Title: The Devil in a Button Down Shirt
Author: Agent L
Classification: S, Muldertorture, Mulderangst, implied Scullyangst
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing themes
Spoilers: Irresistible; passing reference to Darkness Falls and a
character death in One Son. Cancer arc.
Distribution: Archive anywhere, but keep my name and
e-mail attached please!
Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Fox:
I know they're not mine, I just can't resist playing with them. No money
is expected or would ever be accepted for this.
Summary: Donnie Pfaster escapes and goes after Mulder.
This takes place somewhere between the 6th and 7th
seasons, which means Orison never happened.
Author Notes: This is for Vickie, who asked for a non-post-Requiem story.
Feedback: Yes, please! LHoward388@aol.com.

Format note: The symbols // and * both indicate italics. I used // for
the longer passages and with quotes, for easier reading.
 

The Devil in a Button Down Shirt

Fox Mulder was on his knees in front of a filing cabinet when
Dana Scully walked into the office. He glanced up at her approach,
taking inventory out of habit. Her auburn hair was neatly combed,
and she was dressed in what he thought of as her uniform: her usual
dark suit, a soft, simple blouse under the suit jacket, the skirt a
government-approved conservative length. Her heels clicked
authoritatively on the cement floor of the basement office. In short,
Dana Scully was a shining example of the modern professional woman.
Only someone familiar with her, who had worked with her for the
past 6 years or so, would see the faint shadows under her eyes and
the tautness around her mouth. Or someone trained to notice those
things in people. Mulder was both.

"Scully, you look like hell."

"Gee, thanks Mulder. Good morning to you, too."

He watched in appreciation as she deftly stepped around
several boxes and precariously balanced stacks of paper to
lean against the corner of his desk. His position on the floor
put him eye level with her knees. Not a bad place for a guy to be,
he mused, surreptitiously breathing in the soft rose fragrance that
was uniquely Scully.

"Mulder...What are you doing?"

The no-nonsense voice brought his eyes up to hers. "I - uh -"
Then he noticed her gaze was on the filing cabinet. "Our dearly
departed Jeffrey Spender took it upon himself to rearrange my files."

"You mean he alphabetized them? Put them in chronological order?"

He gave her a look that had made junior agents quiver and murder
suspects spill their guts. For some reason it had never affected her --
unless you counted the times she glared back. "You could help me out."
He gestured toward one of the leaning piles of paper.

"As much as I'd love to...I have a meeting with Skinner this morning."

"Alone?"

She nodded briefly. He was surprised. They were nearly always
called to Skinner's office together -- usually over Mulder's latest trespass.
Skinner would tell him to clean up his act, and warn Scully to make
sure he did. They would nod and agree, and continue to do whatever
was necessary to solve their cases.

"You sure you don't want me to come along?" he asked hopefully.

"Sorry. Skinner asked for me."

He shrugged and turned back to the files as she left the office.
Something was wrong, but he already knew the answer he'd get if
he asked. "I'm fine, Mulder." Scully's version of a big red Stop sign,
a no trespassing notice that he'd long ago learned to respect, even if
he didn't understand it. Even at her lowest point, dying of cancer in
the hospital only a year ago, every time he had asked her how she
was he'd heard "I'm fine, Mulder." Sometimes he wanted to grab her
and shake that famous composure, to make her cry or scream or
give him a hard right to the jaw. If Mulder was led too much by his
emotions and instincts, Scully had buried them deeply beneath a high
mound of logic and science. And as aggravating as that could be,
he supposed that was why they worked so well together.

Late at night when he couldn't sleep -- which was frequently -- he
sometimes wondered why she stayed with him. For a woman who
had been on the fast track at the FBI, working the X-Files would
bring her train to a screeching halt. If she'd been the proper little
debunker she was supposed to be, he'd probably be reporting
to A.D. Scully right now. But her sense of justice and natural
curiosity had drawn her back to his side time after time, even
when the door had opened on other opportunities and he'd tried
to push her toward them, toward a normal life -- a life she said
she wanted.

But she stayed. That was an X-File in itself. This wasn't her life's
work, it was his. So why was she still here? For the chance to
track down yet another slime-tracking, toxic-blooded mutated alien
suspect? Doubtful. Whatever her reasons, they were her own and
he didn't question them -- didn't particularly want to know.
Strange behavior from a man who had risked his life in search of
the truth. He didn't look at that too closely, either. All he knew was
that his dependence on her frightened him -- but he could no longer
imagine life without her.

Mulder stuffed a file back in the cabinet, thinking maybe Scully had
the right idea after all, burying those emotions.
______________
Mulder had quickly become bored with the files, having a limited
attention span for anything remotely like office work, so when Scully
came back about 20 minutes later, the room was essentially as she
had left it. The mess had actually spread to his desk in the form of
some recently obtained satellite photos. He glanced up when the door
opened. "Hey, Scully, I found some --" If she'd been any other
woman he would have rushed to grab a chair for her and given her
a glass of water. She looked like she'd seen a ghost. And he knew
that look better than most people. "What did Skinner say to you?"
he asked, carefully keeping his tone neutral.

She sat down and gave him a smile that never came near her eyes.
"The usual. I've been told to rein you in, shorten the leash, call the
reinforcements...Choose your
cliche."

"Scully..."

"I didn't sleep very well last night, Mulder. I'm just not feeling well
today, okay?"

