Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case (2/2)Title: Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler 
Case (2/2) 
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/Area51/Dunes/2113/ 
Author's Notes: I would like to thank Kitty for the use of the title
of her poem "The Misuse of Red." While I have used the title for 
another purpose, it's an excellent poem and can be found on the
Poetry Archive at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dungeon/9727 
Summary: Mulder is called to testify when a serial killer he caught
and convicted in 1991 is extradited to another state to face charges.
As he and Scully are transporting the convict, a sudden storm causes
problems, the killer escapes, and begins tracking our injured duo 
through the mountain woods. 



Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 
October 15, 1998 
9:45 a.m. 
Skinner walked quietly into the conference room, nodding 
approvingly. Sometimes it was quite useful to lose one's 
temper. It was amazing how quickly the task force had 
assembled once he decked his own agent. The men and 
women present seemed to be watching him with wary eyes, 
and as far as he was concerned, that was a good thing. Let 
them worry about the Assistant Director from DC, the big 
man who couldn't keep his cool. If they wondered about 
him, it would keep them on their toes, and hopefully, keep 
things moving. 
He reached the front of the room, hiding a 'we're going to 
kick butts now' smile, and turned to face his audience. He 
looked out at a sea of dark and light blue, forest green, and 
khaki -- representatives from the local and surrounding PDs, 
the County Sheriff department, State Police, Forestry Service, 
and Fish and Wildlife, as well as a couple of Corrections Officers
from the prison. Sitting attentively and respectfully off to the
side were several agents from the Bureau's local office, called
in to replace Tenejkian and assist Skinner as needed. 
He stared out at the assembled law enforcement officials, 
cleared his throat and began. He stifled another urge to grin,
though there was nothing humorous or happy in the almost
feral expression Skinner wore. It was more the baring of
teeth that a wild animal does as it prepares to attack, and
Skinner was feeling quite wild at this point, and ready to
attack anyone who made the mistake of standing between
him and the hunt for his agents -- and his friends. 
He introduced himself first, trying to maintain the civilities,
though by now surely everyone in this room had heard of the 
infamous Walter Skinner, he of fast retort and faster fist. 
An idle thought wandered through his mind as he wondered
if Tenejkian would be so stupid as to bring charges against
him, but he dismissed it as unimportant. He needed to 
stay focused on the search for Mulder and Scully. Introductions
completed, Skinner glanced at his watch, then addressed the
men and woman before him again. 
"It's 9:45, people. That means it's been almost sixteen hours 
since we've had contact with my agents and Officer Grasso. I 
want this group divided into teams and on the streets within the 
hour. I want mixed groups; combine with other agencies and
make sure we have a variety of experience on each team. If we
need additional resources, I want to know immediately." He looked
down at the papers he held clutched in his hand, a map and notes
relating to the Nibbler and his upcoming trial. "As you all know,
the prisoner is extremely dangerous, and there's a good possibility,
according to Agent Mulder's profile from seven years ago, that he
may already have targets in the area selected. We can't afford
any more lost time on this one." He paused again, letting the
silence punctuate his final words, "It's not just my agents whose
lives are at stake." 
*************************************************** 
October 15, 1998
9:50 a.m. 
"He's here, Scully," Mulder repeated, head up now, suddenly alert. 
She watched him grimace as he pulled himself erect, head turning 
as he looked for physical evidence of the presence his senses told
him was real. She, too, scanned the area, but nothing seemed out
of place. There was still no sign of Nathan, not that he had been
there, or that he might be watching them. And yet, Mulder was
so sure, and she could still feel the pinpricks of disquiet at the base
of her neck. "I don't see anything, Mulder," she whispered, even
as she rose to stand, hobbled by her injured foot, beside him. 
"You wouldn't, not until it was too late." Mulder bit the 
words off, eyes growing wild as he searched for a place to
go, a path to take that might get them away from the menace
he was sensing. He turned suddenly, wrapping her in a 
fierce embrace and burying his head in her hair. "Scully,"
he murmured, "he'll give us this. He'll think it's decent to
let us have this last embrace before the hunt is on again." 
She stiffened in his arms at his words, then slowly relaxed into
his hold. "What do we do?" 
His head was still down, he was holding her tightly and nuzzling
her hair, her neck, her cheek. "We get ready to run." His lips
traced a delicate trail to hers, and he brushed her mouth with his
own, moving on toward her other ear. "In a minute, I'm going to
step back and head for that incline behind me. You're going to
have to move with me, and move quick, and when we reach the
hill, be ready to roll." His hands roved over her back and stroked
her sides even as he spoke, and between words, he peppered her
face and neck with tiny kisses. "If we're lucky, there'll be cover
at the bottom, and we can use it to get away. If we surprise him
sufficiently, he'll be impressed and he may not even follow,
preferring to start the game over again." 
Mulder's hands stilled their exploration of her back, and he 
tugged her closer to his body, enfolding her completely in the 
circle of his arms. "I'm sorry, Scully. Sorry for bringing you, 
sorry for involving you, sorry for putting you at risk again." 
He took a deep, shuddery breath, and she could feel his heart 
begin to race beneath her head where it was pillowed against 
his chest. "But I promise you one thing, I won't let you die
like Anna Renee." He prodded her with his hip, and she 
could feel the hard metal of the gun with its single bullet as
it pressed her tender flesh. "I won't let him do that to you." 
She lifted her head to him, eyes wild with confusion and fear,
not sure she followed him, and yet, somehow, afraid that she
did understand all too clearly. "Mulder," she whispered, reaching
up to draw his head down and kissing him this time, "*You* did
not put me anywhere I didn't want to be. I'm here because
this is my job, and you are my partner, and here is where I should
be." She stroked his cheek gently, letting her fingers graze the 
rough stubble there, then lifted on a single tiptoe and kissed
first one eyelid, then the other. Beneath her touch, she could
feel him sigh softly, and felt her hair lift slightly in the tiny
breeze his expulsion of air created. 
"I'm not sorry for this, Scully." He spoke directly to her, his
eyes meeting her own, drinking her in and drowning in her
presence. "I'll never be sorry for this." He leaned down and
captured her lips in a long, deep kiss, and for a moment it
was as if they were the only people in the world. Then the
moment ended and he whirled, his hand clinging tightly to
hers, pulling her roughly behind him, almost dragging her
the ten feet to the incline, and then they were there. He threw
her down before him, shoving her hard and she began to
roll, gaining momentum with each revolution until she
was tumbling wildly down a hill that was much steeper and
longer than it had appeared. She could feel rocks and branches,
and even stumps punishing her as she bounced out of control, 
moving steadily downward, turning faster and faster, heading
for a line of trees and scrub that waited at the bottom. 
She couldn't see, she couldn't hear. She could only hope that 
Mulder was behind her, moving down the hill at whatever cost
to temporary safety, and perhaps, eventual escape from this
hellish race through the forest that this brutal fall extracted.
She tucked her arms and legs in as much as she could, which 
both offered some protection from the earth's beating and 
served to accelerate her roll, and when she could breathe again, 
she was sprawled against a tree, dazedly staring up the hill as 
Mulder tumbled in her wake. 
She was panting hard, drawing desperately for air, when he
collided with a tree and stopped -- hard. She could see the 
pain lines etched in his face now, and he clutched at his side
in obvious distress. 
"Up, Scully," he called weakly. "Move into the trees, out
of sight." 
She was getting up all right, but not to move into the trees.
She stumbled determinedly toward him, a little half hop-step
that reawakened the ache in her head with each jarring movement. 
"No," he cried hoarsely, waving her away and gesturing
toward the trees. "Scully, go! Get out of here!" 
Ignoring his words, she reached his side, and bent to help
him up. She risked a peek up at the top of the hill, but there 
was no one there, and for some reason she felt they were
alone. Mulder's assessment that Nathan might hold back and
start the chase again seemed accurate. She was bent over,
using the tree that had stopped his forward movement for
support, and she shouldered herself under his arm, holding
him tightly and forcing him to rise or pull her down onto
him. He rose, but she could see from the way he bit his lip
and continued to hold his side, that he was in considerable pain. 
"C'mon, partner," she grunted, and she started her little hop-steps
toward the trees. "Let's get both of us out of sight, then you can
tell me what is really hurting you." 
************************************************* 
October 15, 1998
11:10 a.m. 
"There! Look!" Skinner called breathlessly. "Stop the car. I want 
to look at that slide." 
The car stopped obediently and the AD was out of it in an instant, 
even as the agent assigned to drive him was radioing the other cars 
to advise them of their location. 
There was a small cleared spot on the side of the road, and some 
broken and trampled-looking bramble bushes. Skinner walked
through gravel and mud, and stood staring down into what
appeared to be a newly formed ravine, probably created in the
storm from the previous night. The violent rains and winds had
erased any evidence from the road that a vehicle had been here,
but the bushes and the mudslide betrayed the possibility that
the ground's erosion had been aided by the weight of something
big. Like an armored van. Skinner lifted a pair of field glasses 
that hung around his neck and scanned the bottom of the incline.
Trees, as well as rocks and shrubs had washed down the hill as 
well, and there was a pile of debris at the bottom. A pile that 
seemed impenetrable. 
The AD sighed in frustration, almost ready to turn and move 
on when the sun peeked from behind a cloud and a glint of 
metal caught his eye. He raised the glasses to his eyes again, 
and searched once more, this time settling on the corner of the 
overturned van. "Got it!" he called to the agent behind him,
even as he began a rapid descent down the mud covered side
of the hill. "Get everyone over here! Now!" Skinner slipped,
sliding about ten feet with arms flailing madly as he fought 
for balance. He hit a dry patch and pulled himself up, turning
to look back up and make sure his instructions were being 
followed. Sure enough, another car had already arrived, and 
brown and blue and green shirts were pouring out to join him
in the climb down to the van. "Get me a radio," he hollered
back over his shoulder as he resumed his descent. "And have
everyone converge here." He finally reached the bottom, and 
stood a moment, catching his breath as he waited for the others
to reach him. One of the forest rangers had a hand-held radio
and he passed it to the AD wordlessly. Skinner pressed a button,
then spoke. 
