file:///C:/Muldertorture/newstories_12_18/2Nibbler2.txtTitle: Profiles in 
Caring: The Nibbler Case II 06/11 
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery 
Category: SAR - character exploration 
Spoilers: none
Keywords: MSR; 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 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/daydreamersden/ 
Summary: Seriously injured and with Scully in danger,
Mulder is forced to walk alone through the dark corridors 
of a killer's mind to find his hidden secrets.


Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 06/11


October 19, 1998
10:15 a.m. 
Mulder took his glasses off and set them on the table by
the bed. "I need a break," he admitted, stifling a yawn. 
Scully and Skinner both looked up in surprise at this 
unexpected declaration. 
"Don't look at me like that," he admonished. "Haven't
you two considered I may be getting sensible in my dotage?" 
Skinner snorted and Scully said, "Not hardly. Neither
dotage nor sensibility becomes you, Mulder." 
The man in the bed sighed, then scanned the room. His 
boards were still in place, still festooned with pictures of
the Nibbler's work. Technicolor photographs stared back
at him from every angle, seeming to almost bathe the room
in a soft red glow. He closed his eyes to the vision. "I'm
going to rest for an hour or so. You two were supposed to
check on Gresham and the other child. Why don't you
do that? Maybe we'll have something new to go on when
you get back." 
"Are you sure, Mulder?" Scully squeezed his hand in 
concern, then smiled as he tightened his grip in response. 
"I'm sure." His eyes were locked on hers, falling into
fathomless blue, and he found himself wondering, not
for the first time, if he had to keep getting lost in other
people's heads, why more of them couldn't be as strong
and brave and determined and beautiful and *good* as
this particular one. He shook himself, ending a pleasant
but fruitless train of thought. "I'm sure," he repeated.
"Tell Gresham 'thanks' for me, if he's awake." 
She nodded once, patted his shoulder, then allowed
Skinner to take her hand and tug her to her feet. The
ankle was still tightly wrapped and she could almost
walk without a limp now, but getting up and down
was not quite as easy. And the stress she'd put on
it already, from the crime scene of -- God, was it just
last night? -- to the aborted autopsy, to following
Nathan's commands in the hope it would keep her
alive, was more than any doctor would have permitted
had she been doing as advised. 
She glanced back at the bed, still not willing to 
believe Mulder was actually resting without medication,
but his eyes were closed, and his chest rose in the
steady up and down motion she knew signified sleep
for him. Not the deep, restorative sleep of oblivion he 
could only attain with her next to him, but the lighter,
still restful sleep he reached when he was exhausted 
and had no choice but to rest. 
"Will he really rest?" Skinner whispered as they exited
the room. 
She shrugged. She'd learned long ago, with Mulder,
nothing was ever certain. And there was no point in
worrying over it, though she still did. She took a deep
breath, then deliberately changed the subject. "How is
Gresham?" 
"Alive," Skinner said shortly as they got into the elevator.
He pushed a button, then leaned against the wall. "He's 
not in great shape; won't ever do field work again. But 
they didn't expect him to survive at first." He shook his 
head in admiration as the doors chimed, then opened. 
"The kid's a fighter." 
A guard still stood outside the door to the young agent's
room, and he looked up at Skinner and Scully's approach.
"Assistant Director, Sir." He hastily dropped the paper
he had been reading. "I didn't expect you, Sir." He
inclined his head toward Scully. "Agent Scully. Nice
to see you up and around." 
"Relax, Ligotti," Skinner said. "I'm not here to take
names, though you might want to be a bit more vigilant.
Gresham and Scully *were* abducted from the main
law enforcement building in town." He studied the
man for a moment, watching as he flushed uncomfortably,
then nodded in agreement. 
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. It won't happen again." 
Skinner believed him. "How's Gresham?" 
The man looked at the door, then smiled. "Alive,
awake, and alert." He cast a triumphant look back
at the AD and Scully. "Not what the Nibbler had
planned, is it?" 
Skinner laughed. "No, I don't expect it was. Nice
to win one, isn't it?" 
"Yes, Sir!" Ligotti said enthusiastically. He pointed
at the closed door. "His parents are in there now. They
just got here about an hour ago." 
Skinner's face fell. This was the most unpleasant part
of his job -- having to explain to parents why their 
perfectly healthy child was no longer in that state. He
pulled himself erect, then looked down at his clothes.
Sweats. Not exactly the image he would choose to 
portray when he had this talk with distressed parents.
A small hand on his arm broke him from his reverie. 
"It's not going to matter, Walter," Scully said, ignoring
the look Ligotti gave them at her use of his given name.
"His parents are going to be so glad he's alive, the rest
won't matter." She pulled herself up, smoothing her
hair and straightening her own casual clothing. "I'm
glad they're here. I want them to know how brave their
son is." 
She pushed through the door and he had no choice but 
to follow. 
The man in the bed was pale. Paler than any living 
person should be. He was swathed in bandages from
the neck up, covering what Skinner knew to be a viciously
ripped throat and a missing ear. An IV pole stood on 
each side of the bed, and several bags hung from each.
Blood, and fluid, and antibiotics, and who knew what
else mystical medicine had prescribed. But the important
thing was, this one was alive. Score one for the good
guys. 
"Mr. Gresham? Mrs. Gresham?" He extended his hand
to the man seated on the left of the bed, watching as he
stood before accepting it. His hand was cool, but the
grip was firm, and the man was smiling as he shook.
"I'm Walter Skinner, Sir, Ma'am." He paused, suddenly
at a loss as to what to say. 
"Mr. Skinner is an Assistant Director for the FBI,
Mr. Gresham," Scully broke in smoothly. "Howard was
on special assignment, working for the AD when this
happened. She extended her own hand. "I'm Dana
Scully. Howard was protecting me." 
The figure on the bed stirred, and all eyes turned to
focus on the subject of their discussion. 
************************************** 
Oh, God. This couldn't be happening. Why couldn't
the Nibbler have just killed him? Wasn't it enough 
that he would never speak? Wasn't it enough that 
his hearing was compromised? Wasn't it enough
that he'd never be a field agent again? Did they have
to come and relate his cowardice, his fear, his weaknesses
to his parents? Did they have to make him relive it
all again? 
"... incredible bravery," Scully was saying, and he
shifted his gaze to stare at her. "He told me he had
a weak stomach. I'm a pathologist, and I had an
autopsy to do," she explained, and he groaned 
inwardly. So she was going to share with them
his aversion to blood and death. He closed his eyes
in shame. 
" ... refused to leave me. Even when I disobeyed
orders and told him he could wait outside." 
His eyes popped open again. What was she saying?
He looked at Skinner quickly, and he could see that
the AD was hearing this for the first time, a frown
on his face as he stared at Scully. 
"... nothing Howard could do. He was already there,
in the morgue, just waiting for me. Howard did exactly
what he should have, and I know that's the only reason
I am still alive." 
His eyes flew to Scully and he saw her smiling down at
him. She was standing next to his mom, and she was
smiling, too. Something warm and soft and comforting
touched him, and he realized Scully was holding his
hand. 
"Howard never faltered, never wavered. He was totally
focused on what was needed to keep us both alive. When
Nathan forced him to call the AD, I was stunned at how
self-possessed, how in control he sounded." 
Gresham shifted his gaze to the men on his other side. 
His father was nodding and smiling in pride, and the
AD was nodding, too, as if everything Agent Scully 
was saying was really true. He couldn't bear it. He'd
been terrified, sick to his stomach, barely able to
function. He didn't deserve the praise and admiration
of these people. 
He shook his head as vigorously as he could, then 
turned away in self-disgust. 
But the warmth on his hand was still constant, and
now there was a sound, right by his head. A voice,
speaking to him, and only to him, it seemed. 
"You know, Howard," she said in a conversational
tone, "I've really only worked with one other person
besides my partner in years. And I ended up getting
shot." 
Gresham grimaced. He'd heard that story. And the
follow-up. How Mulder had nearly killed the guy who'd
shot her, only letting the luckless agent live because 
Scully had survived. What was Mulder going to do to
him? 
"There really isn't anyone I trust except Mulder."
She looked up and smiled at his parents. "My
partner," she explained, "is incredibly smart, brilliant
really, and he usually works on special projects. He
has an ability to find killers like this Nathan, but it
exacts a tremendous toll on him." She looked back
at the man in the bed. "That's why he's not here
now, to thank you himself." 
Gresham couldn't believe it. How could she keep saying
things like this? How could she keep going on about
his bravery and loyalty, and her thanks? Even implying
*Mulder* would be grateful to him? Why didn't they
all just leave him alone? He risked another look at her,
but she was still talking to his folks. 
"Mulder is a psychologist, and a damned good one, too.
He once told me," she looked at Gresham, catching his
gaze and holding it, "that the hardest thing one can do
as an agent is to see how you function in a life or death
situation. We're so caught inside our own heads, we
can't see that while we may be quaking on the inside,
we're doing everything right on the outside." She smiled
and he felt her hand tighten around his own. Waves
of auburn softness slipped from behind her ear, falling
forward to make a curtain that seemed to shield them
from the others in the room. "I don't know what you
were thinking, or even feeling inside that day, Howard,
but I do know one thing: I would not be alive if you
hadn't been there. There aren't enough words to say
thank you." 
She leaned over and placed a soft, sweet kiss on his 
lips, and in that moment, at that exact second in time, 
he knew that it was all true. It didn't matter that he'd
been sick to his stomach over the dead bodies, or that
his voice had cracked and his throat gone dry. It didn't
matter that he'd trembled in his shoes and his hands
had shook and his knees gone weak. It didn't even 
matter that he'd wet himself, there at the end. What
was important was that when it mattered, when he had
to act, he'd done so. And he was alive because of that. 
He looked up into a pair of beautiful blue eyes, cursing
Mulder for his luck, cursing himself for being ten years 
too young. He smiled back at the woman who still hovered
over his bed. 
She was alive because of him. That was what mattered. 
****************************************** 
October 20, 1998
10:10 a.m. 
"Child molestation." Mulder looked at the fax from
the Army again and shook his head in disgust. "They
suspected Nathan had molested two little girls, but
couldn't prove it, so they used it as an excuse to 
discharge him. With no warning to anyone." 
"If there wasn't a case, there was no justification for
warnings, Mulder," Skinner said. "You know that." 
"I know." Mulder studied the paper, then tucked it
in the file. "But still ..." 
"It's not fair, I know, Mulder. Doesn't seem right 
that someone like Nathan should have rights, too,
does it?" 
"Aw, shit! This is pointless." Mulder dragged a 
hand across his face. "I'm not getting anywhere. 
I *need* something else!" He tossed the file across 
the room, watching as papers and photos created a 
small snowdrift where they landed. 
"It's not pointless. Every day there is no action from
Nathan, is one more day for you to heal." Skinner
was picking up the papers as he spoke. "You're not
functioning at your peak. You can't expect yourself
to work miracles." He slid the last picture in the 
manila folder and closed it, then rose and placed it
on the table. "You're stronger. You're able to stay
awake longer. You're tolerating semi-solids. You're
belly is healing. This is progress, Mulder." 
"It's not enough. He's out there, God only knows where,
and I can't *see* him. It's like I've lost the ability 
to -- to -- *feel.*" He looked up helplessly. "I hate
it. I hate what I can do. But I still feel like someone
amputated a limb right now. I feel like something's 
missing!" 
"What's missing?" Scully swept through the room,
a slip of paper held high. "What did I miss?" She
glanced around, noted the tension in the two men, then
sighed. "Whatever. Look, I got permission for you to
talk to the other child, Mulder. She's still here, and
the next of kin have agreed." 
Skinner nodded his head in relief. At last. New
information that wasn't going to come in the form of
a dead body. Maybe they could get somewhere from
this. 
"When?" Mulder demanded, sitting up in the bed. 
"When?" 
"Shhh," Scully soothed. "This afternoon. *If* you 
rest." 
He snorted. "That's all I've *been* doing -- resting.
I'm certainly not finding a killer." 
"Ease up on yourself, Mulder," Skinner said softly. 
"I'm not going to watch you tear yourself apart over
this." He walked to the window and stared out. "You're
not responsible for this maniac." He blew out, a soft,
hissing sound that almost covered his next words. 
"And neither am I." 
******************************************** 
October 20, 1998
1:15 p.m. 
"She's five years old, Agent Mulder. Apparently very
bright and outgoing before ..." The woman waved her
hands helplessly. "... all this. She hasn't spoken since
she got here." 
Mulder stared into the playroom through the observation
window. It had been set up as he requested: paper and
crayons, paints, a large doll house and a family of dolls,
as well as building blocks, a tape recorder and some
children's tapes, and a rocking chair. He didn't know
what would have been familiar to this child he didn't
know, but somehow, he needed to make a safe place for
her, so she would begin to talk. He needed to know
what had happened. Somehow, he was convinced there
was a clue in what had happened at the deputy's house.
Something he was missing. 
He turned to face the young woman next to him. She 
was slightly built, with dark hair and dark eyes and 
would have been striking if not for the large birth
mark that marred on side of her face. "Did you tell 
her I was coming?" 
She nodded. "Of course. But she didn't react." 
"And there isn't *anyone* here she's made a connection
with?" 
"No." The woman shook her head sadly. "It's like there's
no one home." 
Mulder nodded, then looked at Scully and Skinner, 
squeezed into the observation room with them. "You're
ready?" 
Skinner spoke. "The cameras are set up. We'll record
from three different angles and I've got an audio feed, too."
He ran a hand up and picked at the edge of the bandage
that covered his head. It itched. "Is this really necessary?" 
