This is an X-Files/Profiler crossover.  Timeline-wise, this fits in after
the Profiler episode "Shattered Silence" and in this particular universe,
*replaces* the X-Files episode "Never Again".  Note, we are not
"Relationshippers" so if you're looking for Scully/Mulder fiction, look
somewhere else. 

               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!
               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!
  
This story contains SEX, (M/F) written in loving detail.  If that bothers
you, either do NOT read this story If you're underage, get parental
permission to read it.  Don't flame us if you're silly enough to go ahead
and read it after we warned you, and then get offended by it. 

"The X-Files" is a trademark of Fox Television. "Profiler" is a trademark
of NBC Television.  No, we don't have permission to use these characters. 
We're just borrowing all of them and promise to put them back when we're
done.  We guess Fox and NBC will have to fight over who gets to sue us. 
:-) No profits are now, or ever will be made off this story, darn it. 

This story copyright 1997 by Kellie Matthews-Simmons and Julia Kosatka. 
No permission is given for print reproduction for anything other than
personal use.  NO, 'zine's are *not* personal use. 

Constructive comments may be directed to:

matthewk@colorado.edu
julia@bayou.uh.edu

Flames can be kept to yourselves.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
                        It's A Dog's Life

               An Adult X-Files/Profiler Crossover

             Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka
                              c. 1997


     This wasn't going to be fun, Bailey thought, grimacing.  Sam
considered the serial killer known as "Jack of All Trades" to be her
personal demon, her challenge.  In a way she was right, since he was
clearly fixated on her, but that made it all the harder for her to obtain
the emotional distance necessary to analyze him. Since Jack's latest
escalation, targeting members of the Violent Crimes Task Force, Washington
had started pressuring Bailey to bring in someone to help close the case
down.  They even had someone in mind, an agent with a slightly schizoid
reputation as both one of the best profilers in the Bureau, and a complete
flake. 
     For some unknown reason, for the past four years The Powers That Be
had let this guy hare off on cases which didn't make sense, and were
frankly a waste of funds.  Still, he had been very effective on the more
normal cases he'd worked in the past couple of years.  He had 'It' as
people in the business liked to say.  Now he and his partner were due at
the airport in an hour, and Bailey still hadn't gotten up the nerve to say
anything to Sam about it.  He glanced out the window of his office and saw
her sitting in the bullpen talking animatedly to John and Nathan.  His
gaze refocused to his own reflection in the glass, and he took a deep
breath, looking longingly at the bottle of scotch on the bookshelf.  For a
moment he was tempted, but no, he had to get out of that habit.  It had
cost him too much over the years. 
     He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door, leaning around
the corner to wave at the trio.  "Sam?  Can I see you in my office for a
minute?" 
     She looked up, a slight frown on her face, but she nodded and stood. 
Bailey waited for her, and watched the frown deepen as she approached.  He
stepped aside to let her enter the office and then closed the door behind
her.  She turned to face him, her posture stiff and her eyes wary. 
     "What did I do wrong?"  she asked. 
     Bailey stared at her, nonplused.  "Nothing, why do you ask?" 
     "Because you have that 'Bad News Bailey' expression on your face. 
Okay, if I didn't do anything wrong, then what happened?  Did our funding
get cut?  Did we get another letter from Jack?  What?" 
     Bailey decided that he should have had that drink.  With a fatalistic
sigh, he went for it.  "Ever heard of Special Agent Fox Mulder?" 
     Sam's expression went thoughtful, then she smiled.  "Ol' Spooky
Mulder?  Actually, we were in the same class out of Quantico, but I doubt
that there's anyone at the Bureau who hasn't heard of him." 
     Bailey found himself smiling back. "Well, maybe the first-year
cadets." 
     "Maybe," Sam allowed.  "What about him?" 
     His smile faded.  "Ah... he's coming here." 
     "Here?  What, has there been a sighting of Springheel Jack, or The
Mothman?  A spate of UFO sightings?  Maybe a demonic possession?" 
     Bailey shook his head, his expression serious.  "No.  He's here to
help us on a case." 
     The corner of Sam's mouth quirked sideways and down, the way it
always did when she was puzzled.  "Which case?" 
     "Jack."  Bailey said quietly, bracing for her reaction. 
     For a moment it didn't sink in, he could tell by the blank expression
on her face.  Finally it hit.  Her eyes narrowed, and her expression went
hard.  "Why?" 
     Bailey avoided her eyes.  "Gries and the boys upstairs think we're
moving too slowly." 
     Sam pinned him with her gaze, despite his attempts to look elsewhere. 
"Bailey, Jack is mine!  For God's sake, he killed my husband!  He's
stalking me!" 
        Bailey put a hand on her shoulder.  If they hadn't been friends,
he would never have done it, but he knew she wouldn't misinterpret it.  "I
know, Sam, believe me.  The thing is, they think you're too close to the
case.  They're not sure of your objectivity." 
     Sam flinched as if he'd hit her, and pulled away, going to stand in
front of the window and stare out into the bullpen with her arms crossed
protectively in front of her.  "Oh," she said finally.  "I see." 
     "Sam..."  Bailey began, trying to think of something to say. 
     "No, Bailey."  Sam interrupted, turning back to face him.  "I'm
just..."  She paused and shook her head. "Maybe they're right.  Maybe I
don't have enough objectivity." 
     "I don't believe that.  Neither do you." 
     She stared at him, her gaze haunted. "Honestly, Bailey, I don't know
what I believe any more, not where Jack is concerned."

                               * * *

     Dana Scully watched the tarmac of the Atlanta airport getting closer
as the plane descended, feeling a surge of anticipation.  Finally, after
four years of chasing Bigfoot (absently she wondered if the plural of
Bigfoot was 'Bigfeet?'), mutants, aliens, and black Martian slime, they
were going to get to work on a real case.  A plain old, run-of-the-mill
serial killer.  She was almost elated at the thought.  It was interesting
that the killer had fixated on an FBI profiler.  The VCTF had determined
that all of his victims had some connection, tenuous though it might be,
to Agent Samantha Waters.
     It would be fascinating to watch Mulder put his mind to something
mundane for a change, and see if he made the same kind of baffling
intuitive leaps that he did while investigating the paranormal. Surely
even Mulder couldn't find aliens or shadow-government conspiracies in this
case.  She glanced over at him, wondering how he could possibly sleep
through the descent.  He looked very tired, and even at rest his
expression seemed slightly cynical.  She was sure that four years ago that
wouldn't have been the case.  She frowned slightly, wondering if things
would have gone the same way had some other agent been assigned to work
with him.  Might it have been better if she had not accepted the job? 
     After a moment, she dismissed the thought.  Mulder would be Mulder no
matter who was working with him, and at least he respected her views.  He
might not agree, but he respected them and would occasionally listen to
reason.  Reason aside, she also had to admit that she had seen and
experienced things she couldn't find rational explanations for. 
     She could no longer doubt that there were forces at work behind the
scenes trying to keep certain things from the public eye... for whatever
obscure reason.  Exactly what those secrets were and why they needed to be
kept, she still didn't know, but she couldn't deny their existence. 
Perhaps that was why this case seemed like such a godsend.  In a weird
sort of way, it was so normal that it seemed almost like a 1950's family
picnic.  With a silent snort of derision at that thought, Scully reached
over and pushed the button that would bring Mulder's seat upright.  He
didn't wake up.  She smiled, shaking her head, and tightened her seatbelt. 

                              * * *

     Having slept through most of the flight, Mulder felt almost fit for
human interaction.  Never an easy sleeper, his nights were usually a
series of short naps punctuated by nightmares that left him nearly as
drained as no sleep at all would.  Oddly, being around other people seemed
to help, maybe he needed a girlfriend, or a roommate.  A roommate would be
easier to find, he thought ironically, since his schedule and habits left
little room for romantic entanglements.  Unfortunately any roommate he
might come up with would probably object to periodically having their
place tossed by agents of the shadow government, or invaded by
liver-eating mutants.  So much for that idea. 
     Glancing over at Scully, he wondered briefly if she might be
interested.  No, she'd never sit still for him falling asleep in front of
the TV every night, and she'd always be after him to throw out the
petrified Chinese food in the refrigerator.  Oh, well, she probably ate
ice cream out of the carton, anyway.  He hated that.  Though the other
passengers on the plane were already unbuckled and busy getting their
luggage together, Scully sat quietly, waiting for the general rush to
finish.  He tried to be patient, it did make sense not to fight the crowd. 
Finally the aisle cleared out and she put away the medical journal she'd
been reading, tugged her briefcase out from under the seat in front of
her, and stood.  Mulder followed her example, ducking to avoid hitting his
head on the overhead compartments as he eased out of the cramped space. 
     As they collected their suit bags, the flight attendants wished them
a good day in chorus, visibly relieved to have two gun-carrying passengers
off the plane.  It was funny how weird people were about weapons, even in
the hands of trained professionals.  After all, it wasn't like they were
postal workers.  They walked through the covered gangplank toward the
terminal, and Mulder noticed that though the humidity was as high as he'd
expected, the temperature was startlingly cool.  For some reason he had
expected it to be hot, even though it was February.  Wasn't the South
always hot?  Smiling inwardly at his foible as he stepped into the main
terminal area.  A few steps away a tall man in a trench coat stood with
his back to them, looking out the window.  Mulder nudged Scully with an
elbow and nodded toward the other man. 
     "Think that's our guy?" 
     Scully looked over, saw the coat, and smiled.  "Well, he is wearing
The Uniform.  What was his name again?  Oh, yes,"  she cleared her throat. 
"Agent Malone?" 
     The man turned, eyebrows lifted.  In his early forties, he had a face
like the proverbial ten miles of bad road, but there was intelligence and
an indefinable solidity there as well.  He looked them over, his gaze
speculative.  "Agents Mulder and Scully, I presume?" 
     Mulder couldn't resist.  "Well, we tried calling ourselves Stanley
and Livingstone but no one bought that."  Expecting the usual humorless
response, he was pleasantly surprised when Agent Malone chuckled. 
     "I can see you're going to fit in just fine around here.  Do you have
luggage?" 
     Scully held up her suit-bag.  "Just carry-on." 
     "Let's go, then.  The car's not far."  He grinned, "As you know, one
of the perks being a Fed is you get great parking spaces." 
        He started off at a good clip.  Mulder and Scully fell in behind
him, exchanging puzzled glances.  This guy wasn't your run-of-the-mill
Fibbie.  Mulder wasn't sure if that boded well or ill for their
investigation. 

                              * * *

     "So, you didn't realize that all the victims were connected to Agent
Waters until victim number eighteen, is that right?"  Scully asked,
looking at the high-tech display on the large wall screen.  She couldn't
help but compare the well-equipped facilities the Violent Crimes Task
Force called home to the cramped, cluttered offices in which she and
Mulder worked.  It was certainly clear where funds were, and were not,
being disbursed.  Momentarily she tasted the all-too-familiar flavor of
sour grapes, then with an inward sigh, she let it go.  It didn't do any
good to be jealous.  She had chosen her bed, so she had no business
complaining about the mattress.
     "That's correct,"  Malone answered.  "We made the connection when
Sam... Agent Waters, realized that she had known the victim when she was a
child. That was the key that let all the other pieces fall into place." 
     Dana noticed the name correction and eyed the man more closely.  The
use of a first name might have been telling, but since Agent Malone seemed
to be on a first-name basis with all of his team, it didn't necessarily
indicate they had anything other than a working relationship.  She wished
Agent Waters had been at the VCTF when they arrived.  It would be
interesting to see how the team worked as a whole.  The atmosphere was
unusually relaxed.  Clearly Bailey Malone was cut from different cloth
than most of the SAC's she'd known.  She mentally compared him to Walter
Skinner, and for the first time, Skinner came up a bit short.  Often she
never quite knew where she stood with Skinner, but she knew instinctively
that with Bailey Malone, that would never be the case. 
     Mulder stood, and walked over to stand just a few feet from the
projection screen, studying the photographs.  "These last two, they're
different, aren't they?" 
     The other agents at the table looked at each other uneasily, then all
three of them looked toward Malone.  He pushed his chair back a bit from
the table and played with a pen, eyeing Mulder narrowly. 
     "So, you've heard about that." 
     Mulder turned around, looking puzzled.  "About what?" 
     Malone was silent a moment, as if judging Mulder's sincerity.  A
slight frown creased his forehead before he finally spoke.  "Victim
nineteen had no known connection to Agent Waters.  He was killed so that
Jack could assume his identity to escape a dragnet.  We believe he had
planned to murder Agent Water's friend, Nick Cooper, but was interrupted
by our arrival on the scene.  Clearly, that killing isn't part of the
normal pattern."
     He paused, and took a breath that Scully thought sounded a little
shaky before continuing.  "His latest victim, Molly Sargucci, was also
unrelated to Agent Waters, however, she was killed here in Atlanta and my
FBI identification was left on her body.  The ID had been stolen from my
house several days earlier and we believe that Jack was attempting to
implicate me, not knowing that I would be exonerated by the fact that I
was in Arkansas on a case at the time of the murder." 
     Mulder nodded and turned back toward the photos.  Dana couldn't help
but wonder how the seemingly unflappable Agent Malone had reacted to
finding a dead woman with his ID on her. 
     "There's something else different now, isn't there?"  Mulder asked. 
     Malone nodded toward one of the other agents at the table, an
intense-looking black man in his mid-thirties.  "Nathan, you tell him." 
     Nathan nodded, his face grim.  "I was on vacation, working at home on
a car I've been restoring. For a couple of days I'd had the feeling
someone was watching me, but I figured I was just being paranoid.  As it
turns out, I wasn't.  Jack had set a little trap for me.  He rigged one of
the jacks supporting the car to fall at a signal from a radio-transmitter. 
He waited until I was under the car, then tripped it.  I was trapped under
the car."  The agent's expression went from grim to infuriated, and his
fists clenched on the table.  "The bastard actually had the nerve to stand
there and watch me while I was trapped, not a foot away!  I could have
died!" 
     Mulder shook his head. "If he'd meant to kill you, you'd be dead. 
And, I think he knew you would be exonerated, Agent Malone.  As you've
probably surmised, he's just messing with your heads. Right now I'm sure
he's plotting a little surprise for another one of you."  He gestured
toward the other agents at the table. 
     Two of them, the ones Scully had mentally tagged 'Computer Guy' and
'Macho' though she knew their names were Findley and Grant, shifted in
their seats, and Computer Guy made a face.
     "Yeah, we figured as much.  But why change his M.O. now?  What's
different?" 
     Mulder looked bored.  "M.O.'s change as needed.  I think he's
completed one cycle and started a new one.  A new cycle requires new
methods." 
     There was dead silence in the room.  Finally, Macho spoke.  "What
cycle?" 
     "I haven't quite figured that out yet. It's interesting that his
thirteenth victim was Agent Waters' husband, since thirteen is a classic
occult numeral.  Frankly, I would have expected his M.O. to change after
that murder, so the fact that he killed five more times after that before
changing his tactics makes it clear that the number eighteen holds some
special meaning for him.  Since victim thirteen was of great personal
significance to Agent Waters, I suspect that he's already planning for
victim twenty-six to be someone equally important to her, if not actually
her."
          The silence got thicker.  Malone swore, shaking his head.  "I
can't believe we missed that!  My God, what the hell are we getting paid
for?" 
     Mulder smiled wryly, but for once held back his usual wisecrack.  He
was definitely on good behavior, for whatever reason.  Maybe Malone had
impressed him, too.  "It's probably only obvious to me because of my...
background."  Mulder put in blandly. 
     Grant, Findley and Brubaker all looked a bit puzzled, apparently they
weren't aware of Mulder's reputation.  Or rather, of her own, and Mulder's
reputations.  Hers was no longer quite as virginal as it had once been. 
She made a face, only to look up and realize that Malone was watching her. 
From his expression, he had definitely heard of them before.  There was
amusement in his gaze, as if he knew exactly what she'd been thinking. 
Oddly, rather than embarrassing her, she felt as if she had shared a joke
with a friend.
     "Did you have something to add, Agent Scully?"  he asked politely. 
     She swallowed the grin that threatened to erupt and shook her head,
assuming a businesslike air. "No, not at this time.  I would like to go
over the autopsy reports if Agent Alvarez would be willing to let me have
a look.  I'd like to become a little more familiar with what Jack has
done, his portfolio, if you'll excuse the term.  Perhaps I may be able to
draw some conclusions from the forensic work."
     The dark-haired woman across the table nodded.  "I'd be happy to show
them to you, Agent Scully." 
     Malone stood.  "I think that's it for the formalities, folks.  Let's
get to work." 

                              * * *

     Bailey retreated to his office.  He knew his presence tended to
change the way the team interacted, and right now he wanted them working
at their most natural.  He wondered how the newcomers would mesh into the
group.  It was a difficult position, coming in as outsiders.  There would
be a certain amount of mistrust and possibly resentment from his own
people, and they would just have to hash that out between themselves.  He
could interfere, but he knew that would just delay the inevitable. 
     Motion caught his eye and he glanced up to see Grace stand up and
gesture toward the staircase. Scully stood up as well, and they walked
toward the forensics suite.  He relaxed a bit, knowing at least there he
didn't have to worry about a problem.  Grace's personality suited her
name, and Dana Scully was clearly a professional through and through.  He
had caught flashes of humor from her though, humor that so closely matched
his own that he wondered if he was just projecting because he found her
attractive... which he did, in spades. 
     At that thought, he scowled fiercely at the report on his desk,
annoyed with himself.  Personal feelings had no place in an investigation,
a fact he'd learned long ago.  Besides, he was probably old enough to be
her father, not that that had ever kept a man from noticing a beautiful
woman.  Though her appearance was deliberately businesslike, there was no
disguising the lush curves of her body, or the sensual fullness of her
mouth.  He almost laughed aloud, thinking how little distance there was
between modern man and his more primitive forbears.  Even in the late 20th
century's supposedly egalitarian age, it was hard to separate intellect
from instinct.  His gaze fell on the photos in the file on his desk, and
he lost the urge to laugh.  Perhaps it would be better to say that there
was a fine, and easily crossed, line between man and beast. 

                              * * *

     John Grant felt righteously annoyed.  How dare Washington encroach on
their turf?  What right did they have to send some hotshots down from D.C.
to usurp their case, and push aside their profiler? Though at first he'd
doubted her, he had come to trust and like Samantha Waters and this felt
like a slap in the face to her.  Sourly he eyed the rangy guy who was
staring at the display of victim photos as if they were speaking to him. 
George nudged him with an elbow and stood, jerking his head toward the
door of the conference room.  Nodding, John got up and accompanied him,
Nathan trailing not far behind.  Once they were out of the room, George
led them over to his workstation, grinning broadly. 
     "Okay, let's find out who these guys are.  When Bailey told us their
names just before the meeting I started a computer search.  It should be
done by now."  He moved the mouse to stop the screen saver and they all
squinted at the information displayed on the screen.  After a few lines,
John's dismay began to grow by leaps and bounds.  He looked up at Nathan,
stunned. 
     "Of all the people they could send, they give us this freak?  I mean,
UFO's?  Mutants?  What is this, the National Enquirer branch of the FBI?" 
     Nathan looked just as upset.  "Really!  This guy looks as looney as
the perps he's supposed to help catch!" 
     George looked from one of them to the other, and seemed
uncomfortable.  Finally he spoke.  "I don't know guys.  I mean, yeah, it's
unusual, but maybe there's a reason they're on these kind of cases. It
doesn't seem like the budget office would fund a project like this unless
they were getting some kind of results." 
     John stared at George suspiciously.  "You believe in this crap?" 
     "I ah... well, let's just say I like to keep an open mind." 
     John made a disgusted face.  "I should have guessed, after that 'I
Ching' stuff and all." 
     George glared at him.  "It helped solve the case, didn't it?" 
     John glared back, but George had a point and he finally looked away. 
"Yeah, I guess.  Still, you'd think they could have sent us someone who
wasn't a few bricks short, y'know." 
     "Whether or not he's eccentric, he's good."  George said, pointing to
the statistics listed at the bottom of the page.  "Look at that.  His
track record on profiles is as good as Sam's.  Better, in fact." 
     "Only because he's been at it longer." 
     George shook his head stubbornly.  "They started the same year." 
     John decided that changing the subject might be the better part of
valor.  "What about the woman?" 
     George paged down to the report on Dana Scully.  There was a moment
of quiet as they all read.
     "Well, she looks pretty solid, in any case."  John said after a
moment.  "Kinda strange though, they've been working together for four
years now.  I thought the Bureau tended to move people around more than
that.  Maybe they've got something going?"  he speculated.
     Nathan grinned.  "More likely they just don't let him out without a
keeper."
     They laughed, and John moved toward his own desk.  "Guess we'd better
pretend like we're working before Malone comes out and notices us.
Besides, Sam's due back any minute now." 
     As he turned, he saw that Agent Mulder had left the conference room
and was standing over by the door of the forensics suite.  For a moment,
John felt uncomfortable, hoping the guy hadn't overheard them, then he
shrugged it off.  What did it matter anyway?  He was certifiable.  The
red-head he worked with stepped out of the lab, her arms full of folders. 
They conferred briefly in a low tone, with a few glances in John's
direction.  Finally they began to walk back toward the conference room. 
     "I've got all the forensics reports here," the woman said.  "How
about you?  Any ideas yet?" 
     Mulder paused a moment, then looked straight at John as he replied. 
"Well, after reflection, I think we're looking for a short, slender,
ambidextrous woman who smokes clove cigarettes, keeps snakes and speaks
with a Hungarian accent." 
     Scully sighed.  "There goes my theory about the very large man who
wears one Bruno Magli shoe and one Nike, eats raw garlic and adores
existential German theater!  I guess I need to keep working on this
'profiling' thing." 
     "Don't worry, Scully, you'll get the hang of it."  Mulder reassured
her as they walked out of sight. 
     John stared at Nathan, then they both looked at George, who was
sitting at his computer with a rather smug expression on his face. 
     "He may be nuts but there's nothing wrong with his hearing."  George
said, sotto voce, as he returned his gaze to his screen.  Nathan shrugged,
and John echoed it.  Clearly if they didn't want to be the butt of more
"profiler humor" they'd better watch who was listening when they were
talking. 

                              * * *



    .
___/_\___ Kellie Matthews-Simmons  //  matthewk@colorado.edu
`-/._,\-'      SFLAaE/BS  *  PSEB  *  DDEB  *  HeLLLion  *  X-Phile
 /-' `-\      "So long as it harms none, do as you will"     



From matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU Thu Feb 13 22:41:29 1997
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: It's A Dog's Life 2/9 (XOVER/ADULT)
From: Kellie Matthews-Simmons <matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU>
Date: Thu, 13 Feb 1997 21:41:29 -0700
--------
               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!
               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!

This story contains SEX, (M/F) written in loving detail.  If that bothers
you, either do NOT read this story If you're underage, get parental
permission to read it.  Don't flame us if you're silly enough to go ahead
and read it after we warned you, and then get offended by it. 

