Title - Eye of the Beholder, The (1/10)
Author - Nascent
E-Mail address - nascen...@hotmail.com
Rating - NC-17 (violence, language)
Category - XA
Spoilers - Emily
Keywords - Mulder/Scully Friendship/UST
Summary - Mulder and Scully are called in to help track a serial killer
whose victims have a guilty past. But the killer draws their personal
lives into a high-stakes game of vengeance, which poses a risky
opportunity for to learn more about the Syndicate and lots of
opportunities for almost-gratuitous Angst. =)

Archive - yes to Gossamer, ask me for others

Feedback - yes please! =)

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"The Eye of the Beholder" part 1 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

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NOTES: I've been writing this one for a long time, hope it was worth
the effort. I started writing right around Schizogeny (when I was bored
with TV), so this is supposed to take place in February, 1998, but I
think it does some completely unintentional setup for The Red and the
Black without spoiling it. It's a MOTW, but it's also just an
opportunity for Mulder and Scully to examine the relationship of
perception to truth. It's pretty long, but if you can get through it,
I'd love to hear what you think. This is my very first real story, and
I hope I managed to pull it off--it's always nice to write something
with a plot. =)

I'm not a shipper myself, but the story is friendly for both ends of the
spectrum--has some touchy feely stuff that could go both ways. UST
galore!!!

WARNING: This story contains graphically explicit violence, abuse and
rape (but only of MY characters, not Chris'). If you're not old enough
to read this legally go away and come back in a few years.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to all other fanfic writers and archivists.
I've just discovered this world (both of fanfic and the X-Files), and am
in awe of all the innovation, dedication and friendly people I've
encountered. Thanks also to Pellinor's great page explaining the FBI
structure (no, I didn't just pull things like "Critical Incident
Response Group" out of my ass).

DISCLAIMER: What follows is a completely shameless rip-off of The
X-Files, which is the intellectual property of Chris Carter, 1013
Productions and Fox, not me. No profit was made in this enterprise (in
fact, anti-profit was probably the result =) ). No animals, fictional
or otherwise, were harmed in the making of this story, except for when I
fell off my chair at work and spilled my coffee all over myself since I
had been forgoing sleep to finish this.

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February, 1998
Garnet Plaza Office Complex
3:25 a.m.
Tuesday

The large man was cowering on the concrete floor, mumbling around the
dirty blue gag. A powerful flashlight beam illuminated the top of his
balding head. He was lying on his side, handcuffed at the wrists and
ankles, and as he shivered his belly jiggled grotesquely.

A second man, small and feral, watched his captive seriously from a
plain wooden chair. He held the flashlight, pointing it directly at the
bound man, perhaps to disorient him. He glanced at his watch. Five
more minutes.

The time passed in almost-silence, as the gibbering man on the floor
quivered and turned ineffectually. The second man waited woodenly,
regarding the dusty old office furniture, which he had pushed against
the walls to make space.

Finally, it was time. The small man lifted a loose, black hood which
had been sitting in his lap. He slipped it over his head and stood,
walked toward the cowering man on the floor and stooped down.

The frightened captive saw a figure whose face was shrouded in black,
two holes for eyes. He saw the man raise his arm, and the glimmer of
steel. The man moved his hands so that the length of the knife was
fully visible, and the bound figure began twisting ineffectually and
protesting more loudly against the gag.

He felt a hand at the button of his jeans. Oh jesus, no! He heard the
sound of the zipper, felt his pants and underwear tugged roughly down
his hips as he was turned onto his stomach. Please, no, please....He
bucked and kicked, but stilled as he felt the cold steel blade at his
throat.

He began to sob as he felt something cold and hard press between his
buttocks. He screamed as the something was plunged inside of him
without warning, tearing mercilessly at his tender, tightened anus.
Just as ruthlessly, it was ripped out, then made to skewer him a second
time, while he writhed and sobbed brokenly.

A voice by his ear, rough and edgy. "How's it feel, Hank?"

Again. He was in agony, all dignity lost. He tried to beg for mercy,
but the gag was so tight he could only make more noise. Again.
ohpleasejesusnonono Again.

Suddenly, there was a clatter as the thing was flung aside, and he was
roughly rolled onto his back. He looked up at the black-clad figure
looming over him, and in horror saw the knife begin to descend, slowly,
toward his exposed groin. He shook his head, trying to scream, crying
helplessly. Still, the knife descended with inexorable slowness.

When he felt the edge of the blade at the base of his penis, he went
utterly still, chanting what might have been the word "no" over and over
again.   It came out sounding oddly sexual, a rhythmic
"unh...unh...unh...unh...." The hooded man paused deliberately, then
his hand surged violently forward. The man called Hank screamed in
horrible agony, and, mercifully, passed out a few seconds later.

The hooded man stared in confusion as arterial blood spurted out. He
seemed not to know what to do next.

But with a sudden decisive move, he simply drew the knife across Hank's
throat, slitting it cleanly. Blood gushed onto his gloved hands and his
robe, and in a moment he was drenched. But he did not move away, merely
stared at the knife he held. Slowly, slowly, the knife twisted in his
hands until the blade was pointed toward his own body.

As the blade plunged into his belly, he felt oddly peaceful. Even
though he couldn't help moaning in misery as his lifeblood pooled with
Hank's, he was glad of this rest.

---------------------------------------------------

Washington, D. C.
Wednesday
4:25 a.m.

She was walking on water. Or, rather, she was walking in water, but
also on it. She could feel it sloshing around her ankles, but she was
distinctly aware that her feet pushed against, not solid ground, but the
water itself. When she looked down, she could see her own body, naked
and thinner than it used to be, and the ocean, deeper than she'd ever
imagined it. Despite it's depth, she could see clear to the bottom,
miles below. She thought she could perceive the blurred outline of a
shipwreck there--a pile of decaying, rusted metal edges and the
almost-clear outline of a prow. She did not know where she was walking,
only that she had to keep going or she would start to sink. The water
was very cold, and even as she hesitated between steps, she would sink a
little, and the water lapped her calves. She wanted to stop, to peer
down at the boat over which she walked--she thought she could make out
letters on its side--but she know that to do so would be to court
death. Even so, the sun overhead was bright and hot, and a part of her
longed to be immersed in the cold, still water.

A loud ringing penetrated the eerie surroundings, and she instinctively
groped for her cell phone, but then remembered that she was naked, and
there are few places a naked person can stash a cell phone. That's when
she knew she was dreaming. Even as the phone rang again, she found it
difficult to jar herself from sleep. "You're in bed, Dana," she said
aloud in as reassuring a tone as possible. She wondered what bed she
was in--was it hers or a motel's? Or a hospital's? That thought was
sufficient to undo all the hard work she'd done trying to rouse
herself. The phone rang again, though, reinforcing her grip on reality,
and by an act of will she wrenched herself out of the water-world, only
to surface in her own bedroom. The phone rang again, and she grabbed it
viciously, as if by proving her mastery of it she could regain her
position in this world.

She saw the clock before she spoke. Immediately, she assessed the three
possibilities-Mulder was in trouble, Mulder had a case, Mulder couldn't
sleep. She decided to keep her options open. Half a second later, she
answered. "Mulder."

"Scully, are you developing psychic tendencies?" Not in trouble.

"Statistics, Mulder," she muttered. "It's 4:30."

"Good morning to you, too, Sunshine," he said cheerily. Too cheerily.
He had a case. And she had plans: she'd hoped to be completely caught
up on paperwork by the end of the week and happily skiing in Vermont
this weekend.

"Please tell me you're at home," she said hopelessly. "Please don't
tell me to pack a bag."

"Well, whether you want extra clothes is your own personal decision,
Scully, but if you want to know my personal preference as the person
most likely to be affected by your lack of extra attire, I'd rather you
bring at least a _couple_ of extra outfits. But if you don't want to,
I'll always respect your choices. I want you to know that."

She smiled despite herself, and he must have heard her inadvertant and
amused expulsion of breath, because he immediately continued,
encouraged. "But as for me, considerate soul I am, I would like to be
springtime fresh every morning, so if you could stop by my place and
pack me a bag, we'll both appreciate it."

She was sitting now, running a hand through her rumpled hair. "Do I get
to know where we're going?" she asked. "I take it this isn't a surprise
trip to the Caymans."

"Sorry, I only take women there if there's a promise of great sex. For
you, it's Lima, Ohio. But I'll try to requisition a Honda especially
for you, if it'll make you feel better."

"You'll spoil me," she rejoined. "Lima, huh? So I'll pack your Bermuda
shorts."

"Scully, if you can find a pair of Bermuda shorts anywhere _near_ my
possessions at any time, I will wear them to any event of your
choosing. Under my trenchcoat, of course."

"That'll get you arrested real fast, badge or no badge, and I won't be
bailing you out," she replied. She was fully awake now. "Seriously,
Mulder, what is this case and why didn't you go home last night?"

"How do you know I didn't go home?"

"You wouldn't be asking me to pick up your clothes. You could've had
some relevatory flash of insight on a file you'd been thinking about,
but I _know_ you promised to finish the paperwork on the last two cases
before running off again, so I hope that this is about a phone call you
received sometime since I last saw you."

"Which was 9 p.m. last night. Who'd call me between then and now?"

She was getting annoyed. "Why don't you tell me?"

He considered telling her the truth: _Because I like to see how your
mind works. I like to see how you come to conclusions, especially when
I already know you're right._ But he knew she would (justifiably) be
angry at such an obvious psychoanalysis game, so he just told her.

"You're right, I didn't go home. You'll be glad to hear I was finishing
up the report on the Oklahoma case. Two hours ago, I got a call from
the Cleveland regional office. Guy I knew from the VCS, name of
Markworth. He's an ASAC in Cleveland, and they've got a serial killer
they could use a little help on. He remembered me, and specifically
called Skinner to ask for us."

"Why? Does it look like an X-File?" Scully hauled her suitcase out from
under the bed.

"Only in that the killer seems to kill himself every time. Maybe. The
victims come in pairs, and the scene is made to appear as if one man--or
woman--killed the other, then killed himself. But the autopsies don't
preclude third-party involvement."

"Sounds like the guy just wants you to do a profile." Scully popped
open her suitcase.

"Yeah, a profile's definitely part of the deal, but I don't think
Skinner would have agreed if that were all."

"Mulder, if you don't think this is an X-File..." she let the sentence
hang.

"I know. I know you were going skiing with Ellen this weekend and you
haven't seen her in months. It'll probably take me a couple of days to
do the profile, and you can come back if you want. But just come out
with me, look over the reports. Jacobs asked for the X-Files _team_
specifically."

Scully sighed. "Doesn't sound like it to me. Sounds to me like they
wanted an available profiler and jumped at the chance to get a free
pathologist thrown into the deal."

"I definitely feel like there's more to this than a free pathologist.
The obvious explanation is third-party involvement, and we're not the
VCS. But Markworth is a good agent--I don't think he'd call us in
unless he was pretty confident that the obvious was not the answer. You
don't have to go, obviously, but I'd like to see what you think."

"No, of course I'll come." Scully selected three suits from her closet,
folded them and added them to the suitcase. She felt a little resentful
that after all this time Skinner would still pull them off the X-Files,
hiring them out to other branches, but then again, maybe he wouldn't.
She smiled to herself. Once, she would have been relieved to work on a
normal case. "What's the M.O., besides the two-victims thing?"

"That's the thing. It's inconsistent. His victims--there are eight
I.D.ed so far--are male and female, young and old. Some he tortures,
some he doesn't, but he never does it the same way. It's as if he's not
getting off through the act of killing--the killing takes backseat to
something else. Something that determines the method. But we have to
catch a 7 a.m. flight to Dayton, Scully. I'll explain more on the
plane."

"Okay, I'm on my way."

"Scully?"

"What?"

"Don't forget my running shoes."

"Mulder, do you know how cold northern Ohio is in February?"

"I'll meet you at the airport. We're flying American."

"Okay." She hung up.

---------------------------------------------------

Washington, D. C.
Wednesday
6:45 a.m.

Mulder finished stowing Scully's laptop and coat in the overhead bin,
handed her a file from his briefcase and took his customary aisle seat.
The plane was sparsely filled, making discussion of the case a lot more
convenient.

Scully browsed through the file. It had been opened two months earlier,
after the first double murder, which the local PD had put down as
homicide-suicide. The second occurrence, a month later, had piqued the
FBI's interest, but she noted that it was still marked homicide-suicide
by the AIC (a man named Roberts, not Jacobs). The third pair had been
found two weeks after that, and now was labeled double homicide, and the
fourth report was incomplete, the bodies having been discovered the
previous night. All four events shared only one obvious commonality:
the "suicide" victim had been wearing a black hood or ski-mask.

"Executioner," she muttered reflexively.

"I thought so too," said Mulder.

"Who's this Roberts guy?"

"Field Agent working out of the Cleveland office. I've never heard of
him. I did some checking on him though. He's been with the Bureau five
years, has a law degree from Oklahoma State. He started out in the
Critical Incident Response Group in D.C., trained there for two years
and put in a request to stay, but got transferred to Ohio. He's been
through three partners since then and he's partnerless now--I get the
impression he's hard to get along with. But it's his 302. He's
probably hoping to get this case closed before the the VCS swoops down
on it--it would mean all the glory would be his and maybe get him
reinstated in the eyes of superiors. But all that's a guess."

"Where does Jacobs fit, then?" A stewardess started her airline safety
routine.

"Jacobs is G-12, technically Roberts' superior," Mulder answered,
leaning in so Scully could hear over the stewardess. "Markworth told me
he joined the case because Roberts needed a partner. At his age, he
should be an ASAC by now. I actually knew him when I was in the the
BSU--he was in training at VICAP. He's a good agent but he had a
reputation for being a little...soft. He has trouble telling people
what to do, that kind of thing. I had lunch with him a few times.
Anyway, he requested the transfer to Columbus when his wife took a
faculty position at Case Western. Has two kids."

"Sounds like you did more research on these two than the case," Scully
noted.

"Well, since the ASAC requested our help, I figured it would be
important to know who _didn't_ ask for us." He grinned. "There'll be
plenty of time for the case."

"So are we working _with_ them or just looking around and telling them
our impressions?"

"I'm not quite sure," Mulder answered. "Jacobs said they'd meet us in
Lima and already have hotel rooms for us, which they offered to put on
their R.O. expense account to save us the paperwork. So I guess we'll
all be one happy FBI family up there."

Scully gave a suggestive eyebrow raise. "Does that mean we have extra
cash in our per diem?"

"You wish. I know how much you were looking forward to that fine Lima
dining, but Skinner brokered the deal so we'll have to settle for Bob
Evans and Cracker Barrel."

"That's too bad," Scully murmured, returning her attention to the file.
The plane began to taxi.

She studied the reports. The first pair of murders were not
remarkable. Drug dealers with criminal records. Blood work-ups had
revealed high levels of both methamphetamines and barbituites in their
system and the autopsies reported extensive, recent damage to all
lateral veins--trackmarks. They had been found in an abandoned
warehouse. The first victim had died from bullet wounds to both knees
and the stomach. The second victim, the apparent suicide, had bled to
death from a stomach wound. Jacobs hadn't faxed any crime scene photos,
probably anticipating that they wouldn't come out in the fax, but she
didn't need to see them to understand why this first murder had been
shelved by local officials.

The second pair was much stranger. A fifty-five-year-old man, a
director of a nursing home, was the "executioner" this time. The deaths
had occurred in a wooded plot at the edge of his family's farm.   He had
apparently bludgeoned a hand-cuffed man to death with a tree branch,
then impaled his stomach on a nearby metal fence post. Again, the
stomach. Multiple puncture wounds suggested that the impalement had
taken several tries. The other victim had been an older man, a banker
who neither lived nor worked anywhere near the farm where he'd died.
His wife, adult son and employees had been no help.

The third pair. A teenaged boy had been the "executioner" of a
forty-three-year-old woman, an elementary school teacher and mother of
two. Again, there was no discernible connection between the two
victims. The deaths had occurred in the garage attached to the boy's
house. The woman had been doused with gasoline and lit on fire, and the
boy had shot himself in the stomach with his father's rifle, a feat
accomplished by sitting on the floor, holding the gun between his feet
and pulling the trigger via a string attached to his toe.

"A string attached to his toe," Scully repeated aloud, mostly so Mulder
would know where she was.

"Yeah, pretty tough way to kill yourself. Plenty of time to think it
over."

Then the most recent case, for which only a few notes were scribbled.
The victims were both middle-aged men, both with families. One was a
night watchman (at whose place of employment the bodies had been found),
the other a construction worker. The watchman, who had been hooded, had
only one injury, a knife wound to the stomach. The other had received
an extremely old-fashioned vasectomy and died when his throat was slit.

Except for the first pair, there was no evidence of drug use in the
toxicology screens, although the last pair of course had not been
completed--somehow she had a feeling she'd end up doing those
autopsies. All the deaths were estimated to have occurred between 12
a.m. and 5 a.m. None of the victims had any psychiatric history. The
construction worker had been in jail for two years for robbing a gas
station, and the banker's wife had twice retracted claims of domestic
violence, but except for the druggies, no others had police records.

"Well, Mulder," she said finally, turning to meet his eyes. "I hate to
say it, but this looks like an X-File to me. Motiveless, unconnected
killings and complicated suicides? Even if a third party were
responsible, the M.O. is all over the place. There's nothing cohesive
enough to indicate a single killer. It looks as if these people were
somehow similarly influenced or compelled to perform these acts."

"You're thinking along the lines of some common experience, or exposure
to some psychoactive compound?"

"Maybe."

"Roberts' notes seem to indicate he thinks it's a third party staging
everything."

"Yes, I see that. But he offers no compelling motive...."

"He acknowledges that. But it's the only explanation he can fathom."

"What do you think?"

"I don't know yet, although I'm leaning toward the third party idea.
Although I think the third party may be a group of people."

"What, Satan worshipers or something?" Scully couldn't help thinking
with amusement that a few years ago she'd never have believed she'd be
saying this so seriously.

Mulder grinned, obviously having had the same thought. But he spoke
with equal seriousness. "Maybe. I don't know, it has a really familiar
feel. I want to see the crime scene photos and talk to a couple of
people before I say anything definite."

"Well, I have a feeling I'm going to be canceling my ski trip."

"You don't have to," Mulder assured her, knowing she would. "I know you
haven't seen your friend since before..." He meant to add "the cancer,"
but decided to leave the sentence where it was.

Scully didn't reply, skimming back through the file. "It's interesting
that the 'suicides' were all stomach wounds."

"Why?" Mulder asked, although he had an idea.

"Pretty painful, messy way to go. Whatever happened to good
old-fashioned sleeping pills or a gun in the mouth?"

Mulder winced and Scully leaned into him a little but continued. "And
the location is strange. The report says none of the victims are
connected but in three cases they end up on the home-turf of the
'suicide' victim. Why would the 'homicide' victims go to these places?"

"Maybe they were brought there."

"By their killers?"

"Or by the third party. But back to the suicide thing...bizarre,
overdone suicides, doesn't that remind you of someone?"

Scully shuddered involuntarily. "Mulder, if this is anything like
Modell and company, let's get one thing straight right now." She put
her hand on his forearm. "The code word is 'girlie scream,' okay?"

Mulder didn't think that was very funny, but he covered her hand with
his own. "I really have to watch the stories I tell you," he said.

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END 1/10

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"The Eye of the Beholder" part 2 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

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Lima, Ohio
Wednesday
12:31 p.m.

"The hotel should be on the left," said Mulder, reading from his
directions.

They had driven through ninety minutes of farm country from Dayton to
find themselves in the mostly blue-collar city of Lima. Except for
Mulder's excitement at the sight of the big, golf-ball-esque Wapokaneta
Air and Space Museum from the highway, the trip had been uneventful.
Mulder had slept most of the way.

Now they were pulling into an anonymous motel, the kind without indoor
hallways, where they were supposed to meet Agents Roberts and Jacobs.

"My dad used to say, 'Never trust anyone with two first names,'" Scully
had quipped earlier. "And here's a pair of them."

"Your father was a smart man, Scully," Mulder had answered. "I'd have
to extend that to anyone with any first names at all, though. Oh, and
anyone without a name--them too."

Scully parked the car and they made the rush through the freezing air to
the hotel lobby, which was in actuality just a room with a counter.
Inside were two trenchcoat-clad men who had "FBI" written all over them.

The older man, his hair already greying, approached and took Mulder's
hand, clapping him warmly on the shoulder. "Agent Fox Mulder!" he
grinned. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Hey, Alan," Mulder answered, and there was genuine warmth in his
greeting. "It's good to see you."

Alan Jacobs disengaged himself and approached Scully, hand extended.
Mulder introduced them. "Alan Jacobs, Dana Scully."

"So you're the one who's been stuck with this boy all these years, huh?"
Jacobs said, pumping her hand. "We've heard about you even way out
here, Dr. Scully."

Scully could only imagine what they'd heard--apart from the Ms. Spooky
myths, her abduction, her jail time, and her assistance in the staged
suicide of her partner were just a few of the stories that were
inevitably circling. But Jacobs seemed earnest enough, so she smiled
and nodded. "Mulder's told me about you as well, Agent Jacobs."

Jacobs turned and ushered his companion forward. The man was in his
early thirties and quite attractive--blond and well-built. "This is
Mark Roberts," he said. Roberts shook Mulder's hand coolly with a false
smile Scully instantly disliked. Then he turned to her, and as he
extended his hand, his smile morphed into one of rehearsed charm which
she liked even less.

"Your rooms aren't ready yet," Jacobs informed them. "But we were
hoping to brief you over lunch, if you're not too tired."

"Not at all," Mulder answered.

Jacobs suggested they take his car, and Scully tried to engineer the
sides from which they approached it so she'd end up in the back with
Mulder. Conversations were always easier when they could see each
other. But Roberts was a step ahead of her, gracefully offering Mulder
the front seat and suddenly she was in the back with the blond man.

"So, Dr. Scully," he began immediately as the car pulled out. He had a
slight southern drawl. "We were hoping you'd feel up to performing a
couple of autopsies for us this afternoon."

Mulder turned around and shot her an amused glance which said both "free
pathologist" and that he'd noticed the maneuvering surrounding the
seating arrangement.

"Of course," Scully replied evenly, looking at Roberts. "I'd expected
to."

"It's pretty bad," Roberts continued. "The guy whose dick is nearly
off--excuse me, but there's no nicer way to put it--it looks like he'd
been raped as well."

"None of the previous victims bore evidence of sexual assault," Scully
stated.

"No," agreed Roberts. "Just another grocery item to add to this guy's
list."

"You think it's one man," Mulder stated.

"Yeah, that's right." Roberts voice had a hint of a challenge in it.

"The grocery list analogy is an interesting one. Do you think he's
ticking off a list of experiences, like an agenda?"

Roberts frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Instead of clarifying himself, Mulder turned to Jacobs. "So how're
Amanda and the kids?" he asked.

Jacobs answered amiably, and discussion of the case was dropped until
they were halfway through lunch at the local Bob Evans.

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Memorial Hospital
Wednesday
2:45 p.m.

Scully stripped off her suit in the tiny locker-room down the hall from
the autopsy bay. The discussion at lunch had made it apparent that
Roberts did not want them there, but that he expected to be kept abreast
of all their activities--they were clearly not on their own. Although
he'd been outwardly courteous, his attitude had been clear: he
considered it his case, and he wanted to be the one to break it open.

"What we could use from you, Mulder," he'd said, pointing at Mulder with
his marinara-covered fork, "is a profile. I'll be honest--I can't make
heads or tails of this M.O. This is certainly no textbook case. But if
you can get us rolling with just a rough outline, I think we'll be
fine."

"I've been thinking about it," Mulder had answered. "But I need to talk
to some of the victims' families. It could take a couple of days."

"All of the family members have been interviewed and the tapes are in
the file," Roberts answered. "I'll get all of that to you right after
lunch."

"That's good, but I'll still need to talk to them myself," Mulder said.

"Why? What do you want to ask them?" Roberts had asked.

"I'm not sure yet. I'll also want to visit the crime scenes."

Roberts had not bothered to disguise his irritation. "When I worked
with CRIG, profilers weren't field agents. This guy has killed roughly
every two weeks for the last month: time is not a commodity we have."

Mulder had nodded calmly. "I know. But, as you pointed out, this isn't
a textbook case. I'm going to need information which the textbook
doesn't tell you to ask for. I'm just as concerned about time as you,
but if we want the profile to mean anything, we have to do it right."

Scully knew Mulder was restraining himself, but she felt it was
important to point out that field work was far from foreign to them.
"My understanding is that we were called in because of our work with the
X-Files, of which this case is somewhat reminiscent, so I think it's
perfectly within our role to do the same sort of field investigation
we've been doing for the last five years."

