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Self Series by Daydreamer

From: [email protected]
Date: 19 Aug 2002 16:16:42 -0700 Subject: xfc: NEW Self Lost by Daydreamer 01/05 Source: atxc

Title: Self Lost 01/05
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: [email protected]
Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery
Category: SAR – character exploration
Spoilers: Through season six – Biogenesis
Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; MSR
Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from.

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer’s Den http://www.geocities.com/daydreamersden/

Summary: Mulder spirals down into the mind of a serial killer, losing himself in the process.

Part of the Self Serial. Series in order is:

Self Lost
Self Unknown
Self Revealed
Self Torment
Self Complete

–o0o–

Self Lost

–o0o–

Part One

“Avenging angels?” Mulder asked, as his eyes scanned the folder that lay open in his lap. “The X-Files investigates angels now?” He shut the manila folder with thinly veiled contempt and looked up at Skinner. “I thought we were finally being taken seriously, but I can see I was mistaken.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Scully said dryly, as she extended a hand toward her partner. “May I?”

“First time for what?” Mulder asked, as he passed the file over. “Angels? Or the X-Files not being taken seriously?”

“Both,” she said shortly, as she studied the folder.

“I understand your — reticence — regarding this case, Agent Mulder,” Skinner said quietly. “But let me assure you, it is serious. There have been three deaths now; the victims were badly beaten, repeatedly stabbed, and had their eyes burned out.” He paused a moment, letting the gruesome details hang in the air. “And you will note,” he continued, “it was the witnesses who mentioned angels, not the local LEOs. The local law enforcement officials are approaching this from a decidedly earthly angle, but have requested Bureau assistance.”

“Well,” Mulder said, casting a sly glance at Scully, “religious fanaticism is really not my area of expertise, Sir. Perhaps Agent Scully should field this one by herself.”

Scully looked up from her perusal of the case papers, arched one eyebrow dramatically, and said, “Religious fanaticism? What’s that supposed to mean, Agent ‘Elvis lives?’”

“Hey!” Mulder protested. “Didn’t you see ‘Men in Black?’” He paused, making sure he had her attention, then deadpanned in a fair Tommy Lee Jones voice, “Elvis isn’t dead — he just went home.” He grinned over at her. “That movie validated my life’s work,” he added melodramatically.

There was another pause and Skinner took the time to study them both. The last year had been a tense one for them both, and he had, at times, worried about their partnership, their rapport. He’d been scarce for much of the time; their transfer to Kersh making it hard to keep an eye on his two renegades. And, there’d been that messy business with Diana Fowley, something that still didn’t seem completely resolved. But the lightheartedness of their interaction was a positive sign as far as he was concerned, and he was pleased.

Of course, it wasn’t his nature to let them know that, so he cleared his throat and scowled.

Mulder turned back to face Skinner. He wiggled his fingers in the air and mimicked, “They’re heeeeere …” The improvised falsetto impression lingered for a moment, then he laughed, an actually happy sound, earning a rare smile from Scully and even the typically stone-faced Skinner couldn’t completely suppress the small quirk that lifted one corner of his mouth.

Pleased with himself, Mulder turned serious and said, “Honestly, Sir, I don’t think there’s an X-File in this one. I think this is more your garden-variety serial killer, and if Bureau involvement is really called for, VCS should be the one to go. I’m not really thrilled with having to go to New York.”

Scully still had a slightly amused look on her face as she returned to the folder she held.

Truthfully, Skinner agreed with Mulder, but this one had been taken out of his hands. He scowled again, this time in frustration and distrust at the directive that had been handed him, then said, “That’s enough.” He waited until both of them were looking at him, then said, “This came down from upstairs with a great big X on the front. That means it belongs to both of you.” He stopped fiddling with the pen in his hands, clicked the top, and scrawled his name across a piece of paper before thrusting it out toward them. “I’ll expect both of you to be on the first plane out.” Conversation concluded, he dropped his head and began to sort the many layers of paper that seemed to cover his desk in an unending snowfall of documents.

“Dismissed,” he said shortly, never lifting his head to watch as his two agents rose and departed in silence. When the door closed behind them, he looked up, eyes roving the seemingly empty room, and his shoulders drooped. A small sigh escaped him as he pondered why someone was so intent on pushing Mulder back into VCS work. Skinner knew the man was a genius at crawling into a killer’s mind and ferreting out his deepest secrets, but he also knew it took a terrible toll on him. He’d fought this assignment as hard and as far as he could, but in the end, he’d been overruled, and there had even been a threat to transfer the X-Files from his department. He’d given in, but was still extremely uneasy. Other than monitoring the case closely, there wasn’t much else he could do. He hated having his hands tied like this.

*****

“Yes, ma’am, I understand,” Scully said gently, “there was a light …”

“A bright, white light,” the elderly woman interjected quickly, and Scully glanced up at Mulder, standing by a window behind the old woman and rolling his eyes.

“Yes, ma’am, a bright, white light — but did you actually see what happened to Mr. Amaldi?”

The woman shook her head. “The angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were much afeared,” she intoned, then shrugged. “The light was too bright. I couldn’t feel anything. I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t even move, I was so overtaken by the Presence.” Her face hardened as she looked at Scully. “Mr. Amaldi was an evil, evil man. I’m glad that he’s gone. He was a blot on all humanity. It’s only just that God should send his angel to strike him down.”

“So you couldn’t see, and you couldn’t move.” This was old information, already covered in the reports, as the light had been. But there was no point in redoing the interviews if you weren’t willing to go back over the old information. You never knew when something new might be knocked loose.

“Did you hear anything?” Scully was doing her best to persevere in the hopes that just that would happen; some useable scrap of information that had been missed in the prior interviews would suddenly appear.

Mulder was doing his best to wear a path in the carpet behind the sofa.

“There was a loud hum, high-pitched, and it got louder and higher as the light grew.” The woman winced at the memory and lifted her hands to her head. “It hurt my ears.”

“Anything else? Anything at all?” They already knew about the hum.

The woman frowned, thinking. “I thought I felt something sting me,” she said uncertainly. “I didn’t really mention it because I just assumed it was a fly or a mosquito.”

Bingo!

Scully cast a pleased look up at Mulder, and saw that he was nodding, suddenly interested. This was new information.

“Did anyone ask you for a blood sample?” she asked.

The woman shook her head mutely, eyes widening.

Scully cut her eyes to Mulder again, then said, “I’d like to arrange to have one taken, if you would agree.”

“Why?” The woman was sounding petulant now. “What are you looking for?”

“We’re not sure,” Scully responded. “But you said there was a noise, and a light, and you couldn’t move. It may all be connected with the sting you felt.” She smiled then, trying to ease the woman’s growing discomfort. “It probably was a bite of some kind, but we’d just like to be sure.”

With obvious trepidation, the woman slowly nodded, and Scully made the arrangements.

*****

“It’s a synthetic form of a curare derivative.” She glanced around the motel room to see Mulder stop by the large window. “Quick-acting, and apparently doesn’t last too long. There are a number of other agents in there as well, and some new combinations that must have accounted for the fact that no one was paralyzed to the point that they stopped breathing. A neat trick.” Scully looked up from the report to find Mulder’s eyes on her, that look of intense concentration she had come to know firmly in their depths. If he hadn’t wanted the case, if it hadn’t interested him at first, this had caught his attention. As she watched, she fancied she could almost see the gears turning as he worked to process the multiple discrete elements in the case into a gestalt.

“So he drugged them? Blinded them with the light, distracted them with the noise, then shot them, or pricked them, or dosed them somehow.”

“It had to be a prick. Curare has no reaction when ingested, only when it’s injected.”

“So, he kills the one he wants, fades the noise and light as he makes his escape, and the witnesses revive on their own, thinking they’ve just seen an avenging angel.”

Scully tilted her head. Despite her intention to get Mulder to focus on the case, she wasn’t sure she liked the result. His eyes were rapidly glazing, acquiring a look of obsession. His breathing was growing fast and erratic, and she could see beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. She was willing to bet, if she touched him, it would be a cold sweat.

“Possibly,” she said, in as neutral a tone as she could manage.

“Possibly? Scully, you did the work; you figured it out. Of course that was what happened. Once you had a clue as to what to screen for, it all fell into place.” He shook his head, and she was pleased to see some of the fevered intensity drop away.

“There’s still a lot of work to be done,” she reminded him. “Knowing what happened, even having a working hypothesis, doesn’t necessarily help unless we have a suspect.”

“Helps us find a suspect. Gives us a place to start.” Mulder was pacing now, tension building again as his steps increased in speed. “Someone who had access to the drugs, or the raw materials. Someone who knew how to make this stuff — this quick freeze potion.”

He paused in mid-step, staring directly at her. She waited for him to speak, then began to fidget slightly under the intensity of his gaze. She was about to speak to him, when she realized he wasn’t staring at her — he was staring through her. He didn’t even see her. He’d drifted off to someplace where she couldn’t follow.

She called his name, not really surprised when he didn’t answer, then called him again, a bit louder. Still no response. A few short steps and she was standing in front of him. “Mulder?” Gently, so as not to startle him, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm. Still no reaction. She’d seen this before. She knew this. This was Mulder — lost in a killer’s mind. Why the hell hadn’t she thought about this before she was so quick to float this little mystery before him? This was why he’d given up his WunderKind status and fought so hard for the X-Files. Besides giving him the opportunity to pursue his sister’s disappearance, it also saved him from the madness that profiling created. Saved him from the sewers of a killer’s thoughts. Saved him from the darkness that lurked in his own soul.

“Mulder,” she called again, rubbing the arm she still touched. “Hey, partner, come on back. I need you to talk to me.” Her hand roved from arm to shoulder and over to touch his face. A firm touch, but gentle, a connection to reality if he would just acknowledge it. “Mulder,” she said again, still stroking his cheek, hand straying up to brush his hair back. “Talk to me, Mulder.”

He was cold beneath her touch, his skin seeming to grow more chilled with each passing second. Hesitant though she was to break the connection, she dropped her hand and stepped quickly to his bed, yanking back the spread and pulling the blanket off. She wrapped it around him, then took a deep breath, thinking. How many times had she touched this man in all the years they’d worked together? How many times had she offered her hand, that physical human connection that was so real and yet, so rare? She was closer to Mulder than she was to anyone else on the planet, and yet, they rarely touched. And when they did, it was not the friendly touch of a hand on an arm or a hug in greeting or good-bye. And certainly not the deeper, more meaning-filled touches of a man and woman. Their touching was filled with crisis and, oft-times, panic.

A sad thought, but Diana Fowley had touched him more in the last year than she had in six.

She looked at him, standing there, lost in some far-off place of madness and confusion, then she wrapped her arms around him. She was inches below his face, but stood on tip-toe and lifted her head so she could speak directly into his ear.

“C’mon, Mulder, we gotta make a report and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna write it all by myself this time.” She held him tightly and rubbed his back. She continued to speak to him, keeping her words light and non-threatening. She counted his breaths and counted his heartbeats. And she waited. Finally, when she was almost ready to give in and call for help, he stirred.

She released him immediately and stepped back, watching as he took a deep breath, then slowly focused on her. “Scully,” he said hoarsely, then he glanced around the room, noting the unmade bed, and the blanket resting on his shoulders. He flushed and dropped his head, stepping back to sit on the bed.

“Figure anything out?” she asked quietly, watching as he flushed again.

“There’s something about their eyes. That’s what attracts him.”

She pursed her lips as she looked at him. She didn’t doubt him, but no one else would believe just on his say so. “And you know this, how?”

He shrugged, drawing the blanket more tightly around himself. “It fits. In a way, the angel theory is correct. He sees himself as an avenger, out to right wrongs and remove those who would harm others.” He shivered suddenly, a full-body quiver that shook the bed, and she hurried to sit beside him and wrap an arm around him, lend him some warmth. He seemed startled at her proximity, then relaxed into her embrace, and she could feel the tension drain from him.

She studied him again. His face was wet, cold sweat streaked his forehead and cheeks, and his hair was damp. Beneath the blanket, his shirt clung moistly to his back. She sat quietly for a few moments longer, then rose and pulled him up behind her. She tugged him toward the bathroom, saying, “Take a hot shower, Mulder. You’ll feel better. I’m gonna order some dinner for us.”

He stared at her for a long time, and this time, when she began to fidget, it was because he was staring at her. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time, and there was something in his eyes when he looked at her, something she had only caught glimpses of before. Something that was real and intense, and filled with the passion Mulder brought to everything he believed in. He stared at her and she felt he was looking into her heart, her soul. Then he smiled, the moment broke, and he ducked into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

*****

The water pounded down on him, hot and steamy, and he could feel the cords in his neck and back begin to loosen. He stood directly within the pulsing stream, letting the cleansing flow wash over him. It didn’t erase the images he had envisioned in his mind, but it did help to still the shivers and warm his too-cool flesh. It was his curse — this ability to imagine. It enabled him to extract specifics from the vast amounts of information he could store in his memory, but it also gave him nightmares. All too frequently, the visions he conjured up were far worse than what the killers did. It made him doubt his own sanity when he realized his creations far outstripped a madman’s when it came to sociopathic behaviors.

Through the stream of the water, he could vaguely hear his phone ring twice, and then stop, which told him Scully had waited for him in his room. He smiled then, pleased. She’d seemed closer to him, more open, than she had in a long time. His vocalized declaration of love after his debacle in the Devil’s Triangle seemed to have pushed her away. The fact that there’d been no playful intimacy between them for so long, along with the lack of the light banter he was accustomed to, made him wonder why she continued to put up with him. Especially when Diana kept popping up, and he kept reacting to her.

But tonight, for whatever reason, she seemed to be fully with him, knowing instinctively what he needed and willing to provide it. It warmed his heart as the water warmed his body. He was smiling as he ducked his head under the water and began to bathe.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and then Scully’s head popped in. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s been a development. We need to roll.” The door shut quickly.

Mulder cut the water, wrapped in a towel and emerged.

“What happened?” Mulder was pulling clothes from his travel bag, throwing them on the bed.

Scully had her coat on and was gathering papers into her briefcase. “There was another one. But this time, something seemed to go wrong. All the other victims were men whom the witnesses described as ‘bad’ or ‘evil.’ Apparently no one was disposed to try to help them.”

“Turn your back, Scully,” Mulder said as the towel dropped.

She paused as she pulled the belt of the trench coat around, fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle, then obediently turned. “This time, our killer must have read things wrong. He went after a man who was having a loud and very ugly fight with his wife. But when the light came on, she moved — I’m still not clear on what happened, but the husband is dead, and the killer managed to paralyze himself. It’s a freaking mess.” She sighed, then added, “I’m going to the morgue; gonna look at the body. You’re going to Bellevue. They have the guy up on the psych ward.”

“Psych ward? You trying to tell me something?” Mulder was almost dressed now, sitting on the bed to put on socks and shoes.

She snorted. “NYPD is on site, but the guy’s not talking. Everything is sorta on hold until you get there.” She turned back around, smiling. “Apparently, your reputation for getting through to the bad guys has preceded you and they’re gonna let you talk to him first.”

“He’s slippery, Scully. He’s not what he seems. He started with a mission, but I think he’s losing it.”

“Then you be very careful,” she responded, startling him again when she reached out and touched his arm before she turned to leave.

–o0o–

Part 2 – Self Lost

“Agent Mulder?” The man was in his fifties, slightly overweight, but with a full head of iron gray hair. His hand was extended, and Mulder was pleased to see there didn’t appear to be the all too frequent resentment that accompanied Bureau involvement in local cases. Mulder held out his own hand.

“I’m Frank Nowak. I gotta tell you, we’re all pretty impressed with your call on the drug screen. Knowing what caused this guy to freeze up, and how long we could expect it to last, was a real help when we caught him. We appreciate your input.”

Mulder smiled and said, “Not mine. My partner’s. She’s the one that caught it.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” The man seemed slightly nonplused by Mulder’s easy self-deprecation. “Forensic pathologist? She went over to look at the victim, right?”

“Yeah. I dropped her there, then came on here. I think I’m illegally parked.”

The man waved the comment away. “Everyone’s illegally parked in New York. Don’t worry about it. But now,” he turned and led the way through a series of security doors, “let’s go talk to this guy. I understand you’re supposed to be pretty good at this kind of thing.”

Mulder listened, waiting for the taunt, the snide comment, the general disbelief that usually accompanied remarks on his skill as a profiler. But there was nothing in Nowak’s tone except admiration, and a clear need for and willingness to accept help. “I’ve had some experience with it, yes,” he said cautiously, “but each case, each perpetrator is different.”

Nowak grunted. “This guy is certainly different, that’s for sure.”

*****

“Surely you can understand that they had to die?”

Mulder shook his head. “The last man you killed was happily married, never been in trouble with the law, held the same job for over twenty years.” He studied the man sitting across from him, took in the quick look of surprise that crossed his face, before the obstinate pout of one who has been wronged slid smoothly back in place. “Tom Jackson was just having a disagreement with his wife.”

“NO!” the man thundered, hand coming down to slam against the table.

There was a rustling behind Mulder, and he could hear Nowak and his partner, John Huddy, moving forward, but he waved them back.

“Yes,” he said evenly. “He wasn’t a bad man; he never did anything wrong. He just didn’t like his daughter’s boyfriend, and he didn’t like it that his wife didn’t agree with how he wanted to handle it.”

“It was dark,” the man said. “It was all dark. I could look into his eyes and see the dark.”

“You were wrong,” Mulder said simply.

“It was dark and deep, far down below, and I was the only one who knew the way.”

Mulder turned and looked at the men behind him and mouthed, “Enough?”

Nowak shook his head and said, “Will he say it?”

Mulder shrugged. The guy was obviously nuts. Turned out the psych ward at Bellevue was extremely appropriate. Who could tell if he would come right out and confess? And if he did, would it be admissible, given his state of mind? But, he was here, and Nowak had been all right so far, so, if he wanted him to try for a confession, he’d try.

“You were the only one who knew the way to what?” Mulder stopped, as if a new thought had just occurred to him, and asked, “And what am I supposed to call you, anyway?”

“Priest,” the man said absently, and Mulder started to attribute it to his mania, but then he added, “Fenton Priest.”

Swallowing his surprise, Mulder said, “All right, Fenton, what did you know the way to?”

“To the low places, the dark places, the way out of the maze.”

“And what did knowing the way out have to do with Garcia and Amaldi and the others?”

“Their eyes were dead. They were like all the others in the low places. Dead inside. It was like a cancer and it had to be taken out — burned away.”

He rose and began to pace, and once again, Mulder waved Nowak back.

“Dead, dead, dead,” the man chanted. “But I know the way. They can’t catch me, all those dead eyes. I can be in the dark, and I can be in the lowest place, and I can find my way back.” He paused his pacing then walked slowly and deliberately to a wall, and began pounding his head against it.

Mulder was on his feet, moving with Nowak and Huddy, and they grabbed him and forced him back into the chair. But the damage was done. There was a lump developing over one eye, and a gash had opened, blood dripping slowly down Priest’s face.

“Aw, fuck!” Nowak muttered. “Now we gotta get a nurse in here.”

“Not a good idea,” Mulder said. “I don’t like this.”

“Sorry, my man,” the older detective responded. “It’s not an option. NYPD has taken too many hits for not providing proper care or following proper procedure. The suspect is injured — he gets medical attention.”

Priest sat, head bowed and unmoving, and mumbled, “Down in the dark, through the maze, save them from themselves. Down, down, down …”

Huddy had moved to the door, and was calling for a nurse. Nowak still stood by the prisoner.

“This was too deliberate,” Mulder said, “too orchestrated. Something’s not right. Was he searched?”

Nowak snorted in disgust. “Thoroughly, I assure you.”

Priest’s head was still down, and he watched as if fascinated as drops of blood dripped from his brow to the table.

“I don’t like the idea of letting someone else in here. I – I feel like we’re losing control. He’s set something up.”

“He’s gotta be treated. I’m not gonna get hung out to dry for not taking care of my prisoner.” Nowak was adamant, and Mulder nodded, backing away to stand by the wall and try and put things together in his head.

He was soon lost in thought, lost in that place of madness and mayhem where he did his best work. His hands shook, and he shivered in the cold, but he never moved as the young nurse came in, bandages in hand and approached Priest.

He didn’t see the glare of disgust she turned on the three men, didn’t see her hand gently reach out to lift the suspect’s head. He didn’t hear her soft exclamation of surprise, or Nowak’s reiterated comment, “He did it to himself.”

Mulder was processing. He was putting things together, synthesizing what he knew. He was deep in his own maze, following the discarded threads of sanity that led deeper and deeper, lower and lower … Deeper! Lower! It clicked in his head and he knew what Priest had been talking about.

He looked up suddenly, just in time to see Priest move. The man’s hand snaked out just as the nurse reached into a pocket to remove scissors to cut the tape on the bandage she had placed over his wound. He yanked the scissors from her hands, rose and swiveled, pulling her around to stand before him, the sharp points of the scissors pressed tight against her throat.

He shimmied backwards, the woman dragging against him, and nodded for Huddy to move from the door. The younger man looked at Nowak, who nodded. Priest backed against the door and kicked. It opened almost at once. He backed swiftly down the hall, and into a small control room. He depressed buttons, turned a knob, and then was moving again, the nurse still clutched to his chest. With amazing speed, he was through the doors, threatening to kill her if anyone moved closer to him.

The alarm klaxons rang, a sharp whistle from the intercom filled the air, and through the window, vaguely, he could hear sirens blare as they worked their way through the grid-locked New York traffic. The stolen weapon in hand, silver flashing in the sunlight, the man kept behind the nurse’s station as he disappeared through the last door, his hostage — or was it victim? — pulled with him as the last line of defense.

As Mulder watched, the last doors shut, and all around him he could hear the “slam, clank, snick,” of metal on metal as the lock-down was triggered. All hope of following vanished as completely as the madman with the still, dead eyes.

*****

Mulder hung from the access ladder, sweaty hands making his grip a questionable thing. Even as he kicked futilely on the sealed shaft doors across from him, he struggled for balance and to maintain his precarious perch. The doors to the next floor, the only way out until the mandatory two hour lock-down elapsed, seemed flimsy enough — twin layers of thin sheet metal. But despite his best efforts, all he could do was make dents and a lot of noise, a deafening boom that rang in the silence of the shaft and echoed up to the floor above him.

“Elevator maintenance says look for a hand crank,” Nowak called down. “On the wall.”

“A what?” Mulder answered, the words half-swallowed as his foot slipped and he grabbed the ladder with both hands. He stilled himself for a moment, breathing heavily, knowing he’d pay for the vicious, if useless, flailing at the doors with a limp. If he didn’t fall off the god damn ladder first.

“A crank handle,” Nowak hollered again. “On the wall. Fits into a slot or something.”

“Great,” Mulder muttered, even as he checked the sides of the shaft, scanning unfamiliar mechanics around the sealed door. On one side was a contraption that resembled a vise. He studied it intently, then continued looking. Wedged into a groove near it was what had to be the handle. Shaped like an H, with bottom left and top right removed, it looked as if it might fit the vise.

“See it?”

Stretching hard, he pulled the truncated H out of its resting place, hefted it in his hand. “I think this is it,” he called back to Novak. He leaned out again, just barely reaching the vise slot, pushed in, then took hold and turned. “Probably fucked it up, kicking the damn door like that,” he mumbled, but the doors were creaking and he could make out a slight movement and the shaft slowly unsealed.

“On a roll!” he yelled, hyped by success. Stretched to his limit, each full turn was exhausting and only moved the door about an inch, but he persevered. “What’s the status now?” he called, strength failing as he pushed from his awkward stance. “Your guys get him in the basement?”

There was silence from above, and Mulder stopped his cranking, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead before it dripped into his eyes. “Well?” he demanded.

There was an uncomfortable throat clearing, then Nowak said, “There was a small problem. By the time our guys got there, he was in, the door sealed from inside. They’re, uh, busting it down now.”

“Fuck!” Mulder went back to his painfully slow cranking. “A complete fucking clusterfuck, that’s what this has been.”

“Not to worry.” Nowak’s voice was more certain now, sure of himself and his department. “We’ve got him cornered in that basement. He’s not going anywhere.”

Mulder grunted, and yanked on the handle with all his strength. One foot slipped and he pitched sideways, barely catching himself before plunging off into the shaft. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“What’s that?” Nowak asked. “Can’t hear you.”

“Forget it. He’s gone.”

“What? You can’t know that!”

“Weren’t you listening? All the bastard talked about was going down into the dark, staying low, finding his way through the maze.”

“Yeah, so?”

“What’s one thing New York is famous for?”

“What? I only get to pick one?”

“The fucking sewers, you shithead! He’s going for the sewers!”

“No fucking way, man! We’ve got him nailed in the basement.”

The doors were pulled back about 15 inches, enough room to slip through if Mulder could make the leap over without killing himself. “You don’t have him!” he shouted, body poised for the jump. “The bastard is already gone!”

“No fucking way!”

Mulder jumped. Sweaty hands hit the metal door jamb, and began to slide. He was slipping, sliding, dropping, falling, and he screamed, “Yes, dammit! Way!” He gave a mighty heave, body contorting from sheer panic. But this got him up and through, and he was lying face down on the floor, legs still protruding into the empty shaft behind him.

“Mulder? Mulder?” Nowak was calling. “You make it, man?”

But he was already up and running, heading straight for the stairwell and eleven flights of steps.

*****

It was what she expected. The same gruesome wounds to the eyes — well, the eye sockets at this point. Knowing what she was looking for this time, she was able to pinpoint the small needle mark on the man’s arm. She took skin, hair, and blood samples, and labeled them, then stood for a moment, staring down into the dead man’s face.

It was such a senseless loss.

She was shaken from her reverie by the ring of her cell phone. She quickly stripped the gloves from her hands, dug into her pocket, and flipped the small black case open. “Scully.”

“His name is Fenton Priest, Scully. He knows New York, knows the sewers, the underground especially.” Mulder was panting, seven flights down, four to go.

“What happened?” she asked, hearing his breathlessness.

“He’s loose. He took a nurse and locked down the holding ward. I think he’s been here before.” Another flight. Three to go. His steps echoed in the stairwell, his voice loud in the empty space.

“I’m on my way.” Scully was already shoving the gurney toward the cold storage locker.

“Background, Scully. Find out about this guy, will ya?” Two more flights.

She pushed the gurney the last way, then slammed the door. “All right.” She glanced as her watch. “You’ve got the car.”

“You don’t need to come here,” he panted. One more flight of stairs. It was getting harder and harder to talk.

“I’m coming. I’ll get a cab.” Through the phone she could hear a door open. “Mulder, what are you doing?”

“I’m going after him.” A click, and the phone went dead.

*****

The basement door was open and the Quick Response Team had fanned out through the area, searching. It was pitch black; Priest had apparently stopped long enough to pull the circuit breaker. Flashlights danced through the darkness, and an occasional curse split the air as an elbow slammed into a wall, or a toe impacted a shelf.

A huge man, morbidly obese despite being close to seven feet tall, lumbered up behind Mulder. “Somebody cut the lights?”

“You know where the breaker box is?” Mulder asked.

“Should,” the man answered. “My job.”

Mulder followed the big man’s light, trailing after him into the darkness. The light flitted over the wall, touching on a metal box, then darting past to highlight an open space before the man brought it back.

“What’s that?” Mulder demanded urgently, reaching out to grab the light from the man’s hands.

He moved swiftly past the maintenance man, light shining on a metal plate that lay against the wall. Behind him, there was a series of clicks and then overheads came on, almost blinding him with their yellow glow. The flashlight was pointed at a hole now, revealed by the absence of the plate on the ground. It was an access to the city steam pipes. Moisture hissed from pipe connections, and an odor of mildew and hot metal filled the air.

“I’ll be damned,” the big man said, even as QRT began to trickle in around the hole.

A radio chirped and there was a hurried conversation then a young woman, a lieutenant, spoke up. “Agent Mulder? It’s your call.”

Mulder’s eyes never moved from the hole. “Have someone dig up maps to the underground. We’re gonna need them. Make sure my partner knows where I am.”

“And where are you going to be, sir?” the woman asked.

He stepped through the hole, light shining into the darkness before him. “Right behind Priest,” he said, as the blackness swallowed him up.

*****

”Where is he?” Scully’s voice was loud, and even she could hear the tinge of hysteria that was creeping in. Manhattan traffic had played havoc with her travel and it had taken her far longer than she had expected to travel the twenty-some blocks from the medical examiner’s office to the hospital.

“He went after the suspect, ma’am,” the woman said patiently. She could imagine how this woman was feeling. If Mulder had been her partner, she’d have been ready to kill him.

“Alone?”

The woman nodded.

“Alone,” Scully repeated. “And you didn’t take your team in because …?” The question hung between them.

“The air was foul. You could smell it from where we stood. I went in a dozen yards or so, and it just got worse. Once we got masks, I sent a crew in to track Agent Mulder.”

