratory therapist."  All further discussion
ceased and an icy silence invaded the car.  Mulder tried to think of
anything to say that would defuse the situation, but knew it was
beyond salvage.  Maybe later, but for now, he'd just have to endure
her silent fury.

His breathing treatments were never fun.  Breathing in moistened
air through a tube that reminded him just a little too much of the
ones he'd had to use at the hospital.  Feeling the drugs being
absorbed by his lungs and then, the odd sensation when those same
drugs hit his brain.  By the time he'd gone through the regular
rotation with the therapist, he was reeling from the drugs and in
serious pain in his chest.  

The therapist smiled at him as she helped him to the door.  "A
heating pad, set on low, should help with the pain.  And take some
tylenol, that will help you, too.  Call your doctor if you have trouble
falling asleep.  And see you next week."

"Not if I see you first," Mulder muttered as he walked out to find
his mother in the waiting room.  She pulled on her own coat and
headed for the car without waiting to see if he was coming. 
Slowly, he shuffled out to the parking lot, wincing when the cold
air hit his lungs.  "God, I just love being home," he mumbled
sarcastically before he opened the door and lowered himself
painfully into the car.  They didn't speak for the entire ride home.

end of part twelve

Vickie

Out of the Cold 
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part thirteen of twenty-five
 
He stooped over to touch the body.  The young man had a look of
surprise on his face.  The fingers were clenched and, as the first to
lose any blood, had gone cold. But at the neck the body still held
some warmth.  No pulse, but some warmth.

Mulder cursed softly.  He'd been too late.  Too late to save this
young man.  Just like he'd been too late to save Abigail Crown and
David Markham.  Just like he'd been too slow to save Samantha.

Samantha?  

Flashes of the regression memory played across his mind, reflected
on the gray wall paper of the abandoned apartment in time to the
lights from the passing cars.

Samantha.  Crying, screaming his name.  The house, shaking,
pictures dancing on the walls, a clock on the mantel falls face down. 
A gun gripped in his hands, but there's no where to point it.  Light,
blinding light coming through the window . . .

He realizes the light is coming from outside the apartment.  He
starts to walk toward the window to see its source but as he
moves, he hears a sound coming up behind him.  

He turns to find the source of the sound and sees the shadow.  Even
in the darkness he can make out its shape, its almost formless
boundaries.  It moves over the victim as if stepping around a
muddy spot on the sidewalk.  Gracefully, it moves toward him and
he's mesmerized.  Powerless to move, but fascinated to find out
what is there, what is in the shadow.

In a heartbeat that lasts hours, days, the shadow engulfs him. 
Suddenly, all the fear, the anguish, the terror and the pain slams into
him like a wrecking ball into a crumbling brick structure and he's
down on his knees, fighting for breath.

The razor gleams in his right hand and he stares at it, confused at
its sudden appearance.  The shadow is controlling his every
movement now.  He can feel its iron grip on his wrist as it forces
his hand steadily to its destination.  

A quick but deep swipe against the tender skin of his left
forearm.

His screams woke him.   He sat straight up in bed, shaking, unable
to pull in a full breath.  

It takes minutes to calm his racing heart.  To finally look around
him and figure out that he's in his mother's house, in the guest
room, that it's morning, early.

When did he fall asleep?  He remembered coming back after the
appointment with the respiratory therapist and being too exhausted
to move.  Too tired to sit in the frigid silence that was his mother's
presence.

She was angry that he'd stopped the sessions with Franklin.  She'd
given him the cold shoulder all the way back to the house.  Sleep
had seemed a far more favorable option than giving her the
opportunity to tire of the silent treatment and begin berating him for
his decision.  Or what she would undoubtedly call his reckless
actions.

He'd gone to bed a little after 5 and had once again slept through
the night.  All this sleep had to be counting for something, his mind
wandered lazily as he stretched muscles still taut from his dream.

At least he wasn't in a panic attack.  Just an everyday common, run
of the mill nightmare.  Which the back of his mind knew to be more
significant than he was emotionally ready to admit.  