Roberts ignored her. "Look, I know you only by reputation, Mulder, so
correct me if I'm jumping to conclusions. But if you're going to start
looking for ghosts or...or _aliens_...in this, then you're not going to
be much help."

Scully felt it was time to intervene. But before she could start,
Jacobs spoke. "Mark, no one can turn out a profile overnight. Mulder's
one of the best at what he does, and if his methods are a little
different, well, apparently they work. The X-Files have a very high
solvency rate."

Roberts only nodded curtly in a manner that clearly indicated that he
did not share the same definition of 'solution.'

Mulder had been right, she thought as she donned her scrubs. Roberts
was going to be a pain in the ass, and in more ways than one. Despite
his professional insults, he had almost immediately begun making obvious
advances after discussion of the case had been dropped in the car.
While Mulder and Jacobs talked, he'd asked her if she had any family and
what her husband did, feigning surprise when she informed him that she
wasn't married. She had pointedly asked nothing about him.

Jacobs seemed well-intentioned, but she was so far unimpressed.
Although he had been more receptive to Mulder than Roberts, even
offering to help follow up a suggestion Roberts clearly hadn't liked.

"Has anyone looked into other recent suicides in the area?" Mulder had
asked.

"Of course," Roberts snorted, as if it should have been obvious. "But
there haven't been many. And none of them appear at all connected. A
couple of slit wrists, a guy running his car in the garage, a teenage
girl with some sleeping pills, that kind of thing. Certainly no
suicides paired with homicides."

"How far back did you look?" Mulder asked.

"Since the killings began."

Mulder shook his head, putting down his fork. "We'll need to go back
farther than that."

"Why?" Roberts' tone was indignant.

Scully knew what Mulder was going for, and she suspected he was right.

"Because what we're seeing now looks more like an escalation than the
beginning of a killing spree," Mulder answered. "The short time periods
between killings, the increased violence....it's likely that there were
earlier incidents that were much more mild, and it was his taste for
those that created the appetite for what we're seeing now."

"So you're convinced of the third party thing too?" Roberts asked, a
little less sharply.

"I'm not convinced of anything yet," Mulder answered carefully. "But
I'd recommend you check all suicides back at least three years within a
fifty-mile radius."

"Three years?" sputtered Roberts. "And fifty miles includes Columbus,
Toledo..."

Scully jumped in. "He could have just moved to the area," she
suggested.

"I don't think so," Mulder answered, turning to her. "His--if there is
a 'he'--choice of locations suggests some familiarity with the region.
You don't think it's worth checking?"

"Yes, I do," she answered. "I'm just hashing out all the
possibilities."

"We've nowhere near hashed out all the possibilities," Mulder told her
with a smile.

She pursed her lips and regarded him with shared amusement. If there
weren't other people at the table, she would have rattled off every
extreme possibility she could think of--and there were quite a few--just
to prove she could. But she settled for fixing him with a cool gaze and
a kicking him lightly under the table.

"Ahem," Roberts began pointedly. "I don't know if I want to waste
manpower chasing down suicides from years ago. Even if this is an
escalation, we can look for the early victims later and charge him with
them after we've got him. We should focus all our efforts on getting
him first."

Mulder spoke carefully. "My profile will be incomplete without all the
victims."

Abruptly, Jacobs interjected, speaking to Roberts. "Look, Mark, I can
do get the suicide info. You don't need me to stand next to you while
you talk to the police chief. I'll call the departments and have them
assemble the files."

Roberts had finally agreed.

Scully entered the autopsy bay, sighed. Things went so much more
smoothly when they were on their own.

---------------------------------------------------

Garnet Plaza Office Complex
Wednesday
6:10 p.m.

Mulder stood still, brooding over the scene before him. He'd been here
almost an hour, but had found nothing so far that hadn't already been
observed by the agents and police who'd combed the place earlier.

The blood had been mostly cleaned, but a dark stain remained. If he
squinted, he could make out the outlines of the two bodies that had lain
in this room. Office furniture had been pushed back against the walls
as if to make room for the frenzy, but there were no overt signs of
struggle. Mulder had studied the report carefully--to all appearances
it had been a homicide-suicide. But how had the watchman so easily
subdued the construction worker, who had wound up handcuffed on the
floor, here. Ah, the handcuffs. That was important, Mulder felt. If
only because the police had been unable to find one small critical
thing--the handcuff keys. Had the construction worker been _brought_
here, already cuffed?

He was startled out of his reverie by the shrill ringing of his cell
phone. He reached for it, flipped it open. "Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me."

He ran his hand through his hair. "Whatcha got?"

"Not much." Scully's voice was professional and detached, but to him
she sounded tired. "It's pretty much like the report said. The
watchman--McClusky--was killed by a knife wound to the stomach and had
no other apparent injuries. The construction worker had been knocked
around quite a bit with a night stick. Judging from the blood spatter
pattern on McClusky's hand and arm, he'd been holding the stick--there's
a clearly bordered bloodless region across his right palm. His prints
are the only ones on the stick. The worker was beaten, then sodomized
with the stick, then his penis was almost completely severed by the
knife, also held by McClusky. The blade penetrated his testicles, and
judging by the stains, he bled for at least a little while before
McClusky killed him by slitting his throat."

Mulder winced and closed his eyes.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Don't take this personally--just a little constructive
criticism: if you're gonna tell a guy something like that, you gotta
work up to it a little more slowly, and give him a little time to
recover."

"Sorry."

"Yeah, okay. So. There was no evidence of McClusky having been in a
struggle?"

"No."

"Drugs?"

"Blood workup and tox screens won't be available until tomorrow. The
labs close down at 5 around here."

"Hmmmm. Okay."

"You found anything?"

"Well, I don't think there was anyone else here," Mulder said. "I'm
looking at where McClusky was lying right now. It's a little intriguing
that he didn't appear to stumble around after his stomach wound...but I
don't know what that means."

"That knife was in deep," Scully said. "Pierced his liver and kidney.
He was probably in enormous pain, and died relatively quickly. I'm not
surprised he wasn't walking around."

"Were there any hesitation cuts?"

"No, looks like he just plunged it right in. I think that, in forensic
terms at least, it was exactly what it looks like--a homicide, then a
suicide. Listen, I have to finish cleaning up and we're supposed to
meet Jacobs and Roberts back at the PD in an hour."

"Okay. I'll be there." Mulder disconnected and returned the phone to
his coat, frowning at the filing cabinets pushed up against the wall.

Something caught his eye and he moved over to the nearest cabinet. It
was tall, green, four drawers. At the top was a single lock for all the
drawers, on which he fixed all his attention. There was a key on a ring
fitted in the lock, but something else dangled from the same ring. Two
much smaller keys, with a different shape. Exhaling with satisfaction,
Mulder extracted them with a gloved hand and dropped them into a plastic
bag.

---------------------------------------------------

Motel 6, Lima
Wednesday
8:17 p.m.

The four agents had met for hamburgers at a greasy fast food place
called Cupie's, which Jacobs had insisted was a critical component of
local color. By the end of the meal, the only thing they had agreed on
was that they'd had enough of the local color.

They'd argued over whether this was truly an escalation, and whether
their third party was one man or more. It hadn't been the productive
sort of argument she was accustomed to with Mulder either--mainly just
sniping and derision. When Mulder finally admitted to his suspicion of
psychokinetic control, Roberts had gone utterly cold and detached,
apparently concluding that Mulder wasn't worth his time.

He had apparently made a different conclusion about Scully. Although
she'd backed up Mulder out of principle--if only Roberts knew how tame
his theory actually was--he had ignored her during most discussion of
the case, and when they returned to the hotel, walked with her to her
room.

He looked surprised when Mulder silently walked into room 37 and she
stopped at room 38, fumbling for her key. "I thought you two were in 36
and 37," he said. "I checked them out this morning."

"Yeah, the faucet in 36 was leaking, so I asked for a different room
before dinner," answered Scully neutrally, opening the door. "I'll see
you in the morning, Roberts."

"You can call me Mark." He put a hand on the door in a casual pose
which coincidentally prevented her from closing it. "So...you and
Mulder have been partners a long time."

"Yes," she answered.

"But he still calls you 'Scully?'"

"You can call me Dana if you want," she said, and though her words
should have been inviting, her indifferent tone was anything but.

Nonetheless, Roberts persisted. "I'm going across the street to that
little bar for a drink. Want to join me, Dana?"

"No thanks, I'm pretty tired," Scully answered coolly. "Good night,
Agent Roberts."

He looked like he was about to say something else, but she turned away
and closed her door before he could speak. She dropped her coat on the
bed and then tapped softly at the connecting room door, which opened at
her touch.

Mulder was hunched over her computer at the small hotel table, typing.

"You're writing already?" Scully was surprised.

"Just compiling some notes," Mulder answered. He smirked suggestively.
"Looks like 'Mark' wants to get to know you better, 'Dana.'"

She raised an eyebrow at him, chose to otherwise ignore the comment.
"Are you going to use my laptop all night? I need to finish transcribing
my autopsy notes."

"No, just give me fifteen minutes and I'll go back to pen and paper."

"All right, I'm going to take a shower then." She disappeared back into
her own room, closing the door but not shutting it.

---------------------------------------------------

808 Rte. 235
Wednesday
10:19 p.m.

"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease..." the incessant whisper was the only
sound in the darkened farmhouse.

A man crouched on the floor, curled into a fetal position. No one was
there to see him.

"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease--arrrghhhhh!" The man screamed and
rocked into a sitting position, clutching at his forehead. "No! I
can't! No! Please!"

_Finish. Finish what you started._

"They're onto me," he pleaded, gasping in ragged breaths.
"They...they..."

_Get them off of you, idiot._

"There are more of them, I saw. Please, Shelly, I can't do it, I'm
sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry don't make me do it...."

_Finish it._

The man screamed as if in horrible pain, clutching his head. "Leave me
alone, you goddamn bitch!"

The words were barely out of his mouth when he howled like an animal and
began seizing on the floor. His body twitched and jerked as he
whimpered, rolling from side to side. God. Please, stop....

Minutes passed, and the agony drained out of him, leaving him to sob and
cough brokenly on the floor.

"Please..." he whispered again.

_No more games. Finish it._

He knew there was no way out. Finish it all right all right. But there
wasn't time--too much too fast. He needed to distract the cops, get the
job done. Quick but quiet. Oh God.

---------------------------------------------------

Thursday
1:13 a.m.

Dana was sitting on the edge of a small twin bed, in which a small child
slept. She looked at the child, at her smooth features, the straight
brown hair spread across the pillow, the tiny, soft eyelids. She leaned
forward to press her ear to the child's chest, careful not to wake her.
She was suffused with wonder at the consistency of the hollow sound
within, the firm beating of that tiny heart. She timed her own breaths
to rise and fall with the child's chest, trying in every way to connect
every fiber to this little girl. Holding on for dearest life.

"Mommy?" the little voice whispered.

Dana felt a rush of guilt at having woken her, followed immediately by a
secret pleasure at the sight of those eyes, bright and trusting. She
smoothed her hand across the child's forehead. "It's ok, sweetheart, go
back to sleep. Close your eyes, now."

The child did as she bade, and, as is possible only for children, was
asleep again in moments. Her lips were parted slightly, and Dana
listened greedily for each intake of breath. She was amazed at her own
enormous capacity to love this small creature.

She heard a noise outside the door, which was slightly ajar. It did not
occur to her to wonder about the room she was in--a child's room--it
seemed intimately and automatically familiar. It did not occur to her
to fear the footstep or shadow she saw outside the door; in fact, she
knew who was there.

Melissa entered the room silently, eying the sleeping child by the
orange glow of the corner nightlight. She smiled at mother and
daughter, then bent down to brush her lips against the child's
forehead. She straightened and gestured toward the door.

Dana exited beside her, and the two were careful not to speak until they
had left the hallway and entered the kitchen. Margaret Scully was
sitting at the kitchen table, where cups of tea were steaming, one for
each of them. Dana sat down with the older women, who were now laughing
at a story Charles was telling--she saw him now in the corner. What
they were saying didn't register, it didn't matter, she understood what
they _should_ be saying. She understood that this was her kitchen, and
that her family was here. She couldn't see him, but she knew Bill was
in the living room with his wife and child. Was it Christmas? She
thought so, because she could feel a fire in the fireplace.

The phone rang, and she was afraid it would be the Bureau, calling with
another case. Not that that was bad. She loved her job. She saved
lives, she kept people safe, she stood on the side of justice, and
uncovering the truth was a matter of dispassionate analysis of clues,
evidence, data. But she didn't want to be called in tonight, because
her family was there tonight.

It wasn't the Bureau. It was just a wrong number.

There was the padding of little pajama-clad feet approaching from the
hallway. They had woken her up. Dana started to usher the child,
sleepy-eyed, back to bed, but Melissa laughed and shook her head. "Let
her sit up with us awhile, Dana, it won't kill her."

So she took the little girl onto her lap, and Margaret Scully warmed a
glass of milk in the microwave. Dana could feel the child's body close
against her own, and it fit so well, so perfectly well. She felt a hand
on her shoulder and looked up to see Bill, smiling down at her.

It all felt so good, so warm, so safe, so immediate. The back of her
mind was occupied with cases, yes, but trivial things too--a date, a
friend's birthday.

And when she woke, alone in a dark motel room, she felt as if she'd been
painfully torn from that place, leaving pieces of her skin behind. She
felt the tears on her face with her hands before her cheeks were aware.
Suddenly, helplessly, she began to sob brokenly.

Her tears disgusted her. Such obvious melodrama, Dana? Come on, are you
going to let your subconscious manipulate you in such a completely
_obvious_ way?

But these thoughts only made her cry harder. She bit her lip and buried
her face in her pillow, to silence herself, painfully aware that Mulder
was on the other side of the wall behind her head. It wasn't the
stereotypical soupy features of her dream that bothered her (surely her
subconscious was more creative?), but the intense memory of how that
child had felt pressed against her body. The clear image of Melissa
Scully, standing there right beside her. And the _feeling_, so
complete, of safety. She had forgotten what it felt like, to feel
secure. To not automatically check outside your window when you closed
the blinds, to not assume that anything and anyone you loved could be
dangled in front of you like a doll and then ripped away again at any
second. To believe that truth and justice existed, and that what you
were doing would unambiguously further such causes. Not to keep a gun
beside her when she slept.

She couldn't remember now what that felt like. Only that the sense of
loss she was left with was overpowering. She felt horribly, achingly
sad.

Dana Scully wept. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried,
certainly not like that. When she had no tears left, she sat up,
feeling broken and empty and certainly incapable of sleep.

She stumbled into the bathroom, blinked at the light, and splashed her
face with cold water. Her head was already beginning to hurt from the
tears--it _had_ been a long time--so she took two aspirin from her
suitcase. She looked at her face in the mirror, drawn and hollow, eyes
red and swollen. She shook her head, equally unable to shake the
feeling of sadness and the feeling of self-reproach at having been so
affected. She turned off the light and made her way back to the bed.

She sat there in the dark, leaned back against the headboard. She
considered waking her partner, but decided against it as soon as the
idea occurred to her. She knew she couldn't tell him about the dream,
and she certainly was in no mood to discuss the case. All she wanted
was his presence, but, she reminded herself, he was only a foot or so
away from her right now, on the other side of the thin wall. Let him
sleep.

She was reaching morosely for the TV remote when she heard him. No
words, just a long, low moan. She waited, listening. Again, louder
this time.

Over the years, she had saved him from his nightmares a dozen times, and
on the worst occasions had stayed beside him through the night. His
tortured dreams were not revelations she ever looked forward to.
Tonight, though, she was almost relieved by the excuse, and went quickly
to the door that adjoined their rooms. Her hand was on the doorknob
when it occurred to her that a moan did not necessarily demand her
presence. In fact, it might specifically mandate that she stay where
she was.

She heard the sound again, more urgent now. She let her hand fall. The
cries that had woken her on prior occasions had not been like this--in
fact, she would probably have slept through this on any other night.
All right, then. None of her business.

She returned to the bed, still wrapped in profound emptiness.

"No!"

At his cry she immediately rose and went through the door.

---------------------------------------------------

END 2/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 3 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

Mulder sat, panting, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. Dark,
shabby. Double bed, bright light in the window. Motel, obviously.
Where? He must have spoken aloud--or maybe he hadn't--but he distinctly
heard Scully's voice: "Ohio, Mulder."

He relaxed.

He saw her shape now, on the floor near the foot of the bed. "What are
you doing?" he said stupidly. "I had this dream, Scully..."

"I know," she said. She slowly stood up, sat opposite him on the bed.
She was wearing her blue silk pajamas, and her hair stood out from the
sides of her head in wisps. He couldn't see her face. He was aware of
the sheen of sweat on his body, his still pounding heart. The horror of
eight-year-old Samantha's blood-drenched body had not yet faded from his
memory, and he shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Are you all right?" Scully asked, leaning toward him.

He saw her face, dimly, in the light from the parking lot, and the
terror of his dream was immediately supplanted by a new terror.
"Scully!" he cried, reaching out to touch her upper lip. She was
bleeding.

She pushed his hand away and touched her face, looked without interest
at the blood on her fingers. "Don't worry, I'm okay," she said.

"What do you mean, you're okay?" he cried. "The cancer--"

She gave a small laugh. "No Mulder, it's not cancer. Nothing more than
an ordinary bloody nose. Remind me not to get so close to you next time
you're shouting in your sleep."

He was momentarily relieved, then realized what she was saying. "I did
that?" he asked in a small voice.

"Yeah, and knocked me onto the floor as well." She grinned and wiped at
her face with the back of her hand. "Always got to prove who's
stronger, huh?"

"That's not funny," he said, and meant it.

With a change in the set of her shoulders and tilt of her head, she
simultaneously apologized and forgave him. She stood and walked into
the bathroom. The light came on and he heard the sink running. He
pinched the bridge of his nose, swung his legs over the side of the
bed. He tried not to remember the dream, but the images were so vividly
burned upon his brain that he couldn't forget. He was accustomed to
nightmares, but no dream had ever seemed as real, had ever encompassed
all his senses so completely. Or wrenched his gut so forcefully.

Scully returned, her face clean, a moist washcloth in her hand. She sat
down beside him on the bed, pressed the cool cloth to his naked
shoulders and back to sponge away the sweat. It felt wonderful, and as
his breathing slowed he leaned forward, elbows on knees, letting her
touch silence the clamor of his mind.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked finally.

He sighed, considering. "Was I saying anything?"

"Of course. I heard you, that's why I came in. A lot of it was
nonsense, but..." The cloth paused against his neck, waiting. He sat
up and looked at her.

"Christ, you're still bleeding," he observed guiltily. "Lay down, tilt
your head back." He didn't like the feelings that rose unbidden at the
sight of blood on her face. The memories flooded back: the months of
waiting, the doctors, the constant re-diagnoses. And it wasn't
necessarily over, he reminded himself.

She licked her lip experimentally, then did as he said, stretching out
in the space he'd occupied that night. He took the cloth from her hand
and gently wiped the blood from her face, then put it aside and returned
his elbows to his knees, studied the floor.

"I heard you cry out for Samantha," Scully prompted softly. When he
still said nothing, she continued. "When I came in, you were sitting up
and your eyes were open. You weren't saying anything but you looked
really angry."

"Is that when I hit you?"

"You didn't hit me--just pushed me away. Just had my face in the wrong
place." He could hear her smiling in the dark, but he winced.

"I was...seeing myself, Scully. Seeing me--my body--killing her.
Stabbing her again and again, and she was screaming my name, and there
was so much blood...." his voice trailed off.

"Were you a boy or an adult?" A rational, matter-of-fact tone,
grounding him.

"I...I don't know."

"You said you were seeing yourself, though. Are you sure?"

He didn't answer immediately, trying to think.

"Do you not want to talk about this?" she asked, gently.

"No, it's not that...I just don't _know_, Scully. It's so strange that
I can't remember how I looked, because everything in the dream was so
vivid, more real than reality. I mean, not more real than _you_ are,
right now, but I think that's only because it's dark." He knew he was
being incomprehensible, but it made sense to him.

He heard her intake and release of breath, as if she were about to speak
but decided against it. After a few seconds, she only said, "I think I
understand."

And she did. He meant that the dream had shown him the world as he
really saw it, and unlike reality did not contradict his perception in
any way. Just as darkness and her words, which were mostly questions,
not content, could not contradict his perception of her, as reality
occasionally did in tiny was, subtle but distressing. She couldn't
explain that, though, because her words would be suspect even if her
intent was not. Even though he would know it wasn't true, he'd fear she
was suggesting he thought he'd killed his sister, and that he did not
sufficiently know her. Words were an obstacle, for the same reason that
reality so often subverted perception.

She also understood him, though, because in the dark, the border between
reality and the very vivid memory of her own dream was blurred. The
sight of her anguished partner had subdued some of her own dream-borne
emotions, but they still lurked at the back of her mind, well within the
realm of consciousness. She suspected they would be gone by morning,
remnants of the dark night.

He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair. With an air of decision,
he pressed his hands against the bed and propelled himself forward. He
took the washcloth back into the bathroom, blinking at the bright
light. The white cloth was splotched with Scully's blood, and the sight
disturbed him on several levels. He thrust it under the tap and rinsed
it out, squeezing it fiercely. When he decided it wasn't going to come
clean, he tossed it in the trash can. He didn't want it staring at him
in the morning.

He splashed his face with water and regarded himself in the mirror. He
looked haggard, tired, older. Older than what? Well, older than he used
to be, he supposed. Maybe even older than he should be. Scully, he'd
noticed lately, looked older than she should be. She was tired, too.
She hadn't gained back the weight taken by the cancer, and her cheeks
were sunken and paler than they used to be. He tried to remember what
she'd looked like when she first came to him in his basement office,
innocent and fierce. Now she just looked fierce.

He sighed deeply, shaking his head, and ran his fingers over the stubble
already apparent on his chin. The cheap fluorescent light and the
mirror had reminded him of the real world, and although he could still
see the horrible vision of his dream, it no longer seemed quite as
haunting. He'd dreamt of Samantha's mutilated body countless times
before, and this wasn't the first time his brain had cast him as the
mutilator. He knew what any second-rate psychologist would read into
that, but he knew--and Scully knew--that it was so much more complex.
How much of his life had been devoted just to chasing these dreams from
his head?

He glanced at the watch on the sink. He'd been standing there for
almost twenty minutes. He flipped off the light and returned to the bed,
relishing the darkness. As his eyes readjusted, he made out Scully's
form, lying on her side with her back to him. Had she fallen asleep
already?

Her pajama top was parted just slightly from her pajama bottoms. The
muted light from the parking lot revealed just a tiny dark line, the
lower curve of the tattoo. _That_ tattoo. In the dimness, its form was
indistinct, but he didn't need to see it to remember exactly what it
looked like. Almost involuntarily he reached out to brush his fingers
against that mark, recalling how he'd brushed his fingers against that
very same place nearly five years ago, assuring her that the bumps were
only bugbites. Now there was nothing he could assure her of; indeed,
the only assurances between them these days flowed unidirectionally
toward him. A wave of sadness and guilt threatened to overwhelm him.

She'd turned toward him at his touch.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "Were you asleep?"

"No, just almost," she answered. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he replied.

She nodded once, then turned back onto her side. She made no move to
leave. He waited long enough to be sure of her intentions, then made
his way to the other side of the bed, pulled back the covers.   "You
sure you want to sleep with me?" he asked, settling into the bed. "I've
been known to give people bloody noses." He paused. "Really, Scully,
I'll be okay."

Rather than play to his guilt, she deliberately twisted his words,
knowing he'd appreciate it more. "Mulder, the day I sleep with _you_ is
the day pigs fly."

He grinned; he couldn't resist. "Stranger things have happened.
Remember the flying toads?"

"No parachutes," she answered. She smiled in the darkness, but it was a
melancholy smile, not an amused one. The desperation and sadness
brought on by her own dream had resolved itself into a quiet funk. It
made her very certain that she did not want to go back to her own room's
pointed loneliness, though she couldn't tell him that. It irritated her
a little that he had assumed she was staying only for his sake. _Not
everything is about you, Mulder._ But in a way, his assumption was
reassuring as well. That this man, who had seen her weakest moments,
put so much faith in her strength was comfort in its own right.

