Author's notes: Sad Lovers and Giants, the two things hardest to conceal.

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Sad Lovers and Giants 08/? ­ Return to Clocktower Lodge

by Mik

I ran away from him. It galls me still to admit it, but it was true. Looking at his battered face, his desperate eyes, looking into a mirror to see the frantic lengths he would go to in order to get away from me, listening to him try to explain away all that had happened; it was all more than I could cope with. Even though I knew I should ­ must ­ stay and resolve this disaster that our association had become, I still made transparent excuses and fled.

I’ve never considered myself a stupid man. Oh, perhaps I’d never be in the rare strata of genius where Mulder routinely resides, but I am not a fool. At least, not under usual circumstances. And these were not usual circumstances. There’s nothing usual about falling in love with someone as beautiful and as frighteningly flawed as the man who was in the next room. There’s nothing usual about releasing emotions and needs so long pent up that they take on violent proportions.

The simple and terrifying truth was that I wanted him so much that it scared me. I didn’t run away from him so much, as I ran away from me.

But I truly believed, after having run away from what had happened, and what had almost happened, that I wouldn’t have to face him, that he would not want to face me. I was wrong.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, performing the comfortably familiar ritual of dressing when he burst into my room. He wasn’t exactly wild eyed, but he did appear as if he might not be dissuaded from any goal. And he had one. Without preamble, without idle chatter, without so much as a ‘May I?’ he launched a performance that was almost elegant in its simplicity; direct, unrelenting and effective. All of that and I never even got out of what little clothing I had gotten into.

When he was through, he looked up at me, eyes hot, mouth wet with saliva and whatever semen he had collected through the barrier of my shorts, and asked me if I wanted him.

Just like that. Did I want him? There were no quantifiers, no outriding conditions or facts. Just the simple question. Just a simple quest for truth.

I reached for him, drew him up, pulled him close to me as I eased back on the bed. I was shaking and drained, and exhausted and exhilarated. He felt incredible in my arms; warm, pliant ... real. And for the moment, at least, happy to be where he was. I didn’t want to think about what had happened the night before. I wanted this moment to go on, without ever looking back.

"We’ll have to be very careful," I said when I had a voice again.

I felt him start to pull away from me, but I held on. "There is no other option for us, Mulder. I can’t let you go, and I don’t think you want me to. But it’s not as if we can tango in the lobby of a federal building, either."

I felt him mumble something. For a moment, adrenaline shot through me, as I was forced to remember the night before. Then I realized whatever he said amused him. He was laughing. I relaxed and continued. "Both our homes are out of bounds. We’ll have to find a neutral and safe place to be together."

He tipped his head back and looked up at me. Then he ducked his head under my chin. "I suppose," he said with a sigh, "that our respective homes might not be the wisest choice for an assignation."

"No," I said regretfully. And it was regret. I’d often envisioned him in my house, sitting comfortably, feeling at home while I prepared some feast suitable for the two of us. In those daydreams, I had never even dared define who we would be to one another. I think at that point I would have been satisfied with friend. Not anymore. "But we’ll find a place."

"Yeah." He remained still, and let me stroke his hair for a moment before he jerked away. "You must be freezing." He rolled off the bed and glanced around, in search of the jeans and sweatshirt I had put out to wear. "Here." He thrust the clothing into my hands. "Is this ..." he bit down on that voluptuous lower lip, "okay with you?"

I was touched and, yes, even still, a bit frightened by his uncertainty. I wasn’t accustomed to shyness from this man. I took my jeans from his hands, deliberately touching his hands as I did. "I’m okay. You?" Of course the question I was actually asking was, ‘Please don’t let me have seen what I think I saw last night. Please tell me it was just a joke, or a dream. And if I did see what I thought I saw, what the hell are you doing in here with me now? Doing what you just did?’

He smiled. It wasn’t a big toothy grin, but that would look out of place on his face. It was just a reapportioning of his mouth. And it didn’t go all the way to his eyes. In his eyes I still saw the greyness of fog, veiling something he didn’t want to see, either. "I’m fine," he said, with just a little too much conviction.

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Six hours later we were miraculously on a plane, getting ready to go home.

I can’t say that the time waiting for that moment had been awkward. We spent most of it together, talking. Nothing deep. No confessions, no childhood memories, no lovers’ vows. We were very practical. We discussed the whens and hows of our private meetings. We discussed and abandoned a dozen venues before agreeing upon a small motel just outside DC that we both knew. We even worked out what we thought was a discreet email code in case we needed to contact each other. Mulder seemed to enjoy the whole ‘cloak and dagger’ aspect of the planning. I thought it was a bit silly, but unfortunately, necessary.

From the moment we emerged from our rooms to check out of the hotel and check in at the airport, we engendered a lot of curious looks, with our matching and somewhat spectacular injuries. Mulder countered queries with answers that ranged from the simple (tripped in the dark) to the ludicrous (shark attack), and once in a while threw in ‘lovers' spat’ with a grin just to see if I’d choke. I responded in an appropriate manner, as befitting my position and relationship to an underling. I said, "Mulder," quite sternly, for anything more outrageous than a spider bite, and then cuffed him in the back of the head when no one was looking.

Through it all, however, I watched him closely, looking for some sign of damage from the night before. Was it actually possible that he did not remember? I had to know. "Mulder," I began as we settled into our seats on the plane, "what is it called when you can’t remember events that just happened to you?"

"In the case of anyone who works with me ... lucky." He wasn’t looking at me so I could watch him closely for any hesitation or guilty behavior. But there was none. "You mean ... like short term memory loss?" he asked, working a kink out of his seatbelt and snapping it into place. "Why? Do you keep losing your keys, Sir?"

"No, that’s not what I meant." I paused to choose words carefully. "Like ... when something bad happens to you, but you don’t remember it."

"Like a car accident? That’s amnesia, usually brought on --"

"No, I don’t mean because of an injury," I interrupted. "For instance, suppose you have a fight with someone and you harm them, but ten minutes later you don’t remember it because it’s as if you weren’t actually there."

"Evil twin?" he suggested with a smirk. "Clone?"

"I’m serious, Mulder."

He scratched the back of his neck. "You mean something like a disassociative disorder?"

"What is that, exactly?"

"Well," he settled back in his seat, and drew a deep breath. "Disassociative disorders, also known in some cases as Multiple Personality Disorders, are conditions wherein when a person encounters something too traumatic for him to deal with, another distinct personality emerges to cope for him. The personalities are really fractions of the original ego that were damaged at some point, most commonly in childhood. Disassociative disorders are really like a whole subset of symptoms of PTSD."

"Distinct personality?" I didn’t believe I had witnessed a distinct personality. Just someone or some ... thing not Mulder.

He shrugged lazily. "These personalities are defenders of the innocent, you know. That’s a dramatic way of saying that they are the child’s way of protecting himself. Depending upon his age at the time of the original trauma, a personality will form which embodies the characteristics the child knows to be safe or strong or nurturing or even vengeful. Sort of an ..." he smiled again, "in house superhero."

"Do you believe in them?"

"Them?" He turned and cocked a brow at me. "You mean, the disorder? Are you asking me what my personal beliefs are? Or what the psychological society at large believes?"

"Both."

"Well, I’ve seen it used both successfully and unsuccessfully as a defense in criminal proceedings. It’s always a battle of the expert witnesses in cases like that. There is DSM-IV criteria for it, but you can always make a case for or against someone meeting it." He shifted his attention to the flight attendant’s last minute instructions for a moment. "Personally? Yes, I am open to it." He made a sound that might have been laughter. "I’ve been through a few things I wished some other personality could have handled for me."

Amazing. He was so calm, so unaffected. Surely he couldn’t have faked what happened the night before without betraying some guilt. But surely, he couldn’t not know that I was asking for that very reason. "Can a person suffer from it and not realize?"

He laughed outright at that. "Disassociation, by definition, means being disassociated from the events taking place ... not being there." The laughter faded. "Actually, eventually, the ‘host’ or ‘original’ personality has to notice there is something going on. Sometimes it’s a sense of something extraordinary within, sometimes it’s the inability to account for lost time, or the changes in relationships with others."

"You’ve claimed to have lost time before," I reminded him.

He turned to me in mock seriousness. "Mr. Skinner, Sir. You’ve just solved the mystery of Disassociation. It’s not multiple personalities at all. It’s alien presence."

I might have censured him for that comment, but the plane lurched forward and we both grabbed for the armrest between us. Our hands came together and we looked at each other just a moment longer than we would have done a week before. I think I saw a little color in his face. Then we adjusted our respective grips and looked away, settling back in our seats. The past didn’t seem so important now. The future was the only thing that mattered.

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It was not exactly five diamonds on the Automotive Club’s scale, but the motel room I let myself into was clean, freshly painted and private. It had a decent sized bath, in room movies, a coffeemaker and that most important of all amenities; a bed. I sat down on it, testing it for buoyancy and silence, and checked my watch against the clock radio at my side. If Mulder was on time, he would arrive in twenty minutes.

I was hoping he would be early. To my admittedly not psychologically trained mind, being early would indicate that he was as eager to see me as I was to see him.

It had been twelve days since we’d landed at Ronald Reagan airport, gave each other a quick handclasp and parted ways. We’d both heard about one another’s injuries through the gossip network. Mulder had evidently spread a very humorous tale involving sounds in hallways, thoughts of burglars, mistaken identities and Greco-Roman wrestling. He must have done a remarkable job of relating the incident because I had not heard one sneer of disbelief from anyone.

I hadn’t seen the author of the adventure, though. We were usually scheduled to attend departmental meetings on Monday mornings, but on the Monday following our return, our department was in the middle of annual audits, so the meetings were postponed. And then he and his partner took another field assignment before the ink was even dry on his last report.

Agent Scully had brought the report up for my review a few days later, and I tried to gauge from her behavior and attitude toward me whether he had confessed all. But her behavior and attitude toward me was respectful and reserved. As usual. She didn’t linger a fraction longer than necessary. She didn’t utter a sound beyond her usual perfunctory and polite responses. She didn’t even let her eyes meet mine any longer than was appropriate. I didn’t have a clue whether or not she knew. I would have to ask Mulder.

When I saw him.

He wasn’t early.

He wasn’t even on time.

In fact he was sixteen minutes late. I could hear his car door slam outside. I could hear his trainers on the wet pavement. I could hear him pause outside checking room numbers, and shifted what sounded like a paper bag in his arms. It took him nearly a minute to knock. I wondered if he was thinking about changing his mind. I went to the door and opened it, and stepped back to let him enter.

He held out the paper bag. "It seemed appropriate," he murmured, and let his rucksack slide off his shoulder.

