Profiler or Prophet(2/2)*NEW* Profiler or Prophet part 2 compiled
Date: Mon, 15 Feb 1999 
Title: Profiler or Prophet 05/07
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: R - language and violence
Category: SA
Spoilers: None
Keywords: M/S UST; M/Sc/Sk friendship
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes! Please! 
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully
brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and
Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox
if they sue me, for I am exceedingly poor and have nothing material
they can profit from. 
Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den, brought
to you by the talented Shirley Smiley, WebMistress Extraordinaire!
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/ 
Summary: A case file appears on Mulder's desk and he is
drawn into a stalled murder investigation; one that puts
someone close to him at risk. 
Profiler or Prophet 05/07 
Wednesday
0830 hours 
"Are there any further questions?" Mulder asked the
room. Heads were shaking, a few agents murmured
'no,' and people began to rise and stretch. "Well then,"
he continued, and Scully was amazed at the energy he
seemed to project. He was back on the hunt. "Let's
get to it." Agents had begun to gather notes, small
conferences going on between team members as all
prepared to go back to their assigned tasks, when the
door flew open, slamming heavily into the wall.
Leard stood in the doorway, red-faced, with chest
heaving. 
"What the fuck is this about?" he demanded. "Who
the hell had me put on administrative leave?" 
Scully glanced at Eagleton, seeing him shift uncomfortably,
but making no move to speak. She had opened her mouth
to explain but Mulder beat her to it, smoothly stepping
forward with one hand held out in appeasement. 
"Doug," he began, "it isn't personal." 
"You did this, you son of a bitch!" Leard roared, moving
swiftly through the room as other agents scurried out
of his way. Even as Leard advanced, Mulder found
himself thinking that he moved very quickly for such a
big man. 
He was still thinking that as Leard's fist struck his chin
and he felt himself going down, his injured hand coming
up in an ineffective attempt to block the second blow
that followed, this one catching the side of his face.
Even as he felt the blackness beckoning, he could see
Scully moving, angling to get between him and his attacker,
and all he could envision was the damage someone the
size of Leard would do to someone the size of Scully. He
tried to shift, to move, to do something to prevent her
from getting in Leard's way, but he was already on his
knees and still sliding down. 
He looked up, everything was happening in slow motion,
and watched in surprise and awe, as his partner stepped
smoothly in front of Leard, caught the arm that was
heading his way, and stepped back, turned, and pulled.
Then Leard was flipping through the air, landing with
a heavy "whuff," and Scully was kneeling next to him,
her attention totally focused on him. 
"Mulder?" 
She was calling his name now, and he wanted to answer,
wanted to say something to tell her he was all right, he
would be all right. Tell her how impressed he was with
her ability to take care of herself, to take care of him. But
the darkness was calling him, and he couldn't hold it back
much longer. He looked up into her face, her hands
cupping his cheeks as he slid further down. Her eyes were
worried and her brow knit with concern. 
He gambled a smile, hoping it came out as a smile, but
fearing it was more of a grimace. "You go, girl," he
whispered, then gave himself up to the black. 
"Mulder! Mulder!" Scully was calling but he slid through
her grasp and she settled him gently on the floor. "Someone
get the paramedics!" she ordered and was gratified to see
an agent -- she thought her name was Alton -- pulling a
phone and making the call. She had help now; Eagleton
was straightening Mulder's legs out, and someone else
had produced a folded up jacket to lay under his head. 
"I have a bag," she said, "in the car. Can someone ..?" 
"On it," Eagleton responded and was gone. 
She pried Mulder's eyelid open, noting the dilated pupil,
then turned his head slightly to study the rapidly darkening
cheek and chin. "Ice," she commanded, and another
agent scurried away. She rocked back on her heels,
scanning the room. Something was wrong but she
couldn't place it. She looked again, her eyes tracking
slowly through the whole room. 
Leard was gone! 
She looked up as Eagleton reentered the room, her
black bag in hand. "Please tell me you arrested Leard
and that's why he's not here," she said slowly. 
Eagleton colored, then hung his head sheepishly.
"Everyone was so focused on Agent Mulder, I'm
afraid he just got up and left. No one even remembers
seeing him leave." He shook his head in disgust.
"Obviously, our powers of observation leave a lot to
be desired on home turf." 
Scully had taken a flashlight from her bag and was
checking Mulder's eyes again. She refrained from
commenting, not looking up again. Ice wrapped
in a towel appeared and she held it against her partner's
cheek, checking her watch as she waited for the
paramedics. 
Beneath her hand, Mulder moved minutely, and she
heard a slight groan. She lifted the ice-pack, then
stroked his face gently. "Hey, partner," she whispered,
her head low and close to his. "You with me?" 
"Wha' happened?" 
Alarm crossed her features and she quickly asked, "You
don't remember?" 
" 'member you flipped Leard," he said, smiling. 
"Yeah, well, fat lot of good it did," she muttered. 
"What?" 
Mulder was sounding better, and to her practiced eye, he
was looking better as well. He was struggling to sit up,
but she restrained him. "Not yet," she said. "Just lay
there and rest a bit." 
"But Scully, I feel fine -- well, better." 
"Good," she responded. "And if you lay there and rest,
you'll feel even better." He fidgeted beneath her grasp
and she added with exasperation, "Just be still and wait
for the paramedics. Once you get to the hospital, you
can tell them how good you feel all you want." 
"Hospital? Not the hospital? C'mon, Scully, give a
guy a break. Don't make me go to the hospital." 
Scully had taken a deep breath, preparing for another
Mulderbattle, but was interrupted when Eagleton
hesitantly cleared his throat. She looked up, noting
that Mulder did too, focusing with no effort. 
"Agents," he began, "I just want to offer my apologies
on behalf of the Norfolk office." He gave an embarrassed
chuckle. "We're not always this incompetent. Honest."
He smiled, then turned serious when he received no response.
"Anyway," he continued, "I've got two people on Doug's
house, and another at the gym he goes to. I'm sure he'll
turn up quickly. He's not like this all the time; really, he's
not. Like I told AD Skinner, he's been going through a
particularly rough time of late." He shrugged, still
embarrassed. 
Mulder's eyes had narrowed at the comment of Leard's
rough time, and he forced himself up, sitting despite
Scully's attempts to keep him prone. He tried to get to
his feet, but she was determined to keep him down,
almost sitting on him in the process. He gave in, settling
for being upright, and gazed steadily up at Eagleton. 
"Exactly what did you tell AD Skinner?" he asked, and
Scully tensed beside him, noting the intensity in his
voice. She wasn't sure what Mulder was going for, but
it was important. Of that much, she was certain. 
Eagleton colored, then looked awkwardly around the
room. "It's really Doug's personal business. I wouldn't
have said anything except he's been acting so out of
character, and Skinner was his boss. I just didn't want
him to ..." 
"What did you tell Skinner?" Mulder interrupted, biting
the words off. 
Eagleton looked down at Mulder, then swallowed hard.
"I, uh, I told the AD about how things have been tough
for Doug for a while now." 