But right at that moment, the phone was ringing off the hook in the
living room.

He scrambled to get it, somewhat surprised that he'd managed to
change into pajamas when he'd closed himself off in his room the
night before.  By the time he caught the phone, the answering
machine was picking up.

"I'm here, hold on a minute," he said gruffly and took a second to
figure out what to push to turn the damned machine off.  Giving up
in disgust, he heard his voice echo as it was recorded, but ignored it
and answered again.

"Mulder residence."

"Geez, Mulder, I thought you'd had a relapse or something!" Jerry
LaMana exclaimed.  "I've been trying to get you for two days! 
You too good to return your phone messages now?"

Mulder was at first dumbfounded, then slowly enraged.  His mother
. . .

"Sorry, Jer.  Must have been a communications breakdown," he
said through gritted teeth.  "What have you got for me?"

"You wanted me to check into any suspicious deaths in Tahoe over
the weekend, right?"

"Jer, my lungs are bad, not my brain.  I know what I wanted.  Now,
what did you find?"

"Night manager.  Kevin Alvarez.  Thirty-three years old, divorced,
father of two.  Died of blood loss in a building undergoing
renovations about a mile from the Majestic."

"It wasn't suicide," Mulder stated firmly.

"He left a note, Mulder."

That stopped him, for a moment.  "Found at the scene?"  He didn't
breathe for the time it took Jerry to answer.

"No, not at the scene.  It was found at his apartment.  In a desk
drawer."

"Jerry, that could have been written months ago.  OK, so the guy
was depressed.  I still think . . ."

"Mulder, would you stop and listen to yourself for a minute?  You
are trying to convince me that a guy all the way across the country,
who was recently divorced, known to be depressed, had left a note
telling his kids goodbye, did not commit suicide, but was murdered. 
If somebody else in the whole damned section came to you with
that theory, tell me that you wouldn't spit in their eye and laugh in
their face?"

"Jerry, you have to understand.  I'll bet my last dollar that the
reason Kevin Alvarez was 'recently divorced' is because his wife
found out he has been cheating on her.  And just as certainly, that
Abigail Crown was one of his 'little side trips' away from his
marriage contract."

"I don't think there's gonna be a record of that, big guy," Jerry said
quietly.

"Jerry . . ."  Mulder thought hard, tried to find something that
would persuade his friend.  "It's . . ."

"Your 'spidey sense' again, right," Jerry said tiredly.

"Basically, yeah, Jer," Mulder said, trying to suppress a grin. 
"Jerry, you know . . ."

"I learned a long time ago not to question the power of the Force,
Luke.  Just beware of the 'dark side'," Jerry said ominously.

"Yes, oh, Jedi Master," Mulder said in mock seriousness.

"So, how are you gonna play this?  I mean, I really hope you don't
plan on going out to Tahoe and trying to convince the local yokels
that their suicide was a murder."

Mulder sighed.  "No.  I think that would just get me a padded motel
suite.  I'll just have to be where the next one is supposed to
happen."

"I don't think I have to point out that if the killer keeps to his
schedule, that means tonight," Jerry said with discomfort.

"I know that, too.  And Vegas is such a quiet, little town," Mulder
joked to hide his own discomfort.

"If you need anything else . . ."

"My gun, my badge," Mulder rattled off.

"Bill took those back to DC, I'm almost certain.  Probably locked
up in his office.  He had me box up your clothes and I shipped 'em
to your landlady.  She said she'd keep them at her place until you
got home."

"Then I guess my next stop is Hegal Place.  Then on to Vegas. 
And I better get a move on," Mulder replied.

"Hey, before you take off, how . . . how are you, really, Mulder?  I
mean, you're OK to take all this on, right?  Because if you aren't up
to this, I'd really be pissed if I helped you kill yourself, man."

Mulder had to smile.  It was the second time someone had
concluded that he was suicidal in as many days.  Their concern
touched him, even if it was misplaced.  "Jerry, I'm fine.  Much
better.  Almost good as new.  And besides, if I have to spend one
more day cooped up in that pastel prison I've been forced to sleep
in, I really might decide to do myself serious harm."