"This has just become the new command center." 
*************************************************** 
October 15, 1999
11:35 a.m. 
"Enough." Scully dragged Mulder to a halt, wheezing as 
she fought to catch her breath. "Enough, Mulder." 
He stopped beside her for a moment, half-holding
her, half-holding himself as he stood bent over with an
arm wrapped tightly around his waist. The sun had
risen high in the sky and the woods were painted in
cheerful reds and greens and golds with autumn's touch.
Birds chirped and twittered in the trees above them,
and through the quiet you could hear the swoop of
their wings as they flew from tree to tree. Squirrels
rustled in the branches above, and the hushed sweep
of leaves drifting to the ground made the scene seem
peaceful, tranquil, calm. Very much at odds with their
mad dash in search of safety and their attempt to avoid
Nathan. "We have to keep moving, Scully," Mulder
panted. "He'll be following, and he's not injured." 
"You can't keep moving," Scully declared. "I'm not 
sure what happened to you, but I can tell you're injured.
And you're getting weaker." She reached up to touch 
his fevered brow, slick with sweat from exertion. "You
have to rest." She paused a moment, watching him waver
then decide she was right. "And you need to tell me
what happened." 
Mulder looked around. They had traveled further down 
the hill and were in a clearing at the edge of yet another
drop-off on the side of the mountain. He thought back
to last night's accident. They'd gone over the side of 
the mountain in the storm, and then seemed to travel 
on relatively flat land until Nathan caught them. Then 
it was over the side again, rolling downward, followed
by more lateral movement until now. Now they had
reached another incline, another downward slope. They
needed to be working their way up, back to the road, but
Nathan was chasing them further down and further away
from the road, the van, and their hopes of rescue. 
He turned to stare upward, trying to estimate how far
they needed to go to get back to the road. Squinting in
the sun, he studied the steep inclines, heavily forested
in places, sparsely in others. Rocks, from car-sized boulders
to gravel, peppered the hillside, and broken limbs and
ravaged bushes littered the ground. Too far for Scully
to go on her twisted ankle. And, he finally admitted to
himself, too far for him to go with this steady pain in
his abdomen. A pain that was growing stronger and more
intense with each passing moment. He looked around
once more, then nodded at his partner. "We're going 
to have to hide," he muttered, "and you're going to
have to look at me." He dropped his head, embarrassed
now that he had to admit his omission. "I think I hurt
my side in the wreck." 
Scully straightened at once, slipping on her medical
persona, and demanded, "Where? Let me see, Mulder." 
He shook his head. "In a minute." He traced the area
with his eyes again. They stood on a relatively flat ridge, 
extending sixty or seventy yards in front and behind them. 
It was probably another sixty or seventy yards wide, from 
the slope of the hill they had rolled down to the edge that
led to the next drop-off. It was as if the hillside was terraced,
with steep inclines broken by semi-plateaus. Mulder hobbled
over to that edge and peered down. This was it. One more 
long downward slide, however it would occur, and they 
would be in the valley. And this was not a slope that could 
be easily climbed or rolled down. 
Scully waited patiently while Mulder looked around once more,
then nodded at one of several clumps of bushes and vines. 
She hopped over to the thicket her partner had indicated, then
knelt and began to tunnel through to the interior of the shrubbery,
hoping that the branches would fade in the center and that
the vines would not have thorns. Behind her, she heard Mulder
take a quick intake of breath, then begin to crawl in behind her.
In short order, he was wriggling up beside her, carefully moving
branches and greenery to erase any sign of their passage into
the scrub. Once they were safely embosked in the foliage,
she again waited until he was settled, trying to ignore the panic 
that was welling up in her as she listened to his increasingly 
labored breathing, and watched him disregard the pain she 
knew he was feeling. Once his head was down, and he lay 
on his back, snuggled up beside her, she lifted her head from 
his shoulder and looked down into his face. "I want to 
examine you," she said. "Now." 
********************************************** 
October 15, 1998
12:15 p.m. 
It had taken almost an hour to pull all the teams to the site 
of the crash. With everyone finally assembled, Skinner was 
ready to send them out to search. There wasn't really any
easy way to do this, and the rain of the night before had
washed any tracks away, making dogs useless. Skinner was
watching as agents and officers, rangers and deputies milled
about, talking quietly with one another and making their
own assessments of the situation. There was a sense of
unease about the group and more than one face bore an
expression that seemed to say that person felt this whole
exercise was a waste of time. He walked through the
group, not really going anywhere, but trying to look as if
he was, and making note of the snatches of conversation
he caught as he passed. 
" ... impossible for them to have made it out uninjured ..." 
" ... kills by biting people, then letting them bleed ..." 
" ... not much hope ..." 
" ... partner worked with Mulder in VCS. He says the 
guy really is *spooky.*" 
" ... does the AD expect us to find them ..." 
Skinner stopped here, and turned to address the suddenly 
abashed deputy. "I expect you to find them the same way
you would find anyone missing out here -- by diligence and
perseverance." He raised his voice to speak to everyone.
"I expect everyone to conduct the most thorough search
you have ever conducted -- and the most cautious." He stared
at the group congregated loosely around the van, watching
with self-satisfied pleasure as shoulders straightened and
commitment was renewed. "My agents are out there -- your
colleagues. And they are probably injured, possibly being
held hostage by a killer." He waited, gauging reactions, and 
was pleased to see the seriousness of the situation reasserting 
itself through the group. "Many of you don't know Agent 
Mulder and Agent Scully. But they are two of the finest 
agents I have ever worked with. Two of the finest you will 
ever be privileged to have on your team." He stopped again, 
then surveyed the group, taking time to meet each person's
eyes as he finished, "I want them brought home -- alive. And
I know you can do it." 
End part 05/08 
Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 06/08 
October 15, 1998
12:15 p.m. 
Her limited examination had done little but cause Mulder
more pain as she poked and prodded his already tender abdomen.
She wasn't able to make a firm diagnosis, of course, but Mulder's
pain, labored breathing, and the blood in his urine certainly pointed
toward internal bleeding. He was tachycardic and exhibiting classic
symptoms of hypovolemia now -- weak, dizzy, his face pale, his skin
cool and clammy. And the pain seemed to be getting worse, despite 
his best efforts at denial. She lowered his shirt as gently as she
could, then allowed herself to rest carefully against him, her head
falling naturally into the hollow of his shoulder, his arm coming 
possessively, protectively around her. 
"So, how's it look?" he asked quietly. 
She paused a moment, trying to think of how to phrase her
concerns, and he spoke again. 
"That good, huh?" 
"You know I can't tell anything definite out here, Mulder,"
she gently admonished him. "But, yes, I am concerned. I
think we need to get out of here as quick as we can." 
"Good idea, Scully," Mulder said dryly. "Any suggestions
on how to accomplish that?" 
She was silent for a moment, stung by his words, and then 
his lips were against her ear, his breath hot against her
skin, and he was whispering, "God, Scully, I'm sorry. 
I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He nudged her
with his nose, tickling the underside of her jaw until she 
lifted her head to look at him. 
"I don't know what to do, Mulder, and I'm frustrated, too.
I imagine Skinner has the cavalry out in force by now, but
I'm not too keen on laying here and waiting for them." 
"I can keep going a bit longer, Scully, if you can." 
"I don't think so, Mulder. I'm more than concerned about
your injury -- I'm really worried, and that just makes it all
the more critical that we get out of here." She took a deep
breath, knowing what he was going to say, but needing to
make the effort anyway. "I think you should stay here and
I'll circle around and head back up to the road." 
"Absolutely not." 
Scully was surprised. She had expected his refusal, but
she had been anticipating more of a roaring response, not this
deadly quiet, monotone statement. She looked quizzically
at him, waiting for more. 
"You don't know what he does, Scully." Mulder shuddered
against her, then winced as the movement triggered a jolt
of pain through his belly. "You don't know what he would 
do to you." 
"What he did to Anna Renee Torrence?" 
Mulder nodded. "You really want to hear this?" 
"Do you really want to tell me?" 
Mulder was silent for a long moment. Did he want to tell her?
It wasn't something he'd ever told anyone about. It wasn't 
something he wanted to think about. It wasn't something he
ever wanted to remember, and certainly not something he
wanted to relive. But, his hand strayed to the gun with its
single bullet -- reminder that a killer stalked them. Reminder 
that it was a killer he knew, one he'd faced before, one he
was intimately familiar with. Reminder of Anna Renee and
his own failure. Maybe it was time for a new perspective
on that whole debacle. 
Scully must have sensed his decision, because she reached 
up and cupped his cheek, saying, "The Misuse of Red. You 
were talking about the painting." 
"It was more than the painting. It was the irony of the whole
thing -- the red and white color scheme, the beauty of the whole
apartment, the stark orderliness of the bedroom. And then, 
there was Anna Renee, or what was left of her, in a bloody
mess on her pristine bed, the red pouring from her in dozens
of places, pooling beneath her, flowing through the runnels
her struggles had made in the sheets. And over it all, proclaimed
in expensively engraved, carefully backlit brass, 'The Misuse
of Red.'" He gave a sardonic laugh. "How rich. 'The Misuse
of Red.' It was actually quite apropos." 
He was agitated, and Scully murmured wordlessly to him, 
stroking his arm where it encircled her. Silently, she willed
him to keep talking, to keep fighting the drag of pain that 
threatened to pull him under. 
"If it hadn't been for the blood, she could have been sleeping.
She was crumpled on the bed, laying on her side, her arm flung
over her head. The lights in the bathroom shone on the bed,
and then there was the obscenely titled painting, shining down
on her, shouting colors, shades of blood, red strokes on white
canvas, red splatters on white walls, rivers of red on a white
coverlet. 
