Only Skin Deep  

By mimic117
mimic117@yahoo.com


Rating:  NC-17 with some very disturbing content

Category:  S, A, M/S established relationship

Setting:  Season 7-ish.  That always seemed like the best time
for them to get it on.  That's just mho, of course.

NOTE:  There's a vignette prequel to this story called "In
Sight."  You don't have to read it in order to understand this
story, but it does give some added insights into one character.

Summary:  "Squinting against the ache in his head, Mulder
tried to focus.  Waist-length blonde hair framed a lovely,
heart-shaped face.  Bright blue eyes were surrounded by thick,
black lashes.  A button nose perched above a full, cupid's-bow
mouth.  Her petite body was lushly curved and definitely not a
child's, in spite of the piping voice which made her sound like
one. Her voice was vaguely familiar although he was pretty
sure he'd never seen her face before.  He did recognize the
gun pointed at him, though.  It was his."

Archive: I'll send it to Gossamer and Ephemeral myself, but
anyone else who wants it, knock yourself out.  Just let me
know where so I can brag.

Disclaimer:  Any characters you recognize belong to 1013
Productions, Chris Carter, and FOX.  No money is being made
or anticipated from the posting of this story.  

Beta Thanks:  To Obfusc8er for the medical and
MulderTorture advice, wickedly good suggestions and pointing
out the funny bits which weren't supposed to be.  To my
Twinsy, for beta which is second to none and more than I
deserve.  To mr. mims for handy-man type comments and
putting up with me all these years.  And apologies to all three
for enduring endless whining befitting a toddler.

Special Thanks:  To my own personal stalker for numerous
cups of restorative tea exactly when they were most required,
and for Agent Hatter.  To Tali for fixing one of the details I
kept getting stuck on.  And to Shelba, for the "beautiful"
picture that started it all.  

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

Only Skin Deep
by mimic117

Location unknown
Sunday  
9:43 PM

The smell was getting really bad.

Julie wrinkled her nose as she walked past the hallway to the
bedrooms.  She couldn't remember it ever being quite so
strong before.  

She looked at the digital camera in her hands and smiled.  
Dealing with it could wait for later.  She had a more enjoyable
task to think about.

When she reached her desk in one corner of the dining room,
the computer monitor sprang to life with a touch on the mouse.  
She loved her new wallpaper.  He looked so beautiful in that
picture, she was tempted to kiss it, but she didn't want to
smear the screen.  Julie giggled at her own silliness and
glanced at the camera again.  Besides, she had lots more
pictures to download.

She pulled the memory card from the camera, sat down, then
slotted it into the computer port.  She loved the anticipation of
seeing what her lens had captured--zooming in, cropping,
fixing any fuzzy spots, printing out the best ones and sorting
the rest into the proper folders.  There were already hundreds
of pictures stored on her hard drive, but that didn't stop her
from taking more.  Opening a new thumbnail was every bit as
exciting as Christmas.  Or a new beauty pageant.  

Julie frowned.  Those days were over.  Best not to think about
that anymore.  

The computer dinged to let her know it was finished opening
all the new files.  She reached eagerly for the mouse.  

The silence in the house was only broken by staccato clicks
followed by the whir of the printer.  Page after page of shiny
photographs spewed into the tray while she worked her way
through the new trove.  It didn't seem like two hours had
passed when she finally gathered up the stack of colorful
prints along with a roll of Scotch tape.

Walking toward the bedrooms, she hummed happily--until the
smell hit her again.  She clutched the pile of photos and glared
at the duct tape surrounding the bedroom door on the right.  

Ron never should have called her crazy.  She'd really thought
he'd understood.  She was wrong.  A truly beautiful man
wouldn't have called her *that*.  

At least he'd finally stopped yelling.  She really hated
listening to him every night.  

She opened the door across the hall and turned on the light
inside.  Everything was ready, except for this finishing touch.  
She added the pictures in her hands to the enormous stack
already resting on the chair near the door.  

This was the best part.

Plucking a glossy photo from the top of the pile, she studied it
for a moment, then smiled and taped it to the wall.  Every
subsequent picture was given the same treatment, obscuring
the painted surface bit by bit as she slowly worked her way
around the room.  Her hair swung into her face each time she
bent over, but she didn't think about pulling it back.  Momma
always insisted that her thick, silver-blonde hair should be left
long and free, to dazzle the viewer.  

She finally ran out of photos and surveyed the frieze that
circled the room.  This man was the right one.  Ron simply
wasn't beautiful enough.  She could see now that she hadn't
chosen very carefully.

Julie yawned and looked at her watch.  It was almost one in
the morning.  She was going to be so tired at work, but it
would be worth the loss of sleep.  

Tomorrow, or rather later today, she'd deliver the envelope of
letters and pictures.  Then, after work, she'd bring him to his
new home and they'd be together.  Forever.  

One more check to make sure the room was ready to receive
its new occupant.  She stuck the empty tape roll in her pocket
and picked up the chair.  After placing the chair against the
hallway wall, she flicked off the light and pushed the door shut.  

There was that smell again.  She really needed to do
something about Ron.  

Maybe if she duct-taped more plastic over the door...

She should have known not to buy the cheaper plastic.  Trying
to cut corners to save money usually ended up costing more in
the long run.  That's what her mother always said, and
Momma was usually right.

The thought of such an easy solution made Julie happy.  And
when she was happy, she liked to sing.

"You must have been a beautiful baby.  You must have been a
beautiful child," she warbled as she walked back to the
computer.  

A jiggle of the mouse shut off the screensaver, revealing her
favorite picture of Fox Mulder.  Head thrown back, lips slightly
parted, eyes closed, his face filled the screen.  She
remembered taking that one while he was masturbating.  
Soon, they'd be together and she could watch that expression
develop on his face up close instead of seeing it from across
the street.  The view from the roof of the building opposite
hadn't been the best.  Momma would say it was worth the
extra money for a good digital camera and telephoto lens.  
Her close-up photos looked like she was really there with him.

A tingling started in her stomach that might have been
butterflies, but was probably anticipation.  She could hardly
wait until evening.  

She shut down the computer, watching the monitor go blank,
but she could still see that picture in her mind.

"Oh you must have been a beautiful baby," she sang,
"because, baby, look at you now."

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

Monday
7:36 PM

The plastic bags in Mulder's hands jostled each other as he
pushed the door of the convenience store open with his hip.  
He'd either bought a lot more than he was planning to or the
store got a kickback for every bag they sent home with a
customer.  Was it really necessary to put each item in its own
sack?  He paused to hold the door open for someone going in.  

That's when his phone rang.  It figured.  He'd been checking
obsessively since four, waiting to hear from Scully, so of
course it rang when there was no way at all for him to answer.  
He considered dropping the bags, but there were glass bottles in
some and he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

One person entering became three people, then four. Nobody
wanted to spend more time than necessary in the driving rain.  
They were literally sprinting out of their cars in order to make
it into the store while the door was open.

By the time Mulder managed to move out under the overhang
and put everything down, there was a message on his
voicemail from Scully saying she was going to supper with the
prosecutor and his wife, wouldn't be home until really late and
she'd see him at work on Tuesday.  He was tempted to throw
the stupid phone against the car.  

Damn it!  They hadn't talked since she called him Sunday
night and he missed her.  He wanted to talk to her, not play
phone tag.  Scully had been in Chicago all day.  He
understood she needed to testify since she'd done the
autopsy, yet he wasn't happy about her going.  They'd both
been hoping she'd make it home by now.  It looked as though
the fates were against them once again.  Mulder was willing to
bet the defense attorney dragged out his cross examination
until the end of the day.  Scully was probably in court the
entire time, which was why all of his calls were going straight
to voice mail.  He'd finally run out of witty things to say and
started leaving messages that were just heavy breathing.

He picked up the bags again and trudged out into the rain.  
His suit was limp, his shirt clinging to his chest, once he
finally got everything dumped onto the passenger seat and sat
down in his own.  The drive home was a bit steamy, and not
solely because of the moisture on his clothes.  

Mulder pulled into a space in front of his building, put the car
in park and turned off the engine.  Rain drummed on the hood,
each closely-packed droplet hopping into the air off the hazy
metal.  He watched for a few minutes, not really in any hurry.  
Why rush?  It was a major frog-strangler out there.  He'd end
up wetter than he already was, no matter what he did.  And
there was no one waiting impatiently for him, at his apartment
or elsewhere.  

He hated working without Scully.  He needed to hear her voice
over something besides the phone.  Maybe if he called in the
middle of the night, she'd talk to him the way she had Sunday.  

Mulder smiled.  He wondered if she knew what he was doing
while they had talked.  Did she even realize how much she
turned him on?  Years of conversing under every imaginable
circumstance had made him especially vulnerable to her voice.  
Each little nuance was sorted, categorized and easily
referenced.  

Except the variation she'd hit him with on Sunday.  Her husky,
smoky "So what are you wearing, Mulder?" caught him right in
the groin.  His dick was already stiffening before he came up
with a reply.

"I'll tell you what I'm wearing if you tell me what you're
wearing," he growled back.

"I asked first."

He whispered, "I'm not wearing *anything*."  Not true but he
couldn't resist.

"Ooh," she cooed.  "My favorite outfit."

"Now I'm touching myself."  True.  His hand gravitated to his
crotch with the first word out of her mouth.

She snorted a laugh into his ear.  "Wash your hands before
you finish that report for Skinner.  He'll get suspicious if the
pages stick together."

Mulder unzipped his jeans and reached into the opening,
curling his fist around his hardening cock.  "You think Skinner
would like what I'm wearing?"  He eased himself out of the too-
tight pants.  

"He'd probably take you right there on his desk."

Oh baby.  Sex on Skinner's desk.  But not with Skinner, that's
for sure.  Mulder slowly stroked his length, stifling a groan.

"But seriously," Scully said.  The teasing tone was gone from
her voice.  She was all business and listen-to-me.  "Don't
forget to take the monthly report for the budget meeting out of
the inbox on your desk.  I left it there when you were in the
john so I didn't know if you'd seen it."  

"Yeah."  He tried to control his breathing so she wouldn't be
able to tell what he was doing.  "I saw it.  But thanks for
reminding me."

"Just one of the many fine services I offer, partner.  I'd better
get my stuff packed for tomorrow."

It wasn't easy to bring his attention back to the conversation.  
The tension was already coiling in his belly, waiting for
release.  "Okay.  Hope you have a good flight and the guy in
the next seat doesn't belch garlic breath when he hits on you."  

"Great.  Now you've jinxed me."  Her tone became softer,
wistful.  "I'll call as soon as I get a chance."

She hung up, so he did, too.  It hadn't taken more than a few
more yanks on the crank before he was making a mess on his
shirt.  Wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last, but it
still felt pathetic.  Especially after several weeks of shared
yanking.

No point thinking about that tonight.  He'd be flying solo again
if he let his memories have their way.