"Tough how?" 
"He just hasn't been himself. Seems to lose control a
bit too easily." Eagleton waved in Mulder's direction.
"Like this." 
"And when did this atypical behavior begin?" 
Scully stared at Mulder. The bruise on his chin was
becoming quite visible, as was the one on his cheek. His
eye was swelling - if it continued, it would swell shut.
But he was on to something. And Mulder would not be
stopped when he was on to something. She shook her
head fractionally then focused on Eagleton, waiting for
his answer. 
"About six months ago. When his dad ..." 
"... died," Mulder finished, and the other agent just
nodded. 
Mulder dropped his head, staring at his lap for a long
moment, then lifted his eyes to meet Scully's. 
"Forget about the paramedics. Forget about the
hospital. We don't have time for any of that." He
shook his head at her quizzical expression. It's
him, Scully," he whispered. "Leard's the killer.
And he's got Skinner." 
******************************************** 
Wednesday
1220 hours 
Skinner woke again, drawing a deep breath, then gagging.
The stench was overpowering. The box was too small to
allow him any movement to attend to his bodily functions,
and the immediacy of need had finally overtaken him.
God knows what they'd think when they finally found him.
He knew it was an irrational concern, but it still bothered
him; hell, it embarrassed him to think of being found in
this state, dead or alive. 
He shifted slightly, all the movement he could manage,
and realized that the reason he didn't feel cramps anymore
was because he'd lost all feeling in both his legs. They
were completely numb. His back ached and the muscles
in his neck screamed in protest at the lowered position in
which he was forced to keep his head. 
He took another breath, shallow this time, the smell not
so overpowering when he breathed through his mouth in
shallow little puffs. He was alert for now. The panic had
receded and he was determined to keep it at a distance.
He forced himself to think of the search. How long had
he been gone? He frowned, realizing he had completely
lost track of time. And if his captor remained true to
his modus operandi, then knowing the time could be
very important indeed, since it could tell him how
long he had left to live. 
He focused on the hunt again. Had Mulder figured it
out yet? Did they know who had him? Did Mulder
know it was Leard, or were they still working with
him as if he were just another agent, just another
hard working upholder of the law? He shuddered
violently, unable to think of Leard working side by
side with his agents, masquerading as a protector,
a defender, someone who should be safe. 
His stomach heaved at that thought and he fought
to swallow the bile that filled his mouth without
losing it, knowing that would only add to the reek
already present if he let go. He moved again, laying
his cheek against the rough wood of the side wall,
close to the tiny holes Leard had drilled for ventilation. 
It was better here -- amazing that four or five inches
could make a difference. He could feel the wood dig
into his cheek, but he welcomed the pain. So much
of his body, especially his limbs, had gone numb. It felt
almost *good* to feel anything. 
Safe. The word rose again in his mind. Safe. Leard
should be a safe person. The world was divided into
safe people and unsafe. He'd learned that at an early
age. 
He was nineteen, and the jungle was hot and clingy
and filled with unsafe people. He moved slowly through
the dense underbrush, working his way steadily forward,
pushing on as he'd been ordered, and every fiber of his
being was screaming out 'Unsafe!' 'Unsafe!' but still
he pressed on. And then there was an explosion to
his right, and he was running, and men were screaming.
The air filled with smoke and his eyes filled with water.
There was fire all around, and he couldn't breathe, but
he moved forward relentlessly, the noise and the fire,
the heat and the smoke, driving him, pushing him,
making him keep moving. 
And then -- it was there. The firm presence of a rifle
barrel square in the middle of his back. He froze and
looked over his shoulder to see the man, the small
Vietnamese man, with the gun jammed firmly against
him. He was saying something, issuing orders, but
nineteen year old Walter Skinner had no idea what
he was saying. The man gestured with his head, then
pulled gently on the trigger, and Skinner dropped to his
knees. 
He had no concept of time, no way of knowing how long
he knelt there amidst the fire and the smoke, in the heavy
jungle heat. Slowly, others from his company appeared,
riding a rifle barrel as he was, and they knelt beside him
until there was a long scraggly line beneath the blazing
sun. The men with the guns were talking, fast and furious
and Skinner didn't have to understand to know that their
fates were being decided. 
It grew silent suddenly, and he knew a decision of some
sort had been made. The gun in his back moved up, and
settled against his neck, the sun heated metal almost
burning as it touched the bare skin there. He bowed his
head, and thought of God, the God of his parents, the God
of love, of peace, of safety. The God who seemed strangely
absent in this Hell on earth. He was drifting away on his
thoughts -- nineteen years seemed too short a time for this
earth -- when there was the retort of rifle, right in his ear,
and he felt his bladder release, felt the urine soak his
pants, dripping down his legs to form a puddle under his
knees. The dark urine flowed and merged with the blood
and brains of the man who had knelt beside him, and
Skinner stared down at the now deformed head of his
friend and comrade, watching as their fluids mingled. 
That was all he remembered. It was as if his mind shut
down, closing him off from anything else that might hurt
him. His body's way of protecting him from all that was
unsafe. 
And in the box, in the present, Walter Skinner, Assistant
Director of the FBI, repeated his long ago coping
mechanism. As his bladder released again, and he relived
that time from so long ago, he shut down, retreating far
into himself, searching for someplace safe. 
******************************************* 
Wednesday
1605 hours 
"Got it!" Agent Alton came running into the conference
room, waving a piece of paper. "It was in his mother's
maiden name -- that's why it took so long to find. But this
is definitely it. This is the house Leard grew up in, the
house his father left him when he died." 
Mulder had been moving since the woman entered the
room. He had his coat on, had checked his weapon, and
was through the door, grabbing the address as he passed,
before she finished speaking. 
"Scramble everyone," he ordered. "I want the whole
damn team there. Alton?" He stopped, searching for
the young woman amidst the mass of people following
him. "You know where this place is?" At her nod, he
continued, "Then you're with us." He paused as he
reached the door to the parking lot, ushering Scully, then
Alton through first. "And get an ambulance over
there," he called back over his shoulder, "just in case." 
******************************************* 
Wednesday
1650 hours 
"Clear!" 
"Clear!" 
The shouts rang from the various rooms of the house
as agents continued their search. Mulder stood slumped
in the kitchen, slowly shaking his head. 
"I should have known, Scully," he murmured. "I should
have known it was too easy." 
"Shhh, Mulder," she said, "it's not your fault. There was
no way you could have known." 
His shoulders hitched as he drew in a deep breath, an
almost sob escaping from his lips. "I'm stuck, Scully,"
he whispered, "I don't know where to look next." 
She walked over to him and laid one hand on his
arm, waiting patiently until he lifted his head and
looked at her. She smiled at him, encouraging,
supportive, and ran her hand lightly up and down
his arm, a gentle massage that was all the comfort
she could offer in this public place. He looked so
tired, so sad, so forlorn. As if the weight of the
whole world was on him. As if he alone bore the
responsibility for making things right. Not for the
first time, she found herself cursing his parents for
allowing him to assume such responsibility in order
to assuage their own guilt. But he straightened
somewhat beneath her touch, drawing strength from
her. She patted his arm, then reached up to touch
his hair, her hand lingering on his brow once more. 