I pushed the door shut and leaned in for a kiss. He seemed startled by my approach, but he didn’t resist. In fact, he put his hand on my shoulder encouragingly. "It’s good to see you," he said.

"It’s good to see you, as well." I carried the bag to the tiny table in the corner. "Sit down," I tossed over my shoulder as I opened the bag. "How was Kentucky?"

"Right where I’d left it," he answered with a grunt, bending over to untie his shoes.

I laughed. Not at his comment, but at the contents of the bag. Milk, sunflower seeds, slim jims, magazines, gum, chocolates, apples, bagels, meat paste, beer, candles, matches and Vaseline. Everything I had gotten that day in an attempt to ensure our survival. And one more item that had not been in my basket. Condoms.

I looked at them, lying innocently at the bottom of the bag, and I wondered if he could see me going up in flames from there. "Mulder, you’re ..." I didn’t have the words to express my feelings.

"Yeah." He let himself flop backward on the bed. "Everyone says that."

I turned around and came back to the bed, sitting beside him, looking down. "Are you okay?"

He shook his head, very slowly. "I’m so incredibly not okay." He rolled onto his side and put his hand on my thigh. "It’s been a nightmare the last two weeks. All I could think about was ..." he fumbled for words.

I held my breath. I knew what he had been thinking about. I had just been pretending it hadn’t happened.

"... was how good it felt sleeping with you," he finished on a rush of breath. He lifted his hand and wrapped it around my neck, drawing me down on my side next to him. His eyes were hot green sparks all over my face. He reached for and slipped my glasses away from my face. "You look pretty hot without your glasses," he allowed. He twisted them around and settled them on the bridge of his nose. He blinked a couple of times. "Wow."

"Not a word, Mister," I warned, took them from him, and arched up to leave them on the bedside table. Then I gathered him into my arms and held on. "It’s been a nightmare for me as well," I whispered fiercely into his hair. "I want to sleep with you every night." I kissed him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I looked back at the bed one last time before I shut the door. He was curled up, hugging the pillow, shivering. I left the light by the door on, and left.

It had been moving like wildfire. From that first real kiss, we’d been scrabbling desperately to get skin to skin, mouth to mouth, cock to cock. We’d bitten, licked, sucked, fondled, rubbed every part of one another we could reach. I’d had fantasies about that first time being romantic, but we were too in need to waste time with romance. Romance could come later, after we came.

I tried to be careful at first, to watch his reactions to each thing I did, but his reactions just served to fire me up, make me want more. There was no hesitation in his actions. He was rocking and rubbing against me like a cat in heat, muttering incendiary things like ‘I need you so much’ and ‘please, just do it’.

He didn’t flinch or even look alarmed when I broke away to get the Vaseline and condoms. I brought them back to the bed and he just grinned up at me, flushed and sweating, his panting breath making his body seem to undulate before me. "How do you want me?" he asked in a cracked voice.

I didn’t waste any time getting that condom on. I gestured impatiently for him to roll over, and climbed up over him. It wasn’t until I actually tried to part his legs that he had the reaction I’d feared; stiffening, trying to keep his legs together. He was up on his elbows, with his head ducked down, and for the moment, still and quiet. But something rather like a whimper escaped him as I reached for his cheeks and attempted to open him.

I should have stopped at that moment. I know it now. I knew it then. But I was too far into my own needs to give in to his. I tried to keep my voice calm and non-threatening as I pressed against him. "Just relax," I whispered into his neck. "It will be all right if you just relax." He answered with a jerky move of his head, too quick and small to discern if it was assent or denial. But the minute the reservoir tip of that condom made contact with his anus he went wild, bucking and moaning and thrashing and begging. I backed off fast and started scrambling for my clothes. He twisted around in the bedding so much that he ended up on the floor, completely enfolded in the coverlet.

I let him stay there, on the floor between the wall and the bed, while I hastily finished dressing and gathered my things. I was getting out of there. Compassion and responsibility would demand that I stay with him, comfort him, see him through whatever trauma he was reliving, but I’d seen him get through well enough on his own, and I wasn’t all that sure that I wasn’t more of the problem than a solution. I certainly didn’t want to risk confirmation of that suspicion, so I chose to flee and live to fight another day.

The pathetic sounds seemed to abate finally, while I was writing a terse note on the cheap motel letterhead. I would have walked out at that moment, but I happened to glance down at him, and I was wrenched with guilt.

