Redemption II: Transition

Date: Wed, 11 Jun 97
Subject: "Transition" -- by Meredith

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Title: Redemption II: Transition
Author: Meredith

Summary: Mulder and Scully investigate a very different sort
of witness to a series of murders -- and eventually discover they
are more connected to the killer than expected. Or are they?
Fourth-season brand UST.

Category: X,UST,A
Rating: R
Spoilers: US4 through Elegy

Disclaimer: Those whom you know in this story belong to Chris
Carter and 20th Century Fox. No copyright infringement is
intended. It should be fairly obvious that I'm not doing this for
profit. In addition, all verses quoted out of context to fulfill
my whims are by Dorothy Parker.

Author's note: This is a continuation of a series that began
with the story "The Favor." You do NOT have to read that to
understand this story. I promise. Both stories are stand-alone
pieces grouped under the banner title "Redemption." I plan on
continuing the series. Longer author notes are at the end.

Enormous thanks go to MC Akimoto, who is a fantastic editor (and
writer!) as well as a cherished friend.

Feedback: Please. Really. I eagerly respond to everyone. One
word or a hundred -- good, bad or ugly -- please write
carrie.stetz@mosby.com

"Transition" by Meredith

***************
Her mind lives tidily apart
>From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.

-- "Interior"
***************

Beyond night, beyond death, beyond earth and sky was a nameless,
horizonless void containing nothing but a corrosive, shrieking
pain.

The black was monstrous, consuming her whole. She clawed and
fought the icy darkness, a blind, suspended prisoner in an
endless chasm.

She felt, rather than saw, him.

She couldn't see. Wave after wave of undefinable panic emanated
from his formless soul, his being without presence or shape.
Fighting to perceive, to sense, was agonizing in its futility.
She was above him, was within him, was consumed by him.

She was him.

Her powerless spirit strained to glimpse his precious shadow, to
stop his misery, to stop the terror, stop its deadly goal of
destroying his will.

Consciousness was quick to arrive in the form of cold, wet feet
and pajamas soaked through to her skin. Dana Scully woke standing
outside her apartment building, rain mixing indistinguishably
with the tears on her face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tuesday, April 15, 1997
Wright City, Missouri

Margaret Hanson was having a bad day. The kids had missed the
bus, the hot water heater was on the blink, and she had a killer
migraine. After doing without a shower or coffee and driving
two screaming children to school, she was 20 minutes late for
work. But the day's real kick in the pants, was, of course, the
humiliation.

Just yesterday all checkers had received a memo from their
assistant supervisor at the Stop-N-Shop on the absolute necessity
of punctuality. And that supervisor was Margaret. Nothing like
bad timing to turn you into a hypocrite.

And so she felt justified, really, in taking a look. Just a
glance; what could it hurt?

The endless waves of mechanical beeps triggered by items dragged
across the scanner and the droning, lifeless conversations that
are ritual in small towns were making her headache -- and
mood -- unbearable.

So when he showed up in her lane with that look on his face, she
couldn't help herself. He was a soul at peace -- the blissful
look on his face would tell anyone that. He radiated calm. She
was mesmerized.

Margaret so rarely indulged, almost never pried. She had learned
the hard way to mind her own business. But a peek might be just
what she needed -- a lift, so to speak...

<Blood. Throats slashed. Pounding of heartbeats that raced in
terror and catapulted into the abyss. So much crimson
stickiness... and finally joy. Indescribable joy.>

Her mind spiraled out of control and disintegrated.

"Maggie!"

"Someone call 911!"

Warped and muted voices pulled her back to reality. Margaret
Hanson slowly regained consciousness on the dusty floor behind
her register, overcome by the images seared into her soul.

She realized things weren't going to get better for a very long
time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday, April 17, 1997
FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.

Fox Mulder desperately wished he had some slides -- gruesome body
parts, crop circles, rabid dogs -- anything. He hadn't put on a
slide show for Scully in months, and he was beginning to miss
their effects on his partner -- the way she concentrated on the
usually grotesque or just plain weird images in the dim light,
her brow creased in study. It was so sexy.

He sighed. There was so much he missed these days.

He was just about to check his watch for the fifth time when his
partner breezed in the door juggling a styrofoam cup of coffee,
an umbrella and her briefcase.

"Morning, Mulder, sorry I'm late..." Scully tossed the items on
her desk and began her morning routine -- turning on the
computer, checking her voice mail.

Mulder quietly studied his partner in what was now *his* morning
routine. Outfit. Hair. Demeanor. Voice. Face.

Damn.

She still looked wiped out. Against her deep burgundy suit she
was pale and drawn, as she had been all week. He suddenly
fervently wished they weren't going back out in the field. His
priorities were here, spending every spare moment chasing time
and an elusive cure. He bit his tongue before he could ask the
question he had already asked the past three days, and then
reconsidered.

What the hell. He was a glutton for punishment.

"Morning, Scully. Did you sleep any better last night?" His tone
was soft, gentle.

"A little." She didn't meet his gaze, and he knew she was lying.
They had come to a mutual understanding the past few months. He
was allowed to ask how she was as often as he wanted, and she was
allowed to lie -- or tell the truth. Mulder felt they were making
progress; a few times she had actually admitted to a headache or
feeling tired. She had confessed Tuesday that she hadn't been
sleeping well.

Mulder let her current lie stand. He knew Scully would eventually
tell him why she wasn't sleeping, but only when the time was
right. Until then, though, he would keep asking. They both
accepted the routine.

And so he dropped the topic in favor of a new one.

"Guess what, Scully, we're about to make another trip to the land
of wheat and corn." His tone was deceptively light.

She looked up from her desk. "A case?" she asked interestedly.
"What have you dug up?"

Mulder was slightly startled at the eagerness apparent in her
voice. For a moment he could almost pretend there was no
insidious disease determined to underscore their every word
with grave hidden meaning. For just a moment, he glimpsed his
partner, their shared lives, before the cancer.

"Psychics, Scully. Lying dormant and unused in the heart of
America."

She groaned.

"After Clyde Bruckmann, I put out an unofficial 'call' for any
Bureau office working with psychics -- proven or not -- to give
me a heads-up. I thought we needed to start documenting..."

"Mulder," she began.

"I know where you're going with this, Scully, but hear me out.
It's a well-known fact that the Bureau already keeps tabs on the
so-called psychics that local law enforcement around the country
use. Most of them are fairly bogus. I should know -- those files
are some of the first ones I scoured when they let me reopen the
X-Files -- that is, before I was saved from a thousand paper cuts
by your arrival, Scully." He couldn't hide the smile that
softened his features.

"But seeing as you and I have had much more exciting things to
pursue the past several years, you can understand why the dreary
task of shifting through mountains of psychic BS fell the bottom
of my priority list. I thought rather than follow-up on old
reports, it might be easier to track any new cases that came up,
and see if we can lend some professional expertise. And, well, I
got a very interesting fax this morning..." He paused, allowing
her entrance to the conversation.

Scully let out a puff of air. "OK, spill it."

"Wright City, Missouri. Four murders in three weeks. No
connection among the victims except probably the same killer. All
were found dead in their homes. The autopsy report in each case
describes a blow to the head and death caused by a slashed
throat."

"Rather dull, Mulder," she interrupted. "Not even gory enough to
pretend to be an X-File."

"I agree. I don't think the killings are anything but mundane.
But there is a catch. Victims are an 11-year-old boy, a
housewife, a middle-aged bachelor construction worker, and a
veterinarian. Local police aren't equipped for this sort of
killing spree, and the state troopers haven't been able
to lend any insight. Murders like these raise a lot of attention
by being in such a rural area, so the St. Louis FBI office was
called in. But by the time they got involved, the leads were
going cold quick. That is, until Tuesday."

Mulder stopped. Scully smirked slightly, familiar with this
tactic by now. This was the dramatic pause, the silent tease
before the punch -- the reason he wanted in on this particular
game. Even though she rarely showed it, she loved every minute of
this professional foreplay. "Well?"

"So... on Tuesday, Wright City police got a call from a grocery
checker at the local Stop-N-Shop who says she knows who the
killer is. That morning, as she rang up his groceries, she
*accidentally* looked into the dark recesses of his mind, and
realized she was trading comments about the unseasonably hot
weather with a mass murderer. Trouble is, she doesn't know his
name or where he lives and can't even remember what he bought."

Scully merely raised an eyebrow. "I assume he paid in cash?"

"Correct, Watson. You seem to forget that I find sarcasm a
particularly effective turn-on," he leered.

She was warmed by the barb but didn't let it show. "And we are to
believe this woman's story because...?"

"Because every policeman in Wright City -- all four of them --
swears she is practically oozing psychic ability. She's also the
local state representative's sister, not known to be a crackpot,
but an outstanding citizen. That and the fact that the St. Louis
agent in charge has requested our help in how to, quote, 'use a
verifiable psychic to the greatest effect' unquote."

"And Skinner gave his blessing?" Scully was genuinely surprised.

Mulder's face darkened momentarily. "Yeah. I wanted to work the
case from here, but Skinner knows the St. Louis agent from way
back and believes that if *he* is even halfway convinced of
this woman's ability, we should check it out. In fact, he's
insisting that we go," he replied ruefully.

It seemed to Scully that Mulder had certainly used the early
morning hours to his greatest advantage. For some reason, she
didn't mind the prospect of a few days on the road. The
miserable nightmares that had been plaguing her might be
persuaded to abate when confronted with a change of scenery.

And maybe she could allow herself the luxury of pretending that
life was normal -- that she and her partner were thriving among
the living. At least for a few days.

