From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>
Subject: [xfcreative] NEW: Out of the Cold (10 of 25)
Date: Saturday, May 01, 1999 8:43 PM

From: Vickie Moseley <vmoseley@fgi.net>

Out of the Cold
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part 00
part ten of twenty-five

Office of Dr. Lawrence Franklin
February 24, 1991
9:14 am

It had taken every trick in the book to get Mulder to the
appointment.  His mother had tried to reason with him at first, but
eventually went the gamut through anger, humiliation and finally,
that old stand-by, tears.  In the end, she was pretty certain she'd
just worn him down to a point where he would have agreed to
anything just to shut her up, but that really didn't matter.  As far as
she was concerned, her job was to get him to the doctor's.  After
that, it was up to the doctor to get him the rest of the way.

Mulder was sitting, or more accurately, was slumped in a chair in the
corner of the waiting room.  He had picked up a magazine, Sports
Illustrated, but hadn't bothered to open the cover.  Every nuance of
body language was directed at letting his mother, and anyone else
who looked at him, know exactly how little he expected of this visit
and how much he didn't want to be there in the first place.  Every
two minutes, he would check his watch and emit a just audible
growl of frustration.

"It's not like you have anywhere else to be," Mrs. Mulder said
pointedly after the fifth time he'd gone through that particular
display of impatience.

"I'm missing 'Sally' and 'Oprah'," he grumbled.

"You told me you don't like the talk shows.  Too many freaks," she
said absently thumbing her way through a three year old Better
Homes and Gardens.

"Yeah, too close to home, I guess," he shot back and began ripping
through the SI on his lap, not even really looking at the pages.

She shook her head in disgust.  "Behave," she ordered, her voice in
a whisper only he could hear.

"I promise I won't throw a tantrum, Mother," he said through a
fake smile.  "I'm good at this game, you should have remembered
that," he added before turning his attention to a picture of Denis
Rodman.

That brought a sigh to her lips.  "I'm doing this for your own
good," she told him, putting her magazine down and reaching for
his hand.  He pulled his arm away before she could get a good grip.

"I've heard that one for 18 years, Mom.  It's getting old."

Luckily, the nurse called his name before they had a chance to
venture into another lengthy discussion

Dr. Franklin was a tall, athletic man, early forties and no sign of
gray in his jet black hair.  He had a pleasant smile and welcomed
Mulder at the door to his office.  "Come in, Fox.  Make yourself
comfortable."

Mulder cringed at the sound of his given name.  It brought back too
many old memories, all of them bad.  The times he had to sit in
psychologists offices, psychiatrists offices, after Samantha had been
taken.  Everyone assumed that since he possessed an eidetic
memory he knew what had happened that night.  Even he believed
that somewhere in his mind details of her captors were locked and
he had only to access that place within himself to find her.  

The time after Sam's abduction had been surreal for him.  He woke
up from a catatonic coma and into a nightmare where his parents
didn't talk to him or each other, and no one seemed to know what
had happened to his sister.  For years, night terrors plagued him,
but they never provided any clues, any answers. 

In the last few years, his dreams had taken a dark turn, with images
he didn't understand.  Thinking it might finally be the memories of
that night coming to his consciousness, he'd felt the need to seek
professional help.  But the regression hypnosis he'd undergone had
left him with more questions than answers.  Some of the questions
frightened him worse than the dreams and he was powerless to
move forward.  He stopped seeing his hypnotherapist six months
back.

Basically, Mulder had been through it all at one time or another. 
From his own treatment, as a child and more recently, and even in
college when he'd undergone therapy as part of his course work in
psychology.  He wasn't expecting anything out of his sessions with
Franklin, other than getting his mother off his back.

"Your mother called to make the appointment today," Dr. Franklin
stated, breaking Mulder out of his thoughts.  "I can only assume
that you agreed with it."

Mulder blew out a breath and stared out the window.  "She thinks
it will help," he stated casually.

"And you don't?" Dr. Franklin probed.

Mulder smiled.  And this guy was supposed to be 'good'?  Mulder
had been down this road so many times, it wasn't even funny
anymore.  "I don't think I've been exhibiting behavior that
necessitates professional involvement," he smiled back at the
doctor.

Franklin took a moment to glance through his notes.  "Masters in
Psychology from . . . Oxford University!  Quite impressive, Fox,"
he said and flashed a smile.  "I had to settle for Yale."