He was staring at her uncomprehendingly, as if
her actions were foreign, and she was reminded again
of how circumscribed their interaction always was.
How, despite being closer than brother and sister,
closer than husband and wife, they had yet to touch
each other intimately. She smiled wryly, studying
her hand on his brow, then slid her fingers down,
past his temple, her dainty touch tracing what she
knew to be a fever trail across his cheek. And when
he groaned quietly, she knew it was not from the
pain of the bruises that shadowed his face, but from
something else, something primal, something elemental.
Something that couldn't be summed up in words, but
that was the apotheosis of who they were, what they
had. The connection between them, the bond forged
in fear, strengthened in pain, that linked them together
forever. 
Mulder's eyes were closed now, and he groaned
again beneath her touch. She found herself wondering
idly if her earlier thought on the lack of intimacy between
them might not be wrong. In this context at least, it
seemed every touch was intimate. Extremely intimate.
She leaned forward, ready to bless him, bless *them,*
with a kiss, but was interrupted when a throat cleared
behind her. She jumped back, startled, and Mulder's
lids flew open, confusion warring with dawning passion
in his changing eyes. 
"Excuse me, agents," Eagleton said, "but there's something
in the back bedroom I think you should see." 
Mulder's shoulders slumped again, and she could see
him pulling back into himself, detaching himself to
deal with all that was unpleasant and distasteful. "A
box?" Mulder asked. "You found a box? In the closet,
maybe?" 
Eagleton's eyes grew wide. "How -- how'd you know?"
he asked in amazement. 
Mulder closed his eyes once more, head hanging low,
exhaustion etched in his bearing. "It makes sense.
Leard didn't just dream up the box concept himself.
His father used the box to discipline him. Probably
until he was well into his twenties, and possibly up
until the time the elder Leard died." Mulder sighed,
opening his eyes and glancing around. "Show me,"
he said wearily. 
They walked slowly back to the bedroom -- Eagleton,
then Mulder, then Scully. The closet door was slid
open revealing a wooden box about three feet square.
Mulder winced as he stared at it, taking an involuntary
step backwards. "I need to be alone," he mumbled,
and Scully shooed Eagleton out the door. 
"Don't let anyone come in here, Frank," she admonished
as she stood in the doorway to the bedroom. "No matter
what, no matter how long." 
The other agent nodded, then asked tentatively, "What's
he going to do, Dana?" 
She shook her head. "I don't know. And I'm sure it won't
be fun for him. But when he's done, he'll probably have
a new direction for us." She closed the door firmly and
returned to stand by her partner. 
Mulder was taking off his clothes, folding the suit coat
and trousers neatly on the bed. Shoes sat on the floor,
socks tucked into the toes. His tie came off next, then
his shirt, and finally the T-shirt. He stood next to her
in boxers, and for a moment she wondered if those were
coming off as well, but he seemed to feel it was enough. 
He was staring at the box, and she knew then what he was
going to do. "Don't, Mulder," she said quietly. "There
has to be another way." 
He shook his head, then shivered in the cool air. "I
don't know what else to do. I need to see what it's like.
I need to know what it makes him feel, how it makes
him think." He shuddered again, but when she reached
out to him, he pulled back. "No," he said sharply. "Don't
touch me right now. Just stay away." He took two shaky
steps toward the closet, then stopped again, breathing
heavily. 
Scully drew a breath to speak, but he waved her
silent, and stepped closer still to the box in the
closet. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the lid on
the box and looked down into the dark and cramped
space. "I may be in here a while," he said miserably.
He looked up and offered her a tremulous smile.
"Wait for me?" 
"Always," she said quietly, and watched as he climbed
into the box and pulled the lid down on himself. 
End part 05/07 
Profiler or Prophet 06/07 
Wednesday
2045 hours 
He had been so quiet, so still, for so long, she was
really getting worried. But he'd told her he might
be a while, and she'd promised to wait, so wait she
would. But patience was a hard virtue to come by
when someone you cared about was suffering, even
if it was by his own design. 
She sighed and looked at her watch. Almost four
hours. How long was "a while?" How long should
she wait without checking on him? She knew
instinctively that the dark in the box and the
quiet in the room were imperative for whatever
connections Mulder was trying to make, whatever
link to Leard he was trying to achieve. 
But she also knew that prolonged dark and quiet
could be a potentially dangerous combination for
someone like Mulder. Someone who was already
walking the line, living on the edge. Someone who
had his own dragons to slay. After the several
cases they had worked where Mulder was forced
into using his profiling skills, she knew unequivocally
why Mulder had had to get out of VCS. It was too
much like gazing into the darkest parts of his soul,
too much like grappling with his own demons. 
It was the inherent darkness in himself that let him
connect with killers; the destructive tendencies he
fought that let him *know* what someone who had
given into those same tendencies would do. There
were some who said Mulder was nothing more than
a trained sociopath; trained by the Bureau to use his
psychoses in the tracking and catching of other, more
disturbed kindred. 
She snorted softly at the thought, rejecting that line
of reasoning outright. She knew, if no one else did,
that it was Mulder's empathy, his ability to feel another's
pain, be it victim's or perpetrator's, that made him so
good at climbing into the mind of the killers he pursued.
His incredible memory and powerful intellect combined
to allow him to process more information, retaining
more of what he had seen and heard, and that allowed
the connections to be made that had earned him the
nickname "Spooky." Once he began crunching data,
collating facts, and assembling the bits and pieces
of informational detritus that surrounded a case, he
could not be beat. Add the empathic link to both
victim and perpetrator, and Mulder could follow any
lead, figure out any crime, find any killer. 
But the price such success exacted from him was often
overwhelming. From the time spent wallowing in the
sewers of a depraved mind, to the pain of reliving a
victim's torturous end, Mulder paid for every killer
caught, every murderer arrested, with a little bit of
his very soul. A high price indeed, for the salvation
of mankind. Particularly when he tormented himself
with his ability to save society at large from the
psychopaths that preyed on the innocent and yet was
unable to protect the one person he most wanted to see
saved. 
She sighed then, an expulsion of air that echoed loudly
in the silence of the room, and was startled when there
was an answering sound from within the box. Not quite
a sigh, not quite a groan; rather, a cross between a moan
and a whimper. She rose from the bed and walked
quietly to the box, stopping a few paces from its side. 
"Mulder?" she called softly, then held her breath as
she waited for a response. 
There was a sob, muted by the wooden box, and she
moved forward to throw open the lid but was halted
by a strangled cry of, "Don't!" 
She froze, hands resting on the lid, the decision
to follow his lead, let him decide, see this through
to the end waging silent battle with her own instinctive
desire to rip the rough top from the terrible box. She
wanted to pull her partner from the dark of whatever
evil he was immersed in and into the light of the world
again. 