Impulsively, she moved toward him until their bodies were touching and
felt his arm encircle her, pulling her head onto his shoulder. It felt
wonderfully comfortable and she felt the loneliness retreat beyond
memory. She could count on her fingers the number of times they had
slept like this, always with some excuse--cold, nightmares, injury--and
wondered, just for a second, what it would be like not to use an
excuse. But she knew that the very interdependence of their partnership
mandated otherwise--it was important to maintain at least some semblance
of independence and strength. Or so she believed.

He sighed comfortably and she envied his apparent lack of internal
debate about the rightness of where they lay. She felt his fingers
briefly caress her hair as he whispered, "Sweet dreams."

That was the last thing she wanted, but she was grateful for the intent.

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Motel 6
Thursday
6:53 a.m.

The soft knock startled him awake. He opened his eyes to a mass of red
hair, and the previous night came back to him in a flash. He could feel
his partner's warmth against him and was suddenly angry at whoever was
knocking on the door--for once, the Insomniac had been sleeping
comfortably.

She stirred against him and he heard her draw breath to speak. Quickly
he put his finger against her lips. Understanding, she sat up, breaking
the contact, and without a word slipped away into her room. To cover
the noise of the closing door, Mulder grumbled loudly. "I'm coming, I'm
coming."

He checked the peephole--Jacobs. Fully dressed. He undid the chain and
unlatched the door. "What?"

"Police have a suspect in custody," the older man said curtly. "I told
them we'd be there. You got fifteen minutes."

Mulder nodded. "I'll be right there."

"Great. I knocked on Scully's door, but she didn't answer. She a heavy
sleeper?"

"She can be." Mulder lied easily. "I'll get her up."

"Okay. Fifteen minutes."

Mulder shut the door. He suddenly felt energized, even though he was
certain they didn't have the right man. He tapped on the door to
Scully's room, pushed it open. He could hear the sink running in the
bathroom.

"You hear that?" he called.

"Yeah," she answered. "Fifteen minutes."

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Police Station
Thursday
8:15 a.m.

The detective ushered the four agents down the hall to the holding
room. One by one, they peered through the window set in the door.

"Bastard was caught right in the act," the detective was telling them.
"Had a knife to the kid's throat, his pants on the ground, ready to go.
The kid's mother called the police when she heard someone in the house,
but Haight here had locked the door to her son's room and she couldn't
see anything."

"He was trying to rape the boy?" Jacobs asked.

Mulder looked at Haight. The man was already dressed in blue prison
uniform, cuffed. A middle-aged man, staring sullenly at the floor.

"No doubt about it," answered the detective.

"I want to see the file," Roberts announced. He turned on his heel and
headed back for the police offices.

"What makes you think this has anything to do with the other murders?"
Scully asked coolly. Mulder restrained a smile. He knew that tone of
voice very well: the detective was as good as dead.

The man didn't know what he was headed for. "He has no alibi for the
nights of the murders. And he's connected to one of the victims--he was
John Stiltly's basketball coach--Stiltly, the kid with the rifle wound
in his stomach."

Mulder tilted his head. Better than he'd expected.

Scully wasn't impressed. "You took his prints?"

"Yes."

"Were they at any of the sites?"

"No."

"Was he wearing gloves last night?"

"No. But he had no alibi...."

"Does the man live alone?"

"Yes. His wife recently left him--we've been unable to contact her."

"What did he say he was doing at 4 a.m. of the nights in question?"

"Sleeping, but...."

"How many high schools are in Lima?"

"Two..."

"And he was the coach where Stiltly attended?"

"Yes."

"He had a thing for teenaged boys."

"Yes."

"Was the boy he tried to rape one of his students?"

"No, that boy went to the Catholic high school. It was his neighbor."
The detective was beginning to show signs of nervousness.

"It was his neighbor," Scully repeated. Mulder felt an enormous surge
of affection for his partner. "So, he broke into the house where the
boy and his mother were sleeping, made enough noise to wake the mother,
locked himself in the boy's room, threatened him with a knife and
started undressing."

"That's pretty much the story, yes."

"Pretty much?"

"Okay, exactly."

Mulder leaned back against the door, silent. Jacobs kept looking from
the small woman to the detective and back. For a moment, he looked like
he was going to speak, but Mulder caught his eye and shook his head.

"Did he threaten to kill the boy?"

"He told the boy he didn't want to kill him, that he wanted to be
friends."

"Was he wearing or carrying a black hood?"

"He had a nylon pulled over his head...."

"So, apart from the attempted rape, which was a feature of only the most
recent killing, there is absolutely no similarity between this man's
M.O. and that of our suspected killer, which is admittedly inconsistent,
but at least features two things: intelligence and wounds to the
stomach. And there's no evidence to place him at any of the scenes."

"Not yet," the detective answered boldly. "But listen, ma'am, there
just aren't that many killings around here."

Scully chose her words carefully. "And there were none last night. I'm
very sorry about the boy, but I don't see how this has anything to do
with our case."

"We're working on that, ma'am," the detective said in a slightly
strained voice.

Mulder stepped in. "Keep doing that," he told the man. "You've got
plenty to book this guy on. Keep going through the evidence. If you
find out anything more, let us know."

---------------------------------------------------

"Haight's a waste of time," Mulder announced once the four agents were
alone in a borrowed office.

"I'm not so sure, Mulder," Roberts said, studying the file in front of
him. "The connection to Stiltly is compelling."

"Coincidence," Mulder announced dismissively.

"Look," Roberts said, leaning back in his chair. "You're here to work
up a profile. Why don't you do that? We'll handle the investigation."

"Why do you want a profile if you think they caught the guy?"

"I don't know for sure that he's the one."

"He isn't," Scully said firmly. "The police are just eager to clamp
down on this, tell the press they've got everything under control. They
have absolutely no evidence."

There was a knock at the door. Jacobs answered it, spoke in a low voice
to someone outside, then came back in holding a paper. "The prints
lifted from the handcuff keys match those of the construction worker,
not McClusky," he told them.

Mulder clapped his hands together and inhaled.

Roberts looked puzzled. "You mean the man handcuffed himself? The
prints had to have been forced--someone could have held his fingers over
them."

"The smudging suggests he turned the key," Jacobs answered, reading from
the paper he held.

"Hmmmm," Roberts said. "Hmmmm. He must have been forced to."

"Still fixed on this Haight guy?" Mulder asked. Out of the corner of
his eye, he caught Scully's reproving look. _Play nice._

"He's all we've got," Roberts answered. "Unless you want to give us
someone else with that profile."

Mulder nodded. "I still think the clues are in the victims. I want to
split up and check them out."

"The profile?"

"It's building up here." Mulder tapped his head. "But I need to know
why he choose the people he choose. Even if it was Haight, we're going
to have to have a motive, right? The victims are important.

"I want to talk to McClusky's wife. Scully, can you check out the
nursing home director? Jacobs--I think you'd be good on the
banker--Vandesky. He doesn't have a family, but you should talk to
people at the bank, people he worked with. Look for anything out of the
ordinary. Roberts--"

"I'll be following up with Haight," Roberts interrupted. "Check out the
victims if that's what you have to do, but I'm going to follow the only
lead we have."

"Hopefully not for long," answered Mulder.

Sans Roberts, the agents confirmed their strategies and separated.

---------------------------------------------------

McClusky Residence
Thursday
4:37 p.m.

"I know this is very difficult for you, Mrs. McClusky," Mulder murmured
gently.

The woman was sitting on her sofa, clenching and unclenching her fist
around a tissue that Mulder had offered her earlier.

"I just don't know what else you want to know," she told him.

Mulder pinched the bridge of his nose. This had been a long day. He
hadn't been able to find the woman this morning, so had gone to talk to
the dead schoolteacher's family instead. Her two children were living
with their father's sister, and from the three of them he'd learned more
than he could have hoped for. The sister hadn't seemed upset enough,
and was religiously protective of the children. Sensing there was
something beneath her bravado, Mulder had asked a few pointed
questions. Although the police hadn't included it in their report,
apparently thinking it irrelevant since the schoolteacher was the
victim, the children's aunt insisted she'd mentioned her suspicions of
child abuse before.

She'd told him more, confessing that since her brother's death two years
ago, she'd suspected her sister-in-law had been guilty of neglect and
occasional physical violence with her children. She had threatened on
several occasions to call the authorities, but she'd always relented
when the beleaguered mother had chalked it up to stress, sworn it
wouldn't happen again.

The woman only let him speak a few words to the children themselves, but
they seemed to corroborate her story. Mulder made a few phone calls,
arranging for them to speak with social workers, and had resumed his
search for Mrs. McClusky.

He'd found her, but she wasn't being very helpful. Of course, she'd
just lost her husband, who'd been accused of sodomizing and murdering
another man before killing himself--Mulder felt deeply for her and knew
not to expect too much. But he couldn't shake the feeling that she
wasn't telling him something.

"Mrs. McClusky," he tried again, ever so gently. "I believe you've told
me everything that could relate to the case. I know this is very hard.
I think you should know, I don't believe your husband actually did what
he's accused of--I think he was made to do it by someone else. Do you
think that could be possible?"

She looked at him as if startled. "How? Did you find out there was
someone else there? The police said--"

"No," he answered, stopping her. "No, we haven't found much else
yet--it's just a suspicion. Not an unreasonable one, given the
existence of similar homicide-suicides in the area. Was there anyone
who had a grudge against your husband? Anyone he was angry at?"

"I already told you, he didn't have many friends. But no enemies, no."

"Is there anything else you can tell me, even things you don't think
relate to the case?"

She choked on a sob, but he didn't relent.

"It's okay to tell me, Mrs. McClusky. I want to help you."
Tentatively, Mulder reached out a hand, placing it very near hers on the
table. Not touching her, but letting her know he was there, that she
could touch him.

"Sometimes pain is easier when you talk about it," he told her. "It's
okay to talk about it."

She gave another sob and Mulder's heart twitched. He hoped he wasn't
manipulating this woman, knowing that in a way, he was. He should refer
her to a psychologist and leave her alone. But when she started
talking, he didn't stop her.

"I--I...it's just that...I don't feel sad enough. What Norm did, it
was...it was _horrible_, and I never thought he could've but...." She
trailed off.

Mulder finished for her. "But he had been violent before."

She seized his hand, met his eyes, nodded mutely.

He squeezed her hand. "I know it's hard to feel bad things about
someone who has died," he told her. "You think you should remember the
good things only, that you shouldn't corrupt his memory. And you think
others will think you're selfish for talking about the problems you had
with him, now that he's gone. But, Virginia, it's always okay to tell
the truth. It may not seem like it now, but in the long run, the truth
is always better."

She was looking at him so trustingly, tears bright in her eyes. He
almost couldn't hold her gaze, sick at what he was doing. _Please,_ he
thought. _Please don't let her feel betrayed when I walk out of here._

He asked the question he had to as neutrally as possible. "Virginia, did
your husband ever abuse you or your children?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice strangling on a sob.

Mulder breathed a sigh. "Often?"

"Pretty often," she answered. "Once, twice a week...this night job, it
was better. When he didn't come home at night, I mean."

Mulder was nodding. "I think you should consider talking to a
professional about this. I can recommend someone if you like."

She looked panicked. "I--I just don't think I'm ready....Agent Mulder,
are you going to put this in your report?"

"I have to note it," Mulder told her gently, squeezing her hand again.
"I might need to come back for a statement later. But I don't think
anyone will ask you to testify. I'm very sorry this had to happen this
way."

To his great relief, she withdrew her hand and straightened. "It's all
right," she told him. "You're right, it deserves to be said. I should
have said something a long time ago."

"It can be hard," Mulder answered. He backed up, breaking the contact
he'd been so afraid of forging. "Let me give you this number anyway--"

He was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He snapped it out,
answered: "Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me."

"Scully. Where are you?"

"At the nursing home. I've got something."

"I bet I know what it is."

"What?"

"Not now. I'll meet you back at the station."

"Okay." She disconnected.

Mulder gave Virginia McClusky the phone number he'd given the
schoolteacher's sister-in-law and headed for the door. On his way out,
he passed the computer in the living room. Something caught his eye.

"Are you left-handed, Mrs. McClusky?"

She looked bewildered. "Why?"

He gestured at the computer. "The mouse is on the left side. I was
just curious."

"Oh. No--I'm right-handed. I never touch that thing. Wouldn't even
know how to turn it on. Norm tried to get me to try it a hundred times,
but..." she trailed off, sniffled and dabbed at her nose with her
kleenex. "It's his toy," she concluded, regaining control. "He was
left-handed. Is that important?"

"Maybe," Mulder said. "The pathology work suggested he'd held the
night-stick in his right hand."

Mrs. McClusky looked hopeful.

---------------------------------------------------

End 3/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 4 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

Waffle House
Thursday
6:50 p.m.

Thursday's dinner should have been better than Wednesday's, since the
agents had something to go on now, but the new data only made the
arguments more heated, as Roberts sparred with Mulder over how to
interpret it. It didn't help that Roberts had more to back up his
Haight theory, and Mulder had still not produced anything resembling a
profile.

Scully was getting increasingly irritated. She had tried to interrupt
the argument several times to point out to the agents that the bickering
was pointless, that since they were lucky enough to have four people
working on this, they could have the luxury of pursuing two avenues.
That the argument was more about egos than refinement.

But each time she jumped in, even though she was trying to be neutral,
Roberts seemed to push her into defending Mulder. And that was a good
response; mostly, he just ignored her completely. She could tell Mulder
got the point, even agreed with her, but each time he tried to change
the subject, Roberts goaded him back into defending his psychokinesis
theory. She was surprised at him--usually he wasn't so easily
manipulated.

Jacobs was, as usual, quiet. His investigation of the banker Vandesky
had been as efficient as it was thorough; in a few hours he had
uncovered more than the local P.D. had in weeks, mainly because he knew
his way through a ledger. For there was where the mystery had been
uncovered: several million dollars of embezzled cash had been tracked
to Vandesky's overseas accounts. Scully had revised her opinion of the
man; although mostly silent, he was helpful, and he was clearly very
good at tracking white-collar crime. Previously, she'd been wondering
why someone so unassertive had made it into the Bureau at all, but
Jacobs' calling was clear. Why he was on a serial killer case was
anyone's guess. But he had loosened his tongue for fifteen minutes at
the beginning of dinner, summarizing his findings in a succinct and
damning manner.

Her own investigation had revealed a shadowy past for the nursing home
director as well. Since he had been the homicide victim, he had not
been investigated very extensively--questions had been limited to his
immediate family and his secretary. But a brief tour of the Grove Hill
Community and a few minutes' chat with several of its residents had
struck a familiar chord in Scully's memory. Everywhere were signs of
neglect and abuse; it only took a few interviews with staff members to
find someone ready to blow the whistle, provided she put it to his
lips. Armed with his confessions, she had confronted other staff
members, and as soon as it became clear to them that their own careers
were in jeopardy, they were no longer silent: the accusations fairly
flew. The director had permitted, encouraged the neglect, had lied to
family members, had threatened anyone who tried to correct the
problems. He had been an extraordinarily unpopular man, but he held in
his thrall thirty paychecks, which went to people whose jobs were in
actuality made easier by the director's tendency to give an order then
turn the other way.   In about nine hours, Scully had set in motion a
full investigation of the home, and left with promises that the new
director would be an expert in geriatric care reform.

And the compilations of suicides in the last three years had come in.

All in all, it had been an enormously productive day--not even Roberts
could contest that. And he didn't. But he did contest that their work
had advanced the case, while his own, he felt, had.

Through examination of Haight's finances and through a subsequent
interrogation, Roberts had linked Haight to one of the dead drug
dealers, from the first-murdered pair. Haight had been a longtime
buyer. Further, the man had a military background--eleven years in the
Marines, a Gulf War veteran. He was well-versed in combat and stealth
training. His bumbled rape attempt had been chalked up to the high
levels of cocaine in his system at the time, but Roberts pointed out
that the killer's apparent intelligence in the first several murders may
have represented what this man was capable of when sober. Haight, he
contended, had made a mistake and was caught.

Mulder had argued that there was a significance to the history of
abuse--financial, physical or neglectful--uncovered in each victim.
There was still the question of John Stiltly's--the boy's--innocence,
and the construction worker had not yet been examined, although he had
served two jail terms. Mulder was confident that investigations of
these two would reveal spotty pasts as well. It fit very well with the
black hood motif--the executioner only executed the guilty. Except in
this case, the executioner was guilty as well. How, he asked, did this
fit into Roberts' scenario?

Roberts only answered that it didn't have to--profiler clues like that
were merely clues, and once one had the suspect, clues were no longer
necessary.

Although Scully was beginning to be persuaded that Haight was more
worthy of attention than she had originally assumed, she felt the need
to remind Roberts that if he really wanted it to be Haight, he needed to
demonstrate a motive.   Roberts gave her a condescending smile, asked if
she'd like to help him work on that tomorrow. She replied that they had
better wait to make plans until after she had reviewed the suicide
reports with Mulder that night, a task with which, of course, Roberts
did not offer to help.

Mulder looked at his partner, trying to decide where she stood. She had
seen enough examples of psychokinesis not to reject his theory offhand,
but she had obviously been persuaded that Haight might be of interest.
That was okay with him, of course--if Roberts wanted to spend his time
pursuing that avenue, it kept the man out of their way. Yet she had
been so adamant that morning about Haight's irrelevance--surely she saw
now that the apparent connections were mere coincidence, surely she
could see through Roberts' posturing.

Finally, the bill came and provided the excuse to end the discussion.
Mulder noted with irritation how Roberts scooted ahead to open the door
for Scully. He even touched her back to guide her out, and at the feel
of his fingers she immediately jumped forward, to Mulder's immense
satisfaction.

Later, he would insist in all honesty that he had not meant anything by
it; in fact, had not thought about it at all. The gesture was so
automatic, so accustomed, that it couldn't have occurred to him to
examine it. Just after they had said their good nights in the hotel
parking lot, he had put his hand on the small of her back and turned her
toward their rooms, before Roberts and Jacobs headed for their
stairway. He'd only left his hand there for a few seconds, not even
long enough to reach their rooms. But he had no sooner dropped the
suicide files onto her hotel room table, preparing for a long evening of
review, than the door shut and she rounded on him.

"Mulder, I'd appreciate it if you didn't feel the need to assert your
ownership of me around Roberts," she said.

Mulder was caught completely off-guard. He looked at her. Her arms
were crossed, her head tilted slightly. She was very serious.

He was confused. "Do you mean just now in the parking lot?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't 'asserting my ownership'--Scully, where the hell did that come
from?"

"Mulder, that _is_ what you were doing, that's what you're always
doing."

Mulder made his face go cold. He should've expected this: they'd gotten
too close last night and now she felt she had to assert their distance.
She wanted to play this game? Okay. Fine. "I wasn't aware that you
disapproved of my touching you in public. I would have expected that
after doing that for nearly five years, you would have informed me had
you minded. It won't happen again."

She looked annoyed. "Mulder, I _don't_ mind. You _know_ that. I'm
just asking you to be more careful on this one case. I'm having enough
trouble trying to get respect from Roberts--it doesn't help to have you
practically peeing on me."

He snorted at her analogy. "What other people think has never bothered
you before."

"It's not what he thinks," she answered. "It's what he _does_ because
of what he thinks. He's bad enough as it is. Your possessiveness makes
it worse."

"I'm not being any more possessive than I usually am. You're my partner
and my friend. Don't I have that right?"

Her face didn't soften. "Yes, you do. I'm just saying it would help me
out on this case if you were more careful about this." She hesitated.
"And, besides, it felt different tonight. After he tried to usher me
out the door in the restaurant, your doing the same thing in the parking
lot felt like you were proving that you have privileges he doesn't, just
for the sake of proving it. Which, to him, underscores that I'm an
object or trophy, not an equal."

"Scully, I had no such intentions, and although you'd look pretty good
mounted on my mantle, I don't have one, so..." he trailed off--he wasn't
in the mood for humor. "But I don't understand why you seem to care so
much about what _this_ asshole, out of all the assholes we've
encountered over the years, thinks of you. Tonight at dinner--were you
helping him out hoping to get his respect?"

"Helping _him?_ I ended up defending you almost the entire time."

"Seemed to me you were starting to buy what he was saying."

"See, Mulder, there you go again. You make it seem like a
competition--that's how it felt at the table, too. I didn't buy what he
was saying, although I don't think we can completely rule Haight out of
the equation. I do think that Haight may keep Roberts out of the way,
which is good for both of us. But even though the jury's still out on
your psychokinesis theory, I was backing you up most of the time, even
though my real intentions was to shut you both up because you were going
nowhere productive. You were just raising hackles at each other."

Mulder felt immensely irritated and a little hurt, but he didn't have
the energy to continue. "Fuck this, Scully," he said dismissively.
"This isn't useful."

"You're willing to say that about _our_ argument, but not about yours
and his?"

Mulder tried to sound reasonable. "Look, we obviously have very
different interpretations of what happened tonight, but that doesn't get
us any further on this case and we've got a lot of files to sort through
tonight. You don't want me to touch you, fine, I won't touch you--"

"--I didn't say that--"

"--and we'll get through with this godawful case and get back to working
alone. Although I have to say I think it's pretty pathetic that after
all these years a two-bit chauvinist like Mark Roberts can fuck with us
like this."

She was unwilling to end the discussion.   "Mulder, it's not that I care
what he thinks, but there are certain realities we have to act on when
dealing with other people, and I just don't think we've ever come up
against something this extreme for this extended a period. It's natural
that, as a man, you're not going to see what I see here. I'm just
asking you to--this once--even though you disagree, take my word on this
and respect it."

Although his words were infinitely deep, his face and tone were cold.
"I always respect your word, Scully."

She nodded, understanding in her eyes although the irritation was not
dispelled. "I know that. Thank you. Where do you want to start in
these files?"

"I take it you're not going skiing in Vermont this weekend."

She sat down at the table and lifted the first folder. "Of course I'm
not. I canceled yesterday."

---------------------------------------------------

808 Rte. 235
Thursday
11:31 p.m.

The man was kneeling on the floor, hunched over and propped up on his
elbows. His head jerked from one side and then to the other, a
sporadic, painful motion that looked as if it might snap his neck. All
around the room were single sheets of white paper, crammed with clumsy
sketches of faces and buildings outlined by tight, sloppy handwriting.
The papers were intermixed with manila folders, which were stuffed with
papers as well.

He was scribbling now, writing very fast.

_i can feel it coming i am pushing oh god it hurts so much hurts so much
ohgodohgodohgod but kevin is holding my hand kevin my love he will help
me it will be okay. its inside me i cant believe its inside me, its
real, real, real. i never thought this far i never thought--_

_ohGODJESUSFUCKFUCKFUCK_

_its out! i cant see anything. but now i hear it wailing crying big
lungs oh god please nobody hear. kevin hands it to me and it is the
ugliest thing i have ever seen, covered in blood, all blue and red and
wrinkled. the twisted blue rope coming out of my privates, going into
its belly it is the most horrible disgusting thing i have ever seen._

_"you have to do it" he says. "have to. has to be you."_

_i know he's right, he hands me the plastic bag. its easier than i
thought it would be, just shove it inside, tie it off. so ugly that
thing i want to hide it, not hard at all. waiting waiting waiting, this
mess is coming out of me now and i have to ignore the bag beside me.
what a mess, what a mess. god i'm glad kevin's here._

_it takes longer than i would have thought. i open the bag, check for a
pulse. fuck, its still alive! kevin its not working!_

_hit it he says_ i look around desperate. golf club. smack. one smack
on top of the bag._

_oh yes its dead now._

_i know i should feel sorry, but all i feel is relief._

_dead._

The man dropped his pen and rolled onto his side, breathing hard. His
eyes popped open--they had been closed the whole time.

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Motel 6
Friday
2:22 a.m.

Mulder awoke with a start to find himself sitting upright in bed. He
rubbed the back of his neck. Christ--what was happening to him?

Mulder was no stranger to nightmares. Ever since his regression
hypnosis, and to some degree even before that, he had been tortured by
his dreams often, sometimes as frequently as once a week. Recently
though, in the months since Scully's cancer went into remission, he had
been sleeping better. Perhaps it had to do with her, with the fact that
he had finally acknowledged that she had replaced his sister as the
single most important thing in his life. She was always there--across
the office, across town, in the next room--maybe he didn't need to dream
anymore.

But he suspected that wasn't the reason. He suspected that his growing
doubts about what he'd believed for so long were undermining the power
of the nightmares. And he feared that they were undermining his passion
as well. From the few brief discussions they'd had about it, he knew
Scully feared it as well. Ironic.

Not so long ago, he might have postulated that the victims in this case
were abductees. Psychokinesis was mundane by comparison.