“And you didn’t find him?”

“No.”

“Or the suspect?”

“No.”

“Or the hostage?”

“No.”

“So you pulled back.”

The petite woman was making her feel like an idiot, a rookie, despite the fact that she was forty years old and had earned her rank with hard work and long hours. She knew her job; she’d made the right decision. So why was she feeling so guilty now?

The lieutenant watched as the other woman produced a cell phone, ignoring the hospital convention against the devices, and placed a call.

“Get me AD Skinner,” she said, and there was a pause. Then, “Sir? This is Scully. We caught the guy and Mulder was interrogating him. The suspect injured himself, grabbed the nurse that was patching him up and escaped.”

There was another pause, and the lieutenant could just imagine what the woman’s boss was saying. She didn’t expect it would be very complimentary to the NYPD. She sighed as she listened.

“Mulder got out right behind the guy and tracked him to the hospital basement. He apparently went into the underground pipe system. Mulder followed him.”

The redhead held the phone out from her ear slightly, and the lieutenant could hear the deep voice that boomed from it. It went on for some time, until finally she pulled the phone back to her ear and spoke again.

“No, Sir.” The FBI agent gave the QRT office a dirty look, then said, “He’s alone. NYPD declined to follow.”

The phone left her ear with alacrity that time, and stayed out at a distance for quite a while. When the invective faded away, she pulled it close and listened for a moment, then said, “Yes, Sir. I’ll look for you there.” She closed the phone without saying good-bye and turned to stare at the lieutenant.

“Assistant Director Skinner will be here in a couple hours. The Bureau will be assuming control of the search for the suspect,” she fixed the woman with a steely glare, “and my partner.”

–o0o–

Part 3 – Self Lost

It was a tight fit — dark, hot, and closed in. The steam pipes hissed on both sides of him, and above his head as well. He was walking through a narrow passage, bent over to keep from banging his head on the pipes overhead, and trying desperately to breathe through the handkerchief he held to his nose.

The air was foul — it made his eyes water and his nose run. His throat was tight — alternatively dry and itchy or filled with the sour-sweet taste of bile from his uneasy stomach. He still held the maintenance man’s flashlight, using it to push the darkness aside a few feet at a time. His gun was in the hand that held the handkerchief to his face, and that arm was already growing weak with the strain of holding the weapon up. His legs were tired from his frantic race down the stairs, and his lungs were protesting that what he was trying to tell them was air, was really poison, and they were having nothing of it.

He pressed on resolutely, determined that Priest couldn’t have that much of a lead on him. He was, after all, dragging the woman. Or so Mulder hoped. He hadn’t seen a discarded body, so there was hope that the woman was still alive and still with Priest, just waiting for him to catch up to them. Mulder picked up his pace, pushing oxygen-starved lungs and muscles to work harder and faster. He found himself adapting to the narrow tunnel of piping, the periodic protrusions of wire cage that hung from the overheads. He was doing something between a jog and a skitter as he moved rapidly through the increasingly loud, hot, and foul-smelling tunnel.

Moving quickly now, having found his rhythm, he was beginning to feel he was bound to catch the man. A huge wall suddenly reared up in front of him, with pipes to the left, to the right, and above him, vanishing into the solid concrete barrier.

“Fuck!” He’d missed something. He turned and headed back, moving slowly this time, using the light to scan the sides and beneath the pipes, checking the ceiling as well.

He’d lost precious time and was almost three quarters of the way back when the stench rose up and almost choked him. His stomach heaved and the air itself seemed thick, almost tangible. The steam here was heavy, the vapors rising, and scalding water droplets were falling to splash with a rhythmic ‘drip, drip’ on the uneven concrete flooring.

He paused, forcing himself to sniff the air, then gagging. The odor was very bad here — worse than it was in the other parts of the tunnel. He looked around, searching for an opening into the sewers, and finally found it, down low and tucked behind the left steam pipe. He dropped to the filthy floor, and shimmied under the hot pipe, lying on his belly to look down through a small access port.

About ten feet below him, he could just make out the shape of a ladder, pulled from the hooks under his hand, and left discarded in the lower passageway. He played the light over all the visible areas, then shifted carefully, rolled into the hole and let himself drop. The odor was much worse here, and the floor was covered in a thin layer of muck and slime. He gagged again, swallowed hard, and focused the light in on two pairs of footprints, one moving confidently, the other dragging at intervals, that led off through a passage to the west.

Mulder set off immediately. It never occurred to him to replace the ladder or leave a marker so that he could be found.

*****

“Thank you for coming, Sir,” Scully said.

Skinner dismissed the young agent who had met him at the airport and dropped his carryon at his feet. He slung the briefcase up on the table, and opened it, pulling out a stack of paper. “This is what I was able to get on Priest before my flight left. If he’s really in the underground, Mulder’s gonna have a hell of a time finding him.”

“How so?”

“His father worked for the transit authority, surveying the subway lines. Probably got his first taste of life underground as a kid. Then Priest worked for a short time for the city.”

“Doing what? No, let me guess. Something in the pipes, right?”

Skinner smiled grimly and touched his nose. “On one,” he said. “Was part of a crew that was updating the old pipes, pulling out the ones made with asbestos and replacing them with PVC.”

“You said he worked for the city for a short time. Why?”

“Kept wandering off the job, going off into the tunnels. Wasn’t productive and it wasn’t safe. I called his former supervisor, managed to have a brief conversation with him. He remembered Priest well. Didn’t want to let the kid go. Sole support of a widowed mother. Father was killed at work when the kid was seventeen. They think some homeless guy, living in the tunnels, went nuts and just beat the father to death.”

“So he knows the area.” Scully turned and looked off into space. “Dammit, Mulder, why didn’t you wait?” she muttered to the air, and Skinner, thoughtfully, did not answer.

“There’s a team in the tunnels now?” he asked.

“No, they followed the passageway Mulder went into until it ended. Swear it has no way out. They’re saying he must have slipped back into the basement at some point.”

“Didn’t they have a guard on the entry?” Skinner asked sharply.

“Yeah, so they say. But they still say he must have gotten by, because they swear he’s not in there.”

Skinner was quiet for a long time. Scully took the papers from him and began to read about Fenton Priest, while he worked out the next step.

“We’ll take another team and go back in,” the AD said finally. “QRT must have missed something.”

“I’ll go,” Scully said immediately, but Skinner was shaking his head.

“I need you here. We still have to get a handle on this man Priest, and you’ve got the most experience so far. You’ve seen his work, examined the victims. Take some time and read the files. I’ve got Research running the data base now for additional information.”

“But, Sir,” Scully protested, “he may be injured. He may need medical attention.” She stared at him with large, worried blue eyes. It was never voiced, but Skinner heard it nonetheless.

He may need me.

He shook his head gently, pleased to see that the bond that made these two such a formidable team seemed to be back, and stronger than ever. This was the Scully he remembered, ready to fly off to Puerto Rico, or down to the Bermuda Triangle in search of her wayward partner. “You stay here, Scully. Keep the investigation going.” He paused a moment, then added with a slight smile to soften his words, “I’ll go fetch the headstrong Agent Mulder myself.”

*****

He followed the muddy footprints for what seemed like miles. They tracked on and on and on in an endless trail of sludge and stink that slowly seemed to cover his clothing and fill his sinuses. He breathed through his mouth, and still held the cloth over his face, but it was hard, hard, hard, to get the exchange of gases his lungs were starving for.

At last something different appeared. The footsteps disappeared into an open door, some sort of chamber, left conveniently unsealed. Mulder approached, his body cringing involuntarily as he moved closer to the opening. He couldn’t count on being able to get off a shot. If Priest had any sense, he’d keep the woman in front of him. Mulder nodded grimly. That was what he’d do. He froze. He knew it was what he’d do. The seed was planted; the thought was firmly in his head. If I were Priest, what would I do? Mulder flicked the flashlight off, then closed his eyes and stood swaying in the inky blackness.

He knows these tunnels, he has to. He’s been here before, knows how to get around. His steps are too confident, his direction too well-planned for it to be ‘seat of the pants.’ Where was he going?

Mulder drew a deep breath, then tipped his head back, stretching upwards, nose extended, and breathed again. Slightly cooler, slightly cleaner air, and he’d almost missed it.

Priest was going up.

What was up? Why would he want to go up?

Up was out, but that wasn’t it. Mulder sensed instinctively that there was another reason Priest was heading up. What else was up?

The storm drains? Less cluttered, no pipes, no conduits, just open pathways despite the almost certain flow of water that would cover the floor. A man could move quickly through the storm drains, even with a hostage. And then he could get out, or go back down, or move from the drainage system to the sewage system to the cable and conduit system, even into the subway tunnels. It would offer the best of the underground system, a sort of all purpose changing system to move from one plane to another.

Mulder’s eyes were still closed, head still back, and he was lost in plans of tunnels and mazes, of sewage and carnage. In the sewage system, you could kill with impunity. No one would look for bodies there. There were people who lived in the New York underground, weren’t there? Mulder could remember reading about it, seeing documentaries on TV. A whole community that couldn’t complain if some of their number began to disappear, or turned up dead with their eyes burned out.

And they would be the kind of people who should die. The kind who had dull, flat eyes, and didn’t contribute to the world. People who didn’t deserve to live. Mulder’s eyes popped open at the next thought.

Dangerous people.

That was the trigger. Something had happened to Priest in the tunnel. Something that set him off as an avenger. And then, he escalated and moved up top, bringing his fear, his anger, and his need to kill. Beginning to feed on the top dwellers.

Priest had shifted levels from here. Mulder could feel it. The odor was strong here, almost overpowering, and he could feel the eddies of air that circled his body and plucked at his hair and clothes. Where was the connector?

I am Priest, Mulder said to himself. I know these tunnels; this is my home. I can make these walls tell me their secrets because this is where I belong.

He drew a deep breath, holding it, and forced himself to stop all movement, to focus on what he could hear and feel. There was a steady drip, drip, drip from a pipe. A low, almost constant vibration, a hum that permeated the ground and sank into his bones, setting his teeth on edge. It came from nowhere and everywhere, never starting, never ending. And the air. The air was alive around him. It was a thick blanket that enclosed him, a living, moving shroud that shifted against his skin, stroking him, ruffling his hair, whispering in his ear like a lover. Drawing him forward.

He glided into the darkness, instinctively following the tease of the air. He moved easily, languidly, relaxed in the choking atmosphere, sliding through the muck covered floor. At home in the sewers of a killer. He was one with the city’s underbelly. Alive in the darkness. His bones the rocky foundation that held the city up. His veins the tunnels that raced through the teeming underground. His blood the vital power source that surged and pulsed beneath the ground, and made the city run.

This was how Priest did it. He became the underground. Dark and dirty, fouled and misshapen, hidden from the rest of the world, but vital to its very existence, he was the city.

Mulder froze again. The air had shifted, changing currents swiftly washing over him. Without breathing, he turned on the light and looked around. Nothing. He was sure it was here — the connection, the next step, the path that Priest had followed — but he could see nothing. He still wasn’t far enough in to be able to see with Priest’s eyes.

He still knew who he was.

His vision blurred and he staggered a bit, and then he remembered to breathe. He coughed, holding the cloth tight to his mouth and nose, gasping desperately for real oxygen and not this fouled excuse that tried to pass for air down here. His lungs hurt, felt seared as if they had been burned. He coughed and coughed, and choked, and coughed again. And then he heard it.

An echo.

He shifted under pipes and rose again, staring up at a tiny patch of light, far, far above.

Daylight.

His eyes watered and he wondered how long he had been in the tunnels. Hours? Days? Had it been day or night when he went in? He honestly couldn’t remember.

Scully would know. He paused, thinking. Scully would know. Why the hell hadn’t he called Scully hours ago? He stuck the flashlight in his belt, and dug frantically in his pockets for the cell phone that was always there, but came up empty. It confused him for a moment, trying to remember if he’d had the phone, or where he might have lost it.

And it was then that he began to realize that breathing these fumes might not be so healthy. His thinking was confused, foggy, and his reflexes were slowing. He needed to get out, to get real air, to see real light. And he needed to do it now, before he became completely a part of the savage sewers of New York.

He looked up again. There were metal ladder rungs welded to the wall, going all the way up. He put the gun in his holster and tied the handkerchief around his face, wondering idly why he hadn’t thought to do it sooner, and began to climb.

*****

Skinner yanked his arm from the hand that held it and said, “No!”

The man shrugged. “No options, Mr. AD. City says outta the tunnels; we gotta get outta the tunnels.”

“My agent is still down here,” Skinner said through tightly clenched teeth.

“Not according to QRT. They say he got out.”

“No one saw him.”

The man shrugged again. “Where else could he be?”

“Down that hole I found.”

“Nah,” the man said. “We checked that on the map. It’s a dead end. Opens to a small chamber — used to be used for system exchange, but it’s been blocked off for years.”

“You said yourself those maps might not be accurate.”

“Best we got.” The man pulled himself up straight, then sighed. “Look, Mr. Skinner, I sympathize with you. But we still gotta get outta the tunnels. Now.”

“Why?”

“City’s flushing the sewage system down here today.” He dropped his eyes, and added, “You better hope QRT was right and your boy got out ‘cause ain’t nothing gonna be alive down here in a few more minutes.

*****

Mulder finished the climb, exhausted. There was a metal storm grate over his head and he was ankle deep in a thick, nasty soup of dirty water, mud, and other things he preferred not to think about. He took a deep breath, wishing he had the rubber fireman boots he had taken to carrying in the trunk of his car. And a respirator; anything that would filter out the suffocating stench of sewer gases.

Oh shit!

Sewer gases. He could see daylight through the grate above. He was in the storm drain, not the sewage system. He should be breathing considerably cleaner air.

So why was the rank stench of raw sewage still so overwhelming? What was wrong? What had he missed?

Fuck! It was almost impossible to concentrate when the air itself was your enemy, your eyes were watering so badly you couldn’t see, and your throat was closed tight, swallowing made almost impossible.

To say nothing of the fear that was branded into your belly that the man you were chasing was far worse than you had imagined. That there were layers to his psychopathic mind that had yet to be revealed. And that each new layer, each new atrocity, would only serve to bring you closer and closer to the demons that haunted your own dark passageways.

Something was going on here. Something that Priest knew and he did not. Priest was on his home territory; Mulder was the invader in the city’s soft underbelly.

He shook his head, trying to force the killer from his mind. He was letting him psych him out. He had to keep moving, keep following the man. It was his job. It was his duty. It was the only thing that separated him from being just like Priest.

You can find him — just keep moving.

He forced his feet to shuffle through the thick muck on the floor. His shoes were completely covered; the oozing mud was being sucked up his trouser legs as the absorbent material drank in the liquid sludge. He was covered in filth now, and his senses were shutting down. He couldn’t even smell the sewage any more. He pushed on, forcing himself to move forward.

It seemed his thinking was shutting down as well. How long could someone function in an oxygen-deprived environment?

Scully would know.

He stopped again and a smile crossed his face. Scully would find him. She always did. She would make them take the damn tunnels apart, but she would find him. All he had to do was hang in there until she got to him. It was a reassuring thought, the first he’d had in hours.

He was still standing there, pursuit forgotten, lost in the memory of a small, red-haired woman who never let him down, when he felt it. A distinct throb beneath his feet. A vibration that seemed to roll over him, swallowing him in its wake. He looked down and saw that the slime was deeper, its surface roiling from the vibrations.

What was going on? What the hell had happened?

And then the air began to move. At first it was like a breeze, caressing his hair, and brushing it back from his sweat-covered forehead. Then it was harder and his wet clothes began to flap and pull in the wind, and then he was leaning into what felt like a full-fledged gale.

What the fuck was this? Hey, Scully, I think I’m in trouble here.

He never heard the onrush of the water, but he saw it a split second before it rolled over him, engulfing him in a dark, shimmering wave. It was on him so fast, so completely, he never had a chance to turn or run, or seek escape. He just stood there, watching it and then he was lost, surrendering to the oily, black tidal wave that filled the tunnel. He was caught in the undertow, sucked down and turning, tumbling head over heels, hands grasping out blindly for something — anything.

For a moment it seemed Scully was there, holding him. Then the light was gone, the air was gone, and she too, was gone. He was left alone, trying to survive without light or air or the comfort of her presence.

And then there were no thoughts at all.

–o0o–

Part 4 – Self Lost

The car hadn’t even stopped when Scully had the door open and was out. Stumbling a bit, she caught her balance, and raced for the police cordon. Skinner was a bit slower, waiting for the driver to park, but he was quickly out behind her, and making his way around the car to follow in her wake.

“Let me through!” he heard her demand of the burly traffic cop who had halted her forward motion.

She was digging in her pocket, pulling out her badge, even as the man responded, “Sorry, ma’am. We’ve got an emergency in here.”

She shoved the badge in the young officer’s face. “That’s my partner. Let me pass!”

The boy, and Skinner could see he was hardly more than a boy, took a step back, but held his ground. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he tried again, “but I have orders that no one gets past.

Skinner called out, “FBI! Let her by,” but the boy either didn’t hear, didn’t care, or ignored him. The AD shrugged. He’d tried. He watched as Scully backed up, almost as if she was going to leave and he could see the cop relax. Then she moved, stepping forward, grabbing the much larger kid by his collar, and her knee was coming up. He closed his eyes, not wanting to watch, and heard the horrible, high-pitched squeal that escaped the boy’s lips. When he opened his eyes again, the cop was on the ground and Scully was gone.

He shook his head, then stepped forward, showed his own badge, and offered the young man a hand up.

“That’s her partner,” he said, watching as the kid tried to straighten. “Someday, if you’re really lucky, you’ll have a partner that cares enough about you to do what she just did.” He gazed sympathetically at the young cop, then added, “You probably can’t appreciate that level of devotion right now, but you will some day.” He started to move on, then turned and looked back. “Oh, and you should learn when to make exceptions to the ‘let no one pass’ rule. It’ll save you a lot of trouble in the future.”

He reached Scully in time to hear her say, “I told you, I’m his partner,” as she slipped by a med tech and moved to stand by the gurney.

A hoarse, broken voice from the gurney croaked, “Better stay out of her way. She’s a good shot.” The voice was overcome by coughing then, and Skinner watched as Scully gently held Mulder’s shoulder until the fit passed, totally oblivious to the oily black goo that covered him, and was now starting to cover her tailored suit. She scanned the immediate area, eyes lighting on a damp cloth that an EMT held, and she took it, pressing it to Mulder’s lips.

Skinner caught the medic’s attention and spoke quietly. “She’s a doctor, too. She won’t do anything to hurt him, and she won’t get in your way. You’d be smart to leave her alone.”

The medic looked back at the redheaded lioness prowling by the gurney, swallowed, and nodded.

“What the hell happened here?” Skinner demanded, when he finally recognized an NYPD face. It was the man who had chased him from the tunnels.

“Guess you were right after all,” he said sheepishly. “Your man wasn’t out. He got caught in the backwash, hung onto a storm grate, and eventually caught someone’s attention — no mean feat in New York. They called the fire department, one of our dispatchers heard the call, knew we’d been monitoring movement in the tunnels, and voila — here we all are.” The man turned serious. “He should be OK, the medic said. Just banged up, and they’re a little worried about fluid in his lungs.” A smile, and the man wrinkled his nose. “And he seriously needs a bath.”

Skinner gave a half laugh, and moved toward his agents, halting when he heard the conversation.

“Enough with the drowning, ok, Mulder?” Scully smiled down at the man on the gurney, trying to stay out of the way of the paramedic who was taking vitals and making a report preparatory to transport. “No more drowning.”

Mulder was nodding, his hair leaving a dark, greasy stain on the white sheet. ” ‘kay, Scully,” he promised, his eyes never leaving her face. He coughed again, then half-rose and leaned over. She had her arms wrapped around him, holding him, as he vomited up more of the nasty, black sewer water he had swallowed in the deluge. He finished and she helped him lay back, holding him while he panted and caught his breath. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

She shook her head fiercely and turned away. Skinner could have sworn he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. But no, it couldn’t be. Not Scully. Then she turned back to Mulder and said, “No more drowning. Not in Bermuda, not in Florida, not in New York. Not anywhere. Promise me.”

Mulder nodded. “Promise.”

“All right, then.” She took a deep breath and stood, looking at him a moment longer, her hand reaching out to rest against his cheek. Then to Skinner’s surprise and Mulder’s complete shock, she said, “You know …” Her hand gently stroked his cheek. “I love you, too.” She let her hand linger, then she turned and walked away.

As she passed Skinner, she said in a perfectly normal voice, “I’m catching a cab to the hotel and changing. Will you stay with the Boy Wonder over there?”

Skinner nodded mutely, and watched her leave, his mouth still hanging open.

*****

He wouldn’t stay in the bed. He kept tossing the covers to the floor, then flinging himself to his feet and pacing back and forth, back and forth.

“The woman he took — the nurse. She hasn’t shown up?” he asked for the fourth time.

“No,” Scully said shortly. “Mulder, get back in the bed. Your ass is hanging out for the world to see, and frankly, as scrawny as you are, it’s no great treat.”

He froze, his back to her, acutely aware that she was right. She had a magnificent view of his ass right now. BDL — Before Declarations of Love — he would have tossed off some witty comeback, but now, ADL, he was blushing. He could feel the rosy glow spread over his cheeks — oh, god, not those cheeks too — and down his neck into his chest. He waited until the flush subsided, then turned slowly — no point in blowing the skimpy gown around anymore — and said, “Scully, you wound me! I love your ass.”

She snorted. “Get back in the bed, Mulder. You’re supposed to be resting.”

He crawled obediently into the narrow bed, smiling to himself. He shoots! He scores!

Silence reigned and life slowed into a time-stolen moment, when everything faded away. He stared at her, she stared at him, then she rose, and came to stand beside the bed. She leaned over slowly, her forehead coming to rest against his. One hand reached out, her fingers twining into his own. They were still, not moving, and Mulder wasn’t even sure he was breathing. This moment, this feeling, this Scully, this was the stuff of his dreams. He was sure he was going to wake up any moment, and find he’d imagined it all. Or he’d kiss her and she’d haul off and smack him. Or, even worse, simply walk away in disbelief, crushing him once again.

But she didn’t move, she didn’t dissolve, she didn’t back away. Her touch was constant, her presence steady; then slowly, she moved, and her nose rubbed back and forth against his, gently, tickling. His eyes filled with tears suddenly, he slammed them shut, and he remembered.

Eskimo kisses. His mother used to do that. Long ago, when things were still good, and everything was right in his world. It evoked feelings of comfort and love and acceptance and belonging, and his heart was filled to bursting.

How could she know that a kiss would be too much, the touch of a hand too little? How could she know that he needed reassurance, needed something to tell him it was real, and true, and honest? How could she know that Eskimo kisses were the perfect way to touch his heart and seal his soul to hers?

She was pulling away now, and he left his eyes closed, hoping she would think he was sleeping, because he was too overcome, too overwhelmed to speak or move or even think. He was lost in a place of feeling loved and wanted, and he didn’t ever want to leave.

*****

It was dark, but that didn’t bother him. He’d lived in the dark for years. He could move in the dark, gliding silently through the twists and curves of his home, never colliding with wall or door, or bumping his head on the overheads. He could shut his eyes and feel the air itself surround him, leading him safely through the dark recesses, guiding him unerringly in the right direction.

His feet slipped smoothly over the rough concrete floor, and he could hear the quiet “step, drag,” that he made as he shuffled onward, moving deeper and deeper into the dark — going home.

He knew these passages intimately. He paused, stroking the walls with a lover’s hand. The thin sheen of rank and moldy moisture that clung there made his flesh slide slickly over the rough surface, his touch a caress. His nostrils flared as he breathed the fetid air that filled him with hope and joy, reminding him always of his purpose.

He moved forward again, swiftly opening the door and then he was there. He was home. It was his own primordial domain. The place that first swallowed him in darkness, first overwhelmed him, then taught him who he really was — what he really was.

The Priest.

Even back then, he could see it in his mind: Capital ‘T’ The; Capital ‘P’ Priest. It was so fitting.

He’d been so young when he’d first come here. Dragged by his father — anything to get out of the house. The beatings he received — forced to hide in the tunnels so the old man wouldn’t get in trouble for having his dirty, messy kid at work. Scared at first, he had eventually become mesmerized by the maze-like tunnels, the warren-like series of chambers and rooms. Drawn by an invisible force to find out more, to see what was really down there. It had been a whole different world. Different world, different rules.

He’d wandered off alone one day, stumbling on this place by accident, seeing the First One as he was doing the Work. There’d been some confusion — the First One was old, and didn’t understand that he had been drawn there to help. That he had been called to take his place. To become the next One.

The First One had risen, still covered in the blood of the Work, and turned, the knife brandished before him. He’d tried to explain, tried to make him see that it was his time, but the First One was crazed and he would not hear. And so, he’d taken the First One and the First One had become his first Work.

And then there had been the Dark Time. Lost in this hidden place, plunging down into the aphotic abyss, hanging there suspended for who knows how long, burning in the fire that gave no light, no heat, only pain. And through that pain was purification. Purification and purpose.

He’d lain there for a long time, the shell of the First One heavy on his still small body. But he’d finally shoved it off and taken a look at the chamber. It was a good-sized room, but it seemed small because the Work filled every wall, stacked from floor to ceiling, spilling out into the center of the space. He spent some time exploring, finding that the Work in front was new, it was still soft and it gave off the odor that filled the air. It seeped into his pores, and strengthened his purpose. The Work by the walls was old, some of it very old, for only the yellowish-white base of the Work remained. Some of the older Work had been chewed on by rats — he could see the teeth marks in the bones, and there were even bones that had been split and broken, making it possible for the marrow to be sucked out.

In the beginning, he understood none of this, for he was too young. But as he grew and matured, and learned of his calling, he came to understand the importance of everything that was done in the chamber. The Work was all that was important. He studied the Work of the First One, and saw how he had taken the eyes — burning them out. It was a long time before he came to understand that. But at last, one day when his father spoke to him, chiding him for spending all his time in the tunnels, he had looked at the man, appraising him as if he might be a candidate for the Work. And the man’s eyes had hardened, going flat and black, and then he knew how to pick the Work, and why the eyes had to be removed.

But that understanding came years later.

That first day, the day of the First One, he suffered through his own trials, survived his own test, and knew then, that he was not Fenton Priest, twelve-year-old boy. He was The Priest, and the tunnels were his Domain, and this chamber was his Sanctuary.

And when he had finally emerged, covered in the blood of his First Work, he knew what he was meant to do.

*****

He was back in the tunnel, tumbling blindly in the black wash of foul water that tossed him along like so much flotsam in the ocean’s wake.

And this time he wasn’t alone. Surrounded by corpses, they slammed against him, deadwood arms assaulting him, legs tangling with his own, pulling him under and keeping him from grabbing onto something, from finding purchase in the tidal onslaught. Empty holes stared at him, their burned out eye sockets stared at him, accusing — “You must end this!”

He protested, wasting precious breath to argue with the dead. Pleading that he wasn’t responsible, it wasn’t his fault. Begging for understanding. He had something now. Scully loved him. He was finally going to have a chance for happiness.

But the bodies were implacable. “Now you know,” they said. “How can you walk away, when you alone know?” A child, flesh swollen and mottled, putrescence oozing from her every limb, reached out and grabbed him, halting his wild roll in the dark, rank waters.

“Will you forget what happened to me?” she demanded. “You run from us and still he kills. How can you run from this?”

I’m not running, he screamed in silence. I won’t forget! Something inside him broke, something vital that kept him tethered to the light, snapped, and he was suddenly lost in the dark. Spinning madly out of control, there was no more light, no more air, no more hope …

Mulder woke with a gasp, shooting upright in the narrow hospital bed, sweat pouring from his body. The sheets were sticky; the thin hospital gown clung to his back, its underarms soaked. The bed itself shook with the violence of his tremors. He dropped his head to his hands, trying to recapture the feelings of goodness that had encompassed him when he fell asleep. But there was only emptiness there.

How long had he been out? He threw his feet over the side of the bed, then paused, the stiffness in his muscles slowing him. He was clear of monitors, no IV, but … He stopped, staring at the figure in the chair.

She was here. She’d stayed to watch over him. He shook his head sadly. As powerful as she was, not even Scully could keep these demons at bay. It was as if the tunnels themselves called to him, as if some part of him belonged down there in the rank and decaying darkness.

His lip trembled and he bit it, drawing blood. He didn’t want to go back down there. Tears filled his eyes and he wiped them away angrily.

He had no choice. Priest was far more dangerous than they had first imagined, with a much longer history of madness than was known. Mulder couldn’t prove it, he couldn’t explain it, but he knew it. Just like he knew he was the only one who would be able to catch the man.

