TITLE:  Savant

AUTHOR:  Callrachel (callrachel2000@yahoo.com)

KEYWORDS:  V, A

SUMMARY:  Gifts.

RATING:  NC-17 for violent imagery

ARCHIVING:  Delighted; just let me know.

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

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


SAVANT

by Callrachel


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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