"When's our flight?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(end part 1/7)

I would *really* appreciate any feedback on this -- criticism
welcome as well. Thanks. carrie.stetz@mosby.com

-- End --
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******************
My garden blossoms pink and white
A place of decorous murmuring
Where I am safe from August night
And cannot feel the knife of Spring.

-- "Story of Mrs. W"
******************

Thursday, April 17
Wright City, Missouri
7:30 p.m.

It was a warm and muggy night when Mulder and Scully arrived at the
Wright City police station, housed in a tiny brick building on a
quiet stretch of state highway.

"Agents Mulder and Scully?" A large, broad-chested man with a
florid face met them outside the door. He stuck out a meaty hand.
"I'm Buck Hermann, chief of police. Glad you could spare the
time to give us a hand. God, it's gonna be a hot summer, with the
humidity startin' this damn early," he wiped his brow and ushered
the pair into the building.

"Frankly, we're in a bad way. No leads, can't make any connections.
We've just never had anything like this in our county before, and
we're scared it ain't over. We called in the Feds early this week,
we're so desperate. Did Special Agent Jackson fill ya in on our
latest development?"

"You have a woman who can ID the killer," Scully stated blandly.

"Yeah, I'll be damned, but I really think we do. Margaret's got
some sorta talent... I've know her for years and had no idea, no
damn idea. But she convinced me in no time that she ain't makin'
this up." The chief's face was earnest, if not a little sheepish.

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. They silently agreed Hermann
was a typical good ol' boy, but he had an honesty about him that
was appealing.

"Can I ask what she did to convince you of her psychic ability?"
Mulder questioned.

"Well, son, you can ask, but I ain't gonna tell ya. She told me she
could sense a real private problem I've been havin' that I haven't
told anyone about. There's no way in hell she'd know about it, and
I'm certainly not makin' it common knowledge. But suffice it to say
I was convinced.

"Now Hank here'll tell ya what she told him. HANK!" he bellowed to
the back of the building.

A wiry man in his early twenties shot out from the shadows of the
nearly deserted office. "Yeah, Chief?"

"Now Hank here's from the Bootheel, nowhere near this area. How
long you been here now, son?"

"Just under a year."

"Yeah. So Maggie don't know him from Adam. This here's Mulder and
Scully, the feds from D.C. Tell 'em what she told you."

Hank blushed to the roots of his sandy hair. "Well, um, she told me
she knew who I loved back in Cape Girardeau, where I'm from. Angela
Dean. She knew her name, what she looked like, and, um... why I
didn't marry her." He suddenly looked at the floor with
embarrassment. "And that it was the biggest mistake I ever made."
He brought his eyes back up to Mulder's. "No one here knows that
part of my life, sir. There's no way she'd know that about me.

"And she was sorry, she said, that she had to find that in my head.
She apologized for invading my privacy, but had to let us know she
was for real."

"So when can we meet with her?" Mulder asked.

"I've got her comin' in tomorrow at 9 a.m. sharp," Hermann replied.

"Would it be possible to get autopsy reports for the victims, Chief
Hermann?" Scully inquired.

"No problem, ma'am. The county ME will be here in the morning too."

"Well, looks like we start tomorrow." Mulder stretched his back
uncomfortably. "Can you point us in the direction of a decent
motel?"

"Sure thing, son. The Route 66 is just down the interstate a mile
or so. It's small, but clean. You can't miss it - it's just next to
the Elvis Museum."

Mulder's eyes popped open. "Elvis Museum?"

"Yeah. The "Elvis is Alive!" Museum. Can't miss that neither.
Tackiest shack you ever saw. Don't bother -- it's a tourist trap,
snappin' stupid folks up off the highway like rats."

Mulder shot his partner a pleading look. "Scully..."

"No way, Mulder. Listen to the man. I'm *sure* he knows what he's
talking about," Scully warned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, it may be clean, but there's no sure way to tell, Scully
thought grimly as she surveyed Mulder's motel room. It was
identical to hers -- a monochromatic study in the boredom of
brown. Not soothing shades that reminded you of chocolate and
coffee, but flat, dingy ones that reminded you of... something much
less appealing. The walls were a pale shade of Dirt, the carpet a
medium-toned Sand, and the bedspreads, in a polite term, were a
stunning Dark Mud. No need to worry about people stealing the
accessories, she mused.

They spent the next two hours comparing Hermann's office case files
with the information Agent Jackson had faxed them, spreading papers
and photos across both beds and the small rickety table.

"Well, this may be a backwoods town, but they've really done a good
job on this investigation," Scully noted as she shuffled through
the files. "The only thing missing is a background check on
Margaret Hanson. I'll contact D.C. for that."

"Yeah, they've been thorough," Mulder replied absently, stroking
his chin. "Scully. Is there anything about the victims that strikes
you as odd?"

"Everything. Two killed here in Wright City, one in Truesville, and
one in Foristell. We've gone over this before. The killings don't
seem to be random; the killer knew how and when to catch each
victim alone. Yet all the victims were ordinary people, and there
seems to be no motive whatsoever in each case.

"Perhaps if I were to note one peculiar thing, though, it would be
that the third victim was a child," she mused.

Mulder grinned. "Bingo. There's a profiler hidden in you somewhere,
Scully. If these were ritual killings of some sort, or just random
victims picked by a deranged mind, the choice of a child is still
very strange. It doesn't fit any typical profile."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That there's a link between the victims somewhere. We just haven't
found it yet."

"I wonder if our *psychic* will be able to shed any light on the
mysterious connection," Scully said dryly.

"Not convinced?"

"Are you?"

"Nope," he replied truthfully. "This could all very well be a sham.
We'll find out tomorrow, though, won't we?" Mulder stretched back
languidly against the headboard of the bed he was sprawled on and
flipped on the TV. "Not much more we can do tonight."

Scully relaxed against the pillows on the other bed. She was
suddenly exhausted. Yawning briefly, she stole a glance at her
partner, who was flipping aimlessly through the channels. As
usual, his rumpled appearance sent a wave of warmth and security
flooding through her. Sometimes he seemed a relaxed, ungainly mass
of arms and legs, but she knew part of him was always on alert,
instincts finely tuned to his surroundings. With him she never felt
vulnerable. When he was near, she was safe.

After a few minutes of half-hearted surfing, Mulder noticed his
partner was trying desperately to stay awake but wasn't making any
move to go to her room. He quietly hoped she would fall asleep on
the other bed so he could keep her within reach for the night.
Nights were the hardest, evidently for both of them lately.

He suddenly landed on a familiar black and white image flickering
on the cheap set. "Ooh! Scully! Invasion of the Body Snatchers!
You've got to stay and watch this -- it's a classic horror
film."

"Horror?" she said drowsily. "This movie isn't scary."

"You are sadly mistaken, Dr. Scully. There's nothing scarier. Alien
entities taking over bodies -- destroying the human personality and
will without disturbing the individual's appearance. The aliens
could be your brother, your neighbor, your *partner*," he leered at
her briefly, "and you would never know. Sometimes the scariest
things are not at all frightening in appearance."

He regretted the offhand comment almost immediately as he saw a
dark shadow pass over Scully's face. "That's true," she replied
softly, staring down at the sad brown bedspread.

He remained quiet.

She continued, her gaze still focused away. "One of the worst
nightmares I had as a child was on the surface so harmless, but for
some reason the image always terrified me."

Finally, he thought, determined to let her talk without
interruption.

"I was always on a swing in the playground, swinging higher and
higher, enjoying the feel of weightlessness. Then a man would step
out from behind the bushes and stare at me. He never moved or
threatened, just stared. He was an ordinary man, not a scary
monster. But I would feel this horrible, suffocating panic, and I
would try desperately to stop the swing to hop off and get
away. But I never got that far... I always woke up screaming...."
her voice trailed away quietly, lost in memory.

"You've been having nightmares," he stated softly, empathetically,
after a moment.

"Yes," she admitted, shaking herself out of reverie and meeting his
gaze. "a few. Nothing concrete, though, just like when I was a kid.
I guess that's why I haven't been sleeping."

To Mulder's silent dismay, she instantly reverted from Dana the
woman to Scully the agent. "But *this* movie surely won't give me
nightmares. Now if we were watching "The Evil Dead" or "Psycho,"
perhaps..." she teased.

He ignored her attempt to lighten the conversation. "Scully. If
this case is going to be a waste of time, we're flying home
tomorrow." His tone was serious, leaving no room for argument.

"I'm fine, Mulder," she retorted instinctively.

"I *know* you are. But I want you to stay that way." They locked
gazes.

"OK, Mulder," she sighed in exasperation. <You win this time.>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Transformation was gradual, almost sensual. No need to move, for
there was no above, no below, no left or right. She had no body, no
confined, predetermined restriction of form. No need for
hands or movement in the black of infinity. She was simply
everywhere.

But with no mouth or voice, she was powerless to scream.

A flash of light illuminated the barren landscape, letting her see
what her mind already sensed.

He walked. He walked, oblivious of the rain coming down so hard he
could barely keep his eyes open, barely keep breathing as the water
stung his face. The icy darkness began plucking, tearing,
biting at his will, slowing him to a desperate, agonized crawl.

Her mind shrieked impotent words, ones he couldn't hear, would
never know.

Their souls were in a twisted union, she, able to feel his every
torment, yet paralyzed, bound in silence.

Terror. Raw, breathing terror, as tangible as the plodding form
below, now drenched in icy water streaming down his body and
soaking into the saturated ground.

Seconds later, there was nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was standing in the middle of the room, gun in hand, before he
even realized he was awake. Breathlessly, he strained to again hear
the noise that had jarred him from sleep.

Slight banging. A rattling of metal on metal. A muffled cry.