Mulder shrugged. "I may be so focused on the child -- she
may need me -- I may not be able to catch everything she
says or does." He reached out and took Scully's hand, 
then pulled her down until her face was even with his 
in the wheelchair. He kissed her quickly. "You'll stay?" 
"Of course," she whispered. "You watch the child. I'll
be watching you." 
"My guardian angel ..." He let her go, then indicated he
was ready. 
When he wheeled into the room, the child looked up once,
took him in, and the wheelchair, then dropped her gaze.
This had been a gamble -- letting her know he was injured.
It could go either way. It could make her feel more 
comfortable, knowing others were hurt. Or it could 
scare her, reaffirming that adults in her world, the 
people who should keep her safe, were just as vulnerable
as she was. 
"Hannah," he said softly, and she twitched slightly. A 
good sign. She was hearing him, even if she didn't
respond. "Dr. Sterben told you I was coming, didn't
she?" No response. "I'm a doctor, too," he went
on. "A different kind of doctor. I talk to people 
about how they feel." No response, or was there?
She might have turned her head slightly at his last
remark. "My name is Fox." 
That had her attention. She looked up again, staring
in open disbelief, then quickly dropped her gaze when
she realized what she'd done. He smiled. The name
always got them. "It really is, Hannah." He smiled.
"My name is Fox." He held out the stuffed toy he'd
asked for. "Like this. See? He's a fox and I'm a Fox." 
She was small for her age, with blonde hair that fell
in loose waves to her shoulders. Someone, probably
a nurse with children of her own, had provided a 
bright blue scrunchie and pulled the soft hair up in
a pony-tail, keeping it from the child's face. Tendrils
had escaped and framed the round face with wisps
of silken gold. Right now, she was staring at the 
stuffed animal from beneath her eyelids, blue eyes
just visible. 
"Go ahead. You can have it. I brought it for you."
He pushed the toy closer. "I thought you might like
him." 
She watched him closely, head still down, eyes mere
slits, and his arm began to tire from holding the animal
extended. At last, when he was ready to withdraw
it, she reached out and took it. She was responding. 
"He's soft, isn't he, Hannah?" Mulder kept his voice
quiet, barely above a whisper. He'd hated working 
with children when he was in school. They were so
vulnerable, so easily manipulated, but he'd always 
been good at it. 
"Red," the child whispered, and Mulder froze. She
was speaking. He didn't know what she was referring
to, but he took the safe path. 
"Yes, he is red, isn't he? Most foxes are red." 
She looked up at him. "You're not red." Her
words were still whispered and there was a trace
of a baby lisp, a softening of the 'r's in her speech.
He wondered if it had always been there, or if this
was a sign of regression. Not that regression would
be unusual in a situation like this. 
"No," he agreed. "I'm not red." He studied her
carefully. She was stroking the stuffed fox, her
attention seemingly on the toy, but he could see
she was returning his scrutiny. "Do you know who
I am?" It was a guess, but worth a try. 
She nodded. 
"How do you know me?" 
"P'lice," she whispered, and he knew then she remembered
it all. 
"That's right, Hannah. I'm a policeman. I came to 
get you. Do you remember?" 
She nodded once. "You. And the big man." She nodded
again. "Like Daddy." 
"Like your daddy, yes." He was quiet, waiting to see if 
she would speak again. When she didn't, he did. 
"Hannah, I'd like to talk to you about what happened." 
End part 06/11 
Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 07/11


"Can you tell me what happened when the bad man
came, Hannah?" 
The child's eyes grew wide with fear and she dropped
her head. Both arms wrapped about herself, the fox
pressed tight to her belly, and she began to rock.
"No, no, no, no, no ..." she chanted softly. 
Mulder reached out a hand, stopping himself before
he touched her. Everything else in her life had been
ripped away; he wasn't going to invade her personal
space without permission. "It's OK, Hannah, shhhhh.
We don't have to talk about it right now." He glanced
around the room quickly, then said, "How 'bout
if we color for a while? Do you like to color?" 
The rocking stopped, but the child didn't react. 
"I'd like to color, even if you aren't in the mood,"
Mulder said. "But there's one problem." He made 
his voice sad and disappointed, then waited for the
quick look the child shot him. "The table is all
the way over there," he waved across the room 
as he spoke, "and I'm over here. I could use a
big strong person to help me get over there." 
Hannah studied the wheelchair, then the table. 
"I'm strong," she whispered. 
"I know you are. You were very strong when 
the bad man came. And you're brave, too," Mulder 
responded. "Do you think you could help me
get to the table?" 
Hannah nodded and rose, looking carefully around
the room before she moved behind the wheelchair.
Grasping the handles in both hands, she pushed and
the chair began to roll forward. 
Behind the glass of the observation mirror, Dr. Sterben
was watching in stunned amazement. "I can't believe
it! She hasn't spoken or interacted in any way since 
she got here. This is incredible!" 
Scully smiled softly. "I told you he could do it. He's
got a way with kids." They watched as the chair 
rolled to the table and stopped. 
"Thanks," Mulder said. "Can you give me the crayons?"
He pointed at the box on the other side of the table as 
he placed a large piece of newsprint before them. 
Hannah moved around the table, grabbed the crayons
and handed them to him, then took her place at his side,
watching as he began to draw. He started with a figure 
and as he worked, the image of a small girl began to
appear. 
"This is my sister," Mulder said. "Her name is Sam." 
"Sam's a boy's name." Hannah was watching as he colored
long brown hair on the figure. 
"It's short for Samantha." Mulder finished the drawing 
then handed the crayon to Hannah. "Can you draw your
sister?" 
Hannah nodded seriously, then took the crayon and
drew. She topped her sister's head with blonde hair
drawn like corkscrews. 
"Is her hair curly?" 
Hannah nodded. 
"What's her name?" 
"Livvie." She paused, then looked up at Mulder. "That's
short for Olivia." 
"Ah ..." Mulder took another crayon from the box, a black
one, and he began to color over the picture he had drawn.
"When Sam was eight, she disappeared. She just went 
away." The legs on the figure were covered in black, and
he continued working his way up to the torso. "We were
home alone -- I was babysitting -- and Sam just -- went
away." He was careful to keep his eyes on the paper
as he worked, not looking at Hannah. He tried to keep 
his voice quiet, matter of fact. The drawing on the paper
was a black box now, with only a head still visible. 
"What happened?" Hannah asked in a breathless voice. 
Mulder shrugged. "I don't know." He increased the 
speed of the crayon, pressing down hard and making 
large slashing lines across the drawing's face. "But
I was really mad at Samantha. I was really, really
mad." 
Hannah nodded as if this made perfect sense, then
took a red crayon from the box. She followed Mulder's
lead and began to obliterate the drawing of Olivia.
Large, angry red marks appeared, one over the other.
The child worked faster and faster and the paper 
moved and then tore. 
"Wow," Mulder said. "You must really be angry at
Olivia." 
"She's all red!" Hannah said in the first loud voice
he'd heard from her. "Red, red, red!" 
"Why is she red?" he asked, knowing he was getting
into dangerous territory, and hoping he wouldn't do
or say anything that would further damage this child. 
"The witch man made her red!" Hannah picked up the
paper and began to rip it, tearing it into large pieces,
and then smaller and smaller ones. "And now she's
gone! Gone, gone, gone!" Tears had begun to stream
down the child's face, and she threw the papers
as hard as she could. "They're all gone!" 
"Your mom and dad? They're gone, too?" Mulder was
testing the water, trying to see what the child had
processed. 
"The witch man killeded them. He made them all red."
The child was sobbing now, her face wet and her nose
running. 
Mulder held out his arms. "Hannah, can I hold you?"
he asked softly, then winced when the small body
slammed into him as she crawled into his lap and 
buried her head in his shoulder. He held her tightly,
rubbing her back and stroking her hair and murmuring
soft nonsense into her ears as she cried herself out. 
"How does he know how to make her talk? I've tried
everything he just did, and I got nowhere!" The young
doctor was watching in admiration and frustration as
Mulder continued to soothe the child. 
"Did you lose a sister?" Skinner asked quietly. When 
the doctor shook her head, he went on. "Mulder gave 
her something she could relate to, and he let her be
angry." 
"I was expecting her to be sad," Dr. Sterben said. 
"Angry at the man that did this, yes, but not angry
at her family." She looked up at the AD. "Is the 
story about his sister real?" 
"Yeah," Skinner said sadly. "All too real." He
looked at the window again, watching as the child
sighed and snuggled into Mulder's lap. 
"I think I'm s'posed to tell you," she whispered into 
his shoulder. 
"Tell me? Tell me what, sweetie?" Mulder asked. 
" 'bout the stories." 
"Stories?" 
"The fairy stories. The witch man said." 
"Fairy tales?" 
Hannah nodded. "Little Red Ri-ing Hood. The wolf 
ate the grandma. And he tried to eat her, too." She
sighed softly. "All red." 
"Were there any other stories?" Mulder was searching
his mind for connections between Nathan and fairy
tales. 
"Hansel and Gretel. Where the witch ate the kids." 
She shifted in his lap and looked up at him with big, 
round eyes. "I think he was a witch -- a man witch." 
"I think you're right." 
"He said he was going to eat me, just like Hansel and
Gretel." Her eyes filled again. "He -- he -- he -- *did*
Olivia. He bit her. He bit her and bit her and bit her.
And then she was all red and she --" The child spread
her arms in bewilderment. "She came apart." Tears 
fell again and she snuffled. "You're not supposed to 
bite." 
"No," Mulder said softly as he hugged the child. "No,
you're not supposed to bite." 
"When I was little, I bit Livvie and I got punished."
She was silent for a while. "I was just little and didn't
know better. But I know you're not supposed to bite." 
Mulder nodded, his cheek against the child's soft
hair. He cuddled the little girl a bit longer, then 
asked, "Did the witch man tell you anything else?" 
"Just to tell the fox the stories. He said you would 
know the stories." She sniffed again, wiping her 
nose against his shirt. "I didn't know he meant a 
*person* named Fox." She gave a little giggle. "Is 
that really, really your name?" 
"Yep," Mulder said, smiling down at the little girl.
His heart was racing. He needed time to think. There
was something here, something in what the child said
that was nagging at the back of his mind. He needed 
to get back to his room, to review the files. He *had* 
to find something that would lead him to Nathan. 
He looked down at the child in his arms. 
He needed to do a lot of things. But right now, this
little girl needed *him.* 
************************************** 
October 20, 1998
2:05 p.m. 
"How long are we supposed to let him sit there?"
the psychologist asked. It was cramped in the
observation room, and hot. 
"As long as he needs," Skinner said shortly. 
"But he can't possibly be getting anything from
Hannah. She's asleep!" The doctor peered through
the window again. "Hell, I think he may be asleep,
too." 
"He's not asleep," Scully said. "He's working." 
"Working?" The doctor stared again. The man in
the wheelchair was unmoving. Had been unmoving
for some time now. After her initial outburst, after
the storm of tears and the confession of anger at her
sister and the story that Nathan had planted in her
mind, after all of this, Hannah had simply curled up
in Mulder's lap, tucked into his shoulder, and fallen
asleep. And he had closed his eyes as well, one arm
wrapped around the little girl, the other dangling by 
his side. And he had not moved. "How can you tell
he's working? And on what?" The doctor was nothing
if not persistent. 
"It's how he works. He takes all the pieces and moves
them around in his head. That's what he's doing now."
Scully glanced at her watch. "But he *has* been in
there for a while." 
All eyes turned toward the window. As if he
knew they were watching, Mulder lifted his head and
turned to stare at the window. His eyes were unfocused
and his lips moved silently. One hand still stroked 
the child's hair, but the other twitched almost
uncontrollably, dangling as if it were a separate
entity at the end of his arm. 
Scully and Skinner exchanged a look. "Time to get
him out of there," the AD said, and Scully nodded
grimly. 
"I hadn't realized he'd slipped so far away." 
"What? What?" The psychologist was looking from
the big man to the small woman, trying to follow this
strange conversation. "Slipped away where?" She 
pointed. "He's right there." 
Scully ignored the woman. She had the door open 
and was moving through it, Skinner following in her
wake. She opened the door to the playroom, and
walked across the floor to the wheelchair. 
"Mulder?" she whispered. "Can you hear me?"
There was no response and she glanced up at Skinner
quickly before repeating in a slightly louder tone,
"Mulder?" 
The child stirred, then moved on Mulder's lap, first
snuggling in, then sitting back in puzzlement when
the arm holding her slipped away. 
"C'mon, Hannah," Scully said quietly. "It's time for 
you to go." 
"He's sick," the child said, pointing at Mulder. 
"No," Scully said as reassuringly as she could. "He's
not sick, he's thinking." 
"The witch man hurt him." 
"How do you know that?" Skinner asked sharply, 
receiving an admonishing look from Scully and Dr. 
Sterben. 
The child looked up. "I 'member you. You throwed
the bed." She stared up at the AD with wide eyes,
then yawned sleepily. 
Scully chuckled. "Sorry I missed that," she said,
smiling at Skinner. 
"Don't be. It was right before the house exploded.
There wasn't a lot of time for subtlety." He studied 
Mulder. "Dr. Sterben, can you ...?" He nodded toward
Hannah. 
"What? Oh, yes, of course." She reached out and
lifted the child. "C'mon, Hannah, let's get you back
to your room." 
"Am I gonna see Fox again?" The child was staring 
back at them from over the young woman's shoulder. 
"I'll tell him you want to see him." Scully smiled 
at the retreating figures, then turned back to her 
partner. 
"Mulder!" she called more forcefully now that the 
child was out of the room. 