Approaching him gently, speaking softly, I managed to gather him up and settle him back on the bed. He rolled away from me, and jerked at my touch, when I reached over him to turn off the light. But his words, or those words, because they didn’t sound as if they came from him, pierced me through. "I was being good. I was trying. I tried to be good. I’m sorry, Sir."

~~~
 

That familiar ache, that familiar, awful feeling of dread and doom. That’s how I woke. That I knew at once. It took a moment for the rest of it to sink in. I was alone, in a strange place hopelessly wound into strange bedclothes, but most important was that bewildering, dispiriting understanding that I was alone.

It took a while for me to sort out and prioritize these facts. As I remembered it, Skinner, after nearly two weeks of maddening and foreboding silence, sent word to meet him at the prearranged trysting place ... thus implying a tryst was imminent. I did arrive for said tryst. The proof was me, bundled awkwardly into the blankets. We’d had minimal conversation. I did remember that we sort of lunged at each other like dogs in heat. But details seemed to abandon me at that point. And those details were vital, because they could explain how I came to be in that motel room alone.

Of course, I knew what happened without having the precise events committed to memory. I must have had another nightmare. It was the only explanation that satisfied the horribly empty dread within me and the horrible empty bed I was in.

Skinner must have been convinced I was a lunatic, I decided and kicked and struggled my way out of the bed.

I couldn’t help wonder about one piece of the puzzle, though. Did we or didn’t we? The big ‘did’. I had no memory of it occurring, which was a damned shame because I had been looking forward to that. Oh, to be certain there was a little apprehension, after all, since Skinner was neither adequately experienced nor inadequately endowed. But despite a little virginal anxiety, I wanted that, wanted him.

There was some evidence to support the conclusion that, experienced or not, we had managed it. There was an empty condom wrapper and a jar of Vaseline on the bedside table, and I did feel a little achy and bruised in my hips and thighs. So, brilliant detective that I am, I detected that we had managed to consummate our relationship in the ‘traditional’ way. I just wished I could remember it.

I started gathering my clothes together, feeling alone and embarrassed. I could be pretty confident there would be no repeat performances. It had taken him two weeks and a pretty decent blowjob to get up the nerve to give me this chance. But after having to deal with yet another encounter with Mulder and the Night Visitors, it was unlikely he’d waste anymore breath on me outside work.

I tried to concentrate on what it was about him that could trigger these events. God knows I have them often enough, even without him around, but to have two such episodes so close together and with him in my bed both times was significant. And there was something else. I don’t ever recall losing memories of the events prior to sleeping and falling into that state.

"Ah, but that’s just suggestive," I told myself, pulling my shirt over my head. "The last time we talked, he asked me about having lost time. He put the idea in my head. The memories will come back, if I don’t force them."

That should have lifted my spirits, but there was still the inescapable fact that I was in a motel room, said trysting place, alone. Whatever happened was enough to make him book without benefit of a formal farewell. As I was gathering the rest of my things together, however, I found a note, which read: M, I’m sorry. I have been called away for an emergency. I don’t think I will be able to make it back. As I write this, you appear to be unwell. If you need anything, I am sure Agent Sc Ms. Scully can provide more immediate assistance than I. I will be contacting you as soon as prudent. S.

I read it three times before I crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket. "Walter Skinner, you’re a real poet," I drawled. "I like the part where you cross out ‘Agent’ and call her ‘Ms.’. I’ll bet she’d love that." I collected my backpack, after deciding to leave the sundries and foodstuffs behind, and prepared to walk out. But with my hand on the door, I turned back impulsively and retrieved the note, smoothing it out and slipping it into my bag. It might not be Shelley, but it was the closest I’d ever get to a love note from Skinner.

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Scully was on the phone when I entered the office on Monday morning. She turned and gave me a sharp look and said, "He just walked in, Sir. Thank you, Sir." She dropped the receiver into place and turned around in her chair to stare at me. "Mulder? Are you all right?" She made it into two distinct questions with the same exact meaning.

I patted myself down in search of unauthorized blood loss or extraneous holes. Finding none, I said, "Yes, I think so. Why?"

She pointed her pen toward the phone on her desk. "That was Assistant Director Skinner. He seemed to be laboring under the belief that you might be ill."

Well, at least he was still concerned. "Huh." I kept my face impassive. "Wonder whose tea leaves he mixed up with mine?" I dropped my things on my desk and hit the switch on my computer.

She was still watching me, as I went through my morning routine. "Are you going to call him back?"

I looked up from my mail. "Was I supposed to?"

Her look was peculiar. "No, but, Mulder, he did call."

I returned to the stack of mail. "Yes, and I heard you tell him I had arrived." I tossed a folder on my to-do stack. "My presence here, at my place of work, might be to some, an indication that I am in reasonable health."

"To some," she muttered.

I tossed a couple of messages in the trash. "I’m fine."

"Mulder?" That same question.

"Ye-es?" I answered, not having to feign irritation. Why the hell didn’t he call me to inquire about my health? Especially if it was a legitimate emergency that called him away. What the hell happened Friday night that he would think I was ill?

"Is there something you’re not telling me?"

I was glad my back was to her. I know guilt flashed over my face for a moment. "What makes you think that?" Ooh, wrong answer, Mulder. A negative interjection was called for here.

"Hmm," she said. "Well, that answer, for one thing."

I carefully composed my expression and my voice and turned around. "No, Scully, nothing’s wrong. Unless you count my ass still being in Skinner’s sling over that mess in Buffalo. Oh, and by the way, thanks a lot for the brilliant job you did covering for me."

She didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. "He asked me a direct question," she explained. "I couldn’t lie to a direct question."

"You can’t? Didn’t you take Lies and Obfuscation 101 at Quantico?" I pulled a pen from my shirt pocket and clicked it decisively. "Let me get you enrolled in a make up course right away."

She made a little Scully frown. "You must have gotten full marks for obfuscation," she drawled.

"As it happens," I told her, tucking the pen back into place, "I did."

The frown deepened. "What’s wrong, Mulder?"

I shook my head. "Nothing, except Skinner’s on my case like a cheap label."

Her voice went up a notch. "He said he was afraid you were unwell. That doesn’t sound like --"

"Well, what else is he going to say to you?" I broke in with a jeer. "Hello, I don’t trust Agent Mulder any farther than I can throw this building so will you please let me know the minute he gets his ass to work?"

She swiveled back to her desk. "Oh, Mulder, really."

"Yes, really," I retorted. "Anything else? No? Good. Let’s get to work. What’s on the agenda?"

She pulled up the calendar on her computer. "Full Departmental meeting at ten."

I said the only thing I could say, under the circumstances. "Shit." But I said it very quietly.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

We encountered one another in the hall just outside the conference room door. He gave me a terse nod, without the slightest hint of animation or emotion. I would have liked to believe that he was just being discreet, given that Scully was at my side. I would have liked to, but I didn’t. He said, "Agents," crisply and held back to let us pass. We both nodded and mumbled, "Sir," but it took every ounce of will in me not to turn back and look at him, to ask him, "Why?"

Scully and I took our usual places at one end of the long narrow conference table and he took his at the other. I remained still in my chair, staring at a blank notepad, because with Scully sitting opposite me, I couldn’t dare make eye contact with him. I knew I’d give myself away. Still, I listened keenly for every murmur, cough, rustle of paper or creaking chair that might be his.

It was kind of sad and pathetic how much I wanted something of him, even a sound. I’d spent the weekend trying not to think about him and so, of course, I couldn’t think about anything but him. Up to as recently as three weeks before this particular meeting, I could easily pass entire days and nights without his name even making a cameo appearance in my thoughts, but now --

Scully’s foot tapped my ankle.

I scowled at her and she scowled back, tipping her pen ever so slightly toward the opposite end of the table.

I turned my head in that direction. Skinner and his D.D., an irritating monkey butt named Jameson, were both looking at me in expectation. I felt my mouth go dry and not from embarrassment. Skinner’s expression was irritation and something else; shame? Fear? Concern? Disgust?

"Um ... I ...." Scully kicked me again and I glared at her. She was tapping a fingertip on her notepad. I looked down and she had scribbled Barnett. I sat up. "The Barnett case," I repeated and made my eyes go back to the head of the table and fix on Jameson. "The final report will be submitted this afternoon. Barnett was arraigned in Federal court on Thursday and remanded to Georgia Bureau custody." I risked a glance at Scully, and she nodded almost imperceptibly.

The meeting continued for everyone else, and I lapsed back into a sulk. There was no mention of any emergency that would justify Skinner being called away from his lover in the middle of the night. I had to conclude that there was either a family emergency, and to my knowledge he had no family close enough for that kind of emergency, or he was excuse-making to grease the way out.

When the meeting ended, I remained seated just a moment longer, watching Skinner through veiled eyes, to see if he even looked in my direction. But he was talking to another fairly odious A.D., Kersh, as he gathered his notebook and PDA together. They walked out, still deep in discussion, without casting the merest glance at me.

"Mulder, what is the matter?" Scully was leaning over the table. "I think A.D. Skinner’s right, you are --"

"He’s not," I snapped, standing up so forcefully my chair fell over. "About anything," I added, bending to right the chair. "I’m fine."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

But I wasn’t fine. I was starting to obsess. What had happened? What had I done, really? So I had a bad dream. So what? Was I to be punished because I couldn’t control where my mind went wandering while I slept? It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, and yet it was wholly understandable. If I were him instead of me, I wouldn’t want to pursue an intimate relationship with me, either.

But damn it, I would think Skinner was the kind of man with balls enough to say so, to my face. It was this sneaking out in dark of night business that really bothered me. What had I said or done that was so horrible he couldn’t bear to stay in the same room with me ... oh, my God! Did I threaten him? The last time he accused me of having a nightmare, we were both pretty well damaged, and I certainly couldn’t account for it. Was it actually possible that I had conveyed some greater threat to him? Absolutely not. I know I’m not, by nature, a violent man. It was hard to conceive of becoming so when I fell asleep. Jekyll and Hyde didn’t exist outside fiction.

"Mulder?"

Scully’s voice grated on me, making me flinch. Drawing a deep breath, I turned in my chair. "Yes?"

"Are you sure --"

"Yessss." I had to take another breath. "Scully ... please ... let it alone, will you?"

She looked wounded in that way only Scully can. "Okay, Mulder," she said quietly. "I’m sorry if I intruded." I heard her chair creak as she turned away from my desk. "I was only concerned, that’s --"

"Damn it, Scully, there isn’t anything wrong except in your head, and the fact that you’re making me crazy trying to convince me that there is something wrong." I jumped from my chair, and snatched my jacket from the back of it. "I’ve got an errand." I didn’t mean to slam the office door, it just happened.

Even as I climbed stairs, I knew it was pointless to confront him at the office. But we had agreed that our homes were strictly off limits and I couldn’t wait for him to go home, anyway. I wanted resolution that minute.

When I came out of the stairwell onto the fifth floor mezzanine, he was walking toward me. At least, for one heartstopping moment that’s how it seemed. He was walking from the opposite end of the corridor, to his office, which was between us. But our eyes met as we walked toward each other, and they held. It almost seemed as if we were being pulled toward one another. Suddenly he reached the door to his anteroom and he broke the gaze and turned with a very deliberate motion. Everything about his body, his eyes, his timing said, ‘I am going somewhere you cannot go.’

I ignored the message and turned into the outer office five steps behind him. He was in the doorway of his inner office, informing his secretary he was not to be disturbed, but I didn’t let him finish. I marched up to his door. "Sir, about the --"

"I’m very busy right now, Agent," he said in a sharp voice and moved as if he was going to step inside and shut me out.

"With all due respect, Sir, this won’t take that long." I was nose to nose with him, daring him to turn me away.

He sighed and gestured me in, leaving his door open an inch or two, an implicit warning that I should choose my topics and my words carefully. He moved around me and rested a hip at the edge of his desk and did not invite me to sit. Folding his arms over his chest, he said, "What’s this about, Agent?"

I stood there, looking from the open door to his imposing body language, speechless. What could I say? What would he say? "I ..." I was choked wordless by his expressionless face and the way he looked pointedly at his watch. It was like trying to pour my heart out to one of those big stone faces on Easter Island and expecting them to care. I pulled myself up straight and cocked my head at him. "I was just concerned about your family emergency, Sir."

"Family em --" he cut off the word but it was enough. I knew. I turned away. He cut me off by jerking away from his desk and taking a step toward the door. He looked over my shoulder and said between clenched teeth near my ear, "Not here." When I opened my mouth to ask where, he added, "Not now." He reached for the door ahead of me and pulled it open. "Thank you for your concern, Agent."

I had no choice, I was being very effectively thrown out.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I didn’t go back to the office. I didn’t know exactly where my head was, and I couldn’t keep that fact from my face or from Scully. So I kept going downstairs, ‘til I reached the underground parking.

I didn’t really have a place to go. For a while I just sat in my car, seeing nothing but him looking over my shoulder, not even meeting my eyes. My chest hurt. It wasn’t enough to feel foolish for believing him. I didn’t care about that. I didn’t know what I felt that hurt so much, but something did. Something horrible, like a tentacle wrapping around my lungs, squeezing me, stealing my breath from the inside.

I didn’t know what I felt for him. But it was powerful and I didn’t want to let it go. And I didn’t know what was in me that was making him want to let me go. I believed even then that at one point he needed and wanted me just as much as I needed and wanted him. So what changed? What did I do wrong? I had to know.

I started my car and backed out of my space, surprised my vision was impaired by tears. Angrily, I brushed at them, while I negotiated the catacomb like parking structure. It was dark when I emerged at street level. Snow that looked muddy in daylight looked magically white and pristine in streetlight. I wish I had been in a mood to appreciate the transition.

I didn’t go far ... just an alleyway two blocks down. Skinner was going to have to pass me to get to the expressway. I backed in, and dimmed my headlamps, and waited.

From a psychological standpoint, it should have been comforting that, for once, Skinner wasn’t the last one out of the building. Either he had a hot date -- another family emergency -- or our confrontation, as small as it was disturbed him and even his big office was too confining. He didn’t seem to notice my car pulling out two cars behind him. He didn’t seem to have any particular destination, either. He couldn’t go home. He was afraid I would break our agreement and be waiting there.

After eschewing the turn off to the expressway, he drove aimlessly for another five or ten minutes. Finally he turned in at a bar that was a favorite Friday night hangout for Bureauites, but this was a Monday so it wasn’t likely to be seeing much Federal action. I cruised the block, making sure he was pulling in, and not just looking for a tail, then doubled back and came in through the exit at the far end.

Not by design, we were parked face to face, several rows apart. He didn’t see me. He was fussing with something in his passenger seat. Then he looked up and scanned the lot. He sat still for a moment, and then pushed the door open.

I climbed out of my car a second behind him, slammed the door and started moving toward him. I had the advantage of being closer to the building’s entrance. He was going to have to go through me to get inside to whatever or whomever he wanted to get to.

He came to a stop so suddenly it was as if someone pulled a string and brought him up short.

I shrugged and tried to work my mouth into a smile. "Small world."

"What are you doing here, Agent? This isn’t your usual haunt." His voice was light, casual, hail fellow well met, but I knew him too well to believe it.

"Nor yours," I countered, taking a step closer to him.

I’ll give him credit. He didn’t cringe or back up. He took it like a man. He let me get almost close enough to touch him before he said, in that same, back of the throat, gritting his teeth, cross me and die voice, "I’m sorry, Mulder. It ends here. It has to." Only then did his gaze falter, and even then only for a fraction. "It was a mistake. Let it go before either of us gets hurt."

And while I was standing there burning down into my shoes, he walked on, bumping my shoulder slightly as he passed me, and went inside, leaving a pile of ash for the winter winds of Washington DC to whip up and blow away, leaving no trace that he’d ever touched me.

~~~
 

I’ve killed men before. For flag and country. To serve and protect. I never allowed myself to feel guilt. It was the right thing. My duty. They deserved to die. In fact, once I got over the initial realization that I was capable of taking the life of another human being, once I grasped what my commanders told me that it was right and just to kill the bad guy, I never let myself feel anything. It became impersonal to me, it wasn’t me killing people, it was the uniform ... whatever uniform it was.

But I’ve never deliberately fired the weapon of words. In truth my words had never been so loaded. Yet I knew I scored a direct hit as I watched him recoil and tumble inwardly. He crumbled before my eyes. He remained standing, but one look at his eyes as I uttered those words was enough to see this emotional infrastructure was collapsing.

What was I supposed to do? Go on tormenting him? That Friday night in the motel room, I knew I had to let him go, even though I would have rather surrendered my own heart. In a way, I was. All weekend I mentally paced between two positions; to hurry back to him and hold him even if it might truly be against his will, or to get as far away from him as possible. His words haunted me, though and every time I felt myself weaken, I paused to replay my memory of a small, desperate voice promising me to be good.