Shit. Scully.

He threw open the interconnecting door and fanned his gun across
the shadowed recesses of her room.

Nothing.

The garish yellow light of the streetlamp outside filtered in
through the curtains, just enough to allow his eyes to focus on the
figure at the door exactly as his ears pinpointed the origin of the
sounds.

What had they been talking about earlier? His mind shuddered. The
incongruous horror of nightmares -- simple, ordinary images that
for some unearthly reason scared the shit out of you.

And he was having one now.

Scully was standing at the door, hands clumsily pulling at the
locks, the doorknob -- softly calling his name with such sorrow and
helplessness that he felt tears spring to his eyes. "Mulder...
Mulder... Mulder..."

In a flash he was standing next to her, his hand on her arm.

"Scully. Scully, it's OK, Scully..."

Suddenly his pulse began to hammer. Christ. Something was seriously
wrong.

She didn't hear him. Her eyes were open, glazed, unfocused. Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. The word pounded through his mind in time with his
heartbeat. She couldn't see the door she so blindly fought to open,
couldn't see that she hadn't unlocked the deadbolt. She couldn't
see *him.*

Part of his brain began functioning with that sudden realization,
and his breathing slowed.

"Scully," he whispered, slowly grasping her hands to stop their
confused motions. "It's OK, I'm here. Everything's OK..." He gently
stroked her face, desperately trying to keep his voice even
and soothing. "C'mon, you need to go back to bed... go back to
sleep..."

His touch seemed to calm her and her uneven gasps began to fade.
She remained oblivious to his presence but followed his lead easily
back to the bed, where he carefully guided her down on the surface.
She immediately curled into a tight ball. After stroking her back
for a moment, Mulder noticed that her eyes had finally closed and
her breathing had evened.

He stood shakily, loathe to move too far away. Walking over to the
window to close the curtains tighter, he realized his T-shirt was
drenched in sweat.

<Damn. And I thought my dreams were bad. At least I stay in one
place.>

The room was now engulfed in darkness. As he felt his way back to
the bed he heard her shift on top of the sheets. His hand met her
back again, and he realized she had untucked herself and was now
laying peacefully on her stomach. Her pajama top had ridden up and
his palm was flat on her slightly damp skin. He left it there,
grounding himself.

What the hell had just happened?

Now fully alert, his brain began analyzing. Had she ever mentioned
sleepwalking before? No, he didn't think so. What could she have
been dreaming about? The case? No. Her abduction? Maybe.

And why was she calling his name? What was she running to? Or from?

Cancer?

Death?

He swallowed, the tiny sound loud in the silence. Mulder knew it
took superhuman effort for her to believe in him, in *his* belief
that they would find a cure for her disease. Hell, it took
superhuman effort for him at times. But he believed, with his heart
and soul, that cancer couldn't separate them. Cancer. A far too
mortal threat to *their* partnership. He grimaced in disgust.

He believed there was an answer to be found. And he had to be
strong, both for himself and her.

But underneath the surface he was afraid. Terrified. Not of the
poisonous growth that was slowing encroaching on her brain, but of
time. Months ago he had begun measuring time from her diagnosis.
Three days since the scan. Three weeks since the scan. Three months
since the scan.

Christ. Already it had been three months.

Time had become his greatest fear.

And he didn't want to share that with her. He knew, however, at
times he had to -- it was the only way to convey how much she meant
to him. Hiding his fear would make him seem callous, unconcerned.
Now was not the time to be cavalier about death.

But it was a difficult line to walk. A hell of a lot more difficult
than the lines they usually drew between them.

So why wouldn't she share her fears with him? Day after day she
always presented him with a strong facade, even as she admitted to
feeling a little tired, a little drained. Even when he let his
control slip and he tended to hover. Was she suppressing her true
emotions so much that she suffered to the extreme in her dreams?

Didn't she understand how much he needed her to need *him*?

He didn't know how long he sat on the edge of her bed, fingers
gently tracing a pattern on herback, thoughts finally drifting from
fear to familiarity. He absently caressed the delicate knobs of
her spine between her shoulder blades and back down to her waist,
taking refuge in the heat of her skin, the rhythm of her breath,
all while trying to sort out the confusion in his head. Up and
down, up and down.... For some reason, and for as long as he could
remember, he had always had an erotic fascination with her back....

He froze.

Guilt washed over him in the realization he was comforting himself
more than her with his touch. Satisfied that her breathing was deep
and peaceful, he rose and felt his way to the inner door. Turning
back, he made sure the door was left open a few inches and
whispered into the dark.

"Sweet dreams, Dana."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nathaniel Bogg was a happy man. He was nearly always a joyful
person, but this morning was special. The sun had dawned warm and
welcoming, shining perfectly on his garden filled with
tulips and hyacinths, some of the first flowers of spring.

Life didn't get much better.

"Hey, Rusty," he affectionately rubbed his German Shepard's head.
"Gonna be a big day. I think I'm going to find him today. Just
gotta good feeling about it."

Yep, he thought. If he was lucky, and that old prick was home
alone, it was going to be a *very* good day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(end part 2/7)

-- End --
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**************
Too long and quickly have I lived to vow
The woe that stretches me shall never wane,
Too often seen the end of endless pain
To swear that peace no more shall cool my brow.
I know, I know -- again the shriveled bough
Will burgeon sweetly in the gentle rain,
And these hard lands be quivering with grain,
I tell you only: it is Winter now.

-- "Transition"
***************

Friday, April 18
Wright City Police Station
9:20 a.m.

After four years of having her scientific knowledge and training
assaulted by myriad encounters with the unexplainable, the mutated,
and the simply horrific, Scully had become convinced that
frequently the most terrifying phenomena came in the guise of the
mundane.

At first impression, Margaret Hanson was nothing if not mundane.
She blew into the tiny conference room where Mulder and Scully were
waiting, mumbling apologies and tripping over the chair closest to
the door. She took a seat across from the agents, nervously
glancing from one to the other. Her blonde hair was sloppily pulled
back in a clip and her appearance gave the impression she might
have dressed in the dark. Somewhere in the no-man's land between 30
and 40, Hanson was a slightly cherubic, open-featured woman whose
days were spent negotiating the active terrain of children, a
part-time job, and a household. Her harried demeanor defined
Mother.

Well, as far as psychics went, Scully mused, Margaret Hanson was
more in line with Clyde Bruckmann than the Stupendous Yappi. Chalk
up one point in her favor.

"I'm sorry I'm late .... the kids have been so awful in the
mornings recently, and, truthfully, I just haven't been feeling
myself since the other day..." she trailed off weakly.

"No problem, Mrs. Hanson. I'm Agent Mulder and this is Agent
Scully. We've been called in to assist with this case. We were
wondering if you could tell us exactly what happened Tuesday
morning."

"Well, I was working lane 6. It was a bad morning, what with the
kids, and the hot water tank, and well... this man came in my lane,
and he looked so *nice,* so peaceful. He had this warm, wonderful
smile on his face... I just didn't -- I mean, it was an accident."
she paled and shook her head as if the action might somehow
organize her thoughts. After a deep breath she continued.

"I did something I never do. I *shouldn't* do. I opened myself to
his thoughts. He looked so happy, and I just wanted to share that
for a moment." She stopped and fought back tears. "But I wish I
never had. I wish to God I never had."

"What exactly did you see, Mrs. Hanson?" Scully asked calmly.

"I saw... images. Terrible images. Blood. Blood and the throat of a
boy, just a baby -- my son's age. His throat had been... slashed.
And that man was so *happy.* That's what was making that sick
bastard happy." Her voice had picked up a tone of hatred laced with
fear and disgust. "I don't know what happened next. They tell me I
fainted."

"Can you explain how you "saw" this?" Mulder questioned.

"No. I've never been able to explain it. I... well, can pick up
emotions from people -- what they love, hate, fear. That day I
just... he looked so peaceful." She silently pleaded with them to
understand.

"So you can read anyone at any time?" Scully asked.

"Oh, no -- not at all," she responded, seemingly horrified. "I can
*control* it. I guess I'm lucky that way. If I concentrate, I pick
up emotions from people. And I never do it. Well, almost never.

"Don't you see what a curse it could be? I learned at a very young
age that the power can be a terrible thing. To be able to sense
everyone's fears and pain -- isn't one life's suffering enough?"

Her eyes snapped into sudden intelligent focus, and Mulder was
taken aback at the resulting change in her face. He realized this
was a woman who understood far too much and took great pains to
hide that knowledge.

But what was the depth of that knowledge? Their mixed experiences
with so-called psychics put even Mulder on the offensive when it
came to distinguishing true ability from the fake.

"So, Mrs. Hanson, can you tell me what my favorite NBA team is?"

"I'm sorry, what? Oh, no, I can't see that. I can't predict lottery
numbers, or see where I left my keys. I can only read people's
emotions."

"Well, I happen to be extremely fond of a particular NBA team --
some might call it love. You can't see that?"

Mulder's dry wit was evidently lost on Hanson. "No, really, I don't
think you understand..."

"OK then. What's my biggest fear?"

Hanson looked at him sadly. "I'd rather not do that, Agent
Miller..."

"Mulder."

"Mulder. I've learned that if I have to prove myself to someone, it
should be done privately," she said, glancing nervously at Scully.

"I keep nothing from my partner," he said mildly.

"But..."

They were interrupted by a knock on the conference room door and
the sudden appearance of another of Hermann's young, gangly
officers.

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully? Dr. Singh is here with the autopsy
results for you."

"Well, that'll save you some embarrassment, Mulder," Scully said
innocently. "I'll give you a few minutes."