"The X-Files" is a trademark of Fox Television. "Profiler" is a trademark
of NBC Television.  No, we don't have permission to use these characters. 
We're just borrowing all of them and promise to put them back when we're
done.  I guess Fox and NBC will have to fight over who gets to sue us. 
:-) No profits are now, or ever will be made off this story, darn it. 

This story copyright 1997 by Kellie Matthews-Simmons and Julia Kosatka. 
No permission is given for print reproduction for anything other than
personal use.  NO, 'zine's are *not* personal use. 

Constructive comments may be directed to:

matthewk@colorado.edu
julia@bayou.uh.edu

Flames can be kept to yourselves. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
part 2/9

     Sam took a deep breath, steeling herself for the meeting ahead.  She
had asked to meet Agent Mulder alone, not wanting the rest of the team
there to interfere.  It would be hard enough as it was, without seeing
their subtle sympathy.  That much had been clear the minute she walked
into the office.  John, Nathan, and George were all favoring her with
"puppy dog eyes" every time she looked up, and even Grace had given her
hand a reassuring pat.  Only Bailey seemed to have the sense to know that
sympathy would only make things worse, and thankfully he had treated her
with the same brusque camaraderie he always did. 
     She stopped short as she saw the man seated at the table, remembering
him as much younger and less haggard.  Of course, the same things could
probably be said about her, since it had been ten years since she'd seen
him last.  He seemed unaware of her presence as he pored over a scattered
mess of papers; probably the case files.  She had her own 'murder books'
with her, and the idea of him looking through them, seeing her notes, her
insights, and possibly disagreeing with her made her temper flare
momentarily.  She dropped the stack of binders onto the table from about a
foot up, so they made a satisfying "thump."  She had to admire him for not
jumping.  He just looked up from the file he was reading, eyebrows lifted
slightly in question. 
     "Agent Mulder."  she said evenly, acknowledging his presence. 
     He stood and extended his hand "Agent Waters, it's a pleasure to see
you again." 
     She didn't take his hand, standing with her arms crossed, unwilling
to observe the normal pleasantries with him.  "This is a little off your
beat, isn't it?  Or, in your expert opinion have you decided that Jack has
been getting away with this all these years because his space ship whisks
him away from the scene before anyone can catch him?" 
     Mulder studied her for a moment, then a wry smile curved his mouth. 
"Well, at first I did think he might be an ancient energy creature that we
know as Jack the Ripper who's hopping from body to body and thus
confounding our investigation until I remembered that was just an old
episode of Star Trek." 
     Sam couldn't help it, she laughed.  A real, unforced, open laugh. 
Her appreciation of the man went up several points.  "I asked for that,
didn't I?" she said, shaking her head. 
     Mulder shrugged.  "I never could resist a straight line.  Look, I
know this is kind of awkward, but maybe I can be of some help.  As the
saying goes, sometimes two heads are better than one." 
     "Encountered any two-headed monsters lately?" she asked flippantly. 
     "Aside from the Congress?"  he asked, deadpan.  "Nope.  Shall we get
to work?" 
     Realizing he wasn't going to be baited, she nodded and sat down,
pushing her stack of books across toward him.  "This is my own collection. 
I thought you might want to look at them." 
     He nodded, and pulled them toward him, but didn't open any of them. 
Instead he looked at her, assessingly for a moment, then spoke. 
     "First tell me what you think." 
     "About what?" 
     "About Jack.  Is there some other reason I'm here that they haven't
told me about?" 
     Sam just couldn't seem to keep herself from getting annoyed, even
though she knew it wouldn't help matters any.  She tamped down her anger
and tried to compose herself. 
     "Well, the basics... male, in his late thirties to early forties,
high IQ, maybe over 140. Probably an abused child.  I would guess he's
small of stature, feels a need to compensate by exerting control over
others, methods range from leaving messages at his crime scenes, to
terror, and murder.  He's ordinary looking, blends in with a crowd, and
probably not disfigured, since he carries his attacks out methodically and
sometimes practically in public.  His voice has no discernable regional
accent, possibly indicating a fairly high level of education." 
     Mulder nodded through most of her recital, but when she finished he
kept looking at her as if he expected her to continue.  She started to
feel uncomfortable.  Finally he frowned a little.  "That's it?"  he asked. 
     She bristled.  "What do you want?  The Psychic Friends Network?" 
     "No, I want you to do the work I know you're capable of.  You're
deliberately not seeing some things." 
     "Such as?" 
     He shook his head.  "Not now, not yet.  I need to do more work before
I do this for real, but I will tell you one thing, we're not looking at a
forty-year-old.  He's your age, or possibly a year or two younger." 
     She stared at him.  "Why do you say that?" 
     "Everything points to it being someone who considers himself your
peer, but also in a subdominant position to you.  If he were older than
you, there would be a different dynamic to the relationship, a
mentor/student sort of feel." 
     She thought about that for a moment and could see where he was coming
from, but she disagreed.  "I don't think that's true.  You know that in
serial killers, often their actual age is offset from their psychological
age by their inherent insecurity, I think we're seeing a reflection of
that." 
     "Why?  What makes you think that?  Has Jack ever demonstrated
feelings of inferiority?" 
     After a moment's thought she had to shake her head.  "No, but that's
usually the case with this type of personality." 
     "I don't see it here.  What else makes you think he's older?" 
     "I..."  she stopped, realizing for the first time that she didn't
have a clear reason.  She frowned.  "I'm... not sure.  Gut instinct,
maybe." 
     Mulder nodded.  "That can be useful on occasion, but you don't want
to start relying on it too often.  See if you can come up with a better
reason and we'll debate it." 
     She nodded, distracted, already inside her head trying to examine
Jack from new angles and see if Mulder might be right.  She didn't like
the idea, but she couldn't dismiss it out of hand.  He reached for one of
her books and opened it, letting her work in silence. 

                              * * *

       Dana glanced at her watch, saw it was twenty after eight, and
stretched, yawning, and listening to her stomach growl.  She'd finally
finished going over the autopsy reports, and now she had questions she
needed answered, but unfortunately, Grace had gone home hours earlier. 
She got up and went to the door to see if anyone else was around.  The
bullpen was empty and conference room door was still closed, but there was
a light in Malone's office.  Knowing he'd been on Jack's case since
early-on, she hoped that he could answer the questions she had.  She put
her shoes back on and walked over to Malone's office. 
     He sat at his desk, head bent over some paperwork, scowling slightly
as he wrote something on a legal pad.  She tapped lightly on the doorframe
to get his attention and he looked up.  Seeing her, he smiled, an
expression that changed his face startlingly from homely to nearly
handsome. 
     He stood up and waved her in.  "What can I do for you?" 
     "Two things, really.  First, I have a few questions about some of the
autopsy results.  Since you've been with the case all along, I hoped you
could help me with them." 
     "I'd be happy to try.  What's the second thing?" 
     "Do you guys have a vending machine around here?  I'm starved." 
     He chuckled and beckoned her to follow as he moved toward one of the
file cabinets.  "No vending machine, but I am in charge of the office
stash.  Help yourself." 
     He opened one of the drawers to reveal an amazing trove of goodies. 
There was a tin of Oreos, a 2-pound bag of miniature chocolate bars, an
assortment of single-serving chip bags, some cheese-n-cracker packets,
several varieties of just-add-water soup, and a huge container of hot
chocolate mix, with marshmallows.  Scully grinned. 
     "I see someone around here likes junk food." 
     "I think we all do.  Isn't it a requirement of the job?  If nothing
in there appeals, we could order pizza, or there's a decent Chinese
take-out around the corner." 
     She considered that briefly, but decided to wait for Mulder and Agent
Waters to finish up before taking a dinner break.  She could hold out
awhile longer, especially with something to tide her over.  She
deliberated for a moment, then opened the Oreo tin and took two.  Malone
helped himself to one before she replaced the lid.  She also grabbed one
of the cheese-n-cracker packets, then closed the drawer. 
     "Is this what you call 'southern hospitality,'" she asked around an
Oreo. 
     He grinned and nodded.  "Only the best for our guests."  He waved a
hand at the couch. "Have a seat... just shove those papers out of the
way." 
     She shoved, and sat.  Setting aside the second Oreo she peeled back
the wrapper on the crackers and dug the little plastic stick into the
cheese-food-product. 
     "Your questions?"  Malone prompted after she'd smeared a cracker with
orange goo and downed it. 
     She nodded, swallowing.  "Victim eleven, Dr. Dexter Nelson.  The
autopsy report said he was 'surgically mutilated' but gave very few
specifics.  Did Jack take trophy parts?" 
     Malone shook his head.  "Not exactly.  Most of Dr. Nelson was still
present at the crime scene, if not exactly intact.  The only body parts
actually missing were his fingers.  Jack later used them to create false
finger prints at another crime scene, so we don't know if he took them as
trophies, or just as props to use later." 
     Scully nodded, in the process of devouring another cracker, and held
up a finger to ask for a moment to finish swallowing. 
     Malone suddenly smacked his forehead with his palm.  "Where are my
manners?  Would you like a drink?  We have coffee... or ah... Sam usually
keeps some diet drinks in her office.  I could raid her supply." 
     "Coffee," Dana managed to say, without spewing cracker crumbs. 
     Malone went over to a coffee maker perched on a file cabinet and
poured some of its contents into a Styrofoam cup.  "Do you use anything?" 
Dana shook her head and he brought it over.  "Sorry about the cup.  I'd
bring you a real mug but we all have our own and you wouldn't want to
drink out of them." 
     Dana thought about her own mug back at the office, stained from years
of coffee and few washes, and understood.  She sipped the hot liquid and
her eyes widened.  Expecting the usual bullpen slop she was pleasantly
surprised by the rich flavor of the brew.  Malone correctly interpreted
her look. 
     "Hey, when you drink as much of that as we do, it pays to get the
good stuff.  What's your next question?" 
     "Vera Lewis, the victim who was injected with rabies.  Did she
describe her abductor at all? It took her eighteen days to die, she must
have talked about what happened." 
     Malone's face was bleak.  "She tried to help, but he'd kept her
sedated most of the time. When she wasn't sedated, she was blindfolded. 
All she could tell us was that he 'sounded like a white guy' and that she
didn't think he was very big, because he had trouble lifting her." 
     "Did they try the rabies series?" 
     He nodded.  "She had the entire course of injections, but it was too
late.  He'd waited long enough before he dumped her that the virus had
time to really take hold."  His fists clenched.  "Bastard." 
     An apt sentiment.  Suddenly her cookie didn't hold much appeal.  She
studied the man across from her, knowing he'd been profiling for longer
than almost anyone still with the Bureau.  She thought about Vera Lewis,
and the other victims, and briefly pondered nature of someone who could do
that to another person.  She was very glad she didn't have the same knack
as Mulder, or Malone, for getting inside the heads of these men.  How did
they do it?  How did they stay sane?  It was bad enough having to deal
with the killer's handiwork.  Taking a gulp of her coffee, she continued
on to her next question. 

                              * * *

     Mulder was beginning to wish Agent Waters would go away.  Though he
needed her there to answer questions, he was getting heartily sick of her
disagreeing with him at every turn.  It was almost as if she were
deliberately baiting him.  He knew her work, he'd seen it before.  She was
good.  Damned good.  So why was she also so blind when it came to this
guy?  As soon as he thought it, he knew the answer.  She didn't want to
admit that this was someone she'd known for a long time.  She didn't want
to see herself as the focus of his madness, possibly the stressor that had
set him to killing.  He couldn't really blame her for that, but on the
other hand her deliberate blindness was costing lives.
     "He's an organized killer."  Agent Waters said, out of the blue. 
     Mulder turned to look at her, frowning.  "No, he isn't.  He's
primarily an organized killer but some of the crime scenes show definite
signs of disorganization.  I think we'd have to classify him as 'mixed.'" 
     The slim blonde scowled back at him, her mouth set stubbornly.  "You
have no idea what you're talking about!  He's meticulous!" 
     Mulder nodded.  "Yes he is, but he doesn't always use a kit. 
Sometimes he relies on objects found at the scene to furnish his weapons
and props.  He sometimes kills quickly, almost mercifully, and other times
with exceptional savagery.  He kills both men and women.  Sometimes he
stages, sometimes he doesn't.  There's no consistency." 
     "That's because he's organized!  He deliberately changes his M.O. in
order to throw us off the trail."  Waters said firmly. 
     "Wrong.  He wants you to find the bodies.  He wants to be connected
to them.  He's proud of them.  That's why he leaves messages." 
     "They're just taunts.  They don't mean anything." 
     "Of course they do.  Everything this guy does has meaning!  The way
he eats, the clothes he wears, the way he ties his shoes, the way he
breathes!  He is ritualistic to the extreme, we just don't understand the
meaning of his rituals yet." 
     She was taking a deep breath, clearly ready to refute him, when the
door to the conference room opened.  Malone and Scully stood there, eyeing
them curiously.  Mulder wondered if he and Agent Waters looked as much
like squabbling kids as he was afraid they did.  Scully looked mildly
annoyed, and he wondered what he'd done wrong. 
     "Did either of you realize that it's after two in the morning?" 
Malone queried drily.  "We're tired of waiting, pack it in for the night! 
We're not going to catch him in the next two hours, right?" 
     Waters looked at her watch and grimaced.  "Damn it!  I had no idea it
was so late!  I have to get home!  Chloe and Angel will be worried!" 
     Malone nodded.  "I have to take our visitors to their hotel.  Mark
and Ian came in around nine to do some analysis while Grace wasn't using
the lab.  Get them to escort you to your car." 
     She nodded distractedly, grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair
and took off.  Mulder sent an apologetic glance at Scully, who did look
pretty tired.  Still, he didn't want to bag it yet.  He looked at Malone. 
     "Look, why don't you take Scully over to the hotel?  I haven't really
gotten into Jack's head yet, but I think I'm close.  I'd like to keep at
it for a while longer.  I can get a cab when I'm ready to call it quits." 
     "Mulder..."  Scully began, her voice concerned. 
     "I'm fine, Scully.  You know me.  I never sleep anyway.  Go on." 
     She looked frustrated and uncertain, but finally sighed.  "All right. 
Just don't come whining to me when your stomach lining dissolves in a sea
of caffeine."  She turned to Malone.  "I hope you don't mind if it's just
me." 
     The older man shook his head, and Mulder read something in his gaze
that made him look more closely.  His gaze shifted from Malone to Scully,
and back, but whatever he thought he'd seen was gone. He must have
imagined it. 
     "I don't mind at all.  We can stop at an all-night place on the way
and get something to eat if you like," Malone offered. 
     Guiltily Mulder realized that they probably hadn't eaten, waiting for
him and Agent Waters to finish.  He knew how grouchy Scully got when she
didn't get fed regularly, and their last meal had been fast-food grabbed
on the way to Dulles.  Sure enough, Scully nodded enthusiastically. 
     "That sounds like heaven." 
     "Let's go, then,"  Malone said decisively. 
     Scully took a step toward the door, then stopped.  "Mulder, are you
hungry?" 
     He thought about it, and shrugged.  "I could eat something, but I
need to stay here and concentrate." 
     Scully and Malone shared a conspiratorial glance.  "Can I?"  she
asked.  Malone nodded, and she turned back to Mulder with a grin.  "Check
the left-hand file cabinet, middle drawer in Malone's office.  There's
instant noodles and some other stuff." 
     "You can heat water in the coffee pot,"  Malone added.  "Help
yourself to anything you find. It's all replaceable." 
     He committed that to memory, "Left hand, middle drawer.  Gotcha,
thanks." 
     Malone nodded and moved out of the doorway to let Scully precede him. 
Mulder watched them go with a vague feeling of unease, but even after
several moments of trying to figure out why, he couldn't come up with an
answer.  Shrugging it off, he returned to the folder he'd been looking
through when Agent Waters had declared Jack was an organized killer.  He
yawned, and put it back down.  Food might help.  Picking up the three
folders that most interested him, he headed for Malone's office and the
left-hand file cabinet. 

                              * * *

     He waited in the shadows, taking care to stay in the security
camera's blind spot.  He had set mirrors to effectively mask the camera
nearest his target, but hadn't wanted to tamper with the other cameras as
well.  The more tampering he did, the more likely it was to be noticed
before the trap was sprung.  Hearing voices he tensed, and stole a glance
at the trio who had just entered the garage. After a moment he relaxed and
smiled coldly.  It was Her.  She was accompanied by two men he didn't
recognize, they were not a regular part of the VCTF team She worked with. 
They were probably guards of some sort.  She never came here alone after
he'd left a message there for Her.  He watched as they walked Her to Her
vehicle and saw Her safely inside, then stood and waited until She had
left the garage.  He did not attempt to contact Her. While he always
enjoyed seeing Her, tonight was reserved for someone else. 
     The two men re-entered the building.  Jack slipped out from his
hiding place and stealthily moved toward the vehicle he knew his prey
would take.  That one was too assured, too cool, and needed to be shown
the error of overconfidence since the last lesson had apparently failed. 
Also, his disappearance would put Her on edge, would take away yet one
more of Her supports, and force Her to continue playing the Game.  The
trap was set, it remained only to spring it. 
     The interior door scraped open and two people emerged.  For a moment
he was disappointed, thinking it was not his prey, but then the dark, hard
face turned briefly his way and he knew it was. But... who was the woman
with him?  She was not in the plan.  Suddenly angry, he watched them
through narrowed eyes.  The woman, a petite red-head in an ugly beige
suit, said something to Malone, who responded with a smile and laugh, his
head bent close to hers.  The woman laughed as well, and did not seem to
rebuff the apparent intimacy. 
     As they walked together toward the car, his mind raced.  How did this
fit into his scenario? Who was the woman, and what was she to Malone?  How
would She feel to see the man who seemed to have become Her emotional
anchor, laughing and talking intimately with some other woman?  Slowly he
began to smile, and he waited.  The trap would work as well with two,
though it would take a little more effort.  The results might well be
worth it. 

                              * * *



From matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU Thu Feb 13 22:42:09 1997
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: It's A Dog's Life 3/9 (XOVER/ADULT)
From: Kellie Matthews-Simmons <matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU>
Date: Thu, 13 Feb 1997 21:42:09 -0700
--------

               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!
               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!

This story contains SEX, (M/F) written in loving detail.  If that bothers
you, either do NOT read this story If you're underage, get parental
permission to read it.  Don't flame us if you're silly enough to go ahead
and read it after we warned you, and then get offended by it. 

"The X-Files" is a trademark of Fox Television. "Profiler" is a trademark
of NBC Television.  No, we don't have permission to use these characters. 
We're just borrowing all of them and promise to put them back when we're
done.  We guess Fox and NBC will have to fight over who gets to sue us. 
:-) No profits are now, or ever will be made off this story, darn it.

This story copyright 1997 by Kellie Matthews-Simmons and Julia Kosatka. 
No permission is given for print reproduction for anything other than
personal use.  NO, 'zine's are *not* personal use. 

Constructive comments may be directed to:

matthewk@colorado.edu
julia@bayou.uh.edu

Flames can be kept to yourselves. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
part 3/9