But his dreams these past two nights called into question his
assumptions about his recent freedom from nightmares. Tonight he had
dreamt restlessly of the case, and those dreams had fluidly merged with
a dream of a shack in Puerto Rico, a bright white light, a silhouette in
the doorway. He'd been rushed forward in time to his father's
apartment, the pool of blood on the floor. The bodies in the boxcar.
His sister, an adult. His sister, a child. The beehives, the cold
Alaskan arctic. Another train car in another place.

And Scully. The memories flipped and flashed as if engineered by
someone with little patience and a remote control. But she was there
through almost all of it--a sideways glance, a raised eyebrow, running
footsteps, the barrel of a gun. Occasionally, he heard her voice, but
she was never very coherent--he could only catch a few words, maybe a
sentence.

He saw her unconscious in a hospital bed. Twice he had wept over her
while she lay like this, oblivious. The first time had been years ago,
when she lay dying, after her disappearance and return. The second time
had been recently--too recently--she hadn't been unconscious that time.
Just asleep.

He saw her again, her prone form a barely living testament to his stupid
stubbornness. His gullability had placed her in that bed, had all but
given her that cancer. The guilt, the grief, the terror--it came
flooding back to his dreamself, and he found himself once again bent
over her hand, hoping his scream of rage and desperation was silent.

All of it was merely memory. Until she'd sat up and looked down at him.

Her eyes had been cold. He looked up at her, apology and need in his
eyes. But she'd only extracted her hand distastefully from his. "What
are you doing here, Mulder?" she'd asked him. "Get away from me."

"But, Scully..." he'd began, trying to stand. His legs wouldn't work.

"Get away from me," she'd hissed again. "Get out of here. Haven't you
made me suffer enough?"

"Scully, I'm sorry, I never meant--I never wanted--"

"Get out!" she'd cried, and the door had swung open.

A pale-haired, well-built man had burst into the room. Mulder gasped,
groped for his gun. The bounty hunter. Mulder couldn't stand up. He
looked desperately to Scully, willing her to run, to scream, to do
something, but she only watched him coldly, nonplused.

There was a soft hiss as the bounty hunter produced a stilleto-thin
blade. He grinned and bent over Mulder, raising his arm.

Mulder felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck.

And then he'd woken up.

He sat still in bed, breathing roughly. What the hell was happening to
him? It had been so clear, so vivid, so real--the terror and guilt were
still close to his consciousness.

He looked around the room apprehensively, needing to shake off the
peculiar feeling that he wasn't alone. Satisfied by his eyes if not his
heart, he turned on the light, headed for the shower. He needed to
clear his head.

---------------------------------------------------

Friday
7:15 a.m.

Scully and Mulder had shared a silent breakfast, having agreed to meet
Roberts and Jacobs at the police station. They had been up until 1 the
previous night, studying the hundred-odd suicide case files and
compiling long and short lists of potentially related incidents. The
myriad ways people could come up with to end their lives was surprising.

They had argued over the longer lists, but the short list had been easy
to agree on. Eight suicides by massive internal organ damage--wounds to
the chest, sides or stomach--all within the last two years.

They had avoided discussion of anything not related to the case. The
silence over breakfast and now in the car was not comfortable, but
oppressive. The implications of last night's accusations hung over them
like a fog. Even though Mulder knew what she had meant last night, he
couldn't help feeling she'd treated him like a child whose behavior had
been merely tolerated for years and had finally pushed her into
confronting it. And even though Scully understood how he could have
seen her attempts to intervene in the dinner conversation as
gratuitously conciliatory toward Roberts, she couldn't help feeling that
he was demanding she compromise her arguments to accommodate Roberts'
presence--in other words that she back him unconditionally. And though
she was more than willing to do that in every other aspect of their
relationship, she would not do it for his hypotheses.

Finally, though, Scully grew tired of the silence. "Did you sleep
well?" she asked, staring out the passenger window.

"Yes," he lied guardedly. "You?"

She must have heard the lie, because he could feel her looking at him.
"I didn't," she said carefully. "I had a terrible dream. I dreamt
Ellen was in a skiing accident and died of exposure before she was
found."

"Scully, if the cancellation of a ski trip is all it takes for your
subconscious to immerse itself in guilt, I'm more relieved than ever
that I wasn't raised Catholic."

Fuck, that hadn't come out the way he'd meant. He stole a sideways
glance at her. She had returned to gazing out the window; her
expression was unreadable. He considered apologizing, but knew somehow
that acknowledgement would make it worse. Thankfully, they had reached
the police station.

One of the secretaries approached them as soon as they entered, handed
several fax pages to Scully. Mulder looked over her shoulder--they were
the results of the tox screens and blood work-ups done on the two most
recent victims. He waited.

Scully scanned them slowly. Finally, she announced, "Well, nothing out
of the ordinary here. Except for elevated acetylcholine and adrenalin
levels, but that's not uncommon for episodes of violence."

"Did the earlier victims also have high adrenalin levels?" Mulder asked.

"Yes, but, again, that's expected," Scully answered, and he nodded.

Just then they were joined by Roberts and Jacobs.

"Okay, Mulder," Roberts said. "What'd you get from the suicide
reports?"

"Scully has the lists," Mulder answered, deliberately forcing him to
address her.

Her eyes slid sideways to rake over him once before she turned to
Roberts. Damn, he should know better than to try for naked
appeasement--it could appear condescending. But what the hell was he
supposed to do?

"The short list contains eight pretty plausibly related deaths," Scully
said. "Less than one percent of suicide attempts involve blows to the
torso by a gun or other object, but all eight of these do. And all
occurred within the last two years. Five occurred in Lima, one in
Findlay, one in Wapakoneta and one in Ada. All close."

"What do you suggest we do, Dana?" Roberts asked. He seemed genuinely
curious.

"We need to track down family members of the dead, ideally two per
person, and ask them if they believed their relatives were
suicide-prone. We also need to find out if they had anything in common,
if they were connected in any way. If we split up in pairs, it's a
day's work. Or did you plan to spend today on the Haight possibility,
Agent Roberts?"

"Actually, I had planned that," Roberts answered. "But the local P.D.
has several men working on that, so I think they could spare me."

Mulder felt an almost overwhelming disgust for this man. It had had to
practically jump up and bite him, but he recognized the suicides were a
clue. So he was suddenly conciliatory, agreeing to help out. Roberts
was a yes-man, no doubt about it. Let other people do the risky
part--come up with the ideas--then jump onto whatever bandwagon was
going the fastest and hope to reach the finish line first to bask in the
glory.

"Great," Mulder said. "Why don't you and Scully take all the in-town
cases except the most recent one, and Jacobs and I will do the recent
case and all the required driving."

Amazingly (or perhaps not so amazingly, given the suggested pairing),
Roberts agreed.

Scully didn't give him the look of ire he'd been dreading. He hoped
that meant she understood that he'd split them up because he trusted her
investigative eye over Roberts' and Jacobs'--he didn't want them to miss
anything. And pairing himself with Roberts would have been disaster.

They separated to begin hunting for addresses.

---------------------------------------------------

END 4/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 5 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

Atkins Residence
Friday
5:37 p.m.

Scully pressed the doorbell. She was tired and frustrated. Although
potentially productive, the day had been exhausting and, thanks to
Roberts, irritating. She had to admit, his interrogative manner wasn't
bad, but he had no instincts for working with a partner. He would cut
off her lines of questioning, or jump ahead to a conclusion she was
trying to draw out of whoever they were talking to. And he usually took
the lead without asking. After the first two interviews, she had
contented herself with drawing back, pacing the room, appearing to study
pictures on the walls while covertly watching the interrogation. She
would speak only when Roberts had finished, and hope he hadn't ruined
her lines beforehand.

Adaptation: a useful skill in any career.

They'd spoken to family members of three suicide victims, all of whom
had shot themselves in the chest or stomach. In only one case had the
death not surprised the family; all the others insisted that their
relative had led what they'd thought was a happy life. The medical
records of one of these revealed treatment for depression, which Scully
believed ruled him out as a possible homicide victim. The other
one--who could tell? She wasn't sure yet what they were looking for.
She had lists of details, though, details which could be compared with
other potential victims to find a common thread.

This was the last one. He hadn't been home earlier, though he had no
job. Jeremiah Atkins had been collecting unemployment for about three
months now, after he'd been fired from his job assembling brake
components at a local factory. His wife, Michelle, had died two years
earlier, of a knife wound to the stomach. The wound had apparently been
self-inflicted, although a preliminary investigation into the
possibility of homicide had been conducted, but no evidence had been
found. Atkins had testified that Michelle had been depressed for months
after her miscarriage, and Michelle's medical records had confirmed
this, although she had not sought treatment for her depression.

Scully pressed the doorbell again. She heard slow footsteps, and at
last a man opened the door.

She studied him. He was only a little taller than her and overweight.
He squinted as if he needed glasses. His hair was uncombed and greasy,
and he was dressed in Ohio State sweats.

"Mr. Atkins?" she asked.

"Yes?"

Roberts cut in, producing his badge. "I'm Agent Mark Roberts, and this
is Agent Dana Scully. We're with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,
and we were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?"

"Uhhhhhh..." Atkins looked from one to the other, leaned forward to peer
at Scully's badge. "I don't know nothing you'd want to ask about,
but....okay. Sure. C'mon in."

He stood aside and they entered. It was a decently sized rural
farmhouse, about a hundred yards off the road. The living room was
sparsely furnished, but the house was large enough that it hinted at a
past luxury.

"You've got quite a tract of land here," Scully observed, taking a stand
behind the couch. "And a nice house. Why don't you farm this land?"

"Oh. My dad did. But now...government pays us--er, me--to keep the
plow off the land. Keeps the market prices up and stops erosion and
stuff. You know. Environmental stuff."

"Hey, what a deal, huh?" Roberts responded. Scully could feel him
sliding his eyes to her, hoping to exchange a glance of shared
amusement, but she didn't look at him.

Roberts made himself comfortable on the couch. "Have a seat, Mr.
Atkins," he directed.

Atkins ambled over to a chair, the only other place to sit in the room.
He stared at them silently, chewing on the corner of his upper lip.
Scully watched him, letting Roberts take the lead.

"So, Mr. Atkins. I'm afraid we have some rather personal questions to
ask you. Things which might bring up some painful memories."

To Scully, it seemed Atkins' eyes widened. His fingers, clasped in his
lap, tightened. She frowned. But Atkins still didn't speak.

"We--ah--we'd like to ask you about your wife, Michelle."

"She's dead," Atkins said. He looked at Scully.

"Yes, we're very sorry," Roberts answered. "I know this might be
difficult to talk about, but...was Michelle's death...a surprise to
you?"

"Ummm...no. She'd--she'd had a miscarriage. Fell down the stairs.
Ever since, she'd been really depressed, and I knew she was upset but I
didn't know how upset. I should've known, though. I should've seen
it. Looking back."

"Um-hum," Roberts said. "Listen, I have to ask you this--was Michelle a
frequent user of drugs or alcohol?"

"Look, what is this about?" Atkins said suddenly. He wet his lips. "I
mean, it was a suicide, two years ago."

Roberts chose his words carefully. "Well, we're here investigating a
murder, Mr. Atkins. We just needed to do some checking, that's all.
Michelle's name came up on a list."

"A list of what?"

"Of potentially related deaths," Roberts admitted. "We're talking to
lots of people, actually. It may be nothing. It's probably nothing.
But we have to ask, you understand."

"Oh." Atkins hesitated, staring again at Scully. "What murder are you
talking about?"

"I'm afraid we can't discuss that," Roberts answered. He flashed an
expert we-sympathisize-but-we're-in-control-here smile. "Now, if I
could just ask you a few more questions...."

Scully wandered into the hallway, listening to Roberts go through the
questions they had agreed on--what organizations Michelle had been
active in, who she knew, where she worked, where she'd grown up. She
listened to Atkins' answers for any similarity with the other interviews
she'd been through that day. But Roberts was taking notes, and so most
of her attention was on the home itself.

She didn't know what she was looking for. But something was telling her
that this man knew something. Ever since their arrival, he'd seemed
nervous, and it had taken him too long to ask why FBI agents were
ringing his doorbell. Of course, it could be that he'd killed his wife,
and while that was of course worth investigating, it wasn't the business
of the FBI. But something about the way he'd stared at her--

God. She'd been around Mulder for too long. She frowned. Mulder.
They had enough to deal with on this case without having to deal with
each other. She was anxious to get this case behind them, and if she
thought Roberts and Jacobs were at all competent, she would have
insisted Mulder just write the damn profile so they could get out of
there.    But.

She wandered into the kitchen, still within earshot of the two men. It
was an small, older kitchen, so immaculately clean that she wondered if
he used it. There was a piece of paper sitting on the kitchen table.
Curious, she walked over to examine it.

It looked like a letter--a page of cramped and furious writing, without
coherent paragraph breaks but with plenty of line breaks.
Amazing--there were still some people in the world who hadn't discovered
email yet. Scully had to bend over and squint to be able to read it.
She scanned a few sentences from different parts of the page.

_tell him to go to his room and wait for me i'm already getting hot..._

_...upstairs, wait until he's watching me to slide my belt off he looks
so scared and i am so hard now..._

_his little ass is clenched up, waiting for me he's whimpering i raise
my arm and..._

_he's screaming pleaseplease and i'm touching myself i'm so hard..._

"Agent Scully?"

Roberts' voice from the living room startled her out of her horror. She
thought quickly. There was certainly no evidence that this had anything
to do with the case. This man had no children, although that certainly
didn't mean he wasn't a child abuser. And it wasn't illegal to write
pornography in one's own home. She left the paper on the table and
walked quickly back to the living room.

Atkins was staring at her nervously. Roberts was looking at her
expectantly. Damn it--if she'd been with Mulder, he would have kept the
questions going until she returned. Actually, if she'd been with
Mulder, she'd probably have been asking the questions while _he_ checked
the place out--playing this part wasn't so bad.

"Are you ready to go, Agent Scully?" Roberts was asking.

There was something else. "Mr. Atkins," she said, speaking to him for
almost the first time. "Do you live alone here?"

He looked visibly startled by her question and she felt a twinge of
satisfaction.

"I--yes. Yes."

"How long have you lived alone, Mr. Atkins?"

"Since Michelle...died..."

She nodded. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Atkins." She didn't
apologize for the disruption--she wasn't sure she could stomach
apologizing for anything to this man. This man who wrote about beating
little boys and who had in all likelihood killed his wife.

Thankfully, Roberts waited until they were in the car to ask her. "What
was that last question about?"

"What?"

"About whether he lived alone."

"Because when we first arrived and you asked him about the farm, he
said, 'The government pays us--me--to keep the plow off the land,'" she
said patiently. She restrained a smile. Now she knew how Mulder had
felt years ago. Once it would have been her asking for an explanation.

"Oh. He probably just meant his wife."

"She's dead."

"Yeah, and he probably killed her. I don't know why the local PD didn't
catch that."

"There was an investigation," she reminded him. "There probably wasn't
enough evidence. But I agree--his nervousness was very suspicious."

"But it still has nothing to do with this case," Roberts observed.

Scully frowned. Roberts drove in silence for a few minutes.

"You know," he said finally. "You're pretty good at this stuff."

Scully gave him a Look, even though she knew it was wasted on him--he
wouldn't understand it.

---------------------------------------------------

Denny's
Friday
7:17 p.m.

The four agents managed to get through an entire meal that night without
bickering. Among them, they had narrowed the list to five probably
related deaths and had directed a few of the police detectives, who had
uncovered nothing new about Haight, to look into these suicides. In two
of the five cases, a history of abuse had already been uncovered. This,
Mulder believed, was the killer's trademark; he was confident that
investigation of the other "suicides" would reveal criminal pasts as
well.

"So you'll be working on that profile tonight?" Roberts asked Mulder
pointedly.

"I will," Mulder answered. "But I don't think you'll like it."

Roberts blew out air loudly, knowing Mulder was thinking of
psychokinesis again. "Look, the suicides thing was a good idea. But it
suggests more strongly than ever that we're dealing with an everyday
serial killer. He's just particularly clever."

"In the case of Danny Tyko's 'suicide,' the man was in a motel room with
all the windows and doors locked from the inside," Scully interjected.
"In none of the cases--paired or single deaths--was there any sign of a
third party's presence."

"Like I said," Roberts responded patiently, "he's clever. Do _you_
believe this psychokinesis crap, Agent Scully?"

Scully felt Mulder's eyes on her. "I can't rule it out," she said
carefully. "In fact, given the evidence we have, it's the most
plausible explanation. And I've seen enough to know it's possible."

God, she had come so far in five years. Suddenly, she and Mulder were
on the same page. She suspected, though, that they were still in
transition, that the things that moved them hadn't stopped changing.
Not yet.

"What about you, Alan?" Roberts asked. "Don't tell me _you_ buy this
too."

"I don't know, Mark. I...I don't know."

Mulder bit his lip. "Look, I'll write the profile. I'll tell you right
now, Haight won't fit it. But can we agree on this?--Our killer sees
himself as an arbiter of justice--he is judge, jury and executioner."

Roberts nodded. "Didn't take a top profiler to figure that out by now."

"Okay," Mulder replied. "Now, can you explain to me how our UNSUB
_meets_ his victims, who have no connections to each other except that
their criminal histories? And how, once he's met them, he knows their
pasts? In most cases, the police weren't able to figure that
out--families or coworkers hadn't reported it. And how does he do so
well at making it look like suicide?"

"That's your job," Roberts told him dismissively. "Look, you work on
that tonight. Unless you come up with something that gives us a _lead_
tomorrow, Jacobs and I will continue pursuing Haight. You and Scully
can work with the P.D. to go through past records looking for someone to
fit your profile. But if we have to start giving E.S.P. tests to our
suspects, I'm not gonna be happy."

Scully waited until they were alone in the car to tell Mulder about the
page of writing she'd found in Atkins' house.

"Hmmmm," Mulder said when she'd finished. "You said it was
handwritten?"

"Yes. With very poor punctuation. I don't know, it was probably just a
porn fantasy. I imagine some people write things like that. But it
seemed...strange...the way it was written. My first reaction was just
disgust, but now that I think about it more...." She trailed off.

"What?" Mulder prompted.

"I don't think it looked like pornography." She was furious at herself
for blushing, hoped he couldn't see it in the dark.

Mulder said the inevitable. "And you would know that how, Scully?"

She could hold her own. "Too bad I didn't bring it back to you, Mulder,
for your expert analysis."

"I can't recall that my tastes have ever run to beating little boys," he
said lightly, but there was a hint of warning in his voice.

It was clear to Scully that both their nerves were still raw from last
night's fight. So she cut to the chase, speaking with clinical
detachment. "The narrative was from the point of view of the abuser,
but it didn't waste details on what the man was _seeing_--it described
what he was _feeling._ Things like, 'I am watching him and I am hard.'
But I would expect something written for pornographic pleasure to
describe what the boy looked like, what he was doing. And there were no
classic pornographic descriptions of size or texture or...things like
that." She finished awkwardly.

Thankfully, Mulder didn't make a sarcastic comment. "It was like a
memory, you mean. Written by the person who did it, not for the person
reading it."

"Yes, I guess so," she agreed. "The abuser's memory."

He was looking at her significantly. "What?" she asked, irritated.

"You said, 'abuser,'" Mulder replied. "For the second time."

"Well, that's what he was. The man in the story, at least."

"Yes."

Oh. How had she missed that? The page had described the actions (and
motivations) of a violent child abuser.

"When did Michelle Atkins die?" Mulder asked.

"March of 1996," Scully answered. "Three months after a miscarriage."

"How did she miscarry?"

"She fell down some stairs in her house."

"Did she fall, or was she pushed?"

She saw where he was going. "Are you suggesting that Atkins is an
abuser? A killer? A--what?"

"I'm not sure," Mulder answered, pulling into the hotel parking lot. "I
think I want to meet him, though. What was it you said and Roberts
dismissed?"

She snorted. "Which part?"

"About him living alone."

"Oh. Just that he stumbled, said 'us' instead of 'me.' And reacted
when I asked him why he'd said that. Roberts thought it was just that
he wasn't used to his wife being gone. It's a little thing, I don't
know."

"Hmmmm." Mulder said.

They got out of the car just as Roberts and Jacobs pulled in.

"Profile!" Roberts called across the parking lot.

Mulder gave a thumbs-up signal, then turned to face Scully, his back to
the other car. He gave a twist of his lips, a grimace of shared
amusement over Roberts' behavior and his own restraint, and Scully
returned it, feeling better.

---------------------------------------------------

808 Rte. 235
Saturday
12:14 a.m.

The man was crouched on the floor, among the scattered papers and manila
file folders, sketching furiously. The picture was clumsy but
recognizable. A woman with long wavy hair and a black ribbon tied
around her neck. Beside the drawing, cramped words were apparent,
although only a few were legible.

_...died for me..._

_...files, files with my name my name..._

_...ohmygod..._

_...mulder..._

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Motel 6
Saturday
4:18 a.m.

A violent banging noise woke Scully. It had stopped when she opened her
eyes, and at first she thought someone had been knocking at her door,
but no, it had come from behind her. Mulder's room. Now she could hear
him walking. His pace was hurried, urgent. There was another bang--she
recognized it as the sound of a drawer being opened and slammed shut.
What was he doing?

She felt heavy with sleep and the memory of her dream, which was vivid
in her brain even though it hadn't woken her. Nonetheless, she hauled
herself out of bed and knocked on the adjoining door. "Mulder?"

He didn't answer for a long time. Then, "Go away." His voice was rough
and low.

"What are you doing, Mulder?" she called.

"Going home," he answered, still rough.

"_What?_" Scully turned the handle and it wasn't locked so she
entered. In a second Mulder was towering over her menacingly.

"I _said_ to go away," he hissed.

Scully felt confused. Was she still dreaming? She studied his face--it
was angry and taut. Beyond him she could see his suitcase open on the
bed, his clothes crammed into it, unfolded.

"What happened, Mulder?" she asked calmly. "Where are you going to go?"

"I _told_ you--" he began through clenched teeth. Then he stopped, his
face went blank. There was a long pause, then his eyes lit up. "You
should come too. Get your things. We have to leave."

"Mulder, what the hell are you talking about?" Scully demanded.

"We have to go. We have to leave. There's something we forgot to do."

"What did we forget? Where?"

"I mean, I forgot it. I can't tell you. But you have to help me, you
have to come with me."

"Mulder, you're talking nonsense." Scully attempted her best dismissal
under the circumstances--she felt much less powerful when clad in
pajamas. But then, Mulder was only wearing boxers. "You're not even
dressed."

Mulder looked down and swallowed, then went to his suitcase, pulled out
a pair of jeans. Hurriedly, he put them on.

"_Mulder,_" Scully said firmly. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell
me what's happening. And you're not going anywhere either."

Instantly he was towering over her again, gripping her upper arms
fiercely. "Don't you _dare_ tell me what to do!" he shouted.

"Be _quiet_," she hissed, squirming to get away from him. He didn't
release her. Was he drugged? "What have you eaten in the last few
hours?"

"None of your fucking business!" he shouted again, shaking her.

"Let go of me!"

"Don't _fucking_ tell me what to do!  Get your things! Now!" He

punctuated the last word with another shake.

"Mulder, let go," she said steadily, trying another tack. "You're
hurting me."

He shoved her into the doorjamb, releasing her. "Fine, if you won't
come, I'll go." He was still shouting. "I have to do what I forgot!"

For a moment, Scully had feared that this was not Mulder before her, but
she was increasingly convinced it was a drugged Mulder. But how could
anyone have gotten to him? And, more importantly, why?

She had to stop him until it was out of his system. She didn't think
she could shoot him (again), but if she had to....

She turned back to her own room, went for her gun and the handcuffs in
her coat. When she came back, he had closed the suitcase and was headed
for the door. She ran after him and seized his arm just as he opened
the door.

Roberts and Jacobs were both standing there, mouths open, guns in hand.
A few other people in bathrobes had gathered behind them.

For an instant, Scully considered what this must look like: herself
dressed in silk pajamas holding onto one handcuff clasp, the other
attached to a half-naked Mulder's arm. But she dismissed it quickly and
clamped the other cuff to the arm of the chair nearest the door.

Mulder turned to her with a look of pure hatred, raised his free hand as
if to strike her.

But Roberts was right behind him. He yanked Mulder's arm back at the
elbow and slammed a fist into the side of his head. Mulder sagged onto
the floor, his chained arm twisted awkwardly behind him.

Scully dropped to her knees immediately and leaned over him, opening
each eyelid and checking the pupils. Then she leapt to her feet and
turned on Roberts. "Get out," she said icily.