"I was shocked, in shock, I guess, and I couldn't move for
a minute. I felt my knees buckle and I went down by the side
of the bed, burying my face in my hands. I wanted to go to
her, to talk to her and touch her, but I couldn't make myself
move. I chanced a look at the bed and I saw her chest 
move -- she wasn't dead yet -- but I could tell she was dying.
I'd seen dead people, Scully, lots of dead people, and she may
have been breathing, but she was dead. But then, her eyes
opened and she looked at me, and I could feel her calling 
me, begging me. 'Don't let me die alone. Don't make me
do this by myself.'" 
Beside her, she could feel him shrug, then pull away as the
movement sent ripples of pain through his belly. 
"So I went to her. I stayed with her, touching her, my emotions
pushing away the intellectual part of my brain that screamed
to stay away, this was a crime scene, there would be others
who would need to see this, needed to piece things together." 
He smiled wanly. "It was her luck and her curse that I found
her. Someone else would have run screaming from the room.
Or called for medics, at least tried to breathe life into this woman
beyond hope or repair. But I knew that there was no miracle
in store for Anna Renee, knew with a certainty that this was
her last day on earth. So I stayed there, stayed with her, talked
to her, cried for her, thinking all the time that I should have
been there sooner, I should have known, I shouldn't have let
this happen to her. I cried, I told her I was sorry, I begged her
to forgive me, and she just looked at me with enormous eyes,
too weak to speak or even move." 
Scully was silent, still, afraid to say or do anything. Mulder was
so lost in the story, so lost in his memory, that even as he spoke
tears rolled down his cheeks and his voice grew hoarse with
barely suppressed emotion. 
"I was kneeling there, covered in her blood -- it was sticky,
and had that peculiar metallic smell that fresh blood has -- when
there was a sound from the bathroom and I realized I'd made a 
rookie's mistake. I hadn't checked the house. I heard that
sound and realized we were not alone. I tried to move 
slowly, carefully, reaching for my gun, when I felt a shadow
rush me. My face was flushed from my mistake, I was so 
ashamed, and then he was on me. I lunged for the end of the 
bed, the motion bounced Anna Renee in an eerie parody of
living movement, and I could feel how worn down I was. The
endless days alone, the nights of hunting by myself, the isolation
and ridicule and exhaustion. It had all beaten me down, eroded
whatever I may have had to offer at one time. I knew I wasn't fast 
enough, wasn't quick enough, or clever enough, or strong enough
to get away. The shadow fell on me and it had substance and
mass and muscle and strength. My gun flew out of my
hand and skittered across the floor, stopping by the door
to the hallway. I remember protesting, screaming
'NOOOOooooo!' in a sort of long, drawn-out breath, and
then I was down and twisted on the floor and a knee slammed
into my back. 
"The blow drove the wind from my lungs, my face was 
mashed into the carpet, and I was paralyzed, trying to scream,
trying to move. I pushed my knees up, grunted with the 
effort, and then I was crawling toward the open doorway,
my only thought that I had to get out. I thought I was going
to make the hall, when a pair of powerful hands caught me.
I kicked, gasping for air, as he flipped me over and I came
face to face with the man I had been searching for. He was
just a face at first, looming over me, shadowed by the backlight 
from the bathroom. I slammed my arm straight up into the
face, the blow glancing off his cheekbone, his flesh feeling 
cold and wet. 
"He flinched, then his arm drew back, blocking the light,
raised to strike, and I could feel myself tense, waiting for
the blow. My head slammed back against the bed frame,
my vision dimmed and my eyes were watering, and then,
just as suddenly, the face was gone. It was as if he had 
reached the bottom of a cord and been yanked back
abruptly. I was trying to breathe, but it was ragged and
weak. I struggled to sit up against the bed, then pushed
myself across the carpet and away from the last place 
he'd been. I was thinking 'I gotta get my gun -- gotta
get my gun,' and 'I seriously need help here.' 
"I got to my feet, headed for the gun, and he tackled me.
We crashed into the dresser, fighting, struggling in 
some sort of silent, evil choreography. I'd swing at
him, then he'd swing at me. He caught me in the face
and I could feel blood instantly -- it knocked me back 
against the bed again. I lost all the ground I'd gained 
in trying to get to the gun. But then, Anna Renee made
a sound, it was too quiet for a moan, too soft for a groan,
but I could hear her, and I just got up and threw myself
at the man, knowing this man had done this unspeakably
vile thing, and he'd done it before, and he'd do it again
unless I stopped him. I was quick, but he was quicker,
and he hit me with his forearm, knocking me backwards
again. This time, I hit the dresser, crumpled on the
floor, and lights were exploding in my head. I rolled,
grabbed the gun, and came up firing. Four shots went
in the wall where his head had been, then one in a
picture of Anna Renee and two other young women that
hung near the door. Even as I was firing again, following
him -- God, he moved fast! -- I could see the glass fragments
raining down the wall, glittering in the light of the hall
and bath. 
"I fired again and again, and then there was only one
bullet left. One more shot. And I'd lost track of where
he went." Mulder paused now, and Scully wondered if
he was even aware of her presence as he mused out loud
to himself, "How the hell could I lose track of the man?
I still don't understand how I lost him in a confined space.
My vision was a little blurry, but I still shouldn't have lost 
him." 
He looked down at her then, and she knew he knew she
was there. She had been there the whole time. He knew
he was not alone anymore, not even as he relived the horrors
of a seven year old murder. "And then I did the unthinkable,
even worse than not checking the house. I saw him again and
pointed the gun at him, then I ordered him to freeze. He did,
and then she spoke. The thing on the bed, the thing that 
used to be a woman before he mutilated it beyond recognition,
the thing that was Anna Renee, she spoke to me. 'Use it 
on me,' she whispered, and I turned, just for a second to
look at her, and he was on me, the gun was ripped from
my hand and I felt it impact my temple. I could feel 
myself slipping away, but I heard him, 'Next time, you 
should save one for yourself.'" 
He lay quietly now, the energy and emotion he'd displayed 
as he'd told the tale dissipated quickly upon its completion.
The silence seemed too sudden, too abrupt, and then she
realized it wasn't the silence, it was the return to the woods,
to being huddled in a bush, instead of being in an expensively
decorated apartment, watching a woman die. 
"Mulder?" she queried quietly. 
"Mmmm?" 
He sounded exhausted, and she wondered if he'd used his
last reserves to tell her this story. To explain what drove
him when it came to Nathan the Nibbler. To help her 
understand the meaning of the single bullet. She wondered
if he would be conscious in another five minutes. 
"What happened, Mulder?" 
"I came to. She was dead. I called it in. Tenejkian blamed
the whole fiasco on me. He tried to have me removed from
active service." His voice dropped. "He was right, in a way.
I blew it. There were so many things I could have done
differently." He shrugged. "But I fought him, and I came 
out looking like a hero for finding the woman to begin with, 
for tracking Nathan down, and Tenejkian came out looking
like an obstructionist." Mulder's voice dropped, and the last
words were slurred as he spoke. "He never got over it." 
************************************************* 
October 15, 1998
2:40 p.m. 
Two and a half hours into the search and Skinner was feeling
the frustration mount. The sky had turned dark and overcast
again, the temperature dropping fast, and a fine mist hung
over the trees, rapidly turning into drizzle. He moved almost 
reluctantly through the dark and dripping forest, anxious to 
find his friends, but growing more concerned with the lessening 
visibility and the poor tracking conditions. He had one of those 
rubber poncho things, slick with moisture now, and was cold 
where the wind blew beneath it, but sweating under the hood, 
his glasses fogging repeatedly as he moved determinedly through 
the wooded hillside. The only sounds were the steady patter
of rain on the hood of the poncho, the rain dripping from the
limbs of trees and leaves of tangled vines, the trickling of water 
runoff down runnels at the edges of the overgrown path he 
followed, and the footsteps of the forest ranger who walked with
him. The scene was dispiritingly gloomy and forlorn and 
he found himself wishing he'd had the forethought to insist on 
thermoses of coffee for his team. 
The trail, if you could call it a trail, was harder to move 
through than he had originally anticipated. It was unmarked
and decaying, corroded and rutted by innumerable seasons of
rain and rockslides, obliterated in places by determinedly
hopeful intrusions of ferns, and vines, and half-stunted saplings. 
Still, it was passable, and with no firm direction, Skinner had 
decided he might as well follow this and see where it led. The 
towering pines and creeper-draped oaks and maples almost made 
the path visible, hemming it in even where it was overrun with 
smaller plants. 
He was walking steadily, determined to combat the feelings
of helplessness and uselessness that he'd been battling
all day. Obstructions, wild vegetation, and sinkholes
not withstanding, he was settled into an easy stride, making
headway, but to where? The walking warmed him, and
the rain sliding down his face was fresh and sweet-tasting
when it ran into his mouth. It was an odd dichotomy, cold
wind darting beneath the rubber poncho, wet hands and feet
that tingled from the chill, yet sweating in his rubber hood,
glasses fogging repeatedly as warm breath met cold air, and 
the cool rain washing his cheeks and quenching the tendrils
of thirst that lurked in the back of his throat. 
After another mile or so, Skinner checking in regularly with
the other team members, the trail came out on a ledge, a ridge
that circled the hillside, extending out around him. His eyes
on the uneven and suspect trail, he first noticed the air
had lost its greenish, underwater cast, and he looked up to see
the trees had thinned. He was on the flank of the mountain, 
with what would have been a clear view to his left if the
rain would lift again. He found a relatively dry spot 
under a rocky overhang, and sat down to look at the scene 
before him, the ranger staying with him but maintaining
a discreet distance. Below him lay an unnamed valley, an 
endless, wet, billowing blue-green carpet, humped and 
bulging in places, like a stupendous, lumpy mattress tossed 
carelessly down the side of the mountain. Here and there 
he could see an equally unnamed stream glinting dully through 
the mist-shrouded green. Off to the west, a body of water could
be seen, mirroring the sky but with hints of pink and gold
and slightly luminous, rather like the opalescence of an
abalone shell. He stared out over the terrain, trying desperately
for some sort of intuitive leap that would tell him where to
go, what to do, how to find Mulder and Scully. He grunted
softly in frustration, then pulled his radio again, and began 
to make the check-in calls. 