     Dana's head hurt, and her feet were cold.  She tried to tuck her feet
up under her blanket, and lifted her hand to her face to touch where the
pain seemed the worst, then moaned aloud as much more severe pain rocketed
up from her wrist.  She rolled into a fetal position, cradling her wrist
in her other hand.  Warmth fell away from her as she moved, and cool, damp
air flowed over her, making her shiver.  A moment later the warmth
returned, and a voice soothed her.
     "Hey, take it easy there.  You took quite a knock on the head." 
     The voice was masculine, rough-edged, and only slightly familiar. 
She forced open her eyes, squinting against the greyish glare of light,
and focused on a scarred face with concerned dark eyes.  Her mind finally
supplied his identity.  Bailey Malone.  She tried to sit up, only to have
him gently press her back down with a hand on her shoulder.
     "Stay put.  You've been out for quite a while now, you could have a
concussion." 
     She settled back down, running through the warning signs of
concussion, and concluded she didn't have one, though the fierce pain in
her left arm told her she had a badly sprained, if not broken, wrist. 
Memories came back, bit by bit.  She remembered sitting in the car, and
seeing Malone fall to the floor.  She had hurried around to help him, and
as she knelt there, someone had attacked her.  She'd turned, fought
briefly, then... nothing. 
     "What happened?" 
     Malone sighed.  "Unless I miss my guess, Jack happened." 
     He reached over and adjusted something over her.  She glanced down
and saw that she was covered by a trench coat.  She hadn't unpacked hers
yet, and Malone wasn't wearing his, ergo the coat was probably his.  But,
why was she using it for a blanket?  She looked around, finally taking in
their surroundings.  They were in an open shed made of what appeared to be
galvanized steel. The front of the shelter was open to a graveled area
about thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide, surrounded both above and
around by chain-link fencing with barbed wire woven through it. Beyond
that she could see thick vegetation, and part of what looked to be a very
run-down cabin.  It leaned crazily to one side, its windows glassless, its
wood weathered and stained.  Beneath her, the floor was made of
two-by-four planking that didn't quite make it all the way to the far
wall.  The gap exposed a concrete pad beneath it.
     "Where are we?"  she asked finally, dreading the answer. 
     A wry smile creased the other agent's face. "Damned if I know, Agent
Scully.  It looks rather like a dog-run, though it seems to have been
quite thoroughly human-proofed." 
     Scully let her head fall back to the floor with a groan.  "Oh God,
not again." 
     "Again?"  Malone queried interestedly. 
     She sighed.  "Getting abducted."  She sat up, ignoring the throbbing
in her head.  Apparently deciding he wasn't going to keep her down this
time, Malone helped her, supporting her with a broad hand behind her back,
steadying her until they were both sure she could stay upright.  She
cradled her hurt arm against her side.  Malone saw the motion and his eyes
narrowed.
     "What's wrong with your arm?" 
     She looked at her arm, saw how swollen it was, and sighed again.  "I
think it's sprained.  Or broken.  I'm not sure which."  Cautiously she
wiggled her fingers, biting her lip to keep from crying out.  "Sprained. 
I probably couldn't do that if it was broken." 
     "Anything we can do for it?" 
     "It would be good to splint it, or just support it somehow, but..." 
she glanced around the barren shelter before continuing, "...I don't see
anything that I can use." 
     In response, Malone started working at the knot of his tie.  She was
puzzled for just a moment until he stripped it off and offered it to her. 
     "I don't think you can use it for both a bandage and sling, but it
ought to work for one or the other,"  he said apologetically. 
     Dana accepted the length of heavy maroon silk and looped it around
her arm, then stopped, at a loss as to how to tie it one-handed.  Seeing
her problem, he chuckled and leaned over to do it for her.  It was strange
to have him so close.  In the chilly air, she could feel the warmth his
body radiated, and smell the faint scent of male, and simultaneously soapy
and spicy, a hint of smoke, a dash of sweat.  Oddly it reminded her of how
long it had been since she'd gone out on a date.  When he finished, she
settled back, gingerly letting the sling take the weight of her arm. 
Instantly the ache eased somewhat, and she sighed gratefully. 
     "Thanks, that helps." 
     Malone made a dismissive gesture.  "De nada." 
     She settled his jacket more closely around her shoulders, and
giggled, relief making her a little silly.  "You know, if you keep loaning
me your clothes, pretty soon you won't have anything left to play strip
poker with." 
     He looked momentarily surprised, then he lifted an eyebrow and
grinned.  "Got a deck of cards handy?" 
     She made a show of patting her pockets, then looked disappointed. 
"Damn, Jack must have taken them." 
     Bailey laughed aloud, shaking his head.  "I like you, Agent Scully." 
     "Please, make it Dana.  I think since we're sharing accommodations we
should be on a first- name basis." 
     He nodded.  "Sounds good to me.  So, what did you mean when you said
'not again?'" 
     She sighed.  "I seem to have a sign tattooed on my forehead in ink
visible only to weirdos that reads 'kidnap me'.  This is the sixth... no,
the seventh time." 
     He stared at her, his expression incredulous "Seven times?  Well, I
guess since you're smaller, you're probably an easier target than your
partner."
     Dana lifted an eyebrow.  "Yeah, he just gets bashed over the head and
drops his gun,"  she said drily.  "And as for being an easy target, may I
be so bold as to point this out that you're here too?" 
     He spread his hands apologetically.  "Sorry, you're absolutely right. 
Strike that statement, okay?" 
     She nodded, enjoying the banter too much to cut it off.  It added a
surreal touch to an already bizarre situation.  She wanted to get up and
look for a way out, but felt a little like she was wrapped in cotton. It
was probably a holdover from being unconscious but it made her leery about
moving around too much.  She glanced out at the graveled area beyond the
lean-to, and sighed, depressed again.  "I take it you've explored this
place thoroughly?" 
     He nodded.  "Every inch.  There's no way we're getting out of here
unless someone lets us out, or your middle name is MacGuyver." 
     That took a moment to sink in, but it finally did and she couldn't
keep the laughter inside. After a moment she shook her head gingerly. 
"You're deliberately trying to keep my spirits up, aren't you?" 
     He looked only faintly sheepish.  "Frankly it's as much for me as it
is for you.  I'm feeling like a first-class idiot.  I should have been
more careful.  It was sheer arrogance to believe I was safe because he'd
already gone after me once.  I assumed he'd target someone else next time,
even though I should know that you can't make assumptions with this guy. 
He defies conventional wisdom." 
     "What exactly did happen in the garage?  I saw you go down, but you
seem to be fine now." 
     He sighed.  "There must have been something rigged on the door
handle, because I remember putting my hand on the door, feeling a sharp
pain, and then I couldn't move.  I could see, and hear, but nothing else. 
I saw you struggling with him, but he was wearing a ski mask over his face
so I can't really describe him.  His build was right for Jack, though. 
Medium height, on the thin side, but very strong." 
     "Let me see your hand."  Scully said, holding out her good one. 
Bailey put his hand in hers and she turned it toward the growing light. 
"Where did you feel the pain?" 
     "Along the inside, between the second and third joints." 
     She examined them, and nodded.  "There appear to be small punctures
on all four fingers, exactly where you felt the pain.  I wouldn't think he
could get enough drug into you that way to put you down for very long,
though.  You said that you felt paralyzed?" 
     "Yes.  I think I know what he used, too.  A few weeks back we had a
case where a local cardiologist was kidnapped..." 
     "The Cronenberg case?"  Scully cut in.  "Agent Alvarez told me about
that.  The kidnapper used a synthetic curare in order to paralyze her
victim." 
     "That's the one.  I'm guessing that's what Jack used on me, after
reading about the case in the papers.  It's just the sort of irony he'd
enjoy. " 
     "How long did the effects last?"  Scully asked, curious about its
effectiveness. 
     Bailey shook his head.  "I don't really know.  He didn't rely on
whatever he used there to keep me down.  He put some kind of gas mask over
my face and the next thing I knew we were here, sans keys, wallets, cell
phone, et cetera.  He was pretty thorough about not leaving us anything we
could use to get out of here." 
     "Gas?  Nitrous oxide, maybe.  That might explain why I was out so
long.  It's tricky stuff, you have to know how to use it." 
     Bailey shrugged.  "I'm pretty sure it was nitrous, judging from my
reaction." 
     She looked thoughtful.  "We might have a clue there.  He used some
sort of injector delivery system to hit you with a paralytic.  The killing
of Dr. Dexter showed some skill with a scalpel.  He's skilled in the use
of anaesthetics, all that adds up to medical training.  That might help
narrow the search some." 
     "Remember his nickname.  It's literally true.  He seems to be able to
pick up skills at the drop of a hat.  We can't prove he's got medical
training, he could have picked it up on his own.  The guy's a genius, it's
just too bad he's also a whacko." 
     Scully laughed.  "Is that a technical term?" 
     "It is to me.  You thirsty?" 
     "As a matter of fact, yes.  Why?" 
     For answer he leaned past her, and when he straightened he was
holding a gallon water- bottle.  "He left us three of these.  I checked
them out, and they're all still sealed and show no signs of puncture marks
that might indicate something was injected into them.  I drank some from
this one about an hour ago, and I haven't keeled over yet, so I think
they're safe." 
     "Brave man." 
     He shook his head, looking rueful.  "Desperate man.  I don't react
well to nitrous.  I had to do something to keep from throwing up.  But
don't worry, I didn't touch the spout." 
     "Thanks.  She reached for the bottle, then stopped with an annoyed
sound, realizing she could neither open or lift the bottle one-handed. 
"Damn.  I wish I had both hands!" 
     "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. " 
     He opened the bottle and held it for her, tipping it carefully so she
could drink.  She gulped down several swallows, then sat back with a sigh
of relief. 
     "Now, if only he'd left a couple of aspirin." 
     Malone got an odd look on his face and slid a hand into his pants
pocket, coming out with a small, flat container.  "You know, I did think
it was a little strange that he left these when he took pretty much
everything else." 
     "Is that an aspirin tin?  I haven't seen one of those in years!" 
     "I hung onto it because it was practical.  It fits better in a pocket
than a bottle."  He opened the tin and removed two of the tablets, handing
them to her.  She studied them carefully, momentarily paranoid that Jack
might have replaced them with some less innocuous substance, but the
stamped-on brand name reassured her.  She put them in her mouth and Bailey
held the water bottle for her again.  His comment about being surprised
Jack had left the pills echoed her own thoughts. 
     "You're right about it being odd,"  she said after she swallowed. 
"Do you suppose Jack has a sense of compassion?  I wouldn't have expected
that at all." 
     "Me either, but the fact that he left water and medication seems to
speak to that." 
     "I'd think more highly of him if he'd left us a box of Cracker Jax," 
Scully remarked drily. Malone seemed to think that was far more amusing
than she'd intended, but after a moment she found herself laughing with
him.  "You know, I have to say, it's a lot nicer being kidnapped with
company than by myself." 
     "I would imagine so."  He studied her a moment, then his eyes
narrowed.  He reached over and took her chin in his fingers, turning her
face so it was in the light.  He touched the curve of her left cheekbone
with surprising delicacy, but even so she flinched. 
     "Ouch!  What?" 
     "This bruise on your face, it looks like a letter." 
     "A letter?" 
     He nodded, leaning close.  She could smell him again, and she licked
her lips in a combination of nerves and awareness.  His attention was
focused on her face though, so she hoped he hadn't noticed.
     "It could be a 'U' maybe,"  he speculated.  "Or an Omega, though it's
hard to see if the terminal ends curve in enough for that.  I suppose it
could even be a horse-shoe." 
     "How did it... wait.  He had on a ring." 
     "It probably imprinted when he hit you."  They stared at each other,
and Bailey slowly began to smile.  "A clue." 
     Dana made a face.  "It's strange to think of my face as a clue. " 
     "I just hope we get out of here before that bruise fades.  We need to
get a picture of it." 
     "Don't you mean if we get out of here?" Dana asked him.  "It doesn't
really look like he intends for us to get out." 
     "Remember what your partner said, to Jack, it's all a game.  I'll bet
he's left a clue as to our whereabouts with the VCTF.  They just have to
figure it out." 
     "Before he decides to come back and finish us off," she said
pessimistically. 
     His fingers moved from her chin to cup her unbruised cheek.  "Don't," 
he said gently.  "That doesn't do any good." 
     His hand was warm, and felt good against her skin.  Her eyes locked
with his and they sat like that for what felt like forever, and not nearly
long enough.  His expression changed from concern to... something else,
something she didn't dare acknowledge.  The change released her from the
spell of stillness that had held her.  Embarrassed, by her own reaction,
she turned away a bit and fidgeted with her makeshift sling.  She heard
him draw a deep breath and move away.  When she looked back up he was
leaning back against the wall, his forearms resting on his knees as he
looked out toward the yard beyond.  "Sorry."  he offered quietly. 
     She shook her head.  "No, it's... just this place.  Do you think he's
out there?  Watching?" 
     He looked at her, then back toward the ramshackle shed just visible
through the opening. "No.  I'm sure he's back in Atlanta.  I doubt if he
moves far from Sam for long.  The only thing out there is likely to be
wildlife." 
     She nodded, feeling unaccountably relieved.  "I can deal with
wildlife.  Especially since they're not likely to get in here with us." 
     "It'd be better if they could.  If they could get in, maybe we could
get out." 
     She nodded.  "True." 
     She pushed herself to her feet and walked to the opening, looking
out.  Above her she could see that the sky was heavily overcast, which
accounted for the odd gray tinge to the light.  Their cage sat in a
clearing about fifty feet in diameter, surrounded by thick forest. Aside
from the shack, the clearing boasted several other dog-run type cages,
though none of them had been modified with barbed wire, or a 'roof'. 
There was also a rusting heap of metal that looked like it had once been a
truck.  That was it.  There wasn't even a road, though the thick grass had
been torn up and muddied in two parallel grooves that led up to the cage. 
     "Looks like a unique fixer-upper opportunity to me,"  Bailey said,
having come to stand next to her. 
     "You have a gift for understatement, Agent Malone." 
     "Thanks.  I try.  And, it's Bailey," he reminded her. 
     She smiled, and nodded, looking around again.  Suddenly she froze. 
There, hung negligently through the plain chain-link of the neighboring
dog-run, was a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters.  She looked at them, then
back at Bailey.  He shook his head with an expression of frustrated
helplessness that sat oddly on him.  There was no way to get to them. 
They were there for no reason other than to taunt them.  She shivered,
feeling chilled despite Bailey's coat, and it suddenly dawned on her that
if she was cold with it on, how did he feel without it?  "I'm so sorry, I
should give this back!"  She started to take the coat off, but he stopped
her with a hand on her arm.
     "I'm fine.  If I get cold I'll let you know.  Frankly, you need it
more than I do." 
     It was true. He was wearing a wool suit, a long-sleeved shirt, a
vest, socks and shoes.  She had on a skirt and blouse, ragged nylons, and
was missing her shoes.  The blouse had seen better days, the left sleeve
having ripped loose at the top when she'd struggled with Jack in the
garage.  She shrugged, trying for nonchalance.  "You know, I never can
seem to dress appropriately for an abduction." 
     "Well, this time it was Jack's fault.  He didn't send the
announcement early enough.  I'm sure you would have gotten it right if
you'd had some advance notice." 
     She grinned and shook her head.  "I definitely would not have worn a
skirt, that's for sure." 
     "But that would have been..."  Bailey stopped mid-sentence and shook
his head.  "Never mind." 
     Dana eyed him for a moment but he kept his gazed fixed on the old
shed, not looking at her. She wasn't entirely sure, but she thought she'd
almost just gotten a compliment.  But in this day and age one didn't make
that sort of comment about a co-worker.  Not if you wanted to keep your
job.  The funny thing was, if he'd actually said it, it might have annoyed
her.  The fact that he hadn't said it made her curious.  She surveyed the
dog-run again, and a thought occurred to her.
     "Maybe we could dig out under the fence!" 
     Bailey shook his head.  "I hate to burst your bubble, but I tried
that.  The chain link is set into a concrete pad that seems to run the
length and width of the cage.  I checked in several places.  If you want,
we can check a few more." 
     She shook her head with a sigh.  "No, I'm sure you're right.  It's
just our luck to get kidnapped by an extremely efficient 'whacko', as you
so succinctly put it. 
     Malone nodded.  "Jack is nothing if not efficient.  Still, could be
worse.  Could be raining." 
     She recognized the old Monty Python quote and would have smiled,
except that at that moment a rumble of thunder rippled through the air,
followed closely by a fat raindrop that smacked into her forehead.  As she
wiped it off, she sent him a fulminating look.
     "You just had to say that, didn't you?"  Dana asked as she retreated
beneath the shelter and eased herself back down into a sitting position. 

                              * * *

     "Hey, any of you seen Malone?" 
     Mulder heard a chorus of "No's" and glanced back over his shoulder to
see that it was George Findley who'd asked.  He was standing outside
Malone's office, and looked a little disturbed. 

     Mulder shook his head.  "I haven't seen him since he left to take
Scully to the hotel around three this morning.  Why?" 
     "Because it's nine-forty and he's not here yet, and he's never late." 
     "Maybe he slept in,"  Mulder offered.  "God knows I would have if I
was the boss."  Instead he'd fallen asleep on the couch in Malone's
office.  He'd woken up when it started to get active in the bullpen, and
managed to save a little face by acting like he'd been up all night with
the files. 
     John Grant shook his head.  "You don't know Bailey Malone." 
     Mulder granted him that, but shrugged.  "So, maybe he and..."  he
stopped, suddenly realizing he'd been about to suggest that perhaps Malone
and Scully had gone somewhere together. The implications of that were
oddly unsettling.  He looked at George, then at John, and could tell by
their sly grins that the same thought had just occurred to both of them. 
     "Why don't you call him?"  he suggested with studied nonchalance. 
     George shook his head firmly.  "Uh-unh.  Not me.  I ain't wakin' him
up.  I like my job.  He can come in whenever he damned well feels like
it." 
     Mulder lifted an eyebrow.  "Tough boss?" 
     "When he wants to be." 
     "Why am I not surprised?"  Mulder was sure that Malone and Scully
weren't somewhere having a wild fling.  He knew her better than that. 
Still, it wouldn't hurt to give her a call.  She ought to be up and on her
way by now.  "Look, I'll call Scully, okay?" 
     Grant and Findley nodded.  Mulder pulled out his cellular phone and
hit Scully's auto-dial. There were several seconds of silence, then he got
the "Please Try Again Later" message.  He turned back to Findley. "Her
phone's turned off.  She's probably in the shower or something.  If you
want me to call Malone, I'll do it.  He's not my boss." 
     "So, anybody taking odds on who answers the phone?"  Findley asked as
Grant flipped through his Rolodex and rattled off a number. 
     Mulder rolled his eyes and dialed.  The line connected and rang six
times, then an answering machine picked up and Bailey Malone's voice came
on.  "If you're calling me you know who I am.  Leave a message."  Mulder
hung up without leaving one, and shook his head.  "No answer, just a
machine." 
     They looked at each other for a moment.  The silence was broken by
Nathan Brubaker walking into the bullpen.  The silence was so total that
he noticed immediately.  "What?" he asked jokingly.  "Did I forget to zip
or something?"  he asked, checking to be sure. 
     George laughed and shook his head.  "No, nothing like that.  Just a
couple of folks late to work." 
     "Is that all?  I thought maybe someone's mother died.  Who's late?" 
     "Malone, and Agent Scully."  John Grant replied, winking broadly. 
     Brubaker grinned.  "Oh-ho!  Now that's interesting." 
     Mulder was uncomfortable with the assumptions being made.  Though at
first it had been amusing, he knew that Dana Scully wasn't the type to go
home with a man she'd just met.  And now that his attention had been
called to the fact that she wasn't back, he was beginning to have the
feeling that something might be seriously wrong.  Before he could say
anything, Grant's phone rang. The man picked it up, identifying himself,
and listened, his face clouding over.  He grabbed a piece of paper and
began scribbling rapidly. 
     "Where?"  He snapped, then wrote something down.  "What time?"  He
wrote that down as well.  Finally he thanked the person and told them:
"We'll be there as fast as we can," and hung up. 
     Somehow Mulder knew the conversation had something to do with Scully
and Malone. Grant hung up and stood up, running a hand through his hair,
his face grim. 
     "That was Atlanta P.D.  They found Malone's car apparently abandoned
outside a convenience store on Ashford-Dunwoody Road.  The engine was
running but all the doors were locked.  There's a beige woman's suit
jacket on the passenger seat, and a single red rose pinned to a note on
the dashboard.  The note's addressed to Agent Samantha Waters at the
VCTF." 
     For a moment Mulder just sat there, as if frozen to his seat.  His
most primal fear, brought home to roost yet again.  How the hell had Jack
even known Scully was on the case?  They'd been there less than a day! 
She wasn't a friend of Waters' or even an acquaintance!  It wasn't fair
that Jack should take her!  That thought finally broke through his
paralysis
     "Call Agent Waters and tell her we'll pick her up on our way to the
scene." 
     "Her place isn't on the way to the scene,"  Brubaker put in. 
     "I don't care.  She needs to be there, and I need to see her initial
reactions to the scene." 
     Grant nodded and picked up the phone.  "I'll call her." 

                              * * *



From matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU Thu Feb 13 22:52:50 1997
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: It's A Dog's Life 4/9 (XOVER/ADULT) repost
From: Kellie Matthews-Simmons <matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU>
Date: Thu, 13 Feb 1997 21:52:50 -0700
--------

Whoops, sorry about that.  Somehow part 4 didn't go through correctly the
first time.  Here it is again:

               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!
               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!

This story contains SEX, (M/F) written in loving detail.  If that bothers
you, either do NOT read this story If you're underage, get parental
permission to read it.  Don't flame us if you're silly enough to go ahead
and read it after we warned you, and then get offended by it. 

"The X-Files" is a trademark of Fox Television. "Profiler" is a trademark
of NBC Television.  No, we don't have permission to use these characters. 
We're just borrowing all of them and promise to put them back when we're
done.  We guess Fox and NBC will have to fight over who gets to sue us. 
:-) No profits are now, or ever will be made off this story, darn it.

This story copyright 1997 by Kellie Matthews-Simmons and Julia Kosatka. 
No permission is given for print reproduction for anything other than
personal use.  NO, 'zine's are *not* personal use. 

Constructive comments may be directed to:

matthewk@colorado.edu
julia@bayou.uh.edu

Flames can be kept to yourselves. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
part 4/9