Roberts looked down at her. At least he was wearing a trenchcoat over
his pajamas. "Agent Scully," he said firmly. "I don't have anything
against you personally, and I think it's a shame that you don't realize
you could do better than _this_"--he gestured at Mulder--"both
professionally and personally. But I want at least _him_ on a plane to
D.C tomorrow, and I'm filing a complaint."

"You do that," Scully snapped. "But Mulder's not going anywhere. I
can't explain his actions tonight--yet.   But I assure you that he
should not be held responsible for them. Now, _get out._"

"You sound like a battered wife," Roberts told her with a smirk and a
sideways glance at the adjoining door. "That man is _crazy,_ Dana, and
I would've pegged you for smart enough to recognize it."

"Get _out_," Scully repeated. Jacobs, who had been clearing onlookers
from the doorway, entered the room.

"I think he should be locked up," said Roberts. He started to move
toward Mulder's inert form, but Scully blocked his way.

"I'm not going to repeat myself, Agent Roberts," she said firmly. "I'll
take care of him."

Jacobs cleared his throat.

When no one moved, Jacobs surprised them all by speaking. "Mark, go
back to bed." His tone was firm.

Roberts turned toward Jacobs with a look of shock, but after a moment's
hesitation, he went to the door. As he exited, he turned back to Scully
with a scathing glare. "I want you _both_ off this case. Good fucking
riddance. You go back to Washington and tell them you did all you
could, and everybody's happy. Otherwise, I'll let your supervisor know
about your sleeping arrangements." He slammed the door.

END 5/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 6 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

After Roberts had left, Scully turned slowly to Jacobs.

"He can't take you off the case," Jacobs told her. "And as for his
blackmail attempt--if he does start blabbing that story I'll tell them
that door was closed and locked."

"You don't have to tell them anything, Alan, but thank you," Scully said
with a sigh. "Listen, I suspect Mulder's been drugged somehow--I want
to draw some blood and have it analyzed. Can you do me a favor and take
a sample to the hospital? They'll be able to prepare it correctly to be
sent to the lab."

"Of course, Dana. Do you have a syringe with you?"

She nodded. "In the car. Stay with him a moment." She went to get her
shoes and car keys.

When she returned, Mulder was sitting, his hand still chained to the
chair. Jacobs was on one knee in front of him, a hand on his shoulder.
Mulder looked groggy but calm.

Scully knelt in front of him. "Are you okay now, Mulder?" she asked
him. "Look at me." She perfunctorily checked his pupils.

His face twisted in confusion. "I have absolutely no idea why I'm
chained to this chair or why my head feels like it had a ton of bricks
dropped on it, but otherwise I think I'm okay...."

She put her fingers at his neck, checking his pulse. "You were storming
around the room shouting that you had forgotten something and that you
were going home to get it."

"Was I?"

"I handcuffed you because you were insisting on leaving, and you
definitely weren't...yourself." She fumbled for the key, unlocked him.
He rubbed his wrist.

"Roberts knocked you out, Mulder."

"How did he get here?"

"You were shouting. He heard you and came over."

"Why'd he hit me?"

"I think he thought you were about to hit _me,_ Mulder."

"I wasn't, was I?"

"I don't know," she said dismissively. She held up the syringe. "I
want to take some blood for a tox screen. Although it's looking less
likely that this was drug-induced, if you're out of it so fast."

"I don't think it could have been," Mulder answered. "I haven't eaten
or drank since dinner, except for a glass of water before bed,
and....was my door locked?"

"I don't know." She gripped his arm, opened an iodine gauze pad. As
she began to scrub, Mulder seemed to realize for the first time that
Jacobs was in the room.

"Hi, Jacobs," he said.

"Hi."

He flinched as the needle entered, looked away as the tube filled with
blood. Scully removed the needle, guided his free hand to the gauze
pad, and extracted the tube. When she'd capped it, she handed it to
Jacobs.

"Carry it in that ice container," she told him. "And get there as fast
as possible. It's best if the blood isn't clotted."

"Will do," Jacobs replied.

"Alan?" Scully said as he reached for the door handle. He turned back.
"Thanks." She flashed a smile of genuine gratitude.

He grinned, obviously pleased, then exited.

Mulder was still pressing the gauze to the inside of his elbow. Scully
reached for it. "It's not going to bleed anymore. Here, I have a
band-aid."

He watched her apply it. Then she got up and went for the bathroom.
When she returned, she had a wet cloth, a glass of water, and two white
pills. "Take these," she told him, extending her hand.

"What are they?" he asked suspiciously.

"Excedrin."

"'My doctor says 'Excedrin,''" Mulder quipped, imitating the
commercial. Scully looked at him quizzically, missing the joke. Mulder
shook his head dismissively, a move he immediately regretted.

Scully sponged the iodine off his arm. "So you really remember
nothing?" she asked.

"All I remember is going to bed and waking up on the floor, handcuffed
to a chair, with a really sore head. And that last part hasn't
changed."

"Here, lie down on the bed." She helped him up, and he obediently
stretched out over the rumpled sheets. He closed his eyes and she
folded the cloth, placed it across his forehead.

"Was I really going to hit you?" he asked finally.

"You were being pretty...forceful," she answered carefully. Her arms
were still sore and undoubtedly bruised, but there was no need to tell
him that. "And when I cuffed you to the chair you looked pretty angry."

"Maybe we should be locking that door."

"What, so I have to chase you down in a car?"

He changed the subject. "Where's Roberts?"

"I told him to get out of here after he hit you. He said he wants us
off this case, but he seemed to recognize he didn't have the authority
to dismiss us, so he told us to leave voluntarily, threatening to tell
our superiors we're sleeping together if we don't."

Mulder sat up. "That's exactly what someone wants, Scully, that's what
this is about!"

"What--someone wants to discredit us?"

"No! Well, sort of--someone wants us off this case, which means we're
close to...something...."

Scully frowned. "You think this has something to do with our enemies?
How would they have gotten to you? And what could this case possibly
have to do with them?"

"I don't know, but we've bumped into their little science projects
before.... And if anyone could get to me, with a drug or whatever, it
would be them. A common criminal wouldn't know enough about the
agency--about _us_--to have staged this. Scully, I believe you about
Atkins--I think _that's_ where we got close--everything else has been a
dead end. But he only met you and Roberts. Why would he or anyone he
talked to target me?"

"He could've found out you're my partner..." Scully said uncertainly.
"But, Mulder, it doesn't have to be about discrediting us. You were
acting so strangely, incoherently. First you told me to leave you
alone, then you were telling me to get packed and leave with you because
you needed my help, and then you were yelling at me not to tell you what
to do. It wasn't very...orchestrated."

"It wouldn't have to be, if it was just some drug."

"I can't think of any drug that would exit your system just because you
were punched in the head."

"Well, what about some kind of hypnotic suggestion?" Mulder sat up,
reflected for a moment. "Come on, Scully, we can't answer this now. If
it _is_ them, they'll be cleaning up and disappearing as fast as
possible. We've got to be faster. Let's go back to Atkins' place."

"Mulder, it's five in the morning! On a Saturday!"

Mulder was already pulling on a dress shirt from his discarded
suitcase. "Well, we can wait a few hours to wake him up. Maybe. But I
want to look around his place, it's better if he's asleep anyway."

Scully sighed. "Okay, I'll get dressed. What about your head?"

He grinned at her, knocked on his temple. "Nothing sounds loose in
there."

"Nothing that wasn't already, you mean," she answered before she left
the room.

---------------------------------------------------

808 Rte. 235
Sunday
5:25 a.m.

They parked the car on the main road and walked up the long driveway in
silence. When they neared the farmhouse, Mulder began walking off to
the right, so Scully took the left.

Mulder kept the beam of his flashlight as low as possible, pointed at
the foundation of the house. He wasn't sure what they were looking for,
but there was a feeling about this place. He was sure there was
something to be found.

He stood on tiptoe to peer into the kitchen windows. All was dark, but
he could make out the counters and refrigerator--nothing out of the
ordinary. He rounded the corner of the house and presumed her was
moving back toward a family room of some sort (the bedrooms were
probably on the top floor). Then he noticed the barn. He was halfway
across the field when Scully's call drew him back.

"Mulder!"

He turned and raced back to the house, ignoring the awful pain in his
head perpetuated by the pounding of his feet. All manner of horrible
scenarios raced through his head. He reached the front porch, called
out her name, heard her answer from inside. He tried the door--locked.
He slammed his shoulder into it as hard as he could, but it didn't
budge. He drew back for another lunge, and just then the door was
opened. He lunged straight onto the floor, and looked up to see Scully
staring down at him, holding the door.

"Sorry," she said, extending a hand to help him up.

"Why'd you call?" He rubbed his arm, anticipating the new bruises.

She was already moving away from him. He followed her into the next
room and saw the object of her concern. A man was lying sprawled on the
living room floor, his mouth hanging open. He looked very pale. She
dropped to her knees beside him, checked his pupils.

"Is that Atkins?" he asked.

"Yes."

"So we're too late."

"No--Mulder, he's alive. He's just unconscious."

Incredulously, Mulder dropped to his knees beside her and felt for the
man's pulse. Scully was now running her hands through the man's hair.
"I don't feel any bumps," she said. "I'm calling an ambulance. Do you
see anything around here that could have been used to knock him out?
Check around for drugs or alcohol. And look in his medicine cabinet for
insulin."

Mulder stood and looked around the room. It was sparsely but pleasantly
furnished, and nothing looked out of place. There were certainly no
blunt objects lying around. He frowned and began exploring the house.
Distantly, he heard Scully's voice.

"Caucasian male, mid-thirties, about 200 pounds. Found unconscious on
the floor of his home with no obvious injuries.....No, I don't know how
he got this way....I told you, I'm an FBI agent....I don't know,
possibly drugs, maybe diabetes.....No, there's no sign of
vomiting....Yes, that's the address....Thank you."

Mulder checked the sink for glasses, but there were none. He opened the
refrigerator. There were a few cans of beer, but he could see no empty
bottles lying around. A few liquor bottles were arrayed on the counter,
but none less than three-quarters full. He went upstairs.

The bathroom cabinet contained a few amber prescription
bottles--chlopromazine, sodium benzodiazepine, kanamycin. They meant
nothing to him. He slipped on a rubber glove and dropped them into an
evidence bag drawn from his coat. He scoured the bathroom but found no
diabetes testing kits.

He crossed the hall into what appeared to be a study of sorts. The room
was scattered with crumpled paper and pages of cramped writing. A desk
was pushed against the wall, but its owner apparently preferred the
floor, judging by the number of pens scattered around the room. Mulder
bent over, glancing at the pages. Several featured rough sketches of
faces and buildings, accompanied by tight, messy cursive. One of the
pictures in the center of the room caught his eye and he reached for the
page with a deep breath of surprise.

The sketch was rough, but very recognizable. It was the picture from
his desk--Samantha smiling from the bar of a jungle gym.

-------------------------------

Scully had prodded Atkins' gut for signs of distress, palpated his
throat for possible constrictions and checked his pupils a dozen times
to make sure they were equally sized, ruling out concussion. She tried
waking him by splashing cold water on his face, by slapping him, by
talking to him. But he was unmovable. The operator had told her it
could take half-an-hour for the ambulance to reach them, and at first
she'd worried, but his condition seemed stable enough. Just as she'd got
up to see what Mulder was doing, her partner came through the doorway.

He held out a stack of papers. "I think it was him who tried to get rid
of us this morning, but I don't think this has anything to do with any
conspiracy," he said grimly.

She took the papers, curious, and began leafing through them. The
cramped writing was difficult to read, but her eyes were drawn
immediately to the pictures. The faces leapt out at her and her heart
caught in her throat.

Here was Melissa Scully, here the child Emily. Samantha, Bill Mulder,
Bill Scully. Ellen. The unmistakable visage of Donnie Pfaster. The
Bounty Hunter. X.

She looked up at Mulder, aghast. "Where--?"

"Upstairs," he answered. "There's a whole roomful. I only picked up
what pertains to us."

She pushed past him, needing to see for herself. He followed her
upstairs, stood in the doorway as she looked among the papers. She
uncrumpled one, squinted to make out the writing. "Mulder, this
mentions Lichtman. I talked to his son yesterday about his father's
unexpected suicide." She grabbed another page that caught her eye.
"And here's a picture of Vandesky's wife."

Mulder nodded. "There's a picture of McClusky's kids over there. And I
saw some mention of the name 'Dillhoy' over here--that's one of the
suicides whose wife I talked to yesterday."

"This is--" Scully looked about her, searching for the right word.

"Frightening?" Mulder supplied. "What's more frightening is how many of
these names and faces I _don't_ recognize."

"You think he's killed others?"

"I don't know. I don't even know for sure that he's the killer. He
could just be...seeing things...but...."

Scully looked back at the papers in her hand, tried reading the first
page. _I can see her she is beneath me there is blood and i raise the
knife again and she screams my name...._

"This is your dream, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes."

"He must have heard us. He must have been there, or the room was
bugged, or..." she trailed off. Mulder only looked at her, knowing she
didn't believe what she was saying. Atkins had somehow seen their
dreams.

"What are we going to do with this?"

He took the papers from her. "For now," he said, "Nothing." He folded
them in half and tucked them into his coat.

"That's evidence," she protested, but he knew she agreed with him.
Those pages were far too personal and potentially dangerous. There was
more than enough evidence scattered on the floor around them.

They both heard the sound from downstairs, and rushed down together.

Atkins was on his feet, dashing for the door. Scully whipped out her
gun, and her voice cut the air with deadly precision. "Freeze. Federal
Agent. Hands in the air."

Atkins looked like he was about to wet himself. He gave a panicked look
around, then turned to face them, hands up. Mulder went to cuff him.
"You got a lot of explaining to do," he said roughly to the man, jerking
his arms behind him. Over his voice they could hear the sirens of the
now unnecessary ambulance.

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Police Department
Saturday
10:31 a.m.

"Please leave me alone. I haven't done anything wrong." Jeremiah
Atkins was seated at the table, his head in his hands. His voice was
quiet, soft, afraid.

Mulder was seated across from him, a lawyer beside him. Scully paced
the room slowly behind Mulder.

Mulder leaned forward. "You caused people's deaths, didn't you?" His
tone was reasonable, helpful.

Atkins looked up, a spark in his eyes. "I didn't do anything _wrong_!"
he insisted.

"Because they were guilty, right? They deserved to die."

Atkins said nothing, regarding Mulder fearfully.

"You made that construction worker go to the office building a few
nights ago. You made him handcuff his own hands and feet and present
himself to McClusky, who was asleep on duty, wasn't he? Then you went
into McClusky's mind and made him--"

"This is absurd!" the lawyer interrupted with a cry, leaping to his
feet. "Agent Mulder, if these are the charges you're booking this man
on, I'll have you...."

He trailed off, mouth open. Both Scully and Mulder were glaring coldly
at him.

He sat back down, looked at Atkins. "Mr. Atkins," he said. "You don't
have to say anything."

"I know, sir," Atkins answered. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Who are you to decide who deserves to die?" Mulder asked sharply.

Atkins gave a little whimper. "Look, it's not what you think. It's not
that simple." He reached across the table urgently, grabbed Mulder's
wrist. His voice dropped to an intense whisper. "You're good people.
I can _see_ that--you know I can! I don't want to hurt you. You have a
quest, a mission--I do too! Can't we just both stay out of each others'
way? I'm almost done, I promise. I promise!"

The lawyer started to interrupt, but Atkins shrugged him off. "I have
to finish what's been started. If I don't....she'll never leave me
alone."

"Who won't?" Scully asked.

"You killed your wife, didn't you," Mulder said, extracting his arm from
Atkins' grip. It was not a question.

Atkins threw back his head and howled. "No! I didn't! I didn't
mean--I didn't. I mean, I was never a good husband, but I've learned
now, now I know how bad I was...."

"What is your mission, Atkins?" Mulder asked deliberately.

"My--my--oh God. Please, I don't want to have to hurt you, I just have
to finish."

"What did she say before she died, Atkins?" Mulder persisted. "What did
Michelle say to you? She can't have died very quickly. A stomach wound
can take hours to kill. It's probably the worst way to die. Your blood
leaks out into all your internal cavities, you're staring at your own
guts--"

"No!" Atkins cried again. He was breathing hard.

"Mr. Atkins--" the lawyer began.

"Okay!" Atkins shouted. "I killed her, all right? I killed her, and I'm
so so so sorry! I didn't mean to. I was just angry, it just
happened...."

Scully cut in. "Did you kill the others?"

"They deserved to die! Deserved it!"

"The dreams," Scully persisted. "How do you see the dreams?"

"I don't know!" Atkins gasped. "Please, leave me alone!"

The lawyer seemed both shocked and fascinated. And very nervous.

"What did she say to you?" Mulder asked again.

Atkins snapped his gaze over to Mulder. "How did you know?" he asked.

"She told you you would pay, didn't she?" Mulder continued. "What did
she tell you?"

"Ten times over," Atkins said softly. "She said I would have to pay ten
times over."

"And so you've killed others."

Atkins was silent now, staring at his hands.

"In those papers in your house," Mulder continued, "we found
descriptions of others' dreams. That's how you find out if they're
guilty, isn't it. How do you do it?"

"I don't know," he repeated resolutely. "I just do. Ever since she
died."

"Can you control the dreams?"

"I don't know. I can choose what I see...you know...memories, hopes,
fears...it's hard, though."

"Is it hard to control someone's body?"

Atkins looked at him.

"That's why you were passed out when we found you this morning, wasn't
it?"

Atkins looked at him.

There was complete silence in the room.

Atkins swallowed. "Listen," he whispered urgently, and now he looked up
at Scully. "I can help you. In your quest, I mean. I can show you her
memories. She just has to let me know when she's going to sleep, okay?
I've seen enough now--I've even seen some of what you want to know."

"What have you seen?" Scully's voice was clipped and tight. Mulder
looked at her.

"I'll tell you if you'll leave me alone. Let me finish."

"You've killed at least twelve people. That's more than ten times
over," Mulder said. "That's your quest, isn't it?"

For the first time, Atkins smiled. He seemed to be amused by some
private joke. "It doesn't count if I wasn't inside."

"You can feel everything the person feels, can't you," Mulder continued.
"That's how you pay. Why do you kill the others, the ones you're not
inside?"

"It's harder," Atkins began.

Finally, the lawyer interrupted. "I'm sorry," he said. "This man needs
a psychiatric evaluation. I'm not going to allow this to continue."

Surprisingly, Mulder didn't argue. "I think we've heard enough," he
said, turning to look at Scully. Scully looked thoughtful.

As they exited the room, Atkins called out, "Don't forget! I can help
you! I know what you want to remember!"

They stopped just outside the door.

"What do you think?" Mulder said to her.

"Mulder," she answered. "I can't explain it, but I think you're right.
He killed his wife, and now he feels he has to pay for it--"

"--or she's _making_ him pay for it. He said he didn't have these
powers until after she died. Maybe she's helping him."

"Or he thinks she is," Scully amended. "But if we give him four of the
suicide victims--Michelle doesn't count--and four of the paired
victims--the ones suspected of suicide--that's eight. Do you think he
meant the ten times thing literally?"

"Absolutely," Mulder said. "He has to kill twice more. I just don't
know why he killed those other four, the paired ones, the homicides.
Why he started with individuals and moved on to pairs."

"His 'quest' is personal--he thinks he has to pay. And he's careful to
choose his victims so that they have a guilty history. He's not
finished."

"Two more. At least. And being in jail won't stop him."

"Think he's already picked the targets?"

"I think we should check out his files. See if we can figure out who
his possibilities are."

Scully nodded and was about to reply when her cell phone rang. She
started to answer it.

"I'll talk to the chief," Mulder said quickly, and disappeared down the
hall.

Scully nodded at him, then answered her phone. "Scully."

"Agent Scully, it's Walter Skinner."

Scully's stomach sank. "Yes, sir?"

"I got a call from the Cleveland office this morning."

Scully sighed, thinking of Roberts' threat that morning. "Sir, I can
explain."

"Explain what? To my knowledge you've done nothing wrong."

"Well, I certainly don't think so. I'm glad you agree, sir. I can see
how it might appear to an outsider that Mulder and I were acting
unprofessionally last night, but--"

Skinner cut her off quickly. "Scully, I have no idea what you're
talking about and I don't think I want to know. The call I got this
morning regarded the fact that Agent Mulder hasn't produced the profile
he was sent there to produce."

Scully blushed deeply. "Oh. Yes. Well. Mulder wrote the profile last
night, actually, after the discovery of four additional deaths not
originally attributed to the killer. But I believe we apprehended the
actual killer just a few hours ago."

"Agent Roberts seemed to think you had apprehended the killer several
days ago."

"I don't believe we had the right man, sir. Agent Roberts thought we
did. Our man has confessed."

"Excellent. I was sure you two could handle it. You'll be back in
Washington soon, then."

"Actually, sir, we're afraid he might kill again. We'll need a few days
to ensure security."

"I thought you said you apprehended him. Is he not in custody?"

Scully steeled herself. "Yes, sir, yes he is. But he...doesn't appear
to need to be present at a site to do the killing. He appears to kill
telekinetically."

There was silence at the other end. "Agent Scully," Skinner said
finally. "Do _you_ believe this?" His emphasis was deliberate.

"I believe it is a strong possibility, sir," she answered carefully.

"Okay. Stay on for a few days. But--I don't want to be called again by
this Roberts person."

"I'll try to see that you aren't, sir. Pardon my asking, but--is
Roberts in Cleveland?"

"You didn't know that?"

"No, I didn't. He was here early this morning."

"He said he had gone back to the Cleveland R.O. for the weekend to run
some lab tests on _his_ suspect. I assumed you knew."

"No."

"I take it you're not making friends."

She permitted herself a small smile. "Our reputation precedes us, sir."

Skinner's voice smiled as well. "Excellent," he said. "I'll expect
your reports soon."

"Yes sir."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Scully disconnected and went to find Mulder.

He was standing outside the police chief's office. He answered her
question before she asked it. "They'll be moving him to Lima State
Correctional Facility. He'll be charged on Monday. I asked them to
keep him under 24 hour surveillance, but they thought I was crazy, said
they couldn't afford that anyway."

"So he may be able to kill again."

"Maybe. Or throw us off track. We can't sleep anymore, you realize.
"Your dreams about Ellen--the scene I apparently made this morning--he
was trying to get rid of us. He knew we knew these things. He could
find out anything--what we know about the investigation, any number of
things he could use against us...."

"Well, I'm glad you're not suggesting we try to take him up on his
offer?"

"What--about your memories? I thought about that. I wonder if he really
knows something."

"Mulder." Her voice warned him.

"Just a thought, Scully," he replied mildly. "Just a thought."

"Agent Roberts went to Cleveland," she told him, changing the subject.

"Was that him on the phone? Looking for a date?"

She looked irritated and Mulder mentally kicked himself. It had sounded
too bitter--they had both been reminded of last night's argument.

"No, it was Skinner," she answered. "Roberts called him."

"Ah. Did he ask how good I was between the sheets?"

Scully snorted, looked away. "I don't think Roberts told him. I think
he's still holding it over our heads. He did say you hadn't done your
profile like a good boy. Skinner was very irritated at having been
disturbed on a Saturday morning."

"As are we all."

"I told him we had the killer, that we needed a few more days to nail
things shut."

"That's an unpleasant metaphor."

"Unintentional. Mulder--do you really think he was inside your body
this morning?"

"I don't know--I have absolutely no memory of the event. You'd be the
best person to answer that."

"If he can get inside us like that--control us.... That at least
explains why McClusky was left-handed but held the club in his right
hand."

"And the handcuffs," Mulder reminded her.

"Yes" she agreed. Then: "Mulder, you may be able to go for three days
without sleeping, but I don't think I'm gonna make it."

"You can sleep," Mulder answered. "We both can. Just not alone and not
at the same time. And not much."

---------------------------------------------------

END 6/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 7 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

Lyman Residence
Saturday
8:15 p.m.

The rain pounded on the roof of the porch. Scully and Mulder had both
been soaked just walking from the car.

They were talking to a very dry, older man--Henry Lyman. After several
hours of study and legwork, the two of them and Jacobs had deduced the
identities of four possible targets from Atkins' lunatic writings. One
was implicated in a murder, the other in several thefts. Working with
the police and Atkins' clues, they'd been able to collect enough
evidence to arrest these two, which had the obvious benefit of putting
two criminals in jail while protecting them from Atkins' forced
suicides. Although the police had thought it a little strange that the
agents had insisted on standard anti-suicide practices for these men's
cells--no belts, no toilet seats, beds secured to the floor--they had
gone along in the end. It hadn't cost any money.

