From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Sun, 23 Apr 2000 12:57:06 -0500
Subject: Seven Stages Pt One (1/2) R  by echonymph

Reply To: echonymph11@netscape.net


DISCLAIMER: I do not own the X-Files or any of 
its characters or plot lines either in part or 
in whole.  They belong to Twentieth Century FOX, 
10-13 Productions, and Chris Carter.  

RATING: R 

SPOILERS: I hate trying to figure these bloody 
things out...  You know what?  I'm gonna cheat.  
Everything up to Triangle.

ARCHIVE: Anywhere, just give me credit

SUMMARY: The courtroom battle of the century 
that tests the legal system's boundaries is the 
case that broke all the rules.  A single night 
of passion could ruin Mulder and Scully's 
relationship forever.  The dam has broken, the 
lies come out, and everything they have built 
for themselves comes crashing down.  Can they 
withstand the pressure?  The situation changes 
and ebbs to the seven stages of human madness.


Seven Stages of Human Madness


Disclaimer: PG, Mulder and Scully say some boo-
boo words, and think about sex.  But since I'm 
an omnicent third person writer, and have to 
elaborate... I used a song in here called Free 
Falling. No idea who it's by.   Please don't 
sue!!  By the way, I don't own the X-files 
either, and DDL is completely made up.  No 
summaries yet.  


PROLOGUE

In an apartment in Uptown Manhattan, somewhere 
south of heaven and north of hell, a darkened TV 
erupted into life, flashes of colored light 
dotting the screen in the midst simplistic black 
and white commercials selling everything from 
health insurance to the latest baking soda gum.  
A weary worker rubbed his head, and changed the 
channel to the ten o'clock news.  It was already 
halfway over, and the top stories, a church 
bombing, a ten-car pile-up, and the President's 
sex scandal were already mentioned and ground to 
the bone.  The leftovers were mere remains of 
the events that had happened that day.  Some 
woman in their community made a very large cake 
to feed the needy.  If the worker had felt a 
sense of humor at the time, he might have quoted 
Marie Antoinette, and gone along with it 
cheerily, instead, he glared at the glowing box, 
as if seeking more than mere dribble at this 
twenty minutes after the hour.

The last story that the worker laid eyes on 
before turning off the TV in disgust was a ten 
second job about a man that the FBI had finally 
apprehended after a long and exhausting search.  
The man had killed children, many of them.  The 
worker had sneered at the clean cut and healthy 
looking murderer on the screen, feeling 
insincere sympathy for the haggard investigators 
that had worked so hard to catch him.  

This scene was repeated in thousands of homes 
throughout the United States, some news channels 
made a bigger deal out of it than others, but 
all in all, no extra information was released 
about the killer.

Mulder might have seen it, had he not been out 
of town on a last minute profiling job, and 
Scully might have told him about it, had she not 
been with him.  A lifeline to humanity.

And one of the three wealthiest and most 
powerful women in the world might have also seen 
the report on the TV had she not been at the 
hospital receiving news that her life expectancy 
had just been reduced to a year and a half.

And had anyone cared to follow up on the story, 
the following might have never occurred, the 
Twilite case might have been buried deep within 
the books, another put in jail by our ever 
faithful justice system.

But no one mentioned the report, and no one 
thought to share.

Mulder and the billionaire woman stayed in the 
dark for far too long.  

Time, pressure, and heat are the essential 
elements for creating a volcano.  It seemed as 
if an instant replay of Mt. St. Helen's was 
going to occur in the next year.


~~~

PART ONE: DISCOVERY ~ PG

The Capture:

What is going on?  Mulder's acting bizarre, a 
successful businesswoman in New York who should 
have been at the top of the world is beyond 
misery, but what do they have to do common with 
one another?  And where does a serial killer fit 
into this picture?  The saga begins with the 
capture...

~~~ 

******

New York City
DDL Law Supergroup; 20th floor
Thursday, December 10, 1998 
8:10 am

The woman clutched at the arms of a luxurious 
leather office chair like they were the last 
pieces of driftwood left after the Titanic sank.  
She held a telephone receiver in one hand, 
staring at it as if it were the Holy Grail.  Her 
mind boggled at what the woman on the phone had 
so quickly and passively told her.  How could 
anyone, even a disgruntled secretary, especially 
with twelve sets of bleeding hearts behind her, 
mention something so offhandedly?  

So carelessly?  

As if whatever she was doing, or would ever do, 
could be more important the message conveyed in 
the simple, arrogant conversation relayed 
through a phone line.

How could they not tell her?  How could they 
quietly try to settle the case in court without 
her?  Without even leaking a word that he had 
been caught?  How could they have robbed her of 
the chance to slap him in the face, spit in his 
eye, scream about how he had taken everything 
away from her, ruined her marriage, and 
slaughtered her spirit?

How dare they hide the truth because they were 
ashamed?

But then again, who was she to cast a stone when 
she was a sinner just as wretched?

She blinked slowly, and everything came into 
perspective, all the images reflecting off of 
everything looked so much....clearer.  And all 
the wisps of wind that blew through the vent 
above her desk a little colder, the light that 
filtered in through the wall-length window just 
a bit too bright, as if she had finally emerged 
from a dark underground cocoon.  In a way she 
had, and just like a child might see the city 
with eyes of wonder, she looked at herself and 
the room around her.  The lush richness that 
flowed from her fingertips and spilled like 
channels of liquid gold and silver through her 
veins, replacing the life-giving blood, turning 
her into a memorial of wealth.  

And that was all she was.

A memorial to a memory that had been forgotten 
and disregarded.  Neglected for so many years by 
herself and all those around her that it shamed 
her to the core to even wander into those 
daydreams. when she was staring out at nothing.  
Shame at herself, shame at her weakness, her 
fragility, and most of all, the way she had run 
away from it all.

And for years, she had run away, and just like a 
lab mouse on a wheel, she was endlessly headed 
towards nowhere personally, but for the sake of 
science, or her case, finance, she was going 
sky-high.  For the first time, she realized that 
she had been living in a dark blur this entire 
time, cameras and flashbulbs be damned, all the 
light that had surrounded her outer core, had in 
no way penetrated her titanium wrap of despair. 

Through one phone call, her senses had grown 
sharper, her soul purer while all the while more 
soiled, the lump in her throat and the black 
butterflies fluttering at the edges of her 
vision all became more intense.  So strong that 
the sudden clarity was blocked out as she 
started to loose the delicate grip on reality 
she had maintained for so long.

Another woman watched her curiously, set down 
her pad and pencil and asked, "Are you okay?"  
The woman across from her glanced over and 
teetered, she grasped for the corner of the 
cherry desk, missed and collapsed on the floor.  
The last thing she remembered as the Earth 
blacked away was her secretary trying to revive 
her.

*****

Washington DC 
Hoover Building; Basement
Thursday, December 10, 1998
8:15 am

A lone figure sat at a desk in the basement 
office of the Hoover Building.  He stared at the 
phone cradled in his hands.  A confused whirl of 
thoughts danced madly through his head.  He had 
been there since last night thinking about the 
fax he had received, and now the phone call was 
on his mind.  Something in him snapped. 

It had ruined his life.  It had ruined so many 
people's lives...

And Marley in VC had just announced it like 
yesterday's weather.

They tried to nail him for twelve counts of 
sexual assault and first degree murder, without 
his help, without his input, without even 
telling him until the man had been left off.  
They only felt it necessary to enlighten him now 
that the angry victims came crying for a civil 
suit against the killer?  And only then mention 
it because the victim's were crying for the 
agents on the case.

How could they not tell *him*?

A noise caught his attention.  He saw his 
partner enter the room, start to say something, 
but stopped abruptly at the look on his face.  
Thought after thought hit him hard on the 
Facade, another evidence of his ultimate 
deception, he wouldn't be able to wear the mask 
any longer.  Fear clutched at his heart like a 
newborn child to its mother's breast, feeding 
off of the constant pounding, reveling in the 
perverse release that he felt at this 
revelation.  The lies would stop, and in that 
pause, so would the rest of the world, the sun 
would stop shining, the clouds would stop 
moving, and people all around would be held 
under a magic spell until his partner's breath 
broke the silence with either forgiveness, or 
good-byes.  

It was too much.

He stood to face her, but his knees buckled, and 
he slid down along one of the filing cabinets 
and collapsed in a heap on the floor.  He 
vaguely remembered Scully trying in revive him 
before the darkness swallowed him whole.

*****

"I'm fine!"  The dark brunette pouted while 
being forced to lie down on a sofa.  After she 
had been roused from her blackout state, she had 
made a hurried phone call accepting the job 
offer that had presented itself on the line.  
Now, after the call had been made, Deborah was 
getting woozy again.  Her secretary was forcing 
her to lie down, to stop, to rest.  

As if it was humanly possible with for the woman 
at hand to rest.

What was in a person's life?  Some money, a 
little power?  And to have all their high brow 
sophistication blown out of the water with one 
simple phone call.  The words kept ringing in 
her head, the nonchalance of the lazy feminine 
voice that had announced her undoing.  

Society had dulled the razor sharp edge of 
empathy for victims of crime and the people who 
observed their horror.  The blade had been 
rounded, so when it did cut, it just merely 
grazed the surface, never drawing blood, or real 
emotion into the mix.  No one had time for that 
anymore.  They were always running one place or 
another, trying to get something done.  No time 
to feel bad that twelve little kids were raped 
and beaten to death.  No time at all.

The absolute apathy because whoever had carried 
the message was too far away from the tragedy to 
truly understand what it would feel like.

The woman probably didn't even have kids.

"Like hell you are!  You just passed out on the 
floor in front of me!  What did the guy on the 
phone say anyway?"  A perky strawberry blonde 
shoved her employer back onto the old sofa.  
That ratty thing had its purposes.  Although the 
chances of her fainting again where smaller then 
those of her grandmother joining the NBA after a 
radical sex change. The woman attempted to get 
back up again, Terri didn't think she should.

"Let go Terri!  I will be fine.  If you don't 
let go," she trailed off, searching for 
something to persuade the woman with.  And 
finally came up with the lamest threat ever,  
"I'll fire you,"  she yelled, knowing that it 
was completely untrue, Terri knew that Deborah 
needed her just as much as her right arm, and 
that without her assistant, Deborah would be so 
lost knee-deep in appointments that she would 
probably commit suicide and get it over with.  
Finally breaking free, the woman ran to her 
extensive legal library.

"Debbie, what the hell are you doing?"  Terri 
threw her arms into the air, knowing it was 
useless to stop her boss when she was like this.

Without looking, the other woman answered, "We 
were just handed the Twilite case."

*****

"I'm fine!"  Mulder struggled and pouted when 
Scully made him sit down again.

"Like hell.  You just fainted.  I've known you 
for six years, and you never faint.  What was 
that phone conversation about anyway?"  She felt 
his forehead and smacked his shoulder lightly 
when he wouldn't settle down.  He wanted to get 
back up, she thought that was a load of bull.

"Scully, let me go!  I'll be fine, I'll let you 
poke and prod me to your heart's content later."  
He finally achieved his goal and went over to 
his computer.  He logged onto the FBI's 
information archives, the blue database screen 
lighting up his hazel eyes and tinting them an 
unnatural hue of navy.

"Mulder, what is going on?"  Scully let her 
hands fall by her sides, knowing there was no 
stopping him now.

Without giving her a second glance he answered, 
"They're putting out a civil suit against John 
Darryl Twilite."

*****

"Who the heck is that?"  Terri watched as Debbie 
marked pages and printed out materials.  The 
desk was a war zone.  She sometimes wondered how 
Debbie ever got anything done in that mess. She 
also wondered why, if she had so many paralegal 
and researchers, Deborah do this on her own?  
Later, she would let them in.  If there were an 
award for workaholic of the century, Debbie 
would win hands down.

"Serial killer.  Murdered twelve children, 
disappeared for eight years, the FBI found him 
working at a day-care about six months ago."

Terri gawked, "A day-care? Don't they do 
background checks?"

Debbie stared at her as if she had three heads, 
Terri felt as if a giant megaphone had just 
reverberated 'well duh' all over the office.  
"He, uh, was an expert computer hacker, changed 
it.  Those poor kids..." Terri caught a flicker 
of emotion on her face.  A deep, empty pain that 
had dulled over the years but resurfaced 
wickedly when the wound was brushed either 
through casual conversation or deep personal 
introspection.  No one knew of Debbie Deerson's 
history before she had started Deerson, Donold 
and Leary.  It was assumed there wasn't, and 
then there was.  Terri studied the pained lines 
that etched themselves on her employer's face.  
Her eyes turned a dark angry color, like a 
forest lit by lightning in the middle of a 
spring storm.  Before she could carefully 
catalogue this new emotion, Deborah had brushed 
it off. The sadness was fleeting, and soon, 
fierce professionalism replaced it.  "Anyway, 
they tried to clean it up quietly."  There was 
intense anger in these words, tempered with 
immense loss.  "It didn't work.  However, the 
victims' families have just filed a civil suit 
against him."  She looked up at Terri again.  
"We're the lucky bastards who got the case."     

"How big is it?"  Terri ventured carefully.  
Deborah didn't do the courtroom scene anymore, 
everyone that knew anything in legal circles 
knew that.  She sent one of her little employees 
to deal with it.  It had to be big if she was 
doing it herself.  

"It'll make O.J. look like child's play."      

*****

"Twilite?  The child killer?  When, where?"  She 
looked over his shoulder at the computer screen.

"Yes, the child killer."  Scully saw a flicker 
of pain dance across his handsome features.  She 
knew it could be any number of things.  
Samantha, or if she indulged herself, maybe he 
was thinking of Emily.  She shook herself 
mentally, and chastised herself for letting it 
run away with itself again.  There was no reason 
for Mulder to cry over Emily.  It wasn't his 
fault, regardless of how efficient he was at 
turning all the blame to himself.  "He was found 
at a day-care, about half a year ago.  One of 
the Agents went to pick up his kid and 
recognized the suspect.  He changed his 
background, Twilite's an expert hacker."  He 
printed out a sheet of paper and threw it on his 
desk.  Scully's mind boggled at how he ever 
found anything in that mess.  She sometimes 
wanted to burn it to cinders.