"Red," he mumbled. "Little Red Riding Hood and
the wolf." 
"What's he talking about?" Skinner had joined Scully,
squatting before the wheelchair. 
She shrugged. "He's working things out." She reached
out and stroked his arm, fingers tracing up and down,
playing with the fine hairs and stopping now and then 
to squeeze gently. "Mulder? Can you talk to me?"
She grasped his hand in both of hers, twining her 
fingers through his longer ones. "C'mon, Mulder, I 
need you to talk to me." 
He turned his head slowly, eyes focusing on her face,
and a small smile graced his lips. "Scully," he whimpered
and his voice was hoarse and cracked in the middle. 
"Oh, Mulder." She vaguely heard Skinner rise and move
away, but her attention was focused on the man in the
chair before her. He was leaning forward slightly, his
head drooping downward, and she lifted her own up
until their foreheads met. "You OK?" 
"Mmmm ... I think so." He lifted his head and pressed
a kiss to her forehead. "Did we get it on tape?" 
"Yeah. You got Hannah to talk. Dr. Sterben was 
impressed." 
"Not so hard. I think I caught everything, but I want
to review the session." He sat back in the chair and 
snorted, then winced. 
"Time for bed for you, partner," Scully said softly,
looking up to catch Skinner's attention. 
"The fairy tales are the key, Scully," Mulder said as
the AD pulled Scully to her feet and then grabbed the
handles of the chair and pushed. "I was going over
the names in my head. Can you get me a list of
characters in fairy tales?" 
The elevator chimed and Skinner pushed the chair in,
lifting the front wheels slightly to avoid jostling his
injured agent. 
"I'll get someone to run an internet search, Mulder,"
the AD said. "See what comes up." 
"The background stuff, Sir, uh, Walter?" Mulder cocked
his head back and looked up, an unsure smile on his
face. "Where are we on that?" 
"The files are here. I just haven't given them to you 
yet." Skinner smiled back. "You've had enough on 
your plate." 
"I need to look at them now. Please. Time is running
out." 
The elevator chimed again, and Skinner repeated the 
process of lifting the front of the chair over the ledge,
then wheeling Mulder down the hall. "I'll get the tapes,"
he said as he helped Mulder up and into the bed. 
The agent sighed with relief as he settled back into his
bed of pillows. "My glasses?" He held out his hand,
then slipped the lenses on his nose when Scully placed
them in his hand. "And the files?" The hand was out
again, waiting as Skinner went to his briefcase and 
dug out a manila folder, then carried it to the bed. 
"How do you feel, Mulder?" Scully asked. "How's the
pain?" 
"Still bearable." He was already reading, his eyes 
scanning the pages with an uncanny speed. 
She placed her hand over the next page, blocking his
view, then waited until he looked up. "How. Do.
You. Feel. Mulder?" she repeated slowly. 
He stared at the hand for a moment, then twitched
with impatience. As he started to answer, she warned
him, "Don't blow me off. Think carefully about what
you say." 
Mulder drew a deep breath, lifted a hand and removed
the glasses, then scrubbed his face. "I'm tired, Scully,
and my insides hurt. I'm angry and frustrated, and I'm
a little bit scared." He looked up at her, then took her
hand and placed it over his chest. "My heart hurts.
I think of Hannah, what she's lost. Of Olivia, how
it must have been for her. I think of the deputy and his
wife and Gresham, and I ache inside." 
She could feel the steady pulse beneath her palm, 
feeling it increase in speed and intensity as he spoke. 
"And I think of you. God, Scully, what he could have
done to you. What he *will* do if he finds you before
I find him." His voice broke and he turned his head 
away, but he held her hand pressed tight to his chest.
"I couldn't go on if he -- hurt -- you." A ragged sob
escaped his lips. "I -- I -- just couldn't." 
"Shhhh, Mulder. No one's going to do anything to me."
She leaned over and with one hand turned his cheek 
back to face her. Tears hovered at the corners of
her eyes but she forced herself to smile. "I'll stay 
here, with you, from here on out, OK?" She looked
up at Skinner for affirmation. 
"Absolutely. No more field trips for either of you."
Skinner stood by the door, arms folded over his chest 
and a determined cast to his face. 
"Hear that, Mulder? You're stuck with me." She cupped
his cheek, her fingers tracing the bristly stubble that
marred his normally smooth skin. She reached out and 
brushed his lips with her own, watching as he closed 
his eyes and savored her touch. It was one of the many
things she adored about this man. They'd been lovers 
for months now, and he still acted as if each look, each 
touch, each kiss, was a gift beyond any expectation. 
His eyes opened and she could see he was amazed at
her constancy, her patience, her steadfast belief in him
and her desire to keep him safe at any cost. Agreeing
to stay here, with him, was little enough price to pay
to ease his mind in some small way. Her fingers
stroked his cheek again, then brushed the hair back 
from his head. 
"Yep," she said softly. "You're stuck with me." 
End part 07/11 
Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 08/11 
October 22, 1998
9:15 a.m. 
"You're still not listening to me!" Mulder exploded.
"I need to get out and see some of these places. He
lived here when he was a small child. Something 
happened to him here -- *here* -- and I need to see
the town, the area, to find out what it was. I need
to talk to people, visit places, see things -- then,
maybe, I can begin to see what draws him here -- what
keeps him here." 
Skinner was a brick wall in front of the door. "And
I said 'no!' No more outings for you or Scully. You
both stay here where I can see you, where I know you're
safe. I'm not going to see you injured more, or again,
and I'm not going to risk Scully around this nutcase."
Skinner growled, a dangerous sound made low in his 
throat. "He's marked her, Mulder." He cast a quick 
glance at the bathroom door, knowing she could hear
their every word even though Mulder had waited for
her to excuse herself before starting this argument
again. "You know what that means. You're the one
who figured out he was marking them before he took 
them." 
"I know!" Mulder slammed a folder onto the table 
knocking the water pitcher over. There was a muted
crash as the plastic container hit the floor, then the
steady sound of water dripping onto cold tiles. 
Skinner growled again and crossed the room. "I'm 
getting a little tired of your temper tantrums, Mulder."
He bent and picked up the pitcher, then retrieved a
towel and threw it over the expanding puddle. A
handful of tissues was used to wipe the table and he 
spread the now-wet papers across the bottom of Mulder's
bed to dry. 
Mulder flushed uncomfortably and raised a hand to
swipe at his face. "Look, Walter," he began, raising
a hand to silence Scully as she came out of the small
bathroom, thunderclouds on her face. "I'm sorry. 
I'm frustrated and I'm being an ass. I know that. 
But I need to *do* something. I'm getting nowhere
just laying here." 
Skinner tossed the wet tissues into the wastebasket.
"We've been over this. Every day nothing happens
is one more day for you to heal." He swished the 
towel around with his foot, holding onto the rail
of Mulder's bed for balance. "Let's just be thankful
nothing ..." 
He paused and they all looked at the source of the
chirping sound that had interrupted the AD. His cell
phone was ringing. He crossed to the chair his jacket
hung from and dug it out of the pocket. "Skinner." 
The two agents were totally focused on Skinner as 
he listened in silence to the unknown speaker. So 
focused on Skinner was Scully, she didn't realize 
she had been moving toward Mulder until she bumped
the bed. The AD's phone had been silent for two days
now, and all of them knew it would not ring for good
news. 
"All right. We'll be there. I want extra protection at
the scene for my agents. This -- this -- *thing* has
already targeted them once; I won't let it happen again."
He closed the phone and closed his eyes for a moment,
letting his head drop slightly. When he looked up, 
Mulder was already sitting on the side of the bed, and
Scully was helping him dress. 
"Where?" he asked. 
"Day care center." 
Mulder drew a sharp breath and winced. 
"No kids. Owner. Happened early this morning,
when the man was opening up, waiting for staff
to arrive. That was who found him, one of the
workers." 
"Oh." Mulder was dressed now, and standing on
shaky legs. 
"You want a chair?" Skinner asked. 
"Say yes, Mulder. Save your strength." Scully had one
arm wrapped around her partner's waist, and he held
onto the bed rail. 
Mulder shrugged, as close to an affirmative as they
were likely to get, and Skinner dragged the chair
out from behind the door, unfolding it and positioning
it for his agent to sit in. 
"No checkout with the hospital?" he asked quietly
as they rode down in the elevator. 
"Admin knows what's going on. I explained you would
have to leave again if something happened." Scully 
studied her partner. "You're a lot better anyway. I 
was almost ready to spring you to a hotel room, but
I knew I had a better chance of making you rest if
you stayed in the hospital." 
"Ah, Scully, you're picking up my deceitful ways." 
"As long as I've been around you, Mulder, something
was bound to rub off." She let one hand drift out and
touched his hair fondly. 
"Hee, hee, hee," Mulder teased in a raspy voice. "She 
said 'rub.'" 
Skinner rolled his eyes, then gave up to laughter, 
joining Scully's chortles. When the elevator opened, 
all three were still chuckling, and the agent waiting
to escort them stared wide-eyed at them before speaking.
"Gilroy, Sir," he said as they pulled themselves together.
"I'm to take you to the scene." 
One last guffaw escaped Skinner, then he cleared his
throat and straightened. He was back in his normal
attire, and one hand rose self-consciously to tug at
his tie, even as he was pushing Mulder's chair out
of the elevator. Scully was trying to quiet her
giggles, and Mulder had to swallow hard to wipe the
grin from his face. It was good to let loose with 
friends, but now it was time to work. 
*************************************** 
October 22, 1998
10:15 a.m. 
"Leave it," Mulder said shortly, when Gilroy popped
the trunk to remove the wheelchair. "I'll be on my
feet from here on in." He did take the hand Skinner
offered and let the bigger man help pull him to his
feet. He stood a moment, gathering strength and
courage, and a not insignificant portion of inner 
fortitude, then walked slowly up the narrow concrete
walk to the front of the Mother Goose Day Care Center. 
"Little Red Riding Hood. Hansel and Gretel." He
stared up at the sign of the matronly woman holding
a white goose. "Mother Goose." A frown pulled the
corners of his mouth down, and he muttered, "I would
have seen this if I'd been out." 
"You weren't ready to be out," Skinner said, using his
best 'drop it if you know what's good for you, Mulder,'
voice. Despite the warning in his tone, and the force
behind his comment, the AD was still surprised when 
his most troublesome agent actually did drop it. 
"Scully?" Mulder said softly when he reached the front
door. 
"Yes?" 
He cleared his throat uncomfortably, then swayed slightly.
"Uh, would you mind ..." One hand rose and shoved his
hair back almost angrily. "Can you check it out first,
Scully?" 
"Are you all right?" She was at his side immediately,
concern etched in her face. 
"Yeah." He reached out and put one hand on a brick
column for support. "I just feel a little ..." He turned,
leaning against the bricks, and stared out at the street.
"God! I hate this!" he swore under his breath. "Look,"
he turned his head to look at his partner, "I just need
a few minutes. And," he hung his head as if embarrassed,
"I'd kinda like to know what I'm facing." One hand
hovered over his abdomen. "I don't relish the thought
of being sick with stitches in my belly." 
"Mulder." Scully ran one hand along his arm. "You 
don't have to explain, and you certainly don't have to
feel guilty." She looked up, meeting Skinner's eyes
briefly and saw him nod. "You stay here with Walter
for a few minutes, and I'll go see what we're getting
into." 
"Be --" 
She lifted a hand. "I know. Be careful. I will. And
we won't touch or move anything." She pointed to
a cement bench off to the side of the building. "Go 
sit for a bit. I'll be back shortly." 
As she moved into the building, Skinner touched Mulder's
arm lightly. "C'mon. Let's sit." He led the other man
across the grass and watched as he lowered himself to
sit. Mulder's eyes were dark and he could almost see 
the man pulling away, going somewhere deep inside
himself. Somewhere cold and black and unfathomable
to the rest of the world, but somewhere where that 
brilliant mind would catch a killer. 
"It's more than just the fairy tale connection," he
mumbled. "Something happened here." He looked
up. "Nathan is what? Thirty now?" Skinner could
see Mulder calculating in his head. "How long has
this place been here?" 
Skinner shrugged, but pulled his phone and made a
call. When he was finished, he nodded. "He could
have gone here, yes. It was opened in '71. And, yes,
same owner." 
Mulder's eyes were closed now, and he was nodding
as if this only affirmed something he had already known,
and for all Skinner knew, perhaps he had. Mulder's
leaps of intuition were more than the older man could
follow, or understand. 
When his agent didn't speak again, he followed suit
and waited patiently. It was Scully who broke the 
silence. 
"OK," she said as she approached, "it's bloody, but
you can still identify the body. The wounds were --"
she paused a moment as she sat and touched Mulder's
shoulder. When he looked at her, she finished. "Lower." 
"Genitals?" 
"Yeah." 
"He was molested." 
"The owner? I don't think so ..." Her voice trailed 
off as Mulder shook his head and rose to his feet. 
"Not the owner, Scully. The Nibbler. He went here
as a child, and he was molested by this man. Probably
as a sick form of punishment." He took a few steps
toward the building, then paused, looking up at the
sign. "For biting." 
"How ..." Now it was her turn to shake her head as 
she followed her partner across the lawn. Never mind
how he knew. She was willing to bet they'd turn up
someone who could corroborate the scenario Mulder
had just laid out. 
The day care center was a converted house and Mulder 
entered into what had once been a living room. It was
now a playroom, filled with small tables, and shelves 
covered with toys and books. A banner over the door
read "Fun Fours." A TV and VCR sat on a rolling 
cart in one corner, and one wall was adorned with 
metal hooks and small wooden cubbies to hold the 
children's things. All were bare today. 