"Hey, we all do what we have to, right?" Mulder shot back, the
smile now looking a little dangerous around the edges.

"So, it's obvious that you don't want to be here, and that you know
enough of the field to play mind games till the two of us are past
retirement age, so let's cut the crap, huh?" Franklin said evenly. 
"Why is your mother worried about you?  I don't get the
impression that she's exhibiting Munchausen by Proxy.  I think she
truly thinks something is wrong.  And if you are under the
impression that psychologists never need help, I'd be more than
happy to contact your old professors in England and have a word
with them."

Mulder drew in a breath, but not too deep as to cause a cough. 
"She thinks I'm obsessing over a case that I was working on before
I came down with pneumonia," Mulder said with a sigh.  "I had
some more insights into the case and made a few calls.  All this
around several naps and I haven't left the house except to go to the
doctor.  Basically, my mother is trying to control what I think, and
it's because I scared the crap out of her."

"You were in a coma for some time," Franklin noted.  "At one
point, your prognosis was not very good."

"My illness was life threatening, I won't deny that."

"I also note that you didn't seek medical attention when you first
became ill and even after seeing a doctor, you chose to ignore his
instructions."

"I was on a case.  A murder case.  Lives were at stake.  It's what I
do.  I stop killers.  Get inside their heads."

"A behavioral profiler, I've heard of them.  Read some of the
journal articles," Franklin interjected.

Mulder snorted.  "Bet that was fun reading," he commented.  "I got
the medication for my cold, I just kept forgetting to take it.  And as
for staying in bed--when was the last time _you_ canceled all your
appointments for a week and stayed home to get over a bad cold?"
Mulder accused.

Franklin had the good grace to nod with slight embarrassment. 
"You've got me there.  I hate being sick."

"Well, I screwed up and got _really_ sick.  Since I was released
from the hospital, I've been a very good boy.  I couldn't be bad if I
wanted to.  Mom counts my pills in the morning and again at night. 
So, I was sick to death of daytime TV and I had some ideas about
a case that the Bureau thinks is closed, but I don't think so.  And
for that, Mom drags me to a shrink.  No offense, but I think we are
wasting each other's time.  At least you're getting paid for it, but
you could be helping someone who really needs you."

"Let me be the judge of that," Franklin said with a grin.  "Tell me
about this case.  As much as you can, of course."

Mulder was getting frustrated.  He didn't want to go into the details
of the case, even when the other person was sworn to uphold
patient confidentiality.  "Look, all told, seven people have died, six
men and one woman.  There are about four more in line, if my
analysis is correct.  They are dying at a rate of one every four to
five days.  While I sit here, playing whose university's dick is
longer, the killer is already planning his next attack.  And the really
bad part is, I can tell what city it will  happen in, the approximate
location, and the time, but I can't tell who is the victim or who is
the killer.  And this guy is good.  It will look like a suicide."

"Can't the medical examiner tell the difference?" Franklin asked,
suddenly interested.

"No, this guy is good, I tell you.  I see him as a shadow . . . a cloud. 
I can't get a picture in my head of the killer."

"You've seen him.  How?  In dreams?"  Franklin's eyes had
narrowed considerably.  He was eager now.

"Yeah, dreams.  Nightmares.  Waking visions."  Mulder stopped
and crossed his arms to warm himself from a sudden chill.  He
could tell just by looking at Franklin that the little psych wheels
were turning in the wrong direction.  "Look, you ever hear of a guy
named Monty Props?"

Franklin chewed on his bottom lip.  "Serial killer.  Murdered
secretaries and mutilated the bodies.  Yeah, I heard of him."

"I caught him.  My profile, and later my monograph, lead to his
arrest and conviction and ultimately, his execution by the state of
New York."

Franklin swallowed.  "Don't those people in your profession have
to see a counselor on a regular basis?"

Mulder laughed this time.  "Yeah, each other.  Or if we're really
pressed for time, we just look in the mirror.  Get serious!  They're
afraid someone might 'cure' us.  Especially those of us who are
good at what we do.  If we weren't twisted, we couldn't do this."

"You're comfortable being 'twisted'."  It wasn't a question, it was
a statement.  Mulder thought long and hard before answering.

"I've learned to live with it."

Franklin nodded, then grew silent for a moment.  Mulder could see
him trying to come up with some middle ground they could work
from.  "This case, the one that's still open, will anyone listen to
you?  I mean, aren't they going to discount your analysis because of
your recent illness?"