He sighed quietly, then rose and tiptoed to the door. A quick look back over his shoulder showed Scully still sleeping, a look of peace on her face. He studied her for a moment, engraving the vision in his heart. She was like an angel — an angel with a fiery halo, and fiery temper to boot. She wasn’t going to like this.

He cracked the door open and slipped out, holding a finger to his lips to keep the guard quiet. The man rose, question in his face, and Mulder appraised him quickly. He was about six feet tall, and built similarly to himself. He would do.

Mulder motioned the man to follow, still indicating the need for quiet, and the man obliged. He managed to move him several yards down the hall before the man reached out, gripped his arm, and said, “Agent Mulder, my orders are for you to stay in your room.”

Mulder nodded, agreeing. “I know. But I’m going crazy in there. If I don’t get to move some, I’ll lose what’s left of my mind.” He smiled what he hoped was a charming smile, and was relieved when the guard smiled back. “I’d pace in my room, honest I would, but Scully’s sleeping in there, and I hate to disturb her.”

The man was still nodding, and Mulder went for the kill. “Couldn’t you just walk up and down the hall with me for a bit, let me work off some of this energy?”

The man looked undecided, and Mulder waited, praying. At last he looked up and down the deserted corridor, and said, “Well, maybe just a few times. Then back in your room. I’ve heard about you, you know.”

It was said lightly, teasing, and Mulder had a flash of remorse for what he was about to do to this nice, young man, adding to the rumors of how difficult Spooky Mulder could be. He set off for the far end of the hallway, and the small storage room there, the hapless guard, and his extremely useful clothes, trailing obediently.

*****

Mulder took another step forward, and felt — nothing. His foot plummeted down through empty air and he was thrown wildly off balance, arms waving madly as he struggled to grasp anything. His body canted forward, and then he was falling, falling, falling, the trailing left leg bending at the knee, the foot catching on the lip of the opening, wrenching the knee sideways as he screamed in agony. He fell, and he fell, and he fell, and then — he stopped. The floor seemed to rear up beneath him, slamming into his body, and when at last it settled back down, he was lying in a crumpled heap.

The air was filled with a fetid odor, far worse than the stench of the sewer gases. This was something foul, and rank, and, Mulder knew in his heart, perverse. He’d lost the flashlight in the fall, and he began a cautious search, his hands spread before him as he crawled across the floor. The few sounds he’d made had not echoed, but he sensed he was in a large space, made small by the presence of many objects absorbing the sound. His hand brushed against something soft and wet. He was reminded of a day long ago, when he had been chasing a fly ball far out into right field, only to bend over to pick it up and plunge his hand into the remains of a dead squirrel. It was putrid, rotting and crawling with maggots and partially ripped apart by other animals. He had yanked his hand back with a yelp, struggling for control as his stomach threatened to leap from his throat.

He repeated those actions now, a yelp, a yank, and then iron-tight control slamming down on his churning stomach, teeth clenched and breathing through his mouth. He stayed there for several long minutes, forcing the hot, thick air into his lungs, forcing his heart to continue beating, though it seemed determined to stop. His very blood chilled to ice, and slowed within his body, and continuing to breathe became an exercise in will power and determination.

At last, the panic attack receded, and he slowly renewed his cautious search for the light. He was rewarded when he found it several moments later, slightly to his left. He hefted it in his hand and pushed the button. Nothing happened. He slapped it several times against his other palm, and tried again. This time the chamber was illuminated, leaping to existence before him. He stared dumbly, shock threatening to overtake him, disbelieving that the carnage that surrounded him could really exist.

He was still kneeling, his knee screaming from the position, but he was too stunned to move. He’d landed in the center of the chamber. Surrounding him were the bodies of his nightmare. In various stages of decay and dismemberment, they stared down at him from empty sockets, their eyes all burned away. He swiveled slowly, taking it in, and realized there were hundreds of bodies here, going back many, many years. There were bodies stacked against the walls, three and four deep, and reaching to the ceiling. They spilled from their funeral stacks, lying sprawled at the base of the piles, and he could see where some had been shoved back as the older ones decayed and made space behind the newer ones.

It was coming to him now. This was where Priest lived. This was where he stayed, the lair from which he rose to wreak his violence on the unsuspecting.

This was his Sanctuary.

There was a sound behind him, and he half-turned, the injured knee making movement slow and ungainly. But before he could see what it was, or get his gun hand around, something slammed against the side of his skull and his head seemed to explode. He had a brief vision of a man in long robes, with flat, dead eyes staring down at him, and then darkness crashed in, and he saw nothing.

–o0o–

Part 5 – Self Lost

There was a knock at the door and Scully woke, eyeing the empty bed. She relaxed though, seeing that the bathroom door was closed as well. She crossed the room to admit Skinner, her smile of greeting turning to a frown as he demanded, “Where’s the guard?”

“Guard?” Scully stuck her head in the hall and scanned up and down. She turned to face Skinner with a sinking stomach. “I don’t know.” Frown turning to scowl, she crossed to the bathroom and yanked the door open without a word. Empty.

She stared into the vacant room for a moment, then slammed the door, muttering, “I will kill him myself. Drowning is too good for that arrogant, thinks he knows it all, son of a bitch.” She marched past Skinner into the hall. “I swear to God, I will cuff him to the bed next time. I will strap his ass down and wire him up to enough alarms to bring the Bureau running if he so much as rolls over without permission. I don’t care what’s the matter with him.” She was moving determinedly up the hall, checking doors on both sides of the corridor, while Skinner trailed her. “Next time, I will personally see to it that he is restrained, cuffed, and manacled to the god damn bed, and I will shoot his scrawny ass if he so much as makes a peep of complaint.”

She threw open a door marked, “Linens,” and stared down at the young agent, nude but for his jockeys, hands cuffed behind his back, and mouth swaddled in a sheet.

“I am fucking tired of being ditched, and I am going to put that arrogant asshole on a fucking leash when I get my hands on him.”

She looked at the agent on the floor in disgust, and asked, “Didn’t I tell you not to let him out of his room?” then turned and retraced her steps.

Skinner took a second more to drop his handcuff key where the man could reach it, then said, “Get some clothes and report back to the field office. I’ll talk to you there.”

He caught Scully by the elevator.

“Where do you think he went?”

“The precinct house. Nowak’s office. He’s probably got something he needs checked immediately, and he just couldn’t wait till morning, and couldn’t imagine that someone else would be capable enough to look into it for him.”

Skinner started to say something, but one quick look at the small ball of barely contained fury that stood tensed beside him and he decided silence was the wiser course.

*****

The first thing Mulder was aware of was the smell. It filled the air, making it heavy and moist, and he could feel it surrounding him. It was foul and rotten, the smell of decay, and it was everywhere. He drew a cautious breath, then gagged. He could even taste the stench, something rancid that lingered on his tongue and filled his mouth with bile.

The next thing he was aware of was a sound. It was a sort of hum, a tuneless drone that emanated from nowhere and everywhere, all at once. And despite its atonal quality, there was a happy cast to the sound, as if the hummer were pleased with something, or enjoying his work.

Feeling was restored next. He started to rise, but was immediately jerked up short by the cords that bound his arms, legs, and chest to the bare metal springs of the cot on which he lay. The rope was hard, and scratchy, and as he tugged experimentally, he could feel it bite more deeply into his wrists and ankles. It hurt.

Actually, he hurt all over. But some places were worse than others. The wrists and ankles. His knee. The back of his head. And inside his head, he had the mother of all headaches. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, because it didn’t bear contemplating what light would do to the pain in his head. It was already throbbing, a sharp, piercing agony that pulsed with each beat of his heart. He began to wonder if he would be able to see, even if he did pry his stubborn eyes apart.

With a mighty effort, he did just that. He opened his eyes, and then froze, staring at the scene that greeted him. Bodies were everywhere, stacked one on top of the other, from floor to ceiling, and layers deep. They covered the walls of the room, or at least what he could see of it from his position on his back on the cot.

It should be horrifying to him, he should be puking in disgust, or crying in dismay. That would be the normal reaction to a scene like this. People, real people, who once walked and talked and lived and loved but now lay in total disregard, relegated to no more than sound barriers and insect breeders in this deep, dark chamber. He simply stared dispassionately at the carnage that surrounded him, the brutality that assailed his senses on all sides, and wondered why he was not shocked.

And then it occurred to him, he was not shocked, because he was familiar with this. This was not something new, or unusual to him. This was not a once in a lifetime, out of the ordinary, never-to-be-repeated-again-thank-God, experience for him. This was familiar, this was known, this was something he had seen before, many times before. Enough times that he was beyond shock, beyond grief, beyond righteous outrage and indignation.

This was familiar because this was part of his life. This was what he did. This was who he was. This was the essential him. He knew it as surely and with the same certainty that he knew his name.

His breathing hitched then, and his heart seemed to skip a beat. The reaction he’d expected earlier was upon him. Eyes slammed shut, hands screwed up tightly in balls at his side, his stomach lurched, his heart raced, and he broke out in a cold sweat. His head was pounding fast and fierce now, and he felt dizzy and disoriented.

The humming had moved closer and seemed to come from inside his head, making him even more confused, more disconnected. And then it stopped.

The silence in the room was broken only by the pounding in his head, the hammering of his heart, and his own harsh gasps as he struggled to breathe in, breathe out. The fetid air was so scant of oxygen, he felt faint. He felt a shadow fall over him, and lifted heavy lids to stare up at a figure by the cot.

“Ah, you’re awake,” it said, and the voice was so cold, so dispassionate, that something inside him seemed to shrivel up and wither away. He nodded once, miserably, wondering what it was that he had lost.

*****

Scully came down the stairs, almost running, and collided with Skinner, his grasp on her arms the only thing keeping her upright.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, “he’s not here. He hasn’t been here. I was wrong!” She pulled away, dodging around Skinner but he reached out and caught her again, forcing her to stop and turn.

“Where are you going now?” he asked.

“I have to find him!”

“Where will you look?” His tone was softer, more understanding, and he loosened his grip slightly.

She stared up at him for a moment, the panic on her face fading to confusion, then to dismay as she realized the enormity of what she had just said. Her shoulders slumped and he released her completely, waiting patiently for her to speak.

“We need to review the files on Priest,” she said at last. “Wherever Mulder went, it’ll be in there.”

“All right. You start here. Nowak has everything that’s been accumulated so far. I’ve got to go over to the field office and talk to that idiot Murray who let him go, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He paused a moment, fixing her with a penetrating glare. “You will remain here until I return. Absolutely NO attempts to follow him without my direct approval. And I do mean direct — you talk to me, no one else, got that?”

Scully nodded slowly, and he could see that she hadn’t expected him to hobble her so effectively. Of course, she could still just take off in true Mulderesque fashion, but he was betting that her natural inclination to play by the rules and operate within approved guidelines would keep her here. At least until he could make a few phone calls and get the backing he needed to launch a full-fledged search for his wayward agent.

“I’m going to talk to the local SAC. Get some more folks over here to help out. While you’re reviewing the files, make notes on anything you feel needs looking into. I’ll have more support in place shortly.”

She nodded again, and he could see that the earlier anger at Mulder’s rash and impetuous action had changed into real concern, a fear for his safety that showed in the slumped shoulders and the worry lines that etched her face. He stood for a second, undecided on what to say or do, then hesitantly reached out and touched her arm again, a gently supportive touch. “We’ll find him, Dana,” he said, in a firm, quiet voice.

She looked up then and smiled tremulously.

“Yeah. But will he be OK?”

*****

Mulder’s head still hurt but wasn’t as bad as it had been when he woke before. The pills the man had given him must have done their job and eased the pain somewhat. He was still tied down to the cot, but the ropes had been loosened at some point, and they didn’t hurt anymore. Now, he was just uncomfortable from being in the same position for so long.

He opened his eyes and turned his head, looking around the room again. It was really incredible that there could be so many dead bodies in one place. He decided his nose must have gone numb, or else he was getting used to the smell, because it didn’t bother him so much anymore. It was just there, like smog on a really bad inversion day.

Sometime during his latest sleep, he’d come to grips with the idea that he belonged here. That being here with the dead, here in the bowels of the earth, this was how he lived. There was still a twinge of sadness hovering in the background, as if he’d lost something, but down deep, he knew that this was what he did, this was who he was.

Priest spoke then, and he twisted somewhat, trying to see him in the dim light of the small lantern that sat on the floor near his cot.

“Are you awake again?” he was asked.

“Yeah,” Mulder croaked. His voice was hoarse, his throat dry. He wondered how long he’d been asleep. “Why am I tied up?” It was a reasonable question, one of two things he hadn’t been able to figure out.

“You were violent,” the man said shortly.

“I’ve been sick?” he asked hesitantly.

The man rose from a small desk and walked over to look down curiously at him. “You don’t remember?”

He shook his head. He didn’t remember being sick, but his head hurt, and his throat hurt, and his stomach was still queasy. He must have been sick.

“What do you remember?” The man pulled the chair from the desk and sat, sliding it close to the cot and speaking in an intense voice.

Mulder looked around, studying the room once more. “I remember the bodies.” He paused, swallowing hard. “Lots and lots of bodies. And I remember a light. There was a bright light.”

The man in the chair looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. “Good,” he said, as if praising a child, “that’s very good.” He reached out and touched him, one hand coming to rest lightly on his chest. Mulder shivered. “What else?” Priest asked.

He spoke slowly, dredging the words up, trying to verbalize what he could. “I —” he paused here, and his arm twitched as if he would have waved it around if he could, “I know this. I’m part of this. This is my world.” He stopped again, a look of fascinated disgust on his face as he stared at the seemingly endless stacks of corpses. “I know this place. I know this.”

The man in the chair was smiling openly now, and the smile soon turned into a cackle of laughter. He laughed and laughed, and Mulder could hear him mumbling, “Oh, too rich. Too rich!” as the laughter continued to roll out of him. He laughed for a long time, then it tapered off and he was left staring down at the cot, the occasional chuckle still escaping as he said, “Do you remember searching for this place?”

He shook his head and answered honestly, “No. I just woke up and realized that I knew what this was. That I was part of all this.” He frowned and looked at the man in the chair in confusion. “I have been sick, haven’t I?”

Another chuckle, then, “You could say that, yes. You were hurt. You fell and bumped your head.”

Mulder nodded. That explained the headache, and the pain at the back of his skull. And his knee. He must have hurt that in the fall as well.

“I was violent?”

The man in the chair nodded soberly. “Extremely. I was afraid you were going to hurt me.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“No.” There was a pause and Mulder could almost see sadness slip across the man’s face. “We never really want to hurt anyone. But,” the man’s face grew hard now, “sometimes it’s necessary.”

That was true enough, Mulder thought. He could feel it. Sometimes he did hurt people because it was necessary. That made sense.

“Can you untie me now?”

Priest studied him for a long time, then asked, “Do you feel like you are in control of yourself?”

Mulder nodded. He did. He felt a little lost, and a little sad, and a little lonely, but he certainly didn’t feel violent or out of control. “I just want to sit up, maybe get some water?”

There was a rustle of cloth, and he realized the other man wore a robe of some kind. Mulder watched as he pulled a knife from within its folds. For a second, his heart stopped as the knife was held open before him. But then the ropes were being cut away, and two strong hands were helping him to sit, holding a cup of cool, clear water to his lips.

“Thanks,” he said, and the man laughed again.

“Oh, no,” he said, taking the cup back and placing it on the desk. “I should thank you.” He stared at Mulder then, and Mulder began to assess him. He was a tall man, powerfully built, but relatively young, with dark hair and piercing black eyes. “When you fell through the entry to the Sanctuary, I was sure we were in terrible trouble. But now, it will all be ok. I’ll take care of you. I won’t make the mistake of the First One. I am not so proud that I think I’ll be able to do the Work forever, or that I need to do the Work alone. Not now. Now, we can do the Work together, brother.”

Mulder smiled up at the speaker, not really following his words, but somehow relieved that the man was not mad at him. “I can work,” he said. He did work. He could feel that was right too. He was someone who got up and went to work each day. He had a job, he had responsibilities, he had work to do.

“That’s right,” Priest responded. “You can help me with the Work. Together, we may be able to finish it all.”

“So,” Mulder said, looking up into the other man’s face, pleased to have that taken care of. “Who are you?”

The man seemed startled, then he smiled and said, “Me?” He laughed again, a deep, hearty chuckle that was contagious and soon they were both laughing companionably, and it didn’t seem odd at all to find humor here in the house of death.

“Me?” the man repeated. “I’m your brother, bound together in the Work, and through our shared experiences.”

“My brother?” Mulder asked and a name floated up from somewhere, a vision of someone small with dark hair. “Sam?”

The man had that startled look again, but it quickly disappeared and he nodded. “Yeah, you can call me Sam. I am The Priest.”

Mulder nodded. It wasn’t exactly right. He must have hit his head pretty hard in the fall, but with his brother to help him, it would all come clear eventually.

The man — Sam — was looking at him now, an odd expression on his face. It could have been relief, or it could have been pleasure, or it could have been curiosity. He couldn’t place it, and he was getting tired again, and his headache was coming back.

He shifted on the cot, the bare metal uncomfortable, and asked, “Is there something I could put on this?”

Sam nodded and a rolled up foam pad was produced. They stretched it over the cot, then he lay back down, closing his eyes against the increasing pain in his head, one arm thrown over his face.

He was almost asleep again when there was a nudge, and he cracked one eye to see Sam kneeling by the cot, pills in one hand, water in the other. He took them both gratefully, sitting up to swallow and drink the refreshing liquid. He passed the cup back, then lay back down. He could hear Sam’s robes rustling as he moved back to the desk.

“Hey, Sam?” he called quietly, waiting for him to answer.

“Yeah?”

“Who am I?”

End Self Lost

–o0o–

Title: Self Unknown 01/03 Author: Daydreamer Author E-mail: [email protected] Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery Category: SAR – character exploration Spoilers: none Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; MSR Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from.

Summary: Injured in the search for Priest, Mulder has no identity. Lost in the mind of the killer, and in the bowels of New York, he is drawn to dark deeds through the twisted lies he is being fed.

–o0o–

Self Unknown

–o0o–

Part One

“What did you find?” Skinner asked, as he walked into the room. He held one of those cardboard trays balanced in one hand, two cups of hot coffee stuck into the holders. A small paper bag dangled beneath the cardboard, and he could hear the paper packets of sweetener rustle as the liquid creamers sloshed in their little containers. His other hand held a waxed paper bag with two deli sandwiches.

She looked up at his words, one hand coming up to slowly remove her glasses. Already her face showed the strain, with tiny lines appearing on her normally smooth forehead. She placed her thumb on one temple and two fingers on the other, and as he watched, she dragged the fingers across the plane of her forehead, erasing the lines before his eyes. How did she do that? He smiled without realizing it, shaking his head at her quizzical expression. “Coffee,” he murmured, almost gruffly, but his hand reached out to steady hers as it shook imperceptibly.

He watched as the coffee was placed on the table, then he reached in the waxed bag and pulled out the sandwiches, passing one to her. She pushed it away, wrinkling her nose; he pushed it right back. “You have to eat. I can make it an order if necessary, but you will eat. You won’t help him if you aren’t strong enough to search.”

“You won’t let me search,” she snapped back. “I need to do something!”

“You are,” he said soothingly. “You’re doing all any of us can.” He gestured at the stack of folders on her table. “Have you found anything?”

“Hmmpf,” she grunted in frustration. “What do you think? As much of Priest’s life as we know is in there, but there’s nothing new.” She tore a pink packet of sweetener, strong but delicate fingers gently ripping one tiny corner. Then she shook the powder from the tear into the cup. Why did she even bother, he thought in bemusement. That small amount couldn’t possibly make a difference. And yet, it must, because as he watched she took a sip and a small sigh escaped her lips. “I can’t think of anything else to do except go talk to the mother.”

Skinner nodded. It was what he had expected. With thousands of miles of tunnels, pipelines, sewers, and the subway running beneath the city, they had a better chance of finding a needle in the proverbial haystack than they did of finding Mulder. Maybe the mother would know where her son liked to hide.

*****

Mulder woke again, aching everywhere. Legs, arms, wrists. The damaged knee throbbed. His chest was tight and when he lifted a hand to gingerly touch the sore spot on the back of his head, he could feel dried blood. His eyes were still closed and he was afraid to open them. Out there were the bodies, the rows and rows, and piles and piles of dead, rotting bodies. Bodies that had once been people — human beings with thoughts and dreams and families, hopes and fears and aspirations — people who had loved and fought and cried and laughed and now would never live again.

A sudden urge to cough caught him by surprise. His body shook as his chest sucked in air and then coughed it back out in one unending racking surge of pain. He coughed and coughed, then rolled onto his side, phlegm and bile coming up, out of his control. There was a bucket beside the cot, and he used it gratefully. Eyes open now, he looked around and realized he’d been moved. He wasn’t in the Sanctuary anymore. His chest ached, his skin felt hot, but he was cold and shaking. There was a terrible sense of loss that hovered just outside his grasp. He’d lost something very important and he didn’t know how to find it.

Sam came to him, as if in a dream and slowly extended a hand. Mulder reached out, grasping the offering, and he was gently tugged to his feet. And then they were moving.

He was pulled through the tunnels, limping on the injured knee. Down and over and across they went, Sam holding his hand tightly. He had a vision of a small child, dark-haired and bright-eyed, clinging to his hand like this while deep voices yelled in the night. Sam continued to pull him, holding tightly like he was afraid, even as he led the way. Mulder knew that before, he had always been the strong one, the one who put his own fears and weaknesses aside to provide for others, to do what had to be done. He knew that he had often taken the unpopular road, but that it had been the right road for him.

They reached the Sanctuary and he gasped. There was light in here, but just a little bit, coming from a small lantern that rested on a rickety old table. He stared at the table, fascinated and repulsed at the same time by the mold that clung to the rotted wood. Everything in this room held a fetid fascination for him — the bodies, the scant furnishings, the heavy air itself. He shivered, arms coming up to hug himself. Why was this so familiar, almost comfortable to him? And yet, the very nature of his surroundings turned his stomach and made him weak. How could he be part of this? And — how could he not?

Sam touched him, a small shake, then ordered, “Close your eyes,” and he complied at first, then peeked through lashes at the scene playing out before him. The images danced before his eyes, as clearly as if the light of day illuminated them. There was a girl, not moving. She lay by the bodies and watched them with dull, lifeless eyes. He looked into her face and realized with a shock that despite her stillness, despite the glazed-over expression, she was very aware of her surroundings. She was carefully watching as his brother approached. Sam spoke softly to her, and she continued to hold her head still, though her eyes moved carefully to follow him as he moved behind her.

Mulder watched, unsure of his role in this drama. He wanted to warn the girl, wanted to tell her to run, but that seemed at odds with what his brother had been telling him. He’d been searching for Sam for a long time — he knew that — and he didn’t want to lose him again.

Mulder blinked and looked away and the girl made a garbled sound. He jerked his eyes back around and there was something shiny around the girl’s mouth. Duct tape. Her eyes were no longer lifeless and dull; gone was the glazed-over look. Mulder stared as Sam pulled the tape, sticky and tight, all the way around the child’s head. He wound it round and round and Mulder could see as her hair got caught and pulled. She was screaming — but there wasn’t any sound coming out. She began to choke and cough, and as he watched, she gathered herself and the silent screams stopped as quickly as they had begun.

Mulder stared at the child, trying to imagine what she was thinking, how she was feeling. He felt himself waver, and realized he wasn’t breathing. As he watched, the girl furrowed her brow and concentrated on getting air into her lungs through her nose. Mulder drew a deep breath and felt tears prick at his eyes. The girl wasn’t crying yet, but she was on the verge of it. He could see the tears hovering in the corners of her eyes. He jerked as he suddenly felt something hot slide down his own cheek. A single tear.

The girl tried to run but Sam pulled her back by her arm, hard, jerking her back against him. He held her tightly, forcing her to stand very still. His leg trapped her against the rotted wood of the old table. The lantern wobbled and threatened to fall, but Sam reached out and balanced it, then glanced back to see Mulder watching, but still not moving.

Sam held the child pressed against the table, wrapping layer after layer of the shiny silver tape around her wrists, around and around, until she couldn’t move her arms at all. Mulder tried to reach up and wipe the tear from his face, but his arms refused to obey. He looked down in confusion, then twitched as Sam picked the girl up, lifting her onto the table. She tried to kick him, thrashing her legs, but he was too strong, and Sam got her legs down and taped them together, too, twirling the tape around and around her ankles.

She twisted painfully, her eyes calling out to Mulder in fear. He couldn’t move — he was as immobilized as she, and his chest ached. Each breath was a struggle; the air seemed thick. His head throbbed and he was hot and cold at the same time. He stared at Sam, unable to move, unable to look away. The girl was trying to catch Sam’s attention, pleading with her eyes, but he refused to meet her gaze. He wouldn’t look at her eyes. Mulder could hear the other man muttering, “Not the eyes, never look them in the eyes.”

He kept walking back and forth, back and forth in front of the table, chanting, “You can do this,” repeating it over and over, “You can do this, something you can do, you can do this you can do this you can do this, this is something, something you can do, do this, do this, do this. Do this, do this, this this this.” He finally stopped pacing and went to the child. She tried to make a sound, but only the faintest “whuff” of air escaped. Mulder grunted, only slightly louder, and Sam turned to glance at him.

He moaned this time, straining against the invisible bonds that held him rooted in place. Sam lifted the girl, turning her over, and Mulder felt the rough wood against his chin as her face connected with the table. Sam grabbed her legs, and her shoes, impossibly small shoes, were pulled off. The sound they made as they hit the floor echoed in the chamber. Mulder’s vision blurred, and then Sam’s hands flashed in front of the girl’s face and a string, a shoelace, bit into her neck.

Mulder gasped, choking, as he strained to breathe. The lace pulled tighter and tighter, cutting into the skin. He could feel it cutting off the air, felt the veins in his neck straining and exploding against the string that his brother — his own brother! — was pulling slowly, inexorably into him, into his skin. He tried to breathe, pulling in huge gulps of the fetid air, but it seemed devoid of the oxygen he needed so desperately.

The girl’s eyes were wide, silently screaming at him, the silence loud in his ears, almost drowning out the steady chant of “you can do this you can do this,” that echoed in the chamber. He opened his mouth, lifted his nostrils and saw the girl mimic his movements, but there was no air to be had. His heart was pounding in his chest; her heart was pounding — he could hear it fill the room. The blood was rushing to his ears now, drowning the chant, as if his ears were pressed against a concrete highway. He strained to listen to the sound of the wheels on the concrete, the seams making a rhythmic thump, thump, thump, and then his lungs went empty.

*****

“Where is she?” Scully strained to see over the much taller, mostly male swarm that stood between her and the hospital room. She used elbows and a determined stride to push her way to the front. Skinner, though he would easily have been able to move the crowd, wisely followed in her wake.

As Scully reached out to grab the knob to the door, it opened before her touch. A small Asian man stood there, metal chart in his hand. He made no move to close the door, but it was clear he wasn’t letting anyone in, either.

“Doctor,” Scully began, “I’m Special Agent Dana Scully of the FBI.” She tilted her head at the tall man next to her. “This is Assistant Director Walter Skinner.” The doctor nodded for her to continue. “We believe the girl in there may have information concerning the whereabouts of my partner …”

The man gestured easily, made a “shooing” gesture with his free hand, then reached back and shut the door. “And who are all the rest of these people?” he asked quietly.

“Locals,” Skinner said shortly.

“And who has jurisdiction?” The doctor looked worn, as if he’d worked too many hours and seen too many things. It was a look that they’d all worn many times.

“We do.” Skinner turned and spoke quietly to Nowak. “Can’t you clear these people out?”

The detective nodded and the crowd began to thin, but not without some disgruntled murmurs.

“Can we speak to the girl, please?” Scully’s frustration was barely concealed and Skinner was willing to bet that if he touched her, her skin would be vibrating. However, he wasn’t about to test that theory — not at the moment.

“No.” The doctor’s reply was succinct and seemed to brook no discussion.

“Who are you? And who do you report to?” Scully was apparently over the niceties and had gone straight to blunt.

“I’m Doctor Cho, and you’ll have trouble finding someone above me to appeal to.”

“Would it help you to know that I am a medical doctor?” Scully offered a tight smile. “It is critical that we talk to this child.”

“Maybe,” the doctor agreed, “but I think it is even more critical that she be allowed to sleep. She’s exhausted, malnourished, and has been through God knows what. She’s got bruises all over her body, it was obvious she’s been choked — the ligature mark is quite clear — and she was covered in duct tape when she got here. It was in her hair, on her wrists and hands, arms, legs, ankles. Whoever freed her, or however she was freed, the tape was cut and so was the child.” The doctor took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. “Now, I’m sure you need to talk to her, or there wouldn’t be so many of you here, but,” he paused, staring into Scully’s ice blue eyes implacably, “she needs to sleep.”