He moved through the playroom to a small 
hallway. A dogleg to his left would take him 
into the kitchen. From where he stood, he could 
see the commercial refrigerator, and the shining 
aluminum island added in a renovation years ago. 
Directly ahead was another hallway that led to an 
addition. Down the narrow hallway toward the 
back, he passed two bathrooms, each with plumbing 
fixtures low to the ground for the children's use. 
The addition was another large playroom, bigger
than the one up front. One side of this room was
taken up with cots that would be brought out and 
spread through all the classrooms for nap time. A
door to his left led out to a play yard, and walking 
through the room to the right led into another, smaller,
classroom. A sign on the doors said, "Tiny Twos." 
Mulder scanned this room quickly, then made another
right and entered a room with three tables and a wall
of toys. A bulletin board held crayon drawings and
proudly proclaimed, "Busy Bee Threes." It was only a
few steps through this room to be back in the original
hall. A glance to his right and he could see the doorway
back to the "Fun Fours" room. To his left was yet 
another classroom. This one had no clever label;
the sign on the door simply read "Kindergarten."
There was a piano in this room, and instead of tables,
there were fifteen small desks, in three neat rows. 
Mulder stood, breathing hard. It was coming next.
The body. The blood. The chance to outsmart a killer.
He turned right and strode down the hall to the small
office on the left of the hallway, just before the four
year olds' room. Where the other rooms had been
a vivid explosion of primary and secondary colors,
bright blues and greens and yellows, this room was
monochromatic red. Blood streaked the walls and
covered the floor and was even spattered on the low-hung
ceiling. A naked man lay on the floor, his body
deformed by the chunks of flesh that had been pulled
from his bones. Mulder glanced at the groin area,
then shuddered. 
"There's another room here, somewhere," he whispered.
"Where this man takes the children who've been bad." 
"But he's just the owner, Mulder." Scully looked at
a piece of paper she had gotten from the local police.
"The employees said he doesn't work with the children
directly. Never has." 
"Doesn't matter. It's here." Mulder sighed, then took
gloves from his pocket and donned them. 
"He only comes in a few days a week to do paperwork;
pay bills, write out paychecks, collect tuition." Scully
was shaking her head. "He doesn't have access to the
children." 
"Yes, he does." Mulder reached out and touched the
dead man's hand, then shivered as if shocked. "Just
have them look for the room, Scully. This house has
been added on to at least twice; there's bound to be a
couple of places with space unaccounted for." 
He moved into the tiny room, backing himself into a
corner, then lowering himself to squat against the 
wall. "I want pictures of it all." One hand waved 
at the room in general, then a long finger began to
point. "Body, clothing, the major wound site, walls,
ceiling, everything." He dropped his hand and stared
at the desk the man lay in front of. "Cause of death?" 
"What you're expecting, I'm sure." Scully looked
up from the man she was instructing to look for a
hidden room. "Blood loss." 
"The penis is missing?" 
"Yeah. And the testicles." 
Mulder nodded. He remained where he was while more
pictures were taken, then rose stiffly and went to the
desk. "Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf ate the 
grandmother." He looked up at Scully. "Why do we
tell children that story?" 
"To, uh, remind them, uh ..." She stopped, unsure. "I
don't know, Mulder. To warn about strangers? To
teach them to be careful?" 
"To make them think someone will always show up
at the last minute and rescue them?" Mulder's voice
was bitter, and Scully wondered how many, many hours
Mulder had spent as a boy waiting for someone to 
rescue his sister. 
"Hansel and Gretel?" Mulder was back at the body now,
stroking the bits of skin that had not been ruined by
the Nibbler's fierce attack. His voice was soft and 
almost dreamy as he asked, "What's the moral of that 
one?" 
Scully shrugged. This was so bizarre. Mulder was 
kneeling in blood, practically caressing a dead body,
and he wanted to know what the meaning of a fairy
tale was. She would never get used to this man. 
"Don't run away from home? Don't take candy from
strangers?" 
"But they didn't really run away, did they? The woodsman
led his children into the forest because he couldn't care
for them anymore." 
"Wasn't there a mean step-mother in that one?" 
"Nathan's mother died when he was three. The dad 
remarried almost immediately." 
Scully cocked an eyebrow. "Wicked step-mom?" 
"Maybe." 
"Day care as a form of abandonment?" 
Mulder shrugged. "To a three year old, sure. Why not?" 
"So why didn't Nathan put the body in the oven? Isn't
that what Hansel did to the witch?" 
Mulder shrugged again. "The man's insane. Who can
understand what motivates him?" He rose carefully,
then turned in a slow circle, cataloging the room. 
"Fairy tales, Scully. What other fairy tales do you 
know?" He was still turning, a slow spin that made
her dizzy to watch. 
"Just the usual. Sleeping Beauty. Cinderella. Snow
White." 
"Interesting." 
"What?" She reached out and stopped his spin. 
"Your choices." Mulder moved forward until he was
in the doorway, then leaned against the jamb. "All 
young women who are callously taken advantage
of and yet, still emerge triumphant." He smiled at
her. "Want my professional eval on what that says
about you?" 
She smiled wryly. "Not really. I suppose I could have
said something about Pinocchio and his *nose,* but I
was feeling charitable." 
Mulder snorted. "What else is there?" 
"We've about run through my Disney video collection.
I suppose Aladdin and Robin Hood might be considered
fairy tales. Or the Arthur legends." 
"Robin Hood. The classic good triumphs over evil
story. But you left out Beauty and the Beast." 
She smiled and leaned over to kiss him gently. "I'm
living that one." 
Mulder leaned down and nuzzled her hair. "My beauty,"
he whispered, then straightening, he went on more
seriously. "What about fables? What can you remember?" 
"The boy who cried wolf." She placed a hand on her
hip and pursed her lips. "Sour grapes." 
He looked up. "Sour grapes?" 
"Yeah, you know. The fox wants ..." 
"Fox? A fox?" Mulder was alert now. She could see the
hairs on his arms rise as every nerve ending stood on
edge. 
"Mulder, I know you've heard this. The fox wants some
grapes and he tries and tries to get them but is never
successful. At last he gives up and says he didn't want
the grapes anyway; they were probably sour." 
"I made a point never to listen to stories about foxes.
I'm probably the only person in my generation who never
saw The Fox and the Hound and never read Fox in Socks."
He sighed. "What else, Scully?" 
"Uh, let me see. Stone soup and Chicken Little." 
He shook his head. "No. What else with foxes?" 
"Oh. Well, there's the fox in the henhouse." 
Mulder froze. "Oh God." 
"What? Mulder, what?" 
"Mulder! Scully!" Skinner's voice was loud, booming 
from the back of the house. "You were right, Mulder."
The AD appeared down the hallway by the small bathrooms.
"You ready to look?" 
"Yeah." Mulder went first, following the AD, and Scully
trailed them both. 
The room was small, tucked away behind a false wall in 
a storage closet. It had a single bare light in the ceiling 
fixture with a dim bulb. There was a large, over-stuffed 
chair on one wall, and a cot on the other. Not the 
child-size cots in the playroom of the center, but a full, 
adult-size camp cot, with a single cotton sheet thrown 
over it. 
But it was the walls that captured and held the attention.
Covered almost floor to ceiling, children's faces stared
at them from the photo montage that papered the room.
Children of different ages, different sexes, different races
with one thing in common. Sad, empty, hollow eyes
that stared at the camera with hopelessness and a complete
lack of childhood innocence. The fruits of this man's 
sins stared down at them. 
All except for one place. Where a picture had been, now
there was only a tiny patch of drywall visible. Mulder
went and studied the empty space. "Nathan." He lifted
his hand to touch the wall, then stopped, staring in 
something akin to shock at his hands. "Scully," he
whispered. "I'm all bloody." 
"Shhhh, Mulder, no." She rushed to his side. "They're
gloves, Mulder, gloves." She peeled the latex from his
fingers, then passed the dirty gloves to Skinner. "You're
fine." 
He was staring at his now-clean hands. "I thought --"
His voice trailed away as he turned again to study the
walls, this time staring at the pictures surrounding the
hole. 
"What did you think?" Scully kept one hand on Mulder's
arm, supporting him, grounding him, keeping him sane. 
"I thought I was the fox in the henhouse. I thought I 
had turned on the chickens." He looked down at her, his
eyes dark and sad, then he reached out and pulled another
picture from the wall. A small, dark-haired girl, her
face marred with a vivid birthmark. "But it's not me." 
He thrust the picture at her, then turned to look at 
Skinner. "Do you know what 'Sterben' means?" 
"Sterben? Dr. Sterben? The psychologist?" Skinner's
confusion showed on his face. "Why should it mean 
anything?" 
Scully turned the picture over and read the back. 
"Renee Lafley." She flipped the photo again. "She 
looks like she's about four." 
Mulder was nodding. "That's about right." 
"Mulder, you'll have to enlighten us." Skinner spoke 
softly, trying to hide his frustration. 
"Sterben is German, Sir. It's a form of the word 'nibble.'"
He swallowed hard, then looked away. "It can also mean
'to die.'" 
"You're saying Dr. Sterben is part of this? She's
involved?" 
Mulder was nodding as he studied the other pictures.
He reached out again, pulling down another photo. 
"Olivia Holsteen." 
"Oh, God!" Scully was shaking her head, backing out
of the room. "Hannah Holsteen is with her." 
End part 08/11


Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 09/11 
October 22, 1998
11:30 a.m. 
"Dr. Sterben took Hannah out of the hospital." Skinner
put the cell phone back in his pocket. "The nurse on
duty didn't think anything of it, and they don't know 
where she's gone." 
"She's gone somewhere safe." Mulder said. "Somewhere
*she* feels safe. Probably her home." 
"Would she do that? Just go home?" Scully opened the
car door, waiting till Mulder was in, then trotted around
to the other side and joined him in the back. 
"Why not?" Mulder leaned his head back and closed his
eyes. He was quiet for a moment, and Skinner and Scully
waited. When he opened his eyes, he said, "She doesn't
realize we know who she is, or what she's doing. Yeah,
she would still feel safe at home." 
"What *is* she doing, Mulder?" Skinner nodded at the
agent driving and the car pulled away from the curb. 
Through the rear window, he could see another sedan
pull out and follow. Their protection. As if anything
or anyone could protect them from the man they sought. 
"She's trying to redeem herself." Mulder lifted both
hands and scrubbed at his face. "She's trying to 
understand." He dropped his head, then leaned against
the window, eyes closed. Exhaustion etched his features,
and weariness caused his shoulders to slump. "But it
won't work. God knows, I've tried." 
"Mulder?" Scully spoke softly and her hand slipped
across the seat to seize and then cradle his larger one.
"What have you tried?" 
He sighed heavily then turned his head to look at her.
"Why do you think I became a psychologist?" 
"I -- I always assumed it was something that fit your
particular talents, something that interested you. I
mean, I know you joined the FBI to search for Samantha,
but ..." 
"Not really true, Scully. I didn't start looking for Sam
until I'd been in VCS for a while. After I had that case
with Edward Skur and Arthur Dales, after I realized 
there was more to the FBI than just criminal profiling,
after I went to Werber and underwent hypnosis, *then*
I started to see how I could work for the FBI and look
for Samantha. But back then, back when I was just 
leaving home, it was the furthest thing from my mind. 
"Oxford doesn't really have a psych department, per se, 
just the Department of Applied Social Studies and 
Social Research." He squeezed her hand slightly. 
"It was the social research part that interested me. 
What caused some families to grow stronger in the 
face of a crisis, while others collapsed?" 
"Oh, Mulder ..." Scully's voice was soft, and in her mind
she could see the sad, young boy, just sixteen, heading
off to college two years early and an ocean away, trying
to make sense of what had happened to all that was familiar
and comforting. Her heart was breaking. 
"The Department included a lot of different disciplines, 
from prison and probation, to social policy, to sociology
and psychology. The BA was an Honors Degree in 
Human Sciences, then an MSc." 
"MSc?" 
"Master's, Science. It's actually in Applied Social Studies
if you read the whole sheepskin thing." He pulled his hand
from hers and scratched at his nose. "I went on and did 
the doctoral studies in social policy and social work, with
an emphasis on social deprivation and disadvantage which
sorta led into law enforcement." 
"Why deprivation and disadvantage if your initial
interest was family structures?" 
"My focus changed. I realized that despite the chasm
in my own life, the terrible upheaval Sam's disappearance
caused, it was nothing compared to what some people
went through." He was nodding now, as if reaffirming
some long ago decision. "Deprivation and disadvantage
tends to lead to anti-social behavior, which generally
means law enforcement gets involved. I was interning
in a program working with convicts' children, trying to
prevent second generation recidivism, when I got involved
in an active investigation." He frowned at the memory,
and took her hand again. "I found I had an ability to
see things other people missed." He chuckled dryly, 
and without humor. "And I found I had a weak stomach.
I contaminated three different scenes before I managed 
to learn how to control it somewhat." 
"And from that you got into the FBI?" Skinner's 
question was quiet, and Mulder looked up in surprise.
He had almost forgotten he and Scully weren't alone. 
"Not really. I'd been in England for years, and I
had friends." A flush darkened his cheeks and he
cast a furtive glance at his partner. "I even had a
girlfriend -- a first for me. I was going to stay." 
Scully suppressed a smile. Mulder found the oddest
things to be embarrassed about. "So what changed
your mind?" 