Keep out. Big red letters, flashing neon. From long practice, he quickly
changed the subject and her body relaxed somewhat as they drifted into
familiar territory. He would offer his latest outrageous theory -- today's
selection was recent UFO activity near the Bermuda Triangle --
and she would promptly shoot it full of holes. Just another day
with Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.

He was just getting warmed up -- he could tell by the glazed look
in her eyes -- when the phone rang.

"Mulder."

"Hey, Mulder, it's me, Danny."

"Yeah?"

"I was just wondering if you'd heard the news yet. Donnie Pfaster
escaped from prison early this morning."

Mulder's glance flew to Scully, who had leaned in to examine the
photos more closely, and he almost heard an audible clicking noise
as the puzzle pieces fit neatly into place. "No...I hadn't," he murmured.

"You gonna tell Agent Scully?"

"No, I think Skinner's already taken care of it. Thanks Danny."
He hung up, then toyed with a stray pencil for a few moments
before he spoke, trying to control the anger that boiled up inside him.
The pencil snapped, attracting her attention. "When were you going
to tell me?" he said, and could tell by her blush he had guessed
correctly. "I assume that's what the meeting with Skinner was about."

"Skinner wanted to let me know in person," she said. "Because of
my personal involvement in the Pfaster case."

"'Personal involvement'? That's a nice, clinically detached way to
put it, Scully. He almost killed you. He threatened you at the trial."

"And --?" She went into full professional mode, St. Scully wrapping
herself in her protective armor. Untouchable, her blue eyes like chips
of ice, her jaw rigid, chin tilted up like a boxer daring her opponent
to take a swing. "I've been threatened before, Mulder. I know how
to take care of myself."

"Yes, Scully, you do. But I almost --"

*Lost you.* He swallowed the words, nearly choking on them.
She would not want to be reminded of that. In the awkward silence,
he stood and walked over to a file cabinet, where he slammed one
of the drawers shut. "Why did you lie to me?"

"Because I can take care of myself," she repeated quietly.
"I'm fine, Mulder."

He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. "I hope that's the truth."
 
 

Trust no one.

He'd lived by that motto for most of his adult life, rarely letting
down his guard even in his own family. He didn't know how this
petite redheaded stranger had slipped past the barriers, but he
had come to trust her more than he even trusted himself. He trusted
her with his life, and up until a few moments ago, he had believed
she returned that trust.

She'd scared the hell out of him, that cold stranger in his office.
Why had she lied to him about Donnie Pfaster? He knew what
Pfaster had done to her, physically and emotionally -- but they had
shared that nightmare. Mulder would never forget standing in the
cold Minnesota rain, sick with despair and self-recrimination, as he
stared at her wrecked car. Somehow he'd managed to fight down
his panic, and force himself to detach, to get inside Pfaster's head,
as unpleasant as that was. It was still only through sheer luck he
had arrived at the house before the madman had carried out his
plan to kill her.

She had stood in front of him, bruised and trembling, unable to
look him in the eyes, reciting her mantra: "I'm fine, Mulder." But he'd
known she was lying, because he was still terrified himself. He had
gently tilted her stubborn chin, forcing her to face him, and then held
her as she cried in his arms, comforted by the reality of her shaking
body and warm tears soaking his shirt.

In the months that followed, he had tried to talk to her a few times,
only to have his questions ignored or swiftly pushed aside. As a
former profiler, he knew what close contact with a monster could
do to a person -- especially if that contact hadn't been voluntary.
But as Scully continued to work as efficiently and logically as ever,
he convinced himself that he had simply overreacted. Scully wasn't
like other women, after all. She was ... Scully.

Pretty soon he had stopped worrying about her, as they both
grew absorbed in their work and fell back into familiar patterns.
She had faced other monsters since then, human and otherwise,
right by his side. She had battled cancer, which had nearly claimed
her last year and had frightened him in ways he could never reveal
to her. To him and everyone else she appeared unbreakable, perhaps
even inflexible. But now he realized that something had broken in her
that night, something that had never completely healed.

*I'm fine, Mulder.*

Trust no one.
__________
He didn't see much of her the rest of the day, whether by design
or coincidence -- probably a little of both. They were between
cases, finishing up paperwork, and usually completed their reports
on their own. When she came to the office late in the afternoon in
search of a file, the shadows under her eyes looked like bruises.
She was distracted, barely giving him a smile when he tried a couple
of his lamest jokes on her.

//"If you're having trouble with his case, I want you to tell me."
"I'm not having trouble, Mulder." //

She was so damned strong, so determined to prove to everyone
she was unaffected by the frequently gruesome nature of their
work -- and with her medical background, she *was* better
prepared than many agents to deal with the sometimes horrifying
crime scenes. Mulder himself usually found a reason to be elsewhere
when she performed autopsies. But while she was apparently
unaffected by the results of violence, he had come to realize that
the reasons behind the violence disturbed her. She drew her strength
from doing the job, much as he did -- but where he was fascinated
by the unfathomable twists and turns of the deviant mind, she was
repulsed. It wasn't what these criminals did, but their often twisted
motives that shook her finely honed sense of right and wrong.
Not that she would ever tell him, for fear she would be seen as weak --
but over time he had come to recognize the subtle signs. If only he'd
paid more attention when they were tracking Donnie Pfaster.

//"I'm fine, Mulder."//

But she wasn't fine.