"Just watch your back on this one, Big Guy.  You know Patterson
on a tear.  You screw this up and you might find yourself doing
Cub Scout meetings out of the Office of Public Information for the
rest of your life," Jerry warned.

"Don't give me nightmares, LaMana," Mulder shuddered in mock
fear.  "Take care, Jerry.  I'll be in touch."

He was putting his one small bag by the door when his mother
arrived back home.

"What are you doing?" she asked sternly.

"Where were you, Mom?" he asked, trying to divert her attention.

She glared at him, then took off her coat to hang it in the hall
closet.  "I had an appointment with my lawyer," she said haughtily.

"Writing me out of the will?" Mulder dead panned.

She spun on him, her eyes flashing, her entire look now turned
completely serious, dangerous, even.  "I was starting guardianship
papers.  I'm seeing a judge for a temporary commitment hearing
this afternoon at one."

His jaw dropped.  "Mom," he said in disbelief and fear.

"You have left me no options, Fox.  I talked to Dr. Franklin again
last night, after you collapsed."

"I didn't collapse, Mom!" he interrupted.  "I was exhausted, I went
to bed.  You were giving me the silent treatment and so I just went
to bed . . ."

She cut him off with a wave of her hand.  "I asked him what my
options were.  I must admit, he did think this was a little drastic. 
But he was very up front with me.  He said the moment he tried to
move you in a direction that would help you, you ran for the door."

Mulder shook his head, backed toward the wall.  "It wasn't like
that, Mom.  I was never out of control.  All my actions were well
thought out and rational . . ."

"Fox!  I am only doing my job!  My job as your mother.  I have a
responsibility to protect you, even if I'm protecting you from
yourself," she said tersely.  "If you fight me on this, you'll lose.  I'll
give the judge the records from before . . ."

His stomach was a knot, his head reeling.  His chest was tight, he
couldn't breathe.  Don't panic, he warned himself.  Don't you dare
pass out on her.  "Mom, that was seventeen years ago.  He won't
care about that.  I've passed psych exams at the FBI on several
occasions.  That's old news, Mom.  Don't drag that up," he
pleaded.

A horn sounded outside the house.  Mulder glanced out the door
and realized it was the taxi he'd called.

"Mom, I gotta go," he said grabbing his bag and backing toward
the door.

"Fox, I will not permit you to leave!" she shouted and stamped her
foot.

"Mom, that worked great when I was ten.  Right now, I'm afraid
it's just pissing us both off.  I'll call later."

"Where are you going?  Fox, I want an answer!  Where are you
going?" she demanded, loudly, following him out to the curb.

He got in the cab, tossed an apologetic look to the cabbie and gave
him the destination.  His mother was pounding on the window now,
tears streaming down her face.  

The cabbie turned in his seat.  "Messy divorce?"

"Not exactly.  Titanium apron strings," Mulder shrugged.

The cabbie shook his head.  "Can't take off with her poundin' on
the door.  I'll knock her on her ass if I do."

Mulder sighed and rolled down the window.  Teena Mulder was in
near hysterics, screaming a mantra over and over.  "Where are you
going  Just tell me where.  Where are you going?"  Neighbors were
coming out front doors and staring from porches.

"Home, Mom.  I'm going home."

She fell back as if slapped, but it was enough to allow the cab to
move.  Mulder wiped silently at his face, and forced himself not to
glance at her image in the rear view mirror. 

He arrived at the airport with about 30 minutes to spare.  The
confrontation with his mother had left him with a decided buzz,
wired on adrenaline.  Fight or flight, he mused silent, he'd basically
done both.  But as the minutes stretched out, he knew that things
were only going to get worse, possibly much worse, if he didn't get
some assistance.

When he decided who he could trust to help him, the selection
surprised him.  He went to the nearest pay phone and dialed a
vaguely familiar number.

"Bill Mulder."

Apprehension, regret for making the call, and indecision all warred
in Mulder's mind as he stood silently, holding the receiver up to his
ear.