Scully opened her mouth to speak, but Skinner’s hand was on her arm. “When can we speak with her, Sir?” Skinner had been right — Scully was vibrating, the muscles in her arm twitched beneath his fingers.

“Let her sleep until she wakes. We haven’t located any parents, so I’ve had Youth Services notified. Someone will be here to look out for the girl.” He looked up at the big man, then met Scully’s eyes with compassion. “When they arrive, and she wakes up, then you can talk to her.” He shook his head sadly. “Try to remember — she’s been through hell.”

*****

The woman reached out and brushed his hair out of his eyes. It was reminiscent of his mother’s touch, but it was charged with a respect, a sense of deep commitment, that had never been in his mother’s touch. Or at least it hadn’t been there since Sam disappeared. He strained to see her, this mysterious woman who soothed his fevered brow, but she was shrouded in shadow, hidden somewhere in his mind that he couldn’t access. He knew she was small. He reached up and took her hand gently, turning it in his own large hand. Tiny really, this hand, but he could see it was strong. Strong and capable. She let him hold her hand for a moment, then slowly pulled away. He whimpered, bereft at the loss of her touch, but she was there again, a cup of cool water being offered and he drank greedily, parched lips cracking as he opened his mouth.

“There,” said a deep voice. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

He blinked rapidly, trying to chase the fog from his mind, then scanned the room. He was in the smaller chamber, the one away from all the bodies. “What …?” he choked out.

“You’re still sick,” Sam said.

Mulder nodded, grateful for the water, but aware that something wasn’t right. He closed his eyes and images of the room full of bodies came back to him. Surely he couldn’t have done that? Though Sam had told him that they worked together — killing people wasn’t work, was it? He struggled to make it fit in his head. There were huge gaps, places that he just couldn’t seem to access. Sam had disappeared — he was sure of that. It had turned his mother hard and cold. But there was the other woman, the small but strong woman from his dream. He was sure she was real. But who was she? And where was she?

His head still ached and his chest was tight. It felt full of fluid and breathing hurt. He looked over at Sam. ” ‘nother aspirin?” he asked, and then swallowed the pills thankfully.

“Still not feeling yourself?” Sam asked solicitously.

Mulder had another image of a girl, bound and struggling on a table in the Sanctuary room. What had happened? Had he killed her? “The girl,” he asked. “Wha’ happened?”

Sam’s face grew thunderous and the hands that had so gently held the water for him clenched into fists. Murderous rage engulfed his face and Mulder tried to shrink into invisibility. “She must have kicked me somehow,” he spat out. “Knocked me out. When I woke up, she was gone.” A sliver of drool slid unnoticed out of Sam’s mouth, and he began to pace, Mulder’s presence suddenly forgotten. “Can do this can do this can do this can do this…”

It went on without ceasing for what seemed like hours. Mulder’s temples throbbed and he shook his head. One arm came up to rest across his eyes and he let himself drift back off to sleep.

–o0o–

Part 2 – Self Unknown

Scully stepped quietly into the room, smiling at the suspicious eyes that watched her every move. “I’m Dana Scully,” she said quietly, taking another three steps into the room.

“Youth Services or cop?” Hardened eyes stared at her from beneath clean sheets.

Scully laughed. “Neither.” She reevaluated her estimate of the child’s age. She was older than her slight stature indicated. “FBI — you heard of us?”

The girl grunted. “Uneducated don’t mean stupid.” She paused. “Yeah — I know the FBI.”

“What’s your name?” Scully waited patiently while the girl studied her.

Finally, the child shrugged. “Not important.”

Scully’s eyebrows arched. “Why?”

The girl shrugged again. “It just isn’t. Not now.” She tilted her head and stared at Scully. “You’re here for him, aren’t you?”

“Him?”

The girl nodded. “The man …”

“The man that had you?” Scully stepped to a chair by the bed and gestured. The girl nodded and she sat. “The man … how did you get away?”

Tears sprung to the girl’s eyes and she looked away for a moment. “It was bad — scary. I thought the crazy dude was gonna do me.” She lifted a hand and swiped angrily at her cheeks. She turned back, staring at Scully. “But he’s not the one you care about.”

Scully waited in silence.

“You’re here for the other one — the one that let me go.”

Scully’s heart leapt in her chest. Mulder! “The other man, do you know where he is?”

The girl shrugged — a favorite form of communication.

“Please — he helped you. You’ve got to help him.” Scully would plead or cry or beg or anything else the girl wanted if it would help her find Mulder.

But the child was through talking. She rolled to her side and closed both eyes. Scully waited in silence for over an hour, but the child never moved. At last, she rose and headed for the door.

When she had one hand on the knob, there was a slight whisper from the bed.

“Tell him thank you.”

*****

Skinner looked at her. She was sleeping, at last. It had taken every bit of persuasion he had, and he hadn’t really been able to get her to go to bed, but at least she was sleeping. She’d been awake for over twenty-four hours, pushing herself and everyone who had the misfortune to come near her. Agents and NYPD continued the searches in the miles of tunnels. Data experts were pulling records on Priest, his mother, his father. Another team was researching missing people from the city, though God knows New York lost enough people each year that finding a connection there was a long shot. Yet another team was in the process of interviewing anyone who had known Priest or his family, at any time.

Skinner had moved into Mulder’s room at the hotel. All the data they had gathered so far was there, and it adjoined Scully’s room, so he could keep an eye on his other agent. Hopefully he’d be able to keep her from working herself into exhaustion.

He’d had dinner sent up, but she’d only picked at it. Her eyes had been shadowed and there were deep furrows on her forehead. She’d been working at the laptop, researching properties to see what Priest owned. He’d made her switch from coffee to tea — herbal tea — hours ago, and the lack of caffeine finally seemed to have caught up with her. She’d been sitting at the desk, her upper arm lying alongside the laptop, her head resting in her hand. And as he watched, she’d slowly slipped down, until now she slept, her head resting on her arm, her hand curled over her ear.

He leaned back in the chair, long legs stretched out before him and slowly toed off his shoes. He stared at Scully again, then removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache that had been threatening for hours had finally settled between his eyes. He rubbed his temples, then dropped his hands to his shoulders, kneading the tight muscles, mentally forcing himself to relax. His head rolled back and he closed his eyes, trying to put aside his fear for Mulder long enough to think clearly. There had to be something here that they were missing. Scully wasn’t going to let any of them quit until they found it.

He forced his head back up, studying his slumbering agent. She couldn’t be comfortable — back bent at an odd angle, neck twisted to one side of the laptop, arm weighted down by her head, and her hand sticking up in the air. He shook his head. She needed rest. She needed to sleep for hours — comfortably — so that she could wake up and attack the problem of the missing Mulder with a clear head and renewed energy.

Slowly, he pulled himself out of the too-small chair and walked over to her. He stood there a moment, weighing the danger of what he was about to do. A quick scan of the room showed her holster and gun laid neatly on the dresser. Good — at least she couldn’t shoot him. He leaned over and scooped her up in one fluid motion, his muscles bulging slightly as he shifted her against his chest, her head turning to nestle into his shoulder. She curled against him and murmured something into his shirt.

“Hmmm?” he asked quietly as he laid her down on the bed and pulled the extra blanket over her. She’d be more comfortable out of that suit, but even without the gun, he wasn’t about to risk undressing her. He did slip off her shoes and tuck the blanket in around her.

She grabbed the blanket, clutching it to herself and murmured again. “Mulder …”

“Shhhh,” he said. “Sleep now. We’ll find him.”

*****

She could see him. She was running through the tunnels, calling his name, but he would not stop. He darted to the left and she charged ahead, ignoring the pain in her side, breathing hard as she skidded around the turn in time to see him disappear up a ladder. She slowed, took a couple of deep breaths and then bounded up the ladder. She took one quick peek to see if it was clear and then pulled herself through the hole.

“Mulder!” She turned frantically, desperate not to lose him and there he was. Standing, almost waiting for her, down the concrete tunnel. He waved her back, one finger over his lips in the international signal for silence, then he turned and ran again.

“Arrogant prick.” The words were out of her mouth even as she took off after him. “Thinks he can protect me — keep me out of the chase …”

She took the next turn too fast and came down hard on her left side, knocking the wind from her lungs. She lay there a moment, gasping and then hands were pulling her to her feet.

“Leave me alone,” she snarled. “I’m all …” She turned, expecting Mulder to be holding her, but it wasn’t Mulder. It was Priest. And Mulder was tied to a grate at the end of the tunnel. How the hell did Priest tie him up so fast?

She let herself go limp, expecting to surprise Priest, but he surprised her. He let her go completely and she dropped heavily to the floor. She tried to roll, to pull her weapon, but before she could complete the action, his foot lanced out, caught the side of her head, and blackness stole her away.

She felt wet when she came to. Mulder was screaming, still tied to the grate. She was tied, too, to some pipe or iron bar that bisected the tunnel. Rank, untreated sewage had filled the tunnel to the halfway point. Priest stood in the filth, the knife in his hand as he methodically cut out pieces of Mulder’s flesh.

“Stop! Stop!” She struggled futilely against her bonds as the water continued to rise. Mulder’s screams were hoarse, incoherent, and his eyes were filled with agony.

“You can’t save him,” Priest taunted, “and you can’t save yourself. But until you go, you can watch.” He looked at Mulder, then reached out and grabbed his face. “But he won’t be able to see a thing…”

She watched in horror as he lifted a brand and began to work on Mulder’s right eye.

“Noooooooo!” The scream was ripped from her lips. “Nooooooo…”

“Scully!” Skinner pulled her up in the bed, shaking her. When he’d first realized she was dreaming, he’d tried speaking softly, calling her name, but she just wasn’t responding. Now he tried yelling, some very firm manhandling, and he was rewarded with frightened blue eyes staring up at him in panic. “Scully,” he repeated with slightly less volume, “you’re all right. You’re safe — it was just a dream.”

“Just a dream …” She shuddered, pulled out of his hands and tried to stand. Her legs buckled and he caught her, forcing her back to the bed.

“Sit,” he ordered, holding her in place a minute longer. He moved quickly to the sink to fill a glass with water. “Here. Drink.” He held the cup out, wrapping his hand around hers as it trembled and the water spilled onto her lap. She took two small sips, nodded, and passed the glass back to him. She was still shaking, so he pulled the blanket around her, relieved to see she was alert enough to catch the edge and pull it tight. “It was just a dream,” he said again. “You’re all right.”

“Oh, God …” Her voice was tremulous. She lifted both her hands and dry washed her face, then rubbed sandpapery eyes with the heels of her palms before pulling the blanket back around her. Her eyes were vivid blue, dark circles enhancing the color, as she stared at him. “We have to find him,” she said. “We have to find him soon.”

Skinner nodded, and this time, when she began to shake, he sat next to her and pulled her close.

*****

“There she goes!” Scully whispered to Skinner. “She’s heading into that tunnel.” She leapt to her feet, Skinner at her side. “Don’t let her get away.”

The girl had been released to Youth Services and then placed in foster care from which she had promptly run. Scully felt guilty, but it had only taken two days in foster care for the girl to bail. She and Skinner had been waiting, ready to follow her back to the shadowy underworld that was obviously her home.

Skinner spoke into the radio he carried, notifying the search teams they were moving. Even as he and Scully got ready to follow the girl, there were several teams of FBI and NYPD combing the underground, searching once more for Priest’s stronghold — and for the missing Agent Mulder.

They followed swiftly into the concrete pipe. Not far in, there was a bolthole, the plywood cover still slightly askew. She pulled a flashlight, looked at Skinner, who nodded, and they were through. The small storage room had yet another hole, this one dropping to a chamber beneath it and they both dropped down again.

Skinner held the small receiver, the blinking light leading them after the transmitter in the girl’s new clothing. They followed for several hundred yards, and the tunnel began to curve and narrow. Forced to crawl on hands and knees, Scully glanced back to see the big AD scrunched down so far, she was amazed he wasn’t just lying on his stomach and shimmying along. There was no sign of the girl in front of them, but the receiver still blinked rhythmically.

The concrete ended and they were crawling through actual earth. Dirt and rock crumbled with every movement. Broken roots snaked out of the earth, sometimes dangling in front of her, sticking to her face like cobwebs. It was hard to breathe. The farther she went, the less air there was. What little air was there was stale and rancid, burning her lungs and adding to the ache in her chest.

Fur brushed against her hand and she flung the flashlight, missing the rat and sending the batteries flying. The sudden darkness surprised her. Terror exploded inside her chest. Frantically, she groped for the flashlight, fistfuls of moldy dirt picked up and discarded. “Easy, Scully.” The AD’s voice was calming. “What happened?”

“Rat,” she said shortly. She had one battery, now another. “Surprised me.” She groped blindly, afraid to move, afraid not to.

“All right,” Skinner replied. “What are you doing now?”

“Batteries.” Ah, there was the third one. Please, please, let it work. She wasn’t even sure they’d be able to turn around in the narrow, twisted space. And she didn’t even want to think about backing all the way out.

She screwed the flashlight together, the beeping of the receiver echoing the beating of her heart. Nothing. She smacked the light against her palm, tightened it, and smacked it again. Light. Thank God. She drew a deep breath, then coughed. Now she was gasping for air. Had the darkness sucked out all the air?

” ‘kay, now?” Skinner asked. He’d waited patiently through her search, though with his size, and the cramped confines, there wasn’t much else he could have done.

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, getting some of her equanimity back. She returned to the task at hand, crawling faster. The tunnel narrowed even more, and she heard the AD drop to his belly. She was barely able to move, and she could hear Skinner’s elbows scrape as he moved along, propelling off his toes like a swimmer pushing against the current.

How far had they come? How much further could it possibly be? How could this child live like this, clawing her way through dirt and debris to reach some inner shelter in the New York underground? Weren’t there clean ways to access the tunnels? Concrete and steel — anything that didn’t involve lying on your belly in the dirt? Other than the scratches of rat claws and the susurrus sound of dirt raining in the AD’s wake, there was silence. The receiver’s blinking light cast eerie shadows on the shifting earth.

This was nuts, absolutely crazy. She couldn’t make it, couldn’t breathe. How was Skinner able to even move in this cramped space? She forced herself forward again — Mulder was out there somewhere. It had been three days, three impossibly long days, and her exhaustion was topped only by her fear. She’d been paralyzed, unable to do anything but sit and wait. But now — by God, she was doing something now. Her lungs burned, ready to explode any second. The dirt clung to her. Sandpaper scratched her eyes and throat. Her mouth was dry, the taste of rot and death gagging her. The walls narrowed still more, and she heard the AD grunt as they scraped against his skin. She could hear rips and tears — her clothing, Skinner’s clothing, sometimes the big man’s skin, catching on pieces of rock, wood, maybe even animal bones sticking out of the dirt walls.

How much further? Was it a trap? Had she missed something back in the beginning where the tunnel now seemed to have been so huge? Where she had walked, crouched low, but still upright? Could the girl have turned off into another passage and they missed it? That would explain why she couldn’t see or hear the child up ahead. What if this tunnel led to a dead end, a wall of dirt?

Just as she was certain she could go no farther, the flashlight caught on a sliver of glittering white up ahead. Bones. Animal? Or human? They clogged the tunnel. Despite her training, Scully gagged as she realized skin — human skin — still clung to some of the bones. She was almost ready to turn back, convinced this couldn’t be the place, when she heard it — a tortured, strangled cry that pierced the air for a single, solitary second, then faded quickly into oblivion. In one last mad rush of panic, she clawed, pushed, tore, and dug her way through the pile of bones that thickened into bodies. At first, she thought she was coming up in a cemetery, rising from the ground like a corpse among the tombstones. But there were no tombstones. Instead, there were bodies. A seemingly unending stream of bodies in all stages of decomposition. And, less than 10 feet away, lay Mulder, Priest hovering over him like some black Angel of Death. She screamed, “Mulder!” and felt Skinner push past her even as she clambered to her feet. Priest turned startled eyes on her, seemingly amazed that someone dared to breach the security of his Sanctuary. Then, smiling calmly, he slammed his foot into her partner’s face and turned and raced away.

–o0o–

Part 3 – Self Unknown

“I don’t want to do this.” Mulder was standing, but barely. His legs shook and his chest ached. If he could just get some air … He knew he needed to watch Sam’s — Priest’s — eyes, but they were hidden beneath the brim of a ball cap, shaded behind colored glasses. How he could even see in this gloom was just — impossible. Then Mulder remembered — Priest didn’t need to see. He knew every inch, every nook, every cranny down here. He was the underground.

“You don’t have a choice,” Priest snapped. “You were chosen, just as I was.”

“It’s not right — I don’t do this.” Mulder wheezed in the foul air and then choked as he was racked by coughing. “I don’t hurt people — I help them.” He bent double, coughing again. Pneumonia — it had to be pneumonia. “I … I …” He looked up as a barrier broke in his mind and a sudden smile crossed his face. “I’m a cop. I don’t kill — I hunt killers.”

He felt fevered, jumpy, suddenly very uncomfortable about the declaration he’d just made. But, damn, it had all just swept over him, like a wave.

Sam — his sister — not this monster.

Scully, his partner, the one who’d been by his side for years now. He coughed and shivered, one huge, body-shaking motion. She was going to kill him for taking off on her like this. And kill him again for getting sick. For some reason, she took his illnesses and injuries very personally, as if they were an affront to her medical skills.

He shivered again, lost in his memories of a compact redhead, fiery hair, fiery temper. He almost missed the first movement, but something caught his eye and he looked over at Priest.

Priest moved slowly — that was what surprised Mulder — the slow, even graceful moves that Priest made as he leaned over and reached down into the mass of bodies.

Mulder wasn’t sure if he saw the knife or felt it first. It happened so fast — yet it was all in slow motion. So much was unclear but the individual details stood out in stark relief.

Priest turned — he bent — he lifted the knife. And then he glided across the floor. Mulder was almost willing to bet the man’s feet never touched the ground. One minute he was ten feet away, the next he was just — there.

Priest’s arm came up — the knife flashed in the dim lantern light — and then it came down, biting viciously into his tender flesh. Mulder went down, landing heavily on his butt, eyes wide with shock as he stared at the river of blood that began to flow from his arm. His vision blurred; he struggled not to start coughing. If he gave in to the coughing fit he knew was coming — he’d be dead. He scuttled backwards like a crab, trying to bear the most weight on his good arm, but before he got three feet, he hit a wall.

Priest’s arm came up again, slashing wildly on the down stroke, and he felt something in his chest give way. There were two — or was it three? — more strikes before he gave in and coughed, blood erupting from his mouth in a thin mist. It was scarlet, the brightest color in this place of dark and gloom. When he reached up to wipe his chin, it was blood warm.

The knife came down again, and all he could think of was Scully. She loved him — she said so — and he left her, and now he was going to die. She wouldn’t even know where his body was. She might not ever know he was really dead. He gathered his strength — just the thought of Scully rallied him — and he was more prepared for the next strike. His arm came up, pushing back, and Priest was taken by surprise. Mulder grabbed the blade, feeling it bite deeply into his palm, yet he refused to let go. A twist, a yank, he rolled, pulling Priest with him, the blade separating from the hilt. It was buried in his hand, but, he thought smugly, at least Priest couldn’t use it on him anymore.

He was coughing again now, more blood was coming up. He knew the lantern was dying because the light in the room was fading. He felt something hard, and heavy, connect with his head, and his hands went up of their own volition. He could feel the blade imbedded in his palm scrape against his scalp as he tried frantically to protect himself from Priest’s blows. He tried to roll again, and could just make out Priest, holding — holding a human bone — one of many from the piles around them.

The bone came down again and he felt bones break in his hands, small bones, little bones, giving beneath the larger bone that assaulted them. Again and again the large bone pounded down, torturing his hands and fingers. There was a high-pitched sound coming from somewhere, something that was a cross between a scream and a whimper. It took him a moment to realize it came from him. He tried to draw a breath, choking on the blood that filled his throat and mouth; then there was a sound of shattering as the large bone broke, tiny shards of human bone raining down upon him.

When would it stop, he wondered idly. The warm red of his breath continued to light the air and he rolled again, still trying to get away. “Stop — stop,” he cried breathlessly. “Don’t …”

Something connected again — a fist maybe? This time the world went dark for a moment. He lost track of time, and when the light came on again — an instant later? — Priest’s hands were around his neck, fingernails gouging into the skin.

“Bastard, bastard, bastard…” Priest was chanting.

Mulder clawed feebly at Priest’s hands with his own broken, useless fingers. The knife in his hand pushed deeper with each tortured move he made. He struggled, fighting to keep Priest’s hands from rising up and reaching his eyes. He pushed, straining with what little reserves he had, and then — he began to cough. Huge racking coughs from deep within his damaged lungs. The cough turned into vomit, the bright blood pouring out. Priest pushed back from him in disgust.

Priest leaned against the wall, regaining his balance, and then his foot came out, methodically stamping on Mulder’s chest with the heel of his sturdy work boots. The hilt of the broken knife appeared, as if by magic, falling onto his chest, under the foot that would not stop. Priest’s foot came down, again and again, as if he were trying to destroy it, but he only succeeded in driving it deep into Mulder’s abdomen.

Mulder heard a sound in the distance, someone calling his name, and Priest looked around, startled. He grunted, then went to work on Mulder’s face, the heel of his boot raining down blows on him with the callous indifference of a jackhammer. Mulder lost consciousness again, but not for long enough. He came to all too soon, pain exploding in a kaleidoscope of agony. When he was aware again, he could see Priest heading for the bolthole. Then Skinner was there, pushing past Scully, inserting himself between her and Priest as Priest vanished down the hole. Skinner’s gun was drawn and Mulder could make out the clear indecision on his face as he struggled between chasing Priest and tending his injured agent. He was suddenly aware that there were bits of teeth loose in his mouth, he was covered in blood, and lying in his own urine. Scully was there, though, and he didn’t care about any of that — only that he could see her, and touch her, and hear her voice one more time.

“Oh, Mulder,” she said, her voice infinitely soft, infinitely sad.”

” ‘m sry,” he mumbled, as her hand came out, as if to seal his lips to silence, but afraid to touch.

“Shhh,” she whispered, and he could see the look of worry she gave Skinner. The AD was on a radio, or phone, or something, giving orders, and Mulder was inordinately pleased that their boss was there to take care of Scully, to keep her safe from Priest. “Paramedics will be here any minute,” she murmured, her hand coming out to stroke his face, and again pulling back as if there were no place safe to touch. “Hang on just a bit longer.”

“Cnt brth,” he gasped. “Wnt to pas out, ‘n ‘m ‘wake.”

“Where the hell are they?” Scully sputtered, piercing Skinner with a look.

The older man knelt, folding the radio into a pocket as he gestured. “They’re here.”

Mulder reached up, grabbing the AD, one corner of his mind surprised to see Skinner’s shirt wasn’t crisp and white. The mud and blood he deposited there fit in with the dirt already collected during Skinner’s search through the tunnels. “Prst – go!” The damage to his mouth made talking so difficult.

Skinner shook his head. “No — we’re getting you out. We’ll find Priest later.”

Scully was there, taking charge, giving orders, as the paramedics loaded him onto a gurney. He heard, “Get the IV in,” and there was a small stick.

“Mrph — ‘n?” he asked hopefully.

Scully shook her head. “Shhh – don’t talk. Try to stay awake. We’ll do something for the pain as soon as we can.” She fiddled with something — Scully in doctor mode — and then, despite his best efforts to stay awake for Scully, he felt the pain recede and his eyelids grew heavy and at last, he could sleep.

*****

“The lung was pierced in three places. Seven broken fingers. Twelve stitches on his left tricep. His face is a mess. I can’t begin to count the injuries there. The wound on the back of his head should have been stitched. It wasn’t, and it’s infected to boot. Seventeen stitches across his right palm — he was lucky there wasn’t nerve damage.” Scully ticked off Mulder’s injuries as she paced outside the ICU. Skinner sat quietly, listening. “They removed a blade from his hand, and a knife hilt, probably the one that matches the blade in his hand, had to be surgically removed from his abdomen. Again, he was lucky he didn’t lose his spleen. He’s wrenched his knee, possibly torn the meniscus.” She paused, glaring at Skinner. “And, he has pneumonia!”

There really wasn’t anything to say. Skinner looked at Scully, trying to decide if she wanted him to comment or if silence was the best option. Watching her pace, he wasn’t sure. She was definitely angry; he knew it wasn’t at him, but then again, if he said something, she might just redirect the anger at him anyway, and he really didn’t want that. But — if she was looking for a response, she could get angry with him for not saying anything. He sighed, thinking that his ineptitude in handling this type of situation was why Sharon had wanted a divorce.

He looked up. She was standing still now, staring at him. What had he done? He cast back frantically, trying to remember if he’d said something out loud. The sigh — that had to be it. He’d sighed and attracted her attention. Now she was waiting for him to — to what? He looked up at her in confusion, then shook his head. This was ridiculous. He was an Assistant Director at the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and he could certainly carry on a conversation with one of his agents about the other one. “Is he awake?” he asked carefully.

She snorted. “Hardly.” She glanced over at the closed door, then turned back to him. “He doesn’t do well under anesthetic. They had to put him under to repair his belly wound and fix the collapsed lung.”

Just then the door swung open and a woman walked out. “I’m Dr. Morrison,” she said. “You’re here for the FBI agent, right?”

Scully nodded as Skinner said, “He’s my agent. I’m Walter Skinner — with the Bureau.”

“Does he have family?” Scully paled visibly at the woman’s words.

“His mother. She’s not well and can’t travel. I’d rather not have to notify her, if it can be avoided.” Skinner frowned at the doctor and then took two steps to stand beside Scully.

The doctor nodded. “Well, he’s in pretty bad shape.” She looked at Scully. “I know the nurses have told you the extent of his injuries …”

“Is he going to be okay?” Scully cut the doctor’s words off.

“He’s pretty banged up. His hands and face are a mess. Stitches on both and he’s going to need work on his teeth — what’s left of them. The wound in his abdomen is going to be painful — belly wounds always are. And he’s got a chest tube in his lung.”

“What about his head — that gash on the back of his head?” Scully was obviously memorizing every word the woman said. “It should have been treated sooner.”

“Yes,” the doctor agreed. “We did a CT scan — nothing’s fractured. God knows why. With the beating he took, he came out remarkably well. Concussion, but that’s to be expected given the extent of the injuries to his face and head. That gash will be the least of his problems if we see a quick response to the antibiotics I’ve put him on. They’ll clear up the pneumonia as well.”

She looked down at a chart in her hand. “Wasn’t he just here being treated for …” She frowned. “What is this? He was in the sewer when they backwashed it? Got all that crap in his lungs?” She shook her head. “No wonder he has pneumonia. Oh, well, that should clear up with the meds.”

“When can he leave?”

Skinner looked quizzically at Scully. It wasn’t like her to be rushing to get Mulder out of a hospital — she was usually trying to keep him in one.

She smiled. “You know it’s going to be the first thing out of his mouth.” Her smile faltered but she straightened her back and crossed her arms across her chest. “Besides, I’ve decided I’ll have better luck keeping track of him if I take him home and keep him there.”

“He’s not going anywhere any time soon. I’d say we’re talking weeks, maybe a month. He’s facing some reconstruction for his mouth — have to talk to the oral surgeon about that. For now, we take it one day at a time. I’ll keep him on IV antibiotics for the next 48 hours, then we’ll see how he’s doing,” the doctor said. “He’s going to have some real pain with the belly, and he’s not going to be able to use his hands too well — not with all those broken bones and stitches. At least the thumbs weren’t broken; he’ll have some use because of that.” She looked at Scully. “I take it you’re going to be there to help?”

“I’m not going to be anywhere else.”

*****

“You’re here.” The words were a hoarse whisper.

“Where else would I be?” Scully rose and moved to stand by the bed, her hand placed gently on Mulder’s good arm.

“Look cute in scrubs. Brings out your eyes.” The words were slurred from the damaged teeth and mouth, but the meaning was clear.

“Flirt.” She smiled despite herself and looked down at the blue scrubs. Once she’d seen Mulder into surgery, she’d taken a quick shower and changed into whatever was handy. Skinner had offered to go and get her clothes, but she hadn’t bothered with it yet.

Mulder closed his eyes. “Hurts.”

“Shhh, I know.” She stepped to the door and motioned to the AD. “See when they’re going to bring him something for the pain,” she whispered. “It’s due.”

“When can I go home?”

She smiled to herself. It may not have been the first thing out of his mouth, but it was close. “You’re on the IV for at least 48 hours. And you have to get the chest tube out.” She stroked his hair. “You’ve got a lot of recuperating to do. And you’re still facing surgery.”

“Days?”

“I’d say we’re talking weeks, Mulder.”

“Hmmmpf.” He lifted one hand and cautiously scratched at the other.