Mulder looked at his watch.  He had plenty of time to dump his
groceries and change before heading out to the guys' place.  
Frohike said he had some prime satellite images to share and
Langly wanted him to check out a bootlegged copy of Quake
III Arena.  With Scully gone for the second night in a row, there
wasn't anything to stop him.  Not exactly a front row seat at a
Knicks game, but it sure beat another night alone with the
Playboy Channel and a beer.  

A tap on the driver's-side window made him jump.  It was still
raining and he could see someone standing under an
umbrella.  He turned the ignition key one click so he could roll
down his window.  "Can I help you?"

"I hope so.  My car won't start."  

The voice was extremely high, childlike--Dolly Parton but
without the accent.  Twilight was already settling in because of
the overcast, so he couldn't see her too well, but she was
definitely an adult.  And wet.  

He looked at his watch again.  Sure.  Why not?  He wasn't in a
hurry.  The guys weren't expecting him at any particular time.  
If it wasn't anything easy or obvious, he could call someone
who actually knew how to fix cars and wait with her.  

"Hang on.  Be right with you."  He rolled the window back up,
then turned off the ignition.  He opened the door and reached
behind the seat to grab his umbrella.  

Something stung his arm.  He yelped and clapped a hand over
the spot.  The woman outside the car was holding a syringe.  
He made a grab for it but she threw it aside.  He would have
gone after it if he hadn't suddenly felt so drowsy.  His muscles
had become rubbery and uncooperative.  He tried to ask what
she was doing but it came out as total nonsense.  

What the hell?  She'd drugged him!

Mulder watched as she reached out toward him and pushed
his shoulder.  He toppled into the other seat.  There was
nothing he could do but lie there.  As hard as he tried, he
couldn't move enough to help himself.  

The woman ran around to the other side of the car and
opened the door.  He'd damned-well remember to lock them
from now on, pouring rain or not.

She pulled on his arms, dragging him across the center
console until he was all the way in the opposite seat.  The
bags he'd placed there crinkled and crunched as they slid to
the floor.  His knees banged painfully on the hard plastic
dashboard.  She was stronger than she looked.  He never
would have expected her to move someone his size so
quickly, yet she had him situated on the other side of the car
in a matter of moments.

Why didn't anyone help him?  Did no one see what was
happening?  He was being kidnapped!  

The rain continued to beat on the roof of the car and the light
was fading, making it unlikely that anyone would be hanging
around outside or near a window where they might notice
something amiss.  It looked like he was on his own, but without
any real ability to help himself.  How the hell had he gotten
into this situation?

As consciousness dwindled and his vision rapidly faded to
black, Mulder regretted that he hadn't been in a hurry tonight.

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

End part 1 of 6

Title:  Only Skin Deep   2 of 6

Author:  mimic117

Email:  mimic117@yahoo.com

Rating:  NC-17 with some very disturbing content

Category:  S, A, MSR, established relationship

Summary, further notes and disclaimer in part 1.

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

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Tuesday
8:27 AM

Scully shut off the ignition and frowned. 

Mulder's car wasn't parked in his usual spot, but she was
running late and the garage was almost full.  Maybe he'd
parked somewhere else.

She gathered up her purse and briefcase, then exited the car. 
As she walked to the elevator, she scanned the surrounding
vehicles.  Mulder's wasn't anywhere in sight.  He should be
here by now. 

The office door was closed and locked.  It took her a minute to
find the key because she rarely had occasion to use it.  She
couldn't remember the last time she'd beaten Mulder to the
office.

Scully hung up her coat, stowed her purse, dropped her
briefcase on the desk.  Time to start a pot of coffee.  She
smiled at the note Mulder had taped to the coffee maker. 

"Attending paranoiacs' convention tonight.  If not back by
morning, was swept up in video game piracy raid.  Send cake
with file inside."

When the coffee was finished and her partner still hadn't
appeared, she sat down at his desk, picked up the phone and
called his apartment.  She'd been looking forward to seeing
him.  Finding the office empty was a disappointment. 

So was getting his home answering machine.  She tried his cell
phone.  Voicemail.  Scully considered for a moment, then made
one more call.

Frohike answered.  "Lone Gunman, the one-stop-shop for all
your conspiracy news."

"Turn off the tape, Frohike," she said. 

"Your wish is my command, Agent Scully." 

The phone clicked in her ear, which could be the tape shutting
off, or it could be Frohike tapping the keyboard to pretend he'd
shut it off.  Whatever.  "So was Mulder the only one caught by
the vice squad or did the rest of you break out and leave him
behind?"

"Langly will be highly offended to learn you've impugned our
moral integrity in such a manner.  We never get caught."

Scully heard a faintly squawked "She WHAT?" in the
background. 

"Yeah yeah," she said.  "Save it for the judge.  Could you put
Mulder on?  I assume he crashed there after your late night of
debauchery."

"I would if I could, pretty lady, but he's not here.  I'm sure
he'll be free soon, though.  He always carries his lock pick
when he visits, just in case."

He wasn't there?  "How late did he leave and what condition
was he in?" 

Frohike sounded as puzzled as she felt.  "I don't know.  He
never showed up last night."

"He didn't?"

"Nope.  Didn't call to cancel, either.  Do you think something's
wrong?"

The line cut out and then back in.  There was another call
coming through.  Maybe it was Mulder.

"I don't know.  That could be him on the other line.  I have to
go.  Thanks, Frohike."

She switched to the new call.  It wasn't Mulder.  It was Skinner,
asking where they were with the report on their last case. 
Scully flipped the page on Mulder's desk calendar.  The
appointment was written across today's date.  He couldn't have
forgotten.  Could he?

"I'm sorry, Sir.  I was a little late this morning and Mulder's
not here.  I'll find the file and bring it up right away."  She
acknowledged Skinner's grudging agreement and hung up.

Ten minutes of fruitless searching later, all trace of concern
had been replaced by annoyance.

"Mulder, if you don't get your ass here this minute, I will hunt
you down like an escaped felon." 

She shut his desk drawer with more force than necessary.  The
file wasn't in any of the obvious places.  She was rapidly
running out of options and patience.     

"Where the hell did you put that file?  Skinner wants to see us
and I can't find the stupid file." 

The pencil holder jumped when she shut another drawer rather
aggressively. 

"You'd better have a damned good excuse for leaving me in the
lurch.  I swear, if it's in your briefcase, I'll-- "

A large envelope in the bottom desk drawer with his UFO
videos stopped Scully short.  For one thing, it was pink.  For
another, it was addressed to "Beautiful Fox" in elaborate
curlicue script.  Her conscience didn't suffer a single twinge as
she pulled it out, opened the flap and dumped a stack of
photographs onto the desk.

Her first thought was "Nice pictures."  Her second thought was
"Good photography."  Any remaining thoughts withered unborn
as she turned over photo after enlarged candid photo of her
partner.  In the checkout line at a grocery store.  Getting into
his car outside his apartment.  Shooting hoops at a playground. 
Stretching in the park before a run.  Toweling himself off after
a swim.  The last picture in the pile drew a gasp from her lips.

Mulder, naked in the shower.

With his back turned, head obscured by spray, Scully still knew
that body.  She'd seen it often enough to have it memorized. 
The defined muscles across his shoulders from swimming. 
The dimples at the base of his spine.  The tapered slope of his
lean legs.  Even the way his arms looked, raised to slick back
wet hair.  She'd witnessed all of it, up close and sudsy in her
own shower. 

Someone had taken this picture, all of these pictures, without
his knowledge.  She was certain of that.  So why hadn't Mulder
told her about them?  He obviously knew--the photos were in
his desk. 

She stared at the last picture, her mind beginning to fit things
together.  Phone tag yesterday culminating in no direct contact. 
A no-show at the guys' last night.  No call this morning, no
Mulder at the office, extremely personal photos which he never
told her about.

Were all of those things linked or merely a coincidence?  Was
the twisting in her gut justified, or jumping the gun?  Scully
wiped suddenly-damp palms on her slacks.  She'd handled the
pictures already.  There was no help for it now.  But just in
case they *were* connected to Mulder's tardiness...

She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her briefcase and
shimmied her hands into them.  Picking up the envelope again,
she peered inside.  There were several pieces of paper at the
bottom, smaller than the photo enlargements.  She pulled them
out, lips pursing in distaste at the same pink paper and
flamboyant writing as the envelope.  This time her conscience
did prick at her a bit, but something about those pictures,
besides the invasion of privacy, didn't sit right.  Using the I-
need-to-find-out-more-before-I-ask-Mulder rationalization, she
scanned them once.  Before she reached the last one, Scully
grabbed the envelope and photos, shot out of the chair, and
was racing for the elevator, Skinner's missing file forgotten.

The report could wait.  Mulder was in trouble, and she needed
to find him.

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

Location unknown


The spicy aroma of coffee tickled Mulder's nose awake.  It
delighted him to think that Scully was finally bringing him
breakfast in bed.  She always said he spilled too much to be
trusted with food anywhere near her sheets.  Only something at
the back of his mind was trying to get his attention-- 

He sat up, gasping, the previous night's events lurching into his
consciousness at high speed. 

"Good morning, Beautiful Fox."

Squinting against the ache in his head, Mulder tried to focus. 
Waist-length blonde hair framed a lovely, heart-shaped face. 
Bright blue eyes were surrounded by thick, black lashes.  A
button nose perched above a full, cupid's-bow mouth.  Her
petite body was lushly curved and definitely not a child's, in
spite of the piping voice which made her sound like one. Her
voice was vaguely familiar although he was pretty sure he'd
never seen her face before.  He did recognize the gun pointed
at him, though.  It was his.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Julie."

Straightforward, concise, no help at all.  Maybe a different
question.  "Where am I?" 

"Where you belong--with me.  Come and eat your breakfast."

Mulder's stomach rebelled at the thought of food.  He was
dizzy, a bit nauseous and his mouth felt like he'd been sucking
cotton balls.  Besides, there was a more pressing problem that
required attention first.  "I need to use the bathroom."

The woman beamed an indulgent smile, the gun's aim never
wavering.  "It's right through that door in the corner."

Mulder looked down to gauge the distance to the floor and
discovered that he was lying on a mattress.  No platform, no
frame.  Just a mattress.  At least he didn't have to worry about
falling out of bed in his current woozy state. 

Apparently he also wouldn't have to worry about trying to
fumble his zipper open.  He wasn't wearing any pants, just his
boxer briefs.  No shirt, shoes, socks--not even his watch. 

Shit!  Talk about getting caught with your pants down.

He rolled to one side and stood slowly, waiting for his head to
stop spinning.  He took a step only to be brought up short by a
group of photos on the wall in front of him.  A cautious 360-
degree turn revealed picture after picture after picture. 