Unwilling to drop the subject, Mulder continued as the door closed
behind his partner. "So, shall we try that again? My greatest
fear." Snakes. Big slimy snakes, thought Mulder.

Hanson looked at him quizzically for a few moments and her face
saddened perceptibly.

So much fear. His fears were knotted so tightly with pain and,
strangely, with love, that she had a hard time disassembling them.
Impressions of deeply buried but overwhelming despair suddenly
flooded her mind, exhausting and draining her. She broke the
connection quickly.

"I'm sorry, so sorry." Her face was etched with regret. "This may
sound odd, but you're afraid of the future... I don't fully
understand. Time... You're afraid of time. Your partner is running
out of time."

Mulder's face remained expressionless. "What did you see?"

"With you? Words. Your fears are tangible, concrete."

What do you mean, 'with me'?"

"Everyone is different. Words, images, or both. It depends on the
individual," she paused.

"She's nearly everything to you, isn't she?" Hanson continued
quietly. "I'm so sorry... I'm sorry she's dying."

Mulder paled and quickly directed his gaze out the window. The lush
green grass and newly planted marigolds outside the building
taunted him. All the vestiges of a brand-new spring -- life
was everywhere in all its mocking, spiteful glory. He felt his
temper rise and sharpen in frustration. After a moment he spoke.

"You saw that in her," he said flatly, trying to control his
simmering, targetless anger.

"No, I saw that in you."

"Then what is she afraid of?"

"I don't know, I didn't try to read her," Hanson responded tiredly.

Mulder continued to fixate on the landscape outside. "*I* need to
know," he said fiercely.

Scully chose that awkward moment to reenter the conference room
carrying a stack of files. She sensed the odd tension and shot
Mulder a questioning look that he ignored.

His gaze snapped from Scully to Hanson with determined intensity.
"Words or pictures?" he stated curtly, angling his head toward
Scully.

"Whh..what?" Hanson stammered.

"Agent Scully. Words or pictures?" His unspoken command was clear.

"Pictures, Agent Mulder," she said softly after a moment.
"Pictures."

Scully warned her partner with a distinct clearing of her throat.

Hanson quickly summoned her courage to speak again. "I'm sorry
Agent Scully, Agent Mulder. I just don't know what to do. You can
believe me or not -- it doesn't matter. But I've seen the man
who's killed those people, and I had to come forward. I want to do
the right thing."

Seeing that Mulder had no intention of responding, Scully answered
diplomatically, "Mrs. Hanson, at this time I don't know what to
tell you. Whether you have seen the killer or not is beside the
point. At this time, we need to rely on old-fashioned investigative
work unless you can give us a name or pinpoint his location.
Perhaps we'll be able to use your "skills" further down
the road. However, we certainly appreciate your willingness to
cooperate."

Mulder stood, signaling the end of the interview. As they walked
toward the door, Mulder pulled Hanson back into the room, letting
Scully walk ahead of them.

"What did you see?" A simple question, on which everything hinged.

Hanson looked up at him with watery brown eyes. "She's not afraid
of dying, Agent Mulder. She has come to peace with that
possibility." Her tone was hesitant.

"There's something else."

"She walks a fine line in this life -- the line between life and
death. Perhaps she always has. I believe she can see many things we
can't."

He nodded, intrinsically understanding her statement. "So you're
saying she is not afraid."

"Not for herself, no. Her greatest fear, Agent Mulder, is for you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder and Scully spent the rest of the day familiarizing
themselves with the unfaxable aspects of the investigation. Scully
reviewed the autopsy reports and examined the most recent body,
that of Dr. Owen Rogers, a veterinarian, at the county morgue. The
laceration was hesitant and choppy, not made in haste or with a
sharp knife. The cut indicated an inexperienced killer, or at least
an uncoordinated one. Unimpressed with the obvious crudeness of the
killing, she made a few notes regarding the clumsiness of the wound
and the possible weapon used to render the victims unconscious --
points to discuss later with Mulder.

As a mental exercise, Mulder had recently begun introducing her to
the methods of profiling; she was a quick study, impressing him
with her insight and willingness to make logical jumps when
creating personality and character sketches. She was proud of her
growing abilities, and had been mildly surprised at his praise and
interest in her skills. She had had a lot of practice lately,
working for VCS more than usual due to a lack of decent X-Files. Or
at least that's what Mulder kept telling her.

She thought he would be less excited at the prospect of learning
more about *her* specialty. The sound of a rib cage cracking always
made him come dangerously close to fainting.

Mulder had spent several hours reviewing interview notes and
getting to know Hermann's other two officers, who had done the
initial investigation work on the murders. They seemed more than
relieved that the federal cavalry had come to rescue them. Mulder
genuinely felt sorry for the boisterous police chief -- his
officers looked so young that Mulder wondered if they could all
legally grab a beer together after work.

They reconvened that afternoon at the station for a conference call
with the referring St. Louis Agent Henry Jackson. Jackson, in a
clipped, brief discussion, apologized for not being able to
brief Mulder and Scully in person. Although he was nearly 100 miles
away, Jackson's commanding presence could be felt even through the
tinny speaker that emitted his resonant voice. Mulder felt a chill
travel down his spine when he realized how similar Jackson's and
Skinner's speaking styles were. It was eerie.

Mulder had had just about enough of the cramped office for the day
when Chief Hermann suggested the two of them "pack it in for the
night," cheerfully insinuating that the agents looked peckish.
Mulder had to laugh.

"OK. Hey Scully, Hank told me there's a Big Boy Restaurant just a
few miles down the Interstate -- whaddya say?"

She grinned. Ever since a late-night drive through lower Michigan a
few years back, Mulder had held a childlike fascination for the
perennially revolving, demonically chipper boy and his hamburger
hoisted high on a plate. "Oh, Lord, Mulder," she groaned. "Elvis
and Big Boy in the same town?"

Sure enough, this Boy was as huge and frighteningly cheerful as the
one they had driven by in a small town outside Detroit. And the
food wasn't bad, either. They both ordered thick hamburgers
and dove in quickly.

"So I'm thinking about calling Skinner tonight and asking to be
pulled off this case," Mulder stated suddenly in between bites.

"What?" she answered, shocked.

"Scully, we didn't come here to profile. The RO can do that. We
were sent to evaluate a possible psychic. That's it. I don't want
VCS getting in the habit of thinking of us as the spare agents who
can be ferried off to do grunt work. We've got better things to
do."

"So you're saying you don't believe Margaret Hanson is a psychic,"
she said, sipping her soda.

"No. I'm just saying that even if she is, I have no idea how to use
her abilities -- that is unless we drag her door to door throughout
the county until she IDs this guy." He jabbed at his fries in
irritation.

Although more than a little taken aback by Mulder's
uncharacteristic behavior, Scully didn't betray her surprise.
"True. But you didn't answer my question," she prodded. "What did
you think of her ...abilities?"

He paused momentarily and stared fixedly at his napkin. "Her claims
have some merit."

His less than enthusiastic tone set off warning bells in Scully's
head. So the atmosphere she'd sensed in the conference room wasn't
her imagination -- Margaret Hanson *had* struck a nerve while
Scully was talking with Dr. Singh.

She chose her words carefully. "She said something that makes you
believe."

Mulder studied his bent butter knife, then the fascinating
checkered tablecloth before responding. "Yes. But I'm not totally
convinced. She claims to only be able to sense the intangible. That
leaves a lot of room for error -- or a good con."

"Jesus, Mulder, you sound like me."

He looked at her intently. "She said something about you."

Scully examined his face before responding. He was serious, but his
eyes flickered with an odd hesitation. She bit back her defensive
response. Whatever Hanson had said, whether right or wrong, it had
clearly affected Mulder on more than a surface level.

"What did she say?"

"That... that you walk a fine line between life and death... that
you can see things the rest of us can't."

Scully let out the breath she didn't know she was holding. "That's
a vague, unsubstantial comment that could mean anything. She knew I
was a *pathologist,* for God's sake!" Lord, she thought, did that
come out as defensive as I think it did?

"Is it?"

"Mulder, you're contradicting what you just said five minutes ago.
By claiming to read emotions, she can toss out unsubstantial,
maudlin statements that could pertain to anyone's life. She leaves
the interpretation up to the recipient -- it's the oldest 'psychic'
trick in the book."

"You still refuse to acknowledge what you saw in that bathroom two
weeks ago," he said flatly, then instantly regretted the comment.

His accusation coiled cruelly around her heart, causing her eyes to
sting in response. "So what you really mean is that you think I
*am* dying," she said coldly.

"No, that's not what I meant, Scully. I'm sorry," he quickly
reached across the table and took her hand. "That's not what I
meant."

"Would it surprise you, Mulder, if I admitted I did see that girl?
Admitted that what I saw was a... wraith," she hesitated only
slightly over the word, "not a figment of my imagination, a result
of a suggested image brought about by my own fear of death?"

He thought for a moment. "Are you?"

Her blue eyes looked directly at him, directly into him, to find
that inner strength she needed to draw on to speak the truth.
"Yes."

"I'm glad," he said softly. "Because I think you saw her for a
completely different reason than the fact that you have cancer."

"But I don't know why, Mulder," she whispered. "I don't know why,
and it scares me."

When they left the restaurant, the sky had deepened to an indigo
bleeding into violet. A heavy bank of clouds was beginning to
encroach from the west. The air was thick and warm, holding
sweet promises of a fertile, prosperous summer. A night, Mulder
mused, that made you feel immortal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(end part 3/7)

I would *really* appreciate any feedback on this -- criticism
welcome as well. Thanks. carrie.stetz@mosby.com

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************
The look of a laurel tree birthed for May
Or a sycamore bared for a new November
Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day --
What is it, what is it, I almost remember?

