Title: Fall: Scattered Leaves Author: abracadabra Email: abracadabra1754@hotmail.com Rating: PG-13 overall, with R for implied and actual violence and NC-17 for some sexual situations. Disclaimer: For those powers that be and a certain 'journalistic'friend... Most of these characters aren't mine; I'm just borrowing them. They're really Chris Carter's, 1013 Productions and Fox Studio's. Spoilers: S7; Requiem, or anything after it for that matter,doesn't exist. Summary: This is the third in the Seasons Series. First story, Winter: Snowed Inn, a Casefile in Connecticut at a Bed & Breakfast. Second in the series is a sequel,titled Summer: Shadows on the Sun. This is the sequel to Shadows on the Sun. Mulder goes undercover, Scully goes to a conference. Some unanswered questions... Keywords: Some Angst, UST, RST, MSR, S, Casefile Archive: Yes, please, but let me know where and include all headers. Author's Notes: Some settings within actual locations are contrived, but are based on actual sites. Some reference to the use of uncontrolled substances and story-related violence. None of the references noted should be construed as the author's endorsement of such practices. Musical instrumentation supplied by the very talented drummer and musician, Murray. Thanks: I just happen to be lucky enough to have two of the greatest betas extraordinaire...Denise and Kim. I can't thank them enough! Traci's also been a helpful resource for the 'what about this?' questions.... Feedback: I would love it! Websites: http://www.geocities.com/spookys_girl2000/index.html http://www.geocities.com/mesmerizememulder/ Email me: abracadabra1754@hotmal.com *^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^**^*^*^*^*^*^* Scattered Leaves by abracacabra *^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^* Arlington Early September Late Evening "What do you mean that's all the information you can give me?" He paced; running his hand through his hair so many times that it was now flattened against his head. During the last pass from the front door to his desk, he nearly tripped over his now completely untied shoelaces. "Look, Mr. Mulder, I've got the reports right here. I also happen to know that you enlisted those hacker friends of yours. What did they turn up? I'm betting it's nothing different than what I'm telling you." The Detective laid the sheaf of paper reports and photos on the coffee table and started to rise. "I just don't get it. How can that be? Almost no one; other than the Anazasi, just drops off the face of the earth without a trace." Before the Detective could stand fully, Mulder's heavy hand on his shoulder pushed him back down. "What did your friends find?" He stopped pacing; one hand on his hip, the other stalled in his hair. The Detective had seen this type of behavior before. It was often referred to as simply, 'caught'. 'Caught' as in, 'I don't want to believe the facts because I know they're true.' He knew that Mulder was a profiler, but he'd picked up a few tricks of his trade in his thirty years in private practice. With some hesitancy, Mulder told him the Gunmen had found nothing more. The Marblehead house address, a few of the belongings left behind, residual strands of hair at the Cat Island warehouse, a few credit card slips to local department stores. After the warehouse, the trail was colder than a witches'... He had stopped short of using the Gunmen's phrase although he wasn't quite sure why. "Even dead people leave a trail, Detective." "They do indeed. I just can't tell you what you want to know. Maybe you ought to locate that other guy, the one she was working with, Alex Krycek. From the information you gave me, I'm betting he's your man." Mulder's facial expression slid from amused to angered in the span of about ten seconds. "Even if I were able to find him, he'd tell me nothing." He tossed down an envelope on the coffee table, thanking the Detective and indicating with a nod of his head that his services were no longer needed. If he were going to learn anything more, he'd have to do it on his own. *^*^*^*^*^ Burlington, Vermont The Metronome Club, Main Street 15 September 11:00PM He walked into the lobby, bootheels clunking on the wooden flooring, his eyes adjusting to the inky black, the occasional strobe light flashing unearthly white beams across his leather jacket and catching him unawares. The beat pulsed and throbbed, a heady house mix with a decidedly Latino edge that caused his hips moved to its wild booming against the occasional banging of palms against the skin head of the bongos and the percussive sticks and maracas marking the beat. The lighting and the sounds burst in staccato fashion over the small groups of dancers. Their bodies gyrating, at once touched and touching, performing an age-old ritual of vertical, public foreplay fueled by cheap beer and drinks with fancy names. He surveyed the room for the briefest of moments before making his way toward the bar on the other side of the large open area. Almost strutting, he elbowed and pushed his way into the now throngs on what passed for a dancefloor; really nothing more than a large expanse of wood planks, a worn patina from the years of shuffling, stomping and twisting shoes. On his way, he glanced at the faces, some of them no more than masks of ennui or joy or bordering on lust for what might come when the music stopped and...in some cases...for what was coming as the music droned. A briefly fleeting