"Family," he murmured, and she had to strain to
hear him. "Family is important." His voice was
cracked, broken, and she could make out the tears
he shed even as he spoke. His words were punctuated
with soft sobs and tiny sniffles and her heart broke anew
with every pained sound he made. "Everything depends
on," sniff, "keeping the family together," sob, "not letting
the family down." 
He made another sound, more a whimper this time, and
she ignored his earlier plea, yanking the wooden plank
that covered the box back and reaching in unerringly
to find his shoulders, stroke his hair, lift his face upward
so she could see his eyes. Haunted eyes, swollen and
red, that took a moment to focus on her before recognition
appeared. 
"Scully," he breathed, and her name was a caress on
his lips. "Scully." 
"I'm here, Mulder," she soothed, "I'm here. I waited, like
I promised. I'm here." She realized she was rambling but
the need to reassure him was overwhelming. He looked so
tired, so *broken,* as if something vital to who he was
had been taken from him, stolen by his time in the
box. 
"Family, Scully," Mulder whispered. "Family is
important." 
"Shhh," she murmured back, her hands never leaving
his face. She held his cheeks cupped in her palms, her
thumbs wiping the tears as they fell in a seemingly
endless stream down his face. He began to shiver,
uncontrollably violent little movements that rocked
the tiny box and splattered salty tears across her wrists
and arms. She was cooing nonsense sounds now, trying
to still the frantic rocking he had started, rocking that
propelled him from the back of the box to the front,
first his spine colliding with the side, then his knees. 
"Mulder, stop," she urged gently, "stop now." He continued
to rock, and shifted her touch from his face to his shoulders,
trying to stop his motion by sheer force. "You need to get up,
get out of the box," she begged. 
His movement grew more frenetic, and she knew he was
seeking physical pain to detract from whatever emotional
abyss he had fallen into. "Stop, Mulder," she begged
again, her voice rising as she felt the beginnings of panic
stir within her. If he didn't stop soon, he would seriously
hurt himself. She looked down, a reflexive motion that
thinking of his wound triggered as she sought it out,
wanting to see for herself that he had not injured his hand
further. But the bandage that had covered the stitched
palm was gone, and the hand itself was bloody. Oh, God,
what had he done to himself now? 
"Mulder, you have to get out of the box," she begged again.
"I can't lift you." This last was said even as she hooked
her hands under his arms and tugged with all her might. 
"Family," he said again. "Need family." 
"You have family, Mulder," she answered, not knowing
if he was talking about himself or Leard. "You have
family. You have your mom, and Samantha is out there
somewhere, Mulder. You have family." 
"Need family," he repeated in a broken sob. " 's alone." 
"You have family." She was close to crying herself, the
tears hovering in her eyes as she pulled again, straining
to lift Mulder to his feet. "You have me, Mulder. You
are not alone. You." She tugged again, then gave a sob
of her own. "Have." Another pull, aborted as he shifted
within the box and she realized his bare back was rubbing
against the rough interior with each move she made. "Me!"
She cried aloud with this, pushing to center him, then finally
ceding it was beyond her. 
She returned her hands to his face, brushing away
tears as she cooed to him again. "You have me, Mulder.
Come back to me now." 
He moaned then, pulling from her grasp and burying
his face in his scrunched up knees. She touched his
head one more time, murmuring, "Forgive me," then
rose and went swiftly to the door. 
"Frank," she said, sticking only her head out, "I need
you, please." The man only nodded and followed her
into the room. 
She led him to the box, then reached in again, her hands
stroking Mulder, seeking to provide some form of tactile
reassurance that he was not alone. She looked up at
Eagleton, her eyes filled with pain for Mulder. "Get
him out, Frank," she begged. "I can't get him out."
She felt the tears on her own face as she pleaded, and
some stray part of her mind hoped against hope that
Eagleton would exercise the same discretion over this
that he had shown over his friend and supervisor's
personal situation. "Please get him out. I'm not
strong enough." 
Eagleton took one look at the woman who huddled
over the box, the woman whose hands fluttered over
the man crouched in the too small space, the woman
whose hands never stopped touching, soothing, caressing,
even as she murmured unending sounds of comfort
and support to the man in the box. He reached in,
grabbed Mulder under his arms and hauled him up.
As soon as he was semi-upright, Scully grabbed his
knees and the two of them lifted him and carried
him to the bed. 
They laid him there and she swept his clothes to the
floor, wrapping him in the bedclothes as he began
to shiver again. "Blankets, Frank," she muttered,
"and something warm to drink." She was bent
over Mulder, almost laying on him, as she moved
her hands over him, a tuneless hum accompanying
her movements. 
"On it, Dana," the agent responded, then reached out
a hand, touching her gently on the shoulder. He waited
until she focused on him, her agitation obvious at his
continued intrusion, then said, "And you're plenty
strong enough, Dana. Never doubt that for a moment." 
********************************************* 
Thursday
0215 hours 
"How many relatives can one man have?" Mulder asked
in disbelief as he studied the list in his hand. "I swear,
he's related to half the people in the state." They were
back at the field office now, Mulder firmly convinced
that Leard was using some relative's property to conduct
his exercises in self-control. The problem was, the man
had a *huge* family and it was likely to take hours to
sort through all the property lists and find the one that
was vacant and available. 
Mulder sighed, and lifted one hand to rub his face, then
stopped when he caught sight of the clean, new bandage
that covered his palm. His eyes slid over to meet Scully's
and he found her watching him, a small, half-smile on
her lips. He slid the bandaged hand out to her, then rubbed
his eyes with the other one. Scully cast a quick look
around the room, then took his hand in both of hers.
To anyone watching it would appear she was checking
his wound, but they knew the reality. 
He was saying "Thank you;" she was answering "Always."
He was saying "Don't leave me alone;" she was assuring
him "Never." He was saying "I'm here for you;" she was
agreeing "I know you are." Their eyes met once more, and
as he gazed into her clear blue orbs, he flipped his hand,
until he was holding hers, and squeezed gently. This
earned him another smile, and a nod, and he nodded back,
then withdrew from her touch. 
"Keep looking," he directed the agent who still hovered
near the door. "Nothing jumps out at me. It could be
any of them. Just keep looking." He stifled a yawn, then
nodded at the young agent. "When you get the next group,
bring them to me. I'll know it when I see it." 
********************************************* 
Thursday
0610 hours 
"That's got to be it!" Mulder slammed the paper on
the table and rose rapidly. At Scully's raised eyebrow,
he began to elaborate, even as he was pulling on his
jacket and holding her blazer out for her. "His mother's
sister had a stroke four months ago -- right about the
time the murders began. The aunt has been staying
with her daughter out of state while recuperating, and
I'd be willing to bet dear nephew Leard's been taking
care of the house for them." 
Scully was in her coat now, and Mulder was pulling
her toward the door with one hand, using the other to
hold his cell phone as he issued orders. "Full strike
force, get the locals involved. Fire and rescue, and
make sure there is an ambulance on scene. But no one
goes in till we get there, understood?" His voice
stopped a moment as he twisted his head looking for
the young agent who had brought the most recent list. 
"How far away is this place -- Cape Charles?" 