     It was cold and damp enough to make Dana tense, which made it even
harder to ignore the fact that she really needed to relieve herself. 
Unfortunately, there weren't exactly any facilities available.  She tried
to hide her discomfort, but Malone noticed anyway.  He eyed her, and
frowned. 
     "Something wrong?" 
     She shook her head.  "Just a little chilly." 
     He nodded.  "I know the feeling.  Plus..."  he stopped, and looked at
her a bit sheepishly. "Well, I suspect you're in the same boat I am. 
We've been drinking water, and it's... ah... about finished processing." 
     She felt her face heat from embarrassment, but the warmth actually
felt good.  She was tempted to put her icy fingers against her face to
thaw.  There was such a thing as a man being too perceptive, but, at least
he was honest.  She sighed.  "Yeah, there's that, too." 
     He gestured to the graveled area.  "There's a narrow area on either
side of the shed that's kind of private.  I know you're barefoot but the
gravel is river rock and it shouldn't be too hard on your feet.  The left
side has some old wood piled up so you should take the other side so you
don't get splint..."  he stopped, a strange expression coming over his
face.  "I'm an idiot."  he announced. 
     "Why?" 
     "There's wood outside, and the other thing he left me besides the
aspirin was my lighter. Clearly I was supposed to figure out that we could
build a fire.  I'll go see if I can find dry wood underneath the rest. 
That should have been the first thing I did, before it started to rain!" 
     Muttering under his breath he stood up and disappeared around beside
the shed.  Dana took advantage of his absence to slip outside and make use
of the other side of the shed for her own needs.  Wrestling off what
remained of her panty-hose one-handed was enough to convince her to leave
them off, and as she pushed the wadded ball of nylon into her pocket she
discovered the small packet of tissues she'd tucked in there before she'd
boarded the plane the day before.  They came in very handy.  She was about
to return to the shelter when she noticed that a weedy-looking bush had
grown through the chain-link on her side.  The branches were thin,
spindly, and probably nearly dry. 
       She'd been on enough camping trips as a girl to know that it took
more than wood and a lighter to start a fire, so she spent several minutes
snapping off bits to use for kindling.  As she worked, her mind cast back
to those family camping trips.  She smiled a little, remembering the
fights over who got the "best" spot for their sleeping bag, singing around
the campfire, making s'mores, and most of all, the reassuring presence of
her parents when the owls called or the bushes rustled.  How different
these circumstances were.  No comfort for her fears, which unlike owls or
rustling brush were quite real, they could die out here. 
     Unexpectedly she found herself crying.  Instantly she was furious
that she'd let Jack get to her like that, she wiped away the tears and
continued snapping off branches until she had herself under control again. 
With the kindling cradled carefully in her bad arm, she negotiated the
slick pebbles to return to the shed.  Bailey had stacked a bunch of
weathered wood against one of the walls, and there was a smaller stack of
what appeared to be the sawn-off ends of some fairly new two-by-fours.  He
saw what she was carrying and nodded approvingly. 
     "Smart.  I'll take those," he added, relieving her of the awkward
burden.  "They'll dry off pretty quickly and help get it going.  Check my
coat pockets, would you?  If we're lucky there may be some paper in one of
them." 
     She started checking, and in an inner pocket she found some folded
papers.  Pulling them out, she realized she held a handful of unpaid
parking tickets.  She fanned them out and lifted amused eyes toward
Bailey.  He looked at what she was holding and his skin darkened slightly. 
     "I ah... " he began. 
     "I don't want to know.  Really." 
     He nodded and squatted down, pulling a handful of rocks from his
pocket with which he began to arrange a 'firewall' against the wood plank
closest to the gap between the flooring and wall. Suddenly he stopped
working and looked up at her, his gaze lingering on her face with obvious
concern..
     "Are you okay?" 
     Dana clenched her good fist.  Damn the man.  He'd noticed.  "I'm
fine." 
     "No, you're not, and you're a crappy liar.  What's wrong?" 
     "I said it was nothing!" 
     "No, you said you were fine.  Talk to me." 
     She glared at him.  "Are you always this pushy?" 
     He grinned.  "Yeah, I am.  Talk." 
     She sighed.  "Fine.  I was just mad." 
     "About?" 
     She waved a hand at their cage.  "This!  What the hell else would I
be mad about?" 
     "There's always the off chance that I did something to tick you off." 
     "Well, you didn't." 
     "So, what triggered it?" 
     "What are you, a psychiatrist?" 
     "Er... sort of.  So, are you going to tell me or do I have to get out
the rubber hose?" 
     She couldn't help a laugh at that, and she sighed and pointed at the
kindling.  "I was breaking off branches and I got to remembering all times
I'd done that as a kid.  All the camping trips we went on, and how much
fun they were.  Then suddenly I was here and stuck and scared...  and I
just lost it for a minute." 
     He studied her for a moment, and then nodded slowly.  "Yeah, I
understand.  It's funny, as I was out there I was remembering all the
times I've brought in wood for a fire when I lived back in Virginia, when
I was still with..."  he stopped suddenly, and shook his head.  "Never
mind, suffice it to say I understand." 
     Dana shook her head.  "Oh no, you're not getting away with that.  If
I have to spill my guts, so do you.  What were you about to say?" 
     He sighed and moved to the doorway, staring out at the sky.  "I was
going to say 'back when I was still with my family, when we still were a
family.  It's funny how you think you've come to terms with something but
when you're faced with a situation like we're in, it all comes back to
haunt you." 
     "I don't believe in ghosts."  Dana said firmly, not quite lying as
she went over and put her hand on his arm.  "So you can't be haunted,
right?  But missing your family sounds pretty normal to me.  You have
kids?" 
     He nodded.  "Two girls.  My wife and I split up six years ago.  She
has custody, because she has a life that's halfway normal.  This job is
hell on relationships." 
     Dana grimaced wryly.  "Hey, at least you had relationships.  That's
more than I get." 
     Malone lifted an eyebrow in patent disbelief. 
     "I'm serious!" she insisted. 
     "Then there's something wrong with the men you know." 
      "About the only men I know are Mulder, my boss, and Agent Pendrell. 
He's sweet, but frankly I just can't handle all that... earnestness." 
     Bailey chuckled.  "I think I know the type." 
     They stood for a moment in silence, looking at each other, and
suddenly at a loss for conversation.  Things had grown a little too
intimate.  Dana was relieved when Malone moved back to the firewall he'd
started and began placing more rocks. 
     "I think he intended for us to do this," he said as he worked.  "Why
else would he have left us a stack of wood, and a gap here that exposed a
non-flammable surface?  Not to mention my lighter." 
     "You could very well be right. You know, what scares me is how long
he must have been planning this... for someone, if not for us.  The barbed
wire has been here long enough to start rusting.  And the planking in
here, though relatively new, is showing signs of weathering where they're
closest to the outside.  The bush I broke the kindling off of had grown
through the wire when the weather was still warm.  That was months ago." 
     He nodded thoughtfully.  "We have to remember to tell Sam all this. 
It may help with the profile." 
     "Sam, and Mulder."  Scully corrected him. 
     Bailey stopped and looked up at her.  "Sorry.  Of course."  He
finished with the rocks and stood up, brushing his hands off on his pants. 
"There.  The wood's a little damp in a couple of spots so it'll have to
dry before I can try to light it, but it shouldn't be too long." 
     Dana looked at him ironically.  "In this weather?  It may be
tomorrow." 
     "Don't be such a pessimist." 
     She sighed.  "I'll try, but I'm not sure I can." 
     "I can't imagine why not.  I mean, really, just because we're trapped
in a cage in the middle of nowhere by some maniac, it's cold, and damp,
and your arm is probably killing you.  Why wouldn't you be optimistic?" 
     She smiled, but there wasn't much humor in it.  He was right about
her arm, too.  The aspirin had worn off and her hand, wrist, and forearm
were throbbing with each heartbeat.  The adventure in outdoor plumbing and
fuel collection hadn't helped, either. 
     "Would a splint be better than the sling?"  Malone asked. 
     She nodded.  "Probably, but I haven't got anything to use." 
     "I'll go check the woodpile again and see if there's anything useable
out there.  I guess we'll have to sacrifice the sling if I do find
something, since we haven't got much in the way of disposable fabric." 
     It suddenly occurred to Dana that what was left of her hosiery might
make a decent elastic bandage, and she dragged them out of her pocket. 
"Actually, I do have something that might work, if you can find something
to use for splints." 
     He nodded and stepped back out into the rain.  It occurred to her she
should have offered him the coat, but it was too late now.  A few minutes
later he was back, holding a pair of paint- stirring sticks in his hand. 
He handed them to her. 
     "These work?"  he asked, handing them to her as he stepped away and
shook his head, flinging water from his hair.  He reminded her of someone
all the sudden, but she couldn't quite put her finger on who it was.  She
turned the sticks over in her hand, noticing that one had been used in
black paint, and the other in white After a moment she nodded. 
     "These should work pretty well, but you'll have to help me fasten
them in place." 
     "I'd be honored.  What have you got to bind them with?" 
     Feeling a little silly, she held out the wadded bundle of sheer
nylon.  "These." 
     He took them from her, realized what they were, and lifted his
eyebrows, then shrugged. "Well, I guess under the circumstances it's the
next best thing to an Ace bandage." 
     She nodded.  "They're relatively strong, and flexible.  They should
work fine." 
     His gaze slid to her legs for just a moment, then immediately
returned to her wrist.  She wondered if he were speculating on whether she
had on anything under her skirt, and her face got very hot.  She had no
business thinking things like that. He'd been a perfect gentleman,
unfortunately.  Dana sighed and decided she needed to get out more. 
     Malone gently moved her arm out of the sling and wrapped the
pantyhose around it, waist- end first, creating a slight cushion for the
splints.  Taking the stir-sticks from her he positioned them as she
instructed, then continued to wrap the hose around her arm.  He worked
efficiently, and Dana could tell immediately that he'd had some decent
first-aid training.  The resulting bandage was wrapped in the classic
crossover fashion and was snug without being too tight.  Her arm started
to feel better almost before he finished.  After tying off the ends, he
settled her arm carefully back in the sling and got out the aspirin tin
again, handing her two and then holding the water for her.  After taking
them, Dana sat back with a sigh, and shivered a little. 
     "Is it getting colder or is it just me?" 
     "It is."  He looked at the sky and frowned. "And it's going to get
even worse." 
     She followed his gaze.  "How can you tell?" 
     "The clouds are getting darker."  He stood up and went to check the
wood, clearly looking for pieces dry enough to burn.
     Dana studied him again, still trying to remember who it was he
reminded her of.  Suddenly it came to her.  "You know, you remind me
of..."  she began. 
     Bailey cut her off with a groan.  "Oh, God, and me without my gun!" 
     Dana stared at him, eyebrows lifted, trying to figure out what had
prompted his exclamation. "What?"  she finally asked. 
     "You were about to compare me to your father, weren't you?"  he asked
with a longsuffering look.  "I figured I might as well just shoot myself
right now and get it over with." 
     She stared at him a moment longer, then started to laugh, shaking her
head.  "You're about as different from my father as it's possible to be. 
He was kind of short, a little round, red-haired and thought a glass of
wine with dinner was daring." 
     Malone gave an exaggerated sigh of relief.  "Thank God.  So, who were
you about to compare me to?" 
     Dana shook her head.  "I'm not about to tell you after that
outburst." 
     "Why?  Is it bad?" he asked, curious now. 
     She shook her head. 
     "I promise I won't be offended, unless it's some lowlife." 
     Dana gave up, realizing he wouldn't rest until he got it out of her. 
"Oh, all right.  You remind me of Dakota." 
     "North or South?" he asked without missing a beat. 
     She grinned.  "Rottweiler, actually.  He belongs to one of my
brothers." 
     He stared at her for a moment, clearly not sure how to take her
comment, then a slow smile worked its way up from the depths.  "A
Rottweiler?  Well, I can think of worse things to be compared to.  What is
it about me that reminds you of a Rottweiler?  And please don't tell me
it's my teeth." 
     She grinned.  "Well, they're big, loyal, smart, and very dangerous
under the right circumstances." 
     He lifted an eyebrow.  "Are these the right circumstances?" 
     Instead of dismissing his patently silly question with a laugh or a
roll of her eyes, she just looked at him for a long, quiet moment, her
eyes steady.  Finally she spoke.  "I'm not sure yet." 

                              * * *

     There were cop cars everywhere, their multicolored lights pulsing
eerily through the gray midmorning overcast. Mulder watched Samantha
Waters as she stood staring glassily at Bailey Malone's car.  It sat just
as the cops had found it, though they way it was festooned with
crime-scene tape it looked as if it had been T.P.'d by a bunch of
mischievous kids.  Between the lights and the tape, the scene had a
surreally festive air.  He found himself looking past Waters to the beige
jacket on the passenger seat.  It was Scully's.  She'd been wearing it
last night when she and Malone had left.  The feeling of unease he'd
experienced the night before was now fully justified.  His fists clenched,
but he forced his attention back to Agent Waters. John Grant had been
watching her too, and apparently he thought she'd seen enough.  He reached
over and touched her shoulder. 
     "Sam?" 
     She turned to face him, blinking as if she'd been awakened from a
trance.  "Hmm?  Oh, I'm sorry.  I just..."  she stopped, a helpless
expression on her face.  She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she
reopened them the helplessness had vanished behind a professional mask. 
Mulder found that very interesting.  Clearly, Jack had gotten to her with
this.  He surreptitiously glanced around the parking lot, looking for
anyone who might seem inordinately interested in Agent Waters. No one was. 
Most people were pointedly disinterested, seeming completely focused on
getting into the store for their Slurpees and microwave burritos.  It was
a nice, upscale neighborhood. Apparently it wasn't genteel to stare. 
     "The car was running, right?"  he heard Waters ask. 
     Grant nodded.  "Yep.  Doors locked, engine on." 
     "Does anyone have any idea how long it has been here? 
     Brubaker checked his notepad, and spoke.  "The clerk said he first
noticed it around nine- thirty, because by that time most of the commuter
traffic has let up and things had quieted down enough for him to go
outside for a cigarette.  He couldn't say how long it had been there, but
he's sure it wasn't there when he arrived this morning for work at five." 
     She nodded.  "Okay, sometime between five and nine a.m.  Damn!  That
gives us a lot of time to work with."  She sighed, and tucked her hair
behind her ears.  "I don't suppose they have a camera on the parking lot?" 
     Grant shook his head.  "No.  This is a pretty low crime area, they
have a camera on the register and one on the ATM, but nothing on the
grounds." 
     Waters nodded distractedly and began to circle the car.  She stopped
suddenly, and moved back around to the driver's side, bending close to
look at the door handle.  "Grace, would you take a look at this?" 
     Alvarez hurried forward and bent to examine whatever it was Waters
had found.  She looked up, her eyes narrowed.  "Tape residue, and what
looks like a small amount of blood." 
     Waters moved away as if once found, the evidence held no interest for
her.  She started walking again as Alvarez got out her kit and started to
work on the door handle.  Mulder followed her slowly, still periodically
scanning the people in the area for any unusual interest.  She moved to
the passenger side before stopping again. 
     "Have we got pictures yet?" 
     Nathan nodded.  "That's all been done already." 
     "Has it been checked for explosives?"  she asked. 
     "The dogs didn't seem interested, and there were no obvious signs of
tampering."  Grant supplied. 
     "I need to see inside,"  she stated firmly. 
     Nathan moved forward and inspected the handle carefully, then used a
slim-jim to pop the lock.  He pulled on a pair of gloves and gingerly
lifted the handle.  The door swung open and there was a collective sigh of
relief when nothing blew up, fell out, or did anything else startling. 
Waters reached a gloved hand into the interior of the car and gently
lifted the jacket off the seat. Mulder almost protested her touch on it,
but got himself under control in time.  He watched as she slowly unfolded
the garment to reveal that the left sleeve was torn at the shoulder.  She
frowned and traced the ragged fabric with a forefinger, refolded the
garment, replaced it on the seat, then leaned into the car and reached
across to turn the keys in the ignition and shut off the engine.  Everyone
tensed as her fingers touched the keys, and then relaxed as the engine
shut off without incident.  Nervous bunch, Mulder noted. 
     Waters looked around the interior of the vehicle for several moments,
and then finally picked up the note with the rose pinned to it.  Her name
had been printed using a stencil.  The pin was long, lethal-looking, with
an ornately decorated head.  Her fingers lingered on the glittering black
and gold surface, and she turned the whole thing into the light, examining
it minutely, her expression thoughtful.  Was that recognition he saw in
her eyes?  Slowly she withdrew the pin from the paper.
     Once that was done, Mulder could see that the stem of the rose had
been deliberately broken, only the pin had held it straight on the paper. 
The rose fell free, and she caught it, letting out a soft curse as the
flower's thorns pierced her glove, and skin.  She gently placed the rose
on top of Malone's car and unfolded the heavy ivory paper.  Mulder fixed
on that for a moment.  The paper might be traceable, it certainly wasn't
generic. He watched her face as she studied the note, then saw her mouth
quirk to one side in an unmistakable expression of annoyance.  She looked
up. 
     "Someone bring over the black light." 
     Brubaker ran over with it, holding it over the apparently blank
paper, everyone looking on expectantly.  From where he stood, Mulder could
see that it hadn't made any difference.  The paper still looked blank,
save for some faint purplish blotches.  Waters and Brubaker looked at each
other in dismay.  Brubaker turned the light off, and back on again, as if
it were possibly at fault.  Still nothing.  Waters frowned. 
     "Why leave me a note that says nothing?" 
     "We don't know it says nothing," Mulder said.  "May I see it?" 
     She nodded and extended it toward him.  He started to take it, then
realized he wasn't gloved. He grabbed a pair from the box in Grace's
forensic kit and snapped them on, then took the paper.  He had been right. 
The paper was far from generic.  It was thick, marbled, and had an
irregularly deckled edge.  It looked hand-made.  The stenciling on the
front had been done in gold ink in an ornate Gothic style.  He turned the
paper over several times, examining it in detail. 
     Finally, closing his eyes, he ran his fingertips over it, as well as
he could through the latex gloves.  He stopped.  There were slight
irregularities in the paper that felt as if they might be scratch
impressions.  He looked more closely, and a slight whiff of something
citrus wafted past his nose.  He lifted his head and sniffed the air. 
Nothing.  He sniffed the paper again.  Citrus.  Slowly he began to smile. 
     "Lemon juice." 
     Agent Waters frowned.  "What?" 
     "There's writing here, we just need a heat source to bring it out. 
He used lemon juice, just like we used to on our secret notes when we were
kids." 
     "We?"  she queried. 
     "My sist..."  he stopped, unwilling to bring that up right now.  It
was bad enough that Agent Waters name was Samantha.  "You know, kids in
general.  Vinegar, or lemon juice, on paper is invisible until you heat
it, gently, like over a light bulb.  Then it turns brown and you can read
it." 
     Grace Alvarez smiled, her gaze faraway.  "I remember that.  We always
wrote the names of the boys we had crushes on in 'invisible ink' like
that.  You may just be right.  I can check it pretty easily as soon as we
get back to the lab." 
     Mulder surrendered the paper to Alvarez, who tucked it carefully into
an evidence bag.  He turned back to Waters. 
     "The pin, you recognize it, don't you?" 
     She nodded, slowly.  "I... think so.  I was in a play, a musical,
actually, in ninth grade.  'My Fair Lady.' Some of the costumes had these
wonderful hats, and we had to use hatpins to hold them on.  This one looks
very much like the one I used.  I remember thinking it was terribly
elegant, and I was going to ask the teacher if I could have it after the
play was over, but I lost it two nights before closing." 
     Mulder's gaze sharpened.  "You lost it?" 
     She nodded.  "I was so mad at myself.  I must not have pinned it
securely into the hat that night, because when I went to get dressed the
next night, it was gone." 
     Mulder remembered details from the files on Jack.  He remembered the
photographs of a christening gown hanging in a church belfry, a baby
picture in an ornate frame, a man's wedding ring tied to a bunch of roses
left on a pillow.  Now this.  This was more than meticulous research. 
Jack had things that had actually belonged to Samantha Waters, things that
would be tremendously difficult to come by today.  Could Jack have been
fixated on her so long ago?  Could that pin have been an early 'trophy?'
One of Jack's victims had been the doctor who delivered Samantha Waters,
another a childhood friend, yet another her bookmobile volunteer. Things
were starting to make a certain warped sense.  Jack might not just be
obsessed with trying to become part of her life, but perhaps he actually
had been part of it!  He thought again about the victims.  His mind made a
connection.  Bookmobile.  Books. 
     "Agent Waters?" 
     She turned from where she stood staring at the car again.  "Yes?" 
     "At the scene of Jack's first murder.  What was it that made you
suspect the 'golden rule' book had been left by Jack, not one of the
family?" 
     She stared at him, bit her lip, then finally replied.  "The book was
too old.  It was printed in 1964.  All the other children's books in the
house were much newer." 
     "What made you look at the print date?" 
     "I... don't know.  I just did." 
     "Did you ever own a book like that one?" 
     She frowned, and her gaze went distant as she tried to remember. 
Finally she nodded, slowly.  "Yes, actually, I had one very much like that
one." 
     Mulder felt a surge of excitement.  "Think back.  Could it have been
the same book?"  She shook her head, looking horrified, but he kept at it. 
"Was there any kind of identifying mark that you might remember?  A torn
page, a name, a scrawl, anything?" 
     "I don't remember!" 
     "What happened to it?" 
     "I don't know!  How should I know?" 
     "What did your family usually do with your books once you'd outgrown
them? 
     "We gave them to the librar..."  she stopped, and he saw her
expression change as the same idea that had hit him, took her.  "Oh my
god... the library.  They could have ended up in the bookmobile!  But how
could Jack have gotten it after all these years?" 
     Mulder stared at her, unspeaking, willing her to acknowledge what he
knew she knew.  She was the first one to look away.  She turned to the
others and spoke authoritatively. 
     "Okay, let's get all this stuff back to the office and get to work. 
We need to find Bailey fast." 
     "And Scully."  Mulder prompted, annoyed. 
     She looked at him, and he saw anger in her gaze, but she nodded. "And
Agent Scully." 

                              * * *



    .
___/_\___ Kellie Matthews-Simmons  //  matthewk@colorado.edu
`-/._,\-'      SFLAaE/BS  *  PSEB  *  DDEB  *  HeLLLion  *  X-Phile
 /-' `-\      "So long as it harms none, do as you will"     



From matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU Thu Feb 13 22:43:34 1997
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: It's A Dog's Life 5/9 (XOVER/ADULT)
From: Kellie Matthews-Simmons <matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU>
Date: Thu, 13 Feb 1997 21:43:34 -0700
--------

               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!
               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!

This story contains SEX, (M/F) written in loving detail.  If that bothers
you, either do NOT read this story If you're underage, get parental
permission to read it.  Don't flame us if you're silly enough to go ahead
and read it after we warned you, and then get offended by it. 

"The X-Files" is a trademark of Fox Television. "Profiler" is a trademark
of NBC Television.  No, we don't have permission to use these characters. 
We're just borrowing all of them and promise to put them back when we're
done.  We guess Fox and NBC will have to fight over who gets to sue us. 
:-) No profits are now, or ever will be made off this story, darn it. 

This story copyright 1997 by Kellie Matthews-Simmons and Julia Kosatka. 
No permission is given for print reproduction for anything other than
personal use.  NO, 'zine's are *not* personal use. 

Constructive comments may be directed to:

matthewk@colorado.edu
julia@bayou.uh.edu

Flames can be kept to yourselves. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
part 5/9

     Grace Alvarez held the note carefully over the lamp on her desk,
exposing the creamy paper to the heat of the bare hundred-watt bulb.
Slowly, faint sepia lines began to appear, like magic writing.  She
continued to move the paper back and forth until she was satisfied she had
gotten the best image possible, then she put it down on the desk and took
several photographs.  Finally she stepped back and gestured for Sam, and
Agent Mulder to take a look. 
      Sam read the note aloud so the rest of the group could hear. 
"Someone's been very bad.  If you want them to come home, you'll have to
Fetch them. The word 'bad' is underscored,"  she added, "and the word
'fetch' has been capitalized." 
     "It must have some special relevance, then,"  Mulder said, studying
the handwriting on the note over her shoulder. 
     "Fetch is a computer application,"  George put in, seeming excited. 
"It's used to upload and download files from the Internet."
     "Maybe that's a clue that we're supposed to check the Net for stuff
about Bailey?"  Brubaker put in.  "George?  What do you think?" 
     "It's possible,"  he said, thoughtfully.  "I can give it a shot.  It
shouldn't take too long to do a websearch." 
     Sam shook her head slowly.  "I don't think that's what he has in
mind."  She looked at Mulder, who was nodding.  "What do you think?" 
     "I agree.  That feels wrong for Jack.  I think he has something else
in mind, something we haven't thought of yet." 
     "Still," Sam said, after a moment.  "It couldn't hurt to do that
search, George.  Why don' t you go ahead?" 
     "Someone needs to get to work finding that paper stock."  Mulder
added.  "It should be traceable.  There's a paper expert in D.C. who can
probably help." 
     Nathan nodded and headed for the door.  John caught his arm, stopping
him.  "Wait," he said quietly.  He looked at Sam.  "Are they still alive?" 
he asked, his voice harsh as he voiced the question none of them had
wanted to think about. 
     Sam closed her eyes, buying a moment's time before answering.  She
jumped a little when Mulder spoke. 
     "They're still alive," he said with quiet confidence.  "Jack's still
in head-trip land.  He's not going to kill them unless we don't play the
game his way." 
     John made a sound of disgust.  "Gaaaah!  What fu... damn game is he
playing?" 
     "It's obvious.  He's trying to prove he's smarter than we are.  And
we have to be very careful.  If we figure things out too quickly, we might
make him think he's not being clever enough, and that would be bad. 
There's no telling what he'd do if we made him angry.  We can't make it
look too easy." 
     "Don't worry, it won't be."  Sam said quietly.  "It never is, with
Jack.  I'd be willing to bet he's working on some kind of timetable.  If
we don't meet it, it won't just be bad, it'll be very bad." 
     "Especially for Scully.  She's the one most at risk here." 
     Sam turned, surprised.  "What makes you say that?" 
     "Jack is trying to undermine your practical support by terrorizing
those closest to you.  He doesn't want to take them away himself, he wants
them to abandon you of their own free will.  He might threaten Malone, but
he's not going to kill him unless we fail to provide the entertainment he
wants.  Scully, on the other hand, has no connection to you, no emotional
value.  If he's going to kill someone to make a point, it'll be her.  So
we need to figure this thing out before he decides he needs an example." 
     Sam couldn't refute his logic.  It was impeccable, and she should
have seen it herself.  She looked at George.  "George, why don't you go on
and try that search.  We need to get moving on this.  We have to figure
out what the note means." 
     "Which we're never going to do unless you..."  Mulder stopped, looked
around the room, and shook his head.  "Let's do this privately."  He
reached to take her arm and steer her through the door.
     Grant moved to block it, until Sam shook her head.  John reluctantly
stepped aside and Mulder guided her toward the conference room.  She would
have preferred her own office, but she understood his choice.  If they
were going to have a confrontation, it should be on neutral ground. He
closed the door behind them, and turned to her, his face set and angry.
     "Tell me, Agent Waters, why can't you admit that you probably know
this guy?  That in all likelihood you've known him since you were a small
child.  Why do you keep pushing it away?  The clues are all there." 
     Unable to bear his words, she seized on the one irrelevant thing he'd
said.  "Look, if we're going to work together, we're going to have to get
past this 'Agent this' and 'Agent that'.  I have a name, damn it!  Or is
it that you think I'm the cause of all these deaths?  Is that why you keep
me at arm's length?  Is that why you depersonalize me by not using my
name?" 
     A stricken expression came over his face.  Finally he shook his head. 
"No, I don't think you have anything to do with Jack, other than being an
innocent victim.  As for your name, I'm sorry, I just... have trouble with
it."  He looked past her, staring off into space, his jaw taut with
control.  "It's... it was my sister's name,"
     For a moment she just stared at him blankly.  So what?  The fact that
it was his sister's name shouldn't make it hard for him to use.  Then she
realized he had used the past tense, and that triggered another memory. 
It had been common knowledge when they were at the Academy that Fox Mulder
had gone into law enforcement because his sister had been kidnapped, and
never recovered.  She felt about two inches tall. 
     "Oh my God... I am so sorry!  I didn't realize..."  she tried to
think of something appropriate to say, and failed.  "I'm sorry," she said
again, awkwardly. 
     He shook his head.  "No, you couldn't know that.  I didn't realize I
was doing that until you pointed it out.  I'm used to last names.  I don't
use my first name, and Scully's just... Scully." 
     Sam couldn't imagine working with someone year after year and never
calling them by their given name.  The man must have walls like Fort Knox,
if he couldn't even let someone that close. She had a newfound respect for
Dana Scully, it had to be difficult to work with someone like Mulder, yet
the woman made it appear effortless.  With that thought came the renewed
realization that she had to do something to help Bailey, and Dana.  And
that something was opening her eyes. 
     Mulder was right.  She had been deliberately blind to something that
everyone else on the team had probably realized since the day they figured
out that four of Jack's victims could be linked to her.  She did know him. 
Perhaps not consciously, but if she dug back far enough and hard enough,
she should be able to come up with some possibilities.  She looked up at
him. 
     "Can we start over?"  she asked quietly.  "I'll try not to argue with
everything you say, if you'll stop treating me like a leper." 
     He studied her for a moment, then nodded and held out his hand. 
"Deal." 
     They shook hands, and she stepped back and gestured toward a chair. 
"Let's get to work. Give me your take on Jack, and then we'll go from
there."  He sat down.  She took the seat next to him and grabbed a legal
pad and a pen, poised to take notes.  "Shoot." 