-- "Temps Perdu"
************

With a grunt of irritation, Mulder tossed the TV remote on the bed,
where it promptly disappeared in the folds of the umber sheets.

There *were* disadvantages to the '90s, he mused. There weren't
just 3 or 4 channels of mindless drivel at 1 a.m., but dozens and
dozens of infomercials designed to send the rational viewer into
bouts of marketing madness.

He sighed, too restless to sleep, too weary to function.

Scully had talked him out of calling Skinner, and he grudgingly
admitted she was right -- disobeying a direct order would be a bad
move. But he couldn't help his growing unease about being stuck on
a decidedly nonparanormal case with cold and worthless leads in the
middle of nowhere -- psychic or no psychic.

And as Margaret Hanson had so recently reminded him, the clock
never stopped ticking.

A sudden bip from his laptop called him out of his thoughts, which
had been lulled into distraction by the soft sounds of rain falling
outside. He lunged to the desk in one large step. Please, he
thought, let it be Byers... yes. He clicked open the e-mail.

M --

Re our conversation last week. S was at University of
Indiana, on staff past two months. Disappeared last Friday. Suspect
something in trace triggered warning. Will be more careful
next time.

Sorry.

-- B

Fuck. Fucking son of a bitch. Mulder raged silently to himself and
slammed the computer shut with exaggeraged force.

Was he ever going to be a step ahead of the answers instead of
always a step behind? One of the leads he'd been pursuing was
trying to locate Dr. Scanlon. The fitful chase had been going on
for months with no luck. Mulder had already been following every
slim lead, every scrap of information, every path that led to
nowhere. Skinner's recent confession of his "deal" had only
increased Mulder's desperation -- it was obvious there *had* to be
another way. Skinner had become living proof of his own prophetic
words.

He silently paced the room, stopping briefly to snap off the
already-muted television set and plunging the room into blackness.
He walked a mile, maybe two, in the confines of the 10 x 20 space
before succumbing to a fretful exhaustion. Straying from his worn
path in the bleak carpet, Mulder gently cracked open the connecting
door before crawling under the sheets.

Another dead lead. Time continued to pass. He would call Skinner
tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain begun unobtrusively, a trifling sprinkle, nothing more.
Perhaps downpours were too furious, too impatient to find the crack
hidden somewhere among the asphalt roofing tiles. A soft, easy
rain, however, always managed to find the mysterious fault and
gain entrance to the dining room and cascade down the western wall.

How many times? How many times, dammit?

Three, maybe four. At least three too many.

Nathaniel drew his finger down the damp wall. He knew how to remedy
this feeling of helplessness. It had gotten so easy, once he
understood. So easy. He wished it hadn't taken so long to learn how
to take control of his life, but God worked in mysterious ways. Joy
came from such simple things.

He had never been a man of action. So much in life had been forced
on him. Forget it. Deny it. Take it. Accept it. Swallow it.

How exhilarating it had been to fight back. He smiled as he walked
into the study. It had become so easy.

Yes, there it was, in the top left desk drawer.

Joe Smizer
Roofing, Guttering, Foundation Repairs
Professional, Bonded Service
555-8183

He pulled open the next drawer and drew out a small notebook.
Turning to the next blank page, he carefully taped the business
card at the top. He flipped back a few pages and skimmed the
words. Yes. Three times. That idiot had been out three times to
repair the roof.

That settled it. It was time for a new roofer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The emptiness had become a chasm, which had become a landscape,
which had become earth, which had become a wall. A door. A knob.

She didn't see him. She didn't feel him.

She could turn it, enter the realm of the tangible, the defined,
the concrete. She could.

The door was cold -- covered in a thin sheet of ice. The knob
numbed her fingers as it turned in her hand.

A room she had never seen but had known forever. A kitchen, awash
in darkness, the floor tiled in modern black and white, black and
white, black and white.... marred only by a great pooling crimson,
congealing on the surface even as it continued to flow from her
prone body crumpled on the floor.

Her body. Throat slashed, eyes staring, vacant. Hair longer than
now. Rings on the lifeless fingers of her outstretched hands.
Reaching. Desperate. Dead.

She didn't see him enter the room, only noticed as he fell to his
knees, water cascading off his body and mixing with her blood.

<It's not true! Don't look, don't look, turn around and RUN this
isn't real, it can't be, it can't>

She was without herself and within him, descending into madness
together as his soul was ripped out and sundered into a thousand
irretrievable splinters.

And looming above them was a round-faced man, smiling with the
peace of angels, speaking to her soul in the language of dreams.

"It's for my own good."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

3:40 a.m.
Mulder's room

Drifting, scattered, he let the gentle, capable hands gather him
close and reassemble his frayed soul. Skin and spirit were caressed
everywhere and nowhere; senses all consuming, yet slowly narrowing.
Oh, to be able to lose himself in this exquisite peace, this
desire...

Every hair on his arm was attuned to the caress, which traveled a
path to his brow, soothing, protecting.

Calling.

He concentrated on the sensations rippling from his perimeter to
the warmth of his core, feebly trying to ignore the urgent
whispering in the edges of his consciousness.

The touch was so right, but the sounds, the sounds were so wrong...
he couldn't ignore them, shouldn't. They were getting more
persistent, and they seemed to come from the soft hands,
which of course were *her* hands...

Scully.

"Mulder..."

He painfully opened his eyes, a useless reaction in the dark of the
room. He felt her kneeling next to his bed, her left hand grasping
his forearm, the fingers of the right running over his forehead
and through his hair. He blinked furiously, trying to adjust his
vision to the dim.

"Mulder," she whispered, "Mulder..." the sound barely audible as
she fought the strange, lurching gasps that shook her body.

His heart thudded unevenly. "Scully, can you hear me? Scully?"
Leaning forward, he brought a hand up and tilted her face to look
at him.

Christ. She was dreaming again --her eyes were huge, unfocused and
vacant, staring at some invisible point completely through and past
him.

"Scully, everything's OK, take a deep brea-"

"No," she moaned, "No, Mulder, *don't*..."

"Shh, Scully, it's OK, I'm-"

"Don't, don't look..."

"Scully..."

Her face abruptly crumpled into a misery that belonged in Mulder's
worst nightmares. Huge, breaking sobs escaped from her lungs in
painfully heaving, choking gasps. Tears ran down her face unnoticed
as she squeezed her eyes closed against the assault.

Mulder had never been more terrified in his life.

Acting solely on instinct, he pulled Scully clumsily onto the bed
and into his arms. She immediately curled into the fetal position,
her back pressed against his chest. She continued to sob, hard
enough to rock them both.

With shaky hands, he stroked her hair and wrapped an arm
protectively around her. "It's OK -- everything's fine, trust me...
we're OK."

He whispered softly in her ear until he felt her sobs subside into
quiet hiccups and the hiccups fade into shallow, hitching breaths.

After what seemed an eternity, her breathing relaxed into the quiet
rhythm of sleep. Mulder eventually joined her, slipping into a
shallow slumber for a few hours, his chin resting against the
top of her head.

When reality woke him once again, it was to a certain
self-conscious realization. Delicately removing his arms from
around her, he stood and tucked the sheets back over her
still-unconscious form. Sneaking into the other double bed and
foregoing the warmth and comfort of her body, he thought, was
highly preferable to waking in a position that would be
compromising on far too many levels.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday, April 19
7:50 a.m.

The steaming water coursed through her hair and into her ears as
she turned her head slowly to the left and then back to the right,
easing the tension that had collected in the tendons of her
neck.

Scully had woken in a tightly curled ball, her shoulders bent at an
uncomfortable angle. First light had begun creeping through the
curtains, an early, strengthening light that was winning
control of the change in seasons. The muted illumination helped
define her growing sense of displacement. <Wasn't the window on the
right of the bed...?>

God. She wasn't in her room. A furtive glance to the left revealed
her partner's sleeping form face down in the pillow on the other
bed. She was in Mulder's room? How did she get here? Or rather,
*why* was she here in his second bed?

Desperate to maintain a sense of normalcy, Scully had carefully
slipped out of bed and padded back to her room, closing the door
behind her as quietly as possible.

It must have been the nightmare, she decided, lathering the shampoo
between her hands and scalp. She shivered, chilled despite the
porcelain knob pointing directly toward the H. The dream
had unnerved her in ways she never thought possible. The ache was
so miserably, insistently real that it drove all else from her
mind. Stopping his pain had been her only instinct. It was all that
mattered.

Scully was startled out of her reverie by a sharp knock at the
bathroom door.

"Scully?"

"Yeah."

"How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, Mulder," she shouted over the drum of the water.

"Breakfast, half an hour?"

"OK."

That was it. After four years, she knew the meaning of every
inflection in Mulder's voice. Although not explicitly stated, the
message was clear. Breakfast. Either you talk, or I will.

I *must* have been shaken by the dream and checked on him, she
thought. That's all. That had to be all.

Then why did she feel so lost?

The clattering of dishes back in the kitchen harshly interrupted
Scully's exhausted thoughts.

She continued to poke at her toast and fruit absentmindedly. God,
she was tired. Thoughts bounced around her consciousness without
purpose, leaving any sort of concentration out of the question.
She let her eyes wander over to her partner, who was studiously
inhaling his stack of pancakes. <Blueberry syrup? I thought he
hated blueberries. . . That's a conservative tie, especially for
him. . . I do like the way he's let his hair grow longer in the
front . . .>

The hand stirring her coffee froze. A vivid - and very recent -
memory of her fingers running through his hair crashed through to
her conscious mind. <ohmygod>

She had to know. Best get it out in the open, where she could
confront it, deal with it. Anyway, it had become obvious he was
waiting for her to make the first move. "Mulder," she began, her
voice quaking only mildly. "What exactly happened last night?"