Then again what good would it do? 

He'd probably just start all over again in the 
ruins of the office, asking her where his copy 
of Paranormal Weekly: Special Edition; Alien 
Babes was stashed.

"What does this have to do with us?"  She 
followed as he darted towards door.  He stopped 
dead in his tracks leaving the office and one 
hand on the pegs by the door getting his sport 
coat.  He turned slowly, Scully had only seen 
the look on his face displayed then twice in her 
entire life.  Once when she was in the hospital 
dying, and she had seen him through her mind's 
eye.  The other time was when in the hospital 
with his mother.  It was as if the worries of 
the world had all fallen and landed on him.  
Pain and countless years of torture written in 
those dark and bottomless eyes.  But as soon as 
the look had come, it went away.  A clever 
disguise that would have fooled anyone but her.  

"I worked on that case eight years ago."

*****

In the normally loud, or unbearably quiet room, 
lawyers, paralegals, and partners had gathered 
into small groups much like they would at a 
funeral.  Discussing quietly why their beloved 
leader had called this emergency meeting of all 
the minds.  There had been rumor that the firm 
was going to take it's second criminal case in 
seven years, and that this one was going to be 
big, if not in money, in publicity.  So far, it 
had all been rumor and innuendo, many were 
hoping that it would be proven.

However, Deborah sat silently at the head of the 
large glass-top conference table, not uttering a 
word, waiting for everyone to take or find a 
seat, and quiet down before she raised her voice 
to speak.  Her first sentence had a startling 
impact.

"For the next few months, it's going be hell 
around this firm."  She stared at all the 
confused and slightly frightened faces in the 
room.  "Get out while you can.  I'm giving you a 
chance to walk away from this case."  Many were 
tempted to do so.  No one ever claimed that 
Deborah was melodramatic, more often they 
wondered what material her heart was made of, 
titanium alloy, or stone.  Pure disasters would 
be described as 'mere trifles' to clients, and 
breakdowns in the system would be categorized as 
'minimal disorganization'.  But no one claimed 
that she turned blind eyes toward the problems 
her firm faced either.  When these 'mere 
trifles' or 'minimal disorganization' situations 
came up, the second the client or the worried 
investor left the office placated by her words, 
the entire scene changed.

The smiling, rosy cheeked darling of a woman 
stormed out of her office like a bat out of 
hell, a tower of pure and furious rage, 
demanding to know what exactly happened, why it 
happened, because of whom had it happened, and 
where this person was.  She screamed, she 
yelled, she threatened and she terrified until 
she got everything exactly the way she wanted 
it.

That was the best case scenario for a minor 
incident.

They feared what her idea of hell was.  

However anyone who knew anything knew that to 
back out of an assignment, especially a 
challenge, was the ultimate kiss of death in the 
prestigious firm of DDL.  No one ever backed out 
of a case at DDL.  No one ever questioned 
anyone's motive, they were all the same, to make 
money, and to make the clients happy, regardless 
of who you had to grease, who you had to screw, 
what constitutional laws you'd have to unstretch 
afterwards, and who you had to sleep with.  

You won, it wasn't a choice, it was a job 
requirement.

Seeing no one leave the room, Deborah proceeded 
to get out of her leather swivel chair, and pace 
the perimeter of the area, staring at nothing in 
particular.  People in her path parted like the 
Red Sea.  "The Twilite case started out as a 
supposed copycat murder, and so in ignorance, 
the FBI gave it to a group of fifteen young men 
just starting out within the bureau, barely big 
enough to fit the shoes, and now being asked to 
run with them."  Her hand rested on one of the 
picture windows, and she stared at the Manhattan 
highrises, her voice started again, raspier this 
time, "No one really believed that there was 
anything more than a copycat going on, and 
neither did the investigators."  Her hand fell 
away from the window. "But there was.  There was 
a lot more."  The last part was said almost as 
if it were a curse, muttered over and over, 
broken and abandoned for many years, but found 
once again.  She turned back to the group of 
people, some sitting, some standing, some 
lurking in the corners, captivated by her story.  
She looked at all of them without really seeing 
anything.  The clarity she had experienced 
earlier gone without so much as a warning or an 
explanation.  

"So much so that every agent that survived that 
case would have been given the highest respect, 
the biggest raises, the brightest corner 
offices."  Her voice lowered again, eyes meeting 
those of a friend and colleague, Reginald Leary, 
her second in command.  "They never solved the 
case."  Her voice had dropped down to a whisper 
so low that she, herself, could barely hear it.  
For a second there was a tomb-like silence in 
the conference hall, and almost as if she was a 
marionette, Deborah's head snapped back up and 
stared at all the people around her.  Seeing 
them for the first time.  

"Something happened," she continued, her voice 
was back to the level of confidence that it 
usually held, "Something bad.  And the group of 
fifteen was broken up.  The case was tossed 
around and around the bureau, and Twilite was 
apprehended on a fluke by a sharp investigator 
picking up his daughter six months ago."  She 
put her head in her hands, removed them, turned 
her back to everyone, and kept talking, one hand 
on her neck.  "The federal prosecutors had 
little to no evidence to nail him other than 
handwriting, and that isn't allowed into the 
court of law.  So he was let go, scott-free."  
Deborah turned back to her workers and friends.  
"It's crunch time everyone, we've been given 
this case, and I don't want that man ever to see 
the light of day again."  A murmur went through 
the room.  "I am assembling a team of the best 
lawyers, litigators, researchers, paralegals, 
and I'll be there to work on this case."  More 
shocked murmuring.  Deborah was taking a case?  
"I will inform all of you about any further 
developments.  In the meantime, I think you know 
what each and every one of you needs to be 
doing."  No one really knew.  "Good day ladies 
and gentlemen."  Everyone fled the conference 
room until only one person remained.  

"Deborah, what's up?"  The concerned male voice 
echoed through the vacant conference hall.  She 
turned to look at his familiar face.  One that 
she had seen first thing in the morning since 
almost eight years ago.  Reggie Leary had been 
with Deborah from the very beginning, since the 
firm was a rat-hole establishment, and all 
through it's enormous prosperity, he had been 
there when she had branched out into real estate 
and banking.  And he had tossed the idea for the 
accounting firm himself.  In all that time, he 
had never seen her like this.

"I'm fine, Reggie, go ahead.  I'll be out soon."  
She tried to sound as if she was fine.  It had 
never worked before, and it wouldn't work this 
time.  He walked up to her, placed a hand on her 
shoulder, and looked deep into her eyes.  He was 
shocked to realize how deep they actually went.  
Reggie had to tear himself away or he might have 
drowned in an immense sadness that she held 
within her.  

"I'm here, Deb.  Just remember, I'm here."  He 
walked out of the room and stopped short, 
shaking his head, he proceeded to run towards 
the waiting elevator. 

From within the room, a series of sniffles came.  
And soon after, hiccuping sobs before the woman 
inside put her head on the table and stared out 
the window at the skyline.  And later at the 
masses of people.  One of them had ruined her 
life, and now she would have to face him on her 
turf, court. Although she didn't know if she had 
the strength to do this herself.  She doubted 
her strength to do this at all.

*****

Mulder hurried down a dark, cool corridor, and 
stopped in front of a set of double doors.  He 
turned to Scully and smiled sadly, and for all 
the world, she thought he looked no older than 
twelve.   A twelve year old who had just lost 
his kid sister, and everyone blamed him.  But 
with no one else to finger, he would blame 
himself too.  

God the man had sad eyes.

She couldn't help but grin back.  "Scully, I'm 
really sorry about making you sit through this.  
I can't help what I used to work on."

"I know, Mulder, I don't mind."  She put a hand 
on his arm, he shrugged away from her touch and 
lowered his eyes.  Mulder had always withdrawn 
away from her ministrations.  Scully had always 
tried harder to get him to except it, this was 
like a ritual for them.

"You don't understand, Scully, this, these 
murders were horrific.  There are going to be 
pictures, and notes that will make you feel 
nauseous.  I know that you're really sensitive 
in that area since, you know."  Scully's heart 
burst with love for this wonderful man.  He did 
think of Emily.  And knew she would be affected 
by this case.  Even if she wasn't working on it.  
She still had to sit through the conference and 
be there for Mulder when and if he did testify.  

"Don't worry, as long as you don't leave me, 
I'll be fine."  She put her hand in his and they 
intertwined fingers.  She caught something in 
his eyes.   It was that sad look again.  He 
really was affected by this case, who wouldn't.  
But very few hardened agents would get teary 
over it.  Mulder was always an exception.  He 
pushed open the doors to reveal a loud and rowdy 
group of agents.  Angry that they were just 
notified about the murders, angry that no one 
had asked them to testify for the first trial.  
Angry that the victim's families were forced to 
deal with this all over again.  Still holding 
hands.  Mulder entered and walked up to the 
front of the room.  Without knowing they looked 
more than they were, Scully gave him a squeeze 
and went to the back of the room.  Whispers 
started and bets were calculated.

"Hello?"  Mulder knocked on the chalkboard.  No 
one noticed.  "Agents!"  They all turned around.  
Scully was shocked, she would never have 
believed that Mulder could get away with 
screaming that at the top of his lungs in front 
of a room of extremely cruel agents.  Many 
returning to work after a long, sleepless night, 
many had never left the confines of the Hoover 
Building anyway.  Under normal circumstances, 
this would be the chance opportunity that 
everyone hoped for in the secret game called, 
'Make Fun of Spooky', the second Mulder lost 
control of the situation, the alien abduction 
stories started again.  "Thank you.  I am 
certain that the details of this case would be 
better left forgotten, and that isn't going to 
happen."  There was a murmuring ripple of 
groans.  They knew what was coming, they knew 
that they had to review the case, just to make 
sure that they knew all the details.  

They didn't want to hear them again.

Mulder started anyway, finally getting his 
presentation in hand.  Files that had been left 
on his desk that morning mysteriously appeared 
before him, dull eyes facing him, awaiting a 
cool and professional report on the exploits of 
a madman and the subsequent results. 

And they expected him to keep a calm head. 

*Him*.  

The bureau nutcase.  

They knew that he was more sane than any of 
them.  They just didn't want to admit it.  They 
didn't want to admit that Spooky Mulder could 
keep a tight, vice-like grip on his roaring 
emotions, terrifying rage, and the not-so-
uncommon argument within him about the proof and 
existence of extraterrestrials.  Not after what 
they had seen him do.

Not after what they knew he was capable of doing 
and withstanding.

The fellow investigators thought themselves to 
be sane, they didn't want to have to do what 
Mulder did on the Twilite case.  The agents 
didn't want to believe that being a sane man 
meant depriving yourself of the most primal 
urge, the most understandable want, and the 
final wish of bereaved fathers and mothers and 
wives and children and people all around the 
world.

All because they didn't know if they could do it 
if they had to.

Mulder cleared his throat, and in an absolute 
monotone, he spoke.  "All the victims of John 
Darryl Twilite were toddlers, age two to age 
six.  He abducted them out of their daycares, 
stores, homes, or parks.  None of these 
instances were spur of the moment.  He would 
study the child and their living patterns, 
following them and memorizing every event that 
took place in their normal day."  Scully 
repressed a slight shudder, the horrific 
realization of someone stalking you, haunting 
your hallways and recording your footsteps was 
bad enough, to know the terror that must come 
when you found your child to be a victim was 
unimaginable.  Mulder, however, didn't even 
flinch as his emotionless face droned on with 
the facts, and only the facts, of the 
J.D.Twilite case.  

"He chose them because of appearance, of 
personality, and because of their size and age.  
He had lost a young sister in a boating accident 
that his parents blamed him for, and his revenge 
was on innocent children bearing the 
metaphorical Scarlet A of his sister's 
characteristics.  All of the victims had dark 
hair and hazel eyes, around 3' to 3' 5", and 
most often wearing snow clothes when abducted.  
His sister drowned in the winter."

A sudden, gripping fear beckoned Scully with a 
evil smile.  One that many serial killers bore 
as they were led through a courtroom, all the 
while seducing the media and repulsing the 
investigators.  This must have been why Mulder 
was so disturbed by this case.  For a man who so 
identified Twilite's loss, Mulder must have 
found it all too easy becoming a man who stalked 
little brown-haired, hazel-eyed girls through 
the streets of Washington DC.   Killing them and 
deriving his only pleasure from the artificial 
closure the sadistic ritual provided, but 
hungering for more because the sodden guilt 
would reign down on him again, and death was 
it's only escape.  Her strength in an 
investigation was not seeing into the emotions 
of others, but even Dana Katherine Scully, the 
organizer and defender of hard truth and cold 
fact could imagine the guilt and pent up anger 
taking shape in angular shadows.  She could 
understand the constant mantra that must have 
hummed in Twilite's mind.  The horrible 
filmstrip that was his past that played on a 
constant loop in his mind.  She shuddered to 
think of the fork Mulder must have stood upon 
when he was twelve, to become bitter and delve 
into the world of delusion and murderous 
treachery, or to do the opposite, and prevent 
the former, either way, never coming to terms 
with his loss.

Not exactly seventh grade analysis material.