                              * * *

     Mulder looked at Agent Waters... Sam, still a bit stunned that it had
taken so little to remove the antagonism between them.  Cautiously, not
sure how long their truce would last, especially when he started profiling
Jack, he began to speak.
     "Okay, I'm going to combine our theories here, using most of what
you've said, just leaving out the few points I disagree on.  First, he's a
white male, probably mid-thirties.  Slight build, normal features, no
regional accent. Very intelligent, IQ probably 140 or better.  Very
versatile, and probably post-secondary educated. I get a lot of jealousy
from him, directed toward you, but it's not specifically sexual jealousy,
though there are elements of that as well.  It's relatively unusual for a
man to be jealous of a woman's life, so there's something not quite
straightforward about it."  He paused thoughtfully, steepling his fingers
as he continued. 
     "I think that he's angry and jealous on someone else's behalf.  From
his targets he obviously wants to wreck your happy childhood, which leads
me to wonder if he feels that by doing so, perhaps he can compensate for
some terrible thing that happened to this other person.  Whoever they are,
or were, he was very close to them, and I think it was a woman. You may
have known both of them. Now, we know his fixation was relatively benign
until sometime in 1988, at which point he experienced some sort of
stressor that turned him lethal.  I think that this other person died
then, probably not from natural causes, and that death may have provided
the strain that set him off.  You would have been, what... twenty two,
twenty-three?  Can you remember anything unusual that happened to you that
year?  Especially something that has any of Jack's hallmarks... anonymous
messages, roses, anything?" 
     Sam was frowning.  Apparently something about the picture he was
building troubled her.  After a moment she spoke "There's something
familiar about what you're saying, but I can't put my finger on what it
is.  Not yet, anyway.  Let's see, 1988... I was in college then.  I wasn't
seeing anyone in particular, but I went out a lot.  If someone sent me
flowers or a note anonymously, I probably would have assumed they were
from whoever I was seeing at the time." 
     Mulder slouched back in his chair and gazed at her, thoughtfully. 
"You dated a lot?  Were any of them... odd?  Especially someone who might
also have been from your hometown?" 
     She looked back at him, eyebrows lifted.  "I don't date odd men." 
     Mulder tried not to smile.  "What about Nick Cooper?  From what I've
heard..."  he let the sentence trail off suggestively. 
     Sam tried to glower, but spoiled it by smiling.  "Nick's not odd. 
He's... unique." 
     "I stand corrected, but the first question still needs an answer." 
     She shook her head.  "No one that I can think of.  I didn't date
anyone from back home, actually.  I wanted to get away from there, not
take it with me." 
     Mulder nodded, and tapped a pen against his lips absently.  "What
about someone you turned down?  Anyone stand out in that crowd?" 
     "Crowd?"  she queried, "What exactly are you imagining about my
social life?" 
     "Well, you said you don't date odd men, I figure that leaves a lot of
us by the wayside." 
     She grinned.  "You didn't know me then.  No, I can't think of anyone
who fits in the reject category either." 
     Mulder sighed.  "You know, there's another strange thing about Jack
besides his ever- changing M.O.  Most serial killers have a very set type
of victim.  They usually stick to one sex, and one race.  Jack does
neither.  His targets are apparently indiscriminate, as long as the victim
was someone known to you at some time in your life.  The usual aspect of
dysfunctional sexuality seems to be muted here, sidetracked.  Again, I
think this has something to do with him trying to do this on behalf of
someone who's no longer alive.  Can you think of any two people who might
fit this pattern?" 
     Sam shook her head again, clearly frustrated.  "Honestly, I can't
think of anyone.  Maybe I should start checking newspapers from home for
that year.  Maybe something might ring a bell." 
     Mulder nodded.  "That's a good idea.  We can see if we can get copies
of their archive microfilms.  But for the moment, let's get back to trying
to figure out his note.  We have the rose, the pin, the paper.  'Someone's
been bad.' Clearly that refers to Bailey, not you.  It could include
Scully, but more likely does not.  I think she was a victim of
circumstance.  Jack was primarily after Bailey, and got Scully as a
bonus." 
     "I agree.  He couldn't have known she was here." 
     "Not unless he's psychic... and no, I'm not trying to make an X-File
out of this." 
     Sam sighed deeply.  "Well, I'm willing to consider just about
anything at this point." 
     "Oookay.  Add possible telepath to the list, then." 
     Grinning, she dutifully scribbled that down on the list, and they
went on. 
     "What was the next line?  'If you want them you'll have to fetch
them'?" 
     "Not quite.  He said, 'If you want them to come home, you'll have to
fetch them.'" 
     "Right," Mulder scowled.  "He makes them sound like they're lost pets
or something.  But he said 'they', so he must have written the note after
he got them.  If he'd written it beforehand, it would have just said
'him.'" 
     "True.  Damn.  I'm just not getting anything about this!  This is so
frustrating!  I'm usually better at reading Jack than this!" 
     Mulder rubbed the back of his neck and nodded.  "I know what you
mean.  I know there's something in the wording that we're supposed to pick
up on, but I just can't put my finger on what it is."  He yawned, and
stretched.  "I need coffee." 
     "There's a coffee maker in Bailey's office.  I'll start a fresh pot." 
     "Why don't I do it?  I wouldn't want to be accused of sexism." 
     She grinned. "Why, thank you, but neither do I. Why don't we practice
equality?  I know where the coffee is, I'll do the filter and coffee while
you take the pot and get water." 
     He nodded and they headed out to do their chore.  When they opened
the door to the conference room, four heads swivelled their direction. 
Expressions became puzzled as they walked out, conversing amicably. 
Mulder felt a sneaking sense of smugness at their reactions.  He knew they
thought he was a flake, and earning Sam Waters' respect would throw at
least some of them for a loop.  In Malone's office, Sam picked up the
coffee pot and handed it to him as she dug in the infamous left-hand file
cabinet for a filter.  He headed out to the drinking fountain to rinse and
fill the carafe .  As he waited for the ten-cup pot to fill from the slow
dribble the fountain put out, he idly perused the miscellaneous junk on
the bulletin board next to the fountain.  He smiled to see one of his
favorite Gary Larsen 'Far Side' cartoons, "What dogs hear"  posted there. 
It was an old, ratty copy that looked like it had been there a long time. 
Apparently no one had the heart to take it down. In it, the dog's owner
was scolding: 'Bad, Ginger!  Bad Girl!  Bad Ginger!' and all the while the
dog was hearing "Blah, Ginger! Blah, blah!  Blah, Ginger!"  He chuckled,
and shook his head.  "Bad, Ginger!"  It reminded him somehow of Jack's
note, and he had a sudden, inappropriately funny image of Jack shaking his
finger and saying "Bad Malone!  Bad!".  He frowned, that image triggering
a connection.  Fetch.  Had Jack deliberately used a word normally
associated with dogs? 
     His hand was suddenly cold and wet, and he realized the pot was
overflowing.  Quickly he let off the button and poured out some of the
excess water, hoping no one had noticed.  He thought about the line of
thought he'd been following a moment earlier, and shook his head.  It was
hardly a likely theory.  Although Jack was well known for his
double-meaning messages, dogs didn't seem to have anything to do with the
current situation.  With a sigh Mulder started back toward Malone's
office.  It was going to be a long day. 

                               * * *

     George was frustrated.  He'd tried every search engine he knew and
come up nearly empty- handed on Bailey Malone.  He'd even written one of
his own and run it, but still all he'd found were news stories from places
around the country where Malone had gone to help out local law on various
cases, and some mentions of the VCTF on a crime-watch site.  Nothing at
all that seemed relevant to the case.  Still, he printed out what he'd
found to give to Sam, in case she might be able to see something he'd
missed.  Just for good measure he'd run searches on Dana Scully too,
finding even less than he had on Malone. 
     He found that she'd been kidnapped before, and held hostage for over
three months by some nutcase.  Oddly, though there had been a lot of press
about the initial kidnapping, he couldn't find a single story about her
return.  It was funny how one day's hot story didn't even merit a column
inch about its resolution months later.  The only way he'd found out when
she had been returned was by breaking into her personnel records at the
Bureau.  He'd been shocked to see that she'd gone back to work a scant two
weeks after being released.  He knew he wouldn't be so resilient. 
     He'd also found news stories about her sister Melissa, who had been
shot and killed in Dana Scully's apartment during a burglary attempt less
than a year after the kidnapping.  Again, as with Malone, there was
nothing that seemed relevant to their current problem, but it did seem
like the woman had experienced more than her fair share of tragedy in the
past couple of years.  She and Sam had that in common. 
     Thinking of Sam made him sigh.  He looked around.  Nathan was
scowling at something on his desk.  John was glowering as he spoke to
someone on the phone.  Grace was waiting for John to get off the phone,
looking tired and discouraged.  Though it was past quitting time, not one
of them had even thought about leaving, yet there was no sense of purpose,
no direction. They had a problem, and it looked like no one else was going
to confront it.  He looked at the printouts in his printer bin, grabbed
them, and stood up, walking determinedly to the door of the conference
room. 
     Sam was sitting, and that Mulder guy was leaning over her shoulder,
pointing to something on the desk that they were both looking at.  They
looked up as he approached, and Sam smiled in a way that if he wasn't who
he was, might have sent his blood pressure up a notch.  Fortunately, it
didn't.  It was just as well, there were too many men drooling over her as
it was. 
     "Whatcha got, George?"  she asked affably. 
     "Not a hell of a lot."  He handed her the printouts.  "That's all I
could find on the Net about Bailey.  Nothing looks promising but I thought
I'd run them past you just to make sure." 
     She nodded absently and took the pages.  He stood for a moment
longer, gathering his courage, then finally he spoke. 
     "Sam?" 
     She looked up again.  "I'm sorry, did you need something else?" 
     "Yeah.  Can we talk?"  He looked at Mulder as he spoke, trying to
communicate the need for privacy.  Mulder wasn't dumb.  He got it. 
     "I need a refill on coffee,"  Mulder said, reaching for a Styrofoam
cup on the table.  "I'll be back in a minute."  He strolled out with
casual disinterest. 
     Sam pushed her chair back, looking up at George in concern.  "Is
something wrong?" 
     He pulled out a chair and sat down, elbows propped on his knees. 
"Yeah, there is.  Sam, we're a team, but you're leaving the rest of us out
of this.  Since this guy got here you've been in here, and we're out there
in the dark.  We need to know what's going on.  We can't help unless we're
informed.  Bailey usually keeps us working together, but he's gone.  That
makes you the boss.  You have to run the team, not just you and Mulder." 
     He felt guilty at the distress that bloomed in her eyes.  She looked
away, around the room, anywhere but at him.  Finally she sighed and rubbed
her forehead, then looked back up at him. 
     "You're right, George.  I'm sorry.  I guess...  I'm just used to
Bailey doing all the hard stuff.  Mulder wouldn't know, he's not used to
working on a team.  I was up to me and I let you down." 
     George shook his head.  "No, you haven't, not yet." 
     She nodded.  "Do me a favor, ask everyone to come in here in about
fifteen minutes.  I'll get my act together and we'll have a briefing
session." 
     George stood up, grinning.  "Atta girl!"  he stopped, embarrassed. 
"I mean..." 
     Sam laughed.  "I know what you meant.  Don't worry, I'm not offended,
this time." 
     Feeling relieved, George hurried out to alert the others.  Just as he
got to the door, she stopped him.
     "George?" 
     He turned.  "Yeah?" 
     "Thank you." 
     He grinned, knowing he was turning red.  "Anytime." 

                              * * *

From matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU Wed Feb 26 17:47:46 1997
Subject: It's a Dog's Life 6/9
From: Kellie Matthews-Simmons <matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU>
Date: Wed, 26 Feb 1997 16:47:46 -0700 (MST)
--------

     Bailey watched Dana as she crouched close to the fire, holding her
hands out to its warmth.  It was strange how the fire made such a
difference, just by existing.  The light, the warmth, the livingness of it
almost made him forget just how hungry he was.  It had been over
twenty-four hours now since he'd last eaten, and that had been a cookie
and a cup of coffee.  Logically he knew he could safely go several days
without eating as long as he had water, but somehow that was cold comfort. 
So was knowing that he wasn't alone in his discomfort.  Dana sighed, and
looked back over her shoulder at him. 
     "He wants us to be uncomfortable, but he doesn't want us dead... at
least not right away. Why?"  she asked. 
     "Bait,"  Malone replied.  "Obviously we're bait. He wants Sam to play
his game and she's resisting.  So he lures her in by using us like pawns
on a chessboard." 
     Scully tried to nod, ended up shivering, and he clearly saw her
stifle a yawn.  He chuckled.  "Hey, I know it's a cliche analogy, but I
didn't think it was that bad." 
     "I'm sorry,"  she said.  "I guess it's the cold, and being hungry,
but suddenly I'm just so tired." 
     "Then sleep.  I could use some myself." 
     Dana eyed the hard surface of the floor and sighed.  "You're right,
we both should rest."  She shifted her weight onto her side and started to
ease herself down. 
     "What are you doing?"  Malone asked. 
     She looked up, startled.  "Um... going to sleep?" 
     He sighed, exasperated.  Hadn't she had any survival training? 
"You'll lose all your body heat if you lie down on the boards.  Cold air
comes up from underneath.  Come here." 
     She eyed him uncertainly, but moved closer.  He braced his back
against the shed wall and held out his arms.  He watched her thoughts
spelled out on her face, she hadn't yet learned how to hide them.  She
knew it was smart, but still felt awkward about it. Not too surprising. He
didn't prompt, giving her time to make up her own mind, and finally she
took him up on his offer. 
     "I feel like a refugee from a bad romance novel,"  she muttered,
settling against him. 
     "Nah,"  he said, amused.  "You sprained your wrist, not your ankle." 
He tucked his trench coat carefully around them and then closed his arms
around her to hold in their shared warmth. 
     "True.  Okay, I guess it's all right then." 
     He nodded.  He could tell she was holding herself a little away from
him, obviously not completely at ease.  She shivered again, then
immediately yawned.  Bailey's lifted a hand and settled it gently against
her back, pressing lightly to push her weight into him. 
     "I promise I won't bite, relax and go to sleep." 
     Somewhat to his surprise, after a few moments, she did.  He grinned,
pleased by that show of trust.  She felt good against him, smelled good,
too.  He shifted a little to get more comfortable, and she moved too,
burrowing against his shoulder as if to find a warmer spot.  He leaned his
head back against the wall, closed his eyes and hoped she wouldn't wake up
and notice just exactly how much he appreciated the way she felt. 

                              * * *

     Dana woke up cold.  Very, very cold.  So cold she was shaking, not
just shivering.  The warm bulk of the body next to hers seemed all that
stood between her and hypothermia.  It took her a moment to remember where
she was and what was going on, but finally she did.  She looked up and saw
the slight gleam of Bailey's eyes in what little light there was. 
     "I'm sorry to wake you,"  he said softly, "but I need to tend the
fire before it goes out completely.  I don't want to lose the embers." 
     He moved his hand from her shoulder, and only then did she realize
that the shaking had been his doing, not her own involuntary reaction to
the cold.  His words finally sank in and she nodded groggily, then
belatedly realized he probably couldn't see her, and spoke. 
     "'S'okay.  No problem." 
     Her breath clouded the air with a vague white fog as she disentangled
herself from around him.  He moved away to work on the fire and she
dragged his coat closer around her, glad she at least had that.  Despite
her attempts to keep it at bay, he cold seeped through now that she didn't
have anyone to block it from her.  She started to shiver hard.  The lack
of food, the cold, and the continual damp were really beginning to tell on
her.  It seemed to take forever for him to get the fire going again.  By
the time the light brightened and the smell of smoke strengthened, she
felt like an icicle.  Bailey moved over to where the water bottles were
and he uncapped one and drank.  He turned to her, holding out the bottle. 
     "You thirsty?" 
     She tried to reply but her jaw seemed locked shut with cold so she
shook her head instead.  He nodded and used a little of the water to wash
the soot off his hands, then put away the bottle and came back to where
he'd been sitting before.  Settling into place, he gestured for her to
join him.  She didn't hesitate, scrambling quickly over to where he sat. 
Beyond embarrassment, she plastered herself tightly against him, wondering
why it was that men never seemed to get cold.  She tucked her hands under
his arms, seeking the warmest spot, and hid her face in his vest, trying
to warm up her nose.
     "It should get warmer in here pretty quickly,"  he reassured her. 
"The fire's going well, even though we lose some of the warmth out the
front of the shed."  He took a moment to tuck the coat under her feet,
then wrapped his arms around her. "Better?"  he asked. 
     "Yesssss!  S-sorry!" she managed to chatter.  "Ju-just so c-c-cold!" 
     "I know, it's okay, I'm not offended,"  he said.  "Believe me, I'm
definitely not offended.  Far from it." 
     There was amusement and something else in his voice.  Something that
caused her to suddenly become aware of the form against hers as more than
just a convenient heat source, but rather the warm, solidly masculine body
of Bailey Malone.  The thighs beneath hers seemed tense, and where her hip
rested against his groin there was an unmistakable hardness.  Warmth that
had nothing to do with the fire rocketed through her.  She was intensely
conscious that they were completely alone, isolated, no one to approve, or
object. 
     The thought came to her that she was being impulsive, and that was
unlike her, but there was so little impulse in her life, so little
self-direction.  Perhaps it was time.  She moved, turning to face him,
letting her thighs slide down the outside of his until her knees rested on
the planks.  The change in position brought her intimately against him.  A
tremor of desire shook her as she lifted her good arm and put her hand
behind his neck, her palm against the soft darkness of his hair. 
     For a moment he was passive, unresponsive, then his hands slid up her
back, one pressing her closer, the other moving to cup the back of her
head and move her to a better angle.  Their lips met, tongues meshed, the
kiss slow, silent, and incredibly intense.  Though she'd guessed from
early on that there was this potential between them, they had both banked
it deep.  Exposed to the air, it flared hot and fast.  She drank him, her
body rocking against his, a little murmur of desire escaping her. 
     Abruptly, Bailey pulled away, his breathing ragged, his face taut
with control, his hands on her shoulders to hold her at a distance.  The
firelight sent shadows to soften the harshness.  Dana felt dazed, but
managed to collect enough wits to speak. 
     "Why?" 
     He looked at her and she saw startling insecurity in his eyes.  "I
need to be sure you're not doing this for the wrong reason,"  he said
quietly. 
     Dana didn't understand.  "What wrong reason?" 
     "Fear." 
     Ah.  That made sense.  In a situation like this, how could he not
wonder?  Slowly she shook her head.  "I can't deny that I'm afraid, but
that has nothing to do with this." 
     She kissed him again, softly, then a little harder.  Freeing her hand
from the sling she put that arm carefully around his waist as the fingers
of her other hand drifted down the back of his neck, feeling the strength
in his shoulders.  He no longer resisted.  His hands moved from her
shoulders, sliding down her back moving to her waist, resting there a
moment, then continuing downward to cup her bottom and draw her forward
against the heavy fullness of his arousal.  She gasped into his mouth, her
skin going taut as desire shocked through her. 
     His hands moved upward, to her hips, past her waist again, this time
up her ribcage, then curving over her breasts.  Feeling the warm
resilience of his fingers through blouse and bra, and she wanted to feel
them on her skin.  Reading her sigh and her body, his fingers moved to her
buttons, slowly opening them until he was stopped by the waistband of her
skirt.  He drew his hands upward, spreading the fabric apart, then his
thumbs traced a path along the upper edges of her bra, down to where it
dipped to the fastening between her breasts.
     Dana pulled her mouth from his and watched as he opened the clasp,
watched him gently ease the lace and satin aside, and she gave a
shuddering sigh as he ended her anticipation, his long fingers stroking
the tight peaks of her nipples.  She took one of his hands in hers, urging
his palm against her skin, her hips moving against him as he caressed her. 
In her mind's eye she saw him bend to her, and a moment later her dream
was echoed by reality.  His mouth touched her breast, and the silky heat
of his tongue should have eased but only worsened the aching tension in
her.  She held his head against her as he suckled, fingers stroking
through his hair.
     When Bailey moved his mouth back to hers, Dana let her hand drop from
his neck to open the buttons on his shirt.  She was clumsy, her fingers
shaking a little.  Not being able to use both hands made it even more
difficult, but finally she managed.  She leaned forward, brought her bare
torso against his, her breasts flattening against the firm planes of his
body, his skin warm and silky against her own.  He put one of his hands
beneath her shirt to stroke and soothe her back, the other hand moving to
her thigh, sliding up the smooth outer curve, straying beneath the edge of
her skirt, pushing it higher, higher.  She sensed his surprise when his
fingers reached her hip without finding anything to hinder his
exploration, and she smiled against his mouth.  Now he knew the answer to
the question he hadn't dared ask earlier, but she knew he'd thought. 
     Committed now, she let her hand move down, finding the arch of his
cock separated from her palm by a layer or two of fabric.  Her fingers
curved around him, learning the dimensions of his desire.  He went very
still, barely breathing, as she opened the button of his slacks, then
eased down the zipper.  She smiled again, feeling fine-woven cotton under
her fingers, somehow unsurprised to find this man wore boxers.  She
searched, found, and slid inside, pushing fabric aside to free him.
Smooth, hot skin burned her palm.  She stilled, suddenly practical. 
     "I... don't suppose Jack left anything in your pockets besides
aspirin?"  she asked, her voice a bare whisper. 
     Bailey looked at her, plainly puzzled, then she saw understanding
fill his eyes, and he shook his head.  "No.  I don't think he planned on
this," he said.  "But, if it helps..."  he made a scissoring motion with
his fingers.  "Snip, snip." 
     It was Dana's turn to be confused for a moment.  "Snip... oh!"  she
got it, and laughed.  "I see.  Well, that's one problem down." 
     "The other's not a problem.  Not for me." 
     Strangely, she believed him.  It wouldn't be.  He wasn't a risk
taker.  Neither was she.  It took her only a moment to make up her mind. 
She moved her hand on him, stroking.  He made a sound, a whisper of
breath, then the hand beneath her skirt began to move again, stroking,
seeking.  She lifted on her knees to give him access, and sighed in
pleasure as he touched the core of her.  She might have been embarrassed
by the lush welcome her body prepared if she had been somewhere else, but
here, now, it was right and she knew it.  God, it had been such a long
time! 
     When he parted her, she caught her breath, anticipating... oh yes,
that.  She heard herself moan as he stroked through the silky wetness, his
sensitive fingers learning her, teaching her.  She collapsed forward, her
head on his shoulder, hips moving to the rhythm of his exploration. 
More...  she thought, more.  He heard her silence and responded.  Unable
to concentrate, she let go of her prize and clutched at his back as a
single finger touched, probed, then slid deep.  She made a little cry, and
he hushed it with his mouth as he slid another finger into her, his thumb
stroking the sensitive spot at the top of her cleft.  Sensation narrowed
down, concentrated low in her belly, washing through her in waves.  Now,
she thought, now. 
     His other hand pressed against her lower back, angling her forward
and down.  She understood, and reached to guide him.  Momentary
confusion... there.  That strange, aching slide of delight.  Filled. 
Beautifully, perfectly, filled.  His hands were on her hips now, firmly
urging her into a gliding roll, a sea-surge and ebb.  She kissed his
throat and tasted salt, and smoke, and felt the abrasion of stubble.  She
moved her lips across that roughness, welcoming the burn, distracting
herself, trying to make it last.  She was trapped by more than wire and
concrete, she was held captive by her desire, by his as well. 
     "Bailey..."  she whispered.  "Please?" 
     He laughed, not at her, but in pleasure.  "Take it, it's yours." 
     She took it.  Moving from his too-gentle pace, she became bacchante,
her teeth on his bare flesh, filling her mouth with his taste, her nose
with his scent, her ears with the harsh cadence of his breath. 
Unaccustomed freedom tightened her skin like a cold breeze, making her
shiver, and the shiver was the last sensation she could bear.  It seemed
the fire reached out and licked into her, spreading in jumps and sparks,
setting off explosions that echoed and roiled through her body.  Head
back, she gasped twice, stunned by the power of it, then slowly she
sagged, every muscle in her body relaxing, warmed by the embers of her
pleasure.  Her breathing and heartbeat slowed as the last tremors of
delight drained out of her.  Vaguely she was aware of his long, deep sigh,
and a shudder that seemed to pass through him and into her.  Then there
was stillness, both of them quiet and replete. 
     After a few moments, he pulled her forward against him so the air
couldn't slide its damp, icy fingers between them, his arms solid and
strong around her, his fingers stroking her hair.  She sighed, strangely
content, for the moment able to ignore her hunger, and the fact that they
were trapped in a cage with scant hope of rescue.  It just didn't matter. 
Dana nuzzled into the hollow of his shoulder, closed her eyes, and yawned
hugely.  He chuckled.  She felt the vibration of his laughter against her
cheek.
     "No, don't do that, not just yet." 
     She felt him push her away and she started to protest, until she felt
his fingers tugging her bra back into place across her breasts. 
     "What?"  she asked, confused. 
     Bailey smiled and dropped his head to place a kiss on the upper curve
of each breast.  "You really don't want to wake up and find these are
frozen solid.  Come on, cooperate a little." 
     Realizing he had a good point, she leaned back and let him fasten her
blouse, then tuck her arm back into her sling, which had ended up looped
behind her back.  She would have buttoned his shirt, but her one-handed
attempts made him laugh and he ended up doing it himself.  She laughed
back, serenely unoffended.  He did let her fasten his pants, once he'd
safely rearranged himself.  Finally dressed again, they settled back into
their warmth-sharing pose.  He started to stroke her hair, and like a cat,
Dana found her eyes drifting closed.  She sighed, snuggled closer, and
decided that if she ever met Jack, she'd have to thank him before she shot
him. 