*********************************************** 
October 15, 1998
2:45 p.m. 
Mulder was unconscious now, his head pillowed in her lap.
He'd grown increasingly disoriented, the pain pushing him
toward delirium as his belly began to swell. He'd finally
faded out completely a little over thirty minutes ago, and 
she'd shifted within their makeshift hiding place to cradle
him in her lap. It was an awkward posture, made all the more
uncomfortable by the steady drizzling rain that had started 
up again, and the rapidly dropping temperature. She felt
his head, chilled brow and clammy cheeks, then traced her
hand down his soaked shirt sleeves to touch the cold, wet skin 
of his hands. She leaned precariously forward, probing his
belly again, and he didn't stir at her touch, his lack of movement
scaring her more than a cry of protest would have. Leaning
over oh so carefully, she gently brushed his lips with her
own, offering a kiss of apology, of sorrow, of regret. He was
not going to be happy when he found out what she was
going to do. She kissed him once more, this time on 
his rain-slicked hair, and smiled ruefully as she consoled
herself with the thought that by the time Mulder found
out, it would all be in the past. She took one more look
at him, pale and unmoving, and mentally added 'If he lives
to find out.' She recoiled physically from her own traitorous
thought, and spoke sharply to the man in her lap. 
"You better live, Mulder," she warned. "I swear I'll
come after you myself if you dare leave me here alone." 
She shifted him out of her lap, gently laying him on
the damp, leaf-covered ground, and pulled her own
jacket off, covering his torso for what warmth it would
offer his vital organs. Regardless of her injured foot,
she was going to have to go for help -- and she was going
to have to find it, and fast. Mulder couldn't wait much
longer. 
She backed out of their leafy bower, then climbed unsteadily
to her feet. The injured ankle would bear weight, but not
much, and not for long. She needed a staff. She began
hobbling east, intending to circle back behind where they had
last seen Nathan, then begin the long and arduous climb back
up to the road. She scanned the surrounding area as she moved
until she found a stick, the right size and thickness, a bit too 
tall for her height, but she could make it work. She picked
it up, oblivious to the slimy moss that coated the underside,
and immediately picked up her pace, moving more rapidly
through the thickening trees. With the valley below her as
a reference point, Scully set a steady pace, moving confidently
toward her intended path, and eventual safety. 
Thirty minutes later she was as lost as she had ever been in
her life. The trail she was -- following? forging? -- descended
slightly, then began to climb, dipping into heavily wooded
growth then through barren, rock strewn areas with scrub
brush the only green to be seen. She worried vaguely
about being so visible, should Nathan pick up her trail,
but Mulder was the bigger concern and she trudged on. 
She thought she lost the trail -- deer trail, maybe? -- but
then it picked up again, gently ascending, though overrun
with wild blackberry brambles, ferns, and fledgling trees.
It required more concentration than she was giving it, 
occupied as she was with managing her own pain, planning
Mulder's course of treatment, and wondering where in the
hell the AD was. How hard could it be to find them? They'd
gone practically straight down the mountain from the time
Nathan chased them away from the van and into the trees. 
She suddenly realized she was no longer on the trail, and
looked around to find the valley and her reference points.
But all she could see now were trees: rough-barked loblolly
pines, soaring pintail oak, the occasional massive trunk
of an overgrown spruce. She turned slowly in a complete 
circle, searching for anything that might restore her bearings
and get her back on the trail. There was nothing. Even
more unsettling, she wasn't exactly sure when she'd gotten
turned around; she was no longer sure which way she'd
been heading, and she didn't know which way she'd come. 
It shook her completely, and she felt a prickle of unease.
The rain was falling more heavily now, and shaggy gray
moss hung from water-heavy branches like thick, sodden
draperies, oozing and slimy. A gray-green, swampy mist,
thickening even as she watched swirled over the ground,
threatening to turn into full-fledged fog even as she
watched its sinister and theatrical wisps. It was ominous
and unreal, just like this whole damn situation. Stop,
she thought to herself, this is no frame of mind to get into.
Time for some positive thinking. The other part of her mind
was remembering why she hated to hear the words 'forest'
and 'Mulder' in the same breath. 
She drew a deep breath, sighed, then said out loud, "All 
right then. Positive thinking. How far astray could I have
gone?" She looked around and decided to try and find her
trail by working a wedge-shaped search pattern, traveling 
out from a central point until she crossed the path she had 
been following. She picked a tall pine, slightly deformed
by a broken branch and seemingly unique and identifiable
from its deformity. She set off, planning to walk to the limit
of her vision, about a hundred feet away. She walked halfway,
then turned to check her home tree, and was astonished to
find it was gone, vanished into obscurity amidst a hundred
others. 
The uneasy prickle was becoming a stabbing worry now. This
was not her forte, she was out of her element here, an unwelcome
intruder and the trees themselves seemed to be conspiring against
her. She wiped rain from her face, and shivered in the cold
mountain wind. The air seemed to be made of water now, hard
to see through, harder to breathe. It was confining, restricting, 
a weighty burden to add to the others she carried. She drew
another heavy, moisture filled breath, then picked another
landmark. Two trees this time. One behind and one before.
She would move more slowly toward the further one, checking
constantly on the one behind her, moving as straight as possible.
If she didn't find the trail, she would return, and repeat the 
process until she had managed to orient herself, and get 
back on the right track. If she worked methodically, she was
bound to cross the path if it was within her search radius. And
it would have to be, she couldn't let herself think about things
like trails that snaked and curved through trees and bushes.
If this pattern didn't work, she would just have to expand
the area, using new landmark trees as her focal points. 
She set out toward her first goal, checking back and forth
between the trees, pleased that her reasoning seemed to be
working. What she hadn't counted on though, was the sheer 
number of trails -- deer, and elk maybe? Were there elk out
here? Some sort of large animal anyway, bear perhaps. Some 
seemed natural, meandering channels through the undergrowth.
Others seemed almost man-made, straight and clear for yards
before petering out into impenetrable growths of mismatched
greenery. She followed several false leads, one of them for
almost half a mile, before she stumbled on the trail she felt
she had been following, only thirty feet from where she began.
It had taken her almost an hour. 
Much more observant now, humbled by Nature's cruel
reminder of her superiority, she began walking again,
carefully following the trail as it moved eastward and
gently ascended. She was beginning to regain some of
her confidence when she entered a clear area and stopped
short, awed by the opening up of a long view out over the
valley. The same view she had seen within the first ten minutes
of her travels. The exact same view. Exactly. She collapsed
onto a convenient fallen log, only puzzled at first, thinking
she must have been following a trail that looped, that had
led her in an unerring circle. 
But then the truth hit her, and tears began to battle the rain 
making its way down her face. Cold and tired, hungry and
in pain, desperately worried for the man she loved, and she
had retraced her steps *backward.* All the time she had
spent, the energy expended, had been for naught. She was 
within half a mile of where she had left Mulder. She had, 
quite simply, been walking in the wrong direction since she
rediscovered the trail. With no sun to use as a guide, east had
become west, and she was back where she started. She sat there 
awhile, slumped over, wet, and miserable. The wind had
picked up and she shivered in her sodden clothing, no protection
to be found from the chilly gusts. The temperature continued
to drop; her hands were red and raw, and from the feel of it,
so was her face. 
She would go and check on Mulder, then try again. She couldn't
give up. She levered herself to her feet, clinging to the staff
and clamping back the pain that washed up from her feet and down
from her head. She moved quickly toward their bush, ready to
crawl inside and seek a little warmth and comfort from her
unconscious partner, determined to get out and back up the hill
before it was too late for him. She had reached the ledge again,
the thicket where Mulder lay securely hidden away was in sight
now, when she felt it. The hairs on the back of her neck stood
up, and she could feel goosebumps lift on her chilled skin. He
was here, watching her. She turned casually away from the bush
that sheltered Mulder, eyes scanning furiously for sign of the 
watcher, but there was nothing. She stood silent and unmoving,
the rain sheeting off her, for a full ten minutes. She had just
about decided that it was all in her head, when a hand grabbed
her arm, and she squealed. He yanked her around roughly,
the staff falling uselessly at her feet. She opened her mouth
and screamed, one loud, lingering sound that echoed in the
clearing and rang from the mountains, then Nathan's hand 
came up, her head rocked back, and blackness swallowed
her whole. 
End part 06/08


Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 07/08 
October 15, 1998
5:00 p.m. 
Did this damn forest never end? Was there no bottom to this
godforsaken mountain? Did the sun ever shine in this sullenly
wet climate? He felt like he'd been out here for hours. Dispirited
and weary, he was almost ready to admit defeat for the day. The
sun had gone AWOL for most of the day, and the evening 
shadows were swallowing what little light was left. There was
no way he could hope to hunt for Mulder and Scully, or for 
the killer, in this ceaseless rain, in the dark of night. And he
couldn't expect his team to continue on much longer. A choppy,
erratic wind drove the rain needlelike into his face, stinging his 
cheeks and eyes, and sometimes even streaming upward into
his nostrils to make him cough and sputter. Which would,
of course, fog his glasses. Again. And he had no more dry 
clothing to wipe them on. His trousers, poorly protected by
the flapping poncho, were soaked, and any waterproof quality
his shoes may once have had was long gone. The rough
up-and-down trail had long ago slowed his stride to a foot-dragging,
mindless trudge. 
When he found himself under a little open sky, he stopped
and looked up at it gratefully. It was malevolent and an
eerie yellow-gray, but anything was better than that tossing,
dipping roof of solid green. Even the rain didn't seem so 
bad out here, falling more gently in soft, fat drops. He was 
on another ledge, another of the seemingly endless plateaus
that circled the mountain, cropping out from hilly inclines
covered with trees and rocks and the dross of rainy slides.
He found a flat, open space, still with a view of the drop
to the valley, but surrounded by thick brush and trees that
blocked the wind and offered a little protection, more
psychological than real, against the rain. 