"Guilt," Mulder said shortly. "My dad convinced
me my mom wouldn't survive any longer with me so
far away. And I bowed to parental pressure and came 
back to the US. When I got here, I found I had been 
*recruited* by the Bureau." He shrugged. "I have no 
idea what strings he pulled or what favors he collected 
on, but it was an incredible feat, and I didn't have the 
energy to fight him. Besides, the whole Propps case 
was happening, and it caught my interest. So I went 
to work, and I stayed." 
"The Bureau's good fortune," Skinner said. 
Mulder lifted an eyebrow. "Really? Can I quote
you on that next time you have me on the carpet
for a lost phone or wrecked car?" 
"I said the *Bureau's* good fortune, not necessarily
mine," Skinner said gruffly. But there was a twinkle
in his eye and the slightest hint of a smile on his lips,
and Mulder nodded, satisfied. 
"Anyway," he went on, "I digress. I was just pointing 
out that psychology isn't going to necessarily let you
cure what ails you. It just doesn't work that way.
Renee Lafley, or Dr. Sterben, whatever she wants to 
call herself, isn't going to calm her demons by trying
to help others. She needs to deal with her own issues
first." 
"And you think that's what she's doing?" Skinner
was still twisted in the seat, the seat belt taut across
his chest as he tried to meet Mulder's eyes. 
"I think she's damaged. She was one of the victims
years ago. I suspect she's trying to protect, or help
other victims." 
"So why didn't she just turn him in?" The anger
in Scully's voice was almost overwhelming. "Why
not just go for the root cause, cut it out, then clean
up the mess?" 
Mulder shrugged. "She's still locked in the circle
of victim. Remember Karin Matthews? She was 
doing the same thing in a way. She was creating 
victims where they didn't exist. Sterben is trying 
to help victims without ending the victimization -- 
avoiding her own problems in the process, a 
self-defeating task at best." 
"All right, Mulder," Skinner said. "As interesting
as the whys are, the main thing is -- where is she?
Where is the child? And where is Nathan?" 
"She's at home. Hannah is with her, and Nathan is
wherever she's been hiding him." 
"She's hiding him?" Scully voice rose an octave
in disbelief. "Why on earth is she hiding him?" 
"She thinks she can save him. She probably knew
him as a child. They may have even been abused
at the same time, which is why she relates to him." 
"But -- what he's doing. Surely she can't want that
to go on?" 
"No. But she doesn't want Nathan punished either.
She feels he's already been punished enough." Mulder
sighed again, and shifted in the seat. "She wants to
make him see the error of his ways." 
"Excuse me, Sir?" Their driver spoke up as he pulled
the car to the curb. "This is it." 
**************************************** 
October 22, 1998
12:20 p.m. 
"What are you going to do? Hold me at gunpoint?"
Mulder snorted and looked at the house where Dr.
Anna Sterben, formerly Renee Lafley lived. Men and
women in dark jackets emblazoned with FBI, State
Police, and the local county crest surrounded the 
building, glimpses of an arm, a head, or a leg just
visible through the bushes and around the trees that
concealed them. 
Mulder shook his head again at the Kevlar vest Skinner
was holding out. "She's not going to shoot me. She's
against violence." 
"And you are *not* going in there without a vest! End
of discussion. And I won't have to hold you at gunpoint, 
you ass, I'll just handcuff you and throw you in jail." 
Skinner's patience was at an end. He held the vest 
out a moment longer, then slammed it into the trunk.
"Fine! Get in the damn car!" Skinner looked up, 
searching for a familiar face. "Gilroy! Take this
idiot back to the hospital and ..." 
"Walter." Scully's voice was soft, and her touch on
his arm gentle. He stopped speaking, took a deep
breath and looked down into her concerned eyes.
"Did you ask Mulder *why* he doesn't want to wear
the vest?" 
"Scully ..." 
"Shut up, Mulder." She continued to look up into
the AD's face. "You two are a lot alike, you know?" 
Skinner was shaking his head. "It doesn't matter 
why he doesn't want to wear it. It's policy, and it's
common sense." Skinner tore his eyes away from
Scully to glare at Mulder. "And he's *not* going
in there without it!" 
Mulder snorted in disgust and turned his back on 
Skinner. "Forget it, Scully. He's not being reasonable." 
"And neither are you, Mulder!" Scully snapped. "Now ..."
She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, then looked
up, watching a jet move by overhead as she counted 
to ten. "Tell Walter why you won't wear the vest." 
"No." 
"Mul - der-r-r ..." 
"No." 
"Jesus!" Scully looked down, then muttered to herself.
"My nephews are easier to deal with." She looked up
at Skinner. "He doesn't want to wear the vest because
he's injured, not at his strongest, and it's heavy." 
"Scul - lee!" 
"What? Heavy?" Skinner was mentally kicking himself.
He should have realized. It was just that, with Mulder,
it was so easy to forget when the man was hurting, 
because he himself ignored it so well. And besides,
he hadn't protested wearing the vest back at the deputy's
house. Skinner said as much. 
Mulder remained silent. 
"I suspect," Scully said, with a wry look at her 
disgruntled partner and her confused boss, that my
being in the house had something to do with what 
Mulder was willing to go through." 
Skinner thought about it. It made sense. The man
would have walked barefoot on tacks to get into that
house and to find Scully. And he had been barely
able to stand, relying on Skinner to support him as 
they'd moved through the house to the beat of the
metronome. There was no such motivation here,
and Mulder wasn't going to allow anyone to support
him if he didn't absolutely have to. Stubborn 
bastard. "Shit, Mulder, I'm sorry." Skinner was 
staring at the ground. 
"She's not violent," Mulder said. "She won't hurt
me. I know it." 
"I'm sure you think you do," Skinner said, his voice
low and understanding. "But I can't take that risk."
He nodded, dismissing Gilroy, then opened the car
door again. "Sit, Mulder. Wait here. I'll go in
and we'll bring her out." 
"She'll talk better on her own territory." His eyes
were downcast, but he let Scully ease him into the 
car. 
"Then we'll secure the place and *then* you can
come in." He checked the clasps on his own vest,
then straightened. "Agent Scully," he said, and there
was no mistaking that it was the Assistant Director
speaking and not their friend, "you will remain here
with Agent Mulder, is that clear?" 
"Yes, Sir," she answered, the words tumbling out of
her mouth almost against her volition. How the hell
did Skinner manage to evoke that Pavlovian response? 
"Do I need to assign Agent Gilroy to wait with you?" 
"No, Sir." She looked at Mulder, slumped in the seat.
"We'll be fine." She raised her eyes to meet the AD's.
"And we'll stay here." 
"Fine. And you'll understand that the agents who 
will remain with you are here for your protection,
not restraint?" When she nodded, Skinner turned
and headed for the house. 
It was over quickly, and within minutes a man emerged
from the small house, carrying Hannah. Gilroy came
out next, and approached the car. "The AD says you
can come in now." The agent was slightly breathless,
and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. 
"What happened?" Mulder asked. 
"Nothing, really. You were right, Mulder. She was 
harmless. But after Skinner told her who we were, 
she opened a desk drawer and one of the deputies
panicked. It got tense for a few minutes, but I think
she was more afraid than we were." 
"She would be." Mulder was moving slowly up the 
stairs to the front door of the house. "She's confused.
Doesn't know what set of rules she wants to play by."
He entered the door, looked to his right to see Skinner
seated at a table, their suspect sitting beside him as 
they chatted companionably. "What was in the desk,
anyway?" he asked. 
"Yearbooks. Sorta like a paperback version of school
yearbooks. One for every year the day care has been 
open. Some of the pictures were circled." 
"Victims," Mulder said shortly, then he moved across
the room and joined Skinner and the woman at the
table. 
"Hello, Anna," he began, "or do you want to be called
Renee?" 
"It's not his fault!" The woman looked up and Mulder
could see the tear tracks on her cheeks. "You've got
to understand -- it's not his fault." 
"He was a victim, right, Anna?" 
The woman nodded. 
"Just like you." 
"No!" Her voice was strong and adamant. "Not me.
I'm not a victim!" 
Mulder cocked his head a moment, studying the woman.
"George was a victim," he began again, waiting for her
nod. "A victim like Renee?" Another nod, and Mulder
cast a quick glance at Skinner. The woman was more
damaged than he'd thought. 
"And you want to help the victims, right?" 
"I can help them! I know I can!" The woman drew a
deep, shuddery breath. "All my life, I knew that was 
what I would do. I would help the victims understand
it wasn't their fault. I would make them see they did
nothing wrong. For years I waited, holding on so that
one day I could get away." 
"And you did? You got away?" Mulder's eyes were
furrowed, a crease between his brows as he listened. 
She nodded. "I went to school. I studied. I learned 
it wasn't my fault. I decided I would make sure the 
others learned it wasn't their fault either." 
"Why didn't you just turn the bastard in?" Scully had
joined them, standing slightly to the side and behind 
Skinner. "I don't understand why you didn't just
turn him in." 
"Turn him in?" The young psychologist lifted horrified
eyes to stare at Scully. "Turn him in?" She shook her
head vigorously. "Oh, no. I couldn't turn him in." 
"Why not?" Skinner's voice was mildly curious, his
tone soft and even. 
"Why not?" The woman turned to look at Skinner,
then back at Mulder. "Why not?" she repeated.
"I couldn't turn him in. Not my own father." 
***************************************** 
October 22, 1998
2:00 p.m. 
"Let me talk to her alone for a while." Mulder looked
back at the table from the kitchen where he stood
with Skinner and Scully. Anna was sitting quietly,
sipping a cup of tea as she waited for them to return.
"We're not getting anywhere this way." 
Skinner was silent a moment, then nodded. "You see
if she'll tell you where Nathan is while Scully and I 
check on whether or not the man at the day care really
was her father." 
"He was." Mulder had obviously put that detail aside
as settled. "But you'll have to do the legwork on it
anyway; now's as good a time as any." He seemed
tense, preoccupied somehow, and Scully and Skinner
had both noticed. They exchanged a glance and the
the AD excused himself, walking rapidly out the
front to start the inquiries into Renee Lafley and
Anna Sterben. 
"Mulder," Scully asked, laying a hand on his arm, 
"are you OK with this?" 
He shook his head. "Not really. You know, I really
started out as a bleeding heart liberal, trying to save
the world. But working with people who had no 
conscience, had no soul, I rapidly switched my tune.
There are some people, like Anna out there," he jerked
a thumb over his shoulder, "who are confused, terribly
damaged, but salvageable. It'll be hard, and take a lot
of work with someone very good, but I think she can
be saved. But ..." Mulder shuddered slightly as he
spoke, "someone like Nathan is beyond repair. Something
broke in him at an early age, or maybe it was never
even there, and the only way the rest of the world will
ever be safe from him is if he is locked away forever." 
He placed his hand over Scully's and drew a deep breath.
"I think I was very close to that breaking point, back in
my teens. I don't know what happened, what made me
move in the direction I did, but it could have gone
either way for me. For a long time, I just didn't care
what happened to anyone." 
"I know what happened," Scully said softly. "What
happened is you have the most generous heart of anyone
I have ever known, and there was no way you were 
going to ever be or do things that would cause others
the kind of pain you experienced." She moved into
his arms, embracing him. "The kind of pain you 
still carry." 
He tipped his head down and brushed the top of
her head with his lips. "Not so much anymore,
Agent Scully. I've got someone to lean on now.
Someone who helps me keep my perspective."
His chin rested on her head, and her hands stroked
his back. 
"Just you remember that, Mister," she said lightly.
"And don't do anything foolish." 
"I'm only foolish for you, Scully," he whispered, 
leaning down to capture her with a kiss. 
When she could breathe again, she answered. "That's
what I'm afraid of, Mulder." 
*********************************** 
October 22, 1998
3:10 p.m. 
"All right. Thank you." Skinner closed the phone as
he watched Mulder walk through the living room and
out the door. He moved toward the agent that now
sat with Anna and nodded a question. 
"He just talked with her for a long time, then got up
and said he needed some air." The agent was on his
feet, suddenly worried he'd done something wrong. 
There was a standing order that Agent Mulder was not
to be left unaccompanied, but there were agents 
outside, and he had radioed to tell them the man was
coming out. 
"Did he seem OK?" Skinner was watching as Mulder
opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat,
settling back as if to rest. One of the agents standing
guard in the drive walked over and spoke to him, and 
Mulder smiled, said something, then leaned his head 
back and closed his eyes. The agent stood there a
moment, then walked the few yards back to the 
driveway. 
"I suppose." The man Skinner was talking to was
from the local office, and hadn't worked with Mulder
before. "I don't really know him, you know. He
seemed really tired, but satisfied, if that makes any
sense." 
"Like he'd gotten what he wanted, and was ready to
rest?" Skinner's senses were on alert. Mulder never
wanted to rest when he'd gotten an answer he'd been
seeking. He glanced around for Scully, but she wasn't
back from the late lunch run yet. 
He looked back out the window, opening his phone
to call her, even as he began moving toward the
door to go and talk to Mulder himself. 
But it was too late. He watched in horror as Mulder 
calmly closed the door, slid across the seat, and drove
away, leaving a half dozen of America's finest staring
with their jaws dropped open. 
Skinner broke into a trot, hit the grass outside with
a leap from the porch and was bellowing, "Follow
him! Follow him!" even as a voice came through 
the forgotten phone in his hand. 
"Walter! Walter!" The desperation in Scully's voice
was clear, even before he lifted the phone to his ear. 
Cars were peeling out of the driveway and away from
the curb, tires squealing, agents cursing. One sedan 
plowed into the mailbox in its haste to get onto the
street, and Skinner saw the passenger cuff the driver's
head, before the vehicle found its way to the street 
and took off after the others. 