He met her gaze placidly, chewing thoughtfully, and without
responding for a moment. Then he jabbed his fork at her untouched
breakfast. "You eat that toast, with butter *and* jelly, and I'll
tell you." He nonchalantly went back to cleaning his own plate.

This can't be good, she thought, feeling the color rise to her
face. She dutifully forced it down, however, with as much dignity
as she could muster.

"There's not much to tell, Scully. You had a nightmare," he started
gently when she was finished. "I'm not well-versed in sleep
disorders, but whatever your nightmare triggered, it was damned
intense." He exhaled slowly, deliberately, and held her gaze. "You
came into my room and knelt down by the bed. Initially I thought
you were sleepwalking; your eyes were completely unfocused and you
weren't responding to my voice. It was obvious you were in severe
distress - you had a lot of trouble breathing."

Scully felt her mind desperately search for confirmation and come
up with nothing. Mulder continued.

"I'm not sure what broke through, but you seemed to finally
recognize me. You came back about halfway and then . . ."

Mulder broke eye contact and stared at the half-empty juice glass
in front of him. Why was this so damn hard? His words were barely
above a whisper and he refused to look at her. "You were
terrified, Scully. . ." He stopped for a moment and gathered
courage.

"Mulder, I ... I didn't tell you the entire truth the other day.
It's true, I've been having nightmares lately. But I also think
I've resumed an old habit from childhood."

"Sleepwalking?"

She nodded, strangely ashamed. "I used to go through periods of
sleepwalking as a kid -- mostly after a move or a dramatic change,
like after my father would ship out on an extended tour of duty."

"I think we should go back to D.C. today," he stated flatly. "You
need to see your doctor, and maybe a sleep specialist."

"Mulder, I'm fi-"

An intense glare from him had her swallowing her words.

"Don't say it, Scully, unless you know for sure."

A spark of anger rose at his insinuation. "It's just stress,
Mulder. It's always been stress," she replied sharply. "Just
because I haven't done it in years doesn't mean anything.
I'm just reacting to the emotions in my dreams." She spoke
deliberately, careful to attribute the stress to the nightmares,
not daily life.

His face remained stony, impassive. "What have your dreams been
about?"

Scully paled. "Just nameless images. Generic nightmare terrors."
She looked away, praying he couldn't see she was lying.

If he did, he was considerate enough to keep it unspoken. "You
scared the shit out of me, Scully."

"I'm sorry, Mulder... I didn't mean to involve you, not on any
level. It's my problem, and I'll handle it." Her voice was pure,
firm Scully. "But I'm sorry, no... embarrassed, that I..."

"Scul-ly," he winced. "You were calling my name, for god's sake.
*Please.* I'd like to think that some part of you needed me last
night . . . that for once I could be there for *you.* I couldn't
think of anything to do except keep you with me until whatever was
happening in your mind had passed." He forced his eyes up again,
where they met hers. <Please let her understand . . .> "I. . .
I just let you cry until you fell asleep. That's all. Please don't
be sorry for that. *Never* be sorry for that."

Relief and gratitude washed over Scully like a warm touch. She
blinked back tears and took his hand in hers. "You're right,
Mulder. I did need you. I always have."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(end part 4/7)

-- End --
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*********************
Hope it was that tutored me,
And Love that taught me more;
And now I learn at Sorrow's knee
The self-same lore.

-- "Post-Graduate"
*********************

The police station was bustling when Mulder and Scully arrived. An
undercurrent of tension emanated from the mousy girl behind the
switchboard who was nervously snapping and popping a wad of gum.

"He's waiting for you in the conference room," she stated
accusingly.

"Chief Hermann?" Scully asked.

"NO. Agent Jackson. The fed... I mean, *agent* from St. Louis. He
wants to see you right away, he told me just a minute ago. I was
just about to call you."

"Here we go," Mulder sighed as they walked past the girl to the
door behind her.

Jackson stood in the corner of the room, staring critically at the
damp grass just beginning to dry in the morning sun. Chief Hermann,
sitting at the gunmetal grey table, flashed Mulder a combined look
of panic and relief before standing.

"Good, good, you're here. Assistant Director Jackson, this here's
Agents Mulder and Scully, they're..."

"Yes, I know. We spoke briefly yesterday," interrupted Jackson,
snapping his head around to face the other agents. Jackson, a
solid, broad-shouldered African-American, stood well over 6
feet and carried his impressive physique with commanding presence.
His eyes glinted behind wire-rimmed glasses adorning his
clean-shaven head.

My god, it's Skinner's twin, Scully thought. Well, almost. If the
military precision of Jackson's voice during yesterday's call was a
mere undercurrent, it was a full-fledged force to be reckoned
with in person. She felt Mulder instinctively straighten his spine
in response to a glare from the senior agent. No need to exchange
looks -- she *knew* Mulder was thinking the exact thing.

"Chief Hermann informs me that there has been no progress since we
spoke," Jackson stated.

"No sir," said Scully. "We're afraid not."

"Then let's cut to the chase. I spoke with AD Skinner last night,
and he has agreed to my request that you both stay on to put
together a profile of our killer. The St. Louis office
is flooded with work, and I don't have the manpower to deal with
this... situation." He emphasized the word with a piercing stare at
Hermann. "I need your best assessment of the killer's next move,
and I need it ASAP. A request to VCS can't be processed for at
least 48 hours, and we don't need to waste that time when we've got
a profiler right here."

For the hundredth time, Mulder fervently wished he'd never stepped
foot in the Behavioral Sciences Unit. Although he was inwardly
seething at the situation, he realized the fruitlessness of
protest.

"Sir. If we provide a profile, and assuming nothing further can be
ascertained from our psychic, Agent Scully and I will be allowed to
return to D.C., correct?" Mulder's voice was clipped.

Jackson narrowed his eyes. "You have somewhere to *be,* Agent
Mulder?" he said icily. "Assistant Director Skinner led me to
believe otherwise."

"With all due respect, sir, I have been debating the necessity of
our presence here and wondering if our further involvement is
practical. And frankly, I haven't been a profiler in 5 years. We
are not part of the VCS -- and that is for a reason," responded
Mulder, deliberately walking a fine line between insolence and
determination. What the hell, he mused. It was an approach that
sometimes worked on Skinner.

Hermann watched the power play between the agents in fascination,
relieved to be, however temporarily, merely a spectator to
Jackson's force.

"All right, Agent Mulder." Jackson weighed his words with cold
precision. "You may return to D.C. after you grace us with a
profile. "I'm due back in St. Louis this afternoon. Call the RO for
what resources you might need. I'll be in touch." And with a curt
nod, he dismissed the agents.

"Scully," Mulder began as they left the room. "Can you give me a
rational, scientific explanation for the phenomenon we just
witnessed in there?"

"No, Mulder, I think that defies logic," she replied sardonically.
"So, what's our next move?"

"I'm going to get busy on that profile so we can disentangle
ourselves from this case," he paused momentarily. "Can I ask you to
do something for me?"

She took in his pseudo-pitiful look and crossed her arms in a
subconsciously defensive posture. "What?"

"Talk to Margaret Hanson."

"What about?" she retorted.

"How she sees what she claims to have the ability to see. Any
details at all that she can remember about talking with the killer.
I'm going to need all the help I can get."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Margaret Hanson's residence
Foristell, Missouri
10:30 a.m.

"Agent Scully, right? Come in, please sit down -- whoops," Margaret
Hanson quickly brushed away a fleet of Matchbox cars imminently
threatening Scully's backside. "I'm sorry, I haven't had time to
straighten up today," she laughed nervously. "I was just about to
get ready for work. What can I do for you?"

"Mrs. Hanson," Scully began.

"Maggie, please," she responded earnestly.

"Maggie. I'd like to get a little more information regarding the
man you saw on Tuesday. Any physical features or details you can
add to your previous statement."

"I told the officers everything I can remember. He was medium
height, slightly heavy, with short, dark hair. It's all in a file
somewhere."

"Yes, that's true," said Scully calmly. "But if you could think of
any nonphysical... impressions," she winced slightly over the word,
"that you sensed in this man, it could be helpful in generating
a profile."

"My impression as a psychic, Agent Scully, was that he was a sick,
sick man -- full of hatred. My impression as a human being was that
he was an ordinary, friendly person, with a countenance filled with
love and peace. I can't explain the difference between appearance
and reality. It horrifies me."

Scully couldn't discount the emotions playing on Hanson's features.
Whatever she saw or didn't see, the fact remained that she
*believed* what she saw, and it had evidently been terrifying.

"OK. Maggie, we didn't get to touch on your background yesterday.
Maybe I should get some more clarification."

Hanson's face crinkled into a slight smile. "Agent Mulder sent you
to get a second opinion."

Scully was taken aback. Had he? "No, we just need to..."

"That's OK, really. It makes no difference to me. I just want to be
of *some* help in this case. I don't want to see anyone else die."
The sadness was evident in her face.

"All right. When did you begin to believe you had psychic ability?"

Hanson's brown eyes grew solemn. "I wasn't born with it, that I can
tell you. When I was nine, I suddenly became quite ill. They didn't
know what was wrong with me, but at one point I had a serious
seizure. All I know is that when I recovered, my life was never the
same again."

"You believed you suddenly developed psychic abilities?"

"I don't know if you'd call them that, especially not at first. I
just noticed that I knew what everyone was feeling -- how they felt
about me, how they felt about each other, God, life, death.
It was terrifying."

"Did you tell your parents?"

Hanson's face hardened imperceptibly. "No. But they soon figured it
out, though."