memory of Scully feeling languid in his arms as he pressed her insistently to him while they swayed to the strains of 'Woman', John Lennon's voice coating them in a sensual film washed through him. His arm around her waist as she arched back as his hips met hers, fusing their heat. He visibly shook his head, trying to remain in character. The strobes, now playing against roving gel lights, also showed him harsh glimpses of the sometimes vacuous stares or overly excited looks, letting him know he was, indeed, in the right place. As he continued to wend his way to the bar, the occasional dancer or those at the tables around the dance floor checked him out. He guessed it might have been his age, although looking around he noticed what appeared to be a handful of those his age or older. It could have been the image he made, dressed in black almost head to toe. Then again, that should have let him blend in with this crowd. This was a very eclectic town just as he'd been told. As the bar came into view, someone tugged on his left arm. At first, he assumed he had merely walked into someone, pissing them off in a combination of drug and alcohol haze. He turned to apologize, starting to mutter under his breath when he felt a hand reach up to his neck, pulling his face downward as wet lips grazed his. Had the lights been brighter, the woman would have seen the surprise that registered there. Instead she was greeted with a polite send off and he wiped his lips with his leather jacket sleeve. Maybe he did look as good as Frohike had told him back in June. He'd done his homework, talked to the right people, read the latest papers, become part of the background in the darker sections of town absorbing almost all of what he needed to know to get the job done and get it done right the first time. This was an unforgiving assignment where there was no room for practice, no second tries. Practice and second tries often meant an early and rather permanent retirement. He wasn't ready to leave the land of the living quite yet. He had supplemented his own knowledge about the drugs he was chasing through information he'd found on line, as well as, through assistance from the Gunmen. Club drugs, as they were often referred to because of their heavy use at 'raves' or 'trances', dance clubs and bars, were very popular among college students and other young adults. He'd read the literature on MDMA (Ecstasy), GHB, Rohypnol (also known as 'Rho', 'roofies', the date rape drug), ketamine (sometimes used by vets during animal surgery), methamphetamine, and LSD. From his perspective, the use of these potent amphetamines and hallucinogens was scary. And his assignment told him that there was a sudden upsurge and connection from the greater D.C. area to Vermont, with a possible crossover into Canada, directly to Montreal. Burlington made a great backdrop for both the transport and use of the drugs as well as the border crossing, just about 76 miles to the north. A wonderful college town, home to 'UVM', the University of Vermont, the town was a wonderful mixture of the upscale, the old-moneyed, the bohemian and the youth, an ideal location for an up and thriving business. It's proximity to the Canadian border by plane, car or boat cinched its suitability. Lake Champlain to the west worked well for leisure and obviously, sales. He was supposed to stay on the periphery, learning just enough to let him move in and around seamlessly, gathering information for the Bureau, but not enough to make him a player. Skinner had stressed his 'fringes' role. Mulder had mused that his boss most likely knew that he would still do whatever he deemed necessary to put an end to the sales and whatever else was involved. Having cautioned the younger Agent against sticking his nose in where it didn't belong, the A.D. resigned himself to doubling the back up he anticipated might be needed should Mulder put his nose in where it didn't belong...again. Although it was still too early to do so and he didn't want Scully initially aware of her partner's assignment, Skinner knew that one possibility would involve extending her stay in Vermont if and when the time came. The problem would be determining the right time to alert her without blowing his cover and endangering her, as well. Mulder's trial runs back in June and again later in July had paid off. His list of potential contacts was filed away in his head and he'd already been contacted when he arrived in town just two days ago. He was supposed to meet him here for word on the first shipment and a possible sideline. He had yet to piece together all that Frohike had provided before he left D.C. regarding Ben Stillman. A few days prior to his departure, Ben had contacted him, ostensibly to see what Scully had turned up in the autopsy. Again, it struck Mulder odd that Ben was only concerned well after the fact. The autopsy results had been available for some time. She had discovered faint traces of Rhohypnol from the earlier tox screens. 