Evidence to arrest the other two was much harder to come by. One had
been a man, Clay, who was, according to Atkins' notes, the child abuser
whose written dream Scully had found on Atkins' kitchen table. Social
services wouldn't be available until Monday, and the wife had refused to
testify that anything was wrong. However, they'd been able to frighten
Clay into accepting protective custody by telling him he was the target
of a serial killer. Clay was spending the night in jail as well.

This last one was going to be the problem. Mary Lyman was a 19-year-old
girl who lived with her parents. Atkins' notes painted her as selfish
and a little stupid, but the crime for which he had chosen her was
apparently the killing of her own baby. No one had even known she was
pregnant. And when Mulder suggested to her parents that she had been
,their reaction had not been helpful.

"You get off my property right now! I got rights! You goddamn feds are
always tramplin' all over the constitution but I know my rights!" Mr.
Lyman was getting very red and Scully was concerned that he might burst
an aneurism.

"Mr. Lyman," she said placatingly. "We're trying to help you. Whether
or not your daughter has ever done anything wrong, she's in danger now.
We just want to take her somewhere where she'll be safe."

"Are you out of your goddamn mind? Safe? With you? You're tellin' me
that some goddamn murderer is gonna' kill her, but he's in jail? What
kind of _bull_ is this?"

"Sir--" Mulder began.

"I said, 'No!' You'd have to be an idiot to listen to you! Now get out
of here!"

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. Mulder tried one more time. "We
only want to protect your daughter."

"My daughter should be protected _from_ you, you goddamn feds. Not _by_
you. You protect her as well as you protect those folks at Ruby Ridge?
Or those kids in Waco? My ass."

Mulder started to speak again, but Scully cut him off.

"We're sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Lyman. Please keep a close eye
on your daughter tonight."

"Is that a threat? Is that a _threat_?"

The agents were already headed for the car. The rain pounded on
them--neither had thought to bring an umbrella.

In the car, Scully finally spoke. "So, Mulder. If it'll get me to the
Caymans, okay, I'll sleep with you."

He made a show of trailing his eyes slowly over her from toe to dripping
head. She waited for the inevitable innuendo, but all he ended up
saying was, "Scully, you're having a very bad hair day."

She couldn't help it--she laughed. The rare sound cheered them both.
As he started the car, she commented, "Rain in Ohio in February.
Shouldn't this be snow?"

"Damn El Nino," Mulder answered. "Wonder if that affects the Caymans."

"It does," she told him.

"Oh. Guess we'll have to wait until next year."

"I'm not promising anything then."

---------------------------------------------------

Lyman Residence
Sunday
2:35 a.m.

Fortunately, although the Lyman property extended acres back away from
the road, the house was located immediately on the road and could be
clearly observed from their car, which Mulder had surreptitiously parked
near a cluster of bushes on the other side of the road. Scully scanned
the windows through a pair of binoculars. She was very tired.

"So you actually think he might be able to tell me something about my
abduction," she said finally. "But not, for example, about your
sister."

He didn't want to have this conversation yet. He knew he shouldn't, but
he hoped that something happened soon.

"Mulder?"

He sighed. "Scully, I just think he might be able to tell us
something. And I'm not saying I wouldn't learn anything about Samantha,
but I do think what you might have to say might be more useful."

"Mulder, I wouldn't be saying anything."

"But you would," he answered. "Your mind would be telling you-"

"How is this any different from regression hypnosis?"

"It isn't, but it might be more efficient. I think. I don't think it's
very therapeutic, though."

Scully put the binoculars down. "Mulder, he's already demonstrated that
he can show us fiction as well as fact. Lots of what we'd been dreaming
wasn't true."

"There was truth in it, though," Mulder said quietly. "He didn't make
it up."

"No. We did. And it would be very simple to make something up now,
since we already have suspicions. So what if I dream I'm tied down on a
table while all kinds of instruments and needles are stuck in me? I'm
pretty confident of that much, but do we know anything then? What if I
dream of aliens hovering over me, what if I dream I'm lighting up with
Cancerman in a dark hotel room somewhere? None of it says anything about
the truth."

"That's why I don't think it would be any good for me to try. Because I
already have a set of images to associate with my sister's abduction,
whether they're real or not, it'll be what my subconscious resorts to.
But what if you saw something you've never seen before? Something we
haven't imagined? Scully, I would never ask you to do this. I just want
you to consider that, even if it told us nothing, it might...help
you...to have some real images."

"Unless they're true ones, I'd rather not, thanks," Scully replied
shortly.

Mulder reached over to touch her hand, but she jerked it away, staring
silently out the window. He sighed, raised the binoculars. Still
nothing moving.

An hour passed in silence, but for the soft chatter of the radio.
Mulder was achingly tired, and he could tell that Scully was fighting
sleep as well. She occasionally leaned her head against the window,
then sat up straight again, deliberately holding her head high.

"You can sleep if you want to," he said finally. She gave him a
withering look and he mentally kicked himself.

After another long silence, she spoke. Her face was turned toward the
window, and he had to turn off the radio and ask her to repeat herself.

"I tried regression hypnosis, you know," she said, still not turning
toward him.

He was surprised, but he knew this was somehow a peace offering.
"When?"

"Years ago. When you were...in New Mexico."

"Oh." He paused. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Well...maybe something. But I don't think it was working."

He waited for her to continue.

"Missy...Melissa wanted me to do it. She said I was afraid of my own
memories. That I wasn't in touch with myself. That was the last time I
saw her."

Oh. He wanted to touch her, but from the way she was leaning, he knew
it was better not to. So he said the only thing he could think of to
say. "She told me the same thing once."

"I know," Scully replied.

Mulder thought about Melissa, and inevitably the sketch of her from
Atkins' "DKS" file arose in his mind. He thought about Scully's dream,
the one she hadn't told him about. She knew he'd read it, of course,
but she hadn't said anything. What was there to say? Of course she
wanted her sister back, of course she would be happier if.... If what?
If she'd never met him? Maybe.

"What are you thinking?" she said quietly. She was looking at him now.

He hesitated. "That Melissa was a very wise woman."

Scully heard the hesitation rather than the words, knew that she had to
say something now. She chose her words carefully, deliberately. "It
was a terrible dream, Mulder. Not because I had to wake up and have it
not be true, but because it never would have been true. Even if it had
happened, it would have been a lie. Justice and security, Emily and a
perfect family--all lies, even if good ones." She looked at him to make
sure he was listening. She would only say this once. "The truth,
Mulder, is that I stayed that night with you for my sake as well as
yours."

His throat caught, and he couldn't reply. He only met her gaze and
nodded.

She turned back toward the window, raised the binoculars. "Mulder! The
door's open!"

"Oh, shit!" Mulder responded immediately. Quickly and silently he
opened the car door and slipped outside. Scully was beside him a moment
later.

"I can't see anything," she said, peering through the binoculars.

"Okay. Split up."

Mulder ran silently off to the right of the house, so Scully ducked
around to the left.

She approached the front porch, saw a robed figure coming down the
stairs just inside. Mr. Lyman.

"Hey!" he called out angrily.

Scully stopped momentarily, looked up at him from the ground below the
porch. It was starting to rain again. "Sir," she cried in her best
authoritative voice. He recognized her.

"What the hell are _you_ doin' here? Didn't' I tell you we're fine?"

"Sir, is your daughter in the house?"

"What? Of course she is."

"Could you check, sir." Scully enunciated clearly, making it an order.

For a moment, Mr. Lyman looked uncertain. He turned back to the house,
called up the stairs to someone she couldn't see. "Is Mary in her
room?"

A moment later Mrs. Lyman's cry of fear answered the question.

"Don't worry, sir, we'll find her," Scully assured him, then ran around
the side of the house.

Where would the girl go? Away from the house, certainly. If Atkins
really had possession of her, he wouldn't want to be interrupted. Could
Clay be here? Was she going to kill him?

Scully ran along the dirt road that led up to the barn, searching left
and right with her flashlight. "Mary!" she called. Distantly, she
could hear Mulder doing the same.

Then she saw the light highlighting the cracks of a distant barn.

She raced toward it.

When she arrived, slightly out of breath, she found Mary standing in the
middle of the dilapidated barn, holding a long, ugly blade that looked
like it attached to some farm implement. The girl was breathing hard,
but was otherwise unhurt and composed.

"Mary," Scully said carefully, her gun drawn. "Put down the knife."

"Go away," Mary said quietly.

"I want to help you, Mary," Scully assured her, inching closer. "You
don't have to do this." As she spoke, she flipped her cell phone out of
her coat with a free hand, hit a speed dial button.

"Why can't you leave me alone! I'm not doing anything wrong!" Mary
screamed suddenly.

"In the barn," Scully said tightly into the phone. "Call for backup and
an ambulance."

She hung up. "Who are you?" she said to the girl.

"You _know_ who I am!" Mary's voice cried. "Please, I told you, I don't
want to hurt you. But I have to finish."

"Mary--"

"You don't know what she did." Mary gritted her teeth, and her voice
became low and fierce. "She killed her baby."

"Who killed her baby?" Scully inched closer and Mary tried to step
back, but a tractor blocked her.

"Mary," answered Mary. "Mary Lyman killed her own baby. She never even
told anyone she was pregnant, except the father, and when it was born,
they killed it."

Scully's expression didn't change. She didn't know whether to believe
the accusation, but it didn't matter. "That doesn't mean she deserves
to die," she said firmly. "Put down the knife."

"I can't. I have to finish."

Scully took a breath. Should she shoot the girl to wound her? Would
that be enough? What if Mulder was wrong? Shooting people to prevent
them from killing themselves wasn't exactly standard operating
procedure.

Scully put the gun on the ground and moved slowly toward the girl.
"See, Mary? I'm not going to hurt you. Let's put the knife down and
talk, okay?"

"Do what she says, Atkins," Mulder's voice, at the door.

Scully turned to look at him, and in that moment, Mary Lyman gave a
sudden groan of anger and exasperation and leapt at Dana Scully. Scully
heard a shot fired, then was knocked to the floor with a searing pain in
her side. Abruptly, that pain was supplanted by an even worse pain in
her shoulder, then the weight of the younger woman was lifted from her
and she opened her eyes just in time to see Mary Lyman running for the
back of the barn.

Then Mulder was kneeling beside her, calling her name frantically. She
locked his gaze, said one word: "Go."

Mulder looked from her face to the back of the barn, obviously torn,
then briefly touched her cheek and ran.

Scully lay still and waited. It was hard to breathe, and her right side
felt wet. Experimentally, she touched it with her left hand. Her hand
came back covered with blood. It hurt, but not as much as it should.
Which, she reflected rationally, was probably not a good thing.

Footsteps, running. Crunching on the hay. She groped with her left
hand for her fallen gun.

"Scully!" It was Mulder, and she relaxed, tried to sit. But then he
was on the floor beside her, pushing her back with one hand on her
shoulder, one hand behind her head. "Don't move, Scully," he told her.
She tried to focus on him, but the light from his flashlight blinded
her. Abruptly, the light dropped beside them, and she heard him talking
into his phone. She heard the words, but most of them didn't make
sense. "...ambulance...officer down..."

Was she really hurt that badly?

She heard the sound of her blouse ripping, and felt cold air on her
chest. She could feel Mulder's cool hands on her stomach; he tried to
ease her over to her left side. She tried to suppress a cry of pain; it
came out like a soft moan. "Mulder--" she began.

"This is no time for modesty, Scully," he told her, gently. She felt
relieved, sure he wouldn't joke if it was _too_ serious. She heard him
removing his jacket, felt his hands pressing hard against the side of
her right breast and belly. It hurt, but she bit her lip and turned her
face to the cold floor, silent. How bad was it?

He seemed to have heard her unspoken question. "It's a nasty cut,
Scully," he told her gently. "And there's a stab wound on your
shoulder. I shouldn't've left you. How do you feel?"

"Shit," she mumbled. "Cold...."

The pressure was lessened slightly, and she felt him trying to rearrange
his coat to better cover her, felt his body lean down against hers.
"Ok," he said, close to her ear. "It's going to be ok. The medics'll
be here in a minute."

"Did she...get away?"

"Don't worry," Mulder told her. "Others are coming, we'll find her. Her
father might find her."

She took that to mean 'yes.' If Mary had stabbed herself in her
stomach, would they find her before she died? Certainly. Would they
find her before it was too late to save her? Probably not. Scully
gritted her teeth.

She didn't know how long she lay there. She could hear Mulder's
voice--after a few minutes the words no longer made sense. But his
voice alone was comforting. Even then, she could regard herself with
clinical detachment, noting that blood loss and shock were taking their
toll. The sirens and loud voices jerked her back up into
consciousness. Suddenly, bright lights shone on her. She felt strange
hands clawing at her, ripping at her clothing, talking in quick, urgent
tones above her head, and as a piece of plastic was pushed against her
face she desperately shoved it away with a cry of protest, looking
wildly at the blurred faces above her for Mulder's. The sense of
helplessness, these strangers cutting off her clothes, touching her--it
was too familiar. "Mul--" she began, as the paramedics tried to hold her
down.

Someone grabbed her left hand, squeezed it tightly. Mulder's voice
again. "Dana, I'm not going anywhere. It's ok. Let them help you."
Firm.

She relaxed for a moment, then felt a mask pressed over her mouth and
nose. She heard herself whimper, and a moment later all went dark.

---------------------------------------------------

END 7/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 8 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Memorial Hospital
Sunday
3:18 p.m.

The first thing she heard was the steady beep of the heart monitor.
Familiar sound, but it was not a welcome familiarity. She forced her
eyes open.

Hospital room. Which hospital? Why did they all look the same? Her
right side was sore, and she felt dizzy, but otherwise all right. She
could see the television perched above her head, the bars on either side
of the bed, IV bag on her right. With an effort, she turned her head to
the left. Mulder was beside her, seated in an armchair and studying a
legal pad on his lap.

She tried to speak, but her voice was dry with disuse and thirst--only a
raw noise came out.

He turned toward her immediately, smiled. Good--it was a happy smile,
not a relieved smile. He had expected her to wake, to be ok.

"Got to stop meeting like this," he said. Predictably. "Can I express
my relief by touching your shoulder, or is that not allowed?"

His tone was light, not bitter, but she nonetheless felt a surge of
discomfort at the reintroduction of their earlier fight. Instead of
answering, she stretched out her uninjured arm, reaching blindly for his
hand.

He clasped it tightly, and stood to bend over her. He kissed her
forehead softly and she knew with great relief that they understood each
other; all was forgiven.

She tried to speak, but only a weak sound issued forth. She tried
again.

"How long?"

"How long what?" he asked, drawing back. His fingers smoothed back her
hair. "How long were you out? Just a few hours. Well,"--he glanced at
his watch--"maybe twelve hours. They had to give you some new blood, do
a lot of stitching. The painkillers put you out."

"Water..."

Mulder released her hand and poured a cup from the pitcher on her
bedside table, helped her raise up with a deft arm beneath her neck. He
held the cup to her lips until she'd emptied it, then lowered her gently
back to the bed. "You want more?" he asked.

"In a minute. Did the hospital call my mom?"

"Yeah. I called her right after, though. She's ok, I think. I'll call
her again in a minute, she'll want to know you're awake. You're going
to have a couple of nasty scars, but other than that...."

"No more bikinis, huh?" she said hoarsely.

He laughed, and she felt warmer. He rested his palm against her cheek.
"How do you feel?"

"Drugged, but I'm ok. Was there any internal organ damage?" she asked.

"No. The site of the stab wound was mainly"--he hesitated
awkwardly--"soft tissue. He dragged the knife down along your side but
the cut was shallower there. Actually, the doctor thinks your underwire
bra might have saved the day."

"Mulder!"

He grinned. She was going to be fine. "Hey, relax, Scully. As many
times as you've seen me in the all-together--"

"I've never _talked_ about it afterward."

"It was a forensic detail," he argued, still grinning. "Here, let me
get you some more water."

She accepted the peace offering without further comment, but this time
held the cup herself.

"My mom?" she reminded him when she finished.

"Yeah, I'll call now," he answered, reaching over to the chair where his
jacket hung. He fished around in the pocket, produced his cell phone.
She craned her neck around, trying to see her right side, felt the bed
sag as he sat down beside her. She heard him dialing.

"Mrs. Scully?"

She could only see the bulk of the bandages. She wanted to see her
chart.

"Yes, it's me...Yes, she's ok, just a little sore. She just woke up,
she's asking for you....Dana--"
He pressed the phone against her ear.

"Hi, Mom," she answered, trying not to sound weak. "I'm ok. Just a
cut. I'm sorry the hospital even called you....Yes, he did."

Mulder held the phone for her, listening to the one-sided conversation
with bemusement. He turned abruptly as a doctor entered the room.

"Mom, the doctor's here, I have to go....Yes, I'm all right....Okay, I
will....Bye."

Mulder took the phone from her but didn't move away from the bed.

"Dr. Scully," the man said, with a curious glance at Mulder. "I'm
Gerald Mannheim. How are you feeling?"

"Drugged, but fine," Scully answered.

"Good," Mannheim replied. "Well, the injuries are not serious, but I'm
assuming since you're a pathologist you're going to want all the gory
details."

Scully steadied her left hand against Mulder's arm and pulled herself to
a sitting position.

"If I could just see my chart, I'd appreciate it," she answered calmly.

"Certainly," the man answered, retrieving it from the foot of the bed.

Scully studied the pages. The first cut had sunk into the side of her
right breast, then dragged down along her side. The second wound was
actually less severe--although the stab could have been deadly, the
knife had glanced upward and just grazed her collarbone. Mary was
neither very strong nor coordinated. Scully nodded. "I hope you won't
insist on my staying the night," she told the doctor. "We're on a
case."

Mannheim looked surprised. "Well, there's no absolute need for you to
stay, but I would strongly recommend that you do. You should take it
easy for a few days at least, and even if none of the stitches break,
the bandages should be changed and antibiotics applied at least twice a
day. And I think you'll want to stay on the painkillers--you really
shouldn't be working."

"I can take care of the bandages, and I'll come in if I break a stitch,"
Scully answered. "As for the drugs, I'm capable of deciding what I need
and what I should do based on what I take. I appreciate your concern,
doctor, but I've really been through much worse."

"Well, I can't keep you here," Mannheim answered reluctantly. "But your
insurance is willing to pay."

Mulder chuckled at that. "We have very good insurance," he interjected.

"All right then," Mannheim said. "I'll go sign the release papers." He
rose officiously and headed for the door. When he reached the doorway
he turned. "I want to go over the bandaging with you before you leave,
just to make sure. I don't think you'll be able to do it effectively

one-handed.  Will your--er--partner--be helping you?"

"I hope not," Scully answered, sternly fixing Mulder's amused eyes with
hers. "But I guess he can if someone has to. Let me try it by myself
first."

Mulder only grinned as Mannheim disappeared.

"Wipe that smirk off your face, Agent Mulder," Scully told him, leaning
back into the pillows. Her head felt cloudy and maybe slightly painful.

Mulder complied. "Scully, seriously, why don't you stay here?"

"Did you find Mary?"

"They found her in a field after a couple of hours. They couldn't save
her."

"She'd stabbed herself?"

"Yes."

"And Atkins?"

"I haven't talked to him yet. Jacobs is at the prison, trying to get
the DA to let him talk to Atkins."

"Why didn't you confront him?"

"You were asleep," he answered quietly.

She nodded, knowing he wasn't just being sentimental. "That's why I
can't stay here, Mulder. We have to be able to keep an eye on each
other. Did you sleep at all?"

"No."

"Right," she said, as if she'd proven a point. "We can get out of here,
go back to the motel and let you sleep for awhile. Figure out our next
move. It's Sunday, right?"

"Yes."

"The DA probably won't come out to the prison on a weekend anyway."

"We'll talk to Atkins in the morning," Mulder said. He poured Scully
another glass of water.

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Motel 6
Monday
1:13 p.m.

He actually slept without incident. Although they had agreed to
five-hour shifts, he woke naturally eight hours after he had gone to
bed. At first, he didn't see Scully, but he only had to roll over. She
was seated beside him on the bed, propped up against a few pillows,
reading the book she'd brought. Her right arm was secure in its sling.

"Five hours," he said.

She looked at him. "I wasn't tired. And you were actually sleeping
well. Right?"

"Yeah. Your turn."

"I'm not really tired. I got to sleep in the hospital."

"Where you had about 3 liters of blood pumped into you." He looked up
at her. Even in the dim light, he could see the dark lines under her
eyes, her drawn cheeks. Her hair was drawn up into a ponytail, making
her appear even smaller and thinner. "C'mon, Scully." He sat up,
patted the pillow.

She didn't put down the book. He could see her misgivings.

"Scully," he said gently. "I'll be right here."

She nodded once, and to his surprise, readjusted her pillows and lay
back without further protest.

"Here, under the covers," Mulder insisted, standing to vacate the place
where he'd lain.

Obediently she moved over, actually permitted him to pull the blankets
up over her. He considered tucking her in, but decided not to push his
luck. He settled for touching the rubberband that held her ponytail.
"You want this in?"

"No," she answered, and she was sleepy. She pulled it out herself,
turned more fully into the pillow. The painkillers had been making her
drowsy, and she did want to sleep. But carefully.

Mulder settled back on the bed beside her. He considered flipping on
the TV, but Scully, unlike him, wouldn't appreciate the background noise
for sleeping. Besides, the only programming at this hour in a motel
would be things he couldn't exactly watch with Scully around anyway. So
he picked up her book and began to read.

About an hour after she'd gone to sleep, she moaned, soft and low.
Mulder stiffened, watching her with concern. A minute passed, and he
turned back to the book. Scully turned away from him in her sleep, onto
her injured arm, but did not awaken. Mulder gingerly reached across to
pull her onto her back, but at his touch her eyes flared open and shoved
him away, bolting upright.

"Scully, it's okay, it's me," Mulder assured her, reaching for her good
arm. She looked him directly in the eye he saw something unfamiliar
there. It terrified him.

"Scully?"

Her features softened, and the familiar glint of Scullyness returned to
her eyes. Mulder relaxed and reached for her again, clasped her
shoulder.

"Were you dreaming?"

She gingerly adjusted her sling. "I think I may have broken a stitch,"
she said faintly.

Mulder cursed himself for not being more vigilant, for not restraining
her immediately. "Where?"

She probed her side with her left hand. "Maybe here." She lifted her
shirt and Mulder immediately turned away to give her privacy.

He heard her soft expulsion of breath. "Damn," she murmured. Her voice
was still faint.

"Do you need to go back to the hospital?" Mulder asked, already heading
for the keys on the dresser.

"No, it's just one stitch, just some blood. Bring me one of those gauze
patches and the neomycin. And the tape. It's okay, you can look."

Mulder retrieved the items from the dresser and returned to the bed.
Scully was leaning back against the headboard. She had extracted her
arm from the sling and tugged her sweatshirt up over her right breast,
which was swathed in bandages. She was pressing her hand against the
the place just below and to the right of her breast.

Mulder put the supplies down, glanced at her for permission, then leaned
forward to examine the reemergent wound. He peeled back the edge of the
bandage and wrinkled his nose. The cut looked much worse when
punctuated by those little black stitches. Blood was leaking steadily
from one point in the cut, where a thread hung loose.

"Can you put the bandage on?" she asked him.

"Just put the gauze over the cut, right?"

"Actually, put a little neomycin on the cut, then put the tape directly
across it, pulling it tight. Then tape the gauze over that."

Mulder began to follow her instructions, trying with exaggerated care
not to brush his hand against any part of his partner that it wasn't
supposed to brush against. But Scully wasn't paying attention.

"I was dreaming about Mary. If it was him, he knows she's dead," she
told him as he worked. "And then"--she swallowed--"then I was dreaming
about you."

Under any other circumstances, Mulder wouldn't have let such an
opportunity for innuendo pass, but this time he wisely let it go. He
finished taping down the gauze, folded the larger bandage back over it,
and pressed his fingers tightly over the patch, applying pressure. He
waited for her to continue.

"It was so strange, Mulder. I dreamt...I dreamt I was you. Looking
down at me. I--that is, me, Scully--I was lying in a hospital bed and
you watched me for a little while, then dropped down beside me and...you
were...upset. But I was you, I was seeing me through your eyes, seeing
my own hand...."

Mulder said nothing, aware only of how rapidly his heart was beating.
Did that man really have this power?

"Why are you looking like that, Mulder?" she asked finally. "_Was_ it
you?"

He lifted his eyes to hers and nodded mutely. "It sounds about right,"
he said. "It... it was the night I last saw my sis--whatever she was.
You were in the hospital."

"Oh," Scully answered softly, understanding coming to her eyes. "Oh,
Mulder. You should have woken me."

Mulder looked at her for a long moment, saying with his eyes what he
couldn't say with words. There was a long silence. Then, "What
happened after that, Scully? In your dream, I mean."

"Nothing. I--you--sat in the chair for a little while. I could see me
sleeping. And that's all I remember."

Mulder breathed a sigh of relief. There had been no angry words, no
bounty hunter. Then he realized the implications of her dream.
"Scully," he said, "if he can really do that, make someone see the
memories of other people, memories which he took out of their own
brain....Can you imagine how valuable that would be?"

She knew what he was thinking. "Mulder, it's not reliable. It wouldn't
be...proof. And anyway--need I remind you again?--the man is a killer."

"But there could be clues...." Mulder paused, considering.

"Mulder, listen to yourself," she urged. "You're talking
about...._dealing_ with a murderer who has attacked us both. I don't
pretend to know how he's done it, but--"

"But what if we could find out how? What if he knows?"

"Mulder, I hardly think it's a practiced technique that anyone can
learn. The man is uneducated, immature, vindictive and insane. I don't
think he studied to acquire this...talent...and I doubt he could explain
it himself. It's like Modell--some strange quasi-physiological
phenomenon--"

"I find it ironic that _you're_ telling me this can't be explained." He
removed his fingers and gingerly lifted the bandage again to check that
no blood was seeping through the gauze. Satisfied, he leaned back and
pulled down her shirt. He gently began helping her maneuver her arm
back into the sling.

"I'm not saying that it can't be explained, I'm saying that it's
unlikely to be a learned skill," Scully was saying. "I think it's an
anomaly--a physiologically relevant anomaly, but an anomaly
nonetheless."

"There are many examples of directed soul trans-migration in Native
American mythology," Mulder replied. "I think this may be similar. I'm
not even sure that the dreaming is the important thing--I think it may
not be dreams at all--they're so vivid. We just don't have any other
word to give them. I think he may be somehow really reliving some part
of our consciousness."

"But so much of it is fiction!" Scully protested. "I agree that they
may not be physiologically the same as dreams--in fact I'd love to do an
EEG on someone while they were undergoing this, but--"

"Of course you would. Because it's worth studying. That's what I'm
saying, too. And as for the fiction--well, much of our consciousness is
fiction anyway--all consciousness must be filtered through our
perceptions."

"I agree that perception can affect a lot--how we see each other and the
world, and it may not accurately reflect reality. But our perceptions
don't concoct memories like you killing your own sister."

"No, but if that's how I perceived the event symbolically, my
consciousness might construct such a story."

"We're getting far away from the point here, Mulder. I need your
assurance that you're not actually considering dealing with this man."

Mulder nodded. "I'm not considering dealing with this man," he told
her. "But I do see enormous potential for his...gift."

"All right, I'll admit, I do too. But don't get your hopes up. I think
if more people could do this we'd've bumped into them after five years
on the X-Files."

"Well, we've seen cases of possession, maybe of soul-transmigration.
Don't forget your friend Jack--years ago."

"I'm still not entirely convinced about that," Scully answered.
"Anyway, this is very different. It's apparently very important that
the victim be asleep, and to control the victim's body seems to require
a very intimate connection--lots of dreaming."

"Yes. Which brings us back to the question of who his next target is."
He drew back. "But, Scully, we'll talk to him in the morning. You need
to get back to sleep."

"And let him back in?"

"I think he left voluntarily before," Mulder answered. "I think he's
done with us, for tonight. And I'll watch you more closely."

Scully swallowed, then nodded. She lay back down on the bed and let
Mulder pull the blankets up over her.

Mulder returned to the book. He thought she was asleep when she
abruptly turned toward him, reached for his hand. He looked down at
her.

"Next time--and heaven forbid there is a 'next time' but--wake me up,
okay?"

He knew she wasn't referring to the dreams. He closed his eyes and
squeezed her hand in reply.

---------------------------------------------------

END 8/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 9 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

Lima State Correction Facility
Monday
9:17 a.m.

"You killed Mary Lyman." Scully's words were cold and angry. She was
leaning across the interrogation table, her face very near Atkins'. He
didn't seem to notice.

"Jeremiah," Mulder said, leaning forward. "We know you feel she
deserved it. But you can't make these decisions."

"Don't try the good-cop, bad-cop thing," Atkins said listlessly. He was
no longer afraid. "I know you two. I've been inside your heads. I can
tell when you're acting." He looked up at Scully. "Sorry about your
side."

She regarded him silently.

Atkins had refused the right to a lawyer today. Self-incrimination
seemed to be a moot point now. "I told you I didn't want to hurt you,"
he continued. "But I have to finish."

"How many more, Atkins?" Mulder asked. "How many more does she want."

Atkins gave a short bark of laughter. "God. Do you see people's dreams
too? No--I know you don't. But you get into my head almost as well as I
get into yours."

Mulder grimaced with distaste.

"You don't like that, do you." It was not a question. "I don't blame
you. I don't like it either. I think _she_ does it to me, makes me do
it. Maybe when I finish I won't have to do it anymore. It's hard,
seeing things through other people's eyes. Things look different, and
you start to question what's real, what's not....But you know that,
don't you Mulder."
Scully looked at her partner. He was watching the man intently, but
without emotion.

"Profiler," Atkins continued, and his tone was strangely sympathetic.
"Not a talent you wanted. You know, I'd make one hell of a profiler."

Mulder was silent.

"It tears you up, I know," Atkins said. "Seeing into other peoples'
minds. The evil things they do. People do lots of evil things. I'm no
exception, but I've tried to pick the most evil people I can find. I
didn't realize how evil people could be until I started the dreaming.
It makes you crazy, you know?" He looked directly at Mulder. "And when
you've got nobody, nothing, when you've lost everything, it's really
hard...." His eyes moved significantly to Scully, although he was still
addressing Mulder. "But you're luckier than me."

Mulder gave a short nod but revealed no emotion.

Atkins paused, then continued sadly.

"You want to know how many more. One. One makes ten. Nine times I've
died for her. For my sins." He looked up. "Sorry, Shelly."

Another pause.

"I had plans to finish myself off last, but I don't suppose you're going
to let me do that. You being good and just and all that. No, you're
going to try to stop me somehow, I know that. I should just wait, lie
low, for awhile, but she won't let me alone. I can't stand it, I
can't! Every night she's there, in my head, reminding me, reminding
me...."

"Reminding you what?" Scully prompted.

Atkins seemed not to hear her. "It was hard at first. Took months of
her torture to get me to do it that first time. And God! The pain!
You can't even imagine. It's like you're being ripped apart. For
hours. The burning, the blood, the agony...." His voice trailed off
and his eyes went unfocussed. "But I did it. It was a long time before
I could do it again. It was so hard, so hard...." He stopped.

"But it recently got easier," Mulder prompted. "You started moving
faster."

He let out another bark of bitter laughter. "Yeah, right again, G-man.
I found a way to make it easier. And Shelly didn't seem to care."

"Why did you bring in the second victims?"

Atkins smirked. "Vengeance," he said.

"Not justice?" Scully asked.

"No." Atkins looked down again. "No. I know that it wasn't justice,
not those times."

"Did you have something against those people?" she asked.

"I didn't know those people, except through their dreams."

"You said you were a bad husband," Scully persisted. "Why do you say
that?"

"Well, I _did_ kill my wife," Atkins said with a laugh.

"Before that. Did you abuse her?"

Atkins' downward look was all the acknowledgement they needed.

"What made you angry, Atkins?" Scully said. "What did she do that made
you angry?"

"She was a bitch," Atkins answered. His voice was a little louder now.
"She was a bitch. Sorry Shelly, but you were. You know it. You're a
bitch even now. Making me do this shit."

Abruptly, he threw his head back and screamed.

"No!!!!  Shelly!  God damn it, stop it!  Leave me alone!"  He screamed

again, began twitching and trembling. Scully reached for him but his
arm flailed out and knocked her away. Mulder was already at the door,
yelling into the hallway. "We need some help in here!"

A prison guard appeared, came running to help. The three managed to
hold Atkins' head and limbs as he seized and jerked. When the seizure
seemed to pass, Atkins lay still, looking up at them, breathing hard.

"This man needs to see a doctor," Scully told the guard. "Get him to
the clinic."

The guard nodded and radioed for help as Scully and Mulder left the
interrogation area. They were met in the prison lobby by Jacobs.

"Scully! Mulder!" he cried. "I've been waiting for you--I just got off
the phone."

"With who?" Mulder asked.

"You'd told me to check out Michelle Atkins. I talked to her mother
yesterday--she didn't have anything good to say about Atkins. Said he
was a jerk and she suspected him of having beaten her daughter."

"So he says," Scully said.

"Well, she gave me the names of e of her daughter's friends, and I just
talked to one. She said that the marriage had been going very badly
just before Michelle died. That Michelle had been seeing other men.
She'd been really depressed about her miscarriage, blamed Atkins. The
friend told me that for awhile she'd been thinking about saying he
_pushed_ her down the stairs, and wanted the friend to back her up. It
sounds like they were both having problems....anyway, it sure looks like
murder to me."

"Yes, he's confessed to that," Mulder said. "Hey, don't look
disappointed, Jacobs, that'll be useful in the arraignment today. Why
don't you stick around and give that info to the lawyers. We're going
to go check out the other possible victims. He's admitted he'll kill
again."

"Mulder?" Scully began. She was thinking.

"What?" He studied her face.

"Jacobs, how many lovers did the woman say Michelle had?" Scully didn't
look away from Mulder.

"What?" Jacobs thought a moment. "I don't think she said. But I had
the impression it was several. Four or five."

Scully raised her eyebrows significantly.

"I don't get it," Mulder told her. He wasn't sure what she wanted him
to see.

"Mulder, the second victims in the pairs--the ones originally classed as
homicides. Atkins said they were about vengeance. Maybe they
represented Michelle's lovers."

It clicked. "Or maybe they _were_ Michelle's lovers."

Scully raised one eyebrow. "Look, you're lucky I'm with you on the
telekinesis thing," she told him. "Are you now suggesting that he has
the power to _put_ another person into the body of a third person?"

He didn't bother to make an argument. "Yes," he said. "That is exactly
what I'm suggesting. I have an idea--let's go check out the local death
records for the night of the most recent murder."

Jacobs and the two agents separated. Only as they walked out to the car
did Mulder ask, "So, where did that little leap come from, Scully?"

She favored him with a smile. "Intuition," she answered.

-------------------------------------

Lima Memorial Hospital
Monday
4:13 p.m.

Scully stood over the opened chest cavity, bonesaw in hand. The body in
front of her had once been one Benjamin Walsh, known to his friends as
Ben. Known to his lovers as Ben.

He had been Michelle's lover, and, as Mulder had suspected, he had died
on the same night that the most recent murders had occured. The cause
of death had been listed as "respiratory failure"--pathological code for
"undetermined and we don't think it's worth an autopsy." The family had
not been able to afford an autopsy themselves, but when Scully offered,
they accepted, glad that someone seemed to care that their loved one had
died. The funeral had been held that morning--Scully had caught them
just in time.

Mulder had called Jacobs' contact--Michelle's friend to get the names of
the lovers, and Scully's "intuition" appeared correct. She could
remember four names. Mulder was looking into it now.

Scully started the bone saw and began cutting expertly through the
cranium. It was an awkward operation--she had removed her sling but had
to be careful not to stretch the stitches in her side. She extended the
incision around the head so that the top of the skull could be removed
like a cap, exposing the brain. This done, she began probing the edges
of the grey matter, sliding her scalpel down inside the skull to
separate the nervous tissue from the connective fibroblastic tissue that
held it in place. On the lower right side of the head, she found
something.

A pool of blood spilled out onto the table.

She heard the door open behind her, glanced backwards. Mulder had
entered. Seeing she was involved, he gestured for her to continue.

She dug a little deeper, then reached for a larger scalpel and began
sawing around the borders of the Circle of Willis at the base of the
brain. She placed the tissue into a plastic box and sealed it.

"Well," she said, her voice muffled through her mask. "I'll need a few
slides made of that tissue for sure, but I think I found the cause of
death."

"I'm waiting with bated breath," Mulder said.

"It looks like he died of an intracranial hemorrhage, outside the brain
but within the meningeal layers."

"Is that common?"

"Well, it's usually the result of a sub-arachnoid rupture of a small
berry aneurism.   It's commonly due to a congenital defect where the
muscle surrounding the artery wall is malformed--too thin. When the
arteries begin to swell, they press through that tissue, which is
normally thick enough to prevent aneurism. Then the artery bursts and
that's the end. I can't tell yet if this was a congenital case--a
histological section will reveal whether his muscle tissue was too thin,
but my initial impression is that it was normal."

"So do you think he died because he was inhabiting the body of someone
else who was killed?"

"Mulder, of course I don't _think_ that. But it is, I suppose, a
possibility."

"That's all I'm looking for," he answered.

"Why--what'd you find?"

"Before I tell you that--here's the lab work on the blood you drew from
me Saturday. High levels of adrenalin, just like the murder victims."

She nodded--she had expected that.

"But about Michelle," he continued. "All the other lovers are dead,
each on the night of one of the paired murders. Unfortunately, an
autopsy was only conducted on one--the family was willing to pay. But
the cause of death was listed as intracranial hemorrhage."

"Why didn't you say that in the first place?"

"Now do you think that these men were inhabiting the bodies of people
who were killed?"

Before she could answer, the door opened and Agent Roberts burst into
the room.

"Mulder. Scully. I'd like to know just what is going on here."

"A murder investigation, last I checked," Mulder answered.

"Who authorized this autopsy?"

"Put it on the X-Files' tab," Mulder replied. "This man is another
victim of Jeremiah Atkins."

"Yes, that's another thing. I read your arrest report--these charges
are outrageous! The man is obviously psychotic. But what you're
charging him with--it's lunacy!"

"It's the truth," Scully said coolly, lowering her surgical mask.

"Did you find anything on Haight this weekend?" Mulder asked pointedly.

"No," Roberts said, already defensive. "Did you write the damn
profile?"

"Who needs a profile--we have the killer. Our real perrogative now is
to keep him from killing again."

"The man's in jail!"

"Yes. But that won't matter to Reynold Clay, who's probably his next
target and is in protective custody now."

Roberts snorted. "Reynold Clay is at home with his family."

"What?" Scully and Mulder said at once.

Roberts looked very satisfied. "That's right. _I'm_ not wasting
taxpayer dollars on this nonsense. I told him what foolishness this is,
apologized for having made him spend two nights in jail, and he wanted
to go home. He was pretty upset. Can't say I blame him. If you two
weren't fucking around with--"

"God damn it, Roberts!" Mulder exploded. "What have you _done_ for this
case? What one single thing? Stay out of the way, take whatever credit
you want, but don't _fuck_ with our investigation without asking us
first."

"_Your_ investigation? Sonofabitch! This is my 302. I didn't want you
here in the first place--"

"No shit," Mulder answered. "But we're here now, and in the five days
we've been here we've done more than you have in a month. Now stay the
_fuck_ out of the way."

"Mulder--" Scully began, but a look from him silenced her.

"You just wait, you asshole," Roberts said, his voice suddenly low.
"I'll see you out of a job before morning. I'm gonna go make some phone
calls."

He stormed out of the room, leaving Mulder and Scully alone. Scully
found it amusing that he really thought he could get Mulder fired--if
only he knew how much worse things Mulder had done over the years than
fail to produce a profile and purportedly sleep with his partner.

Mulder took a deep breath and began pacing to calm down.

"Mulder." Scully's even voice broke through his rage. "Mulder, go talk
to Atkins. Find out if there were any more lovers, anyone else we have
to protect. I'll get this cleaned up and meet you back at the hotel.
Looks like we'll be spending the night watching Clay's house."

Mulder met her eyes and nodded, left the room.

---------------------------------------------------

Lima State Correction Facility
Monday
4:30 p.m.

Mulder slammed the file down on the interrogation table and Atkins
jumped. It was an autopsy report.

"Ben Walsh," Mulder said, watching Atkins for a reaction.

He was disappointed when he got none. "Well?" he said.

"Yeah, so you figured me out," Atkins finally said. "I'm not very just,
am I? I'm a bitter, evil man, just like most of the world. I deserve
everything that's coming to me."

"What's coming to you, Jeremiah?" Mulder asked intensely, leaning across
the table. "What, exactly, is coming to you? Tell me."

Atkins looked up and met his eyes. "Death," he said seriously.

Mulder pulled back. "Well I certainly hope so, because alive you are
one serious pain in the ass." He immediately regretted what he'd said,
took several calming breaths.

"I can have you sedated," he told the man. "That'll keep you down."

"That's against my constitutional rights," Atkins replied. "How stupid
do you think I am?"

"_Who is it?_" Mulder demanded. "Who do you want? Who has to die to
give you your peace?"

Atkins snorted derisively. "Honestly?" he asked. "You have no idea
what she's like, what she does to me.... Honestly, right now I'd take
anyone I could get. Even you, G-man."

---------------------------------------------------

END 9/10

---------------------------------------------------

"The Eye of the Beholder" part 10 of 10

by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer/Summary in Part 1

---------------------------------------------------

Lima State Correction Facility
Monday
8:20 p.m.

Roberts pressed "record" on the tape player, set it on the table between
them. "Okay, Atkins," he said. "Off the record. This tape isn't
leaving my possession. Did you do it?"

Atkins looked at him. "Yes."

"How?"

"I can control people," Atkins answered. His voice was collected now,
even and calm. "I can see their thoughts, their dreams."

Roberts bit his lip nervously. "Can you see my dreams?"

"I have, yes."

"I've been having really weird dreams lately." He looked askance.

"That's because of me," Atkins answered. His voice was suave,
confident.

Roberts looked off into the distance. "I dreamt about that girl, back
in college. I never really liked that girl."

"She told you 'no,'" Atkins said. "And you did it anyway."

"Don't give me that crap. She had that leather miniskirt, those
shoes--she knew what I was after."

"What about your mother? Remember that?"

"The retirement checks? God. I dreamt...I dreamt she was coming after
me with a knife, saying I killed her--I didn't....." His voice trailed
off, but he abruptly jerked his head back up, looking at Roberts. "Did
you make that up?"

"No. You thought of that yourself. I just watched."

"Who do you think you are?" Roberts leaned across the table, speaking in
a harsh whisper. "What right do you have to get in my head like that?"

"What right do you have to blackmail your boss in Cleveland? He told you
about his lover because he thought you were his friend."

Roberts snorted. "So you saw that too. What else did you see?"

"I saw a lot of things. You're a theif, a rapist, a womanizer, a liar.
You're an evil man, Mark Roberts."

"There's no such thing as 'evil,'" Roberts told him. "There's getting
ahead and there's getting caught. But whatever I am, I have something
you want."

"What's that?" Atkins leaned back, crossed his arms, enjoying this.

"The key to your freedom. I can discredit this investigation. They
didn't get to book you today because of your clever little 'seizure'--I
can testify at the hearing tomorrow that Agents Mulder and Scully are
out of their minds. No one will believe their story if I provide an
alternate one."

"They have evidence and I've confessed to the double homicides. What
alternate story could there possibly be?"

"Oh, there _is_ one. I can tell one about a man named Haight...."

"Haight isn't involved."

"I can produce evidence that links him to the double homicides," the
twisted grin on Roberts' face indicated that he wasn't above producing
evidence in any manner possible. "There's no evidence the suicides were
anything but suicides, and no jury will buy that weird shit you wrote
down. Your lawyer can get you out of the confession with claims of
temporary insanity."

Atkins looked interested now. "What do you want in return?"

"Don't you know? I mean, since you've been in my head and all that."

"Tell me," Atkins insisted.

Roberts nodded. "Okay. I'll tell you. I'm a simple man--I want money
and power. I know I'm not going to last much longer in the FBI--they're
already considering dismissing me and after I tried to get that A.D. to
listen to me about Mulder and Scully today and _he_ chewed me out, I'm
gonna be out of here real quick. I'm just thinking, maybe you and I
could go to Vegas for a week. You could make some people hand me some
money, and then we'll go our separate ways."

"Not much of a lawman, are you, Roberts?" Atkins said.

Roberts laughed hoarsely. "Oh, stop, you're hurting my feelings. Look,
is it a deal or what? I can't stay here long."

Atkins studied Roberts' face for a long moment. Finally, he spoke.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, it's a deal."

"Okay," Roberts said, pressing "stop" on the tape recorder and pocketing
the device. "Don't forget I got this tape here. I can make or break
you tomorrow."

"Play that tape and you'll break yourself as well."

"I'll say I was lying. Tricking you into confessing to the suicides.
Either way, I'm the hero."

"There'll be no need," Atkins answered slowly. "I told you. We have a
deal."

Roberts nodded curtly and left the room. A guard came a few minutes
later to escort Atkins back to his cell.

Alone in the dark, Atkins raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Okay,
Shelly. I told you I'd finish it and I will."

---------------------------------------------------

Lima Motel 6
Monday
10:35 p.m.

"Hurry up in there!" Mulder called to the closed door of his partner's
bathroom. He was sitting on her bed, channel-surfing aimlessly. They
had to get to Clay's house soon to start their planned
surveillence--they were already later than he wanted to be. They had to
be there before the man fell asleep.

A few minutes passed, and then he heard her, voice muffled through the
door. "Mulder, I need some help."

The strain in Scully's voice told Mulder not to make a sarcastic
comment, although the situation begged for it. This was not easy for
her. Not that it should be, he told himself. Women were socialized to
have more discomfort with their bodies than men--he shouldn't be
surprised. He wanted to convince her that it wasn't a big deal, but he
wasn't quite sure how to do that. And agonizing over it was quickly
making it into a big deal.

Mulder took a deep breath and went to the bathroom door. Knocked.

"Come on in," her voice told him.

He did. And was greeted by the sight of his partner dressed as he'd
never seen her before--professional from the waist down, naked from the
waist up. Thankfully, her back was to him. Mulder suddenly realized
that this might be a bigger deal than he'd thought, and prayed that his
body wouldn't betray him and embarrass them both.

"What can I do?" he asked her, careful to keep his voice even.

"I've applied the antibiotic, but I can't hold the gauze and tape it
too. I tried...." she gestured at the sink, in which were piled
several masses of tape and gauze. "...but it didn't work. Sorry to put
you in this position."

He took a step toward her. "There's no 'position,' Scully," Mulder
told her gently.

"'Ain't got nothing you haven't seen before, huh?" she quipped, trying
to make light of things.

"Literally," he reminded her. "I was in the ambulence, you know."

"Yeah, and I was unconscious."

Mulder decided to just get this over with. Quickly. "Okay, doctor,
what do you want me to do?" he asked, making his voice as efficient as
possible.

Her shoulders dropped and she seemed to relax. "We need to do the
shoulder wound first." She picked up a thick square of gauze, pressed
it against the stab wound on her right shoulder, which he couldn't see.
She picked up a length of tape, which had dangled from the counter,
pressed it over the lower portion of the patch. "Now, it goes over my
shoulder, I can't reach the back."

Mulder stepped forward and took the patch from her hands, pressed it
against her skin. He took another length of tape from the vanity and
firmly attached it.

"Okay," he said. He carefully trained his eyes only on her back,
although he could have easily looked over her shoulder.

"Okay," she repeated. She picked up another length of gauze. "Now, my
side. I need to wrap the gauze around--you saw how it was before. If
you hold it here"--she reached behind her for his hand, which he
provided, drew it back to press it against the place just above her
breast, over one end of the gauze.

Mulder closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly. Her skin
was smooth and warm beneath his hand, and he could just detect the
upward slope of her breast. _Please, please don't embarrass yourself,_
he chanted silently. _Or her._ He tried to think of the most unsexy
thing he could, and settled for the still-fresh image of Ben Walsh's
dissected chest cavity, which they'd been standing over only hours
before.

She was struggling, trying to wrap the bandage around her side and
shoulder, but the inflexibility of her right arm made it problematic,
and, he suspected, painful. He let her try for a minute or two,
carefully averting his eyes, but finally it was obvious to them both
that she was not succeeding. "Scully," he said. "Just let me do it,
okay?"

To his surprise, she acquiesced, handing him the gauze with a sigh of
resignation.

Mulder took a breath and stepped around to her side. For a moment, he
let himself take in the image of his fullly conscious, half-naked
partner. She wouldn't look at him. With relief, he found that his body
did not threaten to betray him at all--she was exquisitely beautiful,
yes, but in an artistic, sculpted way that could not under the
circumstances be construed as sexual. He considered telling her this,
but he wasn't sure whether it would comfort or offend, so he kept his
mouth shut.