                              * * *

     This felt better, Sam thought, looking around the table at her
co-workers, her friends.  She hadn't realized how much she had come to
rely on them.  They all looked tired.  None of them had gotten more than
an hour or two of sleep since Jack had struck the previous morning. 
Mulder looked uncomfortable, not surprisingly, since he was used to
working either on his own, or with only one other person.  She suppressed
a smile as she wondered if his kindergarten teacher had marked him off
when it came to "working and playing well with others."  It felt odd to be
sitting at the head of the table, though, like she was usurping Bailey's
place.  She pushed away the fear that accompanied that thought, and took a
deep breath. 
     "Okay, let's do this.  We all know that the car was pristine.  No
prints, other than those that should have been there.  Jack also left both
Bailey and Scully's weapons and ID's in the back of the car, along with
both Agent Mulder's and Agent Scully's luggage.  Leaving the weapons and
ID's seems to indicate a kind of disdain for them, as if he didn't
consider them a significant threat. Grace?  What did you find out about
the residue on the door handle?" 
     Grace nodded. "I got several things off that.  First, analysis of the
adhesive and fibers confirms that it was a common type of duct-tape. There
was also a small amount of human blood, and a chemical agent. The blood is
type A-positive, which is not only one of the most common Caucasian
blood-types, but it also happens to be Bailey's.  The chemical was
something else we're familiar with.  Curare." 
     John straightened from his habitual slouch, eyes narrowed.  "Curare? 
Like with Cronenberg?" 
     Grace nodded grimly.  "Exactly." 
     Brubaker whistled.  "Cute.  He's copycatting.  That's a new one." 
     Samantha nodded.  "He's telling us he's watching.  He's paying
attention to what we're doing. There's no way to know if that was Bailey's
blood, is there?" 
     Grace shook her head.  "Not without doing a genetic match, and that'd
take weeks, assuming we could even find a sample to match it with." 
     Sam looked over at Mulder.  "I don't suppose you happen to know
Scully's blood type?" 
     He closed his eyes for a moment, frowning a little, then nodded.  "O
positive." 
     "So, that rules her out. I think we can assume it was either Bailey's
or Jack's.  Most likely Bailey's, because of the presence of curare.  That
also tells us how Jack did it.  He rigged the door handle.  So, what else
have we got?  Nathan?  Anything on the paper?" 
     "The paper-guy says it's not commercially manufactured, which makes
it hard to trace. There are hundreds of people doing home papermaking
these days.  Apparently it's one of the 'in' things in craft circles. 
Jack could even have made it himself.  I guess it's not too hard." 
     Sam tried to imagine Jack meticulously making paper on which to write
her a note.  She failed.  "It doesn't feel right,"  she said, shaking her
head.  "I think he bought it somewhere, and it's probably local.  Start
calling around to art stores and get names of people in the area who are
doing this.  John, what have you got?" 
     John grabbed a piece of paper and glanced at it before replying. 
"The rose.  It's a variety called 'Taboo.' The grower's publicity says
'it's the closest you can get to a black rose.' Get this, it was patented
in 1988.  It's number 7665, if anyone's interested." 
     "1988?"  Sam asked, stunned.  "You're sure?" 
     John nodded.  "I'm sure." 
     "My God... the same year Jack started killing.  You don't think he
might have been the person who patented it, do you?" 
     "I've got the Patent Office doing a search on it, it's a longshot,
but we can't ignore the possibility." 
     "A patent?"  Nathan asked.  "I didn't know you could patent a plant." 
     "Sure you can,"  George put in.  "That's how the developer of a given
variety or hybrid makes back their development money. There are a lot of
fruits and vegetables that have patents." 
     "The name is far more interesting than the patent."  Mulder said
thoughtfully.  "Taboo.  What kind of taboo?  Who does it apply to?  Is it
a taboo Jack is breaking, or one he thinks someone else broke?  And what's
the symbolism of the broken stem?" 
     "If we're going for obvious, a broken stem cuts off the source of
life."  Grace said. 
     "That's pretty obvious."  John agreed, grinning. 
     "Maybe too obvious?"  Sam asked.  "Let's go a little subtler.  What
do you do with a cut flower when you get one?" 
     "Put it in water."  Grace replied promptly. 
     "So, by breaking the stem, is he saying they either have no access to
water, or only limited access to it?" 
     They all looked at each other.  A person could go without food for
quite a while, but not without water.  If her intuition was on-target,
this could be a serious problem.  Mulder ran a hand through his hair and
looked at John. 
     "You said that rose is patented, does that mean there's only one
supplier?  Maybe we could get a customer list." 
     John shook his head.  "I thought of that.  While we could get a list
of their mail-order customers, they also sell to greenhouses all over the
country.  There's no telling who they might have sold them to.  I did ask
them to get me a list of mail order and greenhouse customers in the
Atlanta area who've purchased that particular variety of rose.  They said
it would take awhile but they're working on it.  I also got on the Web and
contacted the local rose society... told 'em I was interested in seeing
how that type does here and asked if they know of anyone in the area who's
growing them." 
     He was so clearly proud of himself that Sam had to hide a smile. 
"Good work, John. Hopefully we'll get something useable out of that. 
Grace, do we still have that list of pharmaceutical curare suppliers we
used on the Cronenberg case?" 
     Grace looked at her oddly.  "You have it, Sam.  I gave it back to you
for the case file." 
     Sam made an "oops" face and smiled apologetically.  "Sorry, I forgot. 
I'll go get it, and I'd like you to start checking them, we're looking for
mail order customers, I suspect, or possibly outright theft." 
     Grace nodded and Sam stood up.  "Feel free to discuss my inept
performance while I'm out of the room," she said, trying to ease the
tension.  "I know I'm not Bailey." 
     She heard chuckles as she headed over to her own office.  She opened
the file cabinet with the Cronenberg files in it and quickly riffled
through it until she found the document she needed. Closing the drawer,
she was about to leave the room when something caught her attention.  She
stopped, looking around the office.  Something was wrong... out of place. 
There was a faint but noticeable scent of roses in the air. 
     She turned slowly, sniffing, and her gaze lit on a loosely rolled
newspaper on her desk.  Time seemed to compress, her heart rate jumped as
if she were running.  A hint of crimson shadowed the interior of the roll. 
She took two steps back, looking around.  There was no one in the office. 
She glanced around the bullpen, and saw no one she didn't recognize. 
Trying to quiet her suddenly clamoring senses, she walked back to the
conference room and stood in the doorway. They didn't notice her at first,
they were talking, exchanging theories and information. 
     "Excuse me," she said loudly.  They all looked.  "Did one of you
leave something on my desk?" 
     John grinned.  "I've left a lot of things on your desk.  What thing
in particular did you have in mind?" 
     She knew the answer already, though she didn't want to know it. 
"Grace, would you bring an evidence kit and some extra gloves?" 
     From their expressions, she knew they guessed what she had guessed. 
     "Jack?"  Nathan asked incredulously.  "Here?" 
     "I think so,"  she said, surprised her voice sounded so normal. 
     It was instant chaos in the office as everyone got to their feet
simultaneously. 
     "How the hell did he get in here?"  John demanded of no one in
particular.
     Nathan headed for the door.  "I'm going to go kill me a security
guy..." 
     "Nathan, stop.  We'll deal with the security issues later.  Right now
I want to check this out before we jump to any conclusions."  Sam's level
approach worked.  Everyone calmed down. 
     Grace hurried to her lab, the rest of the group followed behind Sam
as she returned to her office.  A moment later Grace was there, handing
her a pair of gloves.  She drew them on, and poked the paper with a
finger.  It moved freely, and seemed the right weight.  She picked it up
and cautiously unrolled the paper.  As she'd thought, it did contain a
rose.  its petals the same incredibly deep crimson as the one which had
been pinned to the note in Bailey's car.  This one, too, had its stem
broken, this time closer to the head.  She handed it to Grace who sealed
it in a bag. 
     Next she turned her attention to the newspaper.  A closer look
revealed that though it was newsprint, it wasn't a paper.  It was a racing
form from the Birmingham Kennel Club, a greyhound track about a hundred
miles west of Atlanta.  From the wrinkles and red fade-through on the
outer surface, it looked like something had been written on the inside in
large, wet strokes.  Steeling herself, she opened it.  No lemon juice this
time, or black-light paint.  Red ink or paint spilled across the pages. 
She could tell by the smell that it wasn't blood, thank God.  She managed
to focus on the letters.
     "You're chasing the wrong rabbit, Sam!  I thought better of you." 
She read out loud. "Below the letters are a series of successively smaller
red rings." 
     Mulder said something under his breath.  Sam looked up.  "What did
you say?" 
     "Dogs, it's dogs again!  I thought I was being weird, even for me
when I made that connection, but here it is again.  In the first note Jack
said Malone had been 'bad', the way most people talk about an animal.  He
also said you'd have to 'fetch' them, and he emphasized the word. Now he's
sent a note on a racing form from a dog track, and rolled it up, like
you'd roll up a newspaper to punish a dog.  He even used a dog-racing
metaphor.  How much clearer could it be?  He's telling us where they are!" 
     "At the track?"  Nathan asked, incredulously. 
     Mulder shook his head.  "Probably not, though it wouldn't hurt to
check it anyway.  But you can bet that wherever they are, it has something
to do with dogs." 


                              * * *



From matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU Wed Feb 26 17:48:10 1997
Subject: It's A Dog's Life 7/9
From: Kellie Matthews-Simmons <matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU>
Date: Wed, 26 Feb 1997 16:48:10 -0700 (MST)
--------

     The sun was coming up.  Bailey could tell because the shed faced
east, and the sky had brightened to azure, the few remaining clouds edged
with maroon and gold.  Under different circumstances, he might have
appreciated the sight.  He hadn't slept much.  Part of him demanded rest,
part insisted he remain on watch, though really he thought they were safe
enough.  Jack had them where he wanted them, and he was, no doubt,
manipulating the VCTF's efforts back in Atlanta. 
     He just hoped the team would find them soon.  The idea of slowly
starving to death held little appeal, even if he did have company to do it
with.  Frankly. that made it worse.  Dana was little more than an innocent
bystander, she'd just been at the wrong place at the wrong time.  He knew
who Jack's target had been.  He had no illusions about it.  Frustrated by
his previous plan's lack of success, Jack had gone for Bailey again,
trying to separate him from Sam in whatever way possible. 
     He looked down, studying Dana's face where she was pillowed on his
shoulder.  In sleep she looked distressingly young.  God... what on earth
had gotten into him last night?  There was no way he should have let that
happen.  Of course, as soon as he thought about it, his body warmed,
paying no attention whatsoever to his conscience.  He knew she was thirty
two.  Only nine years his junior, but he felt several decades older. 
Certainly old enough to know better. 
     He thought about her father, her 'kind-of-short, a-little-round,
red-haired, daring-glass-of- wine-with-dinner' father, and felt like the
lowest sort of scum.  He knew what he'd do to someone who took advantage
of one of his girls like he had Dana.  Of course, they weren't anywhere
near her age, but still.  Dana had been scared and he'd known it, yet he'd
let himself be convinced that wasn't the reason. 
     He shifted a little, trying to keep his legs from falling asleep, and
Dana stirred.
     "Mmm?"  she asked sleepily, opening one eye. 
     He soothed a hand down her back.  "Nothing, go back to sleep." 
     For a moment he thought he might have succeeded, but then she lifted
her head again. 
     "Is it getting light?" 
     He nodded.  "It is.  It's stopped raining, and most of the clouds are
gone, too.  It should be warmer today." 
     "Good."  She pushed away a little and stretched, her breasts rounding
beneath her blouse. 
     He remembered the softness of her skin, the taste of her on his
tongue. 
     "Did you sleep?" 
     He managed to stop looking at the part of her anatomy that wasn't
talking.  "A little." 
     "I did," she grinned.  "But then, you knew that."  She scooted
backward, tugging her skirt down.  "In fact, I slept surprisingly well." 
She looked down, obviously a little embarrassed. 
     That killed him.  God, he was a heel.  "Dana..."  he began, trying to
think how to apologize. 
     "Bailey..."  she said, nearly simultaneously. 
     He stopped, and let her go on.  It was only polite. 
     She caught her lower lip between her teeth.  He remembered how she'd
done that last night, at the height of her pleasure. 
     He clenched a fist.  Control, Malone.  Remember what that is? 
     "Thank you, for last night.  God, it's nice sometimes to just be a
woman again.  I get so damned tired of just being 'Scully'.  I think I'd
forgotten I could do anything besides write field reports and yell
'Mulder!'"  She leaned forward and put her mouth against his, her palm
cool against his suddenly flushed face as she kissed him.  He mouth was
warm, moist, her lips parted, her tongue seeking his.
     Control?  What the hell was that?  His arms went around her, his
tongue met hers, his hand sought out the soft mound of a breast.  She
wound her fingers in his hair and refused to let him go, pulling him with
her as she lay back, his coat scant protection against the hard, cold
floor.  Her thighs opened to cradle his hips, the heat of her need
suffusing him.  Her uninjured hand moved between them, touching him
exactly the right way. So much for guilt, he thought wryly.  This was a
woman who knew her own mind, and very well, at that. 
     He knew there was nothing to keep him from touching her, so he did. 
He slid a hand up her inner thigh, and cupped her delta, feeling the soft
crush of curls he suspected would be as fiery as those spread out on the
wooden floor.  Her body wept, creamy moisture dampening his palm, his
fingers.  He delved deeper and she moaned, pulling her mouth from his to
gasp for breath.  He kissed her taut, arched throat.  She took her hand
from him, fingers moving down her blouse as she opened buttons, then
bra-clasp.  He couldn't refuse that invitation. 
     Her skin was very fair, ivory pale, and she smelled faintly of some
subtle perfume that was more than just her own.  He followed the scent
beneath her breast, down her belly, pushing up her skirt until it was no
bar to the soft curve of her belly and the tangle of copper there.  He
imagined her touching perfume to various places on her body, though she
knew no one but her would know it. Her sensuality was hidden, but deep. 
He found its trail again on her inner thigh and scored her lightly with
his teeth.  She gasped, her hand on the back of his head, her fingers
stroking his hair.  He needed no further instruction. 
     He opened her, tasted her.  She whimpered, hips lifting in response. 
She was so artless, so natural in her desire that it was stunning.  He had
to sit back and just breathe for a moment, on the brink of losing what
little he had left of that thing he'd forgotten... control.  She looked up
at him, her eyes blue-gray-green, an ocean of need.  Her lips were swollen
a little, reddened.  She reached out, holding her hand out to him.  He
touched her fingers with his own, which shook visibly. 
     "Dana, I..."  He stopped.  He didn't know what he'd been planning to
say. 
     She twined her fingers through his and drew him back down beside her. 
She put their hands on his shirt, then let go.  He obliged, opening
buttons it seemed he'd done up just a little while earlier.  Her fingers
followed his, her hand on his skin, sliding over his chest, through the
dark furring that seemed coarse next to her delicacy.  He lifted his eyes
to hers, querying her desire.  She trailed her splinted hand down her
body, letting it come to rest on her inner thigh.  She couldn't have been
clearer if she'd spoken aloud.  He bent over her again, touched his lips
to first one breast, then the other.  She sighed.  He moved lower,
returning to the place so recently abandoned. 
     This time he found his control somewhere.  He was able to shut out
the clamor of his own need and concentrate on hers.  Her fingers cupped
his head as his mouth closed on her.  She shuddered, her breath coming
faster and shallower.  God, she was wonderful, nothing artificial, nothing
pretended.  He moved a hand slowly up her thigh, not wanting to startle
her, and he found the well of her body with a finger.  She bucked against
his tongue, and a long shudder went through her, then she relaxed, slowly. 
He almost laughed out loud, the honesty of her response was such a joy.
     "Bail?" 
     He lifted his head from her thigh, surprised by the nickname.  She
didn't seem the nickname type.  "What, Dana?" 
     "Do you charge?"  she asked, with apparent sincerity, though her eyes
were gleaming with mischief.
     He grinned.  "Only when I can't make the mortgage payments." 
     She sighed in evident relief.  "Good, then maybe I can afford you." 
     He lifted an eyebrow.  "You don't know how often I can't make my
mortgage." 
     She laughed and reached for him.  "Come on, we're not done yet." 
     "I'll put it on your tab." 
     She slid her hand beneath his waistband.  "I'll work it off."  She
found him. 
     He almost went off in her hand.  "Dana..." 
     "I know."  She let go of him, reluctantly, and moved her hand from
the inside to the outside of his slacks.  Tension eased.  She seemed to be
much better at zippers than she was with buttons.  She sighed, tugging at
his shorts.  "I wish it was warm enough to do this right," she complained. 
     "So do I," he agreed fervently, imagining her in nothing but tangled
sheets. 
     She managed to free him.  "This just seems so..."  she trailed off,
at a loss for words. 
     "It does, doesn't it?"  he agreed as her fingers closed around him,
her thumb moving over the sensitive tip.  "I promise you room service,
once we're out of here." 
     She groaned.  "Do not talk about food, damn it!"  She pulled his
mouth down to hers. 
     Her hand moved to his hip, drawing him to her, and he followed
willingly.  She shifted beneath him, aligning herself to him, then he was
sliding in, deep.  His eyes closed, absorbing the feel of her.  She was
velvet, fire and silk.  He moved instinctively, and felt her thighs
tighten around his hips, her hands on his back, encouraging him.  He
wanted to be gentle, but she wouldn't let him. She took her mouth from his
and bit his shoulder, her hips pushed at his, demanding fierceness.
Abandoning restraint, he gave in to her.  She murmured encouragement, met
him stroke for stroke, and at the end, beat him to the finish by seconds. 
     He rolled over onto his side, taking her with him, and they lay for
awhile, catching their breath as he absently ran his fingers through her
hair.  She watched him, her gaze thoughtful. 
     "Penny for your thoughts," he offered. 
     She looked at him a moment longer, and shrugged.  "I was just
wondering how you do it." 
     "It?  Well, it seems like you already know how, but if you really
want me to explain it, it's kind of like 'insert tab A in slot B.' Pretty
easy instructions." 
     She punched him lightly in the shoulder.  "You, sir, are a smart
ass." 
     He grinned.  "Guilty as charged.  So, that wasn't what you meant?" 
     "I was wondering how someone who deals with... what you deal with,
day in and day out, manages to stay so sensitive, so in-tune.  Sometimes
it seems like you know what I'm going to say, or think, or what I want,
even before I do." 
     Bailey went still.  God, how did he explain that?  He couldn't.  He
sighed.  "That is my gift, and my curse.  Sometimes I can think so much
like someone else that I almost become them.  It's how I catch the bad
guys.  It's also why I drink too much, and smoke too much, and what ruins
most of my relationships." 
     She frowned.  "I don't understand.  Why should that be hurtful to a
relationship?  I would think it would be good for it." 
     "It can be, when the other person I'm being is the person I'm with. 
But sometimes it's not." 
     He was surprised at how quickly he saw understanding in her gaze. 
     "I see," she said softly.  "Sometimes you get... stuck." 
     He nodded.  "Not so much any more, I've finally learned how not to do
that.  Because of that I'm not as good a profiler as I once was, but at
least I'm mostly sane and likely to stay that way." 
     "You're one of the sanest people I know." 
     He snorted.  "Yeah, but look who you hang around with." 
     She made a face.  "That's just who I work with.  You don't know who I
hang around with." 
     "According to you, no one." 
     She sighed.  "All too true.  But I do know some very real, very
normal people, and I'd definitely number you in their company." 
     "It's good to know I'm better at fooling people these days." 
     She propped herself up on an elbow and studied him in silence for
long enough that he started to get uncomfortable.  At last, she spoke. 
"You can come out from behind the walls now, Bailey.  I won't hurt you." 
     He closed his eyes, jaw tight as he tried not to react.  He took a
deep breath, and let the fear wash through him, and out.  Finally he found
words again.  "You don't understand, Dana.  They're not there to protect
me, they're there to protect you.  I'm not afraid of being hurt.  I'm
afraid of hurting." 
     "Is that what happened, before?" 
     He nodded.  "I can't let that happen again." 
     "You won't." 
     "I wish I had your confidence." 
     She sat up, awkwardly tugging her clothing into some semblance of
order as she spoke, her mouth and jaw set in a stubborn, angry line. 
"Look at you, look at what you do with your life! You spend every waking
moment fighting dragons!  For God's sake, Bailey Malone, your entire
existence is tied up in keeping other people from harm!  Anyone who knows
you also knows you would never deliberately hurt them.  But you're human,
and humans hurt each other.  By accident or by design, it happens.  We get
over it.  We live.  We learn.  Don't cut yourself off from everyone
because of it or you'll end up like Mu..."  she stopped abruptly,
mid-sentence.  "Just don't." She stood up and moved to the door of the
shed, muttering under her breath something that sounded like:  "Why do I
do this to myself?" 
     "Dana?"  he asked, sitting up, wondering if she'd been going to say
he'd end up like 'Mulder'. 
     "What?"  She snapped.  Well, it wasn't quite a snap, but almost. 
     He couldn't ask her his real question, so instead he asked the first
one that came to mind.  "Where are you going?" 
     She pointed at the right side of the shed.  "Where do you think I'm
going?  Tibet?" 
     She disappeared around the corner.  He rolled his eyes.  It had been
a pretty stupid question. He started putting himself back together,
thinking about what she'd said.  It made a lot of sense.  Her comment
about him fighting dragons brought a smile to his face.  As a kid growing
up, he'd never dared admit to having knightly fantasies, but that didn't
mean he hadn't had them.  She'd pegged him dead-on.  Maybe Mulder's
ability to read people had rubbed off on her. 
     He went over to check on the fire, and added a small piece of wood to
keep it going.  As he did, he got the sudden eerie feeling that someone
was watching him.  He turned quickly and stared out of the enclosure, but
saw no movement that might indicate a human presence.  Still, he couldn't
shake the feeling.
     Dana came around the corner and stopped, studying his expression. 
     "What's wrong?" 
     He shook his head.  "Nothing, I guess.  I thought I heard... or
rather, sensed someone out there.  But I don't see anything." 
     She turned and surveyed the clearing, finally turning to him, her
eyes shadowed.  "Is he watching us?  Was he... before?" 
     That hadn't occurred to Bailey, and it made him decidedly
uncomfortable.  "I don't know,"  he admitted.  "I hope not." 
     Dana shuddered.  "So do I."  She sighed and turned back to him. 
"Look, I'm sorry about what I said.  You didn't deserve to be yelled at." 
     He smiled wryly.  "Oh yes I did, and thanks for doing it.  You're
absolutely right, I have to stop trying to be more than human." 
     "It'll be difficult, but I have faith in you," she said with gentle
humor. 
     "I'll warn you, though, I'm no white knight." 
     She smiled gently.  "I know.  I never thought you were.  In my
experience, there's no such thing, though there are quite a few tarnished
ones out there."  She turned and looked around the shelter.  "Would you
hold the water for me?  I need a drink," 
     He nodded and picked up one of the bottles, holding it for her while
she took several swallows.  He did the same himself when she'd finished,
then recapped it. That reminded him of another problem.
     "I think we're going to have to start rationing the water.  We're on
the second bottle, and there's no telling how long we'll be here.  What we
have has to last until they find us.  We could catch rain if I could
figure out how to cut the top off one of these containers, but Jack
neglected to leave me my pocket knife." 
     "Good point.  Hand me the empty, would you?"  He gave it to her.  She
studied it carefully. "Maybe if we softened the plastic in the fire, we
could use a stick to push through it.  Of course, it's not raining any
more." 
     He smiled.  "Just wait.  It's winter in Georgia.  It'll rain." 
     