"It's on the Eastern Shore, sir," the young man answered.
"SAC Leard's from the Shore -- most of his family is
still over there." 
"How far?" Mulder asked impatiently. He didn't need
Leard's family history now, just a direct answer to what
he had assumed was a fairly straightforward question.
"How long will it take us to get there?" 
"Half hour?" the young man said tentatively. "If the
bridge is open." 
Mulder had opened his mouth to speak into the phone
again, but the young agent's last comment distracted
him. 
"What do you mean 'if the bridge is open?'" 
They were outside now, heading for the Bureau car,
the wind whipping wildly around them. A storm was
brewing. Though the sun should have been up by
now, the dark clouds obscured it, and the morning
might as well have been night for all the light there
was. 
The young agent who'd been gophering for them
shrugged, then held out a hand as if to indicate the
wind. "Long bridge - seventeen miles. They close
it when the wind is bad." 
"Shit!" Mulder exclaimed. He spoke into the phone
again. "Frank, Rogers here seems to feel they may
be closing some bridge we have to go over. Yeah,
that's right, the Bay Bridge Tunnel." He cast a glance
at Scully, rolling his eyes as he listened. "Well
then, Frank, make that your priority. I don't give
a damn who they close that bridge to, *we* are
going across. You make sure they understand that."
He waited a minute more, then, all patience at an
end, snarled, "If they're closing the fucking bridges,
what the hell makes you think a helicopter can
fly in this?" He flipped the phone shut just as
the first fat drops of rain began to fall. 
"Fucking morons," he murmured under his breath,
then relaxed as Scully touched him, her hands
reaching out to take the keys from his fingers. 
"Better let me," she advised. "You're not in the
right frame of mind to be driving." She beckoned
to Rogers. "C'mon," she said, "you're with us.
You can navigate." When the young man didn't
move, she smiled slightly and added, "C'mon.
He won't bite, I promise." 
She was unlocking the driver's door, pushing a
button to unlock the other doors, and climbing
in. Mulder joined her in the front, watching
silently as Rogers reluctantly slid into the back. 
"All right, Rogers," he said, "start giving directions." 
***************************************** 
Thursday
0655 hours 
Leard's Cherokee was parked in the drive -- a sure
sign they were at the right house. But was it too late?
Scully had to reach out and grab Mulder to keep him
from sprinting into the house immediately. He stood
now, to her side, vibrating with barely controlled
energy, and she continued to touch him periodically,
just to help keep him grounded. They were waiting
as the teams spread out. Four teams, each going in
a different side of the house. Mulder and Scully were
leading the team into the back -- the kitchen area. 
Scully pulled her hand back from where it rested
on Mulder's arm, and he immediately began to
bounce on the toes of his feet. She glanced at her
watch, then made a motion to the two women
behind her, the rest of their team. 
"On three," she whispered, and beside her Mulder
tensed. From bouncing, vibrating with suppressed
energy, he was suddenly statue still. From her vantage
she could see every fiber of his being was straining,
holding back, listening, just waiting for her go
ahead. 
"One," she lifted a finger. "Two," a second finger
went up," and before she could move again, Mulder
was gone. Off like a shot plowing straight through
the unlocked back door. 
"Ah, shit! Three!" she cried and then she was following
her partner, wanting only to keep him in sight. All
through the house they could hear the sounds of
doors crashing open, and in one case, a window
breaking as agents came in through a doorless side
of the house. She stormed through the door behind
Mulder, pulling into an abrupt stop as she almost
slammed into him. He was standing totally still in
the middle of the kitchen, eyes focused on a closed
door that appeared to lead to a basement or cellar. 
"He's down there, Scully, and it's soundproofed.
He doesn't know we're here." His eyes were glazed
as he stared at the door, a morbid fascination chiseled
into his features. "He had to soundproof it so that
the neighbors wouldn't hear. Daddy wasn't as
well-disciplined as Leard. He --" Mulder shook himself,
then looked around and realized he had an audience.
He stopped his commentary and turned to Scully.
"I'm going down. You coming?" 
"Now," she said with a smile, "where else would I go?" 
Mulder nodded, then with no further preliminaries,
yanked the door open and barreled down the steps,
weapon drawn, and again came to a complete stop at
the bottom of the stairs. The basement was a warren
of rooms; tiny little areas divided by full and half walls,
some filled with boxes and trunks, others a jumble of
loose items ranging from mattresses and dressers to
bats and balls. Despite the clutter, the layout reminded
Mulder of a movie he'd seen. A young FBI agent
pursued a serial killer in a maze-like basement. Only
in the movie, the basement was dark. 
As if Leard had read his thoughts, the lights suddenly
went out, and behind him Scully gave a little gasp. 
"He knows we're here," Mulder mumbled. "I need a
light." 
Scully nodded to one of the women on the stairs and
she ran back up, returning in short order with two
flashlights and more agents. 
"Scully and I are the only ones going in here," Mulder
said, and sharply cut off the other agents' protests.
"I don't want us shooting each other in the dark.
Scully and I know each other." He smiled in the inky
blackness, then grappled for her hand, giving it a quick
squeeze. "We know each other's patterns so that's
not a problem for us. You stay here." 
The women nodded reluctantly, and Mulder added,
"And don't let anyone else down until Agent Scully or
I declare the area secure." 
"I don't like this, sir," one of the women ventured to
say. 
"Then file a report, *after* the situation is under
control," Scully snapped at her. 
The two stepped forward into the murky basement,
lights slicing through the dark. "You find the box
and Skinner," Mulder said, "and I'll track Leard." 
"I don't think so." Scully had stopped, forcing Mulder
to do the same. "I know I'm not going to be able to
get the AD out of the box, Mulder. Hell, I couldn't
get you out without help and Skinner outweighs you
by forty pounds and has several inches on you to boot."
She stared up at her partner, determination in her
face. "You find Skinner. *I'll* go after Leard." 
Mulder was shaking his head, but she reached out
and touched him, using a gentle grasp on his wrist
to still him. "Just like it made sense for us to be
the only two down here, this makes sense too. You
go find the AD. I'll take care of Leard." 
Mulder nodded slowly, then moved forward while
Scully veered off, heading to the left through a doorway
in one of the half walls. 
"Be careful, Scully," he murmured and was surprised
when she answered. 
"Always." 
End part 06/07 
Profiler or Prophet 07/07 
Thursday
0715 hours 
Mulder stood outside a closed door. This was it -- he could
feel it. He paused a moment, head darting back and forth
in a useless gesture in the dark as he sought his partner.
She was still involved in her own hunt -- but Mulder
had hit the jackpot. He could hear a muffled voice through
the wooden barrier -- a voice lifted in anger. 
"Get up! You have to stand up!" The voice was strident,
a tinge of petulance creeping in, as if the speaker couldn't
understand why his audience would defy him. "You've
been good. You can go now, Daddy. But you have to
STAND UP!" 