Seeing him the following Monday only solidified my position. He looked drawn and tired and, if possible, thinner than when I last saw him. His eyes were dull and full of pain; he seemed distracted and restless. If I had any doubts about my decision, I was convicted when he stormed my office and then stood there, helpless and silent. I think part of him wanted to prove he was man enough to take it, to take us, but there was another part of him which couldn’t even articulate his fears. It was that part of him I was compelled to protect, even if I was protecting that part of him from me.

I had to handle him carefully, though. I couldn’t tell him what we both knew, not there in the office. He was too unstable at that moment. I had to give him time, I had to bring him to a place where he could hear what I said, and think, not merely react. I baited him and set my trap, knowing he would persist in confronting me ‘til it was resolved. Mulder was nothing if not tenacious.

I led him to a public place, a place where his coworkers were known to frequent, a place where he might contain his reaction. And then, I watched him fall apart. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to catch him and hold him up; comfort us both. But I walked away, knowing as wrong as if felt, it was the right thing.

My house was as empty and unwelcoming that night as it had ever been. Mulder wasn’t there with me. Not that he’d crossed my threshold more than once, but every night I’d entertained him in my thoughts and dreams. I’d often think of him sitting just so on the sofa, eyes fixed on television, or leaning against the terrace rail, hip cocked to one side. I could so easily envision him perusing my books or music, smiling and humming, I could see him at my table, in my shower, on my bed.

But not that night -- his wraith, his companionable presence was gone, left in the wreckage of that parking lot. I fixed myself a drink I wanted to share with him, and sat down where I always seemed to imagine him being, and it was just an empty chair, a cold place in a cold house.

Impulsively I reached for my phone and entered nine of the ten numbers of his mobile. Sighing, I put it down, much as I had done for two weeks after we returned from Buffalo. Same battle, this night, need versus propriety, but on this occasion there had been casualties. What good would it do to call him? Even if I could somehow coax him to meet me, even if I could attempt to explain, he was too hurt and I didn’t understand enough of his pain.

The one inevitable outcome of any attempt to reconcile or soothe would be that we would end up once again in bed. That wasn’t a boast, it was merely recognizing just how strong our attraction had been. And it ... that ... whatever it was might happen again. No. I pushed my phone away so hard it skittered off the table and fell to the floor with a carpet-dulled thud. Better to leave it alone, better to let it bleed a while, and heal.

At one point in the course of that bitter night, I fancied I saw him outside the complex, looking up at my window. But it was a dark night, and snow was just starting to fall, and ... and I was looking with my heart, not my eyes.

The next morning was not the first time I dreaded going into the Bureau. But this time the dread came from a personal place. I did not want to see Mulder. Not yet, not while our mutual wounds were still fresh. The chances were fairly good I wouldn’t have to see him. We often went days without contact. But even a small chance of encountering him in a hallway or elevator was too great for me. I honestly didn’t know what I would do and that was an unnatural and uncomfortable situation I hadn’t been in for many years.

Hard to believe that just days ago I was so wildly in love with him that I braved a blizzard to get him sunflower seeds, nearly threatened a hotel kitchen employee at gunpoint to see that he would have coffee when he woke, that I actually knelt at the side of his bed, just to memorize his sleeping face. And now I feared that face. And missed it.

I went to work, as usual, of course, secretly hoping I would not encounter him and even more secretly hoping I would. I even wondered what feasible errand could take me to their basement office. But I could think of no reason solid enough that he wouldn’t see through it. And he’d either use that to torture me with his righteous wrath, or let me torture him with my nearness. I kept to my office.

That plan worked very well for three and a half days. I say ‘and a half’ because around midnight that Thursday, I received a phone call. I was given a fact and a request. The request was difficult to accede to because it would require me to a) contact Mulder and b) assign him to a case that was going to be immeasurably painful for him.

Of course, neither of these factors held any merit with the person making the request. With no other recourse, I dialed his number, almost hoping that he wouldn’t hear it ring, that it was turned off, out of batteries, lost, stolen, broken or buried. After four rings, I was ready to hang up and believe any of my notions were true, when I heard a raspy, muffled, "Yeah?"

"Agent Mulder," I began. "This is --" the line went dead.

I stared at my phone in disbelief. He’d hung up on me! Anger burning away dread, I jabbed numbers again and waited. "Mulder, don’t hang up. This is work related. There’s been a kidnapping. Senator Dolan’s daughter. You’re wanted. Tonight."

There was a silence. I couldn’t even hear breathing. "Forty minutes." And he hung up a second time.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

And he was there, possibly early. I arrived at the Senator’s Virginia residence within forty-five minutes of our phone call, and he was already there, walking the perimeter with two fairly chagrinned personal bodyguards. Crime Scene was already mounting halogen lights to comb for evidence around the doors and windows. He moved past me as I had to step over cables, getting out of my car, and gave me nothing more than a nod, still questioning the security team.

The local ASAC appeared less than pleased to see me. "There was no need for you to get out of bed, Skinner," he said, just a bit too jovially. "We country folk had things pretty well under control."

I wanted to ask him how he could have things under control if the girl hadn’t been recovered, but I just pointed toward Mulder, in his jeans and FBI jacket. "One of my agents has been brought in."

The ASAC made a face. "Special Agent Mulder ... yes, we’ve met."

I shook my head sympathetically. "The request came from over my head," I explained. "My Agent’s got an amazing solve rate in kidnapping cases."

"I know. I inquired." He made another face. "He’s not very ... polite, is he?"

I chuckled. "Mulder? No, he’s not at all politic. But he’s the best there is, so," I patted his shoulder, "just try to put up with him and he’ll be gone before you know it."

He drew a huffy sounding breath. "I am not in the habit of ‘putting up with’ field agents, Mr. Skinner."

"Really? That must be why I’m an Assistant Director, and you’re an Assistant Special Agent."

I heard a snicker behind me and I jerked around, but Mulder was already walking away from me. So I eyeballed the ASAC again. "Trust me, pulling out the Rules and Regs on him will waste your time ... and his. And," I looked up at the house, with every light ablaze, "time is something we cannot afford to waste." I turned on my heel and started after Mulder.

I hoped I might pull him off to one side, get a good look at him, make certain he was all right, but there were two other agents with him when I caught up, so I had to make do with shop talk. "Where’s your partner?" I asked, falling in step with them.

"I let her sleep. She didn’t need to drive down here from Annapolis for this." He looked back up at the house. "Second floor window," he mused. "How the hell did he do it?"

"You have an entry point?" I followed his stare.

"No, just an exit point." He gestured. "There is a partial footprint there, with mud and gravel." He looked down at the drive. "You’ll note the drive’s paved here ... but there’s a gravel horse path that crosses the drive outside the gate. Our perp walked over that, and it looks as if he wedged his way through the gate. There’s a small mud puddle right there. No other puddles, and none of the mud or snow on the grounds appears to have been walked on."

He walked to the gate. "We can put him here," he pointed to the puddle, "and then he seems to have apperated to the second floor window. The window’s opened outward, there’s his footprint, one of her slippers and her handprint on the inside --"

"Wait a minute. Apperate?"

He made an impatient face. "Harry Potter. Never mind." His voice was as cold as the night. "And once they’re through that window, there’s no sign of them again."

"Well, maybe they just ... flew?" I suggested dryly.

"Yeah, you suggest that to the Senator, will you?" he snapped and walked away.

Both agents looked at me, waiting for me to explode. I sighed, and marched off after him. "Agent Mulder, I cannot allow --"

He was still walking. "Just put up with me and I’ll be gone in no time," he suggested between clenched teeth. He jerked his eyes to mine for a moment. "Go back to bed, Skinner ... Sir. I can handle this without you."

I put my hand on his arm and gripped, warning him not to try and shake me off. "Task Force meeting at seven o’clock. See that you and your partner are there." I pulled the reigns around and went back to my car.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By seven o’clock that morning, it was already evident that this case was a bad assignment for Mulder. He appeared at the conference room door, wild eyed, hair disheveled, unshaved, and still in his now muddy jeans and FBI jacket. "Why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me there have been six similar abductions in the last four months?" He slammed files on the table, making everyone around him flinch.

I looked up from notes I was making, startled by both his appearance and demeanor. "Agent Mulder, when I suggested that ASAC Harris ‘put up with you’ I was not talking about lapses in Bureau protocol, or common decency."

He ignored my censure and started tossing the files to various members of the staff present. "I want a conference call with California, Wisconsin, Iowa, Texas, Georgia and Pennsylvania," he demanded.

"Agent Mulder, can you --"

"Yes, I can," he cut me off. "Same m.o. in each one ... high security residence, no sign of forced entry, no plausible way out of a second floor bedroom. No ransom notes. No contact with the family." He pointed to a couple of the files, now open in front of other agents. "In two cases, California and Iowa, the child turned up weeks later with a distant relative who couldn’t account for how the child showed up with them. In Iowa, the boy had been sexually abused." He paused to swallow. "We found two more alive, dumped in rural areas, both with injuries too severe to allow them to identify their attacker. In one case, the child has since died of his injuries. I suspect there’s one more out there that’s in such bad condition that he or she hasn’t been identified." He paced. "He’s been keeping them less time as the thrill diminishes. He’s been escalating the amount of abuse. We don’t have much time to find this girl." He fixed his hot glare on me. "Conference call."

All eyes came to me. "Well, since it is only four am in California, perhaps you can afford the time to explain how these cases are related to our abduction?"

He glared at me. "If you would just --"

"Sit down, Agent," I said firmly, "and tell us about it."

He glared a minute longer, yanked out a chair and sat, eyes still on me. Then he looked around the room, meeting the eyes of each Task Force member. "This is a very preliminary report, based on what I pulled off the computers this morning. Another hit may pop up that undoes this, but for the present, this is how I see it." And he told us. It was a horrific theory of trial and error in sexual torture, of feeding a monstrous soul with an exponentially increasing appetite and a very bleak outlook for a Senator’s daughter. His voice was trembling as he finished. "If I’m right and we have one killer, he’s going to be moving to another victim within seventy-two hours and Carrie Dolan is going to have died an unspeakable death."

His words had a powerful impact on everyone, including myself. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Mulder was visibly struggling to compose himself. I looked at the clock over his head because I couldn’t meet his eyes. "Well," I said, "let me get some calls made, get some people out of bed. Be available, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll be on a conference call as soon as possible. That’s it." I closed my portfolio with a snap and watched people gather things together numbly, and shuffle out. Mulder was the first one out the door, even as I wanted to call him back and tell him to take a nap.

Reluctantly I looked to Agent Scully. "Is he all right?"