Mulder shrugged.  "Maybe.  Some of them will.  The ones who
know me, they'll listen.  This isn't the first time a case has been
closed until I found it.  I doubt it will be the last.  And even if they
don't listen to me, maybe some one will.  Maybe I can identify the
next victim before the killer gets to him.  Maybe I can save a life."

Franklin absently chewed on the end of his pen, then
self-consciously stopped himself.  "Let's do this.  If you will agree
to come see me, on a twice weekly basis, I'll tell your mother that
you should be allowed some time each day to work on this case. 
You will have to abide by whatever restraints your medical doctor
puts on you, but I dare say if you continue to rest adequately and
take all your prescribed medication, that could be as much as three
or four hours a day."

Mulder frowned.  Three or four hours?  On a case, he frequently
worked 18 to 22 hours.  At the rate of three or four hours, he'd
have the case solved sometime around his 40th birthday.  

"And if I say no?  I really don't want to be 'cured'.  It could be bad
for my career," he commented with a lop-sided grin to soften the
steel in his voice.

Franklin matched Mulder's grin with one of his own.  "I have no
intentions of 'curing' you, Fox.  I simply think you might do better
with a 'smooth veneer' over that 'twisted interior'."

Mulder thought about that for a while.  He looked around the
room, looked hard at Franklin.  The man was truly interested in the
case.  Probably as close as the poor sot would ever come to living
'True Crime' and not just watching it on television.  Besides,
Mulder assured himself, if the topics got to close too the bone,
diversion was always available as a defensive measure.  He was
good at this game.  And if it kept his mother at bay, it might be
worth it.

"Well then, if I'm going to be seeing you again, you have to do me
a favor," Mulder said, getting up from his seat.

Franklin waved him on.

"Don't call me Fox.  I work on a last name only basis."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Franklin replied with a grin
and watched Mulder leave the room.  

Mulder sat in the waiting room, finally interested enough to read
the ancient sports magazine, while his mother talked to Dr.
Franklin.  After twenty minutes, she came into the room, wiping her
eyes, but smiling at him.  "Ready to go?" she asked brightly.

He nodded, putting the magazine aside.  He got up slowly, his ribs
still ached and it was too easy to get dizzy if he rose too quickly. 
He pulled on his parka and started for the door.

"I'll be right out, dear.  I just want to set up your next
appointment," his mother said with a tone that was far too chipper
for Mulder's mood.

He shuffled out to the car and unlocked the passenger side door. 
The doctor had said that he shouldn't drive for at least another
week, possibly longer if the dizzy spells remained.  Lack of oxygen
to the brain could do that, and his lungs weren't drawing in enough
O2 for his size at the moment.  He lowered himself into the freezing
car and reached over to insert the keys, starting the engine and
creating a whirlwind of cold air right at his face.

Damned New England winters.  The air burned as it entered his
lungs and forced more dry coughs out of him.  In desperation, he
put his hands over his nose and mouth to warm the air before he
breathed it in.  It helped a little.

His mother arrived at her door just as the air from the car heater
was starting to hint at warmth.  She sat down, checked the mirrors
and pulled out of the parking lot.

"So, what did you two chat about?" Mulder asked, trying to keep
the sarcasm out of his voice.  Tried, but didn't succeed.

"Oh, this and that.  I guess I might have over-reacted a little.  Dr.
Franklin said that there's no harm in you doing a little desk
work--as long as you rest when you're told and take you medicine,"
she emphasized the last part, for his benefit alone.

"I've been resting, Mom.  That's all I've been doing," he sighed and
decided to stare out the window at the white and gray and black
landscape.

"Well, I've got a little lap pad that I use sometimes for my
crossword puzzles.  You can use that.  And I think I have some
more legal pads.  I just don't want you to overdo, Fox.  I know you
think this is all very essential, but your health comes first," she said
sternly.

"Yes, Mom," he said, hiding a victorious smile as he turned his face
again toward the window.

"And we're going to have to get more food in you.  You are skin
and bones, Fox William.  Skin and bones."

"Whatever you say, Mom," he replied calmly.  It didn't matter,
whatever his mother forced him to do.  His mind was already back
on the case.

end of part ten

Vickie

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Never let the fear of striking
out get in your way.

                 Babe Ruth

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^


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