From: "Diadem" <diadem@cwcom.net>
Date: Mon, 23 Oct 2000 08:27:28 +0100
Subject: New: Rache (1/1) by Diadem
Source: xff


Title: Rache (1/1) 

Author:  Diadem

Category:  V, H

Rating:  G  

Feedback:  Diadem@cwcom.net

Archive:  Gossamer and Spookies, yes, others
     please let me know where it's going

Spoilers:  Nope

Disclaimer:  Mulder and Scully do not belong to 
    me.  They belong to CC, 1013 and Fox.  No 
    infringement is intended.

Notes:  This is somewhat of a return to an old 
     favourite for me - humour (at least, I hope it is!).
     It's kind of silly, but I hope it has just a grain of 
     realism in it :o)

     "Rache" is German for "revenge."  But I already 
     have a story called "Revenge..." :o)

For someone every special to me.  You know who 
     you are.  Thanks for everything, and I hope this 
     lives up to expectations!


Rache (1/1) by Diadem

    "No."  She turned around, her back telling him the
conversation was over.  Well and truly over.
    "But..."
    "No buts, Mulder," she warned him.  "We're not 
going."
    "It's a valid case, Scully," he tried, hoping a rational 
arguement would sway her.
    "And are you going to explain that to Skinner?" she 
asked, turning back to face him.
    "Well, it's better than some of the stuff we've been 
assigned to at the moment."  This wasn't going well.  How to 
persuade her...?
    "A drugs shipment, one double murder, one triple murder, 
and a kidnapping case," she quoted.  "And you want to go 
and investigate..."
    "It's shaped exactly like Elvis, Scully!"  It was little more 
than a rumour at the moment, he admitted to himself, but if 
it was true, this was something he just had to see.
    "But it's still a potato, Mulder!"  Her eyes held just a hint 
of incredulity.  It was one of the more mundane cases he had 
taken on.  Face it, he told himself, there's not much chance 
of either of us being savaged, chased, taken hostage or eaten 
by a novelty potato.
    "It will be a break from... things..." he trailed off lamely.
    His partner sighed and walked around her desk.  "End of 
subject, Mulder.  No potatoes."  She sat down, and folded her 
hands on the desk in front of her.  "What else have you got?"