She glanced toward the door and then gave me a wan smile. "That’s just Mulder, Sir. He carries everything with him. Child abductions are just very big boulders in his wheelbarrow." She looked to the door again, and added sadly, "They make him a little wobbly."

"Should I take him off this case?" I wondered, not intentionally aloud.

She gave me a look that was part awe and part contempt. "I wouldn’t want to be the one to try."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It took ninety-three minutes, but we had managed to roust ASACs and agents all over the country and pull them together on an odd tri-armed object in the middle of our conference table, with both microphones and speakers for the entire room.

Mulder hadn’t wasted the time freshening up. He was still disheveled and jean clad, passing out a synopsis and timeline of the crimes and a brief profile of our UNSUB, both of which he’d personally faxed to each Bureau Chief. What’s more, he didn’t let me waste time with formal introductions. He launched in, hitting the high points and inviting people to provide details that might disprove any part of the theory.

As usual, the California Bureau was unwilling to concede a connection between their case and the others, or share information with us. After all, their vic was home safe. Wisconsin and Texas, however, both started faxing notes to our conference room even before Mulder finished speaking. Iowa people weren’t entirely convinced, although not as steadfast in their position as those in California. They just didn’t understand the apparent randomness of his attacks. Why did the kidnapper go so far between his first victim and his next?

"It’s fairly simple," Mulder said, making an effort not to snarl or sound smug. "He’s going to areas which are familiar to him, maybe even where he has family or friends. My guess is his father was career military -- Air Force, I think. Every abduction has been in the vicinity of an existing or recently closed AFB." He consulted his notes while there were murmurs of agreement from around the country. "California," he said abruptly, not even bothering to check for appropriate names or titles. "Did you follow up reports of other people going missing that night?"

There was a splutter of protest from the West Coast and then the cold voice of the Fresno ASAC. "These are highly trained and decorated agents. They know how to do their jobs."

Mulder wasn’t at all chastened by the tone. "I’m sure they do," he said, with just a little irritation. "Which is why I am compelled to ask, since such highly trained and decorated agents would surely include that information in your case file and I don’t find it here."

There were whispered conversations and rattled papers. Finally a new voice spoke up. "There were three others in Merced County that night and four in Fresno. I don’t know about Sacramento, but I can find out. We’ll fax the --"

Mulder ignored them and said to the general company, "We need background checks on all of them. We’re looking for a man whose father -- no, more likely his stepfather -- was in the Air Force, or a private sector engineer attached to the Air Force." He paused. "Flight test engineer for Lockheed or Boeing. Something like that." He started scooping paperwork into his hands. "Excuse me. Thank you." He walked out, rolling his shoulders as if it hurt to hold his head upright.

Everyone looked to me. I’m sure I made appropriate sounds, thanking the right people, giving out assignments, dismissing them with the proviso of an update in four hours, but my mind was on its way down to the basement. I excused myself and, despite every reasonable suggestion I might have made, went for the elevator, and jabbed the button impatiently.

He was slumped in his chair, his head in his hands. He didn’t even react to the door opening. "Mulder, maybe I should reassign --"

His head came up, his eyes were red rimmed and blazing. "Don’t you even think about it. Don’t you dare."

I risked getting within swinging distance. "For God’s sake, Mulder, look at you. On the case eight hours and you’re already a wreck."

He looked at me, and laughed; a raw, painful laugh. "It isn’t always the case."

"Do you remember that case in Niagara Falls? I got the court order on the wife’s financials the other day. You could --"

I knew it was a risk but I really didn’t think he’d actually hit me. I was wrong. He came up, both fists flying and actually connected once before I got my arms around him, and muscled him back against a file cabinet.

He was shuddering and I eased my hold, but didn’t release him. "Let me get you off --"

"Don’t," he said quietly. "Don’t do it." He sounded as if he was just that close to crying. "Don’t. It’s all I’ve got." Another shudder rippled through him. "All I have left."

~~~
 

An American princess. Miss Carrie Dolan was nothing less. Her smiling face surrounded me, in dozens of pictures on the walls of the room where we were interviewing her parents. In a soccer uniform, holding a trophy. In ballerina garb. In riding gear. Standing beside her father at some formal function. Yet her privilege and varied wardrobe could not protect her from a harsh reality. Someone had her, somewhere, and was hurting her in ways from which she might never recover. So, despite the smiles in all those photographs, the bright green eyes all seemed to be imploring me to find her. I could almost hear her beg to be found.

It’s always this way for me. Sometimes I want to cover my ears and run. But I stand there, trying to look confident and caring as the parents rage and threaten and beg and promise. I stop hearing them before long, and listen only to the child, calling for help.

Mrs. Dolan was perched on the edge of a chair. She looked as if there were problems in her life that predated their middle of the night tragedy. Yet her position was that of a woman all too aware of photo ops. Her posture was perfect, she was well groomed and made up, she held a lace handkerchief which she used to dab at her eyes periodically. I have no doubt her grief was real, but this woman had been trained so long to be in the public eye, she was incapable of breaking down and being anything less than perfect, even in her own home.

Senator Dolan was angry. And full of entitlement. How dare someone do this to him? Carrie, according to his soliloquy, was his greatest jewel, yet he couldn’t remember the names of any of her friends, he didn’t know what she wore to bed that night, he didn’t know if she ever talked to anyone online, he even had to be prompted on the name of her cat. I found myself not only having trouble sympathizing, but actively disliking him. He was a man who used his family as props.

But it was Carrie I kept hearing, especially after we went upstairs. Her bedroom was typical preteen; a little messy, a little cluttered with trivia that would be meaningless to anyone else but represented treasure to her. Her mother wanted to come in with us, as we looked around, apologizing for the ‘state of things’. Scully was able to ease her out very gently so that we could get to know Carrie ourselves.

She obviously loved the color blue. It was everywhere, despite the fact that someone had decorated her room in a mix of Cool Whip and Pepto-Bismol. She had several expensive looking dolls up on a shelf, which probably meant nothing to her and a massive box of Barbie paraphernalia barely crammed into a wardrobe that she probably cherished even as she was testing the waters of adulthood. She was experimenting with makeup, probably without her mother’s knowledge or consent but still slept snuggled close enough to her teddy bear to leave smears of the illicit stuff on him. She kept an online diary, and a very short list of email friends, all of whom later were verified as schoolmates.

She wore uniforms to school, but there was evidence of striking for individuality; pin holes in shirt collars that suggested she was wearing buttons or pins with messages her parents would not approve of, wrinkling at the waistband of her skirts which suggested she rolled her skirts up to affect a more desired length. She had a bra shoved down into one of her riding boots. But the laces on her shoes were brightly colored and did not match. In short, she was still a little girl, but she was trying hard to grow up.

I looked around the room sadly. Even if we were lucky enough to find her in time, the Carrie Dolan we brought back to this room would never be a little girl again.

She hadn’t been taken out of her bedroom window, I decided, after seeing the room. The opened window, the lost slipper, the partial footprint were all staged. There was no way a man of any size, carrying a struggling girl, could have managed to get out that window, and then there was the steep angle of the roof on that side of the house. He probably carried the girl downstairs and out the back door, where he could walk on a clean stone path, and leave no footprints. If he was lean enough to squeeze through the front gate, he could surely get Carrie Dolan through, as well. This man was a maddening mix of cunning, confidence and luck.

"He’d been in this house before, Scully," I announced, backing away from the window seat. "He’s a housepainter, or a rentacop. I’d go with that, because if he’d been hired for an event, as extra security, he’d have been given access to where security cameras and alarm circuits are."

"Then why go to the time and trouble of making it look as if they went out a window?" Scully argued.

"Misdirection. Give us a meaningless clue to pounce on that assures him a little bit more time to get away." I looked at the shoe print, still visible on the hardwood floor. "He probably wasn’t even wearing this shoe. But he knew that law enforcement would automatically focus a lot of time trying to track this shoe down. If we knew he just walked out the door, we might have figured out who he was sooner." I rubbed my eyes. "And it worked. Come on, we need to find out if there was any additional security hired in the last few weeks."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Mulder, go home."

I jerked myself upright in my chair. "I can’t." I dragged my fingers through my hair. "We have all the pieces here." I jabbed both hands toward the mound of paper and files before me. "I just need to make them fit."

"Mulder, you can’t possibly make anything fit if you can’t see it. And you can’t possibly see out of those eyes." She dug into her bag and produced a compact. "Look for yourself."

She thrust an image in front of me; red, swollen eyes, haggard expression, sallow complexion. A very familiar face. I brushed her hand away. "Just a little while longer, Scully," I temporized. "It will come to me, I know it will." I reached for my coffee cup. It was empty. I started to push my chair back.

Her hand was there. "I’ll go."

"Thanks." I surrendered the cup and reached for another file.

"I don’t think you could stay upright that long," she muttered and left me.

I checked a few facts in the folder against the grid I was building. At that moment I didn’t trust my memory. Facts kept wrestling with voices and images and ideas were melding and smearing around in my thought processes, so that, unless I could look at the information in black and white, I didn’t believe it.

This was the part of this work I dread most ... that moment when all the actuarials of the case burst into flame, and the voice of the killer rises in my head, like a phoenix from the ashes of lives he’s claimed. I wanted to find this guy before that happened.

I knew who he was. I knew his name. I knew his connection to the places where he went. I could even predict, with some certainty, that his next stop was going to be North Carolina. But I wanted to find him now, before he moved on, leaving another child dead, and another family shattered.

Scully set the coffee in front of me. "Need anything else?"

"No, Scully." I sat back, groaning louder than the springs of the chair. "Go on home. Get some sleep."

She didn’t argue with me. She’d worked with me long enough to know that this part of the process was a one-man job. There was nothing she could offer me except a willingness to run for my coffee, which was a waste of her skills and energy. She pulled her coat down from the rack and tossed it over her arm. "Call me if anything changes?"

I nodded, and stared up at my pencil-pocked ceiling. "Drive safe. Sleep well."

"’night, Mulder."

All right, you son of a bitch ... where are you? You’re not here, close by, but you haven’t moved on to your next victim yet. Where do you go to do the things you want to do? It’s got to be away from populations, or very well soundproofed, because you like the sounds of their pain. But it has to be close to a busy highway, so you can dump and go with relative anonymity. And it has to be something you can find easily, whichever state you’re in.

Think, Mulder.

I couldn’t think. Too much distraction. I wasn’t hearing him. I wasn’t hearing me. Damn it. I was hearing Skinner. The very last person I ever wanted to hear. And I could hear him saying all the things I never wanted to hear again; Mulder, it was a mistake. Mulder, it ends here. Mulder, maybe I should take you off this case.

I felt myself catapulted out of my chair in frustration. Tugging my tie loose and shoving my hands into my pockets I started to pace. But in a ten by twelve foot former storage closet, there isn’t a lot of pacing space and I found myself staring at my chair.

I tried sitting at Scully’s desk, just to see if the change of perspective would help. It did not.

I had to get out of my office. I was starting to suffocate. I couldn’t let myself get lost in immaterial memories. I knew the skeletal remains of the Task Force had commandeered one of the Com Rooms to collate data and monitor faxes, emails and phone tips. But I didn’t want to go up there. Up there my Bureau colleagues would expect me to help them fill time with idle chatter and speculation, and task members from other agencies would be waiting for the infamous ‘Spooky’ Mulder to pull a rabbit out of his hat. What they didn’t know was that when I finally dug into my chapeau, I’d be pulling out a monster.

I went to the empty corridor outside my office. There was nothing between me and the freight elevator to inhibit pacing or thinking. It was a long, mind clearing pace from my door to the elevator and back. I don’t know how many times I made the trip. All I know was that I knew there was a place out there where a madman was hurting a little girl. A little girl not unlike my own sister. A little girl who was depending on me to save her.

Depending on me. Oh, God.

We’re depending on you, Fox.

"No, not now."

Help me, Fox.

My hands were going clammy and starting to shake. No, these were the wrong voices. Take them back. Give me the monster if I have to hear anyone at all. Please.

Help me.

"Stop it! I tried. Damn it," I banged a fist against the wall, "I tried."

Help.

I twisted around and backed up against the wall, shaking. "Where are you, you bastard?"

Fox.

"Not this time. Please." Hang on Mulder. Don’t let it break you. You can ride this out.

Help.

I let my head fall back hard against the wall. "Where are you?"

It was coming back, my waking nightmare. Doors flying open.

"Stop it."

Lights flashing.

I banged my head back against the wall harder. "Not now."

Adrenaline starting to pump.

"Please ... no."

Rushing for the box on the mantle. Too slow. Too clumsy.

I slid down the wall, eyes shut tight. Seeing everything again.

Feeling the gun in my hands.

Hearing everything again.

Samantha screaming.

If I could have been faster. If I wasn’t so inept.

Fox, help me.

"I tried."

If only I could see where he is.

Help me.

I wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t smart enough. I couldn’t --

Fox!

I couldn’t save her.

"Mulder?"

Helpless sobs coming up from my gut and my memories and my fears. "I can’t save her."

"Mulder."

Huge, powerful hands were shaking me. It was him. I let him down. I always let him down.

"Easy, Mulder. Easy."

It was his hands on me, trying to pull me up, trying to take control. I couldn’t give up control. Not yet.

I struggled away from him, getting up, putting several steps between us. He was frowning at me. He was always frowning at me.

"Mulder, are you all right?"

"I ..." I swallowed and rubbed at my eyes. I was surprised to find them wet. "We have to find her. He’s going to move soon. Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning."

He took steps toward me. "Mulder, you don’t look good. Why don’t you go --"

I flinched. "He’s hurting her. We have to stop him." I could hear her. Screaming. "We have to stop him, now!"

He held my shoulders. "Yes, Mulder, we will. We will find him. But you’re going to --"

His hands hurt. They hurt me. They were hurting her. "No. He’s ... don’t you understand? He’s hurting her. He’s going to kill her." I fought to get out of his hold. "We have to stop him."

He moved closer. I backed up. His nearness was unbearable. "We have to," I repeated. Why wasn’t he listening? Why couldn’t he understand? "I couldn’t save her. I’ve got to --"

"Couldn’t save whom, Mulder?"

"I couldn’t ..." I stopped. "Damn it, don’t you understand what he’s doing to her?"

"Yes, I do understand." He reached out again.

His touch on my shoulders made me want to rage at him, claw at him. I backed up until the elevator doors stopped me. "Don’t." I was shaking. I could hear my voice quavering. I could feel screams inside me. Screams that weren’t mine. "I can’t ... it hurts ... he’s hurting ... Oh, God, he’s hurting her."

"Mulder." He wrapped his arms around me tight. "Mulder, get control of yourself. Don’t make me call for medical."

I felt tied down. I couldn't breathe. I couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. Underground. Underground? Where? "Where are you, you motherfucker?"

Skinner backed off me. "Mulder?"

I looked at him. He was sweating. I wasn’t used to seeing him sweat. I was sweating. It was burning my eyes. I was so close. I could smell that fucker now. Hear his raspy breath. Feel his --

I shook it off and focused on Skinner. "What kind of facility can he always count on finding, on or near an Air Force Base? Someplace underground, maybe."

He dropped to his haunches, and mopped his face. "Missile silos, bunkers, air raid stations --"

"That’s it." I sat up straight. "Air raid shelters. Even the ones in public buildings are no longer used. Soundproof, plenty of crude but useable supplies. And unlikely anyone would disturb him ‘til it was time to move on." I reached out and used his arms to pull myself up. "We have to find every existing air raid shelter for a five mile radius around the Air Force Base." I dragged my fingers through my hair and turned around. He was just staring at me. I pushed him toward the elevator. "Let’s go. Let’s go find her."