"Is any one there?"

He had to act.  He just hoped that he was taking the right action. 
"Dad?  Umm, it's Fox."

"Fox?  How are you feeling, son?"

The concern in his father's voice confused him for a moment.  His
father had come to visit him once after he'd awakened from the
coma in Portland, and that was to say goodbye.  He had made no
attempt to call him during the long days when his son was with his
ex-wife.  It sounded strange that he was interested in his son's
welfare now.

"I'm fine, Dad.  Much better.  Hey, um, I really need a favor." 
Mulder winced, he sounded like a seventeen year old asking to use
the car to take his date to the prom.  If only it were that simple.

"What do you need, Fox?"  The tone, which had been almost light,
now darkened.  Mulder tensed at the change, but forged ahead.

"Mom is, uh, well, she's sort of . . . she's gone off the deep end,
Dad," Mulder blurted out abruptly.

"Her lawyer called me just a little while ago.  Apparently she
showed up at his office this morning and wanted to start
commitment proceedings on your behalf."

Mulder half-laughed at that.  On his behalf.  Yeah, right, he mused
silently.  "Dad, I'm not crazy."

"I know.  The lawyer called because he was afraid that you might
decide to fight this action and would undoubtedly enlist my aid.  I
have to say, Fox, I saw this coming."

Mulder's stomach dropped and his heart clenched.  He knew it had
been a slim chance that his father would see things his way.  He
almost missed the next words said to him over the phone line.

"I told Dr. Sullivan that your mother had never been that good at
dealing with you when you were ill.  I wanted you to come home
with me, but your mother wouldn't hear of it."

Mulder swallowed around the dissolving lump in his throat.  "What
did you just say, Dad?"

"I said I wanted to bring you home, here, to the Vineyard.  But
your mother insisted that you come with her.  I figured that
somewhere along the line she'd get a fool notion in her head.  I just
was a bit surprised when she actually took legal action."

"What can I do?" Mulder almost whined.  He hated this, he was
pitting his parents against each other.  Something else he didn't
miss from his adolescence.

"I've contacted John Harrison.  You remember John, he's my
lawyer.  You met him the summer before you left for Oxford. 
Anyway, he's going to file an objection to the petition.  He's going
to need your approval, but he would like to have the FBI provide
the court with your most recent evaluations.  You are driven, no
one is going to argue that.  But with the types of commendations in
your file, I don't think a seasoned judge will be willing to call you
incompetent and incapable of making your own decisions.  More
than likely this will be chalked up to an overprotective mother. 
Now, I'll give you John's number, call him as soon as you can. 
He'll need you to contact the FBI to release the files he'll need."

Mulder licked once dry lips and smiled into the phone as his father
rattled off Harrison office phone number.  "Dad, I don't know how
to thank you," he said with a relieved sigh.

"Think nothing of it, son.  Your mother still regrets that she was,
well, not as aware as she could have been while you were growing
up.  You're a grown man, now.  You make your own decisions. 
She knows that, you just worried her and now she's not thinking
straight.  I'll call her myself later, see if I can't settle her down. 
Now, are you going back to DC?"

Even as grateful as he felt, Mulder still couldn't get over the feeling
that he shouldn't reveal too much to his father.  The man had done
about faces on him in the past, it would be the end of the line if he
decided to betray him now.  So Mulder answered with the abridged
version.  "Yeah, Dad.  I'm going home.  I'm gonna take it easy for
a while, till my doctor OK's my return to active duty.  I just . . ."

"I understand, son.  And, for the record, she means well," Bill
Mulder said in an unusual display of honesty with his son.  "Take
care."

"Yeah, Dad.  You too."

The plane was boarding as he hung up.  He'd use a sky phone to
call Harrison.  He'd call EAP at the Bureau from his apartment.  It
would be a little out of the way, but if they needed him to sign any
release forms, he could accomplish that on the way to National.  He
just hoped he'd get to Las Vegas before it was too late.

end of part thirteen
Vickie