    "And only the priest survived?"  She was squinting down 
at the open case file on her knee, trying to hold it at an angle 
which didn't catch the glare of the late afternoon sun.  They 
were four hours into their drive to Pittsburgh.  They had only 
left mid afternoon, and would not be able to start on the case until 
the next morning.  Scully could only pray they would find a 
motel that wasn't too revolting.
    "That's right."  Mulder tapped his long fingers on the steering 
wheel.  "Seventy two members of the congregation died of no 
discernable cause, within minutes of each other.  A four year boy 
was found with the priest when the police arrived, but he later 
died in the hospital."
    "Cause of death unknown," she read aloud from the file.
    "You got it."  Mulder started humming quietly, a low tune
which seemed to be a conglomeration of the Best of Elvis.  But 
she was only mildly irritated.  Eight years with Mulder had 
equipped 
her to deal with pretty much anything he could throw her.  
Occasionally 
she would be annoyed.  Once or twice she had been hopping mad 
at him, but he had usually apologised within a couple of days, 
making her think that maybe she had been too hard on him.
     "Do you have a theory?" Mulder just stared at the road ahead.
     "Hmmm?"
     "Don't play innocent Mulder."  She knew from experience 
that the longer he held out on telling her what was going on in 
his mind, the less likely the was to like what he had to say.  
"You always have a theory.  Let's hear it."
     Her partner took a deep breath.  "Mass hypnosis?"  It 
sounded more like a question that the proposal.
     "Of seventy two people?"  It was possible.  It had been 
documented in the past, and hypnosis was a scientifically 
proven phenomenon.  No one had even begun to undertand 
*why* it worked, but very few people would dispute it.
     "Why not?"
     "You're the psychologist, Mulder, you tell me.  I was under 
the impression that fifteen percent of people cannot be 
hypnotized."
     "True."  She waited a moment, but he didn't offer any 
further insight.
     "So...?" she prompted.
     "It's possible that they all had the ability.  Or maybe it 
wasn't regular hypnosis.  We won't know for sure until we 
get there, of course, but it's a starting point."
     She was silent.  Surely in seventy two people there must 
have been some clue, some trace of... something.
     "What's up?"  Mulder's voice startled her out of her train 
of thought.
     "Mmm?"
     "What's up?  I thought this was the part where you argue 
with me.  You must have a theory as well."
     "Well, it could be a poison, something that wouldn't show 
up in a tox scan," she ventured.
     "Such as?"
     "There's a poison the Amazonian Indians use, curere, 
that leaves only very small traces," she hazarded.  "It 
probably wouldn't be picked up unless you were specifically 
looking for it."  A horrible thought had just occurred to her.  
"These bodies have been autopsied already, right Mulder?"
     "Hmmm?"  He was off in his own world again.  Had he 
even been listening to what she was saying?
     "I'm not expected to conduct seventy two autopsies, am 
I?"  No answer.  "No, silly question," she answered herself.  
"You'd never do that to me, would you?  You know what I'd 
do to you if you even tried it."
     A smirk crossed his face, but was quickly replaced by 
a neutral expression.  "There's a couple left to do," he admitted.
     She narrowed her eyes and glared at him.  "Just how many 
is a couple, Mulder?"
     He turned his head to grin at her, briefly, before returning 
his attention to the road.  "Why, Agent Scully, I'm shocked 
you don't know the answer to that one.  A scientist like 
yourself not knowing how many make up a couple."  She 
kept her glare fixed on the side of his head.  He had to give 
in eventually.  "Okay, Okay, you win.  Four."
     It was Scully's turn to plaster a smug told-you-so 
expression across her face.

     The motel wasn't the worst they had stayed in, Mulder 
admitted, but it could probably have reached third or fourth 
place in the list.  The sheets were a dull orange colour, the 
walls a brownish green, and two large flies buzzed around 
the bare bulb that hung, flickering, from the ceiling.  There 
was a sickly yellow looking patch under the window that 
probably warrented an X-File of its very own.  That was, if 
it hadn't walked out by the morning.
     There were, he noted, two beds.  That was something 
at least.  He doubted that a place like this was fully booked, 
especially on a Tuesday evening, but the teenager on the 
desk in what what was presumably supposed to be the lobby 
had assured them that there was only one room left.  He 
had taken her word for it.  What else was there to do?  
Besides, he hadn't liked the look the stuffed raccoon hanging 
behind the desk was giving him.
     "I think..."  Scully turned to look at him, leaving a 
meaningful pause, "that I'm going to bring my own sheets 
on cases from now on."
     He grunted, and swatted inneffectually at one of the flies.  
He could have sworn it tried to bite his hand.
     "In fact, I wonder if the FBI would foot the bill for a 
trailer for us?"  He was listening, he could hear her.  He 
just couldn't think up a suitable reply.
     "It would probably work out cheaper in the long run," 
she continued,  "And cleaner, even after you'd run it off the 
road a few times."  She sighed, and swung her case up on 
to the nearest bed.  That meant he would have to take 
the one next to the patch of yellow slime.  He probably 
deserved it.