"Get back, Scully," he growled into the phone. "Forget
lunch, forget food, forget it all." He paused a moment,
gathering the frayed threads of his temper. 
"What the hell happened back there, Walter?" Scully's
voice was a mix of frustration and fear and he answered
in kind. 
"Your idiot partner just ditched us." 
End part 09/11 
Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 10/11 
October 22, 1998
3:30 p.m. 
No sign of pursuit. He'd lost them. Mulder smiled
grimly as he made a left onto the road that led to the
lake. It wasn't really a triumph because both Scully
and Skinner were going to have his ass -- if he lived
through this. But there was no way he was going to
risk Scully around Nathan -- not now. Skinner was
right. He'd marked her. 
And while he had been able to talk to Anna Sterben, 
even reason with her, Nathan was another thing entirely.
He was quick, and clever, and whatever injuries he'd 
suffered in the fight and the fall from the cliff seemed
to be bothering him very little. He was mobile, and
had a safe place to retreat to, and he was completely
without morals or a conscience. There would be no
reasoning with this man. And even if they outnumbered
him, outflanked him, outthought him, the Nibbler was
perfectly capable of plucking Scully from their midst
and killing her, with no thought that he would die in
the process. In the mind of George Nathan, he had 
already been dead for a long, long time. 
No, Mulder shook his head again, it was too dangerous
for Scully to be in the same state with this man, let
alone involved in a manhunt. He could only hope
that Anna would keep her word and give Skinner the
message at the right time. 
He glanced at his watch. About fifteen more minutes 
to the lake house Nathan was staying at. He drove 
with one hand, the other checked the gun that lay on
the seat next to him. After the mad dash out of the
quiet residential neighborhood, he'd slipped into a
car wash, and waited patiently while the agents 
pursuing him cruised past. He'd used the wait time
to his advantage, checking the car for anything he
could use in the upcoming confrontation. He was 
fortunate that whoever's vehicle this was, it was an 
agent who believed in being prepared. There'd been 
a handgun and spare ammo in the trunk, as well as 
a rifle and a shotgun. He might be injured, but he 
wasn't going in unarmed. 
************************************ 
October 22, 1998
3:30 p.m. 
Skinner stood eerily still, his face suffused with rage.
He closed the phone with studied deliberation and laid
it on the table with exaggerated care. 
Around her, Scully could see the other agents moving
backwards, some unconscious self-preservation warning
kicking in, and she forced herself not to follow. Even 
these people, people who had never worked with the 
AD before, even they could see an explosion was imminent. 
Skinner clenched his fists, then turned slowly till his 
back was facing the room. The muscles in his arms
corded, drawing the linen of his shirt taut across his
biceps, and in the silence of the room, Scully heard
the tiny 'rip' that signaled a seam's surrender. Her
only thought was the seam had taken the right path;
surrender was the only option in the face of the 
elemental storm that was about to be unleashed. 
The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and goosebumps 
erupted on her arms. She was suddenly aware of a 
low sound, something deep and primal and seeming
to come from nowhere and everywhere all at the same 
time. It took her a minute to track, and when she
did, she realized Skinner was growling. Not the 
normal gruff tone he used to hide his emotions,
but an animalistic sound from deep in his throat
that resonated through the room. 
One of the younger agents swallowed audibly, then
bolted out the front door. Scully risked a glance
at the others. Each person in the room seemed
frozen, immobilized by the spectacle of the normally
taciturn Assistant Director as he struggled for 
control. Skinner drew a deep breath, his shoulders
rising upward as he pulled air in, his chest expanding, 
growing ever larger, until Scully began to fear for
the shirt's survival. More stitches gave and she
caught a glimpse of T-shirt visible through the
tear on the left side. 
But her observation of the shirt's demise was 
interrupted by a roar of rage, a deep, wordless
howl of anger that poured out of the AD's throat
like a cataract off the edge of a cliff. One arm
lifted and a huge fist slammed into the plaster
wall and Scully was sure she heard bones breaking.
She launched herself at the other arm that was rising,
wrapping her arms around his bicep and feeling
her feet come off the floor. "Walter! No!" she
screamed into the ear that was now at the level
of her lips. Looking back over her shoulder,
she cried, "Help me!" 
"No!" Skinner bellowed, and the agents who had
finally broken the spell of immobility froze again.
The massive arm went down, and Scully felt solid
ground beneath her feet once more. "Get them out
of here, Scully," Skinner said in a barely audible
voice. 
"Yes, Sir." She turned and spoke to the ranking
official, who in turn spoke to his people. In short
order, the room was clear. 
"All right," she said, her equilibrium restored by
the knowledge that Skinner hadn't gone completely
over the edge, "can you get it out of the wall yourself?" 
Skinner grunted and pulled, and his left hand emerged
in a bloody ball from the wall. 
"Is it broken?" she asked, knowing there was no point
in scolding. 
"I think so." Skinner's voice was back to normal, the 
rage replaced with sheepishness and a tinge of pain. 
"Hmmphf," she snorted. "I don't suppose you'll go
to the hospital and let someone trained to deal with
these things look at it?" 
A single shake of the head was her answer. 
"No, I knew that was too much to hope for." She 
sighed, then took his arm and tugged, leading him
to a chair. "Sit. I'll go get my bag. Don't destroy
anything else while I'm gone." 
Skinner nodded, then rested his head in the hand 
that was uninjured. 
When she returned, she quickly cleaned the wounds,
then taped the hand. Once finished she sat back and
looked at her work critically. "When we find him, 
you'll have to go to the hospital, too, and get this 
X-rayed and set properly." 
"I know." Skinner wiggled his fingers experimentally
and winced. "Stupid, stupid, stupid." 
"Well, you've got that much right." Scully closed the
bag with a 'snick' of the latch, then rose. "What the
hell brought that on?" 
"They lost him. Three fucking cars full of highly trained
agents, and they fucking *lost* him!" Skinner's face
was coloring again, and Scully reached out to touch
his arm. 
"No more walls," she warned. "And what did you expect?
This is Fox Mulder we're talking about. You thought he'd
just let them tag along?" She shook her head. "He's the
one that needs to be punched out." 
Skinner grunted. "Don't think I haven't considered it.
What the hell does he think he's doing?" 
Scully sighed again. "What he always does. Trying to 
protect the people he loves." She smiled fondly, even
as she spoke with irritation. "The idiot." 
******************************************** 
October 22, 1998
4:10 p.m. 
Mulder drove past for the third time in fifteen minutes. 
If he made too many more sweeps, he would surely
catch Nathan's attention. He studied the small lake
house as carefully as he could while driving slowly
past, then continued on for half a mile and pulled 
the car over. He climbed cautiously out of the
vehicle, then began to set himself up for the trek
back to the house. 
The unknown agent's extra Sig went into his belt,
beneath the jacket he wore. The speedloader and
extra ammo filled the jacket's left pocket. He
studied the rifle and shotgun for a moment, before
choosing the shotgun. He filled the other pocket
with shells, then cracked the gun open and loaded
it. He closed it with a theatrical, one-handed 
shake, smiling wryly at his own warped sense
of humor. Here he was, far from recovered
from his last run-in with this man, and yet,
he was amusing himself with bad takeoffs on
every Stallone and Schwarznegger film ever
made. Life was, indeed, strange. 
The late autumn afternoon was darkening. Clouds
obscured the sun and a cool breeze blew up off
the water. The area was deserted. The last of the
summer people were long gone, and the staid
year-rounders were at work and about their business, 
or tucked up safe in their snug homes, content
without the knowledge that a killer lurked in their
midst. 
Mulder stared up at the road back to the house.
He smiled again, nothing wry or amusing this
time, his teeth bared in a feral display that would
have made even the fiercest animal reconsider its
attack plans. He checked the gun at his waist once
more, hefted the shotgun into a position he could
carry and shoot from, and readied himself to confront
his quarry. 
A sound echoed softly in the stillness and he turned
to stare out over the uneasy water. Bits of sunlight, 
escaping through the gray clouds, struck the lake 
and sparkles skittered across its surface. Tiny 
ripples moved with ease and grace, erupting in the 
wake of fish and flowing outward in never-ending 
circles till they reached the shores. A speck of 
darkness in the sky caught his eye and he watched
as a winged killer dove at a ripple, disappeared
beneath the water and then emerged, its prey held
tight in its beak. 
The natural order of things. 
Survival of the fittest. 
Predator or prey. 
Kill or be killed. 
Mulder pulled back on the shotgun's pump, heard the
satisfying 'click' that signaled a round had entered the
chamber, and turned back to the road. 
It was time to go find Nathan. 
**************************************** 
October 22, 1998
4:30 p.m. 
"Excuse me?" Anna Sterben's voice was soft and hesitant
and she had to speak again to attract attention. "Agent
Parks?" 
The woman who was currently on watch turned and stared
down at the psychologist. Her face was a mask but her 
eyes betrayed her disgust with the young woman's actions.
"Yes?" she replied in a correctly civil tone. 
"I need to speak with the Assistant Director, please."
Anna kept her eyes down and avoided eye contact. In
the hour since Agent Mulder had made good his 'escape,'
she'd been subjected to many looks from most of the 
law enforcement officials who had taken over her house,
and none of them had been the least bit understanding.
But the worst of the lot were the Bureau people. Which,
she knew, only stood to reason, since Mulder was one
of theirs, and they were all concerned for his welfare.
Now she waited quietly for Agent Parks to bring the
Assistant Director so that she could pass on Mulder's
message. 
"The Assistant Director is busy, Dr. Sterben," Parks
stated in the perfect politically correct voice. 
"But I need to see him." Anna risked a look upward,
then dropped her head again at the anger and disgust
that blazed from the other woman's eyes. "It's important,"
she added quietly. 
Parks snorted lightly and turned her back on the 
woman who had concealed a killer. She gazed out 
at the street where Skinner paced back and forth, 
a phone plastered to his ear. "I'm sure you think so, 
Doctor, but the Assistant Director has more important 
things to do than soothe your conscience." She took a 
step away from the table, physically distancing herself 
from the woman seated there, and pointedly turned up 
the volume on her radio, her attention focused on the 
search activities that were being orchestrated from 
Anna Sterben's yard. 
"Please ..." Anna said, in a low, tense voice. 
"This is my chance to make amends. Please ..." 
Her pleas went unacknowledged. 
**************************************** 
October 22, 1998
4:30 p.m. 
Mulder looked through the window again and
noted that Nathan had not moved from his seat
before the TV. Pictures flickered across the screen
and the sound poured out as an indistinguishable
drone, barely audible through the window. As 
he watched, Nathan tossed a beer can at the trash can,
missed, gave a thoughtless shrug, and hooked another
can from the half-decimated six-pack at his feet. 
Mulder crouched in the bushes outside the small frame 
house and checked his watch. If Dr. Sterben could be 
trusted, she should be talking to Skinner -- alone --
right now, and he would be organizing backup.
Knowing Skinner, he would be in a car and on his
way immediately. The man was probably ready to 
kill him as it was. That alone should fuel his desire
to reach the lake house quickly. 
And Scully. Scully would be furious. First that he
had ditched her -- again. And secondly, that he had
successfully enlisted Skinner into a ditch of his own.
She was going to kill them both. But Scully tended
to have an insufficient sense of self-preservation in
his opinion, especially when it came to anything that
threatened him. It was one of the things they fought
about. She insisted it was her responsibility, her
obligation, her *job,* to always be there for him. 
And she berated herself heartlessly if anything happened
to him. As his partner, she took every bump and 
bruise he acquired as a personal affront to her ability 
to protect him. And sometimes it made her blind to 
the need to protect herself. 
Mulder shook his head. Of course, logical Scully always
argued that he did the same thing ... But, damn it! It
wasn't the same! This wasn't some run-of-the-mill
pervert or killer they were after. This was a specific
man, with a specific grudge, against a specific agent.
And Nathan's desire to hurt Mulder meant he was going
to go after Scully again, if he had the chance. At 
this point, unless Nathan was so far detached from
reality, and Mulder didn't think he was, the man would
have to know he wasn't going to survive this last 
confrontation. Sure knowledge of one's death tended 
to make one do things without thinking. Take chances
they normally wouldn't take. Attack and kill beautiful,
smart, and sexy redheads with no regard to the fact
they were signing their own death warrant. 
Mulder shuddered. It was a vision too horrible to 
contemplate. He'd been alone his whole life. Alone
and lonely and not even really aware of the lack in his
life. Focused. He'd stayed focused. Focused on school
Focused on the job. Focused on the hunt. It had kept 
him afloat, been his lifeline, but it hadn't kept him 
sane. He'd been sliding more and more into madness
when he worked in VCS. It had been easier and easier
to crawl into a killer's skull, and harder and harder to
crawl out. 
Then that weird case with Arthur Dales had come along,
and he'd found his way to Dr. Werber. Between the two,
it had changed the focus of his life. Changed his focus.
But nothing had gotten between him and his obsessions.
Not even Diana. Nothing, that is, until a certain young
doctor knocked on his basement door all those years ago.
She'd forced him to explain himself. Made him find the
reason in the obscurities he pursued. Insisted he back
up belief with fact, and in doing so, had restored his
credibility and his reputation in an organization that 
had been one step away from removing him permanently. 
And when the Bureau pulled him out of his pet projects,
and insisted he use his profiling skills, she kept him 
from sliding into the sewers so far that he drowned 
in the putrid reek of a killer's soulless mind. 
She gave him balance. 
She kept him sane. 
She made him whole. 
She was *not* going to be the Nibbler's venue for
retribution against the man that locked him away
all those years ago. 