~~~
 

He looked surprised to see me, even though I’d called upon our friendship to ask him to make this early morning visit. It was a sign of my desperation that I’d called him, as it had been at least ten years since we’d spoken. Still, he offered me a hand and a smile that indicated long-standing friendship. "Walt. It’s good to see you, buddy."

"Cory." I clasped his hand with both of mine.

He read something into the gesture, just as Mulder would have done. Maybe that desperation. "Come on in." He nodded toward his office door.

Once inside, in the intimacy of his workplace, I began to question the wisdom of my decision. I was going to have to make a huge confession to a man with whom I’d crawled through mud and gore and mortar fire. "I don’t know where to begin," I confessed, with a weak laugh, hovering over the ubiquitous couch.

"Well," he was smiling wryly, not looking directly at me, "some people like to start by telling me about a ‘friend’."

I didn’t feel like smiling with him. Nothing I was about to tell him warranted a smile. "The truth is, this really is about a friend. He’s also a subordinate. And I’m afraid he’s going to kill himself if something doesn’t change, and change dramatically. I just don’t know how to change it for him."

Cory didn’t react to the announcement the way I had expected. There was no alarm or even apparent concern. He merely folded his hands, settled into his chair and said, "Sit down. Tell me about it."

I hitched my slacks and sat. "Do you believe in multiple personalities?" I asked, because that was what I truly needed to know.

A smile quirked around his lips. "They make highly entertaining plot devices in novels and films."

"Then you don’t believe in them," I concluded, already sending signals to my legs to rise. This was definitely a mistake. "I won’t waste any more of your --"

Cory’s response kept me seated. "What I believe is immaterial at this point," he answered mildly. "Does your friend think he has multiple personalities?"

"No. I think he does."

His expression remained impassive. "I see. Do you know the criteria for this diagnosis?" He didn’t sound as if he was mocking me. He sounded as if he believed I might.

I shrugged. "Just what he’s told me."

"Oh, so he does think he’s --"

"No. But he’s qualified to describe the criteria to me. He’s a forensic psychologist."

"Then don’t you suppose he’s qualified to make the determination whether or not he meets the criteria?" he suggested mildly.

"According to him, people don’t always know that they have more than one personality," I answered. I would have started getting annoyed if I didn’t know Cory so well. "Now, stop playing doctor with me. Help me out."

He settled back in his chair, smiling. "You came to see the doctor, Walt." He reached across his desk and picked up a pencil. "All right, let’s examine the situation and see if we think he meets the criteria. Tell me about it."

I began slowly, giving him a little of Mulder’s training, experience, expertise and just plain scary abilities. I did not go into detail about his childhood.

Cory listened patiently and when I stopped talking he said, "He sounds like a brilliant guy. And I think I hear a little hero worship in all that. What I don’t hear are indications of MPD."

"I’m getting to that." I struggled for a moment. "You mentioned hero worship. Well, uh ..." I rubbed the back of my neck, "Wow, this is harder than I expected."

"More than hero worship?" he supplied.

"Yeah." I sagged back against the sofa. "A lot more."

"You’re lovers?" Thank God he didn’t sound shocked or disgusted. He might as well have asked if we were golfing buddies.

"Well, yes and no." I gestured vaguely. "We started something a few weeks ago, but ..."

He was quiet for a moment. "What happens when sex is initiated? I’m assuming that’s when this condition manifests itself?"

I nodded. "Not all sex. Just ..." I know I was starting to blush.

"Anal penetration?"

"Yes," I rushed on. "It’s not because I’m forcing him. He seems to want it. He initiates it. But we get to a certain point ..." I was once again at a loss for words.

But he wanted words. "What happens?"

"He ... changes." There was no other word for it. "It’s not just that he fights. He’s not himself. He cries. When he speaks, it sounds like someone else."

"Whom?"

I swallowed painfully. "Like a child."

"How does he explain this behavior?"

All of his questions had been asked in a quiet, even voice, for which I was immensely grateful. I don’t think I could have gotten that far, otherwise. "He doesn’t. That’s the most disturbing thing. He doesn’t remember any of it. When I let go of him, and believe me, I let go right away, he eventually calms down and then thinks he’s had a nightmare that he can’t remember. He’s apologetic and friendly again."

Cory had been considering the pencil in his hands, his lips pulled together in a frown, but he eyed me thoughtfully when I finished speaking. "What do you think it means?"

I didn’t want to answer him. I knew the conclusion he was coming to and it was the same as mine, even though I had yet to articulate it, even in my thoughts. "He was molested when he was a child." I don’t know why but saying the words flooded me with rage. We dealt with this reality all the time, but the idea that someone had molested a kid like Mulder, a kid already so traumatized by the loss of his sister and the breakdown of his family, was intolerable to me. I wanted to find that bastard and bring his balls to Mulder gift-wrapped.

Cory shifted in his chair. "Well, trauma like that is very often the root of a myriad of disassociative disorders, up to and including Multiple Personality Disorder."

"Do you think that’s what this is?" I asked. This wasn’t the answer I wanted, after all. If he suffered from a disorder of that magnitude, it would disqualify him for fieldwork. And that would kill him. There had to be another explanation.

Cory shook his head. "I can’t possibly diagnose him from here. I wouldn’t try."

"An informed guess?" I prompted.

"Well, you don’t describe a very well formed personality, Walt. Would you call this manifestation a fully formed, distinct personality, or just a fragment of your friend’s childhood ego?"

I looked at him helplessly. "I’m not sure I can answer that. Is it important? Does it make a difference? I really don’t understand how all this happens."