     He was woken the next morning by a shriek from 
the other bed.  He sat bolt upright before even opening 
his eyes, then turned to look blearily at his partner, who 
was also sitting up, trying to will her breathing back into 
a normal pattern.
     "Sorry,"  She took a couple of deep breaths.  "I thought 
one of your socks was trying to escape, but it was just a 
rat."  She turned to look at him, the beginnings of an evil 
smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  "Did I wake you?"
     Mulder glanced at his watch.  They would probably be 
serving breakfast now.  The very thought of it made him 
nauseous.  "Let's get out of here."  He swung his legs over 
the edge of the bed, throwing up clouds of dust from the 
carpet.
     Scully was quicker, though.  She positively jumped 
out of her bed, a couple of springs twanging as she did 
so, and disappeared into the bathroom.
     Mulder gathered up the clothes he had worn the day 
before and scrunched them into a ball.  He really didn't 
want to wear them again until they had been washed, 
and preferably fumigated as well.  He dug around in his 
bag and unearthed a second pair of pants, socks, and 
a white shirt.  His spare jacket was, he knew, safely in 
the trunk of the car.
     But where was his underwear?  He remembered 
packing some.  Unfortunately he also remembered 
taking it all out again so that he could pack his spare 
holster under everything else... and he could clearly picture 
six pairs of boxers, neatly folded, sitting on his couch 
in his apartment.
     Gingerly he poked about in the ball of clothes he 
had hastily shoved in one of the outer pockets of his 
bag.  No.  He couldn't.  He may be willing to put himself 
in all sorts of dangerous situations, but he felt that 
anything that had been lying on the motel floor all night 
was more dangerous that zombies or liver eating mutants.
     Sighing, he took off his pajamas and, being careful to 
tread only on the least filthiest parts of the carpet, pulled 
his pants on.  He could manage for a day.

     The first item on the agenda for the day was to 
find a better motel.  Scully chose.  It was unquestioned. 
Standing in the middle of a room that probably cost more 
to rent for a night than he earned in a week Mulder 
took in his surroundings.  It was not what he was used 
to.  The sheets were white.  They actually looked white, 
not the grayish color that suggested they had once 
been white.  There was no mould, slime or fungus in 
the bathroom, or anywhere else for that matter.  And the 
carpet actually gave way when he walked on it, rather 
than sticking into his feet.
     The phone on the bedside cabinet rang.  It really 
rang, rather than giving a sick sounding whirr and then 
collapsing into silence.  He picked it up.
     "Mulder."
     "Are you unpacked?"  Scully sounded relaxed.
     "Almost," he lied.  Well, the bag was on the bed.
     "Ready to go then?" she asked.
     "I'll meet you at the car in five minutes," he told her.  
That would be enough time to get yesterday's clothes into 
a laundry bag and put them safely outside his door.

     They had agreed that Mulder would drop Scully off 
at the hospital so she could begin the autopsies, while 
he went down to the precinct to question the priest.
Before she got out of the car, she arranged to meet him 
back at the hotel at six o'clock.
     She slammed the door and walked in to the main 
reception of St Francis Medical Centre.  Mulder watched 
her go, grinned to himself, and set off in the direction of 
the USX tower.  By the time she had realised what was 
going on he would be at the precinct, ready to explain 
what he thought had happened.

     Scully walked up to the main recption desk and 
flashed her ID, before discreetly asking the way to the 
morgue.  The receptionist looked surprised, but gave her 
directions before turning her attention to a young man 
bearing a bouquet of flowers.
     As she walked down the corridors Scully wondered 
that Mulder hadn't come up with a paranormal theory 
for this case.  It was not something that would usually 
hold his attention for a second, and yet, here they were.  
She shook her head at the irony.  An irregularly shaped 
potato would have him hooked for days, whereas the 
deaths of seventy two innocent church goers was run 
of the mill and not worth his time.
     The door to the morgue was not locked, so she 
pushed her way through and stood by the desk.  After 
a moment a young male nurse appeared.
     "Can I help you?"  He spoke softly, a characteristic 
common to most people who worked in her profession.
     "I'm Special Agent Scully," she introduced herself, 
and showed him her ID.  "I'm here to autopsy the body 
of Wilfred Adamson."
     "Who?"  The young nurse looked confused.
     "Wilfred Adamson.  He was one of the victims of 
the mass..." she trailed off.  "Well, I'm here to autopsy 
the body."
     "I'm sorry ma'am."  The nurse shuffled some papers, 
tapped at a few keys on the computer, and then turned 
back to her.  "We have no one here under that name."
     Scully chewed on her lower lip for a moment.  "Maybe 
he's been transfered?" she hazarded.
     "I'll check."  The nurse's expressin did not look hopeful.  
"I'm sorry, we haven't had anyone of that name down here, 
and these records go back ten years."
     "Thank you."  Scully thought deeply for a moment.
"How about Muriel Wainright?"
     "Who?"