He didn't know how to offer assistance in a way she would accept.
She rarely needed help with anything, and if he was completely
honest with himself, he liked it that way. When he remembered the
tightness around her mouth and the dark shadows under her eyes
earlier, however, he had the sudden, fierce desire to track down
Pfaster himself. But Mulder had fought enough demons to know
that you had to face them one-on-one. Besides, he didn't want to
piss Scully off by ditching her.
__________
A few minutes later he was standing outside Assistant Director
Walter Skinner's office. He and Skinner had over the years reached
an uneasy truce. Skinner was an ex-Marine, by the book and
no-nonsense, a man who wouldn't believe in UFOs even if E.T.
asked him for a dime to phone home. Mulder had suspected him
of being part of a larger conspiracy at first, but Skinner had saved
his ass more than once over the years, professionally and literally.
As aggravating as the man could be, he was on their side -- although
Mulder suspected it had more to do with Scully than any increased
receptivity to extreme possibilities. He didn't care as long as it kept
the X-Files open. Although it was after 7 p.m., Skinner was still in
his office and waved Mulder in when he knocked at the door.

Mulder entered the office and sat down. "Sir, I'd like to request
that Scully and I be assigned to the Donnie Pfaster task force.
I think our prior experience and profile will be valuable in tracking
him down."

Skinner leaned back in his chair. "I agree. I'd like your files on
my desk at 9 tomorrow morning. You, however, will not be working
on the task force."

"Why the hell not?" At Skinner's granite-eyed stare, he added, "Sir."

"You're familiar with Agent Ted Rogers?"

Skinner knew damn well he was familiar with Rogers. The two of
them had never seen eye to eye -- not that Mulder was cozy with
many of his fellow agents -- but Rogers held a couple of grudges
about previous cases he had been involved in where Mulder had
received most of the credit for the solution. Rogers was an excellent
agent -- a hard worker and a decent profiler. But Mulder had a gift.
Some admired it. Others, like Rogers, resented it.

"Rogers is in charge of the task force. He's already assembled his team."

"But -"

"If he wants your help, he'll ask for it. Meanwhile, I want those
files on my desk first thing tomorrow. Good night, Agent Mulder."

Knowing from experience it was useless to argue (although that
didn't always stop him from trying), Mulder left Skinner's office
and went back to the basement to try to distract himself with a
new case, and hopefully distract Scully as well.
________
When Scully walked into the office the next morning, Mulder had
a map spread out across the desk and was carefully marking coordinates.
He glanced up long enough to notice evidence of another sleepless night.
An insomniac himself, he could usually recognize it in others. She had
a haunted look that he hadn't seen for quite some time, and he felt a
nagging, familiar guilt. That look usually had something to do with him,
with one of their cases. He had witnessed the physical price she had
paid for her involvement with him, but had never really thought about
the emotional cost -- partly because she never mentioned it, and
partly because he never asked. Didn't really want to know.

As she approached, he shoved those troubling thoughts back to
the corner of his mind to examine sometime later that night. Picking
up a manila envelope, he dumped some photos and a letter onto his desk.

"How'd you like to take a nice little trip to the forest with me, Scully?"

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Mulder, the last time you took me
on a nice little trip to the forest, we both nearly died."

"So you're saying no?"

"Listen, Mulder, I need to --"

"Look at these photos." He shoved them across the desk at her.
"The best recent evidence I've seen of a beast man -- Sasquatch,
Bigfoot -- whatever you want to call him, living up in the forests.
The letter came from a geologist in Oregon who says he and his
crew can all document the sightings." He wasn't entirely convinced
of the photos' or the geologist's authenticity, but he'd taken cases on
less evidence, and he was desperate to get her away from Pfaster and
whatever nightmares were draining the life from her. He'd been up until
nearly dawn looking for a new X-file. Of all the times for the paranormal
world to be in a lull....

After a quick shuffle through them, Scully set the pictures back
on the desk, stacked neatly. "Mulder, it's probably a bear who
wandered out of the woods in search of food. Why is it when
people take photos of these creatures they never have a decent
camera? You can't prove anything with these images."

He grabbed the pictures and leaned back in his chair, flipping
through them. "Come on, Scully. A couple days in the clean,
pine-scented air will do us both good. We can check out the guy's
story and be back before Skinner even knows we're gone."

"Mulder, that's what I need to tell you. You'll have to go to Oregon
by yourself."

He looked up, startled, and set the photos on the desk. Her blue
eyes met his, but only for an instant, and he felt a sudden chill.
She only avoided looking at him when she had something to say that
he wouldn't want to hear.

"I've asked to be assigned to the Pfaster task force. Skinner granted
my request, albeit reluctantly. You're on your own for a few days."

He sat back, speechless for one of the few times in his life, torn
between the desire to comfort her and the urge to strangle her.
Had she known about this yesterday? Had Skinner known last night?
Why the hell was everyone leaving him in the dark?

His first impulse was to argue, and he saw her go into defensive
mode, sitting stiffly in the chair, ready to counter his expected objections.
But he really didn't have much of a case here, and had never been
particularly interested in Bigfoot anyway. He'd been up most of the night
and knew she had, too. For once he didn't feel like arguing. At least not
at the moment.

"Fine."

He was perversely pleased when her jaw dropped. He loved to
shock people, especially the unflappable Scully.

" 'Fine'?" she parroted. "That's it?"

He picked up his pencil and jotted down something on the map,
pretending a calmness he did not feel. Every nerve screamed at him
to protect her, but he'd be damned if he'd beg her to let him help.
"What do you want me to say, Scully? You've already made
your decision." He looked at her then and forced a smile.
"But when I get credit for finally capturing Bigfoot, just remember
you had your chance."