There was a wide, chest-high photographic frieze around the
entire room showing nothing but images of him.  At work, at
play, at home, in public and private moments, dozens, perhaps
hundreds, of his doppelgangers watched as he stared back in
amazement.  What the hell *was* this place?  Where did all the
pictures come from?  Did she take every one of them herself? 
When?  The huge number of photos implied a long-standing
obsession rather than a sudden, overwhelming urge.  For how
long?  More importantly, for what purpose?  Mulder tore his
eyes away from the disturbing rogue's gallery and cast a
speculative glance at his kidnapper, suddenly turned deranged
stalker.

He was in serious trouble.

An insistent twinge in his groin recalled his attention to the
urgent business at hand.  It was a very short walk to reach the
bathroom. Once there, he realized the room was missing a
door.   

He looked at the woman in the bedroom again.  She didn't
seem to particularly care whether her scrutiny made him
uncomfortable or not.  She stood there with his weapon in her
hand, smiling, not the least bit hesitant or awkward about
holding a gun.  Nice steady arm, good aim, rock solid gaze in
spite of the vapid grin.  If she showed the slightest sign of
weakness or distraction, he wouldn't hesitate to take her down
with his bare hands.  But he wasn't seeing any kind of opening
and he really didn't like to think about the consequences of
doing something impulsive with her focused on him so firmly.

Between his dopey brain and aching bladder, he wasn't
thinking too clearly.

Mulder turned his back to his audience.  "Pardon me while I
answer this call."  He pulled down the waistband on the shorts
and gently eased his cock over the edge.  When he glanced
down to aim, he blinked in surprise.

There was no toilet lid.  No seat.  Not even any hinges. 
Just holes where the hinges should be.  What the fuck? 

His bladder cramped in protest.  Right.  Pay attention and piss. 
As the pressure eased, Mulder bent his refocusing brain to
observation of his surroundings. 

The bathroom proved to be miniscule and unremarkable.  A
toilet, pedestal sink, and tub/shower combo, all crammed into a
minimum amount of space.  No soap, shampoo, towels, or
other amenities were visible beyond a roll of toilet tissue on the
back of the commode and a pile of Kleenex without the box. 
No mirror or medicine cabinet.  No window, either.  He might be
able to use the shower curtain against his kidnapper, but he'd
need to check it out when he wasn't being ogled.

It was time to get back to the bedroom and see if he could
figure out what was going on.  He flushed the toilet, rinsed off
his hands and splashed cold water on his face.  Icy droplets
trickled down his chest, raising goosebumps as he returned to
the other room.

"There aren't any towels."

From a chair near the door, the woman picked up a towel and
tossed it to him.  Mulder caught it, dried off, then threw it back
when she gestured for it.  His nausea was fading and his head
felt clearer.  He glanced around the room, taking in the lack of
windows, decorations, lamps, furniture--anything that might
have come in handy as a weapon or a tool.  The only light
came from recessed fixtures in the middle of the ceiling.  He
was either in an old house or one built during the '90's craze for
really high ceilings.  He wouldn't be able to reach those
fixtures, not even with his best b-ball jump shot.

The floor itself was solid sheet vinyl.  No carpeting.  The
bathroom doorframe was bare of all molding and hardware;
likewise the hole where the closet should have been.  There
wasn't so much as a rod to hang clothing on--which wouldn't be
a problem since he apparently didn't have anything but his
underwear. 

Except for the mattress and the chair by the door, the room
was totally empty.  A Styrofoam tray on the floor near the chair
contained a foam cup and a pastry on a napkin.  Those
wouldn't be any help.  He'd need something a bit more
substantial if he wanted to spring himself--the door looked like
reinforced steel.  There was no knob on the inside, no visible
keyhole, and the door opened outward.  There weren't any
hinges or locks to jimmy, provided he actually found a tool of
some sort. 

A small circle of glass in one corner of the ceiling caught his
attention.  It looked like there was a camera inside the wall. 
Great.  That meant she could be sure he wasn't near the door
before she entered.  He wouldn't be able to get a jump on her. 
The possibility that this strange woman might be planning to
spend every waking moment silently watching him made Mulder
break out in a cold sweat. 

He took in the numerous images of himself that ringed the
room.  "You're the one who sent me the pictures yesterday,
aren't you?"

"And the letters.  Don't forget them."  She sounded like she
expected praise for a job well done.

"What letters?" he asked.  "I don't remember anything except
the pictures."

Her smile turned into a puzzled frown.  "I sent those letters
because I thought you'd enjoy reading them."

"I guess I missed seeing them."  He shrugged.  "I got called to
a meeting right after the envelope arrived, so I just glanced at
the pictures and tossed them in a drawer."

His stomach rumbled loudly and her smiled returned.  She
managed to pick the tray up with one hand and move it next to
the mattress without ever letting go of his gun.  Then she
retreated to the chair and sat down expectantly. 

Another hollow growl echoed in the room.

Okay, so he should eat.  It would give him something to do
while he tried to figure out *what* he was going to do.  He sat
on the bed and picked up the cup of coffee.  The smell of it
went straight to his brain, clearing out more of the fuzziness. 
He took a sip and his eyebrows rose--it was prepared the way
he always drank it. 

He glanced at the silent figure across from him, then looked at
the food on his plate and almost laughed.  Even after all the
shitty circumstances he'd found himself in over the years,
eating at gunpoint was something he'd never experienced
before. 

If anyone had bothered to ask, he definitely would have
delayed the pleasure.

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

J. Edgar Hoover Building
A.D. Skinner's office
9:05 AM

"Slow down, Agent Scully.  I can't understand what you're
saying."

Taking a deep, calming breath, Scully stopped pacing and
waving the photographs under her boss's nose.  She sat with a
thud in the chair across from his desk.  The pictures made a
rustling sound in her latex-covered hands.  She wasn't
surprised to see they were shaking.

"I'm sorry, Sir.  I'll try to explain more clearly."

"Thank you.  I'd appreciate that.  Does this have something to
do with Mulder?"

"Yes, Sir."  Scully fanned out the photographs and placed them
on his desk.  "After you called this morning, I went looking for
the file you wanted and found these instead."

He looked at the pictures but didn't pick them up.  "Am I to
understand that you believe these are related to the reason
why he's not here?"

"Yes, Sir."  She could feel the blood rush to her face.  "I didn't
realize there was a problem at first and handled some of the
photos.  I protected the rest as soon as I could."

Skinner reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a
handkerchief.  "Then let's not disturb things any more than they
already have been."

He covered his fingers with the handkerchief before picking
up the glossy images one at a time.  He gave each a careful
examination than laid it aside.  His eyes widened in
surprise when he reached the one of Mulder in the shower.  He
looked up to meet her gaze.

"You're sure it's Mulder in all of these photos?"

Scully kept her face bland although her heart was racing.  "Yes,
Sir.  I'm sure."

"And he didn't know they were being taken?"

"I don't believe so.  At least, he never mentioned anything of
the sort to me."

"But that's not what has you so concerned, is it?"

She sometimes wondered how he could read her as easily as
Mulder did.

"No, Sir.  There were also these letters, wedged down in the
bottom of the envelope."  She passed the pink sheets of paper
to him.  Skinner's eyes grew wider.

She understood his reaction.  Those papers were obviously
love letters.  Some simply had song lyrics written on them--You
Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby, Beautiful Dreamer,
Everything is Beautiful.  They all had the word "beautiful" in
the title or body of the song.  The others were more like diary
entries, but they all began "Dear Beautiful Fox."  Some extolled
his physical attributes in a flowery, juvenile, romanticized
manner.  The rest of the letters went into pornographic detail
about the writer's sexual exploits with him, providing dates and
places for their encounters, all of them fairly recent. 

The language used, the style of script, the garish color of the
paper, all led Scully to feel that the writer was a woman. 
Possibly a very young one.  Someone more mature wouldn't
write about Mulder's "enormous cock piercing the very heart of
me."  Scully hadn't read much more than that, but it sounded
like a cheesy bodice-ripper novel, something women were
more prone to read than men.

But Scully knew Mulder hadn't been with some strange woman
on the dates in the letters because *she'd* been with him. 
They'd been together most nights for months, ever since they'd
become lovers.  The last two nights were the only ones they'd
spent apart in weeks.  She should have known something was
wrong the minute she walked into an empty office.  She'd
wasted precious minutes searching for a stupid file when in all
likelihood he was already in danger.

Skinner cleared his throat.  "What do you suppose this means,
Agent Scully?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out.  With your permission,
I'd like to go to his apartment and see if I can discover
anything."

"You do realize that it's not usually advisable for one partner
to be involved in the investigation of--"  She opened her mouth
to protest and he held up his hand to stop her.  "I know.  This
isn't a usual situation.  I just want you to be clear about my
position." 

Scully nodded and waited for him to continue. 

Skinner tapped his lips with one finger for a moment, then
glared at her over the top of his glasses.  "I assume you've
already tried calling him, or you wouldn't be so worried."

"His cell phone rings without being picked up.  The answering
machine comes on at his apartment.  He was supposed be with
some friends last night but he never showed."

"And you weren't expecting him to leave town for any reason?"

Scully's certainty wavered for an instant.  He'd ditched her in
the past but they'd recently come to an understanding.  Neither
of them would take off without checking in first.  It was a
failsafe for exactly this type of situation where someone else
was questioning their whereabouts.  It took only an instant for
her mind to reject the idea that Mulder had gone off somewhere
without telling her. 

"No, Sir," she stated firmly.  "If he's not here, it's because
something happened to prevent him from being here."

Skinner used the handkerchief to gather up all the photos and
letters into a neat pile and set them to one side on his desk.

"All right.  Go over to his place.  Call and let me know if you
find anything.  For the time being, we'll treat this as
confidential, just in case he comes waltzing in three hours down
the road.  Let's not panic just yet."

Rising to her feet, Scully stripped off her gloves and stuffed
them into a pocket.  Her hand was on the door knob when
Skinner called her name.

"Keep me posted," he said.

She nodded again, blindly leaving his office.  As she got into
the elevator, she was already running through all the avenues
available to help her discover what had happened to her
partner.

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

Location unknown


Julie.  Her name was Julie.  No last name, just Julie.

Mulder had already learned that she would answer whatever
questions he asked, but only in her own way and she wouldn't
elaborate.  She'd give an answer, then fall silent and sit gazing
at him with a vapid smile on her face.  The trick was in finding
the right questions.  Asking who she was and where they were
hadn't gotten him very far.  Maybe a new direction would help.

"So, Julie, how did you get me into the house?  I wasn't exactly
in a position to co-operate."   

She giggled again, covering her mouth with her free hand.  The
sweet, innocent gesture unnerved him. 

"I picked you up at your apartment and we drove here.  Don't
you remember, silly Fox?"

That wasn't quite the way he recalled it.  "But how did you get
me *into* the house?"  He checked what he could see of his
arms and legs.  "I assume you shoved me out of the car but I
don't see any bruises."

She stared at him with a look of horror.  "Why would I do that? 
You might get hurt if I pushed you out of the car.  We wouldn't
want your beautiful skin to be damaged, would we?"