                              * * *

     The team hopped a helicopter to Birmingham to check out the dog track
whose racing form Jack had written his note to Sam on.  Mulder was
somewhat boggled by the idea that they could just take a helicopter
wherever they needed to go.  No one moaned about wasting Department funds,
or mileage, or anything.  They just did it.  God, if he had that kind of
budget he could put that damned cigarette smoking felon and his friends
behind bars where they belonged.  He knew it would never happen.  He still
wasn't sure why he was even tolerated, though he had an idea it was more
so certain parties could keep an eye on him, than any more public-spirited
notion.  Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to find Findley
there, his face serious. 
     "I just wanted to tell you how bad I feel about Scully going missing. 
This must be really hard on you," he said, his voice pitched to barely
carry above the engine noise.  "I know about her other kidnapping." 
     Mulder stiffened.  "How?" 
     "Sam asked me to check the Net for mentions of Bailey or your
partner.  The search turned up some news stories about her abduction.  The
weird thing is, there was no mention of her return. How'd you get her
back?" 
     Mulder looked out at the passing clouds.  "I still don't know.  She
turned up in a D.C.  hospital one day.  She doesn't remember anything
about what happened to her in the intervening months." 
     The other man shook his head.  "That's bad.  I have to admit, I was
surprised she went back to active duty.  I wouldn't have thought she'd
want to, after that." 
     "She's strong,"  Mulder said, not quite believing it himself.  "At
least this time, she was kidnapped by someone we might be able to fight." 
     "What's that supposed to mean?"  Findley asked, puzzled. 
     "Nothing, never mind.  What's that?"  he asked, pointing down. 
     Findley peered over his shoulder at a clearing far below.  "Looks
like an abandoned farm." 
     "Why is there a target painted on the roof of that outbuilding?" 
     Findley shrugged.  "Who knows?  Maybe the local cropduster needed a
place to practice." 
     The black and white bull's-eye moved from sight as the chopper beat
its way through the sky toward Birmingham.  Findley settled back in his
seat, and Mulder stared blankly out the window.  He couldn't stop thinking
about it.  There was something bothersome about it, but he couldn't quite
make the connection.  He pushed it to the back of his mind to 'percolate'
and went back to worrying about Scully.  It was quite a while later when
he was startled out of his reverie by John calling out from the front. 
     "This is it.  We're coming up on it now." 
     Mulder looked down at the stadium below them.  It was empty. 
Apparently they didn't believe in racing dogs on the Sabbath in Alabama,
which would make the search far easier.  He didn't hold out much hope that
they'd actually find Scully and Malone here, but they might find something
that would point them in the right direction.  The chopper landed, and he
ducked out of the craft before the big rotors above him stopped turning. 
As he moved away from the copter, he could hear barking and howling dogs,
a lot of them.  Clearly they didn't much care for the noise of the
aircraft.  He didn't blame them.  An old man in a plaid shirt, jeans, and
knee-high rubber boots came toward them from the row of kennels behind the
track building.  He looked righteously indignant. 
     "Here now, what ya'll doin', disturbin' the animals like this?"  he
demanded of Mulder, who happened to be the closest person to him. 
     Mulder flashed his badge.  "We're with the FBI, sir.  We need to look
around the premises." 
     The man frowned.  "What for?  We take good care of our animals!" 
     "No sir, animal welfare is not within our purview.  We're looking for
two federal agents missing from the Atlanta area.  We have reason to
believe they may be being held here." 
     "Here?"  Indignance changed to incredulity.  "Son, I'd know if there
were anyone here who don't belong.  What makes y' think they're here?" 
     "I'm sorry, but I can't reveal that." 
     The man stared at him for a long moment, then he sighed.  "Well,
y'all can look around, just don't disturb the dogs more'n you have to. 
They gotta run tomorrow.  I'll show you all the hidey-holes around the
place if you like.  There's quite a few." 
     "That would be very helpful.  Thanks." 
     The old man set off toward the kennels, Mulder on his heels. 

                              * * *




From matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU Wed Feb 26 17:48:34 1997
Subject: It's A Dog's Life 8/9
From: Kellie Matthews-Simmons <matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU>
Date: Wed, 26 Feb 1997 16:48:34 -0700 (MST)
--------

     

They'd looked in every nook and cranny the track and kennel had to offer,
with no luck.  Nothing, no sign of either Malone or Scully.  No clues
either.  Nothing.  Had Jack's note been a false lead?  Had they just spent
five hours meticulously searching the track for no reason at all?  John
was feeling incredibly dejected.  He sat down on a bench with a sigh. 
Grace plopped down next to him, frowning irritably.  As she did, Mulder
emerged from the track office with Mr. Thurlow, the caretaker who'd been
showing them around.  They came over to where he sat, and John couldn't
help but notice that Mulder looked about as down as John felt.  He leaned
back against the wall with a sigh. 
     "Nothing?"  John queried, though he knew the answer from the look on
Mulder's face. 
     "Nothing."  Mulder confirmed.  "Damn it, I know I'm right!  He's got
them somewhere that has something to do with dogs!" 
     "There's lotsa places 'round here that have to do with dogs, son.  We
ain't the only show in town."  Thurlow said. 
     Mulder looked even more unhappy.  "I was afraid of that." 
     "If you tell me why ya think your missin' folks was here, maybe I
could help think of where they might be.  I've worked lotsa tracks.." 
     Mulder looked at John, who shrugged.  "Why not?" 
     "The kidnapper left a note on a racing form from this track.  Both it
and his previous note made several 'dog' type references." 
     "Whatsa 'dog type reference'?"  Thurlow asked, frowning. 
     "He said one of the agents had been "bad" and that we'd have to
"fetch" them.  He also said that we were "chasing the wrong rabbit." 
     Thurlow nodded.  "Yep, sounds like dogs to me, too.  So, got somebody
in the dog house, do ya?"  he asked, grinning at his own joke. 
     "Dog house,"  Grace said, her voice strained. 
     John turned and stared at Grace, who had a peculiar expression on her
face.  "Dog house,"  she repeated.  "Why is that so familiar?"  She stood
up.  "George?" she yelled, turning in circles as she looked for him. 
"George, you around here?" 
     George poked his head around a corner.  "Yeah, what?" 
     "You got your machine with you?" 
     "It's in the chopper, why?" 
     "Can you get into the Net from here?" 
     "If I can find a line to use, yeah.  Is it important?" 
     "Maybe." 
     "Get it." 
     George nodded and ran for the helicopter.  Mulder watched him go,
then turned to Grace. "What have you got?" 
     "I'm not sure yet, I'll let you know."  She turned to Thurlow.  "We
need a phone line he can use." 
     "Got a bunch of 'em in there," he nodded toward the office. 
     John worried that they'd all be the hard-wired kind, but fortunately
they had a data line they used for credit card authorizations.  He
disconnected the device from it and had it ready when George returned with
his laptop.  It took him five minutes to set up and dial in, then he sat,
fingers poised over the keys, looking expectantly at Grace. 
     "Ready when you are.  What am I looking for?" 
     "The words 'dog house.'" 
     George lifted his eyebrows.  "You're kidding, right?" 
     Grace shook her head.  "No, I'm not.  Do it." 
     George shrugged.  "Okay, doin' it."  He typed, and waited.  After a
moment he looked up. "I've got over a thousand returns on that.  Got
anything more specific I can use to narrow it down?" 
     "Try ASPCA."  she said, scowling. 
     George typed, waited, his face changed.  "Twenty-eight hits now." 
     "Anything local?" 
     "The top four." 
     "Pull up the first one." 
     He did.  "It's a newspaper article from the Birmingham Constitution,
dated November 6th, 1994."  He started reading.  "Authorities in Anniston
today closed down a notorious puppy mill known locally as 'The Dog House'. 
The owners were charged with repeated violations of animal cruelty
statutes."  George looked up.  "Is that what you were looking for?" 
     Grace's eyes lit up.  "That's it!  That's what I remembered.  The dog
house.  Bailey's in the dog house.  That's where they are." 
     Mulder was nodding.  "She might just have it.  It fits.  It makes
sense.  Can we get a location on this place?" 
     George nodded, fingers flying.  "I'm on it." 
     "Where's Sam and Nathan?"  John asked, suddenly realizing their
erstwhile leader was nowhere in sight.  He walked out into the open. 
"Sam!  Nathan?"  he called.  He felt a moment of relief when they both
came running out of a hallway on the opposite side of the stands. 
     "We may have something!"  he yelled across to them.  Sam ran faster. 
He found himself watching the way her body moved as she ran, particularly
her upper body, and realizing that, he felt a momentary pang of
self-disgust.  'You're a dickweed, Grant.' he muttered under his breath. 
Fortunately Sam hadn't noticed.  As she and Nathan stopped next to him, he
gestured for them to go on into the office as he filled them in. 
     "Grace had an idea where they might be.  A place called 'The Dog
House' somewhere near Anniston.  They're checking out the location now." 
     Nathan frowned.  "What is it, a bar?  A topless joint?" 
     John chuckled.  "It does sound like it, doesn't it?  No, it used to
be a puppy mill." 
     Nathan looked confused.  "How do you mill puppies?" 
     "A puppy mill is an illegal breeding operation," Sam explained.  "The
dogs are usually kept in very poor conditions and are often ill and
malnourished.  Anything on a location yet?" she asked, stepping into the
office.
     George looked up from his computer and shook his head, frustrated. 
"None of these stories give a location.  There's a picture in one, but you
can't tell a hell of a lot from it."  He turned the computer around to
show her. 
     She stared at it, the long, barren cages, the sagging shack, the
rusting truck.  It felt right.  "That's it."  she said, confirming Grace's
hunch.  "I'm sure that's it." 
     Mulder leaned over to study at the small display more closely.  "I've
seen that somewhere, recently." 
     George looked at it again.  "It does look familiar," he agreed,
looking up at Mulder. 
     Their eyes met.  John saw the exact same expression flash across both
their faces. 
     "The target!"  Mulder exclaimed. 
     George nodded.  "Sam, there was something on the last note besides
the words, wasn't there. A symbol of some kind?" 
     "Yes, " she confirmed.  "Some nested rings.  I have no idea what it
was supposed to be." 
     Mulder groaned.  "God, we're morons.  He painted a big fat target on
the roof, and gave us a key on the second note so we couldn't possibly
miss it, but we did anyway!" 
     "What target?"  John asked, bewildered. 
     "We noticed it as we flew over.  A big black and white target painted
on the roof of a small building that looked a lot like that one right
there."  George pointed to the photo displayed on the screen.  "Basically,
he drew us a map." 
     Sam stared at the screen a moment longer. "We flew directly over it?" 
she asked. 
     George nodded, shutting down the computer.  "It was right under our
noses." 
     "Then we should be able to find it by backtracking on our flight
path."  She turned decisively.  "Let's go.  We've taken too long here, and
Jack's not a very patient person." 

                              * * *

     "Bailey?"  Dana asked, looking up from where she held the empty
water-bottle over the fire.  She had managed to get the top about halfway
off after about an hour of working at it, and only managed to burn her
fingers a little. "Do you hear that?" 
     "What?" 
     "It sounds like a helicopter." 
     He listened, then nodded.  "It does.  Maybe it's the same one that
went over earlier." 
     They'd heard it, but it had been too high up for them to try to
signal.  This time it sounded a lot lower.  Bailey got to his feet and
helped her up.  They stepped out from under the shelter and squinted
through barbed wire and chain-link.  The chopper was still quite a ways
from them, flying in an odd, pendulum sort of pattern.  Bailey started to
grin.
     "They're flying search." 
     "Do you think they're looking for us?" 
     He stared at the aircraft.  "I'd say that's a safe bet, it looks like
our chopper it's the right colors, anyway." 
     The feeling of relief that flooded her was surprisingly intense.  She
thought for a moment she was going to burst into tears, but somehow
managed not to.
     "Dana?  Anything wrong?" 
     Dratted observant male, she thought as she nodded.  "I'm just glad
this is almost over."  Even as she said it, she was pervaded with an odd
feeling of loss.  "At least, I think I am."  she amended. 
     He nodded.  "Yeah, same here." Several moments passed, then he
sighed.  "How do you want to play this?" 
     She turned and looked at him, not sure she understood what he was
referring to, until she saw his face.  Then she was sure.  "I..."  she
stopped, at a loss for words.  God, this was awkward.  When she'd
practically assaulted him last night, she hadn't thought this far ahead. 
She met his gaze evenly.
     "I'm not ashamed of anything,"  she said firmly. 
     He nodded, a hint of relief in his dark eyes.  "I agree."  He studied
her intently, seeming almost to be inside her head.  Finally he spoke
again.  "I think this is just between you and I." 
     She nodded, relieved.  "Yes.  They don't need to know.  It would just
make things..." 
     "Complicated."  He finished for her.  "You're absolutely right." 
     She had the sudden, inescapable feeling that she had to do something,
say something, or she would regret it for a long time.  She just didn't
know what that something was.  He turned and leaned down to pick up his
suit jacket from the floor of the shed.  When he straightened, she caught
his hand and pulled him toward her, reaching up to bring his mouth down to
hers.  He was surprised for a moment, then cooperated quite willingly. 
After a moment he drew back. 
     "What's that for?" 
     "I just wanted to.  This isn't over, Bailey,"  she said quietly. 
     He contemplated her for a long moment, then slowly began to smile. 
"Not unless you want it to be." 
     She shook her head.  "I'm not exactly sure how to make it work, but I
don't want it to be over."  She grinned.  "Don't forget, I can find out
where you live." 
     He lifted his eyebrows.  "Is that a threat, Agent Scully?" 
     She smiled.  "You bet it is, Agent Malone." 
     "Good.  Just checking." 
     The sound of the helicopter grew louder.  Bailey looked up, and
stepped back from her. "Best be on good behavior now, they're low enough
to see us." 
     She nodded, and shaded her eyes as she looked at the 'copter.  Coming
out of the west, she had to look straight into the sun to see it. 
     "There's one thing I don't get."  Bailey said. 
     She looked back at him.  "What's that?" 
     "It seems too easy.  Why is he letting them find us?" 
     "Maybe he has other plans for us."  she said with a shrug.  "Maybe
they were smarter than him." 
     "Maybe,"  he agreed, his eyes distant, thoughtful.  Scully looked up
again.  She could see figures in the craft, which had the Justice
Department seal prominently displayed on its side. Grinning, she waved in
welcome.  In mid-wave, Bailey grabbed her around the waist and dove for
the ground, turning to take the brunt of the fall himself, then wrapping
his arms around her and rolling into the deep shadows inside the shed. 
Stunned, she fought him, but he pinned her in place with his weight,
wedging her against the wall.  She tried to lift her head, but he shoved
it back down against his chest.
     "What the hell are you doing?"  she demanded, pushing at him. 
     "Be still, dammit!  He's shooting at us!  In here he can't see us as
well if we don't move." 
     She went still.  Shooting?  "I didn't hear anything,"  she whispered. 
     "Neither did I.  The copter's too loud." 
     "Then how did you..." 
     A loud, metallic 'spang' interrupted her, making them both jerk in
reaction.  Daylight shone suddenly through a hole in the back wall of the
shed, about a foot from where they lay.  Clearly, Bailey hadn't imagined
it.  She still didn't know how he'd known, but he had.  Another shot blew
a second hole through the galvanized steel near them.  God, she hoped Jack
didn't have an infrared sight... though if he did, the remains of the fire
might throw him off.  The noise level lessened as the helicopter throttled
back its engine.  She felt Bailey stiffen. 
     "Damn, they don't know!"  He let go of her and began to inch his way
toward the opening. 
     Dana grabbed his arm, pulling him back. 
     "He'll kill you if you go out there!"  she hissed. 
     He looked at her, his face expressionless.  "He'll kill them if I
don't." 
     She stared back, seeing his choices, knowing her own.  There weren't
many.  She sighed, nodded, and let go.  "Be careful." 
     He shrugged.  "Stay put." 
     He edged toward the sunlight again.  She closed her eyes, not wanting
to see, then opened them again, unable to stop herself.  He moved into a
crouch, like a sprinter in the blocks, then dove into the open. 