One of the hardest things he would ever do was let her walk out
of the office a few moments later.
 
 

He had lived in their minds, followed them down the twisting,
narrow corridors of fear and madness -- playing a deadly game
of chess in which one wrong move was another body, another
failure. He had scrambled along the cliff's edge time after time
in wild pursuit and somehow managed to step back from the abyss
when it was over. But each time a little more earth crumbled beneath
his feet. Even now, on his worst nights, he was still haunted by the
images borrowed from crazed minds, the nightmares he had willingly
adopted as his own. He could never erase those memories, only
suppress them, bury them deep and pray they wouldn't rise up out
of his subconscious to drag him into the darkness forever.

At least he had been trained -- he had known what to expect,
if not the full extent. She was walking blindly into that world, a place
she knew nothing about, had not prepared herself to enter -- so intent
on her goal that she wouldn't know she was slipping over the edge
until it was too late. And her revenge or her victory, whatever she was
trying to prove to herself or to the world, would mean nothing when the
fear came -- fear that the madness she had dared to chase and conquer
had somehow infected her own mind. No one was that far from being
the next Jeffrey Dahmer or Donnie Pfaster...

//...The young woman had been strangled, two fingers removed, hair
hacked off. The image was made more ghoulish by the red and blue
flashing lights of the emergency vehicles, which gave the scene a surreal
feel as he crouched next to the body. The girl's pale arms and legs stood
out starkly against the cinders and dirt of the alley, marred with bruises
and scrapes from her struggle. Long dark hair obscured part of her face,
and more bruises on her neck indicated how she had probably died.
He reached down to brush the hair back, to look into her eyes, to view
another rigid death mask and try to imagine what she had seen in the last
moments of her life....//

Pfaster had killed again.

Mulder jerked awake, stunned by the clarity of the vision, and
desperately hoped he was wrong -- that the dream had come from
his emotional involvement in the case and from reviewing the file
earlier in the day. From experience, however, he had learned to
trust these flashes or instincts, as repulsive as they could sometimes
be. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then closed his eyes,
only to have the dead woman's image reappear.

*And people call this a gift...*

He reached for the phone and dialed a number. After several rings
and some strange clicking noises, a sleepy voice answered.
"This better be important or obscene."

"Langly?"

There was a sigh on the other end. "It's after 1 in the morning, Mulder.
Do you ever sleep?"

"About as often as you get lucky, Langly. Have you got the scanner on?"

"Maybe."

"Anything interesting? A homicide, possibly in the vicinity of Georgetown?"

The line was silent for a moment. "Man, no wonder they call you Spooky."

"I need somebody to keep an eye on Scully."

Langly laughed. "Yeah, right. Frohike went over there earlier tonight and
she chased him off. He claims she drew a gun on him. Most excitement
he's had in months."

Mulder smiled at the thought. Poor Frohike. "Humor me, okay?"

"Sure, Mulder. We'll get right on it."

His first impulse had been to go over there himself, but if she thought
he was trying to protect her or rescue her, she'd only pull away -- and
he wanted to keep close to her right now. If he'd thought Scully was in
any immediate danger, he would have gone to her apartment -- gun or
no gun -- and slept at the foot of her bed if necessary. The murder tonight
had simply been Pfaster's first move, an announcement of his presence.
The location, near Scully's neighborhood, was a direct challenge to her --
but he wouldn't make his move yet. He'd waited too long for this.

The game had begun.

________
"Hey, Scully. Late night?" He kept his tone light, but he was worried.
Her naturally light skin was paler than usual, her eyes bloodshot and
bruised-looking.

"Mulder...Shouldn't you be in Oregon right now?"

He couldn't tell from her tone if she was glad he was still here or
wishing he had gone. "Uh, yeah, well, about Oregon...The lab guys
said the photos were fakes -- damn good ones, but fakes nonetheless.
And it turns out the geologist wasn't a geologist after all, but some tabloid
news guy trying to prove that the government wastes taxpayers' money
by chasing monsters and aliens." He had taken great pleasure in telling
the journalist in graphic detail what he would do to him if he tried
something like that again, and might have demonstrated if he had seen
the man in person. The opportunity to relieve some of this tension
would have been worth the scold from Skinner.

"Sorry, Mulder," she said, sitting down opposite him.

He shrugged and kept his tone casual. "I was thinking since I have
some free time maybe I could help out with the Pfaster case. I heard
there was another murder." He didn't want to mention that he knew it
was close to her apartment building and wasn't about to tell her he'd
seen it in a vision.

She kept her hands clasped in her lap and took a deep breath. "Yes.
I found out this morning."

"Why don't I give Skinner a call and find out if --"

"Mulder -- I'd prefer you didn't."

He sat back in his chair, surprised. Scully was stubborn and
independent, but he thought she'd welcome his assistance, especially
since he'd profiled the suspect in the first place. "Any particular reason?"

She stood up and began to pace the small office. "This is something I
need to do. It's important to me."

"I understand that, Scully, but --"

"No, I don't think you do." She turned to face him. "As much as you
respect me -- and I value that, Mulder, I truly do -- you have no idea
of how difficult it is to be woman in this overgrown boy's club. We have
to run faster, climb higher and be smarter just to be allowed in the door.
One moment of weakness, a hint of vulnerability, and you're somehow
less of an agent -- less of a person." She sat down and he saw the tears
shining in her eyes, the very vulnerability she hated. "Donnie Pfaster made
me lose my faith -- in myself and in my ability to do the job. I'm not going
to let him take that away again."

Mulder looked at her for a few long moments. It was true that he had
never had to deal with prejudice because of his gender -- but as "Spooky"
Mulder, he certainly understood being considered an outsider, somehow
lacking, having to prove himself -- over and over. And from the age of 12,
he had understood lost faith. "I know what Pfaster did to you," he said
quietly. "I was there."

"Then you know what this means to me," she replied, staring down
at her hands, tightly folded in her lap. He stood up and walked over
to kneel beside her, putting a hand over hers. With his other hand, he
gently tipped her chin up --just as he had that night four years before --
until she looked in his eyes.

"You don't have to prove anything to me," he murmured.

"This isn't about you, Mulder." She gently drew away from his touch...
from him.

*Yes, it is. It's about how I failed you. That's why you can't trust me
to help you now.*

He had put that pain in her eyes, was as responsible as Pfaster for what
had happened to her, and he hated himself at that moment. His throat
grew tight with guilt and grief, and he stood up abruptly and turned his
back on her, with the pretense of going over to the file cabinet. How ironic
that she spoke of her weakness and yet he was the one who could not
face the truth.

"I have to go," she said.

He nodded and opened a file drawer. She pulled the door closed
behind her. He turned around and with a sudden, violent motion,
swept half the contents off his desk to send them crashing to the floor.
_________
His day went downhill from there. Skinner called him in and read him the
riot act about his unprofessional behavior in the Bigfoot incident.
Apparently the tabloid reporter had threatened a lawsuit.
Rogers saw him in the hallway and made some snide comment
about Scully finally joining the rest of the Bureau. Mulder's prompt
response earned him another visit to Skinner, whose mood hadn't
improved in the past thirty minutes. When he got back to his office
it took him hours to clean up the mess from his desk.

He then spent some fruitless time in trying to find out the status of the
Pfaster investigation before he gave up and went home. After checking
in with Frohike, who said all was clear, he grabbed some fast food and
did some research on death fetishists and necrophiliacs -- just another
typical day in the life of Fox Mulder, he thought grimly as he closed one
of the books that had made even him shudder.

He switched on the television around midnight, and as he settled in for
the evening wondered what Scully was doing right now.

//...She never begged or pleaded, almost as if she thought she had a
choice in whether she lived or died...right up to the end. Bruises blossom
on her delicate throat. Her full lips are slightly parted, as if inviting a
kiss,
and I press my mouth against hers. The skin is already deliciously chilled,
and he glides his tongue delicately, slowly up her soft cheek to taste the
sweet-salty tang of her sweat and tears. She cried silently, even as she
fought him, but he respects her for not sobbing, trying to use her feminine
wiles to save herself.

He pulls out his knife to finish the work, although the urge to linger, to
play, is strong. He wants to celebrate his triumph in the ultimate act of
dominance, to possess her in death as he could not in life -- as he suspects
few men ever did. A few quick slices and he clutches her hair in his fist.
The strands are the bright red-gold of a summer sunset. He smells the
faint scent of roses and inhales deeply before he moves to claim his next
prize.

Her hands are still clenched into fists. So small. Clean, blunt nails with
no polish. He breaks the fragile bones to straighten out the fingers, and
discovers a clump of his own hair in her palm, pulled out sometime during
the struggle. The sight of it enrages him, and the tender, subtle moment
vanishes. The knife flashes...slashes -- blood spatters like crimson rain
across the floor, her face, his white shirt. When he finishes, he has taken
more than he intended, but it somehow seems right, since she took so
much from him, so many years.

He puts Agent Scully's hand in his coat pocket.//

Mulder woke up with a ragged gasp, covered in cold sweat. He sat up
and switched on the light, wincing at the brightness but desperate to
drive away the dark, to banish the evil that left him chilled and shaking.
He grabbed the phone and called Frohike, who told him nothing had
happened for hours and asked if Mulder would reimburse him for the
pizza he'd ordered. Knowing that sleep would be impossible for the
rest of the night, Mulder got in his car and drove over to Scully's
apartment building to check it out for himself, waking the manager.
After a $50 bribe and colorful cursing, the man phoned Scully's apartment
with some flimsy excuse of testing the phone system. She answered
promptly, much to Mulder's relief. He left the building and stopped to
steal a slice of Frohike's pizza before he headed back home, taking the
highway in an attempt to outrun the demons that still clamored at the
back of his mind.
 
 

When he first saw the lights in his rearview mirror he figured some
bored trooper was going to pull him over, since he was only going
about 5 miles over the limit. But the warning lights never flashed,
even though the vehicle approached rapidly and tailed him closely
for a few moments. Mulder took his foot off the gas, deciding it was
probably some joy riding teenager who would zip on past. The car
drew up next to him and before he had time to figure out what was
going on, the other driver had rammed into the side of his car, forcing
it off the road. He skidded to a stop with the aid of a shallow ditch
and fumbled for his gun even as someone opened the door and dragged
him out of the car. His attacker threw him against the other car, and
slammed his gun hand against the roof. A stab of pain went from his
wrist to his elbow and the gun slipped from his numb fingers. Moments
later the weapon was pressed against his throat and he was looking into
an all-too-familiar face.

"Tell me Agent Mulder, how's your partner, Agent Scully?"
Pfaster said pleasantly.

"Pissed that you're back on the street," Mulder replied. "If you wanted
to talk to me, you could have just dropped by the office."

He wasn't expecting the backhanded blow that snapped his head to
the right. Always a big man, apparently Donnie had spent some time
in the exercise yard. He tasted blood in his mouth.

"Give me your handcuffs."

"I'm not really into --" The next blow to his stomach doubled him over
and left him on the edge of consciousness for a few frightening moments.
*Shut up, Mulder. Just shut up and cooperate.*

"They're in the car," he gasped, struggling for breath. "In the glove
compartment."

Pfaster dragged him back to his car, where he grabbed the cuffs as
well as Mulder's cell phone, then twisted Mulder's arms behind him
and locked the handcuffs around his wrists.

"This is how it feels to be arrested," he hissed, and shoved Mulder
over to the other car, keeping the gun firmly pressed in the back of his
neck. He opened the trunk and Mulder felt an involuntary shudder go
through him. At 6 feet tall, he disliked small spaces.

"Look, thanks for the offer, but I'll just call Triple A."

"Shut up and get in."

It wasn't easy with his hands cuffed behind him, but Pfaster was
eager to help, at the expense of a few more bruises. He quickly bound
Mulder's ankles with rope and then gagged him with a cloth that smelled
of gasoline and oil.

"This is how it feels in solitary confinement," he said, and slammed the
trunk closed. A few moments later there was a muffled roar and Mulder
felt the vibration of the car pulling back onto the road. He wasn't normally
claustrophobic, but his knees were jammed into his chest and he could
only move a few inches in any direction. Fighting down panic, he tried to
breathe slowly and deeply, but his ribs ached and he felt dizzy and sick
from the fumes in the gag.

He tested the handcuffs and winced as the cold metal dug into his wrists,
sending shards of pain up the arm that Pfaster had slammed against the car.

*Should have watched that stupid Magician's Secrets show on Fox.*

The good news was that the ropes around his ankles had been tied
hastily and he could probably free himself from them, but that wouldn't
do him much good at the moment. Still, any advantage at this point...He
spent several minutes loosening the ropes while trying to figure out
Pfaster's
next move. No doubt Pfaster planned to use him to get to Scully. They'd
all been so concerned about her they hadn't thought about this nasty little
option. He and Scully would have a good laugh about it....Someday.

He tensed as the car slowed, then stopped. There was the muffled
sound of a door closing, and then the blessed feel of fresh air over his face.

Pfaster pulled him out of the trunk and shoved the gun in his ribs.
Mulder choked back a groan as his stiff muscles were forced to move,
but pretended more weakness than he actually felt, and when Pfaster's
grip loosened slightly, he feinted left, then jerked his body to the right,
breaking free. He had only gotten a few feet when something hit him from
behind and he lost his balance. Unable to use his hands to catch himself,
he slammed into the ground. There was a sharp pain in his head and the
next few moments were a blur. By the time he was fully aware of what
was happening, they were already inside the house.

"Sssh. My sister's asleep in the back bedroom."

The quiet voice sent a chill through him for the innocent woman who'd
had the misfortune to be related to this lunatic. He suspected she would
not appreciate a surprise visit from her long lost brother, nor would she
willingly participate in the kidnapping of a federal agent -- unless mental
illness ran in the family.

*There's an encouraging thought.*

Pfaster moved him swiftly through a darkened hallway and into a small
kitchen, where he opened a door and dragged his prisoner down a short
set of stairs to a basement. Pfaster removed the handcuffs just long
enough to loop them around one of the stair rails, forcing Mulder's arms
above his head, his feet barely flat on the floor. He couldn't stop a moan
of pain, forced to rise on his toes to ease the strain on his wrists.

"Good night, Agent Mulder. Sleep tight."

Pfaster went back upstairs and closed the door, leaving the room in nearly
total darkness except for the vague light seeping through a grimy window.
Mulder braced himself against the pain and tried to pull his hands down,
to test the strength of the stair rail. Solid.

It was going to be a long night.

________
He drifted in and out of an exhausted sleep. Each time his body relaxed,
his weight dragged on the handcuffs, and the sudden pain awakened him.
He hurt everywhere. The muscles in his arms were cramped and stiff, his
legs ached from standing for so long. His head throbbed and his throat was
so tight and dry he could hardly swallow.

The grimy window revealed the pale dawn sky outside, and he heard
movement above him, footsteps and voices, muffled and distant.
He wondered if Pfaster had stayed at the house last night, if his sister was
even now learning about his plans. He wondered if anyone even realized
he wasn't at work. His hours were erratic, at best. Scully always kept tabs
on him, but she was working with the task force. How long would it be
before anybody even knew he was gone?

*Scully will figure it out. Scully will come for me.*

And then what? That was exactly what Pfaster wanted. She would play
right into his hands and there would be nothing Mulder could do to help
her. Once again, her partnership with him had put her life in danger.
Frustrated and angry, Mulder spent a few useless moments trying to
free himself, only to send stabbing pain through his ribs and lacerate his
abused wrists.

*This is how she must have felt. Helpless. Furious. Scared.*

The sky lightened outside and hours crept by. He reviewed case files,
named international capitals, and mentally recited New York Knicks
basketball statistics to keep his mind off the pain --even wished Pfaster
would come back to taunt him. For a man who never sat still for more
than a few minutes at a time, the enforced inactivity was nerve wracking --
long periods of boredom broken up by moments of panic, when his muscles
began to spasm and he thought he would smother on the gag.