For a few minutes he simply stood there with his eyes closed,
catching his breath, thoroughly sick of rain and mud and 
the inexplicable dangers that always seemed to find his two
prize agents. Though he had, as yet, to confirm that the
missing killer was still in the area, that his agents were still
in the area, that they were together, or apart, or injured
or whole. In fact, there was a whole shitload of items he
had yet to confirm. Only Mulder and Scully could have
compelled him, their office dwelling, button-down boss, to 
be here, standing in this gray-green mist, drenched and 
shivering, halfway down a muddy mountainside at 
on the verge of the evening dark. 
Swaying slightly, with rain pelting his eyelids and each
breath fogging his glasses anew, steady drops of water
thrumming on his poncho, Skinner waited for some sort
of answer or direction to appear in his mind. But he
waited in vain. When no clear decision on how to proceed
made itself known, he decided to continue on as he had
before. Not that he had a lot of choice; he *was* halfway 
down the mountain, Mulder and Scully *were* still missing,
and Nathan's whereabouts were *still* unknown. He sighted
a good-sized boulder a dozen yards away, and moved to its
lee. 
Pulling the radio from its semi-protected spot inside
his rain gear, he spoke, "I'm heading down another 
of these damn drop-offs. Jackson, run another check-in 
for me. Make sure everyone is accounted for at all
times. We'll continue the search for another hour, then
meet back at the van. If it gets too dark to see before
that, head back sooner." He released the button on the
radio and sighed. It was cold and getting colder and the
rain only added to the problems the encroaching night 
would bring. He was increasingly worried that the
search would have to be suspended until tomorrow,
losing valuable time, and allowing who knew what to 
happen to his friends. He stowed the walkie-talkie back
beneath the slick rubber of the poncho, then began the
slippery descent down to the next level of the mountain. 
He reached out to steady himself, hand grabbing a low,
stubby tree limb. It was strong and sturdy looking, but
when Skinner pulled on it, it squashed like papier-mache,
oozing water between his fingers and dropping pulpy 
fragments to the dark mountainside ground. This bothered
Skinner more than it should. It made the whole mountain 
seem suddenly more deceitful, more untrustworthy. He looked
around and realized that the whole hillside seemed filled
with nurse logs, felled trees on which seedlings had taken
purchase, gradually straddling them with roots that ran down
to the ground. Eventually, the original trunks rotted away,
leaving the roots straddling nothing but air. The effect was
eerie. Skinner felt as if he were surrounded by giants' hands,
their splayed, gnarled fingers grasping out of the ground,
reaching out, threatening ... 
When he glanced at the forest ranger, he found the man
waiting patiently, tired but ready to go on. Skinner shook 
off thoughts of giants, chiding himself for flights of
fancy in the middle of the search and made his way down
to the next level place, slipping and sliding, precariously
balanced on the slimy mud and rotting leaves. He had paused 
again, assessing, planning, looking around and taking stock,
when he heard it. A woman's scream split the air, echoing
against the rocks, the sudden sound so surprising coming after
the hours of woodsy silence broken only by the patter of rain
on his poncho's hood, that he recoiled for a moment. Then
he turned and began to run. 
He'd found Scully. 
********************************************** 
October 15, 1998
5:00 p.m. 
Mulder dragged himself awake. No, not awake. Back to
consciousness. He'd been unconscious often enough to know
the difference. He was muzzy, his head hurt, and thinking 
seemed to take great effort. Movement was hard too. There 
was a lancing pain that permeated his whole abdomen, even
breathing was painful, and he quickly found himself taking
shallow little breaths to reduce the torment moving his lungs
caused. 
He was trying to reconstruct things, to bring his memory
into focus, when he suddenly stiffened, alert, the back of his
neck tingling. There had been a sound, clearly audible over 
the unvarying beat of raindrop striking leaf and ground. A 
branch breaking under the weight of accumulated water? A
large bird startled into flight? But by what? 
It came again, a scuffling sound, and then again: someone
or something moving, brushing against the foliage just over
his head. He jumped, then hissed as agony exploded across his
belly and blackness threatened to pull him under again. He 
could hear his heart pounding crazily and was amazed that 
whoever or whatever was out there couldn't hear it as well. 
The sounds stopped abruptly, then continued more firmly,
someone circling his bush. His bush. That was the second 
time he'd thought that. He tried it again, 'My bush.' It
was right, but something was missing. Damn this confused
thinking! The sound came from just outside his bush. He
could hear the squelch of footsteps now. His breath came
hard and fast, shards of pain splintering below his ribs
with each breath he drew. 
There was another sound now, more steps coming from
farther away, heading toward him and his bush. His bush.
What the hell was missing from his bush? He lay still,
straining to hear over the steady beat of the rain, listening
as the first steps grew silent and the second set came closer.
Set one moved again, sliding around to the left of his bush.
Set two, lighter, slower, somehow *smaller* he thought, 
since the steps came more closely together, moved toward 
him from the right. Two people were converging on his bush. 
The second steps were closing in, the first were silent now,
and he found himself holding his breath, listening with every
fiber of his being. There was another rustle from his left,
and the smaller, lighter steps froze. He could almost feel
the tension in the woods outside his little coppice. There was
no sound now, and no movement anywhere. His heart was
pounding again, thudding like the hooves of a three year old
in the back stretch of Churchill Downs. He wanted to
move, to shift into a better position, to get ready to get 
*out* and get away, but the slightest motion would be 
heard in this preternatural stillness that surrounded them 
all -- Steps One, Steps Two, and himself. 
There was something he was missing, something *vital*
that still escaped him, and he worried the edges of it in
his mind. Something just wasn't *right* -- something more
than this pain in his belly and the fact that he was hiding,
embosked in a thicket of summer green, liberally laced
with autumn's reds and golds. The silence stretched on
and he fancied he could hear the others breathing: deep
and slow, nerve-steadying breaths from the one on his
left, faster, shallower, tense little puffs from the one on
his right. He took a deep breath of his own, let it out
almost immediately, and winced as pain reignited in 
his abdomen. He took several shallow drafts of air, then
hissed through clenched teeth, waiting, poised on the
edge of ... what? 
There was a movement now, to his left, stealthy and
noiseless, and Mulder could feel the pressure tighten,
stretching across the ledge, pulling tauter and tauter.
He got into position noiselessly, ignoring the pain as
he shifted, managing to crouch on fingertips and toes. 
His muscles were so tense they vibrated as he waited,
counting out the agonizingly slow seconds. His eyes 
were on the narrow opening, obscured now, that he had 
come in through. No, that wasn't right. He shook
his head. There was something there, just on the edges
of his pain-fogged consciousness, something that teased
his mind, tickled his senses, tested his memory. 
Not *something.* 
*Someone.* 
That was what was missing! Someone. His mind fogged
again, pain from his belly soaring up to cloud his brain, 
clog his synapses, eclipse the dawning light in his thoughts.
There'd been the accident. They'd been running. Scully
was hurt. And they'd come here to hide. He looked around,
stupidly, as if looking again would make her appear. But
she was still gone, and he was still alone. Alone with two
unknowns just outside his hiding place. 
His ears pricked again. He'd heard something; the squishy 
sound of a shoe sucked into mud and decaying leaves. Not coming
toward him anymore, but already past, around the bush. Steps
One advancing on Steps Two. Was one of them Scully? He 
could wait no more. The sudden mental vision of Scully,
held tight in Nathan's grip, his mouth descending toward her,
and he moved, scuttling out of the bushes, disregarding the 
noise he made or the pain he felt. He rose shakily to his feet,
blurry vision, rain and cold wind making it hard to focus.
He was looking around, scanning the area, when she screamed. 
He'd found Scully! 
****************************************************** 
October 15, 1998
5:20 p.m. 
"So good of you to join us," Nathan said amiably as Mulder 
tottered forward, "but I'd like you to stop right there please." 
He had Scully clutched up against his torso, one burly arm
encircling her chest, the other holding Mulder's gun tight against
her cheek. 
"No," Mulder mumbled. "Not her. You want me." 
"Indeed I do," Nathan responded. "But this," he shook
Scully slightly, the nose of his own gun biting deeply into 
her tender flesh, "is a fine appetizer." He dug the weapon
in deeper, the sight on the top of the barrel breaking the skin,
and then watched, mesmerized, as a drop of blood welled up
from the wound. He turned his eyes back to Mulder, staring
silently at him, then lifted his arm from around Scully's chest,
one finger coming up to delicately wipe the blood from her
cheek. Then, without another word, he popped the blood
covered digit into his mouth, and sucked, smiling evilly
around his finger. 
Mulder watched this little scene, trying to remember that
this man was deliberately trying to provoke him, that his
natural inclination to charge was *exactly* what the man
wanted. He schooled his face to neutrality, fought down
the waves of nausea and pain that threatened his facile
expression, then asked, "What do you want, Nathan?" 
Nathan took a step back, then looked behind him. "I want 
a little distance for the moment." He pulled Scully and 
the two of them half slid, half climbed about ten feet down
the incline to a narrow ledge that was all that stood between
Mulder's position and the valley floor, fifty or more feet further 
down. 
Mulder looked around, hoping to find anything he could
use as a weapon, then remembered the gun tucked in his
own belt. He pulled it, mentally berating his slow thinking,
and pointed it down at Nathan. "Let her go," he ordered
in a strong but hoarse voice. 
"I don't think so," Nathan responded. He studied Scully
for a moment, then looked back up at Mulder. "Does this
remind you of anything?" 
Mulder grunted. "The last time." 
"The situation is eerily similar, isn't it? Circumstances have
certainly conspired to make things interesting." He looked at
Scully again, then pressed the gun harder to her face when she
began to speak, effectively silencing her. "Though I do believe
this one is more attractive than the last one." 
"You didn't get away with it then, Nathan. You won't get away
with it now. She's a federal officer, for God's sake! You have 
to know there is no way you are going to walk away from this." 