Mulder rose slightly from his crouch and peered through
the window, then drew himself up completely. The TV
droned on happily, but the chair was empty. "Fuck!"
he breathed, and he whirled around, right into the 
barrel of a .38. 
"Language, language," the Nibbler laughed, and then
the world went black. 
***************************************** 
October 22, 1998
4:40 p.m 
"If the AD wants to talk to you, he'll be the one to 
ask." Parks turned and looked down at the woman,
her eyes as cold as if she were dissecting a bug. 
"Please, you don't understand," Anna said. "It isn't
about me." 
"No, it's not!" Parks snapped. "It's about all those 
children your father molested, and that monster out
there that bites people to death. It's about good men
like Gresham, who'll never be an agent again, and 
Deputy Holsteen who died while you did who knows
what with that bastard." She drew a breath angrily. 
"And now, *now,* it's about Agent Mulder, who's 
gone off to find that animal alone." She bent down 
close, her face almost touching the other woman's. 
"Went alone because of something you did. Something
you said. Maybe even something you *are.*" She
drew back and Anna thought she was going to spit on 
her. "You think about that while you sit here. And 
you *wait* for the AD to come to you!" 
***************************************** 
October 22, 1998
4:45 p.m. 
Mulder woke. One eye was swollen shut, and he could
feel dried blood on the side of his face and pooled in 
his ear. His left shoulder ached, the pain spreading 
down from the shoulder socket through the bicep and
down his forearm. It was pulled back at an awkward
angle and he wondered if it was dislocated. He drew
a breath, shuddering as his chest moved and the rib
cage rose. His whole abdomen was beyond consideration. 
He'd been stripped to his shorts and was tied to a 
chair. The rope securing him cut into his skin deeply
at ankles, knees, elbows, and across his chest. He had
some movement of his hands, the rope being tightest
around his chest and elbows. His hands were under
one loop of cord, and by twisting his body and pulling
hard, and through the bloody sacrifice of a layer of
skin, he was able to free them and even bring them 
together in his lap. But he couldn't reach any of the
knots and he had nothing with which to cut the rope.
He pulled at the bonds, testing them, and was not 
surprised when the rope didn't move. Blood dotted 
his body, his arms, chest, right thigh. Through the 
blood on his leg, he could see the human teeth marks 
and his stomach heaved. 
He scanned the room carefully. It was a bedroom.
The only furniture was a bed and chest of drawers
and the straight-backed kitchen chair he was tied
to. A single window looked out over the wooded
yard, and he could see the path that led to the dock.
The bird he had watched earlier, or another just 
like it, drifted across the lake in lazy circles, riding
the thermals as it watched the water. 
He shifted again, feeling the chair rock, and he caught
his breath as it threatened to tip over. A quick glance
at the closed door showed he was still alone, and he
breathed in relief. There was no telling where Nathan
was, or what he was doing. Mulder shifted again, and
the chair inched forward, an almost imperceptible 
movement that brought him fractions closer to the 
chest and caused an explosion of pain across his belly.
He bit down hard, teeth grinding against each other, 
and moved again, making slow but steady progress
toward the chest of drawers, and the wonders that 
could be concealed therein. 
**************************************** 
October 22, 1998
5:00 p.m. 
"I have to go to the bathroom." 
Agent Parks frowned, but nodded, and then rose,
indicating Anna could stand as well. She placed 
one hand on the doctor's arm and led her through
the living room and toward the hall where the bathroom
was. 
As they passed in front of the door, Anna gave
a mighty yank, ripped her arm free, and bounded
outside. She headed straight for Skinner, screaming,
"Please! I need to talk to you!" 
One of the deputies in the yard tackled her, and she
went down heavily. The air was knocked from her
lungs and she lay there, struggling to breathe. The 
man that had taken her down was big, at least eight
inches taller than her and twice her weight, and he
made no move to rise. She shoved at him ineffectually,
and he only grabbed her wrists and pinned her more
securely. 
The commotion had attracted Skinner's attention, and
he was striding across the yard now, Scully following
close behind. 
"Please," she wheezed, still gasping for air. "Please!"
She looked up at the big man who nodded at the deputy.
There was a movement and the mass of brown uniform
that had covered her rose and was gone. "I need to speak
with you." 
Agent Parks was there now, and looking daggers at
her, but Anna cast her from her thoughts. All that 
mattered was getting this man to listen to her. Away
from the redhead. That was what Agent Mulder had
said. Talk to Skinner away from Scully. 
"I'm sorry, Sir," Thelma Parks was saying. "She said
she had to go to the bathroom and she bolted when we
passed the door." The woman dropped her head. "I
should have been more alert." 
Anna looked up from where she lay, spread-eagled in
the grass, and tried again. "Mr. Skinner. I need to 
talk to you!" 
He looked at Parks who shrugged. "She's been going
on like this for about half an hour. Every five minutes." 
"And you didn't call me?" Skinner's voice was granite,
cold and hard and rough. 
Parks swallowed hard and for the first time, began to 
wonder if she'd made a serious error in judgment. "No,
Sir," she replied. "You were occupied with the search
for Agent Mulder and the killer. She," Parks glared at
Sterben, "wouldn't tell me what it was about." 
"It's important," Anna spoke, aware she was finally
being listened to. "I need to speak to you. Alone." 
"I'll talk to you later, Agent Parks." Skinner's eyes
were stone as he dismissed the woman and watched her
walk away. "All right," he said to Anna, "talk." 
Anna cast a look at Scully. "I can't. I'm supposed 
to talk to you alone. He said." 
"Who said?" Scully was suddenly even more alert.
"Mulder?" 
Anna nodded miserably. Not only had she failed at
relaying the man's message, when she'd finally gotten
to Skinner, Scully was there, too. "I was supposed to
speak to you," she nodded at Skinner, "alone. At
four thirty." 
Skinner looked at his watch. "Fuck!" 
Scully reached out and gripped the woman's arms, 
shaking her. "What did he say?" Skinner moved
and she skewered him with a look. "Don't even think
of it," she warned as she shook Anna again. "Where
is he?" 
Anna looked at Skinner who shrugged. "Dr. Sterben,
I'm not going to cross this woman now, and I suggest
you don't either. What did Agent Mulder tell you?" 
"He went out to my lake house to talk to George, and
he would like you to please come out, with 'backup,'
he said." 
"When?" 
"As soon as you got my message." 
Scully released the woman and started for a car. This
time it was Skinner who followed, phone to ear even 
as he bellowed instructions to the agents and deputies
in the yard. He yanked open the passenger door and
climbed in, one leg still on the ground as Scully pulled
away. 
One hand gripped the steering wheel as she drew
her weapon and checked the chamber. 
"I'm going to kill him myself." 
End part 10/11 
Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 11/11 
October 22, 1998
5:20 p.m. 
It was awkward. He could stand, in a sort of half-crouch,
with the chair tied to his back, but walking was out of
the question. Every move he made, every noise he 
heard, and his heart raced. Shifting the chair had taken
forever, but he was here, standing before the dresser
now, and he'd managed to inch the top drawer open.
With his hands severely restricted, he could barely
reach into the drawer and rummage. It was mostly
junk, old batteries, a plastic flashlight, a hairbrush,
socks and underwear. Nothing he could use to cut
the ropes that held him. Nothing he could use as
a weapon. 
The drawer gave a mighty squeak as he closed it,
echoing in the stillness of the room, and magnifying
itself to a roar in his ears. He froze, still bent over,
and huddled there, waiting for Nathan to charge 
through the door. 
But the silence continued. 
He edged the second drawer open. This was more
hopeful. He found a hammer and screwdriver here,
and a plastic box of picture hanging nails. He rifled
through the hardware, still searching, praying for a 
knife or razor. His prayers went unanswered, but he
did find a lighter. It was silver, with a fraternity crest 
embossed on the front, and his hands shook as he lifted
it. He passed it to his right hand, almost dropping it
in the process, then managed to flip the top open
and flick the striker. 
Nothing. 
He tried again. 
Nothing. 
He could feel sweat bead on his brow as he tried 
for the third time. 
The lighter caught, sputtered, and went out. 
He swore softly, under his breath, said yet another
prayer, and tried once more. 
Yellow flame flickered up, caught, and held. 
He sighed in relief, then winced as he thought of
what he would have to do. He brought the fire up
to the rope, feeling the warmth against his chest.
Soon the warmth turned to hot, and then to burning,
as the rope caught and began to flame. His skin
scorched, and he could smell hair burning, and then
charred flesh, but the rope was loosening, falling
away, and at last, his arms and torso were free. 
He beat frantically at his chest, bile rising up in
his mouth at the odor, then forced himself to bend
and work on the ropes at his knees and ankles. 
He was able to direct the flame more cautiously
with his hands free, but his hands themselves were
badly burned, and his coordination left a lot to be
desired. 
The last rope fell away and he rose unsteadily,
stumbling to the bed and collapsing. He could
hear the TV through the closed door and could only
assume Nathan was still involved in whatever he
was watching. Though that thought was what had
gotten him caught in the first place. 
He looked around for a way out. The door was out,
and the window was nailed shut. He could use the
chair to break the window, but contrary to popular
belief, he really wasn't completely foolish, and he
knew he would never be able to outrun or outfight
the man in front of the television. Once he broke 
the window, Nathan would certainly come, and it
would be the end. 
A wave of pain crashed over him and he swallowed
the cry that tried to escape. Where the hell was
Skinner? Had Anna Sterben forgotten her promise,
or simply decided not to honor it? 
There was the sound of someone moving in the front
room, audible even over the TV, and Mulder froze. 
Nathan was coming. 
He would have to try to run. 
He went back to the bureau, grabbed the hammer and
screwdriver, and then grabbed the chair. 
Behind him, the door creaked as it began to open. 
Outside, he heard cars squealing to a stop, and he 
took hope for the first time in what seemed a very 
long time. 
It took all his energy to lift the chair and heave it 
into the window. Glass shattered and wood splintered,
and behind him he heard a roar of rage. There was
no time to look at Nathan, no time for care with the
glass shards. He threw himself through the window,
feeling something slice his left arm, and then he was
rolling, rolling, rolling. The world grayed for a
moment and he thought he would pass out, but then
it was back in focus, and he scrambled to his feet,
turning to get his bearings. Nathan was between 
him and the road, and behind him he could see Skinner
and Scully -- Scully!! -- pouring out of a car with 
other agents and deputies following suit. Nothing
mattered but that Nathan *not* see Scully. 
He turned toward the lake and began to run, an
abbreviated hop-skip movement that jarred his belly,
sent ripples of pain up his legs and arms, and caused
a major explosion in his head. The bottoms of his
bare feet were quickly bruised and bloody as he moved 
through glass and then onto the sticks and stones that
littered the path to the dock. He ignored it all, with 
only one thought on his mind. 
He had to keep Nathan focused on him, and away
from Scully. 
Shots rang out and he threw himself to the ground,
rolling painfully down the hill toward the lake. 
Someone had started shooting at Nathan! 
He thought he heard Skinner screaming for the shooting
to stop, and mentally gave the man a thank you. Though
death by friendly fire might be preferable to whatever
Nathan would find to do to him. 
He forced himself up again, and continued his steady 
progress toward the dock. If he could get Nathan out
over the water, perhaps he could take him over the 
edge and hold him there until it was too late for them
both. It was all he could think of. The only way to
keep the man from coming back for Scully sometime
in the future. The only way to make sure that Scully
lived. 
The hammer dropped from his hand, forgotten, and he
forced himself to keep moving. Nathan was slowed 
because he didn't know, as Mulder did, that the agents
wouldn't start firing again. It was buying him precious
time to make it to the dock. 
He shuffled a few more yards, then stumbled as his
foot caught on the wood of the dock. He rolled 
forward, then rose again and shambled out, out to
the end of the dock. 
Out to the end of his life. 
Overhead, the hawk screamed, and Mulder looked
up again, watching as it folded its wings and dove
at the water. 
"Here, Nathan," he rasped hoarsely, "here I am." 
The man was at the edge of the dock now, the hammer
Mulder had dropped gripped in one hand. It gave
Mulder a very bad feeling. 
"Come and get me." 
Scully was scrambling down the path to the dock, her
weapon raised. He saw her line up on Nathan, then
trip on an exposed root, and fall. Skinner scooped
her up as he passed, setting her on her feet, then 
raced forward. 
Too late. They were too late. 
"Scully!" The name was wrenched from his lips,
torn from his heart, ripped from his soul. 
Nathan was on him, the hammer coming down once,
twice, a third time! There was screaming in his ears,
the sound of someone dying, and it took him a moment
to realize it was him. The arm he'd lifted to protect 
himself, the already damaged left arm, now lay useless
beside him, broken in at least two places. The hammer 
came down again, and he felt a rib break, and the air
raced out of his lungs with a sharp pain. 
"Closer, you bastard," he whispered, gathering what
remained of his strength. "Closer ..." If he had to be
a fish, he'd be damned if Nathan was going to soar free
as the hawk. 
The hammer went up, and the hawk screamed again,
this time right in his ear. There was a loud crack, and
Nathan fell onto him, blood pouring from a hole in
his stomach. A shadow loomed over them both, the
hawk come to get them, and then it resolved itself into
Skinner. The AD was tugging at Nathan, but Mulder 
had his arms wrapped around the man, holding him 
tight. Skinner didn't understand how dangerous Nathan
was, how hard it was to kill a man like this. And 
killing him was the only way to be sure Scully was safe.
He pulled and rolled, and went off the edge of
the dock, taking the Nibbler with him to rest in the
cool, still water. 
Down, down, down. 
To sleep with the fishes. 