Terrific.  He didn't remember anything past the getting-
drugged-and-kidnapped part and apparently the only possible
witness wasn't going to be any help.  Didn't anyone see him
being manhandled into the house?  Was it still raining when
they arrived?  Did the house have a garage?  How the hell DID
she get him into this room?  He had to assume she'd dragged
him but she seemed to have a different version of events in her
own mind.

Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, he forced down the meal
she'd brought.  The fact that she'd provided coffee and a
Danish--something he often ate for breakfast--made it hard to
swallow food that turned sand-dry in his mouth.  That made him
think of a new question.  "How did you know what I like for
breakfast?"

"I know everything about you." 

He suppressed a shiver.  "Did you take all these pictures
yourself?"

She laughed, a liquid little-girl giggle.  "Some of the things I
had to go through to get them!  But it was worth it.  Do you know
which one is my favorite?"

Mulder shook his head without looking at the photos.  It gave
him the creeps to see so many replicas of himself staring back,
like a funhouse mirror gone mad.  Julie darted over to the wall
opposite the end of the bed.  She stopped in front of a life-sized
enlargement of his face, placed slightly lower than the others
surrounding it.  In the picture, his eyes were closed, head tilted
back just a bit.  He couldn't imagine what he might have been
doing at the time. 

She stroked the image's cheek and Mulder flinched as if she'd
actually touched him.

"They're all so beautiful, but I like this one best."  Leaning
forward, she pressed her lips to the slightly parted ones in the
photograph.  "Mmmm, you have the loveliest mouth.  I could
kiss you all day and never get tired."  She continued rubbing
her lips against the photo, moaning low in her throat, then
sticking out her tongue to lick at the image's lips.

Hoping she was sufficiently distracted, Mulder quietly
uncrossed his legs and repositioned himself into a crouch.  If
he could catch her guard down for two seconds, he might be
able to--

Her arm swung up, the gun's muzzle perfectly centered on his
chest. 

Damn it!  In the middle of her perverse obsession with his
photo, she retained an uncanny awareness of his movements. 
He would never be able to get the drop on her at this rate.

Mulder settled back onto the mattress and wondered if
breakfast would stay where he'd put it with the way his stomach
had started churning again.  While Julie continued to
manhandle his picture, a sickening thought popped into his
head. 

She might not be satisfied with a photo at some point in the
near future. 

The churning turned into outright nausea.  Turning his head,
Mulder pushed away his unfinished meal.  He really wasn't all
that hungry anymore.

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

Hegal Place Apartments
10:10 AM

Scully held the evidence bag up to the light and studied the
mostly-empty syringe inside.  She'd found it up against the curb
out front.  It might not have anything to do with Mulder but it
was definitely something you didn't see every day in his
neighborhood.  If there were fingerprints, they could be
matched to any found on the photos.  She might be reaching,
but it would be better not to take chances and risk missing
something important.

Sitting in Mulder's apartment, on his couch, brought back vivid
memories that hadn't yet grown dim with time.  Just over a
week ago, they'd shared an entire afternoon on this couch. 
They called it a "working" Saturday but it was really an excuse
to cuddle and fool around and they both knew it.  Considering
all the time they spent together during the work week, it
surprised her how much she craved his company outside the
office.  She'd always enjoyed his amazing mind, but now she
could benefit from his equally amazing body, too.  That
particular Saturday concluded with them twined together in his
bed.  Mulder, drowsy and sloe-eyed, indulged in his own
peculiar brand of pillow talk about an article he'd read on
spontaneous combustion and that week's supermarket tabloid
headlines.  He said it was his way of compensating for her
dislike of pet names and endearments.  Not every woman's
idea of romance, but Scully wouldn't change a thing.

Most of their evenings and weekends together ended that way,
at one apartment or the other.  How many times had they been
watched in this very room?  What about the bedroom?  Could
Mulder's stalker see through those windows, too?  Was she still
out there somewhere?

Scully got up and looked out the window.  There was a block of
apartments across the street, about the same height as
Mulder's building.  Was that where she'd been?  In one of the
apartments?  On the roof?  How long had this mysterious
interloper been observing Mulder?  Weeks?  Months?  Surely
for some time, by the number and variety of photos in the
envelope.  Had she followed him around or was she waiting
somewhere across the street, lurking until there was something
to record with her clandestine lens? 

Scully shivered, then closed the blinds before she sat back
down.  Her reflection in the fish tank caught her eye.

She wasn't in any of the pictures, she realized.  Was she
excised from the images so that only Mulder remained?  Or did
she simply not exist as far as the stalker was concerned?  How
could they have guarded against this intrusion? 

"What if's" twisted Scully's stomach into knots.  How could
*she* have kept Mulder safe?  Why hadn't she ever noticed
what was happening?  Each passing moment made her more
certain that something was dreadfully wrong.

When the phone rang, she jumped.  She'd left a message with
Skinner's assistant and had been waiting for him to call back. 
She picked up the receiver and his voice rumbled, "What do
you have?"

"I did a preliminary inspection of Mulder's apartment.  There's
no indication he had plans to be anywhere other than work."

"Did you find more photos or letters?"

"I haven't searched his desk yet, but there was nothing in his
mailbox.  His car isn't parked outside.  I was out of town
yesterday so I don't know what he was wearing.  However, I
was able to determine that his keys, wallet, and briefcase are
missing.  He may not have made it home at all last night.  I'm
planning to examine everything more thoroughly, but I wanted
to give you my initial findings first."

"Very well, Agent.  Keep me apprised of anything else you
discover.  I think we both realize the police won't consider a
missing person's report at this stage, but we can start an in-
house investigation.  I'll send out a team to give you a hand
collecting trace evidence, doing interviews and whatever else
you want covered.  In the meantime, I'll get the photos and
letters to the lab, see what they can come up with for us. 
Report back to me when you're through there and we'll decide
what else needs to be done."

"Thank you, Sir.  I'll see you later."

She hung up the phone and looked around.  She couldn't just
sit, doing nothing, until the other agents arrived.  Where should
she check next?  Mulder's bedroom had only yielded a couple
of paperbacks and a tube of Astroglide in the night stand.  The
rest of the room was the way she remembered it. 

The computer caught her eye.  His email.  Only last week she'd
teased him about hiding Internet porn, so he'd told her the
password and let her check it.  He'd had surprisingly little mail.

While the computer booted up, she rifled the desk drawers. 
There was nothing she hadn't expected to find, although the
contents were a bit bizarre by anyone else's standards. 
Yellowed tabloid newspapers, print-outs of Internet sites about
monsters and glow-in-the-dark alien key chains were all typical
Mulder detritus. 

His email didn't yield anything new or odd.  She'd have to
check his office computer later.  It was beginning to look like
this mystery woman preferred the personal approach. 

Scully fed the fish then checked the kitchen trash for possible
evidence.  She looked in all the cupboards and peeked into the
oven.  She could have left it until the other agents showed up,
but it gave her something to do.  When she opened the
refrigerator, it was time to admit that she was just being nosy.
Mulder's apartment was a familiar link to him, possibly the last
place he'd been before disappearing.  She hadn't found any
evidence to indicate that he'd actually made it through the door,
but he felt closer here.  It was irrational and she knew it. 

She squared her shoulders and forced herself to sit down.  The
other agents Skinner was sending would be there soon and
they could get the investigation under way.  She should be
making note of the things they needed to do.

First thing, they would talk to every person in the
building, especially anyone who might have a view of where
she found the syringe.  Maybe somebody saw something last
night.  And there was still the question of all those pictures,
many of them taken of this very room.  That gave them just
cause to question the residents of the apartment building
across the street, search the roof for evidence.  She wasn't
going to leave until they'd covered every possible angle,
"official" investigation or not.

Maybe she was wrong, and Mulder *had* gone off on his own. 
If so, neither of them would hear the end of it from Skinner or
the other agents, but future embarrassment wasn't enough to
quell the alarm that gibbered at the back of her mind.  The urge
to tear around, mindlessly searching for clues, was almost
overwhelming.  Her years of training were the only things
holding her back.  Skinner could be certain nothing was missed
if she followed the prescribed steps for an investigation.  But
that didn't mean she had to like the wait.

She would come back tonight, maybe sleep in Mulder's bed.  If
he returned on his own, he'd be more likely to show up there. 
Scully felt in her heart that such an answer was too easy but
she couldn't let go of that hope.

Hope was all she had at the moment.

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

Location unknown


Hot water pounding on his head went a long way toward
clearing Mulder's thought processes.  It was obvious that he
was going to need all his wits to analyze his current situation
and find a way out.  He'd probably been awake for only a
couple of hours, and he didn't know much more than when he'd
awakened.  Her name was Julie and he was "Where you
belong--with me."  She wouldn't say how she brought him into
the house, although he figured she probably dragged him
somehow.  Either his car was still here or she'd gotten rid of it
while he slept.  She wouldn't tell him anything more, no matter
how many different ways he phrased the question.  If he asked
what she wanted with him, her ever-present smile widened. 
For some reason, that frightened him more than staring down
the barrel of his own gun.  He had a nasty suspicion that he
already knew what she wanted.  The idea sent trickles of icy
fear squirming down his spine, even as the steaming water
cascaded over his back.

He glanced at the shower curtain for the umpteenth time.  It
had finally fogged over, which made him feel a bit less
vulnerable.  The fact that it was clear plastic hadn't registered
until he'd asked if he could wash off.  That's when he realized
he'd be showering naked in front of a total stranger.  After the
lack of privacy afforded him while taking a leak, he didn't
expect her to leave so he could wash, either. 

She hadn't.  Sometimes, he really hated being right.

Turning his back to the room gave him as much privacy as he
was going to get.  Once he was inside the tub, Julie placed soap
and shampoo on the edge of the sink where he could reach them. 
Clean shorts and a towel were left on the back of the toilet.
Then she retreated to the chair again, gun still in hand, and
sat down to watch.  Mulder ignored her as much as he could manage.

Drying off presented new challenges.  He couldn't very well
climb out of the bathtub backwards.  He'd be forced to allow
her a gander at the goods until he snagged the towel. 

He decided to play it cool and not let her rattle him.  The cooler
he could be, the better. He would have to profile Julie in order
to figure out a way around her and he couldn't do that if he was
tense and nervous. 

Drying and dressing didn't take nearly long enough--it was hard
to draw out putting on a pair of underwear.  He really didn't
want to leave the bathroom, but he couldn't stay there
indefinitely.  He played with the idea of using the soap or
shampoo as a weapon until Julie indicated that he was to bring
out everything she'd supplied and throw them on the bed. 
Mulder wondered what past experience had made her so
cautious.  He was pretty sure he wasn't the first person she'd
abducted.  She was far too assured and precisely organized to
be a beginner.  He decided not to think about what might have
happened to her other victims just yet.  That kind of speculation
wouldn't promote calm, cool nerves.