Cory pointed to his laptop. "Think of a person’s mind like a computer’s hard drive. Sometimes a virus might be introduced which must be quarantined within the hard drive. Those sectors of the hard drive that are infected are partitioned off from the rest of the computer so that the computer may continue to function. The hard drive cannot access those sectors anymore. Forgets that they exist. Any data that was in those sectors is lost within that partition. If further infection is found, it is added to the quarantine. Likewise, the data within those partitions cannot get back out into the main hard drive. It is as if there are two separate hard drives."

"When trauma corrupts a part of a person’s mind, usually in childhood when the personality is still forming and is vulnerable to all kinds of influence, very often the child partitions that event into a part of his memory that he can no longer consciously access. If something happens to trigger those memories, that bit of his or her personality that was corrupted is ... revived, if you will. It is still at whatever level of development the child was at when the trauma occurred. When there is repeated trauma, the child stores more and more of his personality into this partition, and sometimes a distinct, and different person emerges to deal with aspects of life the adult is not equipped to handle. Sometimes, more than one person emerges, each with unique life skills, skills the child was too traumatized to absorb into his developing personality. That is multiple personality disorder."

"So, something is wrong with him?"

"Wrong is a pretty judgmental position," he chided gently. "Is the condition incapacitating him in any way? Other than in bed with you, that is?"

I felt my scalp burning, and I slid my hand over it self-consciously. "I’m not sure. He’s always had this uncanny ability to get into the minds of the UNSUBs he’s profiled. But even though I know it was physically and emotionally demanding on him, I never really saw him incapacitated. Until last night, that is." I tried to describe how I’d found him the night before; in tears, frantic, talking to our UNSUB but appearing to blur the lines between past and present. "I’m afraid he’s going to disintegrate in front of me."

Cory looked at his notes. "You said earlier he left the department where these cases were routine. Why is he involved in this case?"

"Because he’s the best there is," I stated. "Someone pulled political strings to bring him in."

"And he’s working with you on this very stressful case?"

"Yes, I’m leading the Task Force."

Cory closed his notebook, and sat forward, looking at me. "What do you think you ought to do, Walt?"

I was getting a headache. I pulled my glasses off and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Give me a break, Cory. What should I do?"

He stood and came across the office. "I think you know what you should do." He offered me a hand.

I stood with him. "Should I confront him?"

He shook his head. "There you go with those harsh words again. Remember, if he was molested, he’s a victim. Don’t put him in a position where he is put on the defensive, or made to assume more guilt." He paused. "Look, let’s stay away from the morality of being involved with a subordinate. Let’s address the potential damage of disassociation, particularly if you fear it’s starting to escalate."

"I should stop seeing him," I decided heavily. "I’ve ended the personal relationship, for his own good, so I guess now I need to end the professional relationship."

Cory didn’t nod or frown. He just patted my back encouragingly. "You’ll do the right thing, Walt. I know you will."

"Thanks for seeing me, Cory." I left, feeling worse than I did when I got there.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When I got to the Hoover later that morning, the Task Force was already on the move. Mulder had culled three potential sites from the list of air raid shelters in the area, and he was in the Com Room giving instructions to the teams going out.

There was no question of the potential damage of the case. The damage was real. He looked like hell. He’d been up fifty-two hours and had only been home once to change clothes. He needed to eat, shave, shower and be sedated.

He ignored my presence as he concluded his remarks. I said nothing to him during the briefing, but I followed him down to his office after, having signaled Agent Scully to stay back. He was loading the pockets of his Kevlar with extra rounds when I pushed the door open.

He looked up for a moment and resumed his task. "Don’t even think about it, Skinner," he warned, his voice husky with emotion and exhaustion.

I had gone down there to tell him that he was being assigned to another Assistant Director, but looking at him, I had to try one last time to pull him off the case. "Mulder, you’ve done the hard part," I began, trying to sound encouraging. "The most important part. I’ll make sure you get the collar, if you --"

"It’s not about that and don’t insult me by suggesting it is." He pushed his weapon into his waistband holster, and shoved it into the back of his slacks.

"Mulder, this case is --"

"I know what this case is," he snapped. "And I know what you’re thinking." He reached for his FBI jacket, slung over the back of his chair. "You think I can’t handle a case like this because of my sister. But you don’t understand at all." He slid into the jacket. "It’s because of my sister than I can handle a case like this. Because of her that I have to do this." He snapped the collar up. "I can’t let it happen to anyone else." He put up a hand to forestall my argument. "I know I can’t stop them all. But let me stop the ones I can." He pressed that hand to his chest. "I can stop this one."

I reached for him, even against my will. "Mulder, for God’s sake, look at yourself."

He sidestepped me, his chin up, his shoulders squared despite the evident weariness of his body and mind. "I know what you see, Mr. Skinner, but you’re not seeing everything. I’m going out there and getting this guy because I can. I’m the only one who can, because I know what he’s thinking." He pointed to his temple. "I can feel the worms in his brain. If you want Carrie Dolan back alive, get out of my way."

I took a deep breath and made myself say what I had come to say. "Mulder, you’ve been reassigned. A.D. Hopkins is taking the X-Files and you will be --"

"You son of a bitch." He came across the narrow space of the office swinging both fists.

He grazed my chin as I ducked out of his path, and then I managed to pull him around and force him, face down over his desk, wrenching his hands behind his back. "Stupid fuck," I muttered, pinning him against the desk with my legs. "I wasn’t taking you off the case. I am leaving the Task Force to someone else." I tugged at his wrists angrily. "And I’m getting a little tired of you using me as a punching bag every time you get upset. Do you hear me?"

He didn’t respond.

"Do you?" I jerked his arms again. Then I realized something frightening. He wasn’t fighting me. He was totally still under me. His breath was shallow, his eyes were shut tight, his body was rigid as if he was willing himself not to struggle. I backed off quickly as if his body had burst into flames beneath me. "Mulder?"

He remained still, even to the point of leaving his hands behind his back. I could hear him struggle for breath, gasp as if choking, and then slowly, almost tentatively shift his body on the desk. Carefully he moved his hands forward and braced himself. A moment later he lifted himself upward, and turned.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at me. He just stood there breaking my heart.

I had to say something. Trying to adopt a nonthreatening, nonconfrontational position, as Cory had advised, I backed up to the door and forced the rage from my voice. "Mulder, this is a very difficult question to ask, but ..." I paused, hoping he would look at me, but grateful he did not, "were you molested as a child?"

He didn’t move. He just kept standing there, eyes fixed to the floor.

"Mulder?"

Finally, he looked up, and his expression was bewilderment and revulsion. "What did you say?"

I was loathed to repeat it. But I did. "Were you molested as a child?" I watched as feelings tumbled across his downcast face like water over rocks. "It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t --"

"I can’t believe you asked me that." He shook his head, a weak but grim smile coming to his mouth. "What is this, junior psychology week? Just because I know how to get into a bad guy’s head doesn’t mean I’ve been molested."

"It’s not --"

"No. Don’t say anything more." His voice was cold. Colder than a hotel room in Buffalo. "You’ve said enough for one day. Now, get out of my way."

"Mulder, it has nothing to do with this case."

He was moving toward me, but stopped just outside my reach. "Get out of my way, Skinner."

"No." I shifted my weight, making it clear I was immovable. "You’re going to stay here and face this."

"You aren’t my supervisor anymore, I no longer answer to you. You kicked me out of your life, and now you’re kicking me out of my job. I don’t owe you anything, even the time to listen to you."

"Mulder, this isn’t about the job," I repeated. "It isn’t even really about us. It’s about you. About pain you’re in. Pain so deep you don’t even know its source." I tried to reach for him. I wanted to comfort him. But he jerked out of my grasp. "Listen to me. You have these ... episodes ... That’s why I ended our relationship. Because I thought I was ..." I couldn’t go on. The look on his face was killing me. "Mulder, do you think I’d deliberately hurt you?"

His eyes were on my shoes. He drew a deep breath, straightened his shoulders but refused to meet my eyes. "Get out of my way. I have work to do."

"Mulder, you don’t know what’s happening --"

His eyes finally met mine with a flash of fire. "And you don’t know what you’re talking about. Out of my way." Impulsively, he jerked his gun from its holster. "Out of my way, Skinner," he leveled the gun at me, "or so help me, I’ll have you up for obstructing justice."