Mulder shifted nervously one last time, made another
useless circle with his head, still hoping Scully would
appear and be with him when he went through the door
to face Leard. He took two steps back, bracing himself,
then shuddered violently as the voice screamed once
more, "STAND UP, DADDY!" There was another
sound, perhaps a muffled blow, and he knew he could
stall no more. He had to get in there -- *now.* 
He took a deep breath, poised to crash the door, and
had actually leaned forward and lifted his foot, when
his arm was caught in an iron grip, and he was whirled
around to find his partner staring up at him. "What
is it?" she hissed. 
"In there," he whispered. 
"Back up?" 
"No time. I haven't heard Skinner at all, and I think
Leard is getting violent with him. I thought I heard
blows." 
She nodded. "Let's go then." 
He turned back to the door, took another deep breath,
then hit the door running. He could feel the impact
deep in his shoulder and he wondered if he'd torn
something this time, but he kept moving. His
momentum carried him several steps into the room,
and he finally halted, mere feet from where Leard
stared at him from behind the box. 
He looked around, startled by the fact that he could
see in here, then realized that Leard had some kind
of camp lantern lit, illuminating the small room.
There was a smell in the room as well, something
rank and fetid. His eyes were locked on Leard's,
as some weird communion threatened to draw him
into the man's madness. He staggered a bit, then
regained his balance and took another step. 
Behind him, he heard Scully shout, "Drop your
weapon, Leard!" and he noticed for the first time that
the former SAC was pointing a Sig Sauer, twin to his
own, at him. At *them.* 
"Give it up, Leard," he ordered hoarsely. "It's over." 
"Daddy won't get out of the box," the man said
peevishly. "He was good. He stayed quiet. He
stayed in control. But he won't get out of the box
now." 
Mulder risked a glance at Scully and saw her trying
to make assessments of the AD's condition based
on this information. She shrugged fractionally --
not enough to go on. 
"Let me help him," Mulder said, and was shocked
as Leard began to scream. 
"NO! NO! NO! You don't get help. You have to
be a MAN!" 
"He's not your father, Leard," Mulder said. "Your
father died six months ago!" 
"No! No! He wouldn't leave me. He wouldn't go
away. He knows I need help to stay in control."
The man stared down into the box, one hand caressing
what Mulder assumed was Skinner's head. "Daddy
wouldn't leave me, would you?" 
There was no answer from within, and Mulder glanced
at Scully. Concern was visible on her face and she once
more shrugged, the movement not reaching her arms, for
the gun she held never wavered. 
How to reach this man? Was he too far gone into insanity
to ever be reached again? Mulder paused, the exhaustion
of the past week almost overwhelming him. His thinking
was slow, his reaction time down. He wasn't sure what
direction to take to move Leard, but move him he must.
There was no telling what condition Skinner was in, and
they needed to get help to him. Mulder narrowed his eyes,
making his own assessment. Skinner was the priority; he'd
save Leard if he could. 
"Your father is gone, Leard, long gone. Why would you
think he'd want to help an out of control freak like you?" 
He'd known he was pushing the man's buttons. He'd
counted on it. What he hadn't counted on was the speed
with which the man lifted his weapon and fired, a shot
that came right at him. Scully shoved him as Leard's
weapon discharged, her own gun echoing the first shot,
but this one sailing past him. 
He saw the scarlet blossom on Leard's chest at the same
time he felt the fire explode on his hip. 
"Mulder, are you OK?" Scully was asking, and he was
reassuring her, sending her to check on Leard and Skinner. 
He hadn't even fallen; that alone would have been enough
to tell him he'd only been grazed. It still hurt like hell
though. Scully had kicked Leard's gun from him, and
she was shaking her head as she felt for the non-existent
pulse in the man's neck. "Dead," she muttered, then
pulled herself up to stare down at the AD, folded into
himself to fit in the confining space, and still not moving. 
He took several steps forward, wincing with the movement,
until he was next to the box. "Sir?" Mulder asked
softly, as Scully reached out to touch Skinner. "It's over,
Sir." 
Scully shook him gently, her hand on his shoulder,
then she reached down to grasp his chin and lift his
face up. They both stared down into open but unseeing
brown eyes. Eyes devoid of hope. Eyes that focused
on something that existed in another time, another
place. 
"This isn't physical, Mulder," Scully said slowly.
"At least I don't think it is." She looked over at her
partner, holding the sides of the box to hold himself
erect. "Can you get him out, or do I need to call for
someone?" 
"No," Mulder answered sharply. "Don't call anyone."
He paused a moment, studying the man in the box.
"Actually, do call. Have them bring your bag, and
soap and water, and clothes for the AD. No one needs
to see him like this. If he's not in serious medical need,
then let's clean him up and see if he won't come back
to us on his own." 
She was nodding, but still appraising Mulder, taking
in his haggard appearance. "That's all fine and good,
Mulder," she said, "but *can* you get him out?" 
"I have to." He shrugged. "I'm not sure what's happening
with Skinner, but I don't think having an audience will
help him deal with it." 
She made the call quickly, waited as Mulder grabbed
the AD under his arms and lifted. In a repeat of the
movements she had made when Eagleton lifted Mulder,
she grabbed Skinner's knees and together they laid him
on the ground. 
"He's," Mulder paused again, wrinkling his nose slightly,
"pretty dirty," he finished diplomatically. 
"He was in the box for almost two days, Mulder. It was
bound to happen," Scully said pragmatically. 
"Yeah, well, nobody else needs to know *it* happened.
For some reason, I think Skinner would be sensitive about
this." 
There was a knock on the door, and Scully moved swiftly
to open it, accepting her medical bag, blankets, a bucket
of warm water, soap, towels. Mulder could hear muffled
conversation, then Scully said, "I don't *care* who is
demanding to see him. *He* doesn't want to see anyone
now." More conversation, then Scully again. "Yes, shots
were fired." Another hum on unintelligible wording.
"Yes, SAC Leard is dead." More words, spoken quietly
this time, but they must have been the wrong words because
Scully lashed out. "You, the local police chief, the rest of
the FBI, and the Director himself can just wait until I file my
report. You'll get all the details you need then! And where
the hell are the clothes I requested for the AD?" There
was one more almost silent conversation, and Mulder
fancied he detected a trace of meekness in the woman's
tone, before Scully said sharply, "Then find someone his
size and make them strip, but get me some clothes. *Now!*" 
She slammed the door, picked up the towels and soap,
then headed over to where Mulder now sat, Skinner's head
cradled in his lap. The AD's eyes were still open, still
staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. She laid the supplies
by Mulder, then went back and got the rest of the materials.
When she returned, Mulder hadn't moved. "I thought
you wanted to clean him up?" she asked curiously as she
began to wash the nude body of the man before her. 
"I did. I do," Mulder said sheepishly. "I'm not, that
is, I didn't think I should move." 
Scully looked up. "Mulder are you OK? Really?" 
He sighed. "No. But we need to get Skinner cleaned
up and dressed. I can't explain it. But he's not
coming back from wherever he's gone until this
is done." He smiled at his partner. "I'll make it,
Scully. Just get it done, then you can have the privilege
of ushering me and the boss off to the hospital." 