*************************************** 
October 22, 1998 
5:35 p.m. 
"Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Skinner was shedding clothes as fast as he could;
suit coat, then shirt and tie. Shoes flew off his
feet. He paused a moment to reach out and snag
Scully as she made to fly off the end of the dock. 
"NO!" He held her a moment then unbuckled his
holster and dropped it and the gun at her feet.
"You. Wait. Here." He looked up to see Gilroy
on the dock now, almost to them. "Gil -- she stays
out of the water, got it?" 
Scully's weapon was up now, trained on Skinner, and
he stared her down. "What are you going to do, Dana?
Shoot me? Or let me fish him out?" 
Her arm trembled, but she lowered the weapon, dropping
her head. "Get him, Walter. Get him." 
Skinner nodded, then dove, a long, shallow dive that
took him out, away from the dock, but saved him from 
the possibility of hidden dangers in the water. The 
water was cold, a shock to his system, and it knocked 
the air from his lungs. He surfaced and gulped, 
shivering in the wind, then turned and swam back to 
the dock. A look up to get his bearings, then he went 
down. 
The first body he found was Nathan's, hanging suspended
in the water by one of the pilings, the pants caught on a
protruding nail. He shoved the body aside and went 
deeper, peering through the murky waters until his 
lungs were ready to burst. He rose to the surface, 
drew three deep breaths, and went down again.
Small fish had already gathered by the corpse, and he
ignored them as he went down, searching for the body
that still lived. He had to live. Skinner was convinced
that, as Mulder could not live without Scully, she would
not survive long if his foolhardiness cost him his life 
this time. 
He was at the bottom, the water dark with silt billowing
around him. He plunged his hands down blindly, groping
in the muck and the mud, silently beseeching the heavens
to help him find this man. His lungs were straining, 
aching with the need for air, but he forced himself to
inch forward, searching, searching ... 
It was too much. The need for oxygen overcame him
and he blew out without thinking. He immediately
righted himself, pushed off from the bottom, and shot
upward, gasping when he broke the surface. 
Scully was crouched on the edge of the dock, hanging
over it with one hand on the wood, the other in the 
water. Gilroy had both hands around her waist, 
physically anchoring her to the dock, and even from 
the water, he could see the tears streaming down her
cheeks. "Walter ..." 
He was still gasping, sucking in air for his starved
lungs, but he nodded wordlessly. Another ten seconds
to breathe, and then he went down again. Some unknown
instinct drew him to where she was, where her fingers 
reached out, pale and white in the darkness of the water,
and he dove, following her path, down, and down, and
down. And when he reached the mud, when the silt
began to billow, he reached out roughly, angrily, 
screaming in his mind, 'Where the fuck are you, Mulder?' 
As if in answer to his plea, he touched a leg. The leg
led first to a foot, then, when he reversed his path, up
to a waist, a chest, and finally a face. Mulder! 
He wrapped his arms around the unmoving man, then
pushed off for the surface. It was harder going up 
with Mulder's dead weight -- no! not dead! -- but he
pushed on, rising, rising, rising, until, at last, he 
could see the surface, and sun, and then he was 
breathing again, and strong arms were pulling Mulder
from his grasp, then he, himself, was being hauled 
out of the water. 
A blanket appeared from somewhere, and wrapped
itself around him. He was oblivious. All his attention
was focused on the man and the woman on the dock
before him. 
Mulder lay on his back. The left arm was broken -- the
bone protruded through a gash in the forearm. There
was another gash up higher on the arm, an almost
clean slice that cut deeply into the muscle. Blood 
was already beginning to cover it. Burns were visible
on his ankles and legs, and around both elbows. There
was a larger burn on his abdomen, and he grimaced
as he looked at it. 
Scully knelt by Mulder's side and leaned her head
over, resting one ear above the man's heart. 
"Nothing," she said. Two fingers shot out and
felt along his neck, searching out a beat. "No 
pulse." 
Skinner moved and knelt by Mulder's head, looking at
her for guidance. A quick nod, and he lowered his
head, covering Mulder's mouth with his own, and 
breathed. Two times he blew in, watching the man's 
chest rise as the life-giving oxygen was forced 
downward. After the second breath, he sat up, and 
Scully placed both hands over Mulder's heart, and 
pressed. 
"Live, Mulder!" 
He watched as Scully's hands came up and she rose 
on her haunches, then pressed again. 
"Live, damn you!" 
Skinner stared, looking for any sign that Mulder's
heart was beating, that he was breathing on his own, 
but there was nothing. 
Again, Scully worked. The rise, the shift, the pressure,
the curse. 
"Live, you son of a bitch!" 
Nothing. 
Tears streamed from her cheeks, landing on Mulder's
bare chest and rolling off to mingle with the lake water
on the dock. Scully lifted her hands again. 
"Live, live, live!" 
Shift, rise, lift, press. 
"God Damn You! Live!" 
Her head dropped to his chest, then she lifted it, 
shaking her head as she looked at him. 
He bent again and breathed deep, then blew hard into
the lungs of the man on the dock. 'Breath of life, 
Mulder.' When he pulled back, Scully's hands
were over Mulder's heart again, and she was starting
the next set of compressions. 
"One!" 
'Don't die on her, Mulder.' 
"Two!" 
'She won't make it without you, you bastard!' 
"Three!" 
'She depends on you to keep her strong.' 
"Four!" 
'Come on, you lazy son of a bitch! Breathe!' 
"Five!" 
He watched as Scully looked, then listened. 
Another shake of the head. 
He bent and breathed again, amazed at how quickly he
was becoming exhausted. Mulder's chest rose, and
then fell, and then remained still. 
Scully's hands went back into position. 
He looked around. Gilroy held back a phalanx of
men and women, keeping them on the shore. The 
dock was empty but for the three of them. The sun
was setting now, autumn's early nights, and a cool
wind chilled him through the blanket that was still
over his shoulders. Something dark shot past his eyes,
a bird, skimming the water, low and close. 
"Live, Mulder!" Scully was screaming now, 
throwing her weight down onto Mulder's already
damaged chest. 
"Live!" 
"Live!" 
"Live!" 
"Live!" 
Bend, breathe, blow, sit up. He was feeling slightly 
faint with the effort. 
Scully rose up, her bottom completely away from the
dock, then threw herself down onto her hands, her 
whole body focused on the single pressure point 
over his heart. 
"Now, damn it! Now!" 
Before he could make a move, say a word, she threw 
herself down once more. 
"Mulder ..." 
It was a howl, ripped from the deepest corner of
her soul, and Skinner felt something inside himself
break. If this cry, this call to life, didn't bring
Mulder back, nothing would. 
Behind him, the hawk screamed, the sound mingling
with Scully's cry. 
He watched her throw herself down again, and this
time, the man on his back coughed. He coughed,
then sputtered, then turned his head as vile lake water
came up and poured from his mouth. He coughed 
again, choking, and Scully turned his head even more,
holding him till the water stopped and his breathing
evened. 
Then, she lifted her hands once more and brought them
crashing down onto his already ravaged chest. 
Skinner froze, shocked, then reached out and grabbed
her as she started to hit him again. 
"You son of a bitch," she cried. "I should have let you 
die!" 
She was crying now, pulling away from Skinner and 
lifting Mulder, gently this time, cradling him in her lap
as she blessed him with her tears. 
He looked up at her, struggling to focus, then lifted a 
hand. The left arm was useless; blood ran from the 
gash on his forearm, and bone glistened white. But 
the right arm, that arm functioned, and he forced 
his hand up and cupped her cheek for a moment. 
"I love you, too, Scully. I love you, too." 
************************************* 
October 24, 1998
10:00 a.m. 
Mulder opened his eyes and looked up. A curtain of
soft red hair hovered just above his face. A soft hand
lay gently on his shoulder, and blue eyes stared down 
at him. 
"He's awake," Scully declared, and then she was gone. 
"Scully?" Mulder turned his head in time to see her
disappearing out the door. 
"You're in it up to your neck this time, Mulder." 
Skinner laughed softly and reached out to touch
his arm. 
"Wha --?" His voice didn't want to work, and his 
mouth was dry. A straw appeared in front of his lips
and he sipped, remembering Doctor Scully's rule to
go slow. He swallowed, then cleared his throat. 
"What?" 
"I don't think our Scully is very happy with your
decision to ditch her." Skinner put the cup down,
then narrowed his eyes at the man in the bed. "Neither 
am I, I might add." 
"I didn't ... Not you ... I mean, she doesn't understand
how dangerous ..." 
Skinner was shaking his head, not accepting any of the
reasons being offered. "Doesn't matter. Don't you 
know that by now?" He turned and began to pace.
"Mulder, you think you couldn't go on without her?" 
Mulder nodded, watching the AD's movements. 
"You think the world would stop if she went away?" 
He nodded.

"Your whole life, your very existence is bound up in 
that woman?" 
He nodded again. Skinner was right; there really wasn't
anything to say. 
"Well," the AD whirled and strode to the bed, "did it 
ever occur to you that *she* feels that way about you?" 
"Me?" Mulder's voice was a squeak of disbelief. "Not
me," he said, shaking his head. 
"Yes, you. You didn't see her, Mulder. She was 
frantic. She almost ran me over trying to get out
to the lake house. She pulled a *gun* on me, for
Chrissakes, when I tried to stop her from jumping
in the lake after you!" 
"She what?" 
Skinner was nodding now. "Yeah, she did. Thought
she was gonna blow my brains out." Skinner drew
a deep breath. "You owe that woman one serious
apology, and a promise not to ever do that again
better accompany it." 
Mulder was silent, staring at the ceiling as he tried
to process Skinner's words. Could it be true? He knew
Scully loved him. Knew she was devoted to him. But
could she really feel life was not worth living without
him? She had a life. She had others who loved her, and
whom she loved. Her mother, her brothers, her nephews.
She had friends. Hell, she even had Skinner. He snuck
a look up at the big man. If something happened to him, 
Scully would always be able to turn to Walter for support. 
But how could he have let her risk herself with a man
like Nathan? He frowned and Skinner immediately spoke. 
"Don't go there, Mulder. Wherever it is, whatever you're
thinking, just stop it right now. You and Scully are 
partners, in more ways than one. Partners depend on 
one another; they back each other up. Mostly, they let
each other help and they don't make decisions for one
another." Skinner blew out, frustrated. "You had no
right to make that decision without her. Or without
me," he added. 
Mulder closed his eyes and went over it again. Had 
there been another way? Could they have still taken
out the Nibbler if he hadn't launched his lone wolf
attack? He turned it over in his mind. Yeah, they
probably could. He shook his head in self-disgust.
He'd been so blinded by fear, he hadn't thought it
through straight. He opened his eyes and sought
Skinner's. 
"Is she speaking to me?" 
"I don't know." The AD shrugged. "I do know she
hasn't left this room, this chair," he slammed the back
of the chair with a fist, "in the two days you've been
unconscious. She hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, hasn't
left your side. Until now." 
"Please." Mulder looked up, eyes filled with pleading.
"I need to see her. I need to talk to her." 
Skinner nodded. "I'll try," he said, and then he 
slipped out of the room. 
*************************************** 
October 24, 1998
11:25 a.m. 
"You awake?" Her voice was soft and he could tell
without looking that her eyes would be red from
crying. 
"I'm sorry, Scully," he whispered. 
"I know, Mulder, I know." She lowered the rail 
and sat gingerly on the edge of his bed. One hand
reached out and stroked the stubble on his face. 
"But it's not enough, my love. It's just not enough." 
"What do you want me to do?" He was desperate 
and it showed in his voice. "Don't send me away ... 
Please ..." I couldn't live if you sent me away. 
She leaned down and kissed him, her lips lingering 
hungrily against his own. "I could never leave you,
you foolish, foolish man. But, Mulder," she paused 
and brushed his hair back, letting her hand rest cool
and soft against his forehead. "I can't do this. I 
just can't." 
"What do you want me to do?" Please don't leave me,
Scully. 
"I want you to remember something." 
"Remember? What?" Anything, Scully. Anything.
Her hand was soft and gentle, moving over his head, 
his face, her fingers tangling in his hair. 
"After the Emerson case. Do you remember what you
said to me? Do you remember your words?" 
He let his mind drift back to the case that had brought
them together, the case that had forced them to admit
their feelings. His memory searched for the exact words,
and then they were there, engraved in his mind. 
"Once is not enough." 
Scully was crying now, nodding as she kissed him
again. "Once is not enough." She smiled through
her tears, then leaned forward and nuzzled him. "I'm
selfish, Mulder. I want this every day. Every day for
a hundred years. And then I want to renegotiate for
a new contract ..." Her voice broke on the last word
and she sobbed softly. "I can't renegotiate if you're
dead. I can't lose you, my love. I just can't." 
"Shhhh, Scully, shhhhh." He pulled her down, making
space in the bed for her, ignoring the flash of pain as 
her head came to rest in the hollow of his shoulder. 
"You won't lose me. I won't do this again, I promise.
Scully, I didn't understand. I knew how it was for me;
I didn't -- I couldn't -- believe you could feel the same."
He stroked her back, thanking the powers above that
his right arm, at least, still functioned. This time it 
was his fingers that played with her hair. Tears still 
fell on his chest, soaking the thin cotton gown he 
wore. "Shhhh," he murmured. "Ski -- Walter made 
me understand. I won't -- I can't -- do this again. 
I promise." 
Her voice was small and quavered as she spoke into
his chest. "We're partners, Mulder, for better or
worse. Entwined in each other's lives, anchored in
each other's souls." 
He nodded and kissed the top of her head. "Partners,
Scully. Forever." 
The End