“Does it itch?” When he nodded, she took his hand and rubbed between the bandages, paying special attention to where the tape met skin.

” ‘d you find Priest?” Mulder pulled back his right hand and passed it over the left for a good rub.

“Not yet. He bolted when we came in. You were in pretty bad shape …” She shuddered slightly and his eyes flew open.

“Worried ‘bout me?” He turned his hand so her smaller one rested in his larger, bandaged one.

“Always. I guess when I was telling you not to drown, I should have included don’t get stabbed, cut, hit on the head, knocked out, or sick.” She leaned down and rested her cheek against his. “I need you, partner.”

He smiled. It was hard to believe this was happening to him. Every touch was new, sending sparks through his body. Every word carried new meaning. Partner. That really was a nice word. He reached up and touched her hair with the back of his hand, a gentle touch that comforted him and made him feel stronger at the same time. He drew a breath, smelling a unique scent that was part soap, part hospital, and part Scully. He liked it. But … this wasn’t the time or place.

A nurse came in with a syringe and Scully pulled back, stepping out of the way. The nurse fiddled with his IV, and then he felt something warm rushing into his veins. Almost immediately, the pain began to recede, and he grew drowsy.

“Scully,” he murmured. She stepped back to his side. He could feel her desire to touch him again. It mirrored his own, but he was fading away and there was something he needed to say. He reached out and she took his hand, bringing it to her lips briefly. “Nice as this is, you know you have to go.”

“Where? We don’t know where to look for him.”

“Go talk to his mother.”

End Self Unknown

—xXx—

Title: Self Revealed 01/03 Author: Daydreamer Author E—mail: [email protected] Rating: NC—17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery Category: SAR — character exploration Spoilers: none Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; MSR Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from.

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer’s Den Http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113

Summary: Mulder’s profiling ability reveals the terrible toll it takes on him as the search for Priest continues.

–o0o–

Self Revealed

Part One

The drive to the old tenement building seemed to take forever. Skinner was pleased that Nowak had provided a driver — a taciturn, older man who remained silent, eyes focused on the road — but there was just no avoiding New York traffic. He and Scully discussed the case, discussed Mulder, but they were both tired and soon lapsed into a companionable silence.

He glanced over at her. Her head was down and she was reading a report that she held in one hand while she jotted notes with the other. She’d finally changed into the clothes he had retrieved from her motel room — a navy blue suit with a pale blue blouse. She looked professional, as always, but his eyes were drawn to her feet. Navy blue pumps with a heel — not a high heel, mind you — but a heel nonetheless. He’d always wondered how women managed to walk in those things.

He looked up to find her gazing at him, a puzzled expression on her face. He shrugged. “Women’s shoes,” he said. “I’ve never understood them.”

She arched an eyebrow and looked down at her feet. “If society dictates it long enough and hard enough, you can get used to anything.”

He nodded then looked at his own sturdy, flat-soled shoes. “Still, if I have to run, I’d rather be wearing these.”

She laughed, then quickly put her pen and papers away as their driver announced, “This is it.” As Skinner and Scully climbed out of the car, he added, “I’ll wait here.”

The apartment was run-down, decaying, with boards over some windows and others that gaped open to the elements. The front stoop was occupied by several old men, swathed in multiple layers of dirty clothes as protection from the cold. Skinner shivered inside his trench coat and wished he’d brought his heavier winter coat when he’d first come up, as he knocked. Hard to believe there would be this much difference in the weather just four hours north, but the cool, late autumn days in DC were cold, pre-winter days in New York.

“Mrs. Priest?”

“I’m busy,” the woman said shortly. She had a hard face, made harder by the severe steel-gray bun that was pulled up tightly on her head. “I’m Assistant Director Walter Skinner of the FBI.” Skinner held up his credentials, then gestured at Scully. “This is Special Agent Dana Scully. We have some questions for you. May we come in?”

“You got a warrant or something?” The woman held the door cracked and Scully could feel the heat rolling out of the opening.

Skinner looked at Scully and didn’t bother to sigh. “No, we don’t. But we can get one. And if you force me to go that route, I can assure you, it will be for more than just a few questions.” Skinner narrowed his eyes, giving Mrs. Priest his best AD glare. “If I have to get a warrant, I’m going to take your place apart.”

“I don’t like cops in my home.” It was said with a whine but she opened the door. She pointed at the mat on the floor. “You wipe your feet. Wipe your dirty cop feet and don’t track on my floors.”

Scully stepped onto the mat and wiped her feet dutifully. It gave her another moment to study the woman before her. The woman was gray, gray-haired, gray-eyed, even gray skinned. The heat pouring out of the house vents was making Scully uncomfortably warm. Just looking at the heavy corduroy pants and flannel shirt the woman wore increased her discomfort.

Scully took one step forward, as far as she could move with the woman blocking her way. She felt Skinner move onto the mat behind her. She had to suppress a smile as she thought of how the three of them must look, crammed into the tiny foyer this way.

“Close the door,” the woman barked. “You’re costing me a fortune, just letting the heat pour out like that.”

Skinner moved forward an inch to close the door and was rammed up against Scully’s back. Mrs. Priest still stood glowering, arms folded across her chest. “Ask. You got questions, then ask.”

“It’s a bit tight in here, Mrs. Priest. Maybe we could go to the living room?”

“Hmmmph,” the woman grunted. “You be fast. I got housework to do.” But she yielded, turning grudgingly to lead them down the hall to a tiny living room.

“He’s done something, hasn’t he?” The words were spoken in a scathing tone, dripping with disgust.

“He?” Scully asked as she walked down a plastic runner in the hall to the neat living room.

“Fenton. He’s the only reason you could be here.”

“When did you last see your son, Mrs. Priest?” Scully scanned the room as she listened to the woman tell them she hadn’t seen him in years. The room was spotless — painfully clean with not an item out of place. The sofa and single chair were slicked with clear plastic. The books on the shelves were aligned perfectly, all the same size, with spines marching together like well-trained soldiers. In addition to the plastic on the sofa, the lamps each bore a plastic covering on their shade. The windows were draped in a dark material, completely shrouding the windows but for a single thin crack. The inch-wide slit let in the only light.

The tables, windowsills, and mantle all were crammed with dust catchers, but there was no dust. As antiseptically neat as this place was, Scully imagined any mote of dust that dared enter would soon be running in fear for its life. While institutionally clean, there was nothing about the place that felt like a home.

Skinner took up a position by the drapes, planting himself firmly and nodded in Scully’s direction. She perched gingerly on the slippery plastic, digging her heels into the carpet as surreptitiously as she could to keep from sliding onto the floor. “We need to talk to you about your son, Mrs. Priest.” Scully looked politely at the woman and waited. When she didn’t answer, didn’t even look her way, Scully asked again. “Do you understand, Mrs. Priest? We need to talk about your son.”

“I understand you’re here in my home unwanted and you’re keeping me from my work.” She turned slowly to meet Scully’s eyes. “Get on with it.”

Scully exchanged a quick glance with Skinner. While psychological evaluations were more Mulder’s province, she was growing increasingly convinced that Mrs. Priest wasn’t playing with a full deck. “You said you haven’t seen Fenton in years? How many years?”

She shrugged, cold eyes playing back and forth between them. “Since he moved out.”

Scully swallowed hard, biting back the quick flash of rage. This woman might be able to give them a hint — a clue, for god’s sake — and it was like pulling teeth just to get a straight answer out of her.

“When did he move out?” The words were bit off, spit out through clenched teeth.

“He used to go with his father, go down in the tunnels.” The woman shuddered slightly, eyes dropping to stare at the floor as she picked at her shirt. “I didn’t like it.”

“Didn’t like what?”

“It was dirty.” She shuddered again.

Scully made a fist and grit her teeth. She was about to start asking questions in a slightly different manner if this dizzy old bat didn’t straighten up and give her something she could use. She started to rise and was surprised to find Skinner’s hand on her shoulder. “Why did his father take him?” the big man asked quietly.

“He wanted to.” The woman shrugged again. “It bothered the boy at first, but …”

“Why did you let him go if it bothered him?”

The gray eyes looked at him. The hard, angry gaze had been replaced with puzzlement.

“Because his father wanted it.” She said it as if it explained everything. When Skinner just looked at her, she went on. “He needed Fenton.”

“But Fenton didn’t like the tunnels?” Skinner was feeling a bit frustrated now, but he drew a deep breath and pushed on. “Fenton didn’t like the tunnels but he had to go?”

“It was punishment. When Fenton was bad, his father took him to the tunnels.” She closed her eyes now as if she were pushing away a bad dream. “He’d come home crying, making a mess …”

“Did he hurt the boy?”

The woman shuddered again, a slight quiver across her frame. “It wasn’t my business. My husband took care of that. It was my job to meet my husband’s needs. To keep a clean house.” She looked around at the spotless room. “You’re keeping me from my housework.”

“Weren’t you worried about what your husband was doing to your son in the tunnels?” Scully couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. “He was your son; he didn’t like to go, but you let your husband force him. Didn’t you care about that?”

“I gave birth to him, didn’t I?” She leaned forward angrily. “I carried him inside me for nine months, let him stretch my body all apart. I birthed him in pain and blood, and did what I was supposed to. I kept him clean, kept him fed, got up in the middle of the night when he squalled. I cleaned up after him.” Her face had shifted from gray to red and she rose, strode to the bookcase and attacked it with a tattered dust rag. “Nothing dirtier than that boy. I worked my fingers to the bone keeping this house clean with that boy here.”

“Mrs. Priest, did your husband abuse your son?” Skinner’s voice was hard, the anger thrumming just below the surface.

“That boy was trouble. Couldn’t keep anything clean with the boy around.” She rubbed harder at the spotless wood. “He just wouldn’t do as he was told. And messy. All those chemicals. House always smelled.”

“Chemicals?” Skinner glanced at Scully.

“One set after another. He was always cooking something up. I told him and told him. His father used to make him stop. He’d take him to the tunnels and then the boy wouldn’t be so messy anymore.” She sighed — a long-suffering sound. “But after his father died …”

“Let me get this right, Mrs. Priest…” Skinner took a few steps toward the woman, waited until she turned to look at him and then spoke. “Your son was experimenting with chemicals?”

She nodded. “I suppose he was pretty good. Got a scholarship to some fancy school, but he didn’t go. He went to work in the tunnels.” She shrugged. “He said we needed the money.”

“When did your son move out, Mrs. Priest?”

“Years,” she muttered. “Years ago. Don’t remember. He said we needed the money, but … he just stopped coming home.”

*****

He’d been in the hospital a month. About halfway through, they’d talked about it. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. He would be weak, he knew that, and when Scully had offered to stay, he’d accepted. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

It wouldn’t have been a problem BDL, but now, just the sight of her jacket thrown casually over his chair caused him to stir. It was ridiculous after all that had happened. How could they even think about each other when Priest was still loose, still killing?

Feeling himself tense, he lifted the jacket, brought it to his face, and breathed deeply. The soft scent of her perfume calmed him, soothed him, not to mention turned him on.

He went to the closet and pulled out a hanger, taking care to place the dark green blazer on it carefully. The trip from New York home had tired them both, and she was currently in his shower, cleaning up. He knew he should be resting — that had been her last command before she announced she was going to take a shower. But he wanted nothing more than to walk down that hall, tap on the closed door, stick his head in, and see a gloriously naked Scully in his shower.

The water turned off, startling him from his reverie. He shoved the blazer in the closet and went back to his room to change. He felt like a high-school kid unable to control his body’s responses. It was crazy. After all, it wasn’t as though a naked woman had never been in his apartment before. Fact was, there had been plenty — more than plenty. He was good-looking, attractive, and eligible. But there had never been a naked Scully in his apartment before, and his breath caught at the thought.

He plowed through the drawers looking for something loose and pulled out sweats but there was only one clean comfy shirt. He grabbed the Redskins shirt, soft and faded from years of use as a local fan, then slipped into a clean dress shirt, frowning as he tried to do up the buttons with his broken fingers. Back down the hall, he knocked on the bathroom door, opened it a crack, and stuck the Redskins shirt through. “Thought you might want this,” he called, then pulled his hand back and shut the door when his offering was accepted.

He shivered slightly — it was still cold — and bumped the thermostat up a bit, wishing he had a fireplace to light for her. Of course, there was no fire that could possibly match the one already roaring inside of him. But for once, he was determined to ignore his raging hormones and do the right thing. It was as simple as that.

He turned to find her coming down the hall dressed in his shirt and his groin tightened. The shirt hung long on her, but he could see well-shaped calves, and got hints of firm, smooth thighs. No, there would be absolutely nothing simple about this.

“Mulder,” she said looking up at him. “You should be resting.”

Instead of moving to sit, he stared. Her wet hair glistened. Her cheeks were ruddy from too much hot water. Her pace was slow, almost hesitant. It was as if the water had washed away her normal reserve. A hidden vulnerability exposed itself in her clear blue eyes.

“Mulder?”

He reached out and took her hand, drawing her to the sofa, gently pulling her down beside him. One shoulder of the faded shirt slid down her arm. He was immediately distracted by her smooth, creamy skin, the beginning swell of her breasts, the curve of her neck, the fresh scent of her hair and skin. He felt light-headed, and already he was hard. How could he touch her and not want to do more? It was stupid. He needed to concentrate and ignore his erection for once in his life. He was Fox Mulder, partner to Dana Scully, not Marty the porn king.

One hand came out, his open palm running over the top of her shoulder, continuing in a slow caress down her arm. She was still beneath his touch, an unreadable expression on her face, as if she knew he needed to touch her, needed to be sure she was here. His hand finished the journey he wished his mouth could make, ending with her smaller hand in his own.

Her back had straightened, her body alert to the electricity he could feel leaping from his fingers. His hand lingered, enjoying the sensation of her silky skin. Then gently, reluctantly, he lifted the shirt back over her shoulder, covering the beautiful skin. She hesitated, as if surprised, as if expecting something more, then leaned into him for a moment, resting her head against his chest.

“Mulder,” she sighed softly. “Thanks for the shirt.”

He nodded, enjoying the feel of her in his arms, then pulled away. “You want something? I could fix soup, maybe a sandwich?”

“You sit,” she replied. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be resting. That’s why I’m here.”

She rose and he was treated to another vision of velvet soft skin and luscious curves. He pulled the old afghan off the back of the sofa and across his lap. He watched her pad across the room and disappear into the kitchen. God, he loved that woman! No one else in his entire life had ever cared about him the way she did. No one else would have ever come after him, tracking him to Priest’s lair and pulling him back from the brink of destruction.

He shook his head, sliding further down on the couch, pulling the afghan tighter. He could hear Scully rummaging in his cupboards and gave a silent prayer that there was something to find. She wore his shirt and she was in his kitchen, using his food to make him something to eat. He felt very proprietary all of a sudden; Scully would surely clout him if she knew how he felt. But it didn’t change his feelings. She was here — with him.

And she loved him.

–o0o–

Part 2 – Self Revealed

“We have to go back,” he said again.

“Where?” she answered in disgust. There were reports, and maps, and pictures spread all over the room. “Where do you propose we look?”

He was exhausted. Having Scully here, knowing she was going to stay, had given him an adrenaline surge, but it was gone and he was fading fast now. She looked at him, then looked at the clock. “Damn, Mulder, you should have been in bed hours ago!” She began to gather the papers into a neat stack. “I keep telling you, you’re supposed to be resting.” She finished one pile, and moved on to another. “How did you ever talk me into letting you work on this tonight?”

He shrugged, suddenly unsure of himself. Scully was staying and he didn’t know what to do. Who got the bed? Who got the couch? He usually slept on the couch, but would she take his bed? And could he even sleep knowing she was in his bed? Maybe she should go.

“Look, it’s late. We’re both wiped out.” She ducked into the kitchen and returned with a pill and a glass of water for him. His antibiotic. “Let’s just try and get some sleep.”

He swallowed obediently, then emptied his glass and set it aside on the floor. He stretched his legs out under the afghan, claiming the sofa for himself. “Maybe you should go,” he echoed his thoughts out loud.

She looked at him, one hand on her hip and her head tilted at a very attractive angle. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Uhmmm …” He was suddenly very uncomfortable. She was there, looked great and was willing to stay. She cared about him — loved him even — and wanted to be with him. She was wearing his shirt — and he just wasn’t able to deal with it all. He was sick, he hurt, and there was no way he could … Oh, God! What if she wanted to and he couldn’t? Never mind the what if. He knew he couldn’t.

As if she read his mind, she said, “Look, Mulder, as glad as I am to have you home, and almost in one piece, I’m just too damn tired to make a pass at you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She pulled him up, gently pushed him to one side, and opened the sofa into a sleeper, something he never bothered with. Linens had appeared from who knows where and before he knew it, he was tucked up nice and tight, with clean sheets, a pillow, and the old afghan. “Go to sleep, Mulder.” She gently touched his head. “I’m just going to clean up a bit.”

His body jerked at her touch, every muscle, every nerve ending seemed attuned to the proximity of her body. He watched her walk away and then called, “Scully?”

She turned, waiting.

“I, uh, don’t usually sleep much. I, uh, just might end up keeping you awake.”

She came back to his side then and sat. She busied herself checking his bandages, the ones on his hand, his head, and then his belly. “What do you mean you don’t sleep?” Her hands were like fire as they traced the line of the bandage around his abdomen.

“I’m not the best sleeper in the best of times, but, uh, when I’m on this, uh, this kind of case, I, uh, I tend to have nightmares.” He closed his eyes, afraid to see her reaction. She reached out and gently brushed her hand across his forehead. He felt the comforting touch as she pushed his hair back, then ran a single finger down to his lips.

“I imagine with the stuff you see, it’s hard not to have nightmares.”

“You see it, too.” She was looking down at him. His body curled under the afghan. He needed to shave, knew that there was dark bristle on his face, yet her hand reached out to cup his cheek. He pulled himself up on one elbow, twisting open his half-buttoned shirt in the process, exposing a hard, muscular chest with tiny wisps of dark hair. Her other hand touched the bandage again, then ran up to caress the planes of his chest; he felt himself grow hard.

“I have a remedy for nightmares,” she said, smiling. “You just hold on to someone else while you fall asleep.”

His eyes met hers and he gestured with his broken hands. “I can’t, Scully.” He could feel the tears threaten. “I want to, but I can’t.” He dropped his eyes, staring at his rapidly softening lap. “Not the way I want to — not the way you deserve.”

“Mulder.” Her face was serious again. “I understand. I’m not trying to put you in an awkward position. I just want to help.” She took his hand in hers. “Will you let me help?”

He didn’t answer — he couldn’t answer — and she slid closer to him. Slowly, hesitantly, she slipped down onto the sofa bed until she was lying next to him. Each move she made was deliberate, giving him plenty of opportunity to protest. His erection was back — damned hormones! What the hell — she just wanted to help fight his demons. Wasn’t that what she’d been doing for all these years anyway? He put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her into him so that her face rested hot against his chest. He could hear his heart, so he knew it must be pounding in her ear. Her cheek brushed against the opening in his shirt, her skin wonderfully soft against him. He rested his chin atop her head, content to stay that way forever.

“Now relax,” she murmured. “Nothing can get to you without going through me first. Even if you can’t sleep, just close your eyes and rest.”

How could he possibly sleep with his entire body alive, alert, and on fire everywhere it touched hers? Nonetheless, he closed his eyes obediently, and eventually, sleep followed.

*****

Mulder awoke groggy, his arms and legs heavy. He was cold. The power had gone out. Scully was no longer beside him. He looked around the dark room and saw her, asleep in a chair across the room. He frowned, wondering what he had done that drove her away.

A flicker of light in the kitchen caught his eye. He sat up. There it was again. A dark shadow passed the doorway. His heart began to pound.

Priest was here.

“Scully?” he whispered, but there was no movement. His mind raced. Where had he left his gun? “Scully?” he tried again. Still no response.

The shadow moved again and he dropped to the floor crawling toward the front door. The room was lit only by the ghostly glow of the moon. He had taken his gun off when they first got in. He’d left it in the drawer in the table by the door, but the table was gone — moved — where? His eyes darted around the room. The pounding of his heart made his chest ache. It was cold, so cold his hands shook.

Then he heard the steps, soft but firm sounds as someone paced in his kitchen. He looked around for a weapon, anything sharp, anything heavy.

Priest was in the house with Scully!

He grabbed a lamp with a heavy base and ripped off the shade. He listened. His breathing came in gasps and gulps. He tried to hold his breath as he listened again.

He crawled back to the living room, crossing to the chair Scully slept in. The lamp was clutched in his broken hand. “Scully,” he whispered and reached up to shake her. “Scully, wake up.” He shoved her, and her body rolled toward him, tumbling onto the floor. His hand was smeared with blood. He looked down at her. Oh God, oh God, oh God! He stuffed his bloody hand into his mouth to prevent the scream, to stop the terror. Blood covered his Redskins shirt. Her throat was slashed, the gaping wound still bleeding. And where her beautiful blue eyes had once looked out, were only cold, ashy holes.

He heard a sound behind and turned. He looked up into a smiling face. A face he recognized. It was the face of Fenton Priest.

This time he awoke with a violent flailing of arms, beating and thrashing at anything nearby. Scully grabbed his wrists, preventing him from damaging himself more. He tried to breathe, but it only came in rapid gasps. His body shook with wild convulsions beyond his control.

“Mulder, shhhh, it’s okay.” Her voice was soft and soothing but her alarm was clear. “Mulder, you’re safe.”

He stopped suddenly, though his body still shook. Scully stared into his eyes and he stared back. Stared at her beautiful blue eyes. They were clear and warm, filled with concern, and they were alive. The room was warm — softly lit by the glow of two lamps, one on the table by the window, the other next to the couch. There was no power outage. There was no shadow in the kitchen. There was no sign of Fenton Priest.

“Mulder, are you okay?” She held his bandaged hands against her chest, caressing his wrists.

He looked into her eyes again. He was suddenly very tired. “It didn’t work,” he whispered. “It didn’t work.”

“I’m sorry. You were sleeping peacefully for a while. Maybe I didn’t hold you tight enough.” She smiled.

He relaxed his hands and she released him. He ran his unbandaged fingers up her arms, soft and caressing movements that traveled over her elbows and inside the too large sleeves of his shirt. They went all the way to her shoulders before they began their slow descent. Inch by inch, he touched her, reminding himself that she was here, and she was alive.

She leaned against him, radiating heat. Her cheek brushed against his shirt, but it wasn’t enough. She pulled away, just far enough to give her fingers room while she unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. He couldn’t meet her eyes, but he felt his body stiffen. His own hands stopped. Perhaps his breathing had also. She opened his shirt, and lay her head against his heart.

He trembled, though he wasn’t cold. They lay there and she held him, embraced him, wrapped him in herself. Finally, he began to relax. His breathing began again, a little rapid at first, though he tried to steady it. His arms wrapped around her waist, but he allowed them no exploration, no caresses. He simply held her body close to his, and let her hold him tightly.

*****

He fired again, three more shots hitting the target squarely in the chest. It was a nice cluster of nine now, and almost without pause he sighted up slightly, drew a breath, squeezed gently, and watched a hole blossom in the center of the target’s forehead.

“Good shooting, Mulder.” Scully nodded approvingly and removed her hearing protection. The range instructor walked over, initialed a piece of paper and dropped it on the shelf in front of Mulder.

“Congratulations, Agent. Guess you’re back on the job, now. Though why you wanted to come in on a Friday afternoon is beyond me…”

Mulder grinned and Scully found herself grinning back. The terrible damage to his face had healed. You couldn’t see the caps on his broken teeth and aside from one scar on his left cheek, back almost to his ear, there wasn’t anything left to show of the devastation Priest had caused four months ago. No, his face was fine, she decided. More than fine, really. The scar just added character.

He bore other scars now too — his chest and belly had been sliced open, his left hand had a new line. She teased him and called it his second lifeline. There was just the slightest limp from the knee — only when he was tired and only if you knew how to look for it.

Four long months. She’d stayed with him for eight weeks, feeding him, caring for him, encouraging him when the physical therapy got too hard or hurt too much. Not that he would ever admit that something was too hard or hurt. He’d just clench that jaw and push himself twice as hard. Eight weeks of being with him, but not with him, being together, but not together, touching, but not touching.

It was hard.

He loved her.

She loved him.

But he was damaged, broken. The lost time with Priest, not knowing who he was, it scared him. He still had nightmares about the girl, the one he’d rescued, the one who’d led them to him. Only in his nightmares, he didn’t manage to set her free. She died, and it wasn’t at Priest’s hand — it was at his own.

She watched as he began his after firing function check. He removed the magazine, locked the slide to the rear, and verified that the weapon did not have a round in the chamber. He looked, then inserted a crooked little finger into the chamber. It always amused her to watch him on the range. You’d never expect him to show such respect for his weapon, but he did. He let the slide move forward, then dry fired down the range.

She suspected he had nightmares about other things as well. Sam, Priest, the dozens of unspeakable horrors he’d lived with in VCS. And if she knew her man, she’d likely be starring in the worst of his dreams. She couldn’t imagine what tortures his mind dreamed up to torment him with. The nightmares were bad and he’d been embarrassed. At first she thought she was reaching him, but as he healed physically, he’d seemed to need more time alone. It was the nightmares that finally made him ask her to go home. She was sure of it. He’d laughed the last time it had happened. She’d awakened to his screaming in the front room, raced down the hall to find him shaking, his t-shirt plastered to his back with sweat. His hands were on his knees and his cheeks were cupped in his hands. He’d stared at the floor and she had gone to him, wrapped him in her arms. He’d let her hold him till the shaking had stopped, then he’d settled back, pulled her into his arms, rested his chin on her head, and laughed. “No use both of us going without sleep, Scully,” he’d said, kissing the top of her head. “You’ll have to go home, just so you can get some rest.” And because she didn’t know what else to do, she had gone home.

He inserted an empty magazine, racked the slide, making sure that it locked up. He caught her watching and grinned. One press on the magazine catch and the magazine fell freely out of the weapon.

She’d been home for eight weeks now, and she missed him terribly. And she knew he missed her. He wasn’t sleeping like he should. She knew he was still working the Priest case. She thought he had refrained from his unique style of profiling; God knows she’d begged him to. She’d warned him off his slow descent several times, and pleaded with him not to try and do that — to stick with the hard evidence that would come from good solid police work. So he’d expanded the search on known acquaintances so far out that they were talking to his second grade classmates and the man that used to bring the mail. In other words, grasping at straws.

He pressed down on the slide catch lever and let the slide move forward. He was humming under his breath and it made her smile again. Using the decocking lever, he dropped the hammer, pointing down the range again. This time he dry fired double action, keeping the trigger pressed to the rear. Holding the trigger to the rear, he racked the slide.

But being out to recuperate had been hard on him. And since there’d been no sign of Priest, no indication that he was even still alive, grasping at straws was all he could do. She was spending her days with the bodies of Priest’s victims. Body after body, piecing what was left together, trying to tease out identities, notify loved ones. And hopefully, find something new.

She spent every minute of her off time helping him collect those straws he was grasping for, until it would grow late and he would send her home.

She could hear the telltale “click” as he released the trigger and it reset itself. Taking one more turn down the range, he dry fired single action, then nodded contentedly.

He was demonstrative — kissed her now, and loved to sit with his arm around her. Every touch delighted him — his face would light up like a kid at Christmas. But it had gone no farther; when she’d made overtures, he’d gently rebuffed her with whispers of “Not yet.” She worried about what went on in that complicated head of his.

He took a full magazine and reloaded. Checked the safety twice, then holstered his weapon.

“You done, Rambo?” she asked as she picked up the chit that would clear him back to duty. ” ‘cause if you are, we’ve got work to do.”

–o0o–

Part 3 – Self Revealed

“You wanted to see us, Sir?” Scully led the way into Skinner’s office, Mulder following.

Skinner studied the younger man as he moved into the room. He could just make out the slightest limp as Mulder still favored the knee that had been injured four months ago. “You pass your range test, Mulder?” Skinner asked, as he gestured them to chairs, moving to lean against the front of his desk.

“Back to full duty, Sir.” Mulder nodded.

“Knee still bothering you?”

“Not really, Sir. You know they told me it might never be completely back. But it’s not enough to slow me down. I passed the psychological and the physical, not just the range test.” Mulder fought to keep himself from sounding defensive. “I’m ready to be back.”

“I know — I know. Four months is a long time to be sidelined.” Skinner cleared his throat and looked down at the file in his hands. “So, have you turned up anything new on Priest?”

Skinner swallowed a smile at the look his agents exchanged. “What? Did you really think I was going to let all that work you’ve done while you were out stay in your hands?” He snorted. “I thought you gave me more credit than that. I’m well aware you have sources other than the Bureau. Those sources have saved your butt more than once. And I’m not about to let anything that you’ve turned up go to waste. I want a full report on my desk as soon as possible. Everything you have gets read into the official record.”