She had missed a great deal of the speech, but 
Mulder continued, oblivious, "Only twelve of 
them ever discovered, until now, we were never 
able to verify that number."  There was a 
silence over the room now, and Scully watched in 
amazement as each Agent went through some sort 
of ritual glance towards one another, and then 
at Mulder up at the podium, in front to the 
chalkboard.  "They were each abducted much like 
John Lee Roche did with his victims.  In fact, 
there had been suspicion that Twilite was a 
copy-cat before we knew of his background of 
child abuse and trauma."  Another silence held 
the room under its power as Mulder took a 
breath.
Anderson stared behind Mulder's head.  Not 
uttering a word.  Scully could barely believe 
his silence, Anderson was one of the most 
outspoken and annoying agents in the entire FBI.  
And even though Scully had never heard a barb 
for Mulder come out of his mouth, she knew that 
somewhere in Anderson's mind, he must have been 
laughing his ass off at his former colleague.  
This was the perfect moment for them to start 
treating him like shit again, Scully was amazed 
that fifteen men weren't doing anything but 
treating Mulder with the utmost respect.

There was something wrong with the respect 
though, it was almost as if they feared what 
Mulder would do unless they were courteous, as 
if they knew that he was a trigger-happy 
psychopath with a semiautomatic holding them all 
hostage.

Scully shook the disturbing thought out of her 
mind.

"As you all know, each one of us in this room
has a personal involvement with this case."  A 
few agents looked up at Mulder, averted their 
eyes as if they were gazing upon a god of some 
sorts, or a legend that had long since been 
thought dead.  "Some more than others, " he 
managed to croak out.  Scully wondered what 
exactly was going on.  Mulder was a man of deep 
emotions and hidden pain, but he rarely if ever 
displayed it to other people, even in front of 
her, he hesitated to show his grief.  It struck 
her that here was her stone-faced partner, 
standing up in front of a roomful of agents he 
had both admired and worked with, was about to 
cry.  Or at least, close to it.

"I am sure that all of us are angry that the FBI 
didn't inform us immediately about Twilite's 
capture," he paused, and stared at Skinner, 
hiding in one of the shadows of the room,  "But 
we have to remember that we were not the last 
team that landed the case.  They were the ones 
who held it for seven years.  I suppose they 
didn't owe us anything."  Mulder's voice had 
traveled down in level until it competed with a 
whisper.  A few nameless agents in the room held 
thinly veiled outrage, and looked as if they 
wanted to say something, but bit their tongues.  
"I just wanted it to be clear that if the 
lawyers on the prosecution come around and ask 
for out help, we are to give them as much 
information as we can get our hands on, no 
questions asked."  He looked as if he wanted to 
say something else, but instead, he stepped out 
of the room, and leaned against a wall, taking 
deep breaths and attempting to regain his 
composure.  

Scully had run out after him, midst solemn 
chatter and whispers.  It surprised her that no 
one in the room seemed shocked, it was almost as 
if they were expecting this to happen sooner or 
later.  When she finally caught up to him 
halfway down the hall, she laid a soft hand on 
his cheek, and asked, "Mulder, what's wrong?"  
Her eyes searched for his, but they were 
clouded, and although she had caught his gaze, 
he wasn't seeing her, and she couldn't see into 
him.

He didn't move out of her grasp, "Nothing."  It 
was barely more than a whisper. She touched his 
cheek, gazing deep into his eyes, searching for 
a truth that she knew, but needed to be said for 
it could be perpetuated.   "I just need you here 
right now."  He dropped his head onto her 
shoulder.  Scully wrapped her arms around him 
and felt Mulder lean into her.  She leaned right 
back.  

It was hard for her to understand his radical 
mood swings from extreme happiness to intense 
depression, but at times like these, Fox William 
Mulder was at his most enigmatic.  He lacked a 
reason why he would have run out of the room, 
and had even less explanation as to why he felt 
that he needed her touch so bad.  She didn't 
really care, if he needed her in any way, she 
was willing to comply.  Especially when those 
beautiful eyes of his started tearing up.

"It's okay, Mulder, I'm here."  She felt him 
bury his head into her hair, and swore her heart 
skipped a beat.  It was hard not to love this 
poor man to death when he was like this.  So 
lost and alone, reaching out for love, but being 
rejected at every turn.  She had realized a long 
time ago that she was all he had anymore.  She 
was all he cared about.

A deep voice disrupted their moment.  "A-Hem!  
Agents, thanks for the floor show, but I know 
for certain that some of us are diabetic."  The 
two jumped out of their embrace and whirled 
around to face their boss looking very 
disapprovingly at them.

"I was just, uh, checking, uh...her hair 
for...narcotics."  Mulder stammered.  Scully 
repressed the urge to kick him in the shin.  
This was one of those mood swings that drove her 
insane.  One moment he was completely serious 
and the most loving man alive, and the next he 
was back to being his exasperating self.  She 
couldn't stop herself from glaring at Skinner, 
when she was in Mulder's arms, she felt like a 
treasure man had sought for generations and had 
finally discovered, under his scrutiny, their 
embrace lost the glow.

"Any?"  Skinner glared at the two.

"None," Scully replied before Mulder could think 
of any sick joke to play on her.  

Skinner turned and left.  The corridor broke out 
with raucous applause, cheering, and whistling.  
Mulder managed a bow before Scully shoved him 
into an elevator.

*****

Debbie stood over the sink in the executive 
washroom, trying to get rid of the mascara that 
had ran all over the place during her earlier 
wallow in self-pity.  Pathetic that a woman who 
had made her heart a cryogenics experiment for 
much of the last decade couldn't even keep her 
wits about her when she spoke of a court case.

Of course, it was more than just a mere court 
case.

She looked up at the unmerciful reflection of 
herself, she knew that under the lovely make-up 
job, the cheeks that used to be so rosy had 
turned a dusty gray, and the eyes that used to 
be as deep as oceans had dried and become as 
shallow as a millpond.  She looked at herself 
and realized what she reminded herself of, a 
plastic doll.  

A perfectly molded and curved dolly, with 
painted lips and hollow eyes that said nothing, 
did nothing, and yet lived in a river of wealth, 
regardless.

Her mask was somewhat cracked by the dark tears 
that flowed down her cheeks, creating a charcoal 
colored trail down her face.  

Water-proof mascara her ass.  

She cursed her vulnerability.  Now everybody 
knew there was something wrong.  She didn't want 
to think about the display that she must have 
made to all the lawyers in the conference room, 
and she didn't want to remember the luggage that 
would come with this trial.  Her eyes squinted 
when the unnatural light of the halogen bulbs 
overhead reflected off of the mirror and caught 
her in the face.  It seemed inevitable that the 
squinting would be repeated when thousands of 
reports flocked to her front door when media 
coverage of the trial was granted.  Someone 
would discover her secret, someone with an eye 
for a mystery would get stuck with desk detail 
some incredibly newsworthy-event-less night, and 
start digging around on the internet.  They 
would find the newspaper clippings, they would 
connect the dots, and then...

All would be lost.  

A knock came at the door.  And Janet Lanes, a 
partner at the firm, peeped in, "I'm sorry, if I 
was interrupting-"

"That's okay, Janet."

"Oh, well.  I just spoke to an assistant 
director at the FBI, they have already assembled 
any and everyone that had worked on the case, I 
just thought you might want to know."

"Yeah, thanks.  Uhhh, could you get Terri and 
tell her to call Danny.  I need to talk to him."  
She wiped her hands on a paper towel and checked 
her make-up one last time out of the corner of 
her eye.

"Sure.  By the way, Terri said to tell you there 
are about thirty calls you need to return.  
Bye."  The woman left.  Debbie envied her 
carelessness.  Janet had her career, her family, 
a demanding boss who never took, 'there wasn't 
enough time', or 'I missed the plane', or 
'That's against the law!' as an excuse as to why 
what she was supposed to do wasn't done.  But 
that was nothing in the face of the mountain 
Deborah had to scale.

Now, she straightened her skirt and prepared to 
walk back outside under the scrutiny of the 
public eye.  She was sure the media would start 
hounding her late afternoon.  Early next morning 
if she was lucky or if the defense lawyers were 
too lazy to drum up public support for a poor 
crazy man, of course, conveniently leaving out 
the part about the twelve murders.  God forbid 
that the public condemn a man who isn't able to 
tell what day of the week it was, much less 
stick him in the gas chamber, or the chair.  So 
what if he killed twelve little girls?  The 
public only knew about eleven of them.

She couldn't let this case get to her, she would 
loose credibility, her firm, and anything else 
she had worked hard to achieve.  It had been a 
steep uphill climb, on a sheer sheet of glass, 
with nothing but her faith as a security rope.

She wasn't weak.

She could do this.

It's not as if she hadn't gone through this 
before.

But then, *he* had been there.

May was weak.  

Deborah was strong.

She could do this.  Really.

She could.

"I'll be okay."  She whispered to herself in the
mirror.  Debbie left the bathroom quickly and 
went to her office to return those 'thirty' 
phone messages left for her.

*****

Mulder walked back to his basement hideaway, 
most people thought that this was a form of 
punishment from his superiors.  Being locked up 
in a basement.  Mulder had never found being 
locked up in a cubical too much fun either.  

He sat alone, since Scully had gone in for an 
autopsy, unwillingly leaving him alone for the 
next three hours.  So Mulder sat and thought.  
He thought about the media frenzy this would 
turn out to be and how he hoped no one would 
remember what had happened to him so long ago.  
No one would, unless a reporter got bored and 
decided to dig up shit on the history of the 
case.  Twilite was finally going to pay for all 
the lives he took.  No one was going to take 
that simple pleasure away from Mulder right now.  
Not even all the crap-for-brains agents that 
liked to torment him would ruin the savory feel 
of justice today.  Not even the government that 
had tried to clean up quietly after themselves 
and made it so a danger to society was released 
yet again.

Nope, only one thing could ruin what would have 
been a wonderful day, and it was kicking in full 
force.  He let his head roll back in the chair, 
and stared at the ceiling.  It still had all the 
tiny holes left from the time Scully had gone on 
vacation and he had played pencil darts with the 
tiles up there.  The image blurred, he didn't 
try to hold back his tears this time.  

He let them flow, no matter how many years 
passed, it still hurt, it still made him cry, 
and it still made him nauseous.  

All those little bodies, raped and beaten almost 
beyond recognition.

All those little children, who would never get 
to their tenth birthday.

All those parents, who would never look at each 
new day the same way again.

He didn't want to think about it, but a sick 
part of his mind kept remembering, and with that 
came the heartache.  He felt his chest tighten 
and sobs racked his body.  He covered his face 
with his hands and wiped away the tears.  He 
could be strong. 

He had to be strong.

He had done it before.

He could do it again.

Mulder could live through this. 

Without her this time.

William was weak, and William needed her.

Mulder didn't. 

Really, he didn't.

"I will be okay."  He promised himself silently.

*****

Outer office
5:00 pm

The rest of the day had been a blur.  The 
hassles of paperwork, reports to be filed, 
cataloging evidence, and the most beloved task 
of all, contacting victims families to see if 
they would be present at the trial and if they 
would testify.  

It was horrible.  

Most of the families had moved past the pain, 
and rebuilt their lives.  

She had spoken the victim's families all through 
the day at different interval.  Many of them 
teary because of their loss, others enraged that 
the government had denied them a right to 
testify at the first and original trial of 
Twilite.  

It had been the ingenuity of one such parent 
that was stirring up all this legal mess.  A man 
who became a lobbyist for children's rights 
after his child was murdered had discovered the 
case, and was absolutely incensed that Twilite 
wasn't found guilty even though much of the 
evidence that they could have provided pointed 
towards him.  

The parent had gone to a friend of his, an 
expert in computers and government codes, and 
discovered the rest of the families after 
looking for weeks through the old FBI archives 
in Washington DC.  Through the backbreaking 
labor of going through old paper files, he never 
gave up because he knew that unless he did this, 
justice would never be served.  When all the 
families had been contacted, and everything 
arranged, there was still a small mystery.  

The family of the twelfth victim was still 
unknown, upon finding the file on a computer, 
the parent realized that it was sealed, and no 
matter how much hell he raised, he couldn't get 
it opened.  The sealing of the file was a choice 
of the victim's family.  The parents had figured 
that whoever the twelfth set of parents were, 
were probably too devastated still to deal with 
a case, and left it alone thereafter.  Soon, 
they had discovered DDL's track record, and 
although the firm was private and extremely 
expensive, they weren't going to take any 
chances with winning this trial.

Terri wondered for the third time that half hour 
where Deborah was.  But then heard cursing from 
inside the office.  Of course, she was holed up 
in her office going through witness lists and 
trying to find people who would nail the asshole 
and put him in jail to rot forever.  Terri was 
uncomfortable with leaving Debbie in her office 
alone, no doubt she would pull an all-nighter.  
So of course it shocked the living hell out of 
Terri when her boss walked out of her office 
briefcase in hand at five o'clock sharp that 
evening.

"Terri, I'm going home, hold all my calls until 
tomorrow, and if anything new comes in, wait 
until morning."  Terri nodded mutely.  Who was 
this and where was Deborah Deerson?  The last 
part was barely recognizable, "I need some time 
alone."  Her face was soft, and voice even 
softer, a tone that Terri had never heard 
before, defeat, retreat, tiredness, and 
fragility.  Without another word, the woman 
walked out of the room and into a waiting 
elevator.

*****

Basement
5:24 pm

For Scully, that day had been nothing out of the 
norm, the autopsy came up normal, the cause of 
death was a rare poison.  The killer caught.  
Badabing, badaboom, case closed.  Although the 
Mulder dilemma provided food for thought.  

He had spent a while in the office, then had 
gone upstairs to help prepare evidence and his 
testimony.  She had to respect him.  She could 
never work on a case like that, not for the 
world, not for Mulder, not even for herself.  
And she didn't plan to anytime soon.  Now, she 
was at his desk in the basement office doing the 
paperwork from the last case.  One of the few 
where Mulder had not been hospitalized.  She 
grinned as she thought about the work Mulder had 
always managed to make her do.  But then thought 
about the bloody crime scene photos of dead 
children he was looking at now, and decided that 
this was a much better alternative to that kind 
of mental torment.  She didn't trust him to go 
home on time when he was working on something 
like this.  Scully almost fell out of her seat 
when he came through the door, got his coat and 
briefcase and turned to leave.