Scully picked up on her subtle mood shift. "Did they make it
difficult for you?"

"No... I mean, yes. Well..." she rubbed her forehead in
frustration. "They had me evaluated. And then sent away from home
to be studied. I was treated like a lab rat for 5 years. It was
humiliating -- and I lost my childhood." She paused.

"But at the same time, I learned how to control it. I learned how
to turn the power off and live a normal life. It's the only way I
have survived." Hanson looked at Scully intently. "I think you
might understand that."

Scully blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

Hanson smiled softly and shook her head. "It's OK. Forget I
mentioned it."

Scully tried to concentrate on the cryptic words the woman had just
spoken, but something was fogging up her thought processes. She was
suddenly swept up in a profound sense of deja vu. The story seemed
so familiar...

"Maggie you said you were sent away. Do you remember where..."

"Agent Scully?" Hanson's voice was sharp and insistent. "Agent
Scully -- are you OK? You're bleeding..."

Scully's hand flew instinctively to her nose, where it was met by a
cruelly familiar hot, thick wetness. "I'm OK -- I'm OK. Um... can I
use your bathroom..."

Hanson quickly ushered Scully down the hall, expertly kicking toys
out of their path. As the door closed, Hanson stood outside
forlornly. <I'm sorry, Dana. So very sorry.>

Scully quickly washed the offending substance from her lip and took
a deep breath for extra measure. Hesitating only briefly, she
looked up to appraise herself in the mirror. No words. No wraiths.
No disembodied souls. Just a calm, pale woman staring back at her.
How deceptive appearances could be.

She stared at herself a moment longer, struck once again by an odd
feeling of familiarity. She had never been in this house, never met
this woman before yesterday. Why did her thoughts keep fixating on
her story?

As she reached for a dry towel, Scully's gaze fell on a
prescription bottle sitting on the counter. Paramethadione. An
antiseizure medication, used to treat epileptic seizures.

She inhaled sharply. A study. Psychic behavior. Epilepsy. St.
Louis.

No, no, no... What were the odds?

Her mind scrambled frantically, putting together the pieces before
she even realized there was a puzzle to solve.

Maggie. The Beecher factor.

Beecher was her maiden name according to the background check.

It couldn't be. It had to be.

Not three months previously she and Mulder had made a personal trip
to St. Louis as a favor for Langly, whose cousin Danny Switzer had
died under possibly mysterious circumstances. During the unofficial
investigation, they had located the records to a medical study
Switzer had been a participant in as a child -- one involving
epilepsy and possible psychic activity. Some children in the study
had been given an experimental drug, one that most likely caused
deadly adult-onset aneurysms. The records were spotty and
incomplete, but definitely suggestive.

And most importantly, it suddenly occurred to Scully, they
mentioned a mysterious participant cited only as "Maggie."

Scully's thoughts were once again that day interrupted by a knock
at the bathroom door.

"Agent Scully? Are you OK? Chief Hermann is on the phone. He needs
to talk to you -- there's been another murder."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(end part 5/7)

I would *really* appreciate any feedback on this -- criticism
welcome as well. Thanks. carrie.stetz@mosby.com

-- End --
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*******************
When I was gay, when I was gay --
It's ninety years and nine! --
Oh, never I thought that Death could lay
His terrible hand in mine.

-- "Liebestod"
******************

"Mel Heitschmidt. Retired schoolteacher. Widower. Neighbor found
the body," Officer Hank Murphy rattled off the particulars in a
distant monotone, barely able to look anywhere but straight down.
He swayed slightly and concentrated on the notes written in his
pad.

"Certainly looks like our man," Scully said, rolling the body
carefully. "The victim shows a blow to the back of the skull and a
deep cut severing the jugular vein. Probably been dead 24 to 36
hours."

She peeled off her gloves and began to ask Murphy some detailed
questions, turning the young man's complexion slightly greener with
every sentence.

Mulder was pacing slowly, examining the living room's musty, dated
contents. Nearly every fixture, piece of furniture, and knick knack
screamed 1970. The man was living in a self-made time capsule,
Mulder thought, and an awful one at that. He took in the dark
carpet and couch with a wrinkled nose. Just what *was* this town's
fascination with brown?

He pulled back a hideously patterned curtain from the window to
gaze out on the back lawn, sneezing twice from the dust that flew
up in a feeble cloud. The killer would have had little
trouble approaching the back of the house unseen, he noted. The
large lot was overgrown with a stand of maple trees, huge peony
bushes, and untamed climbing roses engulfing a dozen weathered,
collapsing trellises. The care that had once tended the yard had
long since stopped, leaving the plants to revert to the wild,
turning on themselves in the slow, inevitable process of
choking each other out.

The incongruous thought flitted across his mind, sweetly tempting
in its inappropriate innocence.

You can never run, Mulder. Never.

"...he's standing right there. Is it, Agent Mulder?" Murphy's
tremulous voice finally registered.

"Wha - what?" Mulder managed to croak.

"Is the back door unlocked?" said Scully.

"Yeah, yeah, it is. I think the killer came in through the back,"
he said tiredly.

Two paramedics entered the room almost unnoticed until one spoke.
"God. This is so weird... someone offed Heitschmidt... Man..."

Mulder and Scully simultaneously turned to look at the young woman.
"Excuse me. Did you know the victim?" Scully asked.

"Yeah, of course. He taught math at the high school for, like, 30
years. Mean old bastard. No telling how many people would have
loved to have done this."

"Great," growled Mulder, obviously disgusted. "Just great. Prime
opportunity for a copycat."

"I'll be able to tell from the autopsy, Mulder," Scully said
calmly. "Give me a few hours and we'll know if it's the same
killer."

"Yeah, I know." He rubbed his hand absently through his hair. A
selfish thought pressed its way to the forefront. Why couldn't he
have finished the damn profile before this body was found?

"C'mon, Mulder. Let's go back to the station," Scully gently laid a
hand on his arm, where it trembled slightly.

His attention immediately focused on her. "Scully. You OK?"

"I'm fine," she reassured. "But I think I've got a bizarre story to
tell you once things calm down a bit."

The police radio crackled loudly as they left the small house and
walked toward the squad car. Hermann was barking ferociously into
the handset as Mulder and Scully approached.

"Yeah. Gotcha. Well run an address, god dammit! Of course I'll
wait!" He turned to the pair. "Maggie Hanson just phoned the
station from the Stop-n-Shop. She saw him again, plain as day
as she walked into the store to start her shift. Bought a giant bag
of dog food and some milk. She followed him back out to the lot and
got his plate!" Hermann guffawed in glee. "We're gonna get this son
of a bitch if it's the..."

The radio hissed and popped as a squeaky voice bled through.
"Plates match a Nathaniel Bogg, Chief. Number 11, Rural Route 13."

"OK. Me and Hank and the Feds are on the way. C'mon! Let's hog tie
this bastard!"

Mulder gave Scully a nervous glance. "He's kidding, Scully, isn't
he?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder and Scully followed Hermann's squad car about 5 miles out of
town into an unincorporated area of Warren County. Murphy motioned
for them to stop about 100 yards from of an older wood-frame house
set far back from the road. Scully guessed it to be an old
farmhouse, although the land around it didn't look to have been
farmed in quite some time.

The agents got out and stood next to the Chief. "Looks like he's
home," Mulder gesticulated toward a beat-up black Ford Galaxy
parked next to the house. "Looks just like a serial murderer's
car," he joked. "Should have put 'drives crappy car' in my
profile."

"That's the plate, Chief," said Hank Murphy eagerly.

"Chief Hermann, whatever your intentions, be aware that we're
merely going to ask the man some questions. We have no proof, much
less *any* reason to assume he is responsible for five murders,"
Scully warned, also throwing an admonishing look at her big-mouthed
parter.

"Of course, Agent Scully, I realize that," Hand said sharply.
"Let's just go ask the fella a few questions and see what happens.
So's not to scare him off too much, Hank, you stay in the car.
Three's a mite better'n four, at least when not tryin' to scare off
a suspect."

They approached the house casually, but noted no suspicious
movement. Hermann knocked on the door. After a moment, he tried
again. "Mr. Bogg? This is Chief Hermann from the Wright
City Police. May I have a word with you, Sir?" They were met with
silence.

"Chief, let's head back and see if we can come up with enough
information for a warrant. There may be a connection..."

But before Mulder could complete the sentence, Hermann had turned
the unlocked doorknob and was already leaning into the front hall.
"Mr. Bogg?"

"We have no probable cause," Scully warned.

"I won't touch nothin', Agent Scully," Hermann called from the
interior of the small home.

Mulder shrugged as Scully sighed. "Let's just play nice like good
feds," he murmured, following Hermann. Scully grumbled under her
breath in futile protest.

It didn't take long to determine no one was in the house. As the
group headed back out the front door, Murphy barreled up the walk.
"Chief, Missy just radioed. Dan's got some info on this Bogg
fella. Wants you to come back to the station."

"Good, good. Let's call Judge Calhoun. I wanna *talk* to this guy."
Hermann marched through the grass with Murphy scurrying behind him.
Scully began to follow when Mulder suddenly grabbed her elbow.

"Hang on, Scully. Chief Hermann?" he called from the front porch.
We'll be right behind you. I just want to take a walk around the
property."

The burly man quickly nodded his assent and continued toward his
car.

"Mulder, we're trespassing as it is. Let's just come back tomorrow
with a warrant, if we find it's needed," Scully said.

"You're right," he said absently, walking back inside. "But there's
something -- I just want to look around for a minute. Something
caught my attention."

Mulder headed back into the den, uncertain as to what he was
looking for, but knowing he'd eventually find what triggered the
feeling of uncomfortable suspicion.