"No way?" Nathan raised an eyebrow. "I would imagine that if
both of you were dead, it would be quite easy for me to walk away." 
"I -- will -- kill -- you," Mulder threatened, his voice low and menacing.
The gun in his hand wavered slightly as his vision blurred, and
he swayed where he stood, but he had no doubt as to his ability
to kill this man. If he could just get a clean shot. Because he'd
only get one shot. 
Nathan looked around the area behind Mulder. "It's a shame
your friend Tenejkian isn't here to *help* you again," he 
commented, and Mulder felt himself tense despite the preparation
he had been making for the comment, or one like it. 
"I did just fine on my own before. I can do it again." He
bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood, trying
to distract himself from the nearly crippling agony that
was consuming him from the inside out. 
"Ah, yes, but it was such fun to watch him ignore you. To watch
him let you suffer alone. To watch him as you lay bleeding and
know that he would never move against me. It was a very
strange thing to realize that he, an officer of the law, would
never move against me because of his hatred for you." Nathan
paused, as if the concept still baffled him, then smiled. "It was
as if I were given carte blanche to deal with the woman." But
then his eyes grew dark and his face grew hard. "Until you
surprised me." The gun moved from Scully's face, and
pressed tight against her chest, over her heart, eliciting a
cry of pain from her. 
Mulder stepped forward, then stopped when Nathan began to
put pressure on the gun. Time slowed and Mulder could actually
see the muscles under the skin of Nathan's fingers bunch as he
continued to pull back on the trigger. There was a sound behind
him, another voice ordering Nathan to stop, but it was too late. 
Scully made another sound, a strangled cross between a cry 
and a squeak, and then Mulder was screaming, "Noooooo..." 
He launched himself over the edge without thought. It was a 
long jump and he put everything he had into it: the cold, the 
pain, the fear, the blood in his mouth, the hammering in his
chest. And above all else, above everything, Scully. He plunged
from the rim like an avenging angel, arms outstretched, gun
forgotten as his fingers reached for contact. This was a one
shot, success or failure, make it or not chance. Mulder flew
through the air, stretching his long body, willing himself forward,
and landed -- two feet short of Nathan. 
************************************************* 
October 15, 1998
5:30 p.m. 
Skinner watched in horrified disbelief as Mulder leapt over the
side of the ledge and disappeared from his view. Since he
entered the clearing in time to see Mulder emerge from some
bushes, to see Nathan jab Scully mercilessly with what looked
like Mulder's gun, to see her try to speak and be cruelly
silenced, he had been a nearly silent observer. His own weapon
had been trained on Nathan, he'd ordered the killer to surrender,
but then the man had dragged Scully over the edge and disappeared
from sight. Mulder had immediately moved to the edge and Skinner
had been afraid to advance and upset the fragile balance that 
seemed to have been established between the two men. 
He'd listened in confusion as Nathan and Mulder had alluded
to their last encounter. He knew from reading the official reports
that Mulder had been injured -- badly -- and Tenejkian had been
present, but this cryptic conversation seemed to imply that
the older agent had been there, but had not assisted Mulder. 
Indeed, it seemed he may have aided the killer, though whether 
it had been active assistance or passive, Skinner was still not able
to determine. From the report, Nathan had shot Mulder, a 
belly wound that should have totally incapacitated him. 
Tenejkian claimed he'd been unable to approach, or get a shot
at the suspect without further endangering Mulder. Mulder 
had not commented, claiming he was unaware of the other
agent's location or situation, as his attention was focused
on the suspect, and the woman he held hostage. 
Nathan had been in the process of biting the woman, numerous
deep, blood-draining bites, when Mulder had surprised everyone
and launched himself at the killer. They'd tumbled away from
the victim and fallen over the lip of a shallow ravine. In the
ensuing fight, the suspect was apprehended. Tenejkian claimed
to have made the actual capture; Mulder had been unconscious.
But Skinner had noted something in the photos in the file that
he felt everyone else had overlooked. As Mulder was being loaded
into an ambulance in the background of one shot, Tenejkian had
stood, one hand on Nathan's arm, the killer's hands cuffed
behind him. And there, visible inside the agent's coat, were
his own pair of shiny handcuffs. Which raised the interesting
question of who had actually subdued the Nibbler, and what
had really happened in the field that day. 
And now Mulder had gone over an edge again with Nathan, in
an eerie recreation of events from seven years ago. But this time,
there was someone who wasn't going to watch passively. This time,
Mulder had an ally he could count on. 
**************************************************** 
Nathan had lost Scully. She had broken free, then tumbled over the
side of the narrow ledge. Mulder could see her fingers, clinging
determinedly to the rocky outcrop just behind Nathan. Nathan
had tried to bring the gun up and around to shoot Mulder, but he 
hadn't been fast enough. Mulder had then launched himself at 
Nathan. Nathan had been fighting with Scully, then let her 
go to try and aim at the howling thing that fell from the sky on 
him. But his timing was off, and the weapon, swinging wildly,
only smacked Mulder in the chest, a hard blow that fell below 
his left lung. Mulder's howl of rage mutated into a cry of agony,
but he clamped a hand around the weapon, then dropped his own 
single-bullet gun, and managed to get the other hand around it 
too, just up the barrel and over Nathan's hand. He shifted to get 
a better grip, then pulled. 
Nathan hung on, staggering momentarily before he set
himself. The two men stood, straining and glaring at each
other with their faces only inches apart, like fencers with
crossed rapiers. Nathan's face was scarlet from the strain,
his cheeks distended. Mulder was pale, dangerously so,
and even as he clung desperately to the gun, he could feel
his adrenaline-fueled strength begin to ebb. 
"You won't make it, Nathan," he said through clenched jaw.
"Don't make it worse for yourself." 
The killer moved then, kicking him in the hip with a size
twelve boot, and releasing the weapon. Mulder stumbled
over a rock and went down onto the seat of his pants, clinging
to the barrel of the gun even as he struggled furiously to
turn it and point it at the man before him. There was a
shot, and Mulder looked around, puzzled, but then Nathan
was coming at him. He kicked him again, catching him
under the arm this time, and tugging at the gun simultaneously
time. Flinching with pain and dragged over the stones by
the larger man, Mulder held on grimly, forcing the muzzle 
of the Sig to the side. Letting go would be the end of 
everything, for him and for Scully. He glanced over to see
her small fingers still tenaciously clinging to the rocks. 
The bullet was in the chamber, the gun was cocked, and 
Nathan's finger was on the trigger. A quick, simple squeeze
was all it would take for Mulder to die. Scully wouldn't be
long following. 
Somehow, he managed to scramble to his feet again, helped
inadvertently by Nathan hauling on the gun. But although
he got his other hand on the Sig again, his grip slipped and
the sight was digging agonizingly into his palm. He almost 
lost his hold altogether. He *was* losing his hold. He was
winded now, the last kick had taken his last reserves out
of him. Nathan was wrenching at the gun, and Mulder
could feel his arms begin to tremble. 
A sudden sense of despair overcame him. It was like the
last time -- all over again. He was wounded, Nathan had
the best of him, and he was all alone. Only this time it was
Scully who would pay for his ineptitude. He suddenly realized
that he was going to lose this one. Nathan was fresher. He
was heavier. He was stronger. This man was going to
kill him, and then he was going to torture Scully until she
died, the life blood stolen from her through obscene parodies
of a lover's kiss. 
Nathan was staring, watching as Mulder acknowledged that
the end was near. He saw the desperation creep into Mulder's
eyes, then the flare of anger and fight, then acceptance and
resignation. He smiled maliciously, then sneered, "God ...
damn ... you ... Let go!" 
And Mulder let go. 
Nathan rocketed backward like a man shot out of a canon. 
He fell heavily, but rebounded quickly, rising to take aim
at Mulder's head. 
But another shot rang out, and this time Nathan's arm
exploded in bright red. There was no cry or curse, no
futile scrambling for balance, no surprised expression of
horror. His eyes, fixed as they were on Mulder's, showed
only curious interest. His mouth opened, even as he was
stepping backward, momentum from the shot driving him
toward the edge. 
"Oh my," he said in a clear voice even as he reached the 
edge and began to plummet backward, "I guess you weren't
as alone as I thought." 
End part 07/08 
Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case 08/08 
October 15, 1998
7:25 p.m. 
"Scully, you can't do anything for him now. Let them take a look
at you." His voice was hard, loud, echoing out brusquely over
the unceasing hospital sounds of gurneys rolling, metal instruments 
clanking, phones ringing, the low murmur of voices -- doctors,
patients, family and friends. Just behind them, in the OR waiting
room, a young man could be heard crying, his harsh sobs ringing
over all the other sounds combined. But from Scully, there was
no sound at all. Just the worn out stance, weight shifting from 
foot to foot, the uneven breaths that betrayed her inner emotions, 
and the rare sigh that slipped between her battered lips. 
She was standing -- leaning really -- by the wide double doors to 
the operating room, peering uselessly through the windows into 
the empty corridor on the other side. She'd refused all attempts 
at treatment, growing increasingly hostile, until finally the medical
people had left her alone. But now she looked exhausted, on the
verge of collapse, and her expression had changed from fiercely 
protective and borderline pugnacious to simply tired, worried, and
fretful. 
One side of her face was a purply-red, lividly bruised in stark 
contrast to her fair complexion. She was in obvious pain as she
listed awkwardly to one side, her body's subconscious reaction to
the injured foot that she insisted on using, insisted on standing
upon. A gash decorated the top of her brow and while it no
longer bled, and didn't look as if it had for some time, it bothered
Skinner to see it -- a palpable reminder that she had been hurt 
and was still untreated. 
"Scully," he said again, deliberately softening his tone and 
lowering his voice to a near whisper. 
"What?" she mumbled, beyond anger, beyond frustration, entering
a space where her body was threatening to shut down on her. She
didn't turn to look, never even really acknowledging him. 