I moved out of his way. There was nothing else I could do.

~~~
 
 

TITLE: Sad Lovers and Giants 13/? ­ Lost In A Moment
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: A blizzard. A power cut. Finding their way in darkness.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Nnnnnnnnnope.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Skinner NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I become king...

Author's notes: Sad Lovers and Giants, the two things hardest to conceal.

If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop

If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

Sad Lovers and Giants 13/? ­ Lost In A Moment

by Mik

The air was dank and old and caught me unprepared. It reminded me of our cellar, when I was a kid. It smelled of cement and clay and dust and something else, something that might have been more of a memory than an odor. I was immediately overtaken by a sense of dread I couldn’t explain and for a moment I couldn’t quite make myself take another step down into the shelter.

Scully, one step behind me, let her flashlight beam play over the stacks of boxes beneath us. "Mulder," she whispered, inches from my ear. "Footprints."

I let my beam follow hers. Recent smudges in the dust between the boxes marred the sense of gloomy abandonment. "Looks as if he was walking on his toes," I noted, "and carrying something. Look how some of them seem to drag."

Scully moved past me and lifted her light between the boxes, following the scuffs on the floor. "That door," she mouthed, pointing.

I nodded and looked back up the stairs to the four other agents with us. I jerked my head toward Scully, and they started to descend. I had no choice. I had to go down into it.

Evil happens everywhere, it creeps out of gutters and falls out of skies. It’s the foul wind at midnight, and blood on a sunny morning. Yet we associate evil with darkness. That I understand.

Everyone’s afraid of darkness, to some degree, either literally or figuratively. It’s what we don’t know, can’t see, can only imagine or cannot comprehend that scares us. It’s the possibilities, it’s the sounds in the corners, the finger of ice that trips up the neck. Can anyone comprehend how dark a man’s heart must be to harm a child? To harm a child irrevocably, and take pleasure in it? Unfortunately, I understand that, as well.

I was lost in that darkness only a few hours before we took this flight down to Hampton, outside Langley Air Force Base. I was fumbling amidst the debris of too many tragedies, lost and trying to find my way. Putting my hands out to find a safe passage, only to pull them back in horror, stained by what I’d touched. I was listening for some direction, but every sound is magnified in darkness; the skitter of a spider, the rustle of a rat, the hollow footstep of something evil approaching, the whimpers, pleas and screams of the innocents approached. Those screams are an ever present thrumming in my head, I’m never fully free of them. They cry out in rhythm with my heartbeat, but there are nights when they burst out, an aneurysm in my soul, and I’m left dumb and paralyzed.

For years, people have asked me how I do what I do, how I know what the UNSUB’s thinking, how I know what he’ll do, and I can’t answer. I don’t know. I just know that if I study the facts long enough, he will find me, and take me on a tour of his horrors, displaying his prowess and his trophies with pride, revealing his secrets to me, showing me where to look.

He was there, walking that dark labyrinth with me the night before, taunting me to find him, to stop him. I can’t. He knows I can’t. I can put a bullet in his brain, I can take the credit or pass the blame, but I will never stop him. There is a Biblical passage that likens evil to a lion, roaming to and fro, seeking souls to devour.* He had mine years ago. Now all I can do is try to catch him at his prey, take his meal from his jaws, but I will never be able to kill his appetite.

There was a lion below me in that darkness, beckoning me down into his den, but no one else could hear his roar. The silence the others heard disturbed and frightened me more than the reverberation of screams which only I could hear. There was an ominous finality in that silence. Were we too late?

He tried to take me off the case, the bastard.

I froze, midstep. Where the hell did that come from?

Scully took another step into the blackness, and stopped, realizing I hadn’t followed. She turned to look up at me.

I could see my puzzled frown reflected in her eyes.

I tried to shake the anger off, and refocus. I’d never been jerked back like that in all the years I’d been working these cases. It was an almost physical shock, sharp enough to leave my limbs aching. I rubbed my shoulder and drew in an unwanted breath of the dank air. It made me shiver, put a chill at the base of my spine.

I targeted my torch toward the floor, and reached back to draw my weapon, before taking that final step into hell.

Scully played her light ahead of us, and we could see a door. Long ago there had been a sign on the door. Even in that light, we could make out where glue had given way and let cold war era instructions succumb to time, gravity and glasnost.

As we crept closer, I wondered if we lost our battle with internal demons when we no longer had external enemies to unite against. It was human nature to war, and when we took away our ‘them’, suddenly we began to war with ‘us’.

Scully stopped so suddenly, I nearly collided with her. She pointed with her flashlight. The disturbed dust around the door indicated that the door had been used very recently. The footsteps ended there and did not retreat. Our lion and his prey were just on the other side.

He pulled himself off the case to get away from me.

I flinched that time. I felt it.

Scully felt it as well. She pressed her weapon hand against my arm. I think she meant it to be comforting, but it was not.

I shrugged her away and tried to brace myself for the horrors we would find on the other side of the door. I had prepped everyone else in a briefing that morning, I’d warned them they would be taking home nightmares, but I wasn’t quite ready for them myself. Something kept interfering. Someone.

He said ... he said ...

I swallowed and put my hand out, signaling other agents to take the door out. People moved into place to cover the first man through. There was a soft chorus of safety locks clicking as they were released, and bullets sliding into chambers with a metallic hiss.

I strained my ears, wanting to hear some sign of life beyond the door. All I could hear was his voice. He said ...

I nodded.

They moved.

They crashed against the thick steel door with enough force to breach almost any resistance, but there was no resistance to breach. The door flew back with the same violence that forced it open, crashing against the wall. Foul air rushed out at us like an escaping animal.

With our beams of light flooding the room, we all stilled in the doorway, staring, each of us struggling with something within those four walls. The room was small and lined with decaying boxes and metal filing cabinets, but it revealed an elaborate history of terror; an old mattress shoved between filing cabinets was littered with scraps of clothing, stained with blood, small lengths of frayed ropes marked a compass around it. There were tins of ancient rations stolen from the bomb shelter stockpiles, pried open, sampled and left to spoil on the floor. Feces and urine marked every corner. A surgeon’s array of modified tools, crude and horrific, lay atop a stack of boxes; pliers, knives, wire cutters, batteries, electrical tape, fine gauge chain, matches, candles, thick wooden dowels, mute testimony to torture.

But there was also silence. And no body.

Scully lowered her gun and raised her free hand to her face. "We’re too late," she said flatly, recoiling from the stench, while one of the other agents bolted, retching.

I shut my eyes tight, listening, trying to see the shadows left behind, hear the words. Ropes tear flesh, penetration .... I opened my eyes and ran my light over the mattress again. "No. He didn’t kill her. Not yet. There’s not enough blood."

My triumph was short lived. "He moved her," I realized belatedly. "Why?" I went out to the other room for a gulp of relatively fresher air. "Get upstairs," I told the agent who’d left his breakfast behind a stack of boxes. "Have someone start a search of the perimeter. Every inch. I want to know how they got out." I gave him a shove. "Go." I looked at Scully. "Damn it. Why did he move?" I tucked my gun back into my holster. "He’s never moved before."

"He heard us coming?" Scully suggested.

"How did he get past us, carrying her?" I shook my head and went back to the door, to risk another look inside. "No, he was gone before we got here, but why?"

Scully came to my side, her face a rictus of disgust, poorly masked by the professionalism she clung to. She kept her eyes on me. "Mulder, you can’t be certain he didn’t ..."

"Scully, you’ve seen the nature of his previous attacks. This place should be soaked in blood if he had killed her. Look at this." I indicated the mattress again. "There’s only ... only ..." oh, God. I felt my own stomach lurching. "He raped her, Scully."

He said ... he said ...

Her hand was on my arm again. "Mulder?"

"He said ..."

Her hand tightened.

I felt my knees going.

"Somebody get in here!" I heard her shouting from a distance, even as her hands tugged at mine. "Get in here! I need help, now!"

"Scully," I said, but my voice was being drowned out. The screams were back, louder than ever. "Scully."

Two other agents rushed in.

Scully was yelling at them, pointing at me.

I pointed back. "Scully. Look."

They all turned. They all saw it. They all drew their guns and approached it.

A grate in the wall, perhaps two feet square, just inches from the floor, it was probably intended for ventilation or heating, but it was also the only other potential exit.

Pulling myself to my feet, I drew my gun as well, and approached the wall. I nudged the grating with my foot and it seemed to shift in place. I thought I heard a faint scuffling from inside the wall.

I gave the side of the grating a sharp kick and the panel clattered to the floor, revealing a dirty, narrow shaft, barely the same dimensions of the grating.

There was a squeal that I recognized as a stifled scream. "Scully. Light!" I commanded.

Scully dropped to her haunches and aimed her flashlight straight into the blackness. There was a dirty shoe and even dirtier pant cuff visible, obviously trying to scramble upward.

"Federal agents," Scully barked. "Freeze." She has a very husky, scary voice when her adrenaline’s pumping.

But not scary enough. The foot was actually inching away from us. Frustrated, I got onto my knees and reached in to give that retreating ankle a twist. There was an eerie wail of protest that seemed to echo through the walls around us, and then an aborted but very real scream.

I tugged hard and called the asshole’s name. "It’s all over," I told him. "Come out or we’re going to rip you out of that wall."

Damn if the bastard didn’t try to keep climbing. I reestablished my grip and called over my shoulder, "Get me some rope and a sledgehammer, now!"

He started to struggle in my awkward grasp. "I said now!"

A length of rope was passed to me, and I put my gun down to lean in and get it looped around his leg. He was squawking and kicking as I pulled it tight, but I didn’t care. In fact, I hoped it hurt. I was ready to rip his leg right off. The rope in my hands was painful, and I wanted to let go, but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I was going to drag that son of a bitch out of there inch by inch, if I had to.

"Mulder, the sledgehammer," Scully called.

I backed up, by inches, holding tight to the rope. "Last chance, asshole," I called. We waited a moment. I looked up at the guy with the sledgehammer. "Do it."

The agent took a great swing and smashed into the wall. Carrie Dolan started screaming and kicking. I saw a flash of a small, bloody foot. The agent heaved the sledgehammer again, and broke through to the shaft. Their faces were barely visible, just white streaked shadows in the swirling dust.

Scully was on her feet again, her arm extended, her gun aimed. "Let her go," she commanded. "Right now."

He must have released the girl. At first nothing happened, but then I could see her feet, flailing desperately as she squirmed down the shaft. After what seemed like hours, her battered, naked body dropped into view and she scrambled and clawed her way back to us.

Her hair was matted and filthy and her face was smeared with blood and dust. Her entire body was covered in dirt. Her mouth was just a bruised and gaping hole in her tear wet face. At the first sight of her I let go of the rope and struggled out of my jacket, rushing to cover her as she emerged from the shaft.

I scooped her up, shielding her face from everyone around us. "Shoot the bastard," I told Scully as I rushed her out of the room feeling euphoric. I saved her.

Once out of that room, I sank down on a box and held her to me. Carrie was screaming and fighting my embrace but I held her tight. I did it, I kept thinking. I saved her. I saved one.

He said ...

Finally, she turned in my arms and her fingers clenched my shirt, crying hard and silent. "It’s over," I promised into her tangled hair. "All over." I couldn’t promise she would be okay, because she wouldn’t, I knew that too well. I couldn’t lie to her like that. "It’s over." I rocked her against me, and let her cry.

There was a sharp pop from the other room. I don’t know what he did, but I knew the sound of Scully’s gun. Scully’s no vigilante agent so it was certain that he’d done something desperate and foolish, but I was grateful that he had. Carrie Dolan would not be forced to testify against a dead man.

Carrie jumped at the report and renewed her screams. I kept my arms around her, stroking her hair, her shoulder, my own tears falling with hers. "Shhh ... now it’s over."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I held her until the EMT crew arrived to take her to the hospital. She struggled a bit as they lifted her out of my arms. She was put on the gurney, still wrapped in my FBI jacket.

They wouldn’t let me talk to Scully, so I couldn’t find out what had happened after I got Carrie Dolan out of the room. I didn’t even see his body, to form an opinion. He had been bagged before he was removed from the room.

But from the doorway, I could see where he fell; part of his brains were splattered against the filing cabinet and blood was still a viscous and shiny trail along the floor. The familiar smell of burnt powder cut the foulness of the room, and made it almost bearable to stand in there again.

I stepped inside and looked around, listening for the silence. I’d earned it. I wanted to hear it. I’d stopped the screaming, I’d saved the girl. I wanted my few moments of peace.

But the screams kept coming. I resisted the need to cover my ears. My hands hurt and I looked down at them. The ropes had left my palms raw and I tucked them against my sides. Ropes tear flesh ...

He said ...

I jerked my eyes away from the mess that had once been our UNSUB’s thought processes, and let them rest on the mattress. The bloody mattress. Penetration burns.

He ...

Oh, God.

It hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

He told me the truth. "Skinner."

End 13 

*1 Peter 5:8 for those who’d like to know: Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour …