NEW & REVISED: "Neither Here Nor There" Author: Tesla Feedback: Tesla@hiwaay.net Rating: NC-17 for violence, sexual situations, and language Keyword: Case file, UST, Latent MSR Summary: Profiler!Mulder Spoilers: All seven seasons to "X-Cops" are presumed, but we swerve into a slightly altered universe after that. Disclaimer: Items in mirror are closer than they appear. Anyone who is offended by serial killers, Others, explicit sex, explicit violence, explicit language, beer drinking, and/or inaccurate portrayals of the D.C. area...well, you wouldn't have gotten this far. Kisses to the Surfer God and 1013 Productions. The real world is too much with us, but sometimes fiction can give us a little respite. Archive: Anywhere ++++++++++ To lie in utter bliss and quiet, everything still except for the heart beating under your hand, was perfection. The man thought he could almost swoon from the sweetness of the moment. The night was heavy, lit by the flickering candle in the Chianti bottle in front of the bureau mirror. The couple reflected in the glass lay entangled in the sheets of the iron bed in the loft. Their skin was gold and ivory in the candlelight. To feel the other's breaths against your skin, to feel her heartbeats under your palm, her blood running as quickly as yours. . . "Quiet," he murmured. "Feel this?" He slid his hand along the curve of her ass, and then slapped it hard enough to leave a handprint, vivid against her pale skin. She tossed her head wildly at each slap, but didn't cry out. There was artistry, mastery to the sensation. He had to keep iron control on his own breathing, his teeth clenched against the ecstasy he was feeling...oh, they were just getting started! The man pulled out, checking his condom. Satisfied as to the fit, he turned his partner over onto her back, nudged her legs apart with his knee, and plunged into her. She lurched hard, and for a moment he almost lost control. Oh, no, no. The dance wasn't over for him yet. Or for her. She was moaning and gasping, whimpering at each touch. "You can scream now," he said, ripping the duct tape from her mouth, and showing her the knife. The girl drew in a short breath and let it out in a long, terrified scream. He came, hard, as the knife went into her throat. +++++++++++ Scully struggled with her clammy sheets. She had skipped her sleeping pill after a nice dinner date, with wine. But her sleep was enlivened by nightmares, as it usually was when she didn't take her medication. The faces of the dead came to her as she slept. And not the beloved dead - not her father, or Melissa, or even, reluctantly, Emily. No, instead Clyde Bruckman spoke to her of the futility of free will; Alfred Fellig spoke in measured, gloomy tones of the death of love; Penny Northern held her hand and kissed her cheek. She tried to hold onto Penny; even in dreams, Penny was all comfort. But Penny's image would dissolve and she would be left staring at Leonard Bett's head lying on the autopsy table, or Pendrell, dying on a dirty restaurant floor. 'God,' she thought, sitting up and untangling the top sheet from her legs, 'I should just start having sex on the first date.' But her flesh crawled at the thought. She didn't want anyone touching her right now. She didn't want to worry about any new people in her life. She could barely stand the people that were already there. All she wanted to do was her work. Find the bad guy. She hadn't counted on having to keep changing apartments because various killers broke into the old ones. She kept moving up from the first floor, to the third, and now, after she had actually shot and killed Donnie Pfaster in her living room, she was in a charmless condominium in Arlington, near the Metro stop, with twenty-four hour video surveillance and a secured underground garage. It felt safe; she usually slept. it didn't matter that she hadn't unpacked all of her things or decorated. She felt better at the condo. She just wanted to feel safe at home. It didn't matter that her mother wasn't speaking to her since Scully had refused yet again to leave the Bureau. It especially didn't matter, since Mom had sicced her older brother on her. When had he become such a pompous idiot? She let him rant on about Mulder for a while before breaking in. "Mulder doesn't have a goddamned thing to do with my personal life or decisions about my professional life," she had said. "And if you ever talk to me about those professional decisions again, Bill, I will hang up on you. Like I am doing now." And she had clicked off the phone. Fuck. She didn't need to lay here and think about her brother. She heaved the bedclothes off and got up to watch television. ++++++++++ The woman was tied with her own scarves. She had found them for him and willingly held her wrists to the bedposts. Now, she clenched her teeth as the man's hand trailed slowly over her breasts, as he knelt between her spread legs. One hand flicked slowly, meditatively at her clitoris. She flinched, despite her best efforts. Candles were set in front of the dresser mirror, and she had seen him look at their little flames with a twisted smile that made her shudder. Now he was pushing into her, slowly, slowly, prolonging the torture. He bent his dark head and gently bit her nipple. He took one long, slow stroke, then another. Another. "Oh, God", she breathed. "Fuck me, Mulder! Fuck me hard." Mulder raised his head. "Anything to please," he said, and began moving faster and harder, until they both yelled. ++++++++++ Scully hated when Mulder looked well-rested. It meant that he was game for flying by small plane to whatever rural village asked for an expert opinion on some odd death or weird weather pattern. Today, however, he was looking at the standard inter-office memo with all the suspicion he had shown the Tennessee snake handlers. "What's up, Mulder?" she finally asked, after watching him read and reread the two sheets of paper. He finally looked up. "Our friends at Investigative Support have requested our assistance. On a serial killer." He blew his breath out. "But I don't know why. There's nothing here that requires my 'unique expertise,' as Skinner phrases it." She plucked the pages from his outstretched hand, and leaned back. Women were being quietly and discreetly murdered all along the East Coast. No one saw them come home with a man; no one even saw them come home. They were in several different jurisdictions, and all involved women between 22 and 42 who were found raped and murdered in their own beds. The weapon was always a knife; but the type of knife varied. There was reason to believe that he used knives he found in the victim's kitchens. Candles (Scully moved her shoulders uneasily, thinking of Pfaster) were found at every scene, placed in front of a mirror. But they were not remarkable in any way, having been purchased at various chain stores. A radio, stereo, cassette, or CD player had been left playing, set on 'repeat.' The music and equipment were already at the scene, and there was no pattern to the rock music left playing. Although the bodies appeared to have been left as they were at time of death, closer examination of the surroundings showed some staging or arranging of the bodies. Lately, one medical examiner thought the victim's face had been dotted with her blood, in a random-seeming pattern that would have meaning to the killer. He always used a condom, but took it and the wrapper with him or flushed them. He took his time, and managed to get rid of any of his pubic hairs. "Or he depilated," Scully said, looking up. Mulder gave an exaggerate grimace. She went back to the report. The killer was careful to brush down the bed, to wipe the victim. There were no bloody fingerprints on the bodies, no bite marks. No fingerprints on the music source, and none in the bathroom. Cleaner had been poured in the sinks after he washed up. Any washcloths he might have used were missing, and any wineglasses he may have touched were found, clean, in the dishwasher. The wine bottle was thoroughly wiped, and empty. In almost every case, the body wasn't discovered either until the victim didn't come to work on Monday, or if a neighbor complained about the loud music coming from the apartment. A former Baltimore homicide investigator who began working for D.C. Homicide made the connection. He, in turn, dug around on the computer databases and discovered seven victims, all killed in different cities and bedroom communities over the past four years. The latest, Alexandra Brown in Reston, had been discovered this week, just a month after the last. "He's really into the clean-up," Mulder said, watching her eyes track down the pages. "He enjoys it. Maybe I should read 'American Psycho' again." "I agree about the clean-up." She shrugged. "Why us? No Flukemen, no flying cows, no-" Mulder had stopped listening. "Ah. I know why," he said, interrupting her. "These cases are similar to an UNSUB Patterson and I investigated." He leaned back and propped his large dress shoes on the desk. "They want someone to go do a Jodie Foster." Scully knew she was gaping. "They want you to go visit Patterson?" Mulder shrugged. "At least he never ate anyone's liver with fava beans." He stood up. "Come on. Let's see how long it takes Skinner or the Department head to suggest talking to Patterson." At her arched eyebrow, he said, "They said to come up after you and I had looked at the request. So we're not late." "I'm thrilled," Scully said dryly, picking up her briefcase. "I only hope you're saying that later," Mulder rejoined, and politely held the door open for her. ++++++++++ As it turned out, no one mentioned Patterson during the first twenty minutes of the briefing. Scully had faith in Mulder's intuition on these matters, however, and waited for her opening. "With all due respect, sir," she said to Skinner, "I don't see the point of calling us in. There is nothing paranormal about this UNSUB." "It's not your paranormal expertise we need," Mark Wallace, the Investigative Support liaison, explained. "It's Agent Mulder's prior experience in profiling." "The Baltimore UNSUB," Mulder said immediately. "He left the area. Patterson took that file away from me." "And put it in his private file," Skinner said. "He wrote a lot of notes about it." He and Wallace exchanged coded looks. Wallace cleared his throat. Mulder actually grinned. "I bet," he said. "He was obsessive about unsolved cases." He stretched his legs in front of him, leaning back in the chair. "So when do you want us to start? Is there a new crime scene?" Scully rolled her eyes ceiling-ward. He was acting like a shit already. Skinner turned in his chair, ignoring Mulder's near- insolence, and pointed to a banker's box sitting on his credenza. "That's got all the files. The body of the latest victim has been sent to our morgue." He flipped a manila photo envelope to Mulder. "Pictures and addresses to the victim's apartment in Reston." Mulder caught the envelope as he stood. "All righty, then," he said, sotto voce. He strolled to the box and hefted it. Skinner and Wallace actually smiled warmly at him. "Agent Mulder, any of my agents will assist you. Just let me know who you want," Wallace said. Scully, for her part, wanted to slap Mulder. 'Nothing turns him on like having the brass come to him for help,' she thought angrily. 'They don't give a damn that he'll be a basket case, and he doesn't either. Meanwhile, I get to try to keep him out of the padded cell. Again.' ++++++++++ Mulder loaded the file box in the trunk of his car, and drove out to Reston, Virginia, through a cold rain. He was still sore from the gymnastics with Amanda the night before. He'd have bruises on his ass where she had dug in with her heels. Jeeze, who'd have thought that any friend of the Lone Gunmen could be such a hottie? He had met Amanda at a start-up genetic laboratory, where she claimed to be doing genetic research, but where, in truth, he suspected she was trying to clone Wayne Gretzky. Frohike had recommended her as just the right paranoid conspiracy-minded scientist to run some tests on the green goo he had taken from the lab in California. They had spent exactly thirty minutes together in the lab before she had led him into her office, locked the door, turned on the radio, grabbed him by the hair, and kissed him. Mulder, believing he was obviously hallucinating from something Frohike had slipped him, decided to go with it, and they had fucked like bunnies on her desk. They had been continuing to do so at every opportunity possible. The only thing she ever objected to was talking. Specifically, when he tried to tell her any of his theories. She only would listen to about ten minutes of any explanation. "Mulder, shut up and fuck," was her general response. Since she kept giving him the reports on the green goo, he was always happy to oblige. Mulder thought he would have told Scully about it by now, but there seemed to be an embargo on all things Emily. In fact, Scully didn't talk to him about anything that happened more than six months ago. It was like she emptied the conversation bin periodically. He now had more things that he wasn't allowed to mention, than subjects he could talk about. And woe betide him, should he fly into the forbidden zone with unwary chatter; she would turn into his exasperated caretaker for at least three days. Well, this insensitive still pig wasn't going to risk it. He would wait until Amanda and her fellow white-coats finished their work on the substance and see if there was anything worth telling Scully before he jumped headlong into the 'I've got some goo' conversation. He had to agree to let the mad scientists in on any possible commercial use in order to pay for their time, but somehow he doubted they would find a market for that particular DNA brew. He parked the car, reached into his pocket and touched the passkey from the crime scene in its envelope, reassuring himself that he hadn't forgotten it. He went up to the victim's apartment -- to Alexandra Brown apartment, he corrected himself. Nothing unusual about this place, he thought. It was exactly as Hitchcock used to say - the most horrific crimes happened in the most ordinary places, as people passed by in the hall, on the street, unaware. Just like the joggers running dismally in the rain; no one knew that evil had been present right around the corner from them. He used the key, ducked under the yellow police tape, and then closed the door, standing just inside as he pulled on his latex gloves. The apartment was still neat. Either Alex Brown had been very tidy herself, or the UNSUB had cleaned very thoroughly. Mulder bet it was both. Everything was orderly, organized, tasteful. He pulled the police photos out of his portfolio as he walked to the kitchen. Two wineglasses had been found on the drain board, and he laid their photo next to the sink. He opened the cabinets. Good crystal glasses here, nice china. Alex liked quality things. No liner in the trashcan; it had been taken, with the contents. He saw a knife holder on the counter; nothing missing. He walked over to the stereo. No dusting here----he'd ask for it, but he would bet that all the prints had been wiped or had been the victim's. He pressed the "on" button. Elton John? Not seeing, Mulder stood, scowling. A CD. Hadn't he seen Elton John music before? He left the music running, and stood over the couch, considering. There were two coasters and one of those wine holders still on the coffee table. So, they had come back to her place, and sat down with wine. They probably made out. Mulder felt around in the envelope, pulled out more photos, looked them over carefully. Here was something odd: a black lace bra and panties that Reston PD hadn't found, but the FBI lab had discovered the next day. Frowning, he walked into the bedroom. As always, the actual death scene struck him like a blow. There were the candles, guttered and burnt out, on the vanity. There was the potpourri, the lace pillow covers, the framed posters on the wall that proclaimed that Alex Brown had decorated her bedroom with care. He bet that the soft cotton sheets, now in evidence bags, stained with her blood, had been purchased from a high-end department store. The same with the candles, the very expensive aroma therapy candles Scully used to buy when she shopped at lunch, until Donny Pfaster put her off them completely. Surely those belonged to Alex and not the killer. He patted his pockets, found a book of matches from a Georgetown bar. He lit the candles and lowered the blinds, though he left the lights on. Standing at the foot of the bed, Mulder dropped the photos of the dead woman on the blood-stained mattress one by one. The killer tied her using her own kimono sash. He stepped back and looked in the closet. There it was, hanging from a hook on the door. 'Alex,' he thought, 'this isn't your fault. I bet this guy looked like a dream come true. I bet he had on the right clothes, and the right smile, and the right car.' He returned to the living room to tap *eject* on the CD player. How did that song go? "Everything about this house is going to grow and die----" he sang to himself. He put the CD back in the drawer. Love lies bleeding in my hands. "Your theme song," Mulder said. "You miserable fucker." He tapped *repeat,* and then returned to the bedroom. Turning out the light, he stood at the foot of the bed again and thought furiously, visualizing the couple on the bed. Dark and quiet. Not too chilly, but not hot enough to really sweat. Just the right temperature to keep her from smelling, afterwards, right? No, you didn't worry about that then. You fingered and tongued her and made her come, so that she didn't mind about the bondage. You probably made her come again before you put the tape on her mouth. She may not have been frightened, even then. Even then, she may have been lost in sensation. You fucked her doggy style, because you slapped her on the ass until it was red. We saw the bruises. You left your handprint. Then. . . then you turned her over. You turned her over, and ripped off the duct tape, and you killed her. You took off the tape so you could hear her scream, and that's what made you come. The blood pouring out of her, and her screams, made you come. "Didn't it, you puke?" Mulder asked quietly. "Was it Mommy? Was she mean to you? Or Daddy? You weren't man enough for him? Who do you hate so much? I bet it's Mom. I bet Mom blamed you for everything that went wrong. Are you that Freudian, you fuck? Are you killing Mommy?" He bent over and picked up the pictures from the bed. 'That's too easy,' he thought. 'You're sick, but it isn't that simple. I think you hate women.' He slapped the footboard hard. "You shit. We're going to find you." He heard the front door open. "Mulder?" Scully called. "In here," he replied. "Mulder, what are you doing?" she asked, flipping the light switch. "Have you found anything?" "I found her underwear, and bagged it." He went over to the dresser and blew out the candles. "Scully, I've got to read the file on the Baltimore murders. So far, there's only one real similarity beyond the profile of the victims- ---use of a kitchen knife." He picked up the photos and tapped the edge against the dresser, squaring the pile. "So, I've got my homework to do. How about yours?" "I'll have a report for you by Monday. I'd like to see the other autopsy reports." He nodded. "I'll give you half; and we'll swap when we get done." ++++++++++ Mulder went back to Quantico to rearrange the ready room set aside for the investigation. Daylight was burning, as his AD liked to say; eight women were dead and it was time to move. Wallace's staffers had already pinned up a map of the Virginia-Maryland block, with labels giving the name of each victim and place of her death. Mulder sat down at the long government-issue table and began pulling out the photos of the victims in life - not pictures of their violated bodies, but ones they had posed for. Seven women who had found their Mr. Goodbar. Mulder knew better than to repeat that thought aloud; one of these junior agents would promptly begin referring to the UNSUB as "Mr. Goodbar." A catchy name; that's what everyone liked. As if giving a catchy name to the press was a step to finding a killer. Mulder thought it was a step backwards. The longer he was with this job, the more he liked the Bureau's UNSUB, for 'unknown subject.' Don't give these fucks the satisfaction of re-reading their news clippings with a hard-on. When Ressler and Douglas were doing prison interviews of convicted serial killers, they noted that most of the killers had avidly followed the publicity. But they didn't read the papers to learn how to avoid capture; it was to relive the thrill sexually. He carefully pinned the pictures of the victims to one of the bulletin boards. It was good to remember that these people were real, not just stats in a crime report. Seven women, one of whom may have sat next to you on the subway, who smiled at you when you held a door open for her as she tried to gather up her belongings. He stood still for a moment. Could this guy be a commuter? Is that why the killings were so spread out? You got to know the other passengers on the train, in a vague way. They became imprinted on one's subconscious, so your memory, running on reminders to buy toilet paper and change the water in the aquarium, would tell you that 'her face is familiar' but nothing else. He stepped backwards, and sat down in one of the office chairs. It made sense. These ladies didn't seem like the type to pick up a Mr. Goodbar and take him home, just like that; they would know that was risky behavior. He leaned back, his chin on one hand. He reluctantly thought of Scully, and what she had said in her report of how she met Ed Jerse -- met him in a tattoo parlor she was surveilling, struck up a conversation, exchanged phone numbers. He had asked her out. She had accepted. They went to dinner. They. . . Mulder was oblivious to the two other agents in the room, as he scrawled his notes on the case files. Someone had to see these women with this guy. He just didn't just whisk them out of a commuter train. Had he eaten dinner with them, had a few drinks? Just once? Maybe more than once. Maybe he staggered these killings out over such a length of time because he was in different stages of a relationship with each one. He was had been killing one woman every eleven to twelve months. Why was he speeding up? He probably read all the books on profiling, Mulder thought. A functional killer. Extremely organized. Self- employed, or with an extremely flexible schedule. But how frustrating to him, not to be able to relive the butchery, except by playing with whatever trophies he had taken. Now came the hard part; they would have to start looking at all of the crime scene reports, all the autopsies, and looking for similarities. There was no handy "FBI-Find- the-Killer" computer program. One of Wallace's staff would help him, but he had to tell them what to look for. He opened up his laptop and pulled up an old folder for comparing details of crime scene. He started modifying it to ask for candles? Music? Weapon? Gags? Tape? And while doing that, he made his own checklist. Get the investigation reports, and read them, looking for the descriptions of the last people to be seen with the women. See if the relatives or friends reported anything missing from the home, something small the killer took. Write up his suppositions, so no one thought he just sat here and waited for the Death Fairy to tell him where to look. He was reaching for his notebook, when the idea hit him. Chat rooms. Newsgroups. But even as he wrote the words down, the idea struck him as too facile. This guy wanted to see what he was getting. Still, somebody was going to have to look for all the computer accounts. That would give the hackers something to do other than search for the next disabling virus. He wished he could have the Gunmen look at the hard drive itself. Well, why not? When he got up to get a soft drink, it was already one in the morning. Surprised, he looked at his cell phone. Battery dead again. He didn't feel tired, though, and went back upstairs to read. ++++++++++ Scully tried calling Mulder before she took her sleeping pill, but his cell phone didn't respond. That was par for the course. She got in bed, and sat smoothing the coverlet for a few moments. She had finished reading her half of the reports. In a way, it was a relief to read about a serial killer. That was within the realm of human behavior. True, heinous behavior, but not behavior that defied all classification. She wasn't being dismissive of her entire career in the X- Files. It was just easier, sometimes, to operate in known areas of law enforcement. Mulder had no idea whatsoever how often she had had to be a buffer between him and the world, basically. Trying to explain him to cops, to witnesses, to waitresses. It wore her down. She loved Mulder dearly, but mostly in the abstract. She had her most tender thoughts about him when she was out of his actual presence for a while. When she was in the office with him, he took up all the air. Hell, he took up all the air even when they were standing in an open field. Yes, he was and would always be a hero, but heroes were damned hard to live with. He had agreed with her that the Conspiracy was over; he wasn't searching for his sister; he had buried his mother. True, Spender had performed that little bit of unauthorized brain surgery on Mulder, but the specialists who examined him later found no physical impairment, and the Cancerman had vanished in a cloud of smoke. She didn't want to think about Cancerman. She was getting drowsy, and she slid down into the cool sheets. Without a global conspiracy to fight, Mulder was left chasing the same old Monsters of the Week he had been chasing seven years ago. Some days, listening to Mulder do his best to sabotage his career----no, his life----Scully would think that she actually preferred his hospital stays. Then, she was merely afraid for his physical self, not about him being suspended without pay, or of the sneers of his so-called colleagues. He had never admitted, since his sarcastic words at their first meeting, that he cared, but 'she 'cared, for him. At this point in their lives, she thought Mulder saw her as some kind of sexless amalgam of his mom and his sister. If her family only knew; she bet they all assumed she was having sex with Mulder. Hah. He couldn't shut up long enough. She was not worried about herself; Kersh had cleared all the crap from her personnel file after his New York rookie had shot her. It was her little price for not creating a huge uproar. And that was nothing compared to what she could have made of Jeffrey Spender's resignation and disappearance. No one had seen him leave the office, and the surveillance cameras had mysteriously blanked. Scully had enjoyed messing with Kersh's mind. She didn't bother telling Mulder. She didn't want to hear him bitching. He didn't know how good she had gotten at this, at being a corporate weasel, since he himself didn't bother to work the system. No, it was Mulder who worried her. And she was so tired of worrying about him. She finally slept, and did not dream. ++++++++++ He wanted more than this, somehow. He had spent years at this profession, laboring alone. Yes, the work was a reward in itself, but somehow he wanted an acknowledgement of sorts. Some kind of recognition of his stature in the community would be pleasant. He had to admit he didn't need the spotlight that went with recognition. Could he function with the glare of the world upon him? He rolled over and looked at the woman in bed with him, sound asleep. He wasn't ready to give up the security of his private life for recognition, at any rate. He smiled to himself. It was all about patience, cunning, and control. How did the hunter become the hunted? Through stupidity. Like Bundy. He just lost it. He could have still been hunting his prey in the Northwest, but he got greedy and crazy. The UNSUB dozed beside his sleeping companion, his plain white pillowcase one he had taken from Alexandra Brown's linen closet. His dreams were enjoyable. +++++++++++ "Come back to bed, Carla," the killer had said. And she did, and he slaughtered her, and played in her blood. Or so Mulder thought. Dabbled in her blood? Painted himself in it, and looked in the mirror to see how the blood dripped down his chest? Had he noticed, by now, that real blood wasn't like the movies at all - that it was alive and warm for a short time, and then it died. It ran freely at first, then it got sticky and gluey and stopped moving until it was finally inert. Just like 'Her' on the bed. Mulder focused on the wallpaper, on the headboard, on the footboard, all wiped. He wiped everything, but Mulder knew he couldn't resist playing in her blood, the way someone might not be able to resist tracing a fingertip in spilled wine. But even Merlot wasn't the same as blood; it didn't have the same texture, the same color, the same bouquet. Mulder thought the smell came from the iron, but he wasn't sure. He would have to ask Scully what elements in spilled blood caused that smell. Later. For a change, Scully wasn't standing with him at a crime scene. Mulder had brought one of the agents from Wallace's unit with him, Henderson, one of the guys who had picked up his notes and straightened out the police files Mulder had riffled through. The man stood back, not touching anything, only his eyes moving. Funny how non-X-Files work got him an entourage. "He's escalating," Mulder said, and tried to recall if he'd heard the agent's first name. Shaggy hair. "Why?" the agent asked. Mulder didn't answer him. Maybe he wouldn't ask Scully about the smell; sometimes, she couldn't tell the difference between his curiosity and what she considered morbid speculation. She was probably as happy as she could be, reading all the forensic reports and writing her own. Facts: Scully thought facts told everything. And she was right, of course, but he had never been able to explain to her that 'flash' of vision, that instant replay of the killer-cam that he saw at times. Frank Black, that grim burned-out case; he understood. Mulder was getting too close to thinking about his Happy New Year memories. The kiss that went no where, that Scully seemed to forget about. He turned his attention back to watching the morgue guys place the corpse in the bag. Carla Canterell was a corpse, now. The photographer was still taking pictures. UNSUB had spent a lot of time with her, while she was alive and while she was dead. She was finally missed at work, and the employees at the coffee shop had called the owner, who called the police. They saw the body as soon as they stepped inside; it, and the bed, was in a direct line, straight through the bedroom door. "Dead about two days," the medical examiner had just speculated. "I'll know more when we do the autopsy. With the low temperature in the room, I can just guess. Could be longer." He looked at his watch. "This is Tuesday? She could have come back here as early as Friday with the guy, but I'm thinking----just estimating----Saturday night, Sunday morning." "So he could have been here----" Mulder didn't realize he was thinking aloud, until he saw the doctor nod. "Yeah, he could have killed her right away, or killed her Tuesday. We'll look at what she's eaten." Mulder idly watched the man peel off his latex gloves and noted the tiny puff of talcum that hung in the air. "Let me know if you see anything that looks like he touched her with his gloves off. I'm thinking he couldn't resist touching her with his bare hands," he said. "We probably won't be lucky enough to find a print." The medical examiner grinned, to Mulder's mild surprise. "Or even a print on an eyeball. You know, like in 'Manhunter'?"' They stepped aside to let the gurney come out with the body bag. "Is that the medical examiner's movie of choice?" Mulder asked. "No, but I liked it better than 'Silence of the Lambs.' And the professionals, not the rookie, caught the bad guy, in the first one. I haven't seen a movie yet that gives my office a break. We always overlook the vital clue. Don't talk to me about Quincy. Well, I'll get my report to you soonest." He raised his hand in farewell, and left. "What's the big hurry, my man? Why have you stepped up the pace?" Mulder glanced up, but he hadn't actually spoken that thought. He was spoiled, too used to Scully being there to listen to him thinking aloud. The killer had picked and chosen through the woman's CDs to set just the right mood. He had taken what was there - silk scarves, artificial flower arrangements, crystal, candles - and brought all the things into the bedroom ---- Mulder turned to the County Homicide investigators. Everyone was wearing the standard white cotton jumpsuits. They has already shown him the men's running shoes in the closet, but even they were willing to believe this wasn't the killer's cherry. He had done this before, and knew what he liked. "Look, guys," he began, his very earnestness stopping their low-voiced mutterings. "You guys may not believe in profiling. You may not want the Feds in on this case. But here's something I want you to think about." He paused, looking around to catch everyone's gaze. Even that of the homicide investigator, who was standing near the door with the usual I've-seen-it-all expression; Mulder was almost pleased. 'I'm acting,' he thought, 'but so what? You have to get the attention of the class before you teach them anything.' "This guy wants publicity. He wants someone to leak something, anything, to the papers. To the morning shows. And when it does leak, and he does get the publicity, he'll sit in his living room and whack off to it. As you can see, he's a sick bastard." He thought he had their attention, and dropped his voice to a lower, intimate pitch. "Let's not give him what he wants, for just a while. Let's keep it quiet. I know I can't stop you from talking to your buddy, or your wife, or whoever. But try. Please don't gratify him any further." He straightened up and his voice turned bland again. "I need pictures of all this, of course. Get a lot of close-ups of all this stuff. We need to know where everything was the way the victim had it, so see if you can get some shots that the relatives can look at for more than two seconds. And we're going to need to Luminol the place. It's too clean for the kind of wounds she's got." "Think he did it in the bathroom and moved her?" one of the techs asked. "Maybe. Do the whole fucking apartment. Find out what station that is on the radio. And see if any neighbors heard it go on." Mulder walked over to the window, and caught the contemplative gaze of --- David, Dave Henderson, from Violent Crimes. That was his first name. "What? Surprised I can work and play well with others?" Henderson glanced around for a moment, seeing who was within earshot. "You know how you thought Reston PD missed the victim's underwear on the first search?" Mulder was almost impressed. Someone was actually reading his reports. "Yeah?" "I don't think they overlooked them. I checked with the victim's family, and the extra key was missing. I think the fucker went back and put the panties there. I bet the stuff on them isn't hers. I bet they're from his girlfriend, or some other victim." Henderson made a grimace of disgust. Mulder felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. "I bet they are, too." He gave Henderson an appraising stare, which the other agent bore with unblinking calm. "Come with me," he said. ++++++++++++++ Scully had given more of her focus to the last two medical examiner's reports, reading the transcripts as well as the formal documents. The problem with her report was that she was getting less a picture of the UNSUB, and more a picture of the victim. The victims were single women, successful women, with good jobs and decent cars and good apartments, just like her; with savings accounts and good working wardrobes, just like her; childless, with no significant other. Just like her. ++++++++++ There was no one around except the three uniformed cops, the homicide detectives, and the crime scene technicians. They were all blank-faced, trying to be cool. There was a double bonus in killing in a small city; a crime scene outside their experience shocked the cops, and that very lack of experience kept them from finding any mistakes. The UNSUB very much doubted if these guys would even think of a serial killer. They would go look at Carla's ex- boyfriend, poor bastard. His shoes were still in her closet, and a prescription bottle belonging to him was in her medicine cabinet. As the cops came down the front steps, he studied them. Nope. The technicians were taking the body bag down now. One of the plainclothes detectives, with a long dark overcoat and a bad haircut, watched them. He clearly didn't have any ideas beyond his next cup of coffee. No danger there. He placed his palm over his groan, and grinned. Not a tingle. He was too marvelously satisfied. Carla had exceeded his hopes. ++++++++++++++ The investigators agreed that they would keep the Canterell apartment under surveillance in case the guy decided to play another joke on them. Her door key was still on the keyring in her purse, so he hadn't taken that one. "Our luck, she didn't have a spare key here," Henderson commented sourly. Mulder barely nodded. 'Why is the killer escalating?' he wondered. At home, Mulder played his messages as he tugged off his tie and unbuttoned his collar and cuffs. A testy one, from Scully. As usual, she didn't leave any real message, just "I want you to look at this." Look at what, he wondered? Why does everyone have to be so mysterious? Obviously, something of interest, but not groundbreaking. And why didn't she call him on his cell, at the scene? He checked it before he dropped it on the desk. Batteries good. Several messages were from Amanda; they said, simply, that she was hot for his body. He thought about calling her back, as he dropped his clothes on the bathroom floor, but he was too tired to chat, or to wait around for her to show up. He wasn't getting dressed and going out again. What was the trigger? What made the killer step up the pace so drastically? Was he that comfortable? The shower didn't answer. ++++++++++++ Amanda knew he probably didn't want to see her, but she was going to his place anyway. She wanted to unbutton his collar and bite the base of his neck. She wanted to lick the spot where his tie nestled. She knew he was all wound up and interested in this case, and that she would have to keep pretending to have no further ambition than to be his fuck-buddy, but she didn't care. ' Why tell him that she was starting to think of him all the time?' she thought. 'Just stay cool.' She didn't have anything else to do tonight, anyway. She threw her trench coat over her latest Vicky's Secret teddy, and got in the car with an ice bucket and champagne. She hoped it wouldn't tip over, but it was hidden nicely in the backseat in her laundry basket, under folded laundry. She got to Mulder's place just in time for him to step out of the shower and answer the doorbell, toweling off. Mulder wasn't sure he was in the mood for Amanda, but he undid the bolts and let her in. Shit, she had driven over to him. Why not? She had a bottle of champagne. She gave him a dazzling, open-mouthed smile. She put on the persona that he expected of her -- the free spirit, the sensualist. The woman who would do you on your own desktop. Or hers. It was what he expected, what he was comfortable with. She excited him with her conversation, and with her underwear, or lack thereof. He took the ice bucket from her as she walked in, closed and bolted the door behind her. Ss she slithered out of her raincoat he let his bath towel fall to the floor. ++++++++++ Mulder loved the new mattress, but thought, 'Damn, maybe I should have kept that waterbed.' He also loved his new thick pillows, and was presently propped against them as Amanda straddled him, arching her back and moaning with every breath. He had the radio playing loudly, to drown her out when she got louder. He slid further down, holding her hips, and picked up the soft plastic vibrator. Amanda opened one eye. "Oh, no," she giggled. "Oh, yes," Mulder said, moving beneath her. He put the vibrator on her clit and slowly moved it back and forth. She stiffened, snapping her head back so hard he thought she would get whiplash. "Oh noooooo----" +++++++++ Scully threw down her cell phone on the passenger seat and got out of the car. Damn that Mulder - he was probably just watching basketball and just didn't want to pick up. He had turned off his phones, and was not answering his e- mail or IM. She pulled out his apartment key and ran up the steps. Outside his door, she thought she heard something. Odd sounds. She opened the door, and walked in, softly closing the door. Moaning. She heard him moaning. Without thinking, she drew her service weapon and stepped carefully into Mulder's bedroom, only to stop short, gun still held at her side, staring. Scully never knew if she really saw everything in one flash, or if she recreated the picture later. She thought she saw the naked back of a blond woman, bouncing on Mulder's hips. He was facing Scully. She noted his large hands spanning the woman's hips, the woman's hair slashing back and forth in the candlelight as she rocked in ecstasy, his long hairy legs sprawled under her, the vibrator in his hand, the gold of Mulder's skin. The woman's moans began to turn into shrieks. Her hands were flailing at Mulder's shoulders. A flush burning from her hairline all the way to her chest, Scully turned and fled. She closed the door carefully behind her, and then she realized, as she stood shaking in the hallway, that she still held her gun. She holstered it. Through the door she leaned against, she could still hear them. Mulder having sex. Having sex that didn't involve a video and a jar of Vaseline. Her stomach heaved, and she raced downstairs to her car and her bottle of Diet Pepsi. ++++++++++ That night, she relived the scene in her dreams. Again, she walked into a darkened apartment, lit by candles, music playing. She heard Mulder's moans, and again drew her gun. When she stepped into the bedroom this time, he was propped up against the headboard. He looked at her over the woman's shoulder, a long, unembarrassed look. Again the heat washed over Scully. 'Seen enough?' he seemed to be saying. He didn't stop what he was doing; on the contrary, he bent forward and took the woman's nipple in his mouth. Her moans became screams, and she rocked back and forth, riding Mulder. Scully stood and saw all of it, until the woman came, and Mulder still watched Scully with that unreadable stare. Scully woke up shaking. She sat up and turned on the light, and was getting out of bed, when she had a frightening thought. The candles, the loud music - was Mulder consciously using his own sex life to re-enact the scene of the murders? End 01/06 NEW & REVISED: "Neither Here Nor There" 02/06 Author: Tesla Feedback: Tesla@hiwaay.net Rating: NC-17 for violence, sexual situations, and language See part one for detailed headers. ++++++++++ "Profiling," said Mulder. "is a load of horseshit." He swiped a hand over his forehead. Henderson blinked up at him, then shrugged. "I mean, it's a fun intellectual exercise and all that, but we don't actually 'catch' anyone, now, do we?" Refusing to be drawn into an argument, Henderson pulled his goggles back down over his eyes, and kicked backwards from the side of the pool, resuming his laps. They were at the gym for an early morning swim/review of the case. Mulder finished toweling his chest, as he paced the concrete and waited for Henderson to come back from his last lap. This had gone on for the past hour and a half; Mulder would meet Henderson at the end of one lap, and torment him by letting him hear Mulder's streaming audio of random thoughts. Henderson would swim a lap and come back with Mulder's rantings nicely aligned in his head and recite them, in time for Mulder to postulate a new theory. Henderson was a solemn sort, not given to smiling and laughing. At least he didn't roll his eyes at Mulder's jokes. Mulder liked the fact that his hair was longer and shaggier than any other agent in the unit. But that was the only sign of an individual personality. "Ugly Dave" Henderson, so-called because he was the most handsome man in his year at Quantico, swam back to where Mulder stood, holding on to the side of the pool. "Okay, go on." Mulder smiled unpleasantly. "It's the beat cops. They pull the idiot over, and find duct tape rolling out of the van. Or the homicide detective who keeps going down the list of tips, until he finds that one from the killer's nosy neighbor. Oh sure," he raised one hand to stop Henderson from interrupting, although the other man hadn't opened his mouth. "We look good. Our profile confirms it. We go to court, and work with the district attorney, and manipulate the defendant into freaking out on the stand. But can we really say we've 'caught' him?" "Wallace is screaming for the profile," Henderson said. "I assume you're working on it?" "It's almost done," Mulder said. "But I don't know what connects the victims." He resumed his prior train of thought. "We have different jurisdictions, different detectives, different DAs. No one wants to start a task force with 'their' money. So what we're doing is useless." "It's not useless," Henderson replied, taking his goggles off, and squinting at one of the lenses. "And I think the randomness is pre-meditated, to keep them in different jurisdictions." "Yeah," Mulder agreed. "Too randomly random." "Are you planning on sharing the profile with the rest of the class, or do we just sit around in a holy circle and watch you think?" "I just can't think of where he's meeting them," Mulder said fretfully. "On trains? He has to be really reassuring. Someone really gratifying. He travels back and forth, like a salesman with a big territory. He never kills at a hotel; he's always at their place. So he's able to get in. But these women don't seem the type to be interested in a quick fuck." "We don't know that, Mulder," Henderson said. "I know you're thinking of the safety issue, but thousands of people still hook up at bars and go home with strangers. They don't ever think it can happen to them. Look at the murders in London last year. Several gay men were murdered, and they knew a killer was out there, but the camera crews still showed that the bars were full." "That's a totally different lifestyle," Mulder said impatiently. "These women are in the thirties. The sexual revolution is over." "Just because 'you' strike out---" Henderson grinned suddenly, and Mulder realized why Henderson didn't smile; he was almost too attractive. The smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. Mulder shivered, looking down into Henderson's suddenly wide-eyed gaze. A memory? He never talked to anyone at the pool. A scratch of memory, like leaves rattling down a sidewalk in the wind. 'Krycek. Years ago. The last time I talked to another agent about what I do.' "I'm going," he said abruptly. "I need to pick up Scully. I want her to see the Luminol results." Henderson held the pool ladder and watched Mulder walk back to the locker room, his face blank. +++++++++++ He could hear his cell phone ringing in the locker. Naturally, it stopped as soon as he spun the combination. Impatient, he shook it out of his gym bag, and was rewarded by seeing it drop out of his fingers and clonk onto the floor. After a moment, he scooped it up and checked the message. It was Amanda. He hefted the phone on his palm. Call her back? Had he seen her enough? Did he have the time? No. Later. He put the phone in the bag and began to dress. ++++++++++ What was 'with' Scully and the bathroom? Mulder hated to accept anything to drink at her apartment, for fear he would have to pee. And he always had to pee while he was there. Her bathroom looked cleaner than her kitchen. For starters, he couldn't tell what was the towel to use to dry his hands - they were all pristine. He alternated between sitting on the toilet to pee (to make sure no drips) and standing and aiming with excruciating care and 'still' being convinced he'd missed. Using the first method, he laboriously cleaned the seat with toilet paper; the second method, he wiped down the floor. Either way, it took forever. And he still couldn't tell which towel to use. No matter what he did, Scully would give him a narrow-eyed scrutiny that made him feel guilty. "Oh, fuck me," he said, looking in her mirror. He still smelled of chlorine; he had to get some swimmer's shampoo. He thought of Henderson, suddenly. 'A guy like that - that's who we're looking for. A good looking guy, a nice guy, nice build, good boring job, clean car, nice suit. What are Henderson's alibis?' Wallace had told Henderson to give Mulder all the assistance Mulder wanted, but he seemed surprised that Mulder had picked Henderson. Because Henderson, despite his longish hair, was such a model boy? ++++++++++ Scully always wondered what the hell Mulder found to occupy him so long in her bathroom. He took forever to flush, and ran the water long enough to bathe; she would later find half the toilet paper gone. She wondered if he was scrutinizing the contents of her medicine cabinet, or looking for sex toys. He couldn't be masturbating, could he? Oh, wait, no -- that would be her brothers, when they were in junior high. She wished she hadn't put her car in the shop, or that she had just taken a cab. The autopsy on Carla Canterell had taken forever, and the garage had been long closed when she called to see if all the work was done. Now, as he carefully closed the door behind him, his cheekbones grew slightly darker. "Ready?" he asked, a little gruffly. She held up her bag and keys, to indicate she had been waiting on him all along. He brushed past her, and opened the door. ++++++++++ Mulder was once again going through his patented bag of tricks. There they all were - Scully, Skinner, Wallace, Henderson, all sitting around a table - and there he was at the head, with his notes and his theories. Patterson always claimed profilers had a hard on when they presented. Mulder always thought that was why Patterson didn't like women profilers. What could he say about them, that they had to be wet? Patterson's misogyny was blatant; despite federal guidelines, females in his department weren't given anything meaningful to do. Mulder never had an erection during a presentation. He was willing to bet, had he ever looked, Patterson would have. Patterson, Mulder acknowledged, should have been locked up a long time ago. Jesus, he did NOT want to go see Patterson. "The UNSUB is, as always, a white, middle-class male who has a good ability to converse and charm his victims. One theory could be that he is meeting the women on the Internet, but so far, analysis of the computer hard drives available to us has shown no common links. He could just as easily be meeting them in coffee shops or yuppie bars." He took a drink of water. "He has to be in a position to charm these women enough to get access to their apartments. We don't know if he accomplishes this at the first meeting with them, or at a later time. The police reports from the cases outside this area don't show any indication of new boyfriends, dates, or the like. In this area, one victim, Carla Canterell, had an ex-boyfriend, but he was at a wedding during weekend of her murder; out of town the Friday night at the rehearsal party, at the wedding all day Saturday, at a brunch the next morning, got back in Sunday night. The homicide guys grilled him pretty thoroughly, and he's not our guy. Not that we thought he was." "So where are we?" Wallace asked. "Well, unless you want to start an official push and crank up the publicity machine, nowhere." Mulder sat down in his chair. "Really, we don't know where he's getting them. We've got the computer guys looking at the two hard drives we have. We've put the locales into our computer, and there's no pattern. He could be a salesman, he could be anyone. We haven't got a single print, a single eyewitness who saw a man with any of these women. All we've got is me and my Ouija board, and it's not answering me yet." Before Wallace could speak, Henderson stepped in. "Mulder and I think the UNSUB operates in a fixed area, dictated by his travels to and from his home base. The first seven took place around a Boston hub; now it's a DC hub." He glanced at Mulder, who gave him a little nod. 'Asskisser,' Scully thought. 'Pretty boy hoping Mulder will be your ticket up. Mulder is such an idiot. His paranoia never kicks in at the right time.' "You think his schedule is dictated by commutes in and out of DC?" Wallace asked, sitting back in his chair. "He could even be an airline pilot," Mulder said, looking at Henderson. "He could be picking them up at the airport. That could be a reason why he uses a weapon from the scene; he doesn't want to be caught with one on him." "We don't have all the credit card records yet," Henderson added, staring back at him. "We'll get them," Wallace said. "Our prosecutor can get a warrant. Mulder, be sure the local guys don't get mad. Share your results. I don't know what the hold up is on the Luminol results, but they're being rushed. The expert is one of the best. She's doing it millimeter by millimeter." He held out his open palms. "Anything else?" Scully sat up straighter, picking up a lab report from her folder. "The underwear our investigators found in the Reston apartment could very well be a plant. The pubic hairs didn't match up with the victim's. And there was no semen on them. No saliva or hairs on the bra." She held out another sheaf of papers. "I've prepared a report of my thoughts on the similarities of the victims." His eyebrows raised slightly, Mulder plucked one of the copies out and riffled through it. "Anything else from the autopsy?" "It's all there," Scully said shortly. "One more thing," Mulder said. Scully stared hard at the table. "It's a cliche, but we're also looking for something that precipitated this sudden escalation. And his total contempt of the last victim--- displayed so she's the first thing seen. But there's going to be either a significant stressor in his life, or----" Henderson fed Mulder the straight line. "Or what?" "Or he's just a real pro." "Back to work, campers," Wallace said, standing up. Everyone filed out. Scully watched Henderson help Mulder gather up his papers, holding their cups of coffee. She felt a bubble of anger in her chest. "Oh, please, Henderson. You two are too sweet together. When is the wedding?" Mulder was caught off guard, but Henderson looked her straight in the eyes. "So it's true what they say, Agent Scully. 'You're' the nut, and Agent Mulder is your handler." Scully went white, and took a step forward; Mulder blocked her. "Get a grip, Scully. You can't tell a guy he's blowing me and expect him to ignore it. What's the matter with you? Maybe you should go home and take a nap." He snorted. "And a ba----shower. You still have that morgue smell." He wheeled away and was already out the door, Henderson at his heels. In the elevator, Henderson sipped at his coffee. "She must think I'm invading her territory. Maybe it's your work that's made her so possessive," he offered pacifically. "What do you mean, our work?" Mulder stabbed at the floor buttons. "Well, that's the gossip. That she doesn't have any friends in the Bureau but you. That's she's worried you'll leave the X-Files and she'll have to go back to Quantico. That's all I've heard." Henderson looked at him over the rim of the cup. "Everyone talks about you two and your basement, you know." "Jeeze. I know she thinks I have no life, but this is ridiculous." Mulder stabbed the button again and gave Henderson an oblique look. "The Bureau still doesn't like gays, no matter what the party line says. It's not funny for her to go around saying shit like that." "But, Mulder, it really IS your ass I'm after," Henderson said earnestly. "She's just enabled me to bring my feelings out in the open." "Sorry, Dave, I'm already involved with the Wizard's star forward," Mulder said solemnly. "But I've always thought Skinner was a leather bar waiting for customers." Henderson choked on his coffee. ++++++++++ That evening, Scully took Mulder's hateful advice and took a long, hot shower. She began touching herself, but she couldn't come. She was crying when the water went cold and she got out. Still wet, she wrapped herself in a towel and went to her toy drawer. Some of this stuff she hadn't thought about for a while. Weeping, wet hair in her face, she lay on the bed and thought about strangers, then about Ethan. She finally threw down the vibrator and took a sleeping pill, without breaking it in half this time. ++++++++++ Mulder bent Amanda over his dining room table. She gasped at the cold smooth surface; at the same time, Mulder slapped her ass. She jerked, and tried to hold on to the edge, but the table was too wide. He paused, brushing his fingers back and forth lightly over her clit. She felt her palms sticking to the wood. Every time they were together, they were wilder and she came harder. "Wider," he said roughly. She spread her thighs, and felt his finger slide into her. At the same time, he smacked her. She was an almost electric sensation. Then he took his finger away. "Oh, God," she hissed. "Don't stop." "Stay there," he said. She waited, wetter than she had ever been with him before. When he came back, she heard a hum, then felt the soft plastic of her vibrator. After he had eased it to the right spot, the spot that made her gasp and writhe, he began spanking her rhythmically with the other hand. She came at least three times, screaming with her face pressed into her forearm. Then, Mulder turned her onto her back, and lifted her up on to the table. He followed, ignoring the creaks, and without preamble, pushed into her. The feel of the table on her burning skin, his near silence as he fucked her, and above all the over-stimulation, utterly undid Amanda. She screamed his name and kept on screaming, and coming, and coming, clawing his back and slapping at his arms, until he came and they both collapsed. ++++++++++ In her scrubs, Scully bent over the autopsy protocols on Carla Canterell. She leaned on one of the stainless steel counters, flipping the pages with her free hand. Usually, she could be totally absorbed in a report, but she couldn't focus today. Why had she said that to Henderson yesterday? Could she be so cynical that she discounted any support either of them got? Was she so alienated from mainstream law enforcement after years of conspiracies and ghosts? Henderson checked out; but, of course, so had Alex Krycek, and what a----she swerved away from thinking of him, because she would start thinking about Melissa. She couldn't go there. No. Instead, she straightened up and went to the cold room. She wanted to look at the body one more time before they released her. With the ease of long practice, she braced her weight and pulled open the body drawer. Carla had been pretty once; that was almost a cliche. Scully had spent years looking at women who had once been pretty, once been alive, until some suspect decided he could do whatever he wanted to her. And true, the murderers didn't go free; the ones that managed to survive being captured were usually rotting away in prison. But they still had done it. Carla was still dead, her once pretty face swollen from blows, her most tender flesh torn from shallow cuts. All she had wanted was someone to hold her, Scully thought. And Scully could 'see' it, in flashes, just like Mulder told her he saw things; just as he said. She saw them walking into the apartment, kissing; pulling off each other's clothes. Did they take a shower together? Did he make her come in the shower, so she was ready to agree to anything? Scully didn't have Mulder's infamous memory, but she thought back to the crime scene photos. All the bottles of shampoo and conditioner and body wash were on the floor beside the tub. Perhaps it looked ordinary, but not in a bathroom where all the other cosmetics were lined up like little soldiers. Yes. He had Carla so enraptured by the wine and great, gentle sex, that when he wanted to go further, she had agreed. He probably made her come a couple of times before she began to get frightened. And when he put on the latex gloves, she couldn't get out of the bonds of her own scarves and belts. Scully didn't quite have her eyes fill up. She stretched out her own latex-covered hand to Carla's hair. Then she stopped, looking at her glove. She had an unprofessional impulse to take it off; but repressed it, and gently touched Carla's hair, still richly blonde. "We won't forget," she whispered. She looked around, embarrassed. There was no one else there to see her. She blinked, and looked again. "Hey, George?" she called to the diener. "Can you help me turn her? I want to look at her back." "Sure, Dr. Scully. I'm coming." ++++++++++++ "Hello, Clarice," Patterson said, and then laughed. Mulder rolled his eyes at Henderson. They were in the secured visitors' area, just outside the violent ward at the mental hospital. Although Patterson was locked behind steel bars and Plexiglas, he still made Mulder edgy. There was a bench bolted to the floor behind Patterson, but he stood with his back at the door. "Who's your friend?" Patterson resumed, even though Henderson had displayed his badge. "Why do you need company?" "Standard Bureau procedure during prison interviews," Mulder replied. "You should know. You instituted the policy." He heard the scraping of hard plastic on concrete as Henderson pulled the picnic chairs up to the glass panel. Henderson did not look at Mulder, but he fairly bristled with "I've got you're back." On his side, Patterson still stood, still trying to project his old authority. "I was just kidding you," he said. "I'm really happy to see you." He was speaking to Mulder, but looking at Henderson, who returned his gaze stolidly. "And your pretty friend." "Jeeze, Bill, enough with the gay act," Mulder said. "If you're trying to creep me out, you've succeeded." "I forgot how well you know me." There was an unpleasant edge to Patterson's voice. Mulder felt sweat prickling his back. "We're here to ask you about the Baltimore UNSUB." Patterson's eyes widened, and he slowly sat down. "Baltimore." "Just before I left. The love 'em and leave 'em dead guy. If you weren't in. . ." Mulder stopped, and waited. He saw, in his peripheral vision, Henderson's almost involuntary jerk. Mulder was baiting Patterson. "You were the one on his trail, Mulder." Patterson's eyes were as dead as those of any corpse Mulder had ever stood over. "You would have had him if you hadn't left to chase little green men. You----" Mulder interrupted him. "You took the files home with you, wrote notes. Highlighted them. But you didn't write a profile. Or if you did, it's not in the notes at Quantico. What were you going to do?" The man just returned his gaze, smiling faintly, shrugged. "A private profile." Mulder answered himself. "So you could pull a rabbit out of the hat for the Director. You were just trying to protect your job." "You didn't have the balls for the job, Mulder. You couldn't stare into the abyss long enough." "I'm staring into it now," Mulder said. For a moment, he thought he had gone too far, and Patterson would get up and demand to go back to his cell. Instead, his old boss snorted, and leaned forward, nodding in approval. "Good boy. Now, I know you're shy, but this guy isn't. None of your little proactive methods are going to work. And he's not going to get sentimental and go to the gravesite. He's not going to have any guilt about what he's done. If he's Baltimore. Baltimore got worried, because the Homicide crews were staking out upscale single bars. Too much heat, and not the heat he likes." He glanced at Henderson. "Relax, young man. Don't be misled by Mulder bantering with me. He wouldn't be here unless he thought I could help. Tell me about this new fellow." Mulder didn't need notes. "The guy is killing single, well-off, professional women in their homes. No sign of forced entry, no sign of struggle. They consent to being tied up, as some part of a sex game. He has sex with them. He probably puts on latex gloves at some point, after he's decided to kill them, and has them secured." "Knife?" Patterson asked. "Plays with the blood?" Despite the blue hospital scrubs, he looked as intense as the supervising agent he had been, and thoughtful furrows wrinkled his forehead. "Sounds like Baltimore. But whatever connection he had to them, or method of selection, is going to be a lot looser. Or a different one. He isn't picking them at random. Victimology, Mulder. Don't forget the victimology." Mulder nodded. "I know. We're checking out all of their backgrounds. But since the task forces don't really know what to look for, they're entering everything in the computers. I mean everything. So far, nothing." He stood up. "So you're saying, we should publicize this? Warn off other women? See if we get any informants?" Patterson smiled, and Mulder waited for the inevitable nasty comment. "God knows you hate to gratify anyone, Mulder, but you have to live with the short term notion of this guy jerking off to his press clippings, with the long term hope that some woman he knows 'right now' will think better before she spreads her legs for him." "Thanks," Mulder said. "I'll let you know." Henderson was already on his feet and opening the door. "Oh, boys?" The two younger men turned around. The former agent was holding his left hand up, as in farewell. There was a homemade tattoo of a gargoyle on his forearm. "Good hunting." The hair on the back of Mulder's neck rose. Henderson closed the door behind them, and they walked together through the corridors until they came to a lobby. Mulder peeled off to the restroom alcove. By the time Henderson caught up with him, catching the outer door before it closed, Mulder was retching into a sink, its taps running, one hand braced on the wall, his other hand neatly holding his tie against his starched shirt. Nothing was coming out. Mulder cupped some water in his hand, and rinsed his mouth. His throat and his stomach muscles hurt. He turned his head and saw Henderson, who probably didn't realize how scared he looked. "That man scares the shit out of me. Always did." Mulder rasped. His eyes were watery, and he snagged a paper towel from the holder and wiped his face. Henderson still had a worried expression. "Come on. So I'm human. Don't be so surprised." "What----" Henderson cleared his throat. "What was that on his arm?" "A gargoyle. If you like, a demon. John Mostow was obsessed by the image. It's never been determined if this is the demon he and Patterson claimed had possessed them, or if use of the image is an attempt to protect themselves from the demon." Mulder tore another towel from the holder, but didn't use it. "Patterson wrote the book, you know. Never went to trial for the copycat killings, because he was raving. He was hysterical, swearing he was possessed. I think he was losing it before he put the three years in on finding Mostow. I don't think Skinner knew he had the tattoo," he added, in a seeming 'non sequitur.' "Wallace doesn't do things like Patterson." Henderson said. "He's afraid someone will blow if they stay in a case too long, so he rotates people out. A lot of Patterson's old team got out, you know. They were afraid to ask for a transfer while he was still in charge." Mulder didn't answer, thinking hard. Henderson took a step forward. "Mulder?" Mulder straightened up, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. "That fucker had a suspect." Henderson blinked. "So that's why Wallace and Skinner wanted us----you--- to see him. What is this, a fucking profiler movie?" "Yeah. Nice to know my importance in the scheme of things. My impotence in the scheme of things." Mulder straightened his tie, and turned to face Henderson. "Cheer up, Dave. At least he likes me more than he does Scully. She shot him." "Surely, you aren't suggesting we keep consulting with him?" "Don't call me Shirley. Shit, no. That's going to be as good as it gets. Victimology----that's our clue of the day. Of the month. Of the year." Mulder spun on his heel, and before Henderson realized what he was going to do, smashed the mirror with his fist. He shook the glass shards off his hand, and held the cut under the water. The bleeding didn't stop. "You'll need stitches," Henderson said. "Emergency room, or do you have a regular doctor who patches you up?" His voice and expression indicated that he was quite accustomed to senior agents going ape-shit in the restroom. Mulder had to laugh. He fished his cell phone out his pocket with his free hand, and dialed up Scully. "Scully, it's Mulder. I need stitches on my hand. I broke something. No, not someone. No, I----fine. Dave will take me." He hung up, Henderson was holding out his handkerchief. Mulder took it, and wrapped it around his slashed knuckles. "There's still something wrong here," he said, mostly to himself. Henderson looked even more resigned. +++++++++ "Let's get some close-ups of her entire posterior. There's something in the way the blood pooled----do you notice a pattern?" Scully, George the diener, and one of the Bureau pathologists were taking turns with the magnifier. Scully didn't have more than a passing thought for Mulder's accident. If he could walk and talk, then a few stitches were nothing in the Mulder injury list. The mental damage, though; she was glad he hadn't seen Patterson alone. "Is it inconsistent with the bed linens?" asked the pathologist. She pulled the magnifier up. "Yeah, it is. It's different. It's not like a sheet wrinkling under the body." Scully went back to the table and scanned the file. "We have samples of all her cosmetics, deodorant, body powder? Did someone check to see if this is what's in her hair?" She came back to the table and pointed to a tiny line of white powder just at the hairline. "Let's see," said Dr. Mathis. "She was checked for fingerprints, but he wiped her own pretty well. Cleaned her up. She had bled a lot, but there wasn't a lot of dried blood on her. And I saw that there wasn't a lot of blood at the scene." Scully had walked back to the report. "Are the abrasions on her wrists and ankles consistent with remaining tied, or do you think he took her in the bathroom, killed her there, and re-tied her?" Dr. Mathis shook her head decisively. "No, I'm prepared to state that the pattern of the bruising is ante mortem." Scully flipped the file closed. "Then, he put something under her. Not a towel, but---" Both women leaned over the body, staring, and then their eyes met. "Garbage bags." Scully said. Dr. Mathis strode to the wall intercom and punched a button. To the metallic squawk that emerged, she said, "Mathis. We need the "A" team down here." She turned and caught Scully's nod. "Tell the AD where we are, and that Dr. Scully's with us." ++++++++++ After Mulder produced a rather worn insurance card, an emergency room doctor set a couple of stitches in his knuckles. He was steadily brewing a massive grievance against Skinner. God damn that bald bastard, anyway. When he emerged with his hand bandaged, the preternaturally patient Henderson was sitting sprawled on a molded plastic chair, reading. When Mulder walked up to him, he stuffed a paperback in his jacket pocket, and stood up. "Whatcha reading there?" "Danielle Steel." He bent a tolerant look at Mulder. "I'll let you borrow it. I've marked the hot parts." "Great. Well, I need you to drive me back to my office. My hand's numb." A drizzle had started while they were at the emergency room, and they both pulled on their overcoats. "Your insurance agent must love you," Henderson remarked, stepping off the curb. Mulder had a sour taste in his mouth. He had been set up, once again. Skinner was mistaken if he thought Mulder could either appeal to Patterson's sense of duty, or wrest anything from that mind. If Patterson had been possessed, or thought he was possessed, his demon wouldn't let him help solve a crime. Mulder remembered all too well the strength and power of that demon, whether it was a real force, or just the evil that walked about the world as a raging lion. What he resented, and what was his ancient grudge against Patterson, was being used as the tethered goat to trap the lion. Mulder encountered Skinner in the corridor, just outside the AD's office. The older man, without a blink, led both of them into his inner office, and closed the door. He sat down behind his desk. Mulder stood glaring at him for a moment, Henderson at his back. Skinner finally broke the silence. "You have a problem, Mulder?" "Yeah, I have a big problem. Who had the bright idea that I should talk to Patterson?" Skinner lifted his chin. "Is this a rhetorical question? You were at the meeting." "Yeah, but you forgot a couple of things. Like the fact that Patterson is a raving lunatic who tried to kill me once, and would love to finish the job. By the way, his suggestion is that we publicize the UNSUB." Incredibly, Skinner smiled. "Glad to hear it. So does Wallace. So let's think about what you want to say." "Sir, we're not taking suggestions from a convicted serial killer?" Henderson asked, before Mulder could draw breath to reply. "Not at all," Skinner said. "Agent Wallace and I have been considering it for some time. But what we would appreciate is the task force crafting the publicity." His gaze rested, briefly, at Mulder's bandaged hand. Behind him, as if on cue, a flicker of lightning lightened the dark sky. Mulder knew that he was in a bad movie----probably directed by either Michael Mann or Oliver Stone. Bad things happened to the heroes in those movies. Unless it was really Skinner's movie, and Mulder was just a bit player. "You usually don't approve of my ideas of proper publicity," he said. "Now you're just trying to argue. Is it a bad idea only because Patterson thought of it?" "Back to the first point," Mulder said, his voice uninflected. Skinner had picked up a ballpoint pen and was clicking it. A silence fell, so long and intense that Mulder could hear the pen clicks, and the clink of car keys in Henderson's pocket. Rain rattled on the window. Finally, Skinner spoke. "Wallace was convinced that Patterson had a suspect. He convinced Kersh." Another click of the pen. "We tend to expect too much of you at times, Mulder." Mulder felt some of his tension ease, and he almost swayed. "I expect too much of myself at times," he said. "Patterson may or may not have a suspect If he ever would tell us, it would have been right away. It's useless to go back." Skinner nodded once. Mulder knew that he had confirmed something for the AD. Then the moment was over. "I would like both of you to give me your reports right away." He looked down at some papers on the desk. Mulder almost walked into Henderson, who didn't realize that the audience was over. He opened the door, and they escaped into the outer office. Kimberly was transcribing dictation with her headphone jammed into her ears. "Where are we going?" Henderson asked, unembarrassed. "To my office, in the basement." Henderson did well, until the steel doors of the elevator closed. Then he groaned loudly. "Jesus fucking God, Mulder," he said. "What is this, 'Dancing with ADs?' I don't want to be in this film." "Who does?" Mulder knew he didn't. "I was standing there wondering if I should be updating my resume and what it would be like to be a field agent in West Armpit, Idaho." Mulder, startled, started laughing. "I swear to God, I'll hit you, Mulder." "Skinner's just a big old teddy bear, really," Mulder said. How could he explain that the X-Files had ravaged Skinner's life as surely as they had ravaged Scully's? That Skinner wasn't just their boss, but a reluctant co-conspirator? That Mulder knew how far he could go, how far he could always go? Henderson looked as though he wanted to sit down. When they reached the basement, Henderson blinked at the decor for a moment, then said glanced at the computer. "Boot it up and I'll type. Unless you type with one hand." Mulder shrugged, turned on his laptop and laboriously typed in his password. When he looked up, Henderson was studying one of the bulletin boards. "There's. . .what the hell? There's sunflower seed shells stuck to this picture." He sounded as if he was now beyond all surprise. Mulder thought Dave would have to come out on an X-File sometime. +++++++++ Later that evening, Henderson was driving Mulder home. Heavy traffic and rain slick streets combined to make it a slow journey. Mulder fiddled restlessly with his shoulder belt. Christ, he hated being a passenger. He realized, suddenly, that he didn't want to go home. At the traffic light, he squinted at the street signs. "Can you pull over and let me out at the next block?" The light turned green, and Henderson carefully changed lanes, eased the car to the curb, and double-parked. Mulder opened the door. "Call me when you're on your way out to Quantico, and I'll tell you where I am." He leaned back in to the interior of the car, letting the rain in. "My charm may fail me." "Close the fucking door, Mulder," Henderson said. "I don't want to know." Mulder grinned for the first time in hours. Inexplicably, he was cheerful. "You have a good evening, too." End 02/06 +++++++++ NEW & REVISED: "Neither Here Nor There" 03/06 Author: Tesla Feedback: Tesla@hiwaay.net Rating: NC-17 for violence, sexual situations, and language See part one for detailed headers. "It's me." Amanda looked through the peephole, and saw Mulder. She was horribly conscious that she was wearing a sweatshirt and flannel pants, and her hair was flat, and she hesitated. Then she saw that he was dripping wet, and she fumbled quickly at the locks. He stepped in, gingerly wiping his feet on her floor mat. "I know I didn't...I'm sorry, but..." He trailed off. Amanda put her hands on the lapels of his coat. "No, Mulder, it's fine. Please, take that off, you're shivering. Come in, let me close the door. I was just watching television." The corner of his mouth quirked. "Frohike gave me your address. I think he suspects." He stripped off his raincoat and suit coat, and let her hang them up on her coat tree. Grunting, he bent slightly and tugged clumsily at his shoelaces, jerking the shoes off and leaving them on the mat. They were expensive and thoroughly wet. "Mulder, what's wrong?" Amanda asked, pulling him back to the bedroom, where the light was on. "Come get a towel. What happened?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. She saw the boxer's tape on his knuckles as he went into the bathroom. "Did you hit someone?" She picked up the remote and put Comedy Central on *mute.* Mulder emerged after a moment in bare feet, toweling his head. "I put my socks on your towel rack. And, no. I hit myself. Well, I hit a mirror in a men's restroom in the lobby of a mental hospital." Amanda felt a tender pain from her throat down to her loins. She stepped up to Mulder and put her arms around his waist. "It's okay," she said. "It's okay." His arms folded around her and his damp cheek rested against hers. She felt him shiver slightly. "I don't want---I don't want---" Mulder muttered into her hair. 'Jesus Christ, I'm going to be one person who doesn't ask you for something,' Amanda thought. What she said was, "Mulder, just relax. If you weren't a federal agent, I'd offer you one of my Tylenol codeine from my dental work." Mulder hugged her tighter. "I may take it. Or a beer." "If you want a beer, I'll get you one. You can take a shower, if you leave my mirror alone." He laughed, and let go. "You got a deal." Amanda went in the kitchen, praying she still had beer. If not, she was take her last ten dollars and go to the kid next door and buy his. She heard Mulder thumping around in the shower, at the same time she discovered two Rolling Rocks behind the wilted head of lettuce. Giving thanks to the beer gods, she went back to her bedroom with both bottles, and hung up the soaking wet dress pants, tie, and shirt Mulder had tossed on the end of her bed. The bathroom door was partially open. 'Mulder. In my shower.' The water stopped, and Mulder mock-bellowed. "Hey, beer now or the mirror goes!" She clinked the bottles together, and the door swung open. Mulder was wearing her bath sheet, looking a little less miserable. "Hey, the robot show!" he said, taking one beer and twisting off the top. "Can we watch?" The bath sheet slipped dangerously. "Why do you think it's on that channel?" Amanda asked, and picked up the remote. Mulder pulled the covers back on the unused side of the bed, and shed the towel. After a heartbeat, she followed him. She would never have believed it, but she dozed off, to wake up when the television turned itself off. Mulder was snoring gently beside her, flat on his back, but pressed along her entire left side. She gently touched his arm, his skin cool to her touch. "Hmm?" he murmured. "Did I take the covers?" and he rolled towards her, wrapping the quilt around them both, and falling back into sleep. Amanda drifted in and out of wakefulness all night, not wanting to sleep. She didn't want to forget the feel of Fox Mulder breathing on her neck, even his turnings in bed, and the snores. Once he moved suddenly, and whacked her with his knee. "I'm sorry," he said, in the same dreaming voice, and rubbed her leg. He kissed her, lightly, on the neck, and she felt his eyelashes brush as he closed his eyes. She woke up, with him cradling her, to the sound of his cell phone. He pulled slightly away from her, and answered it. "Mulder." A pause. "You don't mind, Dave? Okay." He raised his head out of the blankets and peered over her head. "About twenty minutes. Same place. You're a fine young agent, Dave. I have a shaver in the locker. Cool." He clicked off. "Gotta go," he told Amanda. Amanda pulled the pillow over her head and pretended to go back to sleep. He fumbled around for a while, and was trying so hard to be quiet that he kept dropping his keys, wallet, badge, gun. After the door closed behind him, Amanda lay under the coverlet for a long time, not asleep, not moving, not thinking. The sheets still smelled of him. ++++++++++ Scully and Dr. Mathis had been in the anteroom of the morgue debating which chemical tests they could use next. Evidently, the Canterell family was in no hurry to come and get Carla. It was sad, and on one level, and it bothered Scully; but it made the testing less of a rush job. She had already changed clothes, but the chief was still in her scrubs. Someone came in the swinging doors behind Scully, and Dr. Mathis looked up, and smiled. "Oh, someone else without a life. Nothing like a warm morgue on a cold Friday night. What can we do for you, blue- eyed boy?" "Someone called and said you needed the crime scene Polaroids," David Henderson answered. "I do check my messages once in a while." Scully felt herself stiffening, but forced herself to turn around. He was carrying in an accordion file, and nodded pleasantly at Scully before he put the file on the table. "We can get our digital ones on the laptop. These are the County investigator's pictures." He set out several stacks of pictures on the tabletop, long fingers sorting them in neat stacks. "I'm right in thinking you're looking for something he placed under her body?" "Garbage bags," Scully said. "Do you have the inventory?" She was not going to ask him about Mulder's whereabouts. She would not. "Yes, and here's something I thought about on the way over here." He flipped through a stack of shots showing the kitchen, and the kitchen cabinets. "See under the sink? There's a box of garbage bags. It's nearly empty." He riffled through the next stack. "But there's an empty box in the kitchen trash can, on top of the old garbage. Don't you usually take out the old liner, open up a new box, and throw in the old box? I'm just speculating---it just seems reasonable that she wouldn't have put a couple of days of garbage and then remembered the empty box." He shrugged. "The fingerprint lab is processing it, but he probably had the gloves on." "So the killer used up the rest of the box, opened a new one, and used some of those. He put in everything that he thought was incriminating, and when he left, he looked like he was just taking it out to the dumpster." Scully said, thinking out loud. "Yeah. County has someone processing the garbage in the apartment. They had already looked in the neighborhood dumpsters for a weapon or anything with blood. Someone's at the landfill, following the dumpster from her apartment. Sooner them, than me." He gave Scully a sudden smile, and she almost took a step backwards. Henderson was really handsome, when he smiled. Maybe that's why he didn't do it too often. Mulder's tremendous presence tended to overshadow other agents, of course, but Henderson had something. "The team meets again here tomorrow," he said. He carefully replaced the photos in his file. "Can I walk you out, Dr. Scully? I sent you a copy of the interview with Patterson, but I'd like to talk with you about it." "All right." Scully picked up her briefcase and topcoat. In the corridor, she pulled on the topcoat as she walked. "What did you find out?" "Nothing. Patterson wanted to spook us, to scare Mulder. Mulder thinks he had a suspect in the Baltimore killings, and they discussed the similarities. Patterson is still pretty deep in his psychosis, I think." He hesitated, as they stood at the outer doors. "Considering that he's insane, I don't understand what the use was in going there. Mulder...." he shrugged. "Something wasn't right about that idea." "Well, Patterson wrote the book on profiling," Scully said, dryly. Henderson's expression didn't change, but she had the impression that he had withdrawn. He opened the door for her, and they walked in silence to their respective cars. Scully was annoyed; who was Henderson to tell her about Mulder's angst? Scully wasn't surprised by Henderson's car following her out of Quantico, but he followed her up all the way from the highway to Arlington. She waited until he was behind her at a red light, and threw the car into park, flung off her seat belt and ran out of her car to pound on his driver's window. "Open it!" she shouted. She saw him jerk in surprise. "Fuck," she heard, muffled by the glass, and he slowly opened the window. "What is it?" "Are you following me?" she demanded, sticking her head in the window. He looked startled for a nanosecond, then almost lunged out the window at her. "I live here! And I'm going to that bar! Get back in your goddamned car, the light's changed!" A driver tapped on the horn behind them. Henderson hit the window button, and Scully had to leap to keep from having her sleeve caught by the glass. She jumped back in her car, and put it into gear while pulling the shoulder harness over her arm. Sure enough, Henderson passed her, squealing his tires rather unnecessarily, and pulled into a parking space in front of a faux-Irish pub in the building next to her condominium. Thinking hard, Scully drove into her underground garage, parked, and then sprinted up the stairs to the street level. Henderson, still at his car, was just slamming the trunk, no doubt locking away his files and briefcase. At least he read the manual. "Hey!" she shouted. He swung around, and stood waiting for her under the entrance canopy, his hands jammed in his trench coat pockets. As she came closer, almost slipping on the wet sidewalk, she could see his expression was murderous. "Can I buy you a drink?" Scully asked meekly. Henderson looked totally taken aback. "Sure." They went inside, hung their rain-sodden topcoats, and found seats at the bar. Shamrocks and leprechauns and televisions all tuned to ESPN dotted the walls. Henderson pulled the knot of his tie loose, then undid the top button of his dress shirt. The bartender came over and looked at them in inquiry, tossing napkins on the bar. "Bourbon and water on the rocks for me," he said. "This is a late night place. Takes a long while to fill up." His eyes were slightly squinting and the corners of his mouth were tight. Anger was still coming off him like fog from dry ice, though he was speaking in a normal tone of voice. "The ambience stinks, but it's close. I live across the street." "The same," Scully told the bartender. 'I can't believe I'm provoking this man,' she thought. She was almost enjoying herself. "I live next door." "You scared me out of my wits back there. I almost rear- ended your car," Henderson said, giving her a sidelong look. The bartender set down their drinks. "Run a tab," Henderson told him. On either side of them, the stools were empty, but the bar was slowly filling up. Henderson stared straight ahead at the array of glasses. He looked like he was grinding those perfect white teeth. "Look, we got off on the wrong foot," Scully said. Henderson turned to face her, eyes narrowed. He said nothing. "Okay, 'I' got off on the wrong foot." He nodded after a moment. "Okay. In case you were wondering, I don't wanna transfer to the X-Files." Scully couldn't resist. "Oh, Mulder's already getting to you?" "God, no. It's being trapped in Skinner's office with him on a regular basis that I couldn't take." He picked up his glass and took a drink. "You two may not be scared of an Assistant Director of the Bureau, but I didn't enjoy our little visit with him today." "Welcome to my world," Scully said. "I take it you went to report to Skinner after you saw Patterson?" "Yeah. It must save a lot of time in meetings to have the reporting agent just go in and start off by telling the boss to fuck off. I felt like the sidekick in 'Top Gun.' " "I'm not laughing at you. Really. Don't you want to go with him to talk to Kersh?" Henderson gave her an austere look. Scully grinned. It was too funny to hear this from a perspective not far removed from her own. "Never mind. But you and Mulder are getting out a good profile. He doesn't pull the all-nighters like he did when we were first partners." Scully pushed her hair back, wondering how friendly Henderson would be if he knew that she had pulled his personnel file and read it. The personnel clerk had commented that Agent Mulder had done so too - was Henderson transferring? Scully wondered if Mulder had asked Frohike to check on him. Probably. "Thanks, but it's all Mulder. It's an education being around him. He doesn't miss anything. But you know that, since you're out in the field with him all the time." "I think he's brilliant," she said. "But he's my partner. So you were downtown before you came back to Quantico? Oh, of course, your office is out there." "I dropped Mulder off in Alexandria," Henderson said innocently. "But he may be wandering the streets in the rain, thinking of new ways to torment Skinner." "That'd be Mulder." She stirred the ice cubes in her glass. Scully had also called Frohike. He acted pretty wary, but when she told him she wanted to make sure that Mulder wasn't driving around with another little Krycek, he had promised to do a quick hack. On paper, David Henderson was your average federal employee: no tragic family stories, no lost sisters, no Roush stock, no trips to either polar ice cap. In person, he was. . .ickable. Scully almost jumped. Where had that thought come from? She cleared her throat softly. "So how did you end up with the Bureau?" "I was recruited out of law school," he said. "I thought I was interviewing for the DOJ, and somehow took a wrong turn." "A lawyer? That explains the tassel loafers." It was the tiny cinnamon freckles on his nose and cheekbones. It was the cobalt-blue eyes. He grinned. "Hey, you asked." "If I have another round, you may have to walk me home," Scully said, feeling flushed. "Um, how do you know Dr. Mathis?" He smiled, and raised his glass to the bartender with his other hand, shaking it. "I got to know Dr. Mathis when I was on the rotation, you know? Catch the next crime scene with Wallace. So, I decided I was going to be cool. I went down, and she let me watch her autopsy a really, really bad one. So I was cool, right?" He stopped while the bartender set their drinks down on fresh napkins. "So we get the call. And I go out with the boss, and I'm thinking, just be cool, Dave. Be like Fonzie. And I am cool. And then they take us up to the crime scene, and Wallace says, 'Gross! I could heave!' All my bravado wasted." She smiled and nodded. His haircut was what you'd expect to see on Mulder---growing into his collar and obviously not styled. He had apparently never heard of whatever gel Mulder tended to use. Except Mulder was such a fashion trendoid. Why had her mind jumped to Mulder? "Do you do this often? Go out and drink? I mean, go out and drink with women agents who abuse you?" "Hardly." Henderson seemed to feel the changed mood between them as well. Scully propped her elbow on the bar and her chin on her hand. "Why not? You're a good-looking guy." "You're teasing me," Henderson said, blinking. "I'm not one of those bar guys. I usually work with women partners. I'm the Alan damn Alda of Violent Crimes. New age, sensitive male, politically correct for the kinder, gentler Bureau." He started laughing. "No wonder you thought I was gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that." 'A Seinfeld fan,' she noted silently. She wanted to touch his dark hair and see if it was as soft as it looked. "I shouldn't have said it. It's just been so long that I've seen Mulder, I don't know. . ." "Work and play well with others?" he suggested. She nodded. That was it, exactly. "Hmm." Henderson finished his drink. "Maybe I 'am' gay." She shifted so that her knees were touching his, and she was looking into his face. He had apparently never heard about her severe, unfriendly reputation. "Are you?" All around them, the other customers spoke quietly, ordered drinks, watched the television, and smoked their cigarettes. "No," he said solemnly, and stared back into her eyes. Scully didn't want to break the moment. She put one hand out, not quite thinking about it, and Henderson took it in his. He raised her palm to his mouth and pressed his lips to it for a moment. She felt the touch of his mouth up to her shoulder. Then he lowered their clasped hands to his knee. "This is good,' Scully thought briefly. 'I like this. I want-' "I'd better walk you home," he said, his voice casual. His thumb stroked her knuckles. "So soon? "I'm getting ideas." His eyes were now so dark they looked black in the dim light of the bar. "It's nice to have someone have normal ideas," Scully said, glad to finally say it. He didn't look as surprised as she did by what she had revealed. "Well, I've got them." He waited for her smile, and then kissed the palm of her hand again. She licked her dry lips. "Not my hand, David." Changing his grip on her wrist, he pulled her closer as he leaned in, and kissed her, hard, just as if he wasn't afraid she would break. She held his head in her hands, her fingers in his hair. He was like the men she had met in college, long before the joined the government, before she met Mulder and saw an X-File. "Get a room," someone behind them said and laughed. "Walk me home," she said. And just like that, she and David Henderson were in her condo elevator making out. He knew not to grab her where the holster rested in her waist band, and she knew he was wearing a shoulder holster. "Always use Federal Express," she said, and not only did he understand the feeble joke, he was laughing. It had been years since she had laughed so much, especially when they went back through the lighted living room to her dim bedroom. There they were, in their suits, each taking off a topcoat, a jacket. Trying to keep their faces straight, they each removed their holsters and checked that their weapons were on safety; two sets of credentials; two cell phones. It was ridiculous. It had been years since she had laughed in her bedroom with any man. The rain had started again, sluicing down her windows. "Hah! I win, I got a tie," David said, pulling it loose, and snapping it off. He draped it over the back of the same chair he had draped his coat and other belongings over, away from where she'd placed her things. "It wouldn't look good if I had to badge someone and whipped out yours," he quipped. "No. No, it wouldn't." She'd been thinking the same thing. He stopped dead, one loafer off and one on. "Damn, lady, what's with this black bra and white blouse look? No wonder you don't take off your jacket." Scully smirked at him. "For a profiler, you're very unobservant." "Oh, right, like I'm going to not look in your eyes when you're talking. You've got red hair and a gun." She pushed him backwards onto the bed and lowered herself beside him. "No need to be pushy." he murmured, leaning on one elbow to unbutton her blouse. "You were too tall," Scully said. She popped a button off his dress shirt, and hesitated, her mouth open in dismay. "No one ever did that before." He grinned. "Cool." He pulled her to him by the front of her open blouse and kissed her open mouth. Somewhere in removing her pantyhose and bra, he saw her tattoo, and blinked at it. "I'd like to see this in the light," he said, and then she felt his tongue outlining it. "You like it?" she asked, with difficulty. "Tastes great," he said, and begin kissing his way up her back, deliberately tickling her enough to make her giggle. When she rolled over and grabbed his arm, she had to taste his throat to see if he really did smell faintly of chlorine. He did. ++++++++++++ David lay heavily on top of her. She was wrapped around him, unwilling to give up the feeling of skin to skin. "I have to get up," he said into her ear. She stroked his broad swimmer's shoulders. "Let me up for just a second, sweetie." "No," she said, holding him tighter. She liked it. "I have to take this off," he said patiently. "I'll come right back." She let him go so fast that they both started laughing. He went in her bathroom and came back quickly in the cold night air, as she held the comforter up for him. He slid under it and into her embrace. Outside, the rain was washed down the window. "What is it?" David asked. "What's what?" "I can hear the gears grinding, " he replied, smoothing the hair out of her eyes. She wanted to ask him to stay. "Um, do you do this often? Are you always this much fun?" "I hope I'm always this much fun, but no, I hardly ever do this. Or, never. I never do this. I can't remember doing this for years. And I'm going to go to sleep in a minute." "And I thought you were a new age guy." She pulled his hand to her cheek. "If you're too weak to leave, that's fine." "I don't have to explain protein loss to you, Doc," he said, his eyes closing. But Scully fell asleep before his breathing settled. The next morning, she felt him wake up with a jolt. She wrapped herself around him. "Remember who you're with?" she said into his neck. She couldn't believe how well she had slept. "Yeah. I just remembered I have to pick up your partner." He yawned widely, chin bumping the top of her head. "He lets you drive?" she asked, indignant. "Had to," David said laconically. "It's my car." He groaned, and squeezed the arm draped on his chest and sat up. "Glad I live close." He looked down at her, eyes glinting. "Can I take it we're friends, now, or are we just going to pretend it didn't happen?" "Maybe both," Scully said, more provocatively than she intended. David looked at her for a long moment. God, in the light of day he was still handsome. "Yeah? Well, cover up the girls, or it'll happen again." ++++++++++ Driving in to the briefing, Henderson told Mulder about the plastic bags. "I gave Agent Scully our report about Patterson. I still don't like it. Something's not right. It bothers me." "It bothers you because you were in the presence of evil. It bothers you because there's something wrong. I don't know yet, either. Something's off." Mulder rubbed his bandaged knuckles. "So you and Scully kissed and made up?" Henderson snorted, swerving the car violently and passing an SUV. "I told her I didn't want to transfer to your department." "I'm hurt, Dave. Really, I am. Once you get used to him, Skinner is just like a big brother. Wait until you see him really mad. His entire head gets red. You should be out in the field with him when something goes wrong." "Yeah, sure," Henderson said, turning into the parking lot. "He'd turn me into his bitch in sixty seconds." Mulder was still laughing when they walked into the conference room. ++++++++++ Scully seemed to be in a good mood for a meeting on a Saturday morning. "Good morning," she said as she set her briefcase down on the table on the other side of Henderson, and opened it. "Good news on the search of the landfill. The County guys found trash bags with bloody sheets." She put the digital pictures of the Canterell apartment on the table. "Dr. Mathis is walking them through the labs, herself. She called me." Mulder felt an almost painful shock. "There's something on them. He couldn't leave the building. Someone would have seen him. So he went back and shoved them through the garbage chute." He turned to Henderson. "Remember how the basement dumpster was just emptied?" The others had come in. Wallace said to them all. "Fingerprints has a partial print off the box of garbage bags. It doesn't match the victim's. We're running it, just in case." Everyone sat down. Scully took out a set of autopsy protocols and began flipping through the pages. ++++++++++ The thing about situational flings, Scully thought as the briefing dragged on, is that you have to take full advantage of the situation. She picked up a Post-It notepad, wrote, "You have a hickey on your neck," and slid the pad over to Henderson. He leaned over, casually, read it, and wrote. "You look hot." He pointed with his pen to something on her file. It would have been flirtatious, but Henderson gave her a sideways look that gave "hot" another shade of meaning. Mulder glanced inquiringly at them. Henderson said. "How should we structure any information about the autopsies? What do we publicize, and what do we hold back?" Wallace and Mulder began arguing. David sat back in his chair and said, his lips barely moving. "Stop it." Scully almost snickered. Under cover of the increasingly acrimonious discussion amongst the senior agents and Mulder, she said, her voice pitched very low. "So, you're coming over tonight?" "Oh, yeah," David said, not taking his eyes from Mulder. ++++++++ Scully was looking for leftovers to heat up when her phone rang. "Hey, Scully," Mulder said. "I'm not sure the murders in Baltimore are connected to the last three. They're very similar. Do you think you could double check and see if there is anything really different in what the autopsies showed?" She cradled the phone on her shoulder and tightened the belt of her robe. "That's interesting, Mulder. I think I indicated my doubts about that in my report, which you should have." "Yeah, but you weren't definite. I would like to refocus the investigation on the last three. Well, two, really, since the District victim was cremated." "That's a good idea. I can review the stuff here over tomorrow. Dr. Mathis is also interested, so she'll give us all the time she can." David came into the kitchen, pulling on his shirt, saw her talking, and mouthed "Mulder?" She nodded. "I think we should go over the victims' property," Mulder was saying in her ear. "Do an investigation like we're doing a security check for Kersh." "What, look for fertilizer sales?" She scowled at David, as he picked up one of the containers and sniffed at it. He quickly dumped it into the garbage disposal. "Never mind. I know what you mean. Look, it's Saturday night, Mulder. I don't mind working tomorrow," David gave her a horrified look, "but we're not going to find anyone to talk to until Monday. I'll review my reports, and give you a call tomorrow afternoon." "Good," Mulder said. "Hey, Scully? What about Henderson?" "What about him?" she asked, warily. David smirked, and went back into the living room. She heard the television come on, very faintly. "You don't mind him working with us, do you? He's pretty good with this stuff, all things considered." Scully grinned to herself, rejecting several remarks. "Well, I think he'll back you up all the way," she said. "In fact, he'll probably work on Sunday." "Okay, then. Talk to you tomorrow." They hung up. After a moment, she heard David's cell phone ring, and burst out laughing. "Bite me, Doc!" he yelled. She picked up her own phone and ordered pizza. David walked back into the kitchen when he heard her hang up, so she could hear him talking to her partner. He was as solemn as usual. "Things bother me about the whole Patterson thing, Mulder. It's like there's several different agendas going on." He had Scully's full attention, and, apparently, Mulder's. "First - do the Baltimore murders have 'nothing' to do with the Virginia murders? But who wants you to involve a disgraced unit chief? Who wants you to fail? Second - why were we given just his notes? Something bothers me, but I don't have it worked out. Third - Patterson had powerful friends who don't want any further disgrace and publicity for him, or for the Bureau. Why were you sent to stir it up? Why didn't Skinner answer you when you asked him?" Scully felt the back of her neck prickle. If David only knew what could be stirred up; how many times Skinner couldn't answer their questions. And how weird was it that she had checked his neck for implants? David listened to something Mulder said, and replied. "Yeah, I don't, but I was still paying attention. Do they really want these solved? Wallace does, yeah, I don't think he's going to pin them on Patterson. Nice trick, since he's in a straight jacket most of the time. I'll look at my notes and call you." He clicked off and caught Scully's appraising look. "I'm not just a pretty face," he said, not smiling. His gaze drifted over her face, but he didn't ask another question. End 03/06 ++++++++++ NEW & REVISED: "Neither Here Nor There" 04/06 Author: Tesla Feedback: Tesla@hiwaay.net Rating: NC-17 for violence, sexual situations, and language See part one for detailed headers. While Mulder was on the phone, Amanda stood at his living room window, looking out but not seeing much. He was pacing, debating with somebody on his cell phone. The argument was rather mild, for Mulder. He still looked relaxed. She had gone for a job interview with a large corporation, just for the hell of it, and she had worn a suit and heels, but underneath, she had on stockings and garter belt. Her mind was quiet, and she felt only her breath and the pulse at her throat. She put her palm on the pane, and felt the cold through the glass. Mulder turned off his phone and came up behind her. He stood there, without touching her radiating heat like an oven. She didn't turn around but leaned back into his chest, and felt his other hand at her hip, pulling her blouse out of the waistband. She exhaled sharply when he touched her skin below the bra line. Mulder ground his hips against her so she could feel his erection, and slowly pulled up her skirt. He made a sound, muffled by her hair, when his long fingers skipped from nylon to the bare flesh of her thigh. She turned around then, unable to stand another second without feeling his mouth on hers. Mulder's mouth opened under hers, as he pulled her panties off. He gave her a little push, and she sat down in his computer chair, her skirt bunched around her hips. Mulder knelt between her knees. "This won't hurt a bit," he murmured. He pulled one of her ankles up. "Spread a little. That's my girl." He rested one of her heels on the edge of the desk. He knelt between her legs in his starched blue shirt and tie with his shoulder holster on. She had to grab the arms of the chair when she felt the rasp of his tongue on her clit. ++++++++++ He had made her scream so loudly and long that she was losing her voice. Her eyes were rolling back in her head. She said that she was dying of pleasure. If only. There wasn't a fucking knife in the place. No scissors. And the corkscrew was just impossible. It had to be the clean slide of the blade. Shit. He'd have to come back later. Next Saturday night. This one might just have to have her brains fucked out, because there wasn't a damned thing in her apartment to properly bleed her. "Have you ever taken it up the ass?" he asked, reaching for the lube. ++++++++++ The dead were talking again. She saw Clyde Bruckman's body, but he was sitting up with the plastic bag still over his face. "No," she said, and turned to run out of the room. But the bellboy was there, with a banana cream pie. She couldn't breath, because the bag was on her head, too. She clawed at it. "Wake up," David was saying, shaking her shoulder. "It's just a dream." "I'm awake," she said, shivering. Scully sat up in bed, the cold biting at her skin. He sat up, too, and after a moment, she let him pull her back against the headboard, hitching up the bedclothes. She was shivering so badly, her teeth were chattering. She curled up into a ball, head against his shoulder, her knees nudging his belly. David kept stroking her neck, her back; she felt his warm hands rubbing her icy feet. "It was a bad dream," she said. It was so sweet to be held like this. "You're cold. Want me to get you something to put on?" he asked her. His thumb caressed her cheek. "Hey, don't cry, baby." He leaned across her, and turned on the light. She blinked up at him. "See? It's all right," His unruly hair swooped over his eyes. Her body was still reacting from the fright, her heart pounding. He scooped her onto his lap, cocooning her in the blankets. Her forehead was pressed into his neck, and she could feel his strong, even pulse. He rocked her gently, his face in her hair. "I don't want to keep you awake," Scully said into his throat. "It's Saturday night," he said, lightly rubbing her back. She was still shivering, but the dream was already fading. "Of course, 'I' have to work, thank you, but I don't think Mulder will start without me." "I'm okay now. Just leave...leave the light on." They settled back into the pillows. "Can you sleep with the light on?" she asked him. "Yes," he said, his eyes already closed. ++++++++++ Amanda was chilly. She reached for Mulder, but she was alone. She got up, dragging the comforter with her, and went to the doorway. Mulder was sitting at his computer, in sweats, tapping away. She turned away and went back to bed. She felt even colder. +++++++++ It was very early, still dark outside. Scully woke up very slowly, unwilling to come out of the otherwhere and join the waking world. She didn't feel as content as she had; then she felt the mattress shake as David got back in bed. She looked over her shoulder. "What time is it?" Her bedside lamp was still on. "I didn't mean to wake you up," he said. "It's about five- thirty. I was thirsty." "Oh." She turned over on her back so she could look at him. He had a bottle of water in his hand. "If. . .if you want to leave, I'll need to get up so I can get the deadbolt." "No, I don't want to leave. I always wake up this early, but I usually go back to sleep." He kissed her shoulder. "Go back to sleep." "All right. Will you turn out the light? I'm okay now." He reached back and turned the switch. "I had one of those lamps you touch, when I was in college," he said, wrapping one arm around her waist. "Where'd you go to college?" she asked idly, stroking his forearm. "Oh, come on, sweetheart. You don't have to make conversation," he said, yawning. "You know everything about me. You read my file, didn't you?" Her eyes opened. "Does that bother you?" "No," he murmured into her ear. "Cuts down on the getting to know you stuff." She gave a little snorting laugh. "I think we've done that part." She arched her back and let him pull off her T- shirt. She sighed, and threaded her fingers through his hair as he kissed her breasts. "You had to have checked me out, before you came on to me," he mumbled, running his tongue over first one nipple, then the other. He kissed his way up to her throat. "I was shocked at such behavior from a senior agent." "Report me," she said into his hair. "You came on to me, anyway." "Not me." His hand inched up her inner thigh. He leaned on one elbow above her, so he could kiss the corner of her mouth. "Too late now. I'm addicted to your skin." Another kiss. "The taste." He gently pinched her. "Should I go on?" "Yes," she said into his mouth. Later, when it was nearly daylight, she was wide awake and more than ready to talk. "Tell me something I wouldn't find out from your file." She squeezed his shoulder. "Tell me why you always wake up early." She felt him smile against her breast. "I grew up in New Moon Beach, south of San Francisco. I surfed all the time until I was kidnapped by the law school gypsies and made to memorize the federal code." "You got a scholarship to law school," she said. "Sure, that's 'their' story." "I'm sleeping with a surfer dude." "That's right." He yawned, his beard scratching. She had a sudden, hilarious thought. "Does Mulder know that you surf?" "Since I haven't heard him say 'Bitchin', 'Cowabunga,' or 'Hang ten,' I guess not." "But why do you wake up so early?" He turned his face slightly, so she felt his lips move on her skin. "That's the best time to go to the beach." There was a melancholy tone under the words, and Scully didn't follow up. Instead, she stroked his the nape until he went to sleep. ++++++++++ Mulder had moments of recognizing that he was truly a sick son of a bitch, and he had one when he shut off his computer and went to his bedroom. Here was a gorgeous, sweet-natured woman in his bed, and there he had been all night, revising a profile of a serial killer. Now, he stood in his own doorway, imagining how the UNSUB seduced his victims. How sick was that? No wonder every relationship with every woman he had ever known was damaged in some way. Starting with the first one, and right up to Scully. Scully. He winced at the thought of Scully. She had shot Donny Pfaster, and he had covered for her; how much did he despise himself for compromising the truth, even for her; how much did she despise him for doing it, despise herself for acquiescing? Once, every compromise of The Truth had been a torture to him. Now he was sitting in staff meetings lying to ASACs about his profiles, subverting a straight arrow like Dave Henderson to the point that he was more paranoid than Mulder. The truth was that he was happy neither here nor there. "What is truth?" Pilate asked, and washed his hands. Where did the UNSUB wash his hands? He got off on the moment of fear. He got off on having sex with these women, on the seduction, knowing all along he would kill them. But it was that final moment when they saw the knife coming that did it for him. This guy wasn't the Baltimore guy. The Baltimore guy had gotten off on the suffering, on the power he had. This guy liked the knife going in. The rest of the cuts were post- mortem, trying to disguise his signature. This guy didn't torture them. The marks on these women weren't from sexual torture; they were from hard consensual sex. Just like the marks he left on Amanda. He sat and stared at his hands. Jesus, he hadn't even taken off his clothes last night. How much of a distance did he need to have from intimacy? He was still wearing his tie, for Christ's sake, and the sun was coming up. He tugged at the knot at his throat and slowly pulled it the tie off, walking carefully around the room. It creeped him out to stand over Amanda and undress, somehow. He threw his shirt and undershirt on the floor, and dumped the contents of his pockets on the dresser, left his slacks and boxers next to the over-full clothes hamper. It was cold. He slid under the duvet and spooned himself against Amanda's heat, trying not to put his cold feet and colder hands on her warm skin and wake her. In her sleep, she murmured "Cell structure," and pushed back against him, her feet rubbing his. He swept the hair from her nape and kissed it. 'Just be,' he told himself. 'Just be here now.' Amanda woke, turning and putting her arms around his neck. Just be in the moment, Mulder. Stop thinking. He held her face between his hands and kissed her. She stroked his wrist, his arms, with a languid air of a woman who had all the time in the world to kiss and be kissed. Her eyelids were like silk, and she mutely offered first one, then the other to his mouth. Why had he not... Her legs opened and with just a slight movement, he was inside her, inside her heat and he heard himself groaning. "Look at me," he said hoarsely. "Look at me." She opened her eyes and, looking into his, arched against him. And he came. ++++++++++ Henderson was still morose at lunch, wrapping spaghetti around his fork and letting it slide back onto the plate. "You don't like Italian?" Mulder asked, his mouth full of garlic bread. "I like the Olive Garden. Their food is inspected. These little hole-in-the-wall special places have hideous sanitary conditions." "You're just a ray of sunshine, Dave." "I try to be," Henderson said, flashing his rare grin. The waiter, stepping up with a tea pitcher, caught the full impact and smiled warmly back at him. Henderson held out his tea glass to be refilled. After the waiter moved away, Mulder said, "I don't think our guy is escalating." Henderson blinked at him, and actually ate a forkful of pasta. "When you take away the Baltimore cases." "Yeah." Mulder came to a decision. "I want to take you to see some guys who do some stuff for me, off the books. They're pretty much out there, and they're obsessed and paranoid." Henderson's silence was eloquent. "Shut up. And if you're that worried about hygiene, don't drink anything they offer unless it's in a sealed bottle." He signaled the waiter for the check. "I have one of them crunching the data on the likelihood of any of the victims being in a singles chat room." "I thought the Bureau had the hard drives?" "Yeah, but they've got...access. Skinner knows them. They're nuts about Scully." Henderson's gaze flicked up to Mulder's for a second. "How do they feel about you?" Mulder tried not to look smug. "Oh, God," Henderson groaned into his napkin. +++++++++ Only Frohike was at the Gunmen's headquarters. "Byers and Langly went on a beer and disk run," he explained, letting Mulder and Henderson in. He gave Henderson a mild once over, taking in his height. "You don't look like a Fed." Henderson shrugged, expressionlessly. Mulder said, "Good guess, Melvin. This is Dave Henderson. He's out at Quantico. Dave, Melvin Frohike, but you can call him Frohike." "Where's the lovely doctor?" Frohike asked, shaking Henderson's hand, but looking up at Mulder. "She's reading autopsy protocols. You know how she is----a glass of wine, a roaring fire, and eight by ten glossies of someone else's autopsy that she can criticize." "Where you from, Henderson?" Frohike asked, leading them into the main room. "New Moon Beach, California," Henderson said, looking at the Gunman rather than the intricate decor of the Gunmen's offices. He was picking his way with care. Frohike perched on a workstool. "Oh, so you surfed Mavericks?" If Henderson was surprised, he didn't show it. "About fifteen years." Mulder wheeled around and stared at Henderson. "You're a surfer? A California dude?" "Born and bred." Henderson looked for a place to sit, and leaned on one of the counters. "Surf any yourself, Frohike?" "Back in the seventies. Short board. You don't surf out here?" "Not since I left California." Mulder didn't know if Frohike was bullshitting or not. Melvin claimed to have experienced all the major cultural events of the sixties, seventies, and eighties. Surfing? Perhaps. But Henderson, now. "You don't seem like a radical dude." Henderson rolled his eyes, then looked over at Mulder. "That's why I don't talk about it. All anyone in the Bureau thinks about is Keanu Reeves and 'Point Break.' Go ahead, give it your best shot." He sounded as bland as ever, but Mulder felt the urge to tease vanish. Something about the set of Henderson's jaw made Mulder stop. "I meant Frohike," Mulder said. "I know you're a radical. What have you got for us, Melvin?" "Well, no sign of anything unusual in Brown's e-mail. Very little e-mail at all, and no chat rooms. We're still running the Canterell data." He adjusted the lapels of his vest. "I don't want to tell you where to look, Mulder, but I don't think we're going to find anything." "Well, we want to cover all the bases," Mulder said. "You know where to find me. Let us out, okay?" Back on the road, Mulder asked, "Is there something off- limits about your surfing days?" Henderson sighed, and looked out the window. "No big secret. I can't afford to do it out here, and if I could, I wouldn't. I was the type that was in the water every day. I couldn't stand driving for hours to get the odd weekend. I don't know any East Coast locals." He looked back at Mulder. "It's stupid. I just don't surf any more." Mulder shrugged, and answered his cell phone. "Mulder." "Is Agent Henderson there?" Scully said briskly. "I have the answer to something he asked earlier." "Sure," Mulder said and handed the phone to Henderson "Scully wants to tell you something, Dave." Henderson accepted it rather gingerly, and Mulder grinned. "Yeah? Oh, the earlier victim did show plastic residue? In the binding. Wasn't that the belt from her bathrobe?" Henderson nodded to Mulder. "Dr. Mathis found a fragment of plastic garbage bag. Well, thanks, Doc. Yes, I will. Goodbye." He handed back the cell phone. There didn't seem really anything else to do until Monday morning, so Mulder dropped Henderson off at his car, and went to his neighborhood grocery store. He pushed his cart around, regarding everything with distaste. He could only think of toilet paper and toothpaste. He didn't want to cook anything. He was easing his cart down the freezer aisle, when he saw a familiar blonde silhouette. Amanda was leaning into the dairy case, no doubt looking for that fat-free, sugar-free sherbet shit that women seemed to like. He walked up behind her and blocked her buggy. She straightened up, a wrinkle over her nose. "Hey----" she began, then recognized him. "Mulder!" she said, and she glowed at him. He felt a horrible pricking of guilt and embarrassment. "I was going to call you. Do you want to have dinner with me?" She peered into his grocery cart. "Doesn't look too good, Mulder." "I was thinking of getting pizza," he said. She shrugged. "Okay, you smooth talker." "Meet you on the other side of the check-out stand. I'll call in the pizza." ++++++++++ For once, Mulder's timing was excellent. By the time they had both gone through the store, and Amanda had followed him back to Hegel Place, the pizza delivery guy was pulling up. Mulder met him, paid for it, and walked upstairs with the bag of toilet paper under one arm, and balancing the pizza box with the other. Inside apartment 42, Mulder dumped his stuff on the table, and went to get paper towels. He heard Amanda's cell phone ring. "There's been an electrical fire at the lab. We can't come in until noon." Amanda called to him. "They want to track the wiring or something." Mulder came out of the kitchen with two beers. "Then spend the night here with me." He gave her a lopsided grin. "We'll cuddle, if you let me watch ESPN in bed." "Again with the smooth talking," Amanda said lightly. ++++++++++ Monday morning, Scully awakened, not feeling very rested. She didn't want to admit it, but she had missed David more than she expected. Aside form the sex, he was, well, good to sleep with. It was stupid. Two nights with a man she barely knew - how had that given her this feeling of security? When she got to the briefing, Scully overheard part of an odd conversation in the hall outside the conference room. Wallace had said, in a joking manner. "You seem to get along well with Mulder, Henderson." He was smiling, but Scully felt a subtle menace underlying the jocularity. David seemed oblivious, replying easily. "Does him good to work with someone who buys his suits at outlet malls." With a short bark of amusement, Wallace had walked on into the conference room, but David looked over his shoulder. Seeing her, he turned and stared at her. "What the hell?" he said, his voice pitched for her ears only. "It's working with Mulder. Get used to it. What if he had congratulated you about getting along with me?" she asked. "I would have said I was trying to get you to wear flat shoes." He shook his head, and followed her into the meeting, where he politely held a chair for her to sit beside Mulder. After she sat down, David sat on her other side. "I'm ready to sign off on the profile we faxed to you, but with one change," Mulder said, without preamble, to the assistant director. "How so, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked. "Let's go back and exclusively review just Alex Brown and Carla Canterell. Let's do computer searches, go to their offices, and see what link there is. They are the freshest in time, and the witnesses are still around. He didn't just pick these women up, but if he did, where from? We also can narrow any phone tips if we concentrate on the most recent murders." The detective from Reston Homicide spoke up. "We've brought everything from our victim's office. It's in your evidence room." He looked at the County Deputy, who nodded, and cleared his throat. "We'll need to go to our victim's office. They were supposed to have left everything alone, but we sealed the door. They were kind of odd about it. We'll get the stuff." "And the connection with Baltimore? We can't forget that." Wallace added. "Of course," Mulder said, with complete insincerity. "But let's confine the publicity to the two most recent victims. He's not operating in Baltimore now. We're all agreed that he's moved on. We'll give the press the elements of the profile that we've agreed on, and release pictures of these two victims. That will reduce confusion." He smiled at Wallace. "I think 'you' should meet with the media, sir." Wallace looked inordinately pleased, and Scully shot a quick look at David, sitting on her left. He gave her a bland stare, which, she knew by now, meant that he was trying to conceal his sharpened attention. While the media were being called, Mulder and Scully followed Henderson down to his tiny office. It at least had a window, but barely held the three of them. Mulder gave Scully the visitor's chair, and sat on the corner of Henderson's desk. Henderson had computer printouts of various aspects of the victim's lives tacked to the burlap walls, and Mulder had to shove photos and notes to one side of the desk. It was wildly austere, compared to the X- Files basement office. "Killers don't kill all the time," Mulder said, slowly, thinking aloud. "They have jobs and go to them, and go to the store, and do laundry and watch television." "Forensic shows," Henderson said bitterly. "So they can figure out how to clean the scene." Mulder ignored the interruption, raising his finger in admonition. "This guy is very organized, very functional. He has to be in his mid-thirties to mid-forties, white, professional. He's planned these dates. He's cultivated these women. He's probably been in their apartments at least once, because he knows where everything is. But he blends in. He doesn't stand out in anyone's memory. Dresses nicely, but not too nicely." He blinked innocently at Henderson. "I keep thinking of someone like you, Dave." Scully looked up. "He's too attractive," she said. "You're looking for someone who blends in, not someone who stands out." Henderson gave Scully an evil stare, but she just raised an eyebrow. Mulder said, "Campers, campers. Yeah, Dave's too tall. But, hey, you and I should go to the gym and get into some pickup games." "Hah. Basketball? That's a pussy sport." Henderson was jabbing a pencil into his desk blotter, not looking at them. Mulder stood up, stretching. "Oh, and swimming isn't?" "Swimming's not----" "It's some mundane connection," Scully said quietly, ignoring the male bonding. "It's a person they have in common." Henderson sat all the way back in his chair, one foot propped on the windowsill. "What do you usually have in your purse?" He was holding the inventories of Carla's and Alex's belongings. "What do women carry in their purses? I wouldn't know at first glance if something was missing." "That's sexist, Dave," Mulder said, amused. "You can make an educated guess.' Scully had taken the inventories. "I don't know." Mulder reached for the list with his injured hand. Henderson sat up, his chair squeaking. He was staring at the bandage on Mulder's hand. "What?" Mulder asked. "Insurance agent," the other man said, almost to himself. "Everyone has insurance." "One of the boxes from the Canterell apartment has a business card holder," Scully said, getting out her phone. "I'll call County." Mulder and Henderson scrabbled through the print-outs and photos on the desk as she called. "Here's a photo of Alex Brown's wallet. Contents still in it." Henderson held out the picture. Mulder picked it up. "Let's go to Reston. Scully, you see if we have all the Canterell effects or if County does." She nodded, already listening to someone on the other end of the connection. ++++++++++ As Mulder was driving up the freeway, Henderson was talking to the Reston investigator. "He's going to get the boxes from the evidence locker. He'll have it at his office." He clicked off. Mulder's cell rang; Scully. "Mulder, there's her auto insurance, her health insurance, and three business cards from insurance agents." "Here, read them to Dave." Henderson took the phone, and rapidly scribbled down the names. "Punch it, Mulder, we need to get this before the news at noon." Mulder's phone rang again. "Henderson--- yes, sir, go ahead and read them to me." He wrote down two names, and circled another name, holding up his pad to Mulder. "Give me the phone number and address of the last one, sir." Both victims had supplemental insurance sold by a man named Alden, who had an office in Quantico. Mulder turned the car around, bumping over the gravelaccess road, and sped back to Henderson's office. ++++++++++ All the bigwigs were gone, on the road to Downtown, no doubt to report in person to Kersh. Mulder left a message on Skinner's voice mail. Henderson was on his phone, lying to Alden's secretary. "He's making calls today," he told Mulder. "Look, can you give us his schedule? No, I don't want to make an appointment. I need to see him today. I'm talking about a major policy. I need to catch him." He grinned at Mulder over the receiver. "Yeah, I'm in a rush. I want to give him my check. I tried the cell phone. You'll fax me his schedule? Thanks." They sat and stared at the fax machine. It beeped in a moment, and Mulder shot up from his seat, to hover over it. A copy of an appointment book. He yanked it free, and slapped it on the table top. "He's gone to the nine o'clock. He has a ten. We won't get there. Let's try for this eleven." He jabbed at the name. "A woman. Here's her address." Mulder read it. Here in town. "Let's go see who this Alden guy is. A Quantico victim would rub it in our faces. Our man couldn't resist it." ++++++++++ Alden parked his car. This client was shaping up so well, so nicely. And the entire office was signing on for supplemental insurance. And who knows? Six months, seven months. He froze. Right in front of him, standing outside the building entrance, was the detective with the nose, from Carla's apartment. Their eyes met. "Mr. Alden?" the cop called. "Could I speak to you?" "Sure, what about?" The man was showing him a badge. "Fox Mulder, FBI. We're investigating the death of one of your clients, Carla--" Alden turned to his right, but another Fed was there. Alden feinted, swinging his briefcase at the first agent, who automatically sidestepped, but the second man was lunging at him. Alden hit him as hard as he could, and the man fell back, reaching under his jacket as the briefcase crashed on the sidewalk at his feet. Alden had the knife from the last one in his pocket, but he was being yanked off balance by someone else, who had his collar and his sleeve, and suddenly, he saw the gun in his face. "Drop it," said the one called Mulder, his voice cold. +++++++++ Mulder kicked the knife away, and heard it skitter along the sidewalk. "Hands on your head! Now get down!" Alden knelt on the sidewalk. "On your belly! Now!" Mulder stepped ungently on his back. "Dave!" he shouted, not taking his eyes or his gun off Alden. "Talk to me." "It's a kitchen knife, Mulder," Henderson said. Mulder lifted his gaze briefly, to see the other man on one knee on the pavement. Henderson pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket with his left hand, using it to pick the knife up by the tip. It was the missing knife from the set at the Canterell apartment. "Is profiling still bullshit, Mulder?" Henderson asked, getting slowly to his feet. "You caught the bad guy." There was a scratch across his chin from the briefcase, but he had his gun steady in his hand. Mulder grinned. "Call it in," he said. He nudged Alden with the toe of his shoe. "Never bring a knife to a gunfight, asshole." "Oh, hell," Henderson said, rolling his eyes. +++++++++ Scully arrived at the scene, and threw her car into park. Mulder was standing beside one of the patrol cars, talking on his cell phone. There were a couple of police units there, and a couple of unmarked cars, with the stick-on lights. It was a usual arrest scene. She strode up the sidewalk, her credentials held up for the officers. Mulder's eyes were blazing. For once, he had stopped the bad thing from happening; there wasn't another death in his overloaded guilt file. She felt at his barely-concealed joy. This is where Mulder could have been, before everything. Skinner had appeared on the scene, and he was almost smiling while on duty. He saw her, and said something to Mulder, nodding in Scully's direction. Mulder saw her, and started walking to her, after throwing a word over his shoulder to Skinner. "Hey, Scully," he said, his voice hoarse. "It was Alden. He recognized me." "He 'recognized' you?" she asked sharply. "What happened?" "He knew who I was, I don't know how. He pulled a knife, but Dave grabbed him long enough for me to get my gun out. He clocked Dave with his briefcase. Hey, you may want to check Dave out. He took a hard hit." Skinner called to Mulder, gesturing at a police officer. "Coming," Mulder called. He touched Scully on the sleeve. "It was the insurance salesman, Scully. You were right about the connection being mundane. He sold insurance to all of them." He gave her a brilliant non-ironic smile, and returned to the AD. Scully looked around, and after a moment, saw David leaning against the fender of a patrol car. He was holding a handkerchief to the back of his head. When he saw her, his face lit up, his eyes cobalt-blue against his pallor. "Hey, is there a doctor in the house?" he asked. She went to his side. "Let me see," she said, and pulled his wrist down. There was a lump on his skull, and a gash in his scalp that was steadily seeping blood. Blood had stained the collar of his suit and shirt. She took the handkerchief away from him and refolded it before she pressed it to his scalp, holding his face with her other hand. She stroked his cheekbone with her thumb, and he closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into her hands. She noted again how heavy his eyelashes were, and felt an odd pang under her ribs. She pressed a finger to his neck to feel his pulse. "Cut it out, Doc," he said, and opened his eyes. "I'm not fainting." She moved her index finger to track his vision. Looked normal. "You need stitches," she said crisply. "Your color isn't good. I'm taking you to the hospital." She pressed the handkerchief, hard, against the back of his head. "Now keep that much pressure on it." She waited to see if he was doing it, and turned away to try to catch Skinner's eye. "Sir!" she called. Skinner turned around, and pushed his way out of the knot of officers. "Henderson's hurt." Behind her, David muttered something. Scully lowered her voice. "Shut up, David. You can bleed to death from a scalp wound." Skinner had made his way to her side. "Henderson, go get taken care of," he said. "You did some good work today. Both of you." "I wasn't quick enough, sir." David said, still holding the handkerchief to his head. He seemed unaware that his fingers were bloody. Skinner raised his eyebrows. "That's not what Agent Mulder says. He's going to put you in for a commendation." David looked as though he was thinking, "Oh, right," but just stared back at Skinner, before saying, "Yes, sir." "He needs to go to the emergency room, sir." Scully said, pulling her car keys out of her pocket. "I'll take him." Skinner looked marginally less grim. "Don't argue with Scully about injuries, Agent Henderson. You're off the clock. Mandatory twenty- four hours before debriefing." +++++++++ Sitting on a gurney, waiting to be stitched up, David looked hang-dog. "I let Mulder down," he said. "Alden almost stabbed him." A nurse was snipping hair away from his scalp wound. "That's ridiculous, David," she said. "Mulder never says anything nice about another agent. If he told Skinner---or me---that you did well, then he meant it." She put both hands on his knees. "Stop being such a guy." The resident came in with his tray of needles. Scully stepped outside, but she had the feeling that David wanted her to stay and hold his hand while he was being sewn up. In the hall, she pulled out her phone and called Mulder. "Scully?" he asked. "Alden won't talk. We're getting warrants. How's Dave?" "He's pretty depressed. He thinks he let you down." A silence. "Mulder?" "Yeah, I'm here. It's just a new concept." Scully ignored that. "What actually happened?" "We were just going to question Alden. He looked straight at me and realized I was law enforcement. I think he was watching one of the scenes. He faked me out by swinging the briefcase, then whacked Dave across the head and dropped it at his feet to trip him. Dave yelled that he had a knife, and...and held him until I got my gun drawn." She heard him draw a breath. "Skinner's getting a video from an ATM across the street. I'll look at it. Dave was right there on the suspect. He had his gun out before I did. Scully?" "Yeah?" She heard rustling, as though Mulder was covering the phone. "Call me paranoid, but something 'is' off. Wallace isn't as happy as you'd think. He's here now. I don't know if it's a pissing contest between him, and Skinner, but----" he trailed off. "You should talk to Henderson. He's getting his scalp stitched now." "Yeah, I'll call him later. Alden's screaming for a lawyer. Scully, we're getting warrants for Alden's office, and home. We've towed his car, but we think he may have a locker or some place he's stored trophies. I've got to go talk to Skinner. Tell Dave not to worry about anything." "Mulder? How are 'you' doing?" "Scully, I'm good." She could hear Mulder's grin over the phone. "I'm very good. You?" "I'm good, too, Mulder," she said. End 04/06 +++++++++++ NEW & REVISED: "Neither Here Nor There" 05/06 Author: Tesla Feedback: Tesla@hiwaay.net Rating: NC-17 for violence, sexual situations, and language See part one for detailed headers. David was glum on the way back from the hospital, but she couldn't tell if it was because he was in pain, or because he was going to have his hair cut to Bureau Standard to even it up with the shaved patch. She insisted on taking him to his place. He sat down at his miniscule kitchen table, his dried blood still on his neck and hands. Exhaustion etched fine lines around his mouth and eyes. "My neck's killing me," he said. Scully made a decision. "Get something to wear, and come back to my place." He looked up at her, startled. "Come on, Mul---David." she said. "You're feverish and I want to be sure you're all right." She braced for an argument, but without a word, David stood up and crossed to his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. She heard a drawer open, then nothing. She followed him, and stood in the doorway. He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, putting on sports socks and running shoes. He already had changed out of his suit, but he was still wearing his bloody shirt. He looked up, and said heavily, "I'm coming." She took a step to the bed, and carefully helped him pull his shirt off. She saw a old Georgetown sweatshirt folded in a laundry basket, and picked it up. "I don't want to nag you," she said, handing it to him. "But I'd really like to get you back to my place." "How can I resist?" David asked, taking the sweatshirt. Scully pulled the collar wide so it wouldn't brush his stitches as he pulled it over his head. She had to repress a smile; she wasn't used to this meekness. Back at her apartment, Scully put his cell phone on her coffee table, and David folded his six feet two onto her loveseat. "I think the shots they gave me are making me sick," he said dispassionately. "I feel weird." He threw his wallet on the table beside the cell phone. "I'm getting you some Sprite," she said from the kitchen. "Here." David took it, and looked at her over the rim of the glass. He had a strained expression, and she realized he was probably at the end of his endurance. Men. "Come on. We'll take a nap together." That must have been the right thing to suggest, because he put the glass on the floor and stood up, slightly swaying. They walked straight back to her bedroom, Scully peeling off her jacket and blouse and hung them on the back of a chair. She pulled on a long t-shirt and got into bed before David had his shoes off. He slid into her arms wearing his sweatshirt and boxers. Familiar, and not familiar. Tending the wounded. She smoothed his hair, carefully avoiding the wound. He sighed, and buried his face into her neck, one hand on her solar plexus. She brushed her lips against his temple. The late afternoon sunlight stretched across the floor. Scully began to rub his back in long, slow strokes. She meant to soothe David, but she ended by dozing off. ++++++++++ When she woke up, it was dark. David was lying like one stunned, his breath rasping. Cursing, she flung off the blanket, and switched on the light. His hair was plastered to his face with sweat; she put two fingers on his wrist. He could be having an allergic reaction. Christ, he had 'told' her he was. She pulled on her jeans. Damn it all. She should have known he wasn't just bitching about the shots; David didn't bitch. Jamming bare feet into her boots, she came around the bed, snatching up his jeans. It didn't immediately seem like anaphylactic shock, but she couldn't take the chance. "David, you have to get up now." His eyes opened, mere slits. "I'm taking you back to the hospital." "Shit." With a grunt, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. She pulled his jeans over his feet with a grim feeling of endless deja vu. At least she had a cooperative patient for once. "You're having an allergic reaction." "I need to talk to Mulder," he said, surprising her by standing up and staggering down the hall. He picked up his cell phone, and shoved it and his wallet in his pockets. "Don't press your luck," she said. "We need to go now. Now." And she took his arm and dragged him out the door. He didn't try to argue. One drive through red lights, one frightening coughing fit, and one re-admission, complete with Scully waving her badge, later, David was in an examination room with an IV in his arm and an oxygen cannula in his nose. His vital signs were coming back to normal. Scully stood by the bed rail, rubbing the back of his hand to soothe where the needle went into the skin. He rebooted awake all at once, opening his eyes and saying, "I need to talk to Mulder." "Wh-what? Why?" she stuttered. He sat up, jerking at the IV line. Not so cooperative a patient after all. "I need to see Mulder. It's about Patterson," he said. She just blinked at him. "And the Baltimore killer. Where's my phone?" "I don't give a damn about the Baltimore killer," Scully said, around a lump in her throat. He was still pale. "Yes, but you give a damn about Mulder, don't you? I need to tell him to get the boxes from Patterson's office. Patterson's evidence. Where's my phone?" He tossed the sheet and blanket aside. "Where's my gun?" "You're on medical stand-down, so your gun's at your place." She lowered the bed rail, so she could sit on the side of the bed and push him back against the mattress. "David, don't make me sedate you. You almost went into shock." He looked as angry as he had when she flagged down his car, and she had a split second of realization that she couldn't talk to him like she did to Mulder. Mulder knew she always had his best interests at heart; David didn't. "I don't want anything to happen to you. You're not out of the woods yet, because we don't know what did it." She held his arms hard, willing him to lie down. David let her push him back, the anger gone. "There's been two agendas all along. Somebody wanted Mulder to fail; and somebody wanted Mulder to succeed. If he had used Patterson's ideas or taken Patterson's advice, this would have blown up, and Mulder would lose his reputation as a profiler. But he caught the killer." He held both her hands, squeezing them in his earnestness. "The first question, about the Baltimore killings, isn't answered, and you and Mulder figured that out almost right away." "I remember you being there, too, David. But why does Mulder need to get the boxes of evidence?" "They could disappear, like everything that you two touch disappears." "But why is Patterson's evidence so important?" "Because they're not evidence. They're trophies." He started coughing. Scully reached in her pocket and got out her cell phone. +++++++++ Mulder was sitting in Skinner's office, drinking coffee and about to sign off on his preliminary report. Alden's wife had hired a lawyer, and was definitely not going to let anyone in the house, without full judicial search warrants being inspected by her attorney. Until the knife was identified, Alden was being held on the charge of assault on federal officers. His phone rang. Scully. "Mulder, can you talk?" she asked. She sounded hurried. "Yeah, it's just us chickens, in the AD's office." After a glance up at him, Skinner returned to reading the warrant faxed by the prosecutor. "I'm with David Henderson. He had a bad reaction to an antibiotic, and he had to be re-admitted to the hospital." "Is he okay?" Mulder asked. Sheesh. Henderson in the decidedly ungentle hands of Doctor!Scully. He hoped that Dave didn't piss her off. "He should be. Here." The phone changed hands. Henderson came on, hoarse. "Mulder, don't let that box of Patterson's evidence out of your sight." "It's right here, Dave. Why?" But Mulder had a rush of dread, knowing what Dave was going to say before he said it. "He didn't have a suspect because he's the suspect." His mouth tasted sour. "Yes. That's why he said the things he said. Complimenting you on the profile. He was proud. He thought you would never----" Dave coughed. "Get something----his trophy collection----and confront him." Mulder heard Dave cough again, and Scully saying something sharp. A rustling. "Someone tried to set you up, Mulder, and someone else---" "Made sure it didn't happen." Mulder looked over at Skinner, who was still crisply signing paperwork. "Mulder?" It was Scully. "I think he's right." "Yes, but it's okay. We have the box. Tell Henderson we'll go see Patterson together. Later." He couldn't resist. "And Scully? Be nice to Dave. Ease up on the bedside manner.""Shut up, Mulder." She clicked off. Mulder put the cell phone in his pocket. "David Henderson is back in the hospital, but it's an allergic reaction or something. He thinks we should confront Patterson." Skinner didn't look up from his documents. "And you agree? What do you think will happen?" "We'll see if he blows. I'll take the box of physical evidence with me." Skinner looked up then, giving Mulder that familiar appraising glance. "I want to see Agent Henderson properly credited for his work with you, Mulder." Skinner gave him a hard look, to see if Mulder understood the unsaid instruction. Mulder nodded. "I'll share credit on the collar, sure." He smiled unpleasantly. "On both collars, hopefully." "That would be best. Use your judgment. We can't do anything more on the Alden case until the district attorney gets the approval for the search warrants." Mulder stood up, his back cramping. "Yes sir. Thanks for the back up." Skinner nodded, curtly. "If Agent Henderson is seriously ill as a direct result of Alden's assault, we can charge with second degree assault instead of third degree assault. Let me know." As soon as Mulder stepped out into the hallway, his phone rang. He answered it, and clearly heard Henderson say. "Doc, I swear to God I'll hurt you if you cut me off again." Then, "Mulder?" "Jesus, Dave, is that any way to talk to senior ag---" "You have to get to Patterson before seven tomorrow morning." "Why?" "Because that's when the hospital telephone system comes back on." Mulder lost his fatigue. "I'm coming to get you. I'll get a video camera. I want this on tape." "No, I'll meet you there. It'll be faster. Your partner's taken my clothes, and I'll have to get some scrubs." ++++++++++ The admitting doctor finally agreed to discharge David, 'against medical advice.' Scully hadn't waited for his taxi to arrive; she had walked out of the examining room while David was still in his hospital gown, carrying his jeans. He had lunged for his clothes, and only managed to get his wallet and shoes. "Now, leave," Scully said, and left him. She was shivering as she started her car; the temperature had dropped, and the ever-present drizzle was turning to sleet. It was as though David had absorbed Mulder's paranoia through his skin. She was angry at him for being single-minded, for ignoring her efforts to take care of him. But as she drove through the sleet, she admitted that she felt guilty as well; guilty that David was watching Mulder's back; guilty that she hadn't watched David's back. She had told herself this afternoon that she was taking care of him, but in reality, she had used him to make herself feel better. And he had almost gone into shock from the antibiotic. Back to the first issue. It made sense that someone wanted to destroy Mulder's reputation as a profiler. No matter what the two of them did on the X-Files, they each had a fall-back. She could teach or practice pathology; he had a peerless record as a profiler. Whoever thought of this was clever enough to know that Mulder disliked and feared Patterson. Pulling a "Silence of the Lambs" would have made Mulder a laughingstock, striking at him from an unexpected direction. He was used to taking flak about the X-Files; but not about his other abilities. She was angry at Mulder for being single-minded, for ignoring her efforts to take care of him. Mulder. Not David. And David had been the additional factor. He was, on the surface, not one who would be likely to support Mulder; he was on the fast track, himself. No ambitious agent in his right mind would have gotten mixed up with either Mulder or Scully. She would bet that David's career was going to take a downward plunge. So she went home. All the lights were on, from their dash to the hospital. She dropped David's jeans on the couch. Scully moved through her apartment, straightening things and turning out lights. Almost everything about David's personality should have annoyed Mulder. Someone had made a mistake, there. They had underestimated both Mulder and David. Maybe she had done the same. ++++++++++ Amanda sat on the floor beside Frohike's chair. "I had to vent. I had to tell someone." They hadn't been able to salvage anything from her lab, and her lab alone, from the electrical fire. All of her samples were gone. And so, therefore, was the hook she had on Mulder's attention. Frohike's pants legs came back into her vision, then all of him, as he sat down heavily in his chair. He held out another bottle of beer, and she accepted it. "Well," Frohike coughed, "he has a strange effect on everyone. I always wondered why there weren't more women around him. It's that thing he has with Scully." Setting his beer down next to his keyboard, he pulled off his glasses and carefully wiped them on his shirttail. He didn't look at her. "He'll never desert her, you know." Amanda's breath caught. "Oh, I know, Melvin. He just sleeps with me." "But don't desert 'him'. Don't lay more guilt on him. I wish it could work out, I really do. But if it doesn't, then let it end naturally. Don't just disappear. That's the one thing he couldn't stand. He takes everything personally and feels guilty for every bad thing that happens." "You're a wise man, Melvin." "I keep telling everyone that," he said complacently. "But you'd better get me the personnel file on everyone else who works there. I find it odd that only your lab is gone." Amanda sat up. "Are you saying I should watch my back?" "That's exactly what I'm saying." She hesitated a moment. "So, you don't think it'll work out for me and Mulder." It wasn't really a question. Frohike's silence was answer enough. ++++++++++ The next morning, Wallace pretended to be awestruck by Henderson's haircut. Skinner took one look at Henderson, and then at Mulder. Skinner knew something was up, but from that one glance at both of them, Mulder understood that Skinner would let them play it out. This was strictly a Bureau meeting, no outsiders. Scully came in, with a medium-range glower at both of them, but sat down beside Mulder. Henderson had a haircut like Mulder's, which wasn't surprising, since they had gone to Mulder's stylist. Henderson hated it, but it was difficult to find a stylist who worked the odd hours Mulder had free. He wasn't happy about getting his haircut in the self-service Laundromat, but Mulder told him to cowboy up and be a man. "This is a punk's haircut," Henderson had said, looking at himself in the passenger mirror. "Hey, it's what I have." Mulder pretended offense, but only with half his attention. "My point." But that was after they had been to the hospital. Now they were on the way to the debriefing with a video of Patterson, driving in the early morning light. Mulder had checked the batteries on his camcorder, and then walked in with his box of evidence to wait for Henderson. It was a small box, really. And most of it was taken up with duplicates of lab tests, blood samples, and the like. Just sitting in the lobby, riffling through the envelopes, Mulder knew what bothered him while reviewing it, and what had bothered him years ago. A small detail, really. It was that the hair samples had no FBI Lab stickers. The identifying labels on the slides and on some of the bagged evidence were in Patterson's handwriting. Patterson had only let him look at the files on the Baltimore killings once. Then he had taken them back. At the time, Mulder had burned with the kind of corrosive self-reproach that authority figures could trigger in him. Of course, that was before he learned to do it to himself. The electric doors opened, and Henderson came in, dressed in scrub pants, a Georgetown sweatshirt and running shoes, his plastic hospital tag still on his wrist. Even Mulder-- --who was aware of the irony----could see he looked terrible. "How did Scully let you out of the hospital? You look like shit." "She wasn't happy," Henderson said repressively. "I guess her corpses don't talk back." Mulder stifled an inner grin. He could well imagine, considering the tone of the conversation he had overheard on the cell phone. Henderson noticed the wrist tag, and yanked it loose before putting it in his pocket. "I never can get those off." Mulder commented. He stood up. "Any suggestions?" "Put one of the hair samples through the window so he picks it up." "Let's do it." Walking down the hall, he had to say, "Georgetown? I thought you didn't like basketball." "I went to law school there," Henderson said. In the same interview room as before, Mulder put Henderson behind him, to the side. He picked out the sample of hair that felt right----as if the bag had been handled often--- and put it in one of the Bureau evidence envelopes. The box itself was on the floor under Henderson's raincoat. The door on the other side of the glass opened, and in swaggered Patterson. He was almost gleeful. "So you've got another victim, Mulder? Something must be up, for you to visit me at this hour." He wasn't even looking at Henderson, who had the video recorder open and aimed at him. Mulder silently slid the envelope over to him through the opening. Patterson opened it, and sat, staring. "Don't you know her?" Mulder asked. Without warning, Patterson threw himself at the window, clawing at it and screaming Mulder's name. Mulder sat, willing himself not to blink or move, as Patterson sobbed and screamed, until two orderlies unlocked the door, rushed in and subdued him. He continued to scream as they forced him out. "Did you get it?" Mulder asked, turning to Henderson. Henderson nodded, closing the camera. "We got it." ++++++++++ "...aspects of the actual arrest could have been handled better. Agent Henderson, for instance, failed to properly..." Scully had not been listening to Wallace, but she suddenly realized that Wallace was criticizing David's performance. Mulder was on his feet. "What are you talking about, Mark? You weren't there. I was." Scully craned to see David's face. David, who was smiling cynically at the tabletop, didn't look up. "Agent Mulder, I appreciate your loyalty..." "Screw loyalty. We weren't there to arrest him. We were on a city street. Alden recognized me. He probably was watching one of the crime scenes---" "Agent Henderson is not under your authority. He didn't report his findings to his superiors. He didn't advise us that a possible arrest----" Scully saw David and Mulder exchange glances. It was a cue, for Mulder put a camcorder on the table. "You don't want to go there, Mark." "What? You're the hero of this now, but remember, we still have five murders in Baltimore that you've ignored----" Skinner interrupted. "What's in the camera, Agent?" "The Baltimore killer." Mulder took the recorder to Skinner, and he beckoned the others to come to his end of the table. Voices came from the speaker. Unnoticed, Scully moved one seat over, and sat next to David. He was just tapping his pen on his legal pad, half- listening to the audio from the tape. "Are you all right?" she asked. He shook his head. At the other end of the table, Patterson's tinny screams were dying away. "Sir," Mulder said. "I suggest that Special Agent Wallace had the same evidence that I had, and deliberately concealed it." "Mulder, you're a lunatic---" Mulder continued over Wallace's voice. "Further, he attempted to divert the attention of the task force to the UNSUB---to Alden--- when he knew quite well that his former superior had committed the Baltimore murders. And now, to keep anyone else from going there, he's trying to black- mark Dave Henderson." He paused. "Sir, again, who suggested that Bill Patterson had a suspect in the killings?" Skinner sat very still for a long time, before finally leaning back in his chair. "Mark Wallace." Wallace opened his mouth, and then shut it. Skinner ignored him. "Agents, I suggest that this meeting is over. Agent Henderson, the only criticism I have of you is that you checked yourself out of the hospital against medical advice. I'm putting you on sick leave until you're cleared to return. Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, Dr. Mathis- ---your work in these cases was of the highest Bureau standard. I want your report, Mulder, for the Director's eye, as soon as possible." Under his Marine stare, they all shuffled out. Mulder was grinned at Scully. "Jeeze, I could sleep for a week," he commented. "I'm doing the report at home and e-mailing it." He barely waited for her to nod before he ran to catch the elevator. He was still on his adrenaline buzz. When she looked for David, he had slipped away. +++++++++++ Scully went over to David's department. It was business as usual; no one suspected the chief was going up on charges. David was just closing the door to his office, but he left it ajar when he saw her. She followed, and saw that he was sitting down with his back to the window. She closed the door behind her. "What?" he asked. He had the same strained expression he had worn only yesterday. He seemed older with short hair, less open. "Did you leave in the hospital gown last night?" she asked, coming to stand over him. He was playing with the telephone cord, staring at nothing. "The resident gave me some scrubs. You forgot my shoes. He thought we were a married couple, because you were so angry." He tilted his head back to smile at her. "Shocking commentary on the married state." "Please let me give you a ride," she said. She took his free hand, swinging it. They looked at each other for a moment. "I was in doctor mode last night," she went on. "I was worried about you." He shrugged. "I'm about to fall asleep. Sure." He reached under his desk for his gym bag. "My hospital clothes." And he did fall asleep in the car, nodding right off, head against the window. She wondered if he was ill, or just exhausted. Once in they reached Arlington, she drove to her own condo, and parked in the basement before he stirred. He followed her, in a replay of his first visit to the hospital, but this time he carried his gym bag with him. "I didn't mean it, either," he said suddenly, in the elevator. "Mean what?" "When I said I'd hurt you if you took the phone away from me." Her eyes stung. "I know that. I think I threatened you first." They didn't talk until they were inside her condo. "Let's do this right." Scully said briskly. "You put on whatever you've got in the bag, and I'll change, and we'll watch television. I want to take your temperature later." "You're the only woman I know who takes the fun out of playing doctor," he muttered, going into the hall bathroom. She put away her suit and pulled on a sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms, and heard him go into the living room. The television was on the weather channel. More rain, more cold. She pulled the afghan from her bed, and carried it to the living room. He was wearing Bureau sweats, and let her tuck the blanket around them both as she sat beside him on the sofa. She took his wrist to feel his pulse. Normal. She kept his hand, holding it in her lap. "I'm not sick; I'm tired," he said. "No." He pulled his hand out of her clasp, but only so he could put his arm around her. "I'm trying to take care of you," she objected, snuggling into his shoulder. "You are," he said, rubbing his chin against her head. They sat together for a long while. ++++++++++ Aside from the complete lack of an after-glow, Mulder thought the worst thing about the successful closing of a casefile was the paperwork. And, of course, meeting with the federal and state prosecutors. He had caught a decent break on this case, though. Alden had apparently returned to the Canterell apartment and seen Mulder and Henderson leaving. When he saw them approach him on the sidewalk, Alden thought he was being arrested. He carried the insurance applications of the last two victims in the briefcase he used to brain Henderson. Mulder was so wired that he caught a couple hours of sleep at home, then drove back to the office to keep up. The faces had changed slightly in Skinner's conference room, and Skinner himself had changed one dress shirt for an almost identical one. Wallace, of course, was gone, but the assistant department head, a rather nervous woman named Basham, was in attendance. Alden had said he was just processing the death claims, and he could have been; but most insurance agents didn't walk around with paring knives stolen from a customer's kitchen. He clamed up after that, but despite having a lawyer, Mulder would predict that he wouldn't be able to resist talking about the murders. He would try to control his circumstances to the end. Of course, Mulder would have to think about his insurance agent in a new light; he had to pay extra premiums ever since the federal employee's carrier had pulled his medical and travel records. "At least get current on your vaccinations before you get on another international flight," his agent had begged him, almost tearfully. She didn't know how funny that was. And Clyde Bruckman should have taught him not to think all insurance people were alike. At that point, the sleepless nights caught up with him and he went home to sleep until the next day. +++++++++ Since Alden was facing a charge of assault against two federal officers, it hadn't taken much to get federal search warrants. Alden had been very cautious, but he still had trophies; file folders on his clients, with Polaroids attached. He had apparently planned these certain crimes for years before committing them; a safe in his home office yielded a trove of S&M and snuff videos. The federal marshals were on the phone to Skinner, who told them to bring it all in for processing. The assistant U.S. Attorney, and the county prosecutors, were happy, happy campers. They couldn't say enough complimentary things about Mulder, Scully, Henderson, Dr. Mathis, Skinner and all the other Bureau agents. No one was tactless enough to mention Mark Wallace. Mulder went down to his office, and found an anonymous e- mail saying that Wallace wasn't going down alone; it was rumored that he'd filed dis-commendation reports on Dr. Mathis and Dave Henderson for by-passing the chain of authority and working directly with Mulder. So he called Henderson, who was apparently just staying home for the day until Skinner decided his sick leave was up. "It's not a rumor," he told Mulder. "It's fucking true. It was on my desk before we even went in to the meeting." He sounded like he had just woken up. "Shit," Mulder said. "What does it say?" "Usual chickenshit stuff. You know, the kind of stuff that adds up, and if your boss decides he doesn't like you, he uses it. Avoiding the proper chain of command and reporting directly to you without permission. Lack of candor." "He knew you were working with me. He put your unit at my disposal." "Yeah, the unit. He didn't sign off on anything, though, and it makes me look like I was hot-dogging around trying to be your partner." Mulder was momentarily dumbfounded. "I don't get it." "I do. Wallace sent it in before we arrested Alden. He could have withdrawn it, but since you had him suspended, it's insurance for him. So the OPR has other things to look at besides his cover-up for Patterson." Mulder heard Henderson snort. "It's not about me. It's you. No one wants you to have allies." "I'm flattered, Dave, but don't you think----" "No, Mulder, you think about it." Henderson sounded awake now. "All your old partners are dead. Agent Pendrell is dead. Agent Spender is dead." "Spender was a weasel," Mulder objected. "He's still dead. Agent Scully has been near death how often? And AD Skinner? And you? A review from OPR isn't a picnic, but everyone has them. You aren't doing your job unless someone is after you. Besides, Wallace is going to be discredited, anyway." "Well, I'm glad you're so cheerful," Mulder said. "Keep me posted." He hung up and turned to Scully, who had silently walked in. "Can you believe this shit?" he asked. "Wallace sent in a bad report on Dave before we even arrested Alden." Scully sat up, snapping shut the file she had been reading. "Why?" "Dave thinks it's me. Don't give me that look. He thinks everyone's out to get me." She suddenly laughed. "We've brain-washed him, Mulder. Next thing you know, he'll start picking up cigarette butts and checking to see if they're Morleys." She shook her head in disbelief. "But why did Wallace report him?" "Dave thinks Wallace was hedging his bets, getting someone to take the heat if anyone--if I--found out about Patterson. He doesn't think OPR will gig him too badly, since Wallace is going down. And Dave did make the goddamned arrest with me. That should mean something." Scully sighed. "It would be nice to still have illusions about the OPR." Mulder heard nothing further that day regarding Henderson; the OPR didn't contact him to expand on his report . Meanwhile, no doubt grinding his teeth, Kersh sent Mulder a commendation letter that was worth an X-File of its own. The whole experience was at odds with the usual run of business. Mulder had almost forgotten how it felt to be treated like a valued agent, and said so to Scully, later in the week. "It's kind of surreal." "Give me a break, Mulder." She carefully saved whatever she was typing on her laptop, and closed it. "You could be in position now to be tapped to be the unit head of Behavioral Sciences, if that's what you had wanted. You chose another path." She smiled. "We both did." Mulder tapped the point of his pencil against his blotter. "Well, I did," he muttered. "You----" "I can't believe we're having this conversation again," Scully said, not quite rolling her eyes. "I'm not some victim, here, Mulder. I could have walked away from this - - from you, and the X-Files -- a hell of a lot of times." She gave Mulder a warmer smile than he'd received from her in many a day. "So cut it out, huh? I assumed the risk. I assume it every day. You can't assume it for me." She stood up, and stowed her computer away in its Land's End carrier. "Have a wonderful weekend, Mulder. I'm taking a vacation day and going out of town." "Oh, a hot pathology convention, huh?" he said, feeling irrationally cheered. Scully settled her overcoat collar tidily. "No, Mulder," she sighed. "Not a convention." He waved at her, as she left the office, and then tossed the pencil into the ceiling tile. He had thrown three more, and was considering his options for the weekend, when Skinner appeared at the door, wearing his overcoat and carrying a briefcase. "Just a word with you before you go, Mulder," the AD said, with an unusual lack of grimness. Mulder hoped he didn't look as much like a deer in the headlights as he felt. ++++++++++ "Stop arguing with me," Scully had said into the phone the night before. "You're going away for the weekend with me whether you like it or not." She grinned at the choking sound David made. "Well, since you're forcing me, all right. But don't think you can stick me in some ratty motel. I want a bed and breakfast with those little muffins in the basket on the bedside table, and separate bathroom, and no television, unless you sit in a common room with old people who ask you about your kids." "My, you sound bitter. This room has a hot tub." "Oh," Dave paused. "In that case, I don't need television." Scully's motives weren't entirely carnal. She honestly wanted to see if she still liked David's company now that the case was over. She also wanted to talk him into getting more tests done. The emergency room doctor, apparently weary of Scully, Mulder, and all their works, had explicitly told Scully that Agent Henderson had not had an allergic reaction, that his pulse, respiration and temperature were still slightly off average. David hadn't let her take his temperature in the past two days, and accused her of having Munchausen's Syndrome by proxy. It was a pain in the ass dealing with a profiler. But she still wanted to get some tests run on his blood. As Mulder said, it wasn't paranoia when people really were out to get you. ++++++++++ "He killed himself?" Mulder hissed. He was sitting in Skinner's SUV, in the parking garage. "Just like Blevins, if you get my drift," Skinner said. "I don't know what it is, Mulder, but you have a gift. Wallace was on the Roush payroll before he transferred to his section. Apparently, someone wanted confirmation that Patterson had been killing for a long time." "Yeah. And Dave Henderson conveniently goes into shock just before he can tell me of his suspicions. He thought that there was a different reason for the Baltimore killings than the Alden killings. A different killer." "Yes, that's another issue. Right now, Henderson doesn't need to have a high profile. Someone doesn't like him." Skinner grimaced. "I tend to find these things out, Mulder." Mulder turned completely in his seat to face Skinner. "Is Dave in any danger?" "Only to his career," Skinner said. "He's not you. Yet." "Dave can keep his head down. I'll get hold of him." "See if you can, Mulder. He's still on medical leave, so he doesn't have to report in for another week." Skinner allowed himself a small smile. "Agent Scully intends to run blood tests on him." Mulder snorted. "You and I are used to it, sir, but Dave's not that excited about having a pathologist examine him." But Henderson didn't answer his phone that evening. ++++++++++ For only the second time that winter, Amanda opened her apartment door to Mulder. "I thought you might like to go out and eat, or something," he said diffidently. "I haven't heard from you, and the guys said they hadn't heard from you. Can I come in?" "Oh, yeah. I'm sorry." She held the door wider, and he entered. This time, his expensive suit and topcoat were dry, and his hair wasn't plastered to his head, and he didn't look like he was going down under the waves. "What's wrong?" he asked her, as she closed and chained the door. He tipped her chin with a gentle hand and she shivered. "Sorry, my hands are cold." "I didn't get to tell you about the lab fire," she said, bracing herself. "All of the samples you gave me are gone." He put his hands on her shoulders, and looked straight into her eyes. "The guys have more," he said. "Did you tell Frohike?" "Yes, of course." "Did he tell you to go underground?" "No, why?" He squeezed her shoulders. "Because he's more paranoid than I am. If he thought you were in danger, he'd tell you. He'd tell me. Was it just those samples?" "No, it was that whole end of the lab." She watched his eyes track her face. It wasn't fair that, just by standing there, he made her feel secure. It wasn't fair that all he had to do was look at her, and her bones turned to water. She focused on his mouth. He smiled. "What?" "It's not fair what you do to me," she whispered, putting a finger on his lip. Incredibly, his face flushed. "It's not fair---I can't believe you put up with me." "Are you crazy?" Amanda said, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Put up?" He bent slightly, and picked her up as he kissed her. She wound her legs around his waist, and he carried her to her bedroom. They fell on to the bed. "Always wanted to do that," he said, nipping her earlobe. "Let me know if anything else that occurs to you," she said, loosening his tie. "What happened to dinner?" "Let's work up an appetite." End 05/06 +++++++++++ NEW & REVISED: "Neither Here Nor There" 06/06 Author: Tesla Feedback: Tesla@hiwaay.net Rating: NC-17 for violence, sexual situations, and language See part one for detailed headers. Scully drove them to a modern inn located on a bluff overlooking the Potomac. "It has a restaurant attached to it," she said, giving him a sidelong look as he got their bags from the trunk. "There aren't any common rooms." "It looks great," he said unconvincingly, looking around at the woods that came right up to the parking lot. "Come on, you'll feel better after dinner." "I always feel better after dinner," he replied. Scully had reserved an upstairs room with bathroom and hot tub en suite, a fireplace, and a king-size bed. David tidily began to unpack. Scully was struck with compunction. "Maybe this isn't how you want to spend your weekend?" she asked. "You might be bored." David laughed. "You've got to be kidding. I have you alone for a weekend? What's not to like?" He straightened up, his gun and holster in one hand. "Which side do you want?" "Either." She had to smile again at the sight of him stowing his gun away. There was a definite advantage to dating another federal agent---no need to explain about having to have your weapon with you at all times, or why you had to leave your itinerary with the office, or why you had to leave a number at all times, or any of the hundreds of rules that Ethan, for example, had not taken seriously. "I'm serious," he said, sitting on what was now his side of the bed. "You noticed I was standing there with my bag packed? Hey, nice mattress." He bounced back up. "What about dinner?" +++++++++ "What about dinner?" Mulder said, buttoning his shirt. "Seafood?" "Lobster," Amanda said. +++++++++ Scully and David had barely walked down the stairs at the inn, when the manager stopped them. "You're a doctor, aren't you, Agent Scully?" the woman asked. "We've called 911, but----" "Has there been an accident?" David turned and went upstairs. "I'll get your bag." "Show me," Scully said, and the manager turned and ran down the hallway to the rear of the inn, down the basement stairs, to a wine cellar, Scully at her heels. The wine cellar was well lit, and two waiters were lowering a woman to the floor. Lowering a body to the floor; the woman had a rope around her neck. "Stand back, and don't touch anything else." Scully felt for a pulse, even as she noted the coldness of the skin. David materialized beside her, setting the medical bag on the stone floor. "What happened?" She heard him say above her head. "FBI." "We found her when we came down for this evening's wine. Why would she hang herself here?" "Listen, you're going to have to stick around until the local police come," David said. "They'll want your statements. Scully?" "She's been dead for a while," Scully said, closing her bag. "I can't do anything." She stood up, brushing the dust from her slacks. "Are you sure?" the manager asked, blinking rapidly. "Yes, I am," Scully said. "You'll need to go lead the officers in here." She was aware of David's thoughtful glances at the noose, at the body, and around the room. He met her eyes, and shrugged. Some getaway weekend. Two state troopers arrived with the ambulance crew. While one of them was questioning the waiters, a sergeant was carefully walking around the cellar, taking notes. Scully and David identified themselves as mere guests at the inn. "So you think she hung herself, Agents? Not to make you work on your weekend off, or anything." David stood, hands in pockets, still looking around the room. "Funny thing about suicides." he said, conversationally. "They need to step off something." "Yes, I saw that," Scully said. "Sergeant, you should have your medical examiner look closely for signs of manual strangulation." "Why?" the trooper asked, looking up sharply from her notebook. "Do you think this is a homicide?" There was a sharp crack outside in the hall, and David's gun was in his hand. He looked around the doorjamb, and relaxed. "It's the medical examiner," he said, re- holstering his pistol. "Shit," Sgt. Austen said. "He always this edgy?" she asked Scully, smiling. Scully had raised her eyebrows. "No. He doesn't like the country." "Sorry. I think it's a homicide because there's no chair, or step-stool, or box, or garbage can for her to step off." David pointed to the rope. "I think she was strangled, then the killer threw the rope over the rafter and hoisted her up. When you examine the rest the rope and the rafter, it'll tell you." He flashed a lopsided smile at the sergeant. "Your medical examiner will tell you the same thing. Dr. Scully already saw the finger marks. Didn't you?" "Yes," Scully said, depreciatingly. "Really, Sergeant, Agent Henderson and I don't want to get involved in your investigation. We're guests." "I don't mind," the sergeant said. "We really don't want to interfere with your investigation," David said pointedly. "We were on our way to dinner, so unless you really need-" "No, I have your information. Thanks." David took Scully's hand and they went back upstairs to the restaurant which seemed about to close. "Gosh, people need to eat," he said. "Why do they assume we aren't hardened professionals who can eat pizza in the morgue?" "Been there, done that," Scully replied. Having someone hold her hand made her want to giggle. ++++++++++ "First real profiling I ever did was with Frank Black. It was one of his last cases just before he, um, decided to retire." David leaned forward and turned off the jets of the hot tub." A couple of guys in Pennsylvania were robbing all-night restaurants. They would herd all the staff and any customers into the walk-in refrigerator, and then shoot them at close range with shotguns. The very few survivors couldn't tell us anything." Scully lolled back in the water, sipping her wine. "Don't stop," she said. David kneaded her shoulders. "Talking, or massaging?" "Both. Either." "You're turning into a raisin." Scully stretched out her arm and carefully set the wine glass down on the tile floor. "David, tell me something." She turned in the water and faced him, placing her palms flat on his chest. He was warm. "If I can," he replied, holding her waist. "Damn lawyer. Aren't you worried about the OPR?" "Well, not too much. I was kind of expecting it. As you just said, I 'am' a lawyer. I'm on our union committee. I'll file a counter-grievance or something and it'll all get washed out when Wallace goes out with the tide." "You're the union rep for your department? You're such a dweeb." "Yeah, go figure. I was the only one in the office who could read the reg book." He pulled her hand from his chest and showed her the fingers. "Look. All shriveled. Let's get dry and just go to sleep." Wrapped in the complimentary spa robe, Scully came out of the bathroom, yawning. David was standing at the window, looking at the river glinting below through a bent louver in the blinds. In the half light of the bedside lamp, she could see his strong swimmer's shoulders and the long muscles of his legs thrown into sharp relief by the shadows. She let the odd combination of lust and affection pull her to his side, and she put her arms around him. He covered her hands with his own, leaning back into her. "I heard that yawn," he said. "Let's call it a night. Tomorrow, let's not go to the autopsy. You workaholic." "Me? You're the one who turned into Mr. Profiler." The mattress was deep and soft. Scully, despite her yawns, was still awake. She dug her chin into David's shoulder. "What was Frank Black like as a profiler?" "He was. . .well, he was psychic," David said, speaking in the remote voice someone losing consciousness. "'Psychic?'" she asked. But he was asleep. +++++++++ Before dawn the next morning they were awakened by Scully's cell phone. It was Skinner. "Agent Scully, I was called by the Sheriff of St. Francis County. He has requested, and I have signed off on, your temporary assistance in this matter. He would like your profiling assistance at this time to handle a homicide investigation." "Sir, this is a routine homicide. There's no need for Bureau profiling." "Yes, there is. The victim is the Sheriff's daughter. He has a small department, and since you're on the scene, you and Agent Mulder can..." Scully winced. "Sir, Agent Mulder isn't here." She could hear the clanking silence all the way from Washington. "I was told that you were there with a male agent," Skinner said finally. "It's not Mulder. It's David Henderson. He's still on sick leave." "Busted," David said. He took the phone from her hand. "Sir, there's no need for a profile. Someone manually strangled the girl and hoisted her by a rope to make it look like a suicide. It's a boyfriend or ex, who confronted her and killed her and had to think fast. The rope is a nylon type used in boating. The end was cut with something, and it'll match the rest of the coil that's hanging on the wall. Anyone can do this. But I can't, because I'm on medical leave and you specifically wrote on my assignment letter that I can't go back to work until a Bureau-approved doctor clears me." He paused, rolling his eyes at Scully. "Thank you, sir." He clicked off the phone and handed it back to her. "What?" she asked, when no explanation was forthcoming. "He said never mind," David said placidly. Scully grinned back. "God. It must be the legal training." The phone rang, and they looked at each other. "Hello?" She answered. It was Skinner, again. "Agent Scully, please tell Agent Henderson that Mark Wallace committed suicide on Friday." He clicked off. She froze, holding the phone. David put his hand on her forearm. Scully looked at the phone as if more information was on the screen. "He said your boss committed suicide." David sat up. "Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck fuck." He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, and fell back into his pillows. "My career is toast. You don't bring down your boss and succeed. I hope I saved my resume. Good grief." "You said you weren't worried about the review board," Scully said, appalled. "Yeah, I wasn't, but dead men win." He reached over to the bedside table and picked up his watch, looked at the time, and put it down. "Jeeze, too bad I talked us out of the murder investigation. I could use another week away. Shit. I wanted to work up the Alden prosecution." Scully shivered and slid back into his arms. "How bad could it be?" "Ah, come on, be nice to me." He pinched her breast. "I may be headed to Idaho." But for the life of her, she couldn't think of anything optimistic to say. ++++++++++ It wasn't quite dawn yet, when Skinner called Mulder to tell him that a request had come in for Scully and Dave Henderson to assist a sheriff's department. A murder at a bed and breakfast. "I wanted you to know, in case Agent Scully is detained Monday," Skinner said. He was even more curt than usual, but the message overwhelmed any thought Mulder had about the medium. "Scully and Henderson are at a bed and breakfast," he repeated, stupidly. "Together?" Beside him, Amanda jerked. "They were in the same room," Skinner said in a monotone. He hung up. At another time, Mulder would have wondered why Skinner was so torqued about it, or why it was anyone's business--- It's none of my business, Mulder told himself, his eyes stinging. He sat up and swung his legs out of bed. Amanda rolled over, her back to him, and he went into the living room, closing the door behind him. Skinner sounded pissed off; but he always sounded pissed off. He walked into the kitchen, and got a bottle of juice out of the refrigerator. It must have been when she took him to the hospital, he thought. After it was all over with. He put the juice back. Dave didn't know. Dave thought they were just partners. How could anyone understand what Scully---- A sob came from somewhere in the middle of the back. He bent over, holding on to the sink. God, it hurt. It hurt. But why? What was he expecting her to do? Stay in some sterile realm of the spirit? He grabbed a handful of take- out paper napkins and blew his nose. Jesus. He felt worse than when he had told her he loved her, and she just rolled her eyes. Even through the drugs, that had hurt. It still hurt. She was with Dave Henderson. She had gone off with him for the weekend. When had she stopped asking Mulder to have dinner in a 'decent' restaurant? How long was it since she had stopped complaining about the mondo-fifties motels he loved to book them into? She found someone who didn't argue with her. Mulder always thought she had enjoyed arguing. It was part of their thing. And there was Henderson, who was honest and mindful of the rules, who had, for all intents and purposes, deliberately crashed his career for the truth. Who didn't know how to tell a lie and didn't know how good a profiler he was. Mulder sat down on the kitchen floor, his arms wrapped around his belly, trying not to break down. He looked up at a sound. Amanda, wrapped in his ratty afghan, was standing beside him. She knelt quickly, and put her palms on his face. "What's wrong?" she asked. He shook his head, feeling his eyes watering again. "It's freezing in here. Come back to bed." He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. "Come on, bunny. It's too cold." He got up and walked quickly past her and back to the bedroom. The room was lit with the television, some sports show. She was right behind him, and they got under the covers together. He wanted to tell her it was nothing, to leave him alone, but he was afraid if he spoke, his voice would wobble. Amanda silently pressed up against him, rubbing his back between the shoulder blades, right at the knot of feeling. "It's all right," she said in his ear. "It's all right, Mulder." No, its not, he thought. Scully needed someone, but she didn't want me. And I'm such a bastard that if she called me right now. . .No, I wouldn't leave. But I would want to. He turned to face her, his face twisting despite his best efforts, and started to cry. Amanda wrapped arms and legs around him, and he pressed his face into her neck, his breath coming in hard sobs that hurt his throat. He held onto her, gripping her so hard he could feel the pulses in her skin. He became aware that he was saying, "It hurts. It hurts." And that she was saying, as she held him, "I know. I know." The sobs made him shudder, and felt like they were wrenched from his gut. "I hate this. I hate being like this," he said finally. His throat was raw. "You can't hold in everything," Amanda said. "You do too much of that." He was too embarrassed to raise his face from her shoulder. "You should have known me when I profiled all the time. I should have been on Prozac." "You're burned out," Amanda said into his hair. "I bet you never take a vacation." "Not unless you count disciplinary suspensions." He still felt wired, his nerves jangling. "Sun's up," she said. "Let's take a run." He propped himself up on his elbows. "Run?" "Yes. I know you have your stuff in the car. Go get it." +++++++++++++++++ "David, I want you to go back into the hospital and let us run your blood tests." She paused. "Please?" David lay flat in the sheets and laughed in an abandoned way that was new to her. "You're such a hopeless romantic. Can I go after the weekend? It would be a crime to miss the goddamned craft festival." Scully swallowed hard. "Monday would be fine." ++++++++++++ After the fifth mile, Mulder found he could think clearly. Clearer. Whatever. If Henderson was in danger, it could be due to his involvement with Scully. One thing about Dave, he could pick up that kind of a vibe. And Mulder had closed off his feelings about Scully for so long, he couldn't even identify them any longer. The chicken or the egg? And why did he have to be in a hospital bed before Scully cut him any slack? She wanted intimacy, she claimed, but when he tried to open up to her, she shut him down. So he was flippant, which made her more remote, which made him more flippant. Amanda turned back and went home. Mulder continued on, past his own apartment building. It was a beautiful day for once in this bleak February. His pace slowed. Had he forgotten Scully's birthday again? Shit. ++++++++++ Amanda was relieved to hear Mulder's voice on the intercom. She buzzed him in. He looked totally different now, his face weary, but no longer so nakedly hurt. He probably did break down like this in the aftermath of an intense profiling situation. His voice had the ring of truth when he told her that; but she would bet her DNA that it was the news that Scully had gone somewhere with his friend that had so shattered him. But look at him; he was already on his way back to normal. Frohike had warned her that Mulder thought rejection was normal. What kind of parents tell a kid that it's his fault his sister was abducted? Who expected a kid back, back in 1973, to get his dad's gun and defend his home? Frohike had told her more than she had wanted to hear. "Take a shower with me?" he asked. She was still wearing her running clothes. "Sure," she said. "The heat's on now, thank God." He put his hands on her shoulders as they went to the bathroom, so she could feel how cold they were. "I'm frostbitten." "Yes, you're pitiful." She pulled off her sweatshirt and sports bra, and turned to see him staring. "Did I do that?" he asked, his voice shaking. He touched her arm, and she looked in the mirror to see red finger marks on her arms.She pulled a face. "You should have seen my ass after that spanking." She reached around the shower curtain and turned on the hot water. "There's a difference." His voice was weary, and he skinned off his clothes and following her into the shower. Amanda swiped her wet hair back. "Don't make everything a guilt trip." She stepped back so he could stand under the water. He looked achingly vulnerable when wet. He opened his eyes and, despite himself, smiled. "What are you looking at?" he asked. "You should have thought of that before you sent me out in the cold to run laps. I'm an old man." "Oh, sorry." She rinsed her hair, managing to slide her breasts against his arm. "Almost done." "I'm not kidding. My knees won't take it." "And I'm just getting clean before the hot water goes." "My legs hurt." "Did I ask you to do anything?" she said. She stepped out into the bathroom, wrapping her hair up in a towel. "You're too old and tired. I understand. " She didn't even hear the curtain rings; he left the shower running, and grabbed her as she walked beside the bed. He twisted, and pulled her over on top of him on the sheets. "Hey, you're wet," she objected. "So are you." He gently pulled her hips into position, and she was opening up to him, and he was inside her, and the pleasure almost hurt. She felt like she had touched an electrical circuit, and he kept stroking her clit with one finger. "That's it, baby," he said, and his voice was so tender she could pretend he loved her as she came. ++++++++++ "Do you mind if we stop by the hospital to see Dave?" Mulder asked Amanda that Monday, after he picked her up for dinner. "No," she said. "This is the guy you worked with on the Alden case, right?" Like she didn't remember everything he said to her. "Yeah. He's seeing Scully. In fact, they almost got stuck helping some small town sheriff's office investigate a murder last weekend." He scowled over the steering wheel. "I want to find out what happened to him. Being associated with the X-Files division hasn't been good for his health." David Henderson was in a semi-private room, with, thankfully, no one in the other bed. He was propped up, reading "Surfing" magazine."Cowabunga," Mulder said, closing the door behind Amanda. The patient lowered the magazine. "You never disappoint me, Mulder," he said. He saw Amanda, and raised his eyebrows in inquiry. "Amanda, this is Dave. He's from California." "Oh, you're Amanda?" Henderson said, and suddenly smiled. Amanda almost took a step backwards. Naturally, Mulder wouldn't have noticed, but damn! 'Lucky, lucky, Scully,' she thought. "I was Mulder's chauffeur and dropped him off at your place a couple of times." Dave explained. Mulder shook his hand, clasping it for a second. "What the hell is going on here, Dave? I can't get anything out of Scully. She's having them run tests on you?" Henderson shook his head. "What I had was a viral infection from catching a cold in February. She and Skinner are obsessed that it's something weird. They're nuts. It was just a simple virus." Mulder straightened up. "What are your symptoms?" Amanda thought she could see him turning into Agent Mulder, FBI, right before her eyes. "A bad cold," Henderson said, his voice hardening in turn. "Don't you start." Oh, two of them. Great. Testosterone filled the air. "Did Scully tell you that Skinner nearly died from a virus? That he was clinically dead at one point? That I saw another man die from a virus? That we've seen a lot of people die from simple viruses?" "Yeah, both of them. But I don't have anything like that. AND my lungs are almost clear." "Wasn't your breathing affected before?" Mulder pursued, sitting down beside the bed. "Didn't Scully say that it wasn't an allergic reaction?" "Show me your medical degree, Mulder. Skinner is just looking for some reason for me to leave the Bureau. He thinks...." he looked at Amanda, then back at Mulder. Mulder held up a hand in surrender. "I'll talk to Skinner," he said. "That's it? No candy, no fruit, no flowers, no magazines? Jeeze, Mulder, thanks a lot. At least look in that drawer and throw me some socks. My feet are cold, and I can't move around until this IV is empty. Scully has every weirdo from the metro area coming in and taking blood samples." "She's kinky, what can I say?" Mulder stood up, grinning, and opened the tiny wardrobe. "Here," he said, tossing Dave a rolled up pair of socks. "I wanted to stop and get you a pizza, but Amanda wouldn't let me." "What?" She pretended indignation. When Mulder had turned his back, she had seen Dave bend a look of concentration on him, only to have it dissolve into blandness when Mulder faced him. So Dave knew that Mulder---- The door opened, and Scully came in; Amanda recognized her from Frohike's secret screen saver. She looked startled to see the others. "Mulder?" she asked. Mulder went to the door and stopped her from entering. "Scully, le me talk to you for a second." Scully backed out through the door, Mulder following, tossing "Excuse us" over his shoulder. Amanda and David looked at each other. He had the same look as a moment before. "Can they be any more paranoid?" he asked her. "Mulder----" he exhaled. "Well, you know Mulder." "Not really," she said. She sat down in the chair Mulder had just vacated. "I'm just his fuck puppet at the moment, but I'm hoping for a more meaningful title." "Gee, why?" he asked, squeezing the balled-up socks with one hand. "It's succinct and to the point," He stared at the closed door. "Wonder what's happening," he said, half under his breath. "What about you?" Amanda asked, emboldened. "How long have you been with Scully?" He looked down at the socks in his hand. "Not long. I'm guess I'm just a puppet, myself." He unrolled the socks, face losing the blandness and seeming more ill than when she had first seen it. "Upgraded to lab-rat status." Mulder and Scully came back into the room, both with grim expressions. "We've got to go, we've got reservations," Mulder said from the doorway. "I'll come back and see you later, Dave." "Nice to meet you, Amanda," Dave said to her, but he was looking at Scully. Amanda was amused to see Scully flush, as if Dave had reprimanded her in some way. "I'm sorry, we weren't introduced," Scully said, her expression stiff. "I'm Dana Scully, Mulder's partner." "Yes, Agent Scully. I've heard about you from Frohike." "Oh, my God," Scully said, spontaneously. "Don't tell me." Amanda squeezed Dave's forearm, and stood up. He held up his hand, which was now inside one of the socks. "Good bye," he made the sock squeak. Amanda burst out laughing, mainly at the confusion on Mulder and Scully's faces. ++++++++++ "I didn't mean to be rude," Scully told David, sitting on the bed and taking his hand. "I was embarrassed. I sort of walked in on them once. And what's with the sock puppet?" "You mean, walked in on them as in they didn't see you but you saw----" he snorted. "I saw more of them than I wanted to," Scully said. "I wonder what she meant about Frohike? I'll kick his ass. I can't even imagine what he told her." "Never mind that. When are you and your little gang letting me out?" "There's an anomaly in some of the results," she said evasively. "Dana," he said. She looked up. "Are you talking about a nanotechnology, or are you talking about the black oil?" His blue eyes were dark. Scully took a deep breath. "What do you know about either one?" "Don't look so surprised. You're not the only one who can pull personnel files. Not that I had to. The X-Files aren't top secret, you know. I think you should start telling me what you're worried about." "I don't know. It's not what Skinner had. It's not the virus that Dr. Sacks had." "Are my test results in normal limits?" he asked. She nodded, reluctantly. "But there's just a couple of others. And your temperature---you're consistently higher for no reason." "But if there's nothing wrong, get your pals to clear me and let me out." "How did you know I pulled your file?" "I have a friend in personnel. She called me, and told me that you came down and pulled it, about twenty minutes after Mulder did. So she gave me copies of your files. Her own personal copies, since you two are stars of the personnel board." He pulled his hand away from hers. "Tell me about my results." "They're in the normal range." She couldn't look at him. "But I'm looking for poison." "Poison?" he repeated. "Were you planning on telling me? Or just telling A.D. Skinner?" She narrowed her eyes. "Ah. Now I know how you heard about nanites. He's been very busy." "He was here today, dropping little terse hints that not only is my job in the toilet, but that I'm in danger. What's going on with him? What does he have against me?" He grimaced. "I couldn't tell if he has a thing for you, or for Mulder, but something's not right." "What did Skinner suggest?" Scully asked before she processed the rest of his statement. "Wait. Did act like he had a personal interest in me?" She stood up, and walked to the window and back. "God. You may be right. He was completely on your side until he called last weekend. He wouldn't have just come to visit someone that doesn't work for him." "He suggested that I could find ample opportunity as a profiler for the ATF," David said. "It sounded like one of those offers you don't refuse." He caught her sleeve. "And why would Skinner have told Mulder? Mulder's not your boss." She couldn't think of anything to say. Mulder knew. But he had a girlfriend. Why did she feel as though she had betrayed Mulder? "What should I do, Dana?" She shook her head, still trying to think. He blinked at her for a moment, then fingered the adhesive holding in the IV line. "Never mind. Just get me out of here." Scully slid off the bed. "Don't pull on that. It may be tomorrow. Besides, I got the insurance coverage cleared, myself." "Whatever," he said, his head still bent. "I'll see you later." Scully went to the door, and looked back, but he was pulling on his sweat socks. She had the feeling she had missed some cue, but she didn't know what. She went home and did all the things she usually did, but she was restless. She drank a cup of tea, Scully got up from the sofa and went into the kitchen to put her cup in the dishwasher. It was no use, she thought. She snapped off the kitchen light, and went to the closet for her coat. +++++++++ It was half-past eleven, and the third shift had just come on on David's floor. No one stopped her; no one did more than glance her way as she went down the corridor. Of course, she had been there often enough. She saw an aide come out of his room; third shift check. She put her palm on the half-opened door, and slid through, turning to hold the handle as she shut it. But the quiet snick of the latch was enough to make David open his eyes. He turned his head to see who had come in. His eyebrows drew together. "I 'am' sick," he said starkly, his face lit only by the wash of light from the muted television. He sat up, pushing the bed table away. She crossed the room to him, and pressed the dim setting of the wall light. "No, no, you're not. Nothing's changed." She unlatched the bedrail and lowered it. He followed her movements. "Then I'm in danger?" he asked warily. Scully perched on the side of the bed, facing him. "Not that I know of." She started to pick up his wrist to feel his pulse, but changed her mind, and pressed her fingers onto his palm. His hand closed over hers, strong and irrationally reassuring. "Have you come to discharge me?" he asked, the beginnings of a smile starting to show. "No. I want those last test results to see why you have a fever." He shifted to the other side of the bed, giving her more room, and she responded to the mute invitation by sliding further onto the mattress. "Well, did you bring me a cheeseburger?" he asked. She shook her head, smiling unwillingly. "I just didn't want to leave you up here by yourself." She felt almost embarrassed. His thumb rubbed the back of her hand. "Well, I am kind of busy here. There's a Northern Exposure marathon on right now, and I can't remember why Joel ended up in Alaska." "You looked very involved in it. I can always go," Scully said, kicking off her loafers. David released her hand, and she reached up to turn off the light, then changed position to sit beside him on the bed. He draped his arm around her, and she settled into his shoulder with a sigh. She couldn't believe she was doing this, but she wasn't really his treating physician. It felt right. It felt nice to just be there. As if reading her thoughts, David said, "Relax. The word at the nurses' station is that I'm your new boyfriend. One of the aides told me. She came in and watched 'Secrets of the FBI' with me. I must say, it was very enlightening. Put your feet under the blanket if you're cold." "You don't feel feverish any more," Scully said. She turned her face into his neck. She missed the usual David smell, that hint of chlorine from the pool and whatever swimmer's shampoo he used. "I like how you check my temperature," he murmured into her hair. His breathing was smoothing out. They were both going to sleep. She didn't resist. Just before she went to sleep, she heard herself ask in a small voice, "David, do you love me?" and heard him reply, matter-of-factly, "Of course I do." ++++++++++ "We should start a support group," Dave told Amanda. She had brought a report from the lab to the hospital as an excuse to visit. He wasn't surprised to see her. His mysterious fever was gone, and he was about to be discharged. "What, the 'I-Fucked-X?'" she replied flippantly. He stopped in the middle of packing up his bag. "No," he said, his blue eyes very somber. "I was thinking more on the lines of 'The X-Files Broke My Heart.'" He looked around, saw his Walkman, and jammed it on top. "Don't pretend you're tougher than you are. I'm getting out while I'm ahead." "I don't understand. If you love Scully, why leave?" "I'm transferring. When an Assistant Director tells you that you should leave, it's not healthy to stay." "What about Scully?" She sat down on the other bed. "Yeah, well, I'll have to get over her, won't I? But it's not like I ever fooled myself. Especially since she kept calling me Mulder." He looked up from zipping his bag. "You can say everything you like about it being better to be with her and hear his name than him being with her and calling your name. But it's not." "Do you think either you or Mulder can stop from quoting from movies?" "Not going to happen. We're vid kids." He opened the dresser to check the drawer. "You're in love with Mulder, but you can't tell me he was happy about finding out Scully was seeing me." "He wasn't. He got a call from Skinner one morning. He--- " David interrupted her. "Son of a bitch! I knew that relationship wasn't healthy. He had no reason to say anything to Mulder." He straightened up. "Well, it doesn't matter. He offered to get me transferred to California, and I'm going. It's not worth it." "But you're in love with Scully." "But she doesn't love me, and she never will." He sat down on the other bed, looking winded. "So what the hell. Might as well get it over with. You should get the hell out of Dodge, yourself. If you stick around, you'll hurt more by the end. There's the doctor." The door, which had been ajar, opened, and Mulder walked in. Mulder came in, staring at Amanda. He looked from her, to Dave, and back again. "I had to bring some results by," she said. She knew he had heard at least part of the conversation----she knew that non-expression----but she wondered how much. Dave didn't say anything at all. He just waited. Amanda, with a presence of mind that later surprised her, swung her feet to the other side of the bed, slid down, and went out the door behind Mulder. She was down the stairwell before she asked herself why she was going. Answer: she couldn't deal with two upset males. She really didn't want to know any more about Mulder's feelings for Scully. She had come to see Dave for confirmation of her worst fear, and he had put into words what she already knew what she should do. She would open that letter from Caltech. Giving up Mulder was going to be like giving up crack. ++++++++++ "Skinner got you a transfer?" Mulder asked. "I'm definitely off the Alden murders. He made me an offer I couldn't refuse." "I've had offers I didn't think I could refuse." Henderson exhaled impatiently. "Well, that's the problem, isn't it? I'm not you." "You say that like it's a bad thing," Mulder said, trying for lightness and failing. Henderson lifted both palms, and let them fall. "She'll never be satisfied with less." Mulder walked to the window, and looked out. "Why are you so sure?" "You evidently missed the high points of the conversation just now. Believe me, I'm sure." Down below, Mulder saw a blonde woman getting into a minivan parked beside the service entrance. "I don't think she loves me, either, you know." He drew an s-curve in the condensation on the window. "You two need to work through this crap," Henderson said from his seat on the bed. "And you're being deliberately obtuse. Both of you are. This isn't a rerun of 'Friends.' Everybody knows about everybody. Except Skinner. I don't know if he's jealous of Scully, or doesn't want you to have someone else watching your back." "Isn't it kind of arrogant to decide this for her? Have you thought about asking her?" Mulder wiped the window with the edge of his hand. "I'm deciding this for me," Henderson replied. "Again, you shouldn't leave her out." "What do you want? For me to spill my guts for you to analyze? It's over. This conversation is over. It's all over." Henderson picked up his bag and walked out, for once getting the last word. ++++++++++ Scully didn't hear from Dave for a week. When she finally called his cell phone, she received a "disconnected" message. She sat and looked at the phone for a moment before going to the basement to find Mulder. "Mulder, have you heard from Dave Henderson lately? He checked out of the hospital before they could re-do the blood screen." Mulder didn't look up from his laptop. "He said something about taking a transfer." "He transferred to the ATF? Already?" "I don't know about the ATF, but he wanted to go back to California. You know these surfer dudes." Mulder picked up a file. "Did you ever get the results back from the police department out there, on that claw?" "That wasn't a claw," she said automatically. At lunch, she drove over to Arlington to David's apartment building. He had said once it was a sublet, but surely he couldn't leave in a week. He couldn't pack and leave in that short a time. But no one answered when she rang the doorbell. He had gone. ++++++++++ End 06/06 Notes: All this began before the horrors of Sept. 11, 2001. It also began before several major changes in my real life. Rewriting this with the enthusiastic encouragement of Amanda helped me more than I can ever express. (So I gave her lots of sex scenes!) Also thanks to Linda, and all of you who wrote and asked me if I was going to finish this. I can only hope that all of us can return to the little pleasures of reading and writing, and thereby find the little joys that help alleviate the day to day fears.