"G'night Scully."

"Mulder?"  He had turned, those bottomless eyes 
of his clouded over yet again.

"Yeah, Scully?"  She had planned to say 
something about the case, but from the look he 
had given her in the hallway earlier that day, 
his reaction would not be a happy one.  And in a 
moment of pure spontaneity, she decided to give 
him the reply he so deserved to a statement she 
hadn't dared to believe.

"I love you, too."  There was a moment of 
confusion on his face, and then a smile broke 
out, remembering the events of the ship, and his 
confession afterwards in the hospital room.  
Scully rewarded herself with a silent sigh of 
contentment.  It was moments like these that 
kept her going, kept her believing that perhaps 
there was a chance that Mulder could be 
genuinely happy someday.  However, to her 
dismay, the smile disappeared and was replaced 
by a look of immeasurable sorrow.  He opened his 
mouth slowly, as if contemplating what he should 
say, and whispered:

"Don't, Scully.  Don't love me.  I don't deserve 
someone like you.  All the people I love get 
hurt, don't love me back, Scully, please."  His 
voice was choked with unshed tears, and she was 
amazed, no case had ever affected him in this 
magnitude and so quickly before.  At least none 
she had known about.  She wasn't sure what to 
do, if anything.  She was afraid that this time, 
he would travel down that well-worn road of 
self-blame, and step off a cliff into oblivion.

"Don't say that, Mulder, you deserve as much 
love as anyone could possibly give," she pleaded 
with him.  

He looked as if he hadn't even heard her. "Maybe 
I really should have shot myself last year."  He 
shook his head, and turned.

He closed the door softly behind him.  She was 
shocked.  She knew that Mulder shirked away from 
affection, that he felt unworthy, but he had 
never rebuffed her emotions outright.  What did 
he mean?  How could he saw that he was unworthy 
of love?  Him, unworthy of something that he so 
richly deserved, and received so little of?  
Maybe it was the case.  She could tell that he 
had been disturbed by the pictures.  Mulder 
didn't want to talk.  He had closed off again.

How could he want to die when he had so much to 
live for?

*****

Deerson Residence
Penthouse # 6
9:15 pm

Debbie stole down the wooden stairs, one hand on 
the wrought iron rail.  She looked around, and 
saw that the coast was clear.  She tip-toed into 
the kitchen and eased the refrigerator door 
open, grimacing at the loud noise, she froze for 
a moment.  No one there, good.  She turned and 
reached for the 46 ounce double mocha 
frappachino she had gotten earlier that day at 
Starbucks.  She brought the huge cup to her 
lips.  

The kitchen flooded with light.  

After the spots faded, she could see her smooth 
top oven, and the black countertops that fit the 
metal cabinets perfectly.  The kitchen looked 
like a sterile operating room, until you saw the 
huge refrigerator that held every kind of goodie 
known to mankind.

"What, might I ask, are you doing?"  A short 
stocky, grandmotherly woman sternly asked.

"I stopped growing a long time ago, Carla."  She 
protested feebly.

"Never!  You're going to stunt your growth with 
caffeine like that!  You should eat some more 
though, you aren't much more than skin and 
bones!"  Debbie pouted as the old woman whisked 
away the coffee and put it back in the fridge.  
Skin and bones her ass.  Carla had to know that 
she was overweight.  Although no one else 
noticed.  They just thought she had a cherub 
face.  Another thing she was cursed with.  
Silently, she vowed to go to the gym...sometime 
next year.  This one was all filled up.

"You are my housekeeper, not my nanny."  She 
grabbed a carrot out of the fridge and bit off
the end, crunching like a horse.

"I would if I could be.  Now finish your carrot 
and go back to bed.  You don't get nearly enough 
sleep."  The woman rushed off.  Debbie grinned 
at the retreating figure.  Her live-in 
housekeeper was a sweetheart.  A widow with no 
children of her own, and Debbie was like her 
surrogate daughter.  Seeing that the woman had 
gone back into her room in the right wing of the 
penthouse she owned; Debbie reached for the 
Latte again.

"Don't you touch that coffee!"  She muttered 
silent curses under her breath and went back to 
bed.

*****

Ralph's Diner
9:10 pm

Mulder was never one for shopping, but he was 
always up for a burger and fries.  The greasier, 
the better.  He snuck into the tiny, smoky 
diner, and ordered a cheeseburger and extra 
fries.  With a side of salad, he couldn't eat 
all that stuff without some guilt.  He hoped 
Scully wouldn't see him.  She had been tailing 
him since he left the office.  Mulder craved 
sustenance, but didn't feel like eating the 
cardboard Scully preferred.  The waitress 
brought him the order and set it down in front 
of him.  His mouth watered and Mulder prepared 
to dig in.  A set of manicured nails dragged the 
plate away from him.

"What are you doing, Mulder?"  His partner 
shoved him over and sat down next to him.

"I'm old, I'm going die soon anyway."  He 
protested, his defenses useless to her glare.

"Your arteries are going to revolt!  I swear, 
you should eat more healthy food, Mulder, and, 
drink less caffeine."  She ate a fry off his 
plate and split the burger in half.  Giving him 
partially what he craved, he grinned thankfully.

"You're the one to be talking about caffeine, 
Miss. If-I-don't-get-a-cup-I'll-scratch-out-
your-eyeballs."  He took a fry from his plate.  
Scully was like his mother at times.  He wished 
she would just let him eat whatever.  They 
finished their meal in silence.  Scully got up, 
dragging him with her.

"You should sleep more Mulder.  Really."  She 
turned to leave, and Mulder smirked and raised 
his hand to order some more fries.

"Don't even think about it Mulder!"  He pouted, 
grabbed his jacket and left the diner, muttering 
silent curses under his breath.

*****

DDL Law Supergroup
Friday, December 11, 1998
8:00 am

Debbie had been right, the press was onto her.  
That morning, the New York Times had already 
called her three times trying to get the inside 
scoop on the trial of the century.  All three 
times she had said something along the lines of, 
"Stick your head in toxic waste." 

Inside Edition had parked two vans in front of 
her building, and one in front of her firm.  
Local media followed her around, and the 
National Inquirer had three reporters revolving 
around her.  Of course the first thing they 
wanted to know was the court date.  She answered 
easily, February the eighth.  Then they wanted 
to know if the rumors were true.  She would look 
puzzled and ask what rumors.  This was a new 
case, no rumors had been formed yet. 

That was a load of shit if she ever smelled one.

Big load, too.

Of horseshit.

The kind that had been sitting around in a barn 
for eight or so years, rotting, just waiting to 
get spread over the seeds of tabloid newspaper 
articles.

Deborah wondered how everyone knew about the 
case already, she had barely gotten wind of it 
when someone from the New York Times had called 
asking if she would like to issue a statement to 
them about the Twilite murders.  She had turned 
him down, saying that there would be no comments 
until further notice from her firm.  The Times 
understood, they knew that DDL liked their 
privacy, and when the time to reveal the truth 
came, the Times was often the first paper they 
called.  They would have to do some extra pro-
bono brown-nosing until that time came.  She had 
known exactly what was going through the 
reporter's head.  She also knew that there would 
be little to no information on this case from 
her firm, this time, they were keeping quiet, it 
was a federal case, and they had a reason for 
their silence.

Debbie closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  

She could do this.  

Really.  

She could.  

She opened her door and put on her sunglasses
after lowering her head from the glare of the 
cameras.  She rushed to the car and sped off 
with reporters running in tow.  To every 
question asked, she simply replied 'no comment', 
to every interview requested, she answered, 'not 
at this time'.  For every word she did utter, 
lawyers were on network news analyzing it to 
squeeze every little bit of inside information 
out.  Psychics were on Montel predicting the 
verdict and the truth behind the rumors.  So the 
cycle of the paparazzi had started again and 
Debbie had no defenses other than her silence.  

Many times at the firm of DDL, people were fired 
after leaking information to the press.  But 
over the years, they had wised up, and now there 
was an official policy.  'If you know who leaked 
the information, tell us.  Or we'll dock all 
your pay until we find out who did.'  The three 
owners of the firm were sworn to silence, and 
would never whisper a word to anyone, they were 
still expendable by a vote within the firm.  
Truth be told, there wasn't a law firm in the 
nation that got as much publicity as them, but 
didn't even have to say a word.  Today was 
another hectic one, people in the offices were 
running around like chickens with their heads 
cut off.  Papers were flying, keyboards were 
clicking, and fax and printers went on non-stop. 

Every time a new case came up, so did the rush.

It was like a tidal wave of information. 

Then there was the constant buzzing of the 
ThinkPads she had decided to shell out money for 
a while back.  A whole section of the fourth 
floor was on the phone.  Whether it be arguing, 
getting rid of the buzzard media, or bothering 
the FBI, they were all busy.  

Of course, when the lunch breaks came, entire 
sections of the office were missing.   Their 
phones idle, and computers silent.  The roar of 
the crowd outside demanding answers was still 
heard even over the air-conditioning and the 
pinball machines in the Rec room.  They would 
never escape the media.  They could only lead it 
down the wrong road.

And oh yes they could.

Something that Debbie had grown quite talented 
at.

Something she relished doing.

*****

FBI Headquarters
Friday, December 11, 1998
8:56 am

"Mulder!  You get phone duty tomorrow, those 
reporters want blood!"  Anderson called from his 
cubicle.  Mulder cringed.  Great, phone duty, he 
would have to talk to the reporters.  He would 
rather have his wisdom teeth pulled out again, 
this time without anesthesia.

Somewhere in the background, Mulder heard Tom 
Colton arguing over the phone with someone from 
Twenty/Twenty.

"Where the hell did you hear that from?  Well I 
don't care what DDL says, Twilite isn't under 
Nazi rule... I know that they wouldn't lie to 
you, you just keep telling yourself that... We 
aren't revealing that victim's name...the family 
didn't want it public...Oh great, you know the 
agents that worked on the case, wonderful...  
Look, I don't even know who that last little kid 
is, you really think that Special Agent Mulder 
would?"  Mulder swallowed the feeling of nausea 
working it's way up his throat.  Yes, Colton, 
believe it or not, Spooky Mulder knows things 
that Skinner and *gasp* even you don't know.

The Violent Crimes section of the FBI was the 
model of efficiency. Agents working hard to 
solve cases, people talking to grieving victim's 
families, computers tapping, people on a talking 
type system that Mulder had started to despise.  
He felt like running over to Scully and hiding 
there forever.  He was safe with her now, he was 
out in the open.  All alone, with just his anger 
and instincts to guide him.

Trying to concentrate on the case at hand would 
have been impossible, trying to pay attention to 
the agents working on the Twilite proceedings 
would have been even harder.  Nope, there was 
only one thing to do.

He grabbed his coat and left the building.  The 
first thing that greeted him was the flash of a 
camera, then about thirty microphones were 
shoved into his face.  The reporters questions 
blended into a giant buzz.  To all their 
questions, he simply remained silent.  Mulder 
just continued pushing through the merciless 
throng of humanity.  So when Skinner came out of 
the building looking for Mulder, all the 
reporters ran towards him and saved Mulder from 
having to talk to him.  For once, he felt 
grateful that the media was there to deflect the 
verbal blows Skinner would have aimed his way.  
It was much easier to ignore the whole thing, as 
if he could.   As any well-seasoned law 
enforcement officer knew, any high-profile case, 
especially serial killings or celebrity death 
commanded more airtime than almost anything else 
on TV, same for apocalyptic events or a 
presidential sex scandal.  

Mulder knew that the Twilite case wouldn't be a 
quiet affair, it would be like the Manson 
Murders, not just because the murders were 
fascinating.  The relationships people had to 
the case would get more time on the news and 
more pages in the paper than any other aspect of 
the trial.  At least, they would when all the 
dots were connected and the reporters finally 
realized what they had on their hands.

Pure Gold.

He breathed in the Washington air and almost 
choked on the smog.  God, he loved living in the 
nation's capital.  A gust of cold air breezed by 
him, and he heard the clamor of the reporters 
behind him crowded around the doors of the FBI.  

*****

Summary: see pt 1

**Seven Stages of Human Madness**

*****

New York
Kennedy International Airport
7:05 pm

Debbie had left work at 3:23, spent a few hours 
driving around the city.  Staring at all the 
bright lights and neon signs that had attracted 
her there in the first place.  The insane 
traffic and the ruthless drunks that coasted 
around the city were enough to make anyone run 
for the calming cover of Greenwich in the summer 
and the Vineyard in the fall.  She had almost 
been hit three times on the freeway.  Now, she 
found herself in front of the airport, suitcase 
in hand, ready to go somewhere, but not knowing 
the exact location. She parked her car and got 
out the suitcase.  Debbie walked into the 
crowded airport.  People here and there stared 
at her.  A few men gave a whistle or made some 
rude comment.  I see you've still got it, 
Debbie.  When she reached the ticket counter, 
the lady there stared at her eyes as if they had 
worms growing out of them.  In reality, she was 
just stunned by the amazing amount of sadness 
there was.  She spoke as if controlled by an 
outside source.  And did not realize that she 
had bought the tickets until she found herself 
in front of Gate 12, Terminal A.  Non-stop 
flight to Washington D.C..  

What had she gotten herself into?

What did she want to get herself into?

Why had she chosen DC?

Why not Cancun?

Why not Muddypitt, Arkansas, where half the 
population was related to one another?

Just 'cause?

Just 'cause.

She walked like a zombie into the flight and was 
directed by a smiling steward to a first class 
seat.  A snob even unconsciously.  You're mother 
trained you well, how long has it been since you 
talked to either of them anyway? She banished 
the tiny voice in her head and sat down in a 
leather chair. 