The uneasy expression on Mulder’s face faded. “I’m afraid nothing else has come to light.” He shifted in the chair. “The boys have been tracking anyone with the slightest connection to our guy. No hits there. They’ve put out flyers, notified all the hotels and flophouses he might have bolted to. Odds are he went back underground, but he could consider that too dangerous and be experimenting with life in the sun.” He shrugged. “NYPD’s still running searches in the tunnels anyway.”

He shook his head. “But we’re not going to find him that way. He won’t stay up top long — not in the city. With all his assets frozen, he’d be strapped to pay for housing. And he knows the underground too well; we’ll never find him unless he wants us to.” Mulder closed his eyes and looked down. “We need something new.”

“Well, I can’t help you there,” Scully said, sounding as frustrated as her partner. “I’ve spent the last four months doing autopsies on the bodies they pulled from that chamber — identification has been an incredibly slow process.” She turned and looked past Skinner, out to the cold winter sky of DC. “I am sick of dead bodies,” she said quietly. “Some of the older ones were children.”

“Priest didn’t do the older ones. I’d say he’s been working since he was a teen. Probably started slow at first, then increased his tempo. It started in the tunnels.” Mulder’s eyes lost focus as he stared through Skinner.

“He didn’t want to be there. His father took him. It wasn’t allowed — workers didn’t bring their kids, but Priest’s father did. It was secretive.” Mulder shivered and Scully moved to stand behind him, her hands rubbing his shoulders.

“Mulder, no …” Scully tried to call him back.

“Hush. It’s ok, Scully.” Mulder lifted haunted eyes, pleading for support and understanding. “We need something — anything.” He was silent for a moment, drifting away, as his eyes went flat and dull.

“He couldn’t tell. His father would look at him — stare — and the … the — light — would go out of his eyes. They’d be flat. Black.” He pulled his gaze back slowly, focusing on Skinner. “Dead.”

“Mulder …” Skinner started to speak but Scully shook her head violently.

“Wait,” she murmured.

Skinner nodded, but he didn’t like it. Mulder’s own eyes had gone flat and black; it was a little eerie.

“He couldn’t stand for them to look at him. All dark and dead. Mean. But he was still small — still a kid. He couldn’t attack these grown men. Some of them — the old, the sick — he could take. But the really bad ones, he couldn’t take them.”

Mulder was pale and shivering again. Scully was standing behind him, her hands running up and down his arms as if to try and warm him. Skinner reached out, touched Mulder’s forehead. “He’s like ice, Scully.”

“I know.” Her eyes darted around the room. “I need a blanket.”

Skinner shrugged, but went and pulled his overcoat from the rack and handed it to her. “Can’t you — wake him up, or something?”

“He’s been putting this off for four months.” She sighed. “Maybe I’ve been putting it off. I haven’t been with him all the time, so I don’t know what he did on his own, but I think he’s shied away from trying to crawl back inside Priest. But now …” She shrugged. “We don’t have anything else. So, he’s putting things together. He won’t stop till he’s done.”

“I don’t understand …” Skinner was staring at Mulder, not sure of what to do.

“Shhhh,” Scully warned him. “Just wait.”

Mulder slumped in the chair, shivering, and they both turned to look at him. Scully wrapped the big coat around him, trying to warm him.

“So he put together the drug. He came up with it himself. Hours and hours of work. He tried it on animals. Stray dogs and cats. Birds. Rats. It killed; he didn’t want it to kill. Just to immobilize. He wanted them alive when the knife went in.”

He closed his eyes in pain, shivering harder beneath the warm coat. “He’s got another place. He has to finish — but it won’t ever be finished. He’s just got to keep going. But not in the sewers. Not now. Maybe later, but not now. Now he’s gone. Somewhere far enough away to feel safe, but …” He shivered again; a strangled cry escaped his throat.

“Mulder,” Scully moved to kneel in front of the man. “Mulder, that’s enough. C’mon on back to us, partner.”

“He knows we’re looking now. He won’t be found. He hasn’t stopped — he can’t stop. It’s like a drug — addictive.” Mulder shook violently, slowly focusing on Scully’s face. His head dropped forward, his forehead resting against hers.

“Mulder,” she said softly. “You ok?”

He shuddered again. “Why are my visions always worse than the reality?”

“What?” Scully pushed away, looking up into exhausted eyes. She brushed his hair back from his face. “What do you mean?”

“I’d have kept them alive when I took the eyes.”

*****

“He’s sleeping.” Scully closed the bedroom door and walked up to the hall to where Skinner was pacing.

“What the hell was that?” the AD demanded.

“That,” Scully replied, “was a perfect example of why Mulder doesn’t do VCS work anymore.”

“Yeah, but what the hell happened? What did he do?” Skinner was baffled.

“What he did was crawl inside Priest’s mind. It’s cold, it’s dirty, and it’s more than a little unpleasant.” She headed for the kitchen. “And it’s exhausting.”

“So he turns cold? Scully, the man was like ice! I touched him.” Skinner followed her, watching as she put the kettle on and dug tea bags out of the cabinet. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t touched him.”

“I know!” She twisted the knob on the stove then turned to look at him. “I don’t understand it. It defies explanation.” A deep breath, and she was marginally calmer. “All I know is that he can see things that no one else can. Maybe these trances … Let’s call them trances for lack of a better word. Maybe these trances are just his method of detaching from the world enough to begin to synthesize all the raw data that’s floating around in his head. He pulls back, puts it all together — when he’s done, he comes up with valid hypotheses.”

“But the cold?”

“I don’t know!” Scully exploded. “I wish I did. I wish I could make him stop.” She moved to another cabinet, pulling out two mugs. “I don’t think it’s just the cold, Sir.” Turning, she looked at him. “I think it — hurts — him in someway. Damages him.” She exhaled, too loud for a breath, not loud enough for a snort. “I don’t know. But I do know it exhausts him.”

“Is he fit to be on duty?”

Now Scully laughed. It was a bitter sound. “How do you think he became the Wunderkind of VCS?” She shook her head as the kettle began to whistle. “He did this for all those years in VCS. And he was alone.” She lifted the kettle. “Tea?”

“Oh, uh, yes, please.” Skinner took the mug she handed him. “Thanks.” He waited while she made her own cup, then followed her back to the living room. “But he’s not in VCS — hasn’t been for years.”

“No, but you and I both know the cases seem to follow him. How many times has he been called in, either officially or not, to provide a profile, give us mortals a glimpse into a killer’s soul?” She shook her head, then kicked her shoes off and curled onto the sofa, pulling the afghan down and across her lap.

Skinner sat as well, nodding. “Jesus …” He took a sip from the cup, then placed it on the table next to the chair. “I’ve never seen it. I’ve never seen him — working — like this. Are you sure he can work?”

Scully laughed again. “This is nothing.” She pulled the afghan closer, closed her eyes and leaned back wearily, just as the air was split with a blood-curdling scream. She jerked up, staring at Skinner who was standing, too, his gun drawn at the ready. “You should see the nightmares,” she said as she headed back down the hall.

*****

Mulder was sleeping again. She’d calmed him and insisted he take a shower. His clothes had been soaked in sweat, and while he cleaned up, she changed his sheets. It was a semi-habit they had developed while she had been staying with him. He hadn’t wanted to go back to bed, but she’d insisted. He tried to argue with her, but when she pointed out that Skinner had been in the living room the whole time, she could see him decide to postpone having to face the boss.

When she rejoined Skinner, he was sitting quietly at Mulder’s desk, scanning something on the laptop. “He all right?”

“As much as ever.”

“And he’s struggled with this the whole time he’s been in the FBI?”

“As far as I can tell, yes. I want more tea. I didn’t get to drink that last cup.” She headed for the kitchen; Skinner rose and followed her. “I stayed with him when he was first released, you know that.” It was not a question, but Skinner nodded anyway, watching as she emptied the kettle, refilled it, and placed it on the stove. “He made me go home. The nightmares.” She turned on the stove then sat at the table, waiting for the water to boil.

“He’s got a microwave,” Skinner commented. “Faster.”

She shook her head. “It’s not the same.”

He leaned against the counter, studying her. “I wondered what had happened — why you moved out.”

“I never really moved in, Sir. I mean, uh, we didn’t …” She trailed off, embarrassed.

“Oh. Well.” Now it was Skinner’s turn to be embarrassed. “I didn’t mean … Well, I just assumed …”

“I’m not sure why,” Scully said softly. “He was sick, then the nightmares got worse, and he asked me to leave.”

“Maybe he just needed some time.” Skinner stood awkwardly, unsure of what he should do. This was not a conversation he expected to be having with the female half of his best team. “Maybe …” He was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. “Excuse me.” He moved into the living room, digging the phone out of the pocket of his suit coat. “Skinner.”

Scully followed, watching curiously.

“All right. I appreciate the call. She’ll be there as soon as possible.” He closed the phone, looking at Scully. “Priest’s mother is dead. Neighbor called in about a foul odor. The cops found her. You know she wasn’t the sociable type — nobody missed her.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “It had been over a week.”

Scully nodded, remembering the claustrophobic, aseptically clean little apartment. “Natural causes?”

Skinner shook his head. “I don’t think so. Her eyes are gone.”

*****

He was in the kitchen when Mulder wandered up the hall. He had put on a pair of jeans, but no shirt and no shoes. “Hey, Scully. I told you not to stay.”

“She didn’t.” Skinner laughed to himself. If there were only some way to capture the range of expressions that crossed Mulder’s face. Shock. Disbelief. Embarrassment as he looked down at his state of undress. Confusion as Skinner spoke. “I had a call while you were sleeping.”

“Where’s Scully?”

“Priest’s mother is dead. Her eyes were burned out.”

“Where’s Scully?”

“NYPD wanted our opinion.”

“Where. Is. Scully?” Mulder bit the words off.

“Mulder, relax. She went to New York to look at the body.” Skinner studied his agent. The man looked better — rested. His skin had lost that horrible pallor from earlier.

“By herself?”

“Yes, by herself. Is there a problem with that, Agent? Something I should be aware of?”

Mulder shook his head slowly, then looked down at himself. “Let me get some clothes on.”

Skinner called after him. “You hungry? I ordered Chinese and there’s still some left.”

“Yeah, ok.” Mulder’s words were muffled behind the half closed door, but Skinner headed for the kitchen anyway. He was pulling containers out of the refrigerator when his agent appeared in the door behind him. He still wore the jeans, but had added a t-shirt and sneakers with no socks.

“Scully’s in New York?” Mulder rubbed one eye, shaking his head. “When did … How long have I … What’s going on?”

Skinner piled Kung Pao chicken on rice and stuck it in the microwave. “What do you remember?”

Mulder snorted. “I’m not losing my memory, Sir. It doesn’t work that way.” He shook his head. “I remember everything.”

“Well, bear with me, will ya?” Skinner opened the fridge and looked in. “Whaddaya want to go with that? Coke? Tea? Beer?” Mulder shrugged and Skinner withdrew a coke. “This is all new to me. So, walk me through it. What happened, what you remember, why you’re so worried about Scully.”

The microwave beeped and Skinner withdrew the plate, set it before Mulder, then added a fork from the dish drainer. He grabbed a coke for himself and sat.

“I was thinking about Priest — where he was, why he does what he does, where he’s gonna go.” He forked a bite to his mouth, swallowed, and nodded. “Good. Thanks, Sir … uh, Walter.” At Skinner’s nod he continued. “I got a little — dislocated.”

“Yeah, you certainly did,” Skinner said brusquely. “It was disconcerting.”

“That your way of saying weird, Walt?”

“Walter. And no, that is not my way of saying weird. It’s my way of saying disconcerting.” Skinner frowned at the other man. “I was concerned.”

Mulder shrugged. “It’s how I work.”

“Mulder, you were like ice — covered in a cold sweat, skin freezing, shaking like a leaf.”

“Yeah,” Mulder shrugged again, shoveling the food in. “It’s pretty intense.” He finished the plate and looked around. “I was hungry. Anymore?”

Skinner nodded and began to reload the dish. “So, you were thinking about Priest. Then what happened?”

“Well, I was pretty wiped. Scully brought me back here.” Mulder paused, studying the older man as he placed the now full plate in the microwave. “You and Scully brought me back here,” he corrected.

“Go on.” Skinner was leaning against the counter in front of the microwave, waiting.

“I went to bed …”

“Scully put you to bed,” Skinner interrupted.

Mulder frowned. “Yeah, well … Scully put me to bed. I slept. I woke up.”

“You woke up screaming.”

“I do that.” Mulder shifted uncomfortably.

“So your partner tells me. She also tells me it’s not infrequent.” There was a beep and Skinner pulled the warm food out, passing it to Mulder.

“It doesn’t interfere with my work, if that’s what you’re worrying about.” Mulder lowered his head and began to eat again.

Skinner stepped across to him, placed one hand on his shoulder and said, “That’s not what I was worried about, Mulder.” He squeezed gently, then rounded the table and sat. “Go on.”

“I took a shower — went back to bed.” He looked at Skinner. “Now — why don’t you tell me what happened when I was sleeping?”

Skinner nodded. “I got a call that Priest’s mother was dead. Nowak asked for Scully — wanted her to look at the body.” Skinner glanced at his watch. “She caught a late flight — probably already done the autopsy by now.”

“I don’t like it.” Mulder swallowed the last bite, pushed the plate away, and leaned back. “I don’t like Scully being up there alone.”

“Anything specific you can base that on?” Skinner rose, snagging Mulder’s plate and carrying it to the sink. The soft “shwooooosh” of water running filled the room as the AD washed and rinsed the plate.

“No,” Mulder admitted. “I’m just uncomfortable.”

“Well, I want us to head up there tomorrow anyway.”

“Is that a concession to my concerns about my partner?” Mulder yawned and shook his head.

“No. I would have gone with her, but you were completely down for the count. She insisted we not wake you.” Skinner dried his hands, then grabbed his soda and headed for the living room. “Coming?” he said over his shoulder when Mulder made no attempt to move.

“What? Oh, yeah.” Mulder shook himself, then rose and followed the AD.

“I want you to look at this.” Skinner moved to the desk, touching the keyboard on the laptop and reactivating the screen. An email appeared, from an address Mulder recognized.

“How did you get this?” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the AD.

“Oh, please, Mulder. You think your friends are the only ones who can do a little hacking?” He turned the screen so Mulder could read, then waited.

“A house in Hyde Park?” Mulder looked shocked. “We ran all real estate records.”

“This was in his grandmother’s maiden name — a bit removed from the initial searches, but we got there because you insisted we keep widening the circle.”

“Does Scully know?”

“Not yet. We’ll call her tomorrow.” When Mulder started to object, Skinner pointed to the clock. “Two thirty in the morning, Mulder.” He shook his head. “I’m sure she went right to the morgue and worked till midnight. Let the woman sleep.”

“All right.” Mulder scrolled the screen and began to reread the report. “When do we leave?”

“In the morning. In the meantime, why don’t you go back to bed?”

“Why don’t you go home?”

“That isn’t going to happen, Mulder. If you don’t want to sleep, you must have a video or two we can watch.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Sir.”

“I didn’t say you did, Agent.”

Mulder stared defensively into Skinner’s implacable face, then lowered his eyes, moving to a cabinet by the wall. He opened the door, knelt and glanced at the titles that appeared. “Men in Black? Independence Day? Armageddon?”

End Self Revealed

—xXx—

Title: Self Torment 01/03 Author: Daydreamer Author E-mail: [email protected] Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery Category: SAR – character exploration Spoilers: none Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; MSR Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from.

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer’s Den Http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113

Summary: Mulder is in torment as he continues to drop into Priest’s mind. The search accelerates as the stakes are raised.

Self Torment

–o0o–

Part One

She was just getting out of the shower when the cell rang. “Scully.”

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” She couldn’t help the smile that crossed her face. “You sound better.”

Mulder glanced at the big man in the next seat, engrossed in the data scrolling by on his laptop. “Yeah, well, what can I say?” He swallowed hard, then laughed a little self-consciously. “I, uh, slept some, then when I woke up, Ski — uh, Walter was there.” The big man looked up at his name, smiled, and went back to his work.

“You had another dream?”

Mulder could hear the concern in her voice. “No, not really. I just woke up. Walter fed me Kung Pao chicken, then we watched movies the rest of the night.” The plane went through a cloud and the phone crackled. “Look, Scully, these phones are iffy at best. Tell me what you found.”

“The mother was killed. The body was too far gone for me to get an immediate match on the paralyzing agent, but I sent tissue samples off for a tox screen. The knife wounds were consistent with the other bodies I looked at, and the eyes were burned out.” He could hear her frown through the phone. “I’d like to know what he’s using for that.”

“Oh, that. A branch. He heats it red hot, then burns the eyes.” He was thinking — why had Priest come out now? And why his mother?

“Mulder!” The sound of his name was loud enough that Skinner looked up again.

“What?” He shifted uncomfortably. “Why are you yelling?”

“Because you didn’t answer the first three times I called you.”

Mulder shook himself, and smiled self-consciously as Skinner studied him.

“Uh, well, never mind that, Scully. We’re on the way up. Be there in a few. What I really wanted to tell you was that we found his hole. There’s property in Hyde Park.” He rattled off an address. “We’re going to check it out.” The phone was crackling hard, so he raised his voice. “We’ll meet you at the precinct, OK?” The static was intense now. “Scully, you hear me? OK?” He took the phone from his ear, hit it on his hand, and then listened. Nothing. “Damn,” he sighed.

“What?” Skinner asked, still studying him.

“Phone died.”

“She get the word? Meet us at the precinct?”

Mulder nodded slowly. “Yeah — she’ll meet us.”

*****

Crackle, crackle. “… property in Hyde Park.” She jotted the address he read onto a pad. Crackle, crackle. “… check it out.” Crackle, crackle. “… meet you …” Scully shook her head. The line had gone dead. Well, if they wanted to meet there, she’d have to get a car and get going. The phone had died before Mulder gave her a time.

*****

It was about 80 miles away, but with New York traffic, it had taken her nearly 2 hours. She drove down the quiet country road, houses miles apart. She was intent on the rural mailboxes, watching for addresses as she let her gaze drift over the snow-covered woods and down to the sleepy Hudson River, running placidly beneath its blanket of white. It was beautiful. The ugly gray grime of snow in the city was a gorgeous, tranquil white here. It covered the ground, inches deep, and the stillness was absolute. Even the sound of her car was muffled in the surrounding silence.

She passed yet another house, large and stately, set back from the road. Smoke rolled from the chimney and she could just imagine the family inside, curled up snug before the fire, good books all around. Or perhaps mom and dad were reading, while the kids watched a movie or played video games. Whichever, it was a peaceful domestic scene that entered her mind — miles away from the images the reason for her visit brought to mind.

She drove on several more miles and spotted another mailbox. Slowing to read the post, she stopped when she realized she was there, and turned in. Mulder hadn’t said anything to indicate that he thought Priest would be here, but there was no point in taking chances. She looked around, noted the lack of other vehicles or tracks, and parked. Before she climbed out, she pulled her weapon, checked it, and stuck it back in the holster — safety off.

She walked slowly up to the porch, snow crunching beneath her shoes. Her feet were already getting cold and she wished she’d worn her boots instead. There was a sound to her right and she turned, arm automatically digging beneath her coat for her weapon. As she pulled the gun up and sighted, she began to laugh. Lucky you, she thought as she stared at the gray rabbit scurrying into the woods. She stood there a moment more, second-guessing her decision not to wait for Mulder and Skinner, then shrugged and turned back to the door. Mulder would have said something if meeting here would put her at risk.

She knocked on the door and waited. Knocked again. Waited. Finally, she reached out and tried the knob. It turned effortlessly beneath her fingers, opening into a wood-floored entry with a staircase in front of her. To her left was a dining room; to the right, a great room. A hall beside the staircase ran back to the kitchen. Closing the door behind her, she moved forward down the hall.

It didn’t seem that anyone was home. She still needed to check the upstairs, but with just the one staircase, if Priest was here, he wasn’t coming down without her hearing him. She was standing in the kitchen, staring out at the snow and wondering when Mulder would get there when she felt it. Just a small pinch, like a bug bite, but it was enough. And she realized as she slid to the floor, she’d shown very poor judgement in not waiting for backup.

*****

“What do you mean, she’s not here?” Mulder reached out and grabbed Nowak, ready to shake him. “Where the hell is she?”

Nowak pushed away from Mulder, staring hard at the irate man before him. “She called and asked for a car this morning. Said she was meeting you.”

“Time,” Skinner demanded. “What time?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Early — 8:00, 8:30?”

“Fuck!” Mulder exploded. “She’s gone to the house.” He recited the address to Nowak. “How far? How long?” he demanded.

“Hyde Park? A couple hours on a Saturday.”

“Two hours?” Mulder began to count out loud. “If she left when I called, at 8:30, she would have gotten there about 10:30. We got in to LaGuardia at 9:20, got here at 10:15. We lost another hour upstairs with that dickhead Captain of yours …” He trailed off, then dug frantically for his cell. He pulled it out, dialed, listened, then hung up in disgust. “She’s either out of range or it’s turned off.” He stared at Skinner. “We need to go. Now.”

“I can get a helicopter…” Skinner began.

“By the time you arrange it, we’d be almost there. Let’s just get moving.”

Skinner nodded and moved. Nowak followed, phone to his ear. “I’m calling the locals up there — get them to go on out and see what’s up.” He tagged a couple of others as they moved out. “We’ll follow you.”

It was a long drive. The lights and sirens of their police escort cut some time off, but not enough. The call had come in only 30 minutes into the drive — there was no sign of Scully or her vehicle at the house. But there was blood. Mulder had been in an absolute panic ever since. It was after 1:00 when they finally roared into the drive of the house that was in Priest’s grandmother’s name. The driveway was crammed with police vehicles; any hope of tracks from another car obliterated in the crush of helpers.

Mulder bounded out of the vehicle and up the stairs to the porch. He was met by a big black man wearing a sheriff’s uniform. The man held out his hand; Scully’s Sig lay nestled there.

Mulder turned to Skinner, eyes wide with horror. The older man reached out to steady his agent, but Mulder’s pulled away. He shuddered hard, arms coming up to hug himself as he stood frozen in place on the porch.

“Walter,” he whispered, his voice haunted. “He’s got her.” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “That bastard has got Scully.”

“You don’t know that, Mulder.” Skinner gripped the younger man’s arms.

“Don’t I?” Mulder swore bitterly as he took a deep breath and shook himself. He was unsteady, and Skinner kept a hand on his arm. Mulder moved into the house, walking through the door and down the hall into the kitchen. There was a small spot of blood on the counter edge, and another small pool on the floor.

Mulder stared, then groaned agonizingly. “She was here, just standing here looking out the window. She checked the house — downstairs. She didn’t think she needed to go up, because she thought she would hear if someone was coming down. She thought it was safe — she thought we would be here.” He turned guilt-ridden eyes to Skinner, shivering as he shifted. “She thought we would be here …”

“Mulder, stop,” Skinner ordered. “We’ll find her.”

Mulder’s eyes glazed over, losing focus, and the shivering intensified. As Skinner watched, the color leached from his skin.

“What the hell is happening to him?” Nowak asked. “Is he sick?”

“Shhh,” Skinner murmured. “See if you can find me a couple of blankets. And if anyone has any coffee, grab it. I’m gonna need it in a few.”

Mulder was muttering under his breath, and Skinner strained to hear. “Down, down down. She’s down now. Got her. Thought they were so hot — big FBI — but I’ve got her.” His foot kicked out connecting with the cabinet above the pool of blood. Two more vicious kicks followed. Skinner wrapped both arms around Mulder and pulled him back. Mulder settled, but Skinner didn’t release him. “Hurt. Hurt her. Make him pay. He left me. Sick. He’s well now — he can come back. Work to do.” Mulder’s foot kicked out again — harmlessly this time as Skinner had him far enough away from anything he could connect with.

“Mulder, you have to stop this.” Skinner was trying to remember what Scully had done, what she had said, the only other time he had witnessed this … ability of Mulder’s. She’d touched him, and she’d spoken to him. And she tried to keep him warm. He looked over his shoulder for Nowak. Where the hell was the man with the blankets? For now, Skinner released his agent long enough to shed his coat and wrap it around the younger man, rubbing his arms as he did so. “We’ll find her, Mulder.”

Mulder stood staring at the blood. “He wanted to kill her — was longing to — but her eyes weren’t right. Too blue — too much color. Hurt her instead.” His foot kicked again, and then again. “Make her pay.”

“Mulder, stop.” Skinner didn’t know if he should be giving orders or making gentle requests. He was in over his head here, and didn’t know what to do.

“Blankets.” Nowak appeared in the door, shoving through the crowd of cops that had gathered to stare at Mulder. “Coffee, too.” He put a large cardboard cup on the counter. “He do this a lot?”

“Not now.” Skinner waved the man silent. “Can you get rid of this crowd?”

Behind him, he could hear Nowak pushing people back, and the sound of feet shuffling, the door swinging open, the porch creaking as the NYPD detective cleared the house. None of which really mattered as his attention was still focused on his agent.

He grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around Mulder. The man was like ice. He stood motionless in the kitchen, cheeks twitching, eyes closed, occasionally muttering under his breath. His skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor, and his brow was furrowed as if his head ached.

Skinner held his wrist, feeling for the pulse. It was faint and slow. “Mulder, please,” he begged in frustration. “I don’t know what to do here. Wake up, or come back, or something. Just — stop this.” He stroked the man’s back, rubbing hard up and down his arms to maintain circulation. “We need you, Mulder. Need you here, with us. Scully needs you.”

Mulder didn’t move. If anything, his skin grew colder, his heartbeat slowed. Skinner glanced over his shoulder. The house was clear. God bless Nowak — he’d gotten all the gawkers out. Not knowing what else to do, Skinner reached out and enfolded Mulder in his arms, pulling him in tight against his chest. His agent was loose — which surprised him considering how the man was shivering. He had expected him to be strung tighter than a bow, but he stood passive — cold and passive — within his embrace. “Mulder, we’re going to find her,” he whispered to the younger man.

He didn’t know how long he stood like that — Mulder’s shivering body wrapped in blankets and held tight to his own. He murmured reassurances, repeated the same words over and over. “We’ll find her, Mulder.”

He felt it first — a tightening in Mulder’s back. The other man began to stiffen, and Skinner released him instantly, stepping back. The man looked awful. His skin was still far too pale, and as Skinner watched, he closed his eyes and winced, then opened them and looked around. He focused slowly, haunted eyes coming to rest on Skinner’s face. “C-c-cold,” he said simply.

Skinner passed him the coffee.

Mulder held it for a moment, then took a swallow and grimaced. “Too much sugar.”

“Sugar’s probably good for you right now,” he said gruffly. He reached out and maneuvered Mulder to the table. “Sit,” he said, gently pressing the man into a chair. “And drink it.” He studied the younger man as he complied. His skin was regaining some of its color. The shivering was slowing. He still seemed to have a headache, because his hand kept coming up to rub his temples. But his eyes were clear and focused, and he seemed fully present in the current reality.

“So, Mulder — you OK?”

The man nodded.

“Priest was here?”

“Yeah.” Mulder lay his head on the table, coffee cup gripped loosely in one hand. “He was here. He was waiting, waiting for her. He heard the car.”

“But he didn’t kill her.” Skinner turned as steps came down the hall.

“Everything all right in here?” Nowak asked. “I got everyone waiting outside. You need anything?”

“Aspirin,” Skinner said shortly. “Tylenol, Advil, whatever.” He turned and looked at the detective. “Thanks for running interference. We’ll be done here shortly.”

“I’d heard your boy here was good. Even saw him in action myself — the way he got out of the ward and followed that bastard was incredible.” Nowak sighed, and pushed his hand through his hair. “Had no idea it took such a toll on ‘im, though.” He studied Mulder a moment longer, then said, “I’ll bring the aspirin in a minute.” The look he gave Skinner contained nothing but sympathy. “Take as long as you need. I’ll keep those guys out there.”

“Mulder?” Skinner touched his agent’s shoulder. “You still with me?”

“Yeah,” came the weary response. “He’s not gonna kill her.” Mulder looked up, pain etched across his face. “He’ll beat her, rough her up, but he won’t kill her.”

“How do you know?”

Mulder shrugged. “He doesn’t want, Scully. He wants me. He thought he had a partner and he’s come to like the idea.”

Nowak appeared again. “He looked like he could use double.” He laid two paper packets of Tylenol on the counter then went back out.

“Thanks.” Skinner reached out and took them, then dumped the rest of the now luke-warm coffee. Using a towel hanging from a hook, he turned the tap and filled the cardboard cup with water. He opened the packets, then took the four pills and water to Mulder. “Here. Take this for your headache.”

Mulder looked up in surprise. “How … How’d you know my head hurts?”