                              * * *

     "There's it is!"  Mulder pointed, gazing down at the shed with the
target on it.  "And I can see someone down there," he lifted the
binoculars to his eyes, and focused.  "I can almost... Yes!  It's Scully!" 
     Sam yanked the binoculars out of his hands and peered down at the
scene through them.  "What about... oh, thank God!  He looks okay." 
     Mulder, having been dragged practically into her lap by the binocular
strap around his neck, grabbed them back from her and straightened.  "I
would have told you he was okay if you'd just given me a minute," he said
with offended dignity. 
     "Sorry," she said, and actually looked as if she meant it.  "I was
just worried."  She turned and tapped the pilot on the shoulder.  "Park
this thing!  We've found them!" 
     They started to descend.  Mulder adjusted the binoculars and looked
down again.  Scully was staring at them, and she raised a hand, waving, a
huge smile on her face.  Suddenly there was a blur of motion, and she
disappeared from sight.  He dropped the glasses and looked at the scene
bare-eyed, just in time to see two figures disappearing into the shed. 
     "What the hell?"  he asked, puzzled. 
     Sam had seen it too.  "He just tackled her and they rolled into the
shed."  She looked as confused as Mulder felt.  "He can't think we're
Jack, can he?" 
     Mulder shook his head.  "No way.  Not with an FBI logo three feet
wide on the tail of this thing." 
     The copter settled to the ground with a slight bounce, and the pilot
throttled back, slowing the rotors.  Mulder threw open the door and hit
the ground running, just as Malone reappeared, crouched low as he moved
close to the side of the cage nearest the aircraft. 
     "Get back!"  Malone yelled, gesturing toward the chopper.  "Shooter!" 
he pointed toward the thick tree-line east of the shed.  As if to
punctuate his words, there was a sharp crack of sound and Malone spun, and
fell. 
     "Bailey!" 
     The cry was in stereo, seeming to come from both in front of, and
behind him.  Startled, Mulder turned to find that Sam had followed him
out.  Her shocked gaze was fixed on Malone, and she was just standing
there like a huge 'shoot me' sign.  Mulder pushed her to the ground and
waved back John Grant, who was leaning out of the door. 
     "There's a shooter in the trees east of the target building!"  he
yelled.  "See if you can scare him off, and we'll get to cover." 
     Almost before he finished speaking, he heard the copter's engine
throttle up and it began to lift.  He looked around, saw that the shed was
the closest thing to shelter available, and he crawled toward it, pulling
Sam behind him.  They made it behind the shed as the chopper roared away
toward the trees.  Sam started to sit up, but he pushed her back down
again. 
     "Look,"  he pointed at the bullet holes in the metal wall in front of
them, obvious even through the screen of chain-link fencing and barbed
wire..  "He's using something high-powered, and this place isn't much
protection.  Stay down!" 
     "I have to see if Bailey's all right!"  she said mulishly, still
struggling. 
     "Stay put!"  Bailey ordered in a loud and extremely irritated tone,
though his voice was muffled slightly by the metal between them.  He'd
obviously made it back into the shed.  Sam closed her eyes in obvious
relief, and she made a furtive motion with one hand that looked
suspiciously like a cross.  He lifted his eyebrows and she gave him a
glare worthy of Scully.  Speaking of whom...  he lifted up a little to
speak in the direction of one of the bullet holes in the wall. 
     "Scully?  You okay?" 
     "I'm fine, Mulder, just be careful.  We don't need you getting shot
too." 
     Too?  So, Malone was hit.  He hoped it wasn't anything serious or Sam
Waters was going to be a basket case.  It dawned on him that he hadn't
heard any more shots.  He looked at the woman on the ground beside him.
     "It seems quiet." 
     "I know.  Give it a few more.  We don't need to take chances." 
     He nodded, and they waited.  Five minutes passed.  Ten.  Nothing.  He
looked at Sam. 
     "Think we scared him off?" 
     "Either that, or he thinks he got what he wanted.  He saw Bailey go
down, and thinks he's dead." 
     Mulder nodded.  "Either way, he's gone." 
     "Yes, I think so."  She sighed.  "Sorry about this.  I don't usually
do the guns-blazing part, I'm not very good at it." 
     Mulder shrugged.  "Not everyone is."  He sat up, tentatively, and
pitched his voice loud enough that he was sure they could hear him inside
the shed.  "Scully?  We think he's gone, and we're going to come around
now." 
     "Mulder?" 
     He paused, on his knees.  "Yeah, Scully? 
     "There's a pair of bolt cutters hung on the dog-run just north of us. 
Be careful, though.  Jack likes to rig things." 
     "Will do." 
     Getting to his feet, he went to the north edge of the building and
peered around the corner.  The bolt cutters were exactly where she'd said
they were.  He dug in his pocket and found the wad of latex gloves he'd
stuck in there back at the track in Birmingham.  He separated two of them
from the clump and drew them on.  He didn't want to chance messing up any
possible evidence left on the bolt-cutters, though it wasn't likely Jack
would have left anything.  Mulder stepped out into the open space between
the runs, holding his breath, ready to dive back into cover. 
     No one took a shot at him.  Cautiously, he crossed the ten yards to
the other run, and examined the cutters.  He didn't see any trip wires, or
other booby-trap fixings.  With great care, he eased the handle out from
between the wires of the fence.  He thought about Scully, trapped in that
cage, with these just out of reach, and would have clenched his fists if
they hadn't been occupied. Sam came up beside him. 
     "They've been there the whole time?" 
     Mulder nodded.  "Probably longer, actually.  There's rust on them." 
He tried the cutters. They resisted, he persevered, until finally, with a
squeal, they moved.  "They'll work.  Come on." 
     Feeling vulnerable with his back to the trees, he maneuvered the
cutters around the chain that padlocked the gate of the cage.  As he did,
the chopper settled in behind him, between him and the shooter's line of
fire... if he was still out there.  That helped.  He closed the cutters,
and the chain fell free.  Dropping the cutters, he opened the gate, and
without the screen of wire between them, saw Scully kneeling inside the
shelter, very close to Malone. 
     An odd feeling spread through him, and he glanced at Sam to find she
was regarding the scene with a slight, and familiar frown.  She looked up,
their eyes met, and she made a face, then looked away.  Feeling
unaccountably abrasive, he let his sense of humor get the better of him,
and he whistled and snapped his fingers. 
     "Here, Scully.  Come on, girl." 
     Sam gasped, her expression shocked and offended.  "Mulder!" 
     There was a moment of silence from inside the shed, then Scully
looked up and he could feel her glare from where he stood.  If he'd been
any closer, he'd have spontaneously combusted.
     "Mulder," his partner said, her voice deadly calm.  "If Jack doesn't
shoot you, I will.  Now, if there's a first aid kit in that chopper, bring
it here." 
     Suddenly wishing he could take back the comment, Mulder turned and
jogged back to the helicopter. Grant and Brubaker were already out of the
machine, Findley was on his way, and Alvarez was bringing up the rear.  He
leaned into the craft, blocking her exit. 
     "Scully's asking for a first-aid kit, is there one aboard?" 
     She nodded and grabbed a case that sat next to her seat, jumping out
to dash toward the cage with it, bypassing him completely.  He stood there
for a moment feeling useless, then headed back with the rest of the herd. 
What the hell was the matter with him?  He ought to be elated.  They'd
found Scully and Malone alive, but suddenly the only thing he could think
of was how close the two had looked there in the shed. 
     He stopped in mid-stride, as it suddenly dawned on him what was going
on.  For the past four years he'd been pretty much the only person in
Scully's life... well, except maybe Skinner, and he was the boss so he
didn't count.  Day-in, day-out, they worked together for eight or more
hours, often they ate together, they practically slept together.  Now
she'd just spent almost three days alone with someone else, in a
circumstance which held overtones of intimacy and interdependence that
work-related situations just didn't have.  He was jealous.  The idea of it
sort of amazed him.  He continued on to the cage, still chewing on the
realization.  As he stepped into the enclosure, he heard Scully's voice. 
     "Lie still, damn it,"  she said exasperatedly, "...or I'll sit on
you." 
     "Promises, promises."  Malone replied, in an amused voice. 
     Mulder was close enough now to see what was going on.  Malone was on
the floor of the shed, Scully at his side, both hands clamped around his
left forearm.  Her hands and his sleeve were covered with blood.  Grace
Alvarez had the medical kit open and was rummaging in it, taking out
various items.  The blood impinged on him, finally.  He suddenly felt sick
at the realization of just how close this had been.  If Jack had been a
slightly better shot, Scully might be lying there.  She might be... no. 
He refused to even consider that.  Hadn't Clyde Bruckman told her she'd
never die?  He preferred to believe that the homely seer's joke was
reality.
     He looked at Sam Waters, standing just inside the shed, staring down
at Malone with a strange mixture of emotions plain on her face.  Her eyes
held the telltale shimmer of withheld tears, but her mouth was set in a
quizzical grimace.  He watched her gaze go from Malone, to Scully, and
back, and he almost laughed as he realized what was going on.  She was
experiencing pretty much the same thing he just had. She must have sensed
his gaze on her, because she looked up just then. He gave her an
understanding smile, and she frowned, then flushed, and looked away.
     Mulder edged his way past the others to squat down next to Scully. 
He touched her shoulder, and only then did she look up from her patient. 
Her eyes narrowed in irritation as she saw who it was, and he knew she'd
not soon forgive him for the 'here, girl' comment.  He mouthed "Sorry" at
her.  She stared at him for a moment, then nodded curtly.  He nodded
toward Malone. 
     "How bad?" 
     She shook her head.  "Not very.  The bullet nicked, but didn't
penetrate.  Still, it's too close to an artery for my peace of mind.  We
want to make sure there are no problems."  She looked back at Malone, and
suddenly her eyes narrowed.  "What's... is that a medic-alert bracelet,
Bailey?" 
     Malone nodded.  "I'm allergic to penicillin.  Don't worry, Dana, it's
nothing that should affect what you're doing." 
     Mulder stiffened.  First names?  They were using first names? 
Already? 
     Scully nodded.  "Good, just making sure.  You'll probably want to
have your own physician give you some antibiotics for it, just in case." 
     "Okay, ready now,"  Alvarez announced, a roll of gauze in her hand. 
"Let's get that cleaned up.  Bail, I hope you'll forgive my technique, my
patients aren't usually still moving." 
     Malone smiled, if a little thinly.  "So long as I'm still moving when
you finish, I'll forgive you." 
     Alvarez laughed.  "Well, I think I can at least promise you that." 
     Mulder decided it was time to be somewhere else, and he stood up,
moving out into the graveled area, where John and Nathan were starting to
organize a search of the property for possible clues.  That seemed like a
good way to occupy himself until Scully was finished. 


                              * * *



    .
___/_\___ Kellie Matthews-Simmons  //  matthewk@colorado.edu
`-/._,\-'      SFLAaE/BS  *  PSEB  *  DDEB  *  HeLLLion  *  X-Phile
 /-' `-\      "So long as it harms none, do as you will"     



From matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU Thu Feb 13 22:46:39 1997
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: It's A Dog's Life 9/9 (XOVER/ADULT)
From: Kellie Matthews-Simmons <matthewk@ucsu.Colorado.EDU>
Date: Thu, 13 Feb 1997 21:46:39 -0700
--------
               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!
               WARNING!  THIS STORY IS NC-17 Rated!

This story contains SEX, (M/F) written in loving detail.  If that bothers
you, either do NOT read this story If you're underage, get parental
permission to read it.  Don't flame us if you're silly enough to go ahead
and read it after we warned you, and then get offended by it. 

"The X-Files" is a trademark of Fox Television. "Profiler" is a trademark
of NBC Television.  No, we don't have permission to use these characters. 
We're just borrowing all of them and promise to put them back when we're
done.  We guess Fox and NBC will have to fight over who gets to sue us. 
:-) No profits are now, or ever will be made off this story, darn it. 

This story copyright 1997 by Kellie Matthews-Simmons and Julia Kosatka. 
No permission is given for print reproduction for anything other than
personal use.  NO, 'zine's are *not* personal use. 

Constructive comments may be directed to:

matthewk@colorado.edu
julia@bayou.uh.edu

Flames can be kept to yourselves. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
part 9/9

     Sam looked around the table, relieved to have Bailey back at its
head.  Dana Scully sat just to his left, and Fox Mulder was between her
and George.  They seemed to fit there so naturally that it was a little
disconcerting.  She'd been prepared to like neither of them, and had ended
up liking both of them, though Mulder would have to earn back some respect
after his completely uncalled for behavior out at the crime scene.  She
had a sneaking suspicion she knew what had prompted his remark.  It was
strange to realize just how possessive she felt about Bailey Malone.  Not
that she was romantically interested in him... really, or... no. 
Definitely not.  But, there was some part of her which considered that he
belonged to her.  Interesting thought. 
     Bailey cleared his throat and looked at her impatiently.  She
blinked, coming back from her brief foray into fantasy, and hoped to
heaven she wasn't blushing.  Just in case, she turned and pointed up at
the display screen, with its photos of evidence from Jack's latest strike. 
     "So, to sum up, we have several new items to add to Jack's file that
may eventually help us find him.  He's had medical training of some kind,
as evidenced by his use of anaesthetic, and curare. Also, he has to have a
source for a relatively unusual type of rose which we may be able to
trace.  While we have confirmed that the developer of that rose has no
connection to the case, the fact that Jack uses that particular rose
indicates that the word or concept of 'taboo' is likely to have a bearing
on his psychosis." 
     She turned back to face them, certain she was under control now.  "We
also now know that he plans extensively, perhaps even for months, before
executing his schemes.  All these things may be very helpful in
identifying him.  Our last piece of evidence is this." She nodded to
George, who executed a command on his computer and magnified the image of
Dana Scully's face, with it's prominent "U" shaped bruise.  "He wears a
ring with this symbol on it." 
     She saw several people glance at the redhead, who seemed quite
unperturbed that her face was being projected in extreme closeup.  She
must not get zits, Sam thought sourly. Bailey's finger unconsciously
traced the same area on his own cheek as if he, not Scully, bore the
bruise.  She forced herself to ignore that, and went to her conclusion. 
"Let's get to work researching this stuff, and see if we can't track this
guy down.  I feel like we're getting close." With that, she sat down. 
      John leaned over and gave her a thumbs-up sign.  "Let's get the
bastard!" 
     Bailey stood up.  "I think that's about all there is to say, and
frankly, I could use about twenty-four hours of sleep.  I'll see you all
in the morning."  He turned and headed for his office. 
     Sam heard Nathan muttering about people who didn't take time off even
after being kidnapped and shot.  She hid a smile and started to gather her
things.  Mulder was also picking up files and putting them in his
briefcase.  Scully stood for a moment, then, with a decisive expression,
she headed after Bailey.  Sam found herself watching covertly as the
red-head stopped him at his office door with a hand on his arm.  She
noticed that Scully's hand stayed there for a few moments longer than
necessary before she moved it.  They stood close.  Not so close as to
cause comment, but Sam knew Bailey and she knew where the edges of his
personal 'space' was.  Dana Scully was definitely inside it, and he wasn't
moving away. 
     They conferred for a moment, then Scully nodded, though she didn't
look pleased.  Bailey bent and whispered something, which caused a slow
and very secretive smile to curve her mouth. She nodded again, still
smiling, and moved away, coming back toward the conference room.  Sam
hastily grabbed papers and shoved them into a pile, all the while
wondering exactly what had gone on in that cage.  Not that she needed to
know.  Or really wanted to.  It was just incredibly hard not to wonder. 

                              * * *

     Dana opened one eye.  There wasn't even a faint gleam of light below
the heavy, vinyl-lined hotel curtains.  She moaned and turned over,
looking at the clock.  Five forty-eight.  It wasn't fair.  Here she was,
safe, sound, fed, and warm, and she hadn't slept for more than half an
hour at a time all night.  She'd slept better in the cold, damp shed.  Of
course, there was one major difference. There was no one in this room to
hold her, no one to make sure she was safe. 
     All night long she'd dozed, only to wake up with a rush of adrenalin,
thinking she heard a noise, or seen a shadow.  Once she'd dreamed of a
strange, white place, and pain, and fear.  She tried not to think about
that.  She knew Mulder was just across the hall, but she didn't even know
if he'd bother to come if she called.  He'd been acting like an incredible
jerk lately.  Or maybe it wasn't lately.  Maybe he'd acted like that all
along, and it had just taken her this long to realize that she didn't have
to put up with it. 
     She grabbed the extra pillow and put it over her eyes.  It made her
nose itch, so she took it off again, throwing it across the room with a
muttered curse that would have appalled her father, and required a dollar
donation to the Cuss Bank.  She said it three more times, just for good
measure.  She thought about the offices at the VCTF.  She thought about
her own office.  What own office?  She didn't have an office, she didn't
have a desk, she didn't even have a nameplate on the door.  After four
years.  It was as if not only everything in the office, but she too, were
somehow Mulder's property.  She thought about the digital display George
had used to highlight her bruise to all and sundry, then about the
twenty-five year-old slide projector she made do with.  It rankled.  She'd
joined the FBI to become someone like Grace Alvarez, not Mulder's
sidekick. 
     She felt more dissatisfied than she could ever remember feeling. 
Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to give in to impulse and make love with
Bailey Malone.  It had just shown her exactly how much she was missing. 
She had no life of her own.  All she had was Mulder's life.  Mulder's
quest.  And what had it cost her?  Three months of her life, gone as if
they had never been, her sister, her belief in her government, and her
peace of mind.  All gone. 
     A knock at the door froze her in place for a moment.  Dana looked at
the clock again.  Only six minutes had passed since she'd last checked it. 
She knew, somehow, that it wasn't Mulder. Sudden fear stung her.  What if
Jack had found her, wanting to finish what he'd started?  She got up,
quietly drew her gun from its holster that was hung, with her suit, next
to the door.  Standing at ready, she took a deep breath. 
     "Who is it?"  She didn't open the door first.  The hotel walls were
thin, and the sound would travel easily through them. 
     "Room service," her visitor announced.  A man's voice. 
     She frowned.  She hadn't ordered...  suddenly a grin spread across
her face as the voice really registered on her.  She drew the bolt and
unlocked the door, throwing it open so hard it banged the wall opposite. 
"Bailey!" 
     In his left hand he held a cardboard drink tray with two Styrofoam
cups in it.  Two white bags with red and yellow lettering on them occupied
the other.  The smell of coffee, eggs, and sausage mingled tantalizingly
in the air. 
     "I keep my promises,"  he said solemnly. 
     Room service.  She remembered the exact moment he'd promised that. 
She closed her eyes for a moment, blinking back tears, and would have
hugged him if he hadn't been otherwise occupied. She went to take the
coffee from him, and only then remembered her gun.  His eyebrows lifted. 
     "Thought I was Mulder, did you?"  he asked drily. 
     She laughed, shaking her head.  "No, Jack."  She put the safety back
on, and slipped it into its holster, then relieved him of the coffee tray
and set it on the bathroom counter.  He put the fast- food bag down on the
suitcase valet.  As soon as he was free, she went into his arms, burying
her face against his chest.  He was wearing the trench-coat she'd worn for
the past two days.  It still smelled faintly of woodsmoke.  His arms were
strong and warm around her.  She sighed. "God, I'm glad to see you." 
     "Same here." 
     Dana let go of him and stepped back into the 'closet' area so he
could get by.  "Come on in, before the maid comes by and decides I'm
hustling in the halls." 
     He eyed her sleeping attire, an oversized gray t-shirt, and grinned. 
"Aren't you?  Well, damn." 
     She laughed, and he stepped inside.  She moved the 'do not disturb'
sign from the inner knob to the outer one as she closed, and locked the
door.  He had snagged the coffee tray again, and motioned for her to pick
up the food, which she did.  One of the bags seemed peculiarly heavy, he
must be really hungry. 
     Bailey took his coat off and settled at the table near the fake
sliding-glass door.  Taking the coffees out of the tray, he set one in
front of him, and the other before the empty chair.  She sat down across
from him and handed him the heavier bag, assuming the lighter one was her
own.  He promptly handed it back to her, and took the lighter one.  He
opened his own bag and took out a Styrofoam container, and nodded for her
to follow suit.  He was watching her with a faint smile, and a look of
expectation which made her wonder what he was up to as she unrolled the
top of the bag and looked inside. 
     There were two boxes in her bag.  As she got them out, she realized
one of them felt odd. Whatever was inside was heavy, and when she shook
it, rolled from side to side with a slight thud and an odd, snaky rustle. 
She looked at him, then at the box.  She set down the lighter box and
looked back at him.  "Nothing had better jump out at me when I open this," 
she warned sternly. 
     He chuckled.  "Don't worry." 
     Cautiously she undid the locking flap on the front of the container. 
The lid popped up, and there on the pristine white Styrofoam rested the
unmistakable red-white-and-silver form of a Swiss Army Knife.  It was a
small one, and a length of narrow steel chain had been threaded through
its carrying-loop.  She stared at it, feeling oddly weepy, and wondering
what on earth had prompted him to get her a knife that had a toothpick and
a pair of tweezers.
     "I wanted you to have something appropriate to wear to your next
abduction," he said, his voice shaded with both amusement and affection.
     Oh, God.  She really was blinking back tears now.  Unable to speak,
she picked it up, her hands shaking a little, and started to put it around
her neck.  The chain seemed awfully long. 
     "No, wait."  He came over to kneel beside her.  "Give it to me." 
     Puzzled and a little nervous, she put it in his hands.  He opened the
clasp, slid the chain around her waist, then fastened it again.  She
shivered a little with as the chain settled around her, just below her
navel.  It was peculiarly erotic. 
     "There."  He touched the knife, dangling like a charm on her belly. 
"I don't think your average crook is going to check here for anything.  I
would have gotten wire cutters but I couldn't find any small enough to not
leave a bulge.  It's not really big enough to be used as a weapon, but at
least you can cut the tops off of water bottles with ease." 
     She stared down at it for a long moment, awash in a strange swirl of
emotions; the fiery glow of sexual arousal, mixed with lump-in-throat
tenderness.  She leaned forward and put her hands on either side of his
face.  "It's the nicest present anyone ever gave me," she whispered
because her voice wouldn't work any other way, and she kissed him to
punctuate her words. 
     He kissed her back, a wonderfully sensual kiss that when it ended,
left her thinking of that quote from 'Bull Durham' about "...long slow,
deep, soft wet kisses that last three days."  She looked at the unopened
breakfast-box on the table, then at the bed.  Damn. 
     "When do we have to be back at work?"  she asked thoughtfully. 
     He grinned.  "Not for hours yet." 
     "You planned this,"  she accused, good naturedly. 
     "Who me?  I just brought breakfast." 
     "Mmmhmm... seducing me with fine cuisine.  I know your type.  My
mother warned me about men like you." 
     "Hey, if it works..."  His fingers were straying from the chain at
her waist, moving down her thigh.  She shuddered with reaction, closing
her eyes.  The smell of the dratted sausage-and-egg biscuit was making her
almost as crazy as his hand on her skin, and the knowledge that he was
just inches away.  Decisions, decisions... she opened her eyes again, and
reached over to grab the box on the table with one hand, and to catch his
hand with the other. 
     "I hope you don't mind crumbs," she said, pulling him with her as she
headed for the bed.


                              * * *

     Stunned, Mulder stood at the door to his room, still staring into the
hall even though there wasn't anything to see now.  He'd heard a knock
that sounded like it was on Scully's door, and being the paranoid type,
he'd gone to make sure she wasn't getting a visit from the friendly
neighborhood serial killer.  He'd relaxed when he saw who stood there, but
then his curiosity had gotten the best of him.  What was Bailey Malone
doing here at this hour?  Wondering if it had something to do with Jack,
he'd waited, the door open only a crack.  He got his answer, and it had
nothing to do with business. 
     He still couldn't believe what he'd just seen.  He could believe in
little Grey men, morphing alien bounty-hunters, and mutant fluke-men, but
not Scully letting a man into her room at screech-o- clock in the morning. 
She hadn't just let him in, she'd practically attacked him in the hallway. 
Okay, so that was a bit of an exaggeration, they'd only hugged, but she
clearly hadn't been bothered by the fact that all she had on was a
t-shirt.  This was a part of Scully he'd only seen once before, and even
then, she'd been 'under the influence,' so to speak.  He closed the door,
quietly, and sat down on his bed, staring blankly off into space.  Maybe
it was a good thing they were scheduled to go back to Washington in two
days.


                              Finis