By Callrachel
callrachel2000@yahoo.com
 

KEYWORDS:  V, A

SUMMARY:  Gifts.

RATING:  NC-17 for violent imagery

ARCHIVING:  Delighted; just let me know.

DISCLAIMER:  The X-Files, Mulder, Scully and
Skinner belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions
and Fox.  No infringement is intended; no money
is being made.

Notes:  Heartfelt thanks to my super-beta,
emerex.  Any errors or omissions are my own.
Written for the Mulder's Refuge August
challenge.
 

SAVANT

by Callrachel
 

     The feet were grey, a peculiar greenish-
grey that he wanted to believe was a trick of
the light, here under the trees.  The
calloused soles were cut and bruised, and a
rime of blackened blood had settled into the
fine cracks.  There was a blue-black ligature
mark on one knobbed ankle, like a poorly-
executed jailhouse tattoo.

     Mulder turned away abruptly, trying to
find the sky among the shivering leaves
overhead, shutting out the stupefied buzzing
of the corpulent black flies and focusing in
on birdsong and the distant whine of traffic
on the freeway above.  He couldn't hear
Scully anymore, so she must have struggled up
through the brush until she'd reached the
car.  She'd be making calls now:  one to the
local police department, reporting a
reasonably fresh corpse; one to the local
Bureau office, explaining why they were late
for their meeting with SAC Mitchell; one to
Skinner, who hated to get word of these
things from third parties.  Maybe one to the
men in white coats:  *My partner has suddenly
developed psychic powers…*

     He smiled bitterly, remembering the
expression of amazement on her face when
they'd come upon these feet, abruptly
silencing the bitching that had accompanied
their skidding descent through the clutching
shrubbery; the amazement at his prescience,
tinged with horror at the sight of the
corpse, so obviously not a natural death.  It
had taken no prescience to anticipate what
her next question would be, and so he'd
assumed the role of Senior Agent and sent her
up to the car to make the calls.  He hoped
she'd stay up there a good, long time.

     It just went to show:  you could never
tell when a pretty nice morning was going to
devolve into a Bad Thing.  Driving along,
enjoying the sunshine, and then Mulder's
spidey sense had started to prickle, and the
hair on his nape had risen, and he'd pulled
off the freeway in a skirl of dust and a howl
of indignant horns honking, pulled off and
got out of the car, pacing back and forth for
a moment like a hound dog scenting the air,
picking a direction and hopping over the
pitted metal guardrail, Scully yapping at his
heels as he charged and slid downslope.  And
he'd found it, gone straight to it, found the
broken, bloody feet sticking out of the
shrubbery and a brief glimpse of the broken,
bloody body that still lay under the leaves.
And he'd sent the grim and silent Scully
away, playing the duty card that always,
always worked with Scully, to give himself
time to think of a plausible answer to the
inevitable question, How did you know,
Mulder?

     Some men had a talent for finding gold,
or diamonds.  Some men could find water.
Mulder's particular talent was for corpses.
This was the fourth he had found this way.
*They don't call me Spooky for nothin',
Scully,* he thought without humour.  His first
had been when he was just out of Quantico.
That time, he had explained helplessly to the
suspicious detective that he 'just knew'.  He
already had a reputation by the time the
second came along, and the third he was able
to explain away because it was just off a
popular jogging path.  This one, though - and
he knew Scully wouldn't let it go; she was
like a dog with a bone.

     *So, you're psychic now, Mulder?* she'd
ask.  He shut his eyes against the vision of
her face when she asked it.  *Not psychic,
Scully.  You wanna know how I know?  How I
always know where the bodies are?  How I
always know the shape of the mind that drives
the hand that drags these poor broken pieces
of meat into the shrubbery to rot?  Because,
Scully, if I was getting rid of a body, this
is where I'd put it.  This would be a good
place, Scully.  If a fucking spooky
sonofabitch hadn't come along, this one would
be skeletonized in a couple of weeks.  I know
where he parked, how he got this one over his
shoulder in a fireman's carry, how he picked
his way down the slope in the dark.  I know,
Scully, 'cause that's how I'd do it.  Not
psychic, Scully.  Psychotic.*

     He shuddered.  No, he couldn't say that.
He couldn't look at her face when he said
that.  He'd have to fall back on, "I just
knew".  He'd give her some psychobabble
bullshit about subliminal clues; she'd fall
for that.  Science was her god.

     He was sure Scully knew all about the
geology that located gold and diamonds, and
that she could give him a perfect explanation
for how diviners could find water.  He just
wished he could find those things, instead of
bodies.  Because then he could let Scully
explain him to himself.  And that would be
such a relief.