Julie waved him off before she gathered up his towel, dirty
shorts and soaps.  She placed them on the chair with his empty
breakfast tray, then picked up the chair in one hand and walked
backward to the door. 

Mulder was already beginning to despair of ever getting the
drop on her.  She seemed to have thought of everything.

She pushed the door open with her hip and kept him covered
while she backed across the threshold.  Once outside, she
shoved the door closed again, keeping him in her sights until
the last possible moment.  He heard at least two locks engage
as he raced across the room.  He knew it was too late, but tried
to pull it open anyway.

Locked.  He pounded the heel of his hand against the door in
frustration and shouted a couple times without any real hope of
being heeded.  He mentally kicked himself for not realizing that
the door wasn't locked even while he acknowledged that he'd
never have made a successful break for it.  Julie might sound
like a child, but she was firmly in control of the situation and
didn't seem to be the least bit hesitant about shooting him.  He
wouldn't get very far wounded.  Or dead. 

He dug his fingers into the tiny gap around the door frame,
looking for any kind of purchase to pry against.  All he got was
bent fingernails and--

What was that smell?  He sniffed at the crack around the door
and grimaced.  It smelled like something had died out there. 

The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end.  Jesus!  He
needed to get out of here!

The slap of Mulder's footfalls echoed the frantic pounding of his
heart.  Up and down, back and forth, he paced the length and
breadth of the room, searching for a way out, a weapon,
ANYTHING.  What had he missed in his first cursory
inspection?  There had to be something.  There just *had* to
be!

The closet.  Maybe... It proved to be exactly what it originally
appeared--a totally empty hole without so much as a bracket to
support a clothing rod.  Okay, not the closet.  How about the
bathroom?

It didn't take him long to realize the shower curtain was a bust. 
He'd been hoping for a nice solid rod to brain her with, but the
curtain was on a track attached to the ceiling instead.  He
couldn't even remove the rings--they were some weird kind of
lumpy contraption that was solidly seated in the track. 

The shower head appeared to have potential until he tried to
take it apart with his bare hands.  He stood in the tub, twisting
it, turning it, yanking it back and forth, but to no avail.  The
damned thing behaved like it was welded on.  Moisture slicked
the smooth chrome, making it hard for him to obtain any
purchase.  He tried rubbing the water from his hands onto his
boxers but quickly ran out of dry spots to use. 

He was panting and sweaty when he finally admitted defeat. 
The only result of all his hard work was palms rubbed raw and
sore muscles.  He sat on the side of the tub for a few minutes
to catch his breath and check out the rest of the bathroom.

The sink was a small pedestal model, the main pipes covered with
a sleeve of porcelain where they ran up the wall to the bottom of
the bowl.  He'd try taking the faucets apart later.  With any luck,
he'd get what he needed from the toilet tank first.  Maybe he
could use a piece of the flushing mechanism as a shiv or a spike. 

No time like the present to try.  His social calendar wasn't
exactly packed.

Mulder stood next to the toilet, got a firm grip on the tank lid
and picked up.  The jolt when it didn't move rocked him on his
heels.  He blinked, got a better grip and tried again.  Nothing. 
Tank lids weren't *that* heavy, were they? 

He yanked.  Nothing.  He pried.  Nothing.  He got his fingers
under the edge and pulled and tugged and pushed and swore. 
The fucking lid was glued to the tank!  He couldn't open the
damned thing no matter what he did!  How the hell did you
cement a toilet tank together? 

Slamming his interlocked fists against the tank repeatedly,
Mulder shouted and cursed, pure frustration raging out of
control.  Again and again he pounded on the top, the sides, the
front, anywhere he could reach.  Shock waves jarred his arms. 
His shoulders and back ached from the strain but he didn't
stop.  Eventually, fatigue set in, his arms too leaden to lift
anymore.
 
Undaunted, he kicked the toilet.  The bottom of his foot landed
square on the flush handle.  Fiery pain dropped him to the floor. 

He lay there for a few minutes, breathing hard, muttering
imprecations against the ancestry of toilet manufacturers
everywhere.  His stomach let out a peevish grumble.  God
knew what time it was, but it felt like he'd been hammering
away at his prison for days.  Certainly it had been enough
hours to require more nourishment.  So where was his jailer? 
Even a condemned man was afforded a last meal.

A glance at the door brought the video camera into his line of
view.  Was she out there watching?  He hoped she was. 
Escape might not be easy, but he wouldn't stop trying.  No way
in hell was he going to roll over and be her pet FBI agent.

Another growl from his stomach was the signal to get back to
work.  Keeping busy would make it easier to ignore his hunger. 
And his sore hands.  Unfortunately, sitting up meant pushing
against the floor with his hands, then grabbing the rim of the
sink to pull himself upright.  He tried to brush aside the pain
but the throbbing in his foot was a little harder to dismiss. 

Mulder limped back to the bedroom, mind already running over
new options for escape.  It didn't take long to exhaust the list. 
He had no tools to force the door.  There weren't any windows
to crawl through.  The light fixtures and heat registers were too
high to provide raw materials for weapons, unless he could roll
the mattress and use it to boost himself to the ceiling.

That was a thought. 

He hobbled to the make-shift bed and nudged it with his toe.  It
felt damned solid.  Picking it up by one end, he dragged it into
the middle of the room, underneath the lights.  When he tried to
fold it in half, the whole thing flipped straight up, the blanket
sliding into a heap on the floor.  It was as rigid and unyielding
as a plank.

Maybe if he laid it on its side...

That seemed promising until he tried to climb on it.  Each time,
the mattress would either slide out from under him or the edge
would give way and dump him off.  It looked solid, but in reality,
it wasn't strong enough to stay upright and bear his weight. 
That didn't stop him from climbing it over and over and over. 
Around the fifth or sixth try, he banged his head on the floor
and saw stars.

Mulder got back up, then heaved the mattress against the wall in
frustration.  It fell to the floor with a thump and he threw
himself on top of it.  There were other possibilities to explore
once his mind stopped screaming in panic, but at the moment, it
looked like he wasn't going to leave unless Julie let him out. 
Barring any new discoveries, he'd have to find a different way.
Talk her into letting him go.  Figure out why she wanted him in
the first place.  What drove her to kidnap him?  What motivated
her?  How could he make a connection, get her to listen to
reason?  Why him?  That was the big question.  Why him and not
someone else?

He looked at the pictures circling the walls, photo after photo of
him, taken by a total stranger.

Why?

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

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Basement office
8:03 PM
 
Scully didn't know what else to do. 

There had to be *something*, but she couldn't think of anything. 
Staring at Mulder's bulletin board wasn't giving her any new
ideas, although she could relate to his "I Want To Believe"
poster more than usual.

The machinery was already in motion to investigate Mulder's
disappearance.  Skinner had sent the envelope, photos and
letters to the print lab.  From there, they would go for
handwriting analysis, then to be studied for clues in the
background.  Chances of finding anything weren't really good. 
Most of the pictures were close-ups and the far shots seemed
to be of unremarkable surroundings. 

Scully took charge of the evidence team at Mulder's apartment. 
In spite of Skinner's reluctance to allow her into the
investigation, there was no way in hell he could keep her out of
it.  She would have gone behind his back if she'd had to.  She
was sure Skinner knew this, which was why he didn't kick up
more of a fuss. 

The interviews with Mulder's neighbors had turned out to be an
exercise in futility--no one heard anything, no one saw
anything, no one knew anything.  Apparently, people didn't
bother to pay attention to what went on outside their own little
sphere of comfort.

A couple of them were distressingly happy to hear that he was
missing. 

The brain-storming session she'd just finished with the newly-
formed investigative team was also frustrating.  With almost no
information available to them, there was very little brain-
storming to do.  The best idea had been to check for other
crimes using the same MO.  Scully wasn't sure why she
thought there might be others, but the kidnapping was carried
out so neatly, it seemed like a logical assumption.  The perp
couldn't be a beginner and leave so few clues behind.  The
letters and photos were the only evidence they had so far.  If
this woman had pulled off a similar crime in the past, it might be
possible to find out her real name and location. 

Outside the office, the elevator dinged.  Scully straightened in
excitement.  It only took her a few seconds to realize that the
footsteps drawing closer weren't Mulder's.  She heard the steps
halt outside the office door and Skinner peered in.

"I thought I'd find you here," he grumbled.  "Go home, Agent. 
You need rest."

"I can't."

"You can.  You're not going to be any help to this investigation
if you're exhausted."

She opened her mouth to continue arguing, but there wasn't
any point.  She knew he was right and she was too tired to
argue.  She decided to give in easily, the way Skinner had
about her involvement with the case.

"Yes, Sir."  Scully saw the look of surprise on his face as she
stood, then picked up her briefcase.  "Thank you for allowing
me to be on the task force," she added.

Skinner peered at her over his glasses.  "Did I have a choice?"

She couldn't suppress the slight quirk of her lips.  "Maybe not,
but I appreciate it anyway." 

He cleared his throat and stared down at his feet.  "When was
the last time you ate?"

The question caught her by surprise.  Not only would she never
have expected her boss to ask such a thing, but she couldn't
remember if she'd eaten at all during the day.  She knew she'd
had supper the night before, but she couldn't be sure about any
time since.

He nodded.  "That's what I thought.  Come on.  Let's find some
food."

That was even more unexpected than the question about her
eating habits.  She raised an eyebrow and he held up a file
folder. 

"We're going to pick over these copies of the photos and letters
until we come up with something we can use.  Don't fool
yourself into thinking this is a social meal.  We've got a lot of
work to do."

She was touched.  In spite of his words, Scully knew Skinner
was trying to take care of her.  He'd make her work her ass off
during dinner, she had no doubt about that.  He'd pick her brain
until there wasn't anything left to extract.  But he'd also make
sure she ate and send her home to sleep instead of letting her
sit all night in Mulder's office chair, quietly losing her mind. 

She let him maintain the illusion of hard-assed despot and
waved a hand at the door.  "Bring it on, Sir.  After you."

He stepped out of the way so she could shut and lock the door,
then followed her to the elevator.  Suddenly, Scully felt more
hopeful.  The other agents on the investigation team would do
their job, but none of them was enthusiastic about looking for
the joke of the FBI.  She'd heard one of them whisper, "Better
missing than dragging the Bureau through the mud." 

She'd tried not to take the other agent's words to heart, but they
weighed on her.  If it was only her against everyone else in the
hunt for Mulder, so be it.  She would fight tooth and nail to find
him and bring him back.  She wouldn't let their piss-poor
attitude deter her for a second.

But now she knew Skinner was willing to fight beside her. 
Maybe they actually had a chance of finding Mulder after all.

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

Location unknown


As Julie backed from the room with his empty supper tray, gun
firmly trained on him, Mulder stretched out on the mattress and
stared up at the ceiling.  He could think better if he didn't have
to look at those damned pictures. 

It had been a long quiet stretch between breakfast and supper. 
Either she'd forgotten to feed him at noon or she'd gone to
work.  There really wasn't any way for him to tell the time, other
than by the growling of his stomach.  He'd actually been glad to
see her when she brought his food, meager though it was.  A
burger, fries and a soft drink.  She really had been watching
him closely--it was loaded with all the things he normally liked.

Of course, what he'd *really* like was a non-painful way to bust
himself out.  Mulder held up his hands and studied the red,
swollen palms.  He'd try again tomorrow.  An unfamiliar
protrusion on the side of his right hand caught his attention. 
He pushed on it with a finger and winced.  Must have damaged
something, beating on the toilet tank lid.  Scully would have
raised her eyebrow at him trying to break it with his bare fists,
but he had to make the attempt.  Apparently it was beyond the
realm of possibility, as the bump on his hand proved.  He pushed
on it again, then decided not to do that anymore.  With his luck
it was fractured. 

Which reminded him... Mulder pulled his foot up to check the
instep.  Not so much as a bruise.  That was a relief. 
Considering he already knew the tank was sealed, kicking the
toilet hadn't been the best decision of his life.  IF he'd managed
to knock it apart, he still wouldn't have been able to open it. 

So far, there didn't appear to be anything he could MacGyver
together as a tool or weapon to help himself.  He'd spent a
good bit of time crawling around the perimeter of the room,
trying to pry up the edges of the flooring with his nails.  He'd
done it more to keep himself occupied.  Sheet vinyl wouldn't
make much of a weapon even if he *could* manage to rip off a
hunk.  His accommodations were every bit as stark and devoid
of hope as he'd originally deduced.  That wouldn't stop him
from doing his damnedest to escape, but things were definitely
not looking good.

He yawned.  Oddly enough, he was tired.  He'd been relatively
busy for someone who'd been kidnapped, but he didn't think
he'd expended *that* much energy.  In any case, he'd
physically done what he could for one day without leaving
himself crippled.  Either he could spend the solitary hours until
his next meal bemoaning his predicament, or he could keep
busy.  Maybe it was time to see what mental exercise would
accomplish.

Victim profile.  Offender profile.  Modus operandi.  Evidence. 

Mulder decided there wasn't much he could do with that last
one. He was probably lying flat on his back, in the middle of
most of the evidence.  He forced himself to look at the photos. 
There was plenty of information to be gained from their study
if he could see beyond the personal invasion to locate the clues. 

The variety of activities she'd caught him in was staggering. 
And disturbing.  She'd obviously used a telephoto lens.  There
were far too many pictures through the living room windows of
his apartment.  The ones of him in the shower couldn't have
been taken there, though--his bathroom didn't have a window. 
Also the shower walls weren't visible in the photo, so it was
larger than his. 

That fact niggled at his brain, yet he couldn't pin down why.  It
shouldn't be this hard to figure it out.  His vision went blurry
and he rubbed at his eyes.

She'd watched him play basketball.  A lot.  There were pictures
of him running in sweats, walking in a suit, standing around in
his trenchcoat, buying groceries and carrying take-out home. 
In some, it looked like he was talking to another person, but
there wasn't anyone else in the photos. 

Mulder wondered how she could have taken so many pictures
without him noticing her once.  The answer?  She knew what
she was doing.

Considering the room set-up, the video equipment, the use of
his own gun and the security precautions, Julie appeared savvy
enough to avoid leaving clues behind.  He suspected that
Scully wasn't going to have much to work with.  And he
wouldn't bet on any prior arrests, other victims or not. 

He yawned again.  Might as well start with the victim profile. 
That should be easy enough. 

Did the victim engage in any activities which left him vulnerable
to violence?  Um, duh.  He was an FBI agent, a synonym for
"moving target."

Did the victim engage in any past activity with the perpetrator
which might have led to the present circumstances?

NO!  Mulder pounded the mattress with his throbbing fists. 
That was the real pisser.  He was almost certain he'd never
met Julie before last night.  He didn't always remember faces,
but he certainly wouldn't forget that voice.  It was high-pitched
and childish, sort of like the ballerina Munchkins in Wizard of
Oz.  Her hair was extremely fair, but not enough to make it
especially memorable.  The same with her face.  She was
pretty, but in a Miss-America-common way.  Nothing terribly
unusual about her at all, except her voice and the way her mind
worked. 

She was definitely a couple psychoses short of a straight-
jacket.

That was a very psychologically professional observation,
Agent Mulder.  Thank you for your expert opinion.

He yawned a third time.  Why the hell was he so tired?  He
hadn't been doing anything physically exhausting, yet he
couldn't seem to stop yawning.  Maybe it was the emotional
shock.

So where was he?  Oh yeah.  His profile.  She wasn't anyone
he remembered meeting on an old case or more recently. 
Which meant he probably didn't know her at all.  He might have
met her casually at a party or standing in line at the store. 

Why did she target him?  What had he done to draw her
attention that strongly?

His jaw actually cracked on the next yawn.  He could barely
keep his eyes open.  Damn.  He needed to sleep.  He wasn't
getting anywhere and his brain felt fuzzy.  Better leave it until
tomorrow. 

Mulder couldn't remember the last time he'd been so tired.

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

Title:  Only Skin Deep   3 of 6

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

Location unknown
Thursday
6:05 AM


Julie rinsed the razor in the bowl of warm water one last time,
then wiped the rest of the shaving cream off Mulder's face with
a damp washcloth.  There.  All that ugly, scratchy stubble was
gone.  Momma always said a man with a beard was trying to
conceal something.  Fox had absolutely nothing he needed to
hide.  Julie caressed his cheek but he didn't stir. 

He was such a deep sleeper, her Beautiful Fox.  He looked so
peaceful, compared to the tension that always radiated off him
at work.  Being an FBI agent was too stressful for a sensitive
man like Fox.  Running around after criminals, waving his gun
and shouting; that was no life for a beautiful person.  He was
much happier since he'd quit all that and come to live with her. 
Leaving his partner was the best thing he could have done.

Julie bent to pick up the shaving supplies, but stopped when
she noticed a dot of red on Mulder's jaw.  She moved closer
and gasped.

There was blood on his face!  The razor cut him!  Julie recoiled,
looking around the room frantically for help.  How bad was it? 
What should she do?  Would he be scarred for life?  What a
horrible thought!

She grabbed the wash cloth out of the bowl and slopped it along
the trickle of blood.  Pink-tinged water drooled over the side of
his face, down his neck onto the pillow.  She did it again.  And
again.  The bleeding looked like it had slowed down.  She
peered closer.  Yes!  It was stopping!  Thank heaven.  The nick
was tiny, hardly noticeable at all.  Fox was fine.  It would be
okay now.  He was still as beautiful as ever.

What a relief!

Julie shakily carried the bowl of soapy water to the bathroom
and emptied it into the sink.  Then she took it back to the bed
and piled the washcloth, razor and can of shaving cream into it. 
She peeked at his jaw.  It was blessedly free of blood.

Yes.  Everything was all right.  A mound of fabric at the foot of
the bed caught her eye.  She needed to continue with her
chores or she'd be late for work.  

She rolled Mulder back and forth while she removed the bottom
sheet and replaced it with a clean one. She pulled the pillow out
from under his head, yanked the old pillowcase off, then jiggled
on a fresh one.  After she picked his head up to slip it back
underneath, she stopped a moment to admire his relaxed
features. 

He was always getting injured or beat up in the line of duty, and
it was all his partner's fault.  Julie had seen the medical
reports in his personnel file.  Agent Scully didn't try to keep
him safe.  She was nothing but a scheming, conniving tramp.  She
constantly showed up at Fox's apartment on some flimsy
pretext, seducing him with her wicked lies until he couldn't keep
himself from hugging and kissing her.  It was absolutely
disgusting the way she used him for her own lustful pleasure.  

Julie flipped open a fresh top sheet and started to cover him but
changed her mind, dropping it at the foot of the bed instead. 
She couldn't get enough of looking at him.  From his long,
elegant feet to his commanding nose, Fox was the ideal of
masculine beauty.  Thick, dark lashes, the plumpest, most
kissable mouth in the world, a slightly dimpled chin, the small
mole on his cheek--he was absolutely perfect in every way.

And he was all hers.  Julie watched the shallow rise and fall of
his chest.  Her gaze followed the faint trail of hair from the
patch on his chest, down his stomach to where it disappeared
under the waistband of his boxers.  The clingy fabric highlighted
the soft swell of his penis and testicles, the springy pubic
curls beneath giving a pitted appearance to the cloth.  She
tracked the length of his legs, the firm runner's muscles in the
thighs and calves, all the way to the ends of his toes. 

One of his feet twitched.  Julie giggled.  Agent Scully didn't
deserve such a beautiful partner.  She deserved the jealousy
she was going to feel after tomorrow.  Let her regret treating
him like any ordinary man.  Julie hoped Scully was eaten alive
by envy when she saw the pictures of Beautiful Fox sleeping so
peacefully in another woman's bed.  It served her right for not
appreciating what she had before he got fed up and moved on. 

Julie lingered for one more look.  Then she picked up the dirty
sheets and took them out into the hallway.  She returned for the
bowl and the digital camera she'd used earlier, checking to
make sure she wasn't leaving anything behind.  It wouldn't do to
forget something.  Fox might hurt himself.  She was going to
take very good care of him from now on.  He'd never have to
worry about getting hurt again.  She'd see to that.

The sheets went into the laundry room.  She took the shaving
supplies into the kitchen and left them on the counter.  She
always saved the digital camera to deal with last.  It was the
best part of her morning.  Time to see the beautiful pictures
she'd taken.

Julie inserted the memory card into her computer and clicked
on the icon.  She smiled as the new thumbnails opened.  These
were even better than the previous night's.  Fox looked so
contented and happy.  He was almost smiling in some of them. 
She'd be sure to include those in the envelope she was sending
to Agent Scully.

She pointed her cursor at the fifth thumbnail and opened it. 
These next ones were her favorite kind.  She never tired of
watching him orgasm.  Fox always said she knew exactly the
right way to touch him.  It wasn't easy trying to take pictures
and stroke him at the same time, but she did it because he asked
her to.  Maybe she should invest in a tripod and cable release
shutter.  Then she could take a more-closely spaced series of
pictures and she wouldn't have to worry about spoiling them
because she'd moved.

Of course, she wouldn't be sharing that set of pictures with
anyone else.  Those were just for her and Fox.  They were his
favorite kind, too.

Julie checked the time.  She needed to change and shower. 
She'd already been late to work once.  It wouldn't do for anyone
to start asking questions.  She could sort all of the week's
photos and print out what she wanted this evening.  Maybe
she'd stop on the way home and pick up that cable shutter.

She wished she could take a picture of the look on Agent
Scully's face when she opened the envelope of photos
tomorrow.  Julie could show it to Fox and they'd have a good
laugh together. 

It was so nice to find someone who shared her sense of humor. 