She realized with surprise that she had enough 
leg room.  To test this new discovery, she 
pointed her toes, and stretched her legs all the 
way out.  She wasn't a tall person, but two 
thirds  of her height was made up of leg.  When 
realizing that her feet didn't slam into the 
seat in front of her, she started giggling.  The 
people around her started to stare.  The plane 
was crowded with the Christmas rush, and no 
one's actions went unanalyzed by the people 
around them.  Several passengers in first class 
came down to the same conclusion about the woman 
in 37A, Total Wacko Breakdown.  But oblivious to 
all, she remembered how long it had been since 
she had laughed.  Not the charming tinkling 
laughter that she used with her friends and 
business partners, the sweet, light, giggle that 
she hadn't even herself heard since, since, she 
couldn't remember when!

Been a long time.  Been a hard time.

It had been too hard.

She could almost hear his voice say, when was 
the last time you had a good shagging?

Sonofabitch bastard.  

He had lied.

The bastard lied.  He said that he wouldn't
leave.  He left.  

He left her all alone.

But everything was okay now, everything was 
going to be fine.  John Twilite was going to 
pay, and she would have peace of mind.  The 
butterflies at the edge of her vison would go 
away, just like the lump in her throat, and 
maybe, just maybe, the poison in her veins.  But 
it didn't matter anymore, everything was fine.

Fine, fine, fine.

The old woman in the seat next to her looked 
over her and asked if she was okay.  She was 
barely able to hold her laughter while saying, 
"I'm fine, I'm happy.  I'm, I'm, happy!"  The 
woman seemed to understand and let her be for 
the rest of the flight, she was sweet and kind 
to everyone.  And even the little brats in the 
seat behind her seemed not to be so bad.  When 
she stepped off the plane and into the dark 
Washington Terminal at 9:45, silence met her 
ears.  She repressed her urge to yell and shout 
about how she was back from her self imposed 
exile.  She instead walked sedately out front 
and hailed a cab just like an old pro.  When the 
yellow and black checked cab pulled up and 
unfurled a wave of icy slush that missed soaking 
her by a few millimeters, a gust of wind chilled 
her to the bone.  Deborah took a final glance 
around the outside of Dullus airport and ducked 
into the warm, but noxious cabin of the car.  
She plopped herself in the backseat and dumped 
her bags next to her.

"Three-o-four Glendael Rd."

*****

7:24 pm

Mulder had walked around work like a zombie all 
morning, and when he had finally decided to 
leave, the press had hounded him until Skinner 
had come out to see why the hell one of his most 
dedicated agents was walking out on work.  The 
bloodhounds had caught the scent of someone 
higher up the levels of power, and of course, 
this tall man must know more about the crimes 
than a lowly agent.  

How wrong they were.  

Skinner was already a senior agent and the 
acting SAC when the case came out.  He didn't do 
any of the work.  He was there on a few 
occasions.  Most of the time to ream Mulder 
about his attitude.  When the case was handed 
down eight years ago, it was given to a team of 
rookies.  Probably to scare them. 

And it did a damn fine job.  

He spend countless hours awake trying to hide 
from the nightmares that plagued him.  He 
learned more about late night TV in that one 
year than in the whole of his life combined.  
Hell, he had even gone through old tapes of 
Senate meetings to see if he could find some 
sort of massive conspiracy.  Of course, new to 
that line of paranoid thinking back then, Mulder 
didn't really find much.  Only that his 
neighbors were either really into porn, or that 
they were sixty-year olds who really had the 
home fires burning.  

Now, every agent that had worked on that case 
was a senior, newbies looked up to them, asked 
them for help, and yes, even told stories about 
the legendary 'Spooky'.  

Now, he found himself driving around town 
aimlessly, stuck on Dupont Circle, and coasting 
past 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. on a freezing 
December evening wondering where the hell had he 
gone wrong.  Do you want them in alphabetical 
order and should I cross index them?  Mulder 
found himself directing the car up towards 
Martha's Vineyard.  To the private his father 
was buried.  He needed to make peace.  He needed 
to get some things off his chest, he wanted to 
let him know everyone was okay, and to apologize 
for not keeping his promise.  For not taking 
care of them like he had vowed, both in 
professional and personal ways, to protect them.  

It shouldn't have ever happened Mulder, it 
wasn't your fault, it never was, you did your 
best.  He should have done it long ago.  But if 
he could forgive his father's abuse, he could 
forgive this.  Although Mulder had his doubts.  
If he couldn't forgive himself, how would his 
father.  All of a sudden, a shrill ring startled 
Mulder out of his reverie.  He glanced over at 
the phone sitting on the passenger seat of the 
car and knew that it had to be Scully.  He 
debated whether or not to talk, and turned off 
the phone.  Silence once again filled the car, 
only the sound of wind blowing outside disturbed 
it.  Mulder looked at the clock, 9:45.  He 
decided he didn't like the silence, by now, he 
was thinking in one dimension.  And that was 
starting to become difficult.  His finger felt 
his way down to the radio and switched it on. 

<She's a good girl, loves her mama>

Yes, she had been a saint among all people.  And 
God, how she had loved her parents, even after 
they disowned her for running away...

<She's a good girl, loves Jesus too>

Devout Catholic, hell, she had dragged *him* to 
mass, weekly.

<She's a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis>

She had never liked Elvis music before she met 
him, but since their first real vacation was a 
two hour stop-over in Graceland, she felt an 
urge to pay homage to the 'King'.

<And I'm a bad boy, for breaking her heart>

Oh don't start loading the guilt now...

<But now I'm free, free falling>

Yes he was.  That heavy burden had been lifted, 
and for the first time in ages, Fox William 
Mulder was honestly happy.

*****

Deerson Residence
Penthouse # 6
9:45pm

Carla was worried.  But not surprised.  Debbie 
pulled this kind of thing all the time.  Her 
room was a mess and the walk-in closet was 
worse.  Clothes were scattered everywhere, and 
her suitcase and bags were gone.  No note, no 
phone call, and here she was alone in her 
employer's kitchen wondering where the hell she 
had gone.  Carla hated it when she did this.  
She hated to think that Debbie thought that she 
didn't worry.  The girl needed someone to worry 
about her.  Other than her.  No one else did.  
At least no one that she knew, no one she would 
ever know.  And in her heart, she hoped that 
Debbie knew that she was like a daughter to her.  

The only one she had.  

Her thirty-four year old baby girl.  

She checked the clock again.  

She glanced at the phone. 

So until she called, Carla would wait, or at 
least until she feel asleep at the kitchen 
table.  At least until she knew where her baby 
was.  

*****

Scully Residence
Apartment # 5
9:45 pm

Mulder wasn't answering his phone.  There was 
something happening here, and you could call it 
being psychic or woman's intuition, but 
something was on the verge.  Something was about 
to break and she didn't seem to like the vibes 
the prediction was giving off.  

He had to know it was her that kept calling him.  

Why wouldn't he talk to her?  

He had been evasive as to why he was feeling 
bad, and she hadn't pushed him to tell her.  

Damn, why hadn't she?  

For all she knew the guilt had overtaken him and 
he had taken a little dip in the Potomac with 
his Ford.  

With all the windows rolled up.  

Thinking about how awful a human being he was.  

While drowning.  

Alone.  

That's it.  

She was just as paranoid and as overprotective 
of him as he was her.  He wasn't at his 
apartment, she had already called there, and 
even used the incredibly low tactic of screaming 
for help.  If he had been there, Mulder would be 
at her apartment by now poised to shoot.  So 
until he called, she would wait by the phone.  

Scully hoped he knew that she cared.  

That she loved him.  

That if he died, she would be hopelessly lost.  
She couldn't do anything now though.  So, for 
the time being, she would keep her emotions in 
check, and she would wait for him to call.  She 
glanced at the clock.  Glanced at the phone, and 
went back to staring off into space.

*****

Former residence of D.Deerson
304 Glendael Rd.
10:24 pm

Three-o-four Glendael was hidden behind a thick 
mass of trees, they were beautiful in fall and 
brilliant on snowy winter mornings.  The huge 
house was located on a corner, so you saw 
nothing except scenic route until you took a 
left turn, a few blocks down Glendael, the trees 
would start to thin out, and you would see bits 
and pieces of the house through the leaves.

It was beautiful in Christmas lights.  

Deborah used to love Christmas.

This year was going to be very different, she 
was going to start loving Christmas again.  

The trees would hide the almost one and a half 
acre lot, and then, boom, the house appeared out 
of nowhere, she loved the shock value on 
everyone's face.  Mostly, they would be 
surprised by the amount of trees that still 
existed out behind the home.  There was perhaps 
one fifth of an acre of grass, and then, woods 
all out back.

She used to love those trees, now, every time 
she saw them, she had an urge to cut down the 
old sycamore that sat out back, a lazy swing 
attached on one of the highest branches.

There were too many memories attached to that 
tree and the house.  That was why she had left 
in the first place, why she hadn't come back in 
eight years.  Now, she was ready, and it was 
Christmas-time.  Christmas symbolized rebirth, 
renewing life, and chances for fixing past 
mistakes.

She paid the cabbie and watched him drive away 
until he was just a speck on the tiny end of the 
road.  Debbie let her eyes travel up and down 
the tree lined streets and manicured lawns. Dim 
light illuminating the quaint Victorian style 
homes that dominated this area of Washington. 
The home she stood in front of was no different, 
Mrs. Brooke, the next door neighbor, kept her 
promise, after all these years.  She still had 
the flawless (if slightly yellowed) lawn, 
freshly painted shutters, and the gutters were 
clean. The perfect prize winning rosebushes, 
even if all the blooms had faded, it was as if 
she had never left.  She missed her garden so 
much, and the trees.   There were trees, so many 
trees, behind their house, shading the walkway, 
and the two enormous ones on the front lawn. 
They had all grown.  Some of the saplings had 
turned into tall and very regal looking oaks.  
She dropped her bags on the sidewalk, and 
cautiously looking around, as if someone would 
catch her, she wrapped her arms around the tree 
just to see if they would still go all the way 
around.  

Just barely.  

Come eight more years, the tree would be too 
thick to do this.  Not that it mattered if the 
tree grew thicker in eight more years, it wasn't 
as if she could test the width again.  She 
closed her eyes and felt the rough bark against 
her cheek and almost tasted the clover-scented 
breeze that wafted through the neighborhood.  
For the first time, she noticed the chill.  And 
realized that it was December in Washington, and 
she was standing in the front yard of a house in 
her past, wearing nothing but a business suit 
and skirt combination, while hugging a huge oak 
tree and relishing the feeling every bit.  

She let go and twirled in circles to let the 
cold air numb her legs and arms.  Maybe it would 
numb the pain too.  

All of a sudden, something freezing and wet 
landed on the tip of her nose, and then her 
cheeks, and hands, she opened her eyes.  It was 
snowing.  The wet, white, stuff was coming down 
by the bucketloads.  Deborah didn't make a move 
towards going inside.  She opened her mouth and 
caught snowflakes in her mouth just like she did 
when she was young.  She realized that she 
couldn't feel her fingertips anymore, and that 
probably wasn't a good thing, besides, she 
didn't want to make a spectacle out of herself 
in front of the neighbors this late at night. 

Debbie walked over to where she had left her 
bags.  She picked them up, one in each hand, and 
walked up the brick steps to the huge wrap-
around porch.  She dropped the bags, and stepped 
on an old wicker chair that she had left 
covered, and reached up to a porchlight.  She 
first unscrewed the frosted glass cover, and 
then the lightbulb.  She stood all the way up to 
her tip-toes, stuck two dainty fingers in the 
tiny drilled hole in the top and retrieved the 
housekey.  She put the lightbulb, cover and 
chair back in their rightful places.  Debbie 
took a deep breath and stuck the key in the lock 
and turned to the left.  A resounding 'click' 
was heard.  She exhaled.  Why?  Did you think 
someone would come back and change the locks on 
you?  Who knew, maybe.  

She grabbed her suitcase and bag, and dropped in 
them in the hall.  Deborah silently walked 
through the house again.  First, to the living 
room that connected to the foyer with french 
glass double doors.  All the furniture was still 
there, the rich cream colored Victorian parlor 
set, the cherry coffee and end table.  An 
antique desk that she had gotten for five 
dollars at the flea market, and had spent three 
months refinishing and painting to match the 
rest of the furniture.  The brass frame mirror 
that was displayed above the oversized wood 
fireplace.  A bunch of wrought iron pokers still 
in set.  The built in bookshelves on either side 
of the fireplace held volumes from The Odessy to 
Doctor Suess.  A corner held a finery cabinet, 
where fanciful glass and porcelain figures were 
displayed.  The rich oriental rugs covered the 
shining wood floors.  Rich, silky draperies hung 
with gold tassels still in place.  The window 
seat's long cushion, still a perfect shade of 
lavender to match the throw pillows on the 
couch.  She drifted to the next room.  The 
formal dining area.  A sumptuous red, gold, 
blue, and green blend made the rug underneath 
the cherry table that seated eight.  The 
wallpaper was gold and green striped with white 
crown molding separating the lower half of the 
walls that were made of white plaster.  A 
stunning three tier crystal chandelier dangled 
from a gold chain.  The centerpiece made of fake 
orchids that she had meticulously placed one by 
one to look as if they were real.  Debbie had 
also used clear glue to make tiny beads of water 
on the flowers.  The Pewter candelabras held 
three creamy white candles each; decorated with 
hand-drawn flowers that matched the illusory 
designs on the rug.  The dining room door was on 
the right hand side of the foyer.  The living 
room on the left.  

She dared not touch anything, for fear of 
ruining the perfection of it all.  

For fear of shattering the silence.

*****

Cemetery
10:24 pm

Mulder slammed on the brakes in front of the 
cemetery.  It looked eerie under the dim light 
of the moon.  He pushed the creaky gates open, 
and walked sedately about the manicured lawns.  
He looked at the gravestones, some words were 
worn with age, while others still shined as if 
they had just been put there.  Undoubtedly, the 
ones that were well cared for were people that 
were deeply loved.  For a moment, the morbid 
thought that his tombstone would be one of the 
disregarded ones crossed Mulder's mind.  He 
shook his head and looked to the ground.  The 
people underfoot were nothing more than dust by 
now.  He shuddered, what a cruel way to go.  
Being stuck in one place for all eternity, 
looking at the rotting silk on the inside of 
your casket.  Mulder wanted to be cremated, and 
have his ashes scattered to the four winds.  

Or maybe airlifted to mars.  

Who knows.  

He looked around at the flowery statues of 
angels to the more sedate marble blocks all 
bathed in the moon's silvery glow.  Mulder was 
ashamed to admit, he didn't know where his 
father was buried.  Mulder walked in the dark 
graveyard, and he hoped that some gravedigger 
would save him from the torment of this trip and 
arrest him.  If he was arrested, Scully would 
have to bail him out.  Well, at least the night 
in jail would give him time to think up some 
plausible lie to feed her.  One of a thousand 
that had been used to cover up a disdainful past 
since he had met her.  Military bases, 
hospitals, Government buildings, this one's new, 
graveyards.  Movin' on up.  

Hopefully, he would find his dad soon.  The cold 
was eating through layers of thick wool.  He 
felt something cold and wet land on his skin.  
And then his hair.  He opened his eyes.  Snow, 
it was snowing.  The cold, white stuff was 
coming down by the boatload.  He threw his hands 
to the air, he felt the December wind chill him 
to the core, it numbed his fingers, and his 
skin, maybe, it would numb the pain inside.  His 
lips spread into a huge grin and he twirled 
around in circles on the lawn.  He finally fell 
to his knees on the dew covered grass.  His hand 
hit something cold, and smooth.  Mulder looked 
up.  

William Mulder.  

Well what do you know.  

There was his father.  And he was standing 
directly behind the grave.  God must be laughing 
it up right now, at the prospect of spitting on 
Fox Mulder's feet once again in this sick 
practical joke called life.

"Hi Dad."  He kicked at the grass near final 
resting place of his father.  "I'm sorry I 
didn't come to your funeral, your old pal was 
trying to kill me."  He hung his head.  Damn, 
the guy's dead and he's still shaming me...  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come here and blame 
you for everything."  He stopped for awhile and 
revisited childhood memories.  One of the more 
pleasant ones, when they had gone to the beach 
together, and spent that week in the rented 
vacation house.   

That next year, Sam had been taken, and Mulder's 
father lapsed into chronic alcoholism.  The kind 
that made him abusive, emotionally, and 
physically.  

"Actually yeah.  I did."  Time to make peace, to 
let it all out.  "I know we never, never talked 
about this...stuff.  It wasn't manly, you know. 
And you already thought I was a pansy-ass 'cause 
I read Jane Eyre and those kind of books."  He 
ran a hand through his hair.  "I didn't talk to 
you much after Sammie went away.  You started 
working a whole lot more, and when you did come 
home, you smelled like booze and then you'd beat 
me up."  Mulder dug his hands deep into his 
pockets and looked up at the stars.  "You see 
those lights up there Dad?  The infinity that 
they live in doesn't even start to tell you 
about the betrayal I felt when you first punched 
me.  I think that the fact that you blamed me 
for Sam first started settling in then." He took 
a deep breath and choked back the sobs he hadn't 
cried in so long.  He wasn't willing to start 
now.  "How could you do that, Dad?  I remember 
that night, when I ran into the neighbors' 
house, screaming and crying, and then when the 
police came, the first thing you did was tell me 
it wasn't my fault, that I wouldn't be blamed.  
You promised it wasn't my fault, why did you 
lie?"  Mulder let out a sigh, and let a small 
grin escape. "But like they say, time and women 
heal all wounds, and I forgave you, and we 
became friends.  But I messed up, and I am so 
sorry for that.  You know I am suffering for my 
mistake.  You have to know."  He felt a tear 
roll down his cheek. His hand reached up to rub 
it away.  

A sensory overload came as he remembered another 
hand that used to brush away his tears.  And for 
a brief time, an even smaller one.  All the 
images one by one, flooded his mind like some 
perverse slide show of his life courtesy of his 
photographic memory.  There had been so much in 
his life to live and love for until he saw her 
dead on the cold, hard ground, not lying in a 
pool of blood, but one of broken promises and 
unfulfilled hope.   

Promises he himself had made, in front of God 
and all the earth.

"But goddammit Dad!  When you gave me another 
chance to make it up, you fucking died on me!"  
He stumbled and almost fell to his knees, Mulder 
caught the edge of a gravestone and stood up 
again, tears blurring the lines and images.  
"Why did you leave?  I wanted to be your son so 
bad.  I just wanted to hear you say that you 
loved me one more time.  Just once."  He wiped 
away a tear.  "But you left," he whispered.  
Mulder ran his hands along the stone.  "I'm 
leaving, Dad.  I'm going to make that guy pay.  
She's gonna be there, Dad, I know it, she's 
gonna make him pay."  He stumbled off wiping the 
tears from his eyes.  And giving the grave a 
final glance, he prayed, "Dad, keep her safe, 
keep her safe until I meet you later."

From far away, another person watched Mulder.  A 
cloud of cigarette smoke obscured his features.  
This was certainly a pro on their side.  Another 
chance to draft Mulder into their little circle.

******

304 Glendael Rd.
11:23 pm

Debbie had ran her fingers across the towels 
with hers and his initials embroidered on them.  
She had looked through the heirloom night table 
set that had been in the family for ages, his 
side had Stephan King in it.  Hers had an old 
romance novel.  Both of them contained a set of 
family photos.  Only God knew why she had left 
them when she left for NY, maybe it was the 
memories and not the people she was running 
from. And the set of lamps that sat on either 
side of the huge four poster bed still looked 
like new.  They still worked.  

She had never had the electricity turned off.

She guessed that it would have been like saying 
goodbye.

Forever.

And emphatically.

The sheets were all white, to brighten the room.  

She had been to every chamber of the house, all 
except one that she kept locked at all times.  
It was as if they had never left.  The house 
still smelled like it had eight years ago, maybe 
a little musty, but 304 Glendael was still home.  
In a way.  

She sat there alone at that table.  

That damned kitchen table.  

Debbie ran her hands along the wood surface 
painted a soft yellow.  She had always despised 
table clothes.  The vase that always used to 
hold some sort of wildflower stood empty.  And 
the matching chairs were painted pastel blue, 
pink, purple, and cream white.  That table had 
been a witness to the day her life was ruined.  
Both times.  That table had seen some of the 
most wonderful things in life.  All of them 
actually.  And well, some things were better 
left untold.  The same things that made her 
blush a deep dark crimson color.

A shrill ring startled her out of her reverie, 
realizing she had left her cell in the Den, she 
stepped through the swinging door into the most 
lived in room of the house.  The bookshelves in 
there held the rest of their immaculate 
collection of literature.  A TV was hidden away 
in an old armoire.  A large light blue chaise in 
a corner between the bookshelves and the French 
glass double doors leading to the back deck.  
And next to it there was an elegant three legged 
table that had a small lamp and a pair of old 
lenseless glasses she had found in the attic.  
Across the back, a thick patchwork quilt made 
for her by friends when she had gone to college 
hung casually.  There because she had made a 
habit out of falling asleep there so often.  The 
large stone fireplace still had ashes in it from 
eight years ago.  A comfortable pastel weave rug 
covered almost all of the wooden floors, 
protecting the people who had lived there from 
chill.  The wallpaper matched with the blue 
couch and love-seat.  The wall was cream with a 
lighter cream pattern of stripes, along the 
bottom, a blue border with tiny with moons and 
stars on it trailed along the room.  The whole 
room radiated happy memories and comfort.  She 
plopped down on her beloved chaise and answered 
the phone.

"Debbie here."

"Hey, Venus, why did you want me to call?"  
Debbie rolled her eyes at how Danny still used 
her old pet name.  The story behind it was one 
of the few things she hated about it.

"I was in town and I just wanted to check up on 
you.  How's May?"

"May?  Ahh, just like all the other teenagers, 
planning a secret Armageddon to kill us all and 
abduct our credit cards.  You're in town?"

"Yup."  She nestled into the soft throw pillows.

"Come over!  Wait, a sec...  May says that she 
wants all her friends to meet you.  You're just, 
like, totally da bomb, the coolest and that I 
sound so lame when I try to talk like her."  
Debbie giggled at her niece, well, not niece, 
what the hell was her cousin's daughter to her 
anyway...  A second niece?    "Uhh...back to the 
subject.  You said you were in town, come over!  
May hasn't seen you since Spring of '95, and 
that was only because you had to sue something.  
I really think that you should work down in the 
Washington division.  You would be closer to 
us."  She sighed.  He had tried to talk her into 
working down in the Washington branch of DDL 
every time that they talked.

"Yes, I will be closer to you, among other 
things."

"Okay, I will leave that alone, for now.  Where 
are you?  I'll be by to pick you up."

"I could hail a cab... I don't want to impose."

"You're the only little sister that I have.  Of 
course I am going to pick you up.  Besides. You 
sound tired."

"I'm your cousin.  Not your sister."

"Well, you're cooler than my real family.  You 
acted like a boy and always covered my ass when 
I was in trouble."  She grinned at the memory.  
How many times did her family fall for the 'he 
was protecting me from the big bullies at 
school' bit when he came home messed up from 
fighting with a student?  How many notes had she 
asked them to sign, teary-eyed that Danny had 
been hurt because he was trying to keep her 
safe.  He had always doted on her.  During 
college, all the boys were given a through 
shaking down before allowed to leave the house 
with his Venus De Milo.  Back then, she still 
felt beautiful enough to let him do that.

"Thank you."

"Where are you right now?"  Deborah debated 
whether or not to answer the question.  She 
could have easily said that she was at the 
Monroe, called a cab, and waited in front of the 
hotel as if she had actually been staying there.  
In the end, the truth won out.

"304 Glendael."

"Debbie..."

"I'm just visiting!"

"Okay, okay.  Be good."  She silently erased 
that dark time in her life when she had tried to 
burn the house down.  The builders had fixed the 
damage done about three years after the incident 
had occurred.

"Yeah, yeah, I don't have any Christmas 
presents, I've been a little busy to shop."

"Don't worry, you were always good at improv.  
May wants a car, you know what my salary is.  
But then...we have that testimony to the fact 
there's someone richer than Bill Gates you claim 
to be your paycheck..."

"Dream on, if she wants a car, she'll have to 
earn the money herself.  Besides, I have to hand 
out Christmas bonuses."

"I'll be there soon.  Did I tell you that you 
were looking fabulous on the cover of 'Time' 
with that deposition in front of your face?"  
She heard a faint rustle of papers and an amused 
octave in his voice.

"Bitch."

"Lawyer."

"Now you've gone and done it.  Daniel, you have 
insulted my career, I have no choice but to turn 
your daughter into one of us."

"Bye."                         

"Bye."  She hung up and snuggled down into the 
quilt.  It would take him about an hour, and she 
hadn't unpacked her stuff.  Right now, she would 
sleep.

*****

Mulder Residence 
11:23 pm

Scully had decided that Mulder needed his space.  

After all, if he wasn't going to respond to the 
ten messages that she left on his machine, and 
the three pages that she sent.  

And was going to turn off his cell phone, he 
must have wanted to be alone.  

She had even tried screaming bloody hell into 
his machine to see if he would finally pick up 
the goddamn phone and come out of whatever mood 
he was in.   

He hadn't.  

If he was there, he would have been at her 
apartment in ten minutes poised to shoot.  He 
really wasn't there, he wanted space.  All the 
space he could take.  

Yup, space, space and more space.  

Oh forget space, she needed him to be okay.  

Who cares that he probably wanted to be alone. 

Who cared about that the psychiatrist mumbo-
jumbo.  

She sped over to his apartment like a mad-woman.  
She cut off everyone on the freeway and got a 
lesson in the fine art of finger language from 
several senior citizens.  She prayed that he 
wasn't laying on the floor of his apartment with 
an empty bottle of prescription pain-killers 
clutched in his cold, dead, fingers.   All 
alone.  No!  Scully couldn't let herself think 
like that. Not again.   She screeched to a halt 
in front of his apartment building, and 
practically mowed down Mrs.Kalinski from next 
door to Mulder.  The elderly lady just glared at 
Scully and went back to peeking through Mulder's 
mail.  She was the reason he stopped subscribing 
to his magazines of interest.  

She remembered him complaining about going 
through porn withdrawal.

For a moment, she had a truly horrific image of 
Mulder dead because of auto-erotic asphyxiation, 
just like Clyde Bruckman had predicted.

She ran up the stairs and rounded the corner to 
his door, and slammed face first into a tall man 
fumbling with a key.

"Nice to see you enjoy bruising my spine, 
Scully."  Mulder groaned and opened the door.  
He let her in and dragged himself through the 
entry, slamming the door behind him.  He hit the 
answering machine button and slunk off to the 
elusive bedroom to change.

"You have, 8 messages.-beep-Hi, Mulder, it's me, 
Danielle, from accounting, I was wondering, if-
if you wanted, to-to, Oh geez!  I am so 
pathetic!  Why would anyone want me! :::Sob!::: 
Click.-beep-Hi!  Mulder, it's Scully, pick up. 
Okay, I guess you aren't there...call-beep-
Mulder, it's Jennifer, Jessica from BSU told me 
to forget it and that you told her you were gay.  
Please say that you were lying!  You promised me 
a date five years ago!  Right before you went in 
to see Mr. Skinner about getting a new partner.  
Remember?-beep-Mulder, your cell's off, and you 
aren't answering my pages.  Where are you?  Bye-
beep-Mulder, this is Anderson, I am really sorry 
about being such an ass earlier, geez I know 
you're kinda off the wall, but don't go suicidal 
on us...  Who else would we leech off of.  Bye.-
beep- Mulder...call!-beep-Mulder, I can't find 
my files, I'm not worried about where you are 
anymore, really I'm not, I'm just calling for my 
file.  Yeah, that file, in the drawer, about 
that case...-beep-Mulder, I found the tape I was 
calling you about.  I was wondering, do you 
wanna come over to Mom's for dinner Sunday?  
Have you seen my box of tampons I left in the 
office?  Bye-beep-Aaak!  Mulder help! Eeek!  
Damn, you aren't picking up.  Where the hell are 
you?- End of tape."  Scully felt her face turn 
red when Mulder walked back into the living 
room.  She sat down at his desk.  She had left 
more messages, but the tape had run out.  
Ironic.

"My cell was off, I didn't have my pager with 
me, that file, about the case, is at work, sure, 
I would love to have dinner at your mom's, and 
uh Scully, why do you think I know where your 
tampons are?"  She flushed redder, and his grin 
just got wider, he had changed into jeans and a 
gray tee that just enhanced his muscular chest.  
Get your mind off that right now Dana Katherine 
Scully!  She had been worrying about him, he was 
fine, dandy.  But a tiny part of her 
contradicted and complained about why she could 
see tear stains around the rims of his reddened 
eyes.  Naw, she was just trying to justify 
leaving awful messages on his machine.

"Mulder I-"

"Don't say a word Scully, I know you were 
worried, but manipulating me wasn't fair.  Do 
you even have any idea what I would have done if 
I had heard that message and you weren't here to 
explain it?  I would have had every police 
force, every detective, every hitman, and every 
FBI agent in the Tristate area at your apartment 
door in less than three seconds.  And wouldn't 
your landlord just love that." 

"I-"

"You shouldn't play with my emotions like that, 
especially not right now, do you know where I 
went Scully?"

"No."

"I went to see my dad for the first time.  The 
only time since he died."  She felt horrible, 
why did she have such awful timing?  Ever since 
Diana Fowley had come and gone, she had felt  
jumpy every time he left her.  She would have 
wild ideas of Mulder running off with Diana  and 
leaving her alone forever.  Diana was back on 
assignment in Iraq, getting into the heads of 
psychotic bombers.  And for the first time in a 
while, Scully hadn't felt threatened, but 
tonight the security had been shattered.

"I'm so sorry."  Her voice broke and she started 
to sniffle.  Mulder watched with wide eyes as 
she began to cry on his couch.

"Hey, hey, it's okay.  I'm not mad.  I just 
wanted to let you know is all, I really can't 
stand it when girls cry..." He wrapped his arms 
around her, and she hugged him fiercely, face 
buried in his shoulder.  Appalled by her 
behavior, he glanced at the calendar as a habit 
that he hadn't been able to throw.

"I'm," a sob engulfed her words, and she had to 
say it again, "Sorry!  You just seemed so," She 
whimpered and continued, "Sad, and distant, and 
you looked like you were gonna jump off a bridge 
and I was so worried! You can't go and die on 
me, damn you, I can't do this on my own."  She 
quieted and let him hold her for a few moments 
longer before pulling away.  "I got your shirt 
all wet."

He looked at his tearstained tee.  "It's okay, I 
wasn't contemplating suicide tonight Scully."  
Liar, His inner voice scolded.  And a bad one at 
that.  He told it to shut up.

"Good," She studied him for a moment.  The 
perfect combination of ice blue eyes and flame 
red hair stared him down, giving him a slow-
motion once over, checking to see if he was 
telling the truth.  She knew deep down that he 
wasn't.  There wasn't anything she could do 
about that, especially if he wasn't going to 
tell her what was wrong.  She could only change 
the subject.  "You really want to come to 
Mom's?"  He sighed, just like her, she was 
changing the subject, he was never going to get 
a clear picture on their relationship.  Not that 
he ever planned on starting the conversation.  
But for a brief and happy time, he had enjoyed 
the luxury of no secrets.  You just have to keep 
working back towards that doncha?  He shut off 
his brain and smiled at Scully.  Everything was 
going to be okay.  Maybe I should tell her, naw, 
she'll find out with the rest of D.C. when the 
shit hits the fan.  I'll enjoy my life while I 
can.

"Come on, Scully, let me take you out for some 
drinks, we'll talk over beer."

"Why, Agent Mulder, are you trying to get me 
drunk?"

"Don't expect anything less than the kinkiest-" 
she elbowed him in the ribs and grabbed her coat 
to go.

*****

Skinner Residence
11:23 pm

Skinner had always liked Mulder, even when he 
was a cocky-assed wet-behind-the-ears newbie.  
He had always liked him.  He'd always liked her 
too.

It wasn't that Scully wasn't a wonderful agent 
and a great person for Mulder.  Skinner was 
certain that Mulder loved her more than he 
treasured his soul.  He had showed that time and 
again.  Scully shared the same unspoken, 
unconsummated devotion.

They also shared another thing, an antipathy 
towards their boss.

But *she* was a different story.

She had loved Mulder with every nuance of 
energy, and had lavished attention, and 
affection on the agent.  She was the only reason 
that he had survived working in the Violent 
Crimes section for so long.  She held him back 
when he needed to stop, made him sleep when he 
needed to rest, and God, she adored him with 
every bone of her body.  Skinner knew that every 
one of those feelings had been reciprocated.

Every Christmas that she had been with Mulder, 
she had baked cookies for the entire VC Section 
and dropped off a plate for upper management.  
But just because she liked Skinner, she always 
made an extra batch of cinnamon sugar cookies 
and 'accidentally' left them for Kimberly and 
Skinner to share.  Mulder's fellow agents had 
adored her, and regardless of how they felt 
towards him personally, they always gave him 
professional respect.  She had spent many a 
night there, waiting for her husband to come out 
of command posts so they could go home, and 
often , she had fallen asleep at one of the 
desks.  Her drowsiness had contributed to how 
she met the then SAC Skinner. 

And she had never called him Skinner either.

It was Sergei.  

She thought it was a cool name.  Skinner didn't 
think so, but after time, even he had to admit, 
it did sound kind of neat.

She had boundless energy, and a childlike air of 
innocence that wasn't naive.  Brilliant, witty, 
funny, but that had all changed so quickly.  

So quietly.

And so very sadly.

The girl they had all known and loved had 
slipped away.

Someone else had taken over her body.  Skinner 
didn't like the new tenant.  He had hoped the 
super would kick her out and let the original 
renter move back in.

But she didn't.

A single day her world had crashed down on top 
of her and everything she had made for herself 
lost.  Skinner had gone home and cried a good 
afternoon, but she, she had never dropped a tear 
except for that first time, at least not that 
Skinner had ever seen, then she had shut down 
completely. 

Through it all, anyone who needed a listening 
ear, or a crying shoulder, she was always there.  
But in the end, it had been too much, the woman 
that had been so fragile in the beginning 
cracked, and spent a month in an institution, 
suffering from the aftereffects of too much 
shock and trauma.  

She had bounced back, and how.

He grinned at the memory.  She never wrote, or 
visited anymore.  And when the Director of the 
FBI had informed him that DDL law firm was to 
prosecute.  Skinner had vehemently protested to 
the band of parents pressing charges for her 
sake.  He had asked why not a federal 
prosecutor, because she was better, that was a 
given.  Why not another firm, they must have 
been at least equally good.  DDL has a great PR 
rep, and the lawyers worked wonders with cases 
that were almost nonexistent.  They always 
fought for the people.  Skinner had gone as far 
as to say that one of the lawyers had a close 
relationship with this case.  The parents had 
glared and said that they didn't care if one of 
the lawyers was connected at the hip with 
Twilite, they were professional, and he wouldn't 
hear another word about it.  

Skinner clawed at his desk blotter, and opened a 
drawer.  He took out a tiny picture   frame, in 
it was his Goddaughter, at least jokingly, who 
knew who it really would have been.  A tiny 
little girl with chestnut curls and ever-
changing hazel eyes who knew more about the 
justice system than he did at times.  She was so 
beautiful, Sharon and him had never been able to 
have children, and that had made this child all 
the more precious.  He fingered the weathered 
photo, sighed and put in back behind several 
folders.  

They had finally done it.  Sharon had signed the 
papers, so had he.  It was official.  He was 
divorced.  Another marriage left in shards 
because of the FBI.  He should sue this damned 
institution some time.  

She would have like that, no telling what she 
would think now.  

It could have a class action suit, wasn't 
Patterson married?

He rubbed his eyes, this was the worst time in 
his life, and all he could think about was his 
agent's horrible past.  

Why had he made that promise?  Not to ever tell.  
He suspected that she had somehow talked the 
rest of violent crimes not to mention it either.  
"It wouldn't be fair to him if his reputation 
was both Spooky and sad.  Please don't mention 
it if he gets a new partner.  I don't want to 
mess up his life again."  He could hear her 
saying it.  He could see her saying it.  

Those eyes pleading with him, searing into his 
soul.

The hurt so fresh in his mind.

Although it was at least eight years.  It was 
like it had happened yesterday.  He muttered a 
curse under his breath and stared at the flags 
posted next to his desk.

*****

Deerson Residence
Penthouse #6
11:23 pm

Carla contemplated calling the police, but she 
knew that Debbie was okay, and was just needing 
some time alone.  She shook her head, and walked 
over to the fridge.  She pulled out the huge 
Latte.  Like Debbie had said, she had stopped 
growing a long time ago.

*****

Former Residence of D. Deerson
Saturday, December 12, 1998
304 Glendael
12:45 am

A doorbell awakened her out of sleep, and she 
stumbled out of the day chair and rushed over to 
the front door.  She opened it quickly knowing 
there was only one person it could be-

"Danny!"  She leaped into his arms and he hugged 
her tightly.  They swung around in circles on 
the front porch.  The cold air swirled about 
them.  She relived old memories of her youth, 
and this favorite relative of hers.  Sitting on 
old porches, drinking lemonade, throwing mud-
pies at each other, okay, that wasn't very 
pleasant, but it was fun.  Especially when she 
finally convinced him to eat dirt.  Danny hadn't 
enjoyed it, but she had.  Debbie had never 
understood how men could be so dumb if they were 
supposed to be the dominant sex.

"Hey, Venus!"

"Stop calling me that, I am not Venus anymore."

"You earned that name fair and square, besides, 
I am never going to let you live that down.  
That was the most hilarious thing you ever did.  
I can't believe that you even told me!"  She 
pouted, trying not to whine about this injustice 
he was forcing upon her. That name was the 
result of a bet placed long ago, it had seemed 
like a good idea at the time, she had also been 
so plastered that if someone had suggested 
swigging cyanide that she would have agreed 
wholeheartedly.

"I can't believe I told you either.  I'll regret 
it for the rest of my life.  Right now, I would 
like to be among family that addresses me as 
Debbie.  Where's May?"  She looked around the 
porch to see if her niece/daughter was there.

"She's kinda under the weather, but now that 
you're there, you can take care of her, and I 
can finally do my Christmas shopping."  Debbie 
sighed, she really shouldn't let his take 
advantage of her being there like this.  Danny 
grinned evilly.  "Guess who is invited this 
year?"

"Danny, I am sorry, but I couldn't possibly stay 
for Christmas, didn't you hear yet?  I have a 
new case...a big case."  Her voice had gotten 
very quiet.

"Look, Deb, this isn't that bad, you could give 
the case to someone else, hand it over to Leary, 
and go to Bermuda, but just don't let it suck 
you in.  You are a delicate soul Deborah-" she 
tried to cut him off, but he raised a finger and 
continued to speak.  "It doesn't matter that you 
vehemently protest the truth in that statement, 
but Deborah May Deerson, you are only human, and 
every one of us has a weakness, and yours, is a 
mix between love of law, and your damnable past.  
I don't understand why you have to get so 
involved!"

"Because it's my case, Danny!  It's my case and 
I have to take care of it!  No one else in the 
world can look out for me except for me, and 
when they do, they normally have their own 
interests in mind, so don't tell me to lay off 
for as long as I'm alive and well because I 
won't, and I can't."  She flew out of his grasp, 
and stood in front of him, arms crossed full 
battle mode.

"Deborah, you falling into a rat trap, you're 
going to die out there!  Everything you say will 
be analyzed and tweaked to its full capacity, 
you won't make it to next Tuesday!  You'll lose 
everything you have!"  He watched her eyes 
smolder, and burst into flame.

"Don't you think I know that!  Jesus!  You think 
I haven't spent a sleepless night or two since I 
found out about this case!  I can't let it go, 
Danny!  It's not that easy for me, and I can't 
be sure, is that what you think? That I can't 
let go unless I do this myself and fulfill some 
empty spiritual quest?  That's not the reason!  
I will never let go, there is nothing you can do 
to make me forget, and no one will ever change 
my mind!"  She yelled.  The neighbors were 
certain to be awake now.  "But, I *have* to do 
this.  It isn't my choice, this is my case, this 
is my life, and that," she said pointing to a 
copy of the Washington Times in Danny's hand, 
front page featuring a mug shot of Twilite, "Is 
my past."

"Look, let someone else take care of it, if it 
makes you feel any better, which I don't suppose 
anything will, I'll even call him up, you two 
can talk about it, work it out, and hell, maybe 
even make May's Christmas wish come true-" Danny 
trailed off.  This was dangerous, his best 
friend and his little sister.  He hated the fact 
that they had such an awful past.  One that May 
didn't even know about.  And she was like their 
daughter.  

Truly.  

Danny was always off on business trips, and May 
was always at her Aunt's house.  Her mother 
having died when she was two, he didn't have 
much of a choice.  Debbie had always welcomed 
her with open arms.  The little girl thought 
Debbie as a Mother, and herself as her daughter, 
and vice versa.  