“You’re not the only detective in the room. You keep closing your eyes and rubbing your temples. I studied the evidence, examined the clues, and voila! I have concluded your head hurts.” Skinner laughed at Mulder’s scowl.

“Very funny.” His words were scornful, but he swallowed the pills obediently.

“Anything else you can tell us, Mulder?”

“Yeah. Priest wants us to think he went back to the city. That’s where he’s done his best work. But he won’t. He’s around here somewhere — he’ll have figured we might find this place. He’ll have somewhere close to run to. And he’s gonna be slow right now. He’s got Scully and he wants to keep her and keep her alive.”

Skinner couldn’t help himself. “How do you know this, Mulder?”

The other man shrugged. “It’s what I’d do.” He shuddered, and lowered his head. “I’d just go a little farther.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“My visions are always worse.” He looked up, a sickly smile on his face. “See, I’d rape her too, ‘cause it would humiliate her, crush her spirit — at least for a while. It would keep me in control.”

*****

He was pacing back and forth, muttering. Scully came to, her limbs still heavy from the drug he’d zapped her with, but she could feel her mobility coming back. She lay still, not wanting to attract his attention. She could taste blood in her mouth, and one eye felt swollen and puffy. Her ribs hurt and she was willing to bet it was from the swift application of a foot against them. The back of her head hurt, and her hair felt stiff against her neck.

“Can do this can do this can do this can do this …”

The monotonous chant went on and on and on. Periodically, Priest looked at her and she forced herself to remain motionless. When he was distracted, she practiced wiggling her toes and fingers, yearning for a good stretch and rub as the pins and needles attacked her.

Priest continued his chant, then turned and stalked into the kitchen. She could hear him moving around, cupboards opening and closing. She risked shaking her arms, stretched up, then bent and began to rub her aching calves. Priest was humming now, calmer. She heard the sound of an electric can opener and had to stifle a nervous laugh. He was going to eat before he killed her.

She climbed to her feet, still shaky but her arms and legs were coming back to her control. Her gun was gone. Her hand came up of its own accord, touching the sticky place on the back of her head. She drew it back and looked. Blood. Another look around and she realized this wasn’t the same house. Nothing was the same. A look out the window and she knew she’d been out for some time. It was dark now.

She scanned for another weapon as she weighed her choices. He’d immobilized her once — it was a miracle she wasn’t dead. Should she try and take him on by herself? She glanced at the kitchen. He was standing by the stove, still humming, as he stirred the contents of a pot. The scent of fragrant beef stew wafted her way and her stomach rumbled. She froze, waiting for him to turn. Surely he had heard that. When he didn’t move, she decided, better to live and fight another day than risk going down under this madman. They’d found him once — they could find him again. She opened the front door a crack and slipped out.

Her car was wrecked. He’d apparently taken his initial anger out on the Ford while she had been immobilized. She breathed a sigh of relief — at least that anger hadn’t been directed at her. She’d been there as Mulder had struggled to recover from the fallout of Priest’s anger. She looked around — no sign of any other vehicle. Behind her, she heard Priest screaming as he returned to the living room and realized she was gone. She took off, racing for the woods.

It was dark, darker here in the heavy woods. She could only hope that the fallen limbs, jutting rocks, and other debris would help hide her own frantic tracks.

She skidded down into a prickly bush. She could hear Priest close behind, feel the flash of light on her back. She didn’t dare stop or look back. Her breathing came in spastic gasps. Branches grabbed at her. Twigs slapped her in the face. She stumbled, did a little dance and kept from falling. She tried to keep quiet, but the snaps and cracks were explosions she couldn’t prevent. She couldn’t even see her feet in the inky black. Even the sky had disappeared.

She’d headed out, not sure which direction to go. He’d moved her and she didn’t know where, but she didn’t think it was far. She needed to find the road, or another house. She stopped to catch her breath, leaning against a tree. She couldn’t breathe; her ribs hurt and each breath was painful. Her teeth chattered in the frigid winter air. Her heart exploded against her chest. She wiped at her face and discovered more blood, as well as tears.

Well, she scolded herself, that won’t help, and it’s not even making you feel better. Save the good cry for after the bad guy is down.

Then she heard it. In the black silence she heard branches snapping, snow crunching. The sounds came from behind her, close and getting closer. She looked around, seeing nothing in the heavy blanket of night. No place to hide, no place to lay in wait and ambush the son of a bitch who was trying to kill her.

She took off, running recklessly, tripping over stumps and smashing through a thicket. A twig swiped at her cheek and ripped at her ear. The sting brought fresh tears. Then suddenly she felt the ground rip out from under her. A steep decline forced her to grab on to a branch, a rock, anything to keep from sliding down. Below, she saw the glint of water. The hill was steep, covered with broken limbs and dead stumps protruding through the icy snow. She’d never make it down to the river this way. The woods were too thick, the ridge too steep. The cracking of branches was even closer now. Priest was coming.

She looked around frantically. She could just make out a clearing to her right. She climbed over the rocks blocking her path, hanging on to tree roots with both hands as she threaded her way across. It wasn’t much of a clearing. Instead, it looked like an old horse trail, a path worn into the woods but now overgrown with spindly branches, alien arms with long, fingers waving at her. Mulder would just love her imagery. As far as she could see, the path went all the way down to the river, with a few sharp turns. It looked dangerous, steep and narrow, and clogged with heaps of snow. The snow would make it next to impossible to climb down without sliding. It was crazy to even consider it.

A crack close behind made her jump. She crouched in the snow, shivering. She hadn’t thought to grab her coat when she ran out of the house; she hadn’t anticipated having to make this mad dash for her life through the freezing woods. She stared into the dark. She could just see the shadow that crawled down the ridge, clinging to rocks and exposed roots. His back was to her, as if he considered her no threat at all. She weighed again the possibility of an ambush. Could she take him? A rock, or maybe a heavy branch? She could hide … She shook her head. She was good, she knew that. But so was Priest. And he had 10 inches and a hundred or more pounds on her. If she didn’t take him down with one blow, she was bound to come out the loser.

She eyed the steep, really steep path, then glanced frantically over her shoulder as another twig snapped and the shadow edged closer. Priest would be here soon. She had to decide. Taking a deep breath, she set off down the trail.

–o0o–

Part 2 – Self Torment

Skinner led the way out of the house with Mulder following. The afternoon sun glinted blindingly off the snow-covered yard. The AD looked back as Mulder groaned and threw up his arm to cover his eyes. “Bright, eh?” he murmured. He looked out at the cops, huddled together in groups. The local PD in one group, Sheriff’s department together on the left side of the drive, and Nowak’s people, standing beside their vehicles. Conversations stopped when Mulder appeared, and Skinner got a first hand feel for what his agent had gone through for all those years in VCS. He turned in time to see Mulder visibly pull a shell around himself. He stood up straighter, blanked his face, arrogance suddenly seeming to seep from his pores. The transformation was striking, but Skinner now saw it for what it was — protection.

Nowak approached alone, and Mulder relaxed marginally. “Hey, man, you ok?” There was genuine concern on the detective’s face. He stopped at the bottom of the steps to the porch, followed Mulder’s gaze to the staring officers in the yard, and shrugged. “Ignore those idiots. They wouldn’t recognize genius if it bit them on the butt.”

Mulder snorted and started to reply, but Skinner cut him off. “We need a base. Priest is still in the area.”

“That so?” Nowak narrowed his eyes and looked at Mulder in admiration. “Someday, you’ll have to tell me how you do that, friend.”

“You wouldn’t want to know.” Mulder winced as he spoke, his rigid posture beginning to slip as he swayed slightly.

Skinner reached out, grabbed Mulder’s arm and looked at Nowak. “Look, Frank, Mulder needs to rest.” Even as he spoke, the younger man had shaken off his attempt at help and was still forcing himself to stand upright in front of the prying eyes that watched his every move. “We need someplace we can work from — not Hyde Park PD.”

“Way ahead of you on that one.” Nowak turned, gesturing for the FBI men to follow. “I thought you might need to rest, Mulder. Booked a room in a local hotel. We can get a few more rooms, set up a command post.” He looked worriedly at Mulder as he stumbled, but withheld any offer of help. Skinner had also refrained from reaching out, allowing the younger man to make it to the car under his own power. “Town cops and Dutchess County Sheriff’s gonna want in on this.”

“By all means, we’ll keep them informed.” Skinner watched Mulder slide into the car, then climbed behind the steering wheel. “But can we talk about that later? Let’s just get to the hotel.”

Nowak nodded, pushed Skinner’s door shut and stepped briskly to his own car. In seconds, they were moving, NYPD in the lead, the FBI next, the locals following in the rear. Mulder allowed himself to slump in the seat, one arm thrown up across his closed eyes as he leaned against the door. “Just a little longer, Mulder,” Skinner murmured. “Nowak got a hotel.”

“I’m ok,” Mulder replied. “We’ve gotta find Scully. Priest will have another bolthole — probably a vacant house in the area. Check with realtors — see what’s vacant and for sale. It could just be a place that’s empty now — people on vacation or something. The locals may be able to help with that.” He pulled himself erect, turned to look at Skinner. “He won’t kill her now, but if he doesn’t get what he wants soon, all bets are off.”

“And what does he want, Mulder?”

“Me.”

*****

Scully watched her shirt drift downstream, wondering if it would be enough. The bright white gleamed in the moonlight. She shivered in her bra, crouched in the cattails along the riverbank. She had to get moving or she would freeze to death.

She was feeling better — more confident. It looked like she was going to get away and cheat that bastard of yet another kill. She only now realized she had lost a shoe in the rough tumble down the steep hill. Her ankle hurt. It was swollen, nearly twice the size of the other one. She touched it gingerly, trying to determine if it was a break or just a bad sprain.

There was a sound from the hill and she glanced back. Priest was coming down the ridge, spider webbing his way calmly down, stretching and gripping rocks and branches. He was moving quickly, and with more control than she’d maintained on her frantic plunge down the narrow path.

Priest came to the water’s edge. He stared at her shirt, bobbing in the water as it drifted downstream. Hopefully he believed she’d tumbled in; she’d tossed a branch in to make a splash as she’d launched the shirt. He had to believe she was gone. She wasn’t going to be able to run on her ankle now.

Priest stood calmly staring at the shirt. He didn’t seem as crazed right now. Perhaps the mad dash through the snowy woods had taken the edge off. Scully burrowed down farther into the snow. The wind coming off the water brought more wet cold with it. Her teeth threatened to chatter, and she clenched them to keep quiet. Shivers crawled over her body. She hugged her knees to her chest, watching and waiting. As soon as Priest disappeared, she would set out for the road, for the house. It would be hard going. The cold and dark were her enemies, but they were better than facing Priest.

Finally Priest looked as if he were giving up. He stared out at the water, shrugged, and then pulled his coat more tightly around him. Then he turned and started walking directly toward her.

*****

It was the biggest battle of his career — getting Mulder to lie down. They’d gotten to the hotel, set up a command post in one room, and Skinner had tried to get Mulder to go into the adjoining room and lie down.

He’d sent for computers, techs, additional agents, liaisons to the local community. He’d been successful there, but getting Mulder to lie down was still a no go. The man paced back and forth before the window, staring unseeingly out over the snow.

The computers arrived, along with a tech team to set them up and get them on line. The room seemed small with the techies moving equipment and furniture, cops popping in and out, and phones ringing. The hotel manager hovered as if this were the most exciting thing that had ever happened in his life. And it probably was.

At 4:00, Skinner forced Mulder to stop his frenetic pacing long enough to swallow more Tylenol. One look at the pain etched on his face, the stiff way he held himself, and Skinner knew he was suffering. He reached out and touched Mulder’s forehead, earning himself a dirty look and a quick push awa. But he had been able to reassure himself that if the man was in pain, and exhausted, at least he wasn’t shivering with that dreadful cold that encompassed him when he was profiling.

At Mulder’s insistence, the search had been expanded to include all the neighboring townships up and down and around the Hudson. There were representatives of at least 10 little town police departments with more arriving all the time. And there were the ever-present Dutchess County Sheriff and NYPD. While Research ran listings through MLS, the locals worked on compiling a list of people who had notified them they would be out of town — a quaint little tradition that still existed in the small towns of America.

As the sun began to set, Mulder stopped pacing, standing silently to watch as darkness descended. Skinner moved to stand beside him, trying to offer his support without words. Mulder muttered, “He’ll keep her in the dark — try to keep her disoriented and confused. In a basement — he likes to be below ground.”

“We’ll find her.” He patted Mulder’s shoulder, an ineffective gesture if ever there was one, and tried again to get the man to go sleep — to rest — to give himself some time to recover from whatever he had experienced back at the house. He hadn’t been surprised when Mulder brushed him off and went back to his pacing.

They were looking for a house, vacant, with a basement, and fairly close to the house in Hyde Park. Mulder had said that Priest wouldn’t risk driving long with Scully in the car. He’d be more nervous because he’d be driving her car — an official NYPD unmarked. An hour away, at most. They’d marked off a circle of 60 miles — an enormous area to search — but they were working their way through the listings methodically.

Anything with close neighbors was eliminated.

Anything without a basement was eliminated.

Anything where the people were due home soon was eliminated.

That was how it worked. Just keep eliminating things and eventually, the answer would appear. He could only hope it would appear soon enough to save Scully before Priest decided her eyes weren’t all that blue after all. Skinner shook his head. What the hell had possessed her to go into the house alone?

At 9:00, he insisted that Mulder sit. He’d ordered food, but the younger man had refused to eat. Skinner had settled for getting him off his feet before he fell down. He tried to get him to sleep — or at least go to the adjoining room and lie down, but Mulder just snorted.

“I don’t think so, Walter.” Mulder waved a hand, encompassing the general commotion of people walking in and out, conversations being held in quiet voices, keys clicking softly as new search queries were entered into computers. “There’re just too many people around for me to risk sleeping.” He fixed Skinner with a firm look. “You know what it can be like.”

Skinner nodded. “I understand. I do know. But, Mulder …” He reached out to touch his agent’s arm, then stopped and scanned the busy room. No one was paying them any attention, so he rested a hand on Mulder’s shoulder. “You are two steps from falling down. You need to rest.”

Mulder shrugged. “I’ll rest when we find Scully.”

*****

She had drifted off to sleep — something she would have thought was impossible if it hadn’t happened. He’d tied her to something rough — a four by four perhaps — and the wood dug into her bare back. She had been tied kneeling, her legs extending behind the post, her ankles tied together. The injured ankle throbbed. Her hands were tied behind the post and connected to her ankles as well. It was awkward and more than a little uncomfortable, but she was sure that had been Priest’s intention.

It was his presence that woke her — not a sound or a touch — just his presence. It was as if something dark and foul had entered the space and stood — waiting. She shifted slightly, lifting her head to stare up at him. Every movement hurt — her neck was stiff from the unnatural position she’d slept in. Her knees ached — they’d been rubbed raw from the hard-packed dirt she knelt on; her muscles screamed from being held in the same position for so long. There was dried blood in her hair and on her face. Her chest and back were criss-crossed with welts gathered in her frantic race through the woods. Beneath the welts her fair skin had turned dark — bruises blossomed up and down her side and across her chest.

It was damp and dank where she was. No sign of sun or moon to tell her what time it was. Even day and night were denied here. She was hungry, but couldn’t count on that to clue her to the time. The slight light from the lantern he carried cast just enough illumination that she was able to inventory her aches and injuries. And the fact that she still hurt told her she hadn’t been out more than a day — long enough to grow cold and stiff and sore, but not long enough for the pain in her head to recede.

“Don’t look at me,” he commanded and she dropped her eyes immediately. Her breath caught in her chest. As she looked down, she could see the black and blue of vivid bruises on her left rib cage. She thought she remembered several harsh kicks in that area when she first went down.

He placed the lantern on the floor by the wall and began pacing. Long legs and powerful strides carried him the length of the room in only eight steps.

“What do you want, Fenton?” she asked quietly. She was careful to keep her eyes down, glancing at him only through half-lowered lids.

“Hush!” he ordered as he whipped around, staring at her downcast head. “You will not speak to me.” He resumed pacing, his boots loud and angry sounding, even against the dirt floor. She tried to look around, see where she was, but aside from the dirt floor and dirt walls, she could make out no features. There seemed to be an entrance to her left — the one Priest had used to enter this space. There was a smaller opening across from her, leading into blackness. To the right of this opening was a table with a single wooden chair.

“What do I want? What do I want?” He reached the far wall and slammed it with his fist, then rotated and moved across the room, catching her throat in his hand. She struggled to keep her eyes from meeting his as he jerked her head upward. Finally, she closed them. Blindness seemed preferable to allowing Fenton Priest to see something unacceptable in her eyes. “I don’t want to have to Work alone anymore. I want help. And company. I want someone who understands.” He released her and she dropped her head, only to have it rocked backward as he slapped her across her cheek. “I want my brother back!”

“He’s not your brother,” she whispered. Her lip was bleeding again, and she’d bitten her tongue. She fought the urge to hack, and settled for spitting the blood from her mouth.

“He understands me. He understands about the Work.” Priest stepped to the table, pulled out the chair and sat. He turned to look at her, and she quickly dropped her head again. “If you keep looking at me,” he said, “I’ll have to kill you anyway.”

“And if I don’t look? You’ll let me go?”

“He’ll come,” Priest said. “He’ll come for you. I’ve been watching — waiting till he could come.”

She struggled against her bonds, shifting her weight from one knee to the other. She was out of her element here. Mulder was the one with the psychological insight into Priest. She could dissect a body, tease the truth from tissue and bone, but she was never very good with living people. Getting inside someone else’s head was something she’d never been able to do; it was something she’d never wanted to do.

Priest was staring into the darkness, muttering under his breath. Scully risked an upward glance, studying him as he rocked in the chair. He’d lost interest in her and was focused on something internal — lost in his madness.

She had to get out of this. For his own twisted reasons, Priest hadn’t killed her and apparently wasn’t going to right away. But he’d already beaten her, and she had no doubt he’d do so again. The strike against her cheek, and her strangled cry, seemed to have amused him.

Mulder would be searching. She knew that he would figure out where she was and come and get her. She needed to stay alive, stay aware, so that when he came she would be ready. But Priest wanted Mulder — not to kill him or even to hurt him, but to twist him into a mirror of his own warped self. And Mulder, her poor, damaged Mulder, he would go willingly with Priest, do anything this madman demanded, if only it would buy her safety.

She had to get free, one way or the other. Mulder had lost too much already. She’d learned, slowly, what he had gone through when she was missing for all those months. She’d seen the pain in his face when he tried to be brave while she fought cancer. His love had revealed itself in a hundred different ways over the years they had been together. And always, he was willing to take the loss, suffer the torment, and live the pain to save her. Well, not this time. She was not going to let him sell his soul for her.

“I want my brother back.”

She looked up without thinking, then quickly dropped her head again and spoke. “He’s not your brother,” she repeated. “You tried to kill him.” She looked up, this time staring into Priest’s face. “He hunts things like you. He can see inside your mind. He’ll find you and squash you like a bug.”

“Do you want to make me mad?” Priest stood, gripping the chair in both hands, advancing on her. “I don’t think you want to make me mad…”

“You need to let me go.” Her voice was quiet but forceful. “You need to let me go; then you need to run. You’ll never survive if you wait for him. He won’t allow it.”

“You. Will. Be. Quiet.” He shook the chair in her direction. “I can’t think when you talk.” He fixed her with a steely stare. “You will be quiet, or I will break this chair over your head and beat you with the pieces.”

He dropped the chair before her, sat and took her chin in his hand. With the other hand, he reached out, roughly rubbing the blood that marred her face. Through her lashes, she watched as his eyes lit up and a mask of anticipation slid across his face.

“Of course, I could do that anyway. He’ll still come.”

–o0o–

Part 3 – Self Torment

They’d worked through the night, Mulder refusing or unable to sleep. He’d spent hours looking at listings for houses within the prescribed radius, but nothing had jumped out at him so far. When his eyes couldn’t bear to stare at the screen any longer, he’d rise and pace, or stand by the window and stare at the moonlit snow. Skinner had continued to coordinate the locals; they were out doing drive-bys of every possible house where they knew the owners were absent. There was no sign of Scully’s car at any of them. Aside from one petty thief caught in the act in Staatsburg, there had been no sign of activity.

As more and more potential locations were identified, the number of involved law enforcement people swelled. The original command post room was rapidly outgrown. At about 3:00 in the morning, Skinner began shifting operations to a meeting room down the hall.

The room had quieted through the rest of the night as the command post expanded into the new room. By dawn, the original room held only a couple of computers, a young FBI agent Skinner was using as a runner, Nowak, Skinner and Mulder. Nowak had been allowed to stay because he had consistently shown nothing but concern and admiration for Mulder, his abilities, and the toll they took on him.

“Mulder,” Skinner said quietly, moving to stand beside his agent as he stared out the window once more. “You have to go and rest.” He studied the younger man, noting the slump of his shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes. When he walked, there was just the slightest hint of a limp from the knee that had been damaged four months earlier. “Please, go and lie down. If you can’t sleep, at least get off your feet for a while.”

Mulder shook his head. “I have to be here, Walter. I can’t sleep. And not just because …” His voice trailed off, leaving the thought unspoken as he turned and looked at Skinner. “I have to look at all the possibles — I don’t know how, but I’ll know it when I see it.” Moving from the window, he started back to the computer. “I have to go — when we find it.”

Skinner reached out and stopped him, one hand holding Mulder’s arm until the younger man stood still. “I understand that. I just want you to get off your feet; lie down for a while. Take some more Tylenol, maybe something a little stronger.” He eyed the man critically. “I can tell your knee hurts; what else is causing you pain?”

Mulder shrugged off the hold, but didn’t move. “I’m all right.” He met Skinner’s eyes. “The focus has to be on Scully. I don’t know how long Priest will wait for me to come.”

“You’re convinced that’s what he wants? For you to join him?”

Mulder nodded. “At first, Priest was killing from some sort of twisted sense of self-preservation — he killed bad people, people he perceived as evil. It didn’t take him long to expand that into people who weren’t necessarily bad, just non-contributing members of society — the homeless, the mentally ill, the rejects of society who had found homes in the underground.” Mulder closed his eyes briefly, shuddering.

At Skinner’s look of concern, Mulder shook his head. “Nah — I’m not spazzin’ out. Just thinking out loud.”

Skinner still placed his hand against Mulder’s forehead, pushing up his shirt sleeve to touch his arm. “You’re not cold?”

“No,” Mulder said shortly, tolerating Skinner’s concern with thinly veiled patience.

“All right, then.” Skinner pushed Mulder back gently until his legs were against the bed. “Get off your feet and go on.”

Mulder frowned but sat. “He still took bad people when he was up top. Or at least he did until he made the mistake with Jackson.” At Skinner’s puzzled look, he clarified. “The man who was fighting with his wife.”

“I know who Jackson was.” Skinner waved the explanation away. “What was the mistake?”

“Priest killed a good guy.” Mulder lifted a hand and ran it through his hair, then massaged his forehead.

“Tylenol, Mulder, and I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.” Skinner went into the bathroom and returned with pills and water. At Mulder’s reluctance, he threatened, “I’ll get someone in here to force-feed you if you resist. And if I have to go to that much trouble, I’m going to include a sedative.” He held the Tylenol out, ignoring Mulder’s petulant frown, and smiled approvingly when Mulder swallowed.

“Killing Jackson seemed to release Priest from the last vestiges of his conscience — he was free to pursue anyone and everyone.” Mulder blinked. “It also cut him loose from his ritual. The lights, the noise, the elaborate set up. He took that nurse and we never saw her again. Her body wasn’t even in the Sanctuary.”

“So — he’s got another place he kills?”

Mulder nodded. “Probably more than one. And now he doesn’t necessarily feel constrained to limit his hunting to the evil and the rejects.”

“But the nurse is the only one he’s taken that wasn’t a reject or a bad person.” Skinner paused, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Can’t we attribute the nurse to self-preservation?”

“I don’t think so.” Mulder leaned back on the bed, kicking off his shoes. “I can’t tell you exactly why, but I think he’s crossed a line now — anyone is fair game.”

“But not Scully?”

Mulder’s brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t think so — at least not right away. He’s going to want to keep her, use her to trade for me.”

“And you know this — how?”

Mulder shrugged. “It’s what I’d do. And I’d …”

“Stop.” Skinner’s voice was almost harsh; he reached out and gripped Mulder’s arm. “You will not torment yourself with what you would do.” He loosened his grip, his touch now just a gentle reminder that someone cared. “You would not do any of the things that Priest has done. The fact that you have this — ability — to, uh, understand his motives, and use that understanding to track him — that does not in any way, make you like him.”

Mulder was silent for a moment, considering. At last, he nodded. “Yeah, well — thanks.” He shifted uncomfortably, then said, “Anyway, he won’t kill her right away. He probably won’t hurt her at first either.” Mulder winced. “But he’ll realize — probably sooner rather than later — that I’ll trade for Scully, regardless of her condition. He may beat her, or, uh …” His mind skittered away from the unspoken concept. “He may hurt her. And he may eventually realize that I won’t know if she’s dead or alive — and dead is a lot easier than alive.”

Skinner was silent, going over Mulder’s evaluation of the situation. “You’re sure of the area to search?”

Mulder shrugged. “I thought I was.” He got up and headed back to the computer. “I thought we’d have found more viable options by now. Everything that’s come up is too close to neighbors. He won’t risk that. And it’ll have been vacant for a while.”

“We’ll find it, Mulder. How many places can there be that meet your criteria?”

Mulder stared at the laptop screen, then reached out, slamming it shut. “But will it be soon enough?”

Skinner reached out to touch him again, to squeeze his shoulder in a gesture of support, but Mulder waved him off and stood. “I’m going to take a shower — change.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“You’ll come get me if we get a hit?”

“Count on it.”

Mulder nodded and grabbed his bag, headed into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Skinner stood staring at the closed door for a moment longer. For once he wasn’t worried that Mulder would take off on his own. He was more concerned the man would collapse from sheer exhaustion before they got a hit. But, until there was a hit, and a place to start looking, Mulder would stay right here — right where he had the only chance of finding Scully. He rolled his shoulders, both hands coming up to knead the muscles knotted there. He needed to sleep as well. But for now, that was out of the question, so… He needed to work out some of his tension instead. He’d go check in at the main command room, and then see if the hotel had a gym.

*****

Mulder came out of the shower only marginally refreshed, but still feeling better. He pulled on clean jeans, and towel dried his hair. With hair still damp and the towel draped round his neck and over his bare chest, he exited the bathroom. He was surprised to see the room was empty, but moved straight to the computer and began to review the possibles that had come up during his shower.

He was scrolling down the pitifully short list, growing more worried with each negative hit, when the computer chirped. He had mail. A quick review of the note from Byers showed that the boys believed they had found the bolthole. A large old house on the river — it was on the register of historic landmarks and had been used by smugglers over 100 years ago. Most recently it had been owned by a Colombian drug cartel and used for drug smuggling and gun running. There were extensive underground storage rooms, and several tunnels that led down to the river. It hadn’t shown up on any of the lists because it was currently the property of the United States Government — taken in the raid that shut down this particular arm of the drug cartel.

Mulder smiled. It had taken some slick work to dig this up.

He looked around for Skinner again, puzzled that the AD wasn’t there waiting, then shook his head and finished dressing. It was a quick trip to the meeting room. He checked in with the rest of the team and was told Skinner was working out in the gym.

Conscience warred with practicality for about 2 seconds, then Mulder had the keys to a car and was gone.

*****

She was loose when she came to again. He’d released her once before, then gloried in chasing her down. Her injured ankle hobbled her more securely than any bond, and he had easily caught her, tackling her to the ground. She’d fought with the strength of a captured animal, and had begun to get the better of him — he was larger but she had pure rage and some very specific hand-to-hand training on her side. She’d had him down, was straddling him, beating his head against the floor, when she felt the prick of his needle and the paralysis slowly slid over her. When she came to again, she was battered, bloody, and bruised. But she was, nonetheless, free of restraints.

She rolled from her back to her knees, fighting dizziness, kneeling there, head hanging down as she tried to pull herself together and get to her feet. Standing was problematic; the ankle was still swollen almost twice it’s normal size. Not broken, but very severely sprained. The lantern sputtered as she slowly pulled herself up, clutching the wall for balance. She looked around, then grabbed the lantern and began moving. It was slow progress, and she frequently had to rest. She used the walls for support as she made her way back through the entry that Priest had used. It was some network of caverns, one room after another with smaller alcoves off to the sides.

As she limped through the tunnels, she watched for Priest, stopping to listen carefully every few steps. The alcoves would make possible hiding places, but she didn’t want to hide — she wanted to get out.

The fifth ‘room’ she came to had a wooden floor and real walls. It also had a trap door in the ceiling. Unfortunately, there was no ladder leading up and out so she was still trapped. She shone the light about looking for anything that might provide a way out.