    Mulder stood on the sidewalk and gazed up at the 
USX Tower.  It was an impressive building.  Built of a 
steel that was designed to rust it was a beautiful, almost 
russet color, and the sunlight glinting off the windows 
gave it an almost magical air, despite its location in the 
centre of Pittsburgh itself.
     He crossed the street, narrowly avoiding being flattened 
by a speeding cab, and pushed through the revolving door, 
walking out into...
     Tried to walk out into the lobby.  He was stuck.  
     Glancing down he noticed the hem of his pants had 
slid under the glass panelling to the side of the revolving 
door, presumably pushed there by the revolve itself.  
Giving a little cough to cover his embarrassment he crouched 
down and tugged at the fabric.  It gave a little, but remained 
stubbornly under the glass panel.  He tugged harder, but 
only succeeded in slipping on the polished floor and landing 
in a somewhat undignified heap.
     The revolving door swished round again, taking with it 
another inch or so of cloth.

     Scully was humiliated.  Or at least, she would be 
humiliated when she stopped being angry.  This wasn't 
one of the times Mulder had annoyed her.  This wasn't 
even one of the times he had made her hopping mad.  
This was something more.
     Since Mulder had taken the car, she had had to catch 
a cab to the precinct.  Not one of the bodies he had given 
her instructions to autopsy had existed.  Not one.  She 
had even tried the names of the priest, the boy who had 
been found with him, and about twenty other members 
of the congregation.  None of them had even been 
near the hospital.
     The nurse had offered to phone one or two of the 
funeral homes in the area, but she had declined.  
Instead, she had explained what case they were working 
on.  The nurse had no idea what she was talking about.  
He would, he had said, have surely heard about an 
incident involving that many deaths.
     She had smiled, thanked him, and left the hospital 
to hail a cab.
     The cab pulled up outside the precinct.  She handed 
him a twenty, and, preparing herself to give a first class 
ass kicking entered the building.
     When she reached the desk she smiled sweetly 
at the officer in charge.  "I'm looking for Agent Mulder," 
she told him.  She noticed a neatly folded National 
Inquirer on a chair nearby.  "The King of the Vegetable 
World," read the block letters above a photograph of a 
potato sporting a black quiff wig.
     "I'm sorry."  Scully looked up from the newspaper.  
The officer looked puzzled.  "You're looking for who?"

     Mulder leaned against the glass panelling to the 
side of the revolving door, his arms folded, a nonchalant 
expression on his face.  He looked, he told himself, 
as though he were waiting for someone.  And that would 
be exactly what he told anyone who asked.
     A couple of teeneage girlswalked past, giggling.  
They didn't know, he told himself.  How could they know?
     He stood, waiting.  It was all he could do.  Occasionally 
he jerked his ankle slightly, but not too hard.  He didn't 
want to end up flat on his ass again.
     The door swished round again and a woman with 
short dark hair and a nurse's uniform walked into the 
lobby.  At first she paid him no attention, then she 
turned back.
     "Are you Okay?" she asked, her face full of concern.
     "I'm just waiting for a friend," he told her, confidently.  
     "Oh."  She paused, as though wondering if she should 
go on.  "Only," she gave him a little smile, "it looks as 
though your pants are caught under the door."
     She was doing a very good job of not bursting in to 
fits of laughter, Mulder had to admit.  "You don't happen 
to have a pair of scissors, do you?" he asked, leaning in 
close and praying no one else would notice his predicament.
     "I don't, I'm sorry."  She eyed him appreciatively.  "You 
could always take them off," she suggested.
     "Not if I want to remain on this side of the law," he 
muttered.
     "Sorry?"  The corners of her mouth were turning up.  He 
doubted she could help it.
     "Nothing."  How could he dismiss her without sounding 
rude?  "If you find any scissors, let me know."
     "I will."  The nurse walked towards the elevators, chuckling 
quietly to herself.
     Mulder scanned the lobby.  There didn't seem to be many 
options.  There was nothing for it.  He pulled out his cell phone, 
took a deep breath, and pressed speed-dial 1.