Whoever Bogg was, he was an orderly man. The house was old, but
neat as a pin. Mulder tried to absorb everything, mentally scouring
for any visual break in the pattern, any oddity. He wandered into
the kitchen.

"Scully?"

"Yeah," came a muffled reply.

"Where are you?"

"Bedroom, Mulder. I think you should come in here. I found what
looks to be a journal, and Mel Heitschmidt's...."

Her words were interrupted by a screen door slam and a series of
barks and menacing growls. Unclipping her gun, she sprinted down
the narrow hall toward the kitchen.

Mulder lay face down on the green linoleum, a huge German Shepard
viciously attached to his bloody right wrist. A man stood above
him, one fist entangled in Mulder's hair, one hand holding
a knife at his throat.

"Federal Agent! Drop your weapon!"

Bogg slowly twisted his head toward her and gazed directly at the
woman leveling a gun at his torso. His hands never wavered.

For a moment, time simply stopped.

"Don't you see? I can't. It's for my own good." And he smiled. A
beautiful, joyous smile that would have bestowed a feeling of peace
on anyone who didn't see the languorous drip of blood
begin snaking down Mulder's white shirt collar.

In a second, numerous possible paths the future might take were
lessened by one.

The tip of Scully's gun rose almost imperceptibly before she fired.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunday, April 20
St. Louis Regional Office
11:30 a.m.

Special Agent Henry Jackson looked down at the papers on his
immaculate desk and then back out the window to Market Street
below, which was quiet on this weekend morning. Letting out a
frustrated sigh, he turned back to the report for a fourth read.

Perhaps it would have been an open-and-shut case. The journal was
overwhelming proof of Nathaniel Bogg's guilt. A spiral-bound litany
of all who had done him wrong, had insulted, harmed or slighted
him. More than 100 names were carefully detailed in tidy block
lettering -- some with addresses or daily schedules.

Among them were Ethan Kamp, a boy who had blasted a baseball
through Boggs' front window. Steven Hempel, a drunken construction
worker who picked a bar fight with the killer. Olivia D'Cruz,
unfortunate enough to rear-end the wrong person at the bank and
then flee the scene. Dr. Owen Rogers, unable to save the life of
Boggs' Irish Setter. And Mel Heitschmidt.

Yes, it would probably have been a simple case, disregarding the
illegal entry and improperly seized evidence. Probably. But it
didn't matter now. Nathaniel Bogg was dead.

Attack on a federal agent, refusal to put down a weapon. The shot
was warranted. The angle was unusual, the suspect twisted and
leaning down toward the agent on the ground. Not much room
for error. None, actually. And so the bullet pierced his heart
after traveling through his upper arm.

Jackson pinched his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. After a
moment, he picked up his pen and signed the report, in triplicate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(end part 6/7)

I would *really* appreciate any feedback on this -- criticism
welcome as well. Thanks. carrie.stetz@mosby.com

-- End --
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*******************
Secrets, you said, would hold us two apart;
You'd have me know of you your least transgression,
And so the intimate places of your heart,
Kneeling, you bared to me, as in confession.

-- "Plea"
*******************

Sunday, April 20
Dana Scully's Apartment
9:37 p.m.

"So, are you calling Langly tonight?" Scully asked as she dropped
her bag on the couch.

"I'd better," Mulder responded, shutting the door behind them. "He
might try to exact revenge if we hid the fact that we met the
catalyst of his cousin's medical experimentation study. She
seemed willing to meet him in the near future."

Scully flipped on the lamp and checked her answering machine. No
messages. No surprise.

"Scully," said Mulder softly, shifting nervously in front of the
door. "Tomorrow's Monday. Do you want a ride to GUMC for your
scan?"

She studied her partner for a moment, feeling the sands shift
beneath her feet. So much was changing. Every time she thought she
fully understood this man and what place she held in his world,
circumstances would prove her wrong and reveal a new facet to their
complex relationship. Always changing -- sometimes excruciating in
its pain, sometimes breathtaking in its joy. But always, always
inspiring in its strength. Perhaps because of her illness -- or
maybe despite it -- she had only recently allowed herself to
contemplate the tempting bittersweet implications.

"Thanks, that would... that would be nice," she said, almost shyly.

He smiled in quiet relief. "OK. See you at 9?"

"Yeah."

He smiled again and turned toward the door. Almost as an
afterthought, he stopped and faced his partner, who had silently
moved directly behind him. Startled at her sudden proximity, he
searched her face for a moment before speaking. "I forgot
something," he whispered.

"What?" It came out nearly breathless.

"To thank you. For telling me about your dream. About seeing
Nathaniel Bogg."

"Someone *like* him," she corrected gently. "There's no way I could
have dreamed..."

"Scul-ly," he interrupted easily. "You don't have to explain. I
won't press you or try to convince you with my theories. I'm not
going to open an X-File on your dreams. I just appreciate you
telling me. I... I don't think I could bear it if you shut me out
of your life." The last sentence was uttered so low that she barely
heard it, despite their nearness.

With a move that surprised them both, Scully raised her hand and
cupped his cheek gently. "I need you to fight me, Mulder. I need
you to push me at every turn. Don't let me hide anymore --
from you or myself. Please." She paused and looked deeply into his
mournful eyes. "You once asked me why I never ask you for favors.
Consider this a very important request."

He delicately took her palm from his cheek and entwined their
fingers. "Your wish is my command." Before turning to face the
door, he squeezed her fingers gently and held her gaze, his
face a study in warmth and compassion.

"Tomorrow." And he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Epilogue
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FBI Headquarters
Friday, May 2
8:05 p.m.

Mulder shifted aimlessly through a packet of papers the Lone Gunmen
had given him that evening. Margaret Hanson had made a trip to D.C.
earlier in the week to meet with Langly and share as much as she
could remember about her days as a test subject at Washington
University. She had vivid memories of endless testing, constant
dehumanizing exercises and treatment by the lab personnel, all for
the purpose of data collection. Her value as an individual was not
based on her intrinsic worth as a human being, but as a scientific
anomaly. And the most disturbing part of it was that they had been
trying to create more like her.

Hanson remembered the other children. They were her only friends
for five years, although her contact with them was limited at best.
She was frightened and disgusted to learn that half had
been subjected to an experimental drug in an effort to induce
psychic ability, to artificially recreate the curse that had been
naturally bestowed on her. And if that weren't enough guilt for
one woman, she also had to face the fact that most of that
subgroup, including Langly's cousin, were already dead -- killed by
an inexplicable series of transient ischemic attacks culminating in
deadly aneurysms. Innocent children, expendable pawns in the
endless dark game of government conspiracy and cover-up.

Mulder sighed in disgust as he flipped through the Gunmen's notes.
His empathy for Hanson was genuine, but he was exhausted and having
difficulty concentrating on the documents and photographs. It all
seemed so trivial.

Scully's latest scans had revealed that her cancer was
metastasizing. His parter's life -- as well as his own -- was
beginning to dissolve in front of his eyes. What did all this
matter when the world was coming to an end?

Photographs. Old, faded Polaroids of small groups of children,
crooked and out of focus. At one point as a child Hanson had been
given a gift of a cheap camera, and she had taken the silly
pictures that a young girl would take. Giggling friends making
faces at the camera, sticking tongues out and rolling eyes. How
strange, she had told the Gunmen, that she had these photos
after all these years and all the bad memories. Maybe it was a good
thing she was a packrat.

Mulder made a mental note to have the backgrounds in the photos
enhanced to learn more about the lab itself. He carelessly tossed
the pile on his desk and made a move to gather his things and
head home, bending to pick up one blurry photo that had slipped off
the desk. He gazed at it momentarily, and his breath caught in his
throat. A small boy smiled at him from the picture, fair-haired and
shy.

Mulder had met this boy before. But in 1996, not 1974. His heart
nearly skidded to a halt.

In Canada. Working alongside Samantha under great black tarps. He
had seen not only this boy, but a hundred of his clones.

Mulder shuddered and closed his eyes. <Not now. Please. Not now.>

With trembling hands, he gathered the notes, the files, and the
photographs in a plain brown envelope. He walked to the furthest
file cabinet, the one with unmarked drawers, the one nearest
Scully's desk. He opened the bottom drawer and silently placed the
envelope inside, locking the cabinet when he was finished.

It could wait.

It had to wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

END

Please stay tuned to this list and the archives for more of
Redemption, coming soon. Thanks very much for reading.

Again, I would *really* appreciate any feedback on this --
criticism welcome as well. Thanks. carrie.stetz@mosby.com

As Warned, Longer Author Note for Those Who Care About Motivation:

The more I ponder the second half of the fourth season and the
episode Gesthemane, the more I worry. As a viewer who was lured in
to the show by the brilliant episodes "Ascension" and "One Breath,"
I have started to fret over the Mulder portrayed in recent
storylines. I am assuming that the writers of the show (for lack of
a better theory) have grown careless in developing his character in
relationship to the first, second, and even the third seasons. The
Mulder I grew to like is a compassionate, intense, devoted partner
who has been willing to trade his career, his life, even his
*sister's* life for Scully's safety. As many of us have been
moaning recently, "where is the Mulder that we know and love?"

I therefore constructed this story around a concept of what Mulder
*would* do if he were the same man portrayed in the first three
seasons of this show. Perhaps if script writing this season had
been more consistent and less self-serving (whoops! Pardon me!),
this Mulder would have been more apparent in the last few episodes
of the fourth season. But what the hell do I know? He's just a
fictional character! :-)

By the way, for all you road-trippers out there, the geographical
details (including tacky tourist sites) of this story are real.

-- End --