He began to wrap the gauze around her, over her shoulder and under her
arm and back, being careful to cover her breast with the bandage while
not touching it with his hands. As he worked, he discreetly examined
the wound for infection. It was angry and jagged, extending from the
top half of her breast all the way down her side, but it did not look
unhealthy.

"The injury looks okay," he told her.

"I thought so too," she answered evenly. "I can see most of it."

A small part of him, still bitter about their fight several nights ago,
wondered if what he was doing now qualified as possessive. He certainly
hoped so. He looked up at her, trying to see if she was okay with
this. She was looking fixedly at the towel rack.

Suddenly she spoke. Her voice seemed strange, coming from above him for
once. "If you think he somehow put Ben Walsh's soul into the body of
that construction worker, and Walsh died when the other man did, why
doesn't Atkins die when he kills people?"

Mulder almost laughed. Even now, she could poke at his theories.
Although that _was_ an easy question. He was certain she'd already
guessed the answer, but he said it anyway. "I think that he pulls out
of people before they die, but if he didn't do that, he _would_ die with
them. He has to suffer what she did, ten times over, he said. But if
he died he wouldn't have suffered enough. I don't know, maybe Michelle
pulls him out."

He fixed the bandage to her skin with a length of tape and stood. She
looked at him now, and he looked down into her eyes very deliberately,
as if to emphasize what he was not looking at.

"Michelle is just a figment of his guilt-driven imagination," Scully
said. "I can buy that he can use his mind in ways we can't understand
to see what other people see, even make them do things through their
dreams but the pain may be in his mind. And there's certainly no need
to call on ghosts for an explaination here."

"Do you _still_ not believe in ghosts?" he asked her, genuinely curious.
He reached for her blouse, which lay discarded beside him on the toilet
seat, and held it over her head.

Obligingly, she slid her left arm through the sleeve and let him guide
her right wrist through the other sleeve. As she did so, she answered
him. "Mulder, I've seen things. You know that. But..."--she tugged
the blouse down and reached for her jacket--"but I can't trust my eyes
as much as you do. You know that too."

He did know. Maybe he even understood.

He helped her into the jacket, and then the sling, pleased that she did
not protest his assistance. Only then did she acknowledge what had just
happened with a simple, "Thank you, Mulder."

He figured it was safe to make a joke now that she was dressed.
"Anytime, Scully," he leered.

She looked like she wanted to deck him, so it must have been okay.

He draped her coat over her shoulders as they exited the room. They
were getting into the car when Jacobs' voice interrupted them.

"Mulder!" The man was running toward them from across the street.

Mulder stopped. "What is it?" he asked, his hand on the door.

"It's Roberts," Jacobs replied. "He's in the bar across the street. I
don't know what's happened to him."

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances, then jogged across the street with
Jacobs. They entered the small bar together.

It was surprisingly crowded for a Monday night. Loud country music was
blaring from the jukebox, and there were a few people dancing on the
small tiled floor. Everyone looked up as they came in.

Roberts was standing at the bar, talking loudly. "...a fucking
_murder_!" he cried with a laugh. "You just don't know what goes on
behind FBI doors! Couldn't imagine it, I guar-an-tee it."

Several people, including the bartender, were listening and snickering.
The patrons looked back and forth from the agents in the doorway to the
man at the bar, eager for a show.

"I tried to get him to come with me, but he pulled a gun on me," Jacobs
whispered urgently.

"He did _what?_" Scully cried. "Mulder--" She twisted to look at him,
gave a slight jerk of her head and then started across the room.

Mulder understood. He stayed in the doorway, one hand on Jacobs' elbow,
the other surreptitiously on his gun.

Scully crossed the room.

"The fuckin' assholes told the press that the guy had been beaten as a
kid and all that," Roberts was saying, gulping a beer, "but they didn't
want to admit he'd been arrested, like, _four_ times and no charges
pressed. So--"

"Roberts." Dana Scully's voice was firm, silencing.

He turned to her, and a huge grin spread over his face. "Dr. Scully!"
he cried with pleasure.

"Roberts, I need to talk to you alone. Can we step outside?"

Roberts grabbed her good arm tightly. He smiled an apology to his
audience, then jerked her over toward the jukebox, away from the bar.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mulder take a step forward, his
hand clearly on his gun. She shook her head at him imperceptibly.

"There," Roberts said. "Now we're _all_ alone. Jes' you an' me." His
grip moved higher on her arm.

"Agent Roberts, take your hand off me." Her voice was clipped and icy.

"Oh, c'mon, Dana--why?" His voice was that of a whiny child.

"Because I find your conduct unprofessional and unwarranted," she
replied coolly. "Now, please remove your hand from my arm."

"Listen, _Dr._ Scully," Roberts said fiercely, leaning over her and
gripping her arm more tightly. He was suddenly infinitely more
coherent. "Don't lecture _me_ about unprofessional. Now I'm not trying
to be an asshole here, but come on--you and your partner? Tell me
_that's_ professional."

She didn't blink. "Agent Roberts, if you don't step away from me right
now, I will report you."

Her refusal to rise to the bait seemed to enrage him. "You report me
for _anything_," he hissed, "and I'll make good on my promise to report
you and your fucking partner for misconduct. I know where you spend
your nights. Who else you been sleeping with? You must not be very good
in bed, or you would have made it out of that basement by now."

No reaction. He tried to look away, but her steely blue eyes nailed him
to the floor. "Agent Roberts, I'll ask you one last time, remove your
hand from my arm. Go back to the hotel, and sleep it off."

"You prim little--aarrrraagghh!" His insult was twisted into a cry of
pain, as, in a single motion, she twisted her pinioned arm sharply up
and around, bringing the side of her right hand down sharply on his
elbow. She gritted her teeth in pain as her stitches were stretched,
ignoring the looks they were getting from other patrons.

Roberts was bent over, rubbing his arm, looking angrily at her.

"We're taking you back to the hotel. Come," she said firmly, coldly.
Just then, Jacobs raced up to them. Scully saw him reach deftly into
Roberts' holster, slip out the gun. Roberts didn't notice.

"Agent Scully, I'm very sorry," Jacobs said. "I've never seen him like
this before--let me take him back."

She nodded shortly, then turned around and walked away.

Mulder was waiting for her by the door.

"Did you see that?" Scully asked him incredulously, as they crossed the
parking lot.

"Couldn't have missed it." Mulder's voice was light, amused.

"What an asshole! How did a little prick like that make it into the
Bureau?"

"There are lots of little pricks in the Bureau," he replied. "Most of
them have fifth floor offices."

She snorted, shaking her head. They arrived at the car, and she started
for the passenger side. "Where were you, macho man?" she asked, hand on
the door handle.

"I thought you didn't want to be rescued. Jacobs got away from me there
at the last minute." He grinned affectionately at her. "C'mon, Scully,
if you can handle liver-eating mutants, flukemen, possibly alien clones
with toxic blood and psychokinetic murderers, I have complete faith in
your ability to handle the local Bureau chauvinist." He feigned a
nervous glance from side to side. "Actually, why don't you drive?" He
tossed her the keys.

She caught them in her good hand, tossed them back. "No," she replied,
smirking. "I can tell a token gesture when I see one."

As they drove out of the parking lot, Mulder turned to her. "Are you
going to file a complaint against him?"

"I don't know," she answered. Then, abruptly, "Mulder, there was
something strange about him. I mean, he's been irritating the whole
time, but this was a little overboard."

Mulder grimaced. "He was just drunk."

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. She had taken slid out of the
left arm of her jacket to look at the place where he'd grabbed her.
Mulder glanced over, pursed his lips at the sight of the dark bruise
that was already apparent in the flash of a passed streetlight. "It
seemed to me there was more. He would switch from drunken mumbling to
coherent speech."

"I've been known to do that when I'm sober," Mulder quipped.

She ignored him. "And his eyes--his pupils were really dilated. And he
wasn't blinking frequently enough. I wonder if--"

"If he could have been under some external influence? Scully, isn't that
my line?"

"And you got to say it." She rolled down her sleeve. "I don't know,
Mulder. I'm seeing Atkins in everything now."

"I think it was just proof that assholes and alcohol don't mix. He's
angry that you're not playing along. He's been after you since we got
here, and you haven't responded--he's probably used to getting more
attention."

"I told him he could call me Dana."

Mulder chuckled. "Dana," he repeated, as if to prove his right to say
it. "Dana Katherine Scully."

Even though it was dark, he knew she was giving him a Look. "It's
definitely your turn to sleep, Mulder," she said. "I think you need
it."

---------------------------------------------------

Clay Residence
Tuesday
3:32 a.m.

Mulder had reclined his seat as far as it would go and was stretched out
with his feet on the dashboard, sleeping soundly. Scully was listening
to the quiet drone of the radio--the only station available was playing
a pre-taped Rush Limbaugh rampage and although she hated it, at least
hating it kept her awake.

She had been watching the house for hours. Nothing had moved. She was
tired.

She shifted with discomfort, trying to situate her sling so that her
elbow didn't rest against the bandages.

The ringing of Mulder's cellular phone startled them both.

Mulder sat bolt upright, fumbled around for a moment, then answered it.
"Mulder.....What is it, Jacobs?"

He leaned toward Scully, motioning that she should listen. She leaned
her head toward him until they were pressing the phone between them.

"It's Roberts!" Jacobs cried. "He's in the hotel lobby. He's taken the
hotel clerk hostage, is insisting on talking to you."

"To who?" Mulder asked sharply.

"You and Agent Scully. The police are here, SWAT team is on its way,
but--Roberts knows this routine. He says only you." Jacobs lowered his
voice. "Do you think it could be Atkins?"

Mulder pursed his lips. "We'll be right there. Don't let anyone go
in. Have the P.D. send a unit out here to the Clay residence to take
over for us."

"Okay," Jacobs answered, and Mulder disconnected.

"Roberts is a jerk but he's not insane. It has to be Atkins," Mulder
muttered.

"Do you think it's a diversion?" she asked. "We could be signing Clay's
death warrant."

"I know, but he's not giving us a choice. If he's controlling Roberts,
he will hopefully be too weak to go after Clay, but..." he paused. "But
I think we have to go. He's running the game."

"And if we go, we're playing along," she said fiercely, recalling
Modell. "Haven't we learned not to do that?"

"I think we have no choice," Mulder answered. He gripped her forearm
solidly. "We'll be careful."

She nodded her assent. Mulder turned the key in the ignition.

--------------------------------

Lima Motel 6
Tuesday
3:57 a.m.

Louise Ella Parker had seen many things in her life. She had seen her
brother die when she was ten--he'd fallen out of a tree and broken his
neck. She'd pushed every one of her three babies out of her body and
watched them grow into young adulthood. She'd seen the sunset over the
Florida Keys. She'd seen her husband lying dead in a casket after being
attacked by his own heart, and she knew now what it took to become the
master of your own life. She'd taken over the management of her
husband's small hotel franchise, and prided herself on increasing the
profits every year. Bob would've been proud.

But she'd never seen anything like this, and if Bob was watching her,
she knew he'd be very, very upset.

The man who held Louise against his body also held a gun to her temple.

Flashing red and blue lights filtered through the mini-blinds. She
could hear the crowds murmuring outside, though the man with the
loudspeaker had stopped talking some time ago.

He'd told her repeatedly not to be afraid. That he'd make sure she
didn't get hurt. She'd tried to ask him what he wanted, but he only
jerked her roughly. "Shut up," he kept saying. "Please, I have to
_think_, just shut up!"

Louise was scared. She hoped her kids weren't outside, watching this.

The man had been staying at her hotel for days--she knew he was an FBI
agent. How could an FBI agent be doing this? She knew it was a
stressful job, but it wasn't the postal service, right? She almost
laughed at her own joke, but the cold pressure of the gun against her
forehead was too sobering.

The phone rang. Again.

Roberts switched his gun to the arm wrapped around her neck so that the
gun was pointing at her chest. He picked up the phone on the second
ring. "Hello?" he said roughly.

There was a pause.

"Agent Scully's there too, right?"

Pause.

"No, she comes too, or no deal. I don't give a fuck about her arm. If
it's fitting her in a bulletproof vest you're worried about, don't.
I'm not going to shoot her."

Pause.

"Yes, now. Both of you. Alone. And don't try anything. I've learned
a lot inside this guy's head--I know all about your tactics."

Pause.

"You got five minutes, Mulder. Five minutes and I blow her friggin'
head off. You know I got nothin' to lose....Yeah, she's right here.
Say hello, Louise."

He put the mouthpiece up to her face. "He--hello?" she said
uncertainly.

She could barely make out a tinny voice responding to her, but Roberts
jerked the phone away and hung up before she could hear.

The minutes passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Roberts' breathing was
harsh and labored in her ear--he didn't talk to her anymore. But his
grip around her was steel-tight, and he never let the gun slip.

Finally, a knock at the door. A man's voice. "Okay, Roberts,
Atkins--whoever you are, we're here. Let's talk."

Roberts released her and she spun away, breathing frantically. He was
pointing the gun straight at her. "Go open the door," he told her,
shifting his position so that he was standing behind the lobby counter,
out of the doorway's line of sight.

She gave a tiny whimper.

"Do it!"

Trembling, she went to the door. Very slowly, she unfastened the lock
and pushed the door ajar. "Stop!" he called when it was barely open.

She looked at him.

Suddenly, a hand curled around the door, starting to push it open.

"Back away, Louise," Roberts told her. "Come back toward me."

She did as he said, biting her lip.

When she was close enough, he grabbed her and pulled her to him, placing
the gun once again at her temple.

"Okay," he called to the door. "Come in. Slowly. Keep the door partly
closed."

A tall figure slid around the door, followed by a shorter one. Louise
recognized them--the other two FBI agents, who'd been staying in 37 and
38. When the reservation was made, they had been assigned 36 and 37,
but the redhead had come in on the first day and requested a room
adjoining her partner's. Louise had stifled a snicker at the time.

The two agents wore bullet-proof vests over their clothes and the
woman's right arm hung in a sling. Neither appeared armed. This did
not inspire Louise's confidence.

Roberts' arm pressed painfully against her throat.

"Let her go," the tall man said.

Roberts snorted. "_That's_ your negotiation technique? C'mon, Agent
Mulder, you can do better than that."

"What do you want?" The woman's voice was sharp and clear.

"That's a little better," Roberts said. "But surely you know what I
want--peace." As he said the last word his voice broke a little.
Louise started involuntarily, afraid he was cracking.

He jerked her roughly. "Hold _still_," he told her. "Now. Mulder. I
want you to come toward me. Slowly."

Mulder glanced at his partner, wet his lips. A second of silent speech
seemed to pass between them, and Mulder turned back to face Roberts.

"_Now!_" Roberts insisted, jamming the gun roughly against Louise's
cheek. She cried out.

Mulder swallowed and began crossing the small room. "I'm wide awake,
Atkins," he said. "You can't get inside of me. Killing any of us won't
appease Shelly."

"I got nothin' to lose and everything to gain," Roberts' mouth answered
gruffly. "C'mon, get over here and I'll let her go."

Their words made no sense to Louise. Again, she devoutly hoped her
children weren't outside. "Please let me go," she whispered. "I got
kids, a grandbaby, soon...."

"It'll be all right Mrs. Parker," the woman told her firmly.

Somehow this did not comfort Louise.

Mulder was close to them now, one hand outstretched.

"Stop." Roberts' voice cut through the room.

Mulder stopped, but didn't lower his hand.

"Face the wall. Hands on your head."

Mulder did as Roberts said.

Louise felt the grip on her neck loosen, then Roberts grabbed her
wrists. He produced a pair of handcuffs, and in a few quick clumsy
motions chained her arms to the low rail that surrounded the lobby
counter. The gun never wavered from her face.

"Okay," Roberts told her. "Stay there. Don't try anything or I'll kill
you, I swear to God."

Louise had no intention of trying anything. But she only nodded
mutely. As Roberts moved away from her, an immense relief washed over
her.

The gun was now turned on Mulder. Roberts went to him and began roughly
slapping the taller man's sides and legs, searching, Louise assumed, for
a weapon or a wire.

Mulder submitted to this treatment calmly, speaking slowly. "What'd
Louise Parker do, Atkins? Does she have a secret past evil enough to die
for? Whose justice are you executing this time?" He gave a significant
pause. "And who will execute justice on _you_?"

"Shut up!" Roberts cried suddenly. He struck Mulder's head with the
butt of the gun and Mulder _ooompphed_ in pain.

The woman stepped forward.

"Stay right there, Agent Scully," Roberts said firmly. He aimed his gun
again at Mulder's head, which Mulder was clutching in his hands, bent
forward.

"What do you want?" she asked again, her teeth clenched.

For a moment, Roberts' face seemed to change, was supplanted by a mask
of grief and pain. "Justice," he said quietly, and the word was like a
plea.

"This isn't the way," Scully told him. "Killing is not the answer.
There's no peace there."

"I can't!" Roberts moaned suddenly. "I can't finish it! Why can't I
finish it? You have to help me!"

"I want to help you," Scully said, taking another step. "I want to help
you find peace. Just put the gun down."

Roberts looked at her sadly, but the gun was still aimed directly at her
partner's head. Mulder held very still, one hand pressed against his
temple, his eyes focused brightly on Scully. Louise looked from one to
the other, taking in their intense gazes, and her breathing quickened.

"I'm sorry," Roberts said to Scully, and there was a click as the pistol
was cocked. "This is the only way."

"What do you hope to gain?" Scully cried, and there was suddenly real
emotion in her voice, the slightest hint that she might not be in
control.

"I told you," Roberts answered. "Peace."

Louise would not clearly remember what happened next. She was close to
Roberts--she saw his finger began to squeeze the trigger. She
screamed. The deafening crack of the gun seemed to split the world in
half and she reflexively closed her eyes.

She breathed heavily, sure that at any moment the gun would be turned on
her, but the next sound she heard was the voice of the other woman, very
near her. "Are you okay?"

Louise opened her eyes and stared in shock. Scully was holding a gun in
her left hand, and the man lying in a pool of blood on the floor was not
her partner, but Roberts.

Scully gently touched Louise's shoulder, then turned away and dropped to
the ground, where Mulder was crouched over the body. A voice came over
the loudspeaker from outside. "Roberts? What happened? We need to know
if anyone's hurt....Roberts?"

The phone began to ring. But none of these noises registered in her
head. She saw Scully bending down and gripping Mulder's face, turning
it in the light almost fiercely, looking for damage. Dimly, she heard
him tell her, "I'm okay."

Scully nodded and squeezed his shoulder tightly, then stood and reached
across Louise to answer the phone.

"This is Agent Scully. He's dead. We need paramedics. Come on in."

She hung up and was already fumbling with Louise's handcuffs when
Mulder's voice interrupted her.

"Scully."

She looked down at him. He had Roberts' gun in his hand.

"Mulder, don't touch that!" she cried. "It's evidence...."

Several men in uniforms burst through the door. They stopped at the
sight of Mulder holding a gun up toward Scully.

But he didn't fire. Instead, his other hand came up to release the
clip. He held it out to her.

Scully took it, felt its weight. She turned toward the men in the
doorway. "His gun wasn't loaded," she said, swallowing.

Mulder stood, pulled her aside as paramedics rushed in and surrounded
the dead man and Louise. He leaned down so that only she could hear.
"I was going to say, 'Thank God we had Roberts' sexism working for
us'--he didn't expect _you_ to be armed or shooting left handed. But it
looks like Atkins was counting on it."

"He _wanted_ me to kill him," Scully said, comprehension dawning.

"He wanted peace. He said he couldn't do it himself."

"And my dream--my dream of you. He wanted to make sure I would do
it--to make sure I knew...." she trailed off.

Mulder finished the sentence for her, holding her gaze as tenderly as
he'd on rare occasions held her body. "To make sure you knew how much I
needed you."

Before she could answer, the police chief interrupted them. "What
happened in here?" His eyes roved to Mulder's forehead, where an angry
bruise was already appearing. "Are you okay?"

"It's nothing," Mulder answered. "My doctor already checked it out."
He gave Scully a quick grin, then looked back to the chief. "We'll
start the report as soon as possible, but we'll need a blood work-up and
tox screen on this man." He gestured at Roberts.

The chief nodded, but looked bewildered. "Any guesses on how this
happened? He _is_ a federal agent, isn't he?"

"Yes he is. Listen, I suggest you have somebody at the station check on
Jeremiah Atkins. I think you'll find him in poor condition. How's Mrs.
Parker?"

In a few seconds, the two agents were separated in the flurry of
activity.

---------------------------------------------------

Somewhere Over Virginia
Tuesday
9:15 p.m.

Scully gazed at the grids of light far below her, her forehead pressed
to the plastic window. She was exhausted, and the constant ache of her
injury had brought on a massive headache.

Jeremiah Atkins, like Ben Walsh and presumably like all of Shelly's
other lovers, had died of a massive intracranial hemorrhage at
approximately the same time Special Agent Mark Richards had died of a
gunshot wound to the chest. Scully had not been surprised.

Mulder had caught her in a lull just after she'd completed Atkins'
autopsy, dragged her out onto a hospital fire escape. Before she could
make a smart ass remark about this, he'd pointed to a metal trashcan on
the grill beneath their feet and with a fluorish produced the pages she
recognized as Atkins' accounts of their dreams. He handed her half of
the stack, and began crumpling his half, gesturing for her to do the
same.

She'd understood immediately. "I don't know, Mulder," she'd said.
"They _are_ still our dreams."

Mulder had stopped and fixed her with that damn gaze of his. "No,
Scully," he'd said softly. "Our dreams are _behind_ our eyes, not in
front of them."

The truth of it had almost staggered her, and she'd joined him in
crumpling the pages, had happily lit the match he offered her. Now,
those pages were just so much ash, as Atkins himself would shortly be.

They were returning to mountains of paperwork in Washington. The death
of one agent at the hands of another was no small matter, psychokinesis
aside. The discovery of Roberts' interrogation tape, a conversation
with Atkins which implicated him in a dozen felonies hadn't assuaged her
conscience about that death. Learning that Roberts was facing sexual
harassment charges at the Cleveland R.O. and probably dismissal from the
FBI didn't make Scully feel any better about having shot the man. She
had reviewed that final scene a hundred times in her own mind, trying to
satisfy herself that she'd done only and exactly what she had to do, and
even though she knew she had, it felt wrong. He had been an awful man,
but he hadn't deserved to die.

She wondered what it would be like to be one of the people far below
her, someone who lived in an ordinary house, had an ordinary job and
ordinary hopes, expectations. She really, honestly couldn't imagine it,
although she knew that it had once been within her grasp. The people
down there looked at their lives and the world around them and saw
something so completely different from what she would see that the two
were unrecognizable as the same thing. It was amazing, she mused, that
people were capable of communication at all--and anyone who believed
themselves actually fully understood by another were drowning in
illusion.

But every perception is an illusion, she reasoned, in that it's just an
approximation of reality. Of the truth. Every perception is a point on
a curve asymptotically approaching the truth--some are just a little
closer than others.

She liked to think that her relentless pursuit of truth made her points
closer than most. The vast majority of the world was content to subsist
in their illusory existence, believing in authority--be it the
government, scientists, New Age spiritualists or God. Dana Scully
believed in a method, but not in an authority. Dana Scully's reality
was more real than that of the people below her.

That was a good thing, right? So why had that dream of a peaceful
existence affected her so deeply? Deep down, did she really want the
blinders back on her eyes?

Of course not. Maybe for a moment, now and then, but ultimately--no.
She glanced at her partner, asleep beside her.

His perceptions were vastly different from hers. It was amazing they
could speak at all, much less maintain the deep level of understanding
that was so integral to their partnership. She knew, as Jeremiah Atkins
had discovered, that their strength lay in the gap between their
perceptions. Their perceptions lay on either side of that chasm, in
which was buried the truth--by closing in on it from both sides, the
could pinch it tight, and though they might never see it, they'd be,
between them, as close as anyone had ever come.

Scully closed her eyes and leaned her head on Mulder's shoulder--she was
tired too. She felt Mulder shift lower to accommodate her, then felt
the weight of his head against hers.

_Beauty isn't the only thing that lay in the eye of the beholder,_ she
mused. _Perception is a necessary evil. It obfuscates reality as
surely as it provides the only window on the truth._

Yes, her partner's perceptions were vastly different from hers, but the
truth was the same. Atkins hadn't given them any clues about their
quest, but he had given them one thing: for a few moments, she had seen
the world through Mulder's eyes. She found it deeply reassuring that it
hadn't looked that different after all. They must be close.

---------------------------------------------------

End 10/10.

Whew. Thanks for finishing: if you made it this far I am in your debt.
I would really really love to hear what you think: email me at
nascen...@hotmail.com.