He waited patiently, refusing to move, refusing to speak 
again, just staring at her steadily until she finally, slowly,
resentfully, turned her head and gazed up at him. The 
naked pain in her eyes, not physical pain -- that had been 
dismissed from her mind the moment Mulder had collapsed 
on the ledge -- but emotional pain, anguish, worry, even fear
for her partner's life -- that pain struck him like a blow,
and he actually took a half-step back before he caught and
collected himself. Her eyes were fastened on him now,
waiting for him to say his piece, and he wondered if it 
was out of respect for him as her supervisor, or a recognition
of him as her friend that she even gave him, albeit grudgingly,
this much attention. 
He met her eyes and held them, then took a deep breath and
gently reached out to pull free a strand of auburn hair that was
stuck to her cheek with old blood. He tucked the hair behind
her ear, then let his hand linger for a moment against her
bruised face. He was surprised to see tears spring to her eyes,
though none actually fell, and he had to remind himself that
this independent young woman was still unused to allowing
people to care for her -- even her friends. 
"Mulder's in good hands, Dana," he murmured, his hand 
dropping slowly from her cheek to shoulder, even as he
took a step closer to her. It was like approaching a wild
animal, injured and afraid. She was skittish, unsure of what
he wanted, unsure of what she herself wanted. He held
her shoulder carefully, still unaware of what injuries might
be hidden beneath her clothing, and spoke again, "They're 
taking care of him. They said it looked good, that we got him
to the hospital in time." 
He advanced again, another step closer, his hand sliding 
from her shoulder to her back. She trembled beneath his
touch and he wondered again at the strength her compact
body possessed. "It's your turn, Dana," he whispered as
he pulled her into his embrace. "It's time for them to 
look at you. Time for you to be treated." 
She was standing against him, body rigid and shaking,
her weight resting on the uninjured foot. Her hands hung
stiffly at her side and her chin was down, her eyes fastened
to the floor. Aside from her one word question, she hadn't
spoken. 
"You can let go now, Dana," he murmured. "It's OK to
let go. I've got you now." 
Inside the protective circle of his arms, he could feel her 
fight, body stiffening even more, then finally relaxing, and
the tears began to fall. 
"He almost died, Walter," she whispered, her face plastered
to his broad chest, a damp spot already beneath her face,
growing wetter by the minute. "He came so close, all because
of me." 
"Shhh," he soothed. "It's not because of you, you know that.
It's because Mulder is who he is. It's the way he's made. But
he's going to be OK. You understand? He's going to be OK."
Skinner had dropped his head until his face was buried in
Scully's hair and he was whispering his words of encouragement
into her ear. Wisps of silky fine hair tickled his nose and
chin, and he could smell the woods, and blood, and dirt in her
hair, and under it all a faint hint of shampoo. 
"I --" she stopped, a sob eclipsing her words, "I just can't stand
to see him hurt like this. Over and over again. It's going to
kill him. It *is* killing me. There's nothing I can do to protect
him, nowhere we can go, no place that would be safe. It seems
as if Mulder operates under a curse -- if something can go wrong,
it will." 
She sniffed again, then leaned heavily against him, letting
him hold her, taking what meager comfort he could offer.
He had no words for her now. What could he say? He'd 
often felt the same way. Mulder was unique -- nothing he did
was ever *usual.* But Scully loved him, and in his own
way, he did too. The man certainly needed people to love
him -- he'd known little enough of it in his life. 
But Mulder was being cared for. Well-trained people were
putting him back together one more time. Piecing him back
into shape so that, like the phoenix, he could rise from his own
ashes and live to fight another day. For now, it was Scully
who needed his care and concern, and -- he slowly admitted
to himself -- his love. It was still a surprise that these two 
had come into his heart and engendered in him emotions he
thought long dead. Learning to be a friend, learning to care,
learning to love. It was all a new and frightening feeling,
but Walter Skinner had never backed down from a challenge,
and he wasn't going to start now. 
He looked down at the woman in his arms. She was looking
up at him expectantly, waiting for whatever he would say that
would make it all right. As if he could wave a magic wand
and make the past two days disappear. But he had neither
magic wand or words, so he settled for a quick kiss on her
forehead, then he scooped her up, turned, and walked 
down the hall. 
"Mulder will be fine," he said again, silencing her protestations
with a look. "But I may not be so lucky if he comes to and 
finds I've let you go unattended." He smiled down at her,
snagged a passing physician, then added, "Be still," in a 
mock stern voice. 
When her eyes widened in surprise at his sudden gruffness,
he added, "Either you're not as small as you look, or I'm not 
as young as I pretend to be, but you need to be still or I just
may drop you." He smiled at her, then at the doctor who had
followed them into a room further down the hall. 
He put her gently on the bed, then whispered in her ear, "Do
you want me to stay, or shall I go stand watch for Mulder?" 
"Mulder, please," she murmured back, and when he started
to rise, she surprised him by catching him about the neck, 
and tugging him back down. She certainly was strong;
her arms were like a vise and while he could have pulled
away, he didn't want to. She held him tight, forcing him
to stay bent over, with his head hovering beside her own. 
She leaned over an inch or so, and planted a soft kiss
on his scratchy cheek, then hugged him close. "Thank
you, Walter," she said in a strong, even voice, the first
he'd heard from her all night. "For everything." 
******************************************* 
October 16, 1998
5:30 a.m. 
"I don't like this," Skinner muttered to himself, staring
at the pallid face of the man who lay in the bed. "I don't
like this at all." 
He glanced up as a white-coated woman entered the room,
then rose to meet her at the foot of Mulder's bed. "Why
isn't he waking up?" he demanded. 
"Mr. Skinner, sir," the woman soothed, "he's been through
a lot. I'm amazed the man was able to move at all yesterday,
let alone fight someone able-bodied." 
"But he should still be waking up," Skinner insisted. "You
don't know Mulder. *Nothing* keeps him down for long." 
"Well, this is going to," the woman responded. "The lacerations
to his kidney were deep and profuse. We took a piece of his
spleen out, repaired nicked blood vessels, and sewed up his 
kidneys and liver. He's got over a hundred stitches inside his 
belly, and, quite frankly, sleep is *just* what he needs." 
Skinner looked away, slightly abashed at the woman's intensity,
then returned his gaze to the man in the bed. "I'm telling you,"
he repeated, "Mulder *doesn't* stay down like this." He turned
to the woman, hating the note of desperate pleading that crept
into his voice, and asked, "Are you *sure* nothing else is wrong?" 
At Skinner's troubled concern, the doctor softened somewhat, 
and said, "We're keeping a very close watch on him, sir. He's
being monitored twenty-four hours a day. Medically, there is
nothing more we can do but give him time." She paused a 
moment, studying the older man, then tentatively reached out
and laid her hand on his arm. "Your friend will be all right,
Mr. Skinner. Give him time." 
Skinner looked at the capable hand that rested on his forearm,
then looked up to meet Dr. Esposito's eyes. "I -- He *is* my
friend, and I worry," he admitted softly. 
"I understand. But he's strong and healthy and he's going to
be just fine, given time. You just have to trust me on this." 
Skinner smiled gratefully, then walked back to his chair by
the bed, resuming his vigil. He heard the doctor leave, and
heard her words once more. 
'You just have to trust me on this.' 
It always surprised him how easily most people spoke of 
trust. And how hard it was for people like him. 
***************************************** 
October 16, 1998
7:00 a.m. 
Skinner started awake, a hand on his shoulder. He looked
around quickly, just barely restraining himself from flipping
the frightened-looking young man who had touched him
onto the floor. He released the aide's wrist, then mumbled
an apology. 
"That's all right, sir," the young man responded. "I didn't
mean to startle you. But the woman? Your other agent? She's
awake, and she's causing a fuss." 
'I just bet she is,' Skinner thought to himself as he sighed and
rose. Finally getting Scully to submit to treatment had been
amazing in and of itself, but actually getting her to sleep
had been nothing short of miraculous. Said treatment had 
revealed a hairline skull fracture, and a chipped bone in
the injured ankle. To say nothing of bruises, bumps, and
bang-ups. Scully had been treated and assigned a room for 
the night for observation, which she had promptly vacated 
to resume her watch outside the OR. Skinner had tired of 
arguing with her, and let her stay until Mulder was out of 
surgery and settled in his own room. But he had put his 
foot down at her intent to spend the night in a chair by
her lover's bed. Threats had not worked this time, and he 
had finally resorted to a tried and true method -- one he'd 
used before when she was being particularly intransigent. 
He'd picked her up, hauled her to her own room, placed 
her firmly in the bed, and posted an armed guard outside 
her door. It was beginning to be a habit. He was really 
going to have to work on his persuasive skills as he didn't
think he'd be as successful in manhandling Scully when
she wasn't injured and exhausted. 
He took a last look at Mulder, then ducked into the little
bathroom and washed his face and scrubbed at his teeth
with his finger. It was a poor substitute, but it would have
to do. He took a towel and dried his hands, then straightened,
and walked briskly out the door and over to Scully's room.
Different rooms, same floor. It was the best he could arrange.
And an agent on guard duty outside both doors. He'd left 
the clean-up in the woods to the others, accompanying his
friends to the hospital. And while Nathan should be securely
in custody at this point, he was taking no chances for the
time being. 
"I want to see him," she demanded as soon as his head 
cleared the doorway. 
"Good morning to you too, Agent Scully," he responded
in his best AD voice. 
She had the decency to look chagrined, but it only lasted
a moment as she said, "Good morning, Sir," and then
repeated, "I want to see him." 
Skinner had expected as much, and had already made sure
a wheelchair was available. With Scully fully awake and
aware, he didn't think much of his chances of carrying
her again. He sighed at her determination, then said,
"Give me a minute to get a chair, OK?" 
She nodded and he stepped out, returning quickly with
her conveyance. She was putting on a second hospital 
gown, this one going on back to front to serve as a robe,
and had already slipped one foot into a rubber-footed sock.
The other foot was bare, the ankle in a splint, and Skinner 
assumed it wouldn't be in a shoe or sock anytime in the near 
future. She was sliding off the bed now, balancing on the 
stocking-covered foot, and he hurried around to help her 
into the chair. Once she was settled and the footrests were 
down and the locks disengaged, he wheeled her back across
the hall and parked her by Mulder's side. 