     She was standing outside the precinct, wondering what 
to do next.  She had already searched the parking lot for 
the car, although she had held little hope of finding it.  She 
was about to hail another cab, this time to take her back to 
the hotel, when her cell phone rang.
     She glanced at the screen before answering it.  Surprise 
surprise.
     "When I find you," she told him, "I am going to tear you 
limb from limb.  Slowly and painfully."  She couldn't help the 
smile spreading across her features.
     "I need you to come to the USX Tower, Scully."  He 
sounded as though he was wearing the puppy dog face.  
Damn him.  "And bring a knife."
     "Don't worry, Mulder," she told him.  "I had no intention 
of coming without one."

     His cell rang fifteen minutes later.  He had sat down 
on the floor.  He was attracting some funny looks, but 
no one had tried to move him on yet.  He would have 
appreciated someone who could enable him to move on.
     "Mulder."
     "Where *are* you?"  It was Scully.
     "I'm just inside the door of the USX tower.  Believe me, 
you can't miss me."
     "But where is that, Mulder?"
     "It's on..." Mulder scanned his near photographic 
memory. "... Grant Street.  Where are you?"
     "On Sixth."  She was shouting above the noise of 
the traffic.  "I can't find any towers."
     "It's just round the corner," he told her.  How could 
she possibly miss it?  "It's the tallest building in the city,"
he tried.
     "Oh."  There was a pause.  Mulder shook the phone, 
wondering if he had been cut off.  Then he heard his 
partner's voice again.  "That one."
     He hung up.  She was probably as mad as she could 
possibly be anyway.  He would just let her murder him 
slowly, he decided.  Putting up a fight would only prolong 
the pain.

     She swept through the door two minutes later.  He 
scrambled to his feet.  "Scully, thank God..." he began.  
She cut him off.
     "I have been trying to autopsy non existant people, 
Mulder.  I have been trying to convince police officers 
that I'm not crazy.  And I have been trying to convince 
Skinner not to come out here to find out for himself why 
nurses and the police have been calling him all day."  
She glared at him, her eyes flashing dangerously.  "And 
where have you been while I've been doing all that, Mulder?"
     "Here," he mumbled.  He was in for a tough ride, he 
knew.
    "Doing what?"  She waved a tabloid newspaper in 
his face.  "Looking for the King?"
     "I was going to," he admitted.  "But I didn't get that 
far..." he gestured towards the hem of his pants leg.  
     "Ah."  She bit her lip, then gave up and laughed out 
loud.  "Why didn't you cut them?"
     "I left my penknife in my other jacket," he told her.
     "Well, why didn't you just take them off?"  She was 
still laughing, and almost doubled up when she noticed 
his face flaming.  "You forgot your underwear again, didn't 
you?"  It wasn't even a real question.  She had tears in 
her eyes.
     "Yes, it's very funny," he muttered.  "Just get me out 
of here."
     "Of course I will, Partner."  She reached into the 
pocket of her coat and pulled out a small knife.  She knelt 
down beside him and slashed at the fabric.  He moved his 
leg, grateful to be free, but she kept a surprisingly strong 
grip on the material.
     He glanced down, wondering what she was doing, and 
watched in horror as she pulled a stapler out of her pocket.

     Scully smiled up at the waiter as he placed her jacket 
potato with coleslaw in front of her.  It was just what she 
needed after spending the morning on a wild goose chase.  
She checked her watch.  From her table she had a clear 
veiw across the street to the door of the USX Tower.  As 
she watched, her partner appeared through the revolve, 
only to disappear back inside again.  She would give him 
another twenty minutes, then let him out.
     She speared the potato on her fork, then thought for 
a moment, and squinted down at it.  You had to look at 
it from the right angle, but the Inquirer had been right.
     It did look like Elvis.

End (1/1)

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