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

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Conference room 4B
Friday
8:40 AM

Four days.  Mulder had officially been missing four whole days
and they still didn't have any solid leads.  The first
forty-eight hours were the most important in any investigation
and they'd already doubled that.  After two days, the trail
started to grow cold, eye witnesses were less likely and any
remaining evidence could be too compromised to use.  Scully tried
not to let her worry take over, but every day that passed made
Mulder's survival less of a certainty.

The fingerprints had been a bust.  The lab found plenty of prints
on the photos and letters.  A partial lifted from the syringe
matched.  They knew they were dealing with the same person
but there was no record of a match in the database.  That could
mean Mulder's kidnapping was the perp's first, although Scully
doubted it.  More likely, the responding agencies to any past
incidents hadn't sent the information to be entered in the
database.  It happened all the time as police departments were
downsized because of financial cuts.  Forwarding prints from
every unsolved case wasn't a big priority for a lot of cash-
strapped police chiefs.  Or the prints could be sitting in a
backlog somewhere, waiting to be added to the system.  There
was no way to tell for sure.  They'd have to find another way to
narrow the search.

At least they could be sure of one thing--Mulder *hadn't*
disappeared on his own.  His DNA was found in the syringe's
needle, pulled inside when it was removed from his body. 
Unfortunately, the contents of the syringe weren't going to be
much help on their own.  Valium.  Seconal.  Chloral hydrate, of
all things, and a couple drugs they hadn't identified yet.  It
was a sedative cocktail, a classic Mickey Finn.  Any one of those
drugs would have been enough to knock him out in the right
dose.  Mixed together, who knew what kind of effect it would
have?  Where the hell was the kidnapper getting them?  The
damned Internet made things so easy to obtain these days. 
Locating her by tracing the drugs was worse than a long shot. 
If she knew the right place to buy, they'd find no trace of her.

Scully glanced around the room.  Agents Janis, Samuels and
Hatter sat at computers in one corner, looking through online
newspaper morgues for unsolved cases with a similar MO. 
Gardner, Pryzbyzki and Perkins each had a phone to their ear,
tracking down photo paper manufacturers, printer ink dealers,
outlets for pink stationary, police departments all over the
country--anything they could think of which might provide a
decent lead.  It was slow, mind-numbing work, but Scully had to
give them credit for sticking with it.  Whether they liked Mulder
or not, he was a missing colleague.  With the DNA from the
syringe as proof, even the biggest skeptic among them was
willing to admit that he hadn't traipsed off on one of his snipe
hunts.  They were all putting out their best effort to find any
tiny crumb of evidence that would help to bring him home. 

Scully had just finished talking with what seemed like the one-
millionth small town police department she'd contacted since
Tuesday.  She tried not to think of it as busy work, but more
along the lines of making herself useful while maintaining sanity. 
The bulletin they'd sent out should have already reached the
major departments in the country.  Skinner also thought it would
be a good idea to touch base with the little guys who might not
have the manpower to check into old cases right away. 

Nevertheless, it was probably just busy work.

Her phone rang and she answered it wearily.  "Scully."

"Um, is this Special Agent Dana Scully?" a deep voice asked.

She sat up straighter.  "Yes, this is she.  May I help you?"

"Actually, I may be able to help you."  He chuckled.  "Sorry. 
Just not used to talking with the FBI.  I'm Captain Dan Kinsner,
with the Paducah, Kentucky PD.  We got your bulletin and I think
we might have something similar."

Scully's heart sped up.  "Thank you for calling, Captain.  What
do you have?"

The sound of shuffling paper drifted into her ear.  "About ten
months ago, we got a call from a landlord on the edge of town. 
Seems one of his tenants skipped out on her rent.  She was
paying month by month and fell behind.  He went to the house to
check, noticed a strange smell, didn't like the look of things,
and called us.  Inside one of the bedrooms was the body of Dale
Canner, age thirty-two, single, a short-order cook in a local
diner."

"And he'd received photos and letters, like the ones described in
the bulletin?"  Scully actually crossed her fingers.  Pictures
would indicate a solid link.

"Yes ma'am.  When he was reported missing, we searched his
apartment, found a big pink envelope stuffed with pictures and
letters, some of them downright embarrassing.  Somebody had
spent a *lot* of time watching and thinking about the man.  The
crime scene had a huge mural of those photographs.  Well over
a hundred, all printed out on a standard computer printer.  A lot
of the letters were worse than the photos--sexually explicit but
total fabrications from what his friends and coworkers said. 
There was no return address on the envelope.  We ran the
prints locally but that was no help.  If the landlord hadn't gone
over to get his missing rent, we might not have found that poor
guy for a couple more months.  The house is in a newer
development, not a lot of neighbors yet."

Scully grabbed a pen and a pad of paper, wrote 'Isolated house. 
Victim single.'  She thought for a moment, tapping the pen
against her lips.  "Did you run the renter's name?"

"Sure did.  Carrie Collins.  It was just as big a lie as the
letters.  Good enough for the kind of surface check a landlord
might do but otherwise a total dead end, if you'll excuse the
expression.  We also checked with the diner where the victim
worked, but there wasn't any Carrie Collins employed there. 
We'd kinda hoped they knew each other.  Woulda made our job a
lot easier."

Scully tried not to sigh in frustration.  "What did you find at
the scene?"  She heard more paper rustling. 

"Small house, two bedrooms, each with an attached bath.  The
second bedroom--without the body--contained a used bed and
dresser, but otherwise was completely clean and normal.  Hair
fibers were collected from the carpet, but that won't help unless
the perp is found.  On the floor behind the toilet there was a
vial that contained barbiturate traces, a mixture of Xanax,
Seconal, and you're not going to believe this one, Chloral Hydrate. 
Lord knows where she picked it up.   No prescription label,
unfortunately.  That would have been too much to hope for, I
guess."

A tingle of excitement prickled across the back of Scully's neck. 
The Mickey Finn, including Seconal and Chloral Hydrate.  Two
similarities.  A pretty strong sign that they were probably
dealing with the same kidnapper.  Maybe they were finally going
to get a break.

The sound of papers rustling again.  Kinsner continued,  "The
rest of the house barely appeared to be lived in.  There was a
second-hand desk and a dining table with one chair.  All the
furniture was traced back to the Goodwill store that delivered
it.  The delivery guys didn't remember this particular run until
I read them the landlord's description of his renter."

Scully straighten in anticipation.  "What did she look like?"

Captain Kinsner snorted.  "I'd better give you the cleaned-up
version.  Harold Greenlee was a bit vulgar in his upset state and
he didn't exactly remember her face.  According to him, she
was short, blonde and stacked, if you catch my meaning.  He
wasn't much help with other details.  But he *did* remember her
voice--said it was high and child-like.  Made him look twice to
see if she really was an adult.  Don't know if that's much help,
but it's definitely distinctive."

"I'm sure it'll be a big help if we can find her."  Scully wrote,
'Rental.  Used furniture left behind.  Distinctive voice.'  She
asked, "Could you describe the crime scene?"

"Sure thing."  He paused as if gathering his thoughts, then
continued, "The bedroom was about fifteen foot square, not
including the bathroom and closet.  Both of those doors had
been removed.  There was a hole in the wall near the ceiling
and another one out in the hallway.  We never figured out what
that was for, although it could have been for some kind of
monitoring system.  Later, we discovered there were no
windows because the frames had been ripped out and the
opening covered over with drywall.  A very nice, professional
job, too, probably done by somebody outside the area who
didn't know the houses are rentals.  Harold sure was pissed
about it."

"I'll bet," Scully said.  She tried to keep the impatience out of
her voice but she couldn't avoid fidgeting.

"There wasn't any bed frame in the room--just a mattress on
the floor, sheets, blankets and a pillow still in use.  The body
was stretched out on the mattress, like he'd fallen asleep. 
Probably got weak from lack of food and eventually couldn't
move.  Looked like he'd beat on the door some and tried to pry it
away from the frame.  His fingertips were chewed up and there
were bruises on his hands and arms.  He didn't go down
without a fight, but he didn't stand much of a chance either. 
She'd replaced the regular bedroom door with a solid metal
security door."

"Cause of death?"  Scully held her breath.

"Poor beggar starved.  Nearest we can figure, she'd rented the
house three months before.  Paid the first and last month, plus
a deposit.  With the attached bathroom, he had water but no
food.  He'd been missing for over two months when he was
found."

So she didn't kill them right away.  Thank God!  Not that starving
to death was a pleasant way to go, but it meant there was a
good chance of finding Mulder alive if they hurried.

Scully felt a rush of hope, the first in four days.  "Could you
send me a copy of the file, along with the landlord's name and a
number where I can contact him?"

"Can do, ma'am," the captain replied.  "I hope it helps you find
your missing man."

You're not the only one, she thought.  "At least we can run the
fingerprints and see if they match."

The man coughed.  "Yeah.  Sorry about that.  What with budget
cuts and all..."

"I understand, Captain," she said.  "I greatly appreciate you
taking the time to check the bulletin and contact me."

"No problem, Agent Scully.  I was the one who answered
Harold's call for assistance.  Don't think I'll ever forget the
inside of that room no matter how long I live." 

She jotted down his phone number on the pad of notes, thanked
him again, and hung up.  This was the most promising
information they'd obtained so far.  With the solid matches to
Mulder's kidnapping, they had enough cause to enter the info
into VICAP to check for any other unsolved cases.  They could
ask the landlord to work with a sketch artist, give them
something more to go on than the perp's bust measurements. 

A hand and arm came into her peripheral vision and set a stack
of folders on the desk.  Scully sighed.  More police departments
to call.  It could literally take months to work through all of
the small-town departments in the country, but now they had a
slightly narrowed focus to consider.  She'd share this new
information with the other agents.  They could concentrate on
Kentucky and work in a circle around the state.  It was better
than what they had less than an hour ago.

Scully was vaguely aware that the clerk who'd delivered the files
was humming as she continued to distribute material to the
other agents in the room.  The song sounded familiar, but Scully
couldn't quite remember the words.  She'd probably think of
them later, when she was trying to sleep.  She hummed a small
snatch of the song.

Catchy tune, though.

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

Location unknown


Mulder rubbed his throbbing elbow.  Well, smashing through the
wall was out.  His continued attempts to take the shower head
apart were simply chewing the hell out of his palms so he'd
moved to tapping on the walls, looking for a window.  It had to
be there somewhere, covered over with drywall, maybe
plywood.  He thought he'd found it.  If his hands weren't in such
bad shape he might have succeeded, but it was his personal
opinion that breaking through a wall using either fists, elbows or
feet simply wasn't possible.  Definitely not using bare feet.  He
was starting to suspect he'd broken a couple of toes.  Sound
body parts were becoming a shrinking commodity. 

He'd been a prisoner for five days already.  Maybe.  He really
couldn't tell what day it was without access to a clock or a
window to look outside.  If he'd been kidnapped on Monday
night, then the first day was Tuesday.  Since then, he'd only
seen Julie sporadically.  Some days she brought him breakfast
and supper.  Other days supper was his only meal.  There
wasn't any way for him to keep track of time, so he had to
guess.  Five suppers *should* equal five days, which would
make it Saturday.  Theoretically.