"Has he been awake at all?" she asked, and Skinner shook
his head. "That's not like him," she murmured, more to 
herself than to the older man. Skinner nodded again, thinking
of the conversation he'd had with the doctor just a few
hours ago. 
"He lost part of his spleen and had severe lacerations on the
kidney and liver. Lots of surgery, lots of stitches. The 
doctor says sleep is the best thing for him right now." 
Scully looked unsure, but she nodded as well. "I suppose,"
she said, her voice trailing off. "I guess I should be glad
he's actually sleeping for a change." She reached out and
took Mulder's hand, cradling it carefully in her own, her
fingers rubbing the back and smoothing the skin around the
IV site. 
She leaned over, placing her lips against the dry skin. Her 
head was down, her shoulders bunched, and she leaned 
precariously forward in the chair. Skinner wanted to go 
to her again, to tell her it would be all right, but in some
strange way he knew he had been dismissed. And he didn't
mind. Scully needed this time with Mulder. He backed 
quietly away, then settled into a chair. He couldn't leave
completely -- he just didn't feel right leaving them 
unattended -- but he could be discreet, he could be quiet,
and he could give them as much distance as possible. 
************************************************** 
October 16, 1998
8:30 a.m. 
Scully looked at Mulder again. She reached out and brushed
a stray lock of hair from over his eyes -- again. She checked the
monitors, straightened his IV line, and rubbed his arm -- again.
She sighed, then leaned over and kissed his cheek -- *again.* She
looked at his face, noting that his eyes were still cl -- hey, wait
a minute! They were not still closed. They were open, a swirling
green/gray/gold of shocking intensity, and they were staring at
her. 
She drew a quick breath to compose herself, then smiled down
at her partner, her lover, her friend. "Hey, you," she whispered,
"it's about time you let us know you were still around." Her hand 
was still on his hand, and she moved it lazily upward, over the
sinewy muscles of his arm, until she cupped his cheek gently.
It was surprisingly quiet in the room, muffled noises from the 
hall could just be heard -- a woman's voice, a ringing phone,
a page over the intercom -- but in the room there was only the
sound of the IV drip, the monitor's beep, and the occasional
soft snore from the corner where Skinner nodded in his chair. 
She looked around, her eyes lingering on the rain still visible
through the narrow window, then she turned back to him and
said, "I'm sorry," as if it were her fault the rain still fell. 
He gave a rusty chuckle and she wet his lips with a rag,
wishing she could do more. This soon after surgery, he was
still restricted from eating or drinking, but she could at least 
moisten his chapped lips, and wipe his face. He smiled, then 
turned his head so she could swipe at his neck, washing away 
the bed sweat and left-over grime from the forest. It saddened 
her that it was a routine they knew all too well -- Mulder in a 
hospital bed, she in a chair beside it -- and her mouth dipped 
down in a frown. He nodded, acknowledging their routine, 
acknowledging her sorrow and she wondered at his ability
to tune into her so completely. How could this man know 
her so well? Understand her so intimately? 
He was staring at her now, waiting, and she put the rag on 
the table, then fussed with the basin, opened a box of tissues, 
and otherwise occupied herself with busywork until he reached
out and simply put his hand on her arm. He didn't grab
her, or close his fingers around her wrist; he didn't pull,
or tug, or even gently press. He just touched her, and 
a jolt of electricity shot through her, from the contact on
her hand, up her arm, across her shoulder, dropping 
down to tighten her chest and make her heart hurt and
breathing become hard, and upward to her face where 
her eyes began to drip and her nose began to run with 
the curse of all redheads who cried. 
"Hey," he said, so softly she had to lean over to hear him.
"Guess you're going to need those tissues after all." He
cast a crooked smile at her, the unspoken words so much
more important than the ones he gave voice to. His canted
head that said, "I'm sorry." The hand on her arm that
said, "I'm here." The deep breath that reminded, "I'm 
all right." And the eyes, those damnable, deep, dreamy
eyes that spoke volumes as they called, "I love you, Scully,"
over and over again. 
She threw herself down on his chest, forgetting his
wounds, forgetting his stitches, forgetting everything
in her intense need to connect with this man. If it had 
been possible, she would have made love to him right
then, right there, regardless of who or what saw them.
The need was upon her. Need to be with him, to
be part of him, to do something life-affirming, something
that would banish Death, chase him away, and make
him stay on his side of the Styx for a while, and leave
her Mulder alone. 
She sobbed raggedly again, and she could feel his hand 
stroke her back, hear the gentle rumble of his voice, sense
the soft vibrations of his chest. "I thought you were going
to die," she murmured against him. She sat up quickly,
and blew her nose, then wiped her eyes, and rose. She
was angry now, embarrassed, tired of it, a whirling,
swirling mass of churning emotions that made no sense
to her, or to anyone else she was sure. She moved to the 
window, hobbling quickly, and turned her back as the tears 
continued to fall. 
Behind her, she could hear him calling her, but she
couldn't turn, she couldn't go, she couldn't face him 
right now. But then she heard a sound. Skinner was
awake and she could hear a soft duet between his
deep voice and Mulder's hoarse and broken one. Skinner
wiped his brow, and then they talked some more, but 
she wasn't part of it, couldn't be there. She wanted to 
go to him, her mind ordered her to, her heart cried for 
her to, but her body was in rebellion. 
The sounds of the men's voices stopped and she
could hear Skinner's feet as he approached her. She
was almost surprised he'd let her stand here this 
long -- she wasn't supposed to be on her foot at all.
He reached out and took her arm, tugging slightly,
but she refused to turn. 
"He wants to talk to you, Scully," he said gently, then
went on when she shook her head. "He's tired. He's
going to drift off soon, and he wants to talk to you." 
She shook her head again, her mind filled with the thoughts
that drove her away, that frightened her and angered her
and confused her so. "He almost died," she murmured, her
voice so low even she couldn't hear it though she knew quite
well what she'd said. "He almost left me." 
"What's that?" Skinner asked. "What did you say?" 
"He almost left me," she repeated. "He almost left me." 
"But he didn't," Skinner said, "and he wants to talk to
you." He tightened his hold on her arm, pulling again,
and this time she turned. 
When she looked at Mulder, he was smiling, a gently
understanding smile that made her cry again. Skinner
didn't embarrass her by picking her up again, but she
was willing to bet the thought crossed his mind. However, 
he did support her the whole way back to the wheelchair,
then leaned down and whisper in her ear, "It's going to
be all right, Dana," before he returned to his own chair
in the corner. 
"I'm sorry," Mulder said when she focused on him. "I'm
sorry I scared you." 
"You almost died," she said, hating the accusation in her
voice, but unable to control the raging emotion. "You 
were dying and I would have been all alone." She sounded
like a spoiled child, petulant because she didn't get her way,
but she was so subsumed by the feelings inside, she couldn't
get control, couldn't stop the words that tumbled from her
lips, even as they were spoken and left her appalled at her
own self-centeredness. 
He chuckled again, then pulled her over. She leaned into
his arms, but he was still pulling, so she leaned across his
chest. He was still pulling her, tugging inexorably, and
she was beginning to slide out of the newly reclaimed chair.
She resisted slightly, but he would not be denied. He pulled
again and she rose, sneaking a quick peek at Skinner, but
his eyes were deliberately closed, so she slipped into the
bed with Mulder, settling carefully against his side. 
"I would never leave you, Scully," he whispered into her
hair when she was still. "Don't you understand?" 
She shuddered slightly, then shook her head. No, she didn't
understand. How could he promise to never leave? 
"You're my heart, Scully, my other half, what makes me whole.
You're my life." He sighed, then took a breath. "If I died 
without you, I'd go straight to hell." 
She looked up, shocked at the seriousness in his eyes. 
"Don't you know, Scully? You're my soul."


End 
If you hate cliff-hangers, STOP HERE! But ... 
For those brave souls who want a peek at what is 
to come, read on. 
********************************************** 
October 17, 1998
10:00 a.m. 
They were sitting together comfortably, Mulder propped in 
the bed, Scully ensconced in the recliner/bed thing that the
nurses had brought in for him to sleep on, and he was
settled into a wooden rocker, unearthed from the nursery or
peds ward no doubt. Mulder had slept well, which meant
Scully was happy. And if Scully was happy, after the
emotional ups and downs of the past few days, Mulder
was ecstatic. And he was content to see them that way
for a short while. 
"Sir?" Mulder was speaking, and Skinner looked up,
distracted from his ruminations. 
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "What did you say?" 
"I asked if Nathan's trial went on as scheduled. Am I
still going to have to testify?" 
Skinner shook his head. "I've been out of the loop.
Took myself off things once you two were settled here.
Someone called yesterday but I was talking to your
doctor and I hung up on them." He smiled sheepishly,
then straightened as he pulled his AD persona together.
"I can check if you'd like." 
Mulder nodded. "I'd like to know what I'm facing here.
Do we get to go home, or do I still have to see him again." 
Skinner had his phone out and was dialing. "This is
Assistant Director Skinner," he said when a woman 
answered. "I need to speak to Jacobson." There was
a pause while the line was transferred, then he went on,
"Mulder is awake, Jake. Oh, yes, he's doing much better,
thank you. Look, he wants to know if he still has to 
testify, and if so, when." 
Skinner was silent, and as Mulder and Scully watched,
the blood drained from his face. "Are you sure?" he
whispered hoarsely into the phone. "No, no, I'm sorry.
Of course you are." Skinner pulled himself together,
then spoke one last time. "Well, I'm sorry about that.
I won't hang up on you again. Keep me informed at
all times and I'll get in touch with DC and allocate
additional funding and manpower for you. Just keep 
looking." 
He closed the phone, his head dropping for a long
moment, then he lifted his eyes to meet his agents'. 
"When they got down the side to reclaim the body,
Nathan was gone." 
To be continued ...