When Debbie had brought him into the picture, 
the deal was sealed, May had another set of 
parents that went to all the dance recitals and 
teacher parent conferences, and one father who 
took her wonderful places.  She had felt like 
the luckiest girl in the world with three 
parents.   That had shattered in a moment.  
Debbie had emptied her bank account, and gone to 
New York.  He had disappeared into the crowd.  
Danny had never understood it, and didn't try 
to.  That was theirs, he had his own memories.  
And he was thankful that what happened to them 
never happened to him.

"I don't love him Danny.  That's the problem.  I 
don't want to love anyone like that.  It's too 
dangerous.  You lose to much."  She paused for a 
while, her voice soft, "Come on, you said May 
was sick, let's get going.  She could be sitting 
in a pool of her own vomit right now."  She  
grabbed his hand after locking the door and 
replacing the key, and dragged him to the car 
bags in other hand.

"That is disgusting Debbie-" Their fight was 
over, but lines had been drawn on how far he 
could push her before a breaking point.

"It's happened before, it can happen again."

"How the hell was I supposed to know that she 
had thrown up?"

"Every parent is supposed to know.  Let's go."

"I was in Thailand!"

*****

C.Carter's Irish Pub
Saturday, December 12, 1998
12:45 am

"Mulder this place is actually kinda nice.  
When'd you find it?"

"You know that time when Bambie left me for Mr.
Robot Voice?"

"Yeah?"

"I decided I needed a hang-over."

"You got that upset over Bambie, I run out, 
sleep with a psycho and get a tattoo, and you 
don't give a shit?"  She was getting angry.  The 
two Rolling Rocks that had been rapidly guzzled 
were doing a fabulous number on her inhibitions, 
and things just kept flying out of her mouth 
that didn't mean to the spoken aloud.

"You SLEPT with him?"  He stared at her wide-
eyed.  Scully suddenly remembered that she had 
neglected to inform him about her little meeting 
with a nut.  Then he raised his left hand, 
"Another Screwdriver, and don't you dare water 
this one down!"  She stared at him in amusement.  
"We're gonna talk about your taste in men 
Scully.  Ed Jerse, then Eddie Van Blundht, and 
who could forget Jack Willis.  You must have an 
asshole tracker in you."  The door chimes 
twinkled, and a woman walked in.  Followed by-

"Mulder!  That's Skinner, what the hell's he 
doing here?"

"Apparently he finally got that divorce."  
Mulder murmured more to himself than to answer 
her question.  He looked over at his boss and 
thought back to eight years ago when the he and 
his wife had separated. Then, he had promised he 
would be at that bar when he got the divorce, no 
sooner, no later.  But at that time, he had also 
promised he would call him and they would get 
drunk together.   No, don't go there, painful 
memories.

"What?"  Scully didn't here anything about this.

"Didn't you know?  He and Sharon have been apart 
for ages, I guess they finally took the plunge, 
I wonder what took him that long?"  Scully gaped 
at her partner.  It couldn't be him, a child of 
divorce shouldn't have been promoting it.

"Mulder, that's horrible, why aren't you sorry 
that he did it?"  He only shrugged, taking 
another sip of the drink before him.  "You saw 
him and Sharon that time she was sick, they need 
each other, just as much as we need-" She 
paused, revising her speech.  "I can't believe 
that you're looking down on this in a positive 
light."  She glared at him, the evening was 
taking a downward turn. 

"It's just that they needed the time apart."

"You don't know a thing about it."

"Sure, I wouldn't know anything about their 
divorce."  His voice was bitter with a sick kind 
of ironic humor.  Scully wondered what that was.  
She knew that her partner's parents had been 
separated, but that trauma had been dulled due 
to the fact he was numb most of the time after 
Samantha's disappearance.  Scully would have 
been surprised if he even remembered it.  Her 
boss plopped down and asked for the biggest 
bottle of Vodka they had.  "You know, I'm tired, 
could you drive me home, I think I am a little 
tipsy."  He stood up, and wobbled a bit.  Scully 
rolled her eyes, and led him to the door, 
throwing one last glance at Walter Skinner 
chugging a Smirnoff while the bartender shook 
her head and resumed cleaning up after the two 
agents that had just left. 

*****

Residence of Daniel Valedeo
231 Dansforth St.
Greenwich CT
1:45 am

"You know, Danny, why wouldn't you let me drive?  
You were tired."  She dropped her bags on the 
familiar oriental rug.

"Because I didn't want to die of premature heart 
failure, that's why."

"I'm not that bad."

"Your driver's ed teacher musta had an 
aneurysm."  She wacked him lightly.  Debbie made 
her way up the stairs and into the last door on 
the left.  In the darkened room slept a blond 
haired teenager, forever a curly haired little 
girl in her memory.  The wallpaper was sky-blue 
with yellow stars, her influence.  She had a 
brass bed with blue sheets and star shaped throw 
pillows. On it's seat of honor, a tiny Marvin 
the Martian sat on the window sill, his 
influence.  The body was racked with a coughing 
spell and sat up hurriedly.  Debbie ran over, 
and grabbed the garbage can.  The girl wretched 
into the container and let her body fall back 
into her down comforters.  Deborah ran to the 
bathroom and wet a rag to clean off her fevered 
face.

"I can't believe he left you alone like this."  
She brushed the hair out of the girl's eyes.  
And felt her forehead.  Very warm.

"I told him to.  He was hovering all day.  I was 
sick of it.  I am really glad to see you again.  
To bad I'm sick."  Her voice was dry.  Throat 
parched, and her head pounded incessantly.

"We'll have to change that won't we."  Debbie 
grinned at the girl, and kissed her lightly on 
the forehead.  She tucked her in and dumped the 
garbage can out into the toilet.  She got out an 
old basin he kept under the sink of the bathroom 
for these occasions and put if next to her bed.  
It was going to be a long night.  Debbie dozed 
in the big armchair next to her bed.  Sometime 
in the middle of the night, May woke up again 
and threw up into the basin.  Debbie cleaned her 
up again and tucked her back in.

*****

Scully Residence
1:34 am

Mulder had been right, he was really tipsy.  She 
had given up on the idea of driving him home, he 
was draped all over her tiny frame.  So she had 
just left his car in the lot and called a cab.  
She then realized that she had left her purse in 
his apartment and that Mulder only had enough 
money for one cab trip, and she was already in 
front of her apartment building.  She sighed and 
dragged him out of the car.  As she hauled him 
to the elevator and watched her landlady size 
Mulder up and whistled quietly before giving 
Scully a thumbs up and a conspiratorial wink.  
She sighed and hoped that her neighbors wouldn't 
bother her first thing in the morning about 
sexually driven screaming and pounding that they 
imagined after the gossip spread.  She sighed 
and fumbled around with her key.  Finally 
opening the door, she deposited the sleeping man 
on her couch.  She let out a breath and silently 
pondered how much Mulder would have to pay for 
putting her through this whole ordeal.  She 
slumped into her room and changed before falling 
into a fevered sleep.

*****

Residence of Daniel Valledeo
Sunday, December 13, 1998
8:45 am

When dawn broke, Debbie had been up all night, 
so she decided to get an early start and make 
some home cooked soup for May.  She carried the 
steaming tray up the stairs and heard gentle 
snoring coming from Danny's room.  He had fallen 
asleep early last night.  Tired from the long 
drives.  He was already gone when she did her 
three o'clock rounds.  She had covered him up 
and turned off the light.  Marked his page and 
put the book away.  Now, she set down the tray 
on May's nightstand.  The smell of hot chicken 
broth, chamomile tea and toast with sweet cream 
woke the blonde up.

"Hmm...  That smells great, is it for me?"  She 
opened her eyes lazily to her favorite person in 
the world smiling at her.  It was going to be a 
good day.

"Of course.  Think you could keep down some 
broth?"  She smoothed the hair on the girl's 
tousled head.

"I think so, did you make it?  Or is it the 
canned stuff I had to suffer while you were 
gone?"

"You are getting spoiled."  Debbie picked up the 
bowl and spooned some up to let it cool a 
little.  May sat up in bed, ready to eat.

"It's not my fault that for four years I 
practically lived with the best cook in the 
world.  Umm!"  The girl would have normally 
protested being spoon-fed soup but this was a 
different story, this was Aunt Deb.  "Yum!  
More!"

"Pig."  Debbie handed over the bowl and let her 
eat.  She propped her head up on her elbow and 
watched her.  "Does your head still hurt?"

"Nope, my throat is still a little soar."

"Where the hell did you catch it?"

"Daniel Martin Valedeo."  She picked up the 
toast and bit eagerly into it.

"Jerk.  Later, if you feel up to it, we could go 
pick out your present."  She hoped the girl 
wouldn't ask for something she couldn't give.

"Okay.  Can you get remarried?"  Her voice was 
so hopeful.

Damn.  She had to go pick the one thing that she 
couldn't do, could have bought her the fucking 
Louvre if she put her heart into it... but no...

"Maybe."  May's face brightened, "But not to 
him."  It fell.  She pouted.

"Then I wanna car."

"Dream on, May.  You're getting something that 
can fit into a standard box."

"Rolls of thousand dollar bills."

"That's it... come here!"

*****

The present had been decided.  May was coming 
with her to New York for a week.  And she could 
splurge at Macy's, although Debbie's tastes 
veered more towards Saks on Fifth Ave., limited 
edition suits by Versace, and Armani, her second 
cousin, niece, whatever, had decidedly simpler 
ideals.  Calvin Klein was the only thing she 
would wear.  Debbie was certain Calvin Klein was 
the only thing she wouldn't wear, what psycho 
would wear a dress like that anyway?  Debbie 
stared off into space as the father and daughter 
packed her things for the trip.  In the back of 
her mind, she wondered if she would have had the 
same arguments about how short skirts were 
allowed to be with her daughter.

*****

Scully Residence
Sunday, December 13, 1998
11:34 am

Scully woke with a groan and an IRS sized 
headache.  She was barely awake before her 
stomach urged her to run into the bathroom and 
deposit the last three day's worth of food in 
the toilet.  She felt a cool hand on her hair, 
brushing it out of her face, and then bringing a 
damp towel to her face and wiping away the mess.  
Some part of her mind registered that the man at 
her side was Fox Mulder, friend, partner, the 
lead man in most of her dreams, and not 
necessarily bad ones.  Scully couldn't believe 
that she had such and awful hang-over from three 
beers.

"Ohhhh...God..."  She turned around on the cold 
tile floor and slumped against the sink.  Mulder 
sat next to her, looking perfect in an Oxford 
sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.

"You okay?"

"I feel like shit.  You drank more than me, why 
are you feeling good?"  She pouted and knitted 
her brow.

"I went through this sometime early this 
morning.  I went home, changed and came back 
just in case you were experiencing the same kind 
of hell I was."

"You were going to leave me here if we didn't 
get drunk last night?"

"I am shocked, Scully, I'm not the kind of guy 
that goes for one night stands."  She would have 
hit him but she felt too weak.

"Have your fun while you can, wait until I get 
my strength back, then I will do unspeakable 
things to you-"

"Frohike's going to love this one."

"Shut up Mulder.  How do you get over it so 
quickly?"

"I don't, I've been up since five in the 
morning, retching and making promises that I 
will never ever touch another alcoholic 
beverage."  He placed a cool hand to her 
forehead and frowned.  "I think you have a 
fever."

"Mulder, I'm fine.  I don't think that you'll 
actually adhere to your promise though."  Scully 
ignored his medical advise.

Mulder sighed, if she wasn't going to listen to 
him, so be it.  "Naturally."  He helped her up 
and led her to the bedroom again, he sat her 
down on the bed.  "Scully, do you have any idea 
what time it is?"  She shook her head mutely and 
tried to keep her mind off of the incessant 
pounding of her temples.  "Oh.  Well, Skinner 
should be calling right about -" The phone rang 
shrilly, almost making Scully scream in 
surprise.  "-Now."

He picked up the phone and raised his hand to 
silence her.  "Hello?"  He stiffened, what the 
hell, it really was Skinner, he had been joking.  
"Sir?  Oh, I'm here because she isn't feeling 
well, she asked me to come over sometime this 
morning...  Yes, she's all better now, it was 
just a little morning sickness..."  Scully 
smacked him hard on the leg.  "Oh, no!  It 
wasn't morning sickness, she just wasn't a 
hundred percent...yes I know that if she was 
pregnant then that excuse would work."  He 
looked down at her alluringly.  She just glared 
at him.  "Uh-huh, I think we could work on a 
case, as long as it's local...no sir, no!  You 
can't do this dammit! You can't!  Hello?  
Bastard."  He slammed Scully's phone back onto 
the nightstand.  His eyes were cold.

"Pack up, Scully, we're going to New York."

*****

Office of Walter Skinner
11:50 am

That had been the hardest thing he had had to do 
in a while.  Send Mulder to New York for some 
consulting for that local field office.  But 
Mulder needed to get away, step back.  Hell, 
soon, Mulder was going to go off the deep end.  
He would have to go off the deep end, revisiting 
the demons that he had fought so long and so 
hard to suppress.  And Skinner didn't want to 
feel responsible.  That would be much on his 
conscience.   

There were already enough things waiting in line 
to torment him there.  

He felt dirty.  

Last night, he had gotten drunk on Vodka and 
Screwdrivers, and slept with some woman. He had 
awoken in her apartment and snuck out.  When he 
had gotten home he had scrubbed himself in the 
shower for almost an hour, trying to wash her 
scent off of him.  That was the only reason he 
hadn't called Mulder and Scully until so late in 
the morning about their tardiness. Skinner had 
suspected for quite sometime now that they were 
sleeping together, now he had proof.  Mulder was 
an awful liar.  He shook his head and picked up 
the phone, he had to tell her not to take this 
case.  But against his better judgment he 
decided to let things take their course, and 
placed the receiver back.

Walter Skinner did something he hadn't done or 
thought about in years.  He picked up his car 
keys and decided to go to church.

*****