*Scully. Help me.*

He closed his eyes and focused on her. The way she smiled indulgently
as she listened to one of his theories before proceeding to tell him he was
full of crap...The way her eyes widened and her lips parted when he
occasionally surprised her by agreeing. Her smile... not the polite public
mask she wore every day, but the genuine look of pleasure that lit her eyes
and always made him catch his breath a little, as if he'd seen something rare
and precious. And Scully's laugh. He loved to make her laugh, partly because
it was such a challenge, she was so damned serious, but partly because
when Scully laughed she was beautiful.

He wandered slowly through his memories, his own personal portrait
gallery, as the pain faded into the background.
_______
Agony shot through his arms and he jerked awake as the late afternoon
sun streamed through the tiny window. His legs trembled with exhaustion
and he was now aware of a raging thirst, his lips dry and cracked under
the gag. He listened intently for a few minutes, but heard no movement from
above. What was going on? Had Pfaster contacted Scully yet? The hours of
silence were nearly as torturous as the physical discomfort, and his bored
mind began jumping to conclusions to keep itself occupied. What if Pfaster
had simply gone ahead and killed her? What if he had decided to keep
Mulder as one of his trophies? Feeling the panic starting to rise in his
chest
again, he started to name presidents, but kept losing his concentration.

//Tyler...Polk... Fillmore. Millard Fillmore -- What a stupid name.
Oh, yeah, like Fox Mulder isn't. Where was I? Polk, Fillmore...Fillmore...
Oh, God, this hurts. Where the hell is Scully? I can't breathe -- //

Then he heard the basement door open and a few moments later Pfaster
appeared before him with a sad smile. "Agent Mulder, you don't look well
at all. Your partner's a doctor, isn't she? Maybe we should call her."
He pulled out Mulder's cell phone. "She's on speed dial, I assume."
He pushed a button and held the phone to his ear.

*I'm going to kill you, Pfaster.* At least he had something to focus on
besides the pain now.

"Hello, girly-girl." Pfaster paused, then smiled, glancing sideways at his
prisoner. "You remember. I'm flattered, Dana." He covered the receiver
with his hand. "She's already guessed I'm calling from your phone."

"Smart as well as beautiful," he said, returning his attention to Scully.
"Is your hair still red? Or do you prefer the term 'titian'?"

*What the hell is he talking about?*

"Oh, I'm sorry. He's -- unavailable right now."

*Just let me hear her voice. Please...*

"-- your partner won't interrupt us this time."

*Scully, don't listen to him. Don't sacrifice yourself for me.*

"So eager! Did you think I'd make it easy? No, Dana. You come to me
this time. We'll both be here...although I'm not sure how long Agent
Mulder can wait."

Pfaster hung up the phone and turned cold eyes on Mulder, all pretense of
civility gone. "She'll come here looking for you. But this isn't where it
ends. Not yet."

He went back up the stairs and closed the door.
 
 

Mulder awoke to the sound of the door opening, and had no idea how
long he'd been unconscious, but the window was dark. Pfaster again
appeared in front of him, this time accompanied by a young woman with
long, light brown hair. She was tall and slender, with average features --
a thin face, narrow nose, hazel eyes -- eyes that widened in terror as she
looked at him.

"Agent Mulder, this is my sister, Amelia." Pfaster smiled at him as if he
was making introductions at a cocktail party.

Amelia turned to her brother. "Donnie, he's hurt. Let me help him."

Pfaster shook his head. "No. We have to get ready to go."

He walked over to Mulder and eased the gag down. "Would you like
something to drink?" He held out a glass of iced tea. When Mulder nodded,
Pfaster held the glass up to his mouth. He drank deeply, then choked on
the first swallow and made himself slow down, trying not to gulp the cold
liquid. It tasted strange, somewhat bitter, and Mulder suspected it was
probably drugged, but he didn't care. If it kept the pain at bay for a few
hours, he'd drink two or three glasses.

Pfaster reached for him and he cringed away, thinking he was going to
be gagged again. Instead, the other man unlocked the handcuffs, and the
next few moments passed in a haze of pain as circulation returned to his
arms and legs. He found himself on the floor, his mind screaming at him
to get up and run, his body unresponsive.

He stared at his swollen, discolored right hand, which lay motionless in
front of his face, and wondered vaguely if it was still attached or if the
handcuffs had finally severed it.

*Paging Dr. Scully...*

He tried to move his fingers and was pleased to find he could.
Pfaster said something to him, but he couldn't hear over the buzzing in
his head and didn't really care. He just wanted to lie here and watch his
fingers move. Amelia and Donnie were now engaged in an intense,
whispered discussion, probably regarding what to do about him, and
he supposed he should be paying attention, but he was so tired...The room
darkened and faded.
_________
"Agent Mulder. Come on. Wake up."

Someone slapped him lightly. He obediently came up out of the fog and
opened his eyes, wincing as the bright sunlight stabbed into his brain.
He closed his eyes again and as consciousness grew, he realized he was in
a car, no longer gagged, but his hands were still cuffed -- only in front of
him now. He was dizzy from the drug, but his body was pleasantly numb.
He opened his eyes again, more cautiously this time. Pfaster glanced at him
from the driver's seat.

"Wh - where are we?" It hurt to speak, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Headed to the airport. I hope you're not afraid of flying."

//His mother has a house just outside Minneapolis. Willed it to his sisters.
"We have some unfinished business..."//

"Where's Amelia?"