He wandered back to the bed and lay down, shifting around,
trying to get comfortable.  At first, he hadn't noticed how hard
the bed was, but then he also hadn't spent much time on it
unless he was sleeping.  He'd occupied himself by searching
the room over and over, looking for a way out, a weapon, a clue,
anything at all that would help him to escape. 

It was a wonder he was able to do as much as he had so far. 
His brain felt dopey all the time and his movements clumsy. 
Headaches were frequent and his dreams were more vivid than
usual.  Some days it didn't seem worth getting out of bed.  He
was nauseous a lot of the time and he'd thrown up after
breakfast twice.  That was a waste of food he desperately
needed.  He couldn't seem to get rid of the cottony feeling in his
mouth, either. 

It had taken him at least three days to realize Julie was drugging
his supper.  The fact that he was falling asleep without any
problem should have been enough of a tip-off.  He'd just
assumed he was sleeping well because of all the exercise he
was getting. 

After the second full day alone, he knew he'd go crazy if he
didn't find something to do.  It wasn't the same as running every
day, but a couple hours or so of push-ups, crunches and
jogging in place helped to burn off the energy he couldn't expend
in other activities.  Headaches, dizziness and occasional
blurred vision made exercising the last thing he wanted to do,
but it was better than going out of his mind from boredom, even
when his heart was pounding and he felt like he'd run ten miles
on a blistering summer's day afterward.  On the third evening of
his captivity, just before he'd passed out, he finally grasped the
fact that he was as fuzzy-brained as when he woke up the first
time.

Mulder hadn't felt so stupid since he'd called a new girlfriend by
a previous girlfriend's name in the throes of sex, thereby ending
the relationship a tad prematurely. 

It was so obvious now--she was still knocking him out.  He
should have realized it the instant he noticed the clean sheets
every day yet never saw her change the bed.  Or how about his
freshly shaved face?  He certainly wasn't shaving himself but
somehow he'd skipped right over that.  For whatever reason,
Julie was entering the room at night and taking care of him. 
Maybe it was part of her fantasy, maybe she had other motives. 
Even if she'd talk to him about it, Mulder wasn't sure he wanted
to know. 

Also, the lights were always on.  He passed out with them
blazing away and they were still on when he awoke.  Plus, she'd
had to wake him on the mornings she actually showed up with
breakfast.  That simply wasn't normal for him. 
  
Big clues, stupidly missed.  He blamed the drugs.  If his brain
was clear, he definitely would have caught on right away.  He
was a trained investigator!  He was supposed to notice these
things!

While he now knew that she was drugging his supper, refusing
to eat it wasn't really an option.  Meals were irregular at best
and starving himself wouldn't help him escape.  The first rule of
survival dictated keeping up your strength for any eventuality. 
It wasn't easy to eat with his own gun pointed at his head, though. 
She didn't seem to be uncomfortable handling it and, so far, she
hadn't gotten close enough to make jumping her a safe option. 
He didn't see any way of overpowering her as long as she had
his weapon. 

So far, there didn't seem to *be* a way out.  Or if there was, he
hadn't found it yet.  That could also be the result of the drug. 
His brain was rather sluggish for most of the day and only really
started to clear about the time she brought supper and drugged
him again. 

She rarely spoke, even if he tried to engage her in conversation. 
But Mulder wasn't going to make the mistake of thinking that
she wasn't paying attention.  Not when she always kept his gun
firmly trained on him. 

The best he could do was to keep physically and mentally
active, so he spent several hours a day exercising and the rest
of his time either pacing, assaulting the plumbing or stretched
out on the mattress, thinking.  She never showed up with his
supper until it felt very late in the day, then left as soon as he
was done eating, usually without saying anything.  He always
fell asleep within a short amount of time. 

Every day had been exactly the same--mind-numbingly lonely,
hungry and hopeless.  After however many days it had been, he
was still no closer to understanding or escaping his
predicament than he was on the first. 

Well, that wasn't completely true.  With plenty of time to do
nothing but think, Mulder was pretty sure he had a good grasp of
Julie's psychological typology.  Considering he couldn't
remember ever meeting her before, he'd put her down as a
love-obsessive stalker.  Although they had nothing in common
and no shared history, even her sparse answers to his
questions made it obvious she believed herself to be in love with
him, and he with her.  She was clearly delusional, living inside
her head, playing out whatever fantasy she'd created for the two
of them.  Some love-obsessive stalkers were content to remain
in their own misguided reality while others escalated to
deliberate violence.  Which meant he had a fifty-fifty chance of
being in worse trouble than he already was.

Julie wasn't an amateur, either.  Mulder was absolutely certain
she'd kidnapped other men.  He'd wondered when he first
caught a whiff of something outside the door, but he was sure
now.  The number of security measures she'd taken, the small
touches of paranoia, all spoke to him of past experience.  She
had the ability to adapt her plans in order to avoid the problems
that cropped up with other victims.  Did someone try to attack
her with the bathroom supplies?  Was that why she insisted on
taking the soaps and towels out of the room?  Had a former
captive used the closet's clothing rod against her?  Why were
there no windows in the room?  Had she boarded them over
because someone tried to break out?  Did she always carry
some kind of weapon with her, or was that also the result of a
previous abduction?  It was nice of him to provide one for her
this time. 

What, specifically, made *him* a target?  That was the question
Mulder really wanted to have answered.  He needed more
information, though.  Personal information about Julie. 

He turned his head and reluctantly looked at the pictures of
himself which circled his prison.  She seemed to know an awful
lot about him.  It was time he asked some different questions,
learned more about her, too.  She hadn't told him why she'd
taken him, where they were or what she wanted with him.  None
of that fit into her fantasy, but telling him about herself might. 
Badgering hadn't gotten him anywhere.  He should see if playing
into her fantasy of them as a normal couple would.

Yeah.  Normal. 

Normal couples didn't eat their meals with one of them holding a
gun on the other.  Normal couples didn't drug each others' food. 
Normal couples didn't keep each other locked up against their
will.

He and Scully were a normal couple.  Sort of.  They really hadn't
been together long enough to have worked out their
"couplehood" yet.  But at least she'd never made him eat at
gunpoint.  She'd threatened to a couple of times, when he was
engrossed in a case, but he knew she'd never follow through.

He smiled.  Thoughts of Scully were just about the only thing
keeping him sane.  He didn't have a lot to hold onto at the
moment, but hopefully she would be enough.  He had to believe
that she'd find him or he'd go out of his mind. 

Possessing a special pipeline into the minds of sickos wasn't
necessarily a good thing.  He had a pretty clear idea about what
had happened to his predecessors and the thought of being
next in line didn't sit too well.

Mulder tensed as he heard the door unlock.  He'd stopped trying
to rush her.  His gun was always the first thing through the
opening and moving closer would simply give her a larger target
to hit.  He suspected the video monitor was right outside
because she never entered unless he was on the bed or in the
bathroom.  If she was watching every time he took a dump, he
didn't know and didn't care.  He *was* fairly certain she kept
close track of him, though.  It might not be easy to get the jump
on her, but that didn't mean he was going to be caught
unprepared if an opportunity arose.

Whatever it took to survive.  He had to focus on that.

She set the chair down and pulled the door shut behind her
before walking any closer.  Mulder rolled off the far side of the
mattress and stood with his back against the wall--another
regular part of their routine which put him at a frustrating
distance.  She never advanced more than halfway into the room
until he was on the other side of it.  More evidence of prior
experience.

"Hello, Beautiful Fox.  How are you today?"  Her smile
acknowledged his existence without admitting the bizarre nature
of the situation.  That smile was grating on his nerves more and
more as the days went by.  He wasn't sure how she expected
him to answer her question, but he was pretty sure it was purely
rhetorical anyway.  She'd said the same thing every time she
brought his breakfast, and that was the only thing she said.  If
he talked to her, she simply smiled wider without responding. 
But so far, he'd only asked questions.  It was time to see what
fitting into her dream world did.

Mulder suppressed his rising irritation and smiled back. 
"Breakfast looks good, Julie.  Did you make it yourself?"

She should have appeared surprised by his response.  For one
thing, he'd never replied in quite that way before.  For another,
she'd brought him an egg-muffin sandwich and hash brown
patty, still enclosed in the fast food wrappers.  Anyone else
would have been offended by his question.  Instead, Julie took it
in her stride, like they had a similar conversation every day of
the week.  The way she was able to fit everything into her
fantasy creeped him out.  Anything that contradicted it would be
ignored or rationalized.  Which would she do this time?

Neither.  She set his tray down on the bed and backed away to
sit on the chair.  The ever-present gun, firmly gripped in one
hand, perched on her knee while she waited for him to eat. 

This wasn't working any better than asking her where he was. 
A different approach.  "Do you have any special plans for
today?" 

No answer, but her smile got bigger.  Mulder hated when she
did that.  Keep trying.  "Tell me about your week.  How was
work?"

Still no answer.  What was going on inside her head?  Was she
incorporating his words into whatever weird scene she had
running?  Did they register in her conscious mind at all or was
his voice like the buzzing of a mosquito in a quiet room? 

Well, this mosquito was tired of being locked up and ignored. 
Mulder sat on the bed and unwrapped his meager breakfast.  At
least he didn't feel nauseous.  With any luck, his food would
stay down.  He had plans for all that energy.  The minute the
door closed behind Julie, he'd return to bashing on the walls. 

His left foot was still in pretty good shape. 

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

J. Edgar Hoover building
Conference room 4B
Monday
3:22 PM

Scully looked at the photos once more.  It wasn't like she hadn't
seen them dozens of times in the last two days, but she felt
closer to Mulder while looking at them. 

God.  Mulder.  Why can't I find you?

The pink envelope addressed to her had been hiding in the
stack of folders delivered on Friday.  She hadn't noticed it right
away.  When she did, the blood literally drained from her face. 
She'd always heard that phrase, but she'd never actually felt it
happen before. 

Skinner was suddenly at her side, supporting her by the elbow. 
She didn't remember standing up. 

He barked out a command to one of the other agents--she knew
that much, but the words didn't register.  Latex-gloved hands
reached to take the envelope from her grasp.  She automatically
held on tighter.

"Let him have it, Agent," she heard Skinner say.  "We need to
see what's inside."

She didn't want to see.  Except she did.  But she didn't.  What
if they were pictures of Mulder, dead?  What if he was bleeding? 
Or skeletal from starvation?  What if--

Stop it!  Knowing would be better than speculating.

She released her hold without warning, causing the other agent
pulling on the packet to stagger. 

Scully realized she was in shock.  She had to get a grip or
Skinner wouldn't let her continue on the investigation.  They
needed to see what was in the envelope, and this time she
wouldn't be contaminating the evidence first.