'Rho' did not remain in the blood for long periods of time and she was glad that the earlier inquest had been done by the book. Ben had treated the news with skepticism, although Mulder couldn't figure out why. Something smelled very fishy at the 34th Precinct. But, he'd had to leave town and asked Fro to keep an eye on Ben's actions. As if he needed to ask. It was more likely that Mulder would have to divert the sometimes Three Stooges from their over-zealous behavior. *^*^*^*^*^ From D.C. to Vermont 5 September Clothing on the floor, on the bed, in the suitcase and then back out again. He had wondered, yet again, just what one wore as an undercover drug trafficker? Out had come the additional pair of dress trousers he'd just added. In went another pair of jeans. He had still had no idea what he was supposedly going to be doing for a 'real job'. While the Bureau would certainly cover 'essential living expenses', he needed to become part of the community and have a good 'cover'. As the articles of clothing had continued to 'move about the room', Mulder envisioned his role. Having thrown his black leather jacket on the bed next to the duffel, he'd made a mental checklist of what he'd already accomplished and what remained. The boardinghouse had been only too happy to book an extended stay of undetermined length. Since they tended to operate on a shoestring, tenants who paid up front were prized. He'd also thought about personal transportation. While the town itself was relatively easy to get around, he hadn't been sure where his 'job' might take him. The local Field Office had made arrangements for a rental vehicle. He'd smirked thinking about yet another Lariat vehicle in another color and only a slightly different style. But he'd been pleasantly surprised when they'd informed him he'd be driving a pick-up. 'More in keeping with the indigents and your assigned socioeconomic status within the designated locale' which had roughly translated into everyday speech that meant, 'we want you to blend into the community and not appear ostentatious.' His track pants, board shorts, Knicks paraphernalia, socks, a few more college tees had been rolled and stuffed into the side pockets of the denier nylon travel bag. It had seemed as if he was packing on automatic pilot as thoughts of what little he really knew about this assignment played through his mind. His keen insights and ability to sift through extraneous information to arrive at the possible facts helped, but there was still much more to learn. He'd sorely wanted to contact Scully, to share his thinking and let her find the holes, pointing out the inconsistencies and make him work for the connections. While it wasn't unusual for one of them to occasionally work a case alone, they were able to fall back on the other's expertise and, much more importantly, their team approach. As he'd gone into the bathroom to pack his shaving kit, he'd mused at how it was really much more than 'team work' as he so often felt they were merely two parts of a strong whole. There were actually times when he felt at a disadvantage by her absence. At first, he'd railed against such a sentiment as it almost bespoke of an over-dependence when in actuality, he was quite capable of working on his own, had done so for longer than he'd care to admit. His early career in profiling had required his solitude and solitary existence, but while he'd excelled, he'd been missing something he'd never really had -- a true partner. In Scully, he'd found a togetherness that was not dependence, a companionship that was sometimes symbiotic and at others collaboration. He'd found what had been missing with his other pairings, the ability to work side-by-side but not be subsumed by the other, the offer of assistance given but demanding nothing in return and an unswerving sense of unspoken, yet nonetheless very obviously present trust. Wedging his razor in between the can of shaving cream and his deodorant, his smile had stalled. 'Trust'. Such a simple word. With such complex ramifications. So many possible misunderstandings. Could it ever be as simple as 'giving someone your complete trust'? Did complete trust exist? He'd known in his heart that it did, that Scully *was* trust to him, that she had his complete trust from very early on in their working relationship. But somewhere along the line he'd very nearly destroyed it all. Shoving his bar of Zest soap, his toothbrush and toothpaste into the bag, he had zipped it closed, carrying it into the bedroom where he'd deposited it into the still open duffel. He'd thought yet again of the June day, how it had been hotter than hell...in more ways than one. How he'd been so determined to see Diana, how he'd been so very sure that she was about to give him answers to questions he had believed were real. That he'd needed to protect himself and Scully. And how he'd so easily and unwittingly pulled the rug right out from under the best goddamn relationship he'd ever been lucky enough to have in one fell swoop. He'd replayed the look in her eyes. The look of abject astonishment followed blindingly fast by disbelief and extreme hurt and anger. Those eyes. They'd always told him so much more than her words. And at that time, had he been 'listening' effectively, he'd have known that she had just been shattered. That he'd most likely lost her. But he hadn't been able to see that, so intent he was on finding the truth du jour. His heart had clenched as he zipped his bag and slipped his jacket between the woven handle straps. And he silently thanked the stars above that somehow she'd decided she was willing to give them another chance, to believe in him enough again. His mind had been pulled completely from his assignment. In a strangely humorous way, he had realized that she always had a way of getting under his skin. And he had realized that that was exactly where he always wanted her to be. *^*^*^*^*^