She smelled something, wiped her bloody nose, then sniffed the air again. It was the scent of blood. That unmistakable coppery smell floated in the air. It was too heavy to come from her — she had grown accustomed to her own smell. This was something else — something new. She took the lantern and made a circuit of the room, the odor intensifying before she saw the cause. In the far corner, hidden in the shadows was a body — the body of a young woman.

She appeared to be sleeping, crumpled on the floor, lying on her side, her arm flung over her face. As Scully held the light up, the girl was bathed in color, red on the walls and floor shouting their message of death.

“Oh, God!” The cry was instinctive. He’d found someone else. She didn’t approach right away — she wanted to, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She’d seen enough death to know it when she saw it. There was nothing she could do for this girl except mourn. Somehow, she knew that Priest had taken this woman because he needed to kill — and he didn’t want to kill her yet.

She took some time to reflect — still trying vainly to understand what motivated this monster, Priest. Minutes later, much saddened at her inability to prevent this death, she went to the girl. She stayed there with her, touching her gently. Her emotions pushed away the intellectual part of her brain that screamed to stay away — don’t mess with the evidence. Let someone else piece this atrocity together. She was too close. But something wouldn’t let her leave, wouldn’t let her just walk away from this woman — this innocent woman who had died for no other reason than Priest’s need to kill conflicting with his need to keep her alive.

She was tired, in so much pain, and she was scared. Where was Mulder? Why hadn’t they found Priest yet? If Priest wanted Mulder, wouldn’t he have left a trail? She stayed there, huddled on the floor, an emotional wreck who couldn’t stop the tears, thinking that it should have been her. And then feeling guilty because she knew it would devastate Mulder if it had been her — if it still turned out to be her. He’d never forgive himself, never get over it, if he didn’t save her. God damn him! Her tears were rapidly turning to anger. Why did Mulder always have to set himself up to be the savior? Why did he have to torture himself when he couldn’t save the world? And where did that pig-headed SOB get off thinking he was responsible for her being here? She’d gotten into this jam on her own and she was damn well going to get out on her own!

A slight cough from behind caused her to whirl around, clawing her way to her feet. Priest was standing below the trap door, a rope ladder dangling behind him. “Some of that self-pity turning into rage, Agent Scully?”

Without thinking, she launched herself at him, startling herself as much as she startled him. She caught him mid-chest and he tumbled backward, the small syringe he’d concealed in his right hand went skittering across the floorboards. Score one for pissed-off woman-power, she thought, as she tried to get an arm around his neck.

But he was bigger — taller and heavier — and that translated to stronger. In a fight with someone her own size, male or female, she was always equal to the task, usually coming out ahead. But when size entered the equation, unless the person had no skill in fighting at all, well, size mattered.

He rolled his knees up, kicked out and she went flying across the room. Without his syringe, he’d lost some of his confidence and he opted to retreat, shimmying up the rope ladder. But she was right on his tail, following every step of the way. By the time he was out, she was at the opening; she reached out, sweeping his legs from under him, laughing to herself as he fell heavily. It bought her enough time to make it the rest of the way into the house.

The trapdoor opened into a bedroom. As she watched, Priest leapt over the bed, scrambling for something on the dresser. With a new syringe in hand, he circled around toward her. She jumped on the bed, lunging for the end in a mad attempt to slide by Priest, but she knew it wasn’t soon enough. She hadn’t been fast enough, and then Priest was on her.

As she fell off the end of the bed and twisted around, a knee slammed into her back. The blow drove the wind out of her lungs as her face slammed into the uncarpeted floor. She was trying to breathe, trying to scream, pushing herself up on her knees, grunting, crawling toward the open doorway of the bedroom, a crab-like painful movement.

Not gonna make it, not gonna make it. The defeatist words were an unbidden chant in her head, even as she continued her struggle to crawl out of the room and away from Priest. He was advancing on her now, the slow steady steps of a predator who knows it’s caught its prey.

She was in the hall now, just barely, and Priest seemed to be enjoying her slow-motion flight to freedom. He stayed far enough away to keep her moving, but close enough to keep the terror in her throat. As she dragged herself forward, she had the wildest thought that the front door was opening, the sound of wood crashing in her ears when powerful hands caught her. She kicked and gasped for air as Priest flipped her over to face him. His face loomed over hers — shadowed in the darkened hall. She slammed her right arm straight up into his face, the blow glancing off a cheekbone.

Priest flinched, raising his arm both to block her blows and to strike. The second syringe fell, forgotten in his rage. Scully’s skin tightened painfully, waiting for the blow. His fist struck and her head was slammed back against the wall. The light dimmed as she fought for consciousness — her eyes watered, and the air was split by a mighty roar. Priest was suddenly gone, almost as if he’d reached the bottom of a bungee cord and was springing upward on the elastic band. There was an arm around his neck.

Scully watched, stunned, trying to breathe, the breaths coming ragged and weak. She struggled to sit up against the wall, and then pushed herself away from Priest — and the man who was struggling with him.

Mulder!

Her eyes were still watering — her vision was murky at best.

It was Mulder.

But —

Where the hell was his backup?

End Self Torment

—xXx—

Title: Self Complete 01/02 Author: Daydreamer Author E-mail: [email protected] Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery Category: SAR – character exploration Spoilers: none Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; MSR Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from.

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer’s Den Http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113

Summary: With Priest defeated, Mulder and Scully move forward. Final part of the Self Serial

Self Complete

–o0o–

Part One

He didn’t have long. He figured the longest Mulder would stay in the shower was 15 minutes. But still, a 15 minute run would be better than nothing. He was strung tighter than a bow. Fear, rage, concern all swirled about with no good outlet. He couldn’t very well go around hitting people because they couldn’t find Scully — but he wanted to.

He stripped off his shirt and tie, removed his undershirt, and stepped out of his shoes. He looked down at his trousers and decided it would be his turn for the shower next — he’d change then. What he really wanted was a good go-round with the heavy bag, but that was sorely lacking from this yuppie version of a gym. Weights, a leg press, ab cruncher, and a stair machine were all present along with the treadmill he planned to use. He climbed on the treadmill, starting slow but rapidly increasing speed until he finally set the machine for a 5 minute mile — fast even for him. He usually preferred to run a little slower but go for distance. This time, however, he was looking for maximum expenditure of energy in minimum time.

He was moving smoothly now, well within his comfort zone, and the pressure of the past few days began to slowly slide away. This was how he coped. Physical activity — running, boxing, lifting weights — it was his survival mechanism. If he could just work out the kinks physically, he could usually wrap his brain around a problem and come up with a viable solution. He rolled his shoulders again, then lifted a hand to wipe away the beads of sweat that were forming on his forehead.

Mulder and Scully. There was a situation. All those years of working together and it took someone like Priest to get them to acknowledge they were in love. No one had been more surprised than he when those words had popped out of Scully’s mouth four months ago. Well, he amended, maybe Mulder had been more surprised.

They had a hard row to hoe. A romantic relationship between partners was frowned upon at the Bureau. If they kept the relationship low key, kept it away from the work, he might be able to keep them together. But if they wanted to get married, start a family, he’d have no choice but to split them up. And then what would he do?

Scully had dozens of options. She could go anywhere, work in any office with a pathology department. She could teach at the Academy; travel on a lecture circuit. The possibilities were endless for Scully. But what would he do with Mulder? Mulder couldn’t work the X files alone — he’d never survive without Scully to save his butt when he ran off half-cocked, racing into situations that were far too unpredictable for a single person to face alone. He didn’t think the man would accept a new partner — and he wasn’t sure he’d trust anyone else with Mulder.

And he wasn’t going to send his best agent back to VCS — no matter how talented he was in that area. Now that he had seen what it cost Mulder to look into the mind of a killer, he’d have no part in returning him to that world. And he certainly wasn’t going to consign the man to listening to bullshit tapes on bullshit operations to solve bullshit crimes. As brilliant as Mulder was, he’d go crazy if he had to do that day after day. No, Mulder was going to be a problem and there was just one thing to do. He was going to have to find a way to promote the man. He had a good mind — he could be organized when he wanted to. And he had the ability to read people. He’d make a good SAC. Removed enough from the actual crimes to keep him safe — and sane — and yet still involved enough to satisfy that need of his to be the protector, slay the dragons, kill the bad guys.

Skinner smiled to himself. Well, wasn’t that just the end of it all? Who’d have thought that Mulder and Scully falling in love would result in Mulder getting promoted? It’d drive Mulder crazy when he told him. Skinner laughed now, imagining the look on Mulder’s face. The man would be in absolute shock. He’d never believe it. He’d protest at first, try and wriggle out of it. But once Skinner explained that it was the only way he was going to be able to still work with Scully, well, he’d settle down and accept.

Mulder could still dabble with the unusual cases. As AD, he could assign Scully to wherever he put Mulder. She’d keep an eye on him, make him toe the line. It wouldn’t hurt to have her around to help until Mulder got the knack of all the increased paperwork he was going to be doing. But, he mused to himself, if he was going to rely on Scully to get Mulder through as SAC, she was going to need a raise as well. Well, hell! He could do that. He was the god damned Assistant Director after all. He did have some discretion in these things. And it was about time he started using it.

No more sitting on the fence. No more trying to play both sides in an effort to keep his people safe. No more deals with the devil on his part. It was time to take a stand. It was odd how seeing Mulder and Scully take a stand on their own relationship was pushing him to redefine his own standards and values. There was definitely something going on with the X files. Some sort of conspiracy or government cover-up. Did it involve aliens? Who knew? And did it really matter? If aliens were going to waste all that time and energy abducting humans, why the hell weren’t they using that famous anal probe on world leaders instead of any idiot with a pickup? Skinner shook his head. There were things going on in the shadows, that much was sure. Some possibly extra-terrestrial — but certainly there was enough political maneuvering amongst the key players right here on terra firma to keep things interesting. He could dangle an opportunity to focus on that before Mulder — that ought to help make the promotion a little easier to swallow.

He liked the man. He had to admit it. He liked and respected the man. There was a level of commitment, a purity of purpose about him that was appealing. If he didn’t drive you crazy first, of course. He’d been touched when Mulder called him by his first name. It was something new. He didn’t admit it, but he’d been called by his last name probably longer than Mulder had. Eighteen years old — in the Army. Somehow, Walter had vanished over in Vietnam, and some new person, harder, colder, and stronger in many ways, had emerged. Sharon had been the only one to still call him Walter. And she had died with that name on her lips. He’d not thought to hear it again. And then Mulder had said it — Walter. It was a small thing, but it touched him deeply.

He didn’t have friends — he worked too hard and too long, and he couldn’t very well talk to people about what he did. Women were available to him since Sharon died, but he didn’t understand these women. They reminded him of the boys he grew up with, only after one thing. And while he enjoyed that one thing, it wasn’t enough. But, if he could have friends, he wanted real friends like Mulder and Scully. Friends who understood the work, understood the hours, understood him, then life became just a bit more worth living.

But the first step in all of this — promotions, reassignments, friendships — was to find Scully. None of it would mean anything if they didn’t find her, get her away from Priest, and put an end to this god awful case.

He glanced at his watch, startled when he realized he’d been on the treadmill for 20 minutes. He glanced over at the closed door to the workout room, wondering why no one had come to find him. He slowed the machine, winding down until he was jogging, and then walking briskly, and then finally, stopping. Climbing down, he began to towel off. He slipped on his shoes and T-shirt and went directly back to the room where he’d left Mulder, but the man was not there. Frowning, he hurried to the command center.

The agent he had appointed as Mulder-watcher was in the room, busily scanning through sheets of an MLS printout. “Where is Agent Mulder, Dexter?” he demanded.

“Oh, uh, I, uh, missed him, Sir.” The young man was blushing to the tips of his toes as he stood to face the AD.

“What do you mean, you missed him?” Skinner could feel a vein in his temple begin to throb.

“I was, uh …” Dexter looked around for help, found none, and swallowed hard. “I, uh, had to go to the bathroom, Sir.”

“I am not interested in your toilet training, Agent.” Skinner towered over the other man, fighting for self-control. “Where is Agent Mulder?”

“I, uh, think he went to get something to eat.” Dexter blurted the words out, then took two steps back as Skinner advanced on him, hands fisted at this side.

“Mulder doesn’t eat, you idiot. I told you to watch him and come get me when he got out of the shower.” Skinner shook his head in disgust. “What was so hard about that?” He turned and grabbed a woman in an NYPD uniform. “Find Detective Nowak. Have him report to me.”

“Yes, Sir,” the woman replied sharply as she turned and left the room.

Skinner went back to the hotel room. He stood in the doorway and studied it. The bed was still made — slightly mussed from where Mulder had sat on it, but still, nothing unusual in that. He peered into the bathroom. The steam on the mirror was gone; there was no residual heat to show the shower had been used. Mulder had been gone awhile.

“You wanted to see me?” Nowak stood in the door behind him.

“Mulder’s missing.” He looked at clothes Mulder had left on the floor, and then went to his bag and tried to take inventory. “I think he’s in jeans. Not sure what kind of shirt.” He looked back at the open closet. “Didn’t take his coat.”

“He wouldn’t have gone out in this weather without his coat.” Nowak nodded as he spoke. “Surely that’s a good sign; he didn’t go far.”

“It just means Mulder didn’t think about it. He doesn’t always remember mundane things like eating, and sleeping, and wearing a coat in the snow. They’re too — ordinary. He, uh — gets focused on something and the rest just disappears.” Skinner closed Mulder’s bag, his eyes darting around the room again. He was beginning to panic. Something had triggered Mulder’s hasty disappearance; he had to have found something new.

His eyes lighted on the laptop. For close to 24 hours it had been open, connected to the internet and running searches on MLS. Emails had been rocketing back and forth between members of the search team, LEOs who weren’t on site, and Mulder’s special unofficial sources.

Now it was closed.

He moved smoothly across the room, opening the laptop and booting it up in one quick move. His foot tapped impatiently as he waited for the dial up modem to connect. A few keystrokes and he was in. Good thing he’d already hacked Mulder’s email once — it saved time this go round.

And there it was. Old house. On the river. Underground tunnels and storage areas. Not listed as vacant because it was owned by the government. Skinner jotted down the address, leapt to his feet and headed out. “Get ‘em rolling, Nowak. I know where he went.”

*****

She got another glimpse of Mulder’s face as he tumbled into the bedroom, grappling with Priest. She followed as swiftly as she could, making it to the door in time to see the two men crash against the dresser, fighting and struggling in a silent choreography. Mulder swung violently at Priest, his face contorted in rage. Priest broke free and swung at Mulder, striking him on the cheek, drawing instant blood and knocking him back against the bed.

Scully pulled herself to her feet, and launched herself at Priest. He was insane; he may have wanted Mulder back, wanted his ‘brother’ to help him, but when Mulder had attacked him, all that changed. She could see it in Priest’s face. He would kill Mulder, if he could. Scully was strong, but she was small; she was normally quick, but she was hurt. Priest was neither small nor hurt, and he brought up a forearm, slamming it into Scully’s chest, knocking her backward. She fell against the wall, lights exploding in her head.

She crumpled to the floor as Priest leapt past her and went out the bedroom door. She felt rather than saw Mulder launch his body over hers, yelling, trying to reach Priest as he ran out of the room.

Use your gun, idiot, she thought, but she had no energy to call out.

Scully shook her head as she heard a crash in the living room. She listened to the struggle, still trying to gather herself and climb back to her feet. She heard yelling, echoing down the hall.

“Gonna kill you.”

The voice was so matter-of-fact, yet it was the voice of hatred. The chilling thought ran through her mind that she might lose Mulder — here, today — and they’d never really had a chance to act on the love they shared.

She pushed herself up and got her knees under her, then stood, holding onto the bed, swaying on her feet. As she lurched out the door and into the hallway, she heard what sounded like a chair slam into a wall in the living room.

This can’t be real. Why won’t this end? For an insane moment, she wanted nothing more than to run to the bathroom, lock the door, and hide. But while hiding might avoid Priest, Mulder would be deserted, and she could never do that.

She entered the living room and put her hand out to the wall to steady herself. The door was open, splintered doorframe lying on the bare floorboards. Two dark figures struggled, swinging wildly, throwing punches faster than her eyes could follow.

She lunged for Mulder, yanking him backward. They both fell as she scrambled for his gun holster. She tore the flap open, jerked the pistol out in one motion, and then she was up from the floor, holding the Sig in a two-handed grip. She saw Priest now, moving along the wall toward her. Her aim wavered, her vision blurred, but she fired three shots in quick succession.

A shot hit a lamp and the ceramic exploded in a white shower. The shade bounced crazily across the floor and then Priest lunged for her, knocking the gun from her hand. Oblivious to Mulder’s roar, he locked his hands around her throat, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing …

Her vision was fading as Mulder threw himself onto Priest’s back, hands working furiously to remove Priest’s fingers from around her throat.

She vaguely heard Skinner yell, “Freeze!” and thought it was about time backup arrived. There were several more shots, but the hands were still around her throat, and she couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear, and then, she couldn’t breathe.

*****

She woke in the hospital. One arm was strapped to a board and an IV pumped fluids into her. Her ankle had been bound, and was elevated. Her ribs had been taped as well, making her wonder if she’d cracked one or two. But it was her throat that hurt. She tried to speak, just an experimental little sound, but hardly anything came out. She furrowed her brow and looked around.

Mulder was sitting in a chair, bent over the bed with his head resting against her leg. One arm curled protectively across her thighs. He was sound asleep.

Her eyes found Skinner next. He was slumped in a chair, long legs stretched out before him, studying her as she took her silent inventory and became oriented.

“Better, Dana?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, then pointed to her throat with her free hand.

“Are you thirsty?” Skinner was on his feet in an instant and holding a cup to her lips.

She swallowed carefully, then asked in a soft, hoarse voice, “Did we get him?”

“Oh, yeah,” Skinner nodded. “Mulder had pretty much beaten the shit out of him, then you got him with Mulder’s gun. We’re still not sure which bullet actually killed him — yours, mine, or Nowak’s. Skinner smiled grimly. “But we are sure of one thing — he is one dead fucker.”

“How’s Mulder?”

“Awake.”

She turned to find her partner smiling up at her, looking for all the world like a kid who’d just been given his Christmas, Easter, and birthday presents all rolled up into one.

“You got him, partner,” she whispered hoarsely.

“We did.” Mulder waved at the room, including Skinner in the gesture.

“I’m going to leave you two now,” Skinner said, smiling. He leaned down, surprising both his agents when he kissed Scully on the cheek. “I’m very pleased you’re still with us, Dana, and if you ever go off alone again like that, I’ll hold you while Mulder beats you. Got it?”

He turned and left the room, chuckling quietly at the astonished expressions on both their faces.

“Well, Scully — since Walter did bring it up…” Mulder drew back in the chair and tried to look sternly at the love of his life. “What the hell were you thinking when you went in that house alone?”

“Probably the same thing you think every time you take off on one of your little jaunts, Agent Mulder,” she replied smartly, although faintly.

“That’s different,” he said, and she could hear the hurt and confusion in his voice.

“How?”

Mulder shrugged. “It just is.”

“Well, there’s a valid argument if ever I heard one. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury — it just is.” She tried to cross her arms, but it was difficult with the board and IV.

“Scully,” Mulder began, and his voice broke. He paused a moment, then tried again. “Scully — I know it’s not fair, but you can’t put yourself at risk. I can’t stand it. I couldn’t stand it again. I don’t think I could go on if something happened to you.”

All the anger that had been building at his double standard seeped away as she listened to the pain in his voice, saw the tears in his eyes. “Mulder,” she said softly, reaching out to pull him toward her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He was leaning over her, bending closer, and then, like magic, his mouth touched hers. Just the lightest touch, his lips grazing across hers. His tongue peeked out briefly, almost as if he were tasting her, or marking her, making her his own.

“I love you, Dana Scully,” he whispered.

She drew his head down until it rested against her breast. Her hand stroked his hair, soothing, calming, promising.

“And I love you, Fox Mulder.”

–o0o–

Part Two – Self Complete

It was her turn on the range at Quantico. The gun made rapid little sounds — pop, pop, pop — the bullets hitting the target almost before the sounds registered. She stood with her legs spread, the gun held before her in both hands, totally focused on the cardboard man at the end of the range. He felt himself begin to harden. What was it about death and sex? Well, it had been near death this last time, and it had been near sex for far too long. He looked at the target. A cluster of nine holes were centered on the chest.

She lowered the weapon and turned to look at him. “Nice shooting, Scully,” he commented. “Gonna fire the last round?”

With a look that couldn’t be described as anything but saucy, she eyed the target, then brought her gun up and fired in a single smooth move. He looked at the target, watched as a hole bloomed on the left shoulder. “Trying to tell me something, Scully?”

“Yeah. You put yourself on the line like that again — for any reason — and it won’t just be your shoulder I put a bullet in.”

He stepped closer, skimmed his fingers over her hair. “If it’s for you, you’ll have to shoot me to stop me.”

She reached out and pulled his hand into her own. His ring finger was crooked, a lasting reminder of the damage Priest had done. “You can’t do that,” she murmured. “You can’t protect me and keep me safe.”

When she started to step back, he tightened his fingers. “I’m tired of you telling me what I can and cannot do. Don’t you know you are more important to me than anything?”

He didn’t mind the accusation in her eyes, or the anger. He preferred it to acceptance or disinterest. After all, this was his Scully.

“Mulder, you have to let me do my job. You can’t always protect me. My job is who I am — I have to be able to function.”

“So function.” He shrugged. “I don’t interfere with you doing your job. You know that.” He turned her hand in his, his thumb gently stroking hers.

“You can’t protect me,” she insisted. “I’m not some fragile flower that can’t take care of herself. I’m strong and capable, and I can do what it takes to get the job done. As nice as it might be to imagine a white knight — I can handle myself in the field. You have to take me as I am.”

His eyes darkened with impatient desire. “And that’s what I want. You’re strong, Scully — stronger than me. I need your strength.” The frustration he was feeling now was with himself, for being so impossibly driven that he might, at any moment, begin to beg. “I need you, Scully,” he murmured, stepping closer, curling his hands on the collar of her shirt.

She gripped his arms, and he wasn’t sure if she intended to move in or away. “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure, she asks?” he muttered, before his mouth captured hers and she moved in.

Her arms went around him, fingers diving into his hair. Her body slammed into his, vibrating as the kiss grew rough, then nearly brutal. His mouth was hot, almost vicious. The shock of it sent flares of reaction straight to her center.

Already, his fast, impatient hands, with those long elegant, though slightly crooked, fingers were tugging her shirt from her jeans, finding her skin. In response, she pulled at his shirt, desperate to get through cotton and touch flesh.

He had a vision of himself dragging her to the floor, pounding himself into her until her screams echoed like gunshots, and his release erupted like blood. It would be quick and fierce. And over.

With the breath shuddering in his lungs, he jerked back. Her face was flushed, her mouth already swollen. He’d torn her shirt at the shoulder. He pulled back, looked around at the room filled with violence, the smell of gun smoke still stinking in the air — weapons still within reach. He scooped up her gun, shoved it into her holster, and began to tug.

“Not here.” He half-carried, half-dragged her to the door, then out of the firing range and across the green lawn toward the student dormitories.

“Mulder,” she hissed, trying uselessly to stuff her shirt into her pants with one hand.

He let her go, did something to the door, and they slipped in. He pulled her to the elevator, pushing furiously at the button.

“Are you nuts, Mulder? Have you completely lost your mind?”

“There’s not a class in session — the dorms are empty.” The elevator opened and he dragged her inside, the torn sleeve of her shirt a mere memory. He shoved her against the back wall as the doors closed them in, and fumbled with her holster. “Take this damn thing off. Take it off.”

“Mulder. Do you realize where we are?”

“Are you afraid? Of me?” His eyes narrowed with barely contained passion. “We’ve waited long enough, Scully.” He could see her shudder, feel the tension that engulfed her. “Are you afraid to step over the line?”

“It’s a line we’ve been very careful to avoid. It’s sex, Mulder. It always changes things. And we still have to work together.” She pushed him away, then pushed at her shirt. “It could be distracting.”

The darkness in his eyes lightened to a laugh. “Damn right it could. Especially when it’s done right.” He reached out and took her hand. “Isn’t it time for us?”

The elevator opened on the third floor of the empty dorm, and he tugged her down the hall to a room. Another quick fumble at the door, and it opened beneath his fingers. He pulled her in, then crushed her against the door.

“I surrender,” she gasped, pressing hard against him as her hands roamed the planes and angles of his body. She hit the release on the holster and let it dangle from one hand as she fought to open his buttons with the other. “Why do you have on more clothes than me?”

“I can fix that.” He pulled his shirt off, tossed it away and then ripped her tattered blouse aside. Beneath it she wore a thin, nearly transparent undershirt that revealed small, firm breasts and hardened nipples. He closed his hands over them, watched her eyes glaze. “Where do you like to be touched?”

“You’re doing fine,” she murmured. She had one hand on the side wall to keep her knees from buckling. She let the holster drop to the floor and began to circle around him, his teeth nipping and scraping along her throat.

She was fumbling to release his slacks when he tumbled her onto the bed. With a half laugh, she rolled on top of him and fastened her mouth to his. Wild, reckless energy was bursting inside — he couldn’t move quickly enough, his hands weren’t fast enough to satisfy his craving.

She kicked off her shoes, letting him peel her jeans over her hips. He groaned, and felt her tremble against him. The need for release was driving and fierce. The moment they were naked, she tried to straddle him, but he flipped their positions, muffled her edgy protests with a long, rough kiss.

“What’s your hurry?” he murmured, sliding a hand down to take her breast and watching her face while his thumb quietly tortured her nipple. “I haven’t even really looked at you.”

“I want you.” The words were gasped out, torn from her throat.

“I know.” He levered back, running a hand from her shoulder to her thigh while his gaze followed the movement. The blood was pounding in his loins. “Soft, smooth …” His hand squeezed lightly on her breast. “Small. Very nearly delicate. Who would have guessed?”

“I want you inside me.” The order was almost petulant.

He smiled. “Patience. Anything worth doing is worth doing right.”

“God damn it,” she began, then groaned when he dipped his head and took her breast into his mouth.

She writhed against him, against herself as he suckled, so gently at first it was torture, then harder, faster until she was biting back a scream. His hands, those clever hands, continued to skim over her, kindling exotic little fires of need.

She struggled to get a hand between them, to reach him where he lay hard and heavy against her. He grabbed her wrists, one large hand holding them both as he pushed them up over her head.

“Mulder …”

“You can’t always be in control, Scully. Sometimes, you just have to give in.” As he spoke he ran his free hand over her thigh. “Trust me.” She trembled and her eyes lost focus when his fingers brushed the back of her knee.

“Mulder …” she moaned again, struggling for air.

Experimentally, he caressed that sensitive skin, tracing his fingers up toward the heat, then back again. Her breath was coming in gasps now as she fought to roll away from him, to roll him under her so that she could quench her terrible need.

“Slow,” he whispered, “slow…” He began a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses at the base of her throat, working his way down while her body quivered like a plucked violin string beneath his.

She strained against him, bucked, but each frantic movement brought only a new and devastating sensation. “I can’t wait, Mulder. Now. In me.”

He was mad to have her, but her struggle to set the pace both challenged and infuriated him “I’m going to make you let go, and I’m going to watch it happen.” He slid back up her, feeling every tremble and quake, until his face was close to hers again. He pressed his palm firmly on the mound between her thighs.

Her breath hissed out. “Mulder … Don’t …”

“Shhh,” he soothed, sliding a finger down, over her, into her. His groan melded with hers as he found her tight, hot, wet center. Clinging to control, he focused on her face, the change from panic to shock, from shock to glazed helplessness.

He could tell when she began to slip, watched her eyes as she fell over the edge, a wild cry pulled from her throat. One moment the tension was vicious, then the wave of pleasure washed over her, hot and deep. Dazed and disoriented, she went limp in his arms.

And he went mad.

He dragged her up so she was kneeling, her head heavy on his shoulder. “Again,” he demanded, dragging her head back by the hair and plundering her mouth. “Again, god damn it.”

“Yesssss,” she hissed. It was building again, so quickly. The need grinding at her insides. Free now, her hands raced over him and her body arched fluidly back so that his lips could taste where and how they liked.

Her next climax ripped against him like claws. With something like a snarl, he shoved her onto her back, levered her hips high, and drove himself inside her. She closed around him like a hot, greedy fist.

He nipped at her throat, murmuring beneath her ear.

“What?” she gasped. “What did you say?”

Her nails scraped at his back, her hips pistoned as he plunged. She came again, shuddering beneath his touch.

Her hands slid weakly from his sweat-slicked shoulders as he emptied himself into her.

“Complete,” he groaned. “I’m finally complete.”

–o0o–

End of Self

Hope you enjoyed the ride!

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