Pfaster didn't answer and Mulder wondered if he was sitting up front
because there wasn't enough room in the trunk for two. They arrived at
the airport a few minutes later, and Pfaster dragged him out of the car.
He folded Mulder's jacket over his cuffed hands and warned him not to
say anything to anyone, pressing the gun against his ribs to emphasize
his point. Mulder was too busy trying to maintain his precarious hold on
consciousness, struggling to keep up as Pfaster pulled him along.

He was vaguely aware that Pfaster identified himself at the ticket counter
as an FBI agent named Fox Mulder who was transporting a criminal back
to the Twin Cities, and listened as Pfaster explained that the prisoner had
been injured in a car wreck while trying to escape. No one questioned him,
even at security, where they passed through with the help of Mulder's badge.
By the time they reached the plane, Mulder was grateful to sink into his seat
and sleep for the next three hours.

Pfaster awakened him when they landed and proceeded to get a rental
car using Mulder's credit card. As they drove away from the airport,
Pfaster dialed Scully's number.

"Where are you, Dana? I'm waiting."

Suddenly he nudged Mulder and held the phone up to his ear. His mind
screamed a hundred warnings all at once, all the instructions he should give
her, but all he could manage was her name. "Scully..."

"Mulder? Mulder, are you okay? Hang on. I'm coming."

"I know." He could hear the fear in her voice -- fear for him that would
make her take stupid risks. He started to warn her to be careful, but
Pfaster took the phone back.

"Just be sure you're alone." He hung up and turned to Mulder. "Don't worry,
Agent Mulder. It'll be over soon."

*Yes it will. One of us will be dead.*
_______
The drug had worn off by the time they pulled into the driveway, and
Mulder was feeling sick. His arms and legs were cramping violently and
his head pounded. He was weak from hunger and thirst and his hands
were so swollen and stiff he couldn't even open the car door. Pfaster
opened it for him and pulled him out. The movement sent daggers of pain
through his body and he sagged against Pfaster, nearly losing consciousness.
Pfaster jerked him upright, and as they stepped up on the porch, he moved
behind Mulder, using him as a shield, wrapping one arm around his throat
and holding the gun against Mulder's temple. They made their way
awkwardly through the front door.

She was standing on the stairs, her gun drawn, looking like an avenging
angel -- his own personal red-headed angel -- blue eyes shooting sparks
at Pfaster. Then her gaze moved to him and he saw the color drain from
her face. He knew the doctor in her was assessing his condition, but the
woman in her was distracted by the sight of her partner in pain, being
held hostage. He caught her eyes, drawing on all his remaining energy to
send her a message.

*Focus, Scully.*

She moved her gaze back to Pfaster, once again in control of the
situation and her emotions.

"What do you want, Pfaster?" she demanded

"I want you to put down your gun, Dana." He pressed the muzzle
of his weapon against Mulder's temple.

She came slowly down the steps, lowering her gun as she descended.

"Let him go."

Pfaster shook his head. "Put the gun down."

*No, Scully.*

She knelt and placed the gun on the floor. Pfaster kicked it aside.

"Now let him go," she repeated firmly. "You've got me. Isn't that what
you wanted? To finish what you started?"

He hesitated, as if surprised by her business-like demeanor. "Give me
your handcuffs," he said. When she did, he dragged Mulder over to the
stairs and forced him to his knees, then locked one end of the handcuffs
around the stair post and the other around the chain linking Mulder's wrists.
Up to that moment, Mulder had thought that between the two of them,
even in his condition, they could handle Pfaster. Now he realized she was
on her own and she was walking away with a madman.

"Scully, no --" He didn't realize he had spoken until she looked at him.

"I'll be right back."

Then Donnie Pfaster took her arm and they went up the stairs.

The next few minutes were the most agonizing of Mulder's life. He heard
their voices, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Then there was
a gunshot. The silence grew deafening, until he finally heard steps on the
landing. He wanted to look up but was afraid of what he might see, and
he didn't have the strength to raise his head. Then he saw a small foot in
a black pump with an impossibly high heel come into his line of vision.
He moved his gaze upward and saw Scully smile at him, despite the
handkerchief pressed to the side of her head.

She unlocked both sets of handcuffs. He groaned in pain as the circulation
returned to his abused wrists, but lay still as she checked his pulse and
examined his various injuries, content to simply watch her and breathe
deeply of her familiar faint rose scent, despite the protest from his bruised
ribs. After she was satisfied that he was not seriously hurt, Scully put her
arms around him and held him close. He forgot his own pain as he felt the
tremors go through her body. She had dropped the handkerchief and he
noticed the blood on her face.

"Are you okay?"

She grinned. "I think that's my line. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he said, and closed his eyes, snuggling against her.

"So am I," she murmured, as an ambulance siren sounded in the distance.
 

Epilogue

//He was in the cellar again, chained to the stairs, forced to watch as
Pfaster strangled Amelia, as her eyes pleaded with him for help.
Eyes that changed from hazel to blue as she became Scully....//

"Mulder. Mulder, it's me. Wake up. You're dreaming."

He came up out of the dark with a gasp that sent a jolt of pain through
his ribs. When the red haze had faded, he saw her in the dim room, the
light playing on her auburn hair, a faint smile on her face.

"Scully --" he croaked, his throat parched.

"Ssh." She held his head with one hand, spooned a few ice chips into his
mouth with the other. "It's okay. Go back to sleep. I'm right here."

He felt her fingers slip over his and squeezed her hand weakly, holding on
to her as he drifted back to sleep, trusting her to guide him to good dreams.

The End
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