"Privilege, my ass," Scully muttered as she returned
to her ministrations. "More like shit job of the century,"
and was rewarded with Mulder's husky laugh. 
He looked at Scully, where she was now cleaning
the AD's abdomen and heading lower. "I think you
already have that job," he whispered, then laughed
again when she rolled her eyes as she continued to
bathe Skinner. 
There was another knock and she rose and crossed
to the door. This time he could make out the other
person's words. "I made Abernathy strip down, like
you said. Let him keep his jockeys though." 
Scully laughed and took the proffered clothing.
"That's OK," she said, "I think the AD is a boxers
man." She pushed the door shut on the very stunned
face of Frank Eagleton and went back to her partner. 
There was another knock, and she went quickly
back, once more opening the door just a peek. "I've
been instructed to tell you, you have fifteen minutes,
then everyone and their brother is coming in." 
Scully glanced back at Mulder and he nodded. 
"I think the AD will be ready to face people by then,"
she said, shutting the door one more time. She walked
back to her partner and her boss, saying, "God, Mulder,
fifteen minutes. How are we supposed to have him up
and talking in fifteen minutes?" 
"We're not." Mulder pointed at Skinner's eyes. They
flickered as they watched. "He's doing it himself." He
leaned over, long fingers gently touching Skinner's cheek.
"C'mon, Sir," he said, "you need to come back now. The
Norfolk office is just waiting to screw this up too. Only
you can keep things from getting too screwy." He waited
a moment, noting that the man's eyes continued to flick
back and forth, then looked up at his partner. "Let's
get him dressed." 
With Mulder lifting and Scully sliding the clothes on,
they managed to get Skinner into a pair of trousers and
a dress shirt. It wasn't the full business attire the AD
was accustomed to, but it was more clothing than he had
worn in two days. As Scully buttoned the shirt, Mulder
felt the AD stiffen and cautiously released the man,
ready to catch him if he keeled. But Skinner remained
erect, on the floor, but sitting on his own. His eyes
had gone from flickering across the room without
lighting on anything, to moving slowly from object to
object, but there was still no sign of recognition in the
dark brown gaze. 
Mulder watched a bit longer, then lifted his head and
struck himself in the forehead. "I'm an idiot," he said
and he began to dig in the inside pocket of his coat. 
"What?" Scully asked, one eye on Skinner, one on
her partner. 
"He can't focus because he can't *see!*" Mulder pulled
a pair of wire rim glasses from his pocket, opened them
and seated them on the bridge of Skinner's nose. 
"Mulder, you amaze me," Scully breathed. "I would
never ..." 
"Agents?" a deep, but very hoarse voice interrupted.
"Where am I?" 
****************************************** 
Thursday
0750 hours 
"Let them put you on the god damned gurney, Mulder,
or I swear, I'll shoot you myself!" 
"But, Scully ..." 
"I'm serious, Mulder. And you should know by now
that I mean it when I say I'll shoot you." 
"Aw, shit!" Mulder stopped resisting and let the
paramedics lift him onto the waiting gurney. 
He noted Skinner was strapped down on one next
to him, watching with a slight smirk on his face.
"No need to look so smug, Sir," he remarked. "I'm
willing to bet she insists you stay overnight, too." 
The look on Skinner's face shifted from one of
amusement at Mulder's predicament to concern for
his own. "Agent Scully," he began. 
She turned from where she stood by Mulder's
gurney and reached out to Skinner, gently taking his
hand. "Shhh," she said before he could continue,
"you've had a rough couple of days. You need to
be in a controlled environment." 
At the word "controlled," both men shuddered.
"Don't say that, Scully," Mulder admonished. 
She smiled sheepishly and said, "Sorry. But the
fact remains," she shifted slightly, retaining her
grasp of Skinner's hand and addressed both men,
"you've both had a very trying week. The last few
days especially. If nothing else, a stay in the
hospital will make you rest. And you both need
rest, don't try and deny *that!*" 
"All right, Scully," Skinner said softly, "no more
complaints from me." It was strange to be laying
here, looking up at her, and to have her cradling his
large hand in her own small ones, but it was oddly
comforting too. He'd never been a man to accept
comfort very easily, but here, with these two, it
seemed natural to relax and let them care for him. 
She smiled down at him, then frowned as he began
to pull his hand loose from hers. "They're taking
Mulder," Skinner said. "You should go with him." 
She squeezed his hand quickly then turned and
followed the gurney. She walked swiftly out the
door, catching up to Mulder and reaching out to
take his hand. He had an IV in one wrist and his
cut palm still wore its coat of gauze. His pants
had been cut away to allow the paramedics access
to the wound on his hip. His life wasn't in danger
this time, but she had this irrational fear that if
she left him, he'd find a way to complicate things. 
"Are you coming with us, ma'am?" the male medic
asked respectfully. He'd already experienced the
back side of Dr. Dana Scully's tongue and had no
desire to feel it again. 
"Yes," she said. 
"No," Mulder said at the same time. 
She looked down at him, eyes wide in surprise, then
narrowing slightly as she tried to figure out his plan. 
"No, Scully," he said wearily, "I'm not planning
the 'Great Escape.'" It's just, well, I think Skinner
needs you more right now. Maybe you should ride
with him." 
"Mulder, his injuries are minor compared to yours.
I know you don't think you're too badly hurt, but
*any* gunshot wound can be dangerous. I don't
want to let anything happen to you." 
He dismissed her comments. "I'm OK, Scully.
Really. Nothing a few pain pills and some sleep
won't cure. But Skinner? He needs someone now.
You're -- it's really lonely in that box." He cleared
his throat as he spoke, uncomfortable with voicing
this particular feeling. 
"You're not alone," she reminded him. 
"I know," he said softly. His hand reached out,
straining to find hers, and she quickly took it in
her own. "But I know how I felt after four hours
in the box. Like I was the only person in the
world. And that was knowing you were right
outside and I could get out anytime I wanted.
Skinner was alone in that box for *two days,*
Scully, *two days.* He needs to know he's not
alone." 
She looked down at him again, a tiny smile
on his lips, eyes soft with that *something*
that was there when he looked at her. She was
reminded of how she felt -- my God, was it just
yesterday? -- when Mulder had enfolded her in
his arms and she had known what true goodness
resided in this man. She could see in his eyes
that he wanted her to stay with him. Maybe
even needed her to stay with him. But he was
sending her off to be with Skinner, because the
AD needed that human connection even more.
She suppressed a small snort. As if *anyone*
could need human contact more than Fox
Mulder. 
She gazed down at him, her own eyes filled
with emotions they had yet to name, and she
knew he could tell she had made her decision.
He nodded slightly, then said, "You better go.
They've gotten him out of the house too." 
She was still staring at him, amazed at the
sacrifices he would make for those he cared
about. Oh yes, he was annoying, troublesome,
too foolhardy for his own welfare. But he was
also strong and caring and kind and most of
all -- good. His eyes had a question in them
now, wondering why she hadn't gone to be
with the AD. She continued to gaze down at
him, a soft smile on her lips. And then she
was lowering her head, his eyes growing wide
as she came closer. And then her lips brushed
his, a feather touch, more benediction than
kiss. She lingered there a moment more,
then pulled away. "I'll go to the AD now,"
she said as she stood up. "See you at the
hospital." She turned away and didn't see
the delight that crossed her partner's face,
or the way his hand crept slowly up to touch
his lips and stay there. 
******************************** 
Thursday
0840 hours 
"I'll be fine, Agent Scully," Skinner said
gruffly as she climbed into the ambulance
with him. 
"I know you will, Sir," she responded.
"Mulder and I just thought you might enjoy
some company." 
Skinner swallowed hard at that. They were
right. He had had enough of being alone to
last a very long time. But he hated to think
that Mulder was making the trip to the hospital
by himself just so that he, Walter Skinner,
wouldn't have to. He closed his eyes wearily
and a wall of fire shot up before him, causing him
to gasp and his eyes to fly open. He looked
around, struggling once more to get his
bearings. Scully was hovering uncomfortably
close, but when he looked at her she seemed
to realize that and she moved back a bit. 
"What is it, Sir?" she asked gently. 
"When I -- the box," he began, then stopped as
his throat suddenly closed up. Scully was offering
water in a small cup and she helped lift his head
up so he could swallow. Her hands were soft and
cool on the bare skin of his neck and he missed
her touch when she pulled away. 
She studied him a bit longer, then reached out
and stroked his face. Both of them were astonished
when his eyes filled with tears, but Scully recovered
quickly and wiped them away with a tissue. "Can
you tell me about it, Sir?" she asked softly, her hand
now snugged inside his own. 
He looked up at her face, so beautiful and so
concerned -- for him. Her partner had been
shot and God knows what else, but she was here
with him, ready to hear his story. He wiped his
face with his other hand, unwilling to release her
for the moment. "I was in Viet Nam," he began,
and she nodded, and he knew it would be all
right. 
************************************* 
Friday
1800 hours 
"I hate CNN," Mulder whined. "And besides,
Sightings is on." 
"We are not watching some show about UFOs,
Mulder," Skinner growled, eyes fastened to the
TV overhead. He shook his head. This was
Scully's idea of getting him to rest? It had
been OK when Mulder was still sleeping a lot.
Yesterday it had been pretty good actually,
knowing there was someone in the room with
him. Knowing he wasn't alone. And last night.
That had been good too. Mulder had slept, the
painkillers he was on doing their thing to keep
him out. And Skinner had not slept, waking
frequently throughout the night. But it had
been comforting to know that there was someone
with him, someone he knew and cared about.
Someone who cared about him. 
But now? Now the man was a downright nuisance.
Whining about every little thing. He didn't like
the green jello. He didn't understand why they
made him use a bedpan -- definitely more information
than Skinner had needed to know. He didn't
understand why the IV couldn't come out. Skinner
had had it up to here with the man's complaints.
And apparently so had Scully because she had left
just after their dinner was served. Though she had
made some cryptic comment about the two of
them driving her nuts and deserving each other. 
Why she would say that was beyond him. He certainly
wasn't whining or being annoying. When he'd found
green jello on his plate, he'd simply pointed out, politely
but firmly, that no one over the age of five ate green jello,
and the nurse had brought him and Mulder both
a dish of red jello. Not so hard. And when they'd
tried to make him use a bedpan, he had politely but
firmly refused, and then refused to be cowed with their
threats of a catheter until finally, they had allowed him
to use the facilities on his own. All with no fuss, no muss.
Not at all like Mulder and his whining. God, the man
was irritating. He looked down at his own IV-free hand.
That one had been easy. When they wouldn't listen to
reason, he had simply shut the IV pump off and removed
the damn thing himself. No fuss, no muss. Oh, they'd
been a little miffed with him, but they'd gotten over
it. The important thing was he hadn't whined and made
people crazy over his own little discomforts. He was
more mature than that. 
He tried to focus on the news, but Mulder was making
these long-suffering little sounds now, and he began
to wonder where they'd put his weapon. He was seriously
contemplating getting out of bed and "checking" on the
man himself when Scully breezed back in. She had
two full bags in one hand and a drink tray in the other.
She stopped at his bed first, and he realized he was
salivating at the smell of the fresh coffee she carried.
How the hell had she gotten that past the Nazi nurses
on the floor? No matter. He reached out greedily,
almost burning himself in his haste, then forced himself
to slow. "Thank you, Agent Scully," he said politely,
and her eyes twinkled at him. 
"I thought you might need a cup of this. It's decaf,
but it tastes pretty good." 
Skinner took a long swallow and nodded. "It is.
Good, I mean." He nodded again, then sighed.
"Thank you. This is just what I needed." He
realized then he might have been a bit too
rough on Mulder. After all, the man had been shot.
And when Scully opened the bag and produced
a huge cinnamon pastry, he knew he was being
overly harsh. Skinner lifted the pastry and took
a bite, then sighed again. It wasn't Mulder's
fault he didn't have the people skills of an AD. 
"Thank you again, Scully," he said sincerely,
and she grinned. 
"I'm going to remember this. Coffee and danish
makes a grumpy AD into a cuddly bear. Could be
useful information to have." 
"Harumph!" Skinner replied as she moved over
to Mulder's bed. 
"Whadja bring me?" Mulder asked, with all the
tact of a four year old on Christmas Day. But
Scully only laughed at him. 
"Iced tea -- also decaf. But cold and fresh brewed.
And a great big greaseburger with all the trimmings.
She opened another bag and produced a burger
wrapped in paper. 
"Ah, Scully," Mulder sighed, "you know what I like." 
She giggled then, and Skinner realized he had never
heard Dana Scully giggle before. It was a nice sound.
He chanced a glance to the side and saw his two
agents staring -- no, *gazing* -- at one another. Oh,
shit. This could be trouble. As he watched, Mulder's
eyes slid closed and Scully leaned over the bed, her lips
resting first on his forehead, then his nose, then his lips. 
She pulled back and murmured to him, "I know you
hate being cooped up like this." She kissed him again
when he nodded. 
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'll try harder to get
along." 
Hmmm. Maybe this wasn't trouble after all. If any
two people were meant to be together it was these two.
And if a kiss could get Mulder to apologize *and*
vow to do better ... well, then, this could have
promise. 
He watched as Scully bent again to kiss her partner,
waiting for her to rise before he spoke. But she didn't
rise, and Mulder's hand came up and encircled her
neck, holding her to him, drinking her in. 
Skinner smiled to himself and took another sip of
the *wonderful* coffee Scully had brought, then
cleared his throat. He laughed when they pulled
apart guiltily, two pairs of worried eyes turning
to stare at him. 
"If you're going to do that all night, Agents, pull
the curtain." He smiled at them, a huge grin that
covered his face and removed all traces of the stern
and dour Assistant Director. "There are some things
a boss just doesn't need to know." 
End
Build Your Free Home PageVisit other